#to be fully honest this is a regent i started a bit ago and only finished today

[bug4932]

i heard we were letting alec out of the saw trap today for @tranz-regent

[maevefiction]

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 53: Epilogue

Sunday June 29th, 2036 - Talk Story Bookstore, Kauai, Hawaii.

Stepping inside Talk Story after two decades had passed was surreal. It remained essentially the same, right down to the red painted walls. I, too, remained essentially the same, if you ignored the wrinkles that had begun to etch themselves into the flesh of my fifty-eight-year-old face…laugh lines, frown lines, and a downright furrow between my eyebrows from a lifetime of what-the-fuckery. The grey hair that had first appeared when I found myself wrangling three children all under the age of five was now expertly masked with copious amounts of dye applied by the talented folks at Zig-Zag Hair & Body. I still did yoga on a regular basis, more now that the kids were…well, grown, I guess. For the most part. Which was really a mind-blower, as is everything else associated with the passage of time in regard the human condition. Aging, kids, is not for the weak. No one tells you that if you sleep too long, your body parts will hurt. Your tits will sag, you’ll pee your pants when you cough, sneeze, or laugh too hard, your hands will ache if you, you know, use them to do stuff…like hold books. Your knees will creak to the point where you aren’t sure if it’s you making sounds or the stairs you’re descending. After you’ve finished a round of particularly vigorous doggy-style, you’ll find yourself uncertain as to which will be more detrimental…remaining in place or attempting to get off the bed. It’s an unimaginable brutality, standing powerless against the effects of time on your physical being while the inner you, the corporeal you, does not follow suit. This Maude was the same Maude who had married the love of her life in this very place, right down to her limitless desire for Lindor truffles and continued disgust at the idea of pineapples on pizza. I can, however, confirm that time does aid in the healing process, which is how we ended up back on Kauai. Each year that passed put more distance between us and the horror we’d endured, and little by little we were able to work through it, first by being able to actually view our wedding photos and videos, then feel small bits of joy while doing so, until finally, sixteen years out, the fear and anxiety was almost fully overridden by that joy. And here we were, on the day of our 20th wedding anniversary, right where it had all begun.

Some unpleasant memories, though faded and dim, still lingered, and as a result neither Tom nor I could bring ourselves to return to the Coconut Beach Marriott. The kids were all aware of the circumstances surrounding our wedding and the days that followed, as we’d vowed to be open and honest about it if the subject ever came up, because we preferred that they learned the truth from us rather than believing what they might have seen on the internet. Two years ago the need for the ‘the talk’ had arisen, and Henry’s reaction had utterly floored me…he’d leapt up off the couch, pulled me into his arms and whispered that he’d hoped his presence had brought me some comfort and that he wished he’d been able to do more. He’d turned nineteen in February, my firstborn, and even though as a parent you’re not supposed to, like, have a favorite…he was, in fact, my favorite, at least in the sense that there was a depth and level of understanding between us that was akin to psychic connection. Perhaps it was due to our shared trauma, or perhaps it was the trauma that caused me to relate to him differently…though in the end, it didn’t matter because I’d never expressed such a sentiment out loud, nor would I. Besides, I’d always known that he already knew anyway.

 Henry…also known as Our Son the Writer, as well as Indy Gallagher, his chosen pen name. He’d taught himself to read at age four, having grown frustrated with Tom and I not being able to drop whatever we were in the middle of, which was usually dealing with one of his siblings, in order to do it on his behalf. From that point forward, books and the stories they contained were his passion…he was never without reading material, absorbing any and all information he encountered and losing himself completely in imagined realities, always longing for more. It was that longing which set him upon the path to becoming an author when he was thirteen, having found himself unwilling and unable to accept that George R. R. Martin’s ‘A Song of Fire and Ice’ series had gone unfinished and deciding he’d tackle the task on his own. A year and many kudos on AO3 later he’d started to build his own fictional universe, and when he self-published the first book of the series, ‘Times Prior’, in August of 2034 it sold a half-a-million copies inside of sixty days without any marketing whatsoever. The main characters were inter-dimensional entities left stranded on Earth, their memories thought to have been wiped clean, and the story followed their journey as they sought to combine the snippets of their past that remained into a single coherent whole that revealed their history while attempting to covertly integrate with humanity. Book two, ‘Presented Puzzles’ had been released in early December of last year, hitting the million mark within two weeks. Though I already had first edition tucked away at home, I hoped to find one here to purchase so I could secure the receipt to the flyleaf with a notation that this copy had been purchased from the location where Indy Gallagher’s own story had begun.

 When I felt Tom’s hand on my back as he stopped to stand on my left, I turned my head his way, peering upward. Though he had his share of wrinkles and his hair, which he’d taken to wearing long enough to brush his chin, had gone completely grey at the temples with salt and pepper throughout the rest, the fucker did NOT look fifty-five. Not to me, anyway…when you’re young and you imagine being fifty-five it seems so damn old, but when it’s staring you in the face, or especially once you’ve passed it by yourself, not so much. There were still bricks in his stomach, his ass remained quarter-bounce ready, and, now that the Hiddlespawn had matured, I took advantage of the Silver Fox Hotness Level One Billion as often as humanly possible. As you do. He grinned at me, then leaned in to nuzzle my cheek with his own.

 “Well, here we are, my love, at long last. How the ever-loving fuck has it been twenty years? Speaking of…perhaps I can interest you in a waltz down memory lane via a certain out-of-the way restroom?”

 My jaw dropped open. “Oh my god, how dare you? Since when am I the kind of woman who has sex in public places?”

 He laughed, tongue poking out between his teeth. “To the best of my recollection, since…forever.”

 I crossed my arms, eyes rolling skyward. “Your recollection has clearly become unreliable, old man.”

 “Mmm hmm. Meet me there in twenty?”

 "Absofuckingloutely." I uncrossed my arms with the intention of pinching his nipple through the fabric of his white V-neck T-shirt, but was interrupted by the arrival of our entourage as they filed through the door and filtered into the space around us.

