drywallwords

[drywallwords]

— Traci Brimhall, Dear Eros

[drywallwords]

bodybag this wasn't supposed to be a multi-parter. fml.

This is stupid.

It’s really, really stupid, and you don’t even know what right you have to be mad about it, but you are, and it’s dumb, and you know it’s dumb. That’s what makes it worse. Actually—what makes this worse is that you know you’re to blame here.

You are unfairly assuming that this is in direct retaliation for that stunt you pulled a week ago, and you want to be mad at him, but you know you can’t be because you caused this entire mess to begin with. You don’t even think Bel did this vindictively, he was just likely doing exactly what you told him you were—moving on. You’re just upset because he’s spending time with someone else and doesn’t want to spend time with you anymore. Because of what you did. In case you’ve forgotten.

So, when you see it—a dark, angry purple blotch against pale skin, peeking out from the neck of his suit—you can’t really hide the stormy expression that crosses your face.

Stop that.

It’s unprofessional. It looks bad. You’re the Marshal. You have a girlfriend. Relax.

It’s not that deep.

Except it is—because you can hear him, protesting in embarrassment, and being teased by Anathema. You can see him draw his hood up and put his forehead against the table to try and hide the beet red flush of his face. You catch the good-natured laughter and ribbing and curious questions about his busy, exciting weekend, and—worst of all—you can hear him say in a small, sheepish voice that he had a good time.

Without you.

And you hate thinking of him being in bed with someone else, and you hate thinking that you drove him away because you’re a fucking imbecile, but you did and you are, and there’s nothing you can do about that now.

Impressively, somehow, you manage to make this all about you. Again.

He let you have it, and he was right: you are a fucking dick.

After your split (‘split’. You can’t break up with someone you were allegedly never dating to begin with), you rushed out and fell back into old habits—picking girls up at bars, putting notches in your belt, going on dates. They didn’t mean anything. Then you found someone you sort of clicked with, because she reminded you of him, so you kept going back. You like her well enough. You’re not really crazy about her or anything, but she’s fine. You’ve been going out for about a month.

You neglected to say anything because you knew it made you look like the World’s Biggest Asshole. Ricardo Ortega: does not do serious, would never do serious, not interested in doing serious—with a man. Even though that man had you wrapped around his little finger for almost a year. Even though you would’ve given him everything he wanted and more if he asked—and then he did ask. And you froze.

And then, you turn around and pick up a girlfriend, and you can’t keep your big mouth shut. You told everyone, because you knew it would eventually get back to him, and you wanted him to chase you.

How old are you, seventeen?

Where, exactly, resides the logic in that? How did you not foresee this being the exact outcome? You have the nerve to yank him around like a dog on a chain, then the balls to be upset when he doesn’t want to talk to you again? Because you, what, wanted him to chase you?

He was already fucking yours! You had him, and you let him slip right through your hands, and now look. You chased him right off a cliff, and you get to watch as your friends gather around him to find out who he’s spending time with now since it’s not you anymore, while you bitterly stare at the ice sloshing around in your glass.

Good going.

Couldn’t figure out how to be honest with yourself, so you make a mess of things. Couldn’t just admit that you were falling for him, so you hurt him. He didn’t deserve that, and you don’t deserve him, so this is what you get for being a coward.

You watch him disentangle himself from the gathering crowd, and slip out the side door into the alleyway. Probably for a smoke. Crowds always made him uncomfortable after awhile, and you know he usually needed to get away to clear his head. Habitually, you stand, then hesitate. It’s routine for you to follow and check on him, under normal circumstances. There’s nothing in the book about if circumstances are questionable.

Still, you do want to make sure he’s okay.

This is a bad idea, and you know it.

It’s the alcohol talking.

He doesn’t want to talk to you. You’re going to shove your foot in your mouth and make this worse, and you know that, but the alcohol has lowered your inhibition a little and is filling you with a kind of liquid confidence that would rival sober you’s ego. So you follow.

You find him outside next to the fire escape, resting his hip against the wall and playing on his phone, cigarette dangling between his fingers. He does a double take when the door opens, then freezes when he spots you. His expression pinches. He turns the other way, mirroring his original pose but facing away from you.

You’re just concerned for him and you’re checking on his well being as someone who cares about him. So obviously, you say:

“So, did you have a good weekend?”

Like the thoughtful, caring friend you are.

You can practically feel the heavy eye roll, even with his back to you.

“Yup,” he responds tersely.

This is clearly a very delicate situation to navigate, so you follow up with:

“Got a new boytoy, then?”

Your foot and your mouth are getting well acquainted with one another.

He gives a disbelieving shake of his head and a sardonic scoff of a laugh, because you sound so bitter and you’re doing a terrible job of hiding it. He doesn’t need to be able to read your mind to know that. He doesn’t even need to look at you to know you’re being bizarrely covetous in the licking of your wounds, and are actively ruining whatever remained of your already damaged relationship. He flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette.

“Yup.”

“Is he—”

“Fuck off, Ortega.”

Okay. You deserved that.

He never calls you by your first name anymore. It’s just ‘Ortega’ or ‘Marshal’ or ‘Charge’. He hates when you call him anything at all, but Niall feels wrong in your mouth, and he’ll never stop being Bel to you.

“Bel—”

“Fuck off. Ortega.”

