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        She’s  so  fucking  cold. 

Beyond  tense,     she  moves  robotically  with  each  bark  of  the  guard.     He’d  been  open  to  conversation  with  Rob  and  Jax  both  as  they’d  passed  through  the  metal  detector,   but  one  look  at  Veronica  and  he  was  masking  transparent  repugnance.     She  spreads  her  arms  out,     his  hands  pass  over  her  sides  and  chest,     down  to  her  hips  and  linger.     Looking,     searching  like  a  dog  with  its  snout  pressed  to  the  pavement,     eager  to  find  something  on  her.     She’s  allowed  through,     kind  of  like  trespassing  into  forbidden  territory.     Nothing  is  as  loud  as  the  barred  doors  as  they  come  to  a  close  behind  her.

Correctional  Officer  Walsh  is  the  one  running  this  show,     he  checks  over  his  clipboard  and  eyes  the  group  in  front  of  him  with  a  sense  of  misplaced  authority.   “Follow  me.   This  way.”     

Veronica  keeps  to  the  back  of  the  entourage.     There’s  a  woman  in  her  early  thirties with  a  crying  baby  on  her  hip  and  a  child  no  older  than  eight  clinging  to  her  hand.   An  elderly  couple  that  walk  side  -  by  -  side,     the  wife  keeping  her  purse  clasped  to  her  chest  as  if  she’s  afraid  someone  might  snatch  it.     A  man  and  what  looks  like  his  teenage  daughter,    who  refuse  to  look  at  each  other.     Jax  and  Rob  are  in  front  of  Veronica,     their  heads  are  bowed  together,     whispering.

She  hates  this  shit.

Abruptly,     the  kid  with  the  mom  turns  his  head  and  stares  at  Veronica,   as  if  he’d  heard  what  she’d  been  thinking.     His  eyes  are  big  and  blue,     freckles  curve  over  the  soft  uplift of  his  nose,     too  fucking  young  to  be  in a  place  like  this  and  know  what  it’s  for.     What’s  your  daddy  in  for,     kid?     Or  your  ma’  won’t  tell  you?

“Vee,”     Jax  murmurs,     she  lifts  her  chin  to  look  at  him,     he’s  all  jitters  and  shakes.    Bad  hangover,     whatever  he  and  Casey  got  into  last  night  is  evident  on  him.    “Do  you  think  they’ll  let  us  see  him  today?” 

God,     he  barely  said  two  words  and  she  wishes  he  would  shut  up  already.     An  apprehensive  glance  is  risked  to  the  guard’s  back  as  he  leads  them  further  down  the  hallway.     Soon,    they’ll  be  at  desk  check,     where  they  order  you  to  show  your  wrists  with  the  entry  stamps.     Hopefully,     Jax  didn’t  rub  too  anxiously  at  his.

“I  don’t  know,”   she  tells  him,     chewing  at  the  dry  skin  of  her  bottom  lip.    It’s  freezing,    the  lights  are  too  bright  and  shining  off  the  freshly  mopped  linoleum,     she  feels  queasy.     Veronica  keeps  her  hands  in  her  pockets,     just  to  withhold  them  from reaching  out  and  grabbing  at  her  sides,      always  searching  for  someone  else’s  presence.    “You  talk  to  him  more  than  me.   Don’t  fucking  ask  me  stupid  questions.” 

“You  okay?”    Rob’s  attention  is  caught  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,     as  it  usually  is.     His  bushy  eyebrows  screw  up  together,     “You  were  quiet  the  whole  way  here.”

“Not  really  up  for  conversation,”   she  says.     She  avoids  both  of  their  stares  like  the  plague,     she’d  rather  just  look  at  the  kid,     who  is  glancing  around  the  corridor  in  wonder  as  they  come  to  a  slow  stop  at  the  double  doors.     “Hate  this  place . . .”

Rob  nods,   but  doesn’t  look  convinced,   “Yeah.”

Jax  is  rubbing  his  lips  together,    pale,   “No  doubt.”

They  get  through  the  checkpoint  with  ease,     through  the  exit,     outside  where  she  can  see  the  watchtowers  and  tall  fences.     No  one’s  outside,    the  workout  area  is  deserted  and  looks  cold  and  unused.     The  next  building  is  even  smaller,     reserved  specifically  for  face  -  to  -  face  or  face  -  to  -  glass  or  phone  -  to  -  ear  meetings.     Spaced  out  tables,     lonely  vending  machines  in  the  corner,     bored  officers  dotting  the  corners  of  the  room.     There’s  even  a  shitty  little  kids’  play  -  area  that  looks  like  it’s  been  there  since  the  seventies.     Veronica  wonders  what  the  kid  thinks  seeing  it.

The  three  of  them  are  seated  in  the  face - to - glass  option,    their  inmate  isn’t  really  the  type  to  get  much  hands  on  communication,     given  his  background  and  misdemeanor.     Veronica  is  itchy  in  her  seat  as  she  waits,     Jax  is  too  anxious  to  sit  still  and  he  moseys  on  over  to  the  vending  machines  with  a  purpose.

“So,”   Rob  is  looking  at  her  again,     he  reaches  towards  her  lap  as  if  he  wants  to  take  her  hand  and  thinks  better  of  it.   Good.    “Get  any  sleep  last  night?” 

“Is  this  your  way  of  telling  me  I  look  like  complete  shit  ‘cause  thanks  a  lot.”

“No! No,”  he  shakes  his  head  fast,     his  brown  curls  are  slightly  matted  and  sweaty  from  underneath  his  winter  hat,     “Just . . . worried.     Everything’s  been  so  fucked  lately.”

She  wants  to  say  I  know,     but  her  lips  hold.     Rob  is  just  as  much  a  leader  as  herself,     and  even  so,     he  looks  towards  her  when  things  get  too  messy  for  his  liking.     This  instance  being  one  of  them.    There  are  bags  underneath  his  eyes,    like  he’s  nursing  a  broken  nose  or  something.     And  he  looks  like  he’s  losing  weight  again,     around  the  middle,     never  a  heavy  guy  but  never  skipped  a  meal  either.     Good  ol’  Rob,     reliable  and  loyal.     

She  blurts,   “I  wish  Jacob  was  here.” 

Rob’s  forehead  crumbles  again  with  that.     He  appears  displeased,     but  he’s  hiding  it  with  his  hand,     rubbing  a  thumb  anxiously  over  his  mouth.     He  doesn’t  like  Jacob,    he  probably  never  will.      “Why?”     Before  she  can  answer,     he  continues,     “Y’know,    Veronica,    I’ve  been  meaning  to  tell  you–”

“Yeah.”

“Jacob,    he’s . . . I  don’t  know  what  you  see  in  him,   seriously.” 

“Jesus  fuckin’–”

“I’m  serious.   And  then  you  got  him  mixed  up  in  our  shit  now,    I  don’t  even  know  the  guy.    Every  time  I turn  around,     he’s  there.   It’s  just  -  it  feels  like  he  knows  more  about  what’s  going  on  than  I  do.    And  we’re  partners–”

“Rob,   not  now,   I  just–” 

“Hear  me  out–” 

“Not  fucking  now–” 

“They  have  Skittles,” Jax  announces  as  he  arrives,    the  brightly  -  colored  packaging  as  much  of  an  eyesore  as  he  is.     He  dumps  an  array  of  the  candy  into  his  hand  and  holds  it  out  for  any  takers.    Rob  is  the  one  who  accepts  the  offer,     he’s  patient  like  that.     He  glances  at  Veronica  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  as  he  chews  pensively,     and  just  like  that  the  conversation  is  over.     

Already,     she  wants  to  bolt.     Fuck  this  entire  thing.    Go  back  home,    get  back  in  bed.     This  ungodly  visiting  schedule,    these  too  -  bright  lights,     the  cold  feel  of  solitude  sends  a  shiver  down  her  back.     Who  gives  a  shit  what  Rob  thinks?    She  used  to,    a while  ago,     before  everything.     Before  Jacob,     who  risked  life  and  limb  to  keep  her  safe,   who  rose  up  against  West  despite  his  usual  intimidation  tactics,    who  fucked  over  Patrick  for  even  glancing  in  her  direction,    who  put  her before  all  else.     That’s  never  happened  before.     Rob  can  even  attest  to  that,    he’d  been  the  first  to  leave  her  out  to  dry  when  shit  hit  the  fan  with  Ben  and  Charlotte.

Never  gave  a  shit  about  her  before.    Vee  can  handle  herself,    she  makes  do,     she’ll  figure  it  out.     Yeah,  thanks.     And  now  that  someone  actually  stuck  their  neck  out  for  her,     everyone  wants  to  insert  their  opinions.     Well,    fuck  that  and  fuck  them.

She’d  been  so  lost  in  thought  that  she  almost  jumped  out  of  her  skin  was  a  loud  buzzer  went  off,     signifying  that  the  door  to  the  main  prison  was  being  unlocked.     Inmates  flooded  in  and  were  filed  against  the  wall  in  an  orderly  line,    waiting  for  their  names  to  be  called,     visitors  waving  from  their  designated  tables.    

Dex  was  one  of  the  last  to  his  seat.     Even  behind  the  smudged  -  up  glass,     Veronica  could  see  the  hollows  of  his  cheeks.     He  looked  skinnier.     Orange  wasn’t  his  color  either;     he  was  in  transit,     awaiting  trial  to  see  if  it  would  be  thrown  out  completely  or  he  would  be  fully  sentenced  for  manslaughter.     Veronica  could  still  vividly  remember  that  night  at  the  strip  joint,     his  face  behind  the  window  of  the  cop  car,     vacant  and  bloody.

What  did  you  do,   Dex?    What  did  you  do?

He  hesitates  before  picking  up  the  phone  on  the  other  side,    shakiness  clinging  to  him.     Rob  does  the  same,    plucking  up  the  receiver  with  little  effort  and  giving  one  of  those  relaxed  smiles,     like  this  was  an  everyday  thing  and  there  was  no  need  to  worry.    “Hey,    there  you  are!   Man  of  the  hour–”

“I  told  you  not  to  bring  him,”   Dex  says  coolly,     without  really  looking  at  Rob.    But  it’s  said  towards  Jax,    who  chokes  on  his  Skittles  a  bit  and  has  the  nerve  to  look  sheepish.     “I  don’t  want  no  fuckin’  white  boy  in  my  business.” 

“He was  my  ride  here,  Dex,”   Jax  insists,    “I  swear  I  wouldn’t  bring  Rob  unless  he  was  cool!”

“I  don’t  give  a  shit,” Dex  is  pissed,    even  with  how  tired  he  looks,   “I  just  wanted  Veronica,”   and  then  he  looks  directly  at  her,    a  dead  -  kind  of  stare,    “Just  you.” 

She’s  chewing  at  her  lips  again,    and  then  thinks  better  of  it  and  gnaws  at  the  inside  of  her  cheek  instead.    Where  it’s  raw  from  her  wisdom  tooth  growing  in.    It  tastes  bloody  and  sour,     like  a  penny.     Baby  -  faced  Dex  looks  out  of  place  here,    sunken  in  his  chair  and  begging  her  with  his  eyes.     He  wants  her  to  take  the  phone  and  she  has  no  choice  but  to.

“How’re  you?”   He  asks  as  soon  as  she  takes  it  from  Rob,     “How’s,   uh . . .  Rubio?”  He  stares  over  her  shoulder,     nudging  his  head  in a  jerking  motion  to  tell  them  to  leave.    Jax  does  immediately,    Rob  is  the  one  who  crosses  his  arms  and  refuses  to  move.

Veronica’s  throat  is  dry,     “He’s  good.   I  mean,    he’s  pissed.    Everybody  is.   I  think  you’re  gonna  get  pushed  back  even  more,     ‘cause  the  judge.   They’re  fucking  with  you.”

He  snorts  derisively,     but  there’s  humor  that  touches  the  dark  brown  of  his  gaze.    He’s  still  the  same,     and  that’s  so  good  to  know.     “Yeah?   It’s  Rodgers  so  what  do  you  expect?” 

“Same  piece  of  shit  who  sent  me  to  juvie  for  six  months.    Didn’t  give  a  shit  it  was  my  first  offense.”

“Guess  he’s  upgraded  from  family  court.” 

What  happened  to  them?     What  happened  to  us?     Veronica  doesn’t  dare  to  ask  it  out  loud.   She  refuses  to  be  this  demure,    helpless  girl  that  looks  towards  him  for  answers.     She’s  not  fourteen  anymore.   She  tosses  the  vulnerability  to  the  dregs  and  swallows,     “Mr.  Rubio  said  . . . he  said  he  ain’t  gonna  help  you  out  with  this.”

Looking  up  into  Dex’s  face  was  hard.    He  looked  every  bit  of  his  nineteen  years,     hot  -  blooded  and  stone  -  faced,    a  muscle  in  his  cheeks  jumps  when  he  forcibly  clenches  his  jaw.          “What  the  fuck  is  that  supposed  to  mean?” 

“I  tried  to  talk  to  him,”    she  exhales  in  a  rush  into  the  phone,   afixed  by  his  tone  alone.    She’s  heard  and  dealt  with  it  before,    from  different  aspects  in  her  life.     Douglas  her  foster  dad,     Mr.  James  her  first  boss,    and  West.     This  guttural  growl  that  men  get  in  their  voice  when  they  think  they  own  you,     and  just  say  what  they  want.     She  would’ve  guessed  by  now  she  could  blink  past  it  without  fighting  off  bile  from  the  back  of  her  throat,     but  that’s  just  wishful  thinking.     “I  did  and  he  fucking  snapped  on  me,    okay?    Listen,    listen–”     Again,    when  Dex  tries  to  speak  over  her,     “I  tried  everything.    He  won’t  do  it.”

If  looks  could  kill,     that’s  all  she  can  think  as  she  struggles  to  meet  his  stare.     She’s  like  a  mutt,     tail  caught  between  her  legs,     and  he’s  the  king  of  the  dog  pound,    muzzle  dripping  and  quivering,     eager  for  a  bite  at  her  throat.     “Dex–”

“Are  you  even  fuckin’  thinking?”  He  spits  into  the  phone.     Sounds  so  different  from  the  boy  that  used  to  find  her  hiding  under  the  abandoned  school  bleachers,     freezing  and  hungry,     draping  his  coat  over  her  and  sharing  a  cigarette  back  and  forth  for  an  hour.     Her  stomach  rolls  over.    “What  the  fuck  am  I  supposed  to  do  in  here?   Rot  away  ‘til  he  feels  charitable  enough  to  fuckin’  check  on  his  nephew?   His  flesh  and  blood?    He  sent  you  to  tell  me  this  shit,    chew  me  up  and  spit  me  out  like–”

“Dex,”   Rob  says,    he’s  glancing  over  to  one  of  the  guards  in  the  corner  of  the  room,    who  is  eyeing  their  group  with  disdain,     “You  have  to  relax–”

“Shut  the  fuck  up,”   Dex  clamours  over  him,    he’s  holding  the  phone  so  tight  he’s  trembling  again,    “Shut  the  fuck  up  right  now  or–”

“Hey,”  The  guard  in  question  kicks  at  an  empty  chair  across  from  their  booth,     his  eyes  shrewn,     as  if  he’s  waiting  for  one  of  them  to  jump  through  the  glass  and  attack  the  other.     Would  probably  make  his  day.    “No  shouting  in  here  or  visiting  time  is  up.” 

Dex  opens  his  mouth,    Veronica  meets  his  eyes  and  shakes  her  head  once.   He  closes  it.   But  his  eyes  are  black  when  he  faces  Rob  again,    “Move.    I  want  to  talk  to  Vee  only.” 

Rob  hesitates,    he  doesn’t  look  ready  to  move  at  all.     He  chances  a  glance  to  Veronica,    whose  head  is  bowed  and  burrowed  into  the  receiver  as  if  it’s  a  saving  grace,     breath  quickened.    One  hand  touches  her  knee,    she  jumps  in  her  seat,     and  he  leans  closer  to  mouth:    You  okay?

No.   She  wants  Jacob  here.    He  would  know  what  to  say.    He  would  know  how  to  lighten  the  mood,    despite  the  tension.    He  would  take  her  hand  and  rub  the  raw  skin  of  her  knuckles  and  give  her  the  effortless  smile  he  reserves  for  cheering  her  up.     Fuck.

But  she  shrugs,     flinching  away  from  Rob’s  grasp,     urging  him  from  the  space.    He  leaves  without  another  word,    over  to  where  Jax  keeps  casting  them  frantic  glimpses  from  the  burrow  of  his  arms  on  the  table,     the  Skittles  have  rolled  onto  the  surface  and  floor  from  his  lack  of  attention.

“Vee,”   Dex’s  voice  is  wrecked  when  he  speaks  again,    he  has  leant  closer  to  the  glass.     Desperate,   hunched  towards  her  and  whispering  her  name  as  quietly  as  a  prayer,   “Vee, you  can’t  let  him  leave  me  in  here.” 

“I  don’t–” 

“You  don’t  know  what  it’s  like  here,    you  don’t.    Juvie  and  jail  ain’t  nothing  like  this.   Enemies  in  here,    people  who  don’t  like  my  uncle.   Fuckers  that  he’s  crossed  and  would  do  anythin’  to  get  back  at  him.    Staying  in  here  is  gonna  fuck  with  me,   Vee.” 

Her stomach  lurches  at  the  despair  of  his  tone,    but  there’s  nothing  to  give.    She  hadn’t  had  a bite  to  eat  that  morning,    she  feels  even  more  hollow  than  normal.   “I  -  I  don’t  know,   Dex.   Fuck.   I  mean,   I  can  ask  Jacob  to  pull  a  couple  strings.”

“... Jacob?” 

“Yeah,   he’s  got  me  out  of  a  few  situations  and–”

“White boy? That  fucking  gringo?”   

“Dex–”  He  sharply  inhales  and  struggles  to  speak,   “Dex,   he  can  fucking  help …”   Her  words  fall  on  deaf  ears,    he’s  staring  at  her  now,    like  she’s  shit  on  the  bottom  of  his  shoes  that  he’s  close  to  scraping  off.   

“You  fucking  him?”   He  doesn’t  give  her  a  chance  to  say  anything,   he’s  spitting  his  words  next,   “You’re  just  like  Miguel,    just  like  him.    Just  get  your  fuckin’  shit  all  crossed  and  wanna  play  house.    Shit  doesn’t  work  like  that,   it  doesn’t.   And  now  look  at  him!   Now,  look.    Where’s  Melissa?   Fuckin’  dead  and  he’s  stuck  with  that  kid  and–” 

The  mention  of  Valerie  makes  Veronica’s  eyes  water.    How  much  she  looks  like  her  mother,    in  the  dimpled  smile  and  brown  skin.     And  the  last  time  Veronica  had  seen  Melissa,   silken  ebony  hair  in  a  bun  and  the  post - baby  weight  making  her  appear  well  -  loved and  motherly.     Miguel  misses  her,    Veronica  can  see  it  in  the  way  he  lingers  on  her  name  after  he  whispers  it  underneath  his  breath  or  when  his  eyes  get  that  far  off  look  whenever  he  bypasses  that  picture  of  hers  in  his  wallet.

Stuck  on  that  thought  like  a  broken  record,    Veronica’s  stare  shifts  to  the  kid  from  earlier,    he’s  far  away,   by  the  window  seats,     where  he’s  staring  at  the  table  in  front  of  him  like  it’s  the  most  interesting  thing  in  the  world.   Instead  of  his  father  in  front  of  him,    who  seems  equally  as  uncomfortable  as  his  son.    He’s  holding  the  baby  in  his  lap,   jostling  her  every  once  in  a while  to  stifle  her  cries.    The  kid  keeps  his  head  down,    his  shoulders  keep  shaking.     Veronica  wonders  if  he’s  crying.

“Like  you  give  a  shit,   right?”   Dex  is  still  going,    his  voice  is  coursing   through  her  veins  like  venom.    She  feels  ten  times  smaller  in  her  chair  right  now,   like  that  kid,    “Just  glad  to  get  rid  of  me,   right?   Right?  Just  like  Miguel,    just  like  Rubio!”

Veronica  doesn’t  know  when  it  happened  but  suddenly  he’s  up  out  of  his  seat,   screaming  into  the  phone  even  though  there’s  no  need  through  the  glass.    Veronica  physically  retracts  as  if  he’d  slapped  her.    In  moments�� like  this,     when  his  temper  takes  ahold  of  him,     he  never  really  looks  like  Dex  –  he  looks  like  his  father’s  anger  embodied  (  a  man  Veronica  had  never  gotten  the  chance  to  know  herself  because  of  his  perpetual  drinking  and  driving  but  knew  enough  from  stories  ),     a  thought  flickers  with  an  almost  foreign  emotion  swelling  inside  of  her.

It  takes  a  second  to  realize  it’s  fear.    

Scared  of  Dex?   

Fourteen - year - old  Veronica  would  laugh  in  her  face,    all  sneered  up  at  the  nose  and  cheesy  grin.     Flipping  the  bird  to  the  cops  as  she  and  Dex  ran  together,    helping  each  other  over  a  chain - link  fence  and  ending  up  toppling  onto  the  other  side.     That’s  when  he  would  take  a  hold  of  her  face,     winded  from  his  laughing,    skid  -  burn  palms  hot  on  her  cheeks.    There’s  nobody  like  you,   Vee.

Image  is  shattered,    replaced  by  this  alien  and  ugly  version  of  Dex.    She  knows  the  anger  and  frustration.    Hell,   she’s  felt  it  before.     It’s  all  she  knows,   in  the  end,   just  like  him.

“You  would  turn  your  back  on  family!   On  your  own  kind!”   He  fumes,    “Did  it  back  then  with  the  Russian  and  you’ll  do  it  now,    you  fuckin’–”   He  doesn’t  even  finish,    or  maybe  he  does  and  Veronica  can’t  hear  it  past  him  ripping  the  phone  from  the  wall  and  bashing  it  into  the  glass  at  full  strength.     It  doesn’t  do  anything  but  bounce  him  off  like  rubber  at  first,     until  three  or  four  more  swings  and  a  crack  forms.

The  guards  seize  him  before  Veronica  really  has  a  chance  to  react,   he  manages  to  throw  one  off  but  there’s  two  more  right  behind  him.    “Hey!”   Rob  is  yelling,   standing  and  crossing  the  limited  space  to  get  to  the  booth,   “You  don’t  have  to  grab  him  like  that!   Hey!”   

But  they  already  have  Dex  on  the  ground,    yanking  him  by  the  arms,   one  has  a  knee  jutted  into  his  side.     Veronica  can’t  really  do  anything,    none  of  them  can.    Just  watch  as  they  pretty  much  carry  Dex  out  of  the  room  kicking  and  screaming,    fighting  tooth  and  nail  the  only  way  Dex  knows  how.

The  next  twenty  minutes  are  sort  of  a  blur  :  she  follows  Jax  and  Rob  out  of  the  prison  on  dead  feet.    Officer  Walsh  makes  it  his  business  to  lecture  them  on  “provoking  the  inmates”  on  the  way  out,    all  superior  and  shit  and  Jax  nods  like  a  bobble - head.   If  Veronica  wasn’t  shaking  so  much,   she  would  punch  him  in  the  arm.

“Yeah,   yeah,   we  got  it,”   Rob  mutters,   retrieving  all  three  of  their  IDs  from  the  front  desk  officer.   He  hands  Veronica’s  hers,   and  she  avoids  her  picture  at  all  costs  (  she  was  never  camera  ready,    even  prepared,    her  dirty  hair  and  haunted  eyes  said  enough  )  and  stuffs  it  into  her  jeans,    “Well,   that  was  something.” 

“Rob,”   Veronica  gives  him  a  withering  look,    she’s  not  in  the  mood  for  any  joking.   She  can’t  stop  thinking  about  the  complete  hatred  in  Dex’s  eyes,   towards  her  specifically.    If  the  glass  hadn’t  been  in  the  way,    what  would  he  have  done?    Who  knows,    who  really  knows  Dex  anymore.    Not  her,    that’s  for  sure.    Maybe  Nixie  would  have  handled  that  situation  better,    and  that  thought  was  enough  to  make  her  scornfully  smack  her  teeth.

“Fuck,   fuck . . .”   She  hisses,    lips  quivering.    Jax  shifts  beside  her  restlessly,    uselessly,    “Fuck  me.” 

“Vee,”  Once  they’re  far  enough  away  from  the  desk,    Rob  turns  to  face  her  in  one  quick  motion,    once  again  reaching  towards  her  hand  in  comfort  but  backtracking  when  she  shoves  them  both  into  her  pockets,    “Relax.    It’s  okay,   he’ll  come  around.”

“He  won’t,   he  won’t,”   she’s  shaking  her  head  before  he  even  finishes,   ducking  away  from  his  open  arms.   Always  giving,    always  seeking  her  out  to  comfort.    Is  she  a  kicked  dog  to  everyone  or  something?   God  fucking  dammit.    She  sucks  in  her  lips  to  keep  herself  from  making  any  kind  of  embarrassing  sounds,    “He  won’t.   He  fucking . . . It  doesn’t  matter,   I’m  fucked.   Either  way.” 

Dex  had  always  been  a  safety  net  of  some  kind.   If  she  ever  fucked  up  bad  enough,    he  would  catch  her.   Every  time,    with  anything.    And  even  after  everything  with  West,    he  let  her  into  the  underground  with  little  to  no  qualms,   even  asked  her  how  much  she  needed  to  get  out  of  trouble.     

Jax  approached  the  two  of  them  cautiously,   and  peered  over  at  Veronica  like  she  was  a  wild  animal  about  to  go  for  the  throat,   “Maybe . . . maybe  I  can  talk  to  Mr.  Rubio.   He  likes  me,   Vee.   Dex,  too!   You  know  they  listen  to  me.”

“Yeah,”   Rob says,   he  grabs  ahold  of  Jax’s  shoulder  and  shakes  him  a  bit  that  way  guys  do  to  each  other,     “See?   Don’t–”  His  face  softens  at  the  look  on  Veronica’s,    whatever  it  may  be,    it’s  enough  to  have  him  easing  over  to  her,   “Don’t  do  that,   okay?    Don’t  stress  about  this.    All  he  needs  is  a  lawyer.” 

“A  lawyer?”   She  laughs,    but  it  doesn’t  have  a  shred  of  humor  in  it,   “Some  hick  that’ll  just  fuck  him  over?”

“A  real  lawyer,”   Rob  insists,   with  another  eager  nod  from  Jax  to  back  him  up,   “I  know  people.    Devin  knows  people.”    Right,    squirmy  Devin  who  went  off  and  got  himself  a  good  job.    Didn’t  stop  him  from  packing  shit  for  CRUISIN’  every  Tuesday  while  his  wife  sat  at  home  with  the  kids  and  another  in  her  belly.    “Maybe  even  Callaway.” 

Jax’s  eyebrows  shoot  up,   “Mr. Callaway?”

“Vince,”   says  Rob,   as  he  directs  them  to  the  double  exit  doors;    the  guard  at  the  desk  was  beginning  to  give  them  a  look  that  says  Please  Leave  Already,    “Mr.  Callaway  died  a  few  months  back.   Only  Natalie  and  Vince  now.”

That  information  seems  to  excite  Jax,   “That  means  Mrs.  Callaway  is  single!”

“Widowed.”

“So  she’s  lonely.”

Outside,    the  clouds  are  a  hollow  grey,    like  it’s  close  to  rain.   The  chill  is  more  pronounced  now,   not  enough  for  Veronica  to  see  her  breath  but  she  crowds  more  into  the  too - big  leather  jacket  of  Jacob’s  that  she  managed  to  swipe  this  morning  in  her  rush.     Rob’s  keys  are  jingling  in  his  hand,   she  can  hear  them  even  over  the  roar  of  her  ears.    Looking  back  at  the  prison,    how  it  stands  so  tall  and  indestructible,    she  feels  smaller  than  usual.     Wishing  she  could  take  a  bulldozer  and  smash  it  to  bits,    then  Dex  would  be  forced  to  come  home.

She  thinks  about  five  years  ago,    six  months  of  pure  Hell  in  juvie.   The  way  the  judge  had  stared  down  his  nose  at  her,    the  trembling  that  started  from  her  hands  and  up  her  stomach   as  she  filled  with  ice.    And  the  anguished  glance  she  remembered  casting  over  her  shoulder  to  her  foster  family;    beautiful  blonde - haired  Sasha  who  looked  as  helpless  as  she  did,    Nikki  who  refused  to  even  risk  a  glimpse  in  her  direction  and  checked  her  freshly  served  manicure  in  boredom,    and  Douglas  . . .  he  just  seemed  resigned,    like  this  was  all  inevitable,    like  those  nights  he  snuck  into  her  bed  throughout  the  last  nine  months  hadn’t  fucked  her  up  more  than  anything.

She  didn’t  have  anybody,   back  then.   Not  really.

Dex  was  there  though.   He  had  come  to  see  her  every  Friday   (  he  had  those  off  because  of  the  budgets  cuts  at  their  shitty  school   ),   told  her  about  what  was  going  in  class  and  how  gross  the  cafeteria  food  was,    and  how  Mr.  Rubio  had  him  pushing  shit  all  days  of  the  week.    There  were  moments,    from  what  Veronica  can  remember  of  that  blurred  timeline,   where  Dex  would  reach  across  the  little  plastic  table  the  guards  put  in  between  them  and  brush  his  fingers  on  the  back  of  her  hand.

What  could  she  do  for  him  now?   It’s  so  fucked.   How  could  Mr.  Rubio  even  think  he  could  make  it  here?   Jesus  Christ.

“Fuck’s  sake,”   Rob  mutters  suddenly,    his  tone  is  enough  to  pull  her  from  the  inside  of  her  head,     the  endless  abyss  that  it  is.     “What’s  he  doin’  here?”   He  and  Jax  both  have  their  backs  to  her  when  she  turns  to  face  them,    they’ve  come  to  a  slow  stop  at  the  edge  of  the  parking  lot.

From  the  wind,   Veronica’s  hair  casts  around  her  in  a  wild  array  of  reddish  -  brown,     like  the  flickering  flame  from  a  lighter.    It  blinds  her  for  a  moment,    she  has  to  tuck  it  behind  her  ears  to  see.    And  what  a vision  it  is,    Jacob  standing  there  by  his  too -  shiny - never - a - dent - in - sight  car,    leisurely  leaning  against  the  driver’s  door  and  sparking  a  cigarette  to  life.   

She’d  be  lying  if  she  said  her  breath  didn’t  stop  for  a  second.   From  relief?   She’d  been  thinking  of  him  for  the  last  four  hours,    and  he’d  appeared  out  of  thin  air.    Her  knees  lock,    just  to  keep  herself  from  barrelling  straight  towards  him  like  some  kind  of  idiot.

Rob  looks  back  at  her,    squinting  through  the  minimal  sunlight  that’s  shining  through  a  cloud,    “You  told  him  where  we  were  going?”   Not  really.    She  doesn’t  even  know  how  he  managed  to  find  out.    

She  was  in  a  hurry  this  morning,    itchy  and  irritable,    he’d  barely  gotten  three  words  out  of  her.    Besides  a  few  lingering  kisses  and  groping,    she  had  left  without  even  saying  goodbye,    and  figured  she  would  be  back  before  he  fully  woke  up.    That’s  her  fault  for  thinking  Jacob  was  anything  but  spontaneous.

“Jay!”   Jax  is  waving  an  arm  over  his  head,    like  an  excited  kid  that’s  being  picked  up  from  school  by  his  daddy.    “Hey!   When  did  you  get  here?   How’s  it  going,   man?”

Jacob  is  just  as  friendly,   with  a  smile  and  a  nod  of  his  head,   but  his  eyes  are  trained  firmly  on  the  girl  standing  slightly  behind  Rob.

Veronica  frowns  and  shrugs  one  shoulder,   “What,   you  think  I  invited  him  or  something?   It’s  not  a  slumber  party.”

“That  doesn’t  give  you,   I  don’t  know,   stalker  vibes?”   Rob  sounds  like  he’s  joking,   but  Veronica  knows  he’s  not,   from  the  face  he’s  making,   “Seriously,    the  guy’s  everywhere.”

She’s  walking  closer  with  Rob  and  Jax,    but  she’s  not  really  there.   It’s  fucking  weird  how  fast  the  tension  vanishes  around  her  hands  and  shoulders,    like  it  was  never  really  there  at  all.   And  then,   the  sound  of  his  voice,    “Took  y’long  enough,   huh?”

It  all  melts  away,    just  like  she  does  when  she’s  in  front  of  him.   He  gathers  her  up  like  she  bears  no  weight  at  all,    snaking  his  arms  around  her  waist  in  a  familiar  fashion.    She  doesn’t  have  the  energy  to  put  up  a  fuss  like  she  always  does,   instead  just  presses  her  face  into  his  jacket  and  inhales  deep,    his  cologne  is  a  sharp  smack  to  her  senses  and  she  burrows  further.

His  soft  laugh  rumbles  inside  of  his  chest  and  vibrates  beneath  her  cheek.    He  darts  one  hand  below  the  curtain  of  her  hair  and  rubs  her  back,   it’s  a  warm  and  comforting  weight,   like  a  blanket,    “Hey,  babe,”   he  says  into  her  ear,   pressing  his  lips  there  right  after,   “barely  gave  me  the  time  to  say  bye  to  you  this  morning,    ran  away  like  the  place  was  on  fire–”

She  kisses  him  quiet.  And  he’s  quick  to  respond,    all  warm  lips  and  daring  tongue,   lifting  his  hands  to  her  face  and  nape  to  pull  her  closer.   She’s  breathless  already,    heart  in  her  throat,    blaring  an  alarm  through  her  ears  over  and  over  that  sounds  a  lot  like  This  Is  Dangerous  You  Like  Him  Too  Much  It’s  Gonna  Hurt.   But  his  thumb  does  this  thing  where  it  brushes  and  presses  into  this  sensitive  spot  below  her  jaw,   and  she’s  moaning  into  his  mouth.

It’s  one  squeeze  to  her  ass  that  makes  Rob  start  complaining,   “Jesus.   Keep  it  in  your  pants,   Jacob.”

He  huffs  out  a  laugh  against  her  lips,    pulling  back  just  a  bit,   “You  think  I’m  the  one  over  here  y’should  be  sayin’  that  to?”   The  dark  brown  of  his  eyes  are  twinkling  diamonds,   full  of  life  and  ardor,    and  he’s  giving  her  this  look  like  he  can  see  right  through  her.    It  should  be  unnerving,    it  should  make  her  feel  fucked.   But  it  doesn’t.   “You  okay?”   He  breathes,    searching  now,   his  hands  dragging  down  to  her  shoulders  to  hold  each  firmly,    “Ronnie?”

She  almost  blurts  out  No No No I’m Freaking Out Dex Hates Me,   but  she  just  shrugs  off  his  touch  and  hides  in  her  hair,    ducking  from  his  short  -  lived  look  of  bemusement,   “It’s  fucking  freezing,”   she  mutters,   “Open  the  door.” 

Jax  and  Jacob  do  this  guy - handshake - thing,   they’ve  gotten  closer  over  the  months  and  she  can  tell  Rob  is  getting  perturbed  by  it.   He  makes  his  way  to  where  she  stands,   she  is  pulling  adamantly  at  the  passenger’s  door  handle,    and  says,   “So  yes  to  the  Vince  thing?”

“Vince?”   That  catches  Jacob’s  attention  from  whatever  Jax  had  been  babbling  about,   he  blows  smoke  out  through  his  nose  and  Rob  leans  away,   annoyed,   “Callaway?”

“Surprise,   surprise,”   The  sarcasm  couldn’t  be  any  thicker  on  Rob’s  tongues,   “You  would  know  who  he  is.”

“Mmmm,”   Jacob  smiles  and  cocks  his  head,    thumb  edging  along  his  eyebrow  as  it  jerks  up,   “Y’know  me,    Rob,   everybody  you  don’t  like,   I  gotta  know  ‘em  one  way  or  another.”

“Yeah,   funny,”   Rob  grumbles,    Veronica  yanks  harder  at  the  handle,    again  and  again,   hoping  Jacob  would  get  the  message  but  he’s  too  busy  having  some  kind  of  pissing  contest,   “Anyway,   I  can  get  in  contact  with  Vince.   Old  man  died  a  couple  months  ago,    maybe  he’ll  be  in  a  giving  mood.”

“If  it’s  anything  the  Callaway’s  are  good  for,   it’s  money  and  lawyers,”   Jax  says,   smiling  at  Jacob  even  though  he’s  speaking  to  Rob,    “It’s  like  getting  a  grant  or  something.   Whatever  strings  they  pull  will  help  Dex  out.”

Maybe  it’s  because  Veronica  knows  him  too  well  at  this  point,   but  Jacob  definitely  stiffens  at  the  mention  of  Dex.   He  takes  it  in  stride  though,   holding  smoke  through  his  teeth  and  letting  it  billow  out  in  loose,  cloud - like  tendrils.   It  curls  around  his  face,   but  his  eyes  are  on  Veronica  now,    staring  like  he  knows  something  she  doesn’t.

She  grimaces,   and  looks  away,   “Talk  about  it  some  other  time,”   she  says  to  Jax,   “Head  home,   I’ll  call  you  both  later.”    Once  again  shouldering  it  all  and  taking  the  leadership  position  since  all  they  can  seem  to  do  on  their  own  is  twiddle  their  thumbs  and  wait  for  a  plan.   “No  Vince  yet,   Dex’ll  kill  me  if  he  even  hears  his  name.”

“He's  still  pissed  about  that?”   Jax  asks,   eyes  big,   “Holy  shit,   I  totally  forgot.”

“What  happened?”   Jacob  doesn’t  look  terribly  interested,   but  he  isn’t  willing  to  drop  the  Dex  subject  just  yet.   As  if  waiting  for  one  of  them  to  slip  up  with  something,   something  he  can  pounce  on  and  prove  why  fucking  around  with  Dex  is  a  bad  idea,    which  he  won’t  stop  reiterating  by  the  way,   “Call  me  curious.”

“Dex  and  Vince  had  a  bad  run - in  couple  years  back,”   says  Rob,   despite  his  palpable  exasperation,   “Vee  is  the  only  one  who  managed  to  get  them  both  from  killing  each  other.    Lots  of  people  would  be  in  the  ground  if  not  for  her.” 

Jacob  cracks  another  grin,    but  it’s  as  sharp  as  a  knife,   “Yeah,   that  seems  to  be  a  runnin’  theme  around  here.”

There’s  some  silence  after  that,    Veronica  doesn’t  have  the  guts  to  lift  her  head.   Rob  is  the  one  who  crowds  closer  to  her,   one  hand  on  her  wrist,   “You  sure  you  don’t  want  to  ride  back  with  us?   We  can  grab  somethin’  to  eat  on  the  way.”    He  sounds  hopeful,   and  when  her  inky  stare  raises,    he’s  giving  his  good  -  natured  and  coaxing  smile.    Like  he  knows  she’s  full  of  nerves  and  he  wants  to  help  and  is  doing  it  in  the  only  way  he  knows  how.

He’s  such  a  jackass  sometimes.

“I’m  fine.”   Veronica  tells  him,   relieved  when  Jacob  finally  makes  a  move  in  their  direction,   effortlessly  forcing  his  way  in  between  them.   He  unlocks  the  door  and  opens  it  for  her.   Always  the  gentleman,   he  even  winks  at  her  as  she  climbs  inside.   She  tries  to  ignore  the  way  Rob’s  expression  drops,    but  fails.

A  few  more  words  are  exchanged  between  the  three,    Veronica  doesn’t  even  try  to  eavesdrop  and  listen  from  behind  the  window,   instead  blowing  warm  air  anxiously  into  her  hands.    Another  minute  or  two  before  Jacob  gets  inside  too,   with  a  quick  and  pointed  goodbye  only  at  Jax.    She  watches  through  the  windshield  as  they  disappear  into  Rob’s  beat - up  truck  with  no  problem  and  the  lights  flicker  on.

Jacob’s  engine  purrs  to  life  underneath  her,    and  he  pulls  out  of  the  prison’s  parking  lot  with  a  familiarity  of  his  vehicle  that  shouldn’t  seem  so  damn  attractive.    As  soon  as  they’re  on  the  road,   his  free  hand  settles  onto  her  thigh,   “Ron.”

“What.” 

“Someone’s  in  a  bad  mood.”

“Yeah.   Me.”

“That’s  funny.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t  know.    Just  feel  like  that  should  be  me.”

“Jacob.”

“Why  didn’t  you  tell  me  you  were  going  to  see  Dex?”   He  doesn’t  sound  pissed,    honestly  just  a  question,   but  still.    Her  hackles  raise,    shoulders  jerk  up  to  her  ears  and  she  shies  away  from  him.    His  grip  keeps  firm  though,    smoothing  over  her  knee  and  back  up.

“I  told  you  I  had  some  business.”

“How  pissed  at  me  would  you  be  if  I  said  just  business  and  left?”

“I  didn’t  leave–”

“You  left  and  didn’t  tell  me  anythin’,   Ron.   There’s  not  a lot  of  shit  people  can  do  to  drive  me  up  the  wall,    but  that’s  one  of  ‘em.”

“Sorry,   I  didn’t  realize  that  I have  to  run  everythin’  past y–”

“Oh,   sure,”    he’s  looking  at  her  and  she’s  trying  to  hide  in  her  hair  again,    because  looking  back  at  him  will  turn  her  into  easy - putty  like  earlier,   “That’s  bullshit,   Ronnie.    What  do  I  have  to  say  t’get  you  to  believe  that  I’m  on  your  side?   Only  your  side,   babe.”

Her  throat  closes  up,     through  the  shroud  of  her  hair,    she  looks  at  him,     cringing  in  her  own  skin  at  the  way  he  stares  at  her.    The  car  comes  to  a  slow  stall  on  the  side  of  the  dead  freeway.    It’s  one  second  of  her  sucking  her  lips  into  her  mouth  and  chewing  at  them  raw  before  tears  threaten  to  spill.    When  she  speaks,    she  doesn’t  sound  like  herself,   “I . . . I  don’t  know  what  the  fuck  I’m  gonna  do,    Jacob.”

His  mouth  presses  into  a  straight  line,   displeased,    as  one  tear  brims  over  and  escapes.    She  breathes  in  shakily,    attempts  her  best  at  gathering  herself  but  its  dumb  and  pointless  because  he’s  already  seen  all  he’s  need  to,   “Everything’s  gone  to  shit  and –  and  fuck,  y’know?    I’m  supposed  to  talk  to  Vince  now,    he  doesn’t  even  fucking  like  me,   he  looks  at  me  like  I’m  some  kind  of . . . I  just  can’t  let  Dex  rot  in  there.”

“He’s  a  fuckin’  dumbass,   Ron.   He  got  himself  in  that,   it  is  not – listen  to  me,”  he  speaks  over  her  and  takes  her  face  in  his  hands,    fingers  in  her  hair  and  breath  warm  on  her  skin,    “You  don’t  owe  them  shit.    My  girl  ain’t  a  fuckin’  errand  girl,   to  anyone.”

She  sniffles  pathetically,   or  it  sounds  pathetic  to  her,   “. . .  yeah?”

“Yeah.   Fuck  Dex.”

“But–”

“Fuck  him,   Ron,”   he’s  closer  now,    kisses  at  her  cheek  soundly  to  catch  another  teardrop  on  his  lips.    She  turns  her  head  and  catches  his  mouth,    open - mouthed  and  desperate  for  the  comfort  only  he  seems  to  give.   She’s  like  dry  leaves  that’s  been  thrown  to  a  bonfire,    she’s  quick  to  catch,     burning  for  him  when  his  hands  dip  under  her  borrowed  jacket  and  pulls  it  off.    

As  soon  as  her  arms  are  free,     she  swells,      affixed  to  the  potent  scent  of  his  cologne  and  shaving  cream,     cigarette  smoke  on  his  breath.     His  hair  slips  through  the  gaps  of  her  fingers  as  she  takes  handfuls,      urging  him  closer  until  she’s  in  the  driver’s  seat,     trapping  him  in  the  immovable  prow  of  her  hips  and  thighs.

Jacob  steals  her  breath  and  two  more  kisses  before  she’s  able  to  talk,     whispered  into  the  flesh  of  his  bottom  lip,     “I  really  have  to  do–”

“Shhh,”    he’s  telling  her,     his  breath  is  warm  and  moist  to  her  skin,     “I’m  gonna  handle  it.”    Kisses  slip  past  her  mouth  and  chin,     one  hand  rested  to  the  hip  and  smoothing  over  her  backside,    the  other  cradling  her  head,     he  bores  into  her  neck  with  lazy  passion,       tongue  at  her  racing  pulse  point.     “I’m  gonna  take  care  of  it.” 

Veronica  could  turn  into  a  puddle  at  his  feet,    just  from  the  reassurance  and  vehemence  in  his  voice.     Ardor  in  its  most  cardinal  form,   she  is  weak  -  willed  to  everything  that  is  Jacob.      If  only  things  were  that  simple,     if  only  she  could  let  him  do  just  that:     handle  it  all  for  her.     Could  she  put  that  much  trust  in  him?     When  was  the  last  time  she  rolled  over  to  reveal  her  belly,    much  less  her  throat?     

Somehow,     she  ends  up  in  the  backseat  of  his  car,     underneath  him,     the  sunlight  that’s  been  hidden  behind  the  clouds  all  day  long  is  shimmering  through  the  fogged  windows.    Her  legs  are  splayed  open,     wet  and  flushed  and  swollen  between  the  thighs,      more  than  ready  for  him  when  he  replaces  his  fingers  with  his  cock.      

She  feels  crazy,     to  be  this  lost  in  him.     

Jacob  brushes  her  hair  from  the  sweat  of  her  neck  and  forehead  so  their  eyes  can  meet,     and  just  from  one  look,    he  can’t  seem  to  keep  himself  from  kissing  her  again  and  again.     She  wants  to  hate  when  he’s  so  hands  -  on  especially  since  guys  all  her  life  just  stick  it  and  finish  within  minutes,     he  acts  like  he  wants  to  savor  and  enjoy  it  as  much  as  possible.

Veronica’s  orgasm  sneaks  up  on  her,     between  the  feel  of  his  lips  on  her  chest  to  the  heavy  weight  pressed  deep  inside  her,     any  will  to  hold  it  off  is  nonexistent.     She’s  left  gasping  around  two  of  his  fingers,     sucked  into  her  mouth  beforehand  to  touch  her  tongue,     only  salt  and  the  taste  of  her.     He  has  to  pull  out  and  empty  onto  her  stomach  when  he’s  finished,     she’s  too  blissed  -  out  to  care,     like  an  addict  without  her  fix,     clutching  onto  him  with  deft  fingers  and  clenched  calves  tangled  with  his.     They’re  a  mess  by  the  end  of  it,     she  can’t  tell  where  she  begins  and  he  ends.

“God,     you’re  perfect,”     Jacob  tells  her  in  a  whisper   –     after  over  ten  minutes  of  silence  she  had  almost  fallen  asleep.     “Wanna  stay  like  this  forever.”

He  sounds  as  if  he  were  talking  to  himself,    but  his  hand  traces  down  past  her  breast  and  takes  hers,    tangling  their  fingers  together  and  kissing  her  knuckles.    Veronica  swallows  thick,     she  has  to  open  her  eyes  to  look  at  him,    he’s  staring  back  already,    ghost  of  a  smile  visible  with  one  dimple  showing.    I  love  you,    his  face  says.

Veronica’s  heart  is  soaring,     “Me  too.”   Yeah.   I  know.

Exactly  one  week  later,     Dex  sits  up  to  a  door  being  open.    Doused  in  a  heavy  layer  of  filth  and  sweat,     he  glowers  through  the  dampened  curls  of  black  on  his  forehead,    all  bark  and  even  more  bite.     Three  guards  slink  into  the  narrow  space  of  his  cage  like  shadows,     obviously  giving  him  the  wordless  nudge  to  stand  but  he  doesn’t  move.

“What?”   Dex  hisses  into  the  dark.    Seven  days  of  no  answers,     just  thrown  into  solitary  with  nothing.    Everyone  here  is  just  a  blur  of  faces,     sometimes  the  guards  look  like  Rubio  but  that’s  just  his  anger  playing  tricks  on  him,    and  it  doesn’t  do  a  thing  besides  make  the  days  stretch  on  longer.    He  remembers  when  Jorge  told  him  the  shorter  the  sentence,     the  longer  it  feels.     Dex  just  never  thought  he’d  live  long  enough  to  actually  endure  any  of  it. 

He’s  forced  to  his  feet  with  a  yank  to  the  arm  that  just  fucks  up  his  shoulder.   He  swings  at  one,     and  they  all  pounce  as  if  that’s  the  shot  in  the  air  to  do  what  they  want.     His  head  is  pounding  when  they  cuff  him,   ears  so  filled  with  racing  blood  to  the  point  he  can  barely  hear  them  speaking.

Someone  is  muttering,     he’s  teasing  his  pristine  boot  into  Dex’s  side  as  if  he  wants  to  kick,    “. . .   sure  he’s  the  one?” 

“My  guy  don’t  give  me  the  wrong  names,”    this  one’s  accent  is  thick,     born  and  raised  in  the  South  Bronx.     “Get  ‘im  up  so  I  can  get  a  good  look  at  ‘im.”

“Yeah,    yeah,”     the  third  hefts  Dex  to  his  feet  again,    scowling  when  he  spots  blood  dribbling  from  his  nose  and  uses  a  rough  sleeve  to  wipe  it  away,    “Fuck’s  sake,   ease  up!    You  hit  the  guy  too  hard.” 

“My  bad,”    Mr.  Kicker  says,     but  doesn’t  sound  sorry  at  all.    The  tone  is  enough  to  make  Dex  whip  his  head  around  and  chuck  spit  in  his  direction,    caring  the  least  bit  when  it  misses.    Kicker  laughs,    and  all  Dex  can  think  about  is  if  his  hands  were  free  and  this  was  the  ring,    Kicker  wouldn’t  be  the  one  finding  shit  funny,    “You  got  a  visitor  today.” 

Dex  barely  manages  to  grunt,   “Thought  my  visits  were  revoked.”

“It’s  your  lucky  day,    you  got  ‘em  back.”

They  take  him  out  of  the  cell  and  into  the  hallway,     where  other  isolated  prisoners  begin  banging  on  the  doors  and  walls  when  they  hear  the  jingle  of  guard  keys,     they’re  like  wild  animals  desperate  to  be  free  and  willing  to  do  anything  for  it.     It’s  just  walking  and  more  walking   –   solitary  is  further  off  from  the  prison,    and  he’s  tucked  inside  of  the  work  van  to  cart  him  back  like  luggage.    There,    he’s  surrendered  to  two  new  guards,     but  Kicker  remains.

It’s  way  too  early  to  allow  him  free  -  roam,    so  something  must  be  up.     Maybe  Rubio  pulled  some  strings.     Or  Vee  finally  came  to  her  senses  and  talked  to  a  lawyer  or  something.     He  could  kiss  her  next  time  he  saw  her,     wherever  they’re  taking  him  he  hopes  she  is  there.    Anything  to  rid  his  mind  of  the  last  memory  he  has  of  her  that  flashes  behind  his  lids  whenever  he  chooses  to  close  his  eyes.    

How  scared  she  had  looked  in  that  moment.    Mouth  slightly  ajar,    staring  at  him  with  fluttering  eyelashes,    like  she  couldn’t  really  understand  what  she  was  seeing.     Like  he  wasn’t  really  him.    When  did  the  distance  between  them  become  so  far?    Few  months  ago,    he  could  barely  remember  the  details  of  her  face   ( from  all  the  non  -  stop  matches  his  cousins  put  him  in,    he  was  scared  the  fists  were  going  beat  the  image  out  his  head ).     Her  brown  eyes  that  seem  so  large  up  -  close,     the  fullness  of  her  lips  and  the  way  she  chews  them,     the  soft  tawny  of  her  skin,     the  almost  -  flame  likeness  of  her  hair  and  the  moths  it  attracts.     

Like  that  fucking  Russian.    His  blood  burns  hot  just  thinking  of  him.    How  could  someone  like  Vee  even  get  caught  up  in  shit  like  that?    At  first,    he’d  believed  her  when  she  said  that  it  was  all  some  mistake,    Ben  and  Charlotte  were  dead  and  she  ran  out  of  places  to  go.    But  now  with  the  Italians,   he  can’t  help  but  wonder  just  what  other  stories  she’s  flipped.

Veronica  is  family.    Veronica  is  blood.    Yeah,    so  is  Mr.  Rubio.

A  buzzer  goes  off,    when  Dex  blinks  he  realizes  he’s  in  the  visiting  area.    The  latch  unlocks  and  the  door  is  opened.   And  right  across  the  room,    behind  the  glass,    holding  the  phone  and  looking  up  expectantly  is  Jacob.    The  fucking  rat.

Dex  sneers  his  top  lip  and  turns,    only  for  Kicker  to  stop  him  and  spin  him  around,     practically  forcing  him  into  the  opposite  seat.    Kicker  nods  at  Jacob,   he  tips  his  chin  back  in  return.    Dex’s  stomach  is  churning.    Italians  don’t  just  run  the  sewer  lines,    they’re  in  the  prisons  as  well.     

He  doesn’t  touch  the  phone.    In  fact,    he  glares  at  it  like  it’s  got  some  kind  of  disease.   Jacob  smiles  at  him,    all  easy,    “Pick  it  up,”    he  says,    muffled,    “You’ll  wanna  hear  this.”

Dex’s  jaw  clenches  so  tight  that  it  makes  his  head  hurt  worse.     Deliberately  slow,    he  reaches  out  and  does  what  he’s  told,    keeping  eyes  to  Jacob,    watching  as  that  creepy  smile  only  widens,   “Fuck’re  you  doing  here?”

“Thought  I  would  come  visit,   I  know  y’ve  been  dyin’  to  see  me,”    he  replies,   and  exchanges  a  glance  with  Kicker,     as  if  to  let  him  know  it's  fine  and  he  doesn’t  need  to  hover,    which  he  heeds  and  goes  to  his  corner  to  watch.     “How’s  the  nose?”

“Fuck  you,”   Dex  snaps,    red  -  faced.    Behind  Jacob,    there’s  another  guy  looking  eerily  similar  in  facial  features.    Dark  clothes  and  hair,     fiddling  with  a  pack  of  cigarettes.    It  doesn’t  take  a  genius  to  see  that  they’re  related.    

“C’mon,    Dex.     Let’s  try  t’  hav’a  civilized  conversation  here,”   Jacob  says,    “I  don’t  wanna  fight  and  you  can’t,    so  let’s  talk.” 

“Talk  about  what?   I  got  nothin’  to  say  to  you.” 

“Got  plenty  t’say  to Ron  though,    right?”   Jacob’s  eyebrows  lift  and  wrinkle  his  forehead.    If  Dex  knew  him  better,    he  probably  could’ve  picked  up  on  the  annoyance  there.     

“Her  name’s  Vee.   Veronica.   You  got  fuckin’  braincells  or  are  all  o’you  rats  the  same?”

Jacob  ignores  that,    “You  need  me  in  this  situation,   man.    Not  the  other  way  around,”    When  Dex  opens  his  mouth  to  rebuff,    he  keeps  going,    smooth   as  ever,     “Your  Uncle’s  not  gonna  bail  y’out.    We  both  know  that.     You’re  lookin’  at  a  fifteen  year  sentence  if  your  man  doesn’t  pull  through,    maybe  even  more  dependin’  on  how  this  goes.”     From  his  spectator  view  by  the  door,     Kicker  laughs.

“I  don’t  need  any  help  from  you.    And  if  you  think  I’m  gonna  take  it,    then–”     He  doesn’t  even  get  the  chance  to  finish,    his  anger  is  thick,     almost  potent  in  the  air  around  them.    His  hands  are  shaking,    he  has  to  tighten  the  one  around  the  phone  to  gather  himself,    “Did  Vee  send  you?”

Jacob  is  busy  staring  at  him  like  a  science  project,    analyzing  him  to  store  for  later,    “Y’could  say  that.”

“I  don’t  need  hand  -  outs.”

“Gonna  rot  in  ‘ere  if  y’don’t  get  one,”    He  waves  a  hand  at  Dex  before  he  can  interrupt  and  leans  back  into  his  seat,     “Hear  me  out   :   you  got  somethin’  I  want.   And  I  got  somethin’  y’want.” 

Dex  flexes  his  jaw,    the  room  feels  too  stuffy,     “. . .  What  is  it?” 

Jacob  slightly  turns  and  meets  the  eye  of  his  companion,    who  has  been  quiet  for  just  about  the  entire  thing.    Dex  takes  a  good  long  look  at  him  while  they’re  both  distracted   –   definitely  related,    no  question  about  it.     Brother?   Cousin?   What  the  fuck’s  his  name?     Jacob  looks  back  at  him,     “I  can  get  you  outta  here.    Easy,    no  problem.     No  Callaways,    no  money.   Nothin’.    Could  even  have  you  out  by  the  end  of  th’  month.”

Dex  eyes  him,    and  then  his  brother -  cousin,    who  keeps  staring  back  impassively.    His  legs  are  jiggling,    like  he  can’t  wait  to  leave.    Dex  either.    “No  money?    Bullshit.” 

Jacob  grins  this  time,    but  it  looks  rude  almost.     “No  money.”

“Fuckin’  what,   then?”

“This  is  one  chance,    one  deal,    Dex.   You  could  take  it  and  be  a  free  man,”     Despite  his  smile,     Jacob  looks  as  dangerous  as  ever.   “I  want  you  t’leave.”

“Leave?”

“After  you’re  out,    you  get  the  fuck  outta  dodge.    Leave  the  state,    don’t  come  back.    I  don’t  care  about  your  friends  or  your  family  or  whatever  the  fuck  else.     You  pack  your  shit  and  I  don’t  see  you  again.     And  neither  does  Veronica.”    Dex  can’t  help  but  laugh,    it’s  a  mocking  sound,     almost  malicious.    Jacob  just  stares  at  him,    cocking  his  head,    “Somethin’  funny?” 

“That’s  what  this  is  about?”   Even  with  his  bloodied  nose  and  his  concussion,    he  still  finds  humor  in  it  all.   The  guy  behind  Jacob  is  busy  clicking  his  teeth  in  annoyance  by  the  time  Dex  continues,    “You  don’t  want  me  around  Vee,    that’s  it?   I  don’t  know  what  she’s  told  you  ‘bout us,”    he  talks  over  Jacob  going  “everything”  and  keeps  going,   “But  there’s  no  Vee  without  me.    Fuck,   she  must  be  desperate.   I  can’t  believe  she’s  got  y’down  here beggin’ –”

Jacob  stands.    It’s  without  warning  and  shuts  Dex  up  instantly.    He’s  turning,    as  if  he’s  ready  to  leave,    his  guy  does  the  same.    

“Hey!   What  the  fuck–”   Kicker  moves  up  behind  him,    gripping  underneath  his  arm  and  preparing  to  heft,    “Wait,  wait!    Just  fuckin’  wait.”    And  Jacob  looks  at  him,    disinterested,     an  eyebrow  jerked  up  in  question,    “Wait,   okay?”

With  a  wave  of  his  hand,    Kicker  backs  off  and  Jacob  returns  to  his  seat.   Brother  -  cousin  stays  standing  and  props  up  against  the  wall  to  watch  with  interest.     Phone  flat  to  his  ear  again,    Jacob  gazes  at  him  with  all  the  calm  in  the  world.

He  feels  like  there’s  something  hot  in  his  stomach,    like  burning  coal.    He  can’t  be  sure  if  he’s  going  to  blow  chunks  onto  the  glass  or  try  and  break  it  like  last  time.    Dex  imagines  his  hands  around  his  throat,    and  the  image  in  mind  flickers  from  Jacob’s  face  to  Rubio’s  over  and  over  again.    Blood  is  in  his  mouth  now,    the  flavor  almost  tastes  amicable,    he’s  tearing  his  teeth  into  his  tongue  hard  enough  for  it  to  pool.    Everything  about  this  goes  against  what  he  knows,     Vee  had  to  have  known  that.     Was  he  really  so  out  of  options  that  this  was  all  she  could  turn  to?    It’s  a  surprise,    to  know  that  she’d  swallowed  her  pride  for  this,    probably  opened  her  legs  too.

He  wants  to  kill  something.

“Vee  is  loyal  to  a  fault,   did  you  know  that?    She  won’t  let  me  leave.   Does  she  even  know  you’re  here?”

Jacob  looks  like  he  wants  to  laugh  this  time,    but  instead  he  just  shrugs  noncommittally,   looks  down  at  his  free  hand  and  doesn’t  say  anything.

“What  happens  if  I  don’t  take  the  deal?”

“Well,”   he  gestures  just  beyond  Dex’s  shoulder,     to  where  Kicker  stands,   impatiently  waiting  and   drooling  at  the  chance  practically.     “Y’stay  here.   Live  out  y’r  sentence.   Or  not.”    There’s  a  gleam  in  his  eye  now,    as  if  he  knows  something  Dex  doesn’t.   “You  leave  Veronica  alone.   No  more  of  your  bullshit  you  keep  dragging  her  into,     no  more  fuckin’  her  over.    You  two  are  done  after  this.    Don’t  even  tell  ‘er  you’re  leavin’.    Capiche?” 

Who  does  he  think  he  is,    Dex  thinks  to  himself.    Dex  and  Vee,    that’s  who  they  are  and  have  always  been.    You  don’t  get  one  without  the  other.    Maybe  in  some  fucked  -  up  world  where  nothing  made  sense,    but  not  in  this  one.    Sometimes,    he  wonders  just  how  differently  everything  would  have  played  out  if  he  took  Veronica  as  his  woman  and  not  Nixie.    He  wouldn’t  be  here,    that’s  for  damn  sure.    And  she  wouldn’t  be  following  this  group  of  rats  around  town.     He’s  kind  of  wishing  that  they  were  kids  again.

He’s  silent,    clenching  and  unclenching  his  fingers  around  the  phone,    the  buzzing  of  the  lights  overhead  the  only  sound.   That  and  the  guy  behind  Jacob  flickering  the  lid  of  his  lighter,    open  and  then  closed.   

“That  it?” 

“And  you  don’t  come  back.   Ever.”

“Fuck  you.” 

“Or,    at  least,    ‘til  I  say  so,”   he  lifts  one  of  his  shoulders  again,    whether  he  takes  the  deal  or  not  means  nothing  to  him.    He’ll get  his  way  regardless,    he  seems  the  type.    He  takes  a  glance  up  towards  him,    through  his  thin lashes,     gauging  Dex’s  reaction.    “I’d  hate  y’to  pass it  up.”   No,   he’d  love  it.    He  would  love  every  second  of  it.    One  of  these  guards  that  work  for  him  would  make  Dex’s  life  a  living  hell.    Or  they’d  stick  him  in  the  east  wing,    where  people  are  more  likely  to  be  stabbed  than  anything.      He’s  got  a  target  on  his  back,    and  he’s  had  it  since  he  stepped  foot  in  the  joint.    

Vee’s  face  is  back  again,    playing  on  loop   –  her  eyes  full  of  tragedy,    her  scent  of  smoke  and  shampoo,    the  whisper  of  her  hair  in  the  peripheral.    For  years,    it’s  haunted  him,      ever  since  he  met  her.     Just  a  wild  and  thick  mess  of  tangled  curls,     brown  and  orange  and  red.     He  misses  her,     more  than  the  outside  of  these  walls,     more  than  his  own  mother .    And  he  looks  back  at  Jacob,    the  obstacle  in  his  path  among  many,    who  doesn’t  even  know  half  of  it.    

“Well?   What’s  it  gonna  be?”

Dex’s  voice  comes  out  as  a  rumble,    “It’s  a  deal.”

This  isn’t  over,    he  thinks,    taking  one  look  from  the  brother  -  cousin  and  circling  back  to  Jacob.   Kicker  checks  over  his  cuffs  to  make  sure  they’re  locked  tight,    shoving  him  from  the  room  and  into  the  hall.     When  Dex  looks  back,    Jacob  is  standing,    exchanging  some  words  with  his  guy.    At  the  same  moment,   he  lifts  his  chin  to  meet  Dex’s  stare  through  the  glass.    Not  by  a  long  shot.

[unpopcorned]

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                          I think I’m losing my mind                                                       Trying to stay inside the lines

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The phone rings and keeps ringing until it stops. Machine answers, familiar voice next. Jonah sighs. 

From behind him, Jax asks, “Got anything?” 

Jonah looks up, even through the shoddy, fingerprint-covered mess of the phone-booth’s glass, he can make out the mess of blonde curls and bright eyes. Jax is bouncing in place, impatient and glancing over his shoulder every couple seconds.

Jonah decides to hang up the phone, letting it clatter and dangle on the hook. Such an old thing, there’s grime caking the numbers. A light drizzle greets him when he leaves the phone-booth, he doesn’t bother lifting his hood, glancing up towards the darkening clouds. 

There’s no stars out tonight, if it weren’t for the neon pink lights of CRUISIN’ shining down on them, there would be no way to see at all. 

“Nah,” Jonah says, sighs again. It’s all he seems to be doing as of late. “They must not be back yet.” 

“Yeah,” Jax hesitates, “Wanna go back inside?” 

“Sure.” 

Jonah wishes he could calm his nerves, Jax goes out of his way to throw his arm out and wrap it around his shoulders, like he’s trying to make Jonah feel better. He appreciates it, leans into his side gradually. 

It’s the weekend, so it’s not like CRUISIN’ is missing any patronage. The place is filled to the brim with people. Usually, the locals come  —  mainly teenagers or twenty-somethings, rent their skates, order a few drinks, or try their hand at the old-as-dirt arcade games. Dark purple casts all over the room, save for the flashing neon every other moment. Jax seems as if he’s right in his element, and Jonah can’t wait to leave. 

Don’t get him wrong, he’d offered to come. It’s usual for business. And Gus works here, so Asher and Tate and Fitz get in free. Jonah has always been a homebody, even more so over the last couple days, burying himself in his studies. Jax had been the one to force him out of the house, practically tugging on his arm to pull him off the couch. 

“Look, there’s V!” Jax has to shout in Jonah’s ear to be heard over the loud bass of the speakers, shaking the walls each time the tempo speeds up, “She looks pissed.” 

Yeah, she does. When they get closer, Jonah is able to see she’s talking to someone, almost spitting her words, eyes narrowed and mouth deep-set. It’s Melody, who’s rolling her eyes and shifting her weight onto one foot. Of course, she’d be the only one brave enough to go toe-to-toe with Veronica. 

“--told you we’re not taking anymore of that shit. Some kid OD’d in the fucking bathroom last month,” Melody is saying, eyebrows creased, “No more laced shit, got it?” 

“Maybe you should be more careful,” Veronica replies, flippant and annoyed, “Stop sellin’ to kids. Ever thought of that?” 

“They’re most of our customers, in case you haven’t noticed,” Melody leans closer, “And we don’t sell to them unless they’re over fifteen.” 

Veronica scoffs, “Yeah, real fuckin’ smart--” 

“Hey, hey,” Jax breaks in, leaving Jonah’s side to try and simmer the flames between the two girls, “What did Rob say? No fightin’ before he got here.” 

Veronica rolls her eyes, Melody backs off. With a flip of her blonde hair  -  never mind that she almost smacks Veronica in the face with it  -  she turns on her heels, “I’ll go let Mr. A know you’re here.” Her voice is very sing-songy, the exact opposite of before, sarcastic twist to her lips.

Veronica is left staring after her, Jonah can’t help but think Veronica’s eyes could burn a hole into someone’s head or scare Death himself if she tried hard enough. She could be really scary when she wanted to be. 

She looks to Jonah and Jax next, eyebrows lifting faintly. “You talk to ‘em?” 

“Nobody answered,” Jonah shrugs his shoulders, his voice might sound a little more down than usual. He adds, unsure, “What if something happened?” 

Veronica makes a face at him, “Oh, Christ. Don’t do that. Don’t do that - worried thing. Trust me, I know better outta anybody, those idiots can take care of themselves.” 

A couple of teenagers skate past them, full of laughter and shouting. It’s hard to make out any faces in the limited lighting, though. Veronica is always on edge, even more so without a certain someone by her side, clicking her teeth out of annoyance. 

“Great. Just fuckin’ great. So I gotta deal with these assholes on my own, huh?”

“Don’t worry, you got us!” Jax pulls Jonah closer by the shoulders again, Jonah is able to get a whiff of light sweat and hairspray, “We’re behind you one-hundred-percent, V!” 

“Shut up.” 

“C’mon, V, don’t be so--ow!” 

She swats at his arm before he can rope her into the one-armed hug, just as Jonah. Jonah only watches the two of them bicker for a second or two before William is joining them, in his usual skates and rainbow hoodie, gesturing all over the place once he’s close enough. 

“Yo, ya’ll hear them tunes? Fuckin’ with my whole vibe out here, man,” William’s complaining, readjusting his glasses, “Weak, I’m tellin’ you. My cousin runs a side hustle, could’ve totally hooked Mr. A with some sick--” 

“Hey,” Veronica isn’t in the mood, she still has a tight grip on Jax’s wrist and is twisting it little by little, “Pay attention. Focus. I don’t have time for--” 

“I’m focused, V,” William breaks in, all smiles now, even with her crass attitude, “Don’t be mad, mami. Y’know I got your back when Jay ain’t here.” 

Veronica lets go of Jax when he begins whining, curling himself backwards behind Jonah as some type of shield, “That’s what bothers me.” 

Jonah feels like sighing again. Maybe he shouldn’t have come after all. And of course, William notices, leaning closer to him when Veronica attention is diverted. He picks up his eyebrows, purses his lips in that annoying and cute way of his, practically begging Jonah to spill with his expression alone. 

Jonah almost smiles. Almost. “Just worried.” 

“Don’t be, man,” William says, like it’s so easy, “I got you.” He nudges his elbow into Jonah’s side, encouraging in his own way. 

Veronica is the first to move towards the concession area when something catches her eye, and they’re all forced to follow. Jonah’s steps are shuffling and slow, glancing towards the EXIT sign every few seconds, as if he expects something. Constance is running the concession stand tonight  ---  mainly the place to trade your money in for tickets or to get a cheap snack. Among other things. 

Sabryna is there too, seated in the corner, flipping a magazine and feet propped up. She barley looks up when two teenagers approach the stand, patting their pockets and looking nervous. Constance notices them, blows a big fat bubble in their faces when they hand over a wad of cash. 

Sucking it in thereafter, she squares them both with a sharp look, “How old’re you, kid?” 

The first boy withers under her stare, “F-Fifteen.” 

“Mhm,” she blows another bubble, pressing a few buttons on the register so it falls open, tossing the money inside and handing over his change. Once she’s finished, Constance slides across a baggy, “Careful with this, got it?”

The two teenagers nod, run off with their purchase. Constance can only shake her head, attention shifting when she notices Veronica out of the corner of her eye. Marginally, her expression becomes less hostile, weight leaning against the counter.

“Hey, Veronica,” She draws out her name, that only makes Veronica cross her arms over her chest, “Where’s your boy-toy?” 

“Ha,” Veronica says, “How much’re you sellin’ that shit for?” 

“Don’t worry, we’re not dubbing your prices,” Constance says, not at all offended, “Mr. A actually wanted to go higher.” 

“You’re supposed to be talkin’ to him today, right?” Sabryna asks from the corner, looking up from her magazine briefly, “He’s in a bad mood.” 

Constance nods, “Definitely.” 

Veronica’s nose wrinkles up, “Fuck’s he gotta be upset for? Stickin’ my neck out far ‘nough for the guy.” 

“Bet’cha you won’t say it to his face,” Sabryna sing-songs, snorting, “White girls all bark and no bite.” 

“‘Ey, don’t be talkin’ about my girl V like that,” William says, leaning far over the counter to frown at Sabryna, which she only sticks her tongue out at, “Got bigger balls than yo’ mans.”

Sabryna flips him off, Constance looks tempted to laugh. 

“I’m here, I’m here!” Cory burst in, wet curls from the rain, shaking it out and causing Sabryna to squeal and jump from her seat, ducking out through the way he came. Constance grimaces at him, but puts up no fuss, “Sorry, I’m late. All the talking literally kills me.” 

“Break up with him, then,” Constances tells him, twirling her gum around and around her index finger, “You have the patience of a saint.” 

“I hate being single,” Cory is whining while he bends down behind the counter, plucking up a crate and setting it atop. He doesn’t get a chance to rifle through it, however, his attention is on Jonah, even though he’s been quiet throughout, “Jonah! You look cute today.” 

Jonah blinks, looks down at himself. He was rushed out of the house, so he’s not wearing anything particularly special. One of Vito’s hoodies, some old jeans and sneakers. But still, he says, “Thanks.” 

Cory balances his chin into his hand, ignoring the look William is giving him, eyes set on Jonah, “Are you seeing anyone? Please say no.” 

“The answer is always the same,” William grouses, “Don’t know why yo’ass keeps--” 

“I’m seeing someone,” Jonah says, goodnaturedly, almost looks apologetic when Cory’s expression crumbles, always melodramatic, “Sorry.” 

“Geez. You never make time for me.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

William is still going, “You not his type anyway--” 

“Hey,” Constance says, “You’re scaring off my customers,” She’s pointing past them, where a threesome has stopped to linger by the stand, appearing anxious to step any closer, “Flirt somewhere else.” 

“I’m not some errand girl,” Veronica looks annoyed again, her arms tight across her chest, jaw locked, “Mr. A wants to see me, needs to make time. I ain’t waitin’ around for anybody.” 

“Melody will come get you when he’s ready,” Constance is quick to reassure after she finishes with her customers. Cory holds out the tip jar, the metallic sound of coins hitting the bottom of the glass, “Relax, Veronica.” 

“Yeah, your vibe is totally killing the mood,” Cory purses his lips, “Wanna freebie?” 

“Do I want the shit I just sold you?” Veronica sneers, “No.” With that, she turns and walks away, Jonah doesn’t hesitate to follow after her. William only stays to poke more fun at Cory, Jax eager to take up the freebie offer. 

The music is able to drown out mostly everything, but Jonah can hear Veronica mumbling beneath her breath, shoulders lifted up to her ears defensively, even more tense than her usual self. She half-turns to Jonah, eyes scanning the crowd, “You sure nobody answered? Did it just - go to voicemail or somethin’?” 

Jonah’s stomach is twisting, expression falling by only a small degree. He tries his best to keep his expression in check, “They’re usually back within a couple days, right?” 

Veronica shrugs, “Depends. Rudy can be a real fuckin’ asshole when no one’s keepin’ him in check.” 

“He’s . . . something.” 

“Always talkin’.” 

“It never stops.” 

“For such a big guy, you’d think he’d know when to shut the fuck up. Nah, he’s like one of those . . . yappin’ dogs.” 

Jonah smiles at her, withdrawn but still there, “It’s hard not to love him.” 

“Yeah,” Veronica’s only quiet for a small moment, “He’s still an asshole. Don’t know why Vito puts up with him. ‘Specially after all the shit.” 

Ah, yeah. Maybe Jonah’s heart can just be a bit too big sometimes, but he was never angry with Rudy, not for that. Understands his reaction in a way, because he’s had it happened to him before. The anger and confusion that comes with it. Sometimes, he worries for Vito even more than he lets on, with his family and friends and peers, people who could look at him differently just because Jonah remains beside him. 

He shoots Veronica another smile, grabbing a hold of the rink’s railing and leaning back a little, “Rudy’s a lovable sort of guy.” 

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Jonah didn’t say that. Neither did Veronica. 

She’s the first to turn towards the sound of the voice, but arms slip around her waist, pulling her back and she’s quick to melt into the embrace. Even so, she puts forth her most grumpy voice when she says, “What took you so long, asshole? Gonna give me a fuckin’ heart attack.” 

“Aw, Ron,” Jacob rests his chin on her shoulder, pressing his nose into the curve of her jaw, kissing there, “Didn’t know you cared so much.” 

“Fuck you. Jonah called your place and you didn’t answer.” 

“Just got back.” 

Veronica tilts her head a bit, “Somethin’ happen?” To which Jacob whispers something in her ear, Jonah is unable to make out through the music and limited lights. Veronica nods though and rubs his wrist. 

But if Jacob is here, that means --- 

“Where’s Vito?” Jonah can’t help but ask, lighting up at just the thought, “Is he here? Did he come with you?” 

Jacob seems amused with his excitement, tightening his arms around Veronica and rocking the two of them lightly. With one finger, he points over the way, past the rink and the crowd of teenagers strapping on their skates, “Yeah. He was lookin’ for you, back over there.” 

Jonah is polite enough to excuse himself at least, but it comes out pretty rushed. He speed-walks in the direction Jacob said, shouldering his way past others, mumbling apologies when he’s given dirty looks. It doesn’t take long to find Vito in the crowd, though  ---  he’s taller than most, appears completely out of place. He spots Jonah coming and they meet halfway, Jonah throwing his arms around him once he’s close enough. 

They talk at the same time. 

“I’m sorry--” 

“I was so worried--” 

Vito stops, “You--” 

“No, you first.” 

He fumbles with his words for a second or two, before he leans down and kisses Jonah. And Jonah is quick to oblige, hands lifting to cradle his face, pulling him in deeper. Music seems to dull, people disappear, all he can focus on is Vito in moments like these. It feels like coming home, every time, welcomed by his scent and voice and touch. 

“I’m sorry,” Vito says again when they part, pressing one more kiss to the corner of Jonah’s mouth, “Sorry, Jonah.” 

“It’s okay, I’m just happy to see you,” he says, he threads fingers through Vito’s hair, it’s getting longer than usual and a bit damp from the rain, “You said you’d be back yesterday and I just--” Vito kisses him again, gentle as ever, “I missed you.” 

“I thought you’d be mad at me.” 

Jonah blinks, incredulous sort of smile on his lips, “Why would I be mad?” 

“’Cause,” Vito backs up some, maybe only an inch or two between them, but Jonah keeps a tight grip on his shoulders, feeling them tense underneath his fingers, “The whole...Texas thing. When you went to get your award and those professors were bein’ so - that fuckin’ word you used---” 

“Supercilious.” 

“Yeah, bein’ fuckin’ assholes to you. The whole time. I didn’t mean--” 

“That’s why you left with Manuel after we got back?” Jonah had wondered if things felt off, but hadn’t thought anything of the trip. He doesn’t blame Vito for being defensive and hostile around people who think they’re smarter and better than others, it was kind of hard to keep reminding even himself of that. “I thought you were mad at me. ‘Cause I made you come with--” 

Vito’s eyes are wide now, disbelief visible on his face, “No. No, Jonah. Shit. Fuckin’ - sorry. I didn’t think--” This time, Jonah kisses him quiet, a soft press of his lips, reassuring in every way possible. 

Unfortunately, Jax had went out of his way to come and find them, clearing his throat loudly to gain their attention. Jonah can only turn his head, flashing a quick smile, relieved, “Vito’s here.” 

“I can see that,” Jax says, greeting Vito softly, which Vito ignores for whatever reason, “Veronica’s leaving with Jay.” 

Jonah pulls away from his boyfriend, but Vito’s arms keep tight around his waist, unwilling to let him go fully, “Why? What happened?” 

Jax shrugs one shoulder, appearing nervous, “Said they had somethin’ to take care of. Looked pretty important, I think.” 

Vito snorts into Jonah’s ear, “Sure.” 

Jonah occupies himself by playing with Vito’s fingers, noting the caked grease underneath the nails, can’t help but wonder just what he’d done while he was gone. But he won’t ask, he allows Vito to slowly open up whenever he prefers. It works better that way than to ask the endless amount of questions that pop into Jonah’s head at random. Tenderly, he kisses the knuckles of Vito’s hand, right on the scar there that stretches a few inches  -  perhaps from an accident or a fight. 

“Rob should be here any minute,” Jax blabbers, he ducks his head whenever he meets Vito’s eye for too long  -  Jonah gives them both a confused glance, “He’s gonna talk to Mr. A for us.” 

Jonah suggests, “We can just ask Tripp--”

“Don’t think so,” The blond shakes his head fast, stringy blond curls everywhere with each movement, “Rob and Tripp had a fight.” 

“When?” 

“Couple days ago. I don’t think they’re talkin’.” 

“Great,” Vito huffs again, shifting one hand into his pocket and letting Jonah hold the other, “Just great.” 

“Okay,” Jonah’s tone is subdued, thinking, “Okay, we’ll just wait then.” 

And they do wait. Turns out Jax was right: Rob is in a horrible mood about something and it shows. His shoulders are hunched in, he doesn’t look like he’s slept, and he glares whenever one of them speak. William is the only one who can’t take a hint, he keeps talking, even when Rob disappears into Mr. A’s office without a word. 

“What the fuck is up with him?” William complains, irritated, “Would rather deal wit’ V if he gonna be like that. Fuck ‘im.” 

“He’s goin’ through some stuff,” In the short amount of time, Jax has managed to acquire a slurpee, sucking at the straw eagerly, “Go easy on him.” 

“I’ll kick his ass.” 

“William,” Jonah scolds, but it holds no scorn, William merely grins at him, “Don’t be a jerk.” 

“You’re in a better mood,” William ignores him, using his chin to gesture towards Vito, who’s standing off to the side but never too far away from Jonah, “Boyfriend come t’save the day?” 

Jonah glances over in his direction, and then back to William, lowering his voice. “I don’t like when he goes on ‘jobs’ with Rudy.” 

William looks curious, interested. 

“He’s . . . difficult. Vito complains about it all the time.” 

“Maybe Vito should stop doin’ ‘jobs’ then.” 

Jonah sets his jaw, one more look taken towards Vito. This time, Vito catches him staring and smiles a little. Even with the limited lighting, Jonah is able to make out the different browns and hazels in his eyes, “Maybe.” 

But then he thinks of Felicity, her offer, her price. He’s not short on money or anything, but . . . the things he could learn. His mother had always told him he was a lot like his father, always grabbing for any information he could get, here or there. Compared them often to Hungry-Hungry Hippos, they’d stay up all night reading and stretching out maps and researching whatever suddenly interested the two of them. 

Jonah wants to learn more, wants to be more. He’s good at what he does, wishes other people could see it. Not Veronica and Rob’s loose change, but something else. 

He shakes his head to himself, he shouldn’t think like that. Ever. Vito had already told him his concerns, cast the idea aside like it was nothing, fiercely protective when he has no reason to be. He supposes he can see his side, given the recent circumstances and difficulties of this business, but Jonah himself never puts up a fuss when Vito has to suddenly leave, or when Veronica takes him out in the middle of the night for ‘something’, or when he’s gone for days on end without an update. 

He worries, a lot. And he’s painstakingly lonely when he’s away. Which seems to be more often, ever since word of Dex being back in town flooded. 

"What’re you guys doing here?” It’s a new voice, but familiar. Sydney stands to the side, Falen next to him, both looking thoroughly confused to see them all. “Can you not take a hint?” 

William is already pushed off the wall before anyone can say anything, “Chill the fuck out, white boy. Just here to see your boss--” 

Sydney looks pretty pissed, and menacing. Even in his light-up skates and sweater with a giant heart on the front, “Good. Maybe he can finally tell you the news.” 

Jonah blinks, “News?” 

“We’re not dealing with Veronica or Rob anymore,” Falen says, there’s a Blow-Pop in her hand that she uses to gesture towards the group, “After what happened.” 

“What happened?” 

Sydney shrugs, looks the least bit intimidated with Vito stepping closer and William glaring at him, “After he says whatever to Rob, you guys can screw off.” 

“What’s that su--” 

“Sorry,” Falen continues, sympathetic tilt to her eyebrows as she walks past them, “Not personal.” 

“Totally personal,” Sydney follows behind her, ignoring William when he flips him off, “Broke Tripp’s heart. Not cool.” 

“Wha--” 

They’re gone after that, and Jonah is left staring after them. He looks to Jax for help, who’s been noticeably silent throughout, but he just seems uncomfortable and out of place. 

“What was that about?” 

William is still frowning, deep and unpleasant lines set to his face, “Yeah, fuck’s up with ‘em?” 

“Maybe it’s worse than I thought,” Jax mumbles, barely heard over the music, “I don’t--” 

Rob comes out of Mr. A’s office. He appears even worse than before, thin layer of sweat over his face and staring off into space, stumbling past them without saying anything, again. Jonah is only still for a few seconds before he’s taking Vito’s hand again, jogging lightly behind Rob to catch up. The others soon follow. 

“Rob?” Jonah tries, “What happened?” 

“Nothing,” Rob says over his shoulder, voice low, “We gotta go.” 

“Why? What happened--” 

“Gotta meet with somebody.” 

“ . . . okay? Who?” 

“Yeah, thought this was gonna be an hour thing, Rob--” 

“What did Mr. A say?” 

“Is everything alright?” 

“Just--” Rob’s voice raises an octave. They’re outside now, the sky is pitchblack and it’s almost eerily quiet, besides the music from CRUISIN’. Rob’s face is pink, he’s biting at his bottom lip hard before he speaks, “We can’t come here anymore. Gonna do this last thing for him then . . . that’s it.” 

Jonah’s forehead has crumbled, concern etched onto his expression, “What happened? Is this about Tripp?” 

“No,” Rob laughs - it sounds frustrated and not at all humorous, like he’s laughing at himself and the ridiculous situation, “No. It’s - it’s me. Let’s just . . . go. Okay?” 

Vito and Jonah exchange a look. But the others are falling right into step with Rob, loading into his car. Vito keeps a tight grip on Jonah’s hand, lightly pulling him back to him, eyeing Rob’s back, “We should go home.” 

Jonah smiles some, just a slight tilt of his lips, “Yeah. After this, okay?” 

Vito shakes his head, “Better if we don’t get involved.” 

“It’s Rob, Vito. Plus . . . he looks really upset.” 

“I--” Vito looks like he’s struggling to say what he really means, anxious and tense, “When I was gone, all I could think about was comin’ back to you. I wanna go home, together. Not have to worry ‘bout shit like this, yanno?” 

Silent, Jonah just holds Vito’s hand in his, stroking. He can see the stress and exhaustion in his face, and he knows words are difficult things for him, spreading himself so thin when there’s nothing left to give. Jonah wishes he could say something to comfort him, give him a calmer mind and a softer place to relax. 

But--

“You guys comin’?” Rob yells from his truck, peeking his head out only for a second, “C’mon, let’s go.” 

Jonah visibly hesitates, one look taken to Vito’s face. It’s enough to make his boyfriend melt, just by a bit, blowing out of a breath like it takes everything in him to agree. But he does, and that’s what matters. Perhaps, Jonah’s a bit too thoughtful, considerate and caring when it comes to his friends, especially when they seem so at odds, typically the glue within the group and doing his very best keep everyone together and tempers somber. 

There’s no more room in Rob’s ride, so Jonah goes with Vito, buckling in as soon as he’s inside, the familiar smell of cigarettes and pristine leather. There’s not much talking as the two of them tail Rob, Jonah fiddling with the radio until he finds something suitable, a soft and amicable song that Jonah somehow can’t remember the name of. 

