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drawlfoy · 4 years ago

Text

Wonders of Ohio P.10

masterlist request guidelines

pairing: draco x reader

request: no way

summary: american high school senior y/n y/l/n is in for a surprise when her british exchange student is a little...odd.

warnings (AYO please pay attention to these this time it’s not just swearing): swearing, underage drinking (no i do not condone this ig), beginning elements of smut but def not too explicit, i think you can consider it dubcon ?? if both people are drunk bc i don’t think you can actually consent if youre drunk (plz rest assured tho they are both 18 hehe)

a/n: “hey where did this come from” yeah so hey yall ive never written such an intense scene before but i’ve spent so much time w these characters that i decided i kind of had to. there’s no like...real sex in this and i don’t imagine that i’d describe it in this much detail if i ever decided to write it but um.. anyways. i hope y’all enjoy. thanks for suffering for this long ! i hope i’ve made it worth it

word count: 4k

music recs:

cloud 9 -- beach bunny

the adults are talking -- the strokes

anything from the strokes tbh

tags ! :) @gruffle1 @missmulti @cleopatera @hahaboop @accio-rogers @geeksareunique @eltanin-malfoy @war-sword @cams-lynn @itsivyberry @ayo-cowbelly @nerd-domland @yesnerdsblog @shizarianathania @evanstanfanatic @strawberriesonsummer @hariosborn @night-ving @straightzoinked @imintoodeeptostop @naiomimoonshard @jejegu @ophelia-enthusiast @alwaysbeanunknownfan @nearly-memories @litty-dumb @callieclearwater @malfoy-wife15 @charlenasaxen @belladaises @fiantomartell @writeandtranslate @erisdogwood @loveissupernatural @sycathorn-slush @big-galaxy-chaos

“Thank fucking god for the generator,” said Y/N as she flew around the kitchen, banging pots and pans together in her quest to make New Year’s Eve breakfast. Draco was sitting, unamused and completely silent, at the table. They’d been snowed in for a few days now with her parents nowhere near able to make it to the suburbs. For some reason, the entire city of Cincinnati had decided that the day before Christmas was the best time to schedule maintenance on literally every single one of their plows. “Can you imagine living here without heat? Or power? I’d die.”

Draco hummed in response. A glance over confirmed that he was deep in thought, a scarlet colored letter clutched firmly in his hand (hello, Nathaniel Hawthorne). Jealousy curdled inside of her as her thoughts turned to a dark place--it was Pansy, that Pansy Parkinson.

Knowing her intuition, she was probably his grandmother or something. Why else would she have written so many letters?

After she finished plating all of the pancakes, she allowed herself to sneak a peek at the envelope.

Astoria Greengrass

She frowned. Astoria? She’d never seen that name before.

“What is this?” asked Draco as he picked up his fork to poke at the pancake on his plate.

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “Have you never had a pancake before?”

“A pancake?” He gave his plate a stern look. “It looks...like a soggy pastry.”

“Fuck you, I made that,” responded Y/N. “Try it with butter and maple syrup. And then tell me it’s a soggy pastry.”

She took out her fork and knife, demonstrating very clearly what she meant as she spread butter over the top of her pancake. She’d learned that Draco was too proud to ask what she meant when she introduced him to American/muggle foods--the last time he tried to deduce something himself, he ended up pouring ketchup over the top of his hamburger bun instead of actually putting it on the patty.

A sense of satisfaction flowed into her as she saw him follow suit, spreading the warmed butter and dipping a cut piece in syrup. He raised it to his lips, taking a delicate bite.

“Americans really have this for breakfast?”

“Yeah…is something wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” He grimaced. “This isn’t breakfast. This is dessert food.”

“God, your life must be so sad back home,” said Y/N. “What does your family make you eat--just straight unbuttered bread under the guise of it being a real breakfast food? Do they let you dip it in your unsweetened, weak tea if you’re good?”

He scoffed. “You have no idea how I live back at home.”

“And, judging from this conversation, I don’t have any desire to know any more.”

They ate in silence for the next few minutes. Y/N smiled when she saw Draco reach for a second pancake.

“Two desserts? Draco, I know it’s New Year’s, but don’t get too off the hinges,” she teased.

He rolled his eyes, but she could tell her was fighting back a smile. “Speaking of which, how do you celebrate New Year’s?”

Draco looked up and met her eyes. “Sorry?”

“How do you celebrate tonight? With your family or your friends, or your...whatever.” The cold reality of the fact that she did not really know if he was dating someone back home set in.

“Oh, I don’t usually. It’s not really a big thing in the magical community,” he mused, unaware of her sudden panic.

“Well,” she said. “I always celebrate New Year’s with my friends. I didn’t tell you this sooner because I didn’t think that you were going to be here, but I’m kind of hosting a party here tonight. With anyone who can walk here.”

“Oh.” He took a sip of his tea. “Will it be like the Halloween party at Sylvia’s?”

“What do you mean?” She smiled. “Do you mean, will there be drinking?”

He shrugged in response, avoiding eye contact.

“There definitely can be,” she continued, her smile widening. “Last year we played this dumb drinking game over this card game--if you lost, you took a shot. It was fun. We could do that again.”

She settled down to eat, digging into two of the pancakes. They were really good--she wasn’t Gordon Ramsay by any means, but she did breakfast food pretty well. But at the mention of her friends, a realization hit her. “Oh. Draco?”

He raised an eyebrow and met her eyes.

“Um, can I tell you something?”

He dipped his head in recognition while Y/N cleared her throat.

“So, um, I forgot about this,” she began, “but while you were gone, I kind of had to scramble to figure out what to tell everyone about why we were avoiding each other before you left. And why you left so suddenly and why I didn’t know.”

He was still watching her in curious silence.

“So, I really didn’t want to slip up or say anything about...you.” Y/N paused to take a sip of her tea, deciding to not try to look at Draco again. “So I decided to tell Sylvia and Lizzy that I told you my feelings for you and you didn’t return them.”

A clang startled her enough to look up. Draco was staring, completely frozen. His fork had fallen into the syrup on his plate, handle and all.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I mean, oh, fuck. Um.” She smiled at him, hoping it was going to distract from her audible stumble. “Obviously, I made it all up. I mean, both sides! But what’s important is that they bought it, and now they’re probably going to give you a little shit for not liking me ‘back’. So I’m sorry about that.”

“Made it all up, huh?” His voice had a surprisingly teasing lilt.

“Yes, that is in fact what I said,” she responded, hoping that her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt hot.

“Is it really now?”

“Draco!”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll be back. I need a new fork.”

“Just wipe off the handle of the one you have now--Draco, why are you getting up? Stop!”

To her disappointment, none of her friends were able to show. Sylvia and Lizzy made a concerted effort to try and convince their family to let them brave the walk, but once another flurry started up outside, it was hopeless. Her face turned pink whenever she thought about the fact that she hadn’t even needed to tell Draco the thing that made her slip up in the first place.

Y/N, disappointed but not surprised, told Draco that she still wanted to celebrate, even if it was just with him. He’d snorted at this--asking her why she made it seem like such a burden--but once she produced a yellow glass bottle and a deck of cards and told him she bet that she was going to beat his sorry ass, he caved.

She started with a heavy lead, but once Draco learned the rules and strategies of the slightly convoluted Go Fish game, he proved to be a worthy match. They played until around 11:45 when the bottle was about 3/4 full and Y/N was feeling the pleasant warmth of being slightly intoxicated. Once she noticed the time, she threw her cards on the table.

“Let’s watch the ball drop,” Y/N said with no further explanation, even when Draco looked to her for one. She grabbed the bottle and his hand, pulling him up the stairs to her room. The remote control for her TV was a struggle to find--it was all the way tucked back in her nightstand drawer--but thankfully the channel was already set.

“You forgot the cups,” Draco said, staring down at the opened bottle held in his hand.

“You can get them if you want,” she managed.

“You should! You forgot them.”

“Too far,” she whined, flopping to lean back on her pillows while Draco followed suit. His hair smelled like peppermint. Without much more thought, she moved close enough that their shoulders were touching. He didn’t move away--instead, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a drink directly.

“Your New Year’s traditions are weird as fuck,” he murmured as he watched Savannah Guthrie on the screen. He didn’t have to speak very loud for her to hear him, and it seemed like he knew this.

“Oh, you haven’t even heard it all yet,” said Y/N. “We’ve got a tradition to kiss someone going into the New Year. New Year’s kiss, I guess. I’m sure you can imagine the kind of drama that creates.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You don’t have to be dating to kiss someone, sometimes people just...do it. As friends.” Y/N reached over to the bottle and took a swig herself, feeling the warmth trickle down her throat.

“Take it easy,” he tutted, pulling the bottle away from her before taking another drink himself.

“Hey! Says you!”

“Because I can actually hold my liquor well,” he teased, giving her a shove.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“You just kept getting worse and worse at whatever that game was,” he told her matter-of-factly.

“Give it here,” she said, reaching across his chest to where he was holding the bottle, out and above his head. She hoped he couldn’t tell how much this side of him filled her with glee. “That’s not fair!”

“Not fair, huh?” He raised an eyebrow and met her eyes as he held it up even further into the air. His voice was startlingly low. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Before she could muster up a response, the TV began playing the audio for the New Year’s Countdown.

10!

Y/N wasn’t sure if she was supposed to answer--or if he was just...flirting?

He managed to set the bottle on her nightstand without taking his eyes off of her.

The hand she had used to reach across him with was now pressed into his side of the bed, supporting her as she hovered over him.

Without moving any part of her body, she dared to glance at his parted lips.

Maybe telling him about the kiss tradition was a stupid idea.

His hand, warm and soft, reached up to brush a piece of hair away from her cheekbone.

His fingers lingered on the outline of her jaw.

He was kissing her before the cheers from the TV even had the chance to bounce around the room, both hands cupping her face and pulling her in so desperately that it took her breath away.

Her hands found his shoulders, then the back of his neck, and then, eventually his hair. It was just as soft as she imagined it to be. They started out innocently enough--closed mouth kisses and only their hands touching each other above the shoulders--but once she tugged on his hair (mostly by accident) something...shifted.

Suddenly he was on top of her, and suddenly her leg was wrapped around him as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss. It occurred to her that this was no longer just a New Year’s kiss. He tasted of lemon and sugar--and was notably better at what he was doing than any of the people she’d kissed before. Or maybe it was the alcohol clouding her judgement. Regardless, she liked whatever was going on. His hands had drifted from her face to her neck to her hair to her shoulder, gently tracing the outline of her bra strap. She brushed her hand down his chest, pulling gently at the collar on his shirt. Only when his leg pressed up into her and her breath hitched did she realize the weight of their situation.

The way he pulled away to hover over her signaled that he’d had the same revelation, his eyes wide as he stared down at her. “Um…”

“Yeah?” Dread crept into her despite the pleasant haze she was in.

He swallowed, hard. “I can’t believe I did that.”

Draco was on the other side of the bed in seconds, wringing his hands and keeping his eyes fixed on her floor. “Oh, my god, I can’t believe I did that. I’m sorry. I’m drunk and I’m not thinking straight. I’m so sorry.”

“Is something wrong?” She didn’t know if he wanted her to touch him, but she wanted so badly to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Did you not want...it?”

He scoffed and turned his gaze up to the ceiling. “I had too much to drink. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Y/N felt the blood drain from her face as she fell back on the bed.

That’s all it was. A drunken mistake.

Tears pricked at her eyes as she surveyed her options. Despite the fact that she was drunk off her ass, she knew she couldn’t just tell him to leave without making her feelings clear. She never explicitly told him that she wanted him and it wasn’t like she moaned his name or anything--thank god--but what other option did she have? She didn’t want to cry in front of him, and if he stayed in her room any longer he would without a doubt witness her alcohol induced cry fest.

NBC finally switched to ads, and Y/N granted herself permission to mourn the fact that Flo from Progressive would forever be ruined for her.

It was dark enough for her to quickly reach up and wipe her eyes undetected, granting her enough confidence to sit up and look at him directly. “You don’t get to just...kiss me like that. I hope you know that.”

“I know,” he said. His hands were clasped tightly together and rested on his nose. “Fuck. Of course I know.”

“But you can tell me you meant it to be just as friends,” she told him, hoping he couldn’t see how hard she was fighting back a new wave of tears.

“As friends,” he repeated, his tone flat.

“As friends,” she said.

“I don’t think either of us are daft enough to believe that.”

Her stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe things are different in America, but I don’t see you doing that sort of thing with Lizzy.”

“We can forget about this. It’s fine. I know you regret it.”

He exhaled, his breath long and shaky. “I didn’t stop because I regretted it.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because…”

“Is it because I’m a muggle?” His silence was everything she needed for an answer. “Okay. I had a feeling.”

“Y/N, it’s not like...I don’t know how to explain it.” He still wouldn’t make eye contact with her. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“About what?”

“About this!” he said, dramatically gesturing to her. “About everything!”

“I don’t understand.” The tears began pricking in the corners of her eyes again despite her best efforts.

Draco finally looked at her. She was shocked by how genuinely distressed he looked--the last time he looked at her like this, she’d been laying on the ground outside of the antique sore. “I don’t expect you to.”

His tone was low, careful. He was holding back.

“Can you just tell me how you feel about me, then? Just so I know?”

“It’s not that--” He stopped himself, sucking in another breath before he continued. “I shouldn’t. It’s not right of me.” He groaned, flopping onto his back and covering his face. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Hey,” Y/N said, reaching out to awkwardly pat his shoulder. “I meant it when I said that we could just forget about it. We’re friends, Draco. Just friends. I know you didn’t mean it. Let’s just pretend this never happened, ok?”

He was quiet for a bit before responding. “Did you...want me to kiss you? Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“Uncomfortable?”

“As in, did you want me to stop?”

“Oh.” Y/N cracked her knuckles. “You didn’t violate me if you’re asking to gauge how guilty you should be.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but that’s not why I’m asking.”

“Okay,” she said simply. He was still laying in her bed, and she hated the fact that her bed was going to smell like him until she washed everything.

“So?” He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t answer.”

“We’re friends, Draco.” She sent him a weak smile as she repeated her previous sentiment. “I trust you, so you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

She was aware of the fact that her sentence didn’t exactly track, but she wasn’t particularly concerned with the literary quality of her speech.

“That still doesn’t answer my other question.”

“I…” She felt her throat dry up. “I want--I wanted you to kiss me. I’ve wanted you to kiss me for a while now.”

At this, he finally sat up and looked her in the eyes. She thought she could see the briefest glint of relief pass over his face before he managed to rein it back to a neutral expression.

“Did you want to kiss me?”

“I was the one who kissed you, not the other way around, yeah?”

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” she snipped, hoping he caught on to her mocking. She’d missed sparring with him.

“Yes, I kissed you because I wanted to, not for some weird ulterior motive,” he responded, rolling his eyes despite the fact that his cheeks were clearly very pink, even in her dimly lit room. “Though I agree it’s best if we just stayed friends.”

“Yeah.” She felt her face fall, but she managed to catch it before she looked too devastated. “It’s all water under the bridge. Now we know not to drink together again.”

“That too.” He shifted, clearing his throat before making eye contact with her again with an uncharacteristically soft expression. “But the damage is already done, I suppose?”

“I suppose,” she echoed. “You wanted to kiss me? Actually?”

“Should we really talk about this? After what we just said about staying friends?”

“We’re going to feel regret tomorrow morning no matter what we do now, “ said Y/N. “Might as well.”

He smiled one of his rare smiles--the ones where his eyes went all soft and he dipped his head to hide it. “Yes. I really do. Want to kiss you, that is.”

“I really want you to kiss me,” she blurted out before slapping her hand over her mouth in shock. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

His smile morphed into more of a smirk as he crept closer, his hand resting on top of her knee. “So can I do it again?”

“Draco…” She sighed.

“The damage is already done,” he repeated as he reached his hand up to brush a lock of her hair behind her ear, his fingers dragging down her neck. The smug look that formed on his face after she drew a quick breath in confirmed that he knew what he was doing, that fucker. “You said it yourself--we’re just friends.”

“I’m going to hate myself in the morning if I say yes.”

Draco’s hand drifted over her jaw, his thumb pausing to trace over her bottom lip. “You can hate me instead.”

This time, it didn’t surprise her so much when he leaned in. He was notably less desperate, taking time to draw breaths in between kisses and lacing his fingers through hers, squeezing. Once he seemed satisfied, he lifted her chin and brushed the hair away from her neck, kissing down from her jaw to her collarbone. She shivered, and he drew her closer by wrapping his arms around her until she was sitting on his lap.

“Wow, you’re such a good friend, Draco,” she managed to joke. She could feel the smirk that formed on his lips as it passed over her clavicle.

“Shut up.” His teeth grazed over her delicate skin before he sucked, eliciting a gasp from her. She could feel him smile again.

His hands teased the bottom hemline of her sweater, his fingers tangling in the fabric but not moving it. She sucked in a breath, feeling his hands ghost over her skin.

“Are you okay with…”

“Yes!” The answer came out much quicker than she would’ve liked, but the grin on Draco’s face made it completely worth the momentary embarrassment as he helped her out of the thick cable-knit sweater. “Now is your chance to dote on me and tell me how beautiful I am. As a friend, of course.”

“You stole the words right out of my mouth,” he said. He looked like he was positively glowing as she smiled and leaned in to kiss him, slow and deep. His hands found her back and hesitated over her bra clasp.

Before he had a chance to do anything, Y/N started fiddling with the buttons on his white shirt, successfully undoing the first two before she noticed that Draco had frozen completely.

“Is something wrong?”

“Kind of,” he said. “Maybe...not now, okay?”

“I had a feeling that was too much,” she admitted, reaching for her top before realizing he’d tossed it across her bedroom floor and suddenly feeling very exposed.

“It’s not that…” he said, trailing off. “I just...should probably tell you some things before my shirt comes off. And I don’t think tonight is the best time for that.”

“Oh.” Y/N tried to make herself look like she understood whatever he was on about. “Yeah, of course. Oh! Is it about that tattoo you tried to gaslight me into believing didn’t exist?”

“Y/N!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t gaslight you!”

“Here you go again,” she huffed. “I rest my case.”

“And I am not getting into that now,” he said. “I didn’t want to talk about it for very good reason.”

She reached up to his shoulders, dragging her fingertips over his collarbones and watching as he gazed up at her. “That’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

The corners of his lips turned up at this, and she took the opportunity to press a chaste kiss on the edge of his mouth. “I think we should go to sleep. We have enough material to regret for tomorrow at this point. Any more and I think we’ll be getting greedy, so--”

Draco cut her off with one last kiss, his fingers splayed out across her back, pulling her impossibly close before finally releasing her.

“Agreed.” He let out a sigh before sliding her off him and standing up to grab her runaway sweater. “Do you want to sleep in this? Or do you want me to get you something else from your dresser while I’m up?”

“Um…” She was frozen at the prospect of him watching her change clothes. “Probably something else. Top left drawer--just pick whatever.”

He sifted through her piles of random T-shirts before settling on one with the UChicago logo and tossing it to her.

Y/N pulled it over her head, grateful for the fact that he wasn’t staring at her with only a black lace bra that barely did its job.

“So, uh, I think I should probably go then,” he said.

She fought the urge to ask him to stay. “Yeah, that’d be best.”

His mouth opened like he was about to say something, but he closed it and frowned. “So I guess this is goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Draco,” she replied. “I’ll look forward to agonizing over this in the morning.”

Once the sounds of his footsteps heading down the hall faded, she finally allowed herself to flop back onto her now Draco-scented sheets.

What the fuck just happened.

final a/n: hellooooooo ! it finally happened! i hope this didn’t seem rushed or unnatural to you guys but like. it’s been over 30k words and i thought you guys deserved something. yes i am going to be leaning into the whole “we’re just friends” trope while definitely not being just friends. yes i am going to drag astoria into this i’m excited i hope yall enjoyed

#draco x reader #draco malfoy x reader #draco imagine #draco malfoy imagine #draco x you #draco malfoy x you #draco #draco malfoy #draco fic #draco fanfiction #draco x y/n #draco malfoy x y/n #draco x oc #draco malfoy x oc

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malachi-walker · 4 years ago

Note

Happy birthday, Mal! I love your fics, they evoke so much emotion in me and have made me cry many a time. I don't often reread fics, but i've reread multiple chapters of Rhythm and Blues because they're stuck with me so much. You capture the emotional pain of their trauma and the catharsis that comes with their growth so beautifully. You also write some brilliant meta and just consistently post some fantastic thoughts. Also your love for swords is very appreciated. <3 have a lovely day!

First of all, my apologies for not replying sooner. I was making my mind up about something that would definitely require the use of a read more and thus necessitate dragging myself to desktop (which I hate because my laptop predates the dinosaurs.)

But seriously. Thank you so much. This is honestly one of the sweetest comments I've ever gotten and definitely made my already pretty sweet bday even better.

So about that read more. In honor of you, @metalesbo, my friends @n7punk and @jem-jarrett and everyone else who sent me well wishes or just really loves my work... Here's the opening section of the next chapter of R&B. Enjoy. It's a long one.

Adora Eternia is about two months shy of her fourteenth birthday when she first realizes she's in love with her best friend.

Though--if asked--she would hasten to explain that it wasn't when she fell in love. But trying to pinpoint the exact moment is an exercise in catching mist: the more she tries to grasp it in her hands the more it spreads out and covers everything. It just is: pure and simple and very, very complicated.

It's the beginning of December and the whole town is covered in a thick blanket of snow. Winterfest will be here in a few weeks, so to help out the kids who want to get gifts for their friends the Right Zone administration has shuffled around the groups that usually take their monthly trips on the third and fourth Sundays of the month to double up with the other two. As part of group three, she and Catra got the first week (the other three members of their crew are week two folks anyway and thus outside the reorganization.)

It's still kinda weird to think that: their crew. For so long, it was just Catra and Adora. Adora and Catra. One unit bound together, just them against the world. But there's also something nice about being part of a small cluster, their "scrappy little lone wolf pack" as Catra had once put it with a wry grin before Lonnie shoved her over with an, "Excuse you, I'm a great people person when I'm not busy making sure you idiots haven't set yourselves on fire!"

They all got a good laugh out of that one.

But regardless, the holidays are coming up and this is the first year that any of their group has felt like actually doing anything for it, aside from wrangling together a sleepover and seeing if they can convince the kitchen staff to slip them some leftover eggnog.

They made each other promise not to go too extravagant and keep each person's gift to ten dollars or lower. Even though their quarterly stipend has increased from three hundred to four hundred to match with inflation over the past eight years, it still isn't a whole lot for three month's worth of expenses, especially when they also have to budget regularly for clothes to keep up with the seemingly endless growth spurts.

There's also the usual budgetary concern of keeping her and Catra's first aid kit well supplied...

Adora shakes her head to dislodge the intrusive thought and continues marching onward through the snow. This trip is a good thing. She won't let all the awful realities of their life taint it.

With so many kids running around and wanting to shop on their own to surprise their giftees, Right Zone had to negotiate with both the local police and whatever other civic authorities they could get ahold of to come out en masse and keep an eye on them all. The kids had still come with their usual teachers, of course, but doubling the load and also splitting up was a logistical nightmare. Which is just a convoluted way to say the town is positively crawling with uniformed officers, off duty members of the fire brigade, emergency personnel, and other such authority figures quietly keeping watch and making sure no one tries anything.

Adora knows that somewhere in the press of bodies, Grizzlor's busy wrangling two new "brats" (seven and nine, respectively, and definitely not friends.) Somewhere, a certain Magicat is probably grumbling over the indignity of being forced to wear shoes and kicking every snowpile she can, like she can send a direct message to whatever cosmic force is responsible for her current frustration.

On an ordinary month she and Catra--being old enough to be allowed a bit more freedom to do what they want--would buddy up to watch each other's backs while they did their shopping. But this isn't an ordinary month, so once they'd each gotten gifts for the other three they'd split up on opposite ends of Main Street with an agreement to move clockwise to avoid running into each other. Afterwards, the entire group would rendezvous at the small clock tower in the park a block over before heading back to Right Zone.

Ten dollars wasn't a lot to work with, but Adora had done her best: a new stress ball for Kyle, some moisturizing oil for Rogelio since the early winter shed had wiped out his supply and he'd been too busy to pick up some more, a twelve pound kettle weight for Lonnie now that their shared exercise routine was getting a bit too easy for her... Utilitarian choices, to be sure, but she's been paying attention and that has to count for something.

Catra's the difficult one, of course. Partly because Adora doesn't want to just get her something practical, but also because they share nearly everything between them already. About the only thing that is definitively off limits is Catra's guitar, and she's told Adora enough about her time with Tao over the years that Adora wouldn't even ask. Beyond that... Well, there's a reason why most of Adora's day off hoodies have small strands of orange fur stuck to them.

Still. I want to get her something that's hers. Something she'll like. Something she doesn't have to share with anyone, not even me.

In the end, she nearly walks past it. In one of the artisanal shops that dot small towns like liver spots, she finds a display of hand stamped necklace pendants, with a design sheet beside it. There are a lot of the usual nature designs and such, but the one that catches her eye is a treble clef with the five staff lines bleeding out from it. They ring the edge of the pendant in a half circle, and scattered haphazardly along the lines are the other music notes.

The lack of proper order would drive Adora insane. She understands that it's just meant to look pretty, not be an accurate representation of musical notation, but still... She knows her own (broken) brain well enough to know that.

It suits Catra, though.

"Hey," Mismatched eyes looked down at Adora as her head draped backwards over the back of their desk chair, the throbbing behind her left eye threatening to escalate into a migraine. "Guess I don't have to ask how the composing's going."

"It sucks," Adora groused back, sitting up and gesturing Catra over. She jabbed at two particular spots with the half chewed off eraser end of her pencil, two hard jabs each, like she was filing a complaint. "Most of it is just what I'm going for, but these two places here... They aren't sounding right. I've been going back and forth over structure all afternoon, but nothing I do helps."

"Hmmm..." Catra stroked her chin and nudged Adora over so she could sit on the arm of the chair (they'd never gotten around to requesting a second, mostly because Adora didn't want to risk Shadow Weaver suspecting they were getting too chummy.) "Got any scratch paper?"

Adora pointed to the pile of half crumpled notebook paper she used when making adjustments and Catra snorted. "Ok, dumb question. Just let me see here..."

Grabbing a pen, she quickly inked a fresh set of staff lines and copied the notes Adora had already put down, making sure to leave space to work. Glancing between the two, she drummed her fingers on the desk, playing along in her head.

"Hmm..." Catra murmured, worrying at her lower lip with a fang in a manner that was... Oddly distracting. "Ok, how 'bout this?"

Adora jolted, tearing her gaze from Catra's face to look at the sequence of notes scribbled onto the scratch paper. She paused, brow furrowing as she played them over in her mind's eye. It was a little unorthodox, veering away from the path she had carefully laid out... But also blending well with the next part. Almost like the notes took a quick detour and then lead the listener back to where she wanted them.

"Yeah..." Adora replied thoughtfully, the tension all over her body starting to smooth out. "Yeah, that could work."

"Awesome. Let's take a look at the next part."

They ultimately ended up spending several hours going over the entire piece, sussing out every place where Adora was having even the slightest niggle of unease. She didn't accept all of Catra's changes and Catra didn't push the matter, but the ones she did...

They felt right. More right than they had ever felt when it was just Adora running circles around herself.

When they finally finished up she looked over at Catra, tail waving sedately in that way it got when she was simultaneously engaged but relaxed, and asked, "Umm... Do you want to learn with me? I like doing this."

'I like making music with you.'

Catra paused, looking over at Adora searchingly, almost like she couldn't believe the question had come up. No matter how many years had passed between them, that look never really went away, and every time she saw it Adora's chest ached in a way that was hard for her to process.

"I'd like that."

Catra's composing style is very different from Adora's. More wild, more willing to bend and break the rules if it means maintaining audience engagement, but there's always an underlying order to the chaos. To her surprise and pleasure, Adora found herself learning just as much from Catra as Catra was learning from her. Their styles brought out the best in each other.

The jingle of a bell kicks her out of the memory. Mind made up even though it's nearly double her budget, Adora scans the stand of necklaces for the one with the treble clef pattern.

It isn't there. Adora swallows down the disappointment, though she can't help the sigh. Of course. The town was well aware of the large population of music students a short drive away and catered to them accordingly. But there are also dozens of kids out on the street tonight. It isn't that big of a surprise that the design sold out.

Not surprising, but disheartening nonetheless.

She's just begun to turn away when a voice calls from the back. "Hang on a sec there, little miss."

Adora jumps, but remains where she is as a large Taurian man with a massive snow white beard trundles out from a door behind the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. "Was there a particular design you were interested in?"

Adora points at the treble clef, hope rising. "This one. But it looks like it's already sold out."

"Hmm..." The man scratchs at his chin. "Well with Winterfest coming up, I'm out of blank pendants-"

Adora's shoulders slump.

"-But," The man continues with a smile. "I can double stamp it onto the back of another. Ordinarily I'd charge extra for that, but it's my fault for not ordering enough blanks. Rookie move. Besides, it's the holidays. Now would that be all right by you?"

Nodding frantically in case he changes his mind, Adora scans the other designs, quickly alighting on one in particular. "That one!"

"The claw marks? Bit of an odd combination, but the customer is always right," The old man winked as he reached out to take the necklace from her. "My jig and press is in the corner over here if you wanna watch."

Adora was glad he specified, because as nice as the man seemed there was no way in hell she was going into a back room with a stranger. But she stood next to the window beside a display of miscellaneous knick knacks and puzzles, watching him carefully place the pendant in a cushioned stand to avoid damaging the already printed side and tighten it into place before moving beside the machine.

"You're gonna want to cover your ears," He tells her, patting the machine with one massive hand. "Had to switch to a steam press when the arthritis caught up to me. Used to do it all by hammer. This boy's okay, but he gets loud."

Adora nods, glad for the warning when he bellows "Clear!" and the machine's hammer comes down once, twice, three times with a sound like the ringing of an enormous bell. Once the machine is stopped and carefully turned off, the old man removes the pendant from the press and hands it over to Adora for inspection. "What do you think? Does it pass muster?"

Adora runs her fingertips over the impressions in the metal, memorizing the feel of it, the leftover warmth of the impact. "Perfect."

"Good. Now let's get you rung up."

Counting the five dollars she attempted to surreptitiously slip into the tip jar (the old man winked as he turned back around, so stealth fail) Adora went very over budget, but the others would have to put a gun to her head for her to admit it.

Besides, it's Catra. They already know she's the sole exception to all of Adora's carefully maintained rules.

With everything finished, she continues trudging through the snow toward the park, breathing a sign of relief as she moves away from the shopping district and the people thin out; no one wanting to go to the park in the middle of such bleak weather. Angling around a clustered group of bare trees, she spots the small clock tower in the distance, as well as the figure already standing beside it. Grinning, Adora picks up the pace a bit until she can see Catra clearly and--

Her breath catches.

Since her only experience with this kind of thing has been through books, Adora always expected this moment would be more dramatic. Like back to back in the middle of a fight, or eyes locking from up on stage. Something spectacular, like fireworks, lime explosions, like the feeling of playing a song without a single mistake for the first time. It's always seemed like such a big deal in the stories, and in a way, it is.

Because there's Catra, lost in her own world as she gazes up at the streetlight that's just come on, her left hand extended to let the snowflakes fall into her palm and the light catches the orange of her fur just right to make a blaze of color against the black of her coat. She looks so small, standing in that space all alone on a cold winter's night, but Adora knows deep down that she could never be that small, not when she's Catra, not when she means so much...

Pretty much everything about the past hour--about her entire life since they met if she's being honest--snaps into crystal clear focus.

Oh. I get it now. I'm in love with you.

It's a bad idea. Adora knows that. Shadow Weaver is enough of a menace while believing Catra is simply her roommate, her sometime tool--and Catra had ended up being all too right about the torture not stopping, even after years of Adora trying to direct Weaver's attentions away from her. If the evil old bitch figures out Adora's feelings run deeper, so much deeper...

Her heart beats double time. This whole thing is an unmitigated disaster.

But it's still the best worst thing that's ever happened to her.

She must make a noise, because Catra's ear twitches in her direction, snapping her out of that distant contemplation. She turns her head and looks at Adora, lips curling in a lopsided grin. "Hey, Adora. Wow, you look like you've seen a ghost."

Adora blinks, coming back to herself and mumbling the first excuse that springs to mind. "... Just cold."

"Well no shit. C'mere."

When she closes the distance Catra glances around warily, making sure they're the only ones around, before reaching up and retying the scarf around Adora's neck, patting it once when she's done. "There. I know I make it look good, but you don't have the advantage of fur like me."

Adora looks down at the thin AC/DC t-shirt that Catra's wearing beneath her half open coat, the line of her collarbones and neck, and makes a snap decision. "Is it okay if I give you your present now?"

Catra blinks, a little thrown by the non sequitur. "I mean... Sure? Do you want me to give you yours?"

"I'm good with either," Adora shrugs, trying to ignore how fast her heart is beating, how much she wants to do this before this moment slips away. "I just want to."

There's a long moment of silence as they each examine the other, equally searching. What Catra's looking for, Adora doesn't know. She isn't sure she wants to know.

"Okay."

Breathing deep, Adora reaches into her pocket and pulls out the necklace on its leather cord. Careful to keep the pendant hidden in her hand, she passes it over, fingertips sparking as it's taken. Catra brings it close to her face, running her fingers over the four parallel slashes on the side facing her.

"Why the claw marks?"

Adora laughs, nervous butterflies positively rioting in her stomach. "Because you're a badass. Duh."

"True," Catra smirks, flipping it over and squinting at the other side. "And this?"

"Badass, loves music with all your heart. Not mutually exclusive concepts," Adora says, trying not to give away how much she thinks about this, how much she wants to take that hand in hers. She settles for a playful shoulder bump instead. "Plus we all know you're secretly a big softie."

"Excuse you, I am all sharp edges," Catra giggles, lightly elbowing her before transitioning into a soft little smile. "... Just not with everyone."

Oh God oh God oh God. That smile will absolutely be the death of her.

Swallowing past her horrible awareness of that softness, Adora asks, "So you like it?"

"I love it. Good luck ever getting me to take it off," Catra laughs, then frowns, flexing her fingers. "Hands have gone a little numb, though. Help me put it on?"

Adora.exe promptly crashes to desktop. But she still somehow manages to move, helping Catra hold back her mane so she can slip the leather cord over her head and tuck it beneath her hair. If she hesitates a moment too long in letting go, at least Catra only shoots her an amused glance. "How's it look?"

"Great," Adora manages to croak out, trying to swallow past the sudden dryness in her throat. "You look great. Umm... Happy early Winterfest, I guess?"

"Well, I'm gonna hold onto yours a little longer," Catra laughs, playfully sticking out her tongue before reaching out. "C'mere, you big dork."

Adora shuffles closer, mind and heart both screaming as Catra draws her into a hug, nuzzling her head against the side of her neck. A little whisper. "Thank you."

Adora swallows again, even harder. "You're welcome."

Between them, the necklace rests, the music side pressed right up against Catra's heart.

----------

Fun fact: the shopkeep is based off a cool old dude selling machine pressed necklaces I ran into at a Scottish festival when I was 13, and he made such an impression I never forgot him. Anyway, happy Valentine's! Have a Big Gay Realization!