In case it wasn’t clear the first time.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, because you are. You are the sorriest bastard in all of Los Diablos, and you’re kind of drunk, and you miss him and you think you might love him and you fucked up so, so bad and all you want is your friend back. If nothing else, you’ll take that, but you are still making a mess of this. Do you want to keep him or are you trying to push him away? Figure it out. Quickly.

He turns around to stare at you, and you feel like you’re ninety-three million miles away.

“You’re sorry?” he repeats, and you stand there looking like the royal court jester because you don’t really know what to say, but you are. You’re really fucking sorry and you would take it all back if you could. “You weren’t sorry a week ago, when you were perfectly content to lie to my face and only vomited up some half-assed excuse because I called you on it.”

“I didn’t—”

“A lie by omission is still a lie, Ortega.”

“I was going to tell you,” you reiterate, because you were. Eventually. When you worked up the nerve to do it. Or you would’ve after it all went sideways and you broke up with her. “Were you going to tell me?”

His eyes narrow. “Tell you what?”

You point at the mirroring spot on your own neck and he barks out a laugh. It stings a little, you can’t lie.

“No!” he continues laughing incredulously. “Of course I was never going to tell you, are you daft? You’re not entitled to every little bit of my life—you’re not entitled to anything about anybody’s life, but you think you are. You are so arrogant, Ricardo, and you can’t even see it. But—okay, fine. Fine! You want the sordid details?” You watch him put his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe. “I fucked another guy this weekend.” He flings his arms out to the side. “There, are you happy? I went out to a bar and hooked up with a guy in a bathroom, then let him take me home and fuck me there, too. Is that what you want to hear? Do you want to hear that he was better than you? That he—”

You don’t let him finish the thought. You’re drunk and upset and think you love him and are about to lose him, so you are going to do something very, very stupid:

You kiss him.

You couldn’t take it anymore, so you grab hold of his face, and you kiss him—hard enough to bruise; enough to rip the air right from his lungs and replace all the anger with shock. Shock that you’re kissing him, shock that he’s kissing you back. He lets you back him right up against the wall, press your body in tight against his, and kiss him and kiss him like you used to. He lets you press your face to the hollow of his throat and kiss there, too, and show him just how much you want him and miss him and think about him and crave him, until he regains his senses and pushes you back.

You’re a terrible, wretched, jealous thing and you want more and more and he won’t give you anything other than this.

“You’re an asshole, Ricardo,” he says breathlessly, but his eyes are focused on your mouth. “The biggest fucking prick I’ve ever met in my life.”

“I know,” you state, because you do. You’re aware. You kiss him again anyway, hungrier this time, because it’s the last thing you’ll get before he hates you for the rest of your life, and you wonder how far he’ll let you take this. How much can you push your luck? You test the limits of his boundaries again and again, and you know you’re pushing it when your hands find the small of his back. You know it’s dangerous when his fingers thread themselves in your hair and you feel kind of smug, and you feel like a dick, because you still know exactly how to press his buttons.

You attack his neck again—the other side, where he isn’t marked—and he isn’t sure whether to pull your head back or hold it in place. Could go either way and you probably wouldn’t complain, Especially not when—

“Ric… hold on…”

Not when he sounds like that.

“Fuck, Ricardo, stop… stop! Stop.” He gives your back a couple of light slaps in rapid succession and you wince, withdrawing reluctantly. He’s got his eyes cast skyward, grimacing in what you can only call shame. “You… fuck.”

Yeah. Sounds about right.

“I can’t believe I… fuck!” Bel presses a hand over his eyes and grunts in frustration. He pushes past you, pacing and dragging a hand down his mouth. “Ricardo. You can’t fucking do this. We can’t do this! You can’t keep—” he tosses his hands in the air in mounting frustration, each sentence tripping over the other to be heard first. “I didn’t want to be made a fucking scandal, Ric! You have a fucking—Christ! You are such a— I am so goddamn— Why do I let you do this? What is wrong with me? No, fuck that—what is wrong with you?”

A lot of things, probably.

“Bel—”

He punches you.

Gets you right in the nose.

Is it—?

No. He held back a little. It’s just bleeding. Gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning, though. You definitely deserved that one.

You watch him shake out his hand while he looks the iciest you’ve ever seen him, and you don’t know if that’s wholly directed at you. Talk about a mood killer.

Kind of hot though.

So not the time.

He doesn’t even say anything further, but you can feel the anger rolling off of him in waves. He stalks towards the mouth of the alley and disappears around the corner, and you have no idea what you thought you were doing, but you did it. Whatever it was, you did it, and in doing so, you successfully burned that bridge.

Actually, you blew it up in a most spectacular fashion, lit the place up like the Fourth of July. 

You kind of want to jump off a building before the guilt sets in, but you can’t because you’re the Marshal and your interpersonal relationships can’t supercede your duties. Even though they’ve been doing that the entire time.

So you fucked it worse. Now what?

[drywallwords]

DONT MIX BUSINESS WITH PLEASURE IT CREATES AMMONIA GAS !!!!!!!!!!!!

