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jaderabbitt · 20 hours ago

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Echoes of You

Bucky x Deceased(?)Wife!Reader

Bucky’s been hearing a voice for a long time. It began as the Soldat, and lingers even now. You’re his Angel—the voice in his head that he sometimes hallucinates into the form of a woman. Remnants of Hydra seizing his brain for so long—consequences of repeated head trauma, he assumes. He’s never told anyone about you, and he intended to keep it that way.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Descriptions of Violence, Mild Descriptions of Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Thoughts of Suicide, Mentions of Death, jaderabbitt's esoteric writing style, not beta-read so if you find spelling mistakes, i WILL game-end myself Tags: Angst, Angst with Fluff, Did I Mention Angst, Canon Divergence, Reader Insert, Unreliable Narrator, References to Mythology, Angst with Happy Ending (?), Author will not spoil story in Tags, Author cannot remember the 8 pages she wrote in 9 hours, gomen.

Note: Reader is given an EXTREMELY loose description involving longer hair at some point, but it is VERY relevant to the story. You will need to read to see why!

—

“Enemy. Eight o’clock, Soldat.”

Immediately, his head swung, and his pistol was shoved in the crevice of a metal bicep, firing before the agent had even realized that he was spotted. The body dropped, a gaping hole left in between the eyes.

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he held to begin with. It was as if he had been the one shot, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. The world felt all-consuming.

He knew that voice. It hadn’t come through the device in his ear.

He didn’t know exactly how he knew the woman’s voice, nor why he heard her. Every time she spoke, it was as if she were talking directly into his ear, no matter the noise level around him.

Her voice had been the only constant in his fleeting moments of clarity.

His Ангел. His Angel.

He began to call the voice that when she would warn him during missions. It was as if she acted as a sixth sense, being able to see things even his heightened perceptions couldn’t. She wasn’t always there—her presence faded in and out without notice. But, she was always there when he needed her.

When they put him in that gods forsaken chair to rewire his brain, it was her voice that kept him stable. When they put him inside the Iron Maiden of a cryochamber, it was her voice that kept him warm. When he sat in the dark corner of the empty concrete cell, it was her voice that kept him company.

He figured that all of Hydra’s torture created a tear in his psyche, manifesting in the voice of a woman he’d heard in passing. It would make sense, given that the human mind craves the comfort of others. Hydra didn’t exactly allow him relations besides his handlers, so his mind had to create someone to fulfill the space beyond pain and emptiness.

He kept his Angel a secret. Something that wholly belonged to him, the only part of himself that he could have control over. He would never allow them to take you.

“You are showing abnormal readings in brain functioning, Soldat. Status report.”

The grating voice of his handler was made even worse by the static in the communications channel. It succeeded in bringing him out of his trance, carefully observing the carnage around him.

“Mission complete. Targets eliminated. No witnesses.”

He stepped over the disemboweled body of an agent, retrieving his knife; he wiped the remaining viscera and gore from the blade on the deceased agent’s suit. It didn’t take long for him to receive word of his extraction point and means.

Back into the gaping maw of the Lernaean Serpent he headed, unable to resist its call.

He trekked through miles of uneven terrain, as Hydra was nothing but thorough when it came to ensuring their involvement within the world’s dealings stayed hidden. His extraction points were always far enough away from the target’s area of engagement to ensure that he could lose any tails he might encounter. It was an arduous process, one that he would despise if he could bring himself to feel such wealth of emotion. They had taken that from him too.

“They can never take your heart, my Soldier.”

No. They couldn’t. Not while he had you.

– – –

The first time his mind had conjured up a vision of you, he nearly punched a hole into the concrete of his holding cell. He had felt a presence within the dark room suddenly, and when he turned his head, there was the visage of a woman. Her features were too hazy to make out in the dark of the room, or perhaps his mind couldn’t remember a woman’s face to place onto the hallucination. Either way, the lifelike projection of a faceless woman should have been disturbing–even to someone who had seen under the epidermis of a human face before. Oddly, he couldn’t bring himself to think of you as such.

No, the feeling he got when he looked at you was one he could no longer name. It had been forgotten under the force of an electric current.

“Not forgotten. Stolen.”

Your saccharine voice still sounded as loud as ever within his head, despite the distance between his physical body and your imaginary one. Oh, how he yearned to close that distance, to hold you within his arms–his coveted Angel, who he selfishly stole from the gods’ grasp to ease his troubled mind here, on Earth. He found his arm, the one made from Gaia’s own metals, outstretching towards you without thinking. His palm splayed out, he watched with bated breath as you mimicked his own movement. He knew that he would never have been able to feel you to begin with, but he allowed himself a simple indulgence in believing that it was due to the lack of nerve endings, and not because you were never here to begin with.

“I’m always with you, my Soldier.”

For once, he allowed himself to believe that.

– – –

He was incapable of dreaming while under the freeze of stasis. He simply went under, and woke up whenever they decided to thaw him. Sometimes, cryo-freeze was the only respite he got–and he was thankful for not being needed. And yet, he still fought his handlers to prevent the chill of the iron coffin. Being unable to dream and made forcibly unconscious meant that he was unable to hear the gentle lilt of your voice, unable to watch as your form took shape. His heart would ache, as if it were missing the synchronicity of yours marching along with it.

It was a fool’s hope to wish for every freeze to be his last–whether that meant he never went under again, or his heart finally left this mortal coil and froze over for good, he couldn’t decide. So, when he woke with a start to the remains of biting frost against his skin, he felt rage bubbling hot in his veins.

“Have a nice nap, Sleeping Beauty?” You giggled. Your form danced along the peripherals of his still hazy vision, taking spot where there was a gap between white coats. They were checking his vitals, making sure he would be combat ready for the mission they no doubt awoke him for.

He’d roll his eyes if he had full function of his muscles.

You huffed a laugh at that, reaching out a hand to caress his cheek. Of course, he couldn’t feel it–but he let himself believe it was because his skin was still defrosting.

“I missed you.”

He missed you, too. He always did. Even when you were present in his mind, or a vision being projected by his psyche, he missed you. He couldn’t explain it. How could he miss a part of himself? He didn’t dwell on the logistics too long. If he thought about you too hard, his head began to hurt, like it was protecting itself.

The pinpricks of melting ice gave way to freeze-burns, ones that were already beginning to heal from his forced genetic mutation. His left arm had been gently defrosted, as to not disrupt any of the machinery within. They held the Fist of Hydra to a higher regard than the rest of his body, apparently. You snorted at that thought. It was such a beautifully normal sound amongst the noise of beeping monitors and the scrambling of doctors, scientists, and engineers. He involuntarily let a half-smirk rise on his face, to the horror of the poor doctor checking his vitals. The medical professional couldn’t imagine what would make The Asset happy other than the thought of the impending carnage he would soon wreak upon unknowing targets. It was better he thought that, anyway. He’d get put in the chair for showing a sliver of unconditioned programming otherwise.

He blinked the remaining frost from his eyelashes, looking back over at your dizzying presence. Your hair floated about you as if you were underwater, but your skin was still the same pitch black and featureless void that it had been the first time he let his mind give you physical form. It was confusing; he had seen plenty of women since you first began appearing before him, and yet his mind never allowed any of their features to replace your lack thereof. It just didn’t seem right, he supposed.

He must’ve really been under for a long time if it was taking his psyche this long to will you away and fall back in line with his programming. Even as he was being transported to the roads of Long Island, New York, you had continued to hover over him.

You had stood at the car wreckage with a curious turn of your head as he let the motorcycle fall upon its kickstand. It was only when the man in the driver’s seat stumbled out of the remains that you reacted to the sight in front of you.

“No…” You gasped, but the Soldier crept on towards his target.

“Sergeant Barnes..?” Croaked the dying man, and you watched along with bated breath, waiting for some kind of reaction. The only one you’d get would be the Soldier’s fist colliding with flesh and bone. The cries of a woman mourning her husband were cut off by a thick hand around her throat, effectively compressing her airway closed. The Soldier didn’t even look at the woman he was finishing off. No, his eyes were trained on you.

