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fightevilandthengetblownup · 5 years ago

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Something borrowed, Something blue... (Part 1 - Bakery!AU)

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She wasn’t sure what he would think when he saw it, but she hoped he wouldn’t be upset. It had just screamed at her the moment she stumbled across it, and she knew exactly where it should go. Starting just above her knee and winding its way around her thigh to her hip bone, the stencil marks looked thick and jagged compared to the fine lines and dots it would eventually form into.

“Man, this is goin’ to be a hell of a night for me isn’t it?” The grumbled whine from the other brought a smile on her lips as Jo looked over her shoulder at the other blond.

Rolling her eyes, Jo let out a small laugh as she watched Ash massage his hands with a scowl. “Oh yeah, because this is goin’ to be a walk in the park for me too.”

“Bitch, please, you know you love it when I stick it to you; clearly you’re goin’ to be having a blast.”

“Yeah, and you’re going to get the practice and images for your portfolio - seems like a good day for you too.”

“Only cause I get you all bare legged around me for the night, chickadee.” Ash’s smile twisted into a friendly leer at that, though both of them laughed in unison after a moment. Giving the meat of her thigh a friendly tap, the other reached across her leg to flick the switch on the machine on before he turned his gaze back to her leg, joking look gone and replaced with the serious look she knew was his focussed face. Ash had left the building and Dr Badass, #1 tattoo artist on the West Coast, was in.

Rolling back so she was in the right position as the man started to press the needle into her skin with the high pitched buzzing beginning to fill the air.

Jo lay her head back and almost dozed off as the man’s hands and needle worked over the next seven hours. Occasionally they would pause to allow either of them to stretch, go to the bathroom or get a drink as the hours stretched on.

It was almost midnight before the artist finally put down his gun and wiped over her bare skin with the cleaning pad. Jo’s thigh and hip was aching, and Ash made his own groans of pain as he cracked his knuckles.

“Hello?” The voice came calling from the adjoining bakery, and Jo quickly moved to cover her bare bottom half with the blanket she’d been using to stay warm throughout.

“In here, my man.” Ash called back, peeling off his gloves and starting the steps to pack away his machine and the various ink pots he’d used for the design that night. “Bloody pushy bitch made me do this thing in one freaking sitting.”

“This that secret tattoo I’ve heard nothing about?” The question came as the dark haired man made his way into the tattoo parlor. Moving his way across to the tattoo bed, Jo found herself grinning widely into the kiss he delivered along with the plastic bag of Chinese takeout for the pair.

Jo nodded as she ran her hand through his hair and shifted in her spot to stretch out her leg muscles.

“That’d be it, Joey just showed up one day with this little design and begged me to tag her with it-” Ash replied as he rolled across the few feet of space between the pair and his work station, spinning about and holding out a paper to the other man. “Pretty beautiful piece'a work to get to play with. Going to look mint on Instagram and my portfolio. Just make sure you angle your ass enough when I take the photo, aye darlin’?”

Jo shifted awkwardly as her boyfriend took the design from the other, before turning to give her childhood friend access to apply the necessary serum and then bandage to her hip and thigh.

“Where…where did you get this?” Jack’s voice shook slightly as he looked at the page, and Jo could see the tattoo artist freeze before spinning and sliding his way through the door into the bakery without a word. If she’d been able to see his face, she knew he would have been biting down on his knuckle to avoid speaking. “Jo? Did you-?”

“Find a real beautiful piece in one of your old folders and talked Ash into expanding from American traditional and Japanese to do some fine-line grey work? Yep, yes I did.”

Jo looked up through her hair at the other, not sure what the almost vacant and frozen look on his face meant. They’d been dating for two years, sure, but she hadn’t seen that look since the University mixer eight months ago when he’d frozen up at some question from some patron about when he was doing another exhibit or something. She did remember the silence and the cold responses she had gotten from him until they got home when she’d said he was doing her wall again at the patron’s insistence about where his next work was being displayed. Jo bit her lip hoping that she wouldn’t get the same cold response when he saw her leg.

“You found my sketches? And thought to get one..” Jack’s face was pulled into a closed off frown, brows creased only slightly and the rest of his face blank except for the swirl of colour from light to dark in his eyes she knew came from him focussing really hard on what to say next. “You got my artwork put on you without asking me?”

“I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.” She mumbled the words out, arms crossing under her chest as she looked away from him. Pushing to her feet and letting the blanket drop down, the blonde moved towards her folded pair of sweatpants and underwear to get dressed again now the bandages were in place without looking back at him. “I’ve always wanted a fine line styled one, and something about that just… Spoke to me. Said ‘Jo, I need to be on your body’ or something like that.”

Once she’d gotten her underwear back on, she jumped at the hand on her unbandaged hip as she span to look up at him. His eyes were dark blue - moody, pensive, aroused or quietly angry; but she couldn’t quite tell which one.

“Show me.” The growled words made her want to smirk but she fought it down - aroused or angry it was then - before she peeled the edge of her bandage off to display the design in its entirety, the band of her underwear pulled high over the very top of her hip bone.

Ash had done an amazing job, like always.

While her rib tattoos were highly saturated in their coloring with vibrant depths in the primary colours of the American Traditional style, and their thick borders and shading added contrast and depth that she’d loved and found her own artist appreciated regularly with his fingertips or lips, this design was the complete opposite.

Shades of grey, from inky black depths to almost nonexistent white highlights that accentuated the skin gaps of the petals, we’re all that made up the design. The thin but deliberate lines flowed together, dots and fading shading used in equal measure to add depths to the folds and turns of the design. The flowers spread and bloomed across her thigh and hip, her own skin filling in the petals like they were blooming from inside her rather than pressed upon her surface. It had been a simple sketch of a group of flowers, from the date in the bottom corner Jo figured sometime before whatever fame he had achieved in the art world from her Googling of him before they’d begun dating, but there had been a soul and life in them. And with Ash’s deft hand and skill, they seemed to grow even more organically from her skin than the paper as if they had always been there. Just below the surface.

His hand twitched towards her, and his finger hovered just above her raised skin as if he was following the lines of his own work like he remembered it, before he reached to smooth the bandage back into place at the clunking sound of the spinning chair drawing nearer to return.

“So, what do you think? Something I should expand more into?” The blond man asked as he span his way back into the parlor, three plates from the bakery and several utensils in his hand as he rolled into sight.

The dating pair nodded, Jo pulling her sweatpants on while Jack rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly.

“You did a great job, Ash, and I’ll make sure to wear my cutest thong when the swelling goes down for your photo.” The blonde quipped back, winking across at her friend.

“You are an angel of the highest order, mamacitta, I’ll see about getting you included when Inked is coming for that photoshoot next month.” Ash replied, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressing a kiss to her cheek with a grin before he moved to start dishing out the Kung Pao Chicken and fried rice on his plate.

“Photoshoot?”

“Ash is gettin’ featured in some bigshot magazine again. They like to get examples of old work and new work of his for it to give a real, longterm work.” Jo replied, piling her and the other’s plate high with dinner and stuffing a prawn cracker in her mouth. Biting down and letting the cracker disolve on her tongue, she found herself smiling at the appreciative look from the other as he sat down on the tattoo bench beside her. “I already agreed to getting my sides photographed as part of his older work-”

“And now you get to be part of my new work too.” The mulleted artist smirked, slurping up one of the Singapore noodles straight from the container. “It’ll be on the 15th, so make sure you get someone in to fill that time for you.”

Jo nodded her head, not really thinking on it as she began to wolf down her own meal. Tattooing, especially for that long, always made her ravenous as Ash had a strict no-eating policy when he was working. Something about it distracting him from the ‘art’, but she thought it was more that he just got jealous she could stuff her face and he couldn’t without having to go through the sanitisation again.

Jack bumped her knee however, raising an eyebrow at her as he questioned quietly, “Don’t you have that tail for that week? About the wedding and the cake and the bakery?”

That got a groan from her as Jo tipped her head to the side, resting on Jack’s shoulder in exhaustion. “Oh god, that’s true… Ah well, they can just wait for an hour or two while we shoot or something.”

“That or they’ll include it, show off your body in two magazines, aye?” The eyebrow waggle from the tattooer got a tired sounding laugh from her, and she could feel the other’s shoulder shake from his own silent laughter. “Promise we’ll keep her covered up some, Jack.”

“That’s her choice,” The other responded, tucking into his own late-night dinner with them. Jo could see a splatter of paint on the back of his neck from where she was, clearly having spent the night on his own working on his own artwork. “Though I think Rolling Stone may actually appreciate getting a half-dressed show by tagging along too.”

“It’s not like it’s a cover story - that’s your sister, not me, hun.” Jo ribbed back, chewing thoughtfully over her chicken as Ash span away to get some beers from his fridge.

The second week of the next month was something she was dead nervous about. It wasn’t like it was the first article her bakery had been featured in, nor was it the first time she had been interviewed personally - but those had always been for small local or state publications. Or the odd collumn in the society pages when she’d accompanied her step-dad to a reunion special, or been caught on camera out with the brunette sister of Jack’s in the last two years.

But this time it was a large, international even magazine coming to speak with her. A reporter was planned to follow her about for the week to write a feature story as part of the ongoing coverage about the wedding in six months time. The wedding was due to be Kardashian Level Big according to Shada, whatever that meant, and Jo had somehow been sucked into the epicentre of it almost as much as the bride herself.

It had started with an innocent offer to bake the cake. Something Jo would have done for any of her friend’s upon hearing of their engagement - something Jo had done before when Dean’d been engaged to Lisa six years ago (not that it lasted) and when Sam told her that he and Jessica were finally getting married last year. So when Shada had bounced her way into the back of the bakery three months earlier to show off the glittering diamond on her hand, the words had come out with genuine intent and happiness for the other woman. An innocent and wellmeaning offer which was still well meant and innocent enough; but had somehow been the start of the whole cycle of crazy the blonde was now preparing for.

Two weeks after the engagement announcement, Jo had found herself being swept up into a hug and answering ‘yes’ to her boyfriend’s sister’s request for her to be one of her bridesmaids. Shada had said she would have wanted her for a maid-of-honour (though Jo wasn’t sure how to tell her that wasn’t the correct term) but given Jo was already helping “so much” with the wedding cake that the sweet girl did not want to add any extra duties on top of her. Jo wasn’t aware how much that was a blessing at the time, but she did now. Three weeks after that, the engagement party happened.

Since then, it had been non-stop for Jo. It was as if a paparazzi bomb had gone off in front of the bakery given how frequently the bride and her pose came by to speak with her, not to mention all of the other typical wedding activities she had been dragged along to. It had taken all of her willpower not to drop out of it after Shada had tearfully confessed one night while Jack was reading a bedtime story to Billy that if it weren’t for Jo, she would think the whole thing might just be a sham for the show’s publicity. A lot of wine bottles were finished that night while the two women talked, letting the younger one vent about how out of control it had gotten and how much she loved her fiance’s patience with it all. Jo had dragged the bride’s brother to the bedroom after Shada had left, and thanked him for his own patience until it was almost dawn.

It had been last month that she had received the call from some reporter - a Chuck something-or-other - about her being part of a six-month series following along those involved in the monstrostity that was coming of the event and an “inside view to the love story of the year” from the deadpanned description the reporter had given her over the phone. Jo had laughed so much at that that she’d found herself agreeing before she knew what was happening. Her month would be the second month of the series; however she had already been featured and introduced in the story that had been released that very week. Story one had been a shallow interview with each of the bridal party about the happy couple, and a feature on the gianormous ring. Month two would be following Jo around as a bridesmaid and the baker for the event. She had heard month four’s topic would be some monstrosity about the bridesmaids shopping and fittings which would start during her week follow-around and expanded on later with the rest of the bridesmaids that she was not looking forward to.

Jack’s laugh distracted her from her thoughts though as Jo accepted a longneck from Ash. “You’re my cover girl though, pretty sure they’ll decide to make you one too if they spot the tattoo shoot.” His fingers stroked through her hair as Jo plucked his egg roll from his plate with a smile. “I’m sure it will all be fine, Jo.”

“I’m sure you think it will be.” Mumbling around the stolen egg roll, the three slowly demolished the food and the topic moved on to Ash’s work and the upcoming University art display for the other’s senior classes. It was almost one thirty before the three finally packed up and headed their separate ways home. Thankfully it was a Sunday morning which meant the bakery would be closed and the tattoo shop would not open until midday.

As Jo and Jack reached his town house and got ready for bed, the blonde baker found herself turning back and forth in the mirror of the bathroom with a smile on her face. The bandage covered her most recent work, but she could visualise the soft and dark greys of the work underneath as she looked at it beside her other pieces. It was positioned below the American Traditional styled piece dedicated to her father branded across her ribs, the bright red and bold roses surrounding the chrome’d motorbike would tie-in with the roses blooming across her hip; while the grey tones would mesh with the silver of the bikes design nicely. She could tell the love her childhood friend had put into both pieces - the love of his work, the love of the art and skill, and the love for her - would would stare back at her every time she saw each piece for the rest of her life.

Turning the other way, Jo found herself stroking the bare skin of the other hip wonderingly as to how to find a piece to tie in with the roses and guitar on that side of her ribs - a dedication to her son - but also match the new grey work. Perhaps she could talk her artist into making her a custom piece this time, perhaps even featuring an anchor, eagle and globe for her son’s father. She shook her head at that thought. That would require talking to someone about him, and as she felt the telltale pricking at her eyes, she knew that was a conversation she was still not ready for.

Brushing her teeth quickly to divert her thoughts, the baker found herself cuddling into the small spoon position when she returned to the bed, Jack’s arms wrapping tightly across her waist. The last thing she thought as his warm breath brushed against the back of her neck and Jo found herself snuggling back into his warmth was that she was so lucky to have a second go around.

Over the next three weeks Jo found herself smiling every time she remembered the new design on her leg, be it when she’d catch a sight of it in the shower, or when Ash would make a joke about getting her undressed again, or when Jack’s lips would press against it once it was healed enough. She always loved getting new work done and Dean made a joke each time she got one done that she experienced some kind of natural high from them. Jo snarked back that he’d understand it if he wasn’t such a bitch that he was scared of a little needle.

As Monday rolled around, the baker found herself in the kitchen decorating a tray of mojito flavoured cupcakes with a lime infused buttercream and pearlescent green candy balls and candied lime peel when she was interrupted.

“Hey Jo, there’s some guy here for you.” Sam’s voice snapped her out of her routine of swirling the icing with a jolt. The taller man had the good decency to look apologetic as she set her piping bag down as he moved over to start taking over the decorating duties. Jo still wasn’t sure why he still worked for her. He had finished his law degree the previous year, but he’d yet to move into permanent employment in the field - taking over some of the work from Ash now that the parlor was up and running in the last eighteen months, but making no comment to Jo about when he’d be handing over his apron for a suit. She wasn’t sure what she would do when he finally did though. Probably cry at him until he changed his mind, but that was something for Future Jo to worry about. “Looks kind of sketchy but said something about trailing you?”

