#AND THE LOOKS PAIRED WITH HOW THEY CHANGED HIM TO BE SO MUCH CRUELLER AND GREEDIER IN THE GRAPHIC NOVEL....

[somelazyassartist]

What do I have to do to never see graphic novel Taako ever again (/nbh)

[creative-crybaby]

Phantom Limbs

PAIRING: Takami Keigo (Hawks) x fem!reader

GENRE: angst | comfort | smut (18+)

Minors DNI

TAGS + WARNINGS: dry humping, nipple play, spit play, light manhandling, hair pulling, creampie, overstimulation, marking (scratches)

Let me know if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

SUMMARY: Having lost his wings, there's only so much Takami can do to help other heroes and save innocent civilians. And with him having even less time on his hands, you do whatever you can to take care of him.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Posting on my birthday is like a little gift from me to me :)

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

You wait by the windows out of habit. 

The book in your hand has remained open on the same page for the past fifteen minutes, your eyes reading the words, but your brain too distracted to process them. Your focus is more on the corners of your peripheral vision, hoping to catch something, anything outside. All that’s offered in the great outdoors is grey skies and an even greyer atmosphere. Though, you suppose you should know better by now. 

Because, as of late, he’s been entering your shared home through the front door. 

The sound of the jiggling knob has you up from your seat in a second; you slam your book shut and toss it onto the coffee table (never mind saving your page). You’re at the entrance when the door fully opens, anxiously shifting your weight from one foot to the other. 

Takami’s eyes widen ever so slightly at your rushed movements, but he then exhales as he kicks off his boots. 

“Honey, I’m home,” the Pro Hero quips, though his tone and smile lack his usual energy. You greet him back while helping him remove his jacket, the material cold and damp in your hands. You get a better look at him once you turn back to him. With the harsh weather and being outside for who knows how long, it’s only natural for him to deal with those conditions’ blunt force. Soaked to the bone, he shivers, though you can tell he’s trying to stop his movements. His blonde hair is now a dark gold from the rain, stray strands sticking to his forehead. It’s a miracle his skin isn’t blue, but he’s definitely a few shades too pale. And his eyes—they haven’t known rest even before the Paranormal Liberation War, but dealing with the aftermaths of such a tragedy takes its toll even on the strongest of heroes. 

You gently rest your hand on his cheek, your thumb lovingly caressing the new scar on his skin. “What are you doing out there?”

Takami sighs, relaxing in your hold before shifting his head to peck your palm. “Oh, the usual.”

You’d press for more if the look he gave you weren’t one of exhaustion, almost pleading. Instead, you rake the fingers of your free hand through his hair, careful not to tug on any knots. 

“How about a shower?” you hum. “I’ll even help you out.”

The blonde mumbles something in agreement, seemingly too low on energy for any more words, before following you to the bathroom. 

Several months back in your relationship, you’d struggle to have him in your home, what with his gigantic wings. He’d rarely knock over your belongings due to his cautiousness, but it didn’t change that your apartment wasn’t Wing-Hero-friendly. 

That was the least of your problems when he decided to stay over. Your bed wasn’t big enough for the two of you, and you’d wake up in the morning to find his wings positioned uncomfortably. Even when Hawks would dismiss your concern, you weren’t fooled. But going from queen-sized to king-sized wasn’t an issue compared to your bathroom. Even sharing the space with a wingless person was bound to have you two bump into each other, and yet, your boyfriend made himself at home. 

With your apartment now nothing more than a pile of rubble, all those concerns seem foolish, almost cruel, as you actually went out of your way to get a larger bed for him. 

What’s crueller is that a smaller space would no longer be an issue now that his wings are gone. 

You can’t help but think about all of this bitterly every time you two enter the shower. The one in Takami’s home is far bigger, made to accommodate his wings, but it’s all just empty space. He settles on the shower stool with a heavy exhale, and you stand behind him to wash his hair, letting the warm water wash away whatever pessimistic thoughts crawl back to taunt you. At least you can take comfort in seeing the Pro Hero visibly relax under your touch, tilting his head back as your fingers thoroughly massage his scalp. 

You’re extra careful when washing his body. The scar on his back makes you pause before resuming your task, and while the blonde notices your hesitance, he doesn’t comment. It’s not the only mark on his body, but it’s certainly the largest. Maybe one day, you’ll come to pepper the area with kisses as you would with all the other scars that litter his body. For now, knowing how it ended up on him hits you with the anxieties of “what if.”

Having kept your hair up and out of the way, you cover yourself in a towel before assisting your boyfriend out of the shower. He wraps a towel around his hips and sighs a silent thank you before you take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. It’s all either of you say for a while, even while you dry his hair with him settled in front of you, between your thighs and facing away. 

The hot water flushes his skin, a sight that helps you relax as you run a towel through his locks. You let it rest around his neck once you’re done, leaning forward to wrap your arms around his torso. 

“Want me to make you something to eat?” you ask quietly. “You must be starving.”

“I’m okay,” he hums. Your fingers skate across the blonde’s abdomen, drawing random shapes and patterns and making him shiver. “I just want to stay like this for a bit longer.”

You shift your head to rest your chin on his shoulder, the fluffy material of the towel tickling your skin. “Then let me get you some clothes so you don’t catch a cold.”

The Pro Hero gently removes himself from your embrace, turning to face you. Your wrists remain in his grasp, and he brings them to his lips to kiss both of your palms. 

“That won’t be necessary,” he mumbles against your skin, eyes fluttering closed. “Stay.”

His voice has a light rasp, and you’re sure you catch the subtle pleading in his tone. You sigh, sliding your hands to caress his face. Takami’s eyes open again, golden irises peering up at you as his brows furrow lightly. There’s a gentle tug to his hold, and you shift closer to him. 

“So much for all that time to kill,” you try to quip, though you don’t find your tone convincing. For good measure, you trace his jaw with featherlight kisses. “Even with the Safety Commission out of the way, you can’t catch a break.”

He chuckles airily. “It was never going to be all that simple, dove. You and I both know that.”

You pout at his words. The pull of his grasp reappears, and you’re brought closer to your boyfriend until you’re almost sitting on his lap. One of his hands slides to your waist, encouraging you to do so. You obey, loosely wrapping your arms around his neck. Back when he had his wings, your fingertips would graze their base, earning you breathy moans from him. With them now gone, you settle for lightly scratching at his undercut.

“Must be exhausted with everything going on,” you whisper, the tip of your nose gently grazing against his. 

“Coming home to you makes it all worth it,” Takami breathes before closing the gap. You both exhale into the kiss as you pull each other closer. Even with a towel in the way, he runs his hands up and down your torso, opting to feel you as much as possible. Once you’ve removed yourself from the embrace, he still attaches his lips to any exposed skin he can find. 

“Keigo,” you whimper, trying to hold still as he nibbles on your neck. “Are you sure? You need rest.”

You feel the Pro Hero shake his head without pausing the assault on the skin. “I need you.”

Even before destruction fell upon the country, you’ve worried for Takami’s safety. With his wings, he could reach the clouds; any higher could take the oxygen out of his lungs. He’s capable, but also human: even the overly glorified ones have limits. And as much as you want him to be well, you miss him just as much. 

You unlatch him from you without tugging too hard, and you’re met with glossy eyes and quivering lips. That desperation has been stuck in his tone and gaze since he returned home. Needing you close in any physical manner that’s given to him, his focus staying on you a little longer than what one may consider necessary. You remember when you’d beg him to stay in bed a bit longer before he went on patrol, putting on your best pout to convince him. 

But now he's the one begging, pleading for your touch. And with the subtle poking of your thigh, you’re given more than enough convincing. Your lips return to mesh with his as you attempt to remove your towel with what little wiggle room you have. Takami takes this opportunity to let his hands roam your bare skin, tracing your curves and groping at any fat he can find while leaving a trail of goosebumps. The towel around his neck slides off, and you’d remove the last one if you could, but for now, you make the most of the situation by grinding into his lap, his bulge rubbing against your clit deliciously. 

He’s restless; you noticed the signs before you found yourself on top of him. The Pro Hero moans into your mouth, his hands quick to grip your hips to drag them across his own. He pushes for a deeper kiss, if even possible, letting his tongue taste yours. You’re in desperate need of oxygen, and you’re sure he’s in the same state. When you pull away, he leans in to catch your lips once more.

“Let me take over,” you pant, resting your forehead against his. “Let me make you feel good.”

“No,” Takami groans lowly, eyes lidded and face flushed. “Need this. Need to do this for you.” He slowly flips you both from your current position so you lay on the mattress caged below his arms and legs. With a shadow looming over his handsome features, his eyes glow gold. “It’s selfish of me, I know, but I’ll take good care of you, too. Show you how much you mean to me.”

His words make your eyes soften, your arms wrapping around his neck again and pulling him close. Neither of your gazes leaves each other, not even as the towel ever so slowly loosens from his hips and cascades off his body. With your lips mere centimetres away, you’d have to give him credit for showing restraint thus far.  

“You can never be selfish when you deserve the world,” you say before closing the distance. A growl escapes his throat; from your words or your taste, you aren’t sure, and you don’t care to figure it out. Not when he pulls away to trail messy open-mouthed kisses down your neck, stopping at your collarbone before latching on to one of your nipples. Your back arches into his touch, and his other hand tweaks at your neglected bud. 

From your peripheral vision, you catch his shoulder blades twitch. You’d remember how his wings would ruffle when you two would make love, showing just as much vulnerability as the rest of him. The base of his crimson limbs was especially sensitive, and he’d let out the most beautiful sounds whenever they’d meet your touch. With them gone, the subtle movement is mere muscle memory. But when they jerk again once your fingers tug his somewhat-damp locks, you know better than to dismiss his body’s reactions.

Takami unlatches from your nipple to press his face between your breasts, inhaling deeply while his hand continues its treatment on the other bud. The sudden halt in his ministrations has you peering down at him, face warm while showing your confusion. 

Still pressed against your chest, his gaze meets yours, eyes hooded and ravenous. “I can’t wait any longer.”

You exhale, trying your best to prevent your breathing from stammering. “Then don’t.”

Those two words were more than enough for the blonde, quickly propping himself up before pulling you closer to his body by your legs. The sudden shift makes you yelp, but Takami doesn’t say anything as he pumps his cock, using his precum as lube. His touches had you already dripping, and watching him stroke himself as he watches you with desperation and lust in his eyes only adds to the mess between your thighs. 

Normally, he’d take his time with you. The Pro Hero, known for his speed when defeating villains, would throw all that out the window when you were in the picture, wanting to enjoy every second he has with you. This also applies to love-making, opting to prep you by treasuring your body and pleasure before the main event. 

But with how he’s currently panting as he aims his cock at your entrance, his face and neck flushed, you’re more than content to indulge in his neediness. 

His attempt at restraint is apparent as he takes his time sliding in. The tip makes you whine, and the blonde’s brows crease as he slowly adds another inch. His hold, now on your hips, is bruising, even as his thumbs would caress your skin. It makes you hiss, reaching up and making grabbing motions for him. Takami obeys, dropping to bury his head in the junction of your neck and inhaling your scent. A mistake: one where the consequences earn you a groan and the rest of his cock slammed inside your soaked pussy. 

“Keigo!” you cry, pulling him closer. 

Curses tumble from his lips. “‘M sorry, dove. I—oh, God…”

If being stuffed full without warning didn’t make you so delirious, you’d swear you heard him whimper. His calloused hands wander your body while his lips sprinkle kisses onto your shoulder: an apology, one you drunkenly accept as you try to adjust to the intrusion. A snug fit—it makes you wrap your legs around his hips. Your actions have the Pro Hero shifting to face you. He resembles a lost puppy, with his slightly-parted lips and wide eyes beneath furrowed brows of concern. You almost coo. 

“Go ahead,” you whisper, fingers dancing across his undercut. “Use me.”

The expression he gives you before he reels his hips back is pleading and one of gratitude. You barely register it before he slams back into you and knocks the air out of your lungs. 

Takami finds his pace in no time, pounding against you that the sound of skin slapping skin overpowers both of your heavy breathing. Every thrust has you squeezing around his shaft, and he rests his forehead against yours. 

Everything is burning—the room, your mangled bodies, his breath fanning against your cheek. You’re boiling, your brain melting into a puddle of nothingness as your hands fly to his back, your nails planting into his shoulder blades. Your boyfriend’s eyes screw shut, a sharp grunt escaping him. You want to apologize; you should apologize, but you don’t realize your actions, and with his sudden angle shift, words fail you with every probe at your sweet spot. All you can give him is pathetic moans through a slack jaw. 

His lips meet your swollen ones: you give him plenty.

“Keigo,” you manage to slur against his mouth. Takami bites your bottom lip, one of his hands reaching between your bodies to messily rub your puffy clit. You wail, and he pulls away from the assault on your lips. 

“Open,” he heaves. Surprisingly, you not only understand but comply, letting your mouth fall open once more for his hungry gaze. Through glossy eyes, you barely see him puckering his lips and letting a blob of spit fall into your awaiting tongue. You squeak when it lands before you swallow the tiny puddle. His thrusts don’t falter throughout all of this, and his lewd act of possessiveness tips you over the edge, your weeping pussy creaming around his dick and leaving a gooey ring at its base. A sight you’d love to witness if your vision wasn’t currently white. 

But Takami doesn’t stop. Not while you ride through your orgasm, not once you come down from it, and certainly not when you begin to cry from the overstimulation. 

“Keigo!” you squeal, tightening your hold on his back. “Too much! ‘S too much!”

His speed has yet to falter, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Not that your lover is any better, what with his vision gone hazy and grip tightening. 

“Almost there, baby.” You can feel his warm breath fanning your face from his panting. “Just lemme—” His thrusts grow sloppier, jackhammering into your cunt like his life depends on it, all while whimpering “pleasepleasepleaseplease” on a loop. A particularly rough thrust has you wailing and your nails clawing down his back. Takami lets out a drawn-out groan. “Sh-Shit—”

The tiniest push and he’s hurtled over you, eyes screwed shut and jaw slack as his hips stutter. His face is flushed, close to rivalling the colour of his wings, and strands of his dishevelled hair clings to his forehead with sweat. Even with an unfocused gaze and a foggy brain, you can tell he’s as ethereal as ever as he fills you with hot ropes of cum. 

You feel his muscles relax under your hold, and the Pro Hero exhales deeply before dropping on top of you. The sudden weight, while at first crushing, eventually feels like a weighted blanket, and you wrap your arms around your lover once more. 

It isn’t until both your breathings are regulated do you speak, your words somewhat muffled against his skin. “You okay, pretty bird?”

Takami sighs, planting a kiss on your temple before pulling out. You shiver at the feeling of his cum leaking out; he notices, opting to caress your sides to calm you down. He can only offer a hum in confirmation at your question, the vibrations buzzing off his body and tickling yours.

When he gets off you, he also dismounts the bed, making his way to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. It isn’t until he twists his body to have his back face it do you catch the red scratch marks on his shoulder blades, vibrant and right on top of his most recent battle scar. You gasp.

“I’m so sorry, Kei,” guilt is evident in your voice as you sit up on the bed, hugging the sheets. “I should have been more careful. Let me go get—”

A soft, airy chuckle interrupts your worrying. The blonde traces one of your marks, shifting his shoulder blades before fully facing you. 

“It’s like they never left,” he rasps, lips twitching to form a sad smile. “Too bad I won’t be able to fly with them.”

Your brows knit together as you frown at his words, your eyes growing warm as they threaten to rain down tears. Your lover’s expression doesn’t budge as he approaches you, climbing the bed and finding his spot next to yours. He laughs dryly to himself, and it only dies down once you place your hand on his.

“Please, talk to me,” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder.

What remains of his front is cut off by a hiccup. It isn’t until you feel his body tremble do you peer at him to find streams of tears cascading down his rosy cheeks. 

“Sometimes it feels like they’re still there,” he sobs silently, pausing to collect himself. You’re quick to pull him into your embrace, and he melts completely. “Even with the Commission out of the way, I still feel trapped.” He pulls back to look at you with pleading eyes. “I thought wings were a symbol of freedom. What happened?”

Hawks is gone, and before you is Keigo. A Pro Hero so young and forced onto such a high pedestal that one wrong step is a heavy drop. Without his wings, only you are there to catch him. 

And with all the strength you can muster, you do so, carrying his weight in your arms as he falls apart, trembling and crying and heaving so hard you fear he’ll slip between your fingers into a pile of nothingness. For as long as you’ve known him, Takami has only ever born his soul to you like this fewer times than you can count on one hand. If he could save the lives of countless civilians (including your own), you figure that being his safety net is the least you can do. 

A weak snicker escapes his lips, and you pull back to face him.

“Tokoyami’s been calling a bunch these past several days,” he drawls, his thumb mindlessly caressing your arm while staring past your shoulder. “Never answered him back, not even once. I should at least call the kid.”

Your boyfriend’s about to get up before you try to hold him in his spot without using too much force (not that you’d be able to stop him). His questioning gaze trails to you, and no matter how much you want to coddle him until he wants you gone, you keep your head up.

“Not now, honey,” You rest your forehead against his. “One step at a time. You can apologize tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll understand. He’s a smart kid.”

He sniffles, and you wipe a stray tear from his cheek. “You’re probably right.”

His breathing appears even, and the crying seems to have subsided, even if just for now. You offer a small smile.

“How about a meal?” you inquire, nudging your nose against his. “Whatever you want.”

The Pro Hero hums, tiredly copying your expression. “Can we just stay like this? Just for a bit longer?”

Your smile grows wider ever so slightly as you fall back onto the mattress, your hold on your lover bringing him down with you and having him land on your chest. Your gaze is soft when you peer down, and your fingers are back in his hair to comb out the mess you made. He sighs into your skin, burying himself there as his eyes flutter shut. 

“We can stay like this as long as you want.” And you mean it. Even once his wings return, even once the people grow to trust him again, and even once heroes have time to kill. You would stay with him right here forever. 

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

[ohwynne]

TIMING: Early December, before Rhett went missing PARTIES: Emilio @mortemoppetere and Wynne @ohwynne LOCATION: A local coffeeshop SUMMARY: Wynne and Emilio are walking Perro when they stop for some coffee. A lighthearted moment soon turns very real as the pair delve into Emilio's past. CONTENT WARNINGS: Sibling death, child death, suicide ideation.

It was a strange way of existing, this state Wynne found themself in. There was an endless feeling of relief that made them feel lighter, that pushed them towards believing they were more capable of things than they might have ever thought. But there was also a sense of deep dread, one that felt like there was something crawling under their skin, a cold feeling clawing at their insides. They felt it between their shoulderblades, like an icy touch. In their stomach, like some kind of bug or even a crawling parasite. In their hands, which itched for something they never seemed to quite reach.

It had gone well, hadn’t it? Only Padrig had gotten hurt and perhaps that was some kind of justice. They tried to convince themself of it, but still. Their pointing hand, their convicted voice had put him to death, had doled out a fate to him crueller than the death they would have met. It was a hard thing to live with. Murder.

But they lived. They had to live. For their brother, for the ones that had come before them. For Padrig, so that even his death wasn’t in vain. And so they continued to go out. To work. To see Ariadne and hold her tight. To try and believe that they were better than those elders. Wynne was with Emilio now, the air growing frostier around them as they walked Perro. They missed the apartment building, even if they didn’t exactly miss the Worm Row quite as much. It had just been nice to have the slayer close by.

He was still there, though. A continued presence in their life. They were endlessly grateful for him. Eyes flicked up at him as they buried their hands deeper in their jacket. “Do you reckon we’ll ever get back to our apartment?” They looked ahead again, watching Perro skip along with a smile on their face. Then, their gaze fell on a quaint little coffeeshop. “Oh!” Wynne grinned. “We should get something hot to drink. And a pastry!”

—

He’d been restless lately. Change in routine always did that, and there’d been a hell of a lot of that over the last few weeks. From the goo overtaking the apartment and rendering him effectively homeless to the quick succession with which he went from squatting in the back room of a bar to staying in a fucking mansion with someone who made his chest feel tight in a way he pretended not to notice, the recent influx of change was hard to deny. Emilio didn’t deal with it as well as he used to. Change made him paranoid, made him nervous, made him impulsive. Change made him stupid, sometimes. It drove him to run out and fight wardens in the woods, to get his ass drugged and his knee kicked in. It left him feeling like every small shift was going to pull the rug out from under his feet.

But he knew that was… inconvenient. He knew it was the kind of thing he was supposed to push down, supposed to ignore. The warden in the woods was Teddy’s demon, not his. Emilio had no real right to feel restless against a problem he’d made for himself. And he wasn’t the only one who’d been displaced by that building being covered in goo; arguably, he wasn’t even the most affected by it. Arden had lost Teagan, and regardless of how he felt about the nymph, he knew Arden didn’t deserve that. Wynne was going through a hell of a change, too, even if Emilio liked to think theirs was a more positive one. They were free now from the people who’d hung heavy over their head all their life, and that was good. But freedom was hard to wrap your head around, sometimes. Emilio knew that better than anyone.

So when they’d asked to meet up for a walk, he hadn’t thought about the way his leg still didn’t feel quite right or the fact that the stitches Teddy had included free with their ‘stop getting stabbed’ lecture itched more than he could stand. He didn’t even consider the chill that had taken hold in the air with the changing of seasons, or the way he hated the cold. He thought only of Wynne, and of how heavy freedom could feel on your shoulders. That was what was important, really.

It was easy to ignore the various aches and pains and even the cutting cold as they walked, Perro excitedly scampering ahead of them. “I don’t know,” he replied with a shrug. “Maybe. We know the building’s still there.” They’d been in it, after all. “Do you want to get back to it? Or would you rather keep staying with Ariadne?” There was an almost teasing lilt to his tone, a faint smile on his face. When Wynne pointed out the coffee shop, he had to hide his relief. Sitting down, he thought, sounded a lot better than it ought to. “Sure,” he agreed. “I’ll buy you something, come on.”

—

He was walking with more trouble than usual. Wynne had noted it moments before with worry, not sure what to do with the realization. They wanted to ask if something had happened, worry curling at the pit of their stomach but they didn’t want to breach that kind of topic just yet. The air felt almost light here, with the fall breeze and Perro’s excitement. They wanted to not think about the injuries shared among them both, among all those people they had grown to care about since moving here.

And though there was a desire within them to stop caring, a voice that said that perhaps it would be easier and more tolerable if they didn’t feel so bad about all those that got hurt, they could never commit to it. They didn’t even know how to, anyway. Even in those moments where they felt frozen from exhaustion, as if they would never get out of bed again, they felt themself weary with concern.

But for now it was okay to focus on the good, wasn’t it? Emilio deserved some levity and maybe so did they, something as simple and nice as a walk with a dog. They smiled a little at Emilio, before shrugging. “I don’t know. I’m fond of it. And I kind of miss my roommates and well, you.” Wynne flushed a little. “But it’s been nice to be with Ariadne this much. I do miss having my own space if that makes sense? I sometimes feel a bit like an intruder in her and her cousin’s space.” They looked up. “What about you? Don’t you miss the place a little?”

They walked up to the coffee shop. “Alright, but then next treat is on me,” Wynne said, opening the door to the shop. Their eyes scanned the menu, not dissimilar from the one at their old place of work. They missed getting to make themself all the coffees with the syrups sometimes. “Do you want to share something? What looks good to you?”

—

Silences with Wynne felt comfortable in a way they didn’t with most people. It hadn’t always been this way, of course; in the beginning, Emilio felt just as awkward with Wynne as he did with most people, uncertainty clinging to everything he did. He worried about saying the wrong thing, about doing something that was normal but hunter standards, by Cortez standards, but unimaginable to anyone else. He slipped up sometimes, still, even with them. Said something they found strange, asked questions they found concerning. But it didn’t feel as heavy as it normally might. Wynne was Wynne. For better or worse, they liked to be around him.

Enough to make them miss a terrible apartment in a building that had been falling apart even before it was covered in a fresh coat of supernatural goo, apparently. There was something kind of funny about it, the idea of Wynne longing for the place. There was something even funnier about the fact that Emilio felt the same. He missed the faint smell of mildew that clung to the walls of his apartment, missed the way his furniture all smelled like cigarettes no matter what he did, even missed Jeff’s habit of occasionally wandering into his unit when he mistook it for his own. But he missed the proximity to Wynne and Arden more than anything. 

He hummed, the answer noncommittal but telling all the same. “I get that,” he admitted. “Feel like I don’t belong much in Teddy’s space. They wanted me there enough to kidnap my dog and make me come over, but… I don’t know. Probably feel like they made a mistake now. Not a great roommate.” He’d given Teddy ample warning of that, provided them with a list of reasons why they’d regret asking him to move in, but being given warnings and actually experiencing the things you were warned about were two different things. Telling someone you were going to stab them would never hurt the way slipping the knife between their ribs would. Emilio knew that from experience.

Following Wynne into the cafe, Emilio nodded despite knowing he probably wouldn’t take them up on the offer to pay for their next little outing. He looked up at the menu, stomach clenching painfully at the thought of food. It had been harder to eat than usual lately; the sudden and dramatic change in routine had thrown his already fickle appetite out of whack, and he’d hardly managed to pick at the meals Teddy kept cooking up for reasons that had little to do with the ex-demon’s odd flavor combinations. But Wynne was asking, and he knew he’d spotted a hint of concern on their face already at the way he was unable to entirely cover up the worse-than-usual pain in his leg, so he shrugged. “Whatever you want. We can split it.”

—

It was hard to try and picture Teddy and Emilio living in that big house that they had only ever known as the Leviathan’s abode. Did Emilio sit in the same kitchen they’d sat in as they’d had dinner with the demon? Did he fill the space where Wynne had shaken their hand with the Leviathan to make a deal? And then there was the whole case of Teddy and Emilio as a combination. They were both people they admired and loved but such stark contrasts of each other. The fact that they were friends, though, was nothing if not a good thing.

“They kidnapped Perro?” Their mouth was a little agape as they asked the question, which was mostly rhetorical. Teddy had stolen a sheep as well, so for them to steal a dog to convince Emilio to live somewhere safer seemed right up their alley. Wynne frowned a little at Emilio’s assessment of himself. “Well, if they went through all that trouble they must want you there. And I’m sure you’re a fine roommate! It’s a big house anyway, right? I didn’t even know houses could be that big.” They had seen how Emilio lived, though, and could see some issues there, but they didn’t want to say them out loud. Besides, the bad was greatly outweighed by the good. “You’re a good person to have around.”

Their eyes moved over the menu across from them, written in chalk. There were a great many options and it was hard to choose, not just because of their own finicky appetite but because they also had to consider what Emilio might like. They hoped maybe sharing something would help his appetite, though. Eating with Ariadne made it easier for them to chew down on things, as seeing her enjoying things brought a little light to everything. So in the end they went for something sweet, because they gravitated towards that. “Hello, good morning,” they said to the barista, giving the kind of smile they had liked in their customers. “Can I get a latte with some vanilla? And regular milk.” They gave their decision a little more thought, as if this was one of the most important choices in their life. “Oh, and a cinnamon roll, please. And then for him …?” 

Wynne let Emilio order and pay, scooting over to the other side of the bar. They gave a small scratch underneath Perro’s chin for being a good boy and then looked at Emilio. “Would you like to sit for a while? It’s cold out anyway.” They looked down at his leg for a bit but still didn’t say anything. They tried to come up with something else to say in stead. “We should get Perro a jacket.”

—

“Sí,” Emilio responded gravely, nodding his head. “Snatched him from where I was staying. Left a note for rescate. They’re a criminal.” His tone was utterly dry, deadpan in the way Emilio’s humor usually was. Of course, he wasn’t bothered by Teddy’s ‘kidnapping’ of Perro. Perro hadn’t cared (knowing him, he’d probably enjoyed the attention), and Teddy’s intentions hadn’t been anything sinister. Teddy often had strange methods of ‘helping,’ but that was usually their goal. Even if Emilio still didn’t entirely understand why they wanted to help so badly. Or why Arden did, or Wynne, or anyone. People in this town, he thought, had trouble recognizing a lost cause for what it was.

Wynne’s insistence that he was probably a good roommate only served as further proof of that. He snorted, shooting them a look of disbelief. “I don’t even like living with me,” he pointed out. “I cause more problems than I solve, I think.” Like the shit with Parker, for example. If Emilio had killed the warden, he thought, the situation would have been far better. As it was, he’d only served to worry Teddy more, to make things worse. What if Parker came after Teddy again now as retribution? Emilio didn’t much care if he was targeted for his failure to finish the job, but he couldn’t stomach the idea of someone else paying for his mistake. Wynne was wrong, he thought. He wasn’t a good person to have around at all.

He stood back and let Wynne study the menu, eyes darting around the cafe the way they often did when he was left to his own devices. He cataloged the room while they decided what to order. Made note of the exits, studied the people around them. Paranoia was a thing that had always plagued him, but it was always worse after an altercation. The one with Parker would likely leave him nervous for months. It took him a moment to step forward when Wynne went to order, busy deciding if the woman sitting in the booth in the corner talking on the phone was a threat or not. He almost didn’t realize Wynne was waiting on him until they turned. Shuffling forward with a wince, he offered the barista a nod. “Coffee,” he said. “Black. Uh… medium.” Mundane things like ordering a coffee often felt foreign to him still. He wondered if Wynne felt the same. They were better at it than he was, and he was glad for that. After what they’d been through, he thought they deserved normalcy. 

Once he’d paid for their order, he rejoined Wynne, glancing down at Perro with a quiet hum of praise that the dog likely heard often enough to see for what it was. He looked back to Wynne as they stood, following their gaze down to his leg briefly and feeling a flash of shame or embarrassment or something along those lines that was difficult to pinpoint entirely. He wanted to insist that he was fine to walk, but doing so would mean admitting that Wynne had noticed he wasn’t, and he didn’t want to do that, either. In the end, he only shrugged. It was a listless motion, one that only saw him lifting one shoulder and dropping it stiffly. “We can sit if you want,” he agreed, pretending they were making the choice for themself instead of for him. “What’s Perro need a jacket for? He’s got fur. A lot of it. Built in jacket, no?”

—

He didn’t seem that upset by Teddy’s transgression, which made Wynne glad. They didn’t want the two of them to fight, even if they didn’t really grasp their friendship just yet. “I think we might all be criminals a little bit,” they pointed out mildly, “But that’s okay, because the rules are silly.” Most of them were, anyway. Some of them seemed a little more fair, like not murdering people. (But there should maybe be some exceptions, like in Wynne’s situation or in the case of that barn, where plenty of people had died.) “You got him back though, at least!”

His statement felt heavy and they looked at him for a moment. Emilio never really talked about himself in a positive way and it made them sad — because there was so much good and strong they saw within him. Why he couldn’t see it, they didn’t get, but Wynne was no stranger to self-hatred. Guilt and shame made them meanest towards themself too, but in their case they thought there was plenty of grounds for it. All the carnage they’d caused back home, the shortcomings of their existence, the awkwardness with which they carried themself. “That’s sad,” they said matter-of-factly. “You should try to like living with yourself. But I get it. Sometimes that’s hard. But you do solve a lot of problems.” Mostly theirs. That, too, was a point of self-hatred. Would they ever stop looking at people with seniority to guide them and hold their hands?

They watched the baristas, thinking distantly of how they had once rolled into a job like this. How Lauri had given them a chance, despite their odd appearance and hungry eyes. How it had meant freedom, making coffees for people who talked down to them or spoke to them in suggestive ways they didn’t understand. They missed it sometimes, even if their work at the gallery was a lot less stressful and came with better pay. They could go back to it, though — should they want to. The world was filled with possibility and thought hat was terrifying and overwhelming, it was also good. For now, they were just glad to be a patron.

