#MARCHAND

[nottodayjustin]

Bonus: Bruins TikTok (true that it’s the funniest one in the league but that’s only because of Ellen and the fact that Brad Marchand single-handedly carries that account on his back)

[vieuxmetiers]

Jean Dieuzaide, Le marché, Evora, Portugal, 1954.

[jswayman1]

can i request something hurt/comfort with brad marchand, maybe after the team gets knocked out?

i kneel in front of the locker you're already grieving, you turn to me; eyes haunted by the game to come. yellow has never felt so sorrowful.

IN WHICH, emotions run high pre-game, dreams hang on a knife's edge, and bonds are tested in the face of impending loss

i KNOW you requested a post-game fic, but BARE WID ME. already working on a part two for you.

2.5k words, 14k characters in all, LOTTA angst. 2023 Game 7 if that helps narrow it down for you. Yeah.

a song to listen to while reading: BEING LOVED ISN'T THE SAME AS BEING UNDERSTOOD, VINES

The arena’s cold, brisk air tingles against my skin as I step inside TD Garden. The familiar hum of fluorescent lights, the faint scent of popcorn, and the sharp, almost metallic tang of ice flood my senses, anchoring me in this moment. Tonight's Game 7 against the Florida Panthers holds a weight unlike any other game I’ve experienced.

This is my second playoff season with Brad, and the stakes have never felt higher. As the assistant captain of the Bruins, he’s shouldered immense pressure all season, trying to move past the once reckless and angry rat title he's held. Now, with the possibility of elimination looming, especially with their record this time, the atmosphere almost feels explosive with tension.

Walking through the corridors, I spot some of the other WAGs right in the tunnel. Their designer jackets, specifically made for them, and meticulously styled hair do little to hide the anxiety etched on their faces.

It’s not just about the game; it’s about what happens after. The camaraderie among us is palpable yet tinged with the growing rivalry these two teams have, we all want our partners to shine. To be the heroes, if you will; but only one team can win.

I pause near the lounge area, where a few of the wives and girlfriends have gathered. 

Mia, a jet-black-haired striking girl with an infectious laugh, waves me over. Her boyfriend, Jake, is one of the team’s wingers. We’ve bonded over the past few months, finding solace in shared experiences and the unique rhythm of hockey life.

"How are you holding up?" She asks, her voice a blend of concern and excitement. "First Game 7, right?"

"Yeah," I nod, attempting a smile. "It’s a lot to take in."

Mia’s eyes soften. "It doesn’t get easier, but you learn to ride the highs and brace for the lows. Tonight’s huge, though. The guys are feeling the pressure."

I glance around, taking in the nervous energy. "Have you seen Brad?"

Mia shakes her head. "Not since the warm-ups. He seemed focused, though. More than usual."

Before I can respond, Coach Montgomery appears, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the room. His presence is commanding, a stark reminder of the gravity of tonight’s game. I’ve only exchanged pleasantries with him a few times, but his dedication is… well, pretty undeniable. What he’s done for this team in such a short amount of time is cinema.

"Ladies," he acknowledges us with a nod, his expression a mix of determination and weariness. "It’s going to be a tough one, but we’re prepared."

As he moves past, I catch sight of Jeremy Swayman, the young goaltender. His face is a mask of concentration, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He’s the substitute tonight for Linus Ullmark, who's undoubtedly winning the Vezina, but out due to tearing his groin last game.

Jeremy has been performing well too - no doubt he's been the top backup in the league - but ever since Mia told me about his girlfriend Tori breaking up with him after three years together, he’s been struggling.

In addition, he now faces the pressure of ending the best season in NHL history and potentially losing key players Bergeron and Krejci to retirement if he fails to win this game.

I catch Jeremy's gaze for a brief moment, offering him a small, reassuring smile before he turns back to his thoughts. The weight on his shoulders is immense, and I can only imagine the whirlwind of emotions churning inside him.

I make my way over to Jeremy, hoping to give him some words of support before the game begins. As I approach, I observe how his hands are balled up into tight fists and his body is tense with nerves.

"You got this." I say softly, trying to break through his pre-game reverie.

Jeremy turns to me abruptly, his eyes widening a bit as he's pulled out of his thoughts. His face is tinged with surprise, but it's tinged with another emotion that I can't quite place.

He runs a hand through his messy hair, the brown strands sticking up and falling back around a pale, weary face. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable for a moment.

