#Luca Pane

[badmovieihave]

Bad movie I have I was a Teenage Zombie 1987

[eleanor-harrington]

Tap, tap, tap

They just wanted some alone time. Just time away from teenagers and work and school. Just the two of them. Until someone, or something decides to pay them a visit.

Content Warning: Scary (maybe), creature stalking. Bad writing?

The power had gone out about an hour ago. It started as just a flickering of the lights every now and again, but they had paid no mind to it. The storm outside was raging, the kind that swallowed everyting - the roads, trees, even sounds. All her and Steve could hear was the wind howling out side, so poweful it rattled the panes of glass within the frames of the windows. 

It was supposed to be a romantic getaway. The weekend spent with just the two of them. No teenagers asking them for rides to the mall, no Family Video or stupid college assigntments. Just her and Steve enjoying each others company. 

But, as the night progressed and they sat by the fire, she couldn’t help but felel like someone, or something, was watching them. 

It started with a low tap, tap, tap on the living room window. A fairly normal sound in the middle of a storm. It was subtle enough that they were able to brush it off as a branch hitting the glass ever so lightly. But was there even a tree by that window? 

The second time it happened, she was in the kitchen making a cup of tea on the wood buring stove. The tap, tap, tap came from the window behind her, but this time it was accompanied but a low growl, barely noticeable behind the still howling wind. She quickly dropped the kettle in the sink, tea forgotten and rushed back to Steve’s side. 

“I think there’s something out there, Steve.” She whispered, grabbing the flashlight they had found stuffed in the back of the linen closet. She hugged it to her chest, so tight it hurt when she breathed. “I swear something just growled at me through the kitchen window.” 

Steve gave her a terrified look. “Maybe we should just go?” But he didnt sound so sure himself. His voice quivered just slightly. 

“If there’s something out there, I’m not leaving this house.” She shook her head at him. Steve nodded, grabing her and cuddling her in close. 

“Ok, we stay the night and then we head out as soon as the sun comes up.” She nodded once in agreement. 

They moved to the couch. Sitting side by side, flashlight resting between them as the fire continued in the fireplace. The tapping continued, moving from room to room. They had already made sure every door and window was locked. The cabin was small, only one bedroom with a small kitchen off to the side of the living room. There would be no place to hide if anything got in except for the small bathroom connect to the bedroon. 

They estimated it at 1am whent they first heard the voice. 

“Hello”

Dustin. She was sure of it. It sounded just like him. But why would Dustin be out in this storm in the middle of the night?

“Guys, let me in”

Steve looked at her, face pale in the dim firelight. No, not Dustin. Something using Dustins voice. It was warped somehow. High pitched, maybe. A little garbled, like he was speaking through a phone. 

“Steve, I’m scared” It was barely above a whisper, but Steve pulled her in closer. He didn’t say anything but she could feel his body trembling against hers. 

TAP, TAP, TAP. Louder this time. Much louder. Whatever was out there wanted in. 

“Guys” Lucas. No, not Lucas. The thing pretending to be Lucas. “Help me, guys, its so cold.” Loud scrapping acompanied the voice this time. Something long and sharp dragging against the side of the house. “Please, guys. Just let me in” 

She started crying then. Softly, so Steve wrapped her up even tighter. “What is that thing, Steve?” But he didnt have an anser, and the flashlight had started flickering, and they were out of firewood. 

“We should move to the bathroom. There are no windows in there.” 

They huddled together in the old bathtub surrounded by pillows and blankets. The howling wind continued outside. The voice continued in the distance, taking turns imitating their friends. All of them, one by one calling out to her and Steve, begging to be let in. They were both pale and shaking now, teeth chattering from the cold, or from fear, neither one of them could tell the difference anymore. 

An hour had passed since they moved to the bathroom when the tapping had stopped abruptly. They waited a beat, listening closely. 

“Maybe-“ she started to whisper, but she was cut off by another voice. Her voice and then a soft tap, tap, tap on the bathroom door. 

To be continued…

[terezicaptor]

thank god I'll never have to talk to lucas again but I will miss pangi - tubbo

leans my head sadly against a window pane

[fuctacles]

sports au!!!!!

Part 2

The booth was stuffy and smelled like it’s been forgotten for a decade. But the equipment was new and the glass pane was cleaned up, giving Eddie a clear view of the court.

“Is this a good moment to say I don’t know the rules?”

The coach, and his PE professor, looks one step away from murder.

“Just remember our team is wearing green.”

“Yes sir!”

The man squints at him with clear distrust so Eddie gives him his widest, purest smile.

“Good thing nobody’s listening to the campus radio.”

The joke’s on him; Eddie has garnered a lot of listeners over the past months. Listeners that he might lose after hosting a live sports event. 

“Don’t be too weird. I might send you someone to help with the rules so you don’t completely ruin it.” He pats Eddie on the shoulder, his palm so heavy it feels like he’s trying to pin him into the chair, before disappearing behind the door in the back. Seconds later he’s visible walking down the steps to his team.

Eddie looks at his watch. It’s going to be the longest four hours in his academic history. 

He turns to the concsole, frowns at the unfamiliar dials and switches and focuses on the ones he knows. Tunes everything to his best ability, takes a breath, and clears his throat before starting the broadcast.

“Hello, students of Indiana University! I know it’s a Friday night and you were hoping for some nice tunes to party to, but prepare your pillows for a nap instead because you’ll be listening to a football match. No, wait, basketball. I’m pretty sure. 

Anyway, dunno why you’d listen to a match instead of going to see it, but ya boy needs to pass PE this term so here we are. 

And here comes our team! The green ones. It’s greens against blues tonight, folks.”

“Tigers versus Roaches, actually.”

Eddie turns around and sees a tall boy enter his studio.

“First of all, who the fuck names their team Roaches. Second, we have an intruder in the studio.”

The boy extends his hand unfazed.

“I’m Lucas, your interpreter. Since I’m benching for the first half anyway.”

“Booo, I was just going to make up rules as I go. Now you’re gonna make it boring.”

But he shakes his hand anyway and lets Lucas sit on the chair next to him.

“Careful, I’m a dedicated listener. My friends too, you’d probably lose your whole audience.” He smirks. Eddie scoffs.

“I’ll let you know, tiger cub, that many people listen to Munson’s Midnight Metal Madness.”

“I meant the DnD show.”

Eddie looks at the boy, his neat haircut and team jersey.

“Really?”

“Yes, and I’d love to talk more about it later, but now let’s introduce my teammates.”

Eddie hands him the microphone to spit out names he’s never heard before and whatever their bearers' positions were. He hopes the coach doesn’t mind it. All Eddie could do was like, comment on their appearance. Which…

“Where did you get that one from? America’s poster boy catalog?”

He watches Lucas’s face twitch with the effort not to laugh.

“That’s Jason Carver. He’s vice-captain now and will take over the team once Steve graduates later this year.”

“Which one’s that?”

“He usually comes out last.”

Eddie asks about the important stuff - the team's average height and where Andy got his haircut. He looks over the group of young men appraisingly.

“You know what, if I knew y’all play in these funky white socks and guns out I might have gotten into sports commentary earlier.”

Lucas chuckles, but Eddie's on a roll. 

“Especially with such a great co-host, Lucas Sinclair! He’s not on the court yet but he’s being an invaluable source of lore in the studio. Don’t think I’d forget about you, man.” He nudges the younger student. “What’s your specialty on the team?”

“Well…” Lucas scratches his cheek sheepishly. “I’m probably the fastest and my throws are pretty good,” he admits. “Oh, that’s Steve!”

Eddie looks to the right, where a dude with Harrington on his jersey walks in, smiling wide to friends and families watching. 

“Damn, that’s some magnificent hair,” Eddie whistles.

“Yeah, that’s kinda what he’s known for. This hairdo lasts through the whole game, dunno how he does it.”

“He’s gotta give me some tips, because I look like a wet rat by the end of the day. And I don’t even do sports.”

“I’m pretty sure you look like a wet rat no matter the time of day.”

The jab was true but even if it wasn’t, Eddie had a more important thing to focus on right now. 

“Does your captain have a tattoo?” he asks, squinting through the window. He was pretty sure it was ink that was peeking from the bottom of Steve Harrington’s shorts, but it was so out of place on a college athlete, he needed a triple take and the ‘ask the audience’ lifeline to make sure.

“Yep. The coach says it makes him look like a criminal,” he snorts, showing what he thinks about it. “Steve said he regrets not getting it somewhere more visible so more people could see tattoos are not for criminals and rockstars only.”

“Your captain is a smart guy,” Eddie grins, almost sighing into it, to his utter horror. Just a glimpse of a hot guy from afar, a peek of a tattoo, and hearing of his liberal views was apparently enough to make his heart beat faster.

“The best I ever knew,” Lucas admits and it sounds like a Story, capital “s” and all. His next words confirm that. “Our friend group is planning matching tattoos and we are still talking him out of getting it above the neckline.”

Eddie barks out a laugh. 

“Sounds like a savage. I gotta meet your captain sometime soon.”

It’s at this point they notice the coach gesturing at them angrily and they get back to commenting on the game that’s about to start.

“Okay, so explain to me which laundry basket is ours…”

“Okay okay okay. So number four is a tank, yeah? He blocks the other players. Six is a rogue, who slips between the cracks. And number one, your captain, is a warrior who goes for the attack.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“It’s like LARPing for normies,” Eddie realizes in awe and Lucas laughs so unexpectedly he starts to cough. 

“Sinclair! You’re in!”

They both jump at the sudden appearance of the coach. Lucas springs up from his seat.

“Yes sir!”

“It was a pleasure to host with you.” Eddie smiles at his new friend.

“You too. Catch you after the game?”

“Sure.” He smiles brightly, his head already swimming with ideas of how to fuck over Lucas’ future DnD character. Because playing together was inevitable, the dice were thrown, and the plot was in motion. 

Lucas passes by the coach who now turns his attention to Eddie.

“You’re doing good, don’t ruin it.” He looks in pain admitting that. “I might send someone else to help you out.”

“Thanks, coach.” Though Eddie doubts he’d be vibing so well with anyone else on the team.

Just five minutes later though, he’s proven wrong.

“Heard you’ve been curious about my tattoo?”

Eddie's so startled he knocks the microphone down and yanks out the cord in his haste to turn around. 

“Captain!” he yells like a dumbass, faced with the hair and boyishness of no one else but Steve Harrington. 

“Radio-man!” Steve yells back with a wide and teasing smile. “I’ve heard so much about you, man, you have no idea.” He steps closer. “My kids love your show.”

“Your kids?”

“My, uh, younger friends. I used to babysit them and it kinda stuck,” he admits with an awkward smile. Steve is nothing like the typical jock he’s come to expect and he’s everything Lucas advertised.

“That’s adorable, man.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” he pouts. He honest to god pouts.

“Not laughing!” Eddie raises his hands placatingly. “There’s nothing bad with a family-tight friend group.”

“Damn straight.” Steve smiles and sits on the chair vacated by Lucas. He eyes the microphone lying prone on the desk. “Technical difficulties?”

Eddie rushes to fix his equipment.

“You could say so,” he murmurs, trying to busy himself with the tangled cord. But a hand stops him before he can plug it in.

“We’re off the air now, right?”

Eddie looks over the control lights on the console.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You have beautiful eyes.”

“What?”

When Eddie woke up today, he knew his day would be weird. No day spent in a sports facility could be normal or pleasant. It was confirmed when he made a new friend with a member of the team, who was a listener of his DnD podcast. But the team captain hitting on him? That’s not your regular weird, that’s a bad strain of weed kind of weird.

“Lucas sent me over claiming a guy my type might be hiding here.”

It takes everything from Eddie not to take a look around. Logically, he knows there’s no one else in the booth. But his brain refuses to connect the dots. He licks his lips and cringes at the wet noise his mouth makes.

“What’s your type?”

Steve tilts his head and hums like he’s in thought.

“Weird, smartass nerd, as it turns out. With big brown eyes and great hair.”

“Uh, thank you?”

Steve only smiles at him, soft before it turns teasing.

“Wanna see my tattoo up close?” he offers. 

“Gosh, yes,” he admits with zero shame, eyes flitting down to the man’s legs. Was he curious about what type of tattoo a gorgeous sport-type guy would get? Yes. Did he want to ogle some hairy thighs? Also yes. It’s a two-in-one kind of deal.

The coach waves at them angrily to get back on the air, but Steve promises to tell him everything about S.S. Robin after the game. And no, Robin is just his best friend, Eddie doesn’t need to worry about her.

“In fact, wanna be my date to the after-party later? The kids will freak out when they meet you.”

How could Eddie say no to his fans' worship?

And to Steve’s hopeful eyes and the slight squeeze he gave his hand.

“Mingling with jocks in my free time?” Eddie turns his palm up to squeeze back. “Sure, let’s make this day even weirder.”

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Sanctuary - Chapter Five.

Are you ready for Lucas as a free man? Because here he comes! :)

Summary - It was a crime that shook the metal community and beyond to its core, the Solna Satanic murder case blowing apart the lives of many. With Lucas and Nils - frontman and drummer of popular metal band The Hanged - trialed, found guilty and subsequently sentenced, few were inclined to believe either deserved any offerings of a second chance. Lucas, in particular, did not consider himself worthy until salvation came in the form of a letter.

Words - 4,070

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four

Warnings - 18+ content, mentions of violence. Of course, it'll be smutty too, eventually! Minors DNI!

She’d set her alarm for six, but had been awake since 5am, much too excited to sleep. Doing a quick bodyweight exercise workout (a little of Lucas’s influence rubbing off on here there) she took a long, cool shower, tidying her bedroom nicely and then preparing to get ready. Even though she didn’t have to be at the prison until 8am, she planned to leave early.  

“No, not the dress. Too sexy. Casual. I need casual but oh my fuck, the heat already!” she muttered, rifling further through the depths of her wardrobe. Settling on comfy yet cute, she chose Lycra shorts and a vest top both in black, with a plaid shirt knotted at the waist over the top. She pinned her hair up in a cute, messy bun before applying her makeup.  

There, she wouldn’t be quite so casual in her choices, deciding on a nice set of feathery false eyelashes and giving herself a dark, bronze-brown smoky eye with lots of kohl, a little blush and highlighter too before finishing her look with a slick of tinted lip balm.  

Lipstick would be pointless, for as soon as she saw him, the first thing she wanted was the kind of kiss that would ruin even the most smudge proof of cosmetics. The little ritual of her getting ready routine acted like a calming tonic, but every so often she’d picture his face in her mind and her tummy would somersault.  

Checking her reflection once finished, she added a few pieces of jewellery, happy with how she looked, spritzing herself with perfume before jamming her feet into her Vans and taking a few deep breaths. 7:15am. It was time to leave, with her excited little heart thundering away in her chest.  

With every kilometre that passed along her journey, the internal butterflies only grew wilder in their merry flutter. She could hardly believe that the letter she’d sent to him three years before had led to this, her being the one to fetch him from prison as a free man at last.  

Her. She was the one he couldn’t wait to be with. Her. God, she was lucky.  

As she approached the prison, the imposing structure and barbed wire fences seemed less threatening and more symbolic of the freedom that awaited Lucas beyond them. The sun was already beating down hard, making the tarmac shimmer, but Erika barely noticed as she parked her car and walked up to wait at the main entrance for him.  

Even with a little traffic to contend with, she was still ten minutes early, pacing around while nervously twirling a loose tendril of her hair. Her heart raced with anticipation, every second bringing her closer to the moment she had been dreaming of.  

“Oh, my fuck!” she squeaked, seeing him through the reinforced glass panes of the large doors emerging from within, those heavy security doors then buzzing open.  

There he was. Tall, strong, and unmistakably different from the man who had first entered there twelve years prior. Their eyes met, and a thousand emotions passed between them. With a smile that could rival the sun, Lucas walked towards her, the burden of years behind bars melting away with each stride. 

Placing the bag and bass guitar case he carried down on the floor, he opened his arms wide. “Fucking come here, then!” 

She squealed softly with utter delight, running into his arms, clinging onto him as they shared elated laughter, Erika burying her face against his neck as he swung her around. Turning to him, finally, she received exactly what she’d been craving; the kind of kiss that knocked the wind right out of her.  

Their mouths didn’t break apart at all as his hands glided down to the back of her thighs, lifting her neatly and cleanly from the ground again, Erika wrapping her legs around his waist as their tongues continued to roll together sensually. 

Holy hell, the man could kiss. 

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and grinning, she leaned her forehead against his, feeling the reality of his presence wash over her in a wave of overwhelming relief and joy.  

“Hiya!” she finally chirped brightly, making him chuckle. 

“Hi yourself, beautiful,” he beamed, kissing her again. “I guess I should put you down and let you drive me away from this place, but I kinda don’t want to right now.” 

“How about you give me another of those kisses until you do?” 