 Simon settled in to my right, with Luke at his side, as per usual. Simon’s approach to aging was best described as rage, rage against the dying of the light…his hair remained blonde, though these days, much like Tom, he’d been wearing it longer, so much so that he occasionally sported a ponytail. Just a ponytail, never, ever a man bun. Never. I was, and I quote, to ‘dispatch him quickly and without prejudice’ if I ever witnessed him committing such an unforgivable offense. Fillers and chemical peels were a regular occurrence, as were weekly spa visits and a thorough daily skin cleansing and hydrating regimen. He made use of our gym more than Tom or I did and had taken up running more than a decade ago, which he’d deemed necessary in order to have enough physical stamina to open his own restaurant. It was a joint venture with his son Roland, aptly named Ka-Tet…with permission from Uncle Steve, of course, who was still cranking out wordy goodness at eighty-nine. It was located close to home, near Regent’s Park in the space formerly occupied by Odette’s, with a décor that was best described as dystopian spaghetti western. There was no set menu…Simon decided he’d be preparing whatever the fuck he felt like making on any given day, take it or leave it…and they were only open Friday and Saturday nights, which created an air of exclusivity that resulted in the place being booked almost a year in advance. It was perfect work-life balance for him, and whenever anyone mentioned how youthful he appeared he’d nod and reply that all credit belonged to his favorite preservation method…daily alcohol infusions.

 Luke remained at the helm of Prosper, though he’d pulled back significantly since Ka-Tet had opened and essentially served only in an advisory capacity. He’d begun to lose his hair just prior to turning forty, and he’d opted to just shave it all off and embrace baldness as opposed to undergoing transplants or wearing a toupee. It suited him, honestly, and his penchant for quirky glasses and three-day stubble seemed to transform him into the way he was always meant to look. Scholarly, like a college professor. Which he and Simon had role-played, as I’d been forced to discover even though my hands were covering my ears, because Simon wouldn’t take no for an answer and spoke louder instead when I requested that he keep that shit to himself. I watched as he reached for Simon’s hand without even a glance downward, their fingers twining together in a gesture so often repeated it was automatic, built into the fabric of their muscle memory. They turned to smile at each other, then shifted their gazes in unison to focus on their daughters as they passed by to their right.

 Seph’s light brown hair was wound up in a bun that rested at the base of her neck, dressed in a light blue linen tank dress that matched the frames of her glasses. She resembled Luke a great deal, other than her lips and nose, the former much fuller, the latter more rounded at the tip. Her frame was lithe, almost lanky, and she stood an inch or two taller than me sans heels. In the fall she’d be returning to Cambridge for her second year in pursuit of her BA Tripos Degree in Law, after which she intended to obtain a Masters in Law, then finally a Doctorate in Law. Ez, who was essentially a carbon copy of Simon as far as physicality was concerned, was currently a student at the New York School of Design and would be heading back to the city after our vacation. She’d just finished the Fashion Design certificate program and was scheduled to intern at Manhattan Fashion in the Garment District from July 15th through September 1st, at which point she’d return to NYSD to complete their Couture and Menswear programs back to back.  She’d designed the dress Seph was wearing, as well as her own, a white cotton sleeveless wrap-around that hugged her curves and accentuated her impossibly tiny waist. Which I supposed was made possible, along with exceptional genetics, by running six days a week, an activity she’d often participated in with the other masochists in my life…Simon, Tom and Henry. Now that she was based in New York it was solely Henry, their ability to pair up simplified by the fact that both of them resided in the same building, Henry in my old apartment, Ez in hers two floors below. He was standing next to her, dwarfing her five-foot-six frame with his own, his height topping out at six-foot-one, just an inch shy of Tom’s. His hair, worn shoulder-length, was black like my mother’s but curly like mine, eyes identical to Tom’s in shape and color. He had Tom’s nose as well, but my lips and jaw. Like his father, he was lean but muscular, blessed with a gracefulness that I had never possessed. He’d relocated to New York the previous summer to focus on writing, opting to forgo college in the wake of the success of his debut novel. I agreed that college would be a waste, being a firm believer in the fact that one could either write, or couldn’t, but I’d called bullshit on the ‘going away to focus’ aspect, at least privately when Tom and I discussed it. He and Ez had always been very good friends, nearly inseparable, and I felt it in my bones that the real reason he’d decided to leave London was so they could remain in close proximity to one another. Her desire to live in the same building had been presented as great way for both of them to adjust to new surroundings without feeling isolated, which was true, but again, my bones had whispered that there was something bubbling beneath the surface. There had been no confirmation as yet, and I’d stopped mentioning it when Tom, the most hopeless romantic amongst all hopeless romantics, told me I was turning into an even more hopeless romantic than he’d ever been. But it hadn’t stopped me from, you know, looking for signs.

A flash of flaming red glimpsed out of the corner of my eye caused me to turn and look to my left, basking in the breathtaking sight of the whirling dervish that was our daughter, Mona Diane Hiddleston, born at sunset on Wednesday, June 17th, 2018. Her hair was the color of my father’s and Tom’s paternal grandmother’s, wavy like Tom’s, worn long and loose and hanging halfway down her back. Her eyes were brown like mine, and shaped like them as well, but the rest of her face was all Tom. She was five-foot-nine, and often described as a force of nature, at which point I’d smile and say that I had not the slightest idea who she’d gotten that sort of personality from. She’d be relocating to New York in mid-August to begin her dual-enrollment program at Julliard, studying both Instruments and Composition with the goal of a Doctorate in Musical Arts and a career as a conductor in mind. Unlike me, she could read and write music, and play any instrument she was handed with little to no training. Her singing voice was exceptional, her range higher than mine though not quite as broad, but she’d never expressed any interest in developing it other than participating in the school chorus because she needed an elective to flesh out her schedule. Mona had been our ‘difficult’ child…as a baby she’d been fussy, easily irritated with a sleep schedule that was measured in fifteen-minute increments, and as a toddler we’d dealt with outbursts and tantrums over what we considered to be thoroughly minor issues, such as the lights being too bright, her clothes being too tight, or the seams of her socks being ‘wrong’. Throughout it all, the only consistent way to soothe her had been with music, be it listening to it or creating her own using our piano, pots and pans, or anything else that provided rhythmic sounds. Shortly after she turned five, she was diagnosed with sensory processing disorder, which we learned later on went hand-in-hand with her being highly gifted. All three kids were, which wasn’t exactly a surprise given Tom’s and my placement on the IQ scale, but giftedness manifests differently in each individual with a variety of traits, some more challenging to cope with than others. Once we’d established a methodology for managing her SPD, she was like a different human being…strong, steadfast, boisterous, fully confident in her sense of self and intent on extracting each and every thing she expected from this world without apology. And my god, I was so very, very fucking proud to be her mother. And honored. She’d noticed I was staring at her and had just opened her mouth to ask me why when our youngest bounded out from behind her, paused briefly at her left, then pivoted to park himself directly in front of her.  

