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How to write about Grief:

There is no right or wrong way to experience grief. Just as there is no right or wrong way to write it. Everyone is different, each set of circumstances are different. 

The point of this post is to show you how different people react in different ways, and give points on how you might write that, depending on your character and story.

Reactions to Grief

Numbness: Your character may go into auto-pilot and be unable to process the events that have unfolded.

Anger: This can be aimed at other people, at a Higher Being, or at nothing in particular.

Unsteady: Your characters may be unsteady. For example, unable to stop their voice from shaking or they may find it difficult to stand.

Focusing on Others: Your character may disregard their own feelings because they are so overwhelmed and instead concentrate on someone else’s well-being. 

Seek out routines: Amid upheavals, your character may seek comfort in tasks that are familiar and “safe,” such as working, cleaning, making their bed, making absurd amounts of tea or taking a morning walk.

Pretending that Everything Is Okay: Grief is viewed as an emotion that should cease or be concealed once the funeral is over. So people mention the news in an offhand comment, then talk and laugh as if all is right with the world.

Denial: Some people deny the reality of death and convince themselves that the news is a joke or can’t be true.

Reactions from people surrounding your character:

People may avoid your character as they do not know what to say or simply can’t find the right words.

Some may even go as far as to cross the street when they notice your character approaching.

Even people that the character has known for years may act strange or standoff-ish, simply because they don’t know what to say.

On the other side of that, some people may be overly helpful and friendly.

It is not uncommon for estranged friends, family or others to suddenly reappear in a person’s life after they have experienced grief. 

Either because those people want to offer their support and love  or because they’re being nosy and they want to be kept up to date on the “drama”.

Most people will move on from the event fairly quickly if they weren’t emotionally invested. 

Some people may even get annoyed at your character for still being upset weeks or months later.

When talking about the person they have lost:

Your character may recall a memory or tell a story about their loved one, these are possible reactions. (I have encountered all of them.)

Your character may being to cry or get upset at the thought of the person they have lost. 

The person they are talking to may become awkward and avert eye contact when your character brings up the person they have lost. 

Others may ask or tell your character to stop talking about the person they have lost. They may roll their eyes, cough awkwardly, or cut off your character mid sentences so that they can change the subject.

Some people may ask inappropriate questions about the circumstances in which the character’s loved one passed away. Depending on the personality of your character then may react differently. 

Other things to note:

Grief is not constrained by time. 

One of the main problems with grief in fiction is that a character is typically heartbroken for a couple scenes and then happy again. But grief does not evaporate because the world needs saving. 

Allow your character to wrestle with their grief. 

Your character may feel guilty. Your character may feel a twinge of guilt when they laugh or have a good time with someone else; when they do something to remind them that they’re alive, and their loved one isn’t. 

Grief is a game changer. A previously outgoing character may withdraw and isolate themselves. Some people may take grief and/or bereavement as a sign that life is too short; they may make big decisions in an attempt to make themselves feel better and grow away from their pain.

Sometimes grief can help you find your purpose.

At first grief can be all consuming. It hurts and you can’t really control it. It may seem unrelenting. Eventually the grief will become easier to deal with, your character may find the days to be better, but that doesn’t mean that when the grief hits it doesn’t hurt any less.

For most people, grief never really goes away. “Sometimes you have to accept the fact that certain things will never go back to how they used to be.”

It is rare that a person will ever give a long speech about their feelings, a lot of people struggle to even find the words. But that’s okay. Show the reader how your character feels, rather than just telling them.

Don’t pause the plot to deal with the aspect of grief. This could overwhelm the readers and drag the pace down. In reality, life doesn’t just stop due to grief, the world keeps spinning and things still need to be done. Use the character’s grief as a backdrop for the story’s events.  

Yes, grief affects the character’s day-to-day life, goals, and relationships. But it shouldn’t drive readers away or stagnate the story. Instead, should engage readers and produce empathy that keeps them turning pages.

You don’t need to tell your readers that everything will be fine. You don’t need to provide all of the answers.

“Skirting grief and treating it lightly is easy. But by realistically portraying it through a variety of responses and its lasting effects on the character’s life, readers will form a connection with your characters.“

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Elijah in the Wilderness, Frederic Leighton, created: 1877–1878

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instagram | layeredvintage

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i wanted to keep you in my coat pocket right there in the corner created by the seam within reach  but easily forgotten  when i’m not fidgeting my hands away from view because my limbs feel too long and heavy  even more so when i stuff them in my pocket are you warm in there? keeping entertained?  i would let you out and when i do will you be lint by then too? matted and forgotten like those videos of sheep with months worth of matted wool years, even a heavy familiarity, neglected the desire to prolong the sensation from a memory deals its damage by killing you in the process a corpse  the corpse of the remnants of your soul’s breath captured and contained the very same way it makes sense to capture the air of a far off place (and we both know how much it doesn’t make sense.)

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incandescent ever present but still so very far away from me my depths feel shallow and i am tired  but the sleep does not come, so my mind defaults to distress and laments and yearning oh the fucking yearning that haunts me its echoes from memorabilia surviving and lingering long past its shelf life i cling and i yearn  and i do not leave my room i remain with the stories and the images of what i crave for myself to myself of myself from myself and so i remain  (alone.) (in this cold.) (deliberately.) (defiantly.) (with the bright burning fire.) (always so far away, far away from me.)

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commonastherain

My name is Ayr. 