"Yeah?" he asks, voice hushed but rough from nerves.

"I mean it." I say firmly, holding his gaze. "You're an incredible goalie, and you've got this. I've seen you play. You've been the best backup in the league this season. You're ready for this."

Jeremy lets out a dry scoff, his hands clenching into even tighter fists next to him. The tension is obvious in his muscles, in the way his jaw is set and his shoulders are taut. "Pressure's on," he mutters, his voice dripping with a bitter mix of self-deprecation and nerves.

I let out a low breath, seeing how he's doubting himself already. "Pressure's always on in this league," I say quietly but with a sharp tone. But you've risen to the occasion every other time? You'll do it again tonight. I have faith in you."

He looks at me then, the doubt still in his eyes, but something else too. A flicker of vulnerability, of need for reassurance. He's fairly new, always been reserved and private from what I know about him, but I think tonight that veneer has cracked a bit.

Jeremy lets out a shaky exhale; his brow furrowed as he tries to rein in his nerves. I can see the internal struggle in his face, the battle between fear and confidence waged fiercely inside his mind.

"I don't know," he chokes out, his voice a strangled whisper. "This isn't just another game, and… -- well, I've never been the number one. They're all just… all watching. Expecting."

He looks away, his gaze going distant as he speaks, his voice wavering.

I step closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He's tall, but even standing next to him, I can sense the way he's coiled so impossibly tight, holding all the pressure in his body.

"Yes, they're watching." I say, my voice low and sure. "But you've been trained for this. You're one of the most dedicated athletes I've ever seen. You've prepared for this moment. Use it."

His eyes dart to mine, and there's a flash of something like hope in them, before it's washed away by another wave of self-doubt.

Jeremy lets out a bitter laugh, but it's interrupted by a sharp inhale, as if he's trying to hold back something bigger. Maybe tears, maybe a scream, maybe just his emotions bubbling to the surface.

"I have been preparing, and I have trained." He says, his voice cracking a little despite his effort to keep composure. "I don't think it's going to be enough."

His gaze is wide and raw, a mixture of fear and desperation looking back at me.

"Enough is subjective." I say firmly, my grip on his shoulder tightening. "Don't let yourself spiral. You are enough, Jeremy. For this team, for this game, for yourself."

Jeremy sucks in a deep breath, his body shuddering under my touch. It's like I can feel the tension in his muscles, the way he's holding himself together physically but falling apart mentally.

His eyes close for a brief moment, his lashes trembling against his skin. When he opens them again, staring straight ahead, they're still wide in fear, but there's a fire there too.

"You make it sound so simple," he mutters, his voice choked with emotion. "It's not, though. Not when everything's on the line."

I nod, understanding his struggle even if I can't relate directly. The pressure he's under is enormous, more than most people will see in their lives. I can only imagine what it feels like to have the weight of such a thing on your shoulders.

"I know." I say softly, my tone a mix of softness and steel. "But you're not alone. The team believes in you. Brad believes in you. I believe in you. You just have to believe in yourself."

He gazes at me with his mouth half-open and eyebrows slightly raised, as if he is touched by what I said, but he doesn't have a chance to speak before--

"Swayman, get over here NOW!"

Jeremy's gaze snaps towards the voice, the harsh sound of his name being called in that authoritative tone breaking the fragile moment between us. His body stiffens, and the expression of vulnerability on his face vanishes, replaced by a mask of concentration.

I step back, watching as he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. He looks every bit the professional now, but I can see the turmoil of emotions just beneath the surface.

He glances back at me for a brief moment, his eyes reflecting a mix of determination and fear, and then he does as said, walking towards Coach Montgomery.

I leave him to his thoughts before making the decision to visit Brad quickly. The game is about to start, and the anticipation is nearly suffocating. I turn to reach the locker room entrance, where the muffled sounds of last-minute strategies and pep talks drift through the door.

Before I can enter, I’m… well, intercepted by Patrice Bergeron, the captain and Brad’s best friend. His usually warm and inviting eyes are shadowed with worry. Tonight could be his last game, and the weight of that knowledge is etched into every line of his face. 

"Hey," he greets me, his voice hushed. "You doing alright?"

"Trying to be," I admit. "How’s Brad?"

"He’s focused," Patrice replies. "But… it’s tough. We all know what’s at stake. Not just the game, but the future. Especially for guys like me and Krejci."