#answers #rhythm & blues #the catradora rockstar au #featuring adora's big gay realization #and also fantasy christmas

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adultswim2021 · 2 years ago

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Squidbillies #9: “Double Truckin' the Tricky Two” | October 2, 2006 – 12:00AM | S02E03

I did something I rarely do for this project (unless it's 12 oz. Mouse): I watched it twice! The first time around I remember being pleasantly surprised, and thinking this was pretty decent, “one of the better ones” as they say (who says?). It still is, I guess. But I didn't write down my thoughts and forgot nearly everything in the episode, which isn't a great sign. So I fired her up again and realized I should probably do this for everything I watch on this blog, bare minimum. It was VERY HELPFUL. But nobody is paying me for this trash. I will never double dip... again!

Okay, so this one is about the squids trying to win the tricky two, Dan Halen's fixed local lottery. You see, it's called the tricky two because there's always a third “surprise” number, which makes it impossible to win being that all tickets are just for two numbers. This is what happens in the beginning: Early wins at first, but the rug is pulled out from under him. So he airs his grievances on a trucker hat, which he presents to Dan Halen, which turns out to be a product pitch that Early is making in order to earn money. It's the sort of convoluted logic and intentionally ham-fisted comic turn that I like quite a bit.

Halen allows Early to fix the lottery one night so that he can finally win. When he does, Dan reveals that he's actually won Shirley Jackson's the Lottery, meaning the ticket holder is to be drawn and quartered in front of a cheering crowd of blood-thirsty spectators. This is also a fairly funny scene, where the reference to Shirley Jackson's famous short story goes over the family's head, so Halen reads the entire thing aloud to them.

Those are the highlights. Other scenes are okay, but this episode is a mixed bag. Granny gets the buck passed to her in the whole lottery mess, with Early shoving the ticket in her hands so she can take the punishment of being drawn and quartered. Turns out she's endlessly elastic and nothing comes of her getting stretched. Halen suggest that they “nick her” with some scissors and I nearly did a double-take because it... it sounded like he said, uh...

The episode ends with a needless scene where a new identical (clone?) sheriff shows up and murders the old sheriff, taking his place. The joke here is that this is how they explain the new voice actor taking over. But... they literally hired a guy that sounds 90% exactly like Charles Napier. I guess it's funny, but it would be more meaningful if they went with a completely different voice. Like, say, Tracy Morgan.

Pointless personal anecdote: one time I worked on a local (but never-aired) hosted comedy show and the original host dropped out before they filmed anything with him, and they wrote a prologue for the pilot that showed him leaving and the new host taking over.... even though he never actually appeared in an episode. It was just to sorta explain that he was supposed to be the host, I guess, a detail that the viewing audience did not need to know at all. It gave the false impression that this was the second season of the show and not the first, but it also didn't seem like a JOKE, you know? I found out later that he secretly had suffered a brain injury before production and it explained a lot.

#adult swim #adultswim2021 #squidbillies

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tigerdrop · 4 years ago

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dogboy gordon rutting against benreys leg in the same way that benrey did it in the reverse. benrey encouraging him and also making fun of him in the same breath. yummy brain thoughts. i am rotating this

jesus christ i started thinking about dogboy gordon and have not stopped thinking. theres 7k words of dogboy stuff under here im going insane

how in the. help. Help. dog boy. how does he become dogboy. i cant keep giving these idiots potions but i guess thats what ive been reduced to

gman turns him into a dog boy. walks thru a portal and comes out in nintendogs but hes the dog and when he comes back out again hes still a little bit dogy. this is fucking stupid

THE TAIL WAGGING im going to pass away

> i think he would have such fucking issues with the fact that his tail and ears are expressing his emotions so much

trying to act angry towards benrey but hes given away by his tail wagging like crazy......and he never even knows its happening until somebody points it out

it would be cool if. um. he got a little more into roughhousing and rough play afterward. you know. like a . hes already really handsy......physical. . .. .

> okay like the anger turning into somewhat-serious jostling and pushing which turns into roughhousing

its not even horny at first it just gives him the weirdest fucking endorphins. like. its fucking fun man

> and by the time theyre roughhousing his tail is wagging furiously and like thumping on the floor when he gets pinned haha

> YES its about the exhilaration ......he gets this rush from flipping benrey over after he's pinning him, baring his teeth triumphantly

benrey pinning him by his wrists and half-laughing at him like "what the fuck is wrong with you??" and the rest of the science team chimes in like YEAH WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU GUYS WHAT WAS THAT

> gordon comes back to himself and turns red immediately and splutters like "i dont know! what - im just - benrey started it!” so like he refuses to do it again but then benrey pushes his buttons and he gets in his face, ears pinned back a bit and shoves him and benreys like oh...so its this again huh...

GOD......PUSHING HIS BUTTONS.......its sooo much fun now that gordons so physically reactive too

> what if he manages to get an honest to god growl out of gordon at one point and it makes something ugly twist in benrey's gut and he wants to make it happen again

and its probably really gratifying for him to see just how often gordons tail wags when gordon looks at him or snorts at one of his jokes

TWO SIDES

> the duality of their relationship....gordons tail wagging just a bit when hes looking at benrey though im

> im thinking about the growling though like...benrey gets fixated on how he fucking sounds, all deep and rumbly and this intensity just focused on benrey only....makes him think about how that would look in other contexts....

> benrey riling him up while their roughousing so he can feel that growl travel through his chest and like...getting gordon to that point makes him SO determined to win the "fight" over benrey hes almost a bit out of his mind with it......pins benrey and subconsciously ruts against him a bit as a sign of dominance....please stop me now goodbye....

NO LITERALLY THATS WHAT I WAS THINKING ABOUT THE MOMENT I STARTED TYPING

prodding gordon further and further and riling him up until gordon pins him to the floor, hard, an arm jammed behind his back and his HEV suit jammed up against benreys ass and rutting subconsciously as gordon. h. gordon. clamps down on the back of his neck and growls

benrey sucks in a rattling gasp and is like "what? ow" in a weirdly shocked yet distanced way

he cant feel where gordons hard b/c of the HEV suit but he can feel the metal awkwardly bumping against his ass Like That. and inwardly benreys on a loop of "what the fuck what the fuck" but not in a bad way in the slightest. just utterly cannot believe this is whats happening, right now, gordon freeman dry humping his ass behind a bunch of crates, not 100 feet from the rest of the science team

> gordon snapping out of it and being like...what the fuck am i doing... or....maybe the gasp makes gordon bite down harder in response...not sure

> gordon not even realizing hes doing it until that moment is so great....i dont know but....maybe he lets go and pushes off benrey, panting and wild eyed, and the image of benrey on his stomach, his bite mark in his neck, is burned into his brain

> he just doesnt say fucking anything and just dips to get jacked off by the suit maybe.... cant stop thinking about how it felt to see benrey with his teeth marks....hates himself for feeling that sick satisfaction in his chest

benrey......touching the back of his neck afterwrds, kind of dream-like, both consciously and subconsciously.......

i like making gordon freeman suffer so i want him to just angrily try to rut against his arm in private later trying desperately to get off thru this stupid busted HEV suit that he cant get out of. pathetic. gordon freeman humping his own fucking arm in a bathroom stall. like a dog

and he thinks about how benrey smelled when he had his teeth clamped on the back of benreys neck, his nose buried right against benreys jaw and neck, smelling the sweat and the hormones and feeling benreys rapid heartbeat, and his whole fucking head throbs with how bad he wants to get off

> and he just cant get off....has to deal with going back the team tense and a bit sweaty and just move on when they ask what happened. benrey doesnt say anything just stares at him and gordon cant meet his eyes. gordon tries not to fucking let benrey get under his skin cause i think hes probably mad upset and embarassed that he reverted to his like,,,more base instincts because of BENREY of all people.....

> but he still thinks about it sometimes and....he tries to distance himself from him but hes still a pretty touchy guy and he find himself around benrey still....laughing at his jokes and getting in his space once in a while. always pulls himself away when he notices but not before he takes in a deep breath of benrey's scent...

> meanwhile benreys trying to think of how to make gordon do that shit again LOL

ohmy god. oh my god.....before this.....before he tries to stop getting in benreys business and before he even recognizes what hes doing.......he like.....hes so touchy feely that he subconsciously tries to mark benrey a lot. like just doing everything in his power to rub the inside of his wrists somewhere on him. even if its barely gonna do anything b/c of the suit. its just instinct

> NOW HE ...now he realizes that he was doing that the whole time..jesus,...

> AUGH....in the buildup before this he didnt realize that he was doing it........but now he realizes he fucking misses doing that shit and kind of berates himself for doing it in the first place....like what the fuck....be Normal gordon...you cant want to fuck him....do you..?

i want him to. grrgohg i dont even know how or why this would happen but i want gordon freeman to lie supine on the ground with his hands up like paws like hes a big pupy looking for tummy rubs OKAY! BYE. I HAVE TO GO. im going to fucking sob why am i like this why is this the cutest possible thing for a man to do. i cant even think of a fucking reason why he would do this so im so fucking embarrassed

i want to fucking. i want to rub his fucking tumy and make him pop a boner from it im literally so sick of this earth

> i was literally Just typing: i just think it would be cool . To pet his tummy and keep telling him "good boy" in a Certain kind of Tone that just totally fucks him up about it . maybe flushed and tongue starting to wanna hang out of his mouth as he goes from laying flat on his back to kinda twisted to one side, breathing heavy, tail thumping hard against the floor cause hes a big dog so that thing is like a lethal weapon

> petting the fuzzy lower belly while hes already hard & needy just to make him whine Very high pitched and desperate-sounding bc its so close to what he wants but that just makes it worse 8)

> What if. Benrey pinning Gordon, maybe scritches behind his ear, as a "joke", he's a dog haha good boy wants ear scritches?? And Gordon immediately squirming and whining. Maybe even kicking his leg just a little bit

> i think it would be cool for a post-black mesa puby gordon pinned benrey to the floor with his whole body weight and humped the life out of benrey's leg while panting and drooling in benrey's ear. a total lack of regard for benrey, (of course he's into it tho) just using him like an object that's conveniently there for him to furiously get off on

> i'm thinking.... this happening after a period of prolonged teasing, like you said. rubbing his tummy and ignoring his dick

> Man ok combined with the suit edging huh? I love that, but i also kinda want gordon to sneak off to get off and discover his uh. k. kn. knot

> he sneaks off and if in this situation he can. idk. get at his dick in a bathroom or whatever. and well, he gets caught up so easily in his 'head empty' instincts mode that when he cums he's kneading that thang for like 2 minutes before he even becomes cognizant enough to notice. and then immediately panic. so idk maybe he cant get at himself for a while, right, so he didnt notice this

> i just think gordon being in the suit would not let him get at his dick and he would only be able to get off in really convoluted ways so like...he wouldnt fucking Know he had a knot he would just feel a weird pressure at the base that he doesnt know what its about. but he starts getting these fantasies of holding benrey down and staying in him when he comes and he doesnt know where the hell thats coming from.....yet. until after everything is over and he can get out of it, and the first time he jacks off again he realizes HOLY FUCK? like what the hell....but it makes sense in retrospect where those fantasies came from. but hes just super embarassed about those fantasies and pushes them down until benrey comes back into his life and activates him again

> in addition to embarassment i think he has a lot of complicated feelings about benrey and definitely feels a guilty about wanting to fuck him into the ground and fill him with cum....but GOD if benrey doesnt get to him just as much as he did in black mesa

> i think that something like this would be so unplanned and shit but like......theyve probably hung out a few times before this or more like maybe benrey has dropped into his house just to annoy him and gordon finds his ears pricking when he hears heavy footsteps around his house cause he recognizes them as benrey's...

> little rush of exhilaration maybe. cause it means they'll spend some time together and he has just all these emotions under his skin when they do. i dont know how this would happen but maybe gordon forgets to keep himself in check when benrey makes him laugh so hard he's snorting and his tail is wagging furiously.benrey tries to touch/catch his tail cause he's kinda curious about it and it never got to mess with it in black mesa. but it turns into roughhousing as gordon shoves him away a little bit but benrey keeps trying to get at it and then get at his ears

> "cmon man just let me touch them whats the big deal-" "NO!" but like hes still laughing a bit until they start really getting into it and he gets breathless and a little irritated at having to roll around and try to pin benrey's hands to the floor

hell on earth......the way his tails wagging and hes grinning and drooling a little once he gets benrey pinned.......

> little triumphant smile when he finally does.....got benrey on his stomach and he's subconsciously rutting against benrey's ass like in black mesa but hes just not noticing while he's berating benrey for losing

> talking right into his ear, and benrey lets out a little gasp when he does a particularly hard thrust and then hes like oh. fuck. he takes in a deep breath and can smell benrey's sweat and realizes hes just as horny about this as he is. cant help but bury his face in the back of his neck and lick. and benrey starts pushing back into him and talking the worst dirty talk and it makes him growl right against his neck and put his teeth there again as a warning not to move but benrey doesnt still, he just keeps talking. so gordon bites down, hard, cutting him off mid sentence with a yelp

f. fucking. benrey......arching his back into it.......pressing his hips up as high as theyll go......the angles bro.....the angles

> also: gordon popping boners more easily, even when he's just platonically excited w/ benrey..... yeah... :)

> like the thing about this is just that he got so excited from the wrasslin that he popped a boner....wasnt even thinking of horny.....

> not until benrey started gasping and arching back into him. then hes immediately aware of how this looks...like hes already basically in the position in his fantasies hes just rutting against him in the imitation of fucking

> gordon getting more frenzied by the little sounds benrey is making as he clamps down on his neck, drool dripping down his chin. benrey braces himself with one hand and gets the other to pull his pants down and then tug on the leg of gordon's down a bit because gordon is kind of. not thinking straight right now. gordon gets the message and fumbles with the buttons to get it down and like. haha i thinnk it would be fun if benrey prepped himself before this and gordon notices like. you really managed to prep urself this time? god, you really wanted this to happen. but maybe benrey had been doing it the last few times cause gordon would get in his space again sometimes and things were tense

NO GOD THIS IS GOOD. LIKE. oh my god gordon just like bitching at him and getting up in his face and Growling a couple times before while his pants are all tented from the inadvertent excitement boners that he doesnt even realize hes having.....and benrey might not be smart but hes not stupid

theres like a 50% chance theyre gonna fuck at any given time he realizes so like. why not......

even if it doesnt work out in the moment benrey still spends the whole time hopped up on the knowledge that they could have, that he was the little fucking pervert who got himself all prepped just in case gordon decided todays the day hes just gonna mount him, and honestly the way he beats his meat and fucks himself afterwards might be nearly as good as the real deal, just from that little bit of self-inflicted degradation

like u said...........he really wanted it to happen

> hhh.... maybe gordon ruts a bit against his ass and benrey guides him in and. he makes a deep growling rumble when he bottoms out. benrey feels it through his chest and gets a full body shiver as he's filled. i dont think hes fully developed his knot yet but its a tight fit. he starts fucking hard and fast into him while open mouthed panting, he cant keep his face away from the benrey's neck, licking up the sweat and burying his face there to breathe in his scent

the fucking . the desperation......every instinct in his body has been telling him to fuck benrey - yes, that benrey, fucking benrey - into the ground for......weeks now? months??

dudes probably tried everything he can think of to overcome it and to think about literally anything else when he gets off but nobody he fucks even comes close to smelling as good as benrey did when gordon had him pinned and gasping and sweating and he could smell the want rolling off him in waves.....and it sucks massive dick and he hates it

> hes been driven crazy by this thought for so long.....cant fucking control himself. wh. what if gordon managed to get a hold of a piece of benrey's clothes that he left and held it up to his face when he let himself jack off to this particular thought so he could get the scent but it jsut wasnt the same without his warm, panting body below him . he always nuts the hardest when he has it though

huffing benreys undershirt and desperately rutting into a pillow on his hands and knees with his ass fully up and hes just utterly debased right now

sad and pathetic gordon freeman humping his pillow like a dog and whining thinking about fucking benrey. if his past self could see himself like this right now he would be disgusted

> !!!!!!!!1 HIM GETTING INTO THE MOUNTING POSITION ON INSTINCT WHEN HE DOES IT...YOUR BRAIN ! i think that gordon would definitely give everything hes got to benrey when he finally gets to fuck him.

> now that hes actually doing it he's just out of his goddamn mind. benrey already being ready for him, slick and hot, just letting him push in .....i think he would definitely go insane

dudes never fucked so hard or so mindlessly in his life......for once all the neuroses just fly out the window. overcome by instinct

> letting out all these whines and moans, not even caring for how loud hes being... benrey's wanted this so fucking bad hes just eating it up, pushing back on him like an animal and getting a power trip that he made gordon this unhinged

thinking about him just being utterly shocked when benrey guides him in and he can just bury himself all the way to the hilt so easily and it makes something in his brain snap

> gordon doesnt even tell benrey when hes close, benrey can just start to feel his knot swell inside him and how it stretches him a bit past what he prepared for...but he wants it in him so fucking bad, he just lets gordon keep fucking into him

like. oh my god. does benrey even know about the knot or is this a brand new and fun surprise for him

> I DONT KNOW......I JUST REALLY LIKE THE THOUGHT OF HIM BEING A BIT CAUGHT OFF GUARD BY IT....

> being caught off guard by it but being so turned on by the feeling of it filling him that he lets out this really high, needy sound. which goes straight to gordon's dick and he just pushes into him harder and jolts his whole body with it. maybe he h....he bites down on the other side of his neck again and thrusts in one more time before coming deep in him. just shuddering from it, eyes squeezed shut and jaw locked around benrey

benrey just fuckin. face down ass up and arching his back as high as he can

(mumbling very quietly) it might be cool also if. gordon maybe.....started growling some things as he got close. a certain something. a word

you know......just......bent over benreys back......arms wrapped around benreys chest and fingers digging into the soft flesh (maybe even his titties, if youre feeling spicy).......pistoning his hips in staccato bursts while he growls.........u bh hhhhh......"mine". over and over not even realizing hes doing it b/c his brain is so fogged out on the sheer delight of rawing benrey after having thought about it non-stop

(mumbling so quietly im speaking at a pitch below the human hearing threshold) benrey hoarsely saying "'m yours, 'm yours" while hes got one hand jammed underneath himself to tug at his dick is the thing that sets gordon off and makes him come, perhaps. perhaps

and gordon just.....slumps over him, leaning his full body weight on him, panting weakly into his ear while his hips subconsciously rut just a little bit, arms still wrapped around benrey but otherwise as useless as a bump on a log while benreys jerking himself off to the wild new feeling of having that knot stretch him open and tug at him every time gordon shifts his hips

gordon nuts and becomes utterly useless but at least his knots still fat as hell so benreys still got something to work with

(sobbing) i just want to see men acting like animals leave me olone..... its about the submission to instinct......the degradation and dehumanization......and also the scent kink its all about the fucking scent kink. its about wanting to huff a guy you pretend you hate like hes a fucking magic marker and its about wanting to make him smell like u

> for scent kink, Gordon's boners due to sweaty benrey hehehehe. this is narsty -> Benrey is like "yeesh that was a lot of exertion" after their first almost-sex wrasslin match, and gets embarassed, so next time he like, wears a bunch of old spice.... but gordon doesn't get as excited. like yeah he can feel him against his back and yeah he's not soft but.. he's not panting or as hard. benrey thinks real hard when he gets home

> CLEAN SWEAT OK ITS A COMBATIBILITY THING OK. IT IS. LOOK UP THE SCIENCE OK I ...walks away. clown shoez

YOU ARE SO FUCKING CORRECT THANK U

> Maybe next time He doesn't bother with the old spice at all, and he gets real into the wrasslin... hell maybe he even uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh gets gordon's head under his arm im just saying

I DIDNT WANNA BE THE ONE TO SAY IT BUT NO YEAH THATS COOL. ITS A VERY COOL THOUGHT

think about......dogboy gordon roughhousing and getting pinned down himself and snapping his teeth up at benrey like joking but not joking. you know

they both start just getting really into roughhousing b/c sometimes gordons brain gets Stressed The Fuck Out by all the added stimulation to the senses of being pupy......theres too many sounds and smells sometimes and it makes him even more neurotic and makes him start acting up and getting irritable and trying to start shit until he exerts himself enough to tire his brain out and make it shut up

maybe even like.....in the interim after black mesa but before he runs into benrey again, gordon becomes a fucking hot mess b/c he doesnt know how to deal with it all and the only way he got thru black mesa without his brainstem snapping in half was b/c he and benrey would start shit and start fighting and wrestling and the rest of the science team eventually shrugged and accepted this as a (very weird) part of their life now. he looks like hes one minor inconvenience away from a panic attack and its so sad

any kind of physical exercise would help (he takes up jogging when hes feeling stressed out, which is a lot, and hes gotten some really nice legs by this point) but theres just something different about the roughhousing. its a mental exercise as well as a physical one, so it exhausts his brain more, and unbeknownst to him, he just gets fucking endorphins from the way benrey smells and from being able to mark him with all the up-close physical contact theyre getting. so. hence the wrestling and roughhousing and gordons occasional tendency to just pounce the guy in public and start fighting him with his tail wagging and thumping like crazy

it might be even better if gordon attempts to roughhouse with just about the whole science crew at some point, just for a point of comparison

like.....its usually good, its satisfying, and it wears him out and lets him function like a human being......but theres just something about roughhousing with benrey thats really satisfying and he doesnt have the emotional intelligence to figure out what it is

gordon freeman is an idiot, is what im saying

> tommy indulges him and probably lets him win a few times, coomer soundly wins out every time and bubby probably...loses some before getting pissy LOL. i think that its fun for him to get the most Good Feelings out of roughhousing with benrey.....

AUUUUGHHH WHAT IF HE LICKED BENREYS FACE THO

g gbfbhhh god im obsessed with the way benrey laughs at him and asks "what the fuck is wrong with you?" in the act 3 commentary and thats the exact kind of vibe im feeling from him about like. everything gordon does in pupymode

> Okay, before I go to bed, I shall leave you with a Dog Thought™. Gordon probably wouldn’t be the “best trained” dog in the world because, well, he doesn’t have anyone to make him listen or obey. Heck, given his need to be in control, he probably thinks he’s the leader of the proverbial pack and nobody can tell him what to do. He’d probably slip and do quite a few “rude” and obnoxious dog things, including but not limited to being all over Benrey.

> Trying to goad him into roughhousing. Licking his face. Being in his space to the point that it even starts to make Benrey raise an eyebrow. Inappropriate marking and whatnot. [cough] And what if Benrey--in a weird reversal of the roles we usually give--is stuck with the task of… training Gordon… to behave…

> YOU KNOOOOW. Because pitting alpha dog Gordon against Benrey, who is trying to get him to be “good”...

> … Well, that could be interesting.

> Imagine if you will: Benrey realizing he needs to get Gordon under control. As much as he likes the attention, it's becoming too much. Relentless. Tables have been turned and now he's the one that's a little overwhelmed by the situation because, well, Gordon is running on pure instinct half the time. Making it hard to do things. Making it hard to live his life. Always in his bubble which was, like, fine at first but now he can't do anything without feeling a wet tongue on his face or having Gordon trying to goad him into rough housing.

> He needs so much attention. Has so much energy. It's too much.

> So, he decides he's going to try to "train" Gordon to not... do that. Benrey trying to assert dominance over Gordon, as if he were just a normal dog. Gordon, who has already marked Benrey and decided that Benrey belongs to him does not take to this very well. This is not how the chain of command works. This isn't how the chain of command works at all.

> Benrey, struggling to curb him through praise and admonitions--"good boy," "bad boy," tossing him ~treats~ if he does something right--is now facing off with Gordon, who is both enamored with the attention he's getting but utterly pissed off by the fact Benrey is trying to stop him from doing what he wants.

losing it at the tables being turned and now gordons the annoying fucker getting up in benreys business all the time and never leaving him alone. he deserves this

> They're basically both unmovable objects and unstoppable forces. Benrey is stubborn and isn't going to give up all his sweet PS3 time because Gordon won't stop humping his leg, and Gordon is not going to give up his God given right to make Benrey his property. But Benrey isn't completely averse to the idea of being Gordon's bitch. He just wants to be his bitch on his own terms.

> So, in a surprising show of... well, intelligence on Benrey's behalf, he starts redirecting Gordon's energy towards what HE wants Gordon to do.

> That's how you handle misbehaving dogs anyway. You redirect their energy. That's what all the books on dog training says anyway, and Benrey's inclined to believe it because he's read it in all two books on the subject he casually flipped through.

> So, when Gordon starts getting in his space, he starts redirecting him to touch where he wants touched. "Good boy." When Gordon starts getting a little rough, he purposefully positions himself so he gets the most out of it. "Good boy." When Gordon's licking his face, he starts trying to guide that tongue down to his neck. Feels better there. "Good boy."

> Because he's not a complete idiot. Him and Gordon both know this is sexually charged at this point. And Gordon... Gordon can bend his behaviors a little bit as he's being directed if he still gets to do what he wants (in a way), and Benrey still gets to be fondled by the nerd.

> "But part of the problem is that he is in Benrey's space all the time!" Yeah, but Benrey figured that out, too. You know what shuts up Gordon real fast? Pushing him back down on the other end of the couch and telling him to stay. And if he listens, he slowly, carefully hand feeds Gordon a treat as a reward. Pushing it into his mouth, making sure it goes all the way in. Letting Gordon lick the last bits of taste off of his fingers. He usually sits still after that. "Good boy."

i have a thought thats almost unrelated but im so desperate to give this scenario the proper context

thinking about......gordon getting out of black mesa and hes still dogboy.....and hes attempting to go back to life as normal now that benreys out of his hair for ever but one day his pupy nose catches That Fucking Smell on the air and he realizes that benreys not fucking dead. he thought benrey was fucking dead, b/c he killed him

gordon freeman losing his mind for a solid week or two trying to hunt that smell down (why?? to prove a point?? to try to kill benrey again??? uh huh.) and then when he does hunt benrey down, its like.....well, what was the plan, bud? you found him, and now youre having a staredown outside a 7/11 while benreys frozen halfway through his big gulp

i literally forgot what i was typing b/c dogy gordon tum y rub b gtfhgbb ggfabgbbg

and.....well......he doesnt know exactly what his game plan was, but he does know that benrey cant be trusted as far as u can throw him, and hes not about to let benrey wreak havoc on new mexico if he can help it, so now his new hobby is......tracking benrey across the city to keep an eye on him

and thats how they keep ending up in close proximity

and thats how u start looping in the whole role reversal thing.....suddenly gordons the one that benrey cant shake......hes a bloodhound and hes got the scent

SORRY im SORRY i crave context with the same ferocity that i crave, like, air

and then they start roughhousing when gordon tackles him to the ground one day to stop him from doing.....something......and gordon snaps being to being a normal person so quickly afterwards that its dizzying. turns out a solid 80% of what he really wanted was a sparring buddy

> good afternoon everyone this is not horny in the slightest but i just wanted to say- you know that thing dogs do where they get REALLY excited and playful when you come home from a long day at work? well i’m just thinking about. y’know how benrey has a tendency to just, vanish for a while and come back like nothing happened? think it’d be cute if he were gone for a particularly long stretch of time b4 catching up with the science team again and gordon RESPONDS in his typical annoyed, bratty fashion while his body language is saying something completely different (he still hasn’t mastered the art of puby)

> like, u know, tail wagging a hundred miles a minute, ears perked up and attentive, subconsciously getting all up in benrey’s space

Im going to Cry thats so fucking cute wtf wtf wt ff

still going insane thinking about the “good boy” thing......like...... its all fun and games until hes grappling his best friend benrey and hes got benrey in a headlock and hes plastered against benreys back from head to toe and his tails thumping excitedly against the floor and hes panting hot and harsh right against benreys ear and benrey takes that moment, right there, to choke out "good boy"

its half outright horny and half power play b/c benreys banking that either theyre gonna fuck or gordons gonna let go and be like "what the fuck, man" and then benrey can get the drop on him again

the way gordon just goes stiff after he says it.....breath getting shaky.....dick twitching once against benreys ass and the guy can fucking feel it clear as day......Augh

his tail slows.....and then fires right back up again when he tentatively rocks his hips against benreys ass and feels the sound benrey makes more than he hears it......and like for fucks sake theyve been dancing around how horny their roughhousing sessions are for weeks, this guy deserves to finally get his rocks off by dry humping benreys ass while benreys getting spots in his vision from how tightly gordons got his arm wrapped around his neck. he deserves this

gordons free hand slowly opening up and pressing flat against benreys shirt, then crawling under it so that he can feel the bare skin of his stomach......rocking his hips against the dip between benreys cheeks and whimpering when benrey says it again, breathless and hoarse. "good boy." his tongue poking out to lick a broad, wet stripe up the side of benreys neck to taste the salt and sweat and the hormones, jesus christ, hes never been able to taste if somebodys horny before but its rolling off of him in waves.......and gordons breath comes out so loud and harsh and desperate when benreys leg lifts up a little bit for him to slot his own between them more easily

just mumbling stupid horny shit like "fuck benrey, you taste so good" while his tongue lolls out of his mouth and he licks the curve of benreys ear and rolls benrey onto his stomach b/c something in the back of his brain is whispering to him that it would be a really, really good idea, and hes originally got benrey just crushed flat against the floor with his full body weight but benrey takes a rattling breath and tells him to ease up, get up offa him.....

and gordons confused at this point b/c he was pretty sure this was where this was going, he was being a good boy, but that thought doesnt last very long b/c benreys shuffling into position under him, raising his hips and pushing gordons up with him while his face and torso are flat against the floor, and, Oh. hes. hes doing that. this is what theyre fucking doing now

> gordon taking the collar of benrey’s shirt in his mouth in an crude imitation of scruffing him

every fucking bone in gordons body is telling him to move his hips, fuck benrey stupid, bury himself to the hilt, but he cant do that when theyre both still clothed so he does the next best thing and ruts against benrey like he fucking means it and like if he just tries hard enough, gets enough friction, itll be just like fucking him for real......

hes so dizzied by looping thoughts of he wants this, he wants you to mount him, like youre a filthy fucking animal, arent you? you sick fuck, you wanna mark him and breed him and hed let you, hed beg you for it, look, hes doing it right now and when he comes back down to earth, yeah, benrey is begging right now, isnt he. while hes palming at the front of his sweatpants and whimpering and calling gordon a good boy, attempting to tug his pants down to his knees so gordon can rut against bare flesh, and gordon slows down just enough to let him do it and to fumble open his own zipper to ease some of the agonizing pressure

gordon fumbling his dick out of his underwear to line it up between benreys fat cheeks and god, the feeling of skin against skin is so much fucking better than chafing against his jeans that it makes him growl against benreys neck and benrey cant pump his fucking dick fast enough. hes so encouraging, what with all those little sounds hes making and the way hes arching his back and pressing his hips up as high as theyll go, groaning into the crook of his arm "fuckin, fuck me, bro, j-just like that"

> thinking...... they both get so lost in it, they both can’t hold back long enough to fuck for real. this is too hot, benrey feels something hot and wet on his ass and gordon is curling into him. benrey’s never felt so simultaneous turned on and frustrated that he’s still empty, he’s still gonna have to wait, snd ironically that denial pushes him over too

GOD yes fuckin. coming on his ass b/c gordons so frantic and desperate that he cant wait...... but seeing his cum all over benreys ass is deeply satisfying in its own way. he smears it deep into benreys skin to mark him like that

> oh hey imma be nasty sorry but Gordon all cum-high just sort of manouvering Benrey until he can start licking his cock clean bc he likes to uh. i mean benrey's all wet and you know. he likes it. and benrey comes from that, before he can even think about sucking him off properly

> he doesnt have a thought left in his head at the moment... and can u blame him? so he just uh follows he nose....... and benrey's brain is deleted except for "GORDON FREEMAN ON MY DICK????????" bouncing around like a screensaver yes

> yeah he's not even trying to suck him off really, hes not gotten that far yet cuz hes so cumbrained, gone stupid, etc

im gonna be gross here too okay......and like. fucking. huffing and burying his nose into the crook of benreys thighs b/c he smells so intensely like sex and sweat and it makes gordon lightheaded

> YEAAH maybe he starts licking there before he gets up to his dick. it's not like he's dragging it out really so it's not long but benrey's gaping like a fish. he's trying to say something sorta but he can't get any words out and isn't even sure what he himself is trying to say

maybe he cant help himself and he just starts licking and biting on impulse b/c its your resident fuckin thigh guy here and i think benrey deserves to get em chomped like a drumstick

> and then that's gordon's tongue on his dick, bro and this neurotic mf looking so pleased and blissed out as he sloppily licks him all over is a sight he couldn't have even cooked up in his imagination before now

> benrey not coherently enough to warn him he’s like right there, his babbling incoherently at the tease of gordon’s nose and lips is gonna make him- and then his Tounge darts out and it’s over, the start of the end and he’s spurting all over gordon’s completely surprised face without even being jerked or licked through it

> maybe since gordon's been so stressed and keyed up for so long that benrey coming is a surprise but still doesn't shock him enough to clear the cumbrain, so he licks ben clean after that too, while he's twitching and whimpering etc

> think that benrey massive meat being useless and barely even touched is hip and rad even in the context of him technically being in the higher position of power

> then rests his head on beny's belly for a while, feeling very accomplished and tired. he'll panic later, don't worry

god im still thinking about. pillow humping/voyeurism

gordon freemans a bad fucking dog and sometimes he cant help himself and just starts rutting into a pillow with his ass up and his face buried in one of benreys undershirts while hes just panting and mumbling shit the whole time about benrey, benrey, benrey, why is he so fucking obsessed with benrey and with thinking about mounting him just like hes doing to his poor abused pillow every week

and. you know. maybe one day......benrey kind of.....catches him in the act. i think that would be cool. just coming home one day and cracking open his bedroom door and seeing gordon freeman on all fours, his teeth sunk deep into one pillow and another pillow between his thighs, desperately fucking it while hes groaning benreys name b/c he sure as shit was not expecting him back that early, which is why his cumbrain made him feel confident enough to crawl into benreys bed and roll around in it and mainline benreys scent from his clothes and nut on his pillow (and then feel fucking bad about it and frantically try to clean it off)

and benrey just slooowly steps back with his heart pounding out of his chest for possibly the first time in his whole life b/c he did not think gordon freeman ever wanted to fuck him, but here he is, using benreys pillow as an imitation of the real thing and jerking off in his bed

just turns right the fuck back around and goes into the bathroom and splashes some water on his face and stares down at his sudden boner

THANKS FOR READING ALL OF THIS B/C THIS ISNT EVEN GETTING INTO THE PISS STUFF THAT WEVE OBVIOUSLY BEEN THINKING ABOUT. SORRY FOR BEING LIKE THIS

#asky #writin stuff

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oohnoniall · 3 years ago

Text

A Court of Fire and Ice {Tamlin x OC} - Chapter 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Warnings: Tamlin is being portrayed as he is in ACOMAF and ACOWAR. Trigger warnings include fantasy violence, misogyny, swearing, and Tamlin being an uncontrollable rage beast (no domestic violence !!)

He felt as though he could hear the clanging of blades from the safety of his office. He could certainly hear her shouting at herself whenever she made a mistake through the bond. He wondered who in the hell had thought hearing each other would be a good idea. It had just kept him from signing what documents he had needed to.

He realized that he could not concentrate, not as he wanted to. Slowly, he made his way to the window. Peering out to see her, standing with his guards. Those that had been told to protect Feyre, to protect Rosehall. He had no idea how she had managed to convince them to allow her to train with them. He didn't know how she had learned when they trained.

