#anyway yeah right has lots of fears and hes my bundle of anxiety and i love him and his atrocious nicknames

[moeblob]

Right and his work menaces (Brent and Karen).

I don't remember last I mentioned it but apart from crude nicknames to people (except Chris), he also just puts them in his phone really weird (except Chris, who is literally in his phone as Chris). And I bring this up because in Right's phone, Karen is saved as "Lawful Obligation".

[princehrry-writings]

Y/n's a witch and Harry's her soulmate

I'VE LITERALLY BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOR 2 MONTHS!!!

lanfvksbkvjbs I hope you guys like it because I poured my whole soul into this!!!! I wanted it to be over 10k but I felt like I was just dragging it on and the ending isn't great but it's ok.

I switch between present and past tense without meaning too- oops :)

wordcount: 9911

warnings: uhhh, swearing, google translated latin :) catcalling and unwanted male attention (with a bad witch moment... see what i did there😏), a little bit of violence, very lightly edited lmao

She didn’t quite understand what was going on. Was this another witch? No, she would have felt that energy differently. So he had to be a mortal. But why did it feel like she had just been set on fire in the best way possible.

“Thank you…” He muttered, eyes glazed over. “M’Harry, by the way.”

Harry.

What a magical name, she thought.

or

Harry walks into Y/n’s shop one day, sees the brooms sweeping by themselves and gets a little curious.

.

.

.

“Althea, get your claws out of there. You’re gonna get hair in the muffins!” Y/n shrieked, quickly shooing the troublesome feline away from the open bowl of batter sat atop the counter. The cat just meowed at her, unbothered by her person's shrieking. Thea was quite the diva. She couldn’t give a flying fuck even if she tried.

“Oh Stars, look what you’ve done!” Y/n continued, cleaning up the trail of paw prints left in the flour on the table. “How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of the kitchen when I’m baking Thea! Why don’t you ever listen!”

Y/n has been a little strung up lately. That’s probably the understatement of the century. Maybe if she hadn’t been put in charge of the shop for the first time by herself while her mother went to gather supplies and place orders for said shop, she wouldn’t be so stressed. She’s only 22 years into her eternal lifetime. She’s yet to learn the virtue of patience, her mind never ceasing to run with ideas and thoughts and feelings.

Her mother always griped about how she needed to take a deep breath and let go of the tension in her shoulders because now that she had stopped ageing- she had all the time in the world (literally) to do everything she was worried about. Y/n would argue that she’s not worried so much as eager. She’s just very excitable.

“Why do I even bother yelling at you anymore.” Y/n grumbled, flicking her wrist in the direction of the broom closet. The broom and dustpan came floating out and got to work sweeping up the bits of flower seeds and petals that had dropped off the table instead of into the mortar like she had planned.

Y/n’s never been known for her cleanliness.

Out of the blue, the hair on the back of her neck and arms stood at full attention, a warm shiver shooting down her spine. What the hell? She thought to herself. Thea didn’t seem bothered by whatever energy was coming closer so she knew it wasn’t any danger, but it was something. Y/n flicked her wrist once more, quickly sending the broom away and going to hide behind a wall where whoever this was couldn’t see her.

The little bells above the door chimed, alerting anyone inside that someone had just arrived. In walked, who Y/n thought to be, the most beautiful boy she thinks she’s ever seen. Chestnut curls shielded by a knit beanie, sea glass eyes, broad shoulders, a kind smile on his face. He looked as ethereal as she was.

She felt the earth shift under her feet, her heart speeding up slightly in his presence. He was magnificent, she thought. The shiver she felt was steadfast and unchanging, finding a home in the goosebumps covering her whole body. She had never felt like this before.

The witch watched from behind the wall as the man gazed about the shop, his hands rested behind his back. In a pair of black jeans with a rip in the knee and a white tee shirt with a cardigan thrown over it, he shuffled about.

Y/n took a deep breath, collecting herself before making her presence known. She walked out from behind the wall, stepping behind the main checkout counter and clearing her throat lightly.

“Welcome in! I’m Y/n, let me know if you need any help!” She said, trying not to cringe at how scripted that sounded.

His head popped up, eyes connecting with hers and that’s when they both felt the energy in the room grow. Thea came sauntering out of the kitchen area in the back, Y/n made a mental note to check the muffin batter for cat hair later, no doubt at the electrical charge of the room.

She didn’t quite understand what was going on. Was this another witch? No, she would have felt that energy differently. So he had to be a mortal. But why did it feel like she had just been set on fire in the best way possible.

“Thank you…” He muttered, eyes glazed over. “M’Harry, by the way.”

Harry.

What a magical name, she thought.

There was a pause, where neither of them wanted to move, in fear of this moment passing and never getting to feel like this ever again.

It felt like having a picnic on a warm summer day, where it’s not too hot but just right. It felt like the first breath of fresh Spring air, like hearing a baby giggle. She felt fuzzy and warm. Like she was wrapped in a hug. Y/n felt… peaceful. She felt all of her anxiety about the shop melt away, as if it had never been there.

Harry smiled at her, a pink tinge coating his skin, and pulled his eyes away (he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by staring), continuing on with his peruse of the shop. He had no idea why he was here, truly. Didn’t realize where he was until he pushed through the door. He doesn’t even know what any of this stuff is, he’s just looking so it seems like he knows what he’s doing.

He felt something brush his ankle, looking down and seeing a fluffy snow white cat with striking green eyes (just like his!), and cooed at her.

“Is it alright if I pet her?” He asked, looking back up at Y/n. He would take any chance he got to look at her. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. With her shiny hair and kind eyes, a smile that made you want to hug her. She looked so welcoming. He felt… oddly peaceful.

“Yeah of course! She’s my little attention whore, aren’t you Thea?” Y/n giggled and Harry thought his heart would stop right there. Her little giggle was the most glorious sound he’d ever heard, he decided.

She got up from her little stool behind the counter and floated over to him, using her cat as an excuse to get closer. She just couldn’t figure out why she had such a pull to him. It didn’t make sense to her. Maybe he was a witch and was just masking his energy really well, maybe he was some sort of other creature, or maybe… no, that can’t be it.

Well…

Maybe… he’s her Flame. Her Twin Flame… Her Soulmate.

No. There’s no way. It’s so rare for witches to find their flames. And especially at such a young age. Y/n’s parents didn’t find each other for almost 75 years, and here she is at just 22, stumbling upon some magical happenstance where her Flame just saunters into her family’s shop.

Harry scratched behind Thea’s ear, a motor-like pur erupting from her little belly. She nuzzled into his touch, and then sprung up onto his shoulder from the table, startling the man. Y/n giggled at the look on his face, reaching up to scratch just above Thea’s tail, her favorite spot.

“She does that when she likes someone.” Y/n explained. A blush appeared on his face at this.

She likes him.

“So was there anything in particular you were looking for?” Y/n continued, hoping to make more conversation with him. Her fingers are buzzing, wanting to reach out and hold his hand or touch his arm, anyway she can get her hands on him really, but she knows that would be inappropriate so she refrains (however difficult it may be).

Harry was in the same boat. He felt the need to wrap her up in his embrace and never let her go. It was the strangest thing he thinks he’s ever felt.

“Honestly, no. I don’t really know what any of this stuff is… I didn’t even realize when I walked in but I didn’t want to look like a psycho just walking in and out of shops randomly.” A shy smile displays on his features.

Y/n chuckled. This furthers her hunch that he is, in fact, her Flame. Getting a random urge to come in here could only mean that the invisible string tying them together was leading him to her. Pulling them closer and closer everyday until this very moment, when they were fated to meet. Written in the stars to know each other, whether that be for love or friendship only time would tell.

She really hopes it’s love.

“Ok… We’re kind of just a general shop. We carry crystals, herbs, spices, oils, candles, and my mother does a lot of crafts, so we sell those here too.” Y/n went on to explain, Harry’s eyes flitted around to all the things she mentioned. He saw glittering crystals, by themselves but also made into jewelry like rings and necklaces, he saw bundles of different flowers and vials of liquids he assumed were the oils she mentioned.

“What is all this stuff for?” He questioned. He had never heard of anyone suddenly needing Oxeye Daisies or black onyx crystals, but he’d never been one to judge.

Y/n paused, thinking of the best way to explain everything. Practising “witchcraft” wasn’t an unusual topic to humans, but they didn’t know that witches with magic that was (semi-inaccurately) portrayed in movies and tv shows actually existed.

“Uhm, anything in the shop can be used for a number of things. Apothecary, gardening, herbal remedies, manifestation.” She explained. He nodded along with her words, doing his best to focus on what she was saying rather than just her. His body was tingling the closer she stood. He never wanted this feeling to go away.

Whatever this feeling was.

Harry looked around, his sights landing on a shelf full of colorful candles. His eyes lit up, trotting over to them, picking up one that was a light lavender color. He didn’t know he was drawn to this one in particular, but something had pulled him to grab it. Something was telling him to buy it, bring it home, and burn it on his bedside table, right next to his head every night.

It was Y/n’s favorite color.

The girl's cheeks burnt when she realized this was the one he had picked out. The occurrence might seem random to anyone passing by, anyone who didn’t know two halves of a soul had just been reunited with one another after being apart for however many years. But Y/n knew, and hopefully Harry would know soon.

She didn’t want to scare him though. He would think she was crazy. Imagine a random stranger that you’ve never seen before in your entire life tells you that you’re meant to spend the rest of your life together. He would run away screaming.

So she has to start slow.

“Think I might get a few candles…” Harry trails off, looking around at all the different shapes and sizes of colored wax sitting before him. Y/n smiles at this and nods, letting him know she’ll be at the counter if he needs anything.

Please need something, she hopes to herself.

He didn’t end up needing anything, but he ended up purchasing 3 candles, all of them being that same lavender color.

* .

. * .

It was a few weeks later when Y/n felt a familiar tingle run down her spine. Harry must be near, she thought.

She had spent the last fortnight and then some moping about the shop and her flat, hoping her Flame would turn up again. Her mother, Asteria, had been ecstatic when she heard that her daughter had found her Flame, and empathised with her pain, understanding that he was a mortal and it was difficult to form bonds with them quickly. The woman always found it interesting how the most indefinite creatures took the longest to form their bonds. But then she remembered they had no knowledge of Twin Souls and often settled for one not fated to them.

“Mama, he’s close. I can feel him!” Y/n cried, tidying her appearance in the reflection of the window. She hopes to the Stars that he’s coming to see her and not just passing through.

Waving away the brooms fluttering around the shop, she busies herself restocking shelves. Asteria had just finished a new batch of candles that needed shelving. The mother had been trying new recipes lately and was excited to see how they would fare.

Y/n almost misses the little chime of the bells signaling that someone has just entered. If it weren’t for the energy in the room skyrocketing and all the hair in her body standing at attention, she wouldn’t have noticed it at all. Turning, her gaze falls upon a familiar set of sea glass eyes and chestnut curls that have enchanted her mind every passing second since the first time they met. She tried her damndest to hide her grin, but had to turn away so he wouldn’t be able to see it.

Harry looked around the shop before his gaze fell upon the girl he hadn’t stopped dreaming about since he last was here. There she stood, back turned to him, with her shiny hair and adorable outfit. In a lavender colored sundress, hair pulled back by a white scarf, she fussed about the candle shelf that Harry had searched the last time he came.

Everytime he burned that candle, he thought of the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about the different items in the shop and how she smiled at him when he asked her a question.

Harry had never been one to jump into things quickly. He was the kind of guy that liked to get a feel for a situation before he really dived into it. But there was something about this girl that made him want to jump in head first, fearless. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her, daydreaming about little scenarios that he wished would happen between them.

He knows he sounds crazy, but he has a crush on her. And he’d only met her once! That is so not like him at all.

Y/n turned once again, sure that she had calmed the burning in her cheeks, greeting Harry as if she hadn’t thought of him in weeks.

“Welcome in,” she says, wondering if it would be weird to him if she remembered who he was, she decided she doesn’t care, “Oh, hi Harry!”

“Hello Y/n!” He smiles. Y/n felt her heart stutter in her chest when her name fell from his lips. As if she was floating (she had to check to make sure she actually wasn’t), she followed the sound of his voice, going to stand before him. Her first instinct was to hug him, and she was very sad that she had to stop herself.

“What brings you back?” She asked, itching to reach out and hold his hand. His gaze flits around for a few seconds before landing back on her face, a rose tint now on his cheeks.

“I- uh, I don’t really know. I just felt like I needed to come back…” He stuttered. A smile graced her lips, causing an identical one to grow on his own. Asteria watched from behind the counter, beaming at the couple.

