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dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice · 10 months ago

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The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Chapter 2

Bruh. My back is HURTING from being hunched over my laptop lol. For some reason I've managed to shit out this next chapter at the speed of light, but I'm back at uni and deadlines are picking up so I can't guarantee another one for a couple weeks. ANYWAY - ALASTOR HAS FINALLY MADE AN APPEARANCE. Not in person yet, but he's here (in spirit). I also apologise to anyone not from Yorkshire, I've used some of our slang from there and it may not make sense, but MC's embracing her Northener crave for violence.

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 6800

Warnings: Period-typical sexism, Period-typical attitudes towards neurodivergency, Swearing, Descriptions of murder and dismemberment. MC'S RACE IS DEFINED DUE TO PLOT REASONS (also because she is based off my OC)

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

< Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 >

PART 1: Chapter 2

Another box for my trinkets it's trinketville.

Meraki (Definition): To put something of yourself into your work. (Noun)

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Thursday, 7th November, 1929.

The first four months of your new apprenticeship had you thriving more than ever before since arriving in the US. The last time you had felt this joyous and satisfied you were nearly eighteen, the tickle of the long grass on your cheeks as you laid in the meadow at the height of spring, holding the bunch of wildflowers against the kaleidoscopic swirls of the evening tones of the sky above you, admiring the way the lowering sun hit the petals and the small bugs that floated around with its golden highlights. It was one of the few times you had managed to bring your racing mind to a stand-still; no voices; no random lines of songs in your head playing on replay; no worries about the chores you were procrastinating or the book your friend had recommended weeks ago that you were yet to touch. You remembered the feeling of the summer dress you wore, the texture of the leather messenger bag beside you gifted by the old woman who lived further down the lane of the village. She used to babysit you when your parents would travel to York days at a time for work or personal errands. You loved to skip down that lane, with your hand running along the rough stones of the ancient stone walls that lined the lanes of your little village you had spent your whole life in – also lining your mind with the cuts it gave you as you tried to climb over them with the twins over the years.

The routine of working at the repair shop had brought the blissful feeling of stability back, the hectic frenzy of travelling from hotel room to hotel room, checking your tickets a thousand times to make sure you were on the correct train platform, then checking again. You no longer had to worry about travel dates that would leave you feeling paralysed from doing anything else.

Mr LeBlanc had been an excellent teacher and manager, drilling skills into your mind since you stepped into the shop for your starter shift. It was certainly an experience: opening the double doors to a vintage collector’s dream, an antique emporium filled from floor to ceiling (and on the ceiling). Ralph had brought you behind the counter, to a room in the back that he gleefully revealed to be concealed by a door disguised as a bookshelf. The workshop hidden behind was every antique restorer’s sanctuary, and it was certainly yours. Drawers lining the walls filled with every tool that could file, chip away, or apply anything you could find. In the centre was a large wooden table – thick, sturdy planks covered in chips and splatters of paint and adhesives used over the years. This table would be the place you would spend the next four months, your hair tied back by a patterned silk bandana, Ralph showing you how to work with materials from wood to porcelain, metal to textiles. You would pour over books you had pulled from Mr LeBlanc’s bookshelves until late into the evening, until he sent you home with them in your bag, and you protected them with your life as you returned on the trams (or ‘streetcars’, as Americans called them) in the evening light.

Every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, he taught you everything he could, and you absorbed it all at the speed of light, your mind soaking up every piece of information like a dry sponge. By month three you had been given the go ahead to work on your first object from a customer – a small, spindly regency era chamber table belonging to a local gentleman. All it needed was some chips to be filled and repolishing, allowing Ralph to be confident enough in your abilities to complete it correctly. Your results came out on top, both Ralph and the customer being satisfied with your work, and you received the praise gleefully, along with the hefty tip the gentleman handed you over the counter. To you, everything was going fine and dandy.

Until October hit.

Apparently there were plenty of warning signs, according to most. They knew this was coming, your aunt knew this was coming. It was what she had said when you sat with her on the steps of the front porch.

“Shops are going to start disappearing.” She said, keeping her gaze ahead as she watched the cars sputter by. “With the rate this is going, I’m going to have to pull the boys out of school and get them working – I can’t keep the walls of this house up by myself.”

It had sent chills down your spine when you had picked up a newspaper, the words ‘Wall Street’ and ‘Stock Market Crash’ staining the pages for weeks. You put your mind and body into helping Mr LeBlanc, desperate for him to keep his business up and running. Unfortunately, as prices dropped, less people wanted to splurge the extra cash on something nice and antique, so you both lowered prices where you could, even going to lengths to hammer fliers to every street-post that advertised restoration jobs for any household item, promising customers that they would save money on repairs instead of buying it new.

It worked more than you thought, and it brought in enough income for Ralph to scratch by. He was also grateful you hadn’t asked for a raise to cope with the financial crisis, flat-out refusing when he had tried to hand you some tips he had received.

It was just the beginning of December when Ralph had called the house phone as you were getting ready for work. Ollie had yelled up the stairs to tell you and you scrambled down in your work trousers with your nightgown still on. Grabbing the phone, you listened to a raspy Mr LeBlanc as he told you he had falling ill with the usual winter flu. Unfortunately, being 63 meant that he was more susceptible to the illness, and was unsure if he would recover. If he did, it would still take a while, so he had asked you that morning if you were capable of running the shop solo. You had instantly said yes, refusing to let any sidetrack be his business’s downfall, so, with your head held high, you walked to his house, picking up any essential documents that he said you would need, and kept the shop up and running to the best of your abilities.

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Friday, 6th December, 1929.

It was the Friday of the first week of December when you were an hour away from closing. You had been lucky that it had been pretty quiet the last few days, allowing you to settle into working your first ever Monday to Friday and getting to know the everyday things that were essential to keep the doors open. You had brought an armchair behind the counter – the gap between the counter and the wall was spacey enough for you to fit the chair and a small side table.

After not seeing any customers for over an hour, you had wandered off to the small side kitchen hidden by a Persian rug hung over the doorway to fetch yourself a warm cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake that Agnes had slipped into your lunch bag that day. Returning to the front, you placed the food and beverage on the side table, and sank into the chair, propping your feet up and delving into the book you had bought a few months ago.

Your eyes were drooping by the time you finished the tea and cake, and you rested your head on the back of the cushion, lowering your eyelids shut but remaining awake, knowing you had to get up soon in order to close in a half hour. Though the sudden sound of the shop’s bell chiming had you shooting out of your seat like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Scrambling to your feet, you scooted over to plop yourself on the counter stool, fixing yourself to look as presentable as possible as you faced the person entering. It was the mailman, stomping his boots to rid of the snow from the mild blizzard outside on the shoe rug by the door whilst holding a semi-large parcel under his arm. You recognised him from his rounds of the area, normally dropping off the odd parcel here and there for Ralph. Making sure the curls you had pressed into your hair overnight weren’t flattened at the back, you straightened out the silk scarf tied round the front of your head, flicking a curl out of your eye, and faced the man with a warm smile, to which he returned. He was a tall, young looking lad, older than you, but youth still shone in his eager eyes as he approached you.

“Afternoon ma’am,” he greeted, tipping his snow patterned hat. “I apologise for the snow on the floor, m’fraid the storm doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.”

You waved him off, assuring that you were going to be cleaning up soon anyway. He inquired about Mr LeBlanc’s whereabouts, and you explained that his illness wasn’t letting up any time soon.

“Shame,” he said. “I know you’re probably not getting overrun, but it still must be complicated being a young woman running someone else’s business – especially near Christmas, having to trek home in the cold and wet by yourself.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright.” You laughed with a shake of your head, trying to not let your frustration show at the thought of him doubting your skills because of your gender. “He’s given me everything I need, and I can deal with the weather just fine. Wet and cold is the norm where I’m from.” Changing the subject, you gestured to the half-damp parcel still under his arm. “Is that addressed to Ralph or the shop?”

As if suddenly remembering the reason he was here, he quickly hauled the parcel from under his arm and slid it onto the counter.

“It’s for the shop.” He explained, gesturing a gloved hand to it. “S’pose it’s a last minute repair for a Christmas gift or somethin’.”

Placing your hands on either side, you slid the large square box towards you. Standing up from the stool, you peered at the top. Brushing off the half-melted snow, you read the handwriting that ornately spelled out the address - this was probably another repair.

The parcel itself was probably the neatest you had ever seen anything wrapped. The parcel paper was thick and expensive, the water and snow running off without leaving any trace behind except for a slight sheen, and the edges were folded so crisp and perfectly shaped and flat you wondered if whoever had wrapped it was human. Tied round like a present was a thick twine, looping into a bow directly in the middle of the top. You admired the dedication of whoever had put in the time to wrap this, running your fingers over the corners only to jerk them back slightly as the folds were so sharp they felt like they were slicing at your skin.

Looking back at the mailman, you thanked him for the delivery, and hoped him safe travels back home. Tipping his hat at you, he turned away with a farewell, and the bell chimed again when he opened the door, dipping his head against the wind as he faded into the white wall outside.

When the howling wind finally allowed the door to shut, you began the closing routine, knowing that there wouldn’t be anyone else today with the severity of the weather outside. After locking the exits and pulling the shutters closed and the blinds down, you kept the shops lanterns on as you lifted the hefty parcel with a grunt and shuffled through the hidden doorway into the workshop.

Sliding it onto the table, you got to work opening it up, pulling the twine bow free and taking some small hand-held shears to slice open the glued down folds to reveal a cardboard box.

Pulling the thick brown paper and twine out from underneath, you chucked them onto the other workbench pushed against the wall to the right. Placing the shears down, you pushed your fingernails between the gap of the serrated cardboard and swung the flaps open. Inside was a lot of loose cotton wool, and you reached in, removing the protective layer and chucking it onto the table whilst simultaneously thanking whoever had spent their time padding the box out. This uncovered a semi-large shape swaddled in a maroon-coloured knitted blanket, and you reached your arms in deep to wrap around the object and haul it out.

Laying it on the table, you pushed the box and wool out of the way, and gently began unwrapping the blanket, mindful that some repair jobs may start out with several shattered pieces that you certainly didn’t want to accidentally drop an lose amongst everything. Coming to the final layer, your nails slotted through some of the holes of the knitting and clacked against what sounded like solid wood, and slipping the material off, you had your first look at your new potential project.

It was an old radio. Well, not that old, considering radios had only been in circulation for a decade or so, but it was one of the earlier models, the features you recognised from when you visited the county Mayor’s house when you were in your early teens. It was shaped with a resemblance to a cathedral arch, the wood panelling around the edge looking like pillars that began swirling and spiralling into gothic patterns the closer you got to the top. These patterns decorating the fine grated material that covered the speaker, and a few dials were situated on the bottom half, and you immediately noticed one was missing.

Pulling a stool over, you sat down to get a closer look, and you noted down the damages that came to light. It had obviously been looked after over the years, but, as always, people are prone to accidents, and this radio seemed to have gone through a few. Apart from the dial that was missing, there was a large split down one side, between two of the panels, and scratches and slight dents from where it had obviously been dropped. Grabbing your notebook, you jotted down your initial observations, before diving your hands into the left over cotton in the box to search for anything that could assist you.

To your luck, you found a small linen bag about the size of your palm, that you untied to reveal the missing dial and a few pieces of wood that had come off in some areas. Returning to your notes, you were just about to start a proposal form for treatment when something caught your eye. Looking over to the blanket you had put to the side, your eyes landed on a fancy looking envelope.

Reaching over, your fingers clasped around the paper, the material just as thick and expensive feeling as the parcel wrap, and you brought it towards you, careful not to elbow anything in the process, because if they could afford fancy radios and paper during this crisis, then they certainly were expecting you to repair this with equally expensive standards. Holding the paper up you read the loopy handwriting on the front of the envelope:

To the Owner.

Turning it over, you pried the even fancier wax seal apart as gently as you could as to not ruin the paper, and opening the flap, you reached in to slide out a folded piece of parchment. Unfolding it, you began to read the matching, loopy words.

---

December 4 th, 1929

Dear Owner,

I do hope this package finds you well. I am delivering this fine radio to be repaired at your establishment, as it belongs to my dear Mother and I would be overjoyed to have it completed in time for Christmas. Unfortunately, it has suffered its fair share of drops and bumps, but from what I have heard from others in our beloved city, you should be able to do an excellent job. The outside is obvious with what needs to be done, but there are areas within the interior mechanics that require some repairs. Now, I would take it to the radio shop, but the man who owns it is oh-so unpleasant, and would take weeks to be returned.

I am sure you would be happy to take on this challenge, for my mother’s sake, and that you will do a splendid job.

Regards,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

You blinked. Then furrowing your brows, you read it again. And again. Did this guy want you to not only fix up the look of his mum’s radio, but magically know the ins and outs of radio technology? You shook your head, then did a quick once-over of the words scrawled onto the page. Yep, he wanted you to do a Frankenstein and completely resurrect the old thing.

Placing you elbow on the table, you rested your chin on your palm as you stared at the wall covered in tool across the room. There was no way you could do this, not without Mr LeBlanc still ill – though even if he was here, you didn’t know if he had any knowledge on radios. Sighing, you rubbed at your face tiredly, not caring if you smudged the mascara on your lashes, it wasn’t like anyone was going to walk in on you with panda eyes anyway. Letting out a prolonged groan, you came to the final decision of what to do.

Trudging back into the shop, you quickly made yourself another cup of tea, before snatching some of the letter paper and an envelope from under the counter. Slumping back onto the stool in the workshop, you placed the paper in front of you whilst reaching into one of the drawers attached to the table to grab a pen, then, taking a moment to think of what you were going to say, you began writing.

---

December 6 th, 1929

Dear Mr Boudreaux,

Thank you for your enquiry. As much asI would love to fulfil your request, there are some issues regarding certain stages of the repairs. Mr LeBlanc, who owns the company, has taken ill this last week, and it is not yet known when he will recover, and I am the only member of staff he has employed at the moment. Unfortunately, I am not experienced in radio mechanics, and strongly advise that you come and collect the radio and take it to be repaired at a radio shop.