Her suggestion was accepted, their mouths pressing together again. Inside, the glow he felt was unsurpassed. He was free, with the woman who’d shown him such unwavering support clung on against him, the heat from her body so closely pressed to his having the kind of effect that he’d expected. His heart raced even more rapidly than just her presence alone had caused, happily lost to the gentle, yet heated kisses they shared.  

“Oh, so I’m not being put down any time soon, then?” she asked when they parted, Lucas shifting her around to his hip before reaching for his bag. Swinging it over his shoulder, he then picked up his guitar case, looking at her adoringly. 

“Not just yet, no.” 

“But I’m heavy!” she exclaimed. 

Immediately, he scoffed at such a notion. “Bullshit, you’re not at all.”  

For a man who lifted the kind of weights he did, she probably wasn’t. He carried her with complete ease, Erika feeling tiny in his grasp, which for a girl of 1.75 metres tall was virtually unheard of. She’d always been as tall or taller than any other man she’d previously been involved with, and none of them had been strong enough to carry her like she was a small doll. 

Lucas, at a towering 1.93 metres tall, and what she estimated to be around 140kgs in weight, was vastly different. 

“Wow, that’s a motherfucking cool car!” he exclaimed, setting her down beside her beloved motor. Being someone who took more than a passing interest in muscle cars, he knew what it was, the striking, gun metal painted vehicle a 1967 Ford Galaxie 500. “This is the one you did up with your dad, right?” 

“Correct,” she confirmed, popping the trunk, the space big enough to fit both his guitar case and bag. “He bought it as a wreck at a car show down in the Netherlands and drove it all the way up back up here on a low loader. Worth it, considering he paid about four thousand euros for it as a heap. It’s worth about four times that now.” 

They climbed in, fastening their seatbelts as Erika continued. “It’s fast as hell, too. We took out the standard engine and put in a big-block V8, so it has some power.” 

Lucas closed his eyes for a moment, looking a little pained. “Stop it. You’re a beautiful woman who knows her stuff about cars. I’m getting way too turned on!” 

“It does naught to sixty in seven seconds,” she playfully revealed, bobbing her tongue between her teeth. 

He groaned, prompting her giggles. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll be fucking doing naught to sixty in seven seconds, too. I promised you twenty-five.”  

Leaning to him, she gave him a few kisses through her laughter. “Sorry!” 

He curled his lip, gently biting hers. “No, you’re not. Motherfucking terrorist upon my male hormones.” 

“And you think you’re fair on mine, do you, looking the way that you do right now?” Smoothing her hand over his chest, she could have died on the spot. Oh, to touch him! To see more of him, too, his gorgeous, bulky arms and thick chest, shown off nicely in the black vest he was he was wearing.  

Nope. Her hand didn’t stop stroking for a moment. “This chest is next level sexy.”  

He looked her up and down, winking. “I grew it just for you, baby girl.”  

The air truly crackled between them, Erika feeling less and less like she would be able to hold herself back, should sex be on the agenda. Why should she, either? She was a grown woman of thirty, knew Lucas was in it with her for more than just a quick lay, so why not?  

Leaning for another kiss first, she turned the key in the ignition, the engine roaring into life. Since Alex was out at work until 6pm that evening, and in his haste to prepare everything for his friend’s homecoming had forgotten to have spare keys to his apartment cut, they were spending the day together.  

Lucas had said he wanted his first day of freedom to be low key, that he’d get around to visiting with the few people left in his life in the days to follow. She was really touched that she was the person he prioritised to be around first. 

Sitting there comfortably, his hand rested on her thigh while gently stroking the soft, bare flesh with his thumb, he felt whole. More so than he had in a long, long time. With every kilometre that passed, spiriting him further and further from the place he’d been confined to for the past twelve years, a shimmer of restoration flooded his veins.  

It was an odd feeling, knowing that while the prison had acted as just that, confining him from all he knew and loved, equally, it had been his sanctuary for a long, long time, too. It had put a divider between him and the vying mob who likely wanted his blood spilled after what he had done, kept him safe, nurtured his regrowth from troubled young man to the well-adjusted, fully grown one he now was. 

Looking to his side, he smiled at the woman who he now very much saw the same way. Erika’s devotion to their burgeoning bond truly had been a safe sanctuary for him, too. Now, he was free to revel in it, and he couldn’t have been more elated. 

Here it was at last. His second chance to make something of his life after his actions had robbed him of so much of it.  

As they drove along the winding roads, the morning sun casting dappled shadows through the trees, Erika could sense a palpable shift in his demeanour. The lines of tension that had often etched his face seemed to soften with each passing moment, his gaze more serene as he took in the surroundings of his freedom. 

 They spoke of everything and anything along the journey, their words a balm to the wounds of the past, a testament to the bond they had formed and were now ready to work upon further.  

“How do you feel?” she asked, manoeuvring the car onto the highway, away from the more rural surroundings of green and gold.  

“Unburdened,” he replied simply, hand gently squeezing her thigh. He’d rested it there before they’d even left the prison carpark, making no effort as yet to move it. “Ready to start all over again.”  

The beginning of that start was firstly to fuel his rumbling stomach, Lucas much too excited to eat at breakfast that morning, so telling Erika to find somewhere decent and he’d pay.  

In his last visit, Alex had left a number of personal possessions he wasn’t allowed to have while in the prison with the booking wardens, ready for his release. These included a new cell phone, his thick silver curb necklace, his Mjolnir pendant, chunky silver rings and watch, plus a new wallet he’d stuffed with some of his savings' cash.  

Their destination place was a small restaurant not too far from her tattoo shop, Erika managing to find a parking space and swinging the car in. They walked down to the eatery with the earthy, hippie vibe hand in hand, Lucas experiencing a little inner tension.  

He didn’t know what the hell he would do, should somebody recognise him. Obviously stand his ground and be polite in the face of hostility, that was a given, but how he’d actually word a comeback to any negativity was beyond him. 

It felt as if he wore a neon light above his head, the word murderer illuminated there for all to see, yet many people on the busy street passed him by without a second glance. To them, he was simply a big, tall, tattooed guy, walking hand in hand with a beautiful, tall, tattooed woman.  

“What the motherfuck is a cronut?” he exclaimed, frowning as he read the menu before him a few moments later, sat at a table in front of the restaurant. 

Ahhh, yes. There would be certain things that had passed him by while serving his sentence, new food fads being just one of them. “It’s a mix between a croissant and a doughnut. They’re not that good.”  

“Noted. I think I’ll just stick to eggs. I know where I am there.” He chose them scrambled, with a side of turkey bacon, sourdough rye toast and steamed vegetables, Erika admiring him for his commitment to eating healthily. Taking the first mouthful, too, he saw that while prison food hadn’t been outright awful, it was still nowhere near as good as what was before him on that plate. 

Or maybe it had something to do with it being his first meal as a free man. Perhaps a little of both. He couldn’t deny though as he sat out there, he felt a tiny bit on edge. 

“You look, I dunno,” she observed, spearing the last piece of her pancakes with her fork. “A little tense?” 

Picking up his coffee, he took a swig, the corner of his mouth upturning a little bit. It was more grimace than smile, though. “I guess I’m just waiting for somebody to recognise me, and the reaction they’d have to that.” 

Reaching for his forearm, she rubbed it affectionately. “Don’t be nervous about it. Just shut them down, it’s none of your business.” 

“I’m not nervous,” he stated, scratching his beard. “Merely apprehensive.” 

“Well, don’t be that, either.” It was his first day as a free man; the last thing he needed was to feel anything close to negativity, although she understood why he might.  

“Listen, I know for you, you were trapped in one place where your life wasn’t able to move on while confined, but for other people? It’s different. Their lives have moved on, there’s been other things to arise in the last twelve years to pull their focus. Trust me, people aren’t discussing the Solna Satanic murder like they used to.” 

Her measured wisdom gave him pause for thought, Lucas slowly beginning to nod. She was right. While he’d remained in the same place, both physically and often mentally, the society who’d so reviled and condemned him had moved on. Could he say for certain he’d never receive backlash? No. Would it likely occur as much as he was anticipating? Also no. At least, he hoped so. 

He was just about to thank Erika for her sage words, when, as if cosmically timed... 

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to disturb you, but you’re Lucas Borgström, aren’t you?” 

Looking to his side, he felt his spine grow a little rigid, until noting the expression on the face of the girl who’d asked him. Starstruck.  

“Yeah, yeah I am.” 

“Oh god! I thought it was you, but you look so different to how you did! Fuck, I can’t believe you’re out of prison now, wow! Can I get a picture with you for my blog, please?” 

He hated to let her down, seeing the honest excitement there in her. She was so young still, too, probably only in her late teens. “Sorry, no. I don’t want anything ending up on the internet just yet. Trying to keep a lowish profile for a while.” 

She looked a little deflated, but accepted without fuss. “I didn’t realise, I’m sorry,” she apologised, Lucas shaking his head.  

“S’okay, it’s fine. It’s just my first day out so I’m adjusting, don’t really want any attention, y’know?”  

“Okay, no problem. It was great to meet you, Lucas.” She smiled, waving, acknowledging Erika with a little nod too before walking away. 

Immediately she turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Look at that, huh?”  

He crinkled his nose a little, scratching the back of his head. “Hmm, wasn’t expecting that.”  

“No, because your immediate default is to be down on yourself,” she spoke gently, hand returning to rest on his arm. He moved it, entwining his fingers with hers instead, squeezing softly.  

“Again, you’re right, I do. Thanks, baby. For calling me out on it.” 

As Erika's touch grounded him, he couldn't help but marvel at the strange mixture of emotions swirling within. The encounter with the young fan had been unexpectedly positive, a stark contrast to what he'd anticipated. He wouldn’t immediately feel an internal change, knew he’d always be waiting for someone to confront him, or clandestine whispers and disapproving glances to be directed toward him. 

However, one thing he could reply on was knowing Erika's unwavering support would serve as his compass, his true north. Smiling at her across the table as she finished her latte, he felt a glimmer of optimism breaking through his apprehension. 

They stayed for another coffee, enjoying the shade from the nearby trees on what truly was a sweltering summer morning. 

“Someone’s in demand,” he spoke, nodding toward her phone. It had been emitting a series of little pings all morning, yet she hadn’t bothered checking it much.  

“Sorry, I’ll put it on silent.” 

“No, no, s’okay. I wasn’t complaining,” he assured her, “just noticing is all. Work emails?”  

Unlocking the screen, she took a look at her notifications. “A few, yeah. Mostly these are comments and likes on my Instagram page, though.” 

Immediately, he held out his hand, eyes widening a little. “Show me? I haven’t seen anything regarding your work other than the sketches you sent with your letters.” 

His enthusiasm flattered her, opening the app and handing her phone to him, Lucas beginning to scroll through. With every image that passed, his eyebrows only rose higher.  

“That’s insane, seriously.” Turning the screen, she saw the gigantic back piece she’d recently finished for a client, all gone in dotwork. It had been one of her most challenging accomplishments to date, Erika truly thriving on the task presented to her in her specialised field of that tattooing style. He continued his scrolling, closing his eyes suddenly with a very deep, yet quiet little groan. The screen was turned again. 

“Ahh, that’s Nicki practising her photography skills and using me as a model. That was the weekend away we had recently, just after I got back from England.” The picture that had captivated him so much was one of her posing at the edge of a hot tub, her legs looking impossibly long, hair tumbling in a dark, wavy cascade, green eyes glittering like peridots in the sun.  

“You are unbelievably sexy. Tell me, how many more pictures of this am I likely to find? Just so I know how many buckets of water I have to go and ask the people of this establishment to throw over me?”  

“A couple.” she giggled, resting her chin on her hand, she observed him keenly, quietly laughing more when he made much the same reaction a few further pics down.  

Shifting in his seat as he looked out from under his eyebrows at her. “You’re in so much trouble.”  

“I am?” she teased innocently, her heart fluttering at the look of desire right there in his bright blue eyes. “Trouble I bet I can handle.”  

“You’ll need to, after I get my twenty-five seconds of shame out of the way,” he chuckled, continuing to look through the pictures. Once again, the phone was turned, but this time to focus more on her professional art rather than the work of art he considered her to be. “You did that freehand?” 

Studying the image of Japanese style dragon she’d done on a client’s leg about six months ago, her nod confirmed. “Umhm, I did.” 

“Motherfucking show off.” 

“I could say the same for you, you know. I found an old video of you on YouTube a while back, having a jam when you were about sixteen.” 

Lucas’s style was very much borne of his admiration for the late Lemmy Kilmister, bass playing frontman of Motorhead, one of his favourite bands. Distorted and chord-heavy, just like his idol, he played more with a rhythm-based approach, even favouring the same make of bass, a Rickenbacker.  

That didn’t mean he wasn’t adept in other playing disciplines, though. It was usually how musicians became as stunningly talented as he was, following a rich and diverse path with their influences. 

He was thoughtful for a moment, trying to place which video she meant. “Is that the one where I’m jamming to Nutbush City Limits with Nils singing?” 

Yes, that was indeed the one. “That’s it! Whatever anyone wants to say about Nils, I have to give him credit. The man has some serious pipes.” She’d gotten shivers, listening to the drummer boom out the classic rock n’ roll song. It made her wonder why he’d chosen to be a drummer, with a voice like that. When Lucas had later joined in, singing with him, she could see very much though why he was the frontman. Wow.  

It also fascinated her, that the guys in The Hanged were such true appreciators of music in so many forms and genres. Loud, blistering metal had made them famous, but their skills far extended beyond their chosen medium.  

“Yeah, yeah. Nils is crazy talented. Plays so many instruments, has a great voice. He takes people by surprise, y’know? He’s probably one of the most talented musicians I know.”  

His eyes saddened a little then, Erika spotting it immediately. “You really miss him, don’t you?”  

The truth of that hit him hard in the chest for a moment. Since they’d been sent to different prisons, and inmates were not permitted to have contact with others within the system, it had been twelve years since they’d been in touch. 

“I do, yeah. I really do. I miss who he was before all of this shit happened, before we both went down the wrong path. People say that he was always dark, something a little sinister about him, yadda, yadda, yadda. I suppose that’s true, but it didn’t define him, y’know? He used to be so giddy and larger than life, and that laugh of his. I’d crack up just to hear the guy whooping and screaming with laughter!”  

Her smile was soft, cocking her head to the side. “Let’s hope that same Nils you remember so fondly is the one who’ll eventually be released, hmm?” 

He could only agree, and truly hope so, too. 

Leaving not long after, they headed to a place Lucas had been missing sorely since his time away, Erika driving them over to Tyresta National Park, a beautiful landscape of natural beauty.  

They walked hand in hand through the gorgeous surroundings, their time there a serene interlude, a moment of reflection and connection with nature's embrace. For Lucas, it was a much-needed balm, absorbing the tranquil beauty around them. There, he truly felt the encompassing comfort of freedom embrace him in a comforting cocoon. 

The air was a little fresher there although the heat still mildly stifling, filled with the scent of pine and the distant murmur of a flowing stream. Beneath the feeling of tranquillity, though, the burn of desire only began to glow further, a red-hot ember that tumbled between them with every kiss, every word delivered in flirt, every glance of unadulterated want for one another.  

Leaving at just past midday, they arrived at Erika’s just before 1pm. Turning to her in the small hallway of her charming little bungalow, no words were exchanged, a gaze of pure wanton desire lingering.  

He thought he’d be the one to dive upon her first, but it was her who grabbed him by the front of his jeans and hauled him near, their kisses immediately feral. Some might think it too quick, but for them, this had been building and building for three long years, the need in them now burning like a match dropped too close to a source of accelerant.  

Little would stop the fire that had now been lit between them, if anything at all.  

A/N - Did you like what you just read? If so, please reward your author with a little comment or a reblog. Your support would mean so much to me!

Next Chapter

[ilfildiarianna]

“Io te vurria vasà – sospira la canzone,

ma prima e più di questo io ti vorrei bastare

come la gola al canto e come il coltello al pane

come la fede al santo io ti vorrei bastare.

E nessun altro abbraccio potessi tu cercare

in nessun altro odore addormentare,

io ti vorrei bastare.

Io te vurria vasà – insiste la canzone,

ma un po’ meno di questo io ti vorrei mancare,

più del fiato in salita,

più di neve a Natale,

più di benda su ferita,

più di farina e sale.

E nessun altro abbraccio potessi tu cercare

in nessun altro odore addormentare.

Io ti vorrei bastare.”

( Erri De Luca)

[lukielstuff]

in which lucas becomes a father

The summer rains came early that year, sweeping through the palace gardens with silver sheets of water.

Inside the sunroom, Athanasia and Jeannette perched on the velvet sofas, sipping tea while Lucas fussed over Ijekiel like a mother hen.

“You’re hovering again,” Ijekiel teased, reaching up to pinch his husband’s cheek.