Though they were far from the house, he could still see her rather well. His sight was more advanced than any mere mortal's. He slightly wondered if it was more than a normal Fae's. Did the beast give him additional advantages? It wasn't something he liked to ponder. He would rather keep that side of him locked away. He didn't want anyone knowing that his family had been right.

He was nothing but a beast.

Lyriel, however, looked almost god-like as she stood in the middle of the circle. Her undone hair whipping wildly around her face, her eyes staring daggers into one of his men. A dagger in one hand and a sword in the other. He wondered briefly if she had trained to use her blades however she could. Or if she just liked how pointy they were.

She lunged then, using the dagger to catch the guard off guard. He barely managed to get away, a slight nick appearing on his neck. Lyriel did not stop, her movements a deadly dance. She would block with her dagger or use it to create a distraction while using the sword to attack. Where in the hell had Kallias been hiding this woman? This weapon.

Surely there was a reason for her brutality, the war that was brewing in her pine eyes. Her past was a mystery to him.

He wanted it to remain so.

Still, there was beauty in her destruction. He noticed how she breathed as she moved. Exhaling with a lunge, keeping her spine straighter than the sword she held in her hand. He wondered what it would take for her to break. Would he even want to see that?

The guard managed to land a blow, his blade slicing into her left bicep.

A growl began to form in Tamlin's stomach, his body reacting to the idea of another man harming the one person that he was meant to protect. He shoved it down. As far down as he possibly could. Yet, the slightest sound escaped him. At least it hadn't been a roar.

He had no way of explaining that. A growl at least could have been his displeasure at the woman going against his instruction.

"Tam."

The voice made him start. How in the hell had he missed them coming into the office? How long had they been watching him? His focus on Lyriel was far too distracting.

Tamlin turned then, his green eyes narrowing as he looked over at Lucien. His friend was trying to hide a smirk. Trying and failing. And humans thought that the Fae were a tricky bunch. They were just assholes who could barely hide their amusement. Especially when it came to those they cared for.

"Yes, Lucien?" He questioned, moving to sit back at his desk. The picture of the High Lord that everyone wanted to see. Just not what he had thought it would be.

"We've received word from Cariaru," he stated casually as he moved to sit in the chair across from Tamlin. His legs went over the side, his metal eye roaming around the room as though he were looking for secrets. For the truths that Tamlin was hiding from everyone.

"And?" Tamlin set up just a bit. His eyes lighting with a hint of excitement. Cariaru had been their insight into the Night Court ever since they had been freed from Under the Mountain. Her mate was one of Rhysand's inner circle. It had been an opening that they had all deemed somewhat worthy.

After all, her mate did not seem interested in anyone but Rhysand's blonde cousin.

"Rhys hasn't said a word about Feyre," Lucien casually looked towards the window, his metal eye stopping there. "But he is reaching out to other Lords. No doubt trying to do something to repair his reputation. Is Lyriel training?"

"We'll let him be," he sighed softly, his hair falling into his eyes as he shook his head once. Getting Feyre out of whatever deal the two had made was much more important to him than Rhysand making amends or attempting to. They all knew what Rhys had done. What he was probably going to continue doing if he was given the chance. "Yes, I don't know who in the hell told her when they meet."

"This is what happens when you steal soldiers. They tend to train." Lucien almost grinned at his friend, a twinkle in his russet eye. "Now, why did you steal her? Don't give me that emissary shit. She's no courtier."

"That's all this is, Lucien." He did not find it hard to lie to his best friend. He knew that he should. He knew that he should hate himself for not sharing this with someone. But he just couldn't. He couldn't let anyone know about the horrible truth. He didn't want Feyre, most of all, to realize that they would never be a mated pair. They could love each other, they always would, but he would never be the man that was meant for her.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was him being controlling. He didn't know. He didn't really care either. He and Feyre had been through the worst. No one else in this world could possibly understand what they had gone through.

After all, no one else had stabbed him through the heart before.

"Of course it is," his friend's eyes narrowed, a smirk playing on his face. If it were not for the scar on his face, Tamlin was certain that Lucien would have been the one that made people stop and stare. He still did. Just not for the reasons Tamlin wanted. "You were about to jump through the window when I came in. Did someone hurt her?"

Lucien was too perceptive for his own good. It made Tamlin's stomach hurt. How would he explain this? How in the hell had he been careless enough to let Lucien figure this whole thing out? It didn't seem fair that he was struggling this hard. After everything, it should have been a closed book. The happily ever after should have played out. Instead, it seemed as though life was determined to drag out the difficulties. It seemed as though he was taking blow after blow.

"No," he was lying too much. He knew it would start to appear in his scent if he kept this damn thing out. "I'm just annoyed that she ignored me."

"She's not your soldier, Tam."

"She's in my court. That should count for something." Shouldn't it?

"Something tells me that Lye listens to herself and no one else." The grin on his face was enough to make Tamlin's stomach twist in a very unpleasant way. Had something happened between the pair? Or was he just overreacting?

"Lye?" His eyebrow twitched up slightly. "Since when do you have nicknames for strangers?"

Lucien shrugged his broad shoulders. "She's not that strange. Besides, if she's going to be here for a while we might as well be friendly."

The way he said it made Tamlin see red. He knew that Lucien would not do anything if he asked him to. But the thought that his friend might be looking at her at all made him want to kill him. Damn possessiveness. He had thought he was bad enough when it came to Feyre. But this was something new entirely.

Even when Lucien had tried to kill Feyre, he had not been this upset. Although, that was also before he had fallen in love with the woman. The whole thing was a little convoluted and he didn't like to think of it too much.

"Not too friendly, Lucien," he tried to sound casual, less tense as he spoke. "I don't need a child running around Rosehall just yet." He wanted to throw up as the words left his mouth. He hoped that his face did not give anything away.

"Calm down, Tamlin," he laughed lightly, brushing off whatever mood that his friend may have been in. "You know that I'm not that type of man."

He shoved down the feelings of anger that were building in him, the feeling of his claws pressing against his fingernails. Keeping them inside hurt him more than he ever could explain. He didn't know why. His beast form had been so close to the surface for years, constantly fighting it back. Fighting to keep it down, keep it repressed. Just like everything.

The Spring Court was beautiful but that didn't stop demons from plaguing his mind.

You're yelling, the voice spoke before he had any chance to respond to Lucien. It's not helping my concentration.

I'm not concerned about your concentration right now.

You should be. I almost skewered one of your men.

He tried to keep his face neutral, but one of his brows ticked up just slightly. He played it off by coughing, although he was certain that Lucien was staring at him as though he had just murdered someone in front of him. That or he could see the very voice that was inside of his head.

Could Lucien do that? He knew the metal eye could see more than they knew, but surely it could not penetrate the mind. But what if? What if Lucien was drawing this out? What if he knew all along about this whole situation but had kept it to himself?

"Send word to Cariaru," he coughed once more, trying to hide the tension in his voice. "I want more info on Rhysand's movements. Tell her to keep up with that shadowsinger as well. We haven't heard shit about him since she left us."

It frustrated him that they knew next to nothing about those in Rhysand's court. They knew his two cronies, Azriel and Cassian, but they didn't know enough. Not about their movements. Not about their plans. If this girl was the one way they could get that information, he would use her for all that she was worth. He just hoped they could bring her home before she wound up getting caught.

Even she would not be able to hide from her mate forever.

"She might be unwilling to give us any information about him," Lucien spoke gently, the truth of it was it might be more dangerous to spy on Azriel than it was to spy on Rhysand.

"She'll do it. For the Spring Court," he said with a slight nod of his head. Even if he knew that he was potentially sending her to her death. He had faith in the girl. He knew she wouldn't get in over her head. At least, he hoped that she wouldn't.

His conscious couldn't take any more failures.

"I'll send word," Lucien moved to stand, his eyes roving to the window again. "Lyriel seems capable."

Lucien turned on his heel and slipped out of the room without being dismissed. Tamlin wondered if he did that just to be annoying or if he had more pressing matters to attend to. Keeping an eye on their spy was somewhat important after all. Even if he did not think it should be the most important thing in the world right now.

After all, he was in his own personal hell and no one seemed to notice. Well, no one but the woman who seemed to be in his mind. He had always thought he would never have to deal with that part of a bond. His parents had certainly never acted as though they could hear each other.

It had to be another curse from the Mother. This whole thing seemed to be designed as a hell for Tamlin Rosehall. It made him sick to know that he had no chance of figuring any of this out. If he did, maybe he wouldn't be so pissed about the whole situation.

Tamlin tried to focus on his correspondence once more, his eyes blurring as the words poured from his pen. Words weren't easy to come by. He'd been good at lewd poetry, but that had never translated to giving the other Lords updates about the Spring Court. Nor was he good at telling anyone he needed anything. There was a lot he would rather keep to himself. His dealings in his Court was one thing he wanted to keep to himself.

He didn't need anyone knowing that he was still trying like hell to rebuild. Didn't want them to know that he was struggling to keep the people's faith in him.

The only thing that kept the faith anymore was Feyre. It was another reason why he had to keep her safe, keep her protected. If he lost her he would lose himself. And the support of his people.

It made him sick just to think of it.

He blinked slowly, his eyes focusing on the words that had bled through the pages. When he didn't focus, he often forgot his own strength. When he allowed himself to fall into his thoughts he often forgot that he was stronger than most. That he needed to focus just to keep from breaking everything. Tamlin hated this. Hated being so different from everyone.

It was a far cry from the life he had once dreamed of. He would never get to play the fiddle in a traveling band. But perhaps he would be able to play more often now. Things were calming down. Although, he was certain that Hybern would not allow the slaying of their greatest general to go unpunished.

He supposed it was luck that the fae were so slow to change, to revenge. There was more time to plan, more time to figure out how to keep his people safe. Even if just thinking about it made him sick to his stomach.

A soft grunt brought him out of his thoughts. The scent of evergreen, frozen berries, and blood filled the room, making something within him roar with the need to protect, to hold. To do something that would risk everything that he had built. He had to stifle that voice, had to shove it as far down as he possibly could. If only to keep his Court from falling into shambles.

"How did you find out about training?" Tamlin questioned without looking up from his letters.

"I just stuck around the barracks." She slid into the seat that Lucien had been in only an hour before. "Your general seemed amused to see a woman fighting."

He looked up at her then, taking in her hair that was windswept. He could see the tangles, the small braids at her temple to keep some of it back. Her brow was dotted with sweat, her pulse beating rapidly enough to make him shift in his seat. There were purple bags underneath her eyes, she looked at though she had not slept. Despite this, her eyes were bright. The joy was something he had not seen from her before. Something he doubted he would see many times in their lives. The cut on her bicep had healed, nothing but a pink line on her snow-like skin.

She did, however, have another cut on her left cheek that was still freely bleeding.

Tamlin wanted to find the man who had done it to her. He wanted to find him and rip him limb from limb. How dare he lay a single finger on Lyriel? How dare anyone touch her without his express permission? Even if he would never give it to anyone.

"You shouldn't be fighting," he repeated his words from the night before. "How long were you at the barracks?"

"As soon as you left me last night." Lyriel shrugged her shoulders casually as she relaxed in the chair. "I doubted anyone would go against your wishes."

"Yet you did."

"You're not my High Lord," she pointed out with a quirk of her lips. "Besides, I thought I might keep things interesting between us. It'll help keep us from ... Accepting things."

He could tell that she felt awkward just speaking those words. He knew that he felt the same way. He didn't want to deal with the beast inside of him but neither did he wish to deal with the thought of Lyriel. He would pick the beast over her any day.

"You're still a guest in my Court," he pointed out with a sigh. Tamlin wondered if that meant anything to her. "That does mean you need to act with a bit of decorum. Or respect."

It was the way that she shrugged her shoulders that made the smile burst from his lips. She had an air that he didn't know if he liked or not, but it was definitely amusing. More than it should have been.

"Honestly, you can't expect me to change myself. You're marrying someone else, I'm going back to the Winter Court soon enough. I don't see any of this going the way it's supposed to." Her words were far less amusing than her actions.

"How is supposed to go?" He prayed to the Mother she didn't say a damn word about his wedding. How could that be wrong? He and Feyre belonged together. The curse wouldn't have broken otherwise.

"According to the Mother and the Cauldron and whoever else decided to fuck us," Lyriel began to play with one of the daggers that lined her body. He briefly wondered how many she had. "We're supposed to be the ones that are ... Involved." Her brow furrowed as she spoke, forming a crease between what he assumed would have been her eyebrows. They were so light that he wondered if they had ever grown.

Had Kallias faced this same issue? Why was he focused so much on her eyebrows? The imperfection of them reminded him that she was real. Not just a figment of his imagination.

"You do know you can use the proper words, right?" Tamlin looked away from the crease and her not-there eyebrows. He looked instead into her eyes. The green that was a weird mix of light and dark. Iced over and yet fierce enough to burn him if she tried to do so.

"That makes it far too real." Lyriel shifted once in her seat, the scent of blood becoming stronger as she moved.

His stomach lurched with the urge to protect her, to bind her wound and make damn sure that no one would ever get that close to her again. Even if he knew that it was stupid. They were not going to do anything of the sort. Risking what he had built was not his intention. He knew that Lyriel was not worth it. Even if she was a high-ranking member of the Winter Court, no one could beat Feyre.

Feyre's light shone brighter than any of theirs. He knew that she would outshine all of them for the rest of her life. He just hoped that he would get to be the one to stand beside her.

He would be. He didn't care what he had to do to make sure of it.

"What do you expect me to do, Lyriel?" Tamlin sighed softly as he looked away from her, not daring to show her how much he was contemplating his decisions. Or how much he wasn't. "Throw the Cursebreaker away? I can't do that."

"Because you love her or because your Court needs her?" She knew how to cut him to the core. He wondered if she did this with everyone or if it was just because of the bond they were supposed to share.

"Both," he would not lie about this. There was no reason. "She sacrificed herself to save me. Surely you understand that."

"I do." The way she said it made him think that she did not. "I just don't quite understand why I'm here."

"A show of good faith?" Tamlin did not believe his own words for a moment. "Kallias wouldn't have been pleased if the Winter Court had been excluded from the festivities."

"He wouldn't have given a shit."

"Have you spoken to him?" If she had, maybe there was more use in having her stick around.

She shifted once more, clearly uncomfortable with the question. "My Lord may give us orders from time to time but that doesn't mean I speak to him."

So that was out of the question. What good was she if she could not even guarantee him the Winter Courts favor? Why did he need her around? He didn't know the answer to his questions. But he knew that he could not just throw her away. Not until he figured out how to rid himself of this bond. For good.

"Go clean yourself, Lyriel." He did not watch as she slipped out of the room. He didn't want to see her leave.

12 notes · View notes

themurphyzone · 4 years ago

Text

PatB Oneshot: Eurydice

Summary: An alternate scenario for the Halloween episode, loosely based on the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice. Mr. Itch strikes a different deal with Brain. If Brain can make it to the surface world without looking at Pinky, the contract will be voided and Pinky’s soul will be returned. And failure is not an option.

Beginning AN: I posted this idea on Discord a month ago and I’ve wanted to write this scenario ever since. I love the Halloween ep so much…so how about some whump? I am not kind to our favorite mice at all, just a heads up. Also there is a serious lack of fics over the Halloween ep. It's prime material for angst.

Big shout out to @plutonis who listened to me cry over torturing these poor mice over DM.

FFN Link

Contract

I, the Brain, hereby agree to a challenge against Mr. Itch, Proprietor of Wayward Souls and Master of Hell, in which the winner shall receive Pinky’s soul. Should Brain win this challenge against all impossible odds, Pinky’s previous contract in which he agreed to submit himself to hell’s eternal torments in exchange for Brain’s dominion over the surface world shall be voided and destroyed, and he may return to the surface world with Brain. Additionally, Brain agrees to forfeit his royal claim on the world and is prohibited from future attempts at global conquest for the remainder of his days.

Challenger Signature: The Brain

Drafter Signature: Mr. Itch

*Mr. Itch reserves the right to set the terms of the challenge at his leisure.

o-o-o-o-o

He’d been too hasty in signing the contract. The combination of brimstone and heat had to be affecting his decision-making process.

It’s not about Pin– the food pellets, he told himself. Absolutely not.

But it was too late. His signature was burned into the page. Five blood-red letters would determine Pinky’s fate.

And even if…no, he couldn’t afford an if…when he succeeded in rescuing Pinky, he’d have to give up the world. He wouldn’t even be able to try and earn his crown, scepter, and throne through his own merits.

Without the nightly ambitions, Pinky might…wish to find a different associate.

Brain’s entire purpose would be gone. Forever.

He didn’t listen to the convoluted, nonsensical legalese that Mr. Itch’s lawyers provided. There was no need to provide metaphors or explain the situation further.

Brain understood the gist.

No matter the outcome, he would fail. And this time, the consequences were permanent.

“Think of it, Brain,” Mr. Itch sneered, and Brain hated that cocky, self-assured expression that put even the best car salesman in the world to shame. Mr. Itch waved his hand, and a sick, twisted parody of a game show appeared behind him. “You can walk away now and rule the world…or you can risk it all and try to get Pinky back.”

Brain’s vision blurred as he was forcibly thrust onto a tall podium. A spotlight illuminated him, and the demons clamored for his choice.

A tall demoness cheerfully indicated two panels to the studio audience of hell’s denizens. One depicted Brain on top of the world in royal regalia. He could have power to change the world. Admiration from the populace. Endless wealth so they could have the finest things life had to offer.

But the other panel was a portrait of Pinky. Just a misleading, goofy portrait of a smiling Pinky that belied the high stakes of Brain’s contract.

He was chafing under the spotlight. But why? He was king, he was emperor, with everyone at his beck and call! He shouldn’t be afraid of a little spotlight!

Except he wasn’t any of those things here. Just a mouse who’d failed to notice his associate signing his own soul away.

The demons clamored. Brain gripped the podium, vulnerable and ripe for humiliation, for several…seconds? Minutes? Hours?

His voice wasn’t working. He needed his voice, didn’t he? But he could only stammer like a fool. Perspiration built on his fur, and he nearly slipped off the podium, his palms damp and clammy. He didn’t know if it was the heat or the anxiety, but everyone was waiting for his choice.

“Save Pinky!”

“No, the world!”

“Go for cash!”

The demons jeered in a harsh, guttural cacophony. Brain was sure he would’ve been covered in fresh produce and popcorn if they’d had any available. Anything to amplify his current indignity.

He wanted Pinky. He wanted the world. He couldn’t have both.

But in the end, there was hardly a choice at all.

Ruling the world without Pinky by his side wasn’t worth the castle, the riches, the statues. Institutes of higher learning named in his honor, policies with his seal of approval, ethical practices in scientific fields to enforce…but what good were they to him?

His castle would just be a gilded cage. Sparkling and clean and mighty for all his subjects to behold from afar, but its interior would only contain a gloomy king without an associate, a confidant…

And a kindred spirit.

All or nothing. He had to try. Who knows? Pinky might’ve done the same for him.

“I’ll try to save Pinky!” Brain shouted, forcing the words past his throat and into the unforgiving outside world.

He wasn’t prepared for Pinky to spring onto the podium. That mindless simpleton was grinning from ear to ear like he was just being called to the stage in The Price is Right! Didn’t Pinky realize his soul was in peril?

“Oh, Brain! My hero!” Pinky snatched Brain up in an enthusiastic hug. Brain stiffened and tried not to think about the hand currently rubbing his head, and how he would never feel it again if he failed his quest.

They were also surrounded by an unfriendly sort. They would believe this saccharine display was a weakness if Brain allowed Pinky to indulge these childish needs.

He shoved Pinky off, holding him at arm’s length for a moment so Pinky would take the hint.

“…so he can show me where the food pellets are,” Brain added hastily.

That was all Pinky was needed for.

To show him where the necessities laid.

A hellish fanfare played, saving Brain pondering those terrifying thoughts.

An enormous fiery plume burst onto the stage, then dissipated to reveal Mr. Itch. He conjured a microphone and bowed heartily at the thunderous applause.

“Ladies and demons, we have something very special for your entertainment on this fantastic Halloween night. I trust you’re aware of our newest resident and his…well, can I even call him a friend? He didn’t lift a finger to stop me when I claimed Pinky.”

Brain stared down at his hands to avoid the harsh, mocking glares. This was just the opening act. Mr. Itch was hyping up the crowd for Brain’s ultimate failure.

Mr. Itch strolled around the stage, each movement radiating confidence of a self-assured victory. “Yes, he enjoys having that ultimate power. A glorious statue, his rival in the race for world domination now a lowly jester in court, his name praised on every street corner! Isn’t that a dream come true? And yet...he chose to come into my realm and make demands. Like the world wasn’t enough for him.”

Because Pinky wasn’t there to make the world enough.

A hiss of smoke sprung up by Brain’s foot. He bit his tongue, wondering if part of the challenge was running on hot coals or avoiding random ember spurts. At this point, it seemed very likely. His feet probably wouldn’t survive the night.

In the unlikely scenario that the rest of his body survived of course.

And something wet landed on his toe. Wet? There wasn’t anything wet about hell, unless one counted the boiling lakes. But it evaporated into steam before he could fully process the cool reprieve.

Then he heard it.

A whimper.

From Pinky.

A tear trailed down Pinky’s cheek.

“Pinky?” Brain asked quietly, trying to keep his eyes trained on Mr. Itch, who was currently recapping the tale of Brain’s disastrous attempt at Broadway to the raucous audience. Not one of Brain’s finest moments, but he couldn’t dwell on that now. Better for them to laugh over what was past and done, rather than drawing their attention here.

Pinky clutched his tail in a death grip. Steam leaked under his eyes and around his cheeks, his entire face damp with tears.

“He’s saying awful things.”

Even with their proximity, Brain had to strain his ears to hear Pinky’s voice.

“Don’t bawl, Pinky,” Brain whispered, hoping by some off-chance that the verbal comfort would be enough. “Don’t cry. Not here. Not now. Don’t…don’t be foolish.”

He didn’t know if the reassurance was meant for Pinky or himself. With a trembling hand, Brain reached for Pinky’s back, shuffling closer to make the motion less conspicuous.

But Pinky moved away before Brain could touch him.

“They have to know, Brain,” Pinky said. His voice was far too calm. “I can’t let him tell those awful lies about you.”

Pinky tried to balance on the edge of the podium, but Brain grabbed him by the tail and hauled him off. But Pinky was stubborn, and he tried again.

“Let him talk, you idiot!” Brain yelled, grabbing Pinky’s tail to knock him off-balance and buy some much needed time before Pinky foolishly tried again, oddly glad that Mr. Itch was enough of a showman to keep the attention away from them.

But Pinky’s huge pain threshold allowed him to recover far quicker than Brain would’ve liked. “Brain, let go of my tail!” Pinky shouted, trying to sweep his tail into a huge arc to dislodge Brain.

“Not until you do as you’re told, for once in your life!” Brain retorted, grasping the wriggling tail. He wouldn’t relinquish it.

Pinky was slippery though, and in one swift motion, he freed himself from Brain’s grip. Realizing he needed a more secure hold, Brain threw himself at Pinky’s right arm. Suddenly, the arm blurred, and Brain couldn’t stop his forward momentum in time. A sharp pain erupted on the side of his head and knocked him against a corner, his face throbbing painfully.

Through his daze, Brain pressed a hand against his cheek and winced at the tenderness. Hopefully it didn’t swell. Ice packs weren’t exactly a common item in this hostile environment.

Then he saw Pinky.

And Pinky was absolutely distraught. Smoke poured out his eyes at a more alarming rate than before. His blue eyes were tinged red. Pinky clutched his elbow with his other arm, squeezing as hard as he could to admonish it.

But it wasn’t necessary.

A microphone was thrust into Pinky’s face before Brain could tell him so.

“How could I forget our little stars of the show?” Mr. Itch asked, a sadistic grin stretching from ear to ear. “That was quite a scuffle there, Pinky. Can’t say I blame you. Revenge for all the times Brain’s bopped you on the head and insulted you?”

Pinky wiped his eyes in a pitiful attempt to get some semblance of dignity back as the demonic crew trained all their lights and cameras on him.

“N-no...” Pinky said weakly. “I mean, he can say mean things sometimes, but the bops-“

Mr. Itch shook his head in a show of mock sympathy. “Your friend-“ he curled his lip as if the word itself was cyanide “-called you a speckless nougat just before you signed my contract. He’ll take everything and give nothing. He’ll send you away only to ask for your services again because he can’t do the manual labor on his own. You’re a talented little guy, aren’t you? You’ve showed the moxie and the know-how to become a Broadway star or president of the good old USA. And instead of putting those gifts to use, you’ve been rotting inside a cage with a failure who leeches on your success.”

Failure.

One of the cameras trained its unforgiving lens on Brain. He shook away the remaining dizziness and stood up to get some semblance of dignity back. The demons booed and heckled him, but he tried to lift his head in defiance.

He wasn’t a failure. He ruled the world! His word was law, his brilliance unparalleled!

He had it all-

-only because Pinky sacrificed his soul for him. Pinky had taken drastic measures to prove himself when there had been nothing to prove, because Brain made Pinky believe he had to prove his usefulness.

He’d gained the world yet lost Pinky. It was failure.

Which meant he-

“Stop it,” Pinky begged. Brain’s thoughts came to a screeching halt, and he stepped away from Pinky before reminding himself that he was being illogical. Pinky didn’t have telepathy. He couldn’t have heard all that. But Pinky was glaring up at Mr. Itch with a ferocity Brain had never seen before.

In the span of a single night, Brain’s entire world had been shaken to its roots.

Mr. Itch raised an eyebrow. “Stop what?” he asked, placing his free hand on his chest like he’d been genuinely offended.

“Stop it! STOP CALLING BRAIN ALL THOSE NASTY MEAN HORRIBLE THINGS RIGHT NOW!” Pinky’s voice rose into a fevered pitch, his fur bristling along his spine.

This was wrong. This was so very wrong. Pinky wasn’t supposed to be the angry one.

Before Brain could stop him, Pinky leapt off the podium and landed on the microphone to the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ of the lesser demons, and even Mr. Itch seemed too stunned by the maneuver to shake Pinky off.

“Pinky, cease immediately!” Brain yelled once he managed to find his voice. “You’re being reckless!”

“I HAVE PLENTY OF RECKS, BRAIN!” Pinky screamed, tightly clinging to the microphone even though Mr. Itch was attempting to pry him off. ��CAUSE YOU’RE NOT A FAILURE OR A LEECH! YOU’RE A MOUSE!”

A comforting warmth spread through Brain’s chest at the affirmation, but he pushed those feelings aside. Pinky’s words meant nothing if Brain didn’t succeed with this rescue.

The audience was deathly quiet.

“Yes, Pinky,” Mr. Itch growled, trying to slip a finger under Pinky to dislodge him. But Pinky held on. “Let your friend talk. Let the cameras capture his selfishness. After all, his presence here just means he wasn’t grateful for your gift. That he wasn’t happy with your gift. As I said before, all he does is take, take, and take some more. What’s he ever done for you in return?”

But Brain had been grateful. For a short time anyway.

Until he realized his gratitude came from Pinky’s sacrifice. All of Pinky’s sacrifices that involved no benefit to himself.

Pinky mumbled something that had much of the audience leaning in eagerly, trying to hang onto every word.

Mr. Itch shrugged. “Well, if you have nothing else to say, then-“

But Pinky hauled himself on top of the microphone, clinging to it like a lifeline.

“Brain gave me my name! He gave me a chance to see the world! He gave me a chance to do things I never dreamed of doing before! I wouldn’t have met Pharfignewton otherwise! Or Winnie or Mr. Sultana or any of the other lovely people we met while trying to take over the world! Maybe Brain can be big-headed and a grump but he works super hard and he’s going to make the world a better place to live! And most importantly, he’s my best friend and nothing you say will ever change that!”

“Pinky…” Brain’s throat closed uncomfortably. It had to be the oppressive, stagnant air. What could he possibly say to Pinky’s emphatic speech?

Even the demons were moved. Some embraced their neighbors, others made sympathetic noises. There were a few who sat with their heads pressed against their knees in a futile attempt to staunch their tears.

He’d never been more grateful for Pinky’s charisma.

Mr. Itch took notice of his followers’ reactions. A vein seemed to pop in his head, his once casual, lazy posture now stiff and alert.

“Brain only kept you around because you were useful.” A dangerous edge crept into Mr. Itch’s tone. “That’s all there was to your so-called friendship.”

“NARF!” Pinky screeched in defiance.

It sounded all wrong. Fury and fear laced that familiar, irritating monosyllable. Brain didn’t know what narf meant, and he probably never would, but he was certain that narf wasn’t meant to be uttered in such a fashion.

“Narf!” a demon called.

Another demon stood up and pumped his fist. “Poit!”

“Troz! Egad! Narf! Zort!” The demons chanted Pinky’s favorite syllables like the world’s most demented cheering squad.

An inferno burned in Mr. Itch’s eyes.

“SILENCE!”

Mr. Itch’s snarl deepened into a guttural and unearthly roar, the entire netherworld quaking in outrage. The lesser demons hastily vacated their seats and cowered behind each other, large boulders, or whatever makeshift shields they could find.

The microphone and a tiny white body were hurled into the empty audience box, crashing into the metallic structure with enough force to leave an enormous dent.

There was no tic-filled laughter to accompany the harsh clang of his body impacting metal.

“PINKY!” Brain screamed, not caring that he tumbled more than climbed down the podium. He landed right on his throbbing cheek and got a mouthful of hot crimson dust for his trouble, but he couldn’t care less.

The physical tortures were just going to build up until Pinky’s body couldn’t handle it anymore. It didn’t matter that Pinky had a near-immunity to pain. Pinky’s body would break and he would never notice.

Brain spat out the dust and hurried over to Pinky, who feebly stirred next to the microphone.

Mr. Itch loomed above them, an ember casually lit on his finger. “You know what? That’s perfect,” he chuckled, and it was utterly devoid of good humor. “Absolute silence.”

Brain knelt on the hard ground next to Pinky, who only blinked up at him with those too-trusting blue eyes. Pinky raised a shaking hand, cupping it against the cheek he’d accidentally hurt.

“I’ve sustained worse injuries,” Brain said quietly. Despite the heat, he shivered at the touch. He wished Pinky wouldn’t comfort him. He didn’t deserve it. “You know that.”

Pinky opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Speak up, Pinky.” Brain tried to sound commanding, but his voice hitched instead. He couldn’t even keep up a thin illusion of normalcy.

Pinky tried again, but Brain still couldn’t hear him. Not even a cough or a wheeze from smoke inhalation. He wasn’t choking or flailing. There couldn’t be something lodged in his throat.

“He can’t speak, Brain,” Mr. Itch said. “He’s been silenced per our little agreement.”

Silenced?

Brain snatched the wrist gently cradling his cheek and felt for a pulse, and he couldn’t disguise his relieved sigh once he found it.

“C’mon, just what do you take me for? It’s not a euphemism. Takes all the fun outta the contract.”

“Just say narf, Pinky,” Brain pleaded as he shook Pinky’s shoulder, as if pleading in hell would accomplish anything useful. “Please say narf. Can’t you do that much?”

Pinky mouthed the syllable to no avail. He became teary all over again, his free hand feeling his throat as if trying to coax the narf out. His foot kicked out, yet it made no thump against the crimson rocks.

The demons murmured among themselves, and though they appeared sympathetic to Pinky’s plight, they were too frightened of their master to come any closer.

It was just as well. Brain didn’t want anyone to touch Pinky.

Brain tried to glare at Mr. Itch, but a mouse could never hope to be intimidating against a sadistic supernatural being.

“Don’t give me that look,” Mr. Itch scoffed. “The fine print of our contract lets me set the condition of the challenge. Pinky’s silence is my first condition. If anything, I’m doing you a favor. Awful noisy thing, isn’t he? No wonder you weren’t inclined to get back him back right away.”

Had this been a different situation entirely, Brain might’ve found it relieving that Pinky would have to be quiet for a while.

Cruel irony at its finest.

Pinky touched his nose against Brain’s own, and Brain tried not to think of how Pinky could comfort as easily with a touch as with words. Surely Pinky was just using tactile stimulation for his own peace of mind rather than Brain’s.

“And now for my second condition,” Mr. Itch smirked. He snapped his fingers, the sharp echo promising cruelty yet to come.

The gentle pressure of Pinky’s nose vanished, the feel of his wrist and shoulder gone. The whites, pinks, and reds of his body were now colorless, lifeless. His bright blue eyes faded into a pale, ghostly void. No pupils, no irises…just empty.

Brain tried to put a hand over Pinky’s heart, desperately wishing for the steady thrum he was so accustomed to. Yet his hand passed through Pinky’s chest like mist. It was neither cold nor hot, simply that there was nothing to feel.

Pinky reached for Brain’s face, looking at him with that strange, milky gaze. But his hand passed through the cheek he’d accidentally hurt, and Pinky’s chest heaved rapidly. He tried to grab his tail, as he always did when he was truly upset, but couldn’t.

No tears came out. Just several silent sobs.

Pinky was just a silent, sorrowful ghost of his former self. The loudest and happiest mouse Brain had ever known was reduced to this shadow, trapped within his mind, unable to engage with the world around him.

It was a horrible, undeserved fate for such a kindhearted mouse. There would be no release, not even from death, if Brain failed his challenge.

He had no choice but to win.

And even that was practically impossible.

“Pinky, I’m sorry…” The words tumbled out of Brain’s mouth before he could think of anything else to say.

Why wouldn’t his mind just work? I’m sorry? Like he’d done nothing more than eat the last food pellet? Sorry didn’t even begin to cut it!

Pinky floated instead of standing, feet skimming just above the ground. He gave Brain a tiny, reassuring smile. Of course he’d find something to smile about in his non-existent state. It probably should’ve annoyed Brain, but it was rather comforting to know that Pinky would always be Pinky.

Even so, the smile faded just as quickly as it came. Pinky couldn’t properly express his joy with narfs and poits and enormous embraces.

Then a fingersnap above his head reminded him of Mr. Itch’s presence.

“We’ve got business to discuss, Brain,” Mr. Itch said as he straightened his lapels. “You should know what your challenge consists of.”

In other words, Brain’s humiliation had hardly begun. But he’d do it. For Pinky’s sake.

Brain tried to hold his head high and show hell that he wasn’t afraid to defy their evil laws, but he couldn’t even find the strength to bring his ears up.

Another snap, and the microphone soared back to Mr. Itch. He twirled it with a showman’s flair and gestured for the audience to take their seats. The lesser demons obeyed, murmuring among themselves and pointing at the spectral Pinky. They didn’t seem pleased by Pinky’s complete silence.

“Ladies and demons, think of Brain’s challenge as an adaptation of an old Greek story,” Mr. Itch announced. “And I ain’t just talking about a watered-down Heracles here. No, this story isn’t about heroes slaying monsters. Rather, it’s a tragedy. The Greeks were masters of that particular craft, you see. A man goes on a quest, yet his fatal flaw always strikes him down in the end. I trust you’re quite familiar with the concept, Brain?”

Brain said nothing. No need to give them ammunition.

His temper and pride were the source of many failures. But there was nothing he could do except commit the same errors over and over again.

He should’ve known. It was only a matter of time before the ones he…tolerated suffered the consequences.

As if sensing his thoughts, Pinky wrapped his spectral arms around Brain’s shoulders. He couldn’t feel the saccharine display, and that fact pained him more than he cared to admit.