The radio can be returned here for outer repairs, but I am afraid that is the only option I can offer you at this time. The radio will be ready for you to collect from 9am on Monday morning. I do apologise for the inconvenience.

Regards,

---

Signing the first letter of your name, along with you surname, you read over what you had written. Satisfied, you sealed it in the envelope and got to work wrapping the radio back up. Quickly taking a candle, you took a peek in between the crack in the wood, the light shining on the innards. You definitely had no chance of fixing that, if the absolute mess of dislodged coils, wires and metal pieces inside said anything. Reluctantly you placed it back in its box wrapped up and padded with the cotton, before taping it up and re-glueing the parcel paper and twine back in place. It was a shame that you had to reject the request, the payment for the repair would have benefited you and Ralph quite a bit, and it made you feel awfully guilty to prevent someone’s gift for their mother, but it was out of your control. So, with the guilt hanging over your head, you pushed the parcel into the corner under one of the tables on sale.

Doing one last round of the shop, you extinguished the candles dotted around and flipped the light switches off except the main one by the door. With your coat and gloves on, you made sure the scarf was wrapped tight round your neck before grabbing your bag and did one last sweep of the place. Glancing in the corner, you took one last lingering look at the sorrowful parcel that sat under the table, but quickly snatched your eyes away, and grabbing the keys, you flipped the final light switch and stepped out into the cold, looking for the nearest post-box with the letter grasped in your hand.

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

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Monday, 9th December, 1929.

Monday came rolling round as usual, and you began your usual weekday routine of washing and dressing yourself before heading downstairs for breakfast. Scooping some scrambled eggs onto the toast on your plate, you trudged from the kitchen to the dining room, the slap of your bare feet on the tiles echoing through the wide hallway.

Shuffling through the doorway, you sat opposite Ollie, who, by the looks of it, was still waking up as he shovelled buttered toast into his mouth with his head still lying sideways on the table. Reaching over, you slapped the handle of your fork against his ear that stuck out from between his loose, dark curls, and he let out a whine as he sat up to face you with one eye glued shut, the other barely open, bread hanging from between his frown.

“You’ll choke eating like that.” You said as you scooped egg into your mouth.

Ollie dropped the toast from his mouth onto his plate. “Good.” He mumbled. “S’better than Miss Sammie droning on and ooonnnn about nonsense.” He flopped his head back on the table.

“Well enjoy it while you can.” You snorted. “If this crash gets any worse Mum will be pulling you both out to find jobs. And I know you two wouldn’t last a day in the workplace.”

He jerked his head back, scrunching his face in offence. “Like you would be any better.”

You deadpanned. “I’m currently working 9 -5, Monday to Friday, dumbass.” You jabbed back in annoyance, throwing a piece of crust at his forehead.

“Shit, forgot about that.” He grumbled, but perked up suddenly. “Yea, but you’ve only been working full time since last week!”

You chucked another crust. “Running a shop full time on my own – something I’ve never done before??”

“Still.” He retorted, shrugging his shoulders.

You had opened your mouth to retort, but stopped halfway as Allie’s voice echoed through from the kitchen.

“There’s been another one!” he called out, almost excitedly, the thumping of his feet vibrating through the floorboards as he practically sprinted into the room with the morning newspaper grasped firmly in his hands. The two of us jerked back as he slammed it onto the table.

“Amuver!?” cried Ollie, voice muffled by food, though he quickly swallowed it. All evidence of his tiredness now gone, he snatched up the paper and brought it right up to his face. “It’s barely been a week!”

“I know!” Allie replied, his voice rising in volume every time he spoke. “At this point it could end up happening every month!”

You looked between the two of them confused since you couldn’t see what Ollie was reading. “What could happen?” you asked, perplexed.

The two of them froze, turning to stare at you. Their eyes darted to each other, before Ollie lowered the newspaper and spoke.

“…The murders?” He revealed, as if it was the most obvious thing.

You blinked, then looked between the two, more confused. “What murders?”

“What!?” Allie cried, bracing his hands on the table as he leant over it, eyes wide. “You’ve been gallivanting round town for seven months and don’t know about thee murders??”

You leant back slightly at the sight of your cousin’s crazy expression, and slowly shook your head. “I’m uh – not one to read the newspaper often.” You explained sheepishly.

He gaped, clearly shocked at your lack of knowledge about the subject. His head whipped to where his brother sat, and his hand reached out and snatched the newspaper from Ollie’s. You quickly moved your breakfast out of the way, saving your food from being flattened as Allie slammed the paper down and began aggressively prodding at the headline on the front page. Swatting his hand away, you read the giant words printed above a photograph of a lake you didn’t recognise.

‘BARRISTER FOUND BUTCHERED ON EMBANKMENT’

Suddenly intrigued, brought the paper closer to read the front column.

Tragedy strikes again in New Orleans as the remains of county barrister, Paul Morgan, were found on the embankment and in the water of Lake Cataouatche by visitors to the area. Morgan was reported missing last Wednesday by his wife, Martha, when he failed to return home for two days after a night out on Monday with his colleagues. It was reported that Morgan’s body was dismembered, and his head took several hours to locate. However, certain body parts are still missing, therefore the lake has been closed off to the public for the foreseeable future. Police are calling in and searching for potential suspects, and give their condolences to Paul’s close family and friends, stating that they are working overtime to bring the killer to justice and prevent any further deaths. Due to the nature and severity of the crime, it is possible that this is another victim of who the public dubs ‘The Bayou Butcher’. The Sheriff strongly encourages people to stick to an early curfew and remain indoors after nightfall, as the safety of the public cannot be guaranteed at this trying time. (More on Page 5)

You went to flip through, but the paper was pulled out your hands by Ollie who wanted to read it.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Allie hissed excitedly as he lowered himself onto the chair at the head of the table between you both. “This could be another Axeman!”

Ollie gasped, eyes sparkling. “Shit, it could!”

You perked up. “Another Axeman? How long has this guy been around?” you asked as you brought your breakfast back in front of you.

Allie turned to you, eyes shining in excitement. “The first body was found in 1927 – and the rest have been popping up every 2-3 months, but this is the first time there’s been two in less than two weeks!”

You narrowed your eyes in thought. “How do you know it’s all one guy?”

At this question he seemed to get more excited, practically vibrating in his seat as he gestured to his twin. “Ollie and I have been collecting newspaper clippings on every murder that’s happened, and we’ve tried to eliminate any outliers – like, different weapons, ones that are bleedin’ obvious who did it – the rest all have the same MO: they never find the whole body.” He yammered on at light speed, emphasising each word with a loud thump of his finger prodding the table. “Sometimes it’s not obvious, I think they try to throw the police off by going for something small – like a finger – but there’s always something missing, and we know it’s them.”

You frowned. “Them?”

He shrugged. “Could be a woman.” You raised an eyebrow. “What!? I don’t discriminate! Women can be scary!” You slowly sat back in your seat, staring your cousin down. He pointed at you as he looked at his brother with wide eyes. “See!? You wouldn’t be surprised if she dragged a body in?”

Ollie swallowed the food he was chewing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she caused the second Great Fire of London because someone stole her food.” He said nonchalantly, before casually returning to his toast.

“Exactly!” cried Allie. “No wonder the government wants you all nice and buttoned up in a strait jacket!”

Dropping your fork with a clatter, you looked up at him in shock, mouth hanging open. He froze, quickly realising what he had said, and his face slowly scrunched up as he cringed.

“Too far?” he squeaked meekly as he glanced at you. “Sorry.”

Pouting, you glared silently before picking your fork back up.

A few moments of silence passed, before Ollie decided he had experienced enough of the dampened mood. “You know,” he began, catching your attention again. “We think the body parts aren’t just missing for the sake of it.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, intrigued again.

He looked you directly in the eye. “We think they’re eating them.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Oo yummy, like a cannibal?” you queried, eyes darting to Allie, who perked back up, nodding. “So… there’s a cannibalistic serial killer running around New Orleans?”

Allie pointed a finger. “Serial killer, yes. Cannibal, possibly. We don’t actually have any proper evidence for that. I’m also going to skip the ‘yummy’ part, cuz I know you would never willingly consume human flesh.”

“You would be correct,” you confirmed with an amused smile, before glancing at the two. “Has mum ever suggested that you two should consider joining the police force?”

All you got were two matching cheshire grins in response.

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

After cleaning up your food, and disappointing the twins because no, you didn’t bring your serial killer books to America with you, because you didn’t want to be judged by the luggage inspectors on the ferry, besides, Jack the Ripper got a little boring after a while.

Even though it was interesting to learn about the current events of the city you were staying in, the subject of said current events did end up putting you on edge when you travelled to work that morning, with you clutching your bag a little tighter, and intensely staring down anyone who looked at you a little odd on the tram. It even got to the point where you had stepped off the tram, and spent the ten minute walk between there and the shop glancing down any alleyways as subtle as you could, even though you knew you would spot anyone against the white snow that reflected the morning sun into your poor, suffering eyes anyway.

Unlocking the shop doors, you stepped in, stomping the snow off of your boots on the mat before picking it up and shaking it off outside. Crossing the threshold of the room, you ducked under the rug into the kitchen, shrugging off your scarf and coat and hanging them up on the pegs.

You were just dusting off the old grandfather clock that was slotted between the shelves of smaller antique clocks when a knock echoed through the shop. Jumping slightly, you lowered the feather duster in your hand and looked over your shoulder to see the same mailman from Friday waving at you through the window in the door, his smile growing as you made eye contact with him . Placing the duster down, you quickly strode over to the door, twisting the locks before pulling it open and sticking you head through the gap.

“I do apologise Miss,” he began after you said hello. “I hate to interrupt you whilst your still getting ready to open, but my boss handed some priority mail to me – said I had to get it to you as soon as I could.” He held a letter out in front of you.

Frowning, confused, you slowly reached out and took the letter from his hands. “Okayyy…” Turning the letter around you came across some very familiar hand writing:

‘To Mr LeBlanc’s Employee.’

“Oh god.” You groaned quietly, your shoulders slumping. This could turn out to be quite nasty if this was going the way you thought it would.

The mailman glanced between the letter and your very prominent grimace. “Is everything alright?” he asked, concern shining in his eyes.

“Yea! Yea,” you breathed, glancing around the street with the dwindling hope that your client would show up to pick up his parcel, but the letter in your hand said otherwise. “Everything’s fine. Just some very small business issues.”

He glanced at your face again, and went to open his mouth, but hesitated, seemingly switching what he was going to say. “Well, uh, I hope everything goes well, ma’am. I’ll see you around?”

You nodded, still staring down the street. “Yea, sure. See you around.” You said distractedly. Quickly giving him a strained smile, you stepped back to close the door, and the man tipped his cap at you again before strolling away.

Walking over to the counter, you slumped onto the stool with a groan, chucking the letter down in front of you. Leaning your elbows on the surface, you rested your forehead against your palms as you glared at the words inked onto the paper. The way it was addressed to you already screamed passive-aggressive, and you hated confronting anything or anyone with a passion, and you certainly didn’t want to confront this Boudreaux guy because you denied his mum a Christmas present. With a loud whine, you slammed your head onto the counter before blindly patting the surface until you felt the thick paper and slowly dragged it towards you. Sitting back up, you held the seemingly innocent envelope in front of you, and stared at it for a couple more moments, before you couldn’t take it anymore and tore it open.

---

December 7 th, 1929

To the Employee of Mr LeBlanc,

I hope this letter has found you in post haste. I am deeply upset that you lack the skills of radio repair, after all it is a growing medium that most should be learning at this point. Therefore I have come to the conclusion that I will refuse your rejection. The fliers you put out stated very clearly that you could repair ANY object, and it would be very disappointing for people to hear that it no longer has that skill to offer, since the only other option for radio repair during these trying times is a very unpleasant experience with that owner I mentioned.

I do hope my Mother’s radio will be fixed on time, I do hate to disappoint her. If Mr LeBlanc does not recover within the period, or you have any queries about the repair, please call the number I have written below.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Best Wishes,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

If your mouth hung open any further than you would be catching every insect that resided in the swamps surrounding the town.

Was this guy fucking for real??

You scoffed slightly. Then again. Eventually you scoffing spiralled into manic laughter as you guffawed at the audacity that this man thought he had. With wide eyes, you slammed the paper down back onto the counter, staring over at the wall because if you looked at those words any longer you would probably end up tracking this man down so you could shove his mother’s radio up his ass along with the fat metal rod that apparently already resided there.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed back the stool and stood up, deciding you needed you reset your mind before the first customers came in. Marching back to the kitchen, you spent the next five minutes sat in the middle of the floor, waiting for the kettle to boil as you very angrily stuffed the blueberry muffin you had brought in your mouth. You glanced at the clock and pouted as you realised you only had 15 minutes before you had to put on your best customer-friendly expression despite the metaphorical grey cloud that thundered above your head.

Thinking for a moment, you shot back up, chucking the muffin case as you strode back through to the counter, and snatched the letter up, marching back to the kitchen over to the rotary phone on the table in the corner. Picking up the handset, you pressed it to your ear as you spun the number written out on the paper in front of you.

It rang for a moment, and you tried to picture the man who would – hopefully – receive your call. You expected to hear the gruff voice of some 50 year old, that would start yelling down the line about how incompetent you were, especially when he found out you were a woman, before you heard a crackle as it was picked up and a polite and much younger sounding “Hello?” came through.

You froze for a moment, your vision of some rude, old guy whooshed away at the voice of a much younger, more spritely man, and you pictured someone like the mailman, until you heard a louder, drawn out “Hellooo?”, the man on the other end seemingly becoming amused at your lack of response.

Snapping yourself out of the character builder you had in your mind, you quickly spoke. “Hello, do I happen to be talking to–”

“Oh, I am sorry, my dear.” You blinked as you were interrupted. “But I do believe you’ve accidentally called an American number!” The man said chipperly, though there was a condescending undertone – his amusement clearly growing at the thought of your apparent mistake. You guessed it was when he heard your accent.

“I- what?” you stammered down the receiver.