Lucas caught his hand and kissed his fingertips instead, utterly unrepentant. “You’re growing a tiny monster inside you. I’m allowed to hover.”

Jeannette giggled, setting her teacup down. “A tiny monster? You’re going to give the poor baby a complex before she’s even born!”

Lucas shrugged dramatically. “If she’s anything like either of her parents, she’s doomed anyway.”

Athanasia watched the exchange with an amused, fond smile, propping her chin on her hand.

“You realize,” she said, tilting her head, “Luciana’s probably going to be terrifying.”

“That’s the dream,” Lucas said brightly.

Ijekiel just shook his head, amused, one hand absently resting over the soft swell of his belly.

A low rumble of thunder shook the glass panes.

Jeannette squeaked and buried herself deeper into the cushions.

Athanasia chuckled and scooted closer to pat Jeannette’s arm. “Don’t worry. If the sky tries anything, Lucas will just blow it up.”

“Exactly,” Lucas agreed solemnly. “I take personal offense to bad weather.”

Ijekiel rolled his eyes but smiled — that soft, helpless smile he only ever gave to Lucas.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the bright, cozy room, the rain tapping steady against the windows, warmth pooling in their laughter.

Jeannette and Athanasia took turns reading aloud from baby name books, suggesting increasingly ridiculous options.

Lucas, half-asleep against Ijekiel’s side, vetoed them all with lazy hand gestures.

“No daughter of mine is going to be named Bumbleberry,” he muttered.

“But it’s cute!” Jeannette protested.

“She’s not a pastry.”

Athanasia snickered into her tea.

Through it all, Ijekiel leaned into Lucas’ side, eyes closed, humming contentedly under his breath — as if he could bottle this moment, save it for later when things grew colder.

Lucas wrapped an arm around him and held him tighter.

***

The rain had eased into a soft mist outside, blurring the palace gardens into watercolor.

Inside their chambers, Lucas and Ijekiel had taken over the entire sitting room.

Blankets draped from the furniture, pillows stacked high in uneven towers, stray books and half-eaten pastries littered across the floor.

Ijekiel, ruler of the pillow fort kingdom, sat in the center, his crown a crooked tea cozy.

Lucas sprawled nearby, one leg thrown over a pillow, absently twirling a lock of Ijekiel’s hair between his fingers.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Ijekiel said, pretending to frown.

“I am,” Lucas argued. “This is obviously a sacred royal court. I’m your loyal knight.”

“My knights don’t eat all the biscuits,” Ijekiel said dryly, nudging an empty plate with his foot.

“Provisions tax,” Lucas said without missing a beat.

Ijekiel gave up and laughed — a soft, bright sound that made Lucas’ chest ache.

The baby kicked then, a tiny flutter under Ijekiel’s hand.

Lucas’ face lit up. He scooted closer, resting his cheek carefully against the curve of Ijekiel’s stomach.

“She’s getting stronger,” Lucas murmured, voice muffled by the fabric of Ijekiel’s shirt.

“She likes your voice,” Ijekiel said, running his fingers through Lucas’ hair.

They stayed like that for a long while — no thrones, no wars, no world outside their little fortress.

Just the three of them.

A tiny, stubborn family built out of scraps of magic and borrowed time.

The next morning, Lucas tried to cook.

Keyword: tried.

He woke before dawn, pressing a soft kiss to Ijekiel’s forehead, and slipped away to the kitchens, determined to make a proper breakfast.

It went about as well as expected.

Three burnt pancakes, two small fires, and one near-disaster with a jam jar later, Lucas slunk back into their bedroom carrying a tray.

The food was an absolute mess — the eggs lopsided, the toast too dark, the tea lukewarm.

Ijekiel sat up slowly, blinking blearily at the offering.

Lucas cleared his throat. “I come bearing gifts,” he said solemnly.

Ijekiel, bless him, took one look at the disaster tray and smiled like Lucas had brought him the stars.

He accepted the tea first, sipping it carefully, “It’s perfect,” he said, voice warm with affection.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Lucas muttered, but his ears turned pink anyway.

Ijekiel set the cup down and tugged Lucas onto the bed beside him. “You’re perfect,” he corrected softly, pressing a kiss to Lucas’ temple.

They shared the miserable breakfast between them, laughing over the charred toast, feeding each other crooked spoonfuls of jam, and pretending the food wasn’t horrible.

Luciana kicked again midway through, startling Ijekiel so badly he nearly dropped his tea.

Lucas laughed so hard he had to set the tray aside before he spilled everything.

“You’re raising a terror,” Ijekiel grumbled, rubbing his belly.

“She’s just passionate,” Lucas said proudly.

Ijekiel shook his head, smiling despite himself.

Afterward, they lay tangled together under the blankets, Lucas’ hand splayed protectively over Ijekiel’s stomach, the world outside forgotten.

***

Roger Alpheus was terrible with babies, despite having raised two of the arguably most patient, kind, human beings known in the Obelia Empire.

Everyone knew this.

Which was why it was hilarious that he had marched into their quarters one afternoon, arms full of stuffed toys and a serious look on his face.

“You need to prepare,” he declared, dropping a mountain of plush animals onto the sofa.

Lucas blinked.

Ijekiel, who was curled up reading a book of lullabies, looked up with barely restrained amusement. “Prepare for what, Father?”

“Parenthood!” Roger said, as if it were obvious.

Lucas looked at Ijekiel. Ijekiel looked at Lucas.

Then both of them looked back at Roger.

“…With stuffed rabbits?” Lucas asked, bewildered.

Roger looked offended. “It’s important to practice basic care-taking skills. Burping. Rocking. Proper toy selection.”

Ijekiel choked on a laugh and tried to turn it into a cough.

Jeannette (who was staying with them for a while with his father to serve as “emotional support”) trailed behind Roger with a basket of pastel baby socks and nodded gravely. “It’s true! Uncle Roger read three books about it.”

Lucas leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Alright, fine. Teach us, oh wise master.”

What followed was the most disastrous (and hilarious) parenting lesson in ducal history.

Roger insisted they each “practice” cradling a stuffed rabbit, explaining proper support for the neck, while Jeannette gave “feedback” with the seriousness of a royal examiner.

Lucas was scolded for “holding the rabbit like a sack of flour.”

Ijekiel got points for “gentle rocking technique,” but failed “emergency burping” protocol because he started laughing too hard.

At one point, Anastacius wandered by, took one look at the scene — Lucas arguing with a stuffed rabbit slumped dramatically over his arm — and immediately turned on her heel without a word.

By the time the mock “lesson” ended, the room was littered with discarded plush toys and half-empty tea cups.

Lucas lay sprawled on the floor, arms flung wide, while Ijekiel perched on the couch, cradling the victorious “baby” rabbit like a king.

“You know,” Ijekiel said thoughtfully, looking down at Lucas, “you’re going to be a great father.”

Lucas blinked at him.

Something in Ijekiel’s voice — soft, certain, devastatingly tender — made his heart twist violently in his chest.

He sat up slowly, pulling himself onto the couch, and pressed a kiss to Ijekiel’s temple.

“So will you,” Lucas whispered.

***

Late at night, when the world was heavy with silence, Lucas would lie awake.

Ijekiel slept curled at his side, his breathing slow and even.

Lucas would watch him for a long time — tracing the curve of his cheek, the fall of his hair — before shifting carefully closer.

He would press his hand over the curve of Ijekiel’s stomach, feeling the soft thrum of life beneath his fingers.

“Hey, little monster,” Lucas would whisper into the dark.

The baby kicked in answer — a soft, impatient nudge.

Lucas smiled, his heart twisting painfully.

“Your Papa’s ridiculous,” he told her in a mock-conspiratorial tone. “Today he tried to fix a broken window by yelling at it.”

(Technically it worked — the window had somehow mended itself in fear — but Lucas didn’t mention that part.)

He talked about everything — the books Ijekiel read to her, the way Jeannette had dropped an entire tray of cookies trying to impress Roger, the newest spell Athanasia was perfecting (which had accidentally turned her study chair into a grumpy cat).

Sometimes he would sing — old lullabies his mother once whispered to him — voice low and cracked with emotion.

And sometimes, when the night was too quiet, Lucas would press his forehead against Ijekiel’s stomach and simply breathe.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” he would whisper.

Then he would lift his head and look at Ijekiel — at the gentle rise and fall of his chest — and amend, quietly,

“I hope you’re more patient than me.”

***

A few days later, Jeannette showed up unannounced, arms full of woven flower crowns and little magical charms shaped like suns and moons.

“I made these for Luciana!” she chirped, beaming.

Lucas raised an eyebrow as she dumped an alarming amount of glittering trinkets onto their sitting room floor.

Ijekiel laughed and beckoned her closer.

They spent the afternoon threading charms into Ijekiel’s hair — Jeannette weaving delicate gold threads between the silver, Lucas braiding small wildflowers at the ends.

By the time they finished, Ijekiel looked half like a crowned prince, half like a very confused faerie king.

Lucas, utterly charmed, leaned back to admire their handiwork.

“Beautiful,” he said, grinning.

Jeannette clapped her hands happily.

Ijekiel mock-sighed, but his cheeks were faintly pink.

Later, after Jeannette left (with promises of even more charms), Lucas helped Ijekiel untangle the threads, working slowly, carefully, whispering nonsense against his ear as he worked.

“You know,” Lucas said, hands deft in Ijekiel’s hair, “you really are luminous.”

Ijekiel chuckled, leaning back into his touch.

“That’s just your bias talking.”

“Maybe,” Lucas said softly. “But it’s still true.”

***

One evening, Lucas dragged Ijekiel up to the palace observatory.

(He insisted it was “important magical research.” Athanasia called it “romantic scheming.” Either way, it worked.)

They bundled themselves in thick cloaks and lay side by side on the wide stone balcony, gazing up at the river of stars overhead.

Lucas waved his hand lazily, and tiny illusions shimmered to life — constellations twisting and dancing in the air.

“See that one?” he said, pointing to a jagged collection of stars. “That’s the Old Wolf. Protector of the kingdom.”

Ijekiel leaned closer, eyes wide with wonder. “He looks more like a lopsided sheep.”

Lucas gasped, mock-offended. “Blasphemy.”

They laughed — the kind of laughter that melted the cold from the stones beneath them.

After a while, Lucas produced a small, clear bottle — inside, a captured star illusion swirled gently, pulsing with soft light.

“For her,” Lucas said, handing it to Ijekiel.

Ijekiel cradled the bottle between his palms, the glow lighting up his face.

“For Luciana?”

Lucas nodded. “So she’ll always have a piece of the sky. Even when we can’t be there to show her.”

Ijekiel said nothing for a long moment.

Then he leaned over, pressing a kiss to Lucas’ temple — a touch so light and fierce that it made Lucas’ throat ache.

“You’ll always be there,” Ijekiel whispered.

“As long as she looks up.”

They stayed until the stars faded into morning, the bottle of light tucked safely between them.

***

They decided to paint the nursery themselves.

Lucas had suggested it on a whim — standing in the middle of the empty room, arms spread wide, eyes full of mischief.

“Royal decree,” he said. “Only the two of us may touch these walls.”

Ijekiel rolled his eyes but agreed, laughing.

They spent the morning sprawled on the floor, smearing colors onto broad brushes, arguing over whether clouds should be realistic or smiling.

Lucas, of course, insisted on smiling clouds. (“Luciana deserves chaos,” he said cheerfully.)

Ijekiel leaned against the ladder to reach a higher corner, steady and precise even now — strokes careful, measured.

Lucas watched him, heart aching with something too big to name.

“You’re ridiculous,” Ijekiel said without looking, catching Lucas’ stare.

“And you’re beautiful,” Lucas replied easily, tossing a crumpled rag at him.

The fight devolved quickly — paint smeared across cheeks and sleeves, laughter echoing against the bare stone.

Later, after the walls shimmered with dancing colors, they collapsed together in the center of the room, sticky and tired.

Lucas pulled Ijekiel into his arms without asking.

“You,” Lucas said, brushing a streak of blue from Ijekiel’s nose, “are not allowed to ever change.”

Ijekiel smiled — that soft, rare smile — but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes.

Something Lucas almost missed.

Almost.

But then Ijekiel yawned — small, sharp, sudden — and winced.

A tiny, involuntary flicker of pain across his face.

Gone in a blink.

Lucas sat up a little, concerned.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Ijekiel said smoothly, waving a hand. “Just sore from stretching all day.”

And because Lucas wanted to believe it, he let the answer stand.

***

Some nights, they danced.

No audience, no music — just Lucas humming nonsense under his breath and tugging Ijekiel into the wide, empty halls.

Lucas led clumsily, Ijekiel laughing under his breath, letting himself be spun and caught and twirled until they were both breathless with mirth.

Tonight, though, Lucas noticed the difference.

Ijekiel’s steps were lighter than usual — almost too light — and once or twice he stumbled, catching himself quickly.

Lucas steadied him without comment, pulling him close.

“Slow waltz,” Lucas murmured.

Ijekiel smiled. “Afraid you’ll lose to me again?”

Lucas shook his head, pressing their foreheads together.

“Just don’t want to tire you out.”

For a heartbeat, Ijekiel hesitated.

Then he nodded, resting his weight slightly more against Lucas.

And they moved — slow, steady, a simple sway in the empty corridors — while the world outside their little palace of dreams spun on.

Lucas closed his eyes and memorized the feel of it:

Ijekiel’s warmth against him, the faint pulse of magic between them, the echo of silent promises.

He ignored the tremor he felt once, deep under Ijekiel’s skin.

He ignored the way Ijekiel’s breath hitched too sharply after three slow turns.

He ignored it, because this — this moment — was all they had.

And he would not let go of it yet.

***

It happened one evening, almost too quietly to notice.

They were lying together in their sitting room — Ijekiel curled against Lucas’ chest, half-reading a battered book aloud.

Luciana kicked again, harder this time — an impatient thump against Ijekiel’s ribs.

Lucas laughed softly and reached down to rub Ijekiel’s belly, whispering nonsense praises to their daughter.

But then; Ijekiel’s voice faltered. The book slipped from his fingers.

Lucas caught it instinctively, frowning.

“Hey,” he said, shifting to look at him properly.

Ijekiel’s eyes were glassy, unfocused. A faint, awful pallor bleached his skin.

Lucas touched his cheek and froze. Cold.

Ice-cold.

“Ijekiel,” Lucas said sharply, voice low with rising fear. “Talk to me.”

Ijekiel blinked sluggishly, as if dragging himself out of deep water.

“Just… tired,” he murmured.

His head tipped forward, almost slumping against Lucas’ shoulder.

For one terrible second, Lucas thought he was going to lose him right there — that he was going to shatter like glass in his arms.

Then , slow and stubborn, Ijekiel straightened.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, managing a smile. “She’s just… strong.”

Lucas held him tighter, burying his face against Ijekiel’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to be brave for me,” he whispered.

But Ijekiel only brushed a hand through his hair — gentle, reassuring, the way he always did — and said nothing.

Outside, rain began tapping against the windows, soft and endless.

***

Jeannette and Roger visited the next afternoon.

Lucas watched the whole time, trying (failing) not to hover.

Jeannette brought sweets and gossip; Roger, surprisingly, carried a small enchanted cradle he had carved himself.

Ijekiel smiled, thanked them warmly, laughed at their stories, but Lucas saw it.

The slight tremor when he accepted a teacup.

The way his magic flickered, sharp and unstable, when he reached for a charm Jeannette had brought.

And when Roger clapped him on the shoulder, just a fatherly gesture, Ijekiel staggered back two steps.

Blood welled up at the corner of his mouth.

Lucas was across the room in an instant, catching him before he could fall.

“Ijekiel—!”

“I’m fine,” Ijekiel gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a crimson smear against pale skin.

Jeannette’s face had gone deathly white.

Roger opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tight.

“Mana surge,” Ijekiel said quickly, too quickly. “It’s common in… strong pregnancies.”

Lucas wanted to scream.

But Ijekiel smiled at him — that same, stubborn, beautiful smile — and Lucas bit down on his panic so hard he tasted blood.

They got through the visit somehow.

Later, when the doors closed behind their family (because that’s what they were now, weren’t they?), Lucas crushed Ijekiel into his arms and didn’t let go for a long, long time.

***

That night, Ijekiel collapsed.

It wasn’t dramatic.

There were no screams, no shattered magic, no lightning strikes.

He simply crumpled while brushing his hair at the vanity — a slow, boneless fall like a puppet with cut strings.

Lucas caught him before he hit the floor, heart hammering against his ribs.

“Kiel! Wake up—!”

Ijekiel’s eyes fluttered open, dazed.

“Lucas,” he whispered, voice broken.

Mana flickered around him — wild, unstable — sharp enough to cut.

Lucas hissed as it sliced into his fingers, but he didn’t let go.