[drywallwords]

sitting reclined in my chair with my fingers steepled and contemplating how cognizant bel is of the fact that he should've seen this coming, but how hurt he is because it really truly feels like he was betrayed by someone he cares about

and even if it feels like he's overreacting, for him, this is a very real, very deep hurt because. gestures. he got strung along. and the L of it is neither of them are very emotionally mature enough to handle the complex nature of what their budding relationship was during the sidestep era, so it ends with ric being cowardly and not opening up to the idea of being w/ someone he's actually in to because of "" optics, and bel feeling like the world's biggest bozo because he could see the headlights coming and still lay down on the tracks because here's a guy who treated him like a person, and then treated him like dirt.

they just hurt each other because they're stupid and aren't brave enough to try. it takes something very drastic for them to sort it out, and (in this timeline anyway) they still don't end up together

[drywallwords]

My main MC is romancing both Seven and August. She knows dating a band member is probably not the best idea but 🤷‍♀️ that's her type apparently!

dating your fellow band mate is fun because they're also your co-worker and when has dating someone at your job ever been a problem? never! /s

[drywallwords]

in our bedroom after the war

expanding on an idea from this; ricardo lets his pettiness get the better of him and bel hits his limit. this is NOT canon to the ricbel cinematic universe lol this is just a follow up to the previous exploration, but i dedicate it to my fellow tragedy and angst enjoyers<3

When the news hits your ears, you laugh.

It doesn’t sound real, and coming from Steel, of all people, you have to doubt the veracity of the claims. He doesn’t like you; you don’t like him. But you also don’t necessarily believe he would make this up to hurt you, and the genuine surprise he’s unable to mask in his face is… well, it’s making you uncomfortable. So when the laughter dries up, the first thing you say is:

“What do you mean Ortega has a girlfriend?”

You aren’t really sure why you’re upset—you were never dating. You still aren’t dating. You ‘broke up’. It was amicable. Mostly.

So why does this feel like a betrayal?

Because it is.

“He didn’t tell you?”

No. Why would he tell you anything? He stopped forever ago, some time around when you decided to press the issue and wanted more. You couldn’t give each other what you needed and you were trying to make yourself be okay with that. It was so obnoxious, realizing how integral he’d become to your life, and knowing now, you couldn’t turn to him when you needed him because it would make things weird. Is it pathetic to say he might’ve been your closest friend? The guy you were fucking and accidentally caught feelings for? Yeah. Probably. But there it is.

You trusted him with a lot more than you really should’ve, reached out for him when you were panicked or uncertain or just sought his opinion on something. It wasn’t always the greatest opinion, but he was a grounding point for you, and you were the lightning rod for him to strike. He made you full on belly laugh on more than one occasion, remembered the date you couldn’t be bothered to for your birthday, and had your back when no one else did. It always gets complicated when feelings are involved, and you were completely incapable of keeping it together. You fell—hard. You may as well have been the asteroid that took out the dinosaurs, that’s the kind of impact you felt when the realization settled on your shoulders.

He looked at you like you mattered. He made you feel so special—he made you feel human.

Well, don’t you look and feel stupid now?

It was never going to work. It was always going to be an impossibility, because even if he was willing to give you the more that you were so insistent upon having, there was still the glaringly obvious issue in front of you: you are a glorified test tube baby and you will never be able to hide that from him. What were you planning on doing your entire life—keeping your clothes on forever? Even if you thought that would work, would you have been able to live with yourself hearing him make disparaging comments about something you can’t change, all the while never fully revealing your face to him? Would that really have made you happy?

Be honest with yourself.

No, it wouldn’t have.

So why are you so upset that he has a girlfriend?

You realize it has been several minutes since you’ve said anything, and Chen is looking at you with an expression that’s caught somewhere between pity and a grimace.

“No,” you say. “He didn’t.”

Is it because you feel duped? He told you long term wasn’t ever on the table—he didn’t ‘do serious’ were his exact words—and you took him at face value because you were busy laying down your own feelings to rot. You set your boundaries—you still had to work together, it would be best if you maintained as little contact as possible and kept it professional—and he would still do things like stand behind you in press photos, or try to talk to you in passing. You stood firm, though. You turned cold, inward, evasive, even when the others would shoot each other questioning looks.

It didn’t last that long. You couldn’t fall out of love faster than you fell in.

You shut him down, but you still let him corner you to ask why. You told him no, but still came when invited. You let him keep you by a tether, then watched him cut it again the next day. Back and forth, you yo-yoed between hot and cold, then and now, hating him and loving him. One day, he was behaving like nothing had changed, then the next he wouldn’t give you a quarter of his time.

You let yourself get played, and you feel stupid, and you’re pissed for feeling so stupid.

And now he has a girlfriend and you’re upset, because he isn’t your ex, and you never dated, but he’s got a girlfriend, and you’re right back where you started.

Way to go.

You cannot stand the way that Chen is looking at you, so you excuse yourself, scooting out of the booth and making your way out of the bar for some air and a cigarette, feeling like the world’s biggest moron.

It’s not that Ricardo didn’t do serious—he just didn’t do serious with you, evidently.

Go fucking figure.

Trial and error, you guess.

He tried you, it didn’t work, he went back to what he knew.

“What are you doing—”

“Oh, fucking Christ!”

“—out here, sorry! Sorry.” Ortega laughs, hands raised in a calming gesture. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

But he always managed to anyway.

