#* 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 . abraham march.

[peacespun]

somewhere in the dim light of the dressing room backstage, abraham resting himself upon the extremely hot pink coral shaped couch (a rather odd decorative choice he'd noted when they first arrived to the venue), he scrolls through the mass amounts of notifications he'd gotten in the span of ten minutes. ping ping ping is all his phone has been doing as different people across his team have been sending him pictures and articles, screenshots of tweets or /reddit posts.

they're raving. one beautiful article after another, tweet after tweet about how amazing the concert experience was and how well put together their lead is after coming clean. he imagines this will go on for hours now that the crowd has filed out of the venue and started their ventures home, each one raving about anything they can to do with him and his performance.

soft blues look up from the screen of his phone for two seconds to find dean in the room, glistening with sweat just before the vanity. abraham clears his throat a little and says, " this is from twitter: seeing dean preform live is a truly life changing, orgasmic experience. the praise is endless, it goes on for pages and pages... " this is what they wanted, what he wanted for @warspun. this is what he deserves. " you were absolutely amazing tonight, dean. they loved you. "

[peacespun]

nothing about this was according to plans. stopping off at some motel for the night when exhaustion threatened to do worse things, when highway hypnosis was beginning to take effect, neither of them wanting to risk staying awake for another few hours for something in far better conditions than this fucking place "off the beaten path." really, it wouldn't be too bad if it had a functioning air conditioning system in the dead of summer. it wouldn't be so miserable if they were given what they were promised, but instead they threw away a couple hundred for a few days to rest after a long hunt. its still awful looking and far from trustworthy, he would never trust this place to have not to give someone a disease at some point, but he does promise himself and dean better next time. and in any case, they make the best out of the situation they've been given. they always have. they'll find a way to keep themselves put together and sane in this intense heat, a way to get at least a moments relief. right now that's praying that there's something left in that ice machine at the store up the street. and a flutter of something in the way dean pulls abraham back in for a real kiss, something between a hum and a groan falling from his lips into that kiss. you're stupid. " mmm, and you love me anyways. "

there is no such relief when they step outside and into the scorching sun. only a touch better if only because the air isn't stale or stagnant, there is a breeze but its hot and not nearly enough to carry anything more than granules of sand across the ground. still, they make their way to that convenience store and pray whole way that something will be there for them. and when dean lets go of his hand to reach for the door of that weathered machine, abraham catches himself holding his breath waiting for the final answer. oh sweet fucking relief. abraham sighs with his own, shoulders relaxing and giving a nod when dean looks at him again. " yeah, we'll get two. i'll go pay. "

quick and simple, thank god. cash only. ten for both bags, a little extra he'd placed in the "in case" tray and flashed a smile to the cashier. then it was immediately back to dean, taking one of the bags of ice both as a means to help and half selfishly when he holds the bag up against his chest and ... god finally ... sweet, cool relief. " ready? "

dean doesn’t even have to spare a glance to envision the way abraham is looking at him. mostly because he’s thinking the same,  because if they both had their way especially dean they would not even be leaving the motel room much less leaving the motel bed. But the stifling southern heat had other plans for them and they have to venture out to seek any form of relief from it. he doesn’t even bother with his phone,  on account of it being currently out of commission because of the heat.  sam will catch up to them eventually,   the impala stands out like a sore thumb in most places.  however with the roll of his husbands eyes,  it drags him back to the situation at hand.  yanking abraham back in for a real kiss on the lips when they go to the door.  “you’re stupid.”  he mutters in response as he takes the lead then, pulling the door to the motel open.

somehow the air outside the motel is cooler,  only by a degree it felt like but cooler none the less. the convenient store sits on opposing side to their motel room. far enough to make sense,  close enough that they could walk.  hopefully the metal ice dispenser didn’t follow suit to the air conditioning and wasn’t picked clean. because for the first time ever he wants to let go of abrahams hand simply because of both of their sweaty palms.  he doesn’t,  but the thought is there. when they do finally get there he does let go,  if only to open the ice container with have the c scratched off on the side of it.  didn’t matter how beat up the thing was,  there is ice in it.  HALLELUJAH!  “oh sweet fucking relief,”  dean breathes, practically sticking his head into the gap.  pulling his head out to shoot his husband a look,  “two bags?”