“I do want to sit, yes,” they said, moving towards a table with Perro and Emilio in tow. For a second they wondered what people would think they were to another. Whether they’d assume they were family fo sorts. “That’s true. But maybe he does get cold. I wish we could ask him, you know? Or that we could read an animal’s minds. I bet he has a very high opinion of you.” Wynne wrapped their hands around their mug and looked out the window for a moment, before looking back at Emilio. “Are you okay? You seem like …” They shrugged. “You are hurting a little, or something. Did you fight a vampire?”

—

“I am not a criminal.” Emilio managed to sound mildly offended at the accusation, despite the fact that it was entirely true. So little of what he did operated within the confines of the law, and he knew that. Things like killing were still illegal, even when the corpses turned to dust once you were finished. Still, he was good at doubling down when he wanted to get a point across. “I rescued him. That’s how I got him back.”

That’s sad. The bluntness of the statement drew a quiet laugh from between his lips, and he nodded. “Yeah, probably is a little.” From what he’d been told, a great deal of his thought process could be described as sad. It fit well with the way his limbs sometimes felt too heavy to lift off the ground, or the way his bed became a casket any time he allowed himself to lie in it. “Easier to say it than to do it. Or to think it. I think sometimes, me trying to solve problems just makes them worse.” Or he didn’t do a good enough job. He’d saved Wynne and Arden from the vampire cult with the help of Metzli and Zane, but he hadn’t been fast enough to save Wynne the scar on their neck or the nightmares in their head. He helped with the shit back at Wynne’s compound, but not soon enough to keep their brother from dying in their place and not well enough to ease their guilt regarding what happened to Padrig. He’d never been able to save Teddy in a way that mattered, either, never been able to spare them new scars or new nightmares. The same could be said for Nora, for Andy, for everyone he’d ever tried to help. More often than not, Emilio came up short. He found new and inventive ways to fail people. It was all he ever did.

But Wynne thought he was doing a good job. Maybe that counted for something. Maybe it had to. Things mattered when you made them matter. Emilio knew that. And he was bad at making them matter for himself, bad at giving himself breaks that he didn’t feel he’d earned, but maybe he could get better at it. Maybe Wynne was right — maybe he should make more of an effort to like himself as a first step. It seemed a monumental hurdle, a mountain disguising itself as a molehill. It’d be hard to drag himself up the slope. It was hard to drag himself much of anywhere, these days.

He let Wynne guide him towards the table, took a chair and sat in it and tried to hide the relief from his expression. Sitting down didn’t erase the pain in his leg — nothing ever had, not entirely — but taking the weight off made it a little less overwhelming. He shifted subtly, stretching the limb out a little. “Maybe one day he’ll learn to talk,” he joked, leaning back in his chair a little. Perro circled a few times before curling into a ball at his feet, resting his head on one of the detective’s boots. “Weird things happen in this town, right? Wouldn’t be surprised.” He wasn’t sure he’d like it. If Perro didn’t have a high opinion of him, it’d sting more than he’d care to admit. He glanced over at Wynne’s question, frowning a little. He’d known he wasn’t doing the best job at hiding his aches, but he thought he’d been doing well enough not to alert Wynne to it. Reaching down, he rested a hand on his knee and shrugged. “Not vampires,” he admitted. There was a moment’s hesitation. “There was a hunter. Real asshole. Hurting people who didn’t deserve it. Got into it with him, and he took a cheap shot at my knee. Thing hasn’t healed right in years. Guess he made it worse. It’ll get better, I think.” Or it wouldn’t, and he’d get used to it. Either way, the worst would be over soon. “Nothing to worry about, though. All good, ¿vale?”

—

“Oh.” They blinked at that statement, feeling a little bit like they had fully missed the mark. “I didn’t — I didn’t mean you are one. I think sometimes, maybe, we do things that go against the law though, right?” Wynne gave a little smile, that grew a little brighter as they moved onto the next thing. “You did! See. You are very good at saving people and animals.” They did look a little smug when saying that.

A lot of things were sad, it seemed. As purpose had fallen away from their life, Wynne had grown very much aware of all the sadness around them. Not just that, the pointlessness of it, the endlessness of it. All of that pain and cruelty just seemed to lead to more of it. Emilio’s lack of faith in himself just seemed to lead him to more proof that he was right to not think himself good, even if Wynne saw countless of examples of him doing well. “You can’t expect to make everything you try to fix better. Sometimes we slip up, right? I … I do too. I tried to fix something and there was bad and there was good.” They frowned a little, because they struggled with this themself. “But you have made such a change for me. Can that not be something you can at least accept? You saved me that first night in the woods, because you told me what to do. You saved me from the barn.” Their breath hitched in their throat at the memory of it. “You were the one who helped me get answers. So. You made my problems better.”

It was perhaps a little much to be saying at a coffee shop, but it made them feel so defeated when they heard Emilio speak like that. Because if someone like him wasn’t allowed to feel at peace and even proud with his accomplishments, how could they be happy with their own? They, so blundering and foolish and naive, doing more harm than good? It was crucial to prove what he meant to them, to make him see. Never mind the location or setting.

“Maybe one day!” They smiled a little at the idea, wondering what kinds of things Perro would like to talk about. “Do you think he’d speak English or Spanish?” Wynne figured that Perro was a Spanish name, so maybe it would be the latter. Or maybe that kind of magic would be above any kind of language barriers that existed. They mulled it over for a moment before returning their attention to the slayer across them, frowning at his revelation. “Oh, oh no, I’m sorry that happened. I mean, it’s … it’s good that you tried to get him for doing that, you know? I have — well, you know. That I know people who were hurt who don’t deserve it.” But it was probably not Rhett that Emilio was talking about. “Did you hurt him back?” How strange, that they hoped the answer was yes. They didn’t think themself cruel, but they were angry and growing more defensive with the day. “Um, just take it a little easy, okay? I will worry a little. ¿Vale?”

—

“Not me,” he replied stubbornly, digging his heels into the proverbial ground. But there was the faintest smile on his face as he said it, the smallest hint of amusement behind his eyes. Of course Emilio was a criminal. His very presence in this country was one that existed outside the confines of the law. But it was funnier to insist on something that was categorically untrue, and he thought Wynne might find their own sort of entertainment in it, so he insisted. “Ay, maybe sometimes, when I’m saving them from… being annoyed.” As if Perro had been anything but ecstatic to be picked up by Teddy.

It was much harder, of course, to accept what Wynne was saying. That he saved people sometimes, that his failures didn’t erase his successes. It was something Teddy had been trying to drive home, too, with those framed articles lining the wall of his new office. It was a nice gesture, just like Wynne’s words were nice to hear. The idea that he made a difference, that the things he did still mattered even when he was the one doing them… It wasn’t as if Emilio didn’t want to believe it. Of course he’d like to think that he was worth something, that the shit he did made an impact that wasn’t negative. But every time he tried to let himself cling to that, every time he tried to convince himself, that living room floor flashed in front of his eyes. Those corpses followed him around like ghosts no one else could see. His daughter’s name continued to haunt him with more efficiency than any poltergeist could ever hope to manage. He saved Wynne, but he didn’t save Flora. How could any man hope to be good if he’d failed to save his own child? And how could he explain this failure to Wynne without saying too much?

“I…” He trailed off, the words forever stuck in his throat. “I don’t know. The things I’ve done, the things I’ve failed to do… I think those are bigger. I think those will always be bigger.” He could save a thousand lives, and his daughter would still be dead. He could solve a million problems, and hers would never be among them. It was pouring into a bucket with no bottom — no matter how much you put there, it would always remain empty.

And so, it was easier to talk about something else. To imagine Perro with a human voice and a lot to say. “Spanish,” Emilio replied immediately, looking almost offended that it had been a question at all. “He’s too smart fo English. ¿Verdad, muchacho?” He looked down at the dog with a fond smile before turning back to Wynne. Had they been anyone else, he might have responded with the brutal truth — that he’d taken Parker’s finger and kept it, that he’d driven a knife into his flesh and been disappointed that it hadn’t landed somewhere deadlier. Wynne could handle it, he knew, but part of him still worried they might think less of him. He didn’t want them to be afraid of him. He’d never wanted that. “I hurt him back,” he said, opting for vague instead of specific. It would do just fine, he hoped. He huffed a quiet laugh at Wynne’s concern, looking amused. “You and Teddy. Always worried. I’ve had a lot worse than this, kid. I’ll be okay. But I can promise I won’t go looking for trouble for a while.”

—

Oh. He was joking. It dawned on Wynne finally and they let out a burst of laughter, a little sudden and a little too loud. They flushed a little. “Yes, right, I’m sorry. You would not even steal a sugar packet from here.” Sarcasm wasn’t really something they were fluent in, but they enjoyed a little breeze of playfulness between themself and Emilio. They shook their head a little at his next words, this stubborn insistence that he could never do anything right an old song. “I wasn’t when you —” They halted. They didn’t want to think about how they’d been when they’d been in the barn. “You’re a real hero.”

And to them, he was. To them, there was no one who quite matched Emilio’s bravery and power, no adult who had ever really showed up for them as he had. Wynne had always had a tendency to idolize those they looked up to, of course, always yearning for someone older and wiser to tell them what to do. To guide them into the right direction. Emilio didn’t quite do that — he just offered them space, while also offering a guiding and helping hand. There was little judgment. No rules he set that they could break and get in trouble for. But there was guidance. Someone who taught them a thing or two about self defense. Someone who came for them when there was danger. Someone who cared like none of the elders, none of their parents or aunts or uncles, had ever been able to. Someone who would save them, if need be.

They listened to him quietly. They knew that there was a lot that went unsaid. That Emilio had something in his past that was ugly and felt best not spoken of — but they knew by now that those things were good to discuss. They’d learned that by doing it themself. But they remained quiet for a second, letting Emilio move from one topic to another. It was easy to smile when they saw Emilio interact with his dog, though. So easy that it almost distracted them from the pit in their stomach. “What does muchacho mean?” Wynne looked at the little creature with a fondness, before returning to the topic of conversation. Emilio, who hurt people because they hurt others. Maybe in another life they’d have judged him for it, but they knew better now. Sometimes people needed to be hurt to put a stop to all the other pain. “Well. I guess he deserved it. Who did he hurt?” They frowned a little. “Should I look out for him? Not for myself but …” The others. 

“You make it very easy to worry about you. And that’s not a comfort, that you’ve had worse. Just take it easy, okay? For at least a little while.” They took a sip from their coffee, letting the warmth gather in their stomach before returning to what he’d said before. Wynne looked at him with inquisitive things. “What kinds of things? Do you think you failed to do, I mean?” They were pressing carefully and hoped it was something gentle. “I’d … like to understand. If that’s okay.” For a moment they were caught with the fear that he’d chastise them as Padrig or their mother might have, but they remembered soon enough that this was Emilio. He was good.

—

“That would be a very bad crime,” Emilio agreed. Meeting their eye and not looking away, he reached a hand out, grabbing a sugar packet from the dispenser on the table and slipping it into his pocket with a barely contained grin. “Something I would never do.” But, of course, the expression fell as they continued. A hero, they called him. There was something almost laughable about the title, something harsh and wrong. It wasn’t one he deserved. He knew that. Heroes saved people in ways that mattered. And Emilio didn’t. Wynne was alive because of Metzli and Zane just as much as Emilio. But those bodies in Mexico? There was no one left but him to carry the blame for that failure.

Letting the conversation of Perro distract him, he smiled fondly, albeit less carefree than his earlier attempt. “Boy,” he replied. He looked over to Wynne, expression turning a little more serious. “He hurt Teddy,” he said quietly. “You should watch out for him. I don’t know if he’d hurt anyone undead, but other people, maybe.” Ariadne was likely safe; cutting anything off someone undead usually just left you with dust, goo, or glitter, and most of the time, their appendages weren’t different enough from that of humans to spark interest the way Teddy’s tail evidently had. Emilio suspected Wynne was asking for their girlfriend, but he knew they had friends, too. And some of them could be in just as much danger as Teddy had been.

Wynne spoke again, and he shifted. Don’t worry about me, he wanted to insist. Worry about people who’ve earned it. But to Wynne, he belonged on that list. And maybe it was because they were a good person, and maybe it was because there was so much they didn’t know. 

He looked down at his hands. For a flash, a fraction of a second, he could see the blood there. Under his nails, going up his arms, flaking into every pore and crevice on his skin. Wynne spoke, and he knew the question was coming before the syllables hit his ears, but he dreaded them anyway. Don’t ask me that, he wanted to beg. Please don’t ask me. I don’t know how not to tell you, and you don’t want to know. But his pleas remained silent, and the question came the way it was always going to come. And how could he deny them? They were asking him. How could he say no?

He remained silent a beat longer, looking at the table the way one might look at a gallow. His finger went to his wedding ring absently, the last tangible reminder of a life he’d left behind. Wynne knew that story, knew more of the truth than most. But they didn’t know the full story, and they wanted to. They were asking. 

So Emilio would tell them.

“She rushed the wedding,” he said quietly, still fiddling with that ring. It was looser than it used to be. He didn’t have to twist it as much to get it off his finger these days. If he kept on like this for much longer, he’d have to transfer it from his finger to the chain around his neck with Juliana’s, let it rest against the silver stake charm Teddy had given him and the cross that hung alongside it. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “I wanted to wait a while, but she rushed it. Didn’t know why, but didn’t mind it. Figured it’d make her happy, yeah? Wanted that.” 

He paused, letting his eyes slip shut for a moment. His throat felt tight. The pit in his stomach, the one that was always there, felt bottomless now, like a thing you could never hope to conquer. “She told me,” he continued quietly. “That night, when we got back to our house, in the living room. She told me. She was already a few months along. Wanted to get married before she started showing, keep people from… thinking differently about her. I didn’t care about any of that. I was happy with it. With her. With both of them.” He opened his eyes, glancing up and meeting Wynne’s gaze briefly before looking away. “We named her Flora, when she was born. I was a mess. Yeah. Walking back and forth in the living room, didn’t know what to do with myself. She was so small. And it was my job — It was my job to keep her safe. And I didn’t… I couldn’t do it.” 

He inhaled sharply, exhaled with a shudder. “Couldn’t keep any of them safe. Not her, not her mother. Not my nephew or my brother or my sister. Not my mom, either. You want to know what I failed to do, Wynne, it’s — I failed to do anything that mattered. I can save a thousand people, and it won’t make up for the ones I didn’t. Nothing will.”

—

They giggled as the other reached for the sugar packet and put it away, only more giddy when they saw that grin on Emilio’s face. A rare sight they wanted more of, that they felt proud of having accomplished. Wynne also reached forward, getting a packet of sugar themself and tucking it in their jacket pocket, rubbing the grains of sugar together. “I would also never do something like that.” They had stolen plenty of packets of sugar when they’d ran away from home, as it was a free way to get some calories and energy in their systems.

“Mu-cha-cho,” they repeated. “It’s Bachgen in Welsh.” But that mattered very little. Their eyebrows creased as they looked from Perro to Emilio at the revelation that a hunter had hurt Teddy. “Then …” Were they a vengeful person? Did they believe in an eye for an eye? Why shouldn’t they? “Then that’s good. That that hunter knows what it’s like to be hurt. I will keep an eye out. I don’t want anyone I care about to get hurt.” They pushed their lips together. “Again.” They felt the topic of Ariadne hang in the air but didn’t address it, as there was another unspoken party there. Rhett. Wynne didn’t want to think about him. 

It had been forward, to ask him what he’d failed at. It was the kind of thing they had not been raised to do — Protherians didn’t ask questions. They got the information they required and did what they had to with it. You did not pry further. Did not ask your mother why you were supposed to die, did not ask your father if he ever felt sad about it, did not ask your mentor if there wasn’t anything to be done. Wynne had asked all these questions and it had never ended well. It had always ended with a reprimand, a punishment to fit the crime of curiosity.

But Emilio was not like those people. Emilio had said that he would never lie and after their first meeting in those woods, he’d told them he’d answer their questions. Those had been self-indulgent, but they had all been met with the truth. Even if it was uneasy. Even if it might have been better to not know. Still, they felt something flare through them — an anxiety that was unfair but flared harder with every beat Emilio took.

Wynne wouldn’t rush him, though. He had always shown patience with them and their confessions. So they listened quietly as he spoke about his wife. They remembered that necklace bouncing against their chest in the barn. They felt a heaviness crawl through their system as Emilio told the story of his pregnant wife, who was now dead. There was no child clinging to his legs. Perhaps it was their pessimism to blame, but they felt a scared tug in their stomach as the story went on.

He had said he hadn’t been able to save his wife. Juliana. But it went further than that. There was that little girl, Flora. Siblings, a nephew, a mother. He laid out all their bodies for them to consider, showing them the loss that hung around his neck along with that ring. Wynne looked at him quietly and sadly. A tear rolled down their cheek. Their hands fell from the coffee cup and they were not sure what to do or say, because nothing that would make this right. Just as there was nothing that would make it right that Iwan was dead.

“I … I am sorry that you lost them. I know that doesn’t help. That it’s not my fault. But I still am.” No parent should lose their child, or so some people said — but Wynne’s had been willing to watch them bleed out. Emilio had lost his Flora still. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. But you told me — you told me something that I think you should listen to okay? When you told me about Iwan. That it wasn’t my fault. That it was someone else who chose to do it.” 

Someone had killed them. They understood that now better than ever. Someone had killed the people Emilio loved and he blamed himself for not having stopped it. For maybe not having died himself. Though they had no term for it, something Wynne did understand was survivor’s guilt. Perhaps not like this, but they understood the weight of being alive when another wasn’t. “But I … I don’t know. I just don’t …” They wiped at their cheek. “I’m just really sad that happened. That someone did that. But they did. Not you.” 

They reached out a hand, resting it on Emilio’s. They wanted to hug him more than just this, but it was something. “I wish it was different for you.”

—

Things were light, for a moment, with that packet of sugar in his pocket and Wynne’s laugh bouncing around the table. Moments like this were dangerous ones, Emilio often thought. You could get caught up in them, could get lost in them. They’d make you think that the world was a bright place, a decent one. They’d lure you into a false sense of security, have you thinking that life was all stolen sugar packets and quiet fits of laughter. And it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. The world, in its fullest and most terrible sense, was dead kids on living room floors and cults sacrificing their children to demons just to give themselves a leg up.

The real world had more people like Parker than it did people like Wynne. There were more people like Emilio than there were people like Teddy — more barely contained monsters who did terrible things and survived them, even when they shouldn’t. Wynne said it was good that he’d hurt Parker, and Emilio didn’t regret it but he wasn’t sure how he felt about them thinking so. Was it bad? Was it a sign that he’d influenced them, poisoned their morality to make them more like him? He pushed the thought away. “He’s still out there,” he warned, and there was something unspoken to the statement. He won’t be for long, maybe. Or I’m going to kill him just as soon as I can. Both were true, because he couldn’t fathom being dishonest with Wynne.

It was why he told them the truth, when they asked. In more words than were needed, in a monologue that was uncharacteristic for someone as frequently stilted in his language as Emilio tended to be, but that felt like the easiest way to say it. Even with his limited grasp on English, getting to the point with a long-winded story that avoided certain words was easier than saying the simple, brutal truth — that he had a daughter once, and he didn’t now. That he was only a father until his child had died. That there was a little girl, once, who had his eyes and his tendency towards keeping them open long after the sun had set in the sky, and that those eyes only existed on him now all the same. 

It was easier to make the story a long one than it was to accept just how short it really was. To avoid saying the word itself, to keep that poisonous syllable from his tongue. He gave Wynne a long-winded story that started with Juliana and ended with no one because it felt kinder than saying my daughter is dead. Because a hundred words were easier to say than four when those four words were so goddamn heavy. He couldn’t fathom the weight of them sticking to the roof of his mouth.

So he told Wynne the truth in the form of a story, and he didn’t look at them as he said it. He focused his gaze on the street behind him, and he worked to keep that street as it was, made an effort to stop his mind from transforming it into a different one, one littered with bodies. What was the greater sin, he wondered — that those bodies were there at all, or that his own hadn’t been among them? Was he angry because he’d let them all die, or because he hadn’t died with them? He’d never quite been able to figure it out.

Wynne reached for him, and Emilio didn’t pull away. He let his eyes dart to their face, but only for a moment. Their eyes were such a deep shade of brown. Hers had been, too. He hated apologies, most of the time. Someone heard what had happened and said I’m sorry, and it made him so angry that he couldn’t think, made him want to rip the words apart and sharpen the syllables into knives and cut the goddamn world to shreds with the blades. But Wynne said I’m sorry, and there was no anger even if there was no relief, either. Emilio only nodded stiffly, focusing on the street behind them again. 

It was funny, hearing his own words parroted back to him like this. They’d made sense when he’d said them to Wynne, they’d felt right. But trying to apply them to himself felt like an impossible thing. What happened to Wynne’s brother wasn’t their fault, but what happened to Emilio’s daughter still felt like his. He still saw her blood on his hands every time he looked down, still saw her corpse around every corner. It was his job, he thought, to protect her. It was what parents were supposed to do. It had been his job to protect Jaime, too, whose father hadn’t stayed to watch him grow. And Juliana, who wore his ring around her finger. And Edgar and Rosa, who were better than him, who deserved the air in his lungs so much more than he ever could. And his mother, who gave him everything he had, who made him into something useful. Of all of them, Emilio had never understood why it was him who had survived. A cruel joke from the universe, maybe; or some punishment from some higher power. 

“I should have stopped it,” he said quietly, because he should have. “I was supposed to,” he added, because he was. “What happened, why it happened, it — It doesn’t matter. It was my job to protect her, and I didn’t. It’s — Parents have a job. A duty. And I failed at mine. Failed her. There’s no way around that.” People kept telling him that it wasn’t his fault and, every time, it felt like pity. Like a consolation prize, like a thing people said just because they felt some obligation to. It wasn’t your fault, or it’s okay, or you did all you could. Empty phrases, meaningless things. The truth was right there, etched in granite. He had a job, and he’d failed it. He’d had a daughter, and he didn’t now. How could it be anyone’s fault beside his own?

Wynne took his hand, and their touch was a gentler thing than he deserved but he was too selfish to pull away. “It is how it is,” he said quietly. “Wishing won’t do anything at all.” He’d made his bed, hadn’t he? All that there was to do now was to lie in it and rot.

—

They understood the crushing weight of being alive. Not just the sheer concept of roaming this earth as a person whose heart beat and body had to keep moving in spite of it all — but to be alive despite. To have survived when others hadn’t. The guilt that came with every breath, with every step, each morning ray of sun and each sleepless night. They understood the crushing weight of having outran fate, of being alive when you shouldn’t be. They had made a trade when they had ran, even if they hadn’t done so willingly — they had still chosen their life over that of another. And with that came that pressure on their chest, that rock in their stomach and their shivering tears.

But they were also still and in spite of everything, glad to be alive. Those morning rays of sun sometimes made their stomach ache, but there was opportunity with every new breath and step and sometimes in those sleepless nights, they came to worthwhile conclusions. Sometimes Ariadne laid down next to them.

Was Emilio glad to be alive? To have survived that? To still walk here, even if his leg hurt? Even if he had a dead daughter, a dead mother, wife, brother, sister, nephew in his past? As they looked at him, Wynne wasn’t sure. It made them feel heavy. Because Emilio had laughed moments before, played such a central role in their newfound life, had so much to bring to the table — but as he sat there now it seemed like he saw nothing in it. That the crushing weight of having survived had perhaps already crushed him.

And what could they do in the face of that? What could they offer? Their apologies and expressions of empathy, but they were empty air. They knew that. They were band-aids on gut wounds. Whenever people told them such things they were nice to hear, but they didn’t change what had been done, what had gone wrong. What they regretted. What they resented. None of that could be fixed. Not with a different way of thinking, not by listening to the people whose opinions they valued. 

The truth remained, no matter what was said and done now, that their parents and community had brought their brother to the altar in stead of them. The truth remained that Emilio’s family had been slaughtered and that by some stroke of cruel luck, he’d survived as the only one. They could do nothing in the face of either thing. They blinked at Emilio, who spoke of failure and duty as if it would do anything now. As if the guilt either of them carried would do anything now. The dead tended to remain dead — it was better that way. Even if it ripped you open like this.

“I don’t —” They were quiet. Was this why he had been so angry at their parents? Why he had been so adamant about them being wrong? Why he had punched their father, why he had come to their rescue? Wynne felt something grow in their chest. Not the usual weight, but the one that came with tears. And Emilio had saved them, but he hadn’t been able to save her. So they understood, now. That it mattered less, the things he had done for them. They mattered, but she was still gone. It wasn’t like they were drawing a comparison, they were just starting to gain the picture. And it made them swallow thickly.

They didn’t want to cry over someone else’s story. This wasn’t about them. “I am sad that you feel that way. I wish — I know that if you could you would have. Saved her. But I also know words don’t really matter.” She was dead. Iwan was dead. They had both had a duty and there were a hundred things that could have gone differently, but they hadn’t. Iwan and Flora had both died due to their inaction. Wynne knew there was no making it right, even if they wanted there to be. Even if they wanted Emilio to be okay with being alive, still. They wanted to know what they could say to make it feel a little better. If there was a way to. If there was a way to come back from things like these.

And if there wasn’t, then at least they could do this. Take his hand. Get up from where they were seated and close the distance. It was a little awkward, with them standing and Emilio sat down, but it didn’t matter. Because they knew words didn’t mean anything. That the bodies remained dead and rotting. That the world was cyclical and death was part of it, and sometimes there was choice in it but most often there was not. That you had to make peace with it, even if no one told you how, just that you had to. They knew that Emilio was a man with a mind so stubborn that they couldn’t sway it now, in this coffee shop. That maybe they never had to, that they just had to do things like this. Listen. Embrace.

So they embraced him. They did it tightly, with conviction. They didn’t know if it would help, but it was better than stumbling over words and trying not to cry. “Thank you for telling me,” they said in stead, pulling back from the embrace. They didn’t want to overwhelm him. “My friend … my friend suggested we’d plant something for my brother. Maybe we can do something symbolic for her too.” Maybe that was the answer. Action, after the fact. Too little, too late, but something, at least. Something for those who lived in spite of what fate had planned for them.

—

He used to be religious. He didn’t think he was anymore — he still felt some of the things associated with religion, but the faith that was necessary to call it that had died long ago. But he used to be. He used to pray, sometimes, used to think that maybe there was someone listening, that maybe it made a difference. He’d sit on his knees with his hands clasped so tight his fingers hurt, would murmur promises that couldn’t be kept and beg for relief that never came. 

He didn’t think he’d ever been particularly good at it. There was something kind of funny about the thought. Religion wasn’t supposed to be something you could be bad at, but Emilio had been, anyway. His mother told him so once, looking just as disappointed as she always did. You only pray when you want something, she’d told him. As if God exists to be at your beck and call, as if you’re worthy of that. You serve Him. Not the other way around. He’d never been good at accepting that. He was a selfish thing, he knew; a bad one. He wanted the world to work for him. Maybe that was why it never did. 

Confession was the same. He sat in that too-small booth not long after the massacre, stared at the wall of it in silence until the priest had prompted him to speak. He remembered begging for forgiveness, remembered knowing he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t remember the exact words — most of the time after the massacre was either an uncertain blur in his mind or a too-crisp picture he didn’t want to think about with nothing in between the two extremes — but he remembered the desperation. He remembered the priest’s silence, remembered thinking anything would have been better. 

Forgiveness, as it turned out, was a thing you earned. And Emilio didn’t know how to earn his. He didn’t know how to find redemption when everyone he needed forgiveness from was too dead to offer it. People here told him it was okay — Wynne, Zane, Andy, Teddy — but it wasn’t their place to decide that, was it? There were so few people who had the ability to forgive your sins. Everyone he’d sinned against was dead, and God was silent. What was left? Who could redeem the irredeemable? 

Wynne was quiet, and Emilio couldn’t blame them. What was there to say in the face of this? What response could be given? He remembered how small he’d felt when he’d learned about their brother, how awful it had been to relay the news to them. There were moments where neither words nor actions could offer anything resembling relief. There were wounds that would never stop bleeding, aches that would never fade. They couldn’t be bandaged with pretty words or promises. They just were. 

And Wynne understood that. They said as much, admitted it. Words didn’t matter, even if they were nice to hear from time to time. Nothing would fill that gaping cavern in his chest, just as nothing would fill the hole in theirs. Flora, Iwan… Neither had deserved the fates the world had given them. Neither had earned the bloody ends they’d been met with. But what did the world care who deserved what? What happened happened, would happen again a thousand times. People died who deserved to live. People lived who deserved to die. If there was a God, Emilio thought, he’d make Him explain Himself for that. He’d make Him give a why. 

(You only pray when you want something.) 

Wynne stood, crossed the distance between them, and even now, there was a part of Emilio who wasn’t quite sure what to do with the embrace. They wrapped arms around him and he froze for a moment. Some part of him, the part of him that would always be that six year old kid locked in a shed, expected something sinister. Even knowing it was Wynne, even knowing that they would never intentionally do anything to hurt him. Some part of him was waiting for a flurry of pain, for a knife to the back or a more sinister embrace, but none came. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his arms up from where they sat at his side, wrapped them around Wynne carefully, and returned the embrace. 

They thanked him for telling them, as if the story was something they were glad to know. Emilio couldn’t imagine that it was. It was a burden, he knew; a weight. It was a heavy thing to carry, even now as it was divided among more people. Wynne, who embraced him here. Rhett, who buried those bodies in Mexico. Andy, who told him it was okay. Teddy, who insisted that his failure didn’t define him. The weight of the thing was more evenly distributed than it used to be. Emilio didn’t know if it helped, but he didn’t think it hurt. Sometimes, he thought, that was all you could really ask for.

“Someone said I should do the same,” he said quietly, thinking of the shitshow that ended with Alex knowing the truth. There was something nice about the thought, something good. He’d never been to his daughter’s grave, though he knew it existed. Maybe having something he could visit and think of her would offer some relief, even if only in the smallest sense. “I’d like you to do it with me, whatever it is. I think I’d like that.” 

Flora was gone, and it would never feel right. It would never be fair. There would be no redemption for the failure, no forgiveness. But maybe there was something to be found in the embrace, anyway. Maybe Emilio should just take what he could get.

—

The dead were without forgiveness. There was no need for such things, Wynne had learned. There was honor in death. Not only that, but it was natural. The balance of the world required that things lived and died. There was no life without decay. There were no boons from a demon without the death it required. There was a purpose to death. There was supposed to be a purpose to death. That was what they had been taught, that was how they’d lived. Sewing bones in sleeves and pillowcases, slitting the throat of a chicken, preparing their entire life to die. There had to be a purpose. So what need was there for forgiveness.

But what if what if there was none? What if these sentiments were nothing but other empty lies? All those lambs and chickens and squealing piglets that had died on the altar had been a waste. As had Jac. As had Iwan. What good was there in murder? What good was there in dying so soon? What purpose had there been in Emilio’s child being killed? 

The dead were without forgiveness because there was little left for them to do. But Wynne hoped that if they existed out there, these people Emilio had lost, that they would forgive him. Not that he’d done something wrong, but he’d done all the things to deserve that kind of mercy. For them to take the weight off his shoulders, that responsibility he carried that Wynne recognized within themself. They wished these things were possible.

They wished they could speak with Iwan one more time. That they could have known Emilio as he had once been. That their life hadn’t always been about dying, which often left them feeling as if they didn’t know the first thing about living. They wished.

And maybe that was what grief was, at the end of it all. Wishing for things that could not be. The impossibility of wanting something that was not attainable. Not because of personal or worldly limitations but because death was in the end still definite. Even if you believed in a God, a heaven and a hell. Even if you believed in reincarnation. In purpose. In fate. There was still a definite gap left that could not be filled. A constant lack. 