You feel like a rabbit being stalked by a wolf. You were so caught up in your frantic pacing and your heightened emotion, you didn’t even hear his footsteps. You tear a hand through your hair and shake your head. You don’t have anything nice to say right now, so you would rather have this conversation another time when you’re a little calmer.

Is what you would say if you were thinking rationally.

Instead, what flies out of your mouth, rather accusatorily, is: “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Ricardo blinks and you watch, in real time, as he goes through several stages of grief while it fully dawns on him what, exactly, you mean.

“I didn’t have to,” he replies carefully. 

“So, I was just meant to be the first to find out, last to know?” you demand.

“Bel—hold on, don’t interrupt—I was going to tell you—”

“Don’t fucking say ‘eventually’, Ric.”

“—eventually. I was going to tell you, but there needed to be time for us to cool off. You didn’t want to talk to me anyway. What are you so upset for?” he asks defensively. “I’m allowed to move on, just like you are.”

You angrily jam your cigarette butt out on the wall and flick it elsewhere because you haven’t moved on, that’s the problem. You feel like you weren’t given any kind of divide, no reprieve from the aftermath. You didn’t get a chance to mourn it, put it to rest, get over it, and keep going. 

You feel like you’re about to run your car off a bridge, but you may as well burn it on the way down.

“What am I so—” you guffaw. “Do you have any idea what this looks like to me?” 

You feel like you’re being dramatic, but you don’t care. This stings like a betrayal. You feel betrayed. He told you one thing, then did another, and you are hurt and jealous and wish you could hear what he was thinking. You wish you knew what he was hoping to accomplish, if it really is just him moving on, and you just being high strung and too attached. You don’t think so.

But you’re not really in a place to make that judgement, either.

Even so, what you’re feeling is extremely visceral, and the one person who used to help with that is making it worse.

“I don’t know what the big deal is,” he scoffs, giving a sharp lift of his shoulders and turning his face away from you.

He cannot be this callous.

He’s not clueless, he’s not stupid. You know he isn’t. He can’t be. This is the same man who took you to the planetarium for your birthday. You know he has more emotional depth than this. You know that he knows why this looks bad.

You know that’s why he won’t look at you.

“You cannot fucking be serious, Ricardo.”

He rubs at his eyelids for a frustrated minute, then grabs your elbow and ushers you into an alleyway, off the street. Annoyed, you yank it from his grasp.

“You knew what this was when we started, Red—”

“Don’t call me that.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Fine. You knew what this was when we started. I always made that clear.”

Through all this, you’re certain you must look almost amused, with your eyebrows raised high and your head nodding incredulously.

“Really? Because it got pretty fucking muddled to me when you started asking me out on dates. The saying is ‘check Sidestep’s shadow’, not Charge’s,” you spit back at him. “So go on. Try again. Tell me how clear the line was.”

“You know what?” You raise a hand sharply to stop him. “You don’t get to call me that either. Don’t address me. In fact, don’t even talk to me. Just shut up for once, and listen.”

“Bel—”

You don’t know where this is coming from, but you’re digging deep and drenching yourself in gasoline. Faintly, you think you might regret this, but currently, you don’t care. You need the warmth to feel alive again because all you feel is numb.

“If you didn’t want to be with me, specifically,” you jab your fingers into your chest, emphasizing each word, “then you should’ve just said so, instead of all this bullshit about not being interested in a relationship and how it would make you look in your position, you fucking dick. If you can’t understand the optics of this, let me break it down for you, Ric: I wanted a relationship with you. You didn’t want that. Commitment scares you—it’s fine, I get it. I accept this. I try to move on from this. Only you won’t let me. You do this shitty thing where, you’re so used to getting attention, that when I don’t give it to you, you demand it from me, and when I give it to you because I’m an idiot, you turn around and pretend I don’t exist. You do this until you get bored, and then you go and find some nice, pretty girl to take home at the end of the day, so everything still appears above board. Do you fucking get it now? Ricardo? Do you see what this might look like from my point of view?”

You stare at him, checking for signs of life, any kind of… anything. You want to look, pry apart that skull and see what the fuck goes on in that head of his, but you can’t, and that’s just as frustrating. You don’t know what he’s thinking. You don’t know if any of this means anything to him, if you’ve made any kind of impact, hit anywhere that hurts.

Other than yourself.

And Ricardo… he won’t even look at you. He can’t look you in the eye as you rake him across the coals, because, as you suspect, he knows exactly why you’re hurting. You’ve hit all the pain points for yourself, and none for him, and he probably doesn’t even give a shit.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” You challenge. “No clever comebacks? Witty jokes? No flirting your way out of this one?”

No response.

“Well, I’m glad I was a little bit of fun for you, something to play with when you needed entertaining,” you state sardonically. “Glad I was your gateway drug, only for you to realize I wasn’t to your tastes.”

“That’s not true,” he protests. “You were never—Is that what you think? That I was just playing around? That this was meaningless?”

“Oh, fuck you, Ric.” You make a face and flap a hand dismissively. “Wasn’t it? Or are you actually going to sit there and contradict yourself? Was it no strings attached or not? Were we dating or not? It can’t be both, Ricardo, and according to you, it isn’t either of them, so which is it? Make your choice, and live with it.”

You straighten up, pushing your hands through your hair and taking a step backwards. “Don’t talk to me anymore, Ortega. I’ll work with you, but just… leave me the fuck alone.”