 Sean James Hiddleston, born Friday, October 23rd, 2020 five minutes before midnight, named as such due to the fact that the blue hue of the eyes that peered up at me when he opened them for the first time was identical to my father’s. He’d been a complete surprise, so much so that I hadn’t even realized I was pregnant until I was three months in…at 42, I’d figured missed periods meant I was embarking on the journey into menopause, and when Tom suggested that perhaps I should take a pregnancy test I’d laughed and laughed. Henry had just turned three and Mona wasn’t quite two, and when I saw the giant plus sign in the test window the laughter faded damn fucking quick when I realized Tom and I would shortly be outnumbered by a trio of ankle biters all under the age of four. After the initial shock dissipated, we were overjoyed, in awe of how the universe continued to be so generous to us, providing yet another miracle. By the time I’d begun to show Henry was cognizant enough to ask questions, and when I informed him he’d soon have a new brother or sister his face had paled and he’d whispered ‘Mamma, will it be like Mona?’, causing Tom to run out of the room, unable to keep his shit together, while I comforted Henry by explaining that every baby is different, the entire time asking myself the same question he had internally. As it happened any worries about his temperament were for naught, because Sean had been a jovial soul right from the get go. He was the child, however, that we had to keep the closest eye on because if left to his own devices even for a second he’d be into something he shouldn’t have been, and when confronted he’d just grin and simply say ‘But I’m learning things.’ Even still, at fifteen-going-on-thirty, he uttered that same phrase at least once a day. Sometimes more. Like when I’d caught him trying to remotely hack into my brand new Alienware laptop two weeks prior…you know, just to see if he could. And, of course, he could. Of all three children he resembled Tom the most, blond wavy hair, same blue eyes, nose and jaw…the only bit of me in his face were his lips. He’d begun his adolescent growth spurt just after Christmas and had shot up from five-nine to six-two in what seemed like no time whatsoever, and if I did a side-by-side of him and Tom from his Eton days it wasn’t easy to tell who was who. Despite their physical similarities, Sean had been cursed with my lack of grace and had already broken almost every toe and sprained various extremities on the regular. He had been blessed, however, with my engineering and mathematical skills, and his abilities made an accelerated program via online courses the best option for him after he’d finished year six. Once he turned sixteen he’d be permitted entry into Cambridge’s School of Technology, where he planned to focus on Computer Science, but the next round of required classes wouldn’t be available until fall of 2037. Starting in September of this year he’d be officially interning at CodeHex, working both with me and other high-level employees across our departments. I say ‘officially’ because he’d been interning in an unofficial capacity for nearly four years, popping in every weekday as soon as he’d finished his online courses back at our flat. When he was a preschooler he’d spent a good bit of time there as well, at my side or on my lap, as I worked to establish the CodeHex company and brand during my ‘free’ hours while Henry and Mona were at school. On the first day of his own year one he’d frowned as Tom and I hugged and kissed him goodbye outside the school’s entrance, stating that while he was very excited to make all sorts of new friends and learn new things, he’d very much miss his old job and old friends. Then he’d spotted a girl with a Captain Marvel backpack and promptly ditched us in order to run over and introduce himself, turning back to wave and smile at us before returning his attention to her and walking into the building while Tom and I stood on the sidewalk crying our eyes out like a couple of schumucks.

 He’d moved closer to me, though still blocking his sister, arms raised and hands extended, palms toward Tom and I as he spoke.

 “This is it, then, is it Mum? Where you and Dad met? All those years ago? Right here? In this bookshop?”

 I nodded. “Yeppir. Also where we got engaged, and where we got married.”

 Tom elbowed me, and Simon twisted his torso sideways to gawk at me, his head cocked to the right.

 “Woman, have you finally lost your mind? You were married at the Marriot. I was there, looking resplendent in my purple tux while you puked in the bushes, remember?”

 Opting to attempt to make a royal fuck-up appear as if it were a conscious choice, I turned my head towards him, index finger of my right hand raised and pointing toward his chest. “Well, you’re not totally wrong…we were married at the Marriot, but that was actually our second ceremony. The first one happened here, right after midnight so it was officially on the twenty-ninth.”

 Simon gasped, placing his right hand over his heart, finders splayed wide. “Are you telling me right now, twenty fucking years later, that the two of you snuck off and got married without your best friends and spent the entire next day pretending your entirely invalid not at all legally binding apparently just for show wedding ceremony was one-hundred-percent genuine?”

 I bit my lip and glanced skyward briefly, then back at Simon. “Yes. Yes I am.”

 He reached out and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Maude Hiddleston, I have never been prouder of you than I am at this moment, you sneaky little MINX. How did you keep it a secret this whole time?”

