#and Emil has been through a lot since he left

[izayoichan]

Emil: Don't look! I am shameful.

Flynn walked closer to Emil, a side of him wanting to just hug the dragon, and never let go, but the way he just turned around told him not no. To know more before he did so.

Flynn: Shameful? -he tilted his head.- You gave your horns away to save my family.. There is nothing shameful in that.

Was it perhaps that he was hiding his wings and his tail? He did remember Emil once telling them that he would never do that, he was a proud dragon. Eventually, he gently put a hand on the dragon's shoulder. 

Flynn: Please turn around.

Emil flinched at the touch and looked back at Flynn, being met by those confused and sad eyes. They slowly turned around, taking Flynn's hand in theirs, just feeling the warmth of his fingers on theirs. Then they looked down at them, wondering how Flynn would feel and would think once they showed them their scarred back and missing wings.

Beginning - Previous - Next

[greensagephase]

Nonviolent Communication - Part 17

Pairing: Spider-Man!Miguel O'Hara x Spider-Woman!Reader Summary: Miguel has been distant lately and you don't know why. Word Count: 23.9k Warnings: distant Miguel; he displays similar behaviors from the beginning of the fic, no sleeping and skipping meals; tones/mentions of death; small moment in which reader misunderstands Miguel's words and thinks he means something else (him wanting to be gone permanently); lots of fluff memories; both Miguel and you cry; lyrics for some of the songs (two) will be sprinkled in the dialogue, I tried my best to translate for one, while for the other one you can search it up. You may already know the meaning behind it since I think most of Miguel nation knows this one song already. I think that's it. If you find something else, pls let me know :) Music (Spotify playlist): "rises the moon (piano version)" - goated. "Baila Esta Cumbia" - Selena "Las Mañanitas" - Vicente Fernández (birthday song for Mexicans, at least) "someday i'll get it" - Alek Olsen "pluto projector (melody)" - emptiness "En Familia" - Carlo Siliotto (unfortunately this song isn't on Spotify, but it was one of the two main songs for this chapter. You may find it on YT here) "Luna de Xelajú" - Gaby Moreno, Oscar Isaac (yes, we're bringing it back and you better have tissues ready 🤧) "Jacob and The Stone" - Emile Mosseri Masterlist (where you can find all my other fics, but most importantly, all fanart for NC 🥹) Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoy!! 🫶🏼❤️

Part 17

The sight of sunlight streaming through the holographic blinds of your bedroom meets your eyes when you first wake up. Yawning, you stretch beneath the sheets, slowly waking up. You roll over on your side with a sigh, staring at the little pockets of sunshine on the floor.

The warmth under the covers keeps you there, anchored to the bed for a few more minutes until you finally decide to get out of bed to start the day. You slip on both gizmos; the one everyone has available to them and the new one Miguel gave you to test for him, removing the wristband you wear around the penthouse due to comfort and to avoid glitching since you’re not in your universe.

Trying not to think about something, or rather someone, you make your bed and get ready for the day. It’s only when you’re done with your bathroom routine that you decide to find out.

“Lyla?” you say.

“Hey - morning,” she says popping through your gizmo.

“Morning… Is Miguel…” you trail off.

“He’s already at HQ, yes,” she replies, fixing her glasses. “He left two hours ago.”

“Thanks.” With a frown, you make your way downstairs. You only check the kitchen out of curiosity, not because you’re particularly hungry. Knowing Miguel is already gone has decreased your appetite. Sure enough, you find a note on the counter from him, stating that he’s going to HQ. With a sigh, you slip out of the penthouse and head to your universe for your usual morning patrol, feeling down about the situation.

The problem is… Today is not the first day Miguel has gone to HQ so early. He’s been leaving the penthouse as early as 5am, unlike the past weeks and months since you’ve been living with him. Typically, the two of you leave together around the same time you’ve left the place today. You have coffee and sometimes even cook a full breakfast, but it hasn’t been like that for a few days.

You eventually arrive to HQ after your patrol, still feeling a heaviness around you. You do your tasks such as working on the weekly report, going on missions, and helping other spider members when and where it’s needed until it’s time for you to head to Miguel’s lab for your weekly organizing.

It’s still something you enjoy doing, especially even more now that Miguel is so much more open than when you first started organizing his lab two years ago. Even if you’re not conversing, the simple enjoyment of being in each other’s presence is satisfying to the two of you.

You look down at the boxes with food from the cafeteria and the drink carrier in your hands as you head there. You’re certain Miguel hasn’t had anything to eat, except maybe a coffee, if even that, so you’ve decided to get him something. Of course, being lunch time, you got him his favorite meal from the cafeteria: empanadas and other sides, along with a water and a coffee.

As expected, he thanks you with a small smile, but it’s one that doesn’t reach his eyes these days. You both eat in silence before you begin to work. As always, you make your rounds and check each surface, seeing what all there is to organize before you actually begin. You do this quietly, noticing that Miguel is too quiet. In fact, he’s been so much quieter the last few days, as if something has been weighting on his mind. Deeply. Terribly.

You’ve found him staring off into his screens several times over the last few days, his crimson eyes unblinking and focused on nothing in particular, lost in whatever has been plaguing his thoughts these days.

His smiles are distant and sad. He’s been unable to give you a true, genuine smile.

To everyone else, it may seem like a normal thing. Maybe they haven’t even noticed it, but you know better.

He’s far too quiet when cooking. His gaze is unfocused when he’s reading in the afternoons. He’s sought more solitude recently, heading upstairs to his room after dinner, and has been working out every day in the private gym in the penthouse building for several hours at a time.

You dared asked him yesterday if something was wrong, in a far more subtle way, of course.

“I’m alright, just tired,” he replied blinking back into focus, raising his hand to move screens around. He was back to working, or well, actually working since he was zoning out before you talked to him.

You continue to work silently now, taking note of the fact that even Lyla doesn’t chat with you like she normally does. She pops in and out, doing her tasks without any banter.

With a heavy feeling, you glance at Miguel. He’s on his platform, his back to you. Your eyes trace his broad shoulders, the tense stance.

Those shoulders.

They’ve carried too much for far too long.

What is plaguing his mind as of now? You can only wonder to yourself.

You carry on with your tasks, giving Miguel his time. You hope he’ll feel comfortable enough to share with you what’s been on his mind soon, or at least that his mood will improve because his recent disposition has reminded you of the early days when you first started organizing the lab. And, the truth is, that that worries and saddens you. It almost sends little alarms to your head about the possibility of maybe… Losing him.

You shake your head, trying to get rid of those thoughts. You don’t want to think about that possibility. The possibility of him taking a step back and deciding to shut everyone out again.

Including you.

But surely, that’s not it. Right?

You’ve thought about it the last few days. Did you do or said something that made him upset? Is there a chance that you did and he doesn’t want to bring it up to avoid hurting your feelings? You even wonder if maybe he’s… In need of space from you. Maybe having you around too much has become stressful, even suffocating. You debate that specifically, having no other explanation for his current behavior.

You’ve both tried to give each other space while at the penthouse, so it’s not like you spend every hour together in the evenings. During the days, you’re off doing other things either at HQ or at your universe. Yet, you still wonder if you being in his personal space, in his home, has become too much for him. Maybe you’ve pushed his boundaries, those you always try to respect, without even realizing it.

With a frown and a bad feeling in your chest, one you’ve carried with you over the last few days, you continue to work wordlessly until you’re done. You decide to leave the lab afterwards and give Miguel space, thinking maybe he truly needs a break from you.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Miguel stays a few more hours at HQ than he usually does these days. When he gets home, he reheats his own dinner, even though you offer to do it for him, a gesture he politely declines. In previous days, you talked with him for a bit. You’ve told him about your day, back in your universe when you’re off to do patrols, which you’ve continued to do. Just because you’re living in Miguel’s universe for the moment, doesn’t mean you’ve abandoned your dimension nor left your city defenseless.

You know you have Miguel’s technology to help connect with your two-way radio in case of emergencies, but even then, you like to do patrols. It was your promise to Peter, your Peter, after all. To keep your city safe, so you do.

You patrol your city, witnessing all sorts of things. One thing you’ve definitely learned from being Spider-Woman is that people do strange, funny, and sometimes even wholesome things when they believe no one is watching. If only they knew Spider-Woman is often watching from some rooftop.

It’s these stories you’ve told Miguel, in hopes of bringing some light to those sad eyes. You’ve succeeded but only during those short moments of time.

Whatever is on his mind takes the happiness out of them and his heart.

Today, instead of talking to him, you opt to remain silent as you clean the kitchen to at least give him company. Not long after, he excuses himself after washing his dishes, heading to his bedroom. Once you’re done cleaning the kitchen, you decide to lounge in your room, or Gabriel’s rather.

The penthouse is, once more, silent this evening, and for the first time, you feel an emptiness from it.

With a sigh, you stare out the window. The sight of the sun setting reminds you of Father’s Day and how you both sat on the rooftop that evening, enjoying the view before the sun dipped below the horizon, giving you a memory you’ll forever remember.

You touch your elbow, recalling how you ended up hurting yourself that evening in an attempt to hide the gifts you got for Miguel. Of course, it’s healed now like other injuries have in the past regardless of how big or small, physical or emotional.

Time heals all.

Usually.

You turn towards the closet where you hit yourself that day. Before you know it, you’ve opened the door and stare at the top of it. Your eyes find Peter’s box with all of his belongings, the same one you haven’t opened since you packed it.

And today is still not that day.

You close the door again and lean back on it, the sunset filtering through the window. Silently, you wonder if Miguel is watching it, too, from his own room.

You almost wish you could send him a message, but that would be insensitive and inappropriate when he’s in such a mood.

Are you watching the sunset, too?

You scoff to yourself. Yeah, not the best time.

Isn’t it beautiful? The colors - that shade of red.

It reminds you of Miguel’s eyes.

Shaking your head at your random thought, you sit down on the chair within your room and stare at the sunset some more. You remain like that until the sun fully disappears, still thinking about him and wishing you knew what is bothering him.

It’s a few minutes after the sun sets that you stand up and do a little organizing around your room. You know you’re only trying to distract yourself from Miguel but you accept the distraction happily. It’s the only way you can stop thinking about him and wondering what’s going on, analyzing your actions and words from the last few days before his mood changed. Your organizing halts half an hour later when you hear Miguel’s bedroom door open.

You frown, knowing you’re only able to hear it because he wants you to. He always goes out of his way to make as little noise as possible in case you’re taking a nap or simply to avoid disrupting you.

You don’t hear his footsteps however. You hardly do. For a man his size, you’d think you’d hear them, but no. He’s so silent.

For a moment, you wonder if he even left his room. You foolishly hope that he’s opened the door to give you a sign, one that means he’s better and ready to interact, but your hopes are shattered when you receive the notification from your gizmo.

“I’m at the gym.” - M

A part of you wants to change into workout clothes and go to the gym just to be near him, even if you keep your distance, but no.

You recognize when someone wants space - when someone wishes to be alone.

Miguel wants that now, so, you stay put in the penthouse instead, though you can’t find it in yourself to do something relaxing such as reading a book, or watching a movie or show. You don’t engage with any of your hobbies, old or new. Instead, you slip on headphones and do chores like laundry and vacuuming the living room’s rug. You wipe the ceiling to floor windows of both the living and dining area rooms, needing no ladder thanks to your spider abilities as you listen to music.

You go through an entire album, marking an hour. You play another one, focusing on other chores like drying the dishes and placing them back where they go. You adjust the couches and fix your blanket. You dust the bookcases and Miguel’s new photographs before you sweep the living room, using some advanced broom despite having robot vacuums to take care of it.

Back at the kitchen, you wipe the counters once more and then sweep that area, too. You even venture to the other living room, the one that’s for entertaining guests, and repeat the process all over again.

You keep listening to music, the hours tick by. It’s eventually eleven and Miguel is still at the gym. You only know he’s still there because Lyla tells you so. After all the chores and restlessness, you take a shower before going to bed at last, even though you simply lay there, staring at the ceiling - alone in the penthouse.

You grow restless staring at the four walls, so you eventually get up and leave your room. You stand in the hallway of the second floor, noticing the silence and darkness. It brings a thought to mind, but one you immediately push away.

After standing there for a few minutes, you finally head downstairs. Your steps are the only sound as you reach the living room where one single lamp remains on, one that you left on for Miguel for when he comes home. You also left small lamps on in the other living room and another one in the kitchen so he can see where he’s going when he comes back.

It’s past midnight when you turn to the windows and stare out at Nueva York. You bring your hands to your arms, hugging yourself with a deep sigh.

Is Miguel even coming back to the penthouse tonight? Or, will he stay at the gym all night?

Minutes tick by as you keep your gaze on the city, waiting.

You wait, and wait. And wait.

“Lyla?” you break the silence several minutes later.

“Yeah?” Lyla appears next to you, her voice gentle to avoid startling you.

“Can you please turn off all the lights?”

At that, Lyla turns to you, a frown on her face as she processes the odd request. “Turn off the lights? Why?”

“Please,” you whisper, still hugging yourself and staring out the windows.

Despite her confusion and the urge to question and deny your request, Lyla does as you’ve asked. She turns off every single light, leaving the penthouse in utter darkness, save for some spaces that are somewhat illuminated by the outside.

You turn away from the windows and stare at the living room and the rest of the penthouse. Everything is dark. And you’re alone.

Your thought from earlier comes back as you take in your surroundings.

This is what it’s like for Miguel - what it was like back then when he lost Gabriella. All alone, sitting in darkness and silence with so many running emotions all on his own.

“This is what it was like,” you whisper.

“What was what like?” Lyla asks, still hovering near you.

“Miguel. After everything that happened with Gabriella.”

Lyla nods, now understanding what’s going on, recalling those nights. “Yes, this is what the penthouse looked and felt like on those nights - and there was something heavy that lingered in the space. I don’t like to think about those nights.”

“I understand,” you whisper, imagining what Lyla has shared.

She nods, still staring at the darkness. A frown is visible on her face. It bothers her to see you like this. “I’m turning the lights on.”

“Is Miguel still at the gym?”

“Yeah. He’s been working out, almost nonstop for hours.”

You nod. He’s been trying to distract himself with that. From what? You don’t know.

”Lyla?”

“Yes?”

“… I know I shouldn’t ask…”

“You want to know what’s happening.”

“Yes.”

Lyla sighs, or replicates doing so anyway as you turn to face her at last, still hugging yourself. She sits down and adjusts her heart shape glasses. “I’m honestly surprised Miguel hasn’t told you, but I suppose he still has some healing to do despite all the progress he’s done in the last year,” she says, staring at you. “I guess it’s why he still finds it hard to talk about her.”

Her.

“Gabriella. It’s about Gabby,” you state.

“Yes. Tomorrow…” Lyla sighs again. “Tomorrow, or well, I guess today, considering the time now, would’ve been… her birthday.”

Suddenly everything clicks into place.

Lyla watches the way your shoulders slump, the realization hitting you, and how your entire face changes to one of understanding and pain.

“Miguel,” you sigh, understanding everything now. No wonder he’s been so different lately, he’s been thinking about Gabby’s upcoming birthday for days. Probably thinking about what age she’d be turning today. Now more than earlier, you feel like going to look for him, to comfort him somehow, to be near him to offer at least your presence, but you’re reminded that Miguel doesn’t want that. At least, you don’t believe so. If he did, he’d be here in the penthouse, not at the gym alone.

“You should get some rest,” Lyla suggests. “I know that’s probably the last thing you want to do now but… Miguel would feel far more guilty if he knows he’s been keeping you up. I’m certain he already feels upset with himself for how different he’s been the last few days.”

“I don’t think I can sleep, but I know I can’t go and look for him,” you reply.

“No, that would upset him even more. He doesn’t like disturbing you, or rather worrying you.”

“Right,” you respond, even though you wish to run and find him right now. “I’ll be in my room. Please make sure those lights remain on. I don’t want him to come back to…”

“Darkness.”

You nod.

“The lights will remain on, no worries,” she reassures you. “Try to sleep a bit. I’ll keep an eye out for him, too. If something comes up, I’ll wake you up.”

Lyla “walks” you to your room, feeling the need to look after you. You’re after all, her boss’s best friend. Looking after you is her looking after Miguel, one of her integral designs.

You settle down on the bed, covering your body with the bed sheets, your mind running wild with thoughts. Lyla wishes you a good night after several minutes of her simply hanging out around the room, knowing you’re not much for conversation now that you know the reason for Miguel’s current behavior, before she flickers away.

Alone, you’re back to staring at the ceiling and the walls in an empty penthouse. It’s close to two in the morning when you hear subtle footsteps. They slow down in front of your bedroom, stopping by the door.

For a moment, you wonder if Miguel will come in, deciding to talk to you, even if he thinks he’ll have to wake you up. Instead, you hear a soft sigh before the footsteps continue, fading once Miguel enters his bedroom.

You’re not sure if Miguel gets any sleep, even though you’re tempted to ask Lyla. A part of you refuses to continue invading his privacy by having Lyla tell you what he’s up to, so you don’t. You stay up for a while, staring at the walls, tossing and turning. You eventually doze off despite wanting to remain awake, waking up at six only to be told by Lyla that Miguel has already been at HQ for an hour.

Tired, you start the day knowing what today is.

Gabby’s birthday.

As you move about the penthouse, you wonder how old she would’ve turned today. The few images you have of her pop into your mind along with the few videos Miguel has of her - almost like a movie, and one too short, like her life.

You ask Lyla what Miguel has done. Apparently, he’s been working on data since he showed up.

Downstairs, you find a sticky note on the counter. Ever since you began living with him, you started the habit of leaving him sticky notes around the place, something Miguel has begun to reciprocate. Like the previous day, he’s left you another one today.

I’m at HQ. - Miguel

You make yourself a coffee and gulp it down in a few drinks, needing the caffeine. You debate doing your morning patrol, but eventually decide to do it anyway, thinking it’ll give you time to think. Swinging around your city and watching from rooftops on your own, you question whether you should talk to Miguel, let him know that you’re aware of what today is, but you quickly change your mind.

You imagine Miguel might not be pleased to know that Lyla told you, so you decide not to say anything, at least for now. You’ll have to pretend that you don’t know the reason he’s hurting.

Back at HQ, you walk around the building and check on things, trying to distract yourself. It’s nine in the morning when you decide to grab some breakfast from the cafeteria for both Miguel and you. You’re unsure of what the day or Miguel will be like when it’s Gabby’s birthday, but you definitely know that you want to look after him, even if it’s only by making sure he’s eating properly.

With breakfast in your hands, you begin to head to the lab with hope. You’ve only taken about twenty steps when you receive a notification through your gizmo from Jess, which you quickly realize was sent to everyone.

“For all questions or concerns, direct yourself with me. Miguel is busy. Do not disturb him.” - Jess

Lowering your arm, you wonder if that message applies to you, too.

Standing in the middle of a corridor, hands occupied with food, it suddenly feels a lot like the time you entered Miguel’s lab and found him overwhelmed, upset, but more than anything, hurt at the discovery of hidden photos and videos of Gabby and his wife by Lyla. You recall the way it felt to have stepped into the lab and you wonder now if that’s what awaits for you because you quickly make up your mind.

You’re ignoring Jess’s message.

Two years ago, you would've simply oblige and made no questions. You would’ve try not to think about your boss and wonder what he did all day, wondered if anyone dropped off food for him, or if he even left the lab in his own discrete ways to eat and drink something, to nourish his body. You would've hoped that he'd at least let either Jess or Peter B. check on him.

Two years ago, you wouldn't had done it yourself nor pushed his boundaries because you were a simple member, not one of his close ones.

Two years ago, that would’ve been the end of it, even if you silently worried about Miguel from a distance.

Today? Things are different.

Two years ago Miguel and you hardly talked, hardly interacted.

Now, you're best friends, and best friends don't leave each other alone. They don't give up on you. They keep trying just like Miguel said Harry and your other former friends from a lifetime ago should’ve with you.

With a determined nod, you continue to make your way to Miguel's lab. As usual, there's other spider members walking around. You catch a few checking their gizmos, making you wonder if they’re reading Jess’s message regarding Miguel. You nod at a few, at least at those you're not too familiar with or who might be new. To those you do know and have more of a bond with, you give them a quick and simple greeting, not opening for conversation, not when you want to see Miguel already.

You turn the corner and it’s only thanks to your spidey senses going off that you don’t run into -

“Ben,” you say, recognizing him instantly.

Ben Reilly's eyebrows shoot up, surprise visible on his face. He shifts slightly. “Y/N… Hey.” He offers a smile, scratching his neck.

“Hey,” you greet him back, returning a small smile even though you're in a rush. “I'll see you around!” you say, walking around him, determined to reach your destination.

“Hey, Y/N!” Ben calls out, turning to face you quickly. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something…?”

You turn to face him, walking backwards with both your hands occupied with the food and drinks.

“Of course. Can we talk …” you trail off. “Later? I'm in the middle of something. I'm sorry,” you apologize softly.

He sighs subtly, his shoulders slumping just barely before he fixes his excellent posture. “I understand. I'll look for you later today.”

“Alright. That sounds good. I'll see you later, Ben. Careful if you go on missions!” You offer him a quick smile before you turn away once more and hurry off, leaving Ben behind.

He sighs again, running a hand through his hair that earns him a few glances of interest from other spider members. He watches you become smaller and smaller as you retrace steps you take each day.

Everyone knows where you're going and who you're seeking: the one person they were told to not disturb today.

That person’s door is closed to them but not for a few people like Jess Drew, Peter B. Parker, and now you.

He huffs and turns away, heading to the training sector for a workout session to sweat his frustrations away. He turns for one more glance, seeing you disappear into the elevator and heading for Miguel's floor.

You reach the lab doors, wondering if you’ll be turned away. A few seconds later, relief washes over you when Lyla confirms, after asking Miguel, that you can go in.

As far as Miguel knows, you have no idea what today is, so you offer him breakfast, which he thankfully accepts. You both sit on his elevated platform and eat in silence, legs dangling from it. As you eat, you remind yourself that you agreed to saying nothing, to pretend like you don’t know. You stay true to that even though your mind is a mess, even though you want to do more than just offer Miguel food.

However, you say nothing as you eat. Even after breakfast, you reveal nothing. You don’t want Miguel to feel pressured to say anything just because you know, behind his back. No, if he says anything, you hope it’s because Miguel is ready and comfortable doing so.

So, you stick with him for a while, working silently from your own area in the lab now knowing that his behavior has nothing to do with something you may have done or said, or your mere presence as you were worrying about yesterday. At some point you leave him because you’re needed by Jess, so you do so reluctantly.

For lunch time, it’s the same with the small difference that you both make small talk. The hours tick by and when you look at your gizmo, it’s suddenly three in the afternoon. Due to Jess’s warning, no one sends Miguel messages except for Jess, nor does anyone show up to the lab. It’s just Miguel, Lyla, and you.

You yourself get a few messages from the spider gang, asking if Miguel is alright and why you’ve been hiding at his lab all day. You reassure them both Miguel and you are physically alright. You don’t know what else to say. It’s not your place to share something so sensitive and personal, especially when you’re not supposed to even know.

Standing up, you stretch quietly, remembering that Ben Reilly wanted to talk to you. You figure you should make yourself available at least for an hour. He hasn’t sent you any messages, so you wonder if he’s already aware that you’ve been at Miguel’s lab for the majority of the day, hence the reason for the lack of messages from his end. You pack your things silently, shutting the laptop and fixing the area, which catches Miguel’s attention.

On his platform, he turns to look at you. Seeing you pack up makes him realize you’re probably not coming back because if you were, you would be leaving your desk as it was. Watching you push the chair under the desk only solidifies the fact.

“Heading… out?” Miguel asks, starting the conversation for the first time in days.

It catches you by surprise, so much it’s clearly expressed on your face. It immediately pains Miguel, to see how surprised you are that he’s talking to you. His hands close into fists at his sides, cursing mentally.

“… Yes,” you reply, picking up your empty cup. “I’m heading out.”

Miguel nods, his expression neutral but quickly morphing into a pained one.

“Migs…?” you say softly, quickly noticing his expression changing.

“Mierda [shit],” Miguel whispers, looking away and unable to stop himself from thinking he’s undeserving of your nickname. A nickname, or a term of endearment, is a gesture from someone who cares about you, and here he is, hurting you with his behavior. Seeing the surprise look on your face just seconds ago solidifies that. Miguel’s guilt only intensifies as the look on your face flashes in his mind. You don’t hurt those that you care for and care about you, but now he has hurt you to some degree.

“Miguel?” you try again.

“I’m - I’m sorry,” Miguel says, exhaling deeply with a remorseful tone. “I’m … sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Hearing Miguel say that throws all ideas about leaving out the window. You place the cup down and make your way to him, his head hanging low.

“Miguel,” you say once more, gently.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, lifting his head enough so you can see his face.

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t apologize.”

“You deserve an apology,” Miguel replies. “I’ve been - I haven’t been in a good mood… I need to tell you something.”

“You don’t have to, Miguel,” you counter gently.

“I do. You deserve an explanation,” Miguel continues with a sigh, shaking his head in frustration at himself. “I saw the surprise on your face from me talking to you. You shouldn’t be surprised by that, but you are because I’ve been - a jerk.”

You sigh, standing on his platform. “You’re not a jerk, Miguel.” You state firmly. “I… I was wondering what was the matter,” you pause, wanting to be honest. “Don’t be mad at Lyla but… She told me a few hours ago. Some time before you returned to the penthouse this morning from the gym.”

“Lyla,” Miguel says, not even upset. “A part of me is relieved you already know… I should’ve told you sooner, but I couldn’t…” Miguel shakes his head, his eyes closed. He gulps softly. “It’s her birthday,” Miguel whispers, finally sharing from his own lips what has been on his mind all these past few days. ”Today is Gabby’s birthday.”

Nodding, you take a step closer. “I know,” you start. “I know it’s her birthday…” you reply, not knowing what else to say right now. To be honest, you weren’t expecting Miguel to tell you today. “I know it must be hard to share that,” you add softly.

Miguel sighs gently, nodding. “May I be honest?”

“Yeah, of course,” you whisper.

“I don’t want to be here right now.”

Your eyebrows furrow and you’re filled with worry instantly, for a second thinking that Miguel means something else, something much sadder, darker.

“I want to be home,” he goes on, clarifying. “I don’t want to be here, trying to distract myself from my thoughts about her.”

You sigh in relief, nodding. “We can go home, if you want?”

Miguel nods, wanting now more than ever to leave his lab. “Lyla, please let Jess know I’m going home,” Miguel says before correcting himself. “Let her know we’re both going home, dulzura and me.”

-♡-

Back at home, Miguel takes a shower while you begin to prepare an early dinner. You know that there’s essentially nothing in the whole multiverse that can lessen Miguel’s hurt today, but you hope that a homemade meal will sooth his heart just a little.

When he comes back downstairs, showered and dressed in lounging clothes, you fix him a plate before joining him. He doesn’t say anything else about Gabby, which you respect. You’re grateful he’s at least told you about Gabby’s birthday and that you’re both home eating together instead of him staying after hours at HQ before coming home and hiding at the gym.

Even after dinner and cleaning the kitchen, you’re unsure of what to do. You search for silent cues from Miguel. Does he want to be alone or is he okay with you being near him? You receive your answer when Miguel asks if you want to watch TV together, a question that leaves you a little surprised to start with, but one you answer with a “yes.”

You sit together in the living room. As always, you’re both on your respective couches.

Miguel watches the TV, or tries to. His attention is not fully on it for obvious reasons. Gabby is always on his mind, along with Gabriel, but due to her birthday coming up, she’s been even more so. He’s been thinking about it for days, about his little girl and how old she’d be turning today. It pains him so much, knowing she’s not here. He’s been trying to distract himself with work at HQ and then working out at the gym, going for hours so he doesn’t think about the fact that Gabby isn’t here - that she won’t be celebrating her birthday like she should.

He turns his head to look at the windows, the sun setting now. He’s reminded of yesterday when he was in his room after dinner. He found himself watching the sunset from there and in that short amount of time while the sun dipped, he thought about you. He heard you entering your room shortly after him and he wondered if you were watching it, too. He typed the message but before sending it, he changed his mind.

Miguel turns to look at you now, sitting on the couch, keeping him company. His guilt washes over him again at the sight. You denied it earlier but he’s such a jerk for the way he’s been behaving, there’s no way to deny it, at least not in his eyes.

He sighs. He promised he was going to try, didn’t he? He promised for Gabby and Gabriel. He was going to try to heal, to move forward.

It’s that thought that compels Miguel to stand up from the couch, telling you that he’d be back before heading upstairs.

You simply nod and stay in place, hoping Miguel truly does come back. To your relief, Miguel returns a few minutes later, holding a guitar.

You recognize it instantly from Miguel’s ofrenda [altar] for Día de los Muertos [Day of the Dead] as Miguel approaches you, who then takes a seat on the ground next to you. You join him a few seconds later without a doubt, watching him hold the guitar carefully.

“It’s the only thing… The only physical reminder I have left of Gabby. It was pure… Coincidence that I still have it,” Miguel shares, staring at the guitar. “A day before her universe collapsed, she asked me to fix the strings for her, so I brought it to HQ to work on it. Unfortunately, there were a lot of things happening that day. It was one thing or another. Every time I lifted it to begin working on it, something or someone would pop up and prevent me from doing so. I ended up forgetting it at HQ that day. With so much happening, I left it in my lab. It was much later when I remembered it. That last night. When I got back to her universe just in time for school to be out, she didn’t ask for it. She was so tired from the school day, she didn’t remember it. Not even later in the afternoon when she was done with school work and was free to do what she wanted, whether that was coloring, or playing with her toys, or practicing the guitar. It was me who remembered it when I tucked her in for the night.”

Miguel brushes his fingers over the strings, gently. “I told myself I’d fix the guitar as soon as I got to the lab, so I could take it back to her… So I could hear her play it in the afternoon the next day.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “I had no idea that would be the last night… ever.”

Miguel doesn’t know why, but suddenly he feels like talking about that last night. He’s shared with you the last morning he spent with Gabby, just hours before one of the worst moments of his life took place.

“I used to think… After losing Gabriel, that nothing could ever hurt me as much. That there was nothing much worse that could happen to me. Nothing could ever, make me feel so much sorrow, grief, pain - and I was wrong. I never thought that I’d become a dad,” Miguel states, looking over the guitar, at the stickers that Gabby placed on it. “I never thought that I’d experience that, much less the loss of a child. I think - I know - a part of me always believed I was unworthy of such thing. I wasn’t meant for that life. Wasn’t meant to experience it. I was destined to be alone,” he continues. “And then she happened, and she - she was and continues to be one of the most beautiful things I’ve had the privilege of experiencing.”

Miguel shifts slightly, knowing you’re listening to him, like always.

“That last night, my wife and I cooked dinner. It was a normal evening, like any other. Gabby did her homework, got to play with her dolls afterwards. She had a lot, you know, but her favorites were the doctor and scientist dolls. Part of it was because they looked like her, and another part because of their professions.” Miguel smiles slightly, a sad smile. “In the short time I had with her, I always told her so. How they were mini versions of her in the future because she was so bright, so smart. I’d always tell her that she could do and be anything she wanted. I never once dampened her dreams nor her aspirations. I wanted her to know that she could be a scientist, or she could be a teacher, or she could be a bakery owner. It didn’t matter. As long as she wanted it and worked towards it, she could achieve anything, but I digress,” Miguel says, realizing he’s all over the place.

“She played with her dolls and showered afterwards. I arranged her school stuff for the morning. I always helped her prep her outfit the night before to save time in the morning, and made sure her backpack was set with her assistance to help her build responsibility, too, though I never struggled with that. She was so responsible for her age. She watched some TV that evening, and then, it was time for bed. I never missed bedtime,” Miguel continues, a fond smile on his face, his fingers splayed over the guitar.