I swallow hard, feeling the lump in my throat. "It’s not going to be the same without you."

He smiles faintly, a bittersweet expression. "That’s life, isn’t it? Constantly changing. Just make sure you’re there for him, no matter what happens."

"I will," I promise, feeling the weight of his words settle over me.

As Patrice heads back into the locker room, I linger for a moment, gathering my thoughts. This is it. The culmination of an incredible, record-breaking season, and the potential end of an era. I take a deep breath and step inside.

As I push open the door to the bustling locker room, my gaze immediately lands on Brad. He sits on a bench in a secluded corner, his head bowed and hands knotted together as if in prayer. His shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched, and my heart sinks at the sight of him in such distress.

I cautiously approach, not wanting to disturb his intense focus. As I come closer, his gaze meets mine and my heart races with conflicting emotions. In his eyes, I see a fierce determination, but also a hint of fear and uncertainty. Yet there's something else, something deeper that I can't quite decipher. My mind is torn between wanting to ease his worry and wanting to understand the turmoil within him.

"Hey," I whisper, kneeling in front of him. "How are you holding up?"

He exhales sharply, reaching out to take my hands in his. "I’m … hanging in there. Lockin' in."

His grip on my hands is firm, almost desperate, and I can feel the slight tremble of his fingers. The weight of the game, the season, and the potential end of an era is bearing down on him, and it’s almost palpable in the air between us.

“You know you’ve got this," I say, my voice steady. "You’ve been incredible all season, Brad. No matter what happens tonight, you’ve given it everything."

His fingers tighten around my hands, a silent thank you. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a small glimmer in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Despite his usual fiery personality, he looks more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him, and it’s almost disconcerting.

"I just…" he starts, pausing to collect his thoughts.

It’s… well, rare for Brad to struggle with his words, and the brief moment of hesitation speaks volumes about the intensity of his thoughts. He takes another deep breath, his gaze fixed on our intertwined hands.

 "I just don’t want to let anyone down," he continues, his voice quieter. "The team. The city. Myself. I’ve worked so damn hard to get here."

He lets go of one of my hands, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. I can’t tell if his expression is torn between hope and resignation—

"I don’t want this season to be over," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "It’s been the best damn year of hockey I’ve ever played, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Nothing’s certain."

He clenches his jaw, his shoulders tensing. The thought of the future, uncertainty looming, is clearly weighing heavily on him, adding to the already immense pressure.

I squeeze his hand, trying to offer him some comfort, some reassurance. I honestly… don’t know that words aren’t enough to ease the anxiety coursing through him, but I do my best to convey my support and understanding.

"You’ve already done so much this season, Brad. You’ve broken records, led the team to greatness. This season is already a success, no matter what happens tonight."

"It doesn’t feel like enough."

His voice is tight, filled with a mixture of disappointment and determination. The drive to win, to push further, is just a part of who he is. Anything short of victory, no matter how incredible the season, will never be enough for him. "I want the fucking cup."

There’s no need to sugarcoat the truth. Winning the cup is the ultimate goal for every player in the league, and Brad has tasted its sweetness before. The hunger for that feeling, the need to experience it again, fuels his every move.

"I know you do." I sigh softly, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles soothingly. "And you know this team can do it. We all believe in you."

As the door creaks open, I see that there are only three of us in the room: myself, Brad, and now Patrice walking towards us. No one says anything, but when he reaches us, Patrice extends his gloved hand for Brad to take.

Brad looks up at Patrice, his gaze meeting his best friend’s steady one. For a moment, they share a silent exchange, the kind that only comes from years of understanding between brothers.

Brad reaches out and takes Patrice’s hand, holding on like he’d fall if let go. Their bond is evident in the subtle expressions they share, as if silently preparing themselves for the game ahead.

Patrice pulls him to his feet, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. They exchange a brief nod, a silent pact between teammates, friends, and brothers. The years they spent together, the memories they share, it’s all coming to a head on this one night.

Patrice claps him on the shoulder, a gesture of reassurance and support. "It's alright, man."

Brad lets out a deep breath, his expression a mix of determination and nervous energy. He gives Patrice a brief, sharp nod before turning back to me, meeting my gaze with a hint of vulnerability beneath his usual swagger.

I give his hand one last squeeze, wishing I could say more, do more, to ease his tension. "Go out there and play like only you can." I murmur, my voice soft and earnest. "We’re all counting on you."

