#He and Rose are so Silver Springs coded it hurts

[mylifeisjustafeverdream]

"You better not be haunting the narrative when I get there,"

But I'm literally Mason Ashford in Shadow Kissed

[wildlyglittering]

The Journey Begins with a Smile

So ages ago (and I do mean ages) I asked people to give me some Nessian prompts and I had four requests. Not many so that’s completely doable I thought. 

Since my request, things didn’t go so well for my personal life and then, on a global scale, a pandemic hit. Both those things meant I wasn’t writing or even reading much. 

BUT I was determined to fill those requests - even if the requesters had forgotten or no longer cared! Luckily I have managed to get my groove back so am trying to ride the writing train for as long as it will carry me!

@ekaterinakostrova requested something where Cassian made Nesta smile for the first time. I’ve taken some liberties to fill the prompt but here it is. Finally. 

I hope you enjoy!

***

The multi-level gardens of the Day Court stretched outwards like a labyrinth.

Unlike the Night Court, whose gardens were sensibly flat, Day’s held winding staircases which lead to a plethora of mezzanines, stacked one after another. Each offered a new delight; pools of water swimming with gold and white fish, pagodas draped with ever blossoming honeysuckle or fountains carved with the curved forms of caressing lovers.

Some paths appeared to lead to dead ends, but the experienced visitor long learnt appearances were deceiving. As long as the explorer had the foresight to move thickets of ivy and trailing roses aside, they would find smaller paths twisting towards secret grottos.

Aside from the romantic allure of mystery, the garden’s contained an energy which reverberated through Cassian’s bones. Although the deep calm of the Night Court lands was his preference, Cassian found staying in Day was never an unpleasant experience.

Wandering the gardens would have been its usual satisfying activity if not for the frustration simmering in Cassian’s veins. Not an hour before he’d bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the copper of his blood before storming from the bedroom suites, leaving the other occupant behind.

His anger, and hers, were twins to each other. When the subject matter at hand arose, rational discussion dissipated like smoke in a storm and, as they were both apt to lose their tempers, that’s exactly what they did. After those times, it was best they stayed apart.

Being away from the Night Court brought up the familiar argument.

Cassian scrubbed a hand over his face, they were in Day on Rhys’ orders otherwise they wouldn’t have been there at all.

The knowledge of who Lucien was to Helion, and who the Lady of Autumn had been, was now widely known. Now, the painful possibility of civil war loomed over the Courts, brought on by the betrayal of an unwritten code of conduct. Helion was thinking ahead, reaching out to all potential allies in the hopes if he gained enough, Autumn would be dissuaded to start conflict.

There was no question Rhys would pledge to Helion.

It didn’t hurt though, Rhys said, to pay Day a visit.

Rhys spoke about contingency planning and counter-measure tactics but Cassian had known Rhys long enough to understand the guise. Under everything lay the ripple of the question of Spring’s allegiance and the inevitable shift of power towards the next generation of High Lords, including those Rhys was unable to befriend.

Custom dictated High Lords, and now High Lady, were the only ones to be allowed in the sanctum to speak politics. However, Rhys requested the attendance of his Inner Circle - where Rhys went, his most trusted followed.

What was less clear was the rationale behind Rhys’ request that those connected to the Inner Circle also attend. It was, Cassian believed, Rhys’ attempt to keep his friends compliant and a way to curry favour from others - namely Lucien who always hungered for time with Elain.

This secondary request was the one which opened the festering wound close to the surface of Nesta’s skin.

In an effort to find some calm, Cassian took to walking the gardens, like he had many times before. Like those times before, his steps took him a familiar route. Maybe, in the depths of his subconscious mind, he sought out what would bring him solace no matter how measly a sliver.

He ventured down a staircase, overflowing with floating lilacs, and onto a terrace which was surprisingly spacious for such a narrow-arched entrance.

This particular mezzanine was paved with sand coloured stone and framed by apple trees, their branches reaching towards each other like fingers. The waist high balcony overlooked the next level down – the glass domed ceiling of the sunken library.

This terrace, tucked away in the constructed gardens, housed the collection of seven statues who all faced inwards, into their circle, for eternity.

Like all statues in Day, the figures had been carved from marble run through with thick veins of gold and silver. Unlike the other statues, Cassian held an interest for these and these alone.

Whichever sculptor Helion found, he found one with talent. Despite the fact they were rock the sculptures contained something so painfully real. They were motionless yet their bodies held motion, they were emotionless yet their faces held emotion. When Cassian reached out to touch them, he swore there was bone beneath their stone skin.

Day was never more glorious then how she was now, in the full swing of her namesake and the wide blue sky called to Cassian to dance. Though his muscles ached to obey and his wings quivered in anticipation, he wouldn’t fly. Day was filled with sharp, ornate spires and he’d navigated a similar path unsuccessfully before.

But being trapped on the ground did nothing to help his mood; his legs shook, his eyes stung. Cassian was tired of the burning sun, tired of being apart from his friends, tired of the endless political deliberations of the other High Lords.

When he was unable to fly, Cassian needed to find other ways to curb his energy. One of those ways often involved his willing mate.

Except, at this current time she was not quite so willing. The blush pink rooms they were guests in were uncomfortably close to the rooms of others so Nesta didn’t want to make love to him here. She was even less likely to be inclined towards Cassian’s persuasions following their argument.

This was a radical departure from how they were in the isolation of their mountain cabin, especially in those final days. Time had turned into hourglasses and the sand of their lives trickled through their fingers fast then they breathed.

They couldn’t move to each other quick enough then, couldn’t remove their clothes fast enough, couldn’t press their bodies close enough.

Since their return to Velaris it was as though Nesta was turning into stone as cold and hard as the material of the statues Cassian now stared at.

Cassian sighed, drawing a deep breath of the lilac scented air into his lungs and walked towards one statue in particular. The one he thought of as his twin.

The stone fae stood high on the ends of its toes, as if it couldn’t bear to have any part of itself touching the ground. The arms stretched over its head, fingers straining upwards, begging for the sky to claim it. The figure didn’t have wings but Cassian imagined them, stretched out behind, broad and strong.

Cassian’s own wings, tangible flesh and bone, twitched as a breeze drifted past.  

The circle existed for centuries but grew in number over the years. The first ones, the original ones, hadn’t changed but the way Cassian looked at them had. Once a carefree nature danced about them but, like all things weightless, that had floated away.

The invisible weight on them now was hard and heavy. Even the figure for the sky had something buried under the surface that hadn’t existed before.

Cassian was no fool – he recognised his own transference. What he saw; fatigue, anger, sorrow – these were his own burdens and in turn he projected them onto the poor stone creature in front of him willing it to absorb what he didn’t want.

Cassian ran his hand once more over his face. He wanted his effigy to take Nesta’s words which today were sharper than usual with insults flung towards his family with flippant ease. He reminded her that when she spoke with venom against them, she spoke venom against him.

Take your antidote then, she’d sneered, beg your friends to draw it all out if you think I’m such poison.

Nesta hadn’t been fully happy in the mountains but she’d been as close to peace as he’d ever seen. Finally, a part of Nesta was at rest, and the female Cassian loved was in a place he loved. All had been right for a time, their hearts in full growth, only to shrink into themselves when they were summoned back to Velaris.

Cassian would be misguided to think their arrival in Day was what agitated Nesta to begin the fight that morning. He could pretend she picked up on his restlessness or that she didn’t care much for the Court however the latter was a lie.

During her lengthy rehabilitation Nesta had visited Day on numerous occasions, sometimes with Cassian but often without. On the instances he visited her he was forced to choke down his jealousy at seeing Nesta and Hellion walking arm in arm, understanding that the High Lord of Day was playing a significant part in helping her heal.

Nesta would spend every minute in this place if Helion asked her to.

No, everything triggered from Rhys’ request that Nesta come to Day.

In Nesta’s eyes, Rhys’ request was a command; a command which served only to appease Rhys’ ego and prove he would always be able to demand the lives of those around him bend to his will.

Rhys wanted Cassian to be in Day and Rhys wanted Nesta to provide a pleasant distraction for Cassian’s restless nature. There was no other purpose.

The bitterness bled into Nesta at the fact Rhys demanded her attendance in a place she adored and would visit without complaint. Rhys had smirked it was the ‘without complaint’ he’d wanted from her for once.

She came only because Cassian had pleaded.

 The heavy honeysuckle cloyed at Cassian’s nose and he decided to leave the gardens before he drowned in the scent of flowers. He’d find Az, a permanently sympathetic ear, who would patiently listen to Cassian’s complaints about how suffocated he was in a place he longer wished to be.

As he turned, a flash of marble hidden in the trees caught his eye.

Cassian hadn’t noticed anything else on this mezzanine before but it was no surprise, the white figure among the deep green leaves was set apart from the circle and tucked out of sight.  

Drawing closer he saw the statue stood with its back to the rest, head titled downwards. The marble designed to be the hair splayed outwards as though caught in a tumultuous wind. Something about the statue, something about her, hollowed out Cassian’s chest.

“Why didn’t Helion put you with the others?”

“Because she doesn’t belong with the others.”

A voice, smoky and deep, carried across the space and Helion appeared from behind a wall of ivy onto the terrace next to him.

Cassian quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know about that secret passage.”

“That’s the whole point of it being a secret,” Helion said with a wistful sigh. “Now I’ll have to move it.”

“Don’t on my account.”

“And have you get here quicker to start your sulking? I don’t think so.”

Cassian opened his mouth to refute Helion’s words but the High Lord spoke over him.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” he said with a nod to the statue. “Out of all them, this one’s my favourite.” Helion turned to Cassian, dark skin glowing from the light within, mischief in his eyes.

Cassian bit his teeth together.

She was beautiful though, curves and angles, and the strength of stone. But who were they speaking of? The statue or Nesta herself?

“Why is she over here and not with the rest?”

The smugness slid from Helion’s face, his dark eyes scanning Cassian’s face, categorising every imperfection and scar as though he searched for something. Perhaps he wasn’t able to find what he wanted and a sad smile crept onto his face. “I told you – she doesn’t belong with the others. If I put her in the circle where would she gaze? At the ground? I won’t have that for her.”

Cassian’s mouth twisted, “She’s already looking at the ground.”

Helion cocked his head to the side, like one of the curious dogs in the mortal realm who sensed an invisible Cassian without truly perceiving him.

“Interesting how we can view something so differently. Tell me,” Helion said, “what are you seeing?”

They stood, arm length apart, one a High Lord and one a General. One draped in white and gold silks and the other clad in black leather. Winged and grounded.

