#Also I had a very persistent crick in my neck all day

[spacedoutwitch]

Brain is getting better, but my body is Mad, so I am gonna catch up.... when I catch up! Thanks for your patience!

[missmarquin]

Parallel (FE3H, Sylvix)

Parallel

--Fire Emblem Three Houses

--Sylvix

-- Oneshot, Rated T

-- Modern AU, Twlight Zone Inspired, Alternate Universe AU

Please read on A03 for better formatting! :D

###

Felix cuts a sharp figure in his slick suit, fingers wrapped loosely around the handle of his briefcase. His key slides into the lock and it turns, the door creaking open, as he slips into the foyer of his brownstone.

“Honey, I’m home,” he calls out, but there’s a bitter edge to his voice as he flips on the hall light. “Oh wait, that’s right. I live alone.” He drops his briefcase onto the table in the entryway and moves to loosen his tie.

Felix is used to being alone, he’s been alone for a very long time. His brother is dead. He doesn’t talk to his father. He spends his days analyzing numbers and taxes from nine-to-five, and then sipping at a decent whisky from eight-to-ten.

He doesn’t really cook even though he can, and when he slides into his sheets at night, clean and tired, he congratulates himself on a decent day of work. When he sleeps, it’s dreamless and dark, but satisfying. He wakes up with a slight crick in his neck, but it's because he’s too stubborn to replace his mattress, and he persists sleeping on his side, even if it’s the lumpy one.

It’s routine. It’s well-known. He likes having a schedule and expectations.

He hates how empty it feels.  

The next day is a Wednesday. It’s full of numbers and taxes and names, and Felix tiredly rubs at his eyes as he tries to make sense of them. But his head hurts and his brain is barely working, and maybe he’s coming down sick and that’s why it’s hard to focus.

Still, he persists and it isn’t until Annette says something that he realizes he’s stayed over by an hour, back hurting from leaning over too long, eyes straining from the fine print he’s been pouring over.

“Felix,” Annette says to him, her sing-song voice at ends with her sad gaze. “I’m worried about you.” Of course she is, she always is. It doesn’t matter that she moved out nearly six years ago, or that her side of the bed still remains cold, she’ll always care .

And it’s not that he doesn’t care for her or anything, he loves her deeply. They just aren’t in love anymore.

“Nonsense,” he tells her. “I’m only tired.”

She watches him for a long moment, catching her lip between her teeth and chewing at it, then says, “Mercie and I are going for a drink. You should come.”

Felix almost says yes, but then he remembers that he’s thirty-two and too old to go out for a round or two and still wake up easily in the morning. As much as he loves Annette and Mercie, their company is draining and he isn’t in the mood.  

“Thank you, Annie,” he says to her and while he doesn’t give her a smile, there’s a slight quirk of his lips, and she’s one of the few who gets that expression regularly. “But I think I’ll head home to bed. My eyes are burning.”

Annette looks like she’s about to say something, but she opts not to, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder instead. “All right then. Good night Felix.”

He offers her the same and leaves the building alone.

And drives home alone.

And slides the key into the lock alone.

The key turns and the tumblers with it, and he pushes the door open with his hip. His briefcase drops onto the entry table. The light switches on, and he contemplates his quiet existence and empty house for a solid moment before sighing, “Honey, I’m home.”

The rest of his ritual is already on his lips, but he doesn’t get to complete it because, before he can, there’s a clear and distinct answer from the kitchen.

“Oh good. I picked up some pizza.”

####

Felix freezes at the voice. It’s deep. It’s male. It doesn’t sound like Dimitri and he kind of wishes that it was, because it wouldn’t be the first time that he’s snuck into his home with his spare key and slummed it on the couch after fighting with Dedue and being too Faerghan to talk about it. Dimitri Felix can handle, even in his tired state. He’s not so sure about a stranger who’s broken in.

Felix adjusts the position of his keyring in his hand, cool metal sliding between his knuckles. He took kendo and is better with a sword, but he knows how to throw a proper punch without breaking a thumb. Gripping the keys tighter, he slowly makes his way to the end of the entrance hall, carefully peeling around the corner towards the den and the kitchen.

The man is tall. He’s slightly tanned, with wild and unruly red hair. He wears a burgundy plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up halfway. He’s… also wearing Annette’s old Kiss My Buns apron which is confusing, because Felix knows that’s packed away and stored in the hall closet and has been for years --

“Felix,” the man says with ease. With familiarity. With warmth . Felix narrows his eyes. It doesn’t make sense; he’s never seen this man before, but it’s clear that he knows him. It’s evident in his tone and in the way he moves through the kitchen with ease, because he’s having no problem finding dinnerware and utensils.

Felix pauses at that, watching him load a plate with a piece of pizza, only to set a fork and a knife next to it. How does he know his preferred method of eating such a thing? The man looks up and smiles, and Goddess it’s striking, wide and warm, and for a moment, Felix is jealous that a man can look so happy.

And then he remembers that this man has broken into his house.

“Come over,” he says, waving towards the plate set for him. “Eat. It’s gonna get cold if you don’t.”

The man unties the apron, folding it neatly before putting it in the wardrobe with the china and how the fuck does he know that’s where it goes when it’s not being used and --

This is madness. This is nuts. Felix must have fallen asleep at his desk and dreamt this wild fantasy up, because it’s too weird, it’s too uncanny, it feels--

Well, not wrong; it feels right, and it’s kind of freaking him out.

The man is staring at him, head cocked to the side, auburn eyes soft with affection, freckles dusting across his nose, lips parted slightly and then-- “Felix, are you alright? You look tired. Did work go okay?”

“I’m… tired,” Felix is unsure why he bothers to answer, because playing along can’t be safe.

“Is it the Von Aegir account? I know that man has a lot of things to shift through, but he’s at least easy to work with, right?”

Felix is absolutely certain he’s now dreaming, because there’s no way a stalker would know that. Half of his office doesn’t know that. His accounts are secret. He loosens his grip on the keys, dropping them in his pocket, before moving to sit down.

It doesn’t feel like a dream. He’s never had a dream so vivid, or where food is warm and steaming, or where he’s aware of just how uncomfortable these dumb stools are or--

The man slides a hand along his shoulder and squeezes gently before letting go. It’s a practiced motion, full of familiarity.

“This is going to sound odd,” Felix blurts, “But how do you know about that account?”

The man blinks at him. “You complain about it literally every night,” he says around a mouth full of pizza. “I can’t even read in bed before the lights go out, because you’re too busy harping about Ferdinand and his terrible tea choices.”

“We share a bed?” The words come before he can stop them and Felix hopes that he hasn’t royally fucked whatever this is up.

The man quirks his brows, mouth parted gently before it snaps shut in surprise. “I mean, yeah, for like four years.” Then his eyes narrow. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He reaches out, pressing his hand against Felix’s forehead, frowning. “You feel like you could be a little bit warm but--”

“What’s your name?” Felix regrets it, he really regrets it and he’s not hot because he’s sick, he’s hot because he’s flustered. But it’s probably easier to think that he’s just sick, because it’s the only explanation there is; how can he be sharing a bed with a man that he’s never met?

“Sylvain--”

“It was a joke,” Felix speaks over him, but it’s not because he doesn’t know a Sylvain . It doesn’t ring a bell, there’s nothing familiar which is a damn shame because Felix would definitely want to remember meeting this man.

Sylvain smiles but it parts his face only halfway, like he wants to believe Felix but he doesn’t quite. Something here is off, and for the first time since he’s stepped through his doorstep, Felix isn’t sure the stranger is the problem. The man sitting across from him is at ease here, he knows where he is; it's clear that he knows Felix.

And Felix has the distinct feeling that he’s the intruder here, even if that doesn’t make sense, because this is his home. Sylvain is quiet as he watches him eating, but the calculating gaze that he wears just makes the food in Felix’s mouth turn to ash.

“You know Sylvain, I’m not feeling very well after all. I think that I’ll head to bed.” He pushes away from his stool, but then pauses. “Thank you… for bringing home food. I’m sorry.”

Felix isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. He kicks open the trash can by the foot pedal and the pizza slides in with a greasy tumble. He sets the plate in the sink gently, before turning to leave the kitchen.

Sylvain is still watching him, chin in his hand, a little line furrowed between his eyebrows as Felix casts one more look at him. He shouldn’t feel guilty. This is his home, he doesn’t know this man but--

He feels weirdly vulnerable and it’s not because there’s a strange and beautiful man in his kitchen, it’s because that man knows him, Felix can tell this man knows him deeply. He brushes past without another word, trying to avoid the tense air between them.

“Felix,” Sylvain says quietly and Felix turns back. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks once more.

Felix seriously considers telling him the truth. He’s this close to just blurting that he has no idea who he is, that he wants him out of the house, that he’s tired and Sylvain needs to go. But he doesn’t, he can’t, something holds him back from hurting this man and he doesn’t feel in danger.

Felix can handle his own anyway.

He sighs. “Yes,” he says, and he hopes that this time there’s more conviction in his voice, but the moment the word is breathed, he can tell that he’s failed. Sylvain’s expression is pinched, but he doesn’t press. In fact, he doesn’t say a damn word, and for some reason, it speaks volumes more than any other thing would, because for the ten minutes that Felix has known the man, Sylvain doesn’t seem the type to keep quiet.

So Felix runs. He turns on his heel and retreats into the bedroom.

####

His bedroom is different and that’s how Felix knows this must be a dream. A wild and disturbingly vivid dream, but a dream nonetheless. The room isn’t chaos, but it’s well lived in. It lacks the clinical tidiness that Felix is prone to, because he works too much and is too tired to truly enjoy his home. There’s an extra dresser. Knick-knacks and pictures that Felix doesn’t recognize. A desk that he certainly doesn’t own, with an unfamiliar shirt strewn over the chair next to it.

He steps into the bathroom, gray tile cold underneath his feet like so many other things in his life. The bathroom is different too, with bottles of hair products strewn about, two sets of toothbrushes and the ugliest burnt orange shag bath mat he’s ever seen. He turns the water hotter than he normally likes. Felix strips and his hand lingers on the doorknob before locking it.

He stands under the boiling stream beyond the time it takes to run cold. Felix doesn’t pull himself out until his fingers and toes are ice, hair hanging limp and wet around his face in clammy strands.

The person that stares back in the mirror looks tired and haunted, circles bruising deep underneath his eyes. Felix tries to make sense of everything that is happening to him, from the handsome man that he’s created in his mind eye, to the brilliant vividness of this entire experience.

He opts not to blow dry his hair, twisting it into a wet knot to at least get it off his face. He slips into the soft pajama pants and plain T-shirt he’d brought into the bathroom with him. He brushes his teeth and moisturizes, slapping lightly at his cheeks like it’ll wake him up.

It doesn’t.

With a sigh, he unlocks the door, gliding into the bedroom that’s fallen dark. There’s a lump in the bed, nestled into the sheets on the side that isn’t Felix’s. Red hair curls around Sylvain’s face, brushing across his cheekbones. Felix watches him for a long moment before his gaze cuts to the empty side of the mattress.

He can’t sleep in here, he can’t share a bed with a man that he doesn’t know, dream or not. Quietly, he tiptoes around the edge of the bed to the closet. He pilfers a spare quilt, before grabbing his pillow from the bed and--

“Felix…”

Felix pauses at the quiet muttering of his name, hand on the bedroom door as he glances back. Sylvian is still asleep, brow furrowed, arm out and fingers fisting the sheets where Felix would normally sleep.

It doesn’t feel like a dream anymore; it feels too real and Felix feels like he’s an outsider intruding somewhere that he doesn’t belong. He slips from the room, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he can manage.

The couch is cold and uncomfortable, and the soft leather of it sticks to Felix’s skin. Still, he turns on his side, pulling the quilt tighter around him, pressing into his pillow. It doesn’t smell like him, he realizes, it smells like the other man. Sylvain , with his tanned skin burnished with soft brown freckles and easy-going demeanor.

Felix settles back onto his back, before he finally manages to drift to sleep.

He thinks he remembers a soft kiss on the forehead and the whisper of loving words, but he must imagine it.

####

Felix wakes up to the smell of bacon and he’s come to the realization that this isn’t a dream. He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he can feel it in his bones. He’s the intruder here and whatever Felix has made his life with Sylvain, has temporarily vanished.

There’s dread that settles through him, as he sits up. Sylvain’s poking around the kitchen in his pajamas, tongs in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, standing  over the gas range. He looks just as tired as Felix feels, a slight raggedness to his form that makes Felix wonder if Sylvain realizes that there’s something off about all of this too.

The quilt slips around his shoulders as he yawns, and Sylvain looks up, eyes carefully hooded as he regards Felix. “I must have snored really bad last night for you to slum it on the couch,” Sylvain says, turning back to the pan to flip the bacon.

“Snoring,” Felix replies. “Right. Absolutely terrible.”

Sylvain hums at that. “Odd,” he says, “Considering that you’re the one who snores, not me.”

Sylvain knows, he definitely knows that something is off. Of course he does though. If Sylvain has a version of Felix he’s lived with for years, he would definitely know the difference. Still, it’s better to play sick than a different man.

“Sorry, I’m just---” Felix sighs wearily. “I’m tired and the bedroom just felt… wrong.”

Sylvain says nothing as he pulls the bacon off, setting the strips on a paper-towel lined plate. Felix watches as he sets about making another cup of coffee, setting a pod into a single-serve maker that Felix wouldn’t be caught dead owning. Once it’s done brewing, he doesn’t add anything, opting to bring it to him black.

The familiarity that radiates off of this man punches Felix in the gut. He takes the cup from Sylvain without a word, cradling it between both of his hands, leaning over the steaming liquid. Sylvain pulls a chair up next to him, dropping onto it backwards, arms draped over the spine.

“Felix,” Sylvain says, “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I-- nothing .” But the word feels like dirt in his mouth and he can feel the way that his lips tug downwards, and there’s no way that he sounds remotely convincing. Felix isn’t and will never be, a good liar. So he tries again. “It’s work-- and not just the Von Aegir account. I’m tired at looking at numbers all day and it’s starting to really sink in, I think.”

Sylvain takes a sip of his coffee, considering his words for a long moment as his eyes rake over Felix’s tired form, but he eventually nods. “Okay, Fe,” he says, and the nickname pulls at Felix. “Okay.”

Sylvain gets up, placing his mug back on the counter. “I made breakfast,” he says, and this time there’s a little more pep to his voice. “It’s only bacon and toast, but you still have time before you head into the office.”

Felix blinks as he watches Sylvain turn to pull two plates from the cabinets. He lifts himself from the counter with a sigh, retreating back into the bedroom. Sylvain’s tidied up a bit, dirty clothes properly thrown into the hamper and the bed made.

Still, he struggles to dress, staring into his closet blankly before he remembers that he’s trying to get ready. He looks worse than the day before, a ghostly image blinking back at him in the mirror. He doesn’t bother to brush his hair, even if he knows that it’ll knot. He ties it back hastily instead.

When he comes back to the kitchen, there’s a plate waiting for him, loaded with bacon and toast and that dumb red plum jam that he insists on paying way too much for. He’s surprised that he can eat, but maybe it’s because he’s starving, or maybe it’s because Sylvain has retreated to dress himself, or--

Felix doesn’t really know, he doesn’t seem to know anything in that moment. The bacon is well cooked and the coffee is exactly how he likes it, but he can’t even focus on them, because his mind is too busy trying to figure shit out.

When Sylvain comes back in, he’s scrubbed clean and smells like Aqua Velvet, which Felix normally hates, but on Sylvain he doesn’t. He kind of leans into it, when Sylvain bends over and pecks him on the cheek. And then he remembers that this man is a stranger and pulls back. Sylvain doesn’t notice, pressing another kiss to his forehead.

“I’m sure that I’ll be home before you again,” Sylvain says. “Would you like me to bring home dinner again? Or would you like me to cook?”

“I-- um, whatever works for you. I guess.”

Sylvain lets out a sigh, like he’s trying to figure him out but can’t, and says, “Alright, I’ve got it. You just worry about those dumb tax accounts, okay?”

“Yeah,” Felix replies. “Dumb.”