It’s a long drive, Vito readjusting the heat when Jonah shivers, one hand on his thigh and rubbing soothing circles into the knee. Which Vito seems to do a lot lately, like he needs to be sure that he’s there and solid. Jonah doesn’t mind, sometimes he needs a reminder too. The smell of seawater is strong when they part near a truck-crossing bridge, right next to the shipping ports a few miles up the road. 

Even in the darkness, the shapes and shadows of William and Jax are easy to see as they get out of the car. Jonah looks to Vito, sheepish, “Sorry for making you come out so late.” His tone sounds suggestive, like he’s trying to say Vito is free to go if he’s too tired from his day. To which Vito picks up on easily, eyebrows pinching together and lips pressed tight. 

“Not leavin’ you here, Jonah.” 

“I know.” 

“I don’t like--” He makes a vague gesture with his hand at the windshield, towards Rob’s truck, “I don’t trust them.” 

“It’s Rob, Vito,” he repeats himself from earlier, beseeching, wishing he could see his friends how Jonah does, “Nothing’s going to happen.” 

“It’s not just him,” Vito says, “The other one, too.” 

Jonah finds himself befuddled, once again glancing up to see Jax is closer to Vito’s car, hands in pockets and rocking on his feet, constantly moving. He’s waiting for them, meets Jonah’s eyes briefly and flashes a smile. Jonah looks back to Vito, “I don’t get it.” 

“Just keep an eye on him,” Vito’s voice is serious, locking eyes with Jonah quick, searching, “Alright? For me.” 

Jonah nods before he can think about it, reaching across and taking Vito’s hand in his again. It seems to help, Vito’s shoulders kind of relax, he sighs and reaches over to switch off the car and pocket his keys. With one more shared glance, the two of them leave the car. 

It’s bitterly cold from the rain earlier, and being right on the water isn’t helping. Jonah burrows deeper into his hoodie, leaning closer into Vito for some type of warmth. Which, Vito isn’t shy with sharing, he wraps his arms briefly around him, chin on the crown of Jonah’s head. 

“You two are fuckin’ worse than V and Jay,” William complains once they’re in view, he looks pretty pissed, Jonah can only wonder what argument had transpired inside of the truck. He doesn’t keep his attention on them though, he turns halfway to look at Rob, “Hey, gonna say anythin’? Could use an update, over here freezin’ our asses off.”

“Do you always have to talk so much?” Rob snaps, it makes Jonah blink in surprise at his tone, “Had to listen to it the whole fucking ride.” 

“Well, excuse me,” William says, “I came out for V, not you. Didn’t want to be riding for this shit no way.” 

“Then follow Veronica,” Rob turns to face him, eyes narrowed tight, “See if I give a shit!” Gaze flickers over to Jonah fast, accusing, “You, too? You wanna go too?” 

At first, Jonah doesn’t have much to say. The sudden shift in Rob is startling to see, he’s almost unrecognizable, cold in the eyes. Jonah’s pretty sure he’d seen it once before, awhile ago maybe. He holds up his hands in surrender, still tucked half-way behind Vito, “It’s cool, Rob. I’m not leaving.” 

“Yeah, just chill out,” Jax pleads, nervously rocking again, shoulders up to his ears, “You’re freakin’ me out, man.” 

“What the fuck is up with you?” William isn’t backing down, never really does, he spits his words, a diluted cloud hovers around his mouth each time he speaks, “Don’t take your shit out on us.” 

“It’s--” Rob throws his arms out suddenly in Vito’s direction, gesturing to him like he’s an annoying fly that he can’t get rid of, “Why’re we workin’ with them?” 

“What?” William and Jax share a confused glance with each other, “Fuck’re you talkin’ about?” 

“Italians,” Rob supplies, “Since when do we work with them?” 

Vito has kind of tensed from beside Jonah, jaw locks with an audible click. Jonah nudges his shoulder into his, just slightly. 

“‘Cause of V,” William talks slow, like he’s explaining it all to a child, “She’s dating Jay--” 

“So we’re all dating fucking Jay?” Rob blusters, “Things were just fine without all this shit--” 

“V knows what she’s doin’--” 

“Does she? Seems like she’s got into nothing but shit since--” 

“Rob--”

“Let’s all just calm--” 

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down right now!” 

“Okay, fuck this, I’m leavin’--” 

Click.

They stop at the noise, somehow deafening in the midst of their argument. Maybe because they all know what a gun sounds like, even in a moment like this. Tentatively, Jonah turns his head, towards where it came from, heart stopping in his chest. 

Jax is as still as ever, muzzle of the pistol pressed against the back of his head, bottom lip trembling and eyes big. There’s a stranger behind him, a man Jonah’s never seen before, but from one glance at Rob’s face, Jonah can tell that he knows him. William almost jumps out of his skin when he turns around, Rob hasn’t moved, Jonah wants to take Vito’s hand but he’s not really able to get his body to work, cold sweat breaking and nerves heightened. 

“What the fuck,” William mutters, shuffling a step backward - he was the closest to Jax, after all, “What the fuck, what the fuck.” 

“Nobody move!” The guy is about as tall as Vito, just more gangly, long legs and arms, eyes darting over their faces, one after the other. His gun presses harder to Jax’s head, nudging and insistent, urging him forward. Jax does just that, stumbling over his own two feet, but somehow managing to keep upright, “Nobody move...” 

It’s quiet, but Jonah’s heart is racing a mile a minute, in his ears so loudly that he’s afraid Vito will be able to hear it. The glint of the gun in the limited street lights brings back memories, some that he’s tried painfully hard to forget over the years. 

No one’s able to really get anything out, William’s mouth moves uselessly, opening and closing, searching for words, until Rob speaks up, “Rench,” he says, hands lifted from his sides and held out like he’s trying not to spook him, “what’re you doing?” 

“You know him?” William balks, throwing a panicked look over at Rob. 

“Rench,” Rob says again, ignoring William pointedly, “Put the gun d--” 

“No, he doesn’t know me,” Rench, Jonah is guessing that’s his name, growls, aiming his gun wildly towards Rob, gesticulating with it in violent motions, causing William to curse, “You don’t know me! Step the fuck back!” 

“From the garage,” Rob finally supplies, he’s not moving towards him anymore, “You work with Nico and Theo. We met once through--” 

“I only know Tripp!” Rench keeps going, “Only him! I only deal with him!” 

“And we understand that--” 

“Shut up!” 

“But I--” 

“Rob,” William mumbles, and it only makes Rob glare at him again, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Mr. A sent us.” 

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Rench is yelling, flushed in the face, speaking through his teeth, “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t see what kinda shit you’re in? Huh?” 

William’s brow crumbles in confusion, “What--” 

“I said shut up!” 

“Chill the fuck out!” 

“Rench!” 

Jonah’s eyes have flickered between the gun, Vito’s back, and Jax’s expression. The blond has stopped struggling, seemingly limp as Rench wraps an arm around his throat and tugs him backwards, gun pressed to his temple. Jax’s face is sort of blank, eyes far-off, Jonah’s worried that he’s gone into shock of some kind. That thought in mind, he reaches for Vito’s sleeve to tug at it. The movement catches Rench’s attention, who spins halfway and jerks the muzzle of the gun in their direction, specifically at Jonah. 

“I told you not to fucking move!” 

“Watch where you’re pointin’ that shit!” Vito’s voice is cutting, he moves halfway in front of Jonah, as if he’s fully prepared to take a bullet. Jonah, growing desperate, grabs at Vito’s hand, pulls in a futile effort to bring him closer  -  it doesn’t do much.

“Vito,” Jonah whispers, “Vito, don’t--” 

“Hold on,” Rench blinks several times, slightly off-putting, leaning around Vito awkwardly with Jax still plastered to his chest, “Hold on, hold up. I remember you.” 

Jonah finds himself blinking too, stopped short by his words. His fingers fall away from Vito, heart in his throat, “...me?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, fucking you. I’ve seen you.”

“Fuck you,” Vito spits, “Put the fuckin’ gun do--” 

Jonah is still staring, keeps glancing at Jax, “I don’t think so.” 

“You were there. With V and my brother.” 

“Your...”

Rench’s jaw clenches tight, a muscle in his cheek jumps, “My brother.” 

“Alex,” Rob says, hands falling back to his sides, breathing out deeply like he’s come to some sudden realization the rest of them haven’t, “You’re  -  fuck, I forgot--” 

“Rape-y Alex?” William’s voice is high with his confusion, “You’re fuckin’ Alex’s brother?” 

That’s enough to drive Rench into action again, his face screws up, flushed and pinched, and in that moment - Jonah can see Alex through him. The sandy curls, the light freckles, the same noses even. Kind of makes sense, you don’t get into this business without family, really. He looks as if he doesn’t know whether to keep the gun trained on Jonah or smash it against the side of Jax’s head, he jumps between the two motions hastily and unsteadily. Jax barely reacts. 

William is shooting glances from Jonah to Rob, as if he’s trying to communicate something he can’t get out properly, “Put the fucking gun down, man. Nobody’s seen Alex in months!” 

“I saw him!” Rench thunders, his pistol jerks towards Jonah again, Vito hasn’t moved from his spot, and Jonah’s too stunned to try and tell him to move again. He tries to think over the amount of time since he’s last seen Alex, his mind and thoughts racing like his heart, “I saw him with you!” He says it directly to Jonah, eyes fierce and guarded, “With you!”

It all comes back to Jonah in a nauseating wave - he’d volunteered to go and see Alex with Veronica, free from class for the day, and it’d been a usual : the two of them going back and forth, Alex making an inappropriate joke that made Veronica’s nose wrinkle up. The garage had reeked of gasoline and oil, Nico had been dismissive with the three of them, Theo greeting Veronica like they were longtime friends, and Rench had been there. Even though Jonah hadn;t known him at the time, he’d been there and Alex had hugged him, pulled him to the side to tell him something. Rench, paranoid as ever, kept glancing over in Veronica and Jonah’s direction even as Alex tried to reassure him it was fine. That was the last time Jonah met with Alex, and he hadn’t even considered why. With a chilling realization, he looks towards Vito, lost. 

Vito doesn’t meet his eyes. 

There’s a bunch of yelling, William is pointing at Rench aggressively, left only to bargaining for Jax’s life now. Rob is telling William to shut up over and over again, growing in volume and intensity every time. Vito is the only one quiet, tense in front of Jonah, eyes trained solely on the pistol. And Rench is cursing at them all, spitting his words. He knows, he can read it in all of their faces. 

Alex is gone. 

“Shut up, William! Shut the fuck up for once, would you?” Rob yells, throwing his hands towards him in frustration, “Don’t you know how t--” 

“This is your fuckin’ fault!” William growls back, gesticulating towards Jax frantically, “You’re gonna get us fuckin’ killed ‘cause of your shit!” 

“My fault?” 

“Yeah! You, Tripp! All of your--” 

“I--” Jonah’s voice cuts through it all, Vito’s shoulders straighten when he steps from behind him, hands held in a placating manner towards Rench, like he’s a bird threatening to take flight. Vito makes a grab for Jonah’s arm to pull him back, but Jonah doesn’t let him, he keeps his eyes locked with Rench’s, “Can you let Jax go? Please.” 

Jax, oddly enough, still hasn’t moved. He looks almost dead in Rench’s arms, and Jonah would’ve thought so if Jax wasn’t blinking every so often. Rench can feel his lack of reaction, he keeps squeezing his bicep tight against Jax’s throat, but it doesn’t really do anything. 

“Where’s my brother?” Rench’s voice breaks towards the end, it’s raw from screaming, “What did you fucking do to him?” 

William and Rob have gone quiet, Jonah can feel their stares digging into him. Vito is the hardest not to look at in this moment, especially as Jonah keeps shuffling steps closer, head of the gun aimed at his chest, trembling in Rench’s grasp. 

“Can you just--” Jonah’s breath catches and comes out as a sudden rush, “Can you please let Jax go first. I’ll tell you whatever.” But he had nothing, lying tasted bitter on the tip of his tongue, “Just let Jax go.”

“Fuck you. I’m gonna blow his fucking brains out.” 

“Jonah,” Vito’s voice is desperate, just less than a foot away, “What’re you--”

“Don’t do that,” Panic rises in Jonah’s throat like bile, “I don’t know what happened to A-Alex, but killing Jax isn’t going to--” 

“Isn’t gonna what?” Rench doesn’t even need him to finish, spittle flies from his lips, “What! Say it! Isn’t gonna bring him back, right? Because you fucking killed him!”

Jonah wants to flinch under the bite of the words. But he finds himself staring at the tip of Rench’s gun, aimed at him, cocked. His eyes are twitching, he looks like he’s in pain, furious and demanding. After that, things kind of happen in a blur - and a lot happens. Vito grabs a hold of Jonah’s arm and yanks, William yells something, Rench clenches his finger around the trigger. 

The gunshot that rings out doesn’t come from him though. It comes from Rob. 

Jonah hates that he sees every second of it. In the movies, they make it seem as if it happens so fast, but it doesn’t. A cruel lie. Because Jonah sees the wide-eyed shock on Rench’s face, the bullet lodging into his cheek, the sheer impact enough to make him stumble back. He releases his hold on Jax, loses his footing, and falls to the ground, lifeless. 

His own gun clatters a few feet away, near William’s feet. But he’s too shocked to really react. For a moment, they all just stand there, taking it in gradually. William is the first to make a noise, a strange wheezing sound in the back of his throat, hunching over like he may vomit, “What the fuck, what the fuck!” He keeps repeating. 

Jonah stares. Rench’s face isn’t really a face anymore, his cheek has dissolved in on itself, bullet exited through the back of his skull. Blood spreads, an inky color in the dark night. Jax blinks several times, broken from a trance, breathing in shakily and scrambling away as fast as possible. 

Attention shifts onto Rob - Rob, brown-eyed, nice smile, warm jacket Rob - a gun of his own in his left hand, still aimed as if he’s ready to fire again, the sound is still reverberating off the empty bridge and water below. Nobody knows where he even got it, he’s never had one before, he’s always vehemently been against it. Looking at him now, he’s unrecognizable. 

Jonah loses the feeling in his legs. If it weren’t for Vito’s constricting grip on the crook his elbow, Jonah would’ve collapsed where he was. He curls into himself, gasping, Vito releases him out of worry, gathers his shoulders in his hands, rubbing soothing circles that Jonah barely feels. Together, the two of them sink onto the wet concrete. 

Blood pounds in his ears, his veins. His heart is soaring in his chest, desperate to break through his ribcage. And despite it all, he can’t breathe. His lungs tighten, close like a door slamming shut. He can’t take his eyes off of Rench’s limp body, who had once been moving and alive and talking, he’s dead. Just a second ago, just a split decision. 

Like Alex. Like his friend Reggie in the fifth grade. Like his dad. 

He can’t breathe. He can’t. 

Vito’s face comes in and out, his voice sounds far away, like Jonah’s submerged in water. A tremor takes to Jonah, his entire body won’t stop shaking, doubling over. He wants to throw up, reflexively almost, but he hadn’t eaten anything today out of worry for Vito’s sudden disappearance. 

“Jonah, baby,” Vito’s hands are on his face, tilting it towards him. In that moment, all Jonah can see are his brown eyes, “Look at me. It’s okay, baby. Breathe. Breathe with me.” He enunciates the rise and fall of his chest, coaxing Jonah to join him. And Jonah tries his hardest, there’s pain in his abdomen, “Calm down, it’s okay.” 

It takes a total of eight minutes to get Jonah to come down from it all. A few pumps of his inhaler - Jonah was surprised to see that Vito even carried it with him - Vito touching him as much as possible, speaking quietly between the two of them. Jonah’s eyesight is still blurry, but he can’t really tell if it’s from tears or lack of oxygen. 

“I’ve got you,” Vito is saying, “Breathe.”

Through the soothing sound of Vito’s voice, there’s others. William, Jonah realizes vaguely, is yelling again. Pointedly at Rob, jabbing a finger at him, Jax wobbly and unstable between them, trying to keep them from going at each other’s throats. Jonah can only watch, wheezing, clutching his inhaler like a lifeline. 

In his peripheral, past Vito’s shoulder, he can still see Rench’s body. 

“--stop, guys!” Jax is breathless from the entire thing, “Stop! William - c’mon, just--” 

“Are you fuckin’ stupid? You braindead? You tryin’ to get us all killed?” William is shouting at the top of his lungs, trying his best to get to Rob, “I’ll kill you my goddamn self--” 

“We gotta move him,” Rob’s voice is kind of dead sounding, numb. Like Jonah, he’s staring in Rench’s direction, he can’t look away, “We can’t leave him here.” 

Vito’s lips sneer up in the middle of a gentle whisper of Jonah’s name, he twists his head around to glare at Rob, “Can you shut the fuck up?” 

Rob blinks, like he’s just now noticing Vito and Jonah were still thee. He steps towards them, ignoring William. “Jonah,” Rob says, “Help me move him.” He’s staring right at Jonah, but not really. Through him, almost. He’s pale, there’s a shake in his hands, this is what “in shock” looks like. 

Vito stands before Jonah can even open his mouth and make sense of his friend’s words. He’s in Rob’s face before anyone can stop him, eyes deadly. The thing about Vito is, he doesn’t have to make threats like Rudy or Jacob to get his point across, everything about him says enough. Rob shuffles a step back, but doesn’t heed to the warning. 

“We need to move him,” He says again, restless, “Someone could’ve heard--” 

Vito sets his teeth, “Don’t touch him.”

“What--” 

“Don’t touch him,” Vito’s voice is final, steel, “You’ve done enough.” 

Jonah spaces out around that time. He keeps thinking of the moment the bullet hit Rench. He thinks of his dad, and his mom - what they’d both say if they could see him right now. To calm his breathing, he puts his head between his knees and counts until he gets to two - hundred. He can still hear them, arguing, going back and forth like this is something so trivial, something that happened every single day. 

Maybe it did. 

Jonah lifts his head a scant, swallowing, his eyes on Vito - who stood only a few inches away, refusing to leave Jonah’s side. But his attention was on Jax, Rob, and William, as they each grabbed a limb of Rench, hefting him from the ground with great difficulty. Repulsed, Jonah looks away, back to his boyfriend. 

He hadn’t even flinched at the gunshot. He didn’t look disturbed in the slightest. 

As if feeling his stare, Vito turns his head and gives Jonah a tight-lipped smile of reassurance. He crouches down to his side again, rubbing one hand at the top of his back gently, “Better?” 

Jonah shakes his head“Can we go home?” 

Vito helps Jonah from the ground, his expression is almost pained, and grows more severe when he meets eyes with Rob. By then, they’ve moved Rench’s body to Rob’s truck, throwing a spare tarp over it. William and Jax were going back and forth over where to dump it, but Jonah couldn’t hear much after that, because Vito helped him into the car and closed the door. The voices are muted, he can’t make out what they’re saying too much. 

Vito says something when he walks back over to them, his stance is aggressive and agitated, he’s patting at his pockets like he wants to grab his carton of cigarettes. And then he shoves his hands into his jeans, glowering. Jax is tentative to speak up, William cutting him off at every time he opens his mouth, and Rob is carefully smoothing down the edges of the tarp, methodical almost, barely sparing Vito a glance as he speaks. 

Rob talks. Vito does too. William looks annoyed. Jax is staring at the ground. Thanks to the headlights of Vito’s car, Jonah is able to make out each of their expressions - they look hollow. Whatever agreement they come to, Rob is dissatisfied with it, but he shuts up with one look from Vito. 

Jonah feels sick again. 

Vito gets into the car, settling into the driver seat familiarly. He finds his cigarettes finally, but doesn’t light one. He just looks at Jonah, who’s staring straight ahead, not really seeing anything, but still there, “Hey.” 

Jonah turns his head to look at him. 

“I’m gonna take care of this, alright?” He reaches over and takes Jonah’s hand, his fingers feel numb and he realizes he’s still grasping at the inhaler as tight as ever, “Nothing’s going to happen.” 

Jonah wonders what that means. There’s always consequences when it comes to death, especially in this line of business. What about Veronica, what about Tripp? What about Mr. A? Theo, Nico - how could Jonah look them in the face anymore? 

Rob’s truck starts up, tail - lights flickering. 

Vito’s face is grim, voice tight, “Let’s go home.” 

.

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[unpopcorned]

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.

How does one usually start the day?

Waking up in the morning, staring at the ceiling, eyes nearly shut and unfocused. He supposes he starts it the same as anyone else, he’s not too different. But at the same time, he is. Vastly, otherworldly almost.

Hi.

His name is Derek Arthur Peterson. He just turned sixteen yesterday. He goes to Durmhall Highschool. And he’s been deaf since he was ten.

At first, he hadn’t realized. No one around had really noticed. His fourth-grade teacher had though, she used to scold him for not paying attention in class. When really, his hearing had steadily deteriorated throughout the year. He was often seated in the back of the room for his failing grades, many parent-teacher conferences were called in hopes of helping, and his parents would simply think he was ignoring most of the adults in his life.

It wasn’t until there was a fire drill at school, when he was inside of the bathroom and failed notice the piercingly loud sirens. He’d been one of the last students to leave the building, out of befuddlement from the empty classes and halls, and that’s when everyone found out more or less.

He supposes it had taken awhile, given the fact he was good at reading lips, which he’d unconsciously learnt as his hearing grew worse. In fact, he used to think it was a superpower of his. Surgeries were attempted, but didn’t help very much, apparently it’d been going down hill for years and they were lucky to catch it before he was completely unable to hear.

High-pitched sounds sometimes break through the constant roaring or water-rushing noises in his ears. He has a difficult time pinpointing exactly where it may come from, but he hears it, nonetheless. And the hearing aids are the only help with that, with much of anything. He has to be extra-extra vigilant of his surroundings if they were going to be of any use.

Anyway. He guesses he can say he’s like anybody else. A normal person. Besides - well, everything else.

He has a mother. A brother. And a grandmother.

A mother - she’s constantly on the brink, on the edge. She worries a lot, her hair is always frizzy, and she keeps a close eye on Derek. She’s a nurse, so she works long hours, checks on him when she can, and scrounges up just enough money to get them through tough months.

His grandmother - who’s pushing seventy, she knits and cleans and cooks all day long. Their water bill was substantial the previous month, she could wash dishes and do laundry until the sun goes down. She smells like sweet cookies and peppermint, and her touch is always gentle. She frets over her daughter a lot, Derek can see where his mother gets it from.

His brother - he’s seven years older than Derek. And he doesn’t come around much anymore. Not since the accident.

His family has a lot of secrets. And a lot of ups-and-downs. But they’re still family.

He sits up in bed, reaches to his left and plucks his hearing aids from the end table beside him. They’re tucked smoothly into his ears, there’s been points where they don’t help much with day-to-day life, but its a comfort to have them either way. He’s quick to brush his teeth, splash water into his face, put on his clothes.

His grandmother is cooking breakfast already, and his mother is fluttering around the kitchen like a hummingbird. He can tell they’re speaking to one another, his mother looks frustrated with something and his grandmother is barely giving her the time of day, flipping a pancake smoothly and reaching for a stick of butter on the counter. Even though they may be at odds most of the time, they still move around each other fluidly and familiarly.

Derek isn’t very hungry, but the smell is irresistible.

As soon as they notice him, he’s bombarded with kisses and good mornings, and told to sit at the table and wait. And so, he does, eating slowly once his grandmother puts the plate down in front of him. Ever so often, he’ll take glances in their direction, they continue to speak as if he isn’t there. Which they often do a lot.

“Jesus, Mom!” His mother is complaining, quickly pouring herself a cup of coffee and slamming down the maker with far more force than necessary, “Can you just give me a minute to think? To breathe?” He doesn’t catch the rest of what she’s saying, because she turns head away and takes a hearty drink.

His grandmother is saying something back, which only makes his mother cast an ugly look in her direction. He’s pretty sure he sees her mouth something about bills, and so, he speaks up, “I can help.”

Both of them look over at him. His grandmother’s face looks sympathetic, his mom looks even more frustrated than before. She’s quick to sign to him, lips moving along with her hands, “Help with what, sweetheart?”

“You’re talking about bills, right? I can help.”

Her mouth presses in a firm line. And she signs - How?

“A job.”

As soon as the words are out, she’s glaring, “No,” she makes sure to enunciate the word sharply, “No. No, absolutely not, Derek.”

“But, mom--”

“I told you not to bring that up anymore. Your disability check is fine--”

“I want to do more. All summer, all I did was lay around.”

“You did not - Oh, Jesus Christ. Derek, can we not do this now?”

“We’re not doing anything. I’m only saying--”

“Not now.”

“Give the boy a chance,” His grandmother says, she’s moved most of the dishes she’s used to the sink. Wiping her hands clean on her apron, she faces her daughter, “He obviously wants to work. Have something to do, it’s normal for teenagers.”

“Do not tell me how to raise my kid,” His mother hisses, and he’s pretty sure she doesn’t mean for him to be able to read her lips that time, but he does, “Derek, I want you to focus on school. That’s it. You do plenty - you go to group, you hang out with your friends, you--”

“I want to do more.”

“Why don’t we have this conversation later?” His grandmother suggests optimistically. She crosses the kitchen to plant a kiss on his head, “You’re going to be late.”

He feels frustrated, because it’s as if no one is listening to him. With the look his grandmother gives him, she can tell that she’s pleading for him to drop it - just for his mother’s sake. So, he does, leaving his food and grabbing his things.

Before he’s out the door, his mother catches him, hands him his gloves and kisses his head, the same as his grandmother. She smiles at him - but the lines on her face are tired and worn. Familiarly, she signs: I love you.

He signs right back: I love you too.

And her smile widens, the weight on her shoulders appears a bit lighter.

.

.

When people greet him at school, they make sure to tap him on the shoulder before saying good morning. Just so they’re certain he can see it and respond. And he appreciates that, because there’s been many instances where he’s oblivious to the ones around him.

Everything is a constant numbing sound, he finds himself drifting off more often than not.

“Morning!” Jade says to him when he gets to his locker ( 16 - 20 - 02 ), opening it quickly and stuffing his backpack inside. She seems to notice his dampening mood fast, “What’s wrong?”

Arguing.

“Ah,” she nods, cocking her head slightly. He’s known Jade since he was much younger, right before the accident. And ever since then, she’d been a stable support system in his life, learning sign-language quickly and fluidly, talking to him when no one else would.

She signs to him: Want come over later? Her hands move in such a fast-pace, lazily - almost like her words. She even has this small quirky way of disembodying her words, cutting off her hand movements at the last second and switching to the next. Derek’s known her long enough, fortunately, to be able to to tell what she’s trying to say.

He almost nods. But something over her shoulder catches his attention. He must get That Look on his face, because the next moment, Jade is following his gaze.

Wyatt is coming down the hallway.

Wyatt is a cheerleader, he’s tall, he’s smart, and he’s too cute for his own good. He has this hair that looks so soft and pretty. And this mouth that’s constantly in a smile, like he knows a funny joke and Derek is desperate to be in on it. And these shoulders that are like whoa. He’s the type of person where its hard to stare at him for long intervals, because you’re bound to fall in love.

Brooke had once said he looked like the kind of guy you wanted to climb like a tree. Well, yeah, that too.

Which is a little strange because Derek’s never liked a guy before. He’s never looked at much of anyone for more than a second or two. When he was in the seventh grade, he had a girlfriend, but he was pretty sure she was doing that out of pity because he didn’t have a date to the Spring Fling Dance that year. Other than that, no one’s really put in the effort to try and date him ( more than likely because of his disability and all the shortcomings that came with it ) and he’s never really minded either.

But Wyatt--

Is it possible to have such a big crush that you don’t know what to do with yourself?

“Nice uniform,” Jade points out when Wyatt is close enough to greet. She even goes out of her way to sign it as well, just so Derek can keep up with the conversation, “Becca and Jessica really want a bunch of people at the pep rally, huh?”

“If you don’t come, I’m here to show you what you’ll be missing,” Wyatt tells her, giving his one-hundred-million-dollar smile. Truth be told, he is wearing his cheerleading uniform, and it’s sticking to him in all the right places. He notices Derek right after, smile growing wider: Hey, Derek.

He’s getting good at that. His motions could be a little sloppy, but he’s trying. And Derek finds himself smiling back, cheeks growing flushed: Good morning.

“I won’t be missing much of anything,” Jade says, “Full on dyke here.”

“Everybody needs a little action,” Wyatt replies, glancing at Derek again, “Right?”

Derek might as well be a bobble-head, that’s how fast he nods. But then again, he’d nod at anything Wyatt says. Just to be included. His heart is going pitter-patter in his chest ( you love-sick idiot ).

Did you need help - Wyatt’s hands hesitate for a moment - getting to class?

“Work on your delivery,” Jade says, which Derek is unable to catch, “And your flirting.”

Wyatt gives her a look. But glances back at Derek after awhile and - and he has those intense kind of eyes. The moment doesn’t last long because someone apparently calls Wyatt’s name, and Derek can tell because Wyatt turns his head suddenly in the other direction, over his shoulder.

Jessica Crimson, along with a few other cheerleaders, come to stop at his side. Jessica is also pretty, she’s like - otherworldly pretty though. Long blonde hair with never a single strand out of place, slender figure that everyone glances twice at, and the perfect life ( including her family, grades, and friends ). And for some reason, she’s always liked Derek, she pinches his cheeks sometimes and kisses his head, she even knows a few words in sign language.

He can’t keep up with the conversation, because they’re talking too fast and some of them aren’t even looking his way. But he can stare at Wyatt this way without seeming weird. At his nice hair, his nice smile, the nice little freckle on his collarbone.

Derek studies and stares at people and things a lot. But not as much as Wyatt, he’s realized.

He catches one of the cheerleaders say “party” and Jade is rolling her eyes, turning her face towards him and imitating sticking her finger down her throat: Gag me.

The bell rings. The vibrations are shrill enough where he can feel it. Students around the group beginning closing their lockers and disappearing into separate classrooms. Jade loops her arm through Derek’s, they have the majority of classes together, so he typically follows her throughout the day.

“Bye, Wyatt,” Jade gives a prissy little wave, just to bug Jessica.

“See ya’,” he tells her, his eyes linger on Derek though. And he makes sure to sign: After school. Derek doesn’t know what that means, since they’ve never met after school before, but Jade tugs him away before he has a chance to ask.

Class goes pretty smoothly, but he has a hard time paying attention. Mrs. Spuel - his translator that transitions to every class with him - notices, and she makes vague gestures to get his attention throughout. He’s too busy thinking about Wyatt though ( pretty, handsome, always-looks-good-in-uniform Wyatt ).

His first three classes go by in a blur and soon, it’s time for lunch. Despite his disability, a lot of people are nice to Derek, go out of their way to communicate with him. Jade, Aahna, Paula, Janet, and Mason are already at their usual table. Derek sets his sights on it fast, relieved to get a moment to just sit and think for a small while without anyone bothering him.

Mason hardly looks up from his book when Derek joins the table, Aahna and Jade are going back and forth over two bands and which is better, Janet is leaning into Mason’s side, peeking over his shoulder to see what he’s writing in his notebook. And Paula, as usual, is lost in her own world, daydreaming.

Derek pays to the attention at the table for the most part - Mason looks as if he’s more focused on studying, Janet tries to find a middle ground between Aahna and Jade, and Paula prefers not to be pulled into any of it. Finally, Janet turns to Derek. 

“Derek, what do you think?”

He blinks, smiles uncertainly, “Both...are okay, I guess.” 

“You guess? Oh, c’mon,” Jade begins complaining, “No way you prefer Foo Fighters over Pulp.” 

He’s still smiling, “You know me. Not really into music.” And to make a point, he taps the side of his hearing aid twice. 

Underneath his breath, Mason laughs. And then so does Aahna, and next Jade. Janet is the only one who gives them the stink eye, “That’s not funny. You guys have the worse sense of humor!” 

He finds its better to laugh at his situation, rather than mull over it. 

.

.

True to his word, Wyatt sees him after school. 

Derek notices him in front of his locker as soon as he’s close enough. And it takes a moment for Derek to process that ( super-pretty-Wyatt is standing at his locker ). He takes a moment to to take him in, hesitate on his steps before he gains his nerve and practically skips over. 

“Hey,” Derek breathes when he’s close, “Hi.” 

“Hi,” Wyatt is already smiling, pushing himself off his locker, hands in his pockets. There’s a bustle of students around them, some stop to say hi to Wyatt, which he eagerly returns, but always refocuses his attention onto Derek, “Class was okay?” 

Derek rocks on his feet, his stomach is filled with butterflies now. And he’s never had that happen with anybody else, “Oh. Oh! Yeah, it was good. Nice. How about you?” He’s fumbling with his words, uses his hands as clarity as he speaks. 

“Boring. But you know, it’s looking up now,” He stares at Derek for awhile, presses his lips together to smother a smile, “So, after the pep rally, we’re all going over Trevor’s. Did you want to come?” 

“Ah,” he shakes his head. But they’re both smiling - looking like idiots staring at each other, “My mom doesn’t like me staying out really late or anything. She worries all the time, you know?” 

“Yeah, I get it,” But something weird happens. He moves closer, close enough where Derek can see the different specks of color in his eyes, “You never come to the pep rallies or parties or really anything, so I thought I’d ask.” 

Wyatt looks for him at those kind of things? Whoa. Even so, his eyes don’t waver from his mouth, “It’s...’cause of my mom. I want to go.”

“Then you should. I’d like to see you there.” 

His hands stop, “You do?”

Wyatt is patient, eyebrows lifting, smile still there. He’s so pretty, it hurts. Smart, handsome, always-nice Wyatt, “Yeah. We never really get time to hang out.” 

Yeah, they don’t. It feels like they’re on total opposite sides of the spectrum, Wyatt’s constantly surrounded by cheerleaders and jocks. Derek has always kept to the same people since middle school, Aahna and Mason, Janet and Paula. He’s never tried to drift out of his circle, his comfort zone was always best for himself, he decided that a very long time ago. 

Wyatt is different. He’s never wanted to be so close to a person before. He wonders if he smells as good as he looks. 

“That’s my fault,” Derek says, he’s still really distracted by his presence in general. A pause as he thinks, “I can...I can ask my mom if she’ll let me go.” 

Wyatt brightens fast, even his eyes light up. He’s too cute. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Someone from behind Derek must say his name, because Wyatt cranes his head around his shoulder, and his eyes flicker back to him quick. He signs: So I’ll see you there?

Yeah. Definitely. 

.

.

So turns out, no matter how much he begged, his mom wasn’t letting him leave the house that night. The two of them even went back and forth over it for awhile, until his grandmother forced her way into the conversation to calm them both down. 

He feels beyond frustrated - he always sticks to the house rules, he goes to group, he makes good grades, he tries his hardest every day, and he’s not allowed one night to just be a normal teenager. By the end of the conversation, his mother looks close to crying, and she keeps saying she’s tired and doesn’t want to talk anymore. She has her second shift soon, so she goes to her room to finish putting on her shrubs. 

His grandmother runs him a bath, gives him a sorry look when she opens the door for him. In the tub, he can only watch as the steam lifts to the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment just to block everything out. 

He wishes he had Wyatt’s number. He can’t help but wonder if he’d even notice if he wasn’t there tonight. Probably not. And the thought makes him shift deeper into the water until his head is submerged underneath. 

When he’s finished and dressed for the night, he works on his homework. Just for a couple hours, and to clear his head. His mother leaves for work, when he glances at the clock, he can see its well past ten at night. So, she has to be gone. Which means she hadn’t taken the time to say goodnight to him before going. She must really be upset. 

He’ll have to apologize in the morning. He feels like a jerk now. 

His grandmother is the one who comes and kisses his head and leaves him to his studies. And out of instinct, he tells her he loves her twice, but the jerk-feeling doesn’t go away. After he finishes his homework, he stands from his desk and stretches. He’s tempted by the sight of his bed, but he’s also too anxious to sleep before his mom gets home. 

Which wouldn’t be for another few hours. 

The kitchen is spotless, his grandmother always cleans throughout the day. There’s the heavy smell of cleaning products and laundry detergent every time he comes home. And in the fridge, it’s stocked with leftovers and plenty of food, drinks, snacks, anything he asks for he usually gets. That just makes the jerk-feeling take a punch to his gut, he really hates fighting with his mom. 

Lips quirk to the side, and he reaches into the fridge to take the carton of orange juice out. By the time he pours himself a cup and puts it back, he’s already yawning. Maybe he should call Jade, just so she can keep him company until he feels better. 

He turns, “Oh!” 

“Sorry!” 

Derek almost drops his cup, wide-eyed. On the other side of the island counter, his older brother stands there. Brandon stares back at him, hands lifted in up to his shoulders, like he’s a burglar who just got caught. Derek hadn’t noticed him come in, heart in his throat, he carefully places down his glass. 

His brother stops for a moment, takes a glance in the corner of the room where the door leads to the sitting area. Probably making sure they didn’t wake their grandmother. And then he returns to his attention to Derek, grinning impishly. 

Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. 

Derek hesitates: It’s okay. 

Whenever he sees his brother, he thinks of their dad. Not only because of what happened, but the similarities - the sharp nose, the hard-set eyes, even the way he set his shoulders sometimes. Even though his memories of his father were very blurred, he can see him in Brandon easily. 

His brother is eyeing him now: What’re you doing up so late?

Studying. 

“Ah,” he nods, continues glancing around: Mom redecorated? 

No. Grandma.

It’s silent between the both of them for awhile after that. His brother still hasn’t gone around the counter, hasn’t hugged him. There’s never been a time where he hasn’t felt far away from Brandon in some sense, though. In the back of his mind, he can remember warm hugs and a hand on his head and remembering the skinny lines of his back. Because all he used to do is follow Brandon around when they were younger. It seems so long ago now. 

He stops, drags his thumb over the rim of his glass: Mom is going to be mad if she knows you were here. 

Brandon sighs, “I’m not gonna take anything. Don’t worry.” 

I know. 

His eyes tighten, and he looks visibly tense now. He must’ve cleared his throat, because his throat bobs uncomfortably, “Hey, so - uh--” He shifts: Happy Birthday. Derek can’t help it, he smiles. Brandon smiles back, “You thought I forgot? No way.”

Mom probably thought he did. But not Derek. Even though Brandon has missed the last couple years, Derek never really lost hope. That’s his job though, staying optimistic even when things’re particularly hard. 

Thanks. 

“Yeah, sure,” Brandon is shifting on his feet still, “I wanted to come by and see you, but...” He shrugs a shoulder uneasily, “You know.” 

Yeah. He does know. 

Did Mom get you anything cool? 

Shoes. Some notebooks. New sheets. 

She’s so lame. 

I needed new shoes. 

Brandon is smiling now, looks close to laughing. He keeps glancing at the door and listening out for any noise. But there doesn’t seem to be any, “You look good, though. Like - you’re eating more, I mean. Doc say anything at your last checkup?” 

Derek shakes his head. 

“Huh. Okay,” Brandon presses his lips together, the smile leaves as quickly as it comes, “You know...you know I miss you, right? And as soon as I work all this shit out, I’m going to come see you more. Not just once or twice a year. No bullshit. For real this time. I promise.” 

Most of Brandon’s promises were empty, easy to see through and clear as day. Like a shallow puddle. Derek kind of hates when he makes promises because he so fiercely believes them, even now. He stares at Brandon for a long time, taking him in. The disheveled hair, the stubble, the jitters. It’s the same as last year, and the year before that, and the five years before that. 

He’s doing it again.

Derek’s expression falls slightly, enough where it catches Brandon’s attention. He leans his weight into the counter, staring at him beseechingly, “Look at me, okay? I’m gonna get better, I’m gonna stop doing this shit, alright? No more. I’m serious, I’m done. I’m gonna - I’m gonna start rehab and then I’m gonna come back home. I swear, Derek.” 

He doesn’t say anything. 

“I know mom is really mad at me right now, about before. But...I’m going to pay her back.” 

Derek is still staring at him, eyebrows furrowing. A familiar feeling stabs him straight in the chest, Brandon has said this to him before. Many times. He knows what comes next. 

“But right now, see - right now, I can’t. I’m kind of in a bind. I need your help.” 

Here it comes. 

“I need some cash.” 

Derek stares more. The feeling is stronger now, its filling up his chest. But he ignores it, he ignores stuff all the time. Plays dumb, acts like he doesn’t notice certain things, even when it eats away at him. This is no different. Attempting a half-smile, he signs: I have leftover money from my birthday. 

Brandon looks overwhelmingly relieved when he sees that. His face relaxes, shoulders slightly droop, “Thanks, little brother,” Derek retrieves the money fast, its a thick bundle that he hands over without hesitation. Brandon pockets it fast, hugs him tight right after. 

Derek has a hard time letting go though. He always does. 

.

.

“It’s so hot!” Jade groans, tipping her head back. Messy hair thrown into an even messier bun, she pulls uncomfortably at her sweaty shirt before returning her attention to Derek. He’s watching her in clear amusement, “I’m serious! It’s fall, isn’t it supposed to be freezing by now?” 

Derek shrugs, holding out his mitt. Jade takes the hint and lobs the ball at him. Coach Kenson could be pretty lazy sometimes - throwing a baseball back and forth for an hour couldn’t really be called exercise. But Derek can tell most of the students don’t mind. Anything to get out of the stuffy school for a few minutes. The rest of the class is lined up, tossing back and forth along the field. A couple of guys are currently wrestling over the last inflated football, two of them crash into the grass and the rest dog-pile on top. 

Coach blows his whistle, Derek can tell from how far his cheeks puff out and how Jade immediately cringes away from him, “Hey! Hey, no rough-housing!” 

Derek throws it back, “Is everything with Paula going okay?” 

“Huh?” She seems startled by the question, and ends up fumbling and dropping the ball, “Oh. Yeah. I mean--” A shrug, “We’re cool.” Derek can tell that she’s mumbling, he can barely make out what she’s saying. When he squints his eyes at her, she rolls her own and makes sure to enunciate her words, “We’re fine.” 

Derek makes a face that visibly says - yeah, sure. Just because he may act stupid sometimes, doesn’t mean he is. He knows Jade better than the back of his hand and he also knows when something is going on with her. He’s deaf, not oblivious. Give him some credit here. 

“Don’t give me those squinty eyes,” She lobs the baseball at him hard, and Derek hurries to catch it. It’s hard enough to make his hand smart, he shakes it out with a frown, “I just - I think...she’s not into me, okay?” 

That’s strange. From what he could see, Jade and Paula went together very well - personality and in a physical means. They’re always touching, always smiling at each other, and Jade’s never been happier. He can tell. But for the last couple weeks, he guesses Paula has been acting a little weird ( more than usual ), distant almost. Maybe Derek is just a little too good at reading his friends. 

“Some stuff is going on at home with her. And I’ve been trying to be there. But she’s the type to push people away, I think,” Jade smoothly catches the ball when he throws it back, “We’re kind of...on a break. Or whatever.” 

He blinks fast at her. It’s like a freeze-frame on one of those stupid movies Mason liked to binge on Saturdays. With wacky jokes and overdone theatrics. He loves comedies. 

“It’s only for a little while.” 

Now, he feels bad for even bringing it up. And sympathetic. Removing his glove, he signs: We can hang out after school and talk about it. 

“Yeah,” she nods, looks as if she’s relieved to even get it off her chest, “Yeah, okay.” Something past his shoulder must catch her attention, she’s wrinkling up her nose fast, “Oh, here we go.” 

Derek turns. And runs right into someone. A chest, a really nice chest. Sweaty, warm. And the smell is very familiar. He snaps up straight, “I--” 

Wyatt is smiling already, grabbing a hold of his shoulders to steady him, “Sorry.”

He almost says don’t be. Why should he be sorry when he smells so good and looks so pretty? The sun is out just the perfect amount, shining through his hair and making it appear golden. Derek doesn’t know why Jade was complaining, the light helps the view. 

“It’s okay,” he signs it as well, “I wasn’t watching where I was going.” 

“Wyatt sure was,” Jade says, though Derek has no way of catching it, he’s facing away from her. Jade sticks her tongue out when Wyatt gives her a look, “Aren’t you supposed to be running laps?” 

“Hey, so,” Wyatt ignores her, “I didn’t see you at the thing the other night.”

Derek blinks, and then blinks again. The thing, the party. It’s not like he’d forgotten, but he was kind of hoping Wyatt had, “Oh. Yeah. My mom said no.” 

“I figured,” Wyatt shrugs his very nice shoulders, “I was looking all over for you. Was gonna save you a dance and everything.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” Wyatt steps closer, which Derek immediately notices, “I wanted to see you.” 

“Gag!” Jade teases from behind them. 

Derek feels lame, enormously and utterly lame. He can’t even go to some high school party without his mom throwing a fit, and even though he’d prefer to avoid all conflict with her especially when she’s so stressed, it’s hard. Besides the frustration, there’s a light feeling to his chest, spreading from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head. 

Wyatt had saved a dance for him. Had wanted to see him. Totally cute Wyatt.

“Is it okay if I come over to your place?” Derek is back to blinking like a dummy again. He must look startled because Wyatt rushes to finish, “We can hang out. I figured it’s best to come to yours, rather than force you to some stupid party. Unless, you don’t want to--”

“No!” Derek stops him quick, “No, I do. I mean - you can. Yes.”

Wyatt is smiling again, it spreads across his face slow. Derek doesn’t think his heart can take much more of this, “Yeah? It’ll be okay with your mom?”

“Yeah! She would love you.” 

“Love me, huh?” 

“Yeah. Yes.” 

“This weekend okay for you?” 

He’s reverted back to Bobble-Head-Derek, nodding fast. 

“Good. Great.” 

“Okay.” 

“So I’ll see you this weekend?” 

“Yeah.” 

Wyatt is shuffling backwards on his feet, this almost excited smile to his face. Before he can say anything more, Coach is yelling in his direction, assigning him two more laps for stopping to chat. Wyatt locks eyes with him for a moment, a quick wink thrown in Derek’s direction, and then he’s jogging off. 

When Derek turns back around to face Jade, absolutely smitten, she’s staring at him.

“What.”

“You know what. You might as well get a shirt with the words written across. LOVE ME, WYATT.” 

Derek throws the ball at her, aiming for her shoulder. And she catches it, laughing.

He hangs out with Aahna and Jade after school. Janet and Mason usually do their own thing, and Paula has a strict curfew, so it’s only the three of them left. They get milkshakes and burgers ( Aahna doesn’t, she’s been a vegetarian since she was eleven and refuses to even look at meat for too long ). 

“--and I was like, well why didn’t you tell me sooner that you wanted to break up. And she was all like, I didn’t tell you ‘cause I knew you’d freak out. And get this, she had the nerve to just call it a break.” 

Aahna looks puzzled, “What’s so bad about calling it a break?” 

“Everybody knows a break is just stalling the inevitable. We might as well be done,” Jade huffs, leaning back heavy in her seat, “And you know, it sucks. Because...we’ve always been great together. It came completely out the left field.” 

Yeah, for Derek too. It’s definitely a surprise. Maybe Jade and Paula are a lot better at hiding things than he’d originally thought. He reaches across the table, touches Jade’s hand gently. She gives him an awfully sad look and he squeezes in return. 

Aahna is equally as affectionate, rubbing at Jade’s back in comfort, “You did say before that Paula was going through a tough time, right? Maybe when things’re better, she’ll actually talk to you.” 

“I doubt it,” Jade mumbles, avoiding both of their eyes. She takes a long drink of her chocolate milkshake, “Me and Paula aren’t like everyone else. All perfect all the time,” Derek doesn’t have to hear to be able to detect the light jabbing in Jade’s voice, she’s obviously frustrated, “Like you and Sam. Cute and cuddly and kissing.” 

“We don’t kiss all the time,” Aahna protests, there’s a flush to her cheeks now. She releases Jade, tucks hair behind her ears in a flustered fashion, “And we’re not perfect. No couple is.”

“He’s always there for you when you need him. He touches you in public. And you guys talk, all the time. Sounds perfect to me.” 

Aahna turns a deeper shade of red, “Can we not talk about this? Maybe Paula isn’t for you. Sometimes stuff just doesn’t work out. And I mean, you’re great, Jade.”

“Yeah,” Derek decides to put in, “You’re funny and talented and your hair is really nice. It’s always in cute styles.” 

Jade stares at him, this little smile comes to her face, “You’re kinda obligated to say that, you’re my best friend.” 

“Still!” 

“Paula doesn’t know what she’s missing,” Aahna puts in next, smiling now. She moves closer, lighting pressing her shoulder into Jade’s, “Derek isn’t lying about the cute hair part--”

“Okay, okay! Enough about my love life,” Jade says, “Geez. Let’s talk about Derek’s instead.” 

His eyebrows go up, “Mine?” 

“Derek has a love life?” Aahna’s attention is caught swift, looking between the both of them, “Since when?” 

“Since he started drooling over Wyatt,” Jade supplies. 

“Cheerleading Wyatt?” 

“Mhm.” 

Now, he’s the one blushing, ducking his head and studying his own milkshake like its the most interesting thing in the world. He can feel them both staring at him, so he tentatively lifts his head to see what they’re saying, “I’m not...drooling over him.” 

“Sure,” Jade teases, “You just get all twinkly-eyed and stare at him.” 

“Staring,” Aahna repeats, “I haven’t noticed.” 

“Are you kidding? Every time Wyatt spots him, he’s running over to say something. It’s so gross.” 

“Does Wyatt like guys?” 

“He likes Derek, definitely.” 

“Wyatt--” Derek says, “Wyatt doesn’t like me,” His two friends look over at him, Jade looks doubtful and Aahna appears curious, “Nobody really likes me. That way.” 

“Why would you think something like that?” Aahna is staring at him again, leaning closer from across the table. 

“Because,” he shrugs his shoulders in an almost helpless manner. His heart is racing now, it’s not a usual where the conversation and attention may shift onto Derek. Actually, he makes sure it never does. Because who wants to hear about him - sure, you might like his smile or his sense of humor or anything on the surface. But that’s exactly what it was, just stuff on the surface. Nothing below the skin. Maybe that’s why he related to Jade so well, because he knew she felt like that too sometimes, “You know. I’m kind of weird. Abnormal.” 

Jade speaks first, “Who isn’t? Aahna and Janet are pretty weird. Mason, too.” Aahna glances in her direction, pursing her lips at her, “Don’t take it personal. It’s a good weird. We’re all a good weird.”

“I think you’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met,” Aahna notes, quite seriously. She’s staring right at Derek. Aahna’s always had those really, really deep eyes that you can’t help but stare into. Can’t lie to her face, can’t be mean to her for even a second. Her eyes are that powerful, “You can’t see that?” 

They’re both staring at him and that makes him wish he hadn’t said anything, “Wyatt wouldn’t like someone like me. He would like someone like...Jessica. Or Brooke. Or--” 

“He would have super bad taste then,” Jade complains, “Can we not mention Malibu Barbie while I’m eating?” 

“I’m only saying,” Derek tells the both of them, “I don’t want anybody to be with me out of pity. Or because they think they have to. He’s just being nice to me. He doesn’t want...that.” 

Aahna visibly sighs, puffs out her cheeks. But Jade is the one who speaks up, “If you don’t see how much that cheerleader is head over heels for you, then you’re not only hard of hearing, but blind too.” 

“Jade!” Aahna slaps her arm, makes a face at her, “That’s not funny!” But Derek is already smiling and laughing. And then Jade is, too. Aahna glares at the both of them, “Janet’s right, your senses of humor suck.”

.

.

His bedroom door opens and Derek turns slightly to see his mother standing in the doorway, already dressed for her shift. He’s busy cleaning, folding his laundry and tucking each article of clothing into the proper drawer. His mother leans against the wall, watching him for a moment: Cleaning? So it’s not Jade who’s coming over?

He shakes his head: No. Somebody else from school.

Her eyebrow raises: Have I met this person?

No. You will soon. He’s really nice.

As long as he’s nice. She pushes off of the wall, leaning over and kissing the top of his head quickly: Grandma already went to bingo, she probably won’t be home until late. If she doesn’t fall asleep at Ms. Mable’s again.

I hope she does well. 

“You know your grandmother. She’s pretty lucky.” She hesitates, watching him, “I love you, Derek,” She puts a hand to his shoulder soothingly, then up to the back of his neck to touch his reddish-brown curls, “You know that, right?” 

He does know that. And he loves her, he loves her more than anything. He loves her and he loves his grandmother and his brother and his home. Sometimes, on some days, he loves himself and he thinks he wouldn’t want to change anything about his life. Because he wouldn’t be Derek without all of his imperfections. And then on other days, not so much.

He nods, “Love you too.” 

“Of course you do. ‘Cause I’m your mom,” she curls her arms around his shoulders, “I’m sorry I’ve been so...parent-y lately.” 

He smiles now: It’s kind of your job.

“Yeah,” she smiles back, it looks a little tired and soft - like her usual smiles, “Yeah, I know. I wish I could be better at it.” 

Better at what? 

“At being your mom,” He’s just barely able to decipher what she’s saying. A delicate wrinkle appears to his forehead when she brushes his hair back, “I remember when we first moved to this house and I just kept thinking that now its just me. And my little guy. You’re so big now, it’s hard to remember that.” She’s quiet for a long time after that, and then she suddenly says, “I should call your brother soon. Don’t you think?” 

He thinks back to a few nights ago, seeing his brother for the first time in a long time. His desperate eyes, his thin frame, his scratchy voice. He nods again: You should. Her smile twists, she looks like she’s in pain. After kissing his head one more time, she reaches over and takes the shirt he’d been currently folding and does it for him, pointedly tucking the sleeves back first.

“This is why you don’t do laundry.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be going?” 

He can still see the tension lingering at her shoulders, it’s not often that he gets to see her like this. She bottles stuff up a lot, and he thinks that’s where he must get it from. He worries that she will overrun, like a glass that’s filled with water and threatening to crack. When she talks to him like this, its at super small windows, when they’re just alone and she snaps back just as fast. It’s hard to get her to open up, he’s been trying ever since dad died.

He hopes the bad feeling in his chest will go away by time Wyatt comes.

She leaves soon after. It’s been awhile since he was alone in the house, his grandmother usually watches after him. But it feels empty like this, with him just alone. He makes himself busy by finishing laundry and cleaning the dirty dishes in the sink. His room is pretty boring, there’s no TV, so he doesn’t see a point in tidying it up too much. 

He’d said hang out, so Derek’s pretty sure that’s code for eating a bunch of junk food and talking. As he debates on where they should sit ( at the dining table or at the couch ), the doorbell rings. He can tell because the flasher in the corner of the room goes off twice and catches his eye. His heart almost jumps out of his chest, he nearly drops the couch pillow in his arms.

He manages to make it to the door, takes a deep calming breath, and then opens it. Wyatt is standing there, he’s wearing his cheerleading jacket and jeans and nice sneakers. He looks pretty, Derek is always a little starstruck every time he sees him. He must look dumb, just standing there and staring at him. 

Wyatt smiles: Can I come in? 

Bobble-Head-Derek is back. There’s no stopping him. He closes the door after Wyatt once he steps inside, “You’re getting good at that.” 

Wyatt turns to look at him, smile lifting into an easygoing grin, “Yeah? I’ve been practicing a lot.” That makes his stomach flutter, that Wyatt would take time out of his day to learn more and more, just so he can be able to talk to Derek, “Can I take off my jacket?” 

“Yeah.” 

Wyatt does just that, he removes his jacket. Derek takes it, almost in a daze. Wyatt’s arms look really nice, and even though he isn’t looking in Derek’s direction ( he’s glancing around the expanse of the house ), Derek is staring at him. Gosh, how can a person be this nice to look at? Shouldn’t be it like, against the law or something. 

Derek tries to keep himself moving, he goes to hang up the jacket in the sitting room closet. 

“This is nice,” Wyatt says, he’s still taking a quick look around, “Where’s your room?” 

Derek pays close attention to his hands, blinks once, “Oh. In the back.” It’s not that exciting to look at, it’s almost painfully boyish. Posters of bands, pictures of his friends, dirty clothes bin in the corner, dark blue sheets and blankets. Fortunately, he’d taken the time to tidy up before Wyatt got there. 

He never thought he would get to this point. His crush, totally cute cheerleading Wyatt is in his house, his living room. The old-eighties wallpaper along with the ugly drapes his mom refuses to get rid of become even duller in comparison with him here. He’s here, he’s really here. This isn’t another one of those over-imaginative dreams, and he has a lot of dreams about Wyatt. He hopes he’s not staring too much or he thinks his house is ugly-looking. 

But of course not, because its Wyatt and he’s sort of incapable of being mean. He turns to him with this pretty smile under prettier eyes, “I always imagined how your house was, but it’s different actually being here.” 

“Really?” That’s exciting to hear. 

“Yeah. I realize how weird that seems now. Saying it out loud and everything.” 

“No, it’s...” Derek shakes his head, “I bet your house is cooler.”

Wyatt shifts on his feet, and for some reason, it looks very shy-like, “Can I see your room?” Derek leads him down the hallway, hooking a left into his bedroom. Wyatt seems even more entranced, he’s taking a close look at everything around him. Derek fidgets some. 

Wyatt’s mouth moves, but Derek doesn’t catch it. So, he enunciates more clearly, “There’s a lot of pictures of Jade in here,” he says, poking at a taped portrait on his wall, over his bed. Along with a hundred others, “I’ve known her since grade school, you know.” 

“Really?” Jade had never mentioned it.

“Yeah. She used to steal my crayons all the time,” He’s studying on with rapt attention, flipping it halfway over to see the back. It’s dated, Derek dates all of them, “Your birthday was this week?”

“A couple days ago,” Derek tells him, “It was--” Now Wyatt is staring at him, for some reason Derek now feels as if he said something wrong, “It’s...not a big deal or anything.”

“I missed your birthday. I can’t believe I missed your birthday,” he says, slightly slack-jawed, “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Derek is kind of smiling at his reaction. Kind of surprised too, “I didn’t think you’d care.” 

Wyatt looks even more offended than before, “Not care? You’re serious? I would’ve gotten you something - no way, I’m getting you something.” 

“You don’t have to. Jade didn’t even get me anything.” 

“Jade obviously doesn’t know how lucky she is to be close to you.” 

Derek is grinning and blushing now, and Wyatt is shaking his head to himself in some kind of mock disapproval as he puts the picture back. Derek takes his time pointing out each one and telling him when it had been and where. After awhile, the two of them are sitting in bed and looking through them, and just - well, talking. And that’s nice. It’s like they’ve been doing it for their whole life. 

“What did you do for your birthday?” 

Derek stares at his hands as he signs and speaks, “There was lots of cake. And everyone was talking and having fun. Aahna and Jade, too.” 

“Having fun?” He’s staring at him with this almost amused tilt to his mouth, “You make it sound like you weren’t there.” 

“It’s just--” He shrugs, “Everybody was dancing.” 

“Dancing - oh. You don’t like dancing?” 

“It’s not that. When I was younger, I remember I liked to dance. All the time, my mom said I was always moving or something.” 

“Yeah?” Now the smile is wider, more amused. His eyes are shining, “We should dance then.” 

Derek blinks, curious. He doesn’t get a chance to say anything, Wyatt is already glancing around the expanse of the room before he seems to remember something. He takes Derek’s wrist in his hand gently ( his hands are so nice and soft and -- ), and tugs him towards the living room. There, it’s his grandmother’s old stereo that she never got rid of, the one encased with glass and she always told him not to touch when he was younger. Wyatt fiddles with it for awhile, Derek can do nothing but watch. 

Music starts to play, he can tell because Wyatt stands up straight and turns up the volume. Eyebrows slightly furrowed, Derek is unsure of what’s playing but Wyatt doesn’t look as if he minds too much, even as he shrugs and says, “Okay, we can work with this.” 

It’s a jumbled, muffled mess to Derek. But he can’t keep himself from smiling, watching as Too Pretty Wyatt steps closer to him and offers his hands. Like he’s some kind of prince asking for him to waltz. Derek doesn’t even hesitate, he clasps his hands with his, surprised when Wyatt pulls him forward without pause. It’s pretty clumsy and Derek’s heart is in his throat, but it’s also kind of perfect. 

To be completely honest, he hasn’t dance in a long, long time. He can’t remember the last time, actually. It’s not because he feels awkward or embarrassed doing it, he just can’t hear the music. Of course Wyatt would be the one to take him out of his comfort zone, a million miles away from it, in fact. It’s hard to say no to that face, that smile, those eyes. 

He’s smiling and laughing again, Derek wishes he could hear it. He’s never wished something so bad in his life. It dissolves into Derek jumping around in a full circle, he’s moving energetically to what he guesses the music sounds like, and Wyatt’s watching him like he’s doing something weirdly endearing.  

At some point, Derek had closed to his eyes, and he’s unsure of just when. But he feels Wyatt’s hands on his shoulders, twisting him gently back around to face him. When he opens his eyes, he finds Wyatt staring at him again, smiling and breathless, “Here, here--” 

He’s guiding his arms, keeps them from flailing around, his touch is warm and kind. For just a heart-stopping second, their eyes meet. And neither of them are really dancing anymore, just smiling at each other, pink-faced. 

Jade’s words are stuck in between them, said over and over in his head: Wyatt likes him, definitely. 

He doesn’t know if that’s true. 

Well - he figures out literally two seconds later because Wyatt leans in and kisses him. It’s a quick kiss, just a peck. Nothing to gush over. Except that it is. Wyatt watches his face carefully as it goes from surprised and wide-eyed, to processing like a slow computer, to as red as a ripe tomato. Derek doesn’t give himself a chance to back out of whatever just happened, he leans in and kisses Wyatt right back. 

A peck, just like him. Testing the waters to make sure it’s fine. Wyatt smiles at him again, all goofy and ecstatic, Derek mirrors him. It’s a pause between the both of them, before Wyatt is leaning back in. They kiss, again and again, sweet and soft, Derek delving for something deeper when he’s unsatisfied with just that. 

He becomes bold enough to touch Wyatt, both hands framing his face delicately, careful even in this spur of a moment decision. He didn’t think this would ever happen, so he admits that he’s trying to milk it for all its worth. Things like this only happens in dreams, and those dreams do nothing to compare to the real thing. Wyatt’s arms wrapping fluently around him, pulling him in, thumb tentatively brushing his hip when Derek’s shirt rises just an inch or two. 

He hates that he needs to breathe, that his lungs feel like they’ll explode if he doesn’t. Kiss breaks away for a second, Derek attempting connect the right wires in his brain, in and out. It proves to be fairly difficult with Wyatt staring at him, almost affection-like, the look in his eyes making Derek’s stomach go all gooey. 

Vaguely, he remembers the music. Even if he were able to hear it clearly, he’s sure it would be difficult to over the roar of his heart, practically jumping out of his chest. He’s left blinking at Wyatt in some type of wonder, as if he’s never seen him before. If he could press PAUSE on his life right now, he would, no hesitation. Just to stay in this moment right here. 

Finally, his mouth seems to start working, maybe twenty seconds in, “You...” 

“Was that okay?” Wyatt is asking, and Derek has never been more happy to focus on his lips - kiss-bruised as they are, pomegranate flush to them. His breath is on Derek’s face, the scent of him invading his sense, thoroughly. Like aliens when they conquer Earth in those movies Jade likes - that’s how Derek feels, as if Wyatt has conquered and taken over him completely and he has no want or urge to fight it. 

“I--” Derek is at loss for words, blinking and staring. If he wasn’t so against letting go of Wyatt, he might’ve pinched himself, “I don’t get it.” 

“Hm?” Wyatt nuzzles into his cheek, breathing out through his nose, question in the furrow of his brows.

“You’re...Cheerleading-Pretty-Nice-Funny-Arms--” 

“Arms?” 

“--Tall-Cute-Smiling Wyatt...and you kissed me.” 

Wyatt pulls aay a bit, just so Derek can see his face fully, can make out what he’s saying. There’s surprise there, in the subtle curve of his lips, eyebrows lifting high on his forehead, “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Derek keeps blinking. That seems as if that’s all he’s able to do. “Because.” 

“Because?” 

“You know...” 

“I don’t,” He smiles at Derek, “Enlighten me.” 

“You know.” 

“I don’t.” 

“It’s really hard to think when you’re so close.” 

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“I just - Jade said you do, but I can’t tell if you like me or not--”

“Derek,” His mouth forming around those two syllables is so pretty to watch. Eyes melted, he presses forward, mouth close to Derek’s, murmuring, “I’ve liked you for like, two years now. Since I met you.”

Derek probably looks like a goldfish, mouth open in an ‘o’ shape. And Wyatt laughs, eyes crinkling at the edges, teeth white against his plush lips, forehead nudging against Derek’s, “You’re silly.” 

“I like you, too,” Derek gushes, quick as ever, praying to whatever is above them that this isn’t a dream, “I like you so much, Wyatt.”

This time, Wyatt is the one who flushes. Pink in the cheeks, he’s still smiling, “Can I kiss you again?” 

Derek nods, eager, leaning into him, lips parted and searching. Wyatt meets him halfway, kisses him softer than the last, a brush of their mouths, Wyatt’s tongue dipping inside and Derek is pretty sure he moans. 

“You like me,” he’s mumbling against Wyatt’s lips, over and over again, heart in his throat, “You like me, you like me.” 

“I like you,” he says back, voice subdued, swaying the two of them gently, and Derek thinks it’s to the music. “I like you.” Wyatt kisses his mouth, his cheeks, his eyelids, and the crown of his head with soft lips. He thinks his heart will melt this way, completely and truly. 

But that’s okay too. It kind of already belongs to Wyatt anyway. 

. 

.

Cold hands slither underneath Derek’s shirt, press flat to his ribs and back, and he yelps, jerked out of sleep. Twists and turns, tangles himself further in his covers to try and escape, but it’s futile. You’d think Derek would get use to this type of wake-up call, but nope. It scares the crap out of him every morning. 

Wyatt’s weight in the only up side to it all, his lips pressing soundly against the back of Derek’s neck, mouthing something. Derek cannot help it, he pouts until he’s kissed, melting into it for just a second until he’s complaining about his own morning breath and trying to bury his face into his pillow halfheartedly. 

“Good morning,” Wyatt says against his cheek, chest pressed against Derek’s back, “I missed you.” 

Derek peeks one eye out, just to see what he’s saying, catches the tail end of his words, “Missed you, too.” Even though they see each other practically all the time, he means it, definitely. 

“C’mon,” Wyatt swats him on the butt, Derek lazily kicks at him, “Rise and shine.”

Wyatt helps him with sitting up in bed, reaching over to pluck his hearing aids from the bedside table. Derek smiles at him in thanks, filled with warm and fuzzy feelings, tucking each smoothly into his ears. After, he watches Wyatt go, maybe watching the way his jeans and t-shirt fit him so nicely. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, and puts on his clothes. 

Quiet, Derek stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. 

How does one usually start the day?

Hey.

His name is Derek Arthur Peterson. He just turned sixteen a couple months ago. He’s pretty normal. Just like any other teenager. Goes to Durmhall High School, been deaf since he was ten. 

He has a mother. A brother. A grandmother. And now a boyfriend  - a caring, cute, cheerleader boyfriend.

.

.

[unpopcorned]

.

.

Lux has always wondered why he was born.

Not in some . . . cliche type of way, like what’s his purpose and why God has put him on this Earth and he has every intention to find out. But in the way that he’s scared to think about it, he thinks if he digs too deep into himself, he’ll end up drowning in the millions of thoughts, and he won’t be able to breathe. Plus, he doesn’t even believe in God, he doesn’t think he believes in much of anything anymore.

When he was born, he was born a month early. His mom went into labor, nurses scrambled, his dad had the camera out to film. He was what the doctors liked to call a “stargazer baby”, it’s when you have your back towards the womb, so he came out pretty wrong, almost died with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck.

Sometimes, he thinks that’s where his story should’ve ended.

His life was pretty straightforward - nothing good was going to happen, so might as well get used to it. His dad never liked him, ever since he was small, and it just got progressively worse as time went on. His mother was more or less oblivious to it, she never really asked questions or worried over Lux, he was left to his own devices a lot. And his big sister, that was another story entirely.

He began having sexual intercourse when he was eight. He had his first drink when he was ten. By age twelve, he’d already ripped a girl’s panties off at a party.

It was so chaotic around that time, the edge of his pre-teens -- the silent courtrooms, the perplexed counselors, the anger lines in his parents’ faces. He couldn’t go near Allison ever again, ordered by the court, at least two-hundred feet between them at all times. And he had to do weekly visits with a psychiatrist. Soon after, Lux was diagnosed with early onset depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, and attention deficit disorder.

( They also theorized there was a good chance that someone had already touched him inappropriately, which sparked his sudden sexual aggression, but that’s neither here nor there, right? )

You can imagine how much medication he was given from age twelve and up.

The panic attacks started after that.

The ones when the room closes in on you, all you can see is blurred faces, and no matter how hard you try you can’t catch your breath. Like you’ve been running a marathon for the longest time and you can’t find any water. The first time it happened, it had scared him so much.

His dad said he was an attention seeker. His mom started to watch him more closely. And his sister had went off to college.

He’s alone, every single day. Inside of his head, mumbling thoughts that leak out through his ears, makes him think someone’s actually talking to him when really its just the demons that won’t leave him alone.

Lux crawls through his life, struggling to keep his head above surface. People around him make it look so easy, they go on with their normal lives like things aren’t messed up. The world is constantly turning and spinning and going and he’s just stuck. Here in this one spot, no air around him, staring off into space.

Drunk out of his mind, drugged to the max, exhausted beyond his years.

.

.

He really wishes he could just sleep and never wake up.

.

.

Senior year starts and Lux is just getting out of rehab.

Summer had been nothing but a complete blur. Two months of absolutely nothing, just heat and liquor and same empty feeling. Most students come back refreshed and ready for a new beginning, but that’s never quite so for Lux. His THIRTY-DAYS-CLEAN chip feels like a stone in his pocket, he carries it around as much as possible.

Funny how something so small can mean so much, his mom had practically cried when he’d shown her.

He feels like a ghost in his own body, invisible. Pain of his awaiting death in his bones. Made out of nothing, tied to this world because he has no choice. He’s just roaming and waiting for something to change.

He shows up to class soaked, an hour late. If he’s too lost inside of his head, sometimes he’ll forget his schedule completely and just sit around until an orderly finds him. He’s failed math three times -- freshman Algebra is as far as his knowledge goes. When he comes inside, he drips rainwater onto the floor, people stare.

He stares back.

“Is that...?”

“Oh, shit.”

“Did you hear--”

“Pierce,” The teacher says, voice droning, “Actually showin’ up to class? You’re worse than Johnson. Go ahead, you know where to sit.”

Except, he really doesn’t. He can barely make out the faces in front of him, the voices are blurred behind the fog that refuses to lift. Nameless, unimportant. Lux forces his legs to move, his knees feel as if they’re filled with lead, dragging his feet. Students are still staring at him, shuffling in their seats when he gets close, watching him like he’s some kind of zombie.

Not that they’re wrong or anything.

He takes a seat in one empty desk at the back of the class, he doesn’t care if it’s assigned to someone else or not, he just wants to lay his head down as soon as possible. His vision is swirling, backpack making a heavy sound as it hits the linoleum, he folds his arms over his desk and rests his forehead on top of them.

He tries to breathe. It’s harder than it looks.

His chest feels tight, room too small, listening to the voice of the teacher from the front to try and focus. Everything is muddled, millions of miles away from him. Even in this classroom full of people, Lux feels overwhelmingly lonely again.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” The teacher says, the classroom door opens again and someone shuffles inside, “Take a seat, Mister Johnson. Hurry up.”

That someone sits in the desk next to him, scraping out the chair with far more force than necessary. Lux doesn’t have the energy to lift his head, he buries his face deeper. But the person next to him taps him on the shoulder -- it couldn’t really be called “tapping” or anything, since Lux doesn’t look up at first, and then the “tapping” becomes tugging at his sweatshirt.

He blinks wearily and glances over.

The guy next to him is just another Nameless Student, blurred and unfocused. Shoulders held high, eyes askew, looks unhappy to be there. Just the same as Lux. “Y’gotta pencil?”

Lux doesn’t know. He just shakes his head, the movement makes him feel even more queasy than before. The Nameless Student leaves him alone after that, facing forward with an irritated huff, raising his hand in a half-assed gesture to ask to go to the bathroom. When he gets up, Lux is certain he won’t be back for the rest of the period.

When class is dismissed, Lux is the last one to leave. The teacher barely spares him a glance on his way out. His body movies on auto-pilot through the sea of students, some murmuring to themselves and others throwing him conspicuous glances every few times. But his attention isn’t on them, he only looks up when he grows closer to a certain row of lockers, a familiar call of his name said through the fog.

Blond hair, dreary eyes, a misplaced presence. He’s not quite there, lingering at the edges of Lux’s vision and subconscious, like a phantom. A dream and nightmare. But still, Lux steps in his direction, desperate to get a few moments, if only that.

“Heath--”

“Lux?”

He blinks at his name and turns his head. Fiona Lark is standing to the right of him, expression wary.

“Who’re you talking to?”

Lux blinks again. He looks towards Heath’s locker and finds no one, the image vanished from his mind just as quick as it’d come. He goes quiet, “...I don’t know.”

“You sure?”

“Mm.”

Her eyebrows are furrowed now, gaze unwavering, “Maybe you should've--”

“I’m fine, Fiona.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Eden.”

It’s been like this for awhile. The hallucinations, daydreaming in the middle of class or the hallway. Seeing things that aren’t there. Maybe he should tell somebody about it, open up more, but if he does, they’ll just put him on more medications. That’s the last thing he needs. The days are becoming shorter, all jammed together. One day, it’s Monday and the next, it’s Saturday. He’s losing track of time, hours and minutes and seconds, drowning inside of his head with no one to help.

He hasn’t been able to remember much. Not the last few weeks, at least.

“Lux? Lux!” Eden’s voice is a safety net, catching him when he’s been falling for what seems like hours. She tugs at his sleeve, “What’s going on with you? Are you even listening?”

“Yeah,” he’s down to three word replies maximum. A mumble here, a nod there, it’s enough to keep people satisfied. He never really has anything important to say, so it’s not like it matters.

“Come with me tonight,” Eden lays her puppy-dog eyes on thick, but Lux isn’t particularly paying attention. He’s staring off in the distance, distracting by another shadow. “Please? Tori’s throwing, like - this killer party. Ricky told me about it.”

He says nothing.

“You need to get out more, okay? Isn’t healthy being all cooped up.”

“Mm.”

“So you’ll be there?”

“Sure.”

From further down the hallway, Heath stares back at him, slouched against the lockers, ethereal and ghostly. In a blink of an eye, he’s gone. And then back, gone again. Watching and waiting -- for what, Lux has no clue. Maybe for him to join him, who really knows.

A chill comes over him, eyes instinctively watering up. It’s so scary to see his demons have a face.

.

.

He goes to whatever thing Eden was talking about. Only ‘cause she essentially forced him out of the house. There’s some guy that’s going to be there that she’s gushing over, clinging to Lux’s arm while the two of them walk together.

She’s so warm pressed up against him, playing with his fingers while she talks. She’s been the only thing stable since everything, a pillar in the darkness that floods around Lux. She can seem miles and miles away often times, Lux maybe leans on her a bit unhealthily. But since his sister left for college, he’s come to realize how lonely he gets without her.

Eden had been a good buffer for that feeling.

The party isn’t anything special. It’s Tori’s birthday, apparently. And she invited a band. Ricky looks extremely happy to see them, he greets Eden enthusiastically and kisses Lux on the corner of the mouth. Lux is glad to see him too -- wherever there’s Ricky, there’s party favors. Throughout the party, it’s hard to keep an eye on Eden, she’s in and out of people’s arms and laps, drinking and dancing and shouting with the music. He gives up after thirty minutes or so.

He was right to assume Ricky had something with him, he’s always nice enough to share with Lux, for a price. Nothing important, nothing Lux hasn’t done before. He walks away with a bitter taste in his mouth and a baggy in his hand. As soon as its in his system, things seem to fade away.

He feels lighter, less weighed down. It’s better this way, despite what his parents and therapist might think. A rush comes, settles in him familiarly, drowsy and wide-awake at once, at peace maybe. He remembers when he first did something like this, he was so scared, but Heath had been there with him, had kept him grounded when he’d felt completely out of his mind.

He’s farther away from the party now, Tori’s parents were pretty loaded ( that’s why Eden was so close to her in the first place ), and there’s a nice little riverbank near the edge. He struggles to find his legs, to sit properly, but he ends up spiraling down and landing heavily on his shoulders and back. Laying there, breathing through his mouth, squirming so that he can get comfortable.

There are no stars tonight. So, he’s forced to just watch the world turn on and on without him.

My dad’s an asshole.

Lux blinks slowly, eyelashes brushing the tops of his cheeks as he closes his eyes, “Yeah...” A pause, he frowns. “You can stay at my house tonight.”

The music dulls, the sound of partygoers fades, and he’s alone here. Seemingly.

You parents won’t care?

“They don’t care ‘bout anything.”

Have you ever wondered to yourself...

“Hm?”

If they hate us so much, why’d they have us?

“I don’t know.”

My dad does nothing but yell. And get mad. And yours...

“They ignore me.”

It’s not like we asked to be here. To be born.

“I know...I’m sorry, Heath.”

It’s not your fault.

“I know, but--”

But?

“I should’ve loved you better.”

What’re you talking about?

“I--”

His words get stuck in his throat.

Lux?

For a moment, laying next to him, it’s Heath. Pale skin, sleepy eyes, blond curls. There’s no fog buffering his image. He’s present and real and solid, staring at Lux curiously, waiting for him to finish. Just seeing him this way, he wants to stay there forever and ever, never moving and never changing, press PAUSE on the VCR, stuck in this moment.

Lux wants to whisper ( “I love you, I love you, I miss you”).

But nothing comes.

Because the moment passes, and when he blinks again, Heath is changing. Morphing in front of his eyes -- he turns a violent pink, foam starts to bubble from his nose and mouth, his eyes roll back, he’s talking and saying something, gasping out Lux’s name. Blood is spilling out of his ears---

Lux sits up fast. A warm hand touches his back.

He jumps out of his skin, breathing fast. When he looks back over, Heath is gone and the spot beside him is empty. Until someone else occupies it, a guy he’s never seen before, who crouches down next to him, giving him that familiar worried-for-you-but-doesn’t-know-how-to-help look.

“Are you o--”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Wha--”

“Don’t touch me -- right now, just -- just don’t.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Lux is still breathing hard, trying to catch some semblance of control but it’s harder than it looks. His chest is heaving, tight and heavy. There’s no air left -- he’s a dying fish on the beach, an astronaut without his helmet. Squeezing his throat, wringing life out of him. He’s had it happen to him so many times before, but there’s no way to grow used to it. His hands press to his chest, grip at the material of his hoodie. Beneath his palm, Lux can feel his raging heart.

He tries to push the image of Heath out of his mind, the one that plagues his dreams. The way he’d seen him when he had woken up that day, turned his head and found Heath still and not moving. He wants to erase it from his mind, but it flashes behind his lids every time he closes his eyes.

The boy next to him is thoroughly confused, still close but not touching like Lux asked. His hands hover, unsure, “Uh, I don’t...know how to help.”

“Go away,” Lux wheezes through clench teeth, “Please.”

“Do you need somebody? An ambulance or somethin’?”

His voice comes out sharper than normal, “No!”

“Are you--”

“Panic attack!” Teary eyes snap towards the sound of his voice, can’t really see or focus but glaring nonetheless. “Leave me alone! Go away!”

The boy says nothing, only stares at him for awhile before standing and walking away.

Lux is left alone.

He brings his knees to his chest and forces his head in between them. He breathes, trembling and choking, trying to keep his tears to himself. But they drip down his face, off his nose, and into the dirt. And Heath’s presence is still there, draped over his back and squeezing him tight, squeezing the life out of him little by little.

After awhile, he calms.

Lux stares out at the water, blood rushing in and out of his ears. He feels exhausted, his heart is pounding away in his chest, and his mouth tastes like salt, like he’s close to barfing.

“Are you okay now?” The same voice from before. Lux lifts and turns his head. The boy is standing there, a couple feet behind him, a bottle of water in one hand. He looks a little out of breath too, like he’d just ran over to him, “I brought you something to drink.”

Lux doesn’t say anything as the boy crouches down and carefully rolls the water towards him, wary of getting too close. The bottle knocks gently into his hip and Lux takes it with shaking hands.

“Parties make me nervous, too.” The boy says, smiling from the corner of his mouth, “Like that feeling you have before a really big show. I get it all the time.”

Lux is quiet.

“It’s probably not the same though.”

Lux still says nothing. He looks at the water bottle, to the boy, and then back again.

“Yeah, all they had is water. Tori should’ve stocked up better, right?”

Lux is still staring.

The boy clears his throat, “Uh - if you want, there’s a place a few blocks up from here that stays open late. Better drinks.”

.

.

The boy’s name is Tripp. He has blue hair.

He takes Lux to this shoddy-looking diner up the street, still keeps a safe enough distance between them just in case Lux freaks out again ( which, he won’t, but it’s weird to have a person that actually listens to him ... and nice ).

It’s a Friday, so the place is packed. Lux is too nervous to go inside, so he waits on the sidewalk, and Tripp orders for them. He comes back fifteen minutes later with a greasy paper-bag, plopping down a foot away from Lux and holding it out to him. He picks at his burger rather than eat it, and watches Tripp out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry.” That’s the first thing out of Lux’s mouth.

“For what?” Tripp speaks around a mouthful of food, wiping his mouth thereafter.

“For...before.”

“Oh. It’s not a big deal. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

That’s what his therapist says all the time, “Yeah...it’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Tripp’s voice is surprisingly firm, “But you shouldn’t come to a party like that if you’re...” He frowns some, seems to think on it, “If you’re sad.”

Does he look sad? He hopes not -- he’s been trying really hard to fool his mom lately to avoid her never-ending questions. “I thought it would help.” His high is gone now, thoroughly diminished with his mood. He feels heavy, Heath’s weight along his back holding him down, suffocating him, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

He feels differently, “Mm.”

It’s quiet between them after that. Different sounds among them, a car alarm going off in the distance, a couple arguing across the street, the delicate ding! of the bell every time the door opens behind them. When Lux risks a glance at Tripp, he can see he’s lost in thought, eyelids low and lashes casting shadows across his cheeks.

“When I feel nervous or scared, I just close my eyes.”

Lux stares at his side-profile, silent.

“It can be a lot sometimes. People, sounds, everything. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

He doesn’t know the half of it. Lux keeps staring, at a lost for words. He looks back down at his uneaten burger, wrapped with foil and reeking of grease.

“Is your real name Tripp?”

This smile comes to his face, really nice to look at, “Is your real name Lux?”

Lux’s eyebrows furrow, “Yes. No.” A pause there, he looks to be thinking. “It’s Luxen. But I just like Lux...”

“I like your name,” he smiles at him in an encouraging way, “Lux.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, deciding to tuck the food back away into the paper bag, wrapping it tight thereafter. Lux rubs his hands anxiously along his jeans, eyes flickering up and landing on a figure. Heath stands on the other side of the street, perched on the sidewalk, same as Lux.

A car passes, and he’s gone just as fast as he’d come.

Lux swallows, “You...” Tripp looks up, “You wanna come over to my house?”

“Okay...?”

“And...sleep?”

“Just sleeping?”

“Yeah, if you want.”

Now, don’t get him wrong, he knows this is stupid. He knows the top rule universally is to not trust strangers. But Tripp has already seen the most vulnerable side of himself already, and he’s weirdly okay with it. He can’t sleep, he can’t ever sleep --- he hasn’t even been able to breathe since Heath died. Tripp, as surprising and sudden as his presence may be, has lifted some of the weight off his chest.

The two of them head to Lux’s house. Lucky for them, his parents are in bed by nine sharp and the house is pitch black. They don’t care what time Lux comes home, if he even comes home at all. Sometimes, he’d rather sleep in an alleyway than be here, this bottomless abyss that stares back at him, two shadows that have replaced his parents’ faces.

When they’re coming in, Tripp nearly knocks over his mom’s favorite china plates in the living room, gives Lux a wide-eyed look and smiles. Lux always lingers when he passes by his sister’s room, always tempted to grab the knob and twist, and perhaps, she’ll be there. But that’s just wishful thinking.

His own room is a mess of clothes, rolling papers, empty wrappers, and soda cans. Buried underneath a pile of dirty laundry is his bed, which he shoves out of the way and looks at Tripp to sit. He does, glancing around and taking it in, “Cozy,” he says, a half-smile on his face.

Lux just goes to work with changing for bed. Which isn’t difficult, just pulling off his jeans and socks, shrugging on Heath’s sweatshirt after. It’s comfortable and loose and familiar, he’s been sleeping with it for months now, but Tripp gives him a curious look.

“You sleep in that?”

Lux nods.

Tripp takes off his pants next, Lux wishes he could be more hospitable -- offer him some water, give him something to sleep in so he’ll be more comfortable, talk with him and learn more about this complete random boy that somehow knows a thing or two about panic attacks. Instead, he settles beside Tripp, avoiding his eyes and staring at the floor.

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For...” Lux stops, tucks hair behind his ears anxiously. It’s getting long again and his dad has been giving him dirty looks, “You don’t have to stay or anything.”

“I want to.”

That’s enough to make Lux glance over at him, watching as Tripp shuffles closer until their thighs are touching. Without thinking, Lux leans his head against his shoulder, curling up against his side. Tripp hesitates for maybe a second or two before his arm wraps around Lux and pulls him in tighter, holding and anchoring him there.

It’s not much. But it’s enough.

.

.

Lux is scared of a lot of things.

Heights, elevators, his dad ( his sister, too. but not really ). Big dogs with sharp teeth. Police officers. Older men with grabby hands. All of these things, he’s deathly petrified of. Real things, people and places that make him nervous, his palms sweat and his stomach turns in knots.

He supposes his biggest one would be . . . being alone though. Ending up with nobody. Which, he’s pretty sure is going to happen anyway, but he’s doing everything in his power to try and prevent that. He never really realized it before, but it’s so very easy to lose the people around you. At just a blink of an eye, they’re there and then they’re not.

Like with Heath.

Heath being gone, it’s like a part of him has been ripped out. No hope of getting it back, either. A hole, the size of Heath’s fist, has formed inside of his chest, clenching at his heart every time it beats. He doesn’t want to blame Heath for that, it’s not his fault. None of it is  ---  they didn’t ask for this. Heath didn’t ask for a fucked up home where he doesn’t feel comfortable enough to lay his head, he didn’t ask for his father’s addiction and his mother’s lack of empathy, he didn’t ask to be born or taught to speak or walk or be a person.

He hadn’t wanted any of it.

Neither had Lux.

It was the first time he’d related to someone on that. He’d always been too afraid to open up about his thoughts, even to the line of therapists, who tirelessly wracked his brain until they felt satisfied. He never told anyone he used to hurt himself all the time because he hated his body and mind. He never told anyone that he had to have at least seven alcoholic drinks a day to make it through school. He never told anyone that he lets whoever touch him whenever they want, even creepy men and drunk girls, no matter the age.

But he told Heath.