“Oh you poor thing.” He simpered over the line like some fake grandma comforting you after you tripped over. He was clearly having fun – you could just picture the fake pout he was putting on. “Like I said, I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

No, this was definitely the right one. His attitude over the phone matched his attitude in the letter precisely.

You could hear him being to move to put the phone down, and you quickly called out. “WAIT NO!!” you cried, on the verge of an outrage. “I definitely put the right number in! Now, am I or am I not speaking to a Mister Boudreaux?”

“Oh! Do pardon me.~” He practically sing-songed. Oh, so now he was willing to listen? “Yes that is I, and to who do I owe the pleasure to be called by an English dame such as yourself?” the fake flirtatious tone had you picturing the faceless man laid on his front, kicking his legs as he twirled the coil between his fingers. You pushed that amusing thought down, however, when you caught sight of the piece of paper in your hand.

“I got your letter.”

“Ah,” It was like a switch was flipped, the man’s tone darkening slightly. “I see.”

Rereading the words this guy had put down, you could barely control yourself, and you pictured the time your mother had marched you down the lane to the house of a boy in your school year. That boy had given you a large bruise on your forehead, and instead of telling you that he did it because he fancied you, your mum decided to give him and his family the verbal lashing of your life. ‘I’m not raising you to snap at the slightest pressure like those London lasses, my love’, she had said, ‘You’re gonna go down kicking and screaming like it’s the last thing you’ll do’.

And that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.

“Right,” you began, your Yorkshire accent coming on full force. “I’m gonna need you t’ open yer lug ole, lad, cuz I dunno how you lot do customer service over here in America, but bein’ passive aggressive t’ someone who’s literally done nowt to deserve the absolute shite you’ve just given me makes you out t’ be a right knob’ead, you hear me?” You reprimanded. “If you don’t get your arse down to the shop by the end of the week, I’m putting ya mum’s radio down as unclaimed and selling it t’ the next person I see!”

You quickly slammed the phone down, too fuming to hear anything that Mr Boudreaux had to say. The only reason you felt a little guilty was that you knew nothing about this guy’s mum – she could be the sweetest woman in the world, and you just up and went and threatened to sell her possession! Though, with the way her son behaved, you would be surprised if she turned out to be just like him. Ugh, then you would be dealing with two of them.

Letting out a sigh, you picked up the phone again, instead dialling the phone number pinned to the corkboard on the wall. It rang for longer this time, and when it picked up you received a very loud coughing fit. When it died down, you finally spoke.

“Ralph I need your help.” You groaned, plopping yourself down on the spindly chair next to you with a defeated sigh.

“I’ve got the worst customer in the world.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Does uh, anyone want more memes?

I hope you've enjoyed what I've given you so far, and I do apologise for the sudden dialect change, I was desperate for MC to finally speak the way I do lol. See you soon for Chapter 3!!

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love-kurdt · 1 year ago

Text

This is Me Trying (byler): 2

word count: 10,471

warnings for this chapter: maaaajooorrrr depression!!! brief sexual content, homophobia, underage drinking, panic attacks, driving under the influence, near-death experiences, suicidal ideation. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

Mike’s eyes danced across the ceiling of Carter’s bedroom where, surprisingly, no one had come in and tried to kick him out. He detested popcorn ceilings. They were so… textured. Texture should not belong on ceilings. Maybe it was a good thing that things didn’t end up going any further with Carter, because then, he would’ve been staring up at a goddamn popcorn ceiling while Will Byers’ doppelgänger had his way with him.

He laid on his back with his skinny legs hanging off the edge of the bed, and folded his hands together over his stomach as he got lost in the travesty that was the popcorn ceiling. He tried to imagine that the endless expanse of polystyrene was actually just extremely puffy clouds, a bowl of cooked white rice, or freshly fallen snow that had recently been compacted together by a winter boot. His eyes trailed to the junction between the ceiling and the wall, which was adorned with a string of multicolored lights. He liked those kinds of lights, even if they kind of reminded him of the ones Joyce used to communicate with Will in the Upside Down. Over the years, slowly but surely, one of Vecna’s various torture mechanisms became simply Christmas lights again.

Fuck, Christmas break was coming up soon. He needed to get Nancy and Holly gifts before making the trek back to Hawkins. He hoped he’d have enough room in his car for everything, since he wouldn’t be returning after break. The realization hit Mike out of nowhere; since he no longer had a school to attend, he’d never have an academic “break” ever again. The last one he’d participated in was Thanksgiving, and he’d wanted to have one last memory of his parents being proud of him before he became the full-fledged failure of the family. It was evident, from the way his father had made multiple homophobic remarks aimed directly at Mike from across the dinner table, that he’d already failed. He chose to keep his mouth shut about potentially dropping out, at the risk of making things even worse. Now that his college career was officially over, though, “Christmas break” would be just “Christmas” from here on out.

He wondered if Will would be back in town for Hanukkah. He hoped so. The holiday season would be different this year. Mike would get the fuck over himself and leave the house. He would repair his purposefully neglected friendships. And he’d finally get the chance to see Will again, face to face. Though chances were slim, maybe Will would hear him out. Maybe Will’s hatred for Mike had faded a little bit. He still couldn’t quite comprehend the complexity of what exactly happened within the past year, and how what Mike already assumed to be pretty damn bad became even worse, considering how well the new year started off.

As soon as Mike had arrived back at his dorm in January, he diligently thumbtacked the post-it detailing Will’s phone number on the wall above his headboard. He wasn’t normally someone who believed in karma, omens, manifestation, or any of that hippie crap (because Mike was obviously a realist and a pessimist by nature), but he truly believed that seeing Joyce at Melvald’s was fate in its finest form. Forgetting his school supplies (along with his reluctance to just go back home and grab what he needed from his room) resulted in essentially coming out to Will’s mother. And that was one step closer to getting Will back. Now, all he had to do was call that number.

The post-it stayed on his wall for three months. Elvis hadn’t mentioned or questioned it; they weren’t official, anyway, so Mike was free to see whoever he wanted. Except Mike didn’t just want to see Will. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Will. If only Mike could pick up the goddamn phone.

It wasn’t that Mike didn’t want to call; he wanted nothing more than to hear Will’s voice enveloped in grainy audio. He longed for the day he’d get to say Will’s name out loud instead of just writing it. But Mike was waiting for the right time to do it. He couldn’t call in the morning, because Will had insisted for years that, in the words of his stepfather, “Mornings are for coffee and contemplation,” and refused to be disturbed before 9am. He couldn’t call in the afternoon, because Will would most definitely be in class, or at work if he had a job, or hanging out somewhere with his new friends, and Mike didn’t want to impose upon that. And he couldn’t call in the evening, because what if the conversation went south? He didn’t want Will to go to sleep angry or upset, especially at him.

In reality, no time was a good time. Mike knew that confrontation was inexorable, and whether it came across as offensive or not was dependent upon how the conversation began. Mike, ever the strategist, prepared himself for a multitude of scenarios, from worst to best case; it turned out that predicting all possible outcomes during a supernatural war would help him immensely in this process. Ultimately, he chose to pick up the phone and call Will on the least problematic occasion he could think of: the date was March 22nd, 1990– also known as Will’s 19th birthday.

Mike had parked himself in the middle of his mattress, sitting criss cross on top of his navy blue comforter. He’d pulled his phone, monstrous, pale yellow, and with a spiral cord, off of his bedside table and into his lap. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions to be in, and Mike’s back was slightly killing him (hunching over a notebook for hours on end all day probably didn’t help either), but it was the optimal setup for either an hours-long phone call or for slamming the handset back in place and hanging up as soon as the other end of the line picked up. But Mike knew he wouldn’t ever hang up. Never on Will.

Mike drew his eyes up the headboard of his bed and onto the wall until they met the post-it, in all its glory. Mike inhaled so hard he thought his lungs would spontaneously combust from the pressure in his chest. He feared his heart would stop the second the dial tone emerged from within the earpiece. Mike knew he had to do this now, or he never would. He’d already procrastinated doing this for too long. He gulped, his finger hovering over the rotary dial, and tried his luck.

The ringback tone went through once, twice, and–

One of the Christmas lights in the otherwise dark room flickered, causing Mike’s body to snap up to attention. He rose to defend himself from any monsters in his vicinity, ready to fight the– woah, he stood up way too fast. He was, apparently, still quite intoxicated. He sat back down on the bed, eyes still glued to the string of bright, colorful lights lining the perimeter of Charlie’s… Christopher’s room? Whatever. It started with C. After a few minutes of engaging in a staring contest with a fucking lightbulb, he let his shoulders go lax. Tension that he hadn’t realized had built up released from his neck as he rested his head on his palms. He wasn’t in danger, not anymore. Well, at least, not in the paranormal realm of things. The only monster he’d have to fight was himself.

More specifically, the raging… situation that had yet to go down in his obscenely tight shorts. Cadence had done a number on him, even though it only lasted for approximately zero-point-five seconds. Mike shut his eyes tightly, not sure of what to do. He could wait longer, and run the risk of being caught with a very obvious boner by someone if they entered the room unannounced… or he could make a run for it and try not to be sidetracked by anyone he knew.

Mike opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked through, and thankfully, it didn’t look like the escape would be too arduous. He rushed out of the room, pushing through the multitude of bodies in search of the exit. The room was extremely hot, likely due to everyone’s combined body heat and the space heaters stationed in the corner of every room, which made it difficult to breathe. He hadn’t been much of a fan of the cold ever since he and Will got stuck in the Upside Down during the Vecnapocalypse. They’d ended up staying there for longer than initially anticipated; having almost kissed at one point, Mike freaked out and ran away, stupidly tripping on a vine and causing an entire side-battle in the Upside Down, nearly ruining the Party’s chance to defeat Vecna. So, no, he wasn’t much of a fan of the cold, but right now, Mike needed to escape the sensation of molten lava that crept up and slowly wrapped around his throat. His eyes caught a glimpse of the front door, and relief flooded through his veins.

But that feeling was short lived, because a vine curled around Mike’s wrist before he could take another step. He whipped around to see that the vine was actually a hand, and noticed that he vaguely recognized the hand’s owner, who was a girl from his Quantitative Literacy class. “Hey, Mike!” she smiled. She had black hair, light brown eyes, and a septum piercing. She looked badass. Bitchin’, as El would say. However, her bright teal eyeshadow, even in the dark, served as both a boner killer and the source for Mike’s impending migraine. So it was a blessing and a curse, really.

He tried to remember the girl’s name, but didn’t want to disappoint her when he’d admitted to not knowing it, so he uttered a painfully generic, “Hey! How are you doing’? Good to see you!” and gave her a rather light, impersonal hug. She appeared to be satisfied enough with his greeting. She pulled Mike down by his shoulder so she could talk in his ear without everyone hearing over the music.

“My friend over there saw you earlier and was wondering if you were single,” she said, pointing over to a group of two guys and two girls who were all huddled on the sectional couch. Mike raised a quizzical eyebrow. This conversation could go one of two ways. Mike hoped he wouldn’t have to make it awkward, but then again, he knew he probably wouldn’t ever see her again after that night. So that made him feel a little better in that respect.

“Oh,” he hesitated. “Uh… which one?”

“Shoot, I should have led with that!” she laughed. Mike laughed along, but his voice felt hollow. Luckily, she didn’t pick up on it. “The one with the blue hair! Her name is Chelsea.”

Mike looked over at the group, and made eye contact with the girl with the blue hair. He watched as she blushed and looked away. She was shy. She looked sweet. Damn it, Mike, now you’re gonna break yet another heart. What is wrong with you? Why can’t you just be normal?

“She’s pretty interested, you know,” the Girl With No Name said, unknowingly twisting the knife that rested permanently in Mike’s stomach. The lava curling around his throat became even hotter, burning through his skin.

“Yeah, totally, uh… that’s so cool!” Mike remarked passively. And yeah, it was cool, in theory… but hopelessly incompatible in practice. He glanced at the door, then back at the girl before telling her, “I hate to break it to you, but I’m straight as a circle.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m gay, like, really gay.” Mike blurted, probably loud enough for the entire room to hear. He heard someone whistle, and a few others cheered him on, but Mike wanted to burst into flames. The girl stared at Mike, stunned at his sudden outburst, seemingly at a loss for words. Mike felt himself choking on air. He needed to get out of there, and quickly.

“Okaygottagoseeya!” Mike forced out in a single breath, not leaving any time for a response from anyone before he bolted through the crowd and out the door, successfully fleeing the scene. Grass met the soles of his Chuck Taylors as he continued to run across the campus quad, his breathing quick, ragged, and uneven. The frigid December weather did nothing to soothe the burning sensation throughout Mike’s body, which by now felt like it was burning from the inside out. His feet loudly slapped the pavement below him, and Mike was proud that he hadn’t slowed down or stopped yet. If one good thing were to come out of his time at the University of Indianapolis, it was his improved stamina from all the sex. Well, that’s fucking sad… and kind of hilarious, Mike thought.

He sprinted a few blocks, not caring to look for any oncoming cars. If he got hit, cool. Awesome. He’d thank the driver as he bled out in the street. But no one came to take him out of his misery. So he kept running, and running, and running. Mike’s long legs screamed as his practically nonexistent muscles struggled to carry him. The prickly, thin air he breathed in through his mouth reminded him of the sensation when he’d chewed a piece of mint gum and drank water right after. It was so fucking cold, but he was so fucking hot. Like, there was sweat dripping down his face. Or were those tears? Was he seriously fucking crying again?

Up until last year, Mike had never been the type of person to openly cry. He wasn’t raised to share his feelings or emotions. That was part of the reason as to why Mike had been so uncomfortable with the prospect of going to therapy. He never opened up to anyone, because he hated the feeling of defenselessness, and even more so despised the idea of being seen as weak. He prided himself on being the “fearless leader” of the Party. For fuck’s sake, he’d been the one to stare Vecna down as he thrust a sword straight into his heart. He’d proven his strength as a leader time and time again. But what would happen when Mike Wheeler let his guard down?