He drew on his own magic instinctively, weaving stabilizing spells around them both, whispering ancient words he hadn’t used in centuries.

It barely worked.

Ijekiel’s body was rejecting Luciana’s mana — not because he was weak, but because no mortal body could have held it.

Lucas cradled him, shaking, his mind racing.

He had lived through centuries of death and loss and war. He had thought he was done being afraid.

He had been wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Ijekiel murmured, tears slipping down his temples. “So sorry, Lucas…”

Lucas pressed desperate kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his cold hands.

“No,” Lucas choked. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You hear me? Nothing.”

Ijekiel smiled — that same fierce, aching smile — even as his body trembled in Lucas’ arms.

Even as the mana burned him slowly from within.

***

The moon hung heavy over the estate.

Lucas sat alone on the nursery floor, surrounded by half-built cradles and scattered ribbons, his fingers trembling against the cool wood.

He had been working on the spell all night — the one that could stabilize Ijekiel’s body — and he was failing.

No magic was enough.

No ancient text, no forbidden rite.

He was losing him.

Lucas dug his nails into his palms until they broke the skin.

He could do it.

He could stop it — if he sacrificed the pregnancy.

If he severed Luciana’s wild mana now, Ijekiel’s body would heal.

He would live.

But the thought of killing that tiny, stubborn heartbeat inside him, the child they had dreamed of together — was like driving a knife through his own chest.

Lucas pressed his forehead to the cradle, breathing raggedly.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t lose either of you.”

The room answered only with silence.

***

Lucas found Ijekiel watching the stars from their balcony, wrapped in a heavy cloak.

The night wind pulled at his hair; his skin looked like paper under the cold starlight.

Lucas crossed the room in two strides, pulling him into his arms.

Ijekiel didn’t resist. He leaned into Lucas easily, like a man who knew his time was running out.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Lucas said, voice raw.

Ijekiel smiled faintly.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Lucas held him tighter.

“Ijekiel,” he said roughly. “If we — if I take away the mana now — you’ll live.”

Ijekiel closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Lucas’ shoulder.

“And lose her?”

Lucas nodded, once, sharp and miserable.

For a long time, there was only the sound of the wind between them. Then Ijekiel said, very softly: “You know what I want.”

Tears burned behind Lucas’ eyes.

“You’re choosing her,” he rasped. “Over yourself. Over me.”

Ijekiel cupped Lucas’ face in his hands, thumb brushing gently across his cheek.

“I’m choosing us, Lucas.”

He pressed Lucas’ palm against his swollen belly — the tiny kick trembling beneath.

“She’s part of you,” Ijekiel whispered. “Part of me. She’s our light, our hope, our future. Even if I can’t be there to see it.”

Lucas shook his head violently. “Don’t — don’t talk like you’re already gone—”

“I’m not,” Ijekiel said fiercely. “Not yet. But if the price of bringing her into the world is my life, then I’ll pay it. Gladly.”

Lucas crushed him against his chest, heart breaking, unable to breathe past the storm inside him.

“I hate you,” he choked.

“I love you,” Ijekiel whispered back.

And Lucas clung to him, clung to them both, knowing no magic could save all three of them.

Knowing a choice was coming he would never be ready to make.

***

That night, Lucas tried.

He waited until Ijekiel slept — curled small under the weight of pain and exhaustion — and laid trembling hands across his swollen belly.

Luciana’s mana burned bright under his palms, fierce and wild, a storm he could barely comprehend.

Lucas summoned his oldest magic, the ancient spells that had made even gods wary once.

He wove them carefully, lovingly, wrapping the tendrils of his own mana around hers.

“Come to me,” he whispered into the dark. “Spare him. I’ll bear it instead.”

For one blinding moment, it seemed to work.

Luciana’s magic hesitated, curious, reaching toward him.

Lucas closed his eyes, guiding it inward, pulling the wildness into his own endless reservoir.

It felt like swallowing a sun.

His body screamed under the pressure — blood boiling, veins straining.

Still, he endured.

But Luciana’s mana was not merely powerful. It was Lucas’ mana — magnified, remade, wild in ways even he couldn’t tame.

It resisted him. It fought him. It refused.

“No,” Lucas gasped, sinking to his knees. “Please—”

Luciana’s magic recoiled violently — a stubborn, furious refusal — and snapped back into Ijekiel’s body with a pulse that left Lucas heaving on the floor.

He tasted blood at the back of his throat.

Above him, Ijekiel stirred faintly, murmuring his name in his sleep.

Lucas wiped his mouth with shaking hands and pressed a trembling kiss to Ijekiel’s temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly. “I tried.”

But Luciana was their child, through and through — born from their stubborn hearts, their impossible magic.

She would not be moved.

And Lucas realized, shuddering, that he might have been able to kill her mana outright — but taming it, sparing her and Ijekiel both — that was beyond even him.

He laid beside Ijekiel in the growing dawn, feeling the faint kicks against his hand,

and finally, quietly, began to cry.

***

The afternoon sun was low, setting the curtains aglow in gold and soft pink.

Lucas sat cross-legged on their bed, absently threading delicate mana strings through a small mobile — tiny crystal stars and moons — meant to hang above the cradle.

Ijekiel was stretched out beside him, propped up by a mountain of pillows, cradling his stomach with both hands.

Luciana kicked again, a steady, stubborn thump.

Lucas watched with a soft smile, setting the mobile aside and reaching out to trail his fingertips along the swell of Ijekiel’s belly.

“She’s restless,” he said quietly.

“She’s you,” Ijekiel teased, voice lazy with fondness. “She doesn’t know how to sit still.”

Lucas chuckled, and then bent down to press a kiss to where Luciana’s foot — or maybe her elbow — jabbed outward.

“She’s strong,” he murmured against the warm skin. “Just like her papa.”

Ijekiel huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “I’m not feeling very strong these days.”

Lucas lifted his head, meeting Ijekiel’s tired, luminous eyes.

“You’re the strongest person I know,” he said fiercely. “You’re carrying the whole universe inside you.”

Ijekiel flushed, pink blossoming across his cheeks, and Lucas kissed him again — slow and deep — until they were both breathless.

When they finally pulled apart, Ijekiel closed his eyes, one hand still resting protectively over Luciana.

“Sing to her?” he murmured.

Lucas blinked.

“I don’t sing.”

“You do,” Ijekiel said with a sleepy smile. “When you think no one’s listening.”

Lucas opened his mouth to protest — and then sighed, defeated.

He gathered Ijekiel closer against his chest, one hand spread over the curve of life between them, and began to hum. Soft, low, an old lullaby he barely remembered learning.

The words came rough and halting at first, but then smoothed into a melody.

A song about stars that never faded.

About journeys that ended in warmth and homecoming.

About love that never died, even when the world turned dark.

Ijekiel’s breathing slowed, his lashes fluttering closed.

Luciana’s kicks softened, settling into a steady rhythm against Lucas’ palm.

And for a little while, in the hush of the golden-lit room, the world was small and perfect again.

Just them. Just this.

Lucas closed his eyes too, resting his forehead against Ijekiel’s, feeling the thrum of life between them — fierce and precious and so heartbreakingly fragile.

He didn’t let go.

***

Later, as twilight deepened, they sat together by the nursery window.

Lucas absently worked braids into Ijekiel’s silver hair — slow, careful movements — while Ijekiel traced names into the frost gathering on the glass.

“Luciana Alpheus,” Ijekiel wrote with his fingertip, smiling faintly.

Lucas kissed the crown of his head.

“She’ll be brilliant,” Lucas said quietly. “Brighter than anything we ever dreamed.”

“She’ll need you,” Ijekiel whispered.

Lucas stilled — then pressed his forehead against Ijekiel’s shoulder.

“She’ll have us both,” he said fiercely. “Always.”

Ijekiel smiled again — small and secret — and closed his eyes, leaning back into Lucas’ hands.

***

The night was cold enough that Lucas lit a fire in the nursery hearth. He pulled a chair close to it, and Ijekiel curled into it easily, a basket of tiny clothes resting on his lap.

Lucas sat cross-legged at his feet, sorting through the pile.

Tiny gowns embroidered with gold thread.

Ridiculously small socks.

A bonnet Jeannette had stitched with trembling, laughing hands.

Lucas picked up a miniature pair of slippers, holding them up between two fingers, skeptical.

“She’s going to kick these off immediately,” he said.

Ijekiel laughed — a soft, breathless sound — and tugged the slippers from his hand.

“She’s going to look adorable anyway.”

Lucas shrugged, but a faint smile tugged at his mouth.

Together, they sorted little garments into piles — day clothes, nightclothes, things too pretty to ever be practical.

Ijekiel held up a tiny velvet cape.

“She’ll need this for winter,” he said seriously. “Especially if she inherits your habit of sneaking out into the snow.”

Lucas huffed. “That was once.”

“Three times,” Ijekiel corrected, arching an eyebrow.

Lucas looked away, pretending to be very interested in folding a onesie.

The fire crackled.

The warmth of it wrapped around them both like a fragile cocoon.

For a long while, it felt almost normal.

Almost like nothing was wrong. Almost like they had forever.

Until Ijekiel’s hands stilled on a pale blue dress.

He stared at it, stared so hard Lucas looked up, alarmed.

“Kiel?”

Ijekiel’s fingers tightened. “I won’t get to see her wear this,” he said quietly.

Lucas froze.

The words hung between them — soft, devastating.

Ijekiel pressed the tiny dress to his chest, bowing his head over it.

And then, like a dam breaking, the tears came.

“I wanted—” His voice cracked. “I wanted to see her first steps. Her first words. I wanted to teach her to dance. To ride. To fight if she wanted. Gods, Lucas, I wanted all of it.”

Lucas surged to his feet, dropping everything, pulling Ijekiel into his arms.

Ijekiel clung to him — no grace, no strength, just a desperate, shuddering need.

“I don’t want to die,” he whispered against Lucas’ throat. “I don’t— I don’t want to leave you. Or her. I’m scared.”

Lucas crushed him tighter, heart breaking anew.

“I know,” he choked out. “I know, my love.”

Ijekiel’s body trembled against his.

“I tried to be strong,” he gasped. “I tried to believe it would be enough just to bring her into the world. But I’m selfish, Lucas. I want more time.”

Lucas kissed his hair, his forehead, his trembling hands.

“Then we fight,” he said fiercely. “We fight for every moment.”

Ijekiel lifted his head, tears streaking his beautiful face, and kissed Lucas — rough and aching and desperate.

Lucas kissed him back just as fiercely, pouring every scrap of his heart into it.

For a little while, they just held each other.

Outside, the winter winds howled against the stone.

Inside, two men clung to a dream they knew they couldn’t keep — but loved anyway, with everything they had.

***

The drawing room was overflowing.

With sunlight, with flowers, with gifts and with an entire collection of family and friends who clearly didn’t know what to do with themselves.

Jeannette flitted anxiously around the tea table, rearranging things that didn’t need rearranging.

Roger stood stiffly in the doorway, balancing an enormous bundle of toys and tiny clothes.

Athanasia perched on a window seat, stubbornly weaving flower crowns with a determined expression, and every few minutes, she cast sharp warning glances at her father.

Claude lounged against the far wall, arms crossed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His golden hair caught the light, his imperial cloak perfectly arranged, but his narrowed eyes kept flickering toward his brother across the room, distrust heavy in every glance.

Anastacius, for his part, was pretending not to care.

He leaned casually against the fireplace, arms folded, gaze cool — but the way he kept shifting his weight betrayed his discomfort.

(Not that he noticed how his eyes sometimes strayed — inevitably, traitorously — toward Roger.)

Lucas, watching it all, could barely suppress a smile. He sat quietly near Ijekiel’s side, soaking in the chaos.

At the center of it all, Ijekiel glowed.

He was huge now — his belly pulling him forward, the sheer size of it unmistakable.

He wore a loose silver tunic embroidered with little suns, and his silver hair spilled in soft waves down his back.

Despite the exhaustion pulling at his face, he smiled warmly at everyone, one hand constantly cradling the curve of his stomach.

Luciana kicked hard, and Ijekiel winced — but hid it quickly with a soft word to Jeannette, who fluttered anxiously.

“Should we… should we get a healer?” she whispered.

“I’m alright,” Ijekiel said gently, squeezing her hand. “She’s just strong.”

Lucas’ mouth tightened — but he said nothing.

Athanasia bounced up and crossed the room, plopping a daisy crown onto Ijekiel’s head without warning.

“Perfect!” she declared, hands on her hips.

Ijekiel laughed — tired but genuine — and caught her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles.

Claude’s brow furrowed slightly — but he said nothing, only flicked his gaze between Athy and Ijekiel with a strange, unreadable look.

Jeannette beamed, bustling over with a wrapped bundle.

“It’s a blanket!” she said proudly, cheeks pink. “I made it myself! The stitches are terrible, but —”

Ijekiel unfolded it reverently — tiny suns, moons, rabbits stitched clumsily across the soft cloth.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

Jeannette’s eyes filled with tears, and she quickly busied herself offering tea.

Across the room, Anastacius coughed loudly into his fist, not quite looking at Roger, who was currently engaged in a very serious conversation with Claude about the proper size for baby booties.

(Claude, somehow, had opinions.)

Anastacius, seeing Roger grin — broad and easy — turned quickly away, ears faintly pink.

Lucas caught it all.

He leaned in toward Ijekiel, voice pitched low: “Bet you a thousand gold coins Anastacius starts carrying Roger’s training sword by next spring.”

Ijekiel smiled faintly, resting his forehead against Lucas’ shoulder.

“I’ll take that bet,” he murmured. “But I’ll win.”

Lucas smiled — soft and aching.

For a little while, the room buzzed with low, warm voices.

Plans. Hopes. Names.

Jeannette suggesting embroidery patterns.

Athanasia arguing fiercely that Luciana needed a tiara, immediately.

Claude muttering about how “infants don’t need crowns,” and Athanasia stomping her foot in reply.

Anastacius scoffing loudly but sneaking glances at Roger’s hands when he thought no one noticed.

And at the center — Lucas and Ijekiel. Their hands quietly tangled together. Their love a silent, burning thing too deep for words.

The fire crackled.

The room swelled with laughter, warmth, the stubborn, desperate clinging to hope.

And outside the windows — the snow began to fall.

Soft, slow, endless.

***

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, golden shadows across the room.

Lucas sat quietly on the edge of their bed, one hand absently stroking through Ijekiel’s hair. Ijekiel lay stretched out across the sheets, his head resting against Lucas’ thigh, breathing slow and deep.

Every now and then, his hand would drift, half-conscious, over the heavy swell of his belly, feeling Luciana kick and roll.

Lucas watched the slow rise and fall of his husband’s body, memorizing it. Burning it into himself.

Then — a sharp, wet gasp.

Ijekiel jerked suddenly upright, one hand clamping down over his stomach. Lucas caught him instinctively, heart already slamming against his ribs.

“Kiel?” His voice cracked.

Ijekiel opened his mouth — but no sound came.

His face twisted, pain flashing raw across it, and he curled forward, clutching himself. Another wave hit him hard enough that he half-fell into Lucas’ arms.

Lucas didn’t hesitate. He threw his hand out, magic snapping like a whip.

Golden light exploded outward — a flare, a call, a summon. The pulse echoed down the hallways, an alarm no one could ignore.

Within seconds, there were footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Roger crashed through the door first, face pale, sword half-drawn as if expecting enemies.

“What—?!” Roger barked, and then froze at the sight of Ijekiel doubled over, shaking, Lucas cradling him with wild, terrified eyes.

“Go,” Lucas rasped, voice like stone cracking. “Get the physician. Now.”

Roger hesitated for a heartbeat — then turned on his heel and ran, shouting orders down the hall.

Ijekiel whimpered — a small, broken sound — and Lucas’ arms tightened around him.

“It’s starting,” Ijekiel gasped, voice high and shaking.

“I know,” Lucas whispered. “I know. I’ve got you.”

The seconds stretched unbearably thin.

Ijekiel sagged against Lucas, breathing harshly, clutching at the fabric of Lucas’ tunic like a lifeline. Lucas pressed his forehead to Ijekiel’s temple.

“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re okay.”

But even as he said it, he could feel the mana building.

Luciana’s power — raw and wild and uncontained — surged under his palms where they rested on Ijekiel’s stomach.

Too much, his mind whispered. Too strong.

The door slammed open again, and the physician and two assistants pouring into the room, followed close behind by Roger.

They moved quickly, setting up bowls of water, unrolling linens, lighting more lamps.

But Lucas barely saw them. His entire being was focused on the trembling body in his arms.

“Lay him back,” the physician instructed quietly, her voice calm but firm.

Lucas nodded, wordless, and helped ease Ijekiel onto the mound of pillows they prepared.

Ijekiel gritted his teeth, trying to breathe through another contraction, stronger now, longer — and Lucas saw the sweat already breaking out across his brow.

