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exquisitley-obsessed · 3 years

Text

Cardinal Catastrophe

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: Elain reaches out to Azriel after that dreaded Solstice night and they once again meet under the moonlight in the River House - but everything is different now (post ACOSF, Azriel’s the focalizer)

Pairings: Azriel x Elain, Elriel

Word Count: 13,300+

Warnings: This does get a bit smutty and then there’s some violence towards the end.

A/N: This is like super long. It basically has everything it’s fluff, smut and angst so yeah, something for everyone. This is probably the longest oneshot I’ve ever written, I don’t know where this has come from but it’s taken me way longer to write than any of my other stuff. There’s a lot of catharsis in this and reflection on how I think both Azriel and Elain think of the situation. You’ll also get a bit of Rhys’ pov towards the ned ;)

Preview: With Elain’s eyes closed he allowed himself to greedily devour the sight of her. Just her face alone captured his attention entirely. With his eyes he memorised the curve of her cheekbones, the specific angle of her brows, even the exact chocolatey shade of her lashes. He went over it again, and again, and again, like a worshipper devouring the holy text. Azriel needed the perfection of Elain committed to memory, because he was sure that one day his luck would run out entirely. That soon he would not be permitted to even these meetings in the dead of night, with only a thousand stars as witness to their mutilated fate.

“Elain...” He tried again; his voice softer than he had ever heard it before. The person he became around Elain was foreign to himself. He had never been someone privileged enough to both love and be loved, not like this. Now that he had tasted such passions, he found he could not always recognise himself. Because he was Azriel, and he was cursed and damned, destined to be alone, to be unloved, mutilated both in mind and morality. He could not love; he shouldn’t be able to love - and yet.

MASTERLIST

It was no exaggeration to say that Azriel’s work was of a most gruesome nature. His daily routine involved cutting into people, making them sing to his shadows, working them like a carcass in a machine until they’d spilt their guts to him before painting the walls with those same organs. As the Night Court’s spymaster, Azriel knew things that would bring kings to their knees, secrets that were interwoven into the foundations of courts, hidden information that would dissolve alliances in seconds; and yet, here he was, pacing the room like a schoolboy as he tried to swallow the fluttery ‘butterfly-like’ feeling twisting his gut.

He’d noticed the note the minute he’d entered the room. A tiny slip of paper that glowed in the moonlight from where it was perched on his work desk, a stark contrast to Azriel’s messy, tea-stained paperwork. Azriel had smelt her on it before he read it, in fact, the second he opened the door to his River House bedroom he was surrounded by her faded aroma. She must’ve breezed in and out, not wanting to overstep her bounds as she left him a note no one else was to read. Knowing her, she was probably currently riddled with guilt for entering his private space, even though, quite frankly, Azriel wouldn’t mind her invading on every aspect of his life, personal or not. Not wanting to face what her scent in his room did to him, he’d crossed the room in three strides and devoured the note in seconds; the words still rang in his head.

I need to see you.

Everything had been fine. Ever since Rhysand’s outrageous demand of Azriel several months prior, Azriel had fallen into a routine, stricter than the last, for ignoring Elain Archeron. He was working more than he ever had before, not just in quantity but in quality. Unnecessarily detailed reports were showing up on the High Lord’s desk of situations that were entirely irrelevant to the current political climate and yet, Azriel thought it was only fair Rhysand suffered somewhat from this situation too.

I’m sorry for everything.

While he was anywhere but Velaris, Elain was never anywhere else, specifically in the River House, a place he had thus far avoided with painful success. Until his High Lady had demanded he come to dinner to celebrate Nesta’s birthday, Nesta who was happier than he had ever seen her before, practically glowing with the dreaded mating bond. It still baffled him how much prevalence mating bonds had played in his life the past few years after 500 years of silence, strings of fate which seemed to only bring about the greatest happiness or the wickedest pain.

I just want to make things right.

They were so happy, all of them. Rhysand with Feyre and Nyx, Nesta and Cassian - and though he just wanted to be glad for his family, the miasma of their bliss was suffocating. Because Azriel had never felt more alone, had never been so buried in his work, so achingly tired from the unnecessary flights and dreary missions, and his harmful behaviour was turning his body into something foreign. Azriel never used to have the constant tautness across his shoulders, nor the constant black shadows under his eyes from the sleepless nights, or the aching muscles that never seemed to heal. But it was necessary – if he wanted to obey Rhysand’s order, if he wanted to maintain civility between courts, and for a plethora of other supposed noble reasons – it was necessary.

I miss you.

He just wanted her. Not in any possessive way, he just wanted to be around her. He’d come to find a specific kind of peace in her company, something about that soothed his worries and aches. So, he missed their walks in the gardens, their shared book recommendations, their inside jokes, their unspoken understanding, their healing. And above all he missed her: her smile, her laughter, the shade of her flushed cheeks, her kindness, her silence.

Azriel hadn’t realised what had been happening to him as they had gotten closer, hadn’t realised how far he’d fallen till Rhysand had pulled him out of the air. Now all that was there, was a lacking. He was busier than ever, but all around him hung the privation of her.

Meet me in the foyer when the sun sets.

So he couldn’t be around his family, couldn’t face their overwhelming joy when he was so, so alone. Maybe it would’ve been better if he had never met Elain, or at least if he hadn’t allowed himself to fall for her. But in those soft moments he shared with her, the brushes of fingertips to the sun-kissed smiles, he’d been forced to face just how alone he was, how alone he had always been. Through Elain, Azriel had had a taste of honest, unwavering love - and yet he was expected to turn his back on such a discovery, by his own family no less.

Please.

He would meet her in the foyer when the sun set. He would follow her to the ends of the Earth if she asked him to, because maybe he was just so masochistic that he didn’t mind meeting Elain only to be reminded of everything he couldn’t have. Reading the note Azriel couldn’t help but think bitterly of how the flower-grower was far more courageous than he. That she was reaching out to him after he had rejected her so brutally. Azriel jolted, flaring his wings slightly to stop the train of thought. That pained, confused look in Elain’s eye when he had said that word, haunted him. Mistake. He’d called it a mistake. Azriel raked his hands down his face and sighed.

He wished he were strong enough to either commit or drop it entirely. He wished he had it in him to do something. Azriel should’ve bitten back at Rhysand all those months ago, should’ve just dealt with this catastrophe back then rather than let it fester and rot under the proverbial carpet.

As time passed in Azriel’s knotted thoughts, the sun plummeted towards the horizon. It was a perfect summers evening, and Azriel stilled at the window to watch as the sun melted the sky into shades of pink and purple. He saw it and thought of the colour of her dress tonight, or even that dress she had worn when she’d made traditional Illyrian biscuits and demanded he tried one. He’d taken it in his pocket and only took a bite when he was alone in the shadows of a different court, and he had savoured every bite, quietly smothering his growing adoration as he did so.

Elain, Elain, Elain. His shadows whispered to him, as though they knew they would soon be in her presence. No one had ever had such an effect on his shadows, and around her he was more aware of them being a separate entity to himself. Though they were bound, around Elain they seemed to grow more confident, they acted of their own accord and would often disappear in her presence, as though his shadows knew he wished to be entirely alone with her.

Foyer...Elain...flower-grower...beautiful. Azriel was inclined to agree. And before Azriel could lose himself to shyness, the sun finally dipped behind the curve of the land, allowing a thousand glimmering stars to prickle through the endless black sky.

She would already be waiting for him, and though Azriel was nervous, he had to restrain some part of himself that longed to throw open the door and jump down the stairs two at a time. Instead, he used the shadows, stepping through them to the base of the large foyer staircase. It would be more silent this way. He wouldn’t make the same mistake of not listening to the corridors as they spoke. For Elain’s sake, he would demand the utmost privacy, even from his High Lord and Lady.

He could see her before she saw him. She was leaning of the Foyer’s centre table, fiddling with the bouquet of flowers in a glass vase - of course she was. All he could see of her was the lower half of her pale gown and her dark golden hair, cascading down her back like a waterfall. The moonlight streaming in through the large French windows gave her an angelic glow, whereas the more sensuous light of the flickering candles painted shadows across her thinly veiled curves. Both warm and cold light coming together to worship the woman who seemed to him as light herself. At the sight of her, Azriel involuntarily sucked in a breath and felt her scent hit the back of his throat, his entire body seemed to sing from her aroma alone, as though it were his own personal drug. Dangerous, this was dangerous, to be with her and to be so alone. He didn’t care.

“Elain,” she didn’t start as he spoke into the thick silence. If she had the confidence to call him here tonight, then he must source some of his own. He at least owed her that. Delicately, Elain turned and looked over her shoulder, her beautiful brown eyes finding his and melting the whole world away.

“You came,” She breathed, her shoulders sagging slightly out of relief. She turned to him properly then, and Azriel flickered his eyes over her so quickly she might’ve mistaken it for a mere blink. But he saw her, saw what she was wearing, and some core part of his soul longed to weep at the sight of her beauty.

Elain was in a nightgown, off-white cotton and silk, with cream and dusty pink lace. Pale ribbons pulled the nightdress around her breasts and down to her naval, dipping in a slight ‘v’ before the skirts flowed around her natural curves and then dropped to the floor. The neckline was agonisingly flattering, though Azriel was sure he wouldn’t look twice at the nightdress on anyone else. Her creamy skin seemed browner in the warm candlelight of the house, and as the shadows flickered, he was aware of how her collarbones stretched out to the curve of her shoulders, how she didn’t have freckles on her chest and arms but rather a specific constellation of moles, even how her hair was impossibly thick and, if memory served him well, soft too. Upper sections were pulled away from her face in an intricate pattern of braids and ties, and yet lock after lock of pale brown hair cascaded down her back and over her shoulders, framing her angelic face. Oh, that face. Poets and painters alike would weep at the sight of that face. The small, angled eyebrows that somehow made her doe eyes bigger, the freckles across her cheeks and nose, her plush lips-

“I know that you’re avoiding me,” she began, crashing Azriel back into reality. He shifted slightly, ruffling his wings as though to wake himself up. Her voice wasn’t accusing, but calm and quiet, “I know there’s a reason why you’re never around. For a while I thought you were just cooped up at the House of Wind but Nesta says that she never sees you...no one ever sees you anymore.” Azriel stayed quiet, just holding her gaze. He never needed to speak around Elain, she had quickly understood that when he had something to say, he would say it, but till then, he was comforted by the silence. And so she continued, more nervous now.

“I don’t want to be...narcissistic...but it seems to me that you’ve been distancing yourself with everyone after what happened on Solstice and...” She shifted uncomfortably, her confidence running out as she looked down at the floor and wrung her hands. “I can’t take it. I can’t take being the person whose pushed you away and I...I think we need to talk about it - or not talk about it - I’m not sure. I just, I don’t want you to avoid me anymore, even if that means we pretend that it never happened, that’s fine. I just...”

He could tell her right now the exact reason why he couldn’t be around her. Elain, he would say, I would do anything to be around you. I would kill a thousand men just to have the privilege of your company. But I can’t, Elain. Because when I’m around you, everything turns inside out, I forget everything I’m supposed to be afraid of. I become this person around you Elain, I become someone who I’ve always wanted to be, and I don’t know how to be him, if I even can. I’m not used to this, to wanting something so viscerally it feels as though I might fall apart every day I don’t see you. Elain, I don’t know how to choose happiness, I don’t know how to be selfish in that way, and above all...I don’t know how to fix this.

“I don’t care if you don’t want me like that, not if it comes at the price of your friendship. I still...need you in my life, Az,” Elain was whispering now, her large eyes slightly glassy in the candlelight.

Azriel couldn’t help but think that Elain was evidentially stronger than him, that she could still want to be around him even if he supposedly didn’t want her. If the roles were reversed, if it had been Elain who had pushed him away, he was pretty certain he would’ve manipulated his work to make him leave the Night Court for at least several years. Of course, she was stronger than him, he was beginning to think she was stronger than them all, because of this exact trait of hers - forgiveness.

“Please...say something,” Elain’s broken voice rose through the silence. She looked at him again, tears threatening to spill. Her looking at him in such a way made something deep in his chest twist, and twist and keep on twisting.

He didn’t know what to do, so he took a step forward, and another and another, until he was a foot’s distance away from her. The whole time her eyes never left his, her hands still twisting together at the front of her beautiful, beautiful dress. He opened his mouth to speak but once again Elain had rendered him speechless. Where could he begin, how could he begin - how could he fix this?

“Elain...” was all he managed in the end, but that seemed to be enough to soothe her as her eyes fluttered shut and she breathed deeply at the sound of her name mingled with his breath.

With Elain’s eyes closed he allowed himself to greedily devour the sight of her. Just her face alone captured his attention entirely. With his eyes he memorised the curve of her cheekbones, the specific angle of her brows, even the exact chocolatey shade of her lashes. He went over it again, and again, and again, like a worshipper devouring the holy text. Azriel needed the perfection of Elain committed to memory, because he was sure that one day his luck would run out entirely. That soon he would not be permitted to even these meetings in the dead of night, with only a thousand stars as witness to their mutilated fate.

“I’m sorry,” He began, his voice barely audible. And by the way Elain’s brows furrowed slightly and her mouth tightened, he knew that she knew he was talking about the last time they’d been here, in this foyer. “I wish things were different,” He whispered, now trying to memorise the exact constellations of her freckles.

“Me too,” She breathed, her eyes still closed. “I wish I was different,” She surprised him by whispering.

“Don’t...” He murmured, silently stunned, “You...you don’t know how you...” But he had to stop himself mid-sentence, had to bite his tongue between his teeth hard enough to draw blood. Because if he started to talk, he wouldn’t stop. He would tell her everything, and he wasn’t quite ready to be so vulnerable, not when he didn’t know how to be vulnerable at all.

“I...” She opened her eyes and seemed to look at him as though for the first time. After a long pause she spoke again, “I wish I had courage.”

“Courage?” Elain paused and shifted slightly from foot to foot, as though she were debating what she would say next.

“I want to be strong, like my sisters...I want to etch out my own path rather than fumble in the dark.” Azriel thought for a moment.

“You are strong, whether you perceive yourself to be or not.” He wanted nothing more than to reach up and stroke his hand along her smooth cheek, instead he dug his nails into his already marred palm and focused on the pain’s bite.

“I will never be a general,” Elain whispered, her eyes still damp, “I will never be a High Lady or a leader, I don’t care for any of that...I wish I did. You can’t imagine how badly I wish I...” Her words ran out and her eyes became slightly glossed over and detached. Again, he felt the urge to touch her, to ground her back in reality, but he just dug his nails in deeper. “I don’t belong on battlefields, though I’d always fight when the world needed me but...I’m not a warrior; and that petrifies me.”

Again, Azriel paused, taking time to absorb every word Elain offered to him under the moonlight. Azriel adored Elain, he could’ve stood there for an hour and listed everything about her that had brought him hope. How her outlook on life had been so foreign to him, so unrealistic when he first met her, that it was extraordinary now just how jealous he was of her ability to look at the morbidity of the world, and still seek out the good.

“In a world of endless bloodshed and bitterness, do not be ashamed of not wanting to be a warrior,” Azriel whispered.

“But I’m useless,” Elain quickly interjected, “I have all this power, I feel it stirring in me and there is no part of me that wishes to manipulate it or-or exploit it.” Elain’s hands came up and danced in the air as she spoke, another quirk of hers he’d both memorised and adored. Azriel thought again, long and hard, before he spoke.

“I’ve been around a lot longer than you, and from what I’ve learnt of people is...that they’re horrible,” Azriel watched as Elain’s eyes widened and drank in his words and something twisted in his chest. People didn’t look at him like that when he talked. His brothers would wink and laugh with him, his enemies cowered and flinched, those whom he bedded would smile slyly or watch his mouth as he murmured dirty things in the dead of night. But no one looked at him like that, as though he were reciting poetry, as though he were beautiful enough to say something worthy of those big eyes and parted lips.

“You wouldn’t believe the horrors I’ve seen, or the court secrets I’ve uncovered. The way people, particular those in positions of power, treat each other, treat those around them and those below them - it’s tragic. It’s merciless and cruel.” Elain was still drinking him in, still hanging onto his every word.

“I think over the centuries, I myself became desensitised to the horrors of power and politics. Especially given my start in life. When you were human I understood your naivety, your belief in the good of the world, especially after your riches had returned and your life was content.

“But what I didn’t understand was how you continued to believe good after everything you went through. After facing the most brutal torture from the Cauldron itself...you still chose to believe in the wonderful and I-I didn’t understand that. Because I couldn’t do that. Because I’d never believed in the good of people the way you do...I had never even believed in the good of myself.

“Please don’t think that kindness is something small, or something that can be overlooked. Because when the world is little more than ruin and rubble, kindness is all we have left. We’ve just been alive so long that we forget about it, us Fae, we’ve spent so much of our lives at war that it’s easy to forget why we’d even engage in such bloodshed. It wasn’t till I met you that I was reminded that such things as tenderness and humanity even existed outside my family, and once the wars were about defending those virtues rather than snuffing them out…I just, I can’t help but think that if there were more people like you in the world, maybe Prythian wouldn’t succumb to carnage every few decades, just so that the heartless noblemen of this land can feel something.”

Azriel hadn’t meant to speak for so long, in fact, he didn’t quite understand where the words had even come from. They were true, of course. He did whole-heartedly believe everything he had just said, he just hadn’t realised how much he’d ached to say it aloud. Elain was still staring at him wide-eyed, and then there was the worst thing of all, a single tear spilling over her damp eyes and trickling down her cheek.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” Elain whispered, suddenly reaching out and sliding her palm into his from where it was hanging limp at his side. Electricity shot through his arm, and he forced himself to look at her in the eye as he tensed his legs so that they didn’t crumple underneath him. “No, it’s good I’m, I’m glad you said it I...”

But again, words seemed to evade Elain as she looked up at him. Azriel was now hyperaware of her how close she was, of her smooth palm that fit so nicely in his own. His body often reacted on its own accord around Elain, and he had spent months leashing his desires into chains, beasts that could only come out in the dead of night. But since that dreaded Solstice night last winter, everything had changed.

Life these past few months had consisted of the battle between two extremes. Either he was drowning in the way his body seemed to ache and beg for her, his mind obsessing over their stuttering relationship as though it were a philosophical debate. Especially since he now knew that some part of her wanted him and had wanted to kiss him even with her mate sleeping upstairs. The fact that he now knew what her scent tasted like, how her voice sounded when it was breathy and desperate - it all fuelled the fantasies that haunted him the moment he made it back to his room. He could be on the other side of Prythian and somehow the presence of Elain Archeron would find a way to him.

The other extreme was complete and total deprivation. The reality that he hadn’t seen her for months, that she would soon exist more in memory than experience. Even though his fantasies of her were so visceral, so tangible, the reality that she was not in the room with him always came crashing down by the time his head had cleared - and then he’d feel more alone than ever before.

But when he was here, with her, the argument ceased. The torture and the pain, the writhing mind and aching debates, it all fell into beautiful silence. And so, looking at her now, he was unable to help himself. And without thought, he reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear as he murmured under his breath, no more than a whisper, “Elain Archeron...saviour of the cursed and damned...”

As Azriel’s fingers grazed Elain’s cheek, a horribly confused and upset look twisted her face. She seemed to freeze at the contact and Azriel halted at her discomfort, internally berated himself for pushing her too far, for being so arrogant in thinking he could touch her in such a way.

“I...Azriel...I don’t understand,” Elain’s breathless voice seemed to caress him, and once more he found himself tensing his legs so that they wouldn’t give out under him. “You don’t want me...you said it was a mistake...” Azriel stilled, and he caught her eye in a moment of alarmed sobriety.

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

He couldn’t stop the words before they spilled from his lips. It didn’t matter how soft, how quiet, his voice was, the words were innately harsh and something deep against his spine lurched at the thought of her hurting her - of hurting her again.

But Elain didn’t flinch. Her eyes, instead of widening in shock, stayed stoically still and calm. And then Azriel watched as those honeyed eyes he loved so much lapsed darker and darker, the floral musk of her arousal drifting to him like a moth to a flame, the same scent he’d been dreaming of for months, the memory of it alone making his body achingly hard and taut, as though his own skin existed only to respond to the call of hers.

The scent surrounded him, sending blood to his cock which was now throbbing viscerally against the seams of his leathers. His arousal had never felt so tight before, so extreme and sudden. He felt it, heavy in his lower abdomen, twisting and knotting his guts in both pain and pleasure. That was familiar, that he’d felt a hundred times before, but for Elain Acheron his whole body seemed to sing. His blood burned under his skin as it pounded through his body, whilst his heart was light and fluttery in his chest, as though it might edge up his throat and fall from his lips. His eyes felt heavy lidded as though he were drunk, and even though he were standing stoically still, even though he hadn’t done anything yet, he found himself short of breath.

He had never wanted something more - never. Not Mor. Not a job. Not a secret, not information. Not salvation, not mercy. God, it seemed as though in this instant, Elain had invented want for him.

He would beg for her. Right now, in the foyer where he’d first tasted this personal drug. Had Elain not been holding him up by her eyes and a single palm he would already be on his knees. He moved to fall down before her, like a worshipper at a temple, when movement at her mouth caught his eye. Azriel watched as her delicate, pink tongue slowly dragged along her lower lip to wet it as she blinked innocently at him. Azriel’s resolve was gone in a puff of smoke.

Fuck Rhysand. Fuck Lucien. Fuck the Mother, the Cauldron, the world. Fuck anyone who stood between him and Elain who he knew, he knew, wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Because of course she did. Because whatever this was, whatever was happening between them, was otherworldly and impossible to ignore.

And good luck to them, was the last though Azriel had before he leaned in. Good luck to anyone who ever dare stand between him and her, because he’d kill them - he’d fucking kill them.

Despite his body beating like a drum for Elain’s melody, he did not kiss her right away. Once he’d accepted that he would kiss her, once he’d come to that inevitable conclusion it felt like a thousand doors of golden light opened before his eyes, and it took everything he had to not sob with joy.

All those fantasies he had revelled in for the past year that had been shrouded in a miasma of fantasy and shame, rolled through his mind clear as day. He could kiss her lips. Those soft pads of blushing rose that he had already committed to memory. Or he could trace down and press his lips to the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder, a crook of intimacy that he’d already figured out from watching her protect it with her hands when someone stood behind her. He could kiss her temples, her cheeks, her throat - every fucking inch of her.

Now that his resolve had snapped like an elastic band stretched too far, he found that he was finally free. Looking at her he hadn’t realised how long he had taken, how slowly he was leaning in until Elain’s fingers suddenly gripped the leathers across his chest and her brows furrowed as she pulled closer to him, her eyes dark and desperate, her mouth wet and parted as she half-gasped, half-whispered, “Please....Azriel...”

He did moan then. A low, throaty sound that escaped him at the sound of his name intertwined with her breathy gasps. He snapped.

He had intended to savour every second of kissing her, but the moment his lips touched hers, he felt fire. Elain’s hands ran up his chest before intertwining themselves in his hair as she pulled herself against him and he moaned again, the second time in a minute, into her mouth. Because he could feel her, all of her, pressed against his hot throbbing body. The soft pressure of her breasts, the bones of her hips, even one of her legs had tucked between his own, the sides of their knees brushing together. She was going to kill him. She was going to fucking kill him.

And then there was her mouth. Softer than petals, and so obviously hers in taste and touch. Every time their lips brushed, every time he felt her perfect breath mingling with his own, shivers erupted across his body. Unable to stop himself he brushed back her hair before firmly grasping the side of her neck, his hand was so large against her velvet skin that he knew he could probably hold her entire throat in one hand. He put it there as an ode to the last time he’d been here. He’d put it there as a fuck you to fate.

His other hand curled around her waist and pressed against her back where - and he moaned again - Elain’s exposed skin greeted him.

He wanted to take her right her. Wanted to lie her down on the carpet and bury his head between her thighs as he had done so many times before in his fantasies. How he ached to taste her, all of her, to pin her writhing thighs back with one hand and wrists with the other. He wanted to look at her perfect angelic face as he made her sing sinful sounds for him. Wanted to make her toes curl and back arch as she came on his tongue. Again, and again, and again.

Elain tugged slightly on Azriel’s hair and he was thrust back into his body, back into the present, and he had to stifle another moan because those thousands of fantasies had nothing, nothing, on this.

In response to Elain’s needy tug, Azriel bent slightly and curled a hand around the back of each of her thighs and hoisted her up against his chest. Elain, much to his delight, snapped her legs around him as he lifted her against his chest, their lips still ferociously dancing. He only had to walk a few paces to set her against the edge of the lobby table, but that particular move was one that had been haunting him more recently of late.

He went to pull away after she was set down on the wooden tabletop. He wanted to see her, with her hair ruffled and her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen and her chest heaving. He wanted to commit that image to memory because there was still some part of him that could not believe this was real.

But as he moved to step back, Elain caught him off guard as her legs tightened from where they were wrapped around his hips, something of a growl arising from the back of her throat as she fisted his leathers and pulled him against her. Azriel obeyed her, like a puppy on a leash, leaning his hands against the table, either side of her hips, in order to stay standing.

She was flushed against him once more. Her breasts pushed against his chest which felt suffocated by the Illyrian leathers, he ached to have her skin brushing against his own, but all in good time. He slipped his tongue into her mouth then and revelled in the juxtaposing thrill and relaxation of exploring her in this way. But there was still an inch of space between their hips. He didn’t know why he left it there, even when Elain dragged him against her, perhaps it was because he knew the minute they were aligned in cardinal perfection, there would be no turning back. He would be hers and vice versa, and she would be his muse and his priority, and he would put her before everything - even his High Lord.

To steady himself, Azriel made the mistake of taking his hand and bracing himself on Elain’s thigh. What he was not expecting was for his palm to find the soft, exposed flesh of her leg from where her dress must’ve mischievously ridden upwards when he had lifted her.

Purely on instinct, Azriel moaned and drove his hips forward into her core, earning a breathy sigh from them both as they finally found an inch of friction in their writhing. There was only fabric now. Measly layers of fabric that came between them.

“Fuck...” Elain gasped into his mouth and some outrageously animalistic part of him growled in satisfaction at having pulled a sinful swear from her angelic mouth. Azriel kept one hand against the wood near her hips to stay steady, to stop himself from grounding his hips into her like an uncontrollable beast, the other stayed on the warm, smooth flesh of her exposed thigh.

Slowly, he began to trace rough circles with his thumb on her inner thigh earning a flutter of breathy sighs to dance from her lips which pleased his soul to no avail. Azriel parted from her lips and began to pepper kisses along her jawline as he torturously inched his thumb up, inch by inch with each circle. When Azriel began to kiss and suck on the spot just below her ear he allowed himself to peek at her as he worked.

Her head was tilted back slightly, her throat bobbing as high hums fluttered from her. If he could paint he would paint the perfect blush of her swollen lips. If he were a poet he would turn her breathy moans into the sweetest of sonnets. And then she tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth as a soft moan escaped her and he had to look away, if only to stop himself from reaching down and fisting himself at the sight of it.

With his head turned Azriel hissed out of surprise as his thumb rubbed against a sticky sweetness coating her inner thigh. God she was wet. And as he rubbed further, coating his thumb in her essence, he had to bite his cheek as to not come in his pants like a schoolboy. Azriel stopped rubbing circles in favour for taking his first finger and tracing back and forth over the highest point of her thigh, slow and torturous as he familiarised himself with the feel of her. His heart threatening to beat out of his chest when his fingers brushed against a lacy frill at the apex of her thigh. Tilting his head Azriel was able to husk into her ear.

“What do you want Elain?” His voice was low and breathy before he caught her lobe between his teeth. Another shuddering gasp floated from her lips.

“I want you to touch me...and I don’t want you stop,” the sound of her voice so mingled with pleasure and need was almost enough to undo him. “Ever,” She went on, “Not until I don’t know my own name.”

She was going to kill him. Growling in satisfaction he rewarded her answer with one quick brush over her lace underthing's, the touch was like electricity for them both. Elain physically tremored as Azriel finally brushed where she needed him most, and Azriel shuddered at the contact with the girl of his dreams.

“Please, Azriel,” Azriel stilled for a moment, wondering how she would react to his instinctual next move. His particular flavour of making love.

“Say that again,” He said slowly, his voice barely more than a brutal, low husk. As he spoke Azriel allowed some of his power to ebb into the words, the siphons a top his hands guttering as they came to life. It felt slightly wrong to use such a voice on her, the one he so often used with enemies, but Azriel watched as Elain’s lips parted, her pupils expanding as her breath grew heavy in response to his dominant voice. Oh, Azriel couldn’t help but think in agonising awe. Maybe his deep assumptions, the ones that only haunted him in that void he entered before he fell asleep, were true. That Elain, the purest of sisters, was also the filthiest.

“Please, Az,” Her voice was breathy and pleading, but there was something alight in her eyes as she begged him.

“Good girl,” Azriel couldn’t stop himself from husking as he peeled back the top of the lace. They both stared unwaveringly into each other’s eyes as Azriel dipped his hands along her, not touching just hovering. He held his hand there, an inch away from where she needed him most, waiting until she almost whimpered before he slid a single finger slowly through her folds.

Her reaction was blissful to see. The way she bit her lip, her back arched, and her eyes fluttered shut. Azriel moved with her, his own mouth parted, and brows furrowed as he stroked her again.

“Don’t close your eyes,” He murmured in his voice of steel, “Look at me.” Elain’s eyes snapped open, and it was his turn to be caught off guard. Gone was the hazelnut colour, even the sensuous black he had somehow lulled them into, what met him was the colour of bright honey and her eyes, they were glowing. They stood out like gemstones being pierced by golden light. It was then that Azriel began to take note of their surroundings and realise that the thrumming was not just happening inside him but all around him. Ripple after ripple of raw, ancient power was bleeding from Elain, fizzing into the air and turning the entire foyer into something alive and electric. A shiver ran along Azriel’s entire body as his own powers itched to sing in harmony with hers; cobalt energy rising to meet her golden light.

Her folds were dripping, and he was having an internal debate on whether or not to rip off her underwear. On one hand he would have better access, he would be able to pleasure her better, and he could even push her back against the table and lower his head and taste her. On the other, he couldn’t stand being disconnected from her for a second.

Whilst he debated, he slowly raked his finger up her again before finding that small bundle of nerves. When he caught it with his fingertip and began to drag slow, luxurious circles over it, a throaty, guttural moan escaped her lips. He bit his cheek again. He wondered if anyone had fucked her like this and again, that pride bloomed when he realised that he might be the first. Not her first, but the first person to show her the true ecstasy of pleasure.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Elain gasped as her head fell forward on his shoulder. Azriel allowed the eye contact to break, too absorbed by the feeling of having Elain writhing under his fingers to care.

He’d always thought that he could die a happy man if ever he was blessed enough to experience such a joy as Elain Archeron, but now he realised what a stupid notion that was. Because Elain wasn’t cause for death but cause for life. He’d live for Elain, Azriel realised. Elain who was writhing and mewling into his shoulder as he slowly brought her to the ecstasy she deserved. She was close and following this he would winnow them away to either his unused apartment in central Velaris, or deep in the gardens on this summer night, where they would be entirely alone, and everything would be perfect. And once they’d had their fill on the pure bliss of one another they could talk about everything, and they’d find a solution and they’d work it out, and everything would be okay - and then Rhysand walked in, and everything came crashing down.

Some part of Azriel’s hazy mind had been aware of the movement deep in the house but it had been so, so inconsequential compared to what was in front of him. And his shadows, well his shadows were nowhere to be seen, not with golden light quite literally thrumming from Elain. There had been no warning, and as Rhys met Azriel’s eye when he still had his fingers flush against Elain some primal part of Azriel reared its head.

In an instant Azriel’s siphons were spluttering to life as power surged through Azriel, his wings instinctively flaring as wide as they would stretch, so that the cresting talon of each wing scraped into the polished walls. Rhys, who was standing at the edge of the foyer, an unrecognisable expression scorched into his face, was a threat at that moment, and the whole world seemed to still as Azriel slowly came down from the high of his arousal.

Slowly, Azriel removed his hand from Elain’s underwear and smoothed down her skirts to cover her legs, all the while never moving his eyes from Rhys. He didn’t care if he was in for the doghouse, didn’t give a shit about what consequences his happiness had just induced - Elain came first.

And right now, even though it was a ludicrous thought, Azriel was preparing himself to protect Elain from Rhysand. Elain’s whose nightgown had slipped down her shoulder, whose eyes were wide as she glanced over her shoulder at her brother-in-law, exposed and vulnerable just as she’d been on the worst night of her life.

“Azriel,” Rhysand finally spoke and Azriel shifted slightly to pull Elain closer to his chest. “My office...now.” It seemed as though all sense of formality had dropped as Rhysand’s High Lord voice billowed into the room. Azriel didn’t speak, didn’t move either, just shifted his eyes to Elain whose face was blanch and confused.

“Can’t this wait?” Azriel asked, his voice low and full of strength. Instantly he realised that he should’ve worded his question better. He didn’t want time in order to finish off what he and Elain had begun, but rather to give Elain a moment to breathe, for her to fix her dress and smooth her hair, for her to do whatever she needed to do before she was forced to face her family. Rhysand’s eyes darkened, and he entered the room in a low stride, both hands digging deep into his pockets. Azriel moved instantly, stepping around Elain to put himself in front of her as Rhysand approached.

Without a word Rhysand came closer and closer, and Azriel continued to stretch his wings to cover Elain from whatever vitriol was about to be thrown his way. But Rhysand didn’t say anything, he didn’t even move suddenly, just reached out a single hand until it was barely touching Azriel’s arm as darkness surrounded them both.

Before Azriel even had a chance to realise that Rhysand was winnowing them away – away from Elain – they were standing in his office, and Azriel couldn’t help but shake his head at the slight Deja-vu of the whole situation. Except this time, he wouldn’t be bounding himself in shackles, he’d be setting himself free, whether Rhys wanted him to or not.

Azriel was standing in front of the large mahogany desk of Rhysand’s office whilst it’s owner moved behind it, one hand still in his pocket. Already the air in the room was taut with energy, as though the very air were cowering in the face of the upcoming argument. And still Azriel’s mind was still thinking of the girl in the foyer, her name like a mantra beating through his body,

“Put your cock away Azriel,” Rhys immediately spat in response to the ripples of cobalt energy rippling from Azriel’s form. Azriel didn’t deem the childish comment with a retort, though his arousal was already gone, and quickly replaced by the tautness of anger and frustration. His shadows had returned to him now that he was away from Elain, and they were writhing uncontrollably around his legs and back.

