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irwintry · 5 years ago

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11 Reasons Not to Fall in Love

Warnings: swearing, mention of alcohol

Summary: Ashton is in love, and Y/N might be, too. There are a million reasons not to fall in love–– here are eleven.

Word Count: 6.7k

ONE: YOU MIGHT NOT EVEN KNOW IT

Ashton sprinted down the terminal.

His suitcase rattled behind him, the wheels sputtering as they hit the cracks in dirty tiles. And his shoulders ached from the weight of his bag carving into already-sore muscles. A pair of headphones had fallen from his pocket down near gate A3, but he hadn’t bothered to retrieve them. Not when his connecting flight had less than ten minutes until departure. Ashton couldn’t waste another minute apologizing to strangers for slamming into them during a moment of distraction.

Sweat accumulated under his arms and along his hairline. Long corridors awaited him, meanwhile, his lungs strained within his ribcage as he rounded corner after corner. He hadn’t remembered the airport being this large. Perhaps he had slipped into a Twilight Zone nightmare where every doorway led him to where he had once been. Time ticked away, and Ashton was too frantic to check the clock on his phone.

“Final boarding call for American Eagle flight 1683 for Los Angeles. Please make your way to gate D26. That is D for Delta. Again, this is a final boarding call for American Eagle flight 1683 for Los Angeles, located at gate D26. Thank you.”

“Shit,” Ashton spat, his knuckles curling in a firm grip around his duffle. The same duffle his mum gifted him nearly six years ago, yet it still worked like a charm. The duct tape held up well.

His feet skidded against the rug leading into gate D26. He opted out of the dramatics, slowing down his pace and walking calmly around the rows of seating before addressing the gate agents with a smile. They saw plenty of passengers like him–– late, damp, and a bit smelly as well. But that didn’t erase the scowls from their features. He sped down the jet bridge, dropped off his carry-on at the end, and boarded the plane with two minutes to spare.

“Hey, hi, sorry,” he mumbled to the flight attendants, but his breathy words hardly translated through his large gasps for air. It didn’t take him long to find his seat in first class. The large cushions enveloped him like an old friend. He sat back after placing his bag underneath the seat before him, and his eyes fell shut as a sigh left his lips.

Ashton’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

snail butt:

text me when u land!!!!!!

His cheeks burned. A smile stretched slowly on his cheeks, the kind of smile that wrote novels and lit up silver screens. It was a smile that could not be hidden no matter how hard he tried. Ashton’s stomach had been stuck with thousands of pins. And all it had taken was a single text from you.

“Only a fool who’s in love smiles like that.”

Ashton turned to face the person behind the voice, his eyes wide and watery as he shut off his phone. “Excuse me?”

The older man beside him chuckled. “I know a smile like that anywhere.”

“In love?” Ashton repeated, soon falling into laughter himself. “No, no, I’m not––”

The man winked and glanced away, but Ashton chose not to harp on a nonsensical conversation. Instead, he stared at the seat before him, mouth slightly ajar as he registered the older man’s words. Ashton had never been in love, at least he believed it to be so. He had no knowledge of the feeling. So, he rejected what he heard.

He spent the next few hours with his gaze locked on the clouds, wondering if what he felt for you was, perhaps, something a little like love.

TWO: IT’S ONE-SIDE

The lights had flushed out his skin. Every inch of it was warm and wet to the touch, a sensation he knew well but hadn’t quite gotten used to. Even after thousands of shows–– thousands of performances that kicked his adrenaline to new heights only to have it plummet by the time he made it to the showers. Ashton stood against the tiled walls and let the water pelt against his skin. The pressure was never how he liked it. And the water was never hot enough.

He liked to call you after shows. He liked to hear about your day. You told him about the customers that pissed you off and the ones that sweetly tipped you a little too much. You told him that Oatmeal had taken a poo in your bathtub again, and he’d laugh at the thought. He’d think about the faces you’d make, because while you’d be upset one moment, your anger never lasted long. You could never stay mad at your cat.

Ashton had yet to call you tonight. He sat on the bathroom floor instead, fingernails picking at scabs on his palms while the sounds of J. Tillman’s Cancer and Delirium echoed around the room. He didn’t have the option to sit much longer; they had to pack up and drive off to a new town overnight. He always thought about the what-ifs. What if he walked out right then and there? What if he left without saying goodbye? What if he hopped aboard a plane and moved to the other side of the world? What if he cut off all contact with everyone he knew? And, what if that included you?

The thing that scared him the most was the possibility of it all. He could do whatever he wanted. It was his life, his body, his mind–– he had the ability to walk away whenever he so pleased.

He had the ability to forget about you.

Ashton stared at your contact on his phone. A picture from your New Year’s Eve party faced him, your goofy, smiling face staring up at him, happiness permanently immortalized within a small circle. And he wasn’t sure what your contact name meant anymore–– it had been an inside joke from years before, but time stole the memory.

He could delete your number if he wanted. He could rid himself of the pain of loving you by losing you. He could end everything now.

Ashton called you instead.

“You’re eating away at my cellular data,” you said right away, and somehow, the sound of your voice always made him feel better. All of his previous thoughts melted away. “How was the show? How are your bloody hands?”

“Beaten t’hell,” he spoke, but his words felt lifeless. Ashton could no longer identify his exhaustion. He felt like a stale being, like the grimy tiles beneath his bum as he counted scratches on the bathroom mirror. “Tell me about your day.”

“Didn’t do much,” you replied. “Oh, but––“

You talked for a half-hour. About the dentist, about your cat, about the food you ate... and he listened with pleasure. He listened because it was the only thing keeping him from walking away. It kept him from wiping the slate clean.

And he wanted to. He didn’t want to love like this. It was one-sided, trivial in every aspect, and you had no idea how much it pained him to even think about you. His urge to leave it all behind grew larger every day.

You didn’t love him. You didn’t see him the way he saw you.

“Hey, bug,” he mumbled. You had been talking about a Tinder date, one that went oh so right, and Ashton gripped his thigh until he drew blood. His eyes screwed shut at the idea of you piled under bedsheets, arms tied around the neck of someone else. “’m gonna have t’let you go.”

“Aw,” you said.

He pictured your pout.