Still, Ijekiel tried to smile up at him. Still, he tried to be strong.

Lucas caught his hand, squeezing it hard.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Lucas said, his voice low and trembling. “You hear me? I’m here.”

Ijekiel nodded once, tightly, before another wave of pain dragged him under.

The room was warm, almost stifling. Firelight flickered against the high ceilings. The air smelled of snow, sweat, and the sharp metallic tang of magic.

Time blurred. Minutes. Hours.

It was impossible to tell how long they had been locked like this: Lucas holding Ijekiel through each contraction, Ijekiel clinging to Lucas like a drowning man to driftwood.

Between the storms of pain, there were brief, gasping islands of peace.

Lucas brushed wet hair back from Ijekiel’s forehead, whispering nonsense — praise, comfort, love.

“You’re doing so good,” he breathed. “I’m so proud of you.”

Ijekiel gave him a wobbly smile, too tired to speak, but the way his fingers tightened around Lucas’ wrist said everything.

The healers moved silently around them.

Changing linens. Cooling cloths. Stirring potions. Their faces carefully neutral.

But Lucas saw — out of the corner of his eye — the glances they exchanged. The slight shake of a head. The tightness around their mouths.

He crushed the panic down.

No. Not yet.

Not when Ijekiel was still fighting.

Luciana’s mana thrummed under Lucas’ palms, wild and scorching.

Twice, three times, Lucas tried to weave his own magic into Ijekiel’s body, to siphon some of it away, to ease the burden.

But every time, Luciana’s magic resisted — stubborn, resilient, utterly alive.

She was too strong.

Just like her father.

A fresh contraction tore through Ijekiel, arching his back, a cry ripped from his throat.

Lucas caught him, rocked him through it, murmuring into his hair.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

Ijekiel sagged back against him, panting.

Roger hovered near the doorway, his knuckles white as he grabbed the doorframe, so hard that it almost cracks — utterly useless, utterly furious at his own helplessness.

The physician approached quietly, kneeling by the bedside. Her voice was soft, but firm: “He’s progressing, but it’s fast. Too fast.”

Lucas’ heart seized. He swallowed it down.

“What does that mean?” he asked, forcing calm.

The physician hesitated. “He’s strong,” she said carefully. “But the strain—”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

Lucas turned back to Ijekiel, burying his face against silver hair.

Another contraction slammed through — harder, sharper — and Ijekiel sobbed, a broken, guttural sound.

Lucas kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, desperate, frantic. “You’re not alone,” he whispered. “You’re not.”

Tears leaked from Ijekiel’s closed eyes.

His voice, raw and cracked, barely made it out:

“Stay with me.”

“Always,” Lucas choked out.

The hours dragged on. Pain. Relief. Pain again.

In the lulls between, Lucas whispered dreams into Ijekiel’s skin:

About teaching Luciana to fly kites in the summer wind. About planting apple trees in the back garden. About lazy mornings curled up together in bed.

He painted a future he wanted so badly it hurt.

And Ijekiel listened — breathing ragged, clinging to those fragile pictures like a lifeline.

But behind them, always, the healers whispered.

Roger stood silent and grim.

And the storm outside howled louder.

As if the world already knew that the sun would not rise on this night unchanged.

Ijekiel was half-sitting, half-lying against a tower of pillows, eyes closed, breath shallow. Lucas knelt by the bedside, cradling one of Ijekiel’s hands between his own.

The contractions had slowed — for now. A brief, dangerous lull.

Lucas knew better than to hope it would last. But he clung to it anyway. He pressed his forehead to the back of Ijekiel’s hand, breathing him in.

Sweat, magic, salt.

Ijekiel stirred, opening his eyes — just barely — and smiled faintly.

“Tired?” he murmured, voice rough, teasing.

Lucas huffed out a broken laugh.

“You’re the one doing all the work,” he said, lifting his head. “You should rest.”

Ijekiel hummed, a soft sound of agreement, and let his hand curl weakly around Lucas’ fingers.

For a long moment, there was only breathing between them.

Then Lucas shifted, reaching out carefully, slowly, and placed both hands over the taut curve of Ijekiel’s belly. Luciana kicked against his palms — strong, impatient.

Lucas closed his eyes.

He reached inside himself, gathering his magic — that wild, endless river and pushed it outward, threading it into Ijekiel’s body.

Borrow my strength, he thought fiercely. Take whatever you need.

The magic seeped into Ijekiel like sunlight into cracked stone �� gentle, persistent.

For a moment — just a moment, Ijekiel’s breathing steadied. The color in his cheeks brightened slightly.

Lucas opened his eyes and saw it: the faintest spark of life rekindling in his husband’s face.

Relief choked him.

Maybe, maybe it would be enough. Maybe they could still…

Ijekiel’s hand drifted up, cupping Lucas’ cheek with shaking fingers.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Lucas caught his wrist, kissed the palm.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Lucas promised. “Both of you.”

Another faint smile.

Ijekiel’s thumb brushed under Lucas’ eye, wiping away a tear Lucas hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You already have,” Ijekiel said, soft and sure.

Lucas folded himself closer, resting his forehead against Ijekiel’s.

For a moment, the world shrank to just this: the scent of him, the warmth, the steady thud of two hearts beating together.

The storm outside roared louder. The fire hissed and sputtered.

The clock ticked steadily toward something they couldn’t escape. But Lucas didn’t let go.

The peace didn’t last.

Lucas should have known it wouldn’t.

There were no miracles for people like them. Only choices. Only loss.

The next contraction struck without warning. Ijekiel cried out, body bowing forward, clutching his belly in both hands.

Lucas caught him instantly, panic lancing through his chest.

The healers rushed back to the bed, sharp and swift now, no longer hiding the grimness in their faces.

“He’s transitioning,” the lead healer said in a tight voice. “It’s time.”

Lucas cradled Ijekiel against him, feeling every shudder, every trembling breath. Ijekiel’s magic flickered wildly under his skin, unstable, slipping through his grasp.

Luciana’s mana burned through him, brilliant and merciless.

Lucas pressed his lips to Ijekiel’s temple.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

Ijekiel’s fingers twisted in Lucas’ sleeve, anchoring himself.

He was shaking all over, drenched in sweat. His breaths came in quick, shallow gasps. His face, once flushed with life, was ashen now.

Another contraction tore through him, and this time he screamed.

It was a sound Lucas had never heard from him before — raw, ragged, animal.

It ripped something open inside him.

The healers worked quickly, positioning Ijekiel, barking short, clipped instructions.

“Push with the next one,” the physician said, calm but urgent. “He’s close.”

Lucas slid behind Ijekiel, supporting him, wrapping his arms around his chest, holding him through the storm.

“You can do this,” Lucas murmured against his ear. “You’re strong. I’m with you.”

Ijekiel gave a broken little laugh, full of pain and wonder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Lucas tightened his grip. “Don’t you dare,” he breathed.

The next contraction crashed down.

Ijekiel bore down, face twisted in agony, nails digging into Lucas’ arms.

Blood blossomed beneath him. Mana filled the air, thick and suffocating.

Lucas bit down a sob, holding him through it, feeling the way Ijekiel’s body trembled, fought, began to fail.

He pressed every ounce of his magic into Ijekiel, into Luciana, into the fragile, trembling connection between them.

But it wasn’t enough. He could feel it.

Ijekiel was slipping.

One more push. One more scream.

The world shattered.

A cry pierced the night.

Bright and high and furious.

Luciana.

The healers moved fast, lifting the tiny, wriggling child into the air, wrapped in shimmering cloth. She was small, flushed red with life, her fists flailing, her magic crackling around her like a living thing.

Lucas barely saw her.

His entire world was Ijekiel, slumped heavy against him, still breathing but so, so faintly.

He shook him gently.

“Kiel. Look. She’s here.”

Ijekiel’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and distant.

His gaze wavered for a heartbeat, lost — then found the tiny bundle in the physician’s arms. A noise escaped him, cracked and raw.

Roger was standing just behind the physician now, rigid with helplessness, fists clenched at his sides.

The moment Ijekiel’s gaze landed on his daughter, Roger moved forward — slowly, cautiously — his entire being trembling with restraint.

Lucas tightened his grip around Ijekiel.

“Do you want to hold her?” Lucas whispered.

Ijekiel’s fingers twitched weakly — a yes.

The physician hesitated only a breath, then stepped forward, carefully lowering the newborn into Ijekiel’s trembling arms.

She stayed close, her hands hovering just beneath, ready to catch the baby if needed.

Luciana whimpered, wriggling against Ijekiel’s chest.

Roger dropped to one knee beside the bed without a word, his hand coming to rest lightly, reverently, against his son’s shoulder — steadying him, supporting him.

Ijekiel’s arms, weak and shaking, cradled his daughter with a care so fierce it broke something inside Lucas.

Roger bowed his head, his silver hair hiding his face.

Ijekiel gazed down at Luciana as if trying to memorize every inch of her, every breath, every heartbeat.

Lucas helped steady him from behind, whispering, “You did it. She’s here.”

A fragile, exhausted smile bloomed on Ijekiel’s face. His thumb brushed across Luciana’s tiny back.

“Our… Luciana,” he breathed.

Roger let out a sound — a father’s heartbreak given voice.

Lucas kissed Ijekiel’s temple, desperate to keep him anchored.

“You’re not alone,” Lucas whispered. “We’re here. We love you.”

Ijekiel’s lips moved again.

“I love you,” he mouthed, first at Lucas — then, barely turning his head, toward Roger.

Roger choked, his hand tightening briefly on his son’s shoulder.

The physician, seeing Ijekiel’s arms faltering, moved gently to lift Luciana from his grasp.

The moment the baby was gone, the last of Ijekiel’s strength bled away.

His body sagged back against Lucas.

His chest rose once, shallow.

Then nothing.

The room plunged into silence, save for Luciana’s thin, angry cries and the crackle of the dying fire.

Roger stayed kneeling beside the bed, his hand still resting on his son’s cooling shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just bowed his head lower, silent tears falling onto the blanket.

Lucas held Ijekiel close, his forehead pressed against silver hair, whispering brokenly into the silence, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

It was Roger who moved first.

He rose stiffly, gently lifting Luciana from the physician’s arms.

He cradled her for a moment, silver head bowed low, before turning and offering her to Lucas.

“Lucas,” he said hoarsely. “Your daughter.”

Lucas barely registered the words.

He was still clinging to Ijekiel’s body, still trying to will warmth back into him with sheer force of will.

But at the word daughter, something inside Lucas shifted.

Slowly, as if underwater, he turned.

And there, in Roger’s trembling hands — was her. Tiny. Wriggling. Alive.

Alive.

When the rest of Lucas’s world had just died.

His arms moved without thinking, reaching out, taking her.

She was impossibly small against him.

Her body fit perfectly into the cradle of his forearm, her head resting awkwardly against his chest.

Lucas stared down at her.

And for the first time, really saw her.

She had the Alpheus hair — a soft, wispy silver, already shining under the firelight. But at certain angles, it shimmered white, like fresh snow under the sun.

And when her eyelids fluttered weakly open — Lucas saw his own eyes staring back at him.

A brilliant, haunting red.

Luciana squirmed, letting out a small, hiccupping noise, waving one tiny fist blindly through the air.

Lucas choked on a sob.

“Hey,” he croaked. “Hi, little one.”

He brushed a shaking hand across her downy hair, careful, reverent.

“You’re… you’re beautiful,” he whispered.

The words broke apart as he said them.

Because she was. She was beautiful. And she was Ijekiel’s. And his.

Everything they were, everything they had been, wrapped up in one fragile, perfect soul.

Luciana made a soft, breathy sound, almost a sigh, and turned her tiny face into the crook of Lucas’s arm, seeking warmth.

Lucas held her tighter, one hand cradling her tiny back, the other curling protectively over her head.

Tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice shredded and small. “I’m so sorry he’s not here.”

He pressed his forehead gently against hers, breathing in the faint, new-baby scent of her.

“You’ll never be alone,” he promised her brokenly. “Never. I swear it.”

He didn’t know if he was saying it to her or to himself.

Roger knelt quietly beside him, one steady hand resting lightly against Lucas’s back, grounding him.

Neither of them spoke. There were no words big enough for a moment like this.

Only the crackle of the dying fire.

Only the fierce, desperate beat of Lucas’s heart against the tiny, fluttering heartbeat in his arms.

Outside, the world began to stir — the storm passing, the first hints of gray light creeping over the horizon.

Inside, in the battered shell of their home, Lucas rocked Luciana gently, tears dripping silently into her hair.

[angelap3]

🌺🍃🍀🌹

“Lui è chi ha cantato Cristo in croce e ha dato i dieci comandamenti al commento di Tito, uno dei ladroni appesi.

Lui ha messo in musica un prigioniero che non voleva respirare la stessa aria dei secondini.

Lui cantava con voce di pozzo l'amore dei giorni perduti a rincorrere il vento.

Lui è chi ha tradotto Leonard Cohen, Georges Brassens, Bob Dylan in quell'impossibile, perfetta versione di "Avventura a Durango", capolavoro di trasferimento da una lingua a un'altra.

Lui è chi ha scritto che a morire di maggio ci vuole troppo coraggio, ha dato musica alla cattiva strada, ha squagliato la cioccolata dei dialetti, il genovese, il sardo, il napoletano dentro le ballate.

Lui è chi è stato legato a un palo dell'Hotel Supramonte dove ha visto la neve sopra un corpo di donna amato, addolcito di fame e ha ascoltato i racconti dei banditi e ha conosciuto una loro cura che nessun detenuto di questo Paese ha provato.

Lui è chi ha perdonato con gratitudine.

Lui è chi ha visto al collo di Teresa una lametta vecchia di cent'anni, lui sa che il dolore di Franziska taglia più di un coltello di Spagna. E sa il bosco dove Sally arrivò con il tamburello e sa il bisturi che corregge il sesso di Princesa, e la ragazza che si versa un cucchiaio di mimosa nell'imbuto di un polsino slacciato.

Lui è chi ha dato cantico ai drogati perché chiedessero: "e chi, chi sarà mai / il buttafuori del sole / chi lo spinge ogni giorno / sulla scena alla prime ore".

Lui è chi ha suonato i pensieri dei suicidi, il nasone di Carlo Martello, le fregole di un vecchio professore e la più concreta offerta di un paradiso, in vendita a via del Campo.

Lui è chi ha messo un giudice nelle mani esageratamente affettuose di un gorilla e ha lasciato che un pescatore sfamasse un assassino, e tacesse ai carabinieri.

Lui è chi cantò le lapidi di Spoon River dove Jones il suonatore mai rivolse pensiero al denaro, all'amore, al cielo.

Lui è chi ha voluto bene ai cuccioli del maggio che poi avrebbero azzannato i garretti dei potenti e avrebbero stabilito il record di carcere di una generazione italiana. Invano avvertiva gli altri: "per quanto voi vi crediate assolti / siete lo stesso coinvolti". Invano, perché gli altri si sono sempre assolti, da soli e definitivamente. Coinvolti restano solo lui, i caduti e i prigionieri senza fine. Sì, è stato il più grande, non solo per iscritto e in canto, ma per carattere, per dirittura d'urto contro la macchina luccicante di successo e carriera.

Lui solfeggiava con gli sconfitti, sbriciolava il loro pane ai passeri.

Dopo di lui la specie dei selvatici si è estinta. C'è il gran bazar degli ammansiti.

Non l'ho nominato, solo enumerato. Chi ha bisogno di guardare il suo nome, ha perso tempo a leggere fin qua.

Erri De Luca. ❤

[occhietti]

Lui è chi ha cantato Cristo in croce e ha dato i dieci comandamenti al commento di Tito, uno dei ladroni appesi.

Lui ha messo in musica un prigioniero che non voleva respirare la stessa aria dei secondini.

Lui cantava con voce di pozzo l'amore dei giorni perduti a rincorrere il vento.

Lui è chi ha tradotto Leonard Cohen, Georges Brassens, Bob Dylan in quell'impossibile, perfetta versione di "Avventura a Durango", capolavoro di trasferimento da una lingua a un'altra.

Lui è chi ha scritto che a morire di maggio ci vuole troppo coraggio, ha dato musica alla cattiva strada, ha squagliato la cioccolata dei dialetti, il genovese, il sardo, il napoletano dentro le ballate.

Lui è chi è stato legato a un palo dell'Hotel Supramonte dove ha visto la neve sopra un corpo di donna amato, addolcito di fame e ha ascoltato i racconti dei banditi e ha conosciuto una loro cura che nessun detenuto di questo Paese ha provato.

Lui è chi ha perdonato con gratitudine.