I live in a place called Mera Tydal, a wood so deep within the encompasses of the Laud that few of my kind have ever even seen its limits. The only unabashed sunlight that I face stretches across a wide moor we call the Arabah which slices my home of the local Asmara wood in twine. It's a dangerous place for folk like me to go, so away from the sheltering disguise of our forest branches. There are predators of all kinds who have an eye out for us- most of all birds. Ground beasts like the werecats and ocetils aren't nearly as dangerous as those who can come from above.Call me what you like; fairy, pixie, elf, imp. They all mean something different. In my tongue I am gyep-pari. Pari is my kind, gyep is my color. I am of the most common of sorts, my back and wings are the color of the greenest forest canopy above to hide me well from those who would look down as I fly. My father, whoever he was, was gyep-pari. My mother is mavi-pari; her back and wings the color of our pond's surface as it reflects the daytime sky, only a slight shade darker. The blue type like the water and rain, ponding and skimming. Both her parents were reeders like many, as they are hidden well over the dusky blue surface. The front of our bodies- chest, belly, face- are always of pale flesh coloration, to hide us against a bright sky from those who might look up from below.Other than colors we are all the same people. Other tribes live in this wood and share in the same look with us though their customs differ greatly, so my mother has told me. To find someone of an outside color is a rare thing but I have heard they are indeed born once in a great while, though few make it to adulthood. Our existence is dangerous here, despite the friendships we have come to forge with most of the creatures around us. There is but one simple truth that governs: those who cannot hide do not survive.So imagine if you will my surprise when I met Lytham for the first time.I had been sent out by my mother Atlin to gather valerian roots for my younger brother's fever. Edam had been lolling in it for two days now, a sickness brought on by two-night's spell on the moors. He'd been gaming with his friends, taken a bet and lost. If he had not been so ill by the time we'd found him, Atlin would have done him in herself, I'm sure.At dawn I flew out from the nook of our home, nestled within the dense branches of a great oak. My mother had carved it out herself, no small feat for a fale-pari of her size. She had come to the Asmara alone years before, pregnant with Edam and still lugging me on her back. Friendless in this new tribe and without a mate of her own, it was completely up to her to raise us; no others would help when they had their own to feed.Times were different now. She was no longer seen as the pariah she had once been. Skillful with medicine, Atlin had made herself irreplaceable among the community, animals and pari alike. But I know she has not forgotten what it was like before she had something to offer them. Though content as she is in her own ways, Atlin often laments how much of her petulance and sullenness I have picked up over the years.And even though she was accepted by the time Edam was born, that's as not to say I still didn't suffer from ridicule when I was old enough to join my peers at sport and work. I was the only one without a father to provide for us, to show me how things were done. All I knew were a woman's ways, my mother's, for which I suffered greatly at the hands of those who would be my friends. Edam had it better than I; he had me to teach him proper customs as befit a young male-pari. I'd had to learn the hard way, but instead of mourning my lack of friendships, I grew to enjoy and even treasure my time alone. I liked the isolated life.As a result, I had grown up without many friends, which is why I flew alone that morning to find my brother's medicine.Valerian was a useful flower that was relatively easy to find, whose roots, when dried, were a powerful sedative that would help Edam to sleep. Without it he would toss and turn and cry in the night and save no strength to heal. The dawn was crisp and cold with grey shadows still cast over much of the forest floor. I shivered, wishing I had swathed myself in my robe instead of submitting to the comfort of simple breechcloths that made flying easy.The air around me was light and passed sounds with ease. I waited for a moment, shrouded by the leaves of the branch I perched on, listening for any signs of rustling plant life. The bark hurt my knees as I crouched there so I stood up and rubbed them, foolishly unaware that I had already been spotted.When I believed the coast was clear I made a short dive from the branch and fluttered down towards the forest floor, looking for the frilly white petals that favored patches of sun to shade. I had to hurry; the day creatures would start moving about soon.At first I heard nothing, and rightly so. Lytham later told me that an owl's massive wings are frayed on the edge feathers, letting them be silent as the dead when they flap. Silent as my attacker was, by the time he was upon me I could hear the rustle of its tail as the bird slowed, feet stretching out to snatch me from the ground.Time stood still for me in those short moments as I turned, seeing those talons, so close that I could read the lines of its feet as they reached out for me. My mouth opened to yell but no sound would come, and I was knee deep in weeds, too tangled to make any sort of swift escape.I closed my eyes. I don't remember what my last thought was of.But instead of feeling my flesh ripped apart, as my over-active mind had already pictured, a sensation wholly different came to me. Something hit me hard and heavy from the side, twining around me and bearing me into the spongy weeds with the force of a hundred birds it seemed. I gasped for air and flailed within the tangles of the weedvine and whatever it was the held me.We were buried deep into the mossy ground cover when a warm, heavy breath whispered into my ear, "Be still."One of my kind, but I did not know him.I did as I was told, laying there beneath him, both of us concealed from above by the thick weed. I could see nothing. While we waited an eternity it seemed, I listened to his ragged breath, felt it against my cheek. Whoever he was, he was hurt and exhausted, and I knew that it was blood that made his back slick beneath my hands. I could smell it in the close air, taste it in my mouth.After a few motionless moments, he ventured a hand to push away the brush. I lay quite still, staring up at him as more and more the new morning sun revealed his face. My heart skipped a beat when he finally threw off the undergrowth completely, signaling that it was safe.His back, shoulders and translucent wings were as red as the blood spattered over the rest of him. Thick crimson locks stained to a darker hue clung to his shoulders and cheeks. A rosu-pari. I'd only heard of them in tales from my mother, but even she'd never seen one.With some effort he sat up and back, favoring his left side that I saw had been gashed apart either by claws or branches as he whipped through them, possibly in flight. Recovering from my shock quickly, I bolted upright, reaching for him."Are you all right?" I asked, trying to examine the wound in his side but he shied away from me, as if afraid of my touch."Leave it," he said. He attempted to get off me completely but failed as his muscles gave way to fatigue and pain. Gently I slid out from under his weight and knelt beside him. He was breathing very hard through an open mouth.Now more than ever I wished I had brought some more supplies with me. He was still openly bleeding. Without thinking further about it, I began to rip leaves from the nest we lay in and bound them together with twine I ripped in cords from their stems. It was a trick I'd seen Atlin perform many times."Thank you," I said softly as I worked, "for saving me."He stared up at me, having reclined back to rest more comfortably. While he said nothing, I had to look away from his gaze. Something in those intelligent green eyes unnerved me."It was after me," he said after a moment. "Has been for miles." He winced a little when I pressed the pack of seeping leaves against his side. "Then he saw you-"Miles? Surely not. "Did it do this to you?"He nodded, wincing again. Spread out beneath him, his wings looked in awful shape; I wondered how far he had really come and what he had endured to be in such a condition. Indeed, I was surprised at all that here was a rosu-pari, old as I was, older even. When with his bright coloring he should not have survived childhood.My heart fluttered in my chest, leaving me with an odd sensation in my throat. What a fighter he must be.I tried to help him sit up again. "Can you fly?" I asked."Not anymore," he said, breathily. He was loosing strength with his bleeding; I had to get him home to Atlin. Soon.By the time we'd reached my family's den, it was late afternoon and I was sure that I was the one who would need the healing. Carrying Lytham, who was overall just bigger than I, had been a trying task, especially since near the end of our journey he had begun to lack the strength to even hold on by himself.Atlin met us in the entry hollow."Genive's eyes, Ayr, what is this?" she cursed, kneeling down to the floor where I had let Lytham rest a moment. She put her hand to his forehead beneath that mane of tangled red hair."Owl. Help him, Mother, please," I said, catching my breath.Atlin peered at the largest wound beneath my shoddy poultice. As her brow creased in concentration, I read nothing good in her blue eyes. For the first time, I began to fear that Lytham had pushed himself too far and this rosu-pari, who had made it so far in life would not last the night. More deeply, I feared I would never know him."Edam cannot be moved; we'll have to put him up with you, Ayr," she said, indicating that I help her lift Lytham from the floor. With little response from him we had carried him up into the nook that I called my own space. It was small but comfortable enough for me, and secluded enough from the rest of the den to satisfy my need for solitude.Atlin left for her herbs, mixtures and swirls, leaving me with cloth and basin to help clean him up so she could do her work. Lytham groaned when I tried to move him and weakly pushed me away."Let me be," he said hoarsely, "just for a moment-""If I let you sleep before she sees you, you'll die," I said sternly, slightly irritated at how he batted my hands away with what was left of his strength.Atlin had helped me roll a mat of reeds onto the floor, and on this we had laid him. As I began to pull the shreds of his clothing off, he finally stopped fighting me."I don't care anymore," he mumbled, putting filthy hands to his face."Well I do," I said, pulling them away and beginning to rinse his fingers. He just watched me, a strange look in his eyes.But Lytham didn't utter another word. As gently as I could I washed his face, chest and arms, scrubbing away the drying blood and finding it hard to tell what was blood and what was just his color. My fingers