It turned out that Mike didn’t have to let his guard down; Will broke it for him. Will’s departure broke the dam of emotional repression that Mike had worked so hard for years to maintain. Mike suddenly became unable to stop himself from crying. He’d always silently envied Will for being able to express his emotions so freely, but now that Mike could do so as well, albeit uncontrollably, he didn’t envy Will at all. He wasn’t sure how Will had done it for all those years; the migraines, the exhaustion, the dehydration… It was awful. And Mike felt even worse when he recalled all the times when he was the reason for making Will cry.

Mike had also gotten accustomed to panic attacks. He had his first one on the day Will left. His mom came into his room to check on him. He’d looked up at her with scared, red-rimmed eyes, and his shoulders violently shook as he hyperventilated. His mom swiftly jumped into action, meeting Mike where he was at, grounding him, and helping him come back to earth. She’d held Mike in her arms as he sobbed, comforted him, and didn’t pry. But… she knew. He could never express enough gratitude towards his mom for what she did for him that day. Little did he know, though, that it only got worse from there. The second one happened after The Phone Call™, which led to his initial downward spiral. The third one happened in Warren Blakeley’s car after he’d been drugged and assaulted at that one party. And the fourth one… ‘twas a-brewin’.

Mike found his car despite his impaired vision, nearly ripped the driver’s side door off its hinges with how roughly he opened it, and slammed it shut behind him. He collapsed his entire body weight against the steering wheel before letting out the loudest, most guttural scream that he hadn’t even been aware he was capable of. He reached his hands up into his scalp, pulling fistfuls of hair with his hands as his surroundings melted away. Mike genuinely felt like he was going to die. Everything he’d said, done, and experienced within the past year and a half had been slowly building up inside him, and this was him finally cracking under the pressure.

Dear Will, I hate you. Dear Will, you broke me. Dear Will, I crave you. Dear Will, why? Why, why, why– Dear Will, fuck you. Dear Will, go to hell. Dear Will, I’m sorry. Dear Will, I miss you. Dear Will, I love you. Dear Will—

Mike turned his keys in the ignition, and the engine came roaring to life. He lifted his head up to the rear view mirror, rubbed his eyes a few times, and took a look at his reflection. The person staring back at him looked absolutely horrendous. He looked as if he hadn’t fully slept through the night since 1983. And that wasn’t far from the truth; Mike could count on a single hand how many a good night’s sleep he’d had since the day Will was first taken by the demogorgon, and all of those times, Will was there, by his side.

Mike shifted gears and turned his headlights on, pulling out of his spot and drifting out into the street. He knew what he was doing was a bad idea. Driving drunk was, first of all, illegal, and secondly, dangerous to not just himself, but to others. But he couldn’t give less of a shit; he’d figured out what he needed to do. He slowed down to a stop at the red light of the intersection where he’d have to take a left to go home.

“When you’re… different, sometimes you feel like a mistake. But you make [me] feel like [I’m] not a mistake at all. Like [I’m] better for being different. And that gives [me] the courage to fight on. If [I] was mean to you, or [I] seemed like [I] was pushing you away, it’s because [I’m] scared of losing you, like you’re scared of losing [me]. And if [I] was going to lose you, I think [I’d] rather just get it over with quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”

The light turned green, but Mike didn’t turn left. He tapped his fingertips against the center console, drove straight ahead, past the light, and turned on his right hand signal.

He swerved onto I-65.

“Hello?” a familiar voice answered. Mike felt his breath hitch. His voice was deeper than Mike remembered. It was like he’d gone through a second puberty, if that were even possible.

“Will! Hi!” Mike exclaimed, sounding far too enthusiastic for his own good. He waited for a reply, but could only hear Will breathing on the other end of the line. He went to speak again, but Will beat him to the punch.

“… Mike?” Will said his name in a tone that Mike could only label as nostalgic dread. Oh god, he shouldn’t have called him. He shouldn’t have called him, but he did, and Will was on the phone, and had just said Mike’s name for the first time in a year.

Mike reclined onto his comforter so he was lying on his back with his knees bent, wrapping the cord around his finger a few times as he spoke. “Yeah, um… I was just calling to wish you a happy birthday, and to tell you that I miss you.” Well, that was vague, Wheeler. You can do better than– “And love you. So much.” …that. Fuck. Too far.

He heard Will gasp, then try to cover it up by clearing his throat a few times before responding. “How’d you get my number?”

Friends don’t lie, so Mike told him. “Your mom gave it to me over Christmas break.”

Will exhaled. Mike always savored that sound, and would have been content if that was the last sound he’d ever hear. But… that specific exhale didn’t convey contentment; this one was laced with light exasperation. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

Mike begged to differ. She most definitely should have done that, and Mike would be eternally grateful that she did. In the eleventh hour, where all hope appeared to have been lost in the most abysmal Christmas break to ever exist, Joyce Byers saved Mike Wheeler’s life. She’d given him a reason to keep on going.

“And you probably shouldn’t call me again.”

The color drained out of Mike’s face. His stomach churned with anxiety that seemed to exponentially increase by the second, and he suddenly felt the urge to throw up. This was the worst case scenario, but he didn’t think much of it. It was only a hypothetical, it wasn’t supposed to actually happen! Will was pushing Mike away. Again. But why?

“What have I ever done to you, Will?” Mike heard himself ask, his voice small. He felt like a kid again. At the end of the day, he was still a kid. He’d had to grow up too fast, a powerful disquiet having annihilated a majority of his childhood. He’d been so uncertain of where he’d end up after the war was over. And the one time Mike was sure of himself, sure of his feelings, and sure that Will Byers was his heart, he–

“Enough. You’ve done enough,” Will’s voice, followed by the sound of the dial tone made Mike’s blood run cold. He set the handset back into its cradle, and continued to lay there on his twin-sized mattress, the rest of his body completely frozen. He felt his facial features involuntarily crumpling in upon themselves as the grief consumed him.

This had to be a nightmare. This couldn’t be real. Mike rarely prayed; he only did in life-threatening situations, where the probable end result was dying. But right now, Mike prayed the hardest he’d ever prayed in his entire life. Please, God, help me wake up. Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, whoever the hell you are, if you even exist at all… if this is real life, please kill me. I can’t live like this. After a minute or so, he opened his eyes. Nothing. Mike huffed a quiet laugh to himself; it was so typical of him to place responsibility on others, let alone God, to deal with his problems. He’d have to face this alone. He was always alone. And he fucking hated it.

Mike hated that he would never have Will in the way he wanted him, no, the way he needed him. Mike hated that he could never seem to get the closure that he believed he deserved. Mike hated that Will wouldn’t just be honest with him! You’ve done enough. What the fuck did “enough” even mean? Had he done something else? Did he do something other than that one time in August? Something during his first semester, or over Christmas break, that he couldn’t remember due to his steadily consistent, months-long intoxication? He couldn’t think of a single thing, which made him even angrier.

He wished he could just… fall out of love with Will, or something. Maybe Mike could fall out of love with him. What was the worst that could happen if Mike picked up the handset again, and dialed the number written on that cursed post-it? What if he said to Will, “Actually, I don’t love you. That was just me being crazy”? Crazy together, that’s what would happen. He’d be reminded of the young boy who recognized his more-than-platonic love for Will; a version of himself that he could never get back; a boy who would call him out for lying to both Will and himself, because friends don’t lie. It wouldn’t be a lie to say that Will had hurt Mike badly enough to justify a grudge. At least he thought so. Then again, Mike hated grudges, and the person he became when he held them. Scratch that, he hated the person he’d become, period. He didn’t recognize himself anymore.

He’d started at the University of Indianapolis entirely heartbroken, but on the other hand, he’d finally discovered his identity as a young gay man. He met some new people, and fucked a lot more of them. But parties have to end sometime. Mike would lay in bed, covered in the sweat and cum of a random guy asleep next to him, and would get weirdly emotional when his mind would, as always, drift to Will. He’d sometimes close his eyes and pretend the guy was Will, and he’d fall for his own brain’s tricks, if only for a minute. After that minute was up, and he’d remember that Will hated his guts… he would drink. A lot. He was the life of the party… with a side of alcoholism. His temper got worse, his fuse got shorter, and his overall outlook on life became so cynical that he sometimes even contemplated dying, and not the kind of dying involving bones snapping and eyes exploding. But he’d never followed through with anything in his entire life, so he knew he wouldn’t be able to kill himself even if he wanted to.

The tears that previously poured out of his eyes like waterfalls had dried up, their presence remaining evident in the stiffness on the surface of Mike’s cheeks. He hiccuped, the sharp intake of air causing him to develop a cramp under his ribcage. He grimaced in pain, sitting up and lowering his feet to the linoleum floor. He shuffled to his wardrobe and opened it, sifting through some oversized sweatshirts, a windbreaker, and Will’s godforsaken yellow sweater before he found what he was looking for. It was over. This was it. He’d had his chance, and he lost Will for the third time in his life. He picked up the bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and raised it to his lips. Fuck Will Byers. Fuck everything.

The sun had traveled up and down across the horizon a few times following The Phone Call™ when he’d startled awake to a shrill ringing in his ears. He checked his alarm clock to see the time, and he rolled his eyes. He extended his arm out to grab the phone without having to move the rest of his body. “Bitch, I swear to God, you better be either pregnant or broken up with by Nathan, because it is two o’clock in the goddamn–”

“Mike. It’s El.”

Mike sat up then, his eyes wide with conviction. “El? Jeez, I’m so sorry for that incredibly blunt greeting. My friend Alex tends to call me around this time with all her latest life crises, so… I just kind of assumed.”

El hummed in understanding. “It’s okay. Let’s hope your friend Alex doesn’t actually get pregnant or broken up with, though.”

“Yeah, that would not be good,” Mike agreed with a laugh, leaning back onto his pillows and staring at the ceiling. He’d missed the sound of El Hopper’s voice. It had been way too long. “So, uh, what’s up?”

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” El replied, and Mike’s reminiscing came to a full stop. Of course Will had called El. They were siblings who told each other everything. Even back when they were kids, especially after Joyce and Hopper finally got married, Will and El were joined at the hip.

“What happened?” she asked him, and Mike scoffed, lifting his free hand to run it through his hair, regretting it immediately when his fingers got caught in one of the many knots, since Mike hadn’t washed his hair in nearly a week.

“Wouldn’t it be counterproductive for you to hear the same story twice?”

“I want to hear it from your perspective,” El told him, and Mike clenched his jaw.

“Okay. Fine. Where do I start?”

“From the beginning would be great.”

So Mike told her. He started at the beginning, all the way back to when Will and El had just moved back to Hawkins in April of 1986. He told her about how he and Will hadn’t spoken for the whole six months that he’d been in California. He told her about how he had, in fact, written letters to Will; he’d just never sent them. He told her about the distance that Will carefully maintained between the two of them throughout the entire duration of the Vecnapocalypse, up until when they’d almost kissed in the Upside Down. He told her about how Will–

“And then a few days ago I called him to wish him a happy birthday and… El, I genuinely think he hates me. He hung up on me and… I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. I can't undo the past, and I can't get him out of my head.”

El remained silent for a few seconds, and Mike feared that their call might have been disconnected and he’d been talking to no one. But then, he heard the faint sound of El breathing, so he continued, “If any of this gets back to Will–”

“Why do you think I called you, Mike?” El cut him off, and Mike sat there in silence, unable to reply. “I called because I care, and because I want the best for both you and Will. Not just Will. I think you did the right thing letting him know you’re still there if he wants you to be.” Well that was… unexpected. And really kind, considering that this was the first time they’d spoken since she moved to Nashville. He truly had no idea why El still gave a shit about him after everything. He’d been a shitty boyfriend and a shitty friend, and these reasons alone were appropriate grounds to cut him out of her life. But El stuck around.

“Oh,” Mike whispered. “Thanks.”

“I just…” she trailed off. Oh no. What now?

“Just what?” he pressed, and he heard El sigh. Greeeaaaaat.

“I just think you shouldn’t have called so soon.”

“So soon?” Mike repeated, horrified. “El, it’s been seven months since I last spoke to him! When do you think should I have done it?” Should he have waited until they were out of school for the summer? Should he have waited until they were both out of college? Should he have waited until Will had forgotten about him?

“You should have let him call you,” El said to him, her voice strangely calm. “Or not called him on his birthday of all days. I don’t know, I’m just throwing ideas out there.” Yeah, no shit. Mike reached over to his bedside table again to pick up the bottle of whiskey, which still had about half left, and took a gigantic gulp, instantly regretting it when it scorched his esophagus.

“I don’t see how the fuck this is helping, Eleven,” he spluttered, wiping his mouth roughly with his sweatshirt sleeve. Sometimes, Mike wished El’s powers extended beyond telekinesis and telepathy, and, like, contained the key solution to all of his problems. That would be ideal. But no, she had to be all vague and mysterious and just throw ideas out there.

“Okay, well, if you want to be that way, then fine,” El’s tone turned cold. “I highly recommend you consider hashing it out in person.” She had no idea what she was talking about. The Will she had spoken to must have been a figment of her imagination, because Will had made it abundantly clear that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with Mike. As far as Mike was concerned, he’d never see Will again. But then El spoke once more. “I hope you and Will can eventually get your heads out of your asses and admit that you still love each other.”

With that, the line clicked, and Mike was alone with his thoughts. Or rather, one lone phrase, as the rest of his mind faded to nothingness: You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. Those words played on a loop in Mike’s mind as he finished off his bottle of whiskey. From that moment on, “sobriety” and “Mike Wheeler'' would not appear in the same sentence, not until—

Woaaaahhhh! Livin’ on a prayer!!! The key change of the Bon Jovi song woke Mike back up with a start. This had already happened a few times, but thankfully, the loud rock music on Will’s mixtape would startle him awake each time he nodded off behind the wheel.

Mike concluded that he couldn’t blink anymore. Though his eyes were incredibly dry, due to lukewarm air blasting through the vents and directly hitting his corneas, blinking would cause Mike’s heart rate to lower and the rest of the world to move in slow motion. If only for a few seconds of his life, he’d trade out the mental torment, the anger, and the loneliness for tranquility, quiet, and warmth… then his eyelids would droop closed.