“Well, okay,” you continued. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

Ashton forced a smile. He wished you could see the ache behind it. “Of course, doll. Love you.”

“Love you, too!”

J. Tillman’s voice filled the tile room once again. And Ashton sat wishing your words held meaning. He wished he could erase the casual and fill in sentimentality. Because he now knew what love was, and he knew you would never feel the same.

THREE: THEY LOVE SOMEONE ELSE

His kitchen faucet had been dripping for eleven days. The noise faded into the background, its constant drip, drip, drip like an unspoken rhythm to Ashton’s ears. He found himself tapping along and making up songs to the beat of these drips. They weren’t irksome–– not for the first eleven days.

He was lonely on the twelfth day. Beaten hands pushed back dirty and newly dyed dark strands of hair. Ashton hated looking at his appearance in his bathroom mirror. The dark circles were unfriendly, and he hadn’t seen his skin that sickly color before. He was malnourished at his own expense. And he was exhausted.

Tired of spending all of his nights staying up until four because being home felt like a prison. Tired of looking at pictures of you and your boyfriend while Ashton was stuck wallowing with a sore heart. A sore heart that failed to tell you how he felt sooner. Because now he saw your face when you were with him–– with your boyfriend, and you looked so happy. Ashton couldn’t help but feel sorry for himself.

It seemed as though everything was falling apart at once. The faucet, his relationship with you––or lack thereof, and suddenly his dishwasher was overflowing, and every meal he made he was burnt to a crisp. The twelfth day of his faucet leaking was the last straw.

But Ashton didn’t want to call a plumber. He took the matter into his own hands.

An hour later, he had flooded part of the kitchen and dented a pip with his wrench. The activity hadn’t gotten rid of stress or anger, and it certainly hadn’t distracted him from thoughts about you.

He sat back against his fridge, a few stray tears spilling down his cheeks while he avoided the ache in his spine. The leaking had only gotten worse, but Ashton decided he would worry about it on the fourteenth day. He wanted to curl up on his couch and stay there forever. He wanted to rot in his home (was it even his home?) and have everyone forget about him. To have you forget about him. He wanted to forget about you.

snail butt:

hey.

pls answer me

are u ok

Ashton kept the messages open on his phone, but he didn’t respond to them. He wasn’t touched by your concern right now. He felt numb, and he wanted to sink into the tiles and melt in with the puddled water. It wasn’t normal anymore–– to feel this way. He lost himself in the shape of his hands; they no longer looked like his hands. Did he even exist?

snail butt:

ash

can i call

His eyes narrowed. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to talk to you. You were the last person on the earth he wanted to talk to. All because he did want to tell you everything, but he knew he couldn’t. You had always been a constant in his life, and the reason you no longer were had fallen upon his shoulders. Because he had fallen in love when he never meant to in the first place.

Suddenly, you were calling him, and his fingers stayed still. His thumb didn’t move to answer the call.

This wasn’t who Ashton was. He always answered your call no matter where he was, no matter what time of day. His eyes brimmed with tears, yet they refused to spill. No one said love could be this painful. No one said it would be like this.

You called again, a contact picture of you in minion goggles popping up only to disappear a half minute later. Ashton knew he was worrying you. He felt the fear creeping up into your chest while you tapped “voice call” over and over, meanwhile mumbling a few frustrated words involving insults you never meant. You had sensed his change in behavior long ago. He didn’t blame you for forcing communication like this.

That was why he wanted to pack his things and leave sometimes. It was easier than convincing everyone that he was okay.

Ashton:

Hey sorry I missed your call

Can’t talk right now

Love you

FOUR: EVERYONE KNOWS BUT THEM

A familiar feeling filled Ashton’s stomach. It knotted and twisted, but it never loosened. His grip on his phone tightened with every word he read. Knuckles ached while his fingers dug into the metal siding, and tension soon collected in the hinge of his jaw.

This had been his night so far. Stuck in between tables and chairs in the middle of a bar while you texted him about your boyfriend. But Ashton wasn’t mad because of that. His anger boiled because your boyfriend had mistreated you, and Ashton was hearing every little bit about the story.

He believed that he was seconds away from breaking his phone altogether.

“Ashton.”

His head shot up, small curls falling over his eyes as his jaw clenched. A bunch of worried eyes faced him.

“You okay, mate?” asked Michael. His voice was hushed and full of a certain comfort that his friend needed to hear.

Ashton swallowed, and he could feel all of the individual muscles in his cheeks strain. The gray dots on his phone appeared again–– you had more to say. “’m fine,” he spoke. His eyes said otherwise. They were watery and wide, filled with an easily read emotion, yet he hoped his friends would avoid the conversation.

Luke hummed. “Sure.”

“Is she okay?” Michael set his drink down on the table before them.

The words sunk in Ashton’s chest. He appreciated their concern. He appreciated that they cared about you. But he didn’t want to talk about it–– he never did.

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Convincing.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” asked Ashton, voice raising in frustration while the sea of eyes blinked back in response. A cold silence met him, but the music in the bar carried on. He sighed. “Sorry. Fuck. Sorry.”

He gripped his forehead and wiped the sweat from his drink onto the table. His fingers trembled as he did so.

“Does she know how you feel?” Michael mumbled.

Ashton raised a brow. “Know how I–– what?” He began to laugh. He felt strange–– like anger was fighting with anxiety, and he knew he could no longer repress his feelings by this point.

“Ash.”

He turned to face Luke.

“It’s obvious,” said the blond. “We’re not stupid. We know you love her. We’ve known for the past like, six months.”

The frustration softened, and soon, Ashton deflated. His shoulders slumped as his frown deepened. “It’s obvious?” he whispered.

“Not that obvious,” Calum intervened. “You jus’–– you get really sad when you get feelings for someone.”

“I’m not––” Ashton straightened his spine. “I’m not sad. We’re fine. She’s fine. We’re both really fine.”

“I’ve never seen you guys this distant before,” Michael said.

“Friends grow apart.”

“Not like this.”

Ashton dug his fingernail into the wooden tabletop.

“Dude,” continued Michael. “You gotta tell her soon. It’s just gonna keep hurting if you don’t. And it’ll keep gettin’ worse and worse.”

“Or maybe it’ll hurt worse if I do tell her,” muttered Ashton.