[ridenwithbiden]

2ND GOLD MEDAL OF THE DAY

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 30: Two Heads Are Better Than One

Esredes' heart dropped when he approached the remains of the village. The blizzard and hail combination last night had left more damage than he anticipated- roofs were caved in or full of holes, the very foundations were blown to the side or partially collapsed, and while it looked like no one had died, they were all huddled around fires shivering. Everything looked absolutely and utterly miserable.

"We're going to have to put aside the week to repair this," Esredes said to the little group he'd brought along. He'd thought it would be enough just to have a trusted circle of Mythirel, Marcelloix, Heilyn, Vette, Fiachna- whose sister Niamh had also decided to come, to which Esredes only reclutantly allowed- and Marchand was there too, he supposed. The man had technically joined them, and he might make himself useful on this task. But even despite these two uneasy allowances, as Esredes surveyed the extent of the damage done to the village their movement was taking shelter in, it was not near enough to make quick progress. Oh, they would all be suffering the entire week.

"Maybe I can convince a couple more people to come out here," Esredes said with a sigh as he tapped his linkpearl. Elouan was not a member of the movement proper, but he trusted him with this affair at the least. He explained the situation over the pearl to him and luckily, just as Esredes anticipated, he agreed to come right over and help.

"Let's get to work in the meantime," Esredes said. "I'll call over as many of the movement as available as the week goes on. With luck, we'll have this all functional by the end of the week." For now, he sent Fiachna off on that messenger task and got to work with the rest of the crew. Marchand made himself useful hauling the supplies and materials they did manage to bring along as well as those too injured to move around properly, while Heilyn got to work repairing the damage, even though it quickly became apparent it wouldn't be enough. Vette kept the campfires roaring and otherwise provided heat to the villagers who weren't lucky enough to be blooded with fire, melting away ice and snow that was in the way of them making any progress. Esredes tag-teamed with Marcelloix to haul and assist with the basic repairing he could do, transforming frequently to help hold things into place for others to nail down or get people and materials onto the roof.

The little group worked away for a couple hours, and had barely made a dent in the work. A couple little houses looked in better shape now, but far from finished, the debris from the storm to clear out seemed endless, and they didn't have nearly enough materials to keep at this forever. That's when Esredes heard his name with a familiar cheerful voice, and when he turned around his heart rose and dropped in equal measure. Elouan had showed up, as promised, along with Fiachna making his return. But with him he'd brought an entire crowd of others. Andromeda, Mercer, Aloysia, Ryousei, Majalis, Leigh, Alvere, Fuyu, Kainen, Azarah, Alastor, and for some reason even Ross who Esredes barely remembered the name of were all there too- along with an apparent delivery of more supplies, with a note from Adel saying they were from an anonymous wealthy source. And to all of it, Esredes blinked several times in a row. This village was confidential. It was private. The last thing these people needed was for their peace and solitude away from Ishgard to be disturbed by outsiders who could come back and mean them harm- No, no. Esredes, for once, quieted the thought as it came. These were not loyalists or outsiders, these were his trusted friends and associates that had come to help. A smile came to his face, and with it, the work continued.

Andromeda was familiar with handling housing in the cold- Shiva bless her country Garlean origins- and immediately helped lead and assist the rest in where to repair and bolster the damage done to the buildings, as well as having come with more materials of her own, and putting that magitek of hers to heal the injured with Fuyu. Mercer was good with lifting the heavier things and hammering, but he also got to work fixing broken metal. Meanwhile, Ryousei was on watch duty, surveying ahead to be sure the area was clear of any actually unwanted visitors who could try and bring the entire place down. You never knew even in this post-war world. Majalis and Leigh were focused on distributing supplies to ensure everyone remained warm and fed, Leigh coming with jarred foods and spare blankets, and once that was done Majalis moved on to assist Fiachna and Niamh with repairs. Kainen used his Dragoon jumping to more easily move materials around. Azarah and Vette both assisted Aloysia and Rossignol with getting a pot of soup going for everyone, a combination Esredes couldn't voice his protest to until it was too late. Aloysia insisted the vague, mushy concoction they had made tasted good, but Esredes wasn't about to trust it for a moment. Fortunately, Vette, Alvere, and Leigh came to the rescue, adding in the right ingredients to make it palatable.