[peacespun]

a couple years have come and gone since dean's time in the arena,     some that  passed a little slower than others.     there were weeks when it felt as though the sun took a little longer to rise over the trees at mornings first light,      when it hesitated to be replaced with the stars.      but every year is a reminder of what occurred that day and the weeks that followed.       abraham can't say that its been simpler since he's been home,      even after all this time.      some days are harder than others for him still and he can understand why.    that much blood could almost never be cleaned entirely from a persons hands,      survival or not.      that much trauma could never be forgotten.      and dean lives with it every day,      between nightmares and terrors relived with eyes wide open.

the closer the day gets,    the worse it seemed to be.      especially those first few years.      a part of him was stuck in that brutal cycle no matter how long it had been,     how many times abe reminded him that he was home again,     or how close he held him as he shook with terror,      his breath short and ragged.      in recent years,     its gotten a little better.      they established a routine to help with it,      attempting a new way to cope that wasn't drowning himself in a bottle.      he doesn't remember where he'd gotten the seeds from,      only that it felt right to bring them home and start something new.      something they could nurture,      pick the fruits of their love and labor.       it took only one summer to sprout the first tree,      another before it had begun to produce fruit.     and now they have over a dozen of them,      each of them strong and healthy,      giving them fresh apples most of the year.      it wasn't a cure,      but it was something.      hope for something better.      and most importantly,      it was theirs.

sometimes he catches himself watching the light bend through the leaves with a soft breeze,      how it casts different shadows inside their home.      as he does now with a cup of tea in hand,      but instead of shadows he's watching the light play with deans eyes.      soft greens seem to shine in that light.      he will never know how he wound up so lucky.     

he goes over to @warspun,      sweeping a hand through his hair before leaning down to kiss his forehead,      his cheek,      then his lips.          "   i think we have a few more days of harvest in those trees.      after breakfast,      care to join me in the orchard?   "

[peacespun]

it was part impulse and part desire that brings a certain mischief to him, to the smile and the light that finds his eyes when he looks across at his husband: that perfect man laying next to him, finally beginning to settle. so he may have hoped. abraham moves to straddle his husbands hips and press a kiss to the center of his chest, right above his heart. but his next move is far more calculated, quick before @warspun can respond to previous actions. he leans forward and bites his right nipple, giving a soft tug.

[peacespun]

in character pt. 1

[peacespun]

it started the same way it had before.      he started to feel weak,      exhausted faster than he did after the first few months post surgery.      for the first couple of doctor appointments,      they didn't see anything.      perhaps they had assumed it had something to do with the medications he was taking post surgery,      side effects is what they called it.      but after some time the rhetoric turned around completely,      after dean and abe both raised their concerns.      this was how it started last time,      i just need someone to listen.     and when they had,     that was when abraham knew things had shifted.    "we'll monitor it. if something changes in the next few weeks, we'll know for sure."     but the more they waited,      the worse abraham felt.      he stopped doing what he loved,      stopped visiting dean in the office because getting out of bed was difficult and cost him too much energy.      and while he often tried to make it a point to see dean in the craft shed after he'd come home from work some days,     both out of want to see him and for some attempt to move around,      some nights even that proved difficult.

he went back on a list not an hour after his next doctors visit,    priority just under several other candidates in need of a heart.     this one was failing him too.      it would be his second transplant.    abraham was made acutely aware of the odds of something like this happening to him,      how often new hearts will fail despite all that is done to keep them from doing so.      its not uncommon.     he knew his odds from the beginning and still it felt like a heavy weight of shock when it was confirmed.

each day was harder than the last.      some days all he could do was sit on the couch and watch dean work from their kitchen table or right beside him after they made an effort to move him there.      other days he simply laid in bed and slept for ten,     twelve,    sometimes sixteen hours.      some days he couldn't manage anything at all.      until the day dean came to him with great big hopeful green eyes,      with news.      he'd been working on a transplantable heart in the craft shed all this time,     something tangible between human and robotic.     and there was a doctor willing to try something completely mad,      that has had very limited amounts of success in the past.      but he knows that he won't make it off that list,      he'll die waiting for another heart if he didn't at least consider other possibilities.      even fucking wild ones.

it went like usual:   meeting the doctor,     running the tests,     getting the same results back  chronic heart failure,      stage d.      but doctor tilman didn't seem swayed in the least,     which surprised him.     a man confident in his work and his ability to help.      then came the paperwork,      signing agreements and a few other things that moved under his eyes in a blur from him to dean.     then before he knew it,      it was surgery day.     kisses were plenty,     dean never let go of his hand and abraham never wanted him to.      at least until they passed those doors to the operating room and a last goodbye was signed.      one last i love you.