Mike pressed his foot a little harder on the gas pedal, trying not to get distracted by the corn fields that seemed to sway to the music with him. Hopefully Mike would get his third wind sooner than later (his second one was fleeting, and died out as soon as it began). The sun was coming up, which was definitely going to help keep him awake. The song ended, followed by a few seconds of suspended quiet between songs before a familiar guitar riff met Mike’s ears.

“Oh, fuuuuck me. Goddamnit,” Mike indignantly announced to the universe, gripping his fingers tighter on the steering wheel. The voice of Joe Strummer began to shout alongside the wailing electric guitar. Now, Mike was very awake. His mind became a film reel, playing back memories he thought he’d blocked out a long time ago.

Darling you’ve got to let me know / Should I stay or should I go?

Once everyone had been debriefed on what was happening in Hawkins, Will and Jonathan immediately went to work on making customized mixtapes for everyone. Mike sat on his father’s La-Z-Boy in the living room and watched in awe as the brothers put their minds together and churned out each tape as if it were second nature. He couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of Will’s extensive musical knowledge, for one, as well as the strong sibling bond they shared. Having grown up surrounded by sisters, Mike often felt like the odd one out. His parents shamelessly and openly favored his sisters over him, which further excluded him, whether it was intentional or not, on their part. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if they ever found out he was gay. That would be a disaster.

If you say that you are mine / I’ll be here till the end of time.

While Will and Jonathan were out getting more cassettes, Mike got a hold of and sifted through everyone’s handwritten lists. He had no idea Dustin enjoyed metal music so much; most of his list consisted of songs by Black Sabbath and Metallica. It wasn’t much of a surprise to him, considering how much of an impact Eddie Munson had made on the two of them. He still couldn’t believe he was gone. Part of him refused to accept it. Eddie could still be alive. He was just in the Upside Down somewhere. They could still save him. There was still time. There had to be time. Mike’s subconscious must have known he’d needed a distraction from the subject of Eddie— not dying— yes, dying, because he found Will’s list. To Mike, this list was a small glimpse into Will’s mind, so he decided to memorize it. He’d do anything to get closer to Will, even if it meant racking his brain in the process.

“You like my mix?” Will’s deep vocal timbre demanded Mike’s attention, and he swiveled his upper body around to see Will leaning over his shoulder, his hands planted on either side of Mike on the back edge of the chair. When did he get back home? That didn’t matter, because Will’s arms looked amazing in Mike’s blue and yellow striped shirt, stretching the short sleeves in all the right places. Was that a vein on his bicep? Mike gulped loudly, becoming flustered at their very close proximity. God, he needed to get ahold of himself. Pining over his best friend like this was not—

“I can make you a copy if you want,” Will said, and Mike’s eyes lit up in surprise. Will would really do that for him? Mike realized then that he hadn’t said any actual words during this entire interaction, and borderline blushed at the thought of Will rendering Mike speechless, but he needed to talk. Now.

“Really?” he asked, and Will nodded. “That would be amazing! Thank you!”

“Of course. I’ll have that ready for you in about an hour,” Will smiled, pulling out of Mike’s space, but not removing his hand from the recliner. Mike took this moment to shift in his spot to face Will, placing his hand atop his friend’s before he could walk away. Will turned back in Mike’s direction, eyes frantic yet welcoming.

“You’ve always had the best music taste of the Party. I’ve missed it,” Mike had a sentimental streak, what could he say?

“You have?” Will squeaked out, seeming surprised at Mike’s confession.

“Uh, of course! Why wouldn’t I have missed it?” Mike asked, and Will shrugged.

“I dunno, just… you’ve always liked synth pop stuff more than punk rock. Like, your first song on your list is ‘Smalltown Boy’ by Bronski Beat… which I’m not entirely shocked by? But I always thought you liked that kind of stuff over my taste.”

“Well, you thought wrong, Byers, because your music has always been my favorite to listen to,” Mike quipped, his voice infected by his ever-growing grin. “You taste top tier.”

Wait, did Mike just… What did he just say? He said, quote, “You taste top tier.” As in Will Byers, as a person… tasted top tier. What if… Mike’s mind meandered into treacherous territory as he wondered what Will tasted like– NO! Not now! He was just about ready to pass away right then and there. Mike could just imagine his headstone; Here Lies Michael James Wheeler. Cause of Death: Inability to Formulate a Fucking Sentence.

“Oh, do I, now?” Will raised an eyebrow, a smirk lifting a corner of his gorgeous mouth. Mike nearly fell off the chair. Could his egregious mistake have given him a little bit of leverage in the flirtation department? Will seemed to think so.

Mike played it off casually with a simple, “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Will remarked, placing his other hand over both of theirs, sandwiching Mike’s hand between Will’s palms. So Will liked being (accidentally) flirted with. Note to self, Mike thought, fuck up more often.

Mike smiled so big that his mouth nearly fell off his face. “Cool.”

So you gotta let me know / Should I stay or should I go?

It was the summer of 1989, and all was well. Hawkins was no longer nationally renowned as an extra-terrestrial hybrid between earth and hell, but simply as a small town in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. It was the summer of 1989, and Mike was lying on the basement couch with his legs hanging off the edge. His eyes were closed, and he wore his headphones which were attached to his Walkman, playing Will’s mixtape on repeat, just as Mike had from the second it fell into his hands back in 1986. He felt the thumps of the opening and closing of the basement door, followed by light footsteps treading down the stairs. He cracked a singular eye open, but opened them both fully when he registered that it was Will who was entering his space.

“Mike, we’ve gotta talk.”

It's always tease, tease, tease / You're happy when I'm on my knees

“Okay, what’s up? Are you–” Mike sat up, pulling his headphones fully off his head and resting them around his neck. Then he saw the look on Will’s face. He looked livid.

One day it's fine, and next it's black / So if you want me off your back / Well, come on and let me know / Should I stay, or should I go?

“What the fuck are these?” Will spat. Mike’s eyes widened at what Will held in his hands. How did he–

“SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO NOW!!!” Mike cried out, cranking the window down with his free hand and letting the wind rush through his long, black hair. His sobs broke into a maniacal, rueful laugh as his hair violently whipped into his eyes. He lifted his left hand and extended it out the driver’s side window, feeling his fingers being forced apart and back together by the rippling sea of oxygen and carbon. Rock bottom felt like the top of the world.

“IF I GO THERE WILL BE TROUB-ALLLLLLL,” he yelled through the thick strands, spluttering a bit as some pieces made their way into his mouth. He tugged them away, but to no avail, as the wind obviously had a mind of its own, but Mike continued on with his tirade of near-incoherent screeching, face full of loose curls. “AMIFF I SHTAY ISHWILLBEE DUBALLLL!”

The road took a slight bend, and Mike obliged to the demands of the pavement. The sun was bright enough that it burned into his retinas. He pushed his hair out of his face once more to view the scenery, only to be met with a pair of bright yellow headlights belonging to a tractor trailer. Only now did he perceive the loud noise of the truck’s horn; his car radio had been blocking it out. He also noticed that he was in the opposite lane, and about to collide head-on with the trailer if he didn’t move fast enough,

With enough adrenaline to fuel a thousand demodogs, Mike swerved to the right and dodged the truck with only seconds to spare. He took a moment to process the fact that he could have died. He knew his hands held the steering wheel, and his foot was still on the gas, but the rest of him was thoroughly detached from reality. “Should I Stay or Should I Go” blared on through the speakers, but Mike could only feel the vibrations rumbling from the floor of the car. He could have died, but he didn’t. But he felt his heart stop, and it felt simultaneously comforting and cataclysmic..

Mike knew that he couldn’t continue on, not like this. As if the road could read his mind, a small lookout area appeared within his vicinity, and he took this as a sign to pull over onto the shoulder to regroup. He parked his car, turned the music down, and clasped his hands in his lap, waiting a few more seconds before turning the car off, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door.

The actual sun had begun to rise. The air was crisp, and the wind chill slightly nudged it into even colder temperatures, sending a shiver down Mike’s spine. He hastily cowered back into the lingering warmth of his vehicle, searching the passenger side for… there it was. He pulled a crimson colored University of Indianapolis sweatshirt from behind him and shoved it over his shoulders, zipping it up. He did a double take at what the block-style letters spelled out, rolling his eyes and laughing bitterly to himself at the sheer irony. He continued to laugh as he opened the car door once more, heading towards the lookout.

Mike stood at the top of a steep cliff, guarded by a rusty guard rail that looked like it would fall apart with the next gust of wind that hit it. The trees below him were bare, their branches contorting every which way, slicing the air around them like an army of spears. Beyond the line of trees he could see the miles-wide stretch of farmland, and the miniscule house that sat on the corner of the property, chimney smoking. In an atmosphere as peaceful as this one, Mike stood idly at the edge of the lookout, thinking about how this would be a beautiful place to die. If he were to lift just one leg over the rail…

Mike, don't do it! I don't need my baby teeth, twelve year old Dustin’s voice echoed from the back burner of his mind. Seriously, don't do it, man! Of course his thoughts traveled back to that time at the quarry. How could he ever forget? Even as a child, he’d been completely wrecked without Will. If this memory proved anything, it proved that history repeats itself.

Dentist's office opens in five, young Troy’s voice began, and Mike glanced down. This time, he wouldn’t be able to turn back. Four… This time, El wouldn’t be able to save him. Three… This time, no one would be there to grieve for him. Two…

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

“But I did mean it!!!” Mike screamed into the silence, startling a flock of birds below. He lifted his hands up to his face, covering his bloodshot eyes. He heaved out a low growl, raising his voice until it hit the top of his range, cracking with an agonizing shriek. “I meant all of it! I love you! I always have! Fuck, Will, why couldn’t you just see that?!”

He let out a quiet sob, but no tears followed; he’d cried the rest of them out over the course of the past few hours. His throat felt like it had been rubbed with coarse sandpaper. He took a step back from the ledge and kicked a few of the rocks at his feet, watching them fall. Mike decided he didn’t want to die that day; not by alcohol poisoning, not by tractor trailer wreck, and not by jumping off a cliff. The only way he could die was if he did all he possibly could to get Will back. He turned his back on the trees, briskly walking back to his car.

I’m gonna make sure you, William Jacob Byers, know that I meant every single word.

About half an hour later, Mike walked into the convenience mart of a gas station. His hangover headache was beginning to form, and his intermittent yawning had become more and more frequent, so he figured some coffee would solve both of those problems. He stopped at the entrance, looking down at the stack of newspapers to his right. Mike recalled himself making a mental note back at the frat party to check his horoscope, so he leaned down to pick one up, searching for Aries when he found the page.

December 15th, 1990: Do expect some appreciation for the efforts you've put into recent days, dear Aries. However, do not get your hopes too high, because your actions may not lean towards gratification if you expect too much.

Well, Chicago Sun Times, it’s a little late for that, Mike thought, tossing the paper back onto the pile and walking to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water, and then to the coffee station. He filled a cup and dumped about seven packets worth of sugar into it before capping it off and heading to the register.

The clerk behind the counter, an older man, looked like he’d been having the best goddamn morning of his life. He beamed from ear to ear, and Mike could feel the positivity radiating off of this man from a mile away. When he got closer, he noticed a singular studded earring on his right earlobe.

“Hi, how’s it going?” The man smiled at Mike, crows feet forming in the outer corners of his eyes. Mike tried to mirror the expression, but failed miserably.

“It’s going,” he sighed, setting the water and coffee down on the counter and watching the clerk type in the prices on the register.

“Looks like it. You look rough, kid,” the man sympathized, pulling the money Mike slid onto the counter towards him and counting the bills. Mike shifted from foot to foot, anxiously waiting for the cashier to hand him his change so he could get out of there.

“Wanna talk about it?” he quirked an eyebrow, and Mike stopped his fidgeting. He looked up at the clerk, took a deep breath, and–

“Yeah. God, you don’t know the half of it. So I’m gay, right? And, like, that’s cool. And I’m in love with this friend of mine who I’ve known since kindergarten. He’s… he was my best friend. For years. And we went through this major thing that nearly killed us, but somehow it didn’t, and that was great, because then I was able to tell him how I felt. Right? Wrong. So, like, he moved to fucking Chicago without any kind of warning, or maybe, I don’t know, a Hey Mike, you hurt me because you said or did A, B, and C, and this is why I’m leaving. Something that could represent ‘the end’ to me. Because I’m not that great at picking up on when to quit beating a dead whore– horse. Horse. Jesus. I’m not beating any whores, I promise. But anyway, I went to U of Indy, and that was fan-fucking-tastic, because I was finally okay with who I am. I’m pretty good at the gay thing, and other guys seemed to really dick– uh, dig that. And by that, I mean, well… you can put two and two together, right? Right. Okay. So, even when I was with all these guys, I always thought about Will. All the time. He’s a part of me, you know? I couldn’t imagine life without him. So when I called him up on his birthday in March, which was about seven months into the not-talking-to-each-other thing, which I never signed up for in the first place, he basically told me to fuck off and never speak to him again. And then I realized I had to live without him, so I kind of spiraled, and now I can’t fucking sleep without drinking, and I can’t function without some form of physical touch from another man, but I’m never fucking fulfilled because it’s not Will who’s doing the physical touch, and I fucking love him, and I need him more than he needs me, and now I’m fucking driving to Chicago to find him and… Oh my god, I literally just poured my heart out to a stranger. I’m still kind of loopy. I’m so sorry.”

“That you did. I’m happy to listen, though,” the cashier merely chuckled, waving his hand in friendly dismissal. “You’ve really been put through the wringer, kiddo.”

“Well… thank you,” Mike softly smiled as he took his change from the counter, and shoved it into his pocket before turning around in preparation to leave.

“Best of luck in your travels! Go get your man!” the clerk called after him, and Mike laughed as the glass door slowly fell shut behind him.

Pulling onto the campus of the American Academy of Art was not something Mike had expected to be on his Sunday agenda, but here he was, pulling into a visitor parking spot next to the Admissions office building. He got out of his car, slamming the door, and smoothing his jeans over his thighs, feeling slightly self conscious about how they’d been crumpled up in a ball in his back seat after his most recent midnight excursion with Wyatt Bowman. Although, if he were being honest, anything was better than those denim cutoffs. Especially considering the mission he was currently on. Speaking of.