“I loved tucking her in, reading to her. I’d climb into the bed to read to her sometimes. It was always a struggle, of course, and my back would be tense in the mornings, but it was worth it. So worth it. What I’d give… to repeat those moments. To be back in that cheerful bedroom and have her ask questions while seeking the comfort of her father… of her daddy.” Miguel sighs, thinking about that. How his heart would swell with a pure happiness unlike any other when she called him “dad” or “daddy.”

“I read to her that night and soon, she was drifting off. Sus ojitos [her little eyes; little is used as endearment, not meaning she had small eyes]… Her little eyes would flutter, trying to fight off the sleep to keep talking about the book. She’d blink real hard,” Miguel says with a soft chuckle, inhaling deeply and shakily. “Thinking it’d help her stay awake longer, but my little girl, she eventually doze off into a peaceful slumber with no worries. I was grateful for that, you know?” Miguel says turning to look at you. “There is no doubt in my mind that the original Miguel of that dimension was grateful for that, too. Gabby didn’t know what it was like to be ripped away from a peaceful dream because of your parents’ arguing in the living room. Nor did she have to worry about a younger sibling coming to her room to seek her comfort. I was always grateful that Miguel, the original of that dimension, had succeeded in providing such a safe space for her. And I was set on doing the same for her. I succeeded, too. So… she dozed off. I held her close,” Miguel whispers, recalling how it felt to hold his sleeping daughter in his arms.

“I remember thinking, ‘just a few more minutes. One day she’ll be all grown up, she may not want her dad’s affection anymore because she finds it embarrassing or uncool.’ So, I did. I stayed there with her. Now I wonder, if something deep inside me felt the danger coming. If I had sensed it somehow and I wanted to hold on to that moment - to her - just a little longer because something in me knew... knew that that would be the very last time I’d ever get to hold her like that, in such calm manner because the next day would be the very last time I held her, but under much different circumstances. That it’d be outside the comfort of her home with hundreds of frightened people running around us, seeking a safety that I couldn’t give to them because I didn’t understand what was happening.”

“Miguel,” you whisper gently, knowing to this day he blames himself for the collapse of Gabriella’s universe despite there being no evidence of such thing.

“I know,” he whispers back. “You’re too kind to me, so you don’t think I had something to do with it, but… my brain tells me so.”

“We still don’t know, you know that. There’s no evidence that suggests you did. Just because you were there, doesn’t mean you were responsible. It doesn’t make sense when so many of us have done the same, and yet those universes are still… here.” You inhale softly, hating the fact that Miguel still blames himself. You know it’s something that will take him time to let go, maybe until there’s further evidence that suggests otherwise. In Miguel’s mind, it’s not ‘innocent until proven guilty.’

It’s guilty until proven innocent.

“It probably doesn’t mean anything,” you start. “Because I know how these feelings can be rooted deep in us, despite any comforting words… but I don’t think you had anything to do with it, Miguel.”

He looks at you then, the pain in his eyes visible. “But what if it was me? I took everything from her. If I had stayed away - her universe might still be intact. She would be alive. She’d be celebrating today like she ought to,” Miguel says with desperation in his tone. “I ruined it. I should’ve never gone. I should’ve let things carry on like they were supposed to,” he insists.

“Miguel,” you say his name again but this time not in a whisper. You speak firmly, evenly. You almost lift your hand to place it on his shoulder but you remember not to. “I’m not saying that only because you’re my best friend,” you continue. “I wholeheartedly believe that you weren’t the cause. You’re not responsible for it. There’s something we’ve overlooked, the real cause. I have no doubt one day we’ll discover it, and it’ll show you that you were not at fault.”

“But what if I was?” he repeats. “She could’ve been alive today.”

“I’ve told you I don’t believe you are responsible. You know that, Miguel, but maybe there’s a chance she might have still been alive, if it wasn’t for the true cause of her universe’s collapse.” Next to you, Miguel huffs in frustration, as if he’s upset at your relentless faith that he had nothing to do with it. It frustrates you, the fact that he thinks you’re just trying to sooth his guilt. “Do you think it’s my fault Peter… passed away?”

That makes Miguel turn before he lowers the guitar to his lap. “What - no, of course not, dulzura. It wasn’t your fault,” he says, brows furrowed.

“Are you only saying that to make me feel better? Because we’re best friends?”

“Dulzura… No, of course not. It wasn’t your fault, and I mean that.”

“Then, can you believe that when I tell you that I don’t think you are responsible, I don’t say it only to make you feel better? Can you believe that I say it because I really do believe it?” you ask, holding his gaze with such a serious face that leaves no room for doubt or questioning.

Miguel blinks, keeping his gaze on you for several seconds. His gaze searches your face, so serious. He silently decides he doesn’t like such look on you - he prefers to see you smile, prefers the brightness in your eyes when you’re happy, when you’re in good spirits, but that serious face… Miguel sees you truly believe what you’re saying. You’re not only saying it to make him feel better, to reassure him, and lessen his guilt and pain. At last, he nods slowly.

“I can… a part of me can, but another part of me still feels an incredible guilt that I swear will never fade, no matter how much time passes,” he states softly. “I think about what she could’ve had, where she could’ve been. What she’d be in the future, the amazing things she could’ve done, and experienced.”

You sigh softly and nod. With deceased loved ones, there’s always those questions, especially when they pass away too soon, when there was so much for them to live and experience. You yourself have thought about Peter and all the things he never had the opportunity to experience nor accomplish. Then, there’s also the things that he didn’t even get a chance to wish for, or dream about. By now, he may have accomplished all his previous goals and dreams, and he might have been on to newer ones, but you’ll never know now. Still, you know that for however long he was alive, he lived a good life despite the few tragedies he experienced early on in life. He was a happy man, and he loved and was loved deeply.

“I know it’s a different age with Peter. He had the opportunity to live more but… That always hurt me to think about, too,” you admit. “About all the goals and dreams he had, about the ones he didn’t even get to think of.” You pause, looking at your hand for a few seconds. “A wise man once said, that seven years count the same as seventy, even seven hundred.” Looking up again, you find Miguel’s crimson eyes on the same hand you were just staring at before he lifts his gaze to yours. He raises an eyebrow, wondering, so you continue.

“Someone may live to ninety years and we think, ‘Wow. They’re so lucky.’ We imagine they lived and experienced so much, but that’s not always the case. Someone who only got to live nine or twenty-three years old may have lived more than the ninety year old person has. Just because we’ve had more years to live doesn’t mean we’ve actually lived, not for all of them,” you say softly, looking away. “I didn’t live for many years. I stopped when I lost Peter.”

Hearing you say that breaks Miguel’s heart, brings him so much pain.

“It’s probably… stupid and maybe even cringe,” you say with a smile and shrug, which for some reason pains Miguel even more. “My heart functioned, and I was alive, but I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t actually live over that time. And I didn’t even realize until much later, when I joined the Spider Society, how dull I had truly become. There’s still moments, even now, when I realize that all over again. Like, when I look at sunsets and realize I looked at sunsets during those times but I wasn’t really looking at them… if that makes sense. It was as if I was looking through a screen, someone else’s life. And then, I started to learn to live again. So… I’m sure you know where I’m getting at with this,” you say, looking at him again, at last.

“Gabby may have only lived for nine years but every single one of them counted as living. Her biological father, from what you’ve shared, loved her so much and gave her a safe and comfortable life with so much love, which you continue when you stepped up to be her dad. In her nine years of life… She knew and most importantly, felt, the important things. Unconditional love. Comfort. Happiness. Safety. That’s more than some ninety, or even forty year old have ever experienced despite being alive for several decades… because they haven’t lived. I wish Peter… Gabby, Gabriel - were here now. That they were able to still be here and live longer. That wish will never fade, not truly, I don’t think, but personally?” You offer Miguel a smile. “I’m thankful Peter knew and felt all those things - that he was able to experience them when so many don’t.”

With that, you look away and lean back on the couch, allowing Miguel to either absorb your words, or reject them.

“She was loved,” Miguel states almost a minute later of silence. “She was so loved. By both her biological dad, and then me. I’m grateful for that,” he whispers. “I’m grateful she knew love, kindness. That she knew happiness, comfort, and safety. Like every child should.” Whispering that, Miguel sighs. His head lowers to look at the guitar, his mind flooded with memories of Gabby being happy. He can’t help but feel a new wave of guilt at the fact that on a day that she’d be very happy on, he’s feeling this way.

Like a bolt of lightning, he’s reminded of Gabriel suddenly, of his words, to be exact, from his dream a year ago. He asked Miguel to live for them. Then, there’s also your words from a few weeks ago when you witnessed one of his nightmares for the first time. You said to honor them - to live how they would live if they were here.

Thinking about that, Miguel clears his throat. “You always bake a cake for Peter on his birthday.”

“I do,” you reply, looking over at him with curiosity. You didn’t expect the sudden change of conversation.

“You do it because that’s what you would’ve done if he was still around.”

“Yes.”

Miguel nods, thinking. He’s never bought or baked a cake for Gabriel or his mother. He’s never celebrated their birthdays after they passed away. That includes Gabriella.

He looks down at his gizmo. It’s not too late… Surely a bakery is still open. Maybe they still have cakes.

“Miguel?” you ask softly, noticing him looking at his gizmo.

“I… I think I want to buy her a cake,” he says looking up at you.

“You… do?”

Miguel nods, rapidly realizing he really wants to do this. “Yes. I want to. She deserves it.” He places the guitar on the coffee table and begins to stand up. “I’m going to check the bakeries and see if I can find a cake she’d like. Maybe I’ll have luck.”

Noticing Miguel begin to stand up, you stand up, too, and before you can stop yourself, you make an offer. “I can bake her one, if you want.”

Miguel freezes, looking at you. “You?… Really?” he asks, his entire face softening and lighting up. His tone is gentle, filled with awe and wonder, as if you’ve just made him the greatest offer in history.

With a nod, you smile and reply. “Yes, really. We can bake one together, if you want to help. You know I love baking, so I have almost anything I could need to bake a cake. Just say the word, Migs,” you answer softly.

The nickname, your smile, and offer brings a smile to Miguel’s face. He nods slowly, standing completely now. “Si, por favor [yes, please]. That would mean so much to me… and Gabby.”

You gesture to the kitchen. “C’mon.”

Miguel follows after you, carrying Gabby’s guitar, so precious to him.

You set the oven to preheat, already knowing how to use it since you’ve baked a lot at the penthouse since you’ve lived here. You have Miguel decide the shape, so you find the round cake mold when he politely requests a round one. He retrieves the mixer and the few ingredients he knows will be used, letting you tell him what else is needed so he can help.

As you stated, you have a little of everything so you give him plenty of options for the type of bread, filling, and icing.

Miguel quickly decides the filling should be out of strawberries since Gabby loved them, apparently they were her favorite fruit. For the actual bread, he decides to go with chocolate - it was also a favorite of little Gabby.

Once that’s settled, you begin working with the help of Miguel though your years of baking do not require it. You let him though because you know it’s special to him. It’s for his little girl, after all. So you let him pour the ingredients into the mixing bowl while you work on other things towards the cake.

The more you move through the process together, the more Miguel slowly begins to tell you about Gabby. It’s as if his mind is flooded with random little memories all fighting for his attention. You listen intently to every word, smiling and chuckling with him when he tells you something funny she did or said once.

He’s already shared some of the moments he talks about, but you still listen to him, noticing the glimmer of happiness in his eyes while talking about his Gabby.

As you bake and Miguel shares with you all these moments, you picture them in your head. You see Miguel carrying Gabby on his shoulders, her toothy smile on display. You see Gabby giggling when Miguel accidentally let go of the hair tie and it snapped against his finger while doing her hair. There’s Miguel making Gabby Choco Milk in her favorite cup, and the one time Gabby asked where babies came from out of nowhere, which Miguel didn’t know how to answer in the moment, so he told her he’d find that out and let her know later on.

“What about music?” you ask softly when you pull the pan out of the oven a while later. “What did she like? You’ve mentioned her favorite song before… ‘Luna de Xelajú’, but what else did she like?”

Miguel smiles softly at the fact that you remember her favorite song. “That was her favorite song, yes. She liked other songs, of course. Different genres and artists of all ages. She even liked Joan Sebastian,” Miguel says amused. “She sang some of his songs like she understood matters of the heart already. Then, there were some that always made her dance, like this song called ‘No rompas mi corazón’ - there’s a dance for it. It’s played at parties sometimes,” Miguel shares, not sure if you’re familiar with it.

“It’s something like this,” Lyla says popping out of nowhere, showing you a video of people dancing at a party.

“I know of it,” you say with a smile, not surprised that Lyla has made an appearance. She tends to pop up sometimes out of nowhere when both Miguel and you least expect her. “So Gabby danced to it?”

“Yeah, she’d hear it and it’s like her feet were tingling to move. She’d get so excited every time it came on,” he says with a smile. “She’d dance and look at me and say ‘¡mira, mira, papá! [look, look, papa]’… But there was one artist she absolutely adored, her favorite artist. Selena.”

“Selena?” you ask, surprised. Of course you know of her. “A version of her existed in Gabby’s universe?”

“Yes, but unlike in so many universes where her life is cut short, this version peacefully passed away before Gabby was born out of old age. She had a large and happy family. Gabby told me so,” Miguel says. “She knew a lot about her.”

“What was her favorite song of hers?”

Miguel smiles. “It was ‘Baila Esta Cumbia’ - she’d dance to it, too.”

“Do you want me to… play it?” Lyla asks Miguel while you work on the cake, wondering what his answer will be. It might be too soon for him.

Miguel stays silent for several seconds, thinking. It’s been so long since he’s heard the song, or any of the music that Gabby used to enjoy listening.

“Lyla can always turn it off,” you offer softly as you work, glancing at him for a few seconds before continuing to work on the cake. “If you decide to.”

He hums softly at your words, drumming his fingers against his thigh. At last, he nods to Lyla and a few seconds later, the upbeat song begins to play, filling the kitchen and lifting the mood.

Miguel watches you work on the cake, his finger tapping against his thigh to the beat, thinking about Gabby.

“If only she were here now,” he mumbles softly. He wonders if she’d still like the song, or if she’d have a new favorite song by Selena, if she’d still even be a fan of Selena to begin with. He wonders, just like he wonders about other things, what her music taste would be like now.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter and interlocking his fingers to press against his forehead, looking at the counter surface for a few seconds before closing his eyes and just listening to the song.

He can pretend for a few seconds that she’s here, that she’s singing happily to the song and doing her little dances. He hears the ‘eh, eh, eh,’ part and recalls how she’d sing that part, clapping her small hands to it.

He uncovers his face, lowering his hands to the counter. “You heard that part? The ‘eh, eh, eh?’ She used to clap along with it,” Miguel shares, smiling softly. “She was always so elated when it played. It cheered her up.”

Miguel makes it without crying for the rest of the song, so Lyla deems it safe to play other songs she thinks are appropriate for what could’ve been Gabby’s birthday party. She keeps it light with the music as you work on the cake while Miguel shares other tidbits of Gabby.

After some time, you add the last candle before turning it around so Miguel can see it, his eyes softening immediately at the finished cake.

“What do you think?” you ask him as his eyes take in every detail about it.

He nods, eyebrows knitted gently before he turns his attention to you, smiling tenderly. “It’s… Beautiful, dulzura,” he states softly, his tone full of sincerity. “It’s so Gabby. She would’ve loved it, I know that. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he whispers accepting the cake as you hand it to him with a warm smile, happy that Miguel likes the cake.

You find a lighter and reach Miguel’s side, not worried about washing dishes since Miguel got most of them while you were working to help, and even then, neither of you would’ve cared in order to celebrate.

At last, you both look at it, at the completed cake, sitting side by side while music still plays in the background.

Miguel continues to observe it, admiring your work with the details like the little bees and the sprinkle of lilac flowers. He doesn’t fail to notice the color you used to write ‘Happy Birthday, Gabby!!’ with - the color Selena was most known for, that rich purple.

“She…” Miguel starts, his voice soft and quiet, as he thinks about her. About Gabby. “She would’ve loved it.” He whispers, a knot forming in his throat. “Thank you - she would’ve loved it, so much.”

“The bees and her favorite color,” you say. “I thought she might have.”

“She would. She really would,” Miguel replies lifting a hand to his face. He tries to be subtle about it, but from your peripheral vision, you can see the action, the way he wipes at his eye.

You feel tears yourself but for Miguel, you try to stay calm, try to be strong. However, seeing someone you care for so much cry has never made it easy. A few tears pool in your eyes, blurring your vision. Biting your bottom lip because you feel it quivering, you dab at your eyes gently, trying to make the gesture subtle, too.

“Do you want me to…?” you ask raising the lighter.

Miguel turns, sniffling. Noticing the lighter, he nods. “… Please,” he whispers.

Miguel doesn’t need to say anything else. His simple response is all you need, so you lit the candles carefully, watching the cake come to life with their flickering.

You both stare at it, unbeknownst to either of you, imagining the same thing: a Gabriella standing behind the counter, her eyes lit up with happiness, her face illuminated by the gentle glow of the candles. There’s a beautiful, toothy smile on her face as she listens to the people around her sing happy birthday before she gets to make a wish and blow the candles.

You can imagine Miguel taking pictures from the very back to avoid blocking anyone's views due to his height with a happy, warm, and sweet smile on his face to see his little girl turn one year older.

Then, there's Gabby looking at the camera still smiling once she has made her wish, guests cheering and clapping.

And maybe, just to keep up with traditions - Miguel would gently get a little bit of icing on Gabby’s nose with his hand, but remaining alert that no one tries to push his daughter into the cake.

“Están son… las mañanitas [these are… the beloved mornings],” Miguel starts singing, his voice low. “Que cantaba el rey David. Hoy por ser día de tu santo, te las cantamos a ti. Despierta - [That King David sang. Today being your saint’s day (same as birthday), we sing them for you. Wake up -]” Miguel pauses, inhaling sharply. “Mi niña, despierta. Mira que ya amaneció… ya los pajaritos cantan, la luna ya se metió [My little girl, wake up. Look, the sun is up… the little birds sing, the moon is gone]…” he sings softly, trailing off.

The next part of the song carries on, credit to Lyla. She starts playing it from where Miguel left off, Vicente Fernandez's voice filling the kitchen.

You sit by, listening to the music and how Miguel sings a song he's known and sang many times in his childhood for friends and Gabriel, but one he never had the opportunity to sing for Gabby.

Despite wanting to join him, you let Miguel do it on his own, respecting he’d want to do so.

“Con jazmines y flores, este día quiero adornar. Hoy, por ser día de tu santo, te venimos a cantar [With jasmine and flowers, this day I want to decorate. Today, for being your saint’s day, we come to sing],” Miguel finishes at last, his voice just a tad louder than when he first started. He clears his throat, wiping some tears from his eyes.

“Do you want to sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ too?” you ask gently.

“… Yeah, would you…?” he asks taking a moment to swallow. “Join me?”

Of course, you nod. How could you ever decline Miguel when it comes to his daughter? Never.

And so, the two of you sing to Gabby.

”Cha, cha, cha” Miguel adds at the end. He turns to face you, his cheeks dusted with redness. “We always did that in the family at the end. Right before the ‘queremos pastel’ and ‘que lo parta’ - Gabriel used to love that when he was little [we want cake; cut it (referring to the cake)],” Miguel shares a fond smile on his face, his eyes misty with tears before turning to look at the cake again.

By this point, the birthday girl should’ve made her wish and blown the candles. He swallows harshly, realizing. Someone needs to blow the candles. He pulls the cake closer to himself, feeling the heat from the candles. He turns to look at you then, a sudden thought popping into his mind.

“I was going to blow the candles… Would you like to do it with me?” Miguel asks softly, his eyes searching your face for any discomfort. He knows he might be asking for too much already. You’ve done so much by baking the cake, by being so thoughtful with the details that he has no doubt Gabby would’ve loved and gushed about.

Now, he’s asking this extra thing from you, asking you to join him in blowing the birthday candles for someone you didn’t have the opportunity to meet, but the way you talk about Gabby and how you look at her pictures on the wall lets Miguel know you care about her as if you had known her personally.

And not just Gabriella, but Gabriel, too. You’ve told him how you wish they were around, so you could’ve met them and known them, something that always makes his heart swell with tenderness and happiness. How he wishes they were around for that, too, to meet you.

Knowing how you feel about two of the most important people in his life, makes Miguel feel a little less worried. Still, he searches your face to make sure he isn’t placing you in an uncomfortable position. However, when he meets your eyes, he finds no discomfort at all.

You nod gently. “If you wish me to.”

“Yes, please. If you’re okay with it,” he replies, still holding your gaze, giving you an option.

“I’m okay with it... In honor of Gabby,” you respond warmly, images of the little girl still flashing in your mind, thinking how much different this would be if she was here.

Miguel might still have tears in his eyes, but they’d be happy ones. Maybe a little bittersweet knowing that his kid is growing older, but he’d be happy because he gets to celebrate his daughter - because he’s a dad and he has family.

You wonder if some spider members, like the spider gang, would’ve been invited to the party, whether it’d be a small or medium size gathering. You wonder what the decorations might be like. Miguel would’ve gone all out, no corners cut to celebrate, no doubt. He would’ve probably blown balloons and stuck decorations on the walls. He would’ve planned the party for weeks, so it would be perfect for Gabby.

He would’ve ordered a cake with plenty of time to make sure there were no problems. If he was unable to pick it up himself, he would’ve sent his most trusted person to pick it up. Probably not Miles after he share the incident with his dad’s cakes when he became captain though.

Maybe it would’ve been Jess if she was available. Or, maybe even Ben Reilly. Maybe his wife if they were still together.

Or maybe, he would’ve asked you if you were still friends in this alternative scenario.

Either way, the cake would’ve been left to someone trustworthy while Miguel got other things completed. There would’ve probably been party hats passed out, the penthouse filled with people. You wonder what Miguel would have ordered for food, or whether he might have cooked it himself because Gabby requested her favorite foods for her birthday.

You think back to Dia de los Muertos [Day of the Dead] and the foods Miguel offered for Gabby’s ofrenda [altar]. Would she had requested some of those foods? You remember she especially loved Miguel’s breakfasts, specifically pancakes with chocolate chips.

Perhaps Miguel would’ve made that for her this morning. He would’ve woken up early, but not to head to HQ. No, the reason why Miguel would’ve woken up early would’ve been to make Gabriella her favorite breakfast, if it was the same to this day, of course. He would’ve cooked for her and then woken her up at an appropriate time, las mañanitas [the birthday song, Mexico’s version] playing thanks to Lyla.

You imagine her waking up, the sleepiness wearing off her face as she realizes it’s her birthday. Perhaps Miguel met her at her bed, giving her a tight bear hug, wondering how it’s possible that his daughter has turned a year older, wondering where time is going, hoping that she doesn’t grow up too soon.

He may have pushed his thoughts away, trying to avoid the bittersweet feelings and focusing on making sure that Gabby’s birthday is perfect, so he’d tell her to come to the kitchen only to surprise her with favorite breakfast, hinting at a special day ahead with the birthday party scheduled for the afternoon. And oh, you know he would’ve left HQ early. Nothing, no mission or anomaly, would’ve prevented him from making it to his daughter’s party.

You sigh softly at the thoughts, the wishes for Miguel and Gabby. How you wish they could’ve had today.

Maybe in another universe, still undiscovered by the Spider Society, a Miguel had the privilege of doing that with another version of Gabby today.

“One… Two…” Miguel counts softly, thinking of what could’ve been today - of all the ways he would’ve made sure today was perfect for his daughter. If only they could’ve had today. If only they could’ve had a full lifetime.

“Three,” you both whisper before leaning forward and blowing the candles.

You both watch as the small trails of smoke rise above the cake, leaning back once more.

“Feliz Cumpleaños, mija [Happy Birthday, my daughter],” Miguel whispers tenderly. “I hope wherever you are… That you’re celebrating with Miguel and your uncle Gabriel. Maybe with your grandmother Conchata, too, if she’s available. Te quiero, y te sigo extrañando. Como siempre [I love you, and I keep missing you. Like always].”

“Happy Birthday, Gabby…” you say gently after gulping a small knot in your throat due to Miguel’s words. “I hope you’re having a lovely day with Gabriel and your other dad. I hope there’s lots of pan dulce [Mexican sweet bread], especially pink conchas [seashell shaped pan dulce], and your favorite Mexican candy.”

Miguel chuckles, ducking his head to wipe the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Pink conchas and Mexican candy. That would make her day,” he says straightening up, smiling despite the tears. He dries them again, sighing. He turns to look at you, filled with ternura [tenderness]. “Thank you for your sweet words, for agreeing to blow the candles with me, for the cake…” He pauses. “Thank you for everything. I hope you know how much it means to me, how much I appreciate it - thank you, dulzura,” he whispers gently, sincerely.

You smile at him, nodding. “Always, Miguel,” you whisper.

He smiles softly before it fades, his expression turning to an apologetic one. “The last few days…”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply.

“No, I do,” he states firmly, shifting closer. He turns his body to face you fully, his legs touching your leg closest to him. “I… want to say I’m sorry. I haven’t been… It’s been a few hard days knowing her birthday was coming up, and I… It still hurts,” he says. “It still hurts and instead of talking about it with you, I just - partially shut down, like I used to before… You,” Miguel confesses. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable the last few days, making it seem like I didn’t want to be around you. I wanted to but I didn’t want to burden you with all of this.” He sighs. “I didn’t want to cast my rain on you.”

“Cast your rain on me?” you question, tilting your head to the side. “You know that’s… what friends are for.” You give him a reassuring smile. “I understand though… About it hurting and shutting down. It’s okay,” you reassure Miguel. “And you don’t need to apologize. I was worried but… I understand.”

“I do need to apologize,” Miguel insists. “If it was you, I would’ve…” Miguel trails off, scratching his neck. “I would’ve felt that you were pushing me away without a reason. I never want to make you feel like that,” he shares unable to look you in the eyes, so he focuses on the cake again while he speaks. He reads Gabby’s name on it before turning back to you. “I’m sorry, dulzura. I’m still learning.”

“It’s alright, Miguel,” you tell him again. “Should we… cut the cake?”

“You refuse to accept my apology,” he says, brows furrowed.

“Is that necessary?”

“It was a jerk move.”

“I don’t see it that way, but if it makes you feel better, apology accepted,” you reply, flashing him a small smile. “I appreciate your apology, and your willingness to share what’s been going on.”

Miguel nods at that, relieved that you’ve accepted his apology for the way he’s been acting recently.

You nod back, still smiling.“Cake time?”

“Cake time,” Miguel answers with a small smile.

You both turn your attention to the cake again just in time to see two candles sparkling and then flickering back to full life for a few seconds before they go out again, on their own.

With knitted eyebrows, you turn to look at each other, equally surprised by the short moment before turning your attention back to the cake.

As you remain sitting, watching the cake, the mood changes to a significantly lighter one, as if something physically tugged a heavy cloak from your shoulders to relieve them.

For a few seconds, neither of you say anything, basking in the new and light atmosphere that descends on the two of you like falling leaves in autumn.

“I’ll get the knife and plates,” you say breaking the silence after a few seconds.

“I’ll get us drinks and utensils,” Miguel replies before you both gather everything on the counter and prepare to cut the cake.

You hand him the knife so he can do the honors but at the last second he pulls back. “Wait,” he says. “Before I cut it - Lyla?”

“Yes, jefe [boss]?” Lyla says appearing in front of you.

“Can you… Can you take a photo of it?” Miguel asks her.

With a little grin, Lyla nods. “I got you covered. I’ve already taken a few…” she admits. “But I’ll take one more.” With that, she takes one more photo, which she displays for you to see. “What do we think? You outdid yourself, D, by the way.”

“D?” Miguel and you say at the same time.

Lyla turns and smirks. “Well, Miguel gave you ‘Dulzura,' so I figured I could call you D.”

“Oh,” you say, not sure if you’re up for that.

“I don’t think that’s…” Miguel trails off, not liking it himself, but at least Lyla isn’t trying to call you dulzura either. For some reason the idea of someone else calling you that, even if it’s his own AI assistant, rubs him the wrong way, but he doesn’t say that. “I think… Maybe consider something else.“

“Fine. I see neither of you are happy with it. You outdid yourself, Y/N. There. Better?” Lyla says rolling her eyes. “The longer you two spend time together, the more you team up against me. It’s so unfair.”

Miguel and you chuckle.

“And now they’re laughing at me. Humans,” Lyla mumbles under her breath. “Are you cutting the cake or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re cutting the cake,” Miguel says. “Thank you for taking the photo, L.”

“L?” Lyla repeats, offended.

“It’s for Lyla,” you say with a smile, making Miguel smirk softly since you’re following along with his teasing.

“You’re not calling me ‘L’ - I reject that,” Lyla replies, crossing her arms over chest.

“We’ll think of another nickname then,” Miguel replies, positioning the knife to cut the cake at last.

“Finally!” Lyla says. “Queremos pastel [we want cake]!”

“Queremos pastel [we want cake],” Miguel repeats, lowering the knife, imagining for a second that Gabby is the one cutting it, not him. He imagines himself taking photos from the back to capture the moment. “Queremos pastel, pastel, pastel [we want cake, cake, cake].”

You smile, listening to Miguel say ‘we want cake’ as he finally slices it. Lyla and you clap softly, which warms Miguel’s heart.

“Happy Birthday, Gabby!” Lyla says, smiling fondly at the cake. “I wish I could eat cake,” she adds frowning.

“You have no idea what you’re missing out on,” Miguel says with a smile as he cuts two slices, one for each of you.

“You don’t have to rub it in, Miguel,” she replies with a huff as she watches Miguel fix you a plate first, carefully placing it in front of you before fixing his own.

You wait until Miguel has his plate ready and then, you both try the cake at the same time.

You both sigh in content as the flavors melt in your mouth, pleased with it. Of course, there was no doubt in your minds that it was going to be good, especially not in Miguel’s mind. He loves your baking and cooking, but especially your baking since it satisfies his sweet tooth. So he had no doubt your baking was going to be excellent as always.

You both go for a second slice, which you take to the living room for more comfort after storing the remainder of the cake away. Miguel brings Gabby’s guitar along, placing it next to him on the floor. You’ve returned to the same spots from earlier, sitting side by side on the ground.

Lyla disappeared at some point while Miguel served the second slices, unusually quiet as she glanced between you before flickering away, so it’s just the two of you and light music for now as you eat your extra slices of cake.

Finishing with his, Miguel clears his throat and carefully dabs his mouth clean with a napkin. He rests his back on the couch, smiling gently as he watches you bring the fork to your mouth to eat.

“As always, your baking was incredible,” he compliments you. “Thank you for baking it. I believe Gabby would’ve loved it.”

“I’m happy and flattered to hear that,” you reply with a smile.

“She would be - probably giving you a lot of hugs right now.”

That makes you smile brighter, a warm feeling in your chest grows at the simple idea of Gabby loving her birthday cake so much that she’d give you a hug, or multiple.

“I would’ve accepted every single one of them,” you answer, still smiling.

“And returned them,” Miguel adds, knowing you so well. “You would’ve returned every single hug Gabby gave you and then add one or two more.”

“You know me too well,” you say chuckling before you take a sip from your glass. “I would’ve.”

Miguel picks up the guitar, a small smile on his face still. He brushes his fingers against the strings, thinking.

“The last few days were hard, knowing that her birthday was approaching. It’s hard, still,” he says, looking at it. “I didn’t expect for it to hurt less so soon, of course, but it always hurts to think she didn’t turn a year older, even if that would’ve been bittersweet.”