“That’d be the reporter, remember? That thing for Stone about Shada’s wedding.”

“That’s this week?”

Jo laughed at the apprehensive tone to the other’s voice and the way Sam’s hands dropped the piping bag to start straightening his denim apron and pat at his manbun self-conciously. “Yes, that’s this week so don’t forget to actually look cute for once in your life.”

“Hey! I am always cute,” Sam replied, tugging the name badge - the same Sam-I-Am written in faded ink over and over - to sit jauntily angled before he reached out to tweak her nose. Jo laughed nasally as he let go with a smile. “Where as you’ll have to remember to get your beauty rest and not just screw your boyfriend until sunrise every night.”

“Excuse me?” The unfamiliar voice interrupted the pair, both jerking in surprise and straightening up as if they were twelve and thirteen again and Ellen had overheard them discussing something they shouldn’t be. Jo blinked her eyes a few times as she finally located where the voice had come from - a man with dark hair, scruffy beard and a somewhat bemused smirk, slightly disheveled clothes and an average height with a messenger bag slung across his front and a dictaphone in one hand standing in the open door to the front of the bakery beside Ash - and found herself blushing at the fact that was the first recorded words to her week long interview. “Uh, I’m here for Rolling Stone?”

“Chuck Shurley, right? Yes, yes, nice to meet you - I’m Jo! Jo Harvelle.” The baker slipped quickly into her usual friendly greeting, brushing her hand off of the nervous sweat starting in her palm on her thigh as she rushed across the room to shake the other’s hand. Jerking her head behind her at the taller man as he turned his attention back to the cupcakes, Jo found herself glaring at her friend sharply. “And that’s Sam Winchester, and he’s going to shut the fuck up right now, aren’t you Sammy?”

“Sure thing, boss!” The cheery response made her want to growl but her eyes focussed on the silver recording device the only thing stopping her.

Directing the man back out into the main area of the bakery, Jo led the other over to one of the empty tables as Ash began warming up the coffee machine for the day and getting the bakery ready for customers in the next hour.

“So, uh… How is this, um, going to be going this week?” Jo asked stiltedly, her hands twitching awkwardly around eachother on the tabletop as the man across from her slung his messenger bag off and set the silver recording device down and pulled out a battered looking notebook. “I mean, I know that Thursday we’re doing some bridesmaid shopping or something, and I emailed you about the appointment for the parlor next door tomorrow - but other than that, what, uh, exactly are you intending to do this week?”

Chuck tumbed through his notebook without looking up at her until he got to whatever page he was intending to start on before he finally looked across at her. Jo felt a little like a deer in the headlights as the reporter pulled out a pen and stared across at her.

“Those are two specific outtings, yes, but for the most part I’ll just be trailing you about on a day-to-day basis, asking questions and possibly interviewing friends as well.” He cleared his throat a little awkwardly, and as if summoned by the awkwardness, Ash appeared with two glasses, a glass bottle of water and two coffees for the pair of them. Jo fought down the urge to kiss him as she began to almost inhale the caffienated liquid, not even reacting to the wink he shot her. Bloody psychic friends, knowing her inside and out. Chuck too drank from his own coffee before he jotted something down in his notepad she couldn’t see. “If you’ve got the chance to do a demonstration of the cake, or just one of the teirs of what is sure to be the monstrosity- I mean, extravagantly beautiful cake, then I know that’d be really important for the piece-”

“I can definitely bake up a teir or two of the amazing masterpiece for the wedding of the year-”

“With photos? Of the creative process required for such an… exciting event.”

“Yes, you can photograph the process.”

“Excellent.”

Both trailed off quietly, however the slight awkwardness had faded as both smirked a little. Jo found herself having to bite the inside of her cheek.

“Off record-”

“Okay, off the record.”

“-You’re not looking forward to covering this are you?” Jo asked politely, hiding her smile behind her mug.

The reporter appeared to pause for a moment, eyes darting away as if trying to decide the best, most diplomatic response, before he looked back at her with his own self-depricating smile. “That obvious huh?” Chuck let out a small chuckle. “Usually I’m touring with bands and such or doing some investigative articles, not.. a fake socialite turned celebrity’s wedding.”

“I read that article on ‘A week in the life of a YouTube something-or-other’ a few months ago actually.” Jo replied, smiling congenially across at the other. “And my boyfriend was a fan of your introspective into the decline of alternative music festivals.”

“Can we go back on the record?”

“Sure?”

“Brilliant. Let’s start with some basic questions, aye?” The awkwardness was fully gone as both relaxed back into their seats and the man looked down at his pages as if deciding where to start. “So, your name is Joanna Beth Harvelle-”

“But I go by Jo.”

“Jo, then.” He scribbled a note down. “Your mom and dad’s names?”

“Ellen and William Harvelle.”

“And you’ve got a step-father, right?”

“Yeah, Bobby Singer - you’ve probably got down to chat with him sometime anyways.” Jo replied almost boredly as they made their way through the basic questions.

“He’s the director on the bride’s TV show correct? Is that how you met the blushing bride?”

“Nah, she’s actually my boyfriend’s sister, so I knew her before she was cast. Not that that had anything to do with either-” Jo was quick to add, shifting to sit upright a bit more, rather than relaxing as she realised she needed to be careful to definitely paint her friend in the best light now they were back on record. “-I didn’t actually know Bobby was working on the project, or that Shada was an aspiring actress actually, until after they started filming.”

“Speaking of your boyfriend - he’s Jack Grey, correct?”

“Yes, he’s a lecturer at Cornish in the arts programs.”

The reporter nodded along with her words, jotting down something as he flicked a look up to her face that made Jo flush. “He was a big name in the art circuit a while back, wasn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t know really, not really my scene and I didn’t know him back then.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Just over two years now.” Jo smiled thinking back on how quickly the time had seemed to go, dipping her teaspoon and stirring her coffee absent mindedly as she fell into the easy responses to the easier question.

“And before that you were married, correct?”

The question caught he off guard, spoon clattering loudly against the side of the cup as her eyes widened. She could hear the sound of coughing from behind her somewhere and the hissing sound of the milk frother being turned to full without any milk jug underneath it. She could see the curious look from the reporter and the quick movement of his pen as he wrote down something as he stared back at her. She could feel the heat leaving her cheeks and her stomach twisting around on itself, and her throat catching as if suddenly parched of any moisture.

“Uh..what?”

“You were married before, making you the only married bridal party member. A, uh, William Mark Reynolds correct?” Chuck appeared to look quickly between her face and his notes, frowning slightly. “A captain in the marines, killed in action in Afghanistan five and a half years ago. Awarded a Medal of Honor for-”

“For disobeying orders to rescue civillians from an occupied ISIL facility, and for blocking the escaping civillians path from the combatants with his own body.” She replied almost mechanically, the words combing back to her from the visit by the Marine officer sent to break the news to her. Jo found her stomach twisting again tightly as it had then, however at that time it had hurt doubly from the pressure of their boy inside growing. Shaking her head, she blinked across at the other man with a tight smile. “My husband lost his life in the line of duty, and gave twenty-three people their’s back. That’s all I have to say on that.”

“Would you mind if, should it suit the article, we include the photo of your receiving the award on his behalf?” The photo in question was pushed across to her on the reporter’s phone, and Jo bit back an inappropriate laugh at how different she looked in it to now. Haunted and sallow, sunken eyes and limp hair, and the crisp black dress not hiding at all the protrouding stomach she had at the time of the ceremony. It was the time she had started baking, and within a year had the bakery up and running and a smile back on her face after months of the same blank look in the image.

Jo shook her head, pushing the phone back across the table to the other. “I’d prefer you don’t, and I’m sure you’ll have more interesting things to include than that too much.”

“That’s true, I’ll see what I can do to ensure not to spend too much time on it.” The genuine smile she received in return as well as the softness in his tone helped to smooth the tightness in her at the line of questioning, as Chuck clicked his phone screen back to black before turning his attention back to his notes. “Anyway, you have a son?”

“Billy - William Dean, but we call him Billy. He’s almost five.”

“And you’re the owner of this fantastic bakery, correct?”

“Yes, this is my other baby!” Jo laughed, the tightness disappearing in full as the topic turned back to easier topics.

From there, the questions moved through to how long she had been baking, when the bakery had opened and what had inspired her ‘unique’ choice in name. How she came to meet Shada and her fiance Ian - which Jo felt uniquely qualified to provide an indepth telling of the pairs first meeting in the very kitchen behind them. Chuck laughed at her retelling the story, and both agreed to take some photos of the space and possibly even re-create the “life changing coffee” as Jo dubbed it on the other woman’s behalf. How the bride had asked her to be part of the bridal party, how Jack would be participating in the wedding - “He’s going to be walking his sister down the aisle, and is the last of the groomsmen” - and how she had found the wedding arrangements thus far.

As the hour reached the time for the bakery to open for trading, the reporter simply shrugged his bag back upon his shoulder, tucked away his notepad and brought out a professional camera to begin taking candid photos of the bakery and it’s workers. Jo herself headed back into the kitchen to begin on a new load of pastries for the day as Sam returned to the front of house and Ash began to flit between the coffee machine and his parlor. The rest of the day passed relatively easily, with Chuck almost an invisible presence as the trio moved through their usual patterns of the day. Jo almost forgot to cut him a slice of the quiche lorraine they were having for lunch that day with how unobtrusive he was.

Occasionally, she’d be drawn into a line of questioning about the business and her personal life, as well as to reflect on the bride herself, but for the most part Chuck appeared content to follow her around quietly other than to ask where he could charge his phone and dictaphone. Ash would bring him in a coffee at the same times he would deliver Jo her own, and she heard them have a slight discussion at one point about her and his friendship. She was exceptionally happy to hear Ash never once mentioned the knife collection Jo’d begun collecting as a child, as she doubted that would run well.

So far as her work, the day had been an almost mindless blur of rushing about the kitchen space preparing to get ahead of herself for the hours off she would be taking the next day. Sam handled customers like the pro he was, sweet talking everyone and keeping a smooth transition of items from the back to front without any input from her; while she knew in the adjoining space, Ash would be drinking beer, spinning on his chair and smashing out the prep work for the week’s tattoos ahead of him and preparing for the photoshoot the next day - occasionally Jo could hear him stop to help with barista duties given the tattoo parlor was not open Monday’s or Tuesday’s typically; as well as the odd conversation between all three men working in the building alongside her.

Just before midday, Chuck and Sam had entered the kitchen and set up some kind of rig to capture her in motion with a slow exposure system for stills as well as a video camera for the video miniseries that would accompany the piece. Jo barely thought of it as she continued to work like a madwoman to pump out tray upon tray of brownies, ice racks full of different cupcakes and pile cakes high with fruit and garnishes. She was just glad she’d had the foresight not to agree to any weddings or functions that weekend. Brownies filled with hazelnuts, Nutella spread and drizzled with white chocolate slipped into the fridge beside raspberry cupcakes, poppy seed muffins, dark chocolate tortes, fruit pies and savory quiches and pies. So far as Jo was concerned, the day was like any other with the constant battle to bake ahead of her needs and the scent of chocolate, berries and baking bread filling her nose; cocoa and flour dusting her hair, brushing her cheeks and coating her hands as always.

It wasn’t until it hit four in the afternoon that Jo was reminded that the reporter was slinking about when she’d been greeted by her dark haired man with a wide grin and kiss as usual as he made his way into the back kitchen. She had her arms around his neck, one hand in his hair and the other tugging him into her by his scarf as he brushed her cheek clear of a white streak of flour when the sound of repeated camera shutters disturbed her from her usual greeting.

“Uh… Some privacy?” Jo pulled back from the other to look towards the reporter, camera still out and snapping candid movements as the pair didn’t step back from one another.

There was another few shutter sounds before the man lowered the camera back to the bench and pulled out his dictaphone instead. “Sorry Jo, privacy is for next week. Hi, Chuck Shurley, big big fan of your watercolor period.” The reporter made his way over, hand held out for the other to shake as he smiled in that same self-depricating way Jo had come to know as his bemused look over the last nine hours. “The sunflower segment was a phenomenal series.”

“Oh.. Oh, thanks. Yeah, uh, they definitely were, um, some of my work. Yep.” Jo looked on as the same cold, almost indifferent look swept over his boyfriend’s face as he shook hands with the other man, his other arm staying firmly wrapped around her waist. Jack’s eyes darted about and she could see his jaw muscle clench for a moment. “Nice to meet you, Chuck. I, uh, hope Jo hasn’t caused you too many problems so far today.”

“Hey!” She let out an outraged cry, hand tugging at his scarf playfully angry as she looked up at him. The sound of the camera clicking caught her off guard again as the pair had smiled and smirked at one another before the playful looks dropped from their faces at the sound. Jo coughed awkwardly before turning back to her cupcake work while Jack stepped back a few feet to pick up one of the brownies laid out on a tray ready to be moved out front or stored into the fridge for the next day.

“So, Jack Grey, you’re Shada’s older brother, right?”

“Yes, Shada’s my little sister.” Jack slumped back against the counter top as Jo turned her attention back to her current work. She wasn’t sure what the tone in his voice or the slightly cool attitude he was putting off was about, but figured the reporter would inevitably want to interview him now or in future and was taking advantage of the opportunity as it presented itself. “Our parents were Eleanor and Michael Grey, they have since passed away before you get to those questions.”

The lemon and honey infused cupcakes she was currently working on, a pale golden yellow batter that had come out of the oven right before they moved from a light gold to a warm brown color on the top, were testers for the wedding cake she’d be trialling later in the week itself. She had to decide over the next day to decide on the best icing for the mix - whether she went for the basil and lemon infused buttercream that she moved towards the mixer to whip up, or if she brought in the purple theme for the outer decoration by swirling blueberries or blackberries into the buttercream too.

“Thanks for confirming, uh.. So, were your parents creatives too? To have had both a prolific artist and a rising star actress in the family, it would beg the question.”

“Our mother was a dental assistant and our father was an accountant. So no. They weren’t particularly creative people.”

“In that case, as the first of the artists in the family - how do you think your sister is handling her rise to fame?” Chuck’s question sounded weird, and the tones of both men sounded off to her; however Jo simply spared a quick glance towards the pair over her shoulder as she moved to start working on the berry coulis. Neither seemed particularly odd, Jack seemed to be appreciating his brownie as much as always and the reporter was simply flipping through his notebook with the dictaphone beside them. “It’s so similar to your own rise to prominance too. Straight out of the last few years of study, picked up by a renowned name in the industry and flashed into the public sphere.”