“Ever heard of cooperation?” Mr. Itch sighed. “You have the starring role in the show tonight. Give us something to work with, at least.”

Brain gritted his teeth. He’d had enough of this delay. “I’m through with this prolonged torture! Just get it over with already!” he shouted. “I refuse to be paraded around like a sideshow attraction!”

“Touchy,” Mr. Itch huffed in disdain. He turned back to the audience. “But I digress. Now, this tragedy involves a man who ventured into the depths of the underworld to retrieve his closest companion. He placated everyone with his music, including Hades himself. And because Hades was a total sap, he allowed the man to lead his companion back to the surface world.”

His arm swept out and a large stone staircase appeared. It spiraled and arched far above their heads, and Brain caught a glimpse of a starry sky hidden among the crimson stone.

Pinky belonged in the surface world, where the grass and horses and inanimate objects he had yet to befriend waited. And he was relying on Brain to bring him there.

Perhaps it was silly to reach for arms he couldn’t feel, but Brain placed his hands atop where Pinky’s fur should’ve been. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d voluntarily touched Pinky without hurting him.

Something to rectify if they made it through this trial.

“And that brings me to the final condition.” Before Brain could react, darkness engulfed his vision as he was plucked up into the air, his head squeezed by an unforgiving, burning hand. Brain bit the skin like it was just another day of rough handling by some careless scientist, but a fiery pain flooded his throat and he released the hand immediately. It felt like magma had crammed its way into his esophagus, and there was no lifegiving water to relieve him.

Then he was roughly deposited at the base of the stairs.

Brain tried to turn around, but Mr. Itch forced him to stare at the first brimstone step instead. The steps were several inches taller than him, though he could still reach the next step if he jumped high enough.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Mr. Itch scolded. “I wouldn’t do that if I were a pathetic mortal like you. In this little tale, Hades told the man he couldn’t look at his companion until they were both in the land of the living, lest she be lost to the underworld forever. For your challenge, I’ll be invoking that same clause.”

Brain resisted the urge to bite that supernatural conman’s fingers off. He would only wind up damaging his throat.

“I can hardly expect Pinky to follow me in the presence of distractors!” Brain protested. “He’s liable to find a stalactite interesting, or collect rocks, or do anything else other than-“

Mr. Itch only cackled, pillars of lava erupting alongside his cruelty.

And Brain remembered why the story was known as a tragedy.

The man looked at his companion just as they reached the surface world. Her soul was forever lost among the dead. Though he tried to reclaim her, the underworld wouldn’t release her again. And he spent the rest of his life mourning her loss.

Hell expected a faithful adaptation. They knew Brain would inevitably lose his temper and forget that he couldn’t look. They knew they’d be able to keep Pinky forever.

They knew.

Yet they put on this charade anyway.

Because false hope was the cruelest lie of all.

“Your challenge begins, Brain,” Mr. Itch declared, and the wicked fingers slowly released Brain’s head. “And remember, no looking at Pinky until you’re both in the surface world. But that’s a moot point, ain’t it? You’re bound to forget soon enough. At least try to go for most of the length before your undeniable failure, okay? We wouldn’t want the show to end too soon.”

Mr. Itch vanished in a puff of smoke.

Undeniable failure.

“I am not a failure,” Brain snarled to himself, more out of habit than belief. But his petulance at the phrase enabled him to climb five steps without pausing for breath.

And he didn’t require Pinky to boost him up! He climbed five steps by himself!

But that thought was banished as he climbed the sixth step. Pinky couldn’t physically boost him, nor provide mental fortitude. The adrenaline rush wore off quickly, and Brain’s feet dangled in the air as he tried to find a grip on the rocky outcropping. But he managed, albeit with difficulty. On the count of three, Brain heaved himself over the ledge.

He laid on the hot stone to catch his breath, face tucked under his hands so he wouldn’t see Pinky.

No words of encouragement. No strange tics. Nothing except the roar of lava, mockery, and his darkening thoughts.

Funny how one didn’t appreciate what they had until it disappeared. Pinky always lifted Brain, boosting him to higher places he couldn’t reach alone. It was something he’d always done, and Brain had let it slide out of practicality. Just treat the action like a living, portable stepstool. It was far better than expending more energy than required during plans.

In hindsight, would it have killed him to say thank you? Or at least nod in gratitude?

There was no time limit, but Brain stood up and dusted himself off, though the crimson dust would just attach itself to his fur all over again within seconds. It was impossible to shake off, and Brain wondered if he would ever be able to fully cleanse himself of it.

Taking a deep breath, Brain reached for a handhold above his head and hauled himself up.

Hand. Foot. Hand. Foot again. One more repetition. Start all over for the next stairstep.

It was a rhythm. Rhythms weren’t full of what-ifs or what could’ve beens. Concentrate on the rhythm. Nothing else mattered.

He had to keep moving. Keep climbing. It was better than sitting there and doing nothing. He couldn’t rest. He wouldn’t.

Hand. Foot. Hand. Foot.

Brain’s throat burned. His fur was slick with perspiration, though it only served as a method to lose precious water instead of cooling him off. His limbs trembled, and it was difficult to keep hold of the unforgiving stone.

But he’d only completed the first two spirals! There were still several more tiers left, and the starry sky seemed much further away than before.

“Pinky, if…if we make it out of here-”

Brain shuddered as he laid down to rest. His voice was raspy from the fumes and thirst, but he had to keep talking. Had to say something. Maybe Pinky would listen, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he wasn’t even in earshot.

“-if you want to leave…”

He trailed off, rubbing away teardrops that quickly evaporated into smoke. His chest ached, but he couldn’t say for certain that it caused by physical labor.

Brain couldn’t make an attempt at global conquest even if he succeeded. Pinky’s help would no longer be necessary.

Between the two of them, Pinky knew how to live. He knew how to talk to people, how to have fun, how to narf through his pathetic lot in life with a smile on his face.

Brain only knew survival. Maybe it was his former field mouse instincts that somehow bled into intellect. Maybe his primitive instincts weren’t as gone as he’d like to believe.

He would never be anything else but a lowly test subject. If someone decided to euthanize or feed him to a snake one day…well, it hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. Another mouse would take his place. And when that mouse died, it would be replaced again. And the progress would continue in the name of scientific progress.

Dying for science.

Yes, that’s how he’d meet his end.

But Pinky’s kindred spirit would touch others. Whether it was through an executive office, the lead role on Broadway, or even just helping a stranger on the street, he could do so many good things for the world around him.

The world would love Pinky back.

And if a solitary mouse in a lonely lab happened to turn on the TV and see his former associate surrounded by an adoring crowd, he would be happy to see the world has changed for the better.

So he had to keep going.

He had to try. Try to bring Pinky back to the surface world…and let him go. He shouldn’t keep anything he didn’t earn.

Hand. Foot. Hand. Foot.

The halfway point now.

Hand. Foot. Hand. Foot.

He miscalculated the distance to the top of the next step and reached too far. He lost his footing and plummeted several inches. Growling under his breath, Brain punched the unfeeling stone, though it only bruised his knuckles instead of making him feel better. Then he tried again.

And again. And again.

He couldn’t grasp these handholds! There was no logical reason why. They were approximately the same size and shape as all the other outcroppings! It shouldn’t be this difficult!

“Pinky, where are you when I need you? Cease your nonsense at once and help me!” Brain screamed, clutching the stone and closing his eyes so he wouldn’t see Pinky. Eight tries. Nine tries and counting. Why couldn’t he do something as simple as this?

But Pinky couldn’t help. It was useless to ask.

What’s the matter? Can’t manage a simple task on your own?

“Of course I can!” Brain snarled, and he gripped an outcropping so tightly that it broke off in his hand. He hurled the useless pebble into the abyss below, then found a different handhold and successfully hauled him to the next step out of sheer spite towards that nagging, insistent voice.

How do you know Pinky’s following you? How do you know he’s not enjoying his newfound flight capabilities?

He didn’t know. Pinky smiled when he discovered he could float as nothing more than a ghost, it was true, but the smile hadn’t reached his eyes. Pinky was incapable of deception. Even without speaking, the intention had been clear. Pinky only wanted to comfort Brain.

That Pinky could learn to live a life of nonexistence. That somehow Pinky would adapt to no touch, no words, no rest in hell.

If only those blank eyes had been more accusatory. It would’ve been far easier to deal with.

Pinky shouldn’t adapt to this. He couldn’t.

But he might-

No. Brain had to try. He had to try and not fail.

Hand. Foot. Hand. Foot.

The ground quaked beneath his feet, and Brain clung to the crimson ledge he rested on. He wouldn’t put it past hell to throw him to the bottom and negate all his efforts.

Still, he pressed on.

The sky was closer now. Several autumn leaves were blown along the wind.

Are you sure Pinky’s behind you?

Three spirals left. Almost there. They were almost there.

Failure would come soon. He was sure of it.

He didn’t know much time had passed in the world beyond. Was it November already? Was it time for the world to replace the witches and skulls with turkeys and wreaths?

Hand. Foot. Hand. Foot.

The navy sky was filled with countless twinkling stars. Lights from a faraway airplane blinked steadily as it flew into the horizon. Ever closer, ever brighter.

“Do you see that, Pinky?” Brain whispered. For once, the stars gave him no existentialist dread. A feeling he dared describe as hope filled his chest and strengthened his limbs. All fears were banished to the recesses of his mind. He climbed with renewed purpose, not pausing for breath. “Just a little farther. We’re almost there. Stay behind me, Pinky. Just stay behind me.”

He’s not behind you.

“Yes, he is,” Brain retorted.

This was important. Pinky always came through in matters of importance.

Always is so absolute. You know those statements are usually false, right?

The ground rumbled, accompanied by a distant outraged roar, but Brain paid no heed to it. He ignored his doubts, he ignored the roars, he ignored everything but the starry expanse above and the rocks beneath his hand.

Hand. Foot. Hand. Foot.

He could do this. One more ledge. One more handhold. One more foothold.

The sky was so inviting, so beautiful…

Brain gripped the last ledge. He was filthy with dust and sweat, but he couldn’t care less. He was almost there.

Pinky was almost home. Pinky would be able to feel again.

And he would leave. But that was alright. Pinky wouldn’t suffer in hell on Brain’s account. That’s all that really mattered.

He hauled himself onto the last ledge…

…but he didn’t see the pitchfork’s hilt in time.

An agonizing pain shot through his body as he lost his grip and plummeted to the previous step. His back slammed against the hot stone. A searing pressure in the center of his forehead kept him pinned. He gasped for air, his dry throat throbbing.

An enormous crimson devil blotted out the night sky, and Brain’s fragile hope ripped away from his heart. The Devil’s eyes burned like lava as he glared hatefully at Brain, digging the pitchfork ever so slightly into his head.

It wouldn’t take much force to crush or melt his skull, whatever the Devil fancied.

“I OFFERED YOU CHANCE AFTER CHANCE TO WALK AWAY WITH THE WORLD. BUT YOU STOLE WHAT RIGHTFULLY BELONGS TO ME. YOUR PUNISHMENT SHALL BE DEATH.”

The silky, snake-oil voice was gone, replaced by the full power of a supernatural entity. What was a mortal, pathetic rodent compared to the Master of Hell himself?

He was going to die. He’d failed to save his friend. His only friend.

If his soul was trapped in hell forever…if he had to suffer for all eternity, he deserved it. For his selfishness. For his callousness. For his failure.

“Please don’t hate me, Pinky…please don’t…” Brain choked out. He didn’t know where Pinky was. But if Pinky was watching, or listening, he could only ask that Pinky wouldn’t hate him.

He lay there, his determination gone, his lonely demise imminent.

“Narf! Zort! Poit! Troz!”

And the pressure vanished.

“Narf! Zort! Poit! Troz!”

A cacophony of Pinky’s favorite syllables sounded again and again and again. Though Pinky’s voice wasn’t among them, Brain still heard that oddly wonderful Cockney accent loud and clear.

“NO! PINKY IS MY PROPERTY!”

The Devil roared as dozens of lesser demons swarmed him, the pitchfork swinging wildly at anyone who dared to oppose his reign. Something screamed at Brain to find cover before he was caught in the power struggle too, but his body refused to obey any rational thoughts.

Several demons ripped the enormous pitchfork away from their master, and the weapon crashed into a wall and spiraled into the depths below. Other demons screeched and clawed at every part of the Devil they could reach. The Devil swatted one pig-snouted demon slashing away at a shoulder, and he flew over Brain and tumbled down the stairs, grunts of pain echoing off the walls.

Immediately, his nearest allies howled in fury and attacked with more vigor than before. They chomped on cloven hooves, they fended off every swipe, and shouted warnings to their comrades before the Devil’s wrath could reach them.

No longer was self-preservation their only concern. They were a united force now, one the Devil himself had underestimated severely.

With one final shove, the Devil toppled over the edge. The ground rumbled at his furious roar, which quickly decreased in volume as he fell into the abyss.

Brain’s heart pounded, but the Devil didn’t resurface. A resounding cheer went up from the demons, then two of them rushed past Brain, presumably to check on their downed ally.

The remaining demons watched Brain closely. He flinched under attention he didn’t want. He just wanted to leave this horrible place. Then he realized they weren’t exactly looking at him, but rather somewhere just above his head.

“Narf!” the demons shouted, hands raised to their foreheads in a salute.

There was only one explanation behind the sudden camaraderie.

Pinky.

Pinky had been helping him all this time. Somehow, he’d influenced selfish demons to unite against their cruel master and protect each other from serious injury. Somehow, he’d found a way to say narf despite his voiceless state.

Somehow, Pinky still wanted to save Brain, even after all he’d done.

“Thank you, Pinky,” Brain said softly.

He didn’t need to question Pinky’s presence any longer.

A cool, fresh breeze blew over Brain’s fur as he climbed the last step. The starry sky was clear once again. It was a nice view.

The demons stood aside to allow them safe passage. He kept an eye out for any hostility, but other than their natural weapons, there was none to be found. Whether it was out of respect for the trial he and Pinky had endured, or if they were just an unpredictable force and Pinky’s presence somehow warded them off, he didn’t know.

Brain stepped onto the cool asphalt of the DMV parking lot, and had this been a different circumstance entirely, he might’ve found it rather ironic that one would be glad to set their sights on a DMV. He shivered from the temperature difference, the chilly autumn air contrasting heavily from the sweltering inferno.

Pinky’s contract shimmered into existence , and Brain’s own agreement followed within seconds. Someone had stamped ‘VOID’ in red capital letters across the top page of both contracts, and fire blazed across the crimson ink and engulfed the papers entirely. The ash and smoke left behind were swiftly carried off by the night wind.

Just like that, their contracts were gone.

In his relief, Brain turned to face Pinky to properly share their victory.

IDIOT! If you turn around, Pinky will be claimed by the Devil. Your entire challenge would be for nothing!

And Brain’s foot stopped mid-turn.

The realization struck harshly.

He didn’t truly know if the Devil had a claim over Pinky’s soul. The lesser demons only bought them time to escape hell. Brain doubted they’d be able to hold their master back forever, even as a united front. But if the Devil came back, what then? Two lab mice couldn’t hope for a permanent victory against a powerful, malicious entity.

There was only one solution.

Brain could never look at Pinky again.

He didn’t trust himself to not slip up. Sooner or later, he’d forget that he couldn’t look. And Pinky would be gone again. Brain’s efforts would be in vain.

Hell wouldn’t be so accommodating the second time.

“Narf! Brain, I can say narf again!” a familiar voice exclaimed behind him.

Brain’s ears perked without any conscious input, but it was a minor loss of control in comparison to everything else he’d endured tonight.

He heard the clatter of pebbles and a swish of fallen leaves alongside a gentle tap of dancing feet against the asphalt. Pinky could interact with the environment again. He could dance and speak and produce all the noises he wanted. It was a small consolation, at least. The contract never said anything about never being able to hear Pinky again.

“Brain?” Pinky asked again. “Are you alright?”

Brain forced himself to stare at a white line that marked a parking space instead.

Don’t look, he chanted. You mustn’t look.

A featherlight touch landed on his shoulder, a gentle warmth not quite touching his back, but just close enough for him to feel its presence.

Brain hastily pulled away. He hated this feeling of helplessness, of being unable to function without physical reassurance. But he couldn’t accept Pinky’s touch either. It would just lead to further loss of control over his emotions, and he’d forget that he couldn’t look.

Pinky would have to leave ACME Labs and Brain forever. He would probably find it difficult at first, but he’d adapt. That’s just what he did.

Brain’s entire body ached. He just wanted to wash away the fire and brimstone, tend to his injuries, and sleep. It didn’t matter what he wanted to do after that. Even if he ignored the contract’s terms and tried to conquer the world again, it would never be the same.

He set off for the lab. Pinky followed, as always.

Maybe it was a selfish risk to not send Pinky away at this very moment, but he was grateful that Pinky would accompany him for one last after-failure trek.

o-o-o-o-o

He’d completely forgotten about his very brief stint as emperor. The only reminder from that timeframe was Snowball, who’d exchanged his jester cap and bells for the royal crown as soon as Brain abandoned his post to rescue Pinky.

ACME was no longer a mighty castle, but just another underfunded lab. Nobody chanted his name, called for their problems to be solved, or held signs that proclaimed Brain as their ruler. His statue had long vanished.

He didn’t want to see loyal subjects, enormous wealth, and undisputed power tonight. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever want them again.

Right now, he was just Brain, an exhausted, downtrodden lab mouse who would have to try to live without his only friend.

On the way back, Pinky had chattered about anything and everything, prattling on about cheese flavors, then about an inflatable reindeer someone had put up a month early, and finally to paint swatches so their section of the lab would be, according to him, ‘happy and go-lucky and livelier than a herd of hippopotamuses!’.

Brain said nothing. He just let Pinky talk. This might be the last time he’d ever hear that silly voice again.

“Maybe we could get some feng shui going, just like on HGTV! Zort!” Pinky said, and Brain could just imagine him scratching his head in a vain attempt to get any thoughts going. “Wait, no…we should paint radish roses on the walls! And make them with our radish rose whatchamawhozits! Twice the garnishes for our dinner parties! What color swatch should they be though? Raspberry rose? Rosemary? Oh, we should get one with a funny name! What do you think, Brai-oh, hey Snowball! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Snowball scowled, stalking over to Brain and casting a contemptuous glare at Pinky. The loss of the hamster’s usurped power was still fresh in his twisted mind.

“My statue is gone thanks to whatever you did!” Snowball jabbed a finger into Brain’s chest. But Brain barely felt it. He didn’t feel anything towards Snowball at the moment. Not betrayal, not hatred, not even bittersweet nostalgia.

Brain only wanted rest.

“You should’ve stayed in hell,” Snowball growled. “He promised he’d keep you there.”

Brain placed his hand over Snowball’s finger, but he didn’t have the strength to push it away. The hamster raised an eyebrow at the lack of resistance.

“And he kept that promise, Snowball,” Brain said quietly. “Perhaps not in the way you expected, but he kept it.”

Snowball scoffed. He wasn’t convinced in the slightest.

The laboratory doors were wide open. It was a small consolation that he wouldn’t have to go through the mail slot.

“But…our contracts went up in smoke, Brain. Literally.” Pinky’s voice quivered. “And we’re on the lab’s doorstep too.”

It was time to break the news. Maybe he shouldn’t prolong the goodbye, but Pinky needed time to clean himself and pack his belongings.

“I wish to speak with Pinky. Leave, Snowball.”

“Fine,” Snowball spat, shoving past Brain. “I’ll talk to that blasted devil myself. Even his lawyers will have a difficult time against an entire corporation’s legal team.”

Once he was gone, Brain gestured for Pinky to follow him inside. The interior no longer held a throne, red carpet, or a golden wheel. Just their cage, several counters, and standard laboratory equipment.

Pinky made a valiant effort to hold his tears back, though he couldn’t completely stop all the whimpers from escaping. “P-poit. Nothing good ever comes out of wanting to talk,” he chuckled weakly.

“No, I suppose not,” Brain said. He gripped the side of a bottom drawer to give his hands something to do. His hands were scraped raw from climbing, though he relished the sting. Stings were only a small pain. He could handle small pain. More importantly, he couldn’t turn around, not even to see Pinky off for a proper goodbye.

You have to leave now. Thank you for everything. Goodbye, Pinky, his mind supplied.

It wasn’t enough. Whether it was one word or a million, they would never properly express everything he never said. What was he supposed to say to Pinky, who gave his soul away for Brain and never asked for anything in return?

“Brain, are you mad cause I didn’t help you?” Pinky asked. “Is that what this is about? Cause…I wanted to. I tried to push you up the steps, but I couldn’t feel you…and I tried shouting and cheering and yelling too! I…I don’t think you heard me. I’m sorry for being useless, Brain. You struggled so hard for me, and I was just useless!”

When Mr. Itch imposed his horrible terms, Pinky tried to cheer up Brain. Even when Brain had doubted, Pinky had been by his side. And he’d somehow inspired the demons to come to their aid.

That wasn’t useless. Not at all.

Even if Pinky hadn’t done all those things, Brain wouldn’t have held it against him. His anger was directed entirely towards the Devil himself.

“You’re not useless, Pinky,” Brain admitted. “I never should’ve implied it before this entire mess started. I’m sorry.”

There was silence for a while, only broken by the tap of Pinky’s feet on the tiles.

“Okay, I forgive you,” Pinky said. There were no strings attached. It always took Brain by surprise, how there were no additional requirements for Pinky’s forgiveness. “How come you won’t face me, Brain? I wanna see you.”

Brain took a deep breath. Best to get it out of the way. Get it done.

He couldn’t say done and over with. There was no over. He would never be the same without Pinky.

“I can’t see you, Pinky. I can’t look at you. Ever again. ” Brain pressed his head to the drawer, fighting the urge to turn around. “Don’t come any closer. You’ll just…it’ll make it harder on both of us.”

But Pinky’s footsteps drew closer. Of course they would.

“Make what harder?” Pinky echoed.

A warm hand fell on Brain’s shoulder, so different from blazing fire and cold wind, and something inside him broke.

“This goodbye, you idiot! He’ll come and he’ll take you again if I look at you! So leave at once for your own safety!” he yelled. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, parched from thirst and raw from fumes.

“Then what was the point?” Pinky’s hand tightened around Brain’s shoulder. “Why would you rescue me only so you could tell me to leave? Why would you come after me and get hurt so much? At least you’d have the world if I’d just stayed there!”

“I WOULDN’T HAVE THE WORLD IF YOU REMAINED IN HELL, PINKY!” Brain screamed back. “I WOULDN’T HAVE ANYTHING!”

Not the one that truly mattered, anyway.

Pinky’s long tail drooped, ears falling back. Tears spilled out of his blue eyes.

And Brain’s anger melted away, replaced by all-consuming fear. His temper struck again, and he’d forgotten.

He’d turned around.

And he was looking straight at Pinky, right into the sorrowful expression he wore.

“No,” Brain whispered, shaking his head as he put as much distance between himself and Pinky as he could. But his body wouldn’t cooperate. He only managed a few shaky steps backwards. The lab was always so big. Why did it feel so tiny now?

Pinky was close. Far too close.

He’d looked.

The Devil was coming.

Lurking in any shadow, ready to snatch Pinky.

“He’s coming, Pinky!” Brain cried. “You have to get out of here now!”

“Who’s coming?” Pinky asked, reaching for Brain again. “Brain, are you alright? Your ears are floppy.”

He wasn’t even trying to run.

“No, I can’t let him take you. Not again!” Brain quickly glanced around the room. Surely there had to be plenty of places for a mouse to hide!

But the drawers were far too obvious, desk items could be moved easily, and his mind wouldn’t work just like every plan he ever came up with didn’t work and his attempts to protect Pinky would end in failure and he failed even when he wasn’t after the world and he just wanted to do something good for once without failing miserably-

White filled his vision as he was pressed against a warm chest by a gentle arm. A strong heartbeat thumped against his ear. A hand gently slipped under his chin, tilting his head up until he was looking into reassuring, sky blue eyes.

Despite the tears, Pinky’s gaze promised only hope and light and companionship.

Then Pinky carefully touched the area Snowball had jabbed, the center of Brain’s forehead where the pitchfork almost crushed him, until his hand lingered on the cheek he’d elbowed during their fight on the podium.

Gentle. Kind. Worried.

And Brain cried. Pinky held him close, not complaining when Brain’s tears dampened his fur or when the leftover crimson dust smudged against him. Tears splashed against Brain’s head, and he wrapped his own arms around Pinky, just to let him know it was alright if he needed to release his tears too. He didn’t know if he was hugging too tightly or holding too loosely, nor did he know if his arms were in the correct position at all.

Brain stroked the fur along Pinky’s spine, hoping the gesture conveyed that he forgave Pinky for accidentally hurting him. He took Pinky’s tiny hum as a good sign.

Pinky had been deprived of all sensation. This was comfort for him, just the reassurance of touching Brain. Of being close to him.

They stayed that way until nothing was left but exhaustion and damp fur along their cheeks. Brain’s legs buckled, unable to hold him up any longer.

Pinky caught him. “It’s okay, Brain. I’ll carry you,” he said, and his tone left no room for argument.

Never once did Brain feel like he was going to fall during Pinky’s climb up the counter. He only relished the close contact.

But he had to let go all too soon.

Pinky set Brain on the counter, then brought him a thimble of water from their bottle. The cool water flowed down his throat, bringing him much needed relief. He sipped slowly, giving Pinky time to dampen several fluffy towels in the sink.

“Pinky, aren’t you tired?” Brain asked as he exchanged the thimble for three small towels. One was damp, another held strawberry-scented soap, and the last one was dry.

But Pinky shook his head, yawning loudly as he skipped away to clean himself as well. He made lots of noise as he freshened up, just to let Brain know he was there.

And with his mouth wide open too. It was rather uncouth, and despite his exhaustion, Brain rolled his eyes at just how Pinky-like that action was.

Brain made sure to use all three towels the way Pinky intended, scrubbing out the dust with the damp towel, and to his surprise, it came out rather easily, then rubbed the strawberry scented soap and clean water into his fur, and finally dried himself off with the last towel.

As he patted down his fur to try and get it into some order, Pinky came back. The messy tuft on his head stuck out in every possible direction, and so did the rest of his fur.

“You’re a mess,” Brain sighed as Pinky picked him up and carried him back to the cage. Pinky laughed softly as Brain flattened a particularly egregious tuft on Pinky’s shoulder. The acrid fire and brimstone scent was gone, and now they smelled of fresh strawberries.

They settled into their shared bed. Pinky set Brain down on his preferred side, then pulled away. Pinky frowned for the barest second, but it was quickly replaced by a gentle smile.

Yet he knew Pinky still needed physical contact.

And so did he.

“Pinky?” Brain whispered.

Pinky took that as an invitation to pull Brain into a secure hold. “Yes, Brain?”

“Don’t go…” Brain nuzzled into Pinky’s chest, into the odd yet comforting warmth he freely gave. One last stray tear slipped from his eye. “Please don’t go.”

Instead of replying with words, Pinky rested his jaw on top of Brain’s and hummed softly, the vibration soothing to his worried mind. His tail draped over Brain’s waist to anchor him.

“Just say narf, just say narf.

We’re alright, we’re okay, so let’s say narf.

You and I will have tomorrow nights again.

No matter what happens, I’m always your friend…”

The melody was soft, the rhythm reassuring. Brain closed his eyes and believed in Pinky’s familiar song.

They were together. Tomorrow night would come. He was sure of it.

End AN: So...I’ll be real, some parts of these were really hard for me to write cause I feel so bad for torturing them like this. Give them love guys. They need it.

#pinky and the brain #patb fanfiction #warning for torture

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twiistedgalaxies · 4 years ago

Text

Genesis: Chapter 7: Clandestine Meeting

How two brothers can take two opposite paths. How a man can be made into a monster and how the other must pay the ultimate price to save everything he knows and loves.

Or, alternatively:

The origins of All for One and One for All.

Previous Chapter

First Chapter

The rest of the day had gone on agonizingly slow, with Hisashi constantly glancing towards the clock and mentally recounting contingency plans. He sat on his hard bed, chewing on his lower lip as his eyes darted around the sleeping quarters. Several hours had been spent observing the staff’s shifts. A glance towards his burner phone. He only had just enough time to get to the rendezvous point, it was now or never. The floor creaked as Mr. Stewart crossed the room’s threshold and left. Hisashi sprung into action, throwing on his clothes at a pace that would impress what remained of the firefighting force in this country. Hastily, he patted down his pockets, making sure that he had all of his things. Burner phone? Check. Bobby pins? Of course. Knife? A familiar companion in his coat pocket. Placing his bag and some dirty laundry under his covers, he made it look like, at least at a distance in the dark, that he was still asleep in his bed. He was about to start to climb through one of the large windows in the back of the room when he heard the door open. Quickly, he dropped to the floor and slid under one of the beds, heart in his throat. Footsteps

“There they are!” he heard Mr. Stewart softly proclaim. Out of the corner of his eye, a rotund hand picked up a shiny object from the grimey wooden floor. A jingling of keys. After what felt like ages the door finally clicked shut again. Hisashi breathed a sigh of relief.

He resumed his escape through the back window, and landed in thorny rose bushes with a wince and a silent prayer that they wouldn’t tear one of his only jackets. Before stepping out, he cautiously scanned the grassy yard. There was a chain link fence in the back, something he’d frequently climbed throughout the week. He ducked his head down and held his breath. The janitor walked across his field of view, flashlight in hand. Absently, Hisashi realized he would need to close the window behind him, otherwise he might arouse some suspicion. The janitor, a sickly sallow man, rounded the corner. Hisashi shut the window as quietly as he could, then he shot forward, quickly tossing his coat and scrambling up the fence. Time was of the essence after all. Oxford shoes, significantly more worn than they were a week prior, landed on the pavement with a loud thud. Grabbing his coat, he cringed at the racket he was making. The flashlight pivoted towards him. He lunged towards the safety of the dark alleyways, determined to put as much distance between himself and possible capture as possible. It seemed he’d evaded pursuit, and ended up behind a McDonald’s, hands on his knees and gasping for air. Perhaps he had overreacted. Besides, what would the Janitor have done if he’d been caught? Cane him to death? Doubtful. He only resided in the orphanage for the convenience of food and shelter. They wouldn’t be able to contain him if he was truly determined.

With a deep breath to compose himself, he set off towards the abandoned warehouse.

-@~*^*~@-

The warehouse was a rickety old thing, next to a junkyard and ramshackle houses. Its broken windows were sunken eye sockets housing spiders and rats. Warm breath pushed out a cloud of fog from Hisashi’s mouth and curled in the air. He appraised the location from a distance. It seemed to have long fallen out of use, an old Costco perhaps. There were likely two exits, in the front and back, and the windows were always an option if need be. He didn’t understand why his clients had insisted upon meeting somewhere so filthy. People in these trying times seemed to lack class.

There was no point in beating around this bush with this, he’d take the front entrance. If this truly was a trap, they’d soon be well acquainted with the sharp end of his knife. He clutched the metallic thing in his pocket as an odd sort of comfort. Like a child with their favorite stuffed animal. Finally, he set off, and opened the building’s front double doors with a flourish. It would be poor form if he didn’t at least try to make a good first impression after all. He felt the wind pick up behind him, it was wonderfully timed and added more drama to his entrance.

The warehouse was pitch black. He felt his eyebrows knit together. When he stepped forward he noticed the floor was sticky and made a god awful noise whenever he picked up his feet. Hisashi grimaced. Disgusting. Truly this was Eastern Los Angeles’s finest.

A light was flicked on, and he squinted at the sudden harsh glare. A lantern sat upon a crate in the center of the vast, otherwise empty room. It illuminated four figures. An Asian girl, around his age, with mousy hair drawn up into puffy pig-tails and baggy clothes obscuring her slouched form. From her mouth dangled a toothpick. A black man in what seemed to be his early twenties, dressed in a bomber jacket and earth coloured jeans. An older looking Hispanic gentleman clad in a dress shirt and slacks, like he had just gotten off of work at a call center. Finally, there was a hulking, pale man who towered above his companions. He had long hair and a beard. His clothes were simple, jeans and a muscle tee, the latter of which showed off a series of ornate tattoos.

Hisashi’s interest was piqued, this was certainly a vibrant bunch. “So I presume you all have summoned me here for something other than a staring match, yes?” he began.

The girl scowled, a muscle in her cheek twitching, “You’re the one who wanted to meet us face to face, scumbag.” Ah, so she’s the one he’d spoken to.

He hummed, the ghost of a smile on his lips, “A reasonable request. Now let’s talk business, who, exactly, am I working with?”

They all exchanged glances, having a silent argument amongst themselves.

Finally, the Hispanic man spoke up, “We’re part of a network of Meta-humans, fighting for a just cause. Unfortunately, not much of the country views us this way, so we occasionally have to recruit outside help. I’m Raquel.”

“Amy,” the brat spoke up. Hisashi had the sudden urge to rip the toothpick out of her mouth and stab her with it. He restrained himself.

“Michael,” the black man said, his voice a smooth baritone.

The large man looked awkwardly between everyone else, and then muttered something under his breath. Michael nudged him, a sly smile on his face. The man flushed red, “Bjame.”

Hisashi felt his head tilt slightly with curiosity, it was an odd name, sure, but why would Bjame feel embarrassed about it?

“So,” Raquel cleared his throat, “What did Amy tell you about the job we’re giving you?”

“Something about taking someone out, I didn’t get all of the details, I prefer to learn them in person,” he shrugged. It was far easier to ascertain how much bullshit you were being handed when you could see others’ tics.

“We need you to kill Isaac Markov, he’s the head of a pharmaceutical company and has a heavy security detail following him around,” Raquel continued.

Hisashi frowned, that might be above his pay grade. Sure, if he had the right tools he could probably manage, but going after a well-guarded business executive with a dull pocket knife and force of will? This was going to prove to be a challenge.

Raquel must have sensed his hesitance, because he said, “Always surrounded by security that is, except for on Christmas. He prefers to spend it with his family in Beverly Hills, his bodyguards only get in the way. We’ll provide you with what we can on loan to help you finish the job.”

That would make things easier. “What intel do you have? I’m not going in blind,” he replied.

Michael pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his back pocket, and passed it to Hisashi, “Here’s a map of the place. Amy can hack into their security, it’ll be up to you to sneak in while they’re sleeping that night and execute the target. Honestly? Your best bet will be to enter through their cellar window, but I’m not the boss of you, do what you want.”

Hisashi looked over the floor plan. The mansion was convoluted and massive. Fucking rich people, who needs six sitting rooms?!

“How do we know he’ll be able to pull it off? He’s just a kid!” Amy pointed out, fixing Raquel with a glare, it seemed like her face was frozen in that expression at all times.

“So are you,” Bjame pointed out gently. She let out a huff of indignation.

“We trust our contact,” Raquel replied simply, “She’s never led us astray before after all, and who else among us is more devoted to our cause?”

“Fine.” Amy bit out, clearly not happy with the situation.

“I don’t work for free,” Hisashi casually brought up, “I’ll need some form of compensation.”

“You can have whatever you find in the mansion, plus any cash we can scrounge up,” Michael replied offhandedly.

Hisashi tutted, “Now, you all know that I don’t work with cash, it’s too… fragile.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, “Then what do you want?”

“I need information. Anything you can dig up on one Hana Shigaraki and her connections with the mafia.”

“We don’t tangle with the mob,” Bjame said with a frown.