By the time everyone settled down with the soup, the progress had made leaps and bounds compared to where it was at before backup arrived. And with the promise of more people coming tomorrow thanks to Fiachna's messaging, it looked like they might have this village fully functional again by the end of the week indeed. People settled in, villager and helper talking to one another around bowls of soup, exchanging ideas and learning about each other, and with the multiple sources of fire the cold Coerthan night felt warmer than it would have all alone. Esredes closed his eyes. All of this reminded him of when they had worked on the Firmament together- but that had been everyone, and for the whole good of Ishgard. This? Coming out to help him and his so far away from the center of Coerthas? He couldn't help but smile, and something in his active mind slowed down. Perhaps he needed too many reminders that the people around him were to be loved and trusted, but moments like this kept his hope alive for the future. He didn't dare think that someday soon everything would end, and this could be the future he lived in. Yet ever since the end of the world came and went, he'd also felt like something had really changed, and this sight was yet more proof of it. The future, as always, remained cloudy, murky, and uncertain- but as the group settled in for the night to get back to work tomorrow, everything felt at ease in the world.

[roughridingrednecks]

Marchand

[dropboxofcuriosities]

Momies, Luxor, 1870.

[detournementsmineurs]

Léon Marchand à la remise des Légions d'Honneur lors de “La Fête des Champions” à Paris, septembre 2024.

[holmesfollowshockey]

My jersey arrived!!

[parttimesarah]

[karlkapri]

― “When a Man Hasn’t Been Kissed” by Jeffrey McDaniel

[bostonflavor]

is anyone going to this at Thayer tomorrow? it lowkey sounds so fun.

Swayman as a coach is my favorite 😂

[vieuxmetiers]

Dorothy Bohm, Marchand, Jérusalem, 1970.

[weissengel]

[wormss-inc]

assorted marsaiah 😍

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 9: Lend an Ear

It was a cold night out in Empyreum as Esredes began to make his way home from a bar outing with friends, smiling to himself as the idle joy of the evening stayed with him through the streets. The wind was blowing and the snow was coming down lightly, but though he drew his coat closer to himself, Esredes didn't particularly feel the cold seep through him.

That was, until a familiar sight made him stop in his tracks. Sitting on a bench just up ahead was a hunched over figure Esredes had come to recognize anywhere by now. Another Elezen man who held his head in his hand while covering his face, both elbows on his knees and a flash hanging from fingers that threatened to let go of it entirely. His eyes were unfocused on the stone in the ground, and most tellingly, he didn't have a coat on. The sight felt so uncannily like history repeating itself to the harrier, that he couldn't help but be seized by momentary panic, fast-walking over to stand directly in front of the bench. "...Alvere?" His coworker didn't even look up at him. His gaze fixated on his boots and his face twisted into a petulant frown. "What." That single word was slurred, and his voice came out drier than normal, barely audible even more than usual. Perhaps Esredes had a complicated relationship with the Inquisitor and unresolved feelings, but each time he saw him like this, in these pathetic and vulnerable states, all he could feel was his heart aching and the protective urge to correct the problem take hold of him. "Alvere." He put his hands in between his legs and bent down to try and make eye contact. "It's snowing. Do you have a place to sleep tonight." Alvere still didn't look at him. He looked away to the right. "Yes." "So you're not out here again because you're homeless. I was worried for a moment. ...Something else just as bad must've happened." "Not homeless yet. Maybe. Don't know." He shrugged only one shoulder, shaking off the snow from it. "...Good eyes." The sarcasm dripped from his voice.' "What do you mean don't know." Esredes sighed. "You'll probably go to your office again, but worst case scenario, you already know where I live. What's going on, Macaire?" Ever since Alvere had told him his middle name, Esredes felt like using it in select circumstances. "Do not call me that." His eye finally snapped up to Esredes as he snarled that out, his pupil wide and colored by the red around it. "Why." "Why what?" "Why do you care?" The man continued to slur out, the copper in his mouth more than pungent from Esredes' relative distance. "What confessions have you?" Spoken like a true Inquisitor, before he looked to the flask and took another drink. Esredes opted to watch him do so for a moment, letting the air linger in silence. "Because you do." He said. "And because she did, but that wasn't enough by itself."