You pivot on the ball of your foot, carry yourself out of the alley, and refuse to look back. The walk home is a bit of a blur. You don’t remember it, but you remember smoking a cigarette and a half, and somehow getting yourself to the door and into a shower. You don’t want to admit it, but part of you feels some satisfaction in telling him off. You still don’t know if you were overreacting, if you were right for feeling the way you did, or if he was doing anything wrong at all.

You meant what you said, though. You feel like you got played, and you hate him for it, and you hate how deeply it’s gotten under your skin. Maybe you were the fucking idiot this whole time. Maybe he was showing you exactly who he was all along and you were too wrapped up to see it.

Who knows?

The next time at HQ was going to be so incredibly uncomfortable that you contemplate faking your death, but you don’t think he’s going to tell anyone you tore a strip off him.

Probably wouldn’t be good for his ego.

Well, let this be a lesson for next time: lightning always strikes twice.

[drywallwords]

We talk about Sidestep being Ortega’s blind spot but I LOVE how much it’s equally the same the other way around.

[drywallwords]

does it still count as haunting the narrative if you only show up in flashbacks

[drywallwords]

FUCK YEAH I GOT THE BUTTON TO SHOW UP!!!!! It doesn't do shit atm </3 (i. i hope this is allowed. is it????)

punching my fist in the air. i got my AO3 draft to look like ChoiceScript

[drywallwords]

find an island far away from me, a shipwreck lost at sea where nobody goes, no search party; nobody knows but me. or, a lesson in being honest.

“Do you ever wonder how different things could’ve been?”

You lean over the railing, peering down at the crash of foamy white waves breaking over the shore, arms dangling over as you listen to him talk. You fidget with your watch. You’re never really sure what to expect when Bel asks you to meet him here.

Before, you could take an educated guess: a hang out, a hookup, a chat, a drink—any of which you were more than happy to oblige. You were just thrilled he was actually asking you to do something.

It’s almost a little bit embarrassing, in retrospect, just how much you craved his attention. You were used to getting that from others, being the center of it, as both the Marshal and as just you, the charming, friendly, handsome flirt. You were used to having pretty girls approach you at bars, all vying for your attention, and garnered a reputation for putting notches in your belt—not something you’re overly proud of, exactly.

And then along came a telepath who told you his name was Niall. But nobody ever calls him that; they all call him Val. You were fairly certain you heard ‘bell’. He chuckled and said, okay. Bel it is. A bit forward of you to do something so intimate as give him a nickname when you’ve only just met. He usually likes to at least be wined, if not dined, before crawling into bed with a stranger, but he could probably make an exception for the Marshal. He wants to see if you live up to the reputation.

It was the first time in a long time that you could recall blushing—really intensely blushing, from your neck to your ears—and for once, you were at a loss. You could’ve said something clever like, you weren’t expecting to find a Valentine this early, but you only managed a nervous laugh and a swift change of topic.

You knew this would be trouble. You were right.

But not in the way you thought.

It was messy and complicated, as these things are bound to be, and you couldn’t—didn’t. You didn’t want to be honest with yourself. It was a scary thing, realizing this was becoming more than just physical. It’s not something you had really prepared yourself for, so when he brought up wanting more than what you were able to give him, you leant into that: yes, he was absolutely right. You could not give that to him because you ‘don’t do serious’, and it would be too complicated being in the public eye, what with being the Marshal and all, and him being an unregistered vigilante.

Never mind that you’d practically been dating over the past several months prior. It was obvious to everyone else around you but you.

You don’t think you ever once refuted the claim. Dodged it, maybe, but never denied it. It was too much to think about, too complicated. Too messy.

Then he died.

And a part of you was buried with him.

That was a hard lesson to learn—being honest when it counts.

You spent seven years holding on to guilt and remorse, letting it gnaw away at you like a—what would he have called it? A singularity. An infinitely dense gravity well in your chest cavity, consuming everything in you, and leaving nothing in its wake. Funny, how much of him shadowed you.

You managed. Poorly, but you did.

Then it all drew to a hard stop because there he was, in this shitty, out of the way diner, and you weren’t sure if you were seeing things or not: Was that really him, or was it you desperately wanting it to be him? Had you forgotten what he looks like? Had your memory been so blunted by time that you would doubt yourself? No, you would recognize him anywhere. It had to have been him, but you’d never heard of the dead walking, and you were beginning to wonder if you were on the brink of some sort of breakdown because you were trying so hard to will him back to life.

But you knew, without a doubt, it was him because you saw the earring, and you felt the well collapse and the hole in your chest go supernova.

Looking back, you’re not sure how you missed it—Entropy. It’s been right there in front of you. You knew. You just chose not to.

You still choose not to. There’s no solid proof. You create doubts in your own mind to absolve him of whatever sins you think you can forgive him for.

And now, here you are, called to the pier with the sun hanging low in the sky, painting it orange and pink, lending a warm glow to the city. You don’t know why, but it feels like you’re being sent to your execution.

Fine day to die.

“In what sense?” you ask, because you do, sometimes, wonder if things could have gone differently. Could this have been saved, could you have tried harder, been more open, told him you loved him sooner? Would that have changed things? Fixed them? Prevented this?

Somewhere, there is a timeline where this works.