“In a way, I think I know what that would’ve felt like,” Miguel continues, his lips almost pouting. “I watched Gabriel grow older before my own eyes and it always made me feel bittersweet, to see my little brother grow older. I imagine I would’ve felt something similar with Gabby… but it’s not only that that hurts. It hurts that I can’t visit her somewhere. There’s nowhere for me to go. To visit her. I can go and visit my mom and Gabriel, but Gabriella… She’s gone. Really gone. There’s no resting place for her - because there’s no… her,” Miguel whispers, looking at the guitar in his hands.

To think he was the last one to hold her, his arms were the last thing she felt. “I was the last one to hold her. The last thing she felt… were my arms around her. That’s brought me some… comfort over time. She didn’t suffer in her last moments, not physically. I don’t know what I would’ve done if she had.” Miguel’s eyes shut tight, his head lowering. He would’ve hated himself so much more than he does already for not stopping what happened.

After several seconds of silence, he opens his eyes. “But as I was saying… there’s nowhere to see her. Nowhere to offer her flowers. I would visit her every day if there was. I would change her flowers every few days. I would’ve visited today and taken some things for her but there’s nowhere to go.”

You listen intently to Miguel, nodding as he talks. The very same thought has come to your mind before, about how Gabby doesn’t have a resting place, somewhere for Miguel to visit her. You remember thinking about it a while back, imagining how much harder it would be for someone like Miguel to heal from his loss when there’s no resting place for Gabby because her universe collapsed.

“It’s something I think about often, but I can’t do anything about it,” Miguel says playing a few strings.

You hum softly, staying quiet for a few moments and simply watching Miguel as his fingers move over the strings, not playing. “I can imagine, Miguel,” you reply gently after some seconds.

You look over to the wall, your gaze finding the photographs you helped Miguel hang not too long ago. It’s become a special spot for him in the penthouse, a detail that’s given the place a much warmer vibe along with the other changes Miguel has made.

Your eyes move to the console table attached to the same wall, decorated with a simply abstract figure. It’s a spot neither of you have thought about spicing up with Miguel trying to redecorate.

“I know you said there’s nowhere to go… But what if…” you trail off, the idea still forming in your head.

“What if…?” Miguel repeats, wondering what you’re thinking about. He’s both curious and excited to hear whatever is on your mind, something that might give him some comfort regarding the situation.

“What if you give her a place here?” you continue, nodding to the console table. “Her special place for you to visit her per say, close to you, here in your home.”

His eyes light up at the idea.

“Never mind, that’s probably… not a good idea,” you say, doubting yourself, but when you turn to look at Miguel, he’s shaking his head.

“I like it. I like it a lot. In fact… I love it,” he says softly with a little smile. “I spend a lot of time here at the living room, so it’d be nice to set it here. And,” he pauses, standing up and looking around. “This place receives a lot of natural light. She loved the sunshine. Sometimes I think she would’ve loved the living room especially for that reason, the sunshine coming through the windows while she colored on the coffee table,” Miguel continues, a hint of excitement in his voice, as his mind works on how he wants it to look - to honor his little girl, to have a place to visit her in a way as you said. He walks over to you and hands you the guitar. “Hold this, please, while I go get something. I’ll be right back.”

He exits the living room before you can say anything, heading towards the office on the first floor, so you hold the guitar with care knowing how special it is.

This is the first time you’ve held it, so you inspect it a little closer to look at the stickers Gabby put on it. There’s three flowers on it, a DNA strand, and a science symbol which doesn’t surprise you. Miguel has always stated how much Gabby loved science, how bright she was. You smile tenderly at it, allowing yourself to realize it was once held by her, a thought that makes you tear up a little. You think about how this guitar was once held by that little girl with the toothy smile who loved pink conchas, chocolate chip pancakes, arroz con leche [Mexican rice pudding], and Choco Milk. The little girl whose birthday is today, who loved science and candy so much her dad couldn’t say no to her, and who loved bees and the color lilac. The one that played guitar and fútbol [I don’t want to call it soccer], who sometimes fell asleep on the way home after a victorious game.

You turn the guitar over, reading the name on the back.

“Gabriella O’Hara,” you whisper, your fingertips barely touching it. “Gabby.” You sniffle quietly and wipe tears from your eyes, not wanting Miguel to see you crying but then, a tissue comes into your vision.

Startled, you look up and find Miguel, his own eyes teary due to seeing and hearing you cry. Despite his own sadness - his grief - he still finds it in himself to offer you a reassuring, little smile before he carefully dries your tears with the tissue.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Miguel whispers back. “Seeing how much you care about Gabby, despite not having the opportunity to meet her, is so touching to me. You have no idea.” He clears his throat and steps back once he’s done. “It means so much to me that you care about her.”

You sniffle again, trying to recover. “I do. If I could do something to bring her back…”

Miguel’s face softens even more.

“I’d give my life so she was here with you,” you say, looking down at the guitar. “So you’d be happy.”

“I would still be hurting,” Miguel says quietly, which makes you look up, frowning.

“Why?” you ask softly, so honestly it leaves Miguel in disbelief for a few seconds.

“Why? You ask why?” he says, his brows raising. “I’d be missing and grieving you, dulzura. That’s why.” He sits near you with a sigh. “So… don’t ever sacrifice yourself,” Miguel says quietly, firmly. “Please.” Just the idea of something happening to you… It leaves more than a bitter taste in Miguel’s mouth. He doesn’t know what he’d do if you were hurt, if something else happened. He doesn’t want to think about it.

You nod slowly, his words sinking in. Without saying it directly, Miguel has stated that he cares about you. It brings a little smile to your face as you hand him the guitar, thinking he’d appreciate holding it again. Your fingers brush his as the guitar is exchanged but neither of you say anything about it.

“But I’m touched you care so much about Gabby - about me - that you’d try to bring her back if there was a way, without you giving your life.” Miguel adds. “To make me not happy, but happi-er because despite everything… I am happy these days, you know.” He turns to look at you, nudging his chin at you.

You smile, guessing he’s talking about you, so you nudge your chin back at him because you’re happier these days thanks to him, too.

He flashes you a small grin, for a second having the urge to gently take your chin between his thumb and finger, an urge that disperses quickly when you change the topic for his and your sake.

“You went to get something. What was it?” you ask.

“Right,” Miguel says, remembering. He reaches from his other side and retrieves a picture frame and a candle. “I want to add another photo of Gabby, a larger one to place on the console table. The candle… I want to light one for her. In Mexico, people sometimes have small altars for their loved ones at home throughout the year, you reminded me of that when you mentioned the console table. Tomorrow, I’ll go and buy her flowers from the flower market. I already have a vase that I think will be perfect. It used to be in my mom’s apartment when she lived in the building.”

“That sounds lovely,” you reply with a smile. “It’s going to look so beautiful. What picture are you thinking of using for the altar?”

Miguel sighs. “Well… All the pictures I have are already on the wall.”

You both turn your gazes to the photographs, your eyes finding Gabby’s few remaining photos.

“So, it’ll have to be one of them,” Miguel continues, to this day still upset that there’s not more photos of Gabby.

You nod, wishing there were more photos and videos of Gabby at least.

Seeing a sudden pop of white to your side, you turn and find Lyla. She gives you a look, as if asking you to wish her good luck before she floats farther away so Miguel can see her, too. The sight of Lyla and her expression, at this moment, has your heart racing suddenly.

“Hey… Miguel?” Lyla starts too quietly, too serious.

“Lyla,” Miguel replies his face changing to confusion, then to one of seriousness as his ears identify the different tone in her voice.

“I have something to tell you… It’s a good thing,” she continues looking at him and then at you.

“What is it?” Miguel asks.

“So… A year ago when you were injured in another universe, you know with the Goblin, the system shut down. It was rebooted by Margo and all was great, but some files were temporarily lost due to the sudden shut down. Others became corrupted. I started working on retrieving those files, slowly but surely. There was no rush as those files weren’t top priority, you know, essential to us for our day to day work at HQ. To be honest, I couldn’t even tell you what these files were, since they had no official name when I found them,” Lyla explains.

“Files… What are you getting at?” Miguel asks.

“I’ve retrieved them, uncovered what they were. Including the corrupted files. On my little free time, I’ve been restoring the files and well… It turns out that I had forgotten about some of these files due to previous system reboots. Since they were somehow omitted from my system due to previous shut downs, I didn’t even know they existed anymore, especially being lost and corrupted files within the system.”

“What are they? Why is it important to tell us this now?” Miguel asks, holding on to the guitar. His heart begins to race a little, even though he tells himself to not be stupid - to not have hope there’s more.

“Both the lost and corrupted files have turned out to be…” Lyla trails off, looking between Miguel and you. “Photos and videos of Gabby and you. New ones, not the ones you have already.”

Miguel inhales sharply, his heart racing as Lyla’s words sink in. “It’s not possible,” he says without thinking.

“It is, Miguel,” she replies offering a genuine look. “And I swear I didn’t hide them this time. They were lost and even I had no idea they were just sitting there in the system. I came across the folder sometime over the summer after you were injured and decided to work on them. It wasn’t until October or so that one of the files turned out to be a photo of her. I wanted to tell you right away, but then, I figured that since I didn’t even know about this one photo being lost, maybe a few more files would turn out to be photos of her, too. I was hoping to have it done by Father’s Day, but well, things happen at HQ…” Lyla says apologetically. “I finished today. My work proved to be successful because almost every file was of Gabby. I finished recovering the last one today and I’m happy to tell you that there’s over twenty photos on top of some videos. Do you wish to see them?”

“Yes,” Miguel breathes out. “Yes. Please show them to me.” He turns to look at you, his eyes filled with so many emotions - surprise, disbelief, happiness, and excitement.

“I’ll go - I’m going to wait upstairs,” you say, already making the move to stand up so Miguel will have privacy to look at the photos.

“You don’t have to,” Miguel says, suddenly placing a hand on your shoulder for a few seconds, making you go still at the unexpected touch. “Stay, please.”

You stare at each other as Miguel slowly retrieves his hand. He didn’t plan nor anticipated it. It was a genuine reaction, to keep you here, with him.

“Will you?” he asks.

Nodding, you settle back down. “Yes. If you want to, I will.”

“Thank you,” he replies with a small nod. He turns to Lyla, readjusting his position. “Lyla…”

“Yes, boss?” she replies, knowing.

“Go ahead,” Miguel states, his heart racing. His fingers fiddle with the guitar’s strings, feeling nervous. As Lyla prepares, the idea sinks further. There’s more photos and videos of Gabby. All this time, there’s been more memories sitting in the system, lost but finally recovered.

“Here are the photos,” Lyla says gently as she makes a holographic screen accessible. She turns to you, giving you a small smile and a subtle thumbs up. You suppose she was thinking back to the time when she hid photos of Gabby and his wife, and how Miguel reacted then by shutting her down, but his reaction today is far different. The Miguel from then, you suspect, had done little healing. You turn to the screen after acknowledging her with a nod and a small smile, giving your full attention to Gabby.

Three seconds later, there she is. Beside you, Miguel sighs the way a parent does when looking at old photographs of their children, with nostalgia.

“Gabby,” he whispers, his gaze soft as he takes in the photo of her sitting on a living room floor, coloring books and pencils scattered over a coffee table. Her face is one of concentration as she colors, dressed in jeans and a pink shirt with her hair down.

Photo after photo, Miguel and you observe each one, drinking in the details the way you drink café de olla [coffee]. Slowly, with delicacy and love. While Miguel is thrown right back into his memories, you get more glimpses of his life with her, of that short time. You finally see a little bit more of that universe, leaving an incredible pain in you knowing these photographs and Gabby’s guitar, is basically the only evidence left that that universe once existed to begin with.

Despite that feeling, you smile as the photos progress, seeing Miguel with such a happy smile with his daughter. Your heart beats with tenderness seeing how happy they looked, sharing father and daughter moments, such as them playing dolls on her bedroom floor, a flower sticker on Miguel’s hair.

“I didn’t notice it until I was going to shower,” Miguel says with an amused smile. “She noticed it for sure but she didn’t tell me.”

You laugh softly. “She was probably wondering how long it’ll take before you realized.”

“Most likely,” Miguel agrees, shaking his head in amusement before you both turn back to look at the next photo.

Everything is fine and lighthearted inside you as more photos are displayed but your throat suddenly feels impossibly restricted when the photo changes to one of a sleeping Miguel and Gabby on her bed. An open book, abandoned, can be seen on the side. It’s clearly night time, a single lit lamp in what used to be the little girl’s bedroom while Gabby and Miguel sleep, the latter having fallen asleep at some point while reading to his daughter. Your vision becomes blurry when you spot their same sleepy faces, their mouths open just slightly, identically like father and daughter. Silently, the tears roll down your face without warning.

You don’t dare turn to look at Miguel, or even make a subtle move to wipe your tears away because you don’t wish for him to see you crying. You don’t want your tears to make him tear up, too. Inhaling gently, you attempt to swallow the painful knot in your throat and rein in your emotions, but your eyes remain fixed on the photo, on sleeping Miguel and Gabby - no worries in their minds as they peacefully sleep.

For Gabby, she’s in the comfort of her father’s arms - safe and sound, protected. For Miguel, you imagine in those moments that the multiverse didn’t exist. It was a far away concept in those moments, so far he slipped into his sleep with ease and without a fight - a high contrast to what awaited him in the future. Sleepless and long nights in his dark and empty lab due to nightmares, alone with the exception of Lyla at times. The children’s books he read to Gabby replaced with data reports pertaining to the multiverse once more by a cruel and unexpected twist of misfortune, something Miguel has been no stranger to.

Still staring at the photo, you once again wonder how different Miguel’s life would have been had Gabby’s universe not collapsed. You wonder if he’d still live there in that universe, or whether he would’ve told Gabby and his wife about his universe, have them move to Nueva York, here to his penthouse.

You wonder, if perhaps, Miguel and his wife would’ve divorced and it would’ve been Gabby and Miguel alone then.

You wonder if her room would’ve been Gabriel’s, or if Miguel would’ve done changes to the penthouse, like making the upstairs office an extra bedroom. Perhaps, on this coffee table in front of you, Gabby’s coloring books or hair ties, or something that belonged to her, could be found.

“I used to read to her every night,” Miguel says, bringing his knees close to him, resting his arms on them. “I’m so glad there’s a memory of it. That I can see her sleepy face again physically, not just in my head.” He wipes his eye using the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He sniffles quietly before he reaches with his hand, zooming in on her specifically. He traces his daughter’s face as if he were actually tracing it physically, with such tenderness and so much love. “Su carita [her little face],” he whispers. “I’d forget everything about the Spider Society at the sight of that little face. I wasn’t Spider-Man. I was just ‘papá’ or ‘daddy’ - and my biggest worry was a scraped knee during practices [papa].”

He turns to face you slowly, finally realizing you’ve been so quiet, so still. His gaze softens when you turn away as an attempt to keep him from seeing your face, the tears staining your cheeks.

“Dulzura?”

“Yeah?” you reply, clearing your throat, trying to make it seem like you’re fine.

“You don’t have to hide your tears,” Miguel says gently. “Not from me.”

With that, you turn to face him. You offer him a small smile. “I’m sorry… This photo…” you trail off, looking away to dry your damp cheeks. “You just - Your sleeping faces are the same,” you continue, chuckling softly instead of crying, even though your eyes are still tearing up. “Even the way your mouths are open just slightly.” You sniffle. “It’s so… sweet, Miguel.”

You shakily huff, drying your face with the back of your hand. You wish you could blame your emotions on something else, like your period, but it’s not even time for that yet. Your emotions are running uncontrollably purely because of Miguel and his daughter. It’s due to the tenderness of this photo and every single moment they were able to share, but knowing it wasn’t, isn’t, and never will be enough for Miguel or Gabby.

And God, you wish on everything that Gabby was here right now. You wish there was a way that time could go back, that you had the answers to the real cause for the collapse of universes. And then, you’d go back and prevent it from happening, along with every other universe that’s been lost.

“You think so?” Miguel asks, his eyes twinkling with delight hearing you say that Gabby and he share the same sleeping faces.

“Absolutely,” you reply. “It’s clear as day.”

Miguel sighs, dropping his arm. He wraps his arms around his legs and stares at the photo some more. “Thank you for saying that,” he whispers. “That makes me feel… happy. Happier.”

“Always,” you whisper back, able to look at the photo again. “This one… It would be sweet to have in your room.”

Miguel hums. “My nightstand.”

“Close to you,” you reply, nodding.

You fall into a comfortable silence, despite the emotions, and continue to observe the photo for a few more minutes before Miguel asks Lyla to display the rest. Each one is as sweet and tender as the last one, but thankfully you don’t cry anymore, or at least not as much.

“There are a few videos,” Lyla says turning to look at Miguel, talking for the first time since she shared the fact that these files exist. She’s been silently watching the two of you, glad that Miguel has you by his side while he goes through the photos - relieved that he isn’t alone today, and tomorrow, and the date afterwards. He has someone. You. “Do you wish to watch them?”

“Yes, please,” Miguel answers turning to look at Lyla before his eyes turn back to the screen.

As time goes on, Miguel and you watch the videos, all of which are of just him and Gabby. And thankfully, they’re all long videos. You watch Gabriella play fútbol in the backyard with Miguel. There’s the one Christmas they spent together, with Gabby excitedly showing Miguel new toys.

“Christmas,” Miguel says softly. “She was so excited. I did the Santa’s snow boots footprints, she was squealing with happiness when she woke up and saw them,” he shares.

You watch the video, thinking. Miguel was that kind of father, and it makes so much sense.

At last, Lyla turns to face the two of you. “This is the last one,” Lyla says softly as the screen changes before it starts.

Miguel and you both watch as the video clip begins playing, starting with Gabby on display holding her guitar and playing it. Miguel sits on a chair watching with an expression that leaves no room for question how proud he felt in that moment. Like in every video and photo, Miguel’s eyes have a special spark, one you recognize in Peter B. and MJ, Jess and her husband, and Mr. and Mrs. Morales. It’s the spark a loving, caring parent has in their eyes when looking at or talking about their child. Miguel had it around Gabby, and now it’s only visible when he talks about her, or when he looks at her photos.

A warm, gentle, and beautiful smile grazes his face as he watches and listens to Gabby expertly play the guitar at such age, a look of concentration on her sweet face. She plays a melody you don’t recognize but one she seems to know by heart, no mistakes made. She ends her playing gently, the sound pleasant to the ears before she eagerly and expectantly looks at her father, a smile that reminds you of Miguel’s, too, on her face.

“That was amazing, mija [my daughter]!” Miguel says suddenly with such energy you swear you’ve never seen in him before. “You get better and better the more you practice, eh? My little musician!”

You smile, seeing Gabby’s smile widen before she runs to her father, throwing her arms around his neck. The sight of Miguel instantly wrapping his arms around his daughter makes your heart weak. There has never been any doubt in your mind that Miguel loved, still loves, Gabby, but this interaction hits you deeply. You see the way his eyes close in content, his smile unfaltering as he hugs his daughter tightly. He’s so proud of her. He’s so loving, tender, sweet.

There’s also no doubt in your mind. Being a father suits him so much even if he once thought he wasn’t meant to. Quite the contrary, Miguel was meant to be a father.

“Now it’s your turn, daddy! You play and sing!” Gabby says excitedly, pulling back to offer Miguel the guitar.

Miguel shakes his head gently. “I think you should keep playing, mija [my daughter].”

“Please? Pretty please, daddy?” Gabby insists, puppy eyes on full display. “Sing my favorite song, please.”

And just like Miguel has told you before, he was never able to say no to Gabby when it came to healthy, harmless requests like these. He accepts the guitar.

“Just one song, and then you play again. ¿Entiendes, chiquilla [do you understand, little girl]?”

“Okay, okay! Ya se [I know], but please! I like to hear you sing, daddy,” Gabby says taking a seat in front of Miguel on the floor, watching him like he’s the center of her universe.

“Okay, okay. Ay vamos [we’re going, starting]…” Miguel says with a little sigh. “How does it start?”

“Dad!” Gabby whines with a little huff. “You know how it starts!”

“I forgot. What are the first notes, again?” Miguel asks with a sweet, playful smile that stays on his face as Gabby tells him. “Ah, okay. So… Something like this,” he says playing a few notes that earns him eager nods from Gabby. “Okay, I think I got it, mija [my daughter].” He begins to play the guitar again, the same notes Gabby was playing earlier but continuing on.

And for the first time since you’ve known Miguel, you hear him truly sing.

“Luna gardenia de plata que en mi serenata, te vuelves canción. Tú que me viste cantando, me ves hoy llorando, mi desilusión. Calles bañadas de luna que fueron la cuna de mi juventud. Vengo a cantarle a mi amada, la luna plateada de mi Xelajú…” Miguel sings with ease, his brows furrowing slightly, gazing at his daughter who smiles tenderly at her father. “En mis noches de pena, por una morena de dulce mirar,” Miguel continues singing, smiling at Gabby, nodding at her. He earns himself a sweet, happy, and toothy smile along with an applause from Gabby’s hands, and it’s so heartwarming, so sweet Miguel can’t help himself from stopping midway when he sees Gabby rise and head straight for him.

He welcomes her in his arms, laughing softly as he places the guitar down to fully embrace her like it’s the last time he’ll ever be able to. The thought breaks you. He never imagined he’d lose her - not while embracing her like that nor when he read bedtime stories to her.

“Again, daddy! This time all the song, please,” Gabby says hugging Miguel, her father.

“Okay, okay, mija [my daughter], but first we need to have dinner. C’mon, the caldo [broth] should be ready now,” Miguel says carrying her to what you assume is the kitchen. “Le agregue muchas papitas pa’ que comas. Tienes que comer pa’ que estés fuerte y sana. ¿Recuerdas? [I added a lot of potatoes so you’ll eat. You must eat so you’ll be strong and healthy. Remember?]”

“¡Y pollito [and chicken]!” Gabby says making Miguel chuckle.

“Si y mucho pollito. También zanahorias [yes and chicken. Carrots, too].”

“Eugh, no carrots, please.”

The last thing heard is Miguel’s laughter as they both disappear into the kitchen, the screen returning to the all familiar marigold color used for all screens in the Spider Society.

You chuckle softly as you remember something. “So she wasn’t fond of carrots either.”

Turning to look at you, Miguel frowns softly yet he’s amused. He remembers that evening so vividly now, how it felt to carry his daughter to the kitchen so they could check on the food. “Either?”

“Remember when you were injured last year?” you ask, which instantly reminds Miguel.

“Dios [God], that carrot was disgusting,” he says frowning deeply. “I don’t know how we didn’t throw up right there.”

Covering your mouth, you laugh, recalling the face he made that day when he tried it. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re laughing,” Miguel says raising an eyebrow, feigning disappointment and offense. “Can’t believe you made me try it.”

“I didn’t think it was actually bad,” you reply. “In my defense, I thought since it’s this dimension, and all the great resources at HQ, that the infirmary food would be top notch.”

“Mala [Meanie, feminine version in Spanish],” Miguel replies, amusement dancing in his eyes. “At least you tried it, too. So we’re even.”

“Never again.” You chuckle again. “If I ever end up there, please spare me from the carrots.”

Miguel’s amusement falters a bit. “I hope you’re never there. Not even for a minor cut, but I promise I’ll spare you from the horrible food,” he says earnestly, leaving no doubt in your mind that you’ll never taste that food. Again. “I swear.”

“Thank you,” you reply softly with a smile.

“Always. I’ll protect your food palate,” he says, amused yet again.

You both smile at each other, staying quiet for a few seconds before you speak again. “That was… Very beautiful, Miguel,” you start quietly. “Your voice. You singing to Gabby her favorite song. You made her happy, so happy.”

He nods, his smile shifting to a much tender one. “I sang it to her every time she wanted me to. It was a pure request, an easy way to make her happy. I always wanted her to be so,” Miguel shares. “And if I could make her happy in such an easy way, I would. It was also bonding for us. I never wanted to make her feel like I didn’t want to spend time with her, like she was being rejected. I wanted her to feel loved,” he adds softly. “For her to know she was deeply loved and cared for. That she didn’t need to hide anything. I wanted her to have what I…” Miguel pauses, swallowing. “What I didn’t have at her age. That unconditional love, protection, and tenderness from a parent. Constant. Not in pauses, making her wonder if she had done something wrong.”

Nodding, you sigh softly. You know about Miguel’s childhood; about the situation with his mother Conchata and his stepfather, on top of the situation with his biological father. You try not to think about it often because each time you do, anger and sadness flares up inside you for him. You hate that Miguel experienced such rejection and negligence in his early life, how it has affected him throughout the years.

You’re glad, at least, that by the end of Conchata’s life, Miguel had somewhat of a stable relationship with her, something you’ve wondered about sometimes at random times. You wonder, if time had allowed, whether Miguel and her could’ve worked on their relationship, if by now they’d have a better one, but of course, it’s fruitless to think of such moments. Conchata has been gone for several years.

Another thing you wonder is if she saw the way Miguel stepped up to the role of father and how wonderful, tender, sweet, and loving he was to Gabby from wherever she is. You wonder if she felt shame, knowing her son tried to be everything she hardly was for Gabby.

“It’s evident you did just that,” you say at last, concentrating on the now. “She was so happy, Miguel. Her laughter, her smiles - all signs of a happy, safe, and loved child.”

Miguel hums, his gaze softening at your words. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I tried my best to be a good father.” He turns his gaze towards the guitar, the lovely and bittersweet song stuck in his head. He picks it up and holds it, remembering how many times he played the song for her. His fingers glide over the stickers, thinking how it’s still her birthday.

There’s a chance her favorite song would’ve changed by now. Maybe she wouldn’t be interested in playing the guitar anymore but rather another instrument. There’s a lot of things that could’ve changed by now, truly. Maybe Gabby would’ve stopped playing fútbol. Maybe she would’ve stopped loving science.

He’ll never know now.

But maybe there’s a chance, that despite the years… “Luna de Xelajú” would still hold a special place in her tender heart. Maybe she’d appreciate her father remembering the times she asked him to play it for her, to sing her the song while gazing at her, letting her know that she was his morena de dulce mirar [his brunette, or of dark complexion, girl with a sweet gaze]. Just maybe, she’d let her old man play and sing it for her on her birthday even if she no longer begged him to sing it by wrapping her short arms around his neck, giggling and calling him daddy.

Just maybe.

Miguel clears his throat and positions his fingers. How does it start?

“You know how it starts!”

He hears Gabby’s voice in his head, even the little huff. Right. Like this. His fingers move, playing the notes for the first time since he lost his daughter. For a moment, he thinks he messed up, but no, his memory doesn’t betray him, and so his fingers move, as if they had a mind of their own.

You watch as he begins to play, familiar to your ears now thanks to the video. Your eyes remain on him, not missing even a second of this. For a moment, you wonder if you’re imagining it, but no, Miguel really is playing the guitar and playing Gabby’s song, at least the beginning of it.

You suddenly realize what he’s trying to do, just as Lyla does, too because a second later, Lyla displays a photo of Gabby, one of the new ones, for Miguel.

Miguel is going to play and sing the song for her, on her birthday.

Holding your breath, you watch Miguel lift his gaze to the screen, still playing the guitar before he begins.

“Luna gardenia de plata, que en mi serenata te vuelves canción. Tú que me viste cantando, me ves hoy llorando mi desilusión,” Miguel sings softly, staring at his daughter’s photo, his expression gentle yet with a trace of mourning and grief. “Luna de Xelajú, que supiste alumbrar, en mis noches de pena por una morena de dulce mirar,” he continues, his gaze softening and his mouth pouting.

You remain still, almost as still as a statue itself. You have heard Miguel sing before when he does so under his breath, sometimes unaware of it, but nothing compare to this. If his voice sounds beautiful in the video, it sounds angelic live. His voice travels straight to your heart.

Still playing, Miguel’s eyes fill with some tears. After so long, he’s playing and singing her song. For so long, he’s tried to not think of it, finding it to be too much for him, too soon for his grieving heart, but his very heart seems to have found today appropriate for it.

Maybe it’s another sign of him healing, Miguel doesn’t know, but he has no regrets playing it now. It feels right, so he continues, hoping that wherever Gabby is, she’s listening to him sing it at last, just for her.

“En mi vida no habrá, más cariño que tú, mi amor. Porque no eres ingrata, mi Luna de plata, luna de Xelajú. Luna que me alumbró, en mis noches de amor… [in my life there won’t be more love than you, my love. Because you’re not ungrateful, my moon of silver, moon of Xelajú. Moon that lightened me up, in my nights of love]” Miguel sings, his fingers slowing down as he pauses for a few seconds. “Hoy consuelas la pena… Por una morena… que me… Abandonó [today you console the sorrow… for a brunette, or girl of dark complexion… that… abandoned me],” he sings the end in a whisper, a single tear rolling down his face as his fingers play the last notes, finishing the song.

He lowers the guitar to his lap slowly, still gazing at Gabby’s photo. He doesn’t bother to wipe away the tear that slowly trails down his face. Instead, he lets it run its course until it sinks into his skin. Miguel inhales heavily and sighs. Something in him, so deep, settling in. It’s a certain kind of peace.

At last, several seconds later, you sigh as well. You didn’t realize you held your breath throughout the entirety of the song, but you did. You didn’t want to miss a single moment of Miguel singing to Gabby; from hearing his gentle, soothing voice.

“That was beautiful,” you whisper quietly, looking at Gabby’s photo.

Miguel smiles slowly. “Thank you,” he whispers back. “I haven’t played, sang, nor heard it since then. The last time was before I lost her. Even the simple thought of it, the melody in my head - was too much for me,” Miguel admits, gathering his thoughts. “If she was alive, I know she’d be changing. The things she once liked, maybe she wouldn’t be much into anymore. Maybe this song wouldn’t be her favorite anymore. There’s a chance… I know, but even then, before I decided to play it, I thought maybe, just maybe, from wherever she’s at, keeping me safe, she might enjoy me playing her once favorite song from down here on Earth… I hope she heard it.”

You smile softly, still staring at the photo and think about Miguel’s words. Maybe Gabby’s music taste would’ve changed by now. Perhaps “Luna de Xelajú” would no longer be her favorite song, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but a part of you believes that Gabby would’ve loved the beautiful gesture from her dad regardless. And for some reason, you also can’t help but think that maybe she did hear it tonight.

The two flickering birthday candles from earlier come back to mind. That was rather strange. You wonder silently. Maybe the two most important people in Miguel’s life, visited him tonight in their own way.

“I have a feeling she did,” you reply softly.

Miguel turns to face you, shifting his body slightly. “You may think I’m a little bit crazy,” he starts, making you tilt your head towards him with a raised eyebrow, letting him know you don’t. He smiles a bit. “The flickering candles.”

You nod. “I was just thinking about that. Two candles,” you reply.

“Two candles,” Miguel repeats. “Gabby. Gabriel.” He smiles a bit at that. “You don’t think I’m… overthinking it? Maybe with my messed up sleep schedule, I’m just… Not making sense.”

“You’re allowed to believe that,” you state gently. “I’m never going to judge you. I had my fair share of moments in which I felt like Peter and my parents were - leaving me little signs. I also thought about them, you know.” You shift slightly to face him better. “About Gabby and Gabriel.”

Miguel smiles, his head dipping to face the floor. It’s reassuring. He straightens up to look at you again.

“I know I already said it earlier, but, I want to say I’m sorry again. For the way I behaved these last few days.”

You prepare yourself to reply but Miguel lifts his finger, stopping you.

“I don’t want to… Push you away nor make you feel like I’m trying to when I’m not. I have,” Miguel pauses, thinking about that mutual agreement between you some weeks ago.

“We do. We have each other,” Miguel said, before adding, “Always.”

“Always,” you replied.