 I shrugged. “Only four people on the planet knew…me, Tom, the judge and Roger Marshal.” While researching our trip we’d learned that Roger had passed away in 2033, but his daughter Denise had taken over the business. Tom and I planned on seeking her out during our visit, but hadn’t provided any advance notice as we felt that expressing our condolences in person would be most appropriate since Talk Story, and her father, had played such an important role in our lives. I poked Simon’s left pec with my right index finger. “Shouldn’t you be all ragey because you weren’t there or something?”

 He released my shoulders and crossed his arms in front of him, rested his right elbow in his left hand as he tapped his lips with his left index finger, then pointed it at me. “You know what? I fucking should be. But I’m not. Because I’m sure it was all mushy-mushy gushy-gushy and there was probably sniffling and crying and Shakespearean sonnet level verbal exchanges and therefore I’m dropping it in the ‘glad to have missed it’ bucket.” He mock-gagged, and as I swatted at him he pulled back and away, flipping me double birds.

 Mona stepped out from behind Sean, her head tilted to the left. “Well that diminishes both the impact and validity of all those lectures on the critical importance of honesty a bit, doesn’t it?”

 Tom roared with laughter, and I smirked. “I look forward to opening the box that contains my ‘HYPOCRITE’ T-shirt this coming Christmas morning. Men’s 2 XL, please. Black with white lettering. Maybe a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ on the back written in a script font?”

 Henry raised his hand as he joined in. “Oh! Oh! There must be some photographic evidence of the clandestine ceremony hidden away somewhere, I’d imagine? That absolutely needs to be on the T-shirt’s front-side. And Dad’s complicit, so we’ll have to have one made for him as well.”

 Sean grinned. “If such evidence exists, you can count on me to track it down.”

 I glanced over at Tom, who was still chuckling. “This whole kid thing…your idea, wasn’t it? I can’t fathom having done this to myself without being coerced by an insanely hot dude via repeated seductions until I…”

 All three of them screeched in unison. “MUM!”

 Tom pointed at them in turn. “The lesson here, progeny of mine, in case you needed a refresher course…your mother is a master of diversionary tactics and especially enjoys their implementation when the outcome is likely her having…hmm…how shall I phrase this delicately?”

 I snorted. “What your voluble father is attempting to convey without incurring my wrath is…the last word. I like having the last word. He neglected to mention that no topic is off limits in the pursuit of achieving that particular goal. So, shall we move on or would you prefer that I begin my dissertation on our wedding night activities?”

 Again, in unison, with Simon, Luke, Seph and Ez joining in this time around. “MOVE ON.”

 We all split off then, singly for some, in pairs for others, and wandered around the shop. Tom and I paused in the precise spot I’d been standing two decades earlier, narrowing down my reading options for what I’d thought would be hours of alone time on the beach. His arm slipped around my waist, and I circled his in turn, each of us leaning into the other, silent in our contemplation of the Before and the After, which is how we both viewed the stages of our lives prior to and since crossing paths. I could hear Sean exclaiming to Mona that he’d located the music section and that she just had to come see it immediately, Seph and Luke laughing as Simon assured them that yes, he did in fact still enjoy reading the Twilight Series novels and that there was nothing wrong with having a little vampy wolfie sad girl angsty fluff in your life thank you very much, and then, footsteps behind us…a strange echo of the past, and this time I didn’t hesitate to spin around to see who they belonged to. Tom did the same seconds afterward, and before us was a woman wearing a tea-length bright green tank dress, her jet-black hair worn in two braids that hung nearly to her waist. She smiled, and my mouth dropped open when I took note of her name tag. She smiled, realizing I’d recognized her.

 “Aloha, Hiddlestons. Welcome back to Talk Story.”

 I shook my head in disbelief. “Alani. Oh my god. Well, this is a mind fuck of epic proportions. And I’m spewing profanity. Whoops. Sorry.”

 Tom somehow managed to speak like an actual human being. “Alani! What a marvelous thing, seeing you again in this very special place…you’ve been well, I hope?”

 She laughed, then stepped forward to embrace both Tom and I, then pulled back. “I have. I teach at the Waimea High School during the year…9th grade English Literature. Weekends and summers inevitably find me here. This place seems to have a gravitational pull I’m unable…and unwilling…to escape.” Sighing, she glanced around the room, then fixed her gaze back on us. “Have you heard?”

 Nodding, I reached for Tom’s hand and took hold. “About Roger? Yes, but not until we started researching our trip. We wanted to wait to meet Denise to express our condolences. Is she available?”

 Alani shook her head, frowning slightly. “She’s not, I’m afraid. Honestly, we’ve not seen very much of her at all, and she hasn’t been back since she told us she was putting the place up for sale. Of course, I understand that it reminds her of her father and…”

 My grip on Tom’s hand tightened, as did his on mine, so much so that we both let go as if we’d received an electric shock. I took a deep breath, telling myself to be cool, Maude, be fucking cool before giving nonchalance a go.

 “So. Talk Story’s for sale? Huh. Well, we most definitely hadn’t heard that. I don’t recall seeing a sign…”

 Tom cleared his throat. “Neither do I. Does that mean a sale is pending, or is the property still available?”

 She nodded, which was not at all helpful, but the words she spoke afterward were. “It’s still available. The sign’s off to the right of the building, attached to the potted tree so it faces oncoming traffic. The realtor’s been in a few times since it went up in January, but never with any clients. Our revenue isn’t even a quarter of what it was a decade ago, and Denise isn’t very involved so things have gotten worse since Roger passed. At this point, I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to remain open, but I’m going to keep hoping that someone sees the value here, the history this place contains…” She cleared her throat, then shook her head back and forth slowly. “Goodness, I’m so terribly sorry. I honestly only meant to say hello…everything else just sort of…happened. I don’t know what came over me.”

 I reached out and patted her upper arm. “Please, no worries. This place seems to foster that sort of thing. Books aplenty with the occasional divine intervention. That’s so going on the marketing materials. You on board with that, Tom?”

 “Oh yes. Yes I am. Alani, do you happen to have the realtor’s number handy?”