“Y/n dear, who’s this?” The witch called. Y/n snapped out of her love-drunk haze, looking to her mother.

“Mama, this is Harry. He came in a few weeks ago while you were away.” She answered, giving her a look that said “please don’t say anything.” Asteria had a tendency to butt into her daughter's life, and Y/n needed to figure this out on her own.

Thea came flouncing out from whichever corner she had burrowed herself into and nosed at Harry’s feet before launching herself onto Y/n’s shoulder and staring at Harry from her new height advantage.

“Well look at you Thea, sittin’ all pretty up there!” Harry reached out to scratch behind her ears. Thea began purring loudly, louder than she did when Y/n petted her (Y/n did her best not to roll her eyes at her attention whore cat). The one thing the girl loved about this was now she had a reason to step closer to the boy before her. He smelled like citrus and woods, with a hint of weed (she’s not judging, she just wouldn’t peg him for a stoner so it’s a little surprising). She let it take over her senses until all she could think about was HaryHaryHary, having to stop herself from purring just like the cat.

“Well, whatever led you back here, it’s nice to see you again!” She blushed, deciding to let her affection for him shine through lightly. Y/n realized she didn’t really want to waste time dancing around mortal niceties. She didn’t want to scare him off but she wouldn’t feign disinterest. The witch wanted to make it clear she was smitten with him. So this was her way of starting slow, letting her blushes be seen, maybe resting a gentle hand on his bicep if he says something that makes her laugh, letting her longing gazes be caught before she looks away.

Like she said before, she’s going to start slow.

“I am too…” Harry wondered if maybe she felt the things he was feeling too. If she couldn’t stop thinking about him the way he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He wondered if it would be weird to ask her out. See if she wanted to get dinner with him, or have a picnic in a park on a sunny afternoon while he stared, as uncreepily as he could, at her bright smile and star-stricken eyes.

Very quickly, like it almost didn’t happen, Y/n saw a blush pink haze surrounding the boy. He was feeling love. The heat in her cheeks rose, fluttering of her heart increasing.

Now she knew for sure, he was her soulmate for love- not friendship. Thank the Stars!

* .

. * .

The next few weeks, Harry would come in every few days just to see Y/n. After realizing that she might be feeling the way he was, he wanted to make it clear to her that he was smitten. So he’d come in after he got done with whatever he’d been doing that day, bring her flowers or a blue-raspberry red bull italian soda (he saw her drinking one one day when he came by) and they would talk and sometimes he’d bring food if it was late and they would eat at the counter in the back kitchen. It became a routine, and he started showing up almost everyday. On slower days, she would close up early, so as not to have a single distraction from her Flame.

The two would talk about the most obscure things, not giving a rat if others heard them cackling at each other's jokes and misspeakings (Y/n stumbled over her words quite a bit when she was tired, he came to realize. He thought it was adorable).

In return for the beautiful flowers and the delicious drinks he’d bring her, Y/n would give him little spell jars or charmed items to make his life easier. He didn’t know they were spelled or charmed, but he thought it was cute how she gave him a lavender colored pen and told him he would think of her every time he wrote anything down (she had charmed it to always spell things correctly) or a little jar filled with lavender and chamomile buds, a few drops of lavender oil and a small amethyst crystal sealed in white wax to help quell the anxiety he’d been feeling with his job lately.

He appreciated them more than any material thing she could have purchased for him. He liked that she wanted him to think about her or that she wanted to do away with his ailments. He came in with a cold once and she spent the better part of an hour fussing over him, telling him all these little tricks to clear his sinuses and giving him different blends of herbs and spices that should clear this up in no time! He thought she was very adorable, worrying over a little cold and wanting to make him better.

Harry found that each time he left her, the force that pulled him to her grew stronger. He wanted to be in her presence more and more every time he walked out the door of the shop. The boy still didn’t really understand what it was about her, but he’s long since stopped asking questions and was just rolling with the punches.

Speaking of things Y/n did that Harry thought was cute- the things she said enamoured him, rendered him so speechless sometimes all he could do was sit there and look at her, (ironically) wondering what magical force brought her to him. He had no idea that the Universe herself was the one who chose his favorite girl.

“Oh Stars Thea! Get out of the nettle! It makes you sneeze, silly cat!”

“Stars forbid you ever listen to me, mother.”

“Althea Rose get your furry ass away from that hot wax before I feed you to the hellhounds!”

He loved how she was always saying Stars where he would normally say Jesus Christ. He never was one to be into religion but it was just something people around him said.

As the weeks went by, they began to sit closer and closer to each other. What started as across the table from one another, began to turn into her at the head and him on the corner next to her, then both of them sitting on one side but a bit of space between them, and then side by side, thighs touching, on the bench seat. Eventually, Y/n would lay one of her legs over his and he would rest his hand innocently on her skin, his thumb absentmindedly brushing back and forth, tapping his fingers to an imaginary beat as she told him a story about a kooky customer that came in.

That was another thing he loved that she said a lot: kooky.

Their goodbyes had grown more and more affectionate over time as well. From a little wave and a shy smile to a little hug, to a bear hug with a kiss on the temple from Harry.

Things were moving very swimmingly. Y/n was happy with the progress the two had made in getting to know each other. She had learned that he worked at a marketing firm but his passion was music, that he was in a band when he was in high school, and he’s from a village in Manchester.

Harry learned that Y/n has a degree in herbology and really likes the woods, and the show The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (despite the inaccurate depiction of witches, she thinks the characters are pretty).

Y/n has been trying to figure out the best way to tell Harry about her… lifestyle. It’s going to be a big shift in his reality and she worries that she’s going to overwhelm him. Her parents didn’t have this problem because they were both witches, but she had been fated to a mortal, which she’s not complaining about because loves Harry and all his human afflictions (loves!), but it’s quite a task keeping him in the dark until she’s ready to shed light on everything.

Especially on a day like today.

Her mother is out again, leaving her in charge of the store, again! And as previously mentioned, Y/n gets a little strung up when she’s left in charge. She’s forgetful, her mind flying all over the place. Her messiness gets worse, leaving different things all over the place (she somehow left a grimoire in the refrigerator at home), losing things… Basically, Y/n’s not doing so hot at the moment.

A busy spell had just finished, she had like 7 different customers in at once, all of them needing her for different things and all the chamomile and lavender oil rubbed behind her ear in the world couldn’t calm the anxiety flowing through her at the moment. She’d been so strung up that she hadn’t noticed the warm golden shiver running down her spine or all the hair on her body raising to attention or the jingle of the bells on the door when Harry walked in.

Walked in to see… the brooms sweeping up by themselves? And different pots and pans flying back into place… with no one carrying them. And Y/n muttering words he didn’t understand while her fingers wiggled, making the pestle inside what he learned to be called a mortar, moving by itself.

To say the least, Harry was very confused. And a little scared. Was he dreaming? Did today even happen? Was he still at home lying in bed?

The only thing that makes him realize he’s not is the shriek Y/n let’s out when she sees him standing frozen in the doorway, eyebrows pulled together in confusion (and a little bit of terror), mouth agape like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start. All at once, every moving item ceased and dropped, including the pots and pans which made a very loud noise, scaring Thea so much that she did the loud “meow!” that you only hear cats do in movies, and Y/n let out a quiet“Shit!”

“Harry…” She muttered, standing up slowly and treading towards him.

“Um… Y/n. What- what the fuck… was all of that?” He stuttered, and she continued to walk to him.

“Love, why don’t we go sit down and I’ll explain everything to you!” Y/n said slowly. She had taken to calling him Love lately, not being able to stop herself. They had yet to really “confess their feelings” to the other, but it was like a silent thing that no one said but they both just knew. So the name didn’t surprise him. Actually in the midst of all this craziness (and how his whole world had just seemed to be flipped in a matter of 5 seconds) he was clinging to the familiarity of the pet name.

He nodded, his eyes glazing over as he tried to wrap his head around what he was seeing. Y/n waved her wrist, everything that had dropped seeming to come to life again and be put back into their rightful places. Harry stared in amazement. Seeing it for the second time really drove the nail into the coffin that holy shit this is really happening…

They sat down side by side on the bench where they normally did but Y/n didn’t put her leg over his like they had grown used to. She missed the contact but figured a little space while she explained everything would be best for her Flame. Harry didn’t agree and tugged her closer to him. She didn’t fight it.

“Ok,” She sighed, cracking her knuckles as she took a deep breath, “Harry… my darling Harry. I need you to keep an open mind while I tell you all of this ok? It’s gonna be a lot for you to take in and I don’t want you to get a headache.” He nodded, and she took his hands in her own, running her thumb over his palm and channeling positive energy between the two of them. She saw Harry relax a little, letting her know it worked. He was ready (as ready as he could be) to hear what she had to say.

“Love, I’m a witch.” She says, letting it sink in for a moment. Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment. Y/n wonders if he’s even breathing. The strong pulse thumping in his wrist is a steady reminder that he’s ok, just shocked. (Very, very shocked).

“I come from a very long line of very powerful witches. I have magic, kind of like you see in movies and tv shows except I don’t worship the devil or eat children. None of us do. We’re usually very gentle creatures, unless we’re put in danger. Witches don’t use magic to hurt others, quite the opposite actually.”

“So… you cast spells and stuff?” He asks quietly. She breathes a laugh through her nose, nodding her head, continuing to channel him by rubbing her thumbs over his palms.

“I do, that’s what you saw me doing at the counter. I was actually strengthening the anti-anxiety jar I gave you a few weeks ago, because you told me you had a big project coming up and I didn’t want you to get too stressed out.” The girl said.

Harry couldn’t really focus on one thing for too long, letting his gaze flit around the kitchen area. He felt oddly… calm.

“Why do I feel so calm right now? I feel like I should be freaking out a little bit more than I am…” He voiced, finally looking into her eyes.

“I’m channeling you… look.” She said, pointing her gaze to their hands. He sees her thumbs rubbing gentle circles into his palms and looks back into her eyes.

“You’re casting a spell on me right now?” Harry wonders out loud.

“Channeling isn’t necessarily a spell, I’m just focusing and directing positive energy onto you right now, to help keep you calm. Like I said, I don’t want you to get a headache or pass out on me. I can stop if you want me to though!” She added quickly at the end but he shook his head.

“No, don’t stop…” He almost cried, pulling her closer to him.

“Ok, I won’t. It’s ok!” She shushed him, letting one of her hands float to his cheek, brushing over his cheek bone and pushing a fallen curl out of his eyes, before her hand found his again.

“Was it a spell that made me want to come in here that first day?”

“No baby, that’s actually a little different. This might be a little much so you gotta bear with me ok?” She explained and he nodded, heaving out a heavy breath.

A beat of silence passes and Y/n lets her eyes lock with his.

“We’re Twin Flames… or what you would know as Soulmates. We were fated to be together. That’s why you felt a pull to come in here. We were… destined… to meet each other.”

Harry doesn’t say anything and Y/n feels like her heart is about to beat out of her chest. She knew he was going to find out someday, but really didn’t expect that day to be this one. This crazy long day where everything had seemed to just bubble over and explode. She should have known something was going to happen when this morning, the flame on the candle she had lit for Harry on her altar was taller than it ever had been. She had written it off to him just thinking about her or something (if this was the case, it would be to the ceiling all day everyday because he never stops thinking about her), but she should have known. And now, here she was, terrified that Harry was going to walk away from her. She would understand if he did, it’s a lot to take in, and having your whole world flipped on its head is a bit much.

It would still break her heart though.

“So… this is normal?” Harry broke his silence.

“Is what normal?”

“That I want to be around you all the time? That I think about you all the time? What I’m feeling is normal?”

Y/n’s face softens. He’s so cute, she thinks. She could just wrap him up in a little bow and keep him all to herself for the rest of time.

“Yes, baby. It’s normal! I’ve been feeling the same things as you ever since we first met!” Harry’s mind is a little clearer now, so he picks up on the new pet name. Baby. He likes it, he decides.

“You feel this way too?” He looks like a little puppy right now, Y/n could just cry. She nodded her head, scooting impossibly closer to him, practically sitting in his lap. It seemed now that he was even calmer than he had been before, even without her channeling. She stopped for a second to test his reaction and he was ok. He didn’t tense up, eyes didn’t well in tears, didn’t lose consciousness. So she moved her hands to cup his cheeks now, feeling him lean into her touch.

“You’ve been the only thing on my mind since before you even walked through the door that first day. You’re in my dreams every night, I see you every time I close my eyes, I’m completely taken with everything you do.” Y/n confesses, feeling a weight lift off her chest.