He also thinks about how you’ve only been a part of his life for a few years. Two, to be exact. It’s a realization that for some reason feels so wrong to him. He wishes you could’ve been in his life sooner, but there’s no time machine to do that, or Miguel would’ve already used it to bring back Gabby and Gabriel. There’s no changing the past, unfortunately, but he has control over some aspects of the future, and he’s already made up his mind. You may have entered his life only two years ago, but he’ll try his absolute best to make sure you stick for the rest of his - until his last breath.

“I don’t want to ever…” he tries and clears his throat. “I don’t want to - I’d like for you - stick around.” He sighs and runs a quick hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to push you - away. Ever.”

You smile at that. “To be honest, it’s going to take a lot for you to push me away. I’m afraid… You’re stuck with me,” you say.

He laughs softly, the sound making your heart swell. “Like that’s a bad thing,” Miguel answers.

“Well… Just saying, so you don’t complain later on.”

“I could never,” Miguel replies, smiling softly.

“Lyla, I hope you recorded that,” you reply, earning yourself a chuckle from Miguel, one that makes you chuckle, too before you both settle into a comfortable silence.

The holographic screen is still available, the same photo of Gabby displayed with one of the sweetest smiles you’ve ever seen.

It’s several minutes later when Miguel breaks the silence. “Tomorrow I’m printing all the photos.” And then remembering, he adds. “Thank you, Lyla. For recovering everything. I… I had no idea there were more photos and videos. Thank you.”

“You got it, Miguel,” Lyla says, looking between him and you, happy that she was able to restore everything. “I’m heading off now. I have some things to work on. Good night.”

“Night,” Miguel replies.

“Good night,” you answer before she disappears.

“Are you tired?” Miguel asks gently.

“Not a lot,” you reply, even though last night you only slept for a few hours. You know Miguel slept even less. “You?”

He shakes his head slightly. “No. Not yet.” He picks up the guitar and plays a few strings, ones you don't recognize.

You remain by his side, letting time go by in each other’s company. Despite the emotions, the mood is lighthearted. Miguel is no longer as quiet and he even offers a few more smiles as the hours go by, smiles that actually reach his eyes.

As time slips by, you notice Miguel grow sleepier and sleepier, which is not surprising. At some point you find him nodding off, so you suggest that he goes to bed but he declines, stating he’s not sleepy yet.

Except, he is and he ends up falling asleep sitting next to you. In a matter of minutes, you grab a pillow from upstairs and your blanket before you reach him. You talk to him softly, waking him enough to talk to him.

“Lay down,” you say, watching the way he looks at you sleepily.

“Mm - no,” he replies, sleepily.

“You’ve fallen asleep. Lay down,” you try again. “Please?”

He sighs, yawning. “I wasn’t sleepy.”

You hold back from chuckling. “I totally believe you. Now, lay down. Please.”

He sighs again, all sleepy and stubborn, but finally lays down.

“Sleep,” you whisper firmly. “Rest, Migs.”

“Are you going upstairs?” he whispers sleepily, his eyes fluttering as he gazes at you, with a hint of a pout.

You smile tenderly at him, the sight of his sleepy features and voice warming your heart.

“I'm staying here,” you reply as you cover him with your blanket, wondering if the reason why he’s asking is because he'll like for you to stay.

“Mm,” he hums sleepily, satisfied with your answer. “Thank you.” He sighs softly, relaxing and settling.

“Lift your head, Miguel.”

“Mhm.” Miguel does so slightly, more asleep than awake now.

You fix the pillow behind his head, your fingers accidentally brushing the small curls on the nape of his neck including the sensitive skin there, eliciting a gentle hum from Miguel, one of contentment, of satisfaction.

You freeze for a second, the sound surprising you. After a second or two, you smile and finish fixing it, pulling the blanket higher up.

“Sleep, Migs,” you whisper tenderly.

“Mhm, dulzura,” Miguel mumbles, dozing off at last.

You take a seat next to him. The holographic screen is still available, displaying the same photo from earlier.

You get comfortable and stare at the photo, thinking about all the new ones, about the videos. You got more glimpses of Miguel's life with his daughter. More glimpses of him being a father.

Turning your attention back to Miguel and taking in all his features, you think once more.

He was meant to be a dad.

You wonder if there's a chance of him opening his heart to someone one day. Of falling in love and having a child. Or, maybe two, or three. Maybe even four.

With thoughts of the possibility of Miguel building a family with someone, you fall asleep yourself.

It's many hours later when you wake up naturally, without the need of an alarm. To your relief, you find Miguel still sleeping peacefully by your side.

Standing up, you notice his sleeping face, once again remembering how similar it is to Gabby's. You hum to yourself, heart swelling with tenderness, before deciding to make coffee.

You go through yesterday's events silently as you prepare the pot and set up the mugs, opting for some simple ones today instead of grabbing more colorful ones, like the mug you gifted Miguel for Father’s Day due to the circumstances of Gabby’s birthday. You wait patiently, remaining quiet to avoid waking up Miguel and think to yourself. You can't believe that all this time there were more photos and videos of Gabby, lost but thankfully recovered and restored by Lyla.

“Good morning,” Miguel says entering the kitchen, his voice still laced with sleep.

“Good morning,” you reply, offering Miguel a smile. “Coffee is almost ready.”

He nods before running a hand through his hair, it being a little disheveled from his sleep. His movement slows down as he vaguely remembers your fingers brushing his hair and neck, a memory that makes his cheeks feel warmer. “I could use some, muchas gracias [thank you].”

“Always,” you reply, not noticing the gentle redness on his cheeks.

He leans on the counter, still waking up and trying to gather his thoughts. He looks over at the coffee and the mugs, remembering. He moves to where the mugs are found and finds the one. It’s the one he’s been using since you gifted it to him; his mug from Father’s Day with the bees. He retrieves it and moves towards you, placing it on the counter near the two you already have out.

“My favorite,” Miguel says looking at it, still so touched by your gifts, bringing a smile to your face.

So, you serve him coffee in that mug and watch him drink it, raising the mug you made with your own hands to his lips. It’s how you also notice the bracelet you gifted him with Gabby’s name on his wrist, another sight that makes you happy. It seems Miguel really liked the gifts.

“Do you want to come with me?” Miguel asks, lowering the mug. “I’m going to the flower market.”

“If it’s alright,” you say, remembering Miguel’s plans to buy flowers for Gabby to place on the altar. “I’d like to.”

Miguel nods. “I’d like for you to come.”

After drinking your mugs of coffee in peace, you both get ready and dress in civilians clothes. For the second time, you borrow the simple holographic suit Miguel allowed you to borrow months ago when your apartment building caught on fire and your suit was dirty and smelling of smoke.

You both slip out of the penthouse and swing through the city before most of the people of Nueva York are awake, before the city is truly buzzing with life. On an alleyway, you both deactivate the suits and step out onto the street wearing your normal clothes to search through the flower market.

You walk around side by side, admiring the different types of flowers available, trying to find the perfect ones for Gabby. You eventually find bouquets that seem to attract both of you; a lovely combination of white and lilac flowers. Together, you choose the best bouquet out of the bunch before continuing to walk around. Despite your mission being accomplished, it seems Miguel is in no rush to leave.

As you both continue to walk around, his gaze turns to you, noticing the way you eye certain flowers with glee and interest. You even stop at certain displays to take a closer look, so Miguel stops to look at them with you, sticking by your side while holding the bouquet he’s already bought.

His brows shoot up when he sees the owner, an older lady, of the display talk to you, inviting you to see further in the back when you stop on theirs.

You shoot him an apologetic smile as the woman enthusiastically talks to you about other options, so he smiles back with a look that lets you know that it’s okay.

“Mujeres. ¿Verdad? [Women. Right?]”

Miguel turns, a little startled by the sudden voice. He finds a man, a much older one.

“¿Disculpe? [Sorry?]” Miguel replies, towering over the man.

“Mujeres divinas. ¿Que haríamos sin ellas? Hermosas. Y mira como les encantan las flores [Divine women. What would we do without them? Beautiful. And look how much they love flowers],” the man says with a smile. “Parece que ya le llevas un arreglo pero le gustan mucho las flores. Así esta mi esposa [looks like you already have an arrangement (bouquet )but she likes flowers. That’s how my wife is],” he says, nodding to the owner. Miguel quickly realizes the owner is the man’s wife. “You know, she pointed you guys out from the little early crowd.”

Miguel clears his throat, looking down at the bouquet of flowers. His mind immediately puts together what the man is insinuating, or rather what he believes.

“She did?” Miguel questions.

“She said that was us thirty-five years ago.”

“Oh,” Miguel says simply for a moment, struck by the fact that two more people have confused him and you for a couple in two weeks, remembering the lady from the grocery store. “We’re… just friends. Best friends.”

The man laughs as his wife and you walk back to them, talking. “That’s how my wife and I started. Friendship is one of the most essential foundations for a blissful and long marriage, mijo [my son]. Take it from me. Thirty-two years of marriage, three kids later. Something to think about, eh? Take care, mijo, and take care of that one, too,” the man says nodding at Miguel and then at you before he withdraws to meet his wife, leaving Miguel speechless.

He watches as the couple talk to you a bit more before finally letting you free. You join his side a few seconds later, smiling.

“Sorry, Mrs. Gonzalez wanted to show me other flowers she has in the back,” you say.

“You learned her name,” Miguel states.

“She introduced herself,” you reply with a shrug. “She was very excited about showing me some flowers. I couldn’t say no.”

“Did you like them?” he asks.

“They were lovely,” you answer, looking at a certain bouquet that caught your eye.

He nods and before you can say anything, he talks to the owners in Spanish.

“Me quiero llevar uno de esos arreglos, por favor. ¿Cuanto es? [I want to take one of those bouquets, please. How much?]”

You watch as the transaction is quickly made between Miguel and Mr. Gonzalez, the latter whispering something to Miguel that you can’t catch.

“¡Gracias, tenga un buen día, don [Thank you, have a good day, sir]!” Miguel says before walking back to you. He hands you the bouquet. “For… you. I noticed you eyeing these.”

You accept them. “Yes, these….” you reply, looking at them and feeling a little awestruck by the fact that you’re suddenly holding a bouquet of flowers bought by Miguel for you. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back. Maybe with some snacks from my universe,” you add at last, moving past the awe, as you both begin to walk.

“No paying back,” Miguel answers as he looks ahead, his tone being one that leaves no room for you argue about it. “It’s… a gift. Look, food trucks. Do you want some breakfast?” Miguel offers, changing the subject, and nodding at the food trucks as you both exit the flower market.

You end up having breakfast on some wooden picnic table under a large umbrella to shield yourselves from the sun since it’s summer now. You talk with ease, the tension from the last few days gone, at last. You both watch as the area quickly fills with more and more citizens from Nueva York, the city coming back to full life.

Instead of swinging back home in your suits, Miguel and you silently agree to walk on the way back. He carries both bouquets of flowers in his arms since he insisted on doing so before you left the picnic table. Together, you walk home, sticking by each other’s side like glue, with Miguel walking closest to the street, keeping you on the inside of the sidewalk.

Once you return home, Miguel and you head to the office room. There, you watch Miguel inject himself with that neon serum you now know about. He looks at you sheepishly as he does so.

“I forgot about it,” Miguel says placing the device down, a glow passing through his crimson eyes.

“It's understandable,” you reply, glad that Miguel is in a different mindset and taking care of this.

With that, you help Miguel print the new photos of Gabby. He makes extra copies for backup purposes, storing them in his personal home computer and multiple USB flashes, or some version of them since they look different in this dimension.

Miguel also retrieves the vase he mentioned the night before and at last, he has everything to set up his little altar for Gabby.

As he places one of the photos in the picture frame, you open the bouquet of flowers he bought for her and arrange it in his mom's vase.

When everything is ready, and the surface has been cleaned properly, you both approach the console table with the items. You stand by, holding the vase, and let Miguel work at his pace.

The photo is placed first and then the vase with pretty and fresh flowers. Miguel retrieves the guitar from where he left it last night and carefully places it next to the console table, taking a few moments to look at it.

He’s glad that it's not hidden away anymore, that he'll be able to look at it every day now. At last, he places a candle and lights it, completing the altar for now. Maybe in the future he'll change something, but right now, it's perfect.

The altar is beautiful. You love the fact that Miguel has added Gabby’s guitar, the flowers that bring such a lovely energy to the living room, but most of all, you love seeing Gabby’s photo on the console table.

And so does Miguel.

You both stand in front of the console table for several minutes, simply admiring and thinking about her in silence.

A while later, you both sit on the rooftop of Miguel’s building, peacefully. You remember that it’s a work day and that both Miguel and you are technically “late” to work by now, but you say nothing. You’re certain Miguel already knows what time it is, and that if he wanted to, both of you would’ve already been there. It seems he’s okay with being late today.

He gazes at the sky, at the soft cloud formations, thinking and unworried about making it to HQ. He trusts that the rest of the team can handle the tasks, just a few more hours, without either of you.

After some time of peaceful silence, Miguel remembers.

“How’s reconstruction going for your building?” he asks.

“It’s almost done. I think in a week or two, we should get the okay to move back in.”

Miguel almost frowns, but he keeps the same look on his face. A week or two. His chest feels heavy all of a sudden and he wonders where time went.

“That’s… Good for the building, and everyone,” Miguel forces himself to say. Sure, he’s glad that everyone will be able to go back, that you’ll have your apartment once again - the one you love so much. Hell, even he misses the comfort and coziness from it, but… Why does the idea hurt him more than he thought it would?

He gulps. In a week or two you’ll be gone, back to your universe. He places his hand on the rooftop’s ground, accidentally brushing his fingers against yours.

“Sorry,” he apologizes instantly, worried he may have squeezed some of your fingers with his larger hand.

“It’s alright,” you reply with a smile, keeping your hand where it was, unbothered.

Miguel places his hand near yours, both of you silent and thinking about your upcoming return to your apartment.

A part of you is happy your place will be available again and yet… You sigh softly, staring at the clouds just like Miguel.

Neither of you say anything else about it, equally avoiding further conversation regarding the matter without knowing.

“I know it’s barely time, but what if we stay here for lunch?” Miguel says after a while. “A homemade lunch.”

“That sounds great,” you reply. “What do you feel like eating?”

“Hmm,” Miguel hums, thinking. “What are you up to?”

You laugh. “I’m up for anything.”

“That narrows it down a lot, thank you,” Miguel says sarcastically with a soft smirk.

“Happy to help,” you reply with your own little smirk.

God, he’s going to miss having you here, Miguel suddenly thinks. He forces himself to not think of that. Not again today. He clears his throat. “Let’s head back. It’s growing hotter. We can think inside of what to cook.”

You both slip back inside the penthouse, into the cool air.

“Maybe we can make some chilaquiles [Mexican dish]?” you offer, now in the living room.

“That’s an idea,” Miguel replies as you both stop in front of Gabby’s altar once more.

You both stare at it, the candle still on.

Slowly, you offer your pinky finger. A second later without hesitation, Miguel wraps his around yours.

“Thank you for sticking around,” he says quietly. “Despite my mood.”

“Always,” you reply. “No matter what.”

Miguel gives your pinky a hug with his own. “Always.”

A minute later, you both head to the kitchen to start prepping lunch, splitting up tasks to finish sooner, leaving Gabby’s altar in the living room.

The candle’s flame flickers and dances, peacefully.

A/N: It's here!! The way life kept holding me back from writing this chapter?? But it's finally here :) I loved writing this one so much (I've loved writing every single chapter lets be real) but I've been planning the concept of you helping Miguel celebrate Gabby's birthday since part 3 when we first learned Miguel doesn't celebrate birthdays but instead, makes an ofrenda for his deceased loved ones. Can't believe we're already on part 17, or that we're even on a part 17 to begin with!

I'm going to make this as quick as possible because you've already given my fic and me so much time of your day/night, so... Some of you may or may not know but this month (July) will make one year since I started writing this story and writing fanfic again in general after several years. To be specific, I posted the first chapter on July 29th. 🥺

I seriously doubt that I'll have the next chapter by then, so I just wanted to take the time today to give you guys a huge THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart 🥹❤️ I say it again, and again, and again, but the support this story and my writing has received since I started writing fanfic again truly means so much to me!! I know I also say this a lot, but I genuinely didn't think many people would be interested to read this fanfic that initially was planned out to be only 3 or 4 parts long (lol). Almost a year later, I'm still writing and this story has turned into something so much more than I planned - so much bigger - thanks to you!! All the comments, the asks, the fanart, and you lovely people I get to interact with ... Wow!!! Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd be back to writing fanfiction, much less have it be received and loved so much!! 🥹

Special thank you to every single artist who has created fanart of Nonviolent Communication!! If you read this, I hope you know that you've made me so incredibly happy, blessed, grateful, honored, and so much more - to see such beautiful art inspired by my fic. Each time a fanart has been posted, I've screamed and cried out of excitement, and that's not exaggeration. I am beyond thankful to have the privilege of saying there's fanart for something I've written (sometimes I'm still like "no way" fr). God - my hands are shaking rn and my chest feels fuzzy. I'm a bit emotional lol, sorry, but THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!! One day I may stop writing (I hope not) but please know I'm always going to cherish all the fanart (which is all saved in my computer and phone, and now tablet because it's that important to me)!!!!! 😭

I'm gonna end it here because as usual, I'm yapping in the author's note and also the tears are coming🫣 but please know, this means so much to me, and ily guys!!! Thank you for inspiring me to write for our fav Spider-Man, Miguel❤️

To celebrate a year, I'll be posting something regarding opening writing requests (for the first time) over the next week, so if you're interested, keep an eye out for my posts. I was trying to come up with something more exciting but that's all I could think of to celebrate!🤣

That's all. Thank you so much for reading again, and ily guys!! Take care!!

And for old time's sake, I still love Miguel O'Hara (even more)!!🥹

Alondra❤️

P.S. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

taglist: @loverlorn @saturnknows @d1lf-loverrr @eddiestitmiguelsbigdick @freehentai @arithestrawberry @scaleniusrm @haradasaya @spidermanismyfav @bitchykittenconnoisseur @thecraziestcrayon @obi-mom-kenobi @natsury-kazuki @coraline750 @edgycatx @safixiovi @sunnyx07 @nxrdamp

@rorel1a @oceanstar19 @happishark @carmilla01 @somebodyelsethanyouthink @adora-but-ginger @angie2274 @vampi-amora @tired-writer04 @plzfeedmebread @shadow-pancake9 @tynakub @faretheeoscar @giulscomix @luvstuffies @coffeeauthorvibing @lauraolar14 @bl0osclues @pinkiemme @lil-cinn @mashiromochi @loveletterfrommwah @muzansucker @theleftkittycollection @kikookii @www-interludeshadow-com @holographicang3l @aisyakirmann @bucky-to-my-barnes @geraskier-thots @l3laze @yujyujj @taylorsmakingfuckingmacandcheese @damhanallagorm @heyohalie @kaliuea @moonsua1 @darksidescorner @geminis93 @1800-get-alife @hrrtkreuz @oharasfilipinawife @dropyoursocksandgrabyourcrocss @may4ri @t4naiis @f1-hoff @llumetrii

[shiro-s2e2-erukinzu]

Anime only watchers and people who aren't caught up with the Manga, BEWARE... Cuz I'm about to discuss Spy X Family Mission 96... You have been warned...! 👌

[SPOILERS AHEAD FROM THIS POINT ON]

OMG!! THIS CHAPTER WAS BOTH SO GOOD & SO HILARIOUS!! 😆

This chapter is probably gonna be a new favorite of mine, especially because of that absolutely unexpected thing that happened right before the end of the chapter...!! 😵 So let's talk about it, shall we? 😉

Mission 96 starts back where we basically left of...

...to see who will get to dance with Damian!!💃

To figure this out, Ewen and Emile come up with some challenges to see who is worthy to dance with their Boss Man!! 😆

The first challenge has to do with endurance so the young ladies have to stand on one leg and clap to the until only remain... And since Twilight's there to help Anya win at cost, of course he has a way cheat!!:

But then, THIS HAPPENS...!!:

ANYA ABSOLUTE NUT! 👏🤣👏🤣👏🤣👏🤣

Also... What Twilight said about his arm after Anya's silly antics was ABSOLUTELY HILARIOUS TOO!! 😂😂😂

Moving on to the second challenge, the girls must do an obstacle course and who ever are the five fastest will advance to the third and final round!! 👏 A lot of the girls are struggling, but Anya is off to a great start!!

They had to jump over a hurdle (which Anya fell on her face afterward, but still kept going 😂), get through a trap zone (which Anya ripped her dress and stuck for a bit LOOKING LIKE THIS...!!):

THIS FACE OF ANYA'S KILLED ME!! 🤣🤣🤣

The final part of the obstacle course was the Inchworm Crawl, AND ANYA GOT THIRD PLACE, so she's still in this!! 👏😆

The third and final challenge was a quiz about Damian, and Twilight thought that he had it in the bag, but...:

Twilight you silly, silly man...! 😌

Anyway, since this is quiz, of course Anya is gonna use her mind reading abilities to get the right answers...!! Though she almost slips up when she answers a question that probably only Damian, Emile and Ewen know, she makes up for it by missing some questions...!! Anya and one of the other little girls only needed one answer to win, and the question was: Who does Damian love the most?

At first I thought the answer was gonna be Anya, but I'm pretty sure that Ewen and Emile still have no clue that Damian likes her...! 😅 So everyone guessed, but Anya knew what the answer was...:

MY HEART...!! 💗🥹💗

And so, Anya was victorious and got to dance with Damian!! 🎉

HELL, HENDERSON AND MARTHA EVEN GOT TO DANCE WITH EACH OTHER!! 💗😍💗 (This chapter is GOATED for that as well...!!! 👏😆)

Besides that, though Damian and Anya were having some trouble dancing with each other at first, they started to get hang of if it!! 😁 And then...:

EXCUSE ME, WHAT!?!?

Luckily, Damian didn't believe her, but THIS BOMBSHELL may have some ramifications if Damian just casually mentions this to either Melinda, Donovan or someone else dangerous in the future...!! 😱 I am confident that Damian if does eventually believe what Anya told him, he would most definitely keep her secret, but if he doesn't realize it soon, who knows what could happen...!! 😥

And that was Mission 96...

...A FREAKING AMAZING CHAPTER...!!! 👏👏👏

I still can't believe Anya told Damian the truth, though he doesn't believe her yet, it is very possible that he will in future...!! 😊

And to all those that those that thought that Damian would be the first one to know that Anya can read minds, I tip my hat to you guys...!! 👏😄 (Also the damianya shippers are EATING GREAT!! 👏😆👏😆👏😆)

Anyway, I think that's all I wanna say, especially since I know that I'd be here while spouting out theory after theory about what is to come (and wonder if this is gonna lead into Mission 100...!! 🤔) So until next time; take care, be safe out there and be kind to one another...!! 💗 LATERS!! 👋😄

[chaotic-history]

Outside of V and Emile/Fritz what’s your fav relationship V has?

Ok I warned you that this was going to be a long answer, and idk if you meant specifically a romantic relationship, but I'm going to pretend that you didn't so that I can yap about my absolute favorite V relationship, which was with Claude Philippe Fyot de la Marche. And I have to yap about it extra since only one bio I've read has ever mentioned him, and even then, it was only to get facts wrong about him :/ (thanks Pearson).

V and la Marche were students together at Louis le Grand, and we have five letters from 17yo V to la Marche after la Marche had left the school early. There's.. a lot in those letters: (italics are originally in Latin)

"Please disabuse me of your perversity [la Marche had evidently called himself an Epicurean, and V wasn't having it] as I disabuse you of the opinion you have of my virtue, and make me a confession as sincere as the one I make to you. I know that it will cost you more than me, but I don't believe you want to hide your true feelings from me; this will be for me a lesson which perhaps I will not benefit from and will content myself with admiring; I see and I desire the better, I follow the worse. I finish with this line for fear that in continuing the picture I will make it so true that you'll believe me as insincere as you are when you speak of yourself."

And here's the context for the quote V said he couldn't finish w/o la Marche thinking him insincere:

(From Metamorphoses):  "Medea, you struggle in vain: some god, I do not know which, opposes you. I wonder if this, or something, like this, is what people indeed call love? Or why would the tasks my father demands of Jason seem so hard? They are more than hard! Why am I afraid of his death, when I have scarcely seen him? What is the cause of all this fear? Quench, if you can, unhappy girl, these flames that you feel in your virgin heart! If I could, I would be wiser! But a strange power draws me to him against my will. Love urges one thing: reason another. I see, and I desire the better: I follow the worse. Why do you burn for a stranger, royal virgin, and dream of marriage in an alien land? This earth can also give you what you can love. Whether he lives or dies, is in the hands of the gods. Let him live! I can pray for this even if I may not love him: what is Jason guilty of? Who, but the heartless, would not be touched by Jason’s youth, and birth, and courage? Who, though the other qualities were absent, could not be stirred by his beauty?"

There are multiple ways you could interpret this ofc, but also... gay

The rest of the letters are a combo of similar to the above and just depressing; V was super broken-up about la Marche's leaving. He also keeps trying to set up a time for them to meet in Paris, but there's no record of anything ever coming from that.

And then, in 1761, a monk murdered someone in Ferney and V wrote to la Marche's son about it since he thought it wasn't being investigated thoroughly enough and Marche fils was a magistrate at one of the parlements, and through that he and la Marche got back in touch and it's so 🥺🥺🥺

"M. de Ruffey, sir, made me shed tears of joy when he told me that you wanted to remember me, and that you resume the exchange of letters in which you have always been charming. My heart is still moved in writing to you. To think that it's been almost sixty years that I've been attached to you! My hair has gone white, my teeth have fallen out; but my heart is young: I am tempted to cross the mountains and the snow that separate us, and to come embrace you. I'm ashamed to admit to you that I consider myself in my retirement as one of the happiest men in the world; but you deserve to be so more than I do, and I warn you that I shall cease to be if you are not. You are honoured, loved, I know you have a very beautiful soul; a charming, fair, enlightened, sensitive soul ..."

And then eventually la Marche came to visit V at Ferney, and helped supervise the printing of the engravings for V's Corneille book that he was raising subscriptions for Mlle Corneille with

I think la Marche is my favorite just because all the letters are so sweet, and for the longest time I thought it was just the five early ones and then I was legitimately so fucking happy to find out that they did meet again in person. I also really wish there was more written about him, cause even if he's not super important historically when writing about V, V clearly cared about him a lot and la Marche was important to him

[solari-writes-things]

Hi! Will you write for Fenrir from r6s? Not a whole lot of people like him so I get it if you don't wanna. But if so: could I ask for some general dating sfw/nsfw headcanons? Unless you would prefer we just ask from the prompt lists? I can do that too!

✧ Solari Says: Hey, doll! I'm sorry this took so much time. It's holidays, and I was going through a blog change so it took a lot of time to figure out what I wanted before I put more effort into making thumbnails and suchlike. I hope you enjoy what I've put together for you, though, after all this time!

🛑 WARNINGS: NONE. 🛑

masterlist. // rainbow six. // request here.

Emil is a man of both curious, but jaded nature as it stands.

Dating him is a slow start, but something that is highly rewarding once he fully trusts to involve himself.

He buried himself in his work at first, sort of playing aloof when anyone makes any sort of advancements towards him. Being played by Deimos has made it near impossible for him to fully accept someone is being entirely truthful with their intentions.

However, it does remain logged in the back of his mind. He doesn't forget these things, he has a mind like a steel trap.

Once they've proven themselves to be fully trustworthy, Emil's true colors will begin to show. He will slowly become heartwarming and attentive, studying every close detail he can.

Those attempts of trying to ask him out? He'll constantly call back to those. He remembers them all, and has adored the ones he's eyeing for a long time-- but it's just the nature of his past that has kept him at bay from acting on it.

He often buried himself in his work when he thought about it, really, as sort of a way to cope with the idea he might begin to trust again.

Once dating, he likes to keep company and ramble.

He appreciates sitting down and being able to talk about the things on his mind. His latest discoveries, his interests, his current pet projects. Even if the person doesn't understand a lick of what he says, he just likes feeling like he's being heard and genuinely appreciated for him and not just his intelligence.

However, that is not a one-sided street. He will do the same for the one he's seeing, not wanting for them to feel left out in the sort of catharsis it makes him feel. He can only hope they feel the same.

Date nights are usually nights in. He's not an outdoor body, he never had been before. He was usually too far into his work to really want to be outdoors-- and even more so since his trust has been broken so far before.

The once in a blue moon he does have the urge to go out, his date is close to his hip. He never really wraps his arms around them, really, but it's small gestures. A hand on the small of their back, hand holding, the works.

He's not big on P. D. A, though. Usually it's just those small gestures he'll do, nothing more.

In private, he will do kisses on their head and leaning on shoulders. Hugs and cuddles are prominent, for certain.

Usually it's at a small, but rather nice restaurant. Maybe a movie, if it's something his date is interested in. He might not be a cinema person, but he enjoys learning about the things his date likes. It spins the cog in his brain, learning more information, no matter what the subject.

He doesn't mind when his date keeps him company while at work. It's even more of a compliment when they seem interested in what he's doing-- going hand in hand with the rambling. Albeit, being cautious the first couple times they've requested to do so.

Emil manages to squeeze in little surprises for his date. Small gifts of things that his date likes in passing-- as long as they're conventional and he knows his date will use them.

Jewelry and such is still on the table, as long as it's something he knows will be worn around and such. He isn't a fan of gifting someone things that just get forgotten.

Being as committed as he is, once he begins to date someone, it takes a lot for him to want to stop. His patience is sky high with the right people and it takes a lot to get him angry.

Many could see it as being a pushover, but he isn't. He just knows and understands that people are not cookie-cutter, by a long shot.

Regardless, he adores the person he is deciding to see. He wouldn't change a thing, not by a long shot-- and hopes that they intend to stay with him for a long time like he wants.

◈ rainbow six tag list - @sazafraz :|: @angelaiswriting :|: @kind-wolf

if those you wish to be included in the tag list, feel free to leave a comment or DM. If you wish to be removed, please feel free to do the same.

[waiting-on-a-dream]

My ocs as milgram songs!

I'm doing this based on backstory and which one of my oc(s) would kin the milgram character, so whoever gets assigned to these sad songs...Rip.

Weakness: Aurora

The words I tried to say was “You’re unfair” And those words thought how pitiful I am

As told before in my Aurora analysis, they long for a love that only children receive. That is to say, they want to be protected and pampered (simply for existing?). The same goes for Haruka, who desperately wants to be loved and seems to be still stuck in a childish sort of mindset, and this sentiment shines through strongly in this song. I want to be a pitied and loved weakling. Children are "weak", and yet they are often treated with such love and care. Since that is so, Aurora never wants to grow up.

Another thing is, Haruka seems to have had this sort of sibling rivalry with his sister, where his mother would pay more if not all of her attention to his sister instead (as hinted in all knowing and all agony). Aurora feels this way towards their own sister, Alanna, who is the youngest and more ambitious to excel. Though not to such a serious degree as Haruka of course.

Umbilical: Gaius

Just the two of us, I feel a little tingle inside Our love links us together Just me alone, the warmth starts fading away Let’s reload the warmth

A song most likely about abortion? *Ignores my female ocs and slaps the song onto this guy like a sticker*

All jokes aside, Gaius is the one most likely to tweak his personality in order to appeal to someone he likes out of all my ocs. He's also secretly really lonely, and that's why he's the most sociable out of the seven brothers. He'd probably be the first one to have a crush on someone and get into a relationship out of the seven of them.

Bring it on: Violet

All evil hypocrites should disappear I won’t stop until you say “sorry”

None of my ocs would go on a manhunt on social media and bully someone until they cancel their life subscription, so I just chose my most morally outspoken oc for this song. Even she's not that aggressive, damn. Fuuta needs to chill.

