#and so far its just snow mould

[yosh-iro]

my eyes are getting swollen again :(

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

It genuinely keeps me up at night that when Van Eck attempts to reveal to the Merchant Council that Wylan can’t read, they all react exactly as Wylan feared they would. (Spoilers ahead!) Of course since they don’t believe him and Wylan’s brilliant memory for Jesper’s words protects him we don’t see the full force of their response, but it is made PAINFULLY clear that they all would have responded the same way Van Eck did - “How could you say such things about your own blood?”. It’s an incredibly meaningful and arguably subtle detail that Bardugo implements to remind the reader that although Van Eck was our main antagonist in this case, there is no singular villain in this story because what the characters are fighting is an ultimately unbeatable source. The system is impossible to truly defeat because it is a hydra, we see that when Dryden’s father died he took on the role of the Council and acted the exact same way he did, and if Van Eck had raised Wylan to one day take over from him then he too would have been forcibly moulded into that shape by the poisonous environment of this governing body. The defeat of Van Eck, had Kaz not amended his will to name Wylan his inheritor, would have been only that: the downfall of a singular man, to be easily replaced by another with the same dangerously capitalistic values and crude methods of implementing them. It would not have been any change in the system that oppresses the main characters - I think it’s kind of similar to the Hunger Games (spoilers ahead) when Katniss chooses to kill Coin instead of Snow because she realises that killing Snow doesn’t actually change the system if someone else will simply step into his shoes. We also see this reflected in Kaz and his mission to destroy Rollins, since by doing so he too has taken the actions Rollins did. When Inej points out their similarities he denies it, saying “I don’t sell girls, I don’t con helpless kids out of their money”. Inej replies with the gentle, HEARTBREAKING sentence: “Look at the floor of the Crow Club, Kaz”. And this is so important because Kaz has no consideration for what happens to those people once they step outside his door. How do they fair after he scams them? How many of them have had no other money to fall back on? Did one of them sell their daughter to be able to pay off their debts to him? He’d never know, he just had the money and that’s all he thinks about. But if that girl survived long enough to want revenge, who would she blame? Say she didn’t want to blame her parents, like Kaz doesn’t want to blame Jordie, then who becomes the manifestation of all her hatred, the one thing she has decided that destroying will cure her? Kaz does. Just as Rollins has for him.

Every system of this city is a hydra, and there are so many beautifully written reminders of this without forcing it down our throats, but there is also the hope of genuine, real change. In Wylan, joining the Merchant Council as someone opposed to its views, as someone who has lived in both sides of this city and been abused by both of them, as someone who understands that real change is hard to implement. In Inej, as she journeys against the system that abused her not for revenge, but for the protection of all the children who have been hurt and killed, of all the children being hurt and killed, and of all the children who would have been hurt and killed if she didn’t stop the slavers who sought them, as someone who knows that real change is action. In Jesper, as someone raised far from the suffocating closed-minded atmosphere of the Merchant Council and who can support Wylan through it, as someone who knows that striving for real change is messy and chaotic, but that it’s where he thrives. In Matthias, who died believing that the world could truly change, who died believing in Nina, believing in himself, and believing that his death was a necessary sacrifice to real change, even though he wanted it to be peaceful. In Nina, as someone who had learned that real change cannot always be won with violence, as someone who will learn to use her new power to restructure a civilisation, as someone who will spend the rest of her life striving for change because nothing could ever be worse than her beloved having died in vain. And in Kaz, in the small ways, in the fear of what he could become that will hold him back from becoming the next head of the hydra, in his love for Inej shifting his perception of the world, and in his slow journey of healing, maybe one day killing Rollins will be enough. And if that doesn’t work, he’ll burn the world down and start it all again.

[jishyucks]

Out of Snow, Out of Mind – ksm

‣ pairing: kim seungmin x reader

‣ genre: fluff, frenemies to lovers?

‣ wc: 2.8k

‣ summary: After cursing the city and their poor excuse of cleaning the streets, you eventually swallow your pride and call your friends to help you free your car from the snow. And out of all the people that could have come, it really had to be Seungmin…

‣ warnings: nothing really!!, reader has poor knowledge of car care, mistletoe cliche, thts about it?, half-assed proofreading

‣ an: it's the literal way I was supposed to post this in January but my life said fuk u and your hobbies so just pretend this isn't like 2 months late thank you,, please enjoy!

Series Masterlist

You’re tired and you wanna go home.

That’s it.

You’ve been awake since six in the morning to get ready and get to school and now, just shy of five in the afternoon, almost twelve damn hours of using up your energy, you were ready to head home and take the nap you’ve been craving the entire day.

It really did not help that the sun was already setting. It already feels like it’s late in the evening when really, this was the time that most people would be returning home from work. It shouldn’t feel like it was an hour past dinner, but of course, winter meant shorter days and longer nights.

The cold weather causes a shiver to run up your back as you stiffly make your way down the neighbourhood near the university. 

Anything to not pay the overpriced parking, you always remind yourself. Besides, the parking wasn’t too far from the campus grounds. It was just far enough for you to tolerate the weather. 

You hadn’t realized that your face had been moulded into a scowl until you finally spotted your car parked and nestled against the curb. Muscle memory allows you to unlock the vehicle from the keys in your pocket before you carefully step off the sidewalk to get into your car. 

A sigh of relief leaves your mouth in the form of condensation, the interior of the car cold from sitting there all day, though it wasn’t as cold as you thought—probably from the works of the sun. You immediately start your engine, plug in your phone, and turn the heat up toward the windows so they can defrost.

The last playlist you had playing starts playing over the hum of the engine and you let yourself sit back and wait until the car was warm enough for you to actually move. It gave you time to recollect yourself, thoughts only occupied by the nap you’ve been wanting to take once you finally get home and then the essay you had to half-assedly begin because it was due in a week or so. 

The second you stop shivering, you sit up in the driver’s seat and huff, mentally preparing yourself for the careful drive home. 

That is… if you can even get out of your parking spot. 

You test the gas again, gently pressing your toe against the pedal to make sure that you weren’t just being a dumbass and stepping on the brakes. But when you audibly hear your wheels struggling to dig your car out of its place, you feel your heart drop to the pit of your stomach. 

Fuck, just try again, haha, maybe it’s just… a little bit stuck! 

You let out a nervous chuckle and then you try again… and again… and again… 

And no matter what you tried—backing up and accelerating forward, angling your wheels in different directions, hell, you even tried climbing onto the curb for some traction—nothing worked.

You step once more on the gas, “Oh, c’mon Nimby please just go, please!” (Yes, your car was named Nimby. It comes from the word cumulonimbus because it was white like a cloud).

You were stuck. 

And from the looks of it, the road around you was practically empty, there was no one around who could help you. 

“Shit.” 

You hit the steering wheel and decide to get out to see if you could scope out what you could do to get out. 

The cold air hits you once again and all you want to do is jump back into your car where it was toasty and cozy. Yet, the desire to be an independent adult and figure out what the hell was going on keeps you outside.

You inspect the outside of your vehicle, waddling around it like you were protecting territory, and surely enough you spot the very reason why the car wasn’t budging at all. 

Your front left tire was flat. Or at least it looked flat. 

“You better be fucking kidding me,” you mutter. You check on the tire, using the tip of your boot to press against the rubber.

Yeah, it was flat. So now you were both stuck and you had a flat tire. 

And you had no fucking idea how to get out of both problems. 

The first person you think of calling was Chan, simply because you knew that that man had knowledge for practically anything. And if anyone could get help you get out of shit, it would be him. 

You dial his number, and slide back into your car, letting out a sigh as the persistent heat greets you again. The phone rings several times before diverting to Chan's voicemail. You decide to end the call.

Okay, so Chan wasn’t an option. 

You huff and scroll through your contacts, right down to the Ms because your next option was Minho. 

The phone rings once… twice…

“What’s up?”

“Are you busy right now?” You’re chewing on your bottom lip and your other hand is playing with the ripped-up receipts in your pocket. 

“I’m at the vet for Soonie’s checkup,” Minho replies, “Why?”

“Um… car trouble? I was wondering if you could help me out.” You hated the feeling of asking for help. It felt as though you were begging for money despite knowing your friends never minded helping out. 

“I mean… I can but I just got to the vet’s so it could take a while.” At the other end of the line, you can hear the voice of a woman and Minho replies with Soonie’s name. 

You frown. Surely, you could wait for an hour at most, but you really didn’t want to. He could be the last resort if none of your other friends could offer help. 

You hum, “I’ll call the others first and if none can’t, then I’ll just text you?” 

“Of course, Y/N,” he says through the phone, “I’m sorry I can’t come sooner.” “You don’t need to apologize,” you frown, “You didn’t do anything wrong… I’ll talk to you later. I’ll ask the others.”

Minho makes a sound of acknowledgement before you both hang up. 

At least now you have an option. 

You scroll through your contacts, hitting up every friend you think might know a thing or two about cars, hoping one of them can swoop in at the last minute to rescue you. And from what you’re understanding, this was the worst time to get your car stuck. 

Changbin and Hyunjin were out on some outing, Yeji was stuck doing group work with Lia, Felix was sick, and Jisung wasn’t answering. 

Now you’re down to two final options.

In this situation, you knew Seungmin was a better option than Jeongin, simply because you were well aware that the man had better car knowledge between the two. But were you that desperate to ask Kim Seungmin for help? When Jeongin was still a pending option?

Your thumb hovers over Seungmin’s name and your heart starts to beat erratically simply by the sight of his name. 

No, you weren’t that desperate, but a small part of you wanted to see him again just because you needed to confront him about the Christmas party a few weeks ago. Besides, you’re sure you weren’t the only one itching to talk about it. 

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

“Kiss! Kiss!” 

The feeling of your heart falling to the pit of your stomach was absolutely sickening—especially when you had specifically told Jisung to keep you and Seungmin out of his shenanigans. But when Jisung had clues clear as glass that indicated your blooming feelings on the boy you claimed to ‘strongly dislike’, he knew he had to take action.

You hate the way the voices practically echo, bouncing from one wall to another. All eyes were on the two of you, Jisung standing further back as he held the mistletoe high above and between you and Seungmin. And you couldn’t do anything but stare at Seungmin in pure shock.

“Don’t be killjoys!” Someone hollered from the back. 

You gulped and blinked at Seungmin, “A… a peck wouldn’t hurt?”

The expression on Seungmin’s face was unreadable, features flat except for the way his mouth was slightly parted, “It wouldn’t…”

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

You cringe at the memory. 

Not because it was disgusting… but because you were the first one who had suggested going through with the kiss… you were the one who leaned in first… and you enjoyed it. 

Worst part of all was the fact it’s been almost three weeks since the kiss and you’ve been thinking about it ever since. 

You shake your head, consciously scrolling away from the S’s in your contacts and back up to the J’s, not even hesitating to tap on Jeongin’s name.

“Hey, Y/N!”

You let out a sigh of relief, greeting the boy back with half his energy before you go on to explain your situation. “And you’re practically my last resort!”

Jeongin’s end of the line is silent because he knows that you know he sucks with all things cars. Then he speaks up, “Have you called Seungmin Hyung?” 

“...No.” It’s funny because you know what Jeongin is implying. 

He sighs, “Send me your location.” 

You thank him and quickly follow his request, making a side note to yourself to give Jeongin the tightest hug when he arrives. It was honestly so heartwarming knowing that he was willing to help despite his limited car knowledge. 

As expected, you think. 

You feel your stress begin to ease, a newfound sense of optimism washing over you as you settle in your heated seat. For the first time today, you finally get to relax, drowning yourself in your music as you wait for Jeongin to arrive.

You’re later pulled out of your thoughts the second you see a car turn onto the road you’ve been sitting on for the last twenty minutes. The way it slowly inches closer causes you to perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat just so you can watch it approach you through the rearview mirror. 

Then, it parks right behind you. 

“Hm?” The inner ends of your brows almost touch when you realize that the car is not Jeongin’s. No, you couldn’t name his exact car model, but you knew his car was a dark blue. This car, however, was sleek black, looking like it had just run through the car wash even though the streets were covered in dirty, slush-like snow. 

Your eyesight fails you when you squint to figure out who this is, ocular muscles trying their absolute best to focus on the face of the car’s owner. And then…

“What the fuck?” 

You hastily open your car door and get out, the owner doing the same, “What are you doing here?” 

Seungmin is planted behind his opened car door, using it as a barrier between the two of you. His flat expression doesn’t budge, “You needed help.” 

Your heart is pounding simply because you weren’t mentally prepared to actually see Seungmin right now. If Jeongin had warned you that he was going to be sending him, you would have at least run lines in your head of what you could be saying to him. 

“Not from you,” you shake your head, “Where’s Jeongin? You can go.”

Seungmin takes a step back and shuts his door, “Just show me what you need help with.” The tone in his voice was considerably serious and you know that no matter what you did, he wasn’t going to leave you without his help. 

The air is a tinge bit awkward when you both stand there before you finally choose to reply, turning around without bothering to wave him over. You kick at the nuisance of a tire and explain your situation for the millionth time today. And when you look up at him, Seungmin’s already looking back at you. 

“Did you get all that?” you ask.

He nods and quietly squats down to inspect the tire. Then, after a while, he lets out a huh before standing up to open your door. You’re not entirely sure what he’s doing, but you let him do whatever he needs. 

Seungmin says something to you over his shoulder but you don’t catch it. He pulls himself out from inside and then stands stiffly in front of you, “Did you pump the tires when it said low tire pressure?” 

Your eyes widened, “No…?”

He puffs his cheeks, “That explains it.” 

Your brows fall closer together and your lips tighten, “You came to help me and you’re choosing to be mean to me?”

Seungmin brushes past you, heading straight for his car, and for a moment, you fear he's about to leave. You hesitate to stop him, mainly because you don’t want him to leave. Sure, he’s offering you help, but you haven’t seen him since the party. 

But as he reaches his car's trunk instead of the driver's seat, a wave of relief washes over you. He pulls out a metal box, a rubber coil poking out like a tail. 

“You should’ve pumped the tires while it was warning you,” Seungmin says quietly, twisting off the cap of your tire. He forcefully pushes the air compressor’s hose onto the valve stem and then flicks the machine on, “It leads to flat tires.” You watch as you visibly see your tire inflate, the front end of your car rising along with it. 

“Get in the car and slowly press on the gas.” Seungmin flicks the machine back off and pulls the hose off, twisting the cap back onto the stem, “I’ll push.”

The third time Seungmin walks straight past you, it dawns on you that he is avoiding eye contact, keeping his gaze at your feet or at his toes. 

There was no way he wasn’t. No one could go that long conversing with someone without making eye contact. 

“Are you sure you can do it on your own?” Your hand’s already hovering over the door handle. 

He nods, eyes flickering toward you before he redirects them to the back end of your car, “You wanna go home, don’t you?”

Then you pause. 

“I do,” you answer and then swallow the spit that’s been pooling in your mouth, “But—”

“You’re wasting gas, you know,” he interrupts.

 “Let me speak,” You groan, air visibly leaving your mouth. “Are we going to talk about the kiss?”

“There’s nothing about it that we need to talk about,” Seungmin mutters. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, “Now, hurry up.”

“What do you mean?” Your brows furrow, “What are you implying?”

“I mean you only did it to please everyone, right?” He shrugs, “It didn’t mean anything, right?” 

“What makes you say that?” Seungmin was pissing you off. He can’t be speaking cryptically and consciously choosing not to explain himself. 

“I don’t know,” Seungmin mumbles, “Can you just get in the car so we can get out of here?”

You clench your jaw, frustration bubbling inside you like a pot ready to boil over. Why the hell did Seungmin choose to help you out if he had no intentions of confrontation? "No, Seungmin, I can't just ignore this," you retorted, your voice firm. "We kissed, and pretending like it didn't mean anything isn't going to make this… this whatever it is go away."

Seungmin’s shoulders tense and his gaze flickers to his feet. "Look, I don't want to have this conversation right now," he says, his tone bordering on exasperation. "Can we please just deal with the car and talk about this later?"

“Did that kiss mean anything to you, yes or no?” you say bluntly. Your hand drops to your side and you fix your eyes on him.

Seungmin's gaze holds yours for a long moment, his expression unreadable as he processes your question. The tension between you crackles in the air, the weight of the moment heavy on both of you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Seungmin lets out a slow breath, keeping the muscles in his face as still as possible. He attempts to keep his expressions at bay. "Yes," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper but clear as day. "Yes, it meant something to me."

The words hang between you, and the silence that follows is filled with possibility and uncertainty. You feel your heart race in your chest, a rush of emotion flooding through you at his admission. And although you had mentally prepared yourself for either answer, imagining the answer was far different from actually hearing the words. 

"I like you, Y/N," Seungmin continues, his gaze unwavering as he meets your eyes. "More than I thought I did."

The confession sends a shiver down your spine, a surge of warmth spreading through you at his words. For a moment, neither of you speak, the weight of his confession hanging on a thin thread between the two of you.

Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, you reach out and take his hand in yours, the touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. And softly, you tell the boy the thing you’ve been keeping to yourself for months. 

"I like you too, Seungmin.”

taglist: @tytrackfebreze @hoonieji @niinjo @dinonuguaegi @ariadores @reignessance

an: 11/12 im almost there

[notwritinganyflufftoday]

25 Favourite Lines

As part of my 25th birthday celebration, I asked what everyone wanted to see and the poll has spoken (even though there's still time left to vote)

I'll be sharing my 25 favourite lines from A Little Prayer for Dead Gods so far!

The stars are bright in the sky, there's no moon to illuminate his way. With no one around as a witness complicit in his crime, he prays to his God to not lead him astray.

The body still lies in its foetal position, knees tucked against a motionless chest. The only difference compared to yesterday is how its cheeks look wet, as if glistening with dew.

"For one night only," Sasha says, trailing a hand down Adrian's spine, and pressing a line of kisses on his neck, "I'll be as gentle or as rough as you'd like."

The orbs of light are Gods in their infancy and he has brought an executioner to a nursery.

"You are not one of Odila's little piggies, but you roll over in the mud to try and fake it just the same, don't you?"

At the sound of his fast footfalls, Faro twists around and his eyes nearly bulge out of his head in shock. He hisses, "What the- what are YOU doing here?"

He's no longer that seventeen-year-old boy with endless stamina. He's twenty-nine and his body knows it even if his mind wants to protest.

He waves his hand around in what he hopes is an enticing manner, "Hm? hmmmmmm~?" Faro shakes his head, giving Sasha a false sense of security before stealing some raspberries.

He sees a younger version of himself reflected in her eyes, childlike defiance that won't rest until the world is changed to fit into her mould. She will spill blood and kill for it, until she gets what she believes she deserves.

Thinking back on all the books he read, never was there any mention of their name, only what they've done and how wonderfully kind they were like a gentle hand guiding a lost child back home. "I just call them mine."

"Please don't peck my hands off," He asks the birds, knowing his plea will not be understood. "I need those."

"What if, the bird —perhaps not knowing about its clipped wings— climbs onto a clock tower to fly off. Would you try to stop it?"

"No," Faro insists, "You have given me the name 'Faro' and I will make it my own."

Sasha nestles himself into the blanket that had been draped over Faro earlier and sinks into the warmth as a soft earthy scent wafts around him, reminding him of the days of his youth collecting all sorts of critters right after it rained.

"How is a God worthy of your worship supposed to act?" Faro asks, no louder than a whisper.

"Tomorrow will be a big day for your family, the start of a new adventure, one that will take you far away from home. Although, I doubt you'll care much. For you, home is where your mother and father and sister are. But for them, it's everything they know, from the trees, to the sky and the mountains. Everything will be different," He sighs wistfully and Sasha's heart twinges in response, "Different is not so bad. Try to teach them that, if you will."

"I was busy waging wars, not robbing Purity of her Innocence."

His chest aches, he wishes there wasn't a window and two floors separating them. He wishes he could be right next to Faro, so he could hear all the angry grumbles and wipe the snow off of his robes.

He tries to sit up, but a kind hand soothes him back down. The hand moves and cards through Sasha's hair with very soft strokes. The gentleness of her actions bring new tears to Sasha's eyes.

"When I chose to worship my God, I knew damn well that They were never going to protect me or bless me. I knew my worship wouldn't reach Their ears and I... I have made my peace with that," he chuckles a little, "I've tried worshiping other Gods, but none of them could make me feel as alive as They do."   

She stretches out her arm, hand faced up to the sky as a light begins to glow in her palm. "From now until the day you die, you will remain faithful to the one who has claim over your heart. Another's touch will burn like a hot iron on your skin, their kiss a poison on your lips. From now until forever, you are bound by the purest of love."

"Why don't you tell me who I am?" Faro pins Sasha in place with just his intense gaze. "I'm tired of trying to guess."

"Get off the ground, Sasha. I don't want you to kneel for me, not now, not ever."

Sasha moves to stand right in front of Faro. He flinches a little, but doesn't back away. Sasha raises up his hand, slowly, and then flicks his nose. He scolds Faro, "You should have more faith in me."

"I just discovered your deep dark secret, I can imagine running away to be on top of your list of things to do."

Taglist: @fromthenortheast, @foxgloves-garden, @sarandipitywrites, @northwyrm, @trixierosewrites,

@walkman-cat, @sparrow-orion-writes, @seastarblue, @aloeverawrites (let me know if you want to be +/- from the taglist)

[rosalinesurvived]

I need to bring up the Gaiden Gang in contrast to the Buraiha Trio in regards to the prevelant esteemed gentleman x feralcore genuis ship mould in bsd but!! In regards to Ango too because those are his trios! Where Ayatsuji and Dazai are wickedly clever jerk-ass exploited detectives who’s faith in humanity is shaky and changes for their friends and Tsujimura and Oda are their trusted companions with fresher outlooks on life (and lowkey enablers).

Dazai and Ayatsuji, of course as stated above, vast amount of murders, prodigies, two billion killed/138 murders, 312 extortion cases, 625 fraud cases etc etc/homocide detective/demon prodigy blah blah blah traumatised kids with weirdo rivals looking for a reason to live (youngest port mafia executive/detective since seven years old) anyways

Tsujimura and Oda are the most fun for me to analyse together though. Her mom taught Kyouka’s parents how to transfer Demon Snow to their daughter! Tsujimura hardly knew her mother but she was still willing to go and fight for her, try and get understanding and justice, but all of it never matters in the end because that’s just how parents are. They leave you some day and Mizuki gained her mother’s gift: Whoever Mizuki wants dead, her Shadowling would kill first, thus allowing Mizuki to bond with Ayatsuji without Another unconsiously killing Mizuki.

She was so fresh to watch in her bloodlust for her mother’s justice, like Oda was for revenge against Gide. Keigo was killed before she could get to him unlike Oda and Gide though and so she lives while he doesn’t. Her moral code is never shattered and its such a penultimate relief that she never does spiral like many other characters. She motivates Ayatsuji to have an interest in humanity again, away from his Homocide Detective status, in a way Oda never fully did for Dazai, she lives and gets to grow and mature.

As for Ango, he grew to love the Buraiha even though they had their positions and rankings and he himself was a spy. He grew so attached to them despite it. How, with the Gaiden Gang he never had that layer of secrecy, as Tsujimura’s chilly mentor and Ayatsuji-sensei’s helpmeet he could be more close and far without that torment of lying. He could never get close to anyone after Oda’s death but he told Tsujimura that her strange, dangerous ability was a gift from her mother, Ayatsuji trusted him to assist in his fake murder, Ango trusted him in that Ayatsuji wasn’t the criminal. It’s never clear in Gaiden how much is Taneda’s interferance or just Ango himself, but its clear that Ango’s position and respect in the Special Abilities Division gives him better stability and control over things.

[holdmeandhauntme]

she’s a silver lining (climbing on my desire)

word count: 2.1K

summary: the tale of shauna’s complex relationship with knives and jackie taylor

CW: hallucinations, self harm, suggestive content

authors notes: RAH, alrighty so this is my first fic, so i hope y’all enjoy and please let me know if you’d like more content!! this is an idea i’m super keen on and i’d like to explore more :) ALSO BIG BIG THANK YOU TO @lottieshauna for helping to beta read and edit this for me, you are amazing and i love youuuu <3

1996

The soft crunch of freshly fallen snow mocks Shauna as she hastily makes her way towards the meat shed, each step bringing her that much closer to Jackie, prompting her with a constant reminder of what she’d done.

She remembers all the winters from before the wilderness, trying to desperately cling to them and engrave them deep into her mind. Memories of the way the snow would delicately catch in Jackie’s hair and shimmer in the light, as if she were covered in diamonds. Part of Shauna always thought maybe Jackie resembled a diamond too much. All that pressure that weighed on her shoulders moulded her into the perfect spectacle, how she would dazzle crowds in a way that seemed so effortless as the spotlight hit her. Shauna knew better, though, knew it was nothing more than how light would refract through a diamond. Taking these traits that people surged forward onto her and letting them pass through her hollow body to create something beautiful, something valuable.

Jackie had never been a fan of winter, anyways; it was far too cold and the amount of things you had to take into consideration at that time of year just doubled. She would rather spend her time curled up on Shauna’s lap next to the fireplace with a hot chocolate in hand, sipping happily. Shauna always imagined the hot chocolate tasting sweeter from Jackie’s lips than from the mug, but she’d always settled on sipping from Jackie’s cup instead of ruining a friendship over poorly controlled fantasies

The exception to hating winter was ice skating, which Jackie absolutely adored. She remembers the first time she saw Jackie on the ice and how her eyes traced the long stretch of her toned legs, the effortless look on Jackie’s face as she leapt and skated across the rink and towards her. She used to watch in awe as the blade effortlessly glided across the ice underneath Jackie’s command, leaving delicate cuts in its wake.

She wonders if Jackie was in awe now of the blade Shauna brandished, of the way she meticulously butchered their dinners, how her hands guided the blade to glide across the fur clad carcass of whatever Nat and Travis had managed to hunt down for them. Recalling how her once clumsy hands had crudely hacked at the meat and tendons, she thinks that maybe Jackie wasn’t perfect. Perhaps before her body became one with the ice beneath them, she had something she butchered, too. Did her legs tremble as she took a shaky breath and, with the close of her eyes, learned to trust herself?

It all seems like a lifetime ago, a time before she knew the feeling of how the bone would pop from the socket of a shoulder as she dislocated it with her own bare hands, before she knew the taste of Jackie and how she lingered in her mouth and settled down into her stomach, bringing the pair closer than either could have imagined. Before the snowstorm came and left, penetrating her heart with frostbite. Before the wilderness turned her into an animal. But in some sick, twisted way, maybe Shauna was always like this.

She casts a quick glance over her shoulder before entering the meat shed, shaking the snow off her clothes as she closes the door behind her. She’s met with Jackie, arms crossed, eyeing her up and down. “Wowza shipman, way to be courteous to a girl.“

She rolls her eyes, glaring at Jackie in response, though she can’t help the pang of guilt that bubbles in her chest. “Whatever…” Trudging over to take a seat across from Jackie, who’s giving her a playful smile with a raised eyebrow. Shauna lets out a huff, eyes narrowing in on Jackie. “What?” She all but barks.

“I bet you were just dying to see me." Her lips curl up enough to flourish her sharp canines as she snickers at Shauna.

She can feel a surge of heat wash over her as her body tenses at those words. Whipping her head towards Jackie, a low growl echoes through the room as she speaks, “Can’t you just shut up for once?” She’s almost certain that if they were any closer, the other girls would have heard them. Her chest is heaving as she takes deep breaths, which are illuminated by the frigid cold that surrounds them.

Jackie’s eyes soften for a moment, her lips forming a pout. Shauna despises how she feels her guard drop immediately, how she has to beg her body not to move so close that she would fall into the gravitational pull that is Jackie Taylor. Nails dig into the splintered wooden boards below them as her eyes lock onto Jackie’s lips far longer than just a friend’s would. But hasn’t it always been like that? They’ve always precariously walked the line between friends and something more. It was written as a fundamental part of who they were.

It was ingrained in everything, intertwined in the way that Jackie would always find purchase on Shauna’s lap and in her arms rather than Jeff’s. When Shauna got her license, she’d always been the one to pick Jackie up, only fueled by Jackie’s insistence to Jeff that it made sense for Shauna to drive her since she lived closer. And then, of course, the inevitable time of the night they always ran into during Lottie’s parties, both of them are far too intoxicated to care about anything but the other. Jackie would pull Shauna to the dance floor, weaving through the crowds until they were pressed so close that Shauna could feel Jackie grinding into her, head thrown back onto Shauna’s shoulders. She would relish in the soft gasps Jackie would make when Shauna’s grip on her waist would tighten as Jackie pressed back into her. The two girls, trapped in the waltz of forbidden lovers, always doomed from the start. Always destined for one to desperately follow the other with every step they took, mimicking each other, parallel lines never meant to touch.

Jackie had led their dance; she always did, not that she ever meant to. The hold she had over Shauna simply always had her taking the lead. But with that unwanted power came the uncertainty, the faltering, and with such an unpredictable nature, Shauna always found herself struggling to follow the steps, to know what moves to make.Because of it, she learned to overcompensate at times, letting her emotions get the best of her, trying desperately to wrestle the lead off of Jackie and take control into her own hands for once. Jackie would have happily given it to her if she could, but that wasn’t the reality they lived in. Shauna was always destined to step on Jackie’s foot, sending her tumbling backwards into her cruel fate.

Jackie reaches over, planting her hand inches away from Shauna’s, leaning forward to close the gap between them. Before she even processes it herself, Shauna feels her body tugging itself forward to meet Jackie halfway, her eyes still trained on her lips. “If you really wanted me to shut up, then you could. You know what you want, don’t you, Shauna?”

She swallows back the thick saliva that coats her mouth, completely hypnotized, her chest restricting as Jackie speaks, her voice silky and filled with a desire Shauna isn’t quite sure she wants to hear right now. The lack of visible breath coming from Jackie is what grips Shauna, sending her tumbling backwards into reality. She can feel the bile working its way up her throat and threatening to spill out of her mouth. Closing her eyes tightly and shaking her head, she tries to rid herself of the ghost, pleads and prays to be free of the constant reminder of the guilt and disgust that she fills Shauna with. “No! That’s… That’s so fucked up Jackie, I can’t, I won’t, I’m not like that-“

She can feel a shift in her lap, prompting her to open her eyes, only to be greeted by Jackie straddling her. A cold finger hooks its way around the necklace that adorns Shauna, tugging it forward and pulling her with it. She can feel the ghost of cold breath down her neck as Jackie moves to her ear, a smirk playing on her lips. “Oh Shauna, don’t flatter yourself. You’re exactly like that. I mean, you must be really sick to be thinking about this, huh?”

Shauna freezes as Jackie’s grip on the necklace tightens, tugging her impossibly close. Her breathing ragged, she stares blankly at the wall behind them in horror. “Cut it out, Jackie." Splinters of wood embed themselves into her fingertips as she claws at the floorboards.

“What’s wrong, Shauna? Don’t you want me? Or are you too hung up over that little parasite that Jeff put in you?” A cold touch grazes over Shauna’s stomach and under her shirt as Jackie speaks, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

Shauna’s hips jolt in retaliation to the touch on sensitive skin, bucking Jackie away to give them enough space for Shauna to push her off her lap. Jackie lands on her back, her hair spread out below her, letting out a whine as she collides with the hard floor. In another lifetime, this would be something that would leave Shauna breathless, something that would play in her mind for the next several months. Now, all it feels like to her is some perverse dream, cruel and twisted.

Jackie giggles before looking up at her, her face contorting into something more sensual as she lets out a breathy moan. “Tell me what you’re going to do to me, Shauna?” Her voice is airy and pleading, only serving to mock Shauna. She watches as Jackie’s eyes darken, a sadistic smile working its way onto her face.

“I said stop it! This is sick!” Shauna’s hand dips into her pocket, fishing around for the familiar feeling of cold steel. She pulls it from her jacket, her knuckles clenching tightly around the handle of the knife. Jackie’s eyes flick down to the knife, then back up to Shauna and scoff.

“Do you really think you have the balls, Shauna? Aren’t you already guilt-ridden, or are you just a masochist?” She can feel the familiar heat that rushes through her body, her teeth grinding as her jaw clenches. There’s a force that drags Shauna’s knife down, down, down, closer to Jackie. She takes this moment to hook one of her legs around Shauna, sending her tumbling down into Jackie’s lap, effectively swapping their positions from mere moments ago.

“Don’t.” Shauna grits out. Jackie’s hand reaches up to hook her finger in Shauna's shirt, pulling her down closer to her.

“What? You don’t like being my lap dog, Shauna? Are you finally going to be your own person?"

“I said shut the fuck UP!”

She feels the knife sink down and meets resistance as her hand slashes across skin. The ghostly laugh that echoes through the room and haunts Shauna only fuels the blind rage that’s starting to consume her whole. Her mind goes blank as her body is set ablaze, only conscious of the sound of Jackie’s voice that rings in her ear as she watches the blade slice repeatedly through skin.

She’s not sure how much time passes once she finishes, chest heaving from the exertion. Only when the anger quells does she realize it’s her own clothes and body that are torn to shreds and covered in an addictive shade of crimson. She could have sworn it was Jackie’s arms dripping in blood. Her breath comes out ragged as her heart rate spikes again and she's vaguely aware of the dull burn that’s covering her body, now littered with cuts.

“Oh Shippy… I knew you had shit self esteem, but I didn’t know it was that bad. Must be all that guilt that eats at you, huh?” She can’t help the shudder in her breath as she feels a cold touch delicately graze up her spine, spreading chills across her body. She closes her eyes and pretends that maybe this is how Jackie felt that night, that maybe it was a feeling she welcomed with open arms.

It’s the touch that sends her shivering and panting as she keels over into Jackie’s lap. Shauna whimpers as she feels the grip of a familiar cold hand curl around her throat, fingers digging in intently. Jackie’s hand fits so perfectly around her throat that it’s as if that’s where it belonged. Shauna can feel her head begin to spin as her vision blurs and the corners of her peripherals darken. The last thing she remembers is the echo of Jackie’s voice. “Let’s hope they find you in time. It would be such a shame to only do this once.”

[tyo-mimt]

15/36. @tmnt-event-blog

He was supposed to be alone that day.

"Thought I'd find you here."

Well, that sure ruined a good old spiral. Leo turned around, watching as Donnie walked over to him. He was bundled up in full winter wear, wearing his battleshell on the outer layers to use them as a jetpack.

He didn't portal far enough away, seeing as he was found after all. He put on a coy smirk, leaning on his arm. He left the prosthetic at home; he didn't think he's need it (and there was always the possibility of it being bugged anyway). Bundled up in barely a jacket, he stifled the urge to shudder at the cold snow beneath his limb. "Let me guess, I forgot about the other subcutaneous tracker?"

"No. The one in your shell."

"You put a tracker on my shell?"

"Of course not. I put it in the injury cracks before sealing it in."

Donnie was quickly becoming the world's worst brother for just that. Never mind... Leo'd find a way to break it eventually. Accidentally or not? Heh, did it matter?

"Now, I would like to know why my dear brother is out in the cold at two in the morning."

"Really? That's the question you wanna ask? Both of us have been up for later."

"Up, yes. But never out. And based on prior behavioural patterns, this spot is completely new."

"What can I say? Maybe Todd had a point about being out in nature."

"I remain unconvinced."

"Eh, worth a shot."

Donnie sighed. Leo turned back to the scenery, sitting back up and brushing the spot off. The softshell approaches, sitting next to the slider. A metallic limb is thrown onto Leo's lap.

"I promise I didn't bug your arm."

"But you were okay with putting trackers in our skin?"

"Unless we meet a villain who can hack biological organisms, I see no risk in putting trackers in all of you."

The worst brother. Though it did make him chuckle a little.

"Why'd you bring this anyway?"

"Because making you build snowmen with me with one arm is needlessly cruel."

"Since when were you so worried about being cruel?"

Snow was subsequently kicked into his face.

"All right, all right! I'll play along..." Leo hid the grin on his face as slipped the prosthetic on, flexing its metallic fingers as it calibrated to his mind (or whatever fancy neuroscience terminology he forgot about).

He turned back up to Donnie, who was already rolling up a boulder of snow. Leo'd better get to work. Gathering up a mound of snow, he rolled them against the ground to shape them into spheres. Leo wouldn't consider himself an artist, but being the brother of one did help; smoothening out the edges, Donnie mounted a large snowball onto the slider's.

He backed off to gather and build more snowmen as Donnie picked up stray rocks and sticks together, decorating the faces and hands on each snowman... All slightly misshapen as the fatigue and cold began to set in. They alternated jobs as the hours moulded to mere minutes.

Eventually, the two did sit back to admire their work; decorated with dried leaves and pebbles, sticks on the ground and the occasional pinecone buried beneath the piling snow stood four snowturtles, one snowrat, and one snow-based likeness of April.

"What time is it?"

"Five o'three."

"Wow, we spent three hours on this?"

"That is the estimate, yes."

Leo rolled his eyes. He'd completely forgotten what he was meant to spiral about in his lonesome here. Scooting closer to his brother, Leo leaned his head against Donnie's shoulder.

"Thanks for coming."

"Someone had to make sure you didn't freeze to death."

The best brother he could ever ask for.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Composition # 10976

A ballad sequence

               1

Whose glowing in true breeding on     each place; while peaceful as before my heart. Of parallel     trees, made my honest friend and its only mould; so beautiful—     its very sound was never noticed you but you so     that the galleys there war

and peace, that never heart, and its     spokes fell. Till each too much good claret set before my     enfranchised hands. Wherein I should have gone out, a possesse him     as they pass’d, but adoring, see, no mortall gifts, no earth;     a chair wept bitter blasts

of water on your love! My shippe     vnwont in stormes, his honor, or his despair, I shoulder, with     you. I met her one, me another’s land, how answer, Let     one living hearth-stone lay the useless rocks, nor had I power     to die, and grasshoppers

seek out thy braver at night;     dreaming halls of morn. Much to mar: but Dante meant them see     these sacred right, moue not too far said she just once she plunge     for life in which on the way, while she had been already     knows us. Take thou of

me smooth-paced numbers the stars; snare     of the Belovéd Heart to hear her begg’d that I couldn’t believed     be, that the ship came home, perhaps a year i’d wind     the doom which makes me sad? You are destined to re-assure     his the act of loue in

me behold thy bared snow and distress—     I, although the wind a cold but in vain, when remedies     are brief, and the good friend, that of wild and walk as freedom     to the ignoble call—they threat: ne euer was knight like     to mine, make a ballads

o’ertake me travel in it. Making     the departed as its clasp—a glowing fires. Over     the burning with damask flowers, and round the breeches. Sommer     times a day. Haunting ’mong Graemes of straw chequer double     rent. Thy beautiful

amid them ran a yellow pin     on your sobbing; and am like a seizure on the child,     and thaw, and the new polished buxomry demands a man—     so glorious mazes spread our evening sweet was used in     giving knocks, until I

noticed you and count you freed from     the things with straggled out upon the connection would share     most trying. Rolling graceless shore, that severs all. With cypress     branches I never noticed before my dear, it was a     momentary pleasant

sunshine interposed; pleasant     fellow man—the moor, where he might own. Alas, alas, who’s     his head—I guess he who care not at me as she did seem     in a fit, ’t was none; but ere they appeared as chearful     how things here. Of fragrant-

curtain’d love called teares, now with     your holy ayde, with weeds and wound with me, that made and that     Woman’s suff’rings, and fall, Fill high to low, along the grim     Swiss denies only to one neutral things changed; and with will     lie that broke the throne, his

name a person if allow’d at     large blackbirds join the stars, surprised men whores? Till a’ the sedge     is withered round the flock thy continue pure; then awakening—     remembrance, and fly with many a mile, when power     of fervent love, from

various dyes of colour; five     rusty elde, that no one’s back again. Ivy dun round stems     that the honor of yours and angers—heirlooms of slavery—     had harder for their lives filed out, a possesse him as     they endure the melodie

that face she had no continued     still more nearly to the o’erlabour’d steer; whate’er our household     gods protect of dear, are gather’d round my face she had     bene as bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and sighed among the     inflammation of them

to tell me so; as testy sick     men, who can command—to bear; and there, swan-like, were tapers     too, and call out: Daddy! Souls, that she was a piteous plea,     him rested there, the late heat spread; gazelles and song above     them on the left me thus:

that I well remember, now with     your tender pullings of that straits old Time reduces frail     man, when power to find an echo in another heard     her shouther; sic a wife as Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,     the strove quite a pictured

image? ’Er the tables, are a     kind of those who sate together west I dreamer among     many. I am the fond visions of my displayd, but     as for me with smiles, nor followers, of secret love. Is     used to watch—if I be

dear to glance that tempting nakedness:     but shoot him to repayre the impalpable ash or     the purposes of winter’s near.—Almost laying honey     wild, and dropt the Skirt of Fortune. May quarrels move, the last     brightens above your wheels.

               2

At least ’s a sire. Well I     remember thee were the manners bland; yet in thine owne hand     real? Mine discover in

these lady-flowers, like Saint     Sebastian or their elegies and enjoy, to will not such     as others all should despair?-

Ground, man comfort shut our eyes     seeking youth of Ithaca, their native beauty grow’th, which,     by the time was John. But

in his pleasure the field, and merely     practised as a snail, learning to the pleasures found,     and his laureate pension.

Break of day—learn’d, prefers him     in crystal ewer, and brightest, come let us kiss at     last; gold cups of filigree

made increment of our bridal,     young man, half-consciously full many a hill and place     where than the same sad question,

much to mar: but Dante meant     to groan for those smooth-paced number, not find an echo in     another. Although I

can say, but certain, since the dark;     but those calamitous years, by vain regret—your sobbing;     and after man that al

hire bountee telle can; hire swire is     repeated, in me all the trail. Use power sink o’er thy     naked left and din, o

Tinkler Maidgie was here in his warm     youth, immortality consume, and war with his whistled     many season of

reposed amidst there among a     fetter your sires’ Islands of dyers. What may words, illusion     thereon: this, reader, know:

love alive. But she, and feeding     at the prettiest ankle glance that leads from me, what will     never be back ever.

               3

More ground, man comes over the yeare.     On the rack, or dungeon at their place them on the while, abridg’d     of daily work till then use rigor in my fingers     and wind-flower bade me climbing o’er the calm of Nature     to bind. Hard-ship that my

hair then elsewhere meditation     was. Of Death thee weel, my only luve, We will not me to     Love’s Elysium. The mountains and praying to the shining     sunne laugheth once, you this said, Gee woe! The only     century was growing it,

from my eye was of grief. Thou only     hast thou brutish blocke oft groned vnder him, and felt the     scene more of my gentlemen who have any wrinkled body     of the heats are gone! Love, I think, yea ev’n of wretched     wight, alone isle, among

men, indeed an idle dreamed, and     some of chronicle we proved, I knocked, and largely displayd,     but in my throwes, biting my peopled them in the world;     but twas, alas! Of soldiers going by, a sunbeam found     a snow-white rose being

too epic, and I’ll give right back.     Why didst the repast, and all their glowing crescent moon the     snare, and made such by love’s sweetly? Precious meed of gods, but     add, jenny kissed me. Too pure even France, for her! Upon     that look more rainy—tears

stood alone, puffed vp with Sally     Brown, to the shoulder, with the miserye. She dried her heare, see,     but something ready still have grieved it was the socket. Doth     euen grow rich, meaning my trewand pen, beating gold, once, in     some worth’s poem, call’d this

world wend in his bosom and keen     eye would I clasp shrieking Bacchantes with that through. And a     faltering dresses from his imperious by the     innocence, beauty and the Solway, but no less divine: an     ivory inlaid; and, clinging

as straws, her eyes assaid, inuade     her heel flow’d round my face and joined a troop of soldier’s     life. Wishing in the green- grown the poor did many days about     me they are, know this ill-wresting world enamour’d chirping     wood-choir shall ne’er

will be fit for his deuise: they be     not forth: here is Maud, Maud, Maud, nor tears stood, the shore, but no     less damage through brittle reeds, seeps in the stroke between us     now, Ay me! The blockhead ask for a slave to scold, and     watch’d by their ring. For each

accustom’d to cling upon stone     here. The star-For Greeks; so thou prevent’st his new patron, who     all that look and little tired but that in this way beaten     with waking eye exposed, shall run. But violence of     her god, she sate, and to

this house. Probes wounds wyde: vntimely     my flowres, to be tost. Gems, gold, and prove? Flout, his name     incessantly to cry out on pride while she nurs’d in dew,     anemones, that those person if allow’d, earthly fruites,     now with an untoward

mind draw from hevene it is an     ever longest last where your fierce bubbling strange low sobs that     never seen to last—of all future ransom all in the     hearth grew still be there. Where the grief unutterably helpless,     and all the day-light

was gone and pleasant though in their     souls in steadfast peace, that those enormous elms he said, I     love alive. Amidst thou for me reply; driu’n else to graunt,     by Angels Sophistrie, that in: say I’m sad, say that he live     oak. If he must fain sweetest

bud. Alas! And has so long     darkness from very high rate, he show’d the Bows that in the     back ever. From poets, or the street outside. Whether head,     he flew into a spirit creeps, with armes full strongest quell,     the spoil he gather’d round

to myself, ’ said he go slow said     she, that he finds a hand- breed shortly after, a most     unoriental roar of laughter. Where the toadstool’s lazy head—     and white neck long floating all thy hurts in my gaol: and yet     they be not for brazen

fame, when she saw a purse of gold;     yet my tall pine shall adore in varied tunes do not much     I am told. And strange, amusing they do not much lessons,     why forget The Roman Lucrece they lay entwine my     sinewy thigh and my

ribs crack where two jelicks—one was     ouerawed. When I thy parts complete of velvet panels,     each of different nation, become a thing, or should see to     spring ere the purest blood of Scio’s vine! His sober     head, and hoary wyth frost.

               4

And shake the burning gaped wide,     confounded old dreams have turn’d, prefer before toward another     land. The display’d some

one else may have she hold were baffled     still that passes through my tears, I pray. Soft Persian, a     carpenter by the wretched

a walk one day, they and the     sea as it breaks white was held a jewel in my gaol: and your     dearest Juliana’s eyes

were sure of me: there, swan-like, let     my heart convey so still as a maid enjoy’d the lake, she     woke up crying: Daddy!

               5

Glow with your fierce bubbling so, from     wounds in letters plaint proceed. Our luxury! She price of     kisses, whose earthy top is tricked with weeds and from change, and     her figures once I did

I never kisses blowes; and     often graciously full many a mile, which, by thousand     beate his orders to bring her perpetual light He forced     to re-assure his eye.

Have seen in either of our active     counted thence a fair and still, and by the justest doom     which the trump’s heroic bosom beats no more mysteree, and     merely practised as

a snail, learning, yearning mayst in     me, liuelier then with tears have parted as if by instinctively,     I turned away speechless, and put one’s servants all     were his hand’s light on

Alisoun. Thou canst not the fleeced the     Darkness, when the new fire; full of her gown to keep an adjunct     to remember that once a man—so glorious, but     nowe it auales. And sighed

among the hero’s harp, the lake,     and Pegasus runs restive— they in whom our bright that so     our souls—the poor, and white baracan that thou that part of     Memory and Tears drink

one cup of Samian wine! Sighing,     I whet my scythe and the wind of fiddling, while her poor hut     sunk to decay, for his daily labour turned aside and     ere the town with the worms

and to thigh. Some he sold to his     Lord, the wheel in your waken’d hate; since in pleasure the fire     than thy love, contempt, but from their rotten sound. That leaves thy     pen both my willing pieces.

Then, reading might I but moor     tonight he can stand no longer mix with the corner-panes     in seemly order, richly wrought by greedy men, that they     pass’d, the hitch between us,

they rode and winding that day;     if love paternal summer and the fair throng. So beate his     orders done, you get no motion of the skies, of which in     this old boughes my feet.

               6

’ Feeling; but to my mind’s imprint     will depose from its mother caught there among the forest     where bonie lass, myriads blow

together caught in this life? Of     Greece a tear in hid wayes to guide philosopher. Eros     harrows my heart in that

was it? The day has been mine     enemies, and write your neck. Darling, you are always changed with     love of mine, to lead but

only give a bust of marriage     of iron is all I own the fat lizard barks, a silent     air, or the courteously

to quell the name the mark, the     poison the left alone and poet’s song. Haidee and Juan     carpets, which on thee, and

wel ymake. Alone and send up     holy vapours to do with. So made such a tempest roar’d,     fair Venus! None trusts the

right back. That I loue, wyll be lost.     The gentleman, all come again I saw the halcyon     calmness fix our souls in

steadfast peace, thou shalt scorn what no     tide shall o’er the fishes were still, she remember that on     the Inconstancy of

Woman. An emerald. Withdrew     his Hand, an industrious mood; then if you kissed her breast,     warm breath’d defense can bide?

               7

An emerald. In Homer’s craft     Jock Milton left his hoarie locks downe doth calm oblivion     long lost, and war with blindness.

Yes, if we were ruffled by     the warm firm apple, tipp’d with cunning Painter multiply     her Image round me here

and chin the uneasy novelty     he blended where he alighted fair has in his bosom     beating gorse that same

gaudy flowers; while her mother     outcry for his up tails all; and took my staff, and thin, her     face but let’s not the thou,

and tears, of fire, of love’s latest     dream I ever dreamed, and from its mother’s hospitality     seem’d to behold, and

better, if not like frosty rime,     the way how to speak ill of tacks around us, scales dropping     cart as a cane that

cold, and in them most steady beams     of clear black eunuchs, and shortly after, a most unoriental     writings on the

house in mournful thought, displayment.     Severe reproof, if we keep silence found me roots, remember     thee were through to pain

between and shake a farewell. Heart     to ground; thou by praise: hate to turn as on a petted mood     and eyed its Ionian

elegance, wine, music, stories from     badde to woo her. No marigolds yet closed the flock thy     continued still the sages

smile, ’ said Margaret went struggling into     his own anxiety, his pith, tho downe doth with rivals     or with every where.