 One walk-through, two hours, and countless document signatures later we were officially in contract to purchase Talk Story, with a closing date set for Tuesday, July 1st at 1 PM at the Kauai Coldwell Banker Realty office. Much like I had twenty-one years earlier, we all had to haul ass back to Kapaʻa in order to make our dinner reservation at Kauai Pasta, though this time we were a party of nine instead of three. We’d requested the same booth area, spilling over into the two additional sections in the same row that backed the wall. Tom and I, in an effort to be appropriately extra, ordered the exact same meal we’d ordered the day we met, but sat side-by-side instead of across from each other. Midway through the main course we turned to each other, smiling as our eyes met, and all the noise of friends and family faded into the background as we paused to remember, lost in our thoughts of days gone by, and I felt this monstrous rush of emotions…love, joy, peace, and so many more…and I was so…so…grateful. Granted, I was grateful every day, but this was an all-encompassing gratefulness, and I looked away for a moment to survey our friends, their children, and each of our own children in turn. Life is incredibly strange and unusual, even downright cruel at times, but like the weed-dealing kid in American Beauty said, “sometimes there's so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can't take it, and my heart is just going to cave in”, and that’s where I was at in that moment, in the very same space that had fanned the flames of the spark that had emerged at Talk Story. Which we’d just bought. For nine-hundred and fifty thousand dollars, all contents included. I turned my gaze back to Tom, my head tilting to the right.

 “Did we, like, just actually buy a bookstore? As in, the bookstore we’ve always considered ‘our’ bookstore is now…our bookstore?”

 He nodded, and I felt his hand first on my knee, then creeping up under my shorts. “We did. And while I’m thoroughly delighted with that particular development, I’m also a tad disappointed because we missed out on our restroom rendezvous this go-round. Care to christen this one instead?”

 “Oh, that’s a bold move right there, Thomas. The ladies’ room is literally separated from this table by a single wall. I’ll go first, you get up five minutes later and lurk outside the door…I’ll leave it open a crack so I can keep watch. When the coast is clear I’ll pull you inside.”  I lowered my voice, whispering in his ear. “And then I’ll, you know, pull you inside again. And again.”

 He groaned quietly. “Woman. Cease. And go. Go now.”

 I excused myself, and that five minutes seemed to take a thousand years. There was fire in his eyes when he shut and locked the door behind him, and without a word he turned me around, bent me over the sink, pulled off my shorts and underwear and fucked me so hard I couldn’t help but cry out his name as I came, which he muffled quickly by covering my mouth with his left hand, which made me come again. And again. He soon followed, leaning down and biting my clothed shoulder gently to stifle his own cries. After he pulled out I stood upright, and he leaned in to kiss me, sucking my tongue into his mouth as he zipped himself up, peeked out the door, then exited and darted into the men’s restroom next door. I used the facilities, washed up, and waited for three minutes after I heard him finish up and walk by. A sly grin spread wide across his face awaited me as I returned to the table, and as I sat down Sean asked if we’d be ordering desert. Simon, ever the obnoxious asshat, smirked and commented that he was reasonably sure that some of us had already had their desert, which left Sean puzzled, Mona and Seph disgusted, and Henry and Ez blushing like mad, which really got my Spidey Senses all a-tingle. Luke simply smiled at me, shrugging helplessly, and I sighed, nodding, both of us silently accepting yet again that yes, this was indeed the life we’d chosen.

 As it happened, no desert was ordered…instead, we headed back to the beach house we’d rented on the Coconut Coast, in Anahola Beach Park, which was seven miles or so up from the Coconut Beach Marriott. With only four bedrooms, it meant the kids had to share, so Sean and Henry were in one room and Mona, Seph and Ez in another, but it was literally steps from the beach, totally private, and had a pool and a hot tub. All of that was lovely, but lovelier still was the item tucked away in the fridge…a two-tiered chocolate cake with layers of cheesecake filling, iced with white buttercream and decorated with green and purple fondant orchids. As Tom and I fed each other a slice, Simon smeared icing on the back of my neck. I retaliated by flinging a banana from a bowl on the counter in his direction because bananas are disgusting and there was no way I was wasting cake, and suddenly we were in the middle of an all-out food war that ended with all of us jumping into the pool fully clothed. Fun was had, at least until we clambered out of the water and got a gander at the current state of the formerly pristine kitchen. It was almost midnight by the time we finished cleaning up the mess we’d made, but we’d powered through by taking turns listening to our favorite playlists. Just as we’d begun to discuss our shower schedules, the first few notes of Adventure Of A Lifetime began to play. Without pausing to determine who was responsible for choosing it, Tom and I gravitated toward each other and began to dance, then sang, and as the song progressed we were joined by Simon, Sean, Henry, Ez, Mona, Seph and Luke. By the end we were essentially screaming the lyrics, a troupe of dancing fools bound by love and blood still sharing the same adventure, celebrating where we’d already been, exited for what we’d discover down the road. Everything you want’s a dream away…we are legends, every day.

 Later on, after all the good-nights were said and Tom had passed out after our engaging in some seriously spectacular anniversary shenanigans, I found myself wide awake. I walked to the glass sliders and stared past the pool at the reflection of the moonlight on the waves, the ebb and flow of the ocean that had always, to me, seemed representative of the back and forth, the ups and downs…all the moments of our lives as we pass through them. And then, there they were…Henry and Ez, walking toward the pool, holding hands. They too stood gazing out at the waves, and released each other’s hands to slip their arms around each other’s waists. Without warning, since I wasn’t privy to their conversation, Henry leaned backward, face to the sky, laughing the laugh that I knew sounded so very much like his father’s. I could see them both shaking with mirth, and they quieted slowly, her hand rubbing his back. As I continued to watch, transfixed, she rested her head against him, and he turned to pull her into his arms, then leaned down to kiss her.