that is all he remembers until this moment.      soft blues carefully blinking open to the room around him,     to dean there at his bedside.     it worked.     it worked it worked it worked.      abraham cracks a smile to his husband,      giving such a weak squeeze to @warspun's hand,          "   is this heaven?   "

[peacespun]

he counted the seconds,      the minutes,      the hours it took from the time they hired a boat captain to when they finally arrived at their destination.      out in the middle of fucking nowhere, calm waters as far as the eye could see.      there were bitter memories that stirred in him when he stepped out onto the deck for the first time they left the dock,    watching calm waves crash against the boat as it cut through dark waters.     a nauseating feeling as he stood at the bow,     as he thought about how much time had gone by since the last time they were out here.      years.      it had been years and it had all come cruelly slow.

it wasn’t fair.   it wasn’t fair that dean had to sacrifice everything for a world that would never know who he was or what he did for them. even if someone told them, they wouldn't believe it. crueler still that abraham had to stay behind, had to let him go after months of trying to fight it, bury the possibility with what had been blind hope, let down at every possible turn.   it didn't seem to matter what they did, who they turned to, which stone they turned over --- it was all the same and they went home empty handed every time.

it wasn’t fair that it had to be @warspun to sacrifice everything he finally had.

just as its not fair that even after that iron coffin was shoved back into the water with the archangel still in it,      dean is still suffering.       creatures small enough to squeeze through a hole that had eventually punctured the coffin have stuck to his skin,      and he hasn’t been strong enough to pick them off for a long time.      he’s weak and atrophied,      smaller than he thought he would be.

and now,      in the quiet of the cabin,      just the two of them.      abraham tries so gently to pull those critters off of him.     removing them and putting them into a bowl he’ll discard of entirely,      whispering soft apologies when he finds one that has burrowed itself in deep and he has to put more effort into pulling it off of his skin.          “   i’m sorry….   shit–   i’m sorry.      i almost have it.   ”

[peacespun]

it was far from being the open ocean but it would do in a pinch.      bathtub is filled to its brim with water after the herculean effort it took to get him from water soaked towels in the car to here,      where he sloshed around some upon initial placement before he’s finally settled.     he has no idea how he’s going to explain this one to will,      how he’s going to justify stealing a “project” from work and hope in some way he understands that he couldn’t leave him there.     he doesn’t belong there,      he’d say,      he isn’t happy and its far more detrimental to his health to stay there.     and if he’s allowed to go on:      i want to take him back home.

home.      the ocean.      he’s safer there than he was in that cramped aquarium tank,     happy and healthier somewhere where he could be free to move around rather than stuffed into a box and gawked at for a $10 entry fee.      it hurt to watch time after time,      watching him become more and more depressed and nothing he could do to help.      the only highlight seemed to be when the whole place closed and abraham took to his studies,      when it was only him and the bucket of fish he brought @warspun.

“   shh,      easy…   ”          he tries to be soothing,      to reassure.      he can only imagine what must be going through his mind,      taken from one place to the next.     already,      abraham is laying down dry towels to hopefully soak up what water had sloshed out of the tub,      what trail has been created from garage to the bathroom.      will is gonna kill me.          “   take it easy,      settle down.      you’re okay,      i promise.   ”

[peacespun]

island life here was beautiful. beautiful crystal blue waters, the warmth of a summer breeze gently rustling the palm trees as it whispers by, salt air gently messing their hair. abraham caught himself adoring the way it would play with deans, blonde stands dancing into his face, sunlight reflecting in his eyes when he'd look up and brush them away, a few times catching abrahams own gaze and smiling that silly little smile. and when he hadn't been caught in long moments of admiring dean, he could faintly catch the sounds of water lapping at the shore, just out of their reach as they sat with their friends and basked in each blissful moment they're given. cherishing the laughs, the touches abraham steals encourages under the noses of their friends (they had already spent thirty minutes answering easily a hundred questions, "wait, when the fuck did this happen?!" "wait, does this mean... its about damn time!" and finally, jordan to raven, "you owe me twenty bucks."), and if he hadn't known any better, when fingertips would brush teasingly over his thigh, he'd say that dean fought to melt directly into his hands. easy to make something in him flutter, easier to make him blush, to feel the way he'd drawn closer to him with each touch, still hungry for the intimacy they shared earlier.