skirted his wounds, I would leave those to my mother. She came back in with her parcels of mixes and powders and knelt on the floor beside us. I had Lytham's leg in my lap, working to scrub the last of the dirt and blood from between his toes."Did you get the valerian?" she asked.I pulled the few roots I had managed to snatch from the wraps of my breechcloth and handed them to her."I'll have to dry these for Edam tonight," she mumbled, taking out the last of her own stash of roots and breaking them apart. She put the little pieces to Lytham's lips. "Chew on these, they will help the pain."I watched her work, absently rubbing his scraped up foot. The whole of him was hard and lean, like someone who had never had a restful day in his life. His hands and feet had rough calluses, as if he were constantly on the move. For all I knew, he probably had been.Lytham lay quietly as she did her work, only his eyes betraying his discomfort as he stared up at the ceiling. I watched his face and waited for the root to make him relax. She had given it to him for good reason- to fix his torn wings it would take some jostling about that he would not be able to withstand, no matter how tough he looked. As she worked, I rummaged around among her homespun glass jars for the salve she often massaged into my skin when I was sore from a day's work. Finding it, I worked the lotion into his foot, one, then the other, if only to keep my hands busy and my nerves calm. I did not like the look on my mother's face as she tended to more important things.Slowly I worked my massage up his leg until I could go no further without getting in Atlin's way. I then moved to his side and lifted his limp hand. Lytham lolled his head towards me on the pallet and looked up at me with lazy, drugged eyes. I worked the flesh of his rough palm, and our eyes met again when I moved to his fingers. He said nothing.After a while, when his eyes had finally closed into an induced sleep, I lowered his hand that was clasped in mine and whispered, "He's going to be all right, isn't he?"Atlin looked up at me through the fall of her flower-blue hair. The corners of her mouth twisted ever so slightly in a wry smile. "If he makes it through the night," she said, "he'll make it through anything."I stayed up all night with him. With every rise and fall of his chest I sighed in relief and waited for him to draw another breath. In the background I could hear the muted sounds of the night around us, the chirp of crickets and the call of night birds. The occasional croak of a frog loud enough to be audible from the distance of our pond. By the flickering candlelight I looked at Lytham's features, so sharply cast in shadow. He had to be as young as I, I decided, or perhaps only a few years older. The thick mane of his hair, clean and dry now, fell in waves across the reed stuffed pallet he lay on, around his tilted head. I reached out and brushed a few strands of it from his temple, feeling the texture between my fingers and deciding it was quite different from my own. A mane indeed, as thick as a musket's in winter. Mine was much finer, like my mother's.I drew my hand back. The touch to his hair was a gesture a mother performed to her babies, or a lover to her beloved. What had possessed me to touch him so? Granted, I'd hand my hands all over him today but that was on the grounds of his injuries. But now, here, alone in the midst of the night in a moment for lovers only, my intimate touch had no business and it left me confused. Or perhaps I was just very tired.I laid down next to Lytham and curled my arms to my chest, biting my thumbnail in deep thought, wondering if I should share this confusion with my mother. Beside me, Lytham shifted in sleep and cast his arm a little closer to me but it did not touch.No, I decided. I was concerned for him and nothing else. He'd saved my life and I owed it to him to carry the same concern, now that he was the one in danger.Lytham slept for two days as his body healed, waking only when Atlin pressed him to eat something or have a sip of water from one of the funneled sheets of leaves she kept racked in her preparing room. It was one of my duties to fill them every morning.I went about my work, gathering supplies for my mother, fixing the odd thing that needed to be fixed, helping our neighbors with building the newest addition to their hollowed out nesting hole. I visited my brother in my spare time and spent the night in the sick room with him, trying my best to stay away from my own nook where Lytham lay dozing. I thought it was best to not become too familiar with him after that first night.However, when my mother happily announced on the third day that he was awake and aware, my curiosity would not be put off any longer. I gathered my bundles of reeds from which I'd been weaving baskets and fluttered up into my room to continue my work there.In shock I saw that Atlin had rolled up the pallet and moved Lytham to my bed of feathers and reeds where he presently lay comfortably. He smiled at me when I came in, shifting to try and sit up a little more."Hello," I said stiffly, feeling a little betrayed that she would put him in my bed, the one I'd cut and stuffed myself. Wasn't it enough that he had my room? It seemed she had never understand how much I coveted my own space and things.Lytham tilted his head a little, confused I suppose that he did not receive a warmer greeting from me. A little ashamed, I curbed my childish possessiveness and sat down cross-legged next to him."How do you feel?" I asked, unwinding my pack of reeds and beginning my weaving. He watched me curiously before settling back against my pillows."Sore," he answered, and then added with a little smile, "but my hands and feet feel remarkably well."I felt a little flush color my cheeks. "I'm shurprised you 'member that," I answered around the reed between my teeth."Mmm," he sighed. While my hands worked I studied the bandages around his torso and left thigh, the latter of which was revealed by a slip of the bed sheets which covered only his hips, like they'd been draped there as an afterthought. His wings, spread flat behind him looked surprisingly well and in good form, though the main veins were swollen and the membranes between them had been stretched and stitched. It would be a while before he could fly again. I wonder if he lamented that."Ayr-" he said after a moment, "that's your name, isn't it? I've heard Atlin call you from up here..."I just nodded, waiting for him to go on."I suppose it's my turn to thank you, now, for saving my life. I wouldn't have made it if I hadn't met you."My fingers worked deftly with hardly a skipped beat as we spoke. "It sounded as if you didn't want it that way," I answered, remembering how he had refused my help at first. I put down my weaving and looked him in the eye. "Why were you so bent on dying?"He lowered evergreen eyes as if feeling ashamed of the way he'd acted before. "Sorry," he said softly, "I didn't mean to seem ungrateful. It's just... it's hard for me to trust anyone.""Even your own kind?" I wondered what he had gone through to have so little faith in the help of others. True, tribes tended to be mistrustful of each other, but family groups were always supposed to be close-knit. Where was his family? Friends? A lover perhaps? He certainly couldn't be alone in the world."I've always been a bit of an outsider," he said after a moment, eerily negating my thoughts.My eyes wandered to the specks of red that freckled his shoulders and how they came together to spread in solid color over his back and the backs of his legs. Had he been ostracized for his appearance? Surely his own parents wouldn't have shunned him for it?Around that moment, Atlin came flitting in with some fruit pieces."You should eat these, they'll help you gain strength," she said, dropping a few in my lap as well. "Now that you're a little better, Ayr can help change your bandages so I can tend to my own patients."Lytham and I nodded together; neither of us was going to argue with her."Good!" She stroked my hair from where she stood over me. "And you'll stay here where he can keep an eye on you until you're well again. You don't mind, do you my son?"I shook my head, though in my mind I had plenty of roaming thoughts. She had pretty much banished me to spending much more time with him than I wished, fascinating as he was to me. Why was I so afraid of knowing him?"Isn't he a good lad?" she teased, ruffling my hair again. "You'll make a good healer some day when I'm gone. Now eat those up, and later tonight I'll fix something good to celebrate your survival." With that, she was gone.Lytham raised his eyebrows. "Wow," he said. "I don't remember my mother ever being so nice."My cheeks had flushed again from her teasing. Did she really have to make such a show? I was nearly an adult! I glared at Lytham's easy smile and he made it disappear, though it never left his eyes. We sat in uneasy silence for a few more moments."I suppose you need your sleep," I said suddenly. I hefted my baskets and made to leave.His hand was warm on my arm. "Wait."I did so, but didn't meet his eyes."I'll leave," he said suddenly. "I've taken care of myself well enough before-""You'll do nothing of the sort," I said quickly. My mother would flay me alive if he left in his condition. "You can't even fly, why would you want to go?"He dropped his eyes and his voice. "I thought you'd rather it that way.""Why?"But he didn't answer. I found it difficult to read his face, but something told me he was far more used to being unwanted than the opposite. His loner status once again piqued my curiosity. Could it really be that he'd been refused by his family or tribe? Banished?I sat down again beside him. Lytham raised his eyebrows, surprised perhaps that I'd changed my demeanor so."What happened?" I asked suddenly. "Where did you come from?""North," he said.North. To the north lay the snowy slopes of the mountain we called the Sintra- the dome. Tribes of my kind did live there; they were called nive-pari. Instead of green or blue, or even red, they were colored like the snow or some varying form of it. It was said even a few eusi-pari, the black-backed ones, lived there within the rocky ranges. All my knowledge of them came from what my mother had known, which wasn't much. Their beliefs were steeped in mystery, those icy ones, and they didn't care for outsiders. If Lytham really was born of the northern tribes, then he would have stood out even more than he did here, as much as blood on new snow."What a distance you've come," I said, hoping he would elaborate more, but it appeared he didn't care to speak of his past at all. He simply nodded and looked about as if this wasn't the same room he'd been lounging in for days. I took his silence as a cue and gathered my things once more to go."Ayr."I hefted the basket of reeds on my hip. "Get some rest. You won't heal if you don't rest.""Ayr-""Yes?"He looked cowed. I softened my face."Thank you for your kindness, for sharing your home with me," he said. "Not many would have." His green eyes implored me to understand why he couldn't share more.

