#actually I could recommend Trickle's cover of Lower

[anonymous-cupcakea03]

nonono you're so right RAD DOGS is one of my absolute faves and is actually the start of when i started liking Touya and Akito a bunch <3 <3

Do you guys have Icedrop yet??? It's an MMJ original. that one's suuuuper cute. i love it. tenshi no clover is good too <3 that one had to grow on me a bit

uhh you guys have Cinema. i played that event. Cinema my beloved. AND BEAT EATER. God Beat Eater beloved. and TONDEMO-WONDERZ. and showtime ruler. rip the rui event. all of niigo's songs slap tbh so i do not have a fave to toss at you... umm and you guys have Ryusei no Pulse which is L/N. still my favorite L/N song to date.

i literally have no idea what's on EN anymore despite leaving so recently sdkhgsd lemme know if you ever come over to JP tho <3

We do have Icedrop! I FC'd it so quickly hkahdjs Airi is probably my 2nd fave MMJ character. Tenshi no clover was an instant hit for me tho that was probably because I was already such a huge fan of Minori and her event really resonated with me so the song just added to that (for reasons I need Aira's va to cover it hkahdjs)

RIP the Rui event (>_<) I wish we at least got the outfits too I was looking forward to them. At least we have the song! I legit have almost all the alt covers for Cinema, Beat Eater (god Kohane's vocals are so good), TONDEMO-WONDERZ and Showtime. Literally top tier songs; Cinema is what got me hooked on Akito's vocals (and his character as a whole) because a lot of the other covers weren't really doing him justice imo. TONDEMO is such a silly goofy song and Tsukasa's alt cover is just as silly goofy and I love it it fits him so well.

EN's been a wild ride so far and I've been a little on and off it occasionally because I'm juggling 3 different gacha games (Project Sekai, TWST, and now Enstars) but I might come over to JP if I really want the showtime cards hkahdjs

[nevertheless-moving]

Star Wars AU #20: MacenJar AU

Inspired by this meme and with permission from @simpskywalker

This au is dedicated to everyone who told me that this concept ‘gave them a headache’ or ‘psychic damage’. Especially that special someone who begged me to ‘please stop’ because ‘i hate this, i hate this so much’ and told me ‘please don’t say more words about this.’

Crack Lies Ahead, enough to consume a man. I have spoken.

“Ani. Ani. Anakin Skywalker.”

“Hmm?” The dulcet sounds of Padme calling his name dragged Anakin from sleep against his will. 

“Anakin, you have to get up.”

He groaned, rolling over. “...here’s my face...I’ll...be awake in a second...just sit down...I’m awake...”

“No, Anakin you have to leave, remember. You have a 5 AM take-off scheduled, and you made me promise I would get you up early this time, come on.”

She cruelly yanked the covers away. He gasped in betrayal. 

“My own wife...how could you.”

“Anakin if you’re not out of bed in the next 30 seconds the next time you beg to stay the night because ‘you can get up early, you swear’ I am kicking you out before anyone sits anywhere near anyone’s face, do you understand.”

He sat bolt upright and stumbled out of bed. “Ok, Ok, I’m up I- Padme!”

“Yes?” She asked sweetly, brushing her hair at the vanity. 

“It’s 3 AM!”

“Yes I know, you were going to stop at that bakery I recommended, remember?”

“You woke me up an hour and half early so I could stop at a bakery,” he asked, disbelieving.

“Yes, Anakin, it was your idea. It was going to be your cover, in case anyone wondered what you were doing in the building.”

“That is-” before he could call it the stupidest idea he had ever heard, the memory of promising Padme that staying the night was a good idea because it would facilitate his cunning ruse (he was distracted, ok? Padme was wearing a lot of layers) came rushing back.

“-right,” he finished lamely.

Padme just hummed and began braiding in her cosmetic forcefields. 

Anakin managed to stretch, complete his morning refresher run, and arrange his robes in a suitably decorous fashion by the time Padme had established the base layer of her hairstyle for the day.

A quick kiss- no goodbye, it hurt too much to say goodbyes in war - and Anakin was out the door. 

He idly scratched his chin, vacantly looking out the lift and vaguely considering growing a beard. The pre-dawn view was quickly replaced by metal walls as the ride dropped below the skyline.

The transparisteel pod began to slow scarcely one third of the way down. Anakin suppressed a groan and tried to arrange his expression in Jedi-stoic manner, hoping that whoever got in the lift with him would be too intimidated by seeing a Jedi close-up to think about what they were doing in a Senatorial Apartment building at 3:15 in the morning. If they ask, I’m visiting the famous Bebbisun Bakery. Bennison? BELLASAN. I’m visiting the Bellasan Bakery.

Actually, anyone getting into the elevator this early was probably also doing the walk of shame so it’s probably fi-KRIFFING SITH SPIT THAT’S

“Master Windu!” Anakin cleared his throat, trying to lower his voice an octave. “Good- Good Morning!”

Windu’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Ah. Knight Skywalker. Good morning to you as well,” he replied, stepping in the elevator, doors closing behind.

The lift descended as Anakin’s heart rate skyrocketed. This was it. Windu had to be here for Anakin. What other possible explanation could there be? WHY WASN’T HE SAYING ANYTHING?

Wait.

What other possible explanation...could...why wasn’t he saying ANYTHING?

Anakin scrutinized Master Windu out of the corner of his eye. Were those...the same robes he was wearing yesterday? They looked like the same robes but then again...pretty much all robes looked the same so this was probably a stupid way to figure things out. Fuck, it was too early for this.

Unsurprisingly, he couldn’t get a sense of the Master’s surface emotions. But his underlying aura seemed...happy? Typically Windu's serene presence had a tinge of righteous fury (something that had frightened him back when he was a child). But now that ever present vaapad edge was... softened? Anakin wracked his tired brain for a more reasonable explanation than- than the obvious but obviously impossible. He had to projecting. Right? Then again...couplings weren’t forbidden (even if Anakin couldn’t quite understand how people enjoyed just- having sex without any attachment).

The corners of Anakin’s lips twitched. The Master of the Order. Getting laid. Master Windu. In the Senatorial apartments. Mace Windu. What level had he gotten on? Above aides...diplomats probably. Should he ask? Force, this was too good- he couldn’t not ask.

Windu stared at him cooly and the knight instantly sobered. What was he thinking? Windu was obviously trying to trick him! If he said anything, Windu would turn it against him! Well, he wouldn’t be fooled so easily. Anakin spent the next several levels of descent staring forward, determined not to be the one to break the silence. 

He was so focused that he didn’t notice the lift slowing prematurely again until the doors opened; an elderly Rodian hobbled in. The two Jedi moved even further apart to allow the man some space.  The lift closed and newcomer glanced at the humans curiously. 

“Aren’t you Jedi? What are two Jedi doing here so early?”

“Bakery,” Mace and Anakin responded in unison, heads snapping to stare at the other in surprise.

The Rodian chuckled. “Oh, that Bellasan place, right?”

“Yes,” Windu replied smoothly. “They have a famously unique caf blend.”

“And you can’t get Sweesonberry rolls anywhere else,” Anakin added quickly, not letting the opportunity to firm up his cover go to waste.

“You mammals and your carbohydrates,” The elderly reptilian clucked, bemused.

Knight Skywalker and Master Windu exchanged wary looks. The door pinged open on level 4848. 

“Enjoy!” the overly entertained Rodian called out as they stepped out from the closing doors.

Anakin cleared his throat. “After you, Master Windu,” he said politely. CHECKMATE FUCKER.

But Windu just nodded serenely, striding confidently ahead, past the checkpoints and into the attached upper-crust market. After a very short walk, Anakin found himself in line behind Mace Windu at a pastry shop in the basement of his wife’s apartment building.

Anakin blearily thought that sentence through again, then subtly pinched the inside of his arm.

Nope, he was awake.

Every second that passed Anakin had to fight the steadily increasing urge to blurt out something stupid, and possibly incriminating, if not both. Just say something bland! Nothing about why they’re both here so early. Nothing about coming here before. Something casual.

“Smells good,” Anakin said.

Nailed it!

“Indeed,” Mace replied.

I’m a genius! He actually thinks I’m here for the bakery! He’s never going to suspect a thing! He was probably here for some boring pre-dawn meeting, and now I’ve got the perfect excuse to come visit Padme whenever! I can probably start sneaking off more often, I’ve just got to remember to bring back a pasty or something. And he can’t even say shit about un-Jedi like consumption!

“Skywalker-”

Oh no. Please be about the bakery. Pleasebeaboutthe

“Believe me when I tell you that I’d rather not ask-”

Oh NO. THIS ISN’T GOING TO BE ABOUT THE BAKERY. I’M AN IDIOT.

“-But did you fly here in a temple speeder?”

Cold sweat started to trickle down Anakin’s back as they shuffled forward automatically in the surprisingly long queue. Guess that’s why Padme woke me up so early.

“Knight Skywalker? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, Master Windu, sorry- I was, uh, distracted by the specials board. I, um, have my own hoverbike. Built it myself. No temple resources involved.”

“Sounds...distinctive.” Windu’s tone seemed neutral, but the way he pinched the bridge of his nose was obviously irritated. They stepped forward again. Why are so many people at this bakery so early? Guess we’re far enough down that day/night cycles don’t matter so much. Oh kriff, he’s massaging his temples now. Why is he mad about the bike? Is he going to ask where I landed it? Fuck.

Anakin swallowed the lump in his throat. “I- I thought it would be better to take personal property. Since this isn’t exactly order business.”

“That’s very responsible of you. Such...separation of personal from professional is an important skill for a Jedi.” 

The trickle of sweat down his spine increased. The Chosen One discretely wiped his sweaty palms on the inside of his sleeves and prayed that his outer robe was hiding any growing pit stains. 

Are we...actually talking about this? Is he going to admit to having an affair? Is he going to tell me to keep this quiet? I CAN BARELY KEEP MY OWN RELATIONSHIP SECRET! Does he know about Padme? Does he know we’re married? Is this conversation still about the bakery visit? Is HE married?

“However...such a vehicle might not be the most discrete. And discretion is also an important skill.”

Is he giving me permission to use the temple landspeeders to visit padme? Is he telling me to take the bus? WAIT! IS THIS A METAPHOR? Is he telling me to come here less? Is this still about the bakery? Did I actually check that I wasn’t still asleep or did I just dream that I checked?

“Do you understand, Knight Skywalker”

“I- uhh. I mean- well, ummm- OH look, it’s your turn to order!”

Master Windu stepped up to the counter. 

“Hello, again! Same as last time?”

OH FORCE GODS HE’S A REGULAR. THIS IS IT. I’M NEVER GOING TO GET TO SEE OBI-WAN OR ASHOKA AGAIN AND PADME’S CAREER IS GOING TO BE RUINED AND

“The same blend please, but please add on one of your Sweesonberry rolls- a friend recommended them.”

...Did Mace Windu just call me his friend?

“Excellent choice! Your friend has good taste!”

Mace Windu stepped to the side and Anakin Skywalker stepped up. “...I’ll have what he had.” 

A minute or two later, they were walking back to the lift, matching disposamugs and flimsibags in hand. 

To try and delay the inevitable, the pale and now very sweaty young Jedi took a sip of caf. He raised both brows involuntary. “This is...really good. Holy kriff. I don’t usually drink caf for the flavor but...wow.”

“Worth the trip?” Windu asked. Anakin choked a little but successfully managed to swallow. He took another sip to avoid answering. 

Windu took a bite of his roll, making a small noise of appreciation, “The pastry is also excellent. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth but this is remarkably smooth...I can’t say I’ve ever had anything quite like it.”

“Floral, right?” Anakin said, grinning into his cup. 

“Yes, that’s a good description.” Ha! I told Padme I was paying attention.

They drank companionably as the lift indicator dinged closer. 

“Skywalker...you’re parked on 4970, right?”

The knight nodded, too afraid to speak. The force seemed to swirl at the precipice of something. 

The Master sighed. “Look- I’ve got an unregistered van- this one time only, stow the speeder, and I’ll give you a ride back. If you’re visiting the bakery in the future- please take something with a closed cab. Last thing we need is the tabloids wondering where you’re going...”

Anakin nodded again, more eagerly again. He was practically being given permission to visit Padme! That was totally worth an excruciatingly awkward flight back to the temple! He just had to chew slowly so he couldn’t blurt out anything marriage related! He was a genius!

The lift opened.

“Jar-Jar!” Anakin said, surprised and pleased. “Wow, are you also here for the bakery? This place really is popular!”

“Ani! Little Ani! Wassa you doin here?” Jar-Jar looked around wildly, then stumbled out, foot catching at the gap. Windu darted forward and effortlessly saved the Gungan before he hit the floor, while Anakin stuck his arm forward to catch the closing door.

“Bakery, Jar Jar!” he said as he stepped inside. “I’d love to talk, but we’ve actually got to get back to the temple!”

Windu struggled to untangle himself from Jar-Jar, who was being particularly unhelpful about it, even for him. Wow he’s even clingier than usual this early in the morning. It’s nice how patient Master Windu is being; I feel like even Obi-Wan can be too hard on Jar-Jar sometimes.

“Actually Skywalker, why don’t you go on ahead and stow the bike- I just remembered I meant to pick something up for Council; I won’t take long.”

“Uh. Alright,” Anakin said, catching the keys. I guess I can’t really be late if I arrive with Master Windu.

“Ossa no!” Jar-Jar exclaimed sadly. “I was justa saying to Macey lassa night thatsa I missed talkin wit little Ani!”

Anakin smiled reassuringly as the lift began to close. “Don’t worry Jar-Jar! We’ll- catch uh-HOLD ON did you say LAST NIGHT?!”

Mace’s eyes closed in resignation as the door shut on the pair, Jar-Jar still tangled around the Jedi.

AND MACE WASN’T EVEN TRYING TO PUT HIM BACK UPRIGHT ANYMORE HOLY KRIFF JUST PUT THAT TOGETHER.

Anakin stared blankly at the metal walls as they rushed past. The lone Jedi Knight took a long sip of caff, then carefully placed the pastry bag and drink on the floor. He systematically wadded up the sleeve of his robe and shoved in his mouth. He then spent the next few minutes squealing with unholy glee while literally bouncing off the walls in a manner only accessible to a force sensitive in an elevator. He was still panting slightly when the lift opened on the primary parking level.

We can double date! Padme and I can host! I can help Mace and Jar-Jar plan their wedding! We can reform the order to allow for romantic love! I can be Jar-Jar’s best man! Padme and I can have another ceremony and Obi-Wan can give me away while Mace officiates and  and then we’ll all have sweesonbury cake and Jar-Jar can help teach our kids how to swim! 

With those dreamy thoughts running through his mind, it was child’s work to follow the the force to the unremarkable hovervan. He was humming to himself when Master Windu opened the door. 

He beamed at the older Jedi. Windu scowled in reply. Anakin smiled wider, unintimidated. He genuinely liked the Gungan, but anyone who could spend hours with Jar-Jar had to have a soft side.

“You know, Jar-Jar is a long time friend of Senator-”

“No.” Windu cut the eager words brusquely. 

Anakin shrank back, a little hurt.

(Maybe a lot hurt.)

Mace glanced over at the obviously crestfallen young General and sighed before amending his words.

“Not- Not right now, alright? Maybe if you’re miraculously more discrete about this than you are about your affection for Senator Amidala, then we can talk, understood?”

Anakin nodded with absolute determination, glimmering images of fairytale weddings visible once more. Distant, perhaps- but the chance was worth any amount of tongue biting. Now that there was a real, possible future where he could have it all, now that he knew Windu had a heart somewhere under his robes- he could be patient. 

He could be very patient.

Anakin calmed his grin down to a smaller, more Jedi-like smile, taking a sip of the cool but still really good caf. He channeled Obi-Wan’s most neutral diplomatic grace.

“Thank you for the ride, Master Windu. I appreciate it.”

Windu gave him an approving glance. “You’re more than welcome, Knight Skywalker.”

Feeling bold, he continued on with his best non-mocking impression of Obi-Wan.

"Have you had a chance to read the latest report on helmet redesigns? I think they might really improve peripheral vision without compromising concussive resistance.”

Mace hummed thoughtfully. “I have. I’m somewhat concerned about deploying such a radical change mid-campaign. Even better gear requires an adjustment period, and I’d rather minimize needless deaths while the troops readjust to hud flow.”

“Yes, that’s a reasonable concern, I was talking to Captain Rex-”

They spent the remainder of the flight chatting comfortably about troop safety and absentmindedly eating (or possibly stress eating in response to the prolonged absence of interpersonal conflict) the box of pastries Mace had picked up. When they arrived at the temple, they divvied up the remainder between them, quietly agreeing that there weren’t enough to share anyway. 

They continued their conversation, Master Windu accompanying him to the orbital loading bay. 

Obi-Wan rushed over in alarm at the sight of them approaching. “Anakin, there you are- I was starting to wonder if you’d make it. Terribly sorry Master Windu- I hope he wasn’t too much of a bother-”

“He’s not your padawan anymore, you don’t have to apologize for him. Though I do appreciate the reflex.”

“I suppose the concern isn’t completely baseless.” Anakin said, tone deliberately mildly. Mace chuckled slightly and Obi-Wan took a step back, slightly frightened by the sudden camaraderie. Anakin pretended to take a sip from his now empty disposamug to avoid fist pumping the air or cheering.

“I- Yes well- the important thing is you’re here in time for departure. What- what is that in the bag.”

Moment of Truth. Don’t freak out. Focus. Prove you can be discrete, THEN double dates, THEN Jedi Wedding Ceremony.

“Sweesonbury Roll,” Anakin answered placidly. He pretended to take another sip of caf. “Master Windu was kind enough to give me a ride from the bakery.”

“That’s- I’m sorry, what?” Anakin bit the inside of cheek to keep himself from reacting to Obi-Wan’s palpable bewilderment.

“I had to double back and get more, but we came straight here after,” Mace added helpfully, with zero hint of intentional mischief. “Oh and Skywalker- you can call me Mace if we’re not discussing temple business.”

Anakin SCREAMED (internally, of course). Outwardly, he simply bowed politely. “And you’re welcome to call me Anakin, of course.”

He deliberately avoided looking directly at Obi-Wan, his former Master’s bug-eyed reaction already pushing him to the edge, even just visible as it was out of the corner of his eye.

Windu nodded in return. “Safe travels you two. May the force with you.”

“And with you.” Anakin replied.

“May the force be with you,” Obi-Wan rushed to say, after a short delay.

Master Windu turned and exited the cargo bay doors. Anakin threw out the mug in a nearby bin, pulling out a roll and biting into it before turning to face Obi-Wan. They made eye-contact, each waiting for the other to break first. Usually that would be Anakin, but he had goals now. The Knight chewed. His Master’s eyes narrowed. The older man (who may have aged significantly in the last 5 minutes) finally broke.

“Who are you?”

Anakin just sighed, maintaining the Kenobi impression. “Come on Master, we don’t want to keep the troops waiting.” With that, he walked forward, hiding his smile as Obi-Wan followed closely at his heels. 

“Since when does my apprentice visit bakeries with Mace Windu?” Obi-Wan asked, almost desperately.

“You’re making it sound like a bigger deal than it is.” 

Master Kenobi sputtered as the pair opened the airlock for the short-range shuttle. 

Anakin mustered up an earnest smile. “Master? Would you mind flying- I’m still eating and-”

Obi-Wan made an incoherent noise of horrified outrage before fumbling for his communicator. 

“What are you doing?”

“NOTHING IS MAKING SENSE RIGHT NOW. EITHER YOU AND MACE NEED TO GO TO THE HEALING HALLS OR I DO!”

Anakin burst out laughing. “Relax Obi-Wan, I’m messing with you, holy shit. Obviously I’m flying.”

Obi-Wan slumped into the co-pilot seat, rubbing at his eyes. “Don’t do that Anakin! My nerves are stretched thin enough by the war as it is-”

“Sorry, Sorry!”

They strapped in and took off, Anakin still chuckling occasionally, Obi-Wan scowling in irritation each time. 

They ascended above the towering skyline alongside the first rays of sunlight.

“So you didn’t go to a bakery with Master Windu this morning?”

“Uhh-”

[phantomrose96]

Hero Syndrome

There’s a young woman who has admired the Symbol of Peace for her entire life.

She doesn’t remember the first time she saw him on television. He’s just always been there as an eternal, unshakable constant – a comfort through every part of her life – promising to save anyone who needs him. And he does save her, even if he doesn’t know it. Because it’s his laughter, his smile, his ease and assurance speaking about rescues that keeps the flame burning in her heart when she had nothing else to cling to. He is the guiding light for her life that had no other purpose in it.

She is ignited with an all-consuming drive to follow in his footsteps. And it is a drive that defines her more than her own name.

She wants to save people with a smile. She wants to pull people from the depths of despair. She wants to stand at the top of the world and say “It’s alright now, because I am here.” if only so she can pay him back for all the comfort he’s given her in her life.  

Posters of the Symbol of Peace find their way onto her walls, into her binders and desktop backgrounds. She joins no clubs so she can spend all her free time honing her quirk. She runs more, and lifts more, and trains more than anyone else. The future she imagines every day has her standing at his side, and it is a bright, bright future.

She doesn’t get into U.A.

As much as she prepared herself for it, the reality is crushing. She sobs into her bedspread when the rejection letter comes, and stops briefly to peel the posters off the walls first, so the Symbol of Peace cannot see her cry like this. Heroes shouldn’t cry. Heroes shouldn’t give up. She can’t either. Her 4th-choice school has sent her an acceptance letter, and she’ll make sure that’s still good enough. She vows to keep working harder than everyone at U.A. to make up for it.

She graduates from her hero course as valedictorian. She’s given a ten minute slot during graduation to present her speech, and the speech suddenly means nothing and everything to her when she learns her school managed to book the Symbol of Peace as the keynote speaker. The Symbol of Peace far upstages her, and she doesn’t even care. She’s spellbound all over, and savors the ghost of the tingle in her fingertips from the brief second they pass each other. He doesn’t know this, but the moments spent sharing the stage mean the entire world to her.

She takes another vow now, to share a stage with him again in the future, as a colleague. She vows to make this moment the starting line for the beginning of the rest of her life.

When she shows up to Slice’N’Dice’s hero agency on her first day as a debut sidekick, she’s met with a bare white-walled room of peeling paint. There’s a single sputtering fan in the corner pointed directly, and only, at Slice’N’Dice’s desk. She feels the sweat trickling down her neck already, the swampy humid air, the cicadas chirping behind her, as she stands there holding her hero uniform in a box.

“I’m very excited to be working with you,” she says with a full bow. Slice’N’Dice looks up from his desk, and grunts, and goes back to puffing on the loose cigarette hanging from his lips. He’s slumped in his chair, uniform loose-fitting around rather skeletal arms and ballooned around his distended waist. He’s unbuckled his belt, and pulls deeply from his cigarette, and tunes the dial on the crackling police scanner on his desk.

“You know how to make a pot of coffee?” he asks her.

On the third day of her sidekick career, they go on patrol. Her mom has washed and pressed her uniform for exactly this occasion. She feels hope bubbling in her stomach where a rock-like weight had sat before. She wonders what it’ll feel like to have eyes shift to her as she walks, what excited kids will tug on their parents’ sleeves and point, what it will really feel like to be on this side of the uniform.

Slice’N’Dice doesn’t take her to the streets of Tokyo. They meander through empty alleys and hot, putrid industrial backways. He stops at an outdoor storage unit, and unloops the keys from his unbuckled belt, and opens the unit. Inside are bikes. Dozens of them. Dented and rusted into disrepair. He pulls out two and walks them on either side of him, motioning her to do the same. She does.

“What are the bikes for?”

Slice’N’Dice grunts.

Ten minutes more of walking, and they are standing at the mouth of a neighborhood. The air carries the pungent scent of gasoline. Windows appear as broken glass and particle boards, nailed into place. The peeling paint along the apartment facades reminds her of the peeling paint in the office.

Slice’N’Dice props a bike against a lamppost. And he pulls a small metal lens from his pocket and affixes it to the post just above the bike. On his phone, he fiddles an app open, and she sees two green lights blink on the metal lens.

Slice’N’Dice moves on. He motions her to follow.

“Why are we leaving the bike?” she asks.

“Gonna catch some thieves.”

“With the bike?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re leaving it here.”

Slice’N’Dice shrugs. “Yeah? Ain’t telling anyone to steal it. That’s their problem.”

“You want it to get stolen?”

“We gotta resolve some incidents if we wanna get paid.”

“Then, let’s resolve some incidents for real!” She thrusts a hand out, motioning, nearly tipping and just barely catching the bike at her left side. “Let’s patrol Tokyo and stop actual crime that’s happening.”

Slice’N’Dice barks a laugh. “We don’t have a zoning permit to patrol Tokyo, are you nuts? Maybe if the 2,000 Tokyo hero agencies all go belly-up, and the other 20,000 on the waiting list drop dead too, then maybe we could stake out Tokyo.”

She falters. “We shouldn’t be creating crime. We’re heroes, that’s just--”

“431.” Slice’N’Dice holds a hand up to her, and he draws his words out, like all the smoke from his cigarettes. “I got 431 applications for sidekicks. If you’re gonna leave, leave. I don’t really care. I’ll take any of the other ones. I don’t care.”

She freezes, sick with ice in her stomach.

“…And why’d you choose me?”

“Top of the pile.”

Slice’N’Dice shuffles along. She stands rooted in place. She’d been one of only three people from her graduating class to have a sidekick offer lined up right out of school.

It had been because she’d worked hard – harder than everyone else – to be a hero. Because she – more than anyone – had dreamed of this future.

Slice’N’Dice coughs wetly. He pauses to spit into the street, and keeps on shuffling.

…

There is a young man who’s admired the Symbol of Peace for his entire life.

He’s grown up half-raising himself, enraptured by the glow of the television with the Symbol of Peace’s shining smile. It is a smile that could move mountains, and his is a laugh that could shake oceans.  The young man watched these interviews on repeat while his mother worked double-shifts through the night. Those interviews formed him, brought a flicker of hope into his small and hollow world, brought moments to his life where he did not mind the opportunistic roaches scuttling up the couch, nor the rattle of the leaking pipes overhead, nor the dense headiness of mold in the carpets. They showed him hope. They showed him a path forward.

The young man dreams every day of the life he’ll lead when he’s a hero as well. His mom won’t suffer anymore when he’s a hero. No kid will go to bed hungry when he’s a hero. He’ll smile like the Symbol of Peace smiles, and he’ll move the oceans and the mountains too.

The U.A. rejection doesn’t deter him. He knew it would be a rejection before he even received the envelope. Only 1 in 1,000 applicants get into U.A. anymore, and that number skews further out of his favor when considering the legacy admissions to U.A., and the recommended kids who’d been through expensive personal hero-training regimens, and the parents who could curry a bit more favor by offering to fund a new U.A. training ground.

The young man never stood a chance, and he knew it. He’s more motivated, if anything, by the rejection letter. He wants the chance to stand out as someone who can break the U.A.-to-Pro pipeline. He’ll start from lower, and he’ll rise above the rest, because it’s who he is at his core.

The rejection letters continue to roll in. His second, his third, his fourth choices – down to his fifteenth – all come in thin, thin envelopes, too thin to contain good news. This happens to a lot of people, he reads. The hero market is oversaturated, he knows. Caps on hero course enrollment are getting tighter, he understands. But to have every door shut on him almost shakes his hard-earned resolve.

His tenth-choice school informs him there is a General Studies slot open. They offer it to him, and he almost, almost takes it.

But the Symbol of Peace never gave up his dreams. So he won’t either.

The young man has a pamphlet on his desk for a for-profit hero school just 20 miles outside town. It boasts no enrollment cap, no admissions test, We believe everyone is capable of proving themselves through hard work! We do not let dreams die halfway! The only admission criteria is the price tag. It is steep, the kind of steep that his part-time jobs and meager savings could never cover.

There’s an old man running the backroom of the corner store who gives out loans. This man doesn’t ask for credit or credentials there. His loans are in cash, day-of, with few questions asked. The young man knows this because he works part-time at this corner store, and sees the steady stream of strung-out clients filtering in and out, wracking up debt, caught in a personal hell the young man vowed to never fall into himself. But these are the people he intends to help one day as a pro-hero. And sacrifice must become something he’s comfortable with if he ever hopes to live up to the Symbol of Peace.