You watch as he turns away from the water, leaning his back against the railing and gripping the bars with his palms, head turned towards you, only just. The sun brings out the red in his hair, tinges the green of his eyes hazel.

“I mean…” he hems and haws, and you know he’s holding back from what he really wants to say. “Don’t you ever picture ‘what if’ scenarios?”

“Like… what if my shirt is really on inside out and no one’s saying anything?”

“Sure,” he says, letting out an amused, patient exhale through the nose. “But more along the lines of, ‘what if you and I had worked out?’”

“Ah.”

“Mm.”

That kind of conversation.

“I used to wonder that, from time to time,” you admit, “when you were gone. ‘What if we’d been a little more honest with each other’? Don’t know if it would’ve changed anything, but might’ve had a good time at least.”

“Do you still wonder it?”

“Sometimes. Is that where this chat is going?”

He shakes his head, turning to look off in to the distance.

“After Heartbreak…” he starts, and you’re surprised because he never talks about it much. Not that you blame him. Hard thing to stomach. “When I left, Ricardo, I never looked back. You stayed, and I never looked back to see if you were still there.”

He’s lying.

You know he’s lying. He has a tell: he plays with his earring when he’s nervous, and—oh.

He’s not wearing it. You don’t know why you didn’t notice earlier.

He’s still rubbing at his ear lobe, but there’s no earring for him to fidget with.

You don’t recall ever seeing him without it, other than the time he tried to very quickly hide it from you in the diner. Was that intentional? Has he been trying to bury you again after digging you back up?

“I needed to move on,” he continues, bursting the bubble of your thoughts like a pin. “When I retired, I swore I’d just continue with my life and never turn over my shoulder because there was nothing there for me anymore. Sidestep died.” You flinch involuntarily. “Then you found me, and I…” he draws the sound out. “Seven years is… it’s a long time, Ricardo. It’s a long fucking time to carry a torch.”

Tell me about it, you think. 

“I was in love with you, you know. Back then.”

You knew.

Or at least, you had a hunch, and that scared you, too. It was a strange game of tug of war—let him avoid you, pull him back in; keep him close, push him away—until it just became awkward and uncomfortable and the whole thing disintegrated in your selfishness. You couldn’t bear the thought of not having him any longer, but you couldn’t respect that he wanted it to end. You did shitty, petty things in an effort to make him jealous, and then had the audacity to be surprised when they worked and he stopped talking to you.

You were kind of an asshole, upon reflection, and you aren’t really sure why he gave you the time of day.

“Seeing you again brought up a lot of—” Bel gestures nebulously with his left hand, and you understand intrinsically “—and I found myself falling in to old habits. Wanting to help you because it’s you and I missed you, and I said that I wouldn’t, but I did, and I still felt a little bit in love with you. I broke a lot of my own rules for you, Ric.”

“Still breaking them?” you ask, because there’s a lot in there to pick out and unpack, but you think you should probably let him finish, so you fall back on humour.

“Still breaking them,” he agrees. You push yourself upright to mirror his pose, leaning back against the railing with your arms folded. “I used to fantasize about it all the time—what if we’d taken the right path instead of the left? What if I’d said something? What if you did? What if nothing bad happened and we got our happily ever after? But you couldn’t see a way to make it happen, and I couldn’t find a way to keep holding on. So I stopped wondering.”

The soil is freshly turned, and he’s putting you back in your grave.

You’re about to lose him.

Again.

“We need to stop seeing each other. It isn’t healthy.”

You wonder, for a moment, if this has to do with Entropy, just so you can blame it on something. It might. If you’re right and he is, then you’ll be pitted against one another—again—and it’ll be difficult and brutal because you still love him and you don’t know if you could bring yourself to stop him, but you’re the only one who can. You wouldn’t let anyone else.

Or it might not.

Maybe you’re wrong and he isn’t Entropy at all, and he really is just retired and trying to move on, but here you come, being selfish once more.

“I’m sorry that I fixed you in place, Ricardo. I thought you would root me, too.”

Time has a funny way of eroding away at you. You’re older, a little smarter than you were, but you’re still finding old parts of yourself beneath the surface. When the wind blows the sediment away, there’s the old you, wanting so badly to hold on to him, keep him tethered to you, make all these promises you aren’t even sure you can keep—but you still can’t even be honest. No matter how much you’ve changed, you can’t be honest.

If you told him you loved him, you think he would stay, but you wouldn’t be happy, and neither would he.

But you do. You really love him, so you’re standing in the crosshairs, just waiting for them to take the shot.

“Okay,” you manage, running a hand down the back of your neck, and you can’t find anything more to say, because the weight of this is too heavy. “I’ll miss you.”

He takes hold of your wrist and presses something into your palm, folding your fingers over top—“I know.”—and smiling sadly. “The span between us may be as far as the sun and the sea, but you’ll never be far from my thoughts.”

He kisses you on the cheek and you watch him leave until he’s a small speck down the sidewalk. You open your palm, and there it is—a small lightning bolt with a spot worn down from worry, and you think:

The sun and the sea were never so lucky as to have crossed paths.

[drywallwords]

punching my fist in the air. i got my AO3 draft to look like Cho//iceScript

[drywallwords]

ok I know I said "brb" last night because I felt the need to write, but I passed out before I finished LMAO so there's something on its way later. hope you enjoy dying and being killed because. I sure do

[drywallwords]

ever had an idea that electric shocks you. a lightning bolt through the heart. ions colliding, i am brought to my knees thinking about my ocs. TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT!!!!!!!!!!