Heath doesn’t look at him with that judge-y look. You know the one  --- the brows slightly raised, lips pursed, eyes wide with that totally-not-judging-you-but-wow thing. He only took Lux’s hand, held in between his own, and stared at him with this soft, understanding disposition. Like Lux didn’t have to explain himself and he did nothing wrong and Heath gets it.

Lux misses him so much.

He jerks awake in bed, tangled in the sweaty sheets, unfocused so he thinks the sheets are unfamiliar hands, forcing him down on the bed and refusing to let go. So, he ends up on the floor, landing hard on his back, grasping at his chest and digging his nails in. His panic attacks are always worse in the morning, his ribs ache and contract tightly around his lungs. In these small moments, the world goes quiet, and everything hurts.

He comes to a few minutes later, his body has grown used to it over the years, it calms down gradually on its own. Sometimes it takes only two or three minutes, sometimes twenty. Lux tries hard not to force it, just allows himself to drift away into his own head until it stops.

His lungs feel as though they’re on fire as he struggles to his feet, his heart pounding and fierce in his ears. On his dresser, the mirror there is flipped down flat so he can’t see his reflection, it used to make him jump every time he caught a glance of himself. Something catches his eye though  ---  the baggy Tripp had left.

Pills are inside, a heart drawn onto the clear plastic with a sharpie. When Lux had complained about his lack of sleep, Tripp had offered an out. Over-the-counter, real expensive and hard to get, especially at their age. Lux hadn’t particularly asked any questions, just taken it when it was offered, but he swiftly came to the conclusion that Tripp has drugs and Tripp can get drugs, somehow and someway, very easily.

And he hadn’t asked for money, either.

Lux is quiet for a little while, chest tight. After thinking, he tucks the baggy away into his backpack.

Getting ready for school is a pain, especially when he’s so tired already. He tells himself every morning that he won’t fall asleep when he makes it to his desk, but he always does. Today would probably be no different.

His parents pay no attention to him when he comes out of his room. His dad is at the table, eating quietly and his mom is watching news on the TV over the fridge. Lux checks it, finds nothing to drink ( no beer, at least ), and then under the cabinet ( nothing here either ), until his mom interjects.

“You’re going to be late for school,” And that’s all she says, barely sparing him a glance.

He shifts, hands shoved into his jacket’s pockets, shoulders high to his ears, “I need money for lunch.” Except he doesn’t, he never eats lunch.

His dad scoffs from the table, his mom frowns at him, “There’s a ten in my purse.”

Before Lux can even think of going to grab it, his dad interjects, wiping his mouth and glaring at Lux like he’s asked for all the loose change in his pockets, “What happened to that job you were working at, hm?”

The diner around the corner had hired Lux as a dishwasher is what he means, and shortly fired him after three weeks of him stealing from the register. He didn’t tell anybody what he was using the cash for, but his parents kind of assumed.  They didn’t trust him with anything anymore, much less money. Not that he really blames them.

But that was months ago. Before everything. His dad knew that, he just liked to badger him as much as he could.

Lux can do nothing but mumble out his response, “Sorry.”

His dad clicks his teeth again, “That’s all you ever say.”

They’re not short on money or anything, don’t worry about that. It’s just his parents always taught him and his sister to be their own person, and if they wanted something, to go out and get it themselves. So Lux did, he got the things he needed by himself  ---   in ways, maybe, they wouldn’t approve of.

He leaves the house, because he doesn’t want to argue. He doesn’t want to hear another tangent about how he’s a fuck-up and he’s shit and he’s a thief and a druggie and they’ve wasted money on him.

He’s heard it more times than he can probably count.

School is a ways away, but he heads in the opposite direction of it, biking leisurely on the sidewalk, mindful to keep his balance. Down the street, it’s Mr. O’Hara’s house, he has a wife and a kid, and he’s always waving hello to Lux’s parents when he’s passing by. From a quick assessment, he can see Mrs. O’Hara’s mini-van is gone and Mr. O’Hara’s Volkswagen is still there.

Lux leaves his bike at the end of the driveway, hesitates before knocking. He waits maybe thirteen or fourteen seconds before the door opens, Mr. O’Hara is in his robe, and drinking his coffee. But doesn’t look surprised to see Lux there.

“Hey.”

“Good morning, Lux.”

Heath never liked Mr. O’Hara and Lux could sort of see why. Because he’s a father and a husband and “a piece of crap” as Heath had described him. And Heath knows all about that, he’s seen it and experienced it and been used before. He knows better than anyone.

But Heath isn’t here now. Even though Lux can see him over Mr. O’Hara’s shoulder, out of place with his hoodie and dark jeans, this humble suburbia home with pictures of a sweet daughter  and beaming wife. He isn’t looking in Lux’s direction, he’s scuffing his sneaker against the rug and glaring at the spot. His presence spreads a chill all over, working from the crown of his head to the tip of his toes.

Mr. O’Hara takes a sip of his black coffee, breathing, “Aren’t you going to be late for school?”

Lux swallows thickly, desperation clogging his throat, “Can I...can we...I need...”

“Money?”

“...yeah.”

Mr. O’Hara smiles his comforting smile, “You don’t have to be shy about that,” He cups his free hand over Lux’s shoulder, rubbing with his thumb, “Come inside, it’s cool out here.”

In the end, he gets his cash and his usual from Cal, the trusty dealer by the train tracks. Ae takes a moment to himself  ---  opiates are always the best, calm and soothe his nerves, he slumps and rests in the deserted alleyway, pulling his hood over his head and pressing his face into his lifted knees.

Someone sits next to him, draping his side with cold, leaning against him with their nonexistent weight, head on his shoulder. What’s wrong? Heath’s voice whispers in his ears.

Lux presses his lips together, his eyes are stinging and his head is heavy. He does his best not to answer, focusing only straight ahead. Head dulled, eyesight blurry, mouth dry. His arms feel useless, knees weak. And his heart continues it’s strange, sudden pattern against his ribs ( he’s forced to continue breathing and living and he hates it ). There’s a sharp pain coming from his hips, darting up the length of his spine every time he shifts and moves, the lack of lube had been a bad idea.

What’s wrong?

What’s right?

There’s one thing Lux isn’t afraid of though. Never has been, and never will be.

Dying. Definitely dying.

.

.

Lux overdosed a week after Heath died.

His mom had found him sprawled on the basement floor, choking on his own vomit, barely moving or breathing. She didn’t know what to do so she called the police and fire department and ambulance and cried until they got there. By the end of the day, the entire town knew that Lux had almost died ( or did die, the details were fuzzy ).

He remembers when he woke up in the hospital, unable to move, staring up at the ceiling. There were machines and tubes everywhere, keeping him alive and trapping him to the bed. His mom was next to him, asleep in the chair, and his dad was pacing in the hallway outside.

Everything was peaceful. And Lux had a moment to cry to himself.

His mom drove him to the best rehab facility she could find, five hours outside of town. He stayed there for sixty days  ---  it was maybe, the hardest point in his life. There were a few times he might’ve acted out, but his record was clean enough that he was allowed to go home on the scheduled date.

And now, he’s in NA. Narcotics Anonymous.

Once a week, he’s supposed to go and get his paper signed. Everyone there congratulates him whenever he’s given a new pin ( thirty days clean, sixty days clean, three months clean and so on ). He feels bad, but he never tells anybody the truth. Even though he’s sure Waverly, the group coordinator and speaker, already knows. She just smiles at him whenever he takes the time to come and signs his paper for him.

“Hi. My name is Lux.”

Dozens of eyes stare at him, voices in unison, “Hi, Lux.”

“I’m...going on three months clean now...”

Waverly gives him this weird kind of smile, like she’s trying to encourage him with her expressions alone. She has this motherly appeal to her that he’s never seen before, not even on his own mom.

There’s a chorus of congratulations, if you exclude Izzy, who’s flipping him off while pretending to scratch his nose with his middle finger. Lux wants to sit down fast, but Waverly is giving him a look, eyebrows raised and smile diminishing. She’s waiting.

Lux nervously shifts, avoiding every point of eye contact that he can. He tells a story about Heath, as he usually does. About this time when they’d skipped school just to hang out together all day, just them and nobody else. Heath could be the last person in the world and Lux thinks he would be okay with that.

He tells the group that he’s sad a lot, almost all the time. About how the sky is always grey, how he’s not smart enough to even pass freshman algebra, about how his parents hate the sight of him. About how he feels like one massive fuck-up and he wishes he’d just died that afternoon in the basement.

No, he keeps the last one to himself, stuffs it into his cheek for another time. He could whisper it under his breath later, when he’s far away from understanding eyes and coaxing voices.

Waverly signs his paper for him, it’s almost full with her signatures now. Soon, he won’t have to come here anymore and he’ll be free to his own devices, in a sense. She smiles at him again, pats his shoulders in a hug, and lets him be on his way. Outside, Izzy is standing near the exit, lighting a cigarette and only looking up when he hears Lux’s footsteps.

“Nice story in there,” he mutters, “Yeah, you’re a real storyteller, Lux.” He says that as sarcastically as possible, offering his cigarette to Lux after awhile. When Lux only shakes his head, Izzy scoffs, “It’s the only thing that takes the edge off. Too good now? Said you’re about to go on three months, right?”

Lux nods, hesitant. Isaac could fly off the rocker sometimes, he’s never been known for having a docile temperament. And it’s even tenfold when he’s high  ---  breaking and throwing things until someone is forced to restrain him. Lux guesses he can relate to that, he didn’t actually hurt anyone else while he was in rehab though. Just himself.

“You get off on that?” Izzy blows smoke in Lux’s direction, the smell of nicotine clinging to his hair and clothes, “Lying?”

Lux’s shoulders bunch up towards his ears, “I’m not--”

“If you’re fucking clean, then I’m Mother Teresa,” Izzy says, staring at him now, “You’re kinda fucked up in the head, y’know that? Going up in front of a bunch of addicts and lyin’ to their faces.”

Lux isn’t looking at him, he’s staring at his shoes.

“It’s whatever. You play this whole innocent act. It’s bullshit,” He’s still going, making lazy hand movements, cigarette perched between his fingers, “And Waverly fuckin’ eats it up, every time.”

Yeah, Lux hates himself. Because he’s a liar, a drunk, an addict, a whore. And he hasn’t even graduated high school yet.

Izzy drops it, says he’s only joking and he’s not being too serious since he doesn’t give a fuck whether Lux tells the truth or not. But Lux just walks away in a vague direction, no idea where he’s going but wanting to get as far away as possible.

He ends up near the train tracks again, settling his weight on a stoop and pulling his own cigarettes from his pocket. He’s down to his last one, he lights it and tries to calm down his nerves, each inhale brings comfort. And when it’s down to a nub, he presses the cindering end into the center of his palm, breathing in sharply at the lace of pain.

It’s better than nothing.

.

.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Lux stares up at Tripp.

His hair is still as blue as ever  --- hasn’t seen him since last week. And it’s kind of weird to realize that he’d missed him. Well, weird for Lux at least, but Tripp doesn’t seem to have a problem saying it, “I missed you.”

The sign for the roller-rink is glowing, shining down on Tripp like he’s heaven-sent. He’d miss the show, which he felt bad about, but seemingly made it for the after-party. Lux hasn’t been skating in years, not since his sister had taken him a couple summers ago. But Tripp looks happy, he’d said before he was from out of town and where he lived didn’t have a lot of attractions. Lux supposes he can see why he’d be excited about something like this.

He’s staring back at Lux, smile tugging at each end of his lips, “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

Lux meets his band-mates. He can’t remember their names not even a second after they’ve introduced themselves, but they all look friendly, none giving him the stink eye, at the very least. Eden is already here, he can see her skating with a few friends from their school, close to falling on her ass, but laughing all the same.

It’s crowded here, a little strange for a week-day, but Lux is guessing everyone is still hyped from the show and needed some type of way to expel the energy from all the drinks and drugs. Music is pounding, Cherry Bomb playing over the speakers and drowning out everyone’s voices. There’s shrill laughter from behind him, a couple shouldering their way through. So much noise, bouncing off the walls, flashing lights and chatter.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

Tripp nods and watches him go.

The bathroom is a one-person type, he fumbles with the broken lock for a while before leaving it be. Lux dry-heaves into the sink, unable to hold back the sudden influx of nausea overtaking him. The week has been long and torturous  ---  he’s barely been home, hasn’t slept more than an hour or two each night, and he’s all out of cash ( more importantly drugs ). Maybe that’s why he took up Tripp’s invitation so quickly.

Or maybe he’s just more lonely than he lets on.

Tripp has been stable enough to lean on, if he’s being honest. Always glancing over at Lux to make sure he’s okay, talking to him like he’s not this creep or freak, treating him like an actual person. It’s surreal, in it’s own way. He’s never had anyone like that before.

When he looks up into his reflection, he’s unprepared of the eyes that’re staring back at him. For a moment, Heath is there, stuck inside of the mirror.

And then the bathroom door opens, and he’s gone. Again.

It’s exhausting.

“Lux? You okay?”

Tripp is there, and as soon as he touches his shoulder, Lux is turning in his arms and pressing closer. Desperate to hold onto something, begging for something to keep him afloat when he’s so close to drowning. And Tripp does, he holds him there until Lux’s breathing calms down, rubbing his back gently. His eyes are warm, unmistakable in the dimmed lights of the bathroom, flickering pink neon flooding in from underneath the door.

“Relax,” Tripp’s breath brushes over his lips, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

He is here. He’s solid, real.

The music has changed, but Lux barely notices it. He can’t look away from Tripp’s eyes, can’t even attempt to try. They lock with his, capturing him in this moment. “You good?” Tripp asks, sweeping hair from Lux’s face, tucking the lengthy strands behind his ears and curling his fingers over his nape. Despite himself, Lux nods shakily, “You sure? Not gonna puke or anything?”

It’s a poor chance at humor, but appreciated all the same. Lux presses his forehead against his chest, can feel the dull pressure of his heart just beneath his skin. It’s steady, he tries to match his breathing count with it.

“Sorry, I thought you’d have fun here. Is it all the people?”

“...I am having fun.”

Tripp laughs some, “Yeah,” A pause, he’s sifting his hand through Lux’s hair. Even though he hasn’t washed it in awhile and it’s probably greasy. He likes that Tripp keeps touching him, even when they’ve known each other for such a short while. Makes him feel better  ---  makes him feel, in general. “I have something that might help.”

That peaks his interest. Lux lifts his head subtly, meets Tripp’s eyes.

“Is that okay?”

Lux nods again.

Tripp has pills. Colorful ones, a few dotting in the center of his palm when he holds them out for Lux. When Lux begins patting his pockets, searching for something to use to crush them, Tripp smiles at him, “Better to take ‘em by mouth. Trust me.”

Lux thinks he does trust Tripp. But then again, Tripp could probably tell him anything and Lux would believe him.

Tripp takes it with him, watching Lux with heavy eyes as they swallow in unison. It’s quiet for maybe a second or two, the both of them staring at the other with a sense of reverence. Already, his breathing has eased, steadying as he listens to Tripp do the same, inhale and exhale at the same time. Tripp’s hands are on his face again, his thumb brushes the flesh of Lux’s bottom lip in one lingering motion.

Tripp’s eyes are pretty. And his lashes are long.

He can’t find a reason to look away or avoid his eyes, not like others. Because Tripp has probably already seen it all before. He’s transfixed with his eyes, until his gaze slips down to his mouth. Lux thinks that it would be nice to kiss him right now.

But then there’s a knock on the door.

Lux jumps, but not Tripp. He just slips his hands down to Lux’s shoulders before they could bunch up with nerves, touch soothing and firm, “C’mon. Let’s get you some skates.”

Lux blinks again, but lets Tripp take a hold of his hand and tug, pulling him swiftly from the bathroom. The guy outside gives them a particularly disgruntled look for the wait, doesn’t say anything as he goes inside next.

“I...” Tripp slows down when he hears Lux’s voice, “I’ll probably fall. A lot.”

“Don’t worry,” Tripp’s answering smile is too nice to stare at, Lux is tempted to look away, warmth in his ears, “I’ll catch you.”

.

.

The drugs kick in after awhile. Maybe around thirty minutes.

Lux hadn’t asked what they were, because he didn’t care. But they’re definitely strong. Takes him by surprise, grabs him by the midsection and takes him for a whirl completely. As soon as it hits, he almost stumbles into Eden. She’d been holding his hand while they skated around and around, and she blinks at him in confusion when he suddenly begins giggling to himself.

He’s unbalanced, the entire world has turned sideways, and he’s okay with that. Eden helps him with sitting down and untying his roller blades. And by that point, things have gotten weird  ---  the paint on the walls are begin to peel and turn into streaky little rainbows, sifting through the air, curling around his neck and spilling over his lap.

Eden gives him another strange look when he begins grasping at things that aren’t there.

“What’d you take and why’d you do it without me?” Eden’s tone sounds warped through his ears, but still exasperated, “No fair.” She’s bent half over, undoing her own skates and yanking them off when she’s done.

“Sorry,” he can’t help but mutter, his lips feel numb and there’s nothing but colors as far as he can see, “...where’s Tripp?”

“I think he went outside.”

And so, Lux goes outside. He’s there, like Eden said, leaned up against the wall and looks up when Lux gets close enough. His hair looks like an even brighter blue than before, eyes endless and cosmic. It’s like the drugs upped his senses by tenfold and Tripp is even more enthralling to look at than normal.

Tripp gives him this dopey kind of smile, like they hadn’t just seen each other like ten minutes ago, “Having fun yet?”

“Yeah,” Lux says, “Thanks...for - for before.”

“No problem.”

Lux keeps moving closer until he’s in front of Tripp, studying him like he’s this painting he’s never seen before. Even though he hasn’t drawn in months, he wouldn’t mind sketching Tripp, he thinks. He feels unfocused and unbalanced on his feet, rocking side to side, heart an enthusiastic rhythm inside of his chest. Tempted to ask Tripp to spend the night again, just so he can get a few hours of sleep, but Tripp speaks for him.

“I really wanna kiss you right now.”

Lux stares up at him.

“It’s all I’ve been able to think about,” His voice is quiet, spoken low so it’s only for their ears. Honest, genuine.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

It’s kind of weird because Lux hasn’t really thought about kissing anyone. Not seriously, at least. The last real kiss he can remember was Heath’s, the taste of nicotine on his tongue, the smell of his soap and musk invading his senses. Heath was a good kisser, they used to practice on each other all the time in freshman year. At least, that’s what they used to call it  ---  just practice.

His eyes go down to Tripp’s lips, watches as he darts his tongue along the corner. Arousal spikes quick, low in Lux’s stomach. He moves forward just slightly, barely noticeable, on the balls of his feet. And Tripp is staring back, just as lost in his face as Lux is, waiting and watching. He’s not really sure who moves forward first, but one second there’s space, and then there’s not.

Tripp kisses him, pulls him in and tangles a hand in his mess of hair. He kisses thoroughly, sweeps into Lux’s mouth without any hesitation. And he’s weak to it, pressing against Tripp earnestly in kind, taste fresh on his tongue, breath hot and ragged, he’s kissing Lux deep and slow.

Being treated so tenderly isn’t something Lux is used to. The way he cradles his head, ducking his hand underneath his hair and pressing warm fingers to his neck. The way he allows Lux to take and give at the same time. His gentle kiss that does nothing but make his blood sing and his eyes wet with tears. Yeah, he’s tempted to cry, that’s how soft Tripp touches him.

He hasn’t kissed anyone like this since Heath. Hasn’t wanted to. Feels different somehow, a good different.

Tripp is done before Lux is, he’s desperate for another, leaning in for more, but Tripp holds him still, smiling at him like he knows a secret.

“You’re beautiful.”  Tripp says it under his breath, whispered against Lux’s lips. And Lux can’t tell if its the drugs or if Tripp really means it, and he’s scared to ask. Because no one’s ever said that to him before and he doesn’t want to ruin this, whatever this is exactly.

He asks Tripp to kiss him again. And he does, over and over again, until he steals Lux’s breath and right sense of mind.

.

.

Okay, so there’s one thing we’ve covered so far: Lux hates himself.

Right? Right.

Nobody really knows how much, though.

Like he hates his body especially. Shoulders and legs and elbows and feet. His face. The color of his eyes and the bags underneath them. He hates the shade of his hair, he hates the way he walks, he hates every piece of his skin so much that he wants to rip it off.

After the trial, he used to hurt himself all the time. He didn’t know about drugs much back then, so he found another way to buffer his strange thoughts and urges. Every day at school, during lunch, he’d go into the bathroom and well  ---  he doesn’t like to think about it. He hasn’t done anything that bad since the rehab facility though, hasn’t tried to outright harm himself because all his therapists told him it was bad and wouldn’t help anything.

Good thing he met Heath when he did. Or he’d be dead right about now.

He gets stuck on the thought of hating himself often. Choking on it. It gets so bad sometimes that he forgets to breathe, to blink, to even function. What’s the point of it all, anyway?

He told this to Tripp. How he used to starve himself, hurt himself until he bled, how he still thinks about it sometimes but tries very hard not to do it. When he was telling him, Tripp held his hand and traced the cigarette burns lining his palm in a weird pattern. He’d kissed his hand when he was finished and pressed his face into his hair.

Lux couldn’t help but wonder why it upset him so much to hear it. Maybe he should keep thoughts like that to himself from now on.

Anyway, Lux hates himself, sure. But there’s nothing he despises more than gossip.

People always talk in this town, there’s nothing else to do. Perpetual rumors that are never true, spoken from a bored housewife or a nosy neighbor or a teenager who can’t keep their mouth shut. Before, Lux supposes he never really cared  ---  people said stuff about him all the time and he didn’t give a shit. But after Heath died, people began talking and he’s never been angrier than he was on that Tuesday afternoon.

He'd skipped fourth period, decided instead that he wanted to spend it with Eden and a few of her friends. Some of them he knew  ---  like Mitch, Harley, Maxin, Judith, Tori. There’s one or two he’s just meeting, and he can’t be bothered to remember anymore names. They’re all stoners, anyway. Like the rest of the students here, the people in this town. Faded out faces, scratched-out eyes. Nameless in a way, blurred in the edges of Lux’s vision.

Not important, no color.

Not like Tripp.

“Can you fucking believe Mr. Heathers?” Harley is grousing, blowing smoke out through her nose, “He’s a real piece of work.”

“The gym teacher?” Tori looks curious, her head is in Mitch’s lap and she looks half-asleep “What about him?”

“He’s a fucking pervert,” Eden says, reaching over to take the blunt from Harley, “He was staring at my tits last week.”

“Try wearing a bra,” Mitch tells her, his face is pink and he’s been giggling for most of the conversation.

“He gave me detention last week,” Harley complains still, disgruntled, “For no reason.” Judith gives her a look, which clearly indicates she doesn’t believe Harley.

“What’d you do?”

Harley glares at Judith and Mitch, “Nothing. Fuck you both.”

Maxin has barely joined in, he’s too busy making eyes at Lux, doing an obscene gesture with his hand, imitating the motion of a hand job. Lux ignores him.

“He gives out detentions to anybody,” Tori says, rolling her eyes, “He even gave one to Johnny, over that stupid Heath thing.” As soon as Heath’s name is spoken, Lux is looking up. Eden coughs mid-inhale, tossing a wary glance his way when she spots his reaction.

“...what about Heath?” Lux asks, voice near silent.

Tori, high as a kite, doesn’t read his tone for anything. She just shrugs and says, “You know. Johnny was cracking jokes. So stupid. And he says--”

“Tori,” Eden tries to break in, tone sharp.

But Tori doesn’t stop. She tells Lux what Johnny said, every single detail. And Lux is left to stew over that throughout. When the bell rings, Eden is the only one who lingers by his side and takes his arm. Her eyes are big and moist, locking with Lux’s as soon as he glances at her.

“Don’t make a big deal outta it,” she murmurs, “Just Johnny talking out of his ass.”

He only nods.

Except it is a big deal. Because Heath is dead and he can’t speak up for himself. And no one should be talking about him because no one really knew him. Not like Lux did. To even say his name, to have the guts to speak bad about him. Lux feels sick to his stomach.

He hates talk. He hates gossip. He hates people who don’t know when to shut up.

He makes his way to fifth period on dead feet, walking like a zombie down the hallway. He bumps shoulders with plenty of people, almost walks straight into an ajar locker. The tension only grows, festering in his stomach and desperate for some type of release.

When he walks into Mr. Daniel’s class, he’s on autopilot. Towards the front of the room, Johnny sits and laughs with a couple of his friends, ignoring Mr. Daniel’s attempts to settle down the students. Lux drops his backpack by the door, makes his way down the aisle, and grabs a lone textbook on one of the lab tables.

Nobody really sees it coming. Hell, neither does Lux.

But one second, all he can see is Johnny, zeroed in on his face like a missile. And the next, everything goes dark. There’s a million different ways people tell it, the stories that come out are sometimes ridiculous. But most are accurate.

Long story short, Lux ended up bashing the heavy textbook into the back of Johnny’s head, over and over again. And everybody was too shocked to do anything at first  ---  four blunt hits to the head before he’s pulled off of Johnny by unfamiliar hands.

Lux has a panic attack right after, on the linoleum floors of Mr. Daniel’s science class.

He’s suspended for two weeks.

.

.

Tripp has a show in town. It’s bigger than it usually is.

Truth be told, Tripp’s band was really good and Lux wishes he could enjoy their music. He never really listens to music anymore, it’s kind of like complete white noise to him at this point.

Lux is glad he’s in town, he has such limited time with him on a regular basis, that he’s unsure of what to do when he’s here. He doesn’t want to go home, so he stays in the motel Tripp is at for the weekend, curled in his arms and resting his head on his stomach. Tripp doesn’t force conversation with him, he just rubs Lux’s back and hums strange songs underneath his breath that Lux longs to know the lyrics to but is too afraid to ask.

He thinks Tripp knows a little too much about him, but knows a little too little about Tripp. Which would be okay with anyone else. He doesn’t ask Eden too many questions about her personal life, he doesn’t expect Mr. O’Hara to just start spewing out his kid’s soccer schedule, and Cal has always been a guy of few words. But with Tripp, it’s different. He wants to know as much as he can, he wants to keep burrowing deeper and deeper until he meets his end.

Lux lifts his head, props his chin on Tripp’s side, “What’re your parents like?”

Tripp smiles, “What kinda question is that?”

“Are they nice to you?”

“Sure.”

“So, they’re good parents?”

“No.”

Lux watches him for just a moment or two, unsure, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I...I want to know more about you,” He looks away, “Is that okay?”

“More than okay,” Tripp is staring at him now, eyes gentle, “Go ahead. Whatever you want.”

Lux asks him questions, about his home and about the school he attends. Why he dyes his hair, why he likes music so much. What his favorite color was, when he joined the band, why his nickname was Tripp. Everything in between. And anything Tripp tells him, he takes in desperately, grasping onto the idea of him, the reality of him, the person he is without any screen to shield him away.

He comes to the surprising conclusion that he likes this. Them, together, alone. He can’t think of anyone else he’d rather be spending his time with.  He gets stuck on that often, being alone with only his thoughts and Heath’s shadow in the corner. But it’s different here with Tripp, he’s never felt so warm.

He was put on this earth without anything to guide him through life. People usually find their purpose within the first fifteen years and work their asses off to get to that goal. But he’s never felt that drive, never wanted to either.

Tripp helps. He helps with those thoughts. And he doesn’t even know it.

By the end of their talk, Tripp has to get to his show. He kisses Lux before he leaves, on the corner of his mouth. And Lux turns his head to capture his lips instead, the kiss slow and gentle, Lux leaning further into him when he can’t get enough. He’s much too tired to go to the show, he profusely apologizes and says that he wants to, but Tripp is understanding.

He gets it. He’s okay with it.

After pressing a kiss to Lux’s hair, Tripp is gone.

Lux tries to sleep, he really does. He turns off all the lights and sleeps under the covers, but swiftly realizes it’s too hot and instead, sprawls out on top of the bed sheets. That doesn’t work much either, he’s left staring off into space, towards the corner of the room.

Whenever he’s alone, his demons come back.

The bed dips next to him and Lux closes his eyes tight.

You awake?

He doesn’t answer, holds his breath.

I can tell you’re awake.

He tells himself that the voice isn’t real. None of it is. Not the presence beside him, not the cold against his back, nothing. There’s no one there, so he shouldn’t look.

Are you mad at me, Lux?

Quiet.

It’s just...you haven’t been talking to me lately or whatever. Worried, I guess.

Nothing’s there. Nobody.

Lux?

Lux?

Lux, can you hear me?

Don’t look.

Lux? Look at me.

Don’t.

Lux.

Against his better judgement, he does look. He turns his head and opens his eyes, and Heath is there, staring back at him. At first, it’s peaceful. And he imagines the two of them in Heath’s room, laying together, talking about nothing for complete hours, like they’re the last two people on earth and time doesn’t really matter to them.

But then it’s like before.

The picture starts to morph. Lux squeezes his eyes shut before he can see it again, bile rising in his throat, panicked breaths striking dead center in his chest. He forces himself out of bed on weak legs, stumbles straight into the bedside drawer. The lamp falls and shatters, and the sound  ---

Lux.

“I tried,” he’s mumbling, “I tried so hard for you.”

Lux.

“I miss you.”

Lux.

“Please, please, please---”

.

.

Everything stops.

.

.

You know that feeling?

That feeling inside your chest that you get. You know the one  --  that heavy, soul-crushing feeling you get when your parents say they’re disappointed in you. Or when you get dumped out of nowhere. Or when you’re talking about something but none of your friends are listening. That feeling that makes you feel like you don’t matter and everyone feels the same way.

That’s all Lux feels. All the time.

Florescent lights are the first thing he sees. Spinning and twinkling above him, blinding him momentarily. He comes to slowly, his chest aches, his breathing is shallow and barely there. On his clothes, on his face, there’s a fine mist of white powder, clouding the air around him and spilled onto the floor.

Eyelashes flickering, not completely there but not all gone. Not yet.

Tears are spilling, despite his better judgement and out of his control, rolling down his face in slow tendrils. Dripping off his chin, onto the motel’s bathroom floor. When he got there, he has no idea. He’s collapsed against the sink’s counter, unable to move even an inch. Each breath is nothing but pain, his heartbeat slowing in his ears.

And he’s so scared that he wants to call out to somebody. The police. His mom. His sister. Tripp.

He tries to move his hands first, even with his sight so unfocused and blurred. But that makes him realize that something hurts, something stings. And it’s coming from his wrists. He’s afraid to look down, because he knows what he’ll see.

Blood.

Tears continue, lids low. There’s no change in his expression, no attempt to move any further. Just ... staring, counting the seconds as life drips out of him.

He did it again, didn’t he?

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers there are voices just outside the bathroom door. Laughter and talking. He doesn’t want to cause a fuss or ask for their attention, but in the midst of all the chatter, he hears Tripp.

“--Lux?”

Another voice, “What about him?”

“He was here.”

And another, “He didn’t go home?”

“He would’ve told me.”

He’s scared. So scared. Somehow, even in this moment, Tripp’s voice is a comfort.

“Lux?” There’s a call of his name, “Lux, you here?”

He wants to answer, but his voice isn’t there anymore.

The bathroom door opens, and he can see the faces of Tripp’s band, surprise soon morphing into alarm and horror when they see Lux. Tripp’s expression is even worse than that, though, believe it or not. There’s a flurry of movement next, everyone’s talking at once, and Lux is pretty sure he hears Tripp say something about an ambulance.

Tripp falls to his knees, doesn’t care if he’s crouching into the puddle of blood by Lux’s left wrist. He just grabs both wrists with his hands, stifling the flow, yelling for someone to get him a towel.

An apology is on the tip of Lux’s tongue, just from one look into Tripp’s eyes. It probably wouldn’t matter if he said it or not though.

“Lux,” Tripp’s voice is shaky, barely heard over the pounding of Lux’s heart, a diluted sound that’s not as strong as it should be, “Lux, listen to me ... gotta --- here. Just --- you can’t --- I got you, I’ve got you.”

Yeah.

He’s such a fuck-up.

.

.

From behind Tripp, Heath sits on the edge of the tub, watching as Lux bleeds out on tile.

.

.

As soon as Lux entered high school, he met Heath.

Freshman year, their lockers were next to each other. They had first, third, and sixth period together. And their houses weren’t very far apart, maybe a few blocks or so. They became such good friends that Lux isn’t sure how he made these measly fifteen years without him. He didn’t know where he began and Heath ended, and he liked it that way.

He told Heath everything. About Allison, about his therapists, about his parents, about his drinking. He told Heath that sometimes he tried not to think and he bottled himself up inside of his head a lot. He told Heath that he was scared of what he might do when he was with girls and it’d been like that since he was eight. He told Heath that he used to hurt himself frequently, just to feel something, even if it’s just for a few seconds.

And Heath listened. He understood him better than Lux did himself, most of the time.

Heath is something you describe as the light at the end of the tunnel, a beacon that keeps you afloat. Heath didn’t really see that, he never believed Lux when he told him that stuff. But Lux didn’t care, because it was true and no one was changing his mind.

Really, Heath was the only reason he survived high school.

Not because of the drugs or anything, even though they were a heightened bonus, but because Lux always seemed to fall into the wrong crowd. He was invited to a lot of parties around that time, could never really remember anything the morning after, but he liked it that way. Heath would come with him when he was in the mood to be social, and when he wasn’t, Lux would go alone.

The parties stopped though, soon after the beginning of sophomore year. Lux is to blame for that.

It was the end of the summer, but the heat was sweltering. Somehow, even with it being as warm as it was, Lux was still cold in his sweater and jeans. He remembered all the people there, unfamiliar faces, the deafening music made it difficult to think. But Lux wasn’t really concerned with “thinking” that night, more of trying to avoid it all together.

Heath was in a bad mood, he didn’t want to be there. He much preferred to try everything and anything somewhere deserted, like at his house or Lux’s basement. Heath didn’t like to be around so many people, Lux knew that. He kind of regretted asking him to come with him, because he hated making Heath uncomfortable. Lux would be too, if he was sober.

He drinks and drinks and drinks until he couldn’t see straight. He took a hit of whatever was being passed around at the time. He snorted and sniffed white powder off the glass table in the living room.

He’d been pretty out of it about two hours into the party. And he couldn’t find Heath anywhere. That made him scared, so he holed himself up in the bedroom, comforted by the darkness. When he couldn't see, his vision stopped spinning, so he preferred to just sit there until the party dwindled down.

But --- there had been a man there.

Lux didn’t know him. He knew he didn’t go to his school and he knew he was too old to be in high school. But he talked really nice to him and he seemed generous enough with his weed. Lux honestly couldn’t remember what they talked about, time was like an abstract thought, it went by so fast and slow at the same time.

Turns out the guy had fentanyl, which is a great drug in itself. It makes you feel like you’re floating. Like nothing really existed but these feelings inside of you and your swirling thoughts. Lux had only tried it one other time, it’s really hard to get, because it’s high risk of addiction and dependence, but that’s what makes it so amazing. Just a bit could have you off your feet.

And that was all it took. Lux found himself curled up in the guy’s lap, mumbling indistinctly, unable to move. The guy was rubbing his back soothingly, underneath his shirt and thumbing at the line of his spine. In that moment, Lux had thought nothing of it.

Things kind of shifted after that. You don’t have to know the whole story. Lux doesn’t really remember what happened, even to this day.

But he remembered his hands on his hips, tugging him backwards, his weight plastered flat to his back, hot breath in his ear. Telling him something, encouraging him, and Lux couldn’t move. And it hurt, he remembers it hurting so bad that he cried.

It was something that hadn’t happened to him in such a long time. Vaguely, he wondered when he’d forgotten the feeling. Maybe it was because he was so caught up in Heath. Kind of strange to know that these kinds of things could occur and everyone else just ... doesn’t know. Like, Lux was here losing everything all at once, and there was a party raging just outside the door.

The world keeps on turning without him and he’s stuck in this loop, unmoving. Because he doesn’t matter, and the thought stings a lot more than he can admit, no matter how many times he realizes it.

The guy left him alone once he was finished. Buckled up his pants and said something, but Lux couldn’t make it out. Or move, or breathe, or really do anything. He was motionless on the floor, his pants half-down, drugged out of his mind. It was another forty-five minutes or so before he was able to even crawl.

This sinking feeling in his gut ... all he could think about was his sister. Her hands, her voice. It made a chill wash over him. His brain continued the infinite image of her face, over and over behind his eyelids.

Heath. He had to find Heath.

His limbs felt heavy. His stomach dropped and he vomited on the carpet, heaving until there was nothing left. Fortunately, he was still on his hands and knees, or else he would’ve choked on it. Managed to make it to the door, and outside, there were so many people. He forgot about his pants, somebody helped him right the waistband, and he almost jumped out of his skin.

He stumbled through the crowd, half-brained, barely noticing when people gave him looks or shied away when he appeared as if he was going to barf again. Heath is nowhere to be found, not in this sea of unfamiliar faces and voices and hands.

He ended up getting to the phone before Heath. A landline in the kitchen, attached to the wall. With shaking hands, he pulled it from the hook, listened to the dial tone for around five minutes, before he managed to dial three numbers.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even remember how to.

He was eight again, he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to say. He just shut up and let people do what they want with him, all the time. His heart, inside of his chest, was going so fast, almost painfully. The want to forget, the need to just walk out of the party and pretend nothing happened was strong. But it was there, on the tip of his tongue, waiting.

Just like when he was a kid. Just like now.

“Hello? This is 911, please state your emergency.”

He could see Allison’s face, staring up at him, petrified. Wide blue eyes, her lips trembling. Her shredded panties tight in his grip, one hand grasping her thigh, holding her open even as she tried to shove him off. He could see his sister’s smile, her hand rested on his knee, climbing higher when nobody was looking. He could see the Unnamed Man’s face, behind the blur of drugs, rolling him over onto his stomach, keeping him still.

“Are you hurt?”

His breathing was off, panting.

“Can you speak?”

He wanted to throw up again, bile is rising up his throat, acidic.

“Hello? Are you hurt--”

He hung up the phone.

Fifteen minutes later, the police showed up.

.

.

Seven hours after his suicide attempt, Lux wakes up in the hospital.

The first thing that registers is all the beeping. It’s coming from his right, and when he finds the strength to turn his head, he can see it’s a monitor for his heart and breathing. He feels relaxed, like overwhelmingly so, and from that alone, he can tell he was a diazepam injection at some point.

It always feels so good. Like the world is at peace.

For a moment, he just lays there, basking in it. Staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of his surroundings through his muddled thinking. He’s definitely in the hospital. Been here enough times to know it like the back of his hand, probably the one on the east end. His wrists hurt, his body feels heavy  ---  like he ran a marathon and can’t even manage another step. There’s two needles, one in his arm and the other in the back of his hand.

It takes awhile to recall what had landed him here, and when it finally catches up to him, he blinks, slowly turning his attention to the other side of the room. Someone is in the seat next to his bed, and they have blue hair.

It’s Tripp. He’s slouched over, barely managing to keep his head upright. Lux can’t help but stare at him for a very long time. His eyelashes feel wet after a minute or two, and he tries his best to move his hand in his direction. He feels incredibly weak, he can only grasp at the sheets uselessly before he gives up all together.

Stuck between unconsciousness and awareness, bleeding into him until he’s blinking back tears, throat closing up tightly. He tries to stay as quiet as possible, sniffling to himself, but Tripp must’ve heard anyway. Warm fingers close around his hand, and Lux looks over to see Tripp is staring at him, sitting up straighter and closer to the bed.

“Hey, hey,” His voice is gentle, thumb rubbing across Lux’s knuckles, “What’s wrong? Don’t cry.”

But Lux keeps crying, chest constricting tight when Tripp only squeezes his hand. He gets a glimpse of the bandages around his wrist, and his heart rate spikes, the monitor beeping a bit faster. Tripp stands from his seat, crowding Lux with his presence, locking eyes with him.

“Look at me. Look at me, Lux.” And so, Lux does, stares Tripp into his eyes, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Breathe.”  He makes a show of inhaling and exhaling, encouraging Lux to do the same. Tripp calms him effortlessly before it can become more than it needs, “You’re okay.”

Lux blinks away tears, they drip down his temples and into the cheap fabric of the pillow beneath his head. Tripp just keeps talking to him gently and Lux finds himself clinging onto his hand right back, like a lifeline. He tries to do what Tripp had suggested so long ago  ---  focusing on the sound of his voice and breathing, listening to the rain just outside, inhaling the scent of sterile smell of the hospital. When he’s finally able to breathe again, Tripp smiles at him, half-hearted.

“Better?”

Lux exhales shakily, “Better.”

Tripp keeps a hold of his hand as he reaches back and retrieves his chair, pulling it closer to the bed and settling into the seat. Heartbeat noticeable, thanks to the machinery beside him, Lux can only watch Tripp watch him, keeping his hand nestled in between the both of his.

“How...” Lux forcibly clears his throat, darting his eyes across the expanse of his room. The door is cracked, not closed, and he can hear people  ---  talking, footsteps.

“It hasn’t been that long,” Tripp reassures him, voice quiet, “Only a few hours. You--” He looks away for only a second, “You kinda freaked out when they brought you in. So they gave you--”

“Oh,” Again, Lux blinks, weary. Not surprised in the slightest to hear that, even with the blood loss and exhaustion, Lux has a tendency to freak out in precarious matters. He wonders why Tripp stayed around for that, expected him to not even be there when he woke up, if he woke up at all.

Only good part about waking up inside of the hospital, at least they drugged you up.

Lux swallows, he’s parched but too timid to ask for water, still attempting to gather his bearings when it’s so hard to. Chest lifting and falling sporadically, he says, “...you stayed.” Posed as more as a statement, coming out as a question.

Tripp smiles again, it looks as tired as the last one, “Why would I leave?”

Lux can name off a million and one reasons, but he says nothing, not at first. He keeps on staring, keeps on trying not to cry again. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“Your band...”

“Yeah. They were worried.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Tripp says. Hesitance is visible in his face, from his eyes and to the quirk of his lips. He looks as if he wants to say more, but unsure. “Just - glad you’re okay.” The way he says it sounds like it’s taking everything to breathe it out, shoulders slump and fingers tighten around Lux’s.

“Sorry,” Lux tells him again, voice creaking. Like eggshells or broken glass. “Sorry, Tripp.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Lux wants to tell him it’s not ( he’s not ), but he doesn’t have the strength to speak anymore.  

.

.

Waverly hugs him on his last day of NA.

And at first, Lux just stands there, arms at his sides, uncomfortable. But Waverly doesn’t let him go like most people would have, she holds onto him and tightens her arms, pressing her face into his shoulder. So, Lux hugs her back.

It’s . . . It feels nice.

They stay there for a long time, Lux finds himself clinging to her, fingers gripping into the fabric of her shirt, pressing deeper. He feels if he lets go, he won’t be able to stand on his own for too long. When they’re finished, she assures him that he can, in fact, and she’s proud of him.

Lux can’t help but wish she wasn’t so kind to him. Especially when he lied all those times about being sober, about Heath, about everything. But he can’t find the heart to tell her, not when she’s smiling at him and hugging him and looks as if she wants to cry. By the time the meeting is disbanded and Lux leaves, he feels a little better.

Izzy is outside, having his usual cigarette, sitting on the stoop. He glances up when Lux comes out, blinking the pale sunlight out of his face. After a moment, he smiles, “Headin’ out?”

Lux shifts his weight uneasily, shoving hands into his pockets and clenching each into tight fists. It’s a chill to the air, even though it’s getting closer and closer to the summer. Or maybe it’s just Lux who’s cold. “Yeah...”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Lying...and everything.”

“Not like I give a shit. You tell Waverly?”

“No,” Lux says and Izzy snorts, “She just  ---  she looked really happy and---”

“I’m not some moral compass or whatever. Can’t really talk,” Izzy shrugs, “Got another two months of this shit.”

“Oh,” Lux hesitates. He drops down to sit with him after awhile, looking up when Izzy offers his cigarette. The two of them pass it back and forth until it’s nothing more than a nub, “Thanks.” Conspicuously, he tugs at the length of his sleeves, back over his wrists  ---  the sight of the scars does nothing for his mood.

“They just don’t get it,” Izzy says, exhaling smoke, “People like them.”

Lux looks at him, curious.

“Like Waverly. It’s different. They don’t know anything unless they’ve walked in your shoes, you know? It’s not like one day, we just woke up and decided we wanted to be this way. Fucking society did this.”

Lux doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t think that. No . . . he more or less did this to himself, he dug his own hole and couldn’t get out. Or grave, whatever sounds more suitable. It’s all about judgement and decision, whether you want to live or not, who you want to be as a person. He asked for it, everything. His sister, Allison, the guy from the party. Deserves it in some shape or form, he supposes. Nobody forced drugs down his throat to cope with that, just himself.

“System is just fucked,” Izzy is still going, gesticulating with both hands, “It’s all shit.”

A car or two, and Lux stands from the narrow staircase. He looks towards Izzy, unsure of what to say but so much that he wants to. Instead, he settles for, “Bye.” and a “Take care of yourself.” And Izzy waves him off, lighting under cigarette

( At the time, Lux was unaware that that would be the last time he saw Izzy. He should’ve said more to him ).

He crosses the street, barely paying attention to just where he was going, but already knew the way by heart. And when he’s there, he waits, only looking up when he hears the sound of his name. Tripp was already at the greyhound bus stop, easy to spot with his tuft of color hair and lanky frame, smiling when he’s close enough to Lux, there’s a single lidded cup in his hand.

“Hey,” he holds it out to him, “Here.”

“I...don’t drink coffee.”

Tripp’s smile widens, “I know. It’s hot chocolate. You looked cold.” He takes a seat beside Lux on the limited space of the bench. There’s plenty of people, all bustling and rushing to get to their destinations. And in front of them, there’s a lengthy bus, still boarding and awaiting passengers. Lux still has his ticket in his pocket, it feels as if it weighs a hundred pounds. “How was group?”

“...I’m tired.”

“You can sleep on the bus.”

“Mmm,” Lux grips his cup tighter, holds it close to his chest. Tripp is staring at him, soon after taking one of Lux’s hands in his own and rubbing the knuckles comfortingly.

“Nervous?” He asks, peering at him through his impossibly long eyelashes. Lux feels the tips of his ears go warm, “You’ve never been travelling before, right?”

“Not...not since I was little,” he stops there, inhales a bit unevenly, “But I want to go. With you.”

Tripp smiles again, effortlessly, “Good. I want to go with you, too.”

On the bus, it’s warmer. And a little crowded. Their things had already been packed a day or so before, duffel bags kept at Tripp’s so Lux’s parents wouldn’t ask too many questions. Tripp keeps a tight grip on his hand, as they walk the aisle, finding their seats with ease and letting Lux sit by the window.

The ride there is weirdly relaxing, watching all of the trees pass by as they go further north. The sun isn’t as noticeable, hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. Lux does end up falling asleep, leaning his weight against Tripp after he lifts the arm rest between them. The bus arrives relatively quickly, or it’s because Lux just slept the rest of the way. It’s so easy to lose his sense of time, especially when he’s with Tripp.

Once off the bus, Lux takes his own bag before Tripp can try to carry it. Though, he soon regrets that, because the hike to the cabin is kind of far. But likes to keep telling himself that it’s all worth it. He keeps glancing over at Tripp, who points out things to him and looks excited  ---  just to share these moments with Lux.

Lux feels undeserving in a way.

The first time Lux trips over some type of greenery blocking the trail path, Tripp reaches out and takes his hand. And he doesn’t let go until they make it to the cabin.

It’s almost evening now, the sun is panning out and breaking through the trees. Cool breeze upon Lux’s flushed face, he sits on the narrow porch steps, listening to the songbirds and the rustle of leaves. It’s been a long time since he felt the desire to draw anything, not since Heath, and now, he can’t help but wish he’d brought at least some paper.

“Wanna come inside?” Tripp says, “It’s going to get cold soon.”

Lux shakes his head.

Tripp doesn’t say anything, just goes back inside. Soon after, he comes with an unfamiliar quilt blanket, placing it over his own shoulders before sitting behind Lux. Tripp fits Lux in between his long legs, presses his chest against his back, and folds the quilt so its covering Lux as well. And then he just holds him, chin resting on the crown of Lux’s head.

“...I like this,” Lux says, voice soft, “I wanna stay like this.”

“Tomorrow, we can go out to the lake. It’s not far from here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Tripp is so very warm. And as open as the field, brimming with sincerity and promise. When he’d suggested the trip, Lux hadn’t exactly jumped at the chance. In fact, he was sure after the hospital, Tripp wouldn’t want to see him again. It seems, Lux is just proved wrong time and time again when it comes to his boyfriend ( it’s nice to say and think that word ). It pulls at something in his chest, when Tripp is so kind to him, especially when he’s so used to people leaving  ---  death clings to Lux like a ghost, sleeps in his bed with him every night, despite how lonely he may seem. For some reason, Tripp doesn’t see that. And he’s been going out his way to prove that.

Even now, he brushes Lux’s overgrown hair from his neck, kissing his nape with soft lips, nuzzling there, and curling his arms tighter around him. Lux could fall asleep like this.

It’s quiet again.

With heavy-lidded eyes, Lux stares at the boundary of woods around them, blotted by canopy trees, strangely comforted by the sound of nature. He’s never taken time to notice it much before. A type of blanket to muffle the outside world, and all the problems it has. Everything from before seems so far away out here. When he said he wanted to stay like this, he thinks he meant for forever.

“Oh,” Tripp says into his ear, breaking him from his thoughts, “Look.”

Lux looks, suddenly awake again. From the break of the trees, there’s a deer. And the first thing Lux thinks ( you’re beautiful ), like Tripp had told him. The deer is tentative, brushing along the forest floor with a grace Lux has never seen before. Above his delicate head, antlers stretch tall, like a crown. Lux doesn’t breathe.

The buck lifts his head and looks right at Lux with dark, liquid eyes. And Lux watches it right back, something fluttering away in his stomach. It’s a long time before it looks away, a disorienting moment. The deer doesn’t stay for long, it silently disappears in the underbrush, hidden within the trees once more.

The moment passes. Lux can only stare at the shadows the buck leaves in its wake.

.

.

It goes on, Lux thinks, it all goes on.

.

.

[unpopcorned]

.

.

There’s dried blood in the corner. 

Crates and old tables by the way of seats, littered with overturned furniture and stark green vines that have began to grow through the walls. A bucket is rooted to the wooden floor, filled to the brim with a strange, foul-smelling brown liquid. A sign is nailed to the door, the words faded and illegible with time. 

Perhaps a store. She can’t rack her brain hard enough to recall. 

Even with her steps being as light as she can manage, the wood still creaks loudly beneath her feet, she almost jumps out of her skin at each noise. Objects and personal effects crowd the floor, she has to be sure to step around and avoid each and every one. 

This place has already been looted, drawers pulled out out, cupboards thrown open, and shelves empty. Still, she searches as much as she possibly can, crouching down on one knee and rifling through seemingly picked through trash. 

“Echo?” 

She jumps, she can’t help herself. Turning her head, she finds Freddie is standing in the doorway, the wood hanging off its hinges. Face lined with a thin sheen of sweat, hair curling from the humidity, and he’s gripping a blunt object in his hands tight enough that his knuckles are showing through the skin. Unfamiliar area like this can put anyone on edge, he’s of no exception. 

Echo clears her throat as quietly as she can muster, her breathing feels tight, “Hey. Find anything?” 

He shakes his head, stepping further into the room, takes a quick glance around before joining her, “Not really. Place has already been ransacked.” 

“Yeah,” she says vaguely, eyebrows pulling together, “Here.” Only two cans of food she’s been able to find, would probably be bitter and tart to taste, but it’s enough. She gestures for him to turn around so she can tuck the food into his backpack, which he is happy to oblige. Once he’s facing her again, Echo notices the smudges of dirt lining his cheeks, reaching forward without hesitance to wipe it away. 

Freddie looks at her, focus darting to her hand swiftly, “Does it still hurt?” 

Yeah, it does. But she tries her best not to bring attention to it. The cut in the middle of her palm has been wrapped tight by the last of the bandages they had, dried with the rust of her blood, stings whenever she may move too much. She’s had worse though, they’ve all had worse. 

Freddie takes her hand and makes a bit of a face when he peels back the bandages to get a good look at it, “It’s gonna scar, probably.” 

She smiles, it’s small and weathered on her face, balling up her hand thereafter so he won’t have to look at it anymore, “It’ll look pretty bad-ass though, right?” 

Freddie doesn’t look amused, “I should’ve--” 

“It’s fine. It’s not your fault.” 

“But--” 

“Let’s keep looking.” 

They don’t find much. Only one more can of beans, a discarded first-aid kit, and two blankets that are lined with dust. Freddie kicks at shards of glass with his foot, eyes directly on the spill of dried blood Echo had noticed earlier. Beside him, she crouches down to take a better look. 

“Don’t worry. It’s a few weeks old, at best.” 

“Yeah...” 

“Probably a struggle, you can tell from the lines.” A few drops are skewered, changing directions. A little on the walls, some leading to the un-lit exit sign. 

Freddie wrinkles up his nose, “It smells in here, too.” 

Like old wood, like nature. Like there’s ghosts here watching their every move. It’s soothing to have Freddie here, by her side, as he typically is. No matter the gravity of the situation, she feels as if as long as he stays with her, there isn’t anything she can’t accomplish. 

She sighs, “Ah. Yeah, let’s go and find--” 

There’s a rumble from upstairs. Dust and debris from the ceiling falls into her lap, into her hair. Both of their chins lift, gaze skyward, pause on baited breath for a moment. There’s shouting next, blabbered words and a crash. Freddie curses, stands upright. 

Echo is quicker, panic surging. She’s already taking off past him, up the stairs, barely registering the call of her name. Adrenaline has pumped into veins, pushing her faster, towards the door at the end of the narrow hallway, shoving her shoulders once ( it doesn’t give the first time ), and then twice. Echo stumbles through, nearly falling flat onto her face, if she hadn’t clamped onto the doorknob in time. 

The sight is an awful struggle -- a man covered in blood, stinking of urine, he’s shrieking and laughing, locked in a tense embrace with another. One she knows very well and won’t hesitate to protect, pulling her hunting knife from it’s holster and using all her strength to drive it into pliant flesh. 

The man covered in grime yowls, seemingly close to a wild animal of sorts, mouth stretched and eyes bugged, he tries in vain to reach back and swipe at her, but that’s when the baseball bat crashes into the side of his head. He can only manage a wet gurgle, falls to a heap on the ground. 

Echo jerks backward out of the way, watches as the blood pools underneath his head, eyes unseeing and dim. His mouth is still open, gasping like a fish that’s been washed ashore, chest rising and falling sporadically until it stops. The smell of blood is overpowering, along with the unmistakable stench of the man emptying his bladder. 

Nameless, descended into madness like the rest of the town. 

Echo falters, out of breath and heart throbbing behind her ribs, “...hey.” 

Crius lifts his eyes from the man’s body, panting as well, lips pulled back over his teeth. He only calms when he realizes just who she is, baseball bat falling back to his side, “There you are,” He sniffs lightly, blood splattering across the expanse of his face and shirt, “You okay?” 

“Yeah. You?” 

“Mm. Thanks.” 

Echo can see there’s a fresh swipe on his upper arm, from the other man’s attack, more than likely. Out of habit, she kicks the knife out of the nameless local’s hand, watches it slide across the room and into the corner, out of reach. She steps forward, anxiety gnawing at her gut, quick to look her brother over for any other injuries. 

He reassures her, “It’s fine. I’m okay,” He gestures with his chin, wiping his hand along his jaw, “Check ‘im.” 

Echo nods, watches him gather himself, shaking out tense muscles and strapping his weapon back where it belongs. She drops to the floor, grunts with effort as she rolls the man onto his back -- can’t help the shiver that crawls up her spine at his face. Bloodshot eyes with streaks of red dripping down his cheeks, remnants of smile still on his face, mouth slick with spit and mucus. 

She’s thorough with checking him over for ammo, supplies, anything that can help. Unfortunately, people like him that are this far gone, aren’t much. They never really carry anything with them, they’re lucky he even managed to have clothes on. 

“C’mon. Need’a regroup,” Crius says, his voice is tight. He glances out the window, but there isn’t much to see, the dead of night is the only cloak they have when it comes to runs like this, “You okay with--” 

“Everything alright?” Freddie has found them, he almost trips over the recently deceased man on the floor, “Jesus.” He makes sure to inch around him, familiarly settling by Echo’s side. His look of concern is enough, she can only swallow and nod. 

No matter how long its been, it never gets any easier. 

Freddie lifts his chin and aims a question towards Crius, “Heard anything from the others?”

Crius, breaking himself from his thoughts, pats his pockets. Echo is just barely able to make out the shape of the walkie in his hand. He presses the button on the side and speaks into it clearly, “Elbright, come in. It’s Crius,” There’s nothing but light static, “Elbright, answer.” 

Still nothing.

Crius grimaces, “”Fucking---” And then takes a deep breath, “Let’s go and look for them.” 

Together, the three of them leave, not much to bring back to base, but enough to keep the group fed for another day or so, if rationed correctly. Aquin is eating for two, Dustin had nearly lost his leg in the last run, and Iasu was of no use to them when all she did was curl up and cry all day. And still, Crius never turns them away, never denies anyone who may stumble upon them and wish for shelter. 

He’s a far better person than Echo could ever be. Sometimes, she thinks of waking Freddie and him in the middle of the night, beckoning them to leave with her. But she knows them too well for that, they wouldn’t do it, no matter how much she begged. Echo hates how she thinks of others, how disposable they seem to her. 

Elbright and the others aren’t far, only a few blocks up the street, also scavenging for whatever they can find in the deserted shopping strip. They have to move as carefully and quietly as possible, mindful of each step, every noise they make within the darkness. The humidity makes the air thick and hard to breathe in, sweat glistening across the back of Crius’ neck and making it easy to spot it. 

There’s a rundown motel that’s seen better days, where Crius is guessing Elbright must’ve headed. The main road divides, one side completely blocked off by abandoned cars, and the other leading towards the train tracks and motel. 

It’s a crime to speak, they’ve gotten used to hand signals and singulars nods. The three of them duck behind an askew pickup truck, the tires rotten and the glass shattered. Freddie is the first to peek over the hood, squinting his eyes out into the darkness, lips pressed together tight.

Crius whispers, “See anything?” 

Freddie’s eyes lock dead center onto something, and from that look alone, Echo knows what he sees. He crouches back down, shaking his head fast, “Two of ‘em. Bats, I think.” 

Echo hits him in the arm lightly. She hates when he calls them that - the blind ones, the ones who move in the night. Undeniable strength, eyes white and milky, twitching muscles through their arms and legs and backs, bending their bodies in odd shapes. Just beyond the car, she can hear their groans, the pop of their bones. 

Echo despises them -- she’s seen what they can do with just their bare hands. 

“Okay,” Crius is glaring off into the distance, slowly pulling his baseball bat to the forefront, gripping the handle tight, “Okay, Echo,” She looks up at her name, blinking from her intrusive thoughts, “You and Freddie go left. I’ll go right.” 

She nods, firm. Freddie seems hesitant, “It’d be better if--” 

There’s a loud sound. Like, a really loud sound. Way too loud for the night, startling and heart-stopping. Like a balloon being popped suddenly. Perhaps ... a gun? It’s quiet for just a second, they’ve gone still, and then another. 

Definitely a gun. She’s sure of it now. 

Crius is already up, “Go! Now!” 

Echo bolts, Freddie is hot on her heels. 

In the black of night, it’s hard to see, but she manages to make out the shape of the first. The shadow is already growling, lightly jogging its way towards the source of the noise, inside of the motel. It’s a woman, she can tell from the stringy hair coming from the head, the tangled dress around her legs. Every time it comes to this, she tries her best not to think of them as human. Just an obstacle in her way that has to be moved. 

Freddie rounds the other side, metal pipe in his grip, swinging it in one wide arch, and she hears the sickening crunch as he takes out her left kneecap. Echo is next, she’s on top before she has a chance to screech, burying the blade of her knife into her neck, stabbing three times until she’s motionless. So deeply, that the handle is swallowed by flesh. 

Across the way, she hears Crius finish his own kill, the blunt sound of its head giving in under his baseball bat. Next, he’s taking off towards the motel, pointedly in the direction of where he’d heard the gunshots. From the tension lining his shoulders and the pace of his step, Echo can tell it won’t end well. 

She’s following after him, Freddie along her side. The two of them share a loaded glance, Echo chewing into the skin of her lip anxiously. Crius has already barreled through one of the doors, 1 - B is stamped to the front, and inside, she can hear the frantic shrieks and warning snarls. The scene that unfolds upon her eyes is jarring, to say the least. 

There are three dead bodies, all red-eyed and mostly naked. Two men and a woman. In the corner, there’s a young girl weeping, covering her face with her hands, thick blood is caked into her hair and clothes. Crius is in the center of the room, wrestling a pistol from Elbright’s grip, hissing at him in a venomous voice. 

“What’re you doing!” 

Elbright growls right back, “What’re you doin’? Get the fuck--” 

“You were going to shoot her!” 

“She’s infected!” 

“That’s not your call to make!” 

“Look at her!!” 

They’re too loud, they’re all too loud.

Echo is quick to go to work with comforting the girl, unsure of just where to touch, shying away her hand when she practically screams, jerking away from Echo and into the wall. She’s squeezing her eyes shut, breathing heavily in through her mouth, shivering. 

“Freddie--” Echo’s voice is quiet and somehow desperate, calling to him. 

It’s only a second later that he joins her, canteen in hand, “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“No!” The girl is crying, “Please, no - no, no, no--” 

Freddie tries again, “It’s okay--” 

Somehow, Crius has managed to wrestle the handgun off of Elbright, shoving him onto the floor thereafter. He un-cocks it, the bullets fall and scatter, “You’re going to get us all killed.” 

Elbright twists his lips into a scathing scowl, lifting himself onto his knees. He throws his arms out in the girl’s direction, shouting, “She’s covered in it!” 

“Yeah, and who’s fault is that?” 

“I’m trying to--” 

“Do you have a death sentence?” 

Freddie tries his best to soothe the young girl, she’s around his and Echo’s age at least. She’s weeping and trembling, balking at each noise that they make. Freddie pours water into his hand and helps remove the black-red blood from her face, dumping some over her hair. It’s a waste, but the best they have right now for getting her cleaned up. Hopefully, none got into her mouth or eyes. Echo can only sit and watch, uncertain what to do in moments like this.  

From what she can see, there must’ve been some type of struggle. Two of the infected men have bullet wounds, one in his neck and the other in his head. It takes no genius to know Elbright had shot them, and in the chaos, the girl had ended up in the midst of it all. Splattered in blood, the smell is heady and thick. 

“It’s okay, it’s alright,” Freddie’s voice is gentle, he’s a lot better at it than Echo could ever hope to be, “You’re gonna be okay.” The girl gradually calms, seconds ticking by at a dangerously slow pace. Echo is already glancing at the door, nerves gnawing at her gut like a maggot, feasting -- they need to move fast and soon.

“What’s your name?” Echo asks, she’s trying her very best, mimicking Freddie with a quiet tone of voice and open hand gestures “Mine is Echo, this is Freddie.” 

She blinks, tears streaking her face, “H-Huh?” 

“Your name,” Freddie says, leaning closer, “What’s yours?” 

She seems at a lost, mouth opening and closing uselessly for a moment, “...Clio. My name is Clio.” 

“Clio,” Echo nods some, “Okay.”

“Clio is a pretty name,” Freddie says, “Really.”

“T...Thanks--”

“Can you move?” That’s at the top of Echo’s worries, getting her up and away from this place as fast as possible. She can see Freddie shoot her a look in the corner of her eye - she could at least attempt to have people skills, but she’s never had much of the patience. Instead, she’s staring at the girl beseechingly, waiting. “You can’t stay here.” 

“My...my leg,” Clio says, lips trembling and lashes wet, “I think it’s broken...I couldn’t move earlier, and - and your friend,” She glances hesitantly in Elbright’s direction, terrified, “He found me and...” Her sentence breaks on a sob, Echo presses her lips together to keep from saying something she doesn’t mean. 

People like this wouldn’t survive. They couldn’t have her in the group, she knows that just from a couple minutes of talking. 

Freddie is reassuring though, he’s always been nice, even before everything. He touches her shoulder sympathetically, and Echo notices that she doesn’t shift away like she did with her before, “It’s okay, it’s fine. Take your time--” 

Behind them, Crius and Elbright are still at each other’s throats, “Where are the others?” 

“What?” 

“Arnor and Lullian,” Crius barks, he sounds like he’s trying his best to keep it together, “Have you seen them?” 

Elbright makes a vague rolling gesture with his hand, like he’s batting away a pesky fly, “We got separated, and--” 

“What,” Crius’ voice is furious, he’s glaring daggers, “Separated? How do you manage to--”

“They went off on their own,” Elbright snaps back, “Do you expect me to tell them what to do? I’m not the boss here, remember?” 

Crius appears close to hitting him. And he probably would have, if it wasn’t for the creak coming from just outside the door. 

All of them go quiet, Crius clenches his hand into a fist by his side, his eyes meeting Echo’s from across the room. Elbright locks his jaw, Freddie holds his breath, and Clio looks as if she may burst out of her skin at any moment. 

Echo’s hand slips down to her knife’s bloodied handle and tightens. 

The door slowly opens. Someone stumbles inside. It’s a man, hair fraying on his head and balding, limping slightly. His skin is a dull grey color, purple-reddish angry veins are throbbing all over his face, white blind eyes staring in their direction, unseeing and wide. The man groans, dragging along something behind him. With chilling realization, Echo can see it’s a pitchfork. 

He’s big. Bigger than Crius even. Muscles spasms and slow footsteps. He makes another sound, louder than before, sniffing the air like a beast. 

Clio inhales sharply, whimpers a second later.

Quick as lightening, Freddie clamps a hand over her mouth. 

The man’s head snaps up. He makes this noise, this inhuman roar as he charges in their direction. He lifts the pitchfork over his head, Echo is quick with dodging out of the way, slamming her back hard enough against the wall to lose her breath. She’s scared to see what happens, but it’s also one of those times where it’s hard to look away. 

Crius and Elbright spring into action. Crius is the first to get a hit in, baseball bat meeting the back of his head with practiced precision. The blind man barely reacts to it, he twirls around to face him, yanking his pitchfork up, tossing it around and nearly jutting it straight into Elbright’s chest. 

Echo tries hard to focus.

She jerks herself off the wall, he turns in the direction of the sound, just in time for her knife to sink into his upper arm. Immediately, red blooms underneath the tattered remains of his shirt, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it, even as she pulls it out and does it again, harder than the last and twists. Elbright is on him next, wrestling him to the ground just barely, holding him still while Crius brings his baseball bat down again and again. The wet, blunt sound is bone-chilling, his head gives in with just five or six swings. 

A spray of blood covers her front, she turns to see Freddie and Clio are still in the corner of the room, Clio is shaking and huddled against him and she gasps when she gets a good enough look at Echo. To be completely honest, Echo is surprised she survived this long. 

Elbright makes a face, wiping his bloodied hands onto his shirt, “Fucking hell...” 

“Shh,” Crius shushes him immediately, it goes quiet. All of them are. Until they hear the noise from just outside. Footsteps, some stumbling and some running, laughter, voices drowning the other, all headed straight in their direction, “Shit.”

There’s no time to dawdle. Echo is crouching beside Freddie, pulling off her backpack and shoving it into Clio’s chest, “Can you carry her?” She aims the question towards her friend, and he blinks at her, “Too heavy?” 

“No,” he says, and then louder, “No! No, she’s not--” 

“Good.” 

They have to go, they have to keep moving or they’ll end up dead. Going forward is all Echo really knows at this point. She helps Freddie with loading Clio on his back, she’s frantic and gripping at him far tighter than necessary, Echo’s pretty sure Freddie is struggling to breathe. But it’ll have to do, for now. Elbright goes to work with blocking off the door, helping Crius shove one of the dressers in front of it. The weight should hold, but only for a small while. 

He’s full of nerves, pacing for a moment before something catches his eye, “Fire escape.” Elbright points towards the window, pulling it open. It’s rusted, but it manages to slide up with minimal effort, “Let’s go.” 

Echo glances at Freddie, “You first.” 

“But--” 

“You first. You have Clio.” 

He sets his lips in a thin line, but doesn’t bother arguing anymore. Gathering Clio under the thighs more firmly, he’s careful with stepping out onto the landing and ushering his way down. 

Someone begins banging on the door. Echo jumps, Crius grips his bloody bat tighter, and Elbright curses. On the other side of the door, there’s laughter, highpitched and full of venom, rhythmic, sharp banging following. Not to break the door down, but to antagonize whoever is inside. It sends shivers up Echo’s spine, she swallows numbly. 

She ends up following Elbright out the window, the humid air hits her flushed skin, stinging and unforgiving. Dust is beginning to pick up, debris and the metallic smell of old blood is thick and suffocating. Echo keeps glancing over her shoulder, just to make sure her older brother is following, he seems just as tense as her, if not even more so. 

As soon as his feet hit the ground, he’s hissing at them, “Keep low, quiet. If we go around, they shouldn’t be able to--” 

“Let’s cut through the cornfields,” Elbright cuts in, out of breath, “It’s faster.” 

Crius glares at him, Echo can see his dark eyes narrowing even with the limited light, “Haven’t you done enough?” 

“I’m only saying--” 

“Shut up.” 

From above them, the door springs open. It’s a sound that makes the entire place shake, there seems as if there’s around five or six of them, perhaps more. Barreling through, muttering to each other and checking where they can. Echo holds her breath, she can see out of the corner of her eye that Clio is crying, burying her face into Freddie’s shoulder. 

A lantern sticks out of the window, shining light down onto them. Quick as ever, Crius is flat against the wall, hidden in the shadows. Echo does the same, Elbright following suit, Freddie right after. She tries her best to control her heart, growing more and more anxious as the seconds tick by and the light doesn’t move. 

Elbright swears under his breath, “Fuck this!” 

And he takes off. 

There’s a hooting sort of laughter from above, “There ya’ kids are! Where’re you goin’, huh?” 

Crius barely hesitates, he takes off after Elbright. Echo and Freddie share a look, then they’re doing the same. Freddie is surprisingly fast, even with Clio clamped onto him. Echo keeps an eye strictly to Crius’ back, refuses to lose him in the darkness of the night. She’s breathless, muscle memory the only thing that keeps her moving in this moment. 

The cornstalks are closer now. 

“Where you runnin’ off to?”

“Don’t run now!” 

“You’re gonna regret this!” 

“Go ahead! I’ll catch ya’, girly!” 

“Echo!” She can see Crius’ face in the distance, it’s rare to hear him shout, to raise his voice so effortlessly when all they know is quiet. Out of breath, she still pushes herself after him, “Come on, come here!” He’s holding out a hand to her, and she takes it, easier to keep speed with him this way. 

Behind them, there’s more shouting. 

The two of them following behind Freddie and Elbright, they break through the cornfields. A few crows startle to the left, taking flight by some type of movement within the stalks, she can only guess it’s them, further ahead. 

From the tight clench of his fingers, she can tell Crius is desperate, he’s pushing himself harder, he almost looks tempted to pick her up and carry her. The sea of gold and green is a maze, she can barely see anything, the moon hidden behind a thick cloud and the night draping. It’s like running with a blindfold. 

Crius pulls her to his side, “Echo, are you--”

Something breaks near their feet, it sounds like glass. Immediately, flames engulf her sight. She stumbles backwards out of the way, wide-eyed as the fire lifts, catching to the stalks like a match. She can barely make out Crius on the other side, who is shouting something to her. More glass breaks, the stench of smoke and liquor clouding her senses. It’s horrifying to think of one landing onto her, and with that dizzying thought, she takes off. 

As soon as Crius spots her running, he does too. 

It’s comforting to know that they have the same thought process in situations like this. Never stop, keep moving.

Dust and smoke lifts into the sky, it makes it even more difficult to see. She can’t tell which way she’s going anymore, coughing into her jacket’s sleeve, stumbling over her own two feet. 

“Keep going, Echo! I’m here!” It’s her brother’s voice, way too far away for it to be comforting. Is she not going fast enough? 

She takes a hopeless glance towards the sky, it looks like it’s on fire too. 

“Echo! Echo!!” 

“I’m coming! I’m--” 

Something blunt hits her right in the head. 

The sound rings in her ears, and immediately, she can feel something warm drip down from her hair. Her legs must’ve given out, because when she lifts her head, she’s face-down in the dirt, gasping and struggling to sit up. 

“I got one! I got one! Look!”

Thundering footsteps make their way towards her, one boot plants itself directly into her back, and she yelps. 

“I see! Good job, roll ‘em over so we can see what we got.” 

“Be careful, Jim. Don’t want ‘em spitting up anything on you, it’s your nice shirt.” 

“I got it.” 

She’s shoved onto her back, her vision swimming. When she blinks a few times, she’s able to make out their faces. There’s a boy, around her age. A man, dressed in a shoddily put together dinner suit. And a woman, her hair wild and matted around her face, expressing worry. All of their eyes, bloodshoot and red-ringed. 

An infected family of three. 

Vaguely familiar, perhaps in another life she would’ve known them. Shopped at the same grocery store, parents inviting them over to dinner, went to the same high school as their boy. But that doesn’t matter now. 

“Isn’t she a looker?” The man crouches down by her side, “Hey there, sugar.” He takes a hold of her face in his hands, nevermind the blood that’s dripping from the wound beneath her hair, squishing her cheeks together, despite her moaned protests, “Hmmm.” 

“Don’t go grabbing on her like that,” The woman beside him swats his arm, “Gonna make me jealous.” 

“Did I do good?” The boy is smiling, wide enough to split his face in two, spittle flying from his mouth, “Did I? Did I? I did, right?” 

She instinctively curls inwards, trying in vain to twist away from them. And when that doesn’t work, she spits right into the man’s face. He barely blinks, staring at her with red eyes, pupils big. He readjusts his grip, underneath her chin, nails digging into her throat. He backhands her right across the face with his free hand. Blood floods into her mouth, Echo coughs it up into the dirt. 

They start kicking at her, all three. Into her legs, her sides, her head. And they keep doing that until she’s knocked unconscious. 

When she wakes up, she has no idea where she is. 

At first, all she can register is the pain. Her head is pulsing, ears ringing. Every time she inhales, it’s with great difficulty. Her breathing sounds wet and panicked, even to her own ears. There’s an acid smell coming from somewhere, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s urine. 

Past the pain, she comes to the chilling realization that she isn’t at base. It wasn’t a dream, a nightmare, a terrifying hallucination. 

It’s hard to keep her eyes open, it brings tears, but she tries hard to focus. 

It’s a...shed? Or perhaps a barn. 

There’s strewn hay on the ground, dried blood splattered in random areas throughout, isn’t much space. A lantern is lit just a few feet away, on a table of some sorts, and on that table there’s a slew of instruments, all sharpened and rusted, recently used on God knows what. 

Her breathing has accelerated. An attempt is made to move her arms, but she blinks fast, glancing upwards to see her wrists are shackled, tied to the ceiling. Not high enough to have her suspended in the air, but with the discovery comes pain, her arms and shoulders are aching furiously, inflamed. Echo yanks, over and over again, but each time just makes it burn more, wrists chafing from the rope. 

A few tries leaves her worn, eyesight dimming. For a couple hours or so, she drifts, in and out. Sleep makes her heavier and puts a strain on her arms like no other, she jerks awake a few times from the pain. 

Light suddenly bleeds into the room. The barn door is open - she can hear the squawks of nearby crows, the whistle of wind through the trees, only for a second before it’s gone. Steps are coming from her right, she’s too tired to try and lift her head to see. No need, because the boy from before rounds her side, and locks eyes with her. 

He lights up, “You’re awake!” 

Echo can only stare at him. 

There’s blood on his shirt, flaked onto him like old paint. In his hair, some on the corner of his mouth, under his fingernails. But he’s smiling at her, teeth bright in the dark, bloodshot eyes unblinking. He looks so young, now that she’s closer to him, maybe fifteen or sixteen. 

“I was ‘fraid that I hit you too hard, maybe. I’m bad at that. Hitting too hard, I mean. Can’t do nothing about it. Mom’s said I’m still growing.” 

She tugs at her arms again, restless. 

“God has his own path for me. That’s what I know. Does he have a path or you? Do you think?” 

Echo is silent. 

“My faith has been tested, but proven. God has brought you to me. Well, I guess I can’t thank God for all that. Father, too. He said one day I would get rewarded for my prayers, and look! Look what has happened! Our Father is always right, always bringing forth the word of God! He speaks to him, don’t you know?” 

She can’t even make sense of what he’s saying. It’s all nonsense, just like the rest of them. Biblical spurts, testimonies of complete blather. She’s seen it time and time again. 

She pulls, it only makes her whimper sharply, the plank of wood above her groaning in unison from her weight. 

He stares at her, that same unnerving smile coming to his face, “Don’t worry, I got something cooking up for you. Don’t fret, don’t you worry, sweet girl.” She feels detached as she watches him circle her, leaving her view for only a second and skyrocketing her heart rate. But she doesn’t have the energy to move, to try and twist to see him, “Don’t you worry, the plan is all here.” 

“S-Stop--”

“I got’cha. I got it.” 

There’s a tugging at her hair, one of her braids. Echo blinks again, tears wetting her cheeks, standing on her toes to try and avoid his touch, but it’s no use. She realizes after a beat that he’s undoing her hair, it spills over her shoulder when he’s finished, darkened with her own blood. 

“Now,” he comes back in front of her, gliding his fingers through her hair, “Let us pray.” 

It comes as no surprise when he gets down to his knees in front of her and begins doing just that. Muttering beneath his breath, but still loud enough for her to hear. With the quiet and to know he isn’t making another move to touch her, she gathers her bearings. 

It looks like she’s the only one here. Which means, the others hadn’t been captured. If they’re lucky. Crius is strong, he can overpower a few men at a time easily. Freddie’s smart, he knows what to do in crucial situations. And Elbright is Elbright, he may be stubborn and quick to anger, but he always manages to get out of deadly encounters somehow. She can only hope that she’s right, that no harm came to them. 

Through the labyrinth of stalks, she has no way of knowing. The thought brings fresh tears to her eyes, biting her tongue hard enough to bleed, just to keep the sounds to herself. 

“Shut up!!” It’s so sudden that Echo jumps, eyes wide and wet, watching as the boy suddenly stands up and glowers at her, “Shut up! I told you, didn’t I?! Didn’t I just tell you, Beth! Didn’t I? We’re praying! You be quiet when we pray!” 

Beth?

She barely has the time to react, his hands close around her neck. She’s violently jerked off her feet -- he’s strong enough to lift her somehow, he must’ve been infected for years now to have this type of strength -- losing all breath, squeezed out of her effortlessly. Lead fills her lungs instead, as she gasps for air that won’t come, swallowing darkness and his crazed eyes all she can see. 

“Shut up! Shut up when I pray! Mom told you! She told you! And you just wouldn’t stop! You fucking harlot!”

His words fall on deaf ears, blood is rushing up to her head and filling her face steadily. Panic paralyzes her, her lips move, but no sound come out. She’s unsure of what she’s trying to say anymore, beg or curse at him, or maybe somebody’s name. Crius, Freddie, anybody.

She throws her weight around, who gives a damn about her arms, kicking out her legs, catching him in the side but he barely feels it. He tightens his fingers, cutting his sharp nails in, so tight that she’s scared her head will pop clean off and there won’t be much left of her. Fear clouds her head, her stomach, she’s scared that this will be the way she dies. 

Dying silently. With no one around but this crazed boy. 

But, just as quick as he’d started, he lets her go. Just as she’d been about to go slack, light flashing behind her eyelids, mouth open agape like a fish -- he lets her go. He’s laughing, she can make it out through the muddled mess of her hearing. 

Air fills her lungs with one desperate gush, chest rising and falling rapidly, her view is blurred at the edges. All she can see is red. She dry-heaves, ears full of thunder, sight swimming. 

He’s still laughing, right into her face, braced onto his knees and grinning.  He stops after a moment, still breathlessly giggling. She can feel his hands on her face, angling it towards him so he can speak to her, “I’m sorry - oh! Oh, your face, were you scared? Don’t be, don’t be. I’m sorry. God, I’m such - oh, Father told us, don’t take God’s name in vain! Smite me now! I’m a fool, a desperate fool!” 

She can breathe. That’s all that matters. 

“And you--” He strokes her cheeks, brushing hair from her face, “You...I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name, sweet girl.” 

She’s gasping, unable to sit still, twining in his arms in a futile effort to get further away from him. 

“It doesn’t matter now. Dad told me, revelation is upon us.” 

He releases his grip on her face, stepping away from her and taking a good look, “You must be so hungry. I’ll get Mom to make you something real quick.” With one more smile, he’s leaving the barn, and he doesn’t come back for quite some time. 

Night comes and there’s still no sign of him. Her hearing and sight comes back in splotches, sometimes there and sometimes not. The sound of the birds outside are torture, shrill and demanding, she’s sobbing into her arm for hours on end. Echo cannot help but sleep in the midst of it all, she can’t fight it for too long, eyelids drooping heavy against her will.

It’s a terrible way to rest, but she needs as much energy as she can get, she believes. 

In the dead of night, the barn door opens again. 

Blearily, Echo barely manages to lift her head before she’s slapped. Stinging pain rushes into the left side of her face, forcing her awake like cold water over her head. In front of her, there’s a woman, the same one from before in the cornfields, glaring at her in the most spiteful way, bloodshot eyes full of malice. 

“Wake up! Wake up right now!” 

Echo stares at her, blood spilling from her mouth. In result of her violence, she’d bit the inside of her cheek sharply, and now all she can taste is pennies. 

“Who the hell do you think you are? Lazing around all day! Think you can just do that? Hm? Because you’re young and pretty! Let me tell you now, God hates vanity! And so do I!” 

She’s hit again. And again, over and over. The slaps soon turn into punches, one hand balling into a fist and the other grabbing a hold of her hair to keep her still. Dully, Echo wonders if she’ll pass out from the pain first or if the woman will manage to knock her unconscious. 

It stops after awhile, Echo unable to hold her head up, so it lolls to the side pathetically and hangs. She inhales shakily, coughing on dust, lungs on fire from the boy’s earlier assault. She can’t even speak, and if she did, she’s sure her voice would be utterly ruined and ugly to listen to. 

Despite all of this, Crius’ face darts behind her lids. She thinks in this situation, he would be as brave as he possibly could, so she tries to keep that in mind while meeting the lady’s red eyes. The woman is crying -- blood leaks from the corners of her eyes, dripping off her quivering chin. 

“Goddamn you, Jimmy! He’s turned me into such a fool,” The woman weeps, wiping at her cheeks and it only leaves messy smudges of black-red all over her freckled face, “Bringing someone like you into our home. Unbelievable, I’m telling you! God only knows what that man must be thinking.” 

She puts her hands on her hips and gives Echo a scathing look, like she’s tracked dog crap into the house and refuses to mop it up. And Echo, she can barely make out what she’s saying, it’s tangible, but it’s muted at the same time. Like she’s watching this all transpire through a fogged up window, her own body taken control of by an unknown source. 

“Let’s get you outta these soiled rags, hm?” She reaches for the button of Echo’s pants, “A woman? Who wears jeans in the House of the Lord? Can’t even imagine!”

Echo swims awake, like breaking her head through an overbearing wave of water after being under for so long, “...?” 

“Shoot. I can’t do much with your arms up like that, now can I?”

The rope loosens, and before she can even register that, the ground comes up to meet her face. She crumbles onto the ground, gasping in dirt, hay sticking to her hair and damp skin. Breath is knocked out of her thoroughly, she chokes on a cry, her shoulders on fire. Relieved, but in agony from the change of position. 

The lady’s voice is crooning and sadistic, “There. Much better. Now, don’t move.” 

Hands grip at her hips, grappling underneath her thighs, yanking jeans from limp legs with great difficulty. The woman grunts and moans, muttering under her breath, trying to keep Echo still. Finally, she grows tired, standing from Echo’s side and huffing, brushing rugged blonde curls from her face. 

“This won’t do! Heaven forbid anybody try helpin’ you, you ingrate!” 

Echo hears her step away, towards the table to search for something. That’s when she makes her move. Somehow, someway, she manages to climb onto her hands and knees, slipping a few times but keeping upright. At first, it starts off as a crawl, slowly gaining speed and ascending into a limp towards the barn entrance. She’s swirling with the deep and dizzying sense of vomit, eyes tearing at the pain ripping through her midsection, gasping air into engorged, burning lungs. 

She’s almost there. 

Closer and closer. The woman hasn’t noticed her yet. And Echo feels freedom, out within the tree line, if she can just--

Except, the door opens before she can even touch it. 

Helpless, she blinks up at the same man from the cornfields, his grey and unruly beard visible in the limited light, staring at her as if she’s an insect, beneath him. 

Echo barely manages to make a sound before he says, “Where’re you going, sugar?” 

He doesn’t give her a chance to reply, he grabs a fistful of her hair, ignoring her balk of pain, forcing her backwards. She lands hard on her shoulders and back, breath escaping her again all at once, dragging her and scraping her up as he brings her back to her rightful place. 

“Dammit, Linda, I told you to keep an eye on her!” 

“I am!” The woman turns in one wild arch, scissors held up threateningly towards her husband, “I’m doing my best! Can’t you see I’m doin’ my best! I’m sick of you hollering at me!”

“Shut the hell up!” He smacks the impromptu weapon out of her hands, growling at her through his teeth, “She runs and then what? What d’we got? Nothing! We can’t take nothing to the Father, now can we?” 

When he says that, she quiets. She looks like a child, looking down at her feet and pouting, “Guess not.” 

“And you want Father happy.” 

“We all want Father happy, don’t we?” 

“So that’s why we gotta keep this one, y’hear?”

“Don’t go mouthing off at me, Jimmy!” 

“I’m not! Now shut up ‘fore I make you!” 

The woman listens, but she’s glaring hatefully at Echo, lips twisting into a scowl. 

She’s thrown on the ground, head connecting with the floor hard. Echo’s eyesight blurs, she blinks unsteadily and unfocused, the lantern light shimmering in the corner of her eye. She sees them working on something, the woman carrying it towards her in her arms, standing over Echo. 

“Let’s get her pants off.” 

“A woman wearing something like this,” The man scoffs, “I’ve seen everythin’ now.” 

She’s hurting. Everywhere. Every time she inhales, it hurts. Every time she moves, it hurts. She’s scared to even turn her head to see what they’re doing, saying. Unfamiliar hands grab at her hips, she begins crying again, hauled from the ground, scrapping her knees as her jeans are pulled off roughly. Echo coughs, wet and grating, whining beneath her breath like a shunned animal. 

“Stop squirming!” 

"Oh, she’s crying now, Jimmy!”

Her pain is so violent, she can’t see anymore. She can’t even focus as a boot plants hard on her left shoulder, preventing her from moving, pulling her shirt up in one sudden movement. Her hair gets caught, a few strands ripped from her head. 

Echo is thoroughly stripped of her clothes, shivering and restless on the floor of the barn. 