Azriel stayed standing, folding his arms over his chest just for something to do. It was then that Rhys sighed heavily, leaning against his desk and hanging his head. He wasn’t as tired nor as desperate as when they’d last spoken like this - of this. No, now Rhys had everything. Everything he had ever, and could ever want, and now his fight lay in protecting the paradise he had found in Feyre and Nyx. Whilst Azriel was still in the dark, still alone, still secretly in agony - they were not the same.

“I gave you the simplest of orders,” Rhys sighed like a disappointed father and something brutally aggressive awoke in Azriel. How dare he, how dare Rhys speak to him like that?

“I know,” Azriel said, his voice indiscernible and calm. Rhys swung his head up to glare at Azriel, something emotional lingering in his violet eyes.

“You know? Then, Azriel, why did you take it upon yourself to disobey me?” Azriel’s grip on his biceps tightened.

“Elain is...” Azriel began before he had to lower his eyes. What was Elain? How could he explain to Rhys the inexplicable way he felt about the angelic gardener? The effect she had on him, it was both irrational and yet made perfect sense. And right now, he could barely focus with knowing that somewhere in this house she was looking around confused, wondering what the hell had just happened. “She’s important to me. More than you realise.”

“She has a mate.”

“That is irrelevant-”

“Irrelevant?” Rhysand looked as though he might laugh and Azriel once more gripped his arms tight enough to bruise. “I thought I made it perfectly clear to you Azriel that the bond between Elain and Lucien-” Azriel growled at his name, Rhys ignored him, “-is paramount to the civility between us and not just the Autumn Court, not just the Spring Court or the Day Court, but also the Band of Exiles and the Human realms.”

“And have you ever wondered if maybe Elain deserves better?”

“Better than Lucien-” Rhys practically squawked.

“No,” Azriel growled, allowing his anger to show, “Better than us. Better than a family who reduce her to little more than a political pawn-”

“She is my sister,” Rhysand spat, standing up straight with a newfound intensity. “Don’t you dare question my treatment of her, don’t you dare suggest I don’t care for her.”

“Are you truly so out of touch that you do not see the shackles you’ve tied around her wrists?” Azriel uncurled his arms, “You’ve stripped her of any choice-”

“This is not about choice!”

“This has everything to do with choice!”

“Elain is a valued member of my family but also of my court. As her High Lord, I have made a difficult decision but one that will undoubtedly strengthen this us in the now impending war. It was a tough decision and if you want me to be the bad guy, fine, I’ll be the bad guy, but you will obey my orders as this is the best choice for Elain.”

“Then why don’t you ask her,” Azriel growled, grappling with the internal leash on his powers, “Why don’t you actually include her in the decisions you’ve made about her life.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” Rhys flicked invisible lint from his suit, “But Elain is a valued member of these discussions.”

“Then why isn’t she here?” Azriel husked quietly, full of venom. Rhysand apparently didn’t have anything to say to that, so Azriel went on. “You claim to value choice Rhysand, and yet you’ve stripped Elain of not just her own volition, but the simple knowledge of the choices made about her life.”

There was something bitter clanging through Azriel as he spat the words, he knew what it was, it was a word - hypocrite. Because whilst Azriel was fighting for Elain, really he should be allowing for Elain to fight for herself. He should’ve left the office the minute Rhysand winnowed them and searched for Elain. He should’ve told her, all those months ago, about why he could no longer be around her. And that’s why Elain deserved better, better than Rhys and better than him, because even now they talked of her rather than with her.

“You are to stay away from her,” Rhysand said at last, glaring out the study’s window almost as though he was ignoring Azriel.

“I can’t do that. Not anymore,” Azriel husked, and Rhys paused, catching Azriel’s eye before he hastily looked to the side and raked a hand through his hair.

“I told you, Azriel. I told you to stay away from Ly-” Both Azriel and Rhys’ eyes widened at the name that nearly fell from Rhysand’s lips. A revelation occurring to them both as the name Rhys’ long deceased sister was brought into the room. “Elain,” Rhys corrected himself, acting unbothered by his slip. “I told you stay away.”

Azriel didn’t know how to respond. He’d spend hours in training rings, on long haul flights or espionage ventures thinking of this specific argument. The way he’d tell Rhys all the things he should’ve said on that Solstice night, about the disservice they were both doing to Elain, about how it was outrageous of Rhys to demand Azriel put politics before his happiness after, well, everything.

After Azriel had spent 500 years alone with only a doomed infatuation with a woman who would never love him back. After Azriel had always favoured to be alone, to suffer in silence, to take the blame, and now he finally had an out. After Azriel had to put up with both his brothers finding their perfect happiness, Rhys himself almost starting a war by perusing and protecting Feyre.

Why was it so different for him? Why was it the moment Azriel had happiness within an arm’s reach there were a thousand excuses for him not to have it? What was so poisonous about his desires? About him?

“She’s not Lydia,” Azriel said at last. It was a low blow. Especially since Rhys had so clearly tried to cover up his slip a moment ago. “For one, you would never treat Lydia with such little respect. Elain is her own person and I’m not going to fight with you, or Lucien, or anyone for that matter like she’s some kind of prize.”

This argument was too real. Of course, they’d had arguments before, all three of them had. Azriel could remember a particularly nasty one between Cassian and Rhys where they hadn’t spoken for a year, Azriel bouncing between them like an owl. But this wasn’t a brotherly squabble, not when the stakes were so high.

Rhys sighed, still not meeting Azriel’s eye as a muscle in his jaw ticked. It seemed as though the High Lord also understood the irregularity of the dispute, or maybe he was just furious at facing his own errors, at his spymaster criticising him on failing someone so important on a matter which Rhysand prided himself on - the volition of the women in his life. After what happened with his mother and his sister, to find out he was now failing his new family must be driving him mad.

“You just can’t keep it in your pants can you Azriel?”

It may have been less shocking if Rhys had just leaned over and stabbed Azriel in the gut. His words clanged into the air with a sour metallic taste, and for a moment Azriel lost his breath, his jaw slackening as his shock registered before he could swiftly cover the expression with the mask of steel he’d perfected. The silence following the comment was perhaps worse than the blow itself. Now it was Azriel who couldn’t stand looking at his brother. He didn’t care if Rhys looked apologetic, didn’t care for him at all.

“Do you really think so low of me?” Azriel’s voice was deathly quiet, before he finally shifted his eyes up to see the raw regret plastered on his brothers face.

“No, I-” A vicious knock came at the door then, interrupting whatever apology Rhys was going to throw his way.

“Open the door,” Came Elain’s voice, more brutal than he’d ever heard it before. Something electric shot through Azriel at the sound of it, of her. If anything, her voice was a reminder that this was real, that his hair was tousled, and lips swollen because of Elain-fucking-Archeron.

Rhys didn’t move for the door, so Azriel did. Turning around, he walked the length of Rhys’ office to the large double oak doors and pulled one back without hesitation. He knew she deserved to be here, that she should’ve been here from the start.

Azriel was so set on opening the door for the sake of justice and fairness that he momentarily forget that it was Elain on the other side, and the sight of her made his breath stop in his throat. Her hair was still ruffled from where he had raked his hands through it, and her lips still blushed from where he had tugged on them with his teeth. There was also a faint flush of her cheeks, either from their previous activities or from running through the River House searching for him and his brother.

Something electric and charged ran the entire length of his body at the sight of her - not arousal, something deeper. And by the way her glowing eyes drank him in, he knew she felt it too. Azriel stepped aside and let her pass into the office and walk up to Rhysand’s desk. As he followed her, something bitter twisted in his gut - whatever was blooming between himself and the gardener was a thing to celebrate. Such love, light and warmth in his life which had thus far consisted of cold loneliness was a joyous and wonderful thing. And yet he was made to feel ashamed of his happiness, by his brother. His own damn brother.

“What’s going on?” Elain spoke in her traditionally soft voice, but even Rhys must’ve picked up and the unwavering steel that seeped from her tone, so similar to Nesta’s pitch.

“Nothing, Elain. Just a dispute between myself and Azriel. It’s nothing you need concern yourself with,” Rhysand’s easy smile warmed through his cheeks and Azriel was sure he was going to punch him before the night was out.

“Don’t lie to me Rhysand, it’s not a good look for a High Lord,” Elain spoke smoothly, folding her arms over her chest as Azriel had done moments ago. Rhys’ expression only flickered in response. “Now, what’s going on?” Elain asked again.

“Well,” Rhysand began, “Me and Azriel have been discussing you actually, you see, your bond with Lucien is unfortunately paramount to a lot of peace and unity between our court and others.” Rhysand looked blankly at Evie as he spoke, completely dethatched from the emotional anger he’d unleashed on Azriel moments ago.

“Is this about me breaking the bond?” Elain said, her voice smooth like honey, healing the sparking energy in the room as Azriel and Rhysand had geared up for a fight. Something about the question twisted Azriel’s guts. It was her terminology; it was all wrong. There was no such thing as breaking a bond, one could reject it and render the attachment limp and lifeless, but breaking a bond was only achieved in death, and even then some believe the bond to continue in the next life. It was just a reminder that Elain knew nothing about this world, Lucien had placed the acceptance or rejection of the bond in her hands, but she did not even know what either option would truly entail. Her education, it was another thing they’d all failed her on.

“If you wish to reject your bond with Lucien I, nor anyone in this court, will prevent you from doing so,” Rhysand said smoothly, “However, given the current political climate, I must say it would be best to leave this till after the war.” Elain did not look away as she thought.

“I don’t want the bond,”

“That’s perfectly okay-”

“No,” Elain interrupted, “I don’t want the bond at all. I don’t want to have to accept or reject anything - I just don’t want it...you....you don’t know what it’s like, to be pulled apart limb by limb, and be remade against your will, to find yourself destroyed and then re-crafted by something as unapologetic as the Cauldron itself. I was violated to the most extravagant degree and when I finally came around, when I finally managed to find something recognisable in myself, months after that night, I came around to find that I had been reduced to some ancient claim a stranger possessed over me. You are all kind, and you all mean well, but I know you all see myself as his.

“It was on the worst night of my life, the night when I had been pulled apart till I was only vessels and blood, he called me his. He is not a bad person I can see that,” her voice wobbled slightly then, “He is kind and witty, he’s working harder than any of you for the forgiveness of my sister. He doesn’t deserve…” She choked up slightly, but cleared her throat to cover it up, “He’s not bad…but this bond is terrible, it’s worst then terrible, it’s suffocating. And when I think of that bond, tied around my ribs like some kind of violating shackle, I just think of how it felt to suffocate on black water...that’s what this bond means to me, it’s a violation on top of a violation. So, to hear that to you, this bond gives you a political advantage, that you get a gain out of it and that you wish me to continue living in torment I...

“I wish I could be sorry about feeling this way, but I don’t. I have stayed quiet, and I have played the role you needed me to play. I keep out of your way; I busy myself with the gardens and dinner and I do everything I can to not bare my teeth every time he visits. But I...” Her wide, damp eyes turned to look at Azriel, “I have found something living in the never ending grave of my life. After I found myself again, all those months after the Cauldron, it felt as though it was only then I emerged from the black water. After I found...” She trailed off, stilling holding Azriel’s eye, “...I was not just out the black water, but back on the ground.”

A small silence settled over the room as Azriel and Elain found themselves quickly lost in one another again, Rhys was merely glancing between the two, his mind whirring as he tried to click together the puzzle in front of him.

“I tried Rhys…I really did,” Azriel finally whispered into the heavy silence, still not looking away from his beloved. “I’ve done everything short of chaining myself in the dungeons to stay away, but I can’t.” It wasn’t until the words had left Azriel’s mouth that he realised his error. And it wasn’t until Elain’s brows furrowed and her eyes moved to Rhysand, that he felt his heart drop.

“What?” Elain whispered. One of the thousand questions she no doubt harvested. Azriel couldn’t look away from her, couldn’t meet his brothers eye. He had this awful feeling now twisting his guts, the feeling that everything was about to come crashing down.

“I ordered Azriel to stay away from you,” Rhys said evenly. Always the honest man.

“I...what?” Elain spluttered softly, her eyes narrowing on Rhysand. “What?”

“He called me away on solstice night when I was about to kiss you, that’s why I stopped.” That’s why I called it a mistake. Elain’s eyes burned even brighter and Azriel wondered if he should’ve held his tongue. If he should’ve just waited to have this conversation tomorrow where whatever ancient power that was stirring in Elain had calmed down. Now Elain’s glowing eyes seemed to fill the room with golden light, even the black night shrouding Rhysand’s figure ebbed back and inch.

“What?” Elain’s voice rung out, the magic in the room quickly turning volatile.

“I am sorry Elain; I didn’t mean to meddle with your private affairs, but with Lucien under the same roof it would’ve been too risky for those in the house. He could’ve invoked something called a ‘blood duel’.” Of course, Elain didn’t know that, of course none of her friends or family had taken the time to explain that to her.

“You…you sanctimonious dick,” Elain spat. Had it been any other day, Azriel would’ve had to fight an astonished grin at hearing the words on her lips, but not tonight, not when everything was turning so morbid in front of his eyes.

“I’m sorry Elain, I truly am. But I’m not just your brother-in-law but your High Lord and I cannot risk my entire court for the mild infatuation of a-”

“Don’t speak to her like that,” The words were writhing in venom as Azriel spat them out. He would go down with her.

“No, Azriel, you don’t speak to me like that,” And with that Rhys’ last straw was gone. In an instant his power was billowing into the room in clouds of black smoke. Rhys acting in such a way in front of Elain, who was already vulnerable, her dress already ruffled and her eyes wide in alarm, made Azriel furious.

“I am your high lord, Azriel, and I gave you a direct command and you have disobeyed me-” Without thinking Azriel’s own icy power rose to the surface, his siphons lighting on fire at the surge. If Elain was frightened by their display of bottomless power she did not show it, perhaps as her own fire was still burning vividly behind her eyes, perhaps since she knew she had more power than them both.

“Have you ever thought perhaps you stepped out of line by asking such a thing of me?” Azriel had never heard his voice so loud and angry before. He didn’t do this. His arguments were stoic and brutal, but mostly silent. He never fought politics - he carved into people who were in chains, and when there was an argument he stayed in the shadows and listened.

“You are my spymaster-”

“I am your brother!” Azriel’s choked sob echoed into the room. “Do I not deserve to be happy?” Rhysand at least had the decency to flinch, to reel back and allow his jaw to slacken in shock.

“Of course, you deserve to be happy brother,” Rhysand’s voice was low and strangled, “But this isn’t just romance – it’s never just romance – this will be a battle-”

“And I’m willing to fight!” Azriel roared, his hands slamming into Rhysand’s desk, his power causing the entire house to shudder, right down to the foundations.

“Azriel,” Rhys’ voice was deathly quiet, “I need you to calm down.” For a moment Azriel didn’t understand, his mind was so focused on Elain, on his own shuddering heart and writhing powers that he simply could not comprehend the words that came out his brothers mouth. Finally, the message registered in his mind and he became aware of his shadows, flourishing and filling the entire room, crawling over the windows and blocking out all the light. The only way he was seeing Rhysand was via the golden glow that came from Elain’s eyes. Disgust racked through his body at the sight of the manifestation of his swirling pain, but before he could do anything, the leash on his powers snapped.

“Azriel-” The next series of events was a blur. Power billowed into the room in a quick explosion, God knows whose it was. Perhaps it was initially Azriel who had finally lost control on that leash on his Illyrian gifts, perhaps Rhysand moved to repress Azriel’s powers with his own, premature or not. Maybe the quiet Elain had had enough of the noise. In an instant, a cocktail of three brands of magic billowed towards each other before exploding outwards, sending a wave of pure, unhinged chaos through the room, the house, and the whole of Velaris.

They all were thrown back from each other, Rhys flying up and landing on his feet, bracing himself against the ornamental globe as his wings appeared and flared. But even he, the most powerful High Lord in history had his knees bent and his arms raised as he braced himself against the fizzling aftershock of the ancient power that tore through the air. Azriel’s centuries of training kicked in as he was catapulted the length of the room, his own wings flared to slow his flight before he caught himself on the doorframe, the weighty wooden doors having flung open, it took an immense amount of physical upper body strength to keep himself upright as the wave of power subsided, his teeth grinding together as his muscles screamed.

But he wasn’t aware of the pain of his screaming muscles, wasn’t thinking about how his wings were in danger of being shredded by the power that ripped through the room. There was only one person, that his entire being seemed to lurch for as his mind screamed her name over and over. Elain.

Elain.

He had seen as her pale form was flung away from him towards the cabinets, had heard the shattering of glass over the howling in his ears. Of course, he and Rhysand were okay, they had centuries of power and training under their belts but Elain…Elain didn’t have training, and she had flown through the air the fastest, taking the brunt of the powers rebound, her small form crashing into the case of Rhysand’s prized artefacts.

The minute Azriel had control of his own body and wasn’t being thrust back into the hallway, he winnowed to her, stepped into the shadows with a haste and urgency he’d never felt before. Wrong. He’d felt this fear before, he recognised it’s taste from the poisonous memories of that night Elain had been ripped away from them, leaving behind nothing but a vacant cot and warm sheets. Memories of that night often haunted his dreams; how ridiculously lucky they had gotten that they had reached Elain minutes before the King of Hybern got his hands on her. In his dreams he was too late. In his nightmares he fails her, and by the time he and Feyre find the tent she’s already gone. Sometimes there’s a body, and sometimes his unconscious mind is kind enough to just leave behind her lingering scent. That night he learned what it was like to truly fear, to have the blood leave your body, to feel the world still.

And that’s what the world did as he stepped onto the other side of the shadows. Elain was crumpled on the floor underneath the large bay windows, moonlight streaming into the mutilated room and illuminating her still form. It was as though the starlight was searching for her, reaching out to her with hands made of silver shadows.

Glass crunched under Azriel’s boots as he took a step forward, and another, and another. Because he could scent it before he saw it – the blood. The sour metallic taste that clogged up the air, interwoven with her own delicate scent. Wrong, it was so wrong, to have Elain’s scent fused with that of blood. She was facing away from him, crumpled on her side in a foetal position, and he could see her arms, her beautiful nimble arms so like the legs of a doe, limp on the floor and marred with what seemed to be a thousand cuts.

Her blood was black in the moonlight, and was colouring her beautiful, beautiful night dress. The roaring in Azriel’s ears was nothing short of explosive. And before him he saw a black wave, taller than the Ramiel, heading straight for him. One that was made of self-loathing, anger, frustration and agony, and as he dropped to his knees in front of Elain he felt it wash over him, burying him deeper in himself than he’d ever been before, and he knew he would not resurface.

Slowly, as not to hurt her further, Azriel rolled Elain over onto her back and into his lap. With shaky fingers he pushed back her hair, just as he had done less than an hour earlier. Her eyes were shut again, but this time he didn’t look at her face for beauty, but for a sign of life.

“Elain…” He whispered; his voice was softer than petals. She did not stir.

“Elain…” He murmured again as he bowed his head and pressed it against her chest, sticky blood rubbing against his cheek as he did so. For a moment it was all silent, and Azriel felt the world drop away, felt himself falling through bottomless black water only to never resurface.

And then there it was. The familiar ‘thu-thump’ beating slow and steady in her chest, the sweetest melody Azriel had ever heard. But before he could revel in the relief of Elain being alive, movement at the side of his eye made him snap his head, turn up his top lip and let loose a nothing but feral growl. It was his brother, and a small wave of shame rolled through him at having behaved in such a way to someone whom he owed so much.

“Azriel…” Rhysand’s voice was soothing, calm, “She’s having a vision…look, Azriel look. She’s okay, she’s just having a vision.”

And so, he looked again and yes, she was having a vision. Behind her eyelids Azriel could see her pupils flurrying side to side as though she were engaged in some riveting dream.

She’s having a vision; she’s having a vision. His shadows chanted to him, running up his back and whispering in his ear. It didn’t soothe him, but rather caused the cloud of anger around him to disappear, so that he was numb again. Some movement deep in the house pulled at his attention, but it was like a ribbon trying to move an ocean, there was nothing for it to hold onto.

And soon both men were turning to the worst thing of all: Feyre and Nesta, standing at the doorway looking at their sister unresponsive in a pool of blood, both primed and ready to kill.

“Get away from her.” Nesta’s voice clanged through the room like steel as she strode forward, seeming to fill the broken room with her strength alone. As she moved she revealed a slightly dazed Cassian behind her, still dressed in his night clothes and yet armed to the teeth, clearly having been awoken in a haste. Rhys took a step back, there was too much power, too much energy, in the room already, provoking Nesta would surely lead them all to their sudden deaths.

Then there was Feyre, walking into the room behind her sister, quiet but observant, the perfect High Lady. She seemed to assess everything around her. The tautness of her husband’s stature, the silent flood of emotions that seemed to be rippling from her spymaster, Elain’s shallow breaths and bloodied night gown. After a moment of quiet assessment, she moved forth to the stoic and emotionless figure of her shadowsinger.

“Azriel,” Rhys recognised Feyre’s tone as she approached his brother, it was the tone she used with Nyx, motherly and soft. Azriel pulled his eyes from Elain to look at Feyre vacantly. “It’s okay, everything’s going to be okay…but I need you to let me take her.” Azriel’s mouth contorted in pain as he pulled Elain slighter closer to his chest.

“I know,” Feyre whispered, dropping to her knees next to him, not caring that her own silken nightgown was turning splotchy and red. “I know it’s hard but everything’s going to be okay. She’s my sister, and I as your High Lady will not let anything harm her.” There’s no need, Azriel thought bitterly as he looked down at Elain’s deathly pale skin, her abuser is here, right in front of you. The only harm you need protect her from, is me.

But he didn’t say any of that out loud, he wasn’t even sure his voice would work for him in that moment. Azriel didn’t quite hand Elain over to Feyre, rather he just let his arms go limp around her, and Feyre was able to scoop her sister out of his arms as though they were passing Nyx from one another. Every instinct Azriel had was screaming at him to take Elain back, to at least look at her unconscious form in Feyre’s arms as they moved away from him, but he kept his eyes on the floor, now kneeling to only the pools of Elain’s blood.

Voices began to erupt around him in hushes whispers, he could distantly hear Rhysand guiding his subjects through the plan, explaining to them what had happened whilst withholding the reason why. It was all numb to him as he continued to float under that black wave, sinking deeper and deeper, their voices were above the surface and so they just sounded warbled and strange.

But one movement did catch Azriel’s eye. It cut through the room’s silent chaos like a knife, a figure appearing at the ruined doorway that caught Azriel’s attention the same way an earthquake would. It was him.

Lucien.

“What happened?” Lucien growled out and something roared in Azriel. He knew that tone of voice, could smell the mate-tarnished anger that was rolling out of him. That animalistic claim on the woman Azriel had nearly lost himself in only moments ago. That’s why he was here, because he would’ve felt the energy down the bond, because even though he was at the other end of Prythian with his own family, he had that claim.

“She’s okay,” Feyre breathed softly as she lifted her sister up into her arms, “Her cuts are already healing, it looks worse than it is. She’s just had a vision so it might take a while for her to come around.” Feyre’s voice was so like her husband’s, even and balanced, reassuring everyone in the room that everything was okay, even if that were not necessarily true.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Azriel didn’t want to hate Lucien, even now he could see that the Autumn son was grappling with the bond that was no doubt screaming at him to rip his mate from Feyre’s arms and winnow them both to the other side of the continent. Azriel knew, because he felt it too. Like Elain he didn’t really hate Lucien, he hated the bond, hated what it told him about himself, clear as day, that he wasn’t worthy of Elain. And though some part of him already assumed just as much, no one was so self-deprecating to not at least hold of a sliver of hope in the face of such agony.

“She’s fine,” Nesta snarled at Lucien, one hand on Feyre’s shoulder, the other on Elain’s pale and bloodied forehead as she guided her sisters towards to mutilated door frame. They were right to take their sister away from the scene, God knew that no one there could help Elain now.

And so Elain disappeared around the corner, and Azriel slowly brought himself off the floor, trying to ignore the sight of his marred hands, covered in her blood.

What...even...Cassian’s voice swam into Rhys mind, dripping in confusion and concern. Did you and Az have a fight?

Rhys put off audibly groaning. Whenever he and Az fought it was normally not difficult to keep Cassian oblivious, he didn’t always pick up and stuff like that and sometimes it was just easier to deal with debates behind closed doors. Not to treat Cassian as his and Az’s overgrown child, it was just that Cassian was never meant to be a mediator.

It’s complicated, Rhys reported back keeping his voice level and calm - his High Lord voice.

I’ll let you off for tonight but, Rhys, you have to let me help you. Especially when it comes to Az. He was right of course, just like Azriel had been.

Deal, Rhys shot back, for tonight I need eyes on Az, I don’t care if he pushes you away I need someone with him at all times, at least until Elain comes around. We’ll re-group then. Cassian didn’t respond besides the smallest of nods. He stayed where he was, more awake now with his eyes trained on their other brother, and Rhys knew Cassian wouldn’t take his eyes off him for the foreseeable future.

Rhysand couldn’t help but sigh, it’s not as though Azriel or Lucien were aware of him to notice. This was a mess. Worse than a mess, it was a catastrophe. Everything Azriel had said was right but, he had broken his order, he had defied rank in a way he’d never done before and that squeezed something deep in Rhysand’s gut. Above all he needed to be able to trust his friends, so that when push came to shove he’d be able to make the tough decisions and his friends would let him go into the belly of the beast. But tonight, that had changed. Everything had changed.

And Elain, Elain who he had nearly called by his sisters name, she’d stood up for herself tonight. And then there was the situation of her powers, savage and rippling out of her like a beast. He had tasted those powers when they’d tore out of her, and they were ancient. The same power that was interwoven in the very fields of the earth, concentrated in the form of the sweetest girl of all. Rhys knew at least a thousand fae who would pay a hefty price to possess Elain, a hundred who might be willing to go to war - and then there were the Fae who would claw for her hand, the noblemen who would see her for her potential offspring. Rhysand physically shuddered as he sent his wings away.

Yes, tonight had been a catastrophe all right.

Rhysand looked away from Cassian’s half-hidden grimace and turned to the two males standing off, the blood of the woman they were unspokenly fighting over still pooling across the hardwood floors. Lucien glaring with restrained anger at Azriel, his masculine mating bond clogging up the air, whilst Azriel wore an impenetrable mask, hiding the bottomless torment and agony that was no doubt running rife in the shadowsinger, as he stared at the weeping puddle of Elain’s blood.

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ikeromantic · 3 years

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Uncomfortable Questions

A Mitsuhide Akechi fanfiction occurring after the events of the romantic epilogue! Approx. 3000 words of fluff and stuff.

First: Mitsuhide and the Maiden

Previous: Friends and Frenemies

Miyake was nervous. He did his best to hide it. His job today was to stay with Lady Akechi, to keep her safe and happy. Normally, he’d consider it an easy task. A pretty girl, a new place to explore . . . but this was his Lord’s wife! And . . . other complications.

He swallowed.

“Do you want to go shopping too, Miyake? I see you’re wearing another of Sasuke’s t-shirts.” The lady smiled back at him as she asked.

“Nope! I’m good. I like this shirt. And the ninja took me out for some pants that fit too. I'm just here to keep you safe.” He glanced up at the tall tall buildings to their right and left. “Where, uh, do you want to go?”

Her shoulders sagged. “It’s not so much what I want to do as what I should. I need to stop by the clothing designer here - the place that hired me. To apologize for disappearing like I did.”

“Think they’ll be mad?”

“I hope not.” She mumbled something else, something Miyake didn’t catch.

“What was that?”

“Oh. Ah, just that I imagine they won’t be nearly as hard to apologize to as my family.”

Miyake nodded. Families were tough. He’d left his own to go serve Akechi, and never looked back. Not everyone could or would do that.

The lady stopped at a gift shop to pick up flowers for her former co-workers. Miyake didn’t let her lift a thing. Better safe than sorry. He even offered to carry her bag - her purse, she called it - but she wouldn’t let him.

Then they rode the train - which would have been fun if there’d been a seat for the lady. Standing, Miyake spent the whole time worried she might fall. Every little lurch made his jaw clench.

She seemed to notice his concern, and when they got off the train, stopped. “Miyake, I’m not that fragile. I don’t know what Mitsuhide threatened you with, but I promise, I’m perfectly capable of carrying things, walking, and standing on my own.” She laughed. “I’ve been doing it for years.”

“I know, my lady. But it just seemed like . . . in your uh, your state . . .” He gestured helplessly. Neither the lady nor his lord had said a word, and it seemed wrong to just put it out there before they did.

“My state?”

Miyake tried to hide behind the bouquets in his arms. “Ah, maybe it’s the wrong word. But hey! Isn’t that the shop you’re looking for?” It was a two-story building. A large sign hung above the double glass doors, with a spool of thread and a needle.

The lady turned. “Yep. That’s the place.” She squared her shoulders like a soldier going into battle. “Let’s do this.”

Grateful for the topic change, Miyake followed her across the street and inside.

The woman at the front counter recognized her immediately. Rather than anger, her face lit up with a big smile. “You’re ok!” She called out, “Hey ladies, our new hire just showed up six months late.”

Lady Akechi blushed deeply.

Three heads peered past the corner and then the other designers filed into the room. Besides the young lady at the counter that recognized Lady Akechi, there was an older woman with red cheeks and a round face, a short, thin girl with ponytails, and a tall woman that looked like she might arm-wrestle in her spare time.

There was a round of re-introductions between the five of them, hand shakes, and bows. Lady Akechi apologized several times, and then came the barrage of questions.

“Is this the guy you left us for,” one asked, coming over to inspect Miyake.

“N-no, he works for him though. Oh! And those flowers are for you.” She gestured for Miyake to hand them out.

He dutifully gave out the bouquets under the speculative stairs of four strange women.

“Huh,” said another. “So you found some rich guy and now you don’t need to work? Lucky!”

“This one’s pretty cute though,” the older lady said.

The short one with her ponytails smiled bashfully. She hid her smile behind her hand.

Lady Akechi stumbled over her words. “Oh - oh, I still work. I just do commissions now. And ah, ah, that’s Miyake.” She pointed to the older woman. “Miyake, this is Aiko.” She gestured to ponytail girl, “And Masako.” She nodded to the girl from the counter, “Takara,” and then to the tall woman, “And that’s Kei.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Miyake bowed. He felt himself blush under the weight of their gazes. He hoped this apology and leave-taking wouldn’t take too long, but that was a futile dream.

The women invited them out for tea, and promptly closed the shop. They walked, chattering together, to a cafe nearby.

Masako hung back to walk beside Miyake. She kept glancing up at him, shy but forward. After a block or so, she shoved a piece of paper into his hand and then hurried back up to join the other women.

Miyake looked at the paper. It had some numbers on it. Some sort of code? Was Masako a kunoichi? He studied the paper. Ten digits. Three numbers and a dash, three more numbers, a dash, and then four more numbers. The number 2 repeated. Huh.

He put it away when they got to the cafe. The place smelled strongly of coffee, a bitter beverage that people in this era seemed to enjoy. Miyake preferred tea. There were glass cabinets with sweets on display too. Things he didn’t even begin to recognize.

“What would you like,” lady Akechi asked. “I’m getting a cold coffee and some financiers.”

Aiko laughed at the expression on his face as he scrutinized the display. “You look like you’ve never been to a French bakery before.”

He nearly admitted he hadn’t, but he knew better than to give information away. Instead he just smiled. “It all looks so good. What do you recommend?”

Takara shrugged. “If you like sweets, the macarons are great. Otherwise, get a croissant or some brioche.”

“I like the crepes,” Mayako added.

He wound up getting the crepes and a tea. While the girls continued their chatter, now asking lady Akechi about her whirlwind romance and her future plans, he focused on his plate. Miyake prodded the food suspiciously. What was a crepe made of? What was in it and on it?

Miyake picked up the fork the way Sasuke taught him, cut off a piece of fluffy golden crepe and some of the fruit and poofy white stuff inside, and then stuck it in his mouth. The flavors hit him all at once. Sweet and buttery, the texture smooth as velvet, contrasting with the tart fruit.

“I think he likes it,” Aiko grinned.

“I know how to make crepes,” Mayako spoke up.

Takara elbowed her.

Kei laughed. “Men don’t usually order stuff like that here. Glad you’re not shy about what you like.”

Lady Akechi gave him a gentle pat on the arm. “He doesn’t go out for sweets often.”

Miyake nodded, feeling his cheeks flush again. Going into battle was easier than sitting through tea with a bunch of women, he thought.

When the ladies returned to their conversation, he felt safe enough to polish off the crepes, and order a second round. By that point, Aiko and Kei were giving lady Akechi tips on how to keep her man, and Miyake wished he could turn his ears off.

The conversation finally wound down, and the group returned to the clothier shop.

“You know,” Takara said, eyeing lady Akechi, “if you’re going to be around at least a few weeks, I have a commission or two you could pick up. Since you’re still working.”

“I’d love that!” The two of them headed to the back of the shop, and Miyake followed.

Masako gestured for him to stop. “That’s not for customers.”

“I’m not a customer.” He stopped though. From here, he could see lady Akechi and the other woman chatting beside some bundles of fabric.

The girl squinted up at him. She was, he thought, exceptionally short for a grown woman. “Are you some kind of mafia guy? Yakuza? Are you in a gang?”

“What?” Miyake’s eyes widened.

“I won’t tell anyone. Just me and Kei thought, the way you follow her around, you must be hired muscle.”

“I work for Lord Akechi,” he said slowly. “He is not . . . any of those things. I think.”

Masako frowned. “Fine. Don’t tell me. At least, don’t tell me yet.” She tugged at a ponytail, pulling it over one eye. “Maybe you can tell me when you . . . when you call me.”

From behind them, Kei snorted. “That is not how you flirt, Masako. You sound like a salesman.”

“I do not!” The shorter girl bristled. “Just because I’m not pushy like you!”

“Guys like pushy. Makes it easy for them to say yes.” She was standing pretty close, Miyake realized. She’d come up behind him and now he was trapped between the two women. He turned to look at Kei.

This was the wrong thing to do.

When he turned, she grabbed the back of his head and kissed him. It was . . . not a bad kiss. She was clearly experienced. Still, he gently pushed her away.

“See? Now if I gave him my number, you know he would call me.” Kei smiled smugly.

Masako looked furious. “I can’t believe you just did that!”

Mikaye understood now that he was the cause of this bizarre argument. A few days ago, he might have enjoyed being fought over by two attractive women. Not today. Today, he knew who he was going to marry and it surely wasn’t either of them. “I’m sorry ladies. I am already spoken for.”

“Oh sure! All the hot guys already have girlfriends.” Masako threw her hands up.

Kei chuckled. “What she doesn’t know, hm?”

“I ah, appreciate that, but -” He looked down the hall toward lady Akechi. She was lifting one of the cloth bundles. “My lady, no!” Miyake pushed past Masako. He lunged into range and grabbed the cloth out of her hands.