“My sister is very mature for her age.” The words were practically growled out, and as Jo stirred about the berry mix in the saucepan over the hob, she chanced another look behind her. Jack’s arms were crossed firmly across his chest, and that cold look was back. Peculiar. “Shada also has the benefit of being surrounded by people who want the best for her, and have had their own experiences, as you say, with the problems of popularity and attention. People who will help keep her on the right path.”

“Ah. Yes. Not going to see her follow your footsteps then?”

That caught her attention, back straightening and ears pricked but made no move to look around to see what was happening. It was quiet for a moment before Jo found herself getting a kiss on the cheek and a pat on her hip before Jack mumbled something about ‘catching up with her later’ and leaving. Very, very peculiar.

Finishing off the coulis and moving back towards her station, setting the hot pan down on a cooling pad to be used once it had dropped down in temperature. The buttercream was almost finished whipping in the mixer as Jo switched that off as well. Spooning half the basil, lemon buttercream into a medium, petal nozzel piping bag; she began piping in a rose around the top of half the cupcakes as she waited for the berry mix to cool.

She could hear the man rustling about in his bag behind her, flipping pages back and forth, feet shuffling loudly on the concrete floor, and the click of the back of the dictaphone being slid open for more batteries again.

“What was that all about?” Jo found herself asking while the other’s recording device was not recording every word she said. “Off record, what was that all about?”

“Your boyfriend is a bit of an enigma in the art world, if you didn’t know. He was huge for a while there, people were saying he was going to be the next classics master, first one in generations.” Chuck replied, fitting the batteries back into his recorder, but not turning it back on yet as he moved over to watch what she was doing. A snap of his camera came as she added the last petal to the cupcake in her hand. “And then seemingly overnight, he just dropped off the radar after torching his studio. Burnt over a million dollars of artwork some have valued the loss at.”

Jo’s brow shot up, not having dug much further than just that he’d had an exhibit that went around the world some ten years earlier than her meeting him, as she looked across at the other. “Really?”

“He was set to be huge. But none of his work has been seen since then.”

“Huh, guess I shouldn’t have got him to keep painting over his work out front then, aye?” Jo laughed a little to herself, shaking her head as she picked up another cupcake.

The icing on that one was ruined however when she heard the clattering of the reporter’s notebook to the floor surprised her. Jerking around, she looked at the other in confusion.

“Wait..that…that mural out in the main room?” Chuck appeared to struggle to get the words out, staring at her wide eyed. “Is that a Jack Grey?”

Jo nodded her head with another laugh, quirking her lips up as she sat the piping bag and cupcake down on her work station. Brushing her hands off on her apron, she reached across to the top of the work bench for her phone. “Yeah, that’s I think the tenth one I’ve got him to do? I’ve got photos of some of the other’s on here somewhere too.”

For the next thirty minutes the pair stood together flicking through the somewhat unartful photos Jo had snapped of each of her murals over the last two years - from a wall full of flowers with secret faces in the centres, to a black-and-white labyrinth maze, to a stylised sketchy portrait of her and her son that was done to celebrate Billy’s birthday, to a wall full of swirling colours making designs and shapes within itself that was hard to define but had made Jo smile for two whole months - while the dictaphone remained off and Jo answered off record questions about the other’s work in the last two years. Both sides were surprised as they talked, one that the artist was still making art, the other that it was a surprise for him to be doing so.

Once the coulis was cooled down, Jo poured it in lines around the star nozzel piping bag before filling the centre with the remaining buttercream. The swirls were a mix of purple and white atop the other half of the cupcakes by the time Ash and Sam made their way into the kitchen after tidying down the store front and closing up.

“So, we’ll meet back here tomorrow for the… uh?” Chuck looked a little helplessly at the trio as he flicked back and forth through the notebook, now with extra sheets of paper stuck in at all kinds of angles, including napkins and baking paper when they couldn’t locate normal paper.

“Inked magazine shoot next door.” Ash supplied generously, thumbs stuck through his belt as he relaxed back next to Jo, staring hungrily at the rack of cupcakes for the next day. Moving quickly, Jo shoved the rack of her wedding-tester cupcakes into the fridge as Sam added the last two trays of brownies and a slab of cinnamon buns in after her. The fridge was more full than she normally allowed it to get; with premade elements such as the cupcakes and brownies, as well as trays of unbaked bread, buns and rolls ready to be thrown in the oven throughout the next day so there would be freshly baked items as well. The pout that graced the other’s face as he brushed a hand through his long back hair made Jo smirk. “Got this nightmare getting done sometime around lunch, but I’ll be needing her all day. You know, emotional support.”

“What a liar, Ash, you don’t have emotions!”

“Ugh, the pain, the hurt, you break my heart, girlie.” The mulleted tattooer held his hands up to his heart, clutching in fake pain as he stared back at her. Jo wiped a fake tear from her own eye in response, giving an exagerated sniff, before getting caught up in a hug by the other blond. Squealling as her feet left the ground, she wasn’t even surprised to hear the click of the camera at this point, nor the laughter from the other men watching. As Ash sat her back down on the ground, she elbowed him in the ribs gently. “Anyway, Jo’s going to be out of the kitchen all day with me and the guys from Inked, as well as Garth, Gordon, Creedy and Tamara - just so you know Jo and don’t yell at me-”

“Really? You’ve got Gordon coming?”

“Get over it Jo, it was three crappy dates and him texting that he was seeing someone else.” Jo was interrupted in her whining about the man coming and being a part of the shoot by Sam, shaking his hair out of his manbun now that the food was away and the day was over. He reached out a clapped a hand on her shoulder with a smile. “Don’t worry though, I’m going to make sure to burn all of his coffees and add a ton of sugar.”

“But he’s keto at the moment for the next comp-ooooh.” Jo grinned widely in response at the other, rolling her eyes at the mischief that Sam would inevitably get up to tomorrow. He and the other man had never gotten along well, and Jo was almost certain he’d been involved somehow in scaring the other away three years ago when Jo and Gordon had begun to strike up a flirtation when he’d been visiting a lot to discuss his next work with Ash. However it could have been Billy that scared the other off, and the blonde couldn’t help but smile thinking how much better off she was now than three or even four years earlier.

Finishing the last bit of tidying up and confirming the time for ten am the next day, Jo bid goodbye to the other’s before heading back to Jack’s townhouse to get started on dinner and hand over duties with her mom. The night went by quietly - Billy had behaved himself at childcare and for the two hours Ellen watched over him in the evening before Jo and Jack both made it home, Jack’s cold mood seemed to have disappeared completely if the flowers were any indication, and the trio spent a normal night playing games on the rug in front of the television before Jack took Billy for his bedtime story.

As the pair finally retired for bed after two episodes of Good Omens and half a bottle of red wine each, Jo found herself curling into her spot in the crook of the other’s neck and asking quietly, “Did you really torch a whole pile of your paintings?”

She could feel him stiffen for a moment before his arms wrapped around her again tightly. Jack’s voice was just as quiet, as if it was said softly enough it would remain a secret, just between the two of them. “Yeah, my manager was not happy but fuck him.” His fingers stroked through her hair gently as Jo snuggled in closer again. “He was the one that pushed me to pump out crap, he didn’t deserve a single cent of commision from it and I was… exhausted. Physically and creatively. The news said it was the whole studio, but really it was just a few canvases. I was done.”

She hummed in response, curling her fingers around his shoulders as she hugged into his chest, breathing deeply. It was intoxicating, the smell of oil paints, mens deoderant and that underlying scent she’d come to associate with home. Nodding her head against his chest, cheek pressed against the thin, soft sleep tshirt fabric, Jo could appreciate the other’s past as much as she hoped he would hers one day. Not today though, she’d thought on it enough already today, more than she had in over two years; and she didn’t want to go digging around in that box of memories again. “I’m glad you did it then, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now.”

“Exactly, what’s a bit of arson to make everything right, huh.” The words rumbled in his chest and made her smile as they shared a few kisses before rolling about to get to sleep. She would have rolled on top of him, but Ash had made her promise not to get any hickeys and to get a good nights sleep before she’d left the bakery.

And a good nights sleep she got.

Jo rolled into the bakery the next morning, Billy’s hand held tightly in hers since she wouldn’t be in the kitchen unable to watch him that day, and quickly grabbed up the plate of cinnamon buns that Sam had already baked that morning from the kitchen before taking the young boy through to the tatto parlor where there were the starts of the shoot were getting underway. There were lighting rigs, and cameras everywhere. There were cords all over the floors, and Billy was very careful when stepping over them to her relief and pride as they made their way through to where Ash was nursing a beer already.

“Just starting, or didn’t you stop?” Jo asked quietly as she moved Billy to sit up on the tatto bench beside his favourite ‘uncle’. She tore one of the buns in half, handing one half to each of her blond men with a smile.

Ash shook his head as he bit down into the fluffy, cinnamon infused bun before looking at her in surprise at the hidden apple chunks. “Didn’t stop. Saw that beauty round on Elm Street, god Pamela is a goddess, you know?”

Jo raised a brow back at her friend, and almost snorted at the same look on her son’s face towards the tattoo artist though without the knowing leer she knew she was delivering alongside it.

“Uncle Ash, a person can’t be a god,” Billy’s voice cut over whatever Jo had thought to say, biting down on the laugh his words made her want to do.

“You’d be mostly right there, buddy, but when you’re older, you and I are going to have a chat about how all women are goddesses - its just us guys that don’t get any magic powers.” Ash smirked back at the kid, spinning around in his chair before tapping the boy’s nose with one finger. Billy scrunched up his face, looking disbelievingly at the other before dropping it and tucking into his own half of a bun.

The tattoo artist was called away after a few minutes of companionable silence between the trio while eating their belated breakfast buns. A moment after the tattooer left with his unfortunate mullet, the mother and son were joined by her shadow for the week.

“Morning Chuck, didn’t scare you off yesterday did I?”

“Very nearly.” The reporter replied, digging his dictaphone out again and clicking the power button as he’d done the day before. Jo barely acknowledged it now, used to it already. Chuck brushed his hands off, rubbing them together from the cold outside before he spotted the curious face looking at him from Jo’s other side. “Uh, hi there kiddo. I’m, um, Chuck. And you must be Billy.”

“Yep!” The chirpped response from the cinnamon covered boy came with a wide toothy smile, before he held out a sticky hand to the older man. Jack must have been teaching him the manners Jo never bothered to. “You’re the person doing the story on Aunty Shaday?”

“That he is, kiddo. He’s going to be following Mommy around for the rest of the week, so you’ll be on your best behavior wont you?”

“Yessum Mommy.”

“Good boy. Now, did you want to go see if Uncle Sammy would make you a hot cocoa?” Jo asked quietly, running a hand over her boy’s hair as he looked around the place as if he were bored. “And later, Sammy might even get you to help out with decorating some cupcakes if you ask him real nicely.” It wasn’t uncommon on non-baking days for Billy to come into the shop and spend an afternoon icing monstrosities of cakes and sugar cookies under the watchful eye of Sam or Jo. Today however, Sam had roped Jessica into coming in to help out under the guise of practice-parenting so Jo knew there was nothing to worry about with a real nurse on hand for once should anything go wrong.

The young boy disappeared with a squeal back into the bakery, and Jo could hear his excited rambling at the younger couple about cocoa and cupcakes over the din of the photo shoot starting up. The man beside her chuckled a little, flicking open his notebook again and jotting down a few notes.

“Oh, in case you wanted to know, those two works up there-” Jo jerked her head across to the two sketch arts that Jack had done before they’d started dating for Ash’s studio, smirk forming as she saw the clearly not-a-morning-person reporter look about blearily. “-Are two more of Jack’s. A tattoo-parlor-warming present for Ash.”

“Really?” Chuck appeared to squint at the artworks for a moment, before snapping photos with his camera and settling back down again, coffee in hand. Clearly Sam had already taken good care of him that morning. “Any more priceless pieces about this place that my friends in the art community would gag over?”

“I mean, when we get into the photos, you might find another.” Jo smirked wider still at the confused look on the other’s face before her happy demeanor dropped slightly at the arrival of the other ‘models’.

Tamara and Creedy were decent enough people, always tipped Sam for their drinks when they had been by, and Jo figured that Creedy would be getting used for an ‘in action’ tattoo shot from the choice of button up shirt that he usually never wore. Tamara on the other hand had a beautiful Japanese style koi across her shoulder and back that Jo figured was going to be her contribution to the photoshoot. The one Jo found herself rolling her eyes over was when she caught the eye of and shared a nod with Gordon Walker. She was fairly certain he was another Japanese style, a greyscale-styled dragon that from what she remembered and could see poking out from under his t-shirt sleeve wound around his entire sleeve and across his chest. That one would be a pleasure for the photographer to cover today.

“So, who’s got what? What is this whole thing about?” The reporter’s question brought her attention back from following the well-defined sleeve tattoo’s progress around the parlor as Jo blinked back at the other with a shrug. “As much as I’ve followed musicians to their sessions before, a, uh, photo shoot for tattoos hasn’t been on my list of articles so far.”

“And a wedding cake has?”

“Touche.”

Jo laughed a little in response, as she wiped her hands off on her jeans awkwardly. The other three models were getting dragged through the rigmarole of styling as first timers, and the baker knew she would be going through the same process soon enough but given hers would be the only one requiring practically no clothing, there was no point her moving towards the wardrobe discussion. Ash had made a joke about using a sheet when he’d suggested the idea to her first, but looking around Jo knew that perhaps it wasn’t quite as much of a joke as she had thought it was.

Shaking her head, Jo pointed towards the other three, giving a slight wave to Tamara when she noticed her. “So those three over there are the other models - Tamara the lady will be displaying her back piece and likely have a few different poses to try out for it. Gordon, the one smirking over here,” she found herself smiling back nicely but nothing more than a short nod in response to the subject of her conversations look, “will be getting his arm and chest photographed so usually they’ll go for a standing shot. Probably Ash next to him, maybe near the window or by the Insta-wall. And Creedy is the other one, but Ash’ll actually be tattooing him today while they photograph the process - ah yes, there goes his shirt.” As she was talking the older man stripped off his shirt and moved over to the tattoo artist to look at whatever piece they were demonstrating today.

“They use an A-shooter and B-shooter. For the most part, the B will be with Ash and Creedy doing the step by step to see about getting some in action shots; while the A team will be doing photos with Tamara, Gordon and myself.”

“And what are you getting photographed today?” Chuck was noting down as she spoke, however for the most part it appeared to be on a blank page at the back of his book while she’d been describing the process of the day, before he flicked back to the section she knew was about her article. She spotted the words ‘cute little kid, very smart, takes after father - investigate’ before he looked up at her and Jo pretended she hadn’t been looking at his work. He raised a brow, pen poised over the paper.