During his next shift, the young man takes to the backroom, and lays out his terms while the old man breathes cigar smoke into his face, and he has the money in-hand before the end of the night.

He’ll likely have to pay it back two-fold – maybe three-fold -- in interest. The young man knows this, he is not dumb. But he also knows how lucrative the pro-hero business is for those at the top. The government payout for heroes is pittance, at best, but hero merch sales pay out in gold. The Symbol of Peace has been named among Japan’s top 100 wealthiest men for the last ten years.

He won’t tell his mother about the loan. He intends to pay the debt back before she ever finds out.

He enrolls. He pays the tuition fee. He’s given a class schedule, a uniform, a syllabus, a dormitory. He moves out, away from the roaches and the rats, and it is a dream. He sees the start of the rest of his life on the day that he and all his new classmates are welcomed to campus as up-and-coming heroes.

Two years pass when the for-profit hero school loses its accreditation.

He, and all other students, are informed in a single curt email from the administration. All staff are fired. All courses are canceled. All students have three days to vacate the dormitories. The school entity is dissolved, and there money is gone.

The world drops out from beneath his feet. He can’t take the provisional license exam without a hero institution behind him. He can’t apply to sidekick positions without a provisional license. He moves back home, and resumes his part-time job, and sends in ten applications a day to every hero course in the country that accepts transfer students. When all of them yield rejections, he focuses on applying to every internship listing he can find.

None of them want him. Not when the market is already oversaturated with applicants who have an actual hero school backing them.

Years pass around him in a blur. His every cent earned from the corner store job is immediately garnished to pay his debts that come due, and they hardly make a dent. The compounding interest builds as a rate that surpasses his pay. A lifetime of this work would never repay his debt.

The old man in the tattered wifebeater shirt calls him into the back room one day. The old man shows no malice in his sleepy eyes, but exudes a pressure the young man can only describe as blood-lust. He’s heard the man’s quirk is suffocation, and he prays that this is not the day he learns this first-hand.

“These numbers… are not trending in your favor,” the man says between long drags of the cigar in his hand.

“I know.”

“I’d like to know. How do you plan to pay me back for my generosity?”

“Hero work,” the young man answers, just as he did all those years back when he first negotiated for his loan. “I just need—”

“What hero agency is hiring these days?” the man asks. “So, so few, anymore. Hardly any, anymore.”

“I know.”

“I’m not optimistic for you, you know.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I just—” the young man jolts forward, pleading eyes boring into the old man. “I just need to catch one break! I just need one ‘yes’ to kick things off! I can handle everything after that. I just need your patience, until then, and then I’ll make good. I’ll make you whole.”

“I’m old,” the man says with another long drag of his cigar. “Old old old, and getting older. Money won’t be much good to me when I’m all too old and dead. We agreed on now… being when you paid me back what I gave you so kindly.”

“Please… I don’t have the money. But I’ll get it.”

“You will. You’ll earn it.” The man’s joints crack as he pushes to his feet, and hobbles into the cellar-dark back of the shop, and returns gripping a single weathered gun which he slides across to the young man. “Here. For your protection. You’re no good dead. Don’t try anything funny with it though, I’m faster than I look.”

The young man swallows. “…Why are you giving me a gun?”

“Because you’ll need it for the jobs I have for you.”

“Please… I have a job already. I work in this shop already.”

“I have many more jobs for you right now. You should be grateful. You’ve had so little luck with jobs. Take the gun.”

Hesitantly, reluctantly, the young man picks up the gun. It’s heavier than he expects. But just as cold as he imagined.

“I don’t want the gun…”

“You’ll need the gun.”

“I don’t…” he hesitates. “I don’t want to do your jobs. I don’t want to be a villain. I don’t—”

The old man wheezes out a laugh. Mirth cracks on his old face. “What even is a villain? Childish word.”

“The Symbol says—”

The young man’s breath freezes in his throat, and it is not of his own doing.

“Silence, now. You talk to much. Your mother talks too much too, about you. Shopping here, all the time, for you two. Chatter chatter chatter. I like to make people quiet. It’s good for my peace of mind.”

The young man exhales forcefully. His breath comes back in gasps. His world crushes in around him.

“Now, would you like to hear about the new jobs I have for you?” the old man asks.

The young man shuts his eyes tight, and he wills, prays, hopes for this to end. And nothing answers his prayers.

“…Yes, I’d like to hear about my new jobs,” the young villain answers.

…

There is a boy who has admired the Symbol of Peace his entire life.

He plays hero in the park with his two friends every day of elementary school, even through wind and rain and snow and scorching heat. Their games are squall rescues in the rain, and avalanche missions in the snow, and desert expeditions in the heat.

Those two friends are his only two friends. They go elsewhere for middle school, and he is left alone. And his every attempt to make new friends is squashed by the bullies that have found him to be such a deliciously easy target. He endures it, he accepts it, he channels all his hope and all his faith into the Symbol of Peace. The bullies’ words hurt less when he trawls through video playlists of interviews, and motivational speeches, and candid rescues. There is no hurt, and there is no danger, and there is no unfairness where the Symbol of Peace is involved. When the boy’s parents divorce, when his dog passes on, when his grandmother gets cancer, he watches the Symbol of Peace’s interviews on loop.

The boy stops bothering trying to make friends in middle school. The enormity of the task ahead of him is too much and too important for friends. He trains alone every day during recess instead, and after school, and into the night, and early in the morning. Every pull-up is another imaginary meter scaled in a mountain rescue. Every mile run with his weighted vest is a collapsed hiker carried out of the woods. Every deadlift is raising the roof from the victim of a hurricane. Every heat-exhausted quirk honing session is another life saved.

He’s sure to smile, every time, no matter what, because one day there will be real people he rescues who need to see that smile.

He is 12 when he buys a police scanner.

It’s not a real one. More like a repurposed ham radio, rigged up to the emergency response frequencies. He purchased the radio online from a man with the username radrigs89, and the purchase eats up most of the boy’s savings. He’s heartbroken when he finds the radio does not actually pick up signals.

But he doesn’t give up. Instead the boy pours all his free time into rigging it up properly himself. He needs this to work. Because he knows from the Symbol of Peace that a true hallmark of a top hero is having stories of bravery from their middle school days.

Three months after his purchase, he strikes gold.

The raspy speakers crackle out with police chatter. He sits enraptured in his room, idling away his Friday night listening for anything nearby. Anything he could get to on his bike. Any scene that would need his quirk. Most things that comes through are traffic infractions, or noise complaints, or incidents with heroes already at the scene. The boy decides to be patient. He’ll know in his gut when the right report comes through.

Just over a week later, at 10pm on a Saturday, there is a fire twelve blocks from his home.

He is on his bike from the moment the address is relayed over the radio.

The ride over is a blur. His fingers tingle. The building is an apartment complex. The police are at least fifteen minutes away by car. There are no heroes yet on the scene.

He takes the final left too hard and wipes out, bike skidding away horizontally beneath him. He bounces up to his feet and pays it little mind, because the air has spiked hot, because the red-orange light dances and reflects in his eyes, consuming the building, consuming his thoughts. It is like a heartbeat licking inside the windows, and it compels his body to move without his mind.

Residents are crowded in the street below, pajama-clad and chilled in the night air. And he spots her – a little girl, no older than five, gripping her mother’s nightgown and wailing. The little girl has practically gone limp, held up by her balled fists in her mother’s clothing, screaming “MY BUNNY! BUNNY! WE GOTTA GO GET BUNNY!! WE GOTTA SAVE BUNNY!!!”

“We’ll buy a brand new bunny after this, okay? I promise. Brand new bunny! We can get two bunnies who are friends, I promise. I promise.”

“NOIWANTBUNNY!!!!”

The boy races over, and he crouches to the girl’s level, and he smiles. “It’s okay now! I’m here! There’s no need to cry now. I can rescue your bunny. I have a quirk just right for this! Where’s your bunny?”

The little girl blinks through her tears. “My room.”

“What apartment?” the boy asks.

“No. Dear. No please, I promise we’ll get a new bunny!”

“2…. 2-J!” the girl answers.

“HEY WAIT!” the mother yells after him, but it is too late. The boy has turned heel and run. There’s fear in his heart, sure, but heroes fight through fear. There’s a voice in his head saying “turn back!” but he has to act without thinking if he wants to rise to the likes of the Symbol of Peace. The bunny. The bunny is a life worth protecting. The little girl’s smile is a smile worth protecting.

He bursts through the front door, and he curls his fingers to activate his quirk. A chill sweeps through the hallway, dragging the air from scalding to breathable. His internal temperature ticks up just a fraction.

The stairs, only one flight. He scales it, the white floral wallpaper glowing with am amber ambiance from the flames eating the scaffolding behind it. He rounds into the hallway where the heat claws into his throat once more. Another tensing of his fingers, another activation of his quirk, another gust of chilled air. He feels his brow grow hotter in recoil.

All doors have been flung open all along the hall, including the one marked with the 2-J plaque beside it. He wastes no time entering, and hesitates only a moment as the first bare sight of fire meets his eyes. The living room is consumed, the lemon couch scorched to half a skeletal frame, the television melted unrecognizable. Aerosolized plastics, wood, and fibers assault his throat, so hot he feels he is breathing in a solid mass. It reduces him to a fit of coughing, soot taking out his sight for the moment. His fist curls, a gust of cold air blasts through, and he is breathing again. Just a bit dizzier. His forehead burns independent of the flame.

Girl’s room. Little girl’s room.

It’s easy enough to find. Pink walls, a single twin bed with frills along the skirt, circular white rug plush and soft at the dead center of the room. It’s less hot in here, by a fraction. The fire hasn’t claimed it yet.

Cage. Bunny. Rabbit. Where?

He scans the length of the room in a second, and scans it again. He expects a cage at shelf-level, and when he sees none, he scans the floor for any sign of a pen. He steps over the threshold, growing more frantic.

“Bunny!” he calls out and feels foolish for wasting the breath.

Closet, maybe. He grabs the metal handle, and recoils when the heat bites him. He wads his hand in his shirt the second time around and yanks the door open. Clothes, hangers. He sweeps everything aside and stares at a floor of shoes. Sweat trickles down his neck in rivulets. Every article of clothing sticks to him. His mouth is drying.

He sweeps his hand out, tensed into a claw. Another swirl of cold air streams through the room. He feels it in his heart this time, a slight stutter, a hotness and redness along his cheeks. His internal temperature ticks up another fraction.

“Run,” the little voice in his head says. “You’ll over-exert your quirk. You know that’s dangerous. Run.”

But he can’t. Because heroes act without thinking.

There’s a creaking overhead. It starts low and slow, almost inaudible over the hum and crackle of the fire one room over. It crescendos to a groaning, and it steals the boy’s full attention right when it hits its breaking point.

The ceiling caves, just above the doorway. Lumber and drywall and embers pour down like sand. He dodges, just in time, throwing himself sprawling on the super-heated ground such that the collapsing rubble only claims his right ankle.

The floor is burning into him. He twists, staring at his foot, staring at the entrance to the room now blockaded with debris. The fire licks about the doorway, crawling with slow, opportunistic bursts.

His lungs hurt.

“…Freeze,” he wheezes out, fingers curling, another sweep of bitter cold air bursting through the room. The momentary relief is welcome, but the lingering swell of heat in his cheeks negates it. He sees the flames stutter, and hesitate, and crawl forward again.

“Freeze!” again. A blow of icy air. A buffeting of the flames. A scorch to his cheeks heating with the quirk recoil.

He yanks on his ankle, and the lumber pinning it shifts a fraction.

“Freeze!”

He looks forward, chin pressed to the carpet. He sees it now, one floppy ear peeking out beneath the bed skirt. The fraction of space between the skirt and the floor reveals a plush face in shadow, and he sees two beady glass eyes dancing with the reflection of flames.

He’s licked with a moment of nostalgia, for the days spent playing hero with his friends. Stuffed animals had played their rescue victims so many times before. The stuffed bunny is a welcome sight, almost, it fits right into the fantasy he’d spent so many years constructing.

The other pieces don’t fit. The air licks so, so much hotter than the pretend arson rescues. The smoke is so much more choking than the fantasies in his head. Even the heat training, with the heaviest vest weights, in the peak of summer, couldn’t compare.

The Symbol of Peace never seemed bothered, even in the worst of his rescues. The Symbol of Peace never failed. Somehow, the boy had never considered failure as a possibility. Heroes just needed the courage to act, and the rest followed.

“...Freeze.”

His fingers curl. The flames reel back like a scolded animal, but linger, curious, experimental, as if testing his resolve. His face is burning up. He can’t tell how high his fever has spiked, but it’s high enough to make him drowsy. His eyelids flicker, and flutter, and it would be so much easier to let them shut.

The flames catch him dozing off, as they crawl forward with courage.

Before his eyes shut, he remembers one important thing. He smiles at the bunny.

Its wide glass eyes reflect his smile back. And even when the boy’s eyes flutter shut, the bunny’s remain open, unblinking, unseeing, dancing in the flames.

…

The Symbol of Peace mounts the stage with slow, commanding steps. The crowd that’s gathered tips into the tens of thousands, and that is not even counting those redirected to the overflow area. The people right near the front of the stage have been camping in their spots for over a day.

The applause that meets him is uproarious. He raises a gloved hand to ask for quiet, and is met only with a crescendo of hollers. They settle, eventually, as he takes his position by the podium, as he sets one white-gloved hand to the stand, and raises the microphone to his mouth with the other. The audience hushes steadily, enraptured, eager for him to speak.

“I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out here today,” he says, and he says it with a voice that can shake oceans, and delivers it with a smile that can move mountains. “This day means a lot to me, more than I can put into words, to be so honored by all of you.” He taps the medal affixed to his chest. “To be receiving the highest honor I could have ever imagined receiving. The Lifetime Achievement in Heroics…”

Applause, stronger and more raucous than the first round, meet his ears. He lets it ring this time, while tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

“I would not be here without you! I would not be anywhere near this podium without the love and patience and inspiration from all the people who believed it me when I needed it the most. I would not be 15,000 rescues into my career, and I would not be the second person to ever receive this award, if I had been traveling this path alone.”

Hoots. Hollers. Screams of “WELOVEYOU!”

“And it’s actually that first recipient of the Lifetime Achievement award who I want to talk about today, with you all. Because this day is special to me for an entirely other reason. Today marks the anniversary of the day that man – that first recipient – All Might – told me the words that set me on the path to where I stand today.” The Symbol of Peace steps away from the podium, microphone still in hand, and moves to the very front of the stage. “ ‘You can be a hero, too.’ Those words. That single sentence. Changed my life forever. I would not be here. I would not be ‘Deku’. I would not be the Symbol of Peace without them.”

He pauses for another chorus of cheers, screams and applause and celebration. His smile spreads wide, his soft freckled cheeks dimpled and scrunched high, his messy hair falling over his forehead, and it is a look that has captured an entire nation’s heart.

“So I want to take this time I have in front of you all to return the favor All Might gave me all those years ago. This is for everyone who needs to hear these words! For everyone who needs someone who believes in them! For everyone looking to do right in the world. This goes out to you!” And he lifts his microphone up high. “YOU can be a hero too!”

The audience erupts unlike anything before. Their sounds consume the very air. Together, they drown out all other noise as Deku, the Symbol of Peace, clenches his fist high in the air.

Across the nation, children are watching the television broadcast. They are enraptured. They are bright-eyed. They are making plans for what they will say on stage once they stand beside him.

Once they are all heroes too.

[clumsyclifford]

I think u said that you’d still like some more prompts, so #89 “I noticed” with either muke or malum pls ♥️

well i asked pairing bot and it said muke, so there you go. thank you @allsassnoclass for helping me Establish The Setting of this fic. by which i mean Providing The Setting For Me. a gift to us all, that hazel

also as resident walking advertisement for @calumsclifford‘s fics i am contractually obliged to redirect you to her bookstore fic which is an absolute delight

read on ao3

-

Nothing hits quite like the atmosphere of a bookstore.

Shelves of books, racks of vinyls, displays advertising “Staff Picks” — the allure of the local bookstore will never not work magic on Luke. Even the pop music trickling down from the built-in ceiling speakers is charming, rather than annoying.

“Okay, go find your book,” Ashton says. “I’m gonna go in the nonfiction section if you need me.”

“Sure thing, old man,” Luke says. 

Ashton scoffs. “I like nonfiction. If that makes me an old man, then so be it.”

“Hey, I’m not judging.”

“You are judging so hard, and I don’t even care. I’m going to go browse autobiographies and I’m going to fucking like it.” With this final word, Ashton marches in the direction of the nonfiction books. Luke watches him, smirking, until he vanishes into the shelves, and then he makes for the young adult section on the other side of the shop. If this book is going to be anywhere, it’ll be there.

As always, he’s immediately drawn off-course.

The staff picks catch his eye. Normally Luke breezes past them, but this time he spies a cover he actually recognises: Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, a book he’d read only a few months ago. As his gaze shifts lower, it catches on the note underneath the book, identifying the name of the staff member whose recommendation he’s enjoying: Michael. Next to his name is a short note about his choice. Luke steps closer to read it.

Philosophy and boys in love. And a general distaste for wearing shoes. What else do you need?

Luke smiles and reaches for the book. He’s already read it and he has a copy at home; he’s not going to buy the copy, but it’s nice to hold it in his hands anyway, flip through the pages and feel the air shift as he does.

“Good choice,” says an unfamiliar voice. Luke lifts his head and almost drops the book.

Woah. Cute boy alert. Extremely cute boy red alert. The levels of cute on this boy are enough to make Luke want to call Ashton over for backup. He’s terrible with cute boys, especially cute boys that also look really cool like this one, with bright red hair and a pierced eyebrow and a Nirvana t-shirt. Add that to the fact that he evidently has some degree of good taste in literature, considering he’s just complimented Luke’s selection, and Luke is flailing out of his depth.

In the deeply awkward pause before Luke remembers he’s supposed to say something to Cute Boy, his gaze travels to the nametag pinned to Cute Boy’s shirt. MICHAEL, it announces in block letters, and Luke puts two and two together.

“Oh, you too,” Luke says, which is a surprisingly coherent thing to say. All things considered it could have gone a lot worse. Which it then proceeds to do. “You’re the Michael who picked this? I guess? You — your nametag says Michael, so— I was just assuming. Which I know you’re not supposed to do because it makes an ass out of you and me, but since you said it was a good choice…”

Michael slowly smiles. “Yeah, I’m the Michael. You are?”

An easy question. Thank fuck. “Luke. I’m Luke.”

Michael hums and nods at the book. “Have you read it?”

Luke tries to take a discreet deep breath. “Yeah, I did. A few months ago. I might be due for a reread.”

“Well, it’s one of my favourites,” Michael comments. “So I’ll always be on the side of an Ari and Dante reread.”

“Yeah,” Luke says, nodding like this makes perfect sense. It does, but God, he doesn’t have to nod like a crazy person. “Yeah. Good point.” Then, directly contradicting this concurrence, he sets the book back down on the display. “I’ve got this at home, though. I’m actually here for a different book.”

“Oh, perfect,” says Michael, straightening up. “Then I can do my real job. What can I help you find?”

Luke does not need help finding this book, but he would be a complete idiot to refuse the help of Cute Bookstore Employee Michael. “Uh, The Cursed Child. I know it came out a while ago but I just haven’t had the chance to get it and I really wanted to get it from a bookstore, rather than online, you know?”

Michael brightens. “Oh, I can definitely find that for you. Follow.” He gestures, and Luke falls into step with him as they make for the young adult shelves, completing Luke’s aborted mission from earlier. “You want my opinion on the book, or you want it to remain a complete mystery?”

“You’ve read it? Are you a Harry Potter fan?” Luke asks, far too eagerly. Sheepish, he bites his lip, sneaking a glance at Michael to see him smile. “Uh, sorry. I’m— I really like Harry Potter, like, a lot.”

“I noticed,” Michael says, nodding at Luke, who glances down at himself. 

“Oh,” he says, chuckling at his Deathly Hallows shirt. “I honestly didn’t do that on purpose. I wasn’t thinking about it at all.”

“Your subconscious enabling your love of Harry Potter, clearly,” Michael says. “Yeah, I like it. Not my favourite series, but it’s good. I mostly only read Cursed Child because I was bored, but—” He breaks off. “Sorry. Won’t spoil it.”

Luke grapples with himself. On the one hand, he is the most averse to spoilers of anyone he’s ever met. If it’s a book he’s looking forward to reading, he will ban all family and friends from even discussing it in his presence, lest their opinions on it taint his before he’s able to read it and draw his own conclusions. And this isn’t just any book; it’s Cursed Child, the long-awaited spin-off, the first official continuation of the Harry Potter ‘verse in years. No, he doesn’t want Michael’s opinion on it. He doesn’t want anyone’s opinions. He hasn’t even read the summary for the book on Goodreads. The more blind Luke goes into this, the better.

On the other hand, though.

Well, on the other hand, Michael is a cute boy who’s offering to talk to Luke about a book.

As a compromise, Luke says, “Honestly, I would really like to know your thoughts, but not until I’ve finished reading it.”

Michael glances over at him as they slow to a stop in front of one of the shelves. There’s a smile playing at his lips, a slight raise to his eyebrows, like he’s pleasantly surprised by something Luke’s done. What that thing might be, Luke has no idea. “Okay,” says Michael. “That’s fair. How about I give you my number, and when you finish reading it you can call or text and we can discuss it then?”

Luke blinks. Then blinks again. Is Michael flirting with him? He must be, but at the same time there’s absolutely no way.

And — wait. Does Michael think Luke was flirting with him? Was Luke? Not intentionally, but that’s only because he doesn’t know how to flirt and he’s fucking awful at it. Somehow, he’s managed to unintentionally flirt his way into getting Michael’s number.

Woah. Bookstores really are magical.

“Yeah, yes, that sounds great,” Luke says, clumsily digging out his phone. He unlocks it and passes it to Michael, who has an amused look on his face. “We could, um…get coffee or something?”

“Works for me,” Michael says. While he enters his number into Luke’s phone, Luke turns to the shelf. His attention immediately snags on his target: a block of bright yellow covers. Luke tugs at one, freeing it from its siblings, and brushes a reverent hand over the brand new dust jacket. 

“I mean, say what you will, but it sure is a pretty fucking book,” he says, kind of to himself.

Michael chuckles. “Yeah. The second-prettiest thing in this bookstore, maybe.”

For the second time, Luke almost drops the book in his hands. Instead he tightens his grip on it, looks up at Michael, and steels all his courage to say, “First being you, right?”

The smile on Michael’s face is worth the risk of embarrassment, Luke quickly realises. And this, he senses, had clearly been the right thing to say. Michael hands Luke’s phone back to him an says, “I’m going to let you have the last word, because I think you’re cute and that was unexpectedly smooth. If you need me, I’ll be around, probably doing work that will be less important than anything you will have to say to me.”

Luke feels a blush colour his cheeks, but if Michael notices he doesn’t say anything. With a wave and what looks like a halfway bow, he backs out of the aisle, and Luke watches him until he veers off and disappears from view.

Everything from entering this bookstore onward feels like a fever dream. Luke glances down at his phone screen, and when he sees how Michael’s entered his name — Michael (The Real Cursed Child) — the giggle of disbelief building in his throat quickly turns to a laugh. If it is a fever dream, Luke hopes it never, ever ends.

[honeycobie]

Honey

Jacob x reader, fluff

requested: @heartyyjeno​ (thank you bb 🥺)

a/n: this gif is so soft and i just realized that it matches with my profile picture! i would recommend listening to any cover by jacob to get into the feels and imagine jacob in this fic. hope you enjoy this one and take care, everyone! 🥰

You exhale softly, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders and chest, releasing the tension from a busy and burdensome day. It was the type of day where you didn’t even have the time to think, let alone relax. 

You tilt your head to examine the rapidly darkening sky, feeling a sense of serenity come upon you like the waves crashing upon the shore of a beach. You slow down to a stop, leaning against the railing as you eye the water of the lake ripple, the wobbly reflection of the crescent moon bright against the dark canvas. 

Adjusting one side of your headphones, you close your eyes, allowing yourself to bask in the moment, to find peace again. You gradually start to tune out others’ conversations, focusing on the music, your sense of hearing heightened. Shifting, you crack your eyes open, only to meet the sight of a crowd gathering near the sheltered plaza. 

Your interest piqued, you take off your headphones, making sure to secure them in your pocket. Starting down the path, the gravel crunches underneath your feet as you near the crowd. 

Tiptoeing slightly, you wonder what has caught the undivided attention of them, their expressions both serious and captivated. No, rather who, as you catch sight of the male, singing as he strums his guitar.

Your ears straining, you advance closer to hear the performance. As you edge as close as you could get, your cheeks heat up slightly when you notice how handsome he is, his hair reminding you of soft caramel as it dances in the wind and your thoughts wander. It looked so luscious and soft and you wondered how it would feel if you run your hands through it, the strands slipping between your fingers.

Scolding yourself silently, you fix your eyes on him, letting yourself think past his attractiveness, diverting your attention to his voice. Instinctively, a smile spreads on your face as you sway to the rhythm of the song. His voice is smooth and saccharine, reminding you of honey, charming in the way it seems to be the very embodiment of liquid sunshine, sweet and pleasant. 

Your heart warms, watching as the male sings, his gaze switching between the crowd and his fingers, switching the chords in a way so effortless, it made you envious. You don’t look away from him, entranced, finally understanding why the singer had drawn such a large crowd. As if sensing your intense stare, he looks up, only to smile at you, his eyes crinkling adorably. 

You flush, breaking off eye contact. Inwardly, you panic, berating yourself for not offering a smile back. Biting your lip, you sneak a glance, almost letting out a sigh in relief when you realize he’s not looking at you anymore. As you register that thought, you almost roll your eyes. 

Of course, the singer isn’t looking at you, he’s performing, duh. 

Shaking off the idiocy of your thoughts, you concentrate on his heavenly vocals. To your dismay, the song ends and he smiles shyly as the crowd applauds, cheering loudly. He thanks them respectfully before turning away to start packing away his equipment.  

The crowd starts to slowly disperse, people trickling away to wander along the path of the park. You hesitate, lingering in your spot for a bit. Not wanting to make the male uncomfortable with your presence, you turn away, searching for your headphones. Just as you take a step, he calls out, halting your departure.

Turning around, you blink at him lazily, a look of inquiry on your features. Compared to just a few minutes ago, he looks less confident, adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows. 

“Are you (Y/n) (L/n), by any chance?” he asks after a pause. 

Shocked, your lips part, betraying your surprise before you find control of your features, schooling them into indifference. “Yes...may I ask who you are?” you respond warily, your eyes narrowed. You did not recognize him but if you squinted and thought hard enough, you could probably remember. 

“I’m Jacob,” he states, his name no longer a mystery. 

Your brow furrows and your face doesn’t change from its expression of confusion, no sign of recognition apparent. 

He chuckles softly to himself at your bewilderment, reminding him of a puppy with the way your head was slightly tilted. “Jacob Bae?” he adds, eyes shining with hope. 

Your eyes widen as you inhale sharply. Jacob Bae. His name was familiar, and as you continued to stare at his features, you reprimanded yourself for your terrible memory. You swore you had the memory of a goldfish. 

Jacob, you remembered, was the resident sweetheart at your high school, years back and even remained one throughout university. He was nicknamed the “angel” of your school, resembling one with his looks as well as his considerate and lovely personality which caused many girls to crush on him.  

You nodded slowly. “I remember you.” 

The moment the words are out of your mouth, you groan, hating how awkward you sounded. To your relief, Jacob carries the conversation as he continues to pack away his guitar. 

“Really? You didn’t seem so sure seconds ago.” he teases playfully, finally finishing as he grips his guitar firmly, slipping the strap of the case on his shoulder.

You laugh and you’re hit with how you’ve missed his teasing and jokes, no matter how corny they could get. Back in high school, you two used to be friends as well as seatmates, close enough to talk daily but not close enough to continue those conversations after. 

“I didn’t know you could sing,” you admit, switching the subject to avoid humiliating yourself on that topic. Although you had seen him carry his guitar to and from school and rumours had flown around, girls gossiping about how he could supposedly sing and daydreaming about him serenading them, you didn’t know for sure.

