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novasheadcanons · 4 years

Text

The Brothers with a MC who’s presence is calming their sin

TW: None :3 SFW Fluff

Lucifer

-One word: Denial.

- He was always proud. And he found new pride in being the Avatar he is. He would never allow anything else to happen.

- But you wormed your way almost to easy into the eldest heart.

- You started bringing him tea and a snack in the evening, when the others were getting ready for bed and you knew he was still working. The amount of paperwork seemingly endless.

- He scroffed the first time you did this. He didn’t need a weak human to take care of him.

- He will absolutly deny how quickly he was looking forward to seeing you in the evening, a gentle smile your lips and delicious tea and his favourite cake in your hands.

- You humbled him. Soft whispers of comfort in the night when he was overworked, stressed and trying to ingnore painful memories. He allowes you to care for him when he previously would have strangled anyone who saw him like this. Now he’s questioning what he did to deserve you.

- He leans into your touch and reaches out for you in return.

- What was previously limited to when you two were alone starts to seep into his daily life with the brothers as well.

- He recrognizes his shortcomings and flaws more, but still struggles to act on it. But he becomes more forgiving. His brothers were sure he was deadly ill the first time they noticed.

- Lucifer will always be the embodyment of pride, but he becomes softer around the edges.

- He like to pull you on his lap and stroke over your cheek. It never fails to make him smile when you look at him with so much adoration.

- “You know I can’t let you go just yet, right?”

Mammon

-He thinks he’s dying. No joke. He has been googling his ‘symtoms’ 6 time now. - But ‘Help I’m the Avatar of Greed but I feel weird!’ doesn’t really bring forth anything useful.

- Mammon’s greed is something he never had any control over, and he still doesn’t. At least no concious control.

- It starts when you two are out and about. He made a new money making sheme and dragged you along, as usual, but now you two were sitting at this fountain for two hours already and he forgot why he dragged you in the first place.

- Mammon watched you laugh over something he said, but it was a nice laugh. A laugh that didn’t sting. You weren’t laughing about him. This was nice. He wanted more of this.

- When he actually managed to make money and he found himself looking for something for you instead of him, it dawned on him. This dork came home with 4 gifts for you and only one cool pair of shades for himself. Pff, he wanted nothing else anyway, why are you looking at him so surprised?

- He still gets the sticky fingers when he sees something he could sell to make money, but more often than not he placed it back after thinking about how you would not like him stealing and getting in trouble again.

- The Avatar of Greed is still well...greedy. But it changes. Mammon feels so fuzzy inside when you're happy, laughing, reaching out towards him. He finally noticed how much more he wants of this. No amount of grimm could outshine your smile when you look at him. You filled the emptiness he tried to stuff with grimm, clothes and jewelry.

- He hugged you close one night, not knowing you were still awake. You had been watching a movie together and decided that you would be sleeping here, to tired to go back to your room.

- He whispers quietly in your hair while pulling you even closer to his chest. “Ya are the biggest tressure I ever held...”

Leviathan

-absolutly oblivious to it. Like, this man does not notice at all.

- It also took a long time. His envy isn’t just jealousy. It is self-deprecation. It is comparing himself to anyone else and always comming to the conclusion that the other person is better.

- It only started when he accepted (for the most part) that you truly were his friend. That you didn’t secretly were planning a long-term joke on him.

- He had been ranting about a new fascination of his for a while now, while you were watching him being so in his element. He looked... happy maybe even a little confident? When he noticed how long he had been talking again he apologized but he didn’t look ashamed like he usually looked. More bashfull, but still smiling. And it didn’t take much convincing to have him continue.

- It was a lot of these little things. But more and more his envy lost it’s sharp edge that used to stab him in the back everytime he so much as thought about being proud of something he achived.

- You helped him becomming more at ease with himself. Your presence reminded him about all the things that were good in this life. Things others didn’t have.

- He realised this when he was complaining about how unfair something was when he looked at you. Patiently sitting there and holding his hand. With this loving look in your eyes.

- The widest smile you’ve ever seen from him streched across his face, lighting up his eyes and he squeezed your hand.

- “What am I doing? How could I complain about something so trivial when I have you by my side?”

- Cue both of you blushing and looking surprised. You couldn’t help but laugh a little when he hid his face in your shoulder when you hugged him. A blushing, blabbering mess

- He may be making progress but he would always be your Levi.

- There will be time where he falls back into his old harmfull thoughts but he knows you will be there to hold his hand. Just like Henry does for the Lord of Shadows!

Satan

-He caught on the quickest and welcomed it the slowest.

- Every since you moved in with them he felt weird when you were in the room. Probably because he was so sensitive. Satan picked up on everything in a room, so every little thing could set him off if he hadn’t learned how to quickly escape and rage in the safety of his room.

- But the more time he spend in a room, close to you, the calmer his mind became. He still picked up on everything but when he glanced at you, or when you softly touched his hand because you noticed his eyes tighten a little, a wave of calm washed over him.

- He did not trust it. At all. Were you influencing him with magic? Were you doing it on purpose? But if you were so powerful that you could calm the Avatar of Wrath with a single touch why were you always so close to dying??

- As usual for Satan he spend days researching, trying to find anything. Without success.

- He barged into your room, agitated by the lack of success. Satan had nearly kicked your door open. And froze when he saw you.

- You were laying your back, your legs streched out and propped up on the wall. Your D.D.D making contact with your face when he had barged in. He couldn’d help but to laugh a little. His previous anger forgotten

- Calmly he closed the door and joining you on the bed, where you had just set up and were rubbing your forehead. “The fuck, Satan?”

- He smiled softly, taking your hand in his so he could give the red spot on your forehead a little peck. “Let me make it better.”

- Maybe it wasn’t so important why and how. You calmed his wrath finally making place for something else.

- When his brothers catched on they would practially dump you on top of Satan whenever he worked himself into a rage. Works like a charm.

-He never said anything to you, but you knew. The look in his eyes told you everything.

Asmodeus

-For him the transission was so smothly he didn’t notices it for a while. He started complimenting you, without complimenting himself while doing it. He didn’t praise his outer beauty with nearly every single breath anymore. Still alot (Have you seen him?) but less desperatly. Asmo forgot to post his morning selfies twice in a row because he lazed around in bed with you.

- It irretated him to no end for weeks now. Something felt off and he had no clue what it was. It was driving him absolutly insane and his brothers were acting like they knew why, but noone would tell him anything!

- It was the third week now he didn’t feel like going partying to get praised, get eye-fucked by every passing person...

- Instead you two were in his room, wearing soft pjs and laying on his bed, shoulders pressed together

- You had grapped his hand while talking, gestureing wildly exited about something.

- It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy you talking, or wasn’t interessted but he was to mesmerised by your face, eyes shining with joy.

- Suddenly it just...clicked.

- “It’s you...!”

- He was sitting up, pulling you up with him. You rearly witnessed the Avatar of Lust looking at you so...seriously.

- “Asmo...is everything alright? Did I-“

- He had pulled you on his lap, arm tight around you, just holding you as close as possibly to him. You were all he ever wanted but tried so hard to deny. You loved him. Not the Avatar of Lust, but him!

- “I...I love you more than I love myself.”

-You calmed his desprate desire to be loved. To be seen.

Beelzebub

-It started after you made the pact with him, probably because you were spending more time with him now.

- probably the most noticable change out of the brothers.

- It also started of slow. A few less snacks in between classes, not 12 plates of food at breakfeast but 10

- The brothers noticed immediatly but he brushed it off. He was feeling fine. Better than fine actually. Beely felt this warm fuzzy feeling in his stomach. Smiling happily he took another bite, enjoying the taste more than usually before gulfing down more.

- The first time you two fell asleep in a bed together, you had made yourself comftable on top of him, he gently brushed some strands of hair out of your face. You had fallen asleep ontop of him. He was kind of hungry but you looked so blissfully happy...

- In the end he fell asleep, too. And he sleept through the night.

- Imagine his shock when he woke up before you, now really feeling hungry expecting it to be around midnight, as usual, but instead it was time for breakfest... When was the last time he didn’t get up in the night to eat?

- He is still eating an absolutly ungodly amount of food but he doesn’t feel like he is starving nearly every seconds of the day anymore. When he realised it was because of you, he picked you up in a bear-hug. Just holding you close and pressing his face into your neck. You swear you feel your neck getting a bit wet...

- “Thank you...Thank you so much...”

Belphegor

-after being freed from the attic he finally joined the ‘normal’ life in the House of Lamentation again

- the others had already spend a lot of time with you. So they figured it out by now already but they agreed not to tell Belphie for two reasons:

- 1. Nobody wanted him to be dissapointed should it turn out that it doesn’t happen for him.

- 2. They wanted it to be a surprise should it work.

- Belphie felt insecure for a while since all his brothers were already so close to you and he well... He wasn’t exactly starting of a clean plate here...

- So he occupied your time a lot for a while

- He didn’t notices his brothers small changes for that reason

- It started off by being more awake around you when you two had cuddle & nap sessions together. He shrugged it of to just wanting to get to know you more.

- Your presence made him being able to be awake for longer periods of time in the beginning, then when you forced him to participate in activities with Beel and you his energy didn’t drain as quickly as he was used to. When he slept, he didn’t sleep quiet as long but felt so much better after waking up.

- It made him suspicious. So he started watching his brothers more.

- After two month he confronted you at breakfeast.

- “What are you doing to me?” Okay, rude...

- Why were his brothers ginning so stupidly?

- After you spend a while explaining what you and the others figured out he leaned back, taken aback. A soft smile taking over his lips that he could not surpress fast enough.

- Later that night he made himself comtable on top of you, his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. He didn’t know what to do, but your lovingly petting his hair made him realise he didn’t need to.

- He still sleeps a lot, often and in the weirdest places, he will always be the Avatar of Sloth but this might not be so bad after all.

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Please reblog and like if you liked this! I would love to know what you think of this, so consider leaving a comment. This is my first try on HC for anything :3 My requests are open!

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marlahey · 4 years

Photo

under the same roof part one: a stickler for the rules

a harry styles rpf ratings/warnings: references to stalking behaviour by a peripheral character, too many longing looks in a space too small to contain them, she’s clueless sometimes but we love her notes: surprise surprise! it’s good to be back my friends. as far as OG openings go, part one of utsr probably underwent the least amount of rewrites. the most notable change is sylvia’s age: she’s four-ish, going on five. just makes our lives a little easier in terms of continuity and logic! (please visit the masterlist to find all our other writing because I forgot tumblr is a BITCH and hates external links now. ugh.) utsr masterlist | part 2 (7.12.2020)

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• tuesday, 1st february 7:48 pm • In spite of the biting chill outside, it’s about a million degrees in this lobby. You wonder if the heater is broken and if it’s always going to be like this here. The hair escaping your ponytail is pressed flat against the back of your neck, and you’re struggling to balance the crate between your chin and the massive box in your arms.

One of the corners is digging into your gut so you raise a knee to adjust it, but the box slips in your grip and you barely manage to hang on. There’s a faint meow from Chowder’s crate. The doors to the elevator whirr open with a ding and you shuffle inside. “Which floor is it again?” India grunts. The box that she’s carrying is lighter but larger—more cumbersome. It obscures half of her face and the way she’s leaning over can’t be any good for her back. “Eight,” you reply, strained. India stretches an arm out to the keypad, struggling to reach the right number. She misses. “Yeah,” you deadpan, “so press four twice.” The sound of a quiet, stifled chuckle turns your head to the back corner of the elevator. A young man leans against the hardwood of the elevator wall with his hands clasped in front of him. He is tall and lean; silver and gold rings adorn his fingers. His hair is wavy and cocoa brown, as though he used to have a businessman’s haircut but has let it grow out. He’s wearing grey tartan tweed pants and black ward lo Vans. Tattoos poke out of the sleeves of his sweater. It’s an arguably strange ensemble, but he pulls it off well. The man pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up his nose with a thumb, gaze trained on the floor. His lips are still pressed together against a smile that flirts with the corners of his mouth. Only then do you realize you’d been staring. You tear your eyes away as heat nips your cheeks and ears. In your tattered converse, mom jeans, and grubby moving flannel, you feel suddenly small. Chowder moews plaintively, like he needs to remind you of his current status in, on, and surrounded by boxes. “Is it just me,” India murmurs to you as the doors ding open on the second floor, “or did that take… is the lift broken?” “It’s the slowest bloody thing,” the man interjects, like it’s the bane of his existence. “You get used to it.” The elevator jolts to a stop on the fourth floor and the doors peel open in silence. Nobody moves. “Sorry, ” India murmurs. The man just shakes his head. The back of the door to the elevator is a mirror so you’re able to privately relish in the invisible threads of your curiosity that reach out to him. “S’ fine, ” he replies softly. By the time you’ve reached the sixth floor, you’re still peering at the man periodically from beneath your eyelashes. He looks up and holds your stare in the reflection of the doors moments before they part, and a ding sounds again through the small space. He smiles at you, poised, before pushing off the wall and stepping carefully between you and India to the hallway. The doors close once again and you are alone with your friend. She drops her box a few inches and bugs her eyes out at you from over the cardboard lid. “Dibs.” You step forward, laughing, and bump your box into hers. Finally, you reach level eight, pile the last two of your boxes by the front door, collapse on the mattress on your bedroom floor still covered in clear plastic packaging, and order pad thai. • friday, 30th march 7:23 am •