“Then you need to find someone else to do the job for you, and given that Christmas is in a few days? I bid you good luck,” Hisashi smiled and shoved his hands into his pockets. Amy looked like she was on the verge of lunging towards him to try to beat him senseless.

Raquel raised his hand in a silent gesture to stop further protest, “We’ll do what we can. Do we have a deal?”

Hisashi reached out his own hand towards Raquel as if to shake, “Of course.”

“My colleagues and I will stay in contact,” the man replied, shaking Hisashi’s hand with his own.

“I look forward to it.”

-@~*^*~@-

The journey back was relatively quiet, and a little longer than Hisashi had originally anticipated. He had come across a mugging in progress, and had to quickly change directions to avoid it. The meeting and repeated late night outings had sapped him of any motivation to get involved. It wasn’t his business, and truly? He just wanted to crawl back into his uncomfortable bed and scrounge together whatever sleep (and sanity) he could.

Hisashi was just about to climb up the chain link fence into the backyard of the orphanage when he froze. Matron Abra was leaning against the building’s wall, the orange ember of the cigarette in her hand illuminating her hawkish face. It seemed she hadn’t spotted him yet. He slinked backwards and slipped into the shadows of the alleyway. Unfortunately, he’d have to wait her out. There was no way he was reenacting Monday night’s meeting with the front room cameras, especially now with the enhanced security.

Someone approached her, by the looks of the silhouette it was a man. She exhaled a puff of smoke, its wispy tendrils wrapping around her head like a crown. “Detective Shepherd,” she began, voice raspy from nicotine, “What a pleasure it is to see you.”

He hummed, “I made sure you got your latest stock, now it’s your term to uphold your end of the bargain.”

The matron took another drag, “Yes, yes, well, you know my specifications,” she paused, glancing towards the detective, scanning his face for something, “and yet you failed to meet them.”

Shepherd shook his head, “I have a.. feeling about these ones. They’re going to be something special.”

“Doubtful. The youngest is defected and the eldest too rebellious. If anything, you should be paying me for getting them out of your hands,” she hummed, the shadows on her face grew harsher as her expression soured.

“But their hair-”

“We both know that a slightly unusual physical appearance is hardly an indicator of mutations,” she crossed her arms.

The detective clenched and unclenched his fists, “Look, you either pay me what we agreed upon, or I’m telling the precinct about your little operation.”

“No need to get hasty,” the matron huffed, and took something out of her night gown’s pocket, “I have your payment right here.” She passed over a wad of cash into the detective’s hands.

“Thanks,” he grit out.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” she replied, tapping the ashes from her cigarette onto the grass, voice far too chipper for the exchange they just had. The two went their separate ways, Abra slipped inside the orphanage through a back door (had that always been there?) and the detective walked towards the front entrance.

Well, Hisashi thought as he watched their retreating forms, we don’t have enough time to unpack all of that. Once he was certain that the coast was clear he climbed over the fence and headed towards the boy’s dorm window. He looked into the room, it was difficult to see if the coast was completely clear, but it seemed that sleeping quarters were empty of staff. He opened the window carefully and slipped inside, closing it behind him. Hisashi chewed on the inside of his mouth as he crept to his bed. Slipping off and stowing away his gear was easy, the thin blanket on his bed was able to obscure what was under the metal bed frame fairly well. The less bulky (and more incriminating) items he slid under the mattress or into his pillowcase. When his pajamas were finally returned to his body he collapsed onto his bed like a dead weight. The full force of his exhaustion and sleep deprivation had hit him like a truck.

He burrowed himself under the blanket and pulled out his burner phone, using the blanket to obscure the light it radiated.

Pest

2:08am

[The meeting went well.]

[What do you know about a man named Isaac Markov?]

[I’m glad to hear it!]

[How much are you paying me?]

[I’ve been doing tasks for you all week. You owe me at

least this much.]

[Fine, fine, I’m just pullin ur leg.]

[Wikipedia says that he’s some pharma company CEO]

[Obviously.]

[He got into a scandal a few years back for charging

states crazy high prices for rona vaccines.]

[Also some embezzling.]

[CEOs can have a little embezzlement, as a

treat.]

[Anything else?]

[Not really? There’s some rumors of his

company doing something shady, but

that’s a given at this point.]

[Oh that’s spicy!]

[What?]

[If you find a way to confirm or deny that his

company is doing human experimentation,

I will pay you handsomely.]

[It’s too early for this. I’m going to sleep.]

[Goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs

bite!]

Hisashi turned off his phone and stifled an irritated groan, what had he gotten himself into?

A/N: I almost didn't put out a chapter this week, things have been busy with college and the like. I was able to pull what I wanted together this weekend thankfully! As always, comments and feedback help fuel my writing, so feel free to leave them.

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xlady-saya · 4 years ago

Text

i’ve had a love of my own [ch 3]

Relationships: andrew/neil

Summary: Despite everything Neil could’ve imagined for his life, he never thought he’d be here, finally giving the world the interview they’ve always wanted.

It’s been decades, but even with his numerous accolades and sports wins, he finds that they’re the least important thing about his life.

Neil can’t help but laugh. Andrew would be so annoyed if he were here.

Of course, Neil only wants to talk about him, and the life they spent together.

Tags: interviews, post canon, major character death but not how u think I swear lol, neil is an old man retelling his memories about andrew, cheesy romance, post retirement, see more tags on ao3

Read on ao3!

He expects pain, he always expects pain.

His head hits the floor and his vision floods with red, the headache spreading like a fog through his skull. For a moment, he's back on a cold basement floor, and his legs won't work, they won't move.

The vision wobbles though, the voices of the past aren't as clear. It's been so long since he's been taken back to that place, to the body of a nineteen year old with nothing to save him. Even now, it's not as strong. The memory fades in and out until the roar of the crowd shatters it completely.

Neil's not on the basement floor, his father is dead. Yes, at the age of thirty-five he's come to accept that, to smile at the thought.

He knows something is wrong, because he does smile in his delirious state, and someone above him makes a choked, sobbing noise. His frown returns. He thinks it sounds like their team captain, and she's calling, yelling for someone...

There's a referee whistle and an uproar that follows. It's probably a few seconds, at most, but his awareness moves at a slug pace. He tastes copper and tries to grip his racquet, but he must've dropped it.

Must've...

Neil tries to move, but when he does his body jolts. Like being next to a speaker blasting sound, his spine vibrates and his cells scream. He thinks they might be breaking apart. Is that possible? He'll have to ask Aaron.

His eardrums ring from the cries of panic around him, but they're not his own. The gasps and screams of fear are not his, though they probably should be. Any other time, he'd be in an anxious stir, wondering if the puppet strings holding him up would finally snap.

He freezes, his body refusing to let him move.

But it's not pain.

If it were pain, he could power through it, he could move with a strain and a groan. If it were pain, he could cry and freak out and wonder what happened.

That's how he knows it's bad. This isn't a normal accident, a typical injury. This is something serious.

All at once it comes crashing down onto him, and he forces his eyes open.

The lights of the stadium are mind-numbingly bright and there's people trying to get his attention, but he doesn't care. Neil pushes the fingers someone is holding up aside, trying to sit up and hating himself when he can't. A few seconds. At most.

He tilts his head towards the goal, because even in his state he knows the Exy court by heart. That's how he's measuring time. It's only been seconds, because there's no way Andrew would take any longer to get to him.

He watches the blond sprint the remaining few feet, brutally shoving anyone out of the way. There's a snarl, and commands being barked.

"Back the fuck off."

"Don't touch him."

"Neil, can you hear me?"

Neil's throat is too dry to respond, but he squints his eyes up at Andrew, scanning his face in that infuriating way he does when he's trying to get a rise out of his boyfriend. Yes I can.

The hands around him grip him harder, probably enough to bruise, but Neil can't feel it at all. Ah, not good. Not good at all.

He expects Andrew's face to morph back into annoyance, or the begrudging amusement he always directs at Neil when he's being a little shit like that. Then he would know it's alright, it's not as bad as everyone is making it out to be.

It does not.

Andrew's expression remains stripped of his calm, of his restraint. All the things Andrew cultivates, the neutral indifference he shows the world...it's all gone.

Once again, because of Neil.

And Neil hates it, he wants to reach up and cradle Andrew's face in his hands and will him back into a sense of peace, into contentment.

Instead, all he sees is panic, a desperation he's familiar with but hoped to never see again. Like if Andrew could, he'd shelter Neil from the entire world, hide him away in his chest until he was all healed.

Neil tries to move again, one fruitless attempt to show Andrew he's alright.

All he gets is a sickening crack.

He doesn’t realize how silent the meeting room has become until he stops speaking.

Neil cuts himself off there, squinting down at the floor as the static buzzes around him and tries to cling to words that are no longer forming.

No, no.

Neil bites his lip.

"Sorry, that's not right," he says, slicing through his recount of Andrew's expression. He recalls the way Andrew’s hands tightened around Neil's trembling form as if he could put him back together all by himself. Neil still feels the light pressure on his skin, and reaches up to graze the back of his neck. He swears there's the slightest dip, another part of his body Andrew left a permanent mark on.

It's not a memory he's afraid of, or one he's sensitive about. It's just—

Neil looks up.

At this point, Blake and Rayah have gotten comfortable. They're sitting, shoes toed off and legs up on the comfy meeting room chairs. Rayah's manicured nails are eating through the thread of her stockings, body tight with nervous energy. They both blink, as if shaken out of some dream. Neil's never prided himself on being a good storyteller, but he guesses with a life as random and convoluted as his sometimes was, it's hard not to be a little interested.

Blake has the most apparent reaction, squinting at Neil before looking at Rayah for confirmation that Neil did indeed stop there. "...what?"

Rayah, forgoing all professionalism at this point, puts her hands in front of her as if to ask: and?

Normally, Neil might smile, but something begins to unfurl in his gut.

Yes, he knows what the problem is, but weighing the risk is a lot harder than he thought.

Can he entrust that kind of knowledge to these people? Is that reckless?

Is it really his life story if it's not at least a little dangerous?

He knows if Aaron were here, he would scoff, though more fondly. 'You always have to get those around you in trouble.'

Perhaps, but he'll be careful. If he relays this right...if he leaves blurry spots...

He can still get the important stuff across.

"I don't want to start there," Neil says, sighing. "Everyone knows what happened, it was all over the news."

Why waste time repeating details that can be viewed online in a video?

Before it was confirmed the injury was condemning Neil to an early retirement, most of the coverage had been about Andrew's severe reaction. His unwillingness to leave Neil's side, the way he shoved people away like they weighed nothing...

It annoyed Neil to no end how people's main reaction had been to finally say 'oh, so he does care.' For so long, that's all Neil wanted; he wanted people to accept Andrew's devotion, to acknowledge other sides of him that disproved the heartless whispers. Though, once that day happened, Neil realized people didn't deserve to see the evidence. Even when provided it, they twisted it and used it as even more of a reason to doubt them. After all, if Andrew cared so much, why didn't he show it more often?

Even now, decades later, Neil has to bite his tongue from going off into a rage fueled rant. He glares down at the floor, like he could burn the world to pieces.

Andrew put himself in such a vulnerable position just for Neil on that day, showing so much. Like Baltimore, his restraint was gone, focus turned entirely on Neil for the full span of his recovery. Andrew never viewed Neil as a weakness, far from it, but that intimacy was not something he readily liked to share.

For good reason, too. It belonged to them only, at least while they both lived. But on that day, it had been on full display for people to pick at, while internally Andrew's entire being probably screamed and twisted itself inside out.

Worried.

If Neil could've gone back in time, he would've been more careful, he would've made sure people didn't get to see Andrew like that and make their foul assumptions. In their years together, they'd made a silent, but unrealistic promise to try and spare each other pain. It was hypocritical of them, two people so familiar with how unforgiving the world could be. Would be. They never fooled themselves into believing things would always work out right away, or at all. Yet...they worked so hard to make sure neither of them had to experience fear.

And that day, Andrew had been terrified.

Neil knew it wasn't his fault, but old habits die hard. He'd been hung up on it for a while, always hellbent on protecting this person of his.

He and Andrew were insufferably the same in that way.

Months and months later, Andrew had flicked him in the forehead and told him to knock it off, that the past couldn't be changed. They could only move forward, and resume their fragile promise. No more martyr cards.

They both were all too familiar with how life could be disrupted, but Neil had still felt petty about it, about how people overlooked this commitment to one another based on a five minute clip. The urge to clear up Andrew's reputation had probably begun there, waiting to be ignited in his old age.

He wanted people to understand Andrew's actions that day weren't out of character in the slightest. They had no right to look on and judge.

Especially not with what happened later, the way they both had to mourn the life they'd built together, for fear it would be snatched away.

Yes, Neil kept those nights close to his heart, locked in his mind for no one else. Too raw, too exposed. Deadly.

But now, well, it's the most important part of this whole question, unavoidable. Andrew's immediate reaction to Neil's injury had been explosive, powerful, but not nearly as telling as what followed.

Rayah stutters, catching up with Neil's meaning. She leans forward, but her pleas fall on deaf ears. "Yes but...Andrew's reaction was so strong--"

"And again, everyone saw," Neil reiterates. He closes his eyes, trying to find patience he no longer has. If he ever did. He sags further into his wheelchair, contemplating it all. How to best go about it. "I just...this was supposed to be about the sides of Andrew people didn't see."

And maybe about sides of him too. Weird, how he tricked himself into that one.

"But it would help people understand your relationship more if you went more into detail about his protective side," Blake tries.

He's right, but that's exactly why Neil can't start there. It barely scratches the surface. He sighs, knowing this is already a stupid idea. Yet, if he's trying to share the true sides of how hard Andrew would've worked to keep him safe, he has no choice.

Neil nods, smile sad. Those hours spent in Andrew's arms, waiting for death, feel so far away now. Back then, his world had been crumbling, and now it's but a piece in the timeline.

He never let himself feel grateful for that, he realizes.

"Yes, but that was just a glimpse of it, albeit a violent one. It makes for something more engaging, climactic, I'll give you that." Neil huffs.

That's what's good for interviews, but Neil's made it clear he doesn't give a damn about that.

"But what I can give you is better, more important," he promises, because it's true. He swallows around the lump in his throat; even now, his mind is not so willing to give away the last of his private moments. But if not now, then when? "Andrew's protectiveness took a lot of forms, and I'm not saying the circumstances surrounding my retirement didn't affect him in the ways seen in the video..."

He knows they did. The panicked expression flashes in his mind once more.

"But I think what happened after that would make more sense," Neil says, and already the potential consequences make him shiver. Force of habit; his blood runs cold whenever he thinks of a black car, a loud cane hitting hardwood. "It would help people understand."

Blake and Rayah exchange a look, feet hitting the floor slowly. Neil assumes at this point they can sense his strain, the foreboding mingling with the air. "You mean...your recovery?"

"No," Neil whispers, and holds off, because Sydney comes in right on cue. Her entrance makes the two journalists jump right out of their seats, but her presence is so standard for Neil. He could hear her footsteps in the dark and immediately know it's her.

"Alright, I'm sure you all must be hun--uh," she stops, jumping a little herself at their reactions, about the air in the room around her. She blinks once, takeout menu in hand. Brown's. The usual, and Neil's favorite. It was Andrew's favorite place to take him on dates when he was retired, according to Andrew 'only old people eat here.'

It never failed to make Neil laugh.

Sydney's smile is cheery at first, especially when her eyes rest on him, but it falls soon after. As Neil grew older, he learned letting people in was actually a good thing most of the time. However, he's still painfully aware of the downsides.

Sydney tenses up from whatever look is on Neil's face. Years of caring for him have made her attuned to his mood, the subtle mannerisms which make up any one of his given reactions.

And she can sense dread like a smell, potent and coppery.

It must be something else that comes with the territory, of years spent at Andrew and Neil's side.

She's there next to him in an instant, checking his pulse and looking around at the table to see if anything's wrong. It makes Neil chuckle when she goes as far as to check his water, like it can be accidentally poisoned right in front of him.

She looks between Neil and his guests, takeout menu clutched in her hand to an almost distorting degree, but Neil reassures her no protection is needed. He touches her wrist as tight as he can, given his lack of grip, and presses down until she lets up on the menu.

She blinks down at where they touch, then back up again, brown eyes squinting in confusion.

As safe as Neil plans to be about this, he doesn't want her anywhere near them.

"Sydney. Brown's is fine. Get our usual okay?" Neil says, and hopes his stare is as piercing as he means it to be. He's never asked her like this; she always knows. They've shared the same lunch together for years, and she probably still knows Andrew's order too. It's deliberate, and while he hates ordering her around in such a way, it's necessary here. He'll make it up to her somehow.

But he needs her to leave.

"Yes, of course, but...is something the matter?" She asks slowly, staring him down.

Ah Sydney, she always knows too much for her own good. Neil can't help but smile at her. Her perceptiveness matches his own at times, and maybe that's why she was so comfortable attending to him. She seems to understand in an instant, so he doesn't baby her with trying to hide the gist of what he's about to get into.

"Go put in the order, close the meeting room door and whatever you do, don't let anyone else come in," Neil instructs, letting go of her with one last imploring squeeze. "Knock when you come back, I shouldn't be long."

He watches her swallow and nod, glancing back at the two reporters. They're sitting up straight again, but not due to any expected politeness. They're more than aware of how in the dark they are, but Neil is guessing they've read up on him well enough too.

They should know they're about to step in a little deeper.

"Okay," Sydney says, veneer of calm back in place. She takes Blake and Rayah's orders and then leaves, not bothering to linger. "Excuse me."

Neil waits until her steps completely fade from the outside hallway before he turns back to his guests, expression grave.

Old threats echo in his mind, reminding him of the old can of worms. He's not even sure if they even apply anymore, but he took them seriously enough when the Moriyamas gave them to him, he still shudders to think about defying them. He's probably been forgotten in that world at this point, but he can never be too safe.

"I'm going to make something clear about this part of the story," He begins, and shakes his head when Rayah grabs her recorder. Nothing recorded for this, only notes. If that's even smart… “For your own safety, you are not to ask too many questions about this particular incident. No names, no affiliations, not even questions about how they looked. You're going to wait until I'm dead and gone before you release it, and edit it so it's as vague as possible. Not the Andrew parts, but the rest. Don't let it fall into anyone else's hands."

He trusts himself to be careful enough where no connections can be made, no assumptions tied back to any one family past or present. But...insurance is paramount.

From the way the reporters look at each other, Neil almost wants to laugh at the assumptions they're making. The mob is in many ways a business; it's built upon negotiations, psychology, and ties. It's not entirely the bloody, underground image the movies portray.

But...it can be.

"Okay...what is this about?" Blake asks,

Neil smiles ruefully. "I'm sure you know all about my father's line of work." He grimaces, and amends: "The Butcher, I mean."

They nod instantly, probably unsure if it was okay to bring it up. In most cases, no, and he won't be doing it again. His father is good for context, nothing else.

"We...we know you gave up a lot to the FBI, that you got out of that life," Rayah says, like she's reading text right off his wiki article.

He guesses that's fair. No one knows much; his father's gang got caught, died, and Neil testified against the rest. Signed, sealed, done.

"That's what the news reports said, easy to spin," he responds, clicking his tongue. "Poor Neil Josten, a victim of one evil man and his gang. But it was never that simple, and I was never free, not for a long time."

He'd viewed it as freedom though. It was the best outcome he could've asked for, given all he'd been prepared for. He'd been given the unlikely chance to cultivate and build his life, but it always felt suspended, and they knew it. One wrong move for any of them, be it himself, Jean, or Kevin, and those chances would be revoked.

It hadn't really occurred to him how suffocating that reality was until his time ran out.

"You were still in the mob?"

Neil shrugs.

"I had some debts that needed to be paid, to people much much more powerful than my father. You would not even begin to understand how deep these organizations run or how influential they are. I was tied up in it for a lot of my career, and it all came to a head when I got hurt."

After the sickening crack, Neil doesn't remember much. But part of him had to know he'd never play again, and for him, that was a death sentence. He'd been prepared to make his case to the Moriyamas when he reached normal retirement age in his forties. He'd studied up on as much as he could, ready to show them how much of an asset he could be. He could still make them money, still be an important public figure. If nothing else, he could do menial tasks so they'd be benefited.

It didn't have to end with Exy, and he'd been hopeful Ichirou would see things his way.

The injury derailed his confidence in those plans, and as much as he'd prepared for that eventual confrontation, he could not ignore the very real threat:

What if Ichirou didn't care? What if he'd decided Neil's purpose had run its course?

It was something Andrew had not been willing to consider, but Neil had.

Neil sighs; he's not afraid of them anymore, whether or not that's a good thing is yet to be seen. Rayah and Blake stare back, not truly comprehending the seriousness. Why should they? They've never been so entrenched in those systems. They haven't seen what Neil has.

That's alright, he'll just have to do what he can and trust they'll take him seriously.

"I need your agreement that you get it, that you'll listen to me," he says, and for dramatic flair, he adds: "This is not a game."

He plays on their fears of movie mafias, and hopes it works. If he's being honest with himself, it's for selfish reasons. Neil would never want this to fall back on Kevin or the remaining Foxes.

"We understand Neil," Rayah states, hand over her heart. As if that means anything to him. "We'll be careful."

And whether or not they actually are, it no longer matters. After all, this is his story. He'll choose what goes into it.

So finally, when the question comes, he's ready.

"What happened?"

The x-rays stare back at him.

Neil's honestly not sure why he's being shown them; he knows what they mean, but he didn't need to see the actual fractures to know the end result.

Neil doesn't move as the doctor finishes reviewing them, stepping back to let Neil process. He wonders if this is where the reaction is supposed to go. If this is where most patients would cry or scream or begin asking their delusional questions.

Maybe that's why the doctor looks so shocked when Neil does nothing. Neil leans back in the hospital bed, aching and unable to move his legs, carefully wrapped in casts. He's a little surprised himself. This is where he should be asking when he'll be able to play Exy again, right?

This is where he begins to panic, where he needs the press of a hand on his neck.

Well, he'd still gladly take that, but more so because he wants it, not because he needs it.

Andrew is a comforting, but imposing presence at his side. He hasn't slept or eaten anything since Neil was admitted, refusing to leave Neil alone for even a moment. His calm facade is back for everyone else, but Neil's been tracing the poorly locked away fear in those eyes for hours.

And now, here is confirmation of what they both already realize. Neil can't bear to look over at Andrew in the moment, but he can sense the tension, the tight coils of reality crashing down on the blond's shoulders.

The doctor looks between the both of them, before dropping what Neil supposes is the final bomb into the quiet air. But he knows.

"I know this is not easy to process," the doctor says, slow and unsure, but Neil only blinks at him. "In time, with the right amount of physical therapy, you'll be up and moving again, but it will be an adjustment. Competitive sports simply...won't be an option."

He stops listening after 'time' comes out of his mouth. Time. How funny.

There will potentially be no time for anything.

Neil wonders if he's being rational or pessimistic. He's always known what this moment could mean, and he's dreaded it. He would spend years with nightmares, flinching at black cars or preparing for how he could persuade. Lie. Anything.

Whatever he could do to keep this, to spare both himself and Andrew the pain.

Now, the life he's developed and the life he loves is being threatened, but the dread has decided to spare him. Maybe that's more of a sign of his final moments than anything else.

He doesn't want to run, or wallow, or waste what little time he might have left.

He only wants...

Neil finally looks over to Andrew, tilting his head just so. It hurts him far more to see the look on Andrew's face. It's expectant, waiting to follow Neil's plan of action. Whether it be to skip town or scream or gear up to fight...

Andrew's looking for something, ready for anything, and Neil can't give it to him.

I just want to be with you.

Andrew's eye twitches at the sigh which leaves Neil's lips, fond and gentle. Neil knows better than to touch him right then, but he wants to. He wants to tell Andrew to let go of all that strain, to just whisk him away and they can go on a date, they can rest or rewatch that one movie that freaks Neil out.

But Andrew only looks like he's fighting back a snarl at Neil's passiveness, and Neil won't waste time explaining. It's not hopelessness he feels, but the weird mixture in its place is no more warm or sweet. It's a different kind of pain, mixed with resignation.

It's so opposite of everything Neil has ever been, but he's not willing to let Andrew help him this time. It's not selfish, it's not the martyr card Andrew will accuse him of.

He's simply at the end of the line, and he's going to spend it how he wants.

Neil turns back to the doctor, just one question on his mind. "Can I go home? We can afford in-home care."

The doctor's jaw drops before he collects himself, not really in the mood to argue with star athletes whose careers just came to a halt. That, or he must know all about Neil Josten, and how he's not prone to listening to anyone's advice.

The doctor is silent for a minute too long, outside the limitations of Andrew's patience, and he flinches at the way the blond's hands tighten on the bed rails. Neil's heart skips a beat at the sound of Andrew's knuckles popping, at the redness of his hands.

The doctor takes the hint. "I'll get the paperwork set and get a wheelchair," he says. "A nurse can escort you--"

"No," Andrew says, the first word he's spoken in hours, and it leaves no room for argument. Neil smiles down at his hands, wrapped in white hospital bands and connected to wires. Yes, that's where he'll be selfish. He'll let Andrew watch out for him, for a little while longer.

Though, Neil is old enough now to know Andrew never minded.

The doctor waits for more, but gets nothing. He takes the x-rays with him when he goes, pity sweeping over them for reasons Neil no longer cares about. "Very well."

The door clicks shut, leaving only the sound of Andrew's harsh breathing mixed with the steady beep of vital monitors. Neil really does hate hospitals, but even more so today.

When they're alone, the roles reverse, and it's Andrew who won't look at him. The blond starts to pace the floor of Neil's private room, wearing the linoleum thin and only stopping to glare out the window. Whenever his phone rings, he silences it, before eventually just turning it off altogether.

And through it all, Neil can't help but smile at him. He doesn't think it's the pain meds; he's aware, clear headed.

There's guilt there too, but he knows Andrew won't have it. Neil once again wishes he could spare Andrew this anxiety, this helplessness. But well, at least Neil is here this time, for however long that is.

Andrew walks forward a little too fast after another sharp turn, and nearly trips. Then, he really does growl, fists shaking with the need to lash out at something. It's been awhile since he's seemed so rage filled, but Neil doesn't bother poking him about it. He's happy it's abnormal now, that he's so used to a calm, content Andrew.

Neil's heart squeezes in sadness unrelated to his career. He watches Andrew stop, the anger shaking him but rendering him unable to do much else but tremble. He stays put in the middle of the room, looking everywhere but at Neil

Neil supposes he expected that.

"Andrew," he tries, a beckoning tone that Andrew is so weak to on most days. He means for it to be playful, but it comes out a small whisper, pleading. It gives too much away, and that's when Neil starts to feel the beginning edges of his own stress.

All he knows is he wants Andrew next to him, he wants to feel Andrew's pulse, his warmth. Right now, he thinks, come here. It's childish and unrealistic, he only just found out about the x-rays. Word wouldn't travel that fast, but to think that any moment could be his last and Andrew wouldn't be touching him.

Andrew tenses instantly, and while he doesn't meet Neil's gaze, he's at his side again just as fast, grip tight and unforgiving on Neil's hand. Never babying, but reminding Neil he's real too. They're together, and nothing will change that until they know Neil’s fate for sure.

Still, they need to address it. They've grown past the days of trying to read each other's minds. Neil can imagine how Andrew is feeling, but he'd rather not. He wants to hear it, he wants to hold all of it like he holds Andrew.

However, he's not surprised when Andrew cuts him off when he tries to open his mouth again. The grip on his hand is bruising now, but not commanding. It's desperate, and it cuts Neil even deeper.

Andrew exhales shakily, holding up their hands as if to speak, before placing them down on the stiff sheets once more. Neil's familiar with all sides of Andrew, even the unsure side, the hesitant one. It doesn't make it easier to process.

He wants to tell Andrew it's okay, they can both look out for one another, even when Neil's the one physically broken, but Andrew shakes his head.

Not yet.

"I don't want to talk about it," Andrew finally admits, voice rough and scratchy, and all Neil can do is nod. He's not trying to fight, not here, so he doesn't dare point out that eventually, they'll have to.

He just sighs, and brings Andrew's hand close to his chest so he can feel it beat, full and proud.

"Let's go home."

Over the next few days, he gets settled in, their bed modified and moved to better accommodate the nursing supplies Neil needs. Andrew still keeps it at the best vantage point, angled so he can watch the door. Andrew tried to make the case for getting a separate cot to allow Neil as much room as possible, but Neil refused.

He's going to have things remain as normal as possible, soaking up Andrew's presence as much as he can. While he can.

For the first time in years, Andrew's perch changes. Instead of having his back pressed to the wall, with Neil protecting him from the open room, he tucks Neil in instead, becoming his shield in yet another way.

It's a small barrier, it would buy Neil maybe...oh, a second of time, if he even could get away. It makes Neil pout; he likes it when he's the one keeping Andrew safe, but he knows he's in no position to physically do so.

Now, his attentiveness has to come in the form of hard conversations and requests, ones Andrew hasn't even let him bring up yet.

Neil tries more than a few times to comment on it, to lead them down the road of conversation Andrew is avoiding, but Andrew just bundles Neil up. More often than not, Andrew moves Neil's arm too, so it's wrapped around the blond's waist.

It's a deadly arrangement, because it's unbearably cozy. As much as he hates it, the medicine makes Neil sleep a lot, and he's always worried he's going to wake up to more than Andrew's attentive face and steady breathing.

Neil doesn't think Andrew has slept more than a few hours, but Neil can't judge. The dread he'd been relieved of at the hospital now sits like a veil, much worse now that he's home. There's more to cherish here, more to miss.

He doesn't want to be anywhere else, but at the same time he doesn't want it taken away.

The cats take to sleeping on his chest or curled into his side, little protectors themselves. Neil wonders if they have a sixth sense, if they can tell something is wrong. If they can, they're a lot more subtle about it than humans are.

The main example of that is Neil's Foxes. They all call, first in a frenzy and then on a strict face time schedule organized by Andrew. It lets Neil sleep, as much as he wishes he could talk to them forever.

Still, he can only take so much of the tension in the air when they do. His Foxes aren't sheltered, nor are they stupid. They're all too aware of Neil's contract and how it's about to run out. If Neil's being honest, he's shocked he's lasted this long with no word from Ichirou, but none of the Foxes dare to bring it up.

When Kevin calls, his face is haggard and eyes wide, but he barely gets a word out before Andrew threatens to hang up. The panic in Kevin's face dissolves into something sad, pitying, and Neil has to grab Andrew's hand to force it away from the button. His hand shakes in warning, but lets Neil guide him.

“Neil…” Kevin says, swallowing down what Neil guesses to be bile, because Kevin has always reacted so strongly to any indication of things going wrong. Neil nearly feels bad. Things haven’t gone wrong for Kevin in a long time, and he’s glad. As if sensing Neil’s guilt-ridden smile, Kevin blinks at him through the screen, fishing for answers he no longer needs. “What am I supposed to…”

Do?

And they say Neil asks stupid questions. He shakes his head fondly. “Nothing. You won’t have to do anything. You’re Kevin Day.”

You’re strong.

It’s something Neil’s known forever, though it took a while for Kevin to start acting like it. With all his progress, Neil can’t imagine this being a setback.

Kevin’s hanging jaw clamps shut.

It's then Neil really looks at Kevin, sees how he's aged. There's some silver that's starting to show in his hair on the side, a fact they all like to poke fun at, but his features are just as young as they ever were. Deep brown eyes locking away a cautious fire, a constant burn. He knows he and Kevin have never been the type to get all emotional with one another, but when he smiles at Kevin's worry, at the fire wanting to be let loose...

Well, he hopes Kevin can tell how much Neil appreciates him, how they don't have to hash out more painful things. Also, he hopes Kevin picks up on the subtle threat in Neil's eyes, a burn all his own. Kevin Day isn't supposed to be controlled by fear anymore, and that's going to be a rule regardless of if Neil is around to enforce it.

He lets them sit in silence like that until Kevin nods, and utters an impossibly small: “I promise.”

And naturally, Neil understands.

They talk about Kevin's game, about Thea, about some docu series Kevin is in love with. All the while, Neil nestles himself into Andrew's warmth, and forgets anything is wrong.

The rest of his team learns fast. Allison takes to scolding him in the way she always does, but meticulously avoids any mention of the future. Instead, she reminisces on the vacations she made him take with her; Rome, Spain, that one random town in Montana.

She gives him a mix of good and bad memories, the places they went, that one rude waiter she almost fought in the parking lot.

It makes him laugh, and he's glad to be able to exchange jabs with her. It's only at the end where her mask cracks and she lingers a bit too long, telling him goodnight one too many times.

The calls blend together, each with their awkward goodbyes.

In another hour, he’s listening to Katelyn’s excessive cheer, overcompensating for the gloom carrying through the phone lines. She’s holding a picture of the four of them, when they went to Alaska. “Remember when we made Andrew get in that plane to fly above the glacier? He was terrified!”

At least Katelyn knows how to get his mind off things: bring up Andrew.

She talks too much, like she always does, but Neil appreciates her stories about bitchy patients and scandalous coworkers when her vacation tales run out.

“What about Sandra? Is she still being an asshole?” He asks, an invitation to talk about anything other than his injury. It’s not that he’s in the mindset to really care, and he suspects Katelyn doesn’t either. She’s on autopilot, in need of direction. Despite every attempt to veer them away, she’s biting her lip raw during her pauses, scanning Neil up and down.

Concerned. Too much so for his liking, and he throws another topic at her.

“O-oh yeah, you won’t believe what she did yesterday Neil! She—”

And Katelyn latches onto whatever prompt he gives her, so unwilling to upset him. No matter how much it’s eating at her to behave so selfishly, she’ll do it for him without question.

It's also a welcome distraction to the way Aaron keeps glancing over at Andrew on their call, gaze strained and worried. Neil is glad he's not the only one thinking of Andrew's feelings, but not even Aaron's prodding gets Andrew to talk to Neil about the elephant in the room.

“Andrew, have you been eating?” Aaron asks, and gets nothing. That’s not exactly common anymore, and Aaron glares at the silent treatment. “Neil’s not a baby, you can leave him for a few—”

“Sweetie,” Katelyn whispers, placing a hand over Aaron’s. Her eyes echo an acceptance that hasn’t processed for Aaron yet. He looks at her in disbelief, and then back at his brother, almost pleading with him.

The call ends quietly, even with Katelyn doing her best to fill the void.

Neil can’t blame Aaron for his denial. Aaron wants to pretend it’s all normal, that Neil will be here day after day, forever. Funny, how he’s just like his brother in that moment, unwilling to swallow reality.

Neil stares at him before they hang up, willing him to see the logic. Neil wants nothing more than for Andrew to take care of himself.

But things are not normal. As long as Aaron frames things from that lens, Andrew will never listen.

Neil tries though, on his end. He tries and tries, and feels his patience running thin. He doesn't want them to be left with anything unsaid. He wants to hear Andrew's voice, even if it trembles.

"If you don't rest, you won't get any better," Andrew says during one call break, trailing off. Neil can only sigh at the tone, throat too closed up to snark. He wants to ask Andrew if he's talking to himself, because obviously he's being the delusional one this time.

Neil wonders if he should consider this a good thing, that Andrew has let himself have hope.

Neil hides his expression in his pillow, unwilling to let Andrew see an ounce of the realization that he can't fulfill it.

The calls pile up, and Andrew's grip on Neil's waist tightens with each passing comment.