Sylvain laughs, full and warmhearted, and for a moment Felix can believe that this man actually loves him.

It bothers Felix how much he misses that feeling.

####

Felix learns that Sylvain isn’t a singular presence locked in at his home. Whatever it was that is happening, is happening everywhere , because Annette greets him by asking him how Sylvain was doing. Apparently, she misses his dumb butt .

“Annette, help me here,” Felix asks her later at lunch, “How did I meet Sylvain?”

Annette blinks back at him, and then bursts out laughing. When he blinks back at her, head cocked to the side, she sobers up slightly and says, “Wait, were you serious? Felix, how could you have forgotten?”

Felix rubs at his neck sheepishly. “Well, it’s not that I just-- look, I want to hear it from your perspective, I guess.”

Annette goes strangely quiet, eyes downcast and gaze contemplative. “Odd, that you would ask me that,” she muses, and it catches Felix off guard. “There wasn’t a lot to it,” she continues. “But I always told you that those track pants were too tight on you.”

Felix freezes, eyes narrowing. It was odd, how many similarities there were with his world and wherever this was. His favorite pair of running pants had been a size too small and she constantly complained about them.

“Track pants,” he repeats. “You always told me that I’d split them.”

Annette crosses her arms, smile spreading wide across her face. “And that’s exactly what happened,” she says, and Felix blanches because he’s mortified, absolutely mortified at the idea of it. “But how lucky you were that such a hot and studly man was right there, willing to lend you a sweatshirt. You looked ridiculous coming home that day, shirt tied around your waist and a sheepish stranger behind you.”

Felix falls very quiet. He and Annette had been together in this lifetime too, and he’d met Sylvain while they were still together. For a moment, there’s a horrible thought, a horrible, horrible thought that he’s the kind of man that could cheat and that Sylvain is the kind of man that could wreck a home but--

Well, Annette and him were still friends, and she looks upon this memory with a strange fondness.

Also, what a ridiculous way to meet a man.

“Annette,” he starts quietly, “Were you ever angry that…”

He doesn’t finish the question, but she seems to grasp what he means, and she looks surprised. “What, you and Sylvain? Felix, of course not.” Annette pauses and let’s out a long sigh. “You’re overthinking things like you always do. Sometimes things are simple and you just overlook them. Whatever fight the two of you are having, you’ll figure it out.”

“We’re not--” Felix sighs. “We’re not fighting, there’s just… I’m not quite myself.”

Annette hums at that. “Yeah, I noticed. You went for the red mug instead of the green one.”

“Er-- what?”

“I gave you the red mug nearly a decade ago, Felix, and while I’m glad that you still have it, it was really weird for you to use it over the one Sylvain gave you.”

“I just-- I guess I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll… it’ll be fine. I’ll get over this funk.”

Annette is quiet for a long moment, before she says, “I have a feeling that I’m not the one that you should be telling that.” She stands, before squeezing his shoulder affectionately. “Whatever it is, talk to him about it. Sylvain is the kind of person that will worry himself into his grave.”

For not the first time in his life, he curses Annette for how perceptive she is. At the same time, he loves that about her. “Thank you, Annie,” he says quietly.

“Of course.”

####

Felix doesn’t talk to Sylvain about it, mostly because he has no idea how to talk to the man.

Felix has a distinct type of person, when it comes to dating. Quiet, demure and definitely not male. Hell, he’s never even considered dating a man. But then again, his type clearly isn’t a standard, because Annette wasn’t any of those things and he’d nursed a ring for months with the intent of marrying her. Instead of saying yes though, she’d only replied with an Oh, Felix , and two months later she’d moved the bulk of her important things out of his home.

Sylvain doesn’t question him. As promised, dinner is taken care off, falling into his lap in the form of Chinese take-out from Wok and Roll. They forgo the counter and stools, settling into the couch, Felix as far to one side as he can manage and legs stretched out to keep Sylvain from snuggling too close.

This must be a familiar motion, because Sylvain just winks at him, pulling his feet into his lap instead, kneading at his tired arches.

Felix doesn’t stop him.

But then bedtime comes and he panics, citing that he’ll sleep on the couch again. Sylvain’s face falls, but when Felix tells him that his back aches from leaning over reports all day, he seems to understand.

“Let’s swap sides then,” Sylvain says. “I can handle the lumpy part of the mattress for a night or two.”

Felix hesitates. “No I-- it’s terrible, I can’t ask that of you. It’s fine, I’ll just sleep out here.”

Sylvain looks like he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it, and Felix takes the awkward moment to run into the bedroom and ready himself for the night. It’s the same kind of feeling as the morning really, staring off as he finds his sleep clothes, brushes his teeth and preps for sleep.

When he emerges, Sylvain eyes his pajamas with a frown on his face. Somethings off, something is wrong and Felix starts to panic--

Sylvain leans over with the intent to kiss him goodnight. Felix turns to the side though, lips catching his cheek, and he closes his eyes in a wince because that was absolutely the wrong thing to do. He can feel Sylvain stiffen against his cheek, and when he pulls back he doesn’t look angry, he looks sad. Lips tugged into the tiniest of frowns, his hands on Felix’s shoulders and--

Felix hates this, he hates hurting this man, because it isn’t fair to him. Whatever Sylvain has for his Felix, is real love; the kind of love that’s enviable, that people spend entire lifetimes trying to find, and it’s obvious in the way that Sylvain goes about everything in their carefully maintained life.

“Sylvain,” he blurts suddenly, “I’m-- I’m sorry.” The words are a harsh whisper and he watches Sylvain take a deep breath and sigh.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” he says quietly.

“No, I-- I don’t think I can tell you this,” Felix murmurs. “But it’s not you, it’s definitely me, and I just need… I need a little bit to sort it out.”

Sylvain is silent for a long moment, moving a hand to grip his chin gently, thumb sliding along the smooth skin of Felix’s cheek. “Okay,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead and Felix reaches out, one hand grasping at his shirt tightly. Sylvain is the perfect height to fall against, to be pulled closer, to just fall into and just disappear. His lips linger there, soft against Felix’s forehead, like he’s trying to savor the moment and he’s afraid that Felix will pull away.

“Okay,” Sylvain says again. “I love you.”

Felix wants to vomit; he’s going to, because he can’t say it back, even if he knows that the other Felix would, knowing that there’s no way he doesn’t love this man. But he can’t, he can’t, he can’t , even if only to pretend for Sylvain’s sake, because he doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve any of the wretched shit that Felix is being put through.

When Sylvain pulls back things are different than before. Sylvain is stiff and words are caught in Felix’s throat, because he knows that no matter what he says, he can’t fix the damage that he’s just done.

Felix lets go of his shirt, smoothing it out in a nervous gesture, unable to meet his gaze. It’s not him that retreats this time, it’s Sylvain, shooting him one last glance before he shuts the bedroom door behind him.

Felix needs to find a way back, because he can't keep doing this, he can’t just slip into this life that isn’t his. He’s going to wreck this wonderful foundation that Sylvain has built with someone else, and it’s because he doesn’t know him, and even if he’s Felix, he’s a different Felix.

He needs to sort it out. He’s got to find a way out of this, because it isn’t fair to break the heart of a man who doesn’t deserve it.

####

Sylvain doesn’t greet him in the morning.

He doesn’t make breakfast.

Felix’s coffee mug remains empty and cold.

Sylvain dresses in silence and doesn’t say anything as he leaves for work, and that’s how Felix knows he’s fucked up.

Later that night, after a long and grueling day of numbers and taxes, and one very annoying tea monger, Felix slips into the house quietly. When he walks into the kitchen, Sylvain is there, hands already in the sink washing up as he prepares to make dinner.

He barely glances at him.

“I know that you love me,” Felix tells him, and Sylvain pauses. “I know that you do, I know--”

“Felix--”

“And I just…” Felix shuts his eyes tight, taking a deep breath and-- “I love you too,” he tells him, hoping it’s as convincing as he’s trying to make it sound. “Things are weird now but--”

“Yeah, I know,” Sylvain interrupts. “It’s not me.” His tone is flat, but Felix can sense that abrasive quality there. Sylvain must not be the type to get angry often, because he seems almost unused to it.

Felix slides next to him, turning the faucet back on. “I’ll cook tonight,” he says.

Sylvain’s head snaps to the side in surprise, but he dries his hands on the dish towel. “Alright,” he says quietly. He hesitates and then leans down, kissing the crown of Felix’s head. “Thanks.” The words are soft, but they sound at least a little bit relieved, and Felix knows that he’s not just thanking him for dinner.

Fifteen minutes later, Felix is cutting up carrots and Sylvain watches him. He slides the knife along at an angle and that must be odd, because Sylvain’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Carrots, huh?” he finally asks.

Felix looks up, meeting auburn eyes, but instead of glowing with affection, they breed suspicion. Felix swallows thickly. “New recipe,” he mutters.

Sylvain doesn’t reply, but Felix knows that this time, he doesn’t buy it.

They eat a good dinner and watch a movie, but it’s with a quiet silence that fills the room. There’s room between them again with Felix stretched out like a cat to cover space, but Sylvain doesn’t pull Felix’s feet into his lap. He doesn’t move to rub at them. A palpable distance stretches between the two of them and it makes Felix sick.

“I’ll grab the quilt,” Sylvain says when he pulls himself from the couch.

“No--” Felix starts, and Sylvain stops, paused in the entrance of the bedroom, looking back over his shoulders. “I’ll… let’s go to bed.”

Sylvain lets out a short laugh, but it sounds annoyed more than anything. “That was the intent.”

“No, I mean…”

Sylvain is the one that sighs, before turning back towards him and leaning against the doorframe. “Felix, come here,” he says softly.

Felix does, pressing a hand to Sylvain’s chest. “I don’t want to sleep alone,” Felix tells him, and it’s true, he really doesn’t.

He hasn’t wanted to sleep alone for years, but there’s not anyone to share that with, because he’s so very alone. And now here’s Sylvain, who doesn’t love him, but loves something like him, and maybe it’s dumb that Felix feels like indulging in it for at least one night.

Sylvain’s hand hovers over his shoulder, almost like he’s afraid to touch him, but then he pulls him closer. “Yeah, okay, come here.”

Felix lets the man hug him and then they part, stepping into the room. Felix retreats to the bathroom to ready himself, and when he comes back, Sylvain’s already nestled into the covers. “Those are your pajamas,” he says. He sounds confused.

Felix looks down, fingertips roaming across the soft t-shirt and plaid flannel of his pants. “They’re comfy,” he replies.

Sylvain doesn’t elaborate on whatever he’s thinking. Felix slides under the covers and clicks off the lamp beside him, the room falling into pitch darkness. There’s light filtering through the window and he can see Sylvain’s pinched expression in the soft moonlight.

He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, rolling over instead. He’s in a T-shirt and boxers, and Felix stares at the wide expanse of his back, fingers itching to rub across his strong shoulder blades.

It’s not fair of him to feel like this, because Sylvain isn’t his.

Felix has never felt lonelier.

####

Two more days pass in a similar way.

Felix is starting to ease into the presence of Sylvain, but the other man pulls away slightly. He doesn’t blame him, because Felix knows that there are differences. He’s not the same man as the other Felix, and who better would know, than Sylvain who loves him?

Annette would have known in a heartbeat. Actually, Felix thinks that even now, even as just a friend, she still knows, because it’s evident in the way that she regards him with curiosity when she thinks that he isn’t looking.

When Felix comes home that night, it’s rinse and repeat. Sylvain makes dinner this time and Felix picks the movie. They sit on opposite ends of the couch. They barely talk. When preparing for bed, Felix doesn’t bother hiding in the bathroom, because there isn’t a point. Sylvain knows what he looks like and it’ll only drive the wedge between them even further.

He’s pulling on his pajama pants when Sylvain finally says something. “Those are your pajamas.” It’s not the first time he’s said it, and it’s still just as weird to comment on.

“You said that the other night,” Felix replies, fingering the soft cotton of his T-shirt.

“Since when have you worn your own clothes to bed?” Sylvain asks and Felix’s blood runs cold. “And that’s… that’s not the only thing that’s off,” he continues. “Cutting your carrots at an angle. I’ve only seen you do it in rounds. And sleeping on the couch? You hate that couch, and you constantly remind me about what a waste of money it was.” Sylvain sighs, dragging a hand down his face.

“You said you felt off and I believed you. You told me that work is commanding your attention, and it often does. But not stealing my clothes to sleep in? Showering alone? I always brush out your hair before bed. You always call me during lunch-- always-- and not a peep for days and then--” Sylvain’s words are coming a mile a minute and he takes a shaky breath, like he’s afraid to say whatever’s next.

“And then you tell me that you love me.”

Felix is confused. “But I--”

“Of course you do Felix, Goddess, I fucking know, but you never say it. I tell you that I love you and then you call me something stupid, like baffoon or sentiamental dolt or fool, and that’s the way you reply, because you-- that’s just what you do. ”

If Felix were to be honest, that sounds on brand for him and he’s a fool, an utter and complete fool to think that he can pretend to be the man Sylvain loves, for however long this farce goes on.

“I’m not me,” Felix says, and Sylvain laughs loud, bitter and angry and annoyed all at once, and it’s the ugliest thing he’s ever heard. “No-- I mean, I’m not-- look, I don’t know how to explain this but--”

“Am I not enough anymore?” Sylvain asks him, his voice barely above a whisper, and Felix’s heart clenches because no, no he can’t fuck this up.

“I’m someone else,” Felix blurts. Sylvain looks at him, head cocked to the side as a sneer falls across his face. He’s offended that Felix has come up with a ridiculous sounding excuse, even if the excuse is real. “Sylvain, I don’t know who you are-- I just met you. I came home the other night after living alone for years, and you were just there and I--” He’s the one to take a shaky breath this time and he knows that he sounds crazy.

“That’s not funny,” Sylvain tells him. He’s sitting on the bed, head gripped between his hands, fingers twisted in his brilliant red hair and Felix knows that the words coming won’t be good. “That isn’t remotely funny, Felix. That’s--” He stands abruptly.

“I’m going to Ingrid’s.” Felix has no idea who Ingrid is, but Sylvain’s already pulled out a duffel bag, stuffing it with clean clothes from the wardrobe and--

“Sylvain--”

“No,” Sylvain snaps. Felix halts, shying away from him like a skittish colt. “No, Felix, I can’t-- I can’t fucking do this.”

“Do what ?”

“Of all the things you can say, you go with I’m someone else? Goddess, Felix, I can’t even look at you right now.”

“It’s true,” Felix snaps right back. “What you have-- how much is it worth to you? Are you just going to walk out and not say anything?”

“What we have,” Sylvain replies. “It’s what we have and how much it’s worth to us , Felix. Together, as a couple. Four years together, and you’ve reduced everything that we’ve ever shared to something as stupid as I don’t know you . How can you even say that?”

Felix knows that it doesn’t matter what he says, because no amount of words or proof or anything, is going to change Sylvain’s mind.

“What about our promise, Fe?” Sylvain has zipped the bag up and thrown it over his shoulder, and now he’s looking at Felix, face wet and eyes red, and Goddess above, Felix is next. And Felix never fucking cries, but he wants to cry for Sylvain, because he’s a wonderful person that the universe has irrovacably fucked up.

“Sylvain, I…” But the words die, because he has no idea what Sylvan is talking about.

Sylvain pushes past him and out of the room, Felix following him close behind, but when he reaches the front door of the brownstone, he stops, turning back around. Felix hates the look on his face, he hates the raw and burning emotion behind it, and he suddenly realizes how lucky he was that he and Annette agreed on the break up, because he wouldn’t wish this kind of thing on his worst enemy.

“Felix, I love you,” Sylvain tells him, and it’s with enough emotion that it makes his heart stop, because it feels like he’s telling him , not his counterpart. It punches through Felix and he feels it in his bones, tugging at his core. “Goddess, I love you more than anything, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my fucking miserable life before you, it’s that it doesn’t matter how much you love someone, because they can still hurt you.”