“I’ll be the American traditional and Ash’s new exploration into fine line greys.” Jo replied with a smile, and bit back a laugh at the blank look as the reporter jotted the words down without comprehension. “Uh, either side of my ribs are two old school styled tattoos to show his main bread-and-butter style, while Tamara and Gordon will be the Japanese section Ash’s been getting a name for. And then my thigh is the fine line style - all the rage right now, and one of the first one’s he’s done. Creedy’ll probably be getting a smaller one on his forearm for the B-shoot.”

“Ah, if the photos end up any good-”

“I’m sure you’ll need to speak with Inked, but they will probably allow use of some of their photos. Or possibly your own. Go have a chat with the art director over there.” Jo waved her hand in the direction towards the crowd of magazine workers milling about and smiled as Chuck gave a nod and disappeared.

Hopping up onto the spare tattoo bench, Jo kicked her feet in the air a little as she pulled out her phone to check over her emails while she waited to be told where she’d next be needed. She could go check up on Jessica and Billy, but she didn’t want to come off as hovering and figured the other woman would appreciate being given the chance to really give motherhood a trial. Maybe she shouldn’t have given Billy a sugary bun for breakfast, but that was all part of the fun of babysitters. Flicking through the emails, she saw some were work related about orders and shipments of ingredients, some where the junk like her old school asking for alumni to return to ‘inspire’ the teens or silly forward emails from her mom. There was six from Shada and her collection of bridesmaids and wedding planner reminding everyone that the bridesmaid shopping would be in two days time, and Jo opened up a response to remind them all to look ‘extra pretty and put together’ as the Stone reporter would be tagging along when there was a bump to her knee distracting her mid sentence.

“Hey darling,” The deep voice caught her attention, and Jo barely restrained herself from the childish desire to jerk her knee away from the man’s hand. Looking up, she raised a brow up at Gordon with a frown. “How’ve you been? Did I see your little brat running about earlier?”

“Walker. Yes you did see Billy earlier, he’s currently with Sam’s fiance working on his icing skills out back.”

“I notice you didn’t answer how you are, Joanna.”

“I’m spectacular, actually.” Jo gritted the words out, turning her gaze back down to her phone and tapping out the end of her email before tucking it away. The amused look on the other’s face rubbed her the wrong way. Forcing herself to not rise to the bait, Jo smiled sickeningly sweetly back at him. “I’ve been extremely busy actually, was on Sugar RUSH last year and did pretty well, I’m being a bridesmaid for a big wedding later in the year, and my boyfriend and I are enjoying our time with Billy.”

“So you finally found someone to replace the big macho man, huh?” Gordon’s face twisted into a smirk as he leant on the bench beside her. “Gone for another military boy like Daddy?”

Jo grit her teeth, sneering back at the other, not dignifying his questioning with an answer.

“From the silence I’m going to assume he is. Did you end up with another William this time around - because if you did, darling, that’s just more than a little sad. Nobody’s going to live up to the last one. What could top a Medal of Honor, aye? Selfless sacrificing war hero leaving his mourning widow knock-”

He didn’t get to finish the rest of his theorising before Jo’s fist was thrown straight into his smug, shit talking mouth with a snarl. As he jerked his head back to the side, her other fist threw out towards where his mouth now was. Her ears were pounding and Jo felt herself rearing back to throw a third one before she was tackled to the side by something warm and heavy.

“Hey, hey now chickadee, gorgeous, mamacitta…” The words managed to sink through her anger as the rush of adrenaline left her shaky and numb as she glared across at the now furiously snarling man, held back from following through again by the warm, tight grip of her best friend. Ash had a harsh hold around her arms, pulling her back and away from the other. "Baby girl, you need to calm down."

As she felt herself calming down again, Jo realised the noise around the room had suddenly dipped, and glancing over the top of her friend’s shoulder, she could see eyes focussed right on her from every corner. She bit down a sneer at the furious look on the bleeding man’s face though.

“You calm now, mama?” Ash asked quietly in her ear, hands rubbing her arms carefully, not quite removing the pressure in case she made a move to go again. Too many fist fights, too many bar fights, and too many screaming fits after it happened had taught him never to trust if she looked calm that she was calm.

Jo nodded her head before he finally released her, cracking her aching fist as she attempted to avoid looking at anyone else but Ash. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

“Good, good. We’re all good here people, let’s get back focussed hey?” The call came out from the tattooer as he looked over his shoulder towards the rest of the room. With a nod from him, the magazine workers went back to preparing for the shoot, while Tamara and Creedy both turned back to discussing one of the portfolio books Ash had out. Gordon only remained standing as quietly as he had before, eyes focussed on the pair of them before he get drawn away by one of the photo assistants.

“Hey, maybe you should suggest they use the bleeding for aesthetics or something.” Jo mumbled the words out as Ash finally stepped back from her, a smile growing on his face at her comment. Nodding, he rushed over towards the creative team with a lot of gesticulation and ‘framing’ hands towards Gordon. A flurry of movement followed shortly after and it appeared the A-shoot had begun.

There was a cough behind her, and the blonde wasn’t surprised at all to see the dark haired reporter popping up at her elbow unnoticed.

“So, a friend of yours?”

“Nah, just some asshole I dated once or twice. However, he loves a good tattoo so...”

“Ah.” Chuck’s voice was soft as he spoke, silve dictaphone held in hand as always, “Well, looks like you’ve helped crack an idea for the photo story at least.”

Looking over, Gordon was already shucking off his t-shirt and had begun moving into position, the focus arm to camera, muscles tightened and flexed to show off the elegant curves of the dragon onto his chest, while his other hand was fisted up as if hitting his own jaw right where Jo had landed her blows. As her eyes caught his, the dark heat of anger shining through towards her, Jo knew she’d just gotten them their best shot of the day for one of the twelve page feature article and spread for the other.

“I’m truly a creative genius, did you not learn that yesterday?” She qupped back, turning to sit back down on the tattoo bench, facing away from where the shoot had gotten underway and facing towards the B-shoot starting with Ash and Creedy. “Well, you’ll grasp that tomorrow when we work on the preliminary design for Shada’s wedding cake.”

“Ah yes, the cake, let’s talk cake while we’re waiting for your call shall we?”

“Well, it’s-” Jo paused for a second, tilting her head at the other as he began to fumble for his notebook to start taking notes alongside the dictaphone he passed her to hold this time. “You, uh, don’t really know what questions to ask or words for a food-focussed article do you?”

“Absolutely not. That’s why I defer to the professionals.” There was a cheeky smile that made him look five years younger and almost what Jo would consider as cute. Perhaps she’d have to find a single friend sometime soon if she was going to be stuck with his presence for the next six months.

Laughing, Jo waited for a nod from him that he was ready to start before begininng to speak and basically ask his own questions for him. They covered the type of cake - a chiffon sponge cake despite the bride’s claims that she wanted a genoise, what she didnt know wouldn’t hurt her - and then a small interlude where Jo expanded on the different types of sponge and why she had selected one of the simpler, more All-American sponge varities for the event. Then the flavor profile of just why Jo had selected honey (”to add the sweetness in a natural form and symbolic to make each day after sweeter”), lemon (”supposed to be for eternal love, but I just love me some honey-lemon mix”) and basil (”given how unique the couple are, it suits to add a touch of the unexpected to the cake”) for the main flavorings. And as the morning moved to afternoon, Jo began to explain aloud her concept for wrapping the layers in fondant and then incorporating the main color scheme of the wedding into a mottled, artistic style with swirls and paint splashes - “perhaps even some gold leaf just to add the sparkle I know Shada loves” - when the pair were finally approached for Jo’s turn under the camera lens.

They had seemingly talked all the way through Gordon’s photos and leaving, as well as Tamara’s shoot which Jo felt a little deflated not to get to see the beautiful koi again since she’d seen the initial concept art. Even Creedy was now being photographed with a finished fine line deer design held on display on his forearm, the geometric lines behind and around it showing the extremely clear vision Ash had during the design and application.

It looked like they were almost finished and one of the makeup artists came over to start working on Jo’s face and hair. They usually only applied something light and a little bit of drama to the eye in order to avoid detracting from the artwork that was the real focus of the shoot. Jo barely contained the eyeroll as Chuck began snapping candidly with his camera again. He leant over to the make up artist for a second and Jo didn’t bother to hide the roll of her eyes as the woman started applying a red lipstick on top of the basic makeup.

“So, little miss punchy, let us proceed without any more mishaps shall we?” The words came from the director of the shoot as he approached with Ash at his side, a smirk on the mulleted man’s face as he shrugged at Jo’s exasperated look. “Firstly, we’ll want a topless shot for each traditional on your ribs, I’m sure you’ve seen enough photos to know what we need. Then, black tank top and thong for the fine line; and then possibly we’ll do a full body with a bit of design on a chair to get your thigh and ribs in the one shot. Capeesh?”

Jo blinked a few times before nodding sharply at the impatient noise from the director. “Yep, capeesh.” Shrugging a shoulder at Ash as the pushy director moved off, the blonde shrugged out of the flannel shirt she had worn that day and made her way towards the well lit window and red brick wall corner that would be used for the rib photos. It took another ten minutes before the director and crew had decided that they had the lighting right and were ready before she slipped her tank top off as well and covered her chest with her hands. “Did you want left or right first?”

From there the three different poses were easy enough - left side of the ribs with the sunlight practically blurring her face in white and her arm tugging to cover herself creating larger curves to her front than she’d even had when breastfeeding Billy, the right side had her hair glowing down her back in stark contrast to the saturation of the tattoo; and then her black tank top and flannel both thrown back on for her thigh to be focussed as she practically hovered rather than sat on the tattoo bench in the best lighting. All pretty standard poses and moves that Jo had seen in the publication before, and had watched from the back corners the last three features done on her friend. Perhaps though, thinking on it, she wouldn’t remind Ellen or Bobby to go searching out that copy of Inked compared to Ash’s previous moments.

She had heard the gasp from the dark haired reporter when her fine line design had been first revealled, and the slight gape to his face as they wrapped up the photographing of it made Jo want to laugh. “I told you, Chuck, that you might get excited by one of the designs.”

“You got a freaking Jack Grey on your leg!”

“Have had more than on my leg you know...” Jo winked at the reporter as she shimmied back into her jeans and joked around with Ash about how uncomfortable it was to hold that pose, the director approached the trio with a pleased look.

“And we’ll do that last set up now."

Puffing her cheeks out a little, Jo looked up at her friend. “Can you go make sure that Billy doesn’t try to come in here if we’re doing that freaking sheet idea of yours?”

“Of course, I’ll make sure he’s very much busy for the next half hour.” Ash smirked, slapping her on the butt cheek as he headed off, calling behind him, “Damn stupid kid, ruining all my fun!”

Laughing, Jo moved towards the stylists and behind the privacy screen Ash would pull open for his more uncomfortable clients. Or those getting something done that would be uncomfortable for anyone to glance through and see. She was directed to strip, laughing with the older stylist woman as they both grumbled about stretchmarks, and then wrapped in a black robe to move back onto the set spot.

They had seeming settled on one of the tattoo chairs with a high back and open sides, and sitting normally Jo was surprised when the director shouted and gesticulated until she turned around, chest pressed against the worn, soft leather and legs thrown to either side of the backrest. Her arms folded across the top of the back and she tilted her head across at the director questioningly. She got a thumbs up in response while the rest of the team ran about, adjusting lighting and the odd pot plant in the background. Got to have those pot plants.

Another gesture and Jo shrugged the robe off and resettled quickly, tilting a hip here on command so her muscles pulled the designs more flatteringly. She had her head resting on her arms for the most part, hair pulled to her far side away from camera. After five minutes, she was motioned to sit up a little straighter. To twist her head like that. To turn her head like that. To hold one hand up to her face. To rest both elbows on the back of the chair. On and on it went until finally she was told they’d gotten what they wanted, and shrugging the robe back on before getting up; Jo was glad that was the end of her day following that asshole’s instructions.

Returning behind the screen, the blonde redressed quickly before moving out of the space to go round into the bakery kitchen to see what her boy had been up to throughout the morning.

Billy was sat on a stool at the bench beside Jessica, both had what looked like powdered sugar in their hair and the odd splatter of food coloring but otherwise appeared unharmed. That couldn’t be said for the workspace itself. There was flour, sugar and cocoa everywhere, and Jo found her eyes blowing wide as she took in the damage.

A hand on her hip didn’t even surprise her as Ash joined her, a coffee being pushed into her hands and the hand guiding her to sit down on one of the only clean stools in the space. Caffiene was amazing and would fix everything, she thought to herself looking around the space. It looked a lot worse than it was, and she figured that she could have the space spotless again within half an hour once she was suitably caffienated.

The sound of a camera shutter barely registered to her as she smiled across at Billy babbling about what he and Jessica had been up to that morning. Something about making cookies in the shape of bones and body parts, and that they were going to be reassembling a cookie monster or something. Jessica looked surprisingly unaffected after four hours alone with the noisy preschooler, and Jo figured that if she was enjoying herself so much it meant that the baker could get ahead of herself to prepare for her day off on Thursday as well.

However before cleaning and preparation and the cookie decorating could get underway, Jo quickly had the two and a half of them working to tidy and clean down the surface with only the slightest whining from the young boy while a tray of sausage rolls baked in the oven for the groups lunch.

When the oven dinged that lunch was ready, the kitchen was back to spotless, and Jo was even in the midst of teaching Billy and Jessica alike the importance of mise en place before she put a hold on the lesson for the flaky puff pastry wrapped sausages, with stewed apples mixed into the pork sausage mix along with dried thyme and fennel seeds making them moist and slightly sweeter. Shortly after they were plated up, one for Billy, one for Jessica, one for Jo, one for Chuck, one for Ash and one for Sam placed in the warming tray to await his opportunity to come in and eat when Ash would hand over for him.

As the five sank into stools around the kitchen, Jo ran over her plan for the rest of the day to check if it suited the other’s and whether or not the reporter needed anything more exciting than watching her preparing cookie trays for the freezer or rolling puff pastry every twenty minutes, or creating tubs worth of various buttercreams ahead of time. Chuck shrugged, and gave no feedback other than he was sure the morning had given him plenty of content for his article and that he’d be back the next day for the start on the wedding cake photos themselves. Jessica had laughed at Jo’s concern she might want to head off to relax on her day off from the hospital, and waved off the suggestion she go home rather than finish her monster anatomy cookies with Billy.

The rest of the afternoon passed by quietly, or as quietly as a busy bakery with buzzing alarms and a squealling almost-five year old and two women singing along loudly to whatever song would come on the radio could be.