She comes to again hours later. 

It’s light outside. It spills into the spaces between the wood, white and too harsh to look at for too long. Her arms are strung up again, her wrists feel as if they’ve been stuffed with glass, and her knees are too weak to support her much anymore. For awhile, she is paralyzed in pain and unable to move.

She’s dressed differently. A nightgown, maybe. Frilly and white, with a choking collar, stopping just past her knees. 

It’s silent for a long time. Just her and her thoughts, wondering if she’ll die from this trauma or if they’ll kill her themselves. She hopes for the latter, anything would be better at this point. The only thing that keeps her going is the fact that she keeps telling herself that Crius is safe, Freddie safe, they both got away and were at base. Probably wondering when she’d be back. That just makes her wonder how many days she’s been gone. 

One? Three? Twenty? Who knows.

From behind the door, there’s voices. The woman again. And the man. They’re yelling about something, she can’t force herself to listen, it seems as if they’re miles away at this point. 

The wound in her head is festering, stinging and burning beneath the curtain of her hair, a rib either cracked or broken, unable to find the energy to move any of her limbs. This is how she will die, tortured by sick freaks that were once her neighbors, friends, townspeople. Who are just as innocent as her, forced to be cruel underneath the watchful eye of the Priest. 

She hates what her town has become. She hates what she has become. Maybe this is deserved. 

“--admit it!” 

“I will do no such thing!” 

“You’re a liar, Jimmy! A goddamn liar!” 

The door is shoved open. Echo can’t lift her head, can’t focus her eyesight to see who it is exactly. Only when the woman crosses the barn and picks up something shiny from the table, that’s when realization bleeds into her chest. She points it in the direction of her husband, swiping at him wildly, just barely grazing his chest. 

He hisses, “You fuckin’--” And underneath his venomous voice, he’s laughing. Yellowed teeth bright in the sunlight, grinning and staring at her, like she’s this beautiful creature that he’s never seen before, discovering it for the first time, “Go ahead! Soak my blood into the earth! I am God’s child!” 

She growls at him, jabs towards him again and misses. She looks more animal than human in that moment, “You think she’s more than me? More beautiful than me, huh! I’ll show you! You inbred trash!” Without pause, she stalks towards Echo. 

If she’d have blinked, she would’ve missed it. 

One second, the knife is in the woman’s hand. And then the next, it’s buried into Echo’s left thigh. First, the pain doesn’t register. Her mind wants to deny it, tell her that her eyes are playing tricks on her, and the dull pain is only a whim. Echo screams, it rips from her throat, hoarse and shrill, teetering on the edge of sobs. 

It’s real. The pain is real, and it ricochets through her at startling speeds. 

So far deep that all Echo can see is the handle, embedded far into the muscle of her thigh, the meatiest part. She jumps and heaves, tries to be mindful of each stab of pain that crawls up her leg, to her hip. If anything had been in her stomach, it would’ve all came up. Her breath skids into a panic, not enough oxygen making it to her brain to help her fix the situation. 

Pain! Pain! Pain!

Get it out! She can’t.

The couple is laughing now. Laughing and pointing at her, crazed from bloodshed, embraced in each others arms. Without pause, the man reaches across and twists the handle, just a bit. But it’s enough to make Echo yelp, the desperate shriek of an animal that’s being skinned alive. 

It’s a violent, black blur. The couple taking turns with beating her head in with their fists, ripping at her nightgown and hair, fingering and playing with the knife and enjoying each sound Echo makes. They leave together, lips locked and grappling at each other like newfound lovers, leaving her unconscious inside of the barn. 

She doesn’t wake again. Not for a very long time. 

The wood above her creaks from her weight often.

Time has passed like molasses, and she’s unaware of the date, doesn’t care to think about it. She can’t see Crius or Freddie’s faces anymore. Her body does not have the will to move, her mind can’t make out anything anymore, can’t understand just what’s happening around her. 

The family comes in one at a time. The wife threatens to scalp her soon. The son prays for her. The husband comes only to ogle her, peek under her skirts, and smile in her face. She doesn’t know who’s the worse out of the three. Sometimes, she’ll close her eyes and the son will be there and then she’ll open them seemingly seconds later and it’ll be the mom in front of her. She’s scared to know she’s losing so much time, to watch the sun set and come up over and over. 

Rinse and repeat. 

They speak about the Father often. She’s a gift to him, apparently. Fresh and ripe for the picking. She doesn’t want that, she knows there’s something in her that should fight against that. But the will has left her, and she sleeps most of the time. 

In her head, dully, there is a voice. A very familiar one. For the first few days, she can’t understand what it’s saying. But with time, it becomes clearer. 

Echo.

She awakes in a feverish gasp, eyes wide and flickering, lashes fluttering quickly. Damp with sweat, she cranes her head and looks around, startled. The voice had been so close, within her ears and head, draping across her back like a shadow. 

“Crius...” She whispers, tearfully, “Crius?” A heavy feeling is on her chest, the harder she breathes. Desperately, she turns her head, searching, “Please, help me. Please--” 

Nothing comes, no one is there. 

Just her. 

It’s dark outside, some indeterminate time of night. Her vision is unfocused, bright and spotty at the edges. She’s straining to keep herself awake for more than a few minutes, clinging onto consciousness with wretched fingers. Her thigh muscles jerk in spasms, and quickly, she looks down to see the knife is still there. 

They never took it out. 

She twitches her leg, experimentally, and it brings on a wave of fire up her thigh, catching alight her side. Clenching her teeth, she tries again, forcefully straightening her leg at the knee, ignoring the tears dripping off her chin and into her nightgown. The pain is familiar, oddly predictable, she’s been dealing with it for days now. 

Tentatively, she tries to make sense of her hands. Her wrists are useless, arms numb, but her fingers are gripping at the rope shackling her for dear life. The plank above her creaks again, and she stops, testing her weight, and it creaks louder. 

It won’t take much to break it. 

Echo grabs for air, steeling herself. Head pounding and aflame, her movements feel delayed and out of sync with her brain, screaming at them commands that they won’t lsiten to. She tries to take Crius advice in this moment, tries hard to think back on his words and just breathe. 

When I get scared, when I lose myself -- sometimes....sometimes I take a second to just -- listen to the world around me. 

In that moment, he’d been so vulnerable, holding her hands in his, closing his eyes and encouraging her to do the same. Listening to the birds nearby, to the insects in the grass, to the whispers of the cornstalk, to the trees billowing in the wind. Just listen, breathe, think. 

In her mind, she can see Freddie’s smile. In her ears, she can hear Crius’ voice. 

She has to get out of here. The thought of never seeing them again scares her a hell of a lot more than death. 

She straightens her legs again, despite how weak she feels, never mind the pain. Braces herself, inhales shakily. 

And yanks her arms down as hard as she can. 

The pain is blinding, she can’t stop herself from screaming, biting down on her tongue as harshly as she can, tasting blood and swallowing it back thickly. She’s panting, shoulders lifting and falling fast, the burn in her throat bringing a wave of tears to her eyes. 

Again. She pulls harder. The wood trembles, but doesn’t move. She sniffles, frustration curling in her gut. 

Again. She yanks with all the strength she has left. 

Finally, finally, the wood snaps and breaks. The sound is music to her ears. On the ground, she falls on limp legs, onto her knees, stifling the whimper that wants to break through. After much effort, she rolls onto her back, out of breath, relieved at her newfound freedom. Absently, she rubs at the spasms in her legs, hand curling around the knife’s handle after a pause. 

She sucks in a sharp breath and pulls. 

Blood spills, tears fall off her eyelashes and down her temples, into the dirt below her. It’s warm and fresh, a puddle forming underneath her instantly. With difficultly, Echo forces herself upright, gingerly twisting her midsection around to try and find something to quell the bleeding. There’s nothing, and with swirling nausea, she realizes she’ll have to execute this as quickly as possible. Unless she wants to bleed out. 

Echo uses the knife to cut off the rope, discarding it to the side thereafter.

 A bottle of half-empty whisky is by the door of the barn, she drags herself by her hands to get to it. With shaking fingers, it takes a few tries to close her numb hand around the bottle, uncorking it and spilling it hastily over her open wound. She can only hiss, dousing it as much as she can until its empty. Once it’s all gone, she forces herself to breathe through the pain, keep her head above water. 

“---DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL. DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL. DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL, FOLKS--” 

Just outside the door of the barn, there’s a voice, followed by static. A motto that this town has always known and loved, something that eve Echo remembers clearly. Watching her dad as he worked over his pickup truck, the radio positioned right on a stool by the hood, playing the same ten songs every afternoon. 

Next, Father’s voice bleeds over the intercoms, “We must rise! Holy and just, the gift that God has given us is not one of suffrage. Those who suffer are not children of mine, are not of God! Cast them away, rip them from their mother’s belly, and kill whoever is a nonbeliever!” 

“He speaks the truth,” It’s the wife’s voice now, she’s surprisingly close, and Echo jerks backward, holding her breath, “Such a brave man our Father is.” 

“Do you think he’ll except our offering, mom? Do you? Do you think?” It’s the boy next, he’s closer than the wife, presumably right by the door, “Oh, I hope so.” 

“She’ll make a fine offering. Don’t you worry.” 

“I hope so,” A pause, “I wish Beth was here with us to see this glorious time.” 

“Watch your mouth! We do not speak of that girl, that whore to Satan! A harlot, she was.” 

“My apologies, you’re right, mom.” 

“Hmph!” Echo can imagine her turning up her nose, her steps get further away, “Don’t you stay out here too long, you hear me?” 

“Yes, mom.” 

It’s silent again, save for the radio that has mostly descended into static and tongues. Echo bites into the raw skin of her bottom lip, still and unable to breathe just right. Her body is screaming at her for rest, begging for it, she almost falls asleep again, listening to their voice. 

Not yet. Just a little longer. 

Sleep when you’re dead. 

She hears the boy sigh, his footsteps begin in her direction. The door slides open, the orange glow of a lantern bobbing in the darkness. Fresh air is welcomed into her lungs, crisp and the taste of trees. She squints and watches him closely, he makes his way to her abandoned ropes, stopping for a moment like the sight has confused him. 

“What in God’s--” 

Echo attacks.  

She tackles him, they land in a crumbled heap on the floor, her attached flat to his back. Echo forces her knee into his spine, listening to him keen in surprise, lifting her knife and bringing it down with practiced precision. Blood erupts from the wound in one spurt, coating her dress. She hacks and tears with her anger, cutting at his skin frantically, trying to kill whatever monster is inside of him, evaporate it and force it out of existence. 

He stops moving after the third stab, but that doesn’t stop her. She keeps going and going until she’s covered in red, sprayed across her face and hands. Her eyes keep squeezed shut during the entire thing, mouth clamped tight as well to make sure none of his fluids touch anywhere important. When she’s finished, she struggles for breath, wiping the sleeve of her dress against her face. 

His back is a mangled mess beneath her, at least twenty stab wounds, blood spilling through the fabric of his shirt. It took nearly every piece of her energy and sanity, but he’s dead, and that’s what matters. She stands, stumbles, and falls to her knees. Deciding its best to gather herself before she moves again, she takes a slitting breath in through her nose, closing her eyes for a moment. 

It seems like only a moment, at least. Until she hears a chilling gasp from the entrance. Her eyes shoot open, lifts her chin to see the wife is standing there, her eyes filling with blood-tears, lips curling into an ugly grimace. Echo huddles against the floor, slipping the knife slightly behind her back to hide it from view. She stays crouched low, awaiting her next move, adrenaline still fresh inside of her veins, ready for another fight. 

The wife charges at her, screaming and crying, she’s solid weight as she knocks into Echo. It takes her off guard, the woman being only a couple inches taller than her and shaped like a scarecrow. Breath is knocked clean out of her, thrown off balance, skidding until her back hits the wall, hard. 

The woman is on her fast, climbing on top and digging her knee pointedly into Echo’s side. She can’t help it, she screams through her teeth at the blistering pain -- if her rib hadn’t been broken before, it definitely is now. She’s speaking half in tongues, eyes red-rimmed, tears of blood dripping and staining Echo’s nightgown, ruining it even further. 

“Father rejoices in the spilling of wicked blood!” She shrieks, half-laughing and half-crying, “God loves me, he’ll forgive!” Her fist catches Echo’s in the mouth, even as she tries to curl into herself and defend her head with one arm, “I’ll have you begging me to stop, you whore! I will give you rest!! Is that what you want? Kill my baby, take my husband!!” 

Her strength is overwhelming, unstoppable. Echo’s hand fumbles for the knife, gripping it with trembling fingers, and she swings it towards the woman. She connects. A wet gurgle, a desperate grunt. She keels to the side. Echo follows her, pulling the knife free, eyes shut, then brings it down again. Her blade meets something sturdier, bloodier, and she opens her eyes to see that she has it buried in her throat. 

The old wood groans underneath their combined weight, Echo straddling her, knife tearing into her throat, two times, thrice. The wife is still making noises, despite, and Echo grunts, “Fucking -- die -- already!” She does eventually, Echo stabs so deeply that her head is nearly teetering off the edge of her neck, semi-decapitated. 

She stumbles over the woman’s body as she tries to move, half-blind from the spray of blood on her face, struggling to crawl towards the far wall to pull herself up. Her legs almost collapse underneath her, exhausted, her entire body ready to give out at any moment. 

But she has to keep moving. She has to make it to the others, just to be sure they are alive. That’s the thought that keeps her moving forward. Half-crawling desperately towards the door, the dead of night such a welcoming escape. 

It would’ve been if she didn’t spot the husband a foot away, surprised to see her, bloody and panting, struggling to squint through her lashes to see him. His bloodshot eyes flicker down to the knife in her hand and he grins, “I like you, sugar. You got some fight in you,” He beckons her with a finger, smiling at her, “C’mere.” 

She stays where she is, shivers convulsing up her arms, clinging to the knife like a lifeline. She keeps trying to tell herself that he’s just a puppet, one of Father’s men, looking for a false God and someone to praise. He is no different from the others, there is no reason to be so afraid of him. But she is, fear clouds her sense and makes her skittish, close to crying and giving out completely. 

“That’s okay,” he says, luridly slow, “I’ll come to you.” He does just that, stepping towards her slowly, like she’s a spooked animal and she’ll run off if he makes too much noise. “Father will like you, Father will cherish you. You will bring children, you will bring prosperity.” 

She doesn’t want to listen to what he say anymore. Her jaw locks tight, teeth grinding. Horror creeps up her spine, just watching him watch her. 

He’s a lot like his wife, when he gets close enough, he uses his weight and strength to his advantage, slamming her hard against the barn wall, and she’s too exhausted and slow to try and dodge out of the way. He grabs a fistful of her hair, brings her head up only to slam it back against the wood, and she’s seeing stars. The knife fumbles from her grip, she hears it fall somewhere to the left of her. 

Blindly, she dives for it, but he yanks her back, and the ground comes up to meet her. She lands on her back with a resounding thud, ears ringing and sight shaky. He’s a blur of movement in her peripheral, she barely has a second to think before he’s back on her, and there’s a sharp stabbing sensation in her right shoulder. 

She hears this unfiltered, shocked, inhumane scream. And it takes a moment to realize that the sound is coming from her. She’s too frightened to turn her head and see what he did, heart thundering away in her chest, shaking fingers lift and touch the handle of the knife, now stuck into the flesh of her shoulder. 

As soon as she touches it, he’s gripping her wrists tight, pinning both over her head, purposely digging his fingers into the rope burns on each. Her head throbs behind her eyes, red-black haze impossible to see through, his grinning face is the only thing she can make out, beady eyes staring down at her with murderous glee. 

“You wanna be my new wife, huh? I like you. I could probably love you, sugar!” 

“--DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL, DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL--�� 

The pain of every single of inch of her hits her like a train, the exhaustion that clings to her, the fight wants to drain from her so quickly. The terrifying thought is still fresh in her mind, what if she won’t ever see the others again? Crius’ laugh, his warm hands, his reassuring words. Freddie’s smile, his sense of humor, his kind eyes. 

She’s so scared of that becoming of a reality. 

He’s digging his knees into her side, jostling her so the knife digs deeper on its own, she’s sobbing, “What if you stay here with me? I’ll open you up real good, I’ll make sure you’re nice and taken care of.” 

“--DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL, DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL--” 

His hold falters, trailing down her arms almost gently, nearly cupping over the tops of her chest, humming underneath his breath in satisfaction, giggling, “I wouldn’t give you to the Father, I won’t even give y’up to the Blind Ones. You’re all mine. Don’t you worry, sugar--” 

With her last bit of strength, she yanks the knife out. And promptly plunges it into his eye-socket. There’s a pause, his mouth falls open. She pulls it out with a hearty grunt, stabbing it into the same spot, this time the blade sticks. And she does her best wrenching it from his skull, just to stab him a third time. 

Deeper, wetter. Until her grip slips from all of the blood. 

Even with him dead, the onslaught doesn’t stop. He’s treated like the rest of his family, stabbed again and again and again until her arms go numb. Face frozen in mid-laughter and horror, the man had died somewhere in the middle, but she is near robotic in her need to hurt him, to rid him of this earth. He’ll never breathe again, unworthy to even exist in the same world as Freddie and Crius. She stabs until there’s a deep crater in his head where his eye should be, reduced to soup-like mush, thick underneath her fingernails.

Wheezing, she tries to catch her breath, bleeding profusely from both wounds on her leg and shoulder, but too tired to do much about it. She shakes, a strangled whimper leaving her throat when she sees her handiwork, his face is a mutilated mess of flesh and fatty tissue and blood. He’s unrecognizable from before, and a part of Echo is glad for it. 

She forces herself off of him, tumbling to the side with a heavy breath of exertion. Her weight sinks into the dirt, hair matted to her face with blood, dress clinging to her, fingers jerking sporadically, curling around the knife, unwilling to let go just yet. 

She lays there for a long time. 

“Crius...” Echo murmurs, her voice thick, “Crius.” 

“---DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL, DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL, FOLKS--” 

She grabs the compact radio, throwing it a few feet away from her. It sputters for some time, struggling, before going completely dead. Just like the rest of the family. With a gasping moan, Echo struggles to her feet, knees shaking.

In the distance, the sky begins to turn purplish-orange. The sun is rising. 

She has to get back to the others, she has to see them. 

Among the silence, there’s the sound of a footstep, off to her left. 

Quick as she possibly can, Echo is turning, hair blinding her for a moment, aiming her knife in the vague direction of the noise. 

It’s a man, unfamiliar, broad chest and dark hair. He’s holding his hands up in surrender immediately, eyes flickering from her face to the knife, and back again. “I’m not going to hurt you,” his voice is quiet, gentle. He keeps his hands up. Even with the distance, she can see he has weapons on him, but he makes no move to grab them, “I’m not...one of them,” He gestures towards the dead man at her feet, careful with any sudden moves, “I’m not.” 

Echo glares at him, rational thought waning. She tries to make sense of his words, but it sounds like nothing but gibberish. 

“Look at me.” 

She does what he says, staring into his face. 

“I’m not one of them.” 

Echo keeps staring, eyelashes fluttering, taking it in. The fog in her head just barely lifts, able to make out his clean eyes, his open hands, his calming tone. She feels cold, draped in death, bleeding and crying and pathetic. Her fingers tremble around the handle of the knife, legs completely give out underneath her, and she falls to her knees. 

The knife clatters somewhere near her, shining dimly in the sunrise. 

He carefully makes his way over to her, kicking the knife away from her for extra measure. Crouching down to his knees, he’s unsure of where to touch her, how to help at first, and all she can do is sob in relief. 

.

.

Be brave even when you don’t think you can, Echo.

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[unpopcorned]

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Jonah likes watching his boyfriend sleep.

As much as Vito frets over how many hours Jonah gets a night, he’s really the one who deserves some type of rest. Because of how pale he gets sometimes, the bags under his eyes are very prominent and easy to notice. He thinks sometimes that Vito may work too much - whatever he does for work, that is. Whatever his cousins do to . . . keep their careers afloat. Point being, he wishes Vito could be in bed more, he wishes he could have more days to himself. And even then, when he does, it seems the burdens he carries on his shoulders every day wear him down.

Today is Sunday. Today is an easy day for Vito, a day he usually has off. And even though Jonah’s body is used to waking up bright and early every day at seven in the morning, no matter what time he may sleep, he stays by Vito’s side in bed and watches him for the next few hours. He may doze off a few times, it’s incredibly easy to do so just listening to Vito’s soft breathing.

He becomes more aware around noon, and he sits up, reaches over to check the alarm clock by the bed. He never had a chance to buy an end table, so he has to pluck it from the floor to read the time off. Fifteen until one - he should get up and start on something to eat.

That thought vaguely crosses his mind, but only for a moment. He chances a look in Vito’s direction, and he’s still dead to the world. Jonah wants to let him sleep, but he’s also very tempted to do something else entirely. Over the last couple days, they haven’t really had time to do much, especially spend time together. Jonah was in and out because of his midterms and Vito had been busy with his cousins for the last week.

Tutoring, studying, classes - Jonah’s schedule had been packed for awhile now. Besides a few extended kisses and fooling around, there hasn’t been much . . . well, sex. But Jonah takes most of the blame, he leaves Vito hanging more often than not. Especially as in last night, when one of the students he’d tutored had left his book on the coffee table and decided to come over at eleven o’clock at night to retrieve it. Which had interrupted them, which had left Vito on the couch when Jonah was too polite not to talk to his classmate.

Jonah sits there for another minute or two. And then he’s scooting closer, straddling his boyfriend with ease. Vito doesn’t really react at first, and so Jonah starts dotting his skin with kisses - over his chest, neck, jaw, and face. After awhile, Vito begins stirring, and his body stretches along Jonah’s, he attempts to roll onto his side, but seems to notice the added weight when he’s a bit more alert.

“Mmmm...” He nuzzles into Jonah’s neck lazily, returns the kisses - albeit slower and dragging. When their lips finally meet, he breathes a sigh into Jonah’s mouth, arms lifting to come around and hold him closer, “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Jonah tells him, already smiling. He pulls away a few inches, sitting up straight. Vito only props his arms behind his head, he looks sleepy still, slow smile coming to his face when he meets Jonah’s eyes, “It’s almost one.”

His eyebrows lightly furrow, “Really? Fuck.”

“It’s fine, you needed the sleep.”

“Wanted to make breakfast.”

“I can make it.”

Vito yawns some, and Jonah takes his time to drag his hands a little lower. From his chest, down his stomach, and then up again. He’s really warm, and Jonah had noticed months ago that Vito just naturally runs warmer than most. It’s the only reason he tries not to worry when his boyfriend opts to go without a jacket in this type of weather.

His mouth looks really pretty right now - a little dry, but soft like a cloud when Jonah kisses him again. It’s a short one, and it makes Vito try to lean up and deepen it. His hands come up and curve around him, fingers sliding over his ass to grab a handful. And that’s when Jonah pulls away, reaching up and tugging Vito’s arms from around him. Vito appears visibly confused when he does so, but doesn’t break away at all, lets Jonah’s hands curl around his wrists to hold them momentarily to the bed.

“Not yet. Hold on.”

Jonah kisses him slow and drawn out, peppering kisses down the length of his throat and starting lower. Vito’s hands only keep away for maybe a minute or two before he’s trying to touch Jonah again. And when Jonah repeats the process from before, Vito releases a slightly frustrated breath. It makes him smile.

“Hold still.”

“This is torture.”

“It is not.”

He drags lazy kiss down his chest, hair shielding his face as he drops down farther. With each drag of his lips and brush of his tongue, Vito grows more antsy. Jonah lingers at his hip, there’s a small scar on the right of his lower stomach that’s around three inches wide. Looked pretty violent, and so Jonah kisses it tenderly. Fortunately, Vito lets him explore as much as he wants, even though by time Jonah gets to the place that needs the most attention, he’s straining against the material of his boxers.

He just kisses wherever he can for awhile, slow and purposeful, searching. Wanting to find each freckle and scar.

Jonah is slow with pulling him out, and he hears the relieved sigh from his boyfriend. Lashes lift, and he finds Vito’s gaze with ease. He’s staring down at him, face lightly flushed, tongue peeking out to the corner of his lips. Wet, warm. Jonah’s tempted to lean up and kiss him again. But he stays where he is, ghosting his lips over the head, one hand skimming up Vito’s thigh gently.

His tongue curves over the tip, soft sound when he gets a taste before he closes his lips around. Pleasuring Vito like this, making him feel good like this - it’s always a highlight. Because Vito’s reactions are so open, his eyes are shut and he’s trying his best not to touch Jonah, like he asked. He’s really cute like this, it makes Jonah want to go further.

He doesn’t make his boyfriend wait - he lowers, enjoying the stretch and feel. Vito’s a little impatient, his hips rock up. Jonah has to tighten his fingers around his hip, the other into his thigh. He wants to hold him still for a little longer, drag this out just a bit. A deep noise leaves Vito, Jonah answers him with a moan of his own. Sucking soft, humming soft.

Vito cums pretty fast, down his throat, and Jonah lowers down as far as he can go to swallow what he can. He pulls off after awhile, Vito’s out of breath and staring at him, Jonah almost distractedly touches him - his hips, his thighs, his stomach. Vito’s fingers are clenched in the sheets.

“Feel good?”

“You tryin’ to kill me or what?”

“Or what.” Jonah crawls to reclaim his spot straddling him. It doesn’t take long at all, Vito’s reaction is fast. His hands come up to his hips, pulling him forward. And becoming hard again, Jonah can feel it. Jonah does the same as before, gripping his wrists and pinning them to the bed, not ready to yet give up his newfound control. Usually, Vito took the reigns when it came to things such as this - Jonah has always found it exciting to try new things, this wouldn’t be any different.

“Jonah,” Vito’s voice is low in his chest, his hips are restless underneath him, rocking forward in a need for friction, “Lemme--”

“Just be patient,” Jonah tells him, smiling a secret smile and kissing Vito on the cheek when he leans forward, “You’re so cranky.”

“I’m tryin’ to make love to you.”

“Mmm...” Jonah kisses him again, wet and thorough, tongue teasingly darting against his. Pulling away when he knows Vito is far from satisfied, Jonah takes his time with removing his shirt, tossing it in a vague direction, right around the spot where the clothes hamper was. Vito is staring up at him with impatient eyes, his lips fixed into something akin to a pout. They kiss for awhile longer, Vito’s hands keep coming up and touching what he can, like before, “Vito.”

“You feel so good,” Vito is lost in their kisses, framing Jonah’s face with his palms, down his neck and ducking to his waist, the insides of his hands are rough and calloused but overwhelming gentle when touching Jonah. He grinds up, desperate for any kind of contact, grunting in Jonah’s mouth when he presses back down in return, “Fuck--”

“In a minute.”

“Jonah.”

Jonah does the prepping himself. Lifting on his knees once he has enough ( they need more lube, he’ll have to make a mental note to stop somewhere after class tomorrow ), he’s extra careful with dipping inside of himself, in and out in a gentle motion, only pressing deeper when he’s comfortable. Vito is watching, breathing in through his mouth, eyes locked and fingers clenched tight enough that Jonah can see the white of his bone through the skin.

It’s exciting to see Vito like this, makes his mouth water and the weight between his legs become heavier. Blood is rushing, pounding through his veins and lightening all of his senses. He can smell Vito, taste him on his tongue, can’t wait until there’s more. Vito looks as if he wants to touch himself watching, he looks as if he can’t wait to touch Jonah again.

With that thought in mind, Jonah pulls his fingers from inside, taking Vito’s cock in one hand and giving it one firm stroke up. He might’ve been a little rushed, but he’s just as impatient as Vito, if not more. Vito groans, he’s wet and waiting and red at the tip, a bead of pre-cum seeps out. He’s always been so responsive, thick and nearly pulsing in Jonah’s grip, hips shifting from the bed subtly to chase the feeling.

But he’s also been good. He doesn’t try and lift his hands to grab at him, to force him to move faster. Their cocks slide along the other, slick. Vito makes another sound, more throaty and frustrated than the last. So, he does them both a favor, lowering himself gingerly down onto Vito. He slides in with ease, Jonah planting his knees to keep balance, pressing his palms behind him flat to Vito’s thighs.

He cannot help the sudden gasp when Vito’s hips jerk from the bed, forces all the way inside until he bottoms out. And once he is, he’s straining to hold still - they still need a little work in that department, Vito’s self control. But Jonah isn’t one to complain, he breathlessly laughs and meets Vito’s dark eyes. His face is flushed pink, expression intense and eyebrows pinched tight.

His amusement is sharply cut off when Vito presses up again, deeper than before. Jonah clenches his thighs around his hips in an effort to keep him there, “Vito...hold on...hold still, okay?”

“Can’t,” Vito licks his lips, panting, lashes shielding his eyes when he looks down between them, “You feel so...good...” Vito was definitely the first person he’d done bareback with, ever. And it has felt much different from past partners, more intimate. Skin sensitive and warm, inch by tantalizing inch, he’s back inside again, slow and purposeful, meeting little resistance.

Jonah quickly realizes that he needs to take control of the situation or he’ll end up the one cumming first. And he does, forcing Vito to be still as much as he can, one warm hand on his waist. Jonah begins moving, it’s his own special pace. He speeds up at random, slows down when he hears Vito’s breathing hitch and feels his hips tremble.

Jonah feels full and sated, shiver running up the expanse of his spine. Vito’s sounds are always the best, honest and low. He has this curve to him that could brush a really good spot whenever he moved, Jonah tries his best to keep his own moans to himself. Whether he likes it or not, the walls are thin here and the last thing he needs is any kind of complaints about the noise.

Vito has barely made the time to touch him, but he can feel himself getting closer to that awaiting edge. It balls in his stomach and clenches his muscles in anticipation, each pass becomes shorter and more urgent. Using his free hand to trail down towards his own straining problem, Jonah moans deep in his chest, fingers delicately coaxing over the head. One pump, and then two - painfully slow to try and match the pace. He would’ve finished pretty quickly, if Vito’s hands hadn’t slipped off the bed and gripped his hips.

Jonah’s eyes flutter open, he hadn’t even been aware that he’d closed them, “Vito--”

He barely gets a chance to blink. One second, he’s in Vito’s lap, and the next, their positions are flipped. The two of them almost roll off the bed, Vito momentarily pulls out at the change of angle, cocks brushing once more before he’s pressing back inside. Jonah inhales, filled to the brim and sated, not enough energy to try and gain control once more.

Instead, Jonah kisses him. Vito returns the kiss in kind, a slow kind that makes Jonah want even more from him. The pace is faster than before, set by Vito exclusively, he’s moaning into Jonah’s mouth, tongue sweeping inside, dragging his teeth over Jonah’s top lip. He slides his hand underneath Jonah’s thigh to get a better angle.

When Vito cums, Jonah tightens his legs around him, forces him inside deeper. Vito is out of breath, panting against Jonah’s mouth, kissing there slowly and then trailing kisses lower down his neck. Jonah is still hard, practically leaking over with the need to be touched.

“Vito...” He makes a vain attempt to rock forward, try and soothe the overwhelming ache, Vito kisses him softly, and Jonah practically jumps out of his skin when he feels his fingers wrap around the base, slowly dragging up and then back down. Jonah doesn’t expect him to trail kisses down his chest, open-mouthed and slow, lingering particularly at his hip.

It doesn’t take long at all to make Jonah cum, Vito sucks at the head, lowers down and then back up. Jonah doesn’t have the words to warn him, Vito closes his mouth around the tip, swallows once and then twice, thumbs massaging leisurely into Jonah’s hips before he pulls off. 

Vito is touching himself when Jonah opens his eyes, dragging his hand up and down his length, watching him. His muscles are lax and legs still parted, thrill shooting through him at the look in his boyfriend’s dark eyes. Vito settles his weight on top of him again, and Jonah is a little too eager, he kisses across Vito’s jaw and neck - wants more, needs more.

“One more time...” Vito is murmuring against his mouth. This time, Vito is rougher with how he moves, he slides in, setting with an immediate faster pace. Jonah releases a soft noise into his mouth, restless and pliant underneath him. Whatever Vito wants, Jonah is always quick to accommodate.

“...feel so good...so good, Jonah,” he sucks hard at a spot under Jonah’s jaw, reaches in between them, his fingers curl around Jonah’s erection, jerks him fast - in time with his thrusts. And Jonah is coming undone quickly underneath him again, he cums into Vito’s hand, slick and messy, oversensitive when Vito won’t stop moving his hand, “Feels good?” He swallows, watching Jonah’s expression, “Fuck.”

He grips Jonah’s thigh tighter, pressing in deeper - there’s no other sound but Vito’s grunts, Jonah’s soft moans, and skin against skin. When Vito cums again, Jonah tightens his arms around him, kissing all over his face and to his mouth, rocking up to meet his sporadic thrusts.

Jonah’s quiet, he listens to the sound of Vito’s erratic breathing. He wraps his arms around his boyfriend, passing fingers through his hair, it’s damp with sweat. Kissing the crown of his head, Jonah hums, “Love you, Vito.”

It doesn’t take long for Vito to mumble it back, he lifts up, pulling out after just a moment. Jonah immediately misses the warmth, comforted when Vito brushes his lips against his, and murmurs again, “I love you, too,” After a pause, he says, “Don’t do that again.”

Jonah can’t help but smile, “Hm? You didn’t like it?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“It looked like you did.”

Vito snorts, wrapping his arms tighter around Jonah. And Jonah lets him get more comfortable on top of him, seeming as if he’s tempted to fall right back to sleep. His breathing deepens, he burrows his face into Jonah’s neck and kisses there tenderly. 

“Didn’t you say you wanted breakfast?” 

“...let’s lay here a little longer, yeah?” 

“Whatever you want, Vito.” 

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[unpopcorned]

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.

She loves the shimmering lights.

Mrs. Richardson had always been amazing when it came to interior design. Posh, and still somehow not overwhelming. Sophisticated, but fun. Glowing, but not bright enough to hurt the eyes. Darcy takes a good few minutes to herself, glancing around the expanse of foyer, spacious and dazzling.

Moon-gray eyes drift over to the far wall. There, she finds the blown-out family picture, Mr. Richardson on the left - looking made of money and far too handsome for his own good, his wife is beside him and she’s smiling this subtle smile like she knows something everyone else doesn’t, hair tucked neatly behind her, encinuating the sparkling diamond earrings. And Fenton, he looks younger - maybe around thirteen, not quite smiling in the picture, clear eyes staring right into the camera.

Darcy finds herself counting the freckles on his face before she can help it, wondering if there’s more or less now on the current Fenton. She hasn’t had time to study him that closely, as of late.

“Darcel!” The blonde looks up, smile breaking across her face when she spots Mrs. Richardson. She looks excited to see her, warm eyes crinkling and pulling her into a friendly hug, “How’re you? I haven’t seen you since...”

“Ah,” Darcy hesitates, biting the corner of her lip for just a moment, “Busy, really. With schoolwork. I’m sorry I don’t come to visit more, Mrs. Richardson.”

“It’s fine,” she waves a hand, nonplussed, “We both know the reason for it, don’t we? Fenton can be so...” She shakes her head, exasperation coating her tone, “At least you came, I was hoping he would invite you.” Her hands are on Darcy’s shoulders, guiding her to the main room.

She sometimes forgets just how big Fenton’s home is, far too much for just a family of three. It’s expansive, can fit plenty of people inside. And it does, they’re everywhere. She recognizes a few, her father always keeps her up to date with the wealthiest families around, Fenton’s was seemingly at the top of that list. A few familiar faces from East Valley are dotted here and there, it doesn’t take long for her to spot Osmond, black hair nearly reddish underneath the lights. He’s all legs and broad shoulders, that one.

“Cecilia,” Mrs. Richardson is calling to a waitress, “Have the horderves been put out yet? It’s been almost an hour. Jesus,” she rolls her eyes, muttering under her breath about “a drink”, before she returns her attention to Darcy, “Go and have fun, mingle. I’ll be right back.”

Darcy nods and gives her another tight-lipped smile. She can’t help but feel a smudge out of her element, she hasn’t attended these kinds of parties in awhile. Preferring to stay out of the limelight when things haven’t been particularly easy for her, as of late. She is no longer the darling girlfriend, no longer has a beau on her arm. Now, his lack of presence feels even more echoing than usual, she’s so used to having him at her side that she is unsure of what to do now. Darcy rocks back and forth on her heels, brushing hair behind her ears subconsciously.

“Darcy, you made it,” Imogen somehow manages to sneak up behind her, and Darcy turns her head, surprised, “I didn’t think you would come.”

“I didn’t either,” Darcy says, a high-pitch laugh in her voice, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you...”

Imogen’s eyebrows lifts. She looks stunning tonight - soft pink cocktail dress that compliments her skin, hair curled into loose ringlets, her makeup makes her look almost ethereal. Darcy has always found her way too pretty, sometimes hard to look at.

“Does Stella know you’re here?”

Darcy’s shoulders tense.

“I knew it.”

“Please don’t tell her.”

“I won’t. You should.”

“But--”

“You shouldn’t force yourself to be here, Darcy.”

“I’m not...”

“Fenton’s selfish for inviting you, actually. I don’t like him, you know.”

“I know, Imogen.”

Imogen huffs to herself, but she doesn’t allow her irritation to keep. She takes Darcy’s hand and squeezes, her thumb soothingly rubs along her knuckles, “Well, if you’re going to be here, might as well have fun.” She tugs Darcy through the crowd, greeting this and that person, but never staying. Finally, they make it to the group of girls by the appetizer table.

Ari Crawford is there, with her usual sparkling dress and overdone fur scarf wrap. Next to her, there is Sadie Dennholm, poised and elegant, saying hello to Darcy warmly. Gabriela Monroe is giggling at whatever Stacie Greene is saying into her ear. All of them are full of smiles and drinks, welcoming Darcy with open arms when she grows near.

“You came,” Gabi says, she’s sharing a look with Imogen, “Fenton really invited you?”

Darcy doesn’t get a chance to answer, Stacie is equally as curious, bright blue eyes catching Darcy’s fast, “I thought you guys broke up.”

“We did--”

“Gosh,” Ari is eating something smothered in chocolate, eyebrows pinched, “This is soooo good. Literally, the only reason I come to these things.”

“Leave some for everybody else,” Stacie nudges her hip into hers, “I thought you wanted to look for Aaro.”

“This house is huge,” Sadie says, “It’s so easy to get lost.”

Ari is already rolling her eyes, gesturing to the table in front of her, “He knows where to find me.”

Sadie looks amused, “Oh?”

“You’re so greedy,” Stacie is whining, reaching over to try and take it from her. Ari is giggling, pulling from her grip with ease, “I don’t want to stand here all night, Ari. Let’s dance.”

Gabi snorts, “You always wanna dance.”

Darcy likes having company like this, the constant chatter and noise keeps her out of her head. But she can’t help herself from glancing around, trying to see if she can catch sight of a familiar head of hair - reddish-blonde, smattering of freckles, tension at his mouth because he can’t wait to leave --

“Hello, girls,” A chipper voice says from the side. Imogen immediately makes a face, Gabi downs the rest of her drink, and Ari stops eating for a moment, “You all look like you’re having fun.”

“Harper,” Stacie says, “Love your dress.”

“Isn’t it great?” Harper looks pretty, she does. Sleek dark hair, red lipstick, navy blue knee-length dress that clings to her. She barely glances in Darcy’s direction, even though she’s close enough that their shoulders brush, “Mrs. Richardson helped me pick it out for tonight. Can you believe she wanted Fenton and I to match?”

“I haven’t seen Fenton,” Ari tells her, she’s licking chocolate from her thumb, “Isn’t he supposed to greet his guests?”

“He’s like that with every party,” Harper shakes her head, her tone admonishing, “He’s exhausting, really.”

Imogen wrinkles up her nose, “You two really suit each other.”

Harper gives her a dazzling smile, “Thanks.”

Darcy is sure Imogen doesn’t mean it as a compliment. Quite the opposite, in fact. For just a second, if even that, Harper’s sharp eyes dart over to Darcy, give her a once-over and then looks away. A shame that’s all it takes to shoot down her self-esteem, no words needed. She glances self-consciously down at herself, wishes she’d put on something different.

“I’ll go and look for him,” Harper is gone before anyone can say anything, gliding through the partygoers, they all part like the Red Sea for her. Not a hair out of place, unruffled and unbothered, Darcy wonders what her diet plan is --

“You okay?” Gabi’s voice breaks her from her thoughts, expression worried.

“Oh,” Darcy’s voice is quiet, she clears her throat and tries again, “Is it hot in here to you guys? I think I need a drink.”

“I can get you one,” Voice from behind her is startlingly close and vaguely familiar. When Darcy turns her head, it’s Lawrence there. Fortunately, she hasn’t seen him since that night Roman had crashed the party. With her luck, of course he would be invited tonight, “What’s your poison?”

“No thanks,” Imogen answers before her, tone snip. If she had a spray-bottle of water, Darcy is certain she’d be using it on him right about now, “She’s fine.”

“Pretty sure you’d slip something in it,” Gabi pipes in, icy eyes cut over to give him a pointed look.

Lawrence frowns, “Don’t you two have anything better to do? You’ve been setting guys up and knocking them down all night.”

Imogen and Gabi both answer at the same time, “I have a boyfriend.”

“Whatever,” Lawrence’s attention isn’t on them for long, it’s back to Darcy, dark eyes beckoning, “You look tense. Wanna sit down somewhere? Alone.”

Darcy blinks. And then blinks again. Because for a second, she could’ve sworn she heard that in a different voice. Someone else’s, from awhile ago. In a diluted dream or a bleary memory, she’s unsure. She can’t move - limbs feel as if they’ve been stuffed with cotton, mouth unmoving and lips stuck together. Unseeing, still, and vulnerable.

It only happens for a millisecond. Behind her eyelids, she sees Alden’s face.

“--Darcy?” Imogen’s voice is beside her again, touching her arm.

It’s surprising to realize she’s shaking, Lawrence is giving her a weird look, and Gabi appears worried again. Darcy answers their unspoken question without pause, she’s laughing at herself before she can stop it, avoiding their eyes, “I’m fine. Just - dizzy, I guess. It’s warm, right? I need a minute...”

She shoulders past Lawrence, who grabs her arm. When she gives him an alarmed glance, he lets her go immediately. She wonders what her face looks like, what her eyes hold. Carefully making her way through the crowd, Darcy tries her best to clear her thoughts.

Were they thoughts? Memories? How is she supposed to know? Her stomach feels cold.

By the time she breaks through the thinning guests, she spots the bathroom in the far corner. Even in her haze, she knows Fenton’s home by heart. Every room, every flaw, no matter how many times Mrs. Richardson may reinvent it to her tastes. Her palm encloses around the knob, twists, and her chest feels a bit lighter.

“You’re here.”

And then a hundred pounds heavier. Like a weight has been dropped, like in the cartoons.

She can’t stop herself, she’s turning to face him before she realizes what she’s doing. He looks very handsome tonight - dark, fitted suit with a navy blue tie. Nice shoes his mom probably forced him into, cufflinks he got from his dad last summer.  He looks so nice, so breathtakingly charming.

Darcy doesn’t expect him to be as close as he is, instinctively she takes a step back - heel catches onto something, and she almost stumbles into the wall. Fenton catches her arm though ( he expects it, of course he does ), she smiles at him shyly, whispering her thanks under her breath.

“You’re so nice,” she says, “This is my first time wearing these heels. Daddy bought them for me a couple weeks ago. They’re a little tall, aren’t they?”

“You’re flushed.”

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?”

Darcy blinks again. She nods fast, “Yes! Yeah, I’m okay,” She wishes people would stop asking her that, but she guesses it’s okay if it’s just Fenton. Her heart goes aflutter in her chest, pulse racing underneath the delicate skin of her throat, “I just needed...the bathroom and...never mind.”

He nods, like he understands. There’s stress lines around his mouth, like he wants to frown but he’s keeping himself from doing it. He looks self-conscious and strained, he’s got that jut of his chin that he does when he’s annoyed. But his eyes are really soft, focusing on the floor for a moment before flickering up the Darcy, “That dress,” he clears his throat, “It looks nice on you.”

Darcy looks down at herself - it’s the dress he’d bought her. She didn’t really have anything else that would match the shoes and it wasn’t often that she got the chance to wear it. When she looks up, Fenton is following her movements intently, watching her from underneath his lashes.

She swallows.

“Harper was looking for you,” she tells him, “She said you guys were matching. You look nice.”

Fenton’s mood becomes even more pensive at Harper’s name, he twists his lips to the side slightly and seems to think, “I don’t want to talk about her,” He steps closer to her, his height is enough to shroud over hers. Darcy can do nothing but stare at him as he hesitates, moves towards her again and lifts a hand. His thumb brushes her cheek, hand fitted over the curve of her jaw and fingers pressed to her nape, “You’re really red, are you sure you’re okay?”

He steals her breath and he doesn’t even know it. She is amazingly in love, still. Even in this moment. It’s hard to look him in the eye, so she doesn’t. She looks away, anywhere but at his face, and tries her best to smile, to comfort him, “Mhm! I feel fine, really. You keep asking me...”

“Just to be sure,” his hand doesn’t drop or shy away. In fact, his thumb touches the shell of her ear gently.

Her voice is just over a breath, barely there. She’s trying to be good and keep her hands in her lap, for once, “Okay...Thanks, Fenton.” When her eyes don’t return to him, that’s when he stops touching her. When his warmth is gone, she immediately feels cold again.

Her fingers twitch, tempted to reach out and snag his wrist, just to drag his hand back. But she keeps still, fidgeting under his benevolent gaze. She tries her best to keep talking, just to ease the ... whatever it is between them, “Your mom did a really great job tonight.”

“Yeah,” Fenton presses his lips together, “She misses you.”

Her eyes light up, “Really?”

“Of course.”

“That’s...nice to hear. I miss her, too.”

He doesn’t say anything, eyes drift past her shoulder for a moment. Before she can turn her head and see what caught his attention, he says, “Come on.” She barely has time to blink, he takes a hold of her wrist and pulls. Darcy follows, she doesn’t really have a choice. He’s walking fast, towards the stairs.

Stumbling after him, she says, “Fenton, you know I can’t run in heels.”

He doesn’t look at her, but he must’ve heard her, because he slows his wide stride. She stares up at the back of his head intently - just below the collar of his jacket, she can see a trail of freckles. It’s adorable, everything about him is. His grip loosens around her thin wrist, drags slowly down to her hand and intertwines their fingers. Her heart skips a beat, alight in her chest, and she’s gazing at him in wonder now.

Up the stairs they go, away from everyone’s questions and peering eyes. No one really seems to notice - Fenton never stays at parties very long and Darcy is hoping Gabi and Imogen won’t notice. There’s many rooms in the home, and she knows them all, but it’s the one at the end of the hall that has caught her eye.

It’s Fenton’s room. It’s exactly how she left it, how she remembers it. It smells like him. She’s bombarded with a rush of memories in the entryway - late night studying and homework, falling asleep together on his couch, making out in bed until her lips were kiss-bruised. It’s dreadfully painful to think about, just to know that things aren’t like that anymore and they won’t ever be again.

He lets her hand go when they’re inside, closing the door soundly behind them. Darcy takes it all in - his scent coating the room, his favorite jacket thrown over his computer chair, the beige lining paint that his mother picked out.

“Ah.”

He looks up at her voice, he’s standing about a foot away.

She smiles, “Oh, nothing. I just - I remembered something funny.”

His eyebrow lifts.

“When you carried me up the stairs last summer.”

He seems to consider it, the memory flickering, “Oh. Yeah, I remember. You almost tripped, so I picked you up.”

“And brought me in here. It reminded me when the husband carries the bride through the threshold.”

He’s shaking his head before she even finishes, this slight smile coming to his lips. Staring out the window, eyes distant and jaw tight, “Yeah,” A pause, “Don’t pretend you don’t like being carried by me.”

“I-I do,” she’s quick to reassure him, color flooding her cheeks, “I’m heavy, though.”

“Says who?”

“I do.”

“Mmm.”

She’s quiet, glancing down at her shoes before she’s peeking at him again. She cannot see or read his eyes, she tilts her head curiously in his direction, “Are you not having fun at the party?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he glances at her. For a nerve-wrecking second, he looks confused before he snorts derisively, shaking his head. A penny-color strand of hair falls from the rest, adorably resting on his forehead before he sweeps it away with one hand, “I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

“We--” He clears his throat forcefully, “We haven’t really talked...”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“How have you been?”

How has she been? She hopes he’s forgotten the way she’d stumbled onto his doorstep, drunk and out of her mind with grief. Or when he found out from Eloise she’d been at one of Lawrence’s parties. But besides that, she’s been okay. Trying to be okay, she means. But it’s hard, especially without him.

Darcy smiles again, because she’s good at that, “I think I’m okay,” she hesitates visibly, eyes dropping again, “I...miss talking to you.” There’s this lump in her throat that won’t go away, she can’t tell if it’s from pure nerves or her body forcing herself not to cry.

No more tears, she keeps telling herself. No more.

Her voice is quiet when she speaks again, “Do you miss...talking to me, maybe?”

“Yeah,” his own voice is serious, gentle, “I do.”

She keeps taking shy glances at him, he’s staring at her, never looking away. The silence is deafening, she’s not able to bear it for long, “I went to karaoke the other night.”

“Karaoke, huh?”

“Mhm, with Stella and Roger and Roman.”

She cannot help but smile thinking about it. Roman’s obviously flustered face, Roger’s loud belting singing, and Stella grinning from ear to ear. It’d been so much fun, the most fun she’s had in ages. There’d been nothing but laughter and music the entire night, Roman’s warm presence by her side as he slid as close as possible in the tight booth. Shoulder to shoulder, his thigh had pressed into hers for the remainder of the night.

“I wish you could’ve been there, it was so nice!”

He’s staring at her still, eyebrows furrowed now and lips a firm line. Finally, he mutters something under his breath and crosses the room to take a seat on his loveseat, pulling almost uncomfortably at his tie. Darcy blinks, keeps still before following after him.

“Fenton?”

No reply.

“We’ll have to go back down to the party soon, your mom will be worried.”

His voice sounds annoyed, “She’s too out of her mind to notice.”

She hesitates, voice soft - like dipping your toe in water to test the temperature, “Did I say something?” He’s quiet, “I just...I know we’re not really friends anymore, but--”

“Not friends,” he repeats.

Even with the limited distance between them, she feels so far away. It’s been like that for weeks, like he’s a billion miles from her and there’s no possible way to reach him. She tries to be brave, steps closer until she is next to the couch, sinking into the seat beside him. His shoulders look tense again, expression pinched, like he’s thinking of something but can’t find the right words to use.

Darcy knows the feeling.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Darcy stares at his side profile - his deep set eyes, the star-like freckles, the clench of his jaw. She’s tempted to touch him again. Just barely, feather-light on his shoulder, growing firmer as when she would rub his back. As she used to do, to calm him before he grows too heated. Douse the fires before they become uncontrollable for others around him. Sometimes, she thinks nobody knows Fenton like she does, no one sees the simmering anger beneath the surface, the doubt and insecurities, the way he beats himself up for the smallest mistakes.

He’s human. He’s a boy, he’s young and bright-eyed. He wants and he wishes and he seeks. Not everyone notices that though, they paint the picture that they want to see.

She wants to touch him. Oh, she does. But she doesn’t. Because he is not hers to touch, even when he looks as if he needs comfort so badly. Her eyes don’t waver, keep to his face, her expression is so very open and wary.

“I’m sorry, Fenton.”

“Why do you keep apologizing?” His tone doesn’t sound accusing, doesn’t sound angry. Simply tired.

“Because,” she says, “because I can’t help you feel better anymore. I love you and--” She stops there, bites her lip, “Love you...like a friend should. And...it’s really hard for me to...” Darcy stops there, he’s meeting her eyes again, and they look different.

Warm, soft. Like his touch when he reaches towards her. At first, his fingers are tentative, brushing against the delicate skin of her jaw. Curving up towards her neck, just where he’d touched her earlier. The skin is feverish underneath his fingers, intertwining into the dewy strands of blonde hair at her nape. She sees it coming, spots the resolve in his eyes, watches him lean in towards her.

He kisses her.

Darcy doesn’t move, long lashes flutter. She wonders if this was a dream, her overactive imagination playing tricks on her. But his lips are amazingly soft against her own, real but somehow very dreamy.

Oh, Fenton.

She tries her best to remind herself to breathe. There were many sleepless nights where she tried to conjure this moment up in her mind, and now that he’s in front of her, she’s unsure of what to do.

The kiss is over before she’s ready for it to be. He pulls away, thumb pressing underneath her jaw, gaze growing sharper when she can do nothing but gasp. It’s quiet for a second or two - she wouldn’t be able to tell though, blood is rushing through her ears and her heart is so loud that she’s afraid he’ll hear it.

She leans up and kisses him again. He’s expecting it, his hands frame her face, pull her more into him. Darcy is happy to oblige, she kisses with her whole body, it’s so painstakingly familiar, she dismisses the space between them without care, so close that she’s halfway into his lap. And he’s dragging his hands lower, clasping over her shoulders, to her midsection, gripping her hips firmly and helping her straddle him.

Fenton is always leading and confident, but this time, his kiss tastes desperate. It’s like he’s trying to convey something he cannot put into words, pouring himself into the kiss. She’s the same, touching where she’s been wanting to for months, burying her fingers into his hair, clenching her thighs around his hips.

It’s bad. It’s very, very bad. And not at all what she’d been planning.

As soon as she pulls away to breathe, he’s pressing his fingers into her back, urging her forward. His other hand is combing through her hair, lifting to cradle her head, rubbing soothingly at her scalp just as he knows she likes. Her body softens, she leans into him more, allows him to drink her in like a fine wine.

“Fenton,” she’s mumbling against his lips, smoothing her hands down his back and up again, thumbs pressing gentle circles, “I miss you. I miss you so much, Fenton.” His kiss is something she can never forget, every time he touches her, she’s yearning for more. Shuddering breath, she lets Fenton do what he pleases, his hands soon become restless, one ducking underneath the curtain of her hair to find the zipper of her dress.

She feels his fingers on her thigh, steadily moving its way up further. She’s panting against his mouth, touching his neck and cheeks, staring at him from underneath her lashes. He’s unacceptably beautiful, she wants to engrave this memory into her head.

The need for friction is almost irresistible, Darcy can’t help but shift forward, thighs splaying wider. The straps of her dress are beginning to loosen, cheeks and neck flushed as he presses his lips down her jaw. His hand on the bare skin of her back is enough to make her almost jump in his arms, breathlessly whispering his name, fingers grappling for purchase on his shoulders and hair. She pitches forward again instinctively, delighted when she feels him pressing up against her right back.

There’s a knock at the door.

It’s like a cold bucket of water has been thrown over her head, Darcy finds herself blinking away the stupor, halfway turning in Fenton’s lap to watch as the knob is twisted, found locked, and then there’s another knock - sharper than the first. Fenton isn’t paying attention to it. In fact, he’s kissing over her shoulder, back to her jaw, earnestly leaning up to take her lips again with his.

“Fenton,” she whispers, pulling away just a bit, “Fenton, there’s someone at the door--”

“Ignore it.”

She wants to. She really does. But she’s beginning to realize just what she’d been doing - sitting in her ex-boyfriend’s lap, kissing him, fully prepared for whatever may come next between them. His hand is underneath her dress, touching and caressing her inner thighs as much as he pleases. There’s a party downstairs, guests, his parents. His current girlfriend.

How stupid can she be?

“But--”

“Fenton?” There’s a muffled voice from outside the door, a familiar one. One of the maids, perhaps. She sounds exasperated, like this is all to be expected - Fenton running up to his room to hide from everyone, “Your Father is asking for you. You missed the toast.”

Fenton really does seem like he’s trying to ignore it. He’s staring up at Darcy beseechingly, as if he doesn’t want to shatter this moment. Go back to how it is out there and would rather be here, with her. And that’s a touching thought, something Darcy desperately wants to believe. Maybe some other time, maybe some other place, though.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” the blonde tells him, she’s very quiet. Stroking his cheek gently with one hand, she smiles at him with kiss-bruised lips, “You don’t want Mrs. Richardson coming up here, do you?”

The maid from outside tries again, “Fenton, I know you’re in the--”

“I’m coming,” his voice is agitated enough that it makes her back off, “Just - I’ll be down in a minute!”

There’s a pause, a sigh. They listen to the sound of her steps as she grows further away.

Darcy’s tension eases, she’s thankful that he even took the time to lock the door and wonders why she didn’t even notice. Heart is pounding in her chest, hearty blush to her cheeks and ears when she lifts her head to glance at him again. His eyes are closed, eyebrows furrowed, he doesn’t look happy. Head tipped backwards on the couch, he shifts underneath her, and she’s able to feel him thoroughly through his slacks.

“S-Sorry--”

Fenton curses some, “Don’t move.”

Darcy cannot help but smile, even as embarrassed as she may seem. It takes awhile for him to move again, he seems to come to a swift conclusion in his head, deftly pulling her zipper back up and doing his best not to linger. He touches her nape soothingly and flutters his eyes open to look at her.

“Fenton,” she says, “the party.”

“I know,” his voice is softer with her, more resolved, “I’m only making the most out of this.”

She tilts her head, “This?”

“Yeah.”

This. This moment, this thing shared between them.

It takes awhile longer to untangle themselves from each other. Fenton has to, well . . . calm down and Darcy hasn’t really regained any feeling in her legs, her knees feel like they were stuffed with jelly. She fixes her dress, tries her best to smooth down her hair, and helps Fenton with his tie.

Fenton swallows, “We don’t have to go back down. If you don’t want, I mean.”

“Imogen will come looking for me soon.”

He frowns. As soon as she pulls away from him, he’s gripping her wrist and holding one her hands in both of his, “Darcy, I--” He visibly struggles with his words, meeting her eyes in an almost shy fashion, “I--”

“I know,” she tells him, “It’s okay, Fenton.”

It’s not, though. Not really. Because there are plenty of things she wants to say to Fenton in this moment. Ask him why he broke up with her if he wants her this much, ask him why she wasn’t good enough, tell him that she can’t let this happen again. But she doesn’t, she only smiles tentatively at him, lifts to her tiptoes, and presses a sweet kiss to his cheek.

“Do I look okay?” Darcy asks, rosy in the cheeks and hair slightly mussed.

His eyes become softer just by looking at her, he’s gentle when he tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ears, “You look amazing.”

Darcy wants to kiss him again. But she keeps her hands and lips to herself, deciding it would be best if she left first, as to not arouse suspicion. Her legs still feel weak, unbalanced to stand on, and her mind is reeling. Lips warm, stomach doing somersaults. Once she’s out of the room, it’s a little easier to breathe. Carefully, she makes her way down the winding staircase. Blood rushes through her ears, but she’s still able to hear the influx of voices in the main foyer area.

Out of her peripheral, she can see someone else is climbing up the stairs, stopping when they spot her. It’s Harper, and she stares at Darcy for awhile before snorting, derisive, “You’re really a piece of work, Miss Duval.”

Her cheeks grow hot, she ducks her gaze and maneuvers out of Harper’s way. The two of them pass each other, brushing shoulders just barely. But Harper isn’t done.

“Throwing yourself at Fenton this way, don’t you have any shame?”

Darcy turns her head slightly to look at her, Harper is giving her a blank look right back. Like she’s really waiting for her to answer, honestly curious.

“I know your mother didn’t stick around long enough to teach you much, but this isn’t how you get a guy back, Darcy.”

“I’m not--”

“He broke up with you for a reason,” Harper says, “He knows what happened between you and Alden.”

Now, Darcy’s blinking in confusion. Alden’s name always does strike a cord, but she’s unsure of when that reaction had started. His face is painted behind her eyelids at night, she’s unable to even glance at him in class sometimes, she cannot help but flinch when she hears his voice. Her voice comes out higher than intended, “N-Nothing...nothing happened between me and Alden.”

Harper has the nerve to look amused, “Is that what you keep telling yourself?”

“But--”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” she moves up the stairs, far more elegantly and poised than Darcy, “It doesn’t matter to me. We both know what Fenton needs, Darcy. And leaving you was probably the best decision he could make.”

Then she’s gone, disappearing out of Darcy’s view. Probably to go and check on Fenton, because she’s his girlfriend and that’s what girlfriends are supposed to do. Darcy is left frozen on the steps, unable to speak and trying to keep herself from crying.

That’s how Gabi finds her, huddled in the corner of the party on her own, sitting down beside her when Darcy barely lifts her head, “...you okay?”

“Yes,” Darcy is quick to nod her head. Considers. Shakes her head now, “No.”

“You were gone for awhile, Imogen was looking for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Gabi smiles some, “It’s fine. I covered for you.”

“Thank you...”

It’s silent between them, Darcy is staring at a stubborn wrinkle in her dress that refused to give. It’d been pressed and perfect early, before Fenton. Gabi is staring at her, studying her with her too-smart eyes, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“I don’t like to talk about things either. People always ask me that question, but I never see the point.”

Darcy looks at her.

“So,” Gabi inhales, “When you do want to talk about it, I’ll be here, okay?”

“...Okay.”

“Good.”

“Gabi?”

“Hm?”

“Can you...can you help me get home, maybe?”

“You don’t want me to get Imogen.”

“I don’t want her to see me cry.”

“Okay. Let me go get my jacket.”

“Okay.”

Darcy is left alone, watching as Gabi gives her a warm smile and a pat on the shoulder before standing and crossing the room. There’s still this sense of longing in her chest, to stand from her seat and go upstairs and see Fenton’s face one more time. She has to physically dig her nails into her palms, hold herself still in her chair, and keep telling herself not to move.

She isn’t his girlfriend anymore. She isn’t his anymore. And he isn’t hers. Stella is right, she shouldn’t give so much of herself when she gets nothing in return.

Tomorrow, she will try her best to forget tonight. And try even harder the day after that.

.

.

[unpopcorned]

. 

.

She’s staring again. And she’s painfully obvious when doing so. 

He’s sitting towards the window, and it’s perfect because his hair is bleeding almost a dark red because of the sunlight. She remembers how soft his hair, her fingers used to glide through it insistently, curving around his sharp cheekbones until their lips met in the middle. There are many moments throughout the day where she misses that, it’s the only thing she can think about sometimes. 

Him. Him. And more him. 

“Darcy,” There’s a hiss of her name towards the right of her. Long lashes flutter, she’s turning her head to see Stella is staring at her, studying her with rapt attention, “Stop it.” 

Was she obvious? She must’ve been. 

But then again, Stella always had a knack for reading her fairly easily. Even when they were children. Stella had been the one to approach her, offered her friendship when their parents introduced the both of them, and refused to leave Darcy’s side. No matter what. A few times, Darcy has heard people call her the Wicked Witch of East Valley, but that’s just because no one knows her like Darcy does. They don’t see the heart of gold underneath all the dark lipstick and vindictive glare. 

“Miss Stella Garnier and Miss Darcel Duval,” A ruler sharply taps the top of Stella’s desk, “Talking in class?” Mrs. Bette is staring down her nose at the both of them, her perfect eyebrows lifting in question, “I hope not, especially not with such important information on the board.” 

Stella presses her lips together, “Yes, Mrs. Bette.” Best not to get on her bad side, the weekend was steadily on its way and there was nothing worse than Stella’s mother getting a phone call from a teacher, Darcy knew that. 

Mrs. Bette turns to the blonde now, waiting, “Darcel, pay attention. Posture, chin--” She’s motioning to her with the ruler now, Darcy does what she says automatically - back straightening, chin lifting, perfect poise as a girl her age should be, “Good.” And she moves on. 

Even though she can feel Stella stealing glances in her direction, Darcy cannot help but return her attention to where it’d been just prior. Over to Fenton. He doesn’t bother to write anything from the board and he wouldn’t be reprimanded for it either, not like the two of them. Instead, he’s focusing on a book in front of him, only lifts his head when a folded-up piece of paper suddenly lands in the middle of the words. It’s a note that had been passed around, he plucks it up and looks over it, this amused smile comes to his face and he looks up, just in time to meet eyes with Darcy. 

She doesn’t know what the note says. She doesn’t very much care, she’s too engrossed with his smile and eyes. 

The bell rings. Mrs. Bette is talking, but no one is really listening. Darcy moves on autopilot, she’s still watching Fenton as he stands from his desk and gathers his things. From beside her, Stella pokes her in the arm with a sharp fingernail. 

“You might as well be drooling,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

“He looks nice today, doesn’t he?” Darcy’s voice is full of wonder, “Do you think he’s wearing the cologne I bought him for New Years? It always smelled so nice on him--” 

“Who cares,” Stella is in no mood to hear it, as any other day, “Come.” She takes an abrupt hold of Darcy’s arm and tugs, only for the two of them to bump straight into Alden. He’s laughing about something, bright white teeth and sparkling blue eyes. Stella despises him, it’s easy to read on her face. Thanks to the collision, he drops something, and before he can hurry and swipe it from the floor, Stella does it for him. 

It’s the same note from earlier. 

Whatever is on the paper, it’s enough to make Stella’s face go cold. She narrows her eyes, lifts her head, and glares at him so mean that Darcy thinks he’ll melt. Alden cringes away, “It’s just a joke--” 

“You’re a joke,” Stella’s voice is biting, “Don’t you have anything better to do? Get lost.” He does what she says, timidly shouldering around her and avoiding Darcy’s beseeching gaze. 

She cannot help but ask, peeking over her shoulder, “What’s wrong?” 

Before she can get a good enough look on what the note has scribbled inside, Stella is balling it up into a tight ball and chucking it into the trashcan, “Nothing. Let’s go.” Darcy, curious, follows her friend out of the room. Too bad for her, Harper and Fenton are just outside of Mrs. Bette’s room, already locking lips beside the door. Stella pointedly ignores them and continues to tug her friend by the arm. 

That used to be Darcy. Under Fenton’s arm, touching him whenever she pleased, kissing him like the world would stop at any moment. Not anymore though. She keeps taking risking glimpse over her shoulder, slowly coming to a stop when Stella leans against the lockers, she’s waiting for someone. 

“Stop staring,” Stella tells her again, without looking in her direction, “Nobody wants to see those two sucking face.” 

She’s right. Darcy especially doesn’t, “I can’t help it.” 

“Try harder,” Stella says, “It’s not hard to not like Fenton, trust me.” 

“It is for me.” 

She misses him, more than anything. Life has never been fair when it comes to her though, not in the slightest. So it comes as no surprise to learn that she was the one dumped, not the other way around. And at first, it was fine, Darcy tried very hard to be okay with it. One day, she always told herself that they would make their way back to each other. Except that never happened. He’s okay, more than okay, and she’s left with this heavy feeling on her chest that won’t go away. 

“Are you okay?” Darcy doesn’t expect the question, when she looks over, Stella is looking at her with a soft expression, a question in her eyes that Darcy is afraid to answer. When she gives her a smile and a nod, Stella still doesn’t look convinced. She touches Darcy’s shoulder, “If Alden or any of those guys bother you, let me know. I’ll tell Roger.” 

Darcy blinks at her, “Alden doesn’t bother me.” 

Stella doesn’t get to reply, because the special someone she’d been waiting for sneaks up behind her. Long arms wrap around her waist, lips at her cheek. Even though Stella tries very hard to keep her tough as nails demeanor, it’s no match for her longtime boyfriend, Roger Alexander. He smothers her with kisses, buries his nose into her hair, and laughs when she swats at his arm for surprising her. 

“I missed you,” he tells her, bumping noses with her when she turns in his arms. 

“You saw me last period,” Stella reminds him, but she’s smiling. 

“That was an hour ago. Way too long!” 

Darcy watches them for only while. Her eyes flicker to the side, and beside Roger, it’s Roman. He’s standing away from the couple, he’s focused on a in his hands. When he looks up, their eyes meet and Darcy is smiling at him before she can stop herself. She moves closer to him, “What’re you reading?” 

“It’s for class,” he says, ducking his head some. He’s a lot different than his brother, who basks in attention whenever he may receive it. Shyer, quieter. Roman shrivels under the spotlight and prefers to keep to himself when he can. He can’t really help it though - he’s pretty to look at, the girls here swarm both of the brothers constantly. Some are too afraid to get near Roger though, certain that Stella would bite one of their heads off. Roman was free-game, girls flock to him like he has “I”M SINGLE” stamped on his forehead. He must’ve noticed she’s still staring at him, he lifts his eyes again, “You look...nice today.” 

Does she? She tilts her head. 

He’s guessing he means she looks sober. And that’s because of Stella - Stella, who stayed with her all throughout summer break and refused to leave her side for even a second. Darcy had a tendency to fall off the deep-end when she was alone for too long, Stella had witnessed that first hand. It’s not as if many other people cared, not her nanny and the maids or her own father. Just this small group of people in front of her, who would risk life and limb to make sure she was okay. 

Fenton had broke up with her. And that - that hadn’t been great. Maybe she overreacted a little, maybe downing everything in her medicine cabinet hadn’t been the way to go. Her go-to had always been finding a way to smother the heavy feeling within her chest, just like her mother. Drinking or pills, whatever helps. One time, her dad told her she needed to lose weight. So, she starved herself until she did. One time, Fenton told her she needed to loosen up more. So, she drank until she was. One time, Alden had told her she was too uptight. So, she loosened herself to his liking. 

She thinks Roman is the only person who likes her like this. Other people would prefer if she were out of it and didn’t talk at all. 

She smiles and looks down, “You really think so?” 

He keeps looking at her, his eyes do not waver, “Yes.” 

"Are you coming over later?” Her cheeks feel hot now, she’d prefer to change the subject, “Me and Stella are studying.” 

“Studying?” Roger seems to perk up, he looks from Stella to Darcy, “You didn’t invite me.” 

Stella makes a face at him, “Because all you’ll do is distract me. Besides, Darcy is failing Mrs. Cooper’s class. She’s going to fall behind if I don’t help.”

“Fenton used to help me study,” Darcy says, “All the time.” 

“Well, not anymore,” Stella says, very seriously at that, “That’s over with. Now, we focus on you. Together.” She loops an arm through Darcy’s and pulls her closer into her side. 

Even so, Darcy cannot help but cast one more longing glance in Fenton’s direction. Of course, he’s not looking at her - he’s never really looking at her anymore. 

.

.

Darcy doesn’t like her body. 

She never really has, not since she was ten. Which is okay, she thinks. To not like yourself. Girls go through it all the time. That’s what her nanny had told her. Her body has a tendency to cling to any morsel of food, every day she dreads stepping on the scale because of it. 

Hating her body is another reason she hates shopping. But it keeps her out of the house and out of Daddy’s way, he throws money at her just to keep her busy. She’s learnt to be okay with that, too. Now, she stands in front of the mirror in a pink dress, plenty of sparkles and frills. Wearing it doesn’t cheer her up like she thought it would, not at all. 

She feels totally gross. 

“What’s wrong?” Imogen stands to the side, her face appears in the mirror and stares at Darcy worriedly, “It’s cute on you.” 

“Thanks,” Darcy says, she smooths down the nonexistent wrinkles. The two of them are in her room, far too spacious for just one person, especially a teenage girl. Queen-bed in the center, with loads of pink and her favorite teddy bears, adorned with silk sheets and tons of pillows. Her room had always been fit for a princess, if there was one thing her father did right, it was definitely spoiling her. 

Imogen is brushing Darcy’s long hair from her shoulders gently, her expression still looks wary, “Seriously, it’s cute, Darcy. Really makes your skin look great.” 

Darcy knows she’s just trying to make her feel better and she appreciates it. But it’s not working, “Maybe...maybe he broke up with me because I wasn’t pretty enough.”

“Who?” Imogen’s forehead creases, “Fenton? Don’t tell me you’re still hung up over him.” When Darcy’s expression does nothing but crumble, Imogen rubs soothingly at her back, “You’re too good for him, you know that, don’t you?” 

Her voice is much more gentle than Stella’s would’ve been. Stella is away for the weekend, her and Roger usually take advantage of the two-day break and go on a small getaway - almost every week now. Sometimes, it makes Darcy feel even more lonely than she already is. 

The blonde makes an attempt to nod and smile, but it doesn’t come out very well. Imogen stares at her, empathetic and caring, “Let’s try on another dress.” So, the two of them do just that for the rest of the day, Imogen could be very encouraging when she wasn’t too busy. Darcy knows she doesn’t mean to be, she has so much weighing on her shoulders, she didn’t want to add to that at all with her small-world problems. 

Whenever she thinks of Fenton, she grows sad. She’s been trying to do it less and less as of late, but it’s kind of hard when they have every other class together. He doesn’t look in her direction, he acts like she’s not even there. She thinks of trying to talk to him, but she doesn’t think it would go over very well. Harper is like a guard-dog, she’s constantly around him. And Fenton didn’t look interested in speaking to her - she’s not as stupid as everyone makes her out to be, she doesn’t want to make a complete fool of herself in front of him. 

“What is this?” Imogen’s voice is muffled from the closet. She steps out, carrying a very familiar box in her arms, “Darcy, you cannot be serious.” 

Her mouth falls open, “Don’t--”

When Imogen turns the box upside down, the contents fall out. A jacket, a few notebooks, a class ring, a few other items she certainly shouldn’t have. All of them belong to Fenton. Darcy lifts herself from the bed, she’s on the floor in a flash, gathering everything into her arms and sorting it into a semi-neat pile. 

Imogen is giving her a look, “Why do you have all of his junk?” 

“He...” Her voice sounds small, even to her own ears, “It’s things he left over.” 

“So? Give them back to him.” 

“I don’t think he wants anything to do with me anymore.” 

“Keeping this stuff in your closet like some stalker isn’t going to help anything, Darcy.” 

“I’m not--” She swallows, pulls his jacket into her lap and holds it close, “I know.” But she cannot help it, she doesn’t want to give up whatever part of Fenton she has left.  It’s pathetic, she knows. She’s always been that way, sometimes it’s hard to even look at herself in the mirror in the morning, knowing what she knows. It should be a simple story - dumped by your boyfriend and you move on and flourish and find someone else, but it’s not that way for her. 

She wishes people like Imogen and Stella would understand that. 

“Shoot, it’s already five,” Imogen mumbles under her breath. She stands from the floor and glances towards Darcy, “When you’re ready, take this stuff back. Don’t...keep it here. It’s just going to hold you back.” 

“But I--” 

“When you’re ready, I’ll go with you. Call me and I’ll be over before you know it,” She gives her this comforting type of smile and tucks a loose strand of hair behind Darcy’s ear, “Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“Good,” She feels Imogen’s lips brush the crown of her head before she’s pulling away, “I’ll see you later, love you.” The door closes with a soft click when she’s gone. And Darcy is left with her thoughts. 

The sun sets, and with it, down goes her mood. She lounges in bed for only a small while later before she’s up and roaming the house. Daddy is gone on a business trip for another week or so, she has all these empty rooms and endless halls to herself. It’s easy to find the liquor cabinet key, in his study, underneath the top drawer of his desk. She picks something strong and a fruity drink from the fridge to help with the taste. 

A couple hours later, she wakes up on the couch, curled up with Fenton’s jacket and clutching a bottle in her right hand. A thought emerges, and she has no way of stopping it. She’s up and grabbing her shoes from the foyer before she knows it, driver called and she’s watching her house disappear from sight from the back window of the car. Self-control is out the window, even when the car pulls into the familiar driveway. 

“We’re here,” her driver says, he’s casting her a troubled look through the rearview mirror. Probably because of the hiccuping. She nods, reaches for the door handle, “Madam, why don’t you leave the drink here, hm?” Darcy does what he says, but that’s because she’s in no mood to argue with anyone else today. Instead, she takes the things she’d been holding so precariously throughout the drive - Fenton’s things.

She almost trips on her way out, her driver calls after her gingerly, but leaves her to her own means when she manages to right herself. Tugging down her skirt, Darcy tries to be as careful as she can be as she climbs the front steps. If she didn’t have the liquor in her system, she could say she was terrified. Still, the gut-wrenching feeling doesn’t keep her from knocking on the door three times and ringing the doorbell for extra measure. 

It takes a few moments before someone answers. Darcy isn’t ready to see him at all, “Darcy?” 

“Alden...” She blinks several times, cannot help but wonder if she’d gave the driver the wrong house. But it’s not, she knows this place like the back of her hand, she’s spent so much time here that it feels almost unorthodox to not think of it as a second home, “Hi.” 

“Hey,” He lifts his eyebrows and gives her a once-over, “Are you okay?” 

She probably looks a mess. And she hasn’t realized it just yet, but she’s started trembling some. Breathing comes out faster, just staring at his face. So, she looks away and says, “Is Fenton here?” Inside of her head, Darcy keeps telling herself that “Alden is nice, Alden is nice, Alden is nice”, but it’s not working. 

If he’s so nice, why is she always so intimidated by him lately? 

Alden is giving her a look, “Talk to him? For what?” 

“I...” She doesn’t know, she doesn’t even understand half the reason she came here, “Is he here?” 

“I don’t think--” 

“I really need to talk to him,” Darcy says, her voice is slurring but only a tiny bit, she thinks, “It’s important.” 

“Listen to me,” Alden moves towards her, leans in and gets close. Close enough where she can feel his breath on her cheek, “Fenton doesn’t want to talk to you, he doesn’t want to see you. Trust me, it’s better off this way.” 

“But you--” 

“Who’s at the door?” 

It’s Fenton’s voice, just behind Alden. And when he moves, Darcy is able to get a clear view of him. He’s standing in the foyer, under the shimmering lights of the chandelier his mother got installed over summer break. It may be the endless drinks from earlier or just her imagination, but he looks really pretty. Then again, Fenton always looks pretty. 

His expression swiftly morphs from curiosity to irritation, he’s stepping towards the door and nudging Alden on the shoulder. He says something to him and Alden makes a face, “C’mon. You know what she’s like. Look at her.” Fenton says something else, it only makes Alden frown and shrug, “Fine, go ahead.” He gives Darcy one more look, then he’s heading in the house and disappearing around the corner. 

Darcy’s eyes haven’t left Fenton, he’s staring at her impassively, “What’re you doing here, Darcy?” 

“I wanted to see you,” It sounds so simple coming from her mouth, but it’s anything but that, “Didn’t you want to see me? Maybe?” 

“No. And I’m sure I told you that last time you came here,” She gives him a confused glance, “You don’t remember? The last time you came here? Drunk? Like this.” She doesn’t remember, even when she tries to wrack her brain for the last time she’d been here. Maybe that explains her driver’s reaction a little better, “You need to leave.” 

“But--” She swallows, “I don’t understand.” 

He lifts a brow. 

“I don’t...understand why you broke up with me. Still. I thought I was--” A pause, “I thought we were...” 

“Go home, Darcy.” 

“I just feel like...I don’t know what I did, but whatever it is, I can fix it. I promise. If you just tell me--” 

“Darcy.” 

“I know I can be a little...you know, but - but it’s like I have these feelings inside of me. And I can’t control them. And you helped with that so much. You made me feel good all the time and then...and then you break up with me and I’ve been trying to--” 

“Darcy,” His voice is authoritative enough that she stops and tries to catch her breath. It comes to her attention that she’s shaking again, and crying. She doesn’t know when either started, “I’m busy. I don’t have time for--” He looks completely unruffled, untouchable, like he’s millions of miles away and can barely hear her. 

“I have your stuff,” Darcy makes one more desperate attempt at getting his attention. In her arms, close to her heart, she’s been afraid to part with them ever since he ended things. As soon as she tries to step forward and hand them over, she trips over her own two feet and everything goes spilling onto her porch. Quickly, she drops to her knees, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Fenton. I just - I wanted - Imogen thought--” 

Heart thundering away in her chest, she can barely hear him over the sound of it. He crouches down to her, takes her wrists in his hands and makes her stop. Darcy blinks up at him, “I’m sorry, Fenton,” She says again, over and over, “I’m sorry.” 

His face doesn’t change, he’s still looking at her with that indstinct expression. When he speaks again, his voice is even colder than before, “Go home. Sober up. You’re a mess.” 

She can say nothing as he leaves her there, closing the door firmly behind him. 

.

.

“--can you believe it? Five-hundred dollars worth of fucking coke, down the drain!” 

“If your Father catches you with that again, who knows what he’ll say?” 

“Fuck my dad, I let him choose the school, didn’t I?” 

“Oh, yes. Holier than thou, Lawrence. Do whatever your daddy tells you and you’ll get what you want.” 

“Fuck off, Millie!” 

Darcy is barely paying attention to the conversation at hand, she can’t even lift her head up anymore. Instead, she’s stares blearily at the ceiling, unfocused and expressionless. There are voices all around her, some that she knows and others she doesn’t. Stella never liked Lawrence Bloomberg, a senior at their academy that was aiming to go to an Ivy College of his choosing, which is why Darcy didn’t invite her. 

She didn’t invite anyone. Because she knows what they will say. Lawrence and Mildred and Eloise and Christy and Preston were the ones who kept her company during the summer until Stella came back. With their endless amount of blow and drinks and money. Mean as snakes in their own ways, but at least they pretended like they liked her enough to share. She hasn’t tried going to school for the last three days, she doesn’t think she has the stomach to face anyone. 

Especially not Fenton. 

Lawrence has so many friends, so many people around him constantly. They crowd in little circles in his expansive home, talking and smoke and laughing. She’s too out of it to really follow conversation, but Eloise sinks into the spot next to her, cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. 

“Did Fenton really dump you?” It’s the first question out of her mouth. 

Darcy looks over to her and she cannot help the laugh that escapes her, slightly hysterical, “Yeah. Yeah, he did.” 

“And now, he’s dating Harper Lockwood,” she muses, smiling to herself, “What a match.” 

“I know,” Darcy sighs, “She’s so pretty.” 

“Not that,” she shakes her head, “they’re just alike. Heartless, I tell you.” 

“Nooo, Fenton’s not like that. He has a heart.” 

“Since when?” Lawrence forces himself into the conversation, he has one arm slung over Darcy’s shoulders and he pulls her close into his chest, “Did you know his father had the guts to approach mine and offer him a deal on his secondary CCO seat of the national banking company downtown? Just so he can give the spot to his nephew or whatever-the-fuck. One thing us Bloombergs’ are not, and it’s definitely sellouts.” 

“Is that right?” Eloise is smiling again, “Then what’re you?”

Millie looks interested, “How much did he offer?” 

“Almost a million. Of course, the Richardson’s think they can throw their money at whoever and get their way.” 

“You were just kissing Fenton’s ass when he came for dinner last Sunday,” Christy says, “Hate him all you want, but it’s best to have him on your side.” 

Lawrence flips her off, but he’s too focused on whispering something in Darcy’s ear for him to reply. She can’t tell what he’s saying, but his hand is on her thigh and steadily climbing up under her skirt. His touch is warm and that’s all she cares about. 

“Let’s be honest here, in about ten years, we’ll all be working for somebody like Fenton,” Preston garbles from the opposite couch, he’s leaning most of his weight into Christy and she’s rubbing his shoulder comfortingly, “And I’m okay with that.” 

“Yeah, says you,” Millie frowns at him, “In ten years, I’m gonna be on the ocean. Take my Daddy’s yacht, go sailing with as many hookers as I want.” 

“Is that all you think about?” Christy makes a face at her, “Pussy?” In response, Mildred shrugs her shoulders. 

“--make you so wet,” Lawrence’s hand is moving higher, right between her legs. Darcy struggles to sit up more, “Skin soft and--” 

There’s the sound of footsteps, somebody curses. And Eloise groans, “Oh, god. Who invited the stiff?” 

Lawrence’s warmth is gone before Darcy knows it. She doesn’t have the energy to open her eyes and see what happened, there’s a flurry of noise around her, Eloise is still complaining, Christy is snapping at someone, and Preston seems as if he’s trying to keep the peace, “Hey, calm down. Hold on, no need to fuck up the floors, man.” 

“You’re all fucking disgusting,” That voice is familiar. But before Darcy can pinpoint it, she’s lifted from the couch. She inhales sharply, skirt flying up as she’s nestled onto the curve of someone’s shoulder. As her skirt is smoothed back down, she hears a flustered, “Oh! Sorry, shit.” 

“Roman?” She wonders out loud and tries to turn her head to see him, but he folds one arm over her thighs and holds her still, “How did you--” When she gets a good look around, she can see that Lawrence is on the floor now and he looks red-faced and angry. Everyone is leaning away from Roman, like he said or did something to garner such a reaction, “What’s--” 

He’s walking out of the house quick, with her over his shoulder. No one says anything to him, but Darcy catches the alarmed looks they give the two of them when they leave. She lets him walk for awhile, down the sidewalk and finally come across his car compacted into the tightest parking space. Carefully, he sets her down on her feet, and she takes a grab at his shoulders to keep her balance. 

Without pause, she smiles at him, “Hi.”

His cheeks are a bit pink, “Yes, hi. I - are you okay?” 

“I’m better than okay.” 

“Yeah,” he stares at her for a beat longer, she leans close, unaware of their shrinking proximity, “You don’t look like it. Here,” he opens the door for her and ushers for her to get in, “It’s cold out here.” 

She sits down in the leather seat and he closes the door. She then watches him round the car and get on the driver’s side, sliding his keys in and turning over the engine. It takes her a moment to realize that it’s Roger’s car, and she glances towards him curiously. Not that he gives her a chance to ask, because he’s shrugging over his jacket and draping it over her shoulders. 

“Thank you,” it’s out of her mouth before she can stop it, another smile appearing, “Thank you so much.” Once both arms are in the correct holes, she’s lifting the material to her face and inhaling deep. 

Roman stares at her, “Did they--” And then he shakes his head, “Are you feeling okay?” 

She knows what he’s trying to ask - what did she take or does she remember what she had. She doesn’t care enough to answer, “You don’t have to keep asking me that, Roman.” 

“I just--” 

“You sound like Stella.” 

“It’s because I worry about you, we all do,” he tells her, eyes serious, “You shouldn’t be hanging around people like that. Who knows what would’ve happened?” 

She knows. She knows exactly what would’ve happened, deep down in her bones, she knows. He pulls out of the space and begins driving, he’s always been a very careful driver. It’s something Stella had complimented him on. 

Eyes still on the road, he says, “You haven’t been to class.” 

“I was doing other stuff.” 

He lets out that semi-frustrated sigh at her, and she feels bad, because she doesn’t want to make Roman mad at her. He’s never been before, she doesn’t think she’d be able to take it. 

“It’s hard.” 

He looks at her again. 

“Knowing people don’t really love you. Not the way you love them. It’s hard,” Not her parents, not Fenton, not anyone on this earth, it feels like. “I feel really alone sometimes.” 

“Darcy,” His voice is low, “You’re not alone, you’re not...” When he glances over at her, she’s staring at him with big moon-gray eyes, “I’m sorry.” He reaches over, visibly hesitates, and his fingers touch the back of her hand gently. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the way there. 

When they get to her house, he takes her hand and pulls her from the car. He offers to carry her again, but Darcy just shakes her head. He’s too kind - he helps her to her room and takes off her heels when she lies down in bed. She curls up on her side and watches him as he puts her jacket and shoes away in the closet. When he sits down in the spot beside her, she takes his hand again, she’d liked the feeling from before and doesn’t want to lose it so quickly. 

He lets her. 