Jacob shrugged nonchalantly, smiling bashfully. “It’s just a hobby.” 

“You sing well, though.” you complimented, causing the tips of his ears to redden. “You could consider becoming a professional singer or maybe a vocal coach.” you continued and he could hear the sincerity in your words. 

“I haven’t considered that,” he mumbles, gazing off into the distance, his eyes glassy. You step closer until you’re both leaning against the railing, eyes fixed on the moon. 

“Maybe you should,” you suggested, hands playing with the cord of your headphones, twisting it idly around one finger. 

He doesn’t reply, still absorbed in his little world. Although the silence would have been suffocating and awkward for you in other situations, it was oddly comfortable, your arm brushing against his ever so often. 

For a while, you stay like that, drinking in the scenery before you jolt back to your senses. Checking for the time, you sigh, crestfallen. 

“Sorry to break things off so early, I got to go.” you apologized, genuinely disappointed that you couldn’t continue catching up with Jacob or reminisce about the old days together.

He shook his head, dismissing your apology. “It's alright, don’t worry. We could always catch up another day?” he offers, smiling at you.

“Of course. Then, do you want to exchange numbers?” you question, your phone dangling in your hand. Jacob accepts wordlessly and you watch as his thumbs fly across the screen, his features illuminated by the glow.

“Actually,” he began, chewing on his lip nervously. “Are you free this Saturday?” 

“I should be,” you answered, taking back your phone and you feel an electrifying sensation jolt up your arm when your fingertips brush with his. You pocket your phone, averting your gaze. 

“There’s a cafe that just opened near here. We could catch up over coffee.” Jacob suggests, unfazed by your curt responses. 

You only offer a nod in response, acknowledging his words. “I’ll see you then,” you say, giving him another amiable smile before jogging down the path. 

Jacob’s gaze lingers on your departing figure. “See you then,” he whispers, except it’s more to himself than anyone. 

»»————-　　————-«« »»————-　　————-««

A couple of days later and it’s already Saturday. 

Time flies when you’re busy and you swore that it felt like just yesterday that you had seen Jacob, except it was five days ago. After receiving a cheerful greeting from the staff, you sit, surveying your surroundings. 

The cafe was small but exuded such comfort that you couldn’t help but relax. The walls were painted a soothing, warm beige and the decorations were minimalistic, yet so pretty you itched to ask the owner where they had bought it. You loved how there was a variety of plants situated in almost every corner as it seemed to bring the place alive.

Slumping, you close your eyes for a second, your foot automatically tapping along to the beat of the song. You let yourself get immersed in the fragrant and rich scent of coffee, breathing in deeply. You were unaware of Jacob approaching you, his footsteps light.

Hearing the legs of the chair opposite to yours scrape against the floor, your eyes shoot open. “You could’ve been quieter.” you chide, and although you seem solemn, he can see amusement glinting in your eyes. 

Jacob scoffs before sitting down, his chin in his hand as he gazes at you. You feel a rush of warmth at the way his eyes hold so much emotion, shimmering like stars in the night sky. You could pick out mirth and something...tender and adoring. You swallowed, convinced that you were seeing things. After all, one’s emotions were not easy to interpret. 

“Do you want to order first?” you ask, suddenly interested in the wooden table, your eyes roving over the grain of it, the lines winding and creating a unique and abstract pattern. 

“Yeah, sure. What do you want?” he queries, pulling out his wallet. 

“Wait, let me pay.” you utter, lifting your head as your hand instinctively shooting out to clasp on his wrist, lowering it as your other hand rummages in your bag to find your wallet.

“No, it’s quite alright. I can pay for both of us. You can pay me back later.” Jacob replies, giving you a wink, shifting his hand so he can hold yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. 

Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you look down at your lap, knowing that your face was the colour of a tomato. Flushed, you mutter your order, grimacing when you stammer, your heart hammering against your ribs. You hear him chuckle before you hear the chair gets pulled out again, the sound of his footsteps slowly receding.  

Resisting the urge to hit your forehead against the table, you lift your head, watching as Jacob waits in line. You puff your cheeks out, mind frantically running through conversation starters. You were determined to carry the conversation like a proper human being without getting flustered or stuttering. 

»»————-　　————-«« »»————-　　————-««

When Jacob returns with both of your beverages, you decide to play twenty questions, as there was simply too much to catch up on the years that you lost contact with him. The questions ranged from everything, from current career to less serious ones like favourite boba flavour and whether you preferred dogs or cats. 

Throughout the whole discussion, you found yourself leaning closer and closer towards him, eager to hear more about his life and you had to admit, something about him was so magnetizing.

It wasn’t even about his visuals anymore, his personality was like a warm mug of hot chocolate, sweet and mellow, causing everyone to be charmed, whether they exchanged only a word or multiple conversations. You slowly understood why so many girls had fallen for him in high school. Although Jacob was still endearing to you back then, you didn’t have time for romance as you were strictly focused on your studies. 

You fidget with your necklace, humming as you think of another question. Jacob’s full attention was on you, fingers drumming against the table as he waited. “What’s something you regret most?” you ask, satisfied with your final decision amongst all the other questions. 

He blinks, stunned. “That’s a good question.” he murmurs, lost in thought as he gazes off into the distance, pursing his lips. “I have too many.” Jacob laughs, tilting back his head to move his bangs from obscuring his sight. 

It was dangerous how your heart raced at the mere action, everything he did suddenly became a thousand times more attractive to you and you cleared your throat, struggling to compose yourself. 

Thankfully, Jacob doesn’t seem to notice as he continues pondering, searching deep within to find the biggest regret he has, or maybe the most recent one.

“Come on!” you whine, impatient, throwing back your head to groan loudly. He was taking so long to make a decision, you thought you would wither away.

“Alright, alright.” he simpered, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. You shift closer, anticipating his long-awaited answer. 

“I regret...not asking for your number earlier and not chasing after you when we started to drift apart,” Jacob confessed, a flush creeping up his neck.

When you just gape at him, speechless, your mind striving to comprehend his sentence, he presses on, growing bold. “I’ve liked you since high school and I still do. I doubt I’ll ever forget about you.” The last part is muttered, his voice hushed as he avoids your eyes, looking everywhere but you. 

When you still don’t answer, Jacob takes that as rejection and he’s disheartened, opening his mouth to apologize, but is interrupted by you, pushing your chair away from the table as you stand up. He winces, wondering if he’s gone too far. 

However, his eyes widen when you walk over, bending to drape your arms around him, squeezing him into an awkward hug. Jacob stills, feeling like his heart was going to explode, his cheeks bright red. He reciprocates the embrace, moving in his seat to hug you back, his face buried into the crook of your neck.

Involuntarily, a giggle bubbles out from your throat and Jacob can’t stop the wide grin from occurring so he just lets it, succumbing to it like storm clouds clearing up as the sun appears. 

Because he knows that this is your way of telling him “I like you too.”

[lady-wallace]

Scars (Febuwhump Day 23: “Don’t Look”)

For today’s @febuwhump​ prompt: “Don’t Look”

Fandom: JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure: Golden Wind

Synopsis: (For Febuwhump Day 23) Giorno has done his best to hide his past, but it was only a matter of time before Bucciarati found out anyway.

Find me on Ko-fi! I do doodles for coffee ^_^

A/N: This is technically a sequel to my story “Our Burdens to Bear” but can be read by itself :)

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Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

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Giorno sighed with a wince as he pulled himself out of the car, heavy with exhaustion. This had not been an easy mission. How was he supposed to know that a Stand that took the form of vines and thorns would only get stronger when hit with Gold Experience's power instead of the usual repercussions?

Mista, Fugo, and Bucciarati followed him, also a little roughed up, but not as badly as Giorno who the user seemed to have a particular vendetta against.

"I can patch your injuries up if you want, Giorno," Fugo told him.

Giorno vaguely remembered that Fugo's method of patching up involved staples and duct tape and fought a shudder. It was a good thing his Stand could heal, as exhausted as he was. Besides, he would have to take his shirt off completely to treat some of the wounds and he wasn't exactly okay with that…

"It's okay, I'll have Gold Experience do it," Giorno told Fugo, making his way slowly into the house, wanting to shut himself away in his room as quickly as possible.

"Giorno?" Bucciarati called after him, but Giorno simply tossed an "I'm fine" over his shoulder and hurried the rest of the way up the stairs, as quickly as his battered body could go.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he closed his door behind him. Ever since Abbacchio had accidently seen his scars he had tried to be more careful. He just really didn't want to have to recount the story of where they had come from to his new family. Not yet.

He crossed the room to shakily slump onto the end of his bed, letting out a groan as he assessed his injuries. A lot of lacerations, pretty badly bruised ribs that he couldn't do anything about. And there was still a very sharp pain in his lower back for some reason.

No point in putting it off any longer though. He stood and unzipped his coat, pulling it from his shoulders with a wince. He had a pretty bad gash on his upper arm and another across his collarbone. He stepped over to the mirror by the closet and let the coat fall to the floor. Probably had too many holes to be worth saving, but it wasn't like the Don of Passione couldn't get a new suit when he needed one. He winced at his bruised side that was quickly turning black and blue and braced himself as he turned his back to the mirror and tried to see why it was hurting so much.

Giorno forced his eyes away from the scars, lurking under the fresh cuts and blood smeared across his pale skin and focused in on the spot that was giving him so much pain.

Ah, that was why.

There was a huge, probably five-inch thorn from that Stand buried under his skin. He thought he had pulled all those out already, but he guessed he had missed this one.

He summoned Gold Experience, his injured shoulder and side making it impossible for him to reach behind himself to pull it out. Even his Stand's fingers fumbled though, affected by Giorno's sheer exhaustion. It seemed that vine Stand had actually sucked up his energy instead of being repelled by it. His own Stand was usually so precise, but with his own exhaustion Gold slipped trying to get the thorn out and Giorno let out a sharp yelp, feeling fresh blood trickle down his back. He grabbed hold of the closet door to steady himself and took a deep breath. It must be pressing on some nerve to hurt so badly. "Okay, try it again," he finally commanded, a little breathless.

A knock on the door caused him to jolt. "Giorno? Are you all right? I have some bandages."

Bucciarati. Giorno didn't get the chance to tell him he was fine, he snatched his discarded coat up and slung it over his shoulders just as the door opened, revealing the capo, who had a concerned look on his face.

"Giorno?" he asked as the young man pressed himself against his closet door.

"D-don't look," he nearly begged, panic making him desperate.

Bucciarati stopped, frowning, holding a tray of medical supplies in front of him. "Giorno, what's wrong? What happened?"

Giorno felt his heart start to beat rapidly, Gold Experience hovered at his back, phantom hands on his shoulders, shielding him, and Bucciarati placed the tray onto Giorno's desk before taking a step toward the boy.

"Nothing happened, it's fine, I can heal myself." Giorno said firmly.

Bucciarati stopped, his frown increasing. He held out his hand.

"Here, at least let me take that coat of yours to get it cleaned up."

"No!" Giorno said, only holding the garment closer to him.

Exasperation flashed across Bucciarati's face, his hands went to his hips. "Giorno, you're being ridiculous. Tell me what's wrong so I can help you!"

His face turned to shock as Giorno cowered instinctively and slowly slumped to the ground, his knees turning to jelly. Bruno's face instantly softened to one of parental concern and he carefully crouched next to him.

"Giorno…" He reached out and Giorno flinched away, closing his eyes and clutching his jacket around his shoulders as he told himself he was okay, he wasn't back there. It wasn't him.

"Giorno." Bucciarati said again. "If you're hurt, let me help you. You're exhausted, and I would rather not see you suffer. I know what that Stand fight took out of you."

Giorno took a shuddering breath and finally looked up, even though he was still unable to meet Bucciarati's eyes. "I just…It's…complicated."

Bucciarati's face softened impossibly further, a look of understanding in his eyes. "Giorno, I have never judged anyone without knowing the full story, and whatever secrets you have are safe with me. I promise."

Giorno blinked up at him, remembering that even Abbacchio hadn't mocked him for his scars. How the older gangster had even recommended that Giorno go to Bucciarati if he needed to talk. Still…he had wanted it to be his choice, not like this.

Though, if left up to him, would he ever have gone to Bucciarati? Maybe it was easier this way after all.

He took a deep, shaky breath and finally allowed Gold Experience to dissipate. "Th-there's a thorn stuck in my back…" he said.

Bucciarati seemed to be relieved by this admission, having a purpose. He nodded, standing up and offering a hand to Giorno. "Why don't you come sit down then so I can get that out?"

Giorno gave a shaky nod and allowed Bruno to pull him to his feet, helping him over to sit on the edge of the bed. He went to get the tray of first aid stuff, obviously giving Giorno a moment to uncover his back. He didn't. He couldn't seem to stop clutching the ruined coat around himself.

"Giorno? May I see?" Bruno finally asked.

Giorno was silent for a long moment before he nodded. But he still didn't move. Bucciarati waited a second before he reached out cautiously and when Giorno didn't stop him, carefully wrested the coat from Giorno's grip, slipping it away to reveal his back.

Giorno ducked his head so he couldn't see the older man's expression, shuddering uncontrollably as Bruno gently gripped his uninjured shoulder and bent him forward to better see his lower back.

He tsked. "My, that does look nasty. Good thing I brought some tweezers."

Giorno flinched as cold metal hit his tender skin but Bucciarati steadied him and with just a little painful digging, pulled the long thorn out as swiftly as possible before he set to cleaning the wound and taping some gauze over it. He then continued up Giorno's back, and Bucciarati's gentle fingers brushing against his scars were suddenly too much. Giorno jerked away, burying his face in his hands.

"Stop!" he choked out.

"Giorno…"

"I know you see them!" he burst out. "I know they're disgusting. But I'm not weak like that anymore. I—I'm not!"

Bucciarati's hand stilled. "Is that what you think? That having scars makes you weak?"

Giorno jerked his head away, biting his lip until he could taste blood. "I couldn't stop it," he whispered, choking. "That makes me weak."

Bruno swiftly finished up with the bandages and came around to face Giorno, crouching to cup his face in his hands. "It doesn't. We all have scars in one way or another. It doesn't make you weak, it shows that you're capable of surviving."

Giorno blinked and a tear slipped down his face. Bucciarati gently wiped it away with a thumb.

"Mio caro ragazzo," the older man said gently as he reached for Giorno's robe that was lying on the bed where he'd left it that morning. He tucked it around him, covering him up again. "There's no need to feel ashamed."

"He was a bastard," Giorno gritted out. "My mother wasn't any better."

"I'm sorry," Bucciarati said sincerely. "If you ever need to talk about it, I'm here."

"I know," Giorno said with a sniff. "That's what Abbacchio told me."

Bruno looked slightly surprised at that revelation but smiled. "Well, I'm here whenever you're ready. For now, how about some tea…?"

He stopped when Giorno reached out and grabbed his sleeve before he could leave. He didn't know why but he didn't want to be left alone again right now. Didn't like the way his thoughts crashed into each other, weighing him down. Another tear slipped unbidden down his cheek. He must be exhausted.

"Giorno?" Bruno inquired gently.

"Thank you," Giorno whispered. "For—for everything."

He was already tilting but when Bruno stepped forward, he gratefully leaned into his warmth. Bucciarati's arms wrapped around him gently and held him close, rocking him slightly as Giorno's arms wrapped around his waist enjoying the kind of love he had never gotten from his parents as a child. Bruno's hand swiped over his mussed hair, his other lightly stroking his back in a soothing gesture. Giorno decided he was okay being weak right now. Whether he was the Don of Passione or not.

But, eventually Giorno loosened his grip, realizing how long they had been in this position and Bruno pulled away with a fatherly kiss pressed to Giorno's forehead.

"Let's finish getting you cleaned up, hm?" he suggested matter-of-factly. "Then, it's up to you whether you want to come down and join us for supper or if you would rather get some rest."

Giorno sat up a little straighter. He was tired, but even more, he just really wanted to be with his family right now. A reminder that he was no longer living in his past. That it was now nothing more than the product of nightmares and bad memories.

"I'm kind of hungry," he said.

Bucciarati smiled brightly and nodded. "Very well then."

He quickly finished up with the bandages and helped Giorno into a comfortable sweatshirt before allowing him to head downstairs. Giorno was instantly greeted with Mista and Trish arguing about something and Narancia whining to Abbacchio as he and Fugo worked on supper, but the chaos was welcome, and he couldn't help but smile. This was his life now and he wouldn't trade it for anything.

[pb-nj]

Let Me Take Your Hand, I'll Make It Right

Nico Kim/Levi Schmitt

Stress relief comes in many forms.

(hc inspiration from this post)

Warning: Racism

It's surprising the cases they've had lately at Grey Sloan. All of a sudden the most mundane injuries that people come to the ER for is down to nothing. They still had their influx of non covid patients, legitimate ones at least. Mostly food poisoning; weird but not surprising since people have gone into the trend of experimental baking during lockdown and the occasional injuries that happen when families get too bored in the house. 

He heard it before he actually saw it, a shout of an angered man and Levi rushes to the pit to check the commotion and he just came right at the time that his ex-boyfriend had been punched in the face by a distraught-looking man.

He saw Dr. Hunt and even Ben Warren coming to his aid but they were barely able to reach Nico before the blow was made. 

"I SAID NO CHINESE DOCTORS!" The man bellowed and tried to make another move towards Nico but Ben was able to pull him back and restrain him while Dr. Hunt had used himself as a barrier between Nico and the man. 

"Sir, calm down. This is a hospital and you are causing a disturbance. And you're not supposed to be in here, patients only." Dr. Hunt had one arm towards the man as he tried to reason with him. "Dr. Kim is not Chinese, he is negative from the virus and he is our only orthopaedic expert right now who can see your daughter's broken shoulder."

Levi checks the surroundings and indeed sees a teenage girl on a gurney, crying and clutching her injured arm. She was trying to get her father's attention, shaking her head hysterically but the man only kept staring daggers at Nico. 

"Exactly why I snuck in here! I saw that man attending to my daughter! Chinese, Asian, whatever! They're all the same! How can you keep people like THAT working in the hospital! They caused this virus and he still has the nerve to show up here?!" 

Levi exhales sharply and walks briskly to the nearest nurse station to check if security has been called, to his relief they've already called them as soon as they heard the man raise his voice. Levi looks back at Nico and his expression is merely blank, looking at the floor as if he's tuned everything out. He can see blood through his mask and some trickle from his brow, the exposed cheekbone is forming a nasty bruise, he's not gonna be surprised if his lip is cut too. 

The nurses nearest to the ruckus were too afraid to come near and so Levi took it upon himself to get something from the instruments cart that Nico can wipe his face with.

He walks quietly, closer to the scene and kneels by Nico.

"Here." he whispers softly, handing some tissues to Nico.

Nico startles and that seems to get him out of his daze, looking up at Levi and slowly takes the offered tissue. He slightly lower his mask and starts dabbing at his bloodied nose. Security came right at that moment and pulled the hollering man out of the pit, his daughter sobbing loudly.

Together with Dr. Hunt they helped Nico up, "Dr. Kim, go and get checked in one of the private rooms. I'll see if I can, uh, call Dr. Lincoln to step in for this girl. I wouldn't in normal circumstances but you're pretty bashed up. Please know it's nothing to do with what that man said. Go get yourself cleaned up and have some rest."

Nico merely nods and allows the nurses to help steer him out of the pit. Taryn comes in just in time, surprise on her face when she gets a glimpse of Nico and saunters to Levi, most likely to ask what happened. 

Levi could only rub his forehead as he retells the story and is halfway through when a nurse comes to disturb them.

"Dr. Schmitt, sorry to interrupt but Dr. Kim has asked for you in on call room 6. He doesn't want to be seen by anyone else." Taryn pointedly looks at Levi as he catches her eyes. 

"I'll take over here and.." she pauses, raising a finger towards Levi, "I'm only allowing this because he got sucker punched in the face. You... You better not wear your heart on your sleeve. Now go see what Asian Ken doll wants."

He gives her a small smile and thanks the nurse as he makes his way to the on call room. He grabs a first aid kit on the way just in case and knocks on the door before going in.

"Hi.. What are you doing in an on call room?You were supposed to be in one of the private rooms." Levi steps over to him and he was sitting up on the bed, mask off but was inspecting his injury on his phone. 

"You haven't been seen to?" Levi asks, pulling a chair over and puts the first aid kit on his lap. 

Nico shakes his head, putting his phone down and meets Levi's eyes. "No. I can only trust you." 

"Nico, the nurses are just as capable to tend to you, you know?" 

"I know just... Please?" He looks at Levi pleadingly and the resident can only sigh and nod. Taryn told him not to put wear his heart on his sleeve but how can he when the person he still loves is hurting.

"Okay." He opens the first aid kit and starts cleaning Nico's wounds and he was right, not only did he got hit on the side of his face and nose but his lip got cut but not too bad to require stitches. 

He could feel Nico looking at him, looking at his eyes as he works on the wounds. He tries his best not to flush but Nico's always had a strong look that can weaken his knees especially when he's looking at Levi. If Nico notices Levi's hands trembling he doesn't show it. 

Applying a small wound strip on his lip as the last part, he sits back and finally meets Nico's eyes. The fellow had never stopped looking at Levi the whole time.

"Are you okay?" He asks softly and knowing full well his question can be consider stupid after what happened, he still asks. 

Nico is silent for awhile, just staring into Levi's eyes before he lowers his gaze, clasping his fingers together.

"5th."

"Sorry, what? 5th?"

Nico nods, expression numb and his tone equally numb when he spoke, "5th.. He was the 5th person today to tell me not to go anywhere near them and the numbers go higher throughout the day. I've not only been counting patients I've lost but also patients who have rejected me. Patients who I attended before the pandemic and had to come in for emergency cases and rejecting me, asking for Link instead. Some end up agreeing when they're told Link is on paternity leave and some go home without being seen to. Saying they'll go to another hospital."

Levi's heart breaks right then and there and he can't imagine how much Nico's heart is breaking.

"Nico... I'm so sorry. I.. I never realised how much you've been going through." He takes a deep breath, raising his hand in an attempt to cover Nico's but stops himself midway. Nico noticed the gesture but doesn't move nor react. 

"I got used to it over time. People are scared, worried and they just want to stay alive."

"Yes but Nico they shouldn't be afraid of you. You are not the virus. You get swabbed every week and come out negative. You don't need to suffer silently."

"Levi, this hospital is already going through hell. If I can ignore the abuse I do. I treat who wants to be treated and those who don't want me I make sure I recommend them to the best orthopaedic surgeon in another hospital. It's part of the job."

"It's not, you know it's not.." Levi tries to argue but even he is at a loss of words. He doesn't know how to make this better, how to make people not be afraid of Nico. "Has this been going on for months?"

Nico nods but his expression doesn't change. Levi studies his face for awhile and he must admit it's been awhile since he's seen Nico without a mask on and just actually look at him without doing all the other things they've been doing normally in on call rooms. He misses these moments where they can just be and having each other's presence was enough to make everything right. 

"What can I do?" Levi says softly he isn't sure if Nico heard it especially with his mask still on. 

Nico slowly looks up at Levi and his face is showing like he's debating on something before he responds, "Stress relief."

Did Levi hear that right? He blinks a few times, shock evident in his eyes as he makes sure he heard it correctly.

"Stress relief? Stress relief as in.. now?" He must've looked comical,which is a success in itself since half of his face is covered, because Nico chuckles and smiles. 

That smile reached Levi's heart and he hasn't seen that smile in months. Even when fooling around lately he actually hasn't seen Nico's real smile. 

"Yeah stress relief." He's smirking now and Levi wonders how Nico Kim can still look hot smirking with bruised and bloody lips. 

"I mean.. Okay if that's your thing but you should really be resting."

"Can you sit next to me?" 

Levi raises a brow, putting away the first aid kit on his lap and placing it on a table. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed next to Nico.

"Did you get punched that hard? I mean should we ask for a CT?"

"Turn around."

"What? Nico are you okay? and like not feelings-wise but like in the head.. How many fingers am I holding up?" Levi waves a peace sign in front of Nico but the other just kept staring at him with a small smile on his face at Levi's antics.

"Turn around Levi."

Levi huffs and gives in turning around, his back now facing Nico. He nearly jumps out of his skin when arms wrap around his waist from behind and Nico touched his forehead to Levi's shoulder. 

His hands hang in the air awkwardly as Nico hugs him from the back, not really sure what to do until he hears soft sniffling from behind him and his heart breaks at the sound. He places one hand on the arms that seems to cling tighter and tighter and the other reaches back until he can pet Nico's hair carefully. 

He closes his eyes as he keeps hearing the sniffling and ragged breaths of Nico's cries and he too feels like he's gonna break down just from hearing it but he has to be strong. Strong for the person who he's known to only be strong and act strong. 

Levi allows Nico to cry it all out. He doesn't know if he's crying out the today or the past week, past months or perhaps he's crying out everything he's never cried out before but he knows they've been there for a long time like that because he could feel how stiff his body is from being in the same position for so long. It's a surprise no one has come looking for him but he guessed Taryn had something to do with it. 

Nico's hold finally relaxes and he leans back on the headboard again, not bothering to wipe his tears. He merely swallows thickly and closes his eyes. "Thank you, Levi." 

Levi turns around and this time he doesn't hesitate to place a hand on Nico's, "I can't make people change their prejudices but I can be here, I'm always here. For this kind of stress relief and the other." He grins sheepishly and it makes Nico open his eyes and chuckle at him.

"I miss seeing your whole face." He admits and once again Levi's heart soars. 

"Nico-..." He starts and of course he gets paged. They were bound to need him soon enough. "Page, non covid and all other residents have their hands full. I gotta go."

Nico merely nods, that soft expression still on his face. 

"Get some rest and just.. tell me, us, anyone.. If you need anything." He walks backwards, trying to keep Nico in his sight for as long as he can before he walks out the door. 

_

This was Levi's 7th devastating news to give out and this was the worst today. The patient was about to get married, they've made plans to have a small ceremony, just them and their parents and it was 4 days before the wedding when she started getting symptoms. She died and they didn't even know she was 4 weeks pregnant. Her fiance is practically on the floor sobbing, his mother holding him. Levi is just stood there, unable to do much. He stands there until the mother and son manages to get up and give him a quick thank you before leaving. 

He clutches his tablet to his chest, letting out a shaky breath and trying to keep from tearing up. He gets a message on his phone and it's.. it's from Nico.

Come see me. The usual.

He isn't sure what to make of it and he pockets his phone. He hasn't had a break yet and so can do with some while he goes to find Nico.

After that time Nico got punched, they've only come to each other for sexual relief. It's like Nico has cried out everything and is back to himself completely. They don't talk about that time and Levi doesn't allow himself to be confused by that time. He takes what he can from Nico and leaves it at that or so he makes himself believe but he's getting better at this purely physical thing. 

He makes it to their usual on call room and as soon as he opens the door he is already talking, "Look Nico I'm not in the mood. Can we do this another time?"

"I saw you just now.. Breaking the news to that family. Must've been hard." 

Levi is taken aback because he didn't see him around that time.

"I was just behind you, updating another family. You looked like you had an even harder time breaking the news to them."

"She.. She was pregnant and.. They didn't even know and they were supposed to get married in a few days." He shudders out a breath, hugging himself as he shares the news. 

"Okay." Is all Nico says before he turns around, back now facing Levi and oh... 

He knows he shouldn't and he knows they need to talk if they keep doing this for each other, being there for each other but right now he just needs this.. needs Nico. 

And so he wraps his arms around Nico's waist, rests his forehead on his broad back and cries, not even caring that he is now full on sobbing and Nico, he rests his hands on Levi's arms and eventually takes one of his hands and intertwine their fingers together as Levi keeps crying on him. 

They both know they're blurring the lines again and Nico isn't sure if he is ready for that. They're at the precipice where it may just go downhill if they make the wrong move.

But for now.. he holds Levi and lets him cry.

[charbax]

In The Woods Somewhere

The aftermath of a hunt, and a bond forged in the dark. A Striktor mythical au inspired by Speck’s posts here and here. 

A/N: I wrote this two years ago, forgot about it, then dusted it off and decided to finish it just in time for halloween!! Gosh I miss writing these two. 

Please like/reblog if you enjoyed!