Lui è chi ha visto al collo di Teresa una lametta vecchia di cent'anni, lui sa che il dolore di Franziska taglia più di un coltello di Spagna. E sa il bosco dove Sally arrivò con il tamburello e sa il bisturi che corregge il sesso di Princesa, e la ragazza che si versa un cucchiaio di mimosa nell'imbuto di un polsino slacciato.

Lui è chi ha dato cantico ai drogati perché chiedessero: "e chi, chi sarà mai / il buttafuori del sole / chi lo spinge ogni giorno / sulla scena alla prime ore".

Lui è chi ha suonato i pensieri dei suicidi, il nasone di Carlo Martello, le fregole di un vecchio professore e la più concreta offerta di un paradiso, in vendita a via del Campo.

Lui è chi ha messo un giudice nelle mani esageratamente affettuose di un gorilla e ha lasciato che un pescatore sfamasse un assassino, e tacesse ai carabinieri.

Lui è chi cantò le lapidi di Spoon River dove Jones il suonatore mai rivolse pensiero al denaro, all'amore, al cielo.

Lui è chi ha voluto bene ai cuccioli del maggio che poi avrebbero azzannato i garretti dei potenti e avrebbero stabilito il record di carcere di una generazione italiana. Invano avvertiva gli altri: "per quanto voi vi crediate assolti / siete lo stesso coinvolti". Invano, perché gli altri si sono sempre assolti, da soli e definitivamente. Coinvolti restano solo lui, i caduti e i prigionieri senza fine. Sì, è stato il più grande, non solo per iscritto e in canto, ma per carattere, per dirittura d'urto contro la macchina luccicante di successo e carriera.

Lui solfeggiava con gli sconfitti, sbriciolava il loro pane ai passeri.

Dopo di lui la specie dei selvatici si è estinta.

C'è il gran bazar degli ammansiti.

Non l'ho nominato, solo enumerato. Chi ha bisogno di guardare il suo nome, ha perso tempo a leggere fin qua.

- Erri De Luca su Fabrizio De André

[anitalianfrie]

inspired by @366kmph's banging ranking (because it looks like fun and i can't wait to get cancelled for this)

Tier 1 (yes raw next question) Diggia, Enea, lesbian teenager Vale, 2004 Vale, Pedro

Tier 2 (yes) Franky, Mig, Bez

Tier 3 (catch me in the club drunk shagging him) Maverick, teenage Enea (yes he deserves his own ranking) Fermin, Augusto Fernandez, young Dovi

Tier 3.5 (pane sciapo*) Luca, Marc

Tier 4 (no but nothing personal just not my type) Pecco, Alex R, Miguel

Tier 5 (no and it's personal) Jorge M, Aleix, Raul Fernandez, Alex M, Binder, Miller, now Dovi (egg status)

*pane sciapo is my personal denomination for people who are theoretically hot and i can see that they're hot and i should want to shag them but i just dont

[libero-de-mente]

EMMA

Emma si svegliò all'improvviso, nella stessa maniera brusca come brusco era stato quel "Ti penso" ricevuto da un uomo, da poco conosciuto, che le fece sobbalzare il cuore la sera prima. Ma in questo caso, a farla svegliare di soprassalto fu il suono della sveglia. Una sveglia che riproduceva un coro da stadio.

Il primo pensiero di Emma fu "Uomini"; considerazione rivolta sia al "ti penso" di ieri sera, sia al fatto che quella sveglia abbia il classico suono impostato dal maschio Alpha della casa.

Emma si stiracchiò nel letto vivendo uno di quei piccoli momenti, prima di alzarsi, che non voleva finissero mai, che non hanno prezzo, ma che come per tutte le cose belle erano fugaci e rapide.

Da un rapido controllo allo specchio in camera Emma vide con soddisfazione che la situazione capelli non era poi male, avendoci dormito sopra, che il lavoro fatto dalla sua parrucchiera il giorno prima aveva brillantemente superato la prova notte a letto. Anche se l'aveva passata da sola. Purtroppo.

Emma aveva 35 anni, un lavoro precario in un ufficio dove il caffè in capsule, di una sottomarca da discount, era più triste delle battute del capo, e una teoria ben radicata nella sua testa: gli uomini non erano altro che una variante della razza umanoide creata da madre natura andata storta. Non che non avessero i loro momenti di gloria, tipo quando riuscivano a cambiare una lampadina per poi fissarti dall’alto della scala utilizzata uno sguardo di superiorità e, spesso, misto a fantasie erotiche strane che solo il loro cervello era in grado produrre; ma in generale, sembravano programmati per creare caos e poi guardarlo con aria soddisfatta e incolpevole, come un bambino che ha appena fatto cadere dalla dispensa un barattolo pieno di marmellata.

Forse il “via” che madre natura diede agli umanoidi, per cominciare ad alzarsi sui soli due arti inferiori, fu troppo generalizzato. Magari avrebbe dovuto fare un po’ più di selezione. Vista la differenza sostanziale tra alcuni rappresentanti odierni dell’essere uomo; vedi Alberto Angela e Alessandro Barbero Vs gli accoppiati scoppiati che vanno sull’isola televisiva per cornificarsi a vicenda con le loro pseudo compagne.

Una volta entrata in bagno Emma si riguardò allo specchio. E la seconda occhiata allo specchio sconfessò quella di prima, la situazione capelli non era poi così tanto sotto controllo, per lo meno finché fosse rimasta a casa, ovvero prima che l’umidità esterna e il karma decideranno di coalizzarsi contro di lei. Cosa sicura. Però Emma in quel momento ebbe la lucidità di andare oltre, che i capelli non erano poi un grande problema. Il problema, quello grande, era il mondo là fuori, un posto che sembrava progettato da un ingegnere ubriaco con una passione per le complicazioni inutili. E gli uomini, ovviamente. Soprattutto gli uomini.

Scese in cucina e accese la macchina del caffè. Sul tavolo c’era ancora il biglietto della spesa lasciato dal suo coinquilino Matteo, il maschio Alpha colpevole del suono della sveglia, con su scritto <Latte, pane, birra>. Emma sbuffò - “Birra? Sul serio? Non abbiamo nemmeno una pentola decente per cuocere la pasta, ma la birra non può mancare. Priorità maschili”. Decise di aggiungere alla lista: <Pentola, buon senso, un briciolo di empatia.> Ma poi ci ripensò. Matteo avrebbe probabilmente comprato una pentola giocattolo, un manuale per trovare la forza interiore sulle orme degli insegnamenti di Ken il guerriero e, in fine, un manuale di massime tratte dal primo Kung-Fu Panda, quelle pronunciate dal Maestro Oogway. Chinando il capo, in segno di remissione, passò direttamente al caffè.

Mentre sorseggiava la sua tazza di sopravvivenza, solo con la seconda tazza avrebbe trovato la consapevolezza, Emma ripensò all’appuntamento della sera prima con Luca quello della frase “Ti penso”.

Luca era un tizio conosciuto su un’app di incontri, <Tuo-Tua>, già dal nome Emma non aveva avuto una grande impressione favorevole, impressione confermata quando lui si era presentato con una camicia, così sgargiante, da sembrare una protesta di Ultima Generazione contro il buon gusto. Luca era il classico uomo che parlava solo di sé, come se il mondo fosse un pubblico pagante per il suo monologo. “Sai, Emma, io sono un tipo creativo, ho scritto una canzone una volta” – le aveva detto con aria solenne, come se Bob Dylan dovesse tremare al pensiero.

La canzone, ovviamente, era un’ode al suo cane, che probabilmente era l’unico essere vivente a sopportarlo. Emma aveva sorriso, annuito e contato i minuti per la fuga. “Gli uomini” – pensò - “sono come i pavoni, fanno la ruota, ma poi la richiudono e se ne vanno lasciando solo, se si è fortunati, una piuma caduta in terra e tante aspettative deluse.”

Ma non era solo Luca. Era tutto il sistema. Emma aveva notato che gli uomini avevano una capacità innata di complicare le cose semplici e semplificare quelle complicate. Come Davide, il suo collega, che passava ore a discutere di strategie aziendali come se fosse Napoleone a Waterloo, che al momento di metterle nero su bianco le chiedeva aiuto per stamparle fronte e retro, perché incapace. Oppure suo padre, che insisteva per aggiustare ogni cosa in casa con un cacciavite e un’imprecazione, anzi più imprecazioni e meno cacciavite; salvo poi chiamare un tecnico dopo aver trasformato un rubinetto gocciolante in una cascata del Niagara.

E poi c’era il rapporto con la tecnologia. Emma aveva un amico, Federico, che trattava il suo smartphone come un’estensione del suo ego. Ogni due giorni c’era un nuovo aggiornamento sullo stato della sua “vita digitale”. Come il giorno che le disse -“Ho preso l’ultimo modello, Emma, ha una fotocamera che fa foto in 8K!” – con lo stesso entusiasmo di Aladino dopo aver conosciuto il genio della lampada; “E che ci fai con foto in 8K?” - aveva chiesto lei. “Beh, le guardo in 8K!” - aveva risposto lui, come se fosse la cosa più ovvia del mondo. Emma, invece, usava il telefono per tre cose: chiamare sua madre, cercare ricette su internet e maledire il Wi-Fi quando non funzionava. Federico no, lui sembrava pronto a combattere una guerra tecnologica contro alieni immaginari, come se fosse l’hacker di Independence Day.

Il mondo, agli occhi di Emma, era un posto strano. Un posto dove gli uomini costruivano grattacieli altissimi per dimostrare qualcosa a qualcuno, probabilmente a loro stessi, e dove inviavano millemila satelliti artificiali attorno alla Terra, sempre per diffondere il loro ego, ma poi non sapevano progettare e costruire lavatrici che non perdessero i calzini. Dove si vantavano di saper guidare meglio delle donne, ma poi si perdevano in rotonde grandi come un campo da calcio perché “ti assicuro che il navigatore ha detto la quarta uscita, Emma, e io ne ho contate solo tre”. Dove ordinavano bistecche al sangue per sembrare virili, ma poi si bruciavano la lingua con la camomilla con melatonina e cercavano conforto con uno sguardo da cucciolo abbandonato.

Emma finì il caffè e si preparò per uscire. Sapeva che affrontare il mondo là fuori sarebbe stata una sfida, ma in fondo ci era abituata. Gli uomini, con tutte le loro stranezze, erano un po’ come il meteo: imprevedibili, a volte insopportabili, ma necessari per mantenere un certo equilibrio.

Ma gli uomini, ogni tanto, sapevano anche sorprenderla, come quando Matteo l’Alpha man alla fine di quella giornata tornò a casa con una pentola vera e un mazzo di fiori, dicendole - “Ho pensato che ti servisse qualcosa per cucinare… e qualcosa per sorridere”.

Emma lo guardò, alzò un sopracciglio e disse - “Non male, per essere un uomo.” E uscì dalla cucina con un mezzo sorriso, per ritirarsi in camera sua, perché domani si sarebbe dovuta preparare a combattere un altro giorno nel caos.

(non è facile descrivere il mondo attraverso gli occhi di una donna, soprattutto se chi ci prova è un uomo)

Libero De Mente Immagine Dmitry Lisichenko "Dreaming"

[vintagebiker43]

Lui è chi ha cantato Cristo in croce e ha dato i dieci comandamenti al commento di Tito, uno dei ladroni appesi. Lui ha messo in musica un prigioniero che non voleva respirare la stessa aria dei secondini. Lui cantava con voce di pozzo l'amore dei giorni perduti a rincorrere il vento. Lui è chi ha tradotto Leonard Cohen, Georges Brassens, Bob Dylan in quell'impossibile, perfetta versione di "Avventura a Durango", capolavoro di trasferimento da una lingua a un'altra. Lui è chi ha scritto che a morire di maggio ci vuole troppo coraggio, ha dato musica alla cattiva strada, ha squagliato la cioccolata dei dialetti, il genovese, il sardo, il napoletano dentro le ballate. Lui è chi è stato legato a un palo dell'Hotel Supramonte dove ha visto la neve sopra un corpo di donna amato, addolcito di fame e ha ascoltato i racconti dei banditi e ha conosciuto una loro cura che nessun detenuto di questo Paese ha provato. Lui è chi ha perdonato con gratitudine. Lui è chi ha visto al collo di Teresa una lametta vecchia di cent'anni, lui sa che il dolore di Franziska taglia più di un coltello di Spagna. E sa il bosco dove Sally arrivò con il tamburello e sa il bisturi che corregge il sesso di Princesa, e la ragazza che si versa un cucchiaio di mimosa nell'imbuto di un polsino slacciato. Lui è chi ha dato cantico ai drogati perché chiedessero: "e chi, chi sarà mai / il buttafuori del sole / chi lo spinge ogni giorno / sulla scena alla prime ore". Lui è chi ha suonato i pensieri dei suicidi, il nasone di Carlo Martello, le fregole di un vecchio professore e la più concreta offerta di un paradiso, in vendita a via del Campo. Lui è chi ha messo un giudice nelle mani esageratamente affettuose di un gorilla e ha lasciato che un pescatore sfamasse un assassino, e tacesse ai carabinieri. Lui è chi cantò le lapidi di Spoon River dove Jones il suonatore mai rivolse pensiero al denaro, all'amore, al cielo. Lui è chi ha voluto bene ai cuccioli del maggio che poi avrebbero azzannato i garretti dei potenti e avrebbero stabilito il record di carcere di una generazione italiana. Invano avvertiva gli altri: "per quanto voi vi crediate assolti / siete lo stesso coinvolti". Invano, perché gli altri si sono sempre assolti, da soli e definitivamente. Coinvolti restano solo lui, i caduti e i prigionieri senza fine. Sì, è stato il più grande, non solo per iscritto e in canto, ma per carattere, per dirittura d'urto contro la macchina luccicante di successo e carriera. Lui solfeggiava con gli sconfitti, sbriciolava il loro pane ai passeri. Dopo di lui la specie dei selvatici si è estinta. C'è il gran bazar degli ammansiti. Non l'ho nominato, solo enumerato. Chi ha bisogno di guardare il suo nome, ha perso tempo a leggere fin qua.

Erri De Luca 

[twothpaste]

fic snippet featuring lucas & porky & the profound disillusionment of realizing you're never gonna get through to a motherfucker 😔

It laid, back then, a hundred n' fifty some-odd feet from the shoreline. No walkways of wood nor metal carved the path. If an audience with the king was what you sought, you'd have to rough it to his throne. Through the soggy stench of rotting cardboard. Drenched facades melting, squelching, and pooling at your heels. Traverse his skyscraper's serpentine spine. Either atop its precarious columns, or beneath its ribcage archways. Today, the big stupid spikes with which he'd adorned the sides've since been weathered away to moundish stumps. In 2 ADD, though? They'd formed a sharklike jaw line in the treacherous muck. Dentition to rival the Dragon's own.

She soared high. Black streak on a gray blanket. Wouldda blotted out the sun with her wings, if it'd been up there to begin with. Even back then, New Pork's desolation had a notorious propensity for overcast weather. Lucas had to wonder whether that was her doing, too.

Lord of the Rings wouldn't make it into his repertoire for a long while. Leder's library had yet to scavenge any copies. The Hobbit, however, was a White Ship stowaway. The old judge kept it in a secret stash, with the rest of the survivors' forsaken tomes. Lucas'd been the first to read it, once the locks were finally broken. He couldn't help but think of it. Here of all places. Stony imagery of a lost mountain kingdom. A darker dragon, hoarding ill-gotten gains. How small he felt. How bitterly humble. To traverse these halls.

The Absolutely Safe Capsule didn't sit atop a gilded pile. Just purple-gray rubble. N' acid rain puddles. N' concrete.

A broad, hungry, window-bound smile greeted him. Upon his arrival.

Lucas didn't humor it with any of his usual salutations. Not even a glance. Just trudged right past the pane, and seated himself upon a closely-nestled boulder. He remembers his chewed nails clawing against the harsh, clammy surface.

"Y'know, Lucas," Porky purred. With no particular forward. Whether the king thought his visitor's silence haughty, amusing - or perhaps even infuriating - he didn't bother to say so. "I've been thinking," he simply announced. Craning his miserable neck, right up to the glass, as if tryin' to catch whatever delightful pout or scowl might grace the hero's dumb, pimply face.

"I bet," said Lucas. Flat as a burnt flapjack. That made Porky grin, too.

"It's sort of funny. Hilarious, even. That your so-called new society's here, to salvage my city."

This came about as outta left field to Lucas as it probably does to you. Which is to say, hardly. Weren't never really conversations, to be had with Porky. Whatever happened to be on his mind, he'd barf it right onto your sneakers. Then glance at you, expectantly, almost innocently. Like he was awfully eager to watch you clean it up.

"My city," he repeated. With a cough. "Which, as you know, I modeled oh-so-painstakingly after our old world."

Lucas turned those slatey eyes of his toward the Capsule. But held his tongue. Again - you can call it patience.