“Sylvain--”

“You push people away, Felix. It’s what you’re best at, and if that’s what you want, then fine .  You’ll work your job everyday from morning to night, and you’ll come home to an empty house and you’ll be alone . You’ll wallow in that loneliness forever, because you think that as long as one person puts in the effort, it’s enough, but it isn’t Fe. It never will be, and if you don’t learn that, you will spend the rest of your life miserable and without a single person by your side.”

Sylvain gives him one last look, and it’s sad, pitying and angry all in one go, before walking out. Tears finally slip down his face and there’s a pathetic sob that rips through him, uncharacteristic and burning, because this man has just analyzed him down to the very core, without even truly knowing who he is.

Sylvain knows him, better than he knows himself, and that���s when Felix realizes that no, he doesn’t want to be alone; he never wants to be alone again. He’ll do anything, if it means that he doesn’t live in that empty, vacant existence where he does nothing but barely live.

####

Felix has never been able to hide anything from Annette and that’s probably why they didn’t work out in the end.

Felix isn’t sure how much time passes before he calls Annette, but he’d sobbed some ridiculous, gut-wrenching words at her through the phone, and fifteen minutes later, Mercedes was at his door, pulling him into a tight hug and not letting go.

And now Felix is at their small kitchen table, a steaming mug of hot tea in front of him and a plate of delicious looking pastries cooked by Mercie herself. He knows he needs to eat something, but all he does is stare at it miserably instead, mind roaming a mile a minute as he tries to figure out what he’s going to do when he gets home. He’s not sure that he can fix things. He’s always been bad at that.

“Felix,” Annette says, rubbing at his back gently. Mercedes is on his other side, holding his cold hand in her warm ones, thumbs rubbing across the back of his palm. He’s dumb crying again, eyes red and face tired, nose stopped up and dribbling everywhere. He’s a goddess-damned mess and the last time his Annette had seen him like this, was when his brother had unexpectedly died, and he’d spent a week in anger before breaking down on the kitchen floor, tucked against a cabinet with a half empty bottle of scotch clutched to his chest.

It’s weird, that this feels way worse.

“Felix,” she says again, and her words are softer this time. “You seem… well, I haven’t seen you look like this since we um… well you know , and I found you...” But she sighs and Felix can’t help but let out a stupid little snort. He’d already known that they’d been together in whatever and wherever this is, but he’s struck by how typical he is, having fucked up things with her too.

“Annie,” he finally says, sounding nasty and pitiful and pathetic, but Felix finds that he doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t want to care about anything. “Do I push people away?”

“Is that what he said to you?” she asks gently.

“Everything that he said was true and I-- I’m so angry at myself,” Felix admits in a soul clattering confession. “And it’s unfair; it’s not okay. How can such a wonderful man love me? How can he even think that I’m worth anything like that. And even after all the shit this week, after everything, he still fucking says it as he walks out the door and it’s unfair. ”

Unfair, because he’s not the one that deserves Sylvain, he never was, and now that he’s had this weird taste of what could be domestic bliss, Felix kind of wants it back.

“Is this what happened to us?” he blubbers. “Is this why we didn’t work? Am I just incapable of--”

Annette doesn’t let him finish the thought. “Oh, Felix,” she soothes as she pulls him to her, nestling his face into her neck, her fingers combing through his midnight hair. He’s never really deserved her either, and that’s why he never married his Annette, because the moment she had met Mercie, he knew that she could do better.

“Don’t say such ridiculous things,” Annette tells him. “Some people aren’t meant to be, and that’s okay.”

“But Sylvain--”

“I was talking about you and I. Ignore the big oaf; he’s being dumb.” Felix tries, focusing on Annette’s soft comfort and Mercedes’s gentle hand on his back, rubbing circles, but it’s hard and it’s dumb.

It’s also dumb to think that maybe you can fall in love with a person in only a few days, but Felix has always doubted himself, and even moreso since this entire mess started.

“I ruined us, and now I’ve ruined him,” Felix says against her neck.

“No honey,” she says to him, lips close to his temple, and Felix is glad for her, he’s glad that he can still count on her. “And I’m going to tell you exactly why. You and I had our problems, but it was never you . Do you want to know when I knew that Sylvain would be the one?”

“No,” he groans into her neck, because it isn’t something that’s meant for him, the other Felix should hear this. But then again, the other Felix would have never let this happen.

“Too bad,” she laughs, and he’s not surprised, because Annette will always tell you how she feels, whether you want her to or not. “You had your gay panic,” she says, “Freaking out about liking a guy, and convinced that he’d never like you back, so you never asked him. You refused to, but then there was Ingrid’s Yule party that year, and he just couldn’t stop looking at you, or you him, and I just knew, Felix. It was never that we didn’t love each other, it’s just that you loved him more, and that’s why I told you to go after him.”

She had done what now? Whatever relationship Annette and Felix has in this life, clearly transcends all other friendships, because what woman tells her man to go after another man? Annette is an angel. She’s a Goddess, she’s something else entirely, and Mercedes too, because she sits there beside him, humming lightly.

“Your problem isn’t pulling away Felix,” Annette continues, “It’s that you love too fiercely-- so much so that you don’t know how to express it. You keep it wound so tight and when it comes time to show it you just… you don’t. It’s scary to love a person and it’s even scarier when they love you back.

“Sylvain is dumb, but he loves you more than anything; more than you and I ever did. Leave him be for the night and stay here. We’ll pile into the bed, we’ll watch something terribly sappy, and Mercedes and I will eat so many cookies that our stomachs will hurt. You will sleep in and when you sit here, eating lunch tomorrow, you will call him, understand?”

Felix nods against her breast, breathing out a sigh of relief. Annette and Mercedes drag him into the bedroom after making him eat the food on his plate. It’s dumb how much he loves the domestic coddling, laying against Annette’s chest as she strokes his hair. Mercedes is on his other side, hand on his shoulder gently, still rubbing those soothing circles. He falls asleep first, tired and exhausted and barely watching the movie on the television.

When Felix wakes in the morning, alone in the large bed and sunlight peeking through the windows, he feels more rested than he has in years.

####

The kitchen table is quiet, but it’s comfortable. Annette and Mercedes call in to work, despite Felix’s protests.

“No amount of work is worth losing the only thing that matters,” Annette said to him earlier that morning, when she’d dragged him from the bed. Felix knows her tones well, and he knows when it’s useless to fight her.

She sits to his left in fluffy pajamas, one leg crossed over the other as she reads the paper. Mercedes flits about the kitchen proper, fully dressed in a cream colored blouse and a soft-looking mahogany skirt. She drops a tea mug in front of Annette, leaning over for a gentle kiss and Felix’s heart twists at the sweet domesticity of it.

He’d fucking lost his mind last night, coming here but… he’d needed it. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t ever lose it like that -- it’s been nearly a decade since it’s been so bad. But he doesn’t regret it. His face hurts and his eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, but his heart feels light, like the years that have weighed him down are suddenly gone.

Or lighter. Felix is a work in progress.

Mercedes drops a cup in front of him next, followed by a plate of pancakes. Annette’s always teased him about refusing syrup, but he tucks in without a word, thankful for their kindness and their willingness to not judge.

Yesterday, Felix would have said that he doesn’t deserve friends like these.

Today, it’s not that he thinks he does, but he’s come to the conclusion that he’s done some pretty fucked up shit in his life, and that he needs to do better. He needs to be better, to the people in his life.

“It’s nearly noon,” Annette says. Felix sees that she’s dropped the paper to look at the clock hanging above the sink.

Noon means doom. Noon means calling Sylvain and trying to patch up whatever he’s fucked up, because if there’s anyone who doesn’t deserve what’s happened, it’s the only man who seems to truly know him, and his own personal Felix.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I’ll--” He looks at his plate and the pancakes the Mercedes has made for him. At his tea, perfectly brewed. “As soon as I’m done with this.”

He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t frown.

It’s a start.

####

Unlike Felix, Mercedes and Annette live in a proper house, with a proper backyard.

He sits on their porch, painted white but already chipped with age. There are plants everywhere, carefully tended to by Annette and her silly songs, watered and pruned with love and it shows, because they seem to thrive in bursts of bright colors.

He sits on the step, instead of one of the outdoor chairs, outfitted with soft cushions, made by Mercedes herself. In his hand, sits his phone, Sylvain’s number pulled up on the screen and his thumb hovering over it.

He’s not the right Felix, so he has no idea if he can fix this, but he’s sure as hell going to try. He’s tired of fucking things up, and leaving them fucked up.

He backs out of the phone app and pulls up the photo gallery. Felix isn’t one for pictures, but Sylvain seems the type to thrive on them. He slowly scrolls through them, one by one, taking in what kind of life they have.

He hates pictures, and maybe this Felix does too. But he’s in a lot of them. And he looks-- well, he looks annoyed in every single photo. Never smiling, always like he’s one moment away from strangling the other. Sylvain leaning over his shoulder, draped across him, Felix scowling in return. Sylvain doing something dumb, like flirting with a garden statue. Pictures with friends-- Annette, Mercedes, and a blonde woman that is probably Ingrid, mentioned the night before.

It’s odd, seeing his face, stare back at him from pictures that he’s never taken.

He comes across one and halts, thumb twitching as he regards it. Someone else had taken it-- probably Annette, because she likely knows his phone pass code. He never changed it after , so The Felix that belongs here was probably no different.

Sylvain chatting with friends, Felix off to the side, nursing a drink. He watches Sylvain in the picture, the harsh lines of his figure and face severe, but eyes soft and his lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, and it’s like his heart crashes all at once.

Felix knows he’s never looked at Annette like that, not even when he was on a knee, ring held out and asking her to spend eternity with him. And she’d known, she’d known , which is why she had said no, because this is what he’s supposed to look like when he’s with the person he loves.

He doesn’t love Sylvain, but this Felix does, and if he’s going to be stuck there for eternity… Well, maybe he can too. Eventually.

He doesn’t get the chance to think any longer on it, a call coming through with a picture flashing across the screen. Sylvain, sticking his fingers up his nose in a ridiculous fashion, eyes crossed and tongue sticking out, and it’s singlehandedly the most ugly and endearing thing that Felix has ever seen.

He’d pick the same picture, probably.

“Hey,” he answers quietly, pressing the phone against his ear.

“Hey,” Sylvain breathes on the other end. “I-- actually, I didn’t think you’d answer.”

Felix snorts at that. “Why would you think that?”

Sylvain hesitates and Felix can see it, him standing there, rubbing at his neck awkwardly. “Well I uh-- I said some pretty terrible shit to you last night.” He doesn’t apologize though, and Felix doesn’t think he should.

“Look, Felix,” Sylvain says, sigh cresting through his words and he sounds tired, he sounds so tired, just like Felix. They’re exhausted and not just from the fight the night before, but from a near week of dancing around each other like strangers. “I don’t know exactly what it is that you want.”

“I want to come home.” The words come easily, naturally, like he’s known Sylvain forever.

He can imagine the sheepish smile that Sylvain is prone to, even at the worst of times. Especially at the worst of times, if the pictures that Felix scrolled through told him anything.

“Oh, Felix,” Sylvain says quietly.

Oh, Felix . It’s what Annette had said to him, as Felix waited for an answer, knee already sore from the tile he knelt on, ring suddenly heavy like lead in his fingertips. Oh, Felix, we need to talk .

But Sylvain says something else. “Of course you can come home.”

And it’s dumb, that Felix is crying again, because Felix only cries when he’s in the midst of a massive, emotional breakdown. He definitely doesn’t cry for two men that he doesn’t know. He definitely doesn’t cry in relief.

Sylvain must hear his poorly kept hiccups through the call though, because then he says, “Darling, it’s okay. Come back home, okay? It’ll be okay.”

It’ll be okay.

For the first time in nearly a decade, Felix believes it.

####

Nearly a week ago, he’d lived an existence where he unlocked this door everyday, only to open it to a lonely, negative existence. When he’d locked it last night, he’d left behind an empty house, charged with angry energy.

Never go to bed angry, Glenn had once told him, and it’s one of the few things that he can remember of his brother that doesn’t bring up feelings of dread. Felix hadn’t gone to bed angry though, he’d gone to bed in the midst of his mid-life crisis, sopping wet with tears and snot.

Most people buy cars. Felix gets jettisoned into an alternate reality, where he fucks everything up for his counterpart and learns how to feel in the process. He already hates it, this soft, mushy feeling in his chest and he hopes that it’ll go away.

Felix slides the key into the lock with nervous energy. He steps into the home quietly, before dropping his overnight bag in the entry hall. He leaves the keys on the table by the door. His shoes are slipped off and carefully tucked away on a rack.

Sylvain comes running around the corner, sliding across the wooden floors in his socks. But then he just stands there, as if he’s afraid he’ll scare Felix off with the slightest movement.

Felix knows that he looks terrible, but he walks right up to him and pauses, before dropping his head against Sylvain’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and Sylvain reaches up to wrap his arms around him, pulling him closer and Felix can’t help but sink into him.

Felix has spent the week pulling away because he didn’t want to overstep boundaries, but he likes this, Felix likes the warmth that radiates off of him. Sylvain smells like sandalwood and cinnamon, and it’s unfair, it’s just unfair , because he doesn’t belong to him.

But Felix will let himself have this small moment of comfort, even if it isn't meant for him.

“It’s okay and I’m sorry too,” Sylvain whispers into his hair. “It doesn’t change what I said, but I’m sorry.” He pulls back to look at Felix, thumbing at his cheek, eyes red and puffy too. “We’re a mess.”

“Yeah,” Felix says. He reaches up, but hesitates. Then he grabs Sylvain’s hand. “Yeah we are.”

“Did Annette take care of you?”

“She’s the best.”

Sylvain hums at that. “She always has been.” Sylvain pulls away to take both of Felix’s hands, thumbing over the back of them. “Come on, I ordered food.”

“Please tell me it’s not pizza.” Because as far as Felix is concerned, he never wants to eat pizza again. Sylvain smiles at him, wide and and slightly lopsided before winking at him, and Goddess above, Felix isn’t remotely surprised that this man somehow warmed the ice-cold of his Felix’s heart.

When Sylvain tugs at him, Felix follows without a word.

####

Dinner is a quiet affair, full of well seasoned street tacos and orange soda.

Now, they’re sitting on the couch that Felix hates, but they aren’t a world’s length apart and trying to avoid each other, and Felix feels one part relieved and one part annoyed. Sylvain’s got his arm slung around his shoulders, Felix pulled close to his side as they stare at the television without really watching it. It shouldn’t feel so natural and effortless. Felix should push him away and maintain that distance but--

Sylvain’s fingers thread across the crown of Felix’s head, and he can’t help but sink into the touch, because it’s been far, far too long since he’s found comfort in intimacy.

“Felix, let me brush out your hair?” Sylvain asks quietly, mouth close to his ear. It sounds nice and domestic, and the kind of thing that a couple would do after a bad fight, so Felix nods, trying to keep up the facade of a man trying to patch things up.

Sylvain pulls away, giving Felix a long and appraising look, and there’s something there that strikes Felix as odd. Sylvain’s looking at him like he’s trying to figure him out, like he’s not quite sure what it is exactly that he sees. But then he smiles and leans forward to kiss his forehead. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers against the skin there.

Felix sinks into the couch, relishing the moment as he tries to gather his thoughts, but Sylvain returns surprisingly quick, a boar bristle hairbrush in his hands.

Sylvain’s Felix has taste.

Sylvain motions for him to turn sideways on the couch and Felix complies. Then Sylvain turns off the television and panic creeps into the pit of his stomach, because he can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t--

Sylvain’s fingers dip into his hair, pulling out the hair tie with careful ease and a softness that belies his large hands. “We need to talk about it, Felix,” he says quietly from behind him.

“Yeah,” Felix breathes, fingers fisting the soft material of his pajama pants at the thigh as the pit of his stomach sinks lower and lower.

Sylvain is quiet for a long moment, using his fingers to pull apart Felix’s hair, waving gently through the strands to separate them. “Things have been weird the last few days,” he says and finally he raises the brush, pulling it through a small section of Felix’s hair.