[drywallwords]

i hope you know how much i love and appreciate you

<333 thank you for sharing your work with the world!

[drywallwords]

Remembrance of things past

“And once I had recognized the taste of the crumb of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-flowers which my aunt used to give me...immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like the scenery of a theatre to attach itself to the little pavilion, opening on to the garden, which had been built out behind it for my parents...all from my cup of tea.” - Marcel Proust, À la recherche du temps perdu

“What the heck is all this?”

Luna is a storm in the kitchen when Seven returns to the apartment. The counters are littered with open packages of raw meat and fish, platters of sliced vegetables, a bucket of uncooked noodles set off to the side. There are jars holding sauces of various colors and fragrances she can’t even begin to name, and a pot of something is left to boil on the stove.

“Hi, Seven! Happy New Year!”

A head pops up from beneath the counters, and Luna greets her with a big smile. She pulls out something large from below: it’s a portable stove, attached to a small propane tank.

“Happy… New Year to you too? Is that what we’re celebrating?”

Luna nods happily, oblivious to the wariness in which Seven regards the large amount of uncooked ingredients as she brings the stove to the small dining table. Behind them, steam begins to billow up from the pot as its contents are finally brought to a boil.

“Yup! I wanted to have hot pot, so I got all this stuff just for the occasion. Help me get all this stuff onto the table, won’t you?”

Hot pot. Seven’s at least seen the term before, written on some packages she’s seen when Luna takes her grocery shopping at the local Asian market. She assumes the titular pot in question is the one that’s currently boiling; she ferries as much as she can over to the table as she keeps watch over Luna out of the corner of her eye. The latter sets the portable stove alight before gingerly transferring the boiling pot onto it. Through the glass lid, Seven can finally make out some of its contents: the pot is split into two sections, one half containing a pale yellow broth, while the other houses a scarier, oily red liquid.

“Lunes, at some point you’re gonna have to explain how this works to me.”

It takes several more minutes of setting the table and beckoning from Luna before Seven feels comfortable to sit. A bowl of mixed sauces topped with cilantro sits in front of each of them, with a fork and spoon—and a set of trainer chopsticks, a joke on Luna’s part, much to Seven’s chagrin—included with hers. With a dramatic flourish, Luna lifts the lid to the pot, and they’re both hit with a brief wave of heat as a plume of steam blossoms. A wonderfully rich aroma fills the small apartment, and the February winter chill instantly melts away.

“I guess it’s like, uh, fondue?” Luna explains. “Not that I’ve ever tried that myself… But watch, you just take what you want here, like this, when the broth is boiling...”

She pries away a slice of what appears to be finely cut lamb, swirling it around in the pale broth to cook for a few seconds before placing it in Seven’s bowl.

“Make sure to get it real good in that dipping sauce, and if you need a little extra spice,” she waves a hand over the angry red half of the pot, “then you use this side.”

The smell is truly divine, a hearty aroma rising from one half of the pot, cut with the peppery fumes from the other half. Its oily surface bubbles in a magma-like fashion, and Seven can’t help but regard it with a hint of fear.

“Is it normal to have a spicy side? It looks so…”

Luna laughs. “I’ve just never had this kind before! It’s always fun when there are two, don’t you think? I think they pair well together.”

She’s skeptical, but it’s hard to resist Luna’s enthusiasm as she begins throwing in ingredients to simmer, tending to the pot like a witch tends to her cauldron. Before long, the small apartment is filled with delicious aromas and raucous laughter. (and the occasional tears, as Seven discovers very quickly how truly hot one half of the pot is). The table quickly becomes a mess, splattered with water and sauce as the careful arrangement of raw ingredients scatter all over, yet neither of them pay any mind. Seven can’t remember the last time food as ever tasted this good, or the last time a meal in general has ever been this fun.

It shouldn’t surprise her, really. It’s always fun when it’s the two of them.

The night wears on, food is steadily finished, and eventually the time to clear the table comes. Seven has to lean back in her chair, feeling as though her stomach will burst.

“Ugh… Luna, how are you even moving? I’m so full.”

Her companion truly doesn’t look much better off than her, yet Luna continues to do her best to clear away as much of the table as she can. Muttering a promise to help her in a bit, Seven painstakingly moves to the old couch nearby, collapsing onto it with a groan.

Minutes pass by, and the sensation in her stomach doesn’t fade. Even with her eyes closed, she can still hear Luna shuffling about, her footsteps slow. She can’t stand the thought of hauling that large pot of broth anywhere in their current state, and Seven calls out, “Luna! We’ll get it tomorrow. Come sit before you throw up and we have to clean up more.”

There’s no response, but she feels the weight of someone plopping into the space next to her. The sudden jostle elicits another whine from Seven.

“Don’t… I’m gonna barf.”

“Not on me, you’re not.”

It’s instinctual and automatic, the way Luna crawls into Seven’s arms, the way the latter opens them for her. Their tangled forms are unceremoniously draped over the couch, smelling rather unpleasantly of meat. Yet in spite of her roiling stomach, how much she wishes to simply turn into a formless blob right there and then, somehow she feels content and peaceful in that moment. There’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

“So, is there a reason you wanted to turn us into overinflated beach balls for New Year’s or…?” she mumbles.