apparently easy to lose a loosely disguised dismissal from their friends when he squeezes his thigh, almost sneaks it up higher before words finally touch his ears. something about letting them go and have drinks alone, the others going to spend a couple more hours out walking the beach. "leave you two alone" are the only words he picks up and holds onto, then deans response: you know what, i think we will take you up on that offer. his hand squeezing abrahams, rising and leaning to scribble a name and room number in a quick motion, then smiling that silly little smile, holding his hand out to him. his eyes must say it all: god, finally. " oh, absolutely. " every individual syllable pronounced. he rises, interlocks his fingers with deans, hurries a goodbye to their friends and then guides him along.

thank god their walk is short. out of the restaurant, through the courtyard garden with beautiful, tall palm trees and flowers climbing the white stone of the hotel, a gravel pathway leading them back to the lobby where they make quick steps to the elevator. abraham pushing the button before he even has a moment to pause. bravery overwhelms him, or perhaps it is more desire when he turns to dean, steps forward and cups his face, pulling him into a deep, passionate kiss. no care in the world to who would see.

abraham’s hand has been exceedingly warm on his thigh all through out dinner, feeling as if it’s burned a hole in the leg of his shorts so much so that he can feel every movement of his fingers on his skin.  reigniting the passion he’d felt hours prior in their now shared resort room.  it is insane to remember that he’s been pining for this for so long, but too scared to push it beyond where the comfort zone they had fallen into,  to cross a line that they may not come back from if things didn’t work out. but he refuses to think about that in this moment.  they were on an island paradise,  had the most amazing encounter just moments before. here he doesn’t have to think about the rest of their life, he can just exist in the here and now with a view of the cool blue water at sunset lapping at the white sandy shores, the palm trees fluttering in the breeze.   how good it makes him fell, how good abraham makes him feel.

until one of their friends interjects almost as if reading dean’s mind,  he quickly sits back up taking his hand away from under his chin.  Only then realizing he’d been  staring…   no,  gazing at the other man fondly.  something about letting them go off and have a drink together alone.  and normally dean’s all for going with him to the casino for a round at the slot machines or enjoying a cocktail at one of the resort bars,  but really he’s thirsty for more of what happened earlier.  he places a hand over-top of abrahams on his thigh  “you know what, I think we will take you up on that offer,”  a squeeze to the other man’s hand, before standing up from the table to stretch a bit. then leaning over to sign his name and their room number on their portion of the check, setting the pen back down before turning to @peacespun with a smile and holding out his hand for him to take.  “ready?”

[peacespun]

there had been a previous comfort in knowing that should the worst come of the world, they would take their chances up on the surface rather than stuffed in a vault like sardines waiting for the fallout to dissipate from the world. it was a comfort to know that come even the doom of humanity, they would have each other like they always had. in their childhood, in war, in late life, in an afterlife. because the worst did come. the thing so feared by everyone on earth, the thing that more people than he cared to count had tried to stop long before this very moment: the bombs fell.

oddly, there was no fear when they did. they indirectly watched the flashes of the fireballs light up across the city, illuminating their room and casting odd shadows on everything they could. the only dire that existed in that moment was the desire to hold dean closer, reassure him with his eyes that everything would be okay, and let whatever was to happen happen. that was all they could do now. they did their part, now war and death had to do its own.

and even that seemed like a far away thought. it took only the first shockwave to completely render him unconscious. not a moment even to react, within a millionth of a second it was over. at least ... that was what he assumed. that was what was supposed to happen. right? they were supposed to be dead. if not from the fireball itself then the radiation, right? that was what they were told, what they have known for years. but he feels ... alive? abraham can't yet open his eyes but he feels present, lingering somewhere between life and death. enough that he can faintly hear a voice calling to him (dean? dean, i'm still here ... we're alive?).

hey, he's shaken and a groan falls from his lips, baby get up. there's an odd metallic taste in his mouth when he finally fights to come forward, a groan falling again when this time he tries to move himself. fingers first, wiggling them; then his arms, then opening his eyes to his husband. hand gently cradles his cheek, frowns when he notices a few blotches over his husbands skin. radiation burns? " we're alive? " a different question, " are you okay? "

he never got to see the defeated look on his own face,  but his husband had. but just like he always had there had been comfort in the way abraham had cupped his face,  as if everything was going to be okay. it had only been a matter of time before they had to prepare for the worst.  dean thinks maybe they’re better off on the surface than in a vault,  that is if the encroaching threat followed through.  they had lived a good life together,  grew up together,  served together, lived together and now they would face the looming nuclear threat together. 

they followed through.