“What are you doing?” She looked stunned. A few bits of thread still stuck to her fingers.

Miyake grimaced. “You can’t be picking things like this up, my lady. It’s not safe for the baby.”

The four shop women all gasped at the same time. “You’re pregnant?” The question was a chorus of sharp disapproval to happy surprise.

Lady Akechi’s hands went to her hips. “No! Not, not as far as I know. Miyake?” One eye brow lifted and the expression was so like Mitsuhide’s that Miyake nearly handed back the bundle of cloth, certain he was wrong.

But he knew she had to be with child. Otherwise the dates wouldn't add up. “I - sorry my lady. I know you didn’t announce it yet.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Miyake took a deep breath. “Well. Yesterday, you know how I got quizzed by those professors?”

“Mhmmm.”

“They said I’m going to marry your daughter. Lord Akechi’s daughter, I mean. So I assumed . . .”

The four women burst into a whole new round of excited questions and now Miyake was the focus.

Lady Akechi came to his rescue. “I think Miyake’s just being . . . metaphorical. Yes. Not literal. Because I’m not pregnant. And anyway, ah, it really is time for us to go! But I’ll be back in a few weeks with the evening gown you commissioned. Thanks for that!”

Saying goodbye still took half an hour more, but they did get out and back onto the street alone.

Miyake snuck a look at his lord’s woman. She looked angry. Or worried. Maybe both. She kept touching her belly as if to be sure there was nothing new there.

“I’m not pregnant,” she said after they’d walked a little way back toward the train station. “I think I’d be able to tell. I mean, Mitsuhide and I, we don’t . . . you know, we just . . . but it takes awhile to make a baby, right? Like, lots and lots of . . .”

He swallowed. “Uh, sure? I mean, I knew some girls that got babies after one night with a man, but, I don’t know?”

“But not me. I'd know,” she said more firmly. “But . . . let’s stop at a pharmacy before we go home.”

***

Mitsuhide was having a fantastic day. He and Sasuke were riding the train out to the university. He tried to memorize the map of train stations, and even took a snapshot of it on his phone before Sasuke showed him how to download the ‘app.’

“Are you planning on traveling places on your own? I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Mitsuhide smiled obliquely. “I don’t know yet. But that is the problem for me here. I don’t know many things.”

After a moment, the ninja nodded. “And that is also why you agreed to come with me today.”

“Yes.”

Sasuke bowed slightly. “It would be my honor to teach you whatever you want to learn in this modern day.”

“You have me at a disadvantage but do not seek to exploit it?” One white eyebrow lifted in a gesture his fiancee was mimicking half a city away.

“No. I wouldn’t do that to the man my modern era bestie loves.”

Mitsuhide pressed. “This, despite working for my sworn enemies, Takeda and Uesugi?”

Sasuke’s shoulders tensed. “Yes. And technically, they are Nobunaga’s sworn enemies, not yours. And in this day, they are dead.”

“I see. You are desperately balancing your allegiances and rationalizing your actions to suit the situation and your preferred outcome. Are you sure you aren’t interested in a job?”

“You aren’t in a position to hire me.” Sasuke’s mouth quirked into what Mitsuhide was realizing was his smile.

The warlord nodded. “True. Perhaps I will ask again when we return home. Which will be . . .”

Sasuke flushed. “I am not certain. Perhaps, three months? The magnetic device I put together to predict and to enhance the conditions surrounding the wormhole was destroyed when we were pulled through.”

“So we could be stranded here.”

“Yes.” Sasuke’s voice was very quiet as he agreed.

“You seem unusually disturbed by that. Yet, this is your home?”

The ninja shrugged. “It was. We should be going now. The professors will be waiting for you, and we still need their help.”

Mitsuhide knew he hadn’t gotten to the reason for Sasuke’s unhappiness at their current predicament. He needed to know why the ninja was perturbed, but good intel took time. Instead, he spent the rest of the trip to the university solving the mysteries of bank cards and how to operate a smart phone.

The university was a pleasant surprise. A vast complex of buildings dedicated to furthering knowledge and culture. There was one entire center given to poetry and literature. Another to medicine. One to agriculture. Walking through them made Mitsuhide miss his friends. He thought of Ieyasu and Mitsunari, of how they would enjoy the time to page through these endless shelves of books and scrolls.

He thought too, of his lord, and the oceans of blood they shed to reach this place. This time. Mitsuhide could not help but wonder if there was ever another way to get here, to this, or if war and sacrifice was the only way forward.

It was with these troubling thoughts in mind that he sat down across a desk from two aged men. One of them looked deeply distrustful, while the other seemed excited. The excitable one was Sasuke’s contact, and they greeted each other familiarly before the ninja introduced him.

“Professor Fukuda, this is Akechi Mitsuhide,” Sasuke bowed to his friend. “And this is Professor Sakai.”

The men greeted one another and then the questions began.

“So you claim to be the historical figure, Akechi Mitsuhide? The traitor of the Oda?”

“I do.” Mitsuhide smiled sharply.

The enthusiastic professor Fukuda nodded, interrupting. “No need to be hostile to the man. Just ask your questions. For verification.”

“Hmph. As if I can verify an impossibility. But . . . the other one, Hidemitsu, he was very convincing. Alright.” And he proceeded to ask about minutiae. Random details. The color of this, the material of that, the name of this or that scribe, and so on.

Mitsuhide wore his patient mask. The face of the eager servant, he called it. He answered the questions as fully as he could until finally, the skeptical Sakai ran out of steam.

“Are you satisfied, sir? Do you believe me now?” Sasuke waited for a reply.

“I suppose I have no choice. Besides, Professor Fukuda was showing me the formula for your time travel theorem. I’m no physicist, but it looks solid. And . . . Mister Akechi answered everything correctly. Down to the last detail!”

Mitsuhide took a breath. That was one obstacle down. “Now that I have your confidence, are you willing to make a deal with me?”

Fukuda took a breath. “Sasuke already gave us a list of your needs -”

“Yes. He provided the beginnings of our requirements. There is more.”

“Well? Go on then,” Sakai gestured.

Mitsuhide nodded. “I require unrestricted access to your libraries and data - databases. I will require an assistant to teach me how to navigate your net-work, and may also need to use your laboratories, which you will allow with proper safety measures in place.”

The two professors exchanged a glance and then nodded. “Done. Is that all?”

“No. I’ve one more request. I may at some time, need,” he glanced to Sasuke, fishing for the word from his new vocabulary. “Scholars. Scholars’ ships.”

“Scholarships. For special situation admittance,” the ninja added helpfully.

“Yes, that. Three of them.”

Fukuda leaned forward on his elbows. “Is it for more of you people from the past?”

“No. Let’s say, as a reward of sorts for some of those assisting us. I am not in a position here to offer them places in my retinue or at my castle. But I will provide for them.” Mitsuhide’s eyes were hard. This was not a negotiable point.

“Why not,” Sakai waved toward the window. “We have people drop out of programs all the time from the stress of studies. It shouldn’t be a problem to put three people in.”

Mitsuhide relaxed back into his chair. “Then we have a deal.”

*In IRL history, Miyake marries Mitsuhide's daughter and takes the name Akechi Hidemitsu so I decided to include that tidbit!

Next: In the Spotlight

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen mitsuhide #mitsuhide akechi #ikesen sasuke #otome guys #otome #fanfiction #fanfic #fluff #hc

57 notes · View notes

wasabito · 4 years

Text

had so much fun writing for my baby boy tendou, so here’s my entry for the hqhq sfw server collab! be sure to check out the rest on the masterlist found here! enjoy ✨

words: 3.0k

prompt: “you woke me up at 3am for this?”

synopsis: your neighbor is ridiculous, kind of annoying and little bit on the weird side, but you wouldn’t have him any other way.

You had to be the biggest idiot on the planet—an obvious exaggeration, yes, but you were still inclined to believe it was true.

How else could you explain the feeling of being so utterly fed up with one’s actions like this? Were there enough words in the dictionary to describe just how exhausted you were by your own antics, more specifically, your forgetfulness since that’s what had landed you in a world of pain and embarrassment?

The answer was no.

You sat with your back pressed against your front door, head in your hands and chin tucked between your raised knees and chest. At your side was your wallet along with stacks of newspapers, coupons and whatever else had been stuffed in your mailbox, bills probably. Advertisements too. Honestly, it was hard to be happy about a new restaurant opening up down the block when you were currently stuck—locked out of your apartment to be precise.

The landlord of your cheap little complex wasn’t expected to be back for another hour according to the sign posted outside of his office. So until then, you’d remain posted up by your doorstep like some loiterer.

You shifted in place and blew a puff of air from your lips, feeling little pinpricks in your legs. For the fifth time in the last forty-five minutes you felt like kicking yourself, hard.

The sun hung low, nearly touching the distant horizon signifying the end of another day. Even the sky was painted a warm umber, casting dim shadows.

“Locked out, huh?” came a snide, but accented voice.

It took you way longer than necessary to realize that suddenly you weren’t the only person on this floor. God, where was your head at?

A pair of forest green crocs stood before you, complete with a few odd charms and trinkets. A cartoon volleyball, pinned next to a smiley face, a donut and a gaudy “i heart paris” chain dangling from the ankle strap. A person’s shoes could say a lot about who they were...your mother thought so, at least.

Resisting the urge to projectile vomit all over this stranger’s rather questionable taste in footwear, your wary gaze panned upward, glossing over white tube socks and a pair of the longest legs you’ve ever seen on a person—yet another exaggeration. You came face to face with a crooked smile. Curious ruby eyes returned your stare with almost the same amount of scrutiny.

Who the hell was this guy?

Mystery-man easily towered over you, and not only because you were hunched over and sitting. He was tall as hell, all lanky build, gangly arms and legs disguising lithe muscle and a surprisingly sturdy frame. He looked like the i-run-every-morning type; semi-athletic at the very least. His buzzed hair was the color of cinnamon, no that wasn’t right, paprika maybe? Either way, it contrasted sharply with the paleness of his skin, so much so that you could see the faint blue of the veins in his arms.

“Yoohooo, anybody hooome?” He tilted his head at you.

“Huh? Oh uh, yeah, I’m locked out. I forgot my key inside and Mr. Laurent won’t be back until later.”

“Hmm. That sucks...”

“...Um… do I… do I know you or something? You look a little familiar.”

He pinned you with a funny look, before pulling out a set of keys from the back pocket of his shorts.

“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t~ I mean we are neighbors, after all.” Laughing as if he’d made some sort of joke, he entered his apartment with a twirl and a dramatic wave of his arms.

You stared at his door for a solid minute, only to finally succumb to your urges and facepalm at your own idiocy. Of course he looked familiar, how could he not when he literally lived four feet away.

With a sigh of resignation, you braced yourself for another hour spent sitting outside your front door. It wasn’t like there was any other place you could go or anyone you could call. The battery icon on your phone blinked red, warning that it was soon to run out of juice. Guess that meant no Among Us or Subway Surfer for you.

Five minutes later, the door next to you opened. It was Mystery-man again, but this time, he sat in front of his door, just like you were. And he did so with a bag of pretzels and a jar of nutella in hand.

“Must be bored out here by yourself.” He crunched on a pretzel before offering you the bag to take some. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep ya company.”

You weren’t sure why, but there was something about this guy that intrigued you. You half-wondered if it was the funny little curl of his smile, or the wideness of his eyes that made it seem like he was looking at all of you, all at once.

"You must be pretty bored...uh,"

"Satori Tendou, but most people call me Tendou. Miracle boy works just fine too."

"Right... Tendou, as I was saying, you must be incredibly bored to come sit out here with me. You sure you don't have anything important to do?"

Tendou's grinned widened. "Positive! And it costs me nothing to be neighborly, so don't even sweat it."

That was...nice of him?

If sitting outside with you was the way he wanted to spend his late Tuesday afternoon who were you to deny him? And truthfully, you didn't mind the company, at least not really. Provided this guy wasn't some creepy-stalker-weirdo, you were sure there wasn't any harm in getting to know the person who lived one door over.

"So, Tendou, how long have you lived in the area? You don't really look like you're from around here...I could be wrong."

Tendou raised a thin brow at you. "Weeeell, if you're asking about how long I've lived next door, it would be about three maybe four months give or take, but if you're asking how long I've lived in Paris, it would be a year next month. Speaking of, I think Semisemi has a birthday coming up..."

You watched as he pulled out his cell phone and tapped away at the illuminated glass screen. You couldn't help but notice the goofy little anime stickers on his phone case. One in particular caught your attention.

“Is that...Kirara? From Inuyasha??”

“Oho! So, you recognize this?”

Backtracking, you mumble out, “Ah, well…only a little.” Though your face was turned away, the tiny smile on your lips was not hidden from Tendou and he thought you were pretty cute.

Funnily enough, what you had expected to be a rather unnerving and possibly creepy exchange turned out to be anything but. Tendou was incredibly fun to talk to—a bit teasing and a little overwhelming with his superfluous hand movements and gestures. But he was funny and a lot kinder that you would’ve given him credit for.

You learned that he was originally from Japan; it explained his accented French. He had come to Paris right out of high school to study culinary arts in one of the most renowned countries for it. Now he worked as a chocolatier, under the tutelage of a master patisserie in the city, an older man who was both a creative genius and a thorn in Tendou’s side. Tendou spoke of his teacher with equal parts awe and annoyance.

And he got to know you too. How you’d found yourself in Paris, thousands of miles away from home in an effort to rediscover yourself in the city full of rich history and culture.

You didn’t have many friends here, and it truly was a pleasure to make his acquaintance.

Soon, you both heard the telltale sound of jangling keys as your landlord rounded the corner with his clipboard in hand. Once you were able to get your door open, you waved a goodbye to Tendou.

“Thanks for keeping me company, you really didn’t have to.”

“No biggie, it was fun!” He threw a mischievous little grin and a peace-sign over his shoulder and reentered his apartment.

You found yourself wanting to cross paths with him again, and hopefully in better circumstances. But you hadn't known your wishful thinking was soon to manifest as you ambled through grocery store aisles a week later, eyeing down any items with pictures on it.

“Why in the hell is this toilet paper so expensive.” You mumbled.

“So, you complain about the price of toilet paper, but wear sneakers that cost two-thirds our rent.” That voice sounded familiar, and after hearing it for about an hour just days ago, you were a bit surprised you could recognize it so quickly.

Stunned, you looked up to find Satori Tendou, your quirky neighbor with an arm full of pita chips, a milk carton, and baby carrots.

“I never said I made the best choices.” You found yourself smiling despite the previous crease in your brow. “...Dude, get a cart before you drop everything.”

Instead of getting his own, he simply dumped what he had into your cart with a teasing grin. You couldn’t argue with his logic there. Tendou sidled up against you, once again towering over you with a kind of ease that should be criminal. “Need help reading something?”

You wanted to say no. You almost said no. But swallowing your pride, you gave a weak nod. “Yeah, this word right here.” Pointing to the unfamiliar script printed on the label. “What the heck is this?”

“Weeeeell, looks like that brand is scented, ya know, for when ya—”

“Don’t bother finishing that sentence...please.”

You quickly grab what you need and continue on down the aisle with Tendou following closely behind.

Just like when you’d first met him, he made conversation the entire way. By the time you both made it to the cash registers, you’d argued at least three times over french pronunciations and whether cashews were the cousin of peanuts.

And just as last time, he left you with a grin and a peace-sign while you stared after his retreating back, paid groceries in hand.

After an entire day spent baking, you found yourself on Tendou’s doorstep with a tupperware full of baked goodies later the next evening. You had been meaning to thank him for being such a good neighbor to you. It was certainly unexpected, but a welcome gesture nonetheless.

You only had to knock twice before the door was wrenched open and you were greeted with the set of...vanilla? Some pop song played in the background while your neighbor looked at you curiously.

"H-Hey Tendou, I um...I baked you these." You held out the plastic container, hoping he'd simply take it from you without question and you could return to your apartment without somehow embarrassing yourself. "There's a little bit of everything in there, oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, macadamia nut—wait you aren't allergic to anything, right?"

"Nooope! Not a thing, thanks neighbor!"

"It was no problem, especially since you've helped me, not once but twice now."

Frowning, you couldn't help but be a little upset with yourself. You'd come to France to prove that you could, in fact, live a normal life outside of your family’s jurisdiction but day by day you were proving to need them more and more.

It was disappointing, to say the least.

"Hmm, what’s with the constipated look on your face. Did the toilet paper not help?” Tendou tilted his head at you with a teasing grin, lips curled at the edges, taunting. You blinked up at him, surprised, and if you were honest, a little annoyed too.

"Hah?!"

"Just thought it was worth a mention, nighty-night~!"

Tendou proceeded to shut the door on you; one hand rested on the frame and the other held on to the cookies. You quickly took a step back lest he chop your entire arm off, ready to trudge off in the direction of your own home but not before sticking your tongue out at him.

Stupid Tendou, always saying stupid shit.

You were on the couch, half asleep when it dawned on you that it had been his own twisted, “Tendou” way of cheering you up.

The rest of the month passed just like that. Occasionally, you would bump into Tendou at the grocery store, or the leasing office, or even the laundromat. And every single time, he’d either make you laugh until your sides hurt or annoyed enough to want to give him a friendly punch. At one point, you two had even exchanged phone numbers, because according to Tendou “it was ridiculous not to have your friends on speedial” which only led to hours spent on Facetime or playing iMessage games.

You knew exchanging numbers would come back to bite you in the ass, it was only a matter of when.

It was clear you weren’t going to any sleep tonight, that was for sure. The incessant buzzing of your cell phone every five minutes was an enemy to your circadian rhythm. You could name on one hand those in your contacts with enough sense to know that you lived in a completely different time zone from them now.

Somehow your neighbor was the very last person you suspected, but it was his contact photo that stared back at you, goofy looking grin and all. You squinted against the brightness of your screen in your otherwise dark bedroom.

you up?

come quick

gotta show ya somethin

come oooon

you're awake, i know you are

It took you less than a minute to shuffle on a pair of slippers, grab your keys (you weren't going to forget them this time) and slip out of your apartment.

You hadn't even knocked twice before the door was pulled open. Tendou looked a mess, more so than usual. Unidentified stains littered the apron looped around his thin waist, streaks of what you hoped were just flour and granulated sugar were all over his hands. You almost wanted to ask if he was baking or dealing dope.

“You woke me up at three in the morning...for this?”

“Yuuup!”

"When I said you could call me at any time, I really didn’t mean any time.” You scratch your side, a contemplative look on your face at the sight of Tendou in what you would assume to be his pajamas. An old volleyball hoodie with the words "Shirazorizawa" printed across the front, and old sweats the were so obviously cut with scissors at the knee.

Rolling your eyes, you mumbled a curt, “Alright, move aside.”

Tendou ushered you over to his kitchen where several of his cooking supplies laid on the island, along with a tray of some chocolate dessert spread.

“It’s all still in the testing phase, but I think I’m onto something here.”

He was definitely giving off “mad scientist” vibes. You tried not to snort.

Holding a small chocolate cake in his hand, he smiled, a genuine smile this time. "Open wide."

You obeyed, far too tired to argue, and let him pop the treat into your mouth. Tendou watched as you chewed, as if it were the most interesting thing ever. His wide gaze carefully took in every shift in your expression.

"So? Whaddya think?"

"I...," You chewed a bit more. "...It's delicious! Is that—"

"—Pistachio, why yes it is!"

Tendou was practically bouncing on his feet with excitement. "It takes the entire thing to a whole new level."

You had to agree with him there. This was probably the best chocolate madeleine you'd ever tasted. "Great work, miracle boy. Will you be introducing this new recipe to Claude?"

Mentioning his teacher seemed to sober him up a bit. "Ehh, maybe? The old man's a bit of traditionalist, so I'll just have to figure out a way to get him to approve."

"Maybe try calling him at three in the morning?"

Tendou stuck his tongue out at you before popping a dessert in his mouth. The pure delight on his face was so contagious, you found yourself smiling just the same. You couldn’t help but admire his passion.

“Hey, Tendou… do you like your job?”

He blinked at you, chewing coming to a slow halt. “Well of course! The pay isn’t the best just yet, but it’s a labor of love. I’m willing to put my all into it at least.”

“Huh… that’s pretty cool.” You wiped your fingers on a nearby rag. “I hope to feel the same one day… if I can figure out what I wanna do.”

“Why not bake? You’re pretty good at it.”

“Oh am I? Last week you said my baking needed some work.”

“Well, duh, but my standards when it comes to confectionaries are impossibly high. Even so, I think you’d be successful as a baker. What’s stopping you from pursuing your labor of love?”

And that was the thing with Tendou. He talked a lot, teased even more, but it was never idle ramblings. Somehow, he always seemed to hit right at the heart of the issue with almost painfully uncomfortable accuracy.

“I don’t really know so…” You looked away, trailing off.

“Either way,” he said and placed a finger under your chin, raising your head until you were looking him in the eye. “I’m rooting for you.”

For a moment, you simply stared, awestruck. It was the first time in a long while someone was actually putting their faith in you, believing in you. He had come blazing into your life unabashed with his easy grins and gaze alight with mischief. His encouraging words, sincerity, sensitivity. Tendou was really incredible.

“Tendou…” You took his hand in yours, squeezing it. “Thanks. For everything.”

“Of course, what are neighbors for.”

BONUS:

Three months later you sat curled up next to Tendou on his sofa, his entire apartment smelled of chocolate cocoa with hints of cinnamon.

Before you was an application. Culinary school.

“You really think I can do this?”

Tendou placed his head on your shoulder with a tiny smirk. “One hundred and twenty percent!”

You pondered for a moment, then decided that if he thought you were up for the challenge then you’d believe him.

“For the record, you probably aren’t supposed to recommend your girlfriend for an interview. You know, conflict of interest and all.”

Tendou laughed and pulled you closer. “Trust me, we’ll be fine, so don’t worry your pretty little head, ‘kay?”

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #tendou x reader #tendou satori #satori tendou #satori tendou x reader #tendou satori x reader #sabi.writes

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lumosinlove · 4 years

Text

Sweater Weather

part xiii

Please read the warnings for this chapter in the tags if you feel you need them. <3

Come down, the text said.

Christmas had been wonderful. Remus’ mother had made a perfect Christmas morning breakfast of pancakes and sausages and fresh orange juice, something Remus hadn’t even been aware he missed so much. Julian’s face had been priceless when he opened the Lions jersey with his own name across the back, Sirius’ signature sprawled across the number 24 on the back. He had missed having his family around. Cooking with his mom, talking and reading on the couch with his dad, shooting pucks in the snowy park and washing the dishes with Julian sitting on the counter, chattering away and drying them carefully. It was peaceful. It was home.

But he couldn’t get his mind off of Sirius. Remus knew he was safe and happy at the Dumais’. Logan was there, too, they were family. Sirius would have been welcomed at any of the teams’ houses, he was sure. But Remus wanted Sirius at his house. He wanted to see his mother trying to teach Sirius to cook, hopeless but patient. He wanted to watch his father moon over him. He wanted to see Sirius watch and laugh when Julian got sleepy after dinner, insisting that he wanted to watch a movie even as his eyes started to close.

He wanted Sirius there, on the couch, as the ball dropped to bring in the new year, while his dad popped champagne and Julian jumped up and down, throwing the paper confetti they had cut that morning. His parents leaned in for a soft peck, whispering an I love you, and Remus just—he wanted.

The text said, come down.

Remus’ heart drove into double time.

They’re getting ready for bed, he replied.

Take your time. I’ll be here.

Remus bit back a smile and clicked his phone off, holding it to his chest.

“I’m leaving some dishes to soak,” his mom said, coming over to kiss his cheek.

“I’ll do them in the morning,” Remus said. “What time does your flight leave?”

“Not until tomorrow evening,” Hope looked at him for a moment, then reached forward to push his hair away from his face. “Re, I’m so happy that…well, you’ve really grown. You look so much happier than…well.”

“I know,” Remus said. Since the accident, was what she meant. He smiled, squeezing her hand. “I am. I really am.”

“Happy New Year’s, baby,” she said. “I better go make sure your brother’s in bed.”

Remus laughed. “Probably wearing his jersey again.”

Hope laughed. “Probably.”

Remus watched, trying not to be too obvious about it, as she poked her head into Remus’ room where Julian was sleeping, and then disappeared into the guest bedroom. She waved once, before shutting the door. Remus forced himself to go into the living room and make his bed out of the pull-out couch, giving her time to get ready for bed.

He lasted ten minutes before slipping out the door.

Coming, he sent off, and received a few exclamation points and a short, parking lot.

Remus glanced back down the hallway as he quietly put on his jacket, pulling a beanie low over his ears against the winter air. The house was quiet as he slipped outside.

Sirius’ car wasn’t running, but Remus spotted it easily in the parking lot as he ran through the chilly night and knocked on the window. Sirius looked up and reached over with a grin, popping the door open. He was wearing a puffy jacket and beanie of his own, his hands covered in gloves.

“Hey there, All-Star,” Remus said as he hopped in and pulled the door shut behind him.

Sirius half laughed, half groaned. “Don’t remind me. C’mere.”

Remus leaned over for a kiss, pressing his hand against Sirius’ cheek. Sirius made a noise and pulled back a little, taking Remus’ hand into his gloved ones.

“What are you doing? It’s fucking freezing, Loops.”

Remus just leaned forward for another kiss. “Wanted to see you.”

Sirius sent him a mockingly disapproving look before cupping Remus’ hands between his own. Remus watched, heart flipping, as he leaned down and blew hot air over them, then kissed the cold-red knuckles.

“Better?” Sirius said. “Good thing we’re going to Florida soon.”

But Remus half heard him, too focused on the way Sirius was holding Remus’ hands, his entire attention on keeping them warm. Keeping Remus warm.

“Can we…” Remus glanced towards the back seat. “Just, this thing is sort of…” he hit his knee against the gear shift. “In the way.”

Sirius laughed. “Say no more.”

Remus grinned, and there was a brief blast of cool air through the car as both of them moved to the back seat, Sirius behind the driver’s side, Remus the passenger’s. Remus got in first, and watched as Sirius pulled his door closed, breath a puff of air. Remus scooted over, pressing up against Sirius’ side. Sirius said something quick and sweet that Remus didn’t catch, as it was mostly mumbled into a kiss on his temple, and wrapped him up in his arms.

“Bonne année, mon loup,” he said quietly into the small space between them.

“Happy New Year,” Remus repeated as Sirius’ gloved fingers tilted his chin up for a kiss.

“How long do we have?” Sirius whispered, lips trailing across Remus’ cheek to his jaw.

Remus felt his eyes slip closed, the tension of being away from Sirius releasing at having him so close.

“Everyone’s asleep,” he said, fingers reaching to tug gently on the zipper of Sirius’ jacket. “I think we have a few hours.”

Sirius made a pleased noise, pressing a quick burst of kisses to Remus’ cheek. “Good. How was Christmas?”

“Really good,” Remus said. “Jules practically died at the jersey. Lots of baking. What about you, how’s Dumo’s?”

“Why did I ever leave such close proximity to Celeste’s cooking?” Sirius sighed, and Remus laughed. “No, but it’s great. The kids woke me and Logan up at, merde, five? In the morning? Was nice though.”

Remus bit back a smile. “Saw that picture Logan posted of your matching pajamas.”

“I’m going to murder him.”

Remus snorted, leaning in for a kiss. Sirius obliged for a moment, licking sweetly into his mouth, before he made a noise like he remembered something.

“Speaking of,” he said, absentmindedly taking Remus’ hands and pressing them beneath his jacket and sweater, right to the warm skin of his stomach, he winced a little, but held them there. “Warmer, non?”

Remus nodded faintly, unable to find the words.

“Speaking of murder,” Sirius began again, and Remus burst out laughing.

“What?”

“Re, I found your tapes.”

“Oh?” Remus said.

“Fuck me,” Sirius said, followed by a flurry of French. He pulled Remus towards him and kissed him hard. “I…you’re so fast.”

Remus smiled faintly, looking down. “I was, huh?” He glanced up, raising his eyebrows. “And that relates to murder because…?”

“I’m going to die watching them,” Sirius laughed. “Fuck, Re. You make goalies look like they can’t see out of their fucking masks. How did I never hear your name?”

Remus took a deep breath in through his nose. This was the closest to telling the truth he had ever come but, looking at Sirius in the soft yellow streetlight coming through the window, he felt okay. It wasn’t the whole thing, and maybe he’d never be ready for the whole thing…but it was almost. Sirius deserved that.

“You know Greyback?”

Sirius blinked, obviously surprised. “Yeah. First overall the year before me. He’s on…what, Golden Knights now?”

Remus nodded. “Right. Well, we—we were at Wisconsin together. We played. Everyone thought we would be drafted together.” Remus shrugged a shoulder. “Fenrir didn’t like the sound of that.”

Sirius’ face melted into one of horror. He understood. Of course he understood. “He was worried you’d take first.”

Remus just nodded again, then tapped his left shoulder. “Busted me up pretty good for it. Enough to convince the League I’d never play again. This was, I don’t know, few months before. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. No one likes thinking about career ending injuries when their healthy. Totally normal.”

“Re…fuck me, the next time we play Vegas—”

“No,” Remus hit him in the chest lightly. “No, you will not do anything except beat him and his team.”

Sirius groaned. “Please let me punch him.”

Remus laughed. “No.”

Sirius leaned in, pressing a kiss to one of Remus’ cheeks, then the other. “Mon Loup.” Sirius pulled at Remus’ waist until he gave way and straddled Sirius’ hips, head ducked low in the space of the car.

“Mon Loup,” Sirius said again, softly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Remus shook his head, kissing the corner of Sirius’ mouth. “It was a long time ago. It just…I didn’t trust anyone for a little while. Especially on the ice. It was easier like this, having the job I have. I’m in control. I’m there to help. Do I miss the ice? Of course. Every day. But I also really, really love my job.”

Sirius nodded, hands on Remus’ thighs, and Remus reached out for the number twelve necklace.

“Let’s talk about something happier,” Remus said. “This is a new year, you’re an All-Star, we’re probably going to the play-offs—”

“Non, non,” Sirius gasped, laughing lightly as he pressed a hand over Remus’ mouth. “Don’t say it.”

Remus laughed, holding his hands up in surrender, and Sirius soon replaced his palm with a kiss.

“We could have had an entire week off together instead of the fucking All-Star game, but…” Sirius groaned. “Don’t want to talk about that either.”

Remus ducked down and pressed a hard kiss to Sirius’ lips. “Okay, okay. Jeez, grumpy.”

Sirius, in contrast, made a delighted sound, and accepted the kiss. He went to tuck his fingers into Remus’ hair, but was instead met with the beanie.

“Cute,” he said, before taking it off. “Too cold?”

“Not a chance,” Remus breathed, his entire body heating up with Sirius’ touch. He pushed at Sirius’ shoulders a little, settling him into the corner between the seat and the door, so he could stretch his legs out, supporting Remus more. Sirius gripped Remus’ thighs appreciatively.

“I think the team finally gets how fucking hot you are,” Sirius said.

“Oh? Was that something you were hoping to discuss with them?”

Sirius snorted. “Non. Just…you’re—everything.”

Remus’ heart caught.

“I just mean,” Sirius said, his eyes on Remus’. “You save our asses every day, you help us. You are fucking talented as shit, and then, for me, you’re just…gorgeous. Mon dieu, Remus, you in the showers… if I hadn’t just come…”

Remus laughed. “Okay, enough compliments.”

Sirius shook his head. “It’s the year of compliments.”

“You’re too sweet for me.”

“No, I’m perfect for you.”

The words were true. Remus looked down at Sirius, soft in the streetlight filtering into the garage, and pressed his hands to his cheeks.

“I think you are,” Remus said softly, but that wasn’t good enough. He said it more firmly. “You are."

Sirius’ expression changed, laughter fading. They stared at each other.

“Remus,” Sirius said.

Remus’ thumbs stroked over his cheeks. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want to hide forever.”

“I don’t want to either.”

“But I’m scared. I’m scared.”

Remus nodded, kissing Sirius once, twice. “I know. Don’t feel like you have to do anything, okay? Sirius, I…I’m in.” Remus took a breath, kissed him again, short and hard. “I’m in with you, okay? No matter what. As long as you’re here for me, too.”

“I am,” Sirius whispered. “I always want to be.” He smiled then, nervous but real, and tapped Remus’ wrist right over the watch he had gifted him.

Remus smiled, too, and Sirius leaned forward off of the seat to kiss him with a small, almost desperate noise.

“One day?” he said.

“Name the date,” Remus murmured against Sirius’ mouth. “I told you I’d wait.”

Sirius laughed lightly. “No pressure.”

“No,” Remus said, and pulled back to raise his eyebrows at him. “There’s really no pressure at all. Really, Sirius. As long as…as long as I have this, you, these moments…I’m so happy.”

Sirius’ expression was a quiet one, lost in thought for the most part, and adoring. He rubbed a hand up and down Remus’ side, loving. “Come somewhere with me this summer. Anywhere. A trip. I don’t care, Paris, the fucking jungle, Seattle. I don’t care, I just want to be somewhere. With you.”

Remus’ face broke into a grin. “I want that. Yeah, let’s do it.”

Sirius smiled back, and it filled up the entire space, the small car, the world, Remus’ entire chest.

“Happy New Year,” Sirius said, and kissed him.

Later, as Remus stood and watched Sirius drive away, he tried to think of where he had been this time last year. Happy, yes. Happy with his job, and himself, and how far he had come. Just beginning to think about coming out to his family, but never getting around to it. Loved by his family, his friends, his colleagues.

This year was different. No words had been put to it yet, and Remus understood why. But that didn’t change how he felt.

This year, he felt loved in an entirely different way.

This year, he was in love.

After Christmas, after Gryffindor’s Decembers, Remus was more than ready for a little sunshine in Florida. The Tampa Bay Lightnings had swept the Penguins last year in the playoffs, giving them lots of credit, at least in Remus’ mind. He was excited for the game, excited for the sunshine—

“Well, I’m excited to see you in a swimsuit.”

Remus looked down at Sirius, who was mouthing at the cut of his hips, carefully and torturously avoiding his hard cock. His hair was a wild, morning-mess of curls, and his eyes were sleepy, mouth soft and warm. The sunlight was filtering through the large windows in Sirius’ bedroom, and they were alone for the first time in what felt like weeks. Remus missed Sirius so much he felt it in his veins, and he guessed Sirius felt the same. He had been woken up at five in the morning, hours before they had practice, by Sirius’ hand gently cupping his soft cock through his underwear, Sirius’ already hard one against his hip.

“Jesus,” Remus breathed. “You just asked to suck my dick. I don’t think there’s anything left to be revealed.”