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A warm belly alt ch1 rewrite (wip idek)

ALTERNATE VERSION

TAKE 1

“Mama, have you seen my... EW,”  He groaned, covering his eyes - he caught his parents kissing. He could hear them laughing at his reaction, his mother speaking up after a moment. “Check the treehouse, dear.” (aka instead of the fight, he catches his parents kissing idk

OR

It wasn’t yet twilight when a few fireworks could be heard from the distance, most likely being set off by the impatient few who couldn’t wait until darkness. Excited and inspired by these premature happenings, Bucky tried sneaking some sparklers from the basket of child-friendly fireworks only to be immediately shut down by his mother.

“Not yet, honey, it’s still too early,” she said while placing the basket somewhere out of reach.

Bucky retreated his arms, deflating.

The 8 year old was bored and alone because his friends hadn’t arrived. He had his fill of swimming in the lake, and he didn’t feel like eating, having already enjoyed a hot dog and some pie from the picnic not too long ago.

Plopping himself down on a wool blanket close to his parents, the young boy looked around at the busy movements of the familiar faces surrounding him. It was something of a tradition that developed over the years for Fourth of July for him and his parents (along with a few other close families) to gather for the holidays and events. They were a tight-knit group, almost like a pack if one had to name it, which wasn’t considering most family units in the city often formed little niches among themselves.

This year, the troop chose Lake Placid in upstate New York for the festivities. They all put in to share a cabin, for which Bucky loved because it meant him, Wanda, and Pietro could spend the night curling into one another and keeping each other warm, enveloped in his best friends’ familiar scents. Bucky occasionally wondered why the families couldn’t just buy a big house to live together so all of his nights could be like that, probably something about high living cost in the city. Still.

Bucky leaned back and took to looking at the cloud formations in the sky, wiggling his nose as he caught the wafting scents in the air of said company he was missing. He jumped back to his feet instantly, features teetering between relief and exasperation.

“You guys, finally! I thought you were never gonna come.”

“Hey Bucky!” Wanda beamed, leaning in to affectionately nuzzle his cheek.

“Papa made us late because of work but we’re here now!” Pietro piped up from behind his twin where he was rummaging through her mini-knapsack.

“We got here early. I’ve been so bored, you don’t even know…Uh. Watcha got there?” Bucky leaned to his side to trying to catch a glimpse of what his friend was looking for. It didn’t take long for him to see, the platinum haired boy pulling out some nerf guns and assorted head-wear.

“Don’t worry Bucky, we know how helpless you are without us,” Pietro grinned with a hint of mischief, handing Bucky a sniper-rifle shaped toy gun, a pirate hat and an eye-patch.

Bucky was way too distracted by what he was given to be properly offended, immediately putting the hat and patch on. He threw his arms around Pietro’s neck and squeezed in thanks, leaving the both of them to get ready while he went to his mother for permission.

“Mama, can I play with Wanda and Pietro in the trees nearby?”

“Yes but don’t go wandering off too far, we’re gonna get started soon!”

Bucky saw Wanda’s astronaut helmet peak from behind a tree stump about ten feet away from him. He tiptoed behind the trees that stood between them, trying to get a good angle from which to shoot at her. He was lifting his toy gun up and looking through the scope with his one uncovered eye. Aiming, he stepped closer which was a mistake because his foot landing on a branch. It crackled beneath his foot, and not a moment later Pietro (donning a Viking Helmet) was firing his bazooka toy at him.

“Got you!” The other boy exclaimed cheerily, his sister catching up beside him and shooting as well.

“Hey no fair!” Bucky squaked, lifting an arm to block himself as he tried to dodge and run from the darts. The children’s laughter filled the air, two chasing one. Bucky kept running until he couldn’t feel the darts hitting his body. He couldn’t be too careful as he set off in a full run, figuring going further into the clearing of trees wouldn’t hurt. Doubling over to catch his breath when he finally came to a stop, Bucky looked back and shouted.

“Hah! I outran you guys.” There was a bit of an echo in the air, which was the only response he got. Frowning, he called out again. “Hey, you guys can come out now!” Still no answer. He couldn’t have ran off too far, but then again he was too caught up in his adrenaline to really notice. “Guys…” Bucky’s voice quivered a little. It had gotten darker now.