Centuries existed between them with decades of Helion’s decadent parties where his fingertips would trail across the skin of Cassian’s muscled forearm, his mouth curled into a sensual smile. They’d not gone to bed with each other but shared at least one female over the years.

Here they stood in the sun; no lustful invitations, no pulling of rank. They were two males, competing in a game with stakes Cassian didn’t care for.

Still, he described her. Head downward, eyes downcast, eyelids. No sculptor would ever be able to create something so fine but Cassian swore there were delicate, long eyelashes casting a shadow against the sharp sculptured cheekbones. The graceful neck curved into a collarbone and clavicle with strands of stone hair caught in a storm of her own making.

Head and eyes down. This is what Cassian relayed to Helion. “Are you satisfied?” he growled, “I’m tired of playing.”

Cassian had jested over the years that Helion had a way of undressing him with his eyes, of looking beyond the armour and siphons to the male underneath. Helion had roared with delight and asked Cassian if he wanted to put that feeling into action.

Now, with the High Lord’s dark eyes on him, Cassian believed Helion was witnessing something deeper, that he was now staring beyond bone and blood.

“I know when you’re upset,” Helion said, glancing away, “and where you go when you are. You’ve walked this pathway numerous times and besides, these are my gardens, they tell me everything.” Helion’s eyes flickered back to Cassian, “You’re not as prone to idiocy as Rhys would have you be. Look again and try and do it properly.”

I have, Cassian wanted to tell him but he hadn’t.

Her stone feet were planted on solid ground, the stone hands down by her sides with the palms facing upwards. Her head was still down as were her eyes.

The figure seemed to change the longer he looked, one expression melting into another, completely different from before; disinterest, anger, peace. Cassian followed the line of her eyes to the gold domes roof of the sunken library glinting in the sunlight on the mezzanine below.

The statues full lips were tilted upwards into a smile, small but there.

“You don’t love Day,” Helion said to him, his deep voice breaking through the storm of Cassian’s thoughts.

“I enjoy it.”

“But Day will never be home.” Helion raised a robed arm towards the sky, long dark fingers stretching out, the light greedily swimming around his skin. “You seek freedom and you can’t find that here. So, my question to you oh miserable one, where do you find freedom?”

Cassian shrugged; this was an easy question and though Helion already had the answer, Cassian would play a little longer. “Velaris. The mountains.”

“And who are you free with?”

Helion’s tone was sly and conspiratorial as though he was inviting Cassian into a darkened room and asking him to share all his secrets, whispering across velvet pillows or through draped curtains. It was like honey dripped from Helion’s mouth.

Cassian’s fists clenched, tendons sliding over bones as he flexed his fingers.

Helion was skilled at drawing out confidences that most fae wanted to keep hidden. He emitted some strange magic which made Cassian want to dash to the nearest scribe and spill everything he had. Names and faces swam into Cassian’s mind, seemingly at Helion’s bidding, the most prominent being the one who spent her morning scowling at him.

Her name took shape at the end of Cassian’s tongue.

“You know who,” Cassian choked the words out in lieu of the ones that was forming, “don’t play your games.”

Helion stepped closer to the statue with a sigh and trailed a graceful finger across the carved lifeline on her upturned left palm. The line cut off not long after it started before beginning again, half a nail width away. It matched the real version perfectly.

Helion pouted and peered over the ledge. “It’s no fun if you don’t want to play but let’s not then, let me share with you a truth which your own truth speaker doesn’t care to bring to you. Nesta isn’t free in Velaris, but then you do know this.” Helion’s eyes glanced from the sun glinted library roof to Cassian’s face.

“She’s free here though. My statues, my darling beauties, represent the hearts of my most welcomed guests and while you are quick to immediately assume that Nesta spends her time staring at the ground, I see she is simply seeking her own peace.” Helion shrugged, gold and white silk sliding over smooth dark skin. “Freedom looks different for everyone.”

“I know that,” Cassian snarled, teeth bared, “I don’t need some heavy-handed lecture.”

The air began to pulse as an energy reverberated around the stone of the terrace. The tree branches shook and the leaves rustled. One growl of power to a disobeying dog. A warning; never bear your canines at a High Lord in the very Court his blood runs through.

Cassian uncurled his fists, splaying his fingers in Helion’s eyeline. Acquiescence. Cassian was guilty of foolish behaviour but he was no fool.

Helion’s tone had bite. “I’ll forgive your misjudgement on account of your poorly developed emotional response mechanism but only this once. You get away with burying your head when in the Night Court but I won’t have it here. Let me speak plain - this statue is an everlasting part of my garden but it’s rock, expensive rock, but rock. I would happily welcome the originator of its visage to become a permanent member of my Court. I think she’d accept, don’t you?”

Although the power of Helion still sang its presence, Cassian restrained the urge to turn feral. He didn’t, wouldn’t, because despite what others thought, Cassian was no animal. Besides, some part of Helion’s words wormed their way through Cassian’s brain.

Perhaps Helion discerned the calm Cassian was desperately trying to maintain because his voice was soft when he next spoke. “You have two options my handsome friend; go together to a place where you are both equally as free or find your freedom apart. Sacrifices have to be made and they shouldn’t all be hers.”

The sweet scent of roses and lilacs drifted through the mezzanine and Cassian looked down at the statue’s open palm.

 “You can spend your time out here staring at an exquisitely carved piece of stone or you can reach for something real,” Helion said. “Your choice.”

Cassian thought of the circle of statues at his back, most especially the one on its toes spending centuries reaching for something that never came.

The squeeze on Cassian’s shoulder was gentle. “You’ll find her in the library,” Helion told him, “but then, you already knew that.”

Cassian sighed and closed his eyes and when he’d opened them, Helion had gone. Only the hanging ivy swaying by the wall was any indication of where he’d gone. Cassian looked back at the statue’s calm and serene face before trailing a fingertip onto the other open palm, half expecting her hand to curl around his, finding that he wanted it to.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I knew.”

Cassian wanted everything; Nesta, the Inner Circle, Velaris. He wanted his freedom; long fought for and hard won. He could have all those things if he pushed hard enough - but only for a time. His desires co-existing side by side would have lasted as long as a breath in the span of his lifetime.

There will be cost and Cassian understood the price.

He left the mezzanine and its sculptured delights behind. They were just statues, fixed to stand forever. Living things were meant to move.

The library was cooler than outside, filled with white marble columns and an expansive white marble floor making the space larger and lighter. Ivy weaved its way up the columns while the golden domed roof provided a welcoming warmth, counterbalancing the coolness of the stone.

Nesta was exactly where Cassian knew to find her, tucked away in her favourite loveseat under an arch in the romance section.

In the mountains Nesta told him how she spent her days in the Day Court; meals with Helion, walks with Helion, talks with Helion.

They all made Cassian’s stomach twist.

Nesta also told him she learnt to be alone with her thoughts. In those moments she went to the library, one of the few places she found comforting. There hadn’t been many safe spaces on offer to her in Prythian.

Cassian stood a small distance away behind one of the larger columns, folding his wings in as tight as he was able.

Nesta would always be one of the most beautiful females he’d ever seen. As she was now, with her head bent to her pages, she matched the statue above their heads; watchful and waiting.

Her face, smooth and still, could have been carved from stone, a testament to how expressionless she could be. If Cassian hadn’t experienced the passion, the sadness and the rage which existed underneath he would have believed she felt nothing at all.

Her cool voice carried across to him.

“Are you going to spend all your time lurking in the shadows?”

“I don’t lurk.”

Nesta looked over briefly, a delicate eyebrow raised, her pink lips downturned. Those blue-grey bore into him. She wasn’t in the mood for playing.

Cassian sighed and walked toward her. At least, he thought, Nesta shifted on the loveseat to make room for him. After their argument he thought she would be more inclined to try and beat him with the book she’d turned back to read.

They sat in strained silence. Nesta’s soft breaths out of sync with Cassian’s. She inhaled on his exhale. Everything was out of sync with them, even down to the core.

Cassian let out another sigh. Maybe he could fix this, re-set where they were going wrong. He shifted, his leg brushing against hers, so he could see her while he spoke.

“I was speaking with Helion,” he said.

Nesta kept her face to her book but raised an eyebrow again, “Oh.”

“Yes, in the garden.”

“Hmm,” she murmured and turned a page.

“He found me through one of his secret passageways.”

Nesta’s lips quirked into a small smile, “Now he’ll have to change it, so you don’t find it.”

“Yes, that’s what he said.”

“He has many that he’s always changing. I wouldn’t worry.”

“I’m not.”

The silence fell over them again like a fog. They’d reduced themselves to small talk between strangers, Cassian at a loss for what to say and Nesta with no desire to help him find his words.

“He found me in the statue circle.”

She was about to turn another page, although she hadn’t really been reading since he sat down, but her fingers stumbled and she dropped the book which landed with a thud.

Cassian picked it up, the gold embossed words on a cover of rich green telling a story of love. Nesta reached out and as she did, Cassian used his other hand to grasp her wrist, “Nes...”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “Let me go.”

It was a weak command, her voice shaking as she spoke but Cassian would always obey her will and he released her wrist. Nesta snatched at her book.

She didn’t open the cover, abandoning her pretence of reading and instead placed the volume on her lap, staring upwards towards the ceiling.

“I hate those statues,” she said.

“I know.”

“You have to visit them every time you’re here.”

“Not every time,” he replied but she turned, looking him in the eye.

“Yes, every time. I’ve seen you and I’ve felt you through the bond.” She looked away and started to trail the lettering on the cover with a fingernail. “Besides, Helion tells me you visit them a lot.”

Well, Helion is a spy and a snitch, Cassian wanted to say but bit those words down. This was Helion’s court and those were his garden’s, his statue’s. He went where he pleased and talked to whomever he pleased, and that, unfortunately, included Nesta.

“After our argument this morning I knew you would go there instead of coming to see me,” Nesta continued, “you and that damned circle.” Her voice cracked and she bent forward, placing her face in her hands so Cassian couldn’t see. Strands of hair fell from her crown braid over her forehead.

“Nesta,” he said, and Cassian took her wrists in his hands, gently pulling them away from her face.

Her face had blanched a stark white and the rims of her eyes were tinged pink. Despite the sheen of tears in them, Cassian knew she wouldn’t allow herself to cry. Nesta always found a way of shoving everything into a box in her soul.

“You all get to spend eternity gawping at each other in every Court in every form, don’t you?” She snatched her hands away, smoothing down the frayed hairs away from her face, wiping at her eyes.