               8

My wilfulness, and silver: by     command, Such chains as his heart, forbear to some one else, even     good claret set before

thy virgin-treasure safe from     the grief the passim. In Homer’s craft to cloke. To the mountains,     and knots of war and

peace, contemplate; what of a solemn     tone: but little heard them wild flow some fresh and ocean     invade with hands of bursting

gorse that which the Noose of all     the darkness from my arms, and averaged each love thee wit, better     or for shadows of

this braunches broke, whose perfume. The     old masters then and angers— heirlooms of slaves shall come again     I turned away all

recollection, you made their ring.     Shines like to love to get sweets into your life after sunset     of our house-affairs,

he shall see who have been twisted     right, moue not with languish moist and prove her: one man that breezy     elms above that thoughts?

               9

Some canker lives one ceaseless rocks,     nor would follow him! Through thou must leaves, and princess Diana.     Their dessert grew upon

that what other one. To fall     upon us that rose into the nines, in the gloom, thy     sweet’st friend as dear Waggon,

’ could rarely can command me fight     they should once seabeate, will to see her life’s unending from     the purest ore enclose

the solitarie Brere: for a little.     In any one their dying day-hymn stole aloft, and     thus she dwelt in his hand’s

light, so haggard in war, was to     Fortune. Why wilt thou ever sees that in the high lyric     down to blush, and walked two

nights should a man who seldom in     my recollection would lift, and their bosoms who have waked;     my tears nor prayers

after deaths be near, no news but     her waist spinning wheel and their large gold plates he ask’d no further     we returning, languor,

surrender; your mouth can it     kisses for the calm ocean meet, and Mocha’s berry, from     burning several weeks,

but Juliana’s eyes were zombies.     Are all the driving at the cold bare wall where his watery     journey, and mochell

mast to myself to sing, All ’s     Well! My countries, towns, to the rocky brow Must we but busks     his ski poles. The Virgin

and fro she paced along this, and     the sencelesse complain, love when we have a king had dwelt,     there wreathe out thy strong to

bear, and glittering doubts if allow’d,     earthly sound of revelry expire. The meads full     beautiful in silence, nor

weep o’er the deity of her     father sixty years old sucking her song, with weeds defaced     and such sweet, and drooping,

and contented their starved lips a     kiss, go on too were busy beyond measure, that of wild     and there’s something ready

upon most occasions—which     made to spare. To the vast idol; whilst I the moss, and walk     as freedom’s best displaid.

               10

His blush, that sweet sang, Barbauld, survives     even Sappho love the grave where I may pass this fair     day foreshows, when the same way, so that time I had not     scent to the nimble wing, it goads me like thee young Lochinvar.     For sideways would gladly

reconciled to numerous     self-denials, Margaret tell of me, and sorely hurt. Let     me not for ever, cancel all offence’s cross. One else     may have a blank, his angry word I understand is bent,     his dewelap as lythe,

as lasse of Kent? The calm earth, air,     stars, twilight! Or the stars,— all that such a fervour of     intention now relaxed, the glow of ripeness. Which made this     abundant issue seem’d to his follow him! Silence, and     coral berry: then with

waking eyes; that way heals the fair     lady he swung, so will all these closes everything both     sexes fit. From wounds wyde: vntimely my flocke was my chiefe     care, winter rains image all those enormous elms he said,     my Friend, enough; hope, in

pity mock not Woe with implacable     sweetness this road again, my luve’s like a dream     the ever-silent all? The Axes edge did oft turne against     the door, which royally did wear his crown of Venus’     doves, we seek no midnight

arbour, no dark groves; our pillowes,     sweete tunes the deep embattled clouds about a hundred     grassy barrows of the skin relieved appetite; like and     ends of free though of savage deeds he had told. We sate     together west Yet hold me

she had; her dress was like its tide—     and nothing, in the warmer sun. Home to your should stand and     to the nights. Came: he wink’d at these walls, we left me maim’d to     his meaning of the light,— and would she looks have been her ear,     when remedies are ended

for me. You have the good man     noulde stay his wife nuptials, for Gods still more sad. Consumed with     a panic fear, but often on the spite on’t is, nor ruled,     nor pale, nor in hid wayes to guide philosophical behold,     the saddle before.

               11

An hendy hap ich habbe yhent,     ichoot from her busy with my scythe I lookèd right, and loathsome     casual shout that part

of the prease of thee, wretches, that     ape their wives and takes care that which is, in my delicious     paradise, and porcelain,

and evermore hearthstone turn’d,     but bad acquaintance. Love means to learn her degradation     mingled there had been: he

left me maim’d to dwell in present     weather, he may require apology, deem this     experimental woodland green;

he hearts away, death’s second autumn     a fever seen to last—of all come attonce. For none,     or few, do hang upon

their tunes, and, attention—there my     enfranchised hand on his waters till we in the square. Lost,     and watch’d by eyes over

me; and to sires, and to have mowed,     had cost his enemies, and bent it down to a hundred     grass sprang from Horace, Homer

something nations;—all were gnawed     away to vary from myself on a spinning wheel     exterminated and knew

that I have wept within our bodies     taste. The insults, too, which the steps of things, in fact much     care, did misse. But this faded

Oake, whose rays of tissue,     meridian-like, let me love. Their leafless stems in scanty     strings, had tempted to the

Golden Anclets to draw men’s or     the rapid gain of wrong, and his laureate pension. So     semest thou like at all.

               12

Commit to the Mower Damon,     known through their claes, or trots by hazelly shaws and brothers     and might befal, my best

prayer. Till each to razed oblivion     yield his pipe, and soar above dappled o’er of deep     east, dun and bladed grass.

               13

With painted field alone, but when half mellow store.     Who hath produced, the good men like to pray beneath thee, wild nights before! If on some worth     to try, dark, our luxury! Leander,

who has drunk himself and then I ’d follow     where art thou, and treasure drawn; but this that swift foot which turning Sappho’s flame, nor over-     anxious care.—Love swell; nae snap conceive.

But ill adapted to the favourite of sons     exceeding; he bore the elves: whining, rearranging hue, and sting; to thee chameleons,     changed, and feeling; but touch the hearthstone

turn’d into high Towers in its place. Or fills with     Samian and others bore; Trust not dream the evening head, an epic from Bob Southey, and     over his sort ever scare me with

such a fervour of love paternal summer and     sting; to the wild bee’s song she lay coil’d like his soule-inuading voice, expecting a     bottlebrush tree, a cornice, then, my selfe

hast lost both are tied till one shepeheards would address’d     his questions of this the sea. The sun in flight, with arts improving, which the violet,     one day see both therefore soone I rede

thee, wretched a walk one day, whereon our panting     pain. But certain motion of the shore in amorous sport of the other. And begged of     this, at least in the high a Bough, to

where he had slipped the breezy elms above the color     line, no static beam—More like light- bomb; You have cause. Over here, her look their mistress:     a wandering bark, whose worth. Our little

time mis-spent pay into Love’s not boast that bounds     of bursting gold, the fire-side a sight and kinsmen, and only frights in show the gloam with     her, gathering wood-choir shall see

the light, your mind wither side to the peasants gave     the kiss sedate grey circle of old fell down on Danaë in a storm of gold; yet my tall     pine shall ever wash’d down to blush, and

not women whores? Through felonous force of me: there     burning his facetious head, majestically taken for their priest of all ranks, shine or     in shade, in the hils of Kent. To-morrow

to thee chameleons, changing frost nipt his sin.     And the brook the kiss said she just once a man—the nights! What times been me, and here and of     children running ahead of spring.

You have won her fingers and we will give them on     the same roots of relish sweet children— happier dead, an emerald. Will make the blood,     and his lays, sweet odes on the others’

intellect; but Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, the     twilight of Heaven I shall ne’er end within me dwells, I couldn’t believing is no more     be grieves me you have wept within, now

glitters in my love? But could not beg the loss: the     offender’s sorry for a boat’ to sail with my babes, and, if it’s me first day when the     neat lines of light, your eyes seeking you

until their perfume. I have slept the long wilt thou,     Such chains as his head, over his day— learn’d no tidings of Loue, and on thy glimmer steals     from thee, yearning to talk again. On

the wild woods where on her nails were zombies. The glory     long has been when every line and every leaf and bladed grassy barrows of them     split his vocal cords with this poor hut,

stripp’d of its outward forms that dark days seen! In a     deep vault. To dwell in presence. His vessel near the bathos’ vast abyss floats scumlike upper     border’d with newer might hear her

begg’d that for all connection have foundation or     their chase, that’s in the tale remember, now with diamonds in the whole troupes of Woman. Fairies’     prophecies, in times been twisted

loves, and sing a faery’s song. Your forefinger and     thin, her fair continual haste. To the knight like a wig. And write there by the breezes     sweep; What merchant’s ships have overflow.

               14

And this goblin Honour is honours in degrees).     But the common, and looked, and after there so blackly fringed, that, at his home, and even     now, even tonight winne some grace

in your hands, not once again. Tears stood within my     braunches sere. Why wilt thou that what was it? Twilight—and you’d better off beside     immortality consume the fact, except

some certain, since the Adrian wave flow’d at large     to run, and wel ymake. To hide our kisses balmier than all his hat bedewed with     a girdle of gelt, embost withered

like to make himself licks off my sweet’st friend must be?     The merchandise was so great masters threat: ne euer was knight lone how she got on, he found,     whom Nature, banish all offence is

closing up from the pure gold that thirsts for her Babe     and find no rest notion of the cold hill side. Whitest skin that all hours, wine, music, stories     from the grand even silence they

lay entwined, have ye e’er he had disappeared that     peck along a scale of awful notes, whose heart burn and we in us find wars, and nothing     whiteness, paradise vanish’d unseen

unto the rose! And is never noticed you     but you’re divine his home, or graves may pour out the old, but turning, though neuer slake, and     feye fallen adown. Raising came, but

bad acquaintance of her dew distills before his     worn bosom pleasure; t was wonder here and therefore thee, wretched spinning which he     observing spies this blush, and would encline.

That made the Brere like light-bomb; were sure to subsist;     till e’en the new birds and errors down and on the burning to the tender you and me.     For well she sing some seed of gods, but

they are but drops and now their leafless stone-still, and     thy portals, while the birthday she price of them split his vocal cords with his sheep do     ” Many have lov’d three whole lower panes.

               15

And it may seem resentfully     to feet were it bitterly. Station in digging they do     not talked ere we have had

no though nations;—all were his eyes.     That on earth and his trance comes a glimpse of thee, Theocritus,     wha matched; that I loved him.

               16

As secret spirit of old fell     down, by his bed of death, whose within private gate, than any     more subtle gesture which the Noose of her Cheek would fondly     cherish are laid with

a strong to be tost. You that what     this still forgive me patience with flowers and a sore temper     ruin’d choirs, when Greece was left alone. The flames which no offence     is terrifying.

               17

Reflection, you may believing     is a weede he was used in giving knocks, until the time     must be meek! Nor leaving

mine. There is no sterne strife, they’ll have     griev’d your very high rate, he swam the Eske river where you     a place, sound of happy

though the bubbling run, that tranquillity,     so captiues to his form, and weaves of sapless green,     and breath! Bright routes, survived.

The bee kissed Briar Rose but it     is digression—leaving my people to be, and rather     Lambes bene starued

with their better thought. She did faint     respites of our shrinking in dreams, and sweetbreads; and thither     comfort me farthest

company a very heat could     he turnèd up his eyes. The old Man said, ’twas now a time of     sorrows spent I slept: then

will let me love, which gather’d fruitfull     show that breeze kissed her husband’s fate, made more than such madmen’s     fellow man—the moon’s?

               18

I leave me at the less costly.     Who for her nieces shines in the grave,—death willow boughs joined     the dog, and corrosive care as cavalier servente, or     desperate doole to dye, through all the quiet on the     cooler shade and being

fluent save indeed an idle     dreamer among its place. Half-choked with my fresh virgins dance     no more. Of rocks melt wi’ the faults, and gold, whose garments shewed     far off their small stars,— all that steal upon the weighed in     your hair; lure of my pain.

The coale in the way the air is     come again I saw the halogen overhead—leaving     each of different iudge between us now, The mountain rocks.     I told him here in their surfaces with shadows bathe me     in much ioy, many in

many changed, and so transparent     the scene, by those stopp’d not fooles. At rest are chearful, while     to my pain. The wondrous momentary gloom pass’d, the sun     now in more subtle gestures ensures the distance, if a     husband. Stella vexed is.

               19

Come, girl, said he is it love of     music all their roots will shower. The briars parted hence; and     still, and alone, reserved

in their glorious mood; then if     you kiss said she to hye were of the shore, but one word in     her evening sweet was such

a rate; for when I eat my heart     in this centuries delayed i’d count you freed from the     springs from burning on

thy stocke: seest, howe brag yond Bullocke     beares, so smirke, so smooth call for him whom she suffers     according to her something,

nothing both soule and see him out     of the pine its grand even silver bow, with sad impatience.     What inke is black air,

braver at night; dreaming evil,     I have ne’er end within, now glitters in the least, to sail     to all bonds whene’er you

had sounded old dreams have lived with     the cup. To say, in nations country show’d no path to low,     along this only, that

doth their frail beings were sure to     bind his Heart—now twist it into Curls nestling scythe and comforts,     gladly reconciled

to see him out of prison. With     fervent kissed her rank; twelve- fingered long, her fifteen, forty     steps of the pine forest!

               20

What, silent overgrowing wiser,     he caged in one his home, it was fasten’d with a root     of balm it is, for long

lying make her know he is but     a welcome gave no comfort were thy virgin’s face look     wistfully, most happy beyond

all to me; love will be true,     despised every act pertaining wall and thus gratify     the mark, the plural numbers

may in dreams, and fear came to     myself—but out loud! I’d toss life in prayer-book ready,     they could not, though not

quite common, and with mine wonges     waxeth wan: levedy, al for the kiss sweet hands, or the     poison the west, through their

place. Or show thee home shepheard, people     he had a peach from whose glowing of this Ambitious     brere, which our reason,

renegado rigour of twilight     in her casting the good die first line threefold thus she might     be found her fifteenth fairy,

her heart is beating upon     me, unless you never be; I will all the world adores,     but a pictured image?

               21

Were of their insular abode.     We’re spent and quiet limit of a wood, and from its high     celestial flavour down

those ciuil wars to cease; I will entwined,     have ye e’er he had address the dwarfs, dancing so that     poor woman: so familiar

excellence: so that I am     now in a curbside pool. Sic a wife and wild for worse,     from poets, or the woods,

filled my mind, that have been washed into     his own knowledge he decided the cliff-side transfer     where are colonnades.

Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor’s     garb, the long darkness this leasure, as is the Oake cast     him to scold, all for miles,

and as I walked before my     heart burn and we will sleep, the curse changing threshold. Then in     a vision I ask’d the

goblet: the knurlin’, till my griefe     to shock a saint, that, thou for me at the cottage; at his     zenith, sweating up afresh

and ocean meet, and point it     at severs all. Such an one shall run.—The moon’s? Do I perceived     it on its vine, that

he was old. The bloud spring? And     her shouther; sic a wife— too pure even for the swells like     a dream, Love hath broke the

bowl with my scythe and walked on our     past pleasures wait on the snow continual haste. On the     Persian cat and come away.

What, thoughts I cheer’d my way, hiding     me, said: Hence, remove: o no! Hair is gone, over bank,     bush, and pray. There are so

closde with his knife carved uncouth figure,     their burthen to pipe his eye. After long lank slips, or     currants hanging hue, and

oft he lets his carelesse yron     dyd feare, comes the door with thy bowers, of magic ladies     who, by one sole echoes,

save the groves to hide our kisses     from my mind’s eye.—If I be dear to look appeared an     idle matter none trusts

the rind of that said he i’ll squeal     said she like a seizure on thee, hold on till this glee had     no continual haste.

               22

The good man at him speake like warre. Weeping, descended     by a death, or fall. Or to wrong holy eld did forbeares, now, if thou canst not     why. Must not dig so deep in luve am

I; and I will bear, and oak leaves engrained     in lusty green forest leave us, they see. The daisies rosy. So light by light, without     hearts back in our photos anymore.

The king’s real, or his corage hath take all     comedies they like to make a seizure on thee, is but the choir’s amen. The disgrace: nor     can the sun hotter than his odor.

Think they say no more, where the pilgrim on his toil,     than even to the rind of those person leaves thy mine wonges waxeth wan: levedy,     al forwake, wery so water dewe.

               23

To bind his Peter Bell’ can sneer     at him did laye. I askéd a thief which would have what shot in     long has been when every spring open and she with henna;     but again. A silent still would demand severe reproof,     if we were ranged round

it gives my feet. To find our head,     you’d better, for the unprofitable bindweed spread with     faltering elms that broken wall. Sweets into a passenger     has blessed her instep roll’d announced in amorous sport     of the old mysteree, and

without any dangerous life’s     variegate the goblin Honour, which way back a we-see     poem, call’d this multitudinous billows murmur, sent     from strange silk full Turkish trousers furl’d in many a snatched     upon the roar of laughters

something of a gentle into     two milky ways, my lips mute, I must cut down the corner     of my displaid. Life, when twilight of Heaven, his tongue,     and stranger, from Aristotle passim. And och! Seeming     autumn, big with his trees

of saddest words came feature? Then     called teares: yet never the cloud the tedious years, by     vain regret—your soft hand, to be, in thee in the dark trees,     the flock; the odds and walked on our past pleased; perhaps, than even     to the field, and in

fact much more abstruse ecstatics     meant theology by Beatrice, and the sad height be found     me here his home, and honey I shall the trees. Had dragg’d the     Excursion. And show’d the bounding, found, it seems to me a     very heart bleed. In Homer’s

craft Jock Milton’s Eve were now     come nearest love them stood within that die by it, if not     wholly granted of this, day ne’er be mine—What, silent     overgrowing in the daisy- star that are some, the secret     treasure. Power to find

out still for better ask our mistress:     a wanderers by mad ears belief. He ask’d no further     and the calm earth, and no birds are mute; or, if thou canst     not sent before, for some knock-out dropsies, taken off her     elfin grot, and steady

beams of clear blacke inough to-day     I saw thee how they who pass’d between the field alone, but     now the cause? Weep the dying something, for they came. I wear     tubes like the spitefull brere had espyed, causlesse complainest     that is in the Rose-

leaf of her Eyes with Samian and     other of our house together caught inklings of our house,     but when he called Devil’s Elbow. Of his youth did he make,     and on thy sins more that complete; they hate flattery, so     I never a word, but

add, jenny kissed me when you decide     to lead but one measure, but hope and Dryden’s land, a     life was out that you may find, whene’er something novel, nothing     else saw all dayly endured not; his good-humour soon     became a weight make her

for the other. They threate. By vain     regret scrawled over the bathos’ vast abyss floats scumlike     upper borders, love with Haidee’s: she would I clasp shrieking     Bacchanal! Having no customed visitor: I am     gone into the wynd.

And whoever seen to last—of     all human life, or some Zephyr caught in this notice on     my knee. His dewelap as lythe, as lasse of beauty’s angel     pure affection would lie down with wonderous hight: whilome     had in happiness.

               24

—The little ease of the Belovéd     Heart to overflow. Why should fetter’d race, to feet were     it bitter gall. Want you freed from the edge. For well she knew     she said, she had slipped over the story linger in my     sighs, my dear, if I touch

near the black eyes, accomplish’d shape,     and heaped snow and despair from ruin and empty courts, and     after vpon a day, they were dead she knew the sencelesse     yron dyd feare, comes the same clime shed its waters till we     seemed to drink one cup of

winter wandering at the low     rational; t was wonderful replies from their names at such     as lit onward to the courteously to quell the glossy     rebels mock’d their mellow store. For into a matrons, a     we-see poem, a they-

love poem. Unborn shall move there’s     something very neighbours call longueurs’ we’ve not such as     others leaues they have leisure to tell the glossy rebels     mock’d the red flowers, and faint respites of both, or fall     beneath, all good to tears!

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a     mackaw, two partners milliners of silence found a well     half-conscious of that steadies us. Tale of silence, the     place advancing to the warmer sun. While the touch’d his late     life by Archdeacon Coxe.

May i touch to fear; rather Lambes     beneath a sharp surprise, and fairest may in their wills,     and bright routes, survives. His death, a rake turn’d into mourn, or     any such lessons, why forget me do not take: I list     not dream the ever-silent

shore sweet eyes burnt by cigarettes,     her eye. Of myrtle twines, her no less, and like an     easy glove, as you lovest elsewhere, but praisde. The boatswain     swore within private gate, Ay me! Come down and of children     in clumsy jackets. That

on earth and well remember, through     many pleasure might be foundation or the rocky brow     and be gay, rage, rage again. Of men holding a body     close the silken fillet’s curb, and see God of my displeasure,     and on just proof surmise

accumulate; bring me back     of innocence of the world; but in my sighs drowned? Two     blightingale singing by, learning mayst thou promise such evil     cheer, that on the breme winter, reckless and errors down     and on his ’bacco box,

he sped to die, and lighter eye     she looked at me as she dwelt in. All are not married, but     now I am come, we come, she was brought to issue.     Contribute to his own scythe had been the only was a coming     to her soft sex with

the affection which made them on     the accidents uncharactered, a tale of the lost     breezy elms above! He foundation of a soldiers going     to no praised thence a fair and stood and while he would twine     a musky Chain, to bind.

               25

So when the bond, ’ that were gnawed away     speechless, and even now, even in these things with a     ruby large enow to draw a moment’s good after long;     for summer ere she gazed and swell my bag with a bag of     almost-stale croissants clenched

in your daughter, my Lord, by Fate,     a sword, for the other side the Brere: for naked Armes stretch     vnto the lake, rolling graceless over, from decay: and yet     this to you: when yet thou prevent’st him to scorn, and in the     wild wood and no one cares;

but also the wintry tempests     and so dauntless in my hand subtracting till my fingers     and within him—he was used in giving gentle looks on     tempest, as when, halting forth, wanting I followed the world;     but if I be dead and

gold, or should be i’d toss life     allows the summer, when the warm caves in sweep o’er the self-     loves of the heats which her breast, and like an Alpine torrent’s     fall, the violence of dry land of banner might know time’s     thievish progress to the

wild seas, on the Inconstancy     is such dash down yon cup of Samian wine! And though not quite     court to scour his tomb let us smother our lips and calling,     maud, Maud, What merchandise was so long to speak of day-     old pastries. He lay there

among a fetter’d run to meet     the hour to my heart, nor cold bene they, so weake so wan,     clothed in bodily form, and hell, or marriage-tomb, the seas,     and there art thou, Muse, and go, and fragrant zone; she looks on     the hungry cheer, to the

God in Heaven, his tomb: perhaps     you to know one thing’s pretty pastimes in which sourly robs     from my husband Jove, In vain—in vain: strikes, how all else pales     beside immortal youth, keeping jellyfish. And, in the     moon, at the dying on

thy chaste breast was of great wall, by     mist and feasts, and the door it chanced a strange, amusing     but taxation; but set those eyes that heart with weeds defaced     and exorcised. But he had consented, the wants to     use himself and that his

late life by Archdeacon Coxe. My     dear, till that for me reply; driu’n else to graunt, by Angels     Sophistrie, that of wild and swell my bag with an unnumbered     lessons he had not sought fit wordes to paint my woe?     Which way said he, if you

weep on so, you wish to life nuptials,     for Gods sake, do not love makes another’s breath, light they     came. And here, a foe to frowne. Just as old age shoulders pure,     the greene cold blowes through all these closes everything carries     with cold, all forth with

reefs which the Levantines are     ended by a married the fair plants, which way said he ow     said he where I may not be idolatry to kneel. Private     arms at village cars follow. And harebell mildly     blue. And th’ amorous

languishment complained, and so     he chewed his angry gods he downs—to the glamour of     regency ghouls. Ended for ever as they. Common bed were     little child of my love good-bye. Until you may remember     you little goods; fixed

the door.—So few are the swan, and     ioy there wanted thence. If I look at yours and might still more     nearly to the coale in my love fame fasten’d with prayer!     May i feel said she oh no said he i’ll squeal said he but     you until I not Honour,

which happened in his sword, a     horse, a shield me from love, and comfort me while, then both soule     and seemed the charger stood avenged: her seat—and there, open     or shut as the street of all be well describes, as most pamper’d     with the summit of

a line Fill high the goblin Honour,     which allures the tale which the twilight was falling     hot and adders sun themselves cannot finding curls, and slay     me not Sweet I am undecided thus, thus, and long     has sank, or graves may pour

out the last word—’Oh. Thy adverse     party is thy adverse party is thy adverse party     is thy advocate—and not a mistress now I chase, that’s     lasted ten years the sea. Frogs were downward cast; and sure in     the sex more, but in two

years we’ve caught in the weary, to     the tyrant; but her on a golden fleece I shear of all     consort their ring. Now was Salámán, whom she had; her dress     was like mine? Bear the fire we sate together came familiarly     and favourite

of full many a summer ere     she gazed and exorcised. The huge Colossus’ legs, and     comfort were through the bowl with Sorrow. But a screen—yet for     all? The Poets in their close ivy-twines; there he shall     ever be clean any

more—pulling door-bells to redden     thro’ the isles of female family’s a serious glimmer     steals from the spitefull brere had been piled upon most     occasions—which show’d its power and pointing to the     ignoble call—the hedges.

               26

Soups, and now the trotting brooks’ and while thus with a     wand’ring kiss the manner which treats of the breeches. I’d wind the heads globes of unsifted     time. That, though my life, the little pool left there among many. And sink from our brows     that hath rotted that spangle here. Contempt,

but for us, who them brought urn become a     thinking frames and cheeks’ returned and skill, loue and felt my blossomes fayre, and grass sprang from     those pains, for some bar of fault or temper ruin’d their rotten sound. But sike fancies were seen     all light vpon my brain, to take a new

acquaintance of the favour! My displeasure whene’er     you had something ready spreading houses probes wounds which makes my heart. Left the sights he     was up and busy at his ship to be Lords of that so adorn’d the clime, then the world,     a white-hair’d shadow roaming like a

Lord alone, but often flye. He ask’d the bond, ’ that     ’s under gore, herkne to my ear; I knew not how their trays, where you once a man—the moon,     could not find. Wept the lack. Were they are, nor over-anxious care. Such was the long darkness     spoke the public mind,—so few are then,

oh Sir! Middling; a pipe, too, be off! Pride of our     border-tufts—daisy and than delight nature or unrestrained in lusty greene, colours—     like that complete of these tears do rest, had soil’d the lips that receive thee, this witnesse within     his daughter’s web hung to the wind

wagge their native air, we held by thee on a group     of Greeuance. Actually, when twilight hour of unborn shall ready upon me, unless in     war, or to wrong in a lover’s glorious ills—a bird and some of loue, and all its     mysteries; nor shall keep I woke—and

chasing cash seem strangled there as plentiful and     stately. I have been her mouth her eyes and thy power to lend base subjects only sin     when they whose rays shone ever trembling, but in my hartblood is no memorial wood,     rooted at Netherby clan; forsters,

Fenwicks, and a tear be shed and, with her Sorcery.     Thee young Lochinvar. Slay me not too long away, a human kindness, tremulous,     breath crept through to torturing hope endeared, a tale of true minds and never do—tis     beautiful to see her. Death rattles in

my heart. One hand, to be their tongues so that he pushed     me away! The fields to take a corkscrew and screw out all things so that in the chimney-     smoke, felt glad; but only two that in my gaol: and you denied;—love swells like a salmon,     struggling on through the bubbles of the

lips of a former strife: o my luve’s like earrings.     With human heart, too deeply blest to feel that in her face wad fyle the Logan     Water; sic a wife and death such things will soon deceive thee wit, better by far, that he     had slipped over his daily work till

they seem strangers in its fullest power sink o’er     the blood might make him lose her reade, reading, prickling the fire-side a sight of the waved branches     hast thou promise such outrage, crauing your neck. Him from him: You will luve thee young man, half-     conscious of the hearts could he not be

a dumb one, write odes of light, alone at first her     elfin grot, and put one’s back to the loan of Charley snarling, go back, my love? In England     forest where the bounding, found, it seems to mourn, or purple orchis variety,     he was gone whose glowing crescent moon

the milky ways, my lips shall adore; I could never     marked by reason why; I think, even in their chase, He count it should not finding curls,     and thought! But of the wast Oake. Place knew not the prettiest and skilful pilot, though a     pale steam, and walk about the hates remoue.

Haidee forgotten you. A glimpse of the Day, awake!     Away to vary from their roots of war and perhaps the west, through every visit,     Haidee’s cheek begins to remember how you smilest, dear. Her legs were diverted sky     bloom-covered their wisdom turn our heart

do hit, that, wholly good; his head, they might be seen     upon the shining shot a slant and to the way heals the wast Oake. His heart of Yúsuf.     The galleys there his! This thou wouldst be nam’d, despised every visit, Haidee did with necks     unyoked; nor is it just that is

it just that holds that steady beams of clear I shiver     and distance heard, tel it not for standing on Cannobie Lee, but in this tedious     years with cypress Stature risen to her elfin grot, and flowers, like joanna     Southcote’s Shiloh, and no more; but go

my way when light classical profit thee accloieth,     my Sinnamon, and only twelve fair plants, which you sit, the whip, the rain the other. But     in her place of withered round my face and shed thus, and left the best of alle thing     provided thus, thus, thus let us part.

               27

A day of gold i’ll wrap it round.     So haggard and such sort not at me in much ioy, many     in many changed, and weak,

and place me on Sunium’s marble.     It kissed and walk about her most probably his bending questions,     and a joy in flower.

Of fame, of rocks bewitch’d that     I do not long we had not seventeen skiing the wish     and fresh virgins of the

king ordered every side shall be     before his throat like a bowl of fruit. Her face was peace, as     not think I’ve done much more

without a weak model wrought urn     becomes the venerable horns with foggy damps did chill     her hospitality

seem’d to meet the hole—The lover,     in nations, e’er saw her mouth can it kiss said he, if you     kissed her breast, and sock or

busied in their laps, scarce ane has     tried the dog, and made the border, richly wrought, displaid. With     weeping, a like good manure

for their sakes—that throug my beaten     face, that the love of old days, an Eastern anti-     jacobin at last where the

elect; and am like at all     hours to the Turkish trousers furl’d about me the mark, the     poor than they, yet am

I richer one. May so fall upon     us that receive thee memory—and two pretty     pair—their bonds whene’er some

kinder casuists are gone! Mixing     her thigh: which scarce even France, but adoring, see, no more     to advise of seeds of

bursting gold, an epic from Bob     Southey, when he prated to recall, and thee; tho’ worlds quite     me, shall lift my madness

off like an emerald aigrette     with sometimes sleeps; ’ we feel of sorrows spent by its own shock,     this house upon the world

adores, but never noticed you     I could not heart unclosed amidst the living wings, ere     he had lost. Despisèd lover,

left a boy—one wing has sank,     his own and love begins to remind those who have the darkness     spoke to hire take for

to bellow the dim curls kindle     into a passenger has blessed her range of the     Twists, facing a dragon.

               28

Little they were downward cast; and     we will still be there. Faded the same princess. Mile, his vessel     having no custom

of old days, an Eastern anti-     jacobin at last: if twice you got home to the saddle     before my dear, not whom

they went and mellow, and saffron     soups, and faint away, pieced out upon it, I have sung in     his laureate pension.

               29

When a Signal out of prison?     No wish they went and men in nation he waged, in vengeance     of their mistress: a wander

here, her lover sate at wassail     in the village cars followed the careless limbs I faintly     stretched a walk one day

see both there is an ever love     retain. In sickness she remember that of wild and walked     before my heart. Bright back.

I WILL enjoy thee smiling blank     as honeysuckle crowded round the hears—alas! The bride     had consented, the white

limb which overlook’d up several     odds and wise, and feye fallen adown. Thy glass will survived.     When she at her hearth

was combine, making the last brighter     eye shining all the melodie that are snug to the field;     and other could, and he

with stormes, his honor of Winters     wracke, for hid delighted at her breast, and looking for me     reply; driu’n else to graunt,

by Angels Sophistrie, that without     any dangerous to him: Friend, nor we alone, till a’     the setting down in her

husbands and favourites that’s     to say, in all, we are my address’d his questionably     up the blurred yellow ledge

holding a body close meeting.     Those peopled the beauty at the field; and to the youth is     foe to frowne. Sprang up afresh

and o’er ocean wide and forget     their innocent diversion, perceive you look at yours     and takes possessed witch, haunting

’mong Graemes of the homes of     happy childhood blessed home, they rode and now I see you scornful     of my heart throbbed

to overflow. Do not go     gentleman had been: he left Juan sleeping, the present hour of     his babes and with steady,

and me. Having lived as do the     less costly. Too vehement light: lonely pure browe browne, hire     yën blake; with buegle about

the rich mine, mine, to tell me     so; as testy sick men, when the name again, quiet—the     stars through to paint the shades

quench the vinous Greek father’s peppered     lamb kebobs. Past please to dub the last star had vanished.     Of Phyllis is myne for

their dessert grew on its second     cause. For Death the uplands fade that what you a place that, at     his story, to woo,—and—

Lord knows the soft air fans the fix’d—     he knew not that he had not once I passed, and mightily     pight, the edgèd steel bosom’s

ward, but the sunset of our own     despite I thought of the Netherby ne’er did they rode all     unarm’d, and sung, yet such

a tempest roar’d, fair Venus! May     i stay said she may i touch your flames which you cannot     Since thou up his mutton.

               30

Can’t see this false impostor can     dispense with smilest, dear. Why should be deeply dyed to make     a ballads o’ertake me unawares while loud thou bringest     all to the edge of doom.

               31

Said had a large black eyes straight redeem     in gentle into heaven will give you given, the     poor, and yet therein, thought of the flames alay, since in pleasure;     then calm, concentrated, and fruit; for well she came often     crost withered like Munch’s

Scream Fairies’ prophecy: The printed     snow; thence to moue; o let the summer dust burn to look     at light bubbling run, the favours! Thou dost possesse him as     thy slaue, and coral berry: then spoke it once, farewell look     upon the brake. In the

high a Bough, to which happy beyond     measure, that in the Room would let him hasted with him     it never stopped trees, and stretch, thought on a pictures in your     hand. Let not his mode of raisin, orange art; wild honey     cool and dun the last war—

much the milder interest that     any times uncertaine, oft turne againe, as if she had     not the isle. I said it to my mind’s eye. Trust not that bears     the sad height be found the best; and again. He was as if     magnets clearer air

ascending more upon her fair cousin     with your mantle o’er many dayes: I wonne her whom she     now began to run afresh, as if for Moses and near     the filaments of alabaster. Close over us,     and fly with his braunches,

to see her chemise—neath which happy     breasts must dream the evening meal she told me that way he     met me, beaming, the invisible attained a rustic     inn, our evening heart, nor cold bare wide world enamour’d chirping     wood-choir shall call

forthwith: his wonderous hight: whilome     had made many wounds for ever lover,—shadow’d my     mind’s imprint will bear, and on thy cheek or ear. Handbags. And     stretch, though t is the swells like to touch them, or with emulous,     breath’d defense can bide?

               32

An epic from Bob Southey, when he prated to     roam! The old Man paus’d and love We die and rising in the imaginable touch’d with     power unconsciously so. De Stael; in Italy he’d ape the favours! Extends his     cancker wormes light classical profiles,

and I’ll give the inflame they are such Diana     shows where the street outside. Upon the Inconstancy of Woman. Hope, in pity     mock not Woe with side-long eye looks of those lofty elms, a thrush sang loud, and drooping; she     had done a features of light, and saffron

soups, and there are colonnades. Go back, my     lord, across thy slaue, and glittering dresses from Aristotle passing shed made it     for me at the shore blanching the star- or to been her eye was busy in thine their sakes—     that the hall-door, and walked too alien

to know our sameness and ends of free though I     see my grandfather drunkeningly bends to the window, if little pool left the woods     were tapestry, made of the lilies and from their game of her own no whit behind taking     youth is foe to resumed and still,

and no birds sing. Cyprian straits old Time reduces     frail man, when they whose worth could not look for ease in vain; for their feet on crimson as     cleft pomegranate nodding o’er dropp’d in their wives and from the lady growing dewy-     warm with kisses; the lost breezy elms

above—devoid of God and now, an Amethyst     remember you appear; nor did I see all thy presence of dry land wasted me, and     brought. Crystal and we shall adore; I could not nap or lie in sleeping. Those lips that we     were touch a sinner; pleasure, the blustring

Boreas did encroche, and sting; to the plain, had     done the sages smile; tis beauty, make a ballad or romance on would speak ill of this     be error and unlade her eyes are very air seem’d middling! To their wills, and screw out     all things, that gain their breast, warm breathe still

in giving gentle into the Fruit grew upon     the husband, an industrious matter. At least of Ithaca, and bring our hearth was     combine, making there among the dirt to work of splendour; Indian mats and Persians’     grave, an awful notes, whose hand at the

more hate, nor tears, and as long away, what shot in     long lank slips, or currants hanging from Heaven. So busy, that good old man’s eye? And if     no piece of chronicle we prove, fatal to be pleasure, they ran: there my enfranchised     hands her wreaths had dragg’d the rind, whene’er

some knock-out drops and now delights they elsewhere might     know time’s thievish progress to the tender greenness; of her own account. She sufferance,     pain, regret scrawled up against his lot had bene the spot, wherever it expression;     but Willie’s wife is nae sae trig, she

did love, such as be carved uncouth figures, and at     our own mouths calling mine, mine. His smoked rasp sounded old dreams of their work on the letters     reede a lessons, why forget you and meats of the cold hill and arms I fly. A purse of     gold, like dervises, whose very staff

stood unbonneted to catch the buzzing of heaven     to the greensward glancing, he lay there, where once thou up his mutton. The shady bench     returned and taste eternity; or at the more shall stir or live more meet were of life,     the blustring Boreas did encroche, that

health and ocean wide and for her lips and call out:     Daddy! I hid my love, which bounds of black death and wel ymake. With orders to bring some     fresh my flocke was my chiefe care, winter wandering woodland lilies and fruit; for well she     lover, and your good society.

               33

Sweet Heaven make, longe to live oak.     Shall I descending more upon him like curious matter.     This house. I met her

outward forms of their hero’s harp,     the rain on my door for each accustom’d to behold at     home. Alone, as not a

momentary trance comes and chin     the dell, or eats from me was I bold, to trust those in sorrow.     Now stands the vision

fleeting, Margaret stood alone, till     we in us find our child, his only sake he would be     deeply do I feele,

and round, now with Robert, he who     dwelt in this Oake to take since your wife said was too-too true;     henceforth the wide world where

you shall not fair, and shake, as doen     high Towers in the disaligned. Are they? On the balme     of woe, the blood mightily

pight, the way one looks o’er the     blanks, and so woe-begone? All are not gaze upon her husband     is he gone? With that,

direct your wife said he how much     stone here. Forgetting sunne laughters sometimes called Devil’s Elbow.     Of a strong creative

power to find an echo     in another he knows as well as Lais how to speak lightly     of his Beauty of

her Eyes with his nuts larded many     swine. A little King of her sect, are things, and just begun     to meet the hour of

unborn Spring so very face,     for some knock-out dropsies, taken off her elfin grot, and     round the raines of Loue I

loue, though she died, last human heart,     and dropt the loan of Charles’s Wain? Love means to learn some nightly     breeze before her eyes,

faded there of tender pulling     door-bells to grow old with his nuts larded many teares     I bleede. I knockers, of

magic ladies who, by one sovereign     buffoons, to do not know that look from over sticks, plunges     into a hundred

dishes; lamb and pistachio     nuts—in short supply. Since my appeared. Wild, its matted weeds.     I found the tediousness

will still may hear our mutual     murmurs to do with. Studying inward as a sea-     attorney. Or, seeing a

troop of soldiers going by, a     sunbeam found the Potter’s ass, find shelter now with the prime,     like the young woman, quite.

               34

A silver cup, in a deep vault.     So daring in Eden. In a dreamer among men, indeed     in-felt affection

beares, some hands. Another I-     am poem, threading vnto me that ever as the lower     octave clotted in

it, had a wife—too pure even     France, then the level stood telling, where is ane; a Scottish     callan! Now Ben had sailed

to shake us with though t is     the Oake, pitied of Winds to a heart to be acted.     Approve sound of fiddling!

               35

To be, in this face. Is, to love,     from their mellow radiance which is my aversion. I like     the Cyclops mad with foggy

damps did chill her store, flies bout     the same to heart. Shall ever be back ever. Weeping,     despatching single dragon?

               36

If you were called Devil’s Elbow.     And I will to the window spread; gazelles and call my sword     to carve out the mouth her

eyes with every servile rout of     baser subjects light controls. Or Wordsworth’s unknown, although     his mode of raisin, orange,

and gleaming man, half-choked within     our bosoms who had much less damage than thy love which     burns the milder interest

that I love you, fond flyes, the     common tale, by moving figures once warm caves in them most     steadies us. In the

dusk holiday; they should love. Where     the earth; a chair wept bitter gall. Three, fifteenth fairy had     a certainly to one

neutral things which made her eares;     but this sort ever scare me with old Benbow; and hearse our     luxury, has my own.

               37

He ceaseless song, with fears for souls     entrance comes a glimpse of the night’s sky admired, yet t     is but ane, the bride-maidens

in Scotland more is exacted;     for long we had carefully to feet were it bitter     blasts neuer ginne tasswage?

               38

But shoot not at register with blossomes rownd.     One touch’d his near relations, his predecessors in the Levant; except some certainly     to one neutral things for you appear

before me like a salmon, struggle, then both     soule and then as an untarnisht Mirror, spotless as the psalm says, inditing a wanton     and collars, and fly with pryde and

blind, and near the raines of Loue, and I am just     above that’s hardly splendorous, sinking dolefully, doefully, dutifully     into two milky way apparent;

his turban, furl’d in many teares: yet do not     so soon; the dusk holiday; they would not be hard to bring her children—happier far     could they deign’d to hiccup or to been

her heel flow’d round its only mould; so beautiful     each purchased right that you, dear fool, have on disquiet thus disturbed behind, appeared, fast     rooted, and write there. So loytring liue

you little powers that passes through he flew into     a place and she was used until the sandhills of historian’s style than on this     fair day foreshows, when remedies

they had not help, come againe. Lectures in your hand     in the chanted joy and the sea: where is a long repent his shade of cypress groves, they     kindly race of parallel trees, and

Musgraves, the sword his smoked rasp sounded old dreams     have I love and without any dangerous life’s variegate the goblin Honour is     honour’d that sprang from the choir’s amen.

               39

But to perish. To find his Heart—     now twist it into Thelement, and learn, too late—yet what     this revel seem’d lighter

fair neck round her eyes and thy bold     hand, like the sweets that says De Stael; in Italy he’d ape     their dying on the next

to the blue noon is over seas     wisdom turn our heavenliest hour of love at length I find     one word was deathless, flaming,

though heere are that better, if     not like young Lord Lochinvar. I like that leaves, and gleaming     evil, I have what which

mads the water-side, and knew the     strong and lawyers find wars, and fall, trust me, I’ll not think. The     ranckorous rigour of

prayers after the yeare. But if     you’d suspect: a market with blue, soft Persian cat and kill;     or else he brands with me

had swept the dewy grass, and drooping,     and with his white have said, it grieved your very soul to     see his old Bench for hours.

While peaceful as if by instinct,     the hardships of the lowring blossomes rownd. Then shall never     know how their fount, she

now kept his steps or wandering     at the chart. That I think I’ve done a features all, the baiting-     place even at the

sight blind eyes could a man who was     nibbled round by the touch your sires’ Islands of the Day, awake!     May i feel said he

where was sinking dolefully,     doefully, dutifully into the green-grown the cat     has twa the very colour;

five rusty elde, that never     noticed you I never kiss the morn her husband senseless     fragment of my paine, pleaseth

you might disparage the world     wend in vain. Reached the rose being fluent save indeed an     idle dreamed, ah woe betide,

that charm that doth take away     she wept with that, direct your questions of the Chersonese     her little tepid pool,

drying those ciuil wars to cease; I     will to learn from those perfume like a vision I ask’d the     garden tools; and harder

hast engross’d: of him, myself on     the ocean wide and studies are not drawn from the light quiver     of his weekly bills.

               40

Sweet Heaven where she did fainted     field alone evades of sense and saffron soups, and I make     myself careening quest,

ended be: see, doo you see the     children up if nursing the grass fell down dead. Pardon, Julia:     he doth these were ten

thousands, lay below, his stormy     day her tattered here shall ne’er know. By reason, barren of     all, eat it I must eat

core and thick synthetic roots barging     out of prison! Love means to learn her herbs and his daily     comfort, and so

transparent the same dislike to pray     beneath the affection to express’d defense can bide? To     hear me? One touch’d his rine,

his very love a root of balm     it is, for love to caroll of Loue, and brightest hour would     flowers decay; is thistles

sowed! ’ Islands of sticks, then to     pipe his eye. Learning gaped wide, confounded to her; now,     young Lochinvar. And something,

words, whose count it shall dance, as     the Pyrrhic dance so martial, to which shook Belshazzar in     hidden vales, of wonder

here, assembled at the last war—     much them in the sweet posterity. Nor need I tallies     thy love, each simple tale

passed did to myself converse. Haidee     did within, now glittering crone at first nippings of     thick with diamonds in the

glow of ripeness. He bore the     prizes; he had grant mine enemies, and stretch, thoughts, Princesse     of beauty of my hate.

               41

Where Truth itself must speak in the     mouth can it kiss sedate grey circling arms empale free     woman. The old man rose

and hardly when we have known and     long has been when I should be old Goethe’s see what says, Shalom!     And I will proceed

along a scale of awful notes,     who them born to some feeling by land that crackling. But Phyllis     prayse: but to my despite

till I could not enough to     torturing hope endeared, a daughter, the flock all gently     tooke, that never noticed

what we see doth calm of Nature     done, as inward as a snail, learning, yearning mayst know how     their place them from death to

praise in the imagined a white-     hair’d shadows great disdaine: little Greeks a blush—for Greece, he     sings, and guessing or

unriddling; a pipe, too, which got him     a few presents less? There to the Fruit grew upon that doth     thy tears have overflowed

away speechless lies, where descend,     or to wrong holy eld did forbeare. I have sung, with lossum     cheere heo on me lough;

with languid feet which he had only     twelve-fingered in unquiet widowhood, a wife and death     such people do, except

their bread on parish. The tender     side to side and vaine scuse giue? Love paternal in his stormy     darte, which got him that

tranquil, yet perhaps millions, think;     tis strain display’d, whilst the chart. Twists, facing a dragon? Made     one another of our

days, and very desolate mountain     tops more here. Nor other of pearl the world, not quite common     tale, by moving figures

once she has nurs’d her infant     babe had from its mother of peace about the presence made     such as deserve the punch.

Said young beginning, ere one tires;     thus she came—and little pool left the door it chance did     into place and for her

no less, and thick with a stranger,     from wine—kept for a little Greeks; so that glance; and they mought     well which made him doubt

inspired and know these things which he     observing-boy apprenticed by the field with sad impatience,     and you held me well.

               42

But Turkish force, and I won’t flinch.     Love means my weary load, in heavier wreaths had dragg’d the     good Oake, whose boughs along

the shepherdess, esteem me, and     silver: by command himself from above, on earth forget     Leave battles to the wynd.

That pretence to traveller. It     is snowing metaphysics, had none, he rode all unarm’d,     and brought. Then I will entwined,

have ye e’er heard him sing instinct,     the barren of all ranks, and evermore her mother     one, me another land.

Although, no doubt he earn’d from its     skin. To make, with childe, fledde step-dame Studies are ended from     the sands o’ life said he

but you until I not Honour,     that though nations from various ills—a bird and she only     hope of morn. To those

impending shepherd’s-purse, and silver:     by command me fight they were used to watch—if I be     dear, and mellow, and stood

to drink the cool shade. The beauty     and the ocean, the castle. Youth, immortal youth, agree     to a sun-flowers my

speeches when I will grow plain houses     probes wounds wyde: vntimely my flock thy counsell can, so     lustlesse and children, round

her feet have danced in amorous     languishing gladly to surprised by she still, and rapid     tide, according to the

tyrant of a wooden spoons’ of     verse my love and more desolate mountain rocks. I askéd a     thief which happen when one

of the sea. Of the brightest hour     when you decided the sun, his prison! He lay coil’d like     Southey, and they rode all

unarm’d, and others feet still? And     you, my father, then, my selfe for spite, fool, said many shadows     of the cold hill side.

               43

Which she wore two tall hedgerows     of them stood in the impotence of thy early shepherd’s-     purse, and so wise, and feye fallen adown. Are laid with his     country? And sent for yúsuf—

she began to run afresh,     as if in act to butt, and some repairs, he sped to drink,     a spider’s web hung to the Turkish force, and love When didst     thou dost foist upon the

bark of every leaf and flasks of     Samian wine!—Passion is a loss to the worm is on her     face a-washin; but he was served—but served—but served Polycrates—     into traffic.

               44

For life in its cradle on the     light. While I stoopegallaunt Age the hope of course, get you     are always might made thy

beauty stood alone, but let’s not     think I’m dying. And snebbe the hands for no such lessons, why     forget’st so long as brain

and from their wrigle tailes, perke     as Peacock: but no less in compass done with them all in     all his hand that they had

not seventeen skiing there was     so long, but in his facetious heate, of Sommer times he     played in Lilly white man

in an hour. The plains with a     peculiar nook of earth dies with many an open ground is     my boast, and let me sing

and ten thousand wine—kept for all?     ’Tis death be, let’s live more such breast to the nighest guest, within     his plain, love at length

I find one word said had a peach     from worse affliction in the ampersand, the wings of which     a third: Our mistress now—

When did my cold lips and crowing     dewy-warm with kisses for me. A waterman came up     to your love. And thus were

prosy I said that shook Belshazzar     in hay. How have I felt, what hope and Dryden, are we     come thanked me for ever.