After pain: Xenon

I don’t want tomorrow to come I want to forget yesterday

I don't think I've ever revealed Xenon's backstory before, but at the rate my creative writing juices are filling up, I don't think I'll be able to write something more serious for him anytime soon. So here it is!

His family used to be happy, attending the annual moon festival together and all. But somewhere along the line, his parents started to drift apart and argue a lot more. The divorce was messy, fireballs were thrown. Of course, any child would feel miserable throughout this entire process. Xenon felt like it was his fault somehow, as if he was a burden to his parents because both of them didn't seem eager to take custody of him.

Throw down: Emile

“Throw down” emotions with no color I wonder if I can die with it still left

To be honest, this might be the hardest milgram song to decipher. The lyrics and even the music video are so vague, no one really knows what Shidou did. But if I were to throw all of my ocs at this song, Emile would probably stick best.

He's going to do something that he thinks is terribly wrong, and feel incredibly guilty for it. But the damage has been done. Let's see if I ever get the motivation to write it out.

This is how to be in love with you: Gaius

Giving you love to the point of pulling you down It’s just because I still get worried, please forgive me

Out of all my ocs, he's the one most likely to become almost obsessive in a relationship. Anxious attachment style let's go.

Half: Violet

The curse of reuniting with you puts a dagger in my heart I imagined that you saying "See you" is the same as "It's over” Only if your heart would change but that’s not possible Please tell me what I should do, feelings shrouded in lies will float away and disappear

HELP I READ THE LYRICS TO HALF AND IT FITS VIOLET'S FEELINGS TOWARDS IRIS SO MUCH! IT FITS SO WELL I MIGHT JUST DO A WHOLE RELATIONSHIP ANALYSIS FOR THEIR RELATIONSHIP USING THE LYRICS OF THIS SONG!! (Along with Aurora and Weakness.)

Magic: Violet

But it’s not scary at all, because it’s love I can actually think of it as a good thing, see isn’t it a great thing?

Oh my goodness, Violet is on a roll in this post. All I can say is that her mother was very overbearing and overprotective towards her and Iris. And while Iris often rebelled, Violet was the one that obeyed. Even she gets curious and wants to explore sometimes, but she doesn't want to be scolded! She doesn't want to be a bad girl!

MeMe: Elio

Ahhh, it’s the same anywhere I go It’s like what’s wrong isn’t wrong

He was bullied physically quite a bit as a kid, and Duran often had to step in and fight off the bullies. (It took Duran a while to learn how to fight though, so before that, Fleda would take on most of the beatings. I already have an idea for a scenario to convey this.)

That's what motivated Elio to learn how to fight on his own, and that's why he's so aggressive now. He only fights people he deems deserving of a throw down, and doesn't think it's fair that he's punished along with whoever he fought with afterwards. He especially doesn't like how Luka scolds him without asking for the full picture after hearing about the incident.

Harrow: Elio

I can’t forgive the evil hurting the weak It’s unforgivable, I won’t allow it, I just can’t let it go

The explanation for this is the same as the one above, lmao.

All knowing and all agony: Aurora and Emile actually

You were always comparing me to someone else You were always generous, except towards me

Aurora feels as if their mom is always comparing to someone else. Even if their mom mentions a family member being an honor's student, or accomplishing a great feat in sports, it already sours Aurora's mood. It's hard being the eldest child, eh?

Mommy, look, I’ve done great “There there, my good boy!”

Emile just wants to be a good boy for his mom. :( I will not elaborate.

Tear drop: Iris

If you want “me”, come marco, I’ll polo Let’s just do it, please smile?

Hm...Out of all my ocs, I think Iris would be most eager to...you know, do the hanky panky? I don't have a lot of ocs that are of age either, so. She's probably also most likely the one to hate other's moral expectations of her. What she does is her own business after all.

Backdraft: Elio

Holler-holler from safety, so worthless The fight’s up here! Come up to the ring and face me!

Once again, Elio's connection to this song can already be explained with what I wrote for MeMe. Wow, he's on a roll too.

[lepusrufus]

As promised, a little thing about Cassandra being well...herself. Plus a sketch to go with it bc I don’t like posting lots of text by itself.

Warning ths one’s gory y’all

"Entertain him for just a bit," her mother had said. "Just take him down to the winery and I'll meet you there shortly." 

And that's how Bela found herself leading one of Alcina's business partners through the castle's hallways. Her mother had to do some urgent calls and leaving a guest by himself would have been quite impolite. And who else to do the task really? Cassandra would probably scare the man to death and Daniela would take him down to the wrong winery. As much as they all reveled in killing and maiming, sometimes they needed to show some face and one such occasion was when the family business was involved.

The man, Emile, has been working with their family for a few years now. If memory serves her right he came from somewhere in France, looking for rare luxury wines. He wasn't exactly a pleasant person, but luckily he didn't talk much when her mother wasn't around, settling for admiring the decorations and paintings adorning their home. 

The long route they were taking, staying well away from the dungeon's entrance, was taking them along one of the castle's outer walls. From the windows you could see the beautiful mountains stretching far in every direction and, down blow, the town bustling with activity. 

"Quite beautiful weather today no?" 

Bela couldn't help a small scowl, invisible under her hood but there none the less, when watching the snow piled on the ground outside. The sun was indeed shining today, but it's warmth didn't quite reach the ground, feeling more like sharp teeth on one's skin. 

"I prefer the warm seasons." 

The man hummed in response, still looking out the large windows while they walked. 

"Come to think of it, I never saw any of you out during winter." 

Bela narrowed her eyes at the remark. His tone came out jokingly, but there was something else in his voice, almost testing the waters to see how much he can poke and prod at a wolf before getting his hand bitten off. Bela decided to fall back in step with him, wanting to keep an eye on his every move. 

"You're just never here long enough," she answered flatly. 

They walked in silence once more, the only audible sound being their boots walking on the hard floor. Until Bela caught glimpse of a quick movement, only to turn and see Emile quickly grab one of the windows' handles and open it fully. 

"What the-"

Bela's surprise died in her throat when the cold hit her, instantly chilling her to the bone. She screamed through gritted teeth out of frustration and pain, feeling the little exposed skin cracking already. Her attempt at backing away failed as her back quickly hit the wall and any logical thought of moving left or right was quickly leaving her mind. 

"Oh, somebody will pay good money for your heads." He barked out a laugh.

Bela wanted to snap back at him, tell him he was so stupidly wrong and no, you can't literally chop our heads off even if you tried. But the pain caused by the cold left her unable to do much more than double over and grind her teeth. 

Until a black blur of robes and insects came slamming against the window, shutting it in the process. Daniela then approached her shivering form while Cassandra materialized from a swarm of insects a moment later. She knelt in front of Bela and grabbed her face. 

"Hey. Hey dummy look at me. Are you alright?" 

Bela only let out a low growl, narrowing her eyes at her. Cassandra pursed her lips, taking that as a no, and got up. 

"Take care of her Dani, I'll be right back."

She moved past her sister, giving her a quick pat on the shoulder and started walking down the hall that Emile had run through a couple seconds prior. Daniela wanted to ask if she needed help, but before she could open her mouth she saw Cassandra whip out her sickle which only meant one thing: hunt's on. 

--

Cassandra's features were hardened into a deep scowl, looking every little bit like the bloodthirsty killer the townspeople feared so much. She wasn't running, as opposed to Emile who just took off. It was pointless. He was heading towards a dead end anyways. 

When she rounded a corner only to see him a little further ahead, she wasted no time in bringing up her sickle and throwing it towards her prey. The blade cut the air forcefully with a quick whoosh and embedded itself into the man's shoulder. He let out a pained yelp and lost his balance, landing face first on the marble floor. He tried to scramble to his feet but Cassandra gave him no time to escape. 

She grabbed the weapon's handle and pulled it free from the man's flesh, turning him towards her in the process. She then planted one foot on his chest, stopping him from getting up. 

Her eyes narrowed and she brought the tip of her sickle to one of the man's eyes, letting out a short chuckle when his expression turned to terror. 

"How did you know?" 

"The real question is how do other people not know? It's pretty obvious once you think about it." 

The answer was anything but satisfactory. Nobody who knew about their weakness was to be left alive, and if killing a bunch of smartasses was what it took to keep her family safe then so be it. Starting with one particular smartass. 

She was snapped out of her thoughts with a loud bang. Looking down at Emile she noticed the gun that he managed to take a hold of and fire up at her. Cassandra didn't move, her eyes merely widening in mild surprise. His expression however contorted from smug to horrified upon noticing that the bullet flew straight through her, only dispersing a small swarm of flies that quickly flew back into her form. 

"You know, I was really considering making this quick and clean since I have other things to do. But you-" she growled, grabbing his face "-you pissed me off." 

He let out a muffled scream when Cassandra's fingers clamped down on his cheeks, forcing his mouth open. After a few stubborn moments she decided to use her sickle too, pushing the blade in between his teeth and prying them open. His muffled protests turned into full on screeches when she suddenly pushed the hooked weapon downwards, it's tip piercing the tongue and neck muscles and poking out through the underside of the jaw. 

The screaming soon mixed with gurgling due to the blood now pooling into his throat and mouth. But that too died down when Cassandra forcefully yanked her sickle back, pulling the bottom jaw that it was still hooked to and ripping muscle and bone with a sickening crack. 

Emile was writhing on the floor for a couple of seconds, unable to make any sound other than the chocked gurgling of the blood now blocking his airways. But soon he stopped moving, dark blood forming a growing pool around his now jawless head. She grabbed him by the hair and started dragging him towards the dungeons. On any other day she would bring him to her mother and have a feast with the rest of her family, but the seething anger that was still coursing through her veins gave her a different idea. 

--

Down in the bowels of the castle, where she even had a space designated as her "working area" Cassandra looked up at her handiwork. Emlie's body was sprawled out on a scarecrow frame, limbs tightly attached to the wooden poles and jaw dangling from his neck attached with a rope. She couldn't go and put the new "decoration" outside herself but she could always have someone else do it. 

With a satisfied smile, she spun on her heels and started to make her way back towards the upper levels of the castle to check on her sisters and inform her mother of what happened. While walking, there was only one thought ringing through her mind. 

Nobody touches my family.

[matsbarzal]

can I please request angst #14 with Petey??

angst #14. "are you going to talk to me or?"

pairing: elias pettersson x reader word count: 1.3k warnings: angst (happy ending)

Elias Pettersson knew he was good at lots of things. He knew he was a good person, a good friend, an even better hockey player. But the one thing he wasn’t good at? Understanding what he had done to upset you.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have a relatively good understanding of the stupid things he did, he knew he had made plenty of mistakes in your relationships, easily fixable ones, really. Except this time.

It had been almost four days of complete radio silence, no text, no call, no FaceTime’s, nothing. You had sent him a thumbs up the moment he landed and told you he had landed, and no response since. Elias could easily tell you had been on your phone, snapchat stories and twitter likes popping up on both his feeds every now and then, but he could not fathom why you hadn’t texted him in days.

You had fought hundreds of times before, little spats here and there, petty arguments that just turned into nothing when he brought home your favourite food, but never an argument to the extent that you wouldn’t even text him.

“You alright over there, Petey? Lookin’ a little queasy… oh shit that rhymed, look at me go,” trying to ignore Brock was even more difficult than trying to understand why you weren’t texting him, especially when said blonde was his best friend and could pick up on every social cue Elias was giving off.

“Fine, yeah.”

Shrugging his shoulders slightly, the Swede thumbed through his phone, bringing up your contact card and then exiting out every few seconds. “Y/N still not texting you? You sure you didn’t do anything before we left?”

Tossing the phone onto the table in front of him, Elias groaned as he tried to rack his head for what he could’ve done wrong before leaving Vancouver. There was a multitude of things it could be, there was a spat right before he left the apartment, an argument over moving the cars, which somehow turned into him suggesting that the two of you should get a dog.

The Swede couldn’t pinpoint an exact moment in your last two days with one another where he might have upset you to the point of not speaking.

Halfway across the country, your eyes had barely left the box you had found sitting in Elias’ top drawer since he left. It was all you could focus on, your eyes constantly moving to find the little black box that you had moved to the top of the dresser, its closed lid haunting you, taunting you the more and more your eyes peered to it.

Elias hadn’t made any indications that this was what he was pushing towards, you hadn’t even realized he was considering this. Two years into a relationship, you knew it was possible, but you just didn’t realize how possible.

You loved him, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t, but did you love him enough to get married? Maybe. But add in the constant bickering, the continuous fights, the never-ending spats that had no regular conclusion and usually just consisted of some form of idiotic makeup in the hopes the both of you would forget about what you were arguing for anyways.

The silent treatment may have been petty, all of Elias’ texts going unanswered, snapchats only being sent back every time the timer would appear next to your streak. You knew it was childish, and was probably terrifying your boyfriend, but your brain couldn’t fathom what to do, couldn’t fathom what you wanted.

The game against the Canadiens had been explosive, the Canucks losing horrifically, and Elias’ play just an even bigger catalyst to the team. It was the first game you had watched where he hadn’t played his best, the turnovers were consistent, his numbers were down, his penalty minutes were even higher than usually.

And you knew there was a large possibility you were the main cause for his deterioration of play.

Pulling up your phone from its spot stuffed under the covers, you scrolled until you reached his contact name, the little blue dot beside it just an indication of how many messages had gone unanswered in the last few days. Before you even had the chance to send a message through, his contact name appeared at the top of your list.

are you going to talk to me or am i going to come home to an empty apartment tn? not sure what i did wrong but this isn’t fair

You could feel the guilty instantly seep through your body at the text message, your eyes welling up with unshed tears at the message that came through. Elias was your best friend, the epitome of everything good in your life, and something about that just terrified you.

i’ll be here when u get home, ‘Lias. have a safe flight xo

A large sigh of relief left the Swede’s lips when the three bubbles popped up under your name, an even bigger sigh leaving his lips when you said you’d be home when he got there. He allowed his phone to drop in between his legs, his eyes focusing on the iPad in front of him, currently playing reruns of New Girl, your favourite show to watch together.

Almost six hours later, you heard the sound of the lock clicking, the door swinging open to reveal a dishevelled and thoroughly exhausted-looking Elias Pettersson.

“So, are we going to do this now? I told Brock to set up his guest bedroom, I’m not arguing all night so let’s just get this over with,” his keys were tossed onto the centre island, his eyes never leaving yours as you tried to rack your brain for what to say.

“I found the ring… in your top drawer.”

Your stomach turned as you watched the array of emotions fly across Elias’ face; confusion, frustration, anger, sadness, everything smoothing together before he placed a stoic look across his features.

“You freaked out and ignored me for almost five days, because you found a ring in my drawer?” The scoff fell from his lips almost beautifully, his features twisting into annoyance as he looked at you.

“I just… I didn’t know how to react. We argue about everything, ‘Lias. We literally fight about the colour of the sky, and you’ve already bought a ring?”

Moving so he was sitting on the couch opposite of you, the Swede turned so his entire body was facing you, the stoic look now turning into a look of concern.

“Y/N… we fight about everything because that’s just how we are. Our fights have never, ever turned into anything serious. We argue with each other because we both never want to be wrong, that shouldn’t be a reason for you to freak out and not want to marry me one day, my love. Just because I have the ring doesn’t mean I want to get married tomorrow. It’s my grandmother’s engagement ring, Emil let me have it for the day I eventually propose to you. I didn’t buy it, it’s been sitting in that drawer for ages.”

You could feel the embarrassment settling in your stomach at his words, your stomach turning as you tried to think of a response. The only thing you could muster up was an apology, your eyes never leaving your hands as they twisted amongst each other.

His body moved closer to yours, one arm wrapping around your back as he gently pulled you into his side.

“You don’t need to apologize, just maybe instead of going ghost, argue with me instead? Since when are you one to hide your feelings, especially something like that?”

Shrugging your shoulders at his words, you felt his lips press against the crown of your head gently, his hands squeezing your side as he did so.

“Pinky promise that you won’t do that again? Scared the shit out of me and Brock, and Brock never gets scared.”

Pushing your pinky finger towards him, he wrapped his own around yours with a smile small, his head pressed against yours as he squeezed your pinky with his own.

“And quit going through my drawers, nerd.”

“Don’t leave your clothes in the dryer then and I won’t have to put them away for you, Pettersson.”

note: thank you for requesting this!! i hope you enjoy, and it's everything you wanted. it's not too angsty, and it has a happy ending so hopefully that's perfect. <3

[greenninjagal-blog]

Details in Gold pt2

Annnnnnd we’re back! If you missed it, you can find [Chapter One here!]

Summary: After spending their Anniversary hitting it up during a Magical Festival and getting super drunk, Remy and Emile return home to find that some surprises are really bad. 

Word Count: 13092

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist

[Chapter Two: Fool’s Gold]

“Remy, wake up.”

Remy, for his part, follows the request spectacularly: he’s sitting bolt upright in the bed, heaving breaths through his lungs, and shaking with an adrenaline so strong he swears that the entire building is crumbling around him before the last syllable is finished ringing in the air. The world around him swims and sways, like an ocean made out of shadows that he’s drowning in considering the fact that all the air seems to have disappeared from the entire planet without anyone else noticing. Remy wheezes, hands fumbling over his chest in a half baked thought about ripping open his rib cage to make sure his lungs are still there at all, because if someone stole them that would explain a hell of a lot right now.

“Remy,” a voice says to his left, so softly that listening to it feels like falling into quicksand. “Love, breathe with me.”

His heart throttles his throat, pumping so hard that his ears pound. He has to go. He needs to run. It's not safe. The shadows are aching and weeping and calling out to him and Remy’s scars burn so deep he tastes blood in his mouth.

“...three…. four…. five … six…”

His legs are entangled, his limbs trapped and he’s being held down and there’s pain everywhere. He needs help, please, help-- 

“...eight and inhale….”

He inhales, and it’s like getting hit with a club by a Goliath, which Remy knows because that’s happened to him before. Years ago. He breathes and his strangled lungs inflate and Remy thinks that his skin might be made of glass and a single touch will shatter him completely.

“You’re doing so well,” Emile says gently and Remy feels the bed shift as he moves to be near him. Which is great. Wonderful. 

Fuck. His body is still shaking, vibrating with nerves he didn’t even know he still had.  

“Remy?” Emile says again so softly Remy is going to-- nope wait, he’s already crying. He’s crying next to his husband in their bed, on their anniversary, over a nightmare. 

“Here,” he croaks, pressing his palms to his eyes and resisting the urge to suffocate himself with the pillow. “I’m here….I’m…”

He does not say pathetic, but the sentiment is well and truly there. Emile must know it too, from the look he gives him. 

((Self deprecating statements is something they’ve been working on since they met. Remy had always alternated between the brashest of bold statements and the most self flagellating ones, and Emile had put his foot down when Remy brought their son home. Something about it affecting mental health of their child to hear their parent say it-- Remy didn’t need the science of it; he knew that if he ever heard Virgil talk about himself the way that Remy talked about himself, he wouldn’t survive the self hatred.))

“...sorry,” Remy whispers. His throat is raw and dried out from the lingering effects of alcohol not too long ago. His head pounds and his bones feel so brittle under his paper skin. 

Emile twists bad to his side of the bed, moonlight streaming over his fair skin in pale slivers, where the blanket falls away. When he turns back around his wire rimmed glasses are back on his face, giving an extraordinary depth to his dark eyes. 

“You don’t need to apologize, braveheart,” he says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I…” Remy swallows hard and exhales harder. His brain flashes with pangs of terror that leaves his shoulders shaking and his heart thundering, but it's mindless. His limbs scream with the urge to run but there’s no destination or chaser. Even as he sits upright and tugs the blankets from around his ankles, the jittery feeling in his stomach is fading and rational thought is reminding him that this is kinda, just a little, completely, extremely embarrassing. “I don’t remember. Something bad.”

He drops himself back to the mattress, his head narrowly missing the headboard and he stares up at the ceiling tracing the unfamiliar woodgrains with his eyes, and trying to hold back tears and sniffles. His skin thickens under the chill of the air, and the moonlight, and his steadier breathing. Calming down actually helps with breathing, who knew? 

“Do you want a hug?” Emile asks.

“Please.” 

Emile shuffles closer, crossing that threshold to Remy’s side of the bed and wriggling his arms under Remy’s back to rest his head on Remy’s chest right next to his tattoo of two hands bound in red rope. He’s so warm it's nearly burning, but Remy folds around him soaking up the flames along his skin. 

There’s strength here-- Remy’s known it since the first time he set his eyes on Emile, back when he was still a barboy at the rowdy adventuring town of Juphia. His gentle nature had always gotten him laughed at, but Remy had watched him break up a bar fight with nothing more than words and he’d been so awed he missed his mouth and poured his fireseed wine down his front. There’s strength in his steady presence, his careful understanding, his patience, and trust and loyalty.

Enough strength there to forge Remy's shattering, broken pieces back together again and again and again.

In his youth-- which mind you, was still not that long ago no matter what Emile says and no matter how lovingly he says it-- Remy was a world renowned adventurer. His name was just a single action away from being written in the stars themselves, everywhere he had gone people knew his face, and his reputation had spread faster and farther than any others for decades.

Sure, it hadn’t been for good reasons: a small bar fight had knocked over a lantern and half a town had gone up in flames and Remy had received the blame for throwing the first punch (even when he hadn’t actually thrown the first punch). He’d been on several wanted posters for a long time, had to keep off the main roads, and couldn’t do any traveling during the day lest he run into someone who wanted to cash in on that bounty over his head. He’d been run out of a handful of cities and towns and villages the moment that he had slipped into them.

It had been lonely, sure. Down right agonizing to join adventuring parties for a few days, a week, maybe a month if he’s lucky, and then to be discarded the moment that his unfortunate past caught up with him. He’d spent a lot of sleepless nights tending a fire for himself and checking to make sure the pain he was feeling in his guts wasn’t actually a spare knife that had wandered away from an owner.

But it had led him in the right direction in the end. Any path that led to the saving of several hundred lives was the right path, wasn’t it? 

Remy tightens his hold on Emile, pressing a kiss to his husband’s dark curls. In the moonlight the red band on his wrist seems to glow. The threads are interwoven in a simple pattern, no flashy designs, no fancy magic: at the end of the day it’s just a piece of cord tied around his wrist.

At morning’s first light, Emile’s matching one is a reminder of how much more it is.

Remy, for all the empty, lost years he’d spent drifting around without a destination, plan, or goal beyond “help people”, had achieved the ultimate happy ending: a magic shop and home that he owned, an adoring husband who kissed like honey and loved like the evergreens and left Remy thinking in love sonnets, a son-- he was a dad! Who would have ever thought he’d make a decent parent?

And hey, for a kid who grew up with nothing and no one, he thinks he did pretty alright.

It just sucks that to get to this point, he had to first make himself an enemy of the entire human race.

Remy Sanders, Bard of the Monsters, Champion of the Fae.

((Except that it wasn’t always the Fae, and he wasn’t actually a bard, and “Monsters” has always been the human way of avoiding saying an actual slur to any race of beings able to murder them with a thought.))

In his youth everyone told him that the creatures in the forests, the beautiful folk with untouchable wings, the wolves that grew to the size of bears, the shades that haunted the town limits with glowing red eyes-- those, they said, were not people. They were killers, thieves, and fiends.

But the funny thing was that when Remy was starving in the streets, it wasn’t a human that had offered him a piece of dried meat and half a loaf of bread. Glowing deep purple eyes and horns hidden by the brim of their hood, a swiftly moving tail wrapped around their waist and a skin that rippled like an illusion when Remy had looked too closely; They had been gone in the blink of an eye, leaving Remy with sourdough bread in his dust covered hands and Remy had never seen them again.

((A demon, supposedly incapable of love or kindness, having escaped the fires from some hell realm, and yet they had spared food when hundreds of humans had walked on by without so much as a glance at him.))

Remy spends a lot of time thinking about them, probably more than that demon ever thought about him. They had probably saved his life with a single act of kindness and where Remy had never been able to thank them, he had taken to saving every other magical creature he could.

So yeah, not a fundamentally human-like thing to do-- that insistence on helping tieflings, or cavorting with elves, drinking with dwarves, or offering trinkets to the fae had put him in surprisingly terrible standings with humans that hated magical creatures. There was no shortage of people willing to do senseless killings of entire werewolf packs based on the assumption that a dead sheep was some kind of omen; Remy had spent decades spilling blood, sweat, and tears on every inch of the world being the sole protector of creatures who weren’t always happy to have him shielding them from humans who definitely hated that he was shielding them.

But what else was there to expect from a paladin of Ilmater? It’s in his nature to suffer for the sake of others. His nightmares are just another in a long list of things that showed he’d done good. 

((“You’ve done enough,” Emile had said nineteen years ago, tears in his eyes, pressing a hand to his red bracelet so that Remy could not tear his eyes from it. “You’ve suffered enough, Remy.”))

Emile nods off listening to Remy’s heartbeat in his chest. Remy lies awake listening to his soft breaths get deeper. He doesn’t have a clue what time it is other than late, although it was already late when they went to bed last night, whispers of wine and mead on their tongues and giggling like they were teenagers again. Remy remembers being mesmerized by the way that the fireworks painted Emile in a rainbow of colors until he looked like a mirage that would disappear if Remy stopped kissing him.

At some point the festival must have calmed down, because it was quiet now and Remy could hear his own thoughts echoing in the comforting emptiness. If he had to guess, he’d say that sunrise would be in an hour or so and there was definitely a group of dwarves who would be cursing his name, if not telling tales of his legendary ability to hold his mead. Emile had spent the night discussing magical theory with a sorcerer and an off duty magical researcher from the Capital, most of which had gone straight over Remy’s head even as Emile had sat in his lap the entire discussion. In his very esteemed opinion, Remy thought it was a very good ending to their third day in the elven city of Estrelas.

He only feels a little guilty for misleading his precious, lovely son: Virgil had jumped to the conclusion fairly quickly that their anniversary would be spent getting frisky in the woods, which Remy had then wondered if that was just his son projecting on them. But then Emile and Remy had silently agreed not to tell him they were going to a Magical Festival in the Elven Kingdom that they had heard about from a couple of adventurers that had passed through their shop while Virgil was off daydreaming about the color of Janus’s eyes or the shape of Janus’s lips, so that was on them.

Originally the plan had been to take Virgil with them, but the same day that Emile had suggested it, Remy had pointed out that there would be crowds, loud music, yelling, screaming, magical explosions-- they’d never been before and they wouldn’t know where they were really if they got lost and besides, did Emile really think that they’d be able to take Virgil anywhere without his tag along following?

((“We’re going to be lucky if we return and they aren’t married,” Emile had laughed.

“Don’t remind me,” Remy had said, sighing and feeling old. “We might as well just go again next year if we like it and invite the Ekans to join us. That is if I don’t kill their son for defiling mine in the five days we’re gone.”))

Remy cards his fingers through the fringe of Emile’s hair at his neck, and then traces gently down his spine, marvelling at the way that even in his sleep, even drooling over Remy’s chest, his husband is the prettiest thing that he’s ever laid eyes on. He slips Emile’s glasses back off, listening to his husband's rather incoherent mumble and sets them on the far reaches of the pillows that Emile forfeited to use Remy’s body instead. Where did he get the motivation to just go on being the brightest shining star? Remy has asked him before if he knew that he could have been a Heartwarder of Sune, but Emile’s resounding laughter only further proved his point in this case. 

He had to know by now that he could have had any good looking guy in the world. And yet he’d chosen Remy and all his crumbling bits, kissing the jagged edges like they couldn’t cut him, couldn’t hurt him, couldn’t ruin his perfectly good life. 

“‘love you,” Emile mumbles as if he can hear exactly what Remy’s thinking.

Remy presses another kiss to his curls. He’s pretty sure that if he says anything right now it's going to come out in a sappy, disgusting poem format: something about the way that Emile makes his heart pound and his mouth go dry, something about how his eyes are whirlpools that Remy gladly tosses himself into and his voice only could coax him back to life, something about those butterflies that always migrate back into Remy’s stomach when Emile does stupid shit like say I love you while half asleep.

And that patience, oh that patience.

Remy didn’t have enough words to describe that patience. Remy had travelled through every country on the planet, taken three trips to the fae world, gotten trapped the demon realms for a year, and gotten lost the mining tunnels so old the Dwarves themselves forgot where they went, and still Remy didn’t think he’d travelled farther than that patience of Emile’s was willing to go.

He’d stayed waiting every time that Remy left on another journey, another job, another quest to save someone somewhere and do something-- He stayed waiting in Juphia when Remy couldn’t send so much as a letter back to him to let him know that Remy hadn’t gotten himself killed by a mind flayer or drowned in a pond by a siren or, or, or. Emile had stayed patiently waiting for Remy to decide himself that he could put down his sword and shield and take off his armor.

And he stayed when Remy had picked all of it back up at the first sign of a call for help. 

((“You’ve suffered enough,” Emile had said through tears, so very patiently.

“I’m sorry,” Remy had said because self hatred fit him just as well as his armor did. “I’m sorry. I can’t look away from this one.”

“They can find someone else to call for help! It doesn’t always have to be you!”

“Who else would be stupid enough to help a fae?”))

He’d left Emile crying on the doorstep of their magic shop, once upon a time. He’d left at the morning’s first rays, after he had promised not to leave again, after he had tied their chords together in front of the altar of Ilmater, after he had kissed Emile senseless and realized that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with something so gentle. He hadn’t looked back, left his iron knife and rings in the dresser next to their bed, whispering apologies that Remy wasn’t sure either of them believed.

How could he be sorry for leaving if he knew he’d do it again? How could Emile still love him when he lied so easily?

The fae world wasn’t a place where humans were allowed to walk freely; the doors were closed unless a human gave up their name (and their body and soul and mind). Those that entered were not supposed to ever leave.

Remy had been there thrice. 

He’d been tricked the first time, approached by a hooded figure at a tavern in Awosa who asked for his name and Remy had been trying to drink himself out of a pit of self pity and had been just two tankards away from killing his liver. He’d given up his name (and his body and soul and mind) and the fae had walked him into the fae world, given his name back to him and explained that the Fae Queen had been cursed and Remy was the only adventurer that they could trust to find something to save her. 

He had. It had cost the skin on his back, nearly three of his inner organs, half of his sanity, and every piece of gold that he had managed to save up over the years, but he survived and returned to the fae with a cure so potent that carrying it in his hands hand left holy burns that still discolored his skin to this day. 

(It’s in the nature of a paladin of Ilmater to suffer for others.)

The Fae Queen had called him her Champion after that. She’d settled magic over the eyes of the humans that blamed him for that fire and erased their memories of it entirely as payment for what he’d done.

He’d gone back to Emile, kissed him until he forgot what air tasted like, got settled down with their magic shop and he’d lived. Happily. For two years. 

Then he’d gotten a summons right back to the fae world citing an urgent matter they could only entrust to him. 

Emile begged him to let someone else take care of it-- they were going to start a family, you know? Had just agreed that they wanted and could provide for a child, had just started looking around, had just become comfortable without that armor on. 

But Remy’s nature is to suffer and Emile knows this and hasn’t ever stopped wishing it wasn’t true.

Remy had gone to the fae nineteen years ago, stood before the magical gate and gave up his name (and body and soul and mind), unsure if he would ever get it back. He’d been led through opulent cities that he didn’t remember beyond blurs of colors and too sharp teeth and music that no human instrument could make. He’d walked up the stairs of the fae palace unable to form a rational thought and he’d knelt before the Fae Queen without knowing who she was.

She’d given his name (and body and soul and mind) back.

And then she’d dropped a baby into his arms.

“We do not forget debts, Remy Sanders,” She’d said. “Your actions saved both me and my people.”