“They’re just statues,” he said.

“I know,” she hissed, “Don’t be belligerent Cassian, we both know you’re too smart for that.”

“I’m not being-” but he stopped speaking and sat back against the marble wall, his wings hitting them with a bang.

Cassian closed his eyes, trying to think of what to say to make any of this better. He thought back to their argument in the bedroom, mere hours ago which felt like days, surrounded by excessive amounts of silk in various shades of pink.

“There’s a statue of you,” he said, envisaging it like some lost old memory and not something he had been staring at less than hour ago. The image was clear in his mind; the windswept hair, the upturned palms, that lovely but sad face with its hopeful, delicate smile.

“I know.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“It’s set apart from the others.”

Cassian heard the rustling of her dress as Nesta shifted. “Helion told me he wanted it separate from the rest because it didn’t suit the others.”

Cassian’s heart picked up its pace, “What do you think about that?”

“I agreed. The statue should be away from the rest. It doesn’t fit with the others.” Nesta let out a gentle sigh. “I don’t fit with the others.”

Cassian opened his eyes and stared into the distance.

The gardens were a labyrinth and the sunken library even more so, rows of white bookcases lined with vibrant colours, pastels or even shimmering golds stretched outwards until they stopped short of the central atrium, right underneath the top of the dome. The light shone through in beams and specks of dust danced amongst them.

They both sat rigid and unmoving with muscles locked into place and stared ahead, not at the rows of books but at the future in front of them, at decisions that would take them away or bring towards.

“Would that suit you?” Cassian asked, his voice thick. “Being apart from us? Elain? Amren? Me?”

Nesta’s fingers twitched on her lap, digging deep into the material of her skirts. “I don’t need to consider Amren in my plans and she knows this. Elain will understand in time; besides she has her own life now and gets to live the way she wishes so I don’t understand why I cannot.”

She paused. “Feyre will be irritated but she’ll come around in time. She’ll have to.”

“And me?”

The seconds of silence lasted longer than Cassian liked. There was no definitive answer, no immediate outpouring of emotion. His breath rasped in his ears and now he could hear Nesta’s, finally in time with his own. Her voice was quiet, travelling from a universe away.

“You can’t seem to understand why I don’t love the Night Court as much as you do so I don’t know whether you’ll come around in time.” Nesta picked at a loose thread on her dress. The more she pulled, the more it seemed she unravelled the sinews in his heart. “I don’t know how much longer I can wait until you do, if you do. I don’t heal in the Night Court; I can’t heal among those who hate me.”

Cassian wanted to reassure her; to say he would understand why she couldn’t love the Night Court, that eventually she would heal amongst the copper roof tops of Velaris and she was never amongst those who hated her. The words stuck in his throat and burned.

His love for the place he called home was built in his bones, constructed as part of him as he had wings on his back. Without his home he wouldn’t be Cassian of the Night Court, he wouldn’t be anyone.

“Helion has offered me a home here,” she continued.

Cassian nodded, his head bobbing on a neck that now felt too thin. Cassian understood Helion wanted to offer Nesta a home in Day, he wasn’t aware he already had. “Would you be happy here?”

“I think so.” Nesta let out a mirthless laugh, “Day is the opposite of Night and so the Court would suit me just fine.”

Something burnt inside his chest. His overworked, overwrought centuries old heart was now in flames and this was the beginning of it turning to ash.

“I can’t live in Day,” he said. “The Court is fine enough but this place would become to me what Night is to you. It wouldn’t sustain me.”

“We’re at an impasse then. The road ahead of us is splitting.” Nesta spoke the words with cold, impassive authority, the kind of tone she used for others which led them to assume she was a heartless creature.

But Cassian could feel her as he always had. A crack across her heart ran deeper than anything before. She’d been through hell and come out the other side carrying what pieces of herself remained within her clenched fists. This couldn’t be the event which broke her, he couldn’t be the fae that broke her.

Sacrifices, Helion told him less than an hour ago, needed to be made. But not all sacrifices needed to be a bad thing. Sacrificing something didn’t mean you would always lose; it may mean winning something more valuable.

“Yes,” he said, voice soft, “if you think the road only has two paths to choose from.”

Nesta took in his words, and Cassian could sense the moment they landed in her mind, how she sounded out their meanings. A strand of wavering hope rose between them.

“Oh,” she said but her voice held a tremor, the edge of anticipation she was clinging to and the thread wound itself tighter round her finger until her flesh turned white.

“I believe this morning an angry female hissed at me about retreating back to the mountains and staying in the cabin forever.”

Nesta pursed her lips. “Well, I believe the female had a right to be angry as I believe said female was being abandoned by her mate.”

“He would never.”

“Hmm.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I don’t want to leave them,” he said.

Nesta’s shoulders sagged and her hope dissipated from her like smoke. “I know,” she said, “I just-”

“However,” he interrupted, “that doesn’t mean I won’t leave them. At least on a semi-permanent basis.”

Nesta took a deep breath in.

“I can’t live here,” he gestured outwards to the marble pillars and trailing ivy and streams of violently bright light. “Day isn’t for me but Night isn’t for you. My life is in Velaris and I have responsibilities that I can’t leave and friends I want to see, but as long as I’m somewhere near, somewhere I can fly to them I think that will be fine.”

Nesta released her breath and Cassian carried on. “I can’t lose them Nesta but I won’t lose you. I’ve waited a long time for you even before I understood what I was waiting for. If Velaris will destroy you then at some point the city will destroy me too.”

He continued to stare ahead but Nesta’s arm brushed against his as she moved, her slight frame against his broad one. From the corner of his eye, he saw her pale face gazing at him and if he turned to her, he would see her hope anew.

“The cabin needs more work to make it habitable all year round and the winters are hard and isolating. I’ll need to fly to Velaris more often than you would want and you’re still going to have to visit your sisters. Honestly, I’d hate to make Elain angry.”

There was a soft sob next to him. “I’d hate to make Elain angry too,” but she smiled through her tears.

“We’ll have to think of a way to transport all your books. I’m not flying them to the cabin, not if you’re bringing that twelve book saga you’re into with the-”

Nesta grasped his chin in her slender fingers and turned his face to hers. Shining in those blue-grey eyes through the misty layer of tears was pure delight.

“Thank you,” she whispered and brought her mouth to his. The kiss was sweet on his lips, soft and slow and filled with the promise she would always love him. Cassian deepened the kiss, sliding his hands over her waist before trailing upwards on her back to tangle in her hair.

They stayed like that for a while, his tongue seeking out and sliding against hers; wet, luxurious kiss after kiss. Cassian groaned and gripped Nesta’s hips, fingers digging into the flesh beneath her dress and he swung her up and over onto his lap.

She pulled her mouth away and gasped, “No! Not here, not in front of the books!”

“The gardens then?” he joked and received a flick to his chin for his trouble.

“Helion will be disappointed.”

“That’s perverse.”

“No,” Nesta crinkled her nose, “that I won’t be making my home here.”

Cassian trailed his hands up Nesta’s back to her hair, tangling the strands around his fingers, looking forward to when he could make it took as disordered as her glorious statue’s. “Make this place your holiday destination. I’m sure you’ll frequent Day every time I’m in Velaris.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“And when we’re done appeasing the world we’ll be together again, at home.”

Nesta’s eyes scanned his face, the way Helion’s had done earlier, but instead of an assessment that had left Cassian found wanting, her eyes were soft and the blue-grey was the colour of the sky in the Night Court just after a storm.

“Yes,” she said, “at home.” She leaned in to kiss him again and before Cassian closed his eyes he soaked in the image, letting it burn forever into his mind. A perfect picture of Nesta in the flesh; her fluttering eyelashes, freckled nose and the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.  

[blackestnight]

💋 cheek kiss! >:3c

(crafters of light GO)

The light that streamed through the domes of the Crystarium was the golden, watered-down sunlight of early winter–jarring after her morning in Ishgard’s mid-spring slush, and Hanami’s eyes teared up every time she glanced up at the gleaming stones of the Exedra. The stairs of the Dossal Gate were too cold for comfort, but it was the best place to wait for her quarry and the sharp marble of the step at her back pressed its chill into a tight knot at the base of her spine. She would live.

She would have preferred a coat, though. She would have to remember to make a watch and ask Feo Ul to throw pixie magic at it until it could tell her what day it was on each shard; she was growing more and more sick of needing to worry about things like seasons. She bent back over the pad of paper in her lap to write a note–the lines of her hasty circle sketch warped when they hit the divot from an earlier pen line, remnants of her copying sentences out of an old Ishgardian schoolbook for practice–

She heard the shuffle of a small footstep and the clink of jewelry before the voice, but not by much. “You know,” said the woman, “When Raha asked me to chase off the gargoyle skulking on his front step, I had a feeling I’d find you here.”

Hanami set her pen back down, abandoning her sketch, and craned her neck to look up at Lunya. Her hair was near-blinding in the afternoon light, brighter than the flagstones, though mercifully her coat was a deep purple that hurt less to look at. Her boots had a fur trim that matched the white stitching, though, and the gloves shimmered with silver embroidery at the wrists–impractical, all of it, in Hanami’s mind, but today she needed that fanciful eye for clothing.

“I need your help,” she said, and flipped her notepad shut. “With a dress.”

“Hello to you too,” Lunya said, and Hanami might have felt worse were it not for the way her eyes lit up. “A dress, you say? You realize I’m quite in demand.”

Hanami crossed her arms, tucking her knees up closer to her chest, now that she did not need to worry about her book. Of course she realized; Lunya was a popular seamstress on the Source, even under a false name, and her popularity was growing here as well, all for good reason. She was the best at what she did. “That is why I am asking you now, yes,” she said. “Aymeric already asked me to come with him to a big fancy Starlight party–it is supposed to be a celebration of the end of the war, too, and all the Alliance leaders will be there.” She wrinkled her nose; parties with the Alliance meant crowds, and hushed whispers wherever she went, and she would undoubtedly be too keyed up to even drink. “I know there are dressmakers in Ishgard, but they make me feel…” She sighed and stuck out her tongue, the words escaping her.

Lunya gave a slow, sage nod. “Like a stuffed Dodo wrapped in baking twine? That’s just sloppy corsetry.” She spared a despairing shake of her head for whatever slights against tailoring she was envisioning–Hanami wouldn’t even know where to start–and straightened her shoulders. “Well! I suppose I’ll be able to put something together, though I’ll need to know what precise level of big fancy I’ll be aiming for. There’s a code to these things, Hanami. There is etiquette.”