AO3 link here!

-

The thirst was the first thing Strix was aware of - it ached in his throat and stomach, carving out something hollow. His tongue darted out and licked dry lips, and he swallowed, trying to wet his mouth. 

The next thing he was aware of was the barn ceiling above him. Strange. He usually didn't rest in buildings so close to people-   The thought sent a bolt of fear through his heart. He sat up suddenly, then regretted the action immediately afterwards when his head spun. A hand gripped his shoulder, steadying him. "Hey, easy there." A familiar voice said. Instantly, Strix's guard lowered, if only by a minuscule amount.   Something pressed against his lips. "It's not blood." Viktor explained. "Just water, drink it slowly." Strix accepted it nonetheless, placing a hand over Viktor's to control the slow trickle of liquid. It wasn't enough to fully alleviate his thirst, but at least the ache subsided to something manageable, something he could think past.     Once he was done, he asked, "Where?"   "The barn just outside of town. You passed out after we drove the knife into the monster. I carried you here. Well, I wanted to bring you to a real bed but," Viktor frowned. "Apparently killing a monster and saving their children wasn't enough for a decent room. The economy is in shambles." He emphasised the last part with a weak grin. Strix snorted in amusement. Viktor continued. "How're you holding up?"   Strix's whole body ached, and had him wishing he was asleep again, but he soldiered on. "Tired, mostly."   "Want some alone time so you can sleep?"   "...not really." Strix admitted. He leaned back, holding the cup in his lap. "I want to know what happened when I was asleep."   And so Viktor told him - after he had passed out, Viktor carried him all way out of the winding caves and back to town, where they had been greeted warmly by the townspeople, who were holding torches, and pitchforks ("I'm being sarcastic," Viktor clarified with an exaggerated whisper). According to the them, they recognised a vampire when they saw an unconscious one, and had prepared if Viktor was underneath its thrall. Luckily, the head of the monster was proof enough to convince that they were harmless, but even so, the townfolk were suspicious of the vampire, the one responsible for the disappearances of the children.   "After that, I headed back to your home, where the children were." Viktor raised his hands apologetically. "Sorry. It was the only way to convince people not to burn you while they had a chance. After all, kidnapping's still kidnapping, even if it was to keep them safe."   Strix winced as he looked at his lap, but didn't deny it. A hand covered his own. "Hey." Viktor continued. "Once they saw their children safe, they warmed up pretty fast. The village leader just wants to talk to you."   "...alright." Strix said.   "Right. Be right back." Viktor got up and ducked outside. Strix spent the next few minutes sipping his water and thinking about slipping out of the window while he had the chance. But Viktor's face flashed in his mind. So he only nervously tapped his fingers against the cup and waited.   A while later, Viktor returned with the elder in tow. Straightened up, trying to keep his face blank and non-threatening, as if he was just another person and not a creature of the night.     "Hello." The elder greeted. At least he wasn't carrying a pitchfork, small blessings. "I believe you were the one who stole the babes from their cribs."   For the second time in a short period, Strix avoided the gazes in the room. He looked into his cup and tried not to let shame rise hot to his cheeks.   "But you kept them safe from the true monster, so I suppose that explains it." The elder continued.     "I wasn't going to keep them forever." Strix began. "Until it moved on. My strength is nothing against the monster's own."   "That answered my next question. Was that why you did not go after it yourself?"   "My presence cloaked the kids. If I died trying to kill it, then it would come after them."   The elder stared at him, impassively, his face giving nothing away. Strix tried not to squirm underneath the slightly narrowed eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Viktor cross his arms and subtly inch closer to Strix. How relieving it was, to have someone like Viktor on his side, Strix supposed. Finally, the village head nodded, seemingly placated. "I understand. You may rest here for a three days as thanks, then take your leave. The others were already fearful of the monster. Do not make them fearful of the child-taker as well.”   Strix nodded mutely. The elder gave one more stern look, then took his leave. Viktor turned to him with a grin. "See? Nothing to be worried about." He said.   Strix grunted, agreement or disagreement, discretion to the listener. He leaned back onto his makeshift bed - a cloth over some hay, now that he could feel it scratch underneath him - and closed his eyes. "You have plans after this?" He asks, chest lighter now that the main threat was gone.   "No idea. Probably head east, to the coast. Then who knows?"   Strix hummed thoughtfully. Of course. Viktor seemed the type to be a roamer, no home, no past to weigh him down, a lone wolf borne of man. After all, that's how they met – on a job. Nothing more, nothing less. At least, that’s what Strix was trying to himself since they’ve entered that cave.   Seemingly having nothing else to add, Viktor leaned back into his chair and gazed out the window. And since Strix had seemingly nothing else to reply, he let comfortable silence fall over them. Strix continued watching Strix, and wondered what jobs would await Viktor.   It didn’t occur to him to think about what he himself was going to do next, save for the immediate need to leave the village as soon as possible.     -   After all that, Viktor got paid the tidy sum he was contracted for, no more, no less, and that’s how he liked it. He also gets the admiration of the local teens who dream of escaping their little village. That part he’s less pleased with. This isn’t the type of job he’d recommend as a future career – the pay wasn’t constant, the transit depends if he has a horse or not, and not to mention the life-threatening danger of the work is enough to deter mostly anyone with common sense. There’s a reason why there’s not many monster hunters in the first place.   Still, he hung around. No reason not too. The money is more than enough to fund his next job, and it’s rare he has some downtime to just enjoy the place, even if it’s just a small town in the middle of nowhere. It gives him more time to actually hang out with one of the less annoying - but just as persistent – village youths.   Said youth was leaning back on the tree contently, twirling a small knife as she watched Viktor. “So you really ain’t gonna take me?” Kinessa said with a touch of forlornness.     “Told you already kid. This kind of work ain’t for nice young’uns like you-”   “Oh yeah? Can a kid do this?” With that, she twirled her knife around one last time then threw it at the opposite tree trunk. It landed with a solid thunk! She grinned at him as he shook his head.     “Don’t remember teaching you that one.”   “Yeah, got it from-” Kinessa stopped suddenly, her eyes darting fervently. Viktor too glanced around, but the only things listening were the trees and the gentle wind of autumn. They relaxed. “Got it from Strix. It’s one of the few things he taught me while we were staying at his place. Y’know, it wasn’t that bad being looked after him, apart from the cabin fever. He certainly made sure everyone was fed.”   Viktor didn’t really know much about what Strix did when he was hiding the children. He only remembered seeing those wide eyes staring at him in fear. He could still recall seeing the openly scared kids huddling behind the sniper’s outstretched arm like a brood to a mother bird. It was only when Viktor lowered the rifle to the floor and raise his hands did Strix take his finger off the trigger.     He was shaken from his memories when Kinessa spoke again. “Wonder what’s he doing right now.”’   Yes, Viktor was thinking the same thing – he hadn’t heard hide nor feather from Strix even since then. He was like a ghost of the village, where everyone did their best not to acknowledge that the so-called ‘terror of the night’ was, in fact, a very nice cryptid who just wanted to live in peace.   Which the villagers granted him a lot, yes, but only in the physical sense. Reputation wise, it hadn’t changed that much from before, as Kinessa had been telling him. They just also added kidnapper to his extensive repertoire. Which, in Viktor’ opinion, was less than what Strix truly deserved.   Viktor’s gaze fell on the woods, and he wondered.   –   It’s much easier to navigate the deer paths now, in the daylight, rather than the middle of the dark on a morbid mission. The twisting paths are no match for years of hunting experience, so it takes an almost laughably short time to reach Strix’s cottage. Two visits in two weeks, someone’s becoming popular.     Bet he’s gonna shock Strix out of...whatever Strixes do with free time and no children to guard. When he knocked on the front door, he had to wait until the door inched open, revealing a pair of amber eyes that were narrowed in suspicion before they widened.   “Viktor?”   “The one and only. Can I come in?”   Strix wordlessly opened the door and let Viktor step into the hideout. He’s still staring at him. Viktor grinned. “Shocking right? I’m capable of knocking on the front door instead of smashing it in during the middle of the night.”     The right side of Strix’s mouth twitched. A smile? “What are you doing here?”   “You invited me in?”   “I mean,” Strix’s smile deepened. “I thought you would have left the village by now.”   “Well that was the plan. I can tell you all about it if you want.”

Strix blinked, then nodded. Viktor sank down onto one of the chairs. Strix still hovered by the door. “Do you want to take a seat?"

"That's my line, but I supposed you already answered." Strix said, shaking his head ever so slightly, but he sat down on the other free seat.

Viktor looked around the room, taking note of the cleanliness now there was an absence of missing children. He did, however, note the various wilted flowercrowns and small toys lining the mantle of the fireplace. Something was bubbling away in it, smelling absolutely delicious. "Gifts from the kids?" Viktor asked, nodding to the fireplace.

"Not really. I would go to return them but," Strix paused. "I feel I'm not welcomed at the village. They need time to recover."

Really, in Viktor's humble opinion, the villagers should be showering Strix in gratitude and gold for slaying the beast, but that's him. Strix's voice broke his silent grumblings.

"I doubt that you're here to check on my well-being. What brings you?"

Viktor scratched the back of his head. "Actually, that's exactly what I was doing." Strix blinked at him. Viktor fidgeted self-consciously. "What, never had someone check up on you?"

Strix shook his head, wide-eyed, like an owl.

"Huh." Viktor said intelligently. He leaned back, one arm hung over the back of the seat. "Thought you and that kid, Kinessa..."

"It's for the best she doesn't." Came the terse reply.

Viktor didn't respond to that. Strix continued staring at a spot on the patched wall. "She still thinks of you." Viktor continued.

"I'd rather not talk about this now."

Viktor relented, willing to let it go for now, then grinned as he recalled an earlier misadventure. "Want to hear about how I managed to sneak my way into something called the Thousand Hand guild and stole the leader's sword?"

The troubled look cleared away with a smile, like sunlight parting through stormy clouds.

-

"...and then that was when I realised, the knight was rescuing the dragon, not the damsel!"

Mirth lit the planes of Strix's planes, warm as the glow from the firelight as it cast dancing shadows over the both of them. Viktor didn't even realise it was nightfall until he was studying the planes of Strix's face in the semi-darkness, how it sharpened and softened it all at once. Supper was a long gone memory, and the mulled wine was sitting heavy and pleasant in his gut. He hadn't had enough to be truly drunk, no, but it was sharing a secret every time he sipped and caught Strix's eye.

Strix had loosened up, as loose as a creature of the night can truly be while looking over their shoulder - he was noticeably more slouched, trying his best to melt into the furs, or into Viktor's side of the bench. Sometime in the evening, Viktor had moved from sitting opposite of Strix to next to him, a warm presence in the dark of the room. "I mean," Strix smirked. "He was wearing a helmet. Maybe he didn't see."

"Nah, he definitely saw. If he didn't, he would've definitely felt when he hefted the scaly son of a bastard onto his shoulder and took off!"

Strix wasn't being silent all the time though. He occasionally spoke up, to put in a wry comment or a interesting fact about some of the monsters Viktor faced, and Viktor found himself nodding along the more Strix spoke. Or maybe he was nodding off because of the warmth from the fire, or the sudden shock of heat to his gut when Strix's eyes flicked to his own.

"Hey, Strix." Viktor said. "Doesn't it get lonely out here?"

Strix's eyes glowed amber in the firelight as he answered, "Sometimes."

Viktor's throat clicked as he swallowed, and he summoned all the courage he had, even more than facing the child-eating monster, to lay a hand on Strix's knee. Warmth shot up his arm and pooled in his stomach. "You don't have to be. Not tonight." He leaned closer to Strix, closer to the intoxicating scent of forest and the night and just him. Still, he hovered just over Strix’s lips, with enough distance for Strix to pull away, in case Viktor had read all the signs wrong.

He didn't. Strix closed the distance with a surge.

Then Viktor didn’t have to worry afterwards.

-

"They still want me dead, y'know." Strix murmured from his position on Viktor's chest.

Viktor made a rumbling noise of question, eyes closed, too blissed out to properly answer. He felt Strix stroke his jaw with careful fingers. "And you, by association."

Viktor peeked open one eye open at Strix. "Didn't we just save the livelihood of their village?"

"Yes. Also risked your neck for the town's 'ghost monster'." Strix continued, even when Viktor opened both his eyes to frown at him. "Their willful ignorance won't last long. Sooner or later they'll try to run you out for standing up for me. They still blame me for attracting the beast to them."

Viktor propped himself up on one elbow, carefully maneuvering Strix to look at him in the eyes. "Bullshit. You saved their children. They still believe you're still bad?"

"They're fearful of what they don't know."

Strix's face looked forlorn that Viktor reached down to kiss it off and smooth out the frown. Strix definitely looked a lot more calmer once Viktor pulled away, but there was still a concerned wrinkle in his brow. "You should leave this place while you still can."

"Or what, they'll re-fetch the pitchforks and run me out of town?"

Strix gave him a blank look, and Viktor realised that yes, Strix really did mean that.

"Huh."

Maybe Strix had a point. It was high time he moved on anyway, places to visit, people to see, monsters to hunt. "What about you, though? Will you be alright?"

"I had the moniker 'Ghost Feather' for a reason. I know how to disappear when I need to."

'But you shouldn't have to hide,'  Viktor thought, 'You shouldn't have to fear for your life, when you take place in this world too.'

He kept his mouth though, and wondered again.

-

"This is goodbye, isn't it." Strix said.

Viktor hummed in agreement. They stood in front of Strix's cottage, next to the sprawling wildflowers and untamed grass. Even the sun was shining, ignorant of the ache in Strix's chest as he looked over his home.

"Didn't think I would make good memories here. You proved me wrong." Strix came closer to Viktor and clasped his hand with appreciation. "I'll surely remember this. Even when this house rots to the earth."

Viktor smiled at that. "m'glad then." He grasped the back of Strix’s neck and pulled down, tipping his head so he could touch his forehead with Strix’s own, trying to postpone the inevitable. Strix opened his mouth.

"Viktor, I-"

There was the sound of a door being slammed open. "Would you two lovebirds hurry up?" Kinessa called as she hurried up the dirt path, rucksack secure on her shoulder. "Daylight's burning and I want to see the citadel before sunset."

Strix sighed, a warm breath of affection and annoyance. Viktor said, "Hey, you wanted to being the kid along, that makes her your protégé."

The side of Strix's mouth ticked upwards. "And you?"

"...that makes me yours too. Whatever of me you’ll want, it's yours.”

They both steadfastly ignored the retching noises Kinessa was making behind their backs. Viktor took Strix's hand and grinned at him.  "Ready?"

Strix smiled back, brighter than any gold. "Yes."

And together, they stepped out into the sunlight.

[soundsaboutrighttumblr]

Cool Boy - ramking fic

 Read at AO3  

                     Summary:            

My take on what happens after season one’s final episode for them. Ram’s POV.

Texting. Then meeting back at the condo.

                Also, this song put me in the mood: youtube.com/watch?v=CCPqEEC8J_0 Josh Rabenold's cover of Ocean Eyes

---    

I’m sorry

---

By late afternoon, Ram is back at the condo.

The washing machine’s been loaded with the trip’s laundry, and his tooth brush has been put back into its holder. The plants needing water have been cared for. Feeling modestly accomplished and a tad less restless Ram takes to the couch, swiping through pictures of the last two days that his friends have kept sending to him. Mostly because he knows he’ll come across and stop at that one.

He opens the tab with King’s messages. Just in case he didn’t hear the notification. But this morning’s sent text still sits unanswered.

 I wasn’t drunk last night.

Ram deliberates sending King the photo. But Ting already might have. For sure she did. He’s about to get up for something to drink, when suddenly his eyes are drawn to movement, and the typing bubble pops up in the corner. If Ram sits up straighter for it, no one is there with him to judge him for it. The notification sounds off in his hand.

Thanthep King: I’m sorry

Ram stares at it. He doesn’t want it to, but it feels like a punch to the gut somehow. A damper on his careful, hopeful waiting. He’s been telling himself to keep his worrying in check, tells himself the same thing now. What is King saying? I am sorry I can’t do this?

Ram waits. A long minute. Two.

Thanthep King: I shouldn’t have shouted at you like this

More typing.

Thanthep King: Or pushed you

Ram breathes out slowly. Texts back:

 It’s okay

Thanthep King: I am 80 percent sure I wouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t been drunk…

Ram feels the corner of his mouth tick up. It’s only half a smile. He types:

 I know

The dots in the upper corner keep moving. But no more messages come through.

Ram waits.

---

Ram knows King’s plan was to stay the night at his grandma’s house, and drive home after lunch the next day. King can take a car that his grandma’s gardeners will collect on their next errant in the city. They’ve done it before, apparently. It’s almost a two-hour drive, so Ram first expected King back around afternoon.

He took the dogs out for a long walk around midday, but left them at Duen’s parents’ for a few more nights with a heavy heart. Daoheni cares for them with that special possessive brand of generosity only a child can muster, and they have a big garden for them to play in, so he supposes it’s okay.

It's starting to get dark outside.

Ram’s trying to watch a tech documentary that one of their teachers recommended, but he keeps pausing and switching tabs because he can’t seem to concentrate. He’s halfway across the room to check their stock of cold drinks in the fridge, when he hears rustling at the entrance. So once the door opens, Ram kind of just stands there.

King’s eyes flick over to him, but then he turns around to bring in his bags. Ram reaches for a glass on the counter, to have something to do, but he waits. Fills it at the tab. Then sets it down again. King glances at him once more, shuffling off his shoes, but then he skips down, crouching to address some of his plants on the lower levels of his shelf:

“Hello, hello, I am back at last, did you guys miss me?” His voice trails off at the end, but he coughs and touches two of the succulents in passing, his tone light: “Have you grown? I have only been gone for three days…” He runs his fingertips along several of the long, hanging leaves, but his movements are erratic, like he is unsure how many more plants he can greet before he has to face Ram.

Then he stands and turns to Ram with the same bright quality of voice:

“Hey.”

Ram brings his chin up in a careful smile he isn’t sure makes it all the way to his lips.

King’s head is tilted in that observing way, apprehensive almost, with eyes that are tiny bit too wide. He looks oddly vulnerable in the hallway of his own apartment.

“Have you eaten?”

Ram nods. Ignores how his heart wants to beat out of his chest.

“I’ve brought so many leftovers from at my grandma’s. It’s like a week’s worth of Tupperware…” He half-laughs and gestures to bag he left next to entrance.

Ram nods again. Takes a step closer to King. He’s not so sure why. He just wants King to look at him, not in that furtive way, but really look at him, so that Ram can see, and so that he can let King know.

He doesn’t know why it feels so strangely urgent, maybe it’s the day of waiting, or the dismissive lightness of King’s voice.

King’s forefinger and thumb rub against each other, and there’s that slope to his neck again, but at least he doesn’t take a step back. His eyes are ever assertive, still glancing, but he has turned his body towards Ram nonetheless.

Ram knows that any inch more will bring him inside King’s space, and he doesn’t want to be invasive, but he wants to be there.

“I think I should put them in the fridge…”

Ram reaches for King’s hand. Puts his fingers around his forearm, stopping him in his motion to go for his bag. King stills. Ram just tightens his grip once, an impulse, a signal, then he makes the circle of his fingers gentle, loose but there, and his thumb draws a caress along King’s skin.

He thinks he feels King shiver. Then King looks at him. The flicker is in his eyes as well.

“Ai’Ning…”

“Why?“

King blinks, a question in the lift of his brows; in the part of his lips. He looks caught and chased and puzzled and knowing at the same time.

“What changed?” Ram’s voice is low even to his own ears. Pleading. And somehow he doesn’t even mean since the text he sent yesterday morning, not since the time they last saw each other, doesn’t mean since the kiss… he somehow means what has changed since that time you put that flower in my hair and told me I’d always be welcome around you. And he wishes he could make King understand what he means. Don’t you want this? Didn't you say you do?

Ram has brought King’s arm in his hand up to their chests, their feet stepping in between each other’s, barefoot toes almost touching. King’s face is so close to his that everything else around him blurs.

Ram sees him trying to make sense, behind those clever eyes, watches his mouth open and close, and open. Huffed bouts of breath trickle along his neck, before King’s voice carries:

“I don’t want to hurt you, and even more, in a stupid way like this!” There’s force behind King’s words at first, but then it stumbles, peters out. “…and, honestly, all it needed was some alcohol, and I was hurting you.”

He swallows, a hitch like a dry laugh to his voice. His eyes are so wide.

“I don’t think…  I think I am actually really not good at this?"

A skipped breath, a missed heartbeat.

"I don’t know what I am doing? You deserve-”

Ram seals his lips to King’s open mouth mid-word.

----

He doesn’t even move fast. It's like he’s carried along, inside a shore-bound wave the tide pulled in.

----

King’s eyes flutter closed in reflex, but Ram’s linger. He has to know King is okay. With this.

A sound like pain leaves king's throat, breath pushing out through his nose.  

But he stays.

So, Ram kisses him as slow and gentle as he dares, empathically so. His own heart loud and high and wild in his chest.

King’s lips taste different today, with no trace of whiskey. His mouth feels softer, and there is gentle give. It pushes Ram into a rush like sudden falling.

When King shifts his weight from one foot to the other one in between Ram’s stance, Ram keeps him close just by the yielding angle of his mouth.

He brings one hand up to King’s neck, the other lost somewhere in the fabric of King’s shirt. King’s fingers hold fast onto the sides of Ram’s sweater.

When the first kiss stops, King is still almost vibrating inside of Ram’s embrace, breath shaking, although his forehead leans lightly to touch Ram’s.

 But it feels like getting there. Somewhere. Better.

Ram decides and searches King's lips again, unhurried as before. King makes a soft sound of surprise and welcome.

And Ram is kissed back. Was before, too, but now it is in every way King’s body makes contact with his, drawing him in, gaining steady momentum.

---

When they pull back for air, just slightly, cheeks and noses keep touching, still nudging, grazing against each other.

This time King’s hand has found its way to the neckline of Ram’s sweater, loosely clinging there. His fingertips draw tiny caresses into Ram’s collar bone, and Ram is reminded of the way King has greeted his plant just earlier, and all those times before: subtle touches, checking up and reconnecting and exploring, and he feels lighter. Despite it all, everything feels lighter.

King’s voice is warm and slightly cracked against Ram’s neck:

“You are… important.”

Ram isn’t sure he gets everything King wants to tell him with those words right now. But he understands the implied ‘to me’.

He nods against King’s shoulder.

As close as they are, it’s just a shifting of their weight, really, to pull each other deeper into their arms.

                             Notes:  

Did I get up yesterday night after already going to bed to write the rough draft of this until 3 am on a work day? Maybe.

Shout at me? Lemme know what you think? <3

Also thank you to @electricunicorn5678  for helping out with the spelling of Ai'Ning <3

[bernadineisreborn]

Reality VII

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Author’s note: Hellooooo and welcome back. In this chapter, things get figured out. You probably knew all along, but now reader knows too, so that’s good. UMMM okay that’s it, hope you all enjoy! Please please please like or comment or (gold-tier) reblog!! But, I appreciate you just for reading! Love you!                       –Bernadine

Warnings: swearing/vulgarity, me not knowing wtf I’m doing

Word count: 1883

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Draco did not consider himself weak. He was resilient, he was intimidating, he was a Malfoy, for fuck’s sake.

He hadn’t allowed himself to feel emotion since the school year had started. His Aunt Bellatrix’s advice rang in his mind almost constantly: any emotion would allow Snape, or worse, Dumbledore, to read him with ease.

He sat in the Slytherin Common Room, his metaphorical muscles tired from the weight on his shoulders. Draco had been back at Hogwarts for three months, and hadn’t made much progress with the Vanishing Cabinet. He needed to do something else.

Of course, he had other plans. None of them were as good as the Cabinet, but they could work.

Draco thought of the package he had hidden in the Room of Requirement. It was a last resort, he reminded himself, to use the cursed necklace that laid inside in attempts to kill his headmaster. Dumbledore, Draco was sure, would somehow manage to evade the curse it gave those who touched it. He had to find a way to fix the Vanishing Cabinet and allow other Death Eaters to do the pillaging around Hogwarts.

It was a Saturday, which meant a few things. First, Draco had time to himself. He could work on his task, mostly unbothered. Second, there was a Quidditch match.

Draco watched longingly as Crabbe and Goyle lazed out of the dorms, clad in green and silver uniforms, nodding to him as they went by. Draco grunted and repressed the intense desire to follow them. A Quidditch match sounded perfect right about now.

Emotion, thought Draco numbly, is the hamartia of mankind.

----

You squinted as you woke up, sunlight streaming in through the tall windows of Ravenclaw Tower. There had been no dreaming last night; no furred or feathered creatures had patrolled your subconscious at all.

You weren’t sure whether to be grateful or suspicious. This was the second morning you had woken up without having had the dream since you’d spoken to Trelawney.

The Great Hall was filled with excitement, as the Slytherin and Hufflepuff teams prepared for today’s Quidditch match. You usually would have attended with Marcus, but as things were now, you weren’t really in the mood.

Instead, you explained to Sue and Mandy, who were dressed in yellow and black Hufflepuff scarves, “I’ll get to catch up on homework that I haven’t been able to do. You know, since I’ve been in detention.”

They seemed content with this answer, and maybe even a bit sympathetic. You waved to them as they headed off to the Quidditch pitch.

You’d brought Trelawney’s loan, The Dream Oracle’s Sequel: More Dreams, More Divination, with you, and you started reading as you sipped on your morning tea.

An hour later, you knew breakfast was officially over because the leftover food, plates, and your still half-full teacup vanished from the table. However, you had made it to the section titled “Dream. Interrupted: How to finish your dream experience,” and were eager to try the book’s recommendations.

You dashed to the seventh floor, and found the blank wall you needed to utilize. You started pacing, desperately thinking, I need a place to sleep to fall asleep without interruption.

After your third pacing in front of the wall, a small door appeared.

The Room of Requirement was a bit less of a secret location that it had been last year. Harry Potter had made the place legend when he’d started the D.A., and you’d visited a few times, curious about the place’s magic.

Now, it was more useful than ever. Through the doorway was a very cozy room. There were windows that let in fresh sunlight, framed with heavy-looking velvet drapes, and there was a bed bigger than any you had seen before, covered with fluffy quilts and throw pillows. There was also a pot of tea, and you realized delightedly that it was chamomile from it’s smell.

On top of the bed were a pair of silk pajamas, in exactly your size and favorite color. You changed quickly, and drew the drapes over the windows. Hazy midday sunlight trickled in from behind the curtains, giving the room the appearance of a faint golden glow.

You poured yourself a cup of tea and settled in the bed, skimming the chapter of The Dream Oracle’s Sequel again, for good measure. According to the book, you needed to do a short incantation, and then you’d be able to sleep until the dream had finished.

You readied you wand, setting your tea on the bed stand, and spoke, “Somnum Integrum.”

Almost immediately, you started to feel drowsy. The bed’s blankets were so comfortable, you wondered whether you were in heaven.

And you wondered if the rabbit would ever move, damnit! It lazed in the emerald grass, without a worry. The sun was shining brightly, and as you watched, you understood why the bunny wasn’t afraid. No one would hurt her here, she was somehow completely safe. The snake approached first, cautious, stalking. It’s blue eyes, you realized, were actually closer to a gunmetal grey. The hawk swooped in then, graceful and feathered. Its talons were outstretched, and you noticed that they were scarred with small, almost invisible, winding lines. The rabbit was oblivious to the mini-knifes plunging at her through the sky.

Just as you thought the hawk would strike, the snake propelled himself up and met it, deflecting the blow from the bunny and taking it himself.

The rabbit, now, was clued in. She watched, eyes wide as the snake and the hawk struggled. Their fight showed no signs of ending, and you got the impression that the rabbit was afraid for the fate of both parties involved.

In a flash, the snake broke free and winded himself around the rabbit in the grass. At first you thought he would squeeze her to death, and the rabbit seemed to think so too. Then, the snake faced the hawk again and hissed. You realized, with a bit of surprise, that the snake’s stance around the rabbit was protective.

The dream fizzed and faded away, and you were catapulted into a memory: a lonely, sad hallway at midnight. But… a different perspective.

This time, you were the one huddled against the wall, weeping into yourself.