A baby. In his arms.

“He was left abandoned at our gate.”

A living breathing baby, swaddled in a purple silk blanket. So small, so fragile, so quiet-- a baby who didn’t so much as wake when he shifted between carriers.

“Humans cannot survive in our realm unaltered for long. We gave him a gift to ensure his survival until you arrived.”

There was a baby in his arms and Remy was afraid to breathe unless it woke him up.

“He’s yours, Remy,” the Fae Queen had said. “Whatever you choose to name him. I would require that you raise him well, lest he find his way back to my kingdom.”

A baby.

"Goodbye, Remy Sanders. We won't meet again unless you wish to never leave."

Remy didn’t-- doesn’t, not even to this day-- remember leaving the Fae world that time: he’d spent the entire time making sure that the baby in his arms was comfortable and warm and safe. He’d stepped through the threshold back to the human world and he’d blocked the sunlight from falling into the baby’s eyes, but he had still stirred an woke with a soft yawn and--

His eyes were the warmest brown that Remy had ever seen, with flecks of purple in the irises and pupils wide and trusting and curious and-- 

“Hey there,” Remy had whispered softly, with tears trailing down his cheeks. “I’m your dad, kid. And I’m gonna give you the whole world if you want it.”

((Emile was right; Remy had suffered enough. He’d come back to his magic shop, and his endlessly patient husband and he’d handed off his son-- Virgil, Virgil Sanders, his son-- and then he’d taken off his armor and sold it for scrap.))

Remy doesn’t realize he managed to fall back asleep until the banging on the door starts.

He jerks in surprise, dislodging an equally sleepy Emile from his chest and his heart thundering in a way that was surely not good for his old body. The room looks marginally familiar now-- the sunbeams highlight the writing desk and mirror like a fairy fire enchantment straight from Hell its-- fucking--self, a chair in the corner holds their travel bags that have been rooted through and in what looks like a divines awful mess for them to clean up later, and Emile’s shirt is on the floor, even if Remy can't say for certain which of them had tossed it there between the pounding in his head. 

The booming blows on the door are so hard it rattles the rest of the room and leaves the hinges creaking in a way that suggests they’re going to give out and Remy is going to have to pay for the repairs. Remy stumbles from the bed, tripping over the blankets and the corner of the frame before Emile could even so much as open his mouth. He grabs the first weapon he can find in the room, waving towards Emile to keep quiet, although he might not have seen it at all with how his glasses had slipped away among the pillows and sheets.

The floor sways under Remy’s feet, swishing and swirling like he paid for a boat ride without knowing it, and his stomach climbs right up throat in a very valiant effort to make him choke on his own vomit. 

What a way to go, though, he thinks. After all this, a few rounds of mead with dwarves and he's set himself up to croak at the action of standing.

“The entire city better be on-fucking-fire,” Remy growls as he unchains the lock and yanks the door open.

Luckily, the arm of the fucking Aasimar manages to stop before it slams into Remy's face, because there was no version of this where Remy would have been able to dodge. He leans on the door just to keep his balance as he stares up into the face of the frankly glowing person, like his brain isn’t pulsing behind his fragile eyes in an attempt to pop out and say hi. 

They’re tall. Like Remy-needs-a-stool-to-get-on-eye-level and that’s very rude of the universe to set up-- the Aasimar is already slouching in the hall outside their room, cramped and with a stoic expression on their face. They have pale yellow wings that are crushed from trying to fit inside and a few ruffled feathers have already graced the floor in a radiance that Remy’s pretty sure would vaporize him if he breathed near.

Suddenly the knife in his hand seems extremely stupid to have. He’s not entirely sure the metal of it won’t melt apart if it tried to touch the resplendent being. Not to mention, how the chill of the hall catches him like a hundred icy hands caressing his bare legs and arms, compared to the full set of shining battle armor the Aasimar has on.

“If this is about something I did last night--” Remy says, carefully between gritted teeth, “--can I at least put on some pants before we get to the part where you smite me?”

“Remy!” Emile calls from behind him and it's testament to how much Remy loves him that he doesn’t even whimper pathetically as the noise drives into his skull like a crossbow arrow.

“My bad,” Remy says. “Can I put on pants before we get to the part where we have a totally mature, adult conversation about your grievances against me that inevitably turns into a bloody fist fight?”

Remy is familiar enough with his husband to know that the noise he makes in response is vaguely disapproving. He's also familiar enough with mornings-after to know that if this delves into a fight, the last two days of their trip will be spent with Emile crying over his unconscious, half dead corpse and Virgil will absolutely fret when they get home.

((He loves that kid so much, but sometimes he makes Remy's feel so stupidly old. He totes boxes of white snakeroot and foxgloves around the shop easily where Remy's back winces in pain and Ilmater forbid Remy show those fleeting seconds where he remembers that his bones are brittle now; Virgil once guilted him into spending half a day in bed the first time he mentioned it. Virgil might not have an ounce of Remy or Emile’s blood in him, but somehow their son perfected those mother henning instincts from one of them and now uses it against them.))

“Are you ‘the Sanders’?” the Aasimar says with a surprisingly deep voice, and surprisingly good quality Common for someone who probably spent more time speaking Celestial than anything else.

Remy tightens his grip on the door handle and the knife individually, wondering if this would be quicker if he lunged and got the boring conversation part of this over with. “Depends on who is asking.”

“You are followers of Ilmater.” 

The red bracelet on Remy’s wrists burns white hot for a second, slicing through Remy’s headache like an axe blade to the brain. He shifts in the doorway, filling it more as if he can intimidate the stranger away. At the very least it will hide Emile behind him, maybe even make the Aasimar forget he exists when worse comes to worst. 

“Yes,” Remy says with a particularly gritty smile-- an old mask from his adventuring days that he kept in his arsenal: nine tenths a threat, one tenth a warning, and a whole lot of bluffing confidence. “I’m a faithful servant. Do you have a problem with it?”

For such a big creature they still seemed to startle suddenly, wings twitching and dropping more radiant feathers on the hallway flooring. “No-- I am a chosen of Tyr, god of Justice. I am here to deliver a message to the Sanders, followers of Ilmater, at the behest of someone dear to me.” 

“A message,” Remy replies somewhat dubious. When was the last time someone just wanted to deliver a message to him? Remy’s memory is filled with nights being dragged, chased, and physically catapulted from towns when his reputation managed to trickle in; even the kindest of messages usually came with a short sword to his guts. 

Sure, followers of Tyr are usually above unjust and backhanded actions, but Remy isn’t seeing any symbol of scales on the Aasimar’s chest plate. The back of his throat tastes like his stomach acids and mead when he thinks of how many other gods would endorse their followers lying and tracking followers of Ilmater down to crush them under their feet. It’s a long list.

“Who sent you?”

The Aasimar straightens, forgets their height for a moment, singes part of the ceiling, and then  drops lower so that they’re almost laughably at Remy’s height. Remy would smile if it wasn’t way-too-early and he wasn’t way-too-hungover and feeling way-too-threatened.

“Your companion spent long hours trying to convince my compatriot’s blood sister of the possibility of overcoming magical limitations through disbelief in the foundational reasoning of the rules,” They say. “I believe the exact argument spawned from a story she was recanting of a magician who was rumored to have used a enlarging spell on an enemy’s heart. Your companion was insistent that it was possible even though the spell should not be capable of affecting individual elements of an organic creature to that extent--”

It sounds... it sounds like a bunch of words honestly. Even on a good day Remy can’t keep up with Emile’s seemingly endless knowledge on magical theory. He was always more of a hands-on type of learner, and he’d come across a hundred different ways magical enchantments didn’t work in the heat of the moment before coming back to Emile’s loving embrace and partially horrified looks for the explanation of how did you survive a fireball that size, what do you mean you HIT IT BACK AT THEM WITH YOUR BARE HANDS?!

The concept of this mysterious mage is vaguely familiar past that: mostly gossip from the last time they had travellers from out of town stop by the store for restocks. Remy wasn’t interested in the up-and-coming adventurers, but Emile liked the emerging branches of magic. Last night, Remy had been mostly distracted by Emile’s rosy cheeks as he talked himself out of breath with hands fluttering in the air, narrowly avoiding knocking over Remy’s next drink when the dwarf with the morning glories braided into her beard declared that spill intentional or not would disqualify both contenders--

“Oh!” Emile says, and Remy yelps as his husband wraps his arms around Remy’s waist, presses a kiss to (barrage of scars along) his shoulder blade and peeks out at the Aasimar. “Hela mentioned you, I believe. It’s Quintus, right? You do how do?”

The Aasimar’s wings flick again, and Remy’s brain offers up the ridiculous idea that maybe they’re uncomfortable, possibly actually intimidated by the two of them. He has to wonder what exactly was in that mead last night and how exactly he can keep it away from anywhere that Virgil might one day travel to if he ever decided to actually use that battle leather Remy got him because he doesn’t ever want his son to have thoughts this stupid.

“Hela asked me to deliver a message,” the Aasimar says, eyes darting down the hall. “In an urgent regard to your status as followers of Ilmater.”

“Oh dear,” Emile says soothingly, resting his chin on Remy’s shoulder before he can think about tensing to high hell, like those words being said to them in that order haven’t been harbingers of death and destruction before. “Well, how about we all head down to the tavern and get breakfast and you can relay what Hela wanted us to know?”

The Aasimar looks like this is distinctly not what they want to do-- the expression on their face reminds Remy of unwillfully pouring lemon juice over a wound-- but instead of mentioning their obvious distaste for the idea they nod their head.

Remy gets the feeling his headache is about to get far worse, but he presses his hands to his eyes, counts to three and then offers his best housewarming smile to their guest. He imagines it's not quite perfect-- probably just on the bare side of non-threatening, considering for over half of his life he didn’t have a home or people he trusted enough to welcome them into it.

“Let me put on some pants, I guess,” Remy says and shoves the door closed.

Emile gives him another soft lingering kiss to the side of his neck, and then draws away taking all the warmth that Remy has ever felt before in his life. The sound he makes is not at all flattering.

“Blade away, braveheart,” Emile says, without looking back or taking mercy on him. “You don’t want to get blood on Janus’s gift.”

Remy blinks down in surprise at the knife in his hand, only recognizing then that it’s not his own. Too new, and shiny and definitely smaller than the hunting knives that had served him through his prime adventuring days. He flips it in his fingers, admiring for a second the lightness of the dirk-- elven made, sleek, made of a silver and iron alloy with ritual engravings along the unsharpened edge of the blade, the handle was carved from ebony wood that was dark enough to match the color scheme of that pest. 

Despite the aching pain behind his eyes, Remy affords himself a smile and twists it again. He was pretty sure that Lord and Lady Ekans were going to have conniptions upon seeing it, but if they hadn’t kicked Remy and his family out all those years ago, he figures that they lost their chance entirely.

((He’d been jumping the counter the moment that Virgil had gone out the door, dropping a box of vials containing quick acting poisons all over the register area. Their customer had yelled out, catching it with a mage hand spell and probably saving their entire shop in the process, but Remy had been out the door, had been calling on magic he hadn't used in years, had been dual casting Banishment on the townguard that had grabbed Virgil and Magic Circle on around Emile and Virgil and--

“Please…” Remy had begged Lord Ekans on his knees with Emile behind him hugging Virgil so tight as if he could hide him from the gazes of the townguards that had come running at her ladyship’s scream. “He’s just a kid. Please… if you have to punish someone, punish me instead. Please don’t hurt my son.”))

(((Janus was seven. Janus was seven, and red in the face, heaving breaths through his small chest that was just healed yesterday. Janus was seven and he was staring up at Remy with large wide, determined eyes and his mouth was moving. 

“I’m going to marry your son,” he was saying and Remy was thinking the entire world around them was imploding because they’re seven fucking years old and this pest was talking about marriage.)))

Remy’s pants hit the side of his head, as lightly as pants can and Remy shakes his head blinking away the memories. Emile is smiling at him from next to their bags, that warm, soft expression on his face that Remy never stops falling in love with. 

“He’s going to love it,” Emile says, nodding at the dirk in Remy’s hand.

“I’m going to stab him with it if he doesn’t,” Remy says, flipping it in the air and catching the handle in a reversed edge out grip. “Do you know what I could have bought for myself with 30 gold pieces? A better future husband for my son.”

Emile laughs at him like he said something funny and not entirely true.

“He’s a pest, Em! A leech! A parasite!”

“Janus Ekans is a perfectly good kid and you know it,” Emile says, pulling his soft white underlayers on. “You just don’t like that he doesn’t ask you permission to kiss your son, which, by the way, your son happily consents to.”

“A menace!” Remy agrees, pulling his pants on.

Emile definitely rolls his eyes this time, he tosses the scabbard and belt for the dirk over his shoulder and Remy catches it in the air, carefully placing the blade away. With luck they’ll get away with hiding it in their bags until the wedding-- fuck, the wedding, when did Virgil grow up? Why is that pest still around?-- then they would be able to present both Virgil and Janus with the matching set of daggers and Remy will feel marginally less like he’s letting his son walk into a den of dire bears. 

Emile thinks that Virgil gets his fretting habit from Remy. Remy thinks it's utter bullshit because he does not fret. He just... cares about his son a lot and never wants to see him so much as skin his knee.

Is that such a crime?

Remy stuffs the dirk and the scabbard into the bottom of his travelling bag, trading it for a faded grey travelling shirt and his belt. He rushes through the rest of getting ready for the day, listening to Emile humming softly behind him as he laces his boots. 

The floor seems to have settled enough that walking doesn’t make Remy want to vomit, although the piercing pain in his head is utterly unwelcomed and not even drawing his cloak’s hood up is enough to get the pulsing to ebb.

“Let me,” Emile whispers, kindly, approaching him with the grace of an elf, and taking Remy’s broach. With careful precision he pins it to hold Remy’s cloak in place, straightens out the wrinkles, and firmly rests his hands on Remy’s shoulders afterwards. 

“Em?”

His eyes sparkle from behind his copper wire glasses, like a million priceless magic crystals. Remy’s entire body might be on the verge of vomiting itself out, but even then he’s not too far gone to ignore how beautiful his husband is-- which mind you, is still as beautiful as the day Remy met him, possibly more beautiful although Remy doesn’t have the words to explain how that is physically possible. He gets the urge, just from standing there, inches away from Emile, to sweep him up in his arms, tote him over to the window, and shout out to everyone that he’s the luckiest man in this world. Headache, hangover,-- Remy could be actively being torn apart by wolves and he’d still think Emile’s arms are the most home-like thing in the world.

But before he can actually move on that frankly brilliant idea of his, Emile pops up on his tip toes and kisses Remy’s nose.

“I really love you,” Emile whispers like it's a secret, something valuable that shouldn’t be talked about loudly, something magical and special and to be treasured. 

Remy really has to keep himself from wrapping his husband up in his arms and carrying him back to bed. “I love you too.”

“Don’t start a fight with Quintus.”

“So anyone else is fair game?”

“Remy!”

Remy presses his own kisses to Emile’s cheeks. “I love you, babes. So much. I promised I wasn’t going to fight anyone on this trip, remember? No fights, no jinxes, no... probably something I forgot about.”

“Fretting over Virgil and Janus.”

“Can’t win them all.” Remy nods his head towards the door. “Now, I believe we’ve kept the archangel waiting long enough and I need food before I hear bad news.”

Emile sighs, drawing back from him and picking up his own travel bag to sling over his shoulders. He looks like an adventurer dressed up like this, kinda like how Remy started out, without any actual armor and far more optimism than he should have had. 

“It might not be bad news,” Emile says, heading towards the door.

Remy blows a breath out of his mouth, idly rubbing his red bracelet, and aching to climb back into the bed with his husband and forget the rest of the world. “When is it ever good news?”

The Aasimar had settled themselves into a corner booth that was usually made for rowdy parties of eight or more complete with tankards, food trays and bowls and an arm wrestling contest. They’re hard to miss-- and believe him, Remy did try to conveniently miss them, considering he might have been able to convince Emile to make a strategic retreat with him  back to the bedroom they had rented for the next two days.

The Aasimar takes up one half of the table with their wings partially extended, and looks particularly guilty for it. There’s a pile of feathers on the corner of the table and they’re miserably staring at the scorch marks on the floor nearby. Emile makes an odd cooing under his breath at the poor creature, like they aren’t imbued with holy power and able to bring the wrath of Tyr himself down on the entire city.

“I bet that Samus gave them a good talking to,” Emile says, squeezing Remy’s hand and then nudging him towards the Aasimar. “Go play nice while I order us all food.”

Remy wants to do nothing of the sort. The lingering good feelings from the bedroom are completely gone by the time they get down the rickety staircase to the tavern underneath; Remy took up the other side of the table, burying his head in the hood of his traveling cloak in his best attempts to block out the entire sun that was blasting its way into the establishment like it was trying to kill him, which honestly Remy won’t put it past the sun to being trying to do. It wouldn’t be any different from any other trip he’s been on. 

The casual conversations from the other patrons only aids with Remy’s pounding head and dry mouth. There’s a coven of elves in the far corner whose laughter is way too bright and cheery for the way-too-early morning.

“It’s past noon,” Quintus the Aasimar informs him, awkward and apologetic, when Remy mutters this in lieu of any type of greeting, and Remy groans into the wooden furnish of the table. 

((It's dwarven made, extremely good quality, and a self cleaning charm along the edges so that wiping down the table tops is easier on the staff. Remy is extremely jealous of this, considering how many times he’s forgotten to wipe down the back counter for potion preparation and gotten a nasty surprise when his freshly harvested snapdragons react with the leftover traces of honey, brimstone, and liquid silver. He always tells Emile that he does wipe down the counters, he does, and he still somehow always misses a spot and ends up setting himself and parts of the back of their shop on fire.))

“Here we are!” Emile appears to his side, juggling three trays of food and three tankards of drinks between two hands with a professional skill. He must have impressed the barmaid who was waiting for him to trip in fall because she’s shaking her head ruefully and Emile is pretending innocently not to see her.

The food is still steaming--the trays have light enchantments on them to keep whatever is on them warm, although it changes the taste of the food, and Remy’s had his own face pressed to and held on one before for daring to point such a thing out before-- but really Remy’s stomach revolts against the idea of actually putting things in his mouth, much less chewing, and swallowing. The smell is strong and savory and Remy wants to gag. Emile seems to notice this based on his body language though, because he drops a tankard in front of him before the food gets anywhere near him. 

There’s a whole side of a booth and Emile sits so closely he’s almost in Remy’s lap.

The elves in the corner laugh again, chiming with bells so obnoxiously, and Remy tips back his drink and downs half of it in one go. It tastes like pumpkin seeds--toasted pumpkin seeds with a light dusting of salt and almost immediately Remy’s thrumming headache dulls to a minor hum. In another gulp, it’s gone.

Oh, Remy thinks. This is what being in love is like. 

“Marry me,” Remy says, so full of love that he can’t possibly hope to contain it all in his human form. There’s a really stupid grin on his face but he can’t make himself feel embarrassed by it. “Marry me right now.”

“You’re so cute, my braveheart,” Emile says, linking together their hands to show off their red bands. “But I’m already married.”

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Remy says. “Truly, he’s a loser. A washed up adventurer, who couldn’t even keep enough in his pocket to get you some flowers for your anniversary. Not to mention he keeps jinxing items in your house like a lunatic and hasn’t managed to figure out the countercurses yet.”

Emile hums, nodding his head in an attempt to keep the smile off his face. “I don’t really appreciate you bad mouthing my wonderful, loving husband who cares far too much about other people and who happens to know that I very much dislike seeing flowers wither away.”

“And the jinxes?”

“Well I could do with them if only my husband listened to me about magical theory…”

Remy presses his forehead to Emile’s shoulder, snickering. The exhaustion is still there, clinging to his bones rather stubbornly, but magic potions are rarely able to conduct a perfect solution for every person they come across. Remy hadn’t even realized this bar offered a hangover cure; they aren’t cheap to make and Remy would know because he used to carry them at their magic shop. Now he only makes them on request for special occasions like a coming of age party, or a promotion to head guard, or Lord Ekans tried to talk sense into that pest of a son he has and once again got verbally demolished.

“Uh,” Quintus the Aasimar says, their wings twitching like they’re just barely keeping from launching themself out of the booth towards the door and back into the skies.

“Right, sorry,” Emile says sweetly, drawing back from Remy. “Go ahead and eat, Quintus, it's on us.”

“Thank you for your generosity,” The Aasimar says without actually looking at the food. There’s some type of gazed ham and something that resembles a vegetable so Remy makes a note to avoid it, skillfully, so that Emile doesn’t notice and hit him with the disappointed eyes.

(Virgil is a good several hundred miles away, which means that Remy can get away with being a terrible role model and not even Emile can guilt him into eating his vegetables.)

“Hela sends her regards,” The Aasimar continues. “She did enjoy your conversation last night, despite how it might have ended.”

“I’m always happy to have new discussion partners,” Emile says. “She made some interesting points, and I hope that I might be able to find that book she mentioned to see for myself her position. Do you know if any shops nearby--”

“You may be in incredible danger.”

Remy swirls the dregs of his tankard where Emile tenses next to him. Quintus the Aasimar squirms in their seat, ruffling their feathers in a handful of directions that cannot feel pleasant at all. The gold sheen on them is still bright and dangerous to look at directly, but they look so much like a teenager who just got in trouble that Remy wonders if they’d make a good friend for Virgil. 

“Is that so?” Remy says as casually as he can. He reaches out and drags the wooden tray with his food towards himself. “What makes you say that?”

“You are from the East, correct? Past the Tregaron Forest?”

It’s a little more Northeast than that, but Remy nods anyway, because no one really cares that deeply about the technicalities unless they’re trying to find shortcuts through the Tregaron Forest, which is just a genuinely bad idea: It’s home to at least three werewolf packs, a handful of direbears, goblins and rumors of some kind of dragon. Remy’s seen the previous three, and is skeptical about dragons, but it's not his business so he leaves the creature well enough alone. None of the beings that live there have tried to harm him, the travellers along the road, or the city of Cobarton where the Ekans ruled, so there’s no need to go out and mess with things.

He takes a bite of the ham. It's got a cranberry glaze which is nice, but Emile’s definitely made one better before.

“As Hela was leaving the city last night, she overheard a rumor that a Truescar of Loviatar was sighted in that location.”

The ham seems to swell in his throat, and Remy chokes so hard that nearly throws it back up. “What?”

The Aasimar’s jaw clenches, but despite Remy’s tone they don’t do anything sensible like take it back. 

His scars burn all at once: the ones covering his chest, the slashes down his back and up his thighs, the scattered fleck around his arms, and then the one on the back of his calf; all at once its like someone shoved a white hot poker into each and everyone to watch his body twist and jerk. Remy heaves breathes through crumpled, crushed lungs and there’s something binding his legs his arms, he has to run, he needs to scream, he needs help, someone help-- 

“Are you certain?” Emile says, calmly. The clinical tone to his voice slices through the wave of panic in Remy’s brain and Remy clings to the momentary solace with every bit of his willpower.  He leans back in the booth, closing his eyes and counting the things that he can hear, the things he can feel, the things he can taste, smell, and see.

The blood in his mouth is not real. The trembling in his hands is justified. A Truescar--

“She would have come herself if she was not required back in the Capital today,” the Aasimar says. “She neglected to inform me of the identities of the people she overheard, but Hela is not one to jump to conclusions or believe every rumor. Since she begged me to find you before you left the city, I am under the impression this warning is genuine.”

A Truescar. Of Loviatar.

“Did she... say where they were heading?” Remy forces out between shudderings of his lungs. “Oakheart? Accrington?” Please don’t say Cobraton. Its too small, it's not noticeable, it’s nothing--

The Aasimar shakes their head. “My apologies. If she heard that information she did not relay it to me.”

“Thank you, Quintus,” Emile says.

The Aasimar stands up quickly, offering a bow of the head to both of them. “I wish you safe journeys. Hela would be most grateful if you would send her a letter when you reach home.” 

“Of course,” Emile says, distantly. 

The Aasimar drops eight silver pieces on the table and practically flies out of there. If Remy had blinked he would have assumed they had imagined them entirely: not even the pile of feathers remain. The silver pieces roll to a stop and the noise is much louder than it should be in the tavern filled with other patrons. The elves that had been so ridiculously loud early, sound to be part of a half forgotten memory even as Remy’s eyes drift over to them now.

“Remy,” Emile says.

“A Truescar of Loviatar,” Remy whispers. 

“Remy, you’re hurting yourself,” Emile says so very patiently, so very gently, so very calmly. Remy’s clothes are tearing at his skin, each thread hooking into him and pulling in various directions. He forces himself to breathe, to calm down, to swallow even though his throat is parched and that single piece of ham was trying to climb its way back up. His nails dig into his wrist, squeezing around the red band there because of course he’d be that stupid wearing a bright red symbol of Ilmater out in the open. He might as well have just worn a sign that said “Please Kill Me and My Family!”

Oh god. His family.

“Virgil,” Remy says, gasps, wheezes. “Em, we have to--”

“I know,” Emile says. “We will.”

“We need to go. Now.”

“We will. We can.”

“Loviatar-- She’s the Maiden of Pain, Em. She hates Ilmater’s followers-- Virgil-- If they find Virgil--” 

“Remy,” Emile says with patience and strength that Remy does not know where he gets it from. His voice is the solid rock that Remy is clinging to, as study as the earth, as unchangeable as destiny, and he holds all of Remy’s broken pieces together with careful fingers. “I hear you. We will head back today. But before we do that, I need you to let go of your wrist and take a breath with me.”

He asks for so little; He asks for so much.

It’s in Remy’s nature to suffer and it was eons ago that Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain, sent a proclamation down to her followers that their missions in life were to exterminate all Ilmater’s followers. The goddess handed out blessing to her followers who managed to systematically torture anyone they got their hands on before killing them-- It was precisely because Remy had been such a solo adventurer that he’d been spared more than a handful of meetings with various Loviatarians, and that he managed to escape each with his limbs still attached. 

Others weren’t so lucky.

Adventuring groups that never made it to their destinations, shrines decimated along the countryside, temples in the cities burned to the ground. Remy walked in the ashes of the building he was converted in and his tears had washed the soot from the half charred remains of people with red cords around their wrists. He isn’t even sure if the temple that he and Emile had gotten married in was still standing, much less the fate of the priest that had officiated.

A Truescar. The highest level worshipper of Loviatar. The holiest of followers.

Or as Remy liked to call them, genocidal maniacs. 

And one might be near his son.

He’d put out the fires on the remains of descreted altars, picked up the crumbling remains of scrolls from the libraries burned down, whispered prayers and apologies over the bodies of people he’d never met but who had been twisted and scarred and warped for loving each other He’d seen red cords cut and soaked in puddle of blood, corpses left behind and everything they held dear torn apart until they begged for the sweet relief of death. 

((It didn’t matter the age, Remy had realized holding the partially scorched ragdoll in his hands. A follower of Ilmater was a follower of Ilmater-- and they were all made to suffer and burial rites were the first things they were taught.))

And Virgil… his son, who was smitten with a pest, who offered help to anyone who needed it, who had no desire to leave home ever. His son who still looked at the world with bright brown eyes in awe and wonder, who loved and loved deeply, who pretended to hate his hugs but still melted into them when Remy dragged him close-- 

“Breathe,” Emile coaxes. “Breathe with me, Remy. Virgil will be okay. You know that Janus will never let anything happen to him.”

Right. Janus. 

The pest. The pest who trails after Virgil while he does his chores, listens to him like everything he says is the most interesting thing in the world, stares at him like he hung the moon and the stars in the sky. Janus who brings gifts for Virgil, endless streams of gifts and affections that he never expects anything in return for. Janus who makes Virgil double over with laughter, who always knows how to cheer him up on a bad day (even when Remy can’t), who only ever needs to show up to make Virgil glow with happiness.

Janus whose determination to care after his son has given Remy so many grey hairs.

Emile’s right. Of course, Emile’s right. Janus would never let anything happen to Virgil. 

(But what can Janus do against the type of person who can murder without remorse? What can Janus do to protect from something that hates so much?)

His lungs ache. He’s so tired. Remy exhales slowly, stuttering, fending off a sob with the last bits of his strength before he gives him and slumps forward, pushing his barely touched food to the side. His clothes grate across his skin at the action leaving a burning sensation and the faint smell of smoked flesh in his senses.

He’s imagined this a million times really: his nightmares, his memories, the moments where trace ingredients on a potion counter mix together and the explosion leaves him on the floor with flashes of too-hot and Where’s-Virgil-is-he-okay. His brain is so adept that conjuring horrors that the visions of those corpses he once buried come with Virgil’s face. Emile’s too. Janus, for as much as he’s a pest….He’s woken in a cold sweat, clutching his chest and frantically needing to make sure his son and husband and pest are all still breathing because he’d been so sure three seconds ago that they weren’t.

((--on his knees in front of Lord Ekans, pleading, fear beating through his chest, imagining all the ways there are to hurt a child, imagining all the way that there is to kill a child, imagining all the ways that Remy would be powerless to protect his son and husband if Lord Ekans so much as twitched a finger, please, please he’s just a kid, and he’s my everything, if you need to punish someone let it be me--))

“Em,” he manages. “Em--”

“I’m here,” Emile says. “I’m here, Braveheart. Whatever you need I’m here for.”

What Remy needs is to be home. To hold his son. To chase that pest out of his house and tell him to come back when he’s forty and Remy is ready for them to be married. 

“That will not stop Janus,” Emile says softly, gently, patiently. “But, yes, we can go home now. I already told Samus we were leaving early and she gave us a refund for the room and she had the stable boy gather our horses.”

Remy nods because he’s pretty sure if he opens his mouth he’ll start crying and he really doesn’t need to make anymore of a scene right now. He presses the palm of his hand against his eyes and rubs away the beginnings of his tears, and breathes in through his teeth. The back of his throat is raw and everything hurts, with the type of pain that Remy doesn’t think any healing potion or his son’s flowers can help.

It takes him a moment to realize that Emile is standing, offering a hand to him. He’s glasses were slipping down his nose, the hints of grey among his brown curls carefully hidden, but the soft concern in his eyes is that same as the first time that Remy had met him. 

“Let’s go home, Rem,” he says. 

Remy wonders if he knows that he can turn such simple phrases into magic words. Spells to settle the soul, verbal incantations to wash those that hear them in reassurances, enchanting phrases to pick up the broken piece that were masquerading around under the name “Remy”. 

Remy takes his hand. Emile squeezes gently and pulls him to his feet and keeps him steady. 

“Not always bad news, huh?” Remy chokes out. 

Emile rubs a thumb over his knuckles. “I’ll admit perhaps this time that wasn’t...  true.” He scoops up the handful of silver coins on the table and moves the trays of uneaten food to be easier to collect later. Remy picks up their travel bags from by their feet and hefts them over his shoulder from muscle memory ingrained deeply in him.

“But we’ll face this. Whatever comes, we’ll figure it out.” Emile says. “Together.”

The elves in the corner laugh again, something bright and undaunted. Remy isn’t in the habit of having optimistic views, but Emile sounds so sure. How can Remy not believe him? After all they’ve gone through together?

(Cobraton is so small that it's nearly unnoticeable. No one comes there unless they’re lost. That was why Remy and Emile had chosen it all those years ago. The likelihood of a Truescar just… stumbling on it is so small and Janus wouldn’t let anything happen to Virgil. Remy will keep repeating it in his mind until he believes it.)

Outside the town in the in the process of setting up for the next night of the festival: interchanging lights are being strung around the shop awnings, festive signs are being hung again after whatever messed them up the night before, and the assortment of adventurers and citizens all seem to be in a generally great mood. The air smells like baked goods: honey buns, cinnamon spiced cakes, fruit muffins that normally would make Remy’s mouth water, except now the only thing he can think of is how he once caught Virgil stuffing an entire blueberry muffin his in mouth like some type of magically mutated giant squirrel after Emile told him to wait for them to cool first.