His face remained stoic as white streaks glistened down the black of your cheeks. This was his way of compartmentalizing, he supposed. You wept for the man who could not.

When he turned after shooting out the camera, you had disappeared.

– – –

The next time he heard your voice, it was in Romania. He had been here for quite some time, trying to piece together who he was, exactly. The quiet, traditionalist country was perfect for someone who preferred to stay hidden. He spoke the language fluently, resembled the people, and kept to himself. The locals didn’t ask questions, simply trusted he wouldn’t cause trouble. He couldn’t help but be wary–it was drilled into his head, near literally. He had started to grow paranoid at the peaceful life he was being allowed, as if it too would be stolen from him at any moment.

The lively morning market of Bucharest had settled his nerves somewhat; it was a familiar place with familiar faces. He settled for the fresh fruit stall, instantly gravitating towards the plums. His gloved metal hand palmed the assortment of velvety fruit, feeling the weight of them as a test. If they didn’t push against his thumb’s pressure and he was able to feel the weight upon the metal, he knew they were too early. He asked the stall manager, for good measure, about their ripeness, finally selecting a few for his apartment.

It felt normal. He felt normal.

“You know, I heard these were good for memory.”

He almost gave himself whiplash when he saw you standing across the street. His feet almost moved before his brain processed the oncoming traffic.

It wasn’t just that this was the first time he heard your voice in his head in years. No, it was that he was seeing you.

Your hair, set in the way you always favored. Your eyes, shining in the light of the morning sun. Your nose, set above your cupid’s bow as if it were carved from marble. And oh, your lips, how he yearned to pull you close and press them against his own. The distance was so unbearable, he almost intentionally walked into the oncoming cars. If it meant he would reach you before this hallucination ended, it would be worth it in his mind.

Your gaze faltered, and as you looked upon him with such sadness, he could have sworn he heard his heart shattering against the sidewalk.

“It isn’t safe anymore, James. I’m sorry.”

He wanted to scream in reply, ask what you meant–why you were sorry.

You were gone at the next pass of a bus.

He would come to figure out what you meant pretty quickly. You always did warn him of impending danger, like his own personal oracle. Or maybe it was his instincts reminding himself–he wasn’t paranoid without reason to be. He had already been shaken by seeing his dead wife from 75 years prior, but to see his supposed-to-be-dead-too best friend standing in his apartment had really raised his heart rate. He knew what followed, what always followed. He was never going to be free–not until he was dead.

At least in death, he would see you again. He may get cast down to the deepest circles of Hell–specially reserved–but he could still hope to be reunited with you once more.

– – –

Living at the Compound had felt like another prison–just fancier and with nicer amenities. A condition to his pardon; along with many other things, like atonement by way of taking down Hydra cells across the globe. Having finally been deprogramed, his activation words no longer functioning as his shackles to the serpentine organization, the government saw fit to use his training for their own gain. The fight never stops. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place. Receive a pardon, get ball and chained to a different corruption.

At least he didn’t have to do it all alone.

Of course, several other Avengers were given their own conditions after the amendments to the Accords. He had become unlikely friends with Wanda, both having trauma bonded with each other. Bucky saw her as a little sister, despite her being a grown ass woman. In fairness, he was over a century old; almost everyone seemed too young to him.

The highlight of his extended imprisonment-vacation was remembering you, however. He was slowly but surely recovering his memories, and he probed Steve now and again to confirm what he was remembering. Bucky never let him outright say what he remembered, wanting to recall it all on his own. You were his wife, not Steve’s best-friend’s wife. Being acquainted with Wanda also helped in this department. She would help him through still-locked memories; sometimes, they needed someone else to unblock the dam in order for the flood to start.

He would have called himself mentally on-the-way-to well, if it weren’t for one detail–he still hallucinated you. He refused to tell his therapist, or any of the other Avengers for that matter. It would simply get him labelled as clinically insane, and a clinically insane Winter Soldier was possibly the greatest threat to America, besides the next alien or robot invasion. He hadn’t even told Steve, fearing that even he might think less of him for it.

He supposed it was okay to keep this one thing to himself. He was allowed to be selfish for once in his life.

Bucky wasn’t even sure you would accept the man he’d become, if you were alive. He didn’t think he could take that pain. Maybe this was how his mind coped with that. Created a version of you who still loved him–no matter if he wasn’t the same man he was when you married him. He didn’t think he could ever be him again, despite how much everyone else wanted him to be.

So, he watched you, with a freshly poured mug of coffee in his hands and a small grin on his face, as you shifted between the clothing styles of the decades he missed. You hummed a tune from the movie he had watched last night, the soft notes sounding as if you were directly next to his ear. While the kitchen area was currently empty, if anyone walked in, he could just say he was reminiscing.

“How did anyone get anything done in these?” You laughed, the tight bell-bottom jeans clinging to your skin, with a tight halter top to match. “I know we didn’t wear pants much in the 40’s, but I think I might suffocate!”

Bucky let out a chuckle, scanning the room for anybody else flesh and blood. When he found none, he answered lowly.

“Can’t exactly suffocate when you don’t breathe, doll.”

“It’s about principle, Buck! You know what I mean,” you pouted, opting to shift into the silk slip dress that he remembers very much, cerca 75 years prior.

He hissed, turning his eyes away from you. You, of course, being ever so the manifestation of the woman he remembers, instantly placed yourself back in his gaze. You had that sly smirk on your face that always meant you were up to no good, but he’d be damned if he got himself aroused with a vivid hallucination of his dead wife. Saved by the bell he was, as the ring of the elevator chimed to notify that someone was stopping on this floor. He let out a small huff, knowing he’d have to will himself to act like you weren’t there.

Wanda and Vision stepped out into the kitchen area, spotting Bucky standing behind the island. Vision had been working on travelling like a normal human recently, opting to only phase through things in cases of emergency.

“Hello Bucky-”

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes.”

They both greeted, but Wanda had cut herself off in confusion. Bucky tilted his head, but returned the greetings.

“Bucky, who’s that?”

Bucky’s heart sank all the way down to Atlantis, and the coffee he had been drinking threatened to burn back up his esophagus. He followed the direction that Wanda’s finger pointed– She could see you.

She was seeing you.

“Wanda, I do believe that would be the Sergeant’s wife. She was labelled as deceased after–”

“Yes, Vision, I know who she looks like, so who is that?”

“I’m afraid I do not know.”

Bucky was damn near hyperventilating at this point. They could see you. Someone, or something, invaded his mind and pretended to be his wife. Or, could they see ghosts? Was his dead wife haunting him? They could see youohmygodtheycouldseeyou–

“James,” you hissed, “quiet your thoughts! I can’t focus when you’re panicking!”

…What?

Your hands immediately cradled your head, looking as if you had gotten slapped across the face with the worst migraine of your life. Wanda’s hands had sparked to life, thrumming with scarlet energy. A scream tore through your throat, ringing in Bucky’s psyche. He had clapped his hands over his ears, shutting his eyes, and feeling for the first time ever like the sound was an intrusion–like your voice didn’t belong only within his mind. He grit his teeth together to prevent his own yells from joining the chorus.

Your image flickered like someone was slashing through shadows with a ray of light–flashing between the you he knew and the form null of your distinct features.

There was a distinct crack! that reverberated in his ears.

He was almost scared to open his eyes, believing the sound to be the snap of bone that he was all too familiar with.

When he did gather the courage, he no longer recognized his whereabouts. They had been transported to a dark and dreary place, multiple large wires hanging overhead. The room was mostly unlit, a singular source of violet light extended their sight enough to at least see where they were standing. Wanda looked all over immediately, before her own panic set in. “Vis?!”

“He’s fine. So are you both. You aren’t physically here. He’s currently watching over your bodies.”

Bucky’s head immediately turned, because hearing your voice come out from not inside his head was not pleasant for him right now. And quite frankly, he was freaking the fuck out. There you stood, once again returned to the featureless form he remembered as the Soldier. Only, this time, your hair was much longer, and sat still. While you didn’t have eyes, your head tilted up to look at something behind him. Wanda’s mouth hung open as she, too, followed your gaze.