“I disagree,” Sirius said and bit down gently on Remus’ hip, looking up with a devastating mixture of bold and bashful. “You’ll tell me what’s good, d’accord?”

“It’s all good,” Remus grumbled, settling a hand in Sirius’ hair. “‘m gonna come just thinking about it.”

“No, no,” Sirius pressed a kiss to the side of Remus’ cock. “Not yet.”

Remus let his head fall back into Sirius’ pillows, spreading his legs further on his massive bed. Sirius pushed his arms under Remus’ hips, letting Remus’ calves rest on top of his shoulders. He kept his hands firmly on Remus’ waist, warm and strong.

“I might suck, okay?”

Remus, cock hard and flushed against his stomach, gave Sirius an incredulous look. “You might?”

Sirius blinked at him for a moment, and then burst out in a laugh, resting his forehead against Remus’ hip bone. “I meant I might be bad at this.”

“Sirius, you laughing next to my dick gets me going.”

Sirius bit his lip, and then moved his gaze to Remus’ cock again. It was thick, even if not quite as large as Sirius’. Remus’ pale skin was flushed all the way down his chest from Sirius’ mouth and the anticipation. He was practically tingling with it. His cock twitched hard when Sirius, finally, leaned down and pressed his mouth to the base in an open, soft sort of kiss.

Remus pet his hand through Sirius’ hair, watching quietly. He liked Sirius like this, sweet and careful. He could tell how turned on he was, though, but the way his hips were gently, almost unnoticeably, rocking against the bed.

He was so focused on Sirius’ hips, that the hot pressure around the tip of his cock nearly took him by surprise. Sirius sucked hard, and Remus felt the blunt pressure of his tongue against his slit, too.

“Oh,” Remus breathed out, fingers tightening in Sirius’ hair.

Sirius pulled off with a soft sound, and Remus’ cock bobbed above his stomach.

“Good?” Sirius asked simply, and Remus laughed, eyes closed.

“Yeah, baby.”

Sirius hummed appreciatively, and then he sucked Remus down, farther this time, hands moving down to Remus’ ass, fingers digging into the hard muscle.

Remus let out a long, unsteady breath. “Fuck…”

Sirius moaned in response and Remus’ hips jerked up.

“Ah—“ Remus gasped. “Sorry, you okay?”

Sirius just looked at him, and Remus could feel the hard press of his tongue. He realized Sirius was looking for instruction. The thought made Remus even hotter. Sirius, so confident on the ice, a menace, really, taking whatever he wanted. And yet waiting for Remus to tell him this.

He eased a hand around the back of his head, pressed down lightly. Sirius’ mouth moved with him, and Remus’ dropped open, his breathing heavy.

“Go easy,” Remus said, realizing immediately that it was a mistake.

Sirius’ eyes darkened, accepting the challenge.

“Jesus Christ,” Remus had time to say before Sirius was pulling off again and getting his knees beneath him, propping himself up to get a better angle. He laughed at Remus’ expression as he retrieved his hands from beneath Remus’ thighs, letting Remus’ legs splay out on either side of his hips. He circled his hand around Remus’ cock. He jacked him a few times, drawing a dribble of precome out.

“Easy?” he questioned, and then bent again, lips brushing the red head. “Remus…”

Remus smirked. Sirius was smug again, brimming with confidence. Remus wanted both sides, and he loved that Sirius gave them to him so willingly. “Alright, do whatever you want, Captain.”

That pulled the arousal back into Sirius’ expression, and Remus could see his cock now, heavy between his legs and dripping onto the sheets. Sirius bent, wordless, and slipped Remus back into his mouth, inch by inch, until his lips met his fist and Remus’ breathing was shaky.

He dragged up, cheeks sucked in, and Remus let his head drop back on the pillows again, hands fisting the sheets.

“Of course you’re good at this. Is there anything you aren’t good at, Christ, Sirius.”

Sirius just hummed, making Remus’ hips jolt again, and reached for Remus’ hand, placing it back on his neck.

“Aw, baby,” Remus said, squeezing Sirius’ shoulder muscle and then cupping the back of his head.

Sirius’ fingers found Remus’ hips again, digging in and he moaned. Remus wanted to touch him so bad, could catch glimpses of his cock, stiff and needy. Remus relaxed into the rhythm Sirius was building up, mouth open at the wet glide around his cock. He ached with it, felt the pressure building in his core.

“I’m gonna come soon,” Remus said, widening his legs as his balls drew up. “Sirius…”

Sirius didn’t pull up, but sucked harder, twisting his fist around Remus’ cock while he tongued at the head.

“Fuck, you’re so—” Remus’ hips strained upward, head digging into the pillows as his back arched. “I’m gonna, Sirius, I’m gonna—”

Sirius moaned in a way that sounded negative, like he was telling Remus not to come yet. It made Remus gasp. Sirius sunk down again, splaying his legs so he could rut against the bed. He sucked in time to his own thrusts, his eyes shut. His cheeks had a dark flush on them and Remus’ cock pulsed as he tried not to come, as Sirius gripped him hard around his base. It prolonged the crest, the feeling of being just there but not quite. Remus felt like he was already coming, his breathing quick with it. The position showed off Sirius’ shoulders, muscles moving with every hard flex of his hips.

Remus’ back arched harder, and then he forced his hips back down on the bed. His balls ached with how good he felt.

Sirius pulled off with a gasp, panting with his cheek on Remus’ hip. Remus’ cock was shining with his spit and jerking as it pulsed out precome.

“Loops,” Sirius panted, and mouthed just above his own fist, sloppy kiss after sloppy kiss. “Fuck, okay, come, come for me.” he said, and trailed his mouth back up to the tip, sucking Remus down again.

Both of Remus’ hands went to Sirius’ head this time. Sirius held Remus’ hips, his own working faster now, grinding down in small circles. He pulled up to suck hard on the head, and Remus was finished. His hips jolted and he moaned as he came hard into Sirius’ mouth. Remus’ hands pulled at Sirius’ hair and Sirius kept him warm and steady for another moment, tongue gentle.

Sirius pressed his forehead to Remus’ hip again as his fist worked him down, grinding against the bed with small sounds that Remus swore were going to get him hard again.

“C’mere,” Remus wrapped his hands around Sirius’ arms, pulling him, and then pushing him, until he was settled on his back. Remus trailed his fingers up Sirius’ wet cock and Sirius closed his eyes. “What do you want baby? Anything.”

Sirius opened his eyes again and, without a word, gathered Remus to his chest. Remus came willingly, kissing Sirius’ neck and jaw, his cheeks and temples, anywhere he could reach.

“You’re so good,” Remus whispered as he ground his hips and sensitive cock against Sirius’ straining one. “That was so fucking good.”

Sirius made a low noise, arms wrapped around Remus’ back. “Re.”

“Come for me, baby,” Remus grinned. “And then you can think about me while you’re in the showers today, eh?”

“Oh fuck me,” Sirius managed to laugh, temples beaded with sweat as he rut up against Remus.

Remus felt that protectiveness flame up in his gut, familiar by now. He went back to kissing Sirius' neck, teeth scraping and heart leaping with the idea of leaving a mark that he knew he couldn’t leave.

“Je le veux,” Sirius said when he felt Remus’ teeth. I want it.

“This summer,” Remus breathed. “I promise.”

Sirius came between them, sudden and long. He held Remus against him, pressing his lips against his temple.

I love you, Remus thought for what felt like the thousandth time since New Year’s.

He kissed Sirius slowly, trying to pour the words out.

“Love waking up with you,” Sirius said, hands stroking down Remus’ sweaty back. His voice was scratchy and soft. “Watching you wake up, blinking and all that.”

Remus pressed his cheek against Sirius’ chest, listening to his heart. It was pounding.

I love you. I love youIloveyou—

Sirius’ alarm went off.

“Fuck,” Sirius laughed, and squeezed Remus tighter. “Shower? You know, the thing I’m going to embarrass myself in today after I get hard thinking about you.”

Remus grinned, cock fattening again with interest at the image. “That sounds nice.”

“Which one?” Sirius looked down at him, eyes on his semi. He reached for it, palming it gently. Remus’ breathing quickened again and he raised his head, doing his best to look innocent.

“Both.”

Sirius snorted, slapping Remus’ ass and rolling them out of bed.

Florida was just as warm as Remus was hoping it would be. Warm enough, and sunny enough, for the team to organize a beach workout.

“They call it a beach workout,” Logan said, throwing his hat down on a lounge chair so he could pull his shirt over his head. Remus eyed the fleur-de-lis tattoo on his left hip, a dark outline against his tan skin. “But it’s a beach day.”

“Sand sprints,” Kasey sighed, watching the waves and the rest of the team settle down in various rows of beach chairs. “Oh joy. Oh joy, oh joy.” He mumbled that to himself before discarding his shirt, too. “Yo, Loops, from one pale guy to another, wanna do my back?” He held up a bottle of sunscreen.

Remus really liked beach days.

“Sure, Kase,” Remus said.

“Sucks to suck,” Logan said, flexing his shoulders. “No burning here, baby. Can’t speak for freckles over here.”

“Hey,” Finn pushed his sunglasses into his hair as he threw his stuff down on the chair beside Logan. “Skincare is important.”

“I’m going swimming,” Leo announced, and shoved Finn in the direction of the water.

“Hey, Nut,” Logan snorted. “Ask Finn about seaweed.”

“That was one time, it’s slimy, and if any of it so much as floats near me, I’m done.”

Leo laughed. “I’ll protect you, Harz, come on.”

Logan stared after them, but didn’t follow. When he turned, he had put his own sunglasses back on, and Remus couldn’t read his expression. Logan sat down heavily on his chair. Maybe Remus would be able to find some time to get him alone this trip.

“Loops,” Sirius said, walking up to them through the sand. He looked gorgeous, baby blue bathing suit setting off his tan skin nicely. “There’s a chair with me, Talker and James, if you want it.”

“Thanks,” Remus smiled, trying to subtly check out the curve of his ass in the thin material. “C’mere, Kase, before I go.”

Kasey handed him the sunscreen and Remus squirted some into his palm. He sent another look to Sirius, who’s eyes were carefully blank, and smirked as he rubbed the lotion into Kasey’s sun-warmed, strong back.

“Aw, you’re just like Nat,” Kasey said. “Warming it up in your hands and shit, man.”

Remus laughed. “Thanks?”

“Always taking care of us, eh, Loops?” Sirius said.

“I do my best.”

The entire beach was crowded, and some girls in the tiniest bikinis Remus had ever seen asked for pictures with a few of the guys—Thomas the most popular—but other than that, everyone was relaxed and enjoying the much needed break from the brisk winds of Gryffindor.

Remus was on a chair between Sirius and Thomas, chin tilted up towards the warmth.

“Looking a little pink there, Loops.”

Remus cracked an eye open and looked at Sirius, who had just come back from a dip in the ocean. His hair was pushed away from his eyes, sopping and sticking up. The salty droplets fell down his body and Remus, behind his sunglasses, allowed himself a glance at the way his trunks wetly clung around the shape of his soft cock.

Remus loved beach days.

“I’m gonna put the umbrella up.”

“I’ll do it for you,” Thomas said, coming up behind Sirius, dark skin glistening and smile bright.

“Thanks, Talker,” Remus grinned at Sirius’ expression, as if offended that another man would get to raise Remus’ umbrella for him.

“No problemo. I’m gonna get a smoothie, anyone want one?”

“Yes,” James gasped, looking up from where he was lying on his stomach, and Remus jumped. He had thought he was asleep. “Please, I would like—strawberry banana? Yeah, that’s what I want.”

“Anything blueberry, I think,” Sirius said. “Thanks, Walkie.”

“Same,” Remus smiled up at him.

Sirius kicked Remus’ foot as Thomas walked away. Remus looked up in time to see Sirius glance at James, and then jerk his head towards the sea.

Remus smiled, and pushed himself out of his chair.

“Beach days are the best,” Remus said as his feet sunk down in the sand.

Sirius snorted. “Why, because you get to rub sunscreen all over Kasey Winter?”

“That was nice. Maybe it’s because Thomas is walking around all handsome.”

Sirius made a noise that was close to a whine and Remus laughed.

“Maybe it’s because your swimsuit’s clinging to your dick like they’re in love.”

Sirius burst out laughing as they waded into the water. “Alright, alright.”

The water was warm and Remus sunk right into rolling wave, diving down below it and letting the current pull him back for a moment before surfacing. The salt was cool and heavenly on his skin. He flicked his hair out of his face and looked up at Sirius, squinting in the sun.

“I’m never going back to winter,” Remus said.

“Yeah?” Sirius was smiling softly at him, eyes darting all over his face. Suddenly, he could see it. A trip with Sirius, just the two of them. No practice. No worries.

Remus shook his head, and dunked beneath the water again. Everything became quiet for a moment. He could hear the sand sifting against itself. The silence made his thoughts suddenly loud.

He loved Sirius.

Remus broke through the surface just in time for Sirius to dive under. He felt Sirius’ hand press against his chest, submerged, and then it was gone as Sirius surfaced again. But Remus was grinning, hand where Sirius’ had been.

From the sea, Remus could see how the team had spread out. Jackson, Evgeni, Sergei, and Pascal were playing volleyball a little ways down, Leo and Finn were still in the water together. Remus didn’t see Logan. He hoped he went to get smoothies with Thomas. He could see Olli near by, sun shirt and sunhat on, in the shade, happily away from the sun and reading a book.

“Did you notice anything funny with Logan at Christmas?” Remus asked Sirius as they floated together, carried up and down with the waves and hands brushing.

“This again?” Sirius smiled a little and shrugged. “I don’t think so? I mean, I think it’s funny that he’s not living with Finn, but who am I to talk? Took me a long time to move out, too. Celeste is heaven in a person.”

Remus smiled, licking salt from his lips. “Yeah, no…” Remus finally spotted Logan on the beach. He was still sitting on his chair, eyes down and on his phone. “I just was wondering.”

“What do you think’s up with him?”

Remus shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Okay… I am the captain, you know.”

“No, really?”

Sirius grinned, floating on his back. “I just mean I’m here to help.”

“I’ll let you know, Captain.” What Remus didn’t say was, I actually think this one might help you.

“Hey,” Sirius said, and Remus looked. Sirius was sun-kissed. His eyes took on the light color of the water. Sirius swam closer, even though no one was close enough to hear. “I’d kiss you right now if I could. You look gorgeous.”

Remus let their feet brush in the floating sand. “I’d kiss you right back, baby.”

“Florida ice sucks,” Finn yelled, slapping his stick against it. “Bouncy mother fuck.”

They were at morning practice, two hours of ice time at the Lightning’s rink before the game that night. Remus was partly watching Sirius laughing as he and Olli played keep away while the next drill was set up, partly nodding along to Finn, leaning against the boards complaining, and partly looking at Logan across the rink, silent beside where Pascal and Kris were talking. He was shuffling a small bit of shaved ice with his stick, back and forth, back and forth.

“Loops, you should practice with us,” Finn said.

“He’s not insured,” Coach said, flipping through his notes. He was firm, but he sounded sorry. “If he gets hurt, he could sue us.”

Finn scoffed. “What if I pay him off right now?”

“Harzy, get your ass out on that ice and don’t complain about it.”

Finn sighed, but bumped his glove against Remus’ fist. “I fought for you. You took me down, and I fought for you.” He tapped his temple. “Remember that, Lupin.”

Remus laughed. “Whatever you say, Harz.”

Sirius was in full blown captain-mode, laser-focused on making sure they won every game they could. It was January now. They were getting closer and closer to clinching a play-off spot. But they had to keep winning. Remus watched him touring around the ice, checking in on everyone—Leo, in goal. Talking plays with Pascal. Mostly discussing but sort of arguing with the coaches in the endearing and intimidating way that he had.

Remus loved him.

They were five minutes into three-on-three drills when Logan went down hard near the goal, accidentally tripped up by Leo. It was an awkward, sudden fall, a caught skate blade-on-blade. It took him a second to get up, and Remus didn’t know if it was because he was hurt, or becomes of something else. He had been acting dazed all practice, Remus was trained to look for that for concussion reasons. Only, Logan hadn’t hit his head.

Sirius skated up to him, stopping just short of the boards. “I want you to check Tremz out.”

“The kid’s asleep on his feet,” Moody said from beside Remus. “Or something.”

“Tremz,” Remus called, and motioned him over with a beckoning hand.

Finn skated with him, as if afraid Logan was going to fall. By the look on Logan’s face, Remus didn’t think it was an entirely unreasonable fear.

“I’m telling you, Lo, Florida ice,” Finn said as Logan stepped off. His tone was teasing, but his worried eyes met Remus’.

Alright, come with me, Tremz.”

“Okay,” Logan said. He didn’t look at Finn.

“I just got tripped, Loops,” Logan said from the exam table. Remus saw the sleepless purple beneath his eyes. “Everything feels fine.”

“I know, it didn’t look bad,” Remus said as he washed his hands. “It took you a second to get up though. Feeling okay? I noticed a little at the beach, too. Thought it was the heat, but…”

Logan was silent for a few, long beats.

“Yeah,” he finally said, and that was all. It was faint, and Remus sighed and turned around. Logan was staring at his hands, gloves and helmet beside him.

“Logan,” Remus began, and Logan looked up. Remus stayed across the room, leaning against the sink and shelves. “I just want you to know…I want you to know that I’m a resource for you. That the confidentiality that applies to people like doctors, any sort of doctor, applies to me. I only have to report things if I feel like they pose a danger to yourself, or to other people.”

Logan blinked at him, hands twisting in his jersey.

“I’m here, Tremz. If you want to talk. If you need anything. Really. I’m here.”

Remus turned around, then, giving him space, busying himself with random things until—

“I’m so…” Logan’s voice was faint, small in a way that Remus had never heard it.

Remus turned around slowly, and his heart hurt for him. Logan was staring at his hands, still pulling at his jersey, and his eyes were dull with the pain of whatever he was thinking about.

“I’m…” he tried again, and swallowed hard. He looked up at Remus. “I’m horrible.”

Remus shook his head slowly, and walked over to him. “Why do you think that?”

Logan looked down again. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, there were tears on his dark lashes.

“Fuck,” he wiped at them roughly, angrily.

“It’s okay, Tremz, hey…” Remus reached out, rubbing a hand over his back.

“No, it’s—” Logan tried again.

And then suddenly, in the next breath, Logan was sobbing. Great, heaving sobs that wracked his entire body. The scary part was, they were nearly silent besides his ragged breathing, as if he couldn’t bear to let them out but couldn’t catch his breath either. They tore out of him.

“It’s okay,” Remus said softly. “This is okay.”

Logan buried his face in his hands, elbows on his knees, and cried.

Remus felt tears in his own throat just at the sight. This was hurt. This was pure hurt.

“I can’t love him,” Logan said, breathing hitching while he tried to get the words out. “I can’t—they’re—”

Remus took that in stride. He figured this was something to do with sexuality, based on what Leo had said—or, rather, shown. He thought of the multi-colored thread of his bracelet.

Remus shook his head. “Yes, you can.”

Logan looked up at him, green eyes bright and chest still jumping with his tears. He shook his head. “No.”

“Yes,” Remus said gently. “Logan, you can love whoever you want.”

“Not here,” Logan’s lip trembled and he blinked new, hot tears. He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his jersey. “Fuck, Loops you see what they—if they knew…”

“I know,” Remus said quietly. “I understand why you’re scared. I’m…” Remus took a breath. “I’m the same. And when I was playing…I was scared, too.”

That froze Logan in his tracks.

If anyone had told Remus a year ago that the first person he would be coming out to was Sirius Black, the second Leo Knut, and the third Logan Tremblay, he would have laughed.

“You’re…” Logan breathed.

Remus nodded silently. “Yes. And I understand.”

In the next moment, the door was opening.

“Hey, Loops, is Tremz—”

Remus felt Logan recoil at Finn’s voice, eyes widening at Remus as they both turned to look.

For a moment, Remus could only watch as Finn appeared, just his head and shoulders through the door, sweat dripping from his hair. The smile slowly dropped from his face as he took in the sight in front of him. Logan’s red eyes. His shaking hands.

He took another step inside. “Lo, oh my god.”

“Harz, do you want to give us a minute?” Remus said as steadily as he could. This was not what Logan needed. He should have locked the door.

“Lo, what’s wrong?” Finn looked at Remus. “Is he okay? What’s—Lo, what’s wrong?”

“Finn,” Remus said more firmly. “I’m asking you to give us a minute.”

“Logan,” Finn said again, taking another step through the door. He looked tall on his skates, but wrecked by what he was seeing. Remus heard Logan let out a low sob from beside him, and watched Finn’s face break, worried and confused.

“Finn, leave,” Remus said, and walked forward, pushing Finn gently backwards.

“Hey, no—get off me,” Finn said louder, and looked desperately back at Logan. “Lo…”

Logan looked down, lip shaking like it was taking everything in him to hold himself together.

Remus had never seen Finn aggressive off of the ice. For a moment, Remus thought he was going to push back, but then he deflated again.

“Logan,” Finn pleaded.

“Finn, I swear to fucking god, listen to me,” Remus gave him a shove. He opened the door. “I’m sorry, I know. You can talk to him later, that’s up to you, but right now, this is my office.”

Remus shut the door. They could both see Finn’s silhouette, standing there still, through the shade on the window. After a few, long moments, it disappeared.

Remus turned. “Oh god, Logan, I’m so sorry, I should have locked—”

Logan let out another breath, half air half tears, and shook his head. “None of this is your fault.”

“No, I told you that you could talk and then the person you’re talking about fucking—walks right in.”

Logan looked up, startled. “You know?”

“I…”

Logan’s hands gripped the padded table on either side of his thighs. “Do people know?”

“No, no, no—” Remus held up his hands, walking back over to him. “No, I swear, Tremz, no one knows.”

“How do you?”

Remus took a breath. “Um. Well…”

“Remus,” Logan said. He looked truly panicked. “Remus.”

“I can’t say that without—” Remus sent Logan a pleading look.

“Was it Finn?”

Remus pressed his lips together. He shook his head.

“It was Leo,” Logan said.

Remus knew before he could help it that his surprised expression gave him away. He guessed that he shouldn’t be that surprised. Leo and Logan were roommates on the road. It was logical that Leo would be a friend Logan might have confided in.

“Yes,” Remus stumbled through the word, and only because Logan had said, rather than asked.

Logan put his head in his hands.

“Fuck.”

“Do you…what’s can I do?”

“I don’t know,” Logan said. “I don’t even know what I can do.”

“I think…I think you should talk to Finn. Then you two can figure out what you want to do. It’ll be hard and awkward but…it’ll work out. I know it will. You guys have a strong friendship.”

When Logan laughed, he sounded unbearably tired. “When has anything like that ever worked out before?”

Remus smiled a little. If he only knew.

“Just trust me, okay? Can you?”

Logan let out a long, exhausted breath. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. he snuffled, and rubbed his jersey against his face. “Fuck…yeah. I can.” Then, Logan looked at him carefully. “Are you…do you have someone?”

Remus hesitated, but nodded silently. “But I won’t say more than that.”

Logan’s eyes widened. “He’s in the League.”

“Go talk to Finn,” Remus evaded the question, then paused. “Maybe after you’ve both cooled off a little.”

Logan heaved himself off of the table. “Thanks, Loops. Really, I…I don’t really talk about this. My sisters, they want to talk about it, but I just…”

Remus waited patiently. Logan still looked tired, but he was standing a little straighter now.

“I’ve always been scared of it,” Logan said. “I was never allowed. I’m still not allowed.”

“Oh, you’re allowed,” Remus shook his head. “They are just people stupid enough to believe they can control something like that. Logan.”

Logan looked up at him.

“You said you love him.”

Logan’s eyes closed and he looked down again.

“And,” Remus gestured at the door. “I don’t know if you noticed, but he was about to take a swing at me just to get to you, so… it’s pretty clear to me that he has some sort of feelings, too.”

Remus had a brief, panicked thought, suddenly remembering June. He didn’t understand that part of this. From the way Finn had just acted, to whatever Leo, who lived with Finn, seemed to think…he didn’t know how she fit in.

“Feelings and a girlfriend,” Logan said, voice thick again.

“That doesn’t mean it won’t…” God, Remus ached for him, remember seeing Sirius with girls. “It’ll feel good to tell him, I think. He’s your best friend. Let him be there for you in any way that he can. Logan, you need people to support you through this. I didn’t have that, but now I do. And it’s really fucking important.”

Logan sniffed, eyes filling again. “I’ve never said it.”

Remus sucked in a breath. Me neither, he wanted to say, but instead he wrapped his arms around Logan, feeling him return the hug with a little bit of surprise.

“I think you should,” Remus said.

As he said it, he made a vow to himself, too.

The stadium was blue that night with Lighting jerseys, warm-up music blasting as the two teams skated around the ice. There were some vibrant spots of red near the glass, and Remus watched as Sirius skated over to a father and his two small children, one boy, one girl. The girl was wearing Thomas’ jersey, and the boy was wearing Sirius’. Remus smiled as Sirius waved at them with his glove, and then whistled at Thomas. Thomas skated over, too, asking the little girl for a high five through the glass, and then pretending to be knocked over and onto the ice with her force. She giggled madly. Sirius threw a puck over to the boy, then posed for a picture.

His attention was pulled away by the sound of a hard stop in front of the boards near him.

“Fucking ice,” Finn grumbled. He looked at Remus, then away, cheeks flushing. Pascal was with him, and squirted him with a water bottle.

“Not with the cameras and microphones around, mon cub. Florida will kill us all.”

Finn rolled his eyes. He looked tense. He didn’t look at Logan, a few feet away, on his knees and stretching.

Remus caught Logan’s eye and raised an eyebrow. Logan shook his head. So, they hadn’t talked about it yet. That was good, it had only been a few hours. By the looks of it, Remus would guess that they weren’t talking at all right now.

“Don’t let it affect your play, Harzy. It’ll work out,” Remus said quietly, and Finn’s eyes snapped towards him. They went hard, and he all but threw his water bottle back into the bench slots.

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Finn said lowly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” came a new voice, and one of Tampa’s blue uniforms came skating up, taking Finn immediately into a headlock. “If it isn’t my baby brother.”

Remus raised his eyebrows. He had completely forgotten that Finn’s brother played for Tampa. That he had a brother in the League at all.

“Alex, come on,” Finn groaned as Alex rattled his helmet before letting go. Finn laughed though, and hugged him, slapping his padded shoulder. “Hey, man. Ready to get your ass whipped?”

“Fat fucking chance,” Alex shook his head, and smiled at Remus. He had his brother’s smile, all blinding perfect teeth, crinkling soft brown eyes. Alex kept a faint, red stubble that Finn shaved clean off. He called for Logan, then, who skated over a little hesitantly, and bumped fists with him.

“Sup, Lo,” Alex said. “Haven’t seen you in the city for a few years, what’s that about?” He glanced back at Finn, who’s smile had faded. He raised an eyebrow and looked at Remus. “These kids lived at each other’s houses during college.”

Remus smiled back, dying a little inside at the pain he wasn’t sure Finn’s older brother knew he was currently causing.

“I can believe it,” Remus said.

Logan coughed and shuffled a little on his skates. “Just busy, I guess.”

“I guess,” Alex parroted with a laugh. “Alright,” he smacked Finn’s ass with his glove. “Good luck little brother, love you bunches.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Finn grumbled, retaliating with a shove from his stick, but he smiled again. Remus was glad, because he could see about fifteen cameras trained on them.

“Boys,” Sirius stopped hard in front of them. “The fuck are we standing around here? Circle shoot, come on.”

Logan shot away as fast as it seemed that he could. Finn, however, looked again at Remus. His brown eyes were worried and Remus did his best to look back calmly.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, and then glanced at Pascal, who was very obviously pretending like he wasn’t listening.

“You can’t know that,” Finn said quietly.

“But we can hope,” Remus replied, and then nodded towards center ice. “Cap’s calling. Play the game first, and come find me later if you want.”

Finn took a long, slow breath, and then wordlessly skated away.

Pascal took his place in front of Remus, and he was smiling. “Sometimes we all simply need a little baby push in the right direction, non?”

Remus stared at him. Pascal just kept smiling.

“Like a dinner invitation,” Pascal shrugged exaggeratedly. “On a stormy night.”

Remus nearly choked. “I—Dumo.”

“I have a game to play, Remus,” Dumo sing-songed as he skated away to shoot on Leo.

“Dumo,” Remus yelled.

“What are you yelling at Dumo for?” Coach said, coming out of the tunnel with his line card.

Remus stared at him. “Um—the water bottles, he was unscrewing the water bottles.”

“Oh,” Arthur laughed. “The usual.”

“Yeah,” Remus said distractedly. “Apparently.”

They won 3-2, two goals from Thomas and one from James. The atmosphere in the locker room as everyone packed up to get back on a plane to Gryffindor was calm and pleased. Remus was packing up his supplies in the visitor’s PT room when there was a knock at his door. Remus looked up.

“Finn,” he said, not completely surprised. “Hi. Good game.”

Finn sent him a small, wavering smile. His hair was tucked beneath a beanie and he had his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his light gray suit.

“Can we talk?” he said.

“Of course,” Remus gestured to a chair and the exam table. “Where ever.”

Finn pulled the hat from his head, red hair a mess beneath, flopping over his forehead. He let out a long breath as he hitched himself up onto the table, vans swinging on his feet.

“Logan’s really hurting,” he said. “And it’s my fault.”

Remus blinked. Based on Logan, he had thought he was going to have to work a little harder to get Finn talking.

“Okay,” Remus said slowly. “Why is it your fault?”

“Because I’m an asshole.”

Remus laughed, just a little. “Harz, you aren’t an asshole. What do you mean?”

Finn took a few moments to respond. He was pulling at his suit lapels and seemed to be biting the inside of his cheek.

“Loops, what I’m about to tell you…”

“Doctor’s confidentiality, Harz,” Remus said. “It’s the same deal as you telling me you think you might have an STD. That information’s going no where, unless I think you’re about to cause someone else some harm.”

Finn actually laughed. “Oh. That’s a real nice image, thanks.” He cleared his throat. “Me, um. Me and Logan, in college…we had, well, I wouldn’t call it a thing but,” Finn looked up at Remus, expression soft. “Logan’s my best friend. That’s all we’ve—that’s all we’ve said, but I,” Finn pressed a hand over his mouth, staring at the wall. He laced his fingers together, then, elbows on his knees. Remus watched him think it through, watched the words formulate in his mind. He watched Finn feel them in his entire being. “Remus, I love him so much. Really, love him, I mean. I’m—I’m in love with him.”

Remus looked at him. He admired him. Finn was nodding slowly to himself, eyes closed. Remus understood Logan’s pain now. Logan, who had never said such a thing, not even when Remus had flat out asked him.

“Finn, that doesn’t make you an asshole.”

Finn just gave him a pained look. “June.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay, maybe explain that to me.” When Finn didn’t answer, but just pressed his fingers into his eyes, Remus took a step further. “Finn, was…was this, like, a jealousy thing?”

“It didn’t start that way,” Finn said. “At first it was…it was me trying to be happy. Me trying to move on.” Finn groaned. “I…I really, really like June. And she really likes me but,” he laughed, a little tearfully. “It took her about three fucking days after I asked her on a date to figure me out. Literally, I thought we were going to lunch and she fucking sat down like, alright, O’Hara, who are you in love with?” Finn rubbed a hand over his face, laughing again, but the laugh was sad. “I thought I was going to fucking cry.”

Remus thought Finn looked like he was going to cry right now.

“After I told June what was up,” Finn sighed. “We became really good friends. Like, is that weird? She’s the first person I got to open up to. Ever. She’s—fuck, she’s incredible.”

It actually made pretty good sense to Remus. He’d never actually seen them kiss, but he could see the affection there.

“And she said she would come to family skate with me, as a friend, because my family was at my brother’s this year, right? Here, in Tampa. But everyone assumed she was my girlfriend, of course, I mean that’s logical.”

“Right…”

“And then she went along with it, maybe to help, and then I saw the look on Logan’s face, and I thought…” Finn stopped abruptly, swallowing hard. “I thought…maybe now he’ll talk to me. Maybe we can sort this out. Maybe I’ll finally tell him…I’ll tell him…”

But he couldn’t finish.

“I think,” Remus began. “I think you guys should talk to each other. Really, just—just a long, sit down talk.”

Finn nodded. “I try. Logan…fucking French.”

Remus smiled a little. “There’s a lot of history here that I don’t know about, and a lot of feelings I wasn’t there for. Only you two know how you feel, and what you want.”

Finn still looked conflicted, though, and he was rubbing at his heart like it hurt. “But Leo—”

Remus tilted his head a little at him. Logan had mentioned Leo, too.

“Does Leo know about all this? What is he, like the middle man between you two? Because he’s the one who told me to talk to Logan.”

Finn’s head snapped up. “Really?”

“Yeah, but he also told me about you and June, so—”

“No, no,” Finn said, suddenly standing. “Leo knows about me and June. Like, the truth. Logan doesn’t know.”

Remus raised his eyebrows. “Well, Logan’s the one you’re in love with, right?”

Finn’s smile was sad. “Only for seven years of my life. But, there's…”

Remus waited for him to go on, but he didn’t, just shook his head. “Well,” Remus said. “Then I think maybe you should tell him that you don’t have a girlfriend. That might make things a little easier for him.”

Finn groaned. “Yeah. Fuck me, see? I’m an asshole.”

Remus put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. “No, Harz. You’re trying your best to be yourself in a world that’s making it really fucking hard. You’re brave. You just need to talk to the people who will help you. You’ll support each other.”

Finn blinked at him, and then cursed and pulled Remus into a hard hug, face tucked into his neck.

“You helped me, Loops. Fuck me,” Finn pulled back and he was sniffling a little. “Do you get paid for this?”

Remus laughed. “Yes.”

“Good.”

“Good,” Remus patted his shoulder. “We need to get on a bus now, Harz.”

“A long talk to him on the bus,” Finn’s face lit up with anticipation and nerves.

Remus shook his head. “No.”

Finn sighed, but nodded as if resigned to Remus being right. “We’ll talk to him at home.”

Remus tilted his head as Finn turned towards the door. “We?”

“Catch you on the plane, Loops!” Finn called, and let the door close slowly behind him.

It was caught by a hand before it closed. Sirius’ head poked in.

“Jeez,” he said, and then grinned while Remus rolled his eyes. Sirius closed the door, turned the lock, and then pulled Remus in with his hands on his hips. He leaned down to brush their lips together, his hair, wet from his shower, dripping cooly on Remus’ neck. “You’re city hall today, eh?”

Remus grinned, wrapping his arms around Sirius’ neck. He looked handsome in his dark gray suit. “You have no idea.”