“...Stella told me what happened. Over the summer.” 

Darcy stares up at him. 

“That you were - that you tried to--” 

“Sorry.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I don’t think I’m used to telling anyone anything,” When his face falls, she attempts a smile, “It’s a habit. Haven’t you ever heard the saying: habits die happy?” 

One corner of his lips hitches up slightly, “It’s old habits die hard.” 

“Oh. That one.” 

He’s staring down at their joined hands, rubbing his thumb across her delicate knuckles, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” 

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not--” 

“It is,” A pause, “And it’s...it’s not your fault that I feel alone either. It’s no one’s fault.” 

“I’m here now. You don’t have to worry about that anymore, you don’t have to go to people like Lawrence or anyone else to feel better.” 

“Then where do I go?” 

“To...” He looks down again, “To me.” 

Darcy stares at him. He looks so much like the boy she’d met many years ago, hiding shyly behind his older brother as he introduced himself to her and Stella. Outside holding their tea party when two boys had interrupted. Roger had been the one who demanded all of the girls’ attention, but Darcy couldn’t help but watch Roman. He’d been the one who sat down next to her and asked for a cup of the (imaginary) tea, and drank it with her. She remembers thinking he was compellingly sweet and polite. And now, he sits over her, holding her hand, dark hair falling into his endless eyes, and his voice almost a whisper. 

Maybe it’s because of the drinks she had, maybe it’s something else entirely. But she doesn’t feel like as if she’s on earth anymore, she feels as if its just him and her and nobody else. 

“I’m here,” he squeezes her hand, “Whenever you need me, Darcy.”

“But it’s not important--” 

“You’re important to me. You don’t know how it felt to hear from Stella that you...” He cuts himself off, “You’re the most important thing to me, okay?” 

Her voice sounds weak even to her own ears when she hears it, “...okay,” When he glances back towards her from underneath his lashes, her eyes and cheeks are wet, “Don’t be mad at me.” 

“I’m not,” he reassures her quickly, and then more firmly, “I’m not. Don’t cry.” 

But she can’t really help it, not when she hasn’t felt this comforted in so long. She nuzzles her face into the warmth of his hand and closes her eyes. She’s pretty sure she hears him say something else underneath his breath, but with the tears also comes a sense of weariness that she can’t shake. Sniffling, she grips his hand tighter. 

“You’re tired,” he says, “You should sleep.” 

“Please stay.” 

“I--” 

“Please?” 

It seems as if he cannot say no to that. He doesn’t let her hand go as he gets more settled in the bed. At first, he doesn’t look as if he knows what’s an appropriate position, and awkwardly shuffles around until he’s comfortable. She smiles at him, despite everything.

Darcy ends up falling asleep, fingers intertwined with his and refusing to let go. 

.

.

“I suck at this,” Stella says, she’s crouched down and checking the oven with a look of disdain, “Oh, fuck me. They’re spilling over.” She fumbles to search for an available oven-mitt, and pulls the pan from the oven quickly. True to her word, the cupcake batter is beginning to spread all over the pan in half-baked and half-wet chunks, “This...is going horribly.”

“It’s fine,” Darcy quickly reassures her, she’s already stirring another batch, “We can start over.” 

She’s exasperatingly groaning before Darcy’s even finished, “How hard is it to bake cupcakes? Everyone makes it look so easily.” 

Imogen is watching the both of them, fiddling with the tie of her apron thoughtfully, “If you guys would just let me help--” 

“No thanks, Miss Perfect,” Stella says, narrowing her eyes, “The last thing I need is a lesson on how to prepare for my own boyfriend’s birthday from you. You don’t even like your boyfriend.” 

“Touchy,” Imogen admonishes, but she’s smiling, “And for your information, while you were romancing it up with your sweet, darling Roger,” She makes teasing kissing noises towards Stella, “Osmond actually took me away for the summer. It was actually nice.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“That sounds so romantic,” Darcy chirps, beaming at her, “Where did you go?” 

Before she can reply, someone else speaks up from the doorway, “Holy shit, what happened in here?” 

“Language,” Imogen says. 

Gabriela ignores her, she steps further in the kitchen, taking a look at all the piled dishes and batter lining the counters, “You guys cannot be serious.” 

“We’re trying,” Stella grits, she even snatches the bowl and spoon away from Darcy to have something to do with her hands, “You’re late.” 

“I was busy,” Gabi tells her, pulling at her skirt, “Nobody told me it was a set time.” 

Imogen gives her a look, “I told you three.” 

“Guess I forgot.” 

“Thanks for coming,” Darcy is the last to greet her, “Gabi, you know how to bake, don’t you?” 

“So-so.” 

“Perfect!” 

“Am I late?” It’s a new voice, Darcy turns her head to find Roman standing in the entryway. He does the same as Gabi, takes a glance around the expanse of the kitchen, eyebrows furrowing, “This is...a lot just for Roger.”

Gabi makes a face, “Who invited the boy?” 

“I did!” Darcy even raises her hand enthusiastically, “We can use any extra sets of hands. The party is going to be pretty big.” 

“You didn’t tell him where you were going,” Stella is eyeing Roman suspiciously, “Did you?” 

He held his hands up in surrender, “Just said I was going to Darcy’s. He was moping though, wondering why you stood him up.” 

“Good.” 

All of them set to work, even Gabriela who looked as if she didn’t want to help much. She was actually the best around the kitchen, Darcy thinks it has something to do with being without a mother and having to take the role when nobody else would, especially for Gale. Roman seems to know what he’s doing too, he even stands close to Darcy and helps her with the icing. Imogen teases him for it and his ears go red, Darcy wonders why.

He catches her staring at some point, he glances at her out of the corner of his eye inquisitively, “What is it?” 

“Nothing,” She smiles at him, “You look pretty, is all. In your apron.” 

He ducks his head slightly, “It’s not--” And then he sighs, “It was really nice of you to think of this.” She tilts her head at him, “To make the cupcakes ourselves, I mean. Roger likes stuff homemade more than anything, he’ll appreciate this.” 

“Do you think so? I’m happy to hear that.” 

“You two seem cozy,” Stella says, when she forces her way in between them, Darcy notices how close they’d gotten, “No flirting, focus on the cupcakes. Being in this kitchen is actually causing me pain, and not the good kind.” 

He looks flustered, “We’re not--” 

Darcy says at the same time, “I am, don’t worry.” 

That’s how the rest of the day goes. When the cupcakes are finished, they’re stuffed inside of Darcy’s fridge, each shelf filled to the brim. Stella is pretty stern when it comes to things like this, not that Darcy minds, she’s been all smiles throughout. Even Gabi seems to notice - she affectionately brushes hair from Darcy’s shoulder and smiles at her, “You’re in a good mood.” 

“Thank you!” 

“It wasn’t a compliment,” But she’s still smiling, “Are you going to tell me why?” 

“I’m just happy to spend time with you guys, that’s all.” 

Gabriela opens her mouth to say something, but Stella shouts her name from the other room, “Be right back.” She’s gone before Darcy can stop her, and she’s left alone. Her living room is spacious and open, she can see the sun setting through the windows. Towards her father’s study, she can hear the muffled voices of her friends, it’s such a comforting sound that she finds herself closing her eyes, just listening. 

“Tired?” 

Thick lashes flutter open to find Roman staring at her from the middle of the room. He doesn’t have his cute apron on anymore, which is sort of a bummer. Her eyes spark up like fireworks, she’s quick to sit up and pat the spot next to her. He does’t hesitate, he crosses the room and sits beside her. 

“I hope you had fun today.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a lot of fun to be yelled at by my brother’s girlfriend all day,” Roman says, it makes Darcy smile again, “All this fuss over that guy...” 

“Roger’s pretty amazing.” 

“Yeah,” he shakes his head some, “Yeah, he is.” 

“Ah, so cute!” She leans closer to him, a long lock of blonde hair falling over her shoulder, “It must be nice to have a brother like Roger.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You don’t think so?” 

“I do,” he folds his hands in his lap, “I just wish I had his confidence sometimes,” When Darcy does nothing but stare at him curiously, he looks down, “He takes up a room, it’s really easy to notice him. For me...not so much.” She has a feeling that usually Roman wouldn’t confide this, not in many people, anyway. And it makes her feel a little special to know he’ll tell her things like this, his insecurities and fears. 

“I notice you,” she tells him, “All the time,” Their eyes meet as she shifts towards him, “It’s like...you know when you’re window shopping and everyone’s focused on the mannequin they just put up with the new yellow halter top, but there’s a pink dress in there with polka-dots that you’ve always loved?”

He looks taken aback, blinks several times and smiles at her, “Sure.”

“That’s what you’re like. You’re like the pink dress. Except prettier.”

“You’re pretty,” He blurts that out almost, like he’s unable to hold it in anymore, “Like...like the dress.” 

Her so-gray eyes have not left his face, even when the backs of his ears look pink again. It’s a little strange, she’s never seen this reaction from him before. Or maybe - maybe, she’d been so submerged in Fenton’s presence that she never noticed. It’s like seeing things in an entirely different light, things she’d been so oblivious to before. 

“You think I’m pretty?” 

“You tell me I’m pretty all the time, so I should be able to say it back.” 

“Because it’s true.” 

“It’s true when I say it, too,” He stops there, for a moment, he looks to be warring with himself before he turns to face her fully, “Sometimes, I think you’re so pretty that I don’t know what to do with myself.” 

Now, she’s the one blushing. It’s not often she gets compliments like that. She could name a million reasons guys liked girls like Imogen or Gabi, but never herself. She cannot name one good reason, she’s always at a lost. Often times, she can’t even believe she managed to be with Fenton for as long as she did, that it took him that long to find out what was beneath the bubbly blonde exterior. 

“Was that alright to say?” Roman’s voice is very quiet when he asks, he’s still staring at her carefully. Instead of answering, she scoots until she is shoulder-to-shoulder with him. He doesn’t shy away, but she can practically feel the uncertainty and embarrassment coming off of him, “I don’t want to say the wrong thing to you, Darcy.” 

The crown of her head touches his shoulder, resting there, “You won’t.” Because he’s not that type of person, he’s always been so kind and patient, she adores it about him. 

He’s tense underneath her, tentatively facing her once she lifts her head. His face is fairly close to hers, and for the first time in a long time, her heart is stuttering fast in her chest. If he was only an inch closer--

“Hey, Roman could you give me a ride back to - oh!” Stella comes to a stop when she spots the two of them. Fortunately, they had heard her footsteps before she spoke, and they’re now on opposite ends of the couch. She darts her eyes between them for a moment, “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah--” Roman’s voice sounds a little high-pitched when he answers, he’s quick to stand on his feet and clear his throat, “You said you needed a ride?” 

“Yes,” Stella is still eyeing him. She glances in Darcy’s direction, “Remember what I said about the cupcakes, make sure you check them in the morning, alright? Later, we can finish the other ones.” 

“Okay,” Darcy’s voice is even a little shaky, she tries to brush it off with a comforting smile. She watches Roman for only a bit before she’s standing and following him to the door. Stella is the first out, giving him a clear look that says don’t take too long. Darcy fiddles with the lining of her dress, visibly hesitating in front of him, “Are you...are you doing anything Sunday?” 

He blinks, in the middle of shrugging on his jacket, “This Sunday?” 

“Yeah.” 

“No. No, I don’t think--” 

“If you are--” 

“No, I’m free. I promise.” 

“Do you want to...do something with me?” 

“Something...” He repeats, he’s staring at her, “Together?” 

“If you want to.” 

“I want to if you want to.” 

She smiles, “I want to.” 

And he smiles right back, “...okay.” 

He leaves, and Darcy watches him go. Imogen and Gabi are full of questions, wondering what has Darcy smiling so much, but she doesn’t give much away. Later that night, she lays in bed, holding her pillow to her chest. Biting her lip, she can’t stop herself from pulling the pillow up to her face and squealing into it. 

.

.

Now, they go out every Sunday. It’s been two weeks since then, a week and a half since Roger’s birthday, and every Sunday - the two of them spend time together. Whether it be at Darcy’s house or out to get lunch or she drags him along on an impromptu shopping trip, he always seems happy to be with her. 

She’s been on plenty of dates with plenty of guys. But this feels different. Maybe it’s because he’s Roman, and she’ll always be comfortable around him. She doesn’t feel as if she has to go out of her way to impress him or try to act like she knows more than she’s putting on, or force herself to be into his interests ( she’s read so many magazines about sports cars, it’s bordering on ridiculous ). She already is, she adores when he gets passionate about something or he fumbles to explain, or he grows flustered when she compliments him. 

Has it always been like this with him? Was she just blinded before? She isn’t sure. 

There’s always been a sense of comfort when it comes to their relationship, something she’d never thought twice about. She wonders if Roman has thought about it before, if he even knows what to call it. The feelings are still rushing into her, uncertain and frail, but she welcomes them wholeheartedly. It’s the first time in months that she’s felt okay. Without forcing it on demand or to reassure her friends. 

She doesn’t think she should call it dating, but it’s definitely something. She wouldn’t trade up his company for anything. Darcy can tell that Stella is getting curious though, she’d asked her out last weekend and Darcy had said no as nicely as she possibly could. She can’t explain it just yet, it’s so achingly private and new that she doesn’t want to ruin it with petty gossip and advice. 

They haven’t gotten as close as they did on the couch that one day. He barely touches her - unless it’s her shoulders to steer her in the right direction or taking her hand to steady her when she trips ( she likes the latter the most, she’s realizing ). He compliments her a lot though, he told her dress looked nice on her last week. It’d been a summer dress that stopped at the knees, puffed short-sleeves and a square neckline that showed off her collarbones. 

When she’d bought it and showed it to Daddy, he said it didn’t look good for her frame. Roman had said he liked the color yellow on her. 

He reassures her of herself when she’s uncertain and needs a bit of coaxing. Darcy appreciates it more than he’ll ever know. He’s the reason she gets out of bed in the morning now, he doesn’t even have a clue.

She still can’t help but wonder, just what is she supposed to call them? What is happening between them and would these feelings flourish into something else entirely? Does she want them to? A constant stream of questions that she’s afraid to answer. Maybe soon, she’ll be strong enough to face that side of her head. 

She tells herself every morning that it will be a good day. And today would be no different. Even though she absolutely abhors to see herself in a bathing suit ( an embarrassing pool incident at the age of twelve is to thank for that ), swimming is still a regular on Friday evenings with Imogen. And she’s never been the type to break tradition. 

Imogen is fast, the fastest one on her team, in fact. And she’s well aware of it. Darcy is too sore to swim anymore, so she has her keep her time. When she reaches the other side, she comes up for air with a large gasp, pulling the goggles back to glance in Darcy’s direction, “How long was that?”

“The same as before,” Darcy tells her, “I’ve never met anyone who wants to beat their own time.” 

“It’s serious to me,” Imogen sighs, “I was hoping to get faster over the summer. But I was with Osmond, and he did nothing but make me eat the entire two months.” 

Darcy makes a face, “Guys will never understand girls.” 

“Tell me about it,” Imogen shakes her head, “Let’s go again.” She’s just about to lower her goggles back down when something catches her attention. 

Darcy follows her line of sight and she’s surprised to see Fenton near the doorway. He’s pointedly looking in her direction, his gaze unwavering. It’s the first time he’s looking at her in weeks, in forever. And it sends a jolt down her spine. She hasn’t spoken to him since the night at his house, where she made a complete idiot of herself. She remembers snippets and bits, and none of them were good. She wants to look down and away, act like she never saw him, but once their eyes meet - he’s beckoning her over with one hand. She has no choice but to listen. 

Imogen shakes her head and whispers to her, “Don’t you - Darcy!” 

But Darcy pays her no mind, she pulls herself up and timidly makes her way over to Fenton. His hands slide into his pockets once she’s close enough. She’s soaked through and through, hair and swimsuit dripping, so she makes sure not to stand too close to him. 

“Hi.” 

“My father is holding a celebratory dinner for my cousin this weekend,” he says in a way of greeting, “He’s becoming new CCO of that new banking company downtown.” 

Darcy blinks at him, “Oh.” 

“It’s owned by the Bloombergs’. Lawrence’s father, you remember him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Anyway, my father was inviting yours and he asked me to personally ask you to come as well.” 

“...why?” 

He looks at her for the first time, “Hm?” 

“Why does he want me there?” 

“He’s always liked you.” 

“Oh,” she says again. 

“Wear something nice.” 

“What day is it?”

“Sunday, starts around one.” 

“Fenton, I can’t...I can’t go.” 

He stares at her for awhile, eyebrows subtly lift, “Your father can make time, but you can’t?”

“I have something planned.” 

“You never have anything planned.” 

“This time I do--” 

“If it’s with your little friends--” 

“No. It’s...it’s important to me.” 

He’s visibly eyeing her now, and she cannot help but tense when he gets closer, “Important? More important than this?” 

“I just...” She presses her lips together. When she looks him in the eye, she has a hard time telling him no, it’s always been as such, “I don’t mean to be rude, but...it’s none of your business.” 

Fenton is quiet. She regrets it as soon as it’s out of her mouth. And then he kind of smiles, it’s not at all amused and it’s a little sharp, but it’s a smile, “None of my business, Darcy?” The way he says her name, it has her toes curling against the wet concrete, “Well, let me know if you manage to clear your schedule then.” 

“...okay, Fenton.” 

“Like I said, dress nice.” 

With one more lingering stare, he’s stepping past her. He’s gone before she knows it. 

.

.

[unpopcorned]

.

.

“And then--” 

“And then?” 

“And then he turned and looked at me! And do you know what he says?” 

“What did he say?” 

“He told me I looked beautiful!” 

Arliss cannot help but smile at the obvious flush to his sister’s face. Pink cheeks, bright eyes, she’s been smiling ever since this morning. Gushing and raving about the night prior, there’s nothing stopping her. She has everyone listening by this point - Charles is off to the side and nursing his drink, Thomas is fiddling with his boot to the left of him, Phoibe is right beside Aurelia and listening with rapt attention. Others drift around, just to see what the fuss must be about. 

“Farm boy is a real charmer, ain’t he?” Charles muses, sipping leisurely at his drink. Phoibe catches the movement out of the corner of her eye, reaches over and slides the glass away from him after giving him a scathing look. He frowns back at her, “Don’t cut me off so early, woman.” 

She ignores him, returning her attention to Aurelia, “Well? Go on, don’t leave us in the dark.” 

“He took me for dinner,” Aurelia continues, wistful, “He looked so handsome. You should’ve seen him...” 

Thomas snorts some, “Handsome, she says.” 

Arliss isn’t surprised to hear Edward had tried his best to impress his sister. She’s seen so much, met so many people. He probably felt as if he had to go above and beyond just to keep her attention. But she’s not that type of person - he could’ve come to her reeking and covered in mud and she would still smile at him like he’s made of gold. 

Even though he’s trying his very best to keep his eyes on his book, he can’t help but keep sneaking glances at Aurelia, at her face, at her smile. She’s so in love, it’s almost painful to watch her like this. She looks as if she might stand up and start singing soon. He shouldn’t be so concerned over their night together, he shouldn’t hold onto her words so tightly. But he can’t help it, he wants to know more as well. 

He wants to know what it’s like. Maybe, he’s just living vicariously through her at this point. It’s an impossible thought to have, it will never happen but --

“You’re glowing,” Phoibe is saying, her voice cuts through his thoughts fast, “Just from one night out.” 

“It wasn’t just that,” Aurelia protests, she stands from beside Arliss, “He took me dancing. We danced and danced and danced...” While she speaks, she reaches towards Phoibe, takes her hands in hers, and twirls them both in an elegant-but-somehow-clumsy waltz dance, “He’s so good at it!” 

Phoibe is stumbling a bit at first, but the dubious stare turns into laughter fast as she struggles to keep up, “Like this?” 

Aurelia looks down at their feet and then back up to her with a smile, “Just like this. Except,” she pulls Phoibe closer, “He was looking me in the eyes, spinning me around, he was so handsome in that moment...” 

“How many times must she say that word?” Charles complains, he’s watching them out of the corner of his eye and reaching for his drink carefully. Just to make sure Phoibe won’t notice while she’s distracted. 

And distracted she is, the girls whirl and dance, and they’re laughing together. Thomas is thoroughly pleased by it all, Darvîn has come over and has to move out of the way quick when the two girls brush past him, Charles’ attention is caught swift when he hears Phoibe laughing and now he’s staring, too.

Arliss, however, he is quiet. Staring at his sister’s face, her smile, her overjoyed eyes. Phoibe was right - she is glowing. But then again, she constantly is. She looks so much like their Mother, before the war, before everything had grown so hard. Hair spanning out around her, catching onto her flushed skin, frail arms that hold Phoibe close as they laugh and smile together. Arliss adores her. 

He envies her. He wants this type of love, with the exact person she’s experiencing it with. 

“What’s going on?” 

Arliss blinks, looks up. It’s Elre, he’s standing in the doorway, sun is beaming from behind him. He looks almost ethereal in that small moment, dark hair bleeding nearly red from the sunlight, skin slightly flushed from heat. He takes in the expanse of the room - almost everyone is dancing now or simply watching from the sidelines. The band - that had been playing gently - are now at full volume, there’s smiles everywhere. It’s becoming such a rare sight that Elre can’t help but stare. 

Arliss is still staring at him, Elre glances back towards him and he drops his gaze, “You okay?” 

“Ah,” Arliss jerks a bit when Elre slides down to sit beside him, “Yes. I’m fine. Why do you ask?” 

“You’re not up with everyone else,” he says, lifting his brows, “What happened?” 

Arliss can’t help but smile now, mirth brims atop, “Aurelia is just in a good mood,” he tells him, looking back at her again. Now Phoibe has somehow managed to tug Charles away from the bar long enough to dance with her, he doesn’t look that displeased about it, “She can really light up a room. All by herself.” 

Elre is still staring at him when Arliss glances over to him again. Gaze darts down, face becomes curious, “You’re reading.” 

“Oh, yeah...Leo gave me another book.” 

Elre takes a peek at the title, “Yovaria Foundations of Lettering, hm?” 

“Yes. Leo said it would help with my pronounci...pronouncing...?” 

“Pronunciation,” Elre supplies for him, he’s watching him fondly now, “I think you’re fine with that.” 

“Charles says I have an accent.” 

“What does Charles know?” Elre says, he’s leaning closer so that he can hear him better, his breath touches his ear, “I like it, anyway.” 

Arliss turns his head, and for a moment, he stops. Because their faces are very close together, and that’s not unusual, but for some reason, it feels a little ... time-stopping, maybe. Like moments between them could stretch and elongate however long they wanted. That’s how it always with Elre, this very warming feeling. Arliss is trying his best to become used to it, but it’s easier said than done. 

“Here,” Elre is the one who breaks eye-contact, reaches over and takes the book, their hands brush for a moment. Nuxvar people always run on higher temperature than others, Elre is no exception ( sometimes, Thomas jerks out of his skin whenever Arliss or Elre may touch him, and instinctively ask if they have a fever ). Arliss likes his warmth, though. It reminds him of his childhood, reminds him of his Father. He positions the book over both of their laps, “We can go over it together.” 

And so, Arliss scoots closer to him, shoulder-to-shoulder and thigh-to-thigh, dipping his head low to get a better look at the words. Even over all the noise, Elre’s voice never drowns out. In fact, he’s able to hear it over everyone else’s. 

.

.

“Whoa, girl--” 

“Again?” 

“She doesn’t really like new people.” 

“She’s met me plenty times before.” 

“Even so.” 

Arliss glances over to see Elre is pursing his lips. Not particularly displeased, but he still is giving Carnie a rather annoyed look. Carnie, who only neighs and turns her head away stubbornly, prances a few feet away from them. Arliss can only sigh and follow after the horse, soon grabbing a hold of her reigns and tugging her. 

“She doesn’t like people riding her either--” 

“For a horse, she doesn’t seem to like a lot of things.” 

Arliss smiles at him, “She has plenty of personality.” 

The two of them stand in the field, in the yellowing grass. In the midst of finishing up fixing the gate ( there’d been a pretty bad storm the night before and Remus asked Arliss to take care of any damage ), Carnie had somehow escaped from her stable. Now, there was the work of catching her, putting her back where she belonged - which is exactly where she doesn’t want to go. As she jerked and huffed at him, Arliss finally decided to let her go for the time being. She didn’t look as if she would run off any time soon, even with the very obvious opening in the fence. 

Instead, she grazes, nibbling on a stray stock of hay. Arliss watches her for a moment, and then back to Elre. He’s out of breath - jogging after Arliss’ horse for the last thirty minutes hadn’t exactly been apart of the plan today. Arliss is just happy that he took time out of his day to come and help, Elre was very kind. 

“That horse,” Elre is shaking his head, “She’s pretty fast, isn’t she?” 

“Yes. She’s my favorite.” 

“You say that all the time.” 

“Because it’s true.” 

Keeping an eye on her, Arliss helps Elre with carrying the rest of the wood towards the fence. They set to it together, the progress goes by faster when its two pairs of hands at work. Arliss can’t help but keep sneaking glances in Elre’s direction, which he notices after a few minutes. 

“What is it?” 

“Nothing...just--” He frowns a bit to himself, “I was worried about you.” 

His eyebrows lift, “Worried?” 

“The storm was very bad last night...” 

Elre takes a look towards the sky above them, squints at the sun, “Was it?” 

“Mmm,” A pause, “I don’t really...I don’t like storms.” 

Elre is back to looking at him, there’s a sense of a question. 

“I don’t like thunder.” 

“Ah.” 

To avoid his eyes, he focuses on the work in front of him instead, “When I was younger, my Mother always used to hold me and my sister during storms. I remember Aurelia used to shake so much. Now, I think it’s me who’s more scared than anything.” With how close they are sitting, their knees brush, even through the clothes, Arliss can feel his warmth, “I miss my Mother, I think. The storms just remind me of her.” 

“I do, too,” Elre finally says after a moment’s wait, “I think of my Mother often.” 

“Were you close?” 

Elre seems to consider the question, his eyes look a little distant - a little far off, like he’s remembering something, “Yes.” 

“She probably misses you as well,” Arliss tells him. It makes Elre look up, “I haven’t seen mine in so long...I like to think that she’s still out there. Thinking of me and Aurelia. I’m sure yours is doing the same, thinking of you every day.” 

It’s quiet between them. Subtly - and if Arliss hadn’t been paying so much attention to him - Elre presses his knee further into his when he angles his body closer. He’s smiling, it’s barely there and it almost looks painful, but it’s still a smile. Arliss does it right back, wider and more encouraging. It makes Elre laugh underneath his breath. 

“You’re scared of thunder, hm?” 

“Don’t tease me. Only a bit.” 

“Mmm.” 

Arliss opens his mouth to say something, and he would’ve, if it weren’t for the familiar figure a few yards away. He stands, watches as they are invited into the house and duck inside. Maybe he’s a bit nosy and a little too curious for his own good, but he convinces Elre to follow him, and the two of them end up inside the house as well. There’s talking from the main room, Arliss instead keeps by the stairs and rests his weight there, Elre follows his lead. 

“What’s Remus yelling about?” 

Arliss shrugs, “He sounds upset, hm?” 

The voices grow closer, and from the stairs, Arliss is able to see Remus come into the entryway, Edward following after him. He blinks, sits up straighter, attention caught. Edward hadn’t told him he was dropping by today, didn’t come out to the field to look for him as he usually would. This is strange - in fact, Edward goes out of his way to avoid Remus whenever he can, he always found him a bit too intimidating. But now, they’re speaking, at first in hushed tones. And then grow louder. 

“But, sir--” 

“You speak such nonsense.” 

“I’m serious--” 

“You’re never serious about anything!” 

“I”m serious about this! About her!” 

Remus blows out a stressed sigh, the crows-feet at his eyes crinkling further when he turns to glare at Edward, “You don’t even understand the weight of your words.” 

“I know exactly what I’m saying, sir,” And surprisingly, Edward looks very serious. Stern, staring Remus in the eyes. He’s not backing down, “I know what I want.” 

“Do you?” Remus is eyeing his severely. And Edward nods, “You’re too young--” 

“Sir--” 

“She’s too young.” 

“I would never hurt her,” Edward blurts, maneuvering around Remus before he can step further out of the room, “I will take care of her. I will--” 

“How do you plan to do that? Working on the farm? Selling your eggs each morning? And then going into town to waste your money on rum? Don’t make me--” 

“I’ll get a job. A real job. In the Capital. And I’ll work hard, every day. For her. I promise you, sir.” 

It’s silent for a long time. Remus’ mouth is quirked slightly to the side, Edward is staring up at him. And Arliss almost forgets himself, almost stands to call out to Edward. But he doesn’t, because he hears soft familiar footsteps near him. His sister has crept down the stairs towards the noise, and when Arliss looks at her, her eyes have filled her face and her lips are pressed tightly together. She’s gripping at the skirts of her gown, she looks to be trembling. When she meets his eyes, she moves closer to Arliss. 

Grabbing a hold of his arm, she looks at him almost pleadingly to let it be. So, he does. 

Remus and Edward are still speaking, have yet to notice the three of them. Remus sighs, rubs at the back of his neck apprehensively, “You’re so young...” But he doesn’t sound as harsh as before, “Think harder about your decision.” 

“I’m certain, sir. This is exactly what I want. I want to marry Aurelia.” 

From beside Arliss, his sister’s breath catches. She’s watching closely now, still shaking. She’s filled to the brim with nerves, Arliss wishes he had it in him to comfort her. But he’s breathless, too. He’s forgotten where he is, who’s around him, Elre’s gaze is burning into his cheek and he can’t bring himself to look away from Edward. 

He looks every bit the man Aurelia described him as. 

Remus crosses his arms, “And you’re sure?” 

“I’m sure. Please give me your blessing.”

“I’m not her Father.” 

“If you say so, sir.” 

At that, Remus smiles. But it’s the old-man-type of smile. Where he’s too tired to keep arguing with youngsters, it’s what he says daily. He looks fairly amused, staring at Edward, “You’ve grown up a little, hm?” 

“I hope so.” 

“If I give you my blessing, will you stop calling me sir?” 

Edward blinks, “Yes, sir - I mean, Remus - I mean--” 

“Then it’s settled.” 

Aurelia suddenly stands upright and this strange noise leaves her, a cross between a laugh and a sob. It catches their attention, Remus doesn’t look surprised to see her there, but Edward sure does. And then his face breaks out in the widest, most happiest smile Arliss has ever seen on him. 

Aurelia is down the stairs before anyone knows it, he’s worried she’ll trip and fall. But Edward meets her halfway, takes her into his arms and spins her around. She’s laughing and crying at the same time, hugging him to her. They look like something out of a fairy tale, a Prince and Princess, two lovers reunited after a long journey. 

Remus is watching them fondly, but he only breaks it up when Aurelia begins peppering Edward with frantic and enthusiastic kisses, all over his face. Edward is blushing pink, Aurelia is crying and refusing to let go of him, and Remus is discussing further plans with the both of them. He tells them it won’t be easy or cheap, but he supports it. Aurelia cries more, Edward is smoothing hair away from her face and wiping her tears. 

Arliss is still on the staircase. 

Elre pushes himself off the wall and takes the spot Aurelia had been previously, right beside him. Without saying anything, he reaches over and touches Arliss’ shoulder. Instinctively, he glances over in his direction, only to find Elre is watching him closely. Like he knows something he shouldn’t. 

Arliss doesn’t say anything. Neither does he. 

Something inside of him breaks and then rebuilds itself again. 

.

.

“Another round, another round!” 

“Oh, for God’s sake!” 

“One more drink, just one more!” 

“You’re heavy as hell!” 

Arliss can only watch as Charles and Thomas ensue into a small tug-of-war by the bar. By then, most of the partygoers have left, the crowd has thinned, and the music has died down. But a couple of stragglers ( himself, Edward, Darvîn, Charles, Thomas, and Elre ) have kept close to the bar in hopes for a couple more drinks. Now, his vision is swimming, he can barely keep his head up. He has to lean against the wall to keep upright. 

Darvîn goes over to help Thomas, they both grab an arm and force it over their shoulders to make Charles get to his feet. As soon as he is, he’s tightening his grip around and pulling them closer into his side. When he begins to sing, Thomas cringes away, Darvîn looks close to laughing. Soon after, the two of them join him. They’re singing as loud as they possible can, and if Arliss’ throat weren’t so sore from doing so much earlier, he would’ve started up, too. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots movement. It’s Edward, he’s watching them with clear amusement on his face, laughing into his hand when Charles stumbles into Darvîn and almost makes them both fall. He’s dressed in his suit, cravat untied, the flowers are still tucked into the cloth of his jacket. The lilies that matched so well with his sister’s veil. 

She’d looked so beautiful. A bride, his sister was a bride. His best friend’s bride. 

Edward catches him staring and he gives him a smile, “You okay over there, Arliss?” 

“Mm.” 

He doesn’t feel strong enough to stand anymore ( but he’s been feeling like that throughout the day, so he can’t really blame it on the alcohol ). He crouches down and holds his hands over his face. A few seconds later, he hears footsteps, and then pulling at his fingers. When he looks up, Edward is crouched too and smiling at him again. He looks so unbelievably happy, hair falling into his bright eyes.

“You can’t sleep here.” 

“I know.” 

“You’re drunk.” 

“I’m not--” 

Edward tugs his hands off his face, and holds them in his own. Arliss can’t help but stare down at their hands together - differences in color, he’s always been a couple shades darker than Edward, always tans more easily. His hands are rougher, Edward’s are softer. “You are.”

“--and reach towards the sky!!” Charles is half-yelling and half-singing, throwing his arms up. Thomas is unfortunately too close when he does that, and he gets smacked directly on the head with one, “Another one, and another!” 

“I don’t know this song,” Darvîn lightly complains, “Sing another--” 

“No more singing!” Thomas grumbles, he’s rubbing at his head and giving Charles a dirty look, “If y’go home like that, Phoibe is going to murder us.” 

“Phoibe? Where?” Charles is quick to look up, darting his head around in search for her, “She’s here?” 

Darvîn laughs some, “Why? You gonna get married, too?” 

“Married?” Charles splutters, “Married! What do you take me for? Fuck off!” 

“Phoibe deserves to be a wife,” Darvîn tells him, grinning all the while, “She’d make a beautiful--” Even though he’s teasing, Charles shoves him. It’s good-natured enough, Darvîn is still laughing and Charles has reverted to slurring curses.

Edward watches from in front of Arliss, and he’s still holding his hands, fingers touching the inside of his wrist, “Hey, guys! Don’t fight, the bartender will--”

“Don’t touch me so casually,” Arliss whispers, he’s still staring at their joined hands. His voice is quiet enough where Edward doesn’t catch it, and when he looks towards him curiously, Arliss mutters, “Nothin’.” 

“By the Heaveeeeeens!” Charles is back to singing somehow, yelling at the top of his lungs. Darvîn knows this one, and he joins in again, looping an arm around Thomas’ neck to pull him in. Reluctantly, he begins humming along. They’re all so close together that their cheeks touch, faces pressed together in the middle from how close they’re holding the other, “Hate the sin and love the sinner!” 

“Who’s going to get Arliss home?” Edward asks, but no one seems to hear him. When neither of the three reply, Edward quirks his mouth to the side, “Guess I’ll just--”

“I will,” Except Elre, who’s been quiet throughout everything. In fact, he’s been relatively silent the entire day, through the wedding, only speaking when spoken to, “I’ll take him home.” 

“Oh,” Edward blinks at him, he must’ve forgot he was even there, “I can, Elre. It’s not--” 

“It’s fine,” Elre shoulders his way through, forcing Edward out of the way, which makes him let go of Arliss’ hands finally. It’s a bit of a relief, but it also makes him feel a little cold, “I got ‘im.” When Edward visibly hesitates, he continues, “You’re a married man now. Don’t want to keep the wife waiting.” 

Edward smiles at him. His face is pink, Arliss knows its not from the alcohol either. Further and further, their voices get drowned out. Edward glances at Arliss one more time, smiles at him and bids them both a goodbye before sprinting after the others. The three of them have ended up further down the street, still wrapped up in each other, and shouting drunkenly.

It’s quiet.

Now, it’s just Elre in front of him. 

His face blurs in and out for a moment, it takes awhile before Arliss can focus on him. He’s saying something, “--stand?” 

Arliss blinks at him. 

“Can you stand?” Elre repeats, he’s staring at him, face close to his, “Need help--”

“I can,” Arliss says. He struggles, but he does manage to get to his feet again. Elre’s hands are out, ready to help if needed. Arliss begins walking, only for Elre to grab him by the shoulders and turn him in the opposite direction, “Oh--” 

“This way,” he says, guiding him for a short while before allowing him to walk on his own. 

It only lasts for a minute or two before Arliss is losing his footing, Elre asks if he needs help again, Arliss waves him off, “I can walk, I can,” But he can’t, it’s made obvious when he nearly falls onto his face. Elre makes sure to catch him, taking Arliss’ arm and looping it around his neck for support. Arliss can’t help but smile, laugh quietly, “You’re so kind.” 

Elre doesn’t say anything, he only meets his eyes briefly.

They have one more incident with Arliss tripping over his own two feet. That ends up with Elre stooping down in front of him. Arliss can’t help but blink at him in confusion, “I’ll carry you the rest of the way.” His voice is so low that Arliss thinks he heard him wrong at first. But he didn’t, and after a short moment of deliberation, he carefully climbs onto his back. 

He thinks he may be too heavy, but Elre lifts him like he weighs next to nothing. His steps are careful and soft, just to make sure Arliss doesn’t become too jostled, and out of instinct, he tightens his arms around him. Burying his face into the back of his shoulder, Arliss says, “You smell good.” 

It’d been quiet between them for the last few minutes, so the comment throws Elre off. He can tell from the way he tenses beneath him. He nearly apologizes, but Elre speaks up, “I probably smell like sweat.” 

He does. He smells of sweat, earth, musk and something else Arliss can’t particularly place. He says it again, “Y’smell good,” Inhales deeply through his nose, holds tighter at his shoulders when Elre repositions his hands under his thighs. He hefts Arliss higher up his back, just to keep him from slipping, “I noticed before.” 

“Did you?”

“Every time you’re close, I can smell you.” 

Elre doesn’t say anything, but Arliss could’ve sworn he heard him swallow. 

The quiet is so peaceful - the crickets chirp, there’s fresh dew clinging to the grass, and the moon is hidden behind a cloud. He feels comfortable here, in Elre’s arms, he might just sleep. To keep himself from drifting off, he keeps talking, “It was a beautiful wedding.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Really nice. Phoibe looked pretty...” 

Elre chuckles some, Arliss can hear it beneath his ear, rumbling through his back, “Charles kept staring.” 

“Mmmm.” 

“It was fun.” 

“And Aurelia...” 

“Hm?” 

“She looked...like our Mother.” 

“Did she?” 

“Mm. I’ve never seen her so happy.” 

It’s quiet again. 

“Do you...do you think Edward will treat her fine? Like she deserves? I think he will. Because he is...kind. And smart and honest. Like you.” He wishes he was more like the both of them, he wishes he could speak his mind more. He wishes he had more time, he wishes he’d taken the chance to tell Edward how he felt. He presses his face further into Elre’s clothes, his scent brings comfort. 

“I’m not as honest as you think I am.” 

“You’re always honest. It’s what I love about you.” 

Elre doesn’t say anything for the rest of the way. 

He helps Arliss into bed quietly ( there’s no point in waking Remus; he’d retired early from the reception ). Arliss removes his shoes lazily, glances up to see Elre isn’t looking at him, he appears to be in deep thought, “I’m sorry.” 

Elre looks up, “For what?” 

“Making you walk me here. Carry me, too.” 

“It’s fine. I didn’t want you walking back alone, anyway. You could’ve hurt yourself,” Arliss smiles at him, but it’s very short-lived. When Elre speaks again, it’s a surprise, “I think Edward will treat your sister well.” He lifts his chin, finds Elre staring at him almost tenderly, “She’s in good hands, you don’t have to worry about that.” 

“...yes. I will try my best.”

Elre’s steps are slow as he grows closer, he stops a few inches away. His hand lifts, hesitates, and then is placed atop of Arliss’. Their skin tones are more alike, skin the same rough feel. Arliss can’t help himself from staring down at their hands, and then up to Elre. His face is closer than he’d first thought it would be. 

“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” he tells him softly.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to take that exactly. He’s near enough where he can smell him again. It’s that time-stopping feeling like before, where it feels as if they could be the only two people here, in this world. Alone and together, all at once. Arliss kind of loves the feeling. So, he overturns his hand underneath his, their palms touch, fingers instinctively intertwine. 

Arliss smiles at him, “Thank you.” 

Elre apparently doesn’t need to hear for what exactly, he only gives a half-smile back and squeezes. And then he’s standing, Arliss is reluctant to let go, but he dos after awhile. He watches him go, listens to the door as it is closed gently behind him. 

He sits there in his bed for maybe three minutes, staring at the palm of his hand before he lays onto his side. Pulling the blankets up, he curls as tight as he can. He’s able to fall asleep quickly though. 

He doesn’t feel as cold as before. 

.

.

[unpopcorned]

.

.

His Father had always told him when he was born, he cried a lot. And every time he cried, his father would too. He would cry and cry ( tears of joy, he assured ), because Arliss was so small in his arms and so delicate and there wasn’t anything else that he wanted to protect more than this. 

When he grew bigger, he taught Arliss to hunt and fight and watch after his Mother. Soon, her belly began to swell when he was the age of three, and soon after, his little sister was born. Aurelia, a spitting image of Mother, a baby that slept peacefully through the night and smiled when she met your eyes. 

He loves his sister, more than the Stars and the Sun and the sweet-bread that Mother makes in the evening. They sleep in the same bed together, their house being so small. The two of them cuddle for warmth through the night, take care of each other, wipe the others tears. That’s how it is and that’s how it shall always stay. 

Mother stays at home with them, cooks for them, teaches them. And Father, well - he’s always at sea. He sails back and forth from Yovaria, speaks to the guards there, and he comes back exhausted and crestfallen every time. Mother is there for him, always. Once, Arliss could’ve sworn he was awaken by his Father’s cries, and when he peeked outside of the room he shared with his sister, he saw their parents hunched together. 

His Father, on his knees in front of her, face pressed into her stomach. She holds him there, curls fingers into his dark hair. Her words are tender,

“...we will find another way.” 

“They will not listen to me because of who I am.”

“And if they do not listen? What will you do? You are my husband, you are my Life and Sun, just as our children. If they do not listen, you will make them. Your words deserve to be heard.” 

He tightens his arms around her midsection and doesn’t say anything for a very long time, “Your father was a fool to give me your hand.” 

“My father would be so proud of you at this moment. And yours. You are doing what others wouldn’t dare dream of.” 

He’s quiet, his crying has simmered. 

“Bring peace to Nuxvar. Bring freedom to our people.” 

.

.

His Father dies by the hands of Yovaria soldiers. A letter is sent through the men of his Father’s ship, they look forlorn and somber when his Mother answers the door. 

She takes the letter with shaking hands once its offered to her, Arliss and Aurelia watch as her shoulders bunch up towards her ears, and her delicate frame begins to tremble. 

Arliss is the first to his Mother’s side when she’s unable to support her weight any longer. 

She’s crying, weeping, crumbled to their floor and clutching the note to her chest, “Please,” she keeps whispering, “Please no...!” 

“We’re sorry for your loss,” the sailors say, they avoid eye contact with the children and keep their gazes down, “We’re so sorry.” 

.

.

After that, Mother isn’t much of herself anymore. She is a hollow-shell of the past - thin shoulders and stringy hair. After two years, Arliss is unable to get her to eat anymore, she only stares at the wall and blinks ever so often. 

He does his very best to take care of his family - he gets a job in small town a few miles up ahead, he works and he gets his hands dirty and he comes back home dog-tired and filthy. His sister is there for him as much as she can be, even as her gaze lingers on their Mother far too often. 

He makes enough for food, but not much else. They are forced to sale their livestock, they are forced to go nights without dinner, they are forced to rely on each other even more than before. Arliss does not mind, because if there is one thing his Father has taught him is - “Family is what matters”. 

The Kingdom around them falls apart, piece by piece. Packs die off, soldiers do not return, no one is here to douse the flames. People are taken and never brought back, soldiers search every home and take what they please. Women, children, and everything in between. His Mother doesn’t seem to care as much as them. 

.

.

When he is eleven, their Mother packs their bags for them. She leads them to the port, where boats have gathered and are being boarded. Aurelia is by his side, clutching her doll to her chest ( a small strange-looking rabbit that is falling apart at the seams ), she’s dressed very pretty today, and so is he. Mother looks at them fondly, and for a moment, she seems like herself - warm brown eyes and soft hands. She brushes dirt from his cheek and holds her palm there for a very long time. 

“You will take care of your sister,” she says, “No matter what.” 

Arliss nods, he’s staring up at her, “And you.” 

She smiles, it doesn’t reach her eyes, “Not me.” 

“Mama--” 

“You don’t have to look after me anymore.” 

He’s at a loss, leans his face further into her hand with a purpose, “I don’t understand.” 

“You will. Someday. There are better opportunities past the horizon, over the sea.” She’s looking out into the ocean, her gaze looks unfocused. He notices a slight crinkle to her eyes, as if she is trying to smile but cannot find the energy to, “It’s what your Father would’ve wanted.” 

He wants to tell her that that isn’t true, he should’ve told her that at the time. Because Father is not here, Father is dead, Father’s body has been washed away with the others. But he is a child, he is his Father’s child and he listens without question. 

“It’s too dangerous to stay here. You’ll go somewhere better, somewhere safe.” 

“You’re not coming with us?” 

She gets this look, this very sad look that he doesn’t think he’s supposed to see, “There is nothing more for me here, not in this life, Arliss,” Her thumb rubs underneath his eye, its wet there - he’s trying his best not to cry, “You understand that, yes? As the oldest, you must understand.” 

He does not say anything. He wants to hug her, like his Father had done before. Burrow his face into her stomach, will her to be strong. But the world does not work like that, it’s a cold and unforgiving place. It’s taken his Father, it won’t show mercy on his Mother. 

“I only had enough money for the two of you,” she says to them, she puts a hand on Aurelia‘s shoulder, huddles them together, “You must go. You must go and grow and learn. Take care of each other, love each other. Family - that is what matters. Yes?” 

Arliss stares at her. Aurelia whispers, “Yes.” 

“Good,” That is enough for their Mother, she stands and takes their hands. Arliss wants to dig his feet into the ground, stay rooted to spot, but he finds himself following after her. They come to a sailor, many of his men are loading up the ship, ushering people onto it, “These are my children, they will be coming with you.” 

“On their own?” It’s an older man, he’s staring at their young faces with a look of curiosity, “Are you sure about this--”

“They’re covered, Remus,” she tells him, extending both of her hands so her children are offered out to him, “Please. Take them with you.” He looks unsure, but he nods. The two of them seem to know each other fairly well.

“Alright. We lift anchor in only a short while. Say your goodbyes.” 

And that’s just what their Mother does. She bends down to their height once more, shares a long embrace with Aurelia, tears catching into her hair and Aurelia’s thin arms are shaking. When they part, she curves an affectionate hand over Arliss’ hair, brings him close into her chest. 

“You are strong,” she says into his ear, “You will live long. You are hardworking, independent. Both of you,” she pulls back, smiles tenderly in Aurelia‘s direction, “You will make a beautiful bride one day.”

Aurelia is crying, “Ma’--” 

She stands, faces Remus again, “Please take them.” 

He steps forward, “Come, children.” 

Aurelia is reluctant. And Arliss more so, he looks up into his Mother’s face, she smiles back in a comforting way. They are placed in the rowboat with their things, paddled farther and farther from the place they once called home. Their Mother stands in the same spot for a long time, she watches the boat lift anchor and begin its journey. 

Arliss and Aurelia watch as her frame grows smaller and smaller until they cannot see her anymore. His Mother’s parting words were softspoken, but resonate through his ears for years to come. 

.

.

“Do not tell anyone where you are from. Do not tell anyone who your Father was.” 

.

.

“Arliss! Hey! Arliss! Hey, hey! Oops, sorry, Remus!” 

“Watch where you’re going, Edward--” 

“Arliss! Where are you - there you are!” 

Arliss looks up, blinks when he spots Edward in the entryway. He is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, out of breath, hair windblown. He wouldn’t be surprised if he ran here, he runs pretty much anywhere. Arliss finds himself smiling before he can stop it, “What’s the hurry?” 

“The docks!” Edward breathes, this huge smile breaks across the expanse of his face, “We have to go!” 

“What’s at the docks?” 

“Edward, how many times do I have to tell you?” Remus isn’t far behind, he already has his Nagging Voice on, “This is a place of business, you can’t just--” 

“We have to go!” Edward isn’t listening, he’s tugging at Arliss’ arm, “Now, now! We can’t miss our chance!” 

Arliss stares at his face. And then to Remus, he looks exasperated. When he spots the look there, he blows out a long sigh, “Fine! Go, just go. Be back before sundown.” 

“You’re the best, Remus!” Edward says, and forces Arliss up from his seat. 

The two of them leave the barn, past the goats and cows, hop over the gate, Edward chances his luck and runs through the group of chickens just to make them squawk. The Sun beats high from the sky, there temperature grows as the seasons past, summer is close and peaking over the horizon. A year of new beginning and old tales, out of the corner of his eye, he spots Edward grinning towards the bleeding light of the land, he runs faster and jumps in the air, lands on his feet and he’s off again. 

Moments like this, Arliss wishes they’d never pass. 

.

.

They make it to the docks, fortunately. 

It’s full of life and people, all different shades of color, all speaking to one another, stomping feet and frilled dresses. Dogs barking, livestock catered away on rope, crates and boarding planks. It’s lively and bustling with newcomers and others who have come and go for years, Arliss greets a few here and there, almost runs right into a woman with a lot of pearls around her neck. 

“She shouldn’t walk around like that,” Arliss says, jogging lightly beside Edward to keep up with him, “Someone may rob her.” 

“That someone may be me,” Edward replies, cheekily. He’s out of breath, flushed and excited. Arliss stares, “Hurry, hurry!” They do hurry, they run through the crowd, bypassing many and offering no apologies when they step on a few toes or knock over their things. They are in a rush, they have no time to worry over such trivial matters, even as a few yell at them. 

And finally - finally - they reach who they’d been searching for. 

There’s a group surrounding him, mostly sailors or pirates or common folk. But he’s a showstopper, someone you can’t pass up walking by. He’s seated on a crate, confidence may as well be pouring out of his skin, skin sun-dried and hair swept back from his face in a messy bun. He looks tired, rugged, drained from the sea and still, a hero in the making. Just looking at him, Arliss can’t help but stare.

Captain Eirik of the Nightingale was the type of person you read about in books, the type of person that was destined for bigger and better things. Even more than Yovaria, the Kingdom of Opportunities. 

“--there I was, in front of the beast, nowhere to run or hide,” he’s speaking in a hushed tone, the others are leaning forward, enraptured, “A dagger in my hand, pistol out of ammunition, and nothing to lose.” 

Edward is already listening with rapt attention, his gaze may as well be filled with the Stars from the night. Arliss is no better, he’s elbowing and shouldering his way through to get a better view. 

Someone suddenly asks, “So, what did you do?” 

Eirik smiles, “What could I do?”

“Most men would shit and die, probably,” Another says, it gains a few laughs, “Don’t you think?” 

“I guess I’m not like most men,” Eirik says, easygoing, “It’s so very easy to die, so much more difficult to live.” 

“What happened next?” 

“Yes, tell us.” 

“How big was the sea-beast?” 

“Did it take any of your men?” 

“It must’ve been--” 

“You ass,” A voice speaks out from behind Eirik, a boot catches him right between the shoulder blades. He nearly loses his balance and falls off his seat, “If I weren’t there, you would be dead.”

Eirik’s smile is gone, he’s now glaring back at the other Captain behind him, “I was gettin’ to that part.” 

“Sure you were,” Captain Harlow says, she lowers her boot back to the ground. Arms cross over her chest, a lock of striking red hair brushes against her cheek from the strong gust of wind, “You’re a fool. Reckless and incompetent. Who charges their ship straight into the Hallows with no plan?” 

“What you call fool, I call brave.” 

“Your bravery is nothing but an act. If I hadn’t been there--” 

“Must you ruin the fun?” 

“Telling children’s tales is what you call fun?” 

It’s a rare occurrence to see Captain Harlow. Even more rare to see the two of them together. Two of the most feared and notorious Captains to ever set to sea - riveting tales about countless battles won between the both of them, people cower in their presence, gravitate to them naturally, they’ve been banned from nearly every kingdom as is. They make names for pirates, they make history, revolution is coated all over their skin and thriving in their blood. 

The crowd becomes thin when she arrives, her signature crimson hair that tosses around her shoulders is like a flame. Too bright and too searing to stay close to, many people begin to disperse once the arguing starts. But not Edward and Arliss, they’re either stupid or have a death wish. 

“E-Excuse me!” Edward suddenly blurts, very loudly, “Captain Harlow! Captain Eirik! At your service!” 

Harlow stops, she’d been grasping a hold of Eirik’s shirt to bring him closer and looked close to ripping it. Eirik does too, his fierce expression becomes tame fast, he’s glancing over in their direction and he looks as if he wants to groan, “You two again? How long has it been?” As Harlow releases him, he brushes down his clothes to look more proper, “A year?” 

“Nine months, actually!” Edward says, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, “Nine months, three weeks, and a couple days. But who’s counting, am I right, sir?” 

Eirik frowns at him, “You are, apparently. Get lost.” 

He begins walking away, but Edward is quicker, blocking his path, “W-Wait, sir! I’m hoping this time you’ll take me up on my offer!” 

“Offer?” 

“I’m trying to sound more confident, sir.” 

Eirik doesn’t look amused, “It’s not working. How old are you, even?” 

“Nineteen, sir!” 

“Too young.” 

“But, sir!” 

This is a common thing. It’s always been Edward’s dream to meet and speak with Eirik, but it never seems to go well. In fact, the Captain always looks close to throttling him. Arliss can only watch - Edward has been the mouth of their little duo since they were kids, since when they were thirteen. He doesn’t have much to say, but Edward sure does. As they begin to bicker, Arliss’ gaze trails over to Harlow, who’s watching. 

She catches him staring, “Mind your eyes.” 

“I apologize,” he says, she is very intimidating, “For myself and my friend.” 

She’s quiet for only a moment, “Why’re you two so persistent? Do you really seek the sea this badly?” 

Does he? He supposes so. Every morning, he comes to the docks, leisurely cuts at a block of wood for hours until its nothing more than a twig. Watching the waves, inhaling the smell of the water. He wonders sometimes just what is he waiting for - his Father, his Mother, who can tell. But he’s always longed for the sea, he’s always been at its beck and call. He needs no money, no men, just one person in particular and he thinks he will be fine. 

When that thought crosses his mind, he glances over at Edward. He looks as if he wants to start grovelling on his knees. Not again. 

“I want freedom,” Arliss says to her. 

She lifts a brow, “Yovaria is just that.” 

“Is it?” 

And then she tilts her head at him, her lips curve upward at the edges, but its not quite a smile, “Trying to run away from your problems, are you?” 

“No, ma’am,” he shakes his head, “I’m trying to run towards ‘em.” 

Before she can say anything, Edward suddenly cries out from a few feet away. Eirik has shoved him to the ground, it seems as if his patience has worn thin. Arliss is by his friend’s side fast, crouching down to make sure he’s alright. When he looks up, Eirik’s gaze is cold, harsh. Like a Fellstar’s winter. 

“You speak of nothing but dreams. What do you take me for?” 

Edward is still trying, “But, sir--”

“I don’t want to hear it--” 

“You can help us!” Edward says, “You can help the people here! You have such a huge influence in this country, if we all just band together--” 

“We?”

“Revolutionists! People that want change!” 

“Change--” 

“Don’t you want--” 

“No,” Eirik’s tone is final, it’s enough to make Edward go quiet, “Take some word of advice, kid, you keep talking like that and you’ll end up dead.” 

And then he turns away, walking from them at a leisure pace. Harlow stays where she is, watches them for a moment, and then she’s following after Eirik. She says something loudly to him that’s muffled by the bustle of the docks, hits his shoulder. The two of them disappear into the crowd, Edward doesn’t bother following them. 

.

.

“Uuughhhh...” 

“I know,” Arliss says, placing one hand to the back of Edward’s head. He threads his fingers through dirty blonde locks, damp with sweat. He smells of rum, slumped over the table and grasping his glass in one hand, even though its empty. Around them, the bar has died down, now there are only two or three drunks dotted here or there. The bartender is giving them a bad look, willing them to leave. 

Arliss will soon, but Edward seems reluctant. 

“I can’t believe,” Edward mutters, hiccuping slightly, “he would say that to us...” 

“I know,” he’s been saying that over and over for the past three hours, since they got here. The sun has set, Remus will be angry when he returns, “I know, Edward.”

“Just what does he stand for?” he groans, lifting his head from the table. There’s a red patch of skin on his forehead from laying it on one spot for too long, he looks very amusing, “What does he fight for? What does he want to gain? What’s the point of having that much power if you don’t want to use it! Captain Harlow, too!” 

“Not everyone is like us,” he reminds his friend, brushing hair from his face so it won’t get caught in his mouth, “Not everyone wants to make a change. Not many people care.” 

“Our Kingdom is corrupt!” Edward suddenly declares. And its the truth, but he says it very loudly and it makes the bartender glare even more, “A Queen and King that don’t listen to their people! Rebellion is the only way to make them listen! By sailing the sea, by gathering other people who feel the same way, we could really make a change! Don’t you think?” 

Edward always gets like this. Arliss almost wants to smile. He’s passionate and driven and he never gives up. He may not be the smartest in the room, but he’s the best with his words and dedication. He’s even been known to lift up a few. But it’s quiet now, there’s no one listening but Arliss, and still he speaks as if he’s talking to a crowd. 

He stands, slamming down his glass. It doesn’t break, thankfully, “Cowards! They’re cowards, that’s what it is! How can you call yourself a pirate, a Captain of a ship but not stand for the people? If I was a Captain, I would - I would...I would make sure there is change! I would--!” 

“No shouting,” the bartender tells them, shouting himself. He’s scrubbing hard at a glass, glare unwavering, “Or I’ll toss you out!” 

“Edward--” Arliss tugs at his arm. 

Edward ignores them both, “The King and Queen only speak to their people when they need slaves, when they need money for their own gain! I am not a puppet tied to my strings! Does it look as if I was born yesterday, Arliss?” 

“No, but--” 

“I will not roll over and yield!” 

“Edward--” 

“Yovaria, the Kingdom of Gold? The Kingdom of Opportunities? Just what has this land offered us but chaos and death? The people of Nuxvar--” 

Arliss stares up at him, “The slaves.” 

“Slaves! Slaves who deserve to be free!” 

“If you’re gonna do all that yappin’, why don’cha go to talk to someone important?” One of the drunks complain. A few others agree with him. 

Edward throws a grumpy look over his shoulder at them, “Like who?” 

“Like the Senate. Go talk to the senators, see what they say. They make all the decisions.” 

“They just offer solutions,” Edward says, “Doesn’t mean anything goes through! The Queen and King decisions are final!” 

“Go and talk to someone who cares!” 

“Yeah! Shut up already!” 

“People’re tryin’ to sleep here!” 

Before Edward can take his frustrations out on them, Arliss stands, leaves a few coins on the table, and apologizes for his friend. He ushers him out before any punches can be thrown, throwing an arm over his shoulder to keep him close. Edward does the same, leans most of his weight into Arliss’ side. 

“Those fools...don’t know what they’re talking ‘bout...” 

“It’s a good idea,” Arliss tells him, “They might actually listen to you.” 

“Ha! Who in their right mind would?” 

“A lot of people,” Arliss lifts his head, looks over at him. Their faces are very close together in this angle, but Edward doesn’t seem to mind. His face is flushed, hair falling everywhere, eyes unfocused. He looks pale in the moonlight, “Your skin is fair, you have a good head on your shoulders, you can talk for hours and hours. Nobody would stand a chance against you.” 

“But--” 

“And you’ve been reading up on the law. You keep saving up and buying those books.” 

“You need to know the law in order to survive.” 

“I can’t read, you know that.”

“When we get on the sea, I’ll teach you.” 

Arliss manages to get him a good distance away from the bar, just in case the bartender comes out and tries to chase them off. He gently helps Edward sit down in the grass, ignoring the dampness from the earlier rain. The two of them sit together, Arliss staring up at the moon and Edward lays back, one hand covering his eyes. 

Arliss can’t help but stare, listen to his own heartbeat that’s thudding away inside of his chest. Whenever it’s silent between them, it’s always been like this. This soft, tender feeling that fills up his stomach, makes it difficult to breathe when it cinches around his ribcage. He’s staring at Edward and he’s always staring at Edward, enough where Remus had called him out on it once. 

What’s so wrong with that? What’s so wrong with wanting to be close to him? Wanting to touch him? Wanting to keep by his side? Is that not something a friend would do? Or perhaps ... a maiden? 

Edward is oblivious. But then again, Edward is oblivious to almost everything. 

Arliss remembers when he was fifteen, when he brought Edward flowers in hopes that he would take them. He was young and naive, heart offered out in the palm of his hand. Unfortunately ( or maybe it was for the best ), Edward hadn’t even paid the flowers any mind. He took them and gave them to a random girl at the brothel, as if Arliss had given them to him for just that. It’s not that he minded, but he wishes the world wasn’t so complicated. 

He wonders what his Father would think of Edward. He would probably say he’s full of spirit, would make a fine soldier. He remembers struggling to write to his Mother, he never learned so he let Aurelia write his words for him. Their Mother never responded, and after two years, he stopped sending them. There was no point anymore. 

Love is love, he’s sure that’s what his sister would say. Love is kind and warm and gentle. That’s what he feels for Edward, that’s how it feels in his chest. The scrappy little kid who came to his rescue when a few street thugs tried to rob him of his food. In the end, they’d lost, but he’d came and he’d helped, even though they’d been strangers. And he shared his own food with Arliss. 

Edward is endlessly kind. Outspoken, hardworking. Nothing could ever stand in his way. 

“...the sea...” Edward is mumbling, breaking Arliss from his thoughts, “The sea...I want to go...” 

“Mmm,” Arliss says, he reaches over and pats him on the stomach gently. It makes Edward groan, he smiles some at the sound. Arms curl around his knees, chin lifted to get a clear view of the sky, “Maybe we can go sailing. I’ll ask Remus if he’ll let me borrow his rowboat--” 

“With you.” 

“Hm?” 

“I want to go...on the sea, with you, Arliss,” Edward says. His voice is quiet, barely above a breath. And Arliss turns his head to see Edward staring up at him, eyes shining in the very dim light of the moon, “Together.” 

He’s drunk. And even worse, he’s an emotional drunk. It’s a usual. Arliss can’t help smiling though, can’t help reaching out and pushing hair off his forehead. His skin is hot to the touch, “You sound like a kid. Like when we were younger.” 

“But it’s what I want! I want to be on the sea. With you,” he whines. 

“Edward--” 

“But I guess there’s more important things, right?” he’s muttering, frowning now up at the sky, “Tomorrow...tomorrow I think I’m going to go talk to the Senators.” 

Arliss’ eyebrows lift, “Yeah?” 

“Yes,” Edward sits up, with great difficulty, but doesn’t try to stand, “Once we set our land free, once we set your people free, we’ll go sailing! We’ll get our own ship, you and me.”

Arliss stares at him fondly. Edward is the only person he’s told of his heritage, of his Father. Of just who he is. His Father, the bravest General of Nuxvar to go against the Kingdom of Gold. His name isn’t even to be spoken here, not mentioned in the slightest. Arliss wishes he could read, wishes he could know just what his Father had done to create such a name for himself. He’s heard stories here and there, tried not to seem so interested to not raise alarm. But he cannot help it - what he wouldn’t give to be even a shadow of what his Father had been. 

His own ship, his own men that followed him to the ends of the earth. The countless people he’d set free, the memoirs and essays and federal papers he’d written for new laws and ideas and--

He’s amazing. He had been amazing. 

He watches as Edward begins to rant and rave again, growing his spirit back once more, “--we’ll go into the castle walls and set all of the slaves free! Why should I have plenty opportunity when they have none? Each man blood runs red, right? So it makes no difference! I’m telling you, Arliss--” He grips his shoulder in an affectionate manner, “We’re going to change things! We’re going to make history!” 

“And after that...” 

“After that--” 

“...we’ll go sailing?” 

Edward smiles, “Yeah! You and me and the sea!” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” 

.

.

“This came for you,” Remus holds it out for him to take, and when Arliss reaches for the letter, he pulls back, “I can read it for you.” 

“I want to,” Arliss says, reaching for it. It takes a few tries to get it ( Remus is old but he loves to tease him ), but once he does, he rips it open and unfolds the paper inside. There’s pretty lettering all over, some words he can sound out in his head and others he’ll have to come back to. It’s a few minutes before he reaches the end of it, breathing, “...signed, Aurelia.” 

Remus perks up, “Aurelia? Your sister?”

“Aurelia!” Arliss suddenly stands from his seat, “Aurelia! She’s--” 

“That school actually allowed her to write,” Remus takes the letter from him to glance over it, but Arliss is too filled with excitement to notice, it’s practically pouring out of him. He might just dance, “What has it been? Almost four years?” 

“Yes!” Arliss says, grinning, “She’s finally able to come back!” 

Remus is watching him, he looks fairly amused, “Alright, alright. Sit down. It says here she won’t be coming into town for another...few weeks. So, you have time to prepare for her.” 

“Prepare...” Arliss mumbles to himself. Four years is entirely too long. In order for his sister to get a higher education, to not end up a coal-rat such as himself, he sent her abroad. Stored all of his money until he had enough. She’s off chasing her future, dead-set on learning as much as she could, she’s always been a rather bright girl and he can’t wait to hear just what she has learned. She took a ship, far away to another country on the other side of the sea, to learn their customs and knowledge, to become a perfect bride for someone one day. Who knows - maybe she’s changed, maybe she thirsts for even more. 

He can’t wait to see her. 

“I have to tell Edward!” 

“Finish your work first.” 

He does what Remus says, he’s unable to stay still, he has to keep his hands moving. He finishes his workload quickly, bids a farewell to Remus, who only shakes his head at him. He runs through the fields, bounds over the fence and pets his favorite goat on the way out. He hurries through the town, bumps into children and their mothers, working salesman at their counters, a group of ruffians that threaten him, and only slows to a jog when he gets close to the Senate building. 

When he rounds the corner, he runs right into someone. 

“Oh!” 

“Are you alright, son?” 

He lifts his chin. In front of him, there is a man. A very familiar one, his face is one you don’t forget. Lagorúthon stares down at him, impassive, lifting one brow when Arliss stays silent. Quickly, he bows to him, just out of habit when it comes to his elders or someone of higher stature. 

“I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t mean to run into you.” 

“It’s nothing,” Lagorúthon assures him, “Please stand.” Arliss listens, straightening his back and facing him. Lagorúthon has endless eyes and an intimidating stature, “What brings you here?”

“I was--” And then he stops there, smiling sheepishly, “Nothing, sir. My excitement got the better of me. I received good news today.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, he’s also smiling, looks fairly amused with him, “Excitement or not, watch where you step. Some won’t be as forgiving as me.” 

“Of course, sir. Thank you, have a good--” 

“Arliss!” 

His head lifts, “Edward!” 

Right behind the Senate, there’s his friend, who’s smiling ear to ear. He cannot help but do the same, bidding a small and polite goodbye to Lagorúthon to rush to his friend’s side. Edward hugs him as greeting, which is a nice sign, he’s in a good mood it seems. 

“I have exciting news!” 

“As do I!” 

“You first!” 

“No, you!” 

“I insist!” 

“At the same time?” 

“Same time!” 

“My sister is sailing here.” 

“I managed to speak to the Council!” 

True to their words, they do speak at the same time, over the other. But Arliss hears his words as clear as day, he finds himself flinging onto Edward, hugging him like he would as if its years since they’ve last seen the other. Edward is laughing, returning his embrace with equal enthusiasm. 

“The Council?” 

“And the Co-Council!” 

“The Assistant Council, you mean.” 

“Yeah, that!” 

They end up in town, sharing a seat together under the cooling shade of a large oak tree. Edward talks and talks and talks, and some parts, Arliss thinks he makes up, but he doesn’t care. Because he’s listening, one hand balancing his chin, completely enraptured. For a moment, he forgets why he’d even been rushing to meet him in the first place. 

“What did you have to tell me?” Edward asks, tilting his head, “It’s about your sister?”

Arliss shows him the letter, it’s crumbled in his pocket and Edward spreads it straight to read it. He reads it out loud for Arliss, just so he can get a general idea of the things he missed, “Whoa, Aurelia is actually coming back? I haven’t seen her since she was small!” 

“She’ll still be small,” Arliss protests, he takes the letter back, just to stare at her writing again. It’s so elegant, scribbled neatly onto the page. Her signature is even prettier, “She couldn’t have grown that much.” 

“She’s seventeen,” his friend says, “She’s a woman.” 

“Stop it,” Arliss shoves his shoulder, it only makes Edward laugh, “I just - I can’t wait to see her.” 

His little sister. The girl he loves more than the Sun and Stars. The only person he loves more than Edward. He can’t wait.

.

.

Her ship arrives a few weeks later, like the letter said. And he makes sure to take his time getting ready, cutting his hair, picking out something nice for it all. He brings flowers, holds them close to his chest as the ship docks. Many people get off, they greet family members and hug and cry. 

Arliss waits and waits and waits, and finally, he spots her. 

She’s dressed in a soft emerald, hair pinned back from her face. For a moment, he could swear he was seeing things ( Mama? ), but he blinks fast, stares at her as she moves through the crowd and towards him. Edward was right, she does look like a woman. Hair dark and long and sleek, eyes bright and warm, skin luminous and soft. She looks like a bride, she looks like their Mother. 

“Arliss!” She greets him enthusiastically, a smile spreading across her face. She embraces him, and he doesn’t know what to do at first. His arms stay limp to his sides, but once he catches a whiff of her scent ( her painstakingly familiar scent ), he’s pulling her closer and crushing her to him, “It’s so nice to see you!” 

“And you,” he says, pulling away for a moment only to hug her once more. They stay like that for awhile, him burrowing deep into her hair and her rubbing his back until he calms. The flowers are a mushed-mess by the time they part, but she takes them anyway and laughs with him. Her eyes are teary, smile unabashed, “You look beautiful.” 

“Thank you,” she breathes, her cheeks are flushed with a delicate pink, “You have to say that, though. You’re my brother, Arliss.” 

“Others would be foolish not to think the same.” 

“I have not been made a wife yet, so there must be many you consider fools.” 

“Plenty.” 

“Does Remus count?” 

“He’s always been an idiot.” 

“Speaking of him, how is he?” 

“In very good health. I’m absolutely certain he wants to see you.” 

“I would love to!” 

But first, there are others he wants to introduce her to. The two of them end up at the local bar, where everyone is waiting. They all grow loud once they enter the room, Aurelia flushes from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes at the attention. Through the introductions, she’s all smiles, beaming practically - she reminds Arliss of how their Mother had been, of how full of life she once were. 

There’s music playing, so he’s not sure that she can hear him well, but still - 

“...and this is Thomas, he does coal mining with Remus, I work with him sometimes. Oh! This is Joseph, his brothers John and Walter, his wife Bertha. And Mabel, she owns the brothel further down, a few miles.”

There’s a long list of people, and he doesn’t realize it until he’s through nearly half of them. All of these connections, all of these people he has met since she’d been gone. And still, they weren’t even close to being enough to fill her spot. Aurelia is smiling by his side, bowing or curtsying whenever the moment calls for it. She’s very well mannered and soft-spoken, he’s glad his money hadn’t been a waste. 

She’s happy, he can tell just from looking at her. 

“What is it?” She asks when they have a moment together, she’s smiling at him, “You’re staring.” 

“You...remind me of Mama, is all.” 

Her smile falls by a degree, her eyes become soft, “You knew her much better than me. I can...barely remember her face,” She pauses there, “What was she like?” 

“Always smiling,” he pokes at her cheek teasingly, she swats at his hand, “She cooked very well, I remember she always made stew or porridge. I never grew tired of it. And her eyes...” He looks to her, spots that she is staring at him, “I miss her. I missed you.” 

“It’s strange, even though we’ve been apart for so long, I haven’t forgotten a thing,” She reaches up, tousles his hair and makes a mess of it. He doesn’t bother protesting, “You look like Father. I remember his smile, his voice.” 

“He was pretty stern.” 

“He would scold you now for bringing your little sister to a bar.” 

“My little sister can drink more than half of these men.” 

“Even so,” she’s laughing, “Let’s go home soon. You do know how uncomfortable a corset is, don’t you?” 

“You’ve been gone for years, you should be used to wearing it now.” 

She swats at him, “Don’t be an idiot.” 

He listens to her though, he goes to say goodbye to his many friends, only for there to be a sudden commotion from the entrance of the bar. Lots of greetings, loud calls of names, and laughter. He manages to catch one, and he smiles, visibly brightens as the crowd parts. 

“Arliss!” 

“Edward, you made it.” 

“I wouldn’t miss it! Nice shirt.” 

“Jealous?” 

“Of the rip in the armpit? No.” 

This leads to banter, Arliss throws an arm around his shoulders and tugs him into a headlock. But he thinks Edward is laughing too hard to take him seriously. The only thing that makes them stop is Charles and Thomas breaking through - if they got involved, it would go from friendly wrestling to an all-out bar fight. The two of them detangle for each other, only for Thomas to latch onto Edward fast, leaning close to speak to him. 

“I heard a lucky somebody managed to talk to the Council recently!” 

Others, who had been listening, immediately perk up their ears. 

Edward sheepishly says, “It’s nothing, it was just a rather quick--” 

“Tell us about it,” Charles butts in, he’s leaning his weight into the bar, tapping his hand along the top for another drink, “Who knew anybody would’ve given you the time of day?” 

Edward takes offense to that, obviously, “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means that you spout nonsense all day long,” Walter says, clinking his drink with Charles once his is refilled, “Who would sit around for that? It’s hard to listen to you with a straight face.” 

Arliss catches that look in Edward’s eye fast. There’s a few others joining in, teasing and having a good laugh at the thought. 

“Don’t you care at all?” Edward asks, he’s glaring in Walter’s direction, “Do you not care about this country?” Not that he gives Walter a chance to respond, he’s already ducking from underneath Thomas’ arm, “You all joke and kid when there’s a revolution at hand!” 

Here he goes. 

Arliss does his best to try and stop him, holding his hands up in an abiding fashion, “Edward--” 

But he does not listen, he’s stepping closer to Walter, “All your family does is fight in the streets, creating infighting between all of us when we should stand together. I told the Council and the Co-Council--” 

“Assistant Council,” Arliss reminds him. 

“--just what they needed to hear!” He turns away from Walter, who looks as if he’s visibly biting his tongue, “And I’m going to keep saying it even if I have to yell in everyone’s faces! You will hear what I have to say--” 

“And just what do you have to say?” Charles is frowning at him. 

“A proposition for new laws! New government, a chance to choose what we think! We shouldn’t just let the King and Queen do what they please with our land and our families and our money, shouldn’t there be an even split!” 

Now, Charles is quiet. Walter, too. Even Thomas has slunk off to the side, watching. And now that those three are silent, the rest are listening. This ... is good, Arliss supposes. As long as there aren’t any punches thrown or drinks tossed, he guesses he can let Edward keep going. 

“I told them about the people here, the ones who work in the slums. We want new buildings, new schools, better resources! And do you know what they propositioned?” 

Everyone is silent. 

“Slaves!” Edward blurts, “Can you believe that? What makes me better? Because my skin, because of my parents? Just who the hell do they think they are? So I realized, there’s no going to the Council, no more talking to the Senators. If we want things to be different, we do it ourselves.” 

People have began to gather around him, nursing drinks or simply watching out of curiosity. A few even appear to be paying attention. Arliss can’t really find himself to be surprised, like he said, if there’s one thing Edward is good at, it’s definitely talking. 

“How do we do that?” 

“Rebellion!” Edward is quick to say, turning in one wide arch to face the person who asked, “Revolution, of course! Joining hands, fighting together until we get progress!” 

“What’re you talking about?” 

“You’re speaking nonsense!” 

“Going up against the King and Queen, do you have a death wish?” 

“That’s the problem! They think they have control over us!” 

“They do, Edward--” 

“They think they do! Because of their military, because of their guards! If we fight back, the control’s lost!” 

“Revolt against your own kingdom?” 

“Have you gone insane?” 

“I’m not a sheep,” Edward says, “I don’t fall in line when someone tells me to! If that’s the life you want for yourself and your wives and your children, then heed by what the guards say.” 

There’s murmurs now, going back and forth until its this huge circle that has no end. Arliss can only sit back and stare, Edward climbs onto a table, he’s speaking to everyone that crowds him. Maybe it’s the atmosphere, or maybe its because most are drunk, but no one looks particularly displeased by what he’s saying. In fact, more and more are beginning to agree. 

Arliss ends up back beside his sister, crosses his arms over his chest and watches it all unfold. Everyone’s talking at once, but not over Edward. They’re listening and they’re watching, captured by this moment. It’s like for the first time, they’re really paying attention.

He finds himself smiling quietly, only glancing up when his sister moves from beside him. He blinks at the expression upon her face. And then follows her gaze. Like everyone else in the bar, she’s staring at Edward. But she’s different, her eyes have swelled up and filled her face, and she’s flushed again, smiling. 

It’s almost like ... she’s looking at Edward through Arliss’ eyes. 

Aurelia whispers to him, “That’s Edward? Your friend from before?” He wordlessly nods, “He’s...different.”

Is he? He seems the same to him. 

He looks back to Edward, and then to her face again. She hasn’t taken her eyes off him, even as he gets the bar to begin chanting. He can barely hear them over the blood in his ears, over the heartbeat in his chest. She’s looking at Edward just how their Mother used to look at their Father, when he came back home - overfilled with love and joy and relief. 

“Brother,” she looks away from Edward, her eyes are moist and excited, “Can you introduce me to him? Please?”

“But--” 

“I know, he remembers me from before, but...” She tucks her hair behind her ear in an almost shy fashion, “but...” 

“Okay,” he says. Because he is her brother and his Father’s child and he listens without question. That’s just the type of person he is, “When he’s finished with his ramblings, I’ll take you to him.” 

Her answering smile is dazzling. 

.

.

Family is what matters. That’s how it is and that’s how it shall always stay.

.

.

[unpopcorned]

.

.

day one.

.

.

Her ears are ringing.

The numbing pain on the left side of her head is the next thing that registers. She blinks, nearly cross-eyed at the blinding light in front of her. There’s a bulb hanging from the ceiling, glaring down at her. Stars erupt from behind her lids every time she blinks, and she lays there, blinking and gasping and trying to move.

After a few unsuccessful tries, she rolls onto her side. A sudden wave of nausea hits her like a truck, and she finds herself keeling over the side and puking whatever’s left in her stomach. There isn’t much - just stomach acid and water. It makes her eyes burn.

She realizes she’s on a bed, twisted within the sheets. Muscles on fire, head ringing, barfing. And wherever she is, it’s unfamiliar. Wooden walls and open windows, there’s a slight breeze coming in. The room is scarcely decorated and the bed takes up most of the room. The smell of the sheets are sweaty, tangled with her legs.

She forcibly kicks them off, sweat clings to her skin, plasters her hair to her naked back and chest.

How did she get to this place?

Who brought her here?

Where even is “here”?

It takes a moment to gather her bearings and pull herself from bed. She only has on her underwear, she can’t find her clothes anywhere on the floor and there’s no dresser in the room. It doesn’t matter, anyway. She’ll have to make do with what she has.

First, finding a weapon. And then a phone.

She skirts along the walls until she gets a good handle on walking on her own. She feels extremely weak, which means she’s probably been out of it for around three days or more. It depends.

There’s a long narrow hallway outside of the room, and she makes sure to keep her steps slow and quiet on the wooden floor. No decorations still, not even any damn pictures to know what she’s dealing with - an old ugly man in the woods preying on whoever crosses his path or a nice, homey family of six that have nothing better to do. There’s more light shining in through the main area, further down the hallway, probably from the sun.

But she’s as careful as she can possibly be, checking the door to her left. It’s a bathroom, very small and compact. And clean, no signs of her clothes. And then the room across from it - another bedroom, the bed is the same size of the one she woke up in and its spotless.

“You’re awake.” It’s a man’s voice.

Her breath gets caught in her throat. Reflexes catch up with her fast, she uses the door and pulls it out hard, catching the stranger in his front with startling strength. Now that it’s wedged between them, she has no way of getting around, and his big hand wraps around the frame, pushing harder than she could hope to.

The strength leaves her, and she turns quick to try and run, veins racing with adrenaline. He catches her around the middle with one long arm, “Let go! Let go, now!”

“Calm down,” he sounds very calm, his hold is firm but not tight, “You’ll faint if you don’t.”

“I won’t--” The words come out breathlessly, her vision buffers from a moment and comes back almost gray, “Let go...” He does just that, he allows her to crouch down and gather her breath, instructing her to place her head between her knees to help. Begrudgingly, she does what he says. After a few minutes, she feels good enough to lift her chin again. He’s staring at her.

Studying him, she comes to the quick conclusion that she’s never seen him before. He has long inky hair pulled back from his face in a ponytail, a few flyaways catching to his forehead. His eyes are big and deep, lashes impossibly long for a boy’s. And he’s younger than she thought he would be, maybe a couple years younger than herself. He has long, sinewy limbs and rough hands, he’s been working for most of his life, if not all.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

She stares at him for a long time, “Where is this?”

“My home.”

“Why would you--”

“I found you on the banks. By the river.”

The river? Her forehead crumbles, “What do--” The memories come flooding back seemingly out of nowhere. So suddenly that she instinctively cringes at the ache coming from her left ear, “The river...”

“You were bleeding,” he tells her, “From your head. At first, I thought you were dead.”

“You brought me back here,” Subconsciously, she touches her head, right where it hurts. There’s a pad bandaged there hidden beneath her bangs, her hand flinches away out of instinct from the searing pain underneath. And then she’s grimacing to herself, a chill working over her skin, “You should’ve left me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“If I looked dead, I was supposed to be.”

He doesn’t look surprised at that, “I figured,” she glances over at him, “You were hurt, I mean. It looked like someone did that to you on purpose.”

She scoffs, pushes hair back from her face, “It doesn’t matter. Here now, aren’t I?” A pause, “You didn’t have to take my clothes.”

“You were covered in blood and I had to be sure you weren’t bleeding from anywhere else.”

“Sure.”

“I didn’t touch you inappropriately, if that’s what you’re trying to imply.”

“I’m not - it’s just...” And she shakes her head, presses her lips together, “Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Julián. Yours?”

A moment of hesitation, “Nahia.”

.

.

day four.

.

.

“Hello? Is Dex there?”

“Lo siente, no te entendí?”

Shit. “Disculpe, es que de verdad necesito Dex.”

“Dex? Bueno, él no está aquí ahora.”

“But--”

“Como le dije, él no está aquí.”

The phone hangs up.

Nahia listens to the dial tone for a minute or two before she sighs and places it back on the cradle.

That’s the third time in the last forty-eight hours. As soon as she was able to walk straight, she’s been looking for a way out of here. Unfortunately for her, her savior lives in the middle of absolute nowhere, surrounded by trees and soil and wildlife.

For a moment, she leans her forehead against the wall, trying her best to focus. She couldn’t call her mother ( Nahia is positive she won’t be of much help ), Ekon is unreachable, and Dex had been AWOL for months now, she doesn’t even know why she tried.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Jesus Christ.

Julián moves like a ghost, she hadn’t even heard him come in. He’s burrowed in a flannel underneath a winter vest, scarf, and gloves. His hair is pinned back again, and he’s carrying an axe. If anyone else had come up to her with that type of weapon, she probably would’ve attacked them already. But it’s Julián, and from what she can tell, he’s as harmless as they come.

“How many times are you going to tell me that?”

“Until you understand.”

“I feel fine. You don’t have to treat me like some type of prisoner.”

“You can leave whenever you want.”

“Yeah, okay,” She shakes her head - she doesn’t feel as dizzy as days prior, “Says the guy who took the battery out of the car.”

“You were trying to steal it.”

“Then you locked away all the kitchen knives.”

“You tried to stab me yesterday.”

“And you watch me, all the time.”

He sets his jaw and only looks at her. They both know the answer to that. She’s in no shape to drive, to handle weapons, she shouldn’t even be moving. She still has points where her vision may gray at the edges when she moves too fast, her head still has that constant ringing sound within her ears, and no matter how much she drinks or eats, she can’t stand upright for more than a few minutes.

“Do you not get it?” The more frustrated she becomes, the more of her accent slips through, “I’m supposed to be dead, my own fucking people tried to kill me. I can’t stay here, if they find out--”

“No one lives near here,” he says, “You’re safe.”

“A few miles up, I saw smoke.”

“People camp.”

She clenches her teeth.

Underneath this home, there’s a shop. Julián runs it on his own, selling camping and fishing and hunting supplies to whoever decides to come this far up north, out of the city. Nahia listens to closely to whenever the bell may go off above the door downstairs, the muted speaking, and then they leave. Julián works fourteen hours a day, every day. And then he goes out back to chop wood, put it all in the fireplace, and make the two of them dinner.

“So you’re saying no one lives up here?”

“No one that would recognize you,” When she only glares at him, he elaborates,  “Not a lot of people buy property up here, because of the wildlife and weather. It is inconvenient to live so far from the city. But...I do have neighbors.”

“How many?”

“One. He has a dog. He’s not very close by, but sometimes I can hear her howling at night.”

Great. Just great. 

“I never see him. You don’t have to worry.”

That’s all she seems to do as of late - worry.

.

.

day fifteen.

.

.

“Can I help?”

Julián looks up.

She’s in his clothes, jacket and jeans that are three sizes too big on her, scarf wrapped around her neck a few times, and a hat that keeps pushing her bangs into her eyes. Her hair is a matted mess at this point, she prefers to keep it underneath something until she manages to wash it thoroughly. And she stands in the cold, breath coming out in small clouds, cheeks and nose flushed, staring up at him.

He frowns at her, “You should be resting.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“I want to help.”

He sighs, but he never becomes frustrated with her. Which has always been strange to her, because her entire life, she’s grown up with people screaming in her face. Sometimes even hitting her if they were mad enough. She’s been around angry, angry people and all they seem to do is take it out on their surroundings. Julián is always startlingly calm, his face barely cracks in emotion in the slightest, and he’s quiet.

She’s not used to that.

“Fine. Hand me that.”

He points to something at his left, there’s a toolbox sitting atop a stool. She steps over, “This?” He shakes his head, “This?” And then he nods. It’s pliers, he takes them from her and then ducks his head back underneath his hood. He’s working on something important, she can tell. He put the battery back a few days ago, he seems to trust her better now, “What’re you doing?”

He glances at her, “Do you know anything about cars?”

“Not really.”

“Then it would be pretty pointless to explain it to you.”