Behind him, as he found out, was where the only source of light stood tall in the room. It looked like a large tube, violet light streaming in from LEDs sitting at the bottom, pointing up. The structure was filled with some kind of liquid–too viscous to be water, but too thin to be unmoving.

Within that liquid lay something that would become engraved into their minds.

It was you.

There was your physical body, suspended in animation. It wasn’t the you that Bucky married; rather, it was the you that first appeared within his mind’s eye. Your hair floated wildly around your featureless face, and your noir skin reflected the purple of the ultraviolet lights. It was as if your body had gotten cemented into a singular position, your head tilted back and your back arched as if you had been struck and permanently falling.

Bucky couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away, wanting desperately to use the weapon they had attached to his body to shatter the glass in front of him. He finally looked back over to the you stood next to him, and you could see the pain written so plainly on his face. It broke your heart to watch the synapses of his neurons fire on all cylinders, to see the realization seize his body.

“Oh, don’t look at me so, my love. I’m not in any pain,” you reassured, though you were sure that had only answered a singular question he was itching to ask.

Wanda suddenly felt very uncomfortable being a bystander to all of this, but knew she was integral to this projection.

“How long?” Were the words that finally croaked out of his mouth.

You grimaced, knowing that this was the question that would devastate him the most.

“For as long as you had been the Winter Soldier.”

- - -

Teehee. That's all, folks! (for now.) (I've already begun part 2) Like, reblog, and comment! I'd really love to hear what you guys think, as this is the first time I'm uploading a longer type of fic. ;w;

For those waiting on Incidents, that will get worked on in tandem to this! Echoes will most likely only end up being a two parter, with maybe some drabbles of in-universe situations if people are interested. My asks are also open~

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky fanfic #james bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x ofc #reader insert #x reader #fanfic #fanfic writing

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rel124c41 · 4 months ago

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GOT YOU (WHERE I WANT YOU) (AS HEARD IN THE MOVIE DISTURBING BEHAVIOR). jade leech

In Jade’s logical mind, there is only one concrete truth: You are getting bored of your boyfriend.

2/3

tags: no grim AU, established relationship, social criticism, piercings/tattoos, misunderstandings, hurt/comfort, punk!jade leech

word count: 9707

He does not see you for the next three days after the concert in Scarabia.

This is the longest you have been away. A full seventy-two hours. It is not good for Jade’s health.

On the first day, it was an ordinary ordeal and Jade slept soundly, if not just bundling his sheets a bit tighter to his chest. On the second day, it was the equivalent to having a tiny splinter in his hand, something always pricking at the back of his subconscious. On the third day, he starts getting antsy �� to the point where he seems to spend more time in class looking out windows than focusing on his cauldron or the lecture, to the point where he seems to have this ‘thing’ in his ribcage and under his palm’s fat that he must dig out, to the point where a sighing Azul lets him leave their little private Octavinelle meeting early so he can, “Go retrieve the tramp.”

Which is exactly Jade’s plan as he takes a brisk walk to his dormitory. It will be best to remove both his hat and scarf; he will gather his magic pen and that howlite stone. If you are locked inside Ramshackle again … he would rather not entertain such a notion.

When he conversed with Kalim Al-Asim yesterday, he should have had the foresight to press for more information about your whereabouts.

Now, he is left grappling with piss-poor preparation. His mind is disorganized. He doubts that when he rushes into his dormitory that he will hang either scarf or hat, instead flinging them on the bed. Mental anarchy is an extending splinter, growing longer and longer. If everything is not perfectly straightened out – his books, his shoes, his bedsheets, his mind, his life – how can Jade Leech possibly go on?

As he briskly walks, he remembers the last visage he saw of you. Fires had been scuffed out to only a sparse few, magic-powered lanterns all dead, and the faintest hint of light burn like embers in your tried yet energized eyes. You are stretching out your neck, hand over your pulse point, as the bassist and guitarist click and secure their instruments in their cases.

In his memory, you push down hard on the right side and jerk your chin, creating a loud kernel-pop. Sweat glistens on you like rain, even your eyeliner is smudged with the precipitation. Then, neck snapping again, you turn towards Jade who is making his way over the stage from the back.

Eyes bright, you squint at him mirthfully and make your way over the edge of the stage. For an illustrious moment, he sees an image of the high, guiding northern star, so sharp that it will pierce him like a closed iron maiden, an old torture device that the Queen of Hearts used to punish rule-breakers. You break that illusion by saying. I’m sleeping over here (in Scarabia) tonight, boo.

Since then, it is like you have just vanished from the earth. No matter where he checks, you are not there. Pop Music Club does not have any set-up days to meet or scheduled activities; everyone simply conjures when they ‘feel like it’ and they head home when they’ve ‘enjoyed themselves thoroughly’, so it is fruitless to find you during club hours. You do not attend classes so there is no luck there either.

Jade likes unpredictability but this is just vexing. I’ll check Ramshackle first. After that, I will once more try Night Raven’s technician room. Or, the breakroom for staff members. Her proclivity to rest wherever pleases her is piquing (in both definitions). Jade reaches for his bedroom door and reaches for his hat with opposing hands at the same time.

His door usually sounds like a mouse squeaking, rather than a human strumming. Hat in hand, Jade raises an eyebrow in curiosity when he hears a man singing low on the right side of the room. In his nose, the spicy scent of the Scarabia dormitory flows. His skin prickles up like an agitated cat’s bristling tail.

The factors do not add up though, because it is you and you alone who perches on the edge of Jade’s bed, guitar nestled close and dearly to your chest like a lover.

Your eyes flicker up upon hearing the door opening. A metaphorical glass shard cuts Jade’s veins as you two stare at each other in mild surprise. Then, breaking eye contact first like always, you reach over to Jade’s desk and drink a mysterious liquid that is a sickly olive-orange shade. Excelling at potionology, he knows by color alone that it is a voice-swapping potion. It alters vocal cords to sound like the opposite gender with each sip.

You cough around the foul-tasting elixir and say with a larynx that is slowly morphing back to your own, “Hi baby. Mornin’~”

“It is 8 P.M.”

You grin slyly, eyes squinting like squeezed lemons, “Huh, I guess so~.”

Jade goes huff with a closed mouth smile. So it goes.

You two are used to each other’s presence like a birthmark. Jade frequented Ramshackle and you frequented Mostro Lounge. Though there had always been other presences, the malevolent wisps of screeching souls and the uproarious laughter of your fellow band members, you know each other intimately. Which is why, it takes little effort and time to get settled.

(He fails to notice that when he places his shoes down upon his stool for them that the white tips of the toes do not touch. They are crooked.)

Rearranging sheets of music, you make a place so Jade can sit. Stubborn cowlicks point up like horns from his teal hair when he takes off his hat, so he brushes them down with a hand. Taking his seat beside you, Jade watches you pen the remaining notes you were practicing on the stave, your body leaning close to read them.

Pajamas can wait. Calmed by the sight of you — here in my room and safe — Jade decides to soak in the moment. He watches the familiar elegance of your fingers, bending and hooking as you test the riffs you wrote down on your guitar. There is truly an innate dexterity in those nimble fingers, like you were born and breed for this. Despite acknowledging and making a spot for him, you seem pretty pulled in by your task, by the music.

Your guitar pick (your lucky guitar pick, you would correct Jade upon hearing his inner monologue) oscillates between the strings. It is one of the three items that was transported with you from your old world upon arriving. Well, that wasn’t all you brought. Those three items being a pocket-sized Animal Farm book, guitar pick, and two-way messenger device, all under your ceremony robe pockets, along with the endless flow of new music from an alien universe.

They say in the Coral Sea that: to breathe is to sing. One’s own voice should always be treasured as an irreplaceable power. Music is an irrevocable part of merfolk culture. It creates an atmosphere. For those to enjoy the sea, profess their love, or enjoy celebrations, everyone likes to sing whenever they get the chance.

Jade rarely indulged. He kept himself out of the spotlight and adopted reticent mannerisms. Singing, as you have proven over and over, attracts attention, like a honeybee drawn to pollen’s scent.