He took a seat next to Alvere on the bench. "You look like you've aged twenty years in one night. Talk to me. Tell me something." "Something." He said with a bitter edge, smushing his head against his cheek in the least elegant fashion. Esredes smiled a little, but Alvere continued. ".... Told you once, I envy you. Meant it. Would trade places in a heartbeat, if you wouldn't go nuts as an Inquisitor." Esredes glanced off at the darkened sky. He let Alvere's words linger over him for a long moment, stewing like in a pot of boiling water.  "...I don't blame you." He finally said. "Everything I have is going to wither and leave me to die alone just the same. But witnessing a rose's beauty even in its short life isn't fun. And I know you'd take the hell of the shadows for what it's worth in stride." He looked back to him. "Why do you feel lonely again, Alvere?" ".... I tried to make buuz. Wanted to make it. Share it. Liivi taught me." His lips wobbled, his shoulders curved in, and he sunk. "That's the uh... the dumplings, right? Like the noodle place had." Alvere nodded his head vigorously. "Sounds delicious. What happened?" Esredes scoots a little closer, tilting his head at him. "Made them. Not perfect, but good. Good filling. But... no one tells you, your house isn't yours. Kitchen isn't yours. Ruining people's night because cooking's their job, and you wanna make buuz." He gripped that flask tight. "I didn't get to eat them." Esredes squinted. "...Someone got upset you wanted to make food for people?" Alvere nodded, wordlessly. "That's... you make food all the time. That's just what you do. That's your thing. One of your things. A lot of people cook. You do it because you love it. It doesn't matter whose job it is." "Her kitchen. Not mine." Alvere's jaw tightened, and he grinded his teeth again. "...I got mad. Forgot. Called petulant." He nodded vigorously again, staring at Esredes with a look bordering on devastation. "It was one night. Just wanted buuz. But she- claimed she could make them better. Because, paramour. Maybe she could, but not mine. Liivi made those. Showed me. Liivi might be dead and that is all I have. Buuz. I didn't get to eat them."

A fat tear fell from Alvere's eye. Esredes' expression grew into an ever more concerned frown, and there it was. That ache in the heart. That natural pulsation which longed for that the world said wasn't allowed to be. "...That's just baffling." He offered to his words. "I don't cook. I don't know shit about cooking. And even I can tell how much cooking means to people who do it. Two people don't make a dish the same way, regardless of quality." He inched closer to Alvere. "...Tell me about Liivi?" "Xaela. Good warrior. Was Arliana's bedwarmer, though, never told him that. He loved her. She didn't." He frowned, looking down. "First friend, after... everything. Then he went home, after Arliana. Said he'd come back." "And he never did." "Liivi does not lie." "I don't know much about the ways of Xaela. Maybe he has a lot of tribal obligations on top of trying to process her wickedness. He could be dead, but that's also not necessarily the only explanation. A lot of dead people in my life end up showing back up in the strangest ways." "Mhmn." Alvere bowed his head, staring at the flask. And then, he let it go, and it fell into the snow. "Always make an extra buuz. Even if it goes to waste. Wanted Majalis and-" His breath caught. "...Vallenaux. Wanted them to try it. Was gonna spar him. Owe him one. After dinner. I was hungry." "Why didn't you get to eat it? Alvere, have you eaten...?" "Not hungry." "Just please try to get something in before the end of the night?" Alvere didn't answer him. "Or else I'll draw a shitty portrait and hang it in your window?" Esredes smiled. That got a snort out of the other man, followed by a hacked-out laugh. "Scare you?" Had it scared Esredes, the war-torn man, to see a painting of Alvere in his All Saints costume hanging outside his window? "You can't prove anything." "Heh." Alvere lifted a hand to his throat, massaging it. "It scared you." "How much gil did you spend on painting yourself in a costume, Alvere."