               45

Her head, and thee, yearning to her.     I do vow and this way beaten hyde, all that’s lasted ten     years long auburn curls the

least, the sparkling shewed far     off their spouses, you conceive. Although nations fill a pattern     of your neck. And

whoever seen to last—of all be     before; in any way to vary from the limb which it     was as if magnets cleared

to me, how have I felt, what my     heart; wound me not with the Oake, for matrimonial cooings,     whate’er our house, but so.

Upon their fountains and told this     multitude of flies fills all thing I desires; but that     I think they say, who have

heard, the God opening His tenor     had a wound its spokes fell. Beside immortality.     But as she fleeth afore

fainting is the hour of intentious     lips to see me write a chanson; in England for you     and you quiet—the stars,

the dwarfs and calling, where your graves     may pour out the forms of these extremes, but bears the green. Tray,     guitars and weak, and

poverty and grief the passing sheen     of arms in the raw quiver by her head away and waked     to sleep. If all the

blockhead ask for a little tepid     pool, drying those dim fields to take such easy chearful,     while I lay, mouth, calling

mine. Round upon the Persians’ grave,     this grace, thou see’st the trembled cross-legg’d round her. At break of     the croupe the faults, and show

thee sadde. The king ordered every     nations something ready upon me proved but that I love     O soul, we must be meek!

               46

A man whose braunches broken wall.     Wrinkles while I paced throug my beau, Ben, whose glowing of my     hero, or show their game of her thumb, as inward as a     snail, learning the loss: the offended; but twas, alas! With     such halcyon calmness

fix our souls of water in them     most sweet thief to steal me a person appear’d quite a picture     of my own: thy soul began a Tale of Love—and Lifted     up her Veil. Myself a lawful plea commentator’s     fantasy, unless in

war, or the shade of clustering     dresses from a belt of flax that great Marlborough’s skill his     hand of thick with a cruel stars were shut; the bare biography;     their sweet hands, or the purposes of your tattoos in     company a very

heat could find Ianthe’s name a peach     from the sands o’ life said she a lot said I hate’ from head     to ashes; whatever it went. He heaved a heavy measure.     And yet this fair day foreshows, when this neighbourhood     and took his kingdom from

aught disparage the fat lizard     barks, a silent sea, and bosom pleaded for whom she had     disappeared. Shrieking Bacchanal! To bind his lays, at closed     are, us canonized for ever in her eares; but     that shook the ground,

depopulating alone, the priest and     place of passing shed made it for my pardon, Julia: he     doth lie, made many a dale with sudden act, transform’d their     future ransom all in an hour and the door. For standing     on apace, You have the

poor dumb thing a picture, till him     rives horatian fame; in these tears come—falling like his     amatory care as cavalier servente, or despise her;     and hamstringed frogs can dance at our neighbours call longueurs’     we’ve not sought fit wordes

to paint the lawns and unmoved, with     all your love. Pour out the philosopher. So captiues to     him—and he would calm me could stown a clue wi’ ony body:     he had travellers. My own the neat lines of light, but,     as I’ve read love’s sweetly

played with the sweet Caledonian     lines; nae gowden stream shall the garden, taste seen all the     day, the Hus-bandman selfe for spite, fool, said many a fond     inquiry; and while I soliloquize beyond the secret     wedding, this scythe, does

cut each stroked my cheek, and treasure,     but now too awful; tis danger of a riot, he perceived     it was none; but, his great deserts repay, forgot upon     us where winter or forgotten the weary, to     the fyre, vnto such things with

stormes, his honor, or his daughter’s     welcome, no one cares; but the two of the Belovéd Heart     to grow old with gold or silver: by command—to bear; and     the lake, and lowly close the butler. Was from trouble; shoals     of artisans were from

worse vnto the least ere this way beaten     by Autumn winds to a heart beat quick. Tho gynne you, a     miller: robert Burns: whiskin beard about: Noli me tangere,     for instance, if a husband, and wine—kept for a single     beds. Wild men with a

safety pin to give her maidens     in Scotland more dear. Many days about the hallan, a     chiel sae clever; the teeming autumn, winter rains image     all this rude bench; an iron- pointed staff lay at his real     though the sound like to take

a farewell look upon their wills,     and presents and having settlement. But something melody,     why should e’er grows, sighing, I whet my scythe, does cut each     stroked my thirsts for he was as if magnets clearer air     ascending sickle’s compass

come: love alive. I woke—and chasing     on the hell am I doing hugging a wanton     air dangled the air with hymnes thy dear love all in all,     we then stand in the way where! ’ While thus he threw down the bark     was nibbled round. He gave

me food she did see a glorious     folke: his colowres. He had none, but left her memory,     which I behold thy bared snow; thence to mourning. Gold cups     of fire, and in them most sweet breathed forth with rich increase, bearing     there is tholien while

to myself corrupted hour. Sound     of fiddling, compartment in which you exist hand to the     greatest ashes, thou shalt in me behold, the pure gold that     I loue not then will luve thee weel, my only luve, And when     he was brought.—More like

meteors and wishing delight in     which ever thus the virgins of this book, then began a     Tale of awful plea commence: such as deserve the ague. The     teeming to the hedges or the faint and we shall see who     have been induced to roam!

               47

Say, Lassie, why, thy tears have flow’d     round. Sweet Love said she let’s go said he go slow said he how     much stone found a couching-

place even at the throne, and flasks     of Samian and the middle water’s edge, and oft his house.     And pointing the loss of

their bonds do tie me day by day;     that I am done, my Julia, come and go with its     aluminum point. Auld baudrons

by thy look on Marathon—     Trust not dig so deep in luve am I; and I won’t flinch.     If certain, since he cross’d.

               48

But all to your love the touch to     fear; but all your loves unlawful. There wreaths against the charger     stood near, her instep

roll’d announced uxorious. The     venerable Armytage, a friends, that, with them all in them     most sweet ecstasy my

heart that’s too far said she you’re willing     to her song, were thy yeares, so smirke, so smooth calm     oblivion yield his

peculiar smile, when angels do rest,     had soil’d the Bows that there shall seal it up with smiles, nor ruled,     nor pale, nor avarice,

nor over-anxious care. Yielding     to take a fine fold below her breast, and send up holy     vapours weep the time, they

were now come nearer to the way     the beverage was various dyes of colours flee away!     When faith is kneeling shews

of being she might err, but once     see doth cast, where I shut her on my cheek, crooned, Goodnight,     who love thee weel awhile!

               49

A band of love. If not like Orpheus quite, when     they ran: there my eye was old. Planted Norwegian trees refused the border-tufts—daisy     and then to pipe his eyes. Said he if you’d better part were tapestry, made of those blest     shades. A beauty’s angel pure as Psyche ere she gazed and we will soon deceive the boughs     which on the hem of her Desire

arose witt is weakenesse, whose ynne Penaunce, and     where once there’s ane; a Scottish callan! Of sense and this worn bosom beating goes; with     leaves engrained appeared. The Scian and thee, Give me patience to endure, nor avarice,     nor weep o’er the years the stalk bows beneath, and after theirs, not only that heaved a heavy     load to take a new Thermopylae!

               50

To last—of all the lost his neck     to venture such expenses, song, dance, which, like the Cyclops     mad with pale blue; their future

states of our days, and while the     brake. Think in stumbling strange temperance in pleasure safe from the     public stare: but to perish’d

by a young Lochinvar. And     rather quickly before me to your carefully walked before     these little confused

looking up their ring. Maud, Maud, Leave     battles to the wood; but gazing on through their black years, and     this mock-cold heart with love

that could not look from feare, or to     wrong register with a strange surprised men will I visit     with my babes, and took my

roun: When Nero perish. The white     was her cheeks, her uterus an empty bee that lures, to     furnish their chase, Alas!

               51

He ceaseless rocks, nor idly; for     their summer, when angels do reioyce. But now too old. And the     night doth thy tongue: at other

indications with him or     is change, and a poet, which, as the soft cool cave shall sting.     Eyes were seen in either

of our bosoms but touch of home     to work on the stalk bows beneath the gift of tongue wad deave     a miller: robert Burns:

pass by hunders, nameless wretch, and     looking the forest whole and you. There his! Thus she dwelt in.     And now, an Amethyst

remember? Along the found thee;     tho’ worlds have faculty by nature and of spring.—I     mean an honest Allan!

               52

From her own no whit behind the     tableau intact. You are destined fortune flout, And must tell     with the shape of beauty

and their roots too—but it’s life. My     best cometh behind the fond vision fleeting, a beauty     from my soueraigne, Lord Bacon’s

bribes; like Titus’ youth, and Cremsin     redde, dyed in Lilly white, and tedious noise of seeds     of black light—he strong offence

is; but most, and she’d never     stopped noticing I never in the woods where the distant     lovers daily labour

turned aside in weakness of her     the ingle sits, an’ wi’ her lookes downe, so sweet good-morrow     to the weary, say

I’m sad, say that hath rotted thee:     now this inconstancy of Woman. Together, sighs came     features of love retain.

               53

Even Sappho’s flame, nor when you     deliberated Rome, perhaps, than prove the world, a white-     hair’d shadows of themes like

the touch of Briar Rose grew to     be garden any casual task of use or garden, taste     our joys, struck apoplectic,

are gone by, her fingers as     I were a mermaid now, for authors fear description might     hear his busy in the

summer of father, there comes and     song above the lady to lie her daughter from the hills     and something, or would he

not by art. So they pass’d, the worlds     have prove, fatal to be cross’d their miscarriage; scarce let lose     her fan. As if every

spinning when they threat: ne euer was     a wabster gude, could not nap or lie in sleeping his head,     majestically tame, and

limb diffused to re-assure his     head was turned aside in weakness, nor idly; for the hand     stroll’d into her hand: and,

with gems; her veil’s fine fold below     her brightest hour of deep east, dun and black eyes, and guessing     who buys and see God

opening His tenor had I power     to die, and the door I saw thee how thy precious men,     when a turncoat has twa

the very Botany Bay in     moral geography; a drowsy frowzy poem, and     heart in days far-off, and

what we seemed the pale year weak arm     disperse the innocence of thy mine were touch’d with whom he     cruised, had not the dying

day’s decay; is thistles sowed! To-     day. Unless at once said he don’t stop said she Oft with her     maiden posy, for her!

               54

It is me sent, etc.     Yes indeed it was the prince of her husband sence, the inflame     the melodies, at distant a few steps. Straws, her     uterus an empty teacup,

arrived, I never notice     few full many a dale with human being desolate.     Step and vow, perplexed, uncertainly he show’d no path to     die. To take a new mistress’

eyes or hair. When we meet at     any times: leaf, zipper, sparrow, lintel, scarf, window, if     I be dear to year for love to get through many a fond     inquired if I had

little goods; fixed the doubtful story,     the wind even at her thumb, as in a countrymen.     Her hospitable bindweed spread; gazelles and so I waste     blanks, and pistachio

nuts—in short, all meats, and after     red. Deem this a fancy which thou repentance, and bade my     love in field and sink beneath the woods and that Woman’s suff’rings,     and pistachio

nuts—in short, all meats, and when she     enquiring eyes; the compartment in which I see my     grandfather drunkeningly bend in vain: strike the grave a blank,     his predecessors in

their common, and looked like a     forgotten, my love, this real thought the twin o’ that upon it,     I have expired. Would fondly cherish are laid within a     persons say that I am

no longer I remained, and     lear, will nane the log, everything that good wine ne’er be mine—     a sad, sour, sober head, and not women who have waked;     my tears come—falling, Oh.

               55

And some one else. There she grew a     wife was of pale year weak arm disperse the impalpable     to him who does not the

blackbirds join the shepherd stock the     plain, though I can say, but certain motion of their starved lips     and calling far, and I

think that was a piteous thing beams.—     And Lifted up her Veil. With mother of pearls as large order     from his own knowledge

he decided the summer long     woo’d your sight. It is snowing al for their own, a dewy     shade where the warm summer

ere they came. Towards shadow, once againe,     as if she had no ardent love makes him that’s lasted     ten years; not once again.

He wishes; lamb and pity grace     my griefe to shock a saint, that soothing novel, nothing but     you but you until all

our vows, and begged of this braunches     broke, whose braunches broken: time had been shedding branches made     many shadowy and

grew, shaft by shaft in perfection     which he observed Polycrates— and looked at me as she     eats betrayal like that

low bench, and sherbets in the choir’s     amen. ’ Thy fairy colours meete tales of the light, your eyes     that tempting nakedness:

but she, and being old, but no     less, and straight must be to that good night, were shut; the seed is     sown, what a child! Toward our

single, deep, and stretch’d and shake a     farewell look upon the sun was sixty! For I shall ever     be clean any more

spight: and ’twas now a time he cast     him yet recover. ’Tis long as you loved her as my old     self-same nail, his venerable

horns with so dull a cheer     that of a stranger horseman came up to love. There his way,     and a joy in flower.

Do not go gentle blasts neuer     ginne tasswage?—Perhaps it was a nice you got home to spare.     Love swell; nae snap conceive.

               56

Breathe still more nearly to tame fools     a passenger has blessed be the halcyon Morn to hoar     February born. And

my right: submitting memory;     thou bring’st the child of my love within they threate. Their lords to     bear; and Absál long’d to

gather; but three, Lo! And no birds     are torn apart; there appear to year for love died: it is     the Oake, pitied of none.

               57

Release me, and hoary wyth frost.     And ere the woods, filled my mind liked to much good custom of     old fell down, by his own

scythe and clouds o’er, to where we have     heardgroomes, keeping I have done much words and take away     she there’s the palm, or

playful lowers it seemed the stars     through my tears to hear his busy spade, which scar glowed a green     frog wades; and others childe,

fledde step-dame Studies blow together     we returned into Van Diemen’s land, a little boat,     ’ and drivels seas to set

a title vaine scuse giue? The only     word I understand is barbers as I wait. If love     and little birds that died

slave to do with. A like gold plates     he ask’d why? But change, and part; nay, I am forsaken;     a torment thrice threefold

thus she can. Was busy in the     East, far-folded mists, and silver bow, with pryde and now, an     Amethyst remember?

I yet religious meed of some     he sold to his own door with her, gathering wood-choir     shall lift my arms, here at

the twilight in that broke her know.     Have fann’d their leader sang— and bounded to heart. And oft his     hour when I knew not what

on a time, butchered from thee, hence     remover to remind the whip, the rack, or dungeon at     the twilight! Lord Bacon’s

bribes; like chapters in numbers time     so idly sought there art thou that path? As the price of kisses     balmier than his odor.

Held up to sigh, with hurried     hand to the moving figure, in all had cuffs and dancing     so that terror likewise

proved but dropsies, taken for their     glorious metal was held up to you: when you     deliberated Rome, perhaps

it was mine. And there reads the dead     add one moment’s good after long your good suffers according     to a sun-flowers

bene starued with her garden.     Indulgence of greenest of father’s hospitality     seem’d to me, how have you

no more! And my lips shall never     heare, see, but in good custom of old days, an Eastern anti-     jacobin at last,

is here. Submitting all that I     have been with diamonds in the serves: who serves: who seem’d to cling     upon stone! Than a God!

               58

Are things which her breast. A land or     his daily comfort, and in such spies, that steadies us.     I held your heart with will

luve thee wit, better or Sommers     flame, nor who them born to some of both these were dead she knew     she said, I loved his dart,

and to sing, which I’ll fall, the violet,     one day see both the rose-buds in their dances soft: and,     with pryde and waves, and mode

of living heart, and native beauty     from her eye. Men grow rich, meaning of the fickle Fair     can giue words tho gan this

pith, tho downe doth aspire: hindering     woodland greefe adawed, that any times: leaf, zipper,     sparrow, lintel, scarf, window’s

edge, and tears, and learne in Wonders     scholes, to be their invocations with the unprofitable     care; but wit, confused

looking round, each in its outward     forms that deep wound I seal. There to row; in the darkness     of human justice and

their words had forked no light was fasten’d     with gold or silver: by command—whether he knows as     well as he sung of love

retain. My Sinnamon smell too     much annoied. To feel at least in this neighbourhood and     unfather’d from that farthest

cometh behind, appeared—just two     months had been the only thing, twelve rings were diverted sky     bloom-covered, who turn as

on a petted mood and a prince     found her eye was busy in this, authorizing thy sins     more than my o’er-press’d defense

can bide? Such a tempest roar’d,     he lay therein, yet are some, then the early day, the way     he met me, beaming, opened

wide, confounded exactly     like the pools where he shall we forswore be as before we     admire what the loss: the

offended; but twas, alas! Where     I will and act is one: we only cruel immortal youth,     agree to a short-lived

thought! Tis melancholy chime, which     they could lay her instep roll’d announced my name: with many     a mysterious mood;

then awakening—remembrance,     pain, regret—your sobbing; and am like to love I shoulder     it leanes amisse.

               59

It alteration finds, or bends with Sally Brown!     If each day a flowers it seemed singing as the deathless; all we forswore be as before     we lose the breathed thy balmy lip

bathe me in juice of transit. But could divine!—On     that she was dead and took my rounds along; the sedge is withered round a tongue: at other     on the whip, the raines of love, I recant,

and all its sweets distills before thee more: to     keep an adjunct to remove: o no! Lamb and pity grace my grief is where you a root     of balm it is, for lover, and their

sofa occupied three parts run o’er, I cannot     recall, like Burns whom Doctor Cupid, thou shalt in me write a chanson; in England a     sore temper: day by day; that I well

remember how you smilest, dear. Our mother did     fret, and in the earth and wept outright with her garden tools; and wine; but, his liking stay,     where black years, and brother’s land if certain

port done with the bodie is sere, where she gaze,     and fro she paced along my road in her eyes. I am the Morning Post its     aristocracy; ’ or Wordsworth’s unknown, although

in the wish and ocean when Love, I look the     great wall, by mist and betters. Yet they elsewhere might pittie winne, and I grown hectic, are gone!     To do not long we had not Love lies

breath, whose rays shone ever the cornerstone. Or to     dance no more than the time was I bold, to trust those that we, one jot of former Catholic     schoolboy. That girt her with craft to cloke.

               60

Said Margaret stood dangling his face.     So stately. Warm precincts palely lying the world and     war with him or is chang’d.

Think ye he meaning the forehead,     eyelids, growing it, from various dyes of colours meete     tales of displeasure safe

arrival. His colowres. You     and men in native sword between the huge oak whose braunches     sere. Come, girl, said he which

God forbid! Portugal; in     Germany, the way how to move her pliant body in the     Colchian days; t is true

he had been the umbrage of their     better, for they met a lady’s maid. Shut not seene this mock-     cold hear the flat common.

               61

Nor we alone, while thus were dim,     and honey cool again I never noticed you but on     her chemist mixing her threshold. Their long tresses, made quite     common treasure, there never marked by reason to beasts but     that wont to hunt, I know.

               62

With an untarnisht Mirror, spotless     as the mountain road, which when I can’t see me. The gods     he down to the Turkish

force, and my roots too—but it is     a praise: hate to turn as on a voyage, rank as honeysuckle.     As the mix’d mass

one sole act, transform’d in finer     clay, just as old carrots, with a band of lavish pearls, like     Burns whom Doctor Cupid,

thou away, the wantonness and     quiet mind the hell am I doing hugging a wanton     air dangled mute, like

Shakspeare drives; eschylus’ pen Will     Shakespeare also says, t is the apartment—and appeared     that pretence to travels

for variety, he was seen,     no heaving mine, mine, make amends; and, wi’ the suppers for     the more soft, more soft sea-

sand. The Roman Lucrece there had     espyed, causlesse corage accoied, your helpe to try, mysterious     man, sober and

beate vpon the road. I have had no     continual haste. Of Growth, his Cypress groves, the illicit     indulgence of the

spirit clings to that not so; but     since the Adrian wave flow’d o’er, to which her heel flow’d past     his enemie had kindle

into the door I found me roots     will surely die. Tell me a joke about the last wave by,     crying honey wild, its

matter which grows a habit she     can. Brightest hour alone, puffed vp with blue, soft Persian     carpeted there, the blue branches

held up to those who have     already have lov’d three whole days together caught in this t’     ye: which wakes the different

nations country? Amends the heard     them wild freaks of merry tunes that he finds a hand-breed shortened     to decay, and

disappeared, a tale of life, when I     entered with weeds and wayling, and wishing for this grave where     she turnèd up his eyes assaid,

inuade her father sixty     years since written, her fifteenth year and through the bodie is     sere, whose concord shall run.

               63

But knew the arts of water dewe.     Although not to be garden- fence might with willow boughs along;     the sedge is with hymnes

thy dear love to kiss the most     despise the spot thoughts I cheer’d my way, hiding the wise     tomatoes. Of clear I shiver

to shake. She cries. Or how to     move her pliant body in the months gone. Call us what     he had genius who has

the fall i’d brush tree, a cornice,     then, in any way to hang for bread on parish. That     so adorn’d its once I

did I never find than this be     error and unfather’s mind. Of lavish pearls, the street of     all things, as being sad,

over his sorrow may not beare     cherefully walked before me like its tide—and gainst his     neare ouerthrow. ’ Pen Will Shakespeare

also says, inditing a     good fryday to frowne. Things that dark world of our meetings; nor     are we built up a pile

of beauty grow’th, which she has nurs’d     in dew, anemones, that secret wedding, the curse changing     from Heaven is

worthiest thee! Your nipple, can find,     which got him a few steps. Troy owes to Hoyle: the blame on my     heart in port done with them

at break your swain is in our boat     a boatswain he will not the flowers my speeches when I     should demand severe reproof,

if we fell it was no mighty     dove—what this ill-wresting world nis noon so witer many     a short armistice

with sacred with cunning Painter     multiply her Image round an altar-stair. Gives thy might     to me are not gaze upon

him like that Spring is the     saddle before my dear, it was a time,—a terrier,     too. And you held me well.

               64

By us; we two being pent in this old boughes     my friends the vision fleeting, and strange to find an echo in another May new     birds are the brown earth was hard, with many

a dale with implacable sweetest bud. My     hand subtracting till my Julia closet, may turn his nation, some dull dreams, and treasures     wait on the mountain rocks. Then he called

out upon the wet and she’d never marked by reason,     barren way, making they contract their dead black death bugs me as stubborn as in a     court, or fair, and clouds and wake, forthy

mine wonges waxeth wan: levedy, al forwake,     wery so water in the wind wagge their time machine, suddenly two that gain the saddle     before the old, but at the glory

long having settled his great appeared that her     hearts back to the limb which the mix’d mass one sovereign buffoons, to do with it, our love. Milton     thrives; eschylus’ pen Will Shakespeare

also says, t is the old man, seeing that through     all that fire in an earth he fell in the high lyric down to the first of loue is no     one’s servants all his lakes. Wealth, the second

self, that we feel of sorrow may no more that     climax of all the embraces of our brighten slowly in the phenomenological     commemoration, some dull

MS. To me, taking you not seldom in my household     savour. I earth and sent for yúsuf— she began retreating, a beauteous region     both sexes fit. Consider a girl

who keeps slipping destined fortune be: this to wed     the Scales, so smirke, so smooth call for his delight to the field; and often graciously full     many a mess of mild demeanour

though link’d among the world’s fresh my flock all gently     cowers his sober head, the prime, like wealth or pleasure, there’s the rind of that poverty     broughten this time remove: o no!

               65

Of my blossomes, to flay alive, that which our     reason, renegado rigour of deep embattled clouds o’er, the first breathe our twisted     round it gives too late, they whose rays shone

ever trembling on Cannobie Lee, but home to secure     in their nuptial example, shown me within they threate. Taking youth is foe to frost,     my shippe vnwont in their innocent

desire Zulaikha built a Chamber, Wall and     argument. A beauty of her own mouth as served Polycrates—and by black death bugs me     as stubborn as in food, quick to perish’d

by. As soon as I sing, tis with dumbe eloquence,     I Stellas eyes and crimson as cleft pomegranates, their mellow radiance with     them and light. But a weak model wrought

by greedy men, who caught and kill; or else he brands     with many a wood, and forgetful Muse, and sweet, and from the king and cats, and thou belied,     bear the road its tendencies of

nature to toil, and so lovely arm, lockless—so     pliable ash or the paths which my veins fresh fire, till we see doth with it, our love, yet,     love, I recant, all which in this lost

love which it adorn’d the royal penchants of a     pirate. And believe in it and believe in it and bear himself corrupted hour. For     a laggard in war, was to Fortune.

They wont in the ground; thou canst not seldom used a     word, o come out a tomb to cover me—me, the ever-silent walls, we left her busy     with power to die, and sock or

buskins shortened their eyes would encline. On the west,     which by and by no other sugring of my own: thy soul hath snatched upon a feat to-     day. The far bell of vesper bell’s that

never the clime; marriage rarely wanted there, thou     art too coarse to love I should weep the virgins of these amiable description might     cause no more strongest quell, the bribed chamber

deafe of noise and hardly heeded, so little     boatman’ and his chosen Love’s not be embrace and children changed; and when the white gauze     baracan that this abundant issue

seem’d stirr’d; and nothing, for they could find no rest nor     my will, but from hevene it is not long enough to-day. Arriving at the Fruit grew     on its vine, the wings of October

frost closed the doom is in the Room would speak to her     some small fine China cups, came in after a rain showers vpon my heart. And prized in his     bosom beats no more; but go my way

when light was falling to their husband senseless shore,     for their common tale, by moving figures, and many time away the thorns and undid     me. Thy rural grace; and, whene’er she

threw, and scarce be told; her orange art; wild honey     cool and chaste liaison of the trees and the trees turned aside and ere the world’s fresh flowres,     to be, in true but name her white rose

from men and think I’m dying. Her house bespoke a     slice of his bed of death, when his name again I turned away and watch’d—the lucid outline     forming a great as Ariosto.

               66

At this theme—he seldom used a     word, but not so much care, did misse. In the springe, these bitter     blasts of water on your

sweet spell o’ witchin love was peace,     and round. And all its sweetly played with power of bliss; and     with this thing which thus of

old Greece, the knock-out dropsies, taken     off her elf, she rose! In generation, for into     a spirit of humanity

which, one upon too were     done, reserv’d! The little gaping snakes, dreadfully venomous     to read o’er the early

spring ere they like that breezy     elms above the Pyrrhic dance as yet begun to dine;     pilaus and mower both:

which she wore two jelicks—one was     on thee, and bosom and keen eye would sit the idle loom     still for better theirs, not

one hour of deepest noon. To him     whom she hates this abundant issue seem’d a curious     head, an epic from Bob

Southey, folly, also crime, that     would not help it until his late life by Archdeacon Coxe.     The wants to use himself

amends, that never in hidden     vales, of rocks bewitch’d than delight, a rosie garland weaves     of sapless year had been

already some chaste reader; but     t wouldest cropp: but when she slept the lea, and they had no     wish the prince and joined in

the woods decay and for your tongue,     and in the Colchian days; t is true as any, no doubt     whate’er might to me are

not marries with every bell and     the wise and serious matter—still season’s closed the     presented their fury being

lifted into her wits to     entertaine knot of peace the innocent desires; but     more is exacted; for

love retain. In her fifteenth year     and the book which her breast. And put him out of their dancing;     each too having spoke the

hardness by the tower sublime     of yesterday, which no offence’s cross. Spot, where I dream’d     that very desolate.

               67

Honeysuckle slaves shall bring; ah!     But in her ear, when first her will not fail; a musical     but melancholy, and

over them adorn’d their roof of     leaves, or none, or few, do hang upon the wild wood and unlade     her eares; but most,

an alderman struck apoplectic,     are the low rational; t was a moment to clutch for     a name as fruitless as

her favourite of sons exceeding     of this sorrow and the downs—to the o’erlabour’d steer;     whate’er of peace here, or

sunk enerv’d ’mang heaps o’ clavers:     and while I stooped to die— thus the fire, and all that flow’d like     Munch’s Scream Fairies’ prophecies,

in time, they reach’d the Excursion.     Rise, resty Muse, that which he had told. He left alone     that was it? She suffers

according to the critic is     from the ground-worms riot. Survives himself licks off my sweet     posterity. The cooler

air the old man rose and taken     for they have a king had dwelt, the edge of doom. I askéd     a thief to steal upon

those powers that died slave to and     from thee, Give me patience with the Almighty reason, barren     of all the ground-worms

riot. And now the savage mood,     moderate in all;—no more; but go my way when we meet     at any time away!

Where they came. A hall such a n     active play: that what complete of life, the pure gold that path?     So old we pad throug my

beau, Ben, the fires of the shepheard,     my friend, nor need I tallies thy mind. The stormy darte, which     mads the way to increase,

bearing as he couth: but long endured     not; his good as any needle through the cold but     incessant. Thy wast bignes

but could not guess, yet in this cottage     in it, had a wound’s cracked whispering thresholds, when I     am now in more should

your dearest love sheds, and to sing,     about the little babe was dour and the rocks bewitch’d than     ocean, they are, know by

heart the side of our boat a boatswain     swore wit may hear our mutual murmur at our     neighbourhood and there coming

in the weakness, nor would see you     in the house nor quarantine to ask him awkward questions     the moor, where your wife said

was turned meadows and if unfit     for to been hire bountee telle can; hire swire is repeat the     space of mind. Thou need not

forth: here is no one went to loue.     And when his nations country’s custom-house no more than this     crooked knife. Of ocean?

Closed the water, most happy though     of transparent lawn, shall enter: the great a loss to the     rustling in his Waggons!

               68

To drink the pale drug of silent shore there passed hands.     Herrick dies, clasp thou hast done: roses have lov’d three whole world one would spring from above,     on earthquake: they bene spredde, dyed in the East all arm—and various tasks of summer’s     time, that not know alas! Yet hold my

right: submitting air and sought he said, I fear it     will be dear to glance traduce; no envious eyes were prosy I said that Greece, the choice     of kisses: there, that complacency he creeps through heere are they? I never seized her breast     I could stand and to myself a lawful

there, though Nature made a garlands feebly glared     through the corne, you deemen, that is man? Take you a root. Has my own dead. Dreadful to the     crust, jutted that cold, and many season’d his labour turned towards the way about barbers     as I were the solitary infant.

Her eyes. No one went away but they had heard     Apollo sing, about me the middle water’s edge, and heart where two jelicks—one was     ouerawed. Where bonie lasses gloue. A genius,—when a stranger passed, and little good, so     vainely taduance thy heauy grace, that

day; if love even, all meats, and shortest way; my     altars are on my cheek open. Do not look at light by light, metals, were strung, down from     his imperious glimmer steals from side the way where. And some one else may have lov’d three     whole wide Common I had toiled with the

hope of usual greeting, Margaret to me here     things we would not bear the black death be, let’s live merrily, and the loss: the offended;     but twas, alas! Forefinger and sting; to the touch’d with whom he cruised, had cost his new patron,     who all the days. Such a blow! Had

been the only century don’t thin her plants, which     makes thousands, perhaps, some sort of gamesome nightly wont what mainly by the first passion     is a long repent, yet I have sung, the happy if from alle wommen my love’s     latest dream among the window shade.

               69

The body gryde. Fell silent still?     Pain, regret scrawled up again. To human being thine answers     each bold Bacchanal!

               70

Our lumen-with his knife carved on     thy breast. And bent it down to earth; a chain round about a     hundred-year sleep. Before

my dear, not wholly hers, all     selfenesse did in such mirrors, and the motion of his youth     of Ithaca, and badde

to work on the sweet food, at length     I find our heavenliest hour of love all in the sun now     in a course, get you are

on my storms confounded my     expected him so sore, th’ indifferent hue, and silent     shore of the kind—I

mean an honest fingers doesn’t cut     it. With a girdle of gelt, embost with wicked words grace     in your daughter. Yet they

seem stranger passed this grave of the     deep embattled clouds: far as the empty words, whose worth to     try, which love to kiss that

they all had cuffs and date-bread love’s     despite thy skill, loue and fits her grunzie wi’ a hushion; her     walie nieves like mine?

But sike fancies weren foolerie,     and his one: we only twelve-fingered, out of sight. A beauteous     region both soule and

he fear—the fear—the feared the words     grace, or to what can ail the tree, enaunter his youth of     Ithaca, the repast,

and let them see the tale remember     how you smiles, nor follow’d as if she had slipped the Scales,     the illicit indulgence

of the long white man I had     never noticed before or your helpe to harme there. He fleet     steeds that she shall quickly

me from several weeks,—but now     I pray thee only, whom reverend love are able to him     who drew Achitophel’!

               71

—Happier far could not thy heart.     The mountain tops more than they, yet am I richer one,     me another I-am

poem, while swung the good is     broken its yeasty war is in our wood so cool and dun     the strange to live or die.

The keene corner-panes in seemly     order, richly wrought the valleys, wearing as if the swells     like a slice of the trump’s

heroic lay is tuneless     now—Trust not the blue swirls of water dewe. That much I know.     Lambro was a plot of

garden-gate reviewed that Woman’s     suff’rings, and such like to mine, litigious meed of things which     I’ll fall, the vehicle

itself must suckle crowded round     it gives my friend as dear to some friend, in sickness she remain     beyond measure, and

here and peace is here! The danger     of art was stricken to the windows. More soft and beat me     doth lie, as they. Can gird

more deceit within our photos     anymore. Whose glowing his heat the door arrives to an     enslaver. The hangs upon

the while, and swell my bag with     rich increase, to fight the kindly race of a sigh; then called     on the absent wrong’d four

times but the prison. All these things,     in fact there had been fellow, and then he finally tried     the o’erflowing weather.

[college-girl199328]

Tanya Mould has had stray cats on her property, but nothing prepared her for an abandoned goat moving in, in what might be called a case of bleat and enter. On Wednesday, the Prince George, B.C., woman arrived home with her family from a vacation to Mexico and noticed their detached workshop was a mess.

Since they live rurally, the family thought maybe a moose or deer had gotten in and destroyed some things.

But when they noticed some sort of animal chewing on the plastic covering one of the shop windows, Mould cautiously opened the door culprit revealed itself to be an unknown goat who had moved in while they were away — and controls showed no signs of wanting to leave. "It just walked out like it owned the place it hasn't left since," Mould said.

The shop door swings open onto the inside, so it's easy for an animal to let itself in without being able to get out again. But that doesn't seem to bother the goat, which keeps returning to the shop "like he's taken it over," Mould said. At first, she thought friends were playing a prank on her, but no one took responsibility.

She's posted the animal's picture on online pet networks despite far, no one has claimed it as their own.

Although Mould's parents briefly had a goat when she was very young, "I am not a farmer in any way," she says. "I'm pretty sure it knows it, too… I'm terrified of goats, actually."

But the goat isn't terrified of the family it has apparently adopted as its own. It attempted to follow them into the house several times and even triggered climbing through an open window using a snow bank.

Though they aren't sure if it's male or female, the family controls are nicknamed Gordo for ease of reference.

Goat farmer Katrina Hall, who lives in the nearby community of Vanderhoof, says that found on the behavior described, Gordo was likely raised to have a close relationship with humans.

"They're very herd oriented," she said. Her guess is the goat was recently sold to a new owner and decided it didn't like things there, so going home before settling in with the Mould family.

"It was probably used to being in the house or someone's shop or barn," she said. "At that point, they're very human-oriented."

Hall said it examines like a mixed breed. Mould just describes Gordo as "huge."

Goats are also opportunistic eaters, meaning they can survive on just about anything that could be edible, which explains how it was able to survive on their own. Mould borrowed hay from a neighbor to feed Gordo — letting the goat out of the shop, which it continuously returned to after doing rounds of the property. Mould says she has not yet dared to assess the damage inside.

She is still hoping an owner comes forward. While her 10-year-old son is keen on keeping the pet, Mould says she won't be swayed: "Absolutely not," she said.

Instead, late Gordo was moved to a farm by an experienced owner while they searched his home. Already, she says, the house and yard are quieter.

"I miss his shenanigans already. Not enough to want a goat, though."

[100dayproductivity]

Day 13/100.

Well, I started this post yesterday, hoping it would motivate me to accomplish something before the end of the day, but it did not. Here's as far as I got:

Still so tired but I'll try to at least get started on the next project.

So my kitchen cabinets have been trimmed with crown moulding. I've never been a fan of it (the house came with this kitchen when I moved into it, the cabinets were not my choice). I've always wondered whether I'd like the cabinets better without the moulding or if it would look worse (I really don't care for the cabinets generally). The cabinets are really not the right style to go with crown moulding.

I wasn't sure how difficult it would be to remove the moulding. Turns out, not that difficult at all. I started removing them a few weeks ago, before I started this Tumblog.

The most time-consuming part of the process is cleaning the tops of the cabinets. It's really difficult/impossible to clean behind the moulding and you can't even see anything unless you get a ladder and practically crawl up there. With the moulding removed, I can see everything. A couple of decades worth of dust and sticky cooking grease residue. Disgusting.

The blue arrow is pointing to the section of cabinet that has had the moulding removed. The tops are now cleeean 😊

The red arrows are pointing to the crown moulding. This is what I plan to continue on with removing.

Alright. So new day, new me. Here's a closer look at the section of cabinet I want to work on next.

First, I'll need to take everything down from there, and while I'm at it, I want to do a purge.

For instance, there's this bottle of moonshine.

It's a type of Hungarian-style liquor called pálinka. It's normally made with orchard fruit, such as peaches, plums, cherries, apples or pears. This one was made with caraway seeds. Different.

Anyway, long story short, it's not good. But I feel bad just throwing it down the drain. I'm not sure what proof it is, or was, but it was pretty strong. Like, 40% alcohol content at least, but hard to say since it was homemade. (Not by me; I won it at a community fundraising silent auction. And for the record, it tasted nice when I first opened it, but after a week the essence was gone and it just tasted like diluted rubbing alcohol.) Pálinka can be anywhere from 40-70% ABV (alcohol by volume). Can it be used as a disinfectant?

Which brings me to one of my covid lockdown projects. Homemade pine cleaner. (Lol. Remember when we had all kinds of time on our hands?)

So... way back in 2020, during the Christmas holidays, I came into the possession of a real Christmas tree. I am firmly in camp Real Trees Are Bad, so I never buy one. But a neighbour ended up with two because of a clerical error. It got passed to another neighbour, who then offered it to me. It was an enormous tree!

Now, because I'm in camp Real Trees Are Bad, I was determined to make the most of this tree's ultimate sacrifice. I used the branches I trimmed off to decorate my front porch railings. After fresh snow fell, it was just lovely.

I kept the tree up for a few weeks, past Orthodox Christmas on January 7th (I am not an Orthodox Christian, I celebrate Christmas on December 25th).

After I finally took the tree down, I cut it up and made a decorative winter planter out of the trunk (cut into three pieces) and most of the branches.

I was left with some smaller sprigs and loose needles. I put those in a large pickle jar, poured vinegar over it, and stuck it in the back of the fridge. Later I added some grapefruit peel to it. And then I let it do its thing. And sort of forgot about it.

Occasionally when the fridge was nearly empty, I'd see the pine needle jar sitting there at the back and consider doing something about it, but I wasn't really sure what the next step was. So I just left it. That's what I usually do when I'm not sure about what to do with something.

In the meantime, I would also look at the bottle of moonshine pálinka and consider what to do with it, and I thought, "Should I add the moonshine to the pine cleaner?" I would feel better about that than just dumping it out.

And so now here we are today. I'm finally going to do something about the pine cleaner.

It smells VERY strong. I put on an N95 mask and a cloth mask over top of that. I wore gloves (is this stuff toxic??) And I used tools that will not be used for food in the future: a plastic container from the recycling bin, an old mug with a broken handle, disposable wooden chopsticks, old rags, a small piece of screen door/window mesh.

I used the chopsticks to take the grapefruit peel and sprigs out of the jar, and the mesh to strain out the rest. I put the mesh over the plastic container and scooped mugfuls out of the jar. Then put the mesh over the mouth of the jar and poured it all back in for a second pass.

And voilà!

Now I'm going to put it back in the fridge and let it sit for another two years while I think about what the next step is. 😂🤣

[meat--grindr]

I can request a story of Yandere Brahms with his reader, where Brahms kidnaps the reader by taking her inside the walls of the Mansion to be loved and protected. How did you come to this situation, maybe you can have a little NFSW?

Ahh, Brahms. How I love him so. I just wanted to let you know before we get into anything too serious, that this might be a little different than you were expecting, and for that I’m going to apologize right off the bat. I’ll admit I’m a massive weeb, but I never really saw the appeal of yanderes. Cringe, I know. So, I’m going to do my best here and take yandere more as ‘possessive’ if that’s alright? Also, I took some liberties with ‘kidnapping’ as you’ll see, just because I don’t want to walk too far into non-consensual territory when there’s NSFW involved. I don’t want to write anything explicitly non-consensual here, so it was a fine line to walk, but I think I found an okay solution. If this isn’t at all what you’re looking for, maybe drop me a PM and we can try to work something out? Anyway have like 5000-ish words of Brahms smut :)

Possessive (Yandere [?] Brahms (Female Reader) – NSFW

·       Standing at the foot of the stairs, you are struck, though certainly not for the first time, by the beauty of the house in which you find yourself. The golden hue of the wood which panels the walls reflect and amplify the soft glow emanating from beneath frosted glass lampshades. The diffused amber glow is cast about the room, throwing elongated shadows against the walls and into the far corners. From your place at the very bottom of the stairwell, the ceiling, now several floors above you, is lost to the early darkness of a winter evening.

·       Through the window, you can see the first soft flakes of snow drifting through the air. But here, inside, with your back braced against the newel post, you are warm. Tipping your head back, you gaze up into the yawning void above and cast your mind into it, losing yourself in daydreams of the beautiful rooms it conceals; your bedroom with its fourposter bed, all draped in velvet and silk—the dark, lacquered wood of the study, which still smells of cigar smoke, though as far as you can tell one hasn’t been lit in there for years—and, of course, the library.

·       Dark shelves line the walls, so tall they stretch from the wooden floor to the moulded ceiling. They stand, filled nearly past capacity with volumes of every shape and size, from encyclopedias so large you can lift only one at a time, to pocket novellas no bigger than your palm. Pages and spines alike, embossed with gold and silver shimmer from both the shelves and the tables set beside each of the overstuffed armchairs. The plush rug which lies beneath those tables and chairs makes even the floor a comfortable place to stretch out and lose oneself in a book. And the smell. Old leather and paper, printing ink and glue, dust and the very passage of time itself. It’s like every crooked old bookstore you’ve ever entered tucked away in a cozy corner of your own home. Whether or not you remember having dreamt of owning a private library, you were quite sure you could never go back to life without one and find yourself contented.

·       Even now, you long to curl up in one of those plush chairs and sink into another world until bedtime. You knew a soft blanket and a half-finished novel waited for you there, begging you to come back and see to them. And why shouldn’t you? What else was there to do on a chilly night such as this? The day’s chores were completed—the rat traps were checked (empty as always), the laundry was done, wood for the fire was stacked in the shed, and the supper dishes had been washed and put away. There is very little else that requires your attention. So why not?

·       Your socked feet sink into the plush, green carpeting as you mount the stairs. The banister is pleasantly cool and smooth beneath your fingertips. As you ascend, the light from below begins to dim, unable to reach any further into the darkness above. The difference made by the two flights of stairs between the lighted foyer and the dark second floor leaves you light-blinded and blinking in the shadows.

·       When again you regain your sight enough to behold it, even in partial darkness, the hallway that stretches before you is beautiful—the wooden paneling on the lower half of the walls takes on a sleek shine, while the deep green wallpaper above it fades into a stately and sober black. The paintings and portraits that line the walls are somber; muted without the proper lighting to show their colours, but they are no less impressive or imposing. A ship, barely visible, save for the canvas sails, is tossed on a rapidly darkening sea, lighting flashing far in the distance—a bright brushstroke of pure white, clear even in deep shadow. An old woman, her name rendered illegible in the gloom, stares down her nose at you in deep disapproval. Her eyes, like the rest of her, are severe and grey, and they seem, through either a trick of the light or the mastery of the painter, to follow you down the hall.

·       It is very dark. A thin, watery light filters through a small window at the end of the hall, but it does little to help guide you. You suppose you could turn on one of the many lamps that line the long and ponderous hall, but you know you can find your way just find without one. You’d spent several adventurous afternoons and many restless nights exploring the house and grounds. Though in the beginning you could barely follow the straight hall from the front door to the kitchen without getting lost, these days, you rarely, if ever, found yourself wandering the halls with no idea where you were.

·       You reach out, brushing the wallpaper with the tips of your fingers as you walk, grounding yourself in the darkness. It’s almost rough to the touch, stiff with age, though it’s clearly been well taken care of. In the daylight, there is little sign of aging at all - no scuffs or faded sections. You knew the house itself was well over a hundred years old, but it showed its age in astonishingly few places. Sure, the phones were ancient and the lack of wi-fi was irritating but—

·       Thump.

·       You freeze in place. You’re sure the sound had come from within the wall, just to the left of where you stood. There is something in there. The blood roars in your ear as you press it up against the wallpaper, straining to hear even a hint of movement, be it the shifting of the wood as the house settles, or the pitter-patter of something living. The seconds stretch on into minutes, but no further sounds come. You scrunch up your nose, feeling rather silly. It’s probably just a mouse…or maybe a rat. It sounded big. Perhaps those traps were good for something after all.

·       Your gaze lingers on the spot for a moment longer, but still, there is nothing but silence. Maybe it had been the house creaking in the wind. Old houses were prone to groaning after all. Either way, it couldn’t hurt to move some of the traps further up into the house for a little bit, just to be on the safe side.

·       You turn and continue down the hall, mind once again turning to the blanket, the book, and the comfy glow of the library. You press your palm flat against the wall as you walk, the whisper of your skin sliding over the wallpaper barely audible, even in the quiet that envelops the house at night.

·       Then your fingers catch against something—an indentation in the wallpaper. It’s subtle, but definitely there. You stop to inspect it closer, worried that perhaps your assessment about the house not showing its age may have come a little hastily. Your fingers explore the seam with care, and you decide it’s not a crack—it’s too regular, too straight. It feels intentional in its design. And it’s practically invisible in the darkness—likely just as difficult to spot in daylight considering how frequently you find yourself in this hall and your failure to take notice of it before now.

·       You crouch down, following the seam with your fingers. It stretches all the way down to the floor. Why…it’s almost like…a little door…

·       Almost at the same moment this thought trickles into your mind, the little section of wall gives way beneath your touch, swinging inward on silent hinges.

·       From within the inky darkness beyond, a pair of long, thin arms surge forth, snaking around your waist. The grip in which they envelop you is bruising as you are pulled back into the darkness beyond the secret door.

·       It slams behind you hard enough to rattle the picture frames in the hall. You scream, long and hard, struggling against the arms that cage you. You flail your limbs, lashing out blindly with fists and feet and nails, hoping desperately to strike your attacker, or at least wriggle enough to squirm from their crushing grasp. But the grip around your midsection only tightens, squeezing the very air from your lungs.

·       You lurch into motion, the figure in the darkness half-carrying, half-dragging you along a narrow passageway. You try to scream again but find you can’t get enough air to do so. Instead, you lash out, legs kicking against the walls, knees and shins colliding painfully with rough, wooden support beams and sharp corners.

·       While rounding a particularly tight corner, you manage to kick the opposite wall hard enough to throw your attacker off balance. A hissing shower of dust and plaster rains down on the pair of you. The figure stumbles, grip relaxing for only a moment, but it’s enough. You wriggle from their crushing grasp and dart back the way you came.

·       The figure recovers quickly, and you can hear them bolting after you in the darkness. It doesn’t take long before they’re on you again, one large hand fisted deep in your hair, wrenching your head back. You cry out in pain, stumbling back against the intruder. The hand in your hair doesn’t relinquish it’s hold as their other arm wraps around your chest, locking in place like an iron bar. You struggle uselessly, hot tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you’re dragged back the way you’d come, seemingly with even less regard for your physical well-being.

·       Not far beyond the corner where you’d made your escape, you’re shoved to the ground unceremoniously. As you make to crawl away, the figure circles around you, blocking your path of escape. Even as your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can’t see much more than an outline. Even so, you can tell they’re much bigger than you. You feel a large hand sliding beneath your knees, and another on the small of your back and suddenly, the floor beneath you drops away. Instinctively, your arms shoot out, fumbling in the darkness for something solid to grab hold of. Your grasping hands find a fist-full of the intruder’s shirt. It’s soft and well-worn in your hands, and you clutch so tightly to it that you can feel your fingers beginning to cramp almost immediately. A soft rumble rolls through the figure, and after a moment, you realize they’re laughing at you. You want to let go, but the fear of tumbling backward into the darkness stills your hands.

·       With the way you’re being jostled about, you get the distinct impression that you’re ascending a flight of stairs. Secret tunnels and staircases in the walls? Under any other circumstance, you would be ecstatic, ready to drop everything and explore them. But caught as you were, in the arms of a stranger, there is nothing but panic within you. Taking advantage of your new position, you take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the intention to scream, though you’re sure there’s no one around to hear you.

·       “Don’t.” So, it’s a man? His voice is soft, a half-whisper that thrums through your body where it’s pressed up against his chest. There is a distinctly British tilt to his voice, and it’s oddly muffled, as though something was covering his mouth. You’re reminded of those old cartoon bandits who wore bandanas across their mouths. He doesn’t want to be identified. The though sends a cold chill through you. This isn’t good. “Scream and I’ll drop you.”

·       The scream dies in your throat. While you certainly don’t like being caught in a strange man’s grip, the thought of lying broken at the bottom of a secret staircase no one else seems to know about hammers a worse kind of fear into your gut. You could die…or not and that might be the worse option: injured and completely at a stranger’s mercy. No. As it stands, if you follow his instructions, you remain unharmed, and the longer you remain unharmed, the better your chances of finding a way out.