Dan and Matt try to fill Neil in on as much of their lives as they can in order to offer him a distraction. They're horrible at avoiding the topic of Exy, fumbling every time they do, but it makes Neil smile each time. He hasn't let it sink in that he'll never play again, but it doesn't hurt as much as he thought. It's more of a dull ache, a yearning to run free and win, but one he can manage. Exy stopped being his entire world some time ago.

Nicky, the one Neil considers responsible for that realization, is all about Neil's recovery. It's almost daunting, since Neil hadn't exactly let himself think about anything past the end of this week.

But Nicky doesn't let Neil or Andrew escape the conversation, and Neil has to fight back his smile.

“Andrew! Don’t ignore me, I want to know that you’re taking care of our boy,” he nags, scrolling through his laptop too fast for him to be able to actually read anything. Neil imagines the cursor bouncing off the sides of the screen. “I’ve been reading some articles…what treatment plan do they have Neil on? Is the hospital even reputable? I’m getting Aaron in on this or so help me—”

Nicky has come to read Andrew well, in his own way; he asks Andrew a plethora of questions because he knows it gives Andrew something to focus on. A task, a purpose. He asks about every mundane detail, from Neil's medication to his sleep schedule, to physical therapy and onward.

“I say you create a color-coded schedule, so you don’t miss appointments. And buy a real calendar for fuck’s sake! We can start planning things to do when you’re better Neil!”

Andrew tenses at that one, but it doesn’t deter Nicky in the slightest.

He doesn't shy away from the idealistic future, because he must sense it's what Andrew needs. Nicky probably needs it too.

"And Neil, no getting into any fights," Nicky scolds, pointing his finger into his phone's camera thirty minutes later. Neil has barely said a word. "We can't have you backsliding."

Neil huffs, nodding along with him. Andrew has relaxed a little bit where Neil is lying on top of him, but not nearly enough for Neil to be satisfied. That's how Neil knows his boyfriend is more than aware of their situation; Andrew's not delusional, only stubborn.

The world will have to pry Neil out of his cold, dead hands, and that's exactly what Neil's afraid of.

"What if I don't start the fight?" Neil asks, against his better judgement. It's supposed to be lighthearted, but it comes out more serious than he'd planned. Shit.

For the first time in hours, Andrew's gaze slides to him and stays there, peeling him back until there's nothing but rawness. Nicky's laughter dissolves slowly, hanging in the air with Neil's words. Neil tries his best to send Nicky an apologetic look for breaking his efforts, for reminding them all of the other possible option. The probable one.

But, Nicky has a reputation as the strong one.

He huffs, throwing Neil a sad smile, like Neil is so stupid and he loves him for it. Nicky's not there, but Neil tenses, like he's being crushed in one of his hugs anyways.

"It's okay," Nicky says, glancing between the two of them. "Andrew will—Andrew will keep you safe."

Nicky swallows, breathing choppy, but nothing compared to Neil's. Neil's might stop altogether, but Nicky doesn't back down until Neil gives him that same, tired smile.

Neil hears his words from years prior, echo in his head.

Andrew will protect you.

Neil's smile quivers at the edges, and for someone who seldom cries, Neil feels like he's been skirting the edge all day. His face hurts like he's been sobbing, muscles pulled taut and eyes red from how much he's had to rub them. His throat is raw from how many times he's choked on every emotion, good and bad, but no tears come to expel the chemicals of rage and despair. It's like he's bottling those up too, savoring them for as long as possible.

"I always do," Andrew eventually comments, the usual deadpan, and Neil's heart nearly bursts in his chest. He can't stand Andrew sometimes, is what he wants to say, but that's not true at all. Instead, Neil burrows into Andrew's chest, uncaring that Nicky can see, and can't bring himself to say anything else.

Nicky signs off cheerily, saying he'll talk to Neil soon, and Neil's body hiccups in response.

He can't anymore.

He just can't avoid it, he won't.

Neil listens to the sound of Andrew placing his phone on the nightstand to charge, and then hears him shake one of the pill bottles, weighing when it'll be best to give Neil the next dose. The sound pisses him off.

He doesn't want medicine, he doesn't want to sleep.

Even as he thinks it, just resting against the pillow makes his limbs feel heavy, dragged underwater by rocks. It's so easy to give into the lull, to the noise around him blending together into blurbs and nonsense. Funny enough, it's Andrew's touch that snaps him out of it.

It's typically the last push Neil needs before falling back under, but this time when Andrew's thumb lingers over Neil's face, tracing the shell of his ear, Neil can't put it off any longer.

Maybe it's how much he loves that touch, how much it means to him. He's not sure. He just knows he has to get a reaction, he wants Andrew to see him.

Neil moves to shift, and the inevitable happens. Andrew's hand darts out to stop him, already beginning the gentle process of rolling Neil over himself. That's when Neil tenses, staring up at Andrew with defiance in his eyes.

The blond is wearing a tank top, muscles on full display, so Neil catches the exact moment Andrew freezes up, shoulders coiled in preparation for a fight. Neil would smirk in any other situation; he'd never hurt Andrew, but his being never ceases to scream: threat.

In Andrew's case, Neil has the power to bare down on his throat, spilling all his emotions onto the clean sheets.

Andrew's eyes, so tired and dark, spark to life. Yes, Neil thinks. That's what I want, come back to me.

But Andrew's expression is one of warning, one that says 'I don't want to talk about it.'

Neil can't hold off anymore.

Without breaking eye contact, Neil moves again, and winces at the pain that shoots up his body. Andrew clamps down on his waist, stopping him, and then pushes down again for extra reinforcement. The gesture yells at Neil to stop, to not do this, but that just makes Neil squirm more.

"Neil," Andrew warns, breaking their eye contact. Neil can't help but glare; he feels like he's been doing almost nothing but staring at Andrew, taking in the contours of his face and the faded freckles leftover from summer. Any little detail, Neil has latched on. His memory is nothing like Andrew's, but he's sure he'd be able to recount every mole and curve if asked. It might mean nothing if he's six feet under. There will be no one in the afterlife for him to tell, to remind, but he's Neil Josten. He's stubborn as all hell, and won't let himself forget even something as minor as the crooked line of Andrew's nose.

Yet, Andrew won't look at him, won't address the hurt bubbling in his chest, just as strong as Neil's. That's not what they do anymore; they've always shared, and this will not be the exception.

Neil pushes Andrew's hands away and moves, but okay...he's not the smartest. That time hurts, and Neil's wince turns into a full-on groan.

But it's fine, he thinks, not laughing at the joke. It's fine, because it's the last straw.

Andrew rips the excess blankets off the bed, kneeling onto the mattress until he's boxing Neil in, but it's less an intimidation tactic than a request. Stay, stay right there. When he speaks, it's a horrible mix of anger and desperation, a calmness cracked clean in half. "Stop trying to move, and stop fucking staring at me," Andrew says, and Neil shakes his head.

"There's no point--" Neil tries, willing Andrew to understand what he's talking about. But oh, from the way the blond flinches, Neil knows he does. "I'm going to try to fight however I can, but—"

A hand claps over his mouth, and Andrew's capacity for gentleness is fraying. Neil knows it's his fault, but he doesn't mind. He wants Andrew to show him whatever he's feeling, even if they both hate it. Andrew looks down at him, and Neil catches the slip up. The way Andrew's gaze traces over the top of Neil's nose, the shape of his brows. Taking everything in, just to make sure his perfect memory got nothing wrong.

Realizing this, Andrew scowls, and buries his face in Neil's neck to stop the urge.

Andrew is careful in his panic regardless, maneuvering so he's not pressing down on Neil too hard. His legs are angled away but unwilling to release Neil completely for fear of him hurting himself more. Neil sighs, relaxing his muscles in a show of surrender.

Okay. He won't move anymore.

"Hey..." Neil whispers into the quiet Andrew leaves in the wake of his smothered rage, raising his hand slowly to card through the blond's hair. It's textured and unkempt, but Neil missed the feel of it. He's no stranger to comforting Andrew, but the blond hasn't let him do as much in the last few days.

Neil presses down on Andrew's neck when his panting starts to dissipate, and counts the cars that pass outside on the street below.

"I can't stand that look on your face," Andrew states eventually, and he turns his head to the side so his voice is clear. Nothing unheard. "Like you're giving up. Like you're trying to take me in for the last time."

Like it's thank you, goodbye.

Andrew would know that look well, Neil supposes.

Neil cannot accept it. The hurt burns through his vocal cords at the vulnerability, apparent even through Andrew's neutral tone; he never wants Andrew to feel like that, but he also wants Andrew to be alive. Prosperous. "You're the one always championing rationality. You know things aren't fair, but now what?" Neil whispers, and his fingers halt in their ministrations, cramping up from the weight of it all. He finally chokes on a sob. "Just because it's me? You can't accept it?"

Andrew surges up, unable to avoid it any longer. His hands come up around Neil's face, digging into old scars. Those problems feel so old now.

"Nothing is going to happen to you," Andrew spits out, and Neil's skull vibrates from the force of the grip.

"You can't promise that anymore," Neil says, but he can't shake his head when Andrew is holding him so tight. Andrew scowls down at him, and a loud noise from outside makes them both jump. Neil's panic filters in, rushed like he's on a countdown all over again. "They're going to come. They're going to take me away."

He bites back adding: 'and you're going to let them.'

He knows that's unrealistic to ask and stupid to assume, but Andrew must hear the insinuation anyways.

There's a long pause, broken up only by Andrew's humorless laugh. It sends shivers down Neil's spine. Dark, lifeless. Neil doesn't miss that sound. He knows what Andrew's real laugh is like.

"Are they?" Andrew asks, tone razor sharp. Despite this, his grip lessens, thumb gently swiping over the nearest burn mark. "Neil, you must not know me as well as I thought."

It's selfish, Neil knows that much. It's selfish to ask Andrew to let him be the sacrificial lamb again. It's not how they do things, it's not what Neil promised. But he doesn't want a world without Andrew, even if he's no longer in it with him.

"Andrew..." He tries, but it's fruitless. Andrew rolls over and adjusts Neil carefully, pulling him up so as to not cause anymore of the mind-numbing pain from earlier. Neil fits so easily against him, and he doesn't fight it this time.

He's so tired of fighting, if it can be called that. In the end it's just the two of them doing what they always do: stubbornly holding onto one another. It's mutual, wanted, and Neil was shortsighted to think Andrew ever saw this gesture as detrimental.

At a certain point...he guesses it's just love.

And that makes him hold on even tighter.

"You're not going anywhere," Andrew reminds, and pries Neil's fingers off his shirt one by one until he can lace their hands together. Neil hadn't realized he'd been physically echoing his wants, stretching out the fabric til it's warped. "Stop it."

Neil laughs at the familiarity of it. It's breathy, and it soon gets swallowed up by the sounds of the covers as he burrows in closer.

This is just how it'll be.

Neil won't convince Andrew to accept it, but that's alright. He'll just have to do what he can when his fate arrives at their door. If he had it his way though, he'd sit like this forever, with Andrew so close and real.

A few more calls pass after Neil naps, and it's Renee who finally stands up to Andrew in her own way. He should've seen that coming. No one else would be quite as acquainted with darkness, with the cruelty of the world.

She's finishing up telling Neil about the book she's been reading, and her goodbye trails off. "Just..." She whispers, smiling in the same old way. Yet, her next words are nothing like the pragmatic Renee he's come to appreciate. He guesses everyone has their limits. "Don't go, Neil."

Neil's face falls, and he says nothing. There's nothing to say, and she nods. Neil doesn't have time to think of anything else though, because Andrew doesn't allow the call to continue.

Stiffly, he leans forward to disconnect the phone. "Goodbye Renee."

The dismissal is firm, but Renee's smile remains until the very last moment.

Neil is grateful, knowing someone will be around who gets it.

Andrew says nothing, busying himself with Neil's blankets, and Neil prods at him until he stops. "You have to forgive her."

"I don't have to do anything," Andrew reminds, fluffing Neil's pillow. Or...more like punching it. Neil sincerely hopes they don't spar anytime in the near future. "She shouldn't have said that."

"She said it because she knew she'd be the only one who could," Neil says, and Andrew's silence is telling.

Because you'll need her.

Renee is too important for Andrew to cut off long term, even if he hates that she can see what he refuses to. She'll be there for him, no matter what.

Thinking he'll get no reply for all his trouble, Neil leans back onto the newly fluffed pillow and startles when Andrew speaks again.

The blond's hand slides over his waist, fitting Neil against him snugly before rolling onto his back again. He's never not watching the door.

"Tell me something," Andrew starts.

"Always."

Andrew rolls his eyes at the sentiment, but meets Neil's gaze. Neil wrinkles his nose in the way that usually makes Andrew kiss him, but no such luck. Ah, so it won't be a fun question.

Andrew searches for a long time, the way he does to make sure Neil won't lie.

Right now, Neil wouldn't dream of it.

"Why now?" Andrew asks, and holds up his finger at Neil's confusion. "My scared little rabbit, always afraid of being caught by the wolf. Death is staring you down, but when you saw those x-rays, there was no panic."

Neil slumps a little more, turning just enough to avoid being scolded; he doesn't need the reminder, he feels the emotions fly back into him. In the moment, he'd simply felt resignation. He recalled his plans of course, as clipped and disorganized as they were given what happened. Ways he can appeal to Ichirou, ways he can prove his worth that don't involve his game.

There was no immediate panic sure, because there's only so many ways this can go.

But there was fear.

He doesn't question why for very long, since the answer is lying right next to him, breath held and waiting.

Slowly, Neil rests his hand over Andrew's heart, and feels the pace pick up almost instantly. Alive, pumping, never stopping. Andrew has been a constant for so many years, and he's a survivor, just like Neil. He has so much to offer, so much Neil appreciates and admires about him. He thinks of every touch and kiss, all the flicks of Andrew's fingers and deliberate presses into his skin.

Neil's hand curls into a fist, and he's fixated even now, right where his skin meets Andrew's. "I'm not scared of dying anymore, about someone chopping me up and ending all my potential."

He'd reached his potential. He'd helped score the winning goal at the Olympics, he was in the hall of fame. He's won countless championships.

"Andrew, I'm just terrified of leaving you here," Neil says with a great amount of strain, face contorting at the thought. An ugly, overprotective snarl, but not nearly as threatening as usual. It dissolves soon into something far more pitiful and packed with yearning. "Of not being with you."

"Stop," Andrew says again, more urgent this time. Neil can't even point out how predictable he's becoming, how his threats mean nothing these days. Andrew is aware, he just can't help it. It's the only way he can fight those thoughts of Neil's, and it's still not enough. Andrew's arms tremble as they wrap around Neil, a fortress. He's in a cocoon, safe from anything the world can throw at him. Andrew's rage is palpable, and once again, there's nothing to take out his helplessness on. So he repeats and repeats: "Just stop."

And there's that unspoken promise Neil can't refute, no matter how many things are trying to prove it otherwise.

"Nothing could ever take you away from me."

And with that ringing in his head, Neil falls under.

#andreil #aftg #all for the game #andrew minyard #neil josten

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viktor-noctis · 4 years ago

Text

The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll McSh*tFace

This is my review for the film: The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll McShitFace.

Enjoy.

Tagging @christopherleefan because I think you might enjoy this? Also, I wrote a fic for Taste of Fear (or Scream of Fear for us Americans), and you can expect one for this film as well.

Pre-face: Okay, okay……………………………… Let me compose myself.

………..

………………..

……………………….

……………………………..

Alright, hit the play button.

London 1874 – I paused just to be sure this was the actual date when the book was written.

It was originally published in 1886.

We’re off to a roaring start.

Ew. Children.

Playing in a garden, yep, this is about what I remember.

Little boy shoves girl’s flowers to the ground, and McShitFace talks about “dumb human animals” when referring to children. We agree on that, at least.

“Play out when they cannot speak out.” Jekyll McShitFace suggests they’ve mentally blocked the ability to speak, due to the fact that they are letting another part of them be free to express itself…. What a load of garbage.

You resigned? Here I thought they fired you for being a creep. The fact that Ernst believes he really is a genius makes me want to punch something.

They’ve been married for six years??

No servants, no friends, and Jekyll has cut all professional ties to study the mind… Like a madman. Yeah, I can see Kitty hating this.

Beyond Good and Evil? Beyond the reach of society?

“A very dangerous man, my friend.” No shit, Ernst. Jekyll is suggesting the ‘higher man’ is the one within, while Ernst suggests that the weaker man maybe the ‘evil’ one. Or what we deem ‘evil’. Jekyll, like some, has come to some crackpot conclusion that by drawing out the ‘evil’ man, the ‘weaker’ man within him, that he can isolate and destroy him… Or something to that effect.

Jekyll never answers Ernst when he asks if he’s used it on anything other than a monkey and I find that telling.

Paul is here. Ernst is leaving.

Jekyll is quite charitable to Paul, if nothing else, and Kitty is putting up a marvelous front. Kitty even tries to get him to spend time with her here, but I have a feeling she knows where this is going. She’s probably done this a million times. This is another for the till.

I can tell Kitty is tired of this. Jekyll spends night and day in the lab. All the time. Yeah, that’d wear on most women. Considering the time period, this is all very strange. Then again, this is a ‘Strange Case’, or it was supposed to be.

Kitty telling him about Jekyll shouting to himself in his room, along with a strange voice that wasn’t his own, for an entire night… “Married to a man of great talent.” Ernst, my dude…

Kitty’s asking if he is insane enough to be sent away. Ernst says he isn’t: “we must both try to help him.” Right.

Christopher Lee! Damnit, he’s so tall. How tall is this actress?

They’re so cute. Terrible, but cute.

The top of her head reaches his nose or so. He’s a damn good kisser…

Kitty looks lovely in blue.

And is an extrovert.

Jekyll is an introvert.

Still hate him.

Don’t bash the girl for liking to go out. Or ask her to: “take the evening off”.

“I need you tonight, Kitty. Stay.” That’s not creepy. After years of being ignored, that’s not creepy in the slightest.

Okay, this might be just me, but… I see Kitty’s perspective. I sort of see Jekyll’s? It’s a grey area. I’ve paused it to explain my reasoning –

Kitty, is an extrovert, as I’ve stated. She gets her energy from going out, being around people, and having a good time. That’s great. Good for her, you have fun girl, and take your boytoy (he really is, as often as he gets in money trouble) with you. Jekyll is decidedly not. To say they are incompatible would be an understatement.

Kitty is the type of woman who glows under attention, who craves it from both her partner and others. But mostly, her partner. Enter Paul, who’s proven to be attached to her mostly through money, but there’s so much more there. Again, I love these two, because they’re so terribly flawed, but so clearly in love.

Jekyll, meanwhile, cut all attachment to “live like a hermit in the center of London”. Ernst’s words straight from the beginning of the film. I bet you Kitty was stifled, for years, before Paul came along. Now, not much is revealed of the how Jekyll became friends with him, when he did, or even why he did, but I want to bet it was during University or something. That seems the most likely theory, given Jekyll’s nature.

The Jekyll side is a bit more convoluted. Again, I don’t think Kitty is being unfair here. There’s no telling how long she stayed lonely, cooped up in that house (reference back to when Ernst talked about no friends, no company, and no servants), and was just… bored, sad, and upset.

Ernst even mentioned the house being ‘in ruins’.

She calls him selfish for making it such an issue. I get the feeling he sort of deserves it. Also, she’s in love with Paul now, so that adds another layer to their relationship not working and being incredibly strained.

“I’m not going to insult my friends for the sake of your whims.” Is what her argument amounted to. Again, the movie is making her sound like the selfish one, but you really have to take into account the history, nature, and aspects of each character. In doing so, I don’t really think she is. I think she’s in love with another man, bound to a farce of a marriage, and is doing the best she can by not staying near her creepy husband.

And yep, human experimentation time.

Yeah, go ahead McShitFace, sit at your desk and wait to become The Literal Worst.

Party time. I’m shuddering. Too. Many. People. Ew.

They’re both terrible.

I love them.

Awful.

Paul complains of being bored, and yet she is bored doing the things he likes. They jab and jibe. He looks at another woman. They jab and jibe some more.

They’re bickering like they’re already married.

Get a room.

Terminate their relationship?

They bring up their attachment, again, always with the money. Kitty likes a man free of shame, Paul thinks he might lose her to a man who had even less. Hahahaha. You nerds. You’re in too deep and you both know it.

The Literal Worst has arrived. And he’s uglier than ever.

The Sphinx? That’s the name of this trash heap ballroom?

Hyde looks like a Tool. Barely two minutes on screen and he’s got the Creep Smirk going.

Hoes do not stand together, I see.

Paul and Kitty smiling at each other, having a grand old time. I love them.

Hyde showing his true colors already, by eyeing up Kitty, while dancing with another girl (though I’m pretty sure she’s a prostitute. Or just a woman who gets around, living off other men’s money). Wow, he also says some not-so-nice things to her before heading after Paul and Kitty, who’s having a hell of a time. Paul can also be a jackass –

“Don’t drink too much tonight, my darling.” She says it with such tenderness, while taking the glass from his hand.

“Cunning little kitty cat. Rather a dull husband than a drunken lover, eh?” Paul’s already slurring. He’s entered cad mode. Feel free to kick him to the curve, my dear. He deserves to nurse his hangover by himself.

She just looks disappointed.

Kitty’s creep alert is going off. Listen to it, honey. Run. Run, far away.

She’s trying to take Paul home.

Then going to dance with Hyde. Fuck. Kitty, listen to your Creep Radar.

Friendship with Kitty? Honey. No. Run. “Can I trust you?”

?? Kitty. No. Do not trust the creep.

Prostitute girl is back, claiming Hyde tried to force her, and some dude wants recompense. Kitty just wants to go home. Paul refuses to leave, to help Hyde.

Has common sense become a commodity that only Kitty is buying??

“Give the lady a few sovereigns, and there’ll be no trouble.” Yeah, sounds like a prostitute. Kitty bids them all goodnight. Paul looks sad to see her go. Should have thought about that before you acted the bastard.

Hyde tells them to go to hell and take the trollop with him. Dude dives at them, Paul knocks him out… And Hyde keeps hitting him. Paul stops him, telling him not to kill him, and then asks him if he’s ill.

“Let me alone, Jekyll. Let me alone.” Dumbass. Jekyll voice coming out of Hyde. That’s not creepy. Paul looks amused by the creep show. Hyde leaves the place, screaming, and being weird.

Lots of voice changing. This actor is actually really good. Jekyll realizes what he did, because Hyde says: “I will be back, Jekyll. I will return.”

Jekyll: “Never. Never.”

So he knows this was a bad idea?

Goes into Kitty’s room, whose reading, and she starts talking about her ‘party’. She wants to go to sleep. Jekyll still comes closer, being a creep. Creep Radar is blaring.

��I need you, Kitty. I need you desperately.” And he comes in, trying to kiss at her, mouthing at her neck. Like a creep. I know this is a parallel to later in the film (yeah, it’s terrible), when Hyde is in control, but I still hate this.

I had to pause during the next scene to do a deep character analysis –

Kitty pushes him off, telling him she’s tired, and even says “please”. As if she should have to beg him to keep his damn creep hands to himself. He still has a wild, crazy look in his eye, and asks: “What are you really like, Kitty?”

“I’m your wife, that’s all I am.” She answers it with such evenness, barely disturbed, and it reminds me of what Paul said to her –

“From perfect wife to perfect mistress, and back again to perfect wife.”

This movie has a lot to do with the masks we wear. We change them, depending on who we’re talking to: family, friends, strangers, lovers, etc. All the different relationships we have require a mask, shadowing the core of who we are, because letting someone see everything of ourselves is too terrifying to consider. We don’t show our true selves out of fear, pride, or some other convoluted mixture of emotions.

However, every mask has a basis, a template of origin.

I feel as if, at some point, Kitty really did love Jekyll. She must have. She married him not for his intelligence, not for his money, but because she genuinely loved him. Kitty loves too deeply, too strongly, and has all the hallmarks of a woman who has been burned by that depth of attachment.

“It’s my fault, a woman who shows her feelings always loses dignity.” Kitty says this during the first bit of the dance she has with Paul, which reveals so much of her character. She doesn’t look at him when she says it, the pain of her admittance is too much, and she shies away from anyone witnessing it. Even Paul.

Her relationship with Paul is strained right now. It’s weird. It seems like neither of them knows where it’s going, too afraid to continue, but even more horrified by the prospect of letting the other go.

When speaking of breaking their ‘arrangement’ (look up ‘affair’ in the dictionary), Kitty suggested Paul wouldn’t be able to get along financially without her. Paul rebuffed her, saying that Jekyll and he had been friends for years, and she was just his dutiful wife… despising him.

There’s an ease between them that feels years old, yet I doubt it was from the get-go of hers and Jekyll’s marriage. No, she probably did hate him quite a bit, in the beginning. But there’s a thin line between love and hate, one that can be crossed with loneliness. I like to think it was physical at first, a build up of tension between a woman caged in a house, and watching this man go out and spend her husband’s money.

It was probably Paul who convinced her to come out with him one evening. Fuck it. Jekyll wants to stay in his lab all night? Well, why should you stay too? Kitty probably said no at first. Why would she go out with this smarmy bastard, who gambles, who sleeps with anything that has legs, and drinks himself silly? But then there’s the wanting, the listening to her husband tinker away, watching life go by without her…

She probably went to Jekyll. She tried to talk to him, have dinner with her in the house that night. Without any servants, she’s learned to cook. He makes a point of trying to be nice but talks about his work… Always his work. She asks him to kiss her, as if that’s something she should have to nearly beg for. And what did he do? On the verge of some great breakthrough?

“Not right now, Kitty. I’m busy.”

Kitty, who is strong, vibrant, and beautiful, is not enough to stir a man from the wake of progress. From pride.

Humiliation and defeat, a loathing that breaks through love, stuffs her chest and nearly throttles her on the spot. Retreating, glassy eyed to her room. She probably cried, mourning her broken heart.

After that, she demands to go with Paul.

There’s probably a touch of shock, then a knowing smirk. He’s probably seen lots of women with husbands who ignore them, falling into his kind of life, dancing and drinking and laughing their nights away.

He’s not ready for this one.

Alright, hitting play again –

“But the woman inside of you, is that woman my wife?”

No. No, she’s not. She belongs with Paul.

Stop shaking her. She’s right. Get out.

Take your: “Who am I?”s and get the fuck out.

Cut to Paul being a cad again. Ugh. Go home to Kitty, you absolute tool bag.

He and Hyde are sitting at a table in The Sphinx with two bimbos. Wonderful.

Hyde is a creep. I will say that no less than ten times in this review. I probably already have.

The fuck is this?

They’re doing something weird.

Really weird.

A snake charmer dance.

Am I to assume they wish us to believe that snake is venomous?

Okay, to be fair, all snakes and spiders are venomous, but the potency of their venom varies in such a way that they effect most human bodies on different levels. I say ‘most’ because you can be allergic to something, and receive a far more harrowing experience than 98% of the population.

However, that does not excuse the fact that the creature in question is a ball python and is therefore basically harmless. Minus some swelling and bruising.

I had to pause to write that, okay, playing again –

Yeah, this poor animal is being abused by being forced into a ‘sensual dance’ with this woman. ‘Tigress’, they call her, kill me now. Paul says she’s exclusive to the elite. Kill me twice over. This dance is the worst. That poor snake is confused.

Paul is looking worriedly at Hyde as he stares, transfixed, at this woman. Dude, he wants to get bitch slapped, let him.

Christopher Lee’s eyebrows are doing things to me. Paul is the real eye candy in this shit show.

UGHASDKFJASDKFNAMSDKFJNASDKF

Jkljasdfklajsdklfansdkfnj

Klasjeirkmaskdfnjkasdjf

Klasdmfnkasndf

JKLASJDKLFNASKLDFNJ

UGH

SHE

SHE PUT

THE SNAAEK

HEAD

MOTUH

WHY? WHY? WHY would –

WOULD uuo –

That poor animal.

Tell me that was fake.

She did not really put that poor creature’s head in her mouth.

This is abuse.

Not to mention, really gross. Salmonella, and a million other diseases could potentially exist on the skin of a reptile. Do not handle reptiles and then touch your face, or eat, or put any part of their body inside your mouth. Wash hands after handling, thank you.

Disgusting.

And people are clapping. And cheering.

Is this what passes for ‘exotic’ in the 1700s????

Maybe it’s my modern cynicism, but I am not impressed. I am shuddering in revulsion.

Mostly because of the snake in mouth bit.

Gods.

End me.

I’m about to shriek.

“Forget it, dear boy. She’s not in the prep-school class. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Paul. Paul.

Have you ever considered:

She’s blind.

You’re gorgeous.

And you have a gorgeous woman waiting on you at home.

Why do you bother with the bimbos?

Girl on the right is pretty, okay, she’s like… an 8. Chick on the left is… also pretty, but like a 7.

Kitty is a damn 16, she blows them out of the water. There is no competition. When you’ve already had it all, why bother even looking at anything less? She gets bumped up to a 30 for the fact that she has a brain, she snarks, she jabs with the best of them, and is not afraid to leave you to your well-deserved hangover.

I will fight for Kitty’s honor.

Paul. I’m about to throw down.

He calls the dancer over – Maria – and I can already tell he’s going to –

Yep. Be a bastard.

“She only uses Christian names in bed.”

He deserved that drink to the face.

Even Hyde looks surprised. Then impressed.

Pft – HA! I have to quote this:

“Well, ladies, it seems that I must entertain you both.” He says, while soaked with what one can assume is scotch. “I trust that you will not be too disappointed.” Girl on the right looks like she expects to be disappointed. Ms. Left has her game face on.

“Oh, we’ll just have to manage.” Left is already up and at it.

“Somehow or other.” Right is playing along for now.

“Thank you for your confidence.” Paul’s reply does not sound confident in the slightest. He follows them through a curtain doorway. I’d say, ‘poor bastard’, but he doesn’t deserve my sympathy right now.

Hyde is creeping on Maria now.

“Keep away from him, he is dangerous.”

Yeah. To medium sized rodents.

Actually, considering Hyde is nothing more than a big, smelly, greasy, slimy rat –

Nah, wouldn’t want to give the poor thing indigestion.

“Your friend talked to me like a common whore.”

I assumed you two knew each other? I don’t know, they are weird and vague on that. Alan says he’s tried, then claims what names she uses in bed, and she did throw the drink on him afterwards. I’ve no idea.

I will give this to Hyde: He is a smooth talker. He is also, however, still a bastard.

And the makeup they used on this actress is not flattering at all. I’ve seen pictures of her, and she was beautiful. They somehow made her look hideous. ‘Impertinent’ is a word, though not quite the one I would use for this piece of garbage.

I love putting subtitles on. They’re so dumb.

(Soft sensual music) my ass.

Of course they shag. Why wouldn’t they?

She’s given him an in, now… “You do not buy, you do not beg.” A man who ‘takes’. No, do not give him that.

“A nice, cold wife.” I’m so furious.

They do have a servant! An old woman. Probably a concession after years.

“Mr. Hyde.” Creep.

‘Nanny’.

“Lately, this house has become unused to visitors.”

“The wife of a recluse…”

Trying to sweet talk a woman in love will not go over well for you.

Paul’s??? Paul’s friendship. What a save.

“The question of trespass hardly arises. Mr. Allen has no property rights in me.”

And as for Henry: “Henry leads his own life. He doesn’t seek my approval, and I don’t seek his. Is that wrong?”

OOOOOOFFFFF.

Sweet talk till you talk like that.

“To the boredom of being a neglected wife, and the humiliation of being a rejected mistress.”

It almost felt like she was into the flirting till he said that, but I still get the feeling she wouldn’t have slept with him. You can enjoy flirting, some people do it for a living, but not the act that comes after. As I said before, Kitty wears many masks. This one is short-lived. Hyde has insulted her, and the change in her demeanor is like a switch.

Kitty loves too deeply, to be reminded of her first failing, and the possibility of her loss of Paul is a kick in the teeth. Is she not worth loving? Is science, money, knowledge, other women – is she just no match? Can she have nothing out of this?

“I must say, you are honest. A trifle obvious, perhaps, but honest.” And too close to the surface, too close to the proverbial nail. Kitty is genuinely afraid of losing Paul, and it shows. She’s clinging onto something she feels she can’t hold onto, whether for her already damaged pride or because she doesn’t want to be hurt again. Her face only really started to shift when he said mistress.

“My great affair has already begun.” She’s pulling herself so easily from his arms. He talks about great love since he felt her in his arms, and she just turns away with this casual walk of a knowing woman.

“It was well advanced before ever you appeared on the scene.” She looks almost proud, though there’s still this edge to her. She expects it to crash and burn. She’s just waiting for it.

“I wonder what is the special quality in a man as weak, unscrupulous, and utterly unreliable as Paul Allen?” This really bothers him. Hyde is essentially Jekyll unchained, a copy of the inner, dark urges of one man laid bare, and given free run of the place… And he’s a total rat bastard.

And Kitty is smiling. Kitty is overjoyed.

“I don’t question your description, Mr. Hyde.” She’s radiating with delight. Even that description of Paul in all his awful glory stirs nothing but happiness in her.

“Well then, but why…” And he’s reaching for her, stroking his fingers over her back. It’s this odd mimicry of how Jekyll tried to hold her that night. Ugh.

“I merely happen to love him.” Yes! SHE SAID IT!

“Love? Love is an idiocy!” And she’s laughing again. I’m beginning to believe Kitty uses laughter to cover her pain. Hyde/Jekyll McShitFace uses rage.

“An idiocy of mine, perhaps, but a fact.” Then we get this beautiful close up of her face, the vindication with which she says it has me living –

“I love Paul Allen.” Love, you must be so blind and so wonderful.

(Ominous music). As Hyde descends back to his basement to turn back into Jekyll. Back to the sewer, your garbage monster.

Ernst is here. Okay, something weird is happening again. Jekyll has a heightened metabolism. Probably from sustaining two rat bastards instead of one. I’ve no idea how much time has elapsed, but quite a bit I’m guessing. A week? A month? Another year? Nah, probably more like a week or so.

Jekyll’s life is “burning out at a much faster rate.”

Kitty is fed up with being Paul’s ‘bank clerk’. Yeah, let’s bring Henry into this. ‘Let him deal with life’s little problems and leave us its gaiety’? You are a cad. Why do you love him again, Kitty? You can do better.

She’s sick of being used.

“How can you talk of our love in this way?” Love? Is this the first time you bring it up to her? While asking for money? Aklsjdfkasjdf

Men are annoying.

“You hypocrite!” Thank you.

Debts of honor, my pale ass.

He’s going to Henry.

Ernst knows he’s addicted to something. He says it’s more damning, whatever it is.

At least Paul is honest. Jekyll is being cold to him now. He knows about him and Kitty now. He goes back to his work desk. ‘Going away’. Right. Run.

Paul gets nothing. Notes something must be wrong with him.

Kitty is worried about Paul now.

And fuck – Jekyll is giving full power of his shit to Hyde. His estate, his money, his assets, everything goes to Hyde. This happened in the book, of course, but this completely cuts Kitty off as well.

Also, he even says he’s using Hyde to ‘learn all he can’. You pretty much know it all. Kitty, your wife, is in love with your ‘friend’, Paul. It’s not that hard. You’ve effectively been gaslighting them from the beginning.

“For do I want to return to a life of frustrated isolation and loveless misery?”

I have…

So many problems with this statement alone.