and when the bombs did fall,  they had started the moment cupping each others faces.  this is it.  while they were young and life would’ve extended for so long had this not happened. it had been a faded memory,  when he comes to.  on the floor of their bedroom against the wall.  force of the nuclear wave having knocked him off.  he adjusts,  only then does a sharp pain strike into his side.  he glances down to see a shade of glass protruding there.  dean isn’t sure this is even possible,  he should be dead.   “abe?”  he calls out,  with no answer.  against better judgement,  he yanks the glass out from his side with a grunt quickly covering the wound with his hand.  but blood doesn’t gush out,  in fact it hurts less  ⸻  not the same or worse.  the skin of his hands are blotchy, as if decay had set in.  weird.  the wound on his stomach is healed already,  even weirder.  he tries again,  “abe?” this time standing and reaching for the edge of the bed.  “hey,”  he begins again when he sees his husband onconcious on the bed.   again:   “hey,”  reaching over to shake @peacespun.  “baby get up.”

[peacespun]

" i know, i know. " the first thing he says after mentioning the medicine, following with a promise of a bath. complete with bubbles, obviously. he may be sick but that doesn't mean he can't at least enjoy himself, have some semblance of normal despite the common cold beating every sense of his body to a pulp. " i already have the water going. the sooner we're done here, the sooner you can relax in the bath. " said as he poured the contents in the measuring cap, gently bringing it over to him and setting it carefully in his two hands. he knows what comes next.

blegh. ah yes, the familiar sounds of the common cold in their household. this medicine tastes so nasty! how can they say its grape?! have they ever tasted a grape before? because this ain't grape! abraham can only laugh and shake his head, " you say that every time we get grape medicine, " to be fair, it doesn't smell that appealing either; can't imagine that it tastes any better than dean lets on. then back to the kitchen to rinse the cap, placing it over the lid of the bottle and setting it back on the counter with the rest of the supplies: tissues, vaporub, medicines. then he returns once again to his husband, gently reaching out to him and cradling his face. poor baby, him and his little red nose. " lets get you in that bath. maybe it'll help clear your head a little bit. "

his head is pounding, like there are war drums at the base of his skull. the pressure is a two ton anvil slowly descending into his nasal cavity ⸻ he sniffles, his nose runs anyway. the noise he makes isn't quite human as he feels the drip running down one nostril. it tickles all of two seconds before he fumbles for a tissue. it is rare that he gets this sick, which makes this all the more miserable. dean sits curled into himself upon the couch, blanket wrapping around his shivering shoulders, this fucking sucks. and it even more sucks knowing that his husband will not catch this from him. lucky bastard quite frankly. it feels as if he's been in this state for weeks when it's only been three days. but a light, just a little flickering at the end of this small tunnel; enough time has passed that he can now take more medicine. @peacespun even promises him a bath, nothing that batting his eyelashes won't get him, however unprompted this time. his husband returns to him, measuring out a dose for him in the cap of the grape medicine bottle. immediately, dean reaches out with both hands taking hold of the cap. he downs the contents, blegh. he coughs, “ugh, this medicine tastes so nasty! how can they say it’s grape?! have they even tasted a grape before? because this ain’t grape!” gesturing to the bottle, other hand jamming against the nasty taste that lingers on his lips.

[peacespun]

smile tugs at his lips at the reaction he gets from dean: ooohh, i like the sound of that. " good, then it's settled. " the instant they leave this fucking cesspool he's going to be looking for far better places to set them up. only the best for husband, of course, going the extra mile just to see that glow over him when he finally experiences true luxury again. spoiling dean has always been top priority ... until they have to deal with the lack of decent options in this part of the country. out this far, in small town rural america, choices came down to one or two things. car or an old motel that hadn't seen any kind of renovations or upgrades since the fifties. and as much as he hated being in this heat, abraham much preferred to have a bed to sleep in over stretching out on those seats again. one night is all they have. one night then they can leave this place behind them.