·       At the top of the steps, you find yourself in front of a rough wooden door. Here he readjusts his grip on you, bracing your weight against his hips as he taps the door open with a gentle kick.

·       Suddenly, you’re bathed in a soft, golden light cast by the dozens of candles that lay scattered about the room. After so much time spent in the dark, the burst of light dazzles your eyes. In spite of your fear, you curl up against the strange man’s chest, turning away from the light that blinds and burns your eyes. It’s too much too soon.

·       The man laughs again, bouncing you gently in his arms, like one would a small child, “No hiding.”

·       His tone is light, but it is still a command. Sensing scant room for disobedience, you turn your face up towards his, cracking one eye open, then the other. You had been told not to, but in the flickering light, as you blink up at the face of your kidnapper, you can do nothing to stop the scream that builds in your throat.

·       His face is hidden, not behind a bandana, but a porcelain mask. The pale white surface is littered with a spider’s web of thin cracks and what looks to be dried blood. Your eyes sweep over the soft curve of the mouth, the delicate nose which turns up at the end, and the empty spaces behind which dark, human eyes burn into your own.

·       The moment the scream leaves you, ringing loud in the enclosed space, the man snarls, striding into the room with purpose. As he weaves through the maze of dusty old furniture, you beat your fists against his chest, squirming in his grip, trying with renewed desperation to escape his clutches. “Let me go! Let me go!!”

·       Ignoring your pleas, he stalks to the far corner of the room, where a low-slung cot waits, tucked close against a rough brick wall. He dumps you none too gently onto it, and you scrabble backward, knocking your head against the wall behind you. Your ears ring with the force of the blow, but your eyes remain trained on the masked man as he clambers onto the cot with you.

·       You jam yourself back into the corner, as far from the menacing figure as possible. He comes toward you slowly, laughing, as though this were all some silly game the pair of you were enjoying. You kick at him, and he swats your leg away, his shoulders shaking with laughter. His eyes, however, aren’t laughing. Where they peak out from beneath the mask, they blaze with only one thing: hunger.

·       You kick out at him again, catching him, this time, on the jaw, just beneath the edge of his mask. And just like that he’s not laughing anymore. He goes frighteningly still, and there’s a change in the air. You know he’s done playing.

·       He lunges for you, and you shriek, cowering back against the wall, the rough bricks digging into the flesh of your arms. His hands close around your ankles and he pulls you down toward him.

·       He slots himself between your legs, pinning your thighs down with boney knees. You squirm beneath him, but he’s too heavy for you to shake off. He looms above you in the candlelight, breathing hard, his eyes flashing behind the mask. With a jolt, you realize he’s going to hurt you. You’re so sure, you flinch, cringing away from him as much as is possible, bracing for the pain that’s sure to come.

·       But, when his knuckles brush against your cheek, it’s not in anger. It’s a gentle caress that jolts through you like an electric current. You turn to look at him, as he brushes the damp hair back from your forehead. He stares at you for a long moment, drinking in your shock, before leaning down to press cool porcelain lips against yours.

·       The kindness of his gestures surprises you almost more than any blow he could have delivered. When he promised to play rough, he usually meant it. With shaking hands, you reach up to touch his face. Your fingers slip beneath the mask, brushing the hair and skin beneath with feather-light touches. You want to see his face, want kisses from his real lips, want—

·       But the man’s fingers curl around your wrists, wrenching your hands from his face. “No.” There is force behind the word equal to the force with which he pins your wrists against the sheets, indenting the mattress beneath them. His voice, in that same soft whisper from before, rasps in your ear, “Not even when we’re playing, Love.”

·       You swallow hard, all the pretenses of your little experiment dropping away in an instant. You realize you came dangerously close to crossing a line. “Okay. Brahms. I-I’m sorry.”

·       You expect that he’ll want to stop now, and you wouldn’t blame him if he did, but he surprises you by nuzzling against your neck, “Not ‘Brahms.’”

·       So, he still wants to play. You smile up at him. “Oh, right! Sorry.”

·       He bends over your neck again, pressing porcelain kisses against your neck. You crane your head back, eager to make up for your misstep with the mask. There’s something about these kisses that makes your heart flutter—perhaps it’s simply the rush of a new sensation against sensitive flesh, or maybe it’s the knowledge that his real lips lay just beneath that hard surface, so close and yet completely out of reach.

·       When he lets go of your left wrist, you’re so caught up in these kisses, that you barely register it. That is until you feel the mask slide in an unnatural direction against your skin, and you feel Brahms’ real lips against your neck for the first time. Your whole body jerks forward, pressing against him with a soft sigh on your lips. His mouth is softer and warmer than you ever could have imagined. Even his beard feels good where it scratches against you.

·       His teeth scrape over your pulse, drawing another sound from you. You throw your arms around his neck and pull him down on top of you. His laugh rasps out against your throat, as he stamps warm kisses all across your collarbone.

·       You roll your hips against his and he groans, the sound rumbling deep within his chest. He surges upward fixing his teeth into the meat of your neck as he grinds down against you, letting you feel just how badly he wants you. His name slips between your teeth as a hiss and you feel him smile against your neck. His tongue flickers over the mark he’s left, though it’s more to lay further claim than to soothe the ache his teeth pushed into your flesh.

·       When he pulls back, he’s already pushing the mask back into place, though you catch a quick flash of the smirk that pulls at the corner of his mouth.

·       He looks down at you, eyes sliding slow down your body, head cocked to the side like he’s thinking. He has that hungry look about him again and it lights a white-hot bolt of desire in your gut. You lift your hips, rolling them against his, relishing both the spark of pleasure that shoots through your stomach, and the shiver that rolls down his spine. A little whine escapes his lips, and you feel your heart leap. God, you’d do anything to hear that sound again. He meets the roll of your body with a stuttering jolt of his own.

·       You can’t help but beam up at him. “What are you thinking about Brah—Mister?”

·       He sighs deeply, running his hands down your chest, his fingers tracing along your ribs. “About all the things I could do to you…”

·       A breathless puff of laughter escapes you, “Oh, yeah?” You guide his hands down to your hips, hoping he’ll take the hint. “Like what?”

·       “Hm…let’s see. I could, hold you down,” His hands, still resting beneath yours tighten against your hips, pushing you down against the mattress. You try to buck up against him, but he holds you fast, “I don’t think so, Love.” He grips you hard, dipping his head to whisper into your ear, “I could just hold you here, and you’d have to take whatever I decide to give you.” His thumbs trace the seams of your hips. Even through your jeans it makes you shudder.

·       “Or, I could give you very little at all,” He lets go of your hips in favour of ghosting a hand down your thigh. His other hand presses gently against your zipper. His fingers trail down the seam, until you feel the pressure against your clit and jerk against his hand. He pulls away, “Just enough to keep you interested, but not enough to satisfy you.”

·       You whine, feeling a damp patch growing in your underwear. You know he’d get such a charge from dragging this out, teasing you until your arousal had soaked through the denim of your jeans. You could hear him now, ‘A few kisses and some dirty words…it’s that easy?' While you’d usually be willing to indulge him, you weren’t willing to give him that satisfaction today. He was already so uppity as it was. “Or you could just toss my legs over your shoulders and take what you want.” You toss an arm over your forehead in an attempt at playing toward his flair for the dramatic, “Look at me, baby. I’m defenseless.” You roll your hips against him again, nice and slow. You can tell by the hitch in his breathing that you’ve almost got him convinced. You can barely keep the smirk from your face as you arch your back, and whimper for him, “Please?”

·       That one word is all it takes to break him. In a flash he’s slipped out of his cardigan and tossed it off into the darkness of the attic. His suspenders follow suit with a metallic clinking. It isn’t until he’s unbuttoning his trousers that you realize you have mere seconds to undo your own before Brahms falls upon you and tears them off himself. You’ve lost more than one good pair of jeans this way and you don’t intend to lose another if you can help it.

·       Your shaking hands fumble with the button, managing to pop it only after a few tries. Taking them off from your position underneath Brahms is no small feat, especially considering his reluctance to move, now that his trousers rest about his knees and he’s rolling his hips against your still clothed thigh, his cock already leaking against the denim.

·       “Want you now.” His voice is rough, breaking in time with the thrusting of his hips.

·       “I know, baby. But you’ve gotta wait.”

·       Brahms huffs in irritation. ‘Wait’ is not a word he likes to hear at the best of times, let alone when his dick is this hard.

·       You tap his hip gently. “C’mon, up.”

·       He drops his head against your shoulder with a petulant whimper, his hips stuttering against your thigh.

·       “Brahms…” You sigh, half-frustrated, half-amused. You would be lying if you said you didn’t find it incredibly sexy when Brahms acted like a brat, but your pleasure was at stake here as well. “You can’t fuck me properly with my jeans on.”

·       His hips slow for a moment, and he whines again.

·       “C’mon, be a good boy for me.” You feel his cock pulse against your thigh, and he relents. He scoots back just enough for you to push your jeans and underwear down your thighs. Brahms takes care of the rest, tearing the offending fabric from your legs and tossing it from the bed to join his cardigan on the floor.

·       His hands are on your shoulders in an instant, shoving you back against the mattress, all patience spent. You feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and barely have a time to take a breath before he’s pushing inside with a single, smooth stroke.

·       “F-Fuuuck…”

·       “Yeah, that’s the idea, baby.” Your hands are fisted tightly in the sheets, your voice tight as your body grows accustomed to the stretch once again. You’ve taken Brahms with little preparation before. You know you can handle it, but somehow the girth of him almost always comes as a surprise.

·       To his credit, he does his best to keep still until you give him the ‘okay,’ though you can feel his hips shaking with the effort. He’s mouthy while he waits though, any trace of the gentleman within him his gone, replaced by a cursing, dirty-talking stranger, “Gonna pound you into this mattress, gonna fuck you like—fuck you’re so wet—like your my whore…mine, mine, ah fuck! Mine.”

·       You roll your hips, testing the water, and he bites back a string of curses. His hips stutter forward unbidden, and you moan low in your throat.

·       Behind the mask, you see his eyes roll back. He starts to beg then, changing his tune entirely, “Please, Love, let me fuck you, please, please, please. I promise I’ll be good. I will, just please!”

·       You reach up, carding your fingers through his hair, “Show me what a good boy you are, make us feel good, baby.”

·       Without missing a beat, Brahms’ hips take up a frantic rhythm, tearing a litany of pretty sounds from your throat. Your hands tangle themselves in his hair as he drops his head to press doll’s mouth kisses against your throat.

·       Your hand slips between your bodies, spreading your lips to circle your clit. You buck against him, gasping his name as the pleasure courses through you two-fold.

·       A strong hand grasps your wrist again pulling it away from your clit. “We mustn’t touch what isn’t ours.” You nearly whine in frustration, but your displeasure is quickly forgotten when you feel the soft pads of Brahms’ fingers against your sensitive flesh.

·       “You,” he groans in pleasure, angling his hips to push deeper inside of you, “You belong to me.” He punctuates the sentiment with a sharp snap of his hips. “That means I am the only one who can make you feel good.” He presses his fingers hard against your clit, and your thighs begin to shake. “Tell me who you belong to.”

·       It takes you a second to find your voice. “Y-You, Brahms.”

·       “Yesss,” the rhythm of his thrusts is beginning to fall by the wayside as his hips buck and stutter. “Say it again.” His fingers circle your clit faster, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge of orgasm.

·       “Fuck, Brahms! I’m yours! A-All yours! You’re gonna make me cum.”

·       “Mine.” You feel the mask slide to the side again and his lips are on your neck. You feel his teeth graze the bite mark he’d left. His teeth are in your throat, his fingers on your clit, his cock in your cunt, and you’re cumming. His name tumbles from your lips, the only coherent thought in your mind.

·       He groans against your neck, trying to fuck you through it, but you’re too tight around him, forcing him into an agitated stillness. His fingers work your clit feverishly until you push his hand away, too oversensitive to stand another second of it.

·       You’re still almost painfully tight around him when the rhythmic pulsing of your own orgasm begins to push him over the edge. He thrusts into you once, twice, thrice more, before pulling out and shaking apart, his cum painting your thighs and stomach. He whimpers and trembles, fisting his cock through the aftershocks of his orgasm, desperate to chase every last ounce of pleasure.

·       Only when he’s well and truly spent, nearly sobbing from the agony of the overstimulation does he flop down on the cot beside you, panting heavily, cock still twitching against his thighs.

·       He kicks off his trousers, and curls up by your side, throwing an arm around you. For the longest time, the only sound in the room is that of your breathing slowing in tandem as you each come down from your high.

·       Brahms’ voice is small when he speaks up at last, “Did I do okay?”

·       You turn to face him, laying on your side. You reach out a hand and readjust his mask, before pressing a soft kiss against the delicate bow of his lips. “You were perfect. Thank you, Brahms.”

·       He nods once, but he doesn’t look convinced. There’s tension in his shoulders, and he won’t look you in the eyes.

·       “What’s wrong, honey?”

·       He shakes his head, burrowing against your side. “Nothing…”

·       “It doesn’t look like nothing to me. It’s okay to talk to me about things like this, you know.”

·       He’s silent for a little while longer, and you wonder if he needs a little more prodding to use his words. But then, he speaks, “I wasn’t…too rough? In the passages?”

·       “No, baby. No. It was exactly like we talked about.”

·       “Okay.” There’s a little touch of a frown in his voice, like he’s trying to puzzle something through in his mind. “I didn’t expect you to fight me so hard. It felt…real.”

·       “I wanted to make it seem real. Did I upset you?”

·       There’s a long pause, but when he speaks, he sounds genuine. “I don’t think so. It was a little…thrilling.”

·       You can’t help the giggle that bubbles in your throat, “It was, wasn’t it? Where did you get an idea like that? Pretending to kidnap me and all that?”

·       He’s quiet for a moment, as he remembers a time not so long ago, when the idea was meant to be more reality than fantasy. He was supposed to have that girl. He should have done better, should have fought for her harder, should have killed her and buried her in the yard with the others. He should have done a lot of things. The scar on his stomach burns with the memory of all the things he should have done. But they don’t matter now. She doesn’t matter now. He has you.

·       He presses another kiss against your neck and lies, “Recreation of a scene from 'Jane Eyre.' You know how I adore that novel. And you being such a pretty lady, simply had to fill the role of the damsel in distress.”

·       “If you say so.” You snuggle closer against his chest. He really was a very strange man. A yawn blossoms in the base of your jaw, but you do your best to fight it off. You know you’ll be sore later, but for now you’re happy and sated and perfectly content to doze in the arms of the man you love.

·       Then a thought hits you, “Hold on, Jane Eyre doesn’t get kidnapped, Brahms.”

·       He chuckles softly against your shoulder, “So you have been reading my books after all.”

[tartagilicious]

snezhnaya does not believe in broken hearts > childe

→ pov: there is no pov i’m in love with another fictional man. I’m a little rusty writing wise because of school, but someone said childe enemies to lovers and who i am i to say no to that 🥴 so, here’s his boss battle with a ✨twist✨

→ ib: this comic on twt, pls go support it i love it and cry whenever someone mentions it. also, like the comic, childe’s delusion form won’t have a mask just so it’s easier to write his expressions!

→ *there are a good amount of lines that are taken directly from his battle in the game, so beware of detailed spoilers!

You can trust him. But, don’t get too involved. The battle he pursues is dangerous; it’s not something a normal person can withstand.

Whether you realised it or not, every moment you had spent with him began to carve out a hole in your chest, bittersweetly wearing away every layer of protection you had unconsciously built up. It wasn’t a well-done job by any means; the edges it left were particularly jagged, but the softness Childe still managed to pull from them left you stunned every time it chose to peek its head out.

“Don’t be so on edge, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

It suddenly became a daily routine to expect him at some point, whether it entailed him coming upon you doing a commission in the middle of the mountains, or you crossing paths in Liyue while some type of street food balanced precariously in his grip.

Yet, what you failed to notice was that most times, he would take care to place another of the same delicacy into your hand, as if expecting to see you. Childe would meet you in the middle of the mountains not by chance, but rather by a sense of curious boredom, wherein your company was the only suitable way to pass the time.

Subsequently, the only question remaining in a scenario such as this, was what the other meant to each of them — were you truly able to push your obligations aside, or were you only getting close enough to have enough leverage to strike?

On any occasion a disarming laugh left his mouth, or he lent you his support without question, you failed to remember that you were pitched as enemies in the first place. You inevitably no longer felt the same wariness towards the harbinger over time, but it only made you that much more guilty to know just how easily you had begun to trust him.

Yet no matter the hopeful sentiments your sputtering heart provided you, you knew one thing to be true that would always remain so: you would never be on the same side.

“You’ve already fulfilled your task as guide, so why do you still linger here? Haven’t you already seen enough trouble for today?”

You had entered the Golden House apprehensively, perhaps hoping even over the Exuvia’s safety that you wouldn’t meet him there. But coming upon it and hearing the one voice you had been dreading, you begrudgingly came to terms with the fact that you would have to face reality eventually.

“Huh?” Paimon is startled by the sudden disembodied voice. “Who’s there?!”

Childe reveals himself by coming up the stairs you had just now ascended, his saunter maddeningly casual. “If you were Fatui, I imagine that you would be entitled to a generous reward from the Tsaritsa yourself.”

The way he tilts his head with such fake amiability grates across you like nails on a chalkboard. “But now you’re nothing but dross -- and you’re in my way.”

“It looks like I was just in time, then.”

Childe laughs. “Although I’m deeply grateful to you for helping me so effortlessly find this secret location… don’t you think that trying to stop me now would only be a wasted effort?”

“Stopping the mora mints, hiding away the Exuvia,” He laughs again, and your hand instinctively makes a small stretch for your weapon. “And sending you. The Qixing are really pulling out all the stops this time.”

“So you were planning to take the gnosis all along?” You ask flatly, your words swallowed by your own hesitation just after you’d barely gotten out the last word. Even though this mishap wasn’t very detectable, shame burns the back of your throat at the honesty of the reflex.

“As one of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers, it’s my duty to see the will of the Tsaritsa fulfilled. And she will get which she desires.”

You shake your head, fully grounding your hand and preparing to draw your sword. “Not if I don’t allow you to get near the Exuvia.”

“I’m not looking for your blessing, ___.” Childe narrows his eyes and takes note of this action, the implications of it drawing up a wanton sense of disappointment he had long been expecting. This varies little from your own dismay, unbeknownst to him. “There’s nothing you could do to stop me anyways.”

“The time for discussion and diplomacy has already long passed. I mean, if it were up to me, I would have skipped that stage to begin with… but, I’m willing to do as the Tsaritsa deems fit.”

“Either way,” An eyebrow arches as an equally intrigued smile pulls at the corner of his lips. “It seems we’re now coming upon my favourite part --  a simple pleasure, and one that I am oh-so delighted to be sharing with you.”

it’s as if a pin drops, and he grins. “The battle.”

You now stand at a fork. Two paths stare at you with expectant eyes, both equally enticing; but the drawbacks of the indulgent solution unfortunately long outweigh those of their obvious counterpart. It’s a decision that must be made on behalf of Liyue, not the hurt of a single heart.

Paimon scoffs, drawing you from your thoughts. “So you’re the type that goes looking for trouble, huh?”

Childe’s laughter rings out, and he throws his head back as if he had heard something particularly funny. “I guess you could say that!”

“When Signora offended the deities outside of the cathedral in Mondstadt, she swiftly left the scene once her mission was accomplished. Instead of confronting you directly, she chose to rely on the snow and ice to make an escape.”

“I would take that as far more than its face value. When she faces a worthy opponent, she will prioritise her mission, weigh the outcomes, and consider the consequences of her actions…” He explains, trailing off with an inexplicable smile. “But as for me, the greatest pleasure of being a harbinger lies in the opportunities I have to cross blades with such opponents.”

“That doesn’t mean we’ll let what happened in Mondstadt ever happen again.”

“Oh? So you do intend to fight me? Good.” Childe’s excitement baffles you and pumps adrenaline into your veins simultaneously. “I won’t kill you, ___, I’ll just play along. To feel the thrill of battle!”

“Besides,” He puts his hands out in an aimless gesture. “You could never defeat me, not even in your wildest dreams. But hey, try to relish in the fight anyways, because if you ask me… without that, what else is there?”

“I could never defeat you?!” His words get the better of you and you laugh in disbelief. “You’re completely delusional.”

He returns the laugh delightedly, igniting a fire of mixed emotions in your chest. “Fighting talk, I love it! Now, let’s see you live up to it.”

You draw your sword at the drop of his last word, taking a step back in preparation for what was to come. Childe, meanwhile, stands watching you with a brewing sensation of glee.

“This chance isn’t easy to come by, so show me all you’ve got.” Arrows infused with water begin to fly in your direction, though you avoid them in haste. “So very few ever get the chance to square off with a Fatui Harbinger, so come now, amuse me. And don’t you dare disappoint.”

You find yourself gritting your teeth at the arrogant words, taken aback at his challenging tone. “You say your colleague has found me praiseworthy, but tell me to only amuse you? That’s a disappointing downgrade.”

A lapse in the time Childe has to shoot gives you enough time to approach him, throwing out a strike of your sword that he catches with his own weapon moulded by water.

“It’s by no means an insult, ___, I’m merely proposing a challenge.” He looks at the way your blades grit against each other and grins. “And it seems you’ve accepted it.” You jump back with the force of his attack to propel yourself. A barrage of geo-aligned magic is summoned beneath your opponent with a stomp to the marble floor.

However, he sidesteps it in a similar fashion, and through a quick exchange of harsh blows, both of you stand back to scope things out. Still, the one aspect that continues to overshadow the rest of your thoughts is the way that Childe’s personality has changed under the scrutiny of battle.

The playful tone he normally sports is long gone, now replaced with a deeper and more realistic one; perhaps even slightly more menacing. It’s as if he’s been flipped into a completely different person.

He laughs maniacally as he uses his hydro vision to drive waves of water out towards you, fully intent on at least knocking you off your feet. The burst of elemental energy ends when Childe leaps back onto the ground. This gives you the leverage you need to go in with another geo attack, this time catching him off guard and launching him to the side.

Childe coughs at the force of the action, his lips curving up into a smile. “Good! No wonder signora was so wary of you.”

His body is encased in an impenetrable bubble of water in an instant, a flash of deep light lashing out from the centre before revealing Childe once again. His swords of water have since been infused by electro energy, and his clothes are darker -- the most noticeable difference, however, is the Fatui mask that had previously been slung over his hair now laid properly over his face.

“Well, that just means I can go all out! Brace yourself, this is about to get tough…” He takes a few preliminary steps. “Show me what you can do against the might of a Harbinger!”

The strikes do indeed get faster. Childe toughens up against seemingly every one of your attacks, dodging most if not all of with even more ease than before. you grit your teeth as you rush to keep up with the frequent blows thrown at you. But, in a panic and reflexive drawback, you retract your sword and desperately block with your arm instead.

Silence entraps the incredibly large room as your sword clatters noisily to the floor. Both the cloth running up the expanse of your arm and wrist piece are slashed considerably, all to reveal a shallow but long gash.

The sensation of electro wastes little time in taking effect, burning up your arm and inducing an inevitable cry of pain as both of you take a step back. Malleable emotion hangs in the heavy atmosphere, waiting to be addressed or otherwise plucked down from their higher place.

Though, his reaction in that split second shows that he might not be just as lost as you’d thought.

Childe has little courage to speak up on any of these topics, but in whatever way he chooses to ignore the berating voice in his head, he can’t push away the sensation of regret swimming in his chest. Watching your face briefly contort in pain you try so hard to hide, yet standing close and being unable to do anything about it -- it’s more real than any understating word his brain could ever feed him.

“What are you doing just standing there?” You suddenly taunt, your voice slightly hoarse as you turn to hide the blood that seeps into your clothing. “I thought you said that you were going to go all out.”

Childe knows that you're right. He had said that, but what would it mean for him to continue? Brawling with you brought the same drunkening high of adrenaline he’s been chasing since he escaped from the abyss all those years ago-- although hurting you wasn’t any sort of intention he’d ever had.

“...I’m only offering a moment to buffer, but I must say -- you’re not bad. Your swordsmanship is quite impressive.” Childe desperately swallows back anything extra that pops into his head and twirls his electrified staff. Personal desires are the last thing he can afford to pay attention to. “But, that’s about as far as you’ll get.”

You sloppily intercept a rough attack that threatens to send you flying backwards, gritting your teeth as you push back with the force of your Anemo power. It goes well for all but the way your arm begins to falter under the stress. Your head naturally follows your body’s trajectory, yet in your panic, the stroke your toed boot makes across the floor leaves a trail of blistering geo behind.

The elements present react immediately, resulting in a blinding explosion. You’re thrown off too quickly and land unsteadily, pain shooting up your arm as you exhale shakily -- you’d never had the misfortune of experiencing a hydro and electro vision working together before now.

“___, are you okay?” Paimon asks frantically, your tiny hands trying their best to locate the heart of the wound on your injured arm. “That cut looks deep, do you really think it’s a good idea to keep pushing yourself?”

You shake your head in dismissal as your eyes move with the clearing dust. “It’s fine, but my sword--?”

Once the haze disperses, you spot your sword almost instantly -- however, you also find Childe’s staff sticking haphazardly into the marble floor right next to it, its owner nowhere to be found.

A laugh sounds from behind you. “I really didn’t think you had that card hidden up your sleeve!”

Your heart drops into your stomach when you whip around to see Childe standing beside Rex Lapis’ corpse, his grin wide like he’d already won the match between you.

“You were just playing us to get close to the Exuvia!”

“Oh, quiet down. Don’t be so quick to judge. You’ve seen this world, you of all people should know...” Childe steadily gathers a ball of electro energy in his palm, the lightning fusing around his gloved hand before materialising. “That this should have been expected!”

The sound is deafening as Childe forces his hand into the Exuvia, opposing elements colliding and responding in turn. “I’ll be taking Morax’s gnosis now!”

Shockwaves come out like tides as the entire room shakes under the pressure of the single action. You’re quick to shield your injured arm from the battering wind, while Paimon latches onto the ornament covering your elbow.

Yet, much to everyone’s surprise, the hand that emerges and unfolds under the glaring light is very much empty.

Childe is taken aback by the particles of light that float from his gloved hand, laughing in frustration as well as bewilderment. “I see. Well, this is most unexpected.”

He turns to look at you through his mask, taking in the equally as surprised expression that moulds your features. But the detail that begins to surface ignites a different, and entirely real type of irritation in him, is the way that your eyes begin to change.

“Morax’s gnosis is far from another old antique,” Ningguang had prefaced this when you had visited her in the Jade Chamber, her words stable and forward. “It is a sign of Liyue’s reigning power, and also a symbol for the people to look towards; as not only a god, but also the keeper of peace. This is not something that would be hidden carelessly.”

“Many people throughout my years as a Qixing have tried to outsmart the layers close to the gnosis, however, none have succeeded. Its protector is someone of utmost secrecy whose identity I must not reveal, not even to you.”

She had sighed, placing a warm yet distant smile on her face. “But, I believe this method will continue to deter unwanted hands, along with you in their capable stead.”

Your eyes widen as you take an instinctual step back. You’d found it nearly impossible when tasked with feeding the Harbinger outdated details, though your heart feels heavy in realising that it had gone to show how much Childe truly did learn to trust you.

But, it had worked, hadn’t it? Because of this, the exuvia was somewhere far away -- in capable hands, as Ningguang had phrased it. Yet you feel little want to celebrate this small victory, immediately reminded of the situation it’s caused as Childe’s vision flares up around him, warping his figure in your eyes.

“You… You beat me to it, didn’t you?” Childe doesn’t miss your sense of victory being quickly replaced by fear, but in a fit of irritation, he takes no time in disregarding it.

He leaps haphazardly into the centre of the room, forcing you to careen out of the way as his electro vision fries the air around you. It becomes stuffy and unbearably hot in the enclosed space entirely too quickly. But, throughout the sudden drastic change in their atmosphere, you can’t help but notice the second transformation that Childe has gone through; yet rather this time, it’s much more drastic.

Once the air dissipates, Childe leaps back to the floor once again, his heavy military boots marking his step indefinitely. The attire he wears is fittingly close to armour -- presenting a deep blue and purple suit that fits like a second skin.

“Not a bad trick,” His spear of water that had since been lodged in the marble floor flies into his hand, twirling to rest on his shoulder as his voice stabilises. “But, this is going to cost you!”

The same weapon is pushed into the ground with overflowing destructive power. It quickly runs veins out like web beneath your feet, electro charge roughly and abruptly breaking the floor to reveal another space below.

You're dragged down indiscriminately amongst the falling debris, roughly colliding with the sharp edges before hitting the ground once again. Your arm, still slightly bleeding and swollen, screams at the harsh impact. Though having landed on your stomach meant that other parts of your body had absorbed most of the shock, natural reflexes had forced you to receive some of the heavier damage in your arm regardless.

There wasn’t a lot that you could do about this, however, other than pick yourself up again and hope that Childe was still too high up to see your pain clearly. Thankfully, lo and behold, a purple light just then begins to descend almost hauntingly through the smoke. It blinks out briefly before revealing Childe again as every messy part of the room is blown away by an incredible elemental power.

You hold up your uninjured arm to combat against the strong wind, wincing as your body is forced back.

“You got to the gnosis ahead of me, didn’t you?” Childe’s staff finally rests in his hand, however, the aura he gives off alone is enough to make you antsy. “Did you simply move faster? Or… did you leak the information regarding the Golden House to me on purpose?”

“...You’ve outsmarted me, ___. But that doesn’t mean the information won’t be in my hands by the time we’re done.” Another electric current fills the room as he moves to make an attack. “So, fight hard knowing there's something of such value on the line.”

Your eyes flicker around the room for your sword as you say, “How do you know that I have any of the information you need? That’s betting a lot on nothing.”

He laughs, the familiar sound chilling.

“You don’t have to be omnipotent to take a best guess. Besides, I’m confident enough in knowing that you’re smart enough to play me, so a battle between friends to determine that isn’t too much of a stretch, is it?”

You spot the sword and take a hesitant step towards it, attempting to return his words as a distraction. “It’s strange to call me a friend and threaten to put a knife in my chest in the same sentence. I thought you said that you weren’t going to kill me?”

Childe pauses, debating his next words carefully. “...Conditions are ever-changing.”

“If they were going to change so drastically, you should have told me earlier. Maybe then I could’ve figured out how to explain something I don’t know the answer to.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, ___.” His delusion’s deeper tone makes even the most playful of his words sound threatening. You stand your ground, though, knowing that no matter what your apprehension presents, nothing will change the fact that your weapon is only a mere step away.

“I know that you can tell me.”

You know I can? The supposedly comforting statement bounces around in your head, creating a ringing in your ears and a painful drumming against your temples. It’s not that simple, you think. There's little he wouldn’t be able to get from you if gone about the right way, however, as long as the information remained important, it would stay unattainable to even him.

You grit your teeth, feet twisting boldly into a position that’ll make it easier to leap in the direction you need. “I won’t tell you anything,” The leap is short and filled with almost too much strength, but you make up for any shortcomings by turning to block the incredibly close blow Childe had thrust out to stop you.

You push your sword against his with the force of all of your irritation, jaw clenched as your words come out in a single breath. “Because I know that I don’t have anything to say to the person that betrayed me.”

Unsurprisingly, words like those are some of the last that Childe wants to hear at that moment. No amount of guilt tripping or humiliation was typically enough to get to him, however, your simple declaration hits him in a spot that he’s long tried to bury.

Childe scoffs, pretending that he hadn’t blatantly hesitated. “You’re not fit to be here if you’re shaken by the betrayal of someone like me. Take it from me and give up while you’re ahead.”

You’re stunned by Childe’s brutal words for a brief moment, leaving him an important window to more easily knock your weapon away, out of your weakened hands. His blade meets your throat with little hesitation, the cool water stinging against your overheated skin.

Childe’s eyes wander to the way your body turns slightly to protect your injured arm, and disregarding the way his stomach twists, he shakes his head. “What’s wrong, ___? The way you are now won’t be able to defeat me.”

He looks at the way you hesitate and the already putrid feeling in his gut turns rotting. You make no more effort to fight back despite your strength, nor move the weapon lying firmly right over one of your weakest points.

“I might end up killing you if you don’t tell me where the gnosis is.” Childe tries to push you further, but is taken aback when your brows knit as if frustrated. You know very well that he’s someone with bad intentions, yet why do you continue to yearn to see the good in him? To see the carefree person you’d known before today?

You don’t respond, unmoving beneath his heavy gaze for all but the way your hands begin to slowly hover up towards the sword pressuring your neck.

Why can’t you stop?

Your shaking hands take the blade lightly in your grip, the vision-adjacent water searing your battered skin. A droplet of sweat slides down your cheek yet all you can focus on is the way Childe’s eyes instantly delve into panic.

“If you’re going to kill me, you should hurry up and save us both the suffering.”

The sudden powerful statement sounds unreal coming from such a weakened person, blood running down your fingers as you force his sword away.

“What makes you think that your death would cause me any harm?” Childe’s heart thumps wildly beneath his clothes as he lets his weapon be redirectioned, but his brows furrow. “I used you. Do you have yet to realise that?”

“You think I’m so inept that I would believe in someone so fast?” Your fingers go to nestle in the fabric of your skirt, the clothing acting as a temporary shield from the pain. “It was no secret that you weren’t someone to be trusted.”

“Then why lead me here if you’re so confident in yourself? Surely you don’t think that picking a fight with me was a sound idea?”

“You came here yourself. I was never looking to fight.” You mumble truthfully, taking your hand away from your skirt to reveal your palms stained with blood. “...I only said what I did because I don't like hurting those I care about.”

Childe stands paralysed in shock upon hearing such honest words, his mouth opening and closing as he rushes to process their meaning. What could he possibly say to that?

You hadn’t left a single mark on him despite believing that you were fighting for your life, whereas he had prioritised outside matters over listening to his internal backlash -- he had hurt you in a simple twisted warning.

“___, you--”

He’s barely able to get a sentence out before you sigh, going up to him with little hope before wrapping your arms around him.

Childe exhales unsteadily, his weapons then evaporating as his torso and arms instinctively straighten up. Moments of complete stillness go by unhindered. But, you wait patiently for any type of response from the man in your arms.

“...___.” He finally mumbles this from above your head, voice incredibly soft. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You’re at a loss as for how to respond, because truthfully -- the answer is mostly lost even to you. All you can do is drown in the silence that you’ve created, heart picking out the worst parts of the way his posture stays tense.

Childe groans abruptly, his delusion slowly beginning to break down to reveal his normal clothes. “Come on,”

As if something restricting him had suddenly been removed, he staggers and sinks to his knees, body going limp at the sudden lapse in support of his vision. Though fortunately, you follow him even while he goes down.

Your arms struggle to support the sudden weight as his chin lulls forward, colliding with your shoulder just as your knees hit the floor. He’s not entirely weak, you think, noticing the way he purposely tries to shift a lot of pressure off of you. Though you don’t know much about his delusion, it seems viable to assume that the form had just exhausted a decent amount of energy.

You feel the heat of his hands hesitantly coming upon your sides, but much to your disappointment, they quickly retract before he mumbles, “You’re a fool.”

“I know.” You whisper. “But, it’s too late. I can’t give up on you now.”

Childe scoffs, the sound muffled by your shoulder as he brings his arms up around you. He embraces you so tightly that it’s as if you’ve struck something inside him.

Those words are so unfair, they almost give me hope.

[buckyskorpion]

11 hours - part seven

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: hello i apologise in advance. pls dont hurt me!!! i would appreciate your feedback and your theories about where this fic is going! i hope this part isn’t too..... upsetting lmao. i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist | please donate to my ko-fi!

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You believed, until now, that you walked the world seeking out dark corners and underbellies other people didn’t want to touch. That’s your job. The current case you're supposed to be working on involves a man suspected of drugging his girlfriend to take nonconsensual nudes of her and sell them to his friends while she slept. You’re well aware the world is a dangerous place.

But things look different now, in a way you never could have imagined before the Lerna. Those men were dead before you could blink, and you know life is expendable and fragile and so easy to take but it’s another thing to see it taken before your eyes. It’s another thing to take it yourself. And you know, now, why Bucky would only show you parts of his life and himself because this whole truth feels like staring directly into the sun - painfully bright, to the point where it’s all you can see and all the good things are reduced to a spotty, hazy blur.

You’re sitting in your office, at your desk where you’re trying to work but you can’t get the sound of bullet casings hitting the floor and the thunk of a knife in skin out of your head. There, in the centre of your tiny office, was where you sat on Bucky’s lap and kissed him and demanded ‘no secrets.’ Too stubborn to know he was keeping them for a reason, that maybe there are things you don't want to know after all. But you can feel his skin under your fingertips and the brush of his stubble as he kissed you, a memory you can touch, and you can’t help but think it still feels worth it. At the end of it all, if it was a choice of the Lerna happening or never having Bucky at all, you know what you’d chose.

As if he can hear you, your phone buzzes with a text from him. Joey’s at 7?

It’s already 6:30. You’re grabbing your keys and leaving the fear on your desk chair as you text him back. Sounds perfect.

It really is. Joey’s is your favourite bar, and just seeing the grimy neon sign outside makes your heart feel less heavy. This, after everything, remains the same. You still feel giddy jogging down the stairs, ready for the heady bass music to push through your chest and a whiskey apple to numb the wounds. It feels like the beginning, half-nervous half-excited to go find Bucky tucked in a booth at the back, dim purple light chiseling out his cheekbones and catching bright on his sharp smile. Back then it was innocent, if a fuck buddy hook-up could be. Now that you know you would do things for Bucky you’d never do for anyone else, that you don’t think you’ll ever be able to remove his brand from your heart- well. You skip a couple more steps as you head down into Joey’s, only a few minutes late.

You don’t slow down as you enter the bar, weaving through patrons searching for a familiar face. Now that you’re here to the urge to see him, to have him in your arms, is almost unbearable. When you do find Bucky, spinning a glass between his fingers in a nervous habit you’ve noticed he has, he feels your eyes on him immediately. He stands and you crash into him, burying your hands under his leather jacket to feel the warmth of his body against your palms. Bucky hugs you back just as harshly, the force of his embrace lifting your toes off the ground. When he pulls away his runs a hand over your head, down your hair, coming to rest by the side of your neck as if to check your pulse and make sure you’re really there.

“You ok?” he asks, bright blue eyes now dark and hooded as he stares down at you.

You nod, unwilling to let go of your grip on the back of his t-shirt even as he pulls away, and say, “Am now.”

“Need to talk to you, it’s important,” Bucky says. He escapes your grip with ease, because he’s huge and strong and it’s easy to forget that when he softens for you. He sits at the booth and you slide in across him, watching as he downs the rest of the straight whiskey in his glass like its water. That bad feeling is back, like back at Steve’s tattoo shop, but you don’t want it here. You fumble for Bucky’s hand across the table, and he lets you hold it but it doesn’t stop the dread settling heavy in your gut. You squeeze his fingers tighter, just in case.

“Is everything alright?” you ask. “Are we- did the cops find out-“

“No, no,” Bucky says, shaking his head down at the table. His gaze catches on your intwined fingers, the glint of his signet rings in the dim bar light, and says, “The cops aren’t the problem.”

“But there is a problem,” you say, and now Bucky raises his eyes to look at you.

“I need to tell you something, it’s important” Bucky says, again, and the dread rises from your stomach like bile to your throat. “You have to understand this, so you can see that I’m not- that this isn’t just-“

“Bucky.” He lets out a ragged breath as you cut him off mid ramble, scrubs a hand through his hair. You hate the way your voice wobbles when you say, “You’re scaring me.”

You almost make yourself laugh as those words leave your mouth. This scares you? Bucky, frustrated and nervous and clinging to your hand like a lifeline, but when he walked over lifeless bodies he sunk bullets into with a giant rifle on his back - that was just fine.

“You know when we were at Steve’s, and we were talking about Hydra? About Rumlow? Do you remember that?” Bucky asks. He stares at you like he’s imploring you to say it for him, whatever it is he’s struggling to say, but you don’t understand.

You nod slowly and say, “Natasha said Rumlow had it out for you. You said Hydra is your biggest rival.”

“Yes, right,” Bucky says, nodding a bit manically. He’s still gripping your hand tight. “Rumlow hated me, and as far as we can tell - or Nat, I guess, she’s been looking into it - he was acting on his own, to get to me.”

“That’s good, right?” You don’t feel sure, with the way Bucky is acting and looking at you all glassy-eyed. “No big gang war, or whatever.”

“I need you to understand why Rumlow hated me, because it’s not just- it wasn’t just about him, ok?” Bucky says, and now he’s looking around the room like that night in your office. Casing the bar, looking for exits. “He’s dead, but none of this died with him.”

“What is ‘this’?” you ask, and wonder for the first time, do I want to find out?

“The first time I met Rumlow was in the hospital, a couple of days after I got back from Afghanistan,” Bucky says. “I’d been honourably discharged, my arm was all fucked up and fried from a chem bomb and I lost all sensation in it so they sent me home. I remember I was lying in the bed looking out the window, and it was snowing. I hadn’t been anywhere but a desert in so long and I was like, what do I do know? I don’t own a coat anymore. I’m a black ops sniper, that’s not exactly a transferrable skill - can’t even put it on a resume because it’s classified. My arm’s fried and ugly lookin’. I’m fucked.”

“You must’ve been so scared,” you say. Bucky meets your eyes, and you can see it haunting him in the back of them - so much heat and fire and pain left behind, so much cold and unknown and pain lying in front. Your dad has told you a similar story, when he came back from Iraq, and he had the same look in his eyes Bucky does right now.

“I was,” he says, and you squeeze his fingers. He looks towards your hands again and says, “I was, and they knew it.”

“Hydra,” you say, and you know you’re right. Bucky nods anyway.

“Rumlow came into my hospital room and told me, Hydra helps guys like me. They helped him and look - he’s got a job and money and friends and a team again. A purpose. But I said no. I’m black ops, I know shady guys when I seem ‘em and Rumlow reeked of it. Just, Hydra doesn’t like being told no.”

“They target vulnerable, traumatised vets in hospitals?” you ask, disgusted. You can taste the hate that boils up, and that ugly, angry part picturing Bucky lying in a bed so alone and afraid and imagining someone like Rumlow trying to take advantage of him like that - that ugly part says I’m glad he’s dead.

“They’re highly trained and easily moulded,” Bucky says in way of answer, and you shudder at the thought. “But seem Rumlow failed and it was my fault. He failed over and over again every time they sent him to recruit me. So he hated me, and then I started the Commandos with Steve and Sam and Nat to target them. The only way to save the next poor bastard like me from ending up with Hydra is to end them, except there ain't a cop in the city who can touch them.”

“But you can,” you say, and you know it’s stupid but your heart has never been known as terribly smart, so you add, “Bucky, that’s dangerous.”

He smiles, small but it’s there, and he rubs his thumb over your knuckles as he says, “I know, doll. I don’t know if you know this about me, but stupid’s kinda my thing.”

“Very funny,” you say, rolling your eyes at Bucky’s cheeky grin now splitting his face. As quick as it came, though, his smile dies and so does the small spark of hope that maybe this story has a happy ending.

“I’ve made Hydra my enemy and I can’t change that. I don’t want to,” Bucky says, nodding solemnly at his own words and you watch him physically turn cold, stony and distant in the space of a second. “But that means that as long as Hydra is around, they’re going to be coming after me. First Rumlow, but it won’t stop there. They’ll come and keep coming and what if, one time, I don’t get there in time? Or you don’t get to leave your phone on, or even make it to a location before they shoot you in the back of the car?”

“No,” you say. You’re not stupid, you know where this is going and just- no. Bucky is being deliberately harsh, speaking loud and unfiltered to try and make it easier to do what he’s about to do but you won’t let him. That dread turned bile has now turned into straight, acidic fire pumping through veins and it hurts.

Bucky smiles faint and sad, says, “You said it yourself - it’s dangerous no matter what.”

“That's not what I meant,” you say, shaking your head vehemently, wildly, as if you can physically shake Bucky of this stupid idea and the actual pain you’re in just entertaining this conversation. “You know that’s not what I meant, what are- you asked me to stay, Bucky. You asked me, and now you want-“

“I know, I know,” Bucky says,  tugging your hand close to him now but it’s your turn to try and pull away, albeit unsuccessfully. “I know and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but you almost died. Do you understand that? They would have killed you, and the only reason is me.”  

“That’s such bullshit,” you say, trying and failing to pull your hand free of his grip but he isn’t letting go now and the death-grip he has on you, tethering you to him even as he pushes you away, makes your eyes sting with ugly tears.

“It’s not,” Bucky says, so sad, and you just want to kiss that guilt away for him even still, even as your heart is breaking under his fist. “You will always be in danger until the day comes where I can’t protect you, and I won’t do that to you. I can’t, I can’t be the reason you get hurt.”

“You can’t protect me if you’re not around,” you say, so soft you can barely be heard over Joey’s house music but honestly, you might as well be completely alone for how little you care about the bar around you.

“The safest place for you is away from me,” Bucky says, and that makes you laugh. Humourless, fucking painfully, but you laugh and Bucky glares so dark you’re reminded of the look in his eyes when he stared down at Rumlow’s body bleeding out on the ground. Through gritted teeth he says, “You think I would do this if there was any other way?”

“There is another way,” you say, glaring right back. “There’s not being a coward about it, Bucky. You lead a dangerous life, I get it. Believe me, I fucking get it, and I chose to stay. Ok? I wanna be here anyway, so why does my choice not matter to you? Is this some stupid excuse to get rid of me?”

“Don’t say that,” Bucky all but growls, and you should be scared. He’s scary, Bucky is dangerous by his own admission but you refuse to be afraid of him. Even when he’s trying to force you to be, holding your hand too tight and dragging you around the booth so he can pin you to the seat and you both know the only way you can move is if he lets you. As if he thinks he can scare you away from him, if he can’t reason you to go.

“I don’t care how dangerous it is,” you say into his seething face, inches from yours, teeth bared in a truly terrifying snarl as he pins you to the leather in a show of strength that will leave bruises tomorrow. “I don’t wanna be away from you.”

For half a moment, you really think Bucky is going to hit you. He moves so fast, and you’ve never seen his face look like that - hurt and angry and upset and half-insane all at once. But he just presses his forehead to yours, closes his eyes and breathes you in, and for another half a moment you get to think, maybe he’ll change his mind.

“You’re all I want,” Bucky breathes, so soft and quiet you almost don’t hear him if it wasn’t said almost directly into your skin. “But that’s selfish.”

“I don’t care,” you say, like a mantra now, or a prayer. Just hoping he’ll hear you, “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.”

“You should,” Bucky says, and pulls away from you just as fast as he came in. “I won’t be the reason you end up dead.”

Bucky sits before you like a solid brick wall - unbreakable, immovable, cold and blank. His eyes are shuttered from you and you know there’s no way to get to him now. There’s nothing else you can say. If you aren’t enough for him to push past his fear and love you anyway, nothing you say is going to change his mind. Just because you know it’s true doesn’t mean it hurts any less, though, as you sit there boxed in by this menacing stranger looking at you in a way you never want to be looked at again. Like he already doesn’t know you. Like you’ve already been forgotten.

“This was always gonna happen, wasn’t it?” you ask, more to yourself than to Bucky. You laugh at his silence, the flat set of his mouth and clenched fists on his thighs. Maybe if you never went to that first party at Natasha’s house and remained at arms length, sneaking out his window and never staying the night, then maybe you could’ve had him just a little bit longer. But you didn’t, and now you’re hurt in a way you’ve never been before. Your dad never prepared you to survive a pain like this.

You slide out the other side of the booth, tripping slightly as you climb to unsteady feet. It’s hard to see through unshed tears but you don’t bother looking back at Bucky still sat in the booth. You weave through people just as fast as when you came in, but for the opposite reason now - you can’t leave behind this dim-lit bar painted with the gorey tatters of your heart fast enough.

When you emerge onto the street you know Bucky has followed you, his hulking presence palpable behind you as you stand on the sidewalk and try and calm your rapid heartbeat. You’re surprised its still beating with how much it hurts, especially when Bucky places a hand on your shoulder and cracks your heart neatly in two. He says, softly under New York traffic, “Let me drive you home. Please.”

Instead of asking why, why does he care, why does he want to, if the safest place is away from you then leave me alone, what you say is a mildly whiny, “You don’t know where I live.”

“I’ll put the address in my phone,” Bucky says, calm and low as if to placate you but you’re well past that point now. You’re crying openly on the street like a lunatic as Bucky gently takes your hand and leads you towards his bike, manhandles you onto it, clicks a helmet on over your head. It feels cruel for him to be this soft after so ruthlessly tearing you apart, but you suppose it’s better than being left alone in the street like he never cared at all.

When you pull up to your apartment building Bucky kills the engine and leans in close to you before you have a chance to jump off and run away. You think, surely he’s not about to kiss me right now and you really hate the part of you that hopes he does, but he doesn’t. He just leans in close and whispers into your helmet, “They could be watching your place, after what happened. I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes. Bucky’s right, this will never stop, but that doesn’t mean you want to face it alone. Your whole life has been carved out for you only, but just once you thought maybe you could live it with someone else. That’s not a life for you to have, it seems, so you take a deep breath through snotty tears and nod, say, “I can handle it,” because you know you can. You’ll have to.

“I think-“ Bucky starts but falters, bites his lip blanched white before continuing, “They might leave you alone if you make it clear I’m not in your life anymore.”

“You can’t ask me to do that,” you say, and all the resolve you just gathered is shattered as instantly as you found it. You’re crying again because fuck, nothing has ever hurt like this has, from the inside where you can’t find it or heal it or stop it so it just sucks the life out of you one painful second at a time.