“I know it seems fast to you, as a mortal. Your kind usually takes this kind of thing slowly, really learns a person before you become vulnerable. Out of fear for being judged or whatever it might be, but I would never judge you. I want you to know it’s ok to let your guard down with me. Whatever you're comfortable with! I don’t want to overwhelm you in any way, and I know all of this is so so much to take in. I just want what’s best for you, my Love.”

It’s not lost on Harry that she adds my before Love. He feels his heart flutter.

“I’m taken with everything you do too. Absolutely everything.” He whispers, if he speaks too loudly the moment might be lost.

They stare into each other's eyes, feeling the energy in the room grow. Flames from the lit candles around the room grow tenfold, reflecting the rising energy. Harry has half a mind to break his gaze from the girl before him, seeing the tall flames before bringing his eyes back to hers. He sees her gaze drop to his lips repeatedly. He doesn’t think she even realizes that she’s leaning in to him, but he’s not going to stop her.

When she’s so close he can feel her breath fanning over his face, she pauses, looking back up to his eyes, silently asking for permission. With her hands still cupping his cheeks gently, she closes the distance between them, pressing her lips delicately to his. Harry places his hands in two places: her waist and her neck. He pulls her in closer, pressing their lips together more firmly. A wildfire spreads from head to toe on both of them. It seems as though time has paused for this very moment, and again the earth shifts. A piece of the universe has just been restored, two halves of a soul reunited.

Harry’s fingertips send sparks flowing down her spine, she hums against his lips. The kiss is simple, just two people getting to know each other, learning the other's body, but it’s long. It’s not just one peck. Harry presses his lips against hers multiple times, slotting her bottom between both of his.

When Y/n pulls back to catch her breath, Harry chases after her, not ready to end this moment yet. She chuckles and grants him a few more kisses until she really is about to pass out because she needs to breathe. Pushing him gently, she breaks the kiss and rests her forehead against his, keeping her eyes closed.

She so badly wants to let the three words sitting on the tip of her tongue go, but doesn’t want to overwhelm him with too much all at once.

“Do you feel that?” He whispers, pulling her to sit astride his lap. She moves pliantly, letting him take control of the situation.

The air feels charged, thick, like it should be hard to breath but it flows, smooth as water, into their lungs.

Y/n’s head feels heavy, like she’s high on every drug there ever was, her mind fuzzy, unable to think outside of this moment. Outside of this little wrinkle in time where Harry is the only other thing that exists.

“Yeah,” She whispers back, reconnecting their lips, slotting them together over and over until their lips are puffy and red. Harry slides his hands around her waist, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her flush against him, not even a slip of paper would fit.

Pulling away, Harry heaves in a deep breath, squeezing Y/n’s hips.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long…” He says, nudging his nose against hers. She smiles, letting his affections wash over her, warming her eternal soul.

“This doesn’t freak you out?”

“Oh, I’m so freaked out but I'm kind of just going with it, living in the ambiguity and all that shit.” He heaves a laugh through his nose, pressing kisses to her cheek and down her neck, smoothing his hands up and down her back.

This was the best possible outcome of the situation, if Y/n had to be honest. It could have gone so many ways. Harry being freaked out but rolling with it… she’ll take it.

“How about we make dinner and you can ask me any questions you have?” She suggested and he nodded.

So they did just that. But Y/n closed the shop early and they went back to her place. Hand in hand they walked the few blocks, side glaces of reassurance and little squeezes of the hand, letting the other know they were there, and they weren’t going anywhere, with Thea in her little travel backpack (that she was absolutely in love with surprisingly).

They came upon an unsuspecting alleyway. Harry thought they were just passing through as a shortcut but Y/n stopped walking in the middle of a blank brick wall and muttered a few words she didn’t understand while waving her hands. He started to realize maybe this wasn’t just a shortcut.

Before his eyes, a door appeared. His brows shot up in surprise (he’s gonna get worry lines on his forehead if he doesn’t stop doing that, he realizes). Y/n looked over her shoulder at him, trying to hide a smirk but the look on his face was too good.

“Pretty wicked huh?” Harry didn't say anything, just chuckled and nodded, following her when she opened the door and a set of stairs appeared. Walking up the dimly lit hallway, they come to another door with the cheeky The Witch Is In sign.

“Cute.” Harry smirks at her and she laughs, opening it and letting him walk through first.

“Make yourself at home! I’ve got records on the shelf over there, you can pick one if you want. I’m just gonna feed Thea and get her all settled and we can get to making dinner.” Y/n explained. Harry ventured off into her living room, seeing the shelf she was talking about and browsing through. There were many different artists from Fleetwood Mac to Taylor Swift to Weezer. He picks out Hozier's self-titled album and puts it on, the beginning of Take Me To Church crackling through the speakers.

“Good choice,” He hears from behind him and smiles, turning around to see the girl he was apparently destined to spend the rest of his life with standing before him.

“Jackie and Wilson has been stuck in my head the last few days so,” He said, sauntering over to her and snaking his arms around her waist.

Taking a look around, he sees many different trinkets and items similar to what was in the shop. A lot of jars filled with different things, candles of all different colors, crystals, a broom (he didn’t realize witches actually had brooms but ok), among other things that he didn’t know the purpose of.

“Wait… how are there windows in here? I didn’t see any outside.” He asked, pulling back from the hug and looking at her.

“Well, there aren’t any windows in the alley. But there’s also a glamour spell on this building so nobody can see my apartment. That’s why you can’t see the door until I do the little thing you saw me do.” She answered. A sheepish smile broke onto his face.

“Oh,” he said and she laughed from her chest, petting a few fallen curls back from his forehead. She could get used to this, she thinks as she stares into his eyes, green as the forest and wide with wonder at everything he’s discovered today.

Who knew the girl he was falling in love with would be a witch… with actual powers.

* .

. * .

“Wait so, if no one can see your front door… how do you get mail?” Harry asked, reaching around Y/n for the salt.

“At the shop,”

“Oh,” He says. She laughs, kissing his cheek and continuing on cutting up veggies for the salad they're making.

“Have you always been able to do magic or was it something you grew into?” Y/n thought back to when she was little, remembering how she struggled to harness her powers for a few years before she started getting the hang of things.

“I always had powers, but imagic isn’t something you just wake up and know how to do so it took a while for me to really settle into and control. Magic is a skill, same as reading and writing, so I had to be taught and I had to work on it. Does that make sense?” She pauses while she explains, looking into his eyes. Harry nods, but his light hearted curious expression turns into one of embarrassment and she doesn’t understand why.

A rosy red color surrounds him, telling her he was feeling… embarrassed? Why did he feel embarrassed?

“Baby? What’s going through your head?” She asks, wanting to help him feel better.

She doesn’t like when he’s feeling anything other than happy!

“I just… I feel like I’m asking you so many questions about all of this stuff and it’s just tough to wrap my head around I guess.” She puts the knife down and sets her hand on his wrist, stopping from what he’s doing. She places her other hand on his shoulder, coaxing him to face her.

“Harry, this is a lot to take in, yeah? It’s not something you can just find out and move on from. It’s gonna take time to process. You’re gonna feel a lot of emotions, and that’s ok! I would be worried if you weren’t feeling a little off, as much as I hate that you’re not feeling 100%.”

She places a series of gentle pecks on his lips, doing her best to soothe him in any way.

“Ask all the questions you want! You don’t have to worry about being judged or saying something wrong, you have a right to be curious.” She feels him relax in her hold which in turn makes her relax.

“Thank you for being patient with me,”

He’ll get used to this, he thinks. He’ll get used to the fact that real witches actually exist, he’ll start to understand the words she mutters when she waves her hands, he’ll get it eventually. But right now, he doesn’t really get it, he’s not really used to it. But she’s worth it. She’s worth more than everything.

“I think you’re the one thing I know how to be patient with,” Again, she wants to mutter those three words on the tip of her tongue, but he’s already been through so much today, she doesn’t want to overwhelm him any more than he already is. So she’ll wait, because one day (hopefully soon) he’ll be ready to hear them.

“Can you do a spell? I kind of want to see how they work…” Harry asks after a moment of them just enjoying the silence that only really comes when two people understand each other.

She chuckles and nods, telling him she will show him a few spells after dinner. He agrees and they go back to making their meal, dancing around each other and laughing just like they always did and it felt good. Felt like this would be ok. Y/n was still scared because he could still decide to leave, that this was too much for him. That she was too much for him.

But for right now, things were ok.

* .

. * .

“Amoris et lux sum ego ipse, et carorum beatum facere potest, per potentiam solem et lunam, ut superius, et inferius.”

(I am love and light, I bring happiness to myself and my loved ones, By the power of the sun and moon, as above, so below)

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything weirder in his life...and his college roommate freshman year was a conspiracy theorist.

As Y/n spoke the words, she stirred a brew of tea infused with different herbs clockwise. He watched from beside her as she did this, his hand placed on her thigh so that his energy could be used in the spell along with hers.

Before she said the spell, she told him to set an intention and he had no idea what that was so she did a little lesson after reassuring him that his question was valid. (He’s still feeling insecure about not understanding anything she was talking about.) She told him to “close your eyes, take a deep breath, and clear your mind. Think of something you want in life that isn’t material.”

His immediate thought was that he wanted to spread kindness and love in the world (Y/n did her best not to tear up at her Flame’s pure intentions) so she nodded, telling him to think about that and only that, and set her intentions to the same thing so the spell would work. Mixing lavender, rose petals, and chamomile in a large mug, she pours in hot water to steep the herbs and, as previously mentioned, stirs it clockwise (something about clockwise being for manifestation), , rubs her palms together and snaps her fingers, and snuffs out the candles she had lit.

When all is said and finished, Y/n pulls Harry into a sweet kiss, and then has him take a sip of the tea telling him be careful my Love, it’s still hot. He kisses her back, taking a sip of the tea (he’d never been one for lavender things but this was actually really good. He wonders if it has anything to do with the fact that Y/n made it).

“So we just drink this and then what?” He asks, handing her the mug.

“We sacrifice an animal,” She says, not skipping a beat and taking her sip. Harry chokes on his spit, gasping for a breath of air before the girl bursts into a fit of giggles.

“I’m just kidding, baby. That’s it. That’s the whole spell. You just have to honestly believe it for it to work.” She says and he heaves a sigh of relief.

“Don’t joke like that!” He whines, more giggles escaping from Y/n’s throat.

“I’m sorry bub, I won’t do that anymore.” She says, still fighting off laughs. They continue to sip the tea, Y/n telling Harry about different things she did during the day.

Harry looked upon her as if she hung the moon just for him, and was telling him all about how she did it. Without even realizing it, he started to feel warmer and like a buzz was coursing through his veins.

“I feel weird…”

“What do you mean you mean you feel weird?” She voiced, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead and then feeling his pulse. Both were normal.

“I feel warm and like I’m buzzing… Kind of like I’m high…” He explained and she nodded her head, a small sigh of relief escaping her.

“That’s the spell working baby. You’re ok!”

“Oh, ok. It just worried me a little,”

“You’re ok! I want you to tell me when something worries you or feels different or off.” She says, and places a hand on his thigh. Harry agrees and they continue with their conversation.

When they both took their last sips on the tea, they cuddled up on the couch, an incense stick and candle lit on the coffee table.

Y/n sat, manipulating the smoke and flame simultaneously while Harry watched with a wide eyed gaze. She had explained how this was something he would be able to learn if he wanted to, and that she had been practicing for years to be able to do both things at the same time.

“I started when I was… I want to say 5. It’s a simple skill that promotes concentration. You have to stay extremely focused to even manipulate one element at a time. It’s only been these last few years that I’ve been able to concentrate enough to do both.” She explained, taking a break. As much as she loved showing Harry all these different things, it took a lot of energy out of her and it had already been a dreadfully long day.

“How about we go to sleep and I’ll show you more tomorrow? I’m pooped!” Harry hums an agreement, lifting his head from her lap and letting her lead the way to her bedroom.

Light lavender walls adorned with shelves full of plants and different nicknacks, and a desk with more candles, herbs, and other eclectic items sat atop it.

“What is all of this?” He sifts through all the things on the desk, not touching as Y/n had explained to him at some point today, I know you don’t have any ill intent, but a lot of this stuff absorbs other people's energy which can mess up what I use it for, so look and don’t touch. If you want a closer look, I’ll pick it up. There are different colored stones of varied shapes and sizes and many candles. One in particular catches his eyes. A green one with a very tall flame with something carved into the side of it. “What’s up with this green candle?”

“This is my altar, and the green candle is the one I have lit for you. I’m assuming that because you’re here, it’s going a little crazy. Nothing to be afraid of! I’m actually going to put it out since you’re here with me.” She explained quickly, reaching towards the flame with her finger and snuffing it out.