 At that point what migh happen next was absofuckinglutely none of my business, so I turned around and headed back toward yet another temporary bed that contained the sleeping form of my personal, perfect, permanence, awash in moonlight. I was now more awake than ever, so I remained in a seated position next to him, my back resting against the headboard. He mumbled in his sleep, rolling over to drape his left arm across my lap. The desire to wake him up and share what I’d seen so I could have a ‘HA, I told you so’ moment was strong, but it was cast aside by a vivid memory from when Henry had been an infant. Tom had just returned from promoting Kong, and I, in my incredibly sleep deprived state, experienced an instance of déjà vu that evolved into a vision of me, at some point in the future, passing the sleeper Henry had been wearing that night to a young man. Back then, the voices I’d heard weren’t familiar, nor recognizable, but now…now they were, because I’d been listening to them all day long. I recalled that when I was still carrying him inside me, each time I’d held Ez, Henry had thrashed about wildly, something that had never occurred in such a fashion with anyone else. The entanglement particle theory came to mind, one that Tom had referenced in Only Lovers Left Alive, which Einstein had dubbed ‘spooky action at a distance’. If entwined particles become separated, even if they wind up at opposite ends of the universe, if one is altered or affected, the other will be identically altered or affected.

 I started down at the ring on Tom’s left hand, and the two on my own, one which had been inscribed with two lines of text at the bequest of the man who’d become my husband twenty years ago. On the first was ‘Talk Story - 6/29/15 - Our Story’, and on the second, ‘My Light in the Mist’. I was, briefly, unable to breathe, feeling that I suddenly, and for certain, temporarily, understood life, the universe and everything.

 Even in the darkest hour of our journey through this life, there’s light. You won’t see it in that moment, you might not see it for a long time afterward…but it’s there, hidden by darkness, and as the darkness begins to fade there will be tiny specks of it in the distance. Chase after them, because those specks – they’re hope. The fading darkness transitions to a thick fog, then a translucent mist…you may find yourself lingering there, in the in-between, reasonably content. Living, but with a sense of incompleteness that you can’t seem to define, are able to suppress, but can’t quite shake. That’s the light, reaching out for you. And one day, it will finally make contact. And if you’ll allow it, the light will take you by the hand and lead you out into the open where the sun can fully shine upon you again…or perhaps for the very first time. And I’m here to say…allow it. Grab that hand. Grab it with everything you have, and never let it go. No matter what, never, ever let it go.

- Maeve Curry, June 2015- July 2019

[crackmadhi]

Day 24 - Kissing

Saturday, 4 August 2029 – Age 30 A hand was pulled away from his shoulder.

Simon blinked his eyes open and felt warmth radiating on his back. He woke up quickly, slowly pulled himself up, careful not to wake the man next to him. Curiously he looked over his shoulder and saw Nahyuta still peacefully sleeping.

He could not but smile at him and finally stood up. Never in his life he had believed to end up in such a situation. Even less did he think he would find himself to enjoy this development. But here he was, in the hotel room of the prince who was still sleeping out his jetlag.

Lazily he stretched his arms and walked around in the room. It was a nice place and surely suited the regent of Khura’in.

Probably.

After all Simon didn’t really know how a prince really lived and maybe a one room hotel room, even though it had four stars, was under the royal standard.

But in Simon’s mind the place seemed to fit Nahyuta’s personality quite well. Not too grand, but very clean and with a flair of undeniable elegance. Also, a bit delicate and a teeny tiny bit show-offish, if he was honest. Unfortunately, it was probably the last two things that made him like Nahyuta the most and he felt foolish for that.

With a huff he took his jeans from the chair, where he had placed it on, and went to the bathroom. Unceremoniously, he peed, washed his hands and then put on the trousers. He looked around for a second and found Nahyuta’s comb rather quickly. He hesitated to take it, as it was not his and he knew that his hair was thick and he had broken several combs in the past, just forgetting that not all plastic could win the fight against his unholy mane.

Yet he picked it up and after short inspection he realized that he was holding a pretty fancy comb, made out of a rather hard and noble wood and with meretriciously detailed carved patterns on it. Also, it was obviously made for Nahyuta, who had even longer hair than him and it probably had to be just as unbreakable as his own at home.

“Well, let’s untangle this a bit, otherwise I’m going to never hear the end of it”, Simon muttered and pulled his two hairbands out of his pony tail.

He fiddled with it for a moment, his hands weren’t cooperating with the bristly hair until he finally got them out and started combing it for a moment. To his luck it wasn’t as bad as he had thought it would be and he was soon at a point where he believed he had done enough and walked to the mirror to tie his hair back into a ponytail.

As he adjusted the position and then pulled the second over the other, when something in his face caught his attention. He hastily finished the work with his hair and stepped a bit closer to inspect the differences.

The nose looked the same and so did his cheeks. Maybe the bags under his eyes were a bit less visible? Did his eyes seem to be a bit different? They looked more colourful in the light, Simon believed and took a step back.

That couldn’t be right.

Nothing had changed overnight and –

Well, yes. That had happened but there was no reason why it would show in his demeanour. Maybe if it would influence his mood, then you might see a change in his demeanour but –

Simon took a deep breath and stepped closer towards the mirror again. Hesitantly he brought his hand up to his lips and touched them.

How silly. Of course, nothing was different. Of course, he wouldn’t feel anything of it anymore. It had only been a small kiss from Nahyuta, nothing world changing and it had happened hours ago.

And he had never cared for kissing before. Not really at least. He had never really been repulsed by it, he knew some people were, but he also had no interest in doing it himself. And yet…

It had felt nice. A bit awkward at first, for a split second, but then it was just nice, a bit like when Nahyuta took his hand and held it. A bit more intimate and riskier but still within his comfort zone.

He blushed and held his hand over his mouth, watching his shocked expression in the mirror. He had liked the kiss. A lot. He had enjoyed it. And he just realized he would not mind for it to happen again.

He was thirty. He didn’t want to discover such things in his thirties. He didn’t want to like kissing. Did it make him less “aro” than he was? Because this kiss felt romantic, surely not platonic, to him and he still enjoyed it?