Hanami shrugged; it wasn’t as though she had asked, and besides, from what she understood Ishgardian dress had less to do with the status of your own family and more to do with stepping on the toes of others. She would not have called it etiquette. “I do not know. It is not as if I go to parties if I can help it.”

Lunya let out a groan, slanted almost toward a whine with her disgust, her bangs fluffing out with her breath. “I would swear Redolent Rose said you were enrolled in the Weavers’ Guild. How do you know so little about clothing?”

“Is that all Master Rose said?” Hanami could not help her snort. “He should have told you I sew things like I punch people. It works, but it is messy, and I get blood on everything.”

Lunya’s brightness finally bubbled over into a laugh, deep and trembling, one that nearly brought a smile to Hanami’s face in satisfaction–before Lunya leaned over and pressed her laugh into Hanami’s cheekbone, the contact shooting down her own spine like a cold shock. “You’re a disaster,” Lunya said, sounding quite pleased, and Hanami fought down the urge to jump to her feet as Lunya’s voice reverberated right next to her horn. “Alright, I’ll take on the job, but only on the condition that I get to dress you in a real color. None of this ‘so dark it’s almost black’ bullshite.”

“No pink,” Hanami said, mostly on reflex–but then she’d seen Lunya’s wardrobe, of course, she knew how she loved pastels, and Hanami had no desire to look like a cake. She did get to her feet, too, slowly, unlocking her muscles that had stiffened in the cold.

“Yes pink, it’s your color,” Lunya insisted. “You had it in your hair for so long, gods know you should be used to it. Go on over to the Mean; I need to run an errand and then I’ll meet you there to take measurements.”

Hanami bent over to scoop up her bag, and caught sight of the stone sculptures lining the staircase–which reminded her. “Tell G’raha Tia I am going to do violent things to him when I see him,” she said, tucking her book into her rucksack. Gargoyle. He had it coming, really.

“What, are you going to darn a sock at him?” Lunya said, and her laughter followed Hanami as she rolled her eyes and descended the stairs. 

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Chapter 5

Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart by George deValier

Feliciano lay in long, sun drenched grass with Ludwig beside him, smiling, a ray of orange sunlight turning his hair to gold. He reached for Feliciano and pulled him close with warm, strong arms. Feliciano gasped, ran his fingers through that golden hair, shuddered at the soft touch of Ludwig's lips on his neck. All was silent around them… no one else existed in the entire world. Feliciano threw his head back and moaned. "Ludwig…"

A deafening bang exploded in his ears and Feliciano's eyes shot open, blinking in the sudden soft light. It took him a few moments to remember where he was, and when he did, he could hear Lovino's frantic breathing cut through the silence of the bedroom. He turned his head to see Lovino limp heavily from the front door to the dresser, take the glass tomato Antonio had given him from its surface, and clutch it tightly in his hand before smashing it suddenly to the ground. Feliciano blinked in shock and pushed himself upright, the last vestiges of sleep falling away. "Lovino, what are you doing?"

Lovino barely noticed him. He just dropped to his knees, placed the lantern on the ground and searched through the shards of glass until he found something. He held the tiny object up to the light. Lovino stared at it, unmoving, breathing heavily, before he closed his hand over it and clutched it to his chest. He laughed bitterly. "Bastard."

Feliciano pulled himself out of bed, confused and worried. "What is it?"

"Nothing. It's nothing." Lovino put his head in his hands briefly. "Oh God, it's nothing, nothing."

Feliciano dropped to the floor beside Lovino, grasping his hand and opening it to see what he held. It was a plain, silver ring. Lovino did not protest when Feliciano took it and held the ring up to the light, turning it over in his fingers. There were letters inscribed on the inside. Feliciano read out the unfamiliar words. "Te quiero. What does that mean?"

"Nothing," Lovino repeated firmly. "Forget it." He snatched the ring back and thrust it in his pocket. "Just forget you saw it, and I'll forget I saw it, and we'll all just forget that any of this ever happened." Feliciano got the feeling he was talking about something other than the ring.

"Forget that what happened? Lovino? What happened?"

Lovino just shook his head and pulled himself to his feet. "Nothing," he repeated.

"What's the time? Why are you home so late? Where is Antonio? Grandpa said you hurt your ankle, are you all right? Lovino, you look like you are going to fall over."

"Feliciano," said Lovino as he limped shakily to his bed. "Go back to sleep."

Feliciano nodded reluctantly, realising that was the most he was going to get out of Lovino tonight. "Will you at least let me bandage your ankle?" Lovino responded, but it was muffled by a pillow. "I'm sorry?"

"I said, Antonio already did that. Now shut up."

Feliciano smirked at that. He quickly swept up the broken shards and discarded them, a little disappointed as he watched them fall into the bin. It was a shame that Lovino had to break something so pretty just to find out what was inside it. Te quiero. He would have to find out what it meant. Feliciano sighed and climbed back into bed, hoping that he could fall back into the same dream he had been woken out of.

.

The wind carried with it a deep and bitter chill as Feliciano walked through the cold morning air. The winter had been unusually mild so far, and even though the day before had been unseasonably warm, there had been a sudden change almost overnight. Feliciano could even make out snow on the mountains. Along with the sudden freeze, dark clouds had settled on the horizon, and Feliciano watched them uneasily as he strolled along the road. He never had liked winter storms, with the freezing rain and the piercing lightning and the thunder that rolled off the mountains and echoed back twice as loud. When Feliciano was little, Grandpa Roma used to say that the thunder was the old Gods fighting each other. That just scared him more.

Feliciano was fairly sure Ludwig would not be waiting for him this early, but he made his way towards the oak tree anyway. And when he made out the familiar military uniform and blond hair in the distance, his heart leapt and he ran.

"Ludwig! Ludwig, you came!" Feliciano stumbled as he reached the tree and laughed breathlessly when Ludwig grasped his arms to steady him.

"Careful," said Ludwig, but his lips twitched in a small smile.

"I was worried you wouldn't come ba -" Feliciano stopped himself. "I was worried you would be too busy."

"I am busy, but... not enough to keep me away." Ludwig shrugged helplessly. "I think only one thing would be."

The words sent a dizzying thrill through Feliciano, even as they filled him with dread. He did not ask what that thing would be... he did not want to think about that now. Today he wanted to forget the dangers, forget the right and wrong. Today, he just wanted to be with Ludwig. He looked down and realised with a jolt that Ludwig was still holding him by the arms. Ludwig noticed at the same time and immediately dropped his hands, turning red. "I'm sorry, I..."

"Come with me." Feliciano did not give Ludwig a chance to finish, to start overthinking and grow embarrassed. "I want to show you a place." He grasped Ludwig's hand then turned and headed across the field. "You like walking, don't you? That's good because it's fairly far away. Oh, but don't worry, we'll get there before noon. I'm not going to lead you into the mountains, Ludwig!"

"Uh... just where are we going?" Ludwig sounded a little surprised, but as though he was trying to hide it.

"If I tell you, it won't be a surprise!"

"It's a surprise?"

Feliciano laughed gleefully. "It is now!" Actually, he was not even completely sure himself where they were heading. But he was sure he would find the perfect place. A place where no one could find them; where they could be all that existed in the entire world. A place far enough away that by the time they walked there and back, they would have spent the whole day together.

Usually this field would be well tilled, but lately there had been little time for the usual work. The green grass brushed almost to their knees, occasionally brightening to yellow when the sun broke through the dark clouds. Feliciano was relieved to see that the darkest of them remained at a distance. Ludwig's hand remained warm and firm in his as they ambled side by side, heading towards the sloping hill at the end of the field. Feliciano swung his basket by his side and wondered if he would miss the market again today. He hoped so. After all, how could be not prefer to spend the day wandering over the countryside hand in hand with Ludwig? It almost felt like they could just keep going… keep going towards the mountains, away from everything, and never come back. Feliciano snuck a sideways glance at Ludwig to find him looking back. They both immediately looked away.

"The weather has certainly turned," said Ludwig quickly.

"They say a storm will hit before the spring," said Feliciano, before remembering the sentence as his code from the previous day. He glanced nervously at Ludwig, but he did not seem to have noticed anything unusual.

"It looks like it, doesn't it. Are you cold?" asked Ludwig.

Feliciano shook his head and smiled happily at the concerned tone in Ludwig's voice. "I'm fine."

Ludwig nodded. "And… how are you? After yesterday, I mean. Are you all right, Feliciano?"

Feliciano suddenly remembered the events in the town square and wished he hadn't. Today he was supposed to be forgetting all that. "Well... yes. Thank you for being there to... thank you for being there." Ludwig had not released his hand yet. Feliciano clutched even tighter to it.

"I did not want you to see that. You should not have to see things like that." Feliciano's chest leapt but he kept his eyes on the grass beneath their feet. Ludwig was silent for a long time. "We're not all like that," he said finally, almost a whisper.

"I know that. Of course you're not." Feliciano was certain, beyond any doubt, that Ludwig was one of the best men he had ever known. To compare him for a moment to those police in the square, whose job was to torture and maim and murder, was unthinkable. "You're a good man. I can tell."

Ludwig turned his head sharply, looking almost upset. "I've always been able to control things. But I am not strong enough to control everything, apparently."

"What a silly thing to say, Ludwig. No one is strong enough to control everything. Not even Grandpa Roma. And he's the strongest man I know. Once a tractor broke down in the field and Grandpa pushed it all the way home by himself. With Lovino and I sitting on it and yelling at him to go faster."

"He sounds a bit like my grandfather."

Feliciano was always so happy hearing even the smallest thing about Ludwig's life. He tried to imagine Ludwig's grandfather; if he was tall and strong and handsome like Ludwig, or as different from him as Grandpa Roma was from Feliciano. "Maybe our Grandpas would be friends if they met."

Ludwig gave a small shrug, but he did not look convinced. "Who knows."

The grass grew shorter beneath their feet as they reached the edge of the field and headed up the sloping rise. Clusters of trees dotted the landscape before them, the mountains rose in the distance, and the green rolling hills on all sides were splashed with patches of red and orange and purple. Ludwig stayed silent for the most part, letting Feliciano ramble on and point out the landmarks below as they climbed - the broken down tank that had sat by the roadside for a year, the outline of the village in the distance, the rows of farm houses growing smaller below them. With his stomach fluttering madly and a sort of wild excitement running through him, Feliciano felt the concerns and dangers and fears melt behind him the further away he walked with Ludwig. He felt practically giddy as he looked down at their hands still clasped… Ludwig had not moved to pull away. He passed his basket to Ludwig before leaning down to pluck a flower. He then placed it carefully in Ludwig's jacket. "That's a giglio bianco." Ludwig smiled and Feliciano's heart skipped a beat.