[evis-cerate]

Warm belly ch 2 wip why is this so hard

Alternate Story Title: A Place for His Head (and Mine)

TAKE 1

Steve's changing out the front wheel of his bicycle when the call comes in. His screen announces "Mrs. Barnes" above a set of numbers - he saved it as a precaution, he told himself. He was gonna call and check in on Bucky after the incident but couldn't work up a way of going about it without feeling...weird? Steve couldn't place his finger on the "why" exactly but, well, now was a good an opportunity as ever.

"Hello?"

"Oh hi Steve! I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time, this is Winnie Barnes. Bucky's mother?"

"Hi Mrs. Barnes! Is...everything alright?" Steve kicked himself mentally - way to assume, could have been that maybe she just wanted to say thanks. Yet, he wasn't too far off for asking, all things considered.

On the other side of the line, Winnie laughed a little sadly. It kind of made Steve squirm a bit. "No. It's actually noy

though I wish I could say otherwise. Bucky..." She stops for a moment, weighing her words with a sigh. "He hasn't been himself, we're a little worried and thought maybe he could use some company to try to get him to open up a bit. He's probably still spooked from everything and, well, you seemed to have taken care of him pretty well! He usually doesn't take food from strangers and- I'm rambling, I'm sorry."

"No! No it's okay, Mrs. Barnes, really. I'm really sorry about the little guy and would be happy to help. I can swing by!"

"Great! Would now be too soon?" There was a bit of desperation in her voice that should probably be a bit suspicious but Steve shrugs it off.

"Uh, well I'm almost

TAKE 2

Steve stares at his phone for a minute as it rings, a random combination of numbers appearing on it that he doesn't recognize right away. He lets it ring a few more times, debating on whether to wait for the caller to leave a voicemail or to just pick it up. Ultimately he does answer but it's a second too late. It doesn't take too long before the notification for a new voicemail appears and he picks it up to listen. He settles on his bed, a familiar voice filling his ear.

"Hello Steve, I don't know if you remember me but I'm Winifred, little Bucky's mother. I feel like I haven't thanked you enough for taking care of our boy that night, you must think I'm a terrible mother! But, well, his father and I are trying to do better by him. Or, well, we would but we've come across a few problems. Bucky... He's not speaking to us, to anyone and he hasn't been eating all too well. It's been five days. I'm not sure what to do, I'm kind of at my wits end and I hope this isn't too much to ask but would it be alright if you came by to join us for dinner?"

Steve furrowed his brows, processing the message while the last of it played out with Winifred leaving her address. His parents had come up from the city after the party, usually they stayed upstate a few weeks before heading back.

TAKE 3

Steve balanced himself from one foot to another after ringing the doorbell. He received the call right after showering which was timely considering the urgency of the matter.

[evis-cerate]

highschool stucky wip

Highschool!AU where Steve is popular and Bucky is an awkward mess who spends his days trying really hard not to get noticed. Steve notices him anyway.

"Hey, Bucky?"

"Yea, what's. Up." His words slowed, coming to a full stop after turning from his locker to see who had addressed him. It was Steve. Steve as in the petite prince from Spanish class. Steve, the junior who hung out in the E-H lockers with all the popular guys and girls who ate tempeh burgers and baked sweet potato fries Which, for all intents and purposes, Bucky ate too but it seemed extra pretentious when that side of the hall of lockers got together to eat. Steve, who had a following for his bullet journaling and food photography, and somehow achieved the natural makeup look without using any makeup at all. That Steve.

"Uhm. If you're not busy at lunch, you wanna meet up in the library? I wanted to ask you something. About Mrs. Chavez' assignment I mean."

Had Bucky ever since him this up close before? How could he miss the long, pretty lashes fanning little eye kisses at everyone? Did pink dust his cheeks that easily? Man, did the color look stellar against his milky complexion. Like those mixed hues of purple and red against white clouds at twilight. And those eyes, they were like some oceanic sapphire or some other poetic shit like that. Bucky could really tell where the dirty blonde of his roots naturally turned lighter towards the tips and-

"...Bucky?"

"Yea, yes I am."

"Yes, you are busy or?" Steve asked with a slight frown, a little disappointment seeping through his otherwise up-beat tone.

"What? No! I mean no I'm not busy, I could meet you, yea. Totally. Of course. For you." Smooth.

"What the hell was Steve fucking Rogers doing on this side of the lockers?"

Idk its probably some cheap joke

"You better figure that out quick, lunch is after Anatomy & Phys. which staaarts now."

----

"Are you interested in boys or would consider being interested in boys?"

"Uhhh." Very coherent.

"And if you were, would you be interested in hanging out with me some time?"

"I. Er." Incredibly outspoken.

Bucky was most certainly not losing his cool, no sir. It was just a little hard functioning off of his very last brain cell, that's all.

Steve gave an airy chuckle, a gentle smile tugging on the ends of his lips as his eyes turned downcast to scribble something on a leaf-designed post it.

"Once you get past relearning your vowels and consonants, you should text me." Steve's smile never faded, sticking the post it over Bucky's copy of ¡Avancemos!

---

"I don't know. It wasn't some kind of epiphany or risque venture. I noticed you, thought you were easy on the eyes and I wanted in." Steve bit into his seitan stir fry. It was Friday afternoon and Steve wanted to meet up for lunch at the school's rooftop because Bucky

"In?"

"Yea. In. As in, I maybe want to kiss this brooding guy and see if I can get that big crinkly-eyed laugh out from him myself one day."

"Huh." Bucky is missing out on the light blush spreading on Steve's cheeks because he's too busy trying to wrap his head around this entire scenario

"Is it really so hard to believe someone could be into you?"

"I'm in the A-E lockers, you're in the-"

"Is THAT what this is about? The highschool food chain, you walnut?"

Bucky frowned. "I'm not a walnut."

"You so are. I feel like you're more of the highschool cliche than the people I hang with. That stuff doesn't matter to me, dummy."

"You know, you're kinda mean with the name-calling and -. Wait. Kiss?"

Steve gives a lopsided smile, scrunching his nose a little. "Yea. Kiss. You know, the thing where two people suck face and swap saliva and-."

"Oh god you can stop there." Bucky groaned and leaned back against the cement wall, suddenly finding the healing scab on his fingers very interesting.

"Hey Bucky?" Steve asked gently after a brief silence, tone a little unsure.

"Yea, what's u-" Bucky couldn't finish his usual auto-answer to being addressed. Which, really, was a good thing this time because it meant Steve meeting him at the half-turn of his head towards him. It meant feeling the soft press of his lips to his own chapped ones and, okay maybe no makeup wasn't totally true because he could definitely taste the coconut shea butter flavored chapstick on Steve's lips.

Kissing Steve was great and not at all gross like he described it, especially when his petite form pushed his hands away to make space for himself on Bucky's lap. Bucky has never been straddled in his life (not like this, anyway) but he found he very much liked the feeling of being encased like that. He also found that he liked the way Steve's soft, moisturized hands cupped his jaw and neck, liked the little deep hums that let him know he was liking it just as much as Bucky did. And, god, did kissing always feel this amazing? He really was missing out.