“So, you do love her?” Luke asked.

Ashton waited a moment to answer. “Yeah.”

Silence washed over the group, and a beat later, Michael asked, “does she love you?”

Ashton stared at a neon sign in the distance. He could hear its buzzing from his seat. It gnawed at his eardrums and wedged itself under his skin. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “She doesn’t.”

FIVE: THEY ARE OBLIVIOUS TO YOUR PAIN

Ashton had been late to his own birthday party. He strolled in after forty minutes, heart heavy while he pushed through sweaty bodies that he hardly recognized. The stairs were his destination, and he could only fake so many smiles. He could only force empty hellos for so long before someone was bound to pull him aside. Their skin burned his.

Because it had been you, and every touch was a pain unlike any other.

“Hey, hey, birthday boy,” you said, grinning from ear to ear. “Miss me?”

Ashton stared at you in awe. Not because you looked stunning, which you did. You always did. But because he hadn’t seen you in four months. He had hardly spoken to you— he felt like he hardly knew you.

“Holy shit,” he muttered as he wracked his brain in search of something to say. Or rather, the right thing to say. Heat trickled up his neck and into his cheeks.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” you asked. The drink in your hand had hardly been touched. Meanwhile, your fingers toyed with the small plastic straw.

Ashton felt his smile grow. His stomach was on fire. “Yes— yeah. Give me a fucking hug.”

Your arms wrapped themselves around his torso, your head burying into his shoulder while he tried to memorize the feeling of you against him. He missed being held by you. It came with a sense of belonging–– like he was always meant to be here.

“Did Michael fly you in?” asked Ashton, and meanwhile, he kept his hands on your upper arms. His gaze on you was intense–– that he knew, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Had you always looked that beautiful?

You shook your head. “Wanted to surprise you myself.” A smile grew on your lips.

Ashton smiled as well, but it ached to falter. He just wanted to be happy around you.

The drinks poured on, night crawling with sweat and glitter and everything Ashton had wanted to avoid. As the hours passed, you stuck to him like glue. And the more alcohol in your system, the more you kept your hands on him. Unsteady fingers scraped down his arms whenever a good song came on through the speaker. You were in constant movement, and all Ashton saw was a gaussian blur of colors and smiles.

He locked himself in the upstairs bathroom.

He sat there for at least an hour, knuckles drumming against polished tile while the bass reverberated through the floor. It had been months since his last interaction with you–– he never knew when he would see you next. And then you were dancing with his friends, mind elsewhere while you tried to forget about the dried tears over your ex-boyfriend. You were swaying and laughing, looking like an angel kissed you just that morning, and he hadn’t been ready for any of it.

In all honesty, Ashton would have preferred not seeing you at all. Your presence taunted him. It reminded him of all of the mistakes he made, and it reminded him that you would never love him the way he loved you.

Before leaving the bathroom, he washed his face. He washed away the past couple of hours in order to prepare for the next few. In order to see you again, he had to forget all of his feelings for the night.

But he couldn’t. He barely took a step downstairs before retreating to his bedroom. It was his own birthday–– he could be miserable if he wanted to be. Did he even want to be?

Ashton changed into a pair of sweatpants and a plain t-shirt. He could still hear the music through the floorboards, but it no longer bothered him. His phone remained silent with no phone calls or texts asking where he was. And then the door opened, and you walked in.

“Uh oh,” you said. “Birthday boy went missing.”

“You found him.”

You smiled softly. “You okay?”

Ashton shrugged. “Tired, s’all.”

You kept your arms crossed as you looked at him. He felt like you were analyzing everything about him. Perhaps you could read minds. Perhaps you already knew how he felt about you.

“Ya wanna sit?” he asked you, motioning to the empty spot next to him on his bed.

Your smile grew. “Duh.” You rushed over, flopped down against the comforter, and nestled into him. He hadn’t expected that last part. “Missed you,” you mumbled against his shirt, and your arm twisted around his. You were warm–– it was a good warmth.

“Missed you, too, bug,” he whispered. He leaned back against the pillows and took your body with him.

You hummed. A comfortable silence settled in, albeit the soft music from down below, and all Ashton could feel was you. He felt your skin, your heartbeat, your smile... He felt the happiness he had been looking for since the night began. This was why he needed you.

You turned to look at him. “Why haven’t we kissed yet?”

Ashton raised an eyebrow at you.

“We’ve been friends for like ten years,” you said. “I’ve even kissed Luke. Why haven’t I kissed you?”

“You kissed Luke?”

You pressed your palm against Ashton’s chest. “Should we kiss?”

“I don’t think––“

“We haven’t even tried it.”

Ashton shrugged. His heart rate had doubled, and the temperature in the room spiked. “Yeah, well...”

“Do you wanna?” you asked.

His limbs felt numb as he sat up. “Maybe now’s not the best time, bug.”

“Oh.”

Ashton wiped his hands against his thighs, and when he looked over at you, a pout had found its way onto your face. The soft light from his bedside lamp reflected in your watery eyes and in the moisture on your lips. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Shit.

“Why do you wanna kiss me so bad?” he mumbled.

You glanced down. “I’ve always wanted t’kiss you,” you said. You looked back up at him, and he saw something in your eyes that he had never seen before.

It gave him hope.

He nodded, swallowing thickly while he fought back conflicting thoughts. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

Ashton nodded once again. “Yeah. We can–– we can try it.” He squeezed his eyes shut, meanwhile wishing he had let the whole thing slide. He wished he could turn back time and never let himself feel like this.

But then you smiled, and he thought that, maybe, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

You giggled as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. He didn’t get the chance to think about anything else before you pressed your lips to his. It was quick, almost as if it had never happened. You moved away slowly, and he nearly pulled you back.

“Well,” you whispered, chuckling once more. The heat of your breath met his skin. With your arms still around his shoulders, you looked at him like he was the most beautiful thing you had laid eyes upon.

He wanted to believe it.

“Well,” he said in return. A small smile grew on his lips. He hardly remembered the kiss, but he knew he needed more. So, he placed his arms around your waist.

You leaned in again, this time capturing his lips gently between yours, but he held you close.

And then he pulled away. He pulled away because it meant too much to him. He pulled away because it didn’t mean anything to you.