His brow knit together at the question. ".....Don't remember. Got plenty of it." His smile fell away. "...too much." A tightness thinned his lips, and his hand fell away from his throat. Esredes' smile dropped. "...Alvere?" Alvere was staring at the ground again, his fingers touching the missing finger on his hand and then digging into it. "Do I look like a Lord? Lords do that. Drop gil on a prank. Too much gil." "Alvere, I brought three friends and myself to an overpriced seafood opening and got shitfaced drunk. I'm making a point about how much -effort- you put into that." "Wanna be shitfaced drunk. Just normal drunk, though. Hard to sober up from shitfaced, and Laudine will worry." "I'd rather you don't wake up with me sleeping on the futon like I had to experience. So let's pride your self control, all right? Majalis and..." He hesitated. "Majalis is a very flexible person, from what I've seen of him. I think he'll understand." "Not drunk because of Majalis. Like Majalis. Though waiting." "What?" "Hmn?" "Though waiting on what?" "Oh. For him to hurt too. Or leave. Or both." "Ah. I see." Esredes looks out at the street, sighing. "...Yeah. I know that feeling all too well. It's the worst, isn't it?" "Mmn. Tell you, they don't wanna hurt you. Knowing it will." His lip began to wobble once more, and his face tightened up. "Im so tired." "You should be. One thing I notice in the process of being left constantly is, it's not always you. People who hurt cut themselves off from everyone but make you out to be the problem when you're not. And I know it's not, that simple, with people like us. But... you do learn to at least better spot, when it's a transaction and when someone actually sees you. Even if they can't see all of it." Alvere's expression shifted, and he wrapped his arms around himself. "...It hurts." He said it so softly with his ruined voice. "But my hurt doesn't matter." Once more, Esredes felt that painful, hurting ache. "...I think it matters." He said. "Why do we talk to each other instead of trying to kill each other, Alvere? How did all of that start?" "Dunno. Still think you'd try to kill me, so. Dunno." "It's because you were visibly hurting." Esredes said. "You were -feeling-. You were being a person. You were being more than you were allowed to be. And that had significant meaning. It's something I look for, to figure out who people really are." "... I don't get it." "I'm trying to say that was the point you demonstrated being human. By hurting. There were other, smaller ways before- but it was significant. It's easier to connect to peoples' fabrics if you know how they hurt. ...In the emotional sense, I mean." "... I hurt a lot." Alvere was somehow the stupidest and most intelligent person in one. Even drunk. "You do. Mutually. We both know it's all the worst for people like us. We've said so many times by now. We couldn't have come to that understanding if you didn't hurt." Alvere's gaze went to the ground, and his arms tightened further around himself. "...wish it'd stop. I try. I try and try and try and it's never enough. Lied to. Mocked. Bullied. Feared. Hated. Sick of it. Tired." "I hear you. It's been like this your whole damn life, and it never stops. It just keeps changing form. And you're allowed to accept, that it feels like gods-damned shit. But for what it's worth, I know you're trying." I care about you. I hate to admit it, but I do. "You don't always get it right, but you have grown. So much. From each mistake. In a way that I personally find... hopeful. Hopeful on a scale that extends beyond you." "Don't say that." Alvere bowed his head. "I will fail you." "Why do you think so?" "Always do. How it goes. Im used, or, I fail them and they leave. Expectations too high. Failed as a Lord. Failed as a lowborn. Knight. Only good at being an Inquisitor. What has that earned me?" He gestured out ahead of them. "Lies. Lies, and lies, and shit."

Esredes squinted. Oh no. He suddenly knew what this was about, and it wasn't just buuz. "...What happened to Majalis and Vallenaux? After this incident?" Alvere opened his mouth to talk, but abruptly snapped his jaw shut. "Did they just... leave?" "... yes. Met with Vallenaux, later. Or earlier. Don't know. Later than buuz. Before," he gestured to the flask still lying in the snow. "Did something happen?" Alvere just pressed his lips together. "...I see. You had the same reaction." Alvere just frowned.  "I can't bring myself to like that man. He is driven by impulse. I have told him, time and time again, to think, to stop making everything about himself, to stop getting people hurt. And that was so long ago now, and yet, nothing has changed. Nothing. And constantly crying and apologizing won't fix the cycle being so endless." Alvere looked away. ".... him and Reinette. Apologies, but not for me. His hurt." "He got emotional, didn't he? Rash, and emotional, and he cried and said it was about you, but it was about him and what -he's- been through?" "....Not entirely." He stared down at the ground. "....Confessional. After seeing the buuz thing. Told me he did not wish to hurt me. Lies." Alvere's shoulders sagged again, his expression haggard, worn, and far too old for his years. "Always." "He told me too." Esredes offered. "You're not alone on how this one feels." Alvere shot Esredes a look immediately. "You knew?" "I tried to ask him a couple simple questions. And he confessed. And I tried to tell him about all the people who were being hurt by this. But does he truly listen? No." No, of course not. Why would he listen? A man who denounced Esredes years ago suddenly wanted to talk to him again, as if he didn't know who he was, and he turns out to be a fake. A random man from the Shroud impersonating the original who died a while ago. Alvere's entire expression crumbled. "I trusted him." The words came out softly. "Was gonna make buuz for him. A friend. My friend." Next came a choked sound, clawing its way out of his throat. "He knew- he knew what happened. Told me anyway. Couldn't... couldn't keep it for one more day. Then didn't wanna hurt me? Didn't want to hurt me?" His laugh was a horrible, choking sound, and he buried his face in his hands. The sight made Esredes frown. This wasn't the first time he'd seen Alvere vulnerable, of course. The last time he'd sat out on a bench like this, he had been kicked out of a house. There was the time he told Alvere his beloved had seen the best in him even after finding out his true, shadow Inquisitorial nature- that had made him truly break the first time. And just as he did those times and more, here he stayed, trying to find the right words to say to his drunken coworker. "...Yeah." He settled on. "Complete bullshit. That's all he's full of. Bullshit. He's some unknown anomaly from elsewhere choosing to be someone he isn't. There is nothing to him. There can't be. And for that, I can't feel bad for what happens to him. He's nothing. And it's not fair you have to suffer for your trust like that. Not at all." Esredes reached a hand out... and lightly patted his shoulder. Alvere let out a sound like a sob and leaned into the touch slightly, his frame trembling.  "Not nothing. Was a friend." He dug through his hair, tugging at the strands. "It hurts. Every time." Esredes went ahead and rested the hand on Alvere's shoulder, to which the man leaned in harder.  "...You're allowed to just let it hurt." He said next. "Who wouldn't? I didn't like him, so it didn't hurt as much as it did piss me off. But it hurt in a very different way, instead." He let out a low and pained sound from deep within his chest. "I can't. If anyone else... petulant. Childish."