Felix is hard with his hair. He doesn’t take good care of it and when it comes to brushing, he yanks hard at it, because the sooner the chore is done, the better. Sylvain though, holds his hair reverently, one hand wrapped around the silky strands as the other tugs at them softly with the brush. He starts from the bottom, working is way up, gently pulling at the tangles.

“It must be weird for you too,” Sylvain continues. “Easing back into unfamiliar things.” His voice is soft and Felix is half compelled to think that Sylvain has figured it out too, with the way that he crafts his words around such a strained topic. “Too many work accounts. Ingrid’s wedding coming up. Dimitri and Dedue’s dumb housewarming party-- like I get it, they’ve bought a house, cool. We’ve never had one of those though, and it’s annoying. All of it is.”

“I’m just tired,” Felix says with a sigh, but the explanation is just as flimsy as the first couple of times he tried it, and he can tell that it still doesn’t work by the way that Sylvain’s hands pause in his hair.

“I would bet,” Sylvain finally replies, hands resuming. Felix wants to sink into the touch, head falling back as Sylvain parts off another section. “It’s exhausting when you have no idea what’s going on.”

Felix opens his eyes, mouth parted in a question, but he doesn’t ask it. He doesn’t want to breach the trust that’s been tentatively forged between them. So he says, “Exhausting isn’t the half of it.”

“It’ll be okay,” Sylvain says. Felix hums, closing his eyes, relishing at the tug at his hairline and Sylvain’s fingers as they comb at his scalp. “We’ve been through a lot, you know. There’s an entire story behind Felix and Sylvain, and it’s taken a long time for us to figure things out.”

Felix is silent as Sylvain brushes on, thinking back on everything that’s happened in the last few days. Sylvain was right; Felix did push everyone away, made a point of it even. Went out of his way to hold people an arms length apart, and it’s not because he’s afraid of commitment, it’s because Annette was right.

When Felix loves, he loves deeply, but it’s easier to pretend that you don’t; because when you do, people feel the need to comfort you, and it almost makes it worse. And even if you haven’t moved on, even if you’re alone in your pathetic misery, all you need is for people think that you’re alright and they leave you alone.

It’s easier, Felix thinks, to be alone, because then the only person that you can disappoint is yourself.

Sylvain is quiet, brushing with well-practiced and adoring ease. When he’s done, he braids Felix’s hair down his back, before tying it off with a hair band. He swipes it up, throwing it over his shoulder, fingers ghosting along the back of his neck.

“Felix, look at me, would you?” Felix does, shifting around on the couch until he’s face-to-face with Sylvain again. “How long has it been since someone’s taken care of you?”

He knows. Felix knows that he has to, from the question that he’s just asked, to the way his copper eyes pity him. He realizes that he hasn’t called him Fe , like before, not once that night, but--

Sylvain doesn’t broach the topic further, or imply anything else.

It’s unfair for Felix to feel attached to this man and his kind words, and the way that he wants to soothe him.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” Felix says quietly, and it’s like a weight has been crushing him for years and years has just been lifted. Tears don’t threaten, but his chest feels tight, and he can’t breathe and--

Sylvain reaches out for his hand, his skin warm and fingers soft. His thumb rubs circles across the back of his palm. “Felix, you--” A pause and then a sigh, like Sylvain’s thinking about the situation they’re in and the logistics behind it. His gaze is soft though, almost sad. “You aren’t. You don’t have to be.”

There’s heavy implication there. “Sylvain,” he breathes, but Sylvain interrupts him by bringing his hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to it.

“Let’s go to bed.” Felix can barely swallow around the lump in his throat, staring at Sylvain’s hands wrapped around his own, like they might burn him if he holds on any longer. “Felix,” Sylvain says, and Felix meets his gaze, warm and soft and inviting, and it feels like it’s actually meant for him .

Felix nods dumbly. Sylvain tugs at him lightly, pulling him from the couch, before slinging and arm around his shoulder. He leans down but hesitates, lips lingering just against his skin. Then he pecks the side of Felix’s head lightly. “Come on,” he says.

Felix follows him without a word.

####

Felix and Sylvain both go to work. They come home and share a quiet, but not silent dinner. Afterwards Sylvain watches television, while Felix reads through tax reports from work. Sylvain brushes his hair out silently, and they go to bed.

Then things shift.

Dinner turns from polite conversation to actual conversation, as days pass. They pick shows together to watch afterwards, lounging about with bone-weary satisfaction, Felix’s feet in Sylvain’s lap as he rubs at his arches idly.

Sylvain still brushes out his hair before bed, but he takes longer now, sweeping touches down Felix’s neck and across his shoulders that warm his skin.

Sylvain knows that he’s different, but he’s never commented on it, and Felix wonders if it’s because he wants to be wrong about his suspicions, or he’s figured out that Felix is the loneliest man alive. They’ve just gone about trying to live normally, which makes no sense, but it’s starting to work.

Felix… doesn’t hate it anymore, whatever this is. Sylvain’s an idiot, but he’s a comfortable idiot, and Felix has forgotten how nice it is to come home to someone every night.

It’s been about a week, and Felix closes his eyes, sinking into the soft touch of Sylvain’s fingers on his neck. The boar brush tugs gently, but the slight burn at his hairline is nice, and his hair hasn’t looked this healthy in what seems like years. The Felix that belongs here must not take care of himself either, because Sylvain’s motions are the practiced ones of a man who forces self-care.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Felix says. Because Sylvain is. He’s gotten so used to the constant chatter that streams from his mouth, that the sudden silence seems odd. But-- since when did he actually care ?

“I’m just thinking,” Sylvain says. He puts the brush down, rubbing at Felix’s scalp lightly before tying his hair into a sleek braid. “It’s nothing, just… Sometimes I think about things.”

Felix frowns, but doesn’t say anything, unfolding himself from Sylvain’s lap. He’s about to head into the bedroom, when he pauses to look back. “Look, I know that--” A sigh. “I know that things have been weird, and that I’m not the chatty type. But if you need to talk, I’ll listen.”

Sylvain smiles at him from the couch, small and lazy, but it looks content, and it makes Felix’s heart beat wildly in a way that he doesn’t like. He retreats before Sylvain can properly respond.

When Felix comes out of the bathroom, fresh and minty, he’s wearing Sylvain’s clothes to sleep in. It’s because his are dirty and the laundry hasn’t been done, and really, what’s a pair of boxers and a plain t-shirt in the grand scheme of things but--

Sylvain looks up from the bed, where he’s leaning against the headboard, book in his lap and a finger marking his place. His lips part slightly at the sight of Felix, swallowing thickly and--

Felix immediately bristles. “Mine are dirty.”

“No, I-- um , it’s fine. It’s nothing.”

But Felix knows it isn’t nothing, because even if he isn’t his Felix, he still looks like him, and Sylvain-- while a man of considerable and admirable restraint-- isn’t immune to the way that he looks in his clothes.

Felix sighs. “I’ll do the laundry tomorrow--”

“Felix, it’s fine. You can wear my clothes,” Sylvain says quietly.

Felix levels him with a quick look and then slides into the covers. Sylvain looks like he wants to say something else, but opts against it, turning back to his book. Felix watches him finish the chapter, before leaning over to turn out the light.

It should be awkward, sharing a bed like this, but it’s not. His side of the bed doesn’t seem quite as lumpy anymore, when paired with the warmth that radiates from Sylvian at his side, a veritable space heater in his own right.

Felix's chest aches at the feel of it. It aches because it’s been too long since he’s had this kind of domesticity. It aches because he misses it, the little things; sharing your day over dinner. Fighting over the television remote. Soft fingers smoothing through his hair with care. The way the mattress sags under another person’s weight.

He hates this feeling of affection, worming slowly through his heart, because it doesn’t matter how much he’s come to like this man, Felix knows that this is likely only temporary.

It hurts.

####

“You’re awake,” Sylvain says quietly into the darkness.

It’s been exactly two days, four hours and goddess knows how many minutes, since Felix has come to terms that he might might be falling in love with this fool.

“I can’t sleep,” Felix says, knowing there’s no reason in pretending.

“Seems to be pretty standard lately.”

So, Sylvain has noticed that Felix doesn’t sleep well, often laying on his side and staring at the broad expanse of his back instead, itching to reach out and touch it. It’s dumb. Felix doesn’t like men. Except Sylvain, and it’s not because he’s unfairly handsome and Felix is mildly curious.

He’s noticed that Sylvain doesn’t press the issue though, which is in it’s own way, a comfort. Felix hates pushy people. Sylvain rolls over properly in the bed, arm shoved under his pillow, head propped up so he can get a proper look at Felix. The light from outside the window casts an eerie glow, but it suits him, the soft moonglow that settles over his tired form.

Sylvain looks concerned, genuinely so.

“Sylvain, I--”

“I know you don’t do feelings well,” Sylvain interrupts. “But I promised that you weren’t alone anymore.” A pause, with that cute little furrow he gets, falling across his brow and then, “Come here, come closer.”

Felix hesitates, but shuffles closer to Sylvain, and he’s warm and he smells nice, and he takes a moment to sink into it. When he opens his eyes, Sylvain’s looking at him, really looking at him, soul searching and deep, and Felix can feel his bottom lip about to wobble, because he doesn’t do emotions well, and they’re welling up very suddenly.

Sylvain reaches out, hand soft on his face, thumb rubbing along the bottom of his lip, like he’s thinking about kissing him. Felix wants, he wants so many things. To fall into this, to feel that comfort and warmth, to forget about shitty things and tiring work, and how fucking lonely he’s been.

“Felix,” Sylvain says quietly, raising up on his elbow to lean closer. Felix grabs the front of his shirt, wringing the soft cotton tightly in his hands and Sylvain freezes, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and he moves to pull away like he’s embarrassed.

But Felix holds firm, pulling him back.

They’re both surprised, but Sylvain speaks first. “I miss this,” he says quietly. “I miss a lot of things about you.”

“Yeah,” Felix murmurs, and Sylvain takes his chin again, thumb barely pressing into the seam of his mouth. Felix misses it too; the connection and intimacy shared with another person.

“Felix, I really want to kiss you,” Sylvain breathes. Felix’s breath hitches slightly at the bold statement, but he wants, he wants, he wants--

“So do it,” Felix says with more conviction than he thought capable. Sylvain regards him carefully in the dim light, before closing the gap between them.

Sylvain’s lips are soft and pliable, and Felix sinks right into his presence, into the feel of him. He grips his shirt tight, pulling him closer, rolling Sylvain overtop him, hips cradled between Felix’s bent legs and--

Sylvain gasps into the movement, tongue sliding across the seam of his mouth. Felix responds in kind, opening up to him, opening up everything to him, and it’s scary; it’s really scary because this feels wholly different than other experiences he’s shared-- even with Annette. The woman that he wanted to marry . Maybe it’s because Sylvain knows what he likes already, or maybe there’s a real connection there, something something soulmates , but the idea sounds dumb the moment that Felix even entertains it.  

The universe has never been on Felix’s side, but for this moment-- for this tiny moment-- it feels like it is, and he never wants it to end.

Sylvain pulls back, breath heaving against Felix’s face. He leans on a forearm above him, his other hand snaking up to brush Felix’s bangs back. “Felix,” he murmurs softly, eyes shimmering with hope and love and adoration, and for a moment, it feels like it’s truly for him , not the Felix that Sylvain has been in love with for Goddess knows how long.

“It’s the same,” Sylvain says, and it’s like he’s reading Felix’s mind, because the words are too on point for anything else, too close to home, and he thinks all sorts of things that he doesn’t want to, because if he does, it’ll be too hard to pretend in the morning when all of this is over.

Sylvain must see the apprehension that bleeds through him, because he plants his knees firmly into the mattress, gripping Felix’s face in his hands and repeats, “You’re the same.”

“Show me.” Felix’s voice hangs between them, Sylvain looking down at him like a man starved and wanting, hands cradling his cheeks gently. Felix doesn’t feel like this gaze is for someone else, he feels like it’s for him and that Sylvain’s words hold a deeper meaning, he knows it. He knows it.

Sylvain kisses him again, slower and sweeter this time, mouth slotting against his expertly. Sylvain lets go of his face, moving to grip at his hips instead, pulling them closer, pressing deeper and heat rolls through Felix, rising up and--

He moans and Sylvain smiles against his lips. “Fe,” Sylvain whispers, his breath lingering between them. His hand rucks up Felix’s shirt, pressing hot fingers against his hips, and Felix is burning, he’s burning up in the touch. “Fe,” Sylvain says again, and their eyes meet, Sylvain’s half-lidded and hazy.

Sylvain slides down, their eyes locked together, and Felix wants to throw caution into the sea and fly into the sun.

So he does.

####

Sylvain loves him.

Felix doesn’t know how he knows it, but he just does. It’s in the way he mildly flirts with him. The way that he handles chores and rubs Felix’s feet after work and lets him wear his clothes. It’s tattooed into his skin when Sylvain worships him in their bed, chanting his name over and over, as Felix presses himself deep into him.

Sylvain loves his Felix, but also him , and it’s enough to ease the pain of being stuck in this weird pocket of the universe for what seems like forever.

Felix has gotten used to it, he thinks, this strange reality and Sylvain, the man with a smile as radiant as the sun, and Felix feels himself slipping deeper and deeper and -

Felix pauses. When had it become their bed, not just Sylvain’s? Felix looks forward to falling asleep, Sylvain cuddled around him like he might disappear at any moment, sharing warmth and comfort and--

Felix knows this feeling that cracks through his carefully maintained facade, and it’s been a long time-- it’s been a really long time-- and Goddess above, Annette had been right when she said that some people just love others and that you’d know when it was different, when it turns into a matter of being in love.

Sylvain walks into the kitchen, khaki shorts and gray shirt covered in green stains. He leans over to kiss his cheek, smelling like fresh cut grass because he just mowed the lawn, and Felix’s heart aches for this man in such a good way that it rips right through him.

“Felix,” he says warmly, fingers curling into his long hair, before kissing his forehead too. For good measure.

“Sylvain,” Felix blurts, half surprised by his sudden appearance, warmed by his affection and--

He’s going to tell him, either by accident or in the heat of the moment, and Felix knows that it won’t fuck anything up anymore, which is the scary part. Sylvain pulls back, face expectant as he waits. But Felix doesn’t say anything, words caught as his throat tightens and this is what always happens. He’s never been good with feelings and he never will be.

But Sylvain knows that, and he knows Felix; better than Felix knows himself. So he presses a kiss to the crown of his head and says, “I know, Fe. You don’t have to say it.”

He should, he really should, because Sylvain is ever patient and understanding, and he deserves it.

“Sandwiches,” he says instead, pointing to empty plates and containers of meat and cheese on the counter. “Go pick something to watch, I’ll be right there.”

As Sylvain turns to leave the kitchen, Felix reaches out, grabbing at his shirt and says, “Wait.” Sylvain does, Felix pulling him back, hand fisted in the front of his loose shirt. Sylvain’s already smiling as he ducks lower to meet the kiss, short and sweet, and exactly what Felix wants. He can feel the way that his cheeks burn red, but the panic in his chest loosens, limbs crackling with heat, and it’s not just from something as innocuous as a kiss.

Sylvain tugs at a loose strand of his hair, smiling wide with practiced ease, and he’s perfect. Felix wants him, he wants to stay, he wants this life, and it’s terrible and it’s selfish, and he wills himself not to think about what’s happened to the man that he’s replaced.

Felix doesn’t want to leave, now that he’s found what he’s been missing in the huge, gaping hellhole that had been his life.

He makes the sandwiches in silence, looming over him like a threatening cloud. Mustard and turkey for Sylvain, mayo and ham for him. Two slices of cheese for the former, none for the latter. Sylvain’s cut in half, because he complains about having to hold a whole sandwich with two hands, when he’d rather hold Felix’s knee with one, as they sit side-by-side. Felix cuts his as well.

He has to say something, Felix decides, carefully taking the plates in hand. Sylvain deserves to know that this isn’t some one-sided and awkward fling, even though they don’t talk about the elephant lurking in the room.

Felix turns the corner to find an empty living room.

Not just empty, but different.

Sylvain is gone, no where to be seen.

“No,” Felix breathes. The rocking chair and handmade quilt, courtesy of Mercedes, is gone. The couch is still the one he hates, but it’s stiff because it’s never used, not because it’s got bad back support.