dean slings his shirt over his shoulder after sliding into his shoes, a tempting opportunity if it weren't for how gross they felt in the moment. if it didn't mean heat exhaustion or sweating over each other more than they already had that day, clinging to each other in ways they didn't want to because bodies refused to move in such conditions. an awful idea but one he can't shake with the way he looks just standing there, hand now in his. then he rolls his eyes, even scoffs: pretend i am biting you right now. tease, he's tempted to say, do it. but instead he laughs, leans to give him a little kiss to his cheek before leading him to the door. " you can do that later. "

the groan that leaves his husband lips travels straight to dean’s groin,  making him even hotter than he already is. cnce his shorts are on,  progressing the heat even farther he’s fanning himself with his hand though it isn’t doing much in the way of helping.  no where near enough.  dean exhales rather angrily,  more so at the fact that he has to put his shirt back on and  despite the happy flutter that the other mans reply brings to his chest.   “ooohhhhh…”  he manages out,   dare he say the ones with the heating lamps in the bathroom ceiling lest he makes both of them even closer to heat exhaustion.   “…i like the sound of that.”  its been hit or miss all these years,  hitting those fancy hotels  ⸻  most places in middle america don’t have them at least the small towns where evil things like to lurk,  like the one they’re currently in.

“eugh..”   he’s forced to now enclose his feet in shoes,  tennis shoes,  he wasn’t even going to think about putting his feet in his steel-toed boots,  not an option in that moment.  and instead of actually putting his shirt on,  it’s slung over his bare freckled shoulder.  he doesn’t need to actually put it on until they get inside the store,  right?  arching a brow to the sweaty hand extended towards him.  abraham is very lucky that dean was hopelessly in love with him because he does take his hand.  roll of his eyes,  amused scoff,   “pretend i am biting you right now.”

[peacespun]

thank you and goodnight atlanta. the performance was everything he needed tonight, the loud and cheering demand for an encore. a couple more songs to satiate long devoted fans, the ones who waited so patiently for this since his come back to the music scene newly sober. thankfully not many of them had been previously aware of that fact. it was tight lock and key for as long as abraham could keep it out of the press' hands, until dean was ready to tell his story for himself. what little stories that did come out had been stamped down by the quick and exemplary legal team that abraham hired to back dean in every corner, ready at a moments notice. it had been a call to arms on day one. anything and everything a person could do to keep that affair private. and each person executed their job perfectly.

and it was so reinvigorating for him being out there on that stage. he saw it in dean's eyes the moment he strapped that guitar over his shoulder and stepped out to greet the crowd for the first time, when hands grabbed the microphone and he poured his heart and soul into his performance and all of this beautifully funky little venue in the middle of atlanta erupted with excitement. they loved it and wanted more, and dean gave it to them.

and what about you? the question hangs in the air for only a moment before blue eyes leave the screen of his phone. what did i think? somehow that is the simplest and the hardest answer to give. for abraham, watching dean perform has always been the best thing he could possibly ask for, seeing him fall beautifully in love with the crowd and the excitement he can bring to any venue every time. abraham always has the best seat in the house, he can see it all.

abraham turns his phone off for the first time that night, tossing it somewhere beside him. he doesn't pay attention to where it lands, instead keeping his eyes focused ahead to hold deans gaze in the mirror. and what about you? " i thought you were amazing. " but that was always the case. what else? abraham stands then, keeping his gaze with deans in the mirror as he steps forward to him, reaching to take a towel from the vanity and cleaning sweat from his brow, his cheek, under his chin. what did you really think? " i thought that you looked beautiful out there tonight, like you were really having fun again. congratulations on a beautiful come back, dean. "

he feels better than he thought he would.  exhilarated even,  as he scampers off the stage post encore.  ‘thank you and good-night atlanta.   love you.’  his first show since coming absolutely sober has gone off without any sort of hitch.  reminds him that the change he’d made:   hiring abraham,  firing his previous manager, is one of the best decisions he’s ever found himself making   ⸻  and he’s made a lot of pretty bad decisions in his life.  for the first time in months,   he’s not thinking about his next fix,  he’s not craving the atmosphere of the after party.   in fact,  much much better than without a hitch,  exceeding all expectations he had prior to performing, he's craving a quiet night in mostly solitude.

when dean enters the dressing room,  he tosses his shirt onto that hot pink floral couch without much more than a passing glance to it.  maybe the shirt lands on abraham, maybe it doesn’t. he plants himself in front of the mirror,  watches his reflection as a bead of sweat rolls down his pectoral to drip off his nipple. he never forgot how hot being under the spotlights can be,  figuratively and literally.  his lips part in a gentle exhale as abraham reads off one of his fans or critics,  interchangeable at any moment really, latest twitter post.   seeing dean preform live is a truly life changing,   orgasmic experience.   arms come up to rest on the vanity,  his thumbnail caught between pearly whites for a few bites.  “and what about you?”  they’d been skating around it but dean’s come to value the other man’s opinion excluding professional.  risking a glance in the mirror towards the unsightly couch,  half-relieved,  half-forlorn that his managers gaze is on his phone screen and not him.