“Is this to do with your Logan fixation?”

Remus snorted. “Oh God. That makes it sound like I have some sort of kink for him.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” Remus laughed, and pulled him down for a hard kiss, licking into his mouth before sealing it with a soft scrape of his teeth against Sirius’ lip. “You know that’s only for you.”

Sirius tucked his face against Remus’ neck and held him close. “Mine or yours tonight?”

Remus thought for a moment, heart speeding up. He carded his fingers through Sirius’ hair and pressed a kiss to his neck. “Mine. I’ll cook.”

And I’ll tell you I love you, he didn’t add.

The plane ride felt quick, and Remus had slept the entire time. He was groggy as they stumbled off the plane. He caught Sirius staring at him as they exited into a waiting area. Sirius smiled at him, warm and soft. It filled Remus up to the brim.

I love you.

It had been playing like a record on the plane, even as he slept. He dreamed in I love you’s, now, he lived and walked in them. He needed to say it. He thought of Finn and Logan. He needed to say it. He would say it tonight.

Sirius had one AirPod in, and he looked down, still smiling. Remus expected his phone to buzz with a text any second.

Instead, Remus watched Sirius’ entire posture change. He stiffened. He had a funny look on his face, looking down at his phone. It was staring and vacant. With alarm, Remus realized he could see Sirius’ hand shaking. He took one step forward, and then Sirius looked up. His eyes, even from across the room, were completely blank, cold. They stopped Remus in his tracks. It was identical, perfectly identical, to Sirius’ first years on The Lions. That stare was Sirius looking through layers and layers of walls, of brick and cobwebs and years of being torn down. What Remus didn’t know, was what had sprung them up so fucking quickly. Just hours ago, Sirius had been smiling and kissing his neck. Now, he was looking at Remus like he didn’t know who he was. Before, years ago, Remus hadn’t known Sirius well enough to realize that look for what it was.

Now, he knew Sirius looked afraid.

“Whoa,” he heard from behind him, and turned. Finn was staring at him wide-eyed. Logan was staring at Sirius, eyes even bigger. James was staring at Sirius, expression unreadable. They all had their phones in their hands.

Remus reached for his own phone, nearly dropping it. No emails. No texts. Remus’ hands were shaking, too, now. He had a feeling in his stomach.

Twitter. Trending.

Remus swayed, hand reaching out for something to grab onto and finding one of the flimsy, belt, line dividers. He felt his entire body heat up, then go ice cold.

#SiriusBlackGay.

It was worse when he clicked on it.

Captions. Horrible, horrible, captions. He didn’t even see if there were any supporting messages. All he could see were question marks, and capital letters. Slurs.

Burning this jersey, one said.

#notmycaptain.

And the pictures.

They were dark, but they were clear. Taken through Sirius’ car window, in Remus’ parking garage. On New Year’s eve. Remus was on Sirius’ lap. They were kissing in one, and in another, Remus was kissing Sirius’ neck, Sirius’ face tilted up, eyes closed. They were perfectly recognizable with their hats off, with the streetlight filtering in.

#CaptainBottom the tweet read.

Remus felt sick. He pressed a hand to his throat. He couldn’t breathe.

Sirius.

Remus looked up when someone said Sirius’ name, quietly. It was Pascal. He was the only member of the team to approach their captain, the others still frozen or shuffling with shock. Remus watched as Pascal reached out a hand. He watched as Sirius fell a step backwards.

“Sirius,” Pascal said again, followed by French that was too low for Remus to hear.

Not even Sirius seemed to hear. Remus watched his throat work around a swallow. Remus silently begged Sirius to look at him. But he didn’t.

Instead, Sirius turned on his heel and walked out of the airport, automatic doors opening before him, and then sealing shut. Sirius disappeared as the light’s reflection took over the glass. Remus found himself staring at his own, murky reflection, smaller and behind Pascal’s, who still had his hand out.

Remus couldn’t look away from the whites of his own terrified eyes. His hand closed more tightly around his throat. He couldn’t think.

Vaguely, he registered James walking slowly up to him. He stood there, shown in the door’s reflection for a long moment, and then Remus watched his hand reach out and gently hold Remus’ shoulder.

“Can I drive you home?” James said softly.

Remus stared ahead, eyes unseeing. James gently took his phone out of his hand and clicked it off, slipping it into his own pocket. He wrapped his arm more firmly around Remus’ shoulders.

“Come on, Re. Let me—let me be here for you.”

“He needs you,” Remus choked out. They both knew who he meant.

“I’m going there next,” James started walking them forward. “Lily’s going to you. She’ll meet you at your apartment, okay?”

That made Remus’ eyes fill. He blinked away the wetness, and it dripped down his cheeks.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“Okay, babe,” James said and squeezed his shoulders.

They followed where Sirius had been, out the doors and into the freezing night.

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summerofpinecestcontest · 3 years

Text

The Dream of a Normal Life

by @cornytyrannosaurus

The fresh breeze of the Norwest lands scurred between the mountains, between the hills, beneath the trees, until it reached the nostrils of a young man inside a van which was stationed atop a hillside.

He breathed deep, filling his tired lungs with the soft breeze and all the scents it brought from every corner of the undying forest. His always hurried mind took this moment of serenity to fuel itself back to be awake, he already processing within his blurred thoughts all the duties of the day.

Mile 82, 54. Mile 21, 12 up to date. We go downhill until…

Then he opened his eyes, and the list stopped. He saw her, gently snoring in her sleep, her hands improvising a pillow. He smiled, recalling how annoying she could get when her hands felt sore; but what to do about it? She looked just too adorable right now to be awoken just for the sake of a mere slumbering formality. Her neon-stained, raggedy hair fitted with her purple sleeveless shirt, the only piece of cloth she was wearing in her sleep. He rolled his eyes down to her nude legs, remembering with heated fondness how much he made her to feel loved last night. Maybe he should put the blanket over such gorgeous sight, he thought. Unfortunate, but necessary.

Heavily, he put the brown blanket over her underside, to stop at her slightly inflated belly. His eyebrows dropped, reminding the main why of her needing to feel loved last night. She was having one of those delicate hormonal moments, a thing he took years to get accustomed and now was proving itself really useful during these uncertain times.

Uncertain, never better though.

He gave a quick kiss on her forehead, rolled his body around in search of his clothes, and hurriedly put his pants on.

He opened the backdoors, sat at the edge of the white van they lived in now, and took a long look at the immediate surroundings.

The gigantic mountains came across his sight like an unfathomable Leviathan welcoming his life with its majestic shape. Around him and all across the hillside, countless trees of all shapes and sizes covered the outline of horizon like a fortress for their tiny kingdom of intimacy and solitude. What he could give for them to have a tiny home where to start a family at a place like this, he could not tell but was certain in it.

Then he heard the growls coming from the trees, and he recalled they were just passing by.

A couple of man-sized hoofed monstrosities ran wild from between the depths of the forest, galloping over the concrete and disappearing behind another line of old pine trees. Their countless mouths filled with human-like crooked teeth, placed all across their headless, dark furry bodies, screeched continuously as they waved their long rat-like black tails at the fresh airs of the of morning.

Aaaaaaw f*ck.

Tagging eldritch creatures in a national park wasn’t precisely his dream job, but was quite within the spectrum of skills of the Mystery Twins, and as these non-euclidean beasts began to reproduce, they found themselves at a chance of getting a good source of income at the aftermath of events he didn’t want to remember right now.

If only his mind could listen to him to stop rerunning the horrible memory of that day.

Before sorrow had the chance to overtake his heart, he felt the warm of a pair of arms circling his tummy, a pair of legs caressing his, and a slightly inflated belly gently pressing his back. He smiled in relief; he hadn’t figured yet how she was able to slip across surfaces.

“Good morning, Dipdop” she murmured in his ear with seductive tone.

“’Morning, Mabes” he said back, turning his head to kiss her cheek, and then her lips, to go back to look at the hill.

“Why are yah awake so early? I wanted to spoon yah” She asked, squishing his belly with her arms”

“Dunno, just… wanted to start earlier today” He said with slow content.

“Before breakfast? You gotta be kiddin’ me” she said with pretended anger.

“You’ll never let me to skip it, will you?” He mustered with a grin.

“Nope, I won’t” She asserted. “Besides…” she said, as she squished her legs around his.

“Besides?”

“I’m still just in my shirt” she whispered at his ear. His grin grew bigger, as his sister slipped back from where she came and he rolled around to follow her.

“But what about the breakfast?” He asked with fake indignation.

“First this breakfast, then food breakfast”

“Mhmm, I like the plan…” He said as he closed the van’s door behind him.

It wasn’t the most conventional form of Love, nor the beginning of a normal life. But it was theirs to live , and they loved it anyway.

At least there, away from the unsuspecting and prejudiced eyes of the world, they were free.

If only the world could know the pain it could cause.

- Six months ago…

Mabel Pines had endured many terrifying moments in her life. When Dipper broke his leg at their kickboxing practice, when she was at the hands of a gigantic childish mechanoid, when her brother was about to be devoured by a living corpse, when she was about to be erased from existence by a extradimensional pyramid god, when she got lost in that trip to the unknown… but these immediate moments were heaving in her stomach more than any of that. Maybe it was because those moments were a little far in her memory, or because her resistance to cringe was absolutely superior to her brother’s. Or maybe it was because this time, the impending threat came from within her very own family.

And now she was frozen in place inside the van, watching how Dipper stood over the grass of the family home, his forehead bleeding and his face turning to their parents, his shape contrasted between the darkness of the night and the porch’s lamp.

Maybe they weren’t as angry and freaked out as they were an hour ago, but their resolution wasn’t something they were willing to accept. Right now, Mason “Dipper” Pines was standing against the destruction of his incoming family.

“Dipper, please… be reasonable. There is no way out of this” His father reassured, trying to appeal to his intellect, trying to undo the damage of the wound he had done to his own son. But Dipper had already cried, so the wound would stay a long time.

“No” Dipper pronounced in crackly voice.

His mother approached to him a couple of steps more, heartbroken for the glance of their own children at them. “Dipper, you’re not in your right mind, you don’t-”

“No, Mom!” Dipper yelled high. “We-we tried, we really really tried. But it didn’t matter how much we tried, how much we were honest with you. You didn’t listen, and you are still not listening. You look at us like if we were just a couple of f*cking monsters!”

“Dipper… You won’t be able to live a normal life with Mabel” His father told with serious tune. Again, they weren’t listening; again, they were mistaking their love for another crooked urge they needed to repress to have fulfilling lives. If only they knew.

“Well.. maybe we don’t want one!” Dipper finally shouted, turning around to walk aimlessly to his van.

Their parents only watched impotent how their beloved children drove away from home, and away from their lives…

“Mhm… so… I’ll want a French-Fry-Fantasy and a Slurpy Surprise” the young woman finally chose her meal options from between the short menu in the grease-stained paper sheet. It was kind of her personal politics about road restaurants to “choose the weirdest dishes in the menu or don’t say yourself worthy of a road trip”. The waitress with curly black hair and more freckles than space in the face to have them, could read for her bun hairstyle, her capri pants and her lots of laces and bracelets on her arms, that she was the extroverted and adventurous of them.

“I’ll want a pancake plate and a coffee, thanks” the man said instead. Judging by the old flannel coat and his black pants, he was the quiet one. The young waitress tried not to smile too much at the enormous contrast between their breakfast options, pondering in her mind how so alike persons could have such starkly different personalities. Anyhow, they made such a lovely couple, one of those who brighten the day of a service worker doomed to attend uncourteous people the rest of the day just like she was.

“Oh right, so a coffee cup, a Slurpy Surprise, a pancake plate and a French-Fry-Fantasy” The waitress repeated as the couple at the table nodded in agreement. “Ok, your order will be done in 10; anything else?”

“Nope, that’s all; thanks” he answered with kind tone.

“Okie dokie” The waitress said. “Oh! And congrats for your baby!” The waitress said before to leave.

“Owww thank you so much!” she said in joyful tune, making the waitress to enlarge her smile as she left to attend the order.

The young woman turned her attention back to her brother, moving over her seat with impatient joy. It was one of those days where the world seemed that friendly at them; after an inconceivable quantity of bad days in between, both had learned to appreciate them.

“Gosh I’m so hungry!” she exclaimed, enthusiastic at the edge of childishness.

“Yeaaah I kinda doubt ten minutes will be enough for your order” he asserted, resting his elbows on the table, looking out the window for a moment.

“Ooh, hush you there, bro-man! Have a little of faith in these peoples; they’re experts!” she dismissed.

“Experts in road restaurant dishes?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yep, I’m sure they attend to a special college for restaurant workers and stuff” she said with erudite-like pride.

“I did!” the old cook behind the bar yelled at their table with a stoic smile, raising his spatula. Maybe they were talking too high for a public place, but as they were currently the only customers it did not seem like it mattered at first. He usually would beg for her to slow down a little, due to the obvious need for them to conceal their true identities, but given the events of last night, he was simply happy to see her so free and being herself.

“You see? Road restaurant experts” She finally asserted as she raised her arms in a gesture of obviousness.

“Ok, I’ll eat my words along my pancakes” Dipper commented with an ironical smile.

“Yes you will, you will” She asserted, bopping his nose with the tip of her finger. Suddenly, she got aware the sorrow behind her brother’s eyes, and she worried. “What’s up, Dip?”

He paused for a couple of seconds in which his always hurried mind deliberated. She didn’t like unnecessary dramas, but she also liked him to be honest, as they had committed themselves to be. So after that instant that felt eternal, he spoke.

“Dunno, kinda… I know you’ll just tell me it was some kind of hormone rush or whatever but… I really…”

“Hey, it’s ok, Dip” she interrupted him, taking his hands with hers over the table. “I guess I was just… scared about the call Mom and Dad made and…”. For a moment, she thought she could express better by enacting, so she leaned across the space between them to rob him a deep kiss, to just after returning to her seat. “I want this, Dipper. I want all of this” She said, her eyes getting moisty.

“We’re just that crazy, aren’t we?” he asked with a moved smile. She was that fantastic and brave he couldn’t contain his love for her.

“And I couldn’t be happier for it” She asserted. He raised his hand to caress her cheek. Maybe it was the magical pregnacy hormones he had heard about in documentaries, or the strange and unnamed dimensions of their mutual love reacting again for a full catharsis potential, but she looked especially beautiful this morning, and (as energetically as he showed how much he loved her earlier at the van) she deserved to feel it. “To heck with a normal life” she cited from him as both just stared each other until the dishes were ready.

- Six months ago…

Dipper was quiet, as he had been all the way the long long time of driving lasted until the gas ran out near San Francisco Bay. He hadn’t said a word, nor even tried to clean his face of the blood; anyone with no idea of what really happened could have thought he was just coming out from a horror scene.

The unnerving silence was the exact kind Mabel recognized perfectly; she knew exactly what he was thinking and why he was thinking it. The waves of fear and regret and self-hatred and so many other things too deep to have a name. She let him have his inner battle, because Dipper Pines was the man of resolutions; but at some point she got aware he was just self-loathing again. Self-loathing for loving his sister in unexpected and strange ways she also felt. Self-loathing for stripping her dreams away just because he said he wanted to be with her and promising they would fight together whatever it would take. Self-loathing about the fact he actually accomplished his promise and now faced the true, palpable consequences of not having a plan this time. If he only had a plan, if he only…

“Dipper!” Mabel yelled at him, and he raised the head to look at her. His wound had closed enough for his blood over his face to dry a little, but the scar was still cutting his birthmark at half.

“I…”

“No. Don’t you ever dare to say you’re sorry about this. And you know what? It’s because this is not your fault, Dipper!”

“Bu-“

“But nothing, Dipper! It was Dad the one who punched you, it was Mom the one who pushed me, it was them the ones who wanted to… to wanted to…”; Mabel couldn’t even pronounce the fact that her own parents wanted to kill their unborn grandchild. “This is the part where I get all serious and say to you: We did everything we could. It didn’t work, eh? Well, we just move on and keep going forward! Because we have each other, just like we always had!” Mabel said, half crying, half smiling. Dipper smiled as well, because he knew it was true. He had saved the universe (now more than once), living in it was the least of the problems if they were that powerful together. At least, as powerful as their love was.

“To heck with a normal life” He said with trembling lips as they approached each other and kissed fiercely. Young? For sure. Inexperienced? As every young adult. Willing to face the full grasp of all the risks, the current perils, and unexpected tangents of becoming a wandering couple of roadside adventurers? As few souls in the whole Creation were.

It had been a tiring day. Some unseen thing had tried to eat his leg; some random stone had pierced a tire and they had to wait until a car stopped to help them and the muscled father of the family aided them to change the tire; they had tagged 328 adults and 58 younglings within the 36 nests across 28 hectares. Should they worry about the spreading of the hairy Lovecraftian monstrosities any further? Maybe, but first they should get some profit out of it. Now they were on their way to the next town, way far along the road.

For moments, they held hands together, staying in silence. For moments, Dipper changed the gear lever. For moments, they stopped so she could pee, as unceremonious as it was; pregnancy issues, she could recall very well. But they were in their way, announced by the gorgeousness of the sunset, sealed between unsaid promises coming from silent smiles. For moments, they talked as well.

“What are we gonna call our baby, Dips?” She interrupted the sound of the radio ballad songs.

“Hadn’t we agreed we were going to wait to know what our baby is to suggest names?”

“I knoooooow but I really wanna start having this solitary baby tummy-mommy chatter and I can’t just keep calling our baby ‘unnamed baby in fabrication’”.

He laughed wholeheartedly, as only she could make him laugh.

“Ok then, what if it’s a boy”.

“Weeeeeell I was thinking about Bob, or Steve, or Ronan!” She said in joy.

“Ronan? Heck no, that sounds too much. What about Connor?”

“Mhmm, I like Connor” she nodded. “Ok, so what if it’s a girl”

“Well, I kind of thought about Madeline, or Samantha, or Cassiopeia!”

“Do you really want to call our baby girl like a Greek tragedy?” she dismissed with a defiant smile.

“Ok ok, maybe it’s kinda preposterous. That’s a hard choice, Mabes”

“What about Mabel 2.0? Like Grenda!”

“I still want to figure out how names with numbers are allowed, by the way” he asserted.

“Eh, we’ll know when we reach New Jersey”

He smiled with hope. It was a still-in-process plan, but it was something they could have for sure. That, if the thing with the eldritch furry monsters didn’t grow for them to having to change it. They were going to land at New Jersey, where the grunkles would reach in some months to help them to acquire the old pawn shop they once lived in. It was a plan, and that’s the only thing they needed to know as they approached their destiny.

“We’ll make it, Dips” She reassured with a gentle glance.

“I know” He said back, as they drove deep within the endless road. Life was theirs to live, and that was everything that mattered.

#Pinecest #summer of pinecest contest #gravity falls fanficfion #gravity falls fanfic

19 notes · View notes

firemblem-fics · 4 years

Text

Running With the Wolves [3]

<< | >>

-> Pairing: Yuri Leclarc x Fem!Reader

-> Modern!Au | Gang!Au | Enemies to Friends to Lovers

-> Word Count: ~2.4k

-> Warnings: Violence, Blood, Intense Scenes, Alcohol Mention, Someone legit gets shot, Other things I probably forgot about

-> Summary: You were just a normal college student, trying to find her way in a new place. You didn't mean to get caught up in the wrong crowd. You just wanted coffee, but now you're running with the wolves.

-> A/N: hi i’m back hello this took me a little bit to do because after the action scene i simply lost motivation but it’s back i know what i want to do and i WILL do it. also, just an fyi, i, as a writer, do not condone anything that my character, Hiram Chapelle, says or does. Hiram is meant to be an ass and for gods sake he’s quite literally a psychopath. That’s how he’s written. I’m just saying for future reference because Hiram is a shitty person and I plan on keeping him that way LOL

send an ask if you’d like to be on the taglist!

If someone had told you, months ago, that when you moved to Fodlan, you’d be accidentally caught up in gang activity, you’d laugh in their faces.

What a silly notion, You’d nearly cry out of laughter, Fodlan is safe. Nothing happens there.

What a fool you were. Everything was too easy. Life was too simple for there not to be a catch. That’s the funny thing about the universe and her strange ways. There’s always a catch.

Your mother had said that God always tests you. That you’d know in hard times, He was just challenging you. The only thing you knew at this moment was that if God really was real, you’d like to have a few choice words with him.

Your test was only getting more difficult with each step you took. Each limp, actually. The frigid night air numbed nearly every part of your body, except for your ankle. Instead, it burned with a fiery intensity. Your shoe was tight enough to prevent a bit of the swelling, but you needed medical attention soon.

You laughed bitterly- you’d been saying that you needed help for a while now. Your arm, your ankle, and now probably a therapist. Physical and mental help were on your to-do list.

Biting back another shiver, you fumbled with your phone. The screen was black, only showing a little red battery in the middle of it. Dead.

The window you’d jumped through was in the back of the house, facing a patch of woods. In your rush, you didn’t think to run another way to get out, only pushing forward until you had no clue where you’d come from and where to go. Everything was forest. Everything was dark.

Until it wasn’t.

A flash of light shined from behind you and you gasped, running to your left and trying to hide behind a larger tree. The flashlights came closer and you held your breath.

“What doesn’t she fucking understand about you can’t leave?”

“Well, boss, you were a little rude about it-“

“She’s in danger! And she doesn’t even realize it- the seriousness of this situation. I don’t care if I’m rude or not, she’s risking her own life being this stupid.”

You resisted the urge to scoff. Yuri was definitely a rude individual from what you’ve interacted with, but of course he didn’t care.

The lights were getting even closer now. You stepped back and started to run again, ignoring the pain. You’d get help when you were safe. You tried to stay light on your feet, but couldn’t help but crush the fallen leaves under your feet as you ran.

“I hear something that way!” Constance shouted and every light flashed in your direction before the group began chasing after you.

Your heart caught in your throat as you willed your legs to work faster and faster. You’d be okay- you’ll get help when you’re safe. Lungs burning, you surged forwards still and tried to take different turns to make them lose your trail. It didn’t work.

“Y/N, stop!” Hapi yelled out.

You didn’t answer, still running. Suddenly, you were airborne. Your feet flew off the ground and you landed two feet in front of a tree root, sticking up from the ground. You were hyperventilating- they had caught up with you.

Before they could reach you, Yuri also stumbled over the root. His flashlight and handgun both flew out of his hands, skidding to a stop in a puddle of mud in front of you. You lurched forward, grabbing the gun and pointing it at the group. It was just Balthus, Hapi, Constance, and Yuri, but you still felt helpless. They could easily overpower you, but you weren’t giving up without a fight.

“Stay back!” You cried, your finger sitting shakily on the trigger, “Don’t come any closer!”

Hapi put her hands up. “We don’t want to hurt you- we want to keep you safe!”

“Keep me safe? By making me some bad guy in a gang that I never even asked to be a part of?”

Yuri scoffed and tried to step closer, but you quickly aimed the gun at him. “You think we did?”

“No more. Don’t come close, I’m warning you.” You could only utter a few words.

The leader of the Wolves ignored this, putting his hands out in front of him, “Drop the gun and this will be okay-“

“STAY AWAY!” You were screaming at this point. Everyone tried to shush you, but you couldn’t stop. Hysteria did such cruel things.

“Y/N-“

“NO!”

You closed your eyes and pulled the trigger, your arm injury hurting slightly from the recoil. Constance yelled out, grabbing onto Yuri, who seemed to fall in slow motion. Your head was spinning. Stars seemed to twinkle in the trees and bushes in front of you instead of staying in the sky like they should.

You swayed for a moment, watching the three try to help their leader. Blood seeped out of the right side of his abdomen. You tried to stay awake, but soon the gun fell out of your hand and you went limp beside it.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your mind was awake before your body. You could feel the velvet sheets beneath your fingertips and smell the comforting french vanilla aroma that wafted through the Wolves’s house. It was warm- almost too warm for your comfort. Or maybe it was the fever you were running from stress.

You tried to smack your lips together, cringing when the inside of your mouth resembled that of a desert. You needed water.

Peeling your eyes open, you groaned. The lamp beside the bed was too bright, contrasting greatly against the still-dark sky. How long were you out?

You sat up on the bed, feeling sore, but brushed it off and trudged towards the door. You opened it and headed towards the stairs when you heard voices in a room across from you, two doors down.

“She’s already caused too much harm. I say we let her go and let natural selection take its course.”

You scoffed. Typical Hiram- rude ass.

“No- no. We brought her into this, the universe has basically ordered us to keep her safe. If any Eagles see her on the street, she’s done for.” Hapi reasoned.

“That might be a good thing-“

“Hiram-“

“She shot Yuri! He’s not waking up because of her!”

The silence that followed his outburst made your heart clench. You didn’t mean to actually hit him- you just meant it as a warning shot. Hell, you didn’t even know your aim was that good.

“He’s going to be fine. In the meantime, we need to contact Claude or Dimitri and see what’s happening.”

Claude? Claude, the boy at the pizza shop? You rolled your eyes. Of course he’d be a part of this- whatever this is.

“What if they’re siding with her?” Constance asked worriedly.

“Trust me, if it’s anything that Claude’s against, it’s an imbalance of power. As for Dimitri, I’m not sure.”

Your hands began to shake again and you blinked rapidly, trying to push away the looming realization that no, this wasn’t a joke, and yes, these college kids are in a fucking gang. You supposed a part of you didn’t want to believe it until now, but it crashed onto you like a bag of bricks.

These people have hurt others. Killed them. You hurt someone too- you shot a man. A man who apparently is trying to keep you safe.

Continuing to blink, this time biting back tears, you walked down the stairs into the kitchen. Grabbing a glass from the counter, you filled it up in the sink and began chugging.

One glass.

Two.

Maybe if it was alcohol, you’d feel a little better. But it wasn’t. And you didn’t.

More footsteps resounded from the stairs, making their way through the living room and into the kitchen. Hapi entered first, followed by the other four. She gave you a tight smile, choosing to mess with some papers that still rested on the kitchen table.

The papers were frenzied and unorganized- they must have really rushed out once they realized that you’d left.

Hiram walked past and bumped your shoulder rather harshly, making you spill your third glass of water down the front of your shirt. You hissed, wanting nothing more than to yank out those snowy locks of his, but he was definitely armed and no doubt dangerous. You valued your life a little too much to mess with the little man.

Eventually, the group sat down at the table and Hapi patted her hand on the wood, pointing to the empty chair across from her. “Please, Y/N, sit.”

You did so, awkwardly, clasping your hands and putting them in your lap. You didn’t want to look up, already feeling the five intense stares burn into your form.

“It seems our first little talk wasn’t as… effective as it needed to be.” The redheaded girl began. “You were seen with us in the cafe when Edelgard attacked. You let your mouth run, disrespecting her. And I can assure you right now, that the Eagles have all the details on you. Especially since one of their own seemed to recognize you. Like it or not, you’re in this now.”

Hiram snorted, leaning back on his chair and nonchalantly checking his nails. “You’re stuck with this, toots. If you didn’t want to be, you should’ve stuck behind everyone like a good little coward and let the big dogs fight over the bone. You could’ve easily been seen as a citizen and an innocent bystander, but no. Something in you said ‘hey, let’s be a bitch to these people who suddenly barged in here with guns’. If I didn’t know any better, it would seem to me like you were practically,” He leaned forward, his icy eyes boring into your own, “asking for it.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, but still kept shut. He wasn’t necessarily wrong, you could’ve easily decided to let the obviously-more-experienced people deal with it, but in your defense, you didn’t know at the time! You didn’t even think your 5 second long conversation with this Edelgard chick was as negative as they made it out to be.

Crossing your arms, you willed your face to remain stoic. “I just don’t see why she’d have it out for me. I didn’t even do anything that bad.”

“Look, look at my face.” Hiram pointed to the bridge of his nose, where a deep, pale pink scar contrasted against his skin. “Rhys and I used to be… involved with them. Her little lap dog- Ferdinand- did this. Because I made some ill-timed joke.”

You couldn’t help but glance over at Rhys, whose eyes had darkened at the mention of his past. The mention of Ferdinand’s name and his affiliation with the Eagles made you wonder about everyone’s past- how exactly did all of these people get involved with such a deadly life? You didn’t have much time to dwell on it before Balthus spoke up.

“Listen, little one, just stay here and chill out until we can a hundred percent confirm that the Eagles aren’t associating you with us. If they’re not, you’re free to go.”

“And if I am?”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

Everyone at the table gasped and turned around to the kitchen entrance, where the strained voice had come from. Yuri was leaned up against the door frame, holding onto his side still. His torso was bare, but the skin was covered by bandages and gauze.

The Wolves shot up out of their seats, rushing over to their leader.

“Yuri!”

“Why are you up?”

“You need rest.”

Yuri just chuckled at them, hiding a wince as his stomach contracted with the laugh. “I’m fine, I’m fine, everything’s cool. Not the first time.”

You still sat at the table, watching as they helped him sit in his place at the head before going back to their own seats. The Wolves really seemed to care about each other, you noticed, and felt a small pang of guilt for causing them so many problems already.

“So, Yuri-Bird, I was explaining to everyone earlier that our best choice of action is to contact Dimitri and Claude and see what’s happening in their little sectors of the world.” Hapi folded her hands on the table, “I know with about a 90% certainty that Claude will be against whatever Edelgard’s doing. Dimitri, I’m not so sure.”

Yuri nodded, taking in the information. “We need stronger people going to Dimitri, then, just in case he sided with her.”

“Which is why I decided that it would be best for all of us to go together. Dimitri has that one assassin with him- the Black Cat or whatever his alias is.”

“It’s Felix. I wouldn't forget the name of such a hunk of a man.” Hiram practically swooned.

Hapi rolled her eyes. “...Right. So, we start with Claude and then move on to Dimitri.”

Rhys raised his hand for a moment, making Hiram shush everyone. He said nothing, only jutting a thumb at you as if asking ‘what do we do about this chick?’ The room was quiet for a moment, then Constance clapped her hands together.

“She can stay and take care of Yuri!”

“What?” You and the previously mentioned man cried out.

He turned and glared at you. “You lot are going to entrust my healing to the same bitch that shot me? No. I’m coming with you all.”

Balthus shook his head. “She’s right, Boss. You could barely walk down here. You need to rest before you get back in the game.”

“Yeah,” Hiram began to laugh, “I’m sure Miss Girl will fix you right up. Maybe she’s better at caretaking than she is running away.”

You returned Yuri’s glare, but quickly switched it to Hiram. He lost his smile and quirked up an eyebrow, as if challenging you to say something. You didn’t.

“We leave tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock. Yuri, you sleep in. Y/N, be up early to change his bandages.”

Hapi stood and stretched, letting out a large yawn before walking out of the kitchen.

The rest of the group followed, Yuri lagging behind as Balthus helped him walk. His lavender eyes pierced into you, obviously extremely angry at you. You shuddered. You absolutely did not want to be alone with him tomorrow.

Dreading morning, you went to your room and tucked yourself back under the velvet sheets, watching the hall light turn off and listening to Hiram’s annoying voice echo throughout the walls.

“Goodnight y’all! Sweet dreams- except for the Princess, of course.”

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taglist: @fairyblue-alchemist @emperor-pizza @flavoredmilktea @sadies-stories-n-things @blviddyd @laurexlance @atomicchocolatecookie @mapesandoval @local-goth-lilz

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wrotetheaboveoftoday · 4 years

Text

1831 Thurs. 20 January

7 10/..

12 20/..