SIX: NO ONE WILL EVER BE THEM

Ashton’s hands were numb.

The sun had only begun to rise. Its golden hue cast long rays through his blinds, the light taking shape and giving the dust a chance to shine. The colors washed against her back, but he wasn’t looking at that. He didn’t want to look at her.

He arose slowly, careful not to wake her before making his way to the bathroom. He kept his shower brief, and soon, the memories of the night prior infiltrated his brain. They had been together for a few weeks now. A few weeks of late-night hook-ups and early morning goodbyes. And last night, he called her by your name. She didn’t even notice.

Ashton wasn’t sure how he felt anymore. It was all numb. He could hardly feel the loofa as it scrubbed against his skin.

The morning was quiet around him. He thought about her while he spread jam on his toast. She was beautiful. She had kind eyes. But Ashton had to quit lying to himself. He never wanted to get used to the scent of her perfume on his sheets. He didn’t want to lose himself in the color of her eyes. He didn’t want to memorize her.

He grabbed his keys and drove off, skimming the coast with his tires as he dreamed of easier days. And then he called you.

“G’mornin’, Mister West Coast,” you said, and the stress of his mind eased with the tone of your voice. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. The sky was lilac above the ocean. He wished you were here to see it. “Mind’s racin’, and such. Miss you.”

“Aw, miss you, too,” you replied. He could hear your smile. “How’s Sophia?”

Ashton nearly slammed on the brakes. He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel to keep his knuckles from turning white. He wanted to say, “she’s not you”, but instead, he said, “she’s okay. A little sick.”

“Wasn’t she just sick?” you asked.

He bit his lip. “Dunno.” And he truly didn’t. He didn’t know much anymore. He felt like he was a floating entity. He felt like he was living someone else’s life. “I really do miss you, stinky.”

“Stinky?” You scoffed. “I’m not stinky. You’re stinky.”

“You can’t smell me through the phone, idiot,” he said, the corners of his lips quirking upwards.

“Maybe I should just come visit and find out for myself.”

Ashton’s smile grew. “Maybe you should.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” he said.

You huffed. “Fine.”

Ashton was grinning now, cheeks burning while he stared at the road ahead. He still loved you. He didn’t know if he would ever stop.

SEVEN: IT WOULD NEVER WORK

“Don’t fucking skip my favorite song, you asshole!”

Ashton’s stomach burned from laughter. He held his phone high, yet the roof of the car kept it within arm’s reach. Meanwhile, you were fighting for dominance as he kept one hand on the steering wheel. You huffed once you gave up, and you fell back into your seat.

“C’mon,” he said, poking your thigh to earn a response. You didn’t budge. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Look, I’m changing it. Here. You control the music now.”

That pleased you. You grinned, taking the phone from his hands while he let out a laugh. This was how the week had played out. Back and forth playful bickering until you pulled out your infamous pout, and he had to keep himself from falling harder and harder in love with you.

It was a dynamic he had missed over the past year. His friends noticed as well. His feelings hadn’t changed, yet he was happy. He could finally allow himself to be happy.

You set his phone down in a cupholder and took his hand in yours. Ashton couldn’t deny the shift in energy between the two of you, yet he refused to let it overwhelm him. He refused to let his hopes get the best of his behavior. Instead, he just smiled at you and returned his gaze to the road ahead.

“Have your hands always been this big?” you asked him, holding his hand up in front of your face to examine it.

He laughed. “Are you–– are you flirting with me?”

You set your hands back onto your lap. “Maybe,” you mumbled as you traced his knuckles.

Ashton continued to smile, and a fluttering stirred in his stomach.

“Is that okay?”

His laughter quickly faded, and he cleared his throat. “Y-yeah,” he said, gripping your hand a little tighter. He traced his thumb along your thigh. A comfortable silence settled in, one full of smiles and unspoken words that kept his mind racing.

The next morning, he helped you pack your things. The security line at the airport was short, and you were already running slightly behind schedule. Your plane would begin boarding within the next half hour. So, he kept his goodbye brief.

And then you kissed his cheek, and he wanted to pull you back in and hold you forever.

“I love you, Ashton,” you said with a smile. A warm smile that held meaning. You spoke words that he had heard before, but they felt different as they settled in his chest. You turned away before he could say anything else, and he spent the drive home with tears in his eyes.

Because he loved you, and you possibly loved him, too. But he could never have you the way he wanted. There were too many miles in between.

EIGHT: YOU’RE NOT READY FOR COMMITMENT–– RIGHT?

His feet ached. His knees did, too. Sweat coated his forehead, and he carried on up the steep trail.

Ashton had been thinking about you for weeks. He was caught up in your smile and the soft words you spoke. He climbed mountains to get you out of his head. His muscles burned while his brain ached with the idea of you.

You left him with a thousand questions. Did you feel the same way? Did he still feel the same way? Is this what he wants? Does he want commitment?

Ashton was caught up in scenarios left and right. He was stuck on a house in the hills, or maybe a small town on the eastern seaboard with a mile to the ocean. He felt the waves on his shins, and he felt your hand in his with a silver ring imprinting on his skin. He saw children, and he heard their giggles. He saw his life with you.

But, even after all of these thoughts, he wasn’t sure if it was what he wanted. He still didn’t know. The mountain had yet to clear his head.

He set his keys in the bowl beside his front door. The cold shower felt like an old friend, and a familiar song echoed in the tiled room. Your favorite song. Ashton smiled.

He still loved you, even if you didn’t love him. He still wanted you. He wanted you for the rest of his life.

NINE: IT MIGHT WORK

snail butt:

hey what’s the address for mikey’s party

oh also!! surprise!

i'm coming to mikey’s party

Ashton’s leg bounced as he awaited your arrival. He felt trapped in some small room at the back of a club while his friends chatted around him. Michael wore golden party decorations around his neck, and he couldn’t stop smiling. Meanwhile, Ashton couldn’t hold back his fucking nerves. He hadn’t told a soul that you were coming.

When you stepped in, the room was yours. Your name was sung in a booming chorus, bodies making their way toward yours for one big group hug, and you were smiling, too. Ashton stayed behind. He felt like he couldn’t move.