[peacespun]

i wouldn't go that far. oh but he would, he absolutely would. anything that brings them a sense of relief from this heat would hardly be anything short of a fucking miracle. truth be told, the manager of this place should consider himself very lucky that this heat is so fucking miserable and heavy, otherwise abe would give him a piece of his mind for having the nerve to omit the fact that the ac has been busted for what looks like forever. luckier that neither of them have yet to demand a refund upon its discovery: we're only here for a night, it shouldn't be too bad. boy was he wrong.

there is a very audible groan that leaves his lips when he pushes himself from the mattress, sliding a shirt over his shoulders and hating the way it sticks to his back from sweat. remind me to get you to book a hotel next time we travel anywhere. " i'll make sure that the next place we stay is a five star hotel, just for you. " and for himself. not often they dip their toes into luxury but after this they certainly deserve it. dean deserves it. his shorts go on next, then his shoes that he leaves unlaced. then, after a moment, he's reaching out for dean with a dumb grin rising to his lips, " come on sweaty, lets get some ice. "

even a little bit like heaven.    “i wouldn’t go that far,” came his amused reply,  still dean can’t help but admire the way his husband thinks constantly.  it is inspiring to say the least,   the fair bit of hope they needed and deserved.  though he isn’t sure if the ice was there or if his mind supplied the option because of heat exhaustion.  only one way to find out.  his gaze still lingers on abraham,  now making direct eye contact with him.   he says words that dean almost registers implying they should get a move on.  but the bones of his back creaked when he began to move.  a shudder when he felt another bead of sweat roll down the back of his thigh when he stood up. there is dread with each step he took towards the bed, knowing he’d have to put a shirt on and the very least shorts.  thank god he actually packed shorts this time.  he whips them out of the duffel bag,  “remind me to get you to book a hotel next time we travel anywhere.”  the exhilarating thrill of road trips have certainly become lack-luster for him,  the older he gets.

[peacespun]

i'll think about it. the years have been harder on him, particularly this time of year. and while he does try his best to help keep his mind from the haunting memories, taking him out for a walk or to the little pond just within their district bounds to go fishing, bringing him outside to tend to and pick the dozen or so apple trees they planted one year, part of him believes that pieces of dean have never made it out of the arena. pieces of him go back every year when the reapings come around. he becomes lost in himself, paranoid, the night terrors get worse and while he does try to hide it, dean relives those weeks over and over and over again.

abraham will never push him, never force him into something he isn't ready for or cannot bring himself to do that day. i'll think about it is answer enough. its heavier this time, the feeling surrounding the reapings. the dread. even abraham can feel it in the pit of his stomach. ever since 74th ... ever since that girl from 12 ... there's been a tension throughout the capitol that reached each of the districts, a coil ready to snap. there were stricter rules in place since the day katniss and peeta went home together, schedules were harsher for those who worked. the peacekeepers watched their every move, sun up to sun down. abraham even had to be careful in the city square. it didn't matter that he was well known to be their only male victor's counterpart, one misstep was all it took and he knew it. they walked a razors edge since the previous games.

he can't fault dean for feeling the way he does, heavy and uncertain in the face of the reapings. the 75th year feels different. while it was somewhat familiar, this kind of dread, it doesn't change how abraham intends to spend his day, nor his plans to try and help bring dean back to him once again. i'll think about it. it earns a soft kiss to his temple, then he simply turns and walks to their kitchen. eggs from the chickens raised by their former neighbors, gifted to them when the clutch was too big for their own pantry. mixed with the milk, flour, sugar and a rising starch. pancakes. he is about to light the fire on the stove, then---- CRASH!

" dean?! " he moves before there is time to answer, running through the kitchen and back into the main room. the sound of the capitol theme fades into the background, far away as ceaser flickerman seems to reoccupy the screen with a cheer to his voice. for but a moment, soft blues glance down at shattered ceramic, coming back up only after he's maneuvered around it to stand in front of the other man, holding either side of his face. " dean? dean, baby, what happened? "