You left your wife, even said it yourself, neglected. For years. So much so, that she’s alone as well. Of course she searched for something beyond you, when you chose to isolate yourself first… And you know what? I’m happy for Kitty, she found something, someone to love and love her in return. Is it perfect? No, but –

Anything and everything can be traced back to you, you sorry sack of literal shit. I’m about to lose it. He’s reaping what he’s sewn, and now he’s trying to escape it.

I’m so pissed off.

He drinks more stuff. Great. The return of The Literal Worst is upon us.

Wow… Never heard Christopher Lee say that before –

“Damn bad luck you’ve been having, I hear, Allen, old man.” Some man comments on the state of Paul’s life, which has gone to hell in a handbasket.

“Damn bad luck.” Paul’s agreement seems to taste as bad as the cigarette he’s smoking. I wonder how many are his, in that overflowing mound of ash and stumps, at the center of the table.

“Oh, well, luck’s a bitch, old boy.” Not sure that was a saying yet, but maybe this is the one that starts the trend.

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so.” Paul looking like he’d like to swallow down the rest of the decanter on the table, with Hyde being the creep that just walked in. “I’ve always had the best possible luck with bitches.”

I just about spit my tea. Not even kidding.

“Almost always, anyway.”

You’re terrible. Kitty should leave without either of you.

How is this review over 4K words? Who’s still reading this?

“Women aren’t a weakness they’re a recurrent necessity.” Paul. Paul. What are you doing?

‘Oldest mistress’.

Paul. You’re awful with money and it’s obvious.

They’re going to go out on the town. Like bastards. Hyde is The Literal Worst.

Snap shots of London’s underbelly during the 1700s… Brawling, lots of drinking and bad singing, and… smoking? Opium? Hooka? Who the fuck knows anymore.

Paul’s out. Hyde is doing the 100-yard Creep Stare.

Paul is out making debts again. ‘Honorable’ ones, at least.

Now he’s out of ideas. It’s been a week. He spent all that money – 5,000 in a week. Ouch. “But you, are a fool.” We agree on that. That is the only thing Hyde, and I will ever agree on.

“And I’ll try Kitty.”

Ha.

Haha.

You can see the wheels turning unpleasantly in Paul’s head. His brow is doing that furrowed thing when he’s confused.

“What the devil do you mean, Hyde?” You know what he means, you just don’t want him to go on. You’re hoping he doesn’t mean what you think he means.

“Well, that should be simple enough for even you to understand.” Again, insulting people while mixing in kind words, though his next ones are far from kind: “I am telling you to obtain your mistress for me.”

Paul is rising out of his chair. His brow is still doing that furrowed thing, but it has gotten even deeper. The rage is coming, a wave that was slow to foam, but quick to rise.

“You unspeakable devil.” There’s still some disbelief, but there’s no denying the shock.

Hyde is doing the creep laugh with a – “How very amusing.” Now you can see the anger, it’s chiseling its way into his features, hard and sharp.

“Paul Allen, breaker of every law in the moral code, is shocked into morality.”

Full blown: I’d punch the ever-living hell out of you. I’m about to.

“You vile, disgusting degenerate.” His lips are quivering. He’s barely holding it together.

“Be rational, my friend.” You’re pushing him far beyond ‘rational’. “I’m asking for the temporary loan of a proven adulteress, of whom you yourself have grown somewhat tired.”

First of all: fuck you. Second of all: Kitty already said he has no property rights to her.

“You go back to hell!” Paul. Punch. Him.

Oh… Wait… Yeah, he’d probably get in trouble for that. And then be sent to jail. And I doubt he wants to be in there while Kitty is out here with this lunatic. Yeah, running out before you lose it seems wise.

Still should have throttled him a bit.

Now what is The Literal Worst doing? Going back to the house…

And sneaking into Kitty’s room. You creep. I’ve never wished to jump through a television screen more.

They only have one servant, ‘Nanny’, is her name.

He’s blackmailing her. With Paul’s notes. Fuck. ‘Buy him back’.

She’s laughing. Yes, that is Kitty’s response to being uncomfortable.

“You utterly repel me.” YES! Go girl! She laughs as he storms out, tossing the notes away. Then she closes and locks the door, pressing her back to it. She was probably more than a little terrified.

Hyde assaults a homeless man, shoving him down, and steps over him. That was in the book… Then back to some cesspit that Paul showed him.

There’s something weird going on here with Hyde and this girl.

Cut to Kitty and Paul snuggling. And kissing. This is the quality content I came for. He’s wearing the same shirt from earlier… Which means he probably took a good long walk, had a small conniption, and then went straight to her.

“Why does love make us behave so hatefully to one another?” Yeah, well, Paul has been the terrible one here.

“Because we’re cowards, my darling. We want everything.” I’m not sure what Paul’s deal is, why he is the way he is… He could just be an ivy league guy who grew up, not knowing how to handle money, he might not come with as much baggage as the rest of them.

Why can’t they just be happy and cute?

Go away? Start a new life? Yeah, do that.

Right now.

Leave.

Before Jekyll McShitFace gets back.

Ah, they planned to mug Hyde, using the girl as a means to dupe him. Seems about right. Also deserved.

Ah, Kitty is leaving Jekyll. About bloody time. Also, the wrong time, considering the whole Hyde business.

Jekyll has destroyed his drugs, though admits that Hyde’s grip is too powerful. Right. As if Ernst didn’t warn you it was an addiction. “No degeneracy is low enough to satisfy him.” You mean you, right? Because, he is, after all, you.

The kids are back in the garden. This can only end well.

Oh, they’re leaving. Good…

Paul and Kitty are making out again. Good for them.

Jekyll shoved a kid. Bad for him.

Same little girl who’s always trying to give him flowers. Yeah, he’s losing it. Rushing back into lab to pen a last will and testament one can hope –

Nope, no such luck.

‘Exorcise him’. Right.

Handwriting switch. Interesting.

Paul admitting to Kitty he’s in trouble with Hyde.

If looks could kill.

Hyde lures them with an invitation from Jekyll, about their last evening together being ‘gay’.

Kitty doesn’t want to go, she’s frightened. Listen to your gut.

Paul wants to stay, because they think he’ll settle. Kitty agrees.

Fuck.

Cabaret. Ugh.

Someone get me out of here. Lots of underwear. This is painful.

Hyde making plans to meet with Maria before meeting with Paul and Kitty, who’s dressed for a funeral. Paul. Don’t. Go. Of course, he does.

Up to Maria’s room. Piss it.

More cabaret. I’ll hand it to you ladies; you can cartwheel and front flip. That is impressive. Also, I’m completely serious, because the amount of muscles it takes to do that are insane. Flexibility is also key. Congrats ladies.

Paul meets with Hyde.

“Surely we can keep Kitty out of this.” He knows something’s up and didn’t want to involve her. Smart, but also stupid.

“Hardly.” Hyde’s reply sets my teeth on edge.

Paul. Don’t go into that room. To meet him in private. Fuck me. Backwards. Paul.

A ball python. How dangerous. Paul. There’s a table right there. Squish the fucker. I mean, I’m against animal cruelty, but in the case of the story, that thing is supposed to be deadly. Squish. Squish. Otherwise, leave him the fudge alone and he’ll leave you alone.

Kitty… Don’t go with the creepy man. Listen to your Creep Radar.

Paul’s dead. Kitty doesn’t deserve this. Don’t –

I hate this. I hate this. Paul is literally dead in the other room.

I’m writing so much fix-it fic for this, you won’t believe.

This review is 18 pages long. If you’ve made it this far, may the gods have mercy on you, because my wrath at this point is endless.

Maria is in Jekyll’s house. He told her to go back to that house, put on Kitty’s clothes –

“The pattern of justice is complete.”

Rot. In. Hell.

Paul and Kitty deserved better. They deserved each other.

Kitty waking up, gods’ I hate this. She’s a wreck. Her hair, her clothes… You can tell she’s about to be sick. She’s barely holding it together. There’s a fucking note… A note leading her to the snake… She finds Paul dead. She’s already shellshocked. Out onto the balcony…

“Paul.” Her last word.

She plummets over the balcony, through the glass roof, and –

Cut to Maria saying: “I love you Edward.”

“I can’t love.” We can agree on two things. Those two things.

“I must be free.” Right before murdering Maria.

Jekyll finally takes back over, rightfully horrified, and runs back to his lab. With three corpses under his belt.

What an interesting mirror effect…

“Why must you destroy?”

“I must be free.”

Then we go back-and-forth, about who murdered, who revenged, and who was wronged. They weren’t in Hyde’s way, but Jekyll was. He doesn’t ‘feel’. Yeah, right…

Hyde is every dark, terrible impulse Jekyll has had, given life and form. His desire to be free, to run rampant, has been a desire of Jekyll’s since the beginning. Free the beast so he could kill it… Then proceeded to twist it to gaslight his wife, his friend, and everyone else. He was living a life, a lie, a sham. The desire for freedom from persecution for our desires, to be allowed to do what we want, when we want, without judgement has been an overarching theme in all of society. People are persecuted for what pronouns they want to use, for how they eat, how they dress, how they talk –

However, because Hyde is merely a reflection, one can assume his desire for freedom is mirrored in Jekyll’s continued desire for the same. Jekyll wants to continue to exist, so Hyde must desire to exist in turn. He’s still composed completely of Jekyll’s desires.

He says he doesn’t feel, yet there is a desperation, a fear in his voice when he says: “You must lose, Jekyll.” Because he’s afraid he won’t. He’s horrified by the idea of being trapped forever, of their relation being found out…

Cut to Inspector being on the case at The Sphinx.

Wow, a lady in gentleman’s clothing runs The Sphinx. Nice.

Jekyll trying to leave a letter to Ernst. Yeah, that’ll go over well. He calls a street cleaner over to take his note to Ernst, but of course, Hyde has to upset that plan.

Again, I give props to the actor for the massive amount of voice switching, and playing the ‘tortured’ scientist, and the King of the Creeps.

Hyde is about to kill this street cleaner. Mate, why did you come into this guy’s house to randomly move something for him? He shoots him in the back, of course…

The Inspector arrives! Not in time…

Hyde is about to torch the place. Of course he is.

He puts up a performance for the police, saying Jekyll is nuts… Whole place is on fire, with street cleaner acting as a sub-in for the body of Jekyll.

I swear, if this fucker gets away with this, I will riot.

Is nobody seeing the Creepiest Grin of the Century?

No, of course not, they’re trying to fight a raging fire.

And of course, there’s a court hearing over the whole thing. Jekyll went nuts. True. He was addicted to drugs. Also true, though it’s not any kind ever seen before. Sought vengeance for imagined slights. True again.

“Fortunate to have escaped – “

Screw you.

Death by suicide. If only.

Do not tell me this is how this movie ends.

“A fine man. A fine – “

Shut up Ernst.

“The higher man.” Shut your face hole, Hyde.

Jekyll is coming out.

“I must leave immediately.” Oh no, you don’t, you bastard.

“Help me.” Keep talking, Jekyll. Get out of there. Confess. You deserve it.

Lots of struggling here. Again, props to the actor.

Inspector, Ernst, and everyone are watching. Do it now, you bastard.

He turned back into Jekyll!

Finally! You did something useful!

He looks really old. Apparently being Hyde aged him decades.

You can still rot in hell.

“I have destroyed him.”

“And yourself, my poor friend.”

“Only I could destroy him.” Dramatic pause. “And I have.”

He’s arrested.

Abrupt Hammer Horror Ending.

Kitty and Paul deserved better.

This review is 20 pages long, over 6K words, and it took me 4 hours to get through it because I kept pausing and rewinding to quote.

You’re welcome.

#The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll #McSh*tFace #I'm So Tired #Christopher Lee #This Took Way Too Long #Movie Review #Kitty and Paul Deserved Better #So Much Fix-It Fic To Write

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zombiescantfly · 4 years ago

Text

Halo and the Burden of the Extended Universe

Halo, as in the initial trilogy of games one through three, has been about one man, known only by his rank, traveling to exotic alien superstructures hanging in deep space, traversing their surfaces on foot and in a variety of human and alien military vehicles, and mowing down literally hundreds of enemies per level. Throughout that trilogy, we’re supposed to believe that these aliens, the Covenant, pose a great risk to all of humanity. We’re told, by way of the instruction manuals and some NPC chatter, that these aliens have pushed our own species, at the time a massive space-faring empire, back to the singular planet of our birth.

In all three games, we just barely make our way to the latest superstructure, clawing our way there against what's said to be insurmountable odds. We're constantly told that we're low on resources, low on time, we barely have a foot in the door while the Covenant have already made their bed. And yet, every single game, we win. Effortlessly. Constantly.

And not only do we win, but we prevent the total annihilation of all life in the universe no less than once per game, sometimes more! Untold hordes of enemies fall at our controller-wielding fingertips, but somehow we're meant to accept that this one is our last chance, for real, we swear. Still, problems come and go at the whim of an inattentive scriptwriter, built up to be the most important thing we've ever seen, left perfectly resolved at the end of a 20-minute level.

In every game, the goalposts are constantly shifting, pushed further and further back by writers who realize, sweat on their brows, that they've started with the destruction of all life in the universe and have to somehow amp it up from there. For three games.

To put it mildly, they are not successful.

What do we have to be afraid of? Not the Covenant, because even the worst weapons we have available to us can tear them apart. All life on Earth, the last bastion of our species, is put at risk a full three times over the course of two games, and every single time we, as the protagonist, turn our back on the problem and are promised it will be solved when we aren't looking. If the Halo rings are fired, all life in the universe dies! Except when it was fired in Halo 2 and only sent a standby signal before being deactivated. Except when it was fired in Halo 3 using a never-before-heard-of "tactical pulse" that is at perfect odds with everything it was stated to do in all three games.

There's no threat that sticks, no threat that matters. Everything the games have told us to be afraid of are continuously revealed to be utterly inconsequential. Even the moment-to-moment threats become routine, the moment-to-moment losses, unnoticeable. How many times have you gathered a squad of friendly Marines only to lose them all in the next gunfight? Well, don't worry, here comes a Pelican with four new ones, no questions asked. Yes, we're running low on fuel and men and supplies, but here you go Chief, you're special.

But why are we special? Who is The Master Chief? We know some things, but not a lot. We're a supersoldier, a Spartan. We have a ship's AI in our head who tells us what LZs to clear and does all the talking for us. Across three games, approximately thirty hours of gameplay, our main character has a mere sixty-eight lines of dialogue, and most of it doesn't pass the five word mark. Cortana, in comparison, has nearly six hundred spoken lines. Our hero is characterized only by lines like "boo," "green, sir," "I need a weapon," "understood," and "we'll make it."

Truly, a fascinating and deep character to go down in the annals of gaming history. A man brimming with all the personality of a cardboard box, all the empathy of a brick, and all the motives of a potted plant.

And yet, every Halo fan out there will tell you how cool he is, how haunted by his past he is, how deeply he feels the loss of his comrades, and how much he cares for his tiny blue Garmin.

Why? We played the same games, right? With all the same plot holes and haphazardly shifting priorities, the miniscule cast of named characters that never do anything to extend past their paint-by-numbers archetype? What are they getting out this that I haven’t?

Well, they read the books.

To them, Halo has an excuse. There aren't any plot holes, none at all, because you can just read this piece of licensed fiction to plug it. Are you still uncertain, well over a decade after the fact, just how much time passed between Halo 2 and 3? There's a graphic novel to answer that for you. What about the Arbiter, why didn't he stick around to try to form a proper treaty with humanity after the end of Halo 3? Read the book to find out. Okay then, the Flood invasion of Earth, how'd that get cleaned up so fast? Don't worry, watch the animated short.

This isn't how storytelling works.

You don't get to present a player of your game, a buyer of your product, with one third of a story and then tell them the rest exists as multiple books. You don't get to ignore key plot points that would bring your story together just so they can be sold off years later in a different medium.

External media, should your property have it, should be to expand on things the primary property has no room for. Hinted-at background events. Formative character experiences. Something tangentially related that still ties in to the main story. If it's really that important, tell your writers to make room for it in the main product.

Halo has the room for it. Each game will probably take a first-time player around ten hours for a first playthrough, and far less time on subsequent runs. These games are short, but they attempt to tell a story many times larger than they make room for. So make more room. End the focus on getting players in and out in a single weekend sitting. Let your characters talk to each other beyond exchanging stiff one-liners in cutscenes. Stop making every level a bombastic, breakneck setpiece and give the story room to breathe, to actually be told. If it’s the end of the universe we’re dealing with, surely you can spare us more than nine measly levels? Let us actually see the larger situation rather than being told about it. Do you really think Halo fans would complain about a campaign taking fifteen to twenty hours to beat? They love Halo, they want to spend time with it. Capitalize on that, and take the opportunity to finally, actually tell a story with all the parts in it instead of just a third.

Which brings us, finally, to Halo: Reach.

Certain Halo fans, largely the same group of them that defend the poor storytelling because “it’s in the books,” have a reaction to Halo: Reach that can best be described as ‘vitriolic.’ They don’t like it. Why?

Because it’s not like the book.

You see, while Halo: Reach came out in 2010, a book by the name of Halo: The Fall of Reach came out some months before the first Halo game in 2001. They are both about the same event, but with quite major differences. This caused quite a lot of contention at the time of Reach’s release, mainly from the part of the fanbase that believed they were going to get a one-to-one retelling of this book in videogame form.

They didn’t get that. Halo: Reach is an original story that tells the tale of a world’s final hours and one team of elite supersoldiers as they attempt to do anything they can to help delay the inevitable end. It’s not the most compelling story ever written, or even the most compelling version of that story ever told, but it’s effective. Even though we’re dealing with the imminent destruction of an entire planet, the story manages to stay small. Reach’s ultimate destruction is a common piece of wall graffiti or NPC combat barks, so the ending is known, leaving room for smaller objectives to take the spotlight. Rescue civilians trapped behind enemy lines. Delay an invasion force to buy evacuation efforts another hour. Clear the skies so supplies and medivac can go out.

Halo: Reach has almost no connection to the series at large, and it’s quite the breath of fresh air. As a prequel, its ending is a forgone conclusion, but it does what it can with the time it has. The messy, convoluted politics of Halo 2 and 3 are far in the series’ chronological future, letting you fight two enemy factions at once for the first time in the series, away from the plot point that sees them at war with each other. The end of the universe isn’t constantly being dangled over our heads for the third time in as many games, so the characters have a chance to sit down and swap banter, tell us who they are. They aren’t anyone too terribly compelling - Bungie still hadn’t quite figured out character writing - but they’re tested archetypes played well enough for the story’s demands. The threat is known and static, the stakes grow higher by way of the ticking clock drawing us ever closer to the planet’s inevitable end. There’s no faffing around with “trading one villain for another” because killing the first one would have ended the story too quickly, so a new one has to show up with no lead-in.

Even at the very end of that original trilogy, Halo’s story was too big for the time Bungie gave it. Its own plot points were shoving at each other, jockeying for position, knocking parts off themselves in an effort to fit into nine half-hour levels until all that was left were fractions of what you’d need to find in the books afterward.

Reach suffers from its own short length, but not in the same way. It suffers in that you can point to the characters and they say needed more setup, more time with each other, maybe another level or two here or there to really draw the relationship out. It suffers by pushing a little too hard at the “imminent end” angle, hurrying you through and skipping over hours of in-world time that probably could have been their own level.

But surely even the superfans saw that this was preferable? That a standalone story was the best way to go about things? Surely they understood that attempting to simply recreate the book would have ended with them not seeing any of what Bungie came up with for this new game? There’s a lot to like about Halo: Reach, and a lot to do in it that you can’t do in any of the other games. Surely even the most fervent defenders of the extended canon ended up coming around and being able to separate the two for what they both were on their own.

Of course, that’s not what happened. See again, ‘vitriolic.’ And so here we are at the question this whole thing has been building up to. When a company leans as hard into external supplemental media as Bungie did for Halo, is it then obligated to play by the rules and plot points outlined in those external entities? It’s a tricky question, mostly because up until that point, Bungie had gone ahead as if every book and animated short and comic and webisode was one hundred percent canonical. The reason superfans tolerated those gaping plot holes in the games is, again, because they weren’t holes at all when paired with their companion media. So now, in the far-past year of 2010, Bungie has suddenly decided that one of those sacred tomes of external knowledge is incorrect.

I think the easiest answer would have simply been to...tell the proper amount of story in the first place, but I guess it’s a little too late for that, especially now.

So what, then, is the obligation put forward by such a slavish devotion to external storytelling? Were they wrong to do something different? Were they right to forge ahead with something new for the benefit of freeing players who had never read that book and any other related to it from the web of multi-author canon?

I’d say they made the right move. Let’s talk about Star Wars.

Star Wars and Halo share many a talking point, the most obvious of which is just the sheer amount of additional stories they have stapled to them. Great news for fans who are into it, but terrible news for the actual IP holders. All they do is get in the way when the primary vehicle wants to expand. Disney felt it more than Bungie ever did, but Bungie felt it first: cut away the myriad stories clogging up the canon or you’ll never make anyone happy. Try to appease the superfans and get burned by not touching on every single node of criss-crossing plot webs that is the result of decades of overlapping stories by as many authors, while alienating newcomers by being forced to pay lip service to concepts and characters they’ve never heard of and have no attachment to.

Disney made the right call, and so did Bungie with Reach. What came next in Disney’s case isn’t relevant, and Bungie washed their hands of Halo entirely afterwards.

If your story cannot survive without the propping-up of half a dozen pieces of external media, you have failed to tell a good story. If your answer to questions about this story is to tell the asker to read a book, you have failed to tell a good story. I understand the appeal of that expansion, of being able to have a celebrated setting grow and reach new places, but it shouldn’t come at the expense of the setup. The world has to exist before it can be expanded upon. The story needs to be in place for its offshoots to grow. And that’s what Halo fails at, so totally and repeatedly. Bungie was too excited by the prospect of having an extended universe that they forgot to make a universe to expand upon. As a result, the actual core universe exists smeared across half a dozen mediums and dozens of individual pieces, with no true convergence point someone can present a newcomer with and say, “Start here.”

The Halo games are a patchwork mess of uninspired characters, unexplored concepts, unknown stakes, and uninteresting locales. Because they rely so heavily on their companion media to fill in those blanks, there’s nothing there to entice a first-time player to do it themselves. If a character’s inspiration comes from one book, the exploration of a concept comes from another, the weight of the stakes is told through an animatic, and the otherworldly locales are shown in all their glory only in the pages of a comic book, what is the game even for? If everything you need to know about the Master Chief, the Covenant, the war, and the Halos isn’t in the games, what’s the point of them? What do Halo 1, 2, and 3 actually stand to add to a universe seemingly defined elsewhere?

They become wastes of time. Wastes of potential. Other people - artists and authors working under contract for Bungie, not Bungie themselves - did all the heavy lifting to create these worlds and these characters. Does Bungie even know who their own characters are? Could the original writer for Halo 1 tell me everything the Master Chief has become through the works of a dozen other authors over the course of twenty years?

The books might be good. I wouldn’t know; the games didn’t inspire me to read them.

#words about games #halo #master chief #Arbiter #cortana #Bungie #343

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mohini-musing · 5 years ago

Text

Dynamite with a laser beam

Chasing Ghosts ‘verse

---

“You look like shit.”

“Mmmhm.”

It’s not the argument she’s expecting. Not even close. She waves a teasing hand across his face, trying to distract from the paper he’s glaring holes into. He bolts out of the spindle backed kitchen chair fast enough that the thing crashes to the floor.

She finds him in the bathroom, crouched over the toilet and hacking up the last dregs of the coffee he’d been working on at the table.

“Talk to me.”

“You read it.”

“I did.”

It’s not worth a lie to pretend she didn’t. She knows he hasn’t had contact with anyone of shared ancestry in more years than she’s been closer than blood. She also knows that the letter from some lawyer’s office claims he’s been given a laughable measure of an estate that didn’t give enough of a shit about him to keep him from a long succession of foster and group homes as a kid. The name and age of the dead old dude in the letter make it likely they’re related to the grandparents who dumped James on social services when he wasn’t yet in double digits. Probably one of the many relatives who was asked and refused to take him on. Doesn’t matter.

“Fucking sucks,” she says. It’s all that can be offered. There aren’t words for their childhoods. Not words that should be said out loud. Voicing them makes it too real.

He’s on his feet now, flushing the evidence away and rinsing his mouth at the tap. She waits in the doorway while he splashes water on his face, rubs harshly at it with a hand towel, and rinses his mouth out a second time. She watches until his breathing slows before she gets closer, keeping a close eye on the pulse point at his neck. She can’t see his heartbeat bounding away there anymore, and that means the hair trigger is reduced enough that he won’t swing.

“C’mere,” she tells him, stopping far enough away that it’s on him to reach out.

He shakes his head, stepping around her and striding down the hall to the sitting room. He collapses in a corner of the sofa, pulling his knees up and dropping his head to them like a little kid. Tasha runs through options. It’s been a long time since she’s seen him fall to pieces like this. She’s not altogether certain she has.

Talking is clearly out. There are things you just don’t say. Alcohol is a risky choice. James is and always has been a wild card there. Usually a calm, mellow drunk. Occasionally a little on the sad side. But once in a great while, he can be mean. Never to her, but still, not worth it. He won’t take opiates. She’s tried. They played with them plenty as kids, but he won’t let her feed him little tablets that numb everything down anymore. He hates amphetamines. Says he doesn’t like being so keyed up. That leaves benzos (probably the same risk as alcohol, though it’s been too long since she’s seen him on them to be sure) or her personal safest standby of little red pills from the cough and cold aisle.

Decision made, she retrieves several bottles from the back of her bedside drawer and combines them into one. With any luck he won’t asks questions when she hands it over. A quick check of her favorite drug calc app verifies that she’s guessed close enough. He outweighs her by better than double. He needs about that much more to get him out of his head long enough to come back down soft and settled.

She stops in the kitchen to fold the letter and shove it into the very bottom of the junk drawer. Steve can deal with it later. She’s not touching it again and she’s sure as hell not letting him.

“Jamie?” she asks on her way into the room. Startling a falling to pieces James is not a thing she’s interested in trying tonight.

“M’fine, Tash.”

“Bullshit.”

She reaches for his hand and presses the bottle into it. He cocks his head to the side and looks at her with raised brows.

“Seriously? What am I, sixteen?” The question could feel harsh, judging, but his soft eyes ensure it’s just one of gentle teasing. He knows what she’s trying to do. She’s never been good at comfort. Distraction though, that’s her forte.

“Nah, gotta be legal to buy it,” she shoots back. It’s a long-standing joke of theirs that she looks young enough that she even gets carded for that.

He opens the bottle and tips a mouthful of pills onto his tongue. Passes it back and takes the offered tumbler of water, trades for the pill bottle and shakes the rest into his mouth. A couple swallows of water later and he sticks his tongue out, the tip touching the space just beneath his lips with mouth wide.

“Asshole,” Tasha mutters. It’s a maneuver the group home parents required during medication administration. To prevent anyone from squirrelling away their drugs under tongues and between teeth and cheek.

“You love me anyway,” he replies with a smile. “How long will that take?”

“An hour, give or take. Maybe less since you’re empty.”

“You playing, too?” he asks her. The gods of good sense are a cacophony in her head of all the reasons that’s not a solid choice. She grins and heads to her room to grab more little red capsules. A lifetime of choking chemicals down in secret bids her to knock them back in the bathroom but she knows the rules, decided on when they were both still jailbait. Play together – watch one another dose.

She mimics his feigned pill check and takes the empties to the kitchen trash, burying them beneath the crumpled napkins and half hoping Steve won’t notice. A couple bottles of Gatorade grabbed from the fridge and she all but skips back into the room. It’s been a long time since they’ve been properly high together, and circumstances be damned, she’s going to fucking make it good.

Item number one, movie for coming up. A quick scroll through the streaming options and Bohemian Rhapsody is on the screen. She loves the music, James won’t ever admit it but he does as well. It’s one of the lasting effects of don’t ask, don’t tell. He has this strange need to only claim acceptable interests. And the rules governing acceptable are long and convoluted.

By the midpoint of the film, his skin is hot to the touch and there are tremors climbing up and down the muscles of his arm. His head is tucked into her chest and it’s only by way of knowing him as well as she does that she knows to reach down and carefully slide the prosthetic from his arm, rolling the protective sleeve off the end of his salvaged limb. The dimpled, pitted skin there feels tight and oddly smooth under her fingers, but the purr the touch bring from his lips is reason enough to keep moving fingertips along the grooves there.

“I love you,” she whispers to him.

“Mmhmm,” is all she gets back. It takes a minute to process that this is not the expected response. A minute more to realize that he’s stiffening up, that one side of his body is twitching hard and the other in nearly boneless.

She knows, academically, that this is okay. That she does this. That it’s fine. But the high and suddenly frightened part of her only sees her big brother twitching and barely conscious. She runs the math in her head again. Not quite double what she takes. He’s twice her size. The dose is right. Has to be. But, oh, shit. It occurs to her that she prefers to take enough to be really, really high. This is not an intro dose. Not a getting back to it dose. Not a playing around for a bit amount. It’s a lot. And a lot means she’s going to have a really high James. And she’s also going to be really high. That’s… not good.

She waits until he’s still again, eyes open and smiling at her like nothing strange has happened at all. “I’ll be just a minute,” she tells him, hopping gracelessly up from the couch and stumbling down the hall.

Bathroom lights too bright for already altered pupils. She flicks the switch off, not that she needs light for this little task. There’s a ridiculous little night light in the outlet at any rate, so it’s plenty illuminated to find the commode. Grab the toilet lid and yank the thing up, bend at the waist and jam three fingers back, hard. Cough, once, twice, and then it’s all red and pale blue. Half melted pills mixing with frothy Gatorade and stomach acid. Sputtering, drawing a couple quick breaths and repeating the process. Over and over until she’s certain there’s nothing left. Wipe the toilet. Flush. Wash her face. Still high, no stopping that, but not too much, not this time. No Jamie to watch over her. Her turn to watch over him. She used to know how to do this. She still does.

Back to the couch, stretching out beside him, on him, hands travelling over his chest and shoulders, up his face and tangling in his hair. Telling him she loves him, that she’s glad they’re home again, that she’s even glad for early ass in the morning lecture classes that bring her brothers she knew were lost.

“Hey,” he finally interrupts her, a finger to her lips, shushing the endless flow of words.

“Breathe, Tash.”

Even high, he’s watching out for her. Some habits don’t die. The music on the screen is getting louder, and the finale is afoot. He tugs her up, both of them wobbly and giggling. “Dance with me?” he asks.

It’s silly. She’s classically trained, good at what she does, did, whatever. But this? She does it in clubs. Likes it. But she’s not skilled at it. Not by a long shot. So they make fools of themselves, bouncing around the living room like they’re at Wembley, until one of them stumbles and they go crashing to the floor.

And that is the moment Steve’s infinitely shitty timing chooses to arrive home from work.

“The hell?”

“Hi!” James calls from where he’s still on his back, giggling and holding Tasha to him like a cuddle toy.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Steve grumbles, kneeling next to them and taking in the pair of them and their red, shocky eyes. If the blown pupils weren’t giveaway enough, the nystagmus would definitely do the job.

“James had a rough day,” Tasha supplies.

“Taaaassssha helped. Made it all bettah,” James adds unhelpfully.

“Did she now?” Steve asks, looking for all the world like he can’t quite decide if he wants to hug or murder them.

“Tash?” James asks, followed by a hiccup.

“Fuck. Help me get him up?” Tasha asks Steve, who obliges and half drags the pair of them down the hall.

She holds him up by the hair, whacking his back between his shoulder blades and telling him to stick out his goddamn tongue. She’s less than soothing, but she knows better than to be too soft with him. Steve is just outside the space, and practically twitching to cuddle the puking boy clinging to the toilet like a life raft. Lucky for him, Tasha knows better than to let him try. James has never swung at her. He very well might with someone big enough to fight back, and that would make for a much more complicated evening than any of them need.

She’s still high enough for the edges of her awareness to be just a little blunted, for everything to be just fuzzy enough to be fun and soft and okay. But she’s sober enough to know that trip sitting is absolutely not a job for Steve.

“He’s fine,” she says over her shoulder.

“You’re an idiot,” is all he replies. The look on his face says far, far more. It says he cannot believe he trusts her near his boyfriend. That he hates her for this. Just a little. Though she doesn’t know if it’s because this is a thing she can share with James that he won’t touch or if it’s because he thinks she’s a hazard. Tasha suspects it to be rather a lot more of the former. She whispers to Steve that there’s a letter in the kitchen he needs to read. Where to find it. And a few choice words of advice on what to do with it. He takes off, returns a few minutes later, jaw set and eyes hard.

“Fucking assholes,” he growls.

“M’empty,” James finally advises, and it’s Steve who pulls him to his feet, half drags him down the hall to bed.

Tasha fully expects to be sent away, to be tossed into her own bedroom and quite possible lectured like an errant teenager for her sins. Instead, Steve pulls back the covers and pats a space for her.

“Go on,” he tells her. “He’s all yours tonight, you fucking nightmare.”

The words sting, but the lips that kiss her forehead are soft.

Tasha queues up a playlist of EDM and cuddles close to her brother. Steve leans down enough to hug them both and whispers to her that he’s crashing in her room. She nods. It’s not like she expected him to stick around. He can’t stand to see her high, there’s no way he’s going to be able to spend the night with James while he trips out, especially now that he’s made it to the mostly incoherent place where he hums tunelessly to the music, pets Tasha’s hair, and occasionally whispers something about the colors and lights.

Tangled together in the bed, she lets herself drift alongside him. Colors, lights, soft hands and slurring words. Home. Safe. Loved. Even everything else hurts.

#Childhood Trauma #AU Foster Care #au foster siblings #found family #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #james barnes #veteran james barnes #amputee bucky barnes #Steve Rogers #drug use #vomiting #bohemian rhapsody #tripsitting #chasing ghosts universe

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muixlac · 5 years ago

Text

an enigma of feelings and emotions. (ravn/hwanwoong)

One shot. Fluff. Light angst with happy ending.

Yeo Hwanwoong was conflicted.

His own feelings and emotions might as well become the most convoluted puzzle ever. There was an unfathomable feeling within Hwanwoong, but he couldn’t comprehend what it was. Whatever it was, it was stubborn.

What he knew, though—and he was certain of this—was the root cause of all this. And that was none other than Kim Youngjo himself.

Consider supporting this piece on Ao3 here.

Yeo Hwanwoong was conflicted.

His own feelings and emotions might as well become the most convoluted puzzle there ever was. There was an unfathomable feeling within Hwanwoong, but he couldn’t comprehend what it was. Whatever it was, it was stubborn. Adamant. It comes back every time he tries to shove it away, in a locked box buried deep within his mind for all he knows. And it bothered him. Like a nagging feeling from deep within his mind. He wasn’t even sure if it was a good kind or a bad kind. It was just… confusing.

What he knew, though—and he was certain of this—was the root cause of all this. The root cause of the chain of events that is this indescribable yet overwhelming feeling, his bewilderment about all this, his irascibility.

The damned Kim Youngjo.

Hwanwoong didn’t believe it at first either. But as more and more evidence compiled itself up against him, he wasn’t given any other choice but to believe it.

It wasn’t a vivid memory, but Hwanwoong could vaguely recall the first time he noticed this odd feeling of his. It was quite a long time ago, actually, before his group was even called what it is now. Geonhak and Dongju hadn’t joined back then. It was only him, Seoho, Keonhee, and Youngjo. They were practicing for the monthly evaluations in the practice room, Hwanwoong crying out counts with heavy breathing as the screeches of shoes scraping against the wooden floor resonated throughout. During the break, then, as Hwanwoong sat down against the wall to take a big gulp of water, Youngjo rested his head on his thighs.