"White lily."

"Esatto!" said Feliciano, smiling back. He rattled off the names of the flowers he recognised as they passed. "And there is an agno casto, and those are valeriana rossa. And oh, here, we grow this in the garden." Feliciano plucked a sprig of rosemary and pressed it into Ludwig's jacket buttonhole next to the lily. "And there's rosmarino."

"That's for remembrance," said Ludwig. Feliciano blinked quizzically. "It's from Shakespeare. Hamlet," Ludwig explained.

"Oh!" said Feliciano in understanding. "Yes, Grandpa read that to us a few times. 'Pray you, love, remember.'" He smiled wistfully. Grandpa always used to read English stories to him and Lovino, back before the war started and there were too many more important things to do. "Well there you are, Ludwig, now you will not forget me!"

"Feliciano, I don't need a sprig of rosemary to remember you. Nothing could ever make me forget." Feliciano laughed happily as Ludwig cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject. "You're not too cold?" he asked again.

"It is not so bad while walking." Feliciano gave Ludwig a strange look. He had already answered this question. "Are you cold?"

"No. Your winters here are very mild compared to my home."

"Really? Does it also rain a lot, like in England? Do you get lots of snow? Is it… oh, Ludwig, look, let's stop over here!" Feliciano noticed a small copse of trees, like a little dark island in the middle of the vast rolling green, and pulled Ludwig over to it. It was darker under the overhead foliage, but the sunlight still streamed through and bathed the thicket in gold and shadow. Feliciano finally let go of Ludwig's hand to wander between the tree trunks, leisurely reaching up and picking a leaf off each one. He twirled them absently between his fingers. "Do you miss it?" he asked, peering back up at Ludwig through a low hanging branch. "Your home?"

"Of course. Very much. And my grandfather. And my brother." Ludwig followed Feliciano at a short distance as they wandered under the dark cover of leaves. He seemed quite content to follow wherever Feliciano led today.

"And your friends?"

Ludwig scratched the back of his neck nervously. "I've never had many friends."

Feliciano was surprised. "No friends?"

Ludwig shook his head. "Gilbert was always the popular one. Usually people just seem afraid of me. Or I suppose I just don't talk enough to..." Ludwig shrugged. "I don't know."

Feliciano found that strange. He was usually afraid of everything... and yet Ludwig did not scare him at all. He reached up and plucked another leaf from a tree. "I'm not very good at making friends either, Ludwig. Although it's not because I don't talk... actually, I think that might be the problem. I mean, I always try to be nice to people, but they usually end up saying 'Shut up, Feliciano, you're so annoying!' or 'You're nothing like your Grandpa, are you?' or they just look at me strangely and walk away. You don't ever do that, though. You never tell me to shut up."

"That is because I do not want you to shut up."

Ludwig always seemed to know the exact thing to say to make Feliciano's heart leap and his knees weaken. He turned quickly to hide the silly smile that spread across his face, continuing to weave between the tree trunks and pick leaves. He came to one where the branch was too high and jumped a few times, his fingers straining to reach the leaf just centimetres out of his grasp. Then his stomach tightened when he felt Ludwig walk up behind him. He could smell the familiar scent of his jacket; could feel Ludwig's chest inches from his back, his close presence like an electrical charge. Ludwig reached up, his arm brushing Feliciano's shoulder, and plucked the leaf from the branch before pressing it into Feliciano's shaking hand. Feliciano just stared at it dazedly, suddenly overwhelmed with that increasingly desperate desire to touch Ludwig. He turned, almost in a daze. Ludwig was still so close behind him. But it wasn't close enough. Feliciano reached up and planted the leaf in Ludwig's buttonhole, his fingers lingering too long on the firm chest. Ludwig raised an eyebrow.

"Soon I will have a garden in my jacket."

Feliciano laughed, forcing himself to drop his hands and look at the ground. He tried to breathe deeply; tried to remember how. He took a reluctant step back and shivered.

"You are sure you're not too cold?" asked Ludwig.

"No," said Feliciano immediately, hiding his shaking hands in his pockets.

Ludwig sounded unconvinced. "Your jacket does not look warm enough."

"It is just a little colder under the trees, that's all." Why did Ludwig keep asking if he was cold?

Feliciano heard a shuffling and looked up in surprise to see Ludwig shrugging off his jacket. He turned red and held it out, staring at his feet the whole time. "Here."

Oh. Because he was trying to give him his jacket. Feliciano bit his lip. It was such a silly gesture… something that Grandpa Roma would do to make the girls in town giggle. And yet Feliciano felt lightheaded, like his chest would burst, and his lips pulled into a smile he could not control. He was filled with such ridiculous happiness at the insistent gesture.

But then he looked at the jacket. The military grey, the decorations on the chest, the lines on the shoulder, the badges at the collar. The lily and rosemary; the eagle and the swastika. Feliciano's stomach dropped. Could he wear that? What would that mean? Before he could make up his mind, Ludwig took a step towards him and placed the jacket over his shoulders. Feliciano gasped, a sharp breath, inhaling the clean and warm scent. The jacket fell heavy and much too wide over his shoulders. He pushed his hands slowly through the arms and laughed when they did not reach the cuffs. Then he smiled up at Ludwig. Ludwig gazed back intently, his blue eyes bright. And Feliciano knew it was all right. It had to be all right. Because right now, it wasn't a military jacket. It was Ludwig's jacket.

"We're nearly there, Ludwig," said Feliciano, still unsure where they were headed. But he just took Ludwig's hand again and drew him out of the trees, into the sunshine and further up the green hill. They continued to climb as the sun rose higher and the chill of the air around them lessened. Feliciano was not sure if the new warmth that flooded him was from the sun, the jacket, or the fact that Ludwig again made no move to pull his hand away.

It did not take much longer before Feliciano found a suitable destination, a ruined structure that sat close to the highest point of the sloping hill. The ceiling of the old church had long since crumbled, but a few broken pillars and stone wall remnants remained scattered around a cracked courtyard. Grass and weeds pushed insistently through cracks in the stone floor, and long, green tendrils grew twisted around the few remaining arched windows.

Feliciano jumped up onto the eroded barricade that encircled the ruins, Ludwig holding him steady by the hand. He pointed out over the fields that spread out below them, the houses and roads and buildings that looked like a tiny doll's village. "And look, Ludwig, there's our oak tree."

"Yes, it is very beautiful," said Ludwig, looking not at the view, but up at Feliciano. "Don't fall."

"Don't be silly Ludwig, you're holding my hand, I won't fall. And if I do you'll catch me." Feliciano made his way unsteadily along the rocky wall, clinging firmly to Ludwig's steady grip. He walked until they reached a spot where a few tall stone fragments blocked the direct sunlight. Feliciano smiled down into Ludwig's worried face. "Tell me more about your home. Tell me about your village."

"Very well, but only if you stop and get down before you hurt yourself."

Feliciano laughed and let Ludwig help him down. He sat on the broken wall, gesturing for Ludwig to sit beside him. "Well?"

"Well," said Ludwig thoughtfully as he sat. "It is small. And very similar to what you have here… farms, and fields, and trees. And yet different… wilder, almost. There is a beautiful castle that overlooks the town. And it is very old… I believe the castle dates from the fifteenth century. And in the village there is a beer hall, one that I go to with Grandfather and Gilbert every Sunday after church." Ludwig smiled slightly. Feliciano reminded himself to breathe. "All our lives we have gone to that same beer hall. And everyone knows each other; we have known each other our whole lives. It is warm and friendly. It is wonderful. It is home." Ludwig's face was alight, and the remainder of his awkwardness seemed to fall away. Feliciano was transfixed.

"I'd like to go there one day." A sudden low, muted roar broke the stillness of the morning. The familiar sound of distant bombs echoed off the mountains, but Feliciano determinedly ignored them. "Can we go there one day, Ludwig?"

Ludwig closed his eyes briefly. "Yes. We can go there one day." At that moment, the sun broke through the clouds and rose above the ruins behind them, shining down brilliantly, illuminating the green sloping rise, the clusters of trees, the bright patches of colour, the wide open fields and the scattered houses below them. Looking across the beautiful and familiar view, Feliciano could understand Ludwig's love for his home; his need to fight for and protect it, to serve in its name. It was something Feliciano understood far too well.

"I'd bet your village is just as pretty as this, Ludwig," sighed Feliciano. Pretty, beautiful, glorious... just like this day that he wanted to last forever. "Ooh, I know, I'll photograph it for you!" Feliciano reached into the basket Ludwig had placed on the ground and took out his camera. He hefted it up and angled it towards the stunning view before him. Ludwig immediately sat up straighter and leant over to look more closely.

"What's this?"

"My Grandpa's camera! Isn't it fantastic?" The camera was for the rare occasions he might have to take photographs of strategic positions. Instead Feliciano liked to take photographs of birds and flowers and pretty girls. "Lovino taught me how to develop the pictures and everything. Smile!" Ludwig didn't, but Feliciano took a photograph of him anyway. "Here, now take one of me."

Feliciano pressed the camera insistently into Ludwig's hands and tried not to think of the irony of handing a German a camera which was intended to be used against him. He just gave Ludwig a bright smile, almost laughing as Ludwig took the photograph. "There. Now, I'll develop them tonight and show you tomorrow." Feliciano waited for Ludwig to hand the camera back, but he just turned it over in his hands, staring at it intently. Feliciano waited as Ludwig looked it over thoroughly before finally looking up apologetically.

"This is a very good camera. One of the best."

"Really, is it? I don't really know much about that. Machines like this confuse me. I can never get the radio to work properly, I always seem to get someone yelling in Russian. And the first time Grandpa let me use the telephone I somehow had a thirty minute conversation with a man in Dublin. He was very nice but he kept calling me Fred." Ludwig laughed and Feliciano's stomach flipped. He so rarely heard that wonderful deep laugh.

"Well, it is certainly a wonderful machine." Ludwig placed the camera back in the basket. "And you are a strange, wonderful man, Feliciano. You are…" Ludwig stared at him in that way which confused Feliciano, delighted him, made him nervous and made the world stop around him. "You make me question everything I ever thought I knew."

"Um… I apologise?" said Feliciano, unsure if that was the correct response.