You are mumbling lyrics under your breath before you stop. Jade draws his gaze up from your fingers to observe your frustrated expression. Down goes your lucky pick onto the sheet. The guitar nestled to your chest is pushed down flat, chords on your knees. There is this prickling tenor that radiates off you, before you say aloud with defeat in each syllable:

“I can’t do this anymore.”

And for a horrible moment, Jade truthfully does think that the this you are talking about is your relationship.

It would not be an irrational leap. Jade never makes those. With the way you have been so avoidant, disinterested in a majority of what he has to say, and always looking to escape conversations with him, it would make sense that you would want this relationship to cease if it is boring to you. Time has run out on the three month honeymoon. December is sneaking up right around the corner.

Just a handful of days ago, you sat on his bed for almost an hour without saying a single word or humming a single chord. It is uncanny for you to be silent for that long unless you are sleeping. Yet, you were fully awake, staring off into space, keeping all your complicated thoughts to yourself, as he worked at his desk with his terrariums and mushroom encyclopedias.

Jade had almost expected it then. For you to turn on your side, hands and loose mechanic gloves sandwiched between the bony knobs of your knees, and say with a hardened expression of self-confidence, ‘Jade, let’s never see each other again.’ He does not know how he would deal with such a unique surprise.

So, he refuses to deal with such a notion, and instead asks, gently because you have started to grip the front of your hair harshly in mental anguish, “Can’t do what anymore?”

“I can’t keep trying to remember this song,” you sob out without any tears. Dry eyes glance at him. “I keep trying to remember the chords of this song from my favorite childhood movie! But, I never played it before so it’s like piecing together a puzzle without the picture on the box! I don’t know any of the chords! Ugh, why is this so hard!”

For a moment, his imaginative and grand mind goes blank. Jade doesn’t really know to think with such a burden shared to him. Both of you are in strife now. Your problems morph into his problems and that is the zenith of being in a relationship.

However, Jade is a master of cold, calculative plotting. He advises, “If you keep pursuing prey, it travels further and further away each time you reach out towards it. It is better in the long run to hunt lying in wait and catch it by surprise.”

You stare at him. “What?”

Spoke too soon, he realizes. In his vision, your meek form hugs your guitar and caresses your guitar pick like it is the only teether to the physical realm. The instrument that you can rely on — unlike him — while you both move upward in age. “I think it is more advantageous to wait instead of struggling towards it.”

“Then, why wouldn't you just say that,” you question, releasing your harsh grip on your guitar. “I don’t need that kind of –.” You pause, guilty. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s quite alrig –.”

“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t speak so –.”

“Nonsense. I can’t fathom how –.”

“I’m stressed but that’s no ex –.”

“(Name), truly, no need for –.”

“Jade, I want –.”

All your combined words dissolve into bubbling laughter. Because, you smile crookedly at Jade which makes him fight against a creeping, fond smile which makes you beam a toothy grin which has Jade chuckling softly in reverence of your easygoingness. It concludes with both of you laughing into each other's shoulders, exhausted from interrupting. It tickles when your lips brush his neck and that has Jade seeping deeper into laughter.

I missed you, Jade admits without verbalization. He plants a fat kiss on your cheek. Still rooted on that field of flesh, he breathes in a cavernous breath that moves the non-visible strands of hair on your face like blown grass. Your scent crawls in kitten footsteps into his nostrils. Soft. You smell soft.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take this out on you. I went to rehearsal this afternoon and … ugh! I couldn’t get myself to remember a single chord progression and it’s like, c’mon, I should know this!”

“Not everything should fall onto you. You’re not the captain or boss after all,” Jade says, plucking the words another has used to describe your identity right out of your mind.

“Doesn’t feel like that though. Not since — ugh! Bleh! Look at me talking about such depressing stuff! What a downer, amirite? Let’s talk about something different!”

And, in that innate way you have about you, you manage to steer the conversation to another realm or another universe with practiced ease. Animatedly, you string together stories from the three days you were gone. Hearing stories from you feels like living through them. Truly, your voice is one of your most preeminent aspects. You even continue on steady going as you two brush your teeth for the night. Your voice is addictive. Something that even pulls in the fickle attention of his twin — who comes into their dormitory just as Jade rests his chin on the top of your head and starts to drift off to that hypnotic voice.

The last thing he hears is “well, I wasn’t going to take that lying down. So when she went to the bathroom, I unscrewed the lid of her coffee cup and phew! Right into her drink!” and the next thing he hears is the sound of vomiting.

And what does Jade do? Well Jade – dreams he is swimming through a forest of underwater mushrooms that reach up to a nebulous sky, his body is a primitive eel with no hands or arms, simply snake, threading through ivory white stems of mushroom-tree as one opens up to reveal a pulsing eye – rubs his nose in his sleep.

Unbeknownst to him, he’s been asleep since 10:31 and has gotten a full two hours of sleep. He is positive nothing is amiss outside from his body. The blanket is warm and the sounds are growing louder.

Jade — sits under the spotlight coming from the mushroom-tree’s slit, that single pulsing eye glaring down with a skyscraper iris, before it closes itself like one discontent labia, his eel body squirming in desperation — wakes up, eyes shooting open, when he hears a horrid sound. He only has an elbow up as he watches you lean over and vomit into the wastebasket you are cradling.

Floyd is by your side, ringlets of your hair squeezed in his hand. His twin wears a blank expression as he watches you (is this the first time you puked tonight or has it been more) puke, most likely, again. Their eyes met over the arch of your curling spine, backdropped by the sound of something heavy and wet hitting plastic. You gargle and burp up bile; it sounds painful.

He has a hundred questions he wants to ask his twin, but instead, he seamlessly and silently takes your hair from Floyd’s grip. The action is very fluid like passing a baton in a race; Floyd lets go at the same time Jade grabs on.

Any strands that Floyd neglectfully missed, Jade scoops them up with a fingernail and leans his body over yours, alerting you in the heavy mist of incoherence that your trustful boyfriend has woken up and will take care of you. You simply twitch like someone shot. The pieces that Jade is gathering are wet at the tips and his heart fractures for you.

Sevens, what kind of boyfriend is he if he is inadequate in aiding you in times of need? He should have been awake as soon as you stirred.

You must have moved around a lot on your own too. You were curled next to the wall when falling asleep and now you are sitting on the edge of the bed. The wastebasket is also from the joint bathroom. All that noisy movement and Jade slept. He pushes down his own bile-ball of guilt as you resurface like someone coming up for air.

“I — I —.” You vomit so hard it sounds like something sloshed out of you, like you had just successfully puked your heart up and out.

“Shush, shush, it’s okay. You’re okay.” He repeats that mantra a few times around. It seems to work wonders. “I got you. I got you. I got you.” Finally, sixty seconds pass than a hundred-twenty more seconds; it is long enough where Jade feels comfortable to dig for the reason of this nightly strife.

“Is it the nerves from your parents?”

You shake your head, no, refusing to look at him.

“The Dark Mirror?”

The same again.

“Ramshackle?”

You stiffen. A droplet of water peels off your eye like dew off a leaf. Jade believes he can hear it softly plop into the awaiting bile ocean below. He knows it is the most concrete answer he will get out of you. So, he says gently, not suggesting but telling, “A walk around campus would benefit me right now.”

“Yeah?” You murmur. Your haunted voice does not sound like your own; not due to a potion but rather your vocal cords twisting with fright.

“Are you okay, Jade?” You play along well with his subtle, situational manipulation.

“No, I’m not. My mind is disorganized.”

You go huff with a closed lip smile. So it goes.

As Jade stands off to the side, watching diligently with his eyes glued to your form, you bundle up in a winter jacket and brush your teeth in their bathroom sink. Your toothbrush clinks in the cup with Floyd’s and Jade’s. A programmed, innate part of you reaches for the wastebasket to take care of your mess but Jade stifles it by pushing the object out of your reach. Sometimes, he loathes that you are so independent.