“Wait, you had a candle lit for me?” His eyes rounded, a shy smile coming onto his lips. An identical smile graced her features as she turned to look at him.

“Yeah, I’ve had one lit for you since the day we met. I made a sigil and carved it into the side and keep it lit day and night as an extra layer of protection for you.” She explained. Harry felt his heart melt at this.

She couldn’t get any cuter, he thinks.

A candle lit for him… to keep him safe. That’s adorable.

He leans in and places a gentle kiss on her lips, brushing the little hairs away from her face.

Y/n led him further into her room where her ensuite bathroom was, giving him a tooth brush and letting him know he could shower if he wanted to. When he came back into the room after getting ready, Y/n laid out on the bed in a sports bra and shorts. He just wore his boxers.

Climbing into bed next to her, she cuddled up to him right away, his arm finding a home around her body and her head laid on his chest, listening to his heart beat.

“Been dreaming about this moment my whole life,” Y/n mumbled, cheek smushed against his skin, making her look all cute and cuddly. Harry had to hold back a coo at the sentiment.

“Me too Moppet, me too,” He sighed, and they both drifted off into warm, fluffy, dream-like states, wrapped in the safety of each other's arms.

* .

. * .

Walking down the street at night isn’t the best idea for normal women, Y/n had learned over her 22 years of life. But Y/n is not a normal woman. She’s a witch.

And while most women carry their keys between their knuckles and have tasers or pepper spray or mace at the ready, Y/n didn’t really need that. This was one of the only instances where she would use her magic to harm anyone. Like she’d said before- only when she’s put in danger (or someone else around her is put in danger).

So when a prick who reeks of whiskey starts tailing her, she waits for him to take the first blow. Waits for him to get a little too close, so she can turn around and unleash her wrath on him. All the while making it seem like it’s not her doing. Like causing a brink to fall off the roof above her and hit him in the head. She wouldn’t actually do that but a witch could dream.

No, she’ll trip him up without turning around and if he still insists on gaining her attention, she’ll spin around quick, flick her wrist and send him into an unconscious daze and let him sleep off his inebriation on the lovely warmth of the concrete sidewalk.

That’s exactly what she does.

“Hey sweetheart, where you goin’?” He slurs, beginning his trek behind her. She’s unresponsive which leads him to believe she’s playing hard to get because his fragile little man ego can’t fathom that a woman would ignore his attention.

“Oh c’mon baby don’t be like that!” He speeds up, already wobbling but this only serves to make him clumsier.

She does her thing, flicking her wrist in his direction (discreetly) so he trips, but this doesn’t stall him. He reaches out, effectively grabbing her arm. She whips around to face him, cheeks growing red hot with anger. Ripping her arm out of his grasp and twisting his arm around, she gets close to his face.

“Touch me again, I fucking dare you!” She snarls, doesn’t even realize her grip is burning into his flesh- her magic gets a little crazy when she’s mad. Releasing him (tossing his arm away from her in a rough manner), she flicks her wrist once again and mutters a quick “et obliviscere somnum*”, watching him fall to the ground, unconscious. She looked around to see if anyone was watching the scene go down but no one was sober enough to pay attention to some drunk bloke harassing a young woman.

*(forget and sleep)

She shakes off her frustration as she comes to a stop in front of an unfamiliar building. Where her Flame lives.

She had agreed to let him make her dinner at his house, so she packed an overnight back and made her way further into town. He had given her an address and while, yes she did use it, she also let their bond lead her to him. She just kind of knew where to go, it seemed. Harry had expressed that he felt something similar the first time he went into the shop, though he didn’t understand why he wanted to walk in- just felt like he had to.

Making her way up the stairs, she let’s Harry know she’s there, beginning to feel the familiar tingle rush down her spine. She hadn’t seen him for a week and a half since he's been busy with a project at work- a client wasn’t happy with all the work he and a coworker had done so they had to quickly re-do an entire proposal to meet the client's deadline. Needless to say- the little anti-anxiety jar she made him was coming in real handy lately. Y/n had also had him put citrine and amethyst points on his desk while he worked to help him focus and stay calm so he didn’t stress too badly.

She always had a little something to make his life easier, whether it be a stone, or a jar of different things (a spell jar, he’d learned), or whatever it may be- she always had something to help.

When she made it to his floor, he was standing there waiting for her with open arms. She ran to him, jumping into his arms and holding onto him tight.

“I missed you, my wild girl,” He muttered into her neck, spinning her around. Her face flushed without fail, her arms wrapping tighter around him.

“Missed you most,” She sighed, nuzzling into him.

“Don’t think that’s possible.”

She hummed in disagreement while he walked them inside, Y/n still wrapped around him like a koala bear. His house smelled of peach and mango. It’s sweet- just like him. The thought made her smile.

Giving him a big smacking kiss on the cheek, she pulls back to have a look at his face, seeing he’s smiling like an idiot. It warms her heart to see him smile, butterflies breaking out of their cocoons and fluttering about her tummy.

“What’re you smiling for?” She voices, giggling at him.

“M’ happy you’re here,” He sighed, “Don’t like not seeing you.”

“I don’t like not seeing you either,” She frowned, petting his wild curls back and placing little pecks all around his face.

His cheeks flushed at her affection.

Harry set Y/n down on the kitchen counter, standing in between her legs, hands resting on her hips. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to hers lightly, before slotting them together, fully indulging himself in his girl. She responds immediately, letting her hands rest around his neck.

She will never not be amazed by how soft his lips are. Kissing him feels like floating through clouds, like laying down in bed after a long day on your feet. Kissing him is like the first breath of warm summer air after the longest winter. Kissing him feels like coming home.

Y/n’s heartbeat picks up as the kiss becomes more needy, leaning into him further. Harry pulls her closer, his hands ghosting up the bare skin under her shirt and fiddling with the band of the bralette she’s wearing. A gasp escapes her lips when he pulled the fabric up, letting it snap back to her skin causing a smirk to grow on his face- struggling to keep up with her lips.

He kisses her breathless before pulling away, watching as her eyes flutter open and she heaves air into her lungs, her cheeks flushed and supple.

“Don’t want the food to burn,” He smirks again, hands falling away from her body, moving the pots and pans on the stove around to the counter so he could plate their dinner.

“Asshole,” He hears her mutter.

Harry could get used to this, having Y/n around. Being able to come home to her, make them dinner, make out in the kitchen, fall asleep together. He can’t believe he ever thought he loved anyone before she came along. There was just no way. Y/n came into his life and took over every aspect and now he couldn’t imagine a world without her in it. He hopes to the Stars he doesn’t have to.

Yeah, she’s got him praying to the stars now.

[plush-rabbit]

Can I Ask You Something?

| Part 14 | 

You close your laptop with a sigh and crawl out of bed to put it away. You raise your arms over head and arch your back, letting out a soft moan when your back lets out a pop. You sigh and shake your hands. “I should shut it down properly next time,” you mumble to yourself, eyes growing misty when a yawn that you can no longer suppress breaks free from you.

You lie in bed, covered under blankets and your phone pulled close as you scroll through your social media, smiling softly and hearting pictures. When another yawn moves past your lips, you slide your phone onto the nightstand and pull the blankets closer under your chin, finally allowing your body to rest.

-

You’re pulled out of your sleep with a hand clamped over your shoulder, shaking you out of your slumber accompanied by a raspy voice telling you to wake up. Your mind still foggy with sleep, you raise a hand and weakly wave off the sudden motions, mumbling incoherent words that are laced heavy with sleep. The shaking stops and the hand is removed, and you melt back into bed a small grin on your face and then your eyes shoot open. You scramble to turn on the lamp and wince when the glow from it makes your eyes sting.

Your bleary vision lands on a dark figure and you open your mouth to scream when a hand clasps over your mouth. You let out a muffled cry when your head collides with the headboard, tears springing to your eyes and a dull pain filling your already cloudy mind. You kick your legs out and they are entangled in the blanket, your chest is rising and falling heavily, a surge of panic and fear coursing through your veins. Your arms go stiff at your sides, your nails digging into your thighs and you’re shaking.

“Fucking- Just relax. It’s me. It’s me,” a raspy voice calls out to you, the hand clamped around your mouth loosening.

You blink back your tears and one slides down your face and disappears into the hand. Your eyes flicker around your room until they hand on the assailant. “Tomura?” Your voice is muffled and slowly the hand leaves your mouth.

He stands in front of you. His hair has grown longer and it’s a snowy white. He has faded marks around his neck and when you glance down, all air escapes your lungs when they land on his left hand- he wears a metal brace and you can only see two fingers peek out of it. When you look back, he has bags under his eyes but he stands tall. He stands dignified and his gaze meets yours and unlike you, he doesn’t look away.

“Why—”

“Just shut up and let me think.” His eyes finally turn away from you and land on your dresser, eyes narrowed and glaring at the bottle of cream that stands there. The hand at his side curls in and out of a fist and he lets out a harsh breath. His eyes come back and you stiffen under his gaze, your nails marking your skin with crescent shaped reminders. He stares at you for what feels like eternity, his eyes burning with an intense flame in them and his foot is tapping on your floor at a rapid pace. Abruptly, he turns around and buries his face in his hands. He’s agitated and cursing under his breath.

You glance to the side and you’re dumbfounded. It’s a strange thing to watch where he’s unnerved even if he did break in and shake you awake. It makes you forget that he’s a villain. Right now, with sleep slowly fading from your mind and body, it feels as if he just woke up from a nightmare during a sleepover. Your shoulders slump and you let out a quiet breath.

“Do you want a glass of water?” You whisper, glancing at the door and your hands unfurling from your sides.

His body stiffens and you nervously swallow. He turns around slowly and you recoil involuntarily when his eyes meets yours. “I’m getting on the bed.” You don’t have a chance to respond- not that you would have anyways- when he crawls into bed, sitting down on the space next to you.

Both of you sit in silence. You grow agitated and your eyes slowly begin to droop close with your head nodding off. Sleep is powerful thing- it erases time in the blink of an eyes, it sends anxiety to the back of the mind- it wins over you when you have panic coursing through your veins and pumping your heart at an erratic pace. He doesn’t move an inch. He sits upright when his back against his bedframe and hands in lap. He’s quiet and you want to call out to him. You want to hug him. You want to scream and pound at his chest. You want to curl into him and pretend that he’s still Tomura and you want to sleep. You want him to touch you. You missed him. And now here he is, less than a foot away from you in your bed and all you can do it sit idly, forcing yourself to stay awake as adrenaline begins to pump itself into your body.

You sit with your back against the bedframe, the pain in your head dulling by the second and the blankets are crumpled at your feet. You slowly reach over to grab them, feeling his eyes on you and when you bring them back, you turn around and hold them close to your chest. Your heart beats rapidly, it pounds in your chest, shaking your ribcage and you think you’re close to seeing it pop of out your chest and stain you in scarlet. Your legs still shake and you clamp a hand down at them in a weak attempt to stop them.

“When did you figure it out?” His voice cuts through the silence and your hand curls deeper in the blanket.

“A bit before you came over the second time,” you reply after a moment. “Remember when I started talking about that friend? When I cried in front of you and gave you a gift?” You voice cracks and you stop talking.

“You haven’t told anybody?”

“Who could I ever tell?” Your laugh is bitter. “We knew each other for a while after that. It would have made me like an accomplice or something.” You think you’re going to die here. You wish you would have at least been asleep for it.

“You’re lying,” he accuses you.

“Tom—”

“You could have gone to the authorities and told them I was blackmailing you. There were a lot of things you could have done where you came out as the victim who was manipulated by me.” You can feel his eyes bore holes in the side of your head. “So, I’ll ask again- why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. Your mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton and your desperate to reach over and grab the water bottle that stands idly on your nightstand but you’re afraid to make any sudden movement. “I think… You let me know your name. You let me see your face.” You take in a deep breath and exhale it for just as long. “I don’t think I could handle it if I betrayed you like that.”

“Look at me,” he tells you and you know better than to disobey him.

You turn slowly to meet him, your bottom lip sucked between your teeth slowly rolls out and your eyes won’t meet his.

“I told you to look at me.” His voice is gentle; and it sounds more of a request than a command.

“I can’t,” you whisper, closing your eyes and bowing your head.

You hear him mutter a curse under his breath. “How?” When you don’t answer, he presses. “How did you find out?”

“Do you remember that attack that happened near the park? The one that I fell at?”

“Where the people tripped you?”