"Was that-. Is that...? Bucky, am I your first kiss?" Steve said with a bit of wonder in his voice. He sat back, a little winded from focusing on kissing rather than breathing for the duration of it.

Bucky pressed his lips and looked down the side, embarrassed.

"Wow."

"Look, if you're gonna make fun of-"

"Is it weird that I want to be your first for more things? Other things?" Steve breathed his words hotly against Bucky's neck between each heated kiss and nip, hips pushing down against Bucky who groaned in response.

Steve cups Buckys head in his hands, pressing him close to his chest. Bucky takes advantage of the unbuttoned shirt to liberally kiss and suck messily at the bare flesh beneath it, palms splaying over Steve's slender back and cradling him against himself while they both wildly rubbed against each other. Steve screwed his eyes closed, panting steadily, head resting against Bucky's. His lips dragged absent over Bucky's bed forehead, too absorbed in the mounting pleasure. He felt his orgasm creeping, lifting his head to rest his chin on top of Bucky's hair.

"Close." Bucky breathed lowly against the wet patch of worried skin he was busying at.

"Uh huh." Steve agreed, shivering, breath stuttering just as his hips buckled unevenly, spasming as he reached his climax. He was still gasping when Bucky found his own release, a drawn out low moan muted by Steve's chest.

Steve lazily kissed at Bucky's open mouth.

"That was the hottest thing I've ever done."

"Kind of makes you a bit of a greedy ho, yea."

"Fuuuuuck."

c'mon let's get Back to class

Steve somehow keeps an extra closet full of uniform and gets scotch free while Bucky gets detention for wearing gym sweat for the rest of the day. Whatever.

--

---

"What? You said you wanted to be my first for other things. "

"Yea, I was thinking more along the lines of the romantic and sexual variety, not. This." Steve looked incredulously at the back gate of a lavish looking home.

"This IS romantic, textbook quality even. It can get sexual in pools too, just watch every gritty early 2000s teen movie."

"God you really ARE a cliche."

"No, I'm an anarchist. These prick probably have plenty of other houses to spare, big deal, we're breaking in for a midnight swim."

And so they do.

Steve waits until after there's a Samoyed sprinting out to bark at them, nearly scaring Bucky half to death, before telling him it was his house and pool they were breaking into.

[evis-cerate]

faerie au (w.i.p.)

CHAPTER 1 - Essence Shifting

Bucky’s mother warned him about eating too many peaches from the garden, but he really, really couldn’t help himself. The fruit was his absolute favorite, and the harvest was at its peak in the middle of the sweltering summer season. And because it was his favorite, he tended to go overboard.

For faeries of his size, usually a half or one whole peach would normally suffice ones appetit. Bucky, having the obsession he had was already plowing through his third peach, sitting blissfully atop a tree branch. The seams of his web-silk garments were bursting with how his stomach expanded, and with a groan he keeled over, having to take slow labored breaths since he couldn't take anymore.

His predicament began when he decided to go deeper into the grove of trees, convinced that the sweeter picks were, naturally, closer to the small pond that those particular trees stood beside.

As a rule, his kind were only allowed to obtain fruits from the outskirts of the orchard that faced their home in the forest; the rest were too close to the humans and were decreed forbidden to all faeries alike. Which was a shame since those same trees became bare once the Morning Light Festival approached, leaving only the overly ripe and wrinkled peaches - Bucky would have none of that.

So that's how he found himself, far away from home out in the open and-

" Oh no, not again!" Bucky exclaimed in a panic, looking at his arms with wide eyes as he took in the changes. His normally tanned skinned was transitioning to one that was far more pale with freckles dusting his skin colored different hues of pinks and reds and gold - much like the fruit he'd been indulging in. The color had spread to the expanse of his body, his normally brown hair also turning to lighter and sort of pink-gold. His eyes made the same change, he noted when staring into a droplet of water nearby.

Essence Shifting was dangerous. The bright glittering colors made him stand out, as opposed to his natural colors that helped him blend with the natural world around him - Bucky was vulnerable, he knew, and he needed to get back to his kind immediately to reverse the effect before it became permanent. Spreading his translucent wings would do more harm than good despite being quite a speedy flyer, and running sounded much too painful. Plus, neither would be much help him in taking one of the delectable peaches back home, so there was that.

Kicking the pits of the peaches he had devoured moments ago off the tree, Bucky began wrapping one of the loose peaches into a home-made net. He stood about 7 inches tall which made him large enough and strong enough to pull the fruit along the bridged tree passages made by the faerie ancients of long ago.

Bucky was just about hop of the branch he stood on, peach secured, when a shadow overcast him behind him loomed something big, larger than anything he'd ever seen in his life but definitely heard to stay away from: a human. (blagh i need to change this to make it more impactful and informative, i know kfdjgkfg. idk if the peach obsession is childish, i might make it more epic sounding by saying he is a more serious faerie who was searching for peaches to share with the village kids or something lmao idk still workshopping that)

CHAPTER TWO - A Lesson in Leaves and Leavin’

When Steve was younger, his mother, Sarah, told him that it was important to talk to all the plants and flowers in their garden as if they were humans or even pets. He remembered her telling him that they, too, had feelings and were always listening attentively to the happenings of the world and people around them.

“You have to be nice to them, sweetheart, and honest too or else they’ll grow sad and wither. They have feelings too, you see.” Sarah told him one spring evening, his tiny hand clutching her palm as they walked in their backyard. To him, their garden seemed like it had popped out of a fairy-tale book - there were canopies of vines and flowers, fruit trees standing strong and tall with bushes and so many very other kinds of foliage filling the spaces between.

“They don’t talk, though, they don’t have faces, how do you know, mama?” Steve leaned in very closely to the baby breaths that were underneath his bedroom window. Apart from the wind swaying them, there was no self-initiated movement from them as far as he could tell.

“The garden faeries told me.”

Steve stood up, eyes furrowing in confusion. “Ma, faeries aren’t real!”

“Oh but they are.” She picked him up. At the tender age of five, Steve was a big boy, thank you very much, but he couldn’t say no to being carried around. He managed to pull little sprigs of baby breath, neatly putting them in his mother’s braid just like he knew she liked.

[evis-cerate]

youth, eternal (w.i.p.)

On this side of the rut

I'm thinking like what

I'm thinking it's worth the fight

Soon to be out of sight

Moving it out this time

Going with what I always longed for

Tame impala, New Person Same Mistakes

“Shut up, he’ll be here.” “C’mon Rogers, c’mon.” Bucky muttered. From the distance, there was a crashing noise. “Fucking drive, drive!”

“Oh my god. Oh my GOD, STEVE.”

“Get back here, you little turd, don’t think I won’t tell your ma about this!”

Sam started the engine floored it, Bucky shoving his door open and holding it so Steve could jump in.

“Hey, no fucking around back there.”

Bucky’s clothes were practically being torn off, laugh being eaten by Steve’s hungry kisses while Steve responded easily to Sam with a lifted hand displaying his bony middle finger.