A tentative hand touched your shoulder. You opened your dream eyes. The hand was long and pale and connected to an equally long and pale face: Draco. The moonlight shone through the window and hit his white hair at an irritatingly perfect angle.

“Y/N,” he asked, grey eyes full of concern, “Are you alright?”

You jolted awake, back into reality, back into the Room of Requirement.

Around you, the large bed was still unbearably comfortable. Through the windows, afternoon light streamed, and you realized that you must have been sleeping for a few hours. You threw the comforter off yourself, and padded across the cool stone floor barefooted. Drawing a heavy velvet curtain back, you looked outside. The Quidditch stands were still full of people, and streaks of yellow and green warred in the air above the field.

You remembered the dream, then, looking out at the sunny November day. You weren’t entirely sure how to feel. It almost felt like the snake and the hawk were other people. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? If the rabbit was you, then maybe the snake and hawk were people you knew.

Your mind drifted curiously to the second dream. Why the hell had your subconscious conjured that? Draco hated you, or so you were rather sure. But his expression in the dream had been so caring… so conscious of your feelings. There was something you were missing.

You gathered your things, still pondering the dream’s revelations. In the hallway, a figure stood to meet you. It was Draco, and he looked angry. His wand was raised in a rather threatening position. When he met your gaze, his expression relented slightly.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said lamely, lowering his wand.

You scoffed and stepped back, a bit surprised to see him standing there, especially after the dreams you’d just had. “Yes, it’s me. Who’d you think it was going to be?”

“Someone else,” he stated, his eyes wandering over you. His brows quirked up, “Do you ever put on real clothes when you’re not in class?”

You looked down, and noticed with a jolt that you were still wearing the Room’s gift: the perfect silk pajamas. “Yes, obviously. Erm, what are you doing here?”

His expression shifted, eyes narrowed, “I need to get into the Room of Requirement.”

“Oh. Right,” you crossed your arms in front of your chest in an attempt at a defensive pose, “What for?”

Draco sneered, “None of your business.” His eyes softened then, and he opened his mouth to speak, “I—”

But your hand had flown to your mouth in recognition, the things you were carrying falling from your arms in the process. His expression, his eyes. Even though the expression of the Draco in front of you was nowhere near as sympathetic as the Draco in your dream, it was enough. You knew: Draco was the snake.

He stared at you, brows pinched together, his face somewhere between annoyance and confusion, “Merlin, get a grip.”

You weren’t paying attention. You quickly scooped the things from the floor, Draco making no attempts at helping you, and started walking away. Over your shoulder, you called, “See you in detention.”

Draco watched you walk away, then turned back toward the now-blank wall in front of him. He exhaled, and allowed his expression to neutralize, as if he was slipping on an ice-cold, skin-thin mask. Pacing quietly, he thought. I need the Vanishing Cabinet. I need the Vanishing Cabinet. I need the Vanishing Cabinet.

The Room of Requirement was both a great comfort and a great stress to Draco. He walked into the room carefully, the fixing of Cabinet was not going well.

He tried for an hour or so, working on the Cabinet, following instructions from every book on Vanishing Cabinets in order to fix it.

As he worked, he wondered what you’d been doing in here, in pajamas, no less. Draco recalled the night you’d caught him in a rather…unfortunate position. He had expected to hear rumors the next day about what you’d seen, he’s expected you to tell everyone, he’d expected his reputation to need repairing. But, you’d stayed quiet, and he had no idea why.

That night, he considered, she was wandering the halls alone too. Awake at an ungodly hour. Maybe she… Draco stopped himself. He didn’t care why you’d been out of bed. You meant nothing to him. You were a nuisance, you were…

Well, he was a little grateful that you hadn’t given him the additional stress of telling people that The Draco Malfoy was crying and alone and hopeless.

Draco lazed around the Room of Requirement. In this form, there were lost objects everywhere. Objects people had come to store somewhere—anywhere: old broomsticks, he assumed these were faulty; random books; broken desks and chairs; an ancient looking teapot and teacup set, even with tea still in it. The tea wasn’t even cold yet. Draco wondered briefly if the pot was charmed to never cool. He sniffed. Hmm, chamomile.

---

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[animalfalls]

Never Good Enough

Leviathan X GN!MC (Angsty and unedited)

Warning: this is really angsty and there is a lot about self-hate so if you are easily triggered I don’t recommend this fic for you.

Word Count: 1813

AN: OMG wow I actually finish something lmao. It includes a phrase in Japanese, I don’t speak the language but I did take a few classes a while back. If it isn’t used right or I was WAY off with it’s meaning please let me know lol. I got it off of a site that explained how in Japanese they aren’t direct with speaking so instead of “I love you”, “I like you” would be more appropriate for this situation. Plus to me it fits Leviathan’s personality.

You know you should’ve seen this coming, yet no amount of preparation could he stop the tears from flowing. Your blank eyes stare back into the piercing gaze of the unnamed demon before you. No matter how strong you are physically one thing always hurts more than anything else. A tinge of pain began to stew in your chest, festering up and choking you out. A clawed hand pressed to your throat in a death grip. You knew this would be your fate as soon as you stepped through the gates of RAD. A school of demons was no place for a powerless human. You were surprised how you managed to last this long.

This was not what caused your tears to overflow and flood your face. Nor was it the sharp edges of the claws ripping into your skin causing blood to trickle down from your neck and seep into the clothes on your chest. Not even the growing suffocation of disruption of air to your lungs. No, it was far worse than any physical pain that could be brought upon you. It was those words that made you lower your guard and give in to your fate. You knew you stood no chance once those vile words flittered off of the lips of this demon. You will never be good enough for him.

It was as if the demon had a paralysis spell over you, your body declining any thoughts of running or fighting back. You knew it was true already, but you never wanted to face the truth. Leviathan… He was too good for you. Any fight you had given up to this point had since coming to an abrupt halt. What were you thinking anyway? You were only a human, you had no right to even hope he would view you as anything more than an annoyance. You were just a burden to all of the brothers and you knew this so well. Yet for a moment you thought you could actually belong somewhere. With others that would understand you and maybe even enjoy your company. What a stupid thought, nothing but the fleeting hopes of a useless human. Pathetic human, you really think he could ever love you? No, but I hoped he could.

The world seemed to be so colorful when Levi was around, a smile from him could send a beautiful warm feeling through you. Listening to him go on about any one of his shows was blissful. He would get so excited at times his demon form would emerge and the way his tail shot straight up as he would go into great depth about his favorite parts. That boy’s passion for anime and video games was second to none. You always liked how he would lend you his manga without you having to ask for them. He’d often leave them in a box outside of your door with a note on them in the middle of the night so he didn’t wake you.

You kept every single note, they were your treasures, he may not have the most legible handwriting but it was adorable to you. The last one he gave you had a phrase on it, it was in Japanese and you hadn’t been able to translate it properly yet. It was a shame you were going to die before you could translate it. The characters still haunt your mind. 好きだよ You curse yourself for never finding the answer, you almost wish you would have just asked him. Now is far too late for that though.

Your attention now returns to the demon in front of you, some low life demon you have never even seen around the school. Not like anyone would really remember you to begin with, despite being fairly outgoing you could never fit in here like you had hoped. You were just too weak and helpless to be able to survive in this world. You were just a burden to the brothers, you understood that it would be annoying to have to look after you. So you opted to go alone to most places, it may be dangerous but it was better than pissing off powerful demons like the brothers.

The world started to fade and finally your instinctual will to live kicked in, you claw and struggle with all your might to remove the vice that clamped shut around your throat. Despite all your effort it wasn’t enough to save you, you were so much weaker than this demon. The most you could do was scratch their hand, your vision starts to fade out and you can feel the pain starting to reach your limit. You shut your eyes tight the only thing you wanted to think about now in your final moment was Leviathan. 好きだよ

This was the last thing the third eldest thought he would see on his way back to the House of Lamentation. He had thought he heard the sound of MC’s voice coming from a well-isolated alleyway so he went to investigate. They should already be home so he thought it was strange that they would stop here of all places. He still hadn’t heard back from them since that last note he left with the latest edition of “I am in love with a human but they won’t take a hint and I am too scared to say anything because I am a yucky otaku.” Maybe they couldn’t translate it properly, they were a normie after all. 

Leviathan’s heart stopped the moment he saw you laying there. He had never understood how Satan could lose control to his wrath so easily. This made him learn just how easy it was to let rage control you. Pinned under some demon who would never be missed and being choked out of their life was his beloved MC. They lay there barely able to hold onto the demon’s hand little lone try to pry it off of them. Their eyes shut tight whispered his name and before he knew it Levi was holding you close, you were alive but barely. He hadn’t remembered how he got to this point or where that pathetic waste of space that hurt his MC had ended up. That didn’t matter at the moment, but the blood-covered walls were enough of a hint that the demon wasn’t going to make it far.

Leviathan clung to you tightly, he never thought he would feel so concerned for someone who was 3D, nor a normie at that, yet his heart ached as he called out to you so desperately. Pulling himself together the best he could, he scooped you up into his arms and ran, ran as fast as his legs would allow him to. He knew if you were going to continue to live he had to act fast and get you medical help, not knowing where else to turn to he took you back to the House of Lamentation cursing himself for not finding you sooner.

As your eyes fluttered open the first thing you noticed was the ceiling of Leviathan’s room, the soft glow of the fish tank lit up your vision. Your head was still groggy and you couldn’t remember how you had gotten here. Trying to sit up sent pain shooting through your body, but also made you well aware you were on a bed, not in Leviathan’s bathtub he called his bed. When did this get here? Why was it here? Wait… Why am I here? Memories of what happened before you were about to die hit you like a tsunami. Your breath quickly picks up and you start to lose control of it, your body starting to shake violently. That is when you feel a weight lift off your stomach, and feel a hand in yours holding it tightly.

“I thought I lost you… MC never scare me like that again!” Leviathan cried out to you, quickly pulling you into a warm embrace. His sobs where half-muffled by the crook between your shoulder and neck. “Why wouldn’t you call for my help?! Our pact would have let you contact me! I don’t even care if it wasn’t me! Why didn’t you call anyone?!” He seemed so desperate for answers and he bordered on being hysterical. As you tried to answer him your voice failed you and all you could do was hug him back running your fingers through his hair. This seemed to calm him down enough to stop the never-ending stream of questions. They could wait, right now he had you in his arms, no amount of self-doubt would pull him away at this moment, he needed you to know how he felt. “好きだよ (Suki da yo), it’s what I wrote on the last note, it means I like you… MC I know you will probably never like a yucky otaku like me but I had to tell you. No matter what you feel for me I want to protect you. Even if you can’t be mine I will try to keep my jealousy to a minimum if that means I can just be there with you!” The poor boy had already assumed he’d be rejected.

“Why would you like a useless human like me?” These words hurt him more than any rejection could ever. He was prepared for any type of rejection MC could throw at him no matter how brutal but those words cut deeper than anything he could have imagined them saying. MC thought they were useless… Why would someone he came to treasure so much think they were useless? They were nothing like him, yet they thought they were the one undeserving of him. Leviathan’s heart shattered, he was at a loss of words. His sobs came to a stop right then and there, his grip loosened and he pulled away enough to look into their eyes. He knew these feelings all too well, this wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair. THIS WASN’T FAIR!

“MC! Why would you think like that?! You mean everything to me! I wouldn’t trade any of the time I have with you even for a limited edition Ruri-Chan figurine! Although that would suck losing the chance to get it... You are so precious to me! You are my Henry and I would be stupid not to like you! Even if you are a normie!” You have never seen him blush so hard, and it was taking everything in him not to flee after saying something so embarrassing. The only thing you could think of to do was pull him into a kiss, your hands cupping his face and you took one last glance at him before shutting your eyes and melting into the kiss. While you weren’t sure if you could ever get rid of these feelings of self-hate, for a moment you had hope that maybe you two could work together to be more confident.

“I like you too Levi.”

[devolympian]

Argo, chapter 4

Argo, chapter 4

Interesting thing to note for when you have what most people consider familial obligations and appointments to meet at a specific time, more often than not, you have the responsibility of waking at a designated time of day. Usually at the ripe healthy time of say, oh I don’t know, 5:15 A.M.

With this set responsibility and a need to earn a living inorder to drive a consumer centric economy with which one needs to survive in it is best to get the recommended amount of sleep 

So, between the multiple rounds of personal gaming tournaments, mountains of junk food and soda, and completely being unwilling to actually go to bed, I can proudly say none of us did that as about three hours after we had all decided to crowd into Skyes bed a loud beeping noise filled the room.

“Well shit” I happily state in an enthusiastic tone as my sleep deprived eyes look up at her ceiling.

“I’ll get it” said an even more sleepless voice to the left of my body, as Skye began to sit up and lean over a still unconscious Clair and I.

She promptly fell on top of us, her massive curly mess of blonde hair practically working as a second blanket that covered the three of us.

“Blondie” I questioned as her green eyes slowly began to close, “you gonna get that one or?”

“Five more minutes.”

And with those words Skye began to softly snore, her chest on top of mine, as she used my shoulder for a pillow.

Clair made sure to do her part by not waking up to the alarm clock and unconsciously wrapping her arms around me and Skye and pulling us into her naked body. 

Yes, Clairabell sleeps naked and it’s perfectly okay that she does so.

With a slight shrug I was perfectly content with letting the alarm clock run its course as I fell back to sleep sandwiched between these too. But, naturally, I remembered that I had a prior engagement to visit some family members who don’t particularly like being stood up.

Shimmying myself upwards I managed to slither out from in between the girls and did my best to step over Clair as she and Skye cuddled under the blanket seemingly unaware that I had left the pile.

Tapping the alarm I went about and started my day.

First thing’s first I made my way to the restroom; stepping over the various soda cans, wrappers, and half finished snacks we had decorated Skyes floor with the night prior (ooh cheetoh, nom), I was determined to perform the most important act of the day which everyone must do regardless of their social political views on it. The brushing of teeth and a warm shower.

Not saying you’re wrong if you don’t do this daily, just saying you need a therapist and time in a mental institute.

Now, let me take this moment to inform you about Skyes bathroom. It is ridiculous, not only because no one needs a personal restroom in their bedroom, but also because of the fact that the place was almost as big as her actual room with a tub that could easily fit three people, yes we’ve tested it, but also a large closet which is now overflowing with various dresses and cute outfits all of which were hand made.

None of these details are important to the story, I feel you should know, they are just my personal thoughts which I felt like sharing.

Anywho, after a nice shower, and making my mouth not smell like ass with the tooth brush I left here, which everyone needs to use TWICE a day, I wrapped the one of Skyes soft pink towels around my hips and headed on over to her dresser.

Now, I think what you’re wondering right now is “Alex, why the hell are you going through your best friend's clothes?” And even if you weren’t I will tell you any ways.

Ever since I was a wee lad Skyes room has been basically my second room, hell I think I’ve slept in her bed more than my own over the years. This was all well and good when we were little and innocent and we could basically fit into each other's clothes, but when this thing called puberty attacked us that started to change.

I got taller, my arms and legs got longer, I started shooting lightning, I got a six pack, a strong jaw, started getting hit on by older women and men even though I was like 12. You know, normal stuff like that.

Skye, on the other hand, went in kind of the opposite direction with her growing less in height and more in boob, and hip. She also gets hit on by older women and men so at least we -    have that experience in common.

In short, I had to start bringing over clothes whenever I stayed the night and sense I stay here a lot, a few of my outfits have more or less made their home in the dresser she keeps her TV and video games on. Granted, we do end up wearing eachothers clothes from time to time, but that’s besides the point.

Pushing our plates from last night to the side and setting the controllers we used back where they went I dropped my towel to the ground and started shifting through the drawer in the search for the allusive boxer shorts.

“Ooh” a tired voice called out, “that’s a nice sight to wake up to.”

I tilted my head in the direction of the bed to see Clair sitting up, her violet eyes still not fully open as she smiled at me.

“Good morning dear” I said, “sleep well, dreams of rainbows and kittens maybe?”

“More like blood, fire, death, all the fun stuff.”

“You and I have very different dreams. . . why am I only noticing that now?”

Clairabell giggled a little, then took a look around the bedroom with her expression changing to slight shock at what she saw.

“Wow, we really made a mess last night.”

“Yes well mortal kombat and super mario bros will do that.”

“Especially if someone spends the game trolling me and Skye!”

“What else was I supposed to do, not hit you with the turtle shell?”

With a sigh. Clair placed the tip of her thumb between her sharp canine teeth and bit down until I could see a bit of blood trickle out.

“Alright gals” she said, holding her hand out infront of her, “be dears and clean this mess up.”

The small amount of blood coming from her thumb quickly started to sizzle and bubbles soon began coming from it.

Every one of the bubbles quickly grew in size, changing color to a dark reddish brown before sprouting bat wings and ears. Each one had a cute cat-like face and little fangs poking out from their adorable smiling mouths.

Soon, Clair had at least ten little blood bats hovering around Skyes room, before they began picking up the mess we had made last night.

Also, I managed to find a pair of my boxers, so this was a huge win for everybody involved.

After stretching a little, Clair stood out of Skyes bed, making sure that the blanket stayed on our blond friend, before picking up her clothes from last night.

“Can’t sleep” I asked as I attempted to hunt down a pair of pants?

“Just thought I might as well wake up” she happily answered as she tossed her dirty laundry into Skyes clothing basket, “don’t want to make you feel lonely now do we?”

“Don’t worry, I know how to entertain myself whenever I’m naked and alone.”

“That’s what every girlfriend wants to hear.”

Just as I had, Clair went into the restroom to get ready for the day ahead.

She brushed her teeth, and I still can’t find a goddamn pair of pants.

“How long do you need to be on Olympus for?” I heard her call out as I slowly lost my mind from lack of lower body wear.

“Probably until ten or twelve hours. I might need to beg for forgiveness if the old man decides to snag a booty call and leaves me to deal with his wife.”

“Your dad’s gross.”

“I know that’s why I have two, but apparently neither of them can bless me with a pair of jeans.”

“Don’t you keep pants in that weird pocket thingy you have?”

“. . .”

Reaching my hand into the air I went ahead and opened the aforementioned pocket thingy, which was a small rip in space which works as a nice little storage space to keep stuff in. To most people it would look as though my hand disappeared into space, and they would be kind of right, one wrong move and my hand is gone. I can get it back, but it takes a while and requires more than two people.

Feeling my way past the treasure, bones, holy grails, and my new little worm buddy I found myself touching what felt like pants and pulled them out.

They were torn a little in the knees and a bit stained but worked for the day.

“Found my pants.”

“I am so proud of you.”

I chuckled a little and prepared to get these things on. But, before I could even slip a leg in, a still naked Clair had managed to get in front of me, wrapped her arms over my shoulder and leaned herself into a kiss.

Naturally, I did what every sane person would do when a naked woman throws herself at them. I grabbed her waist and pulled her close, our naked chest pressing against each other as she forced her tongue passed my lips and we went and explored each other's mouths.

The kiss lasted a good bit of time and I soon found myself pushing Clair against Skyes dresser, my hands sliding down her well toned body as she hooked her thumbs around the elastic band of the boxers I had put on just a moment ago and started pulling them off again.

Eventually we broke the kiss and Clair gave me a smug smile on top of her flushed face.

“Sure you have to go right now?”

With a slight smirk I lifted her onto the top of the dresser, her long legs instantly wrapping around my hips as I leaned in and whispered into her ear.

“I absolutely need to go right now.”

She gave me an annoyed groan before pushing me a little and angrily jumping off the dress as I pulled out a shirt from it.

“Oh come on” I said, laughing a little, “we can’t exactly hook up in Skyes room.”

“She’s sleeping.”

“Her parents are in the room across the hall.”

“I’ll be quiet.”

“I won’t. You know I’m a moaner.”

I wonder if Clairabell glaring angrily at me was a sign that I had annoyed her enough. Naw, I can be more annoying.

After slipping the pants on I popped the shirt I had grabbed over my head.

“That’s Skyes shirt” Clair pointed out as I slid the black tank top on, even though it was rather tight fitting. It had a cute little cartoon panda head smiling on the chest as its cheeks glowed a rosey pink.

“Yes'' I assured her as I fished out a pair of socks and slipped on my boots, “it is most definitely Skyes shirt.”

Clair sighed and patted a sleeping Skye head.

“I’m so sorry for your clothes Skee-skee.”

I watched as Skye slept peacefully next to Clairs lap and felt a slight lump build in my throat.

“Hey” I said without really thinking, “make sure you guys talk, okay?”

Clairabell gave me a confused look; one of her fangs slightly poking out of her upper lip while she tilted her head questioningly.

“Huh? We talk all the time though.”

“Yeah, but. . .”

I thought for a bit, trying to figure out the best words to use to bring up the subject.

“Just, maybe ask her how she’s feeling or something.”

“How does she feel?”

She looked down at blondie again.

“Tired. She’s tired.”

I chuckled and sighed, pushing my uneasy feeling away.

“Yep, that makes sense. Can you open the window for me?”

“Babe, there’s a door.”

“And?”

“. . . good point.”

Upon Clairs instruction a blood bat floated over and pulled Skyes window open for me letting the fresh morning air into the room.

“Thanks,” I said before taking a running start and flinging myself over Skyes bed and out a second story window.

With a loud crash I found myself laying ontop of multiple thorny bushes, the branches digging into my body as I tried to adjust to the aching in my back.

“Perfect landing” I groaned as I got ready to sit up.

“Oh yes, great job” a woman's voice said, “now please get off my plants.”

I turned my head to see two women standing over me. 

The one on the left, who was giving a very annoyed glare, looked like a lighter skinned Skye with bright yellow eyes and had her golden blonde hair tied up into a long ponytail. As was usual for her at this time of the morning, her red tank top and tanned shorts were covered in dirt and mud and black gardening gloves adorned her hands.

The one on the right was dressed up in a white toga like dress with summer lilies braided into her dark hair and she wore a diamond encrusted gold necklace around her throat. Also, her dark green colored eyes had the look of someone who had just watched her son throw himself from a second story window and land on the bushes she had helped her friend plant.

“Morning” I happily said to them before Skyes mom flicked her wrist and the bush, in response to said wrist flicking, jumped up a little and shoved me off of it before settling back into the soil.

“You’re in a chipper mood today” mom said as she helped pull me off the ground.”

“Oh who wouldn’t be when their job entails possible death and dismemberment?”

“Him and the girls practically stayed up the entire night” Skyes mom informed mine, “I swear that Clairabell screams louder than a banshee.”

Moms eyes grew wide as she gave me a once over before looking back at Skyes mom.

“They were playing video games” she assured, having finally realised what she had said.

“Oh thank the gods” my mom said, letting out a sigh of relief.

“In all fairness, Clairabell and I can multitask” I happily informed both of them.

“Alexander, shut up, you are 18, I do not need grandchildren from you yet!”

I laughed at my mom's discomfort, before noticing that a little girl with red hair had wandered up next to her. She was dressed similarly to mom but her dress was a light blue color and the only gold she had on was a pair of golden sandals and a few ringlets on her wrist.

“There’s my girl” our mom happily said, kneeling down to greet my sister, “all ready to go Fiona?”

With half awake eyes Fiona nodded with assurance, doing her best to stay awake. She promptly fell forward having to be caught by our mom.

“Oh sweetheart” mom said, giving Fiona a worried look, “maybe you should stay here.”

“No thank you.”

“She can stay here for the day” Skyes mom stated, “she can take a nap in Luke and Ninas room.”

“That should be fine” mom happily answered before turning back to the little red head, “how about playing with Luke and Nina today?”

“I will later” Fiona stubbornly stated, “I wanna go.”

“Fiona, you can’t be falling asleep though.”

“I won’t, I promise!”

“Honestly” I interjected, “she should be fine coming along. Unless she’s sick or something.”

Lifting her up  by her armpits I held my little sister up in the air.

“You ain’t getting sick on me are ya?”

“No,” Fiona said with a smile.

“Ain’t gonna throw up?”

With this question I tossed the seven year old up into the air, making her laugh like, well like a seven year old.

“Yeah she’s good” I assured our mother, as I still held Fiona.

“ . . .Is Skye ever this stubborn” my mom asked Skyes mom?

“I’m glad she’s not,” she answered, putting her gardening tools away, “makes it easier when I tell her to get rid of things like that.”

She pointed to the pegasus made of water which Skye had created last night in the arcade bathroom.

Like a good healthy horsey, Raindrop had grown in size and was now bigger than your average horse.  

“What” I protested, “you can’t have her get rid of Raindrop! It’s a sweet fragile creature who just wants your love, and understanding, and it just ate a squirrel.”

The clear blue pegasus glared at us as a fluffy brown tail hung from its mouth. 

It slowly backed away out of sight, never breaking eye contact with me specifically. Guess I have a new friend.

“See you later Trinna” mom said, taking Fiona from me and protectively holding her.

And with that, Skyes mom went over to put her tools away and mine started hurrying us over to our house.

“Do you two have everything,” mom asked as she pulled her keys out from her dress pocket.

“Yep” Fiona and I assured her at the same time.

She gives us a smile and a nod before turning to the door into our home and sliding a small golden key inside of the lock.

With a twist of the knob our front door opened up to a brightly lit bridge filled with people, either walking or riding in horse drawn carriages, dressed similarly to mom and Fiona. Far into the distance, at the end of the bridge, was a city built on top of several mountains, the rising sun illuminating the white marble buildings against a still mostly dark sky.

“Woow” I cheered, stretching my arms over my head, “fun trip, honestly the ride up is always the best part.”

“Alex” mom said, closing the door behind us, “what did I say about being a smartass?”

“Go ahead but don’t do it when we’re about to see family.”

“Exactly, and what are we about to do?”

“Visit people you hate?”

Mom lowered her eyes at me, giving me an irritated look.

“I’ll be good in front of grandma” I promised, crossing my fingers behind my back.

With a sigh, my mom locked the door we went through, causing it to sink into the ground and vanish.

“You ain't slick boy.”

I shrugged, perfectly content with my underwhelming slickness, before placing my fingers in my mouth.

Blowing into them, a loud whistle echoed out and the ground beneath us began to shake as a large hole filled with black mud spilled open. Never mind the fact that we were currently on a bridge thousands of miles in the air so a hole like that should just lead down into, well, death.

Speaking of death.

From the black mud, bone white hands started to rise from its murky depths, and latched onto the marble pavement of the bridge. Slowly, four skeletons pulled themselves out, black mud dripping down their skulls and off the dusty dark blue suits they all wore.

Each one had “eyes” of green fire and looked almost identical to each other, with the only difference being a colored rose each wore in the pocket of their suit. Red, yellow, black, and white.

These were my skeletons. Expertly trained, well mannered, professional, cold blooded, and above all else dependable. . . was not what they were.

As the yellow rose stumbled out behind white rose it fell forward, knocking into the latter.

Naturally, White rose raised it’s boney hand and slapped yellow in the face, the rattling of their teeth being loud enough for everyone to hear.

Steadying its skull, yellow turned to white, their flaming eyes lighting up with a dark green as they clutched their coworkers arm and tore it off.

White looked down at its empty sleeve hanging limply to its side while yellow pointed at them with their missing arm, the bouncing flames in its eye sockets indicating that they were laughing.

The flames in whites skull promptly erupted, smoke billowing out of them, as they tackled yellow to the ground.

Smoke and dust covered the ground as white and yellow punched and tore at each other, the latter using the former's arm to slap them in the face. Black rose stumbled forward, attempting to separate them only to be met with a flame shooting up and catching onto their new tie which instantly lit up and was reduced to ash.

Enraged at this insult to not only themselves but also high fashion Black leaped onto the two other skeletons. Red followed suit by elbow dropping all three and joining the pile as they all slapped, bit, hit, and spanked each other.

“. . . Alex, seriously” mom stated, “are you sure you don’t want new servants?”

“Naw” I answered, happily watching these boneheads wrestle, “these guys are perfect.”

Clapping my hands the hole began to bubble again, the bridge shaking even more, as a horse drawn carriage shot out of it like a bullet from the chamber and tore through the four skeletons who all fell to the ground in pieces.

The Carriage was a dark black color, large and round in shape, it looked like something a goth Cinderella would ride inorder to get to the ball and marry a guy she danced with once who only remembered her because he had a thing for feet. There was a bright gold trim on the sides that glowed brightly against the night sky. The wheels were also a gold color with human skulls adorned on the rims and green flames sparking up here and there.