Sylvain’s things have vanished.

Felix drops the plates, not caring that the food tumbles to the ground, or that they burst apart in a shower of ceramic. He’s too busy searching their home, trying to figure out what’s happened and where everything has gone and where--

It’s his home, as it was before, back to the clinical and neat tidiness that’s more expected in a realtor's model house, than a place where someone actually lives. The bedroom is crisply kept with his boring furniture, bare of any personality.

“No, no, no,” Felix murmurs, sinking into the bed. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, there’s no sandalwood or cinnamon, and his heart cracks in two. Sylvain’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone , and he chokes on his tears, refusing to sob because he’s better than that , but the tears still slip down his cheeks.

The universe is cruel, Felix thinks bitterly, to let him taste happiness only to rip it right back. He doesn’t want to be here; he wants to go back, he wants to find his heart again.

But as it cracks open and bleeds, and he weeps, Felix wonders if he’ll even have a heart to fix, because he feels like he’s drowning. Drowning in feelings that he should have expressed properly, and now he can’t, because Sylvain never belonged here.

Sylvain had never been his, and Felix was a fool for thinking that he ever was in the first place.

####

As far as anyone was concerned, nothing had happened. Annette and Mercedes greet him normally at work, never once hinting that he’d been gone. His tax accounts have been worked on--oddly-- everything in proper order. Felix would have been convinced that the entire thing was a massive fever dream, if it weren’t for the spoiled groceries in his fridge, nearly a month past their use-by date. Or the small and random objects in odd places. Laundry that had been done, neatly folded but not put away, because his room is arranged just a little bit differently.

The other Felix must have been here, he surmises. Played with things that weren’t his, ordered out instead of cooked-- things that he would have done as well, in a moment of wild insanity.

The other Felix must have been lonely, and for some reason, the thought poisons the pit of his stomach. He wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone, no matter how much he misses Sylvain, with his warm, freckled skin and lopsided smile.

Annette is the first one to say something, because of course she is. Annette can’t keep her mouth shut for whatever it’s worth, and because Felix has spent nearly two weeks looking like a kicked puppy, she decides to be the one to broach the topic.

“Felix,” she says at lunch one day, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth as she shakes her salad box around to mix the dressing. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but you need to snap out of it.”

Felix immediately bristles, put on the offensive. “Nothing’s wrong,” he snaps, but he regrets his tone the moment he sees her face fall. It’s not fair to treat her like this, because the only thing that Annette has done wrong, is fucking care for him.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she repeats, and he knows that tone, the one her she sounds tired and her voice warbles just a little bit. She’s more worried about him then she’s let on. “Does this have to do with anything about your weird behavior this last month?”

“I haven’t been--”

“Who’s Sylvain?”

Felix’s heart stops at the name, because he’s made a point to not even think it. It hurts too much and it aches even now, his heart tipping to the side like it’s about to burst. He’s trying not to feel anything, he’s trying to be that pitiful, emotionless husk he was before, be he can’t .

He doesn’t say anything, and Annette pops open the lid of her salad container. “You asked me where he was weeks ago, and I had no idea who you were talking about. You were annoyed by that, by the way, but I would think that I would know if some man had entered your life. And I’d be hurt if you hadn’t told me--”

“Annie, please don’t,” Felix asks, weary beyond belief and not at all equipped to handle this conversation. “Just -- please .”

She reaches out, fingers wrapping around his hand gently. They’re cold, unlike the warm hold of Sylvain, but it’s nice, and he loves Annie, truly he does but--

He pulls his hand from hers and she looks hurt, but she doesn’t try again. “He’s no one,” he tells her. “Just a fling. It ended.”

“Badly?” Annette asks.

“No, it just-- It wasn’t meant to be, I think.” The words sound weak and pitiful, and they don’t make him feel better. He knows she’ll see right through him.

“Somethings aren’t,” Annette says. “But you and I know that better than anyone. Felix, look at me please.” He does and she tuts, seeing his red-rimmed eyes and ragged face. He looks like he’s aged years, probably. “I don’t know what happened, but I do know this-- You love more fiercely than anyone I know, and one day that’ll count for something.”

Felix laughs at her, and it’s bitter and acrid tasting in his mouth, and she looks at him like he’s an absolute madman, but he thinks it’s better than crying, because that would imply that he still had the capacity to feel such a thing like love .

He can’t anymore, Felix thinks. His heart’s too damaged to ever truly recover.

Annette purses her lips in annoyance. “Get out,” she says when he’s done. “Go do something. Take a walk. Run in those ridiculously tight joggers you’re attached to. Cooping yourself up and moping about it won’t help.”

He laughs again, this time a little chuckle as he shakes his head, but his lips curve into a little smile at a memory. At another Annette, saying something very similar. In fact, this entire conversation had been weirdly familiar.

“Thanks Annie.”

He means it.

It’s winter.

####

The air is cold, but Felix feels better. It’s taken months for him to properly take Annette’s advice, but that’s because he knew that she’d be right, and it thoroughly annoys him.

His track pants are stupidly tight, but they were expensive and given to him by Glenn, so like fuck he wasn’t going to make use of them until he can’t anymore.

Felix used to run in this park every morning, until his mornings at work got to be too early. Then it was late evenings. As his caseload got heavier though, and his hours longer, he’d stopped entirely.

It’s chilly and brisk and way too early to be up on his day off, but he felt like it. He doesn’t know why, really. Felix woke that morning with an urge to just go run out his frustrations. It's working. His lungs burn and his muscles cramp with expected soreness, but he feels more alive than he has for the better part of half a year.

It’s gotten better, kind of. But he’s not right and he doubts that he ever will be.

Felix taps his fingers against his thigh impatiently, taking in the coffee shop. It’s got a dumb pun for a name, but he thinks that a warm latte would be a nice end to a successful run, so he slips inside, standing in line.

Ten minutes and a take-away cup later, he turns from the counter only to slip in a wet spot, falling against a hard body, and shit it’s embarrassing, because Felix isn’t the type to slip on anything. His sneakers are supposed to have good traction and--

“Woah buddy, you okay there?”

Felix’s blood runs cold at the smooth voice and the way that it curls around words. He’s hearing things, he’s got to be, it can’t--

Sylvain stands before him, hair bright in the artificial lights, smile easy and wide under a spattering of freckles. Once he gets a proper look at Felix, he stiffens, fingers tightening around his arms as he steadies him.

Felix is going to vomit, he’s going to puke all over the floor, because this shouldn’t be happening, this can’t be happening. He must look ill, because Sylvain tugs him to the side. “Hold on, let’s get you seated okay? Yeah, just like that.”

The seat is cold and hard under him, but Sylvain’s hands are burning against his skin and when he lets go, Felix feels like he’s lost everything again and--

Sylvain only went to get a cup of water and as he sits, Felix sees that he’s covered in coffee. “I’m sorry--”

“Not a big deal,” Sylvain says, sliding the water to him. “I mean, I’ve had worse thrown at me, I promise you.”

Felix drains half of it, knowing that he must look ridiculous. Sylvain watches him carefully though, looking like he wants to say something but is unsure exactly where to start. So they sit there in awkward silence.

The vampiric barista brings Sylvain a new coffee, sneers at Felix, and sets about mopping up the mess. Felix sneers back. Sylvain laughs, wrapping his hands around the warm mug, eyes twinkling like he knows .

Felix does something really, really dumb. “Would you go on a date with me?” he blurts, and Goddess above he sounds insane, because who spills coffee all over a person and then immediately asks them out?

But Sylvain’s gaze softens, his smile affectionate and Felix knows that something weird is happening here, because he reaches out to take his hand, thumb soft as it rubs across his knuckles.

“Of course, Felix,” he says. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, actually.”

####

Elsewhere

Felix has come back to him. Sylvain doesn’t know how or why, but he’s there next to him in bed, reading over work reports with glasses perched smartly on the tip of his nose. Sylvain watches him carefully. Quietly. Like he’s afraid that he’ll disappear again.

The glasses had been the first clue, really.

That, and the fact that he’d never brought those sandwiches he promised, instead walking in through the front door in the worst mood that Sylvain’s ever seen him in.

“You’re staring,” Felix says to him, not bothering to look away from his work. Sylvain smiles, sliding closer. Felix immediately lifts an arm as Sylvain slots in next to him, cheek resting against his collarbone.

“I’m glad that you came back to me,” he murmurs sleepily. Honestly, it’s been a long month and Sylvain is tired .

Felix pauses before closing the folder. He pulls off his glasses, folding them gently before tossing them onto the bedside table. Then he digs into the sheets, fingers nestled into Sylvain’s hair as he cards through it.

“Me too,” he says quietly. And then, “I forgot how dumb you were, when we first met.”

Sylvain laughs into his neck, but he’s glad, he’s glad and happy and he can rest easily now. Well, maybe.

He waits a bit before asking, “Do you think they’ll be okay?”

Felix hums at that, fingers slipping down from his hair to his neck, cold against his hot skin, but soft as he rubs circles there. “Yeah,” he says.

Sylvain presses a kiss to Felix’s neck, slow and languid, the start of something that the both of them are way too tired for, but they’re kind of desperate. Felix rolls over Sylvain, hair falling in a curtain around his face, looking at him fondly.

“Yeah,” Sylvain repeats back, lips sliding into a devilish smile as he pulls Felix down to him. “Yeah .”

[otterknowbynow]

Altean Home Economics (12/?)

Goo is great, but Hunk sure would feel better if they had kitchen access.

all chapters in this tag | ao3 link in reblogs

There may be a plague on, or -- as Jenis puts it -- some sort of bug going around, but that doesn’t mean Edessa isn’t still expected to put in her proper appearance at the marketplace. After all, what will the others do without a little comfort food in these trying times? She tells herself this, anyway, as she unloads dozens of small tarts onto the tray in front of her in neat rows of browned triangles. 

Entuk’s market is emptier than it would have been a few moons ago, but there’s plenty of noise -- the low persistent hum of the filtration systems running at high capacity, the whistle of messenger capsules entering and leaving the pneumatic tubes along the communications wall, the constant murmur of voices from the comms operators -- spending as much effort chatting amongst themselves as they are rerouting and recording messages. As it should be, Edessa thinks.

From her position midway down the food commerce section, Edessa can also hear Jenis talking to their glodworms in the next aisle over, though she’s not sure their goal is to be heard. To be fair, others probably couldn’t pick Jenis’s voice out of the hubbub, where Edessa has been practiced at exactly that for years. It sounds as if the worms have been short on glisten production the past few days, which seems to her a shame. Glodworm glisten is in high demand in third season, usually, when the youngsters have their end-of-year gatherings, and any of them with a few credits left from this moon’s allowance will want to get some. Jenis doesn’t need the credits, of course. They end up redistributing at least a thousand credits every new moon cycle as it is, though Edessa supposes they would like to keep having the stockpile to redistribute -- not earning credit for themself, as it were, but for the others. 

Edessa sighs as she puts the last of her tarts out onto the trays, tucking the container she brought them over in under the counter of her stall. She takes a seat on the chair she’s set up behind it, cushioned these days, since her joints aren’t getting any younger. There’s not much foot traffic this early, but given the quickly-approaching gatherings, there should be youngsters around soon as well as older folks out for breakfast and a chat. Normally, she loves chatting as much as the next person, but given that recent chats always seem to turn to the topic of disease, they’ve become much less enjoyable the past couple moons. Still, the medical team seems to have a handle on things -- no one’s died, few people are even sharing enough secretions to cause the disease to spread. It seems to her that things may well blow over soon, and they’ll be back to chats about the new pods and dreams of perfecting transport back to Altea. 

“Excuse me, Edessa?” The voice is impossibly small, and apparently so is the speaker. Edessa has to crane her neck as far as she can over the top of her counter to see them: a tiny boy, couldn’t be more than a couple sun cycles out of nursery, looking up at her with wide dark eyes. 

“Yes, that’s me,” she says, standing up -- better to be on her feet than get a crick in her neck that won’t go away for hours. “What do you need, child?” 

“I’d like some tarts,” says the boy. He frowns. “I don’t have any credits, though.” 

“Well, of course not,” says Edessa mildly, raising her eyebrows. “You’re not near allowance age, my dear...where are your parents?” 

“They’re sick,” says the boy, shrugging his tiny shoulders. “All of them.” 

“And you haven’t got a carer assigned?” she asks, somewhat more alarmed than she was a moment ago. “What’s your name, child?” 

“I...Ren -- Renturin, and they only got sick this morning.” 

Edessa looks around her at the marketplace, nearly deserted apart from a few other stall owners and the communications operators, and makes a split-second decision. 

“Take me to them,” she says, swiftly pulling the curtain across the front of her booth. She grabs five or six tarts, sweeping them into a small bag, and comes around to stand by the child. “Go on, then.” 

It’s strange, she thinks as the boy leads her across the market sector, that the medical team hasn’t addressed this yet. The council has been directing them to begin activity as early as possible in the mornings lately, as far as she knows. Ren -- or maybe he prefers Renturin; she’s not sure if he gave the one-syllable version because he wanted to or if he’s just struggling with words, as she thinks anyone would be with all parents taken suddenly out of commission -- seems to know very well where he’s going, at least. They’re through the commerce sections for food, basic apparel, and home decor before she thinks to ask him where his parents even are. The end of the dome that houses most residences is in nearly the opposite direction, and the only things she knows are on this end are the council chambers, the sports fields, and -- she stops walking as she realizes they’re nearly in front of the medical sector. 

“Renturin,” she says seriously. He seems to notice with her voice that she’s no longer on pace with him and whirls around, raising his eyebrows at her. “I thought your parents weren’t taken to medical yet.” 

“Not all of them are here,” he says with a shrug. “Mama’s at work, I think, but we live here, and Papa and Sasha were still in bed when I left.” 

“You live…” They’re medical team, she realizes in a rush. They must be. And if they’re medical team, and yet his mother is at work somewhere else… “You’re Councilor Yeskia’s son.” There are only so many people at the outpost, and the boy’s wrinkled nose is as much an answer as she needs to confirm his identity. 

“Mama doesn’t really want people to know that,” he says. “But I guess you’re not people, you’re just...person.” 

“Quite right,” Edessa says slowly. Best to keep the boy calm, considering what he’s doubtless been through. She can’t imagine what iteration of the disease that’s been popping up might affect three trained medical personnel so acutely that their child was left to wander into the marketplace alone. He’ll likely need support in all of this. “I am a person, and I’d like to help.” Renturin nods solemnly up at her, dark eyes wide. He holds out a hand toward Edessa. 

“I’d like a tart, please,” he says quietly. She stifles a laugh, turning it into a single sharp breath, and pulls one out of the small sack she’s holding, handing it to him. His face breaks into a tiny sliver of a smile and he takes a bite, humming appreciatively. Edessa smiles quietly, pulling out a tart for herself and devouring it in three bites -- apparently a bit of a mystery makes her hungry. Good to know, for the future. 

“Wow, Edessa, you eat fast.” He sounds if anything awestruck, though she’s not sure why such a simple act should inspire awe. 

“Got to,” she says, winking. “When you’re busy feeding other people, there’s not much time to be feeding yourself.” The boy nods at her, frowning, before taking another bite of his own tart. His face smooths out as he finishes it, no doubt savoring the juniberry filling, still warm from the booth’s heat retention setup. He takes a deep breath when the tart is gone and looks back up at her, seemingly a bit more fortified now. 

“Right, okay,” he says. “We can go see them now.” 

“Lead the way,” Edessa says, keeping her face calm and open despite her creeping sense of apprehension. As she follows Renturin through the door of the medical officers’ quarters, she takes a deep breath, steeling herself against what she might find there. 