It was a kiss and another kiss, tongue pushing past with intent to touch the tip of his, smile bursting into a laugh as he curled the tiny pill into his tongue and swallowed it.

--

Steve put on Bucky’s headphones, bobbing his head while picking out a song that best matched his high. Bucky stared in the middle of preparing himself a spliff, so much bursting inside him that he became paralyzed for a few seconds as he watched Steve stick his head out the car window singing his head off not caring how off-tune he was.

Friendship, Love, Infatuation, Brotherhood. It was all packaged neatly in the depths of his heart for this kid and there was no giving it up.

-- “Hey Nat, you seen Bucky?”

“I think he headed out with Steve.” Sam looks towards the main entrance, one of the double doors left ajar where he could see two familiar sets of unruly hair. Bucky was giving Steve that unfocused look again, one side of his mouth curling up faintly as Steve went on about something important, probably, just before shutting him up with a kiss.

“It’s like they’ve got this big secret at all times that we’re not in on. Like they’re here but on a different plain or something, can’t put my finger on it.” “They’ve been like that since they were kids, I gave up trying to figure them out a long time ago.”

Sam figured he should close the door and head up with Nat.

--

“You need to listen.” Steve broke the kiss and pushed him back gently, shaking his head. “I can listen just fine when I’m kissing you, probably better, even.” Bucky’s held one of Steve’s that was already on him, diving back in to continue. “Bucky, that doesn’t make any sense.” Steve lets out a chuckle but presses back easily against Bucky’s ever interrupting mouth. Making out in the freezing cold on a stoop, shivering because neither of them ever wore enough layers but it didn’t matter. The people passing by with subtle judgemental glances didn’t matter. That is, until one of them decided to be vocal about it. “Fucking fags.” “The fuck did you say?”

The guy was much taller, much heftier than either of them combined but it still didn’t stop Bucky from sizing him up, wasting no time to stand his ground with his fist balled at his side. “Aw,” the guy laughed to his friends, looking back before spitefully addressing them again. “Is the little flowery fag going to---”

A little blurred of blonde sped past Bucky before he could finish landing his fist on the guys cheek, Steve launching himself and flinging his scrawny arms putting everything into it. He was easily pushed to the ground, though, which of course set Bucky off even more into a battling frenzy, holding his own despite the difference in size.

The guy was surprised at Bucky’s determination but didn’t hold back, getting a few licks in before Bucky ducked one particular blow, instead putting all his force into headbutting the stranger. His eyes widened when he heard it, the muted crunch of bones breaking against his skin.

“Fuck!” The guy groaned, hands flying to his face and Bucky took that chance to grab Steve’s wrist and run. They didn’t look back nor stop running, no direction in mind, just pure adrenaline. Steve started laughing. At first from bewilderment but he was in a complete fit of laughter, crouching unable to keep up which only made Bucky laugh.

--

It was endless youth, it was an eternal sky of exploding stars erupting in their very beings, and it was theirs.

[evis-cerate]

RYAN (HEAD-BUTT), 1999 “That’s not my blood. I was making out with my main squeeze on a stoop in the East Village and some macho jock dickhead walked by and called us fags. I don’t think he expected me to get up in his face. We scrapped a bit and then I head-butted him and could feel his nose break on my forehead. We ran for blocks, laughing at the top of our lungs, and then jumped into bed, where my boyfriend took this picture of me.”

[evis-cerate]

Past-Times Pass in Time...Or Not (w.i.p.)

^ working title Steve is bored. Bucky is desperate. They figure it out somehow. 

AKA Steve is a CDO who has everything except someone to call his own, and Bucky is a college student who will do anything to pay for his last year. Well, almost anything. Mostly. notes: bucky is a cat hybrid, first time sugar baby jitters, inexperienced as heck, etc. note for notlucy: you kept making Steve call Bucky all these sweet things in P.I. and described Bucky as a cat a lot, plus that underlying concern of bucky being used and idealized... it gave me ideas, man. 

ad posting: in need of someone to turn to for immediate physical and emotional comfort with the mutual understanding that there will be no feelings involved (it’s supposed to benefit us by both the release of inner frustration and desires away from the stresses of work and life!)  we will share affections in their purest forms: cuddles, kisses (even on the lips!), spoiling each other with little surprises. basically all things loving and fluffy but no commitment or attachment! playing pretend house or something. temporary is fine. compensation is OK, willing to assist.

Steve’s mouse hovered over the ad, contemplating for what seemed like the fifth time that week, the ad still a draft. Sighs. 

--

“A pet? Natasha, isn’t that a little low?”

“You need the extra cash, right? And it isn’t a crime to be a pet, Bucky. Not anymore, at least…”

“Maybe not, but fetishizing is pretty shitty.”

“True but it’s got its pros. Plus, there’s all these strict rules set in place, there’s screenings to make sure there’s no diseases or drugs or abuse involved. Completely safe.”

--

“Look, I’m not a. A prostitute or anything. And uhm I’m not completely healthy, pretty sure my liver is shit from all the smoking and drinking so if you...yea.”

Steve’s brows furrowed before it dawned on him. He takes in a deep breath slowly, rubbing his the side of nose, eyes closed as he decides between scoffing or seething visibly. Being accused of soliciting illegal services and organ harvesting was not how he expected his Sunday afternoon to turn out. “I think...there’s a been a misunderstanding.”

--

There was a soft, steady rumble erupting from his chest and, whoa, where did that come from?

“Is that--. Are you purring?” Bucky stuffs his face into Steve’s chest, voice muffled. “Shut up.”

--

“Can I talk about my day? I’m going to talk about my day.”

Steve would cut in and say no, that’s not how this works, but the kid is already going off about exams and other complaints about Menial Life Things. I mean, he could but it’s cute, how Bucky’s tail flicked in annoyance matching the intonation of his voice when he spoke of something that particularly irked him. So he indulged him this once. Maybe a few other times, too. And the ones after... And yea, he was screwed.

--

“I wasn’t looking to fall in love.” “No, just looking for a pasttime right?” And yea that wasn’t fair, considering Bucky signed up for money in the first place but fuck Steve Rogers, thank you very much.

“You know what, yes, yes I was. It would have been easier if it was but it isn’t and I’m glad it isn’t, Bucky, will you please get that through your head? I wasn’t going to just kick you to the curb once I realized what you were becoming to me, I’m not like that.” Not anymore, he thought. Stupid Bucky, why couldn’t he see? It’s his fault. Most pets had training, had understood what this contract meant, were prepared and usually didn’t get so attached, didn’t go on talking about their personal lives but Bucky was just so naive and clueless and endearing and stubborn and everything that made Steve weak and vulnerable and he hated it. No, loved it would be more accurate, mostly, because wasn’t that what he wanted? Companionship? Someone devoted to just him and whom he could devote his entire self right back? He could hear Peggy’s voice in his head replaying, be careful what you wish for, darling, that sounds an awful lot like something you’ve made a point to avoid. Damn that Carter and her infinite supply of perceptiveness and wisdom and borderline infallibility. She wasn’t wrong, which brought on his next realization.