Wynne had ran from home, hadn’t they? They had lost people when they did. They had lost Iwan — but they could still wish to see him again, could still hope that perhaps one day their brother and them would find a way to reunite. But ever since they’d learned what had come of him since their abandonment and betrayal, those wishes and hopes had grown futile and childish. He was gone, bled out. They didn’t even know what they’d done with what had been left after all was said and done. If there had been anything left.

They wondered what had become of Emilio’s family. If they’d been buried. If the vampires had undone them as violently has they had with some of the humans in the barn. If he’d been there, to see them laid to rest. They wanted to ask, but they didn’t. They thought of burying their grandmother when they’d been young. They’d buried most of their death back at home, especially those that had died of natural causes. Those deaths were to return to the earth. Purpose. What purpose?

Emilio returned their embrace and they were glad for it, holding onto him for a moment. They hadn’t done this much at home. Their parents weren’t affectionate, except for when their father mussed their hair or flicked her chin playfully. They wondered why they were thinking of that now, that lack of a strong embrace back at home — it felt inappropriate to compare their father to Emilio. Wynne pushed the thoughts aside.

“I think we should do it together,” they said. “We can make a place for them. Together or separately, whatever is good.” They looked at him, biting their lip. “It’s too cold to do it now, the soil is too hard but we can do it when the earth is warmer and softer. We can look for a spot somewhere.” It would be good, to have somewhere to put their grief. A place to visit. Wynne swallowed thickly and moved back to their seat, blinking a few time to rid themself from the tears that were still threatening to come up. 

They took a long sip from their coffee, were quiet for a moment. They looked down at Perro. “I’m still glad we met. Even if …” They shrugged. “Even if bad things happened before that.” Maybe they both thought there was a better reality out there were they were dead, but this was what they had. And Wynne was glad Emilio was part of it.

—

Growing up, death had always been an expected thing. More so, Emilio suspected, than it was to those not raised as he and his siblings had been. It was a shadow that had hung over his life for as long as he could remember. It was reflected in his father’s absence, in the stories his mother told him, in the blood he was ordered to wash from his hands. The life of a hunter was one designed with death in mind — with years of dealing it out until it was dealt to you. It was short and violent, every time. 

One might think that this would make it less painful. Emilio used to think so. Back when he was a kid, when he had a father who existed only in the form of a name rarely spoken and a long line of relatives who died slow and bloody in ways he could only pretend to understand, he’d thought of death as a simple thing. It happened to other people until it happened to you, and it was easy. It was something you practiced the same way you practiced with your knife. If you repeated the motion often enough, you’d get good at it. You’d perfect it. And, in his arrogance, he’d thought that he had. 

But then came Victor. Then came the day his uncle went into the woods with his brother and came back alone. And death, this familiar thing, this art he thought he’d mastered, shifted so quickly into something else. It was sinister, it was heavy. He didn’t know how to carry it anymore. His mother had never been happy with his reaction to his oldest brother’s death, had never understood it. She’d be ashamed of him now, too. At his inability to compartmentalize, his failure to push the memory of his daughter beneath some forgotten rug the way she had done with her husband, with her oldest son. He was supposed to be better at this, he thought. He was supposed to be good at it.

But maybe there were some things you couldn’t practice for. Maybe you could never really get good at grief, no matter how much experience you had.

After all, Wynne had been given practice, too, hadn’t they? They’d spent so much of their life looking towards its expected end. And Emilio was certain that they didn’t deserve that, would have never told them they were wrong not to want it. Wynne deserved to live, just as Flora had. Just as Victor had, or Jaime, or Edgar, or Rosa. And if all of them deserved to live, and Emilio knew this, then why was it so hard to believe that he might, too? Why was the weight so much easier to carry when you were slipping it off someone else’s shoulders? 

Wynne held him, and his mother would have said he was weak for accepting it but he couldn’t fathom the thought of pushing them away. Wynne held him, and he let himself hold them back, let himself feel it. Was this okay? He wondered, two parts of his mind arguing. Was it okay to accept comfort, even when you weren’t sure you deserved it? Did it make him wrong, make him bad, make him broken? He didn’t know. Maybe that was a part of grieving, too: this endless not knowing. 

“Okay,” he agreed, his voice sounding odd even to his own ears. Thick, like something unseen was coating it. It didn’t sound like him, but it did, too. “Yeah. We can… We can do it together. I’d like that.” The idea of Flora having some symbolic resting place next to Iwan felt right, somehow. Two people who had never met and never would, two children snuffed out by a world too cruel to hold them who were strangers to one another, connected only by the people who had loved them. Emilio didn’t know anymore if he believed in Heaven, but maybe life after death existed in the connections you gained through the people who outlived you. Maybe there was some form of afterlife for a daughter of an angry father and a brother of a brave sibling that existed only in the plants that would grow side by side.

He held his coffee in his hands, curled himself around the smoke that rose from it. Was he better for knowing Wynne? He thought he was. Were they better for knowing him? They seemed to think so. Maybe that was the only thing that really mattered. Regardless, though, he was glad to have met them, too. Glad to know them, glad to have been able to help them even if it didn’t feel like he’d done enough. “Me too, kid,” he agreed quietly. “Yeah. Me, too.”

[i-write-for-fun]

Prompt: i’ll change your life, if you let me.

Pairing: Rooster x OC 

---x---

Hypnotized by the waves, Addison doesn’t understand how anyone could ever want to live away from the water.

The sun on your face, the cool wind through the air….It felt cleansing.  The perfect place to start over.

She’d been here for over a year, thinking that this was it. The longest place she’d lived in after her military service ended. Well, ending was debatable since she hadn’t been discharged and hadn’t requested it either.  But, she was done running or so she’d thought.

And as much as she loved this place. She was ready to go.

It wasn’t as if she was running (except that it was), but she just had to get away from here. From him. And from that military life once again.

This giant pain in the ass, who had serenaded her and convinced her it was okay to let someone in again. “I’ll change your life, you know?” he had said that night on the beach watching the stars. As much as she didn’t want to fall for it, she did.

And now, he was just going to leave, like everyone else.  

It wasn’t his fault though. He was a pilot. He never hid that from her. She knew it the minute he walked into the bar. Shades on…and that strut. She’d been around enough pilots to figure that out. Hell, a few years ago, that would be her walking through the bar like that with aviators on.

But Top Gun? It should have comforted her, knowing he was the best of the best. But how do you gain comfort when his job is to fly the most dangerous of dangerous missions? When, at any moment, the call could come and it could be his last.

And she had tried to keep him at a distance from the beginning. But goddamn, he was just so, so good looking…and sweet, and kind, and funny, as she’d come to learn.

He didn’t know all of her back story. He wanted to though. He wanted to know everything about her. But she couldn’t tell him everything. Not so soon after-

And so it was time. Time to let him go. Let this place go. He’d be on a plane out of here tomorrow and she’d be on the road, the very next day.

But not before telling him that this was it. And she knew it was cruel to do it right before he left. But it’s be crueller to not tell him at all.

She felt strong arms wrap around her. She hadn’t heard him walk up and plop himself down in the sand behind her, his knees enclosing her like a protective cage.

He placed a soft kiss on her cheek. “Hey.”

Involuntarily, her body moved into his. She wanted to remember this moment, this feeling.  God, she loved him. And that was danger zone territory.  “Hey,” she drawled out.

“What are you thinking about?” He asked.

It was now or never. “I need to tell you something.” God, this was going to kill her

“Okay, sounds serious…? Everything okay?”

She breathed in and started. “I’m leaving.”

“Okay, and where are you leaving to?” He asked. She could see the grin plastered on his face, without needing to turn back and look. He thought she was kidding.  She slowly got up and he followed suit. His grin fading.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” She said it with resolve. If he had to believe it, then she’d have to as well.

“Do what?” but he knew the answer.

“You and me. Whatever we’re doing. I don’t want it anymore.” He scoffed and she could feel it coming. Bracing herself like she would before a 6G manoeuvre, she looked him in the eye.

“Like it’s so easy to just turn it off? Wow. You really are your callsign.” She winced. Her wingman, Rain, gave her that callsign and it didn’t mean that. But he was gone and she didn’t fly anymore, so I guess it didn’t really matter anyway.

“I’m sorry-” Rooster started to apologise, but she put up her hand.

“No, you’re right. But, it is what it is, okay. We had some fun and now I’m punching out.”

His tone softens. “Is this about tomorrow?”  

Damn. He always knew. “Look, nothing’s going to happen to me out there. I’ll be back before you know it.” He leans forward trying to reach for her.

But she knew better.  “No.”

Hard. And final. 

The way it needs to be. 

She starts to leave and walk past him. He’s quick though, what with all those years of playing with the squad on the beach. His hand darts out and catches hers easily.

“I’ll change your life, if you let me,” he pleads. She knows it’s a promise from him. That same promise from a year ago. Rooster never says anything he doesn’t mean. That’s just the way he is.

He loves her. She knows it.

And she loves him. He knows it.

But it’s not enough.  

“I’m sorry, Bradshaw,” the last words from her mouth as she walks past him.

 ---x---

[flowercrown-bard]

It's 5am and I just woke up from a dream featuring the words "As soon as their eyes met, his heart congealed and with it all feelings he had had for her." And I couldn't not write that.

Pairing: Geraskier

Content warnings: not a happy end

Word count: idk. It's the middle of the night, I wrote this on my phone and I hope I can fall back asleep as soon as I post this

---

"Such beautiful eyes." The back of the fae's hand hovered above Jaskier's face for a moment, before it made contact, caressing his brow as gently as a lover would and yet the touch left a burning cold in its wake. "No one could look at them and help falling in love with you."

"Not everyone does."

The bitter words left Jaskier's lips without giving him time enough to think better of it and hold his tongue. Then again, what more had he to think about? This was what he had come here for.

As soon as Geralt had parted from him for the winter, Jaskier had done what he always did when he was left to roam the Continent alone while bitter winter winds tore at him and only the burning ache in his chest kept him warm: he had searched for the Winter Court, for a fae that would help him. For the first time since he had started his search nearly two decades ago, he had found one, so what use was it, doubting his words now?

"There is one who doesn't love me." Quieter he added, "He doesn't love me back. I loved him from the moment I saw him and yet he... he... I wish for his or my heart to change. Please, I cannot look at him as I've always done and know that he does not look at me the same way."

The fae tilted their head and studied Jaskier like one would study a piece of poetry, uncovering all secrets, reading between the lines. Like with a poem, it was far too easy to twist the meaning of the love-tinted words.

"It is a burden," the fae said finally. "To fall in love at first sight with you, when you only have eyes for one. I shall help you." The fae cupped Jaskier's hand and leaned forward to press a soft kiss that felt like frost spreading over a blossom, onto Jaskier's eyelids. "The next person who will look into your eyes, shall be free from the shackles of love your gaze would lay upon them. The second they behold your eyes, their heart shall congeal within their chest. Use my gift wisely, you may only do it once."

It was as if ice spread through Jaskier's veins. He froze, before breaking away violently.

"That's not what I want!" Jaskier's voice broke and he stumbled back. "I don't want to kill with my gaze!"

"Don't you already?" The fae asked, their brows drawn together curiously and the corners of their lips tilting up. "Is not the hopeless devotion others burn with for you a slower and crueller death than a heart that would simply freeze over in an instant?"

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. His own burning heart that would only stop scorching him if Geralt returned his love, reminded him of why he had come, of the grain of truth embedded in the fae's words.

Still, he could not let the fae's blessing or curse come to pass.

With shaking hands, Jaskier tore off a long strip of fabric from his chemise and wrapped it around his head. As long as no one could see his eyes, they would not die from it.

When Jaskier found his way across the Winter Court's borders, he didn't need to see to know how much time had passed in the human realm while he had been gone.

The smell of blossoming flowers and the birdsong in his ear was enough to tell him that spring had arrived. It was time to meet Geralt again and pray his witcher would find a way to break this curse.

--

As soon as the snow had thawed, Geralt had left the mountain. Perhaps it had been foolish to look forward to seeing his bard again. Perhaps it had been madness to follow his heart's siren's call and let it chase him out of the keep. Perhaps.

And yet, the burning in his chest left no doubt in him that it was worth it, if it meant that he got to see Jaskier again at the foot of the mountain, to see his eyes crinkle at the sides when he laughed, to feel their softness on him when they sat beside each other and marvel at the dancing flames of a campfire reflected in the endless blue. Most of all, Geralt was longing for that first moment, that second in which Jaskier lay eyes upon him after having been parted from him for months and Geralt would feel every bit of love that he had only had in memory return to him full force.

Yet, as Geralt reached their usual meeting place, Jaskier wasn't there.

He waited for three weeks, days and nights, dawns and dusks, and still no sign of Jaskier.

The birds returned from the south as did the blossoms from the cold ground and yet, Jaskier, the buttercup, the songbird, didn't return with them.

Geralt waited until he couldn't wait anymore. Then, he began hunting. For any word of the bard, any rumour, any sign that he still lived and had simply chosen not to see Geralt again.

The thought made his heart clench and yet it was better than the alternative. He would rather be hated and rejected by Jaskier than know that his heart had stopped.

It was Belleteyn when Geralt finally realised that his search would remain fruitless. It was that very same day, that Geralt, slumped over on top of Roach and fighting the burning pain in his chest, saw something strangely colourful in the distance.

A doublet, red as blood. A feathered hat, as ridiculous as it was endearing.

Jaskier.

Without wasting a second, Geralt spurned on Roach, jumping off without halting her when he got close to his best friend and the man who held his heart in the palm of his hand.

Jaskier's back was to him, but when Geralt called out his name, he turned. Geralt didn't wait for long enough to notice that anything was wrong. He grabbed the bard's shoulders and pulled him against his chest, embracing him as tightly as he could. Tentatively, Jaskier's arms wound around Geralt, pressing himself even closer. Close enough that Geralt imagined Jaskier could feel the way his heart warmed at the contact.

It felt like an eternity and no time at all, before Geralt finally pulled away again. His hands remained on Jaskier's shoulders, the contact being physical proof that Jaskier wasn't dead, that he wasn't gone.

Still, the worry didn’t leave Geralt and his eyes roamed across Jaskier's body, searching for any sign of injury. Not for a moment did the thought cross his mind that something could be wrong with Jaskier's eyes, so he didn't notice the blindfold covering them, until he was sure nothing ailed his bard.

When Geralt's eyes finally reached Jaskier's face he sucked in a sharp breath of air.

"Jaskier..."

His hand came up to cup Jaskier's cheek, his other going to the blindfold.

Jaskier's hand found Geralt's, stilling it.

"Don't." Jaskier's command was gentle, his voice broken. "Don't, Geralt. Not you."

But Geralt needed to see Jaskier's eyes. Needed to know how bad the damage was. Needed to see if the blue he would give his life for would ever be able to see the sky again.

Gently, Geralt untied the knot of the blindfold. The fabric fluttered to the ground but still, Jaskier's eyes didn't meet Geralt's. He kept them closed, squeezed tightly shut, like a child having woken from a nightmare, afraid of opening their eyes in fear that the monsters of the nightmare would stand in front of them.

"Jaskier," Geralt's hand caressed Jaskier's cheek, trailing down to his chin and tilting it up slightly. "Open your eyes. Please."

Jaskier shook his head, the movement small and afraid.

"I can't." Jaskier's lips trembled and he pressed them together. "I can't look at you."

A crack went through Geralt's heart. "I need you too. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong. And I need to help you."

"Why?" Such a simple word, a question impossible to answer without deepening the cracks in Geralt's heart.

And yet, he answered.

Slowly, Geralt closed the gap between them. Their lips met and Jaskier's tasted like snow and frost and winter.

Jaskier gasped into the kiss, his hands found Geralt's hair and he pulled him impossibly closer. Geralt's heart felt like it was burning like a sun, like a lighthouse guiding Jaskier safely home.

Geralt broke the kiss just enough to whisper his answer against Jaskier's lips.

"Because I love you."

Jaskier's eyes snapped open, wide and surprised and so full of awed love. In the next moment, horror flashed through them.

Geralt had but a moment, nothing more than a heartbeat to understand what was happening. In his last moments, he couldn't blame Jaskier for opening his eyes. He would have rather have the last thing he ever saw be the love in Jaskier's eyes than love forever and never feel Jaskier's eyes on him again.

He didn't have time to say any of that.

For the moment their eyes met, Geralt's heart congealed in his chest. It hardened, froze completely, and with it all feeling, all the love he had ever felt for Jaskier.

He pulled away from the bard, his face a blank mask. Only, it no longer was a mask. For the first time, it reflected exactly what he was feeling. Nothing.

Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Muse, the man who saved elves and fell in love with a bard had died.

Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken lived on. Finally, Geralt was what people had always known him to become one day. Unfeeling. Uncaring. Without a heart or any trace of emotions.

The fear in Jaskier's eyes flickered when Geralt didn't drop dead, hope lit up in them instead and he came a step closer, reaching out a hand.

Before Jaskier could touch him, Geralt turned away.

[witchiswriting]

A Not So Merry Christmas Chapter 4

Summary: Another plan is made up for Negan

Warnings: Language, Angst

Pairings: Negan x Lucille (OC)

Author’s Note:  This is really short but consider this as a bottle chapter. You won't know what is going to hit you in the next one.

‘’You really fucked him up.’’ Simon sighed, looking directly at the woman in front of him.

‘’Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. He just needed this wake-up call.’’ The woman said with a calm tone. Despite the cold weather she was wearing a little sun dress without shivering at all.

Simon chuckled slightly, ‘’ Do you really think this is going to make him realize what he does have in front of him? He seemed pretty destroyed when I told him the news. What if he just gives up?’’ He asked with a serious undertone. He was scared for his friend. It was too much for Negan to handle.

The woman with dark hair wasn’t pleased with that question. Of course, that was a possibility that could very much happen, but she chose to dread this thought. ‘’If he fails this time then that’s it. I can’t always pick up after him.’’ She said nonchalantly.

Simon regarded the woman. She almost tricked him to believe that she doesn’t give a fuck but the light in her eyes whenever she mentioned Negan was enough to convince him otherwise.

‘’You still love him, don’t you? That’s why you’re trying this hard.’’ Simon questioned.

‘’ I guess I never stopped loving him but you’re wrong.’’ The woman spoke with mischief in her voice. Clearly, she was enjoying herself.

‘’ Then what is it? Why are you trying this hard? And don’t get me wrong but I think Negan will always be Negan and won’t learn from his mistakes. Plus, the death of the woman he loves is going to make him more miserable than he already is, and we all know how Negan deals with his problems.’’ Simon sighed. It was no lie that whenever he has an emotional trouble, Negan chooses to drown himself with women and booze. Sex is the only way for him to feel nothing. He has always liked to use people for his own benefit. This time, the woman stood up angrily. The flames were almost visible in her eyes.

‘’ If he refuses to change and learn from his mistakes then it’s his choice and he’s going to live in this hell I’ve created for him for the rest of his life. I’m not trying to protect him nor save him. My mission is something you can’t even guess, Simon and no, there’s no way I’m explaining this to you.’’ She said with a determined undertone. The danger was obvious in her voice.

Simon thought, did he ever know this woman? He used to be friends with her, and she was full of love and kindness back then but now she’s nothing but thorns and poison. ‘’ You got to go back to him. I bet he’s not doing very well right now.’’ The woman ordered.

Without saying anything else Simon stood and descended to Negan’s room.

He could hear the glass shattering and Negan roaring loudly. He really was in pain, Simon let himself in without knocking. Negan was a mess, his hair was tousled, eyes were bloodshot, and he was standing in the middle of the room with a photograph of him and Lilith together in his hands. He was caressing the picture. ‘’ Did I cause this, Simon?’’ He asked with a hoarse tone. His tears were running down on his cheeks. Simon looked at his best friend. He wanted to be there for him and say that it wasn’t his fault but if he does this, he knows that she’d be furious with him and her being furious is not a good thing.

‘’ I hate to say that but— ‘’ he got interrupted by a roaring Negan.

‘’ Goddamn it! Just tell me already! I fucking caused this, right?! She’s gone because of me!’’ He started crying loudly. This pain was unbearable for him. There’s no reason for him to be alive if his girl is dead because of him.

Simon took a step closer to Negan, touching his shoulder to calm him down. ‘’I’m sorry, but yes boss you partially caused it.’’

Simon couldn’t find the courage in him to tell his friend how he caused his lover’s death. It was too cruel for his taste. Sure, Negan was an asshole, everyone knows it but even he wouldn’t deserve this mess.

He’s been watching Negan tearing apart in front of him for days and wondered how much longer he could bear to see his friend like this, but he also knows if he tries to make things better for Negan Lucille would be furious. Honestly, Simon doesn’t want to face that woman’s wrath. Somehow, she became crueller after she died.

Negan’s whole world crumbled down, not only he destroyed the person he loved most in his real life he also caused her death in this fucked up dimension. He lost everything but also knows he couldn’t go back and make things right. He’s trapped in this hell hole for eternity.

Though this was just the beginning. Negan won’t know what’s going to hit him once it’s done. Lucille hoped this is going to make him realize he can be happy, and he has value even if he has fucked up, pun intended. She knew this was probably the cruellest thing she has ever done, and most would say she hates the man’s gut, on the contrary she still cared for him, but she also cared for someone else. When she’s signed to be that person’s guardian angel, she didn’t think things would come to this. At first, she didn’t understand why she’s chosen as some girl’s guardian angel. In her logic guardian angels must be attached to the person they protect. Little did she know it’s going to be related with the only person she loved deeply.

When Negan fucked the redhead in that bar’s bathroom Lucille was furious. Her fury became visible in her eyes. She thought Negan would try to be better, her death must have taught him that, she was naïve.

After that particular event Lucille started holding a grudge against Negan, of course she still had feelings for him, but she was also accustomed to like Lilith. That girl was something else, she wouldn’t stick around like Lucille did.

Lilith won’t be the only agony Negan is going to go through. There is someone else he also needs to deal with, and Simon knew that his friend will totally lose it if he didn’t before.

‘’ Boss, I know this is not the perfect time, but you must visit the cells. The prick doesn’t listen to us and tried to escape again.’’

There we go again.

@negans-network​ @buttercandy16​

[jjba-arni-reblog]

Evening

Ay, the 1st  prize is here. Thank you again @haruggio for participating and requesting such a cute scenario. It was a pleasure to write for you! I hope you and anyone else will like it. Jolyne needs more love!