“Hold the elevator!” you call mid-jog, and immediately wince. You need to be better about calling it a lift. You make it through the doors of the lift before they close halfway, but not before noticing an arm outstretched to hold them open for you nonetheless. A cross tattoo and the bottom of an anchor poke out from the sleeve of his suit. It’s black velvet that has a navy lustor in the light. You’re in the same company now as virtually every other morning since you’d moved here—the man with the glasses who noticed you on that first day. You’re pretty sure his name is Harry, unless he’s pinning someone else’s name to his chest every day on a badge beneath red emboldened letters reading, The National Gallery, London. It’s surprising to see him as you get on, however, because he lives below you on the sixth floor. Perhaps he’d forgotten something today and needed to go back up… if this were the case, you’re glad to have caught him by chance. Every so often the cast of characters rotates. Sometimes a stout older man with an emerald green briefcase and a mustache rides down with you on weekdays. A slender woman who is almost always on her headset, hovering by the button pad occasionally makes an appearance. They both live above you. Most mornings, however, are like today. It’s just you and Harry together, without fail, if only for those few measured moments of quiet at sunrise. Perhaps you two are on the same tube schedule. For someone you see so often, you know remarkably little about Harry apart from the observable; he’s not one for small talk, has poor eyesight, and boasts impeccable taste in suits. It occurs to you that you still haven’t had a full conversation with him. You absently wonder if he’s single. You’ve even made progress from polite nods of acknowledgment to a consistent “Good morning,” from him and a nearly unflustered, “Morning,” from you (though realistically speaking, a smile before you’ve had your first cup of coffee is only manageable because India would disown you if she knew that you weren’t taking every opportunity to talk to this stupidly handsome stranger). “Thanks,” you murmur, stepping through the doors Harry’s held open for you. “Sure.” The ride down passes in silence. You can’t work up the nerve to speak until the doors part and Harry gestures for you to exit first, and by then it’s too late. You offer a faint parting smile. But, you reason, there’s always tomorrow. • sunday, 8th april 2:42 pm • The lift stops on the sixth floor in its descent as you look up from your phone. Harry’s voice is audible from the hall as the doors open and it startles you because he’s usually alone. You take a sip of your iced coffee as Harry steps inside, wearing a black knit sweater with pink and orange planets across the front, black jeans, worn leather boots, and wayfarers. In one of his hands, he carries an umbrella and rolled-up reusable grocery bag. In the other—most surprisingly—he holds the tiny hand of a little girl. She’s wearing frog rain boots, rainbow leggings, and a t-shirt that proclaims the future is female. Her dense curls are a shade darker than Harry’s, her eyes are closer to brown than hazel, and her skin is a warmer golden hue—but her smile presses a dimple into her cheek, identical to the one you’ve been staring at for months. He has a kid? Harry pulls her gently inside and she seems disappointed that the button for the ground floor is already lit. “This one pumpkin,” he whispers, pointing at the close doors symbol just beneath. She presses it with a firm clack and beams when the familiar mirrors slide across. “Daddy, can we please, please get bananas?” You almost choke on your cold brew. He has a kid. Is there a ring? Do you see a ring? You’d never noticed him in a wedding band before and he certainly isn’t wearing one now. “Shh, we won’t forget bananas… I wrote it down, remember?” With his free hand, Harry fishes out a folded piece of Hello Kitty paper from his back pocket and holds out her, more than happy to let his child snatch it from him. “Daddy, look at the pretty star!” You almost choke on your coffee again as Harry’s gaze follows his daughter’s waving hand, still gripping the pink, polka-dot paper with cat ears, all the way to the golden star dangling from your neck. “Yes, it’s very nice,” Harry nods down at her, agreeing in a voice that could only be used with a child. “Don’t point, angel… s’not very polite.” He smiles at you, almost apologetic, and gently wraps his hand around hers to lower her outstretched arm. “You have a million stars at home.” The lift stops on the ground floor. You gesture for Harry to exit first, a courtesy he always seems to extend to you, and you melt into a smile as he lifts one corner of his mouth in timid gratitude. He hesitates in the doorway on his way out. “Say goodbye, Sylvia,” he says. He has a dad voice. It makes your stomach flip. Sylvia flashes you those sparkling brown eyes once more and waves, suddenly shy. You wiggle your fingers and she buries her face into her father’s leg. “We’re workin’ on it,” Harry says, like it needs an explanation of some kind. He keeps his tender smile when he glances at you over his shoulder before he and Sylvia disappear out the lobby doors and into the rain, hand in hand. • thursday, 7th june 8:24 am • You’re pinning an earring in as you step into the lift. It stops on the sixth floor and then it’s silent as usual between you, Harry, and the mustached emerald briefcase man. You still haven’t had a complete conversation with either of them, but you hardly mind. It’s gratifying to have a few moments of peace before the triathlon that is your final exams, the gym, then straight into your evening shifts at work. Even though you’re looking forward to drinks tonight with India to celebrate the end of term, you’re weary and your body is stiff. Another sleepless night had come and gone and you’d struggled to cover the bags beneath your eyes with makeup this morning. You frown in your recollection of the nightmare, the same icy stare tormenting you. There is an older man with nearly translucent blue eyes, who you see so often around London that you’re beginning to wonder if he’s a figment of your imagination. Yesterday you’d caught a glimpse of him in the reflection of a shop window on your daily walk home from the tube station. He was staring straight at you, but when you’d spun around to look closer, he had vanished. It had unnerved you so much that you hurried straight home without stopping at the shops for kitty litter. London is a crammed metropolis; at this point it’s likely nothing, but that doesn’t stop you from losing sleep over it. “My daughter has that book,” the man with the emerald briefcase says, pulling you back to earth. You let go of your now fastened earring and hold up the book that was pinned under your arm so that the cover is on display. The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen. “This one?” The man hums, continuing, "I’m ashamed to say I don’t even know what it’s about.” “It’s sweet.” Harry’s eyes flash to the book and then your face as you speak. You flip it over and consider the blurb on the back. “A girl sort of accidentally starts working for this catering company one summer while she’s dealing with the loss of her dad.” The stout man brushes over his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “I never knew you were American!” “Oh, yeah,” you laugh softly through a shrug. Harry looks down to the floor and you catch the last second of his smile. “I am.” “What brings you to London then?” asks the older man. “I’m a student at UCL.” “Impressive. What do you study?” “I’m a third year in Law... um, I have a minor in Art History, though.” You peer over at Harry through the reflection of the doors, but he simply pushes his glasses up his nose. You’re startled by the lift’s ding at the ground floor. “Cheers.” The old man nods at you before exiting. “Cheers,” Harry adds like a reflex, stealing a side glance at you before brushing past into the lobby. You could have sworn you’d seen the dimple forming on his cheek to mask a smile. • thursday, 27th september 8:51 pm • You knead the back of your neck with your fingertips and frown toward the ground as you wait for the lift. You don’t usually get home this late but your research advisor needed you to come in a little earlier to your shift this afternoon, and you hadn’t been able to get in a workout until an hour ago. What’s more, readjusting to London’s time zone after spending the month of August back home is taking a toll on your sleep. You sigh and try to relax your shoulders. The first term in your final year at university seems determined to bury you early. You press the auto-lock button on the set of car keys India had loaned you, then once more for good measure. You managed to finagle a guest spot in the garage beneath the building, though it’s your first time using it. It’s eerie and poorly lit down here; you tread lightly into the lift. You’d seen him again today—the blue-eyed man—and by this point it had just been… too often. You had convinced India to let you borrow her car to pick up some archives for your advisor in Ilford forty-five minutes out of your way. It was the first time you’d been to that part of London, and you were still getting used to driving on the other side of the road, so you were already on edge. You remember crossing the street over to a small brook beside the road and when you glanced over your shoulder, he was there in your wake, watching you. It was the middle of the day but you were alone, so you faked a phone call and took an indirect route to the Ilford Historical Society. It was enough to solidify your suspicions that something more serious is happening. On the drive home, you had mentally worked out a time in your schedule to visit the police department and file a report. The lift stops in the lobby on your way up, and your worries from the day promptly evaporate. You smile at your feet as Harry creeps inside the tiny corridor with a very measured, and even gate. Sylvia is passed out, her arms draped loosely around his neck. He’s in a charcoal grey tuxedo tonight and his usual glasses are switched out for contacts. You reach out to press the sixth-floor button, and Harry thanks you with the beginning of a smile. The two of you are stood at the back of the lift together, shoulder to shoulder facing the mirror, so it’s easy to indulge in your gaze toward the small child in his arms. You don’t try to hide the fact that you’re staring the way you might have a few months ago. Even in sleep, Sylvia’s tiny hand clings to the fabric of Harry’s collar. She nuzzles into his neck when the lift jolts upward. Her cheeks are rosy, and she wears a pyjama set covered in primary-colored dinosaurs. Her dark bob of curls—which have grown longer since you’d seen them last—are spread out across his shoulder, and her bloated toddler belly rises and falls against his chest. You smile absently at the short trail of memories you have of Sylvia, but your reverie is interrupted when you notice that Harry is looking directly into your eyes. It makes you do a double take. Could you have imagined it? Is that a blush? Had you embarrassed him? You’re still staring at each other in the reflection when the lift reaches the sixth floor. Your eyes dart to the floor, and you only allow yourself to look up once Harry is stepping out into the hall, well in front of you. He pauses in the doorway to turn around. “Goodnight,” he whispers. “Night.” You hesitate before adding, “Goodnight, Sylvia.” Harry’s smile only grows wider, as though the two of you had shared some fond inside joke. Something catches your eye when you arrive at your floor. You crouch down and pick up a plush kangaroo toy in the corner, flipping it over in your hands. It’s ratty, and has been washed so many times that the pink cotton on its ears is beading. One of the miniature black buttons for its eyes dangles loose, and the synthetic fur is matted. What was once chestnut has faded into a dull, tawny copper. “S.S.,” you read curiously. The initials are stitched in red to the bottom of the kangaroo’s long feet. The sound of the doors closing catches you off guard. You jump to your feet, tucking the small stuffed animal into your purse as you hurry down the hall and fish around in your bag for your keys. • saturday, 6th october 2:31 pm • You step into the lift, fasten in your earbuds, and tap the button on the keypad for the eighth floor. Today marks your third trip to the Ilford Historical Society this week. Soon you’re going to need to ask your advisor for reimbursement to fill India’s tank, but on the bright side you hadn’t seen the man with blue eyes since the first time you’d made the trip…You just hope that this means he’s retreating and not that he’s getting stealthier. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and increase the volume of your classical playlist by a few notches. A flash of purple, white, and green bolts into the lift as the doors part at the lobby. Sylvia is in a Buzz Lightyear costume today. Harry’s tattooed arm swings through the half-open doors immediately behind her, going for the jet pack wings, but she squeals and escapes his hold. You watch the scene play out like a Tom and Jerry skit with La Traviata in the background as Sylvia darts around the corners of the lift and her father fails to corral her. Harry lunges for her, misses, lunges, misses again, then catches her by the elbow as she screams in laughter, squirming out of his grip. You silently pause your music and press the button for the sixth floor as Harry spreads his feet apart, catching Sylvia in his arms like a goalie as she tries to bowl through the closing doors. It’s fortunate that nobody else is trying to get in. She kicks her legs before adopting that pose children do when they don’t want to be held, and makes a rigid plank with her body. Hair disheveled and glasses sliding down his nose, Harry lurches for the keypad with his daughter wedged under his arm a few seconds after the doors close. “Oh.” He stops in his tracks once he sees the button for his floor is already illuminated. “Thanks.” You flash a quick smile. Harry sets Sylvia down breathlessly and she finds a hiding place behind him, her little arms wrapped around one of his knees. He leans against the back wall of the lift, the smallest backpack you’ve ever seen swinging from one hand with the initials, S.S. reappearing stitched onto one of the straps. You swallow and tug your earbuds out by their chord before slowly crouching down to eye-level with Sylvia. For a moment you look up at Harry because you feel the instinct to ask for permission for some reason, certain your expression is more serious than necessary. He’s frowning but he’s also smiling at you as though to gauge your next move—so are you, to some degree. You shift your eyes back to Sylvia, and reach cautiously into your purse. Sylvia’s eyes widen at the sight of the small kangaroo you retrieve from your bag, her mouth gaping in a tiny, square-toothed grin. It might just as well be Harry beaming at you himself with such a striking resemblance. Both of the kangaroo’s black button eyes are fastened tightly in place now. You make your voice light and ask, “Is this yours?” The sound of a zipper comes from above your head; you glance up to catch Harry pulling another kangaroo out of the backpack. How many kangaroos does she have? He passes the stuffed animal to Sylvia and you see now that it’s quite a bit larger than the one you’d found last week. It’s also different from yours because it has a long white stripe along its front with a wide, empty pouch halfway down its belly. Oh… perhaps it’s just the two. She cautiously approaches you with the larger toy in tow, until you’re close enough to snuggle the joey back into its mother’s pouch. She stumbles backward into Harry’s legs. You sigh in relief before rising to your feet. “Sylvia, can you say thank you?” Harry folds his arms behind his back and leans over to whisper against the top of his daughter’s head, but loud enough for you to hear. Her curls bounce as she bobbles her head in a bashful nod, wrapping an arm around dad’s leg again. “Thank you.” This child, you have to admit, is devastatingly cute. “We tore the flat apart looking for him this weekend,” Harry intones, shaking his head. “Where did you find him?” “In here,” you reply. He makes a noise, like the possibility had only just occurred to him. “Thank you.” “It was the least I could do.” You lean back against the wall opposite them as the lift reaches the sixth floor with a ding and you wave to the two of them on their way out. “Cheers.” Harry nods to you. “Say goodbye, Sylvia.” She gives you a small wave. Harry gently nudges her forward into the hallway with his foot. There is an interim of about ten seconds of quiet before Sylvia is hurtling back into the lift, making a beeline to you, and wrapping her arms around your legs. She beams up at you for the second time with a smile cut-and-pasted from her father. Bubbling laughter overcomes her, and you uncross your legs, unable to help yourself from joining in her smile. “Hello again!” you say, before it occurs to you that you probably shouldn’t be encouraging this behavior. “Vi,” Harry calls from outside the lift. She just giggles and buries her face into your knee. He appears in the quickly closing doorway, one hand keeping it open as he narrows his eyes. There’s something playful in it though, a practiced pretend serious. Your gazes catch and Harry winks, putting a finger to his lips. “Uh oh,” he says, “I think I hear a tickle monster!” Sylvia shrieks, but she’s not faster than her father, who’s crouched low to catch her by the sides, merciless fingers at work until the child instinctively releases you. She laughs and laughs and laughs as he scoops her up into his arms. “So sorry.” Harry’s apology is much less flustered than you would have expected. Sylvia wiggles in his grip, cracking up, euphorically naughty. You simply let out a breathy laugh as they finally both make it out of the lift together. Down the hall, you hear Sylvia’s giggle melt into a screech against gravity; you lean over to catch a glimpse of Harry flipping her upside down on his chest with her belly out, legs flailing back and forward over his shoulder. “Oh, you’re bad. You’re bad.” He does not show his daughter the mercy of waiting until they’re in the privacy of their apartment before the second round of tickling begins. “You’re gonna get Daddy in trouble.” • monday, 8th october 8:23 am • Riding in the lift alone is nice because you don’t have a full-length mirror in your apartment. You brush the cat hair off of the front of your sweater and fix one of the sleeves that had bunched up beneath all your layers. The yarn is a warm, autumnal bay that compliments your thick scarf and the gold buttons of your roomy black overcoat. You hear a ding and your eyes flash up to the floor indicator above the entrance. You almost lose your balance jumping back from your reflection when you see the illuminated number six. The doors separate and Harry steps in beside you, closer than usual. Today he’s in a forest green, double-breasted jumpsuit with faint pinstripes, and you can’t help but find it fitting that he works in an art museum. “Morning,” he murmurs. “Good morning.” You feel something tense pinned to the air between you two. “Did you fix Jojo’s eyes?” Harry asks after a beat, almost accusatory. Your eyes narrow at his reflection in the doors. It takes you a minute to summon to mind what he’s referring to. “Jojo?” He flushes a little, just enough to warm the tips of his ears. “The um—” Harry clears his throat, shaking his head. “He’s… the baby kangaroo.” If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was embarrassed. But as you’ve come to learn, Harry just loves his daughter immensely. “It was nothing,” you reply evenly. Harry lets out a light, almost defensive scoff. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” “I know.” Part of you wonders if he’s the type to make a fuss over what you’d consider an innocuous gesture. You could see how an unsolicited favor from a stranger might come off as undermining to a young, single parent, come to think of it. The thought that you’d been the cause of Harry’s ire—or even his mild annoyance—makes your chest feel tight. The lift stops on the second floor. A group of three enters in staccato laughter, pulling your attention forward. Harry’s eyes meet yours in the reflection of the doors—just two seconds that maybe you could pretend were an accident—before you both glance away as though you’d been caught. The group leaves ahead of you into the lobby. “I just wanted to do a nice thing, you know. For her.” You’d been staring resolutely ahead in your admission, but dare yourself to glance sideways and look directly at Harry. “And for you, honestly.” You brush past Harry into the lobby without waiting for his usual beckoning you to go ahead, but sense him turn toward you at the last second. You do not look back. • wednesday, 7th november 8:23 am • “Ouch, shit―” You jerk your hand from your pocket, staring in disbelief at the tiny pinprick of blood welled on the tip of your pinky. Returning your hand carefully into your coat, you pull out the red paper flower just as the lift doors ding on the sixth floor and Harry walks in. Sucking on your finger is helping your wound, but consequently draws his smiling, vaguely concerned eyes. “Alright?” he asks. You nod with a little hapless shrug, holding up the offending fake petals with a black button center and protruding silver pin out the back. “Forgot I had this.” It’s only a slightly embarrassing admission. Commonwealth countries mark the day of the Armistice, November eleventh, in a particular, unfamiliar way; India had explained the Poppy Appeal briefly to you last week when the pins had begun to appear all over the city, and you finally had a spare pound coin for the volunteer offering you one yesterday after class. You have a scant three seconds to look at the poppy pinned smartly to the left lapel of Harry’s trench coat before he turns to face forward, but in looking down at the one in your hand, you realize you have no idea how he’s done it. Surely it can’t be that difficult? You frown down at your own jacket. A tentative stab of the pin into the fabric is met with an audible chuckle from the other side of the lift. You flush; Harry’s smiling gently with one corner of his mouth. You try a second time, going at it from a different angle. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” You haven’t had enough coffee yet to justify how warm you’re getting. You shake your head, accepting defeat. “Best let me help you before you hurt yourself again.” Despite his offer, he makes no move to take the poppy until you sheepishly hold it out to him. Neither the mustached, emerald briefcase man nor the headset lady have appeared today, but the space of the lift seems remarkably smaller when Harry gently takes the flower and shuffles forward to get a grip on your coat. An impressive array of rings on each of his hands catches the light. You have no idea what to do besides stand ramrod straight. “Trick is to put the pin through twice so you’re not poking yourself on it all the time,” he explains, his eyebrows pulling together in focus. You watch his chest move as he breathes; the scent of Harry’s cologne wraps around you like an invisible shroud. It occurs to you that this is the longest interaction you’ve had since he noticed your careful restoration of Sylvia’s tiny treasured kangaroo. You wonder how long she’s had the pair of them. You also wonder if Jojo’s eye had been falling loose for a reason―if perhaps Sylvia preferred him a little rough around the edges, and it leads you again down a strange rabbit hole of is Harry upset that you did that? “I hope it’s okay that I fixed Jojo’s eye,” you venture. Harry pauses a moment, then laughs once, which draws you inadvertently closer together. “You’re funny. Which you shouldn’t be when I’m holding something sharp.” You almost stop breathing altogether. “Course it’s okay,” Harry continues without looking up. His nose is now scrunched as he pinches the tough wool. “She loves that thing, and I’m shit with sewing.” His eyes finally flick up to yours, a self-deprecating tilt to his mouth, and you smile tentatively. “Glad I could help.” With that, you’re quiet until he’s done and his concentrated frown relaxes into satisfaction. You watch Harry consider his handiwork, tracing the side of a petal with one of his fingers. “That should do it,” he says, stepping back. Your eyes meet again. You’ve reached the ground floor, but the doors simply sit open. “Looks nice.” He’s talking about the poppy. Your cheeks warm anyway. “Thank you.” Harry smiles slowly, as though he’s trying to pace the expression. “That’s alright.” He turns and ushers you out of the lift. “Have a good day.” “Same to you.” The edges of your poppy flutter as you turn the corner out of the lobby. Don’t turn around. Don’t ruin the moment. Who are you kidding? A quick glance over your shoulder reveals Harry loitering outside the lift, watching you. He starts a little, lifting a hand like he’s going to wave and dragging it over his hair instead. Harry turns abruptly. You almost feel bad for catching him out. You’re too busy walking faster and failing to smother a stupid grin all the way to campus. • thursday, 20th december. 4:11 pm • You’re thankful that everyone else in the parking garage has ruddy cheeks and runny noses from the storm—nobody would be able to tell by looking at you that you’d been crying all afternoon. Just when you thought you’d never see those blue eyes ever again, you’d felt a hand brush against yours on the crowded tube just hours ago. You turned to see whose pinky was resting atop your knuckles as he clutched onto the pole directly above your hand. The fear was immediate and visceral; every follicle of hair above your shoulders prickled, your lips went cold, and you couldn’t get yourself to start breathing again before stumbling back into the chest of some other unsuspecting passenger. How long had he been standing there? You bolted out of the doors the first chance you got, a good seven stops from home. You didn’t think you were followed but of course you couldn’t be sure, so you ducked into a coffee shop instead of jumping straight onto the next train. You used up all your data to call your parents, hardly able to hold your cell phone steady with the sheen of sweat on your palms. The police had no record of such a man you described. He was middle-aged, taller than you could have imagined so close up, and had a deformity or some sort of scarring on his upper lip. You would have recognized him if you stumbled across his photograph, but you’d gone through every headshot on the books within a ten-kilometer radius of London at the police station. You’d lost sleep combing through the online database of sex offenders in your area without any luck. And since you didn’t have a name or a concrete instance of harassment, they could only add the encounter to the file you’d started in October. Once you’d managed to get a hold of India, she immediately came to rescue you from the coffee shop and dropped you off at home. You insisted she pull into the gated underground garage rather than letting you off by the front doors. With a hand on your shoulder, she offered to stay the night. You had declined. There were some days when you swore you were going crazy, but all it took was one last look into his eyes on the tube today for you to know in your gut that he was real, he was watching you, and you were right to be afraid. You hadn’t heard the ding of the lift but you notice when the people around you begin to huddle on. It’s a tight squeeze inside. You sigh when you see that nearly every floor up to ten is illuminated on the keypad. You sneak into a corner by the doors and try to distract yourself by focusing on the overwhelming smell of rain carried into the lift on everyone’s rubber boots. A faint buzzing noise thrums overhead, and the light seems dimmer than usual—one of the bulbs in here must need replacing. The lift comes to a stop at the lobby. Your eyes are on the carpet, but you recognize a familiar pair of black leather boots ambling through the doors. You look up to catch Harry shaking the rain out of his curls with one hand. He licks his lips and scans the lift briefly, only moving from the entrance once he sees you by the keypad. His eyes change, the corner of his lips quirking up. Harry parts a few people to stand in front of you, chest to chest, carrying a box of Legos almost as tall as you, covered in fire trucks and construction vehicles. They’re the bigger, softer type of plastic blocks that come in lighter shades made for toddlers. You didn’t even know they made sets with so many pieces. It doesn’t seem necessary. The thing could be a column. Harry rests the box on the floor against his hip and even more people pack inside behind him, so many that you have to give up your corner spot which was already tight, and sandwich yourself in between Harry and the wall. And why is the person standing directly behind Harry trying to leave a voicemail? The two of you share a small laugh, looking down at your feet and shifting to get comfortable as the lift vibrates into motion against your back. Ding. Level two. Someone to the rear of the lift needs to get to the entrance. In order to let them through, Harry actually has to press up against you and prop his hand on the wall behind your head to avoid crushing you completely. “Sorry,” he says, strained. “It’s fine.” Ding. Level three. The last thing you need is for your heart to race like this after the mess of a day you’ve endured. To make matters worse (or better), Harry is close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body. You’re struck by the most staggering urge to just… lean forward a few inches. It would be so nice to bury your face in his sweatshirt, to be engulfed in the embrace of his arms, and to let yourself cry about your afternoon until you feel empty and full at the same time. Ding. Level four. You choose a button on his open black overcoat to stare at, flustered and humiliated by your own sensitivity. If it were any other afternoon you’d be having a field day with this but you’re too much of a coward to look anywhere near his face in your state. A single drop of rain falls from the end of Harry’s chin and lands on your collar. Ding. Level five. Your eyes are dry and puffy, your breathing is still ragged, and you seriously consider holding your breath altogether until you reach the sixth floor. You’d known since the coffee shop that you were going to cry the moment you stepped foot into your apartment tonight, but you hadn’t considered the possibility that it might happen sooner than that. You shake your head. Ridiculous. You look up idly to find that Harry is watching you. His expression seems serious now, oddly focused. You tilt your chin up incrementally. Harry licks his lips. Is anyone looking? How is nobody looking? You take a small breath and Harry’s gaze flashes again to your lips. Your palm brushes the back of his hand, hidden by the toy box, and he tilts his wrist toward you, spreading his fingers just enough to fit the tips of yours between his knuckles. His hand is cool from the rain and yours is warm from the car. How is someone still leaving the same voicemail? There’s space enough now in the lift for him to give you a few inches of distance so why is Harry drawing closer to you? Why is he leaning in? Ding. “It’s you,” you blurt, and swallow before adding more quietly, “This is your floor.” A few people stuff their cellphones back into their pockets, making their way into the hall. Harry clears his throat and leans over to lift the toy box. Your hands fall apart but he reaches out to gently brush the side of your arm in goodbye—unable, it seems, to meet your eyes. You watch him as he turns on his heel to shuffle out behind someone else, carding a hand through his hair. You close your eyes and exhale without a sound. You only open them in time to catch him glancing over his shoulder at you before rounding the corner. Neither of you had smiled. When the lift reaches the eighth floor, you almost forget to step off. You lean on the back of your door and sigh once you’re in your apartment, dropping your keys to the hardwood with a clatter. Alone in the dark, after one of the single most distressing days of your life, you press two clammy palms to your face and laugh—giddy—like a fool. • tuesday, 1st january 2:33 am • You swing your leg inelegantly out of the cab. Your foot slips on the road’s thin polish of ice. The ankle strap of your stiletto comes undone at the clasp as you only just remember that you began taking them off in the back seat. You laugh at yourself, nearly dropping your half-empty bottle of Prosecco, hobbling to the sidewalk through the rain with one shoe in hand. “Thanks—thank you, goodnight!” You wave your shoe in the air as the cab speeds away after having left a fifty-percent tip—it’s half past two on New Year’s Eve for Christ sake—and turn toward your building. Have the doors to the lobby always been this heavy? Perhaps it isn’t the best idea to try and hop back into your shoe while shouldering through the doorway, because you bang your head against one of the large, protruding handles with a metallic thud. “Fuck.” It hurts a little but the jello shots and bottle of Sangiovese you’d guzzled with India earlier are helping. You squint up because the lobby is spinning, and spy the outline of a man facing away from you with his hands in his pockets. He looks over his shoulder as he waits for the lift, lackadaisical. It’s a familiar profile. The half of his face visible to you is in shadow apart from the crescent moon-shaped hollow of his dimple sinking in as he smiles. “Hi,” Harry drawls with a chuckle. You step into your shoe without bothering to fix the ankle strap and wobble over to the lift. All night you had glided so effortlessly in your four additional inches. Now, you feel as though you’re walking a tightrope in flippers. “Hello.” You enunciate too much in your efforts to sound sober. You and Harry look at each other and smile until you laugh, at absolutely nothing at all. There’s no sign of his specs tonight; his hair is sopping, and the shoulders of his burgundy suit are damp. Harry gives you a once over. “You alright?” He’s slurring a little. You bob your head in a nod. “M’good.” The lift dings and you both lurch forward to step between the doors before Harry stumbles backward and gestures for you to go first. You almost fall forward again in your shoes and have to grip the wall on the way in to steady yourself. These need to come off. Harry moves to his usual corner, leaning against the back wall with a hand on either railing and you do the same in the next corner over. You shimmy off your heels to hold them in one hand while balancing your half empty bottle of Prosecco against your hip with the other. The carpet is coarse beneath your bare feet. You take a gulp of wine and the curled silver ribbon around its neck tickles your chin. You and Harry glance sideways at each other at the exact same moment, both of your heads leaning against the back wall of the lift. You have to lean forward and cover your mouth with the hand holding your shoes so you don’t spit out your drink in laughter. It’s not even funny, really. How many times had you both accidentally caught the other staring over the past year in this very room Harry’s chuckle builds into a laugh and the echo of it reminds you of Sylvia the day she’d clung to your legs. You’ve noticed that Harry’s eyes crinkle like hers, too, if he finds something especially funny. The laughter melts and you stretch the arm holding the bottle out to Harry. He looks down at it, then back up at you before taking it gently from your grasp and helping himself to a swig. “You know wha’s not fair? I’ve—” he hiccups. “I’ve got to wear a badge t’work. With my name on it. And I see you everyday—” “Almost,” you correct automatically. “Almost everyday… so you probably know my name.” Harry’s eyes narrow. “Do you know my name?” You nod, a bit delayed. He passes the bottle back to you and you admire the intricate embroidery on the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ve got a pretty good guess.” “What’s your name?” Harry asks after a beat, rolling his back off the wall to lean on his shoulder and face you. “Charles doesn’t know either.” You tilt your head, frowning a little. “Who’s that?” Harry rests his pointer finger on top of his upper lip. You grin slowly before answering his question. Harry echoes you with an equally slow smile, his voice italicizing the sound of your name. It sounds like he’s saying someone else’s name—a person you’ve never even met. He says it again, like he needs to introduce himself to each letter. Your heart is about the only part of your body able to move quickly. Harry smiles widely. It’s as though every other one he’s given you before had just been practicing for this moment. “Nice to meet you.” You wedge your shoes and Prosecco beneath one arm, taking a step forward with your free hand outstretched. Harry shuffles to meet you halfway in a handshake and the height difference between you feels staggering barefoot. You remember the feeling of his hand in yours when it was hidden by the Lego box. It would be so easy to just shift a little and clasp them together the way you had before. You can smell the memory of whiskey on his breath and see the flush of his cheeks close up. “You look like a disco ball.” You laugh and he releases you, like the sound had awoken his sense of propriety. His eyes take you in again, almost reflecting the shimmer of sequins scattered across the fabric of your dress before he looks back up at you. “Yeah,” you agree, tugging the hem an inch down your bare legs. “My best friend dragged me to some formal thing the other American students were trying to throw together. Really random.” Harry nods so you go on after a pause. “You’re handcuffed to someone and have to finish a bottle of wine, but India and I didn’t coordinate beforehand so we both brought one.” “Seems like fun.” “It certainly was.” You raise the Prosecco and it sloshes up against the neck of the bottle in tiny waves. “And you,” you raise your eyebrows, “look like a Turkish rug.” Harry grins, inclining his head as if that were the highest compliment. “Where’s Sylvia tonight?” His face is full of mock surprise. Harry pats the breast pocket of his jacket before running his hands over the front and back of his trousers. He looks over his shoulders, comically frantic, scanning each corner of the lift until you begin to laugh. Harry smiles wider, a little too pleased with himself. “She’s with her mum and her mum’s fiancé this week—so I guess her, um… soon-to-be other mum… They were having a little gathering at their new place tonight and we did the countdown a few hours early for her.” “How sweet.” Without a second thought, you inch closer and begin reaching for a stray piece of confetti in his hair. You can tell you’re drunk because you indulge a little in combing your fingertips through one of Harry’s curls, though it’s probably subtle enough for him not to notice. He goes very still. “Did—did you press the thing?” Harry stammers, his attention jerking to the keypad. “I didn’ press the thing.” “Oops,” you laugh, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the doors as you turn to watch Harry hit the sixth and eighth floor buttons. Though the rain has offset India’s efforts to tame your hair, what surprises you more is the bright-eyed expression on your face. It’s out of character for you to feel this exhilarated over a simple drunken conversation. But something delightedly nervous hums beneath your skin all the same. “Why are you so wet?” you ask as Harry returns from the keypad. A tad closer, you note, than where he’d been standing before. You lean on your shoulder to face him and he slouches a little to meet your height. “Walked home,” Harry replies. Your jaw drops. “In the pouring rain?” “S’like ten minutes—really not bad.” Harry shrugs. “I didn’t mean to get so pissed tonight. My New Year’s resolution was to go a little easy on the booze.” He shakes his head in a chuckle. “I can’t really handle what I used to since the little one came along. M’not much of a drinker anymore.” The lift jumps as you reach the sixth floor and your arm flies out to balance yourself in the same moment that Harry offers both hands to catch you. You clutch his forearm and then immediately let go. “Sorry,” you murmur, taking one last look at him. “Well, goodnight Harry. Happy New Year’s.” The look he is giving you is peculiar—on the verge of resignation, but not quite letting go of all hope. As though the last sober part of him is leaning forward on its elbows, asking if you agree without telling you first what it wants. Harry cranes his neck around to look down the stretch of hallway, his head falling back against the wall with a gentle thump. “You know, New Year’s isn’t really over until you finish all the champagne,” he declares, and you laugh a little in surprise. “Prosecco.” He waves away the correction. “Fine, all the Prosecco.” “New Year’s isn’t over until you get every last piece of confetti out of your hair,” you challenge. Harry raises his eyebrows, looking back to you. If he doesn’t get off soon, the doors are going to close. “New Year’s isn’t over until your shoes come off in the lift,” he shoots back. You burst out in a laugh. “New Year’s isn’t over until you’ve broken your resolution two hours into January.” Harry rolls his eyes. He smirks a little and it’s annoyingly charming in the dim, golden glow of the lift’s broken light. He’s stalling. All at once, you’re acutely aware of the lingering smell of rain and the faint hum of the light fixture overhead. You swear you can hear the echo of that never-ending voicemail from the day you’d slotted your fingers into his like it was a secret, just an arm’s length away from where the two of you stand now. He had tried to kiss you once before and you had stopped him. But now, in this moment, with your heart in your throat, you desperately want him to try again. Harry starts to speak and you don’t wait for him to finish. “Well, New Year’s isn’t over—” “—until you kiss someone at midnight.” You’re hyper aware of your own breathing in the daunting silence that follows. The lift doors seal closed. Harry is close enough for you to see the flecks of hazel in his eyes like sea glass. He floats his hand up as though he’s going to cup your jaw, but traces the tip of his middle finger in a line up your cheek to push back your hair so lightly it tickles. His jaw flexes and just when you swear he isn’t going to, Harry leans in. It’s gradual, as though he’s waiting for you to change your mind, but your heads are tilting and then the tips of your noses brush. If you turn, even minutely, the corner of your mouth will meet his. You can feel your pulse thumping in the side of your neck. It dawns on you that you’re both simply waiting to see who is going to do it. “It’s not midnight,” Harry breathes. “Don’t tell me you’re a stickler for the rules.” The warmth and dew of his laugh grazes your cheek. With that, Harry brushes his mouth against yours. It feels painstakingly tender, like he’s never kissed anybody before. You’re so spellbound that you’re hardly even sure how to reciprocate something so soft. Harry’s bottom lip hovers over the very tip of your cupid’s bow just before he pulls away. Was that even a kiss? The very edges of your mouths had met, but only just. You still feel the tingle of where his lips had been moments ago. You open your eyes and Harry is a few inches away now, looking down at you. His hand is still ghosting the side of your face, like he’s afraid he might break you. When had your own hand slid flat against his chest beneath the lapel of his suit? “Is this a good idea?” you whisper, sliding your hand out to trace one of the round, fabric buttons with your fingertip. He swallows roughly. “Maybe not.” “Okay.” “Okay,” he yields. But neither of you move away. “Maybe this should just stay between us,” you suggest after a beat, heart sinking in your chest. “Well then if it’s just staying between us…” Before you have the chance to inhale, Harry presses his mouth against yours, harder, like he means it this time. His lips are warm and soft as they move with yours. You’re on your toes as one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, the other snaking around your waist to pull you into him. It still isn’t close enough. It’s surreal to be kissing him after a year. How much time had lapsed in total since you’d seen him that first day you moved in? How many mornings had been spent beside each other in silence? You’d spoken through side glances and subdued smiles from opposite corners of a crowded lift more than you ever truly had with words. But this… this feels like threads made up of every intimacy you’ve ever shared in this tiny room pulling you together at last. You pull apart just before the lift dings on the eighth floor. You’re both somewhat winded as you rest your foreheads together, and you release two unintended fistfuls of his jacket. Harry slides his hands down your bare arms to cup your elbows, his thumbs stroking circles in the soft crook of your forearm. “Have some water before you go to sleep.” “I will,” you chuckle. You’re unsure why either of you are speaking so softly, there’s no need. “Goodnight, Harry.” “Goodnight.” He says your name like a promise—like he’s determined to make up for all the days he didn’t get the chance to use it. You didn’t know it could sound like that. “Happy New Year’s.” You smile over your shoulder before padding barefoot into the hall as he reaches out to push the sixth-floor button for the second time. The last thing you’re able to see through the closing doors of the lift is Harry rubbing a thoughtful hand over his stubble, smiling down at his feet. (part two)

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #utsr redux

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kuiinncedes · 3 years

Text

relight that spark

jatp au - chapter 1 - part 2/15? - 9,385 words

the prologue/part 1 (tumblr link) if you missed it!! (ao3 link) :D

so obviously this is pretty slowly updating already and it probably willll get worse 🤪 i might post the next part in like a week tho, it's not a full "episode" chapter and i already have it fully written and i'm pretty happy with it 😗✌️

this chapter is pretty long and i apologize for that bc i know i get annoyed when i have to stop in the middle of a long chapter and then my phone like loses my spot or whatever lakdshgjfs but idk how else to do it so .. just have my apology lol sorryyy <3 the next "episode" chapter is looking to be longer tho sdlkhglsj

LASTLY BUT NOT LEASTLY A HUGE MASSIVE FUCKING THANK YOU TO MEG @neversatisfiedwithlife FOR BETA READING THIS FOR MEEEE AND BEING SO SUPPORTIVE AND WONDERFUL LOVE YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU SM 💞💖💓💗💕

chapter title and lyrics in this part from "wake up" from the julie and the phantoms soundtrack (whichhh if you haven't heard it... you should listen to it after reading maybe 👀)

plot and a lot of the dialogue from julie and the phantoms so like credit to all those creators and writers 🤪

warnings for this chapter: grief, mentioned character death (regarding kurt's mom)

read below the cut or here on ao3!! <3

2020

There’s a deep-seated weight of dread in Kurt’s stomach that he’s unable to ignore for the entire morning.

His last chance at the music program -- he needs to play again today, for the first time in over a year, or he’s done.

It’s all he can think about all day. He makes it through his first few classes, somehow, walking through the halls almost mindlessly, thoughts far away and only worrying about what he’s going to do, barely paying attention to who he’s almost running into, because he doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

It almost feels like last year again, when school started and everyone knew and everyone was staring at him in the hallways, even though he knows that they’re not right now and he knows most of these people couldn’t care less about him not being able to play at this point, but in his head it feels like they all know, like they’re all waiting, waiting and watching for him to play again and sing again.

He has been, too, for over a year.

He stops at his locker to wait for Mercedes before going to class.

“We’re gonna get tattoos together,” comes her familiar voice out of nowhere.

Involuntarily, Kurt smiles a little, turning to Mercedes. “Umm…?”

She shrugs and smiles back at him. “You know, when we’re adults and out in New York together or something. Just -- you know, at some point.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow, silently saying, where the hell did this come from. Mercedes raises both of hers as if to say, answer the question. “Just curious,” she adds out loud. “Could start planning them now.”

He chuckles. “Of course. I’ll get all the matching tattoos with you.”

Grins and silent agreement pass between them and they both turn toward the lockers, a welcome break in the slowest part of the day, the voices and noises of other students filling the air.

“I know you don’t want me to ask, but…” Mercedes starts slowly after a moment, and Kurt nods his head in acknowledgement; he knows what she’s going to say. “Do you know what you’re going to do today?”

He puts some books in his backpack, mainly for something to do. “I’ll know in the moment,” he says, somewhat truthfully. He could just say what he thinks will happen, which is nothing. But Mercedes can see right through him anyway, so might as well stay somewhat positive until it happens. Or rather, doesn’t happen.

Mercedes sighs a little. “Mrs. Harrison said today is your last chance,” she tries, leaning on her side against the lockers.

“I know, I was there,” Kurt says lightly, letting his eyes scan the contents of his locker a tenth time. Mercedes reaches over and squeezes his hand lightly. Her eyes tell him that she’ll stop talking about it for now, and he squeezes back gratefully.

The conversation with Mercedes has really helped, though; it always does. If he’s going to spectacularly embarrass himself in front of his music class, and probably for the last time, at least he’ll have Mercedes there.

She sees it in his smile, and she sends it back. You always will, is her silent whisper.

A sharp, cheery voice pierces the air and makes them both turn their heads, and the uplifted mood from the conversation with Mercedes disappears when Kurt sees none other than Quinn Fabray, in her Cheerios! uniform, complete with a tight ponytail and perfect smile as she hands out what appears to be flyers to passing students, who are immediately won over by her status, closeness, sweetness. Finn Hudson lingers behind her with his guitar case and his own stack of flyers that he’s not handing out nearly as enthusiastically.