Your eyes met his only seconds later, your smile growing while you shot him a wink. Michael talked about something that reminded him of you, and you laughed along. Ashton’s heart swelled at the sight of you. He wished he could have it every single day.

The night carried on slowly, and the conversations between the two of you were cut short. But the shared glances flooded the atmosphere. There was something heavy behind them, like a beckoning almost, but he couldn’t force himself to move in your direction. He wanted to look at you from afar.

“Stranger danger,” you said after approaching him later on in the night. You folded your arms and smirked, and Ashton was suddenly aware of how tight your dress was on your figure.

“Me?” he asked, mirroring your grin. “What d’ya mean? I’m the least terrifying person you’ll ever meet.”

“Say that to the fifteen-year-old kid who dressed up as Freddie Krueger to scare the shit out of his innocent neighbor,” you replied. You took a few steps toward him.

“To be fair,” he began and placed his hands against the small of your back, “you’re just an easy scary.” His smile grew. “Hi, bug. Missed you.”

You fell into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders while your breaths quickly fell into a rhythm. “I missed you,” you mumbled against his jacket. You pulled away suddenly. “I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”

You nodded. “Come along,” you said.

The two of you said a quick goodbye to Michael, wished him a happy birthday, and made your way out into the chilly night. You had yet to let go of Ashton’s hand, even as he drove down streets that he hardly recognized. The address you gave him was one he had never seen before.

Ten minutes later, he was pulling up to an apartment complex fifteen or so miles away from his place.

“You gonna murder me?” he asked you.

You shook your head and smiled. “Nope,” you said.

A billion questions ran through his head as you led him up a staircase. But he stayed quiet. Even when you pulled out a set of keys and unlocked a numbered door, he still kept his mouth shut.

A lamp in the corner of the room lit up the small space. Boxes were stacked upon other boxes, and it hardly looked lived in. Yet, that didn’t matter. Ashton had realized what was happening. He felt sick to his stomach.

“I was offered a job,” you said.

He stared at the mess of boxes and mismatched furniture. Even through the clutter, it was thoroughly you through-and-through.

“And I was tired of having to constantly come visit you,” you continued with a laugh. “I didn’t wanna tell you until it was set in stone. But, yeah, welcome to my new home.”

Ashton turned to face you. You appeared nervous as you awaited his response. You were waiting for him to tell you it was a stupid idea, that you should have thought about this before packing up your life and moving to Los Angeles. But he wasn’t going to do that.

Instead, he cupped your cheeks and kissed you.

And you kissed him back.

TEN: THE FEAR OF FALLING OUT OF LOVE

He could hear the screams from backstage. A venue full of thousands of fans, all waiting to hear him and his band. He wished he hadn’t become numb to the feeling. It was his job–– it was normal. And the music he created no longer held the same meaning.

But he heard the songs differently now. He played with more passion, adrenaline rushing through his veins as his drumkit became a solace. Venues were his sanctuaries. Every night was filled with a new sensation he desired–– no, he craved.

His friends took notice. They fed off of his energy, and he wasn’t sure they had ever played this well before. It was something he wished he could share with you.

Ashton didn’t like remembering the thin line the two of you had drawn out. It was unexplainable, something unnamed that he was desperate to make sense of. Conversations were full of old jokes and stupid pictures he always saved into his camera roll. However, he never bothered to ask you how you felt. He never pressed about the one thing that stuck itself to his mind for well over a year.

He wanted to tell someone about how scared he was. Past relationships failed on his part–– he would flee instead of looking for reasons to stay. He chose to leave because he never saw things escalating further. Ashton had gotten used to the escape.

He felt different. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what he needed. Yet, the lack of reluctance created an unwanted fear. Ashton was afraid that, if you ever opened up to loving him back, then maybe he would stop loving you in return.

This fear showed itself in his performance. It fueled an anger that terrified him. But the shows were fucking phenomenal, he told himself. His hands bled after every night. And he still called you every night.

He was afraid of losing feelings. He was afraid of losing you. The idea of loving you was more beautiful than he could imagine–– the idea of you filled his heart with so much joy. That was where Ashton’s love for you differed from past relationships. He was used to falling in love with ideas, but this time, he fell in love with the honest you. He loved every little thing about you.

“Hi, bug.”

“Hey, how was the show?”

Ashton pushed sweaty strands of hair out of his face. His heart was pounding through his skin, fingers sore and shaky from an incredible set. His lips were numb. “Hi, um, it was–– yeah, it was good.”

“You sound out of breath.”

He inhaled as best as he could. “Sorry, yeah. I am.” Anxiety crawled up his forearms and into his chest.

“You okay?” you asked him.

He swallowed. He wasn’t okay, but it didn’t matter. “Yeah. I’m good. How was your day?”

“Oh, it was fine,” you said. “Didn’t do much. Watered your plants, ate your food, had a good nap on your couch, and then I––”

“I’m in love with you.”

You were silent.

Ashton’s throat burned. Everything was numb. His entire body had fallen numb. He wanted to end the call and never come home.

“You are?” you whispered a moment later.

His heart ached. “Yeah,” he said.

“Please come home soon.”

Ashton tried to laugh through the nerves building. “Can’t do that, bug. I got like forty shows left.”

“Poopy.”

This time, he could laugh. Maybe he had been nervous for nothing. Nevertheless, he now believed that he had nothing to fear.

ELEVEN: THEY MIGHT LOVE YOU BACK

The door to his home creaked as he stepped inside. A thick black night greeted him, not a single light to be seen as the white noise settled. He held his breath while he set his belongings beside the couch. It always felt like this when he came home. He was always welcomed by an overwhelming sense of loneliness. He would shower and crawl into bed, and he would spend the entire night in a restless state.

Ashton hadn’t expected to see you curled up in his sheets. That was where the night different from the many others. He hadn’t expected his heart to fill with such warmth at the mere sight of you. Two in the morning had never felt so good.

You held his pillow tight, and he wondered if it smelled like him. He wondered if you had spent the past few months here, and he wondered if it felt like home to you. Because you looked like home to him. It was like you were meant to be there, all curled up in his bedsheets with his shirt on your back.

Ashton knelt beside you, a smile etched on his features as he ran his fingers through your hair. He had never felt this much love before.

“Hey, bug,” he whispered, grazing his thumb against your cheek while your eyes fluttered.