Pairing: Jolyne/Reader

Words: 2k+ 

~~~

The warm of the Floridian sun touched your skin as you walked towards a house after grocery shopping. It wasn’t a big house, but it sure felt welcoming. This was the place you shared with Jolyne, your girlfriend. To say that the way you got together was ‘special’ would be an understatement.

You knew Jolyne before the whole incident of her getting into prison (yet again), being somewhat awkward friends at first. It wasn’t unusual for you to bail her out of the prison on regular as the woman frequently got into fights, whether to defend someone or just because. Jolyne would always smile as you nagged her about the many incidents of her having a short temper.  Unsurprisingly, you met Jolyne’s mom in the prison too, as the two of you were there to ‘rescue’ Jojo. She was a nice lady, worrying over her only daughter endlessly. However, you never saw a father figure in Jolyne’s life, as the teenager at that time stated multiple times that she doesn’t want to see her father.

However, the fate decided the other way. You met Jolyne again in the prison, however the circumstances were different this time. You were framed by an old friend of yours. It felt almost concerning how much your and Jolyne’s stories aligned together. Even though Jojo was ecstatic to see you again, you knew she felt worried over her and your futures. You two met another woman name Hermes, quickly becoming friends and trying to survive the prison life together.

Around the same time, Jolyne met her father for the first time in years. After the unfortunate meeting you were the one listening to her complains at the young women couldn’t help but to despise her father for many reasons.

It was also because of her father that the three of you got stands, which almost immediately made you face other stands user, whether friendly or not. You met another group of people consisting of two men and a small child, further forming a circle of friend, even if Anasui was a bit weird.

At some point, the true villain revealed himself. Pucci. The man was an eery priest in the prison, however his further action proved him to be a horrible man, as he stole Jotaro’s memories, making Jolyne even more distressed. And so the hunt began. You faced many opponents during that time, resulting in multiple scars as the enemies got crueller each time. However, you also found love and support from Jolyne, as the woman casually confessed to you, worried that she might not have another opportunity to do so. Even if the time wasn’t right, one needs to take the best out of it. That is, until Pucci decided to appear once again. But this time, his ultimate plan wasn’t to steal one’s memories. Instead he longed for a bigger achievement. Changing the universe. Reaching heaven.

He didn’t.

He lost to the man he gained the last piece of the puzzle. Jotaro Kujo landed the final punch, anger overwhelming the man at the sight of knifes sticking out of his daughter. And you. You partially shielded your dearest friend, desperate to not let Pucci win. And it worked. The injuries weren’t as deep, and she was able to survive with the help of the medics from the Speedwagon foundation. The whole group miraculously survived, with Weather, Foo Fighters and Jotaro having the worst wounds.

From that point on, came the long physical and mental therapy as the nightmares hunted all of you, the sheer fear over your loved ones. Together, it felt easier. Even if a little.

Over the time, things got better, you and Jolyne were given a separate home, surprisingly from Jotaro as the man understood that your relationship was serious. He announced it through a call, sending keys later and giving the address. It was a small but a significant start.

You were approaching your shared house, grocery bags in hands as you manoeuvred your keys out of the pocket, opening the door to let yourself in. You then announced your arrival as per usual.

You closed the door after yourself, eyeing the living room in search for your girlfriend. It was surprisingly quiet, no usual warm greetings and Jolyne running out of the room to bring you into a crushing hug.

‘Strange’ you thought, putting the bags down to take off your jacket, then hanging it in a small dresser.

“Jolyne?” you called for her, thinking that maybe she is just listening to music and didn’t hear you arrive. Before you could take another step, Jolyne suddenly appeared from the ceiling supported by her stand’s ropes.

You let out a scream at her ‘surprise’ as she started to laugh, hanging down from the ceiling like a spider. It took you a moment to calm down, then eyeing her annoyingly. The surprise worked.

“Jesus, Jolyne, what the hell?” you smacked her shoulder a little as the woman before you was chuckling still, her hair handing down as her usually buns were unravelled, showing off her long hair.

“Surprise” she smirked at your annoyed face, pulling herself up a little so that your head was on the same level “Now, where is my kiss, Mary Jane?” Jolyne wiggled her eyebrows at you, still hanging upside down. Seems like it was her plan all along.

“Sometimes I can’t believe how cheesy you are, Jojo” you felt your annoyance disappear a little at her suggestion. Seeing her smiling widely at you and waiting for her kiss, you couldn’t help but to ease up and smile back at her.

“Alright,” you sighed a little at her mischievous nature, stepping closer so you could place your hands on her cheeks, itching closer.

You felt her plump lips against yours as you tilted your head a little for a better angle while tracing her cheeks with your hands. You could feel her smiling eagerly into the kiss.

Pulling away, you couldn’t help but to smile at her now slightly blushing face.

“Are you happy now?” you asked Jolyne as she stared at you lovingly. She never failed to be charming.

“With you ��� always,” she winked, chuckling at your eyeroll.

Jolyne jumped down, landing on the floor as she noticed the bags.

“Let me help you,” she quickly insisted, taking the bags and carrying them to the kitchen. You couldn’t waste the opportunity to look at her beautiful and quite muscular back. All the fights and working out in the prison only made her more athletic, which she would often use to her advance, carrying and lifting you.

“Whatcha got there?” you could hear Jolyne from the kitchen as you took off your shoes. Standing up, you walked towards the kitchen, joining your girlfriend.

“Well, I thought we could cook some homemade brigadeiro,” you explained, taking things out of the bag and placing them on a counter “oh, I also got us pasta,” you showed her the package, putting it away from the ingredients for the sweets.

“Can’t wait!” Jolyne answered happily, now helping you by sorting ingredients and putting some of them in the fridge. She then moved to stand next to you, as you took out measuring tools. You told her to check your phone for the recipe, so you two could start cooking.

After you properly measured the needed amount of ingredients, you two slowly cooked next to each other as Jolyne told you about a recent call from Weather.

“Please tell me you are joking,” you tried not to chuckle as you heard the news.

“No, for real! He cried after meeting Mickey Mouse,” Jolyne smirked, re-telling the story. Weather, Anasui and Foo Fighter had plans to go visit Disneyland and it seemed like they succeeded in doing so this weekend.

“That is very cute,” you noted, stirring the chocolate in a pan as you continued to listen to Jolyne.

“They also went to a haunted house, ending with Foo Fighters almost fighting the actors and Anasui being carried by Weather”

“Oh”

You two burst out laughing.

After a while, you mixed the ingredients together, then putting dirty plates and cups in the sink as you let the mix for the supposed brigadeiros to cool down.

“Hey,” Jojo called for you, as you dried your hands on the towel.

“What?” you turned around, only to be met with a cheeky grin.

“Boop” Jolyne said, as she smeared chocolate on your nose, effectively ‘booping’ you.

“Hey!” you exclaimed as she laughed “Don’t play with food, Jojo” you rolled your eyes smiling a little.

As you washed off the chocolate, you couldn’t help but to smirk at the idea that popped up in your mind.

You made your hands wet again with the water, turning towards your girlfriend yet again. Before she could say anything, you splashed her with water a little as you could hear Jojo’s surprised gasp at your action.

You quickly found yourself behind the counter as you mirrored Jolyne’s playful expression as she stood in the opposite.

“You gonna get it,” she warmed you, itching closer to you as you stepped back a little, making sure you had the distance to escape her.

“Only if you’ll catch me” you winked at her, moving a little. Jolyne quickly tried to run towards you, resulting in you two making a circle around the counter. Trying to reach you from across it seemed futile as you leaned back while chuckling at your girlfriend.

“Don’t make me use my stand,” Jojo playfully threatened you, making her stand manifest slightly behind her.

“Don’t make me eat all the chocolate,” you answered back, seeing slightly shocked expression on woman’s face.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Jolyne exclaimed theatrically.

“We’ll see about that,” you smirked, eyeing the mix as Jojo followed your gaze. She quickly looked back at you, teasing smile on her face as she ran around the counter. You were quick to run as well, now ending in a reverse position.

After a couple more minutes of running, you suddenly felt her catch you, wrapping her arms tightly around you from behind. Jolyne spun you around. She quickly hugged you closer, attacking you with kisses, planting them across your face as you couldn’t help but to giggle in her strong hold.

“Okay, okay, you got me,” you kissed her cheek as Jojo eased her hold on you, nuzzling into your beck affectionately

“You are even sweeter than chocolate,” she said. You felt your cheeks warm up a little, running your hand through her loosely tied hair.

You two decided to check on the mix, making them into balls and then covering them in sprinkles. The result tasted really sweet as you two commented on your hard work.

You decided to then watch a movie. You were checking if there was anything on the TV when you heard sounds coming from the kitchen. Rolling your eyes, you called for your girlfriend.

“Don’t eat everything, Jojo”

“I can’t help it,” Jolyne mumbled, you could hear that she has already stuffed her mouth with sweets. She then took some of the brigadeiros as well as salty snacks to you. You already had blankets prepared for the full cuddling session.

Jolyne moved closer as you shared your blanket with her. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around you, cuddling you as you two lied down, surrounded by soft pillows around you. You had previously dimmed the lights for the full movie atmosphere.

As a first movie was playing, you felt her itching closer to you.

“Hey” she whispered in your ear “hey, hey” she continued.

“Yes?” you answered back, not quite sure what to expect.

“Wanna hear a spoiler?” you could almost hear the cheekiness in her voice as Jojo smiled evilly.

“Don’t you dare,” you harshly whispered back.

“But what if the main character…”

“Don’t”

“Well…hypothetically………was to die at the end?”

“Jolyne!” you exclaimed.

“Well, HYPOTHETICALLY”

“It means he will, right?” you sighed, now turning your head towards Jojo.

“Well, who knows?~” she winked at you, kissing your cheek affectionately.

“I can’t with you, Jojo. He better not die at the end,” you eyed her half-sternly as she made puppy eyes. She brought you closer into the hug, placing her head on your chest area, using you as a pillow.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” you casually warned her, itching down to kiss her head.

“You are way too comfortable,” Jolyne answered, squeezing you a little. You traced patterns on her arms as you two were about the finish the movie. Thankfully, the main character did not die.

You decided to put on another film.

“Oh, this one! I saw it, here the dude actually dies!” Jolyne suddenly spoke up.

“STOP!” you half chuckled, getting up and hitting her with a pillow.

“Oh, it’s on” Jolyne smirked, getting herself a pillow and starting the fight.

Neither of you eventually won as Jolyne tiredly tackled you, effectively hugging you again.

“Alright, draw?” she asked, panting a little.

“Yes, please” was your answer.

Jojo itched closer, kissing you as you wrapped your arms around her neck. After couple of second, you broke it off. You felt Jolyne kiss your nose as you two got comfortable again.

“Hey, you know…”

“What is it?”

“I want you to meet my parents”

This was not what you expected.

“Well, we have met…” you said, unsure if you could call it a ‘real’ meeting. You surely met her mother multiple times. In case of her father, the circumstances weren’t the best.

“No, no, for real this time. Without all….this, without the panic and the need to bail me out” your girlfriend chuckled at the fond memory “they seem interested in learning about my social life….well, mom mostly. You know how my dad is,” Jolyne explained, her eyes shifting a little at the mention of her father.

“Yeah… he is pretty intimidating,” you hesitated on how to describe the man.

“More like lame. He still wears his snake pants even though he is forty. Talk about fashion disaster,” Jolyne rolled her eyes, laughing a little as she remembered the infamous outfit of her dad.

“Well, how about a dinner or something?” you suggested. The look on Jolyne’s face has changed to an excited one.

“Oh, that would be great! And we can make brigadeiros again!” she faced you, smiling widely at the idea of cooking together again.

“That is, if you won’t eat everything before we will meet them,” you raised your eyebrow, chuckling as Jolyne’s expression changed into a slightly offended one.

“Rude”

Jojo pinched your side a little, making you yelp.

“Alright, alright~” you pecked her lips.

She turned towards the small table, taking her phone from it. Jojo messaged her mom as your eyes were on the TV.

“I asked about the date and if my dad will be available,” Jolyne explained, putting her phone away and hugging you again.

After a couple of minutes, you heard a notification sound. Jolyne took her phone, opening the messages.

“How about the next weekend? We don’t have any plans, right?” she asked, ready to type the response back.

“None that I remember of,” you answered.

“Then it is settled,” Jojo concluded “Ah, maybe now my mom will stop nagging me about you. She is always asking about you. Dad also, even if a bit awkwardly. But he does care, in his own way.”

You smiled hearing Jolyne speak of her father. It was still complicated for her to accept him but slowly, she started to open up a little. Jotaro sometimes messaged her, asking about her life, even if awkwardly. The man would usually send her picture of the ocean. He became a part of her life, for once.

Remembering your first encounter with the man himself, you couldn’t help but go back to the endless battles in the prison. Your eyes shifted to Jolyne’s arms and all the battle scars on her delicate skin. You traced her arm lightly, which was not left unaware by your girlfriend.

“Do they hurt?” you couldn’t help but to ask.

“Not really, maybe sometimes they feel itchy,” Jojo explain, eyeing her arm a little, without further interest.

“I am sorry I couldn’t-“

“Shush, don’t,” she quickly shut you down, hugging you closer so that you could look her in the eyes. “We both know there was nothing you or anyone could do as I faced multiple battles alone. We all did,” she explained, a slightly sad smile on her face “we are alive and that’s all that matters” Jojo concluded.

“Still…” you tried to say something else.

“It’s all in the past,” Jolyne kissed your cheek, “I am now here with you, in the present,” she continued, now unraveling her arms from around you.

“We are okay” she put her soft hands on your cheeks, tracing them a little as she kissed your nose “and I am happy with you,” she kissed your cheeks, smiling slightly as she saw a notion of a blush on your face. Jolyne itched closer, tilting her head a little.

“Me too” you whispered before she brought you into a kiss.

[oh-theres-a-woman]

War Melodies on the Gramophone; Part 2

A/N: Here’s the requested part two!! Thank you so much to the lovely anon and other loving followers that expressed their want for a part two. The conclusion to this story! Really hope that its the ending you desired! A fitting end to the reunited pair, wouldn’t you say? 

Taglist: @zodiyack , @itsfrancisneptun , @shelbys-we-get-the-job-done, @amy-booxx​ & @fandom-fucking-shit

Pairing: Thomas “Tommy” Shelby X Female Reader 

Word Count: 1519

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It was quaint and quiet the Shelby townhouse was at this hour. The loud crowd of the household all down at the Garrison which you’d departed shortly after. Tommy carried himself like he was the cock of the wall. The alpha among his pack. Yet, he held the damaged air of a dangerous lone wolf on the prowl.  He wasn’t at all the boy you once met, however, during the war you had borne witness to that transformation as well your own. 

Sitting down in the living area on a comfortable but worn out loveseat. You observed the family setting the room gave. Apart from that, it warmed your soul to know that he had a family to come back to. The epidemic that you had come home to without rest to throw yourself into a great risk environment of sickness and death after the gore-ish war. You had taken ill for a time and thought it’d be finally your end. Fate had something much crueller in mind for you. Your mammy and pappy as you called them took ill. It carried them away to the heavenly gates before you were able to see them again. 

So, the homely scene was almost comforting to you. As you straighten your posture, gazing at some of the things that made it uniquely home. Only to be caught off guard by Tommy’s outstretched hand offering you a glass of whiskey. Awkwardly you smiled up at him. Accepting the drink, even if you’d had a few at the Garrison it felt like you needed a bit of a boost of your confidence. Time surely had passed on the era where you were certain to know that man before you. But, life was so different now. 

Once you would have been able to speak your dreams, but now it seemed foolish to speak to a stranger. Whiskey was the answer for each discouraging thought that told you to run. Those thoughts dampened the best of moods, they wouldn’t win now. Fencing off those insecurities you clung to the hopes that made things seem a little more realistic. “You have a lovely home Tommy, it’s so homely. It's nice. Simple.” You complimented smiling at the rim of your glass. The home was something you have been looking for since you had returned from the war. After everything, the places you stayed were only beds to sleep in. The area where you paid way too much rent for the upkeep on a cheap and run-down flat. Shouldering the debts of family gambling… Your brother’s issues. Yet, that little shit ran away with his tail between his legs when he heard the world of your return. 

You guessed that’s what came of the younger generation that didn’t go to war. It was all about larking about, making a fool of oneself. “Thank you, my Aunt Pol is very particular with things. She likes things one way. Her way and no other way.” Thomas didn’t change with one point that was likeable. Things were always straight to the point and it never took long for him to answer. He was smart, quick with his wit. Maybe there were actually a lot of points you honestly liked about it. Truly, if you were a grand author or poet you’d be able to write it all out. If time would allow you and you had the knowledge of all the fancy words under the sun. 

No, you were, in fact, a little simple. Smart, but your wit came with the job and doing things with your hands. It helped things come across clearer; feelings, desires and needs. 

“You’re somewhere else, [y/n],” Thomas said in a matter-of-fact, seating himself beside you. Nursing his own drink of Irish Whiskey. “Where are you lost?” He asked you quietly. Blue observing eyes turned quickly to you drinking your lovely features in. The distance in your handsome gaze. 

“I don’t know, sometimes I just drift. A lot of days are like that.” You admitted hesitantly, it almost felt like dumping a burden on Thomas after so all. Sadly, the certainties of old familiarities seemed and felt long forgotten at that moment.  

“I understand that, somedays it feels better to just be somewhere else, doesn’t it?” Tommy commented rather understandingly. Offering you a cigarette from his smart-looking case in the front pocket of his well-tailored coat. Gratefully accepting the stick of pure calmative and nicotine. Placing the glass down on the coffee table, you took it between your slightly chapped lips. Inhaling at Tommy lit the end, sparking the ember to life and filling your lungs with that heavy relief you couldn’t describe. 

“Exactly, the work helps. It’s always helped. When I slow down the demons come rushing back, night horrors.” You admitted between a neutralizing inhale of the nicotine. It levelled out the insecurities. Beat them out like a flat iron. Before letting out a shaky laugh looking down at your lap feeling awfully silly about the suppression of emotions. Flicking the ask into the provided tray before you. “So, what have you been doing with your life? It seems to be going well for you, appearance-wise. But, I always picture you to be quite the smartly dressed fellow in any case.” There, finally, set in the creeping ease in your manner and comfort. Tensions releasing from you like a heavyweight rolling free off your shoulder and down a large hill. 

“Bookkeeping and other sorts of jobs pay well enough, I won’t lie about that.” Tommy exhaled a cloud of smoke as he spoke, filling the dimly lit room with a greyish cloud that held a little bit of mystery to it. “By it sounds and the girl you were with at the Garrison, is it safe to assume you’re still a nurse?” He asked with a focus dedicated only to you. 

“Yes, but I’m studying in the field to become a doctor. Bold, I know. The men at work are more than happy to point out how unwomanly and unbecoming it is to become a doctor. But, I don’t mind at all. It’d give me a purpose and something to look forward to. After all the hard work is done.” You smiled absentmindedly at the man at your side, feeling that comfort between each other once more. Like it had never left in the first place. Just stagnant time held, needing the flow of conversation once more to remove the frigid awkwardness.

Tommy chuckled at your remark of the men at work, their thoughts seemed invalid to him. “You’ve always had the most delicate hands, that do the job right the first time. Don’t take any notice of them.” There was a wit in his remark. Soul-warming. It lit an old spark for you. That had been so suppressed for so very long. It made you want to ask a question--something that would bug you later if you didn’t. No matter how rude it’d seem. 

“Are you married, or involved with anyone, Tommy?” You needed to ask. Eyes appearing glassy when asking such a question. Almost like you’d cry if you heard someone stole his heart. Foolish and bitter as it seemed, the little light that was alive between you and the Brummy had kept hell from your door for a time. Pitiful it just seemed to lose all that now. Even when you didn’t know Shelby pulled through there was a hope there that he was always out there. Healthy, alive, surrounded by the people that mattered--even, bitterly, a lover if he had one. 

Tom’s gaze became distant and wandering now. Taken to a place elsewhere. Locked on memories of the past. “No, there’s no one. The occasional whore, nothing emotional.” He suffocated the embers of his cigarette finishing that statement. Sparks jumping up and licking across his fingertips. Before glancing at you with that dangerously handsome gaze that made you feel like those days were the war stopped for a moment. Where you found yourself in his embrace. 

“I lost my heart and was broken by a nurse in the war, for the longest time I didn’t know she was alive… That was until tonight when I saw you in the Garrison. All dolled up and looking every part the goddess of Gyspy dream.” Thomas said in a perfectly heartbreaking voice, before drawing you to his lips. Right hand on your cheek, smoothing over the soft flesh. Left-arm a smooth snake around your waist, stealing your breath away as you gave yourself away into the passion of a shared kiss. That searing reunion that seemed to call for both you. 

“I lost mine to a Brummy Boy turned man, the bookkeeper, a crowned prince of the Peaky Blinders. My Thomas Shelby.” You announced against his rough lips once more. Before stealing a rough kiss once more. Easing back into the love seat letting things take their natural course. Only the smell of sweat and cigarette clung into the air after a time. Sweaty bodies tangled together. Still high from the memory of each other’s embrace. 

[goingsllightlymad]

Blinded By Your Light - Part 6. On Changing.

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x reader

Summary: Y/N is the definition of ordinary. Studying at a medical school as far as she can get from her rainy hometown of Birmingham, she never expected to be shipped off the Flanders when the war was at it’s peak. Much less to meet a handsome young patient with the most beautiful pair of blue eyes she had seen in her life who as fate would have it would fall into her lap.

Wordcount: 6415 (I’m busy as hell with studying so I decided to publish the chapter I was writing as two shorter parts, this is the first so calm down that the ending’s pretty shit, I am going to resolve it with the next chapter and it’s allllllll gonna be chill). 

Warnings: poorly written ANGST. You’re all gonna hate hate me for this one, looking directly at you @captivatedbycillianmurphy.

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And so the months came and went through the grey streets of Small Heath like the shadow of some endless night, ebbing and flowing with the tides of time, and for the first time in your life the world did not change at all. Only the warmer days warned you that this long winter could not last forever, and all of a sudden it was over and the days were longer, bright with the flowers that came to the bakery door every morning. You gave them with the bread as you made your rounds past houses where every day the memories came creeping back, softer and sweeter and there was no pain here anymore. And in the evenings there was dancing in the upstairs rooms of the pub, you and Ada and a million dresses laid around the chairs and bed and mirror as you spun and dipped into the ecstatic dream of freedom. You were a child again, and all the world was yours once more and he was not a part of it anymore and that was just fine.

It would be a lie to say that you did not think of him, but it was only in the late nights when it was just you and your candle, looking out over the buildings at the trains as they wound away, a path you didn't take and would spend forever wondering what might have happened if you had. And when the spring fell away to summer you saw again the sunsets on the city that pulled you to the rooftop so many times before, wide-eyes wondering at the world you had not seen, ghosts of former lovers hanging onto your sleeve as you spread your arms like wings to fly away and knew you never could. Never would, because for the first time you could see no world but here outside your windows, and it suited you just fine.

And there was you and Ada, and you and Polly, and sometimes you and John, sitting and having tea in the summer sunlight, chasing round the market in your shawls and coats and painting in your mind all the colours of the apples and carrots and plums like they meant everything in the world to you. No blood, not even in those nights when you could hear the guns ringing through the darkened streets and wondered almost where Small Heath ended and your tortured mind began, the memories of a war half-left behind and somehow never left. You were safe and you were happy, and everything was going to be just fine.

Polly was opening up to you more and more as the winter melted away; by summer she was your mother, clasping your hands in hers and telling you to be wise and brave and sure of all you did, and all your stories were hers to read and note and read again whenever she saw your face and it was strangely comforting to see her everyday the same, even when she knew. She knew you, knew all you did and all you had done, and every time she looked at you there was no fear at all, and you wished for nothing more. Ada had become a friend and then a sister, she came to you at night when she could not bear to be alone with all the gunshots pounding out from their street and you both knew you'd never ask, never force her to tell what was best left unspoken, out of sight and out of mind. And there were the days when you returned to the church and there was John with your father in the little kitchen where the sun never seemed to reach all the way through the window, and you could not remember laughing as much as you did in those afternoons alone together when there was no world at all outside of your window and nothing at all between you and him.

And soon July was ending, and you were sitting in the Garrison as usual, only now the sunlight was warm and calming on your face, streaming in in glorious waterfalls of melted gold through the front windows and bathing you in soft yellow glow. The room was silent, as it often was these days as the three girls sat thoughtfully, staring into your teacups and smiling softly, lethargically. These long summer days brought hot nights, the town shimmering in balmy heat and all the world  a little crazier. There were fights in the evenings, hot blood on hot stone. Each night you hurried home a little earlier to find your away from the bubbling anger of the Garrison, where blood boiled by the bar. There was a storm brewing in the distance, dark and ominous as the clouds of cold autumn rain that hovered now in the early mornings, watchful as the eyes of God, and summer had lasted too long.

At the sound of the door flung open, all three heads jerked up, the comfortable silence shattering instantly as the room was filled with heavy footsteps, the screech of the door where the oil had dried up in the heat of days gone by. Into the room there came a crowd of men in sharp grey suits and the familiar flat-cap, brims glittering and you really meant to ask what there was about it that made you so uneasy.

"And make sure it's done by tomorrow, mind. We're not exactly rolling in spare time."

And there he was, the crowd clearing around him and all you saw was him in front of you, beautiful as the moment you had left and he was so beautiful it took your breath away. And you thought you might cry, your eyes fixed on him and your cup of tea dropped back into its saucer on the table, and then his eyes met yours and suddenly he knew.

"Go." he waved a hand and the men went, just like that, and Ada reached out to touch your arm and you held her hand tight, holding her in place because if you were left here, alone once more with him as though no time had passed at all, you weren't entirely sure what you'd do.

"Tommy," it slipped out of your mouth, a whisper so weak he might not have heard it, but he did and his eyes were so cold. His face hard as stone and crueller still than that cold winter spent without him and without even his letters, promised as they were. The way he looked at you, you thought you might never have met him at all, for in those brilliant blue eyes there was an icy hatred you had never seen before, cold as the grave and unfeeling as he stared you down, willing you to speak or willing you to leave, you knew not which. Looking on at him in the hope of a sign, something small to tell you that this was indeed the same man who had kissed you on the train station, promised you a lifetime you knew he could not give, it tore you apart to know that you did not recognise this man at all.

"(Y/N)." he spoke finally, voice flat and disinterested as if you were just another business proposal that he had no care to consider, the least wonderful thing he had seen all day. He remembered you - for a moment you had wondered if any of this had ever been real, if he simply did not know you at all, and in a way this was so much worse. He knew you, and even you could tell from his detached expression that he did not love you. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Yeah, I gathered." through the agonising sadness that was pounding in your head and in your heart and ripping you into pieces there came a rush of bitterness, anger because hadn't he said that he would write to you until he could find you again, and wasn't he here in front of you now, a little taller and a whole lot crueller than the last time you had met? You let your hand slip out of Ada's and she and Polly stood quietly and disappeared into the backrooms. It was only you and him now, along with all the universe in between.

"So where've yer been?"

"In the hospital. Some of us couldn't leave." you muttered, breaking eye contact and taking in the pub, suddenly aware that where you had been waiting for this one moment since the moment he had left, now you would rather be anywhere on earth but here with him. This was anything but the sweet reunion you had dreamed it to be in all those lonely nights in the hospital and the days when you couldn't help but see his face in every beautiful thing around, and he was anything but the sweet man you had fallen so in love with in those days when you could almost forget that love was there at all, so hateful was the world behind you.

"And now you're back. Funny how the world turns out." he sounded so much like his aunt had, that first day when she was so far from you, reading you like you could fall apart before her, your deepest secrets spilling unto her watchful eyes, and you wondered could he see himself written upon your aching soul the way you could feel it each night, eating you alive? And if you never learned from him, waited for him forever and became only the shreds of how his love had left you on that dreadful day on the platform, would he see that too? Or were you now too far away for him to find you, as you feared he was to you.

"I'm not back for you." but yes you were, and both of you knew it. Your footsteps would always lead you back to him, unknowing as you were as you followed blindly into the pits of destiny's shame. You were here for him, and if you stayed you'd do that for him too. "You'd know if you'd written."

"And why would I do that?"

And there it was, the great and terrible blow that sent you reeling, his voice so harsh it cut into you with all the force his love had never borne for you. You laughed bitterly, and when you looked at him again all you saw was the cold and broken body of a man who had once loved and now could love no more. He never wrote, he never loved, was there anything this man could do? A kinder girl than you might have pitied him, but after everything you had done in these last years you were so much more than kind. You were proud, and you were furious.

"Because there was a part of me that was so sure you loved me." your voice broke at that, and you prayed he wouldn't notice. He did, of course he did, he was Thomas Shelby and he noticed everything he could use to his own gain and suddenly you were realising that, but only after you had become yet another ploy he had slipped into his hands so easily. He had smiled at you and you used to feel special, but now you only felt like prey. You had been sure he loved you, just like you were sure that summer would come once the winter melted away, and that the sun would rise each morning and chase away the night, the simple certainties of nature, but now all you knew was that this winter was going to last a very long time, and the sun would be a long time rising. Outside the Garrison window the sun had passed behind a cloud; the room was quiet and grey, the colour gone away.

"Don't be ridiculous." he grinned like his aunt, cold and cruel and utterly malicious, but there was no softness behind his eyes like you had caught in hers, and it made you shiver despite the warmth of the days. This was not the man you knew, but this was the man you had always feared he might become, for this was the man that you had seen a million times before in the faces as they returned from the war, older now and irrevocably changed.

"More ridiculous than running away and never having the fucking nerve to write so much as one letter to explain?!" your voice was higher, louder than you had expected, thick with furious emotion that threatened to overwhelm you as you stood so close to him, throwing your hands up as you shouted. You took a moment to breathe, in then out, then turned to him slowly, words appearing in your head already steady and emotionless, the worst things you could think and you knew you had to say them now or else you'd see them every time you closed your eyes, taunting and true. "You know, I thought you were a fool, but I never took you to be a coward."

He straightened, squaring up and his jaw locking, and in that moment the last shred of the man you had loved finally fell away, and in the man it left behind you wondered how many people he had killed. He had that easy malice that made you think he'd lost count. "Watch it."

"Or what? Far as I've gathered, you don't care about me at all. Don't see why we should change that, now should we?" you were taunting him now, stepping closer to hiss it against the hot skin of his throat and you could still see the faint lines of scars you'd dressed, out of place as though they were not his past at all, stolen words from someone else's love-story and wasted in his tale of woe. Tommy Shelby was a poet, Thomas Shelby a murderer.

"You shouldn't be here." he gritted his teeth, breathing out through his nose and biting back the anger that was burning through his face and fists and every cell in his body. You were so close he could almost taste the soft, sweet perfume you had always used in those empty days in the hospital when you were the only thing keeping him from going insane, his saving grace and now you were before him and against him and you had never hated him so much before.

"Oh really? And where, pray tell, should I be? Sticking it out in an empty hospital after the war has fucking ended in the hopes that you would write so much as once?!" you tried not to cry, tried not to scream as it hit you all over again that you had stayed there, long after you could have left, could have been done with all the blood and all the torture you put up with for him. War was hell and you had walked through it gladly, past turning back, past reason, because once he'd asked you to and now he only left you there to burn. You stepped back, pushing him hard with one hand and he caught you by the wrist, holding you in place, feeling your heart beating strong and fast and knowing you were real.

"It's not fucking safe here." he muttered under his breath and you wrenched your hand away, turning around and grinning like a madman, all your anger, all the rage that had been boiling in you for all these months alone finally rushing up through your head and into your mouth, thick and sour and burning like the hot summer sun inside you.

"I was in a fucking war! Don't you fucking dare tell me what's safe and what isn't!" now you were screaming, shoving him and swearing like the rest of the house couldn't hear you, or simply didn't matter. All that was gone now, only you and him and how much you could hurt him before he would push back. You couldn't help but think of when you'd loved him endlessly, you and him and, far away, the nurses knowing nothing, and now there was only hate.  

"Oh you were in the war, were you?!" and he was angry, angrier than you had seen him, even in those days when vengeful fate was crushing his broken body in the hospital bed a million miles away. He was burning, the fire behind his eyes brighter than you had ever seen it before, and you wondered if he had ever loved so furiously, so strong it brought the gods to tears and how beautiful he might have been if he had had a heart at all. "Funny, as far as I could see you were just some middle-class university girl playing at doctors and pretending she wasn't just kidding herself she was actually important to someone!"