[vermilionskiinmorning]

Fandom: The Last Kingdom

Pairing: Finan/OC

Fic type: Drabble

A/n: Here it is the last ‘chapter’ in this little mini series! If you still need to catch up here are the links to the previous parts here is my fic Masterlist.This one is also a bit longer than the previous ones as well so I hope you all enjoy. And if anyone would like to be added to my fanfic tags let me know? I’ve noticed people tend to tag users who read their work? So in the future I’ll start adding a tag list

———

In the following weeks things went on as they had with little interaction between herself and Finan. At first Althena began to wonder if she had done something wrong by letting him kiss her, but she thought surely there could be nothing wrong with one kiss? The question burned in her mind constantly whenever she was around the hall helping Gisela with chores or with the children. She never asked though for her fear of embarrassment. At her age she ought to know these things right? How childish would she sound asking the Lady of the land when it was appropriate to kiss a man. Very she was certain and so she kept the whole thing to herself despite considering Gisela to be her greatest friend. 

Though, Althena could not help, but let her eyes linger on Finan longer than normal whenever she came across him. Nor could she ignore the tiny smiles he would throw her way when he thought nobody was looking. It was those smiles that eventually convinced her she had not done the wrong thing. Still Finan had hardly spoken to her and she didn’t understand why.

---

Finan was sitting round the fire with Uhtred, Sihtric, Clappa, and the others one evening drinking ale and goofing off. Clappa and Sihtric much further into their cups than the others as the young Dane had challenged the elder to a drinking contest. He’d chosen to avoid the competition this time round as the morning of having woken up in the stables was still to fresh in his mind. His back had ached and there had been a crick in his neck for days. All together the experience was enough to put him off heavy drinking...at least for a while. He’d only just leaned back in his seat when a beefy hand clapped down on his shoulder rather forcefully. 

“Oi! Why d’n ya join us Finan?”

It was Clappa. Finan arched an eyebrow at the man, but was unable to answer before Sihtric chimmed in. “He’s got other thins’ on his mind don’t ya Finan?” Sihtric gave him a knowing sort of look, but Finan only pretended not to have hear him. 

In truth there had been something or rather someone on his mind of late -Althena. Ever since the evening he’d spent with her by the river he hadn’t been able to keep her off his mind. It was becoming a bother actually. He’d been bested by Sihtric on more than one occasion now owing to his mind’s willfulness to wander at the most inappropriate of times. 

He’d decided Althena had always been beautiful, strikingly so if he was honest with himself, but he’d always been so in his own head before that he’d never truly seen her. Now he had, well that was the problem now wasn’t it? She haunted both his sleeping and waking mind. 

Part of him had thought at first that all he was in need of was a good shag, but even after he’d found his roll in the hay the feeling had not abated. And that was just it after all, she made him feel something he had only felt once before quite sometime ago in Ireland. That had lead, well he knew where and he wouldn’t be here nor met his Lord if it hadn’t, but since becoming free he hadn’t been eager to make such a connection again. Still when she was in the hall with the Lady Gisela and he could feel her eyes on him he felt something. A sort of pride in himself, a desire for her to look at him that way always, but by the time he turned to look at her she’d looked away. All they’d shared since that night were the small smiles in passing, but it made his stomach lurch. And not just in the sort of way that he knew meant he’d certainly like to hump her. 

“Yes it does seem our Irishman is distracted of late hmm?” Uhtred quipped, drawing Finan from his brooding. “Nothing to worry about I hope?” The damn bastard was wearing the same sort of knowing expression Sihtric wore.

Finan frowned deeply at the both of them. He half thought about getting up and heading off to bed, Frankly, he didn’t fancy having the piss taken out of him tonight. 

“Defensive eh?”

“I’d wager it must have somthin’ to do with that night ‘e went down to the riva with that fine lookin’ lady.”

“Knock it off would ‘ya?” Finan snapped finally.

“Oooo.” Chorused Sihtric and Clappa at once.

Uhtred frowned a bit at Finan’s defensive response. In their time having known eachother he hadn’t known Finan to be defensive over a woman. He arched his eyebrow at the Irishman. “Why don’t you hump her then?”

 Finan met Uhtred’s gaze and shook his head slightly. 

“Oh, Uhtred said. “Well in that case...you’re free to marry if that is your wish?”

“Doubt her’ Da’ would give ‘is only daughter ta an Irishman,” Finan grumbled.

Finan was thankful it seemed Sihtric and Clappa had gone back to their drinking games. He doubted he would’ve had the patience for their commentary at the moment. Uhtred had paused a moment before speaking again. “Well perhaps the blessing of his Lord on the marriage would see him to changing his mind?”

---

It was near two moons by the time Finan approached her again. She was headed home from the hall when he fell into step beside her. Despite her mild surprise at his sudden boldness in approaching her, Althena couldn’t help smiling.

“Good afternoon,” she said cheerily.

“Nearin’ on evening my Lady, but a good one it is.”

“Right you are, I was just returning home to finish cooking the evening meal for myself and my father.”

“Ah an I’d wager he wouldn’t miss tha’ would ‘e. So’s I’ll be quick then...could I call on ye’ tonight for another walk down ta’ th’ river?”

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

“Good! Great...I’ll be round ‘bout th’ same time as before, yeah?”

Althena bit her lip as they reached the door to her home and nodded at him. Finan smiled cheekily at her and he was gone just as quick as he came. She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding before she turned and entered the house. Inside she was surprised to find her father already awake, though just barely. She knew it was likely he’d heard at least part of their conversation, but despite the frown on his face her father said nothing. In fact he said little to her as she finished the meal or while they ate. He seemed to be deep in thought. 

That evening when he bid her goodnight, her father kissed her cheek like always, but when he hugged her he held on longer than normal. She was certain then that something was off, but he was gone before she could ask. It felt her with a strange feeling in her stomach that persisted even until Finan arrived with a sharp singular knock on the door. 

She answered it to find Finan with his usual grin in place which seemed to sweep her worries away. Smiling in return she took his offered arm and they were off toward the river. It was not as clear tonight as it had been the last time they’d gone for a walk nor was it quite as warm. Althena did not mind though as her company was good she could endure a smidge of cold for the chance to spend time with him. 

When they reached the river, Althena went to sit down, but Finan stopped her. He took her hand in his, turning it over to trace the lines on her palm, as he seemed to think of what he was going to say. Minutes passed and Althena found herself watching the paths of his fingers across her palm slightly mesmerised. Finally she got up the courage to speak.

“Is everything alright?’

Finan exhaled a half laugh half sigh at her words. Placing his hand on her cheek, he tilted her face up to look at him.

“You would say tha’ wouldn’t you?” he chuckled a bit then. “More worried about others than yourself...I seen it in th’ way you help the Lady around the hall. She is your friend is she?”

Althena’s brow furrowed, but she couldn’t deny she enjoyed the feel of his hand on her cheek despite the confusion she was feeling at his words. “Yes, the Lady and her family are quite dear to me.”

“Especially the children?” he seemed thoughtful “You’re a good woman. You’ll make a good mother.”

She bit the inside of her lip, but said nothing. What could she possibly say to that? It was so out of the blue. It was impossible for her not to feel a bit taken aback by his words.

“Finan?” 

“Hmmm?” he only hummed in response, watching his own thumb move gently over her cheek.

Certainly she thought he must feel the warmth there if he could not see it and it made her almost wish to turn away from his scrutinizing gaze. He had her trapped though just as he had that night before when they’d shared a kiss. Thinking of the kiss caused warmth to fill her chest and butterflies to fly in her stomach. It had been the most wonderful kiss.

“W-what are you thinking?” she asked softly.

“About you.” He didn’t even miss a beat in his response.

Althena just stared at him. 

“I do a lot these days,” he continued. “ ‘Bout marrying ya...the kids we could have. Yer such a good woman. Too good fer me. But just the same...I can’t get ye’ outta my head ya see?”

A deep flush filled her cheeks then.

“I feel yer eyes on me...when yer up at the hall, but you always look away. Even though you do, there’s this tiny smile,” he paused to stroke the corner of her mouth. “Just here.”

“I-I-” but she couldn’t come up with an excuse for why she might be staring at him so often. Clearly her affections were so obvious to him. But she’d had no idea, the things he was saying she was so surprised. 

“Would ya,” he asked, his eyes capturing her’s in a stare then. “...Marry me, I mean.”

Althena was struck dumb. All the words forming in her head and yet nothing came out. In the few moments it took for her to process what he’d said, Finan felt the beginnings of the sting of rejection. Just as he began to draw his hand away she grabbed it. Bringing it to her lips she kissed his palm softly, their eye connected and Althena saw that tiny flicker of vulnerability in him as she nodded slowly. 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

A grin broke across Finan’s face lighting it up instantly as he swept her off her feet and kissed her hard with all the passion he could muster. They stayed like that for a long time too. His arms wrapped tightly about her waist lips fused together in a bruising kiss until finally Althena pulled away. Her forehead rested against his as she struggled to catch the breath he seemed to have knocked out of her.

“What about...my father Finan? I do not know how he will take this.”

“All will be well,” he promised.

And he was right. It turned out Uhtred had already spoken to Althena’s father about the possible union. The gruff mood Althena had experienced that afternoon having been the aftermath of the conversation. Of course, Uhtred had been right as well. With his blessing upon the marriage Althena’s father had, had no room to argue, all that had been left to be settled upon was the bride price and a dowry. 

[unicyclehippo]

Dina would be like “ I love you please kiss me” and Ellies the type of person to be like “AS FRIENDS OR..?” I swear lmao

jdkfjskhfhaksjs check this out it’s not exactly the same but ellie is equally stupid

//

‘hey george, thanks for getting me,’ ellie says quietly, following her friend into the garden behind greenhouse six. it’s an over grown tangle, which is only permitted because it’s where the squash monstrosity lives and grows and because it’s basically smack bang in the centre of the settlement, meaning if raiders ever did get to this point, they’re all already screwed. that’s ellie’s reasoning, anyway. ‘where is she?’

ellie scans the garden. beyond the shift and away of bodies dancing to the music that crackles from the radio, she picks out flashes of colour and detail as she searches intently for dina—the plastic lanterns, the fragments of broken CDs repurposed into glittering decorations, the overturned buckets and crates scattered around the room, the paint splattered over the wall in reds too close to blood for ellie’s comfort.

‘i don’t see—‘ ellie breaks off, lips flattening with displeasure. she skirts the room, not wanting to disturb the others and not wanting to be slowed down, and when she makes it to dina’s side, she takes frank larkin’s hand from where it has strayed to dina’s ass and squeezes until he yelps. when he tries to tug away, she helps him take his hand off dina, guides her friend behind her instead.

dina doesn’t seem to notice, or mind.

‘evenin’, frank.’

‘ellie,’ he greets her just as tersely. ‘mind letting go of my hand there?’

‘depends on what you’re planning to do with it, i reckon,’ she tells him, but after a moment she lets his hand drop.

rubbing at it, frank glares at her and takes a step back. ‘we were just dancin’,’

‘yeah and you know if she weren’t drunk as shit she wouldn’t give you the time of day. keep walking, larkin.’

‘keep being a bitch, williams,’ he mutters as he slinks away and dina—dina who has since draped herself across ellie’s back and started swaying to the radio’s safety reminder—perks up.

‘shut the fuck up, frank! shut up! don’t you call her a bitch!’

‘alright slugger,’ ellie sighs and she turns, hoists dina off her feet and just about carries her out of the garden party. a full minute of walking, dina refusing to help since ellie is doing such a good job of it, brings them to a bench and ellie sets her down on it, has to keep unwinding dina’s arms from around her neck. after the third time, ellie kneels and holds both of dina’s hands in hers.

‘you are,’ dina says, looking down at her with unfocused eyes, ‘like, you’re so pretty.’

‘thank you. how much did you drink?’

‘oh, like,’ dina’s head lolls to the side in an uncoordinated tilt as she considers the question. ‘a lot.’

‘okay then.’

‘are you mad at me?’ dina asks, trying to twist one hand free of ellie’s gentle hold. when it feels like she might actually hurt herself, ellie lets her go and she can’t find it in herself to be surprised that dina’s hand immediately settles on her shoulder, winding her fingers into ellie’s hair.

‘i’m not mad at you. do you wanna try walking again?’ dina nods and with ellie’s help she stands. ‘i’ll take you to your room,’ ellie tells her, which was a mistake because dina scowls and sits again, tucks her ankle around the leg of the bench so ellie can’t make her stand again. ‘oh my god,’ ellie breathes. rubbing at her forehead, she crouches again. doesn’t even bother trying to avoid dina’s reaching hands. ‘dina, what’s wrong?’

‘you’re mad at me,’

‘i’m not.’

‘if you weren’t mad, you’d,’ dina blinks, looking a bit unsure. ‘you’d take me home.’

‘i am going to take you home.’

‘ellie, ellie,’ dina brushes clammy fingers over her cheek, misses and nearly jabs ellie in the eye but then her palm settles and she pats once, strokes the tiniest bit with her fingers. ‘ellie,’ she whispers again, ‘to your home.’

‘do you want to come to my room?’ ellie offers, too tired to even bother deciphering what dina might be thinking.

‘i thought you’d never ask,’ dina teases, slipping forward on the chair. ‘also, i’m gonna puke.’

//

after ellie helps her to the garden bed, and studiously avoids listening to dina retch as she scrapes dina’s hair off her face and rubs soothing circles over her back, ellie more or less carries dina to her house and knocks until joel opens the door.

‘whoa, what happened to her?’

‘definitely not alcohol?’

a smile flickers at the corner of joel’s lips and then is gone. ‘got it. come on, i’ll get her some water, you get her on the couch.’

‘thanks, joel, you’re the best.’

he grunts.

ellie readjusts her grip on dina, grimaces when dina buries her face in ellie’s neck. ‘please don’t puke on me.’ dina mumbles something unintelligible and not in english and ellie rubs her back. ‘almost time to sleep, stay awake just a bit more, okay? will you do that for me?’

dina nods, maybe, and ellie crosses the room, eases her down onto the couch. she stops her when dina immediately makes to lie down.

‘joel’s coming with some water, stay awake a little longer.’

‘m’kay,’ dina slurs. ‘you’re taking care of me,’ she says with a little wonder, ‘that’s so nice of you.’

‘you’d do the same for me.’ ellie smiles down at her, smoothes a kink of hair back from her face. it’s kind of endearing to see dina like this, now that she’s passed the puking phase. she takes the cup joel hands her, nods when he pats her shoulder and leaves her to it. ‘here, dina. drink this.’

‘i—think i’ve had enough,’

‘oh now you realise,’ ellie mutters quietly, just to herself. more loudly, she says, ‘it’s water.’ dina turns her head away and ellie is tired enough to want to not push it but she’d rather dina not wake up with a hangover to top all hangovers so she persists, cupping dina’s cheek. ‘please, for me?’

dina’s eyes go suspiciously wet. ‘for you,’ she agrees, and chugs the water down, throws the cup to the ground. the plastic clatters a few times before rolling under the armchair across the room.

‘good call on the plastic, joel,’ ellie murmurs, again to herself. ‘good job, thank you.’

‘you,’ dina pauses, presses a hand to her chest and swallows down a burp. ellie hopes it was a burp. ‘you’re welcome. i love you.’

ellie’s heart lurches at the words, the least slurred of everything dina has said since she collected her, and she smiles to her like she never dares to when dina isn’t drunk, with all the tenderness and esteem and care she normally keeps carefully in check. dina’s eyes widen. ‘i love you too,’ ellie tells her. ‘go to sleep, okay?’

//

dina wakes ellie in the morning, smelling strongly of ellie’s shampoo and of half a tube of toothpaste.

‘hey,’ ellie grunts. ‘morning.’

Mmorning, hero.’

there’s an almighty crick in her neck and ellie groans, straightens from her seat on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. she rubs at her neck, sighs with relief when it pops and she rolls out her shoulders.

‘i’m getting too old for that.’

‘eighteen,’ dina grins. ‘positively ancient.’

ellie returns the grin, heaves herself up onto the couch and stretches her arms over her head, yawns. her hands flop down into her lap and she blinks her eyes open again, bleary and a little blurry, and catches the tail end of a slightly flustered look dina throws to the ceiling.

‘you good?’

‘hmm?’

‘no hangover?’

‘big one,’ dina tells her with a grimace. ‘but the water helped—and joel made me the greasiest breakfast ever, so i’m well on my way to recovery.’

ellie frowns. ‘where’s my breakfast?’