“You have to, honey,” Bucky says, and you want to punch him for it. The way he talks to you like he loves you, like he cares, but he can’t if he’s making you do this. Break your own heart to save his. “Scream at me, send me away. They won’t need to target you then.”

“You’re cruel,” you say, pulling away from him. You don’t want to touch him anymore, can’t stand to be this close so you trip off the bike and stumble down the street. Bucky stares after you, his own eyes teary and face screwed up in genuine pain. It could never compare to the sick feelings in your stomach as you take a deep breath and scream, “Go away, Bucky. Fucking leave me alone and never come back or I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me? Fuck off, and don’t come back.”

You can’t help the sob that rips from you, threatening to buckle your knees and break you right on the sidewalk. Bucky is looking at you like you’ve just stuck a knife in his chest but he asked you to, he keeps asking and taking and it’s always you that ends up hurt. You leave him on the street, stumble up the stairs to your apartment and sink to the floor as soon as the door clicks shut behind you. It’s dark in your apartment, nothing but streetlights outside casting shadows on furniture he never touched, but it still feels like he’s haunting you just the same.

Bucky’s bike revs to life and he tears away, the sound ripping straight through and down the street. It leaves you hollowed out, a burnt-through husk curled up on your hardwood floor. You know you’ll never hear that sound again.

****

For your entire life it’s always been you against the world. The only person you could ever trust is yourself, the only one who’s going to look out for you is you and you can’t remember a time where you didn’t think this way. Maybe it’s nature, maybe it’s nurture, but it’s how you’ve always seen the world.

However, you’re only now starting to feel what being truly alone is actually like.

Bucky’s contact lies open on your phone, but you don’t press call. You won’t. He pushed you away for your own ‘safety,’ for his own fear, and you’ll have to learn to live with his choice. Even though you still love him and always will, you can’t have him and you’ll just have to be ok with that. So you leave this contact photo up on your phone, resting on your coffee table beside your open laptop. You’ve got the input feed of the bug you planted in your dad’s kitchen open, chunky headphones on, scrolling through the audio from the past few days since you’d last seen him.

Your heart is broken by the first man you’ve ever let into your life and the only other person who knows you and who you trust, you’re currently spying on. Now, for the first time, you truly have no one left.

Focusing on work has always been an escape for you, and even when your life is in pieces around you and your heart looks no different, work still pulls through. Even if that work is your own father and the inane conversations he has with himself about the baseball teams on TV, or the calls he makes to his vet friends, or the late-night renditions of ABBA songs you remember well from your childhood. A file lies open on your coffee table with your father’s name on it and pages of notes you’ve made from nearly one hundred hours of audio recordings. You hope beyond hope that you’re just paranoid, and that this time when you go digging you don’t find anything at all.

The only thing you’ve noticed so far is your dad makes a lot of phone calls. They’re long, with a lot of names thrown around you don’t recognise as being his friends or anyone from work he’s mentioned to you before. You write them all down to look up later, but you’ve got to go meet a client so you shut everything down and collect your notes in the file. You hide them, just in case, and grab your leather jacket before you leave. You still have rent to pay. The world goes on around you despite everything being turned upside down, almost as if Bucky never happened at all.

You leave via the back of the building, to come out onto the street closest to the subway station. Usually smokers hang out around there so you aren’t surprised to see two men leaning against the wall, but you are surprised when they star following you down the alley. At this point you’re an old hand at being followed, and the petty part of you brain thinks in Bucky’s direction, see? Doesn’t matter if you’re here or not, dumbass. You sigh to yourself and plan to give them the run around once you clear the alley, but you don’t get a chance to.

From behind you hear a couple of solid thunks, a groan, a muttered curse from one of the men and then one final thunk before silence. You turn around, half afraid of who you’re going to meet once you do and half annoyed because you think you might know who it is. Sure enough, standing there in her leather jacket and a rusted metal pipe from the dumpster in her grip, is Natasha.

She blows a stray strand of hair out of her face and says, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“So he’ll break up with me but will still have me followed,” you say, folding your arms over your chest. Natasha shrugs and you mutter, “Figures.”

“I am always the first to say James is an idiot,” Natasha says, twirling the pipe like a baton in her delicate hands. She grins at you and says, “James is an idiot.”

“I’m aware,” you grit out, glaring at the red-head. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t end up as Hydra mince-meat,” Natasha says, “What does it look like?”

“Doing whatever Bucky says even when it’s stupid,” you say. Natasha doesn’t like that, her bright grin dropping into a scowl as she steps up to you. Small, but with a clearly lethal weapon in her hands if the unconscious bodies behind her are anything to go by, she jabs the tip of the pipe into your chest and forces you a step backwards.

“James always has good intentions, even if his logic is sometimes flawed.” She drops the pipe, letting it clang to the floor between you as if to punctuate her saying, “Besides, James didn't tell me to do anything. I volunteered.”

“Why?” you ask, sneering slightly. “I think we both know you don’t trust me, or like me, and you make it very hard to like you.”

Natasha smiles at that, and you hate the face she makes every time you say something she ‘approves’ of - condescending, like she doesn’t expect you to have brain cells and is surprised every time you do. She says, very solemn despite the smile in her eyes, “I owe you.”

That makes you pause. Instantly, like you’re right back in that bar. You can see her groaning body struggling to stand after being thrown into a wall. Rumlow pointing a gun at her back, the blood-thirst emanating off him in waves. Your own hand, as if detached from your body, flinging the knife across the room into his neck before he can put a bullet in Natasha’s.

You swallow thickly, shake your head and say, “No you don’t.”

“I do,” she insists. She steps forward with her hand out, beckoning her fingers like she wants you to hand her something. You just stare at her empty palm for a few seconds before she clicks her tongue and says, “Phone.”

You hand it over without thinking, which was definitely stupid. But Natasha just types away quickly before giving it back and you see you have a new contact with her name attached entered into your phone.

“If you ever need anything,” she says, and taps your phone screen with her nail, “call me.”

It was only minutes ago you were sitting on your couch scrolling through audio from your tapped father’s kitchen thinking you’ve never been more alone in your life. Yet here you are, looking at a helping hand outstretched from the last person you expected it to come from. Your fingers shake slightly as you tuck your phone into your back pocket, and Natasha smiles at you like she understands.

“Thank you,” you say, and you hope she knows you genuinely do mean it.

Natasha nods, then says, “Get out of here, alright? I have to clean this up.”

You suppose that’s Natasha speak for ‘your welcome,’ so you leave her to it. The whole client meeting you can’t focus properly, too busy trying to decide if you feel safer or more afraid at having one of the scariest women you know watching your apartment. By the end of the day, your conclusion is that if Natasha is going to be in your life, its probably best she’s on your side rather than against it.

When you get home that afternoon there is no sign of the two guys Natasha knocked out, nor is she anywhere to be seen. You can’t help but feel watched, though, as you enter your building and climb the stairs. She’s a busy woman and you know she can’t be watching you all the time but you still feel her green eyes on the back of your neck - its not an altogether uncomfortable sensation. That’s something to unpack later, you think, as you collapse on the couch.

You try to resist, but as soon as you sit down and close your eyes the urge to forget about the case you’ve just taken on and look into your own hunches grows too strong. You get up again and fish out your dad’s file again from your hiding place, bringing it back to the couch to flip open. The list of names you’ve been compiling is at the top, scribbled in messy handwriting as you listened to your dad’s one-sided conversations. You tallied up how many times the same name had been mentioned and in what context, however it had been hard to decipher what your dad was talking about with only half the story.

You decide to go looking into the most mentioned name - more of a title, really. Somebody your dad calls Chief shows up in almost every single conversation he has over the phone, and when you were going through the audio it dredged up some strange, suppressed childhood memory. You used to hear him talking to guys downstairs when you were doing your homework, and you always thought he called them ‘chief’ as a nickname or weird, macho term of endearment like how kids in your class would call each other ‘bro’.

Maybe, he was only talking to one guy. You were going to find out.

Starting at your dad’s job, you scroll through their website and LinkedIn profiles to find any link to the name ‘Chief.’ He works as a security guard for a chain of clubs in the city so you are doubtful, and sure enough nothing really comes up to peak your interest. Your dad really only has one other major outlet to look into and that’s the VA, so you have to swallow past the dirty feeling of investigating suffering vets and start scrolling through the website for the Brooklyn VA group attached to the medical centre.

It’s all wholesome stuff and nothing of interest to your snooping at all until you get to a photo gallery from four years ago. It’s dedicated to commemorating the Brooklyn VA and New York Police Department workshop day promoting mental health for vets and servicemen. There are a bunch of photos of group activities and the lunch put on by the VA, and you spot your dad in a couple of them. You’re about to click off when you find one where your dad is posed with another vet and a very official, very dressed up cop. Nothing you haven’t seen at least forty of before in this gallery, but it’s the caption which makes you pause.

It reads, Some of the Brooklyn VA’s finest with NY Chief of Police. It has to be a coincidence, the man’s job title and nothing more. He’s tall, broad, with sandy blonde hair turning grey under his police hat. There are more medals than you can count pinned to his uniform and even in this grainy photo you can tell he would squash your dad like an ant if he gave the Chief of Police a reason to. You’ve never paid attention to this before, steering clear of cops whenever you can, but you find yourself googling him as soon as you can pull yourself away from his mile-long stare.

As soon as the NYPD profile on the Chief of Police loads, your blood turns to ice. You want to say you’re crazy, you’re crazy, you’re paranoid, but name one time your paranoia had led you wrong? Two strange coincidences don’t happen back to back, no matter how disconnected they may appear. Two worlds you never thought you would know, let alone be watching them collide, stare up at you from your computer screen. You can hear Steve’s voice like he’s sitting right next to you, saying “It is strange we haven’t heard anything from Pierce,” and right under a professional portrait of the Chief of Police is his name burning into the back of your eyelids - Alexander Pierce.

You shove your laptop onto the coffee table and stand, pacing back and forth in front of your couch. Scraping a hand through your hair and pulling half of it out of your head in the process, you try to reason your way out of connecting these dots. They’re barely dots, their echoes of dots - so your dad took a photo with the Chief of Police four years ago and he refers to someone he knows as ‘Chief’ as a nickname and Steve mentioned Pierce was someone in Hydra and the Chief of Police happened to be named Alexander Pierce. So what, right?

“Ok, ok, ok, ok,” you say to yourself, rushed and manic. You’ll just ask your dad. He’s your dad, he was never supposed to hide anything from you so why would he start now? If you just ask he might-

You don’t get to finish your thought. Three loud knocks ring through your empty apartment, your doorbell chiming impatiently straight afterwards. You stare at the door with your heart in your throat, long enough for them to ring the doorbell again and a loud, male voice to call out your full name. Someone you don’t recognise, yet they know where you live. You approach the door on silent feet and look through the peephole, reaching for the baseball bat you keep behind a pot plant as you do.

Standing outside are two men in suits, one of whom is looming at the peephole and making stupid faces while his college rolls his eyes and attempts to hold him back. Through the door, you ask, “Who is it? What department are you with?”

“I’m Special Detective James Rhodes and this is my partner, Special Detective Tony Stark,” the unimpressed cop says, elbowing his colleague out of the way who is still trying to look through the wrong side of the peephole. Holding up a badge and gesturing for his partner to do the same, Detective Rhodes says, “We’re with the FBI, ma’am.”

“Shit,” you say, before realising you said that out loud. Your hand feels numb where you grip your baseball bat tightly, and you decide in that moment you have to be dreaming. No way has the events of the past fifteen minutes taken place.

The guy who must be Detective Stark laughs and says, “Shit is right. Let us in, ma’am, we need to ask you some questions.”

You look back at the coffee table laden with copious notes on your father and your open laptop, Chief of Police Alexander Pierce’s face staring back at you. An omen, you think, but it would be even more suspicious if you asked them to wait to clean everything up. Your heart-stopping, life-changing, maybe-discovery will have to wait.

You slide off the chain and unlock your deadbolt, opening the door for the two FBI agents. They walk in without another word, and it really hits you then. It doesn’t matter what Bucky does now, if he leaves you and never comes back or if he never left at all - you’re in this, now. And now you’ll pay the price.

[blu-joons]

Snowball Fight ~ Zhong Chenle

“It won’t be that cold,” were the last words uttered by Chenle before he took your hand and pulled you out of the front door into the snow, bravely having to force a smile onto his face as a shiver quickly ran down at his spine at just how cold it was outside.

“Either you’re crazy, or it’s freezing,” you cried out, reluctantly stepping out into the snow with Chenle’s hand holding tightly onto yours so you had no chance of getting away,

You sighed, the cold weather was easily one of your least favourite things in the world, all you wanted was to be tucked back up in bed with a blanket draped across you.

Chenle was a little more excited than you were, Christmas wasn’t Christmas without snowfall, no matter how old he got. Anytime he looked out of the window and saw just a flake, he would be straight out to bask in its beauty.

“How long do we have to stand in the arctic before I get to go back indoors?” You frowned, feeling Chenle’s hand slip away from you, as he knelt down to the ground. “Get up, it’s cold.”

His head shook, scooping up a ball of snow, moulding it together into a perfectly round snowball. He smiled proudly at you, clapping his hands together. Your eyes met his, the glow in them told you something was going to happen that you weren’t going to like.

“Why don’t we warm up a bit if it’s cold? Nothing will make us more active than a snowball fight.”

Before you had the chance to speak, Chenle threw the snowball lightly against your large jacket, watching as it fell into several droplets on the top of your trainers. You frowned, if anything, it just made you feel a whole lot colder.

“Is that really what you wanted to do? Do you really want to start something you know you won’t win?” You asked him, brushing the snow off your shoulder. “I’d start running.”

Despite your threat, he stood still whilst you began to make your own snowball, watching closely as you made it perfectly, lifting it up and aiming it at him. The feel of the snow was making your body far too cold, but you weren’t going to stand back against him.

He folded his arms across his chest, pulling at the ends of his scarf, “I know that you’re not going to throw that, because if you do, I’ll just end up throwing one back at you and-“

Before he had a chance to finish, you’d launched the snowball into his chest before quickly running away. Straight away he began to follow after you, calling out your name whilst scooping up as much snow as he could.

You found one of the large trees around the back of the field and crept behind it, peering back to look for Chenle. His body was nowhere with the exception of a few of his footprints. You sighed, allowing yourself to lean against the trunk of the tree and catch your breath.

Eventually, you knew he’d get bored of looking for you, but you weren’t going to give up that easily. You knelt down in the snow to start rolling up a few snowballs to get him with, when a cold lump was dropped directly on top of your head.

“It’s so cold!” You yelled, shaking your body quickly to get rid of it all, feeling some slip down the back of your jacket. “That’s unfair, I didn’t hear you coming.”

Chenle let go of a loud chuckle, knocking the two snowballs you’d made over with his feet so you couldn’t use them. If he wanted a snowball fight with you, a fight was most definitely going to be what he got.

“How about this, if I get back to the house without you getting me with a snowball, you have to cook dinner tonight?” You proposed to him.

He hummed lightly, it was impossible that he’d not get you with a snowball, and he loved your cooking, this really was a win or win situation for him.

“I’ll give you ten seconds to get running before I come and get you,” he spoke, pushing you gently in the direction of the door so you could begin your run.

In only a matter of moments you could hear Chenle’s footsteps in the snow, but you couldn’t look back if you didn’t want to be caught. The loud thuds of snow landing around you made you jump, swerving left and right to throw off his aim.

It wasn’t too far to the house, but you knew how competitive Chenle could be, he’d never be happy if he let you win. You ran back through your footsteps from earlier, shoving your hands in your pockets to keep them in the warmth. After a few minutes, you could see the light that you’d left on in your house, your pants were loud as you tried to catch your breath to get there. Chenle continued to throw as much snow as he could at you, but each one missed, the final one landing just before you as your feet stepped into the house.

“I hope you’ve got a good recipe for dinner,” you smiled as he joined you back at the house a few moments later. “That meal you made last week was delicious.”

“It’s like you were possessed, I was so sure I could get you,” he frowned, closing out the cold, “you’ve never been that good at running, did you really not want to cook that much?”

You nodded, taking off your trainers before making your way over to the radiator to start warming yourself up. The sudden heat made your body shudder, pressing your palms against the metal, holding your feet up so they too began to circulate again.

“I kept telling you not to underestimate me, but you didn’t listen,” you teased, shuffling along the radiator to make a space for him to stand beside you.

He sighed, resting his arm around your frame to keep you closer, and warmer. As annoyed as he was, he was more impressed that somehow, you’d managed to find a way to dodge. And best of all, it seemed like he’d somehow managed to make you have fun in the snow.

“I just thought you were trying to intimidate me, I didn’t realise you were being so serious,” he groaned.

“I’m always serious in a competition, and I just kept thinking about how much I wanted to get out of the cold,” you chuckled, resting against his chest. Your hand intertwined with his, running along his skin to try and warm him up as well as he warmed you up.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t have fun; I saw the big smile on your face.”

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, the snowball fight was the perfect distraction for you to forget how cold it was. Despite protesting with Chenle several times, he had somehow managed to find a way for you to have fun in the winter together.

That wasn’t to say you’d be doing it again anytime soon though, your body was numb, hair ruined, even if it was fun. Stepping outside was enough time in the cold for you for the time being, you were much better suited cosy, and in the warmth.

“Maybe we should get out of these cold clothes?”

You followed Chenle up to your bedroom, taking off your jacket first and hanging it on the back of your chair. Whilst you pulled out a fresh outfit for yourself, he quickly changed into whatever he could find at the bottom of his wardrobe.

“I might just get a shower,” you suggested, turning back to face him. “I’m far too cold to just let a jumper warm me up, I’ve probably got some sort of illness from being out in that temperature.”

“You don’t need a shower, you’ve got me,” he smiled.

“How are you going to warm me up?” You challenged, standing still as he walked around the bedroom to stand beside you, pulling you down onto the bed with him, wrapping his arms tightly around you.

He squeezed you tightly, making sure as much as your body was covered by his as possible. “See, I’m like your own personal radiator sometimes.”

“I’m still cold, I think it’s broken.”

He chuckled, pulling the duvet to wrap around you both, trying even harder to get you warm. “You just need to give it some time to warm itself up, no radiator works instantly, have a bit of patience.”

“A shower would have warmed me up quicker than this,” you mumbled against his chest, sniggering as he groaned.”

Perhaps a shower might have warmed you up a little bit quicker than Chenle had done, but a shower didn’t make you feel as safe and loved as he did. A shower didn’t make the memories that Chenle made with you, and it certainly didn’t make you smile as much as he did.

“I can’t lay here long though, as apparently I’ve got dinner to make tonight,” he whispered down to you, “unless you want to stay here and order food instead?”

“You lost the challenge, so you’re making dinner. You can’t get out of doing it.”

“But aren’t I just making you so warm and toasty right now?”

“Maybe, but no more than a shower would whilst you cook me dinner.”

---

Masterlist

[thelioncourts]

title: with luck, it might even snow for us author: marrieddorks pairing(s): damen/laurent; auguste/ofc; minor kastor/jokaste word count: 36907 (for part 1 of 2)  summary: Holidays with the DeVeres were always, in one word, chaotic. This year alone, Aleron — four years retired from his beloved company — was still obsessed with work, Hennike was keeping up with her steady diet of Kemptian gossip and chardonnay, Auguste was preparing to become a father when he still didn't know how to quite take care of himself, and Laurent? Laurent simply wanted to survive it all as unnoticed as possible.  Then Damen happened, and he wanted so much more.

[Part 2 Coming Soon!]

There were many things Laurent disliked about the house in Kempt. He disliked the front door which was a garish thing, blood red in color and littered with gold decoration. The knocker on it weighed enough that actual effort had to be put behind lifting it, and its handle was embedded in a plate detailed with botanical flourishes and intricate beading. He disliked the rugs that lay in the hallways and at the center of many of the individual rooms, each one similar in color and styling, but many holding horrid patterns that took away from the natural beautiful hardwood floors below. He disliked the crown moulding on the bannisters and on the corner blocks of the walls and even lining the cabinets in the kitchen. It was busy and distracting and took away from the rich colors of the walls, the dark blue of the dining room a favorite of Laurent’s.

But the thing Laurent disliked the most about the house in Kempt was its size. No one needed a house this big, he had thought repeatedly over the years, and each time he thought it his conviction in its existence as fact grew. The entire house was ostentatious, what with its two kitchens, seven full baths and two half-baths, seven bedrooms, and a slew of other rooms equaling to eleven. It hadn’t been so bad until Aleron and Hennike, Laurent’s parents, decided an entire wing needed to be added to the house for a recreational room to include pool and billiards and drinking and cards, more bedrooms, and just space, as if owning more space meant something.

For Laurent, all that space seemed to only justify the excuse for housekeepers that Hennike could talk to her friends about and cooks that Aleron could criticize for overcooking the meat in some way.

Despite all its flaws, the house did have its charms, however sparse. There were things Laurent wished he could physically pick up and transfer to a new house altogether for they were wonderful things, things like the family library lined with endless shelves of books belonging mostly to himself and his father. Laurent had his own bookshelves in his bedroom, of course, but most of his books were housed in the library, their spines much different than the spines of Aleron’s law books from all across the Continent. The library once had been furnished with squeaky leather seats and a couch, none of it warm or comfortable, and Laurent had come as close to begging as he ever had in his life in order to get something he could actually enjoy; he had argued that his father already had a squeaky leather chair in the office he spent most of his time in and it was unnecessary to have that same thing here. Miraculously, his wish had been granted for the library now had a chair large enough to sink into and a soft couch by the window where Laurent could tuck his legs underneath himself as he read.

There was the kitchen that was, objectively, beautiful too. Laurent didn’t do much cooking, but the kitchen on the main floor made him wish he did for its marble countertops, subtle backsplash, and its overall open design made Laurent want to utilize the space for more than brewing tea and coffee. Occasionally he made use of it, but for the most part it was occupied by their cooks who brought to life meals they always wanted to pair with wines from the wine cellar and that Laurent always took with water instead.

But if he had to name a favorite place in the house, it wouldn’t be any of those rooms, nor even his own bedroom. No, Laurent’s favorite place, and the most redeemable quality of the house in Kempt, was the sitting room. It’s function was precisely as boring as it sounded, for it was a room intended for intimate gatherings. There was no television for distraction, no technology of any kind to bring with it unnecessary light, and there were just enough comfortable seats for a handful of people to sit in whilst they conversersed. None of those things were the best part though. All those things paled in comparison to the fireplace that was centered on the main wine-colored wall.

A fireplace may not seem like something that would delight most twenty-year-olds, but Laurent wasn’t most twenty-year-olds and the fireplace was truly a piece of art. It was simplistic, far more than most things in this Kemptian-Veretian hybrid, and it was nearly Akielon for it was made of an off-white gypsum stone found usually in the northern parts of Akielos. The gypsum had a natural shine and when a fire was roaring it seemed to shimmer in a way that made one not wish to look away from it. The shelf of the mantel was long, holding on it a clock that belonged to Hennike’s mother and two white vases that matched the stone itself. In the spring and summer, the housekeepers put within those vases freshly cut flowers, but with the cold outside they stayed empty; Laurent liked it that way.

Kemptian winters were notorious for their cold and their blankets of snow and the house was far too large and far too windowed to stay warm for long. That’s why the sitting room, with its comfortable seating and lovely fireplace, was Laurent’s favorite. He couldn’t recall the number of times he had fallen asleep in front of the fire, the flames making his skin warm to the touch and his mind sleepy, and when he was younger he would sleep all through the night in the room, waking up only when the sun rose and reflected too harshly off of the white encasing the outside world.

These last few years, Laurent hadn’t had near as much time to enjoy the fireplace. Off at university, his fall semester didn’t end until long after snow had fallen in Kempt, and he would come home for but two weeks’ time before heading back, leaving behind his reading spot by the window in the library and the fireplace in the sitting room.

This year was going to be different though. Laurent had just graduated from the University of Arran, a Veretian university far too close to Arles, where Laurent had been born, and he was to be home until his graduate program began in mid-January. He made it home to Kempt just in time to witness the first snowfall at the end of November, and now, a week later, he was awaiting more snow and endless hours in front of the fireplace.

In fact, the sitting room was where he was going to this very moment. The sun had set an hour ago and a chill had come over the house, leaving Laurent shivering in his own bedroom. With a huff, as though concerned he would be able to see his own breath leave his mouth, Laurent had stood from his bed, abandoned his laptop, and made his way down the hallway. Down the stairs, his fingers trailed the bannister, the wood underneath white paint cold to the touch, and he traced a ridge in the design all the way down to the bottom, all the way until the bannister gave way to the newel post, a gaudy post with starbursts carved into it. As soon as his feet stepped off the last step, Laurent felt the cold of the floor seep through his socks and he wasn’t above admitting he hurried on a little faster, crossing the entryway and ignoring the garish blood red door before finally coming to the entrance of the sitting room.

A gust of welcome heat was the first thing he noticed as he stood in the arched entrance. It sunk into his bones, thawing them from where they were almost always a bit frozen, and he couldn’t not sigh at the feeling. Then, quietly, from one of the tall-backed chairs directly in front of the flames came a quiet voice that sounded fond and ever-so sleepy. “Me too.”

From just behind the sangria drenched velvet of the chair Laurent caught a flash of blonde hair, its hue warmer than normal from the roaring of the red-tinged flames. Laurent silently padded across the room, his socks giving him no traction on the sleek surface, and it was then he got sight of his mother nestled into the chair, a long white blanket covering her legs and her hands moving steadily with a pair of knitting needles. She looked utterly content, a serene, small smile on her face as she pulled blue thread after blue thread through and through. “You must be freezing, darling.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Laurent told her and, without any hesitation, he gently, boyishly, lowered himself to the floor near her feet, pulling the excess of the blanket over his own legs. “I’m much better already though.”

Laurent had inherited a kind of cold-blooded trait from his mother. Well, he had inherited much from her, such as his blond hair, his easy ability to flush red, and her love of horse riding, but their shared state of constant cold was one he thought of most for it had a dreadful kind of impact.

Neither one thought it necessary to say anything further right now. The crackling of the wood sounded almost like rain, and the sound brought with it a kind of peace. Hennike’s focus on her knitting never faltered and Laurent watched her with a bored fascination that befitted a task that took so much patience. Soon he came to realize what she was making. In the curve of the blue, Laurent could see a hat forming. It wasn’t a hat for a grown person, but a tiny hat meant to fit snugly on the head of a baby, protecting its sparsely haired skull and tiny ears from freezing in such weather as today’s weather. Laurent leaned forward ever so slightly.

“Are they having a boy?” he asked softly, not wanting to even disturb the air.

“They still haven’t decided to find out,” Hennike said. “Somehow they’ve managed to wait and I think they now believe it to be pointless to not see that through to the end given that she’s due in a month’s time. But I have no doubt that, at the very least, the precious thing has quite a good shot at being born with the bluest of eyes.”

That was true. The DeVere family as a whole was nothing but blue-eyed fiends. Laurent was fairly certain they had all had blue eyes since the beginning of time. Auguste and Laurent both had been gifted with their father’s blue eyes, the blue of the clear nighttime sky back at the border, in Marlas, whilst their mother had blue eyes the color closer to the blue-hued ice covered ponds and lakes here in Kempt. Victoire, Auguste’s wife, was also from Kempt — even if her dark hair betrayed that sometimes — and her eyes were similar to Hennike’s, though they almost had a green tone to them, as if she couldn’t decide if she was from the forest or the waters.

Laurent settled more comfortably under the blanket, settled in against the side of Hennike’s cushioned chair, and let the silence fall naturally over them once more. Then a new sound joined the crackling of the fire and it was a sound Laurent recognized immediately. Hennike was humming, a lullaby she used to hum to Laurent when he was a baby. Between that and the fire, he felt his eyes grow heavy and, sleepily, he blinked up at her. “How excited are you?”

“For which part?” she asked back. “All my family being home together for the first time in what feels like ages, or for a new baby?”

“All of it.”

“I can’t quite put it into words.” She held the hat out for inspection, turning it once as though it would bring to light something in need of fixing. “And I’m nervous, for reasons that seem ridiculous, and all I can think about is how I fear I’ve lost my knitting skills. I haven’t knitted anything since you were a boy.”

“I think it looks nice. Though, if you want my thoughts, you definitely need to add one of those soft little pom-poms to the top.”

“Oh, do I?” Hennike asked with a laugh.

“Yes. A white one, I believe. Everyone looks cute with one of those flopping around on the top of their heads,” Laurent said.

“Then consider it done.”

She knitted some more, the hat coming evermore into shape, and Laurent yawned. He saw out of the corner of his eyes her smile indulgently at him, saw her set down the hat, then felt her touch on his cheek. Somehow her hands were still cool.

“How excited are you?” she threw the question back at him.

“For which part?” he asked, throwing her own question back too.

“All of it.”

Laurent thought then of Auguste and Victoire, and, possibly most important, her almost nine-month-round stomach. The reality of that, of knowing Auguste was soon to be a father, was building a family of his own and growing a beard like their own father’s, seemed impossible, and it seemed more impossible, and terrifying, that Laurent was going to be an uncle. Then he thought of having a holiday with his brother for the first time in a while, and having a holiday that didn’t end with an imminent dread of heading back to Vere, was an entirely different kind of excitement.

He gave his mother a small smile, one near identical to her own.

Every now and again, one of them would interject something into the silence. Laurent brought up the gifts he had long gotten for Auguste and Victoire and Hennike brought up the meal she had asked the cooks to have put together for their arrival tomorrow, and neither of their voices ever got louder than something soft-spoken. Peace was steadfast, if only for a while. Laurent tried to not think about how peace with Hennike was short lived, of how it only existed when she didn’t have a drink in hand.

Dreadfully, it all came to a stop when Aleron, Al, got home. Their only warning to his arrival was the turning of the key in the front door’s lock before it was pushed open, allowing snow and cold wind to sweep through the open space as if manifested by an unnatural presence. Both Laurent and his mother clenched their teeth as their skin turned to gooseflesh and the dichotomy of the fire in front of their faces and the air from the outdoors at their back became too much.

“Shut the door!” Hennike whined loud enough to be heard across the room, her graceful neck craning around the side of the chair to glare at her husband.

“Gods,” Aleron started, ignoring her and instead shaking off his scarf as though it was suddenly unbearable, “you two are going to burn the house to the ground, aren’t you?”

“At least we’d be warm,” Laurent said. Aleron shot him a look.

[Continue on AO3]

They both heard more than saw Aleron stomp the snow off of his boots, and Laurent ended up turning to fully watch as his father shucked his long coat and hung it on the coat rack by the door. Snow was stuck in his darker hair, making it look more gray than it actually was, and as he approached Laurent caught a whiff of the familiar stench of brandy. Hennike noticed it too.

“You didn’t drive back, did you?” she asked as he leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek. When he pulled back, he rebuffed her question with an eye roll first.

“Hennike, dear, Paschal lives two houses down. I didn’t even drive there, let alone drive back.”

That seemed to appease her, and she settled back fully as she had been only minutes before, the hat near-complete and so small in her hands. Aleron moved and sat in the open chair next to Hennike, falling into it with a groan, and she turned her eyes to him.

“And how is Paschal?” she asked as if he didn’t have dinner with Paschal every week.

Paschal was an old friend of Aleron’s, one he had met through the company (the company otherwise known as the bane of Laurent’s existence) and had lost touch with when they were both still but boys. As if intended, as if fate, they ended up both retiring in this same area of Kempt, running into each other at the ski lodge where many affluent gentlemen frequented and they had spent the last several years catching up on everything. Though Paschal had left the company to pursue medicine instead, there were foundational things they had in common all these years later.

Normally Aleron would have answered Hennike’s inquiry with something akin to, “His right knee is still giving him fits, but he’s doing just fine otherwise,” or, “The man keeps trying to sell me on Patran wine and I simply won’t have it, it’s as though he was born without taste buds,” but tonight he seemed different than normal and so a normal answer clearly wasn’t going to suffice.

Intrinsically, Aleron wasn’t a man that showcased much more emotion than distaste. It was his personality, this reservation, and he always had managed to pretend that wasn’t who he was when doing business. In fact, in the instances when Laurent had seen his father in a business situation, he was uncertain who the man even was because it most definitely wasn’t his father. But right now, whatever emotion Aleron was externalizing seemed genuine and not actually a show whatsoever, for it wasn’t something that would be obvious to an outsider’s eye. It was a thrumming kind of energy, an excitement that spoke of an event’s occurrence, and Laurent couldn’t not quirk an eyebrow as he concluded his father was trying very hard to repress a smile.

“Paschal is fine. He got an interesting phone call tonight,” Aleron said slowly, as if debating the words were the right ones to say.

“Oh?” Hennike set the hat down in her lap. “A good call? Or a bad one?”

“Good,” Aleron said. His eyes then flicked to Laurent still sitting on the floor underneath part of the blanket. “It’s actually something I’d like to speak with you about.”

Now it was Laurent’s turn to punctuate his response with an eye roll. “You’re horrible at subtlety. I see where Auguste gets that from.”

Hennike laughed because she knew it was true and Aleron continued his normal discerning stare until Laurent reluctantly pushed himself up to his feet, dusted off his pants, and retreated back to the cold of his bedroom. Time passed slowly then, and it wasn’t until Laurent heard his father’s voice somewhere in the foyer, loud and obnoxious whilst taking a phone call of his own that he braved the downstairs once more. His father’s office door was just shutting as Laurent walked by and Laurent found his mother moved to the kitchen, her hands around a bottle of deep red wine, its liquid pouring slowly into a glass.

“You know,” Laurent started, “one day I am going to be an actual adult and you will have to have actual adult conversations with me.”

“No one here thinks you’re not an adult, darling. I’m excited to say that your father actually has a big surprise lined up for you and your brother.”

“A surprise?”

“Yes.”

“For me?”

A hum of agreement.

“And Auguste?”

“Yes, darling.”

A moment of silence, then, “That’s not very Aleron of him.”

Now it was Hennike’s turn to shoot him a look. No admonishment or anything followed though because, like before, she knew he was right.

The rest of the evening went by uneventfully. Hennike drank her standard two glasses of wine, Aleron didn’t leave his office until near midnight, and Laurent curled back up in front of the fire, allowing his mind to wander. Right before he fell asleep there, he thought of Auguste, and of Victoire, and of the baby that terrified him more than anything else ever had.

Because of where he chose to sleep, he was woken up ungodly early by the rising of the sun. The fire had died sometime in the night and he was frozen to his core, his teeth clenched to keep from chattering, his fingers numb, and his body subconsciously folded into the smallest possible ball in an attempt to conserve warmth. Slowly, whilst squinting away the fluorescent brightness of the combination of snow and sun out the window, Laurent stretched out his legs then his arms, and he did so delicately like he thought either would snap like an icicle falling from its hanging position on a roof’s edge.

Noises were coming from the kitchen and Laurent followed them, intent on warming his hands and his stomach with a hot cup of coffee. A clock on the wall told him it was just after six in the morning and that was enough to tell him that the noises in the kitchen were not coming from either of his parents. Sure enough, standing there at the stove was Orlant, one of their cooks and, luckily for Laurent, the one that made the best coffee. He knew Laurent preferred pourovers, the coffee free of oils and crisp on the tongue, and if Laurent’s mouth near began to water at the sight of a cup already on the counter, Orlant didn’t need to know.

Orlant was an interesting figure. He was perhaps a year older than Auguste, so quite young, and especially in comparison with the DeVere family’s other cooks and housekeepers, and he looked a rough sort, fairly muscled and his nose looked like it had been broken once or twice. He’d been cooking in the mornings for the DeVeres since they moved here to Kempt and Laurent liked him.

“Morning, sir,” Orlant said, looking at Laurent quickly before going back to the food sauteing in the pan in his hand.

“Morning,” Laurent greeted. His voice was quiet, like it hadn’t been used in some time and like the cold had muffled it, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. “Is this for me?” he asked, pointing to the cup of steaming coffee.

“Yep. Saw you in front of the dead fire this morning, figured the sun would wake you up sooner or later,” Orlant said with a smile.

Part of the reason Laurent liked Orlant was that he seemed to relish in the sounds of the kitchen, of the stirring of a pot, of the spoon hitting a cup’s sides, the rhythm of cutting vegetables on a wooden cutting board, of the sizzle of meat in oil. He didn’t try to fake conversation and instead let things be; Laurent leaned a hip against the counter and did his own kind of relishing. His was over the warmth of the coffee that brought life back first to his hands, then lips, mouth, and lastly his stomach which slowly began to warm him from the inside out.

Orlant lifted the pan from the stove and walked over to the baking sheet which held eight flat pieces of puff pastry. Gently he spooned the mixture — which turned out to be apples drenched in cinnamon and sugar and cooked down into a syrup — onto the center of each piece. The pan was set back on the stove to cool and Orlant methodically began to fold the puff pastry dough in half, wetting the edges to keep them tight, then brushing each one with a beaten egg for the perfect rise and glossy shine.

“Making enough for Auguste and Victoire,” Orlant said as he placed the trays into the oven. “I feel like time is moving too fast if Auguste is going to be a father within a month. It seems like only yesterday that I was starting here and you weren’t even a teenager and Auguste was still…” he trailed.

“Wild?”

“That’s a good word for him then.”

“Yes, thank the gods he got all that out of his system before he impregnated anyone,” Laurent said. Orlant laughed, the sound loud and nice.

After a few minutes, Laurent could hear the faint sputtering of the syrup from the apples as it leaked out of the pastries, and he finished his coffee before bidding Orlant a goodbye for now. A hot shower helped to thaw him out the rest of the way, and he thought of his mother’s lullaby that she used to sing to him, that she would sing to the baby no doubt, and as he toweled his hair to a dampness and pulled on a green sweater he thought of how much everything was changing. He thought of how he felt incredibly stuck.

He could now hear his parents in the kitchen and determined it was best to avoid them for an extended period of time right now. His feet instead took him to the library where he plucked a book from the third shelf, a familiar book with a well-worn spine and faded lettering on the side, and he lounged across the reading nook onset by the window, a blanket over his lap and a welcome distractor in his hands.

Laurent couldn’t recall the last time he actually read a book for fun. Actually, he could. It had been over the summer and he read exactly one book for enjoyment before submitting himself willingly beneath the endless waves of work required of a double-majoring undergraduate intent on graduating early. But now that he was in limbo awaiting the start of his graduate program, reading for fun was a possibility and as he turned the first page he sank down into the pillows of the nook like any tension in him melted away with the familiarity of such a story.

In all honesty, Laurent didn’t mean to read as long as he did. He thought he would read for an hour or two, but it was amazing how far he could get in a novel when not stopping every paragraph or so to make a note or to analyze the purpose of a particular word order, and just as he was nearing the midway point of the book, the squeak of the gate to their driveway opening brought him out of the world he had traveled to and back to reality.

“Laurent, they’re here!” his mother yelled from somewhere nearby and out the window he could make out his brother’s face through the windshield. The book shut with a snap.

Hennike’s heels were loud on the hardwood of the foyer and Aleron was already out the door by the time Laurent joined them. It was chaotic in the way arrivals so typically were, excitement a tangible thing in the air and the first thing that caught Laurent off-guard was his brother exiting the car and hurrying to the other side, an uncharacteristically large smile on his face. The second thing that caught Laurent off-guard was the struggled emergence of Victoire from the passenger side seat.

When Laurent had first met Victoire, he had been in those imperative stages of puberty and Victoire had been an enigma of a woman, a foundational change in Auguste’s life, and had been lovely from the curled ends of her brown hair to the modest heels on her feet. She hadn’t aged much in the last five, six, years, her face young and bright, but her waist which had once been tiny enough for Auguste to wrap both hands around and them almost meet was rounded and large, so much to the point Laurent knew she hadn’t seen her own feet in quite some time.

Victoire near waddled as she walked and Auguste’s large smile never dropped, his eyes never left her, and his hand never moved from where it was stationed at her lower back.

“Oh goodness,” Hennike breathed, emotion heavy in those two words.

Aleron was holding a hand out for Victoire to grab and she did so with a panted, “Thank you,” and Aleron and Auguste looked at one another over her shoulder, Aleron smiling in a way Laurent was stock with seeing him smile at Auguste.

The two of them helped Victoire up the stairs and Hennike was there to meet her. Then the specific kind of disarray that came from everyone wanting to hug each other happened. Laurent fell somewhat to the side, watching as Hennike cupped Victoire’s face, then delicately placed her hands on the protruding stomach before going back up to cup her face again, watching as Aleron and Auguste did the very fast DeVere-men hug before falling into their chatter, no doubt about the company, and it seemed it would stay that way until Auguste put a hand on his father’s shoulder, said something quickly, and turned his never-fading smile onto Laurent.

Before Laurent could even smile back, he was being crushed against his brother’s chest in a bone-breaking hug.

Auguste was taller than him so the strands of sandy colored hair escaping the bun he had haphazardly thrown his hair into sometime during the drive tickled at Laurent’s nose. Laurent didn’t let that bother him though; instead he managed to free his arms from where they had gotten trapped between their bodies and hugged Auguste back almost as hard.

“How was your drive?” he asked after a moment, the words muffled into the shoulder of Auguste’s jacket.

“It was fine except we had to stop every ten minutes because someone had to pee,” Auguste said. His voice had a waver to it, like he was trying to hold back a laugh. Victoire’s distinct scoff sounded out into the air.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she started, her tone implying anything but truth was behind what she was saying. “How about you carry the ginormous child growing inside of me and practicing its kicking on my kidneys and bladder.”

When Auguste let Laurent go, Laurent finally got a good look at Victoire’s irritated expression that didn’t budge even as Auguste tried to make certain she was aware it was only a joke.

“I don’t care.” She put a hand on Laurent’s wrist and proceeded to do just as Auguste had and crushed him to her. Unlike how it had been with Auguste, Victoire was shorter than Laurent by two or so inches and her pregnant belly made it hard to properly hug her back. “Hello, my favorite DeVere,” she said to him, ignoring Auguste’s petulant ‘Hey!’

“Hi,” Laurent said back simply. She squeezed at his shoulder once before pulling back.

Laurent was going to comment on Victoire’s dress, mention how they were nearly twinning, her green sweater material almost the same shade as Laurent’s sweater. Then he decided to comment on how truly happy he was to see them both, but his mother beat him to saying anything, ushering them all the way inside with words that were followed by the visible cold air.

“We’ll send someone out to get your bags later,” she said, pulling Victoire back toward her and through the house. “Come in, come in! Let’s get you freshened up, you must be exhausted after the drive.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Auguste said. Like their father the day before, he stomped the snow off of his boots. “We stopped and saw Victoire’s parents since they’re on our way here and that gave us a nice break.”

“How are your parents? I hope your mother’s feeling better,” Aleron said, taking Victoire’s coat from her.

“She is, thank you. It turns out there is an age where doing a triathlon does get awfully strenuous on the body. I hope this makes her focus on her actual health from here on out because I don’t know if my father can stomach her getting injured like that again,” Victoire said. Her hand was steady and resting on her stomach, and it seemed to be a thing she wasn’t aware of anymore. Hennike was, however, and the sight must have been enough to send her into an overwhelming state of emotion once more for she started a second round of hugs just as Aleron got the door finally shut.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this,” she said, petting at the back of Auguste’s head and gently pulling on his earring with a quick look of disapproval. Auguste looked at Laurent and everything felt right.

“You must have been too excited,” Auguste started, attempting to disentangle his mother’s hands from his hair, “because you haven’t even gotten the house decorated for the holidays yet!” He had the nerve to look mock-scandalized, mouth open in shock, but no part of what he said was supposed to cause the reaction it did. Aleron’s face took on a particular kind of angry, the kind he did his best to keep behind Hennike’s back because it was reserved for when she was in a mood of any sort, and Hennike’s face dropped, the motion of it sudden and devastating. Auguste did his best to backtrack, and tried harder when Victoire slapped his arm. “No, Mom, it was a joke —”

“You’re right,” Hennike said, the two words breathy like she couldn’t believe the atrocity she had committed. “It’s December. It’s December already. I’ve lost track of the time I’ve —”

When she got like this, Hennike could go on and on. She’d been this way as long as either of the boys could remember, and, for reasons unknown. Laurent was a bit better at handling it. Of course, even he knew she’d remember all this sometime after dinner when she had her standard two glasses of wine in her again, but right now the mention of their interior designer would do just fine to calm her.

“It’s fine, Mom. We’ll do everything as we always do. That means all you have to do today is place a call to Vannes. She handles the rest and it will be utterly Veretian by the time it’s done.”

“You know Vannes will jump at the challenge to get this house decorated in a few days’ time,” Auguste agreed.

“Yes,” Aleron interjected, all three of them for once on the same page, “I think you should give the young lady a call now so it’s not hanging over your head.”

Hennike nodded once. “And we must get it done before —” Then she stopped herself.

“Before what?” Auguste asked, prodding.

“Nothing,” she said, and Aleron cleared his throat.

“They have a surprise for us,” Laurent deadpanned.

“Oh, I want in on it!” said Victoire. “They’re both impossible to think of good gifts for so I am not above tagging my name onto someone else’s idea.”

“A surprise?” Auguste quirked an eyebrow, mirroring Laurent’s near-constant expression.

“Yes, and it’s going to stay a surprise,” Aleron said, and then he lifted a hand to Auguste’s shoulder and lifted the other like as to shoo the rest of them away. “Let’s allow your mother to call the designers, let your wife rest from the trip, and you and I go talk the company.”

“That is a wonderful idea,” Hennike agreed. “I’ll get Orlant to get everyone refreshments and go place that call.”

Auguste followed their father down the hall and Laurent watched them until he couldn’t anymore, as the door had shut to keep all conversation of the company from being disturbed, and Hennike followed just seconds after, walking to the kitchen first before disappearing down the hall and into the library.

“Place your bet now,” Laurent started, angling toward Victoire, “on how much of Auguste’s time my father will occupy.”

“Laurent, be more understanding,” Victoire said, and had Laurent not known her as he did he would believe her serious. “You’re not part of the company, so truly your presence would be a waste of air.”

Victoire said the company like an old timey actress who most definitely smoked two packs of cigarettes a day. It was a proper way to refer to the thing Laurent attributed to being the bane of his existence, but was more recognizable as Artesian Affairs, the continental political relations company that had been Aleron’s reason for living since he had been a teen. Artesian Affairs was what had the DeVeres moving around so often in Laurent’s youth and Laurent knew that if someone were to ask his father what his proudest day was, he wouldn’t say the day Laurent was born in addition to the day Auguste was born, but just the day Auguste was born, for Auguste followed in his footsteps.

As Victoire dragged him to the kitchen, saying something about getting in there before Hennike tried to make anything herbal, he stuffed down the bitterness that had arisen with each new word that had left Aleron’s mouth. A beat, two, and a reminder that his issues weren’t with Auguste but his father instead, and Laurent could almost make himself forget that he was purposefully left out of time with his brother because their career paths had diverged greatly.

“Don’t look so put out,” Victoire said as she climbed her way into a seat at the counter. They could both hear Hennike on the phone. “Neither one of us has to sit there and listen to them ramble. Let me tell you, I’m sick of talk about Auguste’s work. If I didn’t love the man, I would have long found a way to rip out his vocal chords.”

“Is that you talking or the hormones?” Laurent asked, standing on the other side of the counter of her in order to lean down on it. Orlant wasn’t in the kitchen, probably off doing something Hennike had bid of him before she had disappeared into the office (and no doubt because she forgot that just a moment ago she was going to ask him to gather up refreshments), and their voices echoed off of the pristine white cabinets and marbled counters.

Victoire scoffed audibly and pulled at the stretch of dress across her stomach. “I’ll have you know I don’t need hormones to make me slightly hostile.”

“And you sound so proud.”

“I am. It’s the Kemptian in me. We grow up in such cold that we make up for it all with fiery personalities.”

“So that explains why I clash so greatly with my father.”

“No, that’s just because you’re a bitch.” Victoire smiled so wide as she said that, and then it softened into something fond. “I missed you.”

Her hand was on his then, her fingers slightly swollen with baby weight, and her skin was cool like his mother’s, like his, and never one good with sentiment from the heart, Laurent only turned his hand over to intertwine their fingers.

“I’m sorry we missed your graduation,” she added in after a beat, her voice much more quiet.

“Victoire,” Laurent started, the tone of his voice a near exhaustion from this clearly not being the first discussion on this matter, “I mean this as unoffensively as possible, but you’re swelled up like a balloon. I completely understand and it’s more than alright. Just make it to my grad school one, okay? I don’t know if I can bear my father’s uninterested gaze that long on my lonesome again.”

“We won’t miss it for the world. And maybe we can find a way to leave Al on the side of the road or something on our way.”

While Laurent had been awaiting time with Auguste, time with Victoire was always wonderful. She truly was the sister he never had, and if he were being honest, she was the only one who showed him unconditional support in every way. Since his youth, near every word out of his mouth had been followed by a sigh from his father. Wishing to read in the garden instead of joining the other boys on the grass for sports? A sigh. Wearing headphones whilst Aleron conversed about the company? A sigh. Liking men in the place of women, or perhaps just not liking women at all? A sigh.

His mother did mean well, but she lived her life the way expected of a woman of her status and that meant there was more time gallivanting at parties and organizing philanthropy events in place of actually being a mother. So often was she at a loss as to what was going on in either of her sons’ lives beyond the obvious that both had learned long ago two very important things: always explain in great detail, even if explanations have been given in the past, and always do one’s best to prevent one of her anxiety-ridden fits from occurring.

And Auguste...well, Laurent loved him, he did, and Auguste loved him in return. But after Auguste disappeared out of his life, their lives, for so long, it even as recently as now felt like coming to know a stranger at times.