And then the silence, the awful waiting as you looked at him, tried not to cry as the tears welled in your eyes and he had never been so lovely as he was when you could not see him at all. In the blur of all the pain he sent your way, you could almost kid yourself he was the man you'd thought he'd been. But he was ruthless, he was cold, and you saw it in his eyes that all those medals, all the stories, had made a sense you'd never seen before. The war was won by men like him and all the awful things they did.

"Get out." you could not find the voice within you that you had had before, only the hoarse whisper that shook and broke with that sad hate that you thought would last forever.

"It's my fucking pub!" he threw up his hands. You stood still another moment, breathing deep and shaking with the rage that coursed through you, livid as the summer heat and bright as all those nights alone when you wondered if you would ever see him again. You almost wished you hadn't.

"If I ever see you again, I'll fucking kill you, Thomas Shelby." You reached for the frame of the open door, looking out into the street as you heard him laugh, insidious and dreadful as the winter creeping in, behind you in the pub. Your voice was steady, your words heavy with a truth that both of you could see, and there was not a part of you that doubted that you would, you really would. This town had got to you, and you were not like you were before. Things were so very different. You couldn't help but take one last look at him, praying that he could see what he had made of you and knowing he had eyes only for himself.

"If you think I'm coming after you then you're very much mistaken, (Y/N) (Y/L/N)." and there was that emptiness in his eyes that made you think you weren't going to see him again, and you were just fine with that.

"So dark and brooding. You know, I think I might have loved you for that. But now? Right now I just think you're pathetic. Someday you'll come home and there'll be no one there anymore.  And I think you're fucking terrified. Come after me or don't, just know I won't be waiting." the last words dropped to a choked sob, a curse upon him and upon this whole damned town, pull you together as it was always made to do. Your uncle once told you that when you loved someone, really loved them, every road would lead you back to them, and now all you wanted to do was set fire to every last brick until the whole city went up in flames. If your fate was written, so help you you would find the book and not rest until you had pulled each last word from its cruel pages.

As you stormed out of the Garrison, teeth gritted to try and stifle the tears that pricked at your eyes, you slammed into someone. Apologising and trying to make them out through teary eyes, all you could see was a smudge of blonde hair, a slim figure and a pretty green dress. You rolled your eyes and slid past her. You had spent too long in the neighbourhood to ask her what she was doing here. You thought you'd rather not know.

You didn't entirely know where your footsteps were leading you - not to the church, with its false pity and God still falser, the secrets in the crypts that whispered to you your life was empty, loveless. Nor to the bakery, with your aunt's loving arms and the hatred you would leave at the door. You didn't want to leave it; you wanted to feel it coursing in your blood, hot and true like nothing you had felt for months. It was only when your world came whirling in a rush that you knew it turned at all, and it was only when your heart was pulsing to explode that you know it beat at all. All these months, thinking you were barely alive, but now you knew. You were, and you would remain forever, very much alive and very vengeful indeed.

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Without knowing it entirely, your footsteps lead instead to the Cut, the abandoned warehouses where you had used to hide in years gone by, waiting excitedly for your aunt and uncle as they came home from work in the early evening, baskets of bread and sweets for you as you ran out into their arms. Sitting on the riverbank, looking down into the distorted reflection of your face upon the water, you wondered if you could close your eyes and have it all gone. You had never asked for this, you had never wanted this. Boys, men, the endless heat of this godforsaken city, a grim horizon that you had never seen looming before you, and now here you were at the ends of the world as you knew it and you had nowhere left to go. Leave the town and leave it all unfinished the way you swore you never would again, or stay and fight and know that nothing would ever be quite as good as it was in that other, sweeter, eternity.

The water-line was low, and you slipped off your shoes and stockings, dipping your legs into the river as you shook your hair out of its plait and breathed out. It was calm here, calmer than anything else in this tumultuous city where every silence carried a hundred thousand words you couldn't begin to understand. France was simple, but France was far away, and you knew there was more than just a sea between you now.

You weren't going to cry - not here, not in front of all the world you could not see, waiting in the dockyards because work never stopped in this city of dust and ashes. Instead you threw a stone at the gentle grey water, felt the cool splash against your burning skin, tried to breathe when screaming came so easy, blinked and blinked again as your vision swam in watery uncertainty, felt the emotion draining out of you and fading away into the heat all around. You weren't prepared for this, any of this.

It was childish to expect that nothing would have changed, that you would come back and everything would be the way he had promised it would be from the window of the train as it carried him away. War was nothing more than a bleak and empty promise by men who knew no better way to kid themselves that they would be just fine, and his words could do no better. But what were you meant to do when he was there and he had been so beautiful, and now all you felt was shame. You hated him for everything he said and did, hated him for leaving and for coming back and for being there at all, but most of all you hated yourself for doing what you did. You knew even then that if love were ever real in this land of hate and death, then that was and would ever be the closest you would come.

Wrapped in your fantasies of love and life left behind, you didn't notice the footsteps behind you until they had stopped beside you on the muddy riverbank, the hem of the floral dress swirling in the gentle breeze.

"Rough day." the soft voice you knew, the voice that had got you into this mess because you didn't know when to walk away. There was a time to be brave and a time to call it quits, and you had missed that point a long time ago.

"Jesus Ada, give me some warning." you murmured, more to yourself than to her as she sat beside you. You'd known she would come after you - the whole town must know by now, a million voices in the streets with your name on everyone's lips and suddenly you knew what a fool you'd been to try and keep it secret. This was the last thing that was truly yours and now they knew, now the things you'd carried with you like the last chance you might someday get out of here, spilling out into the river as you grabbed at memories of the way he'd kissed you as he'd left you, the way he'd loved you when you'd thought he really did. This was the worst thing that could happen, and this was the way you dealt with it. You didn't think you had the life within you to run away again.

"I was worried about yer." she was looking at you, but you couldn't quite brig yourself to meet her eyes. Beautiful eyes, so deep and brown, nothing like her brother's at all. She didn't look liker her brother: she looked kind. She looked like she cared, and you knew that was the most dangerous thing of all.

"The whole world is worried about me." You sighed slowly, gazing out across the river at the bird wheeling around the tired beams of the warehouses not so far away. You were tired, tired of secrets and tired of your tiny little life, so big until right now. You'd spent so long thinking you'd never be big enough to fill the aching void of all the lives that you could live, and now the walls were pressing in and suddenly you were big and bad and filled with righteous anger. You were tired of Shelby's and tired of Birmingham and tired of the world beyond the grimy walls because nothing you could ever do would shout louder than the fact that even when you ran away you had never left at all. Everything you did was kept within this damned neighbourhood, and you thought it wasn't any wonder they murdered as they did, because here was Earth and here was Hell, and Heaven was not there at all.

You chuckled bitterly, tears stinging at the back of your eyes, hot with summer rage and the aching in your hands that longed to hit him for what he had done to you and longed for the justice that would come after. The man you loved, he would kill you for sure, for these were men who ruled a world of blood and death and your sweet Tommy was their god. You curled you hand into a tight fist around the smooth rock you held, and threw it into the water just to watch it sink.

"I didn't know." Ada's quiet voice shook you, brought you to her as it always did, and you turned to face her, to see the pity as it overwhelmed her pretty face. She pitied you, the child of pain and fate, she had seen what she had seen and she pitied you most of all, and for all these dreadful things you cried at least for that. What beautiful sins had her brother done that made her so unhappy, made him so damn cold?

"Because I never told you." you shook your head at her. You never told her, you never told a soul, because this was yours and yours alone. Yours to dream and yours to cherish, the one last thing about this goddamn town that no one else could know, the most beautiful moments of your whole life because sometimes you could close your eyes and pretend that he didn't exist at all, that it was all inside your head and the world would never have to know. No one would ever have to know.

"I wish yer'd told me. I could've-" she took your hands desperately, clasping them between her own and begging you, scanning you over like she had never known you at all. You wondered if she really blamed you for never telling her about you, about her brother. She didn't, she wouldn't; she had her secrets and you had yours and the rest of the world had its own, and no one seemed to know anyone these days. Not really, not anymore.

"The damage is done. There's nothing left to say." you slipped your hands out of her hands, smiled at her sadly as she grasped at words to say. There were no words to say, you'd said them all. Your words were crashing in the main room of the Garrison, filling the air until there was not air to breathe, and here the world was empty and you thought she might just catch a glimpse of your darkest soul if she looked hard enough, if she were looking hard enough. With shaking hands you took a cigarette out of your pocket, lit it and took a deep pull and passed it to her, lighting another for yourself.

"You 'aven't said anything at all." she pressed, and you knew she wanted to know a little more, and you also knew she deserved to know a lot more, but truly you weren't ready. She deserved the truth but no one got the truth, not when lies were so much more beautiful and so much more kind. The truth was only for those who had the wealth and confidence to not care what the truth was at all, for soldiers in the trenches and for politicians in their stony towers. It was 1919 and the truth was obsolete.

"I don't think I ever will." your voice was dreamy, and your heart far away. You thought you might have dropped it somewhere in the river that last morning, poured it into your coffee and left it there in the square as his face was already fading. What need had you of a heart if he would not let you love him as you did, if he tore it out and left you bleeding every time he looked your way with those cold dead eyes you loved more than life. There were no words to describe Tommy Shelby, and no feelings with which to do him justice, and even now your petty anger paled before him. It was like shooting at the tides and trying to stop them coming back and back and back to pull you out to sea. At this you drew your legs up out of the water, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around yourself, a little colder than before, despite the bright heat of the morning, a little less certain. You turned away again and blew a trail of soft, sad smoke over the water, and for a long moment there was only the silence of the river and the secrets in between.

"You loved him, didn't yer." It was quiet, almost not there at all, and you caught it through the lull of the water like the whisper of some dream slipping past you as you woke, and like a dream it stopped you in your thoughts, wrapping around your throat and keeping you from saying what you wanted to say. No, of course not. A summer fling, but it had lasted so much more than just one summer. A handful of months, a short eternity, and you thought you might have loved him all your life if you had only known his name. Certainly you had loved him since the moment he had smiled at you, the moment you had seen his eyes, the moment you had left him. You had fallen in love with him a million times, and you had loved him a little more every time.

"Who can ever say. I went to war, Ada. I did what soldiers do. I do what I do to keep myself alive." He kept you sane every single day, he saved you every time you saw his face. He had saved so many, and you had let him save you too, and that was all there was to say. And suddenly you were wondering if all the others fell so sweet, all those pretty girls and angels who he'd write to every day, he promised. You wondered how many knew he never would, and if it made any difference to them. You wished more than anything that you could be the sort of girl who kissed and never told, who could turn around and walk away with all your heart inside of your chest instead of leaving little shattered pieces along the way. Memories of you and him that you thought you must have dreamed up in your lonely mind, because you knew at least he didn't love you know.

"Are you alive?" she frowned at you and you really didn't know what to say. You'd stopped being alive a long time ago, and Tommy Shelby had absolutely nothing to do with it. They used to tell you that it was all some grim lottery, that some would die and some would live and some would spend the rest of their life dying, but no one survived this bloody war, only the horses. Who lived, who died, and everyone died and such was the world and such was the war and such would it always be. There'd be another war and more people would die and you would go on breathing and you'd like it a little less every day, because that was the way you did things when you were only made to die and all the world lived on alone.

"Are you?" you quipped back and put out your cigarette on the jagged stone that jutted out over the river, a road of stone but mostly dirt, tied with blood that ran like veins down the streets, the silvery threads of Tommy Shelby's spiderweb of crime. You turned to her and saw her breathe in and out - how nice to say that she was human when all you were was this tangled mass of broken bones and no soul left at all - and rested your hand on her shoulder to take in all the pallid skin, the emptiness behind. You felt the need to feel every inch of her and know that she was not a name like that sad boy you'd tried to love, she was yours, forever and ever and always, and she wasn't going anywhere.  

"Doesn't matter about me right now, does it." she took a piece of your hair and twirled it in her fingers, leaning your forehead against hers and sighing against your skin, so close that you could taste the sweet perfume on her neck and the smoke that lingered on her tongue, like waking up beside her and knowing she was yours. "I should've told yer. Might've saved us all this trouble."

"It's not your job to keep your brothers in line, Ada." you placed your hand over hers, You were right: it wasn't her job. It was her job to find a nice boy, an honest boy with no blood on his hands, and fall in love with him and get married and get away from here, because no one else seemed to do that here. Something about her told you that she would be the first to have all this and more, and something else told you that she already had. Not for the first time you had the unmistakable feeling that there was so much in her you didn't know. "I appreciate the effort, but I made this mistake. I think I have to figure this one out myself."

"I'm here." she squeezed your hand, twining her fingers with yours and bringing your hand down to your lap. She pulled away a little to look into your eyes, send you a sympathetic gaze that meant nothing more than she would be here when all the world had burned away and nothing else was certain, because she knew that you would do the same, no matter what you did, no matter what her brother had done.

"I wouldn't have it any other way." you grinned lopsidedly at her, taking the chance to stand up and pull her up beside you, smoothing down her dress and leading you down the alleyway with a hand on the small of your back.

"At least let me bring you to the Garrison. Meet the rest of the family, make sure there 'en't any other nasty surprises, eh?" she gave you those big brown eyes that she knew made you melt, and you sighed dramatically, already knowing that you would give in.

"Fine. Just a drink, mind. Think I've 'ad enough of boys for just about the rest of my life." you rubbed your eyes wearily, half to make her laugh and the other half to make her look away from the bright tears that had not quite gone away since the moment you sat down, brushing them away quickly as if you thought she couldn't see them. She caught your hand, swinging it in hers and pressing a short kiss against the back laughingly. Check one, see you cry. You realised that it had been the first time. You realised how drastically okay it felt. 

And there she went ahead of you, and your hand was in her hand, and it was enough to make any pretty girl forget the world of Tommy Shelby, but not you. Not you. 

Taglist: 

@actorinfluence @captivatedbycillianmurphy @stressedandbandobessed7771

[theeternalspace]

Infinity // Eternity

Title: Infinity // Eternity

Chapter One:  Infinity in the palm of your hand

Pairings: Virgil/Roman. Hints at past possible Virgil/Remy, or thoughts of it at least. 

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Major Character Death Pre Story. The death is not shown, or talked about in detail as to how it happened, only that Remy is dead. Blood, violence, thoughts of past experimentation on living beings. General all round angst. Near death.

Hello! Hello! Welcome to my gift for @gilby-the-grad-student for @sanderssides-secretsanta. I really hope you enjoy!

This story only features Virgil and Roman, with the briefest mention of Remy. Who, I repeat. Is dead. This is Angst with a happy ending. It also has werebears because... I wanted supernatural bears instead of wolves. 

Sooo... I’m back with some of my favourite tropes. Twisting fairy tale themes and poetry. And yes, it is in two parts, because I can’t keep to word limits for toffee. We all know this, let’s move on! Chapter two will be out before the end of the year.

---

NEXT

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Summary:

“To see a world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour” - Auguries of Innocence, William Blake.

A fairy tale in two parts.

(This isn’t a fairy tale, Virgil warns him once.

It isn’t going to have a happy ending.

Being right doesn’t make him feel better.)

---

Roman is no Goldilocks. 

Obviously, Virgil knows this. Roman’s hair is a rich dark red for one. In the stories, Goldilocks enters, eats, breaks shit, sleeps and then when the three bears show up, she runs away, never to be seen again by bears who were just minding their own business in the first place. Score one for the bears. Red-Rose then. Dark and outgoing, with a smile that blinds and a love for the outdoors which leads him carelessly into storms and danger. Yet he knows such storms won’t stop Roman, mere moments and he knows he is just too much of a survivor - too much everything - to let a storm keep him indoors. 

Virgil finds him in the rain. 

Pounding his hands against the closed door to Virgil’s cabin. He’s built it deep in the forest so that nobody will ever find him and yet here is a human. All alone, slapping his hands against the heavy wood and begging to be let in. Shouting some stupid story about going for a walk and getting lost, only for the bad weather to trap him. Scent alerts him to the intruder in his forest long before the man reaches his home, long enough for Virgil to slip out a window and circle around to come upon him from the back. 

This boy - Roman, he will cheerfully tell him later, as if names are something to casually thrown about like falling leaves - doesn’t appear to fear the woods, only the dangers the cold and wet will bring his weak mortal form. It will take Virgil a lot longer to use the name out loud. Even longer to offer his own up. All that is for later. Right now, all Virgil can think about is the inescapable truth of this moment. 

They have forgotten him.

A monster lurks in the forest, a creature of tooth and claw. One that had hunted their settlement on the orders of his master. It has been mere decades since the leash snapped and they have forgotten him. Or have they? For a moment, Virgil feels a familiar panic. The human is bait, is a trap. The scientists have finally tracked him down and they are going to drag him back there, they are going to study what he can do. Virgil will die first. 

This human should die but he is the first human Virgil has seen in years. The first one who can tell him anything of what is happening in the world beyond the trees. His home is his prison, his isolation his punishment. Far away from the village, from the humans, from the memories of all the sins he committed against them. Their blood is on his hands, and no matter how many storms he wanders in, the rain will never wash that away. It’s his penance, although he knows that no amount of regret or isolation can ever wipe his slate clean. The red builds up rather than decreases. 

Perhaps it is the knowledge of all his failures that finally inspires Virgil to speak rather than attack, to cause this intruder to spin around to face him. Roman falls half unconscious in his arms, sagging bodily into him. Virgil cannot help but catch him, carry him into his home and save his life. Warm him by the fire, cook a meal and plan the best way to get the human home as quickly as he can. Virgil is a monster but even he will not kill the wounded beast that crawls to his feet for shelter. 

Barely conscious, shuffling halfheartedly towards the fire, drawn by the heat more than any deliberate thought. A drowned rat rather than a human. 

Still more vibrant than Virgil has been. He is still life in all its glory. Like Snow-White and Red-Rose, sisters who met a bear and were not afraid. A bear who was a prince under it all, waiting for the chance to break his curse, shunned by everyone but those girls.

He’s no prince. There is nothing under his bearskin but more of the same, more animal and monster, more rage, always more, more, more. There is no curse to break, no redemption for the bear who lives alone and will one day die alone, forgotten. There is no possibility for any redemption anyway, and so no need for a prince to enter his life.

Virgil knows all this. He knows where this path will lead them both, and he knows it will only bring them pain.

Yet Roman curls up on his bed as though it isn't too hard or too soft. As if he’s Goldilocks after all.

(then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I - 

No, that’s the Big Bad Wolf.

Is there a Big Bad Bear?

It's only a fairy tale if he is the villain.

He doesn't deserve any other ending.)

When Roman leaves, he tries not to mourn the absence of the other. Virgil had forgotten what it felt like to have company again, for someone to look at him and see more than a body to use or abuse. It had felt a little, as though when the human had looked at him, Roman saw... he saw - well, he didn’t see him, Roman couldn’t actually see Virgil because Roman had looked at him and smiled. The kind of smile that monsters don't get. 

It had felt as if Roman had seen something good in him and as much as that makes Virgil want to laugh, there is a certain wistfulness about the idea. To be good enough for a smile, it was something the man he had once been would have laughed about. But then that man had walked the edge of savagery, had caused the ruin of countless men and women, had obeyed the orders of harsher, crueller people. Who killed because it was all he had been trained to do, all that he knew to do. More beast than man. 

Roman would have been a joke that he would have swatted aside like a bug if he had even bothered to notice the human at all. That Virgil would never have even known what he missed. That Virgil would have carried on the cycle, would have kept losing himself to the full moon, month after month.

In the end though, it doesn’t matter what he did or didn’t see because Roman is gone, back to his life, to his world and that is a world so far removed from his own. He couldn’t enter it, even if he wants to. Virgil doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to be surrounded by that many people, that many hungry eyes and the overpowering sounds that so many lives create. A din which made him feel sick to his stomach at just the thought of it, a pain which feels heavier now he is one of that number. 

One visit and he finds himself craving contact. Contact that will never happen again.

And then - Roman comes back. Time and time again. With a picnic, with a book he thinks Virgil might like, with nothing but his smile and the sun on his face.

(this isn’t a hotel, he tells Roman.

Virgil had meant he couldn't come and go as he pleases.

He seems to take it to mean that now he is here in Virgil’s life, he doesn't have to leave.)

The funny thing is, he has never hated Roman. Not once. His default is hate. Hates the scientists for what they had done to him, not just the experiments which were little better than torture  but the decades of silence, with only his thoughts for company and that was torture. Hates how it took being rescued by another werebear before he could even put a name to what he is. Hates that his whole life has been stolen from him, always a puppet dancing to someone else's whims. 

He hates the hunters that came after. Hates them for murdering his friend. Hates them for being the first blood he sheds since taking a name that is his own.

Hates the world because nothing is ever going to change and he is stuck here alone and it is only because he has started talking to someone again that Virgil even realises how much he hates being alone all the time.

Hates because it is all he knows how to do anymore.

It isn't until Roman has been in his life for a while that Virgil looks back and realises he slipped in under the radar and there had been a lack of hate. At first, it had been fear. A cold, all encompassing fear that had wrapped itself tightly around his heart and squeezed. That changed in the end, fading to a dull ache and a variety of other emotions flooded to take its place. Confusion. Low level annoyance for sure but buzzing under all of that... something else. Something Virgil has trouble putting a word to because it is so alien to his nature. A... a...

A warmth that curled through him. And pride, pride that Roman has never shown any fear towards him. Virgil’s brave little human and some part of him knows how dangerous that is, the way in which his bear side has already laid claim to Roman. He knows the sensible thing to do is to cut off all contact now. 

Every second Virgil spends time with his human just lets the knives slide in deeper, their joined life blood pooling around them. Roman has nothing to look forward to with him but the unhappy ending because life isn't fair, it doesn’t reward the good or save the bad, he couldn't be made good just because Roman wanted it. Life was cold and cruel and more often than not saw nothing wrong in sticking fingers into open wounds, prodding, poking, stretching thin sanity and life. This thing, whatever it is, has to stop. After all just because Virgil might want something, doesn’t mean he should have it. 

(he thinks he hates Remy for - for -

For saving him

For dying for him 

For thinking he was worth saving

For leaving him here alone

For making him feel anything in the first place.)

Just once, he considers burning the cabin to the ground. It would be so easy to do and it wouldn’t be the first time Virgil has let the cleansing brutal beauty of fire to its work. A few sparks in the right places, a little time and the wooden cabin would go up in roaring flames. A pyre to what could have been until nothing was left but the ghosts of a possibility. There is nothing inside the building that he is overly attached to, nothing Virgil couldn't recreate a few miles away, build another cabin and start again. Virgil has always been pretty good at keeping his possessions light, constantly on the move - constantly running, running because he is a coward, because he can't look behind him, can't go back to that, to the ghosts of either his sins or his friend. One strike of a match to set the whole chain tumbling down. No more worry that someone else might notice Virgil living here, no more worrying that people might follow Roman, that he might lead the enemy right to his door. No more Roman -

Thoughts of burning the cabin stutter to a stop at that. The whole point of the plan was to wipe the slate clean, so he can't get him caught. It's hard to do that without cutting Roman out of his life. It will hurt him - it will hurt him too, but that is never the point - and Virgil finds he doesn't want to hurt Roman. The mere idea of something taking that smile off his features is more than either the bear or man side of him can handle. To imagine the smile wavering because of something he did... It is breaking his heart, it is breaking his heart and Virgil thought that that organ had shattered into harmless pieces long ago. 

It is disconcerting to realise the muscle hasn’t atrophied away from lack of use through all the long years and instead is as hot and as alive as anything. Even the hate Virgil has felt over the years has never felt like this, never made his chest ache in a way that the idea of hurting Roman does. It's not necessarily a good feeling, and the thoughts which pool around his mind like fresh blood are raw, born out a new and unexpected wound.

Virgil will kill to make sure that smile never wavers. He will do what he has always done. He will drown the whole world in blood is that is what it takes in order to protect Roman and his happiness. The thought is wild, a wounded animal clawing in the back of his mind just begging to be let free. It's the first time Virgil realises he will kill for Roman. Not the last. 

(he thinks he loved Remy once upon a time.)

There are times too, when Virgil thinks about really telling him some of the things he has done. In clinical, excruciating detail about bodies he has left broken in his wake. About the lives he has ruined - why Grandma, what big arms you have - and worse of all, how Virgil had enjoyed it at the time. It was all Virgil had been built for, and he had never thought to question it, had simply accepted it. Someone points, and he moves, a weapon created for one purpose. Everyone in his life has been like that, always looking for ways in which to use him. Even Remy hadn't been wholly selfless when it came to their friendship, always half an eye on what he could get out of it. 

Not that Virgil blames him for that, Remy at least was kind, offered something in return instead of just tugging harshly on the leash. And in the end, Remy gave his life to the misguided idea that Virgil is a life worth preserving.

The world is full of people just waiting to take and take. The world that Virgil knows at least is one of the scientists, experiments, hunters and Virgil has no reason to believe that this brave new world is any different. Roman should know who he is smiling at, who he is trusting his back to and how the Big Bad Wolf will hurt him worse than he can ever imagine. 

Of course, he actually never tells Roman. Virgil tries to convince himself it's because he doesn't want to be the one to wreck that innocence he wears like a cloak around his shoulders but Virgil knows it's a lie - why Grandma, what big eyes you have - and normally he has no time for lies. Roman can't keep doing this to him, smiling and looking and understanding. As though all the broken pieces in him are okay, as if he doesn't want to press Virgil to a shape of his own choosing but instead can simply let it be. 

It feels good and oh so bad at the same time, something being rubbed raw in the back of his mind, grating on a nerve. It leaves Virgil permanently on edge, as though he is constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the blood red haired to turn out to be just like everyone else. Until then, Virgil pretends he isn't waiting for his little red riding hood to pull the hood down and allows himself to maybe enjoy it. Just a little. Just while he can.

He knows it won't last. 

Because in reality, Virgil needs Roman not to hate him. More than that, he needs those eyes on him. Needs the kindness. The easy affection and belief offered is like a drug and he needs to pretend there is something more to him than the violence - why Grandma, what big teeth you have - and Virgil has to hide away that animalistic desire to kill to protect Roman, to become the monster once more. Roman cannot see, he can never see how the bear will happily drown the world in blood for him because Virgil knows he will hate it. He will hate Virgil and that will hurt him more than anything, more than he thought it was possible to hurt. Being denied Roman’s smile will break him, he knows it down to his core.

He wonders when he became so weak, or if he has been this fragile all along.

(in his dreams he is killing Roman.

Over and over, a different method each time.

And always behind him, that voice he can't shift, the scientists who held his leash for decades. 

Smooth honey, sweet poison of his past as they purr in approval.

He drives the knife in deeper. 

He’s always needed to belong to someone.)

The first time Roman touches him with purpose, he can’t help but flinch. Virgil had been in control of himself before then, with only the slightest tense of muscles whenever Roman brushed up against him in passing, an accidental contact. And he brushes up against him a lot - fingers catching his skin when Virgil hands him something, bumping into Virgil as Roman slips past, a tug on his shirt as warm fingers press against him when the human needs to get his attention. 

This time is different. 

There is an intent behind the motion that Virgil can’t quite understand. It isn’t harsh, isn’t the promise of blows and pain if he disobeys but Roman touches and in that moment - a second, an eternity - Virgil is all the way back in that small, bright, white, room. Back in a world of pain and endless tests where he never understood the rules or the purpose only that everything he did was wrong. Everything invited pain, action or inaction. Everything hurts, his body is on fire and Virgil has forgotten how to breathe. Lungs burn with the rest of him and he feels - Virgil feels everything and it is far too much.

The moment of eternity passes. 

Virgil is back in his cabin, hand carved table pressing into the small of his back. Virgil doesn’t remember physically moving, can’t recall the active thoughts that made him more than flinch but cross a whole room in a bid to escape an innocent touch. Roman watches him as though he’s given some new piece of a puzzle. As if his freak out wasn’t something to be embarrassed about and not for the first time Virgil wishes he understood what went on in that beautiful head of his. Virgil was simple. Virgil knew what he wanted, what he liked, what he didn’t like and he was rarely shy about expressing himself one way or another, although his words were sparse, as though there was only so many in him and he had to ration them out to get through the day. 

It’s better this way. Better to hold his words in reserve, to guard them and hold himself taunt. Hold himself closed off as best he can. If he lets his thoughts out, if he actually speaks any of the horrors that whirl around his mind that Virgil doesn’t believe he would stop until the well is dry. It is a frightening thought, to lose control. To let Roman see into all the ruined edges.

Roman, on the other hand, talks a lot. Without shame, without hesitation. He lets all the thoughts that pass through him escape. He shares everything he is and Virgil can only marvel at it. There is no end to his stream. No possibility of worry, of any of the doubts that plague Virgil it seems.

So many words, a hymn of sound that rose and broke in gentle waves around him but there was so much more unsaid, music in the silence between the words, a code that he can’t quite understand. Something is happening now, some conversation he can feel slipping silently between his fingers as they look at each other, the human slowly closing the gap he had unwittingly created.

Clear brown eyes stare up at him and Roman reaches out again. For a moment, Virgil thinks he sees pity in those warm eyes. The one emotion Virgil has never wanted from him and he will take any amount of hate or disdain over pity. It passes before he can decide if he is right or not, or if he is simply reading too much into things. It passes before his brain can recoil, some part of him trusting that it wasn't pity. It can't be pity, he wouldn't be that cruel. Not his Roman. 

Fingers brush against his own in silent greeting, a tender motion. Gentle but confident, a second of waiting before pressing on. It's more than a greeting now, that strange purpose is back as Roman’s fingers entwine with his own, panic threatening to overwhelm Virgil once more, everything spiralling and screaming out of control. He breathes in. Breathes out. Thinks of deep and dark woods, the endless path that winds through it. Thinks of the smell of damp earth after a storm. Thinks of the sound of Roman’s laugh.

The moment of eternity passes.

He relaxes. Just a fraction, a shift of shoulders dropping but it's enough to let the fear start to seep away, to feel the moment as it actually is over the memory of what it had once been. Its enough to reward him with a brilliant smile, unrestrained joy on Roman’s face at the single act. He is beyond happy and that, in turn, makes him feel happy, easily washing away the last fragments of fear.

His hand is warm. So perfect against the rough edges of his own, slotting smoothly into place, as if it belongs there.

(bring me the heart of Snow White, commands the Queen.

As you wish, whispers the Huntsman.

Roman is that Snow White, Red Rose, Goldilocks and all the others.

He’s the Big Bad Wolf, the Huntsman. 

But the Huntsman isn’t the villain.

If he’s not the villain, what is his role anymore?)

Roman is always so happy, so cheerful. Nothing can dampen his spirits and there are times when Virgil is envious of that. There are plenty of times when it pisses him off too, the way in which no matter what he or the world might say or do, Roman keeps on smiling. Through any bad day, through any snarled response from Virgil. When something bad happens, it only prompts Roman to offer a charming smile and a wholly impracticable suggestion to how to fix it. As though Virgil can be fixed. As if his bear skin really is just that, and there might be a prince under it all after all. 

Not that he’s told Roman about his bear skin. Not that he ever will. 

Endless smiles, as addictive as they are, also grate on his nerves at times. Nobody can be that cheerful, that positive. Life was cruel and constant, a grinding sensation that just kept demanding more and more, never happy with what it took. His - not his, never his - Roman takes it all without a blink, he smiles and doesn't seem to be affected.