"Don't." Ludwig managed a smile and Feliciano's heart thrummed. He was fairly sure he was going to burst from happiness soon. It could not be possible to be this content just sitting and talking to someone. But this whole day had been wonderful, and Feliciano could never remember a time when he had been happier. He wondered if this was how Lovino might feel around Antonio if only he would calm down a little. Which reminded him…

"Ludwig," said Feliciano. "Te quiero." Ludwig turned white, then red, looked for a moment as though he was going to fall over, then began stammering a response before Feliciano interrupted him. "Do you have any idea what that means?" Ludwig paused, closed his eyes, and let out a long, shuddering breath.

"Oh. Oh, I see." He shook his head and almost laughed. "Why?"

"Do you know what it means? I think it might be Spanish."

"It is."

Feliciano was incredulous. "Why didn't you ever tell me you spoke Spanish, Ludwig, that's not fair, no wonder it is so easy for you to learn Italian when German is really hard for…"

"I don't speak Spanish," interrupted Ludwig. "It's just that my brother had a good friend who was Spanish, before the war, and he taught us to say a few words."

"Oh." Feliciano almost felt embarrassed. He was not used to the feeling. "But you understand 'Te quiero'?"

Ludwig turned red again. "Well, it means... from what I remember, which might be wrong, I think it means… I love you." Ludwig said the words in a rush. Feliciano was not sure he had heard them correctly.

"I lo… oh." Feliciano stared into the distance, a little dazed. "I love you? Really?"

"Yes." Ludwig shifted uncomfortably and smoothed his hair absently.

"Oh." So Antonio was in love with Lovino. Feliciano could not say he was surprised, really. That would certainly explain a lot. And was really quite obvious, come to think of it. No wonder Grandpa Roma was worried. Maybe he thought Lovino would run away to Spain. Feliciano broke out of his thoughts and looked sideways at Ludwig, who stared fixedly at the ground. "What is 'I love you' in German?"

"It's... well, it's..." Ludwig went still and took a steadying breath. "Ich liebe dich." Ludwig said it so softly Feliciano could barely hear.

"I'm sorry?"

Ludwig looked up out across the fields, clenched his hands into fists, then turned to face Feliciano. "Ich liebe dich."

Feliciano froze, caught in those eyes, the colour of the sky behind the clouds. Ludwig was so close. So warm, so real, so everything… "Ti amo." Ludwig blushed deeper and Feliciano stumbled over a few words, trying to explain while at the same time realising that he meant it. More than anything else he had ever said, he meant it. "In Italian, it is 'Ti amo.'"

"Ti amo."

Feliciano shivered at the words, even though Ludwig was only repeating them. A familiar silence settled around them, heavy with hope and tension and uncertainty and confusion. It was abruptly broken when a massive roar tore through the sky. Feliciano looked up to see three planes flying in a triangle formation overhead. He still had not quite gotten used to the planes that were always flying overhead these days.

"Those are ours," said Ludwig, a hint of relief mixed with the pride in his voice.

"Wow," said Feliciano, watching as the planes disappeared into the distance almost as suddenly as they had appeared, leaving three white trails in their wake. "Is that what your plane looks like, Ludwig?"

"Yes."

"What is it like to fly in one of those?"

"It is…" Ludwig paused for a moment, searching for a response. "There is no word for it. Not in English, not in German. It is… indescribable."

"You love it. Flying." It was obvious when Ludwig spoke about something important to him. His eyes shone brighter and his carefully composed stiffness almost drained away. It was mesmerising.

"It is everything to me."

Everything. Feliciano nodded and absently plucked a weed that grew through the stone wall. He listened to the gentle sound of the wind rustling through the grass as the roaring of the planes finally disappeared. Then he took a deep breath and came to a decision. Some things are just worth the risk... "Do you have a girlfriend, Ludwig?" He was fairly sure Ludwig would have mentioned by now if he did, but Feliciano did not know another way to ask what he wanted to know.

"No," said Ludwig firmly. "My only girl is my Messerschmitt."

"Who's Mrs Schmitt?"

Ludwig almost laughed. "No, my plane. She's a Messerschmitt Bf 109. Her name is Greta."

"Your plane's name is Greta?"

"Yes."

"Greta Schmitt."

This time Ludwig did laugh. "Just Greta. We all name our planes. They are very special to us."

"But there is no special girl." Feliciano was aware that he was treading dangerously, but he did not want to stop.

Ludwig answered slowly. "No."

"Why?"

Ludwig's eyes flashed as he suddenly stared heatedly at Feliciano. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing!" said Feliciano quickly, leaning back, a small shock running through him. So Ludwig could look scary after all. "I didn't… I mean, I just… you're just such a nice guy and all I thought you would have had a girlfriend, I'm sorry if I upset you, I really didn't mean to."

Ludwig's eyes softened then he sighed and looked at the ground. "No, I am sorry. I just... no, I do not have a girlfriend."

"Why is that?" asked Feliciano carefully.

"Because… well..." Ludwig sat stiffly, on guard once again, far from his relaxed demeanour of earlier and nowhere near his normal composed and controlled self. "This is nothing, forget about it."

Feliciano's heart started to pound. "But, it sounds like there is a reason, tell me."

"Please, Feliciano." Ludwig's eyes were wide and he almost seemed to be trying not to panic. "Just leave it."

"I don't want to leave it, there's something you want to say, but you're not telling me! What is it?"

Ludwig did not answer right away. "You could never understand," he said finally, then immediately winced as though he had said too much.

"Maybe…" A small hopeful suspicion started to swell in Feliciano's chest. "Maybe I could. Understand, that is."

The silence was absolute as their eyes met. Feliciano felt like he was waiting on a knife's edge and he couldn't move, his body rooted to the spot, unable to look away, his breath coming too fast as the air became heavy with tension around him. How did time always seem to stop when Ludwig looked into his eyes like this? Ludwig finally tore his eyes away, his expression pained and conflicted. "Maybe I will explain another time."

Feliciano shoulders sagged as he let out a deep breath. "Oh." He was filled with frustration and disappointment once again. He did not even know what he had been waiting for, but he was fairly sure this wasn't it.

"I will explain, I just..." Ludwig leant forward briefly, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "I need to think."

"That's all right. I can wait, Ludwig. I don't mind waiting." Feliciano hesitantly reached out and placed his hand on Ludwig's, half expecting him to push it away. But Ludwig immediately clasped it in his. "I'd wait forever."

The hours flew by like seconds, until to Feliciano's surprise and anguish, he noticed that the sun was swiftly descending to late afternoon. He did not want the sun to descend. He did not want the day to end. He never wanted to leave this place. Feliciano was starting to love these places - these magical spots scattered across the countryside where it felt like the world stopped and he could forget about everything but the grass beneath his feet and the sky above him. Places like the little thicket of trees and the oak tree and the golden field around it. Places he sat and spoke with Ludwig like they were somewhere else, somewhere only they existed, where they were not enemies and there was no war and no Resistenza and no sunset when Ludwig had to turn and leave.

"You will miss the market again today?" Ludwig's voice almost startled Feliciano.

"Yes." Feliciano did not know what Grandpa Roma would say now that he had missed the market three days in a row. Neither did he know how he would explain it. And he wasn't really surprised to find that he didn't really care.

"We had better start walking back."

That familiar sinking feeling settled in Feliciano's stomach. "Yes."

Ludwig stood slowly, pulling Feliciano reluctantly to his feet. They walked back slowly, silently. They did not need to speak. It was one of the first times in Feliciano's life when he was completely comfortable walking beside someone in silence. As they headed across the rise, down the hill, into the field, their steps grew slower and smaller until they were ambling and almost pulling back as they approached the oak tree. It was only when they reached the tree that Feliciano finally spoke, looking down at Ludwig's jacket as he prepared to reluctantly take it off. "Oh, I lost your flower."

"That's all right, I still have the other one you gave me." Feliciano blinked in surprise. "The red flower… the other day," Ludwig explained. "You had it in your pocket."

Feliciano's eyes widened in understanding. His chest swelled with joy, that Ludwig would remember and keep such a silly little thing. "You kept that?"

"Of course. I keep it in Greta's cockpit. It is my lucky charm."

But that joy turned into a now familiar ache when he looked up into Ludwig's face, into his eyes. Because Ludwig would soon be leaving him again, and Feliciano could not be certain he would come back, and this time the thought physically hurt. Feliciano shrugged off Ludwig's jacket, feeling immediately colder. He handed it over reluctantly. "Be careful tonight. Come back to me. Please. Tomorrow."

Ludwig nodded, his eyes dark and conflicted. "Yes. Tomorrow, Feliciano." Then he turned to walk away. And something inside Feliciano snapped.

"Wait, no."

Ludwig stopped short and turned back, looking worried at the almost panicked tone in Feliciano's voice. "Feliciano? What is it?"

Feliciano clenched his hands, tried to remember to breathe. Had he really said that? Was he really going to say this? But he had no choice. He could not let another day end like this. "Don't leave like this again."

"I don't..." Ludwig's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "It is getting late, Feliciano. You know I have to leave."

"Not like this. Please don't just say goodbye and walk away and…" He was unable to stop speaking the words. "I don't want you to go, Ludwig. I don't want you to go into battle. I don't want you to move base. I don't want you to go home to Germany. I want you to stay here with me, forever." Feliciano could not look at Ludwig. He could not bear to see the way he might be looking at him.

Of course the tears came. Feliciano did not bother trying to stop them. He was unsure of what he was saying, unsure of what was happening. All he knew was that he could not stop. "I'm sorry, Ludwig, I am. I don't know what I want but I… I know that if you just say goodbye and walk away again I won't be able to stand it, I won't, because every time you do I feel like I'm dying and it hurts so much." He finally looked up to find Ludwig staring at him with an expression he could not read, almost like he was angry, and still Feliciano could not stop. "Please, Ludwig, don't just walk away this time, please stay and… and I just need… I just need you to… I need you closer, and…"

Feliciano clenched his eyes shut, angry at himself that he did not know what he wanted to say, or how to say it. He jumped when he felt Ludwig's fingertips cold on his cheek, then pressed into them, so scared that Ludwig would push him away. He opened his eyes to find Ludwig's burning into his. His fingers felt like icy fire as they traced over Feliciano' cheek and into his hair. Feliciano was just about to lose control and fall against him when Ludwig reached out and pulled him close until their bodies pressed together. Feliciano gasped at the stunning, perfect feeling. Yes, like this. Closer, like this - this was what he wanted. And then Ludwig leant down and his lips were against Feliciano's ear and Feliciano nearly cried out from the feeling.