One of the stable boys is standing with their horses at the ready at the stables nearby, complete with saddlebags that aren’t theirs. They have two murraths a piece and a bottle of the same Evermead that Remy vaguely remembers drinking last night. There’s a card tucked between the two that has two dwarvish curse words on it.

“You made an impression,” Emile notes as he brushes the main of his horse and hoists himself up on it’s back. 

“It’s probably not poisoned,” Remy says, squinting at the card. “Maybe.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit for how likeable you are,” Emile says. 

“I’m sure Lord Ekans will enjoy it immensely in any case.” Remy pays off the stableboy, with an extra silver piece that the kid thanks him for and disappears to go show his friends, with a comment about getting sweets for them all. Remy climbs onto his own horse and nudges it towards the exit of the city. “I’ve never met a man who needed a drink more than him, considering that son of his.”

Emile’s huff of laughter cascades through the busy streets even as they approach the city gates. The guards check their identity papers with an impassive face and then they’re back on the road towards the magic circles  that will take them to Tregaron Forest.

Outside the elven town of Esterlas, the forest path is well identified with Elven lamps and signs. Remy remembers getting lost along these roads back in his youth, long before there were any identifiers and the city was proclaimed a magic safe zone. He’d spent a good week walking aimlessly through the thickets and underbrush, surviving on berries that probably would have killed anyone else before he managed to find himself in the distant plains that marked the halfway point to the nearest city.

Of course the last time he was here (ugh decades ago now) they also didn’t have magic teleportation circle business right at the edge of Esterlas forest that connected to one in Tregaron forest. This same trip would have otherwise taken them a week and a half, but now for a handful of silver coins Remy and Emile would be in Cobraton by dinner time and Ilmater help him if Remy gets there and finds Janus in the process of undressing his son…

He’s not sure if that would be worse than finding out a Truescar had even breathed in the direction of Cobraton. It's like a sliding scale of two equally bad situations in Remy’s mind:

Emile spurs his horse up so that he’s riding side by side with Remy, the steady clopping of the horse hooves melding with the ambience of the elven forests. Virgil would like this, he thinks. He’d be in awe of how tall the trees were, how they disappeared into the clouds, how they were too wide to hug, and the magic flowed in their trunks with pulses like a heartbeat that the entire Forest was part of. Remy could imagine Virgil clinging to his arm begging with his big brown eyes for them to find a sapling to take back with them and how Remy wouldn’t know the first thing about where or who to go to for that type of request.

“Those Dwarves from last night,” Emile asks, drawing Remy’s attention away from their surroundings. “Did you get their names so that we can send something back to them?”

“Absolutely not,” Remy says. “We jumped straight to drinking our woes away.”

“Woes?”

“Yes, the woes that I had lost my wonderful husband for the rest of the night to scholarly talk of practical applications of magic!” Remy says. “And that by the time we get home I will have missed my own son's wedding.”

Emile laughs again. “Janus wouldn’t dare. He respects you too much.”

“Respects?” Remy repeats. “Respects?! I sure would hate to find out what he does when he doesn’t respect someone! Or did you forget how he haunts my shop and hisses at my customers when they try to talk to Virgil?”

“I think it’s sweet!” 

“He is the reason I have hangover cure potions memorized! Em, look me in the eyes and tell me that Lord Ekans’ drinking habits aren’t directly correlated to Janus learning to talk. Our livers were perfectly fine before that pest--”

“Remy!”

“I have grey hairs!” Remy continues. “My bones ache and my lungs wheeze now!”

“That is just a symptom of growing old!”

“That pest is going to be the death of us all! We’d be better off if he beheaded now before he grows too powerful to stop,” he says, gripping the reins to his horse. Emile is rolling his eyes and shaking his head, but he’s smiling that smile he has reserves specifically for when he thinks Remy is being more ridiculous than normal. He offers out a hand and Emile slots his in without a second of hesitation. Remy, ever the gentleman, presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“But I guess,” Remy relents quietly, “He could have chosen worse. Janus is rich, set to inherit quite a large sum,--”

“That is not the only reason Janus Ekans is a good fit for Virgil and you know it!”

“Fine! The kid is polite, he’s well liked, and a good leader for the town. He cares about people--”

“--and he cares very deeply about Virgil.” Emile interjects.

“I was getting there!” Remy says. “He is smitten with the wonderful son we have raised, and despite my best efforts to convince Virgil not to date until he’s fifty, Virgil is equally smitten for that pest. Now I will have to figure out how I am going to pay for a wedding for the two of them and get my hands on enough alcohol to get myself thoroughly drunk through the planning of it.”

Emile snorts. “You are assuming that Janus doesn’t have the entire thing planned out already.”

“He better not! He still thinks Virgil’s favorite color is purple!”

“You still think mine is pink.”

“Wait what?” Remy blinks, whipping towards his husband, but Emile is already urging his horse faster. “Emile!”

“First one to the Magic Circle gets to hug Virgil first when we get home!”

“What do you mean your favorite color isn’t Pink?! I’ve been getting you those crystals for years now! Emile!”

Emile’s laughter rings in the trees causing the magic in the trees to brighten with warm, pleasant lights. Remy clicks his tongue in disbelief and urges his own horse after his husband. The breeze of the mid morning-maybe-early-afternoon-but-Remy-doesn’t-believe-in-time brushes against his face, as a perfect counter to the streams of sunbeams that break through the foliage against all the odds. The two of them pass by a few other groups along the road: a family of humans in a horse drawn carriage with one in the back creating light illusions as they travel for the entertainment of the kids, a camp of dwarves resting by the roadside smoking a few pipes, an adventuring group who are arguing over a map an intersection and who wave as Remy and Emile race by in their own laughing. 

Emile beats him to the magic circle location, just by a half step and he sticks his tongue out at Remy when he complains that Emile had a head start. They bring their horses to a water trough set up for travelers and Emile stays with them whispering soft praises for both the animals while Remy goes to the store front to pay. 

“Two humans and two horses for Tregaron…You wouldn’t happen to be heading to Cobraton would you?” the druid says, eyes flashing down to his wrist where his red band stands and she stiffens. “Uh, I don’t know if you’ve heard the rumors, sir, but there’s been--”

Remy nods, sharply. “Yeah, we heard.”

She breathes out softly, scribbling on her parchment with her quill. “Such a shame, all that. I heard they left a gold statue in their wake. Just a kid turned solid gold. I really used to look up to them, you know?”

Remy freezes. “What?”

She looks up again, her green eyes the same color as the vines creeping around her antlers. “Oh… you don’t know. The Raven’s Heart adventuring group...They apparently went into Cobraton and attacked the town. Turned someone into a solid gold statue and set fire to the bakery which nearly burned down the whole town.”

Raven’s Heart. A gold statue. Remy’s brain is trying to catch up with the words that absolutely do not make sense at all. The bakery. Which is right across from their magic shop. Where Virgil was.

The druid leans forward in her chair. “Um,” She hesitates, “I’m not supposed to do this but since this is kinda a big deal and you’re obviously from Cobraton, we have a magic circle connection directly to the outskirts of the town that’s usually just for merchants with super valuable items.”

Remy blinks at her. “Please…”

She nods, slowly and then faster. She makes a quick slash through whatever she had written before and takes the handful of shining coins from Remy’s shaking hands. He feels a slight daze over himself as she grabs a chalk stick and a candle and scurries from behind the counter towards the flattened center of the clearing..

“I’ll only be a moment, sir. I’ll call you over when it’s ready.” 

Remy nods. He immediately spins on his heel and heads back to Emile.

(Emile who is cooing at Remy’s horse, petting its snout and detangling its main. Emile who is laughing at something or another that’s been said. Emile who has opened a murrath and taken a bite of of the pie, patiently waiting for Remy to come back because they left Esterlas in a panic and they were supposed to get home before anything bad happened--)

“Remy?” Emile says, catching sight of him there. “Braveheart? Are you feeling okay?”

“Something...something happened in town,” Remy says. “The bakery got burned down.”

Emile’s smile drops completely. “Was it the Truescar?”

“I don’t…” Remy says helplessly. “There’s something about a gold statue. And the Raven’s Heart adventuring group and the druid running the circles says she has a way for us to get directly to Cobraton because it's that bad.”

“Raven’s Heart?” Emile repeats. “This is a very far way from where they usually take their adventures. I didn’t even know they were still adventuring.”

Remy swallows hard. “They were still teenagers when we were… when I....”

“I remember,” Emile says. “They stopped by Juphia during my last year working as a barboy while you were on another trip. I had to have one of them removed from the premises for making lewd comments about one of the barmaids and all of them took it...personally.”

Remy doesn’t remember much about them, honestly, so it doesn’t surprise him. Most of the adventuring groups starting out have a sort of sense of invincibility that pairs nicely with a hero complex that sets them right up for tragedy the first time they can’t save someone. Unfortunately that also leads to most of these same groups feeling entitled to people, money, and gratitude after they do anything and that rarely ever goes over well.

The bakery, on fire. The baker’s son just brought his new wife home and they were awaiting their first kid. Flames licking up the sides of the store, the glass cases shattering from the heat, the townsfolk screaming for help as the smoke strangles them, and Remy hasn’t had to perform burial rites himself since before they brought Virgil home--

“Mr. Sanders!” the druid calls, from the center of the clearing. Remy takes the reins of his horse in his unsteady hand.

Emile packs away the rest of his murrath and leads his other horse, gently reaching forward and taking Remy’s other hand. Remy squeezes back, probably harder than he should, but Emile doesn’t make any noise to oppose it. His silent strength reminds Remy’s lungs to inhale again, and his nerves calm enough that he doesn’t vomit up his stomach acids all over the nice new chalk circle. 

The druid directs them towards the middle of the circle, at the spot carefully carved out for the both of them and their horses. The white lines criss cross in elegant patterns, creating diamonds and magic symbols and script that Remy only vaguely recognizes. There’s a series of letters that he thinks spell out Cobraton, but his stomach is flipping in his body, threatening to relocate to his mouth. His eyes zero in on the candle at the druid’s feet, the flickering flame fighting so desperately against the breeze in the area and the movements of the druid as she begins the incantation.

Emile gives his hand a squeeze again as the purple mist starts to emit from the chalk around their feet. The horses nervously pitter in their spots, but all Remy can think about suddenly is that Virgil’s eyes have fleck of purple in them, that Virgil likes gathering the lavender when they need a new supply for the shop and that he always ends up with one behind his ear, that Virgil’s favorite cloak is that indigo color and that it’s winter proof but not fireproof and Remy was messing around during a festival while his son--

He blinks and when he opens his eyes again, his horse is yanking hard on the reins, letting out a bewildered neigh, and the scent of smoke was in the air. They’re just on the edge of Tregaron Forest, the gates to Cobraton just a few meters away and the guard at the gates has an expression that is very much not good.

They don’t look surprised to see them, but Remy can’t tell if that his own panic stepping in and projecting or if it’s true.

“Mr. Sanders,” they say. “I’m so sorry.”

They’re a kid, really. Just a few years older than Virgil. They still have yet to grow into their armor, but there’s a pinched to their eyes, to the way they won’t meet Remy’s eyes, to the way they grab the horse’s reins from Remy.

“What?” Remy asks, grabbing the kids wrist.

They don’t answer. They don’t answer and Remy can’t breathe and it's in his nature to suffer but please, no, please, not like this. 

He lets go of the kid and flings himself into town, with Emile just a few steps behind him. Their boots hit the cobblestone impossibly loudly, his cloak whips around behind him-- Remy can’t hear anything except the lingering silence of grief. The people in the town watch as they run with faces that say everything and nothing at the same time. His lungs feel like they’re filling with water, drowning him right there in the middle of the town square. 

There’s a burned husk where the Bakery was, soot coating everything, and the clouds of greying smoke still lingering in the air, but Remy doesn’t even see any of it. His eyes are immediately on the noble outside his shop: Lord Ekans, who seems to have aged several decades in the four days that they’ve been gone, who’s wearing clothes with wrinkles and soot on them like he hasn’t changed, hasn’t slept, hasn’t moved from right outside the shop staring at the insides like he’s never been there before.

Remy slams into him, his fingers finding a grip on the lapels of his suit in a way that he would never dare before. He can't breathe, he can’t think, he can’t even keep himself standing. “What happened?”

“Remy,” Lord Ekans says distantly, staring at nothing. “You… you can undo curses, right?”

There’s crying, he realizes. Heavy terrible sobs. Familiar sobs from a scene that replays in Remy’s head reminding him of the moment he learned what true Fear was. 

Lady Ekans is on the ground of his shop, her skirts ruffled and covered in various potions that shouldn’t be mixed together, her hands holding on to the grooves of a waistcoat carved out of gold. She’s crying at the feet of a statue in his shop, a statue he didn’t put there, a statue that has a very familiar face contorted in fear-- 

“Oh god,” Emile says, covering his mouth at the sight of Janus Ekans’s corpse glittering in the sunlight.

Lord Ekans looks at Remy, with an empty, hopeless stare. “They took him… They took him and turned my son to gold and you can… you can bring him back to life, can’t you? Remy, please, you can find the counter curse, right?”

((“Janus would never let anything happen to Virgil.”))

“Where’s my son?” Remy says with a dry throat, “Ekans, where is my son?!”

Chapter Three

[twstrhythm]

“The flowers speak their own language. Listen closely and you will hear their story.”

Technical Information:

Name: Peri Eclipse Nicknames: Harp Seal (Floyd); Monsieur Fleur de Dragon (Rook); BaiHua (Chenxi); Riri (Emil); Amethyst (Rayan); Child/Periwinkle (Ester); Proserpina (Jiawen); Lavender (Nyneve); Riri (Ruby) Voice Actor: Miyuki Sawashiro (Kurapika, Hunter x Hunter)

Biological Information:

Gender: Male Pronouns: He/Him Age: 250 Birthday: April 22 Star Sign: Taurus Height: 160 cm Hair color: Light Purple Eye color: Pink Homeland: Briar Valley Family: Ester Thorn (adoptive father); Cerise Moonshine (adoptive uncle); Unknown father and mother

Professional Status:

School: Night Raven College Dorm: Diasomnia School Year: Second Class: 2-A Student Number: 3 Occupation: Student Club: Gardening Club Best Subject: Ancient Incantations

Fun facts:

Dominant hand: Left Favorite Food: Peaches Least Favorite Food: Anything with Ranch Dislikes: People destroying plants; Cameras Hobbies: Gardening Talents: Can grow any plant regardless of season

Appearance:

Peri is a small fae with dragon horns protruding from the top of his head. He has long light purple colored hair that he keeps tied up in a high ponytail. He also has a few flower shaped hairpins in his hair. He has soft pink eyes. He also has a dragon’s tail and small dragon wings. For his school uniform, he wears the standard uniform and has his necktie tied in a bow.

Personality:

Peri is typically a soft spoken individual. He is kind to the people he befriends and has a tendency to be clingy with them. However, the story is different if you harm plant life. If you do harm a plant, he will attempt to make your life a living hell.

Background:

Peri was left behind in Briar Woods when his biological parents were fleeing from some humans that had been hunting them down. He is descended from spring fairies and dragon fairies, but he is not too aware of these origins. He only knows about the life that he has now living in Briar Woods with his newfound family. If you were to ask Peri about who his parents are, he would say Ester Thorn. As far as this young fae can remember, Ester is the only parent he has ever had. He will not give any other answer if people persist to ask for a different answer.

Peri liked to spend time walking through the woods and admiring the flowers. One time, he had wandered into a human village and had been chased away. Luckily for him, Ester had come to his rescue and prevented him from getting killed. Since that day, he has been more cautious with going too far from his home in the woods.

Because of this, he was hesitant to enroll in a magic school But with Ester’s encouragement, Peri had taken one step forward to learn how to trust and make new friends. It is a decision that he does not regret making to this day.

Skills and Abilities

Botanical Knowledge: Peri knows a lot about different kinds of plants. He is aware of which plants are poisonous and which ones are not. He knows how to determine the ones that are safe for consumption.

Magical Skill: He is skilled in magic, particularly flora magic. He has been able to grow different plants with it. He has great control over his magic, but he does not try to minimize damage done to his surroundings when he is angry.

Dragon Transformation: Peri is capable of transforming into a dragon.

Enhanced Speed: He has enhanced speed and is capable of keeping up with a fast moving car in his dragon form.

Enhanced Strength: He has enhanced strength in dragon form.

Enhanced Defense: He has enhanced defense in dragon form.

Flight: He is capable of flying.

Animal Linguist: He can understand animal languages.

Plant Linguist: Peri can also understand plant languages.

Unique Magic:

Peri’s Unique Magic is called Flora Dragon Dance. It allows him to create mini dragons made out of flowers. These dragons can be used to spy on people. Depending on what he feeds them, they can be gentle or aggressive towards other people.

Chant: "Dragons prowl about, dancing and playing in a garden of colors. Flora Dragon Dance!"

Trivia:

Peri is short for Periwinkle

Baihua ，百花 = 100 flowers

Peri had initially been enrolled at Royal Sword Academy.

He had been kicked out within the first 3 hours of being there.

Peri is one of 5 students who had gotten expelled from RSA in the first week of school.

He was part of the Friendship Club.

Friendship club is short for "Friendship because I got expelled from RSA for a stupid reason" club

Peri nicknames each of his little flower dragons.

[meinkampfortzone]

Who Was Hans-Joachim Marseille’s Fiancee?: An Opinion-Based Commentary, Part 2

(cont. from Part 1): 

HJM’s Family’s Attitude Toward Hanne-Lies

So one of the things I noticed when I first started getting curious about finding out who HJM’s fiancee was was the fact that she seemed so comfortable around his mom. That was, in fact, one of the first indicators to me that she was a bit older than him, other than her face. Had she been around his age, most of their interactions would have taken place outside of the house, away from his parents, so that they could make the most of their time alone together. That was, in fact, the norm among young people in the 40s, especially with the growing availability of cars which made getting around a lot easier and faster. When in the presence of each others’ parents, both parties had to act very reserved toward each other, and refrain from things such as holding hands or kissing, etc. (their parents would have been from the generation born in the 1800s, where doing things like that in public was inappropriate and prospective couples were meant to act with restraint when together). Therefore, the fact that 85% of the interactions between Hanne-Lies and HJM (except for the outing in Bad Saarow and their trip to Rome) took place at his parents’ apartment in Berlin was something that stood out to me. I took this to mean that Hanne-Lies was either a friend of the family or mature enough to want to spend time with and build a relationship with her future mother-in-law. As my research later proved, the latter ended up being true. 

After Hans-Joachim Marseille’s death, Hanne-Lies was allowed to live in Bad Saarow in Charlotte Marseille’s summer house that she owned there. I found this strange because Hanne-Lies had only known HJM and subsequently his family for approximately 7 months (they met in March 1942; he died in September 1942), which was hardly a long enough time for Charlotte Marseille to get to trust her enough to give her her house and allow her to live in it. Hanne-Lies remained in that house, keeping it as her main residence, until she got married in 1944 to former LSSAH member Martin Stephani. This led me to think that perhaps, like her son, Charlotte Marseille saw something in Hanne-Lies that reminded her of her dead daughter Inge, and due to the fact that she had lost her daughter so recently, she built a good relationship with Hanne-Lies. After HJM died, I believe that Charlotte Marseille sort of saw Hanne-Lies as the last thing she had left of her deceased son, and decided to let her have the house and stay there for as long as she needed as a sort of gesture of goodwill.

This is a picture of HJM at a bar in Berlin called the Regina Bar (between the two girls) and Hanne-Lies (at the other end of the table). This was taken during his leave in 1942, during which he met Hanne-Lies and became engaged to her. Notice that even in the presence of his fiancee HJM has no issue cozying up to other women. Judging by the look on her face, she doesn’t seem too pleased about it either. 

HJM’s Comrades/Contemporaries’ Attitudes/Opinions Concerning His Engagement

Another thing that I find sort of striking is the complete lack of commentary on the part of HJM’s comrades and friends concerning his engagement, or rather, his lack of commitment to his fiancee. According to Colin Heaton, the news of HJM’s engagement “shocked” those who knew him, only because of his playboy nature. However, once that shock subsided, and everyone saw HJM going back to his old ways and sleeping with various women, not one of his comrades thought to mention how they found it strange that he was engaged and yet having all of these publicized affairs. Although sex outside of marriage, etc. was common in the 1940s, it wasn’t until the 1980s that it became the norm. Up until then, infidelity and sexual promiscuity was kept carefully under wraps, more so for women than men. However, back in those days engagement was essentially a binding contract--the couple was considered married for all intents and purposes until they actually went and legally tied the knot. I found it strange that Marseille’s comrades and those who knew him, when interviewed about him, had no problem talking about his various sexual escapades but didn’t mention how he still did these things while he was engaged. I would have expected at least one of them to mention how it was strange that he continued to do this even after he was committed to one woman. It was almost as if the existence of Hanne-Lies in HJM’s life was unknown to them. This led me to believe that maybe HJM never bothered to tell anyone he was engaged or probably only mentioned it in passing and never really made a big deal about it, or perhaps his comrades knew that this was just part of his nature and that it was foolish to think that he could ever be faithful to one person. 

When asked to describe the nature of HJM and Hanne-Lies’ relationship, Hans-Rudolf Marseille (HJM’s half-brother) proceeded to talk about how he convinced her to go to Rome. 

Of all the things he could have said that would demonstrate that they really loved each other and that there was something between them, he chose this anecdote, which really doesn’t demonstrate anything between them. 

Even the members of the Nazi high command who had interacted with Marseille, when interviewed by Colin Heaton, had no issue talking about how, when receiving a complaint from an Italian officer who stated that Marseille had “violated the family honor”, they all had a good laugh about it, and one of them even said, “Damn it, Marseille, have some shame, man.” However, none of them bothered to point out that this was going on while he was engaged, which was something he had even mentioned to Hermann Goering. Overall, none of the members of the high-ranking Nazi hierarchy seemed surprised at his behavior in the slightest.

Some Miscellaneous Points 

1- All of the people who were close to HJM gave interviews about him or attended events commemorating him and gave speeches/contributed to the event in some way, shape, or form. Many of the primary sources used in Colin Heaton’s book come from interviews conducted with many of Marseille’s comrades, such as Eduard Neumann, Ludwig Franzisket, and Emil Clade. Marseille’s mother, Charlotte, attended the premier of the 1957 film “Stern von Afrika”, and an article appeared in Der Spiegel featuring her and the actor who played her son, Joachim Hansen. In the article, she thanks Hansen for his stellar portrayal of her son. 

Hans-Rudolf Marseille assisted authors and historians writing and researching about HJM, such as Franz Kurowski and Walter Wubbe, and also gave interviews, snippets of which were included in a 1999 documentary about HJM’s life. It was because of the efforts of Eduard Neumann and other airmen who had flown with Marseille that a set of Luftwaffe barracks in Appen were renamed the “Marseille Barracks” (Marseille-Kaserne in German). Even Marseille’s batman, Mathew “Matthias” Letulu, gave an eulogy for Marseille in Germany during a ceremony held at the monument for Marseille in the Egyptian desert. 

The only person who had been closer to him than most of the people mentioned above, his ex-fiancee, was strangely absent from all of these efforts. Other than making an appearance at the 1967 Fighter Pilots’ Reunion event at Furstenfeldbruck, where she attended as a guest of honor with Charlotte Marseille (and this appearance isn’t even documented, as there are no photos of her at the event), she never gave any interviews about her ex-fiance, nor did she contribute to the efforts being made by those who knew him to keep his memory alive. 

2- During his interview, Hans-Rudolf Marseille showed a plethora of letters he had collected that had been sent by HJM to various members of his family--his mother, his sister, even his father. Some of these letters were reproduced and included in Walter Wubbe’s book “Hauptmann Marseille”. But with regards to any written correspondence between Hanne-Lies and HJM, there are absolutely no letters or anything whatsoever between them. Given the fact that they got engaged during one of HJM’s leaves, and they only saw each other once more after that when he was on vacation, it would make sense that they would be constantly writing to each other. Yet there doesn’t seem to be any sort of correspondence between them, at least as far as Hans-Rudolf Marseille’s cache of letters is concerned. The only testament to their relationship is the scarf that Hanne-Lies gave to HJM, and the photo she gave him of herself with “Ich habe dich sehr liebe!!” written on the back. 

3- When I read that Hanne-Lies had given HJM a picture of herself with “Ich habe dich sehr liebe” written on the back, I was curious because “Ich liebe dich” is “I love you” in German. Thus, I set out to find the difference in meaning between “Ich habe dich liebe” and “Ich liebe dich.” I found an answer to this on a German language learning forum that I’ll include below. 

In Closing...

When I think of what Hans-Joachim Marseille’s love life should have looked like, I immediately think of the relationship between Alain Delon and Romy Schneider (not how it ended, Alain cheated on her with another woman and she refused to get back together with him, but just how aesthetically pleasing they were and how big of a power couple they were in the years they were together.)

 I believe that he only got engaged to Hanne-Lies because of the emotional turmoil he was going through at the time. I think that even if they had gotten married, their marriage would have never lasted long. After all, grief isn’t forever, and eventually he would have realized that with that therapist aspect gone, there isn’t actually anything that binds him to Hanne-Lies at all. Hanne-Lies, too, would have had a hard time putting up with his infidelity and flighty personality, especially since she would have been reaching that age when she wants to have children and start a family and settle down (she was almost 30 when she got engaged to HJM). I honestly just wish that Inge Marseille wouldn’t have died so that HJM could have actually gone and found someone who had the personality and temperament to be his other half. I feel like, had he met someone like that, they would literally have been the power couple of the Third Reich. 

I’d love to hear your guys’ comments/opinions regarding this in the comments. Thanks for reading!

[lxlafms]

hey have you seen LOLA DOMINGUEZ ? SHE let me borrow HER PINK PRADA TOTE BAG. oh, you know them! they’re TWENTY THREE and they’ve been at Roy G. for SIX MONTHS. They are known to be a total LIBRA. i’m surprised you haven’t heard them blaring SHE WANTS TO MOVE BY N.E.R.D all night. they remind me of  heels that somehow always click the loudest even with all the noise of a busy sidewalk,  the sound of paper ripping from the seams of her sketch book & the tri-tone sound that tells you to take your card out of the reader. anyway, let me know if you see them ! 

QUICK STATS: 

NAME: Lola Sofia Dominguez 

AGE: twenty three

ZODIAC: libra

ANTHEM: jumping off the moon * mac ayres

COLOR: lilac

BACKSTORY + PERSONALITY: TW — parental neglect, cancer

Lola was born to young parents Magdalena Perez & Emiliano Dominguez in Les Tres Terres, Spain — a suburb of Barcelona  

Her mother was in a very successful spanish girl group , Desear — they were like the spice girls of Spain , which meant that ever since the day lola was born her life was on the go

Most of childhood memories involve being backstage or in a tour bus while her mother was on tour, playing with her dad and doing her best to babble the lyrics to the songs that her mom was singing as she heard them through the walls 

As it’s easy to guess, lola ended up spending a lot of time with her dad—her mom never really prioritized lola over her group and her life as a pop star so while her mom was out living the high life (pun intended), her dad was usually the one feeding her, putting her to sleep, taking her out to play and doing all the things he felt necessary as a parent 

Emiliano put up with it for a while, honestly he liked having lola to himself most of the time — Maggie had a lot of bad habits that she wasn’t willing to put aside for Lola’s sake (mainly partying and all it encompasses) and after a certain point he simply didn’t trust their daughter to be in her care 

Maggie would never admit it out loud but the truth of the matter was that she resented Lola’s birth, she viewed lola as an obstacle that was in the way her career rather than a child that she was supposed to love and cherish the way that Emil did 

Eventually Emil sued Maggie for full custody of Lola on grounds of being unfit to parent and by the time lola was  4 years old, he had gained full custody of her and moved both himself and his daughter out of that environment 

Lola and her dad moved to florida (which is where lola has lived for the remainder of her life) 

For the next few years things were going perfectly—Emil finally got to treat lola like the princess he always saw her to be and in turn lola got to live a near perfect childhood with her dad by her side

In true Dominguez fashion, things once again took a turn when lola was diagnosed with osteosarcoma in her lower extremities at the age of 13 

Both Lola and Emil were horrified, the thought of losing his entire world made him sick to his stomach and lola knowing that she had cancer was already preparing for the worst 

Luckily with the type of cancer lola had, there were an abundance of treatments available to her—she was dead set on not losing a limb so she tried any and every type of chemotherapy, medication and transfusion she could and for the most part they worked, she had bone grafting done in her knees and some parts of her thighs which worked to kill the cancer cells there but no matter what they would try, the cancer wouldn’t shrink in her left foot. 

She begged and pleaded for them to try something else, anything else but when it came down to it, lola had no choice but to get her left foot amputated 

After spending almost 2 years in and out of a hospital for surgery, chemo treatments and physical therapy to help her get adjusted to her new prosthetic—lola had made it to remission by the time she was 15 

She stayed homeschooled until he finished high school, too insecure about her prosthetic foot and too afraid to be treated as “the girl who had cancer” to be able to put herself back in the school environment again 

But when the time college came around she was ready to start over—new school, ‘new’ body, fresh start. 

She studied studio arts and fashion merchandising at NYU for her undergraduate and landed herself a remote internship with vogue which allowed her to move back to florida and also work for miami’s design district

PERSONALITY:

Like I said earlier, Lola’s dad treated her like a princess and that was exactly what she turned out to be — giving very much ‘miss thang’ type of energy even when she was dealing with her cancer

She’s always been inclined to the finer things in life, for no reason other than the fact that those have been the things readily available to her through her existence. She knows she’s spoiled, she never tried to hide it but she hopes it’s not something that represents who she is as a person.

That being said, lola is very spoiled. Though her dad couldn’t give her everything she wanted, he did give her most of it—but they he made sure to teach her to not get a big head abbot material things, and that character was all that would matter in the end.

she's a very...anything, anytime and anywhere kind of girl, being stuck in a hospital dead for a year to two made her begin to live for the thrill of getting out and doing things, wether those things involve sitting on the roof of an abandoned parking lot and eating chinese food at 4 in the morning or booking a last minute trip to vegas and waking up not having remembered what happened to you the night before—whatever you wanna do, she's your girl.

Don’t let her awful resting bitch face scare you too bad, though she does have a pretty intimidating exterior, once you crack down into it she really is a just a sweetheart who 

She does have some limitations though—though she did have a really good recovery from her cancer she does sometimes struggle to keep up physically, but she tries to not make a big deal of it 

The way that things panned out with her mom made lola into the type of person that values the people in her life more than anything in the world. she’sthe type who once she makes friends, she keeps them no matter what. some may say this is a little bit of a pushover type of trait but she would view it more as proof of loyalty—she of course has her limits, but she thinks that even the greatest obstacles can be overcome in any kind of relationship as long as you grow and learn from your mistakes.

[queer-and-colorful]

Anamoduke Sk8ter boi au ramblings

Slight trigger warning for lowkey homophobia and maternal abandonment but it's like 2 sentences

Ok so it's highschool, Patton is very closeted, very conservative family and is in love with Remus, Remus likes him back tries to swoon him.

Patton keeps telling him no but like in a playful way.

Then on the day patton is finally like "im going to say yes and confess my feelings", his parents tell him they found him a nice girl from a good family and like it's clear he has no choice in the matter.

He's devastated and shuts Remus down for real, the girl happens to be with him when he doesn't and sayssome mean thing and patton is too spineless too stick up for Remus.