“Spirit rally Friday!” Quinn’s saying as she all but shoves another flyer into the face of a nervous freshman who takes it and scurries away, doing a double-take once they pass her. “Come see the Cheerios! do their new routine, and my group, the Unholy Trinity, perform our brand new original song!”

“What’s she handing out?” Kurt whispers to Mercedes. A corner of his lip quirks up despite the general unpleasantness of seeing Quinn.

“Desperation?” she answers with a small smirk. When Kurt turns back, Quinn is in front of him. He holds back a grimace at her fake smile and cheeriness.

“Hey, guys!” she chirps, as if they’re just any two other students at this school. “Here you go, my group’s performing at the spirit assembly on Friday!”

Kurt flinches back a little as a flyer appears much too close to his face and he takes it instinctively, holding it lightly in his fingertips. It truly looks like something Quinn designed -- perfectly professional, impressive, eye-catching -- and he can’t say it looks bad, as much as he might want to. He eyes Quinn over the top of the flyer.

“I’m sure you guys have nothing better to do,” Quinn continues, that smile still on her face, and there are the claws, Kurt thinks as he resists the urge to rip up the flyer right in front of her.

“Oh, my gosh, Quinn, thank you!” Mercedes says in an exaggeratedly sweet voice, clearly -- or at least clearly to Kurt, and likely Quinn as well -- imitating the specific tone of voice that Quinn takes, and Kurt stifles a laugh.

“Oh my gosh, Cedes, don’t bother coming!” Quinn says with a wide smile, turning away with a whip of her ponytail to continue pushing her flyers.

Kurt looks back at Mercedes, mumbling, “She did not just call you Cedes,” while Mercedes crumples up the flyer in her hands.

“Well, she did,” Mercedes says. Kurt can see the anger behind her eyes and he raises a concerned eyebrow. “I’m fine. She just… you know.” She dismisses his silent question.

“Yeah.” He loops his arm through Mercedes’ and they head down the hallway, almost running into Finn not three steps from Kurt’s locker.

“Oh, hey, sorry guys!” he says with a sheepish but genuine smile that contains all the warmth missing from Quinn’s. “Did you -- I guess Quinn already got -- ”

“Yep, she got to us,” Cedes says quickly, steering Kurt around Finn. “Thanks, Finn, bye!”

“Please tell me you are over him,” Mercedes says when they’re in a quieter area at the end of the row of lockers. Kurt realizes he’s staring and quickly looks away.

“Yeah, I am.” Mercedes looks at him skeptically and he insists, “I am, promise! You just… don’t find a nice jock like him around here that much.”

She nods, satisfied, and raises her eyebrows meaningfully. “You know they’re going to get married and have a bunch of demon babies.”

Kurt’s jaw drops open slightly and he laughs. “You can’t say Finn isn’t a sweetheart.”

“Only one of them has to be a demon to make a demon baby,” Mercedes says matter-of-factly.

“What… it’s a dominant gene?”

“Of course.” Mercedes turns back toward Quinn and raises her voice. “Demon!”

The two of them push against the wall, hiding behind the end of the lockers, when Quinn snaps her gaze back. Kurt can’t hold his laughs in this time, and he feels a little bad about it, but… considering what Quinn’s done to them, he can let himself and Cedes get away with it.

“There’s that smile,” Mercedes says gently as they gather themselves. “Now let’s go prove everybody wrong.” She pulls him toward the music room and slowly but surely, the sickening feeling in his stomach returns. He sits down next to Mercedes and just breathes. She squeezes his hand again.

Mrs. Harrison starts class soon after they arrive, getting into the last of the progress performances which are both a chance for the students to show off to their classmates, and also a checkpoint for participation in the music program, which is the part Kurt’s concerned about.

He barely hears as Finn finishes his drum solo and everyone claps and then Mrs. Harrison is calling his name and he’s standing and walking to the piano and oh god.

“Take your time,” Mrs. Harrison says gently.

That’s all he’s been doing for almost a year, just taking his time, but nothing has come of it. He sits down slowly, opening his music in front of him but it’s like his eyes don’t see the notes and just gloss over the page. He looks down at the keys, sets his fingers in place reluctantly.

It’s been so long that the keys almost feel foreign under his fingers when they once were the most familiar thing in the world. It’s been so long that he barely remembers how the song should go and why did he think he could just do this, it doesn’t matter how good at sightreading he’s always been. It’s been so long of him locking the memories in a chained and padlocked safe in the back of his mind and he’s terrified of playing again being what opens it because playing and singing and music has always always meant Mom, and she’s gone which he still sometimes forgets and it always hurts like hell to remember again, so letting himself remember so much more will only make reality that much worse. It’s been so long and what if he’s forgotten, what if he opens himself to the memories just to find that they don’t exist anymore?

It’s been so long; it’s been over a year, but doesn’t that mean he should be fine by now?

He knows avoiding the memories hasn’t been the best idea, but right now he can’t think of anything he could have done differently, can’t linger and regret his choices because he feels so vulnerable and exposed finally sitting at the piano in front of his whole class for the first time in a year, and the choice is right there and maybe he could do it but not in front of everyone his brain screams, and he can almost feel Quinn’s sharp, judging, so far from friendly gaze fixed on him and that is what breaks it, that is something he definitely can’t take and he pulls his hands back with a short inhale and the whirlwind in his mind stops and he can mostly breathe again.

It’s been so long.

Heart still pounding, he gets up and apologizes to Mrs. Harrison because she really has tried to help him and he appreciates it but he still can’t, and Quinn makes some comment and Mercedes fires something back but he doesn’t hear any of it, he just has to leave.

He knows Mercedes follows him out and she calls out his name when he’s halfway down the stairs. He’s started crying at some point and he doesn’t know when. All of it is just such a mess and so present in his mind; he was so close to music again, to Mom, but he’s not ready. He’s scared.

“Kurt,” Cedes calls again, quieter, her voice soft and choked, pleading. “Come on, please. Come back… and show them you can sing .”

He turns to look at her at the top of the stairs. “I can’t,” he says, voice rough with tears. “I’ve tried, for over a year I’ve tried…. I’ve tried for Dad, I’ve tried for Mrs. Harrison, fuck, I’ve even tried for Quinn.” He gives a short, bitter laugh as more tears spill down his cheeks.

“I’ve tried so hard for you.” He gestures up to her, voice breaking. “I’ve tried for Mom.” He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a breath. “And I’ve tried for myself.” Mercedes is also crying a little now.

“For over a year, I’ve tried,” Kurt continues weakly. “But I just -- I can’t. Not… not now.”

He runs down the rest of the stairs and out the door, and he knows he just got himself kicked out of music, knows he just ruined everything.

From mercedes 💖, 2:04 pm:

Are you leaving?

From mercedes 💖, 2:06

Tell me when you get home. I love you

To mercedes 💖, 2:08 pm:

i will, at the park for now

From mercedes 💖, 2:10 pm:

I’ll bring your stuff around later.

To mercedes 💖, 2:10 pm:

thank you

To mercedes 💖, 2:11 pm:

i love you. i’m sorry

From mercedes 💖, 2:12 pm:

Nothing to be sorry for, just take care of yourself okay?

From mercedes 💖, 2:13 pm:

Give yourself a hug from me until I get there to do it for you

“Hey, kiddo, how was your day?” Burt asks as he walks in, putting a hand on Kurt’s shoulder who’s doing homework at the kitchen table.

“It was okay,” Kurt responds with a small but hopefully convincing smile to hide the worry eating away at him inside, because if the school’s already contacted his dad about today, about Kurt ruining his last chance…

“I gotta go again in a bit,” Burt says, taking a drink of water. “Some guy really needs a car fix by tomorrow morning, but I’ll be done by dinner.” Kurt nods, some relief flooding his veins. He turns back to his homework.

“Oh, another thing,” Burt says and Kurt stiffens again. “I wanted to come and check in with you -- I talked to a real estate agent today, and they said if we’re serious about selling the house, we need to take some pictures and stuff, clean everything… and I was wondering if you’re up for cleaning Mom’s studio?”

Kurt’s immediate surprise and hesitance must show on his face even as he tries to keep his composure, because Burt quickly assures, “It’s okay if you’re not ready, I promise; we have time. You know I just -- I wouldn’t even know where to start in there.”

Kurt smiles a little. “No, it’s okay,” he says. “I can try tonight.”

“Awesome.” Burt ruffles Kurt’s hair, which from anyone else other than maybe Mercedes would not end particularly well, but Kurt just laughs and tries to brush the loose strands out of his eyes. “I’ll see you later, Kurt. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

Kurt exhales slowly as his dad leaves again.

Cleaning out the studio means having to confront exactly what he’s tried to avoid for a year. The disaster that was music class today doesn’t make him feel better about it… but at least this time he’ll be alone -- none of the pressure of having to live up to the standards of well-meaning teachers or aggressive ex-best friends, none of the pressure of having to play at all, especially from the competitive nature at school. And… maybe he needs it.

Moving from here will only help you move on. Kurt’s aunt’s words echo in his mind. A part of him recoils at the idea of leaving his childhood home -- leaving the spaces his mom used to inhabit and her light and energy used to fill to the brim -- and starting over, someplace where there are none of those memories… he can’t tell if that’s a good thing. It feels like more of the running away that he’s been doing for a year, and he wonders if it really will solve anything.

But maybe he does need it. If staying in this house for the last year hasn’t helped, a change would be good, right?

Turning back to his work, he takes a deep breath and starts planning dinner in his head. He’ll tackle the studio after dinner’s ready.

To Dad, 7:39 pm:

dinner’s done, i’ll be in the studio

Kurt takes a slow breath as he opens the doors to the garage.

It’s not that it’s his first time in the studio after his mom died -- someone had to water the plants -- but he kept any interaction with the rest of the room minimal, so it still feels different to take in the full space instead of just rushing to the plants in the back with his head down. It always came with some guilt; it felt like the least he could do to keep some life in the studio when he could barely even bring himself to enter, let alone fill it with music as it needs to be.

He walks in slowly, some apprehension tickling the back of his neck, trying to stay calm. The familiarity is almost overwhelming this time as he looks around, actually taking in the room. The guitars on the wall, the couch and table, all of his mom’s decorations and knick-knacks. The chairs on the ceiling, story told with a fond smile from his dad about his mom wanting to decorate in a fun special way even while 7 months pregnant. The plants in the back, flourishing in front of the wall of windows positioned to let in the sunrise beautifully, not that Kurt has seen it happen recently.

And the grand piano -- in the center of the room, covered with a sheet, neglected for over a year. Kurt pulls it off now absentmindedly, letting the fabric pool over his feet. He takes a deep breath even though he probably just filled the air with dust, and goes over to the bench. He doesn’t open the lid, not yet. Some sheet music is on the seat and he places it on the piano without looking, sits down and gently touches the fallboard, inhaling shakily, not opening it to reveal the keys but just… remembering what it used to be, what it used to -- still means….

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, “that I haven’t been here.”

With his eyes closed against the dark emptiness of the room, he can almost forget. It’s too easy to think that when he opens his eyes, his mom will be there, and she’ll be writing a song with him, or she’ll be playing, or they’ll just be talking…

Before the idea can flood his mind and leave him reeling when he returns to reality, Kurt stands and looks around the room again. There really is a strangeness to the place now. What used to be so comfortable and an extension of home -- sometimes even more home than the main house -- was always warm and brimming with emotion and joy and music and life -- now cold and dark and hollow, quiet. The familiar bones have an unsettling foreign emptiness around them. It feels wrong.

It needs to be filled. But… Kurt can’t do that.

He misses his mom -- always, but it’s amplified in this space that was always hers. He misses the feeling that the studio used to bring, that spirit that is now dimmed and suppressed. Covered, but still there. He can feel it like a gentle heat behind his skin. Not bad, but overwhelming, and he just….

The loft, Kurt decides suddenly. He’ll start with the loft. There aren’t memories and emotions so confusing and thick there that he’s barely able to avoid it, to push his way through with no energy left to untangle and understand. The loft is just full of random old stuff that his mom wouldn’t throw out and his dad teased her about.

So the loft first. And then he can ease into the rest when he’s more ready. After all, his dad did say they have time.

It’s significantly dustier in the loft; old instruments and random bags full of clothes are scattered and piled across the floor, his own electric keyboard propped up against the wall. Kurt stands on the stepladder a few steps below the actual loft floor, looks around a little, his eyes landing on a CD case lying on the ground -- black with a simple stark white word design: Sunset Curve. He picks it up, eyeing it thoughtfully, brings it back down to the main floor and decides to put it into the old CD player.

He doesn’t really know why he has such an urge all of a sudden. He’s listened to some music, but not nearly as much as before, and has actually chosen to listen to music only a handful of times since his mom died.

But… the studio needs music. As an apology for a year of neglect, and as a goodbye, he can let this music redeem the studio’s spirit a little, fill what he’s left hollow.

And he doesn’t want to be alone in the silence with his memories while he’s going through everything, even just in the loft. As something completely unfamiliar and random, this can give him the distraction and none of the pain. At least, that’s the plan.

Stepping down from the loft stairs, he glances at the picture in the CD case as he opens it -- a band of four who all look like teenagers, staring seriously into the camera -- he doesn’t get a good look at them, just slides the disc into the CD player and takes a seat on the couch.

The opening song starts strong with a gritty guitar riff and a 1, 2, 3! counting the band in. Despite himself, Kurt starts nodding along to the beat. It really is a great song, unique and upbeat…

Then some kind of… panicked screaming makes itself heard, first quietly and he thinks it could be part of the song, but it crescendos and gets unbearably loud --

And then there are three strangers appearing out of thin air before his eyes, screaming as they fall to the ground heavily. Kurt would wince at the sound of the impact --

That part’s certainly unlike any CD he’s listened to before.

He’s frozen, heart hammering and eyes widening as he stares at the three strangers picking themselves up off the ground, taking in their surroundings a little…

“How’d we get back here?” the middle one -- a shorter guy with black hair -- says breathlessly.

Kurt screams.

It’s not his finest moment, but three complete strangers just appeared in his mom’s studio, seemingly just popping into the air, and he can’t say he’s never been superstitious in his entire life or that he isn’t drawing immediate conclusions -- supernatural conclusions, fucking ridiculous conclusions. He doesn’t love that he runs into his dad on his way back into the house which may have also involved a little yelling about seeing ghosts (ghosts who screamed back, for the record), but he makes it to the safety of his room and texts Mercedes frantically, who doesn’t respond.

“Come on, Cedes,” he hisses to himself, shooting off another text. “Answer me!”

A knock from his doorway startles him and he just barely manages to hold back a shout, turning to see his dad leaning into his room hesitantly.

“You okay?”

Kurt gives him what must be a hysterical-looking attempt at a reassuring smile, all wide eyes and clenched teeth. “Yeah, no, totally fine, sorry for -- scaring you,” he replies choppily, tone not even convincing to himself. “Just, um, practicing for a school play.”

Burt definitely doesn’t believe him, but nods slowly anyway. “Well, I’m gonna go clean up -- ” He gestures over his shoulder with a grease-covered hand. “Dinner in like, ten minutes?”

“Yeah. Sounds good,” Kurt says shortly, forcing another smile and a thumbs-up.

As soon as the door closes, Kurt turns back toward his window and tries to get a glance of the studio, but it’s blocked from this angle by the trees in their yard. Apprehensively, he heads back to the garage, thankfully not running into his dad this time, phone in hand and thumb hovering over Mercedes’ phone contact.

When he goes in, it’s empty; no sign of anything out of the ordinary happening.

He scans the space warily, feeling jumpy and nervous, but nothing happens and he mumbles, “I know I saw something, I’m not crazy.”

He hears a soft popping noise and then, “Well, we’re all a little crazy,” from behind him and he turns with a sharp gasp.

“Oh, my god, who are you?” Kurt yells, maybe a little too loud because the black-haired boy winces slightly and all three of them step back a little. “What the hell are you doing in my mom’s studio?”

“Your mom’s studio?” the black-haired guy scoffs. “This is our studio!”

The tall blonde guy bounces forward. “Yeah, like, the piano’s new, but -- ” He looks to the right and his face lights up. “My couch!” he calls, running over and jumping straight onto it.

The girl -- hair black and in braids -- rolls her eyes. “Not your couch, Sam.”

The blonde -- Sam? -- sits up indignantly, stabbing a finger in the cushions. “Hey, I spent more time on this couch than any of you. Pretty sure it’s mine at this point.”

Kurt just watches them with wide eyes, jaw hanging open, with absolutely no idea what to do.

“But these aren’t our instruments,” the black-haired guy says warily, looking around. At some point he and the girl have linked arms, Kurt notices. He watches as they all take in the studio, faces getting increasingly confused and worried. Kurt raises an eyebrow that apparently can go higher than it already is.

“Because… it’s my mom’s studio…” he manages to say again, mind still whirling at the hurricane of new and completely nonsensical information.

“Can you just -- give us a minute?” Sam says, jumping over the coffee table to join his friends. They turn away to talk in a huddle, and Kurt stands awkwardly as they talk in failed attempts at hushed tones.

Tina’s trying to ignore the pounding of her possibly-only-theoretical heart -- she’s dead, how can she even feel a heartbeat -- as she watches Blaine and Sam talk to the… living person in front of them. Sam makes his usual comment about “his couch” and Tina snarks back with her usual response and it gives her some comfort, some familiarity even in this studio which should feel like home, has for so long, and it still does to an extent, but everything here is suddenly different.

The comment does send the strange boy’s attention back to her, though, which she doesn’t really like. Blaine wraps an arm around hers and she squeezes his forearm in gratitude. He did that a lot when they were alive -- knew how and when to offer her his touch to reassure her a little.

At least there’s something that’s still the same.

At least her boys are still the same.

She tries to focus on Blaine’s arm in hers, on Sam’s dumb comments as he comes bounding back to them, hissing, “Guys, what is going on here?”

Tina shrugs. Blaine whispers, “Who is he?”

“He can hear you,” the person in question says pointedly from behind them, but Sam ignores him and says, “Maybe he’s a witch.” He looks up, pointing. “There are chairs on the ceiling.”

“There’s no such thing as witches,” Tina hisses.

“Are you sure?” Sam shoots back. “Because I used to think there was no such thing as ghosts!”

Tina swallows. “That’s fair.”

“So we’re going with witch?” Blaine asks.

“No!” Tina waves her hands at both of them. “No, come on. You guys are just -- he’s probably just overwhelmed, okay? Let someone with a softer touch handle this.”

Maybe “softer touch” wasn’t the right phrase to use in this instance, she thinks, but she really just wants answers and figures she might as well be straightforward. “Why are you in our studio?” she asks, maybe a little too aggressively, stepping up to the alive stranger.

He looks down with a shocked expression and Tina realizes she accidentally got close enough to touch him -- or… pass her hand through his, partially. They both watch as he brings his hand through hers again. It’s a weird feeling -- warm and kind of tingly, or like she’s putting her hand through water.

“Oh my god,” he says, eyes wide. “How did you do that?”

Tina raises their eyebrows a little. “Okay, clearly you don’t -- clearly, he doesn’t get it,” she says, addressing the guys behind her. She turns back to the stranger, gesturing to herself and the others as she explains, “We’re ghosts. We’re just three ghosts, and we’re really happy to be home, so… thank you for the flowers; they really brighten up the room.” She tries to smile at him.

“We’re actually in a band called Sunset Curve,” Blaine pipes up, stepping up to flank her on the left.

“Tell your friends!” chimes Sam on her right.

“Last night was a really big night for us,” Blaine says, a little sadly. “It was gonna change our lives.”

Tina whispers, “Uh, I’m pretty sure it did.” Blaine huffs and elbows her gently.

“This is freaking me out,” the stranger says, shaking his head as he takes something from his pocket.

“What is that; what are you doing?” Blaine asks.

Alive Stranger looks up, fingers still touching the face of the object. “It’s my phone -- nope, stop talking to them! There’s no such thing as cute ghosts,” he says, seemingly to himself.

Sam gasps. “Think we’re cute?” He raises an eyebrow, making one of his insufferable Sam faces; Tina almost laughs.

The boy looks up again with wide eyes, gaze flitting to each of them as if watching for a reaction, swallowing and going back to his phone.

“Who’re you calling?” Tina asks, trying to see the side facing him because that doesn’t look like any phone she’s ever seen.

“I’m googling Sunset Swerve.”

“Sunset Curve!” Blaine, Sam, and Tina correct him at the same time, Sam drawing a curve in the air with his finger.

The stranger laughs nervously, staring at them with wide eyes and then back at his phone. “Okay… so there is a Sunset Curve.” He swallows again. “You guys did die. But not last night.” Tina’s stomach drops a little; Blaine and Sam get closer.

“Twenty-five… years ago,” the boy finishes, a confused look in his eyes.

Tina barely has time to register this before Sam says, “That’s impossible. All we did after we floated out of the car was go to that weird dark room where Tina cried.”

Her mouth drops open. “I wasn’t -- I -- we -- ” she squeaks, voice jumping up an octave. “I think we were all pretty upset,” she says, but she supposes Sam is right.

He pats her back and doesn’t have a chance to respond again because Blaine steps in, “That was just for, like, an hour, though. We just showed up here.” Tina and Sam nod.

“Look,” the living one says, finally turning his “phone” toward them. They lean forward to see a screen with a photo of them -- and Artie, Tina thinks distantly; she feels his absence acutely and it spikes through her chest -- taken for their summer tour, and a bunch of small text around it that she can’t read, a bold headline at the top reading, Sunset Curve: A Hollywood Tragedy. “I’m just telling you what my phone says,” he explains. “You guys died in 1995. It’s now 2020.”

“So this is the future?” Sam asks incredulously as the boy pulls his phone back. Something else sticks out in Tina’s mind, though.

“So -- it has been twenty-five years,” she says, pausing to gather her thoughts. “I have been crying for twenty-five years -- how is that possible?!”

“You’re a very emotional person,” Sam reasons.

“I am not!” she insists, but the tears already pressing in the back of her throat want to prove otherwise. Distantly, she reminds herself that she’s with her friends who’ve seen it all and she doesn’t need to hold back, but the presence of this complete stranger also overrides the ease of her relationship with the guys. Sam rubs a comforting hand over her shoulder, and she swallows the tears down.

Alive Stranger shakes his head. “I gotta go… eat dinner,” he says slowly. He turns back around once he’s walked past the three of them and says, “Look, I’m really sorry for what happened to you guys, but this isn’t your studio anymore. You have to leave.”

“But we -- ” Blaine starts, starting to go forward but a sharp glare stops him and he clears his throat. “We didn’t even get your name.”

“It’s Kurt,” the stranger snaps.

“Cool, I’m -- Blaine,” Blaine says hesitantly. “And this is…”

“Sam, hey.”

“Tina, how’s it going…”

“Ba-da,” Blaine sings weakly, gesturing his hands in front of them like he’s presenting them to Kurt.

They all watch for Kurt’s reaction, but he just sighs and leaves the studio. He leaves the doors open, probably to remind them that they technically just got kicked out of their studio -- or, Kurt’s mom’s studio -- someone’s studio, but really it’s been their home for so long…

“Kurt seems nice,” Sam says cheerfully, trying to lighten the mood.

Tina turns to him. “Did you miss the part where he kicked us out, or…” she says drily. Sam shrugs, a hint of a smirk on his face. “Okay,” Tina mutters, turning to wander around the studio some more. If they’re going to be kicked out, she wants to spend as much more time as she can here.

Kurt’s mind is a storm. He doesn’t know where to start with this new information -- with an evening that took such a sharp turn from reminiscing and sad and somewhat painful into just… something so completely different and unexpected.

Dinner Kurt can do. He can put the craziness of ghosts aside because dinner is easy, dinner is simple; dinner is important.

His dad has already set everything out so Kurt takes his seat across from him, sending a not-completely-true nvm everything’s fine, sorry for worrying you text to Mercedes, who finally got back to him at some point when he was distracted…

Distracted talking to ghosts.

“How’s it going?” Burt asks as he sits down and it takes Kurt a second to remember he must be talking about cleaning the studio, and not actually about ghost musicians.

Ghosts don’t exist. There are no ghosts in the garage. Don’t think about ghosts.

“It’s good,” Kurt says, poking at his food a little. “I’m starting with the loft.”

Burt smiles. “Those old instruments need a home.”

“Yeah,” Kurt says, returning the smile. “Mom would like that.”

The instruments probably belong to some ghosts, Kurt realizes, but… nothing he can really do about that. And that’s if the ghosts can even touch objects.

They eat in comfortable silence for a while and then Burt sets down his fork. Kurt looks up apprehensively.

“So I got an email from the school today,” he starts. Kurt fiddles with his fork and drops his gaze.

“Hey, it’s okay, Kurt, I’m not mad,” Burt promises.

You should be, Kurt thinks -- all that money spent for him to audition for and attend the music program, and for private lessons and sheet music and piano maintenance, just for him to throw it all away.

“I know those classes can be hard,” his dad says, and Kurt almost can’t take his gentle tone, feels guilty about it even though he appreciates it. “But… you still like music, don’t you?”

Kurt shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe?”

“I know the memories are hard, believe me, Kurt. But, every time I see you, I see Mom, you know? And I love that, I really do. Maybe, if you give yourself a chance, you can, too.” Kurt looks up hesitantly to see his dad’s gentle, loving expression and eyes slightly glassy with tears. Looking down again, he swallows, and nods.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I will. I’ll try.”

Because what he said to Mercedes earlier on the staircase is true, but… he’ll always try harder for his dad.

“It’s okay, Kurt,” Burt assures him. “We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

Kurt smiles and almost starts eating again, but music suddenly blares from outside, startling both of them, Kurt barely holding back a loud swear.

“What is that?” Burt says, getting up but Kurt rushes to reassure him, saying quickly, “I must have just left the CD player on in the garage! It’s fine, I’ll go get it!”

He runs back to the studio where the ghosts are still there apparently, and have somehow gotten instruments from the loft and set everything up to start playing, and play really loudly -- and it honestly sounds good but Kurt can’t focus on that because they’re going to disturb the entire neighborhood and get the cops called on them for a noise complaint and what is he supposed to say -- no officer, it was just the three ghosts in the garage being idiots, sorry?

Kurt yells for them to stop but it’s useless; he can barely even hear himself over how incredibly loudly they’re playing. Blaine, on an electric guitar that Kurt remembers seeing in the loft, turns and sees Kurt, walking towards him and finally playing one last chord when Kurt makes a horizontal cutting motion with his hand, and Sam, on the bass, follows, Tina playing one last short drum roll, looking up with a wide grin.

They all look… alive, Kurt thinks, despite literally being dead, so different from the confusion he left them with -- relaxed and loose and faces lit up, the energy flowing through them almost visible. If he didn’t know they were ghosts and made of air, he’d expect to be able to reach out and feel them, breaths hot and fast from the exertion and adrenaline, skin warm and slightly sweaty, hearts beating strong like the steady percussion of their band.

It reminds him of how music used to make him feel.

“Cut it out!” Kurt snaps, trying not to raise his voice too much. “The whole neighborhood could hear you! I thought I told you to leave!”

Blaine looks back at his bandmates, bewildered. “People -- people can hear us play?”

“Yes!” Kurt says exasperatedly. “My dad heard you from inside!”

“… What did he think?” Blaine asks after a moment. Kurt opens his mouth for an irritated response --

“Everything okay in here?”

Kurt whips around to see his dad in the doorway and smiles with wide eyes. “Yeah! I just -- had to turn off the CD player,” he lies.