"I said I would explain…"

"I… what?" Feliciano could hardly concentrate on Ludwig's words. All he could feel, all he could think was Ludwig's arm around him, Ludwig's fingers in his hair, Ludwig's lips whispering against his ear…

"Earlier. I said I would explain… another time. Not now." Ludwig spoke with barely suppressed urgency, his grip on Feliciano almost painful. Feliciano tried to lean further into it.

"Why, Ludwig?" Feliciano clutched the front of Ludwig's jacket with shaking hands, pressed closer, inhaled the smell of his hair. "Tell me…" He could feel Ludwig's heart beating... why was it so steady when Feliciano's was pounding like a drum?

"Meet me here tomorrow."

"I'll be here." Feliciano tried to hide himself in the curve of Ludwig's neck, to block out the sky and the world and everything in it until nothing existed but the two of them. "I promise I'll wait. I'll always wait for you." Ludwig straightened and pulled back, even as Feliciano tried to stop him. His eyes still held that familiar look of conflict, but they seemed calmer somehow. Feliciano wished he could feel the same but all he felt was devastation that once again Ludwig was leaving him. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Auf wiedersehen, sweetheart."

"Bello, ciao." Ludwig held him for one moment more before tearing himself away and marching towards the road. Feliciano turned immediately and looked up at the growing storm clouds with wide, wet eyes. He was breathless, confused, stunned. And he could no longer watch Ludwig walk away.

.

Next Chapter

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

[cavitymagazine]

Chiara had spent the hot day sending him racist memes and naked pictures of herself smoking weed with captions like “use me” and “punish me Daddy”, so when he finished work he walked through the evening heat to her apartment on Sussex Road. They had sex in the degrading style favoured by many of the fascist women he’s slept with. He spanked her and called her “my Italian slut” and she growled “hit me” with strands of hair stuck to her face from the heat and afterwards they slept until the fingers of late-evening chill reached in the open window and woke them up to the twilight sounds of eating and drinking in the outdoor seating of the restaurants on the street below her apartment. He put back on his work clothes. She pulled a Sea Shepherd t-shirt down over the nordic tattoos on her ribs. They went out into the last light to smoke weed.

They sat side by side on the fire escape, six floors up. She lit a joint and they passed it between them. They inhaled the weed and the smell of the spring evening and the promise of summer you get in April that’s always better than the summer that comes. Two Chinese lanterns drifted like UFOs across the sunset.

“These things kill birds.”, she said, stretching her t-shirt over her knees.

The smoke from the joint rose into the pre-night sky. He thought he could hear the sea from miles away where the scattered lights of the skyline stopped. A breeze ruffled through the trees in the car park below. The waving leaves fanned up the sounds of the city again—a car starting, a gate closing, a dog spooked by something in the almost-dark, the offbeat steps of someone walking with keys their pocket, a barge lapping down the canal, words drifting back and forth between a drawn out group of dawdling friends, the lonely drumming of another office block being built overnight.

He was a journalist. He was investigating the investment funds who were taking over the Dublin property market—Blackstone, Cerberus, IRES Reit, Kennedy Wilson. He thought of them as an invasive, subspecies of money. He looked down from the fire escape at that crime scene of a city and imagined dark movements of money running along in the streets like eels along the bottom of a lake. He smoked and watched the dark sway as the funds moved more blocks of apartments onto their balance sheets. He watched as rent left silently from drowsy family kitchens and passed through walls and borders and oceans and into the bank accounts of corporate landlords. He imagined houses being repossessed by shadowy security firms. He thought of homes being turned into AirBnBs and of tourists appearing in them overnight like ghosts.

He could see money more clearly in the daytime when it took its human form, as accountants, property managers, bankers, surveyors, solicitors, former politicians. Or as men in balaclavas—sabotaging protests, infiltrating movements, breaking down desperately barricaded doors, putting families into the street with their lives in black bags on the ground beside them, and disappearing again into the white vans he thinks might be following him.

They finished the joint as the spring night fell over Dublin like the shade from a tree. A man stood alone in the car park below, staring up at them. They went back inside.

She changed into her pyjamas: a hoodie which had “don’t need sex because capitalism fucks me every day” written on it. She was on big money though. She worked for a cyber security company. She said she would rather be a housewife and be “paid by a man to lounge around in lingerie”. She rejected as “girl-boss feminism” and “peak neoliberalism” any attempt people made to praise her for being a Woman in STEM. She refused all invitations to speak at conferences with names like ‘The Women Disrupting Tech’, ‘Girls Who Code’, ‘Hacking the Patriarchy’ and ‘Queering the Algorithm’. Her Tinder bio read: “dominate me in the bedroom, not in the workplace”.

For a man like him, a Marxist-Leninist and occasional Maoist Third Worldist, there was something so appealing about a woman who so angrily rejected liberal feminism. She was a tech fascist who believed in the utopian vision of the early internet. She was a tech fascist who believed that Europe was diverse enough a hundred years ago. She had moved to Ireland because the tech industry here pays so much. She had moved to Ireland because it was the whitest place left in Western Europe. She had access to sensitive information and she was passing it on to him because she believed all information should be free. She had access to sensitive information and she was passing it on to him because it would hurt the “Jewish conspiracy of global finance”.

She took a USB from her weed box and handed it to him as he got ready to leave. She pulled the curtains across the open window and wrote on a post-it note:

“This is big”

“What is it?” He wrote back.

“Check on this when you get home.” She wrote.

The post-it notes fell around her feet. She put a new laptop into his bag.

“It hasn’t been contaminated by the internet, don’t connect it.” She wrote.

“Thanks.” He wrote.

“Imagine you’re being watched.” She wrote.

“Am I?” He said aloud.

She underlined ‘imagine’ with three lines.

He left her place. The night was so beautifully laundered by the spring air that he started walking back to Cabra under the smell of the new-born leaves. There are always a few nights like that in April, when the first heat intoxicates the city and the streets sway with that first drink feeling of a good thing beginning.

He turned onto a quiet, cooling street. A white van was driving behind him. He walked. He listened. Everything sounded pre-recorded on a soundstage like in a film noir from the fifties: a bike ticking by; a curtain beating against an open window; his footsteps; his breathing; his heartbeat. He was sure it was the same white van that had been following him for weeks. He watched it as it passed. He checked for alleyways or driveways he could disappear into. He turned around and walked back towards the busy safety of Mespil Road. The van went by again. His heart panicked as it passed. On Mespil Road he put his hand out for a taxi. He sat into the backseat and closed the door.

It’s interesting, psychologically speaking, the driver said eventually, the way you tried to open your door so soon after you got in.

Don’t you think?

I had a chap in the car last week. Drove him all the way and he never tried that door once.

Do you know why?

Control.

Control.

He didn’t want to admit to himself that he couldn’t get out. He could’ve tried the door. He could have been on his way. But he let me take him without even trying to escape. Just sat back there chatting. Playing it cool, you know.

Interesting isn’t it? Psychology.

I’m interested in that kind of thing. 

The mind.

Now you’ve got the opposite problem. You took one look at me in me sunglasses and thought to yourself fuck this I’m away. Sunglasses at night, you says to yourself, what’s with this fella?

But now.

You know the door is locked.

I know you know the door is locked.

You know I know you know the door is locked.

I know you know I know the door is locked.

Interesting isn’t it?

Psychology.

Hear that? Last train going over the river. Anyone on that train, coming into town Thursday midnight, they’ve a story to tell. More interesting than the stuff you’re writing now.

We’ve a few journalists with us. They do well. Decent money, a few stories when you need it.

Someone your age, in all seriousness, needs to start thinking about the future.

Planning.

Your rent is what…€700 a month?

Rent is money down the drain.

Down the drain.

Stoneybatter. Some lovely pubs around here.

Look at that lad. Not from Mayo is he.

I was over in Jamaica for a while but. Working for himself. Great country. Lovely beaches. Good weather. Great place to do business. That’s why he’s there of course. Lot easier to deal with people such as yourself out there. No messing around. You want something done—bang—you just pay the right man and it’s done.

Get in the way of progress and—bang.

No messing.

You know who runs this country? You know who you should be investigating?

The unions. The people who contribute nothing. The bloated public sector.

This thing you’re looking into. For example, classic example. The government sold the properties at such a low price because the fund had businessmen working for them, and they were negotiating, think about it, with who? With civil servants and politicians. That’s the whole story. Write it if you want. Public sector versus private sector. Private sector wins every time. There were no bribes or anything.

Just pure business acumen.

Free market. Winners and losers. Simple as that.

Roads are quiet out here.

Dark houses.

You’re probably hoping your roommates are home. Housemates I suppose, should be called.

You’re 36 yeah?

If you don’t mind me saying, you should be putting down roots. Should be saving.

You must spend, what, 50 quid a week on weed. Cut that out and you’d have what…52 weeks in a year…5x5 is 25 that’s…you’d have about €2,600 extra in your pocket. You’d be surprised how quickly it adds up.

Honestly.

There’s no one home tonight by the way.

The accountant is in Frankfurt.

Midwife’s at her fella’s.

Now this is you isn’t it?

You make my job interesting I’ll give you that. Lot of overtime.

160...162…164…66…68, now.

Before you go.

I was watching ‘Narcos’ last night. On Netflix. It’s a series, not a film. Very interesting. It’s about Pablo Escobar. Colombian drug lord. He gives people a choice right. “Silver or lead” he says. In spanish. Worth a watch. On Netflix.

Now, 13.90 is the damage.

Thank you sir.

And 5 is 18.90 and one is 19.90 and 10 cent is 20 and that’s yours back.

The driver reset the meter, turned on the roof light and drove away past the night-coloured houses.

His house was silent. He opened the door. He stared into the hallway. He sniffed the air. A truck dipped into a pothole on the main road. The noise of it shocked him into slamming the front door behind him. The noise of that scared him too. He turned on the light in the hallway. He turned on the light in the narrow kitchen. He turned on the light in the dusty living room. With downstairs lit up it was like the dark outside was staring in the window at him. He took a knife from the draining board. He held it in front of him like a gun and walked upstairs. He stopped after every step on the carpeted stairs to let the creaking wood underneath his foot go silent.

He went into his room knife first. The window was open. The room had been brushed clean by the bristles of spring breeze which had been blowing in since he left that morning. He turned on his desk lamp. He rolled a joint in its light. He smoked out the window. In the time he was in the taxi dew had fallen like snow and like snow it had shocked the small gardens and the empty suburban streets around his house into silence. His neighbour’s gardens were abandoned and embalmed, full of toys, bikes, paddling pools, footballs, sun loungers and kitchen chairs; like the curtain had just gone down at the end of a play.