Luna doesn’t answer immediately, and Seven can almost hear her thinking.“We’d have it whenever we visited family. Not so much with my folks here though.” She shifts, lifting her head so she can look at her. “Hot pot is always better with family and friends, you know?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s just me here,” Seven snorts in response.

Luna smiles peacefully, lowering her head to tuck it against her shoulder. “That’s all I need.”

Seven doesn’t say anything, because what more needed to be said? With Luna, she knows they could find fun and joy in nothing more than a brown paper sack. Seven and Luna, Luna and Seven. What more did they even need, when they already had it all?

“Hey, Sev?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I’m gonna move from the couch until morning, just saying.”

She lets out a laugh, wrapping her arms tighter around her as she brings her closer. The discomfort in her stomach hasn’t abated, but she finds she doesn’t mind much, feeling nothing but warmth and content in this little space just for the two of them.

------------------------------------------------------------

Later…

Luna, with a grunt, has contorted her body on the cool floor of her tiny kitchen as she rummages through the lower cupboards. Various mismatched pieces of dishware are extracted and sorted in a slow, painstaking effort to organize.

Without a light, she can’t see all the way into the dark interiors of the cupboards, and she extends her arm deep into one, searching for anything left in this particular spot. Her fingers brush against something cold and metallic, and Luna, confused, pulls it out.

Its weight and odd shape are explained when the object comes to light; it’s a small portable stove, covered lightly in dust from sitting forgotten in the back of a cabinet for who knows how long. She recognizes it as the one she used for a very specific type of meal, one she hasn’t had in about as long as the stove has gone unused. Memories involuntarily bubble up to the surface, ones she thought she buried.

A boiling pot of broth. Startled shrieks as hot liquid splashes. A diverse, colorful spread across the table, as close to a modern feast they may ever know. A pot split in half, mild to spicy, light to dark, two halves of a whole. Boisterous, joyous laughter, warm smiles.

After all this time, she’s always taken by surprise, again and again, of how it can sneak up on her. The silence within the apartment suddenly becomes too loud: no other footsteps to be heard, no other voice besides her own to listen for within this tiny space. No matter how hard she tries to look away from it, it dances in her periphery, the frayed edges of the Seven-shaped hole in her universe.

With a huff, Luna unceremoniously shoves the burner back into its dark corner. Abandoning her kitchen to a state of unorganized stacks of dishes and kitchenware, Luna grabs her keys and throws on a jacket. She storms out of the apartment, begging for escape from its claustrophobic stillness, for the release that may come with the air that could blow it all away.

Yet no matter how long she runs, she can’t shake off the faint scent of broth that clings to her wherever she goes.

=======================================

BONUS:

A bell rings as the door opens, the members of Soft Violence laughing as they step into the restaurant. Avina halfheartedly tries to hush them as they signal to staff, who eventually lead them to an available table.

“Damn, look at what they’ve got over at that table,” Pope points out. “Maybe we should get that.”

“Pope, don’t just stare at someone else’s food!” Avina chastises.

Seven grins at their boisterousness, switching her attention to the menu. Compared to the others, it doesn’t take her long to pick out what she likes, and after a bit of waiting their table is laden with various dishes, family style. Pope and Kieran waste no time piling food onto their plates as they dig in.

“Damn, Seven, you were so right ordering this,” Kieran praises through a mouth full of food. “This is so good!”

“That’s great, man, but do you think you could tell me without spitting all over the rest of the food?” she laughs.

She spoons some mapo tofu onto her plate, a personal favorite of hers. The sauce isn’t quite the shade of red she likes, but she doesn’t fault it too much as she takes a bite. It’s got a strong flavor profile, expected of this particular dish, perfectly fine, and yet…

“It’s so good.”

Seven purses her lips, contemplative. “It’s not bad, but to be honest it’s not as good as when Luna ma—”

The name slips out before she can stop herself, and her throat immediately closes after. Everyone at the table freezes, in a moment that really only lasts for a second, yet it feels like it stretches for an eternity. Seven claws herself back to reality, forcing words out her lips.

“I mean, it’s fine, I guess. Yeah.” She conspicuously piles more tofu onto her plate, aggressively shoving more pieces in her mouth, even though she feels like throwing up. Even though all she wants is to spit it out, to tear away at the inside of her mouth, to rip out the memories that she now knows are painfully sewn into not just her soul, but her very flesh.

It just isn’t fair. She wants to run out and scream. To curse the one person in the world responsible, to scratch away at her own skin in hopes of exorcising the ghost that haunts her every step, every breath, and down to every last bite.

She never could have imagined sitting at a table of four could be lonelier than sitting at a table of two.

But she has to remind herself that it’s lunchtime, and they’re in a public restaurant. So Seven swallows her food and her pain, like she’s done so often before.

Avina, as always, is the first to recover. “Oh, is it really that good? I’ll try some.”

The tense moment passes as everyone else refocuses on the meal, leaving Seven woodenly chewing for the rest of the night, trying hard to ignore the way everything turns to ash on her tongue.

[drywallwords]

Mary Oliver

[drywallwords]

I like the contrast between the softness of affection and the intensity of desire