You accept that with a look. What? Jade thinks, wanting to ask you what that look could possibly mean. He doesn’t.

You accept his hand when he offers, interlocking. The heat is grounding. Both of you bid Floyd demure goodbyes, his twin raising a hand up from his bundle of covers in response. Then, you are off.

No additional words are spoken. There is much to be said but neither of you dares to breach it. Steering, Jade guides you down the darkened hallways of Night Raven College. The shadow-blanketed portraits sleep and the shadow-curtained doors remain shut. Paces evenly matched, you share a walk.

December air bites at Jade when he pushes open the double doors. That’s right. Today is December 1st; midnight has most certainly passed by now. He looks up at the night sky where it looks like someone has spilled oil and tried to scrub it up in certain places, only managing to reduce it to a dark, dark gray where all the clouds lie. He does not shiver.

Your grip tightens in his hand though, because some of the cold has invaded through your layers. A scarf. I should have been prepared with a scarf. My mind is untidy; how vexing. However, you give no complaint to the winter air. Perhaps it helps; you lick your lips in a way that makes Jade assume you are trying to sample a taste of the cold.

Onward, you two continue. There are benches you two could sit upon and the fountain is also a nearby resting spot. Somewhere nice to sit and talk. It would be beneficial to discuss what happened tonight, and maybe beneficial for Jade to discuss how he is feeling recently.

His face tightens. The image of gloved fingers savagely parting a clam’s glistening shell lips, crunching the hard body like a handful of saltine crackers, appears in his mind with the paramountcy of those mushroom-trees. Perhaps he will keep his mouth shut. Wouldn't it be selfish to talk about his worries? Yes. He latches onto that excuse. There is no reason to use his unique magic on himself.

However, before any of this can happen, you slip from Jade’s grip as he starts down the stairs. He feels the lost tingle up the arm of psilocybin and bulbophyllum phalaenopsis. He watches as you pull yourself onto that familiar brick wall, straightening up to your feet, and walking across the structure.

There are skinny columns that make up the arches off the building. When you reach them, you grasp on and weave around them in a fashion that is fluid. Jade simply watches, walking around the border of the courtyard with you. It is just Jade, walking on the grass under your dancing feet, and you, shadowed.

A faint, raw-noise humming comes from the underbelly of your throat until you sing softly, “Heeeeey, what’s the point of this? Oh heeeey, what’s your favorite song; maybe we could hum along.” You weave past two columns, somber in the soft cadence. Your fingers look like little ghosts each time you release the thick, ebony metal.

“Well. I think you’re smart. You sweet thing.” Your eyes seem to look at someone Jade cannot see. “Tell me your name; I'm dying here!” You clench a hand to your chest, as you break through whispering-singing to real-singing. You throw your head back and sing coherently without any guitar or percussion, “Awooooouuuuuh! Got you where I want you … Again.”

Eccentric, Jade thinks fondly. Always interesting and unpredictable. He loves those factors about you as much as he is troubled by them. Why can’t things be linear?

After your musician outburst, you grow deathly quiet. Not even humming or murmuring the rest of the song, you continue weaving post by post as Jade follows, observing intently. He wants to crack open your head and dissect the yolk of your complicated, alien thoughts more than ever now. Too cowardly, he asks as you two come upon the first turn in the square formation of the brick wall, “How is your howlite ring fairing tonight?”

You glance down at the circular stone on your index finger. The mineral is white with gray lightning streaks, much like a marble countertop. “No cracks, I think.” You grab onto another post and slide your body around it. The stone glistens on your ghoulish finger.

It is always wise to look out for a breakage among those jagged, flint-hued lines. Jade would hate to see it break again.

The breakage of your last howlite ring led to Jade confessing his love for you. The prologue though? It was a rather unfortunate turn of events. Though, he is not regretful of it in the slightest. He looks back upon the memory of your face – drenched in mascara-black tears, your hands clutching his shirt as they shook with horror, the pale lifelessness in your gaunt cheeks – with both worship and woe.

Jade replays the words said just a few minutes ago: Ramshackle, A walk around campus would benefit me right now, Yeah? A Ramshackle nightmare is a volatile one but still mendable.

Even though Ramshackle is littered with protective charms, it does not completely halt the activity of nightly ghouls. Lilia once suggested acquiring a dire-beast to tame them. But, dire-beasts are a rarity and even harder to train than ghouls. Thus, you worked with other means. Howlite minerals fashioned into jewelry works well for preventing possession, but under constant strain, they can break. No one could have guessed it would happen. Your radio silence was not unusual; your communication device is faulty and it is not entirely unusual for you to slip away for a day or two.

It was merely awful luck that the last Saturday in September, in the morning while brushing your teeth, your howlite ring split down the middle and broke. After the weekend, on a Monday, Jade ventured into Ramshackle to find you with limbs contorted at inhuman angles, puke and piss on your clothes, eyes rolling in the back of your head until all he could see was glistening white like fresh snow, and on the verge of death.

The thing about Jade is he is a bit of a worrier. Like ink chiseled into skin, it is ingrained in him. It comes packaged in his genetic alphabet, passed down from his mother and his father.

It had not been good for his health to open up Ramshackle and find you in such a state.

But, he made certain that the dead felt an even greater hit to their health.

After evicting those three ghouls from your body, you spent a week out of Ramshackle and curled up tight in his bed. On Monday, it had been three days since your last bowel movement. The scene from then is still clear in his mind:

Jade takes a peek through the mediocre crack of the bathroom door. There you are in all your glory, sitting on the toilet with gray sweats around your ankles. A wet compress is laid against your bowing neck and an apple juice box clenched in both hand and mouth. An empty, crunched apple juice rests in the wastebasket; you have been at this for five minutes or so.

With a far off look, you stare at the other end of the bathroom. Anxious, Jade surmises that you are perhaps not even comprehending the sight, too stricken with a fever that everything has blurred.

He has been checking up on your memory hourly. You know your name and you know his name. Yet, when he asks you where you are, you keep saying, almost insisting, your hometown.

Those irises that seemed so straight and bright are lost now. The border of the lake has opened like broken beaver dams and the hue of your irises have slipped out into the white pool, spreading your vision thin and fragile. There is a thick fog that he cannot break. Even now when you turn your head towards him, asking what around your apple juice straw, it looks like you are seeing through him.

“I asked, would you like me to retrieve anything else? Your efforts have seemed to come to a constipated stop.”

Perhaps that is mean of him to poke at but … the straw in your mouth flattens. “Shut up,” you berate him, meanly, yet with a faint smile all the same. Your head falls, matted ringlets of hair covering your face. Staring at the wet cloth of white on your neck, Jade listens as you murmur teasingly, “Eat my shorts.”

At least you are coherent enough to have an attitude with him. It causes a twitch of a smile to rise to his face. Leaning against the wall more but refusing to open the door wider for your sake, Jade notes, “You kept your apple juice down.”

You only nod languidly at that.

He had considered making slippery elm tea for you. However, teas can lead to slight dehydration and you have been unable to keep a majority of things down. The most has been a popsicle of electrolytes Floyd took from the lounge’s freezer. Water has unfortunately been a no-go. It makes Jade’s chest feel lighter to know you are on your second box of juice.

It feels like euphoria when he hears the sound of something hitting water. He smiles sweetly at you through the crack of the door, but you are less receptive to it.

“Shut the door!”

Jade fufu-s like a smug bastard.

“Privacy, dude! Privacy!”

And, Jade went back to his bed, firmly closing the door behind him without another word.

Certain ailments can be remedied in no time. A fever going down to lower temperatures and a wound closing up with blood clots. These are instant gratifications; worries that have both beginnings and ends.

Such linear illnesses do not cause Jade as much strife as malaises that are difficult to identify or seem endless as a stretching horizon. The ones that seem to have no ends or starts. With those types of ailments, one always seems to find themselves in the middle of it. Those haunt him.

Another thing about Jade? Besides being a worrier, Jade thinks. He thinks deeply.