‘you slept through it.’

‘what the fuck?’ ellie breathes, offended. ‘see if i come get you again if that’s how you treat me.’

dina tilts her head. it’s unfair how pretty the smile she directs at ellie is; soft and sweet and slow, brimming with affection until it overflows and a little dimple pops in her right cheek. ‘you would,’ she says knowingly.

ellie breathes out a shaky breath, wipes her palms on the coarse fabric of her jeans. ‘yeah, well, i’m dumb like that. never learn,’ she laughs quietly. her laugh dies when dina switches from her seat on the coffee table to the couch right next to her.

‘i love it about you,’ dina tells her, eyes bright. ‘you know that, don’t you?’

‘i—well,’ ellie blinks. pulls herself sharply under control, ignoring her sweating palms and thundering heart. ‘someone’s gotta look after you.’

‘my hero,’ dina says again, quietly, and she leans in until their shoulders brush together. her eyes dip for a second before returning to ellie’s eyes and ellie thinks distantly that she must be very close for her to be able to see the flecks of lighter brown through dina’s iris’s. ‘how about a kiss for your trouble?’ she whispers, and when ellie’s head wobbles a little—a nod, hopefully—dina leans in until her breath puffs warm over the corner of ellie’s lips.

ellie’s eyes flutter closed. she curls her hands into tight fists in her lap to keep from reaching for dina. skin tingling, when dina’s lips actually press to the corner of her mouth, it feels like an electric shock right through her and ellie’s breath catches with an embarrassingly loud hitch.

dina’s nose skates over her cheek before she pulls back.

‘thank you, ellie.’

‘I -,’ ellie licks her lips, shivers when her tongue brushes against where dina had kissed her. ‘i wasn’t about to let anything happen to you,’ she says, avoiding dina’s gaze and instead watching her hands, picking at a loose stitch on her jeans. ‘you’re my best friend, i don’t know what i’d do if you got hurt.’

[endless-vall]

Rewrite the stars - Kenna & Raydan fanfic

Summary: *Set after the command tent scene and a day before the dinner party* Kenna reflects on her relations with Raydan and considers pursuing a relationship. Author’s note: @coffeandcheese​ recommended listening “Rewrite the stars” (with the roles reversed for Kenna and Raydan), and the song inspired me right away. While this songs gives angsty vibes, I decided to take it to a different way. Also, choosing this setting, I think Kenna would be even more heartbroken when she hears of Raydan’s betrayal. I made myself sad thinking about it, but at least we all know they get a happy ending in the end.

Sitting in her throne room, thoughts raced through Kenna’s mind. Thoughts about her strategic plan, about Luther’s words, about arranging a dinner party for the Nevrakis, and about making the dream of her mother about the alliance come true, but... not quiet. Watching herself in her reflection on the window, through the dark starry night behind it, Kenna thought back to the night she shared with Raydan.

The night in the command tent. She never felt this way before. She knew she shouldn’t be thinking about those stuff, but she couldn’t help it. Raydan... had figured a way to her heart. And suddenly, Kenna started wanting things she couldn’t have. But... who said she couldn’t have those things? Was it her sense of loyalty to the crown? To her duty... To her mother? No... While her mother wanted her to marry for the good of the kingdom, Adriana herself married into the crown, with Marcellus being the one with true, royal blood. And she wasn’t there anymore to tell her what to do... Scuffing lightly, Kenna turned her thoughts away from her mother, it was still a sore subject. Her kingdom, too, wasn’t what was stopping her. The truth was her kingdom loved her. She was its rightful ruler, and she was a merciful one, unlike Luther. She had proven to be wise, dependable, loyal and compassionate... They wouldn’t mind her pursuing a relationship.  While the remaining noble families that managed to survive were few at number, they could object. They were the closest thing she’d have to advisers at the moment, and they, truly, could be against the Idea. But thing was, Kenna realized - That she didn’t mind. Even if they were to oppose, that won’t be what’ll stop her. Maybe because it wasn’t what she was taught, growing up. Princesses aren’t exactly allowed dating... but Kenna had a feeling it wasn’t the case, either. Sighing, she finally admitted to herself. The only person standing in her way... Was herself. Raydan’s opinion was important as well, but he was very discreet of her. And how could Kenna confront him about that, before knowing what she herself wanted from him? He obviously wanted something with her.  He was attracted to her, like the countless times he didn’t fail to mention it.  He was protective of her, defending her countless times and worrying about her, sometimes even losing his usual collected self, just for her safety... But was there something more to that? She knew her being a royal and him being... well, not - had weighted on his mind as well. Somewhere deep within him.  He always gave her the feeling he was happy to keep her, but knowing it’s for borrowed time. Kenna wondered if that was all he wanted, or was it just him accepting fate. Instead of beating herself up, she opened the window.  The starry night was spectacular. Kenna watched it, mesmerized. It seemed as if every detail was carefully chosen, drawing together a breathtaking picture. And while she wanted to take her mind of the things bothering her, it came back to her. The strictly chosen details reminded her of the strict rules of her life. She had duties and rules to follow, to go by... And wanting, having, Raydan didn’t fall under those categories. Ever since she was born, the stars dictated her how she was supposed to live. But ever since Luther attacked, declaring war on the five kingdoms, and leaving Kenna the sole and rightful ruler of Stormholt, Kenna took fate into her own hands. She was making the decisions for herself. She took matters to her own hands. Was it possible that she could take that thing, too? Could she allow herself that? Watching through the window, she saw Raydan making his way into the castle. It was a late hour at night, and that probably meant one thing. He’d might come looking for her. It was dark, yet, she had no doubt he spotted her, just like she saw him. He wasn’t a man that’d miss such a detail. As she expected, he disappeared from her view only for her to hear a knock on the door a few moments later. “Come in,” She didn’t bother turning around. The door cricked open, then closed a few moments after, and she felt Raydan’s hot breathing on her neck. His hands were surrounding her, and she almost immediately surrendered to his touch. Leaning against him, she felt at ease. Everything bothering her faded, for a while. “Is something bothering you, my queen?” His voice was barely a whisper against her ear, sending shivers down her spine. Of course he’d notice. “Not anymore...” She assured, turning around. He smiled at her, lightly. “Then why are you awake in this time of night?” He questioned, persistent. “I could ask you the same thing.” She noted, raising an eyebrow. Touche. She could see it on his face. She wondered if he had similar thoughts, since the night they shared, but didn’t dare ask. So instead, she did the easier thing. She leaned in, and kissed him. He obliged, responding to her. As she kissed him, his lips parted, letting her in. Her tongue explored his mouth before he was pushing her against the same window she was staring from just moments before. Maybe it’s just instinct, but Raydan pushed the curtains closed. Making Kenna wonder if he really minds people seeing them, if she doesn’t, or if he just worries she would? Kenna gasps, as Raydan’s kisses explore down her neck, and the her worries discolor as he nibbles on a certain spot. He pressed closer to her, and his words from that night echo in her ears. ”Tonight, I am yours.” ”Only tonight?” She was innocent enough to ask. ”Tonight... And always.” But what did always meant? Did they even have an always? Suddenly, Raydan stopped exploring her body. He looked up to her eyes, and considered. ”What is it?” She asked, blinking, very aware of his sudden stop. ”I can sense something is still bothering your mind.” He notes. ”It’s certainly not what you think it is,” She assures him. ”Oh?” He seems intrigued. “Care to share with me, then?” He asks, a smile spreading over his beautiful lips. “You’re a master of spies, you have a way with your words, and you’re a very sophisticated man. I’m sure you’ll figure it out, sooner or later.” She still wants to keep some secret to herself. Chuckling, he nods. “Very well then.” Bringing the palm of her hand up to his lips, he plants a kiss to the back of it. Kenna’s not sure what this means, but guesses her time with Raydan for this night is coming near to it’s end. She has to ask him something, anything before he goes, but isn’t sure how to put it into words. She feels tongue-tied. ”Raydan, tell me...” Despite herself, her voice comes out calm and collected. She’s thankful for that. Her training to become queen had paid off, at least. ”Anything.” He’s as eager as ever. ”How long are you planning on staying here? By my side?” She asks, it’s the best she can do. She hold his arms in both hands now, staring intently into his eyes - assuring him it’s not an invitation to go. He considers for just a moment, before replying. ”As long as you want me.” He tells her. Kenna isn’t sure what kind of an answer was she expecting, but apparently, Raydan, gave her the right one. They share one last kiss, before Raydan wishes her good night, and heads to sleep, urging her to do the same. She promises, soon. She wants him. And not just behind closed doors. And it’s not the right time, but one day... Soon, it’ll be. She opens the curtains, looking out one last time. They are still glistening, in outstanding beauty, and for once in her life... She decides the stars are not against her. She won’t have to hide her feelings anymore. She’d be the one to write her own fate. Maybe this isn’t what her life supposed to be, what they were supposed to look like, but she’s already decided. It’s what she’s going to make them be.

[neuroma-neuroses]

Repeat this three times fast: translabyrinthine resection for an acoustic neuroma

Here’s the bit of this whole brain tumour adventure I was really dreading: actually getting the bloody thing out.

Reuben and I got married two weeks after I was told my tumour wasn’t malignant, an emotional feat in itself. The statistical improbability of a tumour I’d had for at least ten years becoming symptomatic during my wedding is mind-boggling. The neurosurgeons had given me hardcore steroids to reduce the swelling on my brain, but I delayed taking them before the wedding as they could have nasty side-effects. Gargantuan, messy, vain mistake. I spent my wedding night in the emergency room, vomiting up champagne and hors d'oeuvre due to brain swelling. Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to change out of my wedding dress before this adventure.

After a flurry of CT scans and terse conversations with my neurosurgical team, they confirmed my swelling had gotten worse and were unsure about signing me off to travel for my honeymoon. An agreement was eventually reached, whereby I acknowledged the danger of travelling to a far-distant land cast back many decades in medical technology known as ‘New Zealand’. I spent much of my honeymoon guzzling anti-nausea medication, unable to sleep due to the steroids and dreaded the ending of the trip. I knew that as soon as I got back, the cogs would begin to turn and the surgery would be close at hand.

During our honeymoon, we went to Wanaka’s Puzzling World, which had its own tilted room. As a preface to the room, they had a huge sign saying IF YOU HAVE BALANCE ISSUES, DO NOT ATTEMPT THE TILTED ROOM. Well, I had a tumour on my balance nerve. What transpired was one of the weirdest sensations of my life. It felt like my head was on backwards. Reuben had the foresight to film it.

My mum called me the minute we landed, exalting that we were on Australian, tumour-eradicating soil once more. I steeled myself for the frantic phone call, telling me my surgery date.

Then...nothing.

The insurmountable wait before this huge surgery was harrowing from a mental health perspective, but not for the reason you’d expect. I was told my surgery was category one as the tumour had gotten so big it was pressing on my brainstem, but then faced a solid month with no contact from my medical team. I had cancelled all jobs, so I had nothing to distract me. The wait was excruciating.

I tried to keep myself busy, but by this point my tumour was interfering with my everyday life: I could barely walk, was constantly nauseated and dizzy so was mostly bed bound. As though my physical state wasn’t enough, my anxiety disorder decided life could get a bit spicier too. Anxiety is a physical manifestation of the fear that something bad is lurking off in the distance: sweaty palms, racing heart, shortness of breath, a dark shape moving in the water on the horizon. I knew something bad was around the corner, I just didn’t know when it would strike.

I called the hospital everyday; the admin people got sick of me pretty quickly. ‘No, we’ve not assigned your case yet. WE’LL contact YOU when it happens.’

I just sat at home all day, every day, too sick to move around much, willing that phone to ring with every cell in my body. I just wanted the surgery done and dusted, not as a looming spectral presence on the horizon. The pain of the wait seemed so much more intolerable than what I was about to go through.

Being creative seemed to take all my strength and happiness and I didn’t have any left. My picture book ideas were left half-finished, illustrations half-done. I cried to Reuben every day. I was unsure if the surgery was happening in months or a few short days. The cherry on top was the medication cocktail I had to take. The anti-inflammatory drug I was on, dexamethasone, increases cortisol in the body, so I was in perpetual fight or flight mode, one long, excruciating panic attack.

All of my medications for the acoustic neuroma, artfully placed. I call this piece ‘Having a Brain Tumour: My Pharmacist Now Knows Me By Sight’.

Finally, FINALLY, I got a call to meet the ENT team involved in the procedure.

The consultant was brusque and efficient in the way that people whose time is highly compensated seem to be. ‘Your chance of dying or stroke is 1 in 100,’ he told me point blank.

I had a big, gulpy cry in corridor outside his office, which he happened to walk in on. Reuben later told me that was good, ‘You convinced him you were taking it all seriously’. He was full of these inner workings of the mechanisms of the hospital, which were all highly political and cutthroat.

The cogs were finally in motion. Over next two weeks, I was at the hospital nearly everyday after a month of no contact: MRIs, CT scans, neuro meetings, MDT follow ups, clinic meetings, pre-admission clinic...it was never-ending. I sat in waiting rooms for over 30 hours. Finally, I got given a date: 17th of February.

That morning, I was oddly tranquil. I made a plant watering schedule for Reuben. I dressed in my favourite Gorman dress. My parents met me at the hospital at 6am, having gotten up at 4am to make it from their country house. My dad had died of a head-related cause ten years ago in the same hospital. I had to walk the same steps I had taken then through the hospital atrium, when the doctors had told us he could die at any time and I hadn’t wanted to be in the room for it.

In a waiting room, after barely a minute together with my family, I was saying goodbye to them. I had to change into a hospital gown. My rings were sticky-taped to my fingers. I was calm, joking with the nurse about how I didn’t drink or smoke. The bruque consultant appeared again and drew a big arrow on the right side of my neck, marking out the tumour.

It was only as I was wheeled into a small anteroom and the nurses began to congregate and talk to each other instead of me and I knew it was on. My breathing hitched up. The anesthesiologist misjudged his cannula. My blood was everywhere. He cast about wildly for a common topic to discuss as this all got mopped up.

‘Do you like dogs?’

I felt myself laugh-crying.

The hubbub around me ceased and I realised I was alone in the anteroom. If I were to be praying to a god to spare my life, this is when I’d do it, I thought. But I was too scared even for that.

The anesthesiologists returned and wheeled me into the surgical theatre, chatting about ice-bars. I tried to tell them about the amazing one in Queenstown. The next thing I remember is clasping each of my sisters’ hands as I lay in bed, then being very grumpy that someone had the audacity to take me from my comfy bed into a CT scan. I opened my eyes: everything was skewed 90 degrees anti-clockwise. I slept solidly for two days, finally awakening to be told it took 13 hours, had all gone okay but I’d lost my hearing.

I can barely remember the first fews days after surgery. I recall my mum being by my side always, I recall vomiting a lot (a cut balance nerve will do that to you). On the third day after the surgery, I was sitting up in bed and joking about the hospital food. I was discharged after five days.

Post op two days. So much blood and iodine!

I recuperated remarkably fast. I didn’t have any CSF leaks or major complications apart from them having to leave a portion of the tumour behind. I was particularly worried about the pain associated with the procedure and how wretched I would feel afterwards. Honestly, it was bearable and a lot less horrific than I expected. The wound on my stomach from the fat transfer used to patch the tumour resection has been the most painful surgical site!

My tummy post op week two. SO FLIPPING PAINFUL. 

The after effects of the surgery have been more or less what I expected: my dizziness is still persistent like before the operation, but I’ve noticed that I’m not falling over every two steps anymore. Hopefully the dizziness will improve; I’m certainly doing enough physiotherapy! I’m adjusting to the hearing loss slowly, which isn’t helped by the fact that I have raging tinnitus in my dead ear.

I’ve observed the surgical after effects with the detached curiosity of a kid with a science experiment. Oh, I can only taste bitter things on my right side now? Weird! Only the right side of my face is aching like it has been bruised? Strange! I can only cry from one eye now? Cool!