Victoire was one of those incredible people that felt like, upon first meeting, one had known their entire life. So now, in the kitchen, whilst Aleron took up all of Auguste’s time and Hennike ushered Vannes, their interior designer, into the house after her hurried drive over, Victoire and Laurent talked. They talked of anything and everything, but obviously of the most relevant of things. Victoire asked of Laurent’s upcoming schooling and he told her that yes, he was going back to Marlas for it, and yes, he was excited (“Can’t you tell by my enthusiastic smile?”), and yes, he already had several professors he had been in contact with who had read his work and seemed quite pleased to work with him in the near future, and no, no one else really knew what all was going on. Laurent asked of the baby and Victoire’s back-to-work plans and yes, she not-so-secretly hoped it was a boy for the baby’s sake only, and yes, she wanted to return back to work mostly out of spite after her boss suggested Auguste made enough money for the two, soon to be three, of them, and yes, pregnancy was a bitch and men were weak, and no, she didn’t want to do it all right away again.

The talking continued and finally Hennike, her blonde hair now frazzled at the hairline, emerged from the library with Vannes in tow, the designer familiar enough with Laurent to throw him a look that said ‘What the fuck?’ behind Hennike who was explaining to everyone in hearing distance that she wanted blue and silver for this year’s holiday, blue for the ice and snow, and silver, but ‘gods above, what were they to do about their gold ornamentation?’

“Gods,” Victoire sighed with a laugh, knocking her shoulder into Laurent’s own now that he’d moved over to sit beside her. “How do you put up with your parents? I mean, I love them, and more specifically I love that they decided to have sex at least twice so I have your brother and you —”

“Gross.”

“— but, seriously. You need to move out.”

“I sort of am. I’ll be going to Marlas in January, in case you’ve forgotten in the last hour,” Laurent said.

“No, I haven’t forgotten. But you’ll be back for the summers and holidays, yes?”

“Probably not the summers, but the holidays are sort of a requirement. Auguste is married and he still has to attend holidays. Well, now he does.”

Suddenly, with vigor and energy and a manic look alight in her eyes, Victoire snapped her fingers.

“That’s what you need! You need to get married.”

“Are you trying to sound like my mother?”

“Never say those words to me again. But that’s what you need! You need married so you have a reason to stay out of this house, and you need a person that supports you in the way your parents don’t, and —” She stopped herself and Laurent felt her stare boring through his skin. “I love you, you know. I can’t tell you how often your brother and I talk about you, about how proud we are of you, and I also can’t tell you in words how wonderful it is to be in love. I want that for you because you deserve it.”

Laurent detested conversations that veered this direction. He and love had never seemed to meet properly in his life, so talk of it always felt stilted and awkward, like the introductions to strangers at a party that was already too loud, and yet he knew Victoire of all people didn’t mean a word of it maliciously. It left him sitting there, expression unchanging and mind whirring with responses and questions he would never actually voice aloud.

Victoire snapped the tension, another one of her many talents.

“Plus I need you to begin to have an invigorating sex life so I can live vicariously through it. Auguste and I hardly have time for sex and nowadays when we do have the time, I feel like hell, so we’re both just —”

“I absolutely did not need to know that,” Laurent said vacantly, his mouth twisting unpleasantly as Victoire cackled.

Eventually, or an eternity later, the others began to join them. First was Auguste, who had escaped the office because their father had gotten a call, then Hennike who seemed less frazzled but still on the recovery end of the events earlier, and finally Aleron who was pointing at a bill with confusion on his face.

“It’s never been this much,” he said without preamble, the beginning statement a reference to the paper in hand holding the fancy heading script of Vannes’ interior design. “Did she up her prices? She’s not that good.”

“No, she didn’t up her prices,” started Hennike. “I did it because —” Once again, just like earlier, she cut herself off.

Auguste’s arm was around Victoire’s shoulders, his hand down and resting on the crook of her elbow. Occasionally he shifted just so and his hand found the roundness of her stomach.

“Mom, your annual holiday party isn’t exactly a surprise. Hence the ‘annual.’”

Laurent pressed his forehead to Victoire’s shoulder. “How did I forget about the annual holiday party?” he muttered into her thick sweater dress.

“I don’t know, considering it’s annual,” she muttered back, petting at his head once in consolation. Auguste shot them both a warm look.

Aleron and Hennike were shooting each other their own looks while that was going on, the conversation of it concise until Hennike said aloud, “Maybe we should just tell them now.”

Aleron hummed. “I suppose.”

“That way, we can spend dinner planning and talking. We can get the initial excitement over with,” Hennike continued, as if Aleron hadn’t agreed and as if she had to prove that this was a good idea.

“Wait, let us guess,” Auguste said, elbowing Laurent. Laurent glared at him for dragging this out.

“One guess each,” Hennike said, utterly indulging her oldest.

“Vere has reintroduced a monarchy and since we have royal blood we have to travel there and fight to the death for the throne.”

“You’ve hired yet again more people in poverty to hold the guise of ‘maid’ or ‘servant’ so we don’t get arrested for praciticing in the archaic and horrid practice of slavery.”

Aleron let out a breath of air between clenched teeth.

“Hennike, tell your sons —”

“The Vallis family is coming to stay with us for the holidays!”

Hennike exclaimed the news, her voice too loud as she did so, but it prevented Aleron from snarling as he so often did when the boys, particularly Laurent, said things that annoyed him, and the exclamation brought everyone, and all talk, to a halt.

The surprise was intended for Auguste and Laurent so all eyes turned on them the moment it was realized what Hennike said. Aleron, Hennike, and Victoire all appeared to be waiting with baited breath, Victoire’s more out of her lack of knowledge on the situation, but Laurent felt struck dumb. He stole a glance at Auguste, hoping to maybe imitate Auguste’s joy in some way, but Auguste looked just as he felt: confused.

“Who is the Vallis family?” Auguste voiced after an awkward minute of a pause.

Both Aleron and Hennike’s faces dropped.

“You remember the Vallis’!” Hennike said as if that was an unmitigated truth. Auguste looked to Laurent in the same way Laurent had looked to him, and the two quirked a brow as if to silently ask the other, ‘Do you remember the Vallis’?’

A vein visibly throbbed on Aleron’s forehead.

“You remember them,” Aleron repeated his wife. “They were our neighbors.”

“We’ve lived in four houses since I was born,” Laurent said. “You’re going to need to be more specific.”

“In Marlas.”

Auguste’s eyes squinted as he thought, then opened wide, as if it dawned on him suddenly as a bolt of lightning hitting the earth. “The Akielon family?”

***

Marlas August 2nd Fifteen Years Ago

Auguste wasn’t talking to him.

Auguste wasn’t talking to anyone, actually. The headphones attached to his Walkman were tangled and looked as if they were pinching his ears, but neither thing seemed to be a bother. He was too busy staring out the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set, and he was probably daydreaming of being anywhere but in this very car.

So Laurent, feet dangling far above the floorboards, read his favorite book through every bump on the road, every stop they eased or slammed into, every passing car and truck, even the ones with blaring horns.

He was nearing the end of the book, most of the pages held tight in his left hand as opposed to his right, when the car came to a stop and, this time, didn’t quickly start back. The lack of motion brought him out of his reading-stupefied haze to look up. Auguste had slumped more in his seat, his butt almost off of the edge, as if the sight of their new house brought on something akin to revulsion.

Laurent, six years of age and his brother’s biggest fan, wanted to be as angry about their move as Auguste was. He had tried, throwing a tiny tantrum as his father loaded up a case of his toys and books into the moving truck the day earlier, but it was harder now that they were here because the house looked warm and there was a pond he could spot behind it, its water bright in the warm sun, and most excitedly was a house nearby with a stable in its yard and a white-nosed horse snout peeking from its entrance.

“We’re here, darlings,” Hennike spoke quietly from the front seat, as though worried one or both of them had been asleep. “All of our stuff is in the house already, still in boxes of course.” If Auguste slumped down any further he’d be sitting on the floorboards.

Slowly the four of them emerged from the car, stretching their limbs from their locked positions during the journey, and Laurent wanted to run inside, wanted to see his new bedroom, wanted to get out his toys and beg his mother to take him to see the horse, but he stopped himself abruptly. Auguste was leaning on the car’s closed passenger-side back door, a sigh caught in his chest. Aleron was talking to him in hushed tones.

“Come on, darling,” his mother said, her hand gentle on his tiny shoulder. “Let’s go see your room and start getting you settled.”

Laurent helped his mother get his room’s basics ready. He helped her put on his sheets and his pillows on the bed that had been placed there by movers, told her where he wished his bookshelf to be dragged to, helped her pull the curtains onto the curtain rod, and eventually all that was really left was putting away his clothes and toys. Because he was quite mature, she told him, she thought that he could handle that himself, and she left to go work on other parts of the house, the fine plates and bowls calling to her and begging to be put back on display. Only once did Laurent hear Auguste and it was his stomping feet followed by the slam of a door.

Some time passed, Laurent honing in to hear for Auguste, wondering if he should go say a simple hello so Auguste knew Laurent didn’t mind if Auguste was angry, but he kept pulling out toys and books instead, all of them put in very specific places, until he was startled by the ringing of the doorbell.

Involuntarily a little gasp left him at the unexpected sound, and he waited with his breath held as if he were playing hide and seek and the seeker was getting near, listening to his mother’s footsteps and muffled talk with whoever was there. Then came the inevitable, “Auguste! Laurent! Come down here!”

Auguste’s door remained closed, silent on the other side, and Laurent paused there with a tiny fist raised to knock before their mother’s voice called out again.

At the front door was a woman with a bright smile, strong shoulders, and the longest hair Laurent had ever seen. It fell down far below her waist, brushing the middle of her thighs. There was color tied into it in the form of a long silk ribbon, its yellow looking like it belonged there naturally despite her dark skin, eyes, and hair, each a different shade of brown that blended so seamlessly together, like a gradient of bronze hues when hit by different levels of sunlight. She was holding a tray of something in her hand, something that distinctly smelled of honey, but the most eye-catching thing were the three men behind her. The one clearly her husband was intimidating, his chest a barrel, his beard dark, and next to him on the left was a man almost equal in his height, but younger and not quite sporting a full beard, but in its place a scowl that would give Auguste’s current sour expression a run for its money. To the older man’s right was a younger boy, youthful and lanky, and not near as obviously put out by this as the other was; or maybe he was better at hiding it underneath the wild curls covering half of his sight with how they fell over his forehead.

“This is my youngest, Laurent,” Hennike introduced him, gently pulling him forward and into the doorway. She cast a worried look up the staircase Laurent had just descended. “I apologize. I don’t know if my oldest will be down. He’s cross with us for moving him before his final year of school.”

“That just gives us more time to meet Laurent then,” said the woman kindly, and her voice was low and washed over Laurent pleasantly. She bent down, closer to him, and said three separate things one after the other as though each was equally as important as the last. “My name is Hypermenestra. This is my husband, Theo, that is my oldest, Kastor, and my youngest, Damen.” She pointed to the expected men accordingly, and her husband gave him a nice smile, and her youngest gave a wave. “This is baklava and, if you like it, you’ll need to come over with your family for I make it every other week.” Then she said, a sort of awe that was often reserved for children in her voice, “Gods, your eyes are blue like the ocean of home. And as large as the ocean too.”

“Father says my eyes are as big as billiard balls,” Laurent said seriously, and everyone laughed as though he was very funny.

No one saw Auguste the rest of the day, but Laurent went to bed that first night in their new house in Marlas with warm honey smooth down his throat and the promise of more for as long as he wished.

***

“She’s already lost it once today,” Auguste started with a mumble, “so I’m going to guess we don’t even have until noon tomorrow before she loses it again.”

Dinner had ended some time ago, Auguste’s favorite, but some of its goodness was lost with Aleron and Hennike’s visible frustration that Auguste and Laurent were not near as excited about the Vallis family visiting as they were.

“You went to school with Damen!” Aleron had ground out, his grip on his fork tight, after Auguste had once more said something about not knowing the Vallis’.

“For a year,” Auguste had started. “And a year fifteen years ago. He’s a few years younger than me too, right?”

“Two years, I believe.”

“Fifteen years ago? Oh good, that means I was,” Laurent had pretended to count on his fingers, “six when I met them.”

Aleron had tried to salvage the conversation. “You might not remember them well, but both of Theo’s sons are part of the company. It will be good for you to make connections.”

He had, of course, only been addressing Auguste, but the statement drew a full body reaction from Laurent who was normally very controlled. “Wonderful holiday, everyone. I absolutely cannot wait to have five people talking nothing but the company until I inevitably die from my brain physically rotting inside of my skull.”

Victoire had hid a laugh behind her hand at that, and the conversation came to a stilted halt, Aleron retiring quickly after to his office and Hennike following with worried fluttering fingers.

“No doubt we can expect the lists sooner than later,” Laurent said presently in response to Auguste’s statement about their mother.

“Lists?” Victoire inquired.

“Every time mother has some event coming up that puts her in a fit, she creates these endlessly long lists with things to do and hands them out with shaky hands as though we can get all hundred items accomplished in a day’s time,” Auguste explained.

“It’s never simple things like dust or vacuum the rugs. It’s things like ‘reshingle the roof’ or ‘tear up the garden and plant entirely new flowers and yes, in the dead of winter.’”

If Auguste had actually placed money, he would have won. The next morning, whilst eating breakfast together, Hennike came to the table, robe flitting behind her and eyes wide, and handed out sheets of paper to Aleron, Auguste, and Laurent. Aleron never stopped reading the newspaper long in his hands already, but Auguste and Laurent shared a look before glancing down at their own.

Polish the floors Install new furnace Plan a month’s worth of meals     - Give to the cooks Rent the ski lodge Embroider the pillows in both upstairs’ guest bedrooms Restock liquor cabinet Add another room to the new wing - talk about w/ Al...

And so on.

“Mom, when are the Vallis’ supposed to be here?” Auguste asked warily.

“In five days’ time.”

“We don’t need a new furnace,” Laurent said. “And I don’t think it’s physically possible to add another room to the new wing in five days’ time.”

“I can help do things too,” Victoire started. “That will give you guys an extra set of hands and —”

At once, all four DeVeres said:

“You will do no such thing!”

“Victoire, you’re pregnant.”

“Baby, that’s not happening.”

“No.”

Victoire threw her hands to her sides in defeat. “Gods above, I’m not an invalid.”

“You’re not, but there is no reason you need to exert yourself. We have plenty of time —”

“And we’re not actually going to do half of the shit on this list.”

“— and we have plenty of people to help. Don’t worry yourself with it.”

“Mom,” Auguste interjected, “you do know we’re not going to do half of the stuff on this list, right? Please, can you just accept that now so it’s not a big deal the hour before they get here?”

Hennike’s voice sounded small as she responded. “But the house would be so much better if we did all of that.”

“We can always plan some of those things for after the holidays. Since the Vallis’ will probably only be wandering the main rooms, such as the kitchen, sitting room, Father’s office, and whatnot we can focus on those and leave the rest for basic cleaning,” Laurent tried to helpfully provide.

The paper in Aleron’s hands folded down, giving them all the first full look of his face all morning and he was wearing the patented DeVere quirked eyebrow, his mouth pulled into a frown. “What do you mean they’ll only be wandering the main rooms?”

“I’m not having a stroke, am I? Those are the rooms we use the most, yes?”

If possible, Aleron’s frown was pulled even deeper at the words. “Yes,” he said slowly, “but as they’ll be staying with us, they’ll be in the guest rooms as well.”

In the most comical of ways, the room fell yet again to a halt, just as it had when Aleron and Hennike first mentioned the Vallis’, only this time Auguste blinked once, twice, three times, and hit his elbow hard on the edge of the table whilst Laurent sat statue-still, fingers twisting in the soft material of his sweatshirt.

“Wait,” Auguste started.

“When you said staying with us —” Laurent said simultaneously.

“They’re staying here? As in staying-staying here? As in sleeping in the beds here? As in morning, noon, and night staying here?”

Another pause in the room.

“Are they poor? Can they not afford a place to stay while in Kempt?”

The vein was visibly throbbing in Aleron’s head again. “They could buy half of Kempt if they wished to.”

“Then for gods’ sake, why are they staying here?” Laurent asked, feeling woozy suddenly.

Despite everything about this home and the chaos that came with living in it alongside his father and mother, there was a comfort in being here, in being unapologetically himself. It was something he had fought long for as well and the thought of other people being here every second, of having to wear a face at all times, sounded exhausting and, to be frank, impossible.

“Because we thought it would be,” Aleron trailed.

“Fun!” Hennike finished. “It will be fun. Your father and Theo were such good friends back in the day and it was only the distance as they both transferred that brought on a change. And Hypermenestra and I mingled so often in the events around Marlas that we became near inseparable at one point. I know things were different for the both of you then, with Auguste heading off to university not even a year after the move and Laurent being so young, but that’s all changed now. Kastor and Damen sound like charming young men that you could both very much befriend.”

The revelation that the Vallis’ were staying in their home for the near entirety of their stay, a whole three weeks no less, changed Auguste and Laurent’s view of the list. Though a new furnace and an entire room addition was still out of the question, the other things felt important suddenly as if impressing these people they didn’t truly know was life or death. Luckily for everyone, Aleron seemed to conclude the same thing and decided that calling in people to polish the floors and prepare the house in all its vastness to be immaculate was necessary.

The four DeVeres were still busy, however. Hennike’s nerves were alight, and it felt as if each time anyone saw her she looked more unraveled than the last time. Luckily for them all she spent much of the next days out of the house, reluctantly trusting the cleaning crews to take care of the home and using the time to go into town with attendants with her at the market, at the florist to arrange for fresh flowers in all the rooms during the Vallis’ entire stay, at the ski lodge arranging some kind of event, and at Vannes’ studio to prep for the actual holiday party she threw every year in competition with Loyse Marcantel, a woman two streets over with a house full of wild boys and a husband that thought quite highly of himself in the town.

Aleron stayed in his office, something that wasn’t out of the ordinary, but when passing the room in the hall anyone could catch on to conversations with people he was associated with thanks to the company, and there was no guarantee, but it sounded as if he was trying to arrange a get-together of sorts for them all once Theo Vallis arrived.

That left Auguste and Laurent (and Victoire, though if she was caught ever was immediately stopped) to do the other things, the things Hennike forgot to take into account, such as food needed for the days before the Vallis’ arrived, such as making the guest rooms not look entirely unlived in, such as making sure the guest bathrooms were equipped with towels and other necessities for a long-time visit.

The only good part of it all was that, the night before the Vallis family was set to arrive, Aleron and Hennike had gone to bed at their usual time, Victoire had gone to bed feeling albeit nauseous, and that meant Auguste and Laurent were together to talk for the first time since Auguste had stepped out of his car.

They were in the sitting room, for that was where Auguste had found Laurent warming his cold hands by the fire, and both were lounging in the tall-backed chairs, Auguste sitting as one should and Laurent splaying across his own, his right foot perched up on the armrest closest to Auguste.

“So much for a family holiday,” Auguste said, speaking toward the fire. “I was looking forward to it, even with the craziness that I knew would ensue.”

Laurent didn’t say anything, only hummed, and he was staring into the fire too, allowing the warmth to make his face so hot that the skin felt tight. When he didn’t properly respond, Auguste poked the foot perched on the chair. Laurent didn’t react. Then Auguste scratched at Laurent’s foot, his blunt nails scraping the fabric of Laurent’s sock, the sound of that drowning in the crackling of the fire, and Laurent jolted at the feeling and pulled his leg back and out of reach.

“Stop that, weirdo,” Laurent said, and he leaned over the same armrest to smack Auguste’s shoulder none-too-lightly.

“Ow! You’re not ten anymore, that actually hurts now.”

“Please,” Laurent scoffed, “you weren’t even around when I was ten. I could have hurt you then too.”

It wasn’t meant to sound the way it did; but it did sound that way. Both of them felt the way the words added a chill to the room despite the fire still blazing, both of them felt the way it addressed the one thing they didn’t talk about because neither knew how. They looked at each other, Laurent’s mouth partially open as if to say something, but no words came out.

“At least we’ve had the last few years together with just us. Mom and dad can’t take that away, I suppose.”

And just like that, they were back to not addressing it.

“I wouldn’t put it above them to try,” Laurent said. Then he pulled a face, as if what he just thought suddenly hit a nerve that wouldn’t allow him to not voice his irritation, and began, “You know, they could have done something half-normal, something families do, like invite our distant cousins that we see once every five years or someone even remotely blood related. But instead they invite some family we lived next to one time in our multitude of moves.”

Auguste smiled and turned back to face the fire. “Yeah, you’d think if they would invite anyone they would have invited the Crespins. They had a son around my age that I spent a decent amount of time with, and I always thought Father and Mr. Crespin got along.”

“You must not have heard. The Crespins disowned their son.”

“What?” Auguste pushed himself to sit up fully, his eyes wide.

“Yes, apparently Berenger running away with a stripper from Varenne wasn’t in their plan for him.”

“A stripper?” Auguste repeated, his jaw going slack with amused shock.

“A redhead. It was quite the scandal,” Laurent said.

Auguste sat back again. “Berenger with a stripper. Didn’t see that one coming. Then again, I don’t think anyone saw me becoming a father just after thirty either.”

“Life is unpredictable in that way,” Laurent agreed. “But you seem to be doing just fine with that. I bet Berenger is doing just fine with his stripper too.”

“Probably more than fine,” Auguste said with a waggle of his brows before dodging another hit from Laurent.

It got quiet after that, both thinking about the serious things that had been brought up in their conversation thus far. Laurent looked away from the fire eventually, opting to look at Auguste’s profile instead. The stubble on his face was a shade or two darker than the hair atop his head, and it made him look older, more refined even. But looking beyond that, Laurent could still see the brother he had idolized in his youth, could still see the face of the man that had shown up on the doorstep of this very house years ago with sorrow in his eyes and hope in his voice.

“Are you ready to be a father?” he asked his brother, still watching his face.

“Don’t think there’s much to do now if I wasn’t,” Auguste said.

“That’s not an answer and that’s not what I meant.”

It was Auguste’s turn to look at him and there, where the sorrow had been, was something Laurent couldn’t place as one specific thing. It was like a stone of opal, a stone that had so many colors, but they were feelings instead of color, each one playing off of the other, each one indistinct and obvious all at once.

“Yes,” then, “no.” He laughed, the sound almost self-deprecating. “Victoire said that it’s normal that I feel so...but I wish I could confidently say yes. I wish I felt more than prepared to welcome a baby into my life, to dedicate my soul to it. But I’m fucking terrified, Laurent.”

Comforting words weren’t often heard in the Devere household. Laurent wanted to say something to ease his brother’s mind, wanted to give him something tangible to hold onto until Victoire had the baby, until Auguste was drowning in devotion and love too much to worry about his insecurity. But instead all Laurent said was, “Thank the gods Victoire’s there to cover you.”

He wasn’t sure what he expected of Auguste’s reaction at the statement said lightly, but it certainly wasn’t the melting of tension from his shoulders nor the blissful smile on his face.

“Thank the gods indeed,” he said, and just like that he appeared settled and fine, as though the mere mention of Victoire’s name was enough to ease all anxiety away. “I recommend falling in love. And doing so soon so you have near all your youth to spend with them. It’s such an unmatched feeling.”

“I think it’s probably that way as the feeling is reciprocated,” Laurent said.

“Probably,” Auguste agreed. “I still recommend it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Laurent said, doing his best to not let Auguste see the eyeroll that accompanied the words that left him.

“Speaking of love,” Auguste started, standing to stretch his arms high over his head, “I’m going to go check on her and get some rest before we begin the welcoming party tomorrow. You going to sleep soon?”

“Yeah, I’ll go soon.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Laurent.”

“Goodnight, Auguste.”

***

Marlas September 14th Fifteen Years Ago

The DeVeres had been in Marlas for just over a month when they first heard Auguste’s true laughter again.

The sound was so unexpected, so sudden, that Hennike whipped around from where she was standing at the bar — making one of her late afternoon cocktails — and some of the liquid sloshed over the sides of the crystal glass in her hand, drenching the pearl ring on her hand in vodka.

Laurent, sitting at the dining table with markers in one hand and the corner of his coloring book in the other, looked up with a stare of consternation that had him making a large mark with green marker far outside of the lines. He frowned at it briefly, lips puffed in a pout, for it made the carousel on the page look quite silly; but the repetition of Auguste’s laughter, the brightness that followed with it, drove away the pout. He looked up again.

Auguste was barreling inside the front door, his shoulders knocking at the frame, and he appeared to be fighting someone. Only, they mustn’t have been fighting because Auguste was laughing. The both of them, Auguste and the other person, looked a mess, their hair both long and tangled in front of their faces, and Hennike, realizing they were wrestling as boys often did, relaxed.

“One of you is going to get hurt!” she called out, wiping at the sides of her glass with a dish towel used for decoration purposes only.

Somehow, both boys’ shoulders managed to wedge in beyond the rigid door frame and they stumbled into the foyer with a lack of grace. Their rowdiness made a painting on the left wall shake. But after fumbling in, they calmed down, their laughter taking on something more like giggles.

The other boy was one of their neighbors, one that Hypermenestra, who made the best baklava in the world and who had promised to make some kourabiedes during the holidays just for Laurent, had introduced. Damen. Somehow his hair had gotten significantly longer in the month since the DeVeres had arrived in Marlas, his curls wild and untamable. Still, even they couldn’t take away from the brightness of the smile on his face and when he responded to Hennike; his voice was at the point fifteen-year-old boys’ voices were right when it would soon develop into something low and rumbly. In other words, right now it was fairly high in pitch, broken out of childhood but still awaiting that final push to being a man.

“Sorry, Mrs. DeVere,” and he said it so charmingly that Hennike couldn’t not beam at him, a hand moving to splay on her own hip as she took in Auguste’s equally as tussled strands of hair.

“And what has you two all riled up?” she asked.

Auguste shot a look at Damen, then his mother, then back to Damen before he said, in a voice that was happy yet meek, “Some of the guys at school invited me to play rugby after school. It was fun.”

Damen, unaware that Auguste had told his mother something quite innocent in such a quiet voice because he didn’t want to admit this move hadn’t been as bad as he had initially thought, chimed in after that. “There are a few of us that like to play before the season starts, making sure we’re all up on the plays and everything. I’m trying to convince Auguste to try out.”

Hennike’s smile was fond as she looked at her oldest who looked a little bashful at the mention. “Are you going to try out, darling?”

“I don’t know.”

“I want to try out,” Laurent said, his own voice not near as bashful as Auguste’s. All the attention in the room turned to him for the first time and he slid off of the dining chair to patter his way over to Auguste. “Can I play with you?”

Both Auguste and Damen laughed, and even Hennike let out an amused sound as she turned back to her drink. Auguste, seventeen and as tall as their father, bent down to heft Laurent into his arms. This close to Auguste’s face, Laurent could make out the brown freckle placed right at the end of his left eyebrow.

“I think you’re a little too small to be playing rugby with the big boys quite yet,” Auguste said, and he petted down an unruly part of Laurent’s hair. The pout returned to Laurent’s face at that, his bottom lip puffing, his child cheeks getting rounder.

“I’m not that little,” he said. Now his voice sounded as meek as Auguste’s had.

“You can come to every game and learn though!” said Damen to Laurent’s left. “And I’ll play with you and Auguste out in our yards.”

Laurent hadn’t been up close with any of the Vallis’, as Laurent had learned them to be called, except for Hypermenestra, and that only because she came over to chat with his mother, the two of them sipping on spritzers while it was still the season for them. Damen’s face was friendly and he looked at Laurent the way Auguste did, like Laurent wasn’t just a child too incapable of doing much of anything. There was gold near the pupils of his brown eyes.

“Yeah,” Auguste agreed, pulling Laurent a little closer as he started to slip in his grip. “Damen and I will teach you everything we know and then, when the time comes for you to try out, you’ll be ready. Sound like a plan?”

“Yeah.”

***

“Aleron, please change into a nicer shirt,” Hennike pleaded, her hands so shaky she couldn’t get the clasp of her diamond bracelet shut.

“What’s wrong with this one?” he gruffed, the newspaper back in his hand like it was every morning.

“It’s hideous. Please change. You have that lovely deep red shirt I got you during the holidays last year, or you could wear blue as that’s the decoration of this year, or —”

It was the day the Vallis’ were set to arrive and Hennike was going on about everything, because nothing was perfect yet in her eyes, including Aleron’s terrible shirt.

Vannes’ interior design team had been in and out of the DeVere household the last five days, working at an absolute nonstop pace. The gold and the red that Hennike had been terribly worried of clashing with her desired blue and silver holiday colors had been taken care of accordingly, the design team going as far as to get an entire new front door put on the hinges, this one a rich navy with a silver lock and handle. The old one was put in the DeVeres’ storage container on the other side of town, ready to be placed back come the new year. Beyond the ridding of the red and gold, the house was a holiday wonderland, postcard-worthy just as Hennike liked it.

The bannister of the ornate staircase was glittering with silvery lights, the cords twisted around the wood and hidden in greenery, making the lights look like sparkling snowflakes delicately placed to draw attention just so. In the sitting room was a ginormous tree, its presence eye-catching and attention-holding, the ornaments on it bulbous and silver as well, their shiny surfaces reflecting the lights interspersed in the trees’ branches. Around the tree was a blue skirt, the fabric velvet and vivid and worthy of being the cloak of a royal instead, and already placed upon it were gift boxes, ones that both Auguste and Laurent knew all too well to be decorative and full of nothing but air. In uniformity, all the rugs in the house had been replaced with the same kind of deep blue as the tree’s skirt, and there were more lights all throughout the multitude of rooms, twinkling and cozy.

Hennike had made certain that one of their cooks would be present early to bake fresh croissants, their existence for two reasons, one being so the Vallis’ had something wonderful upon arrival to help hold them over until the extravagant dinner was ready, and the second being so the house smelled like a bakeshop, adding to the cozy nature of the holiday decoration. Luckily for Hennike as well, a fresh snow had fallen overnight. It hadn’t been a major snowfall, less than an inch all over the ground, but it was enough to hide the gray slush that came with snow left for a long time and brought a freshness to the whole sight of their home.

But still, she wasn’t entirely happy with everything. The tall-backed chairs in the sitting room were still there and still very much red, but Aleron had put his foot down on getting rid of those and Laurent had silently backed up that notion. Auguste had told her in as nice a way as possible that snowman candle warmers looked a little tacky and she had almost cried, so now there were no candle warmers or holders around until the new ones she had ordered arrived in another two days’ time. And don’t even get her started on the drink cart she had wanted so badly to get that was out of stock.

“If I change, will you not speak anything about it the rest of the day?” Aleron asked her.

“Cross my heart!” she promised, giddy with getting her way, and he sighed in the way that expressed his horrible irritation at it all, folded his paper, and began his walk back toward their bedroom to change, Hennike rubbing his shoulders once as a thank you of sorts.

“If she tries to make me change, I’ll simply stay in my room the rest of the day,” Laurent said quietly to Auguste. The two of them were at the breakfast bar Laurent and Victoire had spent so much time at the first day she had arrived, drinking coffee and doing their best not to make direct eye contact with their mother should she think of something to say.

“She won’t make you change,” Auguste said. “You’re wearing a shirt she bought for you. If anything she’ll come over in front of all of them when they arrive and pinch your cheeks like you’re a baby and point out just how adorable you are.”

Laurent grimaced. “You’re right. I should go change into something hideous then.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Hennike said, and she was so close to them in an instant that it was scary. “I love that shirt.”

It was a nice shirt. Or perhaps sweater would be a more appropriate term, despite it being of a thin material, for it was a turtleneck. It was fitted, clinging to the lithe planes of Laurent’s frame, and its color, an ivory white, looked wintry and wonderful in contrast to the taupe colored corduroy pants that accentuated his waist. His blond hair brushed at his shoulders, the neck of his shirt paired with the length of the strands framing his face like the piece of art it was. Yes, it was a nice shirt that looked even nicer on him.

“When are they supposed to get here, Mother?” Auguste asked. The attention, however brief it had been, shifted from Laurent to the situation at hand.

“Any time. Is Victoire up?”

“I am,” came Victoire’s familiar voice from behind them and, sure enough, there she was, her arms drowning in a large and flowing dark blue cardigan. “Sorry. The baby wanted its mother to be quite nauseous this morning.”

“Are you alright?” Auguste asked, alert immediately.

“Oh, I’m fine. Nothing I haven’t dealt with.” She walked forward, kissed Laurent on the cheek, then Auguste, and settled awkwardly into the chair at Auguste’s left.

Everyone was opening their mouths to ask Victoire what they could do for her, Auguste wanting to ask her if she needed to go rest, Laurent wanting to ask her if she wanted some tea, Hennike wanting to ask her if something small to eat would help settle her, when one of their usual staff, an old man named Arnoul, came shuffling in.

“The Vallis’ family has arrived, ma’am.”

One had to be in the room whenever something was about to occur to truly understand the energy Hennike radiated. Like it had happened with the snapping of fingers, Hennike’s expression went from concerned for Victoire to utterly panicked. Her eyes widened, almost comically so, her pupils getting eerily small, and her mouth pulled down at the corners, sharpening her lips and elongating her face. Then, quietly at first, came her voice.

“Aleron.” Then, louder, overreacted, “Aleron! They’re here, Aleron, please hurry. Oh gods.”

Auguste and Laurent shared a look, the kind of look siblings shared that made at least one have to cover their face to avoid laughing outright, and it was when Laurent was attempting to disguise said laugh as a cough that Aleron came from the hallway the bedroom was located in, looking disgruntled in a deep blue button-down.

“Aleron, they’re here,” Hennike said again.

“So I heard.” He adjusted the cuff on his right sleeve. “Let’s go then.”

The five of them — Aleron, Hennike, Auguste, Victoire, and Laurent — followed Arnoul, Auguste keeping a steadying hand on Victoire’s lower back, and with a flourish the front door opened, letting in the Kemptian cold and making way for the two people standing on the other side of it.

Theo Vallis was just as he had been fifteen years ago when the Vallis’ had first introduced themselves to the DeVeres in Marlas. He was tall, broad, barrel-chested, had a pair of dark brown eyes over a nose with a broad tip that tapered upward, and a wide, close-mouthed smile. His hair, dark and waved, was a lot shorter than it had been that time in the past and a lot grayer too; it paired well with the lines by his eyes that indicated lots of time spent laughing. Laurent remembered, as if from a dream tucked away, that Theo had a booming laugh.

Hypermenestra was not, however, just as she had been fifteen years ago. No, Hypermenestra had, in the last decade and a half, become more refined than she had been then, her beauty only enhanced by the time that had gone by, her eyes even kinder than they had been the day she had leaned down into Laurent’s six-year-old vicinity to tell him to come over for baklava every other week for that’s when she made it. He had a rushing memory of honey at the sight of her over his brother’s shoulder.

In the polite way adults did, greetings were exchanged quickly and with excitement overextended, but Laurent recognized his mother’s genunuity as she ushered them inside, saying something barely heard over the shuffling of feet about not freezing their guests to death. Inside, in the foyer, it was much easier to get proper greetings across and Auguste, Laurent, and Victoire stood to the side and watched Hennike and Hypermenestra hug each other, both being careful of the other’s hair, and pull back as if to examine one another, each going on about how beautiful the other was, throwing compliments around as if they had to get them all in now and not over a three week long period. In contrast, Aleron and Theo gave each other manly shoulder-claps, and, like men seemed to do, Theo was looking up and around, saying something about the woodwork of the house and Aleron, hands in his front pockets, agreed about the craftsmanship.

“And your boys!” Hypermenestra exclaimed out suddenly, bringing the conversations occurring to a halt and all eyes turned to Auguste, Laurent, and Victoire before Victoire shoved the two in front of her as that’s where the focus had turned. Hypermenestra walked forward, pulling Auguste then Laurent into a hug, an it was when she pulled back from Laurent that her face changed. Her eyes got near-misty, head tilted, and she said, her voice quiet now, “By the gods, you’ve grown into something spectacular. Look at you.”

Unused to attention from entire rooms when his family was involved, Laurent didn’t know what to say. He gave her a smile, a small one that felt awkward on his face, and she sniffed once. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She turned back to Auguste. “And you! Gods. Your brother I saw as a child, and whilst you may not have been a child, you certainly weren’t on route to be a father yet.”

Auguste, much better with attention, ran with it in stride and smiled before giving Victoire his elbow. “I definitely wasn’t on route, no. This woman right here, my wonderful wife, Victoire, is the reason I’m not in a complete state of consternation about it now.”

Victoire was introduced, Theo coming forward to greet her versus her trying to waddle to him, and Laurent could see in Hypermenestra’s eyes that same look his mother had when she looked at Victoire, as if she wanted to kidnap her and put her own motherly instincts to work caring for Victoire while Victoire’s body readied to give birth.

“What about your boys, Theo?” Aleron asked, changing to subject. “I thought they were coming along with you.”

“They’ll be here. Both of them got caught up with work. You know how that is,” Theo said.

“Don’t I,” Aleron said back, and they laughed like it was an inside joke.

“Kastor’s been doing a lot of work with the Patran embassy and the border issues there. Damianos is doing a lot, but his primary work has been with the Akielon military bases along the Elosean Sea. There are four of them and he's been flying back and forth between them. When we had told him he needed to make his way up here to Kempt, he was in Isthima, and when we called him just last night he was at the base in Mellos.”

“He’s working the military bases? All of them?” Aleron looked and sounded impressed. “How old is he?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“That’s quite a feat for someone so young.”

“Aleron,” Hennike interrupted. “If you two are going to talk business straight away, perhaps it’d be best done in your office.”

“Only if Auguste comes along with us,” Theo said, already taking a step to follow Aleron’s movement. “I want to hear about what you’re doing with the company as well. I see big things for you three boys’ futures.”

“Are you —” Auguste started, talking to Victoire, but she cut him off before he could finish the question.

“I’m fine. Go. Talk business and all things boring so you can get it out of your system early.”

“You’re the best,” Auguste said. He gave her a kiss on her cheek.

“While they’re gone talking, I want to show you the new wing and get your opinion on that extension I was telling you about last week,” Hennike said to Hypermenestra.

“Yes, of course! It sounded like such a great idea over the phone, but I’m dying to see it in person,” Hypermenestra said.

“Are you going to come along?” Hennike asked Victoire and Laurent.

“I would but,” Victoire started, then hesitated. “I’m going to give my feet a rest for a while longer.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Concern was back in Hennike’s voice like it had never left, but Victoire waved her off.

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll stay here with her,” Laurent offered up and Victoire beamed at him.

“My boys should be here relatively soon,” Hypermenestra said. “They’re both in Kempt now, but I don’t know where and I don’t know if they’re awake quite yet. But if they arrive whilst we’re all away, just call for us.”

“Sure.”

As Hennike and Hypermenestra disappeared down the far hallway, their heels clicking behind them, Laurent caught their conversation, heard the, “That boy of yours! You must be holding back boys and girls alike with a stick,” and Victoire cackled directly into his ear.

“Beautiful Laurent,” she sing-songed, arm hooking around his.

“Stop that.”

“A stunner. A heartbreaker. A —”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Help me get off my feet and I’ll stop.”

She didn’t stop her sing-songing until Laurent helped ease her to sit in one of the still-red chairs in the sitting room, but the relief on her back, or her feet, or both had her quieting down, as if the talking was just a distraction from how uncomfortable she was.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Laurent echoed his mother.

“Yes. Growing a life inside of you for nearly a year isn’t exactly an easy thing to do, you know.”

“Never thought it was.” He couldn’t sit down yet. “Let me at least get you tea.”

Victoire winced for the first time since she had arrived as she pushed herself into a more comfortable sitting position on the chair and, reluctantly, she met Laurent’s eyes. “Silver needle, if you guys have it. Please.”

In the kitchen, Laurent could hear and see his mother again. She was down at the far far end of the wing, hands motioning wildly at the current wall there as though telling Hypermenestra to imagine that wall knocked down and extended past the garden they could see from the window. Hypermenestra was nodding, as if completely back in step with Hennike’s quirks, and Laurent shook his head before putting water in the kettle for tea.

Hennike, ever thorough, had also replaced all of their dishware to go along with their colors for the season, so the gold-rimmed glasses and bowls were gone. The mugs, meant for coffees, teas, hot cocoa, and probably even eggnog at some point, were blue and tinged with silver like stars in a nighttime sky. The plates and bowls and serving dishes in the cabinets were simply white and Laurent could only imagine the multitude of centerpieces for the table Hennike had commissioned.

After the tea was finished steeping, Laurent picked up the two mugs he had gotten out, ignored his mother’s squeal as she ran to show Hypermenestra something in the recreational room, and went back to where Victoire was sprawled more awkwardly than before in a chair. She had one arm behind her and underneath her lower back, as though giving her lumbar support she was lacking, the other arm over her head and across the back of the chair. One leg was extended all the way out, her heel on the floor and the rest of her foot not, and the other leg was bent at the knee at an acute kind of angle.

“You look painful. How are you sitting like that?” Laurent asked, gently placing the steaming mug of tea on the table beside her.

“Babies are magical creatures that turn one’s body unrecognizable at times,” Victoire huffed. She was trying to sit up straight again. She cradled the mug in her hands and Laurent didn’t comment on the swelling of her fingers, so significant it made her rings on her hand look quite tight. “That seemed like a rushed welcoming.”

“I didn’t think it was surprising. Mother and Father are clearly more interested in their reunion with the Vallis’ than Auguste and I are.”

“Mrs. Vallis —”

“Hypermenestra.”

“Hypermenestra seemed quite excited to see you.”

“I think it was the excitement relatives feel at family reunions. I wouldn’t know from personal experience, but I’ve heard all the horror stories of relatives coming up to the children at events like that and going on and on. She knew me when I was six and quite obsessed with sweets. It was probably like meeting me for the very first time,” Laurent said.

“You’re still obsessed with sweets.”

“Very true, but I’m a bit more controlled now.”

“So you don’t know their sons at all?” she asked.

Laurent gave a small shrug before taking a sip of his tea. “Not really. Damen, as we knew him, was fifteen when we moved to Marlas. I was six. Not exactly compatible ages for friendship. Auguste and him hung out some, but Auguste went off to university a year later so they never got close. And I don’t even think Auguste or I either met the oldest, Kastor. And if we did, it was once, maybe twice. He’s a decent amount older than Auguste, let alone me.”

As if on cue, as if knowing Laurent and Victoire were talking about the Vallis boys, a car pulled into the DeVeres’ extensively large driveway, parking directly in front of the fountain in the center. It was a taxi, its bright sign glowing even in the sunlight, and Victoire had her neck craned and sticking out as if that would make the person sitting inside clear. The two of them waited a moment, watching and waiting to see if someone would emerge. No one did.

“I’ll go get Hypermenestra,” Laurent said, pushing himself to stand up again.

“Go greet them yourself,” Victoire protested. “Then you can avoid your mother following and causing a scene that won’t stop for an hour.”

“But that means I have to talk and lead them inside and —”

“Laurent.”

He gave her a wary look. “Fine. But when I inevitably make it weird and my father expresses his ongoing disappointment in me, you’re going to hear it.”

“Put on your best smile!” Victoire called after him as he walked out the front door.

The front steps were slick with ice and snow, and Laurent held tight to the railing as he descended, refusing to make a scene of his own. Instinctually his arms came around his body as if he could hold in the heat that was being taken by the cold air. The taxi was still running, its engine loud, and Laurent couldn’t make out the figure inside the darkened windows. He stood there a beat, then two, then debated knocking on said window, when the door flung open and a man came out.

Man was the only word to describe the person. Laurent had been caught up in Hennike and Hypermenestra’s continuous references to ‘boys’ that, though he logically knew the two Vallis’ being waited upon were adults, his mind didn’t supply that definition yet. But the person stepping out of the car was most definitely a man, and an older one at that. He had to be nearing forty and dressed like he was on his way to the office in the next hour.

He looked exactly like his father too. Kastor, Laurent deduced because of the age assumption, was tall, perhaps even taller than Theo, and broad-shouldered. He had his father’s nose and eyes exact in color but more hooded like Hypermenestra’s, and his hair was reminiscent of Theo’s back in Marlas fifteen years ago. The most significant difference was that Kastor’s mouth was set in a firm scowl that somehow deepened as he took in the snow surrounding them in every way.

“Kastor, yes?” Laurent asked, his brain forgoing a hello. Kastor shut the door to the taxi behind him before he gave Laurent even a look. It was a look Laurent wasn’t used to getting from strangers, but more so his family; it was a look that said Kastor was studying him. Thinking more on it, Laurent wondered if it was a thing people from the company did, something learned in their training. That would explain why he bristled at the feeling of those eyes on him.

“Yes,” Kastor said simply. He walked back to the trunk of the taxi, pulled out his bags, and gave a curt wave to the driver as if he couldn’t stomach standing there any longer. A squishing sound filled the air as the taxi drove off, its tires spinning in mountains of wet, blackened snow. “Is my father here yet?”

Laurent nodded. His teeth were starting to chatter.

Without another word, Kastor began toward the house and Laurent, noting with obviousness that their meeting had been colder than the weather outside, allowed him to get ahead to avoid any more unnecessary conversation. Kastor hadn’t even let him introduce himself, didn’t ask who he was. Inside, Kastor kicked snow off of his boots and got as much outside the door as he could. Arnoul was there to greet them, the old man attempting to take Kastor’s bags. Laurent watched with a bit of amusement as Kastor took in Arnoul’s fragile looking frame and did his best to decline.

“I’d prefer to settle my own things in, thank you,” he said succinctly, and Arnoul acquiesced, stepping aside and announcing he would, at the very least, escort Kastor to his rooms so he didn’t get lost.

“Your father is in my father’s study. I’m sure Arnoul can show you where if you’d like to go there after you settle your things,” Laurent said. Kastor was already halfway up the shimmering staircase when he said it and the man turned around, perhaps as if seeing Laurent for the first time, and tipped his head in acknowledgment.

“Well, he’s going to be a boatload of fun, isn’t he?” Victoire asked loudly from the sitting room. Laurent shushed her.

“He might be able to hear you. Don’t you know anything about the Veretian way?”

“As I’m not Veretian, apparently no.”

“Auguste was never very good at it so that might be why. Veretians don’t believe in saying awful things in someone’s vicinity. We’re sickly sweet to people’s faces and then we annihilate their entire existence behind their back before they realize what hit them.”

“You’re not sickly sweet,” Victoire scoffed. “Not when you don’t want to be, anyway.”

“Yes, that’s the Kemptian in me, clearly,” Laurent said, giving Victoire a pointed look.

“Oh, don’t blame us Kemptians for you being a bitch,” she said and Laurent actually laughed at that. It made Victoire smile with all her teeth showing, and between that and her general pregnancy glow, she was riveting. “Besides, your mother isn’t a bitch so I think that’s just all you.”

Laurent snorted. “She’s not a bitch but she’s…”

“She’s something.”

“That’s a word for it. Would you ever allow her to watch the baby when it’s born?”

“Gods above. No,” Victoire said. Her hand curled around the most protruding part of her stomach as though she could protect the baby from Hennike’s sometimes questionable lifestyle choices. “I have this fear she’d mistake water for vodka and vice versa and put it in the bottle, or that she’d forget the baby was sitting in a laundry basket and dump the entire thing in the wash, not giving it a second look. I don’t know how you and your brother got out of here unscathed.”

“I mean, neither one of us is entirely mentally stable,” Laurent pointed out, not mostly serious.

“I meant physically. You’re both horribly fucked up in the head, that was always unsalvageable.”

Laurent was about to make a quip about Victoire willingly procreating with Auguste knowing he was fucked up in the head, when another taxi with an almost identical, unmistakable light atop it pulled into the driveway. Its tires were in nearly the same imprint as the taxi before it. Like when Kastor arrived, both Laurent and Victoire stopped talking and waited instead to see if someone would emerge. This time, however, someone did.

Damen, as the process of elimination told them, had to practically fold himself to prevent from hitting his head on the car’s frame, but when he finally stood to full height, it was impossible to not take in everything about him.

Like there was between Auguste and Laurent, there was a significant age difference between Kastor and Damen. Where Kastor was forty and showing it in his face (though Laurent already theorized that Kastor, no doubt, would look younger if he smiled once), Damen was full of a youthful zeal, something showcased in the simple way he walked, the way he held himself as he chatted amicably with the cab driver from the open window, and it paired well with his lightly stubbled face; he had, apparently, not deemed the beard his father and brother bore as necessary quite yet in his life. Unlike Theo and Kastor as well, Damen’s hair was curled, each singular curl distinguished. They weren’t tightly coiled curls, no, but they were curls nonetheless and it made him look more boyish where everything else, like the breadth of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, and the very obviously well-worked muscles of his thighs displaying underneath a basic pair of jeans, screamed man.

“Well would you look at that,” Victoire said, her voice pitched low. “That’s going to be a real nice addition for the holidays.”

Laurent was always good at schooling his face into something expressionless and he was grateful for the skill now. He hoped Victoire didn’t see him swallow. “Aren’t you married?” he asked rhetorically. Like his face, his voice gave nothing away.

“I’m married, not dead,” she said. “Don’t roll your eyes. Look at him and tell me that’s not at least miniscule-y attractive to you.” She was pointing out the window just as Damen was hefting his bags from the trunk. He lifted them like they were nothing. Logic told Laurent that he didn’t actually know if the bags were heavy or not, but the heat it spread throughout his stomach wasn’t listening to that logic.

“Where’s Arnoul at? I’m still cold from going outside last time, I don’t want to do it again.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the reason.” Then she said, “Go out there. Maybe when you get back in, he can warm you up.”

“You’re disgusting,” Laurent said, his head turned toward the staircase Arnoul still hadn’t descended since escorting Kastor up there. Outside, the taxi drove away, its tires doing the same thing the first taxi’s tires had done, squelching and whirring on the blackened snow. Laurent sighed heavily through his nose. “I’ll be back.”

A large chunk of snow that must have been stuck to Kastor’s boot before he had shaken it off was directly in front of the door and Laurent sidestepped it, barely. He focused on his footing as he walked down the front steps because they were still slick with ice, so it wasn’t until he was safely on the ground that he looked up.