F46º at 7 10/.., soft damp morning with a little rain while I was out - out at 8 10/.. to the Muette gate Boulevard de Beauséjour and back at 10 10/.. - dressed - 1 5/.. hour reading Le Temps - breakfast in 25 minutes - 15 11 35/.. had my hair done - had 1/2 hour's nap - Letter from Mariana (Leamington) about 12 1/2 - at my desk at one - read my letter - dated 1/2 down the 2nd page from Warren's hotel London 3 pages and the ends and under the seal -

Mention of the death of Mr. John Charles of Newton Kyme - neither of the executors can act with her Mr. Charles (John late the banker) residing out of the kingdom and writes Mrs. Charles to Mariana ‘Mr. Raper you know from his conduct is banished [from] the kingdom’ Death of your old and faithful housekeeper Mrs. Tatham - William Milne not well - inquired after the school recommissioned by Miss MacLean (my poor dear Sibella) Miss Clomels, Yorkgate, much pleased with it - expense till the age of 14 or 15 £100 a year and Mariana will make a sacrifice to send her niece there - of course as I ought to know I have not much to expect from her in the money way

Mr. Willoughby Crewe writes her that the people began to threaten in Cheshire - she had thought much of what I told her about returning to England - I shall most likely be at 'home in July which perhaps is the best place for us to be together in' such a chance as Scarbro' 2 years ago is not to be expected -

“If your aunt's health will admit of a return to England possibly she might sit down comfortably at Shibden - certainly such an arrangement would set you more at liberty than any other, and now that you are in such good luck as to society, and stumbling on eligible companions for seeing all you may desire of other countries, I would certainly have you follow it up - you will not be less inclined to go again, should opportunity offer, and if it should not, it will always be an advantage to both that even one has seen the world"

She thinks 'somehow' the continent will not be long open to us - will 'count the time like a school girl' to July - voila tout on this subject well it is all very well I must make my plans and then tell her them never expecting her advice to help them much - Lady, I mean Mme. de Polignac was a Parkinson daughter says Mariana of the last sister of the present Lord Rancliffe - niece to the Lady of Mrs. Salmon's brother Captain Barrow - from 1 3/4 to 4 25/.. wrote 3 pages and the ends, long, and under the seal, all very small and close to Mariana from 4 1/2 to 6 wrote page 4, and the ends and crossed page 1 and finished my letter to Mrs. William Priestly begun Monday the 10th instant (vide lines 1 and 8 of page 16)

Dinner at 6 10/.. - read the paper - came to my room at 7 1/2 - _twenty five minutes preparing napkin for my cousin came gently between one and two this afternoon - have wrote to Mariana, surprised to find her in London -

"It is impossible ever to count upon anything like fixity in their case, quite as much so as in my own - as to myself, nothing is more settled than when I wrote last - no communication has as yet passed on the subject of returning, between my father and me - but you shall know all as soon as you can - I have no reason, at present, to think my aunt will not be able to bear the journey; tho' it is probably enough, if she does not go next summer, she may never go at all - However, perhaps the chances are, we shall make the attempt - as for my traveling schemes, I see your uncertainty, but I do talk, and must talk of them, because I cannot calculate upon being able to remain comfortably in England - even you yourself, weighing all things justly on the balance, will not, I think, be for my staying longer than necessary beyond the time where we have been as much together as circumstances will permit - my aunt may do very well at Shibden - rien à dire contre - quant à moi, c'est une autre paire de manches - I do not expect the chance of Scarbro' encore, and only ask for 3 weeks, because I think you would have a right to claim the time certain - But we shall see by and by comment tout cela doit d'arranger - as for my 3 possible, just possible traveling companions, I do not count upon any one of them; and all would be very temporary - Lady S- [Stuart] (Gordon) may perhaps be persuaded to go to Spain - Miss Mackenzie is still, I believe, at, or not far from Naples and Miss Pickford is I know not where - and perhaps, after all, [your wid[?]] is as likely as anybody - je n'en sais rien - sufficient till the day etc. etc. and I shall not pother myself by attempting to fin[al] anything till the time comes - I shall be delighted and satisfied to see you, and this will be enough for me -

Poor dear Sibbella! I have lost the ostensible and now, I find, the real object I cared to wait for here; and, I confess, I have felt more than usually unsettled since my last return - I can understand the regret for [totality] - It is a serious thing, more serious than we sometimes fancy, to lose anyone to whom we have been long accustomed - I refuse going anywhere in an evening, for I am not in a humor for it and morning visits I make as seldom as I can - Mrs. Hamilton promised to introduce me to Lady Granville; but she has not yet been called upon for the fulfillment of her promise; and I am in no hurry - now that my mind is almost made up to be off from here in the summer, I am indifferent about things that would otherwise have interested me much - nous verrons - I am not much above concert-pitch; and now that I have done enough of at my accounts for the present (expense of last year not much above thirteen-hundred) I am seriously meditating a return to my little apartment, and turning back to something more mental than the commonplace of rue Godot - By the way, 13 hundreds are more than I wish to spend just now; but, in the status quo, I am quite sure I cannot make less do - economy goes for something in my not visiting this winter, tho' I am not sorry to have this excuse to make to myself"

Mention Kinnersy having changed 5/. for transmitting the money - 'the accounts I have from Briggs are much better than I expected - all my rents were paid' - remember hearing 'my poor dear friend speak of Miss Clomel's (Yorkgate, London) school'. She at one time wished to have her nieces there - 'It is a nice situation, from all I remember about it, a very likely one to suit their people' ask the age of 'Mariana Lajeune' - 'I am glad you think her such a nice girl, and shall be anxious to hear what you determine about her - at her age, she certainly has no time to lose' - ask after Steph - fear she can expect no great advice from that quarter - will inquire about Mme Thomas rue des filles St. Thomas no. 23 Mde des modes - mention have several 2 or 3 times met a lady I should have fancied Mrs. John Raper had I not beheld her to be at St. Bues in Cumberland. Beg Mariana not to forget her French and if she sends little Mariana to Miss Clomel to 'beg that this language may be particularly attended to' - all the rest of my letter chit-chat of no consequence

my letter to Mrs. W. Priestly - chit chat - had received her letter on my return home 'for which I should have made a point of thanking you immediately, had my mind been more at ease' - she would see by the papers the death of my poor friend Miss MacLean 'for the nearness of which I was strangely unprepared - Deceived to the last, she herself was not aware of the real state she was in, till the last 3 or 4 days; and the 1st account that met me on my return was that of her death' - Congratulation on the Sutherlands being returned to Crownest -

'I can easily understand and join in their sentiments on this subject - I am accustomed to give you credit in matters of both of feeling and of judgement; and it is not in this instance that I should be inclined to dissent, in spite of the opinions, the wishes, or the interests of others’

say 'I had a very interesting tour last summer - a week on the Spanish side of the mountains and at the 1st Spanish town found the contrast between the French and Spaniards as striking as that between the French and English on first landing at Calais - from Narbonne to near Marseilles disappointed with the shores of the Mediterrtanian but M- Toulon and Hières made us regret that our arrangements did not allow of our going farther' -

I find my aunt surprisingly well - she had behaved admirably during the revolution, having been much calm and composed than many younger and stronger people - she says she never felt alarmed but once, and that only for a little while when Marmont threatened to blow up the whole street if they did not instantly cease making the barricade, which, however, was completed in the night - we had no fear during the trial of the ex ministers - 100,000 men under arms - sense enough' -

All as quiet here now as the P-s [Priestleys] themselves can be at Lightcliffe - mention Laffitte’s being ruined by the revolution - conclude with

‘I know your time is a thousand (crossing on the 1st page) times better employed than in writing to me, and therefore and therefore only I do not expect to hear from you very soon - If you wait 6 or 7 months, perhaps you may have an opportunity of answering in person - Do not name this to any one but Mr. Priestley because our plans are at this moment not fixed, and therefore not mentioned even to our friends at Shibden - I am too much accustomed to trust to your discretion to doubt it in any case - you may see us both - it depends this time as I told you it did 2 years ago, on my father - I fancy you can read my crossing without much difficulty - I did not wish to write the last sentence where Mrs. Bagnold could read it too easily - my aunt’s kind regards to yourself (had before joined in mine to Mr. Priestley) - and my own, too, and believe me, my dear Mrs. Priestley, affectionately and very truly yours A L- Anne Lister’

dated ‘Friday 21 January 1831’ - from 7 1/2 to 9 1/4 (coffee at 9 20/.. and came to my room at 10 55/..) and from 11 to 11 1/4 wrote all but the first 22 lines of today - did not talk much to my aunt tonight - read her what M- [Mariana] wrote on the subject of our going to Shibden , and said, I took it, that she did not particularly advise but said nothing at all against it - spoke as if hesitating on the subject - but my aunt herself says she thinks it best on all accounts to go - Soft damp disagreeable day - a little rain in the morning while I was out - and gentle rain from about 2 p.m. for a considerable time - F48º now at 11 20/.. p.m. and damp, wet night - raining a little - rainy night -

#anne lister #anne lister code breaker #mariana lawton #eliza priestley #1831 #paris winter 1831

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yallreddieforthis · 5 years

Text

My Summer From Hell: A Tale of Friendship

Fandom: It (2017)

Pairing: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier (minor mentions of Richie’s crush on Eddie)

Rating: T (for language)

Words: 2.9k

Movie canon-compliant. Also posted on AO3. This is that summer experience essay Richie warned us about.

“Richie Tozier?”

Richie takes a reluctant break from the sick-ass game of MASH: The Wonder Years Edition he’s playing by himself in his algebra notebook to look up at his teacher, who is waving a blue note and glaring expectantly at him.

Blue note. That means Neil wants to see him. Damn, only five days into the school year! New—actually, not a new record. Richie feels like he and the principal should be on a first-name basis by now; Richie’s in his office a lot. He rarely gets punished because most of the things he does toe the line of punishable offenses magnificently—he usually just gets told to stop doing whatever it is he’s doing and then gets sent back to class. If he was down there getting detention every other day, he’d understand what the problem was. But alas, Neil shot down the suggestion of being called Neil right away. So they can only be on a first-name basis in Richie’s head. Too bad.

The Math and Science building is as far away from the Administration building as you can get without leaving Derry Junior High, and Richie takes his time during the walk to Neil’s office, stopping outside the computer lab until Eddie catches sight of him through the window. He makes a gesture that causes Eddie to give him a surreptitious middle finger, hidden from his teacher by the monitor, but his cheeks also bloom cherry red, so Richie counts it as a win because it’s the cutest goddamn thing he’s seen all day. It feels like every other day now Richie’s being hit in the face with how adorable Eddie really is. He’s torn between wanting to pinch his cheeks and kiss him on the mouth, and frankly he’s mostly still straddling the fence on that issue only because he doesn’t want to deal with the answer.

In contrast to having a pretty good idea deep down what direction things are headed in regarding his general feelings about Eddie, Richie has not the slightest clue why he’s being called to the principal’s office the Friday after school started. None of the things he’s done should have been discovered yet. It makes no sense.

Bill is in the computer lab too, and Richie can’t see him from where he’s sitting, so he heads over to the staircase at the end of the hall. Pausing to make sure no teachers are lurking around to give him shit for it, he sits down at the top of the railing and slides down. Actually, he slides about a fourth of the way down before falling off and sort of rolling the rest of the way, but no one saw that so it still counts as a success.

He walks past the yard to watch Stan and Ben running the mile in P.E. Stan is fucking booking it, and Richie dawdles long enough to figure out that he’s a lap ahead of everyone else. Running away from Bowers for a few years will do that to ya. Well, at least it will if you’re Stan. Richie still can’t run an 8 minute mile, so his P.E. grade has stagnated at a B-.

Richie stops in the middle of the hallway in the Language Arts Building, glancing into Mr. Tremblay’s French 1 class. Bev was planning on taking that this year, and she’d be in there if she hadn’t moved to Portland. Sometimes—and Richie hates thinking about this because there’s no use in dwelling on it—but sometimes he really wants to kick himself for not getting to know her sooner. She’s the best bro he’s ever had that’s a girl, and it just really sucks ass that they only got to hang out for like one summer.

Before he even realizes it, he’s walking into the front office. Bertha glances up at Richie through her horn-rimmed reading glasses.

“Mr. Tozier! What’d you do this time?” she asks brightly. Ah, Bertha. She and Richie have a rapport. Richie might go so far as to say she even likes him, at least a little. He’s made her laugh at least seven times, and once in sixth grade she told him he had a real gift after he showed her his best Rick Moranis impression. She doesn't bullshit him, and he doesn’t bullshit her. Well, not very much at least.

“I have no idea,” he tells her honestly, resting his elbows on her desk, which is decorated with a rubber band ball, a Hoberman sphere, several pictures of her nieces and nephews, and the biggest Hershey’s Kiss Richie has ever seen in his entire life. Seriously, it’s almost as big as his goddamn face. Apparently, she got it on a trip to New York, and she’s had it at least as long as Richie has known her. He has never wanted to eat a thing so badly in his entire life, regardless of how old it is. It’s a fucking Hershey’s Kiss. Do those things even go bad? Either way, it’s Richie’s number one goal to take a big fucking bite out of that thing before he culminates at the end of the year. He’s a thousand percent sure it will taste like sweet victory.

“Neil?” Bertha calls over her shoulder. “Did you send for Richie Tozier?”

Neil’s voice floats back through the open door behind Bertha. “Oh, yes. Thanks, send him on back.”

Neil’s desk always starts the year looking pristine, and by the last day of school it is filled with stacks of pure chaos. Richie admires him for trying again at the beginning of each year. It’s like how his mom buys him a binder for each class and book covers and sets up an organizational system for his homework and notes despite knowing that it won’t last a month. It’s nice of her to try, but Richie is pretty sure they both go into it with the understanding that it’s kind of a hail Mary situation.

So right now Neil’s just got like three pictures of his wife, a snowglobe with GREETINGS FROM ST. PAUL written on the base, and a manageable-looking stack of papers in file folders. Godspeed, sir.

“Mr. Tozier,” Neil says by way of greeting, “please have a seat.”

“How was your summer, Ne—Principal McCormack?” Richie asks, plopping down into the chair directly opposite Neil.

Neil’s eyebrows raise. “Not as interesting as yours, based on what I heard from Ms. Pfarrer this afternoon,” he says, reaching into his desk and pulling out two pieces of lined paper stapled together. “Care to explain?”

He places it directly in front of Richie. Richie peers at it. The top right corner reads: Richie Tozier, English 8A, Period 4, September 3, 1989. It wasn’t stapled when he handed it in, he’d just sort of folded the corners over together and hoped for the best, but Ms. Pfarrer must have gone ahead and stapled it for him.

“That would be yesterday’s English homework.”

“Correct,” says Neil. “I want you to read this entire essay out loud to me, and then I’m going to ask you some questions. Okay?”

Richie’s not sure if the questions are about the contents of the essay, or if Neil just can’t read his handwriting. Then again, that sounds like a Ms. Pfarrer problem; he’s not sure why she’d bring it to the principal if she just couldn’t read it. Normally she just hands it back to him and tells him to rewrite it when that happens, or at least that’s what she did last year. If his teachers have suddenly decided to send him to the principal every time he turns in an illegible assignment, it’s going to be a very long year.

But whatever.

My Summer From Hell: A Tale of Friendship

If you had asked me at the end of last year what the worst thing about my summer would probably be, I would have bet a hundred bucks it was going to be the trip I took down to Augusta to see my grandma two weeks ago, which sucked. All we did was watch Matlock all week and she made me get a really shi bad haircut, just like last year. It’s going to take me months to grow it out. But compared to what went down in July and the beginning of August, eating soup at Grandma Dottie’s house was NOTHING.

You know how kids just disappear off the face of the earth all the time here in Derry? If you didn’t, that’s a fun fact from me to you that I learned from my new friend Ben (he’s in your 5th period class). Well, while we were looking for my other friend Bill’s missing brother, we found out where they all went.

Underneath our feet, down in the sewers, there lives a killer clown. That’s right, you heard it here first. Like John Wayne Gacy, but 100000x worse because it’s for sure not human. Sometimes It’s a clown, sometimes not. Depends. On what? I have no idea. It was usually a clown when I saw it but one time it started turning into maybe a werewolf. It can turn into anything it wants and it eats kids.

Anyway, It almost killed all of us on the fourth of July. We Bill decided to go try and fight It at the creepy ass house on Neibolt street, and that was an absolute shit show disaster. Ask Ben to show you the sick scar on his stomach if you don’t believe me. Eddie fell through a giant hole in the floor and broke his arm. I got mad at Bill for bringing us all there and he punched me in the face, and then I didn’t talk to him for a month.

Then It dragged Beverly Marsh into its nasty sewer lair and we all went down the grossest well in Derry to get her back. Henry Bowers followed us because he just has to ruin everything, even things that are already the worst. There’s this giant cistern that has a huge pile of broken toys and crap and the clown lives in there. There were hundreds of dead kids floating in the air.

It’s a long story but I beat the shit crap out of It with a baseball bat and we fought it back. We swore to each other that we’d all come to fight It again if it returns. Anyway, the moral of this summer is that you can achieve anything if you work together and also that there is no way Henry Bowers could have caused an explosion during the 1800’s. I want to see him go to jail for taking a dump in my backpack for sure, and I guess for killing Belch, Vic and his dad too, but I know for a fact that he didn’t kill Georgie Denbrough or Betty Ripsom or Ed Corcoran. This town is just cursed.

Richie looks up brightly at Neil when he finishes reading. Neil takes a deep breath and rubs his temples with his fingers.

“I’m not sure you understood what the assignment was, Richie,” he says. “This is an inventive—and deeply disturbing—story, but this was supposed to be about what you actually did over the summer, not—”

“Yeah,” says Richie. “It is. I mean, I didn’t think Ms. Pfarrer was going to actually read them all. But—”

“This was a nonfiction assignment though.”

Neil’s being real slow on the uptake. Maybe his brain is still on summer break.

“Yeah,” says Richie, nodding. “As in, this is what actually happened to me. Here’s where we swore we’d come back and fight again when we’re old. If It comes back.” Richie holds out his left hand so Neil can see the freshly healed scar.

“Ouch,” Neil winces. “How did you get that?”

Richie rolls his eyes. “I cut it on glass. On purpose. Go get the others—they’ll tell you. Eddie Kaspbrak, Stanley Uris, Bill Den—”

“Please stop with the games,” says Neil. “Just—I’ve had a long week. We all have. Ms. Pfarrer wanted me to look into sending you to the school psychologist. I know you like to, you know, do what you do, but this is taking it too far.”

“Why would I lie to you about this?” Richie asks. He puts both elbows on the desk and leans forward. “Seriously. Why?”

“Attention-seeking behavior is common after the kind of trauma we’ve all experienced over the past year,” Neil says. Super patient, like he’s quoting a textbook and speaking to a preschooler. “I know what happened with Henry was a surprise to—”

“Wait, wait wait,” Richie interrupts. “You think I wrote this to get attention?”

Neil sighs and throws up his hands. “I can’t think of any other reason. If there is one, I’d love for you to give me some insight.”

Honestly? How fucking dare he. It strikes Richie in that moment how goddamn unfair this is. They had to do this with everyone—from explaining those nasty bites on Stan’s face to Eddie being grounded for the rest of the summer, to knowing exactly why there were so many more bodies in the sewer than missing kids from this past year and no one believing them…

“How about this for insight? ” Richie says. “I’ve been through too much trauma this year to come up with another bullshit story that all you adults will eat up. None of you care what actually happened; you just want me to tell you something that means you don’t have to do anything about it. Well, you’re gonna have to come up with your own lie to tell yourself. I’m not doing it for you.”

Neil is gaping. But Richie keeps going.

“I thought it was Bowers before this summer and honestly, I wish I’d been right. And it’s not like I’m sorry that he’s getting all this shit pinned on him even though he didn’t do it. My life is a million times easier without him around—he can get strung up by his ballsack for all I care.”

“Richie, there’s a mountain of evidence against—”

“I don’t give a shit about evidence,” says Richie. “I know what I saw. I know what happened. I know, and Bill knows, and Stan knows, and Bev… What do you care though? You’ll probably be dead anyway by the time It comes back.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?” Principal McCormack asks. His face has gone hard and stony like Richie’s never seen before; like Richie has crossed a real line this time. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows there’s going to be nasty consequences for this, but he can’t find it in himself to give a shit.

“You wouldn’t believe me even if it was,” Richie mutters. “Just… Fuck it. Send me to the school shrink or whatever. Give me detention; flunk my essay. None of this shit matters anyway.”

“You can bet you’re getting all three of those things,” says Principal McCormack with a mirthless chuckle. “And I’m not sure what’s gotten into you this year, but I feel like—”

“Do I sound like the grownups in Charlie Brown when I talk?” Richie demands. “Seriously, am I making like, actual words to you? Or are you just hearing wah wah wah when I—”

“I’m calling your parents,” Principal McCormack says over him. “Is something going on at home?”

Richie feels blood pounding through his veins. Like it could melt his skin. He looks Principal McCormack dead in the eye, reaches for his essay and tears it to shreds, standing slowly.

“In the end,” he says, his voice shaking and frustrated tears threatening to overpower him, “it’s not going to make any difference if you don’t believe me. We’ll come back, all of us. Me and Eddie. Ben, Beverly, Mike. Bill. Stan. What you think doesn’t change that.”

And as suddenly as it came, the anger evaporates. Just...poof. Gone. It clears, and there’s fucking gobsmacked Principal McCormack sitting there like a lump, staring at Richie. Maybe he heard the individual words, but one thing Richie know for sure: he still doesn’t get it. And he never will. And not just him; Ms. Pfarrer. Even Bertha, whether she thinks Richie is gifted or not. And his parents…

There’s a sick loneliness that kind of creeps in to fill up where his anger was, colder than a January wind. Every time his dad comforted him as a kid, when he’d check under the bed and in the closet for monsters, was a lie. When his mom told him he’d be safe sleeping in their bed. That nothing was coming to get him. That they’d never let him get hurt. Lies, all of it. And it’s not like the adults in his life are lying to him on accident. The truth is right there in front of their stupid fucking faces and they just refuse to look at it.

The chill settles into a stony sort of resolution. Richie has stared the truth in the face and didn’t flinch. Even getting suspended is fucking nothing compared to… Whatever. He’s getting detention anyway. Might as well make it memorable. He turns on his heel and walks out of the office.

“If you’re still alive in 2016,” Richie calls over his shoulder, “I’ll hit you up at your nursing home and let you know I was right all along.”

#It (2017)#richie tozier #Stephen King's IT

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tattooednursewrites · 5 years

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An Unconventional Easter

Masterlist

Dean/Reader (female)

Summary: A hunt brings you to a strip club on the eve of Easter.

A/N: This was written for @mariekoukie6661‘s 400 Followers Writing Challenge. Congratulations again on the awesome milestone! Thank you so much for letting me participate.

Prompt: “It’s not what you think...”

Technically, you knew how you got here. It was the same reason you got into a lot of ridiculous situations – hunt the bad things and save as many people as you could. Simple. That didn’t change the fact that you couldn’t believe you were actually doing this. It’s not that you celebrated Easter – you hadn’t given much thought to it, or holidays in general, since before you lost your family all those years ago. Still… preparing to go on stage – at a strip club – as a ‘sexy’ Easter bunny? You were calling that a new low.

The outfit was even worse than the French maid costume you’d had to don last year… but no point going over past humiliations now. You straightened your ears in the mirror and sighed. Your thong even had a fucking fluffy bunny tail. Doing the makeup had been interesting… you had used eyeliner to make your eyes look bigger, but still innocent, and then used it to draw on whiskers and outline an inverted triangle on your nose. You had borrowed blush from one of the girls to fill in the triangle, making the tip of your nose pink. Your hair was pulled into messy pigtails that sat just behind the ears, having the added benefit of helping keep them in place.

To your surprise, Easter egg pasties were a thing. People were weird, but whatever. You had a white satin bra on over them that matched your thong – minus the tail, of course. Over that you pulled on a sheer white ‘dress’ that was so short it gathered above your poufy tail. Your white garter belt attached to white fishnet thigh-highs. That just left one last part to your costume – the ridiculous bunny suit. It had been modified for easy removal, and was footless so you could wear the absurdly high ‘I hope I don’t break something’ platform boots… shiny white patent ones, of course.

You hadn’t worn this much white… well… ever. You definitely preferred darker clothing – not to mention less revealing and way more utilitarian. You were thankful you had enough tattoos that the protective ones weren’t obvious. This was a hunt after all, and it wouldn’t be helpful to have your cover blown before you even got off stage. Especially since this outfit didn’t really lend itself to concealing weapons.

Thankfully, you had your most valuable weapon – your push dagger, tucked into your boot. Everything else you thought you might need was tucked in your Easter basket. And filling plastic Easter eggs with salt and holy water? Not something you’d forget any time soon. The thought of the little colorful plastic grenades made you smirk. Grabbing the basket, you made your way to the curtain. The DJ was rambling on as the girl on stage collected her tips. Then you heard him introduce you… shit. You were up.

Although it was a bit predictable, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity to strip to White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane. So far tonight, most of the girls had chosen faster songs to dance to – but you tended to like something a bit slower. And pop music wasn’t really your thing, not usually anyway. Plus, if you had to dress as a freaking Easter bunny, you might as well have fun with it. The song started as you stalked to the center of the stage, setting your basket behind the center pole. You took a deep breath and let the music take over.

***

When Sam had mentioned the possibility of a hunt in a strip club, Dean had jumped at the chance. Of course he had. A hunt with the added bonus of half-naked women? Definitely worth a detour. He glanced at Sam, who was at the bar trying to get info from the bartender. Dean was in one of the corner booths, keeping an eye on the crowd for possible victims. The music that was blaring wasn’t his style, but the scantly clad women made up for it in spades. He shifted in his seat as Sam started making his way back from the bar, beers in hand. If his brother noticed the women around him, he hid it well. Dean shook his head. Sammy needed to loosen up a bit.

Dean glanced back at the stage, the woman – who had been dressed as some kind of nymph or fairy – was collecting her tips. It seemed they had a spring theme going on tonight. Sam sat across from him, sliding a beer his way. “The bartender didn’t seem to know much, recognized the vics, but with how many people come through here a night she couldn’t remember anything about who they might’ve left with. She did mention they’ve had a high turn over of dancers lately. They’ve had to hire a couple new girls a week for the past few weeks. Even have a new one starting tonight, which she said they wouldn’t usually do on a Saturday. It might not be anything, but I think there may be more to this than just the missing guys.”

“Hmm,” Dean replied, sipping his beer. “So maybe the succubus is branching out?” He saw Sam start to speak, but the start of the next song pulled his attention to the stage. Holy. Shit.

Sam shrugged. “I haven’t seen anything about succubi playing for both teams, but anything is possible.” As Sam finished, he realized he no longer had Dean’s attention. Sam followed Dean’s gaze to the stage, his eyes widening. It was an Easter bunny. Not something he ever expected to see. He turned back to Dean, but Dean didn’t notice. He was riveted.

Dean had been to dozens of strip clubs over the years. Maybe even hundreds. He was sure he’d probably seen someone dance to this song before, but he had no memory of it. Hell, it certainly wouldn’t have made his ‘songs to strip to’ playlist, but now he saw how wrong he was for the omission. How an Easter bunny could be sexy, he had no idea, but there was no doubting that she was.

His eyes followed her swaying hips and fluid movements. If he had to guess, he’d say she was the succubus, just based on his reaction to her alone. The white of the outfit was in stark contrast to her multiple tattoos. He actually laughed when he saw the tail. Despite his suspicions, he couldn’t help but hope that she wasn’t the demon they were hunting. As she finished her set, he wasn’t surprised to see multiple guys signal for lap dances.

Sam cleared his throat and Dean turned to him. “Think that’s our demon?” Dean asked, glancing back to the stage.

Sam shook his head. “The bartender said the new girl was a bunny. She doesn’t seem new, but if that’s who she was talking about she couldn’t be our demon.”

Dean nodded, following her movements through the crowd. She had a freaking Easter basket. He watched as she let one of the patrons lead her through the doorway beside the stage. He knew it would lead to the private rooms and he fought the need to follow them. She wasn’t the demon and he had a job to do. He finished his beer and stood. “Okay, Sammy. You keep looking, I’m going to see if I can get anything more from the bartender.”

Sam nodded and Dean made his way to the bar. When the bartender leaned in to take his order, he flashed her a smile and saw her respond. He ordered two more beers and waited for her to return with them before leaning toward her a bit. “Busy night.”

She smiled and mimicked his posture. “A bit busier than our usual Saturday, but the tips are nice.”

Dean flashed his badge and she seemed even more interested. Definitely a perk of this job. “So, speaking of tips, which of the dancers has been making the most lately? The bunny that was just on stage seemed to do pretty well…”

The bartender rolled her eyes. “Different questions than your partner? That’s a relief,” she smiled. “Yeah, bunny girl – Sinamen – really did clean up, but it’s probably because it’s her first night. As far as our usual top draw – that would have to be Desyre,” she gestured to a woman wearing a pink negligee that was chatting up a group of businessmen. “She’s only been here about a month, but she makes at least double what the other girls do.”

Dean left a hefty tip on the bar and thanked her. As he slid back into the booth, he pointed Desyre out to Sam. “The bartender says she usually makes double what the other girls do. I think we have our winner. Rock-paper-scissors for who plays the bachelor?”

Sam sighed but nodded, groaning when he was stuck with the role. Dean grinned, pulling him toward Desyre where she was moving between the tables toward the bar. “Hey there. I was wondering if I could get my brother here a dance? He’s getting married next week, and he’s a bit shy… never had a private dance before… I thought it would be a good send off.”

Dean watched as Desyre looked between him and Sam before a smile that could only be described as predatory curled her lips. “Of course. Just him, or are you going to join us?”

“I see no reason I shouldn’t treat myself as well…”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she purred, taking each of the boy’s hands and guiding them to the same hall Dean had seen the bunny down a few minutes before.

Once they were in the room Sam sat and Dean hovered by the table, pouring them all a bit of champagne and tipping some holy water in it. When he passed a glass to Desyre she sipped it with a smirk. Her intended reply was cut short by the effect of the holy water. Growling, she launched herself at Dean while Sam started the exorcism. She quickly threw Dean over the couch and turned back to Sam. Dean picked up the exorcism as Sam fought her. It didn’t take long to see something wasn’t right. The demon threw Sam against a wall and smirked at Dean, revealing the binding mark that bound her to the body… but at the same time she unwittingly revealed the stab wounds on her chest. Exorcism or no, the person that Desyre had been wasn’t surviving this. Dean braced for her attack and called out to Sam. “The knife, Sammy – the body is dead regardless.”

The demon startled and turned to Sam, but it was too late. Sam plunged the knife into her chest and the boys watched the sparks as the demon died, falling to the ground. They took in the mess around them and looked at each other. “Back exit?” Sam asked. Dean nodded.

Dean pushed open the door to the alley, turning to head for the car when he froze. Sam bumped into him and the door clanged closed behind them, but Dean barely noticed. His eyes were locked on the scene in front of him. The bunny – the sexy fucking bunny stripper – was in front of him in that little practically see-through white dress and those crazy boots, and she was wrestling with the guy he had seen her follow to the back. The asshole’s shirt was partially unbuttoned and his belt was undone. Dean saw red. He was about to help her when she pulled what looked like a small dagger from her boot and stabbed the guy in the chest. Dean watched the guy shake as the demon died. Another fucking demon?! And who was this chic?

He heard Sam mutter “What the hell?”

What the hell was right. Before he had a chance to speak, she turned the them and her eyes went wide. “It’s not what you think…”

***

As soon as you heard that someone had requested a private dance, you had a feeling something wasn’t right. You had put your bra and ‘dress’ back on after your routine… and of course still had on the ears and tail. You made your way to the table the manager had pointed out. You knew that what you were hunting was definitely preying on men, and you suspected the uncommonly high turnover of dancers meant it was likely preying on women as well. You were suspicious of one of the dancers, but hadn’t been able to get her alone yet to test your theory. Now, as the man stood and led you toward the back, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe they were a team. You had never heard of a succubus and incubus working together, but anything was possible.

When he passed the private rooms and pulled you through the exit and into the alley you were fairly confident you had found your demon… or one of them at least. There was still a chance he was just a run of the mill asshole, though. You grabbed one of the Easter eggs that was filled with holy water and smashed it on him as he pushed you against the wall. His hands came away from his belt as the water hit him and sizzled on his skin. He growled, pulling at his shirt to get it away from his skin. You saw the gunshot wound there, and couldn’t help but smile. He just made your job that much easier.

He slammed you into the wall again and sneered. “A sexy hunter, who would’ve thought? You’ll make a nice treat.”

You cringed when your head slammed into the wall again. Okay, maybe easy was the wrong word. You brought your knee up into his groin with all the force you could muster. He fell back, releasing you for long enough for you to steady yourself away from the wall, then he was back on you.

Wrestling against him, you reached for your boot. You were vaguely aware of the door banging shut, but you couldn’t let your attention wander from the pissed off incubus attacking you. Grabbing your dagger from your boot, you raised your arm and saw him smirk a bit at the site of the weapon. Yeah, it was small – and normally a dagger wouldn’t do dick all to a demon, but this one? It was special.

The push dagger was made out of iron and was vaguely Celtic looking. You had always loved it – your mom had given it to you for your thirteenth birthday. She had explained that your grandmother had given it to her, who had gotten it from her mother, and so on for so many generations the origin of the blade had been lost long ago. Your mother had told you it was special, precious, and that it would protect you from anything. You hadn’t understood until you started fighting monsters. Iron was powerful, and it was an easy weapon to conceal… a last line of defense. Then, a few years ago, you had come up against your first demon.

Not realizing what you were hunting was a demon until it was too late, you should’ve died that night. As a last ‘fuck you’ to the thing before you died, you decided to stab the fucker. You were probably just as surprised as it was as it died…. Hell, probably more so. The next time you crossed paths with a demon you got the same result. Your dagger, the one that had been passed down for so very many generations, killed demons. Sure, you still tried to exorcise them if you could, but damn if it wasn’t a handy weapon to have. Protect you from anything, indeed.

The incubus shoved you against the wall again as you brought the dagger down into its chest. You never got over the look of surprise the demonic assholes had as they died… the shock that anything could kill them, much less the small dagger. Pompous fucks.

You heard someone mutter something you couldn’t make out, pulling your attention away from the demon, and you turned around. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Busted. There were two guys frozen and staring at you. They were tall and ludicrously handsome. Well, time to figure out how to talk yourself out of this one. “It’s not what you think…”

The shorter one, who was not at all short, surprised you by smirking. Fuck he was beautiful. “Really? Because, sweetheart, I was thinkin’ you just killed a demon.”

You gaped at him for a moment before shrugging and returning his smirk. “Incubus, but yeah, I did just kill a demon. Hunters?”

The first one nodded as the other spoke. “Yeah, I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother, Dean.”

You grinned as you introduced yourself. “The Winchesters? I’ve heard of you. It’s a pleasure. I would love to chat, but I’m thinking we shouldn’t hang around in the alley with – ” you gestured to the body. “Ya know?”

Sam nodded.

“Yeah, we left the body of the succubus in one of the private rooms, so making ourselves scarce is probably a good idea,” Dean agreed.

“So, it was a succubus/incubus team – that’s wild,” you said as you slid your knife back into your boot and picked up the Easter basket. “Y’all have a room in town?”

Dean smirked, but Sam cut in before he could respond. “Yeah, at the Sunrise, you?”

“I’m at the Sunrise, too. Room 213. Y’all up for a couple beers?”

Sam looked to Dean who nodded. “Yeah, we can trade stories over drinks.”

“Sounds good. I need to get out of this costume first, though,” you said, barely holding in a sigh.

Sam gave you a small smile, but Dean’s smirk widened and his eyes lit. He looked you up and down before meeting your eye. And – holy fuck – he licked his lips. “That’s a pity, sweetheart.”

You flushed, unable to stop yourself from squirming a bit. He was dangerously sexy. Even if it hadn’t been awhile, you’d be in trouble.

Sam groaned. “Dean, stop it.” He looked at you apologetically.

You smiled and winked at Sam before looking back to Dean. “I’m more of a black lace girl, myself, but good to know you like it, Dean.”

You turned to head to your car, but didn’t miss the hungry look on his face.

Sam chuckled. “We’re in 109, want to meet us there after you change?”

You looked over your shoulder and smiled at them. “Sure thing. See you soon, boys!”

Sam nodded. Dean was too busy staring at your ass to respond.

This should be fun.

#minnies400challenge #tattooednursewrites #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #dean/reader #dean x reader #dean winchester/reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester/ofc #dean winchester x ofc #Dean/OFC #Dean x OFC #dean winchester #female reader #original female character #Sam Winchester #hunter reader

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strawori · 5 years

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Between Skateboards and Guitars - Chapter 2 | Elu

Summary: “ There was something about this guy skating, alone and so well, that had Eliott frozen on his spot and unable to take his eyes away from him.”

Or, the one where Eliott is a guitarist and when he goes to the park to play he meets Lucas a skater that mesmerizes him from the first moment.

Words: 2.1k

Chapter 1

can also be read on my ao3 @ invisible_slytherin

The next few weeks were busy. School had kept Eliott so occupied that he had barely had any time to look away from his books, much less to do something other than think about school.

During that time, he had just wanted to grab a book that wasn't required for school and have fun reading it. He had wanted to go out with the boys, play something with them or go to a party. Most of all, he had wanted to have time to grab his guitar and play. It got to the point where it actually felt as if his fingers were aching to slide up and down the strings. He missed the feeling of the strings and the sound of the chords.

But he knew that school was first and that he had no choice but to study as much as he could or else he would be screwed. So, instead of sliding over the strings of the guitar, his fingers could only point at lines in textbooks and turn their pages and the only music he made was the sound of his pencil scraping against the paper.