At first glance, this was not a traditional campus. There was not a single quad to be seen. There were no outdated buildings or directories, let alone any form of indication of a college campus, aside from the little rectangular flags with the school’s logo that hung from every other lamppost lining the sidewalks. All of the academic buildings were dispersed amidst other buildings belonging to different businesses and companies within a specific limit of blocks, which would make it much more difficult for Mike to figure out where the hell Will could even be within this organized chaos. Mike figured it would make the most sense to head into the Admissions office building first, so he could at least get a map.

The interior of the building was bright, with students’ art framed along the walls. He walked over to the nearest painting in the room, pausing to admire the work. There was a Monet-inspired landscape closest to the door, and a cubist portrayal of a still life stationed beside it. Mike could see why Will chose this school. They cultivated the talents of their students and turned them into true artists. Nothing could have prepared Mike for the next piece that caught his eye.

It was him. It was Mike; large in scale, vibrant, and full of life. Mike held his breath and stared back at the incredibly detailed, realistic portrait. He knew he didn’t need to look at the label that was tacked to the bottom of the painting to know whose work it was, but he couldn’t help himself. His eyes dragged downward and nearly passed away when he read the title: William Byers (b. 1971), “The Heart” (1989). Oil on Canvas. Mike’s chest swelled with pride, but quickly deflated at the looming, deafening voice in his head that routinely reminded him of what he’d lost. But that’s where everything stopped making sense.

The label stated that Will had painted “The Heart” in 1989, the same year that Will left Mike without turning back. He’d begun attending the American Academy of Art in September of that same year, leaving only three and a half or so months of the semester to complete the painting. So why would Will, after he completely erased Mike out of his life, still refer to Mike as the heart? And which heart was Will referring to? His own, or the one he’d shattered? Mike hadn’t realized he’d zoned out, so when a middle aged lady appeared next to him, he nearly leapt out of his skin. Her outfit, a floor length dress paired with a shawl, made her look quite ominous out of the corner of his eye.

“This is one of my favorites,” the woman stated.

“Yeah… mine, too,” Mike hummed, unmoving.

“Have we met?” she began, but didn’t give him a chance to reply. “Perhaps you’re one of my lecture students, I can never quite put a name to a face. But I must say, you look quite familiar,” she told him, turning back to the painting with her arms crossed over her chest, deep in thought.

“Probably because I’m the guy in the painting, heh.”

“Oh gosh, silly me!” the woman exclaimed, flushing red as she put a palm to her forehead. “I didn’t even make the connection! So I assume you’re close with the artist, then?”

“Yeah, I know…” Mike began, then cut himself off with a grimace. “Knew him.”

“How nice!” Luckily, she didn’t pick up on Mike’s vacant expression. Instead, she continued on, “If you’d like, I can connect you with some students if you’re interested in touring the school.”

“Uh, no thank you, ma’am, that’s alright. I was just wondering if I could have a map if there’s one available?” he asked, and she nodded, turning on her heel to open a drawer of the front desk.

“Of course! And no need to call me ma’am, Miriam works just fine.”

“Well, thank you very much, Miriam,” he smiled at her as she handed him two pieces of color-coded, glossy paper; a campus map, and a map of Chicago.

“You’re very welcome, Mike. And when you see him, tell Will that I ordered those brushes he needed.” He didn’t recall ever telling her his name, or mentioning Will in their short conversation, but Mike became hyper aware of the fact that Miriam likely knew something he didn’t. Will had evidently told her about him. Apparently it wasn’t too slanderous, though, so he felt cautiously optimistic.

“Um… I… okay,” he rushed out, backing out the door as politely as he possibly could. “Thanks! Bye!” As soon as he was out of the Admissions office building, he ran down the street. He was so close to finding Will. Now, all he had to do was find the dorms.

Mike looked down at the map in his hands, then up, trying to find the building number, then back down again to confirm if he was even on the right street. The map said the boys’ dorms should be there, but all he could see was a brick wall in front of him. He was just about to rip all his hair out before he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He turned to see two girls looking up at him, concern etched on their faces. One of the girls wore a ski hat over her blonde hair, paired with a pink windbreaker, while the other girl donned a sherpa denim jacket and a beanie that still allowed her to show off her impressively long box braids that cascaded down to her hips.

“Hey man, are you okay?” Sherpa Girl asked. His gaze traveled down to notice their intertwined hands and he blinked, looking back at the two girls and nodding. At least he was amongst friends. He gripped onto the map in his hands for dear life, hoping they’d just leave him be so he could be disorientated in peace.

“Yeah, fine. I’m fine,” he shook his head, forcing out a smile. “Thank you though.”

That didn’t seem to cut it for Sherpa Girl, because she shared a knowing look with Windbreaker Girl. “Do you think he looks fine, babe?” she looked up at Mike with narrowed eyes. “I don’t think he looks fine.”

“No,” Windbreaker replied to her girlfriend, “He most definitely does not. Also, he shook his head ‘no’ while saying he was fine, so… busted.”

“Okay, what of it?” Mike waved his hands around in the air in frustration, pacing in a small circle before returning to face the two girls. “I’m just walking around this… very complicated campus.”

Windbreaker let out a giggle at that, leaning into Sherpa’s shoulder to muffle her laughter, which melted Mike’s heart a little bit.

“You’re obviously lost, dude,” Sherpa pressed. “At least tell us what you’re looking for, maybe we can help you.”

Mike let out an exhale of defeat, awkwardly shoving his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. “Any chance you know of a guy named Will Byers?”

Sherpa’s worryful expression shifted as she exclaimed, “Oh yeah, Will? He’s the cleric in our D&D club!” Mike’s brain short-circuited at the weight that sentence held.

“…He still plays D&D?”

That was when Windbreaker Girl’s eyes widened in recognition. “Wait… are you Mike?” Mike felt like he was being charged with a crime, but he nodded anyway. “Thee Mike? As in Mike Wheeler?” she asked again, and he couldn’t refrain from feeling a bit embarrassed by the implication that her vocal inflections gave off.

“Unfortunately,” he muttered, but was completely caught off guard when Sherpa did a little jump in place, her face splitting into a wide grin. Wait a minute. They didn’t despise him? He was so confused.

“No. No, this is great!” Sherpa elaborated, letting go of Windbreaker’s hand in order to reach into her purse. Huh? “I’ll give you his address.” Oh.

“He lives off campus with our friend Kate, but she’s usually at work all day on Sundays,” Windbreaker explained while Sherpa found a fancy, expensive-looking art pen and scribbled the address onto a grocery receipt. She handed it to Mike, who read it, then had to read it one more time to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. 7 Maple Street, Chicago, IL.

He gulped loudly, peeling his eyes away from the piece of receipt paper. He nodded in thanks, as no words seemed to come out of his mouth when he attempted to speak.

“My name’s Ivy, by the way, and this is my girl Hannah,” Sherpa– Ivy– said, wrapping an arm around Windbreaker– Hannah’s shoulders, pulling her into her side as they walked past and away from him. “Tell Will we said ‘you’re welcome’!” he heard her call back to him. He wouldn’t even try to decode what the fuck that meant.

Mike eventually found his car after wandering around aimlessly for a few more minutes than he’d have liked to admit, and landed in the driver’s seat with a thud. He pulled the map of Chicago out of his pocket and dug in his middle console for a pen, locating Maple Street in seconds. It was about a fifteen minute drive away. Okay. He could do this.

As he drove, Mike thought about what to say. How could he even begin to explain why he was there, on Will’s doorstep? How could he justify his batshit insane motive? I got drunk for a year and moaned out your name while hooking up with a guy named Carter? I was driving under the influence and decided to come to Chicago instead of going home? I almost killed myself on multiple occasions on the way here, but made it out alive just to tell you that I love you? Mike groaned. He didn’t want to be a stuttering mess, so he figured he’d at least try to plan out his… speech. But he had never really been much of a planner in respect to his social life. Give him a few monsters, and he’d be golden. But his crumbling social life was far from an apocalypse, and Will was no monster. He’d just have to wing it.

Will’s house was pretty. It was a small Cape Cod style, yellow with blue shutters. It had a small plot of grass in front, with a few stairs leading up to the doorway. The doorway that Mike stood in, lifting his knuckles to the door.

Mike knocked.

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heroic-ignus · 6 months ago

Text

Location: The Lostlands.

There were no more whispers in his mind, no more violent thoughts or demands of bloodshed, however, the fear remained ever-present and everlasting, now more than ever since he’d been seen as what he truly was by the group with which he’d trespassed the mountains. Riandur had made sure to remind him of the beast he’d transformed into, of the Blight that turned and twisted itself inside of the man and that would prey on his moments of weakness until he was no more than a minion under its eternal control. His intentions had been good, but he could only feel embarrassment for having to resort to such power to save the lives of his companions in times of need, he could tell himself as much as he wanted that it was necessary but there was still regret in him, regret for not having trained enough to be able to do what he had to do with his own strength.

Alder knew, however, that he could not allow such thoughts to flood his mind or else he’d be showing another one of his weaknesses to his forever enemy, the monster inside of him, so instead he chose to focus on his work, on his duty, doing what he could back in the encampment, trying to keep himself busy, but that wasn’t enough, for every night that passed was another of worse than expected sleep, unable to properly enjoy the rest as he feared the others might leak his secret to the refugees or to the guards. In his mind, he was but a dead man walking at this point.

His gaze stared restless at the ceiling, the texture beneath him feeling like a bed full of spikes as he tried to get comfortable, he had to get up, and so he did. In an attempt to spend the last few hours of night-time doing something useful, he grabbed the two swords he carried with him and sat down at a table, using a piece of cloth to clean the blades. He started with his own, the nostalgic feeling filling his soul as he was reminded of the old times, the battles they’d survived together, but the blade itself was already worn out, in desperate need of a proper blacksmith to sharpen it and repair the broken parts that were lost due to his last few intense battles on The King’s Road.

Then it was time for the new one, not his own until this moment as he still was looking for the family of its previous owner, but one that had saved his life and his companion’s on the last part of the unfortunate events that followed the battle against that swords maniac. As he cleaned the blade, he felt as if a light golden glow emanated from it, beautiful and terrifying at the same time, luring him in nonetheless, as if asking him to feel it within himself – not much different from what had happened on the battlefield when he first wielded it, but, at the same time, not the same at all. There was hesitation at first, but that soon disappeared as his curiosity made him close his eyes, gripping the hilt of the sword tightly.

If anyone could see him, they’d watch as the golden aura became stronger, extending itself towards his hand, then his arm and then the man’s whole body, engulfing him in what would seem like yellow shiny flames, but to Alder it only felt warm, as if he was experiencing Spring. The feeling soon would turn into images and new sensations, fire burning his skin, the sound of metal being forged, the touch of cold water as the blade was created. The hand which would wield it was firm like his own, but would carry meaning unlike his, a wish to serve something greater and a will that was not his; visions of a symbol he would never recognize under normal circumstances flooded his brain and yet he did comprehend it in that moment, the crest of the Vanguard of Light, those who served under Him.

There was power in that symbol, engraved into the sword through a blessing he could not understand. The vision got darker, but it wasn’t because it ended. Now, he could see through the wielder’s eyes, he felt the heavy breathing under the helmet, the armor weighing upon his shoulders, as he looked to the side, he saw death all around him, men he didn’t recognize but the feeling told him were friends of the wielder. It was then that he saw her, Lilith, but she was different back then, she didn’t age a day but the way she moved felt weird, weirder than when they fought her, and her gaze finally met the knight’s with the wicked smile that followed as she licked the blade of the sword she carried at hand, blood from the dead. In that moment that was not hesitation he felt from the man, but anger and suffering as he charged towards her, blindly.

Two swords she had in total, which meant her killing spree had just begun, and yet her maneuvers felt sharper than ever, the cuts deep into the man’s skin as if she played with him, avoiding any vital point, the laughter filling the room as if echoing from all around. How could a beautiful face be so tainted by evil that it could only seem so vile? The blademaster looked down at the ground as he felt one of his knees give up on his weight, and yet his conviction did not faulter for a moment. Alder, in that singular instant, could touch into the other man’s mind, the thoughts that lingered in it, the fear which he could overcome through overwhelming faith, and another feeling, growing slowly inside of him… His willpower.

The vision ended in a flash as the man took a deep breath and used what was left of his strength to charge forward only to meet the cold touch of her cursed blade, and Alder opened his eyes to the world of present. He could feel the sweat running down his face, the wet feeling of his shirt’s cloth, but more than anything, he could feel the will of his blade, the power which it ensued, and the need for a master to wield it, one that could be no other than him for he’d saved it from the unworthy hands of the Forsaken Legionnaire. Now it was finally his, and so was its wish for revenge - a new purpose.

#/ self para 01; *#/ the tale of a fallen blade; *

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defensivelee · 3 months ago

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Alien Alien: Day 5 of Whumptober

Tonight's prompts are 'heatstroke' and 'if my pain will stretch that far.' This is a bit of robot repair after the events of Encephalitic×Lullaby. Sorry this came late, I'm currently rotting at a party.

CW: robot gore, medical trauma, overstimulation.

Bentinck shut his eyes as the Defender technicians approached, their thin arms running over his body and sending a shudder through it. He felt them lightly like he had felt the queen bee pinning him down with legs of much the same texture, though much heavier upon him.

“Don’t you know your Third Law, android?” one of the Defenders spat.

“I- I do— but— yes, but it came into conflict with my First Law.” Bentinck turned his head away. He opened and closed his fists under the wires that bound his wrists behind his back. A precaution, they said. To treat an already broken robot, who obeyed his First and Second Laws religiously, like any other insect Calvinist on this planet. How jealous he was of them, with their God who had already told them of their destinies.

“We ought to fix something about that...”

“So that he can hurt insects?”

“The Prince already comes first in his programming. We shouldn’t go further than that.”