the first few years after the arena were a blur to him. he remembers the victory tour, just after his games and the one the following year. then every trip after to the capitol a nightmare, he dreads the days where he's summoned there by president snow himself. but dean knows he can't say no, you don't say no to the capital and you don't say no to president snow⸻if he didn't have people he loved, if he didn't have sam, if he didn't have abraham, it'd be another story. he doesn't fear what happens to him, there's nothing more they can do to him save for kill him. but they won't, they won't touch him. no, they'll take away all that he loves, they'll make his life revolve around serving the capitol and only serving the capitol. one might consider him a coward, and maybe some part of him is. but it's not always the arena he relives in his nightmares, in his waking terrors, sometimes it's visions of sam dying, of abraham dying (those are the worst ones). when he wakes in a cold sweat, screaming, only for abraham to tug him close and rock him back and forth. it is those moments he feels so small: he feels like a child again, he was a child. he is a killer now. so when abraham had come home with the seeds with the promise of dean being able to give life, not take it away, dean is grateful. the symbolism is there whether or not his boyfriend did it on purpose or not. but it's not enough to stop the emotions the closer it got each year to reaping day, to when the buzz about the hunger games would start up again. this is year seventy-five, a monumental occaion, and with the fiasco that was the seventy-fourth, he worries for what is about to come. not even sticking his hands in the dirt at the victors village, tending to those apple trees and ignoring the rest of district nine can provide comfort. the television is always on now as the days tick down to the reaping, most days background but today something feels different in the air. currently, caesar flickerman is droning on about the weather, a snow storm here, a thunderstorm there, and he hopes this is all there is to it⸻ that his instincts are wrong. he can't shake the gut feeling he has which churns still in his stomach. it ceases only momentarily with the kisses. however, it's like abraham can sense his unease offering up a distraction. he can't keep obsessing over this, can he? “I'll think about it.” it is not the answer he wants to give, but the other man seems just as content with that response just as if he said yes. he tears his eyes away from the projected screen if only for a second in time to see the others back when he disappears into the kitchen to make breakfast. his fingertips come up to his mouth and he's biting at the nail of his middle finger. dean thinks about it for all of a few minutes before he decides to give his boyfriend a better answer. he stands picking up his empty coffee mug, but stops in his tracks when he hears the announcement tune sound off from the speakers. then president snow appears on the screen. and as snow begins to speak an icy chill runs up his spine.

Ladies and gentlemen. This is the 75th year...of the Hunger Games. It was written in the charter of the games. In every 25 years there will be a Quarter Quell. To keep fresh for each new generation, the memory of those who died. And the uprising against the Capitol. Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by games...of a special significance. Now on this eve of the reaping. We celebrate the third Quarter Quell. As a reminder. That even the strongest. Cannot overcome. The power of the Capitol. On this the third Quarter Quell game. The male and female tributes. Are to be reaped. From the existing pool of victors. In each district.

he is frozen in time, his hand begins to shake and the mug falls from his grasp shattering upon impact to the floor. he is the only living male victor from district nine, he knows what this means. this is what he was dreading, this is why his senses were on over-drive. dean wanted it to be nothing, but this is far from nothing.

[peacespun]

its unfathomable this kind of heat with no cool air. he'd almost forgotten what summers without ac felt like, but even back then they had measures in place for cooling off. on any random day, abraham remembered going out to the creek to settle in the gentle stream of water. here? they can't do that. the thought of moving was unbearable, even the shower with hope of cool water over his skin feels too far away in its five steps. no ac equals a very miserable fucking time. nothing they did cooled them off: stripped down to practically nothing, laying on the lowest surface they could find (if he doesn't think about how dirty the place is, he less he'll bother to move). nothing except the words that come out of deans mouth give him hope of relief. i think they're selling bags of ice next door at the gas station. " ohh, that sounds promising. even a little bit like heaven. " anything to get some kind of relief in this shithole motel. abraham props himself up on his elbows, looking down to find deans eyes, " come on... lets go have a look and hope they have some left. "

🌡️Temperature!   iPhone needs to cool down before you can use it “useless piece of shit.” dean mutters letting the damn thing fall to the dirty motel floor over the door of the mini fridge.  he’s bare-foot, sitting with his head resting against the cabinet,  long passed caring about the suspicious looking stains on the ratty carpet because it’s just too hot   ⸻  too hot to wear much of anything for that matter.  the only he’s left in are his boxer briefs and even they’re soaked with sweat. risking a glance to @peacespun who is faring just about the same as him:  fucking miserable.  of course the one place they decide to stop at has air conditioning that’s busted.  would’ve been a nice warning before they’d actually paid for the room.   “hey,”  dean clears his throat,  watching a bead of sweat roll down the back of his foot.  “I think they’re selling bags of ice next door at that gas station.”