When the tests had finally ended for the time being and Eliott and Alex had finally presented the group project they had been working on for weeks, Eliott felt like he could finally breathe properly. The moment he had handed his French test, the last one, he had felt his muscles relax and, with a sigh of relief, he felt the pressure from the past weeks ease away. It felt like being free again and Eliott planned on enjoying it until the tests, projects and stress started again.

The first thing Eliott did when he got home that day was close the curtains and lay in bed. He just wanted to lay there, close his eyes and not worry about anything at all. He had barely slept the night before due to the anxiety his French test had caused and he felt way too exhausted to do anything other than sleep for some time.

He managed to sleep until his mother called him for dinner which he was grateful for, after all, he had really needed those hours to catch up on the sleep he had lost.

He got up from the bed and left the room to go to the kitchen, the smell of food making his stomach groan since he hadn't eaten anything since lunch.

In retrospection, Eliott thought that maybe he should have eaten something before taking a nap, but he had been so tired that the thought hadn't even crossed his mind when he got home.

Dinner was calm and relaxed which was a great contrast from months ago when things were rockier between his parents. Eliott was grateful for that. His mother and father just asked him about his days, commented about some news they had seen and his mother shared some funny stories about her students. It felt nice to just sit and talk and laugh with his family after the busy weeks Eliott had had. It was exactly what he needed. To relax and enjoy time with his family, without any worries.

After dinner, he said goodnight to his mother and, when his stepfather left the house to go to the hospital since he had a night shift, Eliott went upstairs to grab his guitar and left the house with him. It was about time he did what he had been craving for days now.

"Going to the park?" His father asked while closing the front door behind them.

"Yeah, I haven't played in a long time and it's too late to do it at home. I don't want to wake up mom."

"Your mom needs her sleep," his father nodded in agreement. "Kids can be a handful to deal with and teach."

"I know, my teachers spend almost half of class complaining about us," Eliott joked.

His father laughed and walked to his car, opening the door and getting inside.

"Want a ride?" He opened the window in order to ask Eliott.

"No, don't worry," Eliott shook his head. "I'll walk."

"Have fun, and don't get home too late, you have classes tomorrow," his father advised.

"I won't," he assured.

They said goodbye and his father left for the hospital while Eliott walked to the park, guitar on his back.

The night was warm and it felt good to just walk and feel the breeze moving his hair and touching his cheeks. Eliott took a deep breath and sighed, feeling his shoulders relax and all the leftover tension leaving him. He had never really appreciated the serenity that took over the town on the evening of a weekday, but he reckoned he should do it more often from now on.

In the park, Eliott walked for a little in order to get away from the road and further into the area surrounded by green trees and bushes. He didn't want to be close to the road since he could get distracted with the passing cars and could disturb someone that walked by, the middle of the park also felt more peaceful.

He was distracted looking at the sky that was darkening slowly and at the birds that were flying to the trees when the sound of wheels on the concrete attracted his attention and alerted him to the fact that he was passing by the skatepark.

He walked closer to the skatepark still as curious as ever when it came to skating and eager to see what whoever was there was doing.

He was pleasantly surprised to see that it was the skater he had seen before, the one that had mesmerized him without even trying.

As it was, it seemed that the skater still had the same power over Eliott considering he couldn't help but stop in his tracks and just stand there looking.

It was fascinating to watch. The boy moved with confidence in his moves and he landed every trick perfectly, as far as Eliott could tell. Eliott was sure it wasn't easy to do what the boy was doing. To manage to do all of those jumps and spins, without falling or losing the skateboard, seemed like an impossible feat, but this skater was able to do it so elegantly that Eliott felt more captivated by him than he had felt by anything or anyone in a long time.

He stood there, guitar on his back, longer than he could count and would like to admit. It was a little indiscreet and impolite how he had just stood there looking and gaping at the boy showing off on the skate. But Eliott couldn't help it, it truly was amazing how the skater moved as if he and the skateboard were one. It deserved to be admired - or that was what Eliott tried to convince himself of in order to tame his embarrassment.

"Are you enjoying the show?" The boy's voice startled him.

He had stopped skating and was now walking up to where Eliott was with his skateboard under his arm. Eliott hadn't even noticed that the skater had seen him and he vaguely wondered what was the probability of the boy only noticing him towards the end and not knowing the frankly embarrassing amount of time he had stood there.

Eliott opened and closed his mouth more times than he would have liked. He wasn't usually this tongue-tied, but he had just been caught staring creepily at some stranger while he skated and he didn't know exactly how to answer to said stranger.

What was he supposed to say? 'Hey, dude, you're brilliant, I loved that thing you did with your skateboard!'? No, he couldn't say that. He was supposed to be good with words, not blurt something stupid like that.

"I… You're really good with the skateboard," or maybe that was exactly what he would be doing.

The skater didn't seem to mind, though. He smiled and thanked him quickly before walking closer to where Eliott stood.

"Can you skate?" He asked.

"Not really," Eliott shrugged. "I tried before and just ended up embarrassing myself. The floor couldn't get enough of me every time I tried to do it," he joked.

"More of a guitar kind of guy," the guy grinned.

"How do you know I play the guitar?" Eliott asked confused.

"Dude, I don't know if you play for sure. But I would say you do since you have a guitar on your back," the guy chuckled and pointed at the instrument.

"Right," Eliott blushed, facepalming internally for being so stupid. How had he gotten so distracted that he didn't even remember why he had come to the park in the first place?

"Were you planning on just standing there looking at me the whole night?" The boy looked at him smugly.

"Well, not really," Eliott laughed, relieved that the skater didn't seem to mind having had an audience. "You just impressed me and I lost track of time."

The skater raised an eyebrow, a surprised but slightly impressed expression appearing on his face. Eliott was proud to see it, it seemed that he had finally gotten over whatever had tied his tongue and now he was back to himself. He smiled a little at the skater, amused at the weird interaction.

"Well, stalker boy, I'm Lucas," he introduced himself. "Do you have a name or do I have to keep calling you stalker boy?"

"I'm Eliott."

Lucas nodded and put his skateboard on the ground so he could sit on it.

"Did you come here to play?" he pointed at Eliott's back as if he might have forgotten the instrument once again.

"Yeah, I haven't played in a while," Eliott smiled, asking himself if he should sit down next to Lucas or keep standing. They were still strangers, though, so maybe standing was the better option this time.

"I always wanted to play something," Lucas told him. "But I'm better with my feet on a skateboard than with my hands on a guitar."

"Have you tried, though?"

Maybe Lucas was just afraid of not being able to do it and had never tried to know if he was capable or not. Eliott was like that when it came to a lot of things too.

"Well, no," Lucas admitted. "I mean, I don't have a guitar to try and I don't know anyone who plays," he looked a little sad at that as if he thought that everyone should have a friend who plays guitar. "But maybe one day I'll try, who knows," he smiled and shrugged.

Eliott smiled back and just barely stopped himself from suggesting that Lucas could use his guitar. He didn't know Lucas and Lucas didn't know him, he couldn't go around offering guitar lessons to strangers just because they're mesmerizing when they skate.

He looked down at his phone to see what time it was, suddenly remembering that he hadn't gone to the park to watch and talk to Lucas and that he had to be home at a reasonable time to finally get a good night of sleep.

It was still early, though, so he still had time to play a couple of songs before going home. He decided that it was about time he left Lucas alone and let him have fun with his skateboard while he did what he had come there to do. Play the guitar.

He tightened his grip on the strap of the guitar case he had over his shoulder and smiled down at Lucas. He was a little sad to be leaving already since talking to Lucas had been fun, but hopefully, they would see each other again soon.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Lucas. I'm going to play now, though."

"Nice meeting you too, stalker boy," Lucas winked and waved before getting up and skating away, back to the skate park.

Eliott grinned and sat on a bench nearby, taking the guitar off of its case and playing after putting his earphones in. It felt good to have his hands back on the guitar, his fingers sliding and strumming the strings. He had missed the feeling and the sound so much that he couldn't help but close his eyes and savour all of it.

Lost in his own little world of chord progressions and strumming patterns, Eliott didn't notice the eyes that were on him. He didn't notice the way Lucas stopped skating to be able to listen to him and he didn't notice the surprised, mesmerized expression on the other boy's face at the sound of the music.

He only had eyes and ears for his guitar while Lucas only had eyes and ears for Eliott.

#skam france #elu #fanfic

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axlolot · 5 years

Text

Napoléon et Joséphine

For how she arrived here, you all must know if you’re reading this. However, you may miss some informations about her. Like the colour of her hair, the deepness of her eyes, the way she dressed that night, and even who she might be falling for. How boring to spoil you now, though. You all should wait and read, if interested you are.

This is her love story, but you are more than welcomed to live and feel it with her.

At this exact moment, here she was. Sat at a grand table, arranged in a very fancy way, the luxe à la Française, as strangers call it. Well, it wasn’t so much a luxe to her, as she was French herself, and as a good always-complaining French, she was almost more interested in the foreign. However, she admitted that the marble floor and grand chandeliers were breathtakingly well decorated. She was still very impressed, the golden decorations, the sumptuous food—all kind of smells, textures and colours could be found on this table only. For a TV show, they sure went all out for this. And the champagne? Well… Might as well acknowledge how good it was, as she was at her third glass, thinking it was still the first one.

They all had presented themselves, except for the last one, that man who hide her behind a curtain and repeated, with those trustful eyes, that he’d help her escape. She wasn’t sure if it was a side effect of the alcohol or just because, somehow, all the stress of her adventure had transformed into sarcasm, but she found the fact that they all presented themselves as renowned figures of arts, literature or sciences pretty funny. She should have introduced herself like that as well. Marie-Antoinette. Emily Brontë? Or, no, better even—Joséphine! Isn’t that the name of Napoléon’s lover?

“Napoléon. Napoléon Bonaparte.”

She straightened on her chair, surprised, her fingers tightening around her glass. She looked around for a second, thinking he heard her thoughts and joked about it. But no one seemed to notice, or even smiled teasingly. Joséphine wouldn’t have been that great of a choice, in the end.

“I’m a soldier.”

That much she knew, yes. But she burst into laughter, and they all turned to her. Napoléon? Yeah, sure, and she was Leonardo Da Vinci!

“You’re not Napoléon, ha ha! You can’t be!” she laughed, a slight blush on her cheeks due to the refreshing champagne.

She brought her fingers to her mouth and looked back at him.

“Sorry?”

“You don’t look like him at all! I am French, I know Napoléon, and he was very small, quite chubby, and even was a little bald! I don’t know for the others, but you surely are not Napoléon.”

And she laughed once again, even louder. Around the table, some smiled, amused by her statement, while others thought she had completely lost it. It all sounded very comical to her right now, and Le Comte couldn’t do much but leave her to her euphoria.

“I do understand that the situation you find yourself in, right now, is very distressing, Manon. However, it can be considered rude by some to doubt their words.”

She looked back to Le Comte, the gentleness of his words suddenly made her feel aware of her words and of her state. That glass was full just a minute ago, wasn’t it? Grimacing slightly, she put it back on the table, before nodding to the gentleman.

“Right. I’m sorry, I think, the champagne… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just…”

‘Napoléon’ looked at her, right in the eyes, once again. Those eyes, of a blue so deep. She remembered the Napoléon from her history classes, he did have blue eyes. Were they this deep, though? The painters weren’t doing him any justice, then. Those eyes, so full, seemed to scream at her that they could never lie. It was her reason, her rationality, and the remaining of her senses, fighting this caricature of a man. And he seemed to be winning the fight.

“It’s okay.”

She sighed a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Even if they were lying, she didn’t want them to believe that she was judging them for playing cosplay and bringing a complete stranger into their game just to fool them… Thinking back on it, she did have the right to judge them, didn’t she?

Before she could say a word more, le Comte de Saint-Germain had dismissed all of them, and was leading her away from the fabulous dinning room by the arm. His hand, strangely very warm on top of hers, seemed to invite her to relax and think back on what was happening. Unconsciously, she scanned the hallways and opened rooms in search of a hidden camera, but she resigned rather quickly, acknowledging that if they were hidden, they indeed couldn’t be seen.

Pushing a door open, Sebastian invited them into a big room, with warm colours on the walls, adorned by big and small paintings framed with vibrant gold. The lights cast orang-ish reflections on them, they seemed almost boiling alive. He led her to a large chair of a deep red colour, contrasting with the gold of the walls. And when le Comte sat across from her, in one big dark chair across from her, the only thought that came to her mind was that he was blending in the room like would have a chameleon. After all, it was his suite, it should resemble him.

“Sebastian, if you would make us a cup of herbal tea,” he gestured to the butler, who immediately came closer, bowing slightly. “I believe anise would be—”

“None for me, please.”

The look she gave to the butler was apologetic. She knew refusing hospitality was very rude. But, after the fuss she made with the champagne, she wasn’t sure she wanted to drink anything from this house any more. Moreover, she was here to get answers so she’d be able to leave this place as soon as possible, and she wanted her mind to be clear when that happened. She had already give them too much of her trust.

Sebastian straightened, though he didn’t say anything about her sudden rudeness, he did understand why she was acting that way.

“I only have one question. How do I get back to the Louvre?”

Seeing none of them was answering, and because her tongue was very loose, she continued.

“Does that door have a deadbolt? a key? Or is it your fingerprint? Is it? Whatever, I don’t care—its not the question. How does it open?”

Le Comte seemed to sink deeper in his chair.

“The door isn’t locked. Opening it is easy task. However, it does open under very specific conditions.”

“Condi—? What are they?”

“It would be a little hard to explain.”

He saw how her brows moved, that way saying “Oh, how peculiar now. Just when you said you’d help me, now the door won’t open?”. Her eyes did speak a lot without her mouth even having to make a sound. If words couldn’t convince her, he could still show her.

Slowly, he stood up, and walked towards an oversized hourglass, the top half of which was full of sand. That’s when she noticed them, despite the room being very nicely and tastefully decorated, all the hourglasses of different shapes, sizes and colours, she believed even some had inscriptions written in languages she had never seen before. They were so not fancy, so very ridicule, and they were so many. Was he collecting them?

He ran the tip of his fingers on top of the bigger one, turning to face her. This one was magnificent, in contrast to the others, and even in regard to the fact that someone put so much thought and time in an object as common as this one. Like the rest of the room, its complicate and intricate structure was gold-ish, but the lights didn’t shine on it. Unlike the frames of the paintings, this object seemed lifeless, very dull. The glass, used to capture the sand, was a masterpiece in itself alone, reflecting a strange violet colour, the sand inside seemed to take on all kinds of different colours. She could guess, looking at it, that a hidden mechanism would turn it head down once all the sand will have fallen, so no one would have to touch it, and thus, no one could break it. Even if it was big, it looked very fragile.

“It will open once all the sand of this hourglass will have fallen. It gives quite the accurate timing, and I rely on it myself.”

She startled, waking up from her reveries. That’s one hellish load of sand.

“I… see. And how long does it take?”

She couldn’t take her eyes of it. Her fate depended on it.

“A month. On average.”

“A month!?”

That’s it, now she woke up completely. She might even have entirely sobered up.

“Did you just say ‘a month’!?” she asked again, noticing his frowned eyebrows.

“It takes a month, typically, for all the sand to be gone. Doesn’t it, Sebastian?”

“Yes, M. le Comte. Meaning she won’t be able to leave before a month. Approximately.”

By now, she was only thinking that they were over-stepping on her kindness. Since she came here, she had stood still, waited when he asked to wait, complied when he said he’d explain later, even apologized when she clearly was in her own right. But now, they were going too far.

Unconsciously, she stood up and started to pace around her chair. She had to move, had to let go of some steam so she could think straight and get out of this crazy situation.

“We’re in Paris, yes?” she put a hand on the back of her chair, straight as a pillar, looking deep into the golden eyes of the gentleman at the other side of the room.

She felt it again, that those eyes couldn’t lie. Why was she even thinking that, when they clearly were trying to kidnap her while making her think it was her decision!

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll leave by the front door, that big door we saw at dinner. How far are we from the Louvre?”

Right! There wasn’t any reason why she should leave this place by the same door she came in. After all, “tous les chemins mènent à Rome”, as people say. Well, here, it’ll lead her to the Louvre. She’ll just take another door, maybe it’ll force her to take a longer way back to the Louvre, but that was fine still. Better than staying here.

“I believe that’s not the problem.”

She pointed at the door, reaffirming her statement. She saw the door, it was still here, there’s no problem! Le Comte took a paper from the small table between their two chairs, and handed it to her. The look in his eyes seemed apologetic, maybe even a bit sad. Was she to keep on going like that, and she’ll have a panic attack. She took the paper, a newspaper. “Le Petit Parisien”, by its name. But this newspaper didn’t exist any more. If it was an original, and if they were still in 2019, there had no way this newspaper could be in such a good condition. The paper should be turning yellow, smelling of old books. Yet this one seemed to have been printed just this morning.

“Please, look at the date.”

He pointed at the place where it should have been. She frowned, reading a date around the end of the nineteenth century? It didn’t make any sense. She read further, looking through the articles rapidly, sitting back in her chair.

“It’s impossible…”

Sebastian suddenly reappeared with a tray in his hands displaying two steaming cups of tea, which he put on the small table where the newspaper was once sitting.

_____________________

I > II

#the amber in her soul #ikemen vampire #napoléon #wolfgang #leonardo #arthur #le comte #sebastian #osamu #vincent #theodorus #isaac #jean #william #pivoinewrites

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frankences · 5 years

Photo

“Weeds in the Garden”, oil on canvas by frankences

Talk delivered at Philosophers’ Camp, State University of New York, School of Environmental Science and Forestry, Newcomb, NY, October 6, 2019

This essay contains several Christian references. They just happened to be handy. This painting is not about religion. In fact, it is my belief that a religious version of dominion as human domination is problematic. Feel free to replace the word God with Universe or Source or Origin or whatever you wish.

“Weeds in the Garden” is the title of this painting. It was originally inspired by the Pope’s Encyclical on the environment, titled; On Care for Our Common Home* (Laudato Si’ translated means “Praise Be to You”). Praise be to our common home! In this document the Pope clearly states that environmental justice is social justice and that allowing the globe to warm up further, endangers the world’s most vulnerable people. After reading the encyclical I was weeding in my garden and as I tossed out what I believed to be weeds I considered that we do this to people. We dismiss other humans as being ‘less than’ and toss them out.

What is a weed? In the following definition I have replaced the word plant with the word human. The result is truly horrifying:

weed: A human not valued for use or beauty, regarded as cumbering or hindering the growth of superior humans... An unprofitable, troublesome, or noxious growth. Human control is important on earth. Methods include hand cultivation with guns, powered cultivation with armaments, smothering economically, lethal discrimination by the media, bombing, or chemical attack with poisons.

We label plants and humans when they don’t serve our purpose. Our inability to perceive the value in a plant or human does not mean that individual has no value. Should we toss certain people aside based on our bias and judgment? Contrast this approach to gardening with that of St. Theresa of Avila (1):

“Beginners must realize that in order to give delight to the Lord they are starting to cultivate a garden on very barren soil, full of abominable weeds. His Majesty pulls up the weeds and plants good seed. Now let us keep in mind that all of this is already done by the time a soul is determined to practice prayer and has begun to make use of it. And with the help of God we must strive like good gardeners to get these plants to grow and take pains to water them so that they don't wither but come to bud and flower and give forth a most pleasant fragrance to provide refreshment for this Lord of ours. Then He will often come to take delight in this garden and find His joy among these virtues.”

I think St. Theresa is referring to original sin in the beginning of this prayer but she goes on to talk about reconciliation which I will discuss later. Like weeds some people truly are trouble makers and cannot be allowed to continue to harm themselves and others. They must be separated but not tossed into the compost.

Early last summer I decided to stop weeding; mostly because of ticks. As a result of this ‘neglect’ some interesting things happened. Surprising plants appeared like viper’s-bugloss, evening-primrose, and bee balm. Where did these things come from? I didn’t plant them.

I took lots of photos of my garden to use as resources for this piece. One of the image files became corrupt when I loaded it onto my computer. When this image appeared on my monitor I thought it was beautiful! It has all the colors in my palette. This picture was reduced to its smallest parts in the form of pixels and serves as a perfect metaphor to describe how we all come from the same source and will return to this source. The following is a passage from Genesis:

“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken; for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”

(Genesis 3:19, King James Bible)

Outside of religious tradition materialists agree on the conservation of energy. Materials dissolve, they are transformed - one form dissolves into another form. Physicist Aaron Freemen expressed it this way in his essay titled “Physicist’s Eulogy” (2):

“You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got. And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly.”

Freeman doesn’t go far enough. Photons and neurons scatter but then what? Freeman is only describing the physical disintegration. He is describing only what we know at the present moment; what we are able to measure with our feeble instruments. That’s not the end of the story. The physicist David Bohm (3) wrote about this in his papers about hidden variables that “depend both on the state of the measuring apparatus and the observed system.” Mr. Freeman probably thought this eulogy was comforting and there are parts of it that are beautiful, but the way he described our physical disintegration is part of a larger problem. The scientific method dominates our thinking. The way we look at the world is fragmented. We believe that everything is measurable and we often mis-measure. We don’t fully understand what happens when we genetically modify food. We don’t fully understand how some medications work. We artificially categorize people into races and classes. This is destructive. In his book, “Down to Earth, Politics in the New Climate Regime” (4), French philosopher Bruno Latour suggests that the people in power who are saying that climate change isn’t real actually know for a fact that it is real but choose to further the narrative that it is false. They understand that land masses are shrinking and are hoarding resources. They don’t care that indigenous people are especially vulnerable and are tossed aside to make way for money making opportunities. The Amazon is a perfect example of this.

Now I will circle back to the idea of reconciliation that St. Theresa referred to. “Weeds in the Garden” is a painting about migration which will be exacerbated by climate change. In it, each plant is portrayed as an individual. They are looking toward the Omega Point, or Source or Origin or however one wants to describe ultimate reintegration. Our poem “Dust to dust’ refers not just to physical death but to reintegration. We were once integrated and now we believe we are fragmented but there is a growing movement towards reconciliation and it takes on two forms. One form of reconciliation includes philosophers who have reconciled to the idea that we are near the end as a species. The philosopher Jean Gebser for example, wrote that fragmentation taken to the extreme would bring about our eventual demise. In his book “Ever Present Origin” Gebser states:

“If the mis-measurements are not stopped by fulfillment of the task assigned to us, they will lead to relinquishment of ourselves, and the final loss of mankind through atomization and dissolution.”

Philosophers like Sean Kelly, from the California Institute of Integral Studies (6) believes that we are at the end of the Anthropocene. Humans will become extinct. He suggests we take action as one would with a diagnosis of a terminal illness. We should use the time remaining to love and comfort one another.

This is sad but there is good news. There are those who are making peace with creation. The Quakers in Australia are committed to having an integral relationship with indigenous people. The Quakers recognize their role, not only in Australia but globally, that has led to genocide and ecocide. They are willing to recognize their past belief in their own superiority and to embrace a new idea of interhuman relationship. They strive to understand and live by the Aboriginal law of love that they refer to as “that of God.” In her essay titled, “To Learn a New Song” (7) the Quaker environmentalist Susannah Brindle describes a mysterious experience in her own garden:

“Some years ago we rented a suburban property which was impossibly choked with oxalis weed. With greater knowledge of this gardener's nightmare than I, (my husband) Ray took a powerful weedicide to it and, when that had no effect, I spent weeks systematically removing each little nut-like root from carefully marked areas. Our efforts netted an oxalis crop surpassing that of our neighbour's in determined virility. Only then did I remember ‘that of God’ in the oxalis. In less than six weeks not one oxalis could be found, although their acid-yellow flowers could clearly be seen on the other side of the fence. Our garden was free of them for over six months until we moved out. Then they began to creep back. We have a peace-pact, too, with the rabbits where we live. In spite of several warrens among the rocks and stories of devastation to everything planted by our neighbours, the rabbits cause no damage to our tree plantings or kitchen garden, and although we occasionally see them, their warrens seem no longer open for business. You may be wondering how an environmentalist can feel compassion for introduced pests, particularly one that has caused so much devastation to the soil of this country. When I consider the damage done by us whitefellas - invaders just like the rabbits and the oxalis - I am reluctant to get too self-righteous. As I have never heard Aboriginal peoples suggest that we vanish from their land, I feel obliged to look for less violent alternatives to eradication of other introduced pests.“

Susannah suggests that to know is to love and to begin the process of reconciliation we must get to know “that of God” about one another. In summary, humans are not weeds in the garden, nor rabbits to be exterminated. I offer no external solution. My wish is that the viewer will look within, to the inner garden, to clear blocks to receptivity. Our work is to cultivate what is beautiful. We must not struggle to pull the weeds. That is not our job. We cannot always foresee how a person will grow. It is hubris to assume we can predict what anyone will contribute. The fact that a plant or human exists is enough evidence of their worthiness.

References

* United States Conference of Catholic Bishops. (2015). On Care for Our Common Home: Laudato si: encyclical letter. Washington, DC.

(1) Teresa, Kavanaugh, K., & Rodríguez Otilio. (1987). The Collected Works of St. Teresa of Avila. Washington, D.C.: ICS Publications.

(2) Aaron Freeman, born 1956, physicist, journalist, comic

(3) David Bohm (1952), Wholeness and the Implicate Order and A Suggested Interpretationn of the Quantum Theory in Terms of “Hidden” Variable. II http://physics.nmsu.edu/~bkiefer/HISTORY/BOHM_1952.pdf https://journals.aps.org/pr/abstract/10.1103/PhysRev.85.166

(4) Latour, B., & Porter, C. (2018). Down to Earth: Politics in the New Climatic Regime. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press.

(5) Gebser, J. (1997). The Ever-present Origin. Athens, OH: Ohio University Press. Gebser on dissolution (pgs. 536 and 537 EPO): “If we surrender to the destructive deficient powers, if we ascribe to rationality a character of exclusive validity, if we continue to measure time with inappropriate measure, then we shall have indulged in mis-measurement, a … hubris, presumption which is not only inadequate but runs counter to the task.” P538, “Today, while the integral is over determining and dissolving the mental-rational consciousness, the mental capacity of thought is being mechanized by the robots of calculation - computers - and this is being emptied and quantified. Prayer wheels, the fragmentation of myth, and computers are expressions of man who remains confined in his familiar consciousness frequency while the necessary “tide=turning” new consciousness mutation begins to superimpose itself over the exhausted consciousness structure. Each excess of quantification leads to powerlessness, vacuity and helplessness. Wherever this is evident it is an indication that the inadequate consciousness structure is already surpassed. In this light, the computers are a negative omen of the new consciousness structure and its strength.” 1973

(6) Sean Kelly (2019), Living in End Times: Beyond Hope and Despair, California Institute of Integral Studies

(7) Susannah Kay Brindle (2000), TO LEARN A NEW SONG A Quaker Contribution Towards Real Reconciliation with the Earth and its Peoples, Published by the Australia Yearly Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers), PO Box 108, Armidale North, Victoria 3143. Copyright 2000 by The Religious Society of Friends (Quakers) in Australia Incorporated. 2nd impression 2001. .

#contemporary art #landscapepainting #oilpainting #migration #climate change #integral art #St. Theresa of Avila #laudatosi #irrealism

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abovethemists · 6 years

Note

If you're interested i would go with #12 for rushacey , and i was thinking #25 and #43 for phantom pain (if you want)

WHY WOULD YOU EVER PROMPT PHANTOM PAIN FOR A HAPPY CHRISTMAS FICATHON!? You’re sadistic. I like you. I went with #25 because I am cruel. This takes place the first Christmas after Belle’s “death”.

“I won’t make it home for Christmas”

Read it on AO3

Feel free to send me more prompts, a number and a ship, from this prompt list!

Lacey heaved a sigh, her breath condensing in a frozen puff in front of her. She cupped her hands together, blowing on them for warmth, pulling her shoulders up to mask her naked ears from the icy wind. She should have grabbed her gloves and hat, but she’d been in a hurry. She wanted to get a visit in before the weather turned. It was Christmas Eve and that meant she needed to visit family, the only family she had.

The cemetery was a dismal sight today of all days and she wound her way through the headstones in a familiar path stopping when she reached the one she was looking for. It was clean, well kept despite the fact she hadn’t visited in weeks. There was a fresh bouquet of winter roses in a silver vase at the base.

Belle Gold

Beloved wife, daughter, sister and friend.

Lacey snorted, as she always did, at the sentiment. Daughter shouldn’t be there. Belle had been beloved, but not by Moe French. The man had hardly registered when his daughter had died, too far in his cups to notice or care. As for friend, Lacey shook her head with a sigh. No one else seemed as effected by Belle’s passing as she did. No one but Gold.

A gust of wind blew through the cemetery, picking up the scant fallen leaves that hadn’t crumbled to nothing and blowing them across Belle’s plot. Lacey fixated her eyes on one of them, clinging to the side of the headstone, just as dead as Belle.

It was a shit day.

Not that every day wasn’t a shit day recently. The past six months had been one long string of shit days without a single break in the clouds. But today was worse.

One year ago she’d spent Christmas Eve with Gold and Belle in the big Victorian she’d come to think of as home. She’d certainly spent more time there than at her father’s bleak apartment. All he did was bark orders at her, demanding she bring him another beer as he seemed permanently fused to his recliner. By contrast, the Gold’s house was warm and inviting, a true home. Last Christmas Eve Belle had made beef bourguignon served with garlic mashed potatoes and finished the whole thing off with a genuine figgy pudding. They’d drunk mulled wine and watched White Christmas and Lacey had fallen asleep in the armchair next to the fire pretending she didn’t notice when her sister and brother-in-law’s canoodling turned to full on fondling before they excused themselves upstairs.

Home had been full to bursting with Christmas spirit, the smell of fresh gingerbread and the nine foot Balsam fir in the living room surrounded by brown paper packages with bows of red and green. Lacey couldn’t even remember what Belle had given her last Christmas, but she was certain she’d loved it. She loved everything about Belle and without her the holiday seemed meaningless. Home was Belle and without Belle she had no home.

The weather seemed to match Lacey’s mood. It was bitterly cold out, oppressive clouds hanging low in the sky threatening snow. But somehow the break hadn’t come yet, despite the failing daylight as day turned to evening. It didn’t feel right to not have snow on Christmas. But Lacey supposed that worked this year. It wouldn’t feel like Christmas no matter what the weather. It was just another day.

She squared her shoulders, looking down at the lump of granite in front of her bearing her sister's name.

“Hey,” she said, kicking her foot against the frozen earth, the brown grass flattening beneath the toe of her boot with a satisfying crunch. “I, um, I know I haven’t been to see you in a while…”

She trailed off. She always felt stupid talking to a lump of stone like it was her sister. Her sister was gone and nothing would bring her back. Lacey just wished she was buried beneath the ground with her.

Their mother used to tell a story when they were young, about how after the girls were born they’d been taken to the NICU. They were so tiny and struggling to regulate their own body temperatures until the nurses had the idea to put them together in the same bed. They’d held each other tight, wrapping their tiny baby arms around each other until their vitals stabilized. It didn’t seem right for Belle to be alone now when they’d come into the world holding each other. Lacey would give anything to be able to hold her tight now, in death if nothing else.

“Hey,” she began again, clearing her throat and trying to find the words to say. “It’s Christmas.”

Lacey shrugged, a stupid giggle escaping her lips. “Like you care what day it is. But you always loved this time of year. Our whole lives you made Christmas magical. Even after mum died and dad stopped giving a damn, you kept it special. I don’t think I ever thanked you for that. I don’t know if I ever really even thought about it until now. I took so many things about you for granted because you were always just there. My big sister. And fuck, Bells, I really miss you.”

She stopped, heaving a breath. She was crying though she didn’t remember when the tears began to fall. They were cold, freezing to her cheeks, and she didn’t bother to brush them away.

“I won’t make it home for Christmas this year,” she forged on, shaking her head. “Because I don’t know what home is without you. But we’ll be together again one day. I have to believe that because if I don’t…”

She trailed off, suddenly aware that she was no longer alone in the cemetery. There was a crunch behind her, footsteps on the frosty ground, and Lacey shut her eyes. She knew who it was, who it always was.

She swiped her tears away with trembling hands, turning to face the only person in town who might be more grief stricken than herself.

Gold was standing there, a pot of poinsettias in the crook of his arm, his other hand clasping the gold cane he’d carried ever since the accident that had taken Belle from them.

“Lacey,” he said, striding forward to set the poinsettias next to Belle’s headstone. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No,” Lacey said with a shake of her head. “I’m done. I was just leaving.”

Gold pressed a kiss to his gloved hand before brushing it across Belle’s headstone, an intimate caress Lacey felt awkward witnessing. She turned away, staring off across the cemetery instead.

“She always loved this time of year,” Gold said, coming to stand beside Lacey.

“Yeah,” Lacey agreed.

“She had that poinsettia wreath she always hung on the door, remember?” he asked. “It seemed appropriate today.”

“Yeah,” Lacey said again, dumbly.

It was like this ever since Belle’s death. She and Gold had been close once. They’d been friends. He’d looked out for her as Belle’s sister, found her an apartment so she didn’t have to live with their father anymore, loaned her money any time she needed it. They’d gotten along too. They had similar dry senses of humor, they both loved to tease Belle, they had similar taste in alcohol. All that seemed to evaporate in the face of their shared pain. There was only loss left between them.

Lacey was all too aware that her presence did nothing but pain Gold. To see his wife’s face, her mirror image, before him had to be a pain like nothing else. Lacey knew. There was a reason she avoided mirrors lately. She and Belle were identical down to the last freckle.

In one fell swoop Lacey had lost both of her best friends. She didn’t have the foggiest idea how to get the one that still lived back.

“Well,” she said with a nod. “I’ll let you have your time with her.”

She started to shuffle away, her breath coming harder as the tears started to fall again when Gold’s voice stopped her.

“Lacey,” he called, and she froze, not daring to turn around. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

She turned, staring at him disbelievingly.

“Getting drunk,” she said flatly. “The quicker the better.”

“I had similar plans,” he said, inclining his head forward. “Care to join me?”

“I can’t,” she said, the words tumbling out before she’d even considered them. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I just…going to your house on Christmas of all days it’s too much. Too many memories.”

Gold let out a breath, walking closer to her. “I know,” he said. “I couldn’t decorate this year. It seemed wrong without her but that cold, empty house without any Christmas cheer seems wrong too. I just…I don’t know what to do.”

Lacey nodded. “I don’t know what to do either,” she said with a shrug.

One moment she was keeping it together and the next she was breaking, a ragged gasp escaping her chest, the sobs that had wanted to come all day breaking forth. She couldn’t breathe, her chest aching with the effort to draw breath, as inhuman keening noises were ripped from her throat. Lacey found herself pulled in to Gold’s embrace, the soft wool of his overcoat against her cheek as she buried her face against his neck. He smelled like wooden furniture polish and the jasmine scented candles Belle loved. He smelled like gingerbread and Balsam fir. He smelled like home.