She almost smiles. That’s something Ekon would’ve said to her. And she’s been trying her best not to think about him. Every time she does, a throbbing ache goes through her chest. She wonders how he’s doing, if he’s okay, if he’s grieving for her. Maybe the news hasn’t gotten to him yet, but as soon as that thought crosses her mind, she wants to scoff. Ekon knows everything about everybody, all the time. He’s always five steps ahead.

“Why do you stay out here? All alone?”

“I prefer this way,” Julián tells her, he looks a tad bit frustrated. He’s trying to twist a screw or something, Nahia isn’t really curious enough to take a closer look, “It’s always been just me and my father. And now it’s just me.”

“How’d he die?”

“You talk about life and death really casually.”

She shrugs a shoulder, “It’s common in my line of work.”

“You never told me what you do.”

She pauses, considers, “I guess you could call it the funeral business.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway, how did he die?”

“He was old. And heartbroken after my mother.”

“Your mom?”

“She died when I was born.”

“So, no parents?”

“No parents.”

“Yeah - well, I don’t know my parents very well either. My mom, she probably doesn’t even miss me--” She shrugs again, “And my dad, he’s never really been around. I don’t even think he knows I exist.”

“It’s never been a good thing to be without your parents’ guidance.”

“You might be onto something there. Look where I am.” He leans back, glances over at her. He looks as if he’s thinking. So, she speaks up, “I don’t like being alone,” When Ekon and her first started seeing each other, he’d called her clingy. She thinks he was just teasing ( as teasing as Ekon could possibly get if the mood was right ), but it stuck with her. She’s never really had anyone she could hold onto, Ekon was the first, “I don’t know how you stand it.”

“It’s quiet.”

“Nothing’s ever quiet where I’m from.”

“Hm.”

In the distance, there’s the sound of a dog howling. Very far away, but still clear. Almost sounds like a wolf. It’s quiet between them again, she goes back to handing him tools whenever he asks for one, and he goes back to working on his car.

She twists her hair between two fingers, silent and staring, “Hey, Julián?”

He cocks his head in her direction, just to show that he’s listening.

“Are you any good with a pair of scissors?”

.

.

day thirty-seven. 

.

.

She’s been walking for awhile now. 

She looks forward, stops, and then behind her. The road goes on for miles and miles, she can’t even see the end of it. 

She thinks of going back, where its safe and warm, where Julián will be waiting for her, but there is nothing there for her, she’s told him time and time again. She cannot run and hide just because someone wants her gone, that’s not the type of person she is. And that’s how they are different. She has to handle herself, has to keep moving forward before she’s going the opposite way. 

Just what does he expect her to do? Wait around for them to come to her, eventually? She’d rather go to them. 

She’d taken a few of his supplies when she’d left, but didn’t have the heart to steal his truck keys. He seemed to love that car more than anything else in his home, she wasn’t completely heartless. And she’s walked on foot before, even further than this. 

Nahia keeps moving, on the side of the road, shuffling through extended weeds and branches. Overhead, the sky begins rumbling. A drop of rain touches the crown of her head and she instinctively looks up. It will starting showering soon, and with her luck, she’ll get sick. Which would only make things worse. She’ll have to continue walking, not like she has much of a choice. 

Unfortunately, not a lot of cars come down this road. She’s been walking for two days and she’s only seen two or three, all of them practically swerve on the opposite side of the street just to avoid her. Like she’s going to rob and kill them, not that they’d be wrong in thinking that. But she’s more or less gotten a chance to sort out her morals from just a month with Julián - she’s trying to consider human life a lot more seriously now, give her some points here. 

She walks alone for a few more minutes, the rain has picked up and is now growing heavier and thicker, it’s difficult to see in front of her. But there’s the beam of headlights, and they grow closer when she stops walking. Quickly, she ducks onto the side of the street, holding out her thumb in hopes they’ll stop. 

For the first time, they actually do. 

The black Charger skids to a stop a few feet away from her, and Nahia rushes to hurry over. The window rolls down, despite the rain, and she leans in to get a good look. “Hey, sweetheart,” Just her luck, it’s a guy. Around her age, dark hair and thick eyebrows and a killer smile, “What’re you doin’ out here?” 

“A little lost,” Nahia tells him, “I need a lift.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he roves his eyes up and down her with a purpose, “Get in.” 

And so, she does just that. Opens the door, the inside is leather and smells like cigarettes. Nahia is soaked to the bone, she takes her time getting settled and buckled in. Once she is, she glances in his direction, only to find him staring at her. He grins when their eyes meet, and without warning, floors it. The car jerks forward, only in a few seconds, he’s pushing sixty. 

Crazy white boy. 

“So, what’s your story?” 

Nahia eyes him, “My story.” 

“What’s a beautiful girl like you doin’ out here, hm? Hitchhiking, too...” He reaches across the dashboard, pulls open the glove department and finds a box of cigarettes. Flicking them open, grab his lighter, and inhaling. He blows out smoke in her direction, she narrows her eyes, “Wouldn’t want some type’a creep picking you up, hm?” 

She stares out the window, the trees pass by in a green blur, “I can handle myself.” 

“Lots of girls say that. Then they wind up dead,” he mutters, exhaling smoke through his nose, “So? Gonna tell me why?” 

“I told you. Need to get back to the city, that’s it.” 

“Huh. Been lost for awhile now?” 

“Hm.” 

“I’d be worried sick about you. Good thing I’m here, right?” When she looks back towards him, he’s grinning at her again. He has really nice teeth, she’d love to pull them out one by one. But Ekon’s the type for that, or maybe he’d just make Javier do it, “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” 

While he’s speaking, his hand is slowly inching its way from the gearshift and steadily towards her thigh. Nahia stares at him, “If you touch me, I’ll kill you. Seriously.” She’s maimed for much less. 

He’s still smiling, even when she says that, “Y’know, you remind me of someone.” 

“Sure.” 

“What’s your name anyway?” 

“Tell me yours first.” 

“Patrick. But you can call me Rick.” 

.

.

day sixty-eight. 

.

.

Forgive her for being a little paranoid. 

That seems to be all she knows now. As soon as she’d arrived in the city, she could practically feel the target on her back. She’d stayed holed up somewhere not far from her original home, but only because she can’t stand the thought of being too far away. It’s her sentimental side that gets in the way, that’s what Ekon always tells her. 

It’ll get her killed one day. 

She gnaws at her lip, flushed from her recent shower and hair dripping onto her shoulders. She’s all nerves, one leg bouncing and her fingers tap a rhythmic tone out on the wall. She’s thinking, weighing her options, and then she’s standing from the chair. The apartment is more or less empty, she never turns on the lights or water much, it’s ingrained in her mind to always keep them off, it’s how she grew up. 

Only use your resources when you have to. Don’t get greedy. 

As soon as she enters the sitting room, there’s shouting. 

“Mejor cuídate la espalda, maldita perra!” 

“Oh,” she barely bats an eyelash, “You haven’t bled out yet?” 

There, strapped to a chair, is Arlo. His eyes burn, stare right at her, like she’s taken to piss in his cereal this morning. But then again, he didn’t have any breakfast today, he hasn’t had anything to eat for the last three days. And that’s simply because he wouldn’t talk. Nahia isn’t the kidnap-you-and-force-you-to-talk-assassin, she’s the find-you-come-to-your-house-and-blow-your-brains-out-from-behind type. It’s very impersonal, she never even worries over the mess. She doesn’t have to get up close and personal, she doesn’t have to have blood splattered on her, she doesn’t have to seduce and destroy. 

She already naturally kills whatever she may touch. It’s what her and Ekon have in common. 

She’s been doing it for years now. Whenever her mom makes enemies, she sends Nahia to do her dirty work. Kill whoever makes her mad, cuts ties with her ( for good reason ), doesn’t fuck her right, says the wrong thing over the phone, and everything in between. Because her mother is the Queen on the pedestal, and Nahia is just the lapdog that never really sits in her lap. 

She used to be a drug mule. Because that was all she was good at the time, sneaking things over the border. In her mouth, in her stomach, in her pussy. Wherever they wanted, any way to get it to stay. Ekon was the one who told her she was more than that, made her feel like more than that. And now look at her, a kill for hire underneath her mother’s rule. She’s made way too many enemies, there’s no telling who wanted her dead. 

There may not be much she remembers from that day, but enough. She remembers Arlo’s face before things had went black. And she never forgets a face. 

He’s wiggling and squirming in the chair. Cable ties keep him strapped down though, and she doesn’t think he has the strength in him to break out of them like the last pair. It hadn’t ended well for him anyway, he’s big and clunky and silence wasn’t exactly his for te. 

“You fucking bitch, think you can--” 

She stops listening. She’s thinking about Ekon now. And she cannot help but wonder what he’s doing. If he’s thinking about her too. Paranoia had always been eating at her nerves ever since she got wrapped up in her mother’s vice grip. And it’s never left her, not for the last thirteen years. If someone was really out to kill her, she couldn’t risk it. And she would not contact Ekon until she figured out just who it was. Better for her and him, no point in pulling him into something that would only bring problems. 

She’ll handle it. 

“--fucking kill you, y’hear me? Touch me again and see what it gets you!” 

“Arlo, I just want to know one thing. I’ve asked you a billion times now.” 

“Fuck you.” 

She steps closer, between his open legs. He’s staring up at her with something akin to horror and disgust. He looks as if he wants to spit on her, he could try all he wanted, “Tell me what you know. I’ll let you go if you do.” That’s a lie, she’s done far too much damage now. There’s no letting him go, he’ll be dead as soon as he opens his mouth.

“Fuck you.” 

Eyes narrow in annoyance, she’s slow with crouching down to his height, on her knees. He’s watching her very closely now, forehead wrinkled with stress. The movement is so quick, she can tell he barely managed to catch it. One second, she’s still, and the next there’s a hunting knife embedded deep into his knee. It tears through tissue easily, shoved down far until she feels bone. 

His mouth falls open. And then he’s shouting. It’s almost animalistic-sounding. She keeps a tight grip around the handle, thrums her fingers against the side. 

“Focus. On me.” 

He’s panting loudly, wide-eyed and staring at the knife. 

“Right here, Arlo. Look at my face. Parezco una chica que te tiene miedo?” Her grasps tightens, and she’s twisting it deeper, “Do I? Look me in my face.” He’s gritting his teeth, doing just as she says, “You were there, I remember your face. You tried to kill me.” 

“Y-You were dead! You were! You stopped breathing once Dano hit you! And you - you weren’t breathing when you went in the water! You were fuckin’ dead!” 

Hit her over the head. Put her in the trunk. And dumped her body in the water. What a messy job, if they wanted to be sure, they should’ve just put a gun to the back of her head. She’ll deal with Dano later, she returns her attention to him, “Who?” 

“What--” 

“Who told you to kill me?” 

“Why would I - fuck! Fuck, fuck, stop!” 

She doesn’t. Digs the knife deeper, watches as his face contorts and twists. 

“Tell me.”

“You psycho bi--” 

“I’ll pull your fucking kneecap out. Tell me.” 

“Romina! It was Rome! It was fucking Romina!” 

And Nahia stops. 

“My mother?”

.

.

day seventy-four.

.

.

Dano’s house is way too easy to get into. 

She’s been watching him for three days now. She knows the code to the alarm, what time he pulls in, when he sleeps, and everything in between. For some reason, he likes to walk around naked. His windows are really big and wide, she doesn’t know if its some rich male alpha thing, but it’s damn annoying and gross. 

She gets inside after he falls asleep. All of his lights are off, she slinks through the darkness of his backyard, past the pool and jacuzzi ( show off ), and through a window. Inside, the place is even nicer, completely decked out. He has shitty tastes, but its obvious he has a lot of money. How much did her mom have to even pay him to get him to off her, exactly? 

She moves through the house, studies the expensive paintings on the walls. Most of them are ugly, and other ones, she thinks Ekon will like. He’s not really the showy-type, she’s always liked that about him. Nahia takes her time with moving through the house, closer and closer, she gets to his bedroom. Pulling her gun from its holster, she creeps up the stairs.

And by the time she makes it to the door, she frowns. Leaning closer, she presses her ear to the door. Inside, there’s noise. Is he fucking someone? No, she was sure he was alone when he first came in. There’s the sound of a groan, a curse, and she’s wrenching the door open, gun at the ready. 

“Oh, what the fuck?” 

Dano is there, on his back beside the bed, bleeding from the mouth. And over him, there’s a man. An unfamiliar man, she doesn’t know him, she would remember if she did. Thick, dark hair, serious eyes, and pale complexion. He’s aiming a gun straight at Dano’s head, and so she does the same, aiming it at the stranger. 

“You shoot, I shoot,” he tells her. 

“Fine by me, you’ll both be dead.” 

“Nahia?” Dano is confused, glancing between them quickly. He obviously doesn’t know which to pinpoint as the most dangerous, “What the hell?” Right, Dano had thought she were dead. If he’d been half-asleep at all, this entire confrontation would definitely wake anyone up, “What the fuck is going on?” 

“You tell me,” the stranger says, “Who’s she?” 

Dano flinches from the gun, “T-That’s Nahia--” 

“Alright, Nahia--” The stranger is now looking at her, but he keeps his gun trained on Dano, “Enough with the tough talk. You’re his guard or something like that? Lower it and I’ll spare him.” 

Like she’s falling for that. And if it’s one thing Nahia hates, it’s definitely when a kill is taken from her. This is her revenge plot, let her have a little leeway, would you? “Do I look stupid to you?” He opens his mouth, “Don’t answer that. Who even are you?” 

Dano blinks, glances back at the stranger, “Yeah...who are you?” 

“Thomas,” he says it quick, and Nahia already knows he’s lying, “Now that we have the introductions out of the way, let’s all relax, shall we?” 

Nahia fires. It misses by maybe an inch or two. But it gets the job done, Dano begins shouting and “Thomas” is glaring in her direction, “Next shot won’t miss.” 

Too bad for either of them, Dano took that chance to make his move. He suddenly stands up, full of adrenaline, and swings at Thomas. Seems as if Thomas was quick on his feet though, he surges backwards and Dano misses by a good foot. He stumbles into the wall, and that’s when Thomas takes aim and shoots him in the back of his thigh, like a mom slapping their kid on the wrist. Dano starts screaming again. 

Nahia is already over the bed, and while Thomas is distracted, she manages to clamp onto him. She gets two good punches to his face and neck before he’s forcing her off, and she’s thrown straight into the opposite wall of Dano. She’d hit her head on the way down, and for a second, things are a little fuzzy. In the scuffle, she’d dropped her gun and Thomas took his time with kicking it underneath the bed and away from her. 

Dano and Thomas exchange words, and she can’t tell what’s said, they speak such fast-paced English that she sometimes has a hard time when she can’t read expressions along with the words. 

When she stands, she attacks Thomas again, from behind. He expects it, more or less. He manages to catch her weight, twist her so they’re front to back, and she’s trapped in his arms. 

“I don’t like fighting women--” 

She doesn’t give him a chance to finish, her arm cocks back and her elbow catches him right in the stomach, and when his grip loosens, in the nose. She reaches back to break his hold, but his arm tightens around her suddenly and they’re barreling back into the wall. With their combined weight, there’s a decent crack from behind her. Without warning, he punches her, right in the face. 

Her head rings, but there’s no time to even process it. He goes to do it again, but her reflexes are quicker and she’s catching his arm with both hands, thrusting her knee up and planting it firmly in his stomach. He keels over, and of course, Dano would take that chance to try and grab her left leg. No hesitation, she brings her foot down hard on his thigh, right over the bullet wound and he screams. 

Thomas grapples her, grabbing her by her clothes and tossing her around, she goes for his stomach again with her knee, but its not enough to make him let go. He punches her right in the head, three times, and her eyesight goes blurry. Blindly, she manages to toss him off of her, he’s offbalanced from something - she’s guessing Dano got in the way again - and he ends up sprawled on his back on the floor. 

“Shit, I’m really letting myself go...” She hears him mutter, barely can hear him over the sound of her racing heart. And then he grumbles something else in another language - French? Russian? She doesn’t want to give him a chance to get up though, his strength is superior to hers and its better to get him out of the way so she can deal with Dano on her own. She straddles him, pulls her hunting knife from the back of her jeans. 

Dano makes a run for it. Because he’s a fucking idiot. And she curses, forced to launch it right into his general direction. It hits its target, lodges right in the back, he makes this inhuman sound and tumbles down the stairs. 

She doesn’t expect Thomas to grab a hold of her shoulders, force her into the dresser beside the bed. As soon as he’s up on his feet, he’s throwing the dresser over and the crushing weight lands on top of her. Once it’s on top of her, he’s already moving downstairs after Dano. Nahia tries her best to keep her head covered, and if Dano wasn’t such an idiot, it probably would’ve killed her. Besides the wood, there’s no real weight to the wardrobe, and she manages to pry herself from underneath it after a few minutes. 

She grabs her gun from underneath the bed. 

There’s blood on the staircase, she almost slips on it. There’s noise coming from the study, and she’s rushing towards it. Dano is fighting tooth and nail for his life, even as Thomas has him cornered. 

His back is to her, she takes this chance to lift her gun and shoot. But nothing happens. She tries again - nothing. By that point, Thomas has already noticed her, and this very smug look tells her that he was the one who took her ammo. He’s really smart. And quick. He makes that apparent by throwing his weight directly into her, all air sweeps from her lungs when they hit the ground, he wrestles the gun out of her hand and pins her dominant wrist with his knee. Something cracks, and the lace of pain that shoots up her arm has her gritting her teeth.

Dano tries his best to crawl away, he’s bleeding out now and he’s barely coherent. So, as soon as he’s close enough, she wrenches her knife from his back ( he yelps ), and plunges it directly into Thomas’ chest. She’d been going for his heart, but she never was good with aim when it came to her right hand. But it does the trick, Thomas cringes, blood drips onto her fingers and clothes and face as he struggles to get off of her. 

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Dano is screaming through his bloodied teeth, he goes for her, misses the first time when she stands from the floor, and then manages to get his hand around her throat. He squeezes and squeezes, his grip is surprisingly tight for a guy that’s close to death, “You fucking--” 

She twists her body around underneath him, tries her best to roll out from under him so he doesn’t crush her windpipe, but his other hand punches her right in the side. She gasps, he does it again, harder than the last. She can tastes blood now. On her stomach, she’s able to reach the gun, and even with it being empty, its still a weapon. 

She smashes his face in with it, grabbing it by the barrel when he’s off and crawling on top of him. Again and again, she brings it down to his face, watching as it becomes a bloody mess and his cries grow weaker. Thomas doesn’t give her a chance to kill him, though - he’s resilient and he’s already forced the knife out, no matter how much blood he’s lost while doing so. 

She’s surprised when her knife is suddenly in Dano’s head before she can even hit him again. She looks up, just in time to catch a boot to the face. Blood leaks from her mouth, from her nose, drips down onto her shirt and the carpet. He doesn’t give her a moment to even breathe, he grabs her by her clothes and forces her to stand, and then promptly headbutts her. 

She may as well be seeing stars at this point. 

She hears glass break, and that’s the point where she realizes he’s thrown her over Dano’s glass table. Nahia can’t breathe through her nose anymore and her eyesight is going in and out sporadically. But she somehow catches a glimpse of him coming at her again. She ducks underneath his swing, lands right into the shards of glass from the table while doing so. Fumbling, she grabs the longest piece she can find in her rush, lunges up and meets him halfway. 

The shard embeds deep into the same knife wound from earlier, into his chest. He growls, bruisingly grabs her by the throat. And she’s crawling and scratching behind her, searching for anything to help. Her hand comes across something sturdy, and in one wild motion, she swings it. The weight sends her fractured wrist ablaze, but it helps. It’s a book, and she keeps hitting him with it until he stumbles backwards into the wall. 

She’s out of breath, exhausted, covered in blood. 

And so is he. Reaching down, panting, he uses two fingers to pull the glass shard from his chest, hand slightly shaking and caked in red, “You’re...you’re pretty good.” 

“...yeah, you too.” 

“You know you’re not gonna win, though. Right?” 

Yeah, she knows. He’s too big. And she’s a shoot-from-a-distance type of girl. He’s better at fighting too, she can tell he doesn’t want to go all out on her because of what he said earlier. She’s a woman, he doesn’t fight women, “Even if you win, you’ll bleed out.” 

She’d stabbed him too close to the heart. And Dano lives too far away from the nearest hospital, he wouldn’t make it in time. And by time he does kill her, his hands would be too shaky to even stitch it up. He stares at her, chest heaving and bloody, eyes narrowed, “So, what do you want to do then?” 

“You help me, I help you.” 

He scoffs. 

“Or we’ll both die here.” 

.

.

“Your real name isn’t Thomas, is it?” 

“No.” 

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” 

“It’s Vaughan.” 

“Mine is Nahia.” 

.

.

day one-hundred-three. 

.

.

“I hate heels.” 

“Relax, you look beautiful.” 

“I hate dresses.”

“You seem to hate a lot of things.” 

“And you don’t, Vaughan?” 

“I told you, call me Thomas while we’re here.” 

“You act as if people actually know you.” 

“You’d be surprised, Nahia.” 

She’s hanging off of his arm, him draped in a black tux and her a silver dress. Both of which he paid for, she wasn’t dipping into her own savings for just a night like this. She makes sure to keep her head low whenever someone may pass them, it’s been so long since she’s been in the public eye such as this. Fortunately, her mom never took time out of her schedule to come to banquets. At least, not one planned by the Alejos family. 

“I need you to focus,” she says when Vaughan swipes a drink from a waitress’ plate. She tugs on his arm sharply, “Mr. Alejos is very important. I want to speak to him, only him. And while I am, you’re going upstairs.” 

Vaughan takes a quick sweeping glance of the large room. Mr. Alejos had obviously rented a wide venue for tonight, there’s loads of people dotting around, talking with one another, drinking, The lighting is much more brighter than what she’d prefer, but they’d have to make do, “Too many people.” 

“I’ll distract when you need to go through.” 

He raises a brow, “And how do you plan to do that?” 

“I’m young and beautiful and a woman. How do you think?” 

“Good point.” 

With that, the two of them split up. She makes her way through the crowd, nodding respectfully at whoever may greet her. It’s harder than she thought it would be to find Mr. Alejos with all the people, but his belly laugh is how she’s able to pinpoint him. There’s a group of people forming around him, all of them talking and all of them dressed in expensive clothes and all speaking over one another. 

“Mr. Alejos,” she has to push past others to get to him, “I--” 

“You look familiar,” he suddenly says. She should, it’s been ten years since she last saw him. He’s a little pudgier than she remembers, his cheeks are bigger, and his hair is turning grey. It’s a little strange to see him this way, he’s always been very strict about his weight and workout regimen, but she guesses money makes people lazy, “Have we met before?” 

“I used to work for Rome,” she tells him, giving him her prettiest smile, “We decided to go our separate ways.” 

“Good for you,” he’s smiling right back at her, moving closer, “Really, good for you! Lately, ever since her daughter died, she’s been hell-bent on reclaiming area.” 

“Her daughter died?” She blinks, “When?” 

“Tragic accident. A few months ago. I attended the funeral.” 

There was a funeral for her? She’s surprised her mother even took the time to arrange it. Her lips purse, glances over to the side to see Vaughan slink off. Glancing back towards Mr. Alejo’s, she says, “So many deaths lately. I heard Dano was found in his house.” 

Mr. Alejos shakes his head, his expression has become solemn, “Yes. And Arlo hasn’t been seen either. Did you know Sérgio passed?” 

“No,” she breathes, pressing a delicate hand to her chest. If Ekon saw her now, he would think she’s being a bad actress. Mr. Alejos falls for it though, “That’s horrible.” 

“It is life,” Mr. Alejos tells her, making a wide gesture with both of his arms. He almost spills his champagne, “With this business, I’m sure you know...” 

“I do. Actually, I was wondering...” 

“Yes?” 

“Recently, Rome moved and she’s taken all of my things with her, of course,” Mr. Alejos nods and rolls his eyes, he knows her mother very well it seems, “You know how she can be. And well, I was hoping you knew her new address. She’s so private, she hasn’t given it out to anyone but close friends.” 

Mr. Alejos eyes her for a moment or two, “I’m sorry, what was your name again, Miss?” 

“Salba,” A name of a friend from her childhood, its the first thing that comes to mind, “I’m sure she’s mentioned me before.” 

“Right. I think I’ve s--” 

Something catches her eye.

“Oh, please excuse me. Stay right there, Mr. Alejos.” He blinks at her, but she’s already picking up her dress and walking past him briskly. Through the crowd, past a few older women talking about god knows what, and through two intoxicated men that whistle at her when she goes by. Around the corner, there’s a security guard snooping around in the direction Vaughan had gone, and she immediately follows after him. 

“--saw movement towards the stairs,” he’s saying into his walkie-talkie, “Going to go check it out.”

Nahia falters for a moment, tries to think of something fast. Guess the best thing would be -

“Ow! Oh! Ow, oh no...” 

You guessed it. Damsel in distress.

It works like a charm, the guard turns around and spots her on the floor, holding her ankle. He’s quick to tuck his walkie away and jog over to her, crouching down, “Are you alright, ma’am?” 

“I’m fine - oh, it hurts...” She makes sure to cling onto him when he tries to help her up, leaning all of her weight into him, “It hurts so much.” He helps her with getting to a seat along the wall, getting on his knees to take her heel off. His hands are cool on her ankle, and when he’s focused on that, she’s anxiously glancing over towards the staircase, “Right there, it hurts right there!” 

“You may have twisted it,” he says to her, touching gently, “I tell women all the time, these heels are death traps.” 

“Death traps? You’re so funny.” 

He smiles up at her, glancing through his lashes, “You know, this is restricted area. You aren’t supposed to be over here anyway. Maybe it was fate.” 

And she’s laughing, one of those overdone high-pitched laughs that guys love because it makes them feel so funny. She touches his shoulder, smiles at him, “Fate that I break my ankle? I’d hate to hear you on the first date.” Toes curl in the palm of his hand, and his other hand wraps around her calf, trailing up. 

Oh, gross. 

Fortunately, there’s a loud crashing noise from upstairs. And it catches both of their attention. If it weren’t from the chatter into the main room or the music, she’s sure the party goers would’ve heard it as well. 

He’s quick to his feet, releasing her, “What the hell was tha--” 

She doesn’t want to have to do it, but she does. Lifting her shoe from the ground and using all her strength to strike him in the back of the head with it. He falls like a sack of rocks at her feet. Gathering her handbag and heels, she steps over him and leaves him there, climbing quickly up the staircase. 

There are many more rooms upstairs, but a lot less people. She finds the room with ease, twisting the knob and opening it, only to have it slammed shut when someone is thrust up against it. Their weight is there for a moment and then gone the next, and she forces her way inside, eyes quickly adjusting to the dim lighting. There’s two men, scuffling in the room, slamming against the bookcase in a frenzied grapple. 

Vaughan spots her first, it throws him off. The stranger manages two good solid punches to Vaughan’s gut and then mouth, which sends him sprawling over the desk in the center of the room. Again and again, his fists come down, he’s making a bloody mess of Vaughan’s mouth and nose. Nahia is fast with unbuckling her purse, pulling the pistol out and pressing the barrel to the back of his head. 

“Get off of him. Slow.” 

The man stops, he’s panting, puts his hands up slowly. His fists are raw and caked in blood. Weirdly enough, he doesn’t try pleading or asking her to put the gun down, he only says, “You’ll regret that.” 

She blinks. She knows that voice, “Danilo?” 

He tenses at his name, turns his head slightly in her direction, “Nahia?” 

Vaughan is groaning from atop the desk, peeling his eyes open to glance at them, “Nahia...?” 

“Shit!” She’s already skirting past Danilo, who’s staring at her in wonder almost, “Are you okay?” She helps with sitting him up, touching his shoulder, “What happened?” 

“He just fucking--” He gestures angrily in Danilo’s direction, “Snuck behind me.” 

“You weren’t paying attention,” Danilo scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. He’s still watching Nahia, “You--” 

“You hit hard as hell.” 

“Yes. I was trying to kill you.” 

“Danilo!” She scolds, “Is that your reaction to everything? Handling it with your fists?” 

Danilo fixes her with a look, “In most cases, yes.”

Vaughan is already reaching behind his back for his gun, “Try to hit me again, American.” When he’s angry, his accent slips into his words a lot. 

“Vaughan,” She warns, Danilo’s expression has become curious again. 

“Vaughan?” 

“Danilo,” The door opens. Nahia isn’t surprised to see Felix, but he doesn’t seem happy when he spots Danilo. There’s blood on his shirt, something Felix immediately pinpoints on. He steps closer to him, frowning, “What happened?” 

“Don’t throw a fit,” Danilo says, “It was a misunderstanding--” 

Vaughan still looks pissed, “Who the hell is this?” 

Danilo nudges his head in Felix’s direction, as if that’s enough of an introduction, “Felix.” 

“Felix?” 

“Felix, that’s Nahia--” 

“Nahia, how do you know them?” 

“The Nahia that’s supposed to be dead, yes?” 

“Exactly--” 

“Vaughan, don’t move so much.” 

This time, both Felix and Danilo look interested, “Vaughan--” 

“Vaughan.” 

One last voice that is not their own. Nahia turns her head, so does Vaughan. In the side door, there’s a woman. She is blonde, a little taller than herself, draped in all black, and staring at Vaughan like she’s never seen him before. Her lips quiver, she steps further into the room, and her forehead crumbles. 

“Vaughan?” She says again, her voice breaks, “Vaughan?” 

Before Nahia knows it, he’s off the desk, and moving towards her quickly. Like he was never hurt in the first place. At first, he seems tentative to touch the blonde woman, but after a moment of hesitation, he gathers her in his arms and she’s hugging him back with the same intensity. For some reason, the moment seems overwhelmingly private and personal and Nahia looks away fast. 

Felix is still grimacing over the blood on Danilo’s shirt, but seems to realize its Vaughan’s and not his after awhile. Though, Danilo is staring at her, right at her, arms crossed over his chest still. 

His voice is very serious when he speaks, “Want to explain?” 

She blinks up at him, “It’s a very long story.” 

He glances over in Vaughan and the girl’s direction and then back to Nahia, “We have time.” 

.

.

day one-hundred-five. 

.

.

She presses the buzzer. 

No response. 

And then again. 

Again. Again. 

“Stop pressing the damn button,” Someone sounds particularly grumpy over the intercom, “It’s four in the morning. Identify yourself.” 

“Nice to see you too, Fred,” she promptly flips the bird to the camera up above, “I didn’t know you worked this late. Ekon must have you on a tight leash.”

“Nahia?” He sounds less irritated, more shocked, “Nahia, is that you?” 

“No, I’m a ghost,” There’s no response for a long time, she almost rolls her eyes, “Open the gate. I need to talk to Ekon.” 

“But--” 

“Fred.” 

There’s a moment where he doesn’t say anything. She thinks maybe she pushed a little too far, but right when the thought crosses her mind, the gate begins opening in front of her. Nahia hesitates, slides her foot forward uncertainly, and then she’s hefting her bag higher up her shoulder. One foot in front of the other, she’s moving steadily towards the house. 

Towards home. 

.

.

She’s been gone one-hundred-five days.

Around three months, one week, six days, sixteen hours, nineteen minutes. 

And she’s missed him for every second of it. 

.

.

[unpopcorned]

.

.

Marisol still feels a bit out of her element.

Granted, she’s felt that way since she even arrived in New York. She’s a drifter, she’s never been one to stay in one place for long. Solely for the purpose to keep moving - she feels as if she doesn’t, she’ll end up like her mother, wasting away with a bunch of kids on her hip that she can’t take care of.

That’s all that’s destined for people like Marisol. She never finished high school - she was too busy in and out of foster care and scrouging together enough money to survive. And let’s not forget, scraping her intoxicated, abusive father off the driveway every morning. 

She’s always been the doer, the person who takes care of other people. Puts all of her needs and wants and dreams in this very little box and stuffs it under her bed. Everything about her is constantly on a back burner, it’s not like people take time out of her day to actually delve deeper beyond the surface. 

So, she’s taken a bit off guard when Tacito does. 

He opened his home to her, the first person that’s really shown her kindness in the dark and cold streets of this city. He’d seemed surprised to even hear how long she’s been on her own, as if it was impossible or something. She’s never really cared for the word, not when it comes to herself. 

But he’s kind. Or at least, she can tell he’s trying to be. 

He doesn’t seem up for much conversation, only speaks to her when he has to, and he hadn’t even really agreed on their living arrangement. He still won’t take her seriously when it comes to her paying him rent, he ignores it outright or he pockets the little fifty dollars she has for tips and stores it away somewhere. Marisol has to practically force it into his hand though. 

She thinks Tacito is like her. A little strange. A little pessimistic. And a little damaged. Like he’s seen too much at a young age, and now he’s this really old soul trapped in a really young body and he’s unsure of what to do. She’s felt like that before, she’s felt like that a bunch of times. 

One time, they were watching TV together, which is rare in itself. But Marisol had pretty much forced him to sit and relax after they both had a grueling day at the diner. She fixed dinner, she turned on the television, she kept enough distance between them so he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable ( because that’s what she usually thinks she does: makes him uncomfortable ). Anyway, there was this really funny joke, and Marisol had almost choked on her food. 

But when she glanced over at Tacito, just to see if he found it just as amusing, he wasn’t looking at the TV. He was staring off into space, distant and disconnected, eyes unfocused - they even looked a bit wet and glassy. And he was kneading at his forehead with one hand, eyebrows slightly pinched. He looked as if he was thinking about something kind of painful.

When she had asked what’s wrong ( maybe he had a stomach ache or his head hurt ), he brushed it off and told her not to worry over it. And that seems to be a recurring thing between them. Him telling her that it wasn’t her concern, that he was fine. His life looks like a long line of fine, like he’s forced to be okay with that. 

Or maybe she just pays attention better than her own good. 

Over the months, she’s gotten used to living with him. It’s not as strange as it had been. She remembers when she used to tiptoe around in the morning because she was unsure of when he would wake up, but was nearly startled into a heart attack when he was already up and drinking coffee. Now, she makes breakfast for them both, makes sure to pick up the dirty laundry in the bathroom, and she comes into his room sometimes - brushing her teeth fast and messily - to ask when his next shift is. 

Being here with Tacito is comfortable. And she doesn’t think she’s ever had that before. 

But . . . she still feels weird. Because there are these moments, these really small moments that shouldn’t really be anything. But they are. It keeps her up at night, more than her nightmares.

“Can’t sleep?” 

His voice makes her jump, she lifts her head and brushes hair behind her ears to see him standing behind the counter, on the opposite side of her. Staring and waiting. His eyes are very dark and very deep, she has trouble looking into them for too long. 

“Oh. Yeah. Bad dream.” 

“Me, too.” 

She remembers her mother used to always ask “what about?” when Marisol said she had a nightmare. She’s relieved Tacito doesn’t, it’s a lot of baggage she’s never in the mood to unravel. He rubs at his face, rounds the counter to open the fridge. Light bleeds into the dim kitchen for only a moment before its gone, he retrieves a beer and pops off the cap with a sigh. 

She’s staring at his hands. He notices, “Want one?” 

Marisol shakes her head. 

“Was it busy today?” 

“Yeah. And William wouldn’t stop flirting with this one table.” 

Tacito makes a face at her. 

“And I dropped a few plates around one. Coming out of my paycheck probably.” 

“Doubt it,” As rare as it is, a smile comes to his face. It’s very half-hearted and tired, but its there, “Klutz.” 

“You don’t have to call me names,” Marisol scoffs, he’s close enough where she can nudge him in the side with her elbow, “I can’t help it.” 

“Yeah. Can’t help having two left feet.” 

“Very funny.” 

“Mm,” Tacito takes another drink, scrunches his face up some. He sets it to the side after awhile, as if the appeal of alcohol had lost its luster. Marisol supposes she can understand that. It’s silent between them, Marisol leans most of her weight into the counter, “What’s wrong?” 

When she looks back up, she can see Tacito is staring at her again. Goosebumps appear on her arms, “Nothing,” A pause, “Nothing, it’s just - I’ve been thinking . . .” 

“If this is about the rent again--” 

“It’s not. Kind of.” 

“Marisol.” 

“No, I just--” She shakes her head again, “I should probably move out soon.” 

There’s another still of silence in their conversation. Tacito is staring at the side of her face with rapt attention and Marisol tries her best to school her expression decently. 

“Move out?” 

“Yes.” 

“And go where?” 

She shrugs, the movement reminds her of when she was a child. When she would get scolded and she was too ashamed to look her mother in the eye, “I don’t know yet.” 

“I think you should stay here.” 

“Tacito.” 

“I keep telling you, you’re not imposing on me. If you were, I wouldn’t have asked you to stay here. I don’t get why that’s so hard for you to understand.” 

“It’s not.” 

“I like having you here.”

Now, she’s looking at him. Tentatively raising her eyes to his, and surprisingly, his gaze is sort of tender. The hard brown has melted, become softer for less than a second but enough where she feels better. Her stomach is doing that weird thing again, flipping and turning like she’s on a rollercoaster. And suddenly, the space between them seems too close. With that thought in mind, Marisol pushes herself from the counter and stands upright. 

“Did I do something?” The question seems completely out of nowhere when it leaves his mouth. 

Marisol immediately feels bad, “No. No, you didn’t do anything - it’s not you, Tacito,” It’s always her, in every situation and in every falling out. She’s starting to believe she’s not really made for things like this, creating bonds with other people only for each one to fizzle out fast, “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about.”

“I’m being serious.”

“You’re always serious.” 

“One of us has to be.” 

Nose wrinkles towards him, and this time, she’s the one reaching for the beer. After taking a swift drink, she taps her fingers along the side in a rhythmic motion, “You’re obligated to say that.” 

“Am I?” 

“It’s because I’m always cooking for you.” 

“You burn stuff a lot.” 

“But you still eat it.” 

“To be nice.” 

“To be nice, he says.” 

Tacito looks like he wants to smile again. Marisol is thinking, teeth catching the flesh of her bottom lip and tugging for a moment. The two of them stare at each other for a while, she feels as if most moments with Tacito can stretch on for a long time. But that’s probably just her and her endless imagination. 

“You should sleep on it,” Tacito tells her, “Talk to me about it in the morning.” 

She knows it’ll be the same though. He’ll say no, and he’ll keep saying no. Because when he found her in her broke down car a few blocks away from the diner, freezing and hungry, he didn’t seem as if he was able to let that image of her go. He’s a really good guy in the end, even if he doesn’t look like he thinks so. 

She swallows and says, “William offered me--” 

Tacito looks up faster than she was expecting, “Don’t take any offers from William.” 

“Why not?” He frowns again, the earlier softness is gone. Like it was never there. Tacito is intimidating like that sometimes. The beer is forgotten, she doesn’t even want to touch it anymore at this point, “Look, I just think it’d be better if--” 

Tacito scoffs, “Better.” 

She screws her mouth to the side at his tone, it sounds condescending, “Just forget it.”

“Why’d you give that guy your tips today?” 

Oh. 

Earlier, it’d been the last customer coming in. And of course, with her luck, it’d been a guy like that. He had slid into the booth, hunched over and barely moving. He’d looked so cold, so fragile beneath his jacket. When she’d approached his table, she’d told him there was a “nice” homeless shelter a few blocks up, but he hadn’t listened. She had a feeling Tacito and William both have tossed out a bum here and there when the time demanded for it. And the guy had looked up at her, staring with these dark eyes, and it reminded her so much of when she was younger. Her father’s bourbon breath and swimming vision, their neighbor spraying him with water in the morning when she found him on her lawn, dotting in and out of foster care with her siblings and waiting for her father to finish his court summoned AA meetings for the month. She’s seen things like that, experienced things like that, shelter would be a start but it also wouldn’t be a guarantee when it came to people like him. It was another hour before the man had left, every few moments he’d take a sip of his coffee and scratch at his beard, and Marisol waited until he needed another refill. 

In the end, she’d ended up handing over her tips to him. Crumbled up ones and fives mostly, maybe a ten or twenty sprinkled here or there. After straightening the bills out to the best of her abilities, she’d handed over the wad without hesitation. 

Her head lifts, “How did you--” 

“William told me.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“It matters to me.”

“It shouldn’t--”

“People take advantage.”

“He wasn’t taking advantage of me.”

“I’m not saying he was.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Now, she’s facing him fully, eyebrows furrowed. And he’s staring back - glaring really. But not at her particularly, maybe over her shoulder, “I don’t think you should move out.”

Frustrated, she pushes hair back from her face, “Tacito--”

“Yet.”

“If not now, then when?”

“When you’re ready. You don’t have to uproot yourself because you think--”

“I don’t want to--” Both of them speak at the same time, talking over the other. And truthfully, there’s not much Marisol can say. She doesn’t know whether to be flattered or angry, but her tone sure enough sounds like the latter, “I feel like I’m taking advantage of you by being here.”

His forehead crumbles, his shoulders look tense now, “Why would you think that?”

“Because I’m not - I’m not doing anything for you. I’m not helping, I’m not...” She’s not used to depending on anyone but herself. Since she was just a girl, she’s been making do with what she has. And it’s always been that way - no one, especially no man, has extended their hand and done this much. He doesn’t even know the half of it, “I don’t want to argue about this.”

“We’re not arguing.”

Marisol gestures between the two of them, her hands brush his chest, “Then what do you call this?”

“Talking.”

She has a feeling he doesn’t talk to people a lot, because he’s very abrasive and cut-throat. And she can tell he’s trying not to be, that he’s trying to be gentle with her, “Just forget it.”

“We’re talking about it.”

“No.”

“Marisol.”

Not only is she not doing anything but . . . William had brought something to her attention earlier in the week. The clear lack of guests that came to this apartment. William had always spoke of Tacito like a prude, but Marisol never really listened. When he’d asked if she’s seen any girls over, she had to stop and think for a moment. 

But it’s none of Marisol’s business, so its not like she’s thought about it hard. But - from most of the men she’s known her life, including her father, she can’t help be used to certain behavior. A woman every night, or every other night, or three times a week. Her dad never missed a day, her brother steadily moved from woman to woman, her ex-boyfriend hadn’t been any better, and so on and so forth. 

Tacito isn’t like that, though. Tacito isn’t like any man that she’s ever met. Those kinds of thoughts never even crossed her mind when it came to him. Because he’s different, it’s just the type of person he is. Maybe he’s a little too serious for most. His deep-set eyes, the furrow of his brow, the rough skin of his hands. He’s the person you would describe as a bit too sharp around the edges. 

Or maybe he was just being nice because she was here. Maybe he didn’t want to flaunt any type of girl in front of her. A girl like Carmen. 

Carmen. She comes in every now and again, just to say hello and maybe order something with her friends when its late and no other places are open. And she’s very pretty. The long hair, the petite figure, she reminded Marisol of a lifesized Barbie. Just much more good-looking. She wasn’t plastic or too perfect either, someone you could easily dislike. She had the sweetest smile, the type of voice you would want to listen to sing from the shower or kitchen, and she once complimented Marisol’s old jeans. 

She felt like mud next to a diamond. 

Marisol isn’t oblivious. She’s not the only one who sees Carmen. Lots of guys do, whenever she comes to the diner, she turns heads. Because she’s not the type of girl you see on this side of town a lot. Tacito is one of those guys. The sparse times she does come, Tacito is one of the first to greet her. Marisol doesn’t particularly blame him. But she wishes she didn’t feel so different every time she saw it. 

She can’t even ask “what’s so great about Carmen”. That would be such a stupid question. William would probably look at her like she’s grown two heads. 

Tacito is still staring at her, and he’s even closer than before. Leaning his weight further into the conversation, eyebrows set low over his very serious eyes, “You’re not listening to me, Marisol.” 

When he says her name like that, she feels strange. All the way down to her toes, but that’s neither here or there. She remains stern, “No.” 

His mouth presses into a firm line. She takes that chance to push off of the counter, away from him and back towards her room. The kitchen is small. She brushes past him, and Marisol is very aware of the warmth exuding off of him, how the length of him presses against her for a just a moment and then its gone. 

And by the time she’s inside, she already feels like an idiot. Like a child that’s throwing a tantrum, a child that didn’t get what they want so they ran to their room. She’s tempted to grab her pillow and yell into it, even. But that wouldn’t solve anything, running away from Tacito wouldn’t either. She maybe stands there for a minute or two, trying to collect her racing thoughts, but its a useless effort.

With that thought in mind, she finds herself lifting her weight from the door and peeling it open once more. 

“Tacito, I--” 

She almost runs straight into his chest. But he steadies her. And it isn’t the first time he’s ever touched her, but it feels startling, rare. Kind of forbidden in a way. There’s always been this very thin line between them that neither of them felt the need to cross. She expects him to let her go, but Tacito always surprises her - he doesn’t. Now, she’s staring at his hand, lifting her chin to find him looking at her. 

It’s quiet, his voice almost makes her jump, “I don’t want you to leave.” 

Marisol can only hope she’s not reading too far into his words. They make her almost come to life in front of him, there’s a visible shift in her expression. Pink flushes to her neck and chest, cheeks. Carefully, she raises her eyes to his, and he’s not meeting her gaze. He’s looking at her, at her mouth. And she finds herself doing the same. 

There’s no telling who moves first. But one second, she’s staring up at him in wonder and the next, he’s closer than before. He crowds her thoroughly, and before she has time to say anything, his lips cover hers. She hasn’t been kissed in so long, the feeling is almost foreign. She’s unsure of what to do, how to move, how to even process all of this. 

His lips are warm, parts gently against her own. He pulls away before she has time to kiss back, and she’s staring up at him with big eyes, blinking fast. His face is still close to hers, “Stay.” 

Her heart, it won’t be still. It’s thriving to life in her chest, a constant tempo that somehow sounds like the syllables to his name ( “Ta” BEEP “ci” BEEP “to” BEEP ). He’s touching her, hand stays clamped to her wrist until she relaxes in front of him. She can’t say anything, she’s sure her mouth wouldn’t even be able to form the words. 

Tentatively, he lifts his hands to her face, cups her cheeks in his palms. Eyes holding hers, he leans in again. This time, she meets him halfway, leaning up and kissing him. It’s slow and gradually building, she has to pull away to breathe, and he’s trailing after her, nose presses to hers until their lips find each others again.

She doesn’t want to hold still anymore, hands trail up to his shoulders, bunch into the material of his shirt. She’s pulling him closer to her, kissing him as hard as she can in that moment. Fingers drag from her face to her nape, lingering there for only a few seconds before fisting into her hair. 

His kiss leaves her gasping against his mouth, it grows deeper and wetter, and she’s struggling to keep up with him. Moan is urged from her throat when he delves deeper, like he’s trying to find the end of her and he isn’t satisfied with just that. He doesn’t need anymore initiative than that. Fingers leave her hair, trail down to her shoulders, testing the soft firmness of her muscles, and to her back. Sweeps underside her bottom, palm catches swift to her thigh. She catches the hint, presses up to twist around him.

She fits well into his arms, she notices. It almost seems like a dream, she kind of wants to pry herself off just to pinch her arm. Just to be sure. But his kiss makes it hard to think, and she’s kissing back with an intensity that surprises her. 

His palms are warm underneath her thighs, fingers inching higher. He’s moving further into the room, somehow they find their way to the bed that’s a mess of blankets and pillows. As soon as she has a second to move, she’s pulling away for only a moment to help him with his shirt. It’s removed fast, thrown in a vague direction towards the corner. 

And then they’re back on each other. 

She wants to touch him so bad, it’s been that way for months. And now, it’s tearing through her, makes trembling fingers reach out and do just that. He’s so warm, every inch of him, and she curls her arms around him, pulling in him even closer. Hard-muscle, pretty skin, and his scent - she always could smell his bodywash really well after he showered. But now, she’s practically suffocated by it, inhaling deeply through her nose so she can commit it to memory, at the very least. 

She doesn’t think she’ll have another chance for this. It’s already a little surreal that it’s even happening. 

Her heart is racing, pricking beneath her skin. She’s so aware of him, his kiss is enough to make her curl up into him, thighs ensnaring his hips to keep him still, fingers shifting to run through his hair. Marisol tips her head back to deepen the kiss, and that’s when they part again. 

He doesn’t give her a chance to say anything, he’s already ducking down, breath warm and kisses lingering on her throat. He finds a particularly good spot below her jaw, Marisol shifts her hips up, restless. He makes a sound underneath his breath, her ears almost perk up. She can feel him, pressing into her thigh subtly. It sends a dart of heat up her spine fast, it’s been awhile since she’s incited that reaction for anyone. 

Her clothes suddenly feel restrictive, sticking to her and suffocating. She wants to touch more of his skin, feel more of him. And she makes that apparent by clenching a hand tighter in his hair, kissing him as if she’s starved. Free hand roams over his back, she can feel every bow of his bones as he moves, the stretch of his muscles. 

He only pulls back to breathe, forehead presses to hers, eyes meet in the dimly lit room. He looks as if he wants to say something, but she’s afraid words will shatter whatever this is, whatever gave him the guts to touch her this way. She doesn’t want it to stop, not at all. 

“It’s okay,” she swallows, throat tight. Leg lifts, twists tighter around him, “Tacito, let me...” He gets the idea, gives her plenty of room to sit up and pull her t-shirt off, it goes straight into the trailing pile. Lips meet again, she’s touching him as much as she can - hands trail from his back, to his shoulders, to frame his face, down lower to pull down his sweats as far as they can go in this position and his underwear is next. 

Her panties are just barely off her ankle when she feels Tacito’s fingers. She inhales sharply, muscles tensing as his thumb swipes over. It comes to her attention that she hasn’t shaved in awhile, hasn’t even thought about it. And now, she feels a bit sheepish. Tacito - being Tacito - surprises her, he’s leaning forward, kissing her deftly, and one of his fingers slides in with little to no resistance. 

He pries her thighs apart when she tries to close them instinctively on his hand. She’s gasping into his kiss, eyes blown wide, grasping at him the best she can in the moment. Because it has definitely been awhile - since something like this has happened, since she’s been touched, since she’s felt wanted. The touch of him, the smell of him - it’s almost too much. 

Air becomes scarce around her, breath caught in her throat when he leaves her lips to trail further down. He kisses underneath her jaw, sucks and licks, a light lingering touch of his teeth, and another finger is added. He pushes deeper, as if he’s searching for something, curling his fingers when he finds it. 

She fumbles for a moment, reaching down and taking a hold of him in her hand. And Tacito grunts between his teeth, movements stuttering for only a short while. She touches him in an almost languid fashion, thumb brushing over the tip before she moves down. His fingers inside of her twist and curl again, and she breathes out a moan against his mouth, lashes lifting so her eyes can find his in the dark. 

With one look, he pulls from inside her, gripping her hips in both of his hands to tug her closer. There’s no sound besides their breathing, she’s panting, wrapping her arms around his waist and trailing her fingers lower over his backside to press into the flesh, urging him forward. Legs wrap around him, steady. 

He’s nudging into her slowly, head sliding over her clit with one smooth motion. She’s wet enough that it leaves her moaning underneath him, hips lifting subtly, muscles in her stomach clenched tight. He sinks in inch by inch, as if he’s trying to be careful with her. It takes a little while for him to start moving, he has a wide girth that she’s not used to, and the stretch is almost a little uncomfortable. 

But she doesn’t care, not in this moment. She’s kissing at his neck, tastes his sweat on her lips. Because it feels so good, she doesn’t want to think about anything else. He moves and its his own rhythm, slow and deep, he presses hard against the spot he’d been focusing on earlier and it leaves her moaning breathlessly below him, nails digging in his hips to force him deeper. 

“That’s...that’s good...that feels good,” she tells him, she’s a jumbled mess of words and his name, but she doesn’t have any energy to waste to worry over that. She looks down between them, he’s as deep as he can go, pulling out and pressing his way right back in, “So good...”

“Fuck,” he’s cursing under his breath, gathering her underneath her thighs and pulling her into him. He slides even deeper with the new angle, she can’t keep anymore noises to herself even if she tried. Forehead creases, flush appears to her skin, she’s twined around him tight. Her fingers sink into his hair, cradle his face to hers for another kiss that he’s happy to oblige. 

He rubs just right inside of her, she’s weak in the legs, practically putty in his hands. She lets him set the pace, slow and steady, holding her still. She’s reduced to words of “right there” and “oh, Tacito” and “please”, before she knows it. 

Her orgasm isn’t sudden, it’s building and coaxes through her warmly. From her stomach, kneading into her muscles. She grows stiff and then lax, small kisses pressed to the expanse of his throat as his thrusts grow faster. 

“Marisol--” 

“I’m...It’s fine, go ahead,” she’s whispering into his ear, voice breathless from his growing urgency. Warm palms explore the expanse of his back, up to his nape and bury into his hair again, “You can...inside...” 

He doesn’t need anymore than that, he cums inside of her, and she holds him still there, ankles twisted with his calves, listens to him curse and groan into her hair until he’s spent. He keeps moving for a few seconds, as if he’s trying to keep it on for as long as he can. 

He’s just as out of breath as she is, sweaty and sated. And it’s quiet, way too quiet after something as sudden as that. The blush is back, trailing from her ears and down her neck and flooding into her face. 

She can’t possibly look at him. And she doesn’t, even as he pulls back and brushes hair from her face. She guesses this is what her friend Jela always meant when she said sex just happens - one second you’re talking and the next your clothes are on the floor. This doesn’t feel like that though, it’s different. And her heart is still hammering away, so loudly that she thinks that Tacito must hear it. 

Teeth press into her lip in thought, and hesitantly, she lifts her eyes to his. He’s watching her closely, leaning forward after a moment to kiss the corner of her mouth. Then he’s pulling out, she almost doesn’t want him to, almost wants to be with him again so soon after. 

But - 

She wants to say something, anything. Her voice gets caught, and he looks at her, pushing hair past her shoulders and she can’t keep herself from touching him, fingers brushing his temple and then to his cheek before it falls away. He seems to read her very well, forehead touches hers, “We can talk in the morning.”

She’s thankful for Tacito sometimes, because he seems to understand. She sleeps beside him that night, fits perfectly into the crook of his arm, and her eyes flutter shut fast. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take long to sleep at all. 

And in the morning, she feels weirdly comfortable and refreshed. She’s still nestled into his side, and when she peels open her eyes, he’s fast asleep beside her. His hair is a mess upon his head, his expression is peaceful, and from further inspection, she can see a hickey on his neck. She almost flushes red then and there. 

With one glance at the clock, she can read that it’s almost ten. And her shift wasn’t until noon. Still, she’s careful with sitting up, shifting his arm from atop of her. She almost winces once she’s upright - she’s a little sore, which shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. Just when was the last time she actually had sex and it lasted more than two minutes? 

Her last boyfriend had told her she reminded him of the whining cats outside his apartment when they had drunken sex. So, she’s been trying to keep to herself as much as possible these days. Not like its hard. 

Embarrassed, she glances back at Tacito. He’s still asleep, chest rising and falling with a slow tempo. Cautiously, she stands from the bed, taking one more look at the clock, only to trip over a piece of clothing on the floor. She lands on her face, hard. And makes a lot of noise doing so. With her luck, of course she wakes Tacito up. 

“You okay?” His voice is deep and rough in the morning, it does stuff to her stomach, “Marisol?” 

“Oh! Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, scrabbling to get on her hands and knees, and then going red when she realizes she’s still naked. She grabs her panties from the floor, its the first thing she spots, and struggles to pull them up, “I’m fine. Great! Good morning.” 

“Morning,” he’s watching her, she can feel his eyes burning into her back, “Why’re you getting dressed?” 

For some reason, his question makes her blink. Timidly, she glances over her shoulder to see he’s not looking at her face, but somewhere lower down. Towards her hips and thighs, it makes the blush spread, “I...I, uh...have work?” 

“It’s barely ten.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, William wanted me to come in earlier.” The lie tastes gross on her tongue. She begins searching for her shirt, just so she won’t have to look him in the eye.

“Don’t,” Tacito says, “He can handle whatever it is. Stay here.” 

“I couldn’t do that, Tacito, What if he needs my--” She doesn’t get to finish, though. Because grabs her wrist, pulls her back to him. She’s bra-less, and he’s naked in bed. But he’s staring up at her face like its natural, like they’ve done this before. Their eyes meet, “I just...” 

“We need to talk.” 

“Can we do it later?” 

“Marisol.” 

“I just think...I think last night we just...it was...” 

His eyebrows lift. 

It was good. It was great. It was really - 

Her eyelashes lower, gaze flickers away from his. She’s chewing at her bottom lip, “I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to,” he doesn’t say anything and she’s too cowardly to look in him in the eye now, “I know you like Carmen. And I don’t....I don’t want to make you, you know. Just because I like you, you don’t have to--” 

“Marisol,” his hand tightens around her wrist. When she looks up to his face, his eyebrows have furrowed and he’s grimacing, “What’re you--” 

“I already know. You don’t have to say anything.” 

“--talking about--” 

“I’m going to go to work and,” she somehow manages to pull herself free. There’s no point looking for her clothes, so she just tries to leave with as much dignity as she possibly can without a shirt, “Thanks for last night, but - we can forget about it, if you want.” 

“What--” 

“I’ll see you later, okay? I’ll bring back something for dinner!” 

“Marisol!” 

The door closes behind her. 

.

.

[unpopcorned]

.

.

“How would thee count the stars?”

No response. 

“I said, how would thee count the stars?” 

Nothing.

Khalil looks as if he’s close to having a migraine, “Hayden, say your lines.” 

Hayden looks up, surprised to see that pretty much everyone in the room is looking at her. The Drama Teacher - Mrs. Reed - Khalil, Jade, Nate, and the rest of the theater kids. One glance down to her paper, Hayden can see that she was indeed next. Nate, in front of her, is giving her the stink eye. 

So, raising her voice, she says, “By only one and two and three--” Her eyebrows crease, she looks towards Khalil for help, “Do I have to count all the way to ten?” 

“Do what you think is best, Miss Winters,” Mrs. Reed tells her, hands on her hips, “Improvise.” 

She’s guessing that means she doesn’t have to. Hayden looks back down towards the paper, “By only one...and two and three. If you were ask for more, I would not be able to...bear the weight...? My body is weightless, as in - Bethany falls to the floor to show her distress - do I have to fall to the floor?” 

This time, Khalil speaks up, “Yes, Hayden. Fall to the floor.” 

Hayden hesitates for only a moment. She has something to do after this, she doesn’t want to get her clothes dirty. But, she falls to her knees first ( carefully, of course ), curling her legs underneath her before lying on her side. Nate is giving her an even worse look, throws an exasperated glance in Khalil’s direction. Her friend only makes a ‘go-ahead’ motion with his hand. 

Nate, knowing his lines far better than her, continues, “Oh, beloved, you must feel what I harbor for you. Your loves pricks thy heart like a stubborn rose, and I can only fall for each one,” And then Nate is on the floor with her, much more graceful and dramatic with it, “Each night I pray and wonder, why thee love hurts the most.” 

Hayden sits up straight after a moment, “I don’t like being on the floor. It’s cold.” 

“The rest of the scene is on the floor, Hayden,” Khalil says, he’s standing from his chair now - his own script is sticking out of the back of his jeans, “We can’t make anymore changes,” He steps onto the stage next, and Hayden takes that as a chance to stand. Nate appears disgruntled, but he does the same, “If we do, we won’t be able to start doing costume rehearsal next week. I’m not pushing it back anymore.” 

Hayden could forget how bossy Khalil could get. He was one of the leads in almost every play Mrs. Reed put on. This time, he decided to go a more backseat approach and keep to a stage manager presence. Still, he drafted almost every scene, he took care of lighting, and he was always on time for rehearsal. Hayden can’t help but wonder how he manages it all - schoolwork, rehearsal, and band practice. 

“What do you expect?” Jade mutters from the end of the stage, she’s sitting cross-legged, “Hayden is a replacement. You can’t expect her to get it all in three days.” 

“She can’t act!” Nate’s voice has become high-pitched, as if that statement has been sitting on his chest for weeks now, “We should just call Jessica. If you just talked to her nicely--” 

“I’m not going to baby her,” Khalil’s tone is final, he even crosses his arms, “If she wants to be a diva and hold up production, then there should be a replacement.” 

“Hayden is nothing like the character,” Nate isn’t finished, “She’s...” He looks towards Hayden, catches her beginning to doodle on her script with a yellow highlighter, “It isn’t going to work. Bethany’s character is described as--” 

“Hardworking, attentive, beautiful,” Khalil names off each with his fingers, “Hayden’s all those things.” 

“Let’s agree to disagree,” Nate makes a face at him, “we should’ve held auditions. Cast understudies.” 

“Understudies are for people with no talent,” Jade pipes in, looks a little too amused to watch them go back and forth, “If you want to quit, Nathaniel...” 

“I’m not,” Nate presses his lips together, trying to control his tone, “I’m not quitting. It’s just...Johnathan and Bethany are supposed to have chemistry. Do you see anything like that with me and Hayden?” 

“No,” Khalil shrugs a shoulder, “But you could try a little harder.”

Hayden isn’t paying attention, she’s stopped doodling on her script, and is now paying close attention to her shoes. She draws stars on them, big stars and little stars, she wishes she’d had more colors. Tonight, she’ll probably wash them so her mother won’t complain. With one glance, she can see they are all still arguing, Jade has joined in now and Nate is growing red in the face. Well, she wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t for Khalil - Nate was right about one thing, she was nothing like the character. Even if they put her in a wig and dress ( which they would be doing when they started costume rehearsals ) she wouldn’t come close. After Jessica had thrown a fit and decided to quit in the middle of production, Khalil had come to Hayden with the favor. 

She supposes she still owed him for last time. 

“--fine! Fine,” Nate is huffing, moving past Jade and Khalil both, “This is unprofessional.” He ducks behind the curtain, Mrs. Reed looks worried and she goes to follow after. 

Khalil rolls his eyes, turns to face Hayden, “Don’t listen to him,” ( she wasn’t ), “He’ll get used to it.” 

Jade snorts, mutters something under her breath that Hayden can’t catch, “He’s a drama queen. Always begging for attention. If I could try out for guy roles, I would’ve taken Johnathan. I gotta bigger dick than Nate, trust me.” 

Khalil nudges her, even when she keeps laughing, “Go and see if you can find Peter, I need help with the lighting later. The orange and yellow are too bright,” When she is gone too, he returns his attention to Hayden, “You’re doing a good job, don’t worry about it.” 

She doesn’t think that. She doesn’t think she’s a very good actress, it reminds her of lying. Which she is also bad at. But she shrugs her shoulders a bit helplessly, “I’ll practice more tonight.” 

“I thought you had a date.” 

Hayden blinks at that, seeming to recall, “Oh--” 

“Hayden!” The call of her name is from the side of the room, towards the two main doors. Hayden and Khalil both look up and over, find Luis standing there. He heaves his book bag up higher on his shoulder, looks fairly annoyed, “You comin’?” 

“Hey, what did I tell you?” Khalil points a finger at Luis, “No interrupting rehearsal.” 

Luis flips him off, “Fucking bite me, asshole. You’ve been in here for two hours, it takes you this long just to figure out your lines?” Khalil starts to say something back, Luis doesn’t let him, “Hayden, let’s go.”

When Luis is in a bad mood, it isn’t very wise to say no to him. She stands from her spot, grabbing her script and backpack on the way down. Khalil says after her, “Thursday, same time, Hayden.” She’s nodding, even when Luis takes her arm and drags her out of the auditorium. 

Luis seems talkative, she notices it only a few seconds in, “I was thinking, since we’re going to be covering the song anyway, we should get Khalil to try and change the sound. Lyle’s been--” 

“I can’t practice today,” Hayden tells him quietly, lingering when they stop at his locker for something, “I have something to do.” 

“Like what?” Luis gives her a dirty look, “Don’t tell me you’re meeting with that guy again. You like him or something?” 

“Luis,” she says, “we’re dating.” 

“You don’t even know him,” he slams his locker closed with far more force than necessary, “He’s probably playin’ you.” 

Hayden hesitates before following him - because that hurt a little, “...he’s not. And I know enough.” 

“Like what?” 

“He likes soccer.” 

“Yeah, that’s fuckin’ obvious. Probably all the meat-head talks about.” 

“He likes movies.” 

“Who doesn’t?” 

“He likes studying.” 

“Whatever--” 

“He likes me.” 

That makes Luis stop for a moment, he turns to look at her, must spot a bit of frustration because he sighs, looks off to the side, “I’m just sayin’ - I’ve never met him.” 

“Because you don’t want to.” 

“I’m your best fucking friend, he should extend some courtesy to me.” 

“Courtesy?” 

“Yeah - buy me a fucking fruit basket or somethin’.” 

They stop as they get closer to the practicing room, Lyle and Finn are already inside, bickering over something. Hayden rocks on her heels and toes, stares at Luis as he seems to think, “Fine, I’ll let you skip this last time. But no more after this - you guys need’a go on dates every day or something? It’s fucking weird.” 

Hayden’s lips tilt up at the corners, “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Sure.” 

Hayden ends up going alone. And the walk is pretty uneventful, she keeps her headphones on and the music loud enough to drown out any noise. She waits in her usual spot, only looking up when her headphones are tugged on gently. Pulling them from around her head, she lets it rest upon her neck. 

Hayden can’t help but smile when she sees him, “Hi.” 

Andrew looks a bit winded, she hopes he didn’t rush to get here, “Hey. Sorry, I’m late - practice ran a bit longer--” He stops talking when she reaches out, takes his hand in her much smaller one, “My bad.” Still, a smile blooms across his face at the contact, and he doesn’t shy away from her. 

“It’s okay.”

Around thirty minutes later, they sit together on a bench, both with ice cream cones. Hayden had chosen strawberry with sprinkles, and she wishes she hadn’t because the sprinkles had a bitter aftertaste. Andrew lets her try some of his, helps her with cleaning her face when she smudged chocolate onto her nose. He looks at her almost strangely ( or, it seems strange to her ), affectionately maybe. 

And it makes her feel a little weird - like this light feeling inside of her chest that won’t go away. She feels as if she may float away sometimes. 

“Did you have fun at practice?” 

Andrew looks up at the question, “Oh. Yeah, I guess.” 

“What’s wrong?” She tilts her head some, he blinks at the question, “Did something happen?” 

“No - just...sometimes, the guys can be at odds when they’re frustrated. It doesn’t help that...Osmond is so headstrong too. I try to keep things easy, but when you’re training so much and you’re stuck with the same guys all day...I guess sometimes things can be frustrating,” He stops there, seems to consider his words, “You know what I mean?” 

“Sometimes Khalil and Luis argue. When we’re practicing. Is that the same thing?” 

“Yeah, just like that,” There’s a small break in their conversation, not because they are bored or are too busy to talk, but because silence is always welcomed between them. It’s not awkward or strange, Hayden likes that she can still think when she’s around Andrew. That he gives her opportunity to speak whenever she pleases, “When’s the next time you guys are playing?” 

“Hm?” She looks up from her ice cream, her fingers are getting sticky. 

“Your band.” 

“Oh,” Hayden frowns some, shifts in her seat, “Khalil has been really busy with...the play. And I’m in it now--” 

“You’re in a play?” He sounds surprised, staring at her now, “When is it?” 

“Not until next month. Khalil doesn’t cast understudies, so he asked me to take the lead role for him. The character’s name is Bethany,” and then her nose wrinkles up some, “But I’m nothing like her. I don’t think.” 

Andrew is watching her a bit fondly, “What’s so different between you and Bethany?” 

“Well,” she thinks on it, licks at her thumb to get some of the ice cream off, “she talks differently from me. And...she’s smiling all the time. And she has really, really long hair. Khalil is making me wear a wig, since before Jessica had long hair.” 

“A wig?” Andrew frowns now, he’s done with his cone so he chucks it into the nearby trash, “Did you tell him you don’t need one? A wig, I mean.” 

“Yeah, but he says I do,” Andrew doesn’t seem pleased with that, but he more or less keeps it to himself, “He wants me to look like Bethany, at least. Jessica looked more like her than I do.” 

“You look fine,” Andrew reassures her. And he does that a lot. Though, it seems, a lot of people disagree with him. Nate, her mother, most of the people in school. Hayden’s ears feel warm, she looks back down at her ice cream, rocks her legs back and forth underneath her. 

“I wanted to ask you something.” 

Andrew reclaims his seat next to her, a little closer than before, “Okay. Go ahead.” 

“My mom...” Hayden trails off at first, she feels a little nervous. Which should be silly, but she supposes it’s normal, “My mom really wants to meet you. My dad, too. And they wanted you to come to dinner on Thursday.” 

Andrew doesn’t say anything for a moment. 

So, Hayden opens her mouth again, “You don’t have to--” 

“Really?” To her surprise, he looks a little - excited, “Your parents want to meet me? You want me to?” Hayden nods, she doesn’t know why that would come as a shock, “Thursday is good. Thursday is perfect, actually.” 

“Really? You don’t have practice?” 

“No. No, it’s fine. I’ll definitely be there.” 

And Hayden’s shoulders relax, she smiles some, “Okay.” 

.

.

“So what’s he like?” Hayden looks up at the question, blinks for a moment. As if Urja can tell she’s confused by the question, she smiles, “Andrew. I haven’t gotten to meet him.”

Hayden thinks about it. What was Andrew like - she thinks of him very fondly whenever he’s brought up. Her expression softens after a moment, and she scribbles at the edge of her notebook in thought, “I guess he’s--” 

“He’s great,” Imogen butts in, leaning towards the both of them, “Andrew never dates, I didn’t know Hayden was his type.” 

“Type,” Jade pipes in, raises her eyebrows high on her forehead, “Do rich people hear themselves talk?” 

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Imogen says, rolling her eyes, “I only meant that the last girl Andrew dated - well, she was nothing like Hayden. Which is a good thing in my opinion.” 

Hayden grows curious, she’s watching Imogen now, “What was she like?” 

“Point is, it’s a good thing they broke up,” Imogen tells her, tossing dirty blonde hair over her shoulder, “He’s better off.” The four of them sit together in Hayden’s room - with all of the people, it seems a bit cramped now. Jade had commented on the lack of decoration ( and she’d said it looked like the room had been put together by a twelve-year-old, and well, Hayden guesses that’s right since the last time she’d decorated her room was when she was ten - but only because she never left it ). Now, all four of them worked on their schoolwork - besides Imogen, she’d finished hers much earlier. 

Jade stays on the bed, leaning forward to be able to hear their conversation. And Urja stays beside Hayden, on her back and hair spread out around her like a dark halo. Sometimes, Hayden feels like the odd girl out, they seem to know a lot more about being - normal maybe, was that the right word? 

She bets Jade’s parents don’t argue. And she’s sure Imogen has kissed a few boys before. And she’s absolutely certain that guys don’t mistake Urja for a boy all the time. But she keeps her thoughts to herself - she’s never been so self-conscious of herself, not since meeting Andrew. She wonders what type of girls he’s dated before. 

“Have you kissed him yet?” Imogen asks, the question reminds Hayden of her mom for some reason. In reply, Hayden shakes her head silently. Imogen’s mouth falls open, “What? No way - he hasn’t made a move on you?”

Jade pulls a face, “Can this conversation get any straighter?” 

Imogen ignores her, “Well - it is Andrew we’re talking about here. He’s the perfect gentleman, all the time,” She thinks on it for a few seconds, “You might have to just kiss him. I mean, you do want to kiss him, right?” 

Hayden blinks again, “I’ve never kissed anyone.”

There’s a beat of silence, Imogen is staring at her, Urja has slightly sat up, and Jade looks interested now. Jade is the first to speak up, an impish grin coming across her face, “I could show you.”

Imogen speaks up next, “Really? Never?”

“It’s not that surprising,” Urja gets comfortable again, touches Hayden’s knee briefly, “And it’s not a big deal, Hayden. Trust me.” 

“Lemme guess,” Jade interjects, amused, “You’ve never kissed anyone either, Urja.” 

Urja ducks her chin, “I mean - no. But that’s not important. It’s not important. Boys aren’t important, in general.”

“I guess so,” Jade concedes, shrugging her shoulders. 

Imogen huffs at the both of them. Hayden watches, quiet. And then she says, “Do you like kissing Osmond?” Imogen looks taken aback by the question, Urja raises her eyebrows, “You’re dating him, right? So you kiss him.” 

Imogen pulls a face. For the first time, she doesn’t seem to like the spotlight. She pulls at a loose thread on Hayden’s floral-printed rug, shrugs one shoulder, “It’s...nice, I guess. I mean, he’s not bad at it, you know?” 

Hayden doesn’t know. 

Jade wrinkles up her nose, “Guys kiss like wet dogs.” 

“Not Osmond,” Imogen states, “If the right guy is kissing you, trust me - you’ll like it.” 

“And if the right girl is kissing you--” 

Imogen faces her, “Thanks for the input, Jade.” Jade only sticks her tongue out at her. 

Hayden hadn’t really thought about it - kissing Andrew. It was like a foreign concept, uncharted territory. She’d never been interested with those kinds of things, never really crossed her mind. But she guesses it isn’t that bad to think about, not if it’s Andrew. Her stomach feels warm, so do her ears. She’s so distracted that she almost misses the sudden fixation on her bedroom window. Urja jerks upright in a sitting position, Jade is frowning, and Imogen looks alarmed. 

“Someone tapped on the window,” she whispers to Hayden, “What kind of--” 

“Maybe it’s a pervert,” Jade says, though she doesn’t seem that fazed by it. 

“In this neighborhood?” Urja mutters, “Likely. Very likely.” 

Hayden is the only one who isn’t that bothered. She stares over at the window, sitting up straighter when she spots the face peering back at her, “Luis,” she stands from her spot, crosses the room to get to her window and unlock it. When it’s pulled open, she speaks, “You could fall.” Her room was on the second floor, after all. 

“Lemme in,” Luis grunts, and without waiting for her permission, he pulls himself inside of the room. Hayden moves aside to give him room, the girls are staring now, “Hell took you so long--” When he notices the others in the room, his frown deepens, “Fuck is this? A slumber party?” 

“Oh,” Imogen admonishes, “What’s he doing here?” 

Urja looks surprised to see him, holds her textbook close to her chest, “Luis?” 

“Oh, great,” Jade mumbles, “Just what we needed.” 

Luis looks around, spots the backpacks and textbooks all over the floor. He kicks pointedly at Jade’s bag, which she protests at, “You buddy-buddy now?” He directs the question towards Hayden, she looks up at him. He appears irritated, she doesn’t know why, “I need to--” 

“Girls? Everybody decent?”

Hayden starts - her father’s voice is just outside the room, very close to the door. Jade makes a face, Imogen stands, and Urja throws a panicked glance towards Luis, “Hide!” She whispers quickly, pushing herself up on her knees to point towards Hayden’s bed, “Get under.” 

“What--” Luis looks offended that she would even say that, “No fucking way.” 

The girls don’t give him much of a choice. Hayden is quiet while Imogen and Urja work together cramming her friend underneath her twin bed. Trying to make the covers look as neat as possible ( and cover Luis ), Urja turns back to her book, Imogen reclaims her spot on the floor, and Jade picks listlessly at her nails. 

“Girls? Hello?” 

Hayden looks towards the door, “You can come in, dad.” 

He does, peeking inside tentatively before he offers a smile, “You guys still doing homework?” Her dad seems happy to have people over - a distraction, if anything. It’s really rare for Hayden to invite students to her home, especially girls. He places his hands over his hips, looking around, “Anyone staying for dinner? I can whip up something.” 

“Uh--” Imogen exchanges a look with Jade, “Actually, Mr. Winters, I have to get home soon. I have swim practice in the morning.” 

“You’re heading out?” Jade pipes in, “Mind dropping me off at home?” Imogen shrugs a shoulder, nonplussed, “Then I better get going too.”

“Yeah,” Urja says, “My dad will start to worry if I’m not back by nine.” 

“Oh,” he watches them all gather their things, doesn’t seem that upset over it, “Well, alright. Come back anytime, really. I’ll make my world famous tacos, huh? How does that sound?” 

Imogen cracks a bit of a grin as she stands in the doorway, “That sounds really nice, Mr. Winters.” 

“I love food, especially free food,” Jade tells him, “So count me in.” Urja merely nods along with Jade, glancing over Mr. Winters’ shoulder to stare at Hayden’s bed. Hayden follows her gaze, spots Luis poking his head out. When he notices her staring, he lifts his head, hitting it sharply against the bottom of her bed. 

“Ow!” 

Hayden’s father looks up, turns his head. Hayden stares back at him, expression neutral.

“You okay, sweetheart?” 

She blinks. And then nods, “...yeah. Bit my tongue.” 

Jade looks close to laughing. When her dad walks them to the door, Urja lingers behind, looks at Hayden, “See you tomorrow?” Hayden merely nods, she looks at Hayden’s bed next, “See you, Luis.” 

There’s a muffled reply from underneath, and she’s soon following the rest of the girls out. When they are gone, her dad comes back upstairs to her room, keeping by the doorway, “I didn’t know you had so many friends.” Hayden doesn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not, “You should invite them over more often, it’d make your mom happy.” 

Hayden only nods her head again. 

His eyes drift from her, and something catches his attention fast, “Oh, Hayden, don’t leave your window open,” he crosses the room, past her, and closes the window firmly before returning his attention to her, “Don’t want anyone peeking in, okay?” Again, another nod. He smiles, “You said Andrew will come Thursday, right?” 

“Oh,” Hayden murmurs - she didn’t think he would remember. It was more pressing for her mom, though, “Yeah. I think he’s excited to meet you guys.” 

His smile widens, “Let’s hope we make a good impression.” 

Yeah. She’s hoping that, too. 

When he finally leaves and closes her door, Hayden gets down to her knees, crouching beside her bed and pulling up the comforter. Luis stares back at her, agitated. She helps him up, mumbling an apology. Luis doesn’t linger on that, “Fancy guy is coming to your house?” 

“You mean Andrew? Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“To meet my parents.” 

“Yeah - why?” 

Hayden only tilts her head at him. 

“I’m just sayin’. It’s only been a month, ain’t you guys moving a little fast?” 

“I don’t think so. My mom’s been asking to meet him for the last couple weeks.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Yeah. Sure,” he stops there, considering her for a few seconds, “You really like him?” Hayden nods her head, “You guys...doin’ anything?” She must look confused, because he continues speaking, “Like - kissing and shit?” 

Hayden doesn’t understand why everyone’s so interested in that type of thing. Even her mom had asked her before. She shakes her head though, shrugging her shoulders listlessly, “No,” she pauses for a moment, “Is it important?”

“If you’re datin’, yeah. You’re not supposed to make the move though - you’re a chick. He’s supposed to. Probably ain’t got any balls.” 

“Make...a move,” Hayden repeats quietly.

He frowns at her, crosses his arms, “I’m not gonna explain first base to you.” 

“First base.” 

“Look - this isn’t why I came here.” 

“Okay.”

“I need you to talk to Khalil. Tell him you can’t do the play anymore.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s cutting into band practice, that’s why. I can’t play without drums.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

He huffs at her, seemingly annoyed, “Tomorrow, talk to Khalil.” 

“I can’t back out. I already promised him.” 

“Ask Jessica to take the spot back.” 

“Khalil doesn’t like her.” 

“Khalil doesn’t like a lot of shit, the asshole.” 

“I can’t, Luis. I made a promise,” When he continues to glare at her, Hayden opens her mouth again, “Is it something else?” 

He looks a bit put off when she says that, “What.” 

“Is something else bothering you? About the play.” 

“No,” his response is quick - a little too quick. The customary defensive look comes over his face, “I don’t give a shit about the play.” 

“Okay,” a pause, “But if something was bothering you, you could tell me, okay?” 

He presses his lips together, stares at Russo’s cage for a few seconds, and then back to her, “Yeah, sure.” 

Hayden does bring it up to Khalil the next morning. He’s waiting for her by the school entrance, and greets her as soon as he spots her. Hayden shoulders up her backpack higher, turning to face him, “Luis wants me to quit the play, I think.” 

“You think,” Khalil says, “He’s such a--” He stops there, shakes his head, “He just doesn’t know when to quit.” Hayden follows Khalil to the auditorium, and both are surprised to see Luis and Lyle both sitting on the stage, they looked as if they’d been waiting for them. Lyle is the first to stand, Luis lifting his head slightly to glance in Hayden’s direction before he looks away, “You guys aren’t allowed in here during rehearsal hours.”

Luis scoffs, “No one’s here.” 

“We scheduled to use the auditorium for blocking the set for first period. Me, Urja, and Hayden.” Khalil tells him pointedly, setting his backpack down, “So you can leave.” 

Lyle looks between the both of them apprehensively. Even Hayden is a little confused, her eyes haven’t drifted far from Luis though, “Luis,” he looks over at her at the sound of his name, “what’s wrong? Why’re you being...” She isn’t sure how to finish it, but Khalil catches her drift. 

“Yeah, Luis. Why’re you being such a jerk?” 

Lyle speaks up before Luis can, “He just thinks--” 

“Luis can talk for himself,” Khalil barely glances in Lyle’s direction, “Go ahead. Say it.” 

“Why don’t you stop actin’ all high and fuckin’ mighty all the time,” Luis snaps, clenching his jaw, “If you got somethin’ to say then say it.” 

“You’re the one who told Hayden not to do the play.” 

“That’s ‘cause it’s a load of shit! Suddenly you all care about who lives and who fucking dies! Just ‘cause of Junior!” 

Hayden blinks several times - she can’t really follow the turn of the conversation. What did Noah James have to do with anything, with them arguing? Luis spits his name so venomously, she almost flinched. Khalil’s expression doesn’t change, he only crosses his arms over his chest and regards Luis and Lyle both with a cold look. 

“The school board thought it’d be refreshing to switch it up once and awhile--” 

“That’s bullshit and you know it, Khalil.” 

“You can’t bully Hayden, you can’t push anyone around. We’re your friends, Luis.” 

“Sure doesn’t fuckin’ feel like it,” Luis says, stepping closer to Khalil in the process in an almost threatening manner, “I’m tellin’ you right now to cancel it.” 

“I’m not canceling the play. Not when Hayden’s put so much work into--” 

“I’m not gonna tell you again--” 

“You should watch what you say, Luis.” 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you should remember who’s on your side here.” 

“The only reason you still talk to me is ‘cause the band.”

Khalil’s expression becomes harder, he narrows his eyes, “So?” 

“So! You’re just fucking pretending, too!” 

Khalil’s voice is suddenly so loud, it makes Hayden’s shoulders jerk up, “I could tell everyone! I could tell everyone what you did!” 

“Yeah? Why don’t you go ahead and do that, huh! Tell everyone how you covered it up, too! How you know why Junior tried to kill himself in the first place and didn’t say shit to anyone!! Go ‘head and tell ‘em!”

Khalil goes quiet. Hayden is staring, Lyle has kept his eyes down throughout the entire argument. She watches Khalil closely, his shoulders have lifted in a defensive manner, and she’s never seen such an angry look on his face. Yanking his backpack from the floor, he shoves past Luis and Lyle, “Fuck you, Luis!” 

And then he’s moving towards the double doors, forcing them open. He leaves quickly, and he must’ve bumped into Urja along the way because she peeks her head in curiously, glancing over her shoulder the way Khalil had went, “...is everything okay? What’s wrong with Khalil?” 

No one answers her. Luis is tentative with turning back around and glancing Hayden’s way. Hayden stares right back at him, eyes filling up her face. She looks as if she’s never seen him before, and it’s enough to make him curse and grab his things as well. 

He leaves the both of them there without another word. 

.

.

“Hayden!” 

She looks up, surprised to see both Finn and Lyle, already at her locker and waiting for her. It’d been a couple days since she’d last gotten the chance to talk to them, which was abnormal enough in itself. They were all such a close-knit group. She comes to a slow stop at Lyle’s side, head tilting curiously in questions, “I have rehearsal today.” 

“Skip it,” Lyle tells her, and he looks very serious. He hasn’t been in the best mood either ever since what happened. Meanwhile, Luis and Khalil prefer to avoid it all like the plague, Khalil hadn’t even sat with them at lunch, “This is much more important.” 

Lyle doesn’t really give her a chance to ask just what the big deal is, he moves past her swiftly and down the hallway. Perplexed, she glances in Finn’s direction, but he doesn’t give her much to work with either. He follows after Lyle, and after dumping the books she doesn’t need for the night into her locker, she’s going after them. 

Lyle’s in such a rush, he almost runs straight into Brent and Amos, “Hey, slow down.” 

“No running in the halls,” Amos mumbles, he’s pointedly not looking at Lyle, though. Even as he scolds him, “Ms. Rucker will see.” 

“Not if you don’t tell,” Lyle says, crossing his arms. And then his attention is on Brent, “Can you make up an excuse for Hayden? We have practice today.” 

“Thought you guys only had practice on Mondays and Tuesdays,” Brent notes. Of course, he would be the type to remember something like that, even though they don’t talk to him very often, “Khalil’s gonna be pissed if you can’t make it. You’re the lead, Hayden.” 

Before she can apologize, Lyle is speaking up for her, “She doesn’t want to do it anymore anyway.” 

Brent blinks fast, casts Hayden a frowning glance, “Why not?” 

“‘Cause!” Lyle shrugs his shoulders in a defensive manner, “It’s not like...the play is a big deal or anything, geez.” He’s starting to sound like Luis. 

Brent lifts a brow, “It’s to raise awareness. For Junior. Suicide prevention is kind of a big deal, man.”

“The faculty is just shoving it down our throats. Which is why we’re gonna talk to Principal Bailard today. He’ll hear us out,” Lyle seems very sure of that outcome, even though Principal Bailard is pretty much notorious for being a grouch. Hayden can’t help but doubt he’ll ignore whatever they have to say.

Though he seems hesitant, Amos speaks up from beside Brent, “He...he probably won’t listen,” He adjusts his thick-rimmed glasses, “Last month, he denied Jared and Erin’s idea to start a gardening club at school.” 

Finn looks curious enough to ask, “Why?” 

“He said it wasn’t good for budgeting or something,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, “And the band was supposed to have this big showcase last week, it got cancelled. Which sucked...we were all practicing a lot for that.” 

In comfort, Brent nudges Amos a bit on the shoulder with his own. Hayden didn’t know they were such good friends, “I don’t think they’re shoving anything down our throats,” Brent aims it mostly in Lyle’s direction. It wasn’t very hostile, but Hayden can tell Brent is far from agreeing with him, “In fact, more people should care. Like you.” 

“I do care,” Lyle protests, his voice sounds an octave higher, “It’s just--” 

“And, Hayden,” Brent is looking at her again, “You should do the play. If you want. You make a good Bethany.” 

She blinks again. The statement is offhanded, because it sounds a lot like a compliment. Many times throughout the script, Bethany is described as being very beautiful and kind, people naturally gravitate towards her. Like Jessica, and definitely not like Hayden. She finds herself ducking her head, focusing pointedly on her shoes. 

Lyle doesn’t like that. He’s already finished with the conversation, continuing towards the office. Finn follows after him again, and Hayden is left alone with Amos and Brent. Brent watches them go, “What’s up with them?” 

Hayden shrugs her shoulders. 

“They’re not pressuring you to drop out, are they?” 