Except Roman is his. And has been for a long time. Perhaps forever? From human, to his human, and Roman to his Roman. The bear has claimed him and it has simply taken Virgil this long to catch up. It is easier to accept it in abstract. To think of it as though the knowledge is just another fairy tale. The Big Bad Wolf doesn’t want to eat Little Red Riding Hood - the need which burns in the veins of this bear is not the hunger for food, but for something that still shuns a name.

Sometimes, Virgil wants to shake him and point out all the ways in which the world sucks, how this world is made up of lies and trickery. How blind they all are. Monsters of all sorts lurk in the world. Some are like him. Fairy tale beasts made flesh. Creatures of sorrow and regret and red so rich you could drown in it.

It’s the ones that are mortal which are the worse though. The ones that age, sicken and die like all the others of their kind. The ones that hold more power than they have any right too. The ones that cause endless suffering in the name of science or their morality. 

Once, he asks how Roman can possibly remain calm in the face of everything. How can he get back up time after time again? How can every set back just makes him blink and then smile? Roman manages to keep on going as though the bad news was good. And oh, Roman just smiles that smile of his, the one like bubbles of champagne brushing against your throat. It is the one that twists Virgil up in knots that he both loves and hates at the same time. Despite everything Virgil knows about the world, he finds himself wanting to believe in Roman’s version of the world. 

Despite the reality that is screaming at them both, the endless ways in which the world will chew them both up and spit out their remains - he wants to believe. 

Virgil doesn't of course. 

His very soul has been burnt raw by his life. All the body blows have had their effect and Virgil sees the world for what it is. A blade, just waiting for its chance to impale you. Once bitten, twice shy? Many times beaten and experimented on, another time wary. Virgil isn’t going to risk showing his weak underbelly to such a world once more. He ignores the fact that Roman is nothing but a weakness. Virgil has gotten pretty good at ignoring truths when it comes to his human.

Roman simply insists it easier to be happy, to not give in to negative feelings. There is no point in being sad, nothing good can come of it and so Roman simply remains happy, as though it's that easy. As though there is some switch in the world that he can just press. Boom. Happy. It can’t be that simple.  Roman isn’t done explaining and Virgil finds himself leaning forward all the more, desperate to understand this new magic. 

There is just more good in his life, he claims, and so he focuses on that, smile never faltering. Roman looks at Virgil and promises that there are things in the world that make everything else worthwhile. 

He still doesn't understand.

(he is in free fall.

He’s been in free fall since Roman held his hand.

Little pig, little pig, let me come in.

No, he's been in free fall long before that and the ground is coming up fast.

Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.

This is going to hurt.)

[the-darklings]

—eager for love, lacking of worth;

pairing: joseph seed x reader (rook)

word count: 1.4k+

warnings: angsty?

notes: so your girl decided to take a slight break from the soulmate!AU (Part 1 is at 19k and still WIP so good luck to all of you who will be reading that monster) and well I need practice at writing Papa Joe so here we are. (￣▼￣*)

prompt: 

thank you @jacobsknifeplay for sending the idea in! Saw it this morning and just ran with it! Hope you like it <33

. . .

Maybe paradise was real.

Feeling the sun on your shoulders, you inhaled deeply, staring up at the luscious trees surrounding you. The meadow was breathtaking; green and full of life as far as the eye could see. The air itself seemed to be sweet, and full of possibilities and peace. Reborn from death and ash.  

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered wetly, already knee deep in the water as it lapped across your legs. “It’s so beautiful.”

“It is.”

His soft voice reached you from behind, and you felt his warm fingers against your cheek, “Do not cry,” he soothed, “We have lost much but it’s up to us to rebuild it now.”  

“I feel so…raw,” you admitted quietly, something in your heart fracturing, splitting apart at his unfailingly patient expression. “Unworthy, dirty…I have no place here. You should have left me—”

His fingers cupped your cheeks, and he turned you around sharply. Inferno raged in those familiar blue depths and you exhaled shakily under that unnerving scrutiny. “Never speak of such things, Rook. Do you understand me? I’ve told you before, haven’t I? You’re all I have left now. God will not allow us to be parted.”

“You have your flock back.”

“And they’re not you.”

A harsh chuckle escaped you, and you wondered how even now—even after everything—he could still possibly care about you. Forgiveness, he told you endlessly; that was the only way to live, the only way to move forward. The only way to be free of hatred. Free of everything.

“Then baptize me,” you pleaded, closing your eyes at the phantom sensation of his warm fingertips brushing against your cheeks tenderly. “I want to atone but I don’t—I don’t know how, Joe. And I need to because this world…I can’t live in it like this.”

A strangled breath rushed out of him at your request, and he leaned back, his loose hair fluttering around his cheeks when the wind swept past you both.

For a long minute, only the sound of nature surrounded you both.

You eased yourself out of his grip, watching with a sad smile how his hands continued hovering in the air where you just stood.

“I want to be free,” you confessed weakly, “I want—I just want to be able to breathe without feeling this suffocating guilt—”

You knew it was unfair to tempt Joseph with the one thing he always wanted so desperately. Seven long years of learning how to live with yourself, of learning how to live with the guilt—the consequences—of your actions, and you still felt as lost as that first day. Even to this day, some part of you still refused to accept his truth.

Pride and Wrath.

Joseph and John were not wrong in their assessments.

Truthfully, you were haunted by those who died in your stead. You felt haunted by what you did to John, Faith and Jacob too.

A snake in their perfect paradise.

A murderer of hundreds, thousands, millions.

Shivering, you waded deeper in the river, your fingers sinking in the cool water, and a nostalgic smile tugged your lips upwards. It felt like a lifetime ago that you watched Faith do the same.

“Rook.”

Water encased your waist, and you shuddered at the sensation, not stopping. The current was picking up now, and you stumbled slightly, your feet slipping.

“Rook.”

You didn’t manage another step because arms wrapped around your waist like irons—unyielding and strong—pulling you back and pressing you against a warm chest.

“Not like this,” he breathed against your hair, and you felt the way his arms quivered around you. Fear, uncertainty. “Not like this, dear Rook, not like this. You’ve been given a chance to begin anew. Do not waste this gift. Do not let your despair destroy you now. Do not let their sacrifice be in vain,” he added, something worn and pained scratching through his tone.  

Tears stung your eyes and you leaned in his arms willingly. When had that changed? When had you stopped running, fearing, searching for ways to destroy him? Was it before or after the world was reduced to nothing? Before you tore everything he loved to shreds?

John, Faith and Jacob.

They died but you lived. Perhaps Joseph had a point. Giving up now would invalidate their deaths.

“When?”

Because you needed to know, needed to have something to hold onto.

Joseph’s arms tightened around you, and he tugged you towards the shore but you refused to budge, staring up at him through your blurry vision.

He looked older, haunted, worn. You could still remember how he looked at you that first night you met; brimming with divine purpose, fervent and driven. He didn’t even seem human back then.

Now he felt human though. Solid and warm beneath your fingers. Sad. 

“Seven years, Rook,” he began gently, voice low, and leaned closer. “We lived imprisoned together. God punished us for our sins with that action, but He is just and this is our reward. Do you know how I survived those long years in the darkness? You know full well that I am not a good man, and there were days…there were days when I too almost gave in to my anger and pain. There were days when I…”

It was hard to keep your breaths steady, “Tell me.”

“I thought about revenge,” he told you honestly, and there was such sadness there. “I thought about how easy it would be to hurt you after you took them from me. But I couldn’t. Every day I woke up and saw how much you needed me. How lost you were. How this was another test. Love thy enemy.”

“I deserved to be—“

His expression smoothed, that drilling stare focused solely on you, and you shook your head when he cupped your cheeks again. He leaned closer, his lips pressing a delicate kiss just below your eye—the exact same spot where silent tears had escaped only moments before.

“You deserve to forgive yourself,” he told you sternly, leaning back and tugging you towards the shore again. You hadn’t realised how cold you were until the numbness of your limbs registered. “So when you ask me when? I say to you when I know that you’re not doing this as a punishment. I will guide you, I will hold your hand in this journey, and show you His light. But not as a punishment, but as a loving act.”

You leaned your head against his arm as he walked you both towards dry land. “Somehow that’s crueller.”

His only reply was a kiss against the top of your head, “I’ve been called cruel before. I’ve been called worse. You know that better than most.”

A beat of silence.

SPLASH

Joseph halted, eyes wide as water trailed down the curves of his face. Few loose strands of hair stuck to his cheek and he turned to look at you.

“No self-hatred allowed,” you told him seriously, your voice still thick from your earlier tears. He blinked again, slower, and you felt a slight smile pull your lips back. It felt so nice to smile and mean it. “Besides, don’t think I forgot why we trekked out here in the first place.”

“Rook,” reproachful, wary, “I don’t think right now is the best time—“

“Now,” you cut him off and laced your fingers together. “Is the only time. Or I will gloat very loudly about the fact that The Father doesn’t know how to swim. Your flock will love it.”

Joseph must have seen something on your face or noticed the pathetic tremble of your fingers because his expression softened a touch.

“They’re yours too,” he noted stiffly, but not unkindly, “But if this…makes you happy, then yes.”

You forced a laugh, as stilted and as awkward as it was, and squeezed his fingers, leeching his warmth.

“Seeing the all-knowing Father flailing in the water for few hours?” you hummed sarcastically, ignoring his earlier statement. “Won’t miss that for the world. Besides, you promised me. Don’t you trust me?”

He gazed at you for a long moment—hard, unnerving moment that made your heart stutter. Then, with perfect ease, he lifted your laced fingers to his lips, ghosting his lips over your knuckles.

“With my life, dear Rook.”

It should have made you so happy hearing that.

It did.

But it also hurt more than you could ever describe.

You cleared your throat, feeling both lighter and heavier than you were just moments before. “Well, ready for your first splashing session?”

A faint smile curved his lips, and he tugged you closer, pressing his forehead against yours, “Show me.”    

. . .

an:.....please just assume they had a really cute splash session after this lol. I’m so sorry but my muse seems incapable of writing anything cute right now (it’s the soulmate!AU fic I tell you...it’s sucking all the cute out of me rn, so really blame John for this).

Also for someone who likes to pretend ND doesn’t exist or is 100% different, I always liked the idea of writing for older Joe who feels sort of misled and grieving oof.  

[ythmir-writes]

Fictober 2019, Day 5

Prompt: “I might just kiss you.” Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku  Pairing: an unlikely poly relationship  (it borders on being crack but i want it to happen) Rating: TW for mentions/terms alluding to attempts at suicide; swearing

Had it been when she allowed herself to be vulnerable?

The seashore had always been her favourite spot. Here, there was nothing to hide from, nothing to hide behind in – nothing but an endless vastness; clouds rolling inland, the salty smell of unexplored territory, and occasional cry of a hawk that wandered too far from its home.

In particular, Silang liked the feel of sand beneath her feet. It reminded her of her home, reminded her of summer mornings spent diving for pearls and sea urchins, and lazy afternoons spent eating mangoes. Gods above, she missed those the most. And for a brief moment, she could feel her mouth water, remembering.

It was here that Silang could quietly contemplate. A place where she could idly daydream as she watched the sky meet the sea. A place where she could sit for hours on end, and simply decompress. Let the strains of growing border tensions with Takeda and Uesugi leave her thoughts.

Mitsunari and Masamune seemed to share her sentiments. They had accompanied her to the beach, despite her protests that no she did not need people to help her stroll. But they, or rather Hideyoshi, had insisted. And with the monkey unfailing in reminding her of the last time she went out alone, Silang could only agree. Not that she minded that the company of her closest.

Mitsunari had spent most of the morning dozing under the makeshift tent they had set up under a half-circle of coconut trees, the book he said he wanted to finish, undisturbed in his hands.

Masamune, on the other hand, had been busy. The moment he had seen water, he had nearly tripped himself in shedding his armor and diving headfirst into the ocean. One moment, he was swimming and floating. The next, he was scouring the sands for crabs and shells. It was as if Masamune could not resist the water’s call.

Then again, neither could Silang. But now was not yet the right time. She needed time to sit, to drink, to think. Or rather, let her thoughts wander enough to not consciously think and –

Remembering the fire. Remembering the sounds of screaming. Remembering the families fighting and running and begging and crying and make sure not a single soul escapes the village. Lance the wound, lance the wound, lance the fucking wound and live and make sure to never make this mistake again – Silang, nothing is more important than saving them from a crueller fate. Stop making mistakes. Stop making mistakes. Stop –

She tipped back the sake she had with her. Then, she counted the clouds, counted the number of trading boats that passed, counted her breaths. Counted how many times Masamune shouted expletives. Counted how many times she almost fell asleep.

By the time she finished downing three bottles, the water’s call had screamed enough into her ears, and Silang matched Masamune’s urgency to shed her own clothes save for the barest minimum, and go for a swim.

In the background, she heard Mitsunari exclaim – her sudden movement must have woken him. Silang only shouted half an apology before diving into the water headfirst.

Ice cold water greeted her, and Silang felt every part of her body jolt into attention. It took a few kicks before she was able to resurface, almost jumping out of the water.

“Silang!” Mitsunari called out to her, waving at her from the shore. “You’ve had too much to drink! Please, don’t wander too far!”

“Water’s my home!” She shouted back. “And it’s calling me!”

She went under again, wondered if the horrified faces of her companions were real or imagined, and chose to ignore the shouting.

It was easy, natural, and effortless. One moment, she was nothing but constant yearning for the sky. The next, the waters welcomed her without any resistance.

She spent too much time now on horseback, on her feet, on solid ground wielding weapons and barking orders – fighting and struggling to reach the clouds above – that she had almost forgotten how all this was second nature to her.

And the water, in turn, wasted no time reminding her of the blissful and near ethereal feeling of sinking, greedily pulling her to the bottom. And as Silang swam deeper to touch the sand below, she was suddenly filled with a yearning for the peaceful silence under the waves.

Here, she was truly alone. Here, she was truly tranquil. No shouting. No wars. No constant struggles or pressure or vigilance about what could happen next. Only the quiet.

And the slow but steady pressure of breaking lungs.

Silang wanted to surrender to it.

Even after months of consistent victories, the Oda was facing more and more enemies. Strike down one clan, and two more would its place, more vicious and vengeful than the last. After the incident with that village, Silang had been more careful, more paranoid even, and had done her best to protect those she could.

So far, none of her plans have spiralled out of control to have a similarly disastrous outcome as that one time. But the fear and constant worry kept her awake even after the most tiring of campaigns.

Silang reached the bottom, felt the sand between her fingers.

Wondered if it was worth the effort to swim back.

Nobunaga had said to her: “Use each death to spur you on. No death must be wasted.”

She had to agree with him. Remembering was easy. She remembered each and every person she had slain with her hands. She could never count them – she was afraid of reaching a number – but she remembered. Their cries. Their struggles. The way they went limp under her grip.

Much like how she was limp now.

Only one death need be un-remembered.

Hers.

But not yet.

She righted her position, and pushed back towards the surface.

She could hear Ieyasu telling her off for being a klutz. She could imagine Hideyoshi wrapping her in a blanket and swearing off the konpeito jar once and for all. She could see Mitsuhide shaking his head and sighing about how difficult it must be to be a woman among so many uncultured men.

She felt someone grab her arm.

She felt arms around her as her head broke to the surface.

The first gulp of air was painful, like a sword through her lungs. Silang’s eyes snapped open, saw Mitsunari and Masamune afloat with her – worried, angry, relieved – and the next there were two pairs of arms around her, nearly drowning her again.

“You idiot!” Masamune hissed. “You absolute lunatic! We thought you died! I thought – !”

Mitsunari’s voice was shaking. “Don’t do that again, Silang, please.”

“– we lost you! We could have lost you! Don’t you ever think about doing that again!”

“I’m all right! I can hold my breath longer than most! Seriously, I’m okay!” Silang tried to reason but neither men were having it.

“The fuck you’re all right.” Masamune spat, unconvinced.

“We thought you wouldn’t come back up!” Mitsunari said.

Masamune continued to scold her. “You were fucking quiet the entire trip! Hell, you were closed off ever since Nobunaga sent you to sweep that mess! Then suddenly you wanted to go to the beach! But you wanted to go alone? How stupid do you think we are to miss this?”

Masamune was pulling her to the shore at the same time Mitsunari was crowding her from behind to follow. “Home or no, you are off limits to water! I can’t fucking believe I almost kept my eyes off you for a crab!”

When they reached the shore, sat down on the sand, Masamune and Mitsunari flanked her, sitting close. Both were staring at her as if she was going to jump into the water again.

“I…” Silang wanted to say something witty, or at least something creative or funny – anything that would help convince her two closest that what had happened was normal, was nothing for them to be afraid of. She had taken a swim, felt peaceful, is all.

But she could not find the words. She was guilty enough with what she had done, but this – the fact that even as she moped and sulked and tried to not come back – her closest still looked out for her? How could she possibly lie to them both?

Silang tightened her grip on their hands, brought them to her lips. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

At that, Masamune deflated, turning away and swearing under his breath but his hand remained firm in hers, holding her still.

Mitsunari huddled closer towards her, rubbing her back up and down. “Whatever’s troubling you, you can tell us, Silang.”

Silang looked at Mitsunari, all open eyes and calmness despite his earlier worry. Whenever she looked at him, she had always felt home, felt protected. But now, Silang shook her head. “I can’t. I’m afraid you won’t see me the same anymore after I – ”

“And did you think we weren’t afraid to see you swim out into open waters drunk?” Masamune rounded back towards her, half-kneeling, half-leaning towards her, making her look at him. “You think we stayed thinking, ‘oh Silang will be all right’ when we knew you weren’t?”

Silang stared. “What?”

“We asked Hideyoshi to persuade you to have us.” Mitsunari confessed. “You wouldn’t have us voluntarily - we know you enough to predict that - but we couldn’t leave you alone.” 

“You were pretending to be asleep?”

“We worry, Silang.” Mitsunari whispered.

“Damn right.” Masamune said. “Always. And don’t think for a minute that it’s changed just because of this goddamn war.” Masamune leaned closer, close enough for her to turn her full attention on him, for her to her reflection in his eyes. “Right at this moment, all I want to do is to smother you with affection and I’m sure Mitsunari feels the same but I for one – I might just kiss you. For the fact alone that you’re alive. That you swam back.

Silang could feel her lips trembling.

“But you need to trust us, Silang. That we’re here for you. That whatever thing you think you might have done that was bad or worse or unforgiveable – it doesn’t change that you are loved.”

“I’m…” Silang could feel her resolve breaking.

Mitsunari held her from behind. “Let it all out, Silang. We’re here to listen.”

Should she? Could she?

Her closest were asking her. If she could surrender to the cold, shouldn’t she also surrender to her home?

So she did. One shuddering breath after another, and the next moment, she cried.

The ugly kind. The kind that involved sobbing her lungs out, bawling until her throat was raw, until snot dribbled from her nose, and her hands were too busy wiping tears to keep up.

“I’m sorry.” She said, repeating them over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

All the while, neither Mitsunari nor Masamune strayed from her, keeping close to her as she poured out her heart.

[markswoman]

regrets | ldh

summary: god, what he would give to turn back time, to do this over. 

warnings: suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, angst

a/n: no pairing.

Donghyuck followed from a distance, eyes glued to his feet as he put one foot in front of the other. Repeat, repeat, continue forward, silent against the yellowish vinyl flooring. There was a part of him – rather masochistic, he thought, but well, what else was new – that was desperate to hear everything going on up ahead, from Mark’s distraught crying, to Jaemin’s feeble attempts at comforting him when also he was trying not try break down sobbing, to Renjun’s silence broken only by sniffles. Some kind of self-imposed punishment for everything that had happened, he supposed. The other part was scared shitless. “Your friend is currently in the ICU,” the woman had said, kindly. “He was brought in immediately. A team of doctors and surgeons are doing their best to save his life as we speak.” Fuck, this wasn’t what was supposed to have happened. When they reached the end of the corridor, with the imposing doors leading into the ICU in front of them, Mark headed straight for the closest chair and seemingly just collapsed there. “Oh, God,” he croaked, wiping away tears with his palms. “Oh my God.” “He’ll be all right,” Jaemin said, sinking into the seat next to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. Renjun plummeted onto a chair opposite of them and immediately dropped his face in his hands. Something that sounded like a sob escaped him, as if everything were slowly dawning on him, now, here, in front of the ICU. Donghyuck hesitated, wringing his hands as he took in the miserable lot before him, before slowly sinking down beside Renjun. They were the first ones here. Small mercies. Donghyuck didn’t think he had it in him to stick around for when everyone else would arrive. He couldn’t handle seeing how distraught those he cared for were. “He almost died,” Mark wailed, eyes bloodshot from all the crying as he looked to Jaemin for – Donghyuck didn’t know. A miracle? Like Jaemin could do a thing about this. It wasn’t his fault. “They said he – that he wasn’t breathing, that his heart had stopped beating. Oh my God, oh my God.” Mark sounded so crushed that Donghyuck was seconds away from walking over and wrapping his arms around him, but – but. “He’s strong, remember,” whispered Jaemin. He did what Donghyuck couldn’t, gathering Mark in his arms and hugging him tightly. “And the doctors are professionals, yeah? He will survive this, and we will be there to help him overcome this. He’s not alone, and he needs to know that.” “I can’t believe this,” Mark sobbed, smearing tears and snot into Jaemin’s shirt. Jaemin seemed not to mind. He probably didn’t even notice. “If I had known – I thought… I didn’t think he would…” “No one did,” Jaemin said. “It’s not your fault for not noticing. It’s no one’s fault.” Donghyuck looked down on his hands in his lap, picking at the skin around his nails. It was not their fault, no. He hoped they didn’t really believe that. Renjun remained eerily quiet by his side, albeit Donghyuck caught the minute trembling of his shoulders. He was crying, too. Everyone was crying. Donghyuck dropped his head in his hands as his own tears overwhelmed him finally, the dam he had put on his emotions no longer able to withstand the pressure. God, what he would give to turn back time, to do this over. This shouldn’t have happened.

The heart monitor’s steady beeps filled the hospital room, at the time being the only noise to break the stifling silence. Donghyuck had always hated this particular silence, with nothing to keep the doubt and self-loathing at bay. Music usually helped, but there was no music to drown out the noise in his head. He hated the quiet. The steady beeps weren’t helping, acting more as a metronome for the thoughts, keeping them coming in a steady, predictable rhythm. It was late, around four in the morning, Donghyuck reckoned. A nurse would probably come by for a routine check within the next hour, like they had yesterday. He didn’t feel tired despite the late hour, didn’t feel much else but grief and regret, but all of it was dull, as if he had smothered those feelings in a heavy blanket inside. More than anything, he felt empty, oddly numb. Next to silence, this numbness was almost worse. But, he supposed, it was still better than feeling too much of everything. It was still better than feeling worthless, hopeless, miserable, still better than feeling smothered by every thought and every emotion. For a second he wondered, again, why he hated the numbness so. Sometimes it seemed more like the only solace he had left, like the last friend he could turn to. He had friends, of course. Not that he could turn to them for help. Not after what had happened. “Mr. Lee has been through a lot,” a doctor had explained, as if they didn’t know. “For now he remains comatose, and we will continue to monitor him closely.” The doctor had continued talking for another minute or so, but Donghyuck had tuned out, looking towards the bed everyone had gathered around instead. It was in the middle of the room, pushed up against the white wall, with white sheets. So clean, sterile. Several machines occupied the space right beside the bed, monitoring vital signs and administering blood and fluids through dreadful tubes. Everything worked like clockwork, mechanical, smooth, from the beeps and clicks of the machines, to the drips of the IVs, to the rise and fall of a chest. He had quickly looked away. He hadn’t really moved from his spot on the floor despite having sat there for – hours. He didn’t want to move. Why should he? He was fine here. He would probably move when someone entered the room. Probably. He recalled Chenle and Jeno’s tears when they had arrived, back in front of the doors to the ICU, when Mark had launched from his seat like a man possessed and gathered them both in his arms. Renjun had joined them, Jaemin, too, and Donghyuck had stayed behind, wringing his hands and picking at the skin around his nails, feeling like he didn’t belong. He didn’t belong. Everyone had been crying. So many tears, too many – Donghyuck had left. Had returned a little later, had listened to the doctor, looked at the white sheets on the bed, had left, again. When he came back, everyone was gone. He had been alone, and even now – despite everything, the grief and frustration and misery, it had consumed him, his own thoughts turned against him. He was useless, so completely useless, why was he still here? His thoughts had quieted down since, drawing back to allow the numb to take hold. Why did he consider it an enemy, again? “Why are you like this?” he asked the air, asked himself. Looked at the bed. “Why are you there? You shouldn’t be there. You were supposed to die.” He closed his eyes, sighing. He shouldn’t be here.

In the morning and up until noon, the only visitors in the room were nurses, checking that everything was as it should be, changing the bags of fluids, tidying up, leaving with no words spoken, albeit Donghyuck had seen a couple of them look in his direction, their expressions a little helpless, a little at a loss. Not that it meant anything. Donghyuck left the room to walk futilely down the corridors in the afternoon until dinnertime, and when he came back, no one he wouldn’t want to face was there. There were people he couldn’t look in the eye, people he wished to avoid, no matter how many hours he had to walk up and down the corridors of the hospital. There was nothing he really wanted to do, nothing he really could do. So long as he wasn’t in the room when they were there, it was fine. Mark tended to save his visit for evenings. Donghyuck would be there with him, sometimes next to him at the bedside, sometimes standing awkwardly near one of the walls, sometimes sitting with too much distance between them. If Donghyuck were Mark, he wouldn’t want to sit near him. The first evening Mark had sat by the bed, holding a pale hand tightly between his. Donghyuck could almost feel it, feel Mark’s hands around his own. He had sat by the wall, too anxious to choose the empty chair next to Mark. The first evening had been spent in silence, mostly, with Mark not even sparing him so much as a glance, his eyes fixed on the hand between his as he tried not to cry. (He eventually did.) Donghyuck wouldn’t want to hold his own hand, either. He had scratched distractedly at his wrists whilst he watched Mark that first evening, and when Mark eventually had stumbled to his feet, legs probably numb from spending two hours in the same position – Mark hadn’t looked at him then, either. In the days that followed, passing by at a snail’s pace, Donghyuck continued avoiding the room in the hours between noon and dinnertime, coming back only when he knew it was safe to. He had nearly walked into Jaemin and Renjun on one occasion, Jeno and Chenle on another, exiting the room quietly. It was all he could do to stand his ground, to keep walking. They never really looked at him, either, as he slipped past them, back into the room. Donghyuck didn’t blame them. He’d hate himself, too. He did hate himself. But it was fine, really. After all, if someone turned to him, he would have too much explaining to do. He didn’t want that. He preferred this, the silence that on most days was his worst enemy, on some days – not. A friend? Perhaps a friend was stretching it. Silence was still crueller than numbness. He felt out of place. Out of sorts. An itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t reach no matter how much he scratched. It was infuriating. He wished he could shed his skin. What a laughable thought. It was the fourth day, and Donghyuck had dared sit next to Mark this time, despite the urge to fiddle with the sleeves of his sweater, the urge to look at Mark, the urge to look away. God, he was a mess. No wonder everything had gone to shit. He was useless. “The nurse said there were no changes,” said Mark quietly, holding that pale hand between his own again. He did, always, every evening. Donghyuck’s heart ached. Perhaps he could claw it out. He would almost definitely not succeed. Donghyuck shook his head, slowly, looking at the hand between Mark’s palms. He couldn’t look further, couldn’t make himself drag his eyes along the length of the arm and up, up, to a face obscured by an oxygen mask. “No. None so far,” he murmured in response. Worried his bottom lip. Looked away when Mark squeezed the hand between his. “What are we going to do with you?” Mark asked quietly. Donghyuck remained silent. Mark talked a little now and then, random observations, random thoughts, memories. Donghyuck answered some of them. It was horribly awkward. Donghyuck considered leaving. He didn’t. Mark did, eventually. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, getting back on his feet. Donghyuck’s eyes were glued to that pale hand as Mark gently laid it on top of the covers, on top of the chest rhythmically rising and falling with breaths granted by the oxygen mask. He nodded absently. “I’ll be here.”

“They miss you, you know?” Donghyuck watched Mark from across the room, listened to the sombreness of his voice, caught between wanting to be near him and wanting to run away. Far, far away. As far away as his legs could carry him. It didn’t matter where he ended up, he just didn’t want to be here. (The noises in his head ridiculed him for such thoughts. He had tried, before, and look at where that had gotten him. Stupid, stupid, stupid –) Mark, unaware of the turmoil inside Donghyuck, continued talking, absently caressing the back of that pale hand. “The kids miss you a lot. We all do.” He was quiet for a bit, and when he spoke next, he sounded a little choked up. “Won’t you please wake up?” Donghyuck shifted on his feet, lifted his arms to wrap around himself. He glanced out the window, at the buildings out there. This tiny hospital room felt suspended in time, at odds with the lights and activity he could see outside, where the rest of the world carried on undisturbed. It always would, no matter what happened in his life. He knew that. He did. His eyes found Mark again when his voice, once more, filled the room. Never loud enough to deafen the grating beeps, but always soft enough to hurt. “Do you remember a couple of weeks ago? We were together, all of us, eating and goofing around. You smiled a lot that day, almost every time I looked at you.” Donghyuck remembered that day. It had been fun and had filled him with a kind of energy he had long since lost, slipping between his fingers despite his best attempts. He had been unable to stop it, and it was just another thing he could add to his list of things he couldn’t do. That list was long. Mark suddenly chuckled, albeit Donghyuck supposed it resembled a snort more. “I talked with the doctor yesterday. She said that patients in comas can hear what you say, and that, if I wanted to, I could do that. Talk to you, I mean.” There was that odd snort-laughter combination again. “So that’s what I’m doing. But it’s so hard.” He straightened his back, squeezed the hand between his, and continued where he left off. “It made me happy to see you happy that day, you know? It always makes me happy when I see your smile, and I know the others feel the same way. We just want you to be happy, want to lighten your mind a little. I guess we failed spectacularly at that, huh?” “It’s not your fault, hyung,” Donghyuck said quietly, sincerity bleeding into his words. Mark shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. “I know Jaemin said it wasn’t our fault, but I can’t help – I can’t help but blaming myself a little. I should’ve noticed. And I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, but – a little, maybe, but – couldn’t you have thought of us? Just for a second? Or your parents, or your brother, or – or – or everyone who cares about you? You have a lot who care about you, did you know?” This time his laugh was definitely self-deprecating, like the ache in his chest had come to a head and burst from his throat. Donghyuck wanted to cry, wanted to bury his face against Mark’s chest and cry his heart out. It used to help, a little. But he fought it, this time. There was no way he could do that now. “I guess you didn’t know,” Mark muttered, wiping away the few tears that had spilled. “I should’ve done a better job, shouldn’t I? We all should have.” “It wasn’t your fault,” Donghyuck whispered again, blinking away his own tears. Really, he had no right to cry when things had gone the way they had. With effort, he pulled himself up, slowly coming to sit by Mark’s side on the empty chair, because he couldn’t help himself. He refrained from reaching out for his hands when he saw the way his expression twisted in anguish. Mark sucked in a deep breath, trying for a smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was fine. It was enough to be genuine. “I wonder what you dream of. I hope the nightmares are leaving you alone. Let me know if they aren’t, okay? I’ll come running and chase them away for you.” Donghyuck hadn’t dreamed in a while, but the nightmares – the nightmares had seeped into his daytime. They just wouldn’t leave him alone. He didn’t know how to tell Mark about them, even if he had the strength to do so. “It’s getting late,” Mark said after a glance on the clock hanging on the wall. “Visiting hours are over soon, so I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll see you then, okay? Perhaps you will be able to give me a smile, then. Or squeeze my hand back.” He squeezed the hand between his palms, a last attempt, before getting to his feet. “Tomorrow,” Donghyuck croaked, closing his eyes against the onslaught of tears. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hyung.” That night, Donghyuck curled up in a corner and wept. “Why didn’t you just die?” he asked the still form in the bed. Life was so unfair.