Much as the night before, when Jo got home there were smiles, talk of the day’s activities (”some dick started a ruckus during the life drawing class in the morning which threw the entire day off”), babbling excitedly from Billy, a bedtime story and kisses as the night turned to morning and Jo once again fell asleep wrapped up in two warm arms.

---

#AU stories #Bakery AU

1 note · View note

subasekabang · 7 years ago

Text

Ticking of Hours, Lonely

Author: @zenellyraen

Rating: M

Word Count: 12300

Pairings: Background Shiki/Eri ; Josh/Neku hints (setup for more later)

Warnings: Pretty blatant discussion / reference to suicide, canon typical death talk, violence, slight to major self-doubt / unreality, hinted social negatives irt trans character, Joshua, all post-game spoilers in the house honestly

Summary: After all is said and done, Neku wakes up. A bullet wound to the chest. Memories fully intact. Injured, with no proof to any of the events that happened, that he remembers but can't explain. He has nothing from the Reaper's Game except the memories of a promise to meet up again, and even that he's unsure of, because after such a traumatic experience, how can he trust anything?

Can he even be sure that any of it actually happened?

Author's Note: HOO BOY. Okay so this is finally done! It's a complete fic in and of itself, but it mostly serves as set-up for another fic I want to do immediately after this. Deepest thanks and regards to the mods and participents of the subaseka bang! Y'all were wonderful and I really loved getting to be involved in this! Biggest love to my wonderful artist, @minisculelizard, who did an amazing job on his piece.

[.start.]

Brr-brr.

Pause.

Brr-brr.

Sleepily, Neku reaches out, fumbles slightly, grabs his vibrating phone from its habitual place on his pillow. He squints into the blue half-dawn light, taking in the time, the name flashing on the screen, and his heart constricts, then starts beating overtime.

03:06 AM

Call From: SHIKI

“Shit,” Neku mutters. He flips open his phone and holds it up to his ear as he sits up, wincing as his chest pulls painfully. His hands are shaking. Neku tries to put it out of his mind. “Shiki, what’s wrong, are you alright?”

There is a long, long moment, where Neku hears nothing but static, where he thinks maybe, just maybe, it’s an accidental call, though the thought is tinged with no small amount of hysteria because what if it’s worse. What if it's not Shiki at all, and he's just going to blink and his bedroom will fall away- And then there’s a quiet sob. Shiki’s voice is harsh and raspy with weariness, grief, panic, (Neku knows, he’s felt them all), and it takes her several, shuddering breaths in and out before she can finally say, “Neku.”

“I’m right here, Shiki. I’m right here, is everything okay? What’s wrong?” Neku murmurs, his free hand fisting in the bed sheets. Shiki doesn’t answer and doesn’t answer, only repeats his name over and over again between the quiet sobs. Neku keeps up his talking, trying to distract her from her own panic. “It’s gonna be okay, Shiki, just breathe. You’re fine, it’s going to be alright. I’m right here, shhh shhh, it’s okay.”

(As he does, Neku curls over himself, pulling his knees up to his chest with slow, agonizing movements, and hates the distance between them, the late hour, the fact that the trains aren’t running right now, everything that is keeping him from every modicum of comfort he can offer.

He’s still not used to not being able to touch her.)

Shiki draws a deeper breath than any she’s managed so far. Neku holds his.

“Neku, tell me it was real,” Shiki pleads, and Neku blinks furiously against a flood of his own tears.

His hand trembles where he has his phone held against his ear, and Neku leans his head over, his shoulder up, to brace it there instead. He wraps both arms around his curled legs, his fingers roughly digging into the soft blue blanket. “Shiki,” he says, “Shiki, it was real. The Game was real, it happened. You remember, right? You remember the Noise and the Psych Pins and meeting Beat and Rhyme and Mr. H and everything else.” Neku casts around for something else, anything else, gnawing his lip in the unfocused half-light. “You remember meeting me at Hachiko? Saving my sorry ass from being partnerless? Using your pig to fight?”

There’s a watery sniff. A deep breath. “He’s not a pig.”

Neku smiles. It’s a weak expression, but it’s a real one. “And you remember all of it, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“It was real, Shiki.” Neku sighs and leans back, forcing his muscles to loosen and relax against the cool wall, wincing as the injury on his chest twinges again. “Everything really happened. You’re not crazy.” He shakes his head. “None of us are.”

Shiki’s next breath is still shuddery and upset, but the one after is calmer. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I mean. How else would I have met you, right?”

“Exactly.” Heartbeat slowly calming down, Neku breathes in and out with Shiki, hoping to quell the still-anxious twist in his gut. He can't bring himself to close his eyes, scared that when he opens them again, he'll wake up in the Scramble. “I mean, you couldn’t have pulled down my shorts in the middle of a crowded street just to fix a button otherwise.”

She laughs, which is exactly what Neku wanted. He smiles into the air, curls up over himself again until he’s talking into the crevice between his thighs and torso, forehead resting on his knees, restless and unable to truly settle. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. God, for a second there I thought I had forgotten. Thanks, Neku." Shiki's words sound warm, just a little rough, and Neku’s heart aches for her, hates the distance all over again.

"Shiki," he begins, uncertain, "do you want me to call Beat and Rhyme? We can see when we all have off to go walk around Shibuya again."

"Mm, that'd be great. I miss you guys. Gosh, Neku, it's so late! Why did you pick up at this hour of the night?"

Neku huffs out a quiet laugh, and this time, he doesn’t even blink when his chest throbs with the sharp motion and the beat of Neku’s heart. "I'm always going to pick up when you guys call. Same way you'd do it for me."

Sulky and embarrassed now that the immediate panic has receded, Shiki grumbles, "Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I should bother you like that. You could’ve woken up your parents."

"Eh, it’s really not a problem, Shiki. I would have explained it to them. We’re partners, right? Just, like. Buy me lunch when we meet up, or something."

“Deal.”

They let everything fall into an easy silence then, just listening to the other’s breaths across the phone line, until Shiki sighs, heavy. “Alright. I’m going to try and go back to sleep. Make sure you sleep too, okay, Neku?”

“Got it. Sleep well, Shiki.”

The phone beeps as she hangs up, and Neku lets his hand fall to the side, and his phone slips from his limp fingers. He closes his eyes. It’s too early for this. Too late. Too something, where the edges of the world press in, unreal and constraining all the same. Nothing makes sense here anymore.

“Joshua,” he says into the space between his knees, so quiet he can barely hear it himself, “where are you?”

It’s not the first time the question has come to mind, and it probably won’t be the last. But the weeks after the Game have stretched on and on and with them, the Game has become something more akin to a nightmare than a reality. But it happened. It had to have, because if it hadn’t, then Neku wouldn’t have any friends.

Right?

If it hadn’t happened, Neku wouldn’t have the scar from a bullet wound on his chest and three weeks of missing time to keep track of.

(It’s hard to keep believing something when you have no proof it ever really occurred.)

Neku swallows past a heavy lump in his throat.

He does not sleep. It it not the first time for that either.

* * *

It goes like this.

Four different kids wake up in three different hospitals, muscles weak, lungs laboring for breath, and the startled, glad cries of their parents are foreign to their ears. They all look around, searching for something familiar, anything, and there is nothing. There are pale walls, white curtains, the sterile metal and plastic rungs of the beds they are laid in. There are no marks on their hands. There are no pins to be found. The Scramble is gone, their cell phones (when they finally get those back) are missing any mysterious texts or camera apps.

For all intents and purposes, it seems as though nothing happened. That everything was no more than a strange dream.

(Well, as it was, several things did happen. A car accident, a knife to the wrists, a mysterious gunshot wound.

But those are the things the four kids bear with them now in bodies they aren’t sure they remember. There is nothing from a period of three weeks where they had power over their own fates, fighting in a Game where the rules kept on changing.)

The kids are all alive.

Neku, alone finally in his hospital room while his mother runs to find a doctor to check him over now that he’s regained consciousness, looks down at his hands and wishes, for a long, despairing moment, that he had a Player Pin tucked into the folds of his palm. That on his other hand, there were the jagged, painful tick-lines of a clock that exposed the tender muscles below his skin, counting down to erasure. Something.

He doesn’t know quite what to do. There is still so much left that tells him he should already be on the move. He is wasting time.

“Sakuraba-kun,” the doctor says, walking into the small examination room. Neku stiffens and looks up at him, fists his hands into his blankets when the jolt it sends through his torso pulls hard at the bullet wound. “How are you feeling?”

Neku blinks slowly at him, trying to muster his thoughts through the medical cocktail currently seeping through his veins. “Like I got shot,” he says dryly, the hoarseness of his voice surprising him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots his mother leaning forward. “You know what happened? Do you remember who it was or what they looked like?”

And Neku immediately shakes his head. “Just some kid, Mom. I don’t… remember anything.” When in fact, it’s a bit closer to the opposite, Neku’s memories clamoring loudly, gunshots and a frantic chase and a wide, wide grin. Neku breathes in, out. (It’s actually… a little strange to be able to reach back and remember anything at all. There aren’t any blank spots in his mind anymore, which is just such a change from the last two weeks that it takes Neku a moment to realize that the doctor is trying to get his attention.)

“Alright, Sakuraba-kun, just follow what I say…”

So Neku does, letting the doctor run him through a number of tests. He suffers through them all with ill, impatient grace until they finally leave him alone, the lights dimming as the sun sets and visitor hours end. Neku’s mother leaves with promises to be back tomorrow, and she’s so glad, so glad he’s alive and doing well, she was so worried. Neku pats her on the back as she clutches him to her and pretends that this isn’t all very strange to him.

He’s supposed to be dead.

Now that he’s alone, Neku leans back in the bed, chest aching aching aching, and closes his eyes. He needs something. Something familiar, beyond the pounding in his head and the dryness of his mouth. Anything. And with a stutter-start of his heart, he realizes that he does have something.

A promise.

A location.

Hachiko, a week after they wake up, though really, Neku is going to be there every day once he gets released until he sees Shiki, Beat, Rhyme, and -

Joshua.

Joshua, Joshua, Joshua, and Neku can’t even curl over himself with the force of his sudden panic, because there’s a bullet hole in him, tight and painful with each hitching breath, and he just wants to see his friends again and Joshua shot him. Again. He lost. Aren’t they all supposed to be dead? Confusion swirls around in his mind, over and over with no resolution in sight as Neku tries to put it out of his mind. He can find out later. He has to be able to find out later.

This is the first night that Neku falls asleep with Joshua’s name on his lips and the others’ not far behind.

It is not the last.

* * *

The sun shines high in the sky about a week later, and Neku has finally convinced his mother that it’s safe for him to take the train into Shibuya again, that no, he won’t stay out too late, that yes, he understands how nervous it makes her that he’s going back to the place where he got shot. It makes him nervous too. His is an excited kind of nervous, however, low and anticipatory and slightly nauseating. She only really agrees when he promises to check in with her every hour and that no, of course he’s not going alone. He’s meeting up with some friends. No, really, Mom, some friends from… school.

(If one could really count the Game as school, anyway. It taught a lesson. Surely that counted for something.)

He looks and looks for his purple shirt as well, for familiarities sake, for the fact that , maybe, this way they’ll recognize him. Sure, he wore other clothes those three weeks, he had to, but. Maybe it’ll be easier with the headphones and the outfit he wore the first time he met all of them. That’s what they know him as, how they remember him. He’s sure of it.

But he can’t find it.

He can’t find that shirt anywhere, and it’s distressing because where could it be? Where could it even be? It can’t have gone too far, he was in the hospital. Where-

Oh.

He.

He died in that shirt.

Neku very carefully places a shaking hand against the sore mass of tissue in his chest, pressing just a little bit to feel the blood pulsing under his hand, a little harder still. He takes a deep breath, swallows. Right. He died in that shirt. Even if he could find it, he couldn’t wear it. It would have blood and bullet holes all over it.

Neku sits down heavily in the center of his room, hands clenched into fists against his thighs, bracing himself there, and he just breathes in and out and in and out. He fights back the tide of hysterical laughter clawing up the back of his throat, but. He died.

He doesn’t even know if anyone else is alive.

He doesn’t know. Neku hopes desperately that they have been returned to life as he has been, but he failed them, didn’t he? He lost. He lost the last game between him and Joshua. He could not pull the trigger and do what Joshua had done to him. He doesn’t know if they’re alive. Maybe Joshua is just punishing him. Sent him back with this to be alone and to know that he failed. Maybe that’s all.

Neku takes another few deep, excruciatingly painful breaths, rubs harshly at his eyes until they are dry and sore.

And then he stands up.

He has no time.

If they’re alive, they’re alive. If they’re dead, he can mourn them then, but he doesn’t know. And since he doesn’t know, he needs to go to Hachiko; he needs to try and meet up with them. Which means, most importantly:

“Mom, do you know where my headphones went?” Neku calls.

* * *

He almost doesn't go.

Neku waffles around the station for almost half an hour. They never decided on a time or anything like that. They hadn't decided on anything at all. There was never time for it. Just a vague, nebulous concept of “Once this was all over.” Survival instinct, almost. Trying to give themselves something to look forward to when all else was hopeless. Mixed success, really, but Neku needs it now with a fervor buried deep within his skin. His headphones rest around his neck, and Neku straightens his unfamiliar shirt with shaking hands.

(“They found you there,” his mother said before he left, fretting, one hand pressed to her cheek, and Neku carefully didn't think about it. Didn't think about how loaded the location would be for him. The mere idea of the Scramble made his heart go wild in the worst way, sickening and strange, but-

but he had to go.)

And so, swallowing past his dry throat, Neku makes his slow, torturous way up the stairs and to the main station. People mill about everywhere, passing around him with almost no care in the world aside from their designated tasks. Some, more engrossed in whatever it is they're doing, bump into him, and Neku almost relishes the slight brushes of contact, because it's different. There, ahead, the statue of Hachiko. Neku joins the crowd of people and tourists awkwardly hovering around the monument. He can't bring himself to look away.

After all, what if he looks and no one's there?

What if no one comes?

What if-

“Phones?”

Neku’s knees almost buckle at the welcome voice, the more welcome nickname, and he turns sharply to see Beat standing there. He has his stupid beanie on, and there are bruises and abrasions all over his arm and one half of his face, crutches in his hands, and Neku has never been more happy to see him standing there. Beside him, Rhyme waves, excited, with her one good arm. The other is in a brightly colored cast, cradled close to her body, and god, Neku swallows back the urge to cry.

He does not, however, stop himself from hurrying over to them, skidding to a stop right before he hurtles into them. “Hey, Beat, Rhyme,” he says, breathless, and-

There are arms around him.

Two sets of them, or at least as much as Rhyme can manage as she squeezes herself between Neku and Beat. Neku blinks, his vision going blurry with something that he’s going to deny are tears, and he muffles a low, pained sound as he hugs them back.

It is too much and yet not enough.