You nod slowly. “Bingo,” your hands clench the blanket tighter. “Well it was the day after that. I uh, I don’t know why but I- I felt compelled to learn more about it and well the news links lead me to you.” You open your eyes and slowly raise your head. He meets your eyes and your breath catches at your throat. “Well then I forgot about it when you called,” you smile softly, “and then I remembered your face and I thought and I tried making excuses for it but-” your eyes shine with unshed tears and a shaky breath makes your chest shudder. “Your picture popped up on one of the news sites. It was a bit blurry but-” your voice cracks and you stare at your lap- “I thought that couldn’t be you. You were nice and had nice eyes and you had a nice smile,” a tear slips, “but it was you.” You chew on your bottom lip, dragging your teeth across the soft skin. “I didn’t like that it was you.”

It all happens abruptly and it shouldn’t surprise you but you still stiffen under his touch and stop breathing when his hand grips your face tightly. His face is close yours and you can feel his breath that fans across your lips. “I could kill you,” he whispers but the threat doesn’t match his soft tone.

Crimson eyes flicker to your lap when your hand slowly unfurls from the twisted blanket, the soft turquoise lands softly still bundle close together. You hand is shaky as it moves towards his face. Your heart skips a beat when you grasp his face in a reflection of what he’s doing to you. Where his hands are dry and calloused, yours are soft and delicate; they’re featherlike on his skin. It’s easy to break out of your grip, but he doesn’t. He allows himself to feel your touch. You’re shaking and tears slip out, but you still sit by him, you still look at him with sorrowful expression. You still touch him.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “I guess you could kill me.” Your forefinger strokes the corner of his lips before coming to a still when his canine gleams in the yellow lighting.

“What will you do if I do kill you?”

“I think I’ll cry,” you whisper, your eye breaking away from his when your thumb strokes at his bottom lip and traces over his scar. “What will you do?” Your hand slides down and ghosts over his neck, you see his Adam’s apple bob and you tut. Your fingers are delicate over his healing and healed scars. “What will you do?” Your hand leaves his neck and he can’t breathe. “Will you cry? Will you destroy everything I own?” When he doesn’t answer you press on. “If you do, can you at least leave a note saying I ran away? I don’t want my family and friends to worry.”

His hand tentatively leaves your face; his fingertips stroke your skin with soft touches full of desire and reluctance. Under your chin, they mold into a fist and he presses the flat under his thigh. He looks away from you, his eyes focused on the wall in front of him. “I hate you,” he says softly, his voice full of emotion that makes it crack and sound broken whispered in the middle of the night.

The lump in your throat won’t go down, and you let out a shaky breath, nodding your head softly with eyes full of pained tears. “Yeah,” you lick your lips, “I like you too.” Your hands slide odd your lap and rest in the space between the two of you. His arm twitches in response and you lower your head, closing your eyes so the tears don’t escape. You take a deep breath and force yourself to look at him, your bottom lip quivering as the words leave your mouth. “How did you realize it? It took me a bit and then when I did it- I didn’t take it well.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

He frowns. “Why didn’t you take it well?”

“Because at the end of the day you’re Shigaraki and I’m a civilian who’s too scared to do most things.” You feel your chest grow tighter. “And you? How did you take it?”

“Tried to deny it,” his voice is light and genuine.

“Makes sense,” you say in a weak voice. “It’s an unlikely relationship, isn’t it?” You joke, your smile not reaching your eyes.

You watch as he moves to sit beside you, his legs crossed and you follow suit. You can’t look into his eyes, always stopping at the tip of his nose looking away from him. He was a text message, a disembodied voice, a person in front of you, a friend who held your neck in his grasp, and now he sits in front of you and tells you that he likes you while sitting on your bed as if he didn’t just break in. You missed him. You tried to forget him- his memory only bringing misery to you. Yet here he is in front of you, sitting cross legged and waiting for you to meet his eyes.

“I don’t know what to think,” you whisper, looking down at your hands, playing with the drawstring from your shorts. “I’m happy but,” you trail off, not finishing your sentence and when you meet his eyes, he nods dolefully.

He’s in front of you and you sit there. You raise your hand and your fingers jump when they touch his face. He’s tense for a moment before he relaxes into you and you move your hand, sliding it down to his neck and underneath, you can feel his steady pulse and your chest tightens. Your hand returns to cusp his face, your thumb tracing his cheekbones and fingers stroking at his jawline. Your fingers glide over his skin and your eyebrows knit together when you see a scar. Your fingertips run over a blemish and the bumps and ridges and they solidify who he is- they make him real.

“You have so many scars,” you mumble, your eyes beginning to gloss over, a wistful smile tugging on the corner of your lips.

“I can never give you a normal life—” his lips part and he tilts his head, pressing further into your palm and letting his eyes flutter to a close— “not until I do what I have to do.”

Your eyes are heavy and sting with tears, with a shaky breath you begin to speak, “I know that you can’t,” your voice cracks and he opens his eyes, “but I still like you- a lot. And, I don’t want you to go again.” Your voice is soft and in the comfort of your room, in the middle of the little life that you’ve made for yourself while a man with scars littering his body nestled into your palm, it makes it all that much more intimate. “I can hold you. You don’t have to give up your dreams.” There’s a pause and you ran you hand back to his throat. His pulse is rapid beneath your fingertips. “I trust you.”

You sniff and wipe your eyes. “I uh,” you clear your throat. “What’s on your hand? Did you break it?”

His eyes widen a fraction. “You didn’t see the news?”

“Just enough to get the gist. I uh, heard there were causalities. Did you have something to do with it?” He nods and you turn your head. “Yeah,” you chuckle humorlessly, “I thought you did.” You turn back to face him. “So what happened?”

“My hand got crushed.” He says it so nonchalantly that it takes you a second to process the true meaning behind his words. He clears his throat. “Just three fingers. The other two are fine but I have to wear the brace for the time being.” When you don’t respond, he looks through the corner of his eyes and frowns when you stare intently at the brace that covers his hand.

He holds his hand out to you and the brace is just a brace, but to you, it’s painful to even look at. You take a shuddering breath and start to cry.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he whispers, slowly curling in the two fingers that he has left, ready to pull away. “I have control of it.”

“You’re-” your voice breaks- “you’re missing fingers,” you say miserably, your words interrupted by hiccups. Your bottom lip wobbles and your shoulders shake softly as you cry, your body hunched in on itself with your hands bunching the blanket underneath.

He’s silent for a beat. “Yeah, it happens.” He clears his throat and sits up straighter. “The other guy looks worse. I promise,” he tries to make light of it, one corner of his lips tilting upwards but falling as you continue to sob.

He jumps when your own hands clutch his, your skin digging painfully into the brace but you don’t let go and he makes no motion to tell you. You lower your head, shamefully, tears still slipping down and catching in his hand. “You’re hurt,” you whisper, your voice catching. You sit in front of him on your knees, holding tightly onto his hand as you cry in front of him.

“I was hurt. Not anymore.” The words are meant to be comforting, but they have the opposite effect- you cry harder, biting down on your lip to muffle your pained whimpers. “Stop crying.” His own voice breaks. Even after so long, he still cares deeply about you.

“I can’t stop,” your words slur together pathetically. “I can’t.” He watches you with hurt eyes, his hands perfectly still, not daring to move even when your tears pool into his palm. He doesn’t know how to comfort you. You’re crying because of him, he’s the one injured and you’re on your knees sobbing, holding onto his broken hand like it’s the only thing that’s keeping you grounded. And he realizes with a wince that it is- time went fast for him, all of it a blur, a blink of an eye and suddenly everything was where it should be and he lost a few things on the way, but every war carries its casualties. But you weren’t involved in the war. You sat at home and kept him company. And now you sit in front of him, the red blanket that he loved is crumpled and meshed with the lighter turquoise one- you’ve lived your life without him and so has he. “You got hurt. You lost-” you hiccup- “you lost part of your hand,” you curl in on yourself still holding onto him.

You hold onto him as if he’s you’re lifeline. Your tears flood and you weep into his open palm. Whatever rationality that you held, any fear or anxiety, is gone and it’s replaced by sorrow and helplessness. You’re quite literally putty in his hands, you missed him. His sits in front of you but he isn’t the Tomura you once knew- he’s different now. His hair is longer and it is now a snow white color, he has scars that mar his skin, a brace holds his hand together. He stands taller and his eyes hold pain behind them and all you can do is cry and cling onto him like a child.

“I missed you.” He holds his breath as he waits for your reply, watching your shoulders come to a still and your eyes slowly meet his. They’re bloodshot and tears stain your cheeks. Your bottom lip is red and swollen. “Did you?”

You nod slowly. “I missed you too.”

He pulls his hand away from your tight grip and your fingers stretch and reach out to his retreating hand. He holds his palms open in front of him and when he turns to you, and his arms are spread open. He calls your name and looks into your eyes. A wave of confusion is washed over your face before you take in a deep breath and throw yourself on him, burying your face in his neck, nuzzling into old scars and whispering incomprehensible words to his ear. You give out quiet sobs, your hands clutching the back of his coat and you feel safe. You push yourself closer into him, letting your eyes flutter to a close while you hold onto him.

He holds you tightly and he’s thankful you’ve hidden yourself from him. His eyes widen and lips are pulled into a tight line. His eyes glass over and his fingers thread through your hair. His hand slides through your hair and his fingers trail down your spine and with a nervous breath, he slips his hand under your shirt and gasps when you tighten your grip on him. You don’t erode under his touch. You stay as you are, buried into his neck and whole.

Your sobs soon turn into whimpers which quiet into deep breaths where you can feel your eyelids droop, tears still catching and dripping and marking his skin. Your grip on him softens and you think you can asleep in his arms with his fingertips rubbing shapes into your skin. Your hands slide down his back and you pull away from him, turning your face and covering it with a hand. You sniff and shiver when his hands slide out from under your shirt and ghost over your sides. You open your nightstand drawer and grab a travel pack of tissues that you keep stuffed away for emergencies and shakily open the packet. You shakily pull out a few and hand them to Tomura where he takes them without resistance.

Tears stain the once pristine white tissues and you hold them gently in your hand. You swing your legs over the bed and count the stripes on your socks. When another pair join you, you look at him and lean your head on his shoulder, choosing not to comment on how tightly he grips the tissues in hand and the wetness that still dots the corner of his eyes. The bed whines as you both get off, the used tissues getting tossed into the bin in the corner of your room. You look up at him and when the lump in your throat begins to take form once again, he sighs and runs a hand down his hair, looking to the side and squeezing his eyes shut. You get off of the bed and he follows in suit, the bed groaning under the shift in weight and you toss the used tissues into your trashcan. He pulls you into a hug and you bury your face into his chest, leaning your weight on him, you’re soothed by his heartbeat.

“I missed you Tomura.” You close what little space is between the two of you with a small step. “I missed you so much.”

He holds you tight in his arms, a soft curve in his back as he buries his face in your neck, eyelashes fluttering softly across your skin, his nose pressing into your skin and inhaling your scent. His lips are chapped and broken, pressed against your soft skin which beats under him. His breath is warm and his lips glide across your skin as he breathes and lets the silent words etch themselves upon your skin. His hands rest on your back and slide down, smoothing every wrinkle that marked your shirt. His hands glide across your back and slip underneath your shirt, where you only melt further into him, a low hum vibrating in your throat and tickling his nose. His hands are calloused and feather light on your sides, dancing above and pressing down to leave imprints of him on you. He folds into you, burying himself and greedily taking your warmth and love. Tomura stands tall, but bows to you.

-

His hair pools around him in a silvery halo, an arm under you and a hand latched onto your shoulder. You rest on your side, head nestled above his shoulder and your eyes trace the fading scars that paint his skin. You have an arm thrown across his stomach, his shirt riding up and exposing skin where the pad of your fingers tickles his skin. An arm is bent into your chest and you hold the hand with the brace, his remaining fingers hooking around yours firmly.

“Hey,” he whispers, fingers tapping your shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?” He rolls his shoulder where you lay and you rest your chin on him to look him in the eyes.

“Of course, Tomura,” you smile softly, inching closer to him. The hand tracing on his stomach comes to a stop and you tug the blanket further up his chest.

Red eyes flicker down to your lips and he swallows. “Can I kiss you?” Both hands curl tighter on your skin. His chest stops rising and he goes still beneath you, holding your gaze. He clears his throat and his eyes flicker to the left. “I—”

You capture him in a kiss. It’s a quick peck, a soft brushing of your lips against his, and with a shuddering breath against his lips you deepen the kiss, pressing yourself deeper to him and a low whine sounds in the back of his throat. It’s a slow and unsure kiss, where teeth clash and your breath hitches with hands and limbs shift and nudge into each other while trying to find their place.