By the sixth day, Donghyuck had mapped down pretty much the entire hospital in his head, as well as memorised the names and faces of the staff. Some still evaded him, but he had time to get them right. Probably. It was upon returning to the hospital room that he saw Mark and Renjun standing outside, talking quietly. It struck Donghyuck as odd. It was nearing eight pm, so wasn’t Mark supposed to be alone? And why were they standing in the corridor when they could be talking in the room instead? Mark answered that for him. “They are talking with the doctor, I think,” he said, eyeing the door. “I didn’t want to impose. It’s their son in there, and I… They said I didn’t have to leave, but they need time alone with him. Perhaps their voices will wake him up.” Oh. “Of course,” Renjun murmured. “I would feel… wrong-footed, somehow. They’re… It must be tough for them. I can’t imagine.” “What if he doesn’t wake up?” Mark whispered, as if saying the words themselves would bring them to fulfilment. “What if –” “Hyung,” Renjun said, grabbing Mark’s arms firmly, anchoring him. “Don’t say that, please. Have faith in him. He’ll wake up, and he might not – might not be well, might not remember us, might not want to – but we’ll be there, we’ll help him move past this. Okay? Please, hyung. It’s hard on all of us. You – we mustn’t give up. He could wake tomorrow or in three days, or three years, but we can’t give up, hyung.” “Yes, right, yes – I know.” Mark sniffed. “I know –” What else he said after that, Donghyuck didn’t catch. He had already turned and walked away. He only returned when he was sure no one would be there. Sometimes, Mark sang a lullaby or one of his favourite songs. Mark’s singing voice had always been pleasant to listen to, Donghyuck thought. He tended to hum when he cooked or cleaned, loudly – and not as careful to reach a certain note – singing along to various songs on the radio with the members. It was one of the few things these days that actually made Donghyuck smile with genuine amusement and fondness. Inside the hospital room, Mark sang quietly, like he was afraid of breaking the silence, or afraid of breaking something else. Donghyuck could still hear the beeps, but at least he could tune it out and focus on Mark’s voice instead, letting the sharp rhythm of the machines work as a kind of metronome. Besides singing, Mark had been oddly quiet since entering the hospital room today. He had taken to talking about everything and nothing in the hours he visited, but for some reason he hadn’t spoken much this evening. Donghyuck couldn’t help but wonder, but then, it might be a bad day. He left half an hour earlier than usual, and Donghyuck was alone, feeling hollow and wrong and miserable. It was probably his fault that Mark had left so soon. It was the tenth day when Donghyuck learned what had been on Mark’s mind, something he had been ignoring in favour of doing other things, of functioning. At least it answered the other question he had also guiltily been pondering: Why had Jisung not come to visit? “Jisung went to see you with your parents yesterday,” Mark said. “They said he broke down when he saw you. He has been so angry since he found you, and – damn it, I wish Jisung hadn’t been the one to find you. He still has nightmares, for God’s sake. He’s just a kid.” Donghyuck’s breath caught in his chest, staring wide-eyed at Mark. “Jisung – Jisung was the one who found me? Oh, God.” It was selfish of him, so selfish, because he knew someone would have eventually found him. But he – if all had went according to plan, he would’ve been dead, and he wouldn’t have known who, and – oh, no, why had it been Jisung? He hadn’t allowed himself to give much thought to who would find him, but of anyone, he had hoped it wouldn’t be one of the kids. “I can’t imagine –” Mark cut himself off, looking pained and glancing at – at the bed. At the face Donghyuck couldn’t look at, because it made him feel nauseous to see himself like that. It made him angry and miserable, knowing he had failed so spectacularly and was dragging everyone down with him. “Has anyone even told you? That Jisung found you in the – the bathtub, with your wrists slit and – and your head underwater, and he gave you CPR until the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took over. Did you know? When they took you away, you – He performed CPR on a dead person for five minutes, and you still weren’t breathing when they arrived and –” He broke off, this time with a sob, as he dropped his head in his hands, still holding – Donghyuck’s hand, the bandages wrapped tightly around his wrist. The sight made Donghyuck want to scratch his – fuck, he didn’t even know what he was at this point. He wasn’t dead, he wasn’t dead, so obviously he wasn’t a ghost. Not yet. Though it was not from a lack of trying. “I’m sorry,” Donghyuck whimpered, fighting the urge to reach out, knowing he couldn’t. “Donghyuck, why did you do it?” Mark wept. “Why – why didn’t you stop to think of what it would do to us to find you like that? What it would do to your parents and your brother to know that you tried to commit suicide? God – what it would do to Jisung. What it would do to me, to Jaemin and Renjun, to Chenle and Jeno. Jisung called me after he called your parents, Hyuck. Just – why? “I knew you were – depressed, that you weren’t well. I tried to be there on your bad days, as much as I tried to be there on your good ones. It was hard, sometimes, but I love you and I –” Donghyuck’s heart dropped at the words. Mark loved him? “– have always wanted you happy. I wish you had told me, Donghyuck, that you had allowed me more glimpses of what is going on in your head. If I had known you suffered this much, enough to think that – that killing yourself was the answer – I would have tried to help. I would have listened. I have always listened.” Mark loved him? “Did anyone ever know, really know, what burdens you walk around with? Did you ever tell anyone? Did you tell your therapist, at least? Just, please, please don’t let me find out that you told no one. Don’t you trust me?” Of course he loved him. Mark loved him just like he loved all the members, a love that ran deep, thicker than blood, but purely platonic. It had to be. Because Donghyuck would have seen it. As much as Donghyuck loved Mark like a brother, had loved him for so long, he would have seen the signs of something other than platonic love, but – who knew if he were only saying this now because Donghyuck had tried to take his own life? Mark has never admitted that he loved any of the Dream members, so why now?

“For how long have you felt so alone?” Mark continued. “For how long have you been alone with all those thoughts in your head? I wish you had told me. But – but I’m being unfair. I’m – I am angry with you, but I’m more angry with myself for not having realised how much pain you were actually in. I knew you were hurting, just – I never knew how much. Not this much. I’m sorry.” “Please don’t be,” Donghyuck said miserably. God, what had he done to deserve listening to this now? He had not thought of what would happen after. He hadn’t wanted to know. “Please don’t be sorry when I’m the one who did this.” “When you wake up, I’ll be better, okay?” Mark promised, grimly smiling at the Donghyuck who lay unresponsive in the hospital bed. “I’ll be more attentive. And I hope you will talk to me more. Or, if not me, then someone else. I love you, and I just want you to realise that you are beautiful and smart and kind, and that you deserve to be happy, to feel loved. I will tell you this every day, so just wake up soon, all right? Just, please, wake up.” Whether he wanted to wake up or not mattered little when Donghyuck didn’t know how. He had worn his favourite sweater, that day. It was old, worn, but he loved it. It was cosy and a little too big on him, hadn’t always been, and sometimes it had managed to defeat the cold spreading from the tips of his fingers to his toes, clamping around his lungs and making it a little harder to breathe. On the day that he had numbly filled the bathtub to the brim with water, he had decided to die with his favourite sweater on. He had pulled up the soft sleeves and run the blade across his wrists, blood colouring the water red. And then he had sat back and waited for the darkness to wrap around him, for death to finally take him into its arms, away, away, away from everything that hurt. He couldn’t remember sinking into the water. He must have lost consciousness before that. In this existence between life and death, or whatever it was he was experiencing, this punishment for trying to do whatever he had done wrong (everything), he wore the clothes he had worn on the day he had planned to die. His sweater was still as worn and soft as it had been on that day, but there were splotches of blood on the sleeves, stains he couldn’t make go away. It didn’t bother him too much. The sweater was still his favourite. Another day of avoiding his parents, another day of aimlessly wandering the halls of the hospital. Another day of wondering how it would have been to not be stuck like this, to have just died as he had wanted to. There were new flowers in his hospital room when he came back, a vibrant contrast to the white everything. He didn’t know what sort of flowers they were, but they were pretty. Oranges, reds, yellows. Bright. Happy. Hopeful. But Mark, when he entered through the door, looked crestfallen, eyes red and swollen. He made way for the chair beside the bed, sinking onto it and grabbing comatose-Donghyuck’s hand straight away. He brought it to his mouth, and Donghyuck could almost feel the touch of lips against his knuckles. Almost. “Please, Donghyuck, wake up,” he sobbed, cradling Donghyuck’s hand tightly between his as he let his head fall. His tears fell on the bedding. Donghyuck, standing by the flowers, so close to Mark, close enough to touch, longed to do so. He wanted to cry himself, seeing Mark like this. Who up there decided to make him suffer like this? What deity up there thought this was all right? Was there anyone up there, at all? Donghyuck’s prayers to a God he wanted to have faith in had never been answered, so, he supposed, maybe not. Or maybe he was just not worth it. (He wasn’t.) “Can’t you squeeze my hand back?” Mark sounded so frail, so distraught. “Or just wiggle your little finger. Something, Donghyuck, to let me – us – know that you’re still in there. That you’re not gone. Please, Donghyuck.” “Please don’t cry,” Donghyuck whispered, moving to stand beside Mark. He lifted his hand to Mark’s shoulder, but hesitated. He wanted so badly to touch Mark, but didn’t know if he could. He didn’t think he could touch anything else than inanimate objects. A stool, a table. Not humans. “Please, wake up,” Mark moaned. “Please, or they’re going to take you off life support. They’re going to let you die.” Donghyuck’s hand fell, missing Mark’s shoulder entirely. Oh. The doctors didn’t believe in a recovery. They had sat down with his parents just hours after stabilising his body to explain what brain-dead meant. His body could be kept alive probably for years, but he would not wake up, so it had been up to his parents to decide where to go from there. It would be better to let him pass, they had said. There was no reason to keep him like this. He wouldn’t wake up. But they had given his parents time to come to terms with everything, and had told no one else the details before a decision was made. Donghyuck hadn’t expected it to hurt quite as much as it did. After all, this was what he had wanted. Right? Alone in the hospital room with only his own body in the bed as company, he fought to breathe against the spikes of anxiety. There was no one to calm him, no one to tell him everything would be all right, no one to tell him to breathe, Donghyuck, just breathe with me. He tried to imagine his mother holding him, tried to imagine Mark telling him to breathe, tried to imagine him drawing shapes on his wrist to ground him whilst whispering, it’ll be okay, Hyuckie. The walls seemed to close in on him, and he sobbed, burying his face against his knees, covering his ears with his hands. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. Just breathe. It took a day of evading everyone he loved, stuck in his head as he thought it all over, to, the next day, stay in the hospital room after noon. It took everything in him to not run out of the room, fought tooth and nail with himself to stay. He had to do this. His mother looked haunted, more frail than he remembered her, thinner, paler. His father looked much the same, dark circles underneath his eyes, a hunch in his shoulders, like he was moments away from crumpling under the weight of everything Donghyuck had done. His brother, his sweet brother, was already in tears when he entered the room with their parents. His hair was unkempt, and didn’t seem to care about his appearance at all. He looked exhausted. Donghyuck burst into tears within the first thirty seconds of laying eyes on them, of taking them in, and realising he was the reason they were like this. He was a terrible son. A terrible brother. He turned his back to them as he fought to breathe between the sobs, to get a hold of himself. “Hello, sweetheart,” his mother’s sweet voice sounded behind him, and he pressed his hand against his mouth to stifle another sob. Not that she would hear it. Not that anyone would. “How are you?” Donghyuck slowly sank into a crouch, hating himself for doing this to them and to himself. God, he had never hated himself more than right now. “We miss you,” said his father. “I hope you’re well, wherever you are now.” There was a pause, a breath. “We don’t want you in pain, Donghyuck-ah. You know that, right?” “We only want what’s best for you,” his mother continued, sounding close to tears herself. “And if… If that’s…” “We don’t want you to suffer like this,” said his father softly. “The doctors said to think about it, and we have, for more than a week. As parents, to have to sit down to make a decision like this… But if there’s nothing to be done, no hope for your future, we will not force you through it. We love you very much.” “Do you?” Donghyuck blurted, painfully aware that he would get no answer to his questions. “You’re giving up on me, aren’t you? You aren’t supposed to –” his voice broke, “– to give up on me. You’re my parents. You’re my family.” He whimpered. “You can’t give up on me.” But the anger was misplaced. He had done this, he had been the one to give up. Even as he said the words he knew how unfair it was of him, but damn it, he was so scared. “Please don’t hate us,” his brother sobbed, and Donghyuck lowered his head. He needed to see them, but working up the courage to turn around was no easy thing to do. He felt so guilty for making them cry. “Please, please don’t hate us.” “He won’t hate us, especially not you,” their father said gently. “I could never,” Donghyuck whispered, slowly turning around and looking up at them. He sat on the floor, watching his mother and brother cry, even his father. “I would never.” “If you can hear us, dear,” his mother said, holding Donghyuck’s hand tightly between hers, “please don’t feel sad. Don’t feel guilty. Don’t feel angry. Know that we’re not angry or disappointed with you. We love you, and if saying – if saying goodbye to you is what we must, we will. In return, promise us to find happiness wherever you end up. Promise us to try. I want you to be happy, sweetheart. We all do.” “I promise,” Donghyuck said brokenly, not bothering to wipe away his tears. “I love you. I love you, and I’m sorry. Promise me to be happy, too.” “We love you.” Time was ticking, but Donghyuck still had a few things left to do. He had to face everyone before there was no time left. After his parents, he waited for Jisung. He prayed for Jisung to come by his hospital room, just once more, so that he could apologise for everything he had put Jisung through. He couldn’t change the past, and Jisung wouldn’t be able to hear his apologies, but he had to do something. Thankfully, Jisung came over later that day, together with Jaemin and Chenle. Donghyuck realised he had less time than he had thought. Less than twenty-four hours before he could finally close his eyes and be free. Less than twenty-four hours before he had to let go of everyone he loved. Jaemin and Chenle stayed outside as Jisung took a seat next to the Donghyuck in the bed. He looked miserable, haggard. His voice cracked as he said, “Hyung.” “Don’t be mad at me,” he said. “I know you – you wanted to die, but I f-found you and – I couldn’t just let you die, hyung. I’m sorry, because now, because of me, you’re like this, and they’re going to let you die anyway, and – and –” “Jisung-ah,” Donghyuck said, but Jisung continued undeterred. “I don’t want to say goodbye, hyung,” he sobbed. “You’ve been such a good hyung to me and I don’t want to lose you. Please don’t leave me.” “I’m sorry,” Donghyuck whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you in time. I’m sorry I found you at all, when you didn’t want me to. I need –” he hiccupped, “– to say goodbye, I know. And I need to do it – now, because I can’t watch you die again. Please forgive me, but I just can’t be there tomorrow.” “I’m not mad,” Donghyuck said. “There’s nothing to forgive, because you’ve done nothing wrong. I’m the one needing forgiveness, from you. Everyone. I’m so fucking sorry that it was you who found me. I would have never wished that upon you. So forgive your undeserving hyung, if not today, or tomorrow, then sometime, after I’m gone. I hope the nightmares will release you soon, that the others will be there to make you smile again. I hate seeing you cry. “I’m so sorry, Jisung,” he whispered, wishing there was something he could do to comfort Jisung as he sobbed. “I hope you will forgive me.” He bid the others goodbye, as well, one by one. Everyone except Mark, for he was the only one amongst his friends who would be in the room with him when he passed. His mother, father, brother, and Mark. And a doctor and a nurse. Six people would be there with him in his last moments. He couldn’t remember ever crying this much. There had been bad – horrible even – days in the past where he had hidden in a corner or buried himself in his bed and cried until his head hurt and his eyes were sore. His head didn’t hurt now, nor were his eyes sore, but he knew, still, that he had never shed this many tears in less than twenty-four hours. It hurt to say goodbye like this. It hurt to say goodbye to people he had always adored and looked up to, people who couldn’t hear him, didn’t know he was there with them while they said their parting words and cried with him. Considering he had tried to leave them without any words of goodbye at all, this was a bittersweet curse. He hated himself for causing them so much grief, but he was also relieved to finally find peace. This kind of existence where he was only himself, forced to look at everyone from another world – it was painful. He was happy it would be over soon. No matter what he did, there would be regrets left behind, regrets he would carry with him to death. Regrets he would hopefully not have to shoulder in a new life. He regretted letting everyone around him down, regretted putting them through this torture of not knowing what would happen to him, regretted not telling Mark his true feelings, regretted not getting the chance to actually be with them one last time. He regretted saying goodbye like this, when this existence of him didn’t exist for them. He wouldn’t regret dying. He loved them all, and knew, despite everything, they loved him. But it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. They weren’t enough. He hated that, knowing nothing of it was enough – but. He was so tired. He just wanted this to be over. In the dark hours, he sat in the corner, watching his own form on the bed while flexing his fingers, over and over. Waiting for a reaction from his physical form. Kind of almost hoping for a reaction. Something to tie him to the comatose-Donghyuck on the bed. (Trying his damned hardest to wake up, wake up, wake up, to make his physical body do something. Something to convince him he wasn’t a lost cause, that he wasn’t brain-dead. After all, he was fine like this, wasn’t he? How could he be brain-dead when this existence of him was fine?) He screamed. Once. Twice. Too many times to count. He grabbed at things, to no avail. He wasn’t able to throw them. They were stuck in another dimension, another time. He was trapped in this existence. The sun was peering through the window by the time he had finally given up, head thrown against the wall as he cried. He cried until his family entered the room, and then he started screaming again. No reaction. Nothing. He collapsed against the wall, sobbing together with his parents and brother who didn’t know he was here with them. Eventually, Mark came around. Donghyuck’s hysterics had reduced to soft sniffles, and he looked up when he entered, looking crushed. Donghyuck’s mother, upon noticing him, rushed over and pulled him into her arms, which broke the fragile mask Mark had put on. He returned the embrace, sobbing against her shoulder and apologising for acting like this when it was their son – She just shushed him, silent tears trailing down her cheeks. “Don’t you dare apologise, dear. Bawl your heart out if you need to. This is just as hard for you as it is for us.” Mark had nothing to say to that. Donghyuck’s brother came over to join the hug, and eventually Donghyuck’s father also moved to comfort the trio. While it pained him to see his family and dearest friend suffer like this, he was comforted to know they could support each other. They didn’t move for a while. Donghyuck didn’t know how long it was before a nurse peeked inside to see how they were doing, and his father cleared his throat. His mother wiped her eyes, smiling valiantly at Mark and Donghyuck’s brother. “It will be okay,” she assured them, even if her eyes were tearing up again. The doctor entered with the nurse behind her. Donghyuck joined his family and Mark, fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater as he looked at himself in the bed. He wished they didn’t have to say goodbye to him when he looked like this. “We will turn off the respirator,” the doctor explained kindly. “Mr. Lee is not able to breathe on his own, so when we turn off the machine, it will be a few minutes before his heart stops. I assure you that he will not suffer through this. When you are ready, we will proceed.” “We just need a few minutes,” Donghyuck’s father said. “You can stay. We just need to say goodbye.” The doctor nodded, stepping back together with the nurse. “We love you,” Donghyuck’s mother said, squeezing Donghyuck’s physical hand. Donghyuck fisted his hand, wishing he could’ve touched her one last time. He was crying again, but he was calmer than he had been earlier. He supposed he was ready. As ready as he could be. “I’m sorry,” he said. He didn’t know how many times he’d said that, only that he hadn’t said it enough. It would never be enough. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to tell you about… about everything,” Mark said quietly. “I don’t know if it could have helped, and I probably shouldn’t wonder… But I can’t help it. I can’t help but wonder about every little thing I did and said, every little thing I didn’t do and didn’t say. I will miss you dearly, my friend.” “I will miss you, too,” Donghyuck said, “and I’m sorry, too.” His brother was crying, but he managed to say between his sobs, “I’ll miss you, hyung. Please be happy.” “I’ll try,” Donghyuck whispered. “We will always love you,” his father said, patting comatose-Donghyuck’s shoulder. “And we won’t forget you. Everything will be all right, I promise you.” There was a minute where no one said anything, and then Donghyuck’s mother straightened her back and nodded at the doctor, holding a hand to her mouth. Donghyuck’s father pulled her into his arms as the doctor and the nurse stepped forward. Donghyuck spent his last minutes walking up to each of them and hugging them. They may not feel it, like he couldn’t feel them, but he felt a little better. His tears wouldn’t stop, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that everyone he loved would finally be able to let go and move on, and he wouldn’t be stuck like this anymore. “Be happy,” he whispered. “Please.” He was, in the end, surrounded by those he loved the most. It felt, in ways, better than dying alone in a bathtub. God, it hurt, but there was something about them being there that eased the pain a little. He attempted a smile through his tears, didn’t quite succeed, but that didn’t matter. He was trying. The last thing he heard, before he died, was quiet. Peaceful, blessed quiet.

[shellsan]

Poker Pair Week 2k19

Day Five: Gangs AU

Disclaimer: I do not own D.Gray Man

Highest Bidder

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Allen sighed as he made his way down the street, dodging people walking in opposite direction with relative ease, before turning down an alley way.

It was an odd thing to see, someone who appeared as innocent as Allen did, and so fragile, and yet there was no hesitation in the movement, all suave confidence instead.

He was barely a couple steps into the alley way before he heard footsteps following him, though he paid them no mind, content to continue on his way.

It wasn't until he turned another corner that he felt someone make the grab for him.

Spinning out of the grip easily enough, he stared up at the three burly men who were smirking down at him, all radiating a confidence that make Allen want to snicker.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” He inquired, tilting his head.

“Oh looky boys, we go ourselves a cute one.” Idiot one whistled, smirking.

“We were going to take you for all you're worth, but now I'm thinking that maybe we should just bring you with us. I'm sure the boss would appreciate a pretty face like yours.” Idiot two snickered.

“Boss? Are you taking me to find work? I could really use some money right about now.” Allen hummed, cringing mentally at his own act. How did people actually buy this sort of thing?

“Yeah sure. We'll take you to get some work.” Idiot three agreed, wrapping his arm around Allen's shoulders.

It took everything the white-haired boy had in order to not openly cringe away from the touch and the way it make him feel as though there were insects crawling over his skin. The smell from the man was nearly as pungent, making Allen want to gag.

Ducking out from the other man's arm, he smiled innocently.

“Well then, lead on.” Allen encouraged, ignoring the frown he got in response for moving away.

“Heh. Maybe the boss will even let us have a piece of him.” Idiot one whispered to idiot two.

Allen ignored them.

The trek through the back streets wasn't very complicated, and he memorised it just in case he needed to make a fast get away when this inevitably got shot to hell in a basket.

Standing in front of an old looking warehouse, Allen was tempted to roll his eyes at the cliché location.

Playing at nervousness, he glanced around, before turning to the guys. “This is where you work?”

“Sure is. It's nicer on the inside.” Idiot three insisted, pushing open the door, and leaving Allen to step inside the room with the other two men flanking him.

Despite how it had sounded, the other man hadn't been lying, per-say. The room was in fact quite lavish on the inside, and Allen fought the urge to roll his eyes at how gaudy it all was.

He was a simple man, so he would never understand people's desires for this kind of thing.

“You there, tell the boss that we've returned, and with quite the merchandise.” Idiot one growled out to one of the many boys who were in the room, looking so very out of place.

He looked more annoyed about being ordered around by this ruffian than anything, but nodded and turned to fetch their boss.

Luckily it was only a couple more minutes that Allen had to endure their snickering, thinking they'd convinced some poor little lamb off the streets so easily, when in reality they couldn't have sold their spiel to themselves with how idiotic it had been.

Footsteps echoed, before the doors off to the right in the main room of the warehouse opened to reveal a taller man with tanned skin, and beautiful brown eyes. He was foreign looking, and exactly who Allen had been hoping to find with this farce.

It would seem the other man knew exactly who he was as well, because he paused for a moment, checking him out (although that might also have been because he found Allen attractive, he supposed), before continuing and taking a seat on the lavish couch in the middle of the room.

“Well?”

“We found this here boy in the alley ways. He's lookin' for work he says.” Idiot one explained.

There was a dramatic sigh, and Allen almost felt bad as he watched their boss rub at his temples.

“Tell me, did you two morons even consider that maybe being led here could be the end goal of someone? Did you even blindfold him, and take him along random routes, or did you just bring him straight to our headquarters without a care that leaking this kind of information would be a significant blow?”

There were almost audible gulps from all three men, before one of them stepped forwards, looking a little pleading, despite the chastisement on everyone else's face.

“But Boss-”

The words weren't even out of his mouth properly before Allen decided he'd had enough of listening to that voice for a life time.

With practiced movements, Allen knocked him out before another sound could leave those malformed lips, and turned to do the same to the other to men, smirking at the bewildered expressions on their faces, and amused at their skill-less form of fighting.

All brute strength, and no technique.

“Are you quite done, Allen Walker?”

Turning away from the bodies laying on the floor, Allen raised an eyebrow. “That depends, Tyki Mikk, are you going to sound anything like the mindless buffoons you hired, or can I expect something a little more, stimulating.”

Allen didn't even have to try hard to catch the way Tyki's eyes darted down to Allen's lips, before returning to his eyes, a smirk on his face as he leaned forwards, an ankle resting on his thigh, and arm resting on that to support his chin.

“I can assure you, boy, I’ve never been accused of being boring.” Tyki purred.

Huffing out a laugh, Allen stepped closer, rolling his eyes when he caught movement from three guns in the room.

“Here I am, wanting to have a nice civil conversation, and you've got to go and point guns at me. It's not very fair, Mr Mikk. I rather think I was quite polite about finding you.”

“It's just business. I'm sure you understand.” Tyki pointed out, a hopeless 'what can you do?' shrug.

Rolling his eyes, Allen sighed. “Very well then. And here I was looking for some peaceful negotiations.” He lamented.

There was a snort, before Tyki pointed towards the bodies still passed out on the floor. “Peaceful?”

“They were asking for it, and yet neither of them are dead. Tell me, Tyki Mikk, if someone had come up to you and insinuating forcing you into selling your body, and having a go themselves, would you have been that lenient.”

Tyki's eyes darkened a little, was that jealousy? Perhaps anger on for Allen's sake? It certainly wasn't directed towards him.

“They would be dead.” Tyki agreed. “And those men are quite expendable, and a liability apparently, so if that will make you feel any better, by all means.”

Allen glancing over his shoulder at them with consideration, before shrugging, a small smirk playing on his lips.

“Somehow, I think I'll find you to be a much crueller fate for them.”

There was mirth in Tyki's eyes as he grinned back, all sharp canines with a touch of blood-lust.

“Perhaps.” He agreed. “But on to more important matters. You didn't suffer so much to find me for no reason. So, what brings you to me, boy.”

Allen relaxed completely, shrugging slightly. “Curiosity mostly. There's a hit out on your head, and I considered taking it. But I’ve been thinking recently that I might like to, branch out.” He explained, smiling innocently. “I get so tired of the constant hits, you understand.”

“And you're telling me this because?”

“Cut the games Mikk. This goes one of two ways for you. You die by my hand. It might not be soon, but that hit gathers more and more money on it as everyday passes, and it's looking more and more like I might need the money.” That was a complete lie. He didn't need the money at all. But he was only human, and it tempted him none-the-less.

“And the alternative?”

“If you're willing to offer me equal to, or more than your current hit, then I'll work for you.” Allen offered, smirking when the Portuguese man looked shocked for a moment.

“Quite the offer. And not one I'm inclined to believe you will keep. You're an enigma in our circles, Allen, and you've never agreed to work for a single person. I know that 'The Earl' has offered before too.” Tyki mused, suspicion in his tone, hiding the intrigue that was just as clear. “What could I possibly have that would make you consider a change of stance?”

Allen smirked. “Quite the fanboy are you?” He teased. “I'll be frank with you, Mikk. I wasn't sure what I was going to do until now, but when I saw you, well, it seems a waste for such a pretty face to die so soon.”

A pink tongue darted out to lick over his lips, eyes lilted seductively as he smirked, hip cocked towards Tyki as he looked at the other man with raised eyebrows.

“I'll return in two days. You have until then to decide.” Allen offered, turning heel, not concerned for the guns still trained on him as he made his way out of the warehouse.

Or rather, attempted to.

He was almost to the door when he felt the movement, footsteps having been completely silent.

“You're playing a dangerous game, boy. Are you sure you'll be able to keep up?” Tyki asked, voice low, just behind Allen's ear.

The boy refused to shiver, turning instead to glance over his shoulder, pulling his lips into a pout, just to watch those eyes darken further.

“I think you'll find, Mikk, that I'm not the one who'll be struggling to keep up.” He murmured, before dancing his way out of the loose grip the other man had around his waist easy enough for him to escape. “Two days, Mikk. Have a decision for me by then.”

And then Allen was gone, leaving a smirking Tyki Mikk behind.

“As if I need that long.”

[bluerighthand]

Sugar and Spice

Pairing: Tommy/Alfie

Summary: It’s Tommy and Alfie’s fifth anniversary. With Alfie away at work for the day, Tommy plans the perfect romantic meal. Unfortunately, between misbehaving ovens, disobedient vegetables and the occasional sabotage of his dog, things don’t quite go to plan. Luckily, Alfie loves him anyway. 

Notes: Hitting you with some domestic Alfie/Tommy fluff and awful cooking :) Big thank you to @whentommymetalfie for being my Horse Friend and helping me crawl outta my writing slump with fab ideas and pony pictures <3

Words: 6,755 (an arguably excessive amount)

“Tommy” Alfie whispered, tracing the shell of his ear. Though it pained him to do so, Tommy kept his eyes closed, shuffling a little further into the warmth of the duvet. He knew if he woke properly, Alfie would never leave. Not today. Alfie had made a fuss the night before, insisted he wasn’t going into the office, but Tommy had managed to talk him round.

It was cruel to make a man work on his anniversary; even crueller for Tommy to be the one who orchestrated the mild chaos in the office to get him away, but he had grand plans for the day. He needed an empty house, Alfie’s flowery apron and a lot of courage.

The mattress dipped as Cyril hopped on, Alfie trying to contain his laughter as he licked at his face. Tommy’s smile was obscured by the duvet. Alfie slipped away soon after that, with a beardy kiss to Tommy’s temple and a gentle ruffle through his hair. Tommy had half drifted away again, but was roused by the tell-tale crunching of gravel as Alfie’s car pulled away from the cottage. Tommy yawned, peeking an eye open to find Cyril’s face an inch from his own.

Once he’d recovered from his undignified shriek, he sat up, stretching, Alfie’s night shirt falling around his elbows. There was a note on the bedside table, and he grabbed it before Cyril could, grinning at the badly drawn love heart and Alfie’s familiar scrawl.

Happy anniversary sweetheart.

Five years. Tommy could hardly believe it. Would never have dared to, during those months of lingering touches, shy smiles and midnight conversations. But they were here now, away from it all in their own little cottage in the country. Tommy had his stables, Alfie had a vegetable garden, and Cyril had acres of fields to tumble around in.

They’d made it this far.

Cyril was padding around by the door, and Tommy let him out, grabbing some casual clothes from the chest of drawers. He planned to change into his suit later, not sure quite how messy his present would turn out to be. He’d done some cooking before, sure, like when Finn wanted eggs, or the pies he made as a child.

Technically those were mud pies, and had no business in the kitchen, but aside from the fact that Finn’s dinner had more shell than egg in and Aunt Pol had banned him completely after the fire incident, he felt he had a good base to get started on. He lived with Alfie now, and if there was one thing Alfie was good at (although Tommy was proud to say there were many, many things Alfie was an expert on), it was cooking. Which was where Tommy had got the idea from.

Five years was a long time after all, in this life, and he wanted to do something special for Alfie. Meaningful. He had a whole shelf filled with recipe books, and Tommy had been sneaking down to peer at them when Alfie was asleep, gradually forming his menu for a romantic anniversary dinner. Alfie would never suspect a thing; it was the perfect surprise.

Choosing what to make had surely been the trickiest part. Tommy didn’t want to be too ambitious, but at the same time, he had a whole day! If something went wrong, he could always just start again, he had more than enough ingredients. He’d have liked to have done a practice run, just to make sure everything was alright, but had decided not to risk it. He wanted it to be a complete surprise, and he was pretty sure Alfie would notice if all his vegetables disappeared and his chicken mysteriously vanished from the freezer. Although Tommy could probably get away with it by blaming Cyril, he decided he didn’t deserve that.

Even if he did chew on Tommy’s shoes.  

Arriving in the kitchen, Tommy pulled out some recipe books, as well as his handwritten notes about kosher food, and what he was going to make. They’d be having chicken, with a vegetable sauce, Alfie’s home-grown potatoes and a chocolate cake for pudding. Simple, but tasty, and healthy too; Alfie was always going on about the benefits of a rounded diet. Tommy usually sent a puff of smoke and a glare in his direction to make his view known, but he did listen sometimes. And sure, the healthy bit would be slightly counteracted by the chocolate cake, but it was their anniversary after all.

He had breakfast: a cigarette and an unbuttered slice of toast, before washing his hands and tying himself into Alfie’s apron. It was a little long on him, and if his brothers saw him in the pink flowery thing (that Alfie still insisted he bought ironically, though Tommy didn’t believe him) he’d probably die, but if he was going to do battle with the kitchen today he needed a uniform.  

He thought he’d start with the veggies: he needed to work up to the chicken, and this was just chopping and stirring right? He could do that. There were: carrots, onions, broccoli, celery, pepper, some herby…leaf things he didn’t know the name of but seemed important, and a strangely shaped purple vegetable that Alfie had previously informed him was an aubergine. After consulting the recipe, it was banished back to the cupboard. Tommy couldn’t deal with anything purple today.

The sauce recipe was already worrying him; it didn’t mention anything about water. And after the spaghetti fire incident of 1923, Tommy was loathe to miss out water from any cooking. He filled up a bowl anyway, placed it on the side, grabbing a knife to start chopping. What was first?

“1 ½ cupfuls diced outer stalks of celery” he read out loud to himself. Now that he actually had to do it, the idea of separating the inside from the outside seemed ridiculous. What was so wrong with the inner stalks? Surely he could just chuck a load in, and then- no, no, this was Alfie’s special meal. He had to do it perfectly.

Soon Tommy’s bowl was filling up nicely with veggies. The slices weren’t exactly even, which was frustrating him slightly, but he supposed once they became a sauce it didn’t matter so much. He liked to watch Alfie in the kitchen. He could chop an onion so fast, his hand was practically a blur. How did he do it? Tommy positioned his hands in a vague imitation of his boyfriend’s, and started on the onion. It wasn’t all so different from a razor, Tommy contemplated. And he’d been pretty damn good with a razor blade. He sped up, gaining confidence as he diced the onion in the opposite direction. Sure, he wasn’t as fast as Alfie, but he was really getting the hang of this-

“Shit” he cursed, dropping the knife and clutching his thumb, beads of blood welling up where he’d nicked himself. The bowl wobbled where it had been jolted by the sudden movement, teetering before spilling its contents over the counter.

“For God’s sake” Tommy muttered, sucking his thumb into his mouth as he tried to scoop the vegetables back into the bowl one-handed. The water sloshed over the sides of the counters, leaving Tommy with wet trousers and soaking the pages of the cookbook he’d been peering at. Cyril padded unheard into the kitchen at the disturbance, looking up at Tommy curiously as he flapped around, dragging a tea towel over the counter and attempting to rescue the sodden pages.

Cyril stopped just behind him to lap up the water, snuffling at the vegetables that dropped to the floor when Tommy tripped over him, inconveniently covering all the water with his body. Tommy closed his eyes, barely suppressing a frustrated scream as the cold water seeped through to his skin. Cyril licked at his fingers.

Ten minutes later, Tommy was changed, clutching a packet of cigarettes and determined to uphold the ‘no dogs in the kitchen’ rule. Cyril wasn’t happy about this, and pawed at the door, barking until Tommy eventually gave in and opened it. He dragged his favourite cushion in from the living room, flopping down onto it and watching Tommy with interest any time he caught a whiff of something.