"It's almost as if nothing starts from the ground up. You're always recycling something rotten. Always on the shoulders of man-eating giants. Even if you try to pretend otherwise."

"Yep," Lucas contended. Gray as the rock he perched on. "That's the idea. We're learnin' from the past. Y'couldda stood to do the same."

Porky's prison emitted a raucous cackle. If Lucas were still looking, he'd've seen a curled lip. A snarling smirk.

"Oh. I learned plenty, my friend."

To sigh would be to appease him. Spoiling a bad dog.

"I don't really get why you won't apologize," Lucas mused, instead. "Why y'won't even fake it. There's folks who'd fall for it."

(He prob'ly would've. He thought. Up until three days prior. He'd decline to add that, though. Let Porky guess it for himself.)

"Heh. What can I say? I'm an honest guy. Much more honest than you cheating, stealing, hypocritical hicks give me credit for. Besides -- Agh..! Haahhck…!"

Porky's bone-popping shrug was cut short by a trademark wheezing fit. Lucas waited. Nails grating.

"Ah.. Hagh… Besides.. Little ol' Porky Minch's got nothing to apologize for, anyways. All I've done is reveal the cold, hard truth. Taught you sorry lot a thing'r two 'bout human nature." His royal highness dipped into a mockery of the peasants' lowly drawl. Before extending one hand, to count his points on his wretched fingers. "Uncertainty, control, anger. Frailty. Self-destruction. That's always been the long n' short of it. N' always will be."

"Agree to disagree," Lucas maintained. His low, crackly, teenaged timbre shifting an inch closer to a growling grumble. Porky ate it up. When you've been stuck in an oversized baseball for two years, you tend to develop a ravenous craving for the smallest of crumbs.

"Fine by me. Your descendants'll realize I was right all along. Even if you're too proud to accept it."

"My mom always used to say somethin' 'bout pots n' kettles."

"Ha. So, you admit you're the kettle."

"I'm more of a skillet, I reckon."

"Well, ain't that goddamn charmin'? My mom bashed me over the head with one of those, once. I ever tell ya that story?"

"Y'didn't. M'sorry to hear that."

A snort.

"No you're not."

In lieu of an answer, Lucas could only stare. Impasse was a recent addition to his vocabulary. He'd read it in one of Leder's books. He traced its edges, in his mind's eye. Chewed it, silently, between his tongue and teeth.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Sanctuary - Chapter Seven.

Big thanks to the little Sanctuary book club for your continued support :)

Summary - It was a crime that shook the metal community and beyond to its core, the Solna Satanic murder case blowing apart the lives of many. With Lucas and Nils - frontman and drummer of popular metal band The Hanged - trialed, found guilty and subsequently sentenced, few were inclined to believe either deserved any offerings of a second chance. Lucas, in particular, did not consider himself worthy until salvation came in the form of a letter.

Words - 3,236

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six

Warnings - 18+ content, minors DNI!

Stirring to the sound of birdsong, the sunlight of the early morning streaming in through the window, Lucas felt out of place for a few moments. Glass panes with no bars, a comfortable bed, no sounds of wardens or other inmates going about their morning. Plus, a beautiful woman by his side, still sleeping soundly.  

Freedom was truly sweet.  

“Hmm, mm.” Stirring, she stretched, turning over and rubbing her eyes a few times, beaming when she looked up at him. “Cool, it wasn’t a dream. You are really here.” 

He laughed quietly through his nose, wrapping an arm around her when she moved herself to rest her head on his chest. “Definitely not a dream, no. It’s still surreal, though, waking up in a bed with you next to me, no bars on the window, all of that.”  

It would likely take him some time to adjust to his freedom, Erika thought, her hand moving to begin stroking over the soft, dark blonde hair between his pecs. “It must be amazing for you, and I’m so happy you decided to stay. I’m not ready to let you go just yet.”  

She’d have to eventually, though, checking the time and seeing it was 5:54am. She had to get him to Alex’s by seven thirty before he left for work, then go and pick up everyone’s breakfast order before getting in at the shop. For then, though, they had time to lie there and bask in the quiet of the morning and the comfort of one another.  

“Do you want something to eat?” she asked after a few silent minutes, Lucas shifting. 

He smiled, moving atop her, mouth pressing a kiss between her breasts. “I do. Not food just yet though.” 

He sank beneath the sheet, Erika sighing softly at the sensation of his mouth connecting with her apex, more than happy to remain in bed a little while longer. Ahh, morning sex. She’d been looking forward to it with him very much, their session slow and heated, leaving them not much time to quickly shower and get ready. 

They made plans to see one another again that coming Saturday, Erika wanting to give him his space to get situated at Alex’s, visit with family and friends and begin getting his life back in order. Silently, she fizzed with excitement, though, since unbeknownst to him Saturday was when she and Alex had organised a small gathering for him.  

She’d booked a private room at a restaurant not far from his and Alex’s place, wanting him to be able to relax without worrying about being recognised by anyone. After seeing his tension the previous morning while they sat outside eating breakfast, she was glad of the seeming foresight she’d had there.  

“I think it’s just here, I need to drop you,” she spoke, pulling her car over to the side of a completely pedestrianised street next to the bollard barricade preventing vehicular access. “Okay, have a good day and I’ll see you on Saturday.” 

Leaning over, he gave her a kiss, smiling fondly. “Yeah, but I’ll call you later on. Have a good day, too. Hope it all goes alright with Nina.” 

God, she’d forgotten about the little crossed words event from the evening before, thanks to the utter bliss of her morning with him. “Yeah, me too! Bye, bye, big, sexy man.” 

He laughed softly at that, kissing her again before climbing out and retrieving his possessions. Alex had of course sent him his address, Lucas not overly familiar with the area of Östermalm. Reaching his destination, he was pleasantly surprised. 

“Man, this place is better than I was expecting.” he spoke quietly, taking in the exterior of Alex’s apartment for the first time, the contrast stark compared to the home he had once shared with him so long ago.  

Situated above an independent furniture store, it spanned the length of the first floor, accessible by a side door that took him directly up a set of stairs to a heavy, black wood door.  

Pressing the bell, it sounded loudly, a round light flashing. It was something called a Ring doorbell, attached to a camera feed, as he’d newly learned since Erika had one. Technology had certainly advanced well over the past twelve years. 

The door opened to reveal Alex, who somewhat tried at least to bite back his grin. “Morning.” 

Lucas could see it brewing in him, snorting with laughter. “Stop looking at me like that.” 

“What? I’m not looking at you in any way, man.” The mirth continued to rise in him, leaning against his doorframe. “Just wondering if Erika can stand up at all, the poor woman.” 

“She can,” Lucas confirmed, “but it’s on bowed legs.” 

They both erupted then, Alex opening his arms, giving him a big hug. “Well, I’m glad to hear you enjoyed the first day of freedom so much. Tell me, when’s the requiem for your girl’s vagina? I feel I should send flowers.”  

Oh, Alex and his hilarity. How he’d missed it, booming with laughter as he stepped inside. “This is a great place you’ve got yourself, bro. I really like it.”  

His eyes toured the surroundings, placing his bag and guitar case down, the hold all stuffed with possessions heavy even for him. It was all he had though, after twelve years, save the items his sister had kept for him in her garage and spare bedroom. 

“It’s way bigger than I expected, no offense or anything,” he spoke as they walked into the huge living room, Alex gesturing to the couches. 

“None taken. Look, I can’t be long as I have to leave for work, but I’ve got time for another coffee before I go, show you around, too? It’s basic, though. Kitchen is there, my room is next to it and yours is at the opposite end next to the bathroom. Svea dropped off your stuff, too, so you’re all set in there.” 

Agreeing, he leaned back against the soft, brown leather while Alex jumped up again, lighting a cigarette. “Still almost black and two sugars’, right?” 

“Yeah, thanks, man.”  

He returned in a flash, placing the two large stonewear mugs down either side of the table, just staring at him for a second. “Sorry, it’s surreal is all, seeing you sitting there. You look both out of place and like you never left, if that makes sense?”  

It did. It might have been a different apartment, but the couch was the same, the very one he’d spent so much time sat upon in his youth, his place of rest until he’d moved in with Alex properly and furnished himself with an actual bed.  

“Trust me, it felt surreal to wake up this morning and look out of a window with no bars on it,” he replied as Alex sat down again. 

He had no idea, only ever spending one night in a jail cell for being drunk and obnoxious, the officers throwing him in until he’d sobered up before releasing him the following morning. “Can’t say I can relate, but I can imagine. Must’ve felt amazing.”  

They chatted for a short time before Alex had to leave, heading across town to his job as an IT co-ordinator for a large printing company. While an office-based career was his idea of hell, he was allowed to wear his own casual clothes and had his own room away from the main floor where he ran all the computerised systems, from the printing machines themselves to the network of PC’s.  

Finishing his coffee, Lucas then moved from the lounge down to his room, entering the space to find it much larger than he’d expected. It was around eight times the size of his cell, the large windows offering an abundance of light through the off-white painted room.  

Looking to the side of the wardrobe, he smiled to see a large, framed poster from their first festival headline slot hung on the wall, Download festival in the UK. Fifteen years ago, and he remembered the day like it was yesterday. One day, he hoped to headline it again. 

Taking his clothes, he began putting things away before moving to the boxes dropped off by his sister. His entire life at twenty-two had been neatly condensed down to six large heavy duty plastic containers. A lot of things he’d instructed her to sell and keep the cash herself.  

Opening the first box, he saw his beloved record collection, smiling as he pulled out a few treasured volumes that had belonged to his father. Black Sabbath, AC/DC, Pink Floyd, he’d definitely inherited his early tastes straight from him. It was a pity he had no turntable to play them on, or so he thought.  

“Moomin, you adorable motherfucker.” he chuckled, opening another box to see a brand new one in there, along with a card from her and Karin.  

‘Welcome home, big brother! We thought you could use this, give all that vinyl a damned good airing! Love you, Svea & Karin xx’ 

Taking it out and placing it on the table in the corner, he got it set up, positioning the speakers at perfect vantage points and making a mental note to wall mount them at a later time. With the sound of Guns N’ Roses Appetite for Destruction as an accompaniment, he continued sorting through the boxes, finding the one that contained his many and varied old band t shirts.  

Holding one up, it seemed almost child sized compared to his current stature. Had he really been that skinny? “Yeah, these are all Erika’s now!”  

Two hours of work saw his room fully unpacked, Lucas making a mental note of a few things he needed, before realising he had an app for that on his phone. He then located the folder he needed in order to open a bank account, renew his driving licence and passport, pulling out his birth certificate and transferring it to the back pocket of his jeans.  

Transport agency, bank and then a few stores to buy the things he needed. His morning had a plan, Lucas grabbing the keys Alex had left on the coffee table for him and heading off to catch his first train.  

After queuing for ten minutes at the transport agency, he handed his paperwork across the desk along with the licence renewal fee, the woman studying it for a while curiously before looking back up at him over her glasses.  

“Are you him, the Lucas Borgström?” she asked, her face stony. Oh, lord. Already?  

He nodded. “I am, yes.” 

“Hmph. I see.” Scanning the paperwork, she checked his birth certificate, handing him a receipt for the cash paid. “Move to the side, mister Borgström, so I can take your photograph.” 

While the fact she had to remain professional obviously held her tongue, what she thought of him was etched all over her face. He felt the chill of her cold demeanour like a Siberian breeze. “Your new licence will arrive by post within the next ten days.”  

After that, another train was caught, this time over to the bank so he could set up an account.  

“You haven’t had an active bank account in twelve years,” the man he met with noted, filling in his details on the computer. “Why is that, sir?” 

“I was incarcerated,” he explained succinctly, waiting for a similar reaction to that of the woman at the transport agency.  

The man merely nodded, continuing to tap away at the keys before him. “Oh, okay. Well, there we are, you have one again now, mister Borgström. Your card will be with you in a couple of days. Is there anything else I can help you with this morning?”  

There wasn’t, Lucas thanking him for his time before leaving. Visting a few stores, he bought everything he needed, taking another train back home to unload and throw the new bedding he’d bought into the washing machine, leaving again to go and purchase some food. Where nutrition was concerned, he and Alex had vastly differing ideas over what constituted a good diet. For Lucas, that didn’t include an abundance of pork products, packet soups and noodle cups.  

It was mundane, but there was something quite satisfying about the task of simply walking around a supermarket to purchase food, lost to his own thoughts until he was aware of a set of eyes following him.  

Turning to the two middle aged woman staring at him across the aisle, he smiled, returning to browsing the shelves of dried goods. While he moved along, whispers followed.  

“It’s him, isn’t it?” one spoke to the other. “That’s the crazy Satanist guy who murdered that poor kid. I recognise his tattoos.”  

“I think so, yes,” the other verified, tutting. “And there he is, just living his life again. It’s shameful, how lenient our sentencing is. If we were in America, he’d be locked away for life, or on death row. As he deserves to be. Scumbag.” 

Her words caused a chill to prickle through his chest, but he didn’t say anything to either of them. To him, it was to be expected. After all, he was one of Sweden’s most notorious criminals, the coverage of the case huge and in the forefront of the media for a long time. It was natural that he would be remembered.  

It did surprise him, though, how easily he was recognised. Then again, the tattoos were a very distinguishable marker, no matter how physically different he now looked. Moving around the store at speed, he picked out the rest of what he needed before paying and heading home, the apartment luckily only a five-minute walk away.  

After unpacking everything, he made himself lunch and then sat down, contemplating his afternoon. Being a free man now, he had exchanged the complications of prison life for an entirely new set, now being released back into a society that would only see him as the person he had once been.  

To them, there was no way around it, no avoidance. He was his crime. 

Of course, there had been a few exceptions so far, the girl who’d approached him the previous morning, and the man at the bank hadn’t cared less that he was sitting across from a convicted criminal, his name seeming to mean little to him.  

It was something he would further have to negotiate, and he understood that completely. He’d prepared for it prior to his release, spoken at length about it to his therapist and how to tackle such challenges. While he contemplated the morning he’d had, Erika had her own instance of what people thought about him to deal with. Hers, though, it had to be said, went with much greater success.  

With a dentist appointment to attend, Nina didn’t arrive at the shop until around 1pm, and when she did finally enter the shop just as Erika was about to take her break, she wasn’t altogether sure it was Nina at all.  

The huge mixed bouquet of flowers in various shades of pink, purple and green seemed to be walking upon its own legs, Nina’s head popping around from behind the blooms as she held them forward.  

Her face was a picture of sincerity, her bottom lip protruded a touch. “These are for you, a peace offering with another apology for being such a twat to you yesterday, mate. I’m so sorry.”  

Taking them with a smile, she examined the beautiful bouquet she shuddered to wonder the cost of, their scent fresh and sweet. Placing them down on the counter carefully so as not to tip the water bag they were secured in, she opened her arms, wrapping Nina in a hug.  

She was her best friend; she couldn’t stay angry at her forever. No matter how inappropriate her words had been, Lucas had been right; her concern only came from a place of love. “Apology accepted. The flowers are gorgeous, thank you so much!”  

“You’re so welcome!” she hummed, kissing her cheek a couple of times while gently rubbing her back. “Now, tell me all about your first day with the man, then!”  

Ahh, the Nina she knew and loved had truly returned, the women moving to the back of the shop to take a seat in the staff room, Erika taking her lunch from the fridge while Nina prepared herself a chamomile tea. She couldn’t help but smile widely at the dreamy look on her face, reaching to softly pinch Erika’s shoulder.  

“Ahh, doll. It was so, so great,” she began, her eyes doe, full of sparkle. “He’s such a nice guy, so laid back and grounded. He has this enlightenment to him, I dunno. Think like a buddha, but really sexy and with a great body.”  

Snorting on her laugh, Nina poured her tea. “A sexy buddha, oh girly, you come out with some right crackers!” Joining her, she set her tea down, leaning forward in her seat. “So... how was the sex? Were you at it all night long? I’m a horny, single person. I need deets!” 

She knew she had that question coming. “Not all night, but most of the afternoon. As for how it was... to use one of your British-isms, bloody hell.” Pausing, she widened her eyes, Nina squeaking a little while flapping her hands gently. “Let’s just say twelve years on pause didn’t hamper the man’s skills any. He fucking made me come from penetration alone! No one’s ever done that to me before! Not even me and a dildo have done that to me!” 

The hand flapping and squeaking amped up, the blonde bouncing in her seat excitedly. “We love a man with decent dick game, girly! So, when am I getting to meet him? Are you bringing him to the shop soon? When are you seeing him again?” 

“I think I’ll let him settle for a little while first, before I introduce him to friends.” A sharp toothed little gnaw nibbled at her guts then, thinking about the only people so far who didn’t know about him. Her family. There was always a customary wait with meeting relatives, though, she reasoned.  