Your chest rises and falls and you look at him. His eyes are wide and lips are parted and he runs his tongue across his lips. You feel his trembling breath fan across your lips and there’s a moment of stillness where you two stare at each other, eyes soft and face slightly flushed only to be broken when his arm snakes and presses down your back, pushing you against him. Your hands cradle his face and his own hold onto your back, fingers curving over your shoulder and the other resting on your side.

He’s covetous, pressing you deeper against him, hands running under your shirt and fingers hooking under the collar, gasping, broken breaths whispered against your mouth. It’s rushed and makes it feel as if you’re being consumed by the sun. He takes your breath away, greedily taking you all for himself, a smile playing on his lips when you mewl, holding tighter onto his face. You grow flush and the blanket above warms you to his core and you slide a hand away from his face and rest it on his neck, curving your palm around his heart beats erratically you chuckle breathlessly. You pull away, a grumble of protest spoken softly only to be quieted by another peck.

His hands are cold, cooling your body as they stay in place and hold you; his smile is warm and gentle, shining at you like the sun on a summer’s eve. You kiss down his neck, humming in response when he chuckles softly, arms wrapping around you and holding you in place.

-

You’re ceiling is dark, illuminated only by glow-in-the-dark stars that glow a pale yellow that’s already began to dim. His hand plays with your hair, holding it above and wrapping it around his digits and letting it slip out only to repeat the process.

“I don’t want you to go,” you speak softly, lips brushing against his neck and smiling softly when he jerks in response.

“I have to,” he replies, voice tight and matching your own softness.

“What happens now?” You curl your leg around his and let your hands trace the edge of his brace, run over his fingers and commit the feeling to memory.

“I spend the night,” his fingers curl over yours and the one wrapped around you, digs into your skin.

“But you’ll leave,” emphasizing the last word in a strained whisper, holding tighter onto him, as if that would prevent him from leaving.

“In the morning-” he sighs, twirling your hair in his hand- “before you even wake up.” Your hair spills out of his grasp and his hand returns to you, ghosting over your skin.

“I don’t want you to go,” you murmur.

“I’ll come back.” You feel his lips press against the crown of your head and the pull away slowly.

“When?”

“When I’ve won.” He makes it sound so easy, a promise that won’t be broken, and he whispers it, letting it fill the silence.

“Tomura,” you whine, pulling away from his neck and looking at him through glassy vision, brows furrowed and you pout at him.

He shakes his head and looks away- a faint dust of pink appears on his face. “Or whenever. It won’t be as often. I have things to do.” His hands hold you tighter.

“But we’ll stay together?”

He looks at you. “Of course.” He nods his head and kisses the corner of your mouth. His lips are salty and wet when he pulls away. “Of course.”

“No more getting hurt.” He nods. “And you can’t die on me.” He doesn’t nod. “Tomura, you can’t die.”

He presses his lips against yours. They’re wet and salty and you gasp with his touch but you kiss him back just the same, your hands tugging his hair and going down to grip onto his shoulders, your nails digging into the thin fabric of his shirt. His hands lower onto your hips, pulling you closer to him.

“I’m not going to,” he whispers against your lips, taking in a breath before he presses himself against you.

“You promise?”

He holds up his pinky. “I pinky promise.”

Your shoulders slump and you give him a soft smile. You push his pinky back, folding it back into his palm and you bring his hand up to your lips and place a feathery kiss on the knuckle of it. “Come back to me soon, okay?”

He nods solemnly, letting his knuckle linger on your lips. “I will.”

“You’ll win?”

“Do you want me to?” His brow bones raise at his lips are parted as he asks, a wariness on his voice as if your permission was all that he needed.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. He pulls away his hand but you keep a lock on it, sliding it down to the space above your heart. “I- I don’t like all the killing or the destruction and while heroes aren’t all that great either,” your breaths are shaky and you have to hold tighter onto his hand to calm yourself, “I don’t like the death that’s going to come.”

“I can’t change that.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“When I win,” he inches closer to you and welcome it, “I’ll bring you with me.” Tears sting at his eyes, and he turns his face to bury himself into you, tears slipping slowly down his features and staining the pillowcase.

You smile sadly at him, a lump in your throat appearing and making your words sound broken. “You’ve gone soft Tomura.” You wrap your arms around him and rest your head on his shoulder.

“It won’t be easy-” his chest shudders as the words leave his mouth- “being with me.”

“Of course it won’t be,” you reply, holding his hand in yours and running the pad of your finger down his brace, “but, you’ll be there.” You turn your head and press a kiss against his collar bone. “It’ll be worth it if it’s with you.

“I’ll be there and you’ll be here,” he replies. “You make it worth it.”

“And you aren’t dying.” He nods. “If- If I hear that you died, I won’t forgive you,” your voice cracks and he nuzzles deeper into you. “I mean it, Tomura. I’ll be angry and I won’t forgive you.”

“I won’t die.” He pauses. “I’ll be gone for long intervals of time.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know.” He pulls you closer. “I have a lot more things to do now, so I’ll be busy whether I like it or not.” He kisses your temple. “But I’ll be back before your know it,” he whispers to you. You nod. “You can come with me.”

“I can’t.” A tear slips and you turn to bury your face into his chest. His heart beats fast under you and his grip around you tightens for a moment before loosening. “I’m not cut out for the life you live.”

He heaves a sigh and stays silent, hands holding you tighter, his fingertips lightly scratching at your skin. You both are silent, your words hanging overhead and as much as you would try to deny it, as much as he would try to convince you to go with him, to take his hand and runaway, it would fall on deaf ears. He knows you tell the truth. He was raised for this life, wanted to be a hero and ended up murdering his family, you grew with a family and craved friendship. And for now, while he still hasn’t achieved his goal, he can accept your hesitance, he won’t hold it against you, won’t manipulate you, he’ll hurt, he’ll cry when you’ve gone to sleep, but he’ll accept you. You’ve accepted him, flaws and all; he can do the same for you. He’s always going to return your love.

He nods and runs his hand over your arm, lulling you to sleep, letting his eyes flood with tears and seep out. He lets his eyes close with you in his arms, his breath slowing and deepening, mumbling a good night to you where you respond with sleep laced in your voice, slurring your words together and he purses his lips when he feels your lips press at his collarbone and drag down his skin.

-

The blinds are left open and bright sunlight enters the room and pulls you out of your slumber. You moan in your sleep and your hands curls around the empty space. Your eyes shoot open and you rise with palms pressing down on the mattress. True to his word, Tomura isn’t next to you. His space is cold and it feels a bit harder to breathe. You grab the pillow he laid on and hold it tight in your arms, nose buried deep into the pillow and unshed tears sting your eyes.

You hold the pillow tight, never letting go, tears that wash down your face, dot at the pillow and there’s an aching feeling in your chest, one that is only healed when you remember his touch on you, how he kissed you and gripped tightly at your skin. You smile softly through the tears and wipe them with the back of your hand, holding your hand against your chest.

You grab your phone and curse yourself, forgetting to ask for his number or any other means of communication. You sniffle and hold the phone tight in your hands. You’re exhausted, your body still heavy with sleep. You’re revived, smiling at the thought of him, the blanket still faint with his scent and you let it rest on your bed in a pile. Your walk to the kitchen is slow, touching the walls, making sure that everything is still real, that you aren’t alone and that last night, was reality, that you can still feel the brace under your fingertips, you can still remember the cool touch of his skin, the warmth of his smile and how he took your breath away with his kiss. It was real. And he’ll be back.

You enter the kitchen and lean against the counter, eyes still blurry with sleep and you run a hand through your hair, when your phone vibrates in your hand. You try to keep the hope in your chest snuffed, not daring to cry so soon after you’ve just seen him. The message makes your lips curve into a grin and you giggle, pressing the phone against your chest.

Unknown:

[The offer still stands if you want to come with]

[This is Tomura btw]

You read his words over and over, smiling wide that it hurts your cheeks and filling your chest with happiness and a light feeling that makes it feel as if you’re going to float away. You phone buzzes again and a new message fills the screen that makes you giggle and bounce in your step.

[Love you]

-

Tagged:

@suneaterofthebig3 @ maxinekotodama @ z-il

@rogueofbullshit @ juiccy-rollss @ choros-main-hoe

@loveableasshole @lilgaga98 @ princeofnonsense

@yul-is-sparkling@noonewouldlisten25@noodlenerd101

@localdisaster@snackgod@iikillerkitteh

@drapetomaniaac@shigaraki-is-my-master @ spaceman-main

@rekoii@ txmaki0 @katelyn-cuteson

@bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love @ crispingloverscrispylover

@justoneofthosepeople @bloodyantichrist

@maxinekotodama @avada-kedavra-1998

[itwillbeall-dwight]

SPEAKING OF QUEN recently just realized him n the nurse basically share the same last name not completely but it’s very close so now I’ve just been picturing sally seeing this mentally ill boy who desperately needs to go to sleep n unofficially adopted him n he doesn’t even really register the literal murderer waltzing into camp n tucking him or packing him trial lunches cause he’s so exhausted that this just. Makes sense

me looking at this ask a few days ago like��“oh that's cute, that gives me an idea” and now coming back with a 2k fic: anon I'm so sorry

I TOTALLY AGREE.. sally is drawn to those that need help and I think she deserves to feel some semblance of motherhood, and while quentin can take care of himself and already has a family that loves him, I think he appreciates the comfort. anyways have this mess

likes < reblogs, any comments in the tags are appreciated

ao3 mirror in the reblogs!

~

a nurse’s calling - sally smithson | the nurse & quentin smith; platonic relationships; injury tw; 2546 words

Preview: Quickly spotting the chest he was looking for, Quentin got down on one knee and picked the lock to it with ease, opening it up and digging through the scraps of metal and dirt that laid at the bottom. He cringed at the noise it made, both because it was terrible to the senses and incredibly loud, pausing every so often to check for unwanted company. “It’s fine,” he muttered to himself, forcing his breathing to remain steady. “Just look here and get out. It’s alright, it’s OK-” He was so focused on keeping himself calm, however, that he didn’t notice his hand sweeping right into the sharp side of a metal shard in the chest, slicing into his palm with a worrying efficiency. 

It should have been a simple affair.

 After someone (read: David, because who else would it be?) came back from his last trial hobbling and stained in his own blood, it soon became clear that the medical supplies at the campfire were running the lowest that they had been in a while. While Nea, oddly focused for someone who liked to backtalk, rationed out what little gauze was left to heal the cursing Bret, Claudette had calmly asked Quentin to look for some more supplies around the realms (“you know what you’re looking for” she’d reasoned with him), before they had to patch each other up with wet leaves and best wishes. And he was more than happy to do so - moving around stopped him from thinking, which stopped him from falling asleep, and even if Freddy’s powers were much weaker here than they had once been, he wasn’t willing to risk a nap to find out to what extent that was true.

 But now he was here, away from the light of the campfire and drowning in the smell of smoke from the old asylum, he was starting to regret it. Not regret helping, of course, but regretting coming here first. He thought of it like a failsafe - there were lots of places to hide from a killer, from tight spaces in the chapel to the white noise of the travelling carnival, so if he were to be spotted, there was a higher chance to escape in one piece. Somehow, though, the old asylum building was even more imposing now than it had ever been. There was no sun, yet it still cast a deliberate, foreboding shadow over him as he took slow, precise steps, pulling at his jacket sleeves to hide his hands (was he cold or just plain nervous? He couldn’t tell) as he heard the sound of old dirt crunching under his feet. Quentin sucked in a breath, exhaling slowly, but keeping the tension in his shoulders as he entered, keeping a hand on the open doorway as he looked down the halls. No sign of anyone, at least for now. Good. This would be quick - it had to be, for the sake of himself.

 Quentin walked up the stairs carefully, trying to ignore the way the floor panels creaked under his feet, as if they would break under his weight. It didn’t help the creep factor the place already had in the slightest, especially with the way the wind whistled through open windows and drops like whispers from the damned. He shivered as he reached the top of the stairs, quickly checking behind him for eyes burning into the back of his head to find that there was nothing, not a spectre to be found. Swallowing down his apprehension and releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding, the survivor quickly shuffled into the centre room, stepping around the rotting holes in the floor and promptly ignoring the rubble dust that gathered around the edges and fell to the floor below. Quickly spotting the chest he was looking for, Quentin got down on one knee and picked the lock to it with ease, opening it up and digging through the scraps of metal and dirt that laid at the bottom. He cringed at the noise it made, both because it was terrible to the senses and incredibly loud, pausing every so often to check for unwanted company.