People have told Kurt before that he’s a good liar; he really hopes that’s true after the evening he’s had -- he's having.

Burt’s attention is elsewhere, though, seemingly forgetting about the chaos from just a moment earlier. “Wait, is this the junk that was in the loft?” he says, excitedly eyeing the instruments and… the ghosts that he can’t see.

“Junk?” Blaine exclaims. Tina stands up, her eyes on Burt, drumsticks gripped tightly in one hand.

They all watch apprehensively as Burt weaves through the instruments, even going so far as to rattle Tina’s cymbals and tap the drums, much to her horror. She fixes Kurt with wide, urgent eyes, to which Kurt just shrugs and gives her a helpless look. Hey Dad, actually, the ghost drummer wants you to stop, so…

“Hey, this stuff’s in pretty good shape,” Burt says excitedly. “Maybe we can make a couple bucks, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kurt agrees weakly, mostly just watching as Tina fails to push Burt away from the drums.

“I like the song you had on,” Burt says, finally stepping away from the instruments. Tina rubs down a cymbal with her sleeve.

“Sweet! We’re Sunset Curve,” Blaine pipes up.

“Tell your friends!” Sam says, to a fond eye-roll from Tina.

“It’s just an old CD I found,” Kurt says, ripping his attention from the ghosts.

“Well, it’s nice that you’re listening to music again,” Burt says sincerely. “Out here, you can play whatever you want, whenever you want.” He waves his hands out on either side for emphasis, going through Sam and Blaine’s bodies. Kurt chuckles weakly.

“Oh,” Sam says, looking down at where Burt’s hand was in his stomach just a moment before. “That’s nice.”

“Stay out of this,” Kurt hisses.

“Sorry, Kurt, I’m just trying to help -- ”

“Oh! No, not you, Dad,” Kurt says quickly. For fuck’s sake -- “Just -- just give me a minute -- ” He starts pulling his dad toward the door. Burt stops him and says, “Hey, we’re gonna figure out this music program thing, okay?”

“Thanks, Dad,” Kurt says with a smile, and gestures for him to leave.

Once Burt is out of sight, he turns back to the ghosts.

“Wait -- ” Tina waves her drumsticks around a little. “So -- only you can see us, but everyone can hear us?” Kurt nods in confirmation. “What kind of ghosts are we?” Tina says.

“Who cares, dude!” Sam says, stepping up to Tina’s drum kit with a grin. “People can hear us play!” The three exchange fist-bumps as Blaine says happily, “We might be dead, but our music isn’t.”

“And Kurt’s dad likes our music!” Sam cheers.

“He’s a dad, it doesn’t count,” Tina mumbles, smiling and pushing Sam playfully when he turns to her with an offended look.

Confusion and annoyance bubble up inside Kurt along with something like anger at, just, all of it and he groans and says loudly, “Why can’t you guys just be normal ghosts? You know, go hang out at an old mansion or something! I hear Pasadena’s nice!” and turns to leave, slamming the door on his way out.

He just… has had too much going on today. He needs to -- ignore his homework and the problem with school and maybe just sleep in for the next two days. That would be really nice.

He’s so caught up in his head and he jumps and yells when a ghost appears in front of him with no warning.

“Don’t do that!” Kurt exclaims.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Blaine says quickly. “ -- You do know how rad this is though, right? People -- people can hear us play!”

“Yeah, good for you,” Kurt replies, a little too harshly. “It’s just that I’ve had a really, really, awful day. I’ve gotta go.”

He walks past Blaine just to turn around again when he says, “I’m really sorry you had a bad day.” Kurt nods; he can tell Blaine wants to say more, so he waits.

Blaine continues slowly, “I just… three ghosts just found out they had a bad twenty-five years, and then they find out that the one thing they lived for in the first place, they can still do. So you can kick us out, but -- we’re not giving up music. We can play again; that’s a gift no musician would ever turn down,” he says earnestly, eyes wide and almost pleading.

That hurts in Kurt’s chest a little more than it should and he looks down again to avoid the passion and excitement shining clearly in Blaine’s eyes, in his voice, in his words. He swallows down the feeling that statement unearths inside of him, but suddenly his bad day is at the forefront of his mind again -- his bad year.

That’s a gift no musician would ever turn down … some musician he is, then. But he already knew that.

Blaine says softly, “You’ve gotta know that. Clearly your mom is into music.”

Kurt swallows. “Was,” he says, monotone and quiet. “She passed away.”

He hates that it’s become easier to say; he wants to either spit the words out or break down sobbing but he manages to keep his voice steady. (In the back of his mind, he wonders why he just told that to a random ghost he just met. Maybe he’s just going crazy. He’s literally talking to ghosts, after all.)

Blaine’s face falls. “I -- I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

“Yeah, we -- we didn’t know,” Sam says quietly. He and Tina have also left the studio, standing on the other side of the low wall separating the garage area from the pathway back to the house. They look up with sympathetic eyes and Kurt looks away from them too -- can’t meet any of their wide, well-meaning gazes right now.

“It’s fine,” he dismisses. “Sorry I got mad.” The ghosts are thankfully looking at each other now, seemingly silent conversation passing between their glances. “You guys are pretty good,” Kurt says, trying to change the subject and lighten the atmosphere.

Blaine raises an eyebrow, turning his gaze back to Kurt. “‘Pretty good’? You know that’s just, like, 25 years of rust being dusted off, right?”

“Do you play, too?” Tina asks.

“No, no, I don’t play.” It’s not exactly a lie anymore but it scrapes in Kurt’s throat with his haste to answer. “That’s all my mom’s stuff in there.”

“She’s an amazing songwriter,” Blaine says.

“Yeah, she was,” Kurt answers. “Wait… how do you know?”

Blaine opens his mouth, glancing at the others for a second. “We found a song on the piano,” he says. “If it’s hers… your mom was really talented.”

Kurt nods. She really, really was.

He feels like he doesn’t have the energy to say it again, so he just stays quiet. Somewhat awkwardly, he turns to leave, sensing the end of the conversation and part of him desperately wanting to just leave and not have to see these ghosts again….

So Kurt surprises even himself when he pauses and turns back to face them. “I guess,” he starts, and their gazes snap back up to him. “If you need a place to stay… you can stay in there.” He nods toward the studio and the ghosts’ faces light up. Kurt can’t help but smile back. “There’s a couch that turns into a bed, and in the back there’s a bathroom with a shower, if you still need any of that stuff.”

“Awesome!” Sam exclaims quietly, earning an elbow in the side and a questioning look from Tina. “What? Dude, I just really like showers,” he defends.

Tina rolls her eyes. Kurt takes a breath, raising his hands to gesture vaguely at the three of them. “This is just… too weird.” He nods to himself, finally leaving this time, leaving the ghosts to… do what they will.

The fact that there are ghosts in his mom’s studio…. Maybe there’s a chance that Mom knows them -- sent them, he thinks… but decides to not get his hopes up. She’s gone and he needs to just keep it at that.

What he really wants is to tell Mercedes, but he doesn’t know how.

What would you say if I told you there were three ghosts living in my mom’s studio? Kurt thinks on his way back to his room.

You’d say I’m crazy.

It’s some point in the night; they figured out that they don’t need to sleep -- can’t sleep, it seems like, which is honestly really annoying in Tina’s opinion because they’re ghosts with literally nothing to do for too many hours at a time -- so they’re just hanging out in the studio, with the lights outside giving them a little visibility through the garage windows, but it’s kind of nice to just sit in the dark.

Tina has been on the couch with Sam, lying on their backs, heads in opposite directions, legs pressed up against each other. Sam’s bass is unplugged, laid on his stomach and extending over Tina’s legs. He plucks out notes and Tina accompanies with a soft beat using just her hands and body parts as instruments. Sometimes it’s a familiar bassline -- a Sunset Curve song rehearsed or performed or recorded before -- and they also hum the harmonies that they know, and sometimes they improvise -- Tina storing the good bits in her mind for a future writing session.

Blaine is in the loft where they hoped a light could be on and maybe go unnoticed. Tina assumes that he’s writing; he always was when they were alive. And of course, now he has 25 years of dark room and relative nothingness to catch up on writing about.

It feels like another quiet night from when they were alive, each of them with an excuse to escape their homes for the night, and they’d all crash here, filling the studio with soft music and noise. Blaine would stay up writing and sometimes singing while Sam and Tina (and Artie) would try to sleep, telling him to stop humming, or, since the main house inhabitants who would care about the noise were rarely there, they would sometimes join along with him and make it a Sunset Curve midnight rehearsal.

They’ve never had the best sleep schedules anyway.

Tina giggles quietly as she and Sam play into nothingness, both parts running uncontrolled and unable to get back on track. They both stop and Sam starts playing a familiar line -- parts they’d worked out before with bass, drums, and both guitars, but never actually put into a song. Tina waits for a moment to come in with her part.

She’s nearly startled off the couch when Blaine poofs down beside the couch with his guitar and starts his part. Tina starts laughing -- probably too loud but they’re pretty sure only their music can be heard anyway -- and slides off the couch to sit on the ground, picking the drumming back up on her legs.

“You guys wanna check out this teleportation thing?” Blaine asks, playing the challenging guitar riff meant for electric guitar messily on his acoustic without a pick.

Sam sits up and puts his bass to the side. “Absolutely,” he says. “Where’re we going?”

“I have an idea,” Blaine says, setting his guitar down. He pulls Tina up and extends a hand out for Sam. “I think I can take you guys with me.”

“What?” Tina squeaks, but a second later, she’s sitting far above the ground, outside, on top of the marquee of the Orpheum. “Oh my god,” she mutters, looking down dizzily at the people passing by on the sidewalk. Her body tingles with a weird uncomfortable energy for just a few seconds before it fades.

“Yes!” Blaine laughs, kicking his legs up excitedly. “I mean, I know being a ghost isn’t our first choice, but it sure is easy getting around!”

“Easy for you, maybe!” Sam cries on Blaine’s other side. “I lost my shirt on that one!”

Tina looks over and sure enough, Sam is shirtless. She stifles a laugh behind her hand. “Like that’s a concern,” she pipes up, but Sam’s shirt appears right as she says it. They all laugh and sit in silence for a moment.

“So why’d you bring us here?” Tina asks, looking out across Hollywood Boulevard, the new and old buildings and shops, the people and cars of the future. The light of the Orpheum’s neon sign shines in her periphery, same as it did on a night twenty-five years ago. “Just another reminder of where we never got to play,” she says wryly, turning to face Blaine on her left, patting his shoulder. “Thanks, Blaine.”

Blaine rolls his eyes. “I’m telling you guys, it’s not over yet!” Tina reappears on the sidewalk right below them, almost losing her balance and falling through a person walking past. She shoots a glare at Blaine for teleporting them with no warning again, but he just grins back and starts down the sidewalk, Sam following. “Let’s see how many places we can play tonight, yeah? Check out the music scene of the future? And no trouble getting into those clubs anymore!”

Tina laughs, falling into step with them. She watches Sam walk straight through someone going in the opposite direction and doesn’t realize someone is in her way, which shouldn't be a problem, until she bumps into them.

She feels them.

“Hey!” she says involuntarily, turning to see who it was -- another ghost? A tall man with a cape and top hat nods at her with an acknowledging and almost menacing gleam in his eye, then turns again and walks away.

He could see her, he could touch her -- he has to be another ghost, right?

“Tina, you coming?” Sam calls. She swallows and takes one last look, the other ghost having disappeared among the other people on the sidewalk, before turning and running to catch back up with the guys.

“I just ran into someone,” she says, a little breathless -- she doesn’t know if that’s from running, which she doesn’t think she can actually get breathless from, or the fact that she ran into someone.

“Another ghost?” Blaine says.

“I mean, it has to be, right? Uh, Kurt -- Kurt can see us but he can’t touch us…”

“And his dad couldn’t either,” Sam adds.

“It must have been another ghost. He looked like a… performer, or something.” Tina wrinkles their nose a little as she remembers his whole get-up, completely out of place among what she’s seen so far of 21st century street fashion. (But then again, so is she, and her friends.)

“… I guess we’re not alone, then,” Blaine says, breaking a short bewildered silence.

“We’re never alone!” Sam exclaims, walking between them to throw his arms around Blaine and Tina’s shoulders. Tina laughs and grabs his forearm, mystery ghost forgotten for the time being.

Blaine responds with a grin, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Kurt wakes up earlier than usual the next morning. He thinks he still has school -- he doesn’t know how being removed from the music program works, but no one told him not to come and besides, he does have non-music classes to keep up with, even if he doesn’t necessarily want to. He gets ready as usual, leaving breakfast out for his dad, and there’s still half an hour before Mercedes should be getting here.

Perfect. There’s something he needs to try by himself… for himself.

He heads out to the studio with his things, a fluttering feeling in his stomach, but it’s different from the feeling before he tried to play in class yesterday, like the butterflies had turned to stone and were rolling around inside him, weighing him down and making him nauseous. This time it’s promising, hopeful, familiar -- butterflies fluttering normally, peacefully.

The room is empty when Kurt pushes the doors open and drops his backpack by the entrance.

“Guys?” he calls hesitantly, to no response.

He wonders if he should be worried about where the ghosts might be, or relieved for if they really did leave after all, since that is what he wanted… but he realizes relief is not at all what he feels at that possibility.

But if the ghosts aren’t here, then all the better for what he wants to do, so he decides to ignore their absence for now.

Kurt walks up to the grand piano in the middle of the room, thinking. There’s something… something deep loosening in his chest -- something about Blaine and the others and their intense passion for music that is so different from the intense judgment and competition at school that made it so impossible for him to play yesterday.

The way Blaine had talked about music…

The one thing they lived for in the first place -- they can still do.

A gift.

Kurt spreads out the sheet music that he found yesterday, just placed on the piano lid without a glance and it’s still there, so Blaine and the others must have just taken a look at it. He recognizes his mother’s handwriting, achingly familiar and beautiful in a minimalistic way, the neat notes and lyrics, clean and legible even without the help of staff lines. His heart stutters and he gasps a little as he reads some of it -- he recognizes the song. Something his mom told him she was writing when she got sick.

Kurt used to be so involved in her songwriting, but as she got worse and Kurt grew away from the piano (and from his voice), he never asked about this song.

She’d finished it.

Here’s the one thing I want you to know, you got someplace to go…

And he needs to hear it.

His fingers tremble slightly as he places them gingerly on the keys over the starting notes of the song. It feels completely different than it did yesterday; he doesn’t know if it’s the lack of teacher and students watching, the insanity of yesterday evening in between, the song itself… but the stones turned back into butterflies and it almost feels like it did before….

He wants to play, to make music. For the first time in a year, he actually feels like he can. And he needs to.

And if -- when -- it unlocks the memories… he thinks he’s ready.

Kurt takes a deep breath and plays.

#i somehow added like 25 words in my final edit just now lol #idk if anyone really cares but suspend ur disbelief at kurt singing julie's songs XD #i definitely know it probably would not work with her songs as is #they have Very different voices i am aware but i'm also too lazy to do anything about it so . they can be adjusted #to fit his voice right lol i just have no idea how that works 🤪 i just play piano and even then not really 🥴#so just like imagineee lol #i love how in the last part i said what would be endgame in this fic but like #damn i don't have any idea what's happening past what happens in the actual jatp show and #even then idk what's gonna happen within those bc it's not exactly the same 😂#lol but those ships Will probably like #have hints or something if that makes any sense laksdhgdjfs anywayyyy #kurt and the phantoms #my ficsssss #glee fic #glee #idk how i tag things lmao i think that's good enough XD #DRUMMER TINA DRUMMER TINA DRUMMER TINA #oh my god it's finally happening skdghsdhdkghdhjfhgjfgh #i've been working on this since my family went on vacation at the end of june so like two months fuckdghjfdkl #anyway lol hope y'all likeeeee 🥺💖#omg we're at 79 pages of google doc total lol

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toofastforhisowngood · 3 years

Text

(Title Is A Work In Progress)

Anything in italics is spoken in Japanese (sorry the American school language is fucked up and I didn’t get to learn a second language besides French.)

Rating: PG (currently)

First draft so mistakes are inevitable

Y/N was shocked beyond belief. At her own graduation party after her senior year of high school. Her grandmother had flown all the way from Japan to be here and she couldn’t contain the happy tears.

As she embraced her she was struck with the realization of how long her journey must’ve been. Especially, since they live in the middle of the US.

“Nana you shouldn’t have flown all the way out here by yourself! What if something had happened?!” She howled through continued tears at the physical strength her grandma had endured to be here.

“I wouldn’t miss for the world.” The older lady responded in slightly broken English. As they embraced each other y/n’s father came over to grab them both in his hold.

“Hello Mum. You look as beautiful as ever.”

“Dang, laying it on thick, huh dad?” Y/n laughed at their cheesiness.

“Did you tell her?” Grandma said quickly in her native language to her son. It was almost too fast for the teenager to understand.

“Not yet, but now is as good of a time as ever.”

They both looked at the teen seriously. “Stop freaking me out. What’s up?” She started to be concerned about her grandmas heath and spiraled to all the awful things that could’ve been happening.

“Oh, no worry my child. Your father purchased a ticket for you so you can stay with me this summer before college.”

Y/n’s face couldn’t mask the emotions she felt. She was finally going back to Japan! It had always been expensive to see her fathers side of the family since they lived on the other side of the world, but she gets the whole summer with them.

The open house was only halfway done, but the pumped teen couldn’t handle the idea without thinking about how much packing needed to get done. She ran to her bedroom and grabbed her largest suitcase out from under her bed and started looking for the clothes to bring.

While she shuffled through the room her father and grandma had caught up to her. Nana stood with her hands clasped together in front of her, while her dad leaned against the wooden door frame. “You know, dear, there are still a couple dozen other people here to see you, right?”

Oh shit. She had forgotten everyone else was hanging out in her garage and flooding the house. “They see me way more than nana! Anyways, I have nothing prepared to travel for a few months. When do we leave?”

The small giggle her dad produced irritated her more than she’d like to admit, “You’ve got a few days. I want to see my mum after all. You don’t get to just run off with her without her making me some of her delicious bone broth ramen.”

Y/n rolled her eyes as quickly as her father had responded. “As long as she makes enough for me too.”

“You know I could eat it all myself.”

“So could I. I am your spawn. Despite my hardest some even say I’m your mini-me.” She continued tossing clothes onto her bed throughout the entire quip battle. She pulled out her phone to see what the weather was like, considering it had been five years since she’d travelled there.

After determining which clothes would be fitting to bring she put the rest on her chair and was comfortable with the progress she had made. “Okay, okay. You guys can stop staring. I’ll go back to my party, I supposed.”

As she approached the door where the two still stood her grandma put one hand on her shoulder and smiled up to her, “I am so excited for our time together. I have many plans.” She said sweetly and the slowest she could to make sure she caught it all.

“Me too, Nana. I really have to work on my Japanese now.”

The two of them laughed together as they walked hand in hand back to the party.

In a few days time, her world had evolved immensely and she was so ready for something different.

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anobscurename · 4 years

Text

ocean eyes – chris evans

PART I

concept: this is a collection of happenings, the little moments with him, rather than a whole thought-out fic. the slowest of slow burns. this is the second part, the reunion. this is what happens when the night is over.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 2,618

warnings: none, except a little profanity

author’s note: part two is here! i hope you like it :)

The second time you met Chris, was while you were at work. You were a cocktail waitress at a relatively posh, incredibly elite, uptown bar. The kind that charges you way too much for a drink so little, and probably sells diamond infused vodka. This was the night spot of everyone who was anyone – gods that sipped golden champagne from fine, polished Baccarat flutes that were probably worth your house.

You had no problem with rich people. You just had a problem with the way some treated you – and that was to say, not very well.

“Hey.” A male voice startled you out of your near robotic drink making. They were a bit understaffed that night, so you had taken the liberty of helping out behind the bar while the tables in your section remained vacant. You were somewhat of an expert cocktail maker – you could even safely say you could do it blindfolded (an exceptionally wild bachelor’s party provided proof enough). So it wasn’t uncommon for your mind to drift elsewhere while you mixed a drink. You tilted your head slightly in the direction of your co-worker, letting him know you were listening, while still pretending to be way more immersed in your task than you really were. It was that anti-social kind of night, where you’d rather be curled up at home with Netflix and a mug of tea rather than be there (despite being fully aware of how many girls would kill to have entry to the most exclusive club in Los Angeles). But the pay was good – excellent, actually – and you did get some really nice patrons at times. And your co-workers? They weren’t half bad, either. “There’s a table that just sat down in your station.”

You swore under your breath, finished mixing the drink with a sped efficiency, and handed it off to the patron. “Your station” was the VIP section, and was rarely very busy so early in the evening. You knew club routine well enough by now: pre-drinks before the party were often done at home, in the limos, or in a relatively tame bar somewhere nearby. This was for the pleasantries, the catching up, the conversations that would inevitably be drowned out by the pounding music if done anywhere else. That usually occurred around this time. This club – and many like it – the kind that was where everyone who was anyone had to be seen at – was the second phase. The party phase. The phase where most of the time, drama, and scandal, took place. This was often from 10pm till 4am, depending on the stamina of the party goers. And then the wind down: after parties, often held at someone’s house. This was the natural order of the night world, and you respected people who respected that. You modelled your entire schedule around that.

That’s why you had assumed that your station would’ve been empty until much later – until after pre-drinks and conversations. Whoever just sat down in VIP – they were disturbing the natural fucking order, and you were not having it. Well, you were silently not having it; you still needed, like, money.

Your job didn’t come without it’s perks, though. A murder of stunning people were sat on the plush leather couches surrounding black marble topped tables behind the velvet chain that separated them from the masses. Some you recognised instantly from the big screen, and others from the tabloids. And one from a personal encounter… Your breath caught and you damn near choked.

There he was, reclined on the couch, so at ease with his arms spread over the back, grinning and laughing at something someone had said. He wasn’t looking at you. Yet. That changed abruptly, as soon as you (after having gathered your confidence) introduced yourself to them.

He faltered slightly in his laugh, but his grin remained – growing even wider, as slowly, he tilted his head to look over at you.

Immediately his eyes brightened. If there was any doubt in your mind as to whether or not it was really him, it dissipated with that single nod of recognition he gave you.

You cleared your throat as a small diversion to clear your head. “Are you ready to order?”

They rattled off their orders, almost all of them barely paying any attention to your silent exchange with Chris. Almost.

A (begrudgingly) stunning female on Chris left, who was pressed eagerly into his side, gave you a dirty once over and sneered out her order to you. Oh. She was one of those. The ones who looked down at literally anyone not a billionaire.

He noticed her disdain, and his grin fell. A small victory, he revoked his arm from around her – bemused by her display of deluded superiority. You had to physically hide your smirk as you got the last order – his – and slipped behind the bar with the orders engraved in your mind.

——————

The group departed after about two hours. Two hours of eyeing the table (mainly to check if their glasses were still full, or if they needed anything else – or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself), two hours of stolen glances – ones that you were always the first to pull away from, usually after the inevitable smirk that touched his lips when you looked for a bit longer than you should.

When they left, you cleaned the table. Who was he? He seemed to have friends in high places, but there was something else… You knew, when you first met him, that you knew his face. Ugh, that itch was back – the one in the brain where you know you know something but it’s evading your every grasp – and it was refusing to go away. Like an earworm of a melody, lyrics forgotten.

It plagued you for the remainder of your shift – which wasn’t necessarily long, just an hour or so more – and even as you got ready to go home.

It was approaching peak hours now, and so you knew the front would be bustling with paps and desperate social climbers begging for entrance from the surly bouncers, who stood as monoliths in churning seas. Because with peak hours, came the rich and famous; socialites, actors, singers, designers, models. And with them, the gods of the nightlife, came the screaming hordes.

God, you were dramatic. You smirked to yourself, at the internal monologue you were maintaining, as you punched in the code to slip out the back. Anything to keep a scrap of sanity in these long nights. So wrapped up in your own thoughts, you didn’t notice him following you until he laid a scopic hand on your shoulder.

You whirled, shoving him against a wall, knee approaching dangerously close to his crotch before you mercifully faltered at the familiar face.

“Chris?!” You were breathless with exhilaration, adrenaline thick in your veins at having been caught off guard. You released him, stepping away to run your hand through your hair to brush it away from your face. “What are you doing, hiding in a back alley, trying to catch unsuspecting girls off guard?!”

He chuckled at your scolding tone, at the way you pressed a hand to your beating heart, over the top dramatism at play in your actions. “Trying to catch an unsuspecting girl off guard. Obviously.”

You realised then how strange it was for him to still be here; his party departed at least an hour and a half ago. “Did you wait out here for me?”

“Can you promise not to kick me in the balls if I said yes?”

You laughed as he cautiously eyed your legs at his sentiment. “So, what, you’re following me now?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I’m not the one who waited an hour for someone, out in a back alley, in the freezing cold.” To punctuate your point, a cold blast of wind ripped through the alleyway, worming its way under your coat to stroke at your skin with cold tendrils. You shivered, crossing your arms to preserve the warmth. “You’re not an axe murderer, are you?”

He patted down his pockets. “Ah, shit. Must’ve left my axe at home.” His tone was dead serious, but at your roll of the eyes, he grinned.

You buried your hands in your pocket to stave off the chill. Weirdly enough, after the initial shock, you were glad to have someone with you to walk with you to your car, parked three blocks away to make room for the patrons’ stretch limousines. You inclined your head in the direction of your vehicle, nodding for him to walk with you.

He smiled softly, following you out of the dim lighting of the alleyway, into the lights of the main road. The clamour outside of the club was a roar, the leering of the paps at the celebrities who entered becoming a jumble of white noise.

You noticed how, as soon as you both approached the light, he ducked his head and upturned the collar of his jacket, avoiding the peoples’ attentative eye. You both pushed by relatively unnoticed, and you only spoke again when the bellowing crowd was a distant memory.

“So, who are you?”

The question took him by surprise. The action of lighting the cigarette he had propped between his lips stuttered, and he gave you an apprehensive look. He struck the match he had poised in his hand, looking down to watch where the flame licked. “You know who I am.”

“You just sat where Justin Bieber sat. I served drinks to the Kardashians on that couch. Only the VIPs of VIPs sit there. So, are you famous or something?”

Shaking the match out, he took a drag – prolonging his answer as long as he possibly could. He deliberated you, wondering what your reaction would be. Would you treat him differently, now? “Or something.”

You eyed him up, skeptical, before breaking into a massive grin. “Cool,” you said non-chalantly. Or at least in your head. What you really said was: “I fucking knew I wasn’t losing my mind! I fucking knew it, Mr I-Just-Have-One-Of-Those-Faces. Oh my God, I’m not crazy, fuck yes!”

The look he gave you negated that entirely, because indeed, he was looking at you as if you were a mad woman, in spite of the amused twist of his lips. “Are you done?”

After a moment of appraising him, you nodded, calm again. “Yeah, I’m done.”

You were less excited that you were in the presence of celebrity royalty, more relieved that you weren’t insane for feeling he was so familiar. That was refreshing for Chris; usually after someone discovered his identity, they would treat him differently – sidling up to him, for a favour or money or status or cloning DNA. Or for workout tips, but he got that regularly. Barring the brief moment of unhinged happiness you displayed, you treated him as you did before. Like when he stole your cab.

“Andy Barber!” You had started walking again, him alongside you, in a pleasant silence. Your outburst caused both of you to pause again. “Ransom Drysdale? Steve Rogers…”

He arched a brow in question, taking a pensive drag from his cigarette. “Are you having a stroke?”