You stirred beneath him and hummed.

“’m gonna shower, then I’m gonna hug you after,” he said. “Okay?”

You nodded, but a moment later, your eyes snapped open. “Ash!” you yelped. You tossed your arms around his shoulders and pressed yourself against him. “You’re fucking home.”

He chuckled, yet he didn’t reply. He held you tighter and took in your warmth. He took in your scent and the weight of your breaths. He wanted to hold you forever.

You were the first to pull away, a smile never fading as you rested your forehead against his. Your legs had wrapped around his waist, and your fingers twisted in his hair; it was a feeling he’d never let himself forget.

“You forgot to text me when you landed, asshole,” you mumbled.

He laughed again, raising his hand to cup your cheek before kissing you softly. And, like always, you kissed him back. Ashton had loved you for over a year, and perhaps, you loved him in return.

566 notes · View notes

eagleductcleaning · 19 days ago

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red-eagle-fire-protection · 14 days ago

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evelyn-foresis · 4 years ago

Photo

Second edition redraw of Artemis in fairy robes, with her familiar Aries. Let it be known, red is my least favourite colour.

Tale 11: Artemis Craweleoth & The Griminthrope (chapter 1 - Child of Autumn 1/5) part 3. Stories of Fey

none

Artemis was the third Daughter of King Mage Morgan Cynedom, and his wife, magician Emilia Loket. As prophesized, Artemis was born on the autumnal equinox, in the third quadrant of the table of fours, red; and was thus the child of fall. Each of the four siblings belonged to one quadrant; which had a one season, element, colour, direction, metal, and two to three beast kingdoms of fey. Each of Morgan’s children were to be named by a beat king whose fey kingdom was in the child’s quadrant. For Artemis, this meant one of the two Beast Kings of the red quadrant, had the privilege of naming her. The Beast King’s, being of fey, found names important, and considered Morgan their brother; It was a high honor the ten fey kings quarreled about. In the end, The Raven King had won the bid of bestowing a name on Artemis, and houseing her in the raven magic house of Craweleoth, or Ravensong.

Magic House aside, Artemis was like a bird in many ways. Loud and feisty, a trickster, hung around in trees; and had a lovely singing voice she paired with the oddest dances. Her Fairy robes were red and ebony like fall, and collared with black feathers. A sheer skirt clipped about her waist was red, and embroidered in the pattern of a phoenix’s tail. Artemis had tall boots and gloves with coins sewed along them, to match her collar and belt. She could blend into a maple orchard in October. These fairy robes were a gift from the Fairy King; who makes them to protect beloved mages safe from spell or sword. Keeping these human guardians of magic and fey, clean and safe. To give each of Morgan’s children lovely magic clothes to match their naming, gave her great joy. On most days, she avoided her fairy robes, and Artemis wore turtle neck sweaters, leggings, boots, and denim jumper or overalls on top.

Before the end of magic school, there was no spell Artemis couldn’t cast with music, or balled she could not perform. The trick was finding her in the thick of her father’s magic forest. When it came to hiding in the trees, she blended in unlike her siblings; Her hair was bronze like her fathers, and was medium length and wavy, tied in a knot. She moved about so much; Emilia didn’t want her hair catching on things. She knew a thing or two about long hair inconvenience. To match the wood of the trees, Artemis also had her mother’s ebony eyes. Even after she had gone dark in school, the magic moving through her didn’t changed her colours like other magic users. Her hair simply went a little redder. As a rebellious untamable problem, Artemis was short, freckled, sturdy, and fearless; and as ethereal as her siblings, but in an eerie sort of way, instead a radiant sort.

As a gifted mage, more attached to magic then reality, she picked up skills quickly. One of Artemis’s first spells was summoning her familiar Aries, a black raven she adorned with beading; and whom which Artemis flew on occasion. She learned this from her father, who whose familiar Icarus, was a golden eagle he liked to ride as well. Sometimes they would play sky tag, infuriating Emilia; It terrified Artemis’s mother. As far as they were concerned, who needs, trains, bikes or vehicles, when you have a trusty wingman. Artemis always had the intent of staying where she was born, on Tiberius Gate, with her father and family forever. She loved specking with the fey children of the raven and tree kingdoms; serenading the gate’s vast forest, with ballads written by mages long ago. Morgan and his daughter would sing to the gate together; He had taught Artemis more songs from his library of mages, then any of the charmers she would meet in magic school. When she left the gate for school, or ran errands, Artemis would sing to the fey in town; as the magic forest of her father’s gate extended down into the small town of Pepperidge. Even when her siblings grew up and left, Artemis was reliably there to charm them.

Artemis went through magic school, made no friends, and preferred the company of her familiar and family. Not to different form her brother and sisters; which was something their parents didn’t prepare for, though should have expected. They were a loving magic family every day, when personalities didn’t flare up. The problem with Morgan and Emilia’s overly enchanted brood, was they were neglecting other aspects of life, for magic. They only wanted to pry their children away from mythical symbiosis, to make them functional members of society. However, if their father and his friends weren’t evidence enough; Stopping this behavior in humans born with a greater affinity for magic, is fundamentally pointless. But at least everyone was happy. Including every fey. One big happy magic forest school village. With lots of blooming little magic hermits.

That said, perhaps someone might now prefer not to go looking for her at all; As a bird on a branch, seen only for a second, Artemis was better left to her own unorthodox ways. To anyone who knew Artemis, her presence was intrusive, unrelenting, and loud. In spite of her energetic antics, Artemis was still a good sister. For each prank Artemis pulled, she gave a hand when her family needed it. Artemis was very handy and clever; fixing plumbing and fur nature without duct tape, in new and exciting ways. Artemis stood a proud cheerer of her siblings, and magic home. She was not a paladin, but it is said that mage charmers are more powerful; A charmer can manipulate anything they want for miles round, without lifting a finger.

Artemis’s unsettling birdlike mannerisms, and personality, turned many people away before they had the chance to bully her. It followed her even after graduation. Her attraction to shinny things alone was good material for immature adolescents, or adults. But she was Teflon against any insult; Artemis’s secret was not caring. Aside from her wild spirit, Artemis passed through events in her life like a bird migrating on a mystical journey; undeterred from a desired destination. From up high, and far away, Artemis could see everything, everyone, and do as she please. Artemis was light, untouchable, and lively; and she knew it.