Right, where was he: butter, oil, frying pan. Maybe he didn’t need the water after all. He should have it there though…just in case. He’d been sneaking glances at Alfie turning on the heat over the past few weeks, so he switched it on confidently, quite forgetting that there were different temperature settings in all the excitement.

Let the vegetables cook gently in their own juices, until they are tender.

Tommy wrinkled his nose, leaving the pan to its own devices while he retrieved the chicken from the freezer. His stomach sunk as he set the meat on the table. He hadn’t realised quite how frozen it would be. He blew hot air onto his fingers to warm them up again, poking at the dials on the oven. It should thaw out in there: there was plenty of time, he calmed himself, placing the chicken into the oven as the vegetables sizzled. Back to the sauce.

Fill one tablespoon with a combination of: crushed garlic clove, salt, pepper, and fine breadcrumbs, and add to sauce.

Which one was a tablespoon again? He couldn’t remember. Sounded like it should be large; as close to the size of a table as possible. None of the silver ones were really cutting it, maybe they didn’t have a tablespoon. His eyes fell upon the big ladle. A few scoops of that ought to be enough!

Look at me go, Tommy thought, filling up the ladle full of crushed garlic before tipping it into the sauce. His clothes were drying, he was problem solving, his dog was behaving and he was making a healthy home cooked meal for his boyfriend. Tommy hummed as he worked, some song Alfie had taken to singing in the kitchen. He liked to distract him sometimes. The feeling of Alfie’s arms around his waist, sneaking neck kisses and swaying him as he sang and a hot pan bubbled away in the background was heavenly.

Tommy couldn’t wait for Alfie to come home.

--

Two hours later, Tommy was less keen for his boyfriend’s return. Steam had curled his hair into an absolute state, and he brushed it out of his eyes as he surveyed the damage. Flour was covering the work tops, broken egg shells littering the floor and crunching underfoot. Tommy had managed to confuse sugar and salt, and baking soda and baking powder, meaning one half the kitchen was a ‘discarded chocolate cake’ zone, and the other was a mess of utensils and bowls filled with God knows what. He was running out of chocolate.

Worst of all was the chicken. He’d left it in the oven for hours, and it hadn’t so much melted the frosty covering of ice over its surface. He only realised that he’d actually turned up the hob instead of the stove when his first attempt at sauce had been burnt to a crisp all over the frying pan. He was now on the third batch (what happened to the second sauce is unspeakable), which had to be his last. Tablespoons, or more accurately: ladles, used up quite a lot of ingredients.

The sauce should be moderately thick, but not lumpy.

Tommy peered into the pan, frowning. This sauce looked more like green water, with great half melted lumps of veggies in. Maybe he just didn’t chop them small enough? He poked at the lumps with his knife, attempting to cut them down. His thumb gave a painful twinge, and he pushed that idea aside. It would be okay: he could fix it later, put it all in a bowl and do some stirring. Stirring solved everything. And though he wanted everything to be perfect, he knew the chicken was far more important. The oven was on properly now, and the damned thing had finally started to defrost. Tommy cast anxious glances at the clock, as Cyril watched the chicken through the glass, whining occasionally as the potatoes made alarming noises from their pan.

“You’ve got food there, and water. Don’t act like I don’t feed you” Tommy huffed. Cyril wagged his tail. Tommy sighed in resignation. “I’ve got to cook it first. Then you can have a bit”.

--

He had thirty minutes left, before Alfie was expected to arrive home. Ollie had called him from the office earlier, said he was just leaving.

“Stall him” Tommy had hissed down the receiver. He heard Ollie calling after Alfie, something about a lost dog near the canals, but the dreaded smell of burning had gotten Tommy off the phone before he could hear a response. The blackened chicken sat on the work surface accusingly. Tommy had cut into it, with rather more force than necessary, and was dismayed to find it uncooked on the inside.

How could it be burnt and raw at the same time? Had he just invented something? Surely things were either cooked, or they weren’t, but this chicken seemed to be both.

It was all very well creating new dishes the world had never seen before, but he’d rather this discovery hadn’t occurred on his bloody anniversary.Another glance at the clock sent him into a panic, chiselling away at the burnt parts of the chicken so he could whack the rest back into the oven at a high heat.

The kitchen was also a disaster: pots and pans everywhere, food all over the floor, his damp clothes hanging over the backs of the chairs. Feed Alfie awful food, and ruin his kitchen supplies, that’s how Tommy did anniversaries. With no time to clean properly, he started hiding the dirty equipment. Shoving bowls into cupboards, utensils behind stacks of books. Alfie would find a wooden spoon in his gardening boots a week later. He unfolded the new tablecloth he’d bought: white, with little flowers on (Alfie liked that sort of thing), throwing it over the mess of flour and God knows what else. Cutlery was scattered about hastily, placemats frizbied into position.

Everything was going so wrong but he wanted to make it pretty and perfect and there wasn’t enough time-

Breathe Tommy.

Ten minutes. He sipped a bit of the sauce into his mouth, and gagged slightly, dropping the spoon. What on earth…that didn’t taste like vegetables. It tasted like shit. How could he have messed up this badly?

The only way he could have done worse was if he’d just grabbed a whole pig and plopped it down on the table. At least this was kosher, or he bloody hoped it was anyway: his notes were completely ruined by the water. There were a lot of rules, and although he now knew all about the menorah and the Torah and the…horah, the kitchen was Alfie’s territory. Though on second thought, Alfie might be grateful for an excuse not to eat the damn thing.

Tommy fetched the chicken. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. And that…wasn’t enough. This was supposed to be Alfie’s special meal, and what was he getting? Some badly cooked chicken, sloppy sauce and a pathetic excuse for a chocolate cake. Oh shit – the icing. All but throwing the chicken on the table, Tommy grabbed the tube, messily squeezing until the white icing appeared.

HAPPY ANNIV

And…he’d run out of room. Why didn’t he make a bigger cake for fucks sake- if he just added the other letters underneath it might look alright? No, it would look awful. He could blend it in? Start again? He rubbed at one of the clumsy letters with his spoon. It looked terrible. And Tommy didn’t have to be an expert to see that. God, what would Alfie think?

“Happy anniv to me” Tommy muttered darkly, shoving the cake back to the other side of the counter. Staring around at the kitchen, he could have cried. How could everything have gone so wrong? He plated up the main course, covering it with a cloche as soon as possible, if only to hide it from view. The potatoes were burnt and pathetic, the chicken looked disgusting and the sauce topped the whole thing off with a horrible greenish palette.

If he just…closed the curtains, lit a scented candle and scattered a few petals about the place like one of those sappy romantic dinners in the books Alfie was always going on about, would he even notice? Yes, was the answer to that. Yes he would.

It was a few minutes past Tommy’s estimated time, and he was tense, pacing, and unwilling to try and tidy up further or start anything new in case Alfie came home right at that moment. He busied himself with by violently ripping the petals off a rose he’d cut from the bush in the garden, placing them over the stains on the tablecloth.

He was crossing the room to put the stalk in the bin when he caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror, stopping dead. He hadn’t changed. His hair looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, stains and splashes of food covered his shirt and Alfie’s apron, and chocolate had ended up all over his face.

Crunching gravel sounded from the driveway, and Cyril hopped up instantly, running to the window and barking excitedly. No. Alfie couldn’t see him like this. Tommy had plans. A suit, something nice underneath-

The car door slammed, and Tommy heard footsteps coming up the path. He did the only thing he could think of. Pulling the kitchen door closed, he darted up the stairs, shrugging off the apron and dirty clothes as he went. Tearing into his wardrobe he grabbed his suit just as Alfie’s key sounded in the lock. Frantically scrabbling with his buttons, he assessed the situation of his hair in the mirror.

“Tommy?” Alfie called. “I’m home”. Shit shit shit. There was nothing to be done. It was just a fluffy mess that wouldn’t be flattened. Trousers on, socks on, buttons up, jacket on, hair vaguely patted down- no, his collar was all bunched up, and this wasn’t the right jacket-

“Tommy, love?”. Tommy rested his forehead against the mirror, and breathed.

“You upstairs?”. A creak on the bottom step.

“I’m coming” Tommy called, voice cracking slightly. He stared at his reflection for a moment longer, and had that awful urge to just sink down to the floor and pull at his hair. But he opened the door instead, kicking aside his dirty clothes and hanging Alfie’s apron carefully on the back of the door.

He could hear the scrabble of Cyril’s paws on the floor, and smiled despite himself at the “oof” Alfie made when he presumably jumped up on him. It would be okay. He could make it up to Alfie. Hide all the mess and take him out to eat, buy him something nice tomorrow, light a few candles in the bedroom.  

Alfie was in the living room, coat discarded on the sofa as he bent down to pet Cyril. He looked up at Tommy’s approach, Cyril not assisting in his attempts to stand.

“There ‘e is. Happy anniversary treacle” said Alfie, holding his arms out for Tommy. He was smiling, but it looked a little off. Tommy could tell he wasn’t quite himself, and he was tense enough to know if anyone had upset Alfie that day they wouldn’t be getting away with it.

“Happy anniversary”. He leant up for a kiss. “How was your day?”. Alfie grimaced, and Tommy’s stomach twisted, fingers faltering as they stroked through Alfie’s hair.

“Not great, actually. I didn’t wanna leave you in the first place yeah, and then there was this lost puppy down by the canals, n’ I didn’t wanna be late but I jus’ thought about him all alone in the cold, so I had to have a look for him”.

Oh no. Oh no. Not only had Tommy fucked up Alfie’s anniversary meal, he’d also messed up his entire day.

“But I couldn’t find ‘im nowhere. Not a sign of the poor guy” he said sadly, scratching Cyril behind the ears. “Keep thinkin’ about him falling in, no one t’ help him”. What kind of boyfriend was he?

“Alfie” he started, reaching up for a hug. Alfie wrapped his arms securely round Tommy’s waist, nosing into his neck as he sighed.

“Sorry love, I didn’t wanna ruin-”

“Shh” said Tommy quickly. I’m the one that’s ruined everything. Cyril sat beside them, his excited panting from Alfie’s return calming them both somewhat, until they pulled back. “Alfie, I need to tell you- there was no dog”.

“What?” he asked, confused. “But Ollie said there’d been sightings, n’ I figured-”. Tommy thought to himself as Alfie continued to ramble. Damn Ollie, he could’ve used any excuse. This whole day had been a disaster, from start to finish. They should’ve just stayed in bed. How could he fix this? Could this even be fixed?

“They found the dog” Tommy blurted. Alfie stopped.

“They did?” he asked, face hopeful.

“Yeah. Um, Ollie, he rang just before you got here”. Alfie broke into a wide smile, lifting Tommy off his feet. Tommy swallowed his usual protests, leaning into the kiss as Alfie spun him round gently, some of the nerves leaving his stomach. Alfie loved him, he wouldn’t care that he was hopeless, right? He was carefully returned to the ground, but not for long, Alfie leading him to the sofa and pulling him down onto his lap. Tommy looped an arm around his shoulders, enjoying the closeness, and security of Alfie’s arm under his knees. Shame he’d ruined their anniversary.

“What’ve you got ‘ere?” said Alfie, turning Tommy’s face to the side and rubbing at something on his cheek. He frowned, before licking his finger as Tommy batted him off.

To his surprise, instead of questioning why Tommy had flecks of chocolate on his face, Alfie looked…shifty. “You’ve, err, you’ve found ma draw then. Look I was gonna tell you, but it just tastes so good n’-”

“Sorry, I’ve found your what?” asked Tommy. “Have you been hiding chocolate in our house?”.

“Hmm, mm” Alfie hummed to himself for a moment, realising his stash hadn’t in fact been subjected to one of Tommy’s household purges. Yet. “Just a draw” he said sheepishly. “It was on special offer see, and it would be stupid not t’ invest, ya know? I’m a business man after all, n’ you’ve got to take these opportuni-”. Tommy cut him off with a kiss. Alfie could have a whole bloody room full of chocolate if he forgave Tommy for today.

“So if you weren’t sneakin’ off with my chocolate” said Alfie conspiratorially, as Tommy rolled his eyes, “why’ve ya got stuff all over you? Yer hair’s all” he made circular gestures with his hands, “fluffy”. Despite Tommy’s silence, Alfie soon made the connection between his red face and the firmly shut kitchen door, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Tommy Shelby, ‘ave you been cooking?”.

“Cooking is one word for it” he muttered, grimacing slightly. Alfie didn’t hear him, too busy lifting Tommy off his lap and hurrying towards the door. Tommy almost tripped over in his haste to grab him, managing to catch Alfie around the waist and pull him to a stop.

“Did you make dinner?” he said, practically jumping up and down with excitement. He looked like Cyril when he found that six-foot branch in the forest.

“Yes” Tommy admitted grudgingly, edging sideways to block Alfie’s path to the door. He couldn’t bear to tell him.

“Can I see?” said Alfie eagerly, shuffling them towards the door.

“No” said Tommy, the word coming out harsher than he’d intended. Alfie stopped, slightly taken aback.

“Why?”.

“Because…” I’m useless. You’ll hate it. I failed. “It’s not…I haven’t…” he trailed off.

“Jus’ show me love, you dun’t have to be nervous” said Alfie, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Though it is kinda sweet you gettin’ all worked up over me present, isn’t it”.

“It is not sweet” Tommy insisted, extracting himself from Alfie’s arms and standing firmly in front of the kitchen door.

“Please? For me?” Alfie begged, turning his best puppy eyes on Tommy. It was unfair really, Tommy thought, as the door swung open. He couldn’t resist those eyes.

“I couldn’t- it’s not very-” Tommy sighed, “I tried”. His gaze fell on his pathetic attempt to lay the table, the rose petals already crumpling. If there was ever a time to just…crawl out of the window and find a corner of the stables to curl up in, it was now.

On the contrary, Alfie’s mouth fell open as he entered the kitchen. The curtains were drawn, but several candles filled the room with a warm glow. Petals covered the table, the work surface filled with plates of food, and Alfie felt a lump rise in his throat. Tommy hovered beside him nervously, and Alfie pressed kiss after kiss into his messy hair.

“Yer so silly, you know that?”. Tommy gave him a small smile.

“Don’t speak too soon. You haven’t had any yet”.

“Plate me up then chef” Alfie grinned, taking his place at the table and appreciating the sight of his boyfriend moving about the kitchen. It looked good on him. Tommy lifted the cloche from one of the dishes, waving a tea towel around to reduce the steam. He wavered in the middle of the room, inspecting the plate carefully.

“C’mere love”.

“You can’t eat this”.

“Come here”.

“I’m just going to-” he took a step towards the bin.

“Tommy, come here” said Alfie firmly. Sometimes you just had to take charge of a situation. What kind of a boyfriend would he be if he let Tommy throw away all his hard work? Tommy stood beside him, and Alfie gave his elbow a comforting squeeze. “You cooked for me” he said, and there was so much gratitude in his voice that Tommy just stopped for a moment. Let his grip slacken and Alfie pull the plate away. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see Alfie’s face change the moment he realised it was all-

“I love it” said Alfie, beaming up at him. Tommy scoffed, throwing his towel down and trying to take the plate away. “No no no” he cried, grabbing it. “It’s mine!”.

“Alfie, it’s awful” protested Tommy, trying to pull the plate away without any of its disgusting contents slopping onto the floor. Cyril would lap it up without even knowing what disaster might befall him if he ate it.

“You’re taking away my fuckin’ anniversary meal” whined Alfie. He sounded like a child, and Tommy let go with a huff, but was unable to suppress his grin when a bit of sauce splashed onto Alfie’s shirt.

“Serves you right”.

“I dun’t care ‘bout me bloody shirt” said Alfie, rolling up his sleeves. “I wanna taste this food my love’s spent all day makin’ me”. Grabbing his fork, he speared some meat first, making sure to coat it with sauce before eating. Tommy actually winced as he swallowed.

“No, stop Alfie. You’re gonna get food poisoning”. Alfie waved him away.

“I want to eat it”.

“You’ve had a mouthful!”

“I want more!”.

“You can’t tell me you’re enjoying this?!”.

“Course I am, love. I know how much you hate cookin’. And food in general, really. An you’ve spent hours makin’ me a delicious meal, on the anniversary of the day our eyes locked n’ we-”

“Okay, okay, fine” said Tommy, raising his hands. There was no time for an Alfie ramble now, not when the food would probably go cold in about five minutes and taste even worse. There was still a little bit of steam, though that could be…fumes. No, no, it was definitely steam.

He poked at his own plate, salvaging a corner of unburnt potato and cautiously nibbling at a bit of chicken. It helped that it was the first thing he’d eaten since breakfast. Alfie talked, rambled about their years together and how much he was enjoying the food, and Tommy felt the tension drain from his shoulders. Even if Alfie was exaggerating, which he undoubtedly was, it was nice to hear. And despite the fact that Tommy almost had a heart attack when Alfie offered Cyril a bite of chicken, the meal otherwise went okay. Before he knew it, Tommy was clearing away the plates.

“There’s dessert too?” asked Alfie hopefully. Tommy nodded reluctantly, taking the covered dish from the work surface. He pulled back the cover a fraction, and stopped to peer inside before Alfie confiscated the container, setting it on the table.

“Ah, a mousse! That explains the chocolate ey?” said Alfie as he pulled off the cover.

“It’s a-”. Tommy stopped, gazing at the cake in mild alarm. It did indeed look like a mousse. His icing had been absorbed into a messy looking chocolate whirlpool. He’d only left it alone for an hour, how could this have happened? Food was fickle he thought to himself, dubiously digging a spoon into the mixture. It seemed to be more solid the further down he went, and he avoided Alfie’s eyes as half cake, half mousse, all disaster landed on his plate. On the plus side, his icing failure was lost forever. Tommy could imagine the teasing.

“Hmm?”.

“Never mind”.

--

Tommy had hardly reached for the scrubbing brush before Alfie was spinning him around, leading him towards the door.

“Where are we going?” he asked reluctantly. He’d just like to get the washing done, and then curl up in a nice dark place somewhere. With no sauce or chickens or tablespoons anywhere in sight.

“I’ve got a surprise for you” Alfie grinned.

“What?”.

“You didn’t think I forgot about your present, did ya?”. Quite honestly, Tommy hadn’t even thought about it. After establishing Alfie wasn’t making him a dinner, the thought had completely vanished from his mind.

“Put yer cap on, it’s chilly” said Alfie, undeterred by Tommy’s nonplussed expression and throwing a distinctly non-razor bladed cap at in his direction. There wasn’t so much of a need for those anymore. Things were settling down. It was indeed chilly outside, when they eventually got there. Alfie had spotted the cut on his thumb, and marched him upstairs to wrap a totally unnecessary bandage around it. Tommy pretended to hate it – “Alfie, it stopped bleeding hours ago” – but honestly, he needed Alfie to dote on him right now. Five years had gone by, Tommy proving time and time again that he was useless, fearing with each anniversary that Alfie would realise he wasn’t good enough. Would give up on him. But he seemed obstinately blind to it all, covering Tommy’s eyes with his gloved hands as they stepped outside.

“Alfie, I’m going to trip” he said, wobbling slightly as they made their way onto the grass.

“No you ain’t, I’ve got ya”. He didn’t guide Tommy towards the stables straight away, he’d know, and Alfie wanted it to be a surprise, so they went on a little trip around the garden. Tommy figured this out rather quickly; Alfie leading him ten paces in one direction then doing a U-turn rather gave it away, but he indulged him. It was the least he could do. Just as his ears were beginning to redden with cold, the familiar smell of the stables greeted him, and Alfie led him to a stop.

“Right ‘ere we are, you ready love?”. Tommy nodded, opening his eyes when Alfie moved his hands away. Standing in front of the usually vacant pen at the end of the stables, Tommy didn’t notice anything different at first. Had Alfie cleaned the windows? Had he organised the hay bales? Then he saw something fluffy, and white, peeking over the gate. An ear. He moved closer curiously. Had Alfie got him a foal?

Inside the pen was a small, fluffy maned white horse. She had tiny legs, and was covered by the red blanket Alfie had made a few winters ago. She looked almost comical, compared to the great race horses in the neighbouring stalls, and Tommy couldn’t help the small noise that escaped his lips at how sweet she looked.

“Hey girl” he said, holding out his hand. The horse came closer, peering up at him with those big eyes and sniffing hopefully. An apple appeared in Tommy’s palm, and he glanced back at Alfie, who was staring innocently up at the hay loft. He opened the pen and stepped inside, the horse eagerly nosing at his hand.

“There we go” he said gently, stroking down her neck as she munched away.

“Not really a ridin’ horse, but she’s a sweetie. Even let me stroke her, n’ ya know most horses can’t stand me” babbled Alfie.

“It’s just cause you’re nervous” said Tommy, quietly. “They can sense it”.

“Is she okay?” Alfie asked, scratching at the back of his head. Tommy turned, catching the insecurity. “I was thinkin’, you’ve got all these race horses, you know, and it might be nice to ‘ave one just for you. To relax with. Without any of that training stuff”. Tommy straightened up, leaning over the gate and reaching out to Alfie. He came, Tommy greeting him with a kiss.

“She’s perfect. Thank you”.

“The man said she likes bein’ brushed. I know it all gets too much sometimes, even out here” he gestured to the countryside surrounding them. He took Tommy’s hand, kissing the bandage. “So…jus someone to ‘ave a cuddle with. Without any expectations, you know? Don’t want her replacing me, mind” he joked. Tommy shook his head, very much enjoying Alfie’s rambling about gathering Tommy close on his chest. “Now then, what ridiculous name are you gonna call her? Cause I’m telling you now I ain’t running around the pasture yelling for Spectacular Albatross or Flying Desmond to come in for the night”. Tommy laughed, his eyes crinkling up. Alfie pulled him close. “It’s bad enough as it is. What must the bloody neighbours think of me, ey?”.

“We don’t have any neighbours”.

“Driven them all off, haven’t I, with those names”.

“What would you suggest?” asked Tommy. Alfie thought for a moment, tentatively reaching over the pen and patting the horse’s head. She was still crunching on the last of the apple, shuffling her little feet around in the hay happily.

“How’s Aviva?” he asked. “Means spring. N’ I can picture her in the fields like, when the flowers are growing”. Tommy smiled.

“Aviva it is”.

--

The sun was setting fast now, the horizon a beautiful misty orange. They’d stayed out in the stables for a while, Tommy whispering nonsense to his horse, and Cyril running about and rolling over in the grass. The whole scene made Alfie’s heart melt a little. A lot.

Five years of Tommy. If he wasn’t just the luckiest man on G-d’s good earth.

The chill eventually persuaded Tommy to leave Aviva and come inside; although not before giving her a brush down and an extra blanket. And petting all the other horses.

“I don’t want them to feel left out” he protested, over Alfie’s teasing. Cyril weaved around their legs as they kissed in the hallway, jackets thrown over the bannisters. Alfie distracted him with a treat, and Cyril took it to his basket, tail wagging slowly in exhaustion.  

“You wanna…” Tommy asked suggestively, nodding up towards the bedroom.

“Jus’ gonna go to the bathroom love, meet you in there” said Alfie, shooting him an exaggerated wink and laughing at Tommy’s raised eyebrow before heading to the bathroom. He leant on the closed door heavily, waiting an appropriate amount of time before running the tap, scooping the water up with his hands and desperately drinking it down. He wasn’t sure how much garlic Tommy had put in that sauce, but he had a feeling he’d be tasting it for weeks. His kisses must be awful.

But he supposed Tommy couldn’t tell: he’d eaten it too. Water dripped down his chin onto his shirt, but Alfie only gulped more. After an hour of resisting the urge to down the water jug in one, it was so good to wash some of the flavour away. He’d thought the…mousse cake would help with that, but if anything it seemed to intensify it. Had Tommy put garlic in there too?!

His eyes fell upon his toothbrush, and he glanced at the door nervously. He usually didn’t brush them until later; Tommy might realise. The thought of hurting him like that, however unintentionally, made Alfie feel terrible. But on the other hand, he wasn’t certain the potato wouldn’t just attach itself permanently to his teeth unless he scrubbed it off.

He thought he could get away with shoving some of the chicken to the edges of his plate, but he saw the worried glances Tommy was shooting him. Watching his plate, his reactions. So he ate it all, the residual texture making him shudder. There was nothing for it, he thought, grabbing his toothbrush. If he was concentrating on anything other than making Tommy’s eyes roll back in pleasure tonight, well, that would be a sacrilegious offence wouldn’t it?

--

Tommy was sat cross legged on the bed, wearing Alfie’s sleeping shirt, and nothing else by the looks of things.

“I knew you hated it” he said, sadly.

“Tommy, no” said Alfie, sitting beside him.

“It’s okay, Alfie. I know it was terrible. I should’ve just got you some fucking cufflinks or something”.

“Now when ‘ave you ever known me to bother with them, ey?”

“Something else then. An actual present, like you got me”.

“I love that you made me something, darlin’. So nice of you t’ put yerself through that for me”.

“Don’t joke” said Tommy, pouting. “I heard you”.

“I mean it” said Alfie, scooting towards him on the bed, and wrapping his legs around Tommy. He huffed a laugh. “Thank you for doin’ that for me. I know how hard cookin’ can be, yeah? And I know I go on about it a lot, which is annoying, but it makes me so ‘appy that you made me something. And the little candles n’ petals, so sweet. Jus’ love you so much, you silly thing”. Alfie pressed kisses into his hair.

“I love you too” Tommy mumbled, freeing his arms from Alfie’s strange leg hold and wrapping them around him in return.

“I thought we were gettin’ there, ey? You believing me when I say things like that”.

“I do” said Tommy quickly, “I just…it didn’t go the way I wanted it to”.

“And that’s okay” said Alfie. “Not everything does. But I loved it all the same”.

“But…it didn’t taste nice”.

“I love that you made it for me. That’s what makes it special, ya know? I could ‘ave had one of them fancy posh meals from some restaurant, and it wouldn’t mean nothing compared to my Tommy workin’ all day to make me something, ey?”. He squeezed Tommy’s shoulders. “You could prob’ly give me a load of hay n’ sugar cubes and I’d eat it. Cyril would too”. Tommy smiled.

“He was helping me today, or trying to. In his own way”.

“Was he? That’s ma boy- ah, ow, fuckin’ hell” Alfie cried, disentangling himself from Tommy and clutching at his foot. “Cramp, cramp”. He hobbled over to the window, bracing himself on the sill as he rubbed at his toes, Tommy’s laughter in the background making him grin despite his discomfort. It settled down eventually, and Tommy joined him, resting his head on Alfie’s shoulder, hair ticking his cheek.

“I love your hair like this, ya know”.

“Don’t say a word”.

“I already-”

“Not a word”. The sun had set now, and the stars twinkled at them faintly through the mist. “It was awful, wasn’t it?” said Tommy, his shoulders shaking as he laughed. Alfie kissed his temple.

“I still loved it”.

“I know”.

“You happy?” asked Alfie after a while, resting his head on Tommy’s and looking into the garden beyond. Their garden.

“Very” he replied, the warmth of truly meaning it leaving him with a warm glow. “Happy fifth anniversary”.

“To many more”.

Thank you for reading, I'd love to know what you think! <3

WIPs should be updated in February xx

[onesandzcros]

no crushes

Hermione didn’t enjoy school. That felt like an understatement some days. It was a development that had only happened as she became a teenager, and her father was busy. Too busy for her to want to bother him with the reasons why. Being the British ambassador to Spain was enough to keep anyone busy, with the result that she’d had to quickly accustom herself to a very different environment when it became clear attending an ordinary school was no longer acceptable. She missed it. She missed her friends, the people she’d grown up with.

But Hermione was also her parents’ daughter, and that meant she’d keep a spine of steel and get through it on her own as much as possible. It was hardly a surprise that her new private school was filled with people who didn’t look like she did. Her parents had told her when she was younger that she was unique and special, that she could be anything that she wanted to be. What she’d rapidly learned since attending a private school where most people didn’t have her skin colour, however, was that not everyone else agreed.

That was why Hermione was in the library, as she frequently was, sat alone with a book because the cluster of popular girls in her class had made a point to exclude her. Those that weren’t popular didn’t dare include her because they were worried about being targets too. The social structure was very simple: she wasn’t Spanish, she wasn’t white, she still had a prevalent accent, and she had adjusted too easily for anyone’s liking. They’d all been waiting for her, the new girl, the one who didn’t belong, to trip and fall on her face. To make errors in classes and social faux-pas that she didn’t understand. They’d wanted to see her fail.

Hermione hadn’t failed. Her grades were perfect. She read ahead, she worked hard, and she didn’t understand the concept of pretending to be less intelligent to endear herself to others. Those weren’t the sort of people she wanted as friends. Thinking that way was another reason she didn’t fit in, one of many.

“Psst. Granger.”

It was a low whisper, but it was one that made Hermione grit her teeth. Not you again. Rather than respond, long experience meant she simply got up, put her book in her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

“Think she didn’t hear you, Cormac. Must have something wrong with her ears.”

“Maybe she doesn’t understand polite conversation.”

Hermione hadn’t been fast enough, and the result was that her blood was boiling, and she was physically biting her tongue. If she got into trouble for fighting back, her parents would find out. There was suddenly a broad pair of shoulders and a chest directly in her line of vision, McLaggen towering over her. “Didn’t you hear me, Granger? I was talking to you. You should really pay better attention, you know.” The smile that was supposedly so charming to everyone else looked predatory to her. He gave her signals that she was too wary to ignore.

“I wasn’t listening,” she said bluntly. “I’m leaving and you’re barring the way. Please excuse me.”

Cormac’s smile faltered, and something behind his eyes grew hard and cold. “Hear that, boys? Apparently I’m in her way. That’s not very nice, is it?”

“You should teach her a lesson, Cormac. Why should she get to speak to you that way when you were only being friendly?” That was a female voice, one belonging to a girl that Hermione didn’t recognise, but she was looking at Cormac with the same doe eyes as every other girl in the building. Every other girl apart from Hermione, and therein lay the problem. McLaggen didn’t like the word no, especially when used repeatedly. He’d flirted with her a few days in, clearly expecting the same doe-eyed devotion everyone else gave. She hadn’t reacted. To say he hadn’t taken it well was an understatement, and she wasn’t up for being cornered outside the girls’ changing rooms after PE again. That had run the edge of fear and it wasn’t a gauntlet she felt like engaging with. Not today. Please not today.

In the present moment, however, McLaggen looked delighted, and that wasn’t good either. “What a good idea. What kind of lesson do you think I should teach her?”

Hermione’s retort was sharp. “You can think, McLaggen? Someone should call the press to announce it.”

McLaggen’s gaze darkened. “You’ve got a smart mouth, Granger. I might have to do something to occupy it.” One of the boys with him made a lewd gesture, and there was a horrible round of snickering that made her want to crawl out of her skin.

Mercifully, Hermione escaped what more McLaggen would have come up with due to a very annoyed librarian making an appearance. “Shhh,” she said sharply, disapproving eyes on all of the teenagers. “Please return to your study areas or leave.”

Hermione didn’t need telling twice. She darted around the group and headed straight for the library door. There was a muffled curse, the sound of a reprimand; while she didn’t quite run for it, she didn’t wait around either. Her stomach turned over, a visceral reaction, and she looked around quickly for the best point of escape. Computer lab? Either it wouldn’t occur to them to look for her there (she hoped) or she’d end up cornered, but at least with the possibility of an authority figure nearby.

Hermione gambled. The door to the computer lab was on the next floor up, and she rounded the corner to the staircase, the door separating the corridor the library was on slamming shut. She’d never thought of the computer lab as anything but in practical terms: useful. Now it would serve a dual purpose, and it was mercifully quiet when she entered, intending to find the most hidden corner of it she could manage.

There was no one else in there. The relief ran through her. It was short-lived when she spotted a head of pale blond hair. Oh no, already? When the person looked up and briefly glanced at her, though, Hermione realised it wasn’t a student at all. It was the new coding class coordinator, the one with the Latin name who looked too young to be teaching anything at all, supposedly. She was due to take that class, had been excited about being invited; only students the faculty felt could handle the additional workload were invited. She offered him a quick, apologetic smile, knowing it was clear she was out of breath and trying unsuccessfully to hide it. “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, is it all right if I’m in here? All of the library study spaces were full. I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

Grey eyes appeared to study her before Hermione got the confirmation she needed to stay, a small smile and a gesture to help herself. It meant that gratefully, she vanished into one of the individual computer areas, pushing the keyboard aside and opening her book again. Peace, for now, at least until next class that afternoon. Lunch could be spent outside on the grounds somewhere provided she was careful.

The peace was short-lived, because she heard the sound of feet at the door and the loud noise as it was shoved open.

“Well, where is she? Cormac’s waiting by the gym.”

Hermione’s heart sank.

McLaggen’s lackey sounded annoyed. “I’m sure she came this way. Bitch thinks she’s better than everyone. Come on, she must have just waited until we were gone and headed back to the library.”

“Forget it, she’s not worth the trouble. I don’t get McLaggen’s obsession with her anyway, it’s weird.”

A voice followed, one that had to belong to the newcomer, who proceeded to kick them out of his lab in short order. The exact words were dulled down by the way Hermione was trying not to breathe too loudly, heart pounding in her ears. The panic was overwhelming.

The door at last slammed shut. In a bid to calm down, Hermione shut her eyes, only realising then that the sound of the coordinator’s (Draco, she remembered) soft but incredibly rapid typing had slowed and halted. He’d obviously figured out that there had been a problem, but when his typing picked up again, Hermione felt calmer, found the rhythm of it soothing, and slowly exhaled.

That was her first association with him. A place where it was quiet. Safety.

It wouldn’t be until Hermione actually took the class in coding that her point of view changed. Draco wasn’t just someone who kept a quiet computer lab that she could retreat to (had retreated to, because his silence was a kindness she couldn’t afford not to take). He was brilliant, technically gifted in a way that showed in how he explained code. But (and Hermione hated herself a bit for this) he was also incredibly handsome, in the kind of perfect bone structure, graceful movement way that drew her eyes.

Hermione didn’t get crushes. She didn’t.

But if she reserved a bit of a soft spot for those few weeks that he was there at the school, for the kind hello that he passed her way probably thinking it meant nothing, it served to fix him firmly in her memory. No one else knew. No one else needed to.

He was beautiful. He was clever. He was kind. And he kept her presence in his lab a secret without asking questions.

Kindness was rarer in her world than it had ever been. Sitting in a booth tucked completely away from him turned into choosing one where she could see him, but no one else could see her. They didn’t talk much. That was fine. Hermione knew everything that she needed to from the way that Draco intervened when others were far crueller than he was in his earshot.

It was through those interactions that Hermione learned another important fact about Draco: he couldn’t stand bullies, they turned his tone acid in a way that she didn’t hear directed at anyone else. Maybe it was watching someone stronger pick on someone weaker. Maybe it was personal, she didn’t know. All that she did know was that watching him was far better than being the one watched, and that at this point she couldn’t help it.

She never gave him her name directly. It was on the class register for the coding class. Hermione had hardly spoken to him except to ask or answer questions, or to acknowledge him that first day she’d concealed herself in the lab with his permission. He didn’t ask for it. Perhaps he didn’t care, or it didn’t matter, or he sensed what she needed was one place where there would be no expectations or harassment. That also pinned him as observant, there in other signs too; in how no one’s attention could wander without him noticing, and no difficulty passed him by. He was patient in how he talked people through code, in how it became a language that anyone could learn when he broke it down.

Hermione didn’t get crushes.

It didn’t mean that when it came to the last day of the course and Draco’s last day on campus, Hermione wasn’t sad.

She didn’t get to say goodbye. She never got to say thank you.

She had no way of knowing that it wasn’t really goodbye at all.