She clung to him, her fingers digging into his back. His arm wrapped around her waist, the only thing keeping her upright. Moments our hours later she surfaced again, her throat soar and her eyes burning from the tears. She pulled back, looking up in to eyes that were just as red rimmed as hers must have been.

She coughed, taking a step back from Gold. She had no right to cling to him, to sob on his shoulder. He was hurting just as much as she was. He was alone just like her.

“I um,” he began dabbing at his face with his silk pocket square. “I have scotch in my shop. Would you like a drink? No point in us both being alone this year, right?”

Lacey bit her lip, looking up at his dark amber eyes, the failing light of the day catching gold highlights in his brown hair. She’d always thought he was handsome, but it was an academic sort of acknowledgement. He was Belle’s and she’d never thought of him as anything else.

“Yeah, okay,” she said with a nod.

#rumbelle fic #golden lace #25 days of ficlets #raven's fic #fic: phantom pain #ctdg

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ofneitherworld · 6 years

Text

i’ve got shadows in hiding way down inside me, sometimes they work to the surface. in just the right lighting, you can see them beside me.

The apartment is bare-bones, empty walls with wallpaper peeling due to the wear and tear of lives that came before him; in the living room, there is a couch that has seen better days, odd stains painting the grey fabric, seams tearing at the ends of cushions and turns of the armrests. The floor is hardwood, cold against the evening air slipping through the windows; he liked to let a little air in, as the room often got too hot without it. Never mind that the temperature outside was still dropping, and never mind the snow drifting from the sky outside; the space heater roars in a corner of the living room, spreading its warmth to a relatively small portion of the room, and the teen of only sixteen years sits curled up on the floor, back pressed up against the couch cushions, all at different angles and poorly placed together. A blanket is draped across his lap, binders open and spread out in front of him, business cards doodled and scrapped all around him in a tornado of paper and debris. He taps a pencil loudly against the floorboards, attention dancing between the schedules and ideas in front of him, the cockroach slowly climbing the wall across from him, and the cool breeze drifting from the window behind him. He thinks the bug will fall soon; he hears a door slam shut to his right, and his mind says it was only the wind. His heart, however, can feel the pressure against his throat, can feel his lungs struggling to take in enough air --- he’s here again, he thinks, dropping the pencil to the floor with a gentle thud.

In a soft pink shirt, buttoned up with a white blazer over it, he stands alongside his two best friends, both dressed much nicer than he is. Jacques, in a regular suit and tie, towering over his date for the evening, Ginger, in a sequined red dress with matching heels that stand much too tall for her comfort. BJ feels out of place, just as he always does, but he tries to hide this feeling with a small joke, a cheap jab at the two kids in front of him. They say that it is okay he doesn’t have a date --- he doesn’t tell them how his supposed date told him it was only a joke, that she’d only said yes because she didn’t think he would actually show up. He’d wiped any stray tears, then called Jacques, creating an elaborate lie; she came down with a cold, he said, and now he didn’t have a date. He could hear Ginger on the other end of the line --- you can come with us, she’d said, and here he now stood, between the ever-lovely couple as they waited for the courage to actually enter. It was their senior prom --- he’d dropped out a year before, but still kept in contact with his friends, with a handful of acquaintances that often loudly insulted him whenever he was in earshot. After about five minutes of waiting, he takes a step forward; better now than never, he says, before leading the trio into the building. Lights flash around, eyes dart towards the three of them as they enter; this would be the big story down the halls on Monday, and BJ was mostly thankful he wouldn’t have to hear any of it.

It makes his head spin the first time he does it, the world nearly collapsing in; he loves it, and lies across the couch, all crooked cushions and mysterious stains. The curtains rattle as the wind blows them around, the window left wide open. The cool air feels like an icicle lodged in his brain, a lobotomy of the soul, and then he feels that same familiar twitch against his throat, like rope digging into his skin --- like a noose tied around his neck, all tight and unforgiving. Cut it out, he mumbles into the night, staring up at the ceiling; there is a spider-web in the corner to his right, the threads weak against the force of the wind and space heater, waging a war in the middle of his living room. C’mon, he adds, I know what you’re doing. Leave me alone already. He knows it won’t work, knows the other occupant in his shifty little apartment would only strengthen his grip, would only force him to feel things he would rather forget. And so, he sits up, smokes a little more. He feels better like this, numb and euphoric against the dirt and the filth, the emptiness of the apartment he’s called home for a little over a year now. His friends were busy with their own lives tonight --- it was just him, the supply he got from his dealer, and this poltergeist he can’t seem to get rid of. He feels a rush of warm air rush past him, feels that same familiar sense of loneliness, of being forgotten --- of being invisible. He hates it, but can’t seem to shake it for the rest of the night. He eventually falls asleep on the couch, blanket tossed haphazardly across himself, windows wide open, space heater roaring across from him. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he won’t see it until the next morning. It is his mother, asking him if he can afford rent this month; he will tell her no, and he will use the money she gives him to support a growing addiction. He will do it all again soon, like clockwork. Like habit.

A cigarette dangles from his lips as he stands outside of the building, black tuxedo a stark contrast to the dirt on his shoes, the grime beneath his fingernails painted black. He rolls his eyes as families pass him by, and he takes another long drag from the cigarette as he steps to the side, watching the strangers enter the venue; it was graduation day, and he would get in trouble if he were caught loitering outside. He wouldn’t take too long --- he was only waiting for his friends to arrive, and soon enough, he sees the families walking towards him. One, an older Hispanic couple, the mother offering him a forced smile as her daughter sprints quickly up to him and wraps him in a hug. He abruptly drops his cigarette, being sure to stomp it out as she chirps loudly in his ear --- I’m so happy you actually showed up, she says, and before he can really process it, he hears another voice, French accent slipping into the silence easily. Mon cheri, he says, you look as stunning as ever. BJ smiles sheepishly as the taller of the three of them hugs them both, and he takes in a sharp breath as they step away. He was not graduating today --- he’d dropped out two years ago, but still snagged a ticket from Jacques as soon as they were available. There was no way he would miss his best friends’ graduation --- he wouldn’t hear the end of it if he did. He easily joins the crowd as they enter the building, and takes a seat next to Jacques’ father as they file into the rows. The adults mostly ignore him, but he doesn’t mind; he cheers all the same as his friends cross the stage, grinning with pride. If he couldn’t become something --- if he was destined for only a mediocre existence --- then he would want only the best for his friends. They were the only ones he’d ever had, after all, and he expected they would be the only ones he has for a very long time.

#suicide ment //#drug use //#you're invisible when you're me. || oneshots.

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martinmcg · 3 years

Text

PATHFINDERS

Chen was outside, blowing the dust from the mirrors of the solar collector. The sun was low and distant and gave no warmth. The ground was hard and barren. The job he was doing was tedious and pointless. The damned solar collector barely worked, a failed experiment that was already half-forgotten by the engineers at Earth Control.

Everything was made more complicated by Chen’s suit. The gloves were stiff and hard and Chen had already lost one fingernail to their predations. A little stream of sweat burbled between his shoulder blades, an itch he couldn’t scratch though he twisted and shrugged in an effort to get some relief from the growing discomfort. Chen would have been happier in one of the old Orlans he’d lumbered around in while training in Star City and on the ISS. He was going to write another memo about the Mars suit to the design committee. Maybe they’d listen this time.

When his suit radio buzzed to life and Commander Arsenyev told him to stop what he was doing and come to the living quarters, Chen’s first reaction was a sigh of relief… which distracted him from the peculiar tone of the commander’s request. By the time he registered that there was something wrong, Commander Arsenyev had cut the connection.

Chen thought about contacting Brad and asking him what was going on, but he decided against it. The commander had said he was calling the whole crew together. That had never happened before. The commander liked his schedules, and if he was breaking them it meant there was something urgent he felt they all needed to hear at the same time.

So Chen did his best to hurry back to the base, but nothing was easy or quick. By the time he’d secured the solar collector’s mirrors and struggled back over the broken ground to the airlock, stowed his gear, gone through the recompression cycle, climbed out of his suit and put it in place, set the life support pack aside for recharging and pulled on a pair of blue overalls, almost an hour had passed. He arrived to find the rest of the crew already bored from waiting and his apologies met with a chorus of friendly barracking. He caught Brad’s eye as he went to his seat and was rewarded with a broad smile and a wink.

The dining hall was the only large open space in the base. The long table at which they ate their communal evening meals had been opened out and the crew were settled around it. Despite their various poses of exaggerated relaxation, Chen recognised an unusual brittleness in their chatter and a tautness in some of their expressions.

Commander Arsenyev climbed into the room from the corridor that led to the communications centre. He was a tall man, his hair the colour of steel, his blue shirt and chinos neatly pressed. Fourteen months into their mission, the commander still took meticulous care of his appearance and remained cautious of the effect his easy charisma still inspired amongst most of the crew. Roman Arsenyev had been in space a handful of times before Chen had been born. He had held records for the longest spacewalk and the longest time in orbit, and he’d trained most of Russia’s working cosmonauts. And yet he had always seemed unaware of the awe he inspired in those around him.

Today, though, his expression was tightly controlled and his movements brisk. The crew recognised the stiff formality in their commander’s attitude and responded almost at once by settling to stillness, the chatter and laughter dying away.

Maheesh Sahni, the Indian communications specialist, followed Arsenyev into the room. He was nervously rubbing one hand on the side of his jeans and refused to meet the eyes of anyone at the table.

“I’m sorry to pull you all away from your work,” Arsenyev said. “But I wanted you all to hear this directly from me.”

The crew straightened up in their seats.

“Approximately six hours ago we stopped receiving signals from Earth Control. The orbiter crew is reporting the same break in communications. Neither base has been able to establish a cause but we’ve been able to rule out the most obvious problems at our end. We don’t have any reason, at the moment, to suppose this is anything other than a technical glitch that will be sorted out by Earth Control; I propose we stick with existing protocols and to continue the mission schedule as planned.”

The crew nodded automatically. They were all used to taking Arsenyev’s orders without comment.

“I want to make one exception,” the commander went on. “I want Chen and Yohan to devote some of their time to working with Maheesh on this problem. I’ll post a revised rota for domestic chores, I’m afraid the rest of you will have to pick up some of the slack.”

Brinkmann, the German geologist, groaned theatrically and the rest of the crew laughed, releasing the tension they all felt. Even the commander grinned, briefly.

Chen was sitting on the edge of the bed when Brad knocked lightly on the door and stepped inside. Chen shuffled up and Brad sat beside him, kissing him softly. Chen ran his fingers across Brad’s cheek and into his tightly-curled hair.

“You need a shave,” Chen said when they eventually pulled apart.

“That’s not all I need.”

Chen smiled and they kissed again.

They made love quietly, as was their habit. They didn’t suppose any of the rest of the crew would have cared much but they’d made the decision to keep their affair to themselves almost unconsciously. Privacy was a rare commodity on the base, so to have something that was theirs’ alone was precious and part of the pleasure. But, also, Brad was married with children and neither of them had ever pretended that the relationship had a life beyond the mission.

It was fun but it was best to be discreet.

Later, Chen lay with his back to Brad, enjoying the heat of the other man’s chest pressed against him in the narrow bunk and the security of being wrapped in his heavy arms. He marvelled, again, at the contrast between his own pale, narrow fingers and Brad’s teak-stained hands, which seemed massive by comparison.

“What do you think has happened?” Brad said.

Chen shrugged, knowing instantly what he was talking about. They’d spent two days and two nights trying to re-establish contact with Earth Control, so far to no effect. The longer the problem persisted the more it began to fill up the thoughts of the crew. Chen suspected that Maheesh had been right from the start, there was no problem at their end, but he was also coming to suspect that whatever had gone wrong was much more than a simple malfunction at Earth Control.

“I thought it might be someone’s idea of an exercise. Control is always throwing us curveballs to keep us on our toes, but they wouldn’t have stretched things this long without letting the Commander in on their games.”

“Do you think it…” Brad trailed off, unable to bring himself to say what he was thinking.

Chen’s mind had started conjuring up disaster scenarios almost from the moment they’d learned about the breakdown and they had been growing bigger and more intricate ever since. He assumed that was true for everyone.

Chen shuffled around in the bed, turning awkwardly to face Brad, and rested his palm against the bigger man’s chest.

“We don’t know anything,” he said. “The simplest explanation is that it’s a technical fault, and Occam’s Razor is usually the best rule to follow.”

Brad bowed his head and Chen leaned forwards and kissed him on the forehead.

Maheesh was sitting at the communications console. Chen wasn’t sure, in the four days since they’d lost contact with Earth Control, whether he’d seen the soft-faced engineer move from that desk for longer than it took him to walk the length of the living quarters to the lavatory and back. Yohan was outside working on the communications array and swearing softly at his colleagues through his suit radio. Most of the swearing was in French but every now and then Yohan got creative and threw some English and Russian into the mix. Chen was working on the code for the communications software.

An hour passed, Yohan completed his checks and came back into the base, his Tt-shirt sweat stained and his mood foul. The communications room was cramped and hot with the three of them in there, and it was doing nothing for their tempers. They ran some more tests.

“Nothing!” Maheesh sat back and slammed both hands down onto his desk, sending the accumulated detritus of their work marathon—coffee cups, paper, food packaging—swishing and clattering to the floor. “There is nothing wrong.”

“Maheesh?” Commander Arsenyev stood in the doorway. His expression was firm but something in the way he took half a step forward suggested concern. Chen noted that he’d taken to wearing the formal mission uniform. His blue overalls were spotlessly clean and neatly pressed.

Maheesh straightened up.

“Yes, commander?”

“I take it things are not going well?” The commander smiled gently.

Maheesh snorted. “We’ve replaced every component from here to the satellite dish. The satellite is responding, but beyond that is a black hole.”

“Are you ready to take down the filters?”

Maheesh looked at Chen.

“Yes, commander,” Chen said. “But I’m not sure it will make any difference.”

“Can it hurt to try?” Arsenyev flashed a smile.

“No, commander.”

“Okay then,.” Arsenyev leant against the door jamb. If he was tense, there was no sign of it. “Let’s do it.”

Maheesh spoke briefly to the crew on the orbiter base, letting them know comms was going offline, then nodded. Chen took his cue and, with couple of taps on the screen and a rattle on the keyboard, he shut down the base’s communications software, changed the system settings and flicked away a cloud of warning dialogue boxes. He hit the power button.

“Resetting the system,” he said.

They waited for a moment.

White text scrolled down the black screen as the system re-initialised. Chen watched carefully as the code slipped past. The screen blanked for a moment and then the operating system popped into life with a soft chime. The communications software interface came online. Chen checked it carefully then looked up at Commander Arsenyev.

“Filters have been removed. The buffer was empty, and has been disabled. It contained no incoming messages. We have direct access to the satellite.”

“Thank you, Chen,” Arsenyev smiled. “Maheesh?”

But Maheesh was already eagerly battering his keyboard with heavy fingers.

They waited, but it didn’t take long and Maheesh didn’t have to say anything. They could see his shoulders slump as his hope and enthusiasm quickly faded.

Commander Arsenyev didn’t wait for Maheesh to turn around.

“I think we need another crew meeting,” he said, turning to leave the communications room, and climb through the tunnel back towards the living quarters. “Get in touch with the orbiter and arrange a link up.”

“Commander?” Yohan spoke softly. Arsenyev stopped but didn’t turn around. “Commander, we need to discuss the protocols.”

It was Arsenyev’s turn to allow his shoulders to slump slightly. He raised a hand and rested it on the back of his neck.

“I know.”

The meeting had gone badly. The crew had split three ways over the crisis. The Americans—Brad, the red-headed engineer Killen, and Harding, the commander of the orbiter crew, all wanted to take action now. Brinkmann sided with the Americans. The Russians, led by the commander, with the base doctor Komolov and Manev on the orbiter argued that they had air, food, power and water for as long as they needed it and that it made sense to sit tight and keep to the mission profiles. Maheesh sided with them. Chen, Yohan and the Englishman, Bryant, also on the orbiter, found themselves caught in the middle.

The dread that had been gestating inside every member of the crew over the last four days began to push its way to the surface as the debate went on. After forty minutes of increasingly pointless bickering, it exploded into the room in bright bursts of rage and recrimination.

Chen had found himself the focus of the Americans’ anger when it became clear they weren’t going to get their way. Although he was officially on the mission as an Italian citizen he had been educated at MIT and had worked at NASA before joining the European astronaut programme. The Americans had assumed he would be on their side. Killen had said some nasty things.

Commander Arsenyev had been forced to end things by restating his ultimate authority and making it clear that, for now, the mission protocols remained in place. Nobody had been satisfied. The commander’s final words were firm but it was clear he was disappointed with the way things had gone. Harding, however, had been furious and had cut off the orbiter link with a snap.

Afterwards, Chen went to the gym.

He turned on the treadmill, starting slowly but steadily ramping up the pace until he was working hard, feeling sweat prickle his forehead. Soon he was in a rhythm and the regular beat of his feet on the rolling track began to soothe him.

He was just passing the six-kilometres mark when Brad slipped into the room, closing the door behind him. Chen signalled his friend to wait and changed the programme, finishing his run with a brief sprint before winding down to a gentle halt.

Chen grabbed a towel and took a long drink from his bottle. Brad had stayed by the door, leaning against it, his hands behind his back.

“What’s up?” Chen walked over and, rising up on his toes, kissed Brad lightly. Brad didn’t respond.

Chen stepped back.

“Brad?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Chen was startled by the coldness in Brad’s eyes and the harsh edge to his voice.

“I don’t—”

“I can’t believe you’d be so selfish.,” Brad cut him off.

Chen wiped the sweat from the back of his neck, draping the towel around his shoulders.

“Don’t. Brad, please.” Chen wanted to go, to get back to his room, lock the door and pretend this wasn’t happening. He tried to get around Brad but the bigger man grabbed him by the arms and shoved him back across the room, pressing him against the cool outer wall. Brad’s grip was powerful and Chen had to force down a yelp of pain.

“You can’t keep me here,” Brad said. “I have to get home.”

Chen refused to meet Brad’s gaze. He just stood there.

“I have a wife and daughters,” Brad’s voice was rising. “We don’t know what’s happened to them.”

Chen said nothing.

Brad released him with a shove.

“Damn you!”

“Brad…”

Brad raised his hand, clenched into a fist, but didn’t strike. There were tears in his eyes.

“Brad, you know I’m not trying to keep you here,” Chen said. “Even if I wanted to keep you away from your wife—and I don’t—I wouldn’t let that get in the way of making the right decision now. Our lives might depend on this.”

“I’m scared,” Brad said.

That caught Chen by surprise. Fear wasn’t something any astronaut liked to admit. You left fear behind in training, that’s what they said. Brad caught the change in Chen’s expression.

“Not for me,” he said. “My girls…”

“I know,” Chen said, and then regretted it. They both knew Chen didn’t know what it was like to have kids. “But we don’t have enough information to make any decisions yet. We don’t even know if there’s anything really wrong.”

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

Brad turned away. Chen raised a hand to rest on his shoulder, but stopped himself. His hand hovered over his lover like a benediction.

“Yes we can. We have to,” Chen said. “Anything else could be suicide.”

“Harding said—”

“I heard what he said, but what if he’s wrong? What if it is just a glitch and all Harding’s half-thought-through bravado achieves is to leave your girls without a father?”

Brad slumped onto the bench used for lifting weights. He sat, head down, his elbows resting on his knees, his palms together as though in prayer.

“Komolov said something to me earlier,” Chen said. “He said the difference between Americans and Russians is that when the Americans went west to find their wild frontier they found Iowa and California and they conquered it and tamed it. When Russians went East they found Siberia and it was never conquered and never tamed,; they could only ever come to a compromise with the land.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Brad looked up. The anger was draining from him and, perhaps despite himself, a smile flickered on his lips.

“Komolov was saying that Americans expect to conquer everything. Russians expect to live with it. The Russians will wait things out, wear things down and survive. Americans want to do everything now. They expect to keep moving forward.”

“And you?”

“Well, my Chinese grandma had an old saying—”

“Chen!”

“No, really, she always said: Qí lǘ zhǎo mǎ!”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I have no idea, I grew up in Florence.”

Brad laughed. Chen liked that sound. He sat beside Brad on the bench, resting a hand on the other man’s knee. Brad tensed for a moment, then relaxed and put his hand over Chen’s.

“The translation is something like: when you go looking for a new horse, ride the mule you already own.”

Brad stared blankly at him.

“It means that even when you’re looking for something better, you shouldn’t neglect what you’ve already got,.” Chen nudged him back. “We’re safe here. We have time. We’ll work out what’s happening. But we can’t do just something stupid because we’re scared. We mustn’t panic. We’re no use to anyone—neither your daughters nor to my father—if we’re dead.”

Brad bowed his head again and clenched and unclenched his fists then he leant over and kissed Chen on the cheek, but there was sadness in his eyes.

“You might be right,” he said. “But I don’t think it will matter.”

The crew argued amongst themselves for another week. The European team wavered back and forth, unable to agree a joint position and caught between two blocs who seemed unshakeable in their determination to follow different paths.

In the end it was the orbiter crew who broke the deadlock and shattered the mission protocols.

It was just after midday on the tenth day of radio silence when Chen, not long after finishing a nightshift in the comms room, was woken by shouting in the corridor outside his room. He staggered drowsily to his door and looked out to see Komolov, the Russian doctor, red-faced and screaming insults in a crude mix of Russian and English. It took another few moments for Chen to recognise the object of the doctor’s tirade.

It was Harding, the American commander of the orbiter base. Behind him trailed a sheepish looking Bryant and, further back, Manev stood with his head bowed as though in shame.

Chen could smell something familiar but it took a moment to place it. It was soft, damp earth. They hadn’t smelt that since the mission had started nearly four hundred days ago. Then he noticed the breeze. The airlock doors were open.

Komolov was still shouting, but there were less swear words now and he was being more coherent—though he was still switching freely between English and Russian. Chen caught the words contamination and breach.

Brad and Killen came out of their rooms. They were both dressed in uniform. Chen tried to catch Brad’s eye but he looked away, embarrassed or ashamed.

He knew, Chen thought. He knew and he didn’t tell me.

Chen was surprised by the intense and intimate sense of betrayal that swept through his body.

Harding nodded towards his countrymen but ignored Komolov as he made his way towards Commander Arsenyev’s room. His expression revealed no emotion but there was something triumphant in his movements and the way he threw back his shoulders.

Komolov stepped in front of the American and tried to shove him back up the corridor, towards the airlock.

Harding, bull-chested, thick-shouldered and blunt-headed, didn’t even take a step back. The look on his face remained blankly calm but he brought his fist up fast and hard into Komolov’s midriff. The Russian gasped and doubled over. Harding walked past him.

Commander Arsenyev’s door swung open.

The old man stood there. He was in uniform. His mouth was a thin line of contempt, his blue eyes glacial. He took in the doubled up Komolov and the swaggering Harding.

“Idiot!”

“I think we need to reconsider the mission protocols,” Harding said. His tone was flat but there was a noticeable pause before he added: “Sir.”

Chen closed the airlock door. Killen snorted something about that horse having bolted, but it made Chen feel better. Even so, he knew there was no going back to their cosy old routines now. They gathered in the dining hall. The Russians hugged one wall, the Americans the other. The Europeans sat at the table. No one spoke.

Eventually Arsenyev and Harding came in. Harding looked pleased with himself.

They both sat at the head of table.

“We have decided—” Harding started.

Commander Arsenyev lowered a hand onto the table, palm down. It was a slow movement but it drew the attention of the rest of the crew. Harding, noticing that he’d lost his audience, stopped and turned to the commander. Then he nodded and sat back.

Commander Arsenyev smoothed the front of his uniform, pausing for a moment over the roundel of his mission badge—a red Mars encircled by eagle wings. The word Pathfinders picked out in gold letters with translations in Russian, German, French, Italian, and Urdu running around the circumference. The commander looked up, taking in each member of the crew. Chen noticed that many of them could not meet his gaze, only Killen looked him squarely in the eye.

Harding shifted impatiently as the silence lengthened. At last the commander spoke.

“The ongoing communications situation and the…” the hesitation was brief but pointed, “… action by the orbiter crew requires us to reconsider our situation. It seems clear that the mission protocols are no longer relevant and there is nothing in the emergency mission procedures that covers our current situation. I have agreed to Commander Harding’s request to bring you together so we can discuss our next step.”

Harding tapped on the tablet in front of him and an image blinked to life on the wall. There was a map. Ross Island, McMurdo Sound and the dry valleys. A red line tracked a route from the Mars Base, in Beacon Valley, an isolated outcropping of rock to the east, down the Ferrar Glacier across the New Zealand territory via Lake Fryxell and down to the coast via Camp Chocolate, the Bratina Island Refuge and then over the ice shelf to McMurdo. Having reached its destination the red line reset and started all over again. It looked so simple.

“I propose that we make for the base at McMurdo and—”

“How far is that?” Komolov asked.

Harding’s irritation at the interruption was obvious. He looked over his shoulder to the map.

“On foot, if we don’t get too sidetracked on the glacier, about one hundred and eighty miles.”

Brinkmann whistled.

Komolov sat back and folded his arms.

“With winter closing in?”

“You’d rather wait six months for the possibility of nicer weather?”

“How long do you think it will take?” Yohan asked.

“I believe we can make at least ten miles a day,” Harding said. “We managed the four-mile crossing from the orbiter base in five hours.”

Chen shook his head.

“We can build sleds, our suits are insulated, we have emergency survival gear.”

“And what happens when you get there?” Yohan asked.

“We get in touch with home. We find out what is going on.”

“There’s no one there,” Maheesh said.

Attentions shifted. Maheesh kept his gaze on the table, refusing to look up.

“You can’t know that,” Harding said.

“There’s no one there,” Maheesh repeated. He put his own tablet on the table and started an audio recording that played over the room’s speakers. “This is from McMurdo, five days ago.”

There was a muffled sound. It might have been the wind or it might have been someone sobbing. Then there was a crack that could have been a gunshot or a door slamming and then there was silence.

“The radio channel is still open, there’s power, but no one is broadcasting.”

Suddenly everyone was shouting.

Chen looked to Commander Arsenyev. He did not look surprised.

“Where did you get that?” Chen asked.

Maheesh cocked his head, unable to hear over the noise.

“Where did you get that?” Chen shouted. The others turned their attention back to the table. Everyone looked at Maheesh.

“I instructed him to use the emergency short wave radio,” Commander Arsenyev’s spoke softly but everyone heard him.

“Radio?” Harding voiced was suddenly high pitched. “Why didn’t you tell us there was a radio?”

“There wasn’t any point,” Maheesh said. “I tried to contact the other bases—”

“We should have been told!” Killen was leaning over Maheesh, practically screaming into his face.

“He was acting on my request,.” Commander Arsenyev stood up and raised his voice just a notch. It was enough to restore a semblance of order. “The radio was provided for use in an emergency. When we shut down the buffers on the communications array and still could not contact mission control, I gave Maheesh permission to use the radio to try and contact the local bases. I asked him to keep the recording secret because I didn’t want to damage morale.”

“Damage morale?” Harding stood up. “So what was your plan? Were you going to lie to us forever? Or did you only care about keeping your little empire in one piece?”

“I was going to tell you when we understood what it meant,” Arsenyev said. He sat down again,and began to gently massage his temples. There was something very like resignation in his voice. “Something bad has happened and it has happened quickly over a very wide area. The radio is picking up nothing except some official automated alerts and the occasional number station, which I’m also assuming are automated. There was nothing to report and little to be gained from further feeding all the useless speculation that has been going on.”

Harding walked to the door of the living quarters.

“You should have told us,” he said, and left.

Killen, Brinkmann, Bryant and Yohan followed.

Brad paused to look at Chen.

Chen shook his head. Where was there to go?

Brad left.

Three days later, the three Americans and three Europeans left Mars Base to make for McMurdo. They’d decided amongst themselves that the radio communication changed nothing. They needed to know what was happening. There were some angry exchanges about the division of equipment and food but Chen kept to his room. Brad did not visit him.

Yohan and Bryant visited him once and tried to convince him to come with them. Chen wished them luck, but said no.

On the final morning, Chen helped with some minor changes to the communications software. As the time for their departure approached resentments cooled and some of the group’s old camaraderie re-emerged. The Russians and Europeans exchanged hugs, and Harding shook hands with Arsenyev and said he was sorry about how things worked out.

Brad and Killen stood apart from the rest and did not speak to anyone.

The commander wished them all good luck, and then the Russians went inside and Maheesh followed.

Chen watched them walk across the rocky, broken floor of the dry valley towards the distant white line that was the glacier. It was early and the sun had yet to rise above the wall of their valley but the ice was already bathed in morning light.

Their progress was slow. They would dip down out of sight and then rise again on the undulating landscape, each time slightly further away, slightly smaller. And then they were gone again.

Chen watched, but Brad never turned to look back.

They stayed in contact for almost a week using the base’s communication system before they were out of range and the signal faded. When they reached Lake Fryxell they got in contact again using the research base radio. The camp was deserted, but that was normal with winter edging in. There was still no response from McMurdo.

They got in touch again when they reached Cape Chocolate.

The weather was worsening and they spent three days in the small refuge; it was cramped but they were in good spirits. They were making better time than expected and though the huts, which weren’t in regular use, were battered, they were intact and offered good protection.

On the fourth morning the weather cleared and Chen listened over Maheesh’s shoulder as they got ready to make for the Bratina Island Refuge.

Chen heard Brad laughing in the background. It made him smile.

They never heard from them again.

“We’re almost finished,” Chen said as he came in to the living quarters. “Komolov asked if you’d like to say a few words?”

Commander Arsenyev didn’t look up but he nodded. He’d been sitting with the lights off, his face lit from below by the tablet screen he was pretending to read.

They were silent for a while. Chen drank a glass of water and tossed a meal pack into the oven—he didn’t even bother to check what was inside. He watched it slowly turning and then, when the oven pinged, he ate it from the packaging, standing up, leaning against the work surfaces. The food was salty and sour, the chicken rubbery and the vegetables overcooked.

Eventually the food was gone. Chen waited a little longer then turned to go.

“Do you miss Flight Engineer Washington?” Arsenyev said.

Washington? Chen had to stop to think who the old man meant.

“I miss them all,” Chen said. “I miss Brad.”

“You were close.” Arsenyev looked up. The light from the tablet screen highlighted every crease and wrinkle on his face. The Commander looked tired, he had become very old in the six weeks since they’d last heard from the rest of the crew.

Chen nodded.

“I miss them all too,” Arsenyev said. “Do you suppose there are others, like us, waiting?”

Chen came back and sat next to the Commander.

“There must be.”

“You are an optimist,” Commander Arsenyev smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

“Maheesh thought he’d picked up faint signals,” Chen said. “People babbling in languages he couldn’t understand.”

“Maheesh was working too hard,” Arsenyev said.

“Did he say why he did it?” Chen nodded to Arsenyev’s screen. Maheesh had left a message for the commander’s eyes only before he’d opened his wrists.

“No,” Arsenyev said. “He just wanted to say goodbye.”

A deeper loss revealed itself on the commander’s face. Chen felt a sudden shock of recognition.

“You and Maheesh?”

“If I had not been commander…” Arsenyev smiled but shook his head. “But I have always been too ambitious…”

“Ambitious?” Chen couldn’t imagine what the commander still hoped to achieve.

“They promised me Mars. It would be a one-way ticket, just me and some equally useless old American, sacrificed to beat the Chinese. But Mars!”

It seemed as if a new light had been ignited behind the commander’s eyes. For a moment the old man was gone and the cosmonaut re-emerged.

“But what about the base? Our mission?”

“This? This was always impossible! This is all far too grand and too expensive for these mean times. This was a show, a distraction. But I don’t suppose it matters. None of us shall touch that rusty soil now.”

The old man coughed. He was suddenly frail again.

“All my life, I dreamed of space,” the commander said.

The Russians settled in to wait, a routine took shape and weeks passed. They monitored the radio in shifts, they ate meals together and watched films—though most of the Russian films left Chen bewildered, even with Manev’s running commentaries. They even kept some of the science projects going, though the solar collector was quietly abandoned without discussion or protest.

Then one morning the commander did not wake up.

Chen helped Manev carry the body outside. The old man seemed weightless and Chen had thought of the buzzard he’d once found injured and stunned beneath an electricity pylon in his father’s fields. Chen had marvelled at how something so huge and fierce could be so insubstantial. His father had scolded him for bringing the wounded bird to the house, blaming it for killing his lambs, and broke the raptor’s neck.

They laid Arsenyev next to Maheesh. The ground was too hard to dig a grave, so they covered the bodies with a cairn of stones. No one spoke.

When they went inside Komolov pulled out a bottle vodka. He said it was medicinal. Chen sipped from his glass while watching the Russians get drunk, sing old songs and then slump into sleep.

The door of the airlock rolled open. The wind, cold as a blade, sliced through Chen and he began to shiver at once. It was dark outside. The days were shortening fast and, though it was still early in the afternoon, the sun had long dipped below the valley walls.

He stepped out onto the valley floor.

The sky was bright and clear.

Chen tried to ignore the cold but it was already biting hard at his nose and fingers, the wind ripped at his flimsy blue overalls. His feet numbed, the frozen ground sucking the heat from his body. It took a conscious effort to control his breathing, the air was so sharp that he gasped with each breath and wondered if his lungs might freeze and shatter. The shivering shook his whole body. Chen wrapped his arms around his ribs.

He looked up and took a moment to identify some of the unfamiliar southern constellations. There was Centaurus and Reticulum and the Southern Cross. The syrupy band of the Milky Way was a reassuringly familiar blanket. He would have liked to look at the Moon once more, but it had not yet risen. He couldn’t see Mars.

He thought of Brad, out there. Would the ice preserve his body? There was a kind of immortality in that, and yet it seemed impossible to Chen that the last heat might have been sucked from that broad chest. It was ridiculous that those powerful arms might be forever still.

Chen wondered how quickly his tears would freeze. How soon would grief blind him?

He turned away from the stars and walked into the night. He found that being alone was not so frightening. He felt as though he was emerging from a deep cave that had kept him safe and warm but that had also kept him in the dark and had prevented him from seeing the world as it really was. Everything that had gone before had been fake, shadows flickering on a wall.

He stumbled over a rock, but kept walking.

How far could he go?

Chen looked up at the stars one last time and smiled.

“Pathfinders” was first published in Rocket Science: Science Fiction and Fact, published by Mutation Press, edited by Ian Sales

PATHFINDERS was originally published on Welcome To My World

#science fiction #Short story

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