“Your thighs are now my personal pillow,” he had said, smiling with that greasy smile of his. Hwanwoong remembered not saying anything as a response, which elicited the older man to pinch his cheek.

If that was any other circumstances, Hwanwoong would’ve cringed and hit Youngjo on the shoulder playfully while laughing. He and Youngjo had always been close, too, so this shouldn’t be out of the norm for the two. Youngjo had always been a touchy person. Not to him only, but also to the other members. So, instead of acting like that was something normal, of course what happened was that he froze. He couldn’t say anything as a response. He was flustered.

Hwanwoong hated that he could barely act normal around Youngjo because of this. He hated how his face would become increasingly hot whenever Youngjo did so. He hated how his brain would short-circuit whenever Youngjo had his hand on his thigh. Most of all, though, he hated how his stomach would churn like crazy whenever Youngjo told him that he loves him. It didn’t matter whether it was for a game, for the fans, or even off camera. It always happens, and Hwanwoong hated it.

However, he did not, in any way or form, hate Youngjo, even with all this confusing set of events that his older friend unbeknowingly made him go through. Hwanwoong knew Youngjo wasn’t doing this on purpose, as the latter is also touchy to most if not all of the members. But—maybe it was just him—he honestly thought that Youngjo attended to him more than any other members. He wasn’t sure if that was an important factor or not, or whether it was actually true. Nonetheless, that thought struck him once he noticed that Youngjo never asked the other members to sit on his lap or to snuggle with him.

But perhaps it was just because Youngjo was comfortable with Hwanwoong. Yeah, surely, that was the reason.

Because if it were any other reason, Hwanwoong wouldn’t know how to take it in.

There were a few times when an overwhelming surge of emotions would flood him whenever he saw Youngjo giving any sort of affection towards the other members. Hwanwoong refused to validate these emotions, but one thing he knew was that they weren’t anything good. He could tell it was hostile. A mixture of spite and insecurity of some sort. It happens whenever he sees Youngjo babying Dongju, whenever Youngjo lunges at Geonhak for affection, whenever Youngjo glances at Seoho with a look full of affection, and whenever Youngjo hug-attacks Keonhee from behind.

To put it simply, Hwanwoong… disliked it.

These convoluted emotions weren't as glaring just a few months ago, despite the fact that they have been bugging him unceasingly. It was as though there was the loud ticking of a clock at the back of his mind, always going tick, tock, tick, tock without him having the ability to habituate to it. Annoying.

This week, however, it had become immensely obtrusive. So obtrusive, even, that it has inadvertently affected Hwanwoong’s day-to-day mood. Perhaps it was the culminating result of his avoidance towards his emotions. Like a drawer that can barely contain the items it was keeping inside to the point that it is unable to close completely, its insides peeking out through the gap. If the drawer’s owner were to pile more and more items inside, it could probably explode due to overstoring.

Hwanwoong was treading on thin ice when it comes to his current emotions, but of course he didn’t realize this. He was too busy rejecting his own emotions to notice that they were on the brink of exploding.

Just at the beginning of this week, as they were practicing for their next performance, his lack of emotional control had impelled him to chew out Dongju when the latter placed his feet just on a slightly different angle than it was supposed to be. Dongju was clearly shaken up. The way he stammered out a quiet apology all the while looking down at his fidgeting fingers broke Hwanwoong’s heart.

The others’ eyes on him weren’t of much help either, Youngjo’s especially. Hwanwoong could see them exchange stunned and concerned looks at one another from the studio’s mirror, which only increased his nervousness by a tenfold. Everyone knows that Hwanwoong always puts on his strict dance instructor facade whenever they’re practicing their dance moves, but he never gets worked up, ever. Something was wrong, and they knew it.

Hwanwoong snapped out of his emotional distress almost immediately. He tried to soothe the boy by giving him a pat on the head and a small apology, but this was a futile attempt as Dongju had avoided eye contact with him for the rest of the practice.

They went on to run through their movements for a good few hours before finally stopping. Hwanwoong left the room then, with his water bottle in his hand, unable to cope with the intense discomfort that was hanging in the air of the studio. He was just finishing his drink when Geonhak came through the door and strode up to him.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Hwanwoong glanced away, his sight fixed on a spot under a decoration on the wall. “You really don’t waste your time, do you.”

Geonhak’s lips twitched. “I don’t know what you’re going through right now, but Dongju didn’t deserve that. He was really taken aback, you know.”

“I know,” Hwanwoong said. Then, after a sigh, again he said, “I know… I’m sorry. To Dongju, you, and the others. My emotions went wild, I guess.”

The sincerity in Hwanwoong’s voice pushed the anger away from Geonhak’s features. He crossed his arms, saying, “Woong… If something’s bothering you, you should tell us. It’s only gonna get worse if you keep hiding things.”

“I know.”

“We’ve all been together for more than a few years now, and we’ll also be together for more than a few years too. You should know that it’s necessary for us to have each other’s back every time, whether it be for physical or mental problems.”

“I know.”

“Hwanwoong.” Geonhak stressed his name with such sternness that it unwittingly stirred the insides of Hwanwoong’s stomach. “You’re only gonna hurt more people if you keep on being like this. And that’s not gonna be good for our group. Camaraderie is the most important thing for groups like us.”

Hwanwoong bit his lips. His grip on his water bottle was tighter than before, so tight that it began to shake just slightly.

Of course he knew all of that. All of what Geonhak just said—he knew that more than anyone else. He knew that his inability to identify and describe his own feelings and emotions would sooner or later hurt his friends. But what could he do? His lack of emotional control was the one warping his mind and thoughts, and on top of it all, his pride was preventing him from opening up to his friends. It was even harder to vent to his friends when one of them was actually the cause of all of his pent up feelings and emotions. It was painful—his own awareness knew of all of these things, yet he had no control over them.

“I’m sorry, hyung,” Hwanwoong said after a while, his voice heavy and tired. “I don’t think I’m ready to tell what’s bothering me. Later, maybe, but not now.”

He knew Geonhak was disappointed at this, proven by the disapproving frown etched across his lips, but he was sure he’d understand.

“Okay, then. That’s alright. Just make sure this doesn’t happen again, okay? Try to control your emotions,” Geonhak chided as warmly as he could. “Come find me if you need anything.”

Hwanwoong merely hummed and nodded. He was too restless to talk to anyone at the moment, so he excused himself and made his way to his room. It was a good thing they didn’t have any other schedule for today. Hwanwoong could have the rest of the day all to himself in the comfort of his own bed, pondering over his guilt about what had happened earlier and how to solve the conundrum that is his own feelings.

The next day, the six of them had a schedule to record for their next performance. As usual, it took a bit more effort to wake Hwanwoong up compared to the others, as told by Seoho. It took him a full hour to shower and prepped his skin, though soon he then found himself sitting on the sofa behind the assigned producer for this song.

Just before he sat down, though, a painful decision immediately presented itself to Hwanwoong. Since he was the last one to come thanks to his habit of oversleeping, the spots on the sofa were all occupied except one at the one side of the sofa, right beside Youngjo. Hwanwoong chewed on the bottom of his lips. He didn’t want to sit there, except maybe if he wanted his soul to leave his body. He refused to deal with his feelings today. Yesterday was traumatizing enough, with how he shouted at Dongju for no reason because of his stupid impulsivity, followed by him being chided by Geonhak.

Embarrassing.

The empty spot was the nearest one from the door where Hwanwoong was standing, so when his feet brought himself to the other end of the sofa where it was the furthest from the door, Geonhak—who was sitting there with one hand on the armrest—looked up with eyebrows furrowed.

“What are you doing here?” He asked. The look he gave to Hwanwoong was stern; eyes narrow and lips a straight line. It wasn’t quite visible for the others to notice, but just enough to tell Hwanwoong that he hadn’t forgotten about what’d happened yesterday.

“Wanna sit. Move your hand away.”

Geonhak raised an eyebrow. “On the armrest?”

“Yeah, duh.”

A slight trace of suspicion lingered across Geonhak’s countenance, but he did as told anyway. Not wasting any time, Hwanwoong took his share of the printed papers containing the lyrics of the song on the table and propped himself on the armrest.

Keonhee was the first one to go inside the booth to record. Hwanwoong would be the third after Dongju, as decided through rock-paper-scissors just a minute earlier. As he waited for his turn, Hwanwoong had his eyes glued onto the papers on his hand. Hwanwoong had a habit of concentrating a little bit too much, especially when there’d be a chance of embarrassing himself in front of a group of people by failing something. He was a perfectionist when it came to his performances. He would go as far as to block out his surroundings just to make sure he wouldn’t make a mistake later on.

While he was humming along to the imaginary tune of the song, a pair of eyes glanced over. Hwanwoong hadn't noticed Geonhak’s eyes spying on him. Its attention soon changed to the oldest member sitting furthest from them.

Something clicked in Geonhak’s head.

He nodded to himself. The pieces of puzzle were now complete and the picture it’d produced was as clear as the day. Geonhak had merely speculated, of course, but he had faith in his own deduction.

Geonhak came up with an idea. This problem of Hwanwoong certainly wasn’t going to be solved by itself, considering how his younger friend was dealing with it. What made the whole situation more complicated was that the antecedent himself had no clue that all of this was happening in the first place.

A third party had to step in, obviously.

Meanwhile, Hwanwoong’s train of thought was interrupted as he realized that Seoho was done with his session. He made his way to the booth then, placing his papers on the sheet music stand. After adjusting the mic to his height and wearing the headphones, he looked up to the other side of the room to give the producer the OK—only to see Youngjo smiling brightly at him, his fingers a form of a heart. Good luck, he mouthed.

Hwanwoong's heart skipped a beat.

There it was again. That strange feeling. Hwanwoong could feel his cheeks heating up once again, as usual whenever Youngjo does any kind of affection towards him. He pressed his lips together and glanced away. He didn't want to repeat yesterday's event. He also didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of someone he barely knew, especially if that person was in charge of their music. Hence, Hwanwoong merely responded with a feeble smile, and as he didn't want to deal with Youngjo anymore, he gave the producer a thumbs up to tell him to proceed.

The whole recording session lasted for about three more hours before they were let go. All six of them trudged back to their dorms with the apparent layer of fatigue coating the whole group. Despite that, they were still messing around with each other and throwing jabs here and there, especially with how Geonhak’s voice cracked in the middle of his recording earlier.

Hwanwoong wasn’t participating in the banter though. His mind was anywhere but there; demeanor pensive and unheeding. He was mulling over how he wasn’t as good as he’d expected earlier. His vocal chords had given up by the end of his session, so the producer told him to rest and that they’ll continue to polish Hwanwoong’s lines on the session two days after this.

Keonhee suggested a movie night, which the others acquiescently agreed to, including Hwanwoong. When the coping mechanisms he usually uses had failed him in times like these, he might as well vicariously immerse himself in another’s perfect life and adventure.

As soon as they’d gotten back to their dorms, Seoho, Keonhee, and Dongju raced as quickly as possible to the sofa. This was due to the deal the six of them made the first time they did a movie night—the first one to go sit on the sofa will be given the opportunity to pick the movie.

Keonhee, the one who initially proposed the suggestion to watch for tonight, had won. With a grin on his face and the other two slumped at his sides, he picked up the remote and turned on the TV.

“There’s this movie I wanna watch. Been wanting to go see it, but there hasn’t been any time, especially with how packed our schedules are,” Keonhee had said as he scrolled through the catalog, eyes squinting in search for the movie he was talking about.

Dongju frowned when Keonhee finally picked his movie. “‘Ready or Not’? Seriously? Isn’t there anything better to watch?”

“Hey, I like horror, okay! And tonight is just the perfect night for that, with all of us present, y’know.”

“I don’t mind,” Seoho chimed in. “Why, is our maknae scaaaredddd?”

While Dongju bent himself across an amused Keonhee to get a bite of a terror-stricken Seoho, Hwanwoong, Youngjo, and Geonhak began to take a seat on what was left of the remaining seats. Geonhak was about to sit on the remaining seat of the sofa that Keonhee, Dongju, and Seoho were in, but Hwanwoong abruptly butted him away by kicking him lightly on the shins. He sat on it afterwards, a victorious smile on his face.

“Woong, what the hell—”

“First come, first serve,” Hwanwoong grinned mischievously.

Although from the outside it’d seemed like Hwanwoong stole Geonhak's just to take the piss out of him, in reality it was because if Geonhak were to sit there, he'd have to sit with Youngjo on the two-seater sofa.

Nope. Anything but that.

“I’ll start the film, ‘kay?” said Keonhee, and the others, synchronized, answered, “Yeeeeees.”

And with a press of a button, the movie started.

The premise was an interesting one, as Keonhee had explained as the opening scene played. Geonhak shushed him then as the action escalated, though once the opening scene had ended, Keonhee talked again. This time, Dongju threw a pillow at him.

"The aunt's so creepy," Seoho commented.

"Maybe she's hiding something," Youngjo added. "Like a dark past, or something."

"You think it's gonna be that cliché?"

"I mean, it's kinda obvious, isn't it?"

It was more or less fifteen minutes into the movie when the plot began to escalate. Keonhee and Seoho were leaning forward, eyes fixed on the movie as though their lives depended on it. Dongju was hugging his knees, looking at the TV through it with his eyebrows furrowed. Geonhak also looked immersed—Hwanwoong swore he'd heard a gasp come out of his older friend's mouth when the main protagonist had her first encounter with the enemy.

There was Youngjo, too. Hwanwoong did not realize this, but his attention had been sidetracked by the oldest. He watched the other closely; from how he flinched when a jumpscare ensued, how he chuckled when a funny bit took place, to how his eyes gradually began to droop as the clock ticked closer to midnight.

Hwanwoong took a pillow from between him and Dongju and hugged it tightly until it covered his blood-rushed face. It happened again. It always does whenever he thinks of Youngjo, or whenever Youngjo is of close proximity, or whenever Youngjo gives him any kind of affection.

Just… Youngjo. Youngjo's own existence does things to Hwanwoong. And he hated it. For the love of god, he'd do anything to get rid of these intricate feelings so that he'd never have to feel them again.

Before long, Youngjo stood up, placing back the pillow he'd hugged onto the sofa. Hwanwoong averted his glance almost immediately back to the screen, displaying a poor interpretation of acting as though he hadn't been staring at and analyzing him for the past twenty minutes.

"Gonna go to the toilet, be right back," he said as he left the room.

"'Kaaay," Seoho responded.

Hwanwoong was sure only a couple of seconds had passed—okay, a full minute maybe, but it hadn't been that long since Youngjo went to the bathroom when Geonhak also stood up and muttered "bathroom" before striding off. No one paid much attention to him, though, as the plot was becoming more and more exhilarating as it went on.

Hwanwoong, too, was fully immersed like the others. His nails had become an abysmal form from chewing on it too much as to release tension. His eyes were fixed onto the screen; the only thing in his head was his hope for the protagonist's fate. As the others were chirping about comments of the movie, Hwanwoong joined in too. His nose scrunched and he hissed when one of the enemies had successfully maimed the protagonist.

It had seemed like Youngjo had completely slipped off his thoughts. His head that was previously filled with an assortment of puzzling feelings and emotions—all gone. Like a messy room that was finally being cleaned by its owner. What comes next? A sense of peace, perhaps. Hwanwoong smiled. During this time, things didn't seem so bad at all.

Someone's arms wrapped themselves around him.

Hwanwoong froze.

"Boo!" Youngjo's voice resonated in Hwanwoong's ears.

“Huh—”

Blood rushed onto Hwanwoong's cheeks. His heartbeat picked up its pace from how he could literally feel Youngjo's breathing against his neck. His stomach felt as though it just did a backflip.

Hwanwoong frantically struggled to get out of Youngjo’s arms as though they were boiling. A couple of seconds later, he was out—followed by a thump of palm against cheek.

It felt like time had frozen. Every single muscle of Hwanwoong's body froze. No one spoke a word—their widened eyes expressed a lot, though. The sound of the movie had stopped; maybe Keonhee paused it. Hwanwoong didn't know, he didn't see. The only thing he could focus on right now was his hand, stinging from the contact earlier. His heart might as well as jump out of his chest with how hard it was pounding. His every veins pounded, like hammers whacking against his head again and again and again.

“Woong…?” Hwanwoong didn’t know who said that nor did he care about responding. He was mortified. The worst had actually happened right in front of everyone. This was a nightmare. Hwanwoong stood there, breathing heavily, sweating; basking in the bewildered stares of his friends.

And Youngjo. Oh, Youngjo. His face was a canvas painted with hurt, his cheek red from his impulsive slap. Hwanwoong wanted to cry then and there. This was the last thing he'd wanted to happen. There was no rescue from this embarrassment. The memory would be seared into everyone's head forever, and their friendship would never be the same.

So, he ran. He ran to his room and slammed the door shut.

The moment Hwanwoong crashed onto the bed, tears burst forth, spilling down to his cheeks and onto his pillow. Painful sobs filled the room, its echoes like a fingernail running down a blackboard. Everything was crumbling away—his pride, his friendship, his career—all because of his ego. His refusal to admit that he had fallen completely and utterly in love with Kim Youngjo.

After all, Hwanwoong wasn't stupid. It wasn’t like he was an innocent boy who has never gone through any romantic relationships. Teenage year was full of that—hormonal, immature adolescents looking for romance, acting as though they’d grasped the real meaning of love from just watching drama and movies. He’d gone through it, like everybody else.

He knew it all along. His feelings for Youngjo… Hwanwoong wouldn’t go as far as to call it love per se, but every single of Youngjo’s touch, the way his eyes sparkle with affection whenever he smiles at Hwanwoong, how he just emits a sense of comfortableness that not only Hwanwoong, but the other members also love…

Stupid, stupid Hwanwoong.

If he wasn’t so in denial, things wouldn’t have gone this bad.

A knock from the door broke Hwanwoong out of his reverie. The voice that followed suit made him abruptly sit straight up, eyes wide and chagrined.

“Woong, are you okay? Can I come in?” Youngjo’s muffled voice said behind the door.

Hwanwoong stayed silent for a moment, thinking, before saying, “Come in.”

Their eyes met for the first time in a while. Youngjo’s eyebrows were furrowed, concern painted upon his countenance. The state Hwanwoong was in didn’t help either—hair disheveled, eyes puffy and red and wet, and the same goes for his cheeks. Hwanwoong looked away almost immediately. He wiped his eyes, refusing to look into the other’s eyes.

“Bet I look horrible,” Hwanwoong chuckled in disdain.

Youngjo didn’t respond. Instead, he took a few steps forward and made himself at home on the seat adjacent to Hwanwoong’s dresser. Hwanwoong watched him closely from the corner of his eyes.

“I know something’s been bothering you, Woong. You’re not exactly the best liar around here.”

Hwanwoong pressed his lips together. He couldn’t back off now. Things were already bad as it is, and the only one who could mend it was him.

As a response, he only hummed.

Youngjo sighed. “From the looks of it, it seems like I’m the one causing you to be like this. Right? Am I wrong?”

“Not… necessarily.”

“No?”

Hwanwoong hugged his knees. As he spoke, his lower jaw trembled from resisting his sobs, “I’m the one causing this. Not you. None of this is your fault, hyung. Don’t… don’t blame yourself.”

Youngjo looked absolutely devastated. “Woong… Do you know how much it kills me to see you like this? I hate that I can’t do anything to help you—not to mention you’ve been avoiding me. Tell me, Woong.”

And just like that, Hwanwoong broke down again. This time when Youngjo reached out to hold his hand, he didn’t flinch away. Instead, he accepted it, and it was the most wonderful feeling he’d ever felt. A sense of relief washed through him and he felt peaceful. It was as though a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders.

His ego had made him think that the only one suffering from this was him and him only, but truthfully, other people were also affected. If he hadn’t been so egocentric, Youngjo and Geonhak and Dongju wouldn’t have gotten hurt.

Youngjo waited patiently, rubbing circles on the younger one’s palms, while Hwanwoong was trying to calm himself down. Eventually his tears stopped and his lips ceased from trembling. He took a deep breath, drawing up any kind of courage he had left within him to assist him with the next few explanations he owed Youngjo. Nodding to himself, he began to talk.

“I… I think I like you, hyung.”

Hwanwoong glanced at the other from the corner of his eyes, expecting some kind of reaction from the other man, but there was nothing. Not even an ounce of surprise nor uneasiness. Youngjo’s face was blank.

“No—Not I think. I do like you, hyung. Very much.” Hwanwoong’s sentence ended with a bit of a quiver. Not love, no. It’s not that deep, yet.

The warmth of Youngjo’s hand on his own sent a sense of serenity down Hwanwoong’s body. He would be lying if he said he disliked it.

The older man didn’t respond, so Hwanwoong took it as a cue for him to continue. “I don’t know when or where it started. But, um… You know how I have recently been avoiding being touched by you? Your skinship or whatever. Or that I’ve been avoiding you altogether?”

Hwanwoong watched the older man closely. He hummed.

“I, well… It’s because, um, you—ahh, how do I say it…” To Hwanwoong right now, trying to find the right words that could do your feelings justice was like trying to fit yourself in a shirt that is considerably smaller than you. It was impossible.

“Take your time, Woong. We have all the time in the world right now.” The smile that followed Youngjo’s words sent another wave of courage into Hwanwoong. “I know it’s hard to put what you’re feeling into words.”

Hwanwoong nodded. “Um, yeah. So, anyways—it’s because, um—” Despite Youngjo’s pep talk, his stammers remained. He pushed, nonetheless, forcing himself to speak up. “—Basically, you make me crazy, hyung.”

A hint of a smile crept across Youngjo’s features, but it left as fast as it appeared.

“This is seriously embarrassing for me to say so l-listen up because I’m not gonna say it twice,” Hwanwoong stammered. He took a deep breath before carrying on, “Just… It’s hard to control myself when you keep… keep on being so close to me. T-Touching me so affectionately, holding my hand almost every time, no matter if we’re out on a show or inside the company… Lying on me like it doesn’t give me butterflies everytime. Saying you love me so nonchalantly like it doesn’t give me any false hope that you actually mean it in, um, more than a—a platonic way…”

Tears threatened to spill once again as his voice began to waver. Youngjo seemed to notice this, because his grip on Hwanwoong’s hand tightened.

“On top of it all, I don’t want to ruin, um—our friendship. I don’t want our relationship to be ruined. The fact that our relationship with each other also functions as an integral part of the group’s success isn’t helping either. If our friendship is ruined, the group’s, um, what is it—charm? Charisma? Whatever. What I’m trying to say is that if our friendship changes for the worst just because of some stupid feelings that I develop towards you, then the impact will not only damage our relationship, but our group as a whole.”

Hwanwoong was panting the moment he finished. All of those sentences had been uttered out under a single minute and it didn’t even dawn upon him. Youngjo, on the other hand, pulled back in his seat. He crossed his arms and Hwanwoong swore he could hear the mechanical whirs from within his head with how thoughtful he looked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can see where you’re coming from,” Youngjo nodded.

At this point, Hwanwoong was more than a little bit perplexed. Why is Youngjo reacting so calmly? Isn’t he surprised? Why isn’t he responding to the fact that Hwanwoong, like, liked him?

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Hwanwoong blurted out before he could stop himself.

Youngjo cocked his head to the side, eyebrows raised. “I want to listen to your whole perspective first before saying mine. I want to understand why you’ve been acting like you’ve been for the past few days,” he said. “If you want some sort of vulnerability from me, Woong, I can tell you that I was hurt seeing as you’d avoided me all week.”

Hwanwoong cursed at himself.

“Do you still want to continue?”

Hwanwoong nodded. “That’s why I became so avoidant with my own feelings. I was in denial. I didn’t want to acknowledge that I fell—um, had feelings for you. Romantic ones. I guess because of that I became so pissy, like how I shouted at Dongju.”

“Dongju was so shaken back then.”

“Yeah… I felt so bad.” Hwanwoong sighed. “Anyways… I suppose I unconsciously made my anger a temporary protection from my own real feelings and emotions. Well, I knew that, but… I couldn’t stop myself.”

A suffocating silence followed suit the moment Hwanwoong stopped his rambles. He took this time to compose himself, to take a deep breath and wipe off any remaining dry tears sticking on his cheeks. He caught a glimpse of Youngjo while doing so, and all of the fondness Hwanwoong had toward the older man that he previously had hidden deep within his consciousness came back all at once.

This was one of the reasons Hwanwoong fell in love with him. Youngjo’s affectionate upbringing was a nice addition for sure, but his deep consideration and attentiveness for others were honestly the most attractive part about him, in the opinion of Hwanwoong. Exactly like this moment—the way he had been listening to Hwanwoong rambles as if his words were music, even though they were one step closer to be deemed as incoherent. He loved it. Hwanwoong loved Youngjo.

“Is there something on my face?” Youngjo’s words snapped Hwanwoong out of his reverie, and he panicked.

“Oh! No, no, uh… Nothing. It’s… nothing,” Hwanwoong stuttered. “A-Anyways, I think I’m done.”

“Oh, okay.” Youngjo repositioned himself in his seat. He was silent for a couple of moments, collecting his thoughts perhaps.

“You know, I was about to say that you’re the densest person I’ve ever known, but then again I’m also at fault here since it never really crossed my mind that me doing all that would cause such a reaction out of you.” Youngjo scratched the back of his head, a sheepish smile crossed his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Huh?

Hwanwoong blinked, dumbfounded.

He was about to go on a rant about how things weren’t Youngjo’s fault and that he shouldn’t blame himself, but after processing every single word that the older man had said, Hwanwoong couldn’t help but malfunction.

As if sensing his bewilderment, Youngjo took both of Hwanwoong’s hands into a gentle grip and sent him the fondest look he’d ever received from someone. At that moment, his cheeks became warm for the umpteenth time.

“Haven’t you realized that the feelings are mutual, Woong?” Youngjo said, and Hwanwoong wanted to scream.

With his hands over his mouth, Hwanwoong blurted out, “—Shut up.”

Youngjo raised his eyebrows. “Woong?”

Hwanwoong’s hands travelled up to his face, covering it completely. Behind that, he dissolved into laughter, one that was afflicted and painful to hear. Youngjo’s attempt to get him to talk remained disregarded as he kept on shaking with laughter. Not long after that, though, the laughter was replaced by subtle sobs.

“Hyung, please tell me you’re joking.”

Youngjo knitted his eyebrows. “I’m not. I’ve liked you ever since… Well, I don’t know either, to be honest, but I do. Something about you makes me comfortable, Woong. I feel at home when you’re around.”

Hwanwoong couldn’t even describe what he was feeling at the moment. He was angry, euphoric, confused—like incongruous ingredients being mixed into a cauldron of utter nonsense, stirred and fused together until they form an indistinguishable blob of feelings and emotions.

He wanted to be angry at Youngjo for not telling him upfront that he liked him, but he could understand it better than anyone else why Youngjo didn’t. It was probably for the same reason why Hwanwoong avoided acknowledging his own feelings; it was because he was afraid. But Youngjo dealt with his own feelings by projecting them into affection, unlike Hwanwoong who projected them into animosity.

“I was also afraid, Hwanwoong. The possibility of our friendship being destroyed by just some petty romantic feelings was too high, and I couldn’t risk it. So my brain told me to hide it. But I’m naturally a very affectionate person, you know that, right? So… yeah. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were also… y’know.”

Next thing he knew, Hwanwoong’s limbs were moving by themselves. His hands wrapped themselves around Youngjo, so tightly that if it were any tighter, he was sure Youngjo would’ve begun choking.

Hwanwoong’s whole body was shaking. Like a dam that’d just been broken, ceaseless tears began to stream down his face. His silent wail was muffled against Youngjo’s shoulder, and it intensified once the other started to apply gentle pats on Hwanwoong’s back.

“Hey, hey, now, why are you crying again?” Youngjo laughed, but a faint crack could be heard at the end of his sentence. “Everything’s fine now. You don’t need to suppress your emotions anymore. Oh—but that’s more reason to cry, huh? Well then, cry your heart out, Woong.”

Those simple yet effective words sent a wave of butterflies coursing through Hwanwoong’s veins, easing the whimpers that had overtaken him before. By the time the two broke the hug, Hwanwoong’s snivels were mostly alleviated, though a few sniffles had escaped from his lips. He was still shaking too—from his shoulders to the tip of his fingertips.

Youngjo brought his hand up to Hwanwoong’s hair, ruffling with it. “It’s okay now. Everything’s been sorted out. Well, except if you still have some more things to say?”

“No,” Hwanwoong shook his head, but something struck his mind immediately. “Oh, um—can I ask you something?”

“Sure, ask away.”

“Why do you, ah, like me?”

Youngjo blinked. He hummed for a short while, cocking his head to the side as he did so. Hwanwoong waited, watching the other cautiously with squinted eyes.

“I like a lot of things about you. It’s mainly because you’re absolutely adorable, though.” The shit-eating grin that followed Youngjo’s words made Hwanwoong want to punch him.

“Oh, come on! I’m serious!” Hwanwoong pouted, playfully hitting the other’s chest.

“Okay, okay! Well, where do I start? I love how passionate you are about dancing, first of all. Or maybe just your passion in general. I love how you always put your best when it comes to things, even ones that you don’t necessarily like.” Youngjo paused for a moment, then continued, grinning again, “And your smile. I love your smile a lot.”

Which only drew another playful punch to the chest from Hwanwoong. “Cheesy.”

“Hey! I’m being serious here!”

This time, Hwanwoong didn’t respond. Instead, he buried his face against Youngjo’s chest, withholding the fact that his face was beet red. So much has happened for the past few days. The humiliation, the anger, the melancholy—those things seemed so out of reach now, specifically with how everything had turned out in the end.

It felt unreal. This seemed too good to be true.

“Woong?” Youngjo called out, lifting Hwanwoong’s chin so that he would face the other.

“So what happens now?”

“Huh?”

“What happens now, now that our feelings are mutual? Are we going to date? But we can’t, right? Dating another member of your group is just… unspoken of. Right?”

With the same amount of warmthness he retained upon his smile, along with the soft caresses of his thumb against Hwanwoong’s cheek, Youngjo asked, “Do you want to date?”

Hwanwoong thought about it for a while. “No… Not right now. Commitment’s too scary for me. I don’t want to be too fast with relationships—I don’t want to ruin us.”

Youngjo nodded appreciatively, but he failed to hide the dejection that was apparent in his eyes. “I get it. I agree, too, to be honest.” There was a pause again. Youngjo was thinking. “What do you think about taking things slowly?”

Hwanwoong blinked. “Taking things slowly?”

“Yeah, like… We’ll be together, but not together… There’s a word for it, but I forgot…”

An amused chuckle left the younger’s lips. “Not labelling ourselves?”

“Yeah! That’s it. What do you think?” Youngjo asked. “Oh, but it’s seriously okay if you don’t want to. No pressure.”

The thought of he and Youngjo holding hands while smiling at each other crossed Hwanwoong’s mind almost immediately. The two of them have always been considered to be as thick as thieves by the other members, more so than any other pair within the group, so if they were to be more affectionate than before, it wouldn’t be really that out of place.

On top of everything else, though, to be able to call Youngjo his without feeling awful or guilty, and to have Youngjo call him his… Other than a first win on a music show, Hwanwoong couldn’t think of any better sensation,

It took him quite a while to make up his mind, but eventually, Hwanwoong nodded, albeit meekly. “Yeah. Sure. Doesn’t sound too bad.”

The astounded look Youngjo’s face consequently gave off was close to out of character, if it weren’t for the fact that Hwanwoong had seen that expression before a lot of times. Under different circumstances, of course.

“Oh, r-really? Um, I didn’t expect you to say that,” Youngjo stammered as he scratched his nape.

“Yeah. Why? Do you not want to?” At this point, Hwanwoong was expecting the worst of the worst, honestly.

Youngjo frantically waved his hands. “No! Well, yes—ugh, I mean, I want that too.” His mouth twitched as though he was holding back a huge grin, but his eyes could never lie. “I’m ecstatic, Woong, if you can’t tell. I can’t believe my feelings are mutual…?”

For the first time in a while, Hwanwoong genuinely laughed. “Yeah, I relate to that on a spiritual level.”

And then they were silent again. Hwanwoong noticed how Youngjo was fidgeting though. He played with his fingers and his eyes were darting back and forth from who knows where and to what. Hwanwoong was about to ask what was wrong, but was defeated by their eyes meeting abruptly once again.

“—Can I kiss you?”

Hwanwoong’s response was almost automatic. “Yeah.”

And their lips met. The kiss wasn’t anything impressive, no tongue or exchange of saliva like those romantic movies usually make it. It was just a slight peck on the lips, but it was enough to send tingling shivers down Hwanwoong’s spine. They pulled away as quickly as they kissed, nevertheless Hwanwoong’s pulses were already racing.

Youngjo seemed to be as embarrassed as he was. His breathing was heavy and his eyes were sparkling like he’d just seen fireworks. The crimson painted across his cheeks drew laughter out of Hwanwoong. “You’re so cute, hyung.”

Youngjo only smiled. “Do I need to give you a mirror, Woong?”

Hwanwoong rolled his eyes. “Ugh, does this mean I have to deal with your greasiness every second of the day?”

“Guess so! Make sure you’re up for it because I’m gonna be greasier than before just to annoy you.”

“Uuuugh.”

Hwanwoong was glad that they could exchange banters again without worrying about one another’s feelings anymore. This outcome was the outcome that he least expected, but he contentedly welcomed it nonetheless. To be able to touch and be touched by Youngjo without feeling awful to himself, added with the fact that Youngjo was his and he was Youngjo’s—it was as though Hwanwoong was dreaming with his eyes open.

“Y’know—we should thank Geonhak,” Youngjo said after enveloping the other into his arms.

Hwanwoong looked up at the other, confused. “Geonhak? Why?”

“He was the first one to notice that you were being like that because of me. He told me in the toilet earlier. He also told me to do something to you in order to, in his words, ‘evoke some kind of reaction out of you’.”

As he snuggled closer to Youngjo, Hwanwoong pouted. “I wanna be annoyed at him for deliberately playing with my emotions, but I also can’t because the end result isn’t bad.”

“You can tell Dongju to bite him tomorrow as revenge,” Youngjo suggested, a sly smile creeping upon his countenance.

“Mhmm,” Hwanwoong hummed, closing his eyes. “I’ll do that.”

Youngjo raised an eyebrow. “Are you gonna go to sleep? What about the movie?”

“It’s probably finished by now. Even if we joined, we probably missed quite a lot. Besides, I’m tired.” Hwanwoong shrugged. “If you wanna join them, it’s fine. Just… accompany me until I sleep.”

Youngjo’s characteristic smile appeared once again. “Okay. I’ll do that.”

It didn’t take long for Hwanwoong to drift off to dreamland. Youngjo called out to him a few times, but no response was given. Perhaps he was imagining things, but there seemed to be a ghost of a smile left upon the sleeping boy’s face. He must’ve been exhausted, Youngjo thought sympathetically.

He carefully stepped out of the bed. As he tiptoed to the door, he glanced at the clock at the wall. Half past twelve. The movie hadn’t finished just yet, and he could still hear the others’ ruckus from the common room.

“Sleep well, Woong,” Youngjo whispered softly as he turned off the light, before making his way over to join the others.

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