 Attached to the carriage was a horse with pitch black fur with a tail and main glowing with bright green fire. It's onix black eyes surveyed its surroundings making sure there was no enemy nearby as it stomped the marble ground with its strong hooves, small flames lighting up under them as it did so.

“Horsey” Fiona yelled happily as she waved at my helpful stead.

“Hey there Mare,” I said, walking up to her, “how are you doing girl?”

As I reached out to give her a pet on the neck, Mare angrily recoiled and gave me a loud snort. 

“What? No, I didn’t forget about you.”

She neyad loudly, shaking her head from side to side.

“Of course I call you when I need a ride. You’re my horse.”

Stamping the ground, Mare continued to argue, angrily naying and shaking her main.

“Oh that is not fair! It is not my fault that you decided to wreck the neighbors lawn and eat their cat!”

She chattered her teeth and huffed again.

“Look if we had a stable I would absolutely keep you in the backyard but-.”

Mare interjected with a loud inhuman yell as she reared up on her hind legs.

“Oh you don’t bring my bike into this! He is a good boy!”

She landed and shook her head violently.

“Yes it’s a he!”

“Alex” mom said, the now reformed skeletons helping her and Fiona into the carriage, “I know you want her to stay at the house, but it’s not happening. Can we please go?”

“Yeah sure” I answered her.

As she entered the carriage I reached into my little pocket space and pulled out a nice orange carrot for Mare.

“Sorry girl, we’ll convince her somehow.”

She neighed understandingly before happily taking the root vegetable from my hands.

“To the stadium” I yelled at Red as he readied the reins, yellow sitting next to him with treats and a whip in hand. Black and White clung to the back, White still glaring at Yellow with murderous intent, as I swung myself into the inside of it.

As soon as the door was shut we were off, Yellow cracking their whip in the air as Red made sure Mare stayed on course. 

Unlike the black of the carriages outer shell, the seating was a velvet red with enough room to fit six people. The soft upholstery was comfortable and warm to the touch with cushions that made sure you could relax even during the bumpiest of rides.

Naturally, Fiona almost immediately fell asleep, her head resting comfortably on moms lap.

“Hey, she stayed awake longer than usual.”

“Honestly I’m surprised by that” mom said, brushing Fionas hair to the side, “she never gets enough sleep when we have to come up here. I wish she’d stay at home some times, it’s not healthy for a little girl to be up this early.”

“You know that would just cause gran to start whining.”

“If your grandmother really wants to see her she can suck it up and come visit the house.”

“Oh come now, you don’t expect her to live the disgraceful life of staying in a five bedroom, three bath, basement and attic house do you?”

“Well, in all fairness, she’d probably make the neighbors hate us more than they already do.”

We both chuckled a little at Grandmas expense, knowing she probably wouldn’t enjoy hearing this stuff in person. She can be kind of sensitive and natural disaster causing.

Leaning against the door I rested my head on  the window and watched as we rolled past the people walking along the bridge, none of them batting an eye at the carriage driven by four skeletons and drawn by a hell horse. In all fairness compared to the massive skyscrapers in the mountain, the rulers of the city control nature itself, and the fact we can all  breathe despite the altitude, probably making our little vihicall about as interesting as an ant carrying food ten times its size. A neat site but nothing mind blowing.

Granted, ants are pretty mind blowing if you put into perspective how they basically work to create a suitable environment for their colony with everyone having their assigned roles thus allowing them to work as fulfilling members of ant society. 

That being said, this type of government is very totalitarian all things considered so there must be a widespread outbreak of ant uprisings which most likely are quilled by the ants in black suits. You can say they’re not real, but we all know they’re out there.

“So” mom said, interrupting my deep and meaningful inner monologue about ants and ant related conspiracy, “should we talk about what’s been bothering you?”

I sighed and sat up in my seat.

“Oh you know, normal stuff.”

“Define normal for you?”

“Giant monsters, universal travel, blood sucking girlfriend who wants my socially awkward best friend to move into a dorm with her while she’s too scared to say no, oh and a new rpg came out that I am just dying to play.”

“Aw, is my little boy having girl trouble?”

“What can I say, I’m just a modern day Casanova. On a related note, my Italian is getting better.”

Mom rolled her eyes, a smile still on her face as she let out a chuckle.

“Well Giacomo, care to tell your loving mother about your, um, socially awkward blood sucking best girlfriend issue?”

“Blood sucking girlfriend and socially awkward best friend” I corrected, “also, one can summon horses.”

She blinked a bit then sighed.

“I really should have set you up on more play dates with normal kids when you were little.”

“Aw, but if you did that you wouldn’t have met Skyes mom.”

“I don’t mind Skye, reminds me of your dad, kind of. The blood sucking girlfriend is the one I have issues with.”

“Oh Clair isn’t that bad. Plus, if I remember right, you’re partially the one who arranged for me and her dating.”

Mom shrugged at my statement.

“It was either that or have her daddy demand your head on a spike. Now, talk.”

“Dang, knew you weren’t gonna let the issue go.”

I rubbed my neck, feeling a little awkward talking about my friends with my mom. She had more on her plate to deal with other than my personal drama. But, I guess I don’t feel that bad.

“Clairabell has been looking into her and Skye going to college together, and I’m pretty sure Skye doesn’t want to go. But, neither of them are talking about it so, yeah, not really sure what to do.”

Yep, even to me that sounds like a dumb problem that could be easily solved if we all just sat and talked it out. And, based on the look mom was giving me, she probably felt the same.

“Ok” she eventually said, “and in what way is that your problem?”

“Huh?”

“Alex, that has nothing to do with you. They’re both big girls, they can work out their problems.”

I blinked in surprise.

“Well, I mean, they’re my friends, so. . .”

“So what?”

“So, I want to help them.”

She shook her head disapprovingly at my response, her dark brown hair bouncing a little as she did.

“Alexander, I get that you love them, but their problems are not yours to solve, so you don’t need to worry about it.”

“I, I guess. But-”

“No buts.”

She narrowed her eyes a little, making it clear that this wasn’t a subject we were going to argue on.

“You have work, and your sister, and your own issues to deal with.”

I felt my stomach slowly drop more and more as she spoke and reminded me of how stupid my worries were.

She was right after all, Skye not telling Clairabell how she felt, and Clairabell not wanting to listen, those were not my problems.

But, still. . .

I went back to looking out the chariot window, watching as the pavement of the bridge slid by as we drove in silence.

Well, we did for a few minutes, then I felt mom poke me repeatedly on the cheek.

“Oi” she said with each poke, “oi, oi, oi!”

I smiled and looked up, finding my mom leaning forward with a bag of gold coins dangling from her fingertips.

She gave me a warm smile and dropped the coins into my lap.

“Quit pouting, you’re gonna make me feel like a bad mom.”

“Aw, you’re not a bad mom” I responded, opening the bag and eyeing the coin, “I’m just really good at making people feel guilty. This is chocolate isn’t it?”

“Boy, you get paid a fortune a year, you don’t need real gold.”

“I ain’t complaining.”

I smiled and started unwrapping a coin to enjoy the snack, before handing a few back to mom.

“Here” I said, dropping them into her hand, “Fiona loves these too.”

“Yeah, that’s why I got her her own bag. These are yours.”

“Then I guess we’ll call it an offering to a good mom.”

She let out an amused laugh.

“Gods, why is my youngest son so cheesy?”

“No idea” I told her, chomping down on the delectable coin, “I personally blame it on Television and video games for giving good moral lessons.”

She sighed, but still smiled.

“You are such a dork.

Mom went back to watching Fiona sleep and we rode into the city in silence for a bit.

“Honestly” she eventually said, “I’m glad you’re such a good kid, but it wouldn’t hurt you to worry about yourself more.”

“Yeah” I responded, understanding what she meant, if only a little bit.

I pulled out another chocolate coin and sat it in between my cupped pointer finger and thumb before flicking my thumb up and giving the coin a good flip and catching it in my palm.

“Hey, maybe I should act like the old man more?”

I gave mom a wide smile at this statement and she responded by rolling her eyes.

“Alex” she said, “if you start acting like the old man just remember that I dictate your living arrangements.”

“Aw” I teased, trying to lighten the tension, “not a fan of selfish people?”

“Being selfish is fine. He’s just a disrespectful asshole. Never cared for those.”

“If that were true you would have thrown me out years ago.”

“You’re just disrespectful. The assholeness is currently being debated.”

“Aw, that’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Oh shut up Alex.”

Despite her words she had a smile on her face.

Eventually, we pulled into the city.

The street lights illuminated our way as we walked through the busy streets filled with people of all races and sizes and other worldly species in togas. Despite how early it was the city was still bustling and busy as if it were early afternoon.

Shops filled with exautic items lined the streets next to fancy restaurants and stores filled with fancy clothes that normal people could never hope to own. As we went deeper in, the clothing people wore became more elaborate and extravagant almost as if they were trying to make themselves match the streets paved with literal gold.

“Did dad say they could use his gold?”

“No and I am still trying to get them to give it back. Honestly, their taste is just tacky.”

“I feel I need to point out that we decorate our house with bones and diamonds.”

“Alex, that is a theme. It might be tacky, but it makes sense. This is just a bunch of people showing off how rich they are. Besides, Pluton is in charge of decorating.”

“Way to blame your son for the way the house looks Ma.”

“I blame all my children for everything. Didn’t you figure that out already?”

“I was in denial.”

We joked around a little more as we eventually rode deeper into the city.

It was a nice summer morning even here, with birds of all kinds singing joyful tunes and plants you wouldn’t normally see together decorating the parks and sidewalks.

Mount Olympus, the rich neighborhood to end all rich neighborhoods. 

While we continued our stroll, I was content to rest against the side of the cart, daydreaming until we arrived at grandmas. At least, until, the chariot pulled to a sudden stop with a jerky motion and Mare let out a loud whine.

“Oi” Mom yelled, slapping the roof, “why’d we stop?”

In response Red poked his head in, by holding it in his hand and putting it through the open window.

His teeth chattered and he let out a gargling hiss to inform us of why we had stopped.

Mom sighed and slouched in her seat, Fiona still in her lap.

“Then just kill them.”

“Mom, no.”

“Alex, they started it.”

“Yeah but we can’t just murder all of our problems.”

“You sure” she said, hopefully jokingly, “the old man seems to solve a lot of his problems that way. Of course, it does make your fathers work stack up so I’m a little pissed about that.”

“How about I go deal with them?” I said, opening the door, “give daddy less paperwork?”

“Carefull, they might cause you to develop some humility.”

“No worries about that happening. I’ll be done in like, I don’t know, two, three minutes. Meet you at grandmas. Oh, I missed the step. . .”

She groaned with annoyance as her handsome, awesome, super smart son fell out of the carriage and onto the dirt of Olympus.

“Way to jump to the rescue there superman” she chimed.

I chuckled a little as I layed on the ground, before turning my head to the right and spotting the roadblocks that stood in Mares way.

“Hi” I happily said to the tall man wearing a dark blue tank top. He had a rather annoyed look on his soft face, with his ocean green eyes glaring at me and his large, muscular, arms crossed over his chest.

His dark blue hair was slicked back and had a slight gleam to it while a few scales decorated his broad shoulders and a gold belt encrusted with gems of all shapes and sizes held his gray and white camouflage pants up.

By his side were two rather younger men who looked to be either twins or clones of each other. My personal experience has told me to bet on the latter, but you can never be too sure.

They both wore back basketball shorts and red shirts to go along with their messy strawberry blonde hair. Only way to tell that they weren’t completely identical were their eyes; both of which glowed unatrually like the brights of a car, but while the one on the left had shining baby blues, the gent on the left glared at me with dark red irises. Not blood red, more like a wine red.

Just like with the big bad in the middle, I noticed a few fish-like scales running along their necks and half way down their arms. 

“Yo” the blue hair in the middle yelled at me, “are you going to get off the ground or what?”

“Naw” I responded, still sprawled on the ground, “the road feels good on my back.”

“Get off the ground Alex” Mom demanded from the carriage.

“So what can I do for you?” I asked while standing up, “directions, a ride maybe?”

“All we require is your head on a spike” the blue haired one responded. He took a boxer's pose and silver metal slowly started molding around his hands, appearing from nowhere I could see, until he was wearing two silver gauntlets with spiked knuckles.

“Sorry, can’t exactly do that seeing how I currently need my head. Mind me asking why you would want it though mate?”

“Hey” red eyes shouted, “he ain’t your mate guy!”

“Well then I ain’t your guy friend!”

“He ain’t your friend buddy,” the blue eyed one shouted at me.

“Well then I’m not his buddy mate!”

“He’s not your mate guy!”

“Then I’m not his guy friend!”

“I’m leaving now” mom stated, closing the carriage door, “meet us at grandmas okay?”

“Ok mom” I responded, waving them off.

“I’m not your mom dude” Blue eyes shouted.

“He’s not your dude pal” Red eyes shouted back.

“Seth, Joey” blue hair said, his head in his hand, “please stop.”

The three stepped out of the way, blue hair forcing Seth and Joey to bow their heads as mom passed in the sable steed drawn carriage before they took their spots in front of me again.

“Now, draw your weapon!”

Blue hair took his stance once more, their eyes narrowed at me.

“. . .Why?”

“Be-because I’m challenging you.”

“Ok but why are you challenging me?”

“Because!”

“Because why?”

“Because, shut up, draw your blade!”

“Blade as in vampire character?”

“Vampire? Your sword!”

“But I don’t use a sword.”

“Then your spear!”

“I don’t wanna draw my spear, honestly, I’m not the best artest.”

Blue hair looked ready to leap at me and scream at the top of their lungs while strangling my handsome neck.

I’m having a lot of fun.

He takes a deep breath and slowly calms down.

“Okay” they said, “please, please, get any weapons you might own, hold it in your hands, and fight me with them.”

“Ohhh! Ok, why didn’t you just say so?”

I could literally hear the last straw on blue hairs, patients breaking as they once more took a boxers pose, their eyes narrowed at me.

“My name is Markis, Muto, Reads, son of Poesidon and Pirate queen of the Caribbean Martha Reads!”

Yep, saw that one coming.

Guess good ol uncky Poesidon is still upset that I stabbed him in the face for unspecified reasons oh so long ago (last Tuesday).

“Alright Mark ma boy” I told him holding my arms up to the sky, “guess we can have a quick play date.”

Slowly, a leather strap materialized on my right arm and a thunderous roar echoed out as dark clouds gathered above us. 

Splitting through the black clouds a golden shield slammed into my arm and attached to the leather strap with a click.

I felt electricity flow out of my body and into the metal of my golden shield that was the size of my body, the aegis.

“My name’s Zee” I told Mark, adjusting aegis to be in front of me, “bastard of Zeus, and. . .”

I held my other hand towards the ground, palm opened, feeling the dirt beneath give way.

In a flash a black and gold two pronged spear emerged and pushed against my palm as I wrapped my fingers around it.

Casually, I pointed my bident at Mark to show him I was ready.

“Son of Hades.”

[lu-undy]

Chapter 7 - SBT

Here is Chapter 7!

Lucien pushed the door and entered. It was now past midnight. He neatly removed his shoes and went straight to his bedroom. The Frenchman changed for his pyjamas, throwing the map that he had bought off Joe on the bed and slid between the cool satin sheets. He adjusted his pillow against the bed head and sat against it. He wasn’t tired, neither was he sleepy, but given the local time, a bit of rest would help his body melt into the new timezone. 

He slid a hand under his bed and retrieved his briefcase. After switching the night lamp on, he read through it again, his eyes lazily following the letters but not really getting the meaning from the words. Lucien raised his nose off the file and looked around him.

“Oh…?”

He hadn’t seen that piece of paper on the night table, next to the telephone. He took it between his long and slim fingers and read through it. It was a list of phone numbers for various services offered both by the hotel themselves but also by some shops around it. Lucien’s eyes scanned through it quickly until his eyes stopped at the last line.

Extra pillow - 99

He smiled. An extra pillow in the context of a hotel was not an extra pillow. Although it does get one to a more comfortable state to sleep, some would argue, and it most definitely warmed up one’s night…! 

Non, number 99 called for some company to distract one of his daytime troubles and ease him into Morpheus’ arms after a bit of, well, physical satisfaction. 

“Pfff…”

Lucien tossed the paper away. He didn’t need that. Non actually, it wasn’t that he didn’t need it, but rather that he couldn’t remember the last time he had needed it. After that woman disappeared off his days, he had lost any shred of life in his body and his mind and accepted his new companion. Her name in French was: 

La Solitude.

Like with anyone else, he usually didn’t need much for her to fall for him. However, the other way around couldn’t be further from the truth. The Frenchman had grown a heart of stone over the years and was now desensitised to softness, in any form that it came. But that’s exactly what made him fall. She was the only one slim enough to slip into his heart and finish to seal it completely. Any hope, any ray of light, any candle that shyly shone, she blew away and extinguished.

Lucien had lived a long enough life. He had suffered enough and had seen it all. Yes, yes, it was all so good to love, feel the flutters of the heart and whatnot but, it all came at the dearest price. So he had taken the reasonable, some would argue inhuman, way out. 

He remembered that day. Lucien had put anything he owned with as much as a shred of sentimentality in it and put it in a cardboard box. He put the cardboard box in a tin one. He didn’t have much so the box wasn’t much bigger than a dictionary. He didn’t take a coat and stepped out of his parisian flat. The Frenchman had walked in the streets, under the rain, the lamp posts showering him with their lights irregularly. He had walked and walked until he had found himself in front of a gate. He pulled it but it didn’t move a jot.

Merde…

Lucien put the tin box down at his feet and noticed the chain and padlock on the gate. He shook his head. His hair was stuck to his forehead as he was entirely soaked and the rain trickled down his face. He didn’t want to do it. He had sworn to himself he wouldn’t anymore.  

Pfff…

He sighed and the metallic sound of the drumming of the raindrops on the tin box pushed him to make up his mind. He put a hand in his pocket and retrieved a couple of pins. In a few seconds, the padlock fell to the ground and the chain slid lazily to the floor. 

Lucien entered the park. It was the middle of the night. He walked until he didn’t know where he was anymore. Everything was dark and he could only see the tall and menacing silhouettes of the trees surrounding him. 

Bien…

He dropped to his knees and dug a hole with his knife. For every stab he gave to the ground, he could feel his heart rip further apart. When the hole was big enough, he lowered the box to the ground and covered it back with the dirt he had carved away with his blade and his naked fingers. 

Voilà.

Lucien had now buried his memories, pictures of happier times, objects that rhymed with affection, passion and love. They were now under the ground, as was his heart.

When he got back home that night and switched on the lights in his lonely flat, she was waiting for him. La Solitude. She congratulated him, she was proud and applauded him into his new life. That night was the first that he shared with her, and she never left him since.

La Solitude.

That was his extra pillow and had been so for decades. 

Lucien shook his head. Why did he have to think about it again? He had made up his mind. He had left her at the airport in Paris. Or did she follow him there? He turned his head to look and sighed. 

“Fallait-il vraiment que tu me suives?”

[Did you really have to follow me?]

There she was, lying on the bed, as naked and raw as she could get. She gave him the impression that his bed was an ocean and him, stranded on a narrow plank, the result of the shipwreck of his life.

He lit a cigarette and smiled, as if he was mocking his own poor old self before opening the map on his lap and holding the list of his contacts in his hand. He spread the map completely and methodically went through the names on his list, trying to locate the addresses precisely. 

“Ah, j’ai besoin d’un stylo…”

[Ah, I need a pen...]

He got off his bed and soon came back with a pen and an ashtray. He resumed his position on the bed and after an hour or so, he had circled the positions of all his contacts. 

“Très bien.”

[Very well.]

Lucien read the file and tried to remember who did what. This one was an undercover agent, this one a beggar, this one had a convenience store, this one was a tailor… He leaned back a bit and realised that the circles were reasonably well scattered across the city. He nodded to himself and exhaled the smoke of his expensive menthol cigarette.

As soon as the day came, he would start and meet them. But for now, a nap would do, even if it was short. Lucien crushed his cigarette end in the ashtray, folded the map back and put his file neatly away in his briefcase before sliding it all under his bed. He then pulled his pillow down and laid on his back. He looked to his left, she was staring at him, with her big dark eyes. Lucien switched off his night lamp and closed his eyes.

The next day, the Frenchman went to Victoria’s restaurant.

“L!” She came to his table.

“Good morning, V.”

“What can I get you?”

“A black coffee, please and what pastry would you recommend to me?”

“I’d go for a bit of lemon tart, you seem like the lemon tart type.”

He smiled and nodded. 

“Your instinct is right, I like lemon a lot, Victoria.”

Her eyebrows jumped.

“You know my name? What are you, a spy or something?”

“Maybe.” He smiled. “Actually, what would you like to have with me?” He asked. 

“Oh, uh, not sure I can.” She looked around her and indeed there were no other clients. “Alright, get me some hot chocolate, maybe!”

“Fine, add it to my order.”

“Thanks, L! I’ll be a minute!”

And in a minute she came back with the man in a suit’s order.

“Pray take a seat.”

She did as she was told and they shared their breakfast.

“So…” She said between two sips. “You know my name but I don’t know yours.”

“And it is better this way, so I shall remain L.”

“Fair enough. Have any plans for today?” She asked.

“I need to visit a few people.”

“Friends?”

“More like professional contacts.”

“Oh, I see… What’s your job anyway?”

“I am looking for one.”

“What kind?”

“I used to be a singer back in France. I hope I can bring a bit of the classics of my country in the local musical landscape here.”

“Hm… Not a lot of places where you could do that. Also, by the looks of you and the way you talk, you aren’t a pub singer, are ya?”

Lucien shook his head.

“May God protect me against it ever…”

Victoria laughed.

“I can give you a few suggestions. There are a few restaurants posh enough for you.”

“I would gladly appreciate that, thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“But tell me, V....”

“Yeah?”

“Why help me?”

“I don’t know. You’ve just landed here and if I’d just landed in France I feel like you’d have done the same.”

“Not a lot of people would think as you do, or agree with you.” Lucien said.

“Well then, only a few people aren’t idiots, which is common knowledge, isn’t it?”

Lucien chuckled.

“You speak the words I would expect from someone much older than you.”

“Maybe. Maybe that’s why you’re offering me a hot chocolate.”

He nodded with a smile.

“Maybe indeed… But what about you? Do you have any plans for today, apart from serving an old man his coffee before he starts a long day?”

“Well, hopefully serving him his lunch and his dinner…?” She pushed her luck.

“You might be lucky enough for that, who knows…?” He mysteriously answered and they both chuckled.

“Cool. But yeah, apart from that, not much. I’ll go running tonight, some dinner, I’ll try to revise for my exams and hopefully not fall asleep too soon on my book!”

“Ah, what do you study?”

“Spanish. It’s a correspondence course.”

“Oh, I see. What would you like to do once you pass your exams?”

“Who says I’ll pass them? This job takes me most of my time. And then I need to go help Joe and a few other folks before I can hit home.” Victoria’s look saddened.

“But you like what you study, non?”

“Yeah, I do. I’d like to pass my exams and then I can start looking for a proper job, one that I really want.”

“What would that be?”

“Teacher. I’d love to teach Spanish to people. Pfff, I wish I had more time and energy to study.” She lowered her eyes.

“I can help you if you want.”

Victoria frowned  as she listened to the Frenchman continue.

“You help me settle in Australia, and I help you with your Spanish, what do you say?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Wait, you know Spanish?” She asked.

“Por supuesto, Señorita.” He nodded.

[Of course, Miss.]

“Wow, wait, how many languages can you speak?”

“Enough to survive, I suppose.” He answered. “But that does not answer my question. ¿Quieres aprender el español conmigo? Puedo enseñarte si quieres.”

[Do you want to learn Spanish with me? I can teach you if you want.]

The Frenchman extended his hand to her.

“I have no money though…” She protested.

“Do I look like the sort of man who needs money?” He raised an eyebrow with a smirk and saw her eyes jump from his jacket, to his vest, and his watch.

“No, true…”

“As I said, let us make this a trade: I help you conquer Spanish and you help me conquer Australia. So…?”

She shook his hand firmly.

“Alright then! Thank you so much!”

“De nada. Do bring your homework with you at work and I shall help you with it.”

[You’re welcome.]

“Will do! Thank you so much again…!” 

“My pleasure. Now, about those places you could recommend. I have a map that I have bought from Joe’s. He sends his regards to you by the way.” 

Lucien splayed the map on the table.

“Oh, that’s nice of him. I’ll bring him his pills tonight, I didn’t have the time yesterday…”

“Here is the pen…” He handed her a black biro. “Show me where and I will go.”

“Right so, what kind of experience d’you have? Cause I feel like some places have the right style for you but you might not have the CV for it.”

The Frenchman couldn’t hold back an arrogant scoff. 

“Oh, V… Pardon my impoliteness.” He cleared his throat. “Ahem, well, I have sung in the most prestigious places in my native country. By that, I mean the most sought after restaurants. Places where you would only meet people that you hear about on the television.”

“You shittin’ me…?” She asked.

“You will discover that I am not a man of many jokes, V.”

“Well then, let’s see…” Her eyes eagerly scanned the map. “Your first port of call could be this place at the corner between this street and that one. It’s relatively new so they can’t really afford to turn anyone down.”

“V…?”

She raised her eyes off the map to meet his light blue ones.

“Yeah?”

“Come on, let’s be ambitious here. What is the best restaurant here? One where not everyone can get a table and if you do, you have to know someone who works there already?”

“Wow, wow, wow, L…! No offense but they don’t take a newcomer just like that there?!”

“Leave that to me. Just point it on the map.”

“You’ll never get the job, even if they were lookin’ for someone!” She exclaimed.

“And I can wager anything you’d like that not only I will try, but I will obtain this position.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow and pouted. Her eyes darted left and right. Lucien stared at her arrogantly, he spoke with such self-confidence...

“Alright. If you get the job, you get me a table there for dinner.”

“Consider it done.” He answered.

“Hahaha! So, yeah, that’s the place you want to go…!” 

The young lady placed a cross on the map and the Frenchman bent forward to take a better look at it.

“It’s bang on the center of the center.”

“What’s the restaurant called?”

“The Queen me!” She answered triumphant.

“The Queen you?” He answered.

“Yeah, the Queen Victoria!” 

“Ah, well, then I just need to tell them that V herself sent me and I should get the position, non?”

“Pfff, you can try…!” She chuckled. “I know a lot of people in this city, but no one who goes there.”

“Not yet…!” Lucien added with a wink.

“Yeah, well, don’t forget your bet, old man. You get that job and you owe me some good dinner there, eh!”

“I shall not forget, do not worry.”

A voice cut them in the background.

“Victoria? Where are ya? We need you back here!”

“Oh, sorry, I’ll have to go.” She stood up and took the empty cups and the plate.

“Ningún problema, Señorita. I shall retire too. I have a long list of people that I shall visit.”

[No problem, young lady.]

He folded the map back neatly before putting it back in his inner pocket. Lucien followed her back to the counter and she took his payment.

“V?”

“Hm?”

“Muchas gracias.”

[Thank you very much]

“Oh, uh, de nada?”

He nodded.

“Victoria?!” The voice called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah, can’t you live without me for a second?!”

The Frenchman laughed and left. As soon as the door of the restaurant closed behind him, he started his itinerary. The closest one was the beggar. Lucien walked in his direction. The path was clear in his head such that he could pay a bit of attention to his surroundings. The streets, the walls and shop windows rolled before his eyes and like the reel of an old movie, they slowly changed to older wood, and older colours, washed out and sometimes blackened by the years. 

He lit up a cigarette and walked, looking up left and right. Lucien could feel the eyes of the people on him. Who was he? Clearly a foreigner, a madman, someone who didn’t know where he was, he was clearly lost. And look at him, he was smoking in his expensive light beige suit, the light sheen of which shone delicately. Ah, he finally stopped. Wait, did he drop a yellow note to that beggar?! Bloody hell…!

Lucien could almost hear the whispers of the million eyes on him. He didn’t mind it. 

The homeless man saw a pair of polished brown italian shoes stop in front of him. He lowered his head and extended his  plastic cup. When he saw the fifty-dollar note land, his eyes opened wide and his bushy eyebrows unfrowned like the Red Sea to let Moses through. 