This might be a symptom of having the family heirloom of worry passed down to him. A consequence of being born where he was and a consequence of being raised by whom he loves. Jade can think himself into the deepest, darkest pits. He can also use those very thoughts to build ladder rungs to escape those pits. It is all like a dog chasing its tail (more appropriately, an eel chasing its tail, growing dizzy in a mushroom-forest).

He is chasing his own tail the entire time, thinking these thoughts as you two walk. Trying to see if from his memory, he can pull out some shortcut on healing you. Jade only stops chasing his tail when you both have completed one rotation around the courtyard’s square wall and you start to walk down cobblestones before shoving your shoulder into Jade’s sternum.

He looks down at you, curious. Your hand lifts up to rest on his pectoral muscle and the side of your face nuzzles into the same area. The buttons on his pajama top press uncomfortably into his skin like grinding pebbles. Cuddling standing up is not so uncommon but is it late, wouldn’t you rather sit on a bench; he should offer that alternative, shouldn’t he; would it not be rude of him to change your positions because it is likely you will recoil after that and not touch him again, couldn’t —

There he goes again, thinking and worrying. His automatic genetics are fully charged from a good night’s rest. Eyelids drooping softly, he breathes in the scent of your shampoo – a steady warmth that coats the scent of you onto the insides of his nostrils and heart like spray paint – and feels all that irrationality leave him.

“Mmm, you wanna talk about it?”

Jade blinks at your lazy drawl, words squished by his chest. He looks down and only sees the top of your head. “Talk about what?”

“Your disorganized head.”

You are so sweet, what did I possibly do to deserve someone … sweet? Jade’s body expands and deflates with a deep, content sigh. Your hand stirs on his pajama and falls limply to touch a button. You tap a melody on it that he does not recognize. “Ah, I assure you that was simply in jest. My health is quite strong.”

Jade looks at your howlite ring, watching it stir with each tap-tap you do. Sometimes, a person has to be on the verge of losing something to appreciate it in its full scope. It is a hard lesson to learn. Jade feels like he is learning it again.

“Okay,” you easily concede. Your disposition rarely has you pressing for anything that will not easily break, not unless it is something you want really badly. You must not want to read his thoughts like he wants to read yours. What is your opinion of this situation, about what is happening between the two of you – is it good or bad?

Relationships are labyrinthine roads. Driven and steered through with two people in the vehicles, they only have one person with their hand on the wheel though. Thoughts are private. Jade brushes an ungloved hand through your hair, feeling the curves of where your skull lies.

All of Jade’s thoughts mellow and simmer out until all he thinks is about is the bones in his feet that balance him on the ground, the sensation of the cold nipping his neck and ears that remind him of his faraway home, and the simple fact that he loves you very much and he hopes that he can love you all through December. When New Years passes, he hopes you will allow him to love you all through the upcoming twelve months.

“Your heartbeat is so nice.”

Hm?

Jade rouses awake slightly, frost coating the tips of his hair and his legs numb. How long have the two of you been here? The sky is still black, a closed lid on this moment where only pinpricks of light break through like superficial air-holes. Still midnight? He shivers when your cold fingers sneak through the seams of his pajama top, webbing through the space from button to button.

“Your heartbeat. It has such a nice melody. Sometimes, I get so caught up in listening to it that I wanna try to change my body to copy. Like we’re two instruments that could match up to each other if we try hard enough.” You really are so – “Brrr, I’m freezing! Let’s go back to bed, babe!”

– sweet, Jade thinks with a smile.

If there is one feature that sets Jade and Floyd’s father apart from the rest, it has always been his voice.

Vocal cords are unique as fingerprints. However, not all of them are pleasant to listen to and a few of them you can even mistake for others in crowds. Not Don Leech’s voice. No, his voice is in a class of his own. A sui generis sound that captivates all who are blessed or cursed to hear it.

Unfortunate merfolk say it is the type of voice that sends a chill down one’s spine. A feeling so sinister that it can only be described as the eerie walk of pycnogonida, spindly sea spiders, traveling down the body’s bony ladder. It is also the voice that has their mother’s head whirling towards their home’s entrance wherever she hears it, love in her eyes. A voice so comforting as it narrated youthful bedtime stories of ancient history and great battles.

The twins are unsure if their father is part-siren. It is a speculation not out of the realm of possibility. Even for all of Jade’s prowess when it comes to information collecting, he doubts he will ever in his life be able to find a crumb of his father’s past before the age of twenty-three.

The available information concerning his origin (familial ties and beyond): 1. Don Leech never speaks of his mother or his father. No reminiscing on how his mother cooked a certain way nor any life lessons his own father taught him fall from his mouth. 2. Don Leech has no siblings. There are no nieces and nephews on that side of the family to grow up with. 3. Lastly, Don Leech appeared in the specific hometown that he raised Floyd and Jade in at twenty-three. Like a sudden storm, without any forewarning weather, manifested almost.

Frankly, it is impossible to track down any family history on their secretive, recondite father. Anyone that tries is foolish.

If Don Leech is part-siren, the gene in the blood is too diluted for either Floyd or Jade to possess any natural talent towards singing. Besides, they could never match the expectations set by their father’s strong baritone … which Jade is aware of as he stares at his double bass on stage at La Grotta with a … hole in his stomach, he believes.

Yes, he reassures himself after a moment. It is accurate to call it a hole. Somehow, it feels like a bottomless pupil of black and suckles at him like a parasite. It is quite unpleasant. He wishes he knew a spell or potion to dispel it from himself. Demure, Jade leans away from the curtain he was peeking from.

It is his, Floyd’s, and Azul’s first time playing at La Grotta. This will inevitably lead to Jade finding himself in the spotlight. Even when split amongst his brother and their plaything, it is a bit much for the young, freshly thirteen eel-mer. The diameter of that gaping crater grows and grows in his intestines.

As always, Jade is thoroughly prepared for any outcomes but he would loathe to accidentally do something foolish on stage. He even took precautions to change the bass strings with new ones, even though the replacement time did not call for it. If only … “Jade.”

Recognizing him right away without seeing him – “Father.” – Jade turns around to greet the sight of his father. Amber brown eyes gaze down at him like duel suns on the horizon. It is a surprise to be under their harsh, amber scrutiny because the young teen was told Don Leech was too preoccupied to come to their show. Stricken, he does not really know what else to say.

His father narrows his eyes and his ear-fins lower in … an unreadable emotion. Jade hopes it is not a sign of displeasure. So, he quickly adds, “I hope that today’s affairs have been luh-lucrative.” Damnit, Jade seethes with his head bowed. Foolish tongue.

Slowly, the ear-fins on the side of his father’s teal face lift up, the deformed, asymmetrical one on the left following along with the intact one on the right. His features do not soften because there is no probable way to soften such a face. The jagged nose scar will not grow tinier and the angular cut of his face will not round out. But still, it seems there is sympathy because in that sui generis voice, he inquires, “Are you afraid, Jade?”

“No, Father.”

Clip. Self-assured. Curt.

“Ah, so you are terrified.”

But it works poorly on his observant father.

The capo-mandamento of their side of the Coral Sea gives his son a hard, pushing stare. There is something dreadful in your opponent knowing exactly what you are thinking while you are left clueless over their own thoughts. That hole of black, Jade remembers it as he watches his father peel back the curtain to look onstage.

The jazz trio instruments are all there: drums, double bass, and piano. All neatly placed in anticipation, even though the drummer said he is too bored to wait onstage and to call him when they are ready to start immediately, and even though the pianist has become thoroughly distracted with helping his mother serve orders, numerous tentacles carrying numerous trays. It is only Jade who is left, taskless and anxious.

But terrified? He would like to think not. After living in the Coral Sea for thirteen years, this is a mere bump in the torrential whirlpool of frightening experiences he has grown up with. His desensitization is healthy and strong. Jade means to go tell his father this but is stopped when …

“I used to sing here. Did you know that?” The words leak down over his father’s shoulder like snail mucus, dragging along the tattoo of the magnificent Sea Witch crushing the princess’s boat in her grasp. Hypnotic and powerful, even though he only says softly, “I sang no more than an hour and no more than once a week.”