She shakes her head. 

“Well,” Brent looks as if he wants to ask more, but he doesn’t want to pry, “I’ll give Khalil a good excuse for you. Doubt he’ll believe it though.” 

“You’re going to lie?” Amos seems offended at even the mention of it. 

“White lie,” he assures him, “Not a big deal.” 

“Still a lie.” 

“Thanks,” Hayden says to the both of them. After that, she’s going the way Lyle had went, albeit much slower and preferring to take her time. The school is emptying out at a snail’s pace, most of the jocks are gearing up for the season. 

In the principal’s office, there’s a long line of students. Some discussing their new schedules, others checking the announcements for the week, and most in trouble. Mel, Jenny, and River are occupying the might-be-suspended seats in the far left corner of the office. 

“Melvin,” Mrs. Rosher says from her desk, she’s one of the assistants that handles most of the students, “Are you going to call your mother this time? Or should I?” 

Mel pulls a face, Jenny whispers ‘good luck’ to him, and River looks close to falling asleep in his seat. He makes it to the front desk, before Hayden, “She isn’t gonna answer.” 

Mrs. Rosher crosses her arms, “Humor me,” and then leans around Melvin to point a finger in Jenny’s direction, “You’re next, Missy.” To which Jenny only rolls her eyes. While Mel makes his phone call, Mrs. Rosher turns her attention onto her, “Did you need help with something?” 

“Did Lyle come in here?” 

“Already left,” Charlene says, she’s standing behind Jeremy in line, who’s clearly hashing it out with Ms. Alan, the principal’s main secretary. Over what, who knows, “Told ‘im it was a lost cause.” 

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Mrs. Rosher butts in, “Stop bringing your skateboard to school, young lady.” 

“It’s how I get around.” 

“Get a bicycle.” 

“Forcing me into your conformative box, I see.” 

“Next time I see that skateboard, you’re getting detention.” 

Hayden doesn’t stick around to listen to the rest. By the time she leaves the office, the halls are more or less cleared. She takes a look around, moves to the window across from her, and from there - she can spot the football field. The jocks are already starting their laps and tosses, there’s a couple kissing underneath the bleachers ( she’s pretty sure it’s Zach Hill and a girl, she can’t get a good look of her face at this angle ), and the cheerleaders are busy lining up for roll call. 

A few feet away from the bleachers, Hayden can see Lyle and Finn. By the time she makes it to them, they both look terribly intimidated to take a step further. Finn is the first to voice his concerns, “I’m scared.” 

Lyle gives him a look, “Don’t be. Not like she’s gonna bite you or anything.” 

“What if she does?” 

“She’s a cheerleader. Cheerleaders are supposed to be nice.” 

“I guess...” 

Hayden watches the both of them. And true to his word, Finn does look fairly anxious. Lyle is really the only one who can keep him from running off. She looks away from them, towards the main field, where the cheerleaders are beginning to practice.

“This is useless,” Lyle finally concludes, Finn is hiding slightly behind Hayden, even though the cheerleaders had yet to notice them, “She’s not gonna listen to us.” 

“Brent said I’m fine as Bethany,” Hayden tells him, her voice quiet. He gives her a semi-frustrated look, “I don’t see what the big deal is.” 

“Jessica would play it better. Besides, she needs the ego boost. Probably.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Girls like her love to be talked up. If we  just make her feel like the play needs her, she’ll come running back.” 

“But--” 

“Hayden should do it,” Finn says suddenly, his hands are curling nervously into the fabric of his Spiderman t-shirt, “Girls listen to girls, right?” 

Hayden frowns. She’s never talked to Jessica before. Unless you counted the time in the beginning of the school year - Jessica had bumped into her and told Hayden to watch where she was going. They aren’t exactly best friends. She’ll probably have as much luck talking to a brick wall. But, if it means the group will stop constantly arguing, she supposes she can make an attempt. She crosses the field before either one of her friends can stop her, Becca and Brooke are the first two to notice. 

“Oh, gosh,” Becca is already rolling her eyes, “Can we help you?” 

“Try-outs results are final,” Brooke speaks from beside her, “Better luck next year.”

“I didn’t try-out.” 

Both Becca and Brooke stare at her, like she’s grown a second head and they’re unsure of how to take it. 

Jessica doesn’t look happy to have practice interrupted, “Band geeks aren’t practicing today. What do you want?” Even though the blonde is only a couple inches taller than Hayden, she is awfully intimidating, she guesses. And pretty, very pretty. Maybe she’s the type of girl Andrew would date, “Earth to weirdo, are you listening to me?” 

Hayden blinks at her, “You should come back to the play.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“The play. You should be Bethany.” 

Now, she looks amused, pink lips quirk upwards, “Khalil sent you then?” 

Should she lie? She guesses so, “...yeah.” 

“I knew it,” Jessica tosses blonde hair over her shoulder, “I mean, I heard he got a replacement, but I didn’t think he’d come crawling back this fast.” 

Hayden kind of wants to tell her that she’s the replacement. But Jessica probably wouldn’t believe her. And if she did, she would laugh outright in her face, “So you’ll be Bethany again?” 

“Sure,” Jessica shrugs her shoulders, “When Khalil apologizes.” 

Hayden stares at her for a long time. Because there was no way that would be happening any time soon. But she nods, watches as Jessica turns ( she almost smacks Hayden with her hair ), and walks away. Brooke is still making a face in Hayden’s direction, “Are you brain-dead? Convo over. Move.” 

Hayden does what she says, goes back over to join the both of her friends. 

“So what did she say?” Lyle is the first to speak up, “Was she mean to you or anything?” 

“She said Khalil needs to apologize.” 

Finn’s expression visibly falls, “Totally not going to happen.” 

And they were right. Because when the three of them caught Khalil during rehearsal, he barely acknowledges them. He’s busy talking with Nate and Urja when they enter the auditorium - Urja is covered in paint, Nate is already taking off his overly stuffed costume to reveal his pink t-shirt underneath, and Khalil has his customary rolled up script in his hands.

“Hayden!” Urja is the first to eagerly greet her, a jarring turn-around to the cheerleaders outside, “You made it.” 

“You’re late,” Nate’s tone is sour, he pulls Johnathan’s prop crown from off his head, “If you’re not going to take this seriously--” A pen is suddenly thrown in his direction, nails him right on the shoulder, “Very funny, Brent.” 

Brent, from the piano, gives him a thumbs-up.

“I hope you have a good excuse,” Khalil says, glancing at Hayden, “Better than Brent’s anyway.” 

“I...was busy.”

Urja appears curious, “With what?” 

“Talking to Jessica,” Finn blurts before anyone can stop him, “She wants an apology from Khalil or she’s not coming back.” 

Khalil barely blinks, “An apology? For what?”

Hayden can already tell by his tone that he’s nowhere near in the mood. She shifts on her feet uncomfortably, Urja is glancing at all of them in surprise, and Nate definitely looks amused. Lyle leans forward, “Who cares. She wants the stupid role back, so let her have it.” 

“It isn’t stupid,” Urja protests quietly, “And besides, we already have Hayden.” 

“And she doesn’t want it back. She just wants an apology,” Khalil says, “Which isn’t going to happen. Ever.” 

“Look, I get that you’re--” 

“Do you? Do you really get it, Lyle? Or do you just do whatever Luis says all the time? I don’t think you understand the meaning of the play.” He lobs the questions at his band mate like projectile spit-balls, and Lyle is defenseless, “Have you even asked how Hayden feels? Do either of you even care?” 

Finn looks sheepish, Lyle has stopped talking.

“Hayden,” She looks up at her name and surprisingly, everyone is looking at her. Even Brent, from across the room, “Do you want to be Bethany or not?” 

The question isn’t that hard to answer. She takes a look in Lyle’s direction, who’s staring over at her pleadingly. Back to Khalil, he’s waiting. Brent, Urja, Nate - all watching, giving her plenty of time to reply. And after a pause, she does, “I think so.” 

“Then it’s settled,” Khalil says, fixing Lyle with a cold look, “So, if you’re not apart of production, the auditorium is for cast only right now.”

When Lyle leaves with Finn, she feels bad. Every decision she makes, it seems, just makes it worse for the group.

.

.

The doorbell rings. 

Almost immediately, her mother is quick to rise from her chair. She takes one more sip of her wine, then she’s scampering off to the door, only to make a sudden U-turn and wave Hayden over. She feels too dressed down now, after taking a good look at her mother ( who has on heels, a nice skirt, and pearls ). Hayden hadn’t taken the time to even change out of her clothes from school. 

“You do it, sweetheart,” Hayden casts her a confused look, “Answer the door, answer the door! It’s your boyfriend, remember?” 

Oh. Hayden didn’t know that was a rule. So, she stands from her seat as well, goes to the front door and pulls it open. Andrew is there, he’s dressed pretty casual, but he always looks nice. He lights up when he sees her, “Hey, am I too early?” Hayden lets him in, he shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the coat hanger by the entrance. 

Hayden shakes her head, “You’re on time. My dad isn’t here yet.” 

“Oh,” he takes time looking around. She imagines her home is much different from his - small living room with couches too big that stretches into the dining room, the throw rug that her mother refused to throw out because of the sentimental value, and the many, many pictures of family dotting the wall over the old fireplace that they never used, “Is this you?” 

He’s moved closer to the portraits on the wall, pointing to one in particular. It’s Hayden around her tenth birthday, skinny beyond belief and giving a less-than enthusiastic thumbs up from a hospital bed. Her hair has more or less grown back to ear-length at that point, and she remembers the summer she lost it all over again. Her mother had opted to shave it, rather than let it fall out on its own again. Hayden has a feeling that the hair loss during it all was harder on her mother than herself. 

She nods, “It is.”

From a quick glance over the wall, she can see there aren’t many pictures of herself. Maybe three or four. One is more recent, a school picture from eighth grade. Other than that, just her in a hospital gown. She can see the questions on Andrew’s face. But her mother interrupts before he gets the chance. 

“You must be Andrew,” she’s eager to greet him, holding out her hand for him to shake. And he takes it, “I’m Hayden’s mom. It’s very nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Mrs. Winters. You have a lovely home.” 

“Oh, you’re so sweet. Hayden, you didn’t tell me he was such a sweetheart,” She touches Hayden’s shoulder affectionately, but doesn’t look away from Andrew, “I was just about to finish up. You’re okay with--” 

The front door opens, and in steps Hayden’s father. He spots them fast, removing his jacket and stepping further into the sitting room to shake hands with Andrew as well, “Hey! Andrew, right?” 

“Yes, sir,” Andrew takes his sudden arrival all in stride, polite as always, “Thank you for having me for dinner.” 

“Sorry I’m late,” Her father says, “Got here as fast as I could.” He takes a glance in his wife’s direction, only to see she’s pointedly ignoring him, “Is dinner ready, by the way?” 

“Yes,” Mrs. Winters purses her lips sourly, “Let’s all go take our seats.” Hayden can tell that she’s trying, at least. She can’t remember the last time she actually sat at the table with both of her parents present, not in the last year or so, “As I was saying, Andrew, I hope you’re okay with roast.”

“Anything is fine, Mrs. Winters,” Andrew assures her. He waits until Hayden takes a seat, and goes out of his way to sit beside her, even scooting his chair closer by a couple inches, “It smells great.” 

Her mother takes her time serving them all. First Andrew, then Hayden, dad, and herself. Prayer next, and then they’re allowed to eat. Hayden has found her appetite diminishing over the week because of the constant pile of stress. But she tries hard to not to let it show, taking hearty bites out of her steamed carrots and potatoes. 

“So, Hayden tells me that you play soccer at your school,” Mrs. Winters pipes in, “Is it fun?” 

“Oh, yeah?” Mr. Winters seems interested, “How long have you been playing, Andrew?” 

“Awhile now. And yeah, it’s really fun. Once you get good at something, it’s kind of hard to stop.” 

“I used to play football when I was your age,” Her dad gestures at Andrew with his fork, “Was gonna get a scholarship.” 

“I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear about that,” Her mom says, smiling, “That was ages ago.” 

“Yeah. We ended up having Hayden right after high school,” her dad continues as if he hadn’t heard her, “I said I was just gonna take a year off, and well - you know.” He laughs some, but there’s a certain edge to it. It’s quiet some after that, Andrew is poking his tongue into his cheek and casting Hayden a meaningful glance, “Anyway, so what about your team, you guys any good?” 

“Andrew is Captain,” Hayden says, “And...I went to his games before. He’s really good at it.” 

“You don’t even like sports,” Her dad points out, like her mother had done a few weeks prior. 

“I like watching Andrew play.” 

Her mother practically beams at that, “That’s good, that’s really good. It’s always good to have a girlfriend that supports you, you know.” 

“I know,” Andrew is looking in Hayden’s direction again, he looks close to smiling. Underneath the table, his free hand nudges against hers. She’s almost tempted to take it, but maybe her parents would notice, “Ever since I invited her the first time, she’s been coming to every one since.” 

“If you’re as good as you say you are, I might head on over to that fancy school of yours too.” Andrew and her dad laugh together, even though Hayden didn’t find it very funny. They must’ve done their own digging, or at least heard gossip around their very small town. Hayden hadn’t ever mentioned that Andrew’s school was an expensive one, she doesn’t even think she told either of them the name. 

The conversation continues on pretty normal. Her parents could be a little embarrassing, but they weren’t being rude and overbearing, and that was all that mattered. Well - until her mother took a hearty drink of her wine to finish it off, and reached across the table to refill her glass. 

Her father speaks up, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough of that for tonight?” 

“This is my first glass,” Even Hayden can tell she’s lying from the flush in her cheeks, her dad makes a face at her, “What? You don’t believe me?” 

“You really want to be wine-drunk now? While we’re having dinner?” 

“I’m not--” She looks outright offended, glancing fast in Andrew and Hayden’s direction before she redirects her anger at her husband, “I’m not drunk.” 

“How many glasses have you really had?” 

“You would know if you were home on time.” 

“Oh. So that’s what this is about--” 

“Don’t make this about you, okay?” 

“You just said--” 

“You were the one late to meeting your own daughter’s boyfriend. And you think you have the right to use that tone with me?” 

“I’m not using a tone. Let’s not do this now.” 

“You started it.”

Hayden has already stood from the table. And Andrew hesitates before following her. Done with her plate, she dumps it in the kitchen, along with his, running them both under the faucet to soak. Andrew appears to be increasingly uncomfortable as the anger escalates, Hayden is pretty sure she even hears her mother curse. 

So, she decides to take his hand, ducking them through the living room and up the stairs. 

.

.

In her room, it’s much more quiet. Peaceful almost. When the door is closed, she can barely hear them. With that thought in mind, she turns to face Andrew, who’s lingering by the foot of her bed, “You can close the door.” 

He appears hesitant, “You sure?” She must look curious because he says, “To close the door, I mean. We aren’t going to get in trouble?” 

“Why would we get in trouble?” 

He stares at her for a beat longer, then decides to do what she says. He closes the door, steps further in the room and takes a look around. She tries to see her room through his eyes - the walls are pink, the floor is an old wood, and her bed is small. Barely decorated, and with the limited decorations, it does look like a preteen lived here. Like Jade said. Hayden had never really thought of it that way before. 

“It’s...cute,” Andrew finally says, his lips are tugging into an amused grin, “And pink.” 

She tilts her head. 

“I didn’t know you liked pink.” 

“It’s an okay color. My mom painted it. I think she likes it more than me.” 

He smiles wider, “What color do you like?” 

She has to think on it, “Blue.” 

“Blue.” 

“Yeah,” Hayden takes a seat on her bed, its so old that the springs creak to life. When Andrew continues standing, she pats the bed for him to sit. He plops down beside her, he’s not as close as he was at the dinner table, but Hayden’s fine with it. She turns to face him halfway, he’s still looking around in interest, “I have something to show you.”

Her tone is enough to catch his attention, “You do?” 

“It’s very important.”

“I’m listening.” 

“Close your eyes,” His amused grin grows, he eyes her for only a few seconds before he’s doing what she says, “Keep them closed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

There’s some shuffling, “Okay, open them.” 

And when he does, there’s a very hairy face staring at him. Andrew blinks, Russo blinks right back at him. Hayden leans him close enough where his twitching nose touches Andrew’s, and he laughs, carefully taking the rabbit into his arms, “Who’s this little guy?” 

Hayden reclaims her seat beside him, keeping a eye on the two of them, “Russo. Do you like him?” 

“Sure,” Andrew holds him closer, lifting him to eye-level so he can get a good look at Russo’s face, “He’s cute. I mean, not as cute as you or anything, but comes pretty close.” 

Hayden’s ears grow warm, she doesn’t think anyone is more cute than Russo. Or maybe, well, Andrew. Maybe. 

“He likes you.” 

“You think so?” 

“Yeah. He bit Lyle the first time he held him.”

Andrew’s eyes get wide, “Geez. Remind me not to get on his bad side.” 

“Russo doesn’t have a bad side.” 

“Mhm,” She watches Andrew for awhile - Russo is docile in his arms, sniffing curiously at his face when Andrew allows him to get close enough. She smiles some, she can’t really help it. Because she likes Andrew, and it’s a little bit of a relief to have him here, especially when the week’s been so hard.

“Thanks for coming over,” She says, “I’m sorry about my parents.” 

“It’s okay,” Andrew reassures her, he lets Russo down to explore the expanse of the room on his own, “I’m glad I could meet them. Seriously, Hayden. Your parents are really nice.”

Not to each other, but she doesn’t say that out loud. She only looks to the floor, “And...I’m sorry I haven’t called you. I’ve been busy with the play.” 

“You don’t have to call me every day or anything, it’s cool.” 

“My mom says I’m supposed to.” 

“You can call whenever you feel like it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah.”

“Just to say goodnight?” 

“Yeah,” He shifts closer, his hand is lying on the bed and is really close to hers, “Whenever you want.” 

She watches Russo stop by Andrew’s feet to sniff at them, and speaks up again, “...I think Luis is mad at me. Lyle, too.” 

“For what?” 

“Because of the play,” His eyebrows lift, “They don’t want me to do it.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know,” And she really doesn’t, nobody ever really tells Hayden anything unless they’re confiding into her. Because she’s just Hayden - she has two working ears and she never tells anybody anything, so she’s good with secrets. But she always feel out of the loop at most points, like everyone knows something and she’s the only one oblivious. People only really tell her stuff when its convenient for them, “I feel like I’m doing the right thing by being in the play, but no one else seems to think that.” 

“Are you okay with being Bethany?” 

A lot of people have asked her that question, or something similar to it today. And she thinks she’s just been saying what people want to hear in hopes it won’t stir too much trouble. Most of her life has been that way - doing whatever she could to satisfy the people around her. Luis, Lyle, Khalil. And there’s never been a point where she asks herself what exactly she wants, in life and in her friends and practically in general. Because she can’t remember a time when her opinions really mattered in the same sense everyone else’s. She’s more of a fade to the background type of person, someone you didn’t really look twice at, or expect to speak much. Like an extra in a movie. 

Andrew doesn’t make her feel like that though. Even when her own friends, her own parents do. Andrew never has. 

“Yeah, I thi - I know I am okay with it.” 

Andrew looks at her, “Then you should do it.” 

“Mm.” 

“I believe in you. I’ll even help you practice your lines.” 

Hayden blinks at him, “You will?” 

“You come and support me at my games all the time, right? It’s the same thing,” She must look unsure, because he smiles at her gently, “I’m serious. Anything you wanna do, I’m behind you one-hundred percent.”

She eyes him, “What if I want one-hundred-ten percent?” 

“Oh? That’s pretty high.” 

She thinks he’s trying to get her to laugh, and it’s working. Soft smile comes first, he’s watching her, and the familiar warmth is back to her ears. Stomach too. That’s the first time throughout the conversation that she notices how close the two of them are, her knee is pressing delicately into his thigh, he’s angling his upper body towards her, and his face is close. His eyes drop down and then back to hers, and he’s leaning in, and she thinks she’s okay with that until -

“Hayden, sweetie--” Her mother opens the door and immediately stops when she sees the two of them. Andrew nearly dives on the other side of the bed, Hayden merely looks up at the call of her name. She stares for a long time, “Don’t close the door when you have boys over,” Hayden nods, “Andrew, are you staying for dessert?” 

“Ah, no,” Andrew is quick to right himself, standing from the bed and sliding his hands into his jeans. He makes sure not to step on Russo when he does, “No, thank you, ma’am. I should be heading home, it’s getting pretty late.” 

“Oh, that’s too bad,” her mother says, expression slightly falls, “I wanted to at least apologize for earlier. We didn’t mean...It got out of hand. But we’d love to have you again.” 

“Of course, Mrs. Winters. And it’s fine. Thank you for having me.” 

Hayden is the one who walks Andrew to the front door. Her dad gives him one of those boyish handshakes and a goodbye. It’s a little cold outside, Hayden grabs her sweater on the way out and shrugs it on. As soon as the door is closed, she’s apologizing again, “I’m sorry.” 

“About what?” He stops on the stoop, glancing over at her. 

“Them.” 

“Are you trying to ask me not to come over again?” 

“I want you to come over again. I do really need help with my lines. I’m not good at...acting.” 

“I’m sure you’re a great actress.” 

She makes a face at him. He grins. She’s starting to like his smile more and more, which she finds a little strange. She’s never much paid attention to anyone’s features, much less their smile, “I like you coming over.” 

“I like spending time with you. I like you, Hayden.” 

In all those books she’s read, there’s been plenty of times where the lead compares the warmth in their belly to butterflies. Hayden can relate to that some now, “...I like you too.” It’s quiet between the both of them, Hayden is back to studying her yellow-striped socks - she’d left her shoes inside since she’d only be standing on the porch. But she can feel him staring at her.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” 

The question causes her to look up at him. He’s staring back, expression open. The butterflies might as well be compared to wasps at this point. She’s unsure of what to say, heart in her throat, mouth opening and then closing. It’s the first time someone’s ever left her speechless, not that she ever really has anything to say. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to. It’s just - I thought I’d ask. Because I’ve been thinking about it.” 

“...really?” 

“Nonstop.” 

She smiles timidly, and he smiles back. Without a word, Hayden nods. 

Andrew looks visibly relieved to see that. He’s slow with stepping towards her, he’s close enough where she can see each freckle across his face and the specks of different color in his eyes. Carefully, he leans in, holding her eyes. It’s only a second or two of a pause, and then his lips touch hers. 

She’s unsure of what to do, hesitant to close her eyes just yet. And Andrew pulls back slightly, touches her cheek, his voice is very gentle, “Is this alright?” Quietly, she nods, swallowing once. He’s watching her closely, “You okay?” 

Again, she’s nodding, “I want to...try again.” 

They do. 

Andrew’s lips are really soft and tender, coaxing with her own. After awhile, her eyes do fall shut, without a thought. She focuses on the feeling - of his lips pressing against hers, his hand curling around her cheek and big enough where his fingers touch her nape, his warm breath when he pulls away for just a second. This time, she’s the one kissing him again, lifting on her toes to get a better angle.

Once. Two times. Delicate kisses to his mouth until she is satisfied. When she opens her eyes, Andrew is smiling again. It’s kind of dazed and goofy, and she flushes a warm pink. He touches her hair, pulls her closer into his chest. Hayden likes how he seems more comfortable touching her by the end of the night.

And when he says goodbye, she watches him go. 

Imogen was definitely right, kissing a guy that you really liked was nice. Very nice, and she hopes they get time to do it again soon. After awhile, Hayden glances over her shoulder and spots her mother peeking out the window, only to swiftly duck out of the way once she’s caught.

 .

.

“How about this one?”

Hayden is unable to see, but only for a moment. Bangs are swept aside from her eyes, and she stares at herself in the mirror. From behind her, Mrs. Reed is peering over her shoulder, waiting ‘

“It’s...big,” The wig was big, or maybe Hayden’s head was too small. The hair is almost too-shiny, the curls large and princess-like, and it was blonde, “Is there anything else?” 

“Sorry, Hayden. That’s all we’ve got. This school doesn’t exactly put all of its money into drama clubs,” She gives her a toothy smile, braiding her fingers through the wig, making it even bigger and fluffier, “It looks great on you.” 

It doesn’t. Or rather, Hayden is just used to seeing herself on way. She hasn’t had long hair since she was around six. She vaguely remembers that it used to reach her lower back before it started falling out. She used to wake up with chunks of it sticking to her pillow. She stares at her reflection, and her reflection gazes back, nonplussed. 

“This is how Bethany is supposed to look?” 

“It says it in the script,” Mrs. Reed leans over her to pick up a can of hairspray, “She’s a blonde.” 

“What’s so great about blondes...” 

“Who knows! Ask my ex-husband,” The spray momentarily blinds Hayden again, she can feel Mrs. Reed plucking and tidying up the hair to her liking, “Okay. Let’s go get the stamp of approval from our trusty stage manager.” 

Khalil is currently backstage, digging through an old chest of props. Urja is sitting on the floor at his feet, blowing dust on a particularly worn-out stethoscope prop. She holds it up for Khalil to see, “We can use this.” 

“It looks like it’s from the sixties.” 

Urja, optimistic as always, puts them into her ears and stands. Then proceeds to try and listen to his heart, “Works just fine to me.” 

Mrs. Reed interrupts them, “What do you think?” She gestures melodramatically in Hayden’s direction. The wig definitely looks off-putting on her, in the casual clothes and makeupless face. But Khalil and Urja don’t seem to think so. 

“I like it,” Urja says, removing the stethoscope from her ears. Khalil looks as if he’s relieved to have the attention off of him for once, “The curls are so pretty.” 

“Yeah,” he obviously agrees with her, “All we need to do is get you fitted for the dress. Then we can start dress-rehearsal finally.”

“Oh! I forgot the glitter,” Mrs. Reed suddenly exclaims, turning on her heel. Urja goes to follow her, but not before putting the props back. 

Hayden is quiet. Khalil takes that chance to touch her shoulder, “Don’t look so nervous. You look fine, Hayden.” She gives him a dubious look, “Okay, yeah. We can work on the disco curls. Other than that, you don’t look bad blonde. Your boyfriend might even like it.” 

“Hey, Khalil!” Matt pokes his head behind the curtain, “Khalil, hey!” Lightly, he jogs over to them, but stops short when he catches sight of Hayden, “Nice hair.”

“Didn’t I tell you to check on lighting with Peter?” Khalil’s tone is exasperated. From her short time in the drama club, she can tell Matt is the one who needs the most guidance. And also has the most energy. 

“Yeah, but I thought I should tell you--” 

It’s too late, whatever he’d been trying to warn them about makes an appearance. Jessica Crimson practically tears through the curtain, Nate trailing after her to try and calm her down, which he is obviously unsuccessful with. She’s pink in the face, coming to a stop in front of Khalil. 

“Are you serious?” Her voice is seething, “Are you really serious?” 

Khalil isn’t bothered, it seems, “Cast and production only, sorry.” 

“You can’t replace me, Khalil! You know you can’t. To even have the guts--” 

“You quit, Jessica. Finding a replacement was my only option.” 

“You’re full of it. Who even--” She catches sight of Hayden, it stops her dead in her tracks. She’s quick to move around Khalil, stopping in front of her, “You cannot be serious. You’re totally joking,” Hayden leans away from her. Like she thought earlier, Jessica is awfully intimidating this close up. Even more so when she’s angry, “This? This is my replacement, really? Who even are you?” 

“You quit and then throw a tantrum,” Khalil points out, “How many times do we have to go over this?” 

“She can’t even act!″ 

“How would you know?”

“Just look at her! And by the way, she’s shaped like an eleven-year-old boy.”

“I don’t know why you’re still here when I said cast and production only.” 

“Classic Khalil and Jessica Argument 101,” Matt says from beside Hayden, he’d slunk away as soon as the arguing became louder, “Always stay outta the line of fire.”

Hayden doesn’t listen to that, she watches Khalil and Jessica go back and forth for awhile longer before she speaks up, “I think...” Both of them glance over in her direction, “I think I can play Bethany better than you.” Nate’s mouth falls open, Khalil’s eyebrows go up in surprise, Matt takes two steps back, and Jessica turns even more pink.

“What did you just say?” Her words are threatening, precise. If looks could kill. Before Hayden can say anything, Jessica continues, “You don’t talk to me. Girls like you, don’t talk to girls like me. And by you, I mean girls that look like they belong on my brother’s little league team. And--” 

“You heard her, Jessica,” Khalil says, crossing his arms over his chest, “Guess this conversation is over then.” 

Jessica looks as if she wants to say more, she’s darting her eyes back and forth from Hayden and Khalil. Finally, she tosses her hair over her shoulder, makes a show of bumping her shoulder with Hayden’s on her way out. This time though, she actually does smack Hayden with her hair. Khalil follows her out, just to make sure she actually leaves, and Nate is going after the both of them, but not before giving Hayden a slightly impressed look. 

“Whoa,” Matt says, he looks mesmerized, “You’re way cooler than I thought you were, Hayden.” 

Hayden doesn’t know whether she should take that as a compliment or not. 

When rehearsal is over, Hayden is beyond tired in every way possible. Khalil is waiting for her when she comes out, standing from his chair, “Good job today. You’re getting better at your delivery.”

“Heard what happened,” Brent speaks up from the piano, he’s playing a short-lived tune that he seems to have written himself but never finished, “Stick it to the man, Hayden.” 

“She told Jessica off,” Khalil is rolling his eyes at him.

Brent shrugs, “Same thing.” 

Khalil returns his attention to her, quirking up at the eyebrows, “I’m serious, by the way. You did really good today, Hayden.” 

She glances at him, he’d been a little stern today. She’d thought he was angry with her, maybe she’d been a little unprofessional with Jessica. Maybe she should apologize. She’ll consider it more tomorrow, “You really think so?” 

“You’re kidding, right?” He has a small smile now, “The role was written for you.” 

Those words stick some, even as she’s leaving the auditorium. The walk to her locker is a very quiet one, just her and her thoughts and her near-silent footsteps. When the school is empty like this, it almost has a post-apocalyptic feel and she’s always kind of preferred it like this. Near her locker, she slides down and takes a seat against the wall. 

She hadn’t been lying when she said she was tired. 

The last thing she expects is someone to sit next to her. When she lifts her head from atop her knees, she spots Luis. He’s quiet, not looking at her, pointedly staring at the row of lockers across from them. 

“Hey.” 

“Hi.” 

“You just got outta rehearsal?” 

She nods, watching him.

He works his jaw for a moment, “I’m sorry. About before. Snapping on you and everything.” 

“...you should probably tell that to Khalil. He still seems pretty mad.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” 

Curling her arms around her legs, she brings them closer to her chest. Even with him so close, he still feels painfully far away. Which is something she isn’t used to, out of the entire group, Luis and her have always been fairly close. That’s just how things are. But recently, she’s beginning to realize she doesn’t know much about him anymore, not like she used to. 

“What did you mean when you brought up Noah before?” 

Luis pulls an ugly frown, scoffs underneath his breath.

“...I guess you don’t have to tell me now or anything. But soon, okay?” He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, gives her the smallest of nods. Quietly, she asks, “Will you walk with me to work?”

He’s quiet. And then he snorts some, “If I don’t, you’d probably end up kidnapped and on the eight o’clock news or something.” 

After she retrieves a few things from her locker, the two of them walk together. First, a little distance. And then, Luis throws his arm over her shoulders and practically yanks her into his side. 

“So, how did dinner with meat-head go?” 

“Can you not call him that?”

“What else am I supposed to call him?”

“His name. Maybe.”

“Yeah, right. I don’t even know the guy.” 

“You should. Get to know him, I mean. He would like you.” 

“I doubt it.” 

“I don’t.” 

“You really think so, huh?” 

“I know so.”

.

.

[unpopcorned]

.

.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.” 

Sáemond doesn’t appear to be listening. But from his peripheral, Merek can see he’s taking great amusement in his wary tone. He follows Sáemond nonetheless - it’s what he’s been doing since he was small, and his Mother always says old habits die hard. His fingers are warm around his, tugging him along, through the greenery until the two of them reach the break between the trees. 

In front of them, there is a lake. Usually, fishermen come to spend the length of their days here, catch what they can, and sale it in town. Now, it’s empty, the moon shines down and reflects off of the water. It’s late - later than Merek would prefer to be out, and the air has a slight chill. Not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to notice. 

That’s how it always is here. In Fellstar, it’s always cold. The summers are lukewarm, at best, and the winters are bitter and long. The people here live with it, battle through each harsh winter with renewed reprisal. 

“Sáemond--” 

His eyes drift, find Sáemond standing at the banks of the water. He’s removed his shoes, and the water skirts up to his ankles. There must be a storm coming soon, the wind is strong enough to make small waves. Sáemond glances back at him, eyes amused and dark. Merek immediately frowns. 

“No. It’s cold.” 

“Y’said you wanted to learn to swim.” 

“You’ll get sick. We both will.” 

“You won’t.” 

“How can you possibly know that?” His voice drops to a whisper, even with the two of them being alone. There is no one here but themselves, the deafening crickets, and the moon. Still, Merek takes a careful glance around the two of them, and then back to Sáemond. He’s removing his shirt now, still staring at him. Immediately, there’s warmth bleeding into the back of his neck, just from that look alone, “What’re you doing?” 

“Wouldn’t want to get my clothes wet.”

“You can’t undress here, Sáemond!” 

“And why not?” 

“It’s - it’s improper.” 

“Is it?” 

And now, he’s turning to face Merek completely, his shirt is off. Hands drop to the loop of his pants, untying swiftly, and Merek flushes. The red that comes to his cheeks is palpable, even in the dark. He looks away as quickly as he can, a sheepish light clinging to his expression. 

“Don’t have to be shy. You’ve seen it all before.” 

“What if someone happens to come here?” 

“It’s late. No one will.” 

“I don’t think--” Words are caught in his throat when he spots Sáemond move away, towards the water. 

He’s as naked as the day he was born, sinking into the water with ease. It’s almost as a home to him, he swims like a siren, where he belongs. He swims fluidly to the bank, waiting for Merek with an eager glint in his eye, “The water’s fine. Come in.” 

Merek stares at him for a long time, glances over his shoulder to make sure that they are indeed alone. He’s stalling, both of them know that. It takes awhile, but after a few moments of deliberation, Merek is tugging his shirt over his head. And he’s very aware of the roving look Sáemond is giving him. 

“C-Can you please turn the other way?” 

“Why?” 

“You know why.” 

“Mmm.” 

Sáemond does not do as he asks, he continues to watch him, small compliments here and there that only make Merek’s blush deepen. He undresses fast, just to save himself the embarrassment, and then joins him in the water. It’s chilling at first, and it takes sometime to get used to, but after awhile the water is up to his hips and he’s not as nervous as before. 

“Who knew one man could be so beautiful?” 

“You’re speaking nonsense.” 

“Don’t be so stiff,” He swims closer, stands when he’s close to Merek. His hands are dripping but his touch his warm when his fingers graze his shoulders, thumbs massaging lightly into the muscle, “Relax. I’ve got you.” 

It’s almost instinctive, his body grows lax underneath his touch, allows himself to be pulled closer so the two of them are chest to chest. Tentatively, his lifts his eyes to his, finds him staring back, “I’m not very good at swimming.” 

“That’s fine. I’m patient.” 

“Still.” 

“I won’t let anythin’ happen to you, Merek,” Even without looking at him for long, Merek can tell he’s smiling, staring at him and waiting, “You trust me, right?” 

“Of course I do.” With his life, with everything.

Leaning closer, Sáemond presses a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, “I’ve got you.” He says again. And Merek believes him. 

They swim for a very long time, until Merek’s muscles grow weak and his fingers begin to prune. But he’s better than he was when he first started, he’s even able to float on his back now without help. Eyes focus onto the moon, full and bright, and lashes soon drift close. Sáemond talks about the water a lot, as if it may be a physical being, someone he’s known a very long time, an old friend maybe. And Merek supposes he can understand that a little better now, how connected Sáemond may feel to something so peaceful and yet so powerful at once. 

He can feel him move closer in the water when he’s upright, his breath on his cheek when Merek opens his eyes. Fingers trail down to his waist and grip at Merek’s hips to pull him in. Now, flushed together, Merek wraps his arms around his neck in kind, presses his face there soon after, “I missed you,” Merek tells him after awhile. He can hear Sáemond‘s heart against his ear, strong and steady, “You were gone for a very long time.” 

“You have no idea how much I missed you.”

Merek opens his mouth, only for Sáemond to dip his head down to him. Lips press to his tenderly, coaxing. Merek is weak to it, mouth falling open for Sáemond to explore and take what he may please. He inhales sharply when his hand trails down his lower back, grabs a handful. Sáemond kisses him harder, stealing his breath and right state of mind. 

He has a pretty good idea of how much Sáemond missed him. He can feel it pressing against his hip, warm and hard, rocking against him subtly. The air shifts, becomes harder to breathe in and Merek is chasing his tongue, arching into his hands, burrowing his fingers into his hair. He wants more, needs more. Desperation jabs him directly in the stomach, makes him blood run warmer. 

Oh, how he missed him so. 

Later, they lay spread out in the grass, listening to the water. His muscles are pleasingly sore, stretched upon Sáemond’s chest, and there’s nowhere else he can imagine being but here. He wishes moments such as this could stretch on forever, the thought makes him burrow deeper into Sáemond’s chest - inhaling his scent of seawater and musk. 

He enjoys listening to Sáemond’s voice, low and only for him to hear. Everything seems to fade away at times like this, when its just the two of them and nothing more. 

“Have you been well? Takin’ care of yourself?” 

Merek blinks slowly, lifts his head from his chest to find him staring, “Yes.”

Sáemond’s answering smile is soft, “You have to give me more than that. I’ve been thinking only of you for months now.” 

“My life isn’t nearly as exciting as yours. Things have been the same, as they will always be.” 

“Not always. If you were to come with me...” 

Merek blows out a breath, it’s an almost amused sound. There’s only been a few times here and there where Sáemond may bring up such things, and Merek brushes it off with ease, “There’s nothing for me out there. Not on the sea,” He belongs with Mother, the bakery, in Fellstar. He was destined to be born here and he is destined to die here. It’s written in the stars. 

Sáemond is not deterred, he takes Merek’s hand in his own and kisses the knuckles, “Is that what you believe?” 

“I’m easily sea-sick as well.” 

“I would keep you well and safe.” 

“I know you would.” 

“Then you should come.” 

“Seeing me now isn’t enough?” 

“It’s never enough.” 

His nape grows warm once more, he has to duck his gaze away. Sáemond’s eyes could be far too intense, “I’m worried for Mother.” 

His expression grows more gentle, “How is she? Really?” 

“Some days are better than others.” 

“I can stay--” 

“I cannot ask that of you,” Merek is already shaking his head, “Things are fine here. Peaceful.” 

“Fellstar never stays that way for very long.” 

“I can take care of myself. And the shop, and Mother.” 

“I know,” Sáemond‘s lips brush against his fingers again, pulling open his palm so that he may kiss there, “You work hard.” 

His neck is becoming warmer, Sáemond’s eyes flicker up to his own, “...you’re leaving at daybreak?” 

And his expression falls by a degree, his hand tightens around Merek’s, “I’ll return much sooner than before.” 

Merek believes him. He’s always blindingly believed anything Sáemond says, particularly when they were children. He remembers following him wherever he may go, because Sáemond had always been a couple inches taller and braver than himself. He remembers listening to his long tales, because Sáemond was always a great storyteller and could make a mundane day much more interesting. And he remembers their first kiss, feather soft like a rose’s petal, innocent and small, but enough to turn his complexion from pale to pink underneath Sáemond’s gaze. 

Merek attempts a smile, leans over and nuzzles his nose underneath Sáemond’s chin, “My heart is with you. No matter where you go.” And Sáemond answers that with a kiss, pressed hard against his lips, searching and almost heartbreakingly soft. 

Yes, he’s certain he will miss him, but he knows Sáemond will return. As he always does. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feeling though, this feeling of longing when he’s gone.

.

.

“Sáemond has already left?” 

His Mother seems put-out by that, the skin of her forehead crumbles delicately. Merek watches her, extends his arms to pluck the large sack of flour from her own. She loses and gains weight sporadically, and he worries just how much strain her body can take before it gives out, “He said he would be gone by morning.” 

“I can carry that, Merek,” she protests gently, but switches just as fast as soon as he drops the flour to the table, “You should’ve woke me. I wanted him to try our new recipe. Heavens bless that boy. Most pirates don’t respect a man that knows more than rum and plunder.”

“He knows how to take care of himself. And besides, you already gave him and his shipmates plenty of food. I’m sure he’ll be fine, Mother,” he tells her, gripping her shoulder gently when his hands are free, “How are you feeling?” 

“Don’t you grow tired of repeating yourself?” She brushes him off with a fond look, her eyes are soft, “I feel fine.” 

“Don’t push yourself.” 

“I never do.” 

“You always do,” Merek says. He can see the fatigue in her features, the way it clings to her eyes and the lines in her face. Dark brown hair is tied back into her customary bun, flyaway strands sticking to the clammy skin of her forehead. Her face looks sunken in, eyes weary, this town has drained her of all she has. After lost of his Father, nothing had been the same, really. “How about you take a day off? Heavens know you need it.” 

“Do I? I wouldn’t know,” she makes a face up at him, “You can’t possibly do all of the work yourself, Merek. You’ll drive yourself insane.” 

He likes working. He can tell his Mother and Sáemond grow worried for him though, with the amount of work and time he puts into the shop. He would rather do it than his Mother, he would rather take on the load than her. This is their livelihood, the only thing keeping the two of them afloat. His Mother put so many years of sweat, blood, tears, everything she could muster so that her head could remain above water, so that she may feed her children each night. He wouldn’t allow it to tarnish, not any time soon. 

“Fine,” she can already tell by his look, he wouldn’t allow her to lift a finger today. Not with how tired she looks, “I will work on laundry then, be careful with prepping. And don’t--” 

“I know, Mother. I’ll be careful, there’s no need to worry.” 

“Hm. All I seem to do lately is worry.” 

She gives him a kiss on his cheek, and then she’s heading upstairs, to finish the chores. He’s left alone, watching her as she goes, returning his attention to the dough in front of him when she’s gone. Both of them are right though, he does work himself to the bone. He knows he’s sooner to end up like his Mother than anyone else in their family - pushing him to no ends, doing what he can to keep the bakery standing. 

He admires his Mother’s strength. In fact, she’s one of the strongest people he may know. 

And as he works, he thinks of Sáemond. He wonders what he’s doing right now, if he’s staring out in the sea and thinking of Merek as well. Even with the distance and time between the two of them, there’s nothing that can wedge between again, nothing that could drive them apart. Not even trying times such as this. Before he’d left that morning, he told him to be safe, told him to watch after himself, and Sáemond had responded with a smitten smile and a kiss that was equally as sweet. 

“Next time, I’ll bring you flowers,” Sáemond had told him, his eyes shining in the sunrise. He feels like a wretched fool, sick in love, trailing after him when he pulls away. Heart in his throat, inhaling his scent so that he may remember each night he dreams, “Next time.” 

Merek has a difficult time letting him go when those words are whispered to him. Arms tighten around his neck, lips press to his skin, and he wants to stay here for as long as possible. But he knows that can’t happen, that life is never that simple and things must continue on, so he kisses Sáemond goodbye and tells him he will see him again. 

It still pains him to see him leave, so he tries not to watch. 

Merek works the rest of the day in relative silence, the bakery is closed early for the slow day and prepping. He works meticulously, lost in thought, and when the sun sets, he is finished, setting aside the rest for the following day. Apron is untied, hung by the door. 

“Mother?” 

He finds her in her bedroom, she’s fallen asleep in the chair there. For a moment, he watches her - she looks much more peaceful this way, how she used to look when he was child. He remembers how much he would cling to her, bury his face into her chest when he was frightened. He misses it, he misses her, he misses when life was not this dull and grey. 

But he is older now. Things aren’t as black and white as they had always seemed, he had to learn that fairly quickly. 

He touches her shoulder, cups a hand over the thinning bone there familiar, “Mother.” 

Her lashes flutter when she opens her eyes, she appears lost for a moment until she spots him, “Merek?” 

“You fell asleep,” he says to her, “Let me help you to bed.” He does just that, helping her from her seat. He tucks her in bed, much like she used to do for him and his brothers. Fortunately for him, she falls asleep fast underneath the blankets, and he can retire to his own room to undress. 

He’s much too tired to bathe. But once he is ready for bed, he prays - for his Mother’s health, for himself, and for Sáemond. It’s been less than a day and he misses him dearly, his scent and his eyes and his hands. He flushes, it’s easy to remember just what had happened the night before. 

And he decides he should rest soon, too. Before his thoughts take a different turn. Even when he sleeps, he dreams of Sáemond - a smaller and younger version of him, with boyish smile and dark curls, climbing tall trees swiftly and Merek trying desperately to keep up with him. 

Later that night, he jerks awake. His shirt is sweat-soaked, he’s tempted to pull it off and find something to drink. When he leaves bed to do just that, he stops dead in his tracks almost immediately. Directly across the walkway, his Mother’s room door is ajar, and from a quick glance inside, he can see that she isn’t in bed. 

He barely has a moment to even think, because the next moment, he hears a startled yelp from the bakery. Merek is quick, he doesn’t hesitate, he’s down the stairs, heart in his throat and it quickly sinks to his stomach when he spots the mess. 

The bakery has more or less been ransacked, destroyed in the hurry. He has to maneuver around broken glass, disheartened by the mess. There’s another noise from the main area, voices. None that he recognizes until he hears Mother. 

“Please, don’t--” 

Merek’s moving before he can even control himself, rushing into the room towards the sound of her pleas. He should’ve been smarter with his approach, should’ve thought of just how many attackers there would be more thoroughly. Because one moment, he’s coming out through the door and the next, someone is grabbing him in a rough choke hold from behind. 

His fight or flight senses kick in fast, there’s a grunt when he wrestles out of their grip, throws his weight into them so that they’re both hitting the opposite wall with force. He can hear his Mother screaming for him, but its drowned out when his fist connects directly with his attacker’s face - once, twice, another shove back into the wall. 

The fight doesn’t last long, there are others. And they soon crowd around Merek, pull him off and hold him still. A fist sinks right into his gut, strength is knee-buckling, and he loses all feeling in his legs, crumbles to the floor. Bile rises to his throat face, burns his tongue, he has to choke it back. 

A hand grabs a fistful of red curls, yanks his head up. Five unfamiliar men are in the bakery, every single one armed and bloodthirsty. Merek can tell from their eyes, its bare of humanity, like most in Fellstar. Consequences and human-lives aren’t something that are held in high regard. They’re covered head to toe in animal fur, soot, and stink of rotten sea-water. 

They’re vikings. And they aren’t from Ceren’s group. Must be from the main inland, and they’re all starved, practically drooling. They found their meals for the night. His eyes are glassy, but its easy to read the malicious grins upon their faces. There would be no reasoning with them. 

Four surround him, and the fifth holds his Mother tight to his chest, one arm encased around her throat and the other holding her thin wrists. She looks as if she could easily be snapped in half. He sounds winded when he speaks, “Let her go.” 

The man above him tilts his head, tightens his grip in his hair, “Hm? What was that? Speak up, boy.” 

Merek’s jaw clenches, “I said let her go.” 

“Did you hear that? Youngin givin’ out orders!” 

Merek curses underneath his breath, jerks upright. He goes for the one above him first, swinging in one long-armed arch, he misses - there’s too many of them and he’s back where he started fast. The floor rushes up to meet him, blood has dripped from his mouth, and his breathing sounds watery. 

“I’ll give it t’ya, kid,” One says, lifting his foot and pressing his boot hard into his lower back, digging hard until Merek groans, “You got spirit.” 

“Take what you want,” Merek says, red spitting from his mouth and dripping onto his clothes, “Whatever you want.” What else can he possibly offer, what else does he have besides this place. He can compare their smiles to cats, their faces may as well split in half from how pleased they are with the offer. But he knows that’s not all they want, that’s not what they came for - there’s always more. 

His Mother is crying, pleading and praying. The man above him is laughing, all of them are, but he seems to be the leader - the one they follow at least, and he grips his Mother’s face in his hand, forces her to look at him, “There is no God here.” 

Merek struggles to his hands and knees, heaving and unconcerned with his own injuries. He’s reckless, there’s never been a point in his life where he’s felt as such, he manages to take the one to his right by surprise, topples him off his feet, tackling straight into the other on his opposite side and reaching for his dagger. 

He’s hit in the back of the head. He’s unsure of by who. But darkness clouds his vision fast, and the last thing he remembers is his Mother’s tear-stained face. 

.

.

The smell of smoke is what wakes him. 

His body is slower to react than his mind, something is definitely broken. His midsection is aflamed, and he coughs and hacks, lifts his hand instinctively to his chin to wipe the blood from there. 

Eyes open, and at first, he is unsure of what he’s seeing. 

Fire. It’s everywhere. Covering the walls, the ceiling, destroying everything and anything it can touch. Vision blurry, he stumbles to his feet, makes an attempt to cling to the wall to stay standing. He falters at first, struggles for a moment, every part of him is practically screaming in protest for him to rest. But he’s up finally, and there’s nothing stopping him. 

He needs to find her. He needs to find his Mother.

Its hard to see, he moves over broken glass, tossed pans, splintered wood. And he’s certain he’s close to the entrance-way when he hears something. His name, over the flames and cindering ash, “Merek! Merek!” He stops fast and head turns in the direction, eyes darting. 

He finds her. She’s there, under a snapped beam, its caught aflame, and he’s hurrying over to her. Adrenaline helps, it pulses through his veins and pools in his chest, for a moment he barely feels any pain. Her clothes are ruined, hair is singed at the ends, and she has blood on her hands - he has no time to check for wounds.

“Don’t!”

Merek doesn’t listen to her.

Quickly, he ducks down, cups his hands underneath the plank and lifts. The weight is almost too much to bear, his knees almost give out. But he’s pulling with all his strength, everything he can muster at the moment, and with the littlest amount of room - she’s able to crawl out from under. 

“Merek--” 

“Go!” 

“But you--” 

“Go! Mother, please!”

There’s no more words between them, she only gives him a desperate, almost heartbreaking glance before she’s up and rushing out. He’s never been more relieved. Attention falls back to the wood in front of him, if he loses his grip - the rest of the shoddily joint together structure would come down. The roofing has fallen apart, and it will only more so if he were to let go. 

His fingers tremble. Slip. And the roofing is done for. The building quakes, nearly collapses in on itself, and he’s dead in the center. Something scrapes along his shoulder, and the flames easily melt through his clothes, skin, and muscle. Teeth grit, he releases an hoarse cry. 

His muscles lock up, more comes down. A rain of fire. Wood splinters and breaks, crashes to his feet in smoldering heaps. He can’t breathe, he cannot see. And his arm is going into spasms. There is no other option in a point like this. The floor shakes, a wall to his right becomes a crumbled mess. 

Pinned beneath the wreckage, his will to fight leaves him fast. Until he is completely empty. He can’t make a sound, and even if he wanted to, he’s sure no one would be able to hear him. His breathing is ragged, wet and barely there, eyes have not wavered from the direction his Mother had went. 

She has disappeared. She must be safe. 

And for then, that’s enough for him.

Things are dark again, he does not resurface for a very long time. Until he hears - 

“Dammit! Breathe!”

A rough thrust to his chest. 

“Come on, will ya’?” 

Another hard press, forcing his chest to move. 

“Breathe!” 

Merek’s eyes open. And at first, the sight in front of him is blurry. The sun has bled over the horizon, lighting the figure above him. A man is crouched over him, and his features are vaguely familiar. Throat raw, Merek can only gape at him, chest heaving in sporadic movements. 

“Nice method, Fenris,” a voice says from the side. He doesn’t have the energy to turn his head to see who it is, “Must be a sight. To wake up to your ugly mug, yeah?” 

Fenris. He remembers him. 

Irritation shows clear in his expression, but soon melts away when he spots Merek staring up at him, “Gave us a scare there, you fuckin’ lout. You breathin’?” 

Merek can’t move yet. Can’t say anything yet. But his expression must be enough. 

“Your ma’ is fine. Bein’ looked at by the Doctor. Don’t move yet.” 

Fenris leaves him there, and Merek stares up at the sky. Smoke clouds his vision, he can’t see the clouds or the stars that haven’t shrouded away from the sun’s glare. He’s not brave enough to take a look around, he supposes its okay to be a coward for this one instance. He doesn’t want to see the destruction around him - he can smell it well enough, the blood and the ash. 

“Merek!” 

It’s his Mother’s voice. Her hair is down, in loose wet curls, singed shorter on one side. She’s crying, falls to her knees beside him and weeps into his chest. He wishes he had the strength to hold her, to tell her it will all be fine, that he will fix it all - no matter how severe the damage may be. 

But instead, he holds his tongue, swallows back his tears. 

It’s okay. It will be okay. 

.

.

"Are you going to work all day?” 

Merek blinks, looks over. From the roof, he can see his Mother staring up at him, hands on her hips, a very knowing look upon her face. And he smiles, because he cannot help it. 

“I suppose.” 

“And what if I tell you not to? Then what will you do?” 

“I’ll have no choice but to listen, won’t I?” 

She’s smiling now, gathering her hair up in her hand and pinning it up. It’s longer now, a few months ago, she’d had to cut it to her shoulders. Now, it’s flowing down her back like before. There’s still a tautness to her skin that he worries over, the lack of weight on her slender frame, the way she may grow out of breath faster than normal. 

But he tries not to think too hard about it. Things will be different, change will come soon. He’ll make sure of it. 

“Do you need help? I can climb up and--” 

“Too high. It’s only the roofing, Mother.”

“Are you sure you want to be do it on your own?” 

She always worries. It’s where he gets it from, its why he’s always second guessing himself before he even has room to start. It takes awhile to convince her otherwise, she’s pushed her sleeves to her elbows and looks as if she’s close to pouting, “Well. Alright. If you say so. I’ll go back inside then.” 

“Yes. And put on something warmer.” 

He watches her go, soon after he’s stooping down and resuming his work. It’s a tedious job, rebuilding what they once had from the ground up. The town had been destroyed, there was no helping it, only moving on and continuing with what they had left. Many had died, many refused to leave, and Merek would’ve been one of them if it hadn’t been his constant unease for his Mother’s health. Staying close to the Doctor was at the forefront at his mind. 

He cringes, lifts a hand to rub absently at his shoulder. It has been months now and the pain of the burns hadn’t subsided. Not nearly deep to require amputation, but enough where he’s careful. The skin is stiff, burns coat the length of his right arm, shoulder, and upper-back. With little to no treatment, he can only make do. 

Lost in thought, he stops where he is, reaching over and jerking his sleeve up to his elbow. The pain is still vivid, he can still smell the smoke, taste it on his tongue. See the fires each night he may close his eyes. Pressing his lips together firm, he pulls back down his shirt where it belong - he doesn’t want his Mother to see and to grow upset. 

He means to go back to work, but something in the distance catches his eye. 

Out in the water, near the horizon. 

“Merek?” His Mother is calling for him again, “Could you come and help me lift this?”

“I’ll be right there.”

Tone is distracted, he’s still staring out in the direction of the port. Towards the water, where it meets the sky, he can see sails. 

.

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[unpopcorned]

.

.

He remembers the first time he’d set foot there. 

It had been so cold. And there was noise - plenty of it. Banging from other prisoners, yelling and screaming, loud stomps of feet. 

He blocks it all out, because he is good at that. He’s always been good at that.

Past all the others, past the cages, they bring him to a room where they make him strip bare and force new clothes into his arms. Numbly, his arms loop through each hole, pants tugged up and hang limp off the thinness of his waist. 

The first guard speaks to him, “This is your room now. Do with it what you will.” 

The second is next, “You’ll be here for a very long time, boy.” 

The door closes behind them.

It’s not just dark anymore, it’s pitchblack. Even when he holds his hands out in front of his face, he can’t see them. 

There are no windows, no light, no wind. 

Completely nothing. 

He stays there for a long time, staring in the direction of where the men had gone, and then back to his hands. 

Fingers lift from his side, reach out blindly, he finds the wall. Wet and chilling, he drags his touch further along the stone until he finds the end. And there, he takes a seat, directly in the corner of the room. 

Legs press to his chest, arms curl around the knees, and he’s quiet.  He has no choice. 

Here, he is to do nothing but wait. 

.

.

There’s always screaming from outside the door. 

At first, he’d been frightened. The noise, along with his thoughts, were all defeaning. He’d plugged his ears, tried to scratch and wrestle them off his head when that wasn’t enough, tried shrieking over the noise until his throat was bloody and raw, forced his head against the wall again and again until the pain was numbing.

Now, after who knows how long, he just listens. 

Different voices, different languages. He’s been here long enough where he can tell which from which. 

There’s a particular fellow a floor above him that yells at the time. Cursing and the like, he yells at the guards and they hurt him until he’s quiet. It never lasts long - the screaming and the beating. 

There’s another across the main area, who’s voice is loud enough to carry to his and others. He recites verses all the time, over all the noise and chaos, he keeps true to the Word of Church. It sounds like most of his teachings are from another country. 

And another, who’s to the left of him. He whispers to himself, most of it is too low to make out. And other times, he can swear the man is talking to him. Telling him things about the guards, where they may be, what they may be doing. He never listens to him, never sees the point. 

Because, he’s not like the rest. He is waiting. 

.

.

He’s losing track of times.

He can’t tell the days anymore. 

How long has it been? 

Mere days? Months? Years? 

How could he possibly know. There is no sun, there are no stars, it could be morning or night and he would have no idea. 

There is nothing here but cold and the stench of death and the screams. 

Forehead presses to the stone, his skin is bloody and flesh is exposed, but still he forces harder each time. He wishes the noise would stop, he wishes light would bleed over him again. 

He never knew how much he would miss such small things once they were gone. 

.

.

There’s a knocking at his door. 

This is new. But he’s too weak to move. 

Footsteps, the sound of voices. 

“This one dead?” 

“Aye.” 

“He’s still breathing. Look.” 

Something prods at his side, hard. A shoe, and his eyelashes flutter open. 

Three guards stare down at him, one has drawn his weapon, and another is plugging his nose, “Fuckin’ reeks. He smells dead.” 

“Get water.” 

“Hold on.” 

“What did we tell ya’, huh? You do all your business in the bucket. Don’t sit here in your shit and vomit.” 

“That blood?”

“Looks like it.” 

The last comes back with the bucket. Things become a little clearer, he can hear them now without it sounding as if he’s in another room. Without waiting, the third dumps ice-cold water onto him, soaking him to the bone and clinging his clothes to him. 

He screams. 

The building quakes, everything in the room jerks away from him almost violently. 

They stop, they’re wary of him. But that doesn’t keep them away for long.

Next, they’re pulling his clothes off, sullied and dirty from his own fluids. He’s too frail to struggle, too tired to try and crawl away, his bones are brittle and his shoulder is dislocated easily from their rough treatment. 

Soon, they are gone. And he’s left naked. 

Six days later, they bring him new clothes. By that point, he can’t feel his fingers anymore. 

.

.

The visions won’t stop.

They wake him from his dreamless sleep every night, echo in his head, turn his brains to mush. Vivid and heart-stopping, his tongue is swollen behind his teeth, and he mumbles minced words to himself. 

It’s coming. 

It’s all coming. 

It’s flashing behind his eyes, every time he tries to close them, there’s nothing but blinding light and fire and screams. He can smell the blood, the burnt flesh, the cries of a child who has lost its mother. 

His visions will not leave him alone. They coat onto him like a second skin. He’s tempted to rise from his spot on the ground and beat his head into the wall until it all stops again. 

It’s coming. 

Another flash, heat darts down the length of his spine, he startles. They burn through him like memories, like his own, things that haven’t happened yet, that would happen without a doubt, that wouldn’t leave him unless they did. Each a different picture, each a different story and person from the last. 

Faces he’s seen in passing, births and deaths. The smell of the sea through their senses, the white of the clouds through their eyes, the feel of their heart in his chest, beating as one. 

It’s coming. 

Soon. 

He swallows bile down his throat when it finally stops, when his body is allowed to rest. Slumps limp, fingers curled tight into fists, a violent shiver wracks through him every moment or so. 

It’s coming. And he’s frightening. 

.

.

He forgets about the world outside these walls.

Things change so quickly for humans. Time, life, themselves. 

The snow comes and goes, the sun is almost white in the sky, the rain spreads life throughout. 

And he’s lost track. 

When did he get here? 

How much longer will it be? 

When will he see them all again?

.

.

Have they forgotten?

.

.

On this day, there is plenty of screaming. 

Outside, there are footfalls and shouting. Mostly guards, and after awhile, those sounds die out too. 

He grasps his ears, and then his head, rocks back and forth on his haunches. Nails bite into his skin sharply, remind him that he is here and he is alive. Breathing, living, waiting - that is all he must do. 

The flashing is back. There are many outcomes on this day, all of each that coat his mind like thick oil, his loses his breath quick, squeezing his eyes shut tight. There’s no way to block it all out, his screams are lost with the others’.

A day later, the cage opens. 

He’s on the floor, eyes opening blearily to find a man standing in the entryway. He’s breathing heavily, victorious bloodshot eyes staring down at him. 

“We’re free.” 

He doesn’t say anything to that. 

.

.

Things are different now. 

None of the cages are locked. The guards are gone. There is lots of talking and laughter from the main area, lots of fighting, lots of people working to gain the upper hand now that the law was no more. 

He can hear what they all say. What they all wish to offer to the others. 

Things will be different now, you’ll all see. 

Things will be better. 

This is what we’ve all been waiting for. 

He never leaves his room, because there would be no reason to it. He is frozen to the wall, hair matted with dried blood, knees to his chest, shoulders thin and jutted in. 

He has to wait longer. 

.

.

“Brought you something to eat.”

He doesn’t raise his head towards the voice. Steps grow closer, a tray is dropped a foot away from him.

“Bread, it’s good.” 

He knows this voice. He comes around every once in awhile, gives him food and water, stares at him from a long time, and soon leaves. He guesses he will do the same now, as well. 

“You have to eat. Build your strength. You’ll need it.” 

He only stares at him, white lashes low, eyes milky and unfocused. 

The man leaves soon after, nudges the food closer and goes. He ignores him, listens to the sound of his steps as he grows further away.

He is alone again. And waiting. 

.

.

It’s cold. 

And dark. 

He can’t see anymore.

Only visions, no longer what is in front of him. 

It’s ongoing and never-ending. 

He doesn’t think anyone can hear his screams anymore. Neither can he. 

.

.

The cage opens. 

It is so old that it creaks, more strength is needed to make it open wider. And he’s quiet, in the corner, curled into himself, forcing tighter when he hears nothing but silence. 

No footsteps. No breathing. But he knows someone is there. 

Seconds turn into minutes. He’s lifting his chin after awhile, finds someone staring at him from across the room. 

An Angel? 

Or Death has come for him. 

Or perhaps its another vision, like all of the others. How can he know what is real anymore, how can he decipher reality from anything else that’s in his head. 

“You don’t belong here.” 

The voice is new to him, he can’t place it. It isn’t that he couldn’t understand, he just has such a difficult time placing words, understanding what they may mean. Processing it, considering it. He is unaccustomed to hearing others speak, there’s only ever been his own voice in his head. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

His voice is nothing but sound. It sweeps over his skin, he is unable to force his voice into words. 

He doesn’t realize he’s not squeezing his hands as tight as usual until the muscles of his wrists suddenly go slack. He inhales sharply, like breathing is a chore, his shoulders lift in a jerking manner, and fall even more shakily. Eyes lift, meet his, and then they’re looking away just as fast, to a spot over his shoulder. 

This is real. 

He realizes it with astonishment, someone is here, only a few feet from him, speaking to him. 

He holds still, every muscle wound tight, watching the man carefully. He grows closer into the room, stops only a foot away from him and crouches down to his height along the wall. 

He grows even more tense, his ears are ringing. But somehow, he manages to hear -

“You’re alone.”

He stares at him, studies his features for a very long time. What do those words mean, what weight do they hold. And how is he supposed to answer, when was the last time he spoke, when was the last time he even breathed loud enough to make a noise. 

The two of them watch each other. The man moves, very slowly, his palm facing outwards towards him in offering. He moves like he doesn’t want to spook him, like he’s a wild bird that’s ready to take flight. 

But, he is to wait here. He is to stay and wait. How can he not understand that? 

“It is alright.” 

Is that what he believes? His tongue feels useless, his body is limp and powerless, he could not move even if he tried. He is supposed to wait, he is supposed to stay here, he cannot leave - 

“Do you want to be here?”

Wants. He wants. He cannot help but wonder what that feels like. He stays still, gazes at him, swallows uneasily. He is unable to speak, he is nothing but space at this point. 

Blood and bones. 

And he is an angel, the man before him.

An Angel of Death, mayhaps, he crouches down to him as if he may be more than that. More than what he believes, whispers to him as if he’s praying, offers his hand like it is nothing. 

He does not have to nod. He does not have to say anything, he merely reaches a hand - pure bones and icy white skin that is too weak to lift to his. But that is enough for the Angel, because he stares back, tilts his head. 

“What is your name?” The Angel whispers, asks in the most gentlest voice. 

.

.

He wants to tell him that it’s Ivar, that his name is Ivar. But he hasn’t spoken it in so long, he doesn’t know if that’s true anymore.

.

.

[unpopcorned]

.

.

Lux is used to being used. 

He’s like one of those Barbies his sister used to play with when they were younger. She would make them do whatever she wanted - speak, sit, sleep. Dress them however she pleased, often times made two dolls fall in love and kiss each other. Lux sometimes found himself enraptured when watching her, it was like a movie and his sister could be very imaginative. 

Maybe that’s what she did to him. Maybe he was like a doll for her to dress up and groom and trap inside of her Barbie Dream Home. It’s not like he minds, really. It’s not like he has any room to protest anything. 

He can’t move. He can’t speak. Not without his sister’s permission. 

He’s fine living like that, though. Or maybe, he just doesn’t know any other way. That’s probably why him and Eden became such fast friends. She’d attached to him immediately after spending one night together. She’s bossy and loud and it’s overwhelming just being around her. She’s messed up too, things have happened to her too, and Lux thinks she’s too upset to talk about them. 

He can taste it in her kiss, her anger. From the way she talks, from the way she glares at anyone who’s stare lingers too long, from the way she throws a handful of pills into her mouth and tries to take the easy way out. It’s not that he blames her, but Lux is a little too selfish to let go. The two of them are inseparable. But - like he said - she shares a lot of similarities with his sister. 

He remembers waking up a few times before to find Eden on top of him, pulling him from his boxers, and pressing against him eagerly. As if she needs his warmth, as if she can’t get enough. Lux is okay with that, he’s okay with holding her when she needs him to. It’s always been like that for him.

There’s another instance where he can remember passing out at a party. A party that he’d gone to because Eden had begged him. He doesn’t recall much from the night, but he’d managed to curl up on the couch and fall asleep, despite the loud music. When he’d woken up, he remembers unfamiliar hands on his hips, lifting him and unbuckling his jeans. It was a guy - a guy he didn’t know, but Lux hadn’t done anything to stop it. Arms felt too heavy, tongue was rooted to the top of his mouth. And he’s used to it, he’s used to this. 

Being someone else’s toy. 

It’s gotten to the point where he can’t look at his own reflection anymore without feeling nauseous. He’s removed all of the mirrors from his apartment, and when Eden had asked why, he merely shrugged it off. He feels like a stranger in his own skin, reduced to nothing but bones and flesh, almost like a complete empty shell. Days pass by him in a blur - days soon stretch into weeks and then months and then years. His life is practically swallowed whole in no time at all. He feels stuck in motion, stuck in one single time-frame.

Things kind of shift though soon after his twenty-second birthday. Eden invites him out, she’s the only one whoever does, the only one who takes the time to consider him at least. And he goes, because he doesn’t want to disappoint her. There’s not much for him to do - he smokes and drinks and takes a hit of whatever there is to offer. 

He loses sight of Eden pretty quickly. She’s much more of a socialite than he is, she knows a lot of people. But she comes back after he’s alone for around half an hour, tugging someone behind her. That’s the night he meets Tanner. Eden and him fight like cats and dogs, but they kiss like old lovers. 

Lux watches them for a moment, but it feels almost intrusive. Until Eden is pulling away from Tanner, leaning over and capturing Lux’s lips into a kiss next. It’s a familiar feeling to do this with her - swells tight in his chest and makes him press up into it. He’s always kind of starved for this, for a shred of attention even if it may not seem as so. Her fingers are warm and lingering, fisting into his jacket and yanking him closer. 

She’s done before Lux is, giving him a subtle smile when he stares at her, “Tanner’s a really good kisser.” Is that his name? Lux sits up straighter in his seat, curious and aware, “Go ahead.”

Lux lifts his head, looks to see that Tanner is staring at him with dark eyes. He’s the one who takes the initiative, dipping his chin and leaning closer to Lux. He meets Tanner half way, lips press tentatively at first, and then more firmly. It’s hard to stop after that - because Eden’s right, he is a good kisser. Soon, it’s tongue and teeth and the taste of smoke and Lux is a little too greedy to get all that he can.

Eden’s smile has grew by the time they’re finished, watching the two of them for a moment before she’s standing again, “C’mon.” 

Tanner does the same, meeting Lux’s once more before he’s following after her. For a few seconds, he’s left staring after them. 

And then he’s up.

.

.

He sees Tanner off and on again after that. 

He knows next to nothing about the guy, except his name. He guesses there are a few things he could list off - he doesn’t like talking about himself, he eats a lot, he has a bad temper, and he’s good at sex. Lux doesn’t mind having him around, people come in and out of Eden’s life all the time, he doesn’t think this will be much different. Lux watches the two of them argue a lot. One moment, they’re at each other’s throats and the next they’re trying to get the others clothes off. Lux joins sometimes, and other times he leaves. He wonders if they have sex alone a lot, he wonders if Eden really likes Tanner. 

Even in their dynamic, he still has this overwhelming feeling that he doesn’t belong. He feels like that almost everywhere though, with everyone. 

On a Tuesday morning, he wakes up sore and groggy. And the space next to him is empty, blankets ruffled and thrown off the side. No wonder it’s so cold. Lux rubs at his face, sits up after a moment, takes a look around the room. There’s clothes all over - some definitely aren’t his. From what he can see, Eden’s panties are resting on the corner of his bed, along with a stray unfamiliar sock. 

He can hear footsteps though, and so, Lux leaves his bedroom - down the hallway, only for the bathroom door to open. He runs right into Tanner, who looks a bit surprised to see him up. After further inspection, Lux can see it looks as if Tanner was going to leave soon; he’s already dressed besides his shoes. 

“Mornin’.” 

Lux only nods, keeps his chin dipped low. 

“Eden already left. Said she had shit t’do.” 

“Okay.” 

This feels a bit strange, because he’s never really had the chance to talk to Tanner by himself. There’s always Eden between the both of them, sucking up their attention thoroughly. There’s been a couple of times where their eyes may meet, or when they kiss - Tanner might whisper something, or Tanner would laugh at something and glance at Lux and it would make him feel more included. Other than that, their communication has been very limited.

“Y’don’t talk much, hm?” 

Lux looks up then, blinks at him tiredly.

Tanner’s mouth screws slightly to the side, “I was gonna head out soon anyway,” A pause, and then he says, “There’s no mirror in your bathroom.” 

Lux glances past his shoulder, to the ajar bathroom door, then back to Tanner, “I took it out.” 

“For what?” 

“...I broke it,” That’s a lie, and it leaves a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. 

Tanner doesn’t look interested enough to push it though, he merely shrugs it off. Scratching at his eyebrow, seeming to think, “Wanna get somethin’ to eat?” 

The two of them end up doing just that - getting Chinese from a few blocks down the street. Tanner is better at using chopsticks than Lux, though. Lux fiddles with his own, he isn’t that hungry but he thinks it would’ve been a little rude to just decline. Picking at his food, he glances up to see Tanner is busy stuffing his face, meeting his gaze quick. 

“It’s just Lux?” When Lux does nothing but stare at him, Tanner elaborates, “Your name, it’s just Lux.” 

“ ...no. Luxen. My mom really likes dead languages, she used to be a teacher. And...Luxen is just the Latin form for Lucas.” She always used to tell him when he was younger that his name was very important - his name meaning man from Luciana, which is a region towards southern Italy. He remembers telling his friends excitedly all the time what his name meant, he wonders where all that energy went. 

“Huh,” Tanner is staring at him still. Lux’s never been good when it comes to eye contact, he keeps his focus on his food instead. He opens his mouth, as if testing the sound of his name on his tongue, “Luxen.” 

“Just - Lux is fine,” he tells him, gives up with the chopsticks for now and resorts to a fork instead. It’s silent between the two of them again, and Lux has a feeling that it’s not supposed to be. He’s not used to being in these types of situations though - when was the last time he sat down and ate with someone at a table? Or kept up small talk? It feels weird, “Are you and Eden friends?” 

Tanner looks up at the question, almost chokes on his food. His coughing dissolves into snide laughter after awhile, almost biting, “No,” Lux doesn’t say anything, “Don’t know how you can stand bein’ around her all the time.” 

Unceremoniously, he shrugs his shoulders, but keeps quiet. 

Tanner bites at the corner of his mouth, “I don’t mean t’be an asshole or nothin’, but - no offense, she’s a cunt.” 

Lux’s expression slightly relaxes, if he weren’t so tired, he might’ve smiled. If only a little. They finish eating fairly quickly - well, Tanner does and Lux doesn’t finish his so he gives the rest to him. Then the two of them sit outside together, Tanner pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, his lighter isn’t working so Lux lets him borrow his. 

He blows out smoke through his teeth, “Fuckin’ freezing.”

Lux looks up, studying his side profile to see he’s looking out towards the street. It’s still early in the afternoon, not a lot of cars out. And the air is biting, he has to curl tighter into himself to stay warm, “...do you live near here?” 

Tanner clenches his jaw, doesn’t face him, “No.” And says no more than that. 

“Okay.” 

Lux doesn’t know why he’s lingering around him, he thought Tanner would bolt as soon as they were done eating - as he usually does. But they sit pretty close together on the stoop, and Lux finds himself staring at him sometimes. Tanner is interesting to look at, he can see why he caught Eden’s eye. Dozens of tattoos from what Lux can remember, each one almost overlapping others. 

After awhile, he’s offering the cigarette in Lux’s direction, meeting his eyes briefly. Lux takes it after a moment of hesitation, bringing it to his lips. Inhale, exhale. He needs something a lot stronger to wake him up, but it helps with the heavy weight that settles over his chest every morning. 

They don’t talk anymore, and it’s not a particularly bad silence - but Lux knows if Eden was there, there wouldn’t be any quiet. He can’t help but wish he could be more like her, normal. Speak more, actually look people in the eyes for once. 

“‘M gonna head out,” Tanner finishes off the cigarette, tossing it to the side and stepping out the ashes, “Need’a do somethin’.” 

“Okay,” Lux says again, watches him for a moment, “I--” His voice becomes stuck in his throat when Tanner’s dark eyes come back to him, “Thanks.” 

Tanner’s lips pull down into a subtle frown, but he’s not displeased, “For what?” 

“Eating with me.” 

Tanner stares at him for a little while, and Lux drops his eyes. Finally, he rubs at his nape, looks away, “See ya’.” 

“Yeah.” 

Lux listens to Tanner’s footsteps until they’re drowned out by bypassing traffic. 

.

.

“Your hair is long now. Have you thought about cutting it?”

Lux is very aware of her hands on his shoulders, fingers touching his nape gently. She treats him a lot like a spooked animal - like one wrong graze of her hand will scare him. He guesses she’s not completely wrong in that aspect. He doesn’t shy away though, keeps his eyes trained on his shoes while she helps him remove his jacket. 

“Yeah...” He murmurs when she steps away, hanging it up for him, “But I don’t really have the money to get it cut.” 

“I’ll spot you,” His sister tells him, smiling over her shoulder. He watches her until she disappears into the kitchen. She’s looking more and more like their mom as days past. The same sandy-blonde hair, same freckles, same pear-shaped figure. He remembers when people didn’t believe him when he said they were siblings, different enough where he seemed aliened compared to her, “Did you want me to make you something to eat?” 

He trails after her slowly, finds her in front of his fridge. She’s putting away things, like she lives here. And she might as well, she visits every couple days to restock the kitchen and make sure he’s still kicking. She’s the reason there’s food in his stomach, a roof over his head. He can make no complaints when it comes to her coddling nature. 

She turns her head, spots him staring at her over her shoulder, “Did you hear me, Luxen?” 

“Yeah,” he says, “It’s fine. I’m not hungry.” Plus, he doesn’t want to keep her. She does more than enough. And she smiles at him, stepping away from the counter when she’s finished with everything. His sister is so much more shorter than him, but somehow he’s almost urged to fall to his knees in front of her. She holds so much power over him, and he knows she’s more than aware of it. 

“Are you sure? You’ll lose weight again if you don’t start eating more. I don’t want you going back to...” She seems to consider her words, head cocking slightly to the side as she regards him, “How about I leave a little extra so you can order something later? How’s that?” 

Lux doesn’t say anything. Because he knows she’ll do it anyway. It’s not like he has much of a voice when it concerns her. That’s how it’s always been between them. She finds her purse, rummages through until she finds a few bills. After they’re placed on the end table by the couch, she returns her attention to him, lighthearted smile coming to her face. 

“Mom was asking about you again. She doesn’t have any recent pictures of you, so I gave her a couple of mine,” Lux is still silent, rubs anxiously at his jaw when her smile widens, gentle as always, “Don’t make that face. She...cares, Luxen. She wants what’s best for you, just like me.” 

His tongue feels heavy, “I know.” 

“Good,” Rising onto her tiptoes, she presses her lips to his cheek soundly, lingers for only a moment before she’s pulling away, “See you on Sunday, okay?”

“Okay.” 

“I love you.” 

“You, too.” 

He walks with her to the door, she touches his shoulder briefly before opening it. To both of their surprise, someone is already standing in the hallway. It’s Tanner, looks as if he was just about to knock. His sister’s expression dampens, flickering her eyes over the expanse of Tanner’s appearance - taking in the amount of his tattoos, Lux is sure. 

“Hello,” she speaks first, folding her arms over her chest, “I believe you have the wrong--” 

“Hey,” Tanner directs his greeting at Lux. His eyes lift, stare right back at him - Tanner looks tired, hands shoved within his pockets, “You didn’t show up last night.” 

Lux doesn’t get a chance to reply, his sister does for him, “He was with me. And who are you? Luxen, you know him?” 

“Tanner,” Lux says, she gives him an ugly look when he says his name, Lux wants to cringe, “We’re...friends.” 

“You sure know how to pick them,” she mutters, eyeing the other in the doorway. But, she doesn’t linger - she shrugs on her coat and looks directly at Lux, “Sunday. Don’t forget.”

“Yeah.” 

Lux watches her go, she walks briskly down the hallway and to the stairs. She’s gone pretty quickly. And then he’s looking back to Tanner, and he’s surprised to find he’s already staring back. 

“Who was that?” 

“Ah. My sister,” For some reason, it feels strange saying it out loud. 

“You guys don’t look alike.” 

“Yeah. I know.” 

He lets Tanner in though, he has no reason not to. He’s half-expecting Eden to come walking in after him, but for the first time, Tanner is alone. It feels a little strange to be alone again, but Lux closes the door after him. 

“Y’didn’t come ‘cause her? She ground you or somethin’?” No, but Lux has a difficult time saying no to her. He says nothing, only continues to watch Tanner out of the corner of his eye, “She’s a fuckin’ drag, can already tell.”

“Eden’s not with you,” Lux observes, glancing back towards the door.

“Yeah,” Tanner looks annoyed, like he didn’t want to bring her up, “She was bitchin’ all night. Ain’t the best company, don’t know when to shut up.” 

Lux is beginning to notice that Tanner has little to no filter - he says what he wants, when he wants. And he wishes he could be a little more like him, wishes his palms didn’t become clammy and his tongue didn’t stick to the root of his mouth so much. He can tell Eden grows tired of Tanner’s attitude though, and his sister definitely thought he was bad news. Lux likes it about him though, at least he knows Tanner is honest. 

“Sorry I missed last night,” Lux tells him, leaning against the wall beside the door. Unlike Tanner, he hasn’t moved deeper into the apartment. He has this urge to keep by the doorway, just in case his sister has forgotten something and comes back. He doubts it though, she’s such a busy-body, “Was it fun?”

“No,” Tanner says, “I was waitin’ for you to show,” His voice is closer now, Lux lifts his head to see he’s less than a foot away, staring at him. 

“Sorry,” Lux mutters again. For some reason, it feels a little tense. And he isn’t like Eden, he has no way of knowing how to ease it. Not only does Tanner look drained, he also seems full of energy as well. Pent-up, it lingers at his shoulders and shows taut at his mouth. 

“’S fine, nothin’ happened anyway,” he licks his lips, looks as if he’s thinking, “Your sister’s not comin’ back tonight, right?” Lux blinks at the way he says that, like he doesn’t believe they’re really siblings. He wouldn’t blame Tanner if that was the case. 

“No...Not until Sunday,” He frowns for a moment, “You can crash here, if you want.” 

Maybe he’s seeing things, but he’s pretty sure he spots Tanner’s eyes flicker down and then back up to his face with a purpose as soon as its out of his mouth. It makes a sudden stroke of heat dart up his spine, odd but not unwelcome. He’s seen the look before. On plenty of people. It’s a little new to see it on Tanner - to have it aimed towards him. Fingers twist together behind his back, nerves settling deep into the pit of his stomach. Now, he understands the tension a little more. 

Tanner doesn’t say anything, he merely moves closer. It only takes a few steps until he’s in front of Lux. He kind of forgets how to breathe for a second, because it’s not often that someone so boldly steps into his space. Tanner’s breath is warm, and his body heat is even more so. After a few seconds, Lux’s gaze falls to Tanner’s lips - he remembers quite vividly how nice of a kisser he was and he remembers how Eden had pointed out the fact before. That thought makes him rock back uneasily on his heels. 

“Eden isn’t here.” 

“So? I need her ‘round to get my dick hard or somethin’?” 

Lux swallows, the hungry look in his dark eyes makes him nervous. And it also may excite him a little more than he’s used to, “I thought--” 

Without waiting for him to finish, Tanner’s hand comes up and curls around Lux’s nape, jerking him forward. Lips cover his, rough and tempting, and it’s even nicer than what Lux can remember. To be fair however, he’d been pretty fucked up that night. His kiss has an edge to it, it doesn’t slow down or become gentle, it grows more heavy in its intensity and leaves Lux winded. There’s this slow build of warmth inside of him - it always gets like that when someone touches him, anyone. 

He sometimes hates himself. Even though he flinches at the thought of anyone laying their hands on him, he cannot help but craves for it at the same time. With Tanner, it’s a little different - this feeling in the pit of his stomach is harder to ignore than usual, he wants more out of it. More out of him. 

He supposes he stays still too long for Tanner’s liking, because his long fingers wrap around one of Lux’s wrists and forces it from his side. With Tanner’s help, he cups over his crotch, where he can feel him hardening fast. 

“Enough of an answer for you?” 

Their eyes meet and lock for a moment. And then, Lux nods.

. 

.

Tanner is gone before the sun is even up. 

Lux thinks he should be used to the hollow feeling in his chest whenever he wakes up alone. 

But it’s been getting a lot harder to ignore lately. 

.

.

Lux hates making eye contact. It’s almost instinctual to avoid it whenever he can, it’s been like that ever since he was around twelve. 

It reminds him a lot of a dog rolling over to expose its belly. Vulnerable, bare. He doesn’t like how it makes him feel, so he never does it. He’s trying to take up the same idea with talking - he doesn’t like doing that either, he wants to do it as little as possible if he can. Maybe limit himself to about fifty words a day. 

Eden gets annoyed with him when he doesn’t speak though. She screws her mouth slightly to the side, reaches across the table and whacks Lux atop the head with her menu. It’s harmless enough, and it doesn’t hurt. But he looks up, chewing leisurely at his thumb nail, lost in thought. 

“You listening or what?” 

Lux wasn’t listening. But he doesn’t want to tick her off any more than she seems to be, “Sorry.” 

“It’s whatever. Not like--” She stops there, squints at him. And then, she reaches over and grasps his jaw with one hand, turning his head sharply to the left so that she can get a good look at his neck, “Fuck is that? Is that a hickey?” 

Lux blinks a few times, her grip is awfully painful, almost iron, “I don’t know.”

“How do you not know? Do you look at yourself in the mirror?” 

“No.” 

Eden rolls her eyes, but releases him. Leaning back in her seat, her arms fold over her chest, “Can I at least know who it is?” 

“...who...”

“Who you’re fucking, Lux.”

“Oh.” 

She pulls a face, “Is it some skank? Don’t tell me it’s like fucking Nina or somethin’. That bitch’s totally got crabs.” 

Lux doesn’t know who that is. But he doesn’t get a chance to answer her, someone leans into the booth but doesn’t sit, and the both of them glance over to see Tanner. Like always, he looks tired. Lux can’t help but watch him for a moment, he’s wearing the shoes he usually does. High-tops with fraying laces and black smudges towards the heels. The same jacket - worn but not falling apart, very comfortable-looking. 

Lux can tell by his eyes and the lax slope of his shoulders that he’s started a little early tonight.

“Fuck’re you two talkin’ about?” 

Eden barely looks up, “Crabs.” 

“Why, you got ‘em?” 

“Fuck you, Tanner.”

“Not if you got--” 

“I don’t. Mind your own business.” 

Lux prefers this - when the attention isn’t on him. He can just watch the two of them snap at each other, goodnatured or not. He does that a lot, he notices. He must’ve zone out for a few moments, because the next thing--

“So it was you!”

Eden’s accusatory tone is enough to make Lux break from his thoughts, eyes lifting to find Tanner and her at each others throats, as usual. Tanner’s eyebrows have raised high on his forehead, vaguely annoyed. And Eden is glaring up at him, grasping her drink tight as if she’s resisting the urge to chuck it at him. 

“It a crime or somethin’?” Tanner shot back, giving her a look. 

“Keep your germs to yourself. I’m sure Lux doesn’t want you slobberin’ all over his neck like that. What’re you, a wild animal?” 

Oh. He’s guessing that Tanner told her at some point during the conversation. 

Though, Lux still feels a bit out of the loop, “Sorry.” He says for the second time, it makes Tanner and Eden both look up. Maybe she liked Tanner more than he’d originally thought, maybe he was right in his assumptions. Getting in between whatever they had was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. 

“Ain’t your fault. Tanner’ll stick his dick in anybody ‘round here.” 

“Yeah. You’re the prime fuckin’ example of that.”

She flips him off, but it’s not long before she’s standing from the booth. Throwing down a few bills that don’t look nearly enough for what she had ordered, Eden looks over towards Lux, “I gotta head over to Dylan’s. See you later?” He nods, watches as she gives Tanner the stink eye before she leaves.

“Bitch,” Tanner mutters underneath his breath, taking her spot when she’s gone, “Seriously, all she does is complain.” 