“Thank you good Sir…” He said, his voice weak and fragile. Lucien understood that he was a much heavier smoker than himself.

“Je t’en prie, mon ami.”

[My pleasure, my friend.]

The beggar raised his eyes.

“Je viens pour discuter.”

[I have come to have a chat.]

“Who’s the good Sir?”

“L.”

“L’s stopped for years, Sir. He’s out.”

Lucien chuckled and was about to answer when a child came running to them both. 

“Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack!”

“Told you to not come when I’m in business Nick….”

“But they said it’s urgent…!”

“Who?”

“Them above! They sent this!”

The child extended a piece of paper to the beggar.

“‘Scuse me, Sir. Urgent matters apparently.”

“Take your time.” Lucien answered and put the cigarette back between his lips. He looked at the young boy. He mustn’t have been more than twelve and behind him, a few of his friends were waiting on the pavement.

“Bloody hell… We’ll all be damned… Nick, get Tommy to replace me.”

“Alright!” The kid darted away and the beggar stood up. 

Lucien realised that he was taller than him now that he was standing.

“‘m sorry to not have believed you, L. Follow me.”

The Frenchman nodded and did as he was told. After a few minutes’ walk, both men found themselves in a dead end.

“Right, now we can talk… Vous pouvez m’appelez Maurice.”

[You can call me Maurice.]

Both men shook hands and Maurice removed his large hat to look his colleague in the eye.

“Enchanté, Maurice.”

[Pleased to meet you, Maurice.]

“How can I help the legendary L?”

“Introduce me to your trade and to your city first.”

“Ah, here we go then…”

“But before we dive into the matter, allow me to say that your accent is perfect. I cannot hear a shred of French in your English.” Lucien said.

“Well, I had a good accent to start with and now I’m perfectly transparent.”

“As all beggars should be.” Lucien added and his friend nodded.

“Yeah you’re right. So yeah, my trade? I’m the king of the street, posh or dirty. I hear the wind and the word that it carries. You need to know something or pass on a message? Come to me.”

“How shall I find you?” 

“The kids. See one with green on the soles of his shoes? He’s mine. You tell him what you need and you’ll get it.”

“What can you provide?”

“My business is mostly intel’, but I can also arrange deliveries for letters and reasonably small packages.”

“What about the children?”

“They’re all orphans. We pay them and teach them how to use their money. Most of them find a job as early as they can and we encourage them to. Some of them even go to University.”

“We?” Lucien asked.

“There are a few adults of course. I can’t manage all those kids on my own. But of course because they’re kids, they’re hard to find during school time.”

“Who shall I go for then?”

“Same code.”

“Green soles?”

“Yeah, green soles. We’re a fairly big network now.”

“Understood. Anything you can tell me about my target?”

“Not much beyond what you know. We were the ones to spot him here. I had a hard time believin’ it so I went and checked myself.”

“So we are confident?”

“More than a hundred percent. It’s him, the bastard.”

“Any idea of what his main activity is?”

“Not precisely. But things are on the move. Big wallets are landing in Oz, more and more by the day. He’s preparin’ something big, don’t know what yet, but we’ll know it soon enough.”

“Fine. Keep me posted.” Lucien walked towards the exit of the dead end.

“Will do.”

“You know where to find me?” The Frenchman asked.

“Yeah, and thanks for the money.” Maurice added.

“Bah, I just needed your attention.” 

“Not the one in my cup.”

Lucien frowned.

“Bastian’s got new shoes now.” Maurice winked.

It took a second but the spy remembered the shy, young man who worked in his hotel.

[starryhedgehog]

i’m letting you go

an elu soulmate au.

- - 

Twelve-year-old Lucas Lallemant wakes up with his arms painted with colors every single night.  He likes to lay awake in bed and watch as colors appear on his skin in thick brushstrokes, likes feeling the warmth in his heart as he realizes that somewhere, someplace, his soulmate is here.  His soulmate cares.

Lucas Lallemant doesn’t write anything on his arms, doesn’t want to disrupt the artwork that covers his skin.

Until one day, he doesn’t see the paint.  One day, the colors stop coming.

Lucas lays awake in bed and stares at his arms, pinching them, running them through cold water, even going to the extent of finding his acrylics and painting splotches of paint on his own arms.

Are you there?  Where are you?

Until one night he notices the ghost paint marks on his arm.  Watches through horrified eyes as the paint begins to form on his skin in translucent strokes, glimmering and glistening in the moonlight that shines through the blinds.

He stands up and looks in the mirror, confused to see his reflection transformed.  The person in the mirror has arms full of color, arms painted red and blue and green.

Lucas looks down at his own arms, puzzled to see the same holographic illusion wavering on his skin.  When he looks up into the mirror again, he sees something there.

There’s another person there, smiling warmly back at Lucas.  He reaches out, and Lucas immediately feels safe.

The person reaches out to touch the glass with his fingertips, and trembling, Lucas does the same.  He feels the same warmth shoot through his spine, his finger tingling with slight electricity.  Lucas shivers, because he knows what it is.  It’s his soulmate.

“What happened?” Lucas says, throat clenching.  “What’s going on?”

The person in the mirror’s eyes soften, and he tilts his head.  

I died.

Lucas nearly collapses, hands flying to his arms.  He can’t even speak.

Not your fault.

“So I’m never going to meet you?”

The person in the mirror steps closer, shrugging.  I’m here now.  It’s me.  I’m just a ghost.

Lucas wants to cry.  “But I can’t touch you.  I don’t even know your name.”

I know yours.  I’m Eliott.  Eliott Demaury, he says, almost proudly.  And I’ve known you were my soulmate for years.

Lucas feels himself start to cry.  He wraps his arms around himself and shakes, fingers gripping his skin tightly.

Of course Eliott’s gone, too.

He peeks a glance through his eyes, half-embarrassed, and his crying falters slightly.  

There in the mirror, arms wrapped around Lucas, is Eliott.  Eliott’s forgotten his paints and paintbrushes and his expression is terrified, his hands clutching Lucas’ face and trying to rub away the tears from Lucas’ face.

Lucas is surprised to feel the tears on his face disappear.

Please don’t cry!

“What happened?” Lucas whispers.

There was an accident.  A car accident.  Eliott shrugs, staring at Lucas with a concerned expression.  I don’t really remember what happened.

Lucas stands up, presses his hand into the mirror.  He’s met with cold glass, no Eliott at all, and he feels his lower lip tremble.  “How’d you know where I was?”

One day you wrote your telephone number in real small numbers, right on the corner of your hand.  It was in black ink.  Thin sharpie, maybe?

Lucas feels something warm on his palm, and he looks into the mirror to watch Eliott poking him gently.

Basically, I looked it up on the internet and it couldn’t have been your mom or your dad, so it had to be you.

Lucas sniffs, the smallest smile turning up at his lips.  “You’re a stalker.”

Eliott laughs.  

Lucas can see his joy through the mirror, and Lucas wants so badly to run to him and share that joy.  To hold him, somehow.  But he can’t.

I’m smart, Eliott grins, correcting him.  If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have known who you were.

“Okay,” Lucas gives in, “you’re a stalker who used their knowledge for good.”

Eliott laughs again.  Okay.

--

At fourteen years old, Lucas Lallemant likes knowing that there’s someone there, someone at home who makes things a little easier.  He’ll peer into the mirror after school and tap on the glass, watching as the mirror defogs and Eliott appears.

Eliott’s always got something to tell Lucas, like how Lucas’ mother came in and ate two of the sweets in his drawer, so now he’s got to find a new hiding space, or that Lucas’ father came and took two dollar bills, so don’t forget to ask him about it.

Today, though, Eliott’s just smiling.

“What?”  Lucas looks at Eliott, trying to stop his own lips from tugging into a grin.  “What is it?”

Nothing!

“Liar.”  Lucas raises his eyebrows twice, then walks away from the mirror to dump his backpack onto his desk.  He quickly returns to the mirror, curious.  “Are you going to tell me why you’re so happy?”

Eliott pretends to think, and shakes his head gleefully.  But then he just shrugs, reaching to poke Lucas’ reflection in the shoulder.

Lucas feels the same foreign warmth and bites his lip.  Too bad Eliott’s stuck in there.

I’m happy that you’re back.  It’s so boring without you.

Lucas laughs.  He lets himself gaze at Eliott for a while, a dazed sort of smile tugging at his lips.

Eliott blushes.  And then he looks back up, teasing.  You know, if your parents come in, they’re going to think they’ve raised a very self-obsessed child.

Lucas snorts.  “They don’t care.”

Eliott’s smile falters.  What?

“They don’t care.  They’re too busy.  Besides, they’ve got their own problems.”

Eliott shakes his head vehemently.  They care.  You’re just stubborn.  

Lucas raises an eyebrow, then yawns.  “Whatever.  I’m going to eat something.”

I’d recommend eating an omelette with fennel and cinnamon.

Lucas smirks, turning back to face Eliott.  “What, are you trying to get me killed?  That’s terrible, no way.”

Eliott bursts into laughter, pushing at Lucas’ reflection.  Or blueberries and bacon!

Lucas pretends to vomit.  “Why, Eliott?”

Eliott tries and fails to suppress another laugh.  “Why not?”

Lucas just rolls his eyes and walks forward so that he’s close to the mirror.  He presses his fingers to his lips and touches the spot where Eliott’s forehead is.  “See you.”

Eliott’s smile softens, he holds up his hand, and Lucas watches, throat tightening, as Eliott’s intertangles both his and his reflections fingers.  He presses his lips against Lucas’ knuckles, then laughs.  

Go get your food, I’ll still be here.  

- - 

Fifteen-year-old Lucas Lallemant comes home from school and glares at the floor, refusing to look anywhere but the mirror.

He’s angry, really angry.  He’s had to yell at three people today about how his soulmate is dead.  Dead of all things, and he’s so not interested in learning about ways to contact them.  

Of course I know he’s dead, Lucas thinks bitterly.  He lives in my fucking mirror.

It’s not Eliott’s fault he’s, well, a ghost, but Lucas still won’t look at him.

You’re angry, Eliott’s voice drifts from the mirror.

Lucas scowls, crossing his arms.  He dumps his backpack on the floor and grabs his binders, slumping face-first onto his bed.

Somehow there’s a chill that sweeps through the room and something warm messes with Lucas’ hair.

Lucas looks up, shocked.  

Hi, Eliott says, smiling.

“Oh, so now you decide to mention that you can move from the mirror?”

Eliott shrugs.  Never came up.

“Eliott.”

Lucas?

Lucas reaches forward, some sort of hope trickling through his mind, but his hand passes straight through Eliott.  Lucas growls in frustration, then slams his head on the pillow.  “How come you can touch me, but I can’t?”

Eliott runs his hand across Lucas’ shoulders, tracing small circular patterns into his back.  I don’t know.  Why’d I have to die so early?

Lucas sits upright.  “Don’t say that.”

Why not?

“I didn’t mean it.  Not like that.”

It’s just a question.  Maybe it’s some sort of gift.  You know, like a consolation prize or something.  You’ve died, sorry, but you can still touch your soulmate.

Lucas groans, but soon shuts up as soon as he feels Eliott’s chin resting against his shoulders.

I’m sorry you’re upset.

Lucas shrugs.  “Don’t be.”

I forget it’s hard for you, too.

“Don’t worry about me.”

I always do.

Lucas scowls again.  “You’re such a sap.”

Eliott laughs, his form ghostly blue.  He’s so tall, and when he stretches out he’s taller than Lucas already by at least a head.  

You know what?

Lucas can’t stop the smile from tugging at his lips.  “What?”

You’re still cute when you’re mad.

Lucas rolls his eyes, falling straight through Eliott.  But Eliott just laughs, reaching for Lucas’ hand.

I love you.

“You don’t have a choice.”

Eliott bursts out into laughter.  

- -

Seventeen-year-old Lucas Lallemant comes home from school, again, and heads straight to his mirror.  “Hey.”

Eliott yawns, blinking.  He crawls out from the mirror, standing to look down at Lucas with amusement.  You’re back.

Lucas steps forward, head tilted up.  “You’ve got it pretty good, you know.  If you had to meet Monsieur Caron, you’d actually like, explode with annoyance.”

Eliott laughs, and he reaches to draw Lucas into a hug.  Lucas feels warmth around his shoulders and waist, but when he reaches to lean against Eliott’s shoulder, he staggers forward, almost falling.

“I keep forgetting about that,” Lucas murmurs regretfully.  

Eliott shrugs, reaching forward to ruffle Lucas’ hair.  What’s it like to go to your school?

Lucas thinks about it, thoughtfully.  “It’s strange, I guess.  You could go if you wanted to.”

Eliott just shakes his head.  I’d get lost.

“No you wouldn’t.  Just come with me, silly.”

Then I’d get sad.

“Aren’t you already sad, here?”

Eliott sags slightly, then quirks up the corner of his lip in a half-smile.  Well, you’re right.  I’m just … nervous.

Lucas reaches to cup Eliott’s face, even though his hand passes right through Eliott, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?  “If it makes you feel better, I get nervous, too.”

But you go every day.

Lucas sighs.  “It’s hell, Eliott.  I get nervous just thinking about it, sometimes.”

Eliott walks around Lucas to peer through the windows.

“What’s the first thing you’d do if you were alive?”

Eliott’s answer is immediate.  I’d want to feel your hugs.  And I’d want to make friends.  And eat food.

Lucas feels his smile fade.  “I wish you could do all those things.”

Eliott looks wistful for a moment, then shrugs, smiling.  At least I have you, right?

Lucas smiles.  

Right. Eliott answers, and he reaches to nuzzle Lucas against the nose.  And when Eliott leans forward to pull Lucas closer, Lucas doesn’t resist.  He feels a warmth against his lips as Eliott kisses him, gently at first, and then deeper until Lucas is being pressed against the wall.

He can’t kiss back, can only feel the warmth against his lips.  It comes to a point where he can’t take it, and pulls on the bottom of Eliott’s lip, but instead of there being warmth, Eliott shimmers and Lucas is met with cold, cold air.

“Sorry,” Lucas whispers.

Don’t be.

Lucas lets himself reach for Eliott’s fingers, not caring at the way his fingers fall straight through Eliott’s.  “I like like you,” he whispers, smile toying at his lips.  “A lot.”

Eliott smiles. Well, I love you.

“Me, too.”

Say it, Eliott whispers.  Please?

But Lucas shakes his head.  “Not yet.”

- - 

At eighteen years old, Lucas Lallemant looks at the wall and points to a spot near the corner.  “Did you know that’s where I hit my wooden block set when I threw a tantrum in preschool?”

Eliott blinks, staring at Lucas with amusement.  You what?

“I kept hitting the blocks against the wall, so it broke a little bit of plaster right there, see?”

Eliott glides to where Lucas is pointing, and he peers at it, thoughtfully.  So you still haven’t grown out of the hitting walls phase, have you?

Lucas looks down at his bandaged hand, shrugging.  “Guess not.”  He doesn’t think much of it, ready to change the conversation until he feels warmth against his knuckles.

Reflexively, Lucas jerks his hand away, hissing.

Just a scratch, Eliott says flatly, eyes narrow.  Okay.

Lucas sighs.  “Really.  It’s not a big deal.”

Show me, then.

Lucas raises an eyebrow.  “What’re you, my mom?”

Eliott glares at him.

“Okay, okay.”  Lucas reaches for the bandaging around his hand, biting his lip as he unravels it.  The gauze is bloody at some parts, and Lucas’ knuckles are split and bruised.

Eliott’s eyes widen.  Lucas?

Lucas doesn’t say anything.

You didn’t say it was this bad.

“What was I supposed to do, hm?”  Lucas steps forward, eyes vulnerable.  “I can’t just stand there while they, they --”

They what?  Eliott’s voice is gentle, Lucas feels warmth race across the palm of his hand.

“They were saying stuff.  Stuff about you.”  Lucas’ voice drops, he can’t meet Eliott’s gaze.  “They were talking about us.  I don’t know how they knew, I never --”

Lu.  You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.  You don’t have to fight battles for me.

“Why not?”

Because I don’t want you to.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lucas turns reflexively, clutching his hand to his chest.  “It’s over, now.”

So were you lying when you said you hit a wall?

Lucas barely turns, lips tugging into a half-smile.  “No.  I hit the wall after.  I was mad.”

Eliott laughs softly, and he inches closer to lean his head against Lucas’ shoulder.  Lucas feels Eliott’s familiar warmth, thinks he might actually melt.

No more hitting walls, please.

Lucas shrugs, smiling up at Eliott.  “You’re so …”

So what?

Lucas smiles to himself.

Eliott tickles him in the side and Lucas bursts into laughter.  “Alright, alright.”

Lucas turns so that he’s facing Eliott, but his eyes are glued to his knuckles.

Eliott notices this and tilts his head.  Why’d you hurt yourself for me?

Lucas shrugs, biting his lip.  When he finally looks back up, he looks more vulnerable than ever.  “I don’t want to tell you.  You’re going to leave if I do.”

Eliott tilts his head.  What?

Lucas shakes his head, throat tightening.  “I read that dead soulmates can’t leave until their soulmate tells them they love them.”  Lucas can only whisper, now.  “I don’t want to tell you because then I’ll lose you, too.”  He can’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth.  “They said you were still here because you couldn’t be loved and that’s not true, and I, and I --”

Eliott sighs, burrowing his face into Lucas’ hair.  When he speaks, Lucas can feel his voice.  You could never lose me.  I’m always with you.

- - 

Lucas is nineteen when he lets Eliott go.

Eliott’s lying with his head in Lucas’ lap, and he points up to press his finger against a spot on Lucas’ cheek.  I love you.

Lucas feels warmth everywhere.  He looks at Eliott, and Eliott’s eyes are so beautiful.  They’re blue mixed with gray and somewhat see-through but Lucas loses himself in Eliott, loses himself in the warmth.

And he wishes Eliott could feel that, too.

“Are you sad, here?”

Eliott blinks.  Me?

Lucas nods.  “I don’t want you to be sad.”

I’m with you.

“I know.  But still.”

A little.

Lucas raises an eyebrow.

A lot.

“Why?” It comes out as a whisper, and Lucas absent-mindedly tries to run his fingers across Eliott’s face.  But his fingers pass through air, and he feels his chest tighten.

I’m so lonely, Lucas.  And cold.

Lucas feels the warmth from earlier, and realizes Eliott doesn’t feel any of that.  His throat starts to sting.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I like seeing you happy.  I like being around you.

Lucas sniffs.  “Me too.  But it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Eliott’s eyes widen.  What are you doing?

Lucas smiles, feeling his face start to crack.  “Seven whole years.  The seven, best years of my life.”

Lucas, no.  You don’t have to --

“I do.”  Lucas reaches to run his hands through Eliott’s hair, blinking as his fingers pass through nothing.  “I need to let you go.  You’re hurting.”

It doesn’t matter.  I don’t want to leave you.

“But you do, don’t you?”

Eliott’s eyes soften, he shakes his head.  But then he deflates.  Yes.  But I don’t want to leave you.  I don’t want you to be alone.

“It’s okay,” Lucas whispers.  “It’s okay.”

It’s not okay.  You weren’t ever supposed to get hurt.  By anyone.

Lucas feels himself start to cry.  “Neither were you.”

Eliott’s quiet for a moment, his fingers raising to brush against Lucas’ cheek.

“You haven’t thought about yourself, Eliott.  You’ve always been thinking about me.  It’s my turn to do that now.”

Lucas.

“I love you, Eliott.  I’ve loved you ever since I first saw those paint marks on my arms.  I used to stay up every, single night watching, waiting for it to appear.  I loved you ever since you popped up in my mirror that night.  I’ve loved you ever since you first kissed me, and since you decided to drift out the mirror, and I’ve never stopped loving you.  I won’t stop.”

Eliott’s lip wobbles, and he blinks, a tear tracing its way down his cheek.  “You didn’t have to tell me.  I knew you did, Lu.  I knew.”

“I know,” Lucas whispers, and for the first time, he feels his fingers brush against Eliott’s skin.  

Eliott smiles, eyes watery.  And then he disappears, his form vanishing.

Lucas stares at the spot where Eliott used to be, and lets his hands fall into his lap.  There’s nothing there.  Just air.

He starts to hyperventilate, breathing quickly, eyes filling with tears.  Eliott’s gone.  Eliott’s gone.  He’s alone.

Something falls from Lucas’ room, and he stands up, numbly walking toward it.  There’s something on the floor, and Lucas frowns.

He steps closer, his breath catching in his throat.  There’s a set of acrylic paints, and Lucas takes them, cradling them to his chest, crying.

Later, he finds paintbrushes in his closet and opens the paints, painting stripes of red and green and blue across his skin.  It’s like how it used to be, when he was twelve.  

When he finally goes to bed that night, staring at the paint, he thinks somewhere, somehow, Eliott knows.  

He must.

And just before he falls asleep, he feels warmth racing up his arms.

[sophiaholmes221b]

Sophia Holmes and the Blind Banker

Chapter Ten

The circus has always been a place of mystery to me as I've never visited one. I had expected a large Big Top with that cliché music, but then again, this is the centre of London and the circus isn't their main occupation.

We follow John and his girlfriend, Sarah up a slope towards a community hall, keeping to the shadows to avoid detection.

"It's years since anyone took me to the circus," Sarah tells John and he chuckles nervously in reply.

"Right, yes! Well, it's ... a friend recommended it to me," I raise an eyebrow, remembering our previous conversation on this topic. "He phoned up."

"Ah. What are they, a touring company or something?"

"I don't know much about it," he admits, pausing to look up at the numerous red Chinese lanterns that are strung up outside the hall, showing the first sign that this is anything but another cliché circus from the movies.

"I think they're probably from China!" Sarah jokes, looking up.

"Yes, I think ... I think so, yes," John says lamely. "There's a coincidence!"

Dad and I slip in behind them as they enter the box office, stopping before we turn the corner so we stay out of sight. I peer around the corner casually as the customer in front of John and Sarah receives her ticket, then turns and heads up the stairs to the side.

"The place looks practically empty," I notice, looking around.

"They've taken the precaution of small amounts of advertising. Enough for the show to be a plausible excuse or an alibi, but not busy enough to warrant any media attention which would mean their stay in this country is prolonged." Dad pauses to listen to John's conversation with the manager.

"And what's the name?" the manager questions as John slips his wallet from his jacket.

"Er, Holmes," John replies, and I spot the look of confusion pass over Sarah's face, but she stays quiet.

"Actually, I have four in that name," the manager announces after a moment of checking.

John frowns. "No, I don't think so. We only booked two."

"And then I phoned back and booked a couple more." John looks up in disbelief as dad turns into his line of sight, offering his hand out to Sarah. "I'm Sherlock. This is my daughter Sophia."

I give her a small, fake smile as she glances back at John for a moment, obviously nervous about our sudden arrival, but shakes our hands as John turns away in what I take to be exasperation.

"Er, hi," Sarah manages to get out.

"Hello," dad replies, also sending her his fake smile before instantly turning and walking away again to wait on the stairs for John.

"Erm," Sarah begins, looking at me nervously. "I just need to pop to the loos; I'll only be a minute."

John curses as she disappears behind the corner and he heads on a warpath to the stairs. "You couldn't let me have just one night off?" he hisses, keeping his voice low.

"Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day," dad argues. "It fits. The Tong sent an assassin to England ..."

"... dressed as a tightrope walker," John interrupts. "Come on, Sherlock, behave!"

"We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope," dad persists, voicing our theory. "Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look round the place ..."

"Fine. You can do that with Sophie; I'm gonna take Sarah for a pint."

"I need your help," dad says sternly. Most normal people would feel offended by this, but there's something in the makeup of the Holmes' DNA that numbs us from criticism such as this.

"I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening!"

"Like what?"

John blinks, staring at dad in disbelief at his ignorance. "You are kidding."

"What's so important?" dad persists.

"Sherlock, I'm right in the middle of a date. D'you want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to ..." he breaks off, pondering on whether or not to continue.

"What?" dad persists.

"... While I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" John finalises, losing his temper and inevitably speaking much louder in his anger. Sarah appears beside John, looking as though she definitely heard the last bit. "Heyyy." John draws the word out as he turns to his date, smiling awkwardly.

Rolling my eyes, I follow dad up the stairs, leaving a suddenly eager Sarah behind with a bashful John. She's been fussing with her hair whilst she was in the toilets and has obviously touched up on her makeup as well which shows that she's very keen about her relationship with John, even though it won't last long.

John is used to a certain lifestyle of danger, which is why he signed up to the army and the reason why he is continuing to put up with us. A woman such as Sarah won't last long with John because her previous relationships have all been straightforward, as I could tell by her hand as we shook.

We're shown into a large hall as we reach the top of the stairs. Although the room includes a full-sized stage, the heavy curtains are drawn across it suggesting it won't be used tonight. Instead, we gather around a circle of candles - around nine meters in diameter - and stand in the absence of any chairs.

I take in the size of the hall with my back to the centre as John and Sarah arrange themselves beside each other and dad joins my side behind them, looking at the ceiling for any wires or something similar that could indicate if they were intending any acrobatics and, if so, whether there is a trick to it.

"You said circus," John mutters, talking over his shoulder and turning his head away from his date so she can't hear his conversation. "This is not a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is ..." he fades off, grimacing with distaste as he looks for a word to describe the setup, "... art."

"This is not their day job," dad reminds him as I pace, as naturally as I can, to take in any exit routes such as a fire escape or something similar. If there is, then they're hidden in the shadows in the back.

"No, sorry, I forgot," John whispers maliciously. "They're not a circus; they're a gang of international smugglers."

Dad ignores him as the performance begins. I stop pacing and join dad's side again, watching as a male in traditional Chinese costume beats out a tapping rhythm on a small hand drum. John looks over his shoulder at us with a look of incredulity at this unusual and traditional greeting and dad and I return his look with our eyebrows raised.

A woman dressed ornately in a classic red silk gown and heavily painted face walks towards the centre of the circle and stops, looking imperiously out at us before raising her hand in the air for the drummer to stop.

"Traditionally named 'the Opera Singer,'" dad mutters to me, and I nod in acknowledgement.

The Opera Singer begins to walk across the circle to a large, covered object, and she pulls back to reveal an antique crossbow positioned on a stand. Picking up a long, thick, wooden arrow decorated with white feathers from one end of the crossbow, and the sharpened point glistens in the candlelight, she shows it to us before fitting it into the crossbow. Beside me, dad looks on at the performance with a look of boredom and I wonder when he's had the chance to see this before.

Straightening up, The Opera Singer pulls a single white feather from her headdress and shows us that there is nothing considerably special about this small item. On the back of the crossbow is a small, metal cup and she drops the feather into it. Immediately, the arrow is released and whizzes across the room, and I whirl my head around as I follow its progress over the circle until it hits a large, painted board. The audience gasps at the arrow's sudden release, and Sarah turns to John, laughing and dramatically clutching at her heart.

I roll my eyes at this behaviour whilst around me; people begin to applaud as another character enters the ring, dressed in chainmail and an ornate head mask. He holds his arms out to the sides as two darkly clothed men come over and begin to attach heavy chains around him until he's almost unable to move. I recognise the act immediately as an escapology act - one which I haven't seen in a while. I'm not sure I want to watch it again after what happened last time.

The two men strap the character so that his hands are folded in front of him, and they begin to back him up against the board.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," dad announces to John and Sarah as the warrior is strapped to the board.

The couple to him. "Hmm?" John mutters questioningly.

"The crossbow's on a delicate string," dad explains as the men continue to tie the chains. "The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

We watch silently as The Opera Singer slips another arrow into the crossbow while the men attach yet more padlocks and chains to the warrior. One of the men pulls a chain tight, wrenching the warrior's head back against the board. The warrior cries out as the men maintain to loop the chains through steel rings attached to the board and begin to secure the warrior, who cries out again. A moment later, they seem to be satisfied with their prisoner's bonds, so they step away. The music builds up the intensity in the room, and some cymbals clap together unexpectedly, causing people around us to jump comically.

"Oh, Gawd! I'm sorry!" Sarah laughs, awkwardly, taking his arm with her other hand.

I take my eyes away from the 'happy couple' and put them back on the performance in front. The Opera Singer picks up a small knife and displays it to us.