“It’s fine,” he muttered to himself, forcing his breathing to remain steady. “Just look here and get out. It’s alright, it’s OK-”

He was so focused on keeping himself calm, however, that he didn’t notice his hand sweeping right into the sharp side of a metal shard in the chest, slicing into his palm with a worrying efficiency. Quentin pulled his hand out of the chest with a yelp, falling on his ass with a wince as the lid of the chest slammed shut. If his aim had been to create as much noise as possible, then oh boy, was he a champion. If was harder to breathe as anxiety welled up in the pit of his stomach, his heartbeat ringing in his ears like a bell, back-and-forth and constant-

 Though not loud enough to conceal the strained breathing down his neck that made him freeze up in fear.

 She didn’t move, and neither did he, keeping his eyes focused on the wall - or, more specifically, the hold on it, a broken window leading to the outside straight in front if him, like a walkway to heaven. Could he make it, if he just… took a leap of faith and booked it? No, that was a stupid move - even if he somehow didn’t hurt himself from the fall, if this killer was who he thought she was (and she probably was, from the strangled noises that sounded like breathing and the smell of smoke that was so much stronger now than it had been before), she could catch up and kill him in seconds, as he’d watched her do in countless trials before.

The breathing from behind got closer, and the tenseness in his shoulders was starting to ache, especially when he flinched at the cold hand that touched his back.

Quentin span around to face the woman, looking up at her as her fragile form cast a shadow over him, holding his injured hands with the other as he pushed himself away from her with his feet. Scramble, scramble away like a rat, and maybe - maybe - he could stay alive long enough to return to the campfire.

But the nurse had other plans. She floated after him, an arm outstretched as if to grab him and choke him. That was the fear response in his brain told him, anyways, as it screamed at him to flee, begged him to do something, anything. But he stayed, back hitting the edge of the open doorway and making him stop his crawl, looking at the ghastly woman. She seemed… different, somehow, though still menacing from the angle he looked at her from now. She was not armed, nor seeming to focus on attacking him, and while she still sounded as if breathing was a trying task, she did not seem as pained as she usually did. Was she really here to kill him?

He looked at her outstretched hand, following where it led and looking down at his still bleeding hand, dark red staining the canvas of his jacket. Is this what she wanted? The panic response in his head still told him this was it, he was going to die if he didn’t do something, but Quentin swallowed, and held his wounded hand up to her, to test what she would do.

Assuming her eyes fell to the cut, and the way his blood dripped to the dirty floor below where her feet would have touched it, the nurse moved her hand to hold it (her grip was delicate, but ice cold), floating down gently and tucking her legs under himself as she sat just inches away from him, where his knees were bundled to his chest. She studied the injury with what he hoped was a kind and expert eye, turning his hand over to inspect it for anything else that may have caused him pain.

 They remained in silence as she inspected his hand, careful not to cause him pain and flinching as he winced very briefly… much different from the nurse he thought he knew.

She took a deep inhale, preparing to speak with great effort, the voice that came out of her raspy but still somehow soothing, as if she’d been screaming for a thousand years but screaming to save others and not herself. “May I… help?”

Quentin blinked. She was asking him for permission. Somewhat stunned, he nodded slightly, letting his hand fall before she caught it again when she released her grip, as she pulled his sleeve up to cover the cut on his palm and closed his fingers into a fist to hold the hem in place.

“Pressure,” she clarified, barely above a whisper, before she shuffled on her knees over to the chest just beside him. The nurse opened it up, first and foremost taking the sharp piece of metal stained in his blood out and putting it to the side, before she began digging through the contents of the chest herself.

The survivor watched her movements, the way she was slow and deliberate, though never unnerving like a monster, or any other killer, would have made him feel. Though he was still slightly on edge, unsure of her motives at this point, there was a… calming sensation to her aura. Like a warm fire in the dead of winter, to match the stench of smoke that clung onto her so desperately.

She eventually pulled out an old medkit from the chest, holding it while she closed the lid with the other hand. After checking the contents of the kit very quickly, she turned to him again. “May I… have your hand, again? My dear?”

“...Ah, uh, yeah.” He held it out to her as she turned to fully face him and take it again, trying not to shiver at the ice-cold touch against his skin while she pulled the sleeve away.

 And that’s how he found himself, for several minutes, sat on the floor of an abandoned asylum, with a fearsome killer doing on him. She hummed a lullaby to herself that he vaguely recognized, wrapping his bleeding hand with motherly care. He played out thousands of scenarios in his head when he first arrived to this realm, but admittedly, this was not one of them - it was almost unnerving. What if this was all a trap? Was she really that smart of plant those seeds?

“What is your name?” She asked, as if nothing was wrong.

Quentin paused “Wh- I, well… you first?”

She stayed silent for a moment, keeping her gaze on his hand as she tied off the gauze with a tight bow. “I… I’m Sally.”

“Sally....” he repeated. It was so normal - well, what did he expect? She must have been human once, right? Maybe?

“And you?”

Ah. Now he was trapped by social obligations. “It’s, uh… Quentin.”

“Quentin…” she copied him, repeating his name in a similarly wistful way, before letting out a slight chuckle. “Odd, but charming.”

“Uh… thanks?” This whole thing was surreal - this woman, who he had seen end lives as quickly as snuffing out an open flame, was speaking to him, so politely, so casually. He moved to rest folded arms against his knees, the thought of running still lingering in the back of his mind, but growing quieter by the minute.

“Why are you here, Quentin? It’s-” She stopped herself to quickly cough and inhale air, as if she was dying. “...dangerous, here.”

He swallowed, before holding up his injured hand. “Funnily enough, it was… this.”

She tilted her head. “A… hand injury?”

“I- no,” he sighed, shaking his head. “...I walked into that one, to be fair.”

Sally chuckled, the melody light and fluffy to cut through the tense air. “A little, yes. It was… supplies?”

He nodded. “We, well- yeah, we’re running out, and… you get it.”

“Well, I… hm,” the nurse mumbled to herself, watching herself cup her chin between two fingers in thought as she seemed to ponder something, before meeting Quentin’s eyes once more. “I will do so.”

“Huh?”

“I will find the items to… help your friends. It’s dangerous here - my neighbours are…” She paused, trying to think of the nicest way to articulate her thoughts. “...Not the hospitable type.”

A killer warning him of another killer almost made him laugh, but he bit his tongue. “Can you do that?”

Sally nodded. “Please think of it as… an apology.”

“Apology?”

Again, she nodded, even going so far to touch the back of his hand, watching as he flinched under her fingertips. “An apology… that your reaction to me must be that.”

Oh. That almost made him feel guilty.

“Please don’t feel sad for me, my dear. You are… a good young man. I remember you.” She pulled her hand away to rest it on her tap again. “We all have roles to play. You, as a survivor, a saint, and myself….”

A sinner, he finished in his head, as she trailed off, leaving the two of them in silence. Quentin could not see her face, but he could feel her frown, and the glazed-over expression in her eyes as whatever was haunting her came to whisper nothings in the back of her brain. He knew that all too well. “...You were nice enough to help me. Maybe you’re… not as bad as you think.”

She looked back up at him, gently shaking her head in disagreement, but not saying anything more as she rose to her feet, holding out her hand for him to take, which he did as he stood to his feet. The nurse led him out of the building and to the edge of the forest, campfire in sight. Sally pulled her hand away to usher him to return to his friends, and as she did so, he hoped she didn’t notice the way his hand moved to hold hers again.

 (It was as if her comforting nature had made him forget exactly who she was, and what she was capable of.)

 The encounter was replayed in his head over and over, as trials passed and he heard stories of them, hoping not to hear of the nurse that treated him so well when he’d intruded on her lands. The group had tried not to be too mad with him when he returned empty-handed, r too pushy about the injury he’d sustained later going out to another realm in a small group and managing to gather just enough to help them out. He was just starting to wonder about the offer she’d made, when a tap on his shoulder brought him out of his thoughts, reminding him that the fog still progressed even without him, and there were trials to participate in - for him to participate in this time, more specifically. Looking up to Steve, who patiently smiled back at him, Quentin stood to his feet-

“Oi, who left these here?”

Looking over to a tree a short distance away from where he was sitting, he saw David, crouched down by the base of it with a concerned look on his face.

“Left what?” Steve called back, approaching with Quentin in tow, following David’s gaze as he folded his arms across his chest.

The brawler signalled down with an open hand, to the pile of medkits and medical supplies - a collection none too shabby, by the standards of the fog - that lay scattered at his feet, loosely assembled in one place, as if they were left in a rush.

Quentin thought back to the asylum again, to the promise he’d made with the killer. Was this her debts, left in haste before anyone suspected a thing? He put his hands into his pockets with a slight smile. “I think I know who left them there.”

David looked up at him, over his shoulder. “Who?”

“A friend.”

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #404

“death doesn’t answer when i cried for help”