After graduation, Artemis remained on Tiberius Gate, in Pepperidge, with her parents and community. Mockery would not pry her from her dream of quaint homey living. Even when Morgan and Emilia’s youngest, her little brother Patrick, moved out to be a paladin, Artemis still stayed. Her parents were happy to have her; at least one child to wake up too every day, when all others flew the coop. No longer a child, Artemis was still singing and flying around town, helping any fey or people who wanted it, for shinny coins. She made a meaningful living off small jobs. Artemis spent her time singing, beading, dancing, and showing around tourists. Artemis came home each night, after a day’s adventure, to help her parents make dinner and care for they fey on Tiberius Gate itself. She loved her simple life. A meaningful life.

One day, while Morgan was off at the academy substituting, he got an urgent call. But he wasn’t at home to answer. It was from a radio phone in the Westlands; Emilia answered it in the kitchen. She didn’t want to worry Morgan, so Emilia got Bandrel, their hearths fire wilding, to hold the call. He smiled, cooled down, crawled out of the tower’s oven furnace, which was his duty, and held the phone. Fairies never get to hold phones; he felt more special than normal.

“Bandie, would you take this? I don’t care if it gets bit cold in the tower from the fall air. It’s Patrick. Have a nice talk with him while I find Artemis. I don’t want to make my husband an anxious mess while he’s at work…” Emilia said casually to the small fairy boy. Bandril nodded excitedly and took the phone in his little hands.

“Hello, Tiberius Gate, Bandie speaking,” Bandrel said smiling. He turned to Emilia, and covered the talking piece. “I always wanted to say that!” he wiggled. Emilia smiled and left the main tower, to whistle into the forest. Not any whistle, as some whistles summoned fey; This was a sound to summon her daughter. Emilia made a perfectly medium range whistle, that tapered like a bird’s song, into the thick old magic growth. The tree’s whispered, as Emilia stared into the woods waiting for Artemis to whistle back. Artemis was in a tree right above her.

“What’s up mom.” Artemis said, hopping down and scaring Emilia. She jumped back, scared for her life. She hated when her family snuck up on her like that. Emilia could bend reality just by believing, but the magic here seemed to catch her off guard. She never got used to it; her children and husband were too stealthy.

“After all these years, you’d think I’d be used to it. Your twenty now. Am I getting old…” Emilia gasped. “Come inside, and sit by Bandrel’s warm fire with me; Your little brother called form Grand Snow. He wanted to speak with your father, but you’re the next best mage.” Emilia said rapping her arm around her daughter.

“Patrick only left six months ago…” Artemis said under her breath. “He didn’t even get an apprenticeship, yet got a post. Of course, it’s Patrick calling. Always Patrick!” She scoffed. Emilia elbowed Artemis in the side. A young lady should not throw her sibling under the bus. That is what older ladies do. Artemis had a little middle child syndrome. Emilia always wanted a boy, unlike their father Morgan, who was a grade-A girl dad. A father’s love evened things out, adding plausible deniability to parental favouratism. Children can smell inequality like sulfur. Every time mother mentioned Artemis’s little brother’s name, she winced.

Once inside, Emilia and Artemis headed to the kitchen. Artemis arranged the fire wood into a cradle inside the large hearth, for Bandrel to sleep in. Then Bandrel handed her the phone, and crawled back in the oven. Emilia set up some chairs and mugs of tea, for some cuddling by the warmth of Fairy fire. Emilia knew Artemis well enough to know providing some reassuring love would calm her down; Artemis needed to be calm to talk on a phone; and play nice to her little brother. Artemis plopped down in a chair, kicked back, and answered the phone. The long-distance charges must have been astounding.

“Hey Patrick, dad gone, mom miss you, me here. What’s up bro. What can I do you for?” Artemis said, sipping from her mug of tea. She spat up a little; it wasn’t steeped yet.

#art #tales of ealden cynedom #fantasy #short stories #story 11 #artemis #aries #morgan #emilia #patrick #icarus

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gs-homecleaner · 4 years ago

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theliterateape · 5 years ago

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How To Hide A Body In Illinois

An excerpt from the newly released novel, “The Lyrebird Threat” by J. L. Thurston

Her body was crumpled in post-mortem yoga. Folded like a greeting card. Her ass stuck straight up in the air and her face was smashed into the white plush carpet.

She was a fresh corpse, still warm and scented with flowery perfume. Doing the downward dog next to the dining room table in the Attorney General of Illinois’ home.

The dead woman was in her mid-sixties but appeared older by the way she dressed and by the gray bun at the top of her head. She had been in excellent health up until the poisoning.

There were no signs of trauma. No blood, no gore to soil the cleanliness of the barely-used home.

Standing over the body was a woman who looked exactly like the Attorney General, Magda Loughty. But she wasn’t. This was a woman of many faces and many voices. A true master of disguise.

She was the Mimic.

Born with a voice that could make any sound, imitate anyone, and with the right connections to special effects makeup artists, the Mimic had everything she needed to overthrow the country’s biggest and darkest secret.

Eagle.

Her heels clicked on the wood floors on her way to the garage. She refused to break character, even when no one was around. The Mimic wore her face like a mask, maintaining Loughty’s trademark mild disappointment. She had studied her for years. She could perfectly mimic the way Loughty made sure most people avoided speaking to her unless they had to. The way she intimidated all those who had the misfortune to meet her.

If Loughty wasn’t tearing someone’s confidence down, she wasn’t awake.

Inside the three-door garage was the victim’s SUV. Beneath the backseat was a tightly folded black tarp and roll of duct tape, both of which the Mimic removed and carried inside to the body.

She moved as quickly as she could, not caring for the noise she made. Speed outweighed stealth.

The body was heavy despite its slender habitus. It flopped and sagged as the Mimic pushed and rolled it onto the tarp.

Sweat began to form on her brow. It would take buckets of sweat to get the facial prosthetics to come unglued, but she worried about her makeup. Too much sweat and she’d begin to look partially melted.

The body was finally tucked into the tarp, rolled and folded. The duct tape made obscenely loud noises as she ripped off strip after strip.