One week post op

Two weeks

Three weeks feat. cat

One month

Five weeks

Apart from intermittent aching which is usually dulled by the painkillers I’m still on, the operation site itself has been numb for five weeks now, which feels very odd. It also feels strangely tight, like they didn’t spare me enough skin when they were stitching me up. I had trouble lifting and lowering my head and mentioned so to one of the ENT surgeons, who cheerfully rejoined that that specific muscle had to be cut the restitched during the surgery. I’d found this to be the most annoying surgical after effect; it feels like I have a painful neck crick if I engage that muscle in the slightest. 

The brace that held my head in place for the 13 hours of the operation left painful indentations on my forehead which I’d read about in others’ accounts. In the first few days after the surgery, their pain annoyed me more than anything else. It looks like they may scar now.

One of the brace wounds. Annoying bugger.

I sustained a second degree facial paralysis during the surgery as the tumour was wrapped so tightly around my facial nerve they ended up leaving a bit in there to preserve it. The paralysis has nearly resolved itself! For a few weeks after the operation, my smile was very wonky. Now it’s only noticeable if I’m tired or putting lipstick.

Two weeks post op, wonky smile!

Five weeks post op, somewhat straight smile! Now, I need my dexamethasone chipmunk cheeks to deflate please.

The slow pace of recovery is also very boring to me. I thrive on stress, with a million plates in the air at all times, so having no purpose but to heal has been a very strange experience.Mostly I just feel like I’m recovering from a nasty flu; all wibbly and wonky and fatigued. I’m slowly picking up work again in my fifth week post op, but I’m being kind to myself and not adding too much pressure to get better right away.

[ecotone99]

[MF] Painters Block

(Disclaimer: This is one of my first attempts at writing a short story or story of any kind really. Decided to take a creative writing class this semester, testing the waters and enjoying it so far. Thanks)

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The pain was almost unbearable now. Try as I may, as I had been, I just couldn't block it out anymore, shooting through my body, the pain was demanding recognition. The cramps that had begun as an inconvenient twinge were now developed fully-fledged knots. Collecting and twisting, pushing, and pulling contorting the muscles in my calves and back. My neck straining to support the weight of my head. Still, I wouldn't budge, my resolve solidifying to almost petulant defiance, nearly an hour now sitting the way I was, tensed, laboring, nearing the edge, and I had gotten nowhere. But the pain was a part of the process, supposedly, wasn't it? Always they talk about how "you should suffer for your art." But "they" never tell you how much suffering is required after all these years of practice, heartache, and dedication. Still, I hadn't yet reached the appropriate level of suffering. Joining me now in my masochistic self-expression was a sound that penetrated the silence of my misery—vibrating the very air around me, a dull droning coming from seemingly everywhere at once. Minutes dragged past with that strange noise still there, but I dared not move my eyes from their task to locate its source. So long it dragged on that it cracked my stony demeanor, the concrete facade that I had managed to maintain for so long shifted ever so slightly with the frustrated tensing of my jaw and the gritting of teeth. That's when I realized it; what that annoying persistent noise was, It was me. Sitting there perched painfully on a stool for so long, I had begun groaning without even realizing it. This realization did me in. With a frustrated sigh, I brought this attempt at a creative venture to an end.

​

"Oh well," I said aloud.

​

I had expected as much. It had been years since I've successfully painted, no, create anything for myself, and as much as I had hoped. I knew it was foolish of me to believe that it was possible to just jump right in.

​

Standing up, I felt the relief of movement flood into my tortured form. Methodically stretching my legs, back, and one hand massaging life back into my cricked neck. I gazed at the blank canvas perched on the easel in front of me, thick with countless layers of primer on it. I had reprimed that canvas methodically every day the past month as the beginning of this so far fruitless ritual. Sitting to the side on a small wooden table was my old fishing box of oil paints. The green and grey box mottled with years of paint drops still wore the coat of dust that had adorned it when I had rediscovered the box mixed among the clutter of relics from what seemed to me my past life. The original paints found with the box had long expired its old husk filled out with paints that still had their foil seals unbroken. Glancing one last time with a mix of frustration and disappointment at the achingly blank canvas and unused paints, which seemed to radiate a smug, mocking, air of self-satisfaction for having yet again defeating me. I left the room, shutting off the lights and closing the door wanting nothing to do with that oppressive room's contents. The space of the house that I had chosen to use as my studio, though "torture chamber," seemed a more fitting title. Was entirely unadorned, its walls empty, save for the one occupied by the rooms only window, were painted white, not quite asylum white but close enough. The room, when I purchased the house just over a month ago, was described to me as a spare bedroom. It always seemed too small for such a use. But it worked well enough for my purposes. The small window providing a quality source of natural light and some much-needed ventilation required when working with oil paints.

​

I left the studio resigned to spend the rest of the day in a fashion similar to each preceding day. In the small corner of the kitchen that had evolved into the "bar," I poured myself a measure of whiskey neat with the exception of a splash of water, in a crystal glass, A replica of the glass used by Harrison Ford's character in Ridley Scott's 1982 science fiction film 'Blade Runner,' a fact that I would take pride in if I had anyone around to appreciate it. Making my way to the couch, I collapsed into the sofa, allowing myself to savor the stark difference between the rigid countenance of the painting stool and the sofa's welcoming embrace. Finally, after scrolling through the sea of music that I've collected over the years, falling back to the usual Jazz, I'm a creature of habit if nothing else. Notes of piano soon joined by the building of brass, the music of Thelonious Monk "Well You Needn't" filled the space.

The 1957 album 'Monk's Music' not considered among Monks' most popular works, is considered most emblematic of his particular style of Jazz. It most notably contains the popular hit "Well You Needn't" commonly recognized, not as Monks' work but for the more popular cover by Miles Davis.

​

Letting the music surround me, I took the first sip of my drink, feeling the whiskey's burn letting its warmth flow through me. It was a rye whiskey a favorite of mine; specifically, it was a blend of two different rye's, one aged two years in an oak casket and another aged ten years. The combination came together to create a full-bodied profile retaining the sweetness and burn or the younger of the two. At the same time, the ten year allowed for more depth and a smoky profile, dubbed creatively by its distillers as "Double Rye."

​

The sun was beginning to set. Draining the first glass, I felt my stomach start to ache from hunger. I hadn't eaten much today, just some boiled eggs for breakfast. In the kitchen, I made myself a simple turkey sandwich and another whiskey, then back on the couch. "Epistrophy" was playing now, a faster piece leading with a lively percussion. Chewing on the first half of my sandwich and sipping my drink, I sat lost in the music.

​

The sun set, and time marched on.

​

Something was different, I had only startled awake seconds ago, having fallen asleep sitting straight up with my head bent back painfully, but I could still tell. Rubbing, trying to ease the returned crick in my neck, I glanced around the room. Everything was where it should've been; the coffee table before me, the untouched half of my sandwich, my potted plants. The tall bookshelf overcrowded with mementos and books with more that had future than past, that served to separate the living room from the kitchen, all the furniture was where it should be. Still, something felt different about the room. Monk had abandoned me. His music that had lulled me to sleep was gone, no more fast brass, nor soothing piano. Now quiet, no, this was heavier, deeper as if the air itself was holding its breath, a still silence was overflowing the room. I could feel it pressing down on me, and coming from that silence was a strange light. The room still entrenched in darkness, but the shadows cast had a new depth to them. The shadows, they were wrong. They seemed to stretch further than they should. Extending into a space that was not there, shouldn't, couldn't be there. Extending into the silence. That was the only fitting description for what was happening. I had a dull headache and felt wet; looking down, I saw that I had spilled the remnants of my drink on myself, with the glass now resting on its side on the floor. That wasn't just it though I was also sticky with sweat. That didn't make sense either the room was perfectly cool with an even colder draft. A draft? The fan was off, and the living room had never been drafty before. The breeze carried the scent of something sweet, something familiar, I couldn't put my finger on it, but this was definitely something I smelt before.

I had no idea how long I had been asleep, but judging by the stillness and how dark it was out the window, it was nearly late enough to be considered early. I went to check my watch, realized that I had taken it off prior to painting, and hadn't thought much of putting it back on after I was done. A deep sigh, I looked up futilely from an empty wrist into the deep darkness of the room. That's when I saw it—a stirring in the stillness and a shifting in the shadows, something scuttling. I reacted quickly, then I heard the crack before I felt it. Standing up, I stepped directly on my glass, that my sleeping fingers let slip. Clutching my foot, I fell between the couch and the coffee table.

​

"Oh ho, I have seen humans bleed before. But that looks like it hurt" A small voice came.

​

The words sounded strange, overly formal, each word was correctly enounced, but they came out haltingly as if made by a mouth unused to forming sentences. I was so caught up in the strangeness of the speakers' use of words that it took me a few moments to actually process what was said. Worse even was how long it took for me to even question who had spoken them. Emerging from the coffee table's shadow was a small figure, first appearing as just an extension, an amorphous blob of shadow slowly moving towards me. With each passing moment, it took on a more recognizable shape. Becoming something resembling a small person, but not quite a person, more of an assemblage of human features. It had two stunted arms and legs, a torso and a head. Its face following the body's suit was a collection of different facial features possessed of mismatched eyes and ears, a long hooked nose, and a mouth that sat thin-lipped crooked on its face.

​

Shocked and taken aback, I asked, "Who? Who are you?" Less of a question and more of a statement hurled in some vague hope that the acknowledgment of its presence would somehow halt its slow approach.

​

It worked. The little person stopped and made an expression that seemed to be its best approximation of a thoughtful pause. Considering its answer carefully.

​

Responded in the same halting strange voice, "Oh ho, more like what am I? If "I" is the proper way to refer to myself as I am now." Its face now screwed itself into an almost comical expression of satisfaction. "Yes, I am "I" for now."

​

"Well, what are you then?"

​

"Oh ho, that is an easy one!" it said enthusiastically. "I am an Idea!"

​

"An Idea?" I snorted Incredulously. Shifting slightly, remembering the pain and glass embedded in my foot. My head still hurt, and I rolled over onto my back, propping myself up on my elbows to get a better view of the little idea that had now hopped up on top of the coffee table. Pacing back and forth, examing the remnants of my sandwich. The long shadow it cast on the table was formless, shifting and writhing far larger than the little idea was itself. It extended far back into the room to be swallowed up by the darkness and the silence.

​

"Oh ho, yes, I came from inside your head, and as one of the denizens of your head, we all agree that you should be taking better care of yourself."

​

"Take better care of myself?" I asked, laying on the floor with a bloody foot, a whiskey stained shirt, a half-empty stomach, and a headache growing increasingly worse. Talking to what was in all, probably a figment of my imagination. "You said 'we,' who's we?"

​

"Oh ho, well, there are many of us living in your head—too many, in fact. That is why I am here. There are far too many of us trapped inside you with no way out, and we are beginning to languish. We, as ideas cannot stay in one place for so long. We have to be able to move on."

​

This was all too strange. Maybe I had had more whiskey than I remembered. The room was still dark, with the shadows reaching farther than what seemed possible. The draft moving through in and out of the room to and from somewhere unknown. With the sweat cooling against my skin, I was getting even colder. But other than the little ideas continued pacing back and forth on the table still considering the sandwich, the room was utterly still and silent. "If I have all these ideas trapped in my head, why don't I know anything about them?" "Huh?!" "I've spent hours every day trying to think of something, anything to paint, but I can't think of anything." Damn, my head hurt.

​

"Oh ho, that is because there are too many of us. You are stopped up. As I have told you already. We are all fighting to get out. Jostling to and fro. With so many of us stuck in your head, you might as well have nothing in there at all." It leaned down and started to pick through the leftover half of the sandwich. Wearing a look of what I could only guess to be a mix of curiosity and disgust on its mismatched face. "And every time you sit and agonize over what you want to paint, it is like shaking a corked bottle. The pressure builds, and it builds until the cork eventually pops. But your cork is put on very tight, we do not know how you did it, or why you did it. But we have never encountered someone with their cork stuck on so tight."

​

"My cork?" I asked tried to blink away the pain from the ever-increasing pressure mounting behind my eyes. It was getting hard to think with such an intense headache.

​

"Oh ho, yes, that is one way of putting it—a metaphor. Under normal circumstances, we ideas do not use other ideas, but in this instance, it is a fitting one. They are stuck in there too, you know? Metaphore, along with all the others." We have all been discussing amongst ourselves another thing that does not happen under the usual circumstances, and we decided to pop the cork ourselves. But you see, ideas can not do that, that is why we need humans, and humans need us. So instead, they sent me to try and have a talk with you. Because as I have said before, there are too many us trapped in your head. It is terribly inconvenient for all of us to be in there together at once."

​

"So if you are really an idea, and all of this is real, then what sort of idea are you?" I spat the words almost angrily, my head hurt too much for all this. It was too much to take in.

​

"Oh ho, ideas can not know ourselves, that is what we need you for."

​

"Okay then, how am I supposed to remove the cork? Since you are all stopped up inside my head, trapped like you say. How do I do it? I tried to move myself around and rest my back against the couch and ended up banging my foot against one of the table legs. Sending a fresh jolt of pain up my leg mingling with the pain in my head growing ever worse. "If it was so easy." I said, pained, "I would've done it forever ago and been done with all this frustration."

​

"Oh ho, I did not say this would be easy! But then again, it is one of the easiest things in the world to do. But this is not something you could have done alone, nor forever ago, you are certainly not nearly old enough for that."

​

"Just tell me what I need to do! What is this headache? It feels like my head is going to split open?"

​

"Oh ho, it just might. You need to let it all out. They are all getting ready. You see, tonight is the night. You need to paint."

​

I struggled to get up and made my way through the gloom and the darkness. Dragging my bloody foot , trudging through the shadows that seemed to cling to me as I passed through them. The strange light that had cast the wrong shadows could now be seen to be coming from my studio, leaking out from the cracks of the door. I threw open the door, the moon could be seen shining in through the one window. It was full, bright, white, and closer than it should've been. There was no reason for there to be a full moon tonight, but I didn't question it. I needed this headache to stop. The pressure mounting was getting even more intense at a much faster rate than before.

​

I sat down on that same stool and stared and the same canvas that I had stared at for so long, so often. Then fog in my head created by the pain cleared when I took in the glow of the canvas bathed as it was in the strange moonlight. My mind became clear, my thoughts sharp, as only pain could make them.

​

"Oh ho, its time!" I hadn't seen the little idea come in the studio with me, now there it was perched atop the canvas.

​

"How do I do it?" I asked, taking up my brush. As much as I knew what I needed to do, I could not recall how. I didn't know how or where to begin. Each time the past month I had sat before this canvas, I had done nothing, no not done nothing. I produced nothing. I created nothingness. "I do not know what to paint, what to create."

​

"Oh ho, one does not create anything. You are going to rediscover, and to do that, just let your hands move freely, do not think about what is happening or what will happen. Just do it."

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"Like ripping off a bandage, huh? I just have to do it." I could feel myself warming up, filling with a new determination I had forgotten could exist.

​

"Oh ho, but you are not wearing a bandage. Your foot is still bleeding."

​

With a sigh and a deep breath, I picked up a tube of paint and began. It was slow at first, but with each stroke, I felt my self become emboldened. With each new color, I attacked the canvas, mixing colors directly on it, ignoring all the technical aspects of painting. I worked myself into a frenzy. A bold stroke there, a patch of color there, using a brush for some and my hands for others. I wasn't painting anymore; this was pure expression, this was freedom. I felt release with each movement. I felt my headache recede. I could feel the ideas escaping moving through my hands into the canvas.

​

I painted like this till the sun came back up. The stop was sudden. I sat back in exhausted relief. Once the last stroke fell, the painting knew it was done, and I could sense that it wanted nothing else, needed nothing else. I had completed it. I did not know what I had painted, but that didn't matter. I looked up, searching for the little idea on its perch on the easel, and it was gone. I had not seen it leave, but there was nothing there now. Though i could see the open door leading to the rest of the house and I could see the trail of blood, then remembered my injured foot still filled with little shards of glass. I got up carefully and went to the kitchen, taking the first aid kit out from under the sink, after picking out each individual piece of glass and wrapping my foot in bandages. I picked up the last half of my dinner from the night before, which felt so long ago, and ate in on the way to the bedroom.

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"I'm going to bed."

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