He liked being aro. He had used that label for more than half of his life and he wanted to keep it. He didn’t want to change. Not like this at least.

Agitated he let himself drop down on the toilet seat and forced himself to calm down. He was thirty and he had dealt with enough queer crises of others to know he was overreacting. A label does not define you, he reminded himself and dialled back out of his panicking mode. Aromantic didn’t necessarily mean you didn’t do anything “romantic”, it just meant you didn’t feel the romantic attraction towards other individuals. You could though enjoy romantic acts nevertheless.

Simon internally recited those phrases to reassure himself. That was all true and he knew it was. It was just…

He hadn’t expected to find such things out about himself in this period of his life. He had been stuck in such a weird place that he at the same time felt much older than everybody his age, because of how prison had treated him, but still unfledged because he lacked so many “normal” or “common” experiences out of his twenties.

And somehow to him, learning that you do not hate kissing, was something he should definitely have found out in these wicked stolen twenties of his. But that wasn’t something he could change anymore, could he.

Instead he leaned back, his head softly touching the wall behind him and watched up to the ceiling. He probably should look at this whole QPR thing as an opportunity find these things out. He maybe couldn’t get his time back but at least he could have some nice belated experiences with a man he really, really liked and maybe would never have met hadn’t it been for these stolen twenties.

“Is there a reason why you sit on the toilet seat in the bathroom?”

Simon almost fell from the toilet seat when he had heard Nahyuta’s voice. Instead, he pressed his hands against his chest and stared at the man in the doorframe utterly perplexed. When exactly had he come into the room, was alien to him and for questioning these things it was already too late at this point.

He was about to answer as Nahyuta stepped fully inside, tilted his head and asked further: “And why exactly have you been touching your lip? You never do that. Do you have some sort of morning ritual I just -”

He stopped at once as Simon’s face turned read as he felt caught black handed. Only now it dawned to him that he had never lifted his hands away from his mouth and judging the look in Nahyuta’s eyes he had already some thoughts on why they have been there in the first place.

“Is this about the – Nahyuta hesitated and brushed some hair behind his ear – kiss from last night?”

Simon gruffed with the mixture of a confused laugh and cleared his throat to end up shrugging with an affirmative undertone.

Nahyuta gulped and crossed his arms over his chest. Did he overstep a line last night? He had been so tired, he still wasn’t quite here yet, maybe something had flown over his head and now Simon was uncomfortable because of him.

Carefully he took a step back and asked him: “Was I acting out off place? Did I make you uncomfortabl-”

“No”

Perplexed Nahyuta stared at him until he at one realized what the beet red face and sheepish looking away otherwise could mean. Smugly he circled his partner and crouched down before him. Gingerly he laid his hands on his knees and asked mischievously: “Don’t tell me you liked it, dear panda? And here I was thinking I could never get you on your toes with my seduction skills.”

“What kind of monk are you exactly?” Simon blurted still flustered but put his hand on Nahyuta to squeeze it lightly.

Nahyuta smiled and let it go. He understood that this situation was a bit more complicated for Simon than he wanted to admit and he needed time to accustom to the new things that had come along with everything. But he couldn’t deny that the new glint in Simon’s eyes and the small smile that rested on his lips because of him made him feel a bit proud. Somehow he had made Simon’s life a bit nicer and that felt like a rather big accomplishment right now.

Link

[blackjacketmuses]

au; lord regent

It had been a bad day -- a bad week, rather. The worst kind of misery. He'd been fighting it for two weeks already, being somehow ridiculously busy, but he couldn't hold out forever. So he'd cancelled meetings and cleared his schedule, and proceeded to crawl into bed and remain there until the Scourge in his body stopped making him feel like he was run over by a truck. Or something bigger than a truck.

But it was back to its usual dull throb of discomfort, now,  and not the feverish nauseous puddle of agony bad spells reduced him to, and thus feeling as well as he ever did, Ardyn Izunia returned to Zegnautus Keep. And...returned to the biggest disaster he could never actually have predicted, but in retrospect should have.

He felt a tiny bit bad for the unsuspecting soldier he'd snatched up and shaken for information, but that information was invaluable. And not to mention horrifically bad for his own plans.

The attack on Fenestala Manor? Predictable. The death of the Oracle-to-be’s mother? Frustrating and pointless, but he could work around that; she had Shiva, after all, and frigid bitch that she was, she'd make sure that part of the plan went as they both wanted. The death of the goddamn King of Lucis? Oh, now that could not stand.

He doubted an eight year-old boy knew his destiny, and it was highly debatable if Regis had told anyone else. And with no one to know, the Chosen King might never be ready. And if he wasn't, then...Ardyn couldn't die. Hell, the world might not even make it if the boy was clueless. And -- this he realized with mounting horror -- if the boy died…

“Where is the prince?” He snarled at the soldier, who stammered immediately and sent him to a little room in the residential area of the base, the part that was the 'imperial palace’. It looked like a small waiting room, or a fancy break room, but that was of little importance in comparison to the tiny boy curled up in a chair, sobbing hard enough to shake his small frame and clutching a sword to his chest like it was a security blanket.

The boy looked up when the door opened, pale and tearstained face framed by dark hair and blue eyes wide with fear, and Ardyn was struck dumb for a moment with how much he looked like Somnus when he was a child. And for a moment, the child was not the future Chosen, the one who would end this and die one way or another, he was a little boy who had just lost his father.

He moved over to kneel in front of him, not fully conscious of what he was doing. “Shhh,” he said gently, easing the Royal Arm from the boy's deathgrip and putting it aside. “Shhh, don't cry, little one, shhhh.”

“Where's Daddy?” The boy -- Noctis, wasn't it? -- sobbed. “Where's m-my dad? I want my dad!”