Still, the very action of Don Leech just revealing a smidgen of his past – nothing past his mysterious appearance at twenty-three but something beyond the time Floyd and Jade were born – has that hole closing up. Anxiety is sealed shut and awe bandages itself over. Jade tries not to show it as he leans in, intrigued.

Those amber-brown eyes cut diamonds in the water as Don Leech turns back to look at his son, “Music. Perspective and personal emotions are shaped by the music we indulge in. It holds greater influence than any words you and I could use.”

Jade wants to soak these paramount, influential words in, but he cannot because something shocks him deeply in the heart. His touch-adverse father gently runs a taloned hand through Jade’s hair. Not ruffling it because the mafioso head knows it took his son effort to tame. Instead, he simply combs through it once until he reaches the other side.

And, while he slips away, Don Leech murmurs in that distinguishable baritone, “When us merfolk hear music, we cannot help but be swayed to wayward influences.”

As both father and memory drop away into that black hole, Jade reaches out to hold a tip of teal hair in his gloved finger as if remembering that far-off touch. He rubs back and forth on the strand while thinking, Was that a cautionary tale or simply my Father’s eccentric type of humor? Is it something to keep in consideration after all these years?

Of course it is. What a foolish doubt. His father’s words always held a leash of influence over his sons, a guiding light in the dark. His influence is a key factor in why Floyd always polished his shoes every morning. For a very carefree, nonchalant individual, Floyd takes extreme care in maintaining his footwear. One of the reasons he does this? Because his father told him to.

Still, swayed by wayward influences? I am not so easily swayed. And what an odd turn of phrase too, Father. Perverse behavior is a tiny indulgence in Jade’s essence and not a shackle on his soul. In the Coral Sea, he learned how to get exactly what he wanted and when he wanted it. Nothing can steer Jade but himself.

He wants you. Yet more importantly, he wants you to want him in matching intensity, and he loathes the slight indication that he wants you more than you want him instead of the other way around. It bothers him on a deep, deep, underground level of his body, simmering in his stomach acid, and reminds him of the first time he experienced getting a splinter on a hike.

What a truly horrid sensation to have something under the skin. Jade thinks that he should – “I know Riddle collared (Name) yesterday, but can your vengeful plotting wait until after the meeting?”

Jade flicks his eyes off from where he was focusing. Which he realizes now as he gains coherency and sheds off his spiraling thoughts, it was directly towards Riddle Rosehearts. It was a pretty harsh look too. Curious, the eel-met glances down at Jamil and asks amused, “He collared her again?”

A grimace forms on Jamil’s face. The expression reminds Jade of a turn of phrase that expresses regret; it is called ‘spoke too soon’. He delights in that. When people realize they have slipped up when talking to Jade, it warms the eel-mer’s heart to know others are so, so comfortable around him.

Jamil taps his ballpoint pen on his notes. His passages are exceptionally shorter than Kalim, who has been making great strides at actually actively being a housewarden. It seems Jamil has gotten over his inner turmoil when he informs, “Iago and her both returned to Scarabia with collars. Something about how the type of music they played was banned in Heartslabyul.”

Fondness lifts up Jade’s lips. Though he doesn’t get to experience all of it, your mischievous charms are something that have always been congenial to him. This wouldn’t have been the first time Riddle has collared you and it certainly won’t be the last. “Would you happen to know what they played?”

His expanse of knowledge on the Queendom of Roses is still limited. Which is why it’s nice Jamil answers without hassle, “Something a band of Queendom of Roses students played during V.D.C; she wouldn’t stop talking about them for a week. Apparently, the guitarist took his instrument and maimmed his fellow band member’s drum-kit.”

Music from V.D.C? Suddenly, a toothy grin overtakes Jade’s features. He remembers V.D.C very fondly. Your ineffable stress from not getting to play with Kalim and your ineffable supply of happy-go-lucky smiles when Jade and Azul agreed to browse the Foot Town with you before you all watched the performance together. The most interesting performance had to be when you puppeteered Malleus Draconia to fix the wrecked coliseum because you ‘had to see the other bands or you would just die!’

Grinning wide enough to split his face, Jade supplies the information he knows happily into the conversation, “Ah, that’s because there is a town in the Queendom of Roses that has the same type of music (Name) likes. They’re based around Alice’s disobedient nature and rule-breaking. She calls it punk music. They call it mad-hatter music.”

How quaint. He had not known that music was banned at Heartslabyul. It would make sense that mad-hatter music is banned in that dormitory; perhaps, he should let Floyd know this? He imagines both of you would be undeterred and try to play those rhythms together – you on vocals and guitar with his twin on drums.

“She might’ve been better off at RSA. Especially if they would have matched her rhythm and style.”

Jade’s grin drops as soon as the idea leaves Jamil’s mouth. “I believe she is perfectly suited for Night Raven College.” An entire other student-body knowing and adoring you, it stomps a foul taste in his mouth.

“I don’t know, but I’ve noticed an uptick of lilac cat hair in Scarabia.”

Ah, Alchemivich Pinka is caught in your web too? “Nothing more than a passing fancy. You’ll find yourself void of it in a week or two.”

“Her ability to make such quick acquaintances without overstepping is admirable. Not many here could copy such a feat.”

“Oya, is that a dig into Kalim’s disposition that I hear?”

Jamil twirls his pen once, as if to absolve himself of any guilt. His face is stone, laser focused on the lecturing Headmage in front of him. But if one pays close enough attention, they would notice the slight curve of his mouth. Third year Jamil has been just, if not more, entertaining as closed off first year Jamil.

“What earnest words. To think that day would come with you would be so honest with me. I’m glad that our friendship is advancing in so many lucrative ways.”

Jamil refutes dryly, “I spoke on (Name)’s habits and nothing more.”

Jade does not realize how enraptured he has been in this quaint conversation with Viper until something to his right leans against him, hard, almost slumping. For an inane second, he thinks his opposing seatmate has just made the bold move of resting on him. So, confused, Jade turns to clear up this misunderstanding that he is someone friendly enough to lean on.

At least he would until droopy olive-brown and gold stare at him, half-lidded and presumably bored. “Hello, Floyd.”

His twin barely responds, humming softly before he rests his head on Jade’s elbow. He’s homesick. Jade knows he has hit the nail on the head when he sees what Floyd is drawing. Especially since both mother and father neglected a phone call yesterday because of an uptick in business.

The sketchbook Floyd bought is his own personal one. His twin has a natural talent for being able to visualize or hear something and replicating it. Musicology has always been in the frontier of his artistry, but he has a slight endearment towards art too. Besides, art above the surface has a wider variety than that underwater.

It is almost impossible to create anything in his home. Ink or paint will float away unless an artist has a good magical hand, separating the liquid medium from their surroundings with wafer-thin, magical layers. A majority of paintings displayed in museums are found from shipwrecks or built by using colored stones, sculpting them into scenes. Longer wavelengths are also absorbed the deeper one travels in the Coral Sea. Red is unheard of. Such limiting yet comforting strifes.

What Floyd is smooshing around with his thumb and darkening with a graphite pencil is the interior of La Grotta. Jade recognizes the stage almost immediately, having been stuck in daydreams about it. The booths made of large, arching backs of coral, the stage’s open oyster shell, and the hanging, bioluminescent seaweed – all so familiar.

The only thing that disrupts it is the stark image of yourself. You have never been to the Coral Sea before. He hasn’t dared to suggest bringing you there. It is not a place you are familiar with yet at all. Yet, standing like an aphrodite in the oyster shell, mouth poised in song, you look right at home among the crowd of merfolk.

They converse in soft mermish to not be overheard by an oblivious Headmage.

“Is that supposed to be (Name)?”

“No, it’s grandma. Who else would it be, dumbass?”

“Well, if only you were an adequate artist, others could make a comprehensive image of what you are scribbling.”

“Eat my shorts,” Floyd spits back, stealing your little phrase as he rubs a rubber eraser over your eyeballs. The part that makes you the most recognizable is not the microphone in your hand but the highlighted stars in your eyes, as white as the seaweed hanging above you.