He gives a half-attempted shrug, eyes falling to the table in between them, “...she was mad. ‘Cause we--” He can’t bring himself to finish, he chews harder at his thumbnail until he tastes a sliver of blood. 

“Fucked. Yeah.” 

“Without her. I don’t think we’re supposed to do that.” 

Tanner’s eyebrows lift again, he looks interested though, “Why?” Lux doesn’t answer, there’s a heavy weight in his stomach and it won’t let him raise his eyes to his, “I ain’t sorry. Not gonna be sorry next time either.” He absently opens the abandoned menu while he speaks. 

Lux stops chewing for a moment. Next time, he says, “...yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Tanner keeps staring at him, Lux can feel it - even when he’s too hesitant to look at him, “Gotta live a little, right?” 

“My therapist used to say that,” Lux mutters, pulling his hand back to inspect his thumb - he was right in his earlier assumption, there’s blood. Only a bit though, and it stings some. His mother had always complained that she hated when he bit at his nails, always complained about the amount of germs. She was a bit of a neat-freak, like his sister, “A lot.” 

“You had a therapist?” Tanner sounds interested. And Lux glances up to see him still staring. 

He can’t help but tense slightly, shoulders hunching inward. It’d been a slip of the tongue, just for a small moment. Because - he’s noticed before - he feels startling comfortable around Tanner. His mouth works on its own sometimes when he’s alone with him, “Yeah. A few. There’s something the matter with me.” 

Tanner studies him for a little while, rubbing a hand at his jaw before he returns his attention to the menu in front of him, “Everyone’s pretty messed up. On the inside. Some people just better at hiding it, right?”

Yeah. But not as messed up as Lux. Not even close. But he doesn’t say that, he shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. It’s not like it’s exactly a normal thing to . . . to talk about himself. In fact, he hates doing that. 

Ever since the trial.

The waitress returns to the table, and places down Eden’s burger right in front of Tanner. It looks good, but Lux’s stomach is turning in on itself and he doesn’t want to force anything on top of it. Tanner digs in though, if he didn’t eat it - no one would. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Tanner says around a mouthful of meat and cheese. 

Lux doesn’t look up.

“You got all quiet.” 

Slowly, he shakes his head. 

“Okay. I’m not good at that shit anyway.” 

.

.

Lux hates when he can’t control his emotions. He’s so used to being in a constant state of detached apathy, for himself and for others around him. When it’s different, it comes as a shock. His loneliness spills through the cracks and he has no way of keeping it inside of him, on nights like these - he finds himself pressed against the wall, crouched over and wrapping his arms around himself. 

He rocks back and forth, tries hard to keep his mind from reeling. He has nothing let to give, and yet, everything bleeds out of him uncontrollably and leaves him even more empty than before. Memories stick to him like ticks, sucking and draining. It was like getting kicked in the back of the head, over and over again, causing his muscles to seize up and leave him rigid. He feels as if he could burst at any moment. 

There is this harsh, high-pitched sound breaking through his muddled hearing. And it takes awhile to realize that it’s coming from him. He’s crying, rocking, trembling. Like when he was a child, and even all this time later, he’s still unable to stop it. That scares him a lot, that scares him so fucking much.

He hates it. He hates himself. He hates when he gets like this. 

He remembers when it happened with Eden once - when she brushed her hands over the back of his neck and touched over the base of his spine and it sent him into a panic attack. At that moment, she was unsure of what to do. But she stayed with him that night, and that was all he could ask for. 

But this time, there’s no one. Just him and his thoughts. 

Pills wouldn’t help this. Or coke. He needs something stronger.

He feels as if he may hurl, but there’s nothing in his stomach for that. Just stones and acid. Lux doesn’t know how, but he makes it to the bathroom, finds his stash. And it’s pretty much a blur from there, his hands fumbling quick - his eyes are burning, and his stomach is rolling over, but he feels more alive than before. It brings a rush, a warmth underneath his skin that he craves, a hazy numbness that brings the only peace he knows. 

Hours crawl by. His skin feels itchy, unbearable to be in. The sluggish feeling follows, he’s used to it and it helps him rest, even if he can’t manage to particularly sleep. His heart doesn’t hurt as much, his head isn’t ringing, and the crying sounds have stopped. He feels better, he wants to keep breathing again. 

The inside of his apartment feels safe, locked away from the world and silent. But eventually, as night turns to day, and day turns back to night - the air grows stuffy inside of his bathroom and he’s forced to pull himself up from the floor. He finds himself outside, on the steps of his apartment building, unaware of the freezing breeze. 

Eyesight bleary, mouth dry, he pulls the carton from his pocket and lights up the last cigarette he has. Lux didn’t get the chance to check the time, but he can only guess it’s late at night. There’s barely a soul around, the street is empty and dead quiet. 

He smokes through his cigarette fast, stares down at the nub for a moment before he flexes out the fingers of his opposite hand. Without hesitation, he presses the cindering end to the inside of his palm. The pain is welcomed and familiar, it makes him feel more awake than before. 

“What the fuck’re you doing?” 

The voice startles him, and he looks up to see Tanner. He’s staring directly at his hand, eyebrows furrowed, shoulders tense. He looks almost offended. Without waiting for Lux to say anything, he crouches down in front of him and snatches away the cigarette. His foot comes down on the ash, stepping it firmly into the concrete of the sidewalk when he stands upright. 

“Lemme see,” his fingers come around Lux’s wrist, and he leans close to inspect the burn, “Fuck is the matter with you?” 

Lux doesn’t know - a lot of things, he guesses. He keeps quiet, still a bit alarmed to see Tanner in general. Especially when he feels this way, this vulnerable. He wasn’t aware he was so against Tanner seeing him like this until it was actually happening. 

“It’s...”

“I got it,” Tanner presses his thumb into his mouth, slick with saliva and rubs it soothingly to Lux’s inner palm. It stings, but he barely flinches, watches as Tanner studies the burn carefully before he releases his wrist, “Fuck’s sake, must hurt like a bitch.”

When he lets go, Lux brings his hand to his lap, flexing the fingers and curling them into a fist. Tanner takes that chance to sit beside him on the steps, exhaling. It’s quiet between them. Lux is the first one to speak up, “Thanks.”

“What’re you doin’ out here? It’s freezing.” 

Lux bites at his tongue hard. 

“It’s about to start snowin’.” 

“What’re you doing here?” Lux asks instead, sending the question right back at him. 

Tanner blinks. And then his jaw flexes, eyes shifting to the sidewalk in front of them, “Was just walking. Ended up here,” Looking at him a lot more closely, Lux is able to see that there are bags under his eyes, and even though he’s complaining about the weather, he isn’t dressed for the cold. 

“...are you okay?” 

“What.” 

“Are you okay? You don’t...look okay.” 

“Yeah? You look like shit, too.” 

Lux doesn’t say anything to that, he only stares at Tanner’s side profile for an extended amount of time. He’s quick to look away when Tanner’s chin lifts, though. It’s silent between them, Tanner looks angry now, like he’s thinking too hard about something but he can’t let it go. So, Lux clears his throat and curls his arms around his knees. 

“I...” 

Tanner glances over at him, “What’d you say?” 

“Didn’t mean to - to make you mad.” 

“You didn’t--” Tanner inhales deeply, but then doesn’t say anything else, “Not mad at you or anything. Just don’t do that shit again, ain’t gonna help with whatever...whatever you’re fucked up about.” 

Lux can’t promise him that, because he’s been doing it since he was around fifteen. The pain helps with the rush, helps with forgetting just a little while. He can focus on it better than anything else.

“Can we talk about somethin’ else?” Tanner’s voice is hard, almost cutting. 

“Like what?” 

“Anything,” Lux looks at a lost, so Tanner sucks his teeth at him, annoyed. After considering it for awhile, he finally says, “My friend - never mind, we’re not really friends anymore - he used to talk all the time, nonstop. Couldn’t get the guy to shut up. But...he was pretty great. Like, this one time, he...” Tanner goes into a detailed story about his friend, and that soon involves into another story. And then another, after awhile he’s staring at Lux, as if he’s waiting for him to supply some type of back and forth. 

Lux doesn’t really have to think it over. There’s plenty he’s done. None of it is really harmless, though. He names off a few with relative ease, and he realizes most of them include Eden or Ricky or Tripp, because they’re the ones who did the crazy stuff and he’s the one who kind of just watched them do it. 

“...I ripped this girl’s panties off at a party once.” 

“That’s not that bad,” he’s relaxed a little while Lux was speaking, watching him out of the corner of his eye, “Girls beg for shit like that.” 

“Yeah. Except I was eleven.” 

That makes Tanner stare. His voice is quieter this time, “Oh. Why?” 

Lux begins rocking, though the motion is more subtle than earlier, “’Cause. I thought that’s what you’re supposed to do,” Her name was Allison - back then, Lux remembers a few of his friends claiming that Allison had liked him. That she was the one who snuck that love letter into his desk the day before Valentine’s Day. She also told him one day at random that she just started wearing training bras, because she was becoming a lady. He didn’t know back then why she wanted to let him know that so bad, he feels sick thinking about it now, “But then she screamed.” 

Her scream, her soaking hot tears. The way she pushed at him, her legs flailing, eyes filling her face. The way she had stared at him, like he was some type of predator, monster. And when he had let her go, she’d jumped from the closet’s floor and darted out. He remembers glancing over at his hand, finding the shredded  remains of her underwear between his fingers. 

That night was chaos, and it burns at the back of his head on many occasions. The red-faced anger of Allison’s father, the accusatory tone of her mother, the way his friends stared at him in repulsed shock when they realized what had happened. His mother’s crying, the threatening phone calls, his sister slinking to her room whenever the yelling started. 

He doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until Tanner speaks up, “Sounds like a prude. Some girls are just like that.” 

“It’s never happened before. All I was trying to do was make her feel good, but...she kept screaming. It was--” He doesn’t have the guts to finish, he instead tries to focus on getting his hands under control. 

“I was already fucking when I was eleven.” 

“You were?” 

“Older women.” 

“That’s...shitty.”

“Nah. Exact opposite.” 

Lux doesn’t know what to say, because Tanner has this almost fond look in his eye. There’s a slight hitch to the corner of his mouth, as if he wants to smile but can’t. But he doesn’t look happy, doesn’t look amused by what he’s said. After awhile, he looks away from Lux and stares back out to the street. 

“That’s over now though.” 

Lux watches him. 

With a sigh, Tanner braces his hands on his knees and stands, “It okay if I borrow your shower?” 

“You can crash here,” Lux tells him, “It’s okay.” 

“...thanks.” 

“Yeah.” 

Tanner goes inside the building before he does - he already knows how to get himself in so Lux isn’t worried. Quietly, he opens his palm again, stares down at the cigarette burn for a few seconds before he presses down his thumb hard, just to feel the quick lace of pain again.

.

.

Whenever he kisses Tanner, he feels warm. 

All over, from the crown of his head to the tip of his toes. He doesn’t think it’s normal, but he can’t ever stop it when it happens. Tanner kisses him first, he always kisses him first - licks into his mouth and his tongue is hot and insistent. His hands are demanding and bruising, he won’t let go for anything. 

There’s plenty of people here, but he’s crowded up against the wall by Tanner’s height, hands roaming until they find Lux’s belt and tugs. The banister behind him is cutting into his back, it makes him feel more alert, aware of how dark and nearly burning Tanner’s eyes are. 

His voice is low when he speaks, barely an inch away, “Wanna go?” 

Lux can do nothing but nod. 

The two of them leave the place together, Tanner manages to wave down a taxi with surprising speed, and they climb inside with relative ease. Once the driver is given the address, Lux tries his best to get himself under control. He feels jittery, on edge, like even brushing arms with Tanner will drive him up the wall. 

He knows Eden will yell at them both later for ditching her there, but Lux can only hope she’s fine leaving with Dylan. 

Tanner’s thoughts must be elsewhere, focusing instead exclusively on Lux as he leans over and practically traps him against the window. There’s very limited room in the back of the cab, but they make do. Lips meet again, open-mouthed and searching, tongue and teeth. Lux can barely breathe, barely think - hands thrusts into Tanner’s hair, pulling him even closer. When they part, he tries his best to focus on breathing, but Tanner has already licked a line straight from his lips and to his neck, kisses down the side and sucks hard to leave marks. 

Usually, Lux is good when it comes to not making noise. He’s having a little difficulty now. 

Tanner pushes closer, Lux can feel him swelling against his thigh, growing hard fast. He presses there, hips shifting to try and get some type of relief. It makes Lux feel warmer, more desperate. Mouth waters, tongue feels heavy - and all he can think about is Tanner’s taste, it’s been awhile since he’s experienced it. 

With that thought in mind, he’s the one gripping Tanner’s shoulders, urging him to lift off of him for a moment. When he is, Lux fingers make deft work of Tanner’s belt, undoing it and darting forward as if he’s starved. He’s warm and heavy in his mouth, a bead of cum touches the tip of Lux’s tongue, makes him delve deeper down until the head hits the back of his throat. 

He can’t even bring himself to care about the driver, about where they are. 

Tanner’s hands are sweaty, curling around Lux’s nape to hold him there. His touch is welcomed, it practically burns. And Lux likes it a little too much - Tanner guiding him, keeping him there, pressing his hips up to get a better angle. 

He licks and sucks and swallows, the weight is heavy and familiar on his tongue, stretches his jaw slightly. And then Tanner’s nails dig into his neck and scalp, holds him in place while he fucks his mouth and Lux can’t help up stare up at him with a heavy-lidded eyes as he does, never breaks eye contact for a moment. It feels oddly personal, even more personal than his dick in his mouth. 

Tanner stays quieter than Lux though, he sighs heavy through his orgasm. To avoid making a mess, Lux swallows all he gives, pulling off after languidly pressing his tongue to the head. Soon after, the car comes to a stop and Tanner rebuckles his jeans, practically throwing his cash in the taxi driver’s face before he’s out of the car, tugging Lux along with him. He doesn’t even have the chance to apologize to the guy. 

The two of them make it to Lux’s apartment with little to no problems. If you excuse the fact that Tanner can’t keep his hands to himself. Even as Lux tries to get the keys into the lock, Tanner rests one arm on the door frame to keep him from moving too much, the other making its way to his crotch, pressing and squeezing roughly. 

Lux almost drops his keys. 

“Fuckin’ achin’ for it, hm?” He tightens his fingers, and the added friction does little for the pressure building in Lux’s lower stomach. He’s breathing hard against the skin of Lux’s neck, warm and moist, “Wanna fuck you, Luxen...” 

Somehow, Lux manages to get the door opened. They step inside, close the door firmly behind them. And in that moment, it’s just the two of them. Lux and Tanner, nobody else. He can’t help but wonder if he’s okay with that type of thinking. All he can hear is Tanner’s breathing and sighs, the need exuding off of him. 

The lights are still off, so its hard to see Tanner’s features. But Lux prefers it like this anyway, makes it feel more impersonal. He’d left his space-heater on, so the airs feels suffocating and thick, it’s hard to get a proper breath at a moment like this. They’re sweaty and whenever they touch, their skin sticks together. 

Tanner helps him out of his overcoat and jacket, unbuckling his pants and forcing them down. He’s rough and steadfast, and they barely make into the home before Tanner is bending him over a counter in a kitchen and spitting into his hand. 

His fingers circle, barely dip inside. And Lux tries to regain his right sense of mind, but its hard. His muscles are clenched in anticipation, pupils blown-out, mouth dry and waiting. Unsated, waiting. Wanting and needing. He needs Tanner inside of him, stretching and filling him - making him actually feel something for once.

“...please,” his voice sounds strung-out, not his own, but he continues, “Tanner, please...”

“Please what?” 

“In...in - I need,” he’s muttering, it’s so low and barely there, almost a whisper, “Tanner. Please.” 

Tanner’s fingers are inside then, wet and slick with saliva. Mouth back to Lux’s neck, he marks and sucks wherever he pleases, teeth grazing for a moment before his tongue laves the spot with attention. Lux is having trouble breathing still. 

“Relax,” Tanner whispers against his skin, lips pressed to the back of his neck, “Gotta relax.” His voice is so soft, practically pleading - that Lux can’t help but become nearly boneless before him, “That’s it, that’s good, Lux.” 

One fingers turns to two, and then three. Spreading him open, rubbing against intimate spots until Lux is rocking back into his hand. 

“Just like that.” 

Lux likes his voice like this. A lot. Like he thought before, Tanner is really good at this type of stuff. His fingers slip out of him, and he feels empty and worn. He doesn’t have to wait long, though. The head of his cock slips in between his ass, teasing and drawn, slowly pushing past the first ring of muscle before he stops. And then pressing deeper and deeper, until he can’t anymore. 

Lux’s mouth drops open, skin practically burning with oversensitivity. He doesn’t try to move, doesn’t try to force Tanner closer. Instead, he just lets Tanner do what he wants. Fucking into him, slick skin against slick skin, hands restless and roving wherever they can reach. Lux is weak to it, moaning softly and breathing picking up. 

Tanner is moving deep and hard, and his grip is tight enough to leave bruises. He feels almost unraveled this way - personal and nearly overbearing. Whenever he steps foot in the kitchen, he thinks of his sister cooking or making dinner or singing to herself when she cleans. To do have sex like this in here, it felt like a crime. 

He’s going to cum, really soon. He can feel it, so close, licking across his skin, settling deep inside his stomach. He wants to cum, he wants to cum so bad. For Tanner, by Tanner. And that thought’s a little scary, but he doesn’t have time to dawdle on it, because fingers wrap around his dick and pump twice. 

After that, he’s done for. He finishes into Tanner’s hand, teeth sinking into his tongue to keep any sounds from escaping. Slick and wet and hot, Tanner’s fist wraps tighter around the head, forces Lux hips to jerk forward - skin sensitive and buzzing. Tanner finishes soon after him, heat spreads through him thoroughly. 

When he pulls out, Lux stays where he is, quietly inhaling and exhaling deeply every few seconds. He’s tired now, the ache in his muscles will be more prominent in the morning. 

And so will the hollow feeling when Tanner is gone.

.

.

“Are you having fun?” 

Lux looks up from his drink, Tripp is staring at him from across the counter. The music was loud, Lux is surprised he managed to hear him over it. But since it is Tripp, he decides to be honest, “No.” 

Tripp takes no offense to it, he smiles at him and rounds the counter to come his side. Arm thrown over Lux’s shoulders familiarly, he says, “I know,” He kisses the side of Lux’s head, nuzzles into his hair, “But thanks for coming anyway.”

Lux doesn’t know why he comes to parties like this. Mainly because he’s usually invited by his very small friend group. And he’s unable to say no to any of them. There are too many people, too much noise, not enough room. His chest feels tight, almost caved in when he thinks about it. So he tries his best to ignore the stuffy air with another drink. 

It’s less people in the kitchen. There’s enough blow and weed and alcohol going around that no one really lingers in one spot for too long. Tripp’s arm curls tighter around him, familiarly, “You okay?” His smile is easygoing, but his eyes are full of questions.

“No,” Lux tells him again, pressing his lips together taut, “I need...” 

Tripp tilts his head at him, but he doen’t get much of a chance to say anything, because someone is calling his name, greeting him loudly in Lux’s ear, “Tripp! How the hell is this your party and it’s so hard to fucking find you anywhere?” 

“Mason!” Tripp greets his guest with equal enthusiasm, releasing Lux to give him a quick hug, “Hey, Casey.” Casey looks up, she’d been inspecting the drinks dotted over the counter with strange precision before she lights up at Tripp.

“Are we late?” Mason asks, taking a look arond, “Full house, man. Dope.” 

“Nah, right on time,” he tells them, “Rob’s already here. One sec--” He returns his attention to Lux, touches his nape briefly, “You okay?” 

Lux nods, despite everything. He doesn’t want to keep Tripp with him if he’s busy, he is the host of the party after all. He steps away, leaves with Mason and Casey to go and do who knows what. Lux tries to stay out of his business, even if they are close. He nurses his drink, tries to ignore how itchy he feels, tries to ignore the way his cest stutters whenever he thinks of the amount of people in the other room. 

It takes another twenty minutes to leave the kitchen, the music genre has changed around five times and now it’s settled onto a song that Lux doesn’t know, but the guitar riff is really nice. He lingers by the entryway, shoulders lifted high when someone brushes past him. Eyes lift, find most of the party occupants in the living room. He finds Eden with ease, she’s sitting on the couch - nestled in between Dylan’s legs, passing him a blunt when she’s finished with it. 

Then there’s Dominic, sucking face with Leah. Dancing in her own world to the right of the couch was Nina. He could go over and sit with them, or he could do what he does best and slink off to the corner until its all over. He’d told Eden he wasn’t coming, but Tripp had been the one to make him finally cave.

The music has gotten louder, and he realizes someone has found the stereo’s volume and turned it as loud as it could go. There’s a lot of dancing, a lot of party-goers coupling together, and there’s so much movement that Lux almost doesn’t notice another familiar face in the sea of people. 

It’s Tanner, and he’s dancing too. With a girl that Lux hasn’t seen before. Probably one of Tripp’s friends. But Lux finds himself staring at them with rapt attention, watching as she presses back into him, Tanner’s hands shamelessly trailing over her right breast, down her stomach, and to her thigh. Rocking side to side with the music, lost in each other, and Tanner is mouthing at her neck and towards her ear. Lux doesn’t know what he says, but its enough to make her smile and turn to face him, sealing his lips with hers. 

And then they’re kissing, hands roaming - her fingers are in his hair and his are on her waist before cupping her backside. It goes on for awhile, he’s pulling away soon after to take her wrist and tug her off somewhere. She follows him, and the two of them disappear into the crowd towards the back room. 

Lux looks down at his shoes. For some reason, looking at them that long felt oddly personal. Like he shouldn’t have even glanced in their direction. He’s tempted to leave even more now, he feels out of place. As if he doesn’t really belong, he realizes he feels like that a lot when it involves Eden or Tanner. 

He doesn’t want to go without saying anything to Tripp first. But it would be a chore to find him and pull him away from all his friends, Lux doesn’t want to do that. He leaves without anyone noticing, closes the back door soundly behind him. 

The music sounds muffled now.

As numb and hollow as he feels in the pit of his stomach, his body still is painfully human. His nerves are horrible, his shoulders jerk high whenever he’s touched, he gets lonely even when he doesn’t really want anyone around. 

Even now, watching Tanner and Eden like that, he can’t help this crushing feeling in his stomach. Because he’s Lux, because he’s replaceable, and people only want him when it’s easy. If he could just stop those thoughts, stop them for only a second, he would feel more at ease. 

It’s quieter outside and he can breathe better.

“You came,” Lux blinks, broken from his thoughts when he hears a new voice. He’s a little surprised to see Ricky, who’s looking at him with this almost dopey smile. He’s smoking a cigarette, looks as if he’s having a good time, “Tripp said you might. You look like shit, though.”

He knows, “...I wasn’t gonna come.”

“Yeah? Why not?” Lux keeps quiet. Ricky smiles again, moves towards him and nudges his shoulder with his own, “Got a bed time?” He can tell he’s trying to get him to relax, but it’s not helping. He never thought Ricky was very funny anyway. He still feels a little winded from before, the crushing feeling hasn’t gone away. “Mmm. How ‘bout this?” After inhaling, he offers the cigarette for Lux to take, “Or...I got somethin’ stronger to take the edge off.”

That peaks his interest, but also leaves him a bit wary. He is unsure of what Ricky carries on him. But he doesn’t want to ask - anything was better than nothing.

“You want to, right?” Ricky moves close - close enough where Lux has to press up against the wall to keep a slight distance between them. He doesn’t let him though, he’s cornering him easily, it feels weirdly zealous with the limited lighting.

Ricky invades his personal space easily, bending down slightly to bring his face near to his, force close enough until their lips meet. Smoke is breathed into him, slow and intimate. Ricky’s tongue follows, sweeps every corner of Lux’s mouth, even with his lack of response. 

It takes awhile. But eventually, Lux starts kissing back. 

What else is he supposed to do? He’s alone, and he’s always alone, and it’s becoming unbearable. Anyone solid, anyone warm, anyone that is willing to touch him will do. One hand curls over Ricky’s shoulder, pulls him in more, kisses him harder. He ends up with his hand forced down the front of Ricky’s pants, jerking him off until his palm becomes warm and slick, and Ricky’s groaning into his neck. 

A few seconds past, Lux pulls his hand out and Ricky takes a step back. Without saying anything, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small baggy. There’s this almost predatory glint in his eyes when he drops it on the gravel below them before Lux has a chance to take it. 

“Party favor,” he says, “It’ll help you relax.” He doesn’t wait for Lux to respond. Fingers brush against Lux’s lower lip, dip into his mouth slowly, over the tip of his tongue before he backs off. With another smile, he tosses his cigarette and leaves him there alone. 

Lux doesn’t say anything, just waits for the door to shut behind him. He crouches down, picks up the reward and stuffs it in his pocket. 

.

.

“So...I’m getting married soon,” Lux looks up from the carrots, which he’d been gradually cutting is way through. He’s already nicked himself once with the knife, he doesn’t want to do it again and make his sister worry. She’s taring at him from over the counter, smiling gently, “To Ben.” 

“...I know.” 

“I know you know.” 

He goes back to chopping quietly, “Do you like Ben?” 

“I love Ben,” she tells him, opening the box of noodles and dropping them into the boiling pot of water. When she’s finished, she places the lid back on top, “He’s heaven-sent.” She looks more relaxed than normal, it’s always been like that since she met her fiance. Lux thinks that maybe Ben doesn’t deserve her, not someone as good as her. But then again, he’s never had the chance to meet Ben. 

“Okay.” 

“Have you been sleeping okay? You look tired.” 

He feels frayed at the edges, stretched far too thin at times. Maybe that showed in his appearance. He doesn’t have to look at his reflection to know how exhausted he looks. His shoulders lift in a shrug, eyes focused on the vegetables in front of him, “Why do you love Ben?” 

She blinks at the question, “He’s good to me,” Lux only stares down, “You wouldn’t understand, Luxen,” His fingers tighten around the knife, and he stops for a moment before continuing. His sister sighs, “Can you try to be happy for me?” 

“I am...happy,” He doesn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears. She gives him a look, and he cannot help but yield. Something really is the matter with him, to talk to his sister this way. This churning sensation comes to his gut, and he tries his best to ignore it, “I want you to be happy.” 

“Look at me,” At first, he doesn’t. And that’s when she puts a hand to his arm, rubbing soothingly, fingers lingering at the space between his neck and shoulder. He looks up to find her eyes on him, sympathetic and open, “You know that you’re my favorite person, right?”

She’s been saying that ever since they were kids. Lux is almost tempted to press more into her touch - like a cat begging for attention. 

“So, you don’t have to worry. Even after I’m married and squirt out a few kids, I’m still going to come by and see my baby brother all the time. You know that, Luxen.”

He isn’t so sure about that. “Yeah.” 

“And...speaking of Ben, he wanted me to invite you to the wedding.”

Lux blinks once, “Mom and dad will be there.” 

“Which is a good thing. You guys haven’t talked in two years.” 

“They don’t want to see me.” 

“Mom does. I know for sure that she does.” 

“Not dad.” Definitely not dad. 

She squeezes affectionately at his arm, “I want you there. That’s all that matters, right?”

He wants to tell her that that’s not all. That their dad will glare at him throughout, that their mother will sneak glances at him and Lux will pretend not to notice, that everyone in their side of the family will shamelessly stare and avoid Lux the entire night and there wouldn’t be anything he could do about it. But, instead, he keeps his mouth shut and nods. 

He can spot her smile out of the corner of his eye. 

She leaves soon after finishing lunch. While she’s shrugging on her jacket, she almost trips over one of Tanner’s shoes in the entryway. Tanner, who’s sprawled out and asleep on his couch, he’d let himself in around four in the morning Lux is guessing, and he didn’t even bat an eyelash. Only threw a blanket over him and left him alone for the remainder of the morning and afternoon.

“When did this place become a homeless shelter, hm?” His sister complains, “You should really keep an eye on your company, Luxen.” 

“Get out,” Tanner startles her when he suddenly speaks up from the couch, voice muffled into a pillow, “Get the fuck out already. When’re you gonna fuckin’ leave?” 

She looks affronted, glaring at him while he shifts to get more comfortable, “And maybe teach him some manners while you’re at it.” 

“He doesn’t mean it--” 

“Get out,” Tanner’s voice is more alert now, annoyed, “Jesus Christ.” 

She doesn’t look as if she’s in the mood to go back and forth with him, as they usually do whenever they’re in the same room for more than two seconds. Lux is beginning to notice that Tanner doesn’t get along with any women that he’s met so far, he only seems to enjoy their company when sex is involved. It’s strange. 

“Make sure you put away any leftovers, I won’t be back over until next Friday.” 

“What is he? Eight?” Tanner isn’t finished, he’s rolled over on his back to watch her go.

She ignores him, “Love you.” His sister stands on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek soundly. After that, she is gone, closing the door behind her. 

Lux stares at the door for a long time until he hears Tanner sit up and throw the covers off. Turning his head, he can see he’s bowed his head between his knees and is currently rubbing at his temples, “Are you okay?”

“Kind of question is that?” He snaps, but seems to consider it a few seconds later when he sits back up, “Fuck.”

“...did something happen?” It wasn’t often that Tanner came over like this, spent the night either. Even if they hadn’t slept in the same bed, it feels very personal to have him here the entire night. Tanner presses his lips together, doesn’t answer. Lux has his answer enough from that, “Do you want to eat? I helped make it. Some.”

At that, Tanner’s lips kick up into a slight smile from his tone. It’s gone quick, but it makes Lux feel better. His sister left this overwhelming weight on his shoulders whenever she visited, Tanner just being there helped with it just a little.

They eat together in companionable silence - like he noticed before, Tanner can put a lot more away than Lux can. When he’s had seconds, he wants thirds, like he hasn’t had the chance to eat in awhile. Lux wouldn’t put it past him. 

“At least she can do something right,” Tanner mutters around a mouthful of food, “probably why the dude’s marrying her.” 

“Yeah,” Lux stabs listlessly at one of the steamed carrots with his fork, “I guess so.” 

“I don’t get why people do that.” 

He looks up curiously. 

"Get married. Nothin’ but a piece of paper,” He looks as if he wants to say more, but stops when he spots the look on Lux’s face. He’s not sure what it looks like, but Tanner swallows his food and stares at him, “You don’t like the guy she’s marrying or some shit?” 

“Never met him.” 

“If he’s getting with her, must be pretty fucked in the head.” 

Lux is quiet for a moment, “...I don’t get it either,” Maybe she was right about his inability to understand, to decipher the type of love she shared with her fiance. It feels alienated, stripped away from everything he once knew as a child. Love had come so easy then, he said it to everyone and anyone. 

And now, it leaves nothing but a bad taste in the back of his mouth. 

Lux finishes before Tanner, and he can’t help but watch him eat. He finds himself studying his profile more often than not. And - he likes this, he likes eating with him. But he feels as if he brings it up again, it’ll be seen as odd. Tanner probably didn’t think anything of it, anyway.

Lux is the one who puts the dishes away when they are finished, his sister constantly complained when he made a mess and it’s instinctive now to clean up after himself. He’s lost in his thoughts, unaware that Tanner is staring from the counter until he slinks up behind and presses against him. 

He blinks, going still. 

The reaction is fast though - heat darts down the expanse of his spine, gathers low in his stomach. Especially when Tanner rocks against him, slow and purposeful, “Wanna know what I was just thinkin’ about?” 

He does want to know. He wants to know what made him so hard so quickly. 

“Can you guess?” 

His mouth opens, “...about before?”

Tanner’s hands duck under his shirt, touches at his waist and up his chest, “You felt so good. Just remembering it...” His fingers come down to his hips, tugs them back forcibly into his growing erection. And Lux gets the idea pretty fast, begins pressing back more, “Fucking you right here.”

Its like flipping a switch, and Lux is definitely weak to it. 

It reminds him of the other night, of how Tanner grabbed and groped the girl at the party. The memory darts through his mind, and he can’t help but think how it would’ve been if he stayed, if he was the one who had been with Tanner that night, if he hadn’t gone and sought warmth from someone else. 

He’s beginning to realize that being with Tanner makes him feel better. But being without him - it does nothing but make him cold. 

.

.

Their relationship is starting to become weird. 

He comes over often, he sleeps on the couch or when they have sex, in the bed with Lux. And when they do have sex, it’s without Eden more and more. It starts just being them, just groping hands and warm kisses and lazy orgasms in the middle of the afternoon until Tanner has to go off and do whatever he does during the day.

But he usually comes back at night. And if not then, he’ll be back later in the week. Even though they don’t talk much, Tanner keeps him company a lot. Not as much as Eden or Tripp, but enough to catch Lux’s attention. He’s afraid that maybe he likes having Tanner around, even if its just for small periods of time. He guesses at this point that he can call them friends, something close to that. He doesn’t have many, so he hopes that he’s thinking right. 

They eat together a lot, and Lux can tell that in some way, Tanner is doing it for his benefit. Or maybe he’s gotten so used to it that he doesn’t even think about it anymore, it just happens. He takes up a lot of Tanner’s time, and he doesn’t think he’s really worth the trip of stopping by every other day. Or wasting his breath inviting him places. 

“It’ll be fun.” 

“I don’t like concerts.” 

Tanner stares at him for awhile, “Why not?”

“I don’t...” Lux’s shoulders lift towards his ears in a defensive, half-attempted shrug, “I don’t like loud music.” 

The strange part is that Tanner ends up not going to that concert. He stays at Lux’s, and they end up falling asleep together in bed when they finish a joint. It’s always slightly jarring to wake up beside Tanner, and he stares at his peaceful expression for awhile. 

He looks a lot more relaxed. The sunrays are bleeding in through the blinds, illuminating his hair and eyelashes. Lux keeps staring. 

Without thinking, his hand reaches out, hesitates above Tanner’s head. Hovers, fingers nearly brush his hair before the hand is drawing back. He can’t touch him, he won’t touch him - not like this. Because that’s not what Lux does. He doesn’t touch people when they’re sleep just because he finds them pretty in that instance. 

He never has. Nothing’s ever been soft for him, so he certainly won’t start now. 

It’s a dangerous thought to even have, to make the motion of doing so. So, he makes sure to keep the touching to a minimum a week after that, just to see if the urge will go away. 

It never does. 

One night, when Tanner falls asleep in his lap on the couch, Lux spots the bare skin peeking out between is shirt and sweats. Lux can’t help himself, he touches the sliver of skin, drags his fingertips subtly higher to touch more. That’s when he notices a tattoo he’s never seen before - disappearing slightly into the hem of Tanner’s boxers. 

He’s too curious not to trace the half he can fully see. And then another, on his lower stomach. Another on his ribs. A small one on his left, inner wrist. There’s so many, and such little time to study them. Whenever his fingers brush over a patch of skin, Tanner shifts in his sleep or his soft snoring stutters or he scratches at the spot absently. 

Lux stops for only a moment. And then he’s back to exploring as much as he can. He wonders why he has so many. Lux has a few himself, but half he can’t remember getting. And he can’t ever go under the needle without taking something, the buzzing sound eats at his nerves every time. Tanner is like a map full of never-seen-before places that Lux wants to endlessly explore. He probably won’t ever have the chance to, so he settles for this instead. 

With all of this touching and talking and constantly seeing each other, it feels new. Raw, like an open wound that Lux can’t help but poke and prod at. But he likes to, the pain is a rush that he can’t get enough of. It’s always been the same, and adding Tanner to it was strangely becoming just as addicting. He’s beginning to notice that the two of them have a lot in common, that he likes to listen to Tanner talk, that he likes how Tanner touches him sometimes. 

It’s weird and dangerous and startling. He feels awake for the first time, though. More alert. Aware of what’s happening around him, aware of Tanner. His hearing isn’t as muddled, he feels like he can process things just a little better when he focuses on this specific person. 

They talk about nothing and everything. Music that Tanner likes, food that Lux has tried, places they wish they could go. Lux can’t really think of any, but Tanner can go on and on about it. It seems as if he’s always trying to get away from something, always trying to be a little farther than where he started out. Lux supposes he feels like that sometimes too. 

When they talk, Lux has a hard time controlling what he says. He’s never really had that problem before, and he doesn’t mind it at first. Util he tells Tanner that. That thing he’s not supposed to tell anyone. Not a soul, no one in the world. Not his parents, not his therapist, not Eden or Tripp. But he tells Tanner - because he feels in some messed up sense that he will understand it. 

Things get even more complicated after that. Tanner comes back to his place the next day. And the day after that, and he stays over for a few days. In the afternoon, they eat together, and later at night, there’s touching. It’s different from how it usually is. Tanner doesn’t rush it, doesn’t press inside immediately. He uses his mouth a lot - tongue and lips and teeth and hands, spreading everywhere and anywhere. 

Lux hasn’t been touched like this in so long, he almost forgot what it felt like. Almost forgot how much he missed it. It makes his heart race, palms sweat, pliant underneath Tanner as he fucks him slowly and purposely. Eyes meeting, lips pressed to one another’s. And Lux can’t get enough, he can’t stop, he wants more of this. Of him. 

He’s scared. 

In the morning, he doesn’t want to look at Tanner. He feels as if he did that enough the night before. When Tanner has to leave, Lux lingers by the door and watches him go. Only for him to glance up and lock eyes with him for a moment. 

“...thanks for coming over,” Lux mumbles, because he is unsure of what else to say. He can’t stop thinking about the night before, about how it felt. And he can’t stop this scared feeling, he doesn’t know if he wants him closer or one-thousand miles away, “And for eating with me.” 

“You don’t have to thank me every time,” Tanner tells him, though one side of his mouth is kicked up slightly into a smile, “Not a big deal.” 

Lux wants to tell him that it is. That it’s a big deal to him and Tanner should stop doing it all together. But he doesn’t, he only presses his lips together and avoids his eyes. He doesn’t let him though, fingers touch the curve of his jaw, and Tanner’s lips cover his. It’s softer than normal, as if he’s trying to convey things that Lux could never understand. It’s over quick and Tanner’s out the door before Lux can form a proper goodbye. 

.

.

“Lux? Lux!”

His eyes open, and he finds himself staring at the ceiling. Lying in bed, he turns his head to see Eden is staring at him. She looks worried - he wouldn’t blame her. He can’t help himself from reaching over and pressing his thumb between her eyebrows to try and smooth out the wrinkle. She makes a face, swats his hand away.

“Thought you passed out,” she’s frowning at him.

His throat feels dry. His body - it feels as if it’s floating, like he can’t get his feet to the ground. He continues to stare at her, “I’m fine.”

“This shit is pretty strong,” she clears her throat, “It help at all?”

Lux can’t really feel his legs, so he guesses so. But it also brought a sudden influx of memories that he’s been blocking out for the last few years. So, it’s give or take.

“Jesus,” Eden continues mumbling to herself, kneading her hands against her face, “What time is it?” Her eyes drift over to the alarm clock on his bedside table, and she sighs heavily, “Shit. Shit, I missed it.”

“Hm?”

“I was supposed to meet up with Dylan like three hours ago.”

“Oh.”

“It’s fine,” Eden says, shrugging her shoulders, “He probably doesn’t care,” A pause, “About if I come or not. You know?” Lux just stares at her as she turns to face him again, hair spilled over her shoulders, “You ever feel like...no one really gives a shit about you?”

Instinctively, his thoughts drift to Tanner.

Her eyes tighten a fraction, “Think I’m fuckin’ up. With Dylan. We had a fight last week. Real bad. Over nothin’, it wasn’t even a big deal. But...I couldn’t help but make it one, you know? Like - in my head, I kept telling myself to shut up and listen and calm down. I couldn’t though, and he kept talking. It made me...so pissed off. And I was thinking the other day, while we were together, why he puts up with me.”

Lux is quiet. Eden gets like this sometimes - and it just reminds him of all small she is. Her shoulders look thin, her eyes wet and red, her skin pale. She looks kind of beautiful, and she looks kind of sad, too. She stares up at the ceiling, her breathing wavers slightly and her eyelashes flutter.

“My Uncle Jimmy is gonna die soon.”

Lux blinks, “...die?”

“Yeah. He had a stroke a couple days ago and he’s been unresponsive ever since. My dad called me.”

That was practically unheard of. Because Eden’s parents never call, and she never talks about them. Whenever he may mention or ask, she grows defensive. So, after awhile, he stopped. It’s a little jarring to hear the word dad come from her mouth when all she ever refers to her family as is “a bunch of cowards” or “lazy fucks”. But Lux remembers Uncle Jimmy, he remembers next to everything when it concerns Eden.

“What’re you going to do?”

“Nothing,” Eden says, makes a flippant gesture with her hand, “Dad wants me to fly and come visit, but...what’s the point? In a couple of days, hours...he’s gonna be dead. He’s gonna be six feet in the ground and I’m gonna still be here.”

He watches her wipe at her nose, and then rest her hands upon her stomach.

“Haven’t seen my dad in forever.”

“I’m sure he misses you. Or something.”

“Yeah, right,” she rolls her eyes, shifts to become more comfortable beside him, “I’m sure he misses me callin’ him every other day to bail me out. Or hiring a lawyer for me. Or paying for rehab and counselors and shit. I’m sure he misses all of that, y’know? Probably feels like I did ‘im a favor movin’ out here.”

She turns her head, stares at him. Lux stares back.

Voice quieter, Eden says, “We shouldn’t be fucked up just ‘cause of what our parents did and didn’t do. So, don’t try to convince me to go or nothing.”

“I’m not.”

She inhales, seems to be thinking, “You’re the only person I can talk to about this shit, okay? I can’t tell Dylan.”

Lux must look perplexed, because she sighs at him.

“He wouldn’t get it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t want to unload my shit on him. I mean - I already fuck around on him, might as well add to the list, right? I want to be--” She suddenly sits up, nervously wrings her hair in her hands and tosses it over her shoulder, “I want to be...good, Lux. For once in my fucking life. And Dylan, he makes me feel good. About myself. He made me forget all about...about all of it. I go there and - and I’m gonna lose my shit, I know I am.”

“But you want to see your dad.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t really have to.”

She stares at him, exasperated and teary-eyed, “He never believed me. Even when I--” She shakes her head, wipes at her nose again with her wrist, “Even when I showed him...he still...” Lux sits up too, but she doesn’t let him touch her. She looks as if she’ll bite off his hand if he even tried, “Fuck - shit--”

Frantically, her hands lift and wipe away any tears that may have escaped. Lux’s shoulders droop slightly, and he reaches for her again, soothingly touching her hair until he reaches her shoulder. She only grows softer like this when it overflows, when she can’t keep it in anymore and she’s left crying and grabbing at her chest and shoving pills down her throat. It reminds Lux of himself.

He holds her for awhile - until she’s finished.

“I don’t wanna get snot on your shirt. Stop it.”

“It’s okay.”

She looks up at him, eyes glossy and face flushed, “I should...get goin’. See if I can meet up with Dylan.” Without missing a beat, she stands from the bed and pulls her jacket up from the floor, shrugging it on. Like the moment never happened, like she’s never cried once in her life. When she’s done, she turns to face him, “I don’t look like shit, right?”

“I think you look beautiful.”

She stares at him for an extended amount of time, lips pressed firm. And then she’s back on the bed, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth and cupping his cheek. Pulling away, she locks eyes with him, “See you later?”

Lux touches her hand, feels it slip away only a moment later, “Okay.”

She’s gone after that.

.

.

Lux sometimes thinks he’s hollowed out. Like his bones weigh nothing, like a bird. 

He remembers when he was younger, when he always wished he could fly. When he found a dead bird in his backyard and he buried it solemnly and tried his best not to cry. He remembers having nightmares about that bird, about it’s little limp body in his hands, underneath the snow, the black feathers that clung to his pink fingertips. 

When he was fourteen, he had brought up the nightmares to his therapist and she’d seemed at a loss of what to say. His thoughts sound a lot more morbid out loud, he’d realized that.

After the trial, after what happened with Allison, he’d wished he could become a bird more and more each day. Just to fly away from here, to be empty inside, to be buried underneath the snow where no one could find him. For a year, every day he went outside to stand next to the bird’s grave, and one day Allison's dad had found him. 

Things had been a blur after that. There had been blood in the grass, on his clothes, underneath his fingernails. And yelling, her dad’s strength was superior and Lux curled in on himself to keep from taking too much damage. He’d been kicked on his side, his boot shoved into his stomach - and he remembers hearing something crack. 

He wasn’t like the bird. He wasn’t empty. The thought almost made him want to cry. 

His sister had been the one who found him, who stopped it all. She’d pulled him off of Lux, cradled his head to her chest and pleaded with him, threatened him with the cops when he refused to leave. Lux can remember the sound of her heart against his ear, frantic and warm and alive. 

He wishes things were like before. Where he didn’t feel so empty and clouded. Everything had been muddled and so confusing back then, but at least he knew his sister would be there. She was always there, any time he needed her. 

And now--

“Luxen, are you paying attention?”

Eyes blink, chin lifts. And he looks to see that both his sister an her fiance are staring at him from across the table. He guesses he can understand why, he hasn’t even touch his food, and he’s been dozing in and out of the conversation with noncommittal shrugs and grunts under his breath. He drifts away in his thoughts a lot, this night even more than others. Lux’s fingers tighten around his fork, poke at his cut of meat. It looks unappetizing. 

The restaurant they’ve invited him to is very nice. The nicest he’s been to, in fact. Its quiet and dimly lit, the waitress is very kind and patient when checking on them to see how the food tastes. He feels uncomfortable, accustomed to fast-food and grimy diners with strangers. The sweater she’d stuffed him in is itchy, he wants to tear it off and drag his nails across his skin until he bleeds. Eye contact is avoided, especially with the way Ben stares at him over the table. His gaze is warm, his smile is handsome, and he’s been nothing but overly friendly the entire night. 

Ben leans over and says something in her ear, and it makes Lux’s sister laugh, hair brushing against her cheek when she turns and looks at him. They share a very sweet kiss, and Lux glares hard at the table to keep from staring. He doesn’t understand the point of being here, forced to sit and watch them in their pre-honeymoon phase, but there’s never been a point where he’s been able to say no to her. 

“Luxen,” Ben says, he’s been trying his best to keep the conversation going, “I heard that you used to play soccer. Are you still into it?” 

Lux looks up again. The last time he’d touched a soccer ball, he’d been in the second grade. He’d been terrible at it, could barely keep up with the other kids because of his thin frame. But, of course, his sister would remember something like that. She’s smiling at him, lifting her eyebrows as if to coax an answer out of Lux, “...not really.” 

“I was asking because my boss had these tickets he was about to throw away, managed to swipe ‘em off before he did. Thought we could go, just us guys,” Ben continues, “It’ll be fun.” 

Lux doesn’t want to go. Lux doesn’t want to be anywhere near him, but he can’t say that out loud. Each word, each kiss shared between them, each meaningful glance, each time either one say his name. It’s like blows to the chest, he can barely withstand it. He wants to curl in on himself, wrap arms around his midsection to keep himself from rocking in his seat. 

His sister’s hair is straight today - for some reason, it reminds him of Allison's. The thick, heady smell of her perfume wafts in Lux’s direction when she brushes a lock of gold behind her ear and tosses the rest over her shoulder. He shouldn’t be so aware of her, but he cannot help it. Every sense is in tune to whatever she may do. 

“You changed your shampoo,” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it, and his sister’s expression becomes one of surprise, “I...I can tell.” 

“You have a good nose,” Ben tells him, “We’re trying this all-natural bathroom set, your mother took us to the spa - what was it - two weeks ago? Anyway, we...” Lux is barely paying attention, he’s too busy staring at her. Her eyebrows furrow subtly, head tilts at him, and she has this almost begging look on her face ( don’t mess this up, Luxen ). 

He doesn’t trust himself not to. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Ben - he’s kind, patient, selfless. But Lux cannot stop this ugly feeling that churns in his stomach, makes him queasy and bleary-eyed. He wishes he wasn’t here, he wishes he was anywhere else but here. She’s found someone who will cherish her like she deserves, and its such a frightening thought that his chest seizes up. 

He’ll be alone. He’ll be without her. He won’t have anyone. She’s the only thing he has left, there’s nothing and no one else. Just himself and his thoughts and his loneliness that shrouds over him like a blanket.

“...and we’re trying to make sure we schedule everything right. Everything has to be perfect, Mrs. Pierce will do nothing but fuss. She’s a lot tougher than she looks,” Ben is still going, “For the wedding, we made sure to get these little ice-carved doves for each table. It’s really going to be--” 

Lux suddenly stands. It’s almost violent - a glass knocks over and spills water all over the table-cloth. His sister is staring up at him, Ben has stopped talking. The noise has attracted other onlookers from close tables. An ice-cold feeling drips into his stomach, and under his breath, he manages to say “sorry” before he leaves. Through the dining area, to the door, almost runs right over an old lady and her grandkid in his haste. 

The bitterly cold air welcomes him, hits him right in the face as soon as he makes it outside. Still, he can barely breathe, he has to sink to his knees and place his head in between them to inhale properly. Each breath is stuttering and almost painful, he can’t take one in fully without gasping. The sound of her heels barely register, tear-soaked eyes lift to see her standing over him, a disappointed look on her face. 

Lux’s voice is barely there when he speaks, “I’m sorry--” 

“I don’t want to hear it. Just go home,” He doesn’t move at first, she’s pointing vaguely in the opposite direction of the restaurant, “Go, Luxen.” 

He stands on weak legs. She’s still staring at him, cheeks and nose flushed from the cold, eyes narrowed, “But...I can...” 

“You can’t obviously. You said you could handle it and you can’t,” She appears frustrated, screws up her lips before spewing, “God, can you just act normal? For once? Can we just be...brother and sister without you freaking out, Luxen?” He’s sorry. He’s so sorry. He doesn’t know what else to say, each apology blurts from him uncontrollably. But it doesn’t look like she’s listening anymore, “I’m trying, because I want you there for my wedding. I want you to be there and--” 

“Don’t be mad at me.” 

She releases this almost frustrated little huff, disbelief coloring her face, “You do this every time. Go forbid anyone makes me happy, right? Are you trying to make me end up like you? Alone or something? How can I trust you?”

She can’t, she shouldn’t. His body feels as if it weighs a hundred-thousand pounds. She’s going to leave, he knows she is. And it’s such a terrifying thought that his stomach clenches tight and it’s hard to breath thereafter, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, please don’t--”

“Just go. Leave. Go, Luxen.” 

She doesn’t give him a chance to say anything more, she turns her back on him and walks back inside. Lux stays there for a long time, hoping she will come back at some point. Like when they were kids, she would grow upset, storm off, and return to him only an hour or so later. That’s how long he waits, an hour, until an employee tells him no loitering is allowed.

He rides the bus back to his side of town. By that point, time has become a blur. It’s not like he gives it much thought - what he wouldn’t give to be like the bird, buried and gone and forgotten. He wishes he could scoop his guts out so he didn’t feel anything inside, so he could be completely empty. 

He curls up into the bus seat - it’s more or less empty and quiet, besides the sound of the engine and creaky wheels. The cushion underneath him is warm with tears, and for some reason, it only reminds him of that time in the closet. How alone he was, how trapped he felt after Allison ran out and left him there, her underwear ripped in his hand. He didn’t think there was a worst feeling than that in the world, turns out he was wrong. 

The only reason he makes it off the bus is because the driver shakes him awake when he’s at the end of the line. And from there, he walks alone, staring at the damp sidewalk underneath his feet. He’s unaware of the world around him, body on full auto-pilot mode, and that’s probably how he even manages to get to his apartment building. 

Surprisingly, someone is there waiting for him. 

Tanner pushes off the wall when he gets close enough, his voice is the first thing that registers, “Fuck’re you wearing? She stuff you into that ugly thing?” He reaches for him, picks lint off the sweater. His fingers pause there, curl tentatively around Lux’s shoulder when he doesn’t respond, “Lux? Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

No matter how long it’s been, it’s still hard to catch his breath. Dully, he can at least tell there is genuine worry in his voice, that only makes him feel heavier than before. 

It hurts. Fuck, it hurts. 

He must be speaking out loud, because Tanner’s arms come around him, and Lux is powerless to fight him. He doesn’t want to, the thought barely crosses his mind, and he finds himself curling into Tanner rather than anything else. He’s a solid weight against him, he feels a lot stronger than Lux could ever hope to be. 

The words spill out of him before he can stop them, leaves his mouth dry and bitter, “...she hates me.”

It doesn’t take a genius to know what he’s talking about. Tanner’s strength is surprising, his hands grip at Lux’s shoulders and forces him away from his chest, “Who gives a shit what she says?” 

“She--” 

“She’s fucked in the head, Lux. Completely fucked.” 

His breathing still feels off, it accelerates more when their eyes meet. His voice sounds weak, even to his own ears,  “I can’t...She’s...” She’s all he has, she’s all he’s ever going to have. And if she leaves, he has no one. When he looks into Tanner’s face, he can see a shred of frustration there, almost hostility. Lux’s voice dies in his throat, it takes him a moment to realize he doesn’t really need to tell Tanner what he is feeling. Because he already knows, because he’s experienced it himself. 

Tanner’s kissing him before Lux can even form a proper word. His hands come up to frame his face to keep him still, steady him. He kisses back with the same amount of intensity, arms twist around his midsection, hands trailing up to his shoulders. He can’t get enough of Tanner’s solid warmth, not when he feels this cold and empty. 

It’s the type of kiss that keeps him grounded and Lux finds himself pressing up into it desperately. Tanner is the one who breaks it first, presses his forehead against his, meets his eyes. He’s slightly out of breath, keeps his grip and focus though, “Look at me.” 

Lux does what he says, he wants to tell him that he doesn’t even want to be in his own body right now, he doesn’t want to be a person. He wants to feel far away from here, secluded, “It’s okay. Look at me, it’s okay, Lux. I got you.”

Lux doesn’t say anything, only presses his forehead to Tanner’s chest. He can feel the thrum of his heart there. 

Even when they’re inside, Tanner’s arms never fall away from around him. Lux only sleeps out of pure exhaustion, it makes it hard to concrete and makes his eyelids feel like a hundred pounds. Tanner is still there when he awakes hours later - it’s dark outside still and the street light from out his window is the only thing helping. 

Tanner glances over at him when Lux begins to stir, his expression is carefully blank. Lux only stares at him, “You stayed.” 

“Why would I leave?” 

He goes quiet at that, burrows deeper into his pillow, “...Don’t know,” Everything’s different with Tanner, easier to decipher. And yet, somehow still a puzzle that he can’t seem to put together right. It’s like he’s missing a bunch of pieces still, but he can make out the picture at the very least. In their silence, he feels as if he needs to apologize, so he does just that, “I’m s--” 

“If you say sorry,” Tanner’s voice is quiet, “Don’t.” 

“But I--” 

“Don’t. Y’shouldn’t be the one apologizing anyway.”

Lux doesn’t say anything. He only steadily moves closer to Tanner, tentatively until they’re pressed tight. His head lies heavy on his thigh, one hand curls around his knee. Tanner lets him, presses his fingers to his shoulder and then rests them around his nape firmly.

And in the morning, he wakes up first.

He feels too heavy to move. He rolls onto his side, finds Tanner is still limp and dead to the world, more or less. Lux stares at him for a long, long time. 

There’s an surge of memories from the night before that only make him tremble. Each word he can remember, cutting from his sister’s mouth as if he may be some type of stranger, it’s like  a new lash every time. He wishes things didn’t affect him this much, he wishes he could be more like Eden and shake things off, he wishes he could be like Tanner and tough it out. He wishes he could anyone but himself. 

Anyone. 

Please don’t hate him. Please want him. Please care about him. 

He presses his face into the pillow, bites down on his tongue until he tastes copper. He stays like that for awhile, immobile and attempting to control his fidgeting. He can hear Tanner shifting in his sleep beside him, and it makes it a little easier to breathe. Out of the corner of his eye he can spot the lax lift and fall of Tanner’s chest, and he does his best to copy. 

Moving closer, he cannot help but study his features - the length of his eyelashes, the way his lids moved as he dreamed, the soft furrow of his brow that smoothed out after a few seconds. 

Like before, Lux’s fingers lift him his side, hesitate and stop an inch away from Tanner’s head. He doesn’t want to touch him, he doesn’t know if he’s worthy of touching him still. He’s soiled and gross and sort of fucked up. But he remembers Tanner assuring him that everyone is, deep down inside, some are just better than others with hiding it. He doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or not, though. 

He’s not supposed to touch people, he doesn’t trust himself to just touch someone and for it to be okay. 

But he is powerless to this strange, magnetic pull between the two of them. So, his palm slowly comes in contact with the side of Tanner’s head, gingerly and tenderly. Fingers card through his hair for a moment, and then curve around his ear.  

His skin is soft. Sunlight passes over his features, highlights the different browns in his hair, makes his eyelashes almost appear blond. His skin looks golden under the glare, and Lux can’t do anything but watch him. 

He pauses for a moment, fingers pressing delicately to the skin of his neck. And then he takes Tanner’s arm, lifts it so it can be around his shoulders, and burrows further into his side like the night before. For the rest of the day, they stay like that, even when Tanner awakes, and even when the moon is back, they stay in bed. 

A part of him still wishes he could be empty, though. Empty and then for Tanner to fill the space. 

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[unpopcorned]

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Lagorúthon really does have such fine tastes. Many people comment upon it as soon as they enter, each one dressed for the occasion and beyond standards than Eirik first thought.

He thinks of it nothing short of amazing. All of them - so reputable, oblivious to what may lie around them. Give him only a few moments and he could be much richer than how he’d originally arrived. It was easy to pickpocket from people like this, innocent and clueless. Besides, it’s not as if they’d think anyone here would take from them, much less believed they would run into a pirate of all nights. 

He supposes Lagorúthon should’ve at least forewarned them of his presence in some sense. It’s not a usual guest, in fact - he never lingered in Yovaria far longer than necessary. Perhaps a day or so, but he’s beginning to notice his visits are becoming more frequent. 

Eirik can see the surprise in their faces whenever they go out of their way to greet him. Because there’s nothing like seeing him up close - he’s like an animal put on for show. Poked and prodded to get some type of bestial reaction. A growl or a lunge or a bare of his teeth. Anything to keep the lot of them entertained ( oh, just look at him, he’s actually wearing a suit ). His name may be spoken highly every once in awhile, but there are times where the partygoers must remember just who he is. 

What he’s capable of, what he’s done. 

He’s not exactly known for his good graces, in the end. Helevisa had only been the last card in his deck, an easy payout for both himself and Harlow. But certainly not enough to keep his prior image from flickering behind their lids whenever they may blink. 

His skin is stained with blood that will never wash away. Soot that covers him from head to toe, dirt that cakes underneath his fingernails, the scent of sea and wastelands that clings to his clothing and hair. It all sticks to him like a second skin. 

“Heavens,” Harlow is murmuring beneath her breath, one hand placed upon her chest as she takes a hearty drink from her glass. 

She can drink a man twice her size underneath a table, it’s something he’s always admired about her. She is so boldly herself - the disarray of her hair reminded him of fires, the ones that began spontaneously within Fellstar and took days to water down. The type that engulfed everything it came in contact with, would leave no survivors behind. Her skin, pale and smooth like snow, her features were of one you had to study for a long time to appreciate. It’s almost as if it’s hard to look away from just a glance. 

“Have you tasted this? It’s very smooth,” she says, the glass is empty now - she’d finished it fairly quickly, “I wonder what it is called.” 

“For soulless bastards, they do have tastes,” Eirik shrugs his shoulders, pulls at cravat with an almost anxious hilt to his movements. He feels uncomfortable, stuffy almost. He doesn’t know how the gentleman here can walk around so carelessly, he’s almost as stiff as a board. Even though the entire suit had been altered to his liking, it still felt like he was crawling in his own skin. 

“They’re harmless,” she tells him, settling more familiarly to his side. Harlow follows his gaze - he’s watching a couple press intimately together towards the edge of the room, smiling and gazing at each as if they may be the last two on earth, “Must you be such a cynic? If you get some liquor in you, you’ll be more fun.”

He doubts that. 

“Piss off, Harry.” 

He absolutely abhors being stuffed and plucked for things like this. Bathed, shaved, put into a pressed fresh suit for the nightly affairs. He’d rather be doing anything else, but it’s not as if his arm was twisted behind his back to do so. Actually, he’d been the one to ask if he could come, just out of curiosity. But if Eirik knew it would require all of this, he would’ve kept his mouth shut. Too bad his ego is too high to back out of anything, even as trivial as this. 

She’s rolling her eyes, “What nonsense. You speak ill of men with quality just because you lack such.” 

Little does she know, that’s far from the problem here. He does not mind it - being here, being in Yovaria. He supposes he doesn’t detest it as much as he’d used to, he can name off a few reasons of why that is. He just cannot understand how Lagorúthon can stand it, can keep such honorable face over it all. How long can he exactly hold it before he becomes exhausted? 

There has to be another side to this drive he has. Eirik cannot but wonder what’s inside of that head of his. His mind, his brain - all the coils and racing thoughts. Like a child, he wishes to open his skull out of curiosity, just to sift and see what all runs through it. He’s always wondering ( what’re you thinking? how are you feeling? who are you? what will we do to each other next? ). He wants to catch and pin down his thoughts, he wants to see inside of his mind for just a moment. Maybe then it will quell his interest. 

From across the room, Eirik lifts his head and manages to catch his eye. Lagorúthon had already been watching him, even as he speaks to another representative for the court. He’s barely paying attention and Eirik looks away, can feel his lips twitch upwards in subtle amusement. 

“You must be the Captain we’ve been hearing so much about.” 

He’d been lost within his thoughts, almost missed half of what was said entirely. At some point, a couple had found the both of them and stopped for conversation. Harlow seems to have kept the flow moving smoothly, but when attention is diverted to Eirik, he’s expected to respond. The two in front of them are dressed ceremonious, formally. 

The woman - her cheeks are powdered red and her eyelashes are frighteningly long. Her husband looks just as stiff, staring unabashedly at Eirik as if he’s a bear in a cage, just waiting to be poked with a silver stick. 

“Pleasure to be meet you,” the husband says.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” the wife speaks up next, her voice is already grating upon his nerves. He hopes it doesn’t show in his expression, but he knows his smile has already came and left. He’s not charmed, not at all. He’s certain he hates her now, in fact. “You received invitation from Lagorúthon, yes?” 

“No,” Eirik’s smile is tight, “Y’know us pirates - we take what we please, go where we wish. My needs and wants are Oceans apart, I’m sure you can tell.” He can feel Harlow’s bony elbow digging into his side insistently. 

Fair Lady’s mouth has dropped open, and her husband looks equally as offended. But he’s quicker than her, makes an attempt to keep the peace, “We heard only a fortnight before now that you managed to bring Helevisa back to Yovaria. We only wanted to show our deepest gratitude.” 

“You know of her?” Harlow seems surprised, “Word travels fast here.” 

“She’s to be married soon, I’ve heard,” the wife continues, pressing a hand delicately to her collarbones, “I’m sure the wedding will be one to see.” 

“Good fortune to her, then,” Harlow lifts her glass in celebration, much like one would do at a brothel or bar, and it looks sort of out of place here, but Eirik is amused nonetheless. 

“Aye,” Eirik agrees, looping an arm loosely around her shoulders. He knows he’ll pay for it later, but - it makes everything a little more bearable to have her here. He was extremely grateful before for her to take the offer so quickly, “Maybe she’ll pop out a baby or two before she grows old.” 

“Ah, yes,” the wife is looking displeased with the conversation, pressing her brightly-painted lips in a firm line, “Speaking of weddings, I hope the two of you will be sharing one as well.” 

Harlow chokes on her drink, swallows it down uneasily after she clears her throat. Eirik only watches, speaking up first, “I can only dream. Most times, I find myself wondering when she’ll accept.” 

“Oh, my,” the wife gushes breathily, Harlow looks like a deer - wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Soon, that will turn to anger, but Eirik will wait it out.

“I’ve never heard of marriage between pirates,” a new voice has joined, and Eirik looks up and over to see Ruvik. There’s been a few chances where they might bump into each other, and every time is more sour than the last. From the look he’s giving Eirik, he can tell all feelings are mutual. “Will it happen in a church or on one of your ships?” 

“Pirates are prosperous and free,” Eirik says to him, lifting his shoulder in an almost lazy shrug. Harlow has twisted from underneath his arm and is giving him a very sleek, mean look, “We will marry wherever we like.” 

“Such twaddle,” Ruvik complains, glancing at the couple to give them an almost beseeching look, “I hope these two aren’t bothering you. Unsightly guests, I can only imagine.”

What a bore. Eirik can already feel the itch - how he longs to be on the sea, within his own comfort, on his ship and speaking with his men. Not this useless dawdle, that would only drag on and on. He doesn’t see the enjoyment in it, lacks the interest to even try and find it. He would do next to anything to leave, there is a sure way to find better uses of his time. 

“Come now, Mate,” Eirik keeps his eyes on Ruvik, who’s glaring at him scornfully now, “Must you ruin the fun? The night’s only beginning.” 

“It’s a shame,” Ruvik purses his lips, as if he’s considering his words, “After all you have seen tonight, all of the people you have met - still, you embrace the life of a ignorant and aimless rogue.” 

“My deepest apologies,” Eirik drones, one hand to his heart, “I’m afraid Mother and Father weren’t alive long enough to make me comprehend the extent of such ambition.” 

“Do you have a heart beating in your chest, Pirate?” 

“I could ask the same of you,” Harlow steps onto his foot and leans most of her weight into it. It stings, and it’s enough of a warning to make him let up. He smiles, it’s as sharp as a knife, and almost appears as a grimace, “Aye. I’ll have to get the wife another drink. If you’ll excuse us...” 

As he leads her away, she glares up at him, “I’d rather you not make enemies with everyone here.”

“I’d rather not cut out his tongue and feed it to ‘im.” 

“Keep your natty hands to yourself,” she complains, shrugging away from him once more, “Why do you allow such words to get to you?” He twists his lips, looks away from her. She still looks moderately annoyed, “If anyone here was to understand, it would be me. I don’t listen to what they may say, because it is not true. You should do the same.” 

His crew wouldn’t have. His crew would sooner throw a punch than roll over and expose their bellies. Now that he considers it, he’s little glad he’d let Lagorúthon talk him out of inviting anyone from ship. 

Eirik leaves her to do as she pleases. In a way, she is right. But he doesn’t think she views herself in the same way as himself. Hell, neither does he. There’s a clear line between them that anyone can see, he doesn’t think he can relate to much of anyone at times like this. The words may not ring true to Harlow, but it’s different for him. He’s the type of person one may have nightmares about from long ago. A nightmare where men will drop to their knees, beg for their Lord. He’s seen it more times than he can count before - inside of the arena, on the waters, upon his own eyes. He deserves to be hanged and sun-dried for the immoral things he has done in his blur of a past.

Hopefully, before that happens, maybe he’ll be able to lie his hands upon Ruvik. Gut him and use his organs for chum and his bones for char. 

Fortunately for him, the party does not go on for long. It’s only a while after the hour before people begin to disperse. He says goodnight to Harlow - even with the amount of drinks she’d had, she seems upright and clearheaded. He even asks if she may need help walking to Port, and she responds with a middle finger. 

A few linger to wrap up conversations with Lagorúthon. He speaks to them warmly, as if he’s rehearsed it many times before allowing it to flow. And the lot of them, the poor fools, they’re eating it all up. Dusty-eyed, open faces, hanging onto his words as if it may be his last. Eirik almost feels for them, almost. 

The door finally closes behind the last guest. The servants have already began cleaning, and Eirik stays out of the way, watches as Lagorúthon’s comes up to meet his again. His steps are slow and purposeful, Eirik lifts his chin when he comes close enough and pushes from the wall. 

“Lovely gatherin’.” 

He knows from that point, there’s no turning back. He wishes sometimes he could shut his gob, could stop talking for only a moment. There’s a touch of anger in the way he speaks, carries himself. In almost everything he does. It’s impossible to hold his tongue, and he knows it gets to Lagorúthon whether he likes it or not. 

Nothing will come of it. At least, nothing good. Eirik knows that with Lagorúthon’s lack of response as he continues to pester him. It escalates even more as time passes, as Eirik follows him further into the home. 

“You behave as a child,” Lagorúthon says finally, he’s loosening his tie, focused upon his clothes as he undresses. Eirik tries not to become distracted with that - Lagorúthon is a man that should be appreciated not only for his intelligence and strength, but looks as well. 

“Do I?” 

He gives Eirik a harshly unamused look and tosses his tie to the bed. 

“I’m sure you keep them around for much more than their conversation. Your friends.” 

“Friends?” 

“They speak very highly of you.” 

“Mmm.”

He smiles, meets his eyes. Lagorúthon’s lashes are heavy, barely concealing the color of his eyes, “I can only give thanks. For you to invite me to such a affluential, prestigious - no, pristine event. I haven’t had this much fun in years.” 

“Eirik--” 

“I have dipped my hands in muddied water, and withdrawn them only to find it’s better to be a Captain than a common man. But I suppose - it’s different here. I am seen differently.” 

“Is that what bothers you?” 

“Not me. I thought it would you. You put on a good face though. It’s fairly amusing.” 

He can tell his voice is grating to Lagorúthon’s nerves, even to his own ears he sounds like a lout. But that doesn’t stop him, he only watches as Lagorúthon dresses and readies for bed. In the end, they don’t sleep in the same room, and if it’s one thing Eirik detests - it’s going to bed angry. Though that may not be so for him, it is for Lagorúthon. 

How can he be satisfied with a life like this, he cannot help but wonder. Both of them have a killer’s heart, there was no changing that. By the Devil, it would stay the same. They’ve killed enough to taste death at the tips of their tongues, and yet both have created vasts paths from one another. It makes him curious, makes him wonder just what Lagorúthon wishes to gain from a land like this. So full of opportunities - chances that could be snatched by the wrong word heard by the right ear. He finds no use in mind games, in rolling around with others that turn their nose up at him.

Boring. Lagorúthon must grow so bored here. 

Still, he doesn’t feel as if he should take his irritation and pondering thoughts out on him. At daybreak, he will apologize to him. There’s no use in going back and forth, and he knows they will discuss the night prior thoroughly. Surprisingly, it’s easy to talk to Lagorúthon, their minds think alike, it’s as if being linked to one another. Even being as different as they are, it’s easy to find common grounds. 

Lagorúthon may drive him to no ends, but he’s also something stable and sturdy. He’s never had that before, he’s learned not to take things such as this for granted. Or, at the very least, he tries not to.

The bed being as comfortable as it is, and he still finds trouble falling asleep. He sleeps alone, but not for very long. He awakes only hours later, and when his eyes open, he knows that it is not morning. It’s not the only thing he notices, he’s also very aware of the other presence beside himself in bed. 

Eirik barely manages to make a sound before warm, wet heat closes around the head of his cock. It’s sudden enough to make him tense, gooseflesh breaks across his skin, hips rock up to subtly off the bed. And as soon as he does move, rough fingers grip his hip tight enough to bruise, hold him in place. It only makes heat dart up the length of his spine, makes his mouth water, hands reach down on their own accord and tangle into the mess of Lagorúthon’s hair. 

He knows Eirik’s body a little too well at this point - lips and tongue drag, slow and building, growing rougher when Eirik attempts to use his legs as leverage. One hand curves around his knee, pries him open wider and forces him still once more, teeth lightly scraping the head in warning. It’s sharp enough to make him inhale swiftly, restless.

The orgasm is brutal and sudden, it tears through him like a punch in the gut. He feels winded, his fingers tighten only momentarily before loosening, combing through the length of his hair for a moment. It’s short-lived, this silence. Besides his breathing and the sound of Lagorúthon swallowing down whatever he may have left, his tongue swipes the underside of the head, teeth catch onto his hip, and then he’s trailing up further so that their lips may meet. 

The kiss is really just teeth and tongue, Lagorúthon kisses him as if he’s been lifted from the sea and he’s starved for air. There’s no way to take control of something like this, he is his own storm, tossing and shoring the waves however he may please. Eirik may be quite weak to him when it comes to this. Hips jerk off the bed when Lagorúthon’s fist tightens around his cock, pulls once and twice, before his thumb spreads the cum there. The tip is red-tinged and aching, growing harder in his hand with each stroke. 

He can’t breathe like this, not when he kisses him so. Hard enough where he can’t inhale properly through his nose, can’t break away for a second to even try. His hold is steadfast, keeps him still and rooted to the bed. The taste of cum is thick on his tongue, and Eirik is eager to get a taste. Lagorúthon pulls away first, quick kisses pressed the expanse of his throat and neck, he leaves a trail of angry-looking marks as he goes. 

He makes a vain attempt to try and force Lagorúthon back to him, only for him to press hard at Eirik’s shoulder, shoves him back to the bed with little to no effort. He watches him, swipes his tongue along his bottom lip to taste his own sweat. Their eyes meet in the dark, it reminds Eirik of a compass - when the needle instantly, instinctively points North. There’s nowhere else for him to look, nothing else for him to focus upon. 

Only Lagorúthon. 

Excitement curls deep in his belly, his skin thrums alive with it. And in Lagorúthon’s hand, he grows harder. Eirik will willingly give it all if it’s what he deserves. He supposes it’s fortunate for him that he prefers to sleep with little to no clothing, his chambers on the ship were always locked so its not as if anyone would take the time to walk in on him resting. And furthermore, there was little regard to nudity when on sea, he doesn’t mind it as much as he thinks anyone in Yovaria would. It’s been awhile since he’s taken the time to admire anyone’s features, unless it comes to Lagorúthon, who lets Eirik go for the moment to remove the rest of his own clothing. 

Entire body clenches in anticipation, he manages to speak, “I’m takin’ you’re not angry anymore,” Lagorúthon gives him enough of a look that clearly tells him to shut up, but Eirik is far from finished, “Is that a yes--” 

He cups him within his hand, grip harsh and unforgiving, pre-cum bleeds to the tip and he grunts. His noise is swallowed by Lagorúthon’s lips and the expanse of his body presses against his own. His skin is warm and flushed, Eirik cannot get enough - it’s apparent in the way his hips press up into his touch, his mouth opens wider to welcome his kiss, one leg curves around the back of his knee to hold him to him. He can feel his length pressing into his thigh, a hot and heavy weight that he ruts harder against him for some type of relief. 

Eirik himself is desperate for relief, the blunt of his nails press into his skin, drag to try and coax a a reaction out of him. But Lagorúthon has more control, he always has, and it’s shown every time Eirik may test his patience. Legs lift to twist around his waist, hold him closer, to gain some type of leverage. He feels defenseless on his back, weak to the storm that is Lagorúthon.

The kiss is over before Eirik is ready for it to be. He tightens the muscles in his legs, but it doesn’t do much. Lagorúthon’s palm tests the flesh of his thighs, presses down until he’s spread open for him once again. Slick fingers are the first thing that register, slowly sliding inside of him when he gives little to no fight. One leg kicks out on instinct, foot catches Lagorúthon in the chest, and he grips his ankle, holds him still to deepen the angle.

It stings. The burn is an expected sensation, spreading him open roughly. He spits a curse at him, he’d done so on purpose as a bit of retribution for earlier - he should’ve known Lagorúthon was far from over his aggressive nature after the party. 

Bloody hell. “You’re a fuckin’ dead-man. That hurts.” 

Lagorúthon’s eyes are dark, steady on him, “You can take it,” Well, if anything, he’d be the one to be sure of that. Still, Eirik’s glare doesn’t waver, “Be still.” 

Eirik has no choice but to listen to him. One finger soon becomes two, a set and slow pace that makes Eirik groan out in annoyance after awhile. He begins coming to life, his body working through a sensation he’s felt many times before, but in some way, only with Lagorúthon. An old, timeless song and dance that he wants to get on with already, but every time, they must go at his pace. He’s such a pompous prick. 

Ankle is still in his hold, and his fingers shift, running up the length of his calf, slowly massaging his perineum. Frustrated, Eirik slides his only palm down to his cock, grasping it in his fist, the skin over-sensitive and thrumming in his hand. It would take no more than a few strokes to throw him right over the edge, but Lagorúthon’s fingers withdraw suddenly. 

“When I slit your throat in your sleep--” 

He doesn’t expect him to slide in as easily as he does, he presses past any ring of muscle or resistance, bottoms out fairly quickly and Eirik’s mouth falls open. It’s a relief - the pain mixed with pleasure, something he’s so accustomed to and craves at times. Lagorúthon is perhaps the only one who will see him in this shape, weak to anywhere he may touch or linger. 

Even when he’s as suffocated as this, he can breathe just fine. As always, Lagorúthon does as he pleases, pushes in as far as he can go, pays no mind to the way Eirik’s teeth nip and bite at the expanse of his neck and tongue licks across the beads of sweat gathering there. The two of them should wait until the stinging subsides and he grows used to Lagorúthon’s girth, but Eirik’s hips buck off the bed, unsaited and impatient. He knows what he wants and he’s always been a man that can get it, Lagorúthon would be of no exception. 

He moves, deep and hard, doesn’t go easy on him. And it’s exactly what he wants, what he craves from him. From these hands that have killed, this body that has seen more carnage and war than anyone could ever believe. This person who could make him fall to his knees in a moment, and spike his fury up to the highest form at the same time. An equal, something he hasn’t had in a long time. Something that doesn’t make him feel so damned empty for once. 

He’s unraveling quickly underneath him, just as before. Fingers trail and search, fumble in between them so he can jerk himself along with Lagorúthon’s movements, but he stops him. Hot palm encases his wrist, yanks it away, lips pressing hard against his and muffling any sound of protest. Eirik wishes he would stop being an asshole for a second. 

If the bed weren’t so heavy, he’s sure the frame would be scraping the wall. Heels dig in deeper to the backs of Lagorúthon’s thighs, forces him harder, he wants to meet his end as fast as humanly possible. His orgasm takes him by surprise again, spurting in between them in hot bursts, he nearly chokes as he inhales sharply, muscles locked. 

Not soon after, Lagorúthon’s hips begin to stutter, push deep, his overstimulated nerves can only take so much. He almost growls underneath his breath, “Not inside--” It’s too late, Lagorúthon empties into him, drapes warmth up his spine and throughout his veins. He pulls out after a pause, cum sticks to Eirik’s inner thighs, “You fucking lout, I’m going to have to bathe again.” 

“You say it as if it’s a chore,” Lagorúthon’s voice is throaty, out of breath. As if washing out his ass isn’t a chore in itself. 

He gives him a fairly dirty look. But it doesn’t last long, not when Lagorúthon’s hand swipes across his cheek, brushing hair from his face. And he leans in, kisses the corner of his mouth with surprising tenderness. And just like everything else this man may do, Eirik is weak to it. 

“I apologize.” 

Eirik’s eyebrows lift subtly, trailing after him when he sits up. There’s a familiar sore in his muscles now that he welcomes, rolls his shoulders to try ease the lingered tension, “Are you certain I should not be saying that?” 

“You should. But if I knew the party would make you uncomfortable--” 

“That was not the problem.” 

He stares at Eirik, eyes unreadable. 

“I do not care for the people you keep around. Whether it’s at arms’ length or not. All frowns and furrowed brows every time. Does it not...tire you?” 

Lagorúthon grows more comfortable in bed, rolling off of him and into the sweat-sodden sheets. He seems to be considering the question, at the least, “No. It does not.” 

“You’re very strange, then. Like I’d thought.” 

“Mmm,” he’s watching him now, his skin looks pale in the limited light. Which Eirik doesn’t like - he’s grown attached to the sun-kissed skin that only Yovaria can emit to its people. With that thought in mind, he reaches over and touches his shoulder, thumb massaging gently into the muscle there, “You’re leaving.” 

“At sunrise. I’m supposed to be meeting with a few men from Fellstar. To discuss...an arrangement, if you will.” 

Lagorúthon is still staring at him.

“I will be safe. There is no reason to worry.” 

“I don’t worry.” 

“Mm,” A frown touches his face, and he trails his hand down from his shoulder to his forearm. Lagorúthon’s arm comes around his waist then, forcibly pulls him closer when Eirik begins speaking, “I need to bathe.” 

“In the morning.” 

Eirik supposes he can do that. Wait until morning. And so, he does. He rests more easily than before, the warmth of the body next to him lulling him to sleep. And in the morning, Eirik decides against waking Lagorúthon before the sun is even in the sky. The night had been long, and he’s well aware Lagorúthon spent the day before planning. 

He bathes on his own, dresses, and lingers by the bed. The sun has yet to bleed over the horizon, he only has a short amount of time left here. Fingers hover over Lagorúthon’s head, he sleeps peacefully, curled around the area where Eirik had once been. He inhales, releases it after a moment of quiet - he finds that it is becoming increasingly difficult to leave in this manner, to leave in general now. 

He loathes Yovaria land, every step he takes feels as if the sole of his feet have burned off, like the grounds are Holy and he’s been nothing but a sinner his entire life. There’s another second he keeps to himself, to study his features, before he’s reaching into his pocket to retrieve his compass. The hesitance is clear as day to his face, he brushes the grime and dirt from the withered glass. He cannot remember a time where he hadn’t had it with him - it’s always pointed him in just the direction he needs to be, it’s never let him down before. 

But he has many more on the ship, and there’s never been a time where he’s doubted his path. So, he is surprised about how much it doesn’t bother him to leave it there with Lagorúthon, in the spot where he’d been resting. And then, he’s gone.

He makes it to the docks, where the Port is bustling with activity far too early in the morning. The sun’s light has risen from the north, pouring over the sea and springing the fish below to life. An elderly man sits on the docks, he’s caught more than enough for the day. 

“You’re late,” there’s a hard shove to his back, but Eirik does not mind it. Barrett is behind him, all grumpy frowns and crossed arms, that soon grows lax when he sees the look on Eirik’s face, “The Captain, the Head of the Ship, how can you be late?” 

“Isn’t it what we do best? Come now, Barrett,” Eirik has to turn and follow him when Barrett continues to the dock, towards where the wooden plank is dropped to give him access to the Nightingale. Every time Eirik sees Her, he cannot help but think what a beauty she is, how much sweat and blood it took to get Her to this. Even so, Barrett goes out of his way to tease the name whenever he can ( “who the hell names their ship after a bird?”), “I’m only--” 

“You deserve scorn,” Barrett tells him, he stops at the boarding plank to pluck up a few crates there. Probably food or supplies, they’re in need of it all anyway, “You left the other night without a word. What are we all supposed to think?” 

“Next time--” 

“There will be no next time,” Barrett butts in, his tone is final, “Do you forget who you’re talking to?” He does not - his Right Hand, the one who saved his life more times he can possibly count - how, in his right mind, could he forget, “I see everythin’. You left during daybreak, and you return a moon later. You’re lucky we’re surrounded by drunks.” 

“Speaking so ill of the crew,” Eirik teases, “What will they think?” 

“Screw what they may think,” he shoots back, gives him a nasty look, “I only listen to you.” 

“And when I’m dead and gone, what will you do?” 

“Probably follow right after.” 

“Fuck’s sake, Barrett,” Eirik is smiling, nonethless, “You might as well be my wife, to nag me this early.” 

“Take it or leave it. Finish your affairs and let’s lift anchor.” 

“Aye.” 

A few from his crew trail in after Barrett, bumping shoulders with Eirik affectionately when they pass. Eirik gives them all half-hearted greetings, pats on the back, good mornings. He’s one of the last one’s on, it seems. And when he asks a few of his men, he discovers Harlow had already set sail late the night before. Not that he blames her, he has a feeling she doesn’t like Yovaria’s waters too much either. 

Just as the last of the crates are loaded in, he hears his name. Eirik lifts his head, blinking when he catches sight of Lagorúthon in the influx of the crowd. Turning, he shares a nod and a parting glance with Barrett, who squints his eyes and grimaces, but questions none. Fortunately, there’s enough of a crowd where they won’t be heard or seen too well, so Eirik crosses the small length to stop in front of him. 

“A good day to you--” 

“You were going to leave.” 

Lagorúthon’s tone is enough to make Eirik’s good mood drop by a scant, “I told you--” 

“Again. Without saying anything.”

“You looked as if you needed rest. You’ll drive yourself fuckin’ mad if all you do is work.” 

“We talked about this.” 

“You talked. I listened.” 

“Did you?”

“Must we do this here?” 

“You left this,” Lagorúthon holds out the compass for Eirik to take, and he frowns, stares for a few moments at his open palm. Without a word, he curls his fingers around his own, closes his hand around it once more, “Why would you--” 

“It’s yours now. Keep it.” 

Lagorúthon doesn’t look satisfied with that answer alone. 

Eirik cannot help it, he can feel a smile forming, “I feel as if I’m leaving it in safe hands, am I not? Take it. I have more.” 

Lagorúthon is quiet for awhile longer, his fist tightens around the compass as it drops back to his side, “You will come back,” It’s not a question, “Unscathed.” 

The smile widens, cheeky, “If I didn’t know any better, Mr. Senate, I would think you were worried.”

“I do not--” 

“Worry, I know.” 

“I’m just well aware of how reckless you may be.”

“Reckless? I can think of a few better words to describe--” 

“Eirik.”

Eirik’s smile soon drops, expression grows more serious as the conversation calls for it. He should be used to this - saying goodbye Lagorúthon, and he usually finds its easier to do so when they’re not face-to-face. And he knows he is more likely to die than return on most days, the sea is jarring and unforgiving, but Eirik has always liked something he couldn’t control. It’s why it reminds him so much of Lagorúthon. 

Months drag on when they are apart, he’s beginning to notice more and more how time changes. The seasons come and go, people fall in and out of his life, die or move on - but Lagorúthon has somehow always remained a constant. 

“I will come back.” 

Lagorúthon continues to stare at him. And if it weren’t for his crew behind him, Eirik might’ve been tempted to kiss him. 

“That is a promise.”

On the ship, Eirik does his very best not to look back. By then, Lagorúthon would’ve already been swallowed by the crowd, would’ve already turned and left. The boarding plank is lifted, the anchor is pulled from the water, and Eirik takes his rightful place behind the helm. Barrett and Howell are already there on the upper deck, waiting for him. 

Howell is the first to ask, “He looks awfully familiar, doesn’t he...The man you were just speaking with. I hope the exchange of words were pleasant.” 

“Yovaria folk are anything but,” Barrett grumbles, “Only good for whores and drink.” 

“Drink? Can barely find any Rum,” Howell says, “Whores, though. I’ll give you that,” Eirik barely listens to their squabble, only perks up to attention when Howell asks again, “Who was that anyway?”

“No one important,” Eirik tells him, face impassive, “No one for you to worry about.” 

“I surely hope not.” 

“Alright, alright - fuckin’ bastards. Stop jabbin’ your nose where it doesn’t belong and help with the sails,” Eirik shoos them both away, “I’m not getting any younger.” 

“Not any prettier either,” Howell says, darting away quickly when Eirik makes a swipe at him. Barrett gives him one more look before he’s going off to assist as well. And then Eirik has nothing to do but watch the sea, hands rested familiarly and leaning most of his weight into the wheel. 

He’s tempted to look over his shoulder, back towards the Kingdom of Gold. But there’s no reason to - he’ll be back sooner than before. 

.

.