She texted him.

“I think we should stop doing this.”

He put the USB into the laptop she had given him.

“Ok.” He replied.

He typed in the password. She had copied all of the investment fund’s emails and their slack chats and their bank accounts and their internal payments system.

“Can I come over?” She texted him.

“Ok.” He replied.

He read some of the emails. They talked about bribing politicians and government officials so they could get all those apartment blocks and offices and housing estates cheap. All that property and debt the government bought after the banks collapsed. He made notes. He wrote on post it notes and attached them to the wall. His joint went out and ashed on his notes.

He was tired but didn’t want to sleep alone. Maybe it was the shock of the taxi, or the way she completely surrendered to him during sex, or the way she quoted Lacan when they lay together afterwards, maybe it was his receding hairline which he checked every night, watching it as if it was a clock ticking towards the end, or maybe it was the sounds on the stairs he searched his brain to explain away.

She opened his bedroom door.

“How did you get in?” He asked her.

“Hi to you also.” She said, sitting on the side of the bed, taking her leather boots off.

“Your housemate let me. He always wears sunglasses at night?”

“What did he say?”

“He said you were upstairs. And then he sat on the kitchen with a glass of water.”

“One second.”

He went downstairs and into the kitchen with the knife out in front of him. A glass was on its side on the table, rolling back and forth. Water dripped from the table onto the floor. It pooled by his feet. He waited. The sky lightened as he waited. The house fell into dawn. Morning heat rose in waves from the damp garden. The joint wore off. He checked all the doors. He went back upstairs.

She was asleep. She had written ‘slut’ in lipstick across her chest. He smoked out the window. The good weather stirred outside. He heard a van parking and wondered if it was white. She woke up.

“Rape me.” She whispered, sleepily.

The sound of birds singing came in the open window. Like every haunted man, the singing reminded him of sleep.

[The Man in the Black Pyjamas is an Irish writer based in Bogotá. He has been previously published in ‘The Irish Times’, ‘The Moth Magazine’, ‘Cassandra Voices’, ‘Number Eleven Magazine’, ‘Deep Water Literary Journal’, ‘Increature Magazine’, ‘Cold Coffee Stand’ and ‘Headstuff Magazine’. He won second place in the Fish International Short Story Competition in 2016. He tweets at @pyjamas_black.]

[coeur-dun-pirate]

Bio and Rules

Rules:

I’ll try my best to answer reblogs and asks as quickly as possible, but no guarantees because my class load is pretty heavy right now. I’m usually pretty slow with replies. My name is Jess, so if you’d like to ask me something OOC, just refer to me by that and I’ll get right back to you! I’ll reply to most anything, including smut, angst, fights, etc. Just be nice to others is all I ask! I am in the American Central Time Zone, if that is helpful, but I normally reply in the morning or evening when I have the time to. 

Bio for Main Verse (Pirate au):

Name: Captain Félix Antoine Nihilon (though he prefers the last name Babote)

Gender: Male

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

Age: 25 (Born June 18, 1657)

Hair: Pale blond, pooled in wild, fluffy curls on his head

Eyes: Blue/Green

Height: 5'11". He’s very lanky and tall, and he’s not heavy enough to hold his liquor too well.

Other details: Very thin and gaunt face, tanned skin (this is due to him being mixed-race, but to better conceal his identity, he claims that it’s due to his exposure to the sun). His eyes are crystal clear, owl-like and observant, and the centerpiece of his face. His voice is soft, but clear and calming.

Father: Lazare Nihilon-- a harsh tempered, French slave-driver. He is unforgiving and pessimistic. He meets the world with a glare.

Mother: Kinsalababote-- a wise, kind woman of the BaKongo people, and a slave under Lazare’s command. (Within BaKongo customs, last names aren’t given based on family, but instead are based on which groups of people that person chooses to identify with. So instead of a family last name, there is a lastname/suffix name given to the person based on who they identify as. The suffix name Babote corresponds to a group that does good deeds)

Born: The french slave colony of Saint-Domingue, which is present-day Haiti

Likes: The sea, above all things. He loves the wind in his hair and the sound of the waves and the rocking of the ship. He loves his crew like they are his family, and seeks out those he sees as misfortunate or lost to be a part of his crew, such as those with disabilities or those suffering from poverty. He loves warm weather. He is very particular to finding clothes that look nice on him (he’s rather vain). He loves music, and plays a flute every now and again to raise morale amongst his crew. He also has an incurable sweet tooth, and is a bit of a show-off when it comes to swordsmanship.

Dislikes: Slavery. He is entirely against it and spends most of his time out at sea hunting down slave ships and tracking slave trade routes. He also hates excess violence, and prefers to use evasion, defense, and trickery before resorting to more offensive fighting. He hates cold weather and isn’t too fond of people showing ownership over things like the sea or land.

Other: Although he’s the captain of his ship, he spends most of his time in the crow’s nest because he enjoys looking out over the ocean. He can speak multiple languages very fluently, such as English, Portuguese, French, and Kikongo. However, he isn’t very efficient at reading those languages. He tries to hide the fact that he was born as a slave, not because he is ashamed of his identity, but because his time as a slave was the most traumatic for him and he doesn’t like to be associated with it.

Background: Kinsala was kidnapped from her home in Congo and shipped to work on the sugarcane plantations on Saint-Domingue. She gave birth to Félix after Lazare had raped her, and Lazare demanded to name her child and gave him the name Félix, which meant “lucky”, as he thought the child would be lucky to survive in the harsh conditions of the plantation.

Félix did survive, however, as Kinsala took great care to shield him from the harsher field work and gave him as much of her food as she could to keep him growing. Félix learned French, but he grew up with the traditions and beliefs of the BaKongo, and he loved his mother more than anything.

However, as Félix grew, his father treated him the same way he treated all of the slaves, and Félix was regularly and horrifyingly beaten along with his mother. As he grew older and began to take on the workload of his mother, he began to resent his father. He dream of escaping from the colony with his mother.

One night, when he was 15, Lazare was in a rage. He battered Félix to the ground and beat Kinsala until she died. Blind with anger, Félix wrestled Lazare’s sword from his belt and stabbed Lazare to death with it. He took the sword and ran, stealing Lazare’s small supply boat and sailing off into the sea. He jumped from port to port, building a crew, until he was able to raid a French navy ship and steal it for his own. For 10 years, he built up his reputation, hiding his origins away and becoming a fearsome pirate.

The sword he carries with him presently is Lazare’s sword, which is why he refrains from using it as much as he can, because he is haunted by his past and doesn’t want to kill ever again.

Bio for old verse (FBAWTFT au):

Name: Felix Virgil Nihilon (Nihilo is the Latin word for “Nothing”, if you’re wondering C:)

Age: 31 (Born June 18, 1895)

Hair: White/Silver, pooled in fluffy curls on his head

Eyes: Blue/Green

Height: 5'11". He’s very lanky and a lightweight. He would lose so hard during a fist fight, smh

Other details: Very thin and gaunt face, pale skin, wears thick glasses. His eyes are crystal clear, owl-like and observant, and the centerpiece of his face. His voice is soft, but clear and calming.

Parents (both no-majs): William and Grace Nihilon. Both of his parents were complicated people: his father was heavily involved in crime, while his mother was a terrified woman who hid away in her home.

Born: Brooklyn, New York

Wand: 14.5", Hornbeam wood, Unicorn Hair, Rigid Flexibility, Carved lilac designs run down its sides

(Due to the Hornbeam, it is very disobedient to other users besides him, and will never project any of the unforgivable curses)

Ilvermorny House: Pukwudgie

Patronus: Unicorn (Not trying to be OP, this is the result I got on Pottermore)

Favorite Colors: Blues, Greens, and all pastels

Likes: Using a typewriter, despite his ability to enchant a pen or a quill. He makes excellent tea. He always decorates his small clinic with flowers. He enjoys nature, despite how little of it there is in the city, and spends a lot of time in Central Park. He loves holding casual conversations with others, and picking up clues as to what they’ve been through. Spring is his favorite season. He likes quiet people; he views them as a challenge or a riddle. In his free time, he paints, although he doesn’t think he’s any good at it.

Dislikes: Legilimens (he’s SUPER jealous of them), loud noises, isolation, cold weather, Grindelwald/his ideals, and the weird no-maj laws that MACUSA has. He hates when his appointments are unsuccessful, and blames himself.

Other: He’s bisexual, and also a huge dork that likes showing off how much he observes about others. He wakes up early and goes to bed early, but takes frequent naps. He’s got an enormous crush on Newt, but knows that it will never work and keeps his mouth shut. He can get lost in thought very easily, and is seen as spacey by his relatives. He’s also a huge cuddler so watch out.

Background: He was always the mediator in his family. His parents fought constantly, sometimes violently, and he had no other siblings to stand up for him. His parents never meant to hurt him, but he was always caught in the crossfire of their arguments and sometimes came to school with bruises on his face. As such, he taught himself at a young age to observe how his parents ticked, and how he could draw out certain emotions in them to make them happy and content with each other. He loved spending time outside, because he never had to say a word to make the flowers be kind to the wind. His parents were always proud of him, loved him a lot, and supported his magic, but the emotional pressure that they put on him to hold their relationship together was too much, and for a while after attending school he was a cocky little punk and spent life as a criminal. He didn’t want to exhaust himself over making other people happy, so out of spite he did the opposite: he used his knowledge of psychology to work his way inside the heads of mob bosses and hustlers and make their lives miserable. He rose to the top of the criminal foodchain simply by scaring and threatening his enemies into submission, even driving them to suicide. He never killed anyone as a criminal, and when fights became physical, he got beat up quite often. He was angry and manipulative, but still had a code of honor, and never picked on those who were weaker than him. During this time, his parents tried to re-establish contact with him, but he ignored them. Then, they were killed in an attack by Grindelwald fanatics. Torn apart by his own actions towards them and the suddenness of their deaths, Felix failed to find comfort in his empty title as criminal. He remembered how good it made him feel when he got his parents to hold hands again for a while, and he made the decision to reform himself, disappearing from the underground and using the money he had built up to buy books and materials to finish up medical school. He hid himself away in his apartment, finishing up his doctorate and becoming a certified healer and psychologist. He dyed his hair and worked full time until he had earned enough money to buy his clinic, lying low and working to become a better person. He now dedicates his life to understanding other people.

That’s all folks!