Ardyn flinched. “Oh, my boy,” he said quietly, and that was enough to confirm the boy's worst fear, it seemed, because he started wailing afresh, throwing himself at the nearest person for comfort -- which happened to be Ardyn. He froze when small arms were flung around his neck and a small head buried itself in his shoulder, but then something untwisted itself inside him and he pulled the boy close into a hug, instinctively running fingers through his hair and shushing him gently, as he had done so many times so long ago for his brother and for the children of his Shield.

This was so far from what he'd intended, he thought distantly. The boy was supposed to kill him and die, or die trying to do the former, but that was-- he was a child right now, a traumatized and grieving child, and he would not be Chosen in more than name for a long time yet. And he was family. This child was his nephew, give or take a hundred some generations, and without him... they two were the only Lucis Caelums left. No matter what else they would be the end of their line, but--

“It's going to be alright, my boy,” he said quietly. “I promise I will make it right. Shhh.” He pulled him away for a moment once the tears had petered out, and Noctis stared at him with big blue eyes. “I have a question, Noctis,” he told him gently. “And I swear that if you say yes, I won't take it away. But did your father give you his ring?”

Noctis blinked at him, half afraid, and then nodded. He rummaged in his jacket pocket, pulling the ring from it to show Ardyn, and he swallowed, staring down at the Ring of the Lucii. It was quiet, dark, waiting, and he had to suppress a shudder. “Good,” he said to Noctis. “Hold on tight to that, and never lose it. Here--” He stuck a hand into a coat pocket for a moment, feeling around, and pulled out some thick twine (he wasn't sure why he had it, but he wasn't sure why a lot of things were in his pockets), slipping it through the ring and tying it off, putting the makeshift necklace around Noctis's neck. “Keep it with you always, but promise me you won't put it on?”

The boy, with that innocence only a child could have, nodded obediently as he tucked the ring beneath his shirt. “I wanna go home,” he said quietly, voice hoarse from crying. “I want Ignis, a-and Gladio, and Uncle Clarus, and-- and Luna, and Ravus, are they--” His voice wavered again, like another wave of tears was coming, and Ardyn pulled him close.

“Lunafreya and her brother are safe,” he told him. “Safe and sound and unharmed. I promise. And I will get you home, my dear Noctis. I told you I would make things alright, and I will.”

He had no idea what he was saying, to be honest. No idea what he was thinking. No idea beyond frantically trying to rewrite his plans now that the Chosen was an orphan so young and Lucis was undefended far before it should be. He had to fix this, had to get it all back on track. The Empire was allowed to succeed so long as it benefited Ardyn's own plans, but this absolutely did not. He needed to clean this mess up and get the real script back in play, not Niflheim’s greedy production.

He didn’t realize what he was doing, actually, from the moment he scooped the boy up in his arms and picked up the blade beside him, the hilt resting in his hand like it was forged for him -- because it was, in a way, forged for him, for all the kings, just like a copy of it now sat in his Armiger with all the rest of his dead nieces and nephew’s weapons -- and strode out the room with Noctis’s head tucked beneath his chin. He left both blade and boy in his office and still didn’t realize what he was doing as he made a beeline for the emperor’s chambers, able to get in without a fuss due to his position, and made a case he didn’t even think about beyond what he needed to do to get what he wanted. It wasn’t just about the Empire anymore. It wasn’t about watching the Empire push Lucis to the brink, keeping a careful equilibrium going until it was time to break the stalemate-- it was about his plans. His, not theirs.

He carefully did not think about the boy’s tear-filled blue eyes, the wheezing sobs, the pleas for his father and his loved ones, the pleas to go home.

It was only when he stepped off the transport in Insomnia’s airfield, Noctis -- still recovering from his leg injury and refusing to let go of him besides -- in one arm and a case containing Regis’s sword in the other that he realized just how badly he’d fucked himself over.

Lord Regent Ardyn Izunia, to rule Lucis in the Empire’s stead until Noctis came of age...that was the deal he had brought to the Emperor, and Iedolas had been delighted. Of course his Chancellor would be loyal, of course his Chancellor would be so clever. But he didn’t know the truth, none of them did. Not the old Shield, who looked like a dead man walking as he accepted the case with the Royal Arm in it. Not the Crownsguard’s Marshal, who stood there with arms behind his back watching him like a guard dog watches a particularly suspicious cat.

Not the council, full of old and fussy men and women, who reeked of selfish hypocrisy-- he had surprised them all, then, and was pleased for it. He had slammed his hands on the head of the table, stopping their ingratiating pleas for this little concession or that little allowance, and told them this: “Before this goes any further, ladies and gentlemen, you need to know one thing -- I have no intention of ruling this kingdom on behalf of the Empire. Lucis will not be a puppet kingdom. Things will go on as they’ve been going, and though I am Regent and I have final say, I’ll be certain to listen to any suggestion you lot have. But one thing you can be assured of is that Niflheim has no place in this chamber and never will, regardless of what it seems on the surface.”

They had all been shocked, of course, and the next twenty minutes was spent calming them down, but it had been true. He’d play at being loyal Imperial Chancellor, of course, make it seem that way on the surface, but...Lucis would not be owned by anyone else. Not ever, not so long as a Lucis Caelum ruled -- and he was a Lucis Caelum, no matter what Somnus had done.

Certainly he was the Accursed, too, and his plans were still on their way to fruition, but they...this would not change them. Lies came easy-- he was the eccentric Ardyn Izunia, after all, strange and unpredictable. Let them think he was planning a coup against Iedolas. Let them think whatever they wanted.

He would rule for Noctis, even if it tore him apart every step he took within the Citadel he had once called home and now called home again. Even if he could not enter the throne room, could not sleep in the royal chamber’s bed for the memories they brought. Even if every statue or painting of Somnus seemed to watch him with eyes of hatred and judgement, even if his hands shook every time he made an official announcement.

He would rule, and prepare him, and make sure the boy and the kingdom were ready for when the time came, make sure the Chosen King would rise to meet his calling.

Even if the boy was...even if the boy-- even if. Even if.

His blackened and broken heart and his cast aside humanity were not-- they could not be involved in this.

Not at all.