They pull back, after what is probably an unseemly number of minutes spent holding each other and begin talking in low, excited voices. They're here and they're real, so everything else, everything else has to be real too and-

Neku blinks, turns around without quite knowing why.

Standing there, in a green cardigan and white skirt, is Shiki. Unfamiliar and familiar all at once, because this is not the body of the girl he got to know. This is not the face he knows. But she is the person, because the uncertain smile that crosses Shiki’s lips is exactly the one Neku saw for weeks. It is perfect.

She is perfect.

* * *

That time, they don’t walk into Shibuya. They get as far as the Scramble Crossing before Neku starts shaking, and the people running into them whenever they stop isn’t making it better anymore. They're too much, everyone is too much. He remembers being stuck here for weeks, waking up for only a few hours at a time like a dream, like a program turned on and off, being worried that he would be stuck here forever, and as much as he loved (loves?) Shibuya, he can’t do this right now. Neku opens his mouth, closes it.

He can't say it.

Beat suddenly turns around.

“There’s a buncha shops we can hang out at right next to the station and in the underground, right?” he says when Rhyme and Shiki look at him curiously. “This place gives me the heebie-jeebies, and I'm not into it.”

Tellingly, no one fights him at all.

(Neku breathes out a sigh of relief. It isn’t just him that can't bear to see Shibuya in all its questionable glory again. It'll never be just him again.)

It’s strange, though. Being there, that is. Shibuya is beautiful and cacophonous and vibrant and alive, but at the same time, the sick twist of panic, of reaching to tap a pin that isn’t there to scan the thoughts of passersby, of marking groups of people as Noise generators…. He can’t do it for long. It wears on him like a constant threat, like the smell of burning plastic lingering in the back of his throat. Neku feels razor sharp and worn thin.

But Shiki is there. Brunette, clutching her stuffed animal, beautiful. Beat is there, loud and irascible and wonderful. Rhyme, too, calm and quick-witted, snappy with her pointed remarks.

Neku, too, is there, and isn’t that a marvelous thing on its own?

So what does it matter if, despite its noise and people, Shibuya seems… subdued? Somehow… less than it had been before, even though it’s supposed to be fixed from the games Joshua was playing with it.

Neku has to be seeing things. There’s no other explanation.

* * *

The first time Neku takes his shirt off to change for gym class, there is a tight, collective inhalation from his classmates around him. He thinks nothing of it. It’s just these semi-strangers making noise.

Until, that is, one of them touches his shoulder.

“Dude, is that your scar from when you were shot?”

And Neku’s skin abruptly tightens, a sick twist of fear and embarrassment and, oddly enough, guilt chilling his stomach. Right. Of course. The scar is still there after all, still healing, though he’s been cleared for physical activity and it hardly even twinges anymore. But it’s still bright red and healing, and of course they’re going to ask. The Japanese school rumor network is robust. Of course they know he was shot. They probably knew mere hours after it happened. It shouldn’t surprise him that they want to see it. How many people get shot and live to tell the tale?

But they don’t, can’t, know it all, and that seals Neku’s lips faster than anything. Fighting off the urge to snarl and shrug the offending, encroaching hand is harder than it should be, but.

He’s better than that now.

“Yeah,” Neku forces himself to say. “Pretty gnarly, right?”

It gets the appropriate amount of attention (too much), and Neku tries to distract them all from prying too much, but. They’re nosy high schoolers. There’s only so much he can do aside from grit his teeth and hope that the coach comes in soon. After that, he makes sure to wear an undershirt, to never take that off in his school, because there are exactly four people who understand everything held within the pinkened scar tissue, everything it means, and exactly none of them are here.

* * *

They meet up every chance they can after that. Beat and Rhyme can't always make it, and sometimes Shiki doesn't show up either, but Neku is almost always there. Every Sunday, perched near the statue of Hachiko, and even if they end up lingering around the station underpass rather than proceeding further into Shibuya, well.

Who could really blame them? Even being this far in Shibuya's borders sends tingles of unease down Neku's spine. Things here are still rocky. Getting into the district changes the air itself, tinging it with desperation and despair and the faintest hint of death, but after a while...

After a while, it settles down.

Shibuya, as vibrant and crazy as it is, settles.

Neku tries to put it out of his mind, but that only half works when he’s constantly looking, the low buzz of something that isn’t quite panic running live currents below his skin. The crowd becomes predictable. Neku can look out and spot the stagnating trends, the uninspired and unmoving masses. Something in the air throughout Shibuya feels like Death. The unmoving, aching void that awaits everyone. In a place that was once both the center of life and death for Neku, the sight is... unsettling at best. That Neku can step into the crowd at the Scramble Crossing and not find the blank spaces in the crowd where he could have been.

(Steadfastly, he ignores the part of him that wonders if something might actually be wrong in the UG. Surely, Joshua is just-

Ignoring them? Changing the rules of the Game so Neku and the others can't see it anymore? It seems strange, but everything Joshua did seems like a fever-dream now. Neku's hands are tied. Something is wrong in the UG, but Neku is operating more than half blind at this point and there's nothing he can do. He isn’t about to die again. He isn’t sure, either, that he could do this again, no matter how much he wants to find Joshua and grab his stupid blue shirt and shake him.)

* * *

“Does anyone else notice that something in Shibuya seems … odd?” Neku asks as they linger near the statue of Hachiko, huddled together for warmth in the midst of Tokyo winter. The scramble crossing is so close and yet so far. The press of people is alright here, tourists stopping to admire the statue before moving on, and Neku feels oddly fond of these transient people.

“No, not really,” Shiki says, and Neku hums, ducking his face beneath his scarf. He has to put it out of his mind. He'll just... reinforce it if he's thinking about it all the time.

After all, thinking makes certain things true.

* * *

“Was it real?”

A question, repeated more often than not between them. Shibuya is so much less when the rhythm of the Game is gone, and Neku holds onto it as much as he can. He has a bullet wound in his side. A gnarl of scarred tissue that is impossible to explain except for the laughter in violet eyes, and it’s his certainty that keeps Beat and Shiki and Rhyme grounded. They’re more easily explainable. Didn’t go deep enough, got to the hospital in time. They make sense. They were in place, in Shibuya, for things to go south and still end up okay.

But Neku was shot, and there’s no explanation for that except Joshua.

So, like the spider’s hair leading them from hell, Neku bears their weight time and time again. He wouldn’t know these people if it wasn’t for the Game. He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t be who he is, more open, someone who doesn’t need to hide behind his headphones and just watch, like an isolated island in the middle of the sea, if Joshua hadn’t been there. If they all hadn’t died and came back.

Different.

Better.

More aware.

“You know, if Joshua was a better person, I would think that he sets up the Game to make people learn to appreciate life more,” Neku says, his head pillowed on Beat’s stomach. They’re hanging out at Beat and Rhyme’s today, Beat’s standoff with his parents broken by the accident that still runs its angry claws across Beat and Rhyme’s skin. It isn’t perfect, but so very little ever is.

He feels Beat’s laughter in the contraction of muscles below his head. “Hah, fuck that. Joshua would never.”

“That’s why I said if, asshole.”

“We don’t even know why Joshua was running the Reaper’s Game to begin with,” Rhyme says thoughtfully. “What did he get out of it?”

They all think for a moment.

“Sick amusement?” Shiki offers.

“Yeah, probably.”

* * *

Neku sits with Shiki in the clinic, feet tapping on the tile. His fingers tighten around hers. The air in here is tense. Neither of them, probably, should be here, but it is important to Shiki, as she explained to him with quiet, shaking words, and so it is important to Neku. She needs to be who she truly is, after everything they’ve been through, she says. She can’t keep being jealous, hateful, and if this is what it takes, then Neku will fight everyone who looks at her sideways for it. He’ll be her bulwark against the rest of the world.

“It’s hard,” Shiki says, soft, nervous. “It’s hard and I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, not even my worst enemies. But the struggle is something I can’t keep running from.”

Neku threads his fingers through hers and thinks he’s never met anyone braver.

This part is not his story. He will not tell it. But it is hers, and if she needs him to hold her hand every other week while a doctor carefully prepares a syringe, no force will keep him away.

* * *

It has been a year since Neku woke up in the hospital, alive and aching with pain, and today is the first day he steps into the Scramble alone.

This time, he makes it to Ten-Four before he turns back around, shaking the whole way. It’s not very far. There are still a lot of people, and Neku isn’t moving as quickly as he really should, but it takes him a long time anyway, because now, now he’s watching for blank spaces in the crowds, the heated and quiet conversations. He’s watching for people, heads down and brows drawn, who are likely candidates for Noise. He looks in the doorways of each shop, trying to see a tag there. He finds them, here and there, like wisps of smoke, but even so, the energy is … wrong. Something is wrong in Shibuya, in the acrid taste of something deeper than fear filling his mouth.

He knows that he’s trying to find something.

He just doesn’t know what.

(This is not exactly true. Neku knows what he wants to find, even now. A bright, mocking voice, a cutting laugh, violet eyes behind silver-blond hair, but Joshua is nowhere to be found. The Dead God’s Pad is too far for him to try to reach on his own when he can hardly make it through the Scramble without having a panic attack.

He just has to keep trying.)

* * *

“It was real, right?” Shiki asks, her thumb pressing against her wrist, where a thin white line is.

Neku takes her hand without disturbing her grip. “Of course it was. I’m right here.” He wets his lips. “What’s got you thinking it wasn’t?”

Because there’s always something. There’s always a way to doubt the Game. Neku isn’t even sure if they’re supposed to remember it, just that they do.

“I guess I just… don’t feel like I lived three weeks. I hardly feel like I lived the one I stayed awake for.”

And that’s the thing, really, isn’t it? Neku’s mouth firms out into a line. Between all of them, he and Beat are the only two who were awake the entire three weeks, and even Beat admits that there are days he can’t remember, which just leaves Neku. As always, slightly apart from the rest. Selected. Special. He sighs. “Shiki, it was very real. The Game happened. That’s why we’re here doing what we are. That’s why you’re going into fashion.”

“I was into fashion before,” Shiki says, and Neku hates the doubt he hears in her voice.

“That’s why you’re doing it with Eri. That’s why you two reconciled. That’s why she’s on her way here to Shibuya right now, isn’t it? Weren’t you going to talk to her about everything?” And when Shiki lifts uncertain brown eyes to Neku’s, he smiles gently, more when she mirrors the expression. “Because you want her to know that it happened.”

Shiki looks up and sees Eri making her way through the crowd towards them, and she smiles and she is beautiful, and Neku lets her go easily when she stands and hurries to her friend, when she reaches out with hands that linger a touch too long to be anything but intentional and holds Eri’s wrists.

He’s so glad to see her happy.

* * *

There’s nothing.

For months and months and months, there’s nothing aside from the slow burn of healing. Neku’s chest closes, the scar cooling from an angry red to a sullen pink to a whorl of scar tissue, still tender when he puts his hand on it. School is untenable because Shiki and Beat and Rhyme aren’t there, and-

The Game might have shown him the importance of reaching out and understanding everyone else’s views, it also created a wall. A high, impassable wall of shared experience. How is he supposed to connect to people now that he’s died? Now that he’s fought for three weeks for his life and the lives of his friends, how is he supposed to tell anyone about that and expect them to understand?

The most he can give people is a smile and a lie and Neku feels uncomfortably close to understanding Joshua after all.

* * *

“What do we have after this?”

Beat doesn’t even look up from his food. “A movie or something? I dunno, man, ‘s up to you.”

Neku lets out a quiet sigh, kicking his feet as he looks over [somewhere in shibuya]. People flow around them, moving in unplanned unison. It’s an odd connection, a magnetic awareness of other people’s bodies, and try though Neku might, he can’t find the odd spaces he knows should be there. There is no graffiti in the storefronts, despite the Noise Neku can still almost sense. He fingers a pin in his pocket, wishing not for the first time that it was his Player Pin, that he could Scan the area around him, that he could do something.

Leaning back, Neku takes his hand out of his pocket and sighs. “I just want to change something, you know.”

“Well, maybe you haven’t figured out what you wanna do?” Beat offers, mouth half-full of burger. Neku would tell him to wait and chew before he talks, but he already knows it’s a wasted effort.

“I know, though. I do know,” Neku says. “I want to be the next CAT.”

Beat levels him with a surprisingly serious look. “You know who CAT ended up being. You sure?”

Neku winces. Mister Hanekoma is still missing. His involvement with the UG and Joshua is completely undeniable, and Neku has the uncomfortable feeling that it goes deeper than he’s aware. But that isn’t what he meant. Not completely anyway, and Neku ignores the part of him that accepts the inevitability of the Underground, and to an extent, Joshua, in his life. Unlife. Whatever, he’s not talking about it. “I meant the art, Beat. The inspiration, not the rest of it.”

It sounds fake even to his own ears, and he can’t blame Beat for the skeptical look he gets.

Beat shrugs, but the action isn’t a defeat or acceptance. It’s a stall while he gets his thoughts together, and Neku watches him, waits. Beat sighs, scrubs at the back of his neck, pulls his hat off and puts it back on, all while Neku only crosses one ankle over the knee of his other leg. Beat hauls in a huge breath of air.

“Well, man, way I see it? I wasn’t ever gonna go to college anyway, right? An’ that little shithole sent us back for something.” He looks off long into the distance, sunset highlighting his face stark with red, his eyes turned molten. Neku blinks, watches the determination pull itself over Beat’s face. “And I ain’t letting another day go by without using it to the fullest anymore. New ideas, new inspiration, that isn’t really my thing. I’m not an artsy kind of guy.

“But dancing? Skateboarding? I’m good at that. I could do that. That’s cool. And it’s… inspiring, right? To other people?” Beat looks up at Neku, his brows drawn into firm, determined lines. “I could do that. People like it when I dance.”

Neku nods, quiet. “They do.”

“So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll make it big dancing or some shit like that. Maybe Rhyme can help too, if she wants to. She’s good at dancing too.” Beat finally uncurls himself just a bit, leaning back away from his legs, and he grins, blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “Maybe we could even make our own music to dance to or something. Mix it all together and just handle everything ourselves, showcase our talent.”

“That assumes you have any,” Neku says without any bite, and Beat elbows him, almost fondly.

“The world is all bullshit, okay? But we got this second chance and we got it together.” Beat holds out a fist, punching it towards the horizon. “I ain’t about to waste any of it.”

Neku takes these words, examines them. Puts them away for reconsideration later.

For now, though, he just snorts. “Way to sound like a kid’s show.”

“Hey.”

* * *

As it turns out, the active effort of giving a shit is exhausting to maintain.