“That’s where I recognise you from.” Mumbling to yourself, you muttered “God, I knew I wasn’t crazy.”

He chuckled, flicking the ash off his cigarette, both of you continuing on in a comfortable silence.

“So, what did I do to deserve the chance at having you escort me to my car?”

He stomped out the cigarette, smoke curling from his lips as he tried to find the best way to word his question. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh, you can proposition my fist to your face,” you chuckled in disbelief. “Just because you’re all high and mighty and famous doesn’t mean that every girl you meet is going to throw themselves at your feet even if you did buy me pizza and you’re all smug and handsome and have impeccable dress sense like, seriously, what is that? Armani? What? Why are you laughing at me?”

He had started laughing sometime during your rant and the sound, contagious and warm, had caused you to falter. You fought a smile that was threatening to rise. You were trying to make a point, goddamnit, and you would be damned if he was going to ruin it with his smug, handsome face.

“A business proposition, {your name},” he managed to say among the peels of laughter. “But please, do go on my impeccable dress sense.”

You were mortified. You probably sounded proper arrogant, thinking that he wanted to get in your pants. You groaned, hiding your face in your hands for a moment to conceal the fast rising heated flush of embarrassment. Conceal, don’t feel. Don’t let him know. Thanks, Elsa.

“What, uh,” you cleared your throat, turning away to continue your stalling trek (and to avoid his gaze). “What business proposition?”

“Do you like dogs?”

You ignored how laugh-drunk his voice sounded – gravelly and lilted with amusement. It just served to feed your embarrassment further. “Love them. Why?”

Now it was his turn to clear his throat. “I recently, uh, split up with my girlfriend and I’m heading to Vancouver for a few months for a film. She was meant to help look after Dodger and the house while I was gone, but, given the recent change in plans, that would appear to no longer be an option.”

He avoided your gaze as you glanced over at him, but you could see the throb of the muscle in his jaw, indicating the grit of his teeth.

“And you have deemed me worthy?” You tried lightening the mood a little, and was satisfied by his small smile and accompanying chuckle.

“I know it’s too much to ask of a stranger–”

“Why don’t you get a friend to do it?”

“I would, if any were deemed worthy,” he teased. Warmth swelled in his eyes when he looked at you next, and paired with that smile and the words he spoke next, you knew you would do anything he asked. “And I am asking a friend.”

A beat passed. “Fine. I’ll live in your stupid mansion and look after your stupid dog. Okay, I didn’t mean that last bit, I’m sure Dodger is lovely, but I’ll have you know: I don’t come cheap.”

“What, living in my mansion isn’t good enough?”

“Fuck no! I still need to feed the dog, clean up after it, clean the house, have money on hand for damages in case I get too wild by myself… There’s a long, fucking list.”

“I’m sure we can make an arrangement,” he smirked.

You shivered slightly at the double entendres laced in his words; good thing it was cold, so you could easily excuse it.

“What makes you think I’ll say yes?” You tip your head in the direction of the club from which you were making your slow escape. “They pay well, a lot better than house sitting.”

“Are you happy there?”

You balked at his question. “The money is good–”

“I wasn’t asking about the money, I was asking if you were happy.” He arched a brow, something close to concern crossing his face.

“I–”

He cocked his head, waiting for an answer. You knew you couldn’t lie to him.

“No, not really. Some people are real assholes, especially when drunk.”

“Then it’s settled. You’ll come work for me.”

“Woah, hey now. I can’t just… Uproot my life and live with you. For starters, I have a lease and stuff. And I have a life, a job, a–”

“I have an adorable mixed boxer and a Jacuzzi.”

“When do I start?”

#chris evans #chris evans fanfic #chris evans/you #chris evans x you #chris evans x reader #chris evans/reader #chris evans fluff #dina writes #when the night is over #ocean eyes #part two

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tomtenadia · 4 years

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Island Dreams - Chapter 20

Chapter 20 is finally here and sorry for the wait. I work full time and I am doing uni as well. I have an assignment due next week so I had to leave my fic aside as well.

Tonight here in Scotland is a big night for rugby fans. Rowan and Lorcan from my fic will be probably celebrating with me just now. Scotland has won against England at Twickenham (Home game for England) and for the three of us it's a very, very, very, big thing. I guess our two men are on their way to the pub to get totally pished (wonderful Scottish word for drunk).

Also, I was so involved in the game that I almost forgot to publish tonight.

Chapter 20 has been a challenge. I have changed a part of the story about 4 times and I hope I chose the best plot. We get to meet Chaol. I know in the books he is not as horrible but i made him a bit more horrible just for the sake of the story. Also, be happy that it finished the way it did. In one of my plans I had gone for much, much more angst. Then I told myself that I was writing a fluffy story and ignored the cruel idea.

Oh, I forgot to add that there is just a smidge of smut.

I really hope you will enjoy the chapter.

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The next morning Aelin woke up before Rowan again. She had a fantastic sleep after the perfect day they had at the festival, but now she was ready to celebrate Rowan because his birthday had finally arrived. She turned to him and he was still sleeping soundly. The lines of his face soft making him even more beautiful. She had planned a birthday lunch at Maeve’s, she had a few presents for him, but most especially she intended to wake him up in a very special way. The night before he had gone to bed with just his boxer and shirtless, which meant he had been much more tired than he let it show because he never did that before. Slowly she pulled the blankets back revealing his naked chest. He was sleeping on his back making her plan much easier. Wickedly she removed her top remaining naked from the waist up. Gently she straddled him and then leaned forward depositing kisses along his torso making sure that her naked body was in full contact with his. She heard him moan softly and he slowly come to awareness. Surprise flaring in his eyes as he took in their position.

“Good morning, birthday boy.” Her body brushed his, her hard peaks against his skin. His eyes went wide. “What—” but she kissed him deeply not letting him finish the sentence. He shifted up until he was in a seated position and Aelin kept straddling him, then she leaned a bit back allowing him to look at her properly. “You are…” and he pointed at her state of undress. “Your first present.” She took his hands and placed them on her breasts. Rowan’s mouth crushed against hers, avid and needy and she did not hold back. His mouth then travelled to her neck and finally he grabbed her hard peaks in her mouths and Aelin arched her back into him. His other hand found its way in the waistband of her underwear and grabbed her butt pulling her closer to him. She felt him hard against her and she had to try very hard not to grind against him. His touch became more demanding as his tongue was doing wicked thing to her mouth. “You can touch me whenever you want,” she breathed in his ear and Rowan groaned and flipped on her back, his body now towering over her. “You…” a lick on her neck “have…” a gentle bite that sent her mind reeling “no…” his mouth on her breasts again “idea…” and his teeth closed on her nipple. Aelin gently moaned. His hands were taking in every inch of her body and she felt on fire at his touch. His mouth followed the lines of her abdomen until he reached her underwear and placed an almost reverential kiss at the apex of her thighs. It was a simple gesture but Aelin almost lost it. His mouth travelled back up and locked again onto hers but a finger slipped between her legs. He pressed gently at her sensitive spot and she felt her body jerk. Using the fabric of her underwear for friction, his finger was now making circles and she felt his mouth bend into a grin. This was not what she had planned. It was supposed to be the other way around with her giving him a special treatment for his birthday. Aelin suddenly felt it, the pressure build, her core now starting to tighten and until release rippled through her like a river out of control. She lifted her head and screamed in his shoulder. She rode her high and he did not stop until she was spent. Then he gave a quick kiss on the mouth and collapsed on the bed at her side, propping his head up with his fist. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to regain composure “This was not what I had planned,” she turned to face him and his grin was wide “I was the one one supposed to give you such a lovely good morning. Not you.” And she poked his shoulder, in response he leaned over and kissed her again. “You provoked me.” His knuckle traced her breasts “with these.” He kissed her again “and I really, really loved my present.” Still half naked she got out of bed and went to her old room to grab his presents. She came back and climbed on bed under his hungry stare. She sat down, not bothering to get dressed again. She handed him the first present and he opened it and smiled when he realised what it was: a green t-shirt with the Peat and Diesel logo. His face blossomed in a lovely smile. “Put this one on.” He said handing the t-shirt back to her. “Does it really bother you to have me naked in bed?” “No,” he said leaning closer “I want something with your smell on.” She put the t-shirt and he kissed her “perfect,” while slowly his hand sneaked underneath the fabric. She patted his hand “I have one more present.” “Very generous woman.” He sat back and took the envelope that she handed him. Once opened, he read what was on it. It was a handmade coupon for a romantic getaway of his choosing. “You choose the location. It can be the mainland or here on the islands. Anywhere in Scotland to be honest. And you get to choose when as well.” She explained “My only rules are that it’s somewhere possibly quiet and with a lot of nature. And once we have the location, I get to chose the accommodation, which will be of course on me since it’s my present to you.” She looked at him “You choose the location and the dates, everything else is on me. Clear?” His mouth was on hers again and she pulled him down on the bed where he landed on top of her. “Thank you for your presents.” She hoped he decided on his getaway as soon as possible because she could not wait any longer. His hips slammed into her and ground against her thighs gently and Aelin groaned against his shoulder. With all the force she had she pushed him off and flung herself out of bed “Breakfast. Work.” She said breathless “Please Ro, I am about to lose my wits.” And she moved to the kitchen to cook breakfast. There was no way she was letting him cook on his birthday.

The morning at the bookshop had been busy. The town was buzzing with festival goers and also tourists and they had their constant stream of people flocking in and Aelin was in her element. Some of them even had told her they had discovered the bookshop on Facebook and her face morphed into a grin. She had gone back to Rowan and told him and she bragged about her amazing PR capabilities. He, in response, rolled his eyes. “You might be the owner, but I put the shop on the map.” Rowan chuckled and kept working on his computer. Aelin got closer and sneaked her head under his arm peeking at the screen “So you are ignoring me for paperwork?” “Aelin, I am not ignoring you. You know I need to do this and reconcile the invoices.” He turned his head and looked at her. “I can handle that for you if you want.” “Title of your sex tape.” He kissed her and grinned. Since Aelin had introduced him to Brooklyn 99 he had become obsessed with the show and they have been binge watching it for a while now. Rowan had also started to make ‘title of your sex tapes’ jokes and she was so proud of him. “I created a monster.” She laughed leaning a bit more against him. He put an arm around her for a moment and kissed her head “Can I just finish this? That you can annoy me all you want.” “Fine,” she said, walking away and swaying her hips on purpose “Come and call me when you are done.” He grinned “You know what I am about to say, right?” “Yeah, title of my sex tape.” And she walked away to play with some of the shelves and let him finish work as he asked. It was a couple of hour later when Rowan joined Aelin. She had one shelf completely empty and was now re organising the non fiction section. “What are you doing?” “I am giving a chance to some of these books to be noticed.” She replied while hauling a small pile to the table “This is the slowest seller section. Fine, we don’t have many titles, but we need to make an effort so it does not lie here forgotten.” “Go ahead and have fun. I trust you.” Then he looked at a couple of titles “Let’s choose one title to put in this week’s recommendations.” “Great idea.” He left her when a customer came in and froze at the sight. He knew that face, he had seen him in a picture Aelin had binned after she moved to his place. Rage surged in him. “I am looking for Aelin.” The man said. Aelin recognised that voice and jumped and went to the front of the shop and stared at the man. “Hi babe,” Her hands fisted at her side and Rowan was at her side as soon as he noticed. “What are you doing here.” Her voice dangerously low. “Saw all you lovely pictures on Instagram and had to come and have a look where my dear ex wife had moved to.” His hands went to his pockets and strutted around the shop admiring it with curiosity “So this is where you work now? A bookshop?” He added in a mocking tone. Aelin was now shaking with rage and Rowan placed a hand on her lower back which did not go unnoticed by Chaol. “Your big dreams seem to have taken a hit.” “Why are you here?” She asked again, reining in the desire to thump him. “To take you back of course.” “You what?” Aelin was speechless “What makes you think I would want to come back with you?” “You love me.” He moved one step closer, ignoring a seething Rowan at her side “I know we had our issues but I am ready to start again. I left her. No more lies. I just want you back. We can have a trial run and then get married again.” Aelin was so shocked by the admission that she could not do anything “I can’t.” She finally said. “You lied to me for over a year. You treated me like a monster. Cheated on me and now you expect me to come back to you? Just because detective slut has left you?” She took a step toward him “You have some guts.” “Aelin, please,” he grabbed her wrist but Rowan grabbed her as well and pulled her back to him. Chaol looked at Rowan and the man straightened up to try and look as imposing as possible. Rowan was a good twenty centimetres taller than Chaol. “Seriously? This guy? You are leaving behind your life in London for this guy?” Aelin heard the growl coming from Rowan. “There is nothing in London for me, Lysandra aside. My life there is a part of the past, same as you are.” “Aelin I was wrong okay? And I am sorry for the way I hurt you. But these months without you made me realise I miss you and I want to do all I can to take you back.” He took another step closer to her. Aelin started pacing. Her mind was spinning out of control. There was no way she was going back to him. Never. She was furious. “I am not coming back.” She eventually said in a low tone, looking at him in the eyes. “My life is here now. I am looking for a job as a doctor here. And I have Rowan. You had your chance and you blew it. Now it’s too late. You should have fought when there was a chance to fix things. It’s over Chaol.” “A job here? Treating what? Sheep? Come on, Aelin, you have more ambition than that.” Rowan almost lunged forward but Aelin stopped him and gave him a tender smile. “Even on an island people need doctors. This is my life now.” She placed herself between the two men, facing her ex husband “And I love it here.” “You can’t be serious.” His tone was getting on Aelin’s nerves. “Like a heart attack.” Was her dead pan reply. Chaol ran his hand through his hair a move that a long time ago it would have sent her shivers down her spine and then ended up in his arms. “It looks like your leg has healed.” She needed some time to refocus. He was taken aback by the sudden change of topic “Yeah, Lysandra is a wizard at her job. I am still walking slowly, but I abandoned my cane last week and I will go back to work the next one.” “Good.” “Aelin, can we please have lunch together and talk? Perhaps without an audience?” And he glared at Rowan. “No. I have said all I had to say to you.” She sighed. He was always stubborn “I have no regrets for the divorce. We were not happy anymore. You were a cheating bastard. It was the only option and you need to accept it. I have moved on. Now it’s time you go back to London and do the same.” “Did you fuck your boy toy already?” Aelin stepped dangerously closer to Chaol “Yes. And you know what?” Another step “He made me scream in a way that you never did all those times he fucked me against a wall.” That was petty but Chaol was out of line and she had enough of him. Then she took a step back and joined Rowan and placed an arm around his waist. She could see rage in his eyes. “Aelin has been quite clear. I would recommend you to leave this shop immediately and never come back.” Rowan’s voice was flat and she realised she had never heard him like that. It was eerie. He was furious. Probably just as much as she was. “Chaol, please…” “I loved you.” He shouted “I still do. I don’t deserve all this hate. It was not all my fault. You didn’t even try,” he stepped back. He was about to add something else but gave up in the end. “Fine. Enjoy your pathetic life here. Enjoy your new boy toy, I hope he can handle you. You are not worth it. Not anymore.” And with those words he left. As soon as he was out of the shop Aelin let out a sob. Her hand to her mouth and her body shaken by the now full blown sobs. Rowan moved a step to her to try and console her but she moved away. She went to the back office and gathered all of her stuff “I need to be alone.” “Aelin…” Rowan’s hand was extended in an effort to stop her. “Leave me alone. Everyone.” She growled and left the shop. Rowan felt his heart break at those words. He only moved again when he heard a customer enter the shop.

Working had been a nightmare. Rowan’s mind kept thinking about Aelin’s broken stare. She pushed him away and the whole thing was driving him insane. She wanted space and he was going to give it to her but it did hurt. He closed the shop at his usual time and went back home with dread in his guts. She hadn’t texted him and he was getting worried. They were meant to go to the ceilidh but that was probably off the table now. And he raged. He was looking forward to dance with her. Once at home he changed into something more comfortable and crashed on the sofa. He lay down and placed a hand on his head and his mobile on his chest, just in case he had news from her. He was almost falling asleep when the phone buzzed. He jumped seated and went for the mobile. It was a text from Aelin. I am sorry. Are you okay? Where are you? Tolsta. Was all she said. Rowan stood and debated what to do next. She had told him where she was. Did it meant it was okay now for him to join her? He paced for half an hour and in the end he decided to go to her. Then he stopped. His car was still in the shop and swore loudly. He had a look at the buses and for a moment he hated island life where buses could be infrequent and stopped after a while. He couldn’t even ask his aunt because she lived outside town and she needed the car to go back home. Finally he decided to get a taxi. It was his only option. He booked the ride and got changed again very quickly. The ride was short and fifteen minutes later he spotted her car at the car park and made his way to her, his heart hammering with fear. What if she was going to break up with him? He knew it was a stupid idea but he was terrified. Once he reached the beach he noticed her seating in the sand, her arms around her legs and his Glasgow uni hoodie on. He had returned it to her the day before. He stopped behind her. “Aelin.” “I am sorry.” She said in a voice that broke his heart. “Can I sit down beside you?” She patted the spot on the sand beside her, but never turned to face him. Rowan sat down beside her and noticed she was staring out to the sea. Her eyes were puffy and anger resurged in him. “I am sorry… I din’t mean…” she leaned her head on his shoulder and her crying resumed. His arm went around her and pulled her closer and rocked her in silence. “He made me so mad.” And another sob rippled through her “I am so tired of hurting for him.” Rowan wanted to say something but at the moment he had nothing that could help her. “I gave him ten years of my life. Ten. And it just went down the toilet.” She breathed in deeply and tried to regain some control “what’s the point in falling in love. It just ends in pain anyway.” Rowan froze at those words. She could not be really thinking about giving up on them. Aelin stare met his “Even us. What’s the point? Knowing my luck you’ll grow tired of me in a few years and bugger off to a new woman.” Rowan kissed her “No.” He said cupping her face and forcing Aelin to stare at him “No. I understand that right now you are in pain, but you can’t give up on us.” And he kissed her again to make his point “I don’t know what fate has decided for us, but I know that I will do my very best to make you happy. You are my everything and I am not giving up on you. Don’t even think about it.” “You say that now—“ He stopped her “Aelin I know my feelings. I am in this for the long run. I love you. And I have never been surer of my feeling in my life. You have to believe me.” “I am scared.” She confessed, snuggling to him “What if we are going too fast? We have known each other for only a few months. We already live together and share the same bed. We said to each other things that people who have been going out for a few months don’t usually say. I am terrified.” She looked up at him, fearing the hurt she would see in his eyes. His hands never left her face “I am scared too. After Lyria left me I told myself never again. I was willing to be on my own forever because I could not cope with the idea of committing so much again. And then you appeared in my life and all my resolutions went to hell.” A gentle kiss on her lips “I have the same fears as you. I love you. Madly” then he smiled at her “If we were in a fantasy we would now confess each other we are soulmates and I would praise our love with an epic speech.” “But we are not…” she added sadly. “No, but it doesn’t change what I feel for you. The fact that no matter how crazy it sounds, I am sure about us. Somehow my soul is telling me you are its missing half. And it frightens me, but I am not giving up on you just because I am scared.” Aelin caressed his face and stared at him in silence. “If you want to slow down, go back to your room or find your own place, I will understand.” She shook her head, tears flowing down her face “No. No, never. I am fine just the way things are. Chaol’s words hit me more that I was expecting. I thought I was over all the pain, but it looks I am not.” “You were not ready. You were not expecting him to come into our shop and say those horrible things to you.” He pulled her face to his chest and hugged her tight “I was terrified when you left. I thought I lost you somehow. And it was the scariest feeling ever.” “I thought about breaking up with for a minute. I was trying to convince myself that not being attached to anyone was the better option. Then I tried to picture not having you at my side and I was even more scared, because I can’t.” “I almost punched him.” Confessed Rowan, lingering in the feeling of her body against his “I have never punched anyone in my life but for him I would have made an exception.” He heard her chuckle and the ice gripping his heart finally thawed away. “That would have been a show I would have paid to see.” “I ruined your birthday.” She sniffled. “You did not. Police officer did. We just blame him.” He kissed her head “being here with you is perfect enough. You are my most precious present.” Aelin laughed “That is so cheesy.” He followed her “I know. I am shocked. See what you did to me?” He felt her hands cover his on her waist “You transformed me into a man who sings epic declarations of love and says cheesy things. You ruined me.” They were silent for a while and then Aelin spoke again. “Ro? I applied for a job as senior emergency surgeon.” She had applied for the job a few days before but hadn’t been able to tell him. It felt like a betrayal. He turned to her and smiled “Good.” “You are not mad at me?” He squeezed tighter “Why on earth? It sounds like an amazing opportunity and I could never be mad at you for choosing to do what you love.” “But the shop—“ “You don’t worry about the shop. Go, get the job and rattle the stars. I will be very proud of you.” “It feels like a betrayal.” And Rowan understood her uncertainty. “No it’s not. Not even close. You are not leaving me or abandoning me without reason. For as much as I hate the man, Chaol was right. Working in a bookshop is not for you. Not with the skills you have. The hospital will be very lucky to have someone with your experience.” And he meant it. Every single word. He wanted her to succeed “unlike some people, I am not scared of a successful woman at my side.” And she finally grinned at him and light reached her eyes still red from the tears. He kissed her forehead. “Ro?” “Yes?” “I am not in the mood for the ceilidh tonight. Can we just stay at home and watch Netflix or read? And snuggle?” “We can also order food and have a very quiet birthday evening. I would love that very much.” “Thank you. Rowan just kissed her. He’d do anything to make her happy. To make sure he could see that wonderful smile on her every single day of their life together. Then he finally stood “Come on. Get your arse off the sand and let’s go home. We have season five of Brooklyn nine nine to tackle.” She stood, stopped right in front of him and kissed him “I love you.”

#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galythinius #rowan x aelin #fanfic #throne of glass series #angst #fluff

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softxhariana · 3 years

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burning questions

description: harry appears on ellen and answers some ‘burning questions’

word count: 1.33k

A/N: hello lovelys <3 this is just a lil piece based on harry’s appearance on ellen in jan 2020 where he answered some quick fire questions (u can find HERE) and i altered it to fit in queen ari!

as always, this is NOT real and is not meant to be perceived as me pretending this is real, it’s fiction.

❤ anywayz, hope y'all enjoy, luv you xox

“I AM GOING TO READ A QUESTION and you have to answer the first thing that comes to your mind, then hit the buzzer, ready” ellen explained, staring at the camera as harry cleared his throat and looked around the studio audience.

without giving him a chance to reply - in usual ellen fashion - she asked the first question.

“firsts things first, boxers or briefs?”

pausing to think, he turned to her confused, “what shape is a brief?”

“a-a brief is like, uh, the-”

“boxers are like the swimming short” he continued, his sudden mind-blank not helping him too much in a game based on speed. and when she gave him a short ‘yeah’ in confirmation he turned back to the camera, “oh, yeah ok briefs....do i hit this” he gestured toward the buzzer and with another word of confirmation spilling from her mouth he tapped the buzzer, repeating his answer.

“yep, what are your three favourite body parts on a woman?” ellen asked, a glint of arrogance in her eye as if she knew she could get him to slip up, but harry was too clever - even if it took him a while to prove it.

“ehm...” he took his time. while it was easy to pick a million of ariana’s features that he loved he was definitely being careful to pick the most ‘PG’ ones.

“eyes...” the audience laughed and whistled as he looked deep in thought, “smile.... character” he finished matter-of-factly, an innocent boyish smile on his face as he looked around the studio and everyone ‘aww’ed”

“thank you” ellen replied though the clapping, and as much as he internally wanted to say ‘wasn’t talking about you’ he stuck with just repeating her words, smile still present and glowing on his face.

she waited for everything to quieten down before continuing

“uh, what’s a lie you recently told?” she smiled knowingly, the audience cheering at the convenient timing of the question.

harry smiled at the insinuation but decided to go the safe - yet still completely honest - answer,

“that i wanted to play this game” he said smugly, hitting the buzzer infront of him with a ‘ding’.

ellen’s jaw dropped at his answer, before turning back to the camera with a grin, the audience laughing and cheering at his playful dig.

“ok, if you cant sleep in the middle of the night, what do you do?” she read.

they were setting him up, harry thought.

he knew exactly what he did when he couldn’t sleep at night- and he was sure many people could guess, but he also knew that he definitely wasn’t about to expose himself and ariana by being honest, so he did that he did best.

avoid a question, by telling only part of the truth.

that way he could never be called a liar. managing to stay honest without revealing details of his life was something that -while he would never admit it - harry was rather proud of.

“i wake ariana up” he said, laughing as he hit the buzzer.

the crowd only got louder at the revelation. knowing what it insinuated and knowing they were never going to get a straight answer from the singer, they were satisfied.

ellen however, needed more, “oh yeah, and what do you do when you’re both up in the middle of the night” the talk show host prodded,

harry kept the lazy smirk on his face as he reminded her that he had given his answer and she shook her head with a laugh before moving on,

“how old were you when you had your first kiss?”

“ehh... like ‘kiss’ kiss?” he asked, ‘yep’ she nodded keeping her face towards the front, “eh, like 12, i think” he said unsurely, hitting the buzzer. his memory not the best at the present time.

“ok, what is your favourite curse word?”

“cc----” he trailed off, spinning in his chair a little, “is bollock’s a curse word?” he ended up asking

“bollocks?’ she repeated, how british could he be “eh, no but if its your favourite-”

“ok... shit” he decided, “right? solid, does the job” he tilted his head questioningly at the audience who seem to have gone mad at just hearing him swear.

“FUCK” he almost shouted, jumping a little in his seat, sending the viewers spiralling, ‘yeah’ ellen agreed hitting his forgotten buzzer for him.

“who was your first celebrity crush?” ellen asked, trying to move the game along, which was hard when playing with the worlds slowest talker,

“ARIANA!” someone in the crowd shouted, scream’s erupting at the mention of her name, and harry blushed slightly, before regaining his confidence,

“no, she wishes though...” he joked, pulling a laugh from everyone, even ellen

“but um... maybe- probably jennifer aniston” he eventually settled on, tapping the red buzzer.

whenever him and ari would watch friends together, she’d tease him by going on and on about how gorgeous matt leblanc was, which he would just respond to with a comment about jennifer.

that would shut her up, not before a mumbled agreement, or i quiet ‘i would’ that would have him laughing.

“what’s your biggest fear?”

“dying” he replied slowly

“dying?’ ellen turned to stare at him

“that was dark” he commented, a smile growing on his face,

“ye-” she trailed off joining the laughter as he played with his necklace awkwardly.

“who is the most famous person in your phone?”

he paused, not ready for her to mock him for his answer later, but deciding he may aswell since it was basically the truth

“ariana grande” he answered with a smirk on his lips

another cheer - she seems popular - he thought.

“she's going to love that” ellen smiled, sarcasm dipping from her voice.

“what is your favourite sound in the world?”

“ari” he replied instantaneously, not registering the trap as he hit the button - too busy picturing exactly the sound he was talking about.

but when ellen looked at him suggestively and he heard the audience whistling, he realised he’d fucked it,

“ariana doing what?” she inquired, the intent behind the jab completely obvious, only spurring the audience on even more.

“singing-” he blurted, recollecting himself, “she's a singer remember” he tried to justify, his face blushed as he looked out to the crowd with a sheepish smile.

“mhm” ellen jested, only laughing and moving on when he jokingly hit the buzzer multiple times with his head down.