Like a week later in the lunch room patton is walking by with the girl on his arm sad and tired and he looks over to see Remus with his arm around Virgil. They lock eyes and Remus glares at him.

This does not help pattons sad

It's been 5 years since the last thing.

The girl has accidentally gotten pregnant after graduation, didn't want the kid. Patton did. So she left the baby with him and ran off somewhere.

Patton came out to his parents after she left, it didn't go well, they haven't spoken since.

In present times the baby is Remy and he is 3. So Patton's taking care of baby remy when he sees an ad for concert and Remus is on the poster.

He panics and buys a ticket for the show and meet and great afterwards. Immediately regrets it but he can't get a refund so he might as well go.

He gets all dressed up, but like dad dressed up, gets his babysitter (im thinking teenage elliot) and goes to the concert.

Patton is nervous as all hell. And that's multiplied by hundreds when halfway through the set remus locks eyes with him.

And patton can't help but think how beautiful he is and he's transported back to highschool when he was still working up the courage to tell remus yes. But that daydream is quickly shut down as the band bundles together in a little meeting.

Remus announces they're going to perform a brand new song for the first time.

Then like they hang out some, Virgil doesn't like patton at first,

They play Skater boy, Virgil is the lead. Remus and virgil are being very affectionate on stage, they kiss after the song, patton is crushed but not surprised.

Patton waits to be the very last person to have theyre meet and greet. Virgil and Remus are immediately hostile. Patton understand why.  Its kinda goes like "you guys had a great show tonighy it was very nifty."

"Thanks for the money what do you want, [slightly insulting nickname here]?"

Patton explains that he just wanted to come and apologize for high school and tell them he was really happy for them and wished that if the circumstances had been different back then they could have been friends

Remus says something along the lines of "dont you have a wife and 2.5 kids to get home to?"

Patton laughs sadly and goes "only one kid, no wife. Your were close though."

Re and vi are confused and shocked. Patton says its a long story and not suitable for now but they were right and he needed to get back to his baby.

Remus stops him as he goes to leave, gives patton his number like ", this is our last show of the tour then we go on break. "Maybe if's you were serious back there and really less of a prick than you were in highschool we can try to hang out"

one time eliiot gets sick so patton is forced to bring remy on one of their hang out sessions where they finally learn pattons side of everything and patton says somthing like "even though i feel guilty about it, i dont think id do anything different given the chance cause it all led to me getting him. And hes my whole world."

Queue remus and virgil suddenly being very gay for patton cause holy shit that was cute.

Maybe some tension in the middle where patton tries to start dating again but he can't find a guy that's willing to date a 22 year old with a kid so dates don't last long after that.

Maybe some paparazzi angst in there.

And he starts getting really gay for remus and virgil cause of how good they are with remy

Obvs ends with all of them getting together in the end

Misc details

-remy has so many little punk clothes cause remus and virgil keep giving them as gifts

-patton is a waiter and they live in a small one bedroom apartment

-they dont have a lot but patton is doing his best to take care of his son

-connected to the last one the reason he was able to afford the concent is partially cause re and vi try to make tickets as accessible as possible and partially cause pattons coworker gave him some money like "dude please for the love of god do something nice to yourself for once.

-little remy loves to head bop to re and vis music

-logan and janus are part of the band

- they also love little remy

-emile is virgils little brother who is around elliots age

Asfhsfgsaf if anyone wants to write this theyre free to just please tag me!

[dragalialore]

19-2 Implications

A lot of the lore we’ve taken as gospel for the past two and a half years has been upended in recent chapters, and this addition is no different. There’s a LOT to get through here, so let’s get started!

Spoilers for 19-2, 13, Forgotten Truths & Forte’s adventurer story below the cut.

Euden’s creation process. As usual, this lore drop answered a ton of questions while raising more in their place. It did, however, answer some longstanding questions; namely, how Euden is able to transform in the first place, as well as his visual similarities with his family. Finlorda used blood from the wyrmscale baby to craft a new body--the real issue, though, was getting mana to circulate through soulless flesh. His solution was to use dead flesh that still used mana as a component; in other words, a scrap of the Other. (More on this later.) His ability to form multiple pacts is still unanswered, as well as how he shapeshifted into Elysium, but we’ll get to that later as well.

Our Euden, according to Finlorda, is the original Euden. Finlorda specifically says he “migrated the infant’s soul” into the new body. All he did was make a new body for the baby to inhabit--he didn’t make a new person entirely! This raises the obvious question: So where did Nedrick come from? For all we learn about Euden in this chapter, we don’t learn anything about Nedrick.

Sheila is most likely a failed attempt to create life. Finlorda mentions he tried the same experiment before, and it went poorly. Later, when Finlorda chats with Gatov, and the former king mentions there is no change in Sheila’s “condition.” The rest of the conversation infers the following: Gatov brought his dying daughter to Finlorda, begging for him to save her, but it didn’t go so hot. According to Gatov, his daughter is not whole. While this backstory tidbit explains how Sheila was able to navigate to the Faerie Kingdom, it doesn’t mention WHAT bit of Sheila is missing. Is it her memories? Her voice? Her mind? Whatever it is, Gatov doesn’t want to pursue the solution Finlorda suggested--that is, the Dawnshard. I’m hopeful that we’ll learn more about Sheila in the next couple chapters, and I wonder if her nature will shed some light on Euden and Nedrick.

The rewritten history of the First Sealing War. THIS I find interesting, because the lie also contains some truth. In The Genius Alchemist, Ilia explains that the government is pursuing her for her otherworld research, which she has continued after her parents’ deaths, in order to summon an otherworld creature to turn into a weapon of war. In Untold Truths, Alex claims this is the Other’s true origins--Meene twisted history just enough to make the claim credible, since no one else was around to witness Morsayati’s birth.

Mascula’s return. He’s back, baby! (Though this has been foreshadowed for a while.) Okay, he never actually left, but he’s able to pilot his body remotely, meaning he doesn’t screw over Laxi, who relies on his heart to stay stable, but he still gets a bit of autonomy. I’m interested in seeing how his gala unit is going to use the story explanations in his mechanics.

Phares & Beren. Oh hey, you two, we thought you were dead. Their arrival has been so heavily implied it’s impossible that they WON’T show up next chapter. However, what I’m curious about is why Finlorda referred to Phares as the Progenitor. What is he the progenitor of? He, like Finlorda, is greatly interested in researching new possibilities with magic. Whatever it means, hopefully we’ll get some more information in next month’s update.

Now, there’s something in particular I want to focus on. Namely, the similarities between Euden and Mordecai. Like Mordecai, Euden is a soul inhabiting a body created through magical means. UNLIKE Mordecai, however, Euden’s body was an ordeal to make, and there are failed models (see: Sheila). Yet, when Ilia created Mordecai, she had no such issue:

Finlorda also explicitly has been referring to texts written by Meene:

So Finlorda has access to texts written a millennia ago. Does he also have access to alchemic tomes?

There’s one more idea I want to touch on for now. We know from Forgotten Truths that Morsayati--the physical manifestation of Mordecai’s hatred--creates black mana.

And we also know that the other primary source of black mana appears to be Beren. (He’s the one that corrupted the void dragons, as well as being responsible for Forte’s brainwashing in her story.) We also don’t know the exact timetable of when Beren was squirreled out of the public’s eye--just that Emile was too young to remember. So...

...out of the two scions who possess weird abilities, like black mana and multiple pacts... and with one of them looking younger than they claim to be...

...which one seems more likely to be crafted from the Other’s flesh?

[lesbiansouplol]

New Beginnings, Chapter 4: The Edges.

I'm back with A new chapter after forever.

Warnings: Angst, Parents f*ghting, mentions of al*ohol, physical and emotional a*use of a child, dysfunctional family dynamic. Soooo Virgil isn't having much fun.

Summery: We catch up with our favorite dad character after a very successful first day of class, but he has to de-escalate a situation before he can start the second one. Meanwhile, Virgil and his mother have a meeting with Principle Sanders.

Word count: 1,724

Last Chapter: https://lesbiansouplol.tumblr.com/post/669526670548549632/new-beginnings-chapter-three-a-stroke-out-of

POV: Switches between Patton and Virgil.

(Patton POV)

After all the kiddos left, I started cleaning up the classroom. I couldn’t explain how excited I was if I tried. All the students were great! And I was really surprised by all the LGBTQ kiddos I had. It was amazing to start to get to know them all. I was looking through all the signed sketchbooks and putting them away, checking off every student

A few students stood out: Talyn, Joan, and Lux were my only Non Binary students (That were comfortable stating their identity to the class), and while Talyn and Lux had a fun cartoonish 2D art style, Joan was more comfortable with realism, and had chaotic notes around all of their sketches.

Remy Grounds made sketches of bedrooms in different styles, and I made a mental note to ask him how those relate to the project.

Emile Picani was drawing himself in art styles from a bunch of different cartoons; I noticed Steven Universe, Adventure Time, and Avatar: The Last Airbender Styles immediately.

Remus Duke was the only one to cause trouble, but I’m taking the blame for that since I never explicitly said everything had to be family friendly, and I approved the red coloring. It was sad to throw his sketches away though, the skill was absolutely there, and everything was drawn in amazing detail… I just almost wish it wasn’t.

Finally, at the bottom of the pile I saw an unsigned sketchbook. It was almost hard to believe that it was drawn with one pencil by one kid. It looked like it was professionally drawn; it was a gruesome monster with black goop-y stuff dripping from its empty eyes. It looked build-wise by a wolf-bear-horse thingy but with talons instead of its front two feet, and on its back I could see a giant scar, like its wings had been torn off. I tried to remember who drew this, when my mind went back to the boy that had to leave halfway through. Virgil?

I knew when he walked in that he was panicking. Anxiety was something I dealt a lot with as a kid. The world always seemed really overwhelming and hard to understand. It wasn’t until my late teens that I realized I had some sensory issues and had been venting through art.

I put Virgil’s sketchbook on my desk. His name wasn’t on my list, so I would just talk to Principle Sanders about it tomorrow morning, there was no way I was letting this talent go to waste.

(Virgil POV)

I had a panic attack on the way home. About halfway there I stopped skateboarding and just sat on the curb, letting the waves take over everything.

No matter how many tears I cried, the waves were relentless. There was no way to get the feeling out, even involuntary reactions just weren’t cutting deep enough, and all I could do was wait until I had enough control to push it back down again.

I don’t know how long I sat there, crying, watching cars pass. I assumed it was a couple hours, because when I finally got home, my parents had already started.

“This is all your fault! He got it in his head that he can do whatever he wants- You taught him that!” I heard my mom screaming through the front door. “’Sure, Virgil! Doesn’t matter what your mom said, do whatever you want!’ You undermine everything I’ve ever tried to do, and no matter how many chances I give you, you throw it in my face.”

I carefully opened the door, and tried to get in without making any noise.

“Look, I don’t remember ever saying anything like that.” My dad tried.

My mom scoffed. “Of course you don’t remember, I guess it’s not important to you, is it? Well it’s important to me! It affects me, and you don’t even care to fucking remember.”

My dad was staring at the floor, looking as small as a grown man could be. My mother, despite being on the other side of the living room, was clearly towering over him. “I’m sorry, I can talk to him and get everything-“

“Oh, no you won’t. I’ve given you chance after chance, It’s time I stood up for myself and stopped letting you ruin everything. I’m sorry I care about our child where you have proven you don’t want to have anything to do with him.” My mom laughed cynically through tears. “I’ll talk to him, and I guess I have to go to his school tomorrow too, since I have to do everything myself around here.”

I made my way upstairs, hoping to get to my room before my dad realizes the circles she ran him in and grabs a drink.

My mother was silently glaring at everything the whole drive to school. I was staring out the window of the car, just hoping that if I didn’t start a conversation then I could avoid screaming and crying. And I wish that was an exaggeration. I knew anything could push her off the edge, even staying quiet for too long, but I’d rather push my luck than start something I didn’t want to finish.

We pulled up next to the curb and my mom got out and started walking to the doors without a word or a glance in my direction. I followed her, lagging behind a bit as the other students started showing up as well.

We made our way to Principal Sanders’ office, but my mom stopped before opening the door.

She finally looked down at me, and spoke with quiet intensity. “Virgil, we are going in, sitting down, and I don’t want to hear a. Single. Word. Out of your smartass mouth, okay?” she said, landing a knot in my throat as I just tried to stay calm without showing that I was struggling to stay calm. “I’m going to attempt to clean up your stupid mess, and we will talk about what you need to do to make it up to me when you get home, understood?”

I nodded, and she opened the door to the office, sending me one last warning glance to remind me that she didn’t want to be here.

(Patton POV)

I finished setting up my classroom for my second day, and with a bit of time left to spare, I took a few pictures of some of the most impressive sketches from yesterday and went straight on over to Principal Thomas’ office, and maybe convince him to sent a few more paintbrushes our way for next months plans.

When I got there, I could hear a kind voice I didn’t recognize. And I would never condone eavesdropping of any kind, especially in a professional setting… but I did hear a few things through the door, and I definitely didn’t want to interrupt, so I waited.

“Thank you so much for paying so much attention, I’m so sorry Virgil caused so much trouble, but rest assured, my son will work his very hardest to improve. And I’ll be helping him every step of the way.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.” Principal Thomas said. “I hope you both have an amazing rest of your days, and Virgil, my doors open if you ever need anything. Mrs. Storm, I don’t doubt your abilities in the slightest, but if you ever reconsider, I have a great tutor just waiting for a chance to help out.”

“That’s great to know, but my son prefers figuring things out by himself, I just know he’ll feel much better about his work if he just puts his mind to it.” Mrs. Storm stated firmly.

And just like that, the door opened and a middle aged woman looking far more annoyed than her voice gave away through the door walked into the hall, not noticing me as she practically dragged her son out of the office by his wrist.

He stared at the ground and she pulled him closer to her, and said some not very child-friendly words when describing him.

She squeezed his wrist tighter. “What the hell was that look you gave me? I’m trying to help you!” she spat quietly. “You think I want to be here? I would much rather be at work than digging you out of your own -CENSORED- . Are you even hearing me?”

Virgil nodded, still staring at the floor. “I am. I’m sorry.”

His mother scoffed. “Yeah right, I’m sure you are.”

As Mrs. Storm started digging her nails into his wrists, staring him down, I got over my shock and realized I had to step in.

I stepped up to them. “Heya, Virgil!” I said, thinking of the next thing to say as I watched his mom drop his wrist. “How are you this morning? Everything go alright?” I nodded towards the office door.

Virgil only stared back at me, so I shifted my attention to his mother, putting my hand out to shake hers. “My name is Patton Heart, I’m the new art teacher, and I have to say, your son is amazingly talented! I would not be surprised if he came from a long line of professionals.” I smiled.

She smiled back. “Oh really? I didn’t even know he had any artistic pull. That does explain a few things now that I think about it. Say, I don’t remember Virgil having any art classes?” she looked accusingly at Virgil.

“Oh, he wasn’t on my roster. He popped in for a few moments yesterday, I think he got a little lost, but never mind that. He’s more than welcome to take more classes if he wants.” I reply, and then I looked at my watch. “Well, I should really talk to Principal Sanders now; classes should start here in a few minutes. I hope you have great days, the both of you!” I said, and watched Mrs. Storm nod and walk to what I can only assume is Virgil’s first period class, once again grabbing him by the wrist. Virgil was staring back at me as he left, a new light in his eyes that was painfully familiar.

I entered the office and took a second to go over what I had originally planned to say, before I sat down with a smile on my face, ready to pitch my plans, and see what funds were available.

[teacupfulofstarshine]

pattonella part 13: kingdom alert: the princes are fiiiiiiiightiiiiiiiing!

cw: mentions of injury/infection/illness, mentions of death, arguing, overworking, parental figures who are not the best 

wordcount: ~3.3k

part 1 // part 2 // part 3 // part 4 // part 5 // part 6 // part 7 // part 8 // part 9 // part 10 // part 11 // part 12 // read it on ao3!! 

virgil stays in the infirmary for almost a week after he first wakes up. 

he spends a lot of his time sleeping, since he’s too weak to do anything else. for the first few days of wakefulness, he barely has the strength to squeeze logan’s and patton’s hands when they hold them. despite his barely-open eyes, he smiles every time he sees them. 

“i’m sorry,” he says once, voice raspy and hoarse. patton tilts his head in confusion.

“why are you apologizing?”

“for scaring you. i came home unconscious . . . on logan’s horse . . . and you didn’t know . . . what was happening . . . i’m sorry . . .” his chest heaves slightly with effort, and patton leans in to brush his hair out of his eyes. 

“it’s not your fault. you saved roman’s life, vee, you saved everyone. you all came home alive, and that’s all i can ask for.” virgil smiles at him, eyes half-open, and yawns. “are you tired, vee?” 

“‘m always tired lately.” 

“that’s normal,” emile says, carrying over a large teapot. “you expended an enormous amount of magic when you were fighting. your body is trying to recover that energy; that’s why you’re sleeping so much. this tea helps you recover your energy as well, so keep drinking.” 

virgil makes a face at the cup of tea emile has in his hands, but he still lets patton help him sit up. he takes the tea and sips at it gently, blowing off the cloud of steam. emile dips a washcloth into a pail of cool water, wrings it out, and drapes it across virgil’s forehead, removing the old cloth that has grown warm. 

“is logan going to visit today?” virgil asks. 

“prince logan said he would stop by after attending to his duties at court,” emile says. “remy will be back in a little while, he’s attending to the king.” a somber tone falls over the infirmary at the mention of the king. 

“what . . . exactly is wrong with the king?” patton asks. “we know that he’s sick, of course, but - but we have no idea what’s actually wrong with him. do you know? are - are you allowed to tell us?” 

emile exhales, nodding slowly. “the king was injured in battle. he hid it because -”

“he’s a self-righteous idiot and a coward,” remy mutters, shoving the infirmary door shut behind him. emile’s face brightens when he sees his husband, dimming when he sees how pale and drawn remy looks. “he didn’t want to worry people, so instead of letting me treat his injury and having a recovery time of maybe two weeks, he hid it until it got infected and then he hid the infection until he collapsed and now it’s so far gone that there’s nothing i can do to heal him. it’s killing him from the inside out.” 

“the king will die?” patton asks. 

“we all die eventually,” remy says, “but it’s true that the king is ailing more swiftly than most. i’d say he has . . . three years left to live, at most.” emile reaches up and gently kisses remy’s cheek, pressing his face into his shoulder. 

“there’s a reason the rush is on to get thomas officially named crown prince,” emile says. “if he does not bear the official title when the king passes on, there will be a power struggle.” 

“why? thomas is the eldest prince. roman and logan would never stand in his way of becoming king, would they?” 

“no, but without an official heir appointed, it is possible that anyone with a connection to the royal bloodline, however small, could present themself as heir apparent. it would take months, perhaps even years to sort through the muck and mire of all that inherently political bullshit, which would derail the peace and prosperity of this kingdom. it is imperative that thomas is officially named the crown prince before the king dies.” 

“do we have to be married for thomas to be named crown prince?” patton asks. “is an engagement enough to satisfy the law?” 

“unfortunately, no. engagements can be made and broken at the drop of a hat, but a marriage is not so easily annulled. the wedding ceremony must be completed before thomas can be named crown prince.” 

“i think that’s a stupid rule,” patton mutters. virgil laughs softly, and patton squeezes his hand. 

“the most likely scenario at this point is a triple function.”

“a what?” 

“logan and roman will have a double wedding to the two of you, and then once the wedding ceremony is completed, thomas will immediately be officially named crown prince. that way, no matter what happens, the kingdom will be secured.”

“and then we party?” patton asks. remy laughs. 

“yeah, babes. and then we party.” 

*~*~*~*~*

“everything alright?” 

logan jumps three feet into the air at the sudden noise, whirling around to see roman behind him, hand raised as though he was about to lower it onto his shoulder. “take a deep breath, lo, it’s just me.” logan presses a hand to his chest, exhaling sharply. 

“you startled me, roman. please do not do that.” roman rolls his eyes, bumping his shoulder against logan’s as he steps towards the window logan’s been pensively staring out of. “can i be of assistance?” 

“do you know any good smiths?” 

logan hums, clasping his hands behind his back. “you spend far more time consorting with the villagers than i, roman. if anyone were to possess such information, it would be you.”

“yeah, but you spend all your time with the tax records and shit, i figured you’d know.” 

logan frowns. “what is all this about, roman?” 

roman looks at him, and logan realizes he’s been crying. “roman -”

“i went to see father.” 

logan wants to swear. “roman, i thought we agreed to go together if we went -”

“we did! but i saw remy going to treat him, so i followed him, and when the door opened he saw me and he beckoned me inside and what was i gonna do, say no to the king?” 

“what did he say to you?” 

“he asked me if i was married yet.” 

“and you told him?” 

“no, but i have a partner.” 

“what did he say?” 

“‘that’s not good enough, roman,’” roman grouses, dropping his voice into a gruff imitation of their father’s. “'you of all people should understand how imperative it is that there is no issue with succession. thomas must be named my heir and become crown prince before i shuffle off this mortal coil -’”

“don’t talk about father’s death like that,” logan snaps. 

“and how else should i talk about it, logan? father has been dying for years. and he’s making me rush my relationship with patton just so that thomas can get the official version of a title we all know he has!” 

“father does not want to die without officially naming an heir. i understand that.”

“you really think someone’s going to be stupid enough to challenge thomas’s birthright?” 

“it will not hurt to be prepared. you are responding irrationally.” 

“right, because you’ve never done anything irrational in your life, logan, like riding into battle with no backup and no plan because your stupid magic boyfriend thinks i can’t take care of myself! what does he know, anyway? he doesn’t know anything about me or us or -” 

“virgil saved your life,” logan says, voice low and thunderous. he takes a step forward, then another, and roman takes a step backward, then another. “if it wasn’t for his vision, you would have died . many more people would have been injured or killed if he had not come when he did. or did you forget the fact that he fell into a coma because he expended so much magic saving you? healing you? keeping you alive?” roman flinches away from his anger, and logan can’t bring himself to care.

“logan, i -”

“this conversation is over,” logan says, voice icy and cold. “i will see you at dinner, prince roman. send a servant if you have need of me.” he turns around and stalks down the hallway, footsteps sharp and precise against the stone floor. he hears roman throw a punch at something behind him, but he doesn’t call out, and logan doesn’t turn around. 

*~*~*~*~*

“lord san - patton?” 

patton looks up from the basket of yarn he’s picking through to see nate standing in the doorway, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. “nate! come in!” 

“you have a visitor,” nate says. he sounds oddly formal, and patton tilts his head in confusion. “sir claire, knight of the kingdom, second in command to his royal highness prince roman, requests an audience.”

“oh! um . . . send her in, sure!” patton remembers her riding just behind logan and roman when they’d returned from battle, but he’s never actually spoken to her. 

nate steps into the hallway and murmurs something, and then claire steps in. she’s not wearing full armor, but there’s leather wrapped around her forearms and legs, and her hair is tied up in a knot atop her head. she’s panting slightly, face shining with sweat, as though she’s just come from the training grounds. 

“lord sanders,” she says, bowing to him. patton stands up, not sure if he’s supposed to curtsy back at her or not, but as he’s gathering the material of his dress claire continues speaking. “i would request something of you, lord sanders.” 

“um . . . okay! is it something you need from roman?” 

“it actually concerns his highness prince roman.” 

“is he hurt? is he alright?” 

claire shakes her head. “i believe he had an . . . altercation with his highness prince logan earlier. prince roman came to the training grounds two hours ago, and he has been putting any guard he can through rigorous dueling. he’s finally exhausted his supply of human opponents, and he has been hacking away at training dummies for the past thirty minutes. his hands shake with exhaustion, but nothing i do or say convinces him to stop and rest. i worry he may pass out from heat or over exertion or -” 

patton wrings his hands nervously, and claire takes a deep breath. “i do not mean to alarm you, lord sanders. i merely thought perhaps, as you are beloved of prince roman, you might accompany me to the training grounds and convince him to rest, if only briefly?” 

“of course,” patton says. “nate, go to the kitchens, get some cold water, as much as you can carry, and some sort of snack. cheese, maybe? and nuts? something to get roman’s strength up. meet me on the training grounds.” 

“at once, lord sanders,” nate says, bowing his head respectfully to patton and claire before sprinting out into the hall. patton slips his shoes on and follows claire out to the training ground. 

“how long have you and roman known each other?” 

“the prince and i entered knighthood training at the same time. were he not the prince, i suspect i may have been picked for captain of the guard, but i am not stupid. i know the ways of the kingdom. the third prince, should there be one, becomes captain of the guard, leader of the knights. prince roman has the skills to back the position up, at least. he is the only person who has ever bested me in combat.”

“it sounds like you really like him.”

“i admire and respect him greatly. it pains me to see him like this.”

“i’ll get him to calm down,” patton says. “what was he fighting with logan about?” 

“it is unclear to me, lord sanders, but it distressed him.” 

“you can just call me patton, if you want!”

“that is very kind of you, lord - patton.”

the stone walls of the castle keep it cool, even in the warmth of summer, so patton had chosen a dress with a long skirt made of lighter fabric. the minute he steps foot outside, he can feel himself starting to sweat. claire, wearing training clothes and leather guards, doesn’t seem bothered at all, so patton pretends that he isn’t, either. 

he can hear sounds of exertion before they even reach the arena. patton gathers the fabric of his skirt up into his hands so that it doesn’t drag along the dusty ground as claire opens the gates to the training arena for him. roman is surrounded by a series of training dummies, stuffed with straw and carrying crude replica weapons. roman is shouting and grunting as he throws himself at the training dummies. 

“his strokes are sloppy,” claire says. patton doesn’t know anything about fighting, but he sort of sees what she means. he’s watched roman train before; he usually keeps all his limbs close to his body, watching with narrowed eyes and striking with quick, precise movements in rapid succession. this looks like a hurricane given human form. roman’s limbs flail wildly, his chest is heaving, and his hair is matted with sweat. 

patton hurries across the arena floor. “roman!” 

roman whirls around, holding his sword out, but his arms are shaking and the tip of the blade drops down into the dust. “patton?” he pants. 

“ro, sweetheart, how long have you been out here?” 

“not - not long, i don’t . . .” roman drives the tip of his sword into the arena floor and leans on it heavily. patton lets his skirts fall down around his ankles again as he reaches out to take roman’s arm and help support him. 

“come sit with me, ro, okay? come on. come sit down.” roman doesn’t protest, quietly staggering over to the wooden benches lining the arena. patton moves slowly to allow roman to shuffle along at his side, carefully helping roman sit down. “claire said you’ve been here for hours, ro.” 

roman sighs. “so she sent you to come reign me in?” 

“she sent me out here to ask you to take a break. she’s worried about you. so am i.” 

“i’m just training. that’s my job, patton.”

“you’re destroying yourself,” patton says firmly. “what happened?” 

roman stares off at the horizon. patton doesn’t pressure him to talk, gently leaning his head against his shoulder. after about ten minutes of sitting in silence, roman finally says, “lo and i got in a fight.” 

“a fight?” 

“i went to see father today. we had an agreement with the two of us and thomas that we wouldn’t go see him on our own. he can be a bit . . . intense. and lo and i got into an argument, and . . . he used my full title. he never uses that unless he’s super pissed off. and like, i’m pissed at him too! he was being an asshole! but . . . so was i, i guess . . .”

nate approaches, setting down a pitcher of water, two cups, and a basket of bread and cheese and nuts. roman shoves a hunk of cheese in his mouth as patton pours them both water and nods his thanks to nate. roman downs a glass and a half of water before staring off again, eyes unfocused. 

patton hums, reaching out to set his hand on roman’s knee. “do you wanna talk about it?” 

roman hesitates for a moment, swirling the water in his cup around, and then he does. 

*~*~*~*~*

“are you going to tell me what you’re brooding about?” 

“i do not brood,” logan grouses. 

“are you going to tell me why you’re pouting, then?” 

“i do not pout either.” logan pouts at virgil, who bites his lower lip to keep from laughing. logan continues to pout as he gently picks up a clay teapot and pours virgil another cup of the magic-replenishing tea. virgil wraps his hands around logan’s as he takes the cup, and logan’s face smoothes into a small smile.  

“i . . . had a disagreement with roman, earlier.” 

“i don’t like the way you’re saying disagreement.” 

“he saw our father.” virgil, sitting up to sip at his tea, pauses as logan’s hands ball into fists. 

“how is he?” 

“our father? the same as always. asking about if we’re married yet so he can name thomas crown prince and die already.” virgil winces, and logan sighs. “forgive me, my love. our father . . . he is constantly rushing our lives. he would have had us wed to anyone, regardless of feelings, so that thomas could have his position as crown prince secured. thomas fought for us to have a chance at happiness, hence the ball for roman’s birthday. our father gave in, but he is . . . irritated that we have not yet wed.” 

“would it make things easier if we got married?” virgil says. logan reaches out and takes one of his hands. 

“i am not going to rush you or have roman rush patton because of our father’s succession issues. you are more than a political bargaining chip to me, virgil. you are . . .” logan’s cheeks and ears flush pink, and virgil can’t hide the besotted smile on his face as he watches logan’s gaze fix on a specific point over his shoulder. “you are invaluable to me. you are incredibly precious. i will not have you feeling like a pawn to be manipulated when you are - you are so much more than that to me.” virgil’s gaze slides to the black chess queen, propped neatly on the nightstand where he can see it.

“you’re important to me, too, l.” 

“roman was insinuating that we were irrational for running into battle to save him. he was implying that you are - are stupid or something, that you don’t know things, when without you he would be dead and we would have suffered innumerable casualties! that fool, what was he thinking , he -” 

“you were worried about him,” virgil says. 

“roman is capable. he does not require worrying about, so he likes to say.” logan scoffs.

“you’re his big brother, lo. you were going to worry no matter what happened. i worry about patton no matter what, and i bet thomas worries about you and roman no matter what. that’s just what brothers do.” 

logan pulls his hands into his lap, fidgeting with his fingers. “i . . . suppose i should apologize to him.” 

“hey, if he was being a jackass, he should apologize to you, too.” logan leans in and gently presses a kiss to virgil’s cheek. virgil makes a very undignified squeaking noise that he will deny vehemently to anyone else. 

*~*~*~*~*

“logan?” 

“roman.” 

“i . . . uh . . . ‘m sorry. i didn’t, uh . . . mean to insult virgil, or . . . or imply that he’s stupid. i know his magic takes a lot out of him, and i know he . . . he really used a lot when you guys came to save us. i just . . . i don’t like feeling like the stupid kid brother you all have to chase after, you know?” 

“i find that i owe you an apology as well, roman. i was, perhaps, unnecessarily harsh on you when last we spoke. i felt that someone had to defend virgil’s . . . honor is not quite the right word, but it is the closest i have.” 

“i can take care of myself, you know.” 

“i know, roman. but when virgil burst into the throne room and told us that he had seen you being slain . . . after the truth of his prediction with my horse incident, thomas and i were understandably distraught. we always fear the worst when you ride out into battle, and virgil seemed to be implying that those worst fears would be realized.” 

“i get that. and i . . . i am grateful, for what he did. for what you did.” 

“i know.” 

“father just . . . rattled me.” 

“i confess that i am irked as well. he has been ill for years, and remy is confident that he is not on death’s doorstep despite his illness. there is no reason for him to be so insistent on this marriage. patton and virgil are more than just marriage partners.” 

“i love him, lo. i - even if i didn’t have to, i would want to marry him.” 

“i share the sentiment.” 

“. . . i do love you, lo. even if you’re an annoying big brother sometimes.” 

“and i love you as well, despite your constant annoying younger brother status.” 

“hey!” 

(patton, hiding in the hallway, giggles and scurries off to the hospital wing.)