Neku tries, really, he does, but the world simultaneously looks better than ever and worse than before, and he can’t always reconcile the two. It’s best and worst, oddly, in Shibuya. Everything here is already different. At least here, he can pretend to know why things are changing, why the world looks and smells strange, a half-step off from typical, even though the district still feels wrong. It’s better when Shiki is there, showing off her new designs on herself and on Eri, when Beat and Rhyme are there, dancing and singing, wildly alive.

Neku tries not to feel like he’s leaving something behind every time he steps on the train out of Shibuya. Like he doesn’t feel the brush of fingers against the nape of his neck, waiting and possessive and achingly familiar.

* * *

Neku graduates.

It’s a strange thing, when he never expected to live past fifteen, past sixteen, past-

When Neku never expected to live.

But now, standing with his scroll in hand and his parents’ proud faces out in the crowd, he’s here and he’s alive and he’s going to change the world, even if he’s missing a center point of gravity in his universe. The rest of the planets have aligned and he can’t wait for the sun to return just to keep moving forward.

Joshua would be angry, if he stopped. After all the trouble Joshua went through for Neku, he would be angry.

That motivates him more than anything else.

Another secret, carefully tucked between his ribs, pulsing with the beat of his heart, but Neku thinks this one, his friends will forgive.

* * *

This is what he tells no one else:

Neku can’t leave Shibuya well enough alone.

After high school, the weekly trips slow. They become every other week, then once a month, then, only when they have time. College is busy, the life of artists is unforgiving, and none of them can afford to slow down. They have to create and influence. They are too aware that life is terribly, unforgivably short, and they can’t pretend that they’re going to get another chance after this. They have to make a difference, and this means drowning themselves in their art.

But in those spare moments where Neku needs to surface and breathe, he goes to Shibuya.

It’s like trying to immerse himself in freezing water. He figures that he’ll just inch in, one toe at a time until he hits his knees and he’ll have to jump all in or nothing. There’s going to be a point where he’ll have to confront either Udagawa or he’ll have to face the fact that he can’t get to the Dead God’s Pad anymore.

Eventually, Neku will have to jump.

Until then, however, Neku goes to Shibuya and pretends he can’t taste his own blood. He pretends that he isn’t looking for Joshua, that he isn’t seeking the Game out because that would be ridiculous. He doesn't walk around and talk to the shopkeepers because they remember who he is. He doesn't stare at the empty storefront where WildKat used to be, looking for all intents and purposes like it's been abandoned for decades, like there was never a shop at all there. It doesn’t matter what Shiki says or the sympathetic looks she gives him when she sometimes finds out where he’s been because he can’t hide these things from everyone forever. He does tell them, just. Not all the time. He can’t explain it.

Shibuya is a disease, a scab, a scar, something he’s never going to get rid of but that he can’t resist going back in to prod at. He has to go to Shibuya, knows this with a certainty that no one else understands.

Even if-

No, especially if it terrifies him.

Neku can’t be afraid forever.

* * *

Neku takes a deep breath. It’s tinged with iron and the sharp, tearing taste of fear.

Coming here alone was a mistake.

Udagawa curls and rises around him, the clatter of trains nearby and people nowhere near loud enough to overpower Neku’s own heartbeat. Neku’s hand is on the railing, clutching it for support, because his legs can’t. They shake and tremble like an earthquake. Unsteady, setting him off-guard, and Neku- can’t. He can’t hold himself up. Even trying like this is too much, too hard. He’s jittery, and his entire body is quaking visibly.

The few people on the street around him scuttle away, like he’s poisonous. Their eyes crawl over Neku, judging him for this visible weakness, and Neku.

Well, Neku can’t hear or see any of them.

He can’t breathe.

It’s too much and too close, and even the sight of the mural he used to spend hours admiring makes nausea roil in his stomach. Neku clutches it, himself, one hand folding over the knot of scar tissue on his chest like he can hold himself together physically if he just tries hard enough, because he can’t fucking breathe and he died here what was he thinking coming back alone? He can’t have been thinking. He should have never come here, he should have never come back at all, this is worthless, what is wrong with him that he keeps coming back to Shibuya?

The pavement is closer. Why is it closer? When did he fall to his knees? When? Why did he come here like he expected to end up looking down the barrel of a gun again?

What is wrong with him?

There is the clattering of a metal ball against metal, the distinct rattle of someone shaking an aerosol can.

Neku looks up.

The world moves with him, settling out in nauseating fits and bursts. There, in front of the mural, is a boy. His shirt is yellow, and even from here, Neku can hear the music pumping through the large headphones he has over his ears. He shakes a can of spray paint, looking up and down the wall consideringly, bright red hair shifting as he bops his head in time with the beat. Then, without any further thought, he lifts the can and begins spraying.

Neku blinks. Something twists in his chest and he pushes himself up.

“Hey,” he says weakly, clears his throat, tries again. “Hey!”

The kid pauses. Looks over at Neku. Jerks his chin in a nod of acknowledgement, and turns back to the mural. Raises the can and resumes spraying again, large swatches of yellow.

Neku’s temper snaps. “That’s CAT’s mural! You can’t just-”

“CAT isn’t around anymore,” the redheaded vandalizer interjects. He nudges his headphones with his shoulder so they fall back around his neck before he looks at Neku again. “The wall is fair game now.”

“That’s not-” Neku starts, but falters. CAT is Mr. H, and Hanekoma hasn’t been seen in years now either, so the kid is, technically, right. “It’s not right. It’s his art.”

The kid watches him carefully, but shrugs a moment later, raising the can again. “Art evolves. I’m just here to help.”

There is silence aside from the continued bursts of paint from the canister. Neku can’t watch, stares at the ground as the source of his inspiration, the site of his death, is massacred.

A can is shoved into his view.

He takes it, confused, then blinks at the redhead, who shrugs again, an affected, too-casual lift of his shoulders. “Can’t beat it, own it,” he says, as though that makes any sense. “You know how to tag shit?”

“Sure, I guess?” Neku says, confused.

And the vandalizer gestures at the wall as though to say, “Be my guest,” and steps back. Skates back, actually, now that Neku is looking. Why is he wearing rollerskates? Neku shakes his head, returning his attention to the mural. Shibuya has never made sense and it isn’t about to start now. He lifts the can. His hands shake.

He presses down on the nozzle.

It’s an inelegant slash of orange, and the sight of it lifts the iron chains from Neku’s lungs. He stares at it, at the drips slowly bleeding their way down the wall, and starts when an elbow nudges him.

“Not bad. Here, if you really want to learn,” and next thing Neku knows, he’s learning how to deface his own favorite mural. But nicely, and it-

Honestly, it feels nice.

It feels like, somehow, he owns this space again, carved out the moment of his own death and replaced it with something new. It hurts, the way all new wounds do, but there’s a lightness, a relief in Neku’s heart that cannot be exchanged for the terror of before. Later, he’s sure he’s going to regret the fuck out of this, but right now? Now, it’s good. It’s… exactly what he needed.

There’s a sound, and the kid claps a hand on Neku’s shoulder. “Ever run from the cops?”

“What? No?”

“Well, it’s time to learn.”

“What?”

* * *

They run, and Neku doesn’t get the kid’s name, but they see each other around Shibuya every once in awhile and nod solemnly before defacing the city, and they run from the authorities and it’s good.

It’s good.

* * *

Reaching out and connecting to people is still difficult. Expanding the horizons of your world is, as Beat puts it, like building muscle. You have to rip it and let it heal, bigger and more painful in the interim because the only way to grow is to challenge yourself and Neku has never been good at that. It's like stepping off the edge of a cliff, but, they all reason, when you've died once already, life doesn't seem that frightening anymore. Neku still remembers the shopkeepers around Shibuya, and they remember him too, greeting him with smiles and by name whenever he drops by.

“This is Neku-kun,” [blank]-san says to a new hire one afternoon. “You'll end up seeing a lot of him. He's a good customer.”

The kid gives Neku a skeptical look from his spiked hair to his bright clothes, which are admittedly a bit out of place in [store], but really, there's no reason for that kind of attitude. Neku tucks his face behind his high collar, the style still his favorite, but grins instead of scowls. “I'll be in your care,” he says, jokingly formal, and [blank]-san laughs the way he meant them to.

“Mm, I was wondering when you were going to drop by, Neku-kun,” [blank san] says, as though suddenly reminded of something. “The owner of one of the coffeeshops around the area came by and asked where you were.”

That's odd, Neku doesn't say. “Oh? Who was it?”

“You know WildKat, right?”

Neku's heart takes off, breath frozen in his very lungs.

[So and so] waves an idle hand, busy looking at something on the desk. “Apparently, there are noises that it's going to open up again, and the owner was walking around trying to find his old regulars. I didn't know you used to stop by there. Any idea why it closed?”

“No,” Neku says with a dry mouth. “It. It was years ago. I have no idea.”

* * *

(Neku checks and the store front is still empty. There's nothing there, and Neku doesn't know whether to be upset or disappointed or glad or all of them, but he's just scared and hungry with a desperation that surprises him.

This is another thing he keeps close to his chest and does not mention.)

* * *

“Oh hey, Sakuraba?” his R.A. calls as he enters the college dorms, and Neku pauses.

“Yeah?”

“A guy, middle aged, looked like a barista, kinda scruffy, came by looking for you about an hour or so ago? He said he had a delivery for you, but didn’t leave anything behind.” The R.A., his plain, honest face scrunching slightly, squints at Neku. “You’re not getting involved in anything illegal, are you?”

Neku can hardly hear him over his own heartbeat. He’s aware that he shakes his head, that he makes his shaking excuses and goes upstairs, that he opens his door and drops his portfolio with an affected care. That his breath is coming too hard and too fast and he probably did come off like he’s getting in trouble when really, he’s trying to not panic at the news of Mr. H coming by his fucking dorm room like it hasn’t been almost five years.

He stops.

There, resting innocuously in the center of his low desk, is a plain box. No note is attached. It’s held closed by a single piece of unadorned tape.

It wasn’t there when he left this morning.

Carefully, Neku picks it up. There’s a solid weight to it, neither too light nor too heavy for its size. Shaking it makes no noise. Neku’s heart skitters and thuds into an ever-increasing inferno of noise that he can’t explain, his breath coming shorter and shorter. His palm stings in a way it hasn’t for years. Neku rubs it, at first absently then harder and then digging when he can’t feel the grooves of numbers ticking through to blood and bone.

He should just leave it.

(He should open it.)

He doesn’t know who it came from or how it got here.

(There’s only one person it could ever be, the only one that comes to mind, and Neku’s heart cannot calm down, cannot halt its tripping pace because of that name. And he knows exactly how it got here.)

Neku picks up the box. His fingers tremble, fumble with the tape, and Neku hisses under his breath, willing his shaking hands to steady long enough for him to get this damn box open. Finally, though, he slides a fingernail beneath the lear line and lifts and-

-a stutter.

A thunder as Neku’s ears roar with the sound of his racing heart, as he reaches within the box and withdraws a silver chain. It lifts, jingling faintly, and then, the bullet casing attached to it rises from its padded bower.

Neku drops it.

The sound it makes as it clatters on the ground is too-loud, shocking, and Neku realizes only then that his chest is heaving, that every breath is a dragging struggle, harsh and rasping and filling every void his heartbeat leaves behind and he can’t see, he can’t stand, the world itself isn’t real anymore. There’s no timer on his hand, and his side aches like it hasn’t since he was actually shot but the bullet casing can only be from one person because there’s only ever been one person who could even have it to begin with. Panic, like electricity arcs in his chest and arms, nauseating, and Neku wishes he could be anywhere, could do anything, could go back in time five years and stop himself from contemplating a mural that got two people killed.

His eyes, frantic for anything other than the faint gleam of silver to look at, fall to the box.

And the note, now revealed, within. With shaking fingers, Neku tries once, twice when they don’t quite manage, to pick it up. He turns it over once, then again.

The note reads one line only:

“Miss me, partner?”

And that’s it.

That’s what does it. That idle, flippant question as though Neku hasn’t been a compass that lost its North for years, looking for Joshua.

Neku finds himself curled over his own knees untold minutes later, mouth open in a silent scream. His cheeks and hands and knees are soaked with tears, his clothes damp and uncomfortable with sweat as the world shudders back into place around him. Trembling through the aftershocks of that, Neku pushes himself off the floor. He feels weak, like a kitten, like he’s going through Physical Therapy all over again, learning how to push through the ache in his muscles.

But when he reaches down to pick up the necklace this time, Neku’s hands are curiously still.

* * *

He wears it.

God knows why. He tries to not think about it too much; the whys and hows would drive him insane. It’s never on the outside of his clothes. Sure, the casing is innocent enough that most people he passed would pass it off as simple jewelry.

But those three that matter. The only people who truly matter.

They would know, and Neku wants this to be just his right now, no matter how bad of an idea it might be.

Just until I figure out what to say, he tells himself, pressing the lump of gunmetal against his sternum. It won’t be long. I just. Have to explain it to them, and I can’t if I don’t know how.

* * *

This is how it continues.

Time passes as it does, and those three weeks seem further and further away each time they are remembered, yet they dig and settle under the skin. Completely unseen. Absolutely unforgettable. Neku tries to capture something of this in his art, broad brush strokes on stark canvases, needle thin lines cutting across them, but the best way he can express it is on the walls in Shibuya, especially Udagawa, a shaken can of compressed paint and a mask pulled low across his nose and mouth as he defaces the city, paint dripping and spattering to the ground like so much blood.

He knows the back alleys. He knows this place with an intimacy that means the locals have already accepted him as par for course and pass over him. It’s easy. It’s comfortable.

It’s where he died, and he doesn’t know what to do about that. He tries to not look for the stains of where he was shot, the weight of the bullet that killed him hanging from his neck.

He is only sometimes successful.

They do ask. Of course they do. You share a secret with only three other people who you see for a few hours every other week, though you keep in almost constant contact through your phones, and they’re bound to notice the chain hanging around your neck when you don’t change much on your person anymore, still stuck to habits and comforts. Neku deserted his headphones years ago, but that never meant that he didn’t enjoy having them around still. They’re comfortable, a weight that he didn’t know he missed until he replaced it.

When she sees it, in one of their monthly meetings at an izakaya, Shikis stares at the chain, then at Neku, waiting for him to offer her an explanation that he doesn’t have, that he drowns in a gulp of bitter beer because this is what their meetings have sometimes turned into. Beat stares out over the crowd, half caught in other people’s conversations the way he always is, because that’s how Beat makes friends. Plus, he’s looking after Eri, her tall form moving through the crowd, and Neku knows without question that if someone lays a hand on Eri, Beat will be there living up to his name before a second has passed. Not that there should be any trouble. The izakaya is loud and raucous, in the way that izakaya full of Japanese college students usually are, but it isn’t trouble. Neku sinks into the noise as a way to escape the question.