“ok, ok, what would your signature fragrance be called?”

staying quiet for a moment, harry bit his lip for a moment in contemplation

“boxer’s or briefs” he joked, trying not to laugh too much at his own comment.

“what’s your guilty pleasure?” ellen asked

“ehhh...working out to one direction” he smiled knowingly, as he innocently tapped the buzzer, ellen pausing for a prolonged time as the audience continued to laugh.

“yeh, ok, have you ever been in handcuffs?”

“yes” he replied shortly, leaving no room for any more of ellen’s remarks. “name, uh, your favourite music video of all time?”

“uhh, sledgehammer by peter gabriel”... he hit the buzzer again.

“if you weren’t a singer, what job would you want?”

“florist” he answered randomly after a moment. he didn’t really know why he said that to be honest, but he would just go with it.

“when you’re alone in a car, what song do you play?”

“cheryl lynn, got to be real” he said through a smile, “that is a good one” ellen turned to him, nodding in agreement.

“yep”

“last question, have you ever forgotten the lyrics to your own song while you’re on stage?”

too many times, he thought “yes” he nodded, the audience cheering once again.

“you did a god job!” ellen turned to him with a smile

“thank you!” he replied just as enthusiastically

“yes, we’re done”

he put his fist in the air with a smile at the applause, and braced himself for the teasing he was sure to endure when he got home.

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spookyseraphs · 4 years

Text

supernatural and the x-files (specifically destiel and msr) parallels

this was intended to convert my spn friends to txf and my txf friends to spn and then it got out of hand. i got tired of finding sources for everything, so you’ll just have to trust me, i’m an expert on both subjects.

cas=scully

cas/scully's faith in god vs dean/mulder being non-believers (but believing in the other) (spn) (txf)

cas being the healer, scully being a doctor (spn) (txf)

cas is supposed to guard the michael sword but falls in love vs scully sent to debunk the x-files but falls in love (spn) (txf)

cas and scully are both immortal (spn) (txf) (also)

cas/scully's families hate dean/mulder (spn) (txf)

cas/scully coming to believe in humanity/the paranormal (spn) (txf)

i'm an angel vs i'm a medical doctor (spn doesn’t have a compilation) (txf)

they’re not like... the best drivers

hello dean vs mulder it’s me (spn) (txf)

dean=mulder

dean/mulder's fucked up fathers (spn) (txf)

dean/mulder's eldest child syndrome and their unhealthy need to protect their younger sibling (spn) (txf)

dean/mulder being the best in their respective fields (hunting and criminal profiling) and being well known for it

dean/mulder and their porn habits (spn) (txf)

no one has ever hated themselves the way dean and mulder hate themselves (spn) (txf)

dean and mulder both have issues with fire (spn) (txf)

both die, get buried, and then come back

sunflower seeds vs pie

also they both hate nazis (spn) (txf)

yellow fever vs war of the coprophages (spn) (txf)

ship parallels

blue and green eyes (hazel is close enough)

for some reason theres a pizza man parallel? (spn) (pt 2) (txf) (pt 2)

mulder/krycek vs dean/crowley (spn) (txf) (also)

cas/hannah vs scully/pendrell (poor hannah and pendrell never stood a chance... and died)

also cas/scully get laid ONE TIME (april/ed jerse) and they almost die because of it and then never do it again (spn) (txf)

vs dean/mulder having plenty of love interests/hookups

cas/scully have never done anything wrong ever

dean/mulder... sigh... i love them... but they've made some questionable decisions (i'm looking at you mulder: fucking the vampire THE EP AFTER SCULLY'S ABDUCTION AND WHILE WEARING HER CROSS and dean, kicking cas out and locking jack in the ma’lak box?? really guys?) (spn) (txf)

creators who think their relationship is platonic despite everyone with eyes saying otherwise (spn) (txf)

also the way that neither were ever written or intended to be romantic

the fandoms were split heavily between shippers and non shippers

they also both had to have scenes changed because they were being played too romantic

a kiss was cut from the episode memento mori and gillovny were always trying to hold hands (x)

jackles forever wanting to cradle misha's face and the cut i love you from the crypt scene (x)

just... gillovny vs cockles in general, i am not a real person shipper, HOWEVER they are both messy (spn) (txf)

their first meetings? iconic. chemistry? immaculate. dean/mulder are super defensive but tbh cas/scully fell in love at first sight (spn) (txf)

they also had no concept of personal space pretty much immediately (spn) (txf)

they have a baby (that has magic powers) together that they lose twice (jack dies and becomes god, william/jackson is adopted and then as far as they know he dies) (spn) (txf)

cas/scully also have a kind of kid (claire/emily) that dean/mulder are willing to co-parent regardless of the fact that they definitely aren't theirs (spn) (txf)

we get an i love you that still doesn't get taken seriously or make them canon (stuck in the middle (with you) and triangle) (spn) (txf)

dean keeping cas's trenchcoat vs mulder keeping scully's cross (spn) (txf)

they go absolutely batshit when the other is in danger or dies/is dying (spn) (txf)

they're also known and used by their enemies as each other's weaknesses (spn) (txf)

msr being mistaken as a couple vs every angel and demon cracking jokes about destiel being a couple (spn) (txf)

skinner and sam just off to the side looking frustrated while msr and destiel are having a couples moment (spn) (txf)

eating each others food (spn) (txf)

appreciating each others interests (spn) (and this one) (txf)

parallels except the roles are swapped

dreamland/small potatoes vs casifer, i just think scully/dean should have realized IMMEDIATELY (spn) (txf)

mulders fight the future speech vs cas's confession (spn) (txf)

they should have kissed and didn't

it almost ambiguously canonizes them both

AND THE SECRET TAPES, the most famous msr kiss isn't an actual canon kiss, it's a blooper of gillian and david making out in front of the camera (two different times) and it wasn't scripted it was literally just them messing around (x)

this is me manifesting jackles dropping the tapes and those tapes having the same energy

they just really love each other (spn) (txf)

non ship/general parallels

leyla harrison vs becky rosen being fandom stand ins (spn) (txf)

they were supposed to end on season 5

Good but bad (absolutely iconic) sci-fi shows

they both had two finales which both sucked

they shared soooo many cast and crew and both filmed in vancouver

they're such similar shows, motw/story episodes, the funny and serious episodes, dealing with the paranormal, they're basically siblings

also siblings in the way that they handle racism, misogyny and consent/rape/bodily autonomy

the supernatural book series vs the movie made about mulder and scully (spn) (txf)

mystery spot vs monday (spn) (txf)

tall tales vs bad blood (spn) (txf)

the benders vs home (spn) (txf)

why did both shows use live bees??? (spn) (txf)

the fbi's most wanted and the fbi's most unwanted (also everyone involved looks cute as fbi agents) (spn) (look how cute!) (txf) (cuties!!)

the syndicate vs heaven and the cigarette smoking man vs god

the bunker vs the basement office

every single side character on both shows deserved better!!! most of them literally didn't need to die!!! and i'm still angry!!!

the poor brothers adam milligan and charlie scully existing and then being literally forgotten about until the last season

the fandoms living for things cut from the scripts (spn) (txf)

team free will vs mulder, scully, and skinner

these ones are shippy, but more my opinion than factual

both pairs just keep getting traumatic events dumped on them for absolutely no reason

cas/scully both have major exasperated why do i love this man vibes

absolutely most iconic and slowest slow burn romances of all time and are just the longest games of will they/won't they, baiting, and were never INTENDED to be slow burns

they're always willing to die/kill for each other, however they WILL NOT talk about their feelings under any circumstances

in the field where i died, mulder says that he and scully have been around each other in past lives but never romantically and according to chuck, every other universe's castiel just pulled dean out of hell and listened to his orders

SO in these other lives/universes they were always linked to each other but only in this life/universe do they fall in love

the last seasons really fuck up my favorite characters

dean should not be that shitty to jack OR cas for that matter

and mulder shouldn't have left scully and william (and dearest dana?? DANA?)

and, controversial opinion, but cas/scully could do so much better and deserve so much better but dean/mulder... it's the best they'll ever get

HOWEVER, i feel like their love is MORE powerful BECAUSE cas/scully could do better but they don't want better or normal they want dean/mulder and they will fight to the death for it, it's not the easy choice, it's just what they want

and i say this with all the love in the world for both dean and mulder, but cas could have just followed his orders and returned to heaven like every other version of himself did. scully could have easily found a normal man to settle down and have 2.5 kids with. dean was always going to be stuck in chuck's plans, and mulder absolutely could not just go find a wife to settle down with.

cas/scully put up with SO MUCH SHIT from dean/mulder, while being ALWAYS FAITHFUL to them, it was never the easy option to love these men and stay by their sides, it was hard and they worked for it!!!

they’re both the greatest love story ever told, they tied

#spn #supernatural #destiel #deancas #txf #The X-Files #x files #msr #oops i guess the indented bullets don't work on mobile #anyway #i really spent two days doing this #making this made me really have to confront what is canon and what is fanon deeply ingrained in my mind #ALSO every msr moment is perfect when imagined as destiel #and vice versa #if i were smarter i'd write actual meta about this cause it was actually super interesting

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jingabitch · 4 years

Text

Armed to the Fangs ch.7

SUMMARY: you grew up in the hunter’s guild, understanding that it is your sacred duty as a hunter to protect humanity from the vampires that lurk in the dark, draining the life from anyone unlucky enough to be caught. while making the rounds one night, you encounter taehyung, a fabled born vampire - not that you know that when he tries to entice you into a dark alley. next thing you know, you’re kidnapped and taken to their home, where you realise that all of them somehow crave your blood and seem to know more about your past than you do. finding out about where you came from might be the key to setting humanity free.

PAIRING: eventual ot7 x reader

WARNINGS: some description of violence, angst, pining, maybe eventual smut but not for a looooong time, slow burn (really the slowest of burns), injeolmi being adorable, argument between some of the boys

RATING: T

WORD COUNT: 3k - this one is a lil shorter!

A/N: yay hobi finally makes his appearance!! thank you @pasteljeon for looking over this for me.

Also, small announcement - I doubt anyone will really care, but ATTF is going to be put on hold for a little while. I’ve decided to give writing my own original work a try, and am hoping to self-publish my work on kindle! since I only keep 2 AUs going at a time, I will be focusing on DADT and my original work for now. ATTF will be continued when I complete DADT. :) I’m really excited about this new project and I hope you guys will support me!

series index

If Hoseok heard one more word about the hunter ‘ambassador’ who’d taken up residence in the manor, he thought he would scream. The younger ones were especially enthusiastic about you and your cat, and even Yoongi walked around with that dumbass smile once in a while, usually after spending time with you.

Thankfully, they’d quickly realized that he wasn’t all that interested in talking about you after he shut them down or walked away mid-conversation. It wasn’t the most polite way to go about it, but telling them with words hadn’t really worked to dampen their enthusiasm.

It was just that Hoseok didn’t really feel like meeting anyone new. It wasn’t anything personal, it was just that he didn’t quite have the energy to engage with anything much these days. The others, for the most part, understood, especially the older ones who knew exactly what he’d been through.

Instead of spending his time out and about like the others did, he was holed up in his suite most of the time. He’d had a small fridge installed so he could keep his blood there instead of going down to the main fridge every day like the others did, and usually spent hours staring at the miniature portrait of Minhee. It was the only rendering she’d posed for before she died. He knew his brothers didn’t think it was the healthiest thing to do, but they left him alone for the most part.

After all, it wasn’t common for a vampire to survive losing his mate – they agreed that all things considered, Hoseok was doing fairly well, even if he was a shell of his former jovial self. If they hoped he would come out of his shell a little more to make friends with the human girl who now lived with them, they mostly kept it to themselves after Hoseok had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in playing nice with hunters.

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

Injeolmi had really taken to life in the manor, you were pleased to note. You weren’t quite ready to let him just run around without your supervision yet, but he was growing more confident whenever you let him out of your room to run around the mansion. There were litter boxes installed in various other rooms, too, like the library where you tended to spend a lot of time. You were on your way there again, Injeolmi following you like he did most days, when the cat suddenly made a break for it.

You were stunned for a moment, trying to process what had happened. Your sweet baby had never done something like this before, and it took you a second to gather yourself enough to run after him. “Injeolmi, stop!” you called, but since today was apparently a day of firsts, he ignored you.

As you rounded the corner, you wondered why there were so many random hallways in this manor, anyway. It looked like it was just the seven of them (and you now, of course) and they didn’t even have any servants. You were still unsure of how the whole place stayed so clean, since it wasn’t like you’d ever seen any of them pick up a broom.

Hoseok was having a normal day – for him, anyway – up till that point. He had the miniature of Minhee in his hand as he sucked down his snack, his door slightly ajar to let the others know that he was feeling up to their company that day. He heard the ruckus occurring outside and rolled his eyes, but stayed on the couch. Hopefully, the noisy new human resident would just run past. He didn’t think she’d ever been in this wing of the mansion before, and she definitely didn’t know it was his room.

Hearing the door to his room move slightly, he whipped around in surprise, half-expecting you to be standing there. He didn’t see anyone in the entryway, however, and sat up more fully to peer over the back of the couch. A small chatter caught his attention, and he craned his neck further to see a cat standing in the gap he’d left.

“Hello,” he said out of habit to the cat, which meowed again at him and took a couple more steps into the room. “What’s a cat doing in the house?” he asked no one in particular, having forgotten momentarily that you’d brought your furry companion with you when you moved in.

Injeolmi, showing a remarkable lack of fear, just waltzed right in and hopped up on the couch to sit next to Hoseok, chattering at him. Belatedly remembering that you’d brought a cat into the compound, he just sighed and frowned at said cat. “You’re really a hassle, you know that?” he grumbled, gently shooing the cat away so that he wouldn’t have to return him.

Flicking his ears, Injeolmi just turned away, as if he couldn’t be bothered to dignify Hoseok’s complaints with a response. He could hear you approaching, still calling for your cat and stomping down the hallway.

“You little prick,” he accused, though the words didn’t have any heat behind them. Gently, he picked the cat up – and cats had no business being this big, he thought – and carried him back to the door, putting him down on the floor and patting his butt to get him to leave. “Go on,” he urged, although the cat hardly seemed interested, instead sprawling out across the floor.

The footsteps were coming close now, and he knew you were about to walk past at any moment. Perhaps if everything was quiet, you wouldn’t notice, and would just walk by…? He could kick the cat out of the room once you rounded the corner, and wouldn’t have to make any awkward introductions.

Of course, he could never be so lucky. Just as you were passing by his room, the goddamn cat let out the loudest meow he’d heard in hundreds of years on this earth. Panicked, he leaned down – just as you heard Injeolmi give what you assumed had to be a wail of distress and burst into the room, gun cocked and ready to defend your baby.

“Back the fuck away from the cat!” you cried, immediately aiming your gun at the man who was leaning down towards Injeolmi, for whatever nefarious purposes. He looked up at you in shock, and your aim faltered for just a second as you recognized the man in the painting. The last vampire. Who was glaring up at you in irritation, and none of the fear you would expect from someone who had a gun trained right between their eyes.

Instead, you watched as his furrowed brow smoothed for a second as he gaped, his eyes wide with shock, at you, before resuming his initial stern expression. “Your cat was the one who barged into my room,” he snapped, although his voice hid an odd tremor. “Just take it away.”

“Uh, okay,” you said, sliding your gun back into its holster since it didn’t look like he was a threat to either you or Injeolmi. You were about to ask whether he was doing all right, since he looked a little pale and off, but he got up abruptly and turned away from you, walking back to the couch and sitting down. He stubbornly refused to look at you again, and you felt a little sulky, since you’d been curious about him for a while, and now that he was here you wanted to ask him some questions and find out more about him.

Still, since he’d walked away from you, there was no way to assuage your curiosity today. “Come on, baby,” you said in a far higher-pitched tone to Injeolmi, squatting to gather him up in your arms. He was pliant and obedient for you as always, happy to be held by you, and it was almost hard for you to believe that this was the same cat that had run off earlier. Injeolmi was the laziest cat ever, and that had been wholly uncharacteristic of him.

Standing up with Injeolmi cradled in your arms, you turned to leave the room. “Ah, do you want the door open or shut?” you asked as you hovered right outside.

“Shut,” the mysterious man inside said firmly, and you shrugged as you followed his instruction before continuing on your path to the library.

“You’re a really naughty boy,” you cooed at Injeolmi, jiggling him a little in your arms nonetheless. When you let yourself into the library, you put Injeolmi down and he went and settled down in the one spot where there was sunlight, streaming in through a small crack in the floor-to-ceiling curtains that had been left there specially for him.

Shaking your head at him, you drifted further into the library, to the sitting area near the back. Namjoon was already there, with Jin. They had their little blood bags in front of them on the coffee table, which you could mostly ignore as long as you thought of them as Capri Suns. “Hello,” Namjoon greeted, while Jin just smiled at you. “I chose something new for you today,” he continued, leaning forward to tap the cover of a book he had resting on the table.

You smiled at him. “Thank you,” you said, coming to sit next to him. Leaning forward to pick up the book, you completely missed the way he stiffened as you sank into the comfortable couch, and Jin’s responding smirk at his brother’s momentary loss of composure. Because you’d never had much time at the Guild to pick up hobbies like reading, you’d been completely blown away by the size of the library, and Namjoon had taken it upon himself to pick different books of different genres and on various topics for you to decide what you liked reading. So far, you were really into thrillers and memoirs, but you were definitely hiding a secret love for romance novels.

Opening the book, you were soon so immersed in reading that you completely forgot to ask them about the man you’d just met.

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

Hoseok was, to put it mildly, freaking out. He held the portait of Minhee in his left hand, while reaching for the bag of blood he’d been nursing with the right, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to drink it. His hand shook slightly as he raised his drink to his mouth, hoping against hope that he was wrong.

The moment the blood bag neared his mouth, though, the smell of the blood became too much, and nausea bubbled up in him.

“Fuck.” He tossed the bag back down onto the table, grimacing.

There was no way this was possible. You couldn’t be his mate. Vampires didn’t get more than one, and he still remembered her dying in his arms, despite his frantic attempts to stop the bleeding. Her whispered apology as her life slipped away haunted his nightmares.

And yet… you smelled just like Minhee. You’d think that four hundred years away from his mate would have dulled the memories, but he recalled exactly how her blood had smelled and tasted, like absolute perfection. When he’d scented you, it had taken all his willpower to stop his eyes from changing colour and his fangs from descending.

“Minhee-ah… what’s going on?” he murmured, tracing the edges of the portrait with his thumb. His mind raced, and he knew there was only one person in the house who might possibly know the answer to that question.

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

Conveniently, Namjoon was in Jin’s study with him that evening when Hoseok came, so he could tell them both about the problem he’d encountered today.

When he knocked and entered the study, Jin and Namjoon both gaped at him for a second before Jin gathered himself. “Hobi, hello,” he said smoothly, covering up his surprise. “What brings you out here tonight?”

Hoseok frowned. Seokjin was talking like he never came to hang out with his brothers, which wasn’t true at all. He’d been getting better about spending time with others… at least until you arrived.

“I met our new housemate today,” Hoseok said by way of greeting.

Namjoon and Jin exchanged slightly panicked glances. “And… what did you think?” Jin prompted, trying to hide his unease. Hoseok hadn’t been the most cheerful or chatty person for a long time now, and this whole situation, while not ideal for anyone involved, was definitely something that would upset him.

Hoseok hummed, trying to find the words to explain. He didn’t know whether to ease into it or just blurt it out, and he didn’t know how much his brothers already knew. They’d been good friends with Minhee as well, since the four older vampires had always been together.

“Do you remember Minhee?” he asked, sidestepping his hyung’s question.

From the way both Namjoon and Jin gaped at him, he had a sinking feeling that both his brothers knew exactly where he was going with this.

“When were you going to tell me?” he said tiredly, running his hand over his face.

“Uh…” Jin started getting a deer-in-the-headlights look, so Namjoon stepped in.

“We just weren’t sure what all this meant, and we didn’t want to bother you unnecessarily,” he explained. “The whole situation is really strange, and none of us really know what to make of it…”

From what he was saying, it seemed like there was more at hand than this girl’s unexplained connection to Minhee, and Hoseok’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by this ‘whole situation’?”

“Jesus,” Jin muttered under his breath. “Good going, Joon.”

Namjoon cringed, knowing he’d messed up.

“You guys seem to have some explaining to do.” Hoseok pulled the chair out from Jin’s desk and slung himself into it casually.

“Right, I suppose we do,” Jin sighed, massaging his temples.

“Well?” Hoseok asked, his brow raising as Jin didn’t say anything else after that.

Jin looked over Hoseok’s shoulder at Namjoon, who was still sitting on the couch in his study. “Would you like to take a crack at it?”

“Sure, throw me under the bus,” Namjoon grumbled, but got up and came to sit in the chair next to Hoseok’s anyway, so the three of them were seated around Jin’s desk.

“So, Taehyung found Y/n, and, uh…”

“Spit it out, already,” Hoseok snapped, accompanied by an eye roll.

“It turns out that she’s his mate…?” Namjoon said, so uncertainly that it sounded like a question. He eyed Hoseok warily, hoping he wouldn’t blow up at the unexpected (and likely unwelcome) news. He hadn’t even finished telling the story.

Hoseok turned to regard Namjoon more directly. “How can she be his mate? He’s been eating fine, hasn’t he?”

“Uh, we aren’t that sure about that,” Namjoon admitted. “But he isn’t the only one.”

“What.”

“As it turns out…” Namjoon paused and looked over at Jin for help. Jin nodded encouragingly for moral support. “Uh, all of us… are her mate.” He cringed away from Hoseok as he said it, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion.

“How the fuck is that possible?!”

“Hobi, please.” Jin held his hands out placatingly, trying to calm his brother down. “We don’t know what’s going on either, but we’re trying to figure it out, okay? Joon and I are spending all our free time in the library, trying to find out more.”

Hoseok put his head in his hands and groaned. “Why can’t things ever just be normal around here?” he mumbled.

Namjoon, sighing, patted Hoseok’s shoulder, trying to offer whatever comfort he could. “I’m sorry, bro,” he said, the words falling flat because he knew even as he was saying them that it wasn’t enough. “We’ll figure this out together, all right?”

“This is fucked up,” Hoseok said shakily, and Namjoon wasn’t sure if he’d even heard him. “All of this is so messed up, I can’t believe it. How can the seven of us be mated to the same girl? We’re going to drain her dry.”

“Hobi, let’s not get ahead of ourselves…” Jin looked slightly alarmed, reaching over to pat the top of Hoseok’s head.

“I never wanted any of this, losing Minhee was bad enough. I can’t deal with any more mate drama,” Hoseok complained, ignoring his hyung.

“Hobi, come on!” Jin lost his patience finally and snapped, raising his voice. “None of us know what’s up, and we’re all trying to get through this together, so will you please get it together and stop playing the victim?”

From the way Hoseok looked up at narrowed his eyes, his brothers knew they were in for it. “Together?!” Hoseok asked derisively. “Right… is that why you were hiding Y/n from me?”

“We weren’t hiding her,” Jin said, offended now. “We told you about her; you just didn’t want to meet her because you’d rather stay holed up in your room by yourself all the time!”

“Jesus Christ!” Hoseok slammed his fist down on Jin’s desk. “Maybe, just maybe, if you had started with ‘Hobi, by the way the hunter you’ve invited into our home smells like Minhee and is apparently our shared mate’, I might have paid more attention to her!” With that, Hoseok stormed out of the study, done with interacting with his brothers.

In the wake of his outburst, Jin and Namjoon sat quietly, the silence ringing loudly in their ears.

Jin was the first to break the silence with a loud, gusty sigh. “It’s so hard to talk to him nowadays,” he complained to Namjoon. He still remembered the jovial, smiling Hoseok of years past, back before everything had changed. As much as he understood the anguish his brother was going through and wanted to be there for him, it was just so difficult when Hoseok was belligerent like this.

Namjoon nodded in agreement, resting his chin in his hand. “If nothing else, hopefully Y/n will be able to help him.”

Jin hummed. “Do you think we should tell the others?”

“They wouldn’t understand, you know that,” Namjoon responded. Reluctantly, Jin agreed – the maknaes had never been quite as patient with Hoseok as the older brothers. They just didn’t understand why he was so angry all the time, and Hoseok didn’t like discussing what he’d gone through. It was difficult keeping secrets from their brothers, but it was necessary in this case to protect Hoseok.

#btswritingcafe #bangtanarmynet #kwritersworldnet #btswritersnet #plotsofpastel #ficswithluv #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #bangtanhq #armed to the fangs #attf #bts fic #bts scenarios #bts vampire au #vampire bts #ot7 x reader #bts ot7 fic #bts ot7 #bts x reader

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kit-kat21 · 4 years

Text

The Perfect Mixologists (from Castle Black Bar) Jon x Sansa

By no means did Jon consider himself to be a mixologist. There are people who studied that craft seriously; who went to bartending schools specifically for that and worked years to perfect the skill. Jon just stood behind the bar, knowing how to pour and mix the drinks someone else had already created.

But, he admitted. He did like to play around sometimes.

A little bit of this; a little bit of that. Tuesday nights had become insanely busy for them. Jon had taken Castle Black Bar’s slowest night and made it their most profitable – even more profitable than a Friday or Saturday night, which were usually the go-to nights for bars and drinking. Every Tuesday, Jon showed old VH1 shows – Flavor of Love, Rock of Love, I Love New York and Charm School. Profits for that night just about quadrupled and the crowd at the bar was at least three or four people deep. Other bars in Winterfell tried to copy Castle Black Bar’s success and at first, Jon freaked that they were going to steal all of his customers. But for the most part, everyone seemed to want to come to the home of the original VH1 night.

When Jeor Mormont passed away and he had left Jon the money for him to open his own bar, there had been some rules that Jon always stuck to.

No special cocktail nights, no ladies’ nights and no karaoke nights.

Jon had never had ladies’ nights or karaoke nights (and Jon didn’t consider the private karaoke nights he had for just his friends went against that). But special cocktail night… Jon couldn’t help it. He had learned everything about this bar business from Jeor Mormont. The man had been his mentor and for the most part, Jon still thought of what the man would say before he made any kind of decision in regards to his bar.

But Classic VH1 Night at Castle Black Bar every Tuesday was a little different. Besides, he wasn’t a professional mixologist so him making up a special drink to feature every Tuesday night didn’t really count.

Sansa was his taste tester. Jon would crowd their dining room table up in their flat above the bar and her dress shop next door with all sorts of liquor bottles and he would pour this and that, shake and mix; play around and figure it out. And when he thought he had something, he’d pour it into some kind of glass and find his wife somewhere – either in the living room or in the kitchen or in their bedroom.

“Captain Morgan, rum, and pineapple juice.” He said, handing her the glass and Sansa sat up a little bit, smiling at him before taking a sip.

“Very good,” she said. “The color though… do something about the color. It looks too much like brown water.”

Jon nodded and taking the glass, he returned to the dining room, returning a few minutes later. “Blue curacao syrup,” he said, handing her back the glass so she could take another sip. The way her eyes lit up made Jon think he might have to keep this drink permanently on the menu.

The next week, “Fresh strawberry juice and vodka.”

“Just have a big bowl of this at my birthday this year,” Sansa said after her first sip.

He knew Sansa wasn’t a fan of gin – at all and in fact, she almost always gagged when taking even a sip – but he played around with those bottles, too, because he did have gin drinkers in his bar and Sansa always tried his drinks – no matter what; though with the gin ones, she did her best to not wrinkle her nose too much.

“Tanqueray Gin, lime juice, blackberry syrup.”