The Mimic was racing against the clock. Her breathing was ragged, her heart thumping high in her throat. She hadn’t felt this exhilarated in years. She reveled in the quaking sensation in her knees. It was all finally happening.

The Mimic dragged the body through the hall to the garage, where she let it roll roughly down the three cement steps to the cold gray floor. She opened the tailgate to the SUV. The body flopped only slightly in the tight tarp roll-up while the Mimic loaded it in and piled on a blanket. Panting, sweating, she threw herself into the driver’s seat and allowed herself time to reapply powder and crank the air conditioning.

According to the dashboard clock, she had just enough time to dump the body, change disguises, and make it to morning coffee at work before being noticeably late.

While she made her way out of Chicago, her mind replayed the old woman’s death. Her graying face choking on the poison, eyes bulging as her heart and lungs failed her. The imagery would be disturbing if it wasn’t so liberating. Nothing that happened in Loughty’s dining room that morning was undeserved.

The long drive took her passed the suburbs where only farmland and woodland could be seen in all directions. She knew of a perfect little pond deep in a heavily wooded area. It was the final resting place for a few Eagle agents. There was room for one more.

The Mimic parked the SUV on the side of the road near a thin deer trail. She kicked off Loughty’s high heels and laced on some hiking boots. She hoisted the tarped body around her shoulders and stomped off into the woods.

Yellow light filtered through a heavy ceiling of green. White tufts of cottonwood pollen drifted whimsically all around. The humidity was high that day. It caused sweat to sting her eyes and soak her back.

She had to rest often. The facial prosthetics began to slide out of place and wilt, but she did not concern herself with them now that she was out of the city. She was careful not to lose anything, however, as she would have to become Loughty again for another murder. Or a suicide, depending on how one looked at it.

The pond seemingly materialized out of the trees. A forgotten water hole surrounded by a ring of mud and rocks, the water was a dark brown speckled with floating blobs of algae.

Panting, muscles aching, the Mimic chose six large rocks to weigh the tarp down. Once they were secured by duct tape, she dragged the body into the water and began to swim out to the center. The weight of the tarp pulled her under and she struggled to swim to the center of the pond with it.

When the effort was too much, she released her package and scrambled to the surface, gasping and choking on the murk. She had swallowed some of the fishy water and nausea was trying to cramp her gut. She paddled to shore and lay in the mud, staring up at the blue morning sky until she caught her breath.

The ticking clock forced her to press on. Once she reached the SUV, she stripped off her ruined business suit and stuffed them under a bush. Underneath the passenger seat in the SUV was a shirt and sweat pants. She still reeked of fish water, but at least she was in dry clothes.

Smiling placidly to herself, she drove back into the city. To Lyrebird Headquarters.

In the puzzling, tightly-packed buildings that filled Chicago, it was easy to overlook the abandoned places. Factories, warehouses, hotels, apartment buildings. All shut down and boarded up. Left to decay until someone with money tears it down for another parking garage, or mall, or restaurant. The Lyrebirds had many options for their headquarters when they moved to Chicago.

The Mimic pulled into a small underground parking lot. Water pooled on the severely cracked pavement where she parked. The brick building that loomed overhead was once a giant in Chicago, but now was overshadowed by skyscrapers four times its size.

It had originally been a thread factory, then its upper levels were used as apartments, then it was abandoned and condemned and used mostly as a crack house until the Lyrebirds moved in.

She parked the SUV and dodged dark and dirty puddles on her way to the door.

Feeling time wasting away, she hurried through the building that had been her home for the past year. The first two levels were uninhabitable. Old, rusted factory equipment made homes for spiders and rats. A metal staircase took her to the third floor where the building had been renovated in the 1960’s for apartments.

Due to the work of her Lyrebirds, they had a clean living space, some creature comforts, and- most importantly- running water in the four bathrooms. A generator provided electricity, but sparingly.

She showered in the bathroom at the end of the hall, closest to her room. The water was ice cold, but it rejuvenated her. At that point, being clean was all that mattered to her.

The long hallway had peeling wallpaper and faded carpet. The Mimic toweled off, naked as she moved from the bathroom to the dressing room down the hall. She passed no one. Her Lyrebirds were busy, finishing the last steps editing the film. She hoped to be able to look it over tonight, or perhaps tomorrow.

She passed by bedrooms, a locked office, and a conference room. The bedroom doors were open, exposing the cots, sleeping bags, and other belongings that filled the living spaces. It looked like a refuge in a zombie apocalypse flick.

The last room on the right was the dressing room. It was the place where she underwent her transformations, almost as if by magic. Toby Bennett was a special effects makeup artist who was a genius of the highest caliber in his field.

She found him lounging in a chair by the window, reading. He did not blink at her naked form. Her body was not a secret to him. She was a canvas on which his art came to life. At the makeup table, her new set of prosthetics and palettes awaited. Her new identity awaited.

As the hour passed, Toby worked up a sweat while he transformed the Mimic into a completely different person. She ran information over in her head as though memorizing a script. All the people she’d impersonated had been a challenge, but this was the ultimate test. Any mistake would be blaringly obvious. She had to focus, to alter her mind so that it ran parallel with her latest victim’s.

This new disguise would be her ticket to the final moves in her revenge scheme. She was so close to her checkmate and Eagle was still completely unaware of her existence. But that was about to change. She had plenty of mind games in store for Loughty. That bitch would know the Mimic was closing in on her, and she would be helpless in stopping her.

But, best of all, the world would know about Eagle when it was all said and done. The world would hate Eagle, and Eagle would be no more. Soon.

Now a different person, but still pressed by time, the Mimic drove her SUV back to the Attorney General’s house for a quick errand. She had a delivery to make. A wooden lyrebird, ornate and handcrafted in Australia, found a new home at the front door, facing the sidewalk.

The bird gave her comfort, gave her purpose. But to the Attorney General, the bird would send a message of fear. She will know pain is coming.

Note from the author:

If you enjoyed this excerpt (I certainly hope you have, since I have found you here at the end of it) please locate the novel in its entirety on Amazon.com, and do be so kind as to leave a review and share your thoughts with fellow readers.

#Fiction #Murder #Thriller #Mimic #The Lyrebird Threat #J. L. Thurston #Novel Excerpt

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