Rhyme, sharp and perceptive and sly beneath that beatific smile of hers that has only gotten her and Beat a larger online following, doesn’t give him an easy out like that, though.

“What’s this?” she asks, reaching out to tap the lump the bullet casing makes against his shirt, and Neku flinches at the tap of metal on skin.

Carefully, he wets his lips. “It’s nothing. Just something I picked up.”

“I haven’t seen you wear a necklace in years. Not since your media player broke.”

“It’s just a necklace, Rhyme,” he tries.

“Where’d you get it?”

And that he doesn’t have a quick answer for. Even Beat has stopped staring at the crowd, returning his focus to Neku and the way Neku’s hands twist around themselves. “It was a gift,” he says finally.

“From?”

Neku wants to say that he doesn’t know, but he does. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, and Rhyme’s gaze turns gentle and oddly pitying before she pats him on the hand, stopping his nails before they dig in a bit too sharp.

“It’s okay, Neku.”

Eri gets back then, bringing a pitcher of water with her as she sits, and there’s an odd twist to her mouth.

“Are you okay?” Shiki asks, surreptitiously wrapping an arm around Eri.

“Yeah, but do you think we can go to a different bar next month? Shibuya’s been getting kinda dangerous lately, and I don’t like the vibe in here anymore.”

Neku clenches his teeth.

Beat hums, tapping a knuckle against the wooden table. “Yeah, I dunno. You’re right, Shibuya’s been feeling real weird recently. I dunno what’s up with that. This used to be a pretty damn good bar to stick around in and now it’s kinda fucked up.”

“It’s just a bar,” Shiki says, but her tone is doubtful.

Rhyme too, now, dragging her fingers through the condensation gathering on her glass of water. She never drinks, preferring to watch them all get red and tipsy and laugh at them. Actually, Beat never gets drunk either. He only nurses a single whiskey that he never finishes. It might actually just be Neku who drinks and he’s not sure what to do with that information except to take another sip of his beer and try to not make a face at it. “It’s not just the bar. It’s the whole city. Shibuya feels… weird. What if we met up in Odaiba or Asakusa next month?”

“It’s Shibuya,” Neku says, mouth numb.

Eri leans her arms, long and pale like the rest of her, on the table, her expressive mouth pouting, and Neku pretends that he doesn’t see how Shiki is distracted by it, fond. “Well, yeah, and I know you guys have… history here, but there’s a whole city out there.”

“But-”

“But nothing, Neku. Shibuya isn’t the same. It’s been what, almost six years now? Isn’t it time to move on? We have bigger and better things to do.”

Bigger and better than Shibuya? The district that brought them all together? Neku’s mouth curls down as his thoughts turn bitter and uncharitable, but he’s broken out of it by Rhyme tapping his hand again.

“He isn’t coming, Neku,” Rhyme says kindly, her eyes catching on where the bullet casing has swung past the collar of Neku’s shirt. “It’s been five years. I think it’s time we move on.”

Swallowing, Neku pushes the casing back beneath his clothes. He feels more grounded with it against his skin. “I don’t know. It feels like Shibuya’s dying, and I think it’s our fault and if I, we, stay here, I think-”

“We can’t fix it, Neku,” Shiki says, voice firm. “I’m not dying again to fix a problem that isn’t mine. Whatever’s going on here, it’s his problem, and he has to fix it.”

Neku’s mouth twists to the side. Quietly, he says, “I feel responsible.”

It explains everything and nothing at the same time, but when Beat suggests they meet up in Odaiba next month, Neku goes and pretends that he isn’t more anxious now that the familiar line of 104 is out of sight.

* * *

Neku isn’t wrong.

That’s the thing. He notices it a little sooner than everything else, but the world is stagnating and worsening. Not just in Shibuya, but everywhere around the world, things are getting worse. There’s a mad flourish of ideas, of creative Imagination (capital “I” and everything) to come out of it, like flowers blooming from decaying bodies, but it’s not enough to mask the smell of death, and Neku sees it everywhere he goes.

He isn’t wrong. The world is dying, and they’re all dying with it. It’s worse than before, when it was just Shibuya hovering on the edge of the brink, considering how far down it would be to fall and rise again.

He wonders.

Maybe-

Maybe this is why Joshua isn’t here. Maybe he’s busy elsewhere.

But no, Joshua wouldn’t care about anything beyond his district. Couldn’t, maybe, but even Shibuya suffers. Neku sees it everywhere, and every waking moment he has free of class, he’s in the district, wandering the streets. He sees the vandal sometimes, a familiar and welcome figure that he exchanges too-solemn nods with, and greets shopkeepers by name. He meets everyone and keeps an eye out for exchanges that promise to turn into Noise. Neku tries to keep Shibuya breathing, and when his own murals catch the media’s attention in place of CAT’s, he takes it for the victory it is.

He can’t leave well enough alone.

(Neku doesn’t know how to feel alive if he isn’t worrying over Shibuya.)

But the end of his college career is coming up, and the city is already skirting talking to him in a serious capacity, making his art on the walls of Shibuya a deliberate attraction. They’re talking about setting up a studio for him there, apprenticed to a more notable artist to get his foot in the door, and Neku has three other job offers from other artists, all wanting his skill under them, but this is the only one in his town and-

Something crawls in his skin, and Neku breathes in, breathes out.

He’s clicking on the ad for apartment listings before he really lets himself think about it.

* * *

“You what?” Shiki asks, only it’s less asking and more shouting, and Neku holds his phone away from his ear slightly before she calms down long enough to not make him go deaf.

“I bought an apartment in Shibuya,” he says again. Shiki’s response is muted the second time, but still incoherent. He’s pretty sure she’s yelling at Eri, explaining to her girlfriend what idiocy Neku has landed himself in this time. Neku wishes that his phone had a cord on it, just to give him something to do other than pace while he talks. “I just. I don’t know. I just want to be there. I want to be nearby. There’s a job waiting for me, and I just-”

She is silent for a while. Neku can see her chewing on her lip in his mind’s eye. “Are you sure? I mean, the place isn’t exactly healthy for us; I don’t think…”

“I know.” Neku breathes out hard through his nose. “I know. But I want to be there, all the same. I don’t think I can leave it behind.”

“We should be able to.”

“You only have to visit. You don’t have to stay there with me.”

“I don’t think I could.”

They’re quiet together for a long time. She does this while she’s organizing her thoughts, and it’s not like Neku has ever really known what to say. Even now, six years later, he has nothing that makes sense to him. He has no words to pull forth.

Eventually, she sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Neku barks out a laugh, short and sharp. “Me too, Shiki. Me too.”

* * *

It's like he's right there all over again with the bright edge of mocking laughter around every corner. Like the years spanning this haven't happened, like he hasn't finally learned how to walk across the Scramble Crossing without preparing for a fight, fingers resting against a pin that isn't the Player Pin but makes his heart calm its crazed beating anyway.

The gun cocks.

Shaking, Neku focuses on the bright white slash of Joshua's smile. The widened purple of his eyes. Neku's hands are steady as he lifts his own gun, but he knows already how this goes. He won't shoot, but Joshua will, and in doing so, they maintain the balance that keeps Shibuya thriving. That was how it was supposed to go, with Joshua too proud to do anything close to stepping down and Neku having cracked his shell open enough to want to protect one of the closest friends he's earned.

And then.

Joshua's mouth forms a word, two, three, and the gun lowers without the customary flash and-

Neku wakes up and swears that he can still see the barrel of the gun right in front of his eyes. It doesn’t scare him. How could it? He’s seen it a million times. He knows what happens, what could have happened, and it’s stopped being frightening and more of an object of curiosity than anything else. First night in his new apartment and he has a nightmare. The nightmare, if he's being honest; it's been haunting him with every change for the last six and a half years, and while this is the first time Joshua hasn't shot him, the rest of it remains the same. The gun can't frighten him anymore.

He can also see the violet eyes behind it. Those don’t scare him either. Not when Shibuya itself doesn't.

“Wait for me.”

Neku snorts. Like he's been doing anything else.

Little bastard.

But he rolls out of bed with a renewed sense of purpose, and pulls back the curtains to look over Shibuya, his Shibuya, and breathes in the city air and gets ready to take this place by storm.

* * *

Shibuya explodes with color at most times, more so around Christmas, and Neku settles into the hubbub with a sense of coming home. His art is everywhere now. He designs signs for so many stores in the area that he's getting a name for himself. His mentor is pleased with how much attention their studio gets, and the internet is ablaze with requests and orders, and Neku sees so many emails and comments about people who love his work (and, of course, people who don't, but even disagreement is understanding and expanding their world as long as they're not a douchebag about it), and it's like Shibuya appreciates that.

The city itself feels welcome, feels like home, and the others do come to give Neku a housewarming party, even if they don't stay for long. The long-twisting anxiety that has curled around Neku since the Game settles now that he's in Shibuya, now that he's trying to make the city live once again, and when he walks by an old coffeeshop on Cat Street to visit the Jupiter of the Monkey store, a white paper in the window stops him.

Neku pivots slowly on his heel, walking up to the door. Plain kanji and katakana on the sign read: “WildKat Cafe, Closed for Renovations. Opening Soon.”

A warm glow settles in Neku's chest. He nods to himself. As he leaves, continuing on his trek to the store, he knows, finally, that he's been doing the right thing.

* * *

Something here changes.

Shibuya is alive again. Slowly, surely, growing more and more each day, with a kind of vitality that Neku hasn’t seen from it in years. It's been two years now since he moved into the city, and it's been two years of challenging, tireless work, but Neku, as “Phones”, has been getting renown throughout the city, for his work in Shibuya, and he loves how the city has been responding to it.

“You know, most artists at least ask permission,” a dry voice says.

Neku almost drops the can. He whips around, eyes wide, because it can't be, it can't be-

But, standing right there, examining his work with a pensive look on his face, hands shoved deep into his pockets, is Mister Hanekoma himself. He meets Neku's gaze, and grins, lifting one hand. “Hey there, Phones. How's it been?”

(A piece of the universe shivers into place, and Neku's scar aches. Here's more proof, Neku wants to think. Here's the second biggest piece of proof of them all, because Mister Hanekoma has always meant the Game itself. Where there is one, the other isn't far behind.)

“It's been good,” Neku says once he remembers how to breathe. “Is...”

Mr. H shakes his head. “Nah, he's a bit wrapped up. Plus, you remember how hard it is to get him to do anything reasonable.”

“Is he okay?”

“That's an excellent question.” Hanekoma looks Neku up and down, then huffs out a quiet bit of laughter. “Man, you've grown, haven't you? Why don't you gather your friends and come by tomorrow for some coffee? We can catch up then.”

Neku nods before he really registers the motion, desperate for any connection. “Yeah, yeah, I'll get everyone together. No problem.”

“Good.” And that seems to be all he came by to say, because Hanekoma turns and slouches off, hands tucked into his pants, and Neku watches him as long as he can before he loses Mr. H's form in the crowd. If Neku blinks, he'll disappear. If Neku blinks, he'll lose the proof that this has happened. He'll have to accept that weight himself again, and he can't hold it up anymore. Not on his own.

Neku lets out a breath. Pulls out his phone.

[To: Group]

So you won't believe who I ran into just now.

[From: Shiki]

Who?

And Neku has to bite back a triumphant grin.

[To: Group]

How does everyone feel about getting coffee tomorrow? I know a place on Cat Street that's opening up.

* * *

“Mister Hanekoma,” Shiki says, with no small amount of surprise.

The man in question only grins and raises a hand, laconic and sarcastic as always in the face of pretty much everything. “Hey there, Miss Shiki! Glad to see you as yourself this time. And may I say, you're looking pretty nice. Good job.”

She flushes, her hands catching on the hem of her shirt as she tugs and resettles and can't fight the smile that crosses her beautiful face. Watching them, Neku feels himself smile too, sympathetically excited for this reunion. Mr. H and Beat shake hands, Beat taking up so much space in comparison. Beat has a few centimeters on Mr. H now, which is impressive considering how looming he had seemed when they were all younger. Rhyme bows, then gives that up with a giggle and enthusiastically hugs the man who saved her and her brother's lives, and Mr. H just smiles through it all.

“So,” Neku says, “are the drinks on the house, or?”

Mr. H laughs, a sharp bray of noise. “Who do you think you are, my boss? I'll give you a discount, but nothing's on the house. I gotta get this place busy, you know.”

“So same old Mr H, huh.”

“Like you expected me to change.”

And really, Neku didn't. Really, honestly, he didn't.

They get settled at a table, warm drinks clutched between their hands, and they're already chattering like they're fifteen and learning about how much larger the world really is than just them for the first time. Neku can't stop smiling, ebullient joy battering at his ribcage because he was right. He was never wrong, and his memory hadn't ever failed him, and somehow, knowing that he hadn't been insane lifts such a massive weight from his shoulders that Neku feels giddy with it.

Suddenly, during a lull in the conversation, the door opens, and Mr. H, behind the counter, straightens with a smile at first that falls into nothing at all as soon as he sees whoever it is behind them. Neku blinks at Mr. H, the words in his mouth drying up as he becomes… aware of a presence, waiting at the edge of his notice. The hair on his arms stands on end, a rush of electricity running through him.

“Didn’t expect to see you here so soon,” Mr. Hanekoma says, a beat too late, the smile that slides back on a touch too wide to be genuine.

The voice that Neku wanted to hear for eight years chimes in, sharp and exactly the way that Neku has worn it down to familiar points in his dreams, “Really, dear, you should've known better than that.”

His heart pounds high in his throat. Everyone in front of him has gone quiet, staring, pale-faced, at the door. Tense, his hands clenched in his lap, it takes Neku several moments for his head to stop swimming. He can do this. He has conquered meeting an entire city. He has tagged every inch of its people for himself. He can see past the barrel of the gun now.

Neku turns around.

“We all know how stuffy business can be. It took them a while to get their heads in order. But don’t worry, I got let out early on good behavior.” Josh smiles, the expression a knife-cut across his face. He is small and fifteen, unchanged as ever with the same shirt and same orange phone resting idly, dangerously, in his hand. His violet eyes, dazzling and wide with something that is nowhere close to an actual smile, move from Rhyme to Beat to Shiki to Neku, where they stay.

He looks like no time at all has passed, and for all that Neku is twenty-four now and eight years have gone by since the bullet wound in his chest was anything other than a healing scar, Neku feels like he’s right back there. Fighting for his life, playing a game where the rules were introduced and discarded before any of them really even knew what they were. His palm aches like it's been cut down to the bone, and every thud of his heart rattles the bullet casing resting against his sternum.

Swallowing roughly, Neku finds that he can’t break the gaze between him and Joshua. Josh’s smile only grows.

“Did you miss me, darlings?”

#TWEWY #TWEWY Bang 2017 #zenellyraen

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