“It’s a pretty color at least,” Sansa commented before taking the smallest sip and with a nod, she gave him back the glass and as Jon left again, he heard her give a cough.

The next week, Sansa was in the kitchen, standing at the calendar they had hanging on the side of the refrigerator, and she seemed to be counting weeks.

“Something a little different this week. Smirnoff vodka, Bailey’s Irish Cream and a splash of half and half.” Sansa looked at the glass and visibly hesitated. “No gin in this one.”

“I heard,” she nodded. “It’s looks beautiful,” she then commented and Jon smiled proudly. Slowly, she took the glass and took a small sip. “That’s really good, Jon. Really good. I’m tempted to have the entire glass.”

Jon smiled and leaned in, giving her a kiss. “It’s all yours.”

He left the kitchen to go clean up the dining room and didn’t see that Sansa slid the glass onto the counter and didn’t touch it for the rest of the evening. The next week, Sansa was in their bedroom, sitting up on their bed with her sketchbook open in front of her. She had a few cloth scrap samples with her – mostly blues and pinks.

“I feel like I don’t play around enough with bourbon,” Jon said, coming into the room and sitting down next to her on the edge of the bed. “Bourbon, blueberry syrup, lime juice and I slapped some mint leaves. You have to have bourbon and mint together.” Again, Sansa hesitated. She sat up, hugging her sketchbook to her chest. “I thought you would like the color,” he said. He was always aware of how “pretty” Sansa wanted her drinks.

Sansa was looking at the drink and at his words, she lifted her eyes to him. “I love the color, Jon,” she smiled. “I’m just not able to drink this one. Or any other one you come up from now on.”

Jon began to frown. “Are they getting worse?” He wondered. “Should I stop? I should stop, shouldn’t I?”

Customers seemed to love his special Tuesday night drink, but maybe they were just being nice; or maybe they were just drunk and he couldn’t necessarily believe their opinion. He trusted his wife’s opinion more than anyone else’s and he had fun making up his own drinks and mixing things together, but if they were truly that awful, he wouldn’t do it anymore.

Sansa looked at him and smiled. “Your drinks are wonderful and I was serious about that strawberry and vodka drink. In about a year, I expect a whole punch bowl of it.”

“A year? But your birthday’s in two months.” He felt the need to remind her because she had obviously forgotten that. She didn’t have to wait a year for that drink. Hell, he’d mix a glass for her right now.

She was looking at him and it seemed like she was about to laugh. For what reason though, he had no idea.

Sansa didn’t say anything. Instead, she pulled her sketchbook away from her chest and turned it around so Jon could see what she had been sketching. He looked at her drawings closely, trying to figure out what she wanted him to look at it. Sansa had just had her spring show so he assumed she was already working on her line for the fall season. But he didn’t see her usual dresses of ruffles and ribbons. Instead…

Instead…

Jon’s eyes flew to Sansa’s face as if checking with her that he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.

“I know pink and blue for a girl or boy is completely typical, but I was just playing around for starters. You make drinks for fun and I am going to start sketching onesies for fun.”

Jon just kept staring at her. He had no idea what to say. Was there anything to actually be said when a man just found out that his wife was pregnant with their baby? He really did need to say something, but what?

Reading his mind, Sands set aside her sketchbook and moving forward, she slipped her arms around his shoulders. “You’re a fantastic mixologist, Jon,” she said with a smile – somewhat joking – and her eyes were dancing with a brightness he should have seen straight away.

Jon leaned in and kissed her. “We made a baby, Sansa. We’re both great mixologists.” That got a laugh out of her and he leaned in for another kiss. “I love you and I’m going to make you the prettiest non alcoholic mixed drink you’ve ever seen,” he promised her and Sansa just beamed as he stood up.

Leaning down, he kissed her again and then left the bedroom to return to the bottles on the dining room table.

Ridiculous or not, Jon didn’t care. His wife was pregnant with their baby and he was going to start practicing. He had to think of and create as many blue and pink non-alcoholic drinks that Sansa could stand over the next few months.

#jonsa #jonsa fanfiction

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willykappymarnsmatts · 5 years

Text

I Was Made For Loving You (M. Marner)

*Y/N’s POV*

My brother, Tyson, had been traded to the Leafs over the summer. We were always really close, and he begged me to transfer to a school in Toronto so we could still hang out. At first I refused, because I had grown super close to the boys in Denver, but after constant begging I eventually gave in. I hung around at home for the summer, but a week before the season started, Tyson flew me out for good.

When I land in Toronto, I have butterflies in my stomach. I’m excited for a new start, a new University, but I don’t know anyone in the city but Tyson. It’s… a lot.

“Y/N!” I hear someone call from behind me. I whip around, seconds before Tyson picks me up and spins me around. “Hi!” He yells.

“Hey, Tys,” I laugh. It’s literally been two months, but he’s acting like it’s been two years.

“So, um, I know it’s kind of late notice, but we have a banquet tonight. Did you bring a dress?”

“No, mom’s bringing all my nice clothes when she comes for Thanksgiving,” I frown. “You could’ve told me before I left!”

“Yeah, sorry about that, but we have to go shopping. Like, now.” I roll my eyes, following him to his car.

“I’m tired, Tys,” I whine. He shakes his head and takes my bags from me as we walk.

“Too bad. I’ve already told the boys about you, and they’re all excited to meet you, so you have to come with me.” His face turns a light shade of red as his voice begins to raise.

I laugh. “Okay, okay, no need to get so worked up.”

He smiles at me wide. “I missed you,” he tells me, opening the car door for me.

“Oh, a true gentleman,” I chirp.

“Shut up,” he jokes, shutting the door once I’m in.

•••

After Tyson dragged me around the mall for two hours looking for a dress, he was finally happy with one I tried on. I kept telling them every single one I tried was great, but he didn’t agree. It had to be ‘perfect,’ he insisted. I pushed for a simple, form-fitting knee-length black dress, but Tys wasn’t having it.

I come out of the dressing room in a dress that ends just below mid-thigh. It’s a deep blue, with a v-shape neck line which cuts down to the middle of my chest. It clings to my curves, complimenting my shape. Tyson looks up from his phone when I come out of the dressing room, and his jaw drops. I smile slightly, then spin in front of him. I look in the mirror at myself. I smile at my reflection, smoothing down the dress. “You don’t think it’s a little short?” I ask, tugging down the bottom of the dress.

“No, I, uh, it’s… I’m gonna have to fight my boys off of you tonight.” He scratches at the back of his neck. I smile wide at him.

“You don’t think I can handle myself, big brother?”

“No, I do, but I don’t think my friends can handle themselves.” He jokes. “We’re gonna have fun tonight.”

•••

“Y/N!” Tyson yells from the kitchen of his apartment. He’s been waiting for me for 20 minutes and is the most impatient person on the planet.

“Tyson, I’m almost ready, shut up!” I yell back, bending my head to put in a pair of gold hoop earrings. I curled my hair so it bounces when I walk, and I put on bright red lipstick. I don’t have to curl my eyelashes, but I did eyeliner and mascara. I don’t know what inside me told me I needed to go all out, but I listened nonetheless.

I walk out, click-clacking on the wood floor with black heels. I gather my hair behind my shoulders as I grab my shoulder bag from the couch.

“Wow, you look great, Y/N!” Tyson grins. I smile back at him.

“I feel pretty,” I say like a little girl. He laughs and wraps me in a hug.

“I talked to some of the guys and told them you’re coming. They’re all really excited to meet you,” he mentions, locking the door as we leave.

I nod, pursing my lips to hide a smile. I haven’t been in a relationship since I was a young teenager, and I’m almost twenty now. I’m looking forward to getting out there without Tyson babying me. When he got drafted, the boys on the team were much older than me. There was no chance in the world that they would’ve been of any interest to me, but they became like a bunch of older brothers. Now, though, it’s different.

We walk in silence to the car, the sound of my shoes echoing off the walls.

“How’s Toronto been?” I ask, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Good,” he nods. “I like it a lot, actually.”

I smile. “The guys all miss you a lot.”

He watches his shoes as he walks. “I miss them too, I really do. But to be honest, these guys on the Leafs are the tightest group I’ve ever seen. In Denver, we were tight, but the entirety of us weren’t best friends. Here, the team is a family. They all love each other, and they welcomed me into the group with open arms. You’ll see tonight, what I’m talking about.”

We get to the car and he opens the door for me and holds it while I slide in. “Seriously, how are you still single?” I chirp.

He mocks me while making a face and closes the door as I get in, making me throw my head back and laugh. He smiles as he gets in on the driver side.

“I really did miss you, you know?”

“I missed you too, big brother.”

•••

Of course, we’re fashionably late to the banquet because Tyson is the slowest driver on planet earth. When I told him this, he obviously blamed me.

“It’s not my fault you took five hours to get ready.” He tells me as we jog into the hall. I shake my head and laugh slightly. When Tyson pushes open the doors into the hall, loud music hits us like a truck. I’m taken aback at the beautiful set-up. The walls have blue drapery almost the same colour as my dress. There are round tables with white table clothes all around the room, with a DJ booth and a dance floor in the middle. People are strewn about, some on the dance floor and some hanging out at their seats.

“I’m going to go find Kyle, let him know we’re alive,” Tyson tells me, patting my shoulder as he walks away. I’m left alone at the entrance and I make my way into the party.

•••

*Mitch’s POV*

When I saw her walk in, my breath caught in my throat. She was probably the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, but as I got up the courage to go and talk to her, Tyson came by and blocked my view. I try to peek over his shoulder and watch her, but he’s too wide.

“Hey, Mitchy!” Tyson says, hugging me and patting my back. “How ya doing?”

“Good, I’m… good,” I say distractedly, still trying to find the girl I saw just a moment ago. I give up for the moment and focus my attention back on Tyson. “How are you, bud?”

“Good. My sister flew in today, she’s around here somewhere. Let me know if you have a chance to meet her. She’s-“

“Uh, Tys,” I interrupt. I see a head of curly brown hair walking away from us and immediately try to come up with an excuse to get away. “I think I see a guy I knew from juniors. Do you mind if I go for a sec?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Tyson nods, obviously confused as to why I’m not acting myself. I can explain later.

“Thanks, man.” I say, shrugging past him and towards the girl in the blue dress.

I’m nearing the girl, turning and shouldering past some people I know and some people I don’t. I smile and nod as I pass, and take a deep breath as I near the girl.

“Mitchhh,” Auston appears in front of me when I’m two steps away from the mystery girl. “I’m… drunk.” He states, almost proudly.

“Matts, we got here an hour ago. How the fuck are you already drunk?” I ask, the girl momentarily forgotten.

“Well, there was this girl, right, and I wanted to buy her a drink, but she left, so I just drank it. Then I had two more drinks. And then another one.” He slurs all his words together and if I hadn’t seen him in this state eleven million times before, I would have no idea what he’s saying to me. But I have, and I understand him clearly.

“Okay, Aus. Uh, go sit in your seat, you are in no shape to dance. And I am cutting you off. Water only.”

“But Mitchhhhh,” he drawls.

“No. I’m the one that has to deal with a big hungover baby tomorrow morning. No more drinks.”

“Fffffine.” He slurs, wobbling to his table. I take a breath and scan the room once more. I see the girl and start to make my way over to her, but I get interrupted again.

“Mitchy, have ya-“

His head of blonde hair pops up in front of me out of nowhere, and I step back slightly in shock. “Willy, I’m kinda busy right now, okay? Sorry, bud.” I shove past Will and he just nods as I pass him. She’s two steps away from me now.

One step away.

I tap on her shoulder.

•••

*Y/N’s POV*

I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I turn around, expecting to meet Tyson. Instead, it’s a boy I do not recognize. He’s taller, almost a head taller than I am. He has short brown hair that is swept lazily to one side. He has bright blue eyes that shine as he grins wide at me. He’s wearing a magenta jacket and a clean off-white dress shirt. He’s beautiful, to put it frankly.

“Hi,” he says. I can barely hear him over the music, but if I watch his mouth, I can make out the words. “My name is Mitch, I play for the Leafs. I haven’t seen you before, what’s your name?”

I smile at him. “I’m Y/N. Ya know Tyson?”

“Fuck me,” he sighs. “Your boyfriend?”

I throw my head back and laugh. My hair falls behind my shoulders and when I look at Mitch, he’s smiling again. “No, definitely not my boyfriend. He’s my brother.”

“Ohhh. Well, shit.”

I laugh again. “Why shit?”

He looks up at me, almost like he forgot I was there. “Well, Y/F/N Barrie, I think you’re really beautiful, and I wanted to ask you to dance, but if Tyson sees me dancing with you he’ll probably murder me.”

I smile and feel my cheeks redden. “Tyson has no say over who I get to dance with,” I say firmly. “If you wanna dance, just ask.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, staring at me in amazement. I begin to turn around, but he catches my wrist and spins me back to him. “Will you dance with me, Y/N?”

I nod, trying to hide my grin. I place my bag on my seat and take his outstretched hand in mine. “I’d love to.”

He drags me out to the middle of the dance floor, just as Thinking Out Loud starts playing. I wasn’t expecting a slow song, and I falter mid-step. “Oh, um, if you don’t want to-“

“I do. I do want to.” He tugs my arm once more to keep me moving. We find an empty space among the swaying couples. I stare at him, and he stares back. Neither of us moves for a moment, then he places his hands on either side of my waist, inching them to the small of my back. I bring my hands up to the back of his neck and interlock them behind his head. I smile at him, and he grins back.

We become more comfortable in each others’ space. As we continue to dance, and the songs change, we stay in each other’s arms, asking questions, slowly getting to know each other. He pulls me closer to him, and I rest my head on his shoulder. “My heart is fucking racing,” he mutters, and my body shakes with silent laughter. I pull back to look at him, and the look on his face tells me I wasn’t supposed to hear that.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, our faces so close my nose is brushing his, “I’m falling pretty fast, too.”

We continue to sway, our bodies pressed against each other. I press my forehead against Mitch’s and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Y/N, nobody’s made me lose my mind like this, ever.” I smile and pull my head away from his so we can continue to sway.

As the next song ends, Mitch and I are left in a haze where only we exist. “I’m thirsty,” I tell him.

“I need a drink, too.” He takes my hand and leads me to the bar…

Where Tyson is standing, watching us.

“Fuck,” Mitch abruptly stops.

I turn my body to face him, my back to Tyson. I can feel his eyes on me. “Do you have ulterior motives, Marner?” I ask him, only half-kidding. He shakes his head furiously.

“It’s kind of terrifying, really terrifying, actually, but I think I might be in love with you.”

I smile and squeeze his hand, my face reddening. “Then why are you so scared of my brother?” I don't wait for a response, but pull Mitch behind me up to the bar.

“I see you met Mitch,” Tyson states, his voice nearly growling. It’s a side of him I almost never see, and it’s so different from his higher, happy voice.

“Yes I did, actually, and I think I’m possibly falling for him. Not that it’s actually any of your business, but we’ve talked a lot and I like him, so…” my voice trails off.

Tyson studies the two of us, mostly staring at our intertwined fingers. “You guys just met.” He frowns.

“We’re not getting married, Tys. Chill out, and back off a little, okay?”

He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear and forces a tight grin. “Fine.”

He faces Mitch. “If you hurt her, or cross any lines, you’re dead. And I don’t care if you’re my teammate.”

Mitch nods, his hand literally shaking in mine. I smile wide. As Tyson leaves, we sit on stools at the bar, waiting for the bartender. I kiss him lightly on the cheek. I start to say something else, but I lose my train of thought when he gently takes my chin and turns me towards him.

He leans into me and kisses me, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. The world disappears, and I melt into the kiss, into Mitch. He pulls away, and my eyelids refuse to open all the way. “Okay?” He whisper. I nod, dizzy and flustered and…

In love.

#mitch marner #mitch marner fic #mitch marner imagine #mitch marner/reader #toronto maple leafs #toronto maple leafs fic #toronto maple leafs imagine #hockey #nhl #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #nhl hockey #tyson barrie #willykappymattsmarns

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johaerys-writes · 4 years

Text

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 29: In Water Waist Deep

Peace is found when you least expect it. In the midst of chaos, there is quiet. In the darkest of places, the light shines the brightest. The wind moves the slowest in the eye of the storm.

Read here or on AO3! [Read from the beginning]

*****************

“I see you’ve found your way back home.”

Tristan returned his mother’s scrutinizing gaze levelly, straightening where he stood. Her dark brown hair, streaked with grey at the temples, was already brushed and pinned up, the blue dress she was wearing crisp, freshly pressed. Her lips a straight line, her features placid, as if carved in stone. Nelly was dressed in her usual grey dress, her white apron fastened around her waist, head bent over the stove. She averted her eyes as soon as their gazes mate, returning to stirring tea leaves in the pot. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Tristan forced a nonchalant spring to his step as he peeled off his damp coat and tossed it on a chair before him. “I’d say I’m glad I’m back, but I’d be lying.” He walked around the table, and only then did he notice the three fully armed guards standing by the door. His steps faltered just a hair. Why the Void were there guards at the door? Inside the kitchen? What was -

No. He wouldn’t give his mother the satisfaction of seeing his confusion. He made his way to the cupboards, studiously avoiding glancing at the guards as he rummaged through them.

“You’ve been gone for two days. Two days of debauchery, I’m sure, and Maker knows what else.” Mother waited for a moment, tongue held tightly behind her teeth as she studied him. “You were supposed to be at the Trenwith estate yesterday evening.”

Tristan winced inwardly. He’d entirely forgotten about that. He opened a dark brown jar, sniffing its content. Raisins. “Evidently, I had better things to do.” He placed the jar back in the cupboard and reached for another. “Debauching one’s self requires a great deal of dedication, you know.”

Mother huffed in contempt. “Have you any idea how humiliating it was, waiting for you for hours, having to make up excuse after excuse only for you to never show up? Lady Trenwith and her daughter were appalled. You made a mockery of both myself and your sister. And yourself, of course, yet I hardly believe you care about that anymore.”

Tristan didn’t doubt he had brought them to an uncomfortable position. Mother had done her best to arrange that blasted meeting. The Trenwiths were far lower in the social ladder than the Trevelyans- Blight, they had only started being invited to the Teyrn’s Grand Ball but a decade before- but after the fiascos with the Carruthers and the Cardews, most other houses had withdrawn their proposals. He was far from an eligible bachelor now, if he ever was. That was all well, as far as Tristan was concerned, yet he still regretted not going to the meeting. He had no intention of making a good impression on the Trenwiths or anyone else, of course, but opportunities to embarrass his mother were becoming harder and harder to come by. Oh, well. He would have to settle for petty jabs, then.

“You don’t say,” he drawled in an uninterested tone. “Must have been devastating for you.”

He sensed her bridling at his mocking tone, her eyes gliding over him in contempt. “Have you even bothered to glance at yourself in a mirror?”

Tristan let out a huff as he reached for another jar. He opened it slowly, fishing out a biscuit. “No. Have you? You look terrible. Perhaps a drink or two might do you some good.”

Mother’s nostrils flared. “Have you nothing at all to say for yourself?”

“Oh, I have plenty.” He leaned against the counter, chewing, the large jar nestled under his arm. Her glare was so sharp it might have flayed him on the spot, but he refused to lower his eyes. He flashed her a tight smile. “I am hungry, tired, and in dire need of a bath. Thirsty, too. Nelly, fetch me a cup of tea, will you?”

Nelly, who was pouring tea in Mother’s cup, froze where she was. She glanced uneasily at the other woman, whose hands were balled into fists at her sides. “My lord,” she muttered, turning around for a new cup, when Mother’s voice stopped her.

“Ellen, stay where you are.”

Tristan rolled his eyes, reaching for another biscuit. “What does one have to do to get a cup of tea in his own house?”

“Your insolence, Tristan, knows no bounds,” Mother uttered tightly, weariness creeping into her voice. “I’ve had enough of you humiliating yourself and dragging our family name through the mud.”

“If someone is humiliating themselves, Mother, that would be you. Denying your son a cup of tea. What’s next? Are you going to make me brew my own tea? Whatever will good society say?” He shot her a perplexed frown, popping the last of his biscuit in his mouth.

Mother’s lips were pinched bloodless when she glanced at the guards by the door. She took in a deep breath, straightening up even more. Stark and stiff under the stark and stiff fabric of her dress. “I have spoken with Revered Mother Adalene in the Wildervale monastery. You are to be taken there today. As soon as you arrive, you’ll start training as a Templar.”

Tristan’s blood froze in his veins. He blinked, blinked again, his breath growing shallow. He must have misheard. Surely, that was it. “The Templars? Are you mad?” he said, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Don’t you think I’m a little too old for that?”

Mother’s lips tightened. “The Revered Mother agreed to make an exception for you. On account of your circumstances.”

His gaze flicked to the guards, who had now shifted into position. “I- is this a joke? Are you joking?” “I have tried to talk with you, Tristan. Reason with you. You refuse to listen.” She shook her head slowly, a frown darkening her features. She almost managed to look remorseful. “Perhaps the Templars will succeed where I have failed.”

“Reason?” he hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits. Anger rushed like an avalanche past his numbing disbelief. “When have you ever tried to reason with anyone? Ordering people about, you mean - that’s more like it. Is there anybody whose life you haven’t tried to exert your power upon? Something you haven’t tried to control?”

“Is that what you think this is about? Control?”

“You’re about to ship me off to the Templars simply because I refuse to do your bidding,” Tristan spat, setting the jar back on the counter with a thud. “Is that my punishment for wanting to live my life as I see fit? For not wanting to be mated off like- like cattle?”

“Tristan Remy Trevelyan,” she enunciated, fixing him with a hard glare, “it is your duty to behave in a way that befits your station and your name. It is all of our duty to do what we must to preserve the status of this family. You should know this, better than anyone.”

“So my options are, what- either do as you say, or go to the Templars?”

“If you put it this way, then yes. These are precisely your options.”

“In that case, then,” he replied, dusting crumbs off his fingers as he pushed himself upright, “fuck my duty. And, most importantly, fuck this family.”

A stunned silence fell in the wide room. Nelly’s mouth fell slightly agape before she brought her hand over it. Mother flinched visibly only for a quick moment before she regained her composure. “How dare you use that sort of language in this-”

“I’ll use whatever language I damn well please,” he snarled. “It’s not like I belong here anymore, eh? I think I stopped belonging a long time ago. in fact, I’ve been wondering what took you so long to finally show me the door. That seems to be your specialty with anybody that displeases you.”

“Tristan.” Just that. His name. A warning. Tristan could see the tendons in her neck tensing as she watched him, her jaw clenching.

“Yes, that’s what you’re good at,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Kicking out anybody that dares to cross you. Tossing people in the street once you’ve decided they’re not worth your gold. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?” Tristan's nails dug deep into his palms. Mother kept watching him, unblinking. They both knew what he was about to say, but she made no move to stop him. The challenge in her gaze was unmistakable. Tristan took a shaky breath. “It’s what you did to Sten Kaylen and his family. Isn’t it? And for what?” His throat was burning, rage and grief choking him until he could scarcely breathe. “Just because their son was unfortunate enough to get involved with me?”

Mother’s eyes widened, an idea of a flush creeping up her cheeks. Her eyes darted to the guards before settling on him again. “Tristan,” she started, “for the last time-”

“Abel,” Tristan turned to one of the guards behind him, “you remember Podrick, don’t you? Tall, black hair, worked at the stables? He trained that brown gelding you always take when you go to town on errands. And you, Hans. You’ve been to the Crandock estate. You’ve met Sten Kaylen and his wife. Good people. Honest people. Hard working. And now- Void knows where they’ve ended up now. All because Pod and I-”

“Stop this,” his mother hissed. “Stop this at once. Do not speak that name in my-”

“I loved him.” The sudden declaration startled even him. He could feel all eyes in the room piercing him like arrows, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was way beyond caring. He stood tall, holding his ground, meeting his mother's gaze levelly even as his eyes filled and overflowed. Maker, one year. One entire year since he’d seen him last, and the pain was as astringent now as it had been then. All the brandy and whisky in the world wasn’t enough to numb it, and Void take him if he hadn’t tried. Tried to drown himself in that makeshift oblivion, day after day, hoping that when he got washed up on the other side, it would all be gone. That he would somehow wake up one morning and everything would be but a distant dream.

So much for hoping.

He angrily scrubbed at his tears, glaring at her. “I loved him,” he said again, “and you punished him for it. Punished us both. Wasn't it enough for you to know that you have the power to ruin my own life? Did you really have to ruin his as well?”

“You forced my hand.” His mother looked back at him defiantly. She didn’t seem to care about the guards behind them anymore. Everyone had known about it all along, but now that it was finally out in the open, she clearly saw no reason to dance around it. Never one to mince words, Esme Trevelyan. “You can play the victim all you like, but don’t you ever deny your part in this. Consorting with a commoner? A stable hand?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “It could never lead anywhere, and you knew it. Yet you kept at it. The scandal your actions have procured is enough to last us a lifetime. If you ever thought of anybody but yourself, you could see how your antics reflect on the reputation of our family, that of your own sister-”

“I’m the one who thinks only of myself? Me? When have you ever thought about anybody but yourself and your bloody reputation?” He wiped his nose on his shoulder, fixing her with a narrowed eyed glare. “You can’t stand anybody to be happy, can you?”

“Happiness has nothing to do with one being loyal to their family and their duty,” Mother said sharply, proudly. “I never let that influence my actions, and neither should you.”

“As if everything you’ve done has been for duty and loyalty,” he spat, packing as much derision as he could into the words. “You know nothing about loyalty. You’re just hateful and miserable and alone, and you want everybody else to be miserable and alone as well-”

“That is enough.” His mother’s voice was cold and harsh. “I have had enough. This stops now.”

With a quick nod from her, the guards pounced on him, quick, grabbing him by the arms. Tristan blinked, stunned for a moment before he fought back. “Hey! Let go!” He tried to yank his arm away, but it was no use. The more he writhed, the firmer the hold of the guards on him grew. Their strong fingers dug into his muscles through the fabric of his doublet, keeping him in place. He grunted and swore under his breath, twisting and writhing. “Let go of me, Maker damn you-”

Nelly took a tentative step towards his mother. “My lady, please,” she said, holding the edges of her apron in a white-knuckled grip. “They’re hurting the boy.”

“He isn’t a boy.” Her gaze on him was steel gliding over ice, stone grinding against iron; cold. Unrelenting. “He’s a man grown. And soon he will learn to act as one.”

“For fuck’s sake-” He scowled at his mother, his face twisted in outrage, sweat gathering underneath his collar. “If Father were still alive, he’d never have let this come to pass. He would have stopped it. He would have stopped you-”

“I’m glad Eric isn’t here.” Mother’s lips were pressed in a line, her voice barely above a whisper. Tristan thought he saw her fingers trembling only slightly before she gripped the back of her chair. “I am glad. He would have died of shame if he saw what has become of you.”

Her words stabbed him like a dagger in the gut. “Father would never have been ashamed of me,” he growled, although it sounded like a strained sob to his ears. He clung to that statement, as if it were a lifeline. Someone, he told himself, there must be someone in his life other than Tilly that didn't see him as a disappointment. Even if that someone had been gone for so many years, Tristan could barely bring his countenance to mind.

He brushed the hurt away, focused on the anger. Anger was easier. He grabbed it, held it, let it flood him to the brim.“Father would have understood. He wasn't like you. He was better than you, far better-”

"What's going on?"

Tilly was standing at the threshold of the kitchen, staring at them all in confusion. She was still in her nightdress, her long, flaxen hair caught in a braid, her brows gathered in a frown that creased her high forehead. "Mother, what is going on?"