"She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out; gradually the weight lowers into the bowl," dad explains softly so that just our small group can hear.

The Opera Singer does what dad had predicted and reaches up to a small sandbag that hangs from a cable above. The cable seems to be looped around some sort of a pulley, and as she slits the bottom of the sack I spot the metal weight which is attached to the other end. Sand begins to trickle out, unbalancing the two weights so that the sandbag lowers into the bowl.

The warrior cries out with effort and dad rolls his eyes at the acting and taps my arm pointedly, gesturing to the stage. I nod silently and we slip back into the shadows, heading towards to the stage door just as the sandbag levels with the weight.

The stage seems to be being used as the dressing room for the Chinese performers, as the area is equipped with everything from a dressing table with mirrors to free standing clothes rails.

I follow behind dad, twirling around to take in a full 360 of the space. In front of me, dad stops and I look over his shoulder to see what's made him tense up. It almost looks like another warrior is standing in the shadows, although I can see when I look down that the chainmail and mask are just hanging on a stand. Through the curtains, I hear the announcement of the next act as it breaks through the audience's applause.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Opera Singer begins in the newly found silence, "from the distant moonlight shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure the deadly Chinese bird-spider."

I allow my eyebrows to rise slightly as I abandon my lookover of the room to peer through the curtains. As the Opera Singer walks off stage, a masked acrobat falls controllably from the ceiling, rolling as a thick red band around his waist unravels.

"Over here," I call softly to dad, not taking my eyes off of the acrobat as he removes the band form his waist and takes the two strips of material apart, wrapping them around his arms. Dad joins my side and looks out with interest as the acrobat lifts into the air, flying around in a circle a few feet off of the ground.

"Well, well," dad murmurs, softly.

"Our murderer," I state, just as quietly.

The stage door suddenly opens and I sprint over to a clothes rail to take cover as dad joins, spreading the clothes hiding us so we can watch The Opera Singer. She seems distressed and checks her mobile on one of the dressing tables.

I shift a hanger out of my line of sight to get a better view, but it falls to the floor with a clatter. I bite my lip, cursing my clumsiness, and duck down as The Opera Singer looks up sharply. We crouch down lower as she comes towards us, but I let out a steady stream of air as she leaves.

Shifting into a more comfortable position, my foot collides with a bag and several tins hit together. Dad looks down and flips the bag open, revealing the collection of spray cans. He picks two up and I see the Michigan label as he tosses one over towards me. I catch it easily.

"Found you," dad sings softly. "Take this to Raz, ask him whether it's the same as the one we saw, then take it to Bart's. I don't think we'll need to be here much longer."

I nod and fall back into the shadows, making my way back towards the stage door to the side, stuffing the newly acclaimed spray paint into my black bag.

As I leave the hall, keeping to the shadows to avoid detection from anyone who happens to be watching, I allow my mind to wander. Perhaps dad didn't want me there because of my clumsy previous actions. I nearly got us caught.

I follow the path down onto the main road and stand to the side, waiting for the next cab to come along. Mycroft once told me to avoid taking the first cab that comes your way, as it could be a trap. I've never really thought about it much and put it down to the paranoia our family seems to suffer from. Perhaps we're being too cautious - after all, the cabbie who murdered the Pink Lady didn't target her specifically. Even so, I let the first couple of cabs pass, then signal the third, ensuring I follow through the paranoia with a check of the cabbie.

"St Bart's, please," I say, and sit back in my seat.

"Visiting someone?" he questions and I frown in annoyance; I don't like cabbies who pry.

"Er, yeah, something like that," I pull out my phone, signalling the end of our conversation. He gets the hint and leaves me alone.

I send a quick text to Raz to meet me at Barts, then scroll through John's website. Already - and despite his terrible eye for detail - he seems to be gaining followers.

"We're here, love," says the cabbie, drawing up outside the hospital and I look up.

"Right, thanks," I reply, stepping out and handing him a lump of cash.

I wait outside for a moment, waiting for the taxi to disappear before I cross over to a group of garages for the ambulances. A figure steps out from behind one of the bins and comes up behind me.

I smile and turn. "Here, catch."

Raz reaches and catches the spray can and holds it up to a nearby street lamp. "Same brand, definitely." He turns around, taking the lid off and spraying a long, yellow line across the wall. "Yep, identical to the pictures you guys showed me."

He tosses the can back to me. "Thanks. See you around," I say, heading back towards the hospital.

"Wait," he calls, and I spin around. "Good luck." I frown, spinning around as he sends me a cocky grin. I shake my head as I cross back over to the hospital.

***

Molly is inside when I reach my preferred lab and smiles warmly.

"Oh hi, wasn't expecting you here," Molly says, shifting some of her things to the side. "How's that case going, that graffiti one?"

I show her the can and move over to one of the microscopes. "Er, yeah, we're getting closer," I admit, spraying some of the paint into a petri dish and sliding it under the lens. "There's a code we need to crack - a message - but we can't find the book which goes with it."

Molly freezes, turning to look at me with amusement. "You can't crack the code? You?"

She laughs, and I frown, lifting my head from the lens. "That's what I said. I need the book, but it could be anything." I sigh, annoyed.

Molly tries to make further conversation, but after a few minutes of silence on my part, leaves me to my work.

I identify a high amount of Hydrofluorocarbons, and pull out a couple of the images taken by the train tracks. It all seems to match. An idea crosses my mind and I flick the switch off on the wall. Molly looks up, concerned probably, for my sanity but I flick it up again to the UV setting.

I lie the pictures beneath the microscope and inspect the pictures once more. As I thought, the words are being painted over with a type of invisible ink, most likely lemon juice, going by the strength in colour. Even now, I can see it's going to be pointless trying to get the message from the printouts. The only way I can be sure to translate it is to go to the place where the graffiti is. I need to find some more.

Picking up my stuff and picking up a portable UV torch, I leave the room, swinging my coat back on and being thoughtful enough to switch the lights back on. Where else is there likely to be any more graffiti than before? A place where the Tong are meant to be meeting? I smile to myself and hail a cab, ordering it to take me back to the hall.

The Tong who were brought over would have all been smuggled out as part of the circus. For a while, they would be able to spread out across London. On the night of their act, however, they would need a way of knowing where they were to be performing. The most likely outcome is that the message was sprayed on the back of the hall, somewhere dark enough so that people would just walk past it and not even realise it was there.

I hop out of the cab and sprint around the back of the building. The music inside has stopped, allowing me to assume that the show has finished. All I have to hope now is that they didn't remove this message as well.

The performances advertised on the back of the hall are all dated for this week which suggests the posters were put up around the beginning of the week. However, the papers are in a much worse condition than they ought to be.

I look closer at the ripped parts and pull back the bits which are sticking on the wall from the rain. To my success, I find another message written across the wall, as fresh as these posters yet preserved from any weather damage. I slide the torch from my pocket and shine the light upon the message. Whether it was their intention or not, they've left it in almost complete darkness, a perfect conditions for UV usage.

"Gotcha," I mutter softly, taking a picture of the wall without the flash, the UV light illuminating the photo. Just in case, I open up a new page on my notebook and write down the phrase revealed.

Wzyozy L K

It makes no sense to me now, but with some work, I'm sure I'll be able to find out what this means.

No more than five minutes after I leave the darkened alleyway behind the hall, I receive a text message.

Meet us at Scotland Yard

SH

I tuck my phone back into my bag and pull my coat tighter as the winter wind bites at my exposed skin. How those girls from school survive when they go out for the night in skimpy dresses and fifty-inch heels, I'll never understand.

Looking back through the message in my mind, I try to look for clues at what sort of mood dad's in. The length of the message would suggest he's rushed or annoyed, and the fact he wants me to meet him at the Yard is making me think it's closer to annoyance. The police haven't been able to pin down the Tong.

I hail another cab as I reach the main road and step in, feeding the driver the address as I buckle myself in. He raises a brow at my destination but drives off anyway.

We pass several police cars heading towards the hall, but I know they won't be able to find anything. These smugglers are professionals: they're strong and cunning and several steps ahead of us. They could be halfway back to China by now, although I doubt it. They'll want to stick around until they get their lost treasure back.

I catch up with dad, John and that Sally woman as they scuttle quickly after a rather angry-looking Dimmock. It seems the squad sent out have found nothing they can use to pin down the smuggling group, as I suspected.

Sidling past Susan to get beside dad, I notice dad and John's jackets are both fairly rumpled - as if they've been in some sort of physical fight. From the way they're holding themselves and talking quietly between them, it seems unlikely the fight was between them. The Chinese smugglers must have caught up to them. A thick coat of dusty sand granules covers the back of dad's jacket. Coupled with his shallow breathing, I would say he was pushed backwards and fell from a reasonable height - most likely the stage back at the hall, winding himself. As John seems to have got involved, this clearly happened during the performance, probably not long after I left.

Dimmock storms into his office and we follow him towards his desk. "I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted."

"They were barely going to hang around to be caught, were they?" I retort, with equal poison.

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus – that tattoo that we saw on the two bodies: the mark of the Tong," dad explains, intervening as Dimmock reaches his desk, turning around to face us.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a-a smuggling operation," John begins, reciting what we all already know. "Now, one of them stole something when they were in China; something valuable."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back," dad continues.

"Get what back?" Dimmock quizzes and dad looks away, biting his lip angrily.

"We don't know," John admits, hesitantly.

"You don't know," Dimmock repeats in obvious annoyance and dad is still avoiding eye contact. "Mr. Holmes ..." Dimmock begins. "I've done everything you two have asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something." Beside me, dad raises his head and I notice a small, proud smile creeping onto his face. "I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it – other than a massive bill for overtime."

"We've learnt a lot," I say, pulling out the new pictures I've taken. I went looking for more evidence after it was confirmed that the paint in this tin-" I show him the can from my bag, "is the same as the ones on the walls around London. There's another message within the codes: one only visible to UV light."

Everyone looks stunned as I finish, and Dimmock takes my phone for a closer look. "Wzyozy L K?" he reads, before passing it on. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Probably a code, most likely a code telling the minor Tong members which book to use to find the message," I state, piecing together a theory which has been hanging in loose threads in my mind.

"What code is it though?" John questions, looking past dad at me.

"Could be anything," I admit.

"Then narrow it down," dad urges.

"We can rule out book code and pig-pen cyphers for a start, along with the hangman's dance and Morse because we wouldn't be using letters."

"Great, so we know what it isn't," Dimmock sighs, annoyed. "Any idea what it actually is? Could it be, I dunno, an anagram?"

"No, the longest word you can make from this is five letters long," I point out, "and you'd need to use all of the letters for it to work. I think I could narrow it down to around three types."

Dad nods thoughtfully, catching on. Code has never been his forte, but mine, which is why he's taking a backseat now.

"Well, you better get to it now, then. Call me when you've cracked it."

***

"There's no point cracking it now, though, is there?" John says as we arrive back at Baker Street, and I sit down at the table, immediately beginning work on the code. "They'll be back in China by tomorrow."

"No, they won't leave without what they came for," dad argues as I rule out the Transposition and ROT1 cyphers. "We need to find their hide-out; the rendezvous. Somewhere in this message it 'must' tell us."

I nod my agreement and start making a DIY Caeser Shift Wheel.

"Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it," Sandra says suddenly, out of the blue.

I'd forgotten she was there.

"No, no, you don't have to go ... " John begins looking around at dad. " ... does she? You can stay."

"Yes, it would be better to study if you left now," dad says simultaneously.

John throws a dark look at him before turning back to her. "He's kidding," he says, wearily. "Please stay if you'd like."

Sapphire looks nervously towards dad, who's already turned back to the photos. "Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?"

"Ooh, God," dad sighs in exasperation.

Oh, the simplistic needs of the average human being. I, personally, haven't eaten the fight over the Jaria Diamond a couple of days before. It seems so long ago.

John looks around at Sarah in surprise, having also forgotten about eating. Meals are so infrequent in the Holmes household that I think he's just learnt to ignore the hunger. Either way, he walks towards the fridge; obviously trying to impress whatever her name is with his below mediocre cooking.

I attempt at the G cypher now, replacing the letters to get me to: Cfeufe R Q, which means nothing to me.

Dad joins me at the dining table, but leaves me to work on the code. He knows I work better alone, so instead takes out several pieces of paper, rummaging through them for reference or just to help me.

John's girlfriend walks idly over to the mirror, looking over the pictures pinned to it with little interest as we work.

"So this is what you do, you and John," she says. "You solve puzzles for a living."

"Consulting Detective," dad replies tetchily, not looking around.

"Oh," Sally says.

I ignore her and try the 'I' cypher, but find just another senseless answer: Orqgrq D C. Only seventeen more solutions to go through!

"Is that supposed to say 'Orange'?" Sadie asks stupidly, appearing over my shoulder and taking a look at my notes. I have to refrain from hurting her.

"No," I smile, a fake, sweet smile. "It's supposed to say 'Orqgrq D C'."

"Hmm," Sandra replies, sceptically, and walks over to annoy dad instead, looking over his shoulder at the paper. "What are these squiggles?"

I peer over to see dads' expression on this and watch as he looks up, his face set in the same way as I was feeling.

"They're numbers. An ancient Chinese dialect," he explains, trying to remain calm when the level of idiocy is clouding everything else.

"Oh, right!" she exclaims, sarcastically. "Yeah, well, of course I should have known that!"

I hear the door the kitchen squeak open behind me as the familiar footsteps of Mrs Hudson enter, up to help John out with his rather rubbish date, no doubt.

I keep working on the code, trying rotation after rotation. I slot in the next few letters, getting, I can feel it, ever closer to the answer. I'm on the K cypher now, and I know I'm close. Beside me, Sarah picks up the evidence bag containing the picture that Dimmock gave to us on the night I got arrested, and I tense up in utter annoyance, distracting myself from the code for a moment.

"So these numbers – it's a cypher," Sarah states, looking closely at the picture and completely oblivious to the looks both me and dad are giving her.

"Exactly," dad replies tightly as I put my head back down.

"And each pair of numbers is a word."

I frown, looking up again in surprise as I turn to face Sarah. Dad mirrors me. "How did you know that?"

"Well, two words have already been translated, here." She puts the picture down on the desk and I stand up, moving over to a place where I can see it as she points. Dad takes it from her and I notice now the small inscriptions. Soo Lin had started translating it, after we'd all gone off.

"John," dad calls, calmly.

"Mmm?" he replies, looking around from the kitchen table as dad stands up.

"John, look at this." Dad slips the picture carefully from the evidence bag as John comes over. "Soo Lin at the museum – she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it! 'NINE' 'MILL'."

I look over the picture again, this time making out the wording.

"Does that mean 'millions'?" John questions, squinting at the photo.

"Nine million quid," dad says, thoughtfully. "For what?"

"That tiara, on the auctions the other day," I recall. "Sold for just less than eight million pounds. Maybe it's another in the collection."

"That's quite likely," dad says, going over to where he's left his coat and scarf. "But we still need to know the end of this sentence."

"Where are you going?" John demands as dad shrugs his coat on.

"To the museum; to the restoration room." He grimaces in exasperation at himself. "Oh, we must have been staring right at it!"

To think we were hiding out in the very same room as the key to this mystery is insane. How did we not notice it?

"At-at what?" John questions, still at a lost.

"The book, John. The book – the key to cracking the cypher!" He flips the photo up at John pointedly. "Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk. Sophie, keep working on the code, text me when you find something."

I sit back down in my seat as he disappears, making the most of the current surprised silence to get back into the frame of mind. The K cypher translates as 'Mpoepo B A', which means nothing to me, and I cross-check it online. Nothing.

In the kitchen, I half-listen into John and Sarah's conversation as my brain nags at me that there's something I'm missing. I hear them decide on ordering a Chinese as it clicks. I write down my theory hastily, sliding the letters along once to reach the L rotation. I write the alphabet down the side of my notebook, wanting to get this right. As I reach Z, I start back up at the top, writing it out again, but with the letter L beside the A. I write down the answer as I go.

"L-O-N-D-O-N," I say out loud and smile as it makes sense. I think I can predict the next two letters, but I look for them anyway. "A-Z!" I gasp in excitement as I look up at the couple in the kitchen. "John! I've found it!"

All the pieces fly together now as if I've uncovered a massive magnet which is drawing together all of my loose threads to create an answer.

I remember seeing the London A-Z taking the top spot on one of Lukis' many piles of messy books, clearly left there from when he hastily decoded his doom. I remember seeing the same book on Van Coon's coffee table, near the wall, third book down. Back in the museum, on Soo Lin's desk, was a copy of the London A-Z. We'd looked at it, ironically whilst we were passing the time, trying to work out a pattern between the murders.

"'A book which everyone would own!'" I quote excitedly, heading over to one of the crate and beginning to take out handfuls of books. "It fits John!"

John and Sarah help me to unload the crates we haven't been through, and I take out the A-Z and start flicking through it to decode the threats made to Van Coon and Lukis.

"I'll text Sherlock, keep looking!" John calls, heading back into the kitchen for his phone.

Page fifteen, entry one... I flick to the correct page and take out one of the pictures of the wall in Shad's office. The warning for both men. The first entry reads:

"Deadmans Lane NW9!"

John raises his head from his phone. "What?"

"The message in Shad and the library, it was a threat: deadman. It explains why Van Coon had his gun and why both places were locked.."

John nods thoughtfully. "Can you translate the rest?"

I return the nod and take another print out of the brick wall from the pile, writing down the two words which were already translated. I flick through to page thirty-seven and slide my finger down across the page until I find entry nine.

Fore St EC2. I shorten it down to 'for' and write it down beside the Hangzhou numbers correlating it.

Sixty, thirty-five is the next code, so I follow its instructions, bringing me to Jade Cl. E16. Jade. Jade what, though? Was I right that it's part of the tiara collection?

I translate the rest of the words easily, now in the flow of finding the right pages. I translate the last word and write it down on the paper, looking at the message its entirety.

Nine mill for jade pin. Dragon den black tramway.

Black tramway? Where's that?

"Soph, I've ordered you some curry, would you like us to put it back for later?" John asks, sticking his head around the kitchen door as I reach for one of our maps.

"Er, yeah, whatever you say," I reply, not listening as I search for the tramway.

The doorbell rings downstairs signalling the arrival of our dinner and John heads downstairs. Something about this bugs me. It couldn't have been more than five minutes since John ordered our meal, yet here is the delivery man.

"Oh, god!" I mutter quietly and reach over to unlock the safe where we keep our spare guns.

John's girlfriend screams from behind me and I turn to see a man dropping a limp Sarah to the ground. He's around the same height as the attacker who drugged me in Soo Lin's flat, but he's still covered in a mass of black cloth so it's hard to tell.

He rounds on me and I breathe deeply, my heart beating fast. I position myself in an defensive stance, hiding my gun until I need it. 'Never display your most valued weapon to your enemy, as they can use it against you,' as Mycroft said once. I think he may have been talking about words or connections, but in this circumstance, I'm happy to go with guns.

If the assassin is keeping Sarah alive, then it's likely that he's using us as hostages to get at dad, and I won't let that happen without a fight.

The man laughs and copies my stance, and I feel the rush of adrenaline course through my veins. This man has been trained in the martial arts since he was four years old, and has been practising every year after. Me ... well, I started when I was eight, so I think my chances are limited if we think about it realistically.

I bow respectfully to him and he begrudgingly returns it, before coming up and beginning the fight. He charges at me, reaching me in seconds, his head bent low to push into my stomach. I bring my leg up to kick him away, but he grasps my foot and twists it around, pushing me backwards.

Losing my balance, I fall into the arms of another assassin who had crept up behind me and I struggle relentlessly against my bonds as they tie me up and bundle me out of the apartment of 221B.

[francesderwent]

I feel like you've probably answered this somewhere or, alternatively, are tired of the question but: how did you decide to study theology? I'm so glad you did and are because it feels like you were made to but how does one decide that? What's your phd in theology backstory?

I don’t think I’ve ever actually talked about it here!  And I’m happy to!

Short answer?  It wasnever something I planned, it was something that came at the end of a long seriesof “let’s just take one step forward and see what happens” kind of choices.

Long answer?

When I started applying for colleges at sixteen, I hadnever, in my life, had a single reasonable goal of what I wanted to be when Igrew up – the working plans went from princess to singer to actress, alwayswith the tacit understanding in the background that these were things that werenever going to actually happen, because princes were scarce, and I wasn’tcommitted enough to either of the other ideas to do the suffering-artist thingand chase them down.  And so, I appliedto college as a theology major, because I figured religion was the one thing Iwas good at.  I knew Church teaching backwardsand forwards, I’d read the whole Bible for school that one time, and when itcame to writing retreat talks or speaking the controversial truth in discussion,I could run circles around all thekids in the parish youth group.  Ifigured I was going to be some kind of prodigy; I could accurately distinguishbetween the Immaculate Conception and the Virgin Birth, after all.  

Needless to say, I was an unbearable person with very fewfriends.  

My college applications came back, and the financial aid wasbest at the school I least wanted to attend. Feeling like a martyr, I decided to attend there.  My first semester I was required to take anintro to philosophy class before I could start taking theology.  I felt this was probably a waste of my time;I was ready to get my lower level theologies out of the way so I could go on tothe advanced stuff.  But I signed up forthe philosophy which best fit my schedule and prepared to blow everyone away.  (Did I mention I was unbearable?)  That semester, the newbie philosophyprofessor whose class I’d signed up for was having all his freshmen readPlato’s Republic, cover to cover.   And just like that, my life waschanged.  For the first time I wasn’tmemorizing factoids about the truth, straight off the page of the Catechism orthe Summa.  I found myself in the placewhere Truth opens up before you and you realize it’s always going to be biggerthan you, you’re always going to be inside of it, there’s always going to bedeeper to go.  I read all my homework twoor three times.  I spent ages on all mywriting assignments, fine-tuning my arguments, trying to find new angles.  I raised my hand enough in class thatoccasionally the professor would have to say “Somebody other than Cate.”  And,miracle of miracles, I was good at philosophy– not because I’d read more or because I had more orthodox parents than anyoneelse, but just immediately, mysteriously, like all of a sudden I’d discoveredwhat my mind was made for.  I added asecond major within five months of being at school, and then was delighted todiscover that the theology department was alsofull of people who were thinking deeply about things.   I loved all my classes, but I still likedphilosophy best.

When I was approaching graduation, I sat down with one of theprofessors and asked what he thought I should do next.  I knew I didn’t want to work in a parishoffice, and I I didn’t feel ready to teach high schoolers; I thought I mightwant to go to grad school, but I didn’t even know where to begin.  And he explained to me that most of thephilosophy programs in the country were focused on analytic philosophy orlogic, and very different from the philosophy I’d done at school.  And the type of theology I’d been doing forthe last four years was apparently a veryniche school of theology – there was one grad program that had continuity withwhat I’d learned, but only one.  “It’s avery metaphysics-heavy program,” he told me, placidly, as if he hadn’t justpulled off a really impressive con, “the best philosophical thinker alive is teachingthere.  It’s the only place where youwouldn’t really have to choose.”  And soI applied to grad schools: some theology, some philosophy, with the theologywith-a-metaphysical-focus that my professor had suggested as my first choice.  Offers and rejections trickled back.  I got a really generous offer from a safetyschool far down on my list, and I began to wonder if I was going to end up withmy last choice again.  I needn’t haveworried; if I hadn’t been at my last choice for undergrad, I might never havefound out about my top choice for grad school. God had put me exactly where I needed to be four years earlier, and everythingfell into place for the next step.  Imoved, I took out loans so I could pay rent, but it all worked out.  I wasn’t even alone – two of my classmatesfrom the theology program were starting the Masters with me.

Looking back on it, I kind of squandered those twoyears.  I had a lot, a lot of personal drama in that time, andI was in a long-distance relationship, newly rekindled with an old boyfriend(bad idea), and so I was back and forth between different states every otherweekend.  And there was so much continuity with my prioreducation that I could kind of get away with it.  Don’t get me wrong, I learned a lot – Ilearned to love Scripture and Christology, and moved away from my flatter, Inow realized, Kantian ethics to something more genuinely Christian.  But I was leading a very compartmentalizedexistence; I kept theology and philosophy in one box, and then in every otherbox lived my life however I wanted.  Ireceived the sacraments at almost the bare minimum.  I was learning, but I wasn’t letting anythingI learned penetrate my heart for fear of what it would require of me.

But compartmentalizing is hard and unnatural, and eventuallyI had to face up to some things.  Myboyfriend had just returned from a month-long musical tour of Ireland, and heand his fiddle player wanted to go back for three-to-six months of the nextyear, and he wanted me to come with them. This proposal was not accompanied by a corresponding proposal for thecommitment level of our relationship. When I brought this up, there was a big fight, and I finally realizedafter a year and a half of studying theology with a focus in marriage andfamily that he didn’t really believe in marriage.  He would probably have married me eventually,in ten years or so, but it wouldn’t have meant anything to him, and thevalidity would have been questionable at best. I broke up with him a week after Thanksgiving.

I found myself facing a blank future – I’d spent the lasttwo years becoming very entrenched in my boyfriend’s world, assuming that I wasabout to become a permanent fixture there. And in the process I’d put strain on a lot of my college friendships, Iwas more distant from my family than I’d ever been, and I hadn’t made any friends in grad school.  I barely even spoke to my roommates – theydidn’t find out about the breakup for weeks. I was isolated and lonely, with no goals and nothing to look forward to. And then, all the theology that I’d beenholding at arm’s length suddenly became intensely personal to me; I saw clearlyall that I’d been running from and all that I’d messed up.  I cried a lot during class that semester.

Applications for the PhD program at my school were due thesecond week of January, or thereabouts. And with nothing else on my radar, I decided I would apply.  The interview process was infamously intensive,and I figured if I made it through that then I could weigh my options from theother side.  I begged for letters ofrecommendation, scrounged together a CV, and wrote my essays.  About a month later, I had two straight daysof interviews, with everyone from the admissions director up through the DeanEmeritus.  The program adviser for theMasters asked me why I wanted a PhD; I told him it would make it easier to gettenure track positions.  “We’re allreally used to responding to interview questions in a utilitarian way,” he toldme, “how one thing will get us to somewhere else.  But why do you want that thing?”  I thought aboutit.  “It’s important to me to be able tocontinue engaging with the truth on this level,” I said. “I want to end up in aplace where my peers care about these questions and can dialogue with me.”  As soon as I said it out loud, I started toreally want it for the first time.  That professor sent me on my way to the DeanEmeritus.  We had a charming conversationabout homeschooling, and then he got down to business, told me I’d doneexcellent work there already, and asked me why I wanted a PhD.  “I know I’m going to be thinking about thesequestions for the rest of my life,” I said. “And I want to do that in acommunity.”  He nodded, and said, “That’swhat my reason was when I started a PhD, too.” Now more than a bit dazed, I headed over to my last interview with theprogram adviser for the PhD.  He lookedover my application, told me, “There’s no possible reason you couldn’t dothis,” and then gave me twenty-five minutes of advice on how to go aboutit.  My friends who’d applied with me haddescribed getting grilled – but I only felt encouraged.  These people had confidence in me.  I cried on the metro platform going homebecause I was so overwhelmed.  I’dknocked, and the door had been opened wide. In a way, the PhD program was given to me, as a surprise, and then Ilearned to want it.  By the time I got myofficial acceptance

So, for me the reasons for doing the PhD have always beencomplicated – it’s something I want for its own sake, just because I care aboutthe truth and am lucky enough to get to spend time with it, and also somethingI want for extrinsic reasons.  Those havechanged over the years, somewhat – I would still like to be a professor, but Ialso wouldn’t mind going home to work for my bishop, and if I get married andhave kids that would be more than enough for me: I’ll write the occasional articleand maybe finish a book or two, and teach religion at the homeschool co-op, butmost importantly I’ll live the truth that I’ve received.  That’s the beautiful thing about theology(and philosophy) – you can’t help butuse your degree.  And behind and aroundboth of those reasons is the only real one: this is where I was led.  There was never another choice that wouldn’thave felt like Jonah fleeing Ninevah.  I’mstruggling, all the time, but I get indications every now and then that this isstill where I’m meant to be.  I have noidea where the path I’m on is going to take me, but I can see how it got mehere, and I trust that God will continue to lead me.