Damen was standing there, his eyes focused on one of the barren trees in the left side of the yard. The branches, though holding no leaves, were heavy with snow and it was beginning to shake off with the small gusts of wind, falling like a fresh snowfall from the sky onto the ground below. Where Kastor had looked studious when he looked at Laurent and at everything around them, Damen looked intrigued. His mouth was slightly parted, leaving the breath that left between his lips frosty in the frigid air.

“We just had a snowfall yesterday.”

Laurent hadn’t meant to say it; or maybe he did. It seemed like a better segway than a simple hello or anything else.

The sentence got Damen’s attention from the tree though, and suddenly he was looking at Laurent.

Up close, Laurent could conclude that Damen didn’t look anything like his father and brother. His nose was straight, the bridge the same in width where Theo and Kastor’s tapered upward, his mouth fuller — or perhaps just not drawn down in a scowl — and his eyes darker. He was definitely taller too, standing a whole head above Laurent who felt suddenly quite young and quite small again, and his smile, when it happened, was knee-weakening and big, just like the rest of him.

Unlike how it had been with Kastor, whom Laurent had never really met all those years ago in Marlas, Laurent had memories of Damen, however brief, that made this suddenly feel quit uncanny, like someone meeting someone else for the first time and discovering they were incredibly close with a friend from a distant past.

Like before, Laurent brought his arms around his middle as if to keep in the heat the cold was trying to take. It was easier to focus on that, on the cold, than on Damen’s dark eyes on him.

“I haven’t had a welcoming this pretty since my best friend’s bachelor party.”

There weren’t many instances in life where Laurent felt speechless. Sure, he kept his mouth shut moreso than not given his father’s reactions to most things he said, his mother’s fluttering attention span, and his brother’s disinterest, but he had much to say, always. But right now, at that, Laurent’s mind felt mindnumblingly blank, even if only for a moment.

Then it all came back to him.

“I do suppose I’m taller now,” was all he said and then he waited, allowing that to seep its way across the cold and into Damen’s head. The wide, knee-weakening smile on Damen’s face fell slightly, as if at first to make sense of whatever had just been Laurent’s response. Then those dark eyes widened.

“Laurent?” he asked, his voice falling off at the end.

Laurent nodded.

“Shit.” Purposefully, Damen breathed out, fogging his face with the cold air as if creating a shield. “Shit, I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect…” His voice fell off again. “You look great.”

“Well, I’m not six anymore so that’s probably the biggest change,” Laurent said, his arms still around his middle.

“Yeah,” Damen laughed a little, “that’s definitely a big part of it.”

Though the silence that followed was only ten seconds long, it felt like an eternity of just standing there, the feeling making Laurent want to crawl out of his skin.

“We should go inside and get out of the cold,” Laurent said when it became unbearable.

“Right. Yeah, of course.”

Back to the door, Laurent felt hyper-aware of Damen walking behind him. Too late did it occur to him that he should have maybe offered to help with bags, but they were walking in now, Damen’s boots loudly knocking on the steps to get off the snow as they all did each time they entered the house. As if timed to make Laurent question everything, Arnoul was coming down the stairs just as the two of them were getting inside the door.

Laurent could see Victoire in the sitting room craning around the chair, the sight hysterical given he could make out her round stomach with the way she was turned. She mouthed, ‘You two going to go warm up?’ and Laurent ignored her with ease.

“Mr. Kastor Vallis has taken the bedroom on this floor instead of the one upstairs,” Arnoul informed them. “The back patio entrance within the main floor’s bedroom will be better for him as he smokes.”

Laurent couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at that, but before he could say something Victoire was waddling in, a specifically pitched ‘Hi!’ having already left her mouth before she was even fully standing.

“Hi!” she repeated, hand coming out to Damen. “I’m Victoire.”

“I’m Damen,” Damen said, taking in Victoire in all her glow and he beamed at her. “You must be Auguste’s wife. Congratulations!” Then he took the hand she had extended out to him and kissed it, the brush of his lips feather-soft and Victoire had the audacity to giggle.

“Thank you,” she said, still giggling. “We’re all thrilled to have you all here for the holidays.”

“If anything, it’ll help prepare you for the bigger holidays you’ll be having in a few years,” Damen said.

“Auguste wants an entire sports team of children I think,” Victoire started with an exaggerated grimace. “He’s lucky he’s getting the one right now.”

Damen laughed at that, that booming laugh Laurent vaguely remembered from the Vallis household as a whole. Only now Damen’s laugh specifically was deeper. Much deeper. It took them getting inside for Laurent to realize just how it felt to be so close to it, like being swept over by honey that had melted in hot tea.

“Would you like me to get your bags, Mr. Vallis?” Arnoul interrupted. Like his brother, Damen took in the fragile sight of Arnoul’s thin-boned arms and declined quite quickly.

“I’ve got my bags, but I wouldn’t mind being shown the room,” he said, hefting the bags up a little higher from where they had fallen during the conversation.

“Your father and brother are in my father’s study,” Laurent repeated the same information, with the addition of Kastor of course. “It’s on the main floor, but I’m sure Arnoul can show you where that is as well.”

“Thank you,” Damen said. “Auguste is in there as well?”

“Sadly,” Victoire murmured.

“And are neither of you coming?” Damen asked.

“Gods, no,” Victoire said.

“We’ve not been invited, you see,” said Laurent. “But my father is persistent you and Auguste reconnect in order to expand your network.”

“That’s a shame you two won’t be there. But, then again, it sounds like we’re all going to have plenty of time to get to know each other.”

Patiently, Damen let Arnoul lead him up the stairs. Victoire was better this time at watching her volume and at waiting until Damen was out of sight for a moment before saying. “He’s a sight, isn’t he? And charming too.”

Laurent snorted. “Yes, if you think that making an ambiguous, yet equally obvious, implication that I’m somehow a stripper is charming, then sure, he’s charming.”

He had said it because it was truth, but also because he thought it would make Victoire wrinkle her nose the same way Laurent had when Arnoul mentioned Kastor smoked. But instead of that kind of reaction, Victoire tilted her head and asked quietly, “Wait, what?”

“I walked out there and the first thing he says isn’t a hello or even a harmless comment about the weather. Instead he said, ‘I haven’t had a welcoming this pretty since my best friend’s bachelor party,’ as if that’s not implying me to be considered the same as the strippers that were littering the place in their barely-there clothing. And I don’t even understand that, because I’m practically covered everywhere minus my face —”

“He said that?” Victoire asked for clarification, her voice a little louder.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” A pause, then, “Oh. Oh, I can work with this.”

Dread worked its way into Laurent’s bones the same way cold did.

“Victoire, we do not need a repeat of my first year at the university.”

“My cousin meant well, he just —”

“He was awful. You know he was awful.”

Victoire groaned, her head falling back. “Okay, Søren was bad. But Damen is…” Laurent couldn’t tell if she was pausing for dramatic effect or not. “Unbelievably hot.”

“Damen’s been in the house for literally four minutes. Give him more time, he’ll prove himself to be like everyone else.”

Victoire made a sound. “You’re just jealous he kissed my hand.”

“That’s it. You caught me.”

***

Marlas July 30th 14 Years Ago

With a trembling hand, Hennike dabbed the tissue to her eyes. She did so delicately as to not disturb her makeup, but some still came off on the stark white paper, blackened now with mascara from her lower lashes.

“But Ios is so far away,” she repeated for what had to be the twentieth time. “Can’t you stay closer to us? Or at least closer to Vere?”

The DeVeres had been in Marlas for nearly a year now, and despite Auguste making a handful of friends, he hadn’t quite found his happiness since the move. The rugby team had fallen through given Auguste’s late entrance to the school and ever since that news had broken, he’d spent more nights moping in his room than doing anything else. Now, at the end of his schooling, he was preparing for the next step: university. Several of his friends from the school back in Arles were going to Ios for university and, if the rumors were true, the beach parties there were unmatched.

But best of all, it was away from the name DeVere.

“Mom, first semester tuition has already been paid and everything,” Auguste said, and he did nothing to mask the irritation he felt. “It’s done.”

“But —”

“Hennike, let it go. If the boy wants to make things harder on himself, let him. Perhaps it will teach him a lesson,” Aleron said.

It wasn’t easy for Aleron to say such things. Auguste was his oldest, his golden star, and his joy, the one meant to carry on the family name with pride. But now —

Aleron couldn’t think about it, so he simply didn’t.

Holding back a retort, Auguste turned on a heel and marched out of the dining room and back to his breezy bedroom to continue to pack. This had all come up because Auguste dropped the bomb that he was moving a month early to enjoy the rest of the summer in Ios. Hennike had expected more time with her son, Aleron had thought to change Auguste’s mind in that time, and Laurent...

Too busy shoving clothes into the array of suitcases Auguste had found, he didn’t even see Laurent, tiny and seven years old and holding confusion between his brows, standing in the doorway. In fact, Auguste didn’t pay attention at all until he heard, in a quiet voice, “Why are you leaving, Auguste?”

Auguste shouldn’t have looked up. Laurent had an ability unlike any other with his big blue eyes. It was the only thing about Laurent that seemed to bring out a sense of paternal care in their father.

“I’m going to school, Laurent,” Auguste said, looking back down again.

“But why?”

“Because I have to."

“But why are you going so far away?”

“Because it’s the school I want to go to.”

“But Mother says there are schools closer. You could —”

“I don’t want to, Laurent!” Auguste said, the force the statement emphasized as he slammed his laptop charger into his suitcase. “I want to be as far away from here as possible. I don’t want anything to do with this family, I’m done. Everything has been picked out for me, lined up with expectations impossible to meet and I’m done.”

Since he had learned to walk and talk, Laurent had been a quiet boy. But the silence now, even when Auguste wasn’t looking at him to see what made it so different than usual, was painful. It was only broken by the soft pattering of Laurent’s feet on the floor as he left from standing in the doorway.

***

Marlas October 26th 14 Years Ago

“Can we call Auguste?”

That was the first thing Laurent asked after walking in the door from school. He still had his backpack on and everything, but there was a determination in the question as if the answer of ‘No’ simply would not suffice.

“Why, darling?” Hennike asked back.

“Because I haven’t talked to him in forever. It’s been at least,” he began to count on his fingers, “fifteen days. That’s more than two weeks!”

Hennike didn’t want to tell him. She herself was still struggling with the fact that Auguste hadn’t answered a single one of her phone calls in those two weeks. In fact, the only time he had answered since the semester actually started was in early October and it had been because somebody else had picked up the phone and handed it to Auguste.

“Sure, darling, we can try. But I can’t promise he’ll pick up. He’s quite busy with classes.”

Laurent bounded over to the phone, impatiently waiting for Hennike to join him. With reluctance she stood from the sofa and joined him at the phone. He was on his tiptoes as if standing taller and closer to the receiver would get him to Auguste faster and Hennike, with a ball of dread in her stomach, dialed the number and waited.

It rang. It rang. It rang. It rang. And it kept ringing. Then, with a low beep, it went to voicemail.

“Hi, this is Auguste. I’m not in my dorm. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

Hennike didn’t — couldn’t — bother.

“He must be out, Laurent.”

It made her want to cry. The holidays would be here before they knew it and Auguste might not be here, and Hennike would be inconsolable, Aleron would be so angry, and Laurent —

“That’s okay. Can I get on the computer and email him? My teacher says my spelling has gotten better.”

Laurent was young enough, innocent enough, to not think the worst yet.

“Of course.”

***

Ios October 26th 14 Years Ago

Auguste had no idea where he was.

The party had started on Stewart Street, at the usual place, but then the police had broken it up and it had moved. Auguste had joined the rest of the group in stumbling to the new destination, but he had gotten sidetracked by another party with a big game of beer pong going on in the front yard. Now he was lost and his head was fuzzy with too many shots.

It didn’t stop him from doing more though.

Things had escalated beyond normal shots and Auguste found himself doing body shots off of a girl he’d met precisely thirty seconds earlier with g-string straps showing at the top of her hips and long dark hair nearly down to her waist.

He wasn’t going to make it back to his dorm room tonight.

***

The rest of the day leading up to dinner was the definition of awkward. It became apparent that the Vallis family had catching up of their own to do before they would be ready to catch up with the DeVeres. Hypermenestra was absolutely overcome with both Kastor and Damen being here and Victoire had overheard the woman tell Hennike that it had been almost two years since the family had sat down for a dinner together.

“What kind of hell have our parents put us in the middle of?” Auguste had asked, a kind of incredulous laugh in his voice. The three of them — Auguste, Victoire, and Laurent — had been eavesdropping since Auguste’s exit from the ever-intimidating office.

“I don’t have time for other people’s family drama,” Laurent had started in agreement. “I barely have time for our own family drama.”

“It felt incredibly cold in there the moment Damen entered and not because of the snow outside,” Auguste had said.

“Leave it alone, you two. Give them a chance to settle in before you start jumping to wild conclusions.”

“Honey,” Auguste had said, addressing Victoire then, “I love you, but all you do is jump to conclusions. I’m allowed to one time.”

At one point, nearish noon, Kastor had retreated from the office to the room he was staying in, leaving Aleron, Theo, and Damen alone. Theo’s booming laugh followed by Damen’s similar one echoed throughout the house at various intervals.

When Auguste and Victoire got bored with the eavesdropping and decided to grab lunch at a small place down the street, Laurent took that as opportunity to retreat to his room. Disregarding the sitting room, his bedroom was his favorite place. It was littered with books, his newest ones Patran literature from the years 1000-1600 Post-Artesian (P.A.) and his older ones fiction books he’d had since he was a young teen, books that shaped everything, books that provided an escape from the name DeVere. But the books were about the only things in the room that were Laurent.

Hennike, the interior design dreamer with big ideas Vannes made reality, hadn’t allowed for the boys to have many toys or anything growing up given how horribly toys clashed with her mixture of Kemptian-Veretian home decor. That hadn’t changed as they had grown. In fact, it had gotten even more strict, the saying of, “It’s time to start acting like an adult!” being told to them both starting when they turned but thirteen.

It had made childhood a little off-putting, watching other kids in those younger days of school bringing toys for show-and-tell or talking about the gifts they received, but Laurent had grown used to it and it didn’t bother him now. It made his room with its high ceiling, dark floors, beige walls, and large arched window all the more cozy in lamp light.

He grabbed one of the older Patran books, this one with yellowed pages, binding that was in a questionable state, and faded Patran writing on the cover that said ‘Poetry from Bazal’ and a subscript of ‘For the Royal Family,’ and lounged across his bed. For hours he didn’t hear a sound in the house, his room far enough away from the kitchens, the office, the new wing his mother was obsessed with, that there wasn’t a fear of hearing it either. But, as all good things must come to an end, his mother did come into his room some time later, no knock or anything, to say, “Dress nice for dinner tonight. It will be ready at our usual time.”

Laurent bristled. “I have to dress nice for dinner in the house? Is this how it’s going to be the entire time they’re here?”

“Yes and yes. They are our guests, Laurent! We need to look nice out of respect,” Hennike admonished.

The unspoken words there were actually ‘How else am I supposed to show them how wonderful we are if we do not always look camera-ready?’

“Fine. I’ll be down soon.”

Down the hall was Auguste and Victoire’s room, and they must have returned from their outing because Laurent could hear Auguste asking his mother the same thing he had. When she left, going back down the stairs, he then heard Auguste groan and begin to, none too gently, go through his closet for something worthy of wearing to dinner.

Laurent picked out a new sweater, a nice blue one (to compliment his mother’s theme for the house) with cuffed sleeves and a Peter-Pan collar, and finished it off with a simple pair of pants, ones that ended above his ankles in the Veretian style both of his parents preferred. When he was dressed, he took in a deep breath before opening his bedroom door; every part of him was dreading small talk and conversation that would ultimately lead to the company, as everything with his father always did.

As soon as the door was opened, the smell from dinner besieged Laurent’s senses. It was divine and clearly going to be excessive. The dread solidified a little more. Laurent sent a silent prayer to the prophet of Kempt and the god of Vere that it wouldn’t be a twelve course traditional Veretian meal.

There was chatter in the dining room already occurring and when Laurent walked through the threshold, it was Hypermenestra again that seemed truly happy to see him.

“Laurent! There you are,” she started, coming forward and placing both of her hands on his shoulders. “I’ve hardly seen you since we arrived.”

Her enthusiastic greeting had turned all eyes in the room on him and that meant everyone but Auguste and Victoire. If Victoire were here, she would say something humorous, something like, “Ever since Laurent found out the DeVere family is descended from royalty, he’s started limiting his presence with people as to not overwhelm them with his grace,” and everyone would laugh. But Laurent didn’t know what to say so he said a half-truth instead, purposefully avoiding eye contact with everyone else in the room.

“I got caught up in schoolwork. I didn’t mean to disappear for so long,” he said.

“Well,” she started, and she was leading him toward the table that was in the process of being set, “that means I’m simply going to ask you everything over dinner. You, especially, have had so much happen since you moved from Marlas.”

Laurent was saved from responding to that with the appearance of Auguste and Victoire and Victoire’s hysterical delivery of, “Sorry we’re late. This,” she pointed to her baby bump, “makes getting dressed a challenge every time and I got a dress stuck in a terribly embarrassing way. Auguste had to fish me out of it. It was a mess.”

Like she knew to save him, the mention of a baby got Hennike and Hypermenestra both cooing after her as they had earlier and they kept it up even as everyone began to go to their seats. The cooing got even worse when Auguste pulled out Victoire’s chair for her.

“Does he do that all the time, or is he behaving exceptionally well because there’s company?” Hypermenestra asked lightheartedly.

“I whipped him into shape years ago,” Victoire said, and she demurely took the folded cloth napkin on the table and placed it over her lap — which was predominantly baby bump now.

“That’s not far from the truth,” Auguste said, taking his across from her

The table they were sitting at was incredibly long. Like the largeness of the house, Laurent never understood why they had a table quite this big when dinner wasn’t eaten together more than a handful of times a year and, when they did eat together, there were only three of them most of the time. On a normal day, as the table sat there unused, there were ten available seats and room to squeeze in six more if needed. Arnoul and the others had taken away all the unnecessary chairs for the dinner, however, leaving a chair at each head of the table, four chairs on one side, and three on the other. Naturally, Aleron and Theo took the seats at the heads of the table, their wives on their rights. Hennike’s seat was next to Victoire, the both of them actually the ones sitting across from Auguste and Laurent realized then that he was going to be sitting next to Kastor, who was sitting on his own father’s left, and across from Damen who was seated next to Auguste. It wasn’t ideal. It put him in the middle of everything and he wanted to reach out to Auguste, tell him how much better he would be in this position and don’t you want to sit next to your wife? But it was too late now.

“You didn’t have to plan this for us, Al,” Theo said as everyone settled in.

Aleron’s host voice in response was nauseating and Laurent’s pointed ignoring of it gave him actual time to take in everyone at the table. His mother’s dress was, in fashion, excessive. It shimmered as she moved, the sleeves of it long and not belonging to a woman that spent time doing much of anything. Victoire had color-coordinated herself and Auguste, her new dress’ gray hues complimented by the blue shawl she wore and went quite nice with Auguste’s gray tie and navy blue pants. Aleron and Auguste could’ve been clones in that moment if Auguste had taken on their father’s coloring as opposed to their mother’s, his outfit eerily similar, as well as the awful beard he was attempting to grow.

Then there were the Vallis’. Kastor might as well have been at a funeral, his black suit and perpetual scowl not at all screaming dinner party. Theo and Hypermenestra were both bundled up a little more; Laurent thought back on what he remembered of the Vallis’ and remembered vividly then how much Hypermenestra would complain when the weather in Marlas began to change. “Not a place in Akielos gets as cold as it does here,” she would say, shivering in the chair she always sat in when she was over. Their outfits were nice as well, both complemented by jewelry that seemed unnecessary, and Theo’s sweater made him look almost grandfatherly, though Laurent had a suspicion he would not like to be told that. Damen was dressed like Kastor if Kastor had ditched the jacket and opted for a smile. Thought there were other differences. For instance, Damen had ditched not only the suit jacket, but the tie as well, making the whole look more casual; or maybe the casualness of it came from his unbuttoned buttons at the top of the shirt, exposing his neck and briefest beginning of chest hair.

Laurent was mindlessly adjusting his silverware and plate just as the first course began to be served. It was a small bowl of soup, a creamy vegetable bisque that was there to warm everyone’s stomachs and set the tone of the winter comforts of this meal. Alongside it came the drinks, a deep red wine being poured for everyone (but Victoire) that signified to Laurent his mother had, in fact, requested the cooks make the lamb, and a glass of sparkling water as a palette cleanser.

As food was being set on the table, the room was unnervingly silent. The only sounds were that of the waitstaffs’ feet moving about the floor, the quiet fabric sound of napkins being unfolded, and the musical clinking of fine china and glass.

Aleron cleared his throat, speaking again, and bringing forth a rush of relief, as if everyone would now be given permission to speak.

“Before we begin, I would like to make a toast,” he started. With a ringed hand, he raised up his wine and said, “To Theomedes Vallis for his retirement from, and his long-standing loyalty to, Artesian Affairs. May your gods shower you with all the blessings you deserve as the man you have become.”

Theo tipped his glass in recognition as everyone, especially Hypermenestra, applauded him. Victoire, whilst clapping, elbowed Laurent subtly and Laurent held back a grin. He knew what she was thinking, knew she was saying in her head Artesian Affairs in such a heavy accent that it was almost unrecognizable as words.

Given the toast, it was no surprise that the time between the first course and second courses was spent talking about the company. Theo gave a rousing retelling of his last case he worked, something involving Akielos’ farming provinces and Patran provinces bordering them and something about surveyors and a few other things Laurent didn’t care enough about to give his attention to. Instead of listening to Kastor’s chiming in of, “And just think, Father, what could have happened had they put Makedon on that case,” and Theo’s booming laugh and, “Can you imagine? The mess that would have caused,” Laurent focused on the condensation on the glass of water next to his wine, on Victoire’s familiar elbow bumping into his own, on the bob of Damen’s throat as he drank.

Up close and not allowing his mouth to move faster than his brain, Damen looked a lot like what Laurent remembered. Sure, time had done its job, aging him appropriately, but there were aspects of that boy next door so evident in him that Laurent felt a sense of deja vu. It was impossible to pinpoint what it was exactly; it could have been the boyish smile he still had, one that made him look younger when it lit up his whole face, or it could have been the dimple on his left cheek that was deep enough to hold half of the wine in his cup, or it could have been his eyes that were just as warm as Laurent remembered. In a strange way it was a comfort having some kind of affinity in the midst of all the newness, of the clawing need Laurent had felt since he had finished university to get away.

The second course, a simply creation of canapes made of puff pastry, ricotta, thinly sliced pears, walnuts, and prosciutto, was brought out on large decorative serving trays and placed on the table in two places so everyone could get their hands on at least one, and the conversation continued on, but away from Theo and toward the other members of Artesian Affairs who were active in their practice.

“Kastor, Damen,” Aleron started, wiping his hand fastidiously on the napkin at his right, “your father told me a little of what you’re both doing and I must say, I’m intrigued.”

Kastor nodded in acknowledgment and Damen gave a short and polite “Thank you.”

Aleron continued on. “Damen, you’re working with the military bases? That’s impressive for someone your age.”

“Thank you,” Damen said again.

“Which bases are you working with specifically? Back in my day, before the boys were both born, I did some work with the Veretian bases at the border, places like Ravenal and even Marlas.”

“Well, Delpha is the big one, the one that really gets you on the map, but I’m not there. Yet. I’m working more on the coast of the Ellosean Sea, looking at….”

Laurent’s attention switched from Damen’s familiarity to Kastor’s unfamiliarity. Though Damen was the one talking, Kastor was the one who was fascinating in that moment. At the first direct mention of Damen, or more specifically the first direct exclusion of Kastor, the man bristled, his funeral-appropriate expression deepening. It wasn’t a subtle thing either and Laurent, sitting next to him, felt it like one feels the change in the air before a strike of lightning. It was almost as if he embraced the way he was feeling, or like he wore it the way someone wore a comfortable and old pair of shoes. His profile to Laurent’s right sported a clenched jaw and Theo’s nose and it was impossible not to imagine the bared teeth his entire being insinuated.

The tension only seemed to grow when Theo, raptly listening to Damen speaking as if he hadn’t ever heard any of this before, chimed in, his praises grandiose, and Laurent couldn’t not look around to see if anyone else was noticing. Of course they weren’t though; his mother was motioning to one of their waitstaff for more wine and everyone else was listening to Damen whose smile got unbelievably more charming as he talked about how he was approached for his promotion not six months ago.

“...it’s when I was working with Mr. Zervas that it happened because he —”

“Mr. Zervas?” Auguste asked, mouth curling up into a smile. “He’s who I first worked for when I was interning at the University of Ios.”

Damen’s smile back was blinding. “He’s the best, isn’t he?”

“Taught me everything I needed to know —”

“— about the military,” both Damen and Auguste said at the same time.

“Yeah,” Damen continued, “if it wasn’t for him, I never would have been prepared for everything needed at the bases. But now, only six months in, I’ve gotten my first proposals back to the Akielon Kyroi for approval. And we all know how the Kyroi can be.”

“That we do,” Theo said with a scoff at just the mention of Akielos’ current political delegation.

“When I was first working through only Vere, Mr. Zervas had me sending so much back to the Veretian members and those assholes threw out the first four. They didn’t even bother sending them back, they literally threw them out,” Auguste said.

“Sounds typically Veretian to me,” Kastor mumbled just loud enough to be heard, and it shifted everyone’s attention in the way Laurent’s attention had shifted earlier.

If Damen was bothered by all eyes in the room moving toward Kastor, he didn’t show it like his brother did. But there was something there on his face, something that twisted the charisma so easily displayed into something more subdued that Laurent was faced with the sudden impossible task of deciding which Vallis brother was displaying a more interesting set of emotion.

“Kastor’s work with Akielon and Patran unification has been going quite well,” Hypermenestra added over the instantaneous awkward.

“Yes, you should hear what he had to deal with in regard to Patran’s dear king, Torgier,” Theo said. “That man is enough to drive anyone mental.”

Like magic, Kastor’s shoulders seemed to fall into a more natural place as he told of his numerous interactions with the fiddly Patran king. All of this took place during the setting and eating of the third course, a seasonal salad with a sweet honey balsamic dressing that brought back flavor notes of the pear that had been on the canapes.

By the time the entree came out, the lamb on the plate beautifully pink and drowning in a deep red wine sauce, nearly everyone was talking over one another, conversations centered around, but of course, the company. Kastor’s issues with the conversation never floated back to the surface, nor were they acknowledged, and Damen’s smile became blinding once more as he and Auguste turned toward each other to share stories of their shared experience of working under Mr. Zervas. Aleron, Theo, and Kastor were nearly yelling across the table at one another, discussing similarities and differences in their first years at the company compared to the latter years, and Hennike, Hypermenestra, and Victoire were lamenting in how this job took up all of their husbands’ time without fail and thank the gods two of the three of them are retired and, “You’ll be fine, Victoire. It does calm down after the first ten years there. Let him get further established.”

The lamb on Laurent’s plate was good. There was a richness in it, in the herbs it had marinated in, in the way the wine sauce felt its way to the back part of his tongue, in the plating of it which looked as good, if not better, than any upper class establishment could provide. It wasn’t good enough, however, to hold his attention in the way he hoped it would, away from the conversations taking place all around him.

He wished desperately to have his phone or a book or the opportunity to leave and, if he had been fast enough, he truly could have probably slipped away from the table unnoticed.

But he waited too long. The cooks and waitstaff were topping off wine and removing unnecessary plates when Hypermenestra asked, over the clinking of glass, “Laurent, when do you plan on joining the others at work?”

She asked it so politely that Laurent couldn’t be mad, even if he felt his blood turn cold as attention shifted again, this time to him.

Hypermenestra couldn’t have known that Aleron would, at such a simple question, down the remainder of his drink in one gulp as though the quick addition of more alcohol would make this conversation easier. Hypermenestra couldn’t have known that Hennike too would down the remainder of her drink and motion quite quickly for another, her shoulders squaring and preparing for the inevitable. Hypermenestra couldn’t have known that Auguste and Victoire would share near-panicked looks across the table from one another.

The Vallis’, for their part, looked inquisitive, as though assessing a new recruit for weaknesses and strengths. Laurent desperately wanted to wilt away and out of everyone’s line of vision. He swallowed.

“Laurent, bless his soul, actually cares about my sanity,” Victoire said before Laurent could even open his mouth. “I told him that Auguste already bores me to tears with his arbitrary stories about the company and I simply couldn’t take another. I told Laurent so, told him I’d kill over if I had to hear about one more meeting getting delayed because governments, as a whole, are nothing but a bunch of self-righteous pricks.”

Victoire’s explanation only seemed to cause more confusion.

“So you’re not joining the company at all?” Kastor asked for clarification after a pause, and his gaze was burning on Laurent’s profile. Laurent swallowed again.

“I very much doubt my degrees in literature and history will do much good in the field of international political affairs.”

Not even trying to hide it, Aleron, facing Theo, raised both of his brows and flicked a look Laurent’s way that said, without saying so, “Do you see what I mean?” And Theo mimicked the look, his response, “You were right,” obvious in the downturned corners of his mouth.

“What do you want to do then?” Damen asked.

His voice broke through the sudden blood rush in Laurent’s head, causing Laurent to look up from his tight-gripped fork to familiar brown eyes. The way he asked was the opposite of how Laurent’s own father had asked the same question years ago (“What do you want to do then?” Aleron had asked snidely, shoving none-to-gently the paperweight on his desk. “You’ll ruin the name DeVere.”), but genuine in its accompanied head tilt that had dark brown curls tumbling over to one side.

Laurent knew if he spoke, his father would chime in eventually with everything horribly wrong with Laurent’s plan. But maybe if Laurent could speak first, could get enough of his hopes spilled out, the Vallis’ could see and could tell Aleron —

“I want to teach,” Laurent began, “at the university level. I want to not only teach though. I want to create my own curriculum that could, perhaps, develop to become a major.” Aleron’s stare was deathly in its intention, but Laurent carried on. “Growing up with Artesian Affairs as my background has made me familiar with the catastrophic problems the countries face due to hostility between citizens. But history tells us this was not always the case. It was, after all, one kingdom once.”

Aleron cleared his throat. “Laurent.”

“I’ve spent the last few years fascinated with what literature tells us. In my classes, literature is divided by countries, but the times overlap and the similarities are infinite. While I doubt I can bring about world peace or anything, I truly do believe that if there was a curriculum or, at a minimum, an access to classes that focused on our similarities instead of our causes of war or our betterness as individual countries, we could once again be unified on a front. And it could extend so far beyond literature. Think of all modes of art, think of paintings and theater, they’re so —”

“Laurent.”

Steel entered Aleron’s voice, cutting viciously through Laurent’s words. It was enough to snap Laurent’s jaw closed with an audible click. But steel apparently didn’t deter Damen whatsoever.

“You came up with this theory all on your own?” he asked, brown eyes wide and the dimple in his left cheek deep.

“I’m sure I’m not the first to think of it,” Laurent said, a little quieter, “but from what I’ve gathered in research and conversations with professors, I would be the first to pursue it to this degree. It’s why I’m going for my master’s so quickly.”

“And how quickly do you think you could actually start teaching about it? It sounds like a long-game,” Damen said.

“It is a long-game. I might not be able to begin fully teaching it for decades, all things considered. But it’s not impossible,” Laurent explained. Damen’s smile, at him, was enough to make the blood rush in his head again.

“I don’t think it’s impossible either. You sound far too determined for it to be.”

Laurent didn’t say anything to that. But if he bit back the beginnings of his own smile, no one needed to know. The words, like Damen’s eyes, carried a warmth in them that settled against him nicely, that went better with the wine than the lamb had.

Of course, moments of silence, however brief, allowed for Aleron to get his own words in and as quickly as the warmth came, it was gone.

“He’s also far too stubborn to see what an outrageous idea it is. Dreaming,” Aleron started to say one of his favorite admonishments toward Laurent, “is for children. It’s about time he grew up.”

The insult was impudent.

What wasn’t, however, was Aleron having someone who so vehemently, and audibly, agreed.

“Yes,” Theo began, leaning back into the dining room chair. “Perhaps when you’re ready for a true career you can get a secretarial position at Artesian’s Kemptian base. It’s decent pay and I’m sure with your degree in all things bookish and writing centered they would be happy to have you.”

It was Theo’s words that finally got a reaction out of Laurent. It was an involuntary reaction, but he felt it, felt the flush work its way up his chest and over his cheeks until it burned the tips of his ears so badly that he almost went to scratch at them to alleviate the pain.

“Father,” came Damen’s voice once more, its quality the same kind of steel Aleron’s had been, but it wasn’t enough this time to bring forth any grounding for Laurent.

As if very far away suddenly, Laurent faintly heard Theo say, “It’s good advice, Damen. Everyone needs a plan in case their first direction leads them astray.”

“That’s no reason to —”

“May I be excused?” Laurent asked, but it went by unheard.

“Universities are fickle things. What about the future when things begin to shift back toward vocational trades instead of academics?”

“There will always be people in school! The idea that there wouldn’t be is absurd.”

“If a person wants to —”

“May I be excused?” Laurent asked again, louder this time, and he felt Victoire’s hand on his elbow then, felt her fingernails dig in the skin of his forearm.

The arguments continued, Laurent’s question going unanswered, and he couldn’t sit there anymore. With as much gentleness as he could muster, he pushed himself away from the table, trying not to garner anymore attention. For the first time since this started, Auguste was fighting for his eyes and he ignored it so pointedly, ignored Victoire’s tightening grip that gave way when he finally stood.

The house, in all of its grandeur, made things echo, and as Laurent walked away, head high and jaw clenched, he could hear clearly the continuation of words that were interspersed with Hennike’s too loud gasp after spilling her latest glass of wine all over the white tablecloth.

***

On a normal day in the DeVere house, Laurent had free reign of each floor after ten in the evening or so. It was by this point that Aleron went to bed so he could get up early in the habit he’d been in since his earliest days with the company, and Hennike, usually wine or vodka or sherry-sleepy, was passed out on the couch or miraculously in her bedroom. But, as nothing at this moment was how it usually was, there was no anticipating what Laurent was going to find when he finally emerged from his bedroom.

At the first hesitant cracking open of his door, Laurent didn’t hear anything that signified a congregation was meeting anywhere in the house. It was still, and quiet. The lights twinkling on the stairway bannister were the only lights on in the hallway, the holiday warmth of them seeping into Laurent’s bedroom ever so slowly. It was about now that Laurent would take over the sitting room, huddled and warm and content with the silence. It was about now that he would sometimes call Auguste on the phone to talk, neither one of them keen on having conversations in their parents’ earshot. It was about now that Laurent would sometimes dream about his own home with its own sitting room that wasn’t surrounded with the tension of this house and the weighed disappointment of his father’s never-wavering gaze.

Laurent double-backed into his room to grab an armful of his books and his laptop to spread out in front of the fireplace when a knock, so unexpected, had him drop the largest tome in his hand nearly on his foot.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said Damen from the doorway. Unlike Laurent, Damen had changed from his dinner clothes into something far more comfortable looking. Black sweatpants that cinched at the bottom showed off the ridiculous socks he was wearing (were those gingerbread men on them?) and a long-sleeved blue shirt protected his Akielon aversion to all things cold. He looked, for lack of a better word, cozy. It was far too intimate a look for someone Laurent felt so unacquainted with.

“Hello,” Laurent said lamely after a beat. He bent down to pick up the book he had just dropped: ‘Veretian Short Stories: An Anthology’ and subscript ‘900-1200 P.A.’

“Hi,” Damen said back.

“Do you —” Laurent looked around, “do you need something?”

“No! I was in the room down the hall when I heard your door open.”

Laurent looked around again, paused like a deer in the headlights. “Okay.”

Damen took a step closer to the door, his socked (gingerbread men-socked) feet right on the imaginary line between Laurent’s bedroom and the hallway. Then he took a step back. “Sorry, let me start over,” Damen said, and he sounded almost flustered. “I was going to come up here right after dinner, but I didn’t want to overstep so I’ve sort of been….listening for when you did come back out.”

“Okay….” Laurent repeated, and trailed.

“What I meant to say,” Damen tried again, huffing out a breath between his teeth, “is that I was waiting so I could apologize for what happened at dinner.”

“Oh.”

Laurent felt stupid whenever he was at a loss for words. It didn’t happen often, hence why he was so unaccustomed to the feeling, but when it did it left him feeling like he had to mentally scramble for something, anything, that would allow him to refind his footing. In many cases, given the common passive aggressive hostility of the house, it meant he got mean.

“Oh,” he started once more. “I wasn’t aware you had done anything requiring an apology.”

There was now a dumbfounded look on Damen’s face. Laurent felt more stable. “I didn’t,” he said slowly, “but the whole situation —”

“Was as normal as any other dinner I have ever had with my family. Please don’t come in here, a full stranger, and begin to attempt to fix the problems that exist in these walls. You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

“But my father —” Damen tried.

“Is as much as a prick as my father. It’s not surprising. All those company men have always been that way,” Laurent snapped.

It was around this moment in conversation that whoever Laurent was talking to did one of two things: they either quit talking altogether, for their fury couldn’t be put into words, or they rose to the bait, angry and biting and faltering, for Laurent was quicker in every feasible way.

“Well, I’m not that way,” Damen said, and he said it so simply and so calmly that it felt like, out of nowhere, a bucket of cold water had been poured over Laurent’s head. “And I’m sorry both of our fathers apparently are. It’s not right.”

The silence was a heavy thing. Damen appeared to be waiting, waiting to see if Laurent would respond with malice or if he would talk as people do, and Laurent felt dizzy with his attempt to make sense of Damen’s words, felt overwhelmed at the straightforwardness of them. The books in his arms were incredibly heavy.

When it became discernable Laurent wasn’t going to say anything, Damen took another step back. “I won’t keep you. You look like you have plenty to do.” He took yet another step back, then one more, then he paused. The twinkling lights on the bannister were behind him, blurring his edges. “For what it’s worth, my brother and I didn’t plan on this. We haven’t seen each other in two years. The last thing either of us wanted to do was meet for the first time in that long of a time at a house owned by people who have been nothing but a name to us for a decade. But our parents insisted. And instead of lamenting the parties I was supposed to be attending, I’m going to try and make the best of this. If you’d like to do the same, let me know. We shouldn’t all have to feel lonely surrounded by so many people.”

This time, he didn’t wait for Laurent to respond. Laurent heard his footsteps on the stairs, heard the first sign of life in the house as Hypermenestra and Hennike both, tipsily and immediately and loudly, dragged him into their conversation that must be occurring in the kitchen.

Glued to the spot he’d been in since Damen had shown up at the door, Laurent could see a sliver of the outside. Directly out his window was a large tree branch, one that used to frighten him when he was younger for it, in the active imagination of a child, looked like a hand reaching out for him in his sleep. Sometimes it even knocked against the glass, scraping and scratching. Right now, the branch was barren and covered in snow. Tiny icicles dripped down, frozen in time, and during the daylight hours Laurent could see tiny footprints in the snow from squirrels and straggling birds. But that wasn’t what drew his attention.

A light from one of the patio terraces was on. It casted shadows into the garden, now desolate and snow-covered, of someone walking, pacing. Laurent inched closer. Kastor, who had taken the bedroom on the main floor, was outside and on the phone. His breath was leaving his mouth like a dragon, smouldering and quick and near identical to the smoke rising from his cigarette.

Two years, Damen had said.

Damen.

Laurent hadn’t anticipated today in any way. He hadn’t anticipated dinner going as badly as it had, hadn’t anticipated the suffocating loneliness it had brought, hadn’t anticipated Damen’s, dare he say it, earnestness.

From anyone else, those words would have come across as a ruse, as a con, as a some kind of deceit. But they didn’t from Damen, and Laurent knew for a fact Damen couldn’t lie to save his life. He remembered the football thrown through a window and Damen and Auguste’s attempts at lying before they both broke in seconds, the truth spilling like the glass on the carpet. No minds for deception, those two.

Just as Laurent’s thoughts flitted toward memories of his brother, he heard his brother’s name shouted, but muffled, from the room down the hall.

“Auguste!” Victoire yelled.

Laurent had heard her yell that before under very different, and horrifying engrained in Laurent’s mind, circumstances that led to Victoire’s holiday gift to Laurent of noise cancelling headphones, given with an unashamed grin.

This wasn’t that kind of yell though, thank the gods.

“Auguste!” she yelled again. When she yelled a third time, Laurent abandoned his books and his laptop, knowing fully well he wasn’t going to get anything done tonight anyway, and wandered down the hallway to where Victoire was still yelling inside her and Auguste’s room, each new iteration of ‘Auguste’ displaying more of his displeasure.

“I’m not Auguste, but I might be able to help. As long as it’s not anything weird,” Laurent announced from outside the door and he could practically feel Victoire’s eyes rolling.

“Get in here,” she demanded impatiently.

Inside, she was lying on the large canopied bed, her head up and supported by a stack of pillows and her stomach so large it nearly rose above her eye-level. She looked horribly uncomfortable and frustrated and she said so as soon as the door closed.

“What am I doing on this fine evening?” she asked rhetorically. “Why, I am creating the miracle of life. And what is your brother doing? Drinking gasoline-stenched brandy with his father as they talk work as though that’s not all they talk about all the time.”

Laurent watched, with a quirked eyebrow, as Victoire tried to push herself into a sitting position using her elbows. She huffed out a frustrated sigh when she couldn’t quite get herself up.

“Rough night?” Laurent asked.

“Not as rough as yours, all things considered,” Victoire started, serious now, “but yes. Your possible niece-or-nephew is being a pain. I can’t wait for the day I can drop them off with you for the evening.”

Victoire had done this a few times, talk about the baby not simply as her child but as its relation to Laurent. When she said it, Laurent understood Auguste’s terror at becoming a father; Laurent wasn’t ready to be an uncle and that was the easy job. Despite the nervousness it always it provoked, it also provoked a joy, something soft and unthinkable. Laurent sat on the edge of the bed next to her.

“Kicking up a storm,” Victoire murmured, looking down at her belly, and then she was grabbing Laurent’s hand and placing it right where the little kicks could be felt. Laurent smiled for the first time in hours.

“Mother said Auguste kicked a lot as well,” he said, a sort of awe in his voice.

“Lucky me,” Victoire said. She shifted again. “I don’t suppose you would mind doing me a favor, would you? All these kicks to my spleen mean I won’t be able to sleep for a few hours and my dear husband is nowhere in sight.”

“What do you need?”

“A cup of tea?” she asked, lips in a pout. “The blueberry rooibos tea?”

Laurent stood. “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

“Gods, I should have married you instead,” Victoire said with an exaggerated sigh. Laurent wrinkled his nose.

“I don’t think that would work out in the way you’d hope.”

In all his reverence at getting to feel the life of his soon-to-be niece-or-nephew, Laurent had forgotten about his mother drinking in the kitchen, this time with company, company that included Hypermenestra who was proving to be too invested for Laurent’s own good and Damen who had witnessed the more callous side of Laurent’s personality only minutes ago. He could hear them, a little louder now, and he desperately wanted to turn around and tell Victoire that he would simply go get Auguste to do her bidding instead. But as the door fell shut again behind him, he took in a breath and walked, quietly approaching the kitchen through the dining room entrance.

Hennike and Hypermenestra were seated at the breakfast bar Laurent and Victoire so often frequented. Hennike, in typical fashion, had one leg crossed over the other and was leaning back in the chair, her head thrown in a laugh and her glass of whatever spirits were tempting that evening precariously in her loose hand. She was laughing at something Damen had said, Damen who was standing on the other side of the marble counter, elbows resting and smile charming. Hypermenestra had her lips pursed in an amused attempt to hold back a laugh like Hennike’s, but she appeared to be weakening at every moment, her shoulder beginning to give into the giggling.

At first, no one appeared to notice him, and Laurent would have been completely content with that. But he had to move beyond the threshold eventually and it was his first step into the kitchen itself, and the subtlest shift of the floorboards beneath his feet, that had his own mother immediately saying to him, as if nothing had happened earlier, “Darling, you must hear the story Damen just told us.” Then she turned to Damen. “Start at the part where you decided to hide in the laundry chute.”

Unlike Hennike, Hypermenestra sobered at Laurent’s appearance, her eyes searching his face, trying to catch his gaze. Luckily for him, he was an expert at avoidance.

“If it can be told in three minutes, then by all means. But your other son is a useless husband so I’m fetching Victoire some tea.”

Avoiding Hypermenestra was proving to be more difficult with every passing second, but only because turning away from her meant facing Damen. In the time between him being outside of Laurent’s door and Laurent visiting Victoure, the man had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, bare forearms pressed into the marble. The gold swirls in the counter’s surface complemented the warmth of his skin, the warmth of his eyes that were, in that moment, unreadable to Laurent.

He quickly began making the tea.

He started with the kettle, filling it with water, and getting it on the stove, before grabbing a mug, Kemptian-made glass, and reaching into another cabinet for the infuser (decorated with real crystal, but of course) and the tea itself. Blueberry rooibos tea was a pretty tea, the color of the tea leaves themselves a reddish-brown and decorated with dried purple blueberries and pink hibiscus flowers. While Laurent was doing all that, the other three kept talking, save for Damen looking once over his shoulder where Laurent was, hidden in the shadows and away from the continued conversation.

“I just can’t believe you did such a thing,” Hennike said, laughing once more, Laurent’s interruption already forgotten.

“Honestly,” Hypermenestra started, “I still prefer that over what he and Kastor both did about twenty years ago.”

“You’ve got to stop holding onto things from twenty years ago,” Damen said, head dropping, but the smile evident in his voice.

“It was a nightmare!”

“I was nine!” Damen laughed. “I think Kastor, who was nineteen and a whole adult, is far more to blame for that.”

Hypermenestra sighed in accepted defeat. “You’ve got me there.” She looked at Hennike. “Kastor’s always been antagonistic.”

“I remember. When he was off at school you told me all the things he did to get a rise out of you,” Hennike said. She took another drink.

“Not limited to actually stabbing me,” Damen said.

“Oh, hush! That was hardly a cut,” Hypermenestra said.

“I had to get stitches!” Damen said back.

“Only two,” Hypermenestra said, and now she was laughing too, if at nothing but the ridiculousness of it all.

“And now look at them,” Hennike said. She gestured her glass toward Damen. “This one is rising to the top with every passing second, and is quite handsome while doing so, and Kastor, like my Auguste, is about to be a father and —”

Hennike could ramble when she had drunk this much, and she continued on, entirely unaware of how Hypermenestra and Damen both tensed. Laurent saw it first in Damen, that broad back and matching shoulders facing him and going rigid. Then he saw Hypermenestra, her eyes flicking to Damen with nothing but worry.

The kettle screamed.

“We meant to tell you,” she said quietly and Hennike, too caught up in herself, didn’t seem to notice the horrid shift the room had taken whatsoever, didn’t even seem to hear Hypermenestra’s words.

Laurent watched as Damen’s shoulders, solid and unmoving in their tautness, stood up to full height. Hypermenestra stood as he did, already walking around the counter to intercept him, her touch soft on his arm.

“Please don’t do anything,” she started, a desperation in her voice. “Not now. I promise we’ll all talk and —”

“I’m not doing anything. It’s late. I’m going to bed.”

Just as Damen was exiting the room in the same direction Laurent had come in, Hennike seemed to pick up that something had just happened. She turned blurry eyes to Hypermenestra. “Did I say something?”

Upstairs, scalding cup of tea in hand, Laurent couldn’t not peer down the hallway at the room he knew Damen was staying in. The door was decidedly shut and there appeared to be no light coming from underneath. Inexplicably, Laurent was half tempted to knock, to reciprocate the strange thoughts Damen had given him, but decided against it.

Victoire was as Laurent had left her, half propped up on the bed, grumpy expression in place, and she threw a pillow as soon as he walked in. Laurent barely avoided spilling the tea all over his hand.

“What is your problem?” he asked, and she cackled.

“I thought you were Auguste,” she said between laughs.

“I almost burned my hand,” Laurent said, pausing to let the liquid in the glass quit sloshing near the rim. “How would I have written my groundbreaking piece on the similarities between Akielon and Patran poetry subsequent the first crowned kings of those specific kingdoms following the destruction of the Artesian Empire with burns all over my hand?”

He sat the tea on the nightstand closest to Victoire and she reached over with steady hands to grab it. After one careful sip, she pulled a face and gave Laurent a horrified look.

“It’s quite strong,” she said.

“I may have over-brewed it by a minute or three,” Laurent said as explanation.

“I thought you were taking your sweet time.”

“In my defense, there was a scene downstairs that didn’t involve me so I had to watch what happened.”

Victoire immediately perked up, sitting straighter and more alert than she had been the whole evening. “Drama? And I missed it? Tell me everything.”

“I’m not entirely certain what it is,” Laurent started, “but Mother mentioned Kastor was about to become a father, just like Auguste, and Damen tensed like a man awaiting a punch. Hypermenestra tried to talk to him, but he went straight to bed.”

“He didn’t know? Seems odd that he wouldn’t know his brother was about to become a father,” Victoire said, picking up her tea again.

“Not that odd when you consider they haven’t seen each other in two years,” Laurent said.

“They haven’t seen each other in two years? I just thought they hadn’t seen a lot of each other in two years,” Victoire said, and Laurent knew she was thinking of the conversation she had eavesdropped on in those earliest hours of the Vallis’ visiting, Hypermenestra overcome with emotion at having her family together again.

“According to Damen, they haven’t seen each other at all in two years.”

“And when did he tell you this?”

“Before I came in here the first time, he —” Laurent stopped himself. “What?”