He was the idiot. Not Bucky. And he was losing him. Fast.

--

“What did you expect? They’re human too, Steve, by a large percentage. They are not A.I.” No, that would be a different problem altogether and Steve had no intention of entertaining that thought, nope. Though Steve felt like he would rather face the shitfest of Singularity rather than this heartbreak.

Steve groaned into his palms. “When did you know?” She began carefully.

Steve, ever the grown ass adult falling back to pre-adolescent habits, played with his cuffs, eyes downcast and unfocused as his mind was taken back, words verbalizing his journey.

“I didn’t know, not really.” It might have started when Bucky let his walls down. No, that wasn’t right. Steve knew it was when Bucky first walked into the room, looking nervous but determined. He never backed down despite being so new to it all. Even with their fight, Bucky didn’t back down. Resilience. “I have to go.” Steve states without explanation, chair scraping just before he sets off. “There he goes...” --- “Leave it to you to fall for the first sugar daddy you landed a job with, you should come with a warning label, you yutz.” There was no bite in her words, Natasha’s attempt at scolding was more so to lighten the mood as she held a quivering Bucky in her arms, all six feet and 170 lbs of him. She was half his size but her ams were the warmest and most comforting. And it worked, sort of, when his strangled laugh came out like the first fizzle of a firework only to set off a fury of sobs.

[evis-cerate]

[evis-cerate]

deify (w.i.p.)

TJ Hammond / Jack Benjamin 

00.

10 years ago

“Cocaine is one hell of a drug, David. You sure you aren’t hallucinating?” “Cut the crap, Jack, you know I don’t mess with your hard drugs. What the hell is this? You have a twin brother or something?”

Jack and TJ laugh, holding each other when one doubles over. It was fun. It was really, really,  good and fun.

I.

Present “What’s all this?” Jack gestures to the scattered pages all over the sofa and table and floor, some are music sheets and drawings and other writings.

“I’m allowing myself to fall apart a bit.” TJ’s voice is barely steady, quiet, and he doesn’t look at him, he’s looking up at the ceiling from where he’s slouched on one of the couches. His eyes are red and bleary, highlighted by the dark puffy circles underneath them.

Jack starts to tidy up, ultimately plucking the half finished blunt from TJ’s lips before lifting him and carrying him to bed. It’s his tears that are moistening the collar of his shirt when TJ won’t let go. Jack sighs, long fingers threading soothingly through TJ’s hair as he mumbles sweet, reassuring nothings and kisses away the remaining tears.

II.

10 years ago It happens when they’re still teenagers, each thinks they’re looking at some misplaced mirror except it isn’t. There is no mirror, and if it is, it has got to be some tricked up one because the outfits of their reflections are completely different. In movies, there are montages of strangers looking at each other and copying the exact movements the other makes and it’s all confusing and hilarious. And, well, TJ and Jack are definitely not so graceful, one flapping his arms like a fledgling taking it’s first flight while the other simply crosses his arms, brows knitted.

“God, I must be tripping hard.” TJ runs a hand all over his face, the other hand coming up to pat both cheeks. In the distance, he can hear his father delivering one of his most prized political jokes which, as it usually did, was followed by forced laughs that all somehow sounded exactly the same coming from every crusty old man. Boy, would he love to see his father’s face upon seeing his son’s doppleganger. Or wait, nope no this is his thing, TJ decides, reaching out to grip the other boy by his elbow who triapses alongside.

“Oh, we are so embracing this. We could reenact-!!.” “If you say The Parent Trap, I’m leaving right now.”

III.

9 years ago “Americans.” The King spits out the word in complete distaste, as though regretting ever saying it. “Far worse than our friends, the Goliath herders. I’m glad we never have to come back here.” “What…?” Jack’s head whips back, eyes pleading, searching for TJ in the crowd but it’s too late. IV. 1 year ago

“At least you can be open about which part of the spectrum you wanna fuck.” “I don’t know, man. Love fucks you up, especially when it’s dangled in front of you right after you’ve tasted it, knowing you can never actually have it.”

“You’re saying I’m lucky because I’m still closeted? What the fuck, TJ.” “No, you idiot, I’m just. I’m saying you didn’t almost kill yourself two or three times because even when people knew who you were and supposedly supported you for it, they actually didn’t. And you weren’t allowed to even fully be it.” “Whatever, I’m toking up, are you in or not because I can’t pay this on my own.”

IV. Present

“Jack…?”

They really are so dumb, the both of them. They could have done it long ago if it wasn’t for the unspoken rule they’d established along the way. TJ has done more fucked up things, really, has been more fucked up things but he respected Jack. Loved him, even. In a filial kind of way, in a” I will never hurt you because in some sick way you’re the me I want to nurture and protect” kind of way.

So when Jack lifts his eyes from a tactics of war book he’d been reading, and when TJ is plucking it from his hands to discard it, he makes sure to tell him so up-close, lips tracing the words against Jack’s. Jack’s bewildered eyes stay wide just as TJ makes space for himself on his lap, cradling Jack’s face. It’s those same bewildered eyes from ten years ago.

“Is this too weird?” TJ whispers, forehead resting against Jack’s, eyes closed, brain whirring.

And Jack just nods, eyes open but not really seeing.

“Should I stop?” Another nod.

“Do you like it?” He’s on his shoulder, eyes flitting across the uncanny features.

Up and down again, slowly.

“It’s going to be good, so so good, I promise.” TJ utters breathily just as he lifts he head to search for Jack’s lips again, hand reaching in back pocket to pull out. A cherub design on the tab, placing it on his own tongue as his thumb presses Jack’s chin down, tongue then darting to press flatly against Jack’s and then it’s Wonderland and freedom. Real freedom, raw and painful and blissful and perfect.

V.

Right after they fuck

“Why did you do that, Teej?” “Because I wanted you to feel it. At least once. Because you’re never, ever going to. You never would have if I didn’t just. Do it. Just once. It’s enough. It’ll be enough. Just … don’t try to kill yourself after you realize how madly in love with me.” He grins, but there’s no humor in it.

“Oh god.” Jack rolls his eyes and laughs. It’s morbid but it’s theirs to share.

[evis-cerate]

[evis-cerate]

Endeavor

Pitless sun; I drift into a Pitless sun.

It’s here, eternal numbing. I trace over the veins from my chest to my brain to my groin until the touch gets lost.

You can’t keep track of something you don’t feel.

Celestial waste. Existing without meaning because, hell, it’s infinite, that thing we call space. There’s enough realty to afford a little empty living. (Not a cry for help. Not a cry at all, it would be luxury to will tears, luxury to conjure any emotion that trickles them out like the bitter lemon that balances your sweet tea).

emo tags: #i hate myself so much so much so much

#why am i alive

#this world is so very ugly and cruel

#why do we do anything at all when we're so powerless

#i'm powerless

#and weak

#and insufferable