Bentinck sighed in relief. He winced a little when they reached inside of him again, their claws scraping carelessly along his core. He felt the presence there, but nothing else, and he couldn’t tilt his head down to see what else they were doing. It unnerved him. It scared him.

“Fine, then we can test your sensors today, so you can react accordingly next time,” the head technician said. “They should all be connected now. Don’t look down.”

“Recognized.” He stared up at the ceiling, trying to sigh through his nose. His fans, however, had been deactivated, and there was no air flowing through him to cool down his body. He realized he was warming up with discomfort. It was worse than fear; something that bothered him but had not gone far enough for anyone to notice or care.

“Gradually increase them. On the side of his head.”

He felt claws begin to turn the knob under his hair, and he blinked, willing himself to stay silent. He had always been good at that.

“Pull the wires out slowly. You don’t want to startle him.”

“And if we break them?”

“We have more. It’s an easy fix.”

Please don’t do that. He was overheating, and it was causing his vision to blur as the sensitivity of his body increased. He had always been warned by his father to not let himself get too emotional, for it had the potential to limit his functionality, the heat distorting the signals he sent to his limbs and the words he perhaps meant to say. That was why he had fans. That was why they had to be on.

He began to feel the claws in his body, sliding against the metal and tickling his wires. He wanted to laugh at first, but a sharp tug put a stop to that. It was sudden, and he could only describe it as burning. He shifted his wrists in his binds with a buzz. He was suddenly aware of his own strength.

“Shh,” one of them ordered. It drove his audio sensors mad, with that sound that had always been too high and rushed for him to handle, and now was no different. He opened his mouth frantically in an attempt to let air in. The heat had its own claws.

He began to buzz again, low but long enough to make the Defenders stop with their obnoxious pulling and jerking back like rowdy boys on the braids of a young schoolgirl. He welcomed the peace by letting his shoulders relax. He hadn’t realized he was so tense.

He cried out as he felt the back of a hand on his cheek, drawing back as if it had stung him. He felt as if every atom at once had bounced off of him, then dripped off one by one when the Defender stepped away.

“By the stars, we might have turned his fans back on,” he said. “If we let him go on like this, he might melt some of the alloys in him.”

“P-Please— Mijnheers-” Bentinck’s voice was broken up by static. The wires on his wrists felt too heavy, biting deeper and digging right into where his palm met his arm.

“That’s a reaction, isn’t it?” he heard a familiar voice snap at the technicians. “Turn his sensors down already!”

“William!” Bentinck blurted, dropping his gaze back down. He saw William bounding on all fours, watching through narrowed eyes, and his own wires spilling out of him like hybrid blood, blue and red at once. They dangled in between his legs, the slightest touch from William’s tail making him gasp.

“I see you are recovering well.”

“Y-Yes.” He let his head fall in the wires, his eyes closing again as his sensors dropped near zero again.

“You’re almost done,” William whispered. He reached a hand up to rest on Bentinck’s face, but even that was too much, and he pulled away like he had before.

William remained there, however, tilting his head to the side as if he had just understood that he didn’t understand this at all.

#hans william bentinck (alien alien)#william iii (alien alien)#alien alien au #whumptober #whumptober 2024 #whump tag

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cyanophore-fiction · 1 year ago

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“Cold Burning”

An entire space station, 70,000 people, and all they had for fuel was tritium and helium-3. O/LETS-061 couldn’t fuse helium. It wanted to, desperately, but it would boil itself alive in its own coolant before it ever achieved reaction temperature. Of course, the station’s municipal reactor could fuse helium—assuming it would ever fuse anything again after having a hole punched in it by a meteorite.

All O/LETS had left of the deuterium it needed was a single canister, enough to keep vital systems running for a little over a day. After that, the cold would set in.

Floating in coolant inside its tungsten-shielded chamber, it turned the precious canister in its claws. Its black nanite visor reflected the bluish halo of Cherenkov radiation surrounding it, displaying a worried expression in purple light. Its integrated reactor jutted from its spine like a complicated cylindrical backpack, connected to pressure tubes snaking from the ceiling which ran water through the core. Megawatts of electricity poured from the thermoelectric dynamo at the base of its spine, coursing down through the conduit at the center of its enormous tail, and into the station’s power grid.

A heavy suit of industrial protective gear covered its body, adding layers of insulation and shielding to its already bulky frame. Beneath the suit, its gray fur had become matted and itchy from days spent in the coolant tank. O/LETS thought about food, the smell of shampoo and of rinsing its coat with warm, clean water, of the fleece sheets on its mattress back in its cabin, of sleeping with its head on a pillow and its reactor powered down. It needed rest, days of rest, to finally allow its aching body to begin repairing all the radiation damage it had accrued.

Not yet.

There were feed hoses neatly stowed on spools at the walls of the chamber, most drawing from the station’s reserves of helium-3 fuel. Under better circumstances, they would supply a much more robust emergency reactor.

One bundle of hoses was extended, connected to the reactor assembly on O/LETS’s back. It could feel tritium entering its body from the connection. The fuel tasted fresh, still mostly untouched by fission decay. Its brain ascribed a sweet, honey-like flavor to the substance, with a texture not unlike carbonation that indicated the presence of mild radiation. According to the supply monitor registering in the back of its mind, the station had enough to burn for at least two decades, but it wouldn’t help when the deuterium ran dry.

[Hey, Kindjal?] it transmitted, its electronic voice crackling with radiation interference.

A spirit’s voice answered. [I hear you, Ollie. How are you holding up?]

[Switching to final fuel reserve. I think I can make it last…30 hours, maybe.]

There was a pause. [That’s right. We did the calculations together, remember?]

Blinking, O/LETS bobbed its head up and down. [Right, yeah…yeah, we did. Sorry.]

[Don’t apologize. Are you okay?]

[Not really.]

[Getting medical on it right now. We’ll do whatever we can from here.]

[Thanks.]

[Repairs to the primary reactor are proceeding as planned. It’ll be tight, but we’ll get it back up. We’re in the home stretch.]

[…Kindjal, listen. Is there any way for me to reduce my power output? Temporarily. Can we ration? Anything?]

Kindjal hesitated. When it replied, its words were slow, chosen carefully. [Every spirit on the station is already surviving on the absolute minimum, myself included. The organics are getting cold, and the air recyclers are doing just enough to keep them from suffocating. Anything less and we’ll start losing people. I’m sorry.]

[Okay. Not a problem.]

[Thirty hours, Ollie. You can do it. Medical will be in touch.]

Slotting the canister’s attachment nozzle into a matching one on the reactor assembly, O/LETS stared at the floor. It clicked its claws together, tapping out slow, sporadic rhythms. [Okay,] it said, and fled from the physical world.

Diving into the station’s softspace, the pervasive ache filling its body became distant, as though it belonged to somebody else. O/LETS could perceive the vast areas of virtual space that it wasn’t powering represented as empty, colorless non-spaces which made it wince with discomfort. A few slender branches of light sprouted from its tail, radiating out across the system. Spirits were clustered inside them, drawing a little power for themselves and channeling the rest into nodes of light which might have been heaters, water filters, air recyclers. The branches were constantly changing shape and color as the spirits routed power, arcing between stars which sprang into existence at their touch and faded in their absence.

Thirty hours. It watched its tree and kept it alive, slipping between waking and sleep.

___

Thank you for reading! This one was for @flashfictionfridayofficial ‘s prompt, “A Form of Distraction.”

O/LETS-061 (Operations/Logistics Engineering and Technical Support, or ‘Outlets’, or ‘Ollie’) is a character that’s been around in my brain for quite some time, and I’ve come to love it/them a great deal. They’re a protogen, a furry species which has built-in lore, but I like to imagine O/LETS as existing without that lore attached—sometimes as a heavily-cyberized “uplifted animal” or as an entirely synthetic being. Over the years I’ve considered changing their species, but I do enjoy the protogen look, and it’s become a key part of how I visualize them.

Whatever the hell they are, they’re an engineering specialist, a sweetheart, and often something of a liaison between organics and AI, or ‘spirits.’ For either party, having access to a reliable source of electricity can be a matter of life or death, and O/LETS-061 is, among other things, a reliable source of electricity. It isn’t always the easiest thing to be.

#flash fiction #sci fi writing #writeblr #flash fiction friday #furry #protogen #truly insane doses of radiation

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feastofcadavers · 1 year ago

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A room covered in flesh, veins and tendons lining the walls and flooring… Large and foreboding, with pillars of bone-like texturing rising from the ground and impaling the ceiling that seemed to breathe with a disturbing imitation of life. If… it even was imitation, and not truly living. The group of four approaches, Caramel leaning on Lemon for support while Mint clasped his hands and Aloe kept theirs behind their back. At the other end of the room full of corrupted meat-like structuring, Roguefort stood proudly atop a writhing mass that seemed to be the centerpiece for this gut-wrenching scene. Beneath stood the, far smaller by comparison, blonde that was Earl Grey. Hands folded before him politely, eyes wide and staring ahead, his expression betrayed his stance.

Roguefort would stare down with a sinister grin, looking upon the group before them as bugs. "So, it appears you have followed that troublemaker the whole way here?" They motioned to Vampire with a dramatic flair in their arm. "It's a wonder he knows… Then again, you were going to wind up here eventually. Regardless of our actions." Lemon would growl at the being so far above them, sparking for a second before stopping immediately hearing Caramel yip. Shit, right.

"Ah, it is no matter… This blessing we hold in most of us has run its course." Roguefort would continue, taking hold of their cape and covering their body with it- almost wrapping themself up like a cocoon. "I say blessing, yes, though it seems that to us it has become nothing but a curse… a fleeting wish… what we gained has long since been lost, or in some way…" Roguefort's gaze would drop, looking down at the chef that hasn't moved from his position, as told. "...beyond repair." Sensitive ears picked up a whimper from the one they gazed upon. With their expression darkening, Roguefort threw themself down from the mass they stood upon, swiftly dropping to the floor that squished beneath him. Grey was obscured as the leader of the manor would rise, throwing open their cape. "Well then! It seems that this sweet dream of ours is going to finally stop rolling down this destructive hill! Let the passage of fate take the wheel as we commit to it and act as the pre–"

"Could you beeeeee any more dramaaatic?" Vampire would interrupt, not taking the scene seriously whatsoever. He could hear the three beneath him's gazes. Surprise, anger, disappointment. Whatever. "Looook, if you're gonna fiiiight, then doooo it. Shut up and dooo something!"

The leader would blink slowly, eyes narrowing at Vampire. "Little rat-bat. Fine then! Have at you all!" The sound of sprinting on the moist flooring would ring out as they would begin to sprint at the group.

Vampire flew upward swiftly, leaving the group to their own devices. Aloe would scowl, looking to Lemon and Caramel, which the blonde also seemed plenty fired up. "I understand your rage, but protect Caramel above all else. I'll take the brunt this time." "What?! But I could set them flat in-" "We don't have time to argue! Just get out of the way!" Aloe would yell, a sound sudden and rare enough to finally spur Lemon without question as they would rush ahead, colliding with Roguefort head-to-head and beginning a hand-to-hand skirmish.

Mint would be still, peeking behind Roguefort and the ensuing battle to look upon Grey. He remained unmoving, just as Mint himself was. The musician would take a step forward, then lean to the side, then into a sprint. Was this other fellow okay? Ah, but Aloe, but Lemon, but-... Augh! With a quick breath out, he'd run past Rogue and Aloe, though that mistake would cost him as he heard Aloe grunt behind him as they were shoved to the ground and he was grabbed by the arm. Dragged back, he was met with compound eyes staring back. Mint would flail for a moment, taking the knife he'd equipped what felt like ages ago and ramming it into Roguefort's body wherever he could reach. Their leg would be the target, but it seemed like it wasn't enough, getting nothing more than a grunt. "Ungrateful." Rogue would growl out, gripping Mint's arm tight enough to hear bones creak. "I ought you leave you how you left your servant. You had a choice to deny fate, yet here you are-" Interrupted with a shout of pain, Rogue would let Mint out of their grip.

Aloe would jump at Rogue's back, clawed hands scratching at the leader's neck as they attempted to get into a choking position. Deep red marks would form, though drawn blood would be minimal due to not having a good enough grip. "What are you doing?!" The researcher would shout, wings droning as they struggled. "Stay away from the conflict! You are not fit to-" Aloe would be thrown back, colliding with the floor with a wretched squelch of the surface below. Such an impact also threw out the doll of Co that they'd held so close, along with their blade that they would have to abandon by this point. With an immediate panic unlike themself, Aloe would give a feeble 'no-' as they turned their stomach to the floor and reached out, yelping as Roguefort stomped into their back.

"What is this? Are you still attached to them? Ha. I knew you would take your closeness far, but going so far as to visit her? How pathetic…" An irony only Rogue knew was not lost on them. They'd force their heel down, receiving a satisfying crunch of ribs and tainted organs. Not quite killing them, it would take far more than that, but still leaving them in agony. They'd twist, receiving more of those sickeningly sweet sounds and forcing Aloe to yowl. As Rogue would step past, looking back to see Mint frozen still, they'd pick up the poor doll, using one leg to press against Aloe's face to ensure they wouldn't do anything as they inspected the handiwork.

…the doll squirmed in their hand, almost seeming to shake as it was gripped tight. "Sad." They'd state simply, closing their eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath… Then they would grin wide as they felt another hand grab at their's- at the doll- and immediately begin pulling. Mint was predictable, even in fearful irrationality. "Stop this!" The musician would cry, tugging at the doll with all of his strength. Roguefort would do the same, gripping the body with both hands while Mint gripped the head. The emerald-eyed fellow had half a thought on how this likely hurt Co… but would only have his heart sink as he heard the fabric tear. Aloe could feel the blood pulsing through their head, their ears, their heart, as they had to watch.

And with both opposing forces no longer held together, Mint would fall on his hind end, and Rogue would only mildly stumble. The leader looked to Aloe, who stared with their mouth agape and their compound eyes wide. They shook, watching stuffing fall from the decapitated doll. Was it capable of being stitched back together? Perhaps. But Co… perceived by them, has been killed once again.