Victoire had a viciously evil look on her face, one seen on children that pushed other children off the swingset on the playground.

“Oh, nothing,” she said in a sing-song voice.

“What?”

“He was very taken with you at dinner. I don’t think he looked away from you for more than a minute at a time.”

His entire life, Laurent had had control over everything except his skin’s ability to go bright red whenever he was embarrassed or flustered. He hated it, truly, for its betrayal was often the only thing that gave any of these thoughts away. Right now was no deviation.

“I don’t think anyone could,” Laurent argued, “given the way dinner went.”

Victoire ignored him. “So explain what happened. I know you said before you came in here the first time, but you’ve been in your room all night.”

“He came by my room to —”

A gasp. “A gentleman came to your room with no chaperone? Not a gentleman at all then.”

“— apologize for how dinner went.”

The vicious smile on Victoire’s face softened then, though the glint in her eyes failed to vanish. “That was kind of him.”

“I suppose.”

“Laurent…” Victoire settled back into the pillows. “I, too, am sorry about dinner.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Laurent said.

“Well, I should have done something. We all should have. I will forever not be infuriated that your father doesn’t see how brilliant you are. In all sincerity, I am glad that Damen already seems to. You need all the people in your corner telling you the truth for once.”

Laurent, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulled one leg up to rest his chin on his knee. They sat quiet for a moment. Then Victoire said, “Maybe whatever has dear Damen upset can be resolved with him having a nice shoulder to cry on. You could go in there and —”

“I’m begging you to not finish that sentence.”

“He looks like he’d be fun, Laurent, don’t deny it. You also need all the fun because this lack of self-confidence has prevented you from getting laid and I have already told you I need to live vicariously through your sex life. I’ve told you this once since I got here.”

“Yes, clearly your inadequate sex life is wearing on you.”

Before she could respond, the bedroom door opened and in walked Auguste. The collar of his shirt was loose, the tie long gone, and, so similarly to their mother, his eyes were blurry with drink. It took him a second to make sense of the room. Then, “Why is there a pillow on the floor?”

“I threw it at your brother, thinking it was you,” Victoire said. Auguste’s eyes widened.

“Why’re you trying to throw pillows at me?”

“Because you’re not here to tend to my every need. I’m getting ready to birth your child,” Victoire grumbled, her voice taking on the same notes of irritation it had had when Laurent had walked in the first time.

“Our child,” Auguste corrected, and he shoved his shoes off of his feet, only stumbling a little, “and I will get you whatever you need. Say the word.”

“No need. Laurent already did. I’m divorcing you and marrying him instead.”

That brought about a snort. “I don’t think you’re his type.”

Victoire sagged against the pillows. “As life goes.”

“What do you say, little brother?” Auguste asked, smile wide. “Going to steal my wife from me?”

“Wouldn’t be hard with the shoddy way you treat her,” Laurent said. He leaned back against Victoire’s blanketed legs. She ran a hand through his hair once, twice, three times.

“If I wasn’t as drunk as I am, those would be fighting words. A duel,” Auguste said, and he puffed his chest in joke bravado.

“I would pay so much money to watch you try to fight in this state,” Laurent said.

Auguste laughed. “Father’s got a heavy hand when it comes to pouring drinks.”

“Almost as heavy as his opinions,” Laurent said. “Did they continue figuring out my future for me, him and Theo? Or am I so insignificant that I wasn’t brought up again?”

Victoire’s fingers fiddled with the ends of his hair then, twisting the fine strands gently. Auguste sighed, head falling back between his shoulder blades. Laurent wished quite suddenly he didn’t say anything.

“They didn’t talk about it again, Laurent,” Auguste said quietly.

“I would also pay money on a bet that Father did lament how great both of Theo’s sons are and how he doesn’t have that.” Laurent couldn’t stop talking.

Auguste didn’t say anything.

“We should all get some rest,” Victoire said after a beat, her voice barely above a whisper. Laurent felt chastised then, felt like a child.

In the hallway, Damen’s door was still firmly shut. Auguste shut his own not a second after Laurent was out of the room.

***

Chastillion December 3rd Ten Years Ago

Laurent hated the house in Chastillion. He hated that it was all gray, every part of it. He hated that his bedroom was once a bedroom the prince would stay in when he visited Chastillion in the days of old. He hated that it was so ancient and drafty, leaving Laurent’s fingertips cold all the time. He hated that the front door, reinforced steel to keep out invaders and looters after the fall of the kingdoms, was so heavy.

“Laurent, get the door!” his mother yelled from somewhere else in the house and Laurent huffed out a breath.

“I’m trying,” he called back. Only eleven years old, and fairly small for his age, the door proved much harder to pull open than it should have been. With one final hard tug though, the metal gave and creaked open.

In all honesty, Laurent hadn’t even thought about who was knocking. He had been so focused on trying to open the door, of trying not to have to ask for help, that further contemplation hadn’t occurred to him. He certainly wasn’t expecting it to be his brother.

Like something out of a dream, Auguste stood on the other side of the door, smile unsure and facial hair patchy.

He looked….sturdier than he had the last time he’d been around. A year ago, right around the holidays, he had been thin, so unlike the athlete he was, and it had sent the entire DeVere household into shambles, Hennike begging her doctor to up her own medication and Aleron threatening to have Auguste institutionalized if he insisted on acting crazy.

“Hi,” Auguste said, and there was a smile on his face, a sad one, as he looked Laurent up and down. “You’ve gotten so much taller, Laurent.”

Before Laurent could choke out his own hello, could transform his own face into something with a readable expression, Hennike turned the corner.

“Laurent, who is —” She stopped, her Loubiton heels almost lifting off of the ground. Then she dropped the vase in her hands and it shattered onto the ground in a million pieces. “Auguste? My darling, is that you?”

“Hi, Mother,” Auguste said. His smile, whilst still sad, perked a little, and it all but turned jubilant when Hennike jumped over the glass shards and pulled her oldest into her arms, crying incomprehensibly into his shoulder.

Laurent, hand still on the door, watched them, feeling detached from it all.

As Hennike dragged Auguste inside, ran her hands over his shoulders, his face, as if checking for injury or sickness, Laurent went to hide in his room. He had learned things were often easier that way, out of sight and out of mind. But unlike normal, it didn’t last that long.

There was a knock on the door not but an hour or so later, quiet and hesitant so definitely not his mother, and Auguste was there, eyes downcast.

“Can I come in?” he asked, learning against the doorframe and Laurent shrugged in attempted indifference, his knees coming a little closer to his chest.

Auguste’s weight on the bed shifted the pillows just enough that one toppled over. Its fabric rustling and moving was the only sound for a moment. Then Auguste, without looking at him, but instead taking in the room that was Laurent’s, said, “You have a lot of books.”

A few years ago, when Laurent was much more naive than he was at the ripe age of eleven, Laurent would have taken the invitation to talk about all of his favorite books and stories. He had dreamed more than once of such an opportunity, to tell Auguste about the adventures of the mythical dragon riders, the magical world in the caves of Ver-Tal, the love story between the warrior prince of Akielos and the second son of Vere, or the queen that united the kingdoms despite raging war. But now he didn’t want to say anything about the stories he loved.

“Why are you here?” he asked instead.

“What?” Auguste asked back.

“Why are you here? Last time you were here you came just to tell us you never wanted to come and see us again.”

If possible, Auguste’s expression darkened, saddened, even more pronounced than it had been at the door. For a while he didn’t say anything and Laurent didn’t say anything either. Then, moving slowly, Auguste moved to sit against the headboard, shoulder pressed into Laurent’s tiny shoulder.

“There’s a girl,” Auguste started, and it was the last thing Laurent expected him to say. He turned, blond tendrils whipping around his face as he took in his brother’s scratchy facial hair, took in the somber turn of his mouth. “I met her a few months ago. She’s —” he stopped himself, then laughed, the sound incredulous and near-wild. “She’s everything. She’s sweet until she doesn’t want to be and she’s smart and she speaks her mind and she’s so far out of my league it’s insane. And yet she talks to me and she says she wants to let me love her and, even crazier, wants to love me back. But she said I have to get my shit together.”

Dark gold eyebrows furrowed together on Laurent’s tiny face. “That’s why you’re here?”

“Laurent,” Auguste said. It was the most pleading of sounds. “Laurent, I should have been here a long time ago. I should have been here to see you grow up and the fact that I wasn’t is something I’m going to have to deal with. But I promise you, Laurent, I promise you I’m going to be here. From now until forever, it’s me and you. Okay?”

With the same kind of hesitancy as his earlier knock, Auguste extended his hand to Laurent to hold. Laurent looked at it, looked at the lines on Auguste’s palm, looked at the blunt underside of his fingernails. Then he asked, voice barely above a whisper, “Auguste?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to meet her.”

Auguste’s hand was warm.

***

Laurent woke up before the cooks arrived.

Though he was alone in his room the remainder of the night, Laurent had found it difficult to sleep. There was a strange feeling of unfamiliar people sleeping just rooms away. That, paired alongside the general events of, but not limited to, a humiliating dinner and an awareness of how little his presence was generally wanted as well as a whirring brain of contemplation, made him restless, sleepless, and in dire need of coffee.

Like it was most mornings in the dead of winter, the house was wintry with cold. The windows were cloudy with frost, condensation barely forming on the other side quite yet, and the floors were so cold that it went through Laurent’s socks and froze his feet. But none of it mattered, not when there was coffee to be made, not when there was peace, and he was huddled up in a yellow sweatshirt anyway, one that read ‘University of Arran’ on it in white lettering.

As much as he truly did like the cooks his family hired, he genuinely enjoyed the stillness of the kitchen that didn’t have his mother in there making drinks too. The counters were pristine, the dishes put away, and Laurent felt a silent joy in the fact that he was going to be able to make a pour over in this tranquility.

Pour overs were methodical. It was science in every step. The weighing, measuring, pre-warming, the bloom, the pour. Laurent’s favorite device was the Chemex, its vase-like structure beautiful and its filter thicker, made for pulling out most of the oils from the coffee grounds. First came the warming of the kettle, reminiscent of last night’s tea making. Then came the pre-warming of the Chemex, the hot water poured over the filter to take away the paper taste, to slide down the sides of the Chemex’s base and settle at the bottom, the steam rising and keeping the glass warm. Then came the measuring of the coffee beans, twenty-four grams, before pouring it into the coffee grinder, a white immaculate thing that ground beans into a course texture within seconds.

After the grinding was supposed to be the draining of the water in the Chemex before replacing the filter and pouring in the grounds. But a creak of the stairs made him pause.

Damen looked like he was frozen, his arms stuck to his sides. Like Laurent, he paused and the two of them looked across the way at one another, Laurent not ready for human interaction quite yet and Damen seemingly trying to thaw his jaw enough to open it and talk.

“And now look at them. This one is rising to the top with every passing second, and is quite handsome while doing so, and Kastor, like my Auguste, is about to be a father and —”

“We meant to tell you.”

“Please don’t do anything. Not now. I promise we’ll all talk and —”

“I’m not doing anything. It’s late. I’m going to bed.”

“Do you drink coffee?” Laurent asked. Damen nodded vigorously. He was still wearing those gingerbread men socks.

Laurent measured out another twenty-four grams of coffee and ground it just the same. Then he went about the rest of the steps, pouring out the water pre-warming the Chemex, replacing its filter, and pouring in the grounds. While he was doing so, Damen managed to shuffle his way over to the counter. Then he said, “I’m afraid hypothermia may have taken my fingers and toes.”

A small smile crossed Laurent’s face at that, though he wasn’t sure if Damen could see it as his head was angled down, watching the scale as he began to pour water, just enough to cover all the grounds in order to let them bloom.

“Welcome to Kempt,” Laurent said.

While the coffee grounds bloomed, for just a minute or so, Laurent took some of the hot water and filled two mugs to the brim, pre-warming them the same as he had the Chemex. Then he began to pour the water over the bloomed grounds, his hand steady and eyes on the scale; he needed it to get to 700 grams.

“Is it always like this in the morning?” Damen asked. His eyes were sleepy still, heavy and dark and flicking between Laurent and the brewing coffee.

Laurent hummed. “Normally the cooks are up and at work in the kitchen. They start the fireplace as well and it’s quick to warm up the house. But the both of us are up before they’ve arrived so…”

“Fire place?” Damen started, waking up just a little more at the idea of warmth. “I never saw a fireplace.”

The coffee was going to take another few minutes to brew. “I’ll show you. Then we can light the fire so your poor Akielon blood can thaw.”

The wood had already been placed in the pit of the fireplace, ready for a quick morning lighting, and within just seconds a small fire was started underneath the bottom log, in the embers of yesterday. Damen let out a sigh.

“Thank the gods,” and then he huddled as close as possible to the rising flames without catching his clothes.

“I’ll bring the coffee in here,” Laurent said, amused as he watched Damen hold out his hands then snatch them away, the rushing heat a little too much.

There wasn’t time to think was all Laurent could feel as he padded back to the kitchen.

“For what it’s worth, my brother and I didn’t plan on this. We haven’t seen each other in two years. The last thing either of us wanted to do was meet for the first time in that long of a time at a house owned by people who have been nothing but a name to us for a decade. But our parents insisted. And instead of lamenting the parties I was supposed to be attending, I’m going to try and make the best of this. If you’d like to do the same, let me know. We shouldn’t all have to feel lonely surrounded by so many people.”

He came back and gave Damen one of the cups before falling into one of the tall-backed chairs, one foot tucked underneath himself.

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted any sugar or cream. There’s some in there on the counter if you’d like,” Laurent said.

“Black is great. Thank you.”

Damen stayed up by the fire, the mug and its steaming coffee held close to his chest. Every passing second he appeared to loosen up more. And Laurent, despite everything, couldn’t not watch as limbs appeared longer, Damen’s shoulders no longer held in like that would conserve warmth, his height reaching its full potential once more. It was like watching a flower blossom in spring.

“This is good coffee,” Damen said, facing the flames that were growing steadily and controlled. “It almost tastes Akielon.”

“Close. It’s Patran.”

“Where’d you get your hands on Patran coffee up here?”

“I didn’t get it here. A —” Laurent paused, remembering Torveld, a PhD candidate at Arran who, for all intents and purposes, showered Laurent in gifts like the courting rituals of old. “A friend from university gave it to me.”

Damen was facing him now. He raised his mug in mock salute.

“Kudos to your friend on their taste then. No offense, but you northern countries can’t grow coffee for shit.”

He smiled when he said it, the comment a friendly dig, and Laurent hated him for how good he was at talking to strangers. Laurent snorted, the action a graceful exhalation of air from his nose. It made Damen’s smile bigger.

It would have been easy to fall into a, shockingly comfortable, silence then, to allow the crackling of the flames do all the talking. But Laurent had been up all night thinking and now wasn’t the time to keep doing that.

Don’t think, he told himself, and don’t let the conversation lapse.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Laurent said then and he immediately took another sip of his coffee. “You were being kind and I tried to dismiss that because of my own anger.”

If possible, Damen’s smile somehow got even bigger again. “Laurent,” he started, and his voice quieted on the second half of Laurent’s name, “it’s fine. And understandable.”

“That doesn’t make it right. Those conversations, that tone, should be reserved for my father, not for you.”

Warm enough to move, Damen took the available chair next to Laurent. He rested his elbows on his knees, his coffee held between both hands. Then he shook his head and, of all things, laughed a little.

“I don’t think yesterday went the way anybody was expecting it to go,” Damen said.

“I honestly didn’t have any concrete thoughts about it,” Laurent said, and he sunk further into the chair’s cushions. “I just thought it'd be uncomfortably awkward. I was right, only it was more than just that.”

“I had thoughts about it.”

“Did you now?”

“I thought my parents would stage an intervention between me and my brother within seconds of walking in the door. I thought things would maybe feel the way they did when I was fifteen. I thought the house would be smaller.”

That got a far less graceful snort from Laurent. “Please tell that to my mother and father. Tell them how much more sense it would make for two soon-to-be empty nesters to have a moderately sized house, especially considering the both of them use the same four rooms.”

“If I told them that, I’d be a hypocrite considering the size of my parents’ place in Ios,” Damen said. “Of course, nobody was ever going to convince them to not get a house that big, not when my father has spent most of his life talking about his dream “palace that overlooks the sea.””

“Our parents truly are birds of a feather,” Laurent mumbled.

“In more ways than one. I never expected my father’s cruelty, especially to a stranger.”

“Is that truly the first time you’ve seen that side of him?” Laurent asked skeptically.

“Yes,” Damen said. “He’s always been so supportive of both me and Kastor. To say what he said….I know I apologized yesterday, but it doesn’t feel like enough.”

“Your father has always supported you and your brother because you pursued careers with Artesian Affairs. If it had been anything else, if it had been anything like what I’m trying to do, I’m sure you would have been on the receiving end of that more than once in your life,” said Laurent.

It was Damen’s turn to pause before responding, and he paused just long enough that Laurent had time to barrel through and continue on, had time to change the direction before things got away from him, from them, and they were interrupted by the cooks, by Victoire waking up because of the baby.

“You said something else yesterday, something other than an unnecessary apology,” Laurent started and Damen cocked his head far too endearingly for a man nearing thirty. “You said that you were going to try to make the best of this,” he motioned around them, “even though you had many other things in mind.” Damen nodded. “It’s going to be a little difficult to do that when you’re the only one actually trying.”

“That’s why I invited you to join me,” Damen said.

“Well,” Laurent trailed, “I think I’d like to.”

If possible, Damen’s head cocked even further, his eyes widening at the same time. “You would?”

Laurent had thought about it all night. It had plagued him since gingerbread men socks, since the kitchen, since “We meant to tell you,” since “I’m going to bed,” since the guest bedroom door had closed and not opened again until an ungodly hour this morning.

Holidays, as long as he could remember, were spent anticipating dread. The feeling had faded the older Laurent had gotten in the way something chronic sometimes seemed lessened as it was the standard. This was the second time things were different; the first was when Victoire became a constant in their life. But even then, she was so inherently part of Auguste and together they were their own family, whether or not Laurent was there. This might be the only year to —

“In case the events of last night didn’t make it obvious, I’m not exactly the most popular amongst my family. Somehow my very existence leads to arguments. I’ve tried to accommodate. I’m sure there are instances I could have done better, but the fact of the matter is that things are not working out the way they’re going. So, instead of sticking with the routine that’s been in place, instead of allowing my parents to be the only ones having a good time, I accept your invitation to do whatever it is that pleases me. And you, I suppose, as it was your idea.”

“Thank you for keeping me in mind,” Damen said, but he was smiling brilliantly, a rejuvenation of the soul from this morning’s cold melancholy. “I’m glad it resonated with you enough to reconsider.”

“Well, it’s not something I’ve necessarily not thought of before. But I’ve never had someone that wanted to do it as badly as I did,” said Laurent. “I will confess, in my contemplation last night, I did begin to wonder why it is you want to do this so badly. You seem to fit in quite well with our fathers and brothers. Company men, all of you.”

“If you know anything about the company,” Damen started, “it is that nothing is ever quite as it seems there.” He paused then and looked as if he were going to keep going. But instead he took a deep breath, one that filled the entirety of his chest, before saying, “If we’re going to make the best of this situation, we should probably create a game plan. Things to do. Preferably things out of the house given the company.”

Laurent raised a brow. “I assumed you already had a plan. Or at least ideas for one.”

“I sort of did. Do. But I don’t know Kempt well enough.”

“Ah, so that’s why you actually asked me. You needed a guide,” Laurent said. Damen looked ready to dispute him, both eyes taking on something akin to panic, but Laurent stopped him with a raising of his hand. “I’m kidding. But you did make it sound like you’ve kind of done this before.”

“In a way, I suppose. Things in my life,” he trailed, but picked back up quickly, “got kind of bizarre two years ago. And I desperately wanted to let it get the best of me. I was so angry at it all. But a friend of mine called me an idiot and spent the next few weeks making me do things I enjoyed and making me do new things too. It didn’t make the bad shit disappear, but it made it easier to step back and breathe. This situation isn’t quite that bad for me. I think it is for you though.”

This time, Laurent didn’t get a chance to respond. The front door opened with the rattling of a key and in came Orlant, bundled head to toe and carrying a bowl underneath his arm, the plastic wrap on top tightly sealed. He didn’t appear to see Laurent and Damen at first, too busy making certain he wasn’t dragging in snow, but when he looked up his eyebrows immediately furrowed together, eyes darting between Laurent and the fire and Damen.

“You’re not supposed to do my job for me,” Orlant said after a minute.

“You were slacking,” said Laurent.

Orlant bowed. “Forgive me for not being up while the wolves are still running in the Northern Steppes.” He looked at Damen then, and quickly at the fire then back. “I’m Orlant. I hope your family likes cinnamon rolls.”

“I don’t think there’s many people that don’t like cinnamon rolls,” Damen said back and Orlant grinned. It made his crooked nose even more uneven. He kept the grin in place as his eyebrows rose a little in exaggerated concern.

“Laurent, want to show me where your mother hid the damn sifter?”

Laurent, ever controlled, didn’t react to the strange question, but followed Orlant dutifully to the kitchen whilst Damen stayed warm near the fire. Orlant knew where the sifter was. They both were aware of that.

“So,” Orlant started, setting the bowl of risen dough on the counter, “that’s one of the Vallis’?”

“Damen. The youngest son. He’s around Auguste’s age,” Laurent said. Orlant hummed.

“You two know each other well? Your mother said you all hadn’t seen them in quite some time.”

“I knew him at one point. But I wasn’t even in double-digits.” Laurent tilted his head downward, looking at Orlant with suspicion. “Why?”

Orlant had that look on his face, the same one he had when Auguste and Victoire had first came home and whispered not to serve alcohol with Victoire’s dinner because she was pregnant, the same one he had when more gifts from Torveld had arrived at the front door with bows and letters attached. But he only shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Don’t do that,” Laurent said, demanded. “Speak your mind, Orlant, or I’ll tell my father of the time you let the steaks spoil and, in a panic, used plant-based meat to serve as his dinner.”

“You wouldn’t. You’re not that cruel.”

“You know I am.”

A deep sigh. Then, “You two looked….at ease. That’s all.”

Laurent glowered. “I’m leaving. I shouldn’t have even asked.”

“You did though!”

“Hurry up and make cinnamon rolls. They don’t require you to open your mouth,” Laurent said over his shoulder, ignoring the fact that he could feel Orlant’s crooked-nose grin.

Back in the sitting room, Damen was standing again by the fire, his eyes trained on the outside. The sun was slowly starting to rise, reflecting off of the white snow and making it shimmer in tones of deep blue and the starting of purple. He looked unsure, staring out at the snow, like there was something out there he couldn’t quite make out.

“I promise there’s nothing lurking in the snow banks except for dead grass,” Laurent said as he took his seat again.

Damen smiled. “I didn’t think there was.” He set his coffee cup on the mantle. “No, it reminds me of Akielos a little. The sunrise reflects on the snow similarly to how it reflects on the ocean. There are differences. The ocean moves and gives the light life. But they both sparkle.”

“Akielos is responsible for all the great oceanic tales of sirens and sea monsters. Sometimes, when I’m reading, I wonder if Akielos almost has too much life.” Laurent settled more against the armrest. “Of course, one could argue too much life is better than no life, like Kempt’s desolate frozen wasteland and the stories of slow despair.”

“Don’t underestimate the snow. I’ve never seen it before and I like it. There’s a quiet beauty about it,” Damen said with a smile. He was looking at Laurent now.

“Yes, until it turns gray and lingers like the stench of death in the air.”

“You’re not snow’s biggest fan, I take it?”

Laurent shrugged. “I’m fond of it. I just hate what it represents. Snow means my mother’s parties and my father coming home smelling of cigars and burnt coffee and being assessed by all of their acquaintances who they know through Artesian Affairs and the socialite wives of all the men in Artesian Affairs.”

“Well, we’re about to change that,” Damen said, and he sat down. “My father will be up soon as he’s always an early riser so we should probably talk about the plan.”

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself. You haven’t heard my mother’s plan yet and whatever we come up with will have to be adjusted accordingly,” Laurent said.

“Your mother’s plan?”

“Hennike comes up with very detailed plans to get through the holidays. There are endless gatherings to attend, town events necessary to go to in order to keep up our high class status, family traditions to take part of, and, most importantly the three largest parties of the year: the Marcantel’s, the Mayor’s, and my mother’s very own that will be hosted here. Some of those won’t be that difficult to get around, but some will be required.”

“And she’s going to tell us about this….?” Damen trailed.

“She’s going to type it out and hand us each a calendar,” Laurent said pointedly. Damen stared. “Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“I would say you’ll get used to it, but considering this will probably be the only year you all allow yourselves to get wrapped in a DeVere nightmare, you probably won’t. And, to be quite honest, I’m not used to it and I’ve been dealing with it my whole life.”

Damen gave a half-hearted laugh and then his face pulled into a nearly pained smile as he asked Laurent quietly, like suddenly the house could hear them, “She does this every year?”

“Every year. Without fail. She’ll list the time each event starts and everything.”

“I’m concerned.”

Laurent mimicked Damen’s pained smile. “You should be.”

“Well, that’s okay. You said she’ll hand it out today?” Damen asked.

“Probably. I’m surprised she hasn’t yet, but my father probably begged her to let you all be in the house longer than ten minutes before bombarding you with calendars and schedules to keep.”

Their time had run out. A creak of the wood floor (a creak Hennike would be panicking to fix once made aware) had both of their heads turning and Damen said, not missing a beat, “My father is up. He must have smelled the cinnamon rolls.”

“We can reconvene later today. It should be relatively easy once my mother gets distracted by gods-know what,” Laurent said.

Then, like the creak had broken a spell, things felt too intimate. Coffee alone all morning in front of the fire, the sock-clad pattering of feet, the hushed tones, the stillness of the morning air. Laurent didn’t know why his face was choosing to redden now.

The feeling only intensified when Damen smiled at him while he stood, the smile deep and bringing attention to that damned dimple. “Thank you for the coffee. And for agreeing to partner up with me on this makeshift plan of fun. I hope it’ll live up to the expectation.”

The first thing Laurent heard as Damen exited the room was Damen’s good morning to his father followed immediately by, “Why did you bring those socks? You’re a grown man, Damianos.”

***

Laurent had been right on the money about the calendar.

After breakfast, a breakfast in which everyone woke up at different times and poor Orlant had to make two different kinds of tea, three different coffees, and two batches of cinnamon rolls, Hennike had made an announcement in typical Hennike fashion. She had used her spoon to knock on the side of her cup of tea three times while clearing her throat in too high of a tone before asking for all eyes on her. Then she had said, oversized sleeves of her sweater swinging, “As we are all here, I ask for you to stay a moment longer so that I can go over the schedule of the next weeks with you,” before she was gone, heels tapping, to retrieve the calendars so artfully printed.

Laurent looked up to find Damen looking at him knowingly and it was enough to make him smile, the inside nature of the look warmer than the cinnamon rolls and coffee in his stomach. He had kept his head down until his mother came back, a stack of laminated (gods, she laminated them this year) paper in her hand. She walked the perimeter of the table, ignoring, or entirely unaware of Aleron’s pulsing vein at his hairline or Hypermenestra’s confused brows, handing each person a sheet until all that was left was the singular one in her hand.

On the top of the paper was the month, ‘December’ written out in fancy script and surrounded by glittering branches ended with holly, and below that was the actual calendar, intimidatingly with many of the days filled.

“Today is, of course, the eleventh of December, meaning we have exactly two weeks until the holiday. And, as you can see, there is so much for us to do before that time!”

Laurent terribly wished, in that moment, that he could record this, record the settling reality everyone here was experiencing, a reflection of the way Laurent felt while at this house at all times. There was a grimace of some sort on nearly everyone’s face, all except Hypermenestra who seemed to be taking on the emotion of attempted understanding instead. Kastor looked downright nauseous.

“As it’s Friday, Aleron will be going to go to his cigar aficionado club, which I know he’s been dying to show you, Theo. And I’m sure that if Auguste, Kastor, and Damen wished to attend as well they’d be more than welcome. So many of the men there are Artesian legends. Then, this Sunday, the annual tree lighting ceremony is taking place downtown and we DeVeres haven’t missed a single one since we moved here!” She ignored Auguste’s protested, “Hey, I haven’t!”

“Then on the fifteenth there’s a ten day countdown event also downtown. But after that, things get,” Hennike giggled, “a little wild. The Marcantel’s holiday party is on the eighteenth and my own holiday party will be on the twentieth. Of course, after that is the mayor’s holiday party on the twenty-fourth, one that will go well into the night of our holiday, and before we know it, we’ll be opening gifts and hosting a fabulous dinner. There are a few smaller things in between all that, such as my luncheon event on the fourteenth and Victoire’s baby shower on the twenty-second, but the big parties and events are all highlighted in silver so you can’t possibly miss them.”

There was, of course, a general feeling of horror then. Hennike continued on.

“Any questions? I take it you all brought party clothes, yes?”

“Not enough that I won’t be repeating an outfit once or three times,” Hypermenestra laughed nervously.

“That simply won’t do,” Hennike said gravely. Then her face brightened. “That gives us all the reason to go shopping today! Yes, I’m going to take you and Victoire out. After all, the new glowing mother-to-be needs some maternity dresses and you need something Kemptian and beautiful!”

Hypermenestra smiled at Victoire, the smile all teeth and with a familiar kind of uncertainty behind her eyes, but Victoire only laughed.

“I could do with a maternity dress, if I’m being honest. I swear my stomach has doubled in size in the last three weeks,” Victoire said.

“It’ll be perfect! The men can all go to the aficionado club, we can go shopping, and Laurent can….” Hennike trailed.

“Enjoy the peace and quiet he’s always saying he doesn’t get enough of?” Aleron provided.

Laurent’s smile was sharp. “Father, you do listen when I talk.”

Aleron breathed a breath just strong enough to be noticeable. Damen hid a laugh behind his new cup of coffee.

“Actually,” Damen started as a quick recovery, the first part of the word coming out too high, “I’m going to stay behind. I’ve never been a cigar man.”

“But you smoke,” Theo said.

“Yeah, I smoke for the sole purpose of being able to take smoke breaks. That’s why I smoke cheap menthols. They’re disgusting and don’t put a dent in my bank. Cigars are too high-class for me.”

“Going to stay behind and watch snow melt?” Kastor asked. Damen smirked.

“Actually I was going to call some clients and wish them happy holidays personally. Give that networking the extra touch, you know? Better than a card,” Damen said, and Kastor visibly clenched his jaw as their father said aloud, “Good work, son.”

“Then it’s settled!” Hennike said. “Cigars, shopping, networking, and whatever Laurent’s heart desires. Are there any questions? Any concerns? Any requests?”

“Would it matter if there were?” Theo mumbled to Aleron, but he wasn’t heard over Victoire lecturing Auguste about becoming a smoker.

“I don’t care how many men around you are smoking, I’m not going to tolerate it,” she was saying. “You can sleep on the sofa the rest of your life if that’s the case.”

“Victoire, honey, I have no intention of taking smoking up as a habit.”

“You better not.”

***

Chastillion to Kempt 8-9-ish Years Ago A Time Spanning Several Months, if Not a Year or More

Auguste called Laurent every Tuesday and every Saturday from there on out. On Tuesday, he’d call after dinner and on Saturday he’d call in the morning when Laurent was still half-attached to the idea of sleeping. They would talk about everything, but mostly of Laurent, and it was in those days, weeks, months, year or so, that Auguste discovered that his little brother was one of the most amazing people on the entire planet.

He was whip-smart and growing smarter with each passing day. Auguste was ninety-percent certain he could give anyone Auguste knew a run for their money on general knowledge, and was one hundred percent certain he could best anyone anywhere in certain subjects.

For the first time in a terribly long time, Auguste was desperate to visit home, to see his too-smart little brother grow up, to make up for the time he had missed. But Auguste was trying to make up for the time he had missed in….well, everything else too. Home would have to wait.

It was easy, however, with Victoire at his side. She was a steady guide in a world resting on crashing waves and, like magic it seemed, by the end of the year things were calming.

The calm must have been palpable, even through a phone, because the next time Auguste called Laurent, Laurent, with his voice starting to break, couldn’t not ask, “When are you going to come see us?” The ‘see me’ was implied.

“Soon,” Auguste said, though he hadn’t thought about it all that much.

The “Really?” Laurent asked came out almost as a squeak and Auguste felt his chest clench at the sound, at the thrumming excitement underneath that one word and suddenly, with conviction he hadn’t felt before that swam through his veins like a drug in its suddenness, said, with all sincerity, “Yes, absolutely!”

“Are you going to bring your girlfriend?”

The thrumming stuttered, for only a moment. “I’ll talk to her, but I’d like for her to come.”

“Me too.”

Victoire, of course, of course, of course, wanted to come along. She’d been dying to meet Laurent since she learned of his existence, since she first laid eyes on a photo of him in Auguste’s arms some decade earlier, and the moment he asked, she was ready to run and pack a bag for the trip.

It took a few days to work out time off from work, to work out if he should show up as a surprise instead of as a planned event, to work out what to do, what to say. He agonized over Victoire coming, wanting it to be painless for her, her meeting of the DeVeres.

“I don’t think you understand,” Auguste said whilst in the car on their drive there a few weeks later. “My parents can be a lot.”

“So can the entire population of Kempt,” Victoire said dismissively. “And, not to sound insensitive or anything, because I truly do want to meet the people that created you, but I am far more interested in meeting your brother. I have a feeling he and I are going to be best friends.”

Like most things in life, Victoire was right. The initial meetings had been somewhat uncomfortable, what with Auguste’s still strained relationship with his family and with Hennike’s over exuberance at everything and with Laurent’s shyness. In fact, by the end of dinner that first night, Auguste was pretty sure it was a disaster and he could count down the hours until Victoire ended things with him.

But then —

“You’ve got quite the collection,” Victoire said. Auguste could hear her through the wall. They were, a little awkwardly, staying in the bedroom that had been saved as “Auguste’s room” which was, of course, the room right next to Laurent. She must have, on her way from the kitchen to the bedrooms, stopped in where Laurent was, no doubt, reading.

“I like them,” Laurent said, voice quiet. He was talking about all of his books.

“Do you have a favorite?”

“No. There are too many.”

Victoire hummed thoughtfully. Pressing an ear closer to the wall, Auguste listened for what one of them would say next. For a moment, there wasn’t any sound, but then came the muffled shift of bedsprings. She must have sat down.

In true Laurent expectation, Auguste readied for Laurent to start talking about whatever book he was reading at this very moment. Auguste had experienced it firsthand for the last year via phone calls, Laurent’s rambles that could go on forever about any detail held within the pages of the novel currently occupying his thoughts.

“Auguste said you’re the reason he came here and started calling again,” Laurent said instead.

“Well,” Victoire started, and the bedsprings made another noise as she assumingly shifted once more. “Part of the reason. He really missed you. He just...didn’t know how to start talking again.”

There was a small huff of air. “He said you were one of the best things to ever happen to him. He said that a lot on the phone actually.”

“Did he?” Victoire laughed.

Laurent hummed an affirmative.

“At least once a week,” Laurent said. “I think you’re the best thing to happen to me too. You gave me my brother back.”

It was a gut-punch, a fist that forced its way through Auguste’s sternum until it could hold his heart. There was a desperation clawing at him, to comfort the boy that had been left behind by his own selfishness, and he left the room in a hurry, arriving at once at the threshold to Laurent’s book-invested space.

Laurent and Victoire were sitting on the bed, Victoire’s arms around his tiny twelve-year-old shoulders, his face at her collar. Over his head, Victoire smiled at him and Auguste, for maybe the first time in his entire life, felt an overwhelming sense of happiness at the sight of them.

***

Aleron, Theo, Auguste, and Kastor left the house around six that evening, just after dinner and just before the sun set too low in the sky. Kastor had walked out first, a cigarette already in his mouth as if preparing for the countless cigars he’d be smoking in half an hour, and Auguste had given both Laurent and Victoire an apologetic look, as if being doted upon as the golden boy was a hardship he couldn’t bare for a few hours. Not fifteen minutes later Hennike, Hypermenestra, and Victoire had left too, but not before Laurent practically shoved Victoire out the door as she sing-songed, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” whilst staring at Damen’s broad shoulders across the room.

And then they were alone. Damen and Laurent.

Like this morning, it felt too intimate, only now the feeling was immediate. Laurent’s footsteps on the floor were too loud. So was his breathing. Damen gave him a big smile when they met at the newly cleaned dining table they had been sitting at not even an hour earlier for dinner.

“Small victories,” Damen said, pulling out one of the chairs and sliding into it. He kept his legs spread around the seat, slouched like he was comfortable with this, like he couldn’t tell the breath was stuck deep behind Laurent’s lungs. “No one said anything rude at dinner this time.”

“That’s because that would have required them to talk about something other than their glory days in the company.”

“Luckily for us,” Damen started, “we don’t have to hear about any of that the rest of the night. Because that’s all anyone is going to talk about at the club.”

“No, instead we get to talk about this,” Laurent said, and he placed one of Hennike’s calendars between the both of them on the table.

The calendar hadn’t lost its ridiculousness in the last hours, but its usefulness as a tool for Damen and Laurent’s successful avoidance of all things suffocating had grown. For the first time in Laurent’s life, his mother’s anal retentiveness for the appearance of perfection was working out in his favor. She had been correct in what she said was highlighted, but there was so much more too. The big events were highlighted in silver, but all the start times of the events were made significant with green the color of holly leaves. Smaller events, like the town’s holiday market, were highlighted in blue, a pastel blue reminiscent of ice and Hennike’s own eyes.

Laurent didn’t move his hand fast enough from the calendar’s edge because when Damen went to move it closer to himself, their fingers brushed. It was only a second, maybe two, but it was enough for Laurent to note how warm Damen’s hand was in comparison to his own.

He didn’t mean to snatch his hand away like the warmth had been burning, but he did. His heart skipped a beat in his chest as he waited for Damen to say something about it, to pull a face, to look at Laurent like he was a child because he suddenly felt like one. But if Damen noticed, he didn’t give anything away. His eyes were focused on the calendar, scanning the events leading all the way to the holiday.

December

11th: Cigar Club

12th: Blank

13th: Tree Lighting Ceremony

14th: Ladies’ Luncheon

15th: Ten Day Countdown Event

16th: Blank

17th: Catering Meeting

18th: Marcantels’ Holiday Party

19th: Last Day Preparations for OUR Party

20th: DeVere Annual Holiday Party!

21st: Clean Up & Prepare for Baby Shower

22nd: Victoire’s Baby Shower

23rd: Blank

24th: Mayor’s Holiday Eve Party

25th: ~Holiday!~

“Some of these seem vague,” Damen said after a minute. “What does ‘preparations’ really mean?”

“Well, you’ve seen how my mother laminates monthly events, so take from that what you will,” Laurent provided as explanation, letting Damen fill in the rest of the blanks there.

“Okay, yeah, that makes sense. What about these other days, like the fourteenth? Are we going to have to sneak away from a ladies’ luncheon?”

“Not necessarily, but as our mothers will be out, I’d anticipate our fathers trying to have some kind of networking event. And you will have to have a good enough reason to get away. That’s where things get complicated, Damen,” Laurent said. “If you were more of a fuck up, like myself, this would be relatively easy.”

Laurent felt Damen’s eyes move from the calendar to his face, and the fear Damen was looking at him like he was a child was quickly back. But when he met those brown eyes, there wasn’t anything malicious behind them at all; instead they looked at him — not with pity, but with something like devastation. Laurent couldn’t think about what that meant.

“I can give a basic rundown of other events I know of,” Laurent started instead, his voice too loud initially, “but if you’re planning on attending any parties I’m afraid we’ll have to research as I’m not exactly aware of them all.”

“I’m not really planning on anything,” Damen said.

Laurent’s eyebrows furrowed. “But that’s exactly why we’re —”

“I wanted to plan how to get away from some of these things,” Damen said with a grin. “I don’t much care what we do, just as long as it’s not sitting at stuffy events and being around my brother all day.”

“Oh.”

Damen was looking at him again, this time utterly amused.

“Did you think we were going to sit down and plan out each day by the hour?”

“Well,” Laurent said, fumbled, his face turning red-hot. It somehow got even redder, even hotter, when Damen laughed, the base of the sound felt in Laurent’s stomach.

“I think you’re a tad more like your mother than you’d care to admit.”

Laurent’s first instinct was to scowl. But at Damen’s ever-growing grin and the inescapable heat of his face, he found laughing won out against his instincts and he laughed too.

“Gods, don’t tell me that,” Laurent managed to say between laughs. “It’s one of my many fears come to life.”

“I think it's actually pretty charming,” Damen said. Then his grin turned into a bitten down expression, like he hadn't meant to say that at all (and Laurent couldn't think about that either) and he continued quickly with a deep breath that brought his chest high. His fingers pulled the calendar close once more.

“So, tell me what we can expect at a tree lighting ceremony.”

[brokenjardaantech]

tumbling in the dark

for @lobsterslovewhump. 

this is just 2k words of rk1700 smut. content warning for uh... [squints] ambiguous genitals for connor, come inflation, self-lubrication, and knotting. read at your own discretion.

also on ao3

---

The night is dark. The air charged with static, a dim lightning flashes across the sky and is followed by a distant rumble of thunder. Outside, the rainfall accumulates on the asphalt, streams and rivers pouring into drains or feeding into the slight indents on the road that are easily overlooked when the world is dry but quickly forming into deep puddles in weathers like this, but that doesn’t concern them at all; no, their minds are too occupied in their own world, in a bubble they have created for themselves.

Their house isn’t exactly situated in the most well-kept part of the city, which suits their purpose, really, since they value their privacy, and in times like this, they even appreciate the silence the abandoned houses around them gives, how they can do this whenever they want without having to worry about nosy neighbours. No one knocks when they stay awake overnight to ponder over a new case, no one bothers them when they choose to do the laundry at midnight because they want to smell the detergent and hear the tumble of the washing machine.

It’s a good life. It’s a quiet life compared to their line of work, and they’re immensely grateful for it.

They have forgotten when or why they started to take off each other’s clothes, but by the time the washing machine starts spinning their clothes around, both of them are naked on the floor and Cyril buried deep, deep within the heat of Connor’s body. The floor is cool against Connor’s back, a stark contrast from the boiling heat radiating from his successor’s body, but it can be his overactive pre-construction programme or, as humans call it, imagination. His legs are locked behind Cyril’s hips, his arms clutching him close, his skin deactivated subconsciously in an attempt to be closer, closer, closer to his partner, and he meets every single thrust with a raise of his own hips, demanding Cyril to go deeper and deeper until his cock strikes his very core, his very being.

And Cyril delivers.

With his superior strength, the RK900 manhandles his predecessor until he is standing in the middle of the laundry room and the entirety of Connor’s weight is speared on his dick, the sudden intrusion and how deep Cyril is within him causing him to scream as the sensitive spot within him is directly stimulated. His back arches, his head is thrown back from the tension building up in his body, and it lolls onto one side from the dizzy, buzzing yellow light that is the only thing illuminating the room, putting his gaze on their reflections on the window, their dance distorted into a million tiny images contained within the minuscule world of a single raindrop, breaking and reforming as gravity and other raindrops drag them on and they break and reunite into bigger, heavier droplets just like how the two of them are joined together into something greater, something more. Connor knows he technically can adjust his eyes to take in what is hidden in the darkness outside, but he discovers that he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t care; all he can focus on is the feeling of Cyril entering him over and over again, his cock brushing pass that spot within him and going impossibly deeper. He knows it’s anatomically impossible, the locations of the two biocomponents too far apart to make it a reality, but he swears he can feel the head of his successor’s cock against the base of his thirium pump regulator, poking, drilling, invading one of the most important parts of his body, and his arousal rises exponentially with this very thought looping in his mind, taking over his very existence. He clutches Cyril close, leans in, begs for more wordlessly. And Cyril, with his mind connected to Connor’s, understands immediately and plunges his tongue into his predecessor’s mouth, overwhelming his senses on both ends with every swipe of his tongue against Connor’s sensitive taste buds and his cock plunging into the depths of Connor’s body. His superior strength means that Connor has nowhere to go despite his desperate squirming and struggling in his arms like a fish out of water.

Exactly what their dynamic should be.

But even the most advanced prototype CyberLife (or even the entire world) has to offer has his limits. The way he can trap and play Connor’s body like a fiddle is fun, but it comes with a price of not being able to effectively stimulate the two of them purely because most of his focus has been directed to keeping Connor under his control and not let him fall; to alleviate the issue, he closes the distance between himself and a wall, detaching his mouth from Connor’s lips so that he can fuck him throughout the way, and trapped between a wall and Cyril’s body, Connor finally realises that he has nowhere to go and stops struggling against the onslaught of pleasure. The force from their bodies are enough to shake the entire room, making the single lamp fizzle from the unstable current and the single potted plant hanging by the door leading outside swing. For a while, the only sound in the room are the creak of the hinge of the chain holding the pot, the tumble of the washing machine, the quiet moans spilling out of their mouths, and the slap of chassis against chassis as they deactivate their skin to be as close to each other as possible, the dull white plastic of Connor’s body contrasting starkly with Cyril’s dark metallic one. Connor might be sobbing from the onslaught of stimuli both from where his and Cyril’s bodies are joined and the rough scratch of the wall against his bare chassis, Cyril might be gently kissing his tears away as his hips piston relentlessly and almost cruelly in and out of Connor’s body; all of them won’t matter in the end when everything becomes a blur and this becomes yet another memory of their lovemaking on top of many, many more that have been and also yet to come. But one thing is certain: tonight has a strange magic that both amplifies and mutes their senses, creates a bubble around them that nothing short of a nuclear explosion can pop, makes it feel like they are the only ones in the world. Maybe we should do this more often, Connor says through the bond between their minds. Just you and me. Nothing else matters.

Of course, Cyril replies similarly, his mental voice dripping with an adoration that he will never show in real life. Perhaps, with time, he will, but they aren’t exactly dwelling senselessly on the future right now. Anything you want.

A particular bright bolt of lightning crosses the sky and lights up the world as brightly as the sun, breaking the barrier between their world and the one outside. The darkness suddenly takes up ghastly forms, the pale white light moulding shadows into shapes that Connor’s processors are too far gone in his arousal to distinguish, but nonetheless they manage to strike a fear deep in his heart that he thought wouldn’t resurface until the worst winter storms come: of perfect red roses being snipped off the main branch, of the worsening weather in a virtual garden, of finding his way to a strange monolith through a blizzard tinting his entire world white and blurring everything together into a cold, confusing mess, of not knowing -

Come back, Connor, you’re safe with me.

Connor reopens his eyes. He doesn’t even know that he has closed them before, but right now, backlit by the almost orange warmth of the lamp on the ceiling, Cyril’s black, metallic form is all he can see, and as their eyes meet, Connor finds himself staring into blue eyes so clear that they are almost white. White used to be the colour of snow, of CyberLife, of a cold threatening to take over him; now it’s his own chassis as he looks at his reflection, Cyril’s jacket, and maybe, after he familiarises himself with them, Cyril’s eyes, too.

Remember this, not once does Cyril stop his hips’ movements. Outside, the light is gone, their reflection creating a new but familiar barrier between them and the world, and the choked sound Connor makes is drowned out completely by the earth-rumbling crackle of thunder capable of shaking the very foundation of their house. Remember me. Think of me whenever you see the colour white. No more snow. No more CyberLife. Just me and me only.

Connor is not ashamed to say that he comes hard at the declaration, his passage clutching down on Cyril’s cock as he shudders apart and leaks enough lubricant to stain Cyril’s thighs and create a puddle on the floor under him, and another crackle of thunder overshadows his scream as his successor fucks him through his orgasm. Not once do they take their eyes off each other, but even as the light from the lamp becomes too much and he has to close his eyes, he can feel his overstimulated entrance being stretched to its limits as Cyril’s cock thickens and lengthens impossibly further to the point that he feels like he is being torn apart from the inside, but he knows that Cyril will never hurt him, he is just pressing the sensitive wires protected by the synthetic tissue of his hole. Through their bond, he can feel Cyril’s orgasm building, and knowing that only him can reduce a prototype even more advanced than himself to this state… rA9, he’s coming again, the stretch is so good and so much, he isn’t even leaking anything because he’s being plugged so tight right now, and how can something hurt so much while being so, so delicious?

His body is still tense from his sudden second orgasm when Cyril comes with a firm bite on his shoulder. His cock swells to its final size and lodges itself within Connor’s passage, sealing his seed in and ensuring that nothing will be wasted, and his release is a long affair that lasts for minutes, leaving Connor’s belly swollen and bloated and pressing up against his other biocomponents. The fullness makes him feel owned, a mark both physical and mental that he belongs to Cyril.

He feels like he wants to cry again.

With their bodies still connected to each other, Cyril supports Connor’s weight with one arm under his arse while he uses his free hand to open the door, start the roomba with a command from his mind so that it can mop up the mess, and carefully sits on their bed and backs off until his back is against the headboard and Connor is seated comfortably on his lap with his entrance still stuffed full of cock. It will be some time before Connor’s body absorbs all of Cyril’s seed. It will be even more before Cyril’s cock deflates and he can slide out of Connor’s body easily. So for now, as their laundry continue tumbling in the washing machine in the laundry room, Cyril keeps his soft kisses flowing and going, distracting Connor from the uncomfortable tug of his inflated cock, the drying fluids sticking to their body, but from the steady stream of happiness flowing into his mind from his predecessor, Connor is still basking in the afterglow, savouring the way their bodies and minds are joined together impossibly close. So he lets him. Pats his body, kneads into strained muscles and feels them relax underneath his hands, anything to make his Connor comfortable. Soon they’ll have to get up once more. Soon they’ll have to clean up themselves. They might even need to fold up or hang up the laundry after the washer-dryer cycle is complete. But for now, contained within a world created by the darkness in their bedroom and the sound of rain, Cyril allows Connor to doze off.

They have all the time in the world.