Esredes moved his other hand to Alvere's far shoulder and gently pulled him into a lean against himself, looking out at the buildings of Empyreum as the man slumped into the half-embrace without hesitation. "We're not operating by the rest of the world's rules in this moment." He said. "We both know what we are. Forget about everyone else. Just be, for a while. Whoever Alvere is, be him." Alvere was still digging his fingers into his hair, face unseen. "I don't-" he tried to say, but his voice cracked and he fell silent. It lingered over both of them for several moments before the word could be forced out. "-Know." "I figured you don't." Esredes said. "In a lot of ways, I don't really know who Esredes is either. If he really exists, if he died with that knight, so on. It's hard to figure out when so many pieces of you die and haunt you, others get smashed together or painted over for everyone's viewing pleasure." He paused for a brief moment. "I don't imagine Alvere is the man you keep mourning. But I don't think he's all those shards of glass people stabbed you with and embedded into your skin, exactly, either. He's still forming a mirror out of shards of glass, for now. But he's trying to form, and that counts for something." Esredes patted his shoulder twice, watching as Alvere's body shook and shivered. A pained sound came out of him like that of someone sliding a knife into his belly. "I cannot bear it," he said. "I sympathize." Esredes said. "For as fucked up as I am, I don't know what it's like to go through what you did." He patted his shoulder some more as he spoke. "I don't truly change. You... hold on to some things, no matter what. And by gods, it's not an easy fight. Especially alone. But I've said it before and I've said it again. By the gods, I want you to win, Alvere. I desperately want you to be strong enough, in the end. So, I mean it. Just feel. Don't think too hard about it." "Stay." The word was barely audible from the other man at this point. "Please." "I'm not leaving." Esredes held Alvere a little tighter. "I will stay right here, until you want me to take you home. All right?" With a nod, Alvere leaned into that partial embrace and fell completely silent, his hands still covered his face. Something told Esredes he wouldn't get to see it again tonight.

But he made a promise to him, and he kept it. He stayed with his shivering coworker until he could manage to get him up from the bench, retrieving his flask in the process. Since that night, neither had spoken of it again since. Esredes wasn't sure how much of it Alvere remembered at all, or if he'd truly registered any of his words- but he didn't try and ask, either. He'd simply opted to leave that moment at its place in time.

Perhaps they were a harrier and an Inquisitor, even if they had both once been Temple Knights. Perhaps they fought, and argued, and yelled at each other, threatened to leave only to find neither could, and found some new understanding in the hesitation. But each and every time the other showed themselves like this, all of it washed away and didn't matter.

They always stayed with each other, in that unspoken, small world shared between the monsters the world shunned away. That, at least, they had between each other, and always would, as long as they kept trying to make things work.