"Ottilie," Mother said slowly, "go back to your room."

"I most certainly will not. Not until someone tells me what is happening."

Hope fluttered in Tristan’s chest. If anyone could bring their mother back to her senses, that was Tilly. "Mother wants to send me to the Templars," he grunted, panting as he tested the grip of the guards on him and found it unyielding.

"She what?" Tilly's eyes widened in shock. When she fixed them on Mother, they were molten steel. "You cannot be serious."

"Ellen, escort Ottilie back to her room."

"Are you not listening to me? I said I'm not going anywhere!" She stepped towards the guards, standing before Tristan like a protective barrier. “Let him go. Let go of him at once.”

“Ottilie,” their mother started, “this doesn’t concern you.”

Tilly spun on her heels, her chin squared and tilted high, pride and fire and ice in the flesh. She crossed her arms before her chest, regarding the other woman levelly. "If he goes to the Templars, I go with him."

Mother stayed silent for a long moment. Her mouth tightened before she spoke. "Hart, take Ottilie back to her room. Abel, Paul. You know what to do."

"Don't you dare move!" Tilly commanded, putting all her authority into her voice. She raised her hand.

The air thickened, snow and ice engulfing the room like a thick blanket. He could hear the guards yelling, Nelly screaming as she grabbed and pulled Mother out of the room, but couldn’t see. Couldn’t discern a single form amidst the tumult. A strong wind whirled and howled, like they were all standing at the top of a mountain. Shards of ice crushed against the glass windows, shattered, covering the ground in a million glittering particles.

When he blinked his eyes open again, ice covered every inch of the space. Snow glittered on the wide work table, the boiling water in the pot on the stove had turned to ice, stalagmites had formed on the edges of the counter. The guards were lying on the floor behind him, unmoving. Nelly and Mother were still huddled outside the room, trembling. Tilly was standing in the middle of the room, pale as a sheet. Swaying lightly, like a flag in the center of open space.

Tristan’s breath misted before his lips as he pushed himself upright, staggering towards her. It was cold, so cold- freezing. He shivered as he stood before her. She glanced at her hands, then at the men lying on the floor before her gaze met his. At that moment, they both knew.

“Tris,” she whispered, voice raw and hoarse before it cracked.

I’m sorry, his mind screamed. Forgive me, he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come out. He reached out to her, gathering her in his arms. “It’s alright. It's alright.” He smoothed his palm down her hair, patted her back, spoke soothing words to her, like he used to do when they were children. “It’s going to be alright, Till. I promise. I promise.”

He held her close as she trembled. Closer still as the ground tilted and shifted underneath him once more, as the memory faded, soft and fuzzy around the edges, like fresh cotton and frayed linen. He finally let his arms fall when he was holding nothing but emptying air.

“The Templars took her after,” Cole said softly, his voice barely a whisper. It should have felt like an accusation, but it didn’t. It was merely a statement, a simple acknowledgement of a turn of events.

“They did,” Tristan replied, just as simply. The memory still clung to his skin like ash on his fingertips. No matter how hard he’d tried to brush it off, it refused to go away. It was part of him, as surely as his beating heart was. “They didn’t waste a moment.”

Damn them. Maker damn them all. So often had he said those words, whispered them under his breath, that they felt etched on his tongue. The Templars standing tall before her, placing the shackles on her wrists, as if she were a criminal. At the door of the carriage, she had turned to look at him. Not the manor, not their mother, not Nelly. Him. Her eyes red and darkened by weariness, her features bereft of all colour, awash in the harsh light of an unforgiving dawn.

“They all blamed me,” he said, to no one in particular. “They all talked, the way people do. Said I'd attacked her, forced her to use magic to protect herself. Never to my face, oh, no, not even Mother, but I could see it still.” He could still remember the stray looks his way when they saw him in the street after Tilly had been taken, the gossip that inevitably reached his ears. No one had forgotten his blunders or that one drunken outburst of his at Lord Penwith’s dinner party, the reason to which entirely eluded him right then. Or that other time, at Lady Bolitho’s Wintersend Ball, where he’d had that heated argument with his mother in front of Count Angove and his daughters, and Tilly had had to drag him away and put him in a carriage back home. Or that other time...

He scrubbed at his eyes, sniffing, pushing the memories back, further back. A drunken fool. A disgrace. Ostwick’s laughing stock. “That’s why I wanted to get her out,” he whispered, bitterness carving a hole in his stomach. “For her, yes, but for me as well. So that I could prove, once and for all, to myself, to her, to the world that I was more. More than what they thought of me. More than what I thought of myself. That there was still-” he paused, clearing his throat when his voice cracked “-still hope for me. For her, too.”

Hope. What a ridiculous notion it had seemed to him, after. After they’d received that letter, with the Ostwick Circle sign embossed on the front of the envelope. A compassionate note claiming that after a difficult battle with a demon, his sister had finally succumbed to possession, and her Templar guardian had been obligated to take action. Mother had had to pull all strings remaining to her for the Chantry to allow for a proper burial. He could still see the suspicious glances at the funeral, hear the words spoken through tight lights and behind spread fans. A mean and violent drunk, many would say when they thought he was out of earshot. Pushed her down the stairs, he did, some would whisper, sipping on their wine. Poor Esme, all would sigh. To lose one child to magic and another to his own vices. All of them, watching with keen interest, waiting for the Trevelyan bloodline to crumble and expire with him.

“Whispers, winding, whirling, white-winged winter wrens,” Cole said quietly beside him. “Words hurt as much as stones. More.”

Tristan took a deep breath, pressing his eyes shut when he felt them burning. “I told you there would be no peace to be found here,” he told Cole, not quite able to keep the harshness from his voice. “This has been-” he brushed the corners of his eyes between forefinger and thumb, “- a waste of time.” A waste. Maker. All his life, all of it- why the hell was he still there? Why was he not waking up?

“There’s more to the thread.” Cole’s voice was soft, like an early morning breeze. “It’s not over yet. It’s only just begun.”

Tristan let out a long sigh, stealing himself. He didn’t want to continue- anything but, anything at all- yet there was no other way. He knew it. He had to leave this place somehow. The silence that had fallen around him was deafening. Enough to make his ears bleed. He took a few steps forward, slowly, with effort, like wading through water waist deep. Watched as the last of the light dimmed and faded.

The memories were cold like the sea in midwinter when he dove in headfirst.

“I left soon after,” he said, talking his way past the initial shivers. “There was nothing for me here, not anymore. Not with her gone.” A change of clothes, Tilly’s small looking glass, Tristan de Lydes, as much gold and jewellery as he could safely carry. A handful of dried figs and roasted walnuts for the road. Nelly’s hushed sobs as they said their last farewells by the kitchen door.

“Hwegen,” she wept over and over. “Oh, hwegen.” There was nothing she could do. Nothing anyone could do.

****

Time rushed past him, a blur. A drunken haze. Markham, Wycome, Hercinia, Ansburg, an estate a few miles south of Starkhaven that he could barely recollect how he’d found himself in. Always one step ahead of the bounty hunters his mother sent after him. Pub after pub, cup after cup, Wicked Grace tables sticky with dried ale. Emptiness. That vast, unending emptiness. The absence that was soon filled with bitterness and rage. That same scorching fire turning to ice. Whisky, ale and brandy to make it thaw and melt, more to keep him under. Drowning, sinking, deeper, faster. More. No thoughts. No memories. They had to be culled, severed, burnt at the stake. Ripped from him. No home, no name, nothing to call his own. No one. He was no one. No one at all.

*******

The smell of fish and ship tar from the docks nearby wafted through the half open window of the tavern. A haggard elven waitress was wiping down a table, while the only other patron was sleeping with his head resting on the bar counter. He had the right idea, Tristan thought. His own head was so heavy, he could have easily done the same. Just to rest his eyes for a bit. He hadn’t slept in a proper bed in days, and that cheap, acidic brew that passed for brandy around these parts was not helping.

He downed his drink, wincing with the sour aftertaste. Kirkwallers wouldn’t know proper brandy if it kicked them right between the eyes.

“Barkeep,” he croaked, raising his mug. “More brandy.”

The man eyed him warily as he wiped down a mug with a cloth second in grime only to the floor. “I’ll need to see some coin from you first.”

Tristan scoffed and rolled his eyes, reaching in his coat for his coin purse. Cursed under his breath when he found it missing. Someone must have snatched it off him at that dice table in Lowtown. Maker damned Kirkwall and those thrice damned street urchins-

He carefully withdrew his arm from his pocket and flashed the barkeep a smile he hoped was winning. “How about a very small cup, then?”

The night air stank of murky sea water and rotting fish guts when he was thrown out into the street by the bar’s guard. At least the stocky Rivaini had had the courtesy of letting him go with a blow to the side of the head and a warning instead of trying to stick a knife between his ribs. He glanced at the muddy streets that extended beyond the bar, and that would likely serve as his bed for the night, and let out a soft sigh. His back wouldn’t thank him for it come the morrow, that was certain.

He raised his coat collar as he walked down the crowded, dimly lit streets, his gaze flicking past the deals that were taking place at every corner. Drugs, weapons, poisons; whatever it was you were looking for, you could probably find it at one of the Docks’ corners. At good prices, too, all things considered.

He leaned against a wall, fishing in his inner pocket for his pipe. Lit it with his flint and dagger, took a long draught. Sighed when he felt the tension slowly melting off his shoulders, his headache subsiding somewhat. The moldac was hot and sweet as it glided down his throat. Smoking leaf laced with the barest hints of opium, smuggled from the Anderfels; he’d won it off a sour-faced Starkhavener at Wicked Grace a while back and had soon taken a liking to it. His head was still heavy from the blow and the cheap liquor, but at least it was in the right place now.

“Five sovs,” he heard a man saying at a nearby corner.

“Five?” the other asked incredulously. “It was only four last time!”

The first man shrugged. “Mage war’s bad for trade. Got to make ends meet.”

“Andraste’s holy knickers.” A short huff, the scruff of fabric as hands dug into pockets for the required amount. “Is it decent this time, at least? The last one you gave me was diluted. Don’t even try to deny it.”

“Listen, mate,” the dealer snapped, “my stuff’s the best in Kirkwall, straight from the dwarves in Kal-Sharok. You don’t like it, you can go back to Ostwick and beg outside the Chantry for a dose, for all I care.”

Ostwick? Kal-Sharok? Tristan’s ears pricked up. What was the man buying? Drugs? Poison? But what did the Chantry have to do with it? Unless...

The light blue vial that shone momentarily in the man’s palm before he shoved it in his pocket could only be one thing. Lyrium. A Templar. From the Ostwick Circle, possibly. Tristan’s hackles rose in a flash, his pulse quickening. Could it be? Was it a sign?

Before he could rightly say what he was doing, he had pushed off the wall, doggedly following the man through the dark, twisting alleys.

With his cheek pressed firmly against the wall and Tristan's dagger at his throat, the Templar made a pretty sight.

"I don't know anything more," the man whimpered. "I swear I've told you everything I know-"

“So. Let me get this straight. There was an uprising in the Ostwick Circle and your Knight Captain decided to simply execute the mages he thought had started it. No imprisonment, no trials, no intervention from the Chantry. You expect me to believe that?” The man nodded, trembling.

Tristan’s stomach tightened. If what the Templar had said was true, it changed everything he’d known about Tilly’s death. Everything the Chantry had told them. She hadn’t been possessed by a demon, she hadn’t failed to pass a bloody test, she hadn’t been tested by the Knight Captain and a Revered Mother and found to be “beyond hope of recovery”. She was cut down, slaughtered like- like an animal. His hand holding the dagger was trembling, nicking the Templar’s neck where the blade touched him.

"The Circle was a shambles," the man said, wincing. "There was no way of knowing who was possessed. Templars were being killed left and right. The mages were looking for every opportunity to attack us-"

Tristan clicked his tongue, twisting the man's arm behind his back. "None of that," he growled. "What about the Trevelyan girl? She was there, wasn’t she?"

"The Trev-" the man dared a sideways glance at him over his shoulder, swallowing thickly. His face was ashen and haggard, his hands cold, his fingers twitching lightly. All signs of lyrium withdrawal. "She was thought to be among the instigators. The Knight Captain executed her himself."

Tristan's blood bubbled in his veins, his pulse pounding with rage. Damned Templars. Maker damn them all. He pressed his blade against the pulse point in the man's throat. "Was she proven guilty? Was anyone?"

"I-" the man paused, wetting his lips. "She-" He whimpered again when Tristan twisted his arm tighter. "I don't know, I don't know, the Captain said she was, we never questioned him-" He pressed his eyes shut, his face twisting in agony. "Please. I just want to leave that life behind me. Please."

"At least you have a life to leave behind," he hissed, twisting the man's arm enough to break it. "The mages you killed don't have that luxury." Maker, but he felt sick. He forced down the bile that was rising up in his throat as he asked, "Where's your Captain now?"

"Last I heard he would be at the Conclave. That's all I know. Please-"

The Conclave. Void take him. That was but a week away. The man slumped to his knees when Tristan brought the hilt of his dagger down on his temples. He walked away, sheathing his blade, then turned back with a disgusted sound. The ship for Jader would be leaving at dawn, and he had no coin for passage. He rummaged the Templar’s pockets for his coin purse. The lyrium bottle shone iridescent in his palm when he fished it out. He took that, too. Allowed himself a moment to watch it sink beneath the murky waters of the docks after he’d tossed it over. Let the bastard scramble for that lyrium he so needed, he thought, spitting on the ground before he turned away.

The Conclave. Yes. That's where he would go. His life was forfeit, but her death didn’t have to be. He would unveil the man's crimes for everyone to see, if it was the last thing he did. Or he would kill him with his own bare hands. Either way, one of them would be lying face down in a shallow ditch come next week. With some luck, it would be both.

****

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

Tristan blinked blearily at the snarling woman that had dragged him out of his cell, only to toss him in the middle of the dank dungeon. She held herself straight and stiff, circling him like a vulture. A Chantric. Every one of her movements told him she’d interrogated countless people before him. A Templar? No. The Watchful Eye carved on her breastplate. A Seeker?

Chantrics, Templars, Seekers- same dogs, different coats. His temper flared when his gaze met hers. “If you mean to kill me, go ahead and be done with it,” he snarled right back at her. “Spare me the drivel.”

She bent down, her eyes on a level with his. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Everyone but you.”

“Everyone?” It was hard to hide his blatant disbelief. Every single person attending- everyone? But there had been dozens, hundreds of people. Including Divine Justinia. All the high and mighty Knight Commanders, most First Enchanters from across Thedas, representatives from all the powerful families. And now they were all gone? All but he? Even Knight Captain-

“Maker.” The bastard was dead. Tristan could have wept for joy.

If the woman noticed his confoundment, she gave no sign. “Who are you? What business did you have at the Conclave?”

Tristan simply gaped at her for a long moment. “You think I did it?” he asked, barely suppressing the mad laughter that threatened to rise to his lips. If he started laughing now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop. Him, destroying the Conclave- he couldn’t even begin to explain to her how absurd the notion was. He was barely capable of lacing up his own shirt most days, let alone organise a mass assassination.

The woman grabbed his hand, green light sputtering from the mark in his palm. “Explain this.”

Rage jolted through him suddenly, like a shockwave, with the feel of her gauntleted hand around his shackled wrist- shackles that she and hers had put him in. He yanked his hand back, out of her grasp. “Touch me again and see what happens,” he growled, his mouth twisting in a scowl. It was an empty threat, bound as he was, but he spat it at her anyway. He’d had more than his fill of people pushing and pulling and prodding him since the moment he’d opened his eyes in that blasted prison, and he hadn’t had a drink since the day before and his hands were already starting to shake, and if one more person tested his patience that day he swore to the Maker he would-

The woman scowled, her hand straying to her sword hilt. The redhead that had been observing all that while held her friend back. “Cassandra,” she said in a voice that was surprisingly gentle. “We need him.”

They both turned to look at him. He returned their look with a confused frown. What need could anyone have of someone such as he?

****

Rifts. So that was what the Herald of Andraste was supposed to do. Fight demons and close rifts. Simple enough. The bloody mark on his hand ached abominably at times, and his sleep was all the worse for it; still, he slept in a bed. A bed of his very own, for the first time in… months, Maker, years- and food. Morning, noon and night, no questions asked. He was getting stronger, there was meat back on his bones, his duties kept him off the bottle most of the time. Servants. He had servants again. He’d forgotten what a luxury it was to have someone building his fire for him, mending his clothes, making his bed. If it weren’t for the people pestering him all day, it would have been the best deal he could have gotten for himself- save for the glowing mark on his palm that was trying to kill him, of course, but that was only a minor inconvenience.

And yet.

His mother would soon find out where he was. It wouldn’t be long before word of the Herald of Andraste being a Trevelyan reached her ears. And then she’d send for him. Everyone would know, know about him, what was said of him, what he’d done, where he’d been. Including his advisors, who didn’t think very highly of him as it was. If she promised them enough gold, they wouldn’t hesitate to hand him over, Tristan was sure of that.

Right.

Close the damned Breach so the mark stopped spreading, was what he should do. Get the mages to help, like Leliana had suggested- she seemed reasonable enough, and he would sooner gnaw his own left arm off and toss that at the Breach rather than aid the Templars- and then get out of that place. Slip away in the night, and none would be the wiser. Just get. The hell. Away.

*****

The walls of the Redcliffe Village chapel shook with the force of the blast from the rift that had opened in its center. Tristan didn’t remember ever seeing such a small space packed so full of demons. He paused at the door, blinking, his hands flying to his daggers by instinct. The man hurling spell after spell at a screaming despair demon didn’t seem half as fazed as he was.

“Good! You’re finally here! Now help me close this, will you?”

It took Tristan a couple of seconds to snap his mouth that had fallen slightly agape shut and raise his hand. The rift crackled and writhed as it collapsed in on itself, dousing the chapel in green light, a shower of iridescent particles that rained over the, unarguably, most handsome man Tristan had seen. In a while. A long while. Perhaps ever. He shook his head gently. Was he seeing things? How much wine had he had to drink the previous night? He could have sworn it was only two cups. Maybe three. Four, if he stretched it.

The mage dusted his robes, straightening. Piercing grey eyes, almond shaped and heavy lidded, fixed themselves on him. Tall, dark haired, bronze skinned, voice rich and smooth like softened caramel. And his robes; Tristan had never before seen the like. Swaths of fabric arranged in intricate patterns, flowing as he moved like there was a light breeze blowing when he walked, even though not a window was open. And the richness of the colours themselves, the details- dark blue silk, soft brown leather, the thread of gold embroidery on his collar shining as he moved, the jewelled rings on his long fingers catching the light.

“How do you do that, exactly?”

Tristan hadn’t realised he’d been staring until the man spoke again. “How do I do what?” he asked dumbly, and almost kicked himself. His eloquence would be his own undoing one of those days.

The man’s brows gathered in confusion for a moment before he laughed- laughed! Blight, there were dead demons all around them, their mangled corpses still unclaimed by the Fade, Chantry sisters just a few paces beyond the chapel door, not to mention the threat of mass hysteria should anyone in the village realise what was going on in there, and that man was laughing. Void and ashes, who was he? Where had he come from?

The man tilted his head to the side, studying him. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and boom! Rift closes. Thought it would take a little bit more work than that, if I may be frank.”

Suspicion made Tristan narrow his eyes. Was that mage… mocking him? Trying to make him look like a fool before his companions? He must have been. Tristan sniffed, straightening his back, assuming his most stern expression. “It’s much more complicated than you make it sound,” he said indignantly. “Of that, I can assure you.” An outright lie. He hadn’t the first notion how the blasted thing worked.

Tristan’s bluntness had the exact opposite effect on the man than he had expected. The mage studied him thoughtfully for another breath, as if he hadn’t even heard Tristan’s curt response, then advanced confidently towards him. ‘Advanced’ wasn’t the right word. Strode. Glided. Swayed- yes, that was more like it. “May I?” he asked, glancing at Tristan’s palm.

Tristan tensed. He didn’t like it when strangers touched him. Too many times in the last few years of his life he’d been beaten up, spat on, sworn at, threatened at dagger point, pushed and shoved about, manhandled. Many more, ever since becoming the Herald, that people had touched him in awe or fascination, disgust or mistrust, prodded at the mark to uncover its secrets, tested it, half-yanked it off him. No. Suffice to say he did not like people touching him.

His arm moved before he could stop it.

The man’s fingers, when he took his palm in his, were warm, petal-soft, careful. The trickle of magic he poured into the mark was light as a feather, warm like a caress. His eyes met Tristan’s, holding his gaze by the sheer brightness of their intent. He looked at him, straight at him, not at the mark, not at his followers, not at the mess all around them. Him.

“Fascinating,” he said softly.

*****

“What is?”

Tristan lifted his eyes from the book he’d been reading. “Have you heard about the lost city of Barindur? It’s said that Dumat destroyed it after their king lost his favour. It's supposed to be one of the world's greatest mysteries.”

“Of course I’ve heard about it,” Dorian scoffed. “I fact, I’ve more than heard about it. I wrote an essay on the legends surrounding the city when I was eleven. The lack of knowledge on Tevinter history in the South never fails to surprise me.”

“Oh, yes. I’d almost forgotten how rudimental Southern education is compared to Tevinter.” Tristan closed his book and set it atop the other tomes on the book stall, drawing close enough to Dorian to place his arm on his waist, but Dorian smoothly edged back. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re not alone,” Dorian whispered, looking around him before letting his gaze drop back to the book he was holding.

Tristan glanced at the half empty square. Montsimmard was one of the few towns still standing that side of Orlais, and he, Dorian, Cassandra and Varric had stopped there on their way back to Skyhold from the Emerald Graves to replenish their food stores and rest the horses for a bit. It was little after dawn, so the town was about as quiet as a graveyard. Cassandra had soon left them to visit the nearest smithy, and Varric… Maker knew where Varric had disappeared to -the nearest tavern, probably. That left Dorian and Tristan enough time to browse the solitary book stall in the wide market square. It was a pitiful thing, with only a couple poetry collections and more Chantry books than anyone could have a need for, but it was something.

“There’s no one here,” he said, returning to Dorian. Instead of a response, Dorian nodded towards the book merchant who was dozing off on his chair with his hat over his face. “Ah. I see," Tristan replied, letting his arm fall. "Well, I’d better just go back to reading then.” He picked up a book at random, idly flipping through it. He brushed his chin with his knuckle, sneaking a glance at Dorian who seemed engrossed in his own reading. Tristan discreetly cleared his throat, taking a small step towards him.

“The fountains mingle with the river,” he started quietly, pretending to read from the page, “and the rivers with the ocean, the winds of Heaven mix for ever with a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single, all things by a law divine, in one spirit meet and mingle - why not I with thine?"

Dorian let out a quiet harrumph, not looking up from his book. “Why indeed. Anyone who spouts such nonsense is probably doomed to eternal solitude.”

“Are they?” Tristan put the book back down, next to a vase of yellow roses that the merchant had set on his stall. He picked up one flower, then held it before Dorian with a bow and a flourish. “I beg to differ.”

Dorian glanced at the blossom, then at him. “What on earth are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m courting you.”

“You what?” Dorian’s eyes widened, his cheeks darkening. “You’re joking, yes? Did you hit your head?”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Just take the thing, will you?” Dorian gingerly plucked the rose from his fingers, a curious frown creasing his brow. He glanced warily about them as Tristan straightened and cleared his throat once more. "See the mountains kiss high Heaven, and the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven if it disdained its brother-"

“Oh, Maker,” Dorian murmured, his blush growing even hotter as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “He was not, in fact, joking.”

“And the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea-”

"Mad. The man's gone mad.”

Tristan moved behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him close. “What are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?” He perched his chin on Dorian’s shoulder, smiling up at him. “Hm?”

“You are-” Dorian huffed in amusement. “The worst. The absolute worst. Whatever did I see in you.”

“I thought that’s what you liked about me," he said, quirking a brow. “My wit and charm, remember?”

"Of course. How could I forget." Dorian let out a soft, throaty chuckle as he leaned in for a kiss. His lips were warm, tender, soft like velvet, parting readily under his, the subtle taste of his morning tea still lingering on his tongue. “No more poetry, now," he whispered with a smile. "Or I might change my mind.”

Tristan smirked against his lips, his pulse fluttering as he hugged him tighter. “Can’t make any promises.”

***

The world grew soft and quiet, warm and fuzzy around the edges.

Tristan’s heart thumped in a smooth, steady rhythm, his gaze fixed on the memory before him that refused to dissipate. He could still remember the light sting of the rose’s thorns on his fingertips, the rich scent of the blossom mingled with Dorian’s heady cologne, the shape of Dorian’s smile as it pressed against his lips. He remembered, like he was still there, like time hadn’t moved since that day, that moment. Like it refused to.

All this while, while swimming through the ocean of his memories, through the highs and unfathomable lows, he was constantly being tugged forward, ever forward, a race for survival and self destruction at the same time. Yet now, the tugging had suddenly stopped. That merciless pull had somehow lessened. Slackened. The noose around his throat relaxing. In that memory, he realised, he wasn’t simply surviving, or pushing his luck and his limits to see when he would finally snap. He could just… be.

“Peace is found when you least expect it,” Cole whispered beside him. He was standing close, his face obscured by the shadow of his hat. “In the midst of chaos, there is quiet. In the darkest of places, the light shines the brightest. The wind moves the slowest in the eye of the storm.”

“But… how?” Tristan whispered, his throat clenching. “After everything I've done? After everything… ”

If he knew everything, would he want me still?

It was a familiar thought, yet it stung all the same. Cole gazed at him for a moment, thoughtfully, as if he were asking whether the sky was blue. “You’re fond of your guilt," he said softly. "It reminds you you're still there. Still sane. “Monsters and madmen can't be guilty, can they?”" He cocked his head slightly to the side, like an inquisitive bird. "You hold it so close, it’s become a part of you. To keep the suffering alive, it has metamorphosed into you. But you don’t need it. You don’t need it anymore.” Cole laid his palm upon his forearm, his touch gentle and calming. “It wasn’t your fault. You tried to change things, but it didn’t matter. Nothing you did mattered. Let go. Let go of the hurt. I can help.”

It’s not that simple, Tristan thought. It can’t be that simple. It shouldn’t. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was suddenly being tugged forward again, pulled away. Sharply, violently. Forward, forward and down.

The book stall disappeared, the edges of the buildings around them bled swiftly into nothingness just as a heavy darkness fell. “What’s going on?” Tristan glanced about him. “What is this?”

“Not yours,” Cole replied, his fingers on Tristan’s forearm tightening. “Let it go. It’s not yours.”

“What isn’t? What-” He gasped as the ground melted beneath his feet. He caught Cole’s hand, fighting while he was being drawn into a bottomless abyss. Cole caught his hands in both of his, but no matter how firm his hold, Tristan’s fingers kept sliding out of his, one by one.

“I can’t,” Tristan grunted. “I can’t- hold on-”

Cole held his gaze from the precipice, cornflower blue eyes gleaming in the dark like stars. “Be steadfast,” he whispered.

The last of his fingers slipped from Cole’s grasp, and then he was falling.

****

hwegen = my dear, pet, darling

The poem Tristan recited is Love’s Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

#dorian pavus #dorian pavus fic #dorian/trevelyan #dorian/inquisitor #dorian x trevelyan #dorian x inquisitor #pavelyan #dorian x tristan trevelyan #dragon age fanfiction #a world with you #tristan trevelyan #johaerys writes

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