Jade chuckles, going to turn to continue his conversation with Jamil, before Floyd asks unprompted, “When ya gonna invite Shrimpy over to meet Ma and Pops? Three months is way too long of a wait.”

Yes, he knows three months is quite a lengthy extent to go without meeting the parents, but not for you. For you, three months might just signal the end if Jade is not careful. Things are so volatile. You are reeling in displaced identity. Can he really afford to add more people selfishly into your inner circle?

“They’ll have to be a bit more patient. Nothing rewarding comes from grasping out too soon.” We hunt lying in wait.

“Yeah, well, ya tell Mama that because she’s all upset about not seeing or hearing Shrimpy. Can’t just mention to them that Shrimpy’s a singer then not bring her home. Idiot.”

“There are still things that need to be done, preparations before anything like that can happen.”

“Staller.”

“Call it what you will, but I don’t wish to spring a trap without checking all the nets are secured.”

“Oh?” Floyd finishes the last touches of light/white treading itself through your hair before he goes on to darken the shadows.

In fluent mermish, Jade replies, “Of course. I would not do all this without a clear end goal in mind. We will have to sabotage others who work towards gaining her favor. Her attention should not be spread so thin, so we will have to adopt the methodology of horse-blinders. Then, and only then, I would implement the design of capturing her.”

When the twins look at each other, they share a sharp, menacing grin. Needle-thin teeth smiling at wolfishly-thick teeth. It is a look that can be best measured in the satisfaction of a plan coming to fruition. Behind strands of teal, Floyd’s olive eye peeks out like a clownfish peeking out its anemone.

“She’s a tiny shrimp, so make sure ya don’t use too flimsy of a net. Pops taught us that. Make sure it's tight and cramped.”

Ah, yes. That’s right. And, aren’t their father’s words always to be heeded to?

If Jade did not meticulously put together his appearance this morning, he might be a bit scornful that Azul is looking at him if he can’t recognize him. As if the two of them are strangers instead of familiarized predator and prey. Even his words are a bit hurtful (they aren’t really but Jade will still pout at them): “Am I dreaming or is that really you, Jade?”

“Relax, it’s me. Don’t cream your pants,” Jade punctually assures.

Subconsciously, his right leg lifts and crosses over his left. Just as quickly as he did it, he consciously moves it back. Firmly placing it down on the VIP’s carpet, he resumes his spread-out look. That one is going to be a hard habit to break.

Despite the given assurance, Azul still seems unconvinced. The dead giveaway is how his eyes flicker left and right to his brother and himself on the opposing couches, trying to pick up the details. His suspicion is not unwarranted. Jade and his brother have played games like this before, switching hair styles and voices, before having their unrespected, childhood plaything try to figure out who is who.

Azul has a much more respectable air to him as he pushes his glasses snug to his face, articulating sharply, “I have no time to play this game today.

“Final exams are approaching. Neglectful, procrastinating students are hard pressed for study materials.” His shoes and cane click hard like striked matches as he strides towards his desk. “I recently obtained from a Heartslabyul student – the one Jade so rudely walked out on if I might add.”

“You may not.”

“ – the magical prowess to memorize anything in exchange for a more athletic physique. A build ensured to capture the affection of that sweet Sage Island native he is pining over. Now, as for what we’ll do with such a zenith of intelligence –”

“What’s anyone gonna use that for?” Floyd protests. From his own spread out position on the couch, head upside down on the armrest, he glares at Azul. “I don’t wanna do the same thing as last year; that’s boooring.”

“If the both of you will quit interrupting, we might perhaps get to the actual idea.” Though it would cut another else to shreds, Azul’s glare is lackluster to the twins. Still, they allow him to drill on. “Nothing fires up students more than competition. Rudimentary sports, battle of bands, things like that. We’ll be hosting an ‘eating competition’ in the Longue. The prize? The ability to memorize anything without limitations.”

“An eating competition? Didn’t Shrimpy mention that a week back or something?” Floyd turns to Jade.

“She mentioned something like that; I believe it’s from a cartoon. Starts with a H … Hey … Hey something.”

“Hey Arnold!” Floyd snaps his fingers.

“It’s a custom we don’t have in Twisted Wonderland. If not for the prize, the experience of something new is bait and lure to bring in foot traffic. And, each loser will have to pay full price for all the meals they eat.”

“A food competition … eeh, doesn’t sound too bad.” His twin rolls his neck over the armrest, as if considering it. “I know a couple guys who’d be interested.”

“A competition where individuals gorge themselves until the verge of bursting with puke. Sounds delightful! What an intriguing custom.” The results will surely be sulfurous and show-stopping.

Yet, as typical, Jade’s fun is ruined before it even begins. Azul pushes up his glasses, levels him with a hard stare, and declares, “You’re not allowed to participate. Sevens knows I couldn’t financially recover from your appetite if you were permitted to take part.”

“A bold accusation. I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort.” The smile that crawls on his face suggests otherwise, gleaming silver with needle-point teeth and the smiley piercing hanging over those teeth like mistletoe.

Bloated with strife and anxiety like always, Azul sighs. He leans back into his chair, plush enough to relieve him of some of the burdens he carries. “If we are in conjunction, then you two can continue on with your shifts.” Like an unstoppable train, Azul is already grasping at documents and contacts that crowd his desk, ready to move onto the next big thing.

“Kaaay! Sounds fun.”

“I’ll be sure to spread the word.”

Jade opens the door for both of them to depart. But before he can close it fully, a sui generis voice slithers its way through the space between the door crack — “So they got my tooth on one end of the string and the doorknob at the other end!” — and it even influences smitten Azul to lift his head and look towards the noise.

You are magnetic when you tell stories. Jade has seen people at other tables in the Lounge hush up so they can eavesdrop on your conversation. It is no wonder that through the slow, syrupy breakfast crowd that your voice pierces through all of them and is the first one all three of them hear together. Jade can even pinpoint your location based on the traveling vibrations of sound.

“ … sweet summer child that I was, I put my full faith in them. I saw no reason not ta! So, my Mom’s got a surgeon grip on the doorknob. Steady; steady. And, my Dad starts the count: ooone, twooo, and right before we got to three … Bam! Just before three and my mouth’s gushing! I’m leaking red all over our dining room’s carpet. I swear, my Mom should’ve enlisted for the army! They need to start using her technique on P.O.Ws!”

Your eyeliner is smudged again; it is your typical ‘worn-in’ makeup look that you frequently do. It looks like you are fostering two black eyes. Grunge, he knows the style intimately. Your lipstick is a deep red. Might be more fitting to call it a dark red-violet; the hue closely resembles the skin of a plum. Uniquely picturesque like a model, you walk in narrating a story about your childhood with a sleazy grin and animated hands. Your guitarist and bassist are captivated, all three of you following after the waiter leading you to your seats.

Without any resistance, Floyd calls out, waving a hand, “Shrimpy! Look over here!” And, obviously that is what you do.

Witchcraft eyes turn towards the sound of his twin’s voice, mouth limp as you pause in narration, and look towards the VIP room’s entrance. Then, suddenly, you’re staring directly at Jade. Plum lips falling open in shock and eyeliner shifting as your eyes go round.

Jade, satisfaction coursing through his veins, raises a stark white glove before demurely folding his hands in front of his belt.

In the mere blink of an eye, you manage to weave through the servers and customers, completely forgetting about your entourage, to jump around Jade in circles. Giggling up a storm, you hop around your boyfriend in circles — “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, Jade; ah, I love the new look; babe; the piercings are so, so razer; oh my god; we match; we match; ah, Jade you pull it off so well; your eyebrow piercing is so razer!!” — and scrutinize all the changes that he made yesterday night.

Finally, you stop circling him and stand in front him, almost vibrating in place with awe. The enthusiasm in your eyes causes them to shine in bright white highlights like diamonds.

“They’re all authentic too. It took quite some practice to get this one.” Jade flashes you a grin, revealing all his teeth and the bull piercing metal that is impaling through the tissue connecting his upper lip and upper gum.

Everything falls cleanly into place in Jade’s net.

#jade leech x reader #jade leech #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst jade

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