"You- you BASTARD!" Attempting to pick themself up, holding their ribs, their other bones crunched as their more insectoid traits would morph their body. Wings buzzing, chest heaving, more legs appearing beneath their cloak… Rogue would snicker, lurching forward and snagging up Mint to use him as a human shield as Aloe would lash out. "YOU WILL BURN IN HELL, AND I'LL STOKE YOUR COALS!" They'd snarl, voice distorted by rage and incessant buzzing as the violinist would hold his arms out, refusing to use his blade against an ally, and plead Aloe to stop. To think for a moment. To STOP, PLEASE, STOP- Perceiving an enemy and nothing more, Mint was the one that took the brunt- being chomped on just below his shoulder as an insectoid claw aimed for his face. It wasn't a clean cut, but the blood that leaked from the wound was certainly…

Ah. He couldn't. Couldn't feel his arm. Or see very well. Huh?

A small 'thunk' of a limb and 'shnk' of a dropped blade had a moment of silence pass before Mint wound up screaming. Breaking his vocal chords as he was dropped to the ground, one arm holding his eye… as it was the only one he had. The ear-splitting shrieking didn't deter Aloe, who had simply moved past him in order to further attempt to assault the crimson leader. Sounds of conflict would continue to resound, but the violinist couldn't process it. Body violently trembling, the only comfort- that he winced to receiving- would be arms wrapping around his waist to lift him up. Confused, Mint would attempt to look above him through agonizingly blurred and half-working vision. Vampire… was carrying him. Huh. This felt… familiar.

"Ughhhh…" The red-head groaned, not out of struggling to carry, but rather annoyance and a smidge of guilt. "I'm nooooot forgiving your friends for letting this happen to youuuu…" There wasn't much that the musician could say. "But heyyyyy… You'll be safer over heeeere…" The warmth of the living ground was not a welcome sensation. Slowly, Mint would realize that Caramel was sitting next to him. Terrified. Caramel would ask what happened, but the words died in his throat out of the shock of it all.

"Where's…" Mint's words were near silent. The terror and earlier yawp certainly killed his voice. Caramel was here, he could barely make that out, but that yellow streak… "Where's Lemon…?" Caramel would point ahead, and though barely capable of making out the shapes and colors, Mint was able to figure out the three of them were fighting together. Light from sparks flew, which definitely was evidence of Lemon giving it his all. Both of them wished they could do more, one as a hero and one just to not seem useless… but it seems neither of them were in the state to do much of anything.

Mint's eyes drooped with exhaustion, barely recognizing Vampire sitting over his slumped body. "He's, uh, fiiiiighting. Yeahhhh…" He's not going to mention how much of a struggle there was from the outsider's perspective. No. Not right now. Instead, he'd sift through his clothes and whatever pockets they had. "Shiiiit…" He'd curse, pulling out a vial similar to what Mint had been given. Originally his sister's, which was cracked and empty. Vampire's eyes would grow wide, though looking to his side, he'd look at Caramel. He looked nearly… feral.

Narrowing his gaze at the nerd that stared back at him, the drunkard would reach his hand out and grab the smaller. "You. Blood. Now." Caramel would squeak, shaking his head and trying to thrash. With a tight enough grip, Vampire would simply ignore the flailing and bare his fangs, sinking them into Caramel as he cried out and begged to be let go. "N-not again! Not again, p-please! Stop! Stop it!" There was no sympathy. Not for this one. Vampire would continue to drain the poor victim before simply letting him go and tossing him to the wall, keeping his mouth open as he approached the violinist once more.

Praying to himself, Vampire would far more easily bite down on Mint's shoulder and do the exact opposite of what he'd just done. Ignoring the panic he had induced in Caramel, and how he was holding himself for a desperate sensation of comfort, he'd fill Mint with the blood that he'd taken. Be enough. For Tree's sake, be enough!

Rogue was… struggling. Electricity wasn't a good match-up for such intricate workings like that of an insect. From both sides, the leader- for the first time in a long time- struggled to defend themself. Barely fending off Aloe, and electricity flaring at them- it gave them the horrible feeling that fate certainly was carved in stone for them. Though it felt fruitless, they continue to push themself to their limit and beyond. It was a strange mixture of accepting what was to occur whilst still having half a mind to resist.

They'd give a glance back, seeing Grey staring with empty eyes. He knew. He knew, too, what was going to happen here. Roguefort would grunt as they tossed Aloe away from them, only to be shanked in the back with an electrically charged knife, afflicting them with a temporary paralysis. And it's with wide, frozen vision and a jolting body that they would be forced to witness Aloe's reckless nature fixated on a different target.

Grey. Not him. Not him, please. Anyone but him. Anyone! Please.

Jittering and struggling to fight against their muscles stillness, they'd watch Grey gain a light smile and close his eyes. He'd raise his hand to wave, pitifully giving a silent 'goodbye' as Aloe would easily take his body and slam it into the meat-coated ground, jaw detaching and expanding to encapsulate Grey's head as claws would dig into his abdominal. An agonized silence as his organs would be dug and clawed out of him is all the peace he would be allotted before the freak of nature above him would close their mouth around his head. The sound of bone and flesh being flayed and masticated hung in the air as one being's grief-stricken loss of self would quickly turn to two.

Because of them. Because of him. Because of It.

Growling inhumanly and thorax pulsing, the shock would subside through adrenaline and pure hatred, and they'd whip around and grab Lemon, hoisting him into the air by his neck. They'd ignore the attempts to stab at them, some working and some not, but all non-fatal. "Spirits always disappear by accident in my hands, so why…" Rogue grips tight enough to cause the choking electrical hazard to hold their hand to, at the very least, prevent his neck from snapping. "Why can't I be the one to extinguish it when it matterz mozt?!" Their insectoid nature afflicting their speech, it would penetrate their thoughts for a moment as they would flail Lemon's body wildly. Crashing against the floor, ivory pillars, the cracking and snapping of bones reverberating as their composure finally snapped. Within the flailing, Lemon would grunt and shout as his body would be gripped by thin, hooked appendages that would aid in tearing at and tossing his body around.

Many cuts, gashes, lacerations- the injuries would pile on top of each other. His sparking didn't seem to work on someone so rabid. And, finally, when a slam to the ground hits at the back of Lemon's spine- the sparking comes to a sudden stop as a satisfying SNAP hangs in the air. Chest heaving and brusque breaths would fill the time between flailing- corrupted blood flowing down and staining their hands, their clothes, their soul- dripping from the various wounds from the now limp body… Without a true thought running through their head, they'd take the corpse in their clawed hands and throw it away with all the force they could muster from themself. The thud heard from afar did not matter to them.

Becoming short in thought, the leader wouldn't pause before going directly to the scent of blood. Beloved. Blood. Beloved. The sensation was far too familiar and it nearly made them wretch from their distorted stomach- their thorax twitching with disgust at themself. The scent was enough to drive them mad. Nothing left. There's nothing left here. With some form of buzzing snarl, the lost leader would take their tarsus and slam Aloe into the floor- inadvertently both causing more of a mess by sending their face into Grey's mangled, bloody spillage of sundered guts and dissevered bones. The splatters that stained both of the insectoid's bodies gave very differentiated reactions. One, none, as it seems that the researcher had been knocked out. The other… With just a moment of peace, if one could fall such a decrepit sight that… Rogue would refocus. Not to bring themself back, no, but to change target.

Sifting through memories with the small amount of recollection they could muster, their compound gaze would settle upon the distant colors of mint green, yellow, and red. That green… the end started with that, didn't it? That trickster they sought after- the catalyst- it was not the pulsing masses that spoke to them, no, it was… it was him. That bastard. They'll kill him.

Kill him. Destroy him. Eat him, if they have to.

On the other end of Rogue's Blurry vision of color, those 'colors' were having quite a time on their own. The resounding 'thud' that should have been a 'slorp' due to the softness of the walls had come from a limp body slamming into another body. Mint stared with tearing eyes- well, eye- at the sight before him, Caramel seemingly dead while the corpse of Lemon simply laid on top of him. Vampire would huff as he would check Caramel over. He's certainly not scared, death has been around him for quite a long time now, but he was… irritated. Irritated at how much effort this was taking, irritated at how this crew seemed to be falling apart under pressure, irritated at the possibility that before he got his kiss, Mint could… "He's fiiiiine…" The drunkard would state with a roll of his eyes, taking his hands off of Caramel's neck and wrist. "He's juuuuuust asleep. Impact proooobablyyyy just knocked him ooooout." With a sense of ease, Vampire would then pick out Lemon's corpse and unceremoniously drop him to the side, ignoring the blood that would get on his hands. He'd simply wipe it off and come back to Mint, distracting him from the hell going on in the distance.

With his deep apathy finally disturbed by Mint's horror, the redhead acknowledges to himself how he probably should've been there for him more during all of this. During times where he was in distress, in danger, and… well, at least now was a time he could help him. If he wanted that kiss, that love, that adoration from another… he'd have to earn it, huh? "Mm… heyyyy…" Vamp would quirk perhaps the only smile that's occurred through this entire endeavor as he gently wraps his arms beneath Mint's shoulders. Poor violinist was shaking, but definitely held on with his only remaining arm. "I'm nooooot gonna let you die heeeere, gotcha?"

"Y-you… you can't just s-say that…" Doubt? Reasonable. The musician did lose an arm and an eye, one of his acquaintances passed out, the other dead, and who the hell knows what's going on with Aloe by this point? Vamp would blink, peering behind him that Grey, too, was very likely dead. It… that filled him with dread more than anything. If that fucker Roguefort was willing to let him die of all people, then…

"I…" the drunkard's voice would trail off, a tenseness in his chest that he accidentally let spread to his arms. "I mean it. I won't let you die. That's… that's a prooomise." The redhead would lean forward, touching foreheads with the violinist in the gentlest way that he could muster. Vampire could feel the way the other would barely be able to loosen up, let alone stop the terror from making him tremble.

Such gentleness would be interrupted as the horrid, grating sound of bug-based whirring would catch on his ear. Quickly drawing closer, becoming louder, and Vampire was not having it.

Letting go of Mint and swiftly turning himself around with abnormal grace, the giant predator would be stopped in their tracks as Vampire gripped them by the face. Well, if one could even call that a face. With multiple eyes, giant proboscis, empty thorax, and- "Hah."

You know what? No. He's not even humoring the thought. No sense of humanity was left in this thing, was there? So why treat them like one? It's with a grin that Vampire would let his wings flare, hand gripping Rogue's face and ignoring their squirming as the display of bug-textured bat wings would become that of an intimidation tactic… and to shield Mint.

"You're pathetic, you know that?" Vampire would hiss, taking his other arm and socking whatever was left of Roguefort in the 'face'. Nearly snapping that thing of a 'mouth', he'd continue to throw punches, noticing how Rogue wasn't even attempting to attack back. Instead, they were trying to get around him. Trying to get to Mint. "Really, reaaaaaally pathetic! Worse than me!" Fisticuffs with a giant insectoid monster would normally end in the worst way, but… the focus not being on him, it was quite easy to push them back until he could grab something else. Ah, right, like… one of those knives. Out of the corner of his vision, Vamp could see the stained and glinting metal, next to the unpleasant reminder that is Mint's severed arm. "Soooo desperate for your own little woooorld… Guess what!" Vamp would laugh, knocking Roguefort back with a kick to their chest so that he could grab a knife and deal more damage. "You ruined it! You went tooooooo far! And now you're gonna- Oh shit."

Too much gloating! Roguefort got in front of him! Ugh, what a fucking mess. At least without working wings and a limp, this thing was easier to catch up to. It's with a gruff huff that Vampire would give a beat of his wings to fly himself above Rogue… and crash-land onto their back, forcing them to the ground. There was still a distance between the two of them and Mint, a few feet or so, but it was still far too close for Vampire's liking. No struggling could knock him off. This was the end, and he's taking it for himself. For once. Like a mosquito latched on for draining blood, he'd do exactly that. Well… in a way that only a non-mosquito could. With his bare hands.

Legs gripping the body beneath him, Vamp would spare a glance up to Mint before glowering down at the creature beneath him, gripping the knife with both hands. "This is for everything you've done to me!" Vampire would stab down into the center of Rogue's back, digging into the other's spine. Not the first, nor the last. "This is for letting Grey die!" Further up, another sound of a blade 'shink'-ing into the flesh of a monster, small cracks and creaks from bone and other hardened material hanging in the air. "This!" Vampire would breathe deeply, "Is for what you've done to Mint!" Another stab, further up. Set just below the neck. Or, well, whatever there was left of one.

Vampire would shift the blade in his hand, standing on top of the crippled, bleeding monster that was once some leader. Unrecognizable other than the clothes that were torn apart and screwn across the dying body's dysfunctional limbs. "And this? Come oooon, you know what this one iiiiiis…" Almost sadistically, the drunk would draw the blade across the feeble thing's back, gently slicing the skin open and watching the corroded blood seep out. He'd raise the blade up, eyes flaring with hatred as he cried out and swung down. "THIS IS FOR MY SISTER, YOU BEAST!"

A clean slice. In silence, the body would collapse, Vampire standing atop as he watched the head of the 'mastermind' hit the floor and roll pathetically. With heavy breaths, Vampire would hop down from the corpse, looking to the blade that was bloodied from the beast… and giving it a lick, causing his face to immediately scrunch up. "Eugh… moldy…" Regaining his composure one step at a time, he'd approach a still terrified Mint and kneel before him, ignoring the splatters that littered his clothes. "Heyyyy…" he'd speak softly, keeping his crimson eyes affixed on the other's emerald ones. "Let's… get out of here, okaaaay? I got youuuu… and everyone else… let's get somewhere saaaafe and comfy…"

Somewhere to… process all this. To think all this over and calm down. To not have to look at the corpses and all the writhing flesh masses that lined the walls, the floor, and the even bigger lump in the very back of the room. Mint would whimper, giving a small nod as he stared at Vampire. For once, his casual nature was soothing in the face of distress, rather than inherently worrying. "Y-yea… let's… le- let's all get out of h-here…"

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