Even if Lucas was simply a musician with no dark past, she wouldn’t rush bringing him home to her mom and dad, so it was a worry for later on. “I’m seeing him again on Saturday, for the surprise get together me and Alex have arranged for him.” 

“Oh,” Nina announced, looking surprised. “Three days away, hmm? I thought you’d be welded to his hip now he’s free, you know with you both waiting for this time with all the anticipation.” 

“No, no. When you told me not to go all in with him, I did listen to you,” she stated, winking. “My life doesn’t revolve around a man, and Lucas is no different. No matter how amazing he is, and he is.”  

Her words acted as a reassuring balm to Nina’s lingering fears. While she knew she’d have to meet the man before her concern would be truly dampened (or not, but she hoped this wasn’t the case) she had to admit that her friend was giddily happy, and Lucas was very much the cause of it.  

Sometimes, an opinion over somebody just because you believe it doesn’t make it true. If only everyone could have had the same outlook as Nina Bennett.  

A/N - Did you like what you just read? If so, please reward your author with a little comment or a reblog. Your support would mean so much to me!

Next Chapter

[morganski-19]

I Think Your House is Haunted

@bylerween2023, prompt: Haunted House, rating: T

Mike remembers the first time he went over to Will’s house. They were seven and Nancy was having friends over, so he couldn’t invite over Will. Instead, he went over to Will’s. His house felt weird, but that was probably just because he wasn’t there a lot. It wasn’t until later that night he figured out why. 

Late at night is when the secrets of the house are whispered through the walls. It’s when parents have whisper arguments that turn into screaming matches. It’s when your best friend in the whole world covers his ears, squeezing his eyes shut hoping to escape it to the noise. It’s when big brothers turn on the music so loud you forget what’s going on around you, even if it’s just for a little bit. 

Ever since that night, Mike didn’t stay over at Will’s that much. Instead, he begged his mom to have a sleepover with Will in the basement. Promising to clean it up the day before and after. Do a few extra chores and take out the garbage every week. Anything to get Will out of that house, just for one night. 

They were seven, but that didn’t mean Mike couldn’t understand that houses could be haunted by something other than ghosts. He saw it in the way Will acted when his dad left their family behind. Words that cut deeper than they should, actions that made him jump. Will was perfectly safe except for the ghosts that were left behind. 

Mike was seven when he promised to protect Will from haunted houses and the ghosts that followed. He might have failed a few times down the line but that didn’t stop him from trying. Not even now. 

Now things were different. They were older, over double the age when Mike made that promise. He still kept it as best he could, but he couldn’t stop himself from slipping every once in a while. Sometimes he forgets that Will has to be protected from himself and not just other people. The things he says and the way he acts can hurt Will too. But he’s better at it now, especially since Will means so much more to him than he did back then. 

“Mike, you can not already be scared, we haven’t even walked into the house yet,” Dustin teases next to him. 

Mike blinks out of the stare at the house in front of them, the haunting view still looking back at him. “What, no. Why would I be scared?”

“Cause you’ve been standing there looking at it for like five minutes now,” Max points out. 

“You know you don’t have to go in there if you don’t want to, man,” Lucas says. 

Mike swallows, still looking at the house. Dark windows with spiderwebs hanging from the panes, fake spiders, and skeletons decorating the walls and the yard. Flashing lights of various colors emit from cracks in the doors and walls. A haunting laugh that vibrates the house with each guest that enters. 

He knows it’s fake, it’s the same thing every year. A house that is constructed to scare, filled to the brim with fake monsters and fears. It’s far less scary than anything that he’s seen that was real, but that didn’t make him not want to do this any less. 

“No, you guys want to do it, so I’ll do it,” he says, finally breaking his gaze with the house. 

“Great, then let’s get going,” Dustin says, already walking toward the house. “Can’t keep waiting for whimps to get the nerve to do it.”

Lucas smacks his arm. “Dude.” Max and El snicker beside them.

“What, it’s true.”

The group walks away to the line in front of the house, leaving Mike where he stood. He takes a deep breath, clenching his fists. Preparing himself for the fear that is about to rush through his body with every turn, every jump. Every horror that was carefully crafted to scare people or give them a good laugh, but will inadvertently haunt him more than they realize. 

“You know you really don’t have to go in,” Will says softly next to him. “We could just go do something else.”

Mike looks at Will, seeing the person he’s tried so hard to protect. “That’s not fair, you want to go in, so I’ll go in.”

“Mike, you’re scared. You don’t have to go in.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not scared. I’m fine really, let’s just go catch up with them.”

Truth is, he’s terrified. But he can’t let Will know that, can’t let his fear show. He’s not supposed to be scared. He’s supposed to be the first one on the frontlines, shielding everyone behind him from harm. Especially Will. Always Will. It was the promise he made when they were just little kids and a promise that he still keeps to this day. It’s always him in front of Will, even if the scares are fake. 

Will has already been through so much that was out of Mike’s control. Being kidnapped, possessed, and moving across the country. There was nothing that Mike could do, but he still blames himself. If he had just had his mom drive him back that night, nothing would have happened. Or even just convince her to let him stay over, it’s not like it never worked before. But he didn’t, he let the guise of safety lapse his judgment, and now Will has seen terrors beyond either of their imaginations. 

The worst day of Mike’s life was the day that he saw the fake Will body get pulled out of the quarry, because that was the day he realized he failed. Broke the promise so secret that he never told it to anyone else. His best friend was dead, and he couldn’t help but blame himself. It wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t matter. His entire purpose for five years was to protect the boy he cared so much about, and now that boy was dead. 

Even though he really wasn’t. Will was brought back, healed. He was alive. He never was really the same though. There was always something gone that could never be returned. A part of his friend died that day, and both Will and Mike had to learn to move on from that. 

Sometimes Mike thinks he never really did.

When they get to the front of the line, Mike feels Will hook a finger around his, subtle enough that no one will notice, but just enough to comfort him. “You know you really don’t have to do this,” he whispers. 

“It’s fine really,” he says with a squeeze to Will’s finger. 

“Ok, if you say so.”

With that, Mike steps foot into the house. It’s almost immediately terrible. Loud noises and bright flashing lights. Blinking slow enough that you still feel trapped in the dark but fast enough that you don’t walk into a wall. Creatures, which he knows are just people dressed up but that doesn’t matter, jumping out behind corners and chasing you down the hallway. Laughter and screams melding into one big nightmare. 

Except this nightmare he actually chose to be a part of. He had every chance to walk out. Turned around before he entered and just dealt with the stares and jeers that he was a wimp who wasn’t man enough to go through with it. He’s faced monsters the average person would never dream of seeing, so why can’t he just suck this up this one time to make Will happy.

As they turn the corner, a guy in a bloody mask and chainsaw scares them, faking sawing off another person’s arm while maniacally laughing. Will starts to laugh, pointing out how unreal it all is, reveling in the fake scare. Mike, however, grabs onto Will’s hand, squeezing it tighter than he would ever admit. But he doesn’t say anything when they pass one of the emergency exits, because Will’s enjoying it and he has to be there too. 

All Mike has ever wanted was for Will to be happy. While his judgment may have been skewed a bit more than he realized, it’s true. When he messed up, he had the gnawing feeling in his chest that would only go away until he fixed it, until he made Will smile again. It drew him in, like a moth to the flame. For the longest time he didn’t know why, but that never mattered. Until it did. 

That’s what led them here, to this. To dating his best friend and still feeling the overwhelming pressure to make sure that nothing ever happened to him. Now Will means more than he did before, but it really doesn’t at the same time. But now Mike would lose a boyfriend and a best friend all at the same time. He barely makes it past losing his best friend, he can’t lose the person he loves again. Never again. 

So he insisted on going into the house because Will wanted to. Because even though he knows that all the scares are fake and that Will would be fine going in with the rest of their friends without him, he couldn’t let that happen. Will would be in a place, out of his sight, that is so eerily close to the real horrors they went through. Bad things happened when Mike let Will out of his sight, and that wasn’t going to happen this time. Even if the rooms feel smaller than they should and the noise is buzzing around his skull. Will is here and alive, having fun. Mike can’t ruin that by being scared. 

It’s the last hallway, he only knows that because Will tells him. Tells him he just has one more hallway to get through before they leave. Both of his hands grip Will’s arm, and he can’t get them to stop. All he can think is wrong. This is wrong. He’s not supposed to act like this. He’s in the wrong spot, they’re both not supposed to be scared. That way if Will got scared, he could comfort him. If they were both scared, how was Mike supposed to comfort Will?

But there was only one last hallway to get through, so he could do it. Until that hallway starts to flicker the lights like crazy. Will and Mike’s eyes meet in fear, both all too knowing what those lights mean. Behind them, something roars. Turning, they see a man dressed in a very poorly made skin-tight outfit and a mask with only a mouth as its face. It’s nowhere near as similar, but just similar enough for shivers to be sent down Mike’s spine. 

Will reaches up to the back of his neck, almost trying to determine if what they’re seeing is real or not. Though the fear never leaves his eyes, he turns and says it’s all fake. To hell with fake. As far as Mike’s concerned, this is his worst nightmare, and he lets Will relive it. 

The creature, because it’s morphed far from just being a man in a costume in Mike’s mind, starts running after the group, leading them to the outside door. Mike grabs Will’s hand, tugging him in front of the group to the sweet relief and safety of the outdoors. Will runs alongside him, panting and turning his head back every so often to look and see if it’s still following them. It’s instinct, habit at this point. 

Even after passing through the door and back into the night illuminated by the streetlights and booth attractions, Mike doesn’t stop running. To him, the lights are all flashing and the monster is real. He’s come back for Will and he can’t let go. Can’t stop running. He keeps pulling Will with him, their fingers interlocked. Will’s calling to him, but he can’t hear it. Can’t hear anything other than the screams of his friends and the disgusting screech of the demogorgon. 

He’s back in the classroom where El disappeared. Back in the tunnels and the mall. Everywhere those creatures were chasing him, chasing Will, and he couldn’t leave. Won’t leave until he knows that he and Will are safe. Not until Will is safe. 

It isn’t until they’re deep into the woods that the clouds covering his vision start to fade. Where his legs start to slow down and the ringing in his ears stops. He can hear Will calling for him to stop, telling him to calm down, that it was all fake. Letting go of Will’s hand, he falls to the ground and leans against a tree, breath stuttering as his heart frantically keeps beating. 

“Mike, Mike,” Will comes into frame, crouching down in front of Mike and cupping his face. “Mike, are you ok?”

In an instant, Mike is back on again. “Am I ok? Are you ok?” Mike grabs Will’s face, frantically jolting it around looking for injuries. Grabbing his arms next and doing the same. “I-. I didn’t know it was going to be there. You look fine, it didn’t get you. I’m sorry, we should have never gone into that stupid house-.” 

“Mike, look at me.”

He does, swallowing as his heart thumps in his ears. Before realizing it, tears start to stream out of his eyes, blurring his vision again. “I’m sorry,” is all he says before he crumbles. 

“The hell are you sorry for, Mike? There was no way you could have known they thought of a creature like that. Probably because of the whole Hellfire thing that happened in the spring. But we’re ok, it was all fake.”

“But what if it wasn’t.” Mike looks up at him with pleading eyes. “What if it wasn’t and I lead you straight into a trap. You’d be hurt again and it’d all be my fault. It’s always my-.”

A mix between his sobs and Will pulling him into a hug cut him off. “Nothing about this was your fault. Nothing about anything was your fault.”

“But it was. I failed.”

“Failed what?” Will says, impossibly soft. 

“To protect you. I broke my promise.”

Will shushes him while running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you didn’t break anything. Just calm down, ok? Just calm down and you can tell me what you mean.”

Mike pulls Will closer, gripping him tight enough that he can hear his heartbeat. His steady, healthy, unaffected heartbeat. A heartbeat meant life, Will was ok. Mike’ll be ok. Ba-dum. He breathes in. Ba-dum. He breathes out. With each beat, his breathing calms, and his mind slows down. The tears don’t stop, but slow from a steady stream to a drizzle. 

When he emerges from the hug, Will wipes the tears from his cheeks, pressing a kiss to Mike’s forehead. Mike closes his eyes, relishing in the moment he almost didn’t have. If things had gone differently, if he had taken a misstep, Will wouldn’t be here in front of him. That constant fear, constant regret weighs on Mike’s soul, only evident by this moment. 

“Can you tell me what happened now?” Will asks softly, tucking a piece of hair behind Mike’s ear. “Or do you need more time?”

“How are you not terrified?”

“Who says I’m not? Definitely not as scared as you. But after the initial shock, I could tell it was fake.”

The absurdity of that statement shook Mike. “But that was a recreation of one of the most terrifying moments of your life. And it literally chased you down a hallway. How can you not be terrified by that?”

“I was until we left the building. But while we were running, I did what Jonathan would walk me through when I would wake up from a nightmare or have a panic attack. I named five things around me that were different from the upside down and it calmed me down. And you kept running, so I guess my concern of that took over more than the fear.”

“Ugh, this sucks.”

“I mean, yeah. Really didn’t need that flashback-”

“No I mean, I was supposed to be you.”

Will blinks at him blankly. “What?”

“I’m supposed to be the one that the concern takes over and that’s all I can think about. I protect you, always. And tonight,” he plays with the grass, avoiding Will’s eye contact, “I failed.”

“You didn’t fail. It’s not up to you to protect me.”

“But it is. I made a promise to protect you and I’ve already broken it too many times and I promised myself I wouldn’t break it again, but here we are.”

“Hey, you didn’t fail. I’m stronger now, I can take care of myself. We can look after each other now.”

Mike huffs. “But that’s not the point. The whole point is I look after you. You’ve gone through so much and you didn’t deserve a single bit of it. I couldn’t protect you a lot then, but I can now. So I promised-”

“Yeah, you keep saying that but I don’t remember doing much promising.”

“I sort of made it, to myself. The first time I stayed over at your house when your dad was still there.”

Will’s eyes soften with understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Ever since then, I promised myself that I would do anything to protect you. And then the upside down happened and I’ve been failing ever since. But, but then you became much more than a friend. A lot more. You became something I never even knew was possible and I started caring for you in a whole different way. I just wanted to keep being the one to protect you, and I couldn’t.”

“Well, you did kinda. You brought us away from the danger, even if it was fake. But still, we’re pretty far from the house now, and we’re ok. We’re safe.”

Mike laughs. “I guess we are.”

“Is this why you went into the house? I know you didn’t want to”

“Yeah, I had to protect you.”

Will exaggeratedly rolls his eyes. “It was all sweet and stuff before but you do know that I can take care of myself right. Hell, I could probably protect you more than you could protect me.”

“How dare you,” Mike gasps. “Bring my past trauma up all over again will you.”

“What, it’s true,” Will smiles. 

Mike smiles back, the pounding of his heart now subsides as he looks at his boyfriend. Alive and fine. He looks around, making sure no one is there even though they’re in the middle of the woods probably a mile from the fair, before cupping Will’s face and bringing him into a kiss. 

“How about we make a new promise, an actual one this time,” Will whispers when they break apart. 

“And what would that one be?”

“That we protect each other. Not one more than the other. Both of us looking out for each other, equally.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “I think I can deal with that.”

“Good, Because now that I know you’ve been harboring this one-sided promise, I’m going to make sure that you are looked after. You know, during every horror movie, haunted house, weird floorboard creek.”

“Yeah, go ahead. I’m a wimp, I get it.”

Will gapes. “You are not a wimp. You are very strong. And brave. Just not all the time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead make fun-”

“I was not making fun.”

“There you guys are,” Lucas’s voice calls out from where they came from. “We were looking for you.”

Dustin pops into view after fighting with a tree branch. “Some house that was. It was so lousy until that freak demogorgon came at us.”

“How did they know what it looked like,” El asks.

“Probably a DnD book,” Max adds. 

Their voices fade into the background as Mike and Will look at each other again. Will stands, extending a hand out to Mike. Taking it, he stands wiping off any stray dirt on his pants. The group walks back to the fair, arguing about which scare, other than the obvious, was the best in the house and how it wasn’t that great overall. But Mike could care less right now. Because his hand was in Will’s and that’s all that matters. They would look out for each other, which he guesses they were probably doing all along. He was just too distracted to notice it. 

[ilfildiarianna]

Io te vurria vasà – sospira la canzone,

ma prima e più di questo io ti vorrei bastare

come la gola al canto e come il coltello al pane

come la fede al santo io ti vorrei bastare.

E nessun altro abbraccio potessi tu cercare

in nessun altro odore addormentare,

io ti vorrei bastare.

Io te vurria vasà – insiste la canzone,

ma un po’ meno di questo io ti vorrei mancare,

più del fiato in salita,

più di neve a Natale,

più di benda su ferita,

più di farina e sale.

E nessun altro abbraccio potessi tu cercare

in nessun altro odore addormentare.

Io ti vorrei bastare.”

( Erri De Luca)