The person you had the strongest feelings for dies, do you care? I'd be fucking devastated. It wouldn't feel real. Is there something you’re happy about at the moment? A few things. I'm still on that high of my APAP mask working, like I'm actually getting some fucking quality sleep, and I think I'm noticing the effects of my TMS therapy finally, too. My PTSD has most notably been much more bearable, and my interests are beginning to spread again. Do you want someone dead? No. Do you ever wonder what your ex is up to? I mean yeah, I think that's pretty normal, even for someone without my issues. Have you ever fed or taken care of a stray animal? Oh, many times. What is something you tend to worry about? My health and future. What is something you do that is unhealthy? Sit at the computer for way too long. I'm absolutely certain my vision is as poor as it is partially because of me endlessly staring at screens. What is something you do that is good for you? I'm not afraid to prioritize my mental health. What last caused you to force a smile? I was watching a Mark video for the first time in a while and was just reminded of how much I love and appreciate that moron. What was the last video game you played? Was it fun? Because you said "video" game, I guess I'll exclude computer ones, in which case I'm pretty sure it was Silent Hill 2. Given it's one of my all-time favorite games, of course I think it's fun. It's one hell of an emotional ride. What is something not many people know about you? The fact I was a dancer for many years would probably surprise people once they have a good idea of me and what I like. What word describes your basic style? Lazy, honestly. I dress for comfort, and given that's usually just pj pants and a tank top... yeah, I don't put much effort into my clothing when I'm going most places. Have you ever been told you were going to Hell? She kinda beat around the bush, but yes. Have you ever wanted to kill yourself? On more than one occasion. If yes, what convinced you not to go through with it? Well, I did OD once, but on the other occasions, it was the fear of the unknown that deterred me. Have you ever rejected a guy, only to have him push the issue by asking “why?” and insisting that you just need to get to know him better? Omg no, thank god. I would NOT handle that well. Is there something that you believe everyone should do and you can’t believe that some people don’t do it (e.g., recycle or go to the dentist regularly)? I didn't know 'til a survey question asked it that there are people who don't brush their tongue when brushing their teeth. Like holy shit dude, there are SO many germs on your tongue, clean that shit. Regarding the last good choice (healthy choice, kind choice, selfless choice, etc.) you made, what was your real motivation behind it? Ummmm the nearest that comes to mind is I guess taking my meds? I mean I do that every single day, but it's still a healthy choice for me. The motivation was because I am very serious about doing what I can for my mental wellbeing. What is something that you have had to practice at to get the hang of it? If you can’t think of anything, that’s okay, what’s something you are currently practicing at and trying to master? I really can't think of something for the first half of the question, but I can tell you that right now I'm attempting to force a routine of applying a therapy technique called "opposite action" into my daily life, where you, well, do the exact opposite of what your depression tells you to not do. It is WAY harder than it sounds, but I'm doing it with reading 30 minutes a day! Have you ever gone to the store to buy something, like a video game, when it came out at midnight? Not to my recollection, no. Regarding the last novel you read, was there a romance included? If so, was it central to the plot? The last novel I finished, yes. It wasn't central to the plot. Have you ever done relaxation meditations or listened to relaxation guides or positive-thinking/healing recordings? No, except in therapy when different therapists wanted me to experiment with it during a session. They just don't work for me. Do you have any interests that are also often shared by children? Yeah. Those are the one I'm especially self-conscious about. there something that could be a solitary activity but you really only like to do it with other people (e.g., watching movies, playing video games, etc.)? Watching movies or TV. Are you satisfied with the interior design or decoration in your home? Or do you think it needs a total home makeover? A makeover would be nice... Is there something that you’d like to own but you can’t find it anywhere? If not, can you a remember a time when you wanted something? Did you ever end up finding it or did you eventually stop wanting it? OKAY SO I actually have seen this custom-made once long after deciding I wanted it, but it was RIDICULOUSLY expensive. There's a location in the Silent Hill games called Heaven's Night, and I'd love love LOVE to commission someone to duplicate the neon pink sign of it to hang in my room. Hopefully one day I could still do it. Who makes you smile the most? Probably my cat, honestly. What piercings do you want/have? I've talked about the piercings I have, but I'll talk about those I want. My #1 is absolutely collarbone dermals, but as I've explained a billion times, I want to lose weight so the bones are more prominent for the sake of contrast; you can't really see my collarbones now, so I just think it'd look pretty dumb and random to just have random piercings somewhere around there with no dimension. I also want way more in my ears, dermals in my back dimples also once I've lost weight, my right nostril for the dozenth time (but this time I'll wear a hoop), and while I'd absolutely adore an undereye microdermal as well, it'd be pointless with glasses. :/ What's your favorite website? KM is my pride and joy and really feels like my online home, so despite using sites like YouTube more, that 'ole RP site has to be my fave. Do you own a fish tank with fish? No. I had fish bowls (AWFUL idea) as a kid, but never tanks Do you like the movie 300? Never seen it. Do you pop your knuckles? NOOOOOOOOOOO. I absolutely hate the sound. It makes me cringe and shiver. Do you have Photoshop? Yes. It comes in the Adobe CC photography bundle I have. Do you use tinypic or photobucket? I used Photobucket back in the day. Now I just upload to imgur. What’s your favourite song from the 1980s? You're talking to someone who adores classic rock/metal, haha. How about the 1990s? There are way too many songs to choose from. Have you won anything recently? No. How often do you make Excel tables? What for? Never. What was the last baby animal you saw in the wild? There was a poor fawn as roadkill on the highway recently. :/ Are you always available or online? Preeeetty much. Do you have dietary restrictions? Or do you just eat what you like? I can eat whatever. Do you prefer gold, silver or steel jewelry? Or no jewelry at all? Steel. I'm allergic to silver, and I think steel is more subtle than gold. Have you been binge-watching any shows lately? If so, what? No. If you dye your hair, do you do it yourself or go to a salon? I do it at a salon. If you have any, do you like your in-laws? I don’t have any. Would it bother you, if your partner had cut contact with their parents? If they had a good reason, no. Have you ever wondered whether you were adopted? As a kid I did because I thought Mom was meaner to me than my siblings, lol. What’s the best physical feeling in the entire universe? ........... This question is a setup lmfao. Have you ever grown a berry bush? No. Have you done something new to your hair recently? No. It's been the same for quite a while. I wanna dye it badly. Do you have bad anxiety? If so, do you take any kind of medication for it? I'm diagnosed with generalized and social anxiety, so yeah. I take Klonopin once and day and Ativan as needed for attacks. One thing you’ve experienced that you thought you never would have? HA, the first thing to come to mind was being noticed by Mark by making a viral (in the community, anyway) gif of he and his doggy. I shit you not, I couldn't sleep for three days lmfao. What was the last thing someone said to you that kept repeating over & over in your head? That I gained fucking seven pounds in two months at my last doctor appointment. I wanted to scream. How often do you have late nights out? Never. I'm a homebody. If you could, would you work from home? Do you think that would make you more or less productive? No. It would absolutely make me less productive. If you had the ability to change the weather, what would you change it to right now? Cool with a nice breeze, mostly clear skies, crisp air... That'd be nice right now. Is there something that you really need to do, but can’t seem to get motivated to do it? I say it all the time: finish decorating my room. It's funny, because I KNOW I'll feel more at home and cozy with my bedroom more personalized. Most disturbing movie you have ever seen? Paranormal Entity. The ending was... a lot. Has a life goal or dream ever come true for you yet? If yes, what is it? If no, do you think you’ll achieve it? Not that I can think of. .-. I hope I can achieve some... Have you ever had food poisoning? No, thank God. What are you listening to? "The Man Who Made a Monster" by Dance With the Dead. Do you think there will be a WWIII? I find it inevitable at some point down humanity's future. People are too hateful for it not to eventually. Has anyone ever asked you if you were emo? Yeah. Has someone ever liked you that you never thought would? Maybe? Idk. In all honesty, can a person be too nice? Yes, in some instances. Has one of your friend’s boyfriends ever tried to cheat on them with you? Yes, when I was around 12. And I let it happen. It's one of my biggest regrets. Is mental abuse really as bad as physical abuse? Of course it is. Emotional abuse can cut just as deep as some physical blows, or even deeper. Do you shop at Sephora for make-up? No. Zelda: Twilight Princess or Ocarina of Time? I'm actually not into TLoZ. Do you own a rosary? I did as a kid growing up in a Catholic Sunday school. If you were homeless, how would you cope? If I had no loved ones in my life and no sign of things getting better, I'm honestly preeetty sure I'd end my life.

[arrivalation]

2020: An Account

This year has been a nonstop, off-the-rails bullet train ride into what looked at first like chaos, but ultimately was a tearing down and reconstruction of my entire being. Because I know myself and I know I won’t remember much of this later, I’m recording it here. It’s hard to put some of this information out, but the universe regularly urges me to be more open. So here I go.

January

I got married.

It was, without contest, the absolute best day of my life. I’ve known since I was real little that I wanted to be married, that I wanted to be loved the way M loves me and to love someone just as much. I don’t know how to explain the feeling of having achieved that, and being able to share that with my entire circle. @abyssalsun​ made it down!! (my only regret is that @ladyoriza​ couldn’t make it, but I’m still so glad we got to make it to theirs). As often as I can, I revisit the memory of going to @chromecutie​’s house afterward, thinking it’d just be the four of us there, and opening the door to find a whole impromptu surprise party happening. Everyone cheered for us when we came in. I played CAH with Mordred, my brother and his wife, and several friends from out of town. By all accounts, these people would never have been in the same room together, but they were, and it was transcendent. It’s been almost a year, and I still haven’t recovered from all the planning and stress; but now that I’m past it, I can say with relief that it was 100% worth it.

February

We bought a house.

Up until this point, I’d been planning a wedding, participating in house-buying stuff as best I could, interviewing for a job I ended up not taking, and dealing with life-long mental illness that was festering and reaching critical mass. But then stuff started wrapping up. The wedding happened. The house was ours. We moved in. I could finally fucking breathe. LMAO bitch you thought.

March

The pandemic reached us.

I guess by this point it had probably already been in the US for a couple months, idr. But it wasn’t until March that things really started happening. People started dying in droves. New cases spread like wildfire. I remember thinking that this would be the zombie apocalypse, because at this point, I don’t think the CDC knew much about the virus. In my anxious mind, that was a completely reasonable assumption. My boss had us all start working from home. We all thought it’d be just a couple weeks.

April

I settled into working from home.

It didn’t take me long to get used to it, maybe a week. I hadn’t yet gotten used to my new hour-long commute from the new house to work, and so working from home quickly became my new normal. But I didn’t know yet why working from home was so good for me. All I knew was that I now had the brain-space to process things. I had the energy to do yoga and cook and do hobbies, and the time to appreciate and care for the home I lived in. I could think more clearly because there was no one else around to distract me. There was sunlight I could bask in. I felt human for once, and that became vitally important and infinitely valuable to me. Despite that, I still struggled with extreme anxiety, panic attacks, and some of the worst depression I’ve suffered through since I was a teenager. Outside my house, everything was a fucking mess and no one had their shit together.

May

I went back to the office for a few weeks.

There was a lull in pandemic activity. My boss had us all start coming back to the office again. At this point, I couldn’t make heads or tails of reality anymore. Everything was changing, nothing was stable. I desperately needed to stay working from home, because that was the one thing that felt Good and Right, but I had no real argument other than, 'I just need to.' So imagine me, at this point a soggy, run-over sloppy joe, attempting to return to normal. As you might think, it was... bad. I cried and hurt all the time. I think I really freaked out my boss with the way I reacted to coming back to the office. But then the second wave hit, and we all went back to working from home again.

June

Uncle Mike died on the first day of the month.

My uncle had been sick for a while, but no one was expecting him to die so suddenly. None of us were ready for it.

I also died that day.

It might sound dramatic, but I mean it quite literally and honestly. Over the years, I had gained suspicion that I was on the autism spectrum. M graciously found me a psychiatrist that took my insurance (and happened to be right next door). I wasn’t even going in for that - I was seeking treatment for my anxiety and depression. But I had amassed a (very long) list of my symptoms, and I brought it with me and read it to my doctor. I wasn’t even a quarter of the way through the list when he stopped me. I’m paraphrasing here, but in effect, he said, “No, yeah, you’re definitely autistic.”

I remember the way my body felt. Like someone had detonated a bundle of TNT in my chest, and I was burning from the inside out. At the time, I didn’t realize this emotional immolation was purposeful and executed by the universe to get rid of this old structure and build a newer, better, stronger one. For about fifteen seconds after he said that, I was relieved that it had been that easy, that there was an explanation for everything that my ADHD didn’t explain. It made a ton of sense why my environment was so important to me. And then I felt something unnameable. It was obvious to my doctor that I was autistic. Had it been obvious to everyone else? Why hadn’t it been obvious to me? I read the rest of my symptoms to him in a daze. I don’t remember how the rest of the appointment went.

And then I burned quietly and ungracefully until I was a pile of ashes. I didn’t know this at the time, but apparently it’s common for newly-diagnosed autistic people to have such dramatic and painful reactions, especially if they weren’t well-informed on the condition. Which I wasn’t.

I started therapy.

I also started learning about my “flavor” of autism. It was arduous, embarrassing, isolating, and ugly. I became aware that I had been masking my whole life, and I was astounded by just how often I did so. What really crushed me was knowing that I’d always have to mask to protect myself. I also became hyper-aware of the things that made me Feel Bad. Inexplicably, I stopped being able to react to those things the way I used to. Previously, if something made a loud and unexpected sound, I would suppress my reaction, because it’s not cool to get mad about it. But I found I couldn’t do that anymore. I had no choice but to react the way I needed to react. I realize now that this was to make me aware of what things make me feel a certain way so I can either avoid them or learn better tools to deal with them.

The therapist I saw wasn’t specialized in autism, and she wasn’t any help in that area, but she did teach me some important things. Like, “Is it reasonable for me to feel ____?”

July

Black hole.

I don’t remember a whole lot from this month, except sifting my own ashes through my fingers and crying. Every day brought a new revelation, a new thing that clicked. All of it was helpful and very painful. My psychiatrist recommended medication, but I’d had a bad and long-lasting experience with medication as a teenager, so I suffered through the pain on my own.

I shouldn’t have. I got so low I didn’t want to be alive anymore. But I think it took reaching the bottom and feeling that much pain for me to get over my fear of pharmaceuticals. 

I got into astrology.

I had been interested in it for most of my life, but it wasn’t until this point that I started studying it in depth. I discovered it was a language that I could use to translate so many things about my own life that I didn’t understand. It was a rulebook in a time when I desperately needed rules - but one just flexible enough that it taught me how to stop thinking in binary.

August

I got medicated.

There was a big adjustment period, of course. It didn’t cure me. But it did start to make things easier. And it helped to know that, even if I didn’t believe it at the time, I deserved to rest. I deserved not to feel so much emotional pain all the time.

I turned 30.

It was easily the second best day of my life. I learned a lot of important things, like that it’s important to be present, that I’m seen and loved (just the way I am!!), and that I deserve good things. M planned a whole day of surprises:

I woke up at my leisure and we had coffee on the couch. He got me a cute card with one of our inside jokes inside - I still have it.

We went to our favorite combination lunch place and bakery, which I believe was our first real outing since the pandemic started.

We stopped by a tattoo place. I almost got a tattoo.

He set me loose in Texas Art Supply.

We got dim sum for dinner.

We had a lovely virtual cocktail hour with @chromecutie.

He bought me an ipad!!

I became Spiritual™.

I had been agnostic for the past decade or so, slowly and subtly slipping into nihilism, without realizing how detrimental those ideas were to me. I’m not sure what I thought spirituality was before, but I wasn’t into it. I had always rolled my eyes at people who talked about “a higher power”, auras, and spirit guides, until I became that person.

My psychiatrist introduced some powerful ideas to me, ones that meshed well with my previously-existing idea of how the universe worked. I won’t get into details here. That’s a whole other post. Ask me though - I’d love to talk about it.

Anyway, I started (intermittently) meditating. I learned some exceptionally powerful stuff. I felt my scaffolding being erected.

September

I started learning who I am and why I am this way.

I started seeing a new therapist. She thinks like me. She follows my erratic, forking trains of thought. She sees me and offers real, actionable feedback and solutions. Working with her, I’ve gained the ability to see my life from a 30,000-foot view. I can see now why I’ve felt so lonely my whole life. I understand how my family’s dysfunction has shaped me. I know now that I have the opposite of a victim complex - by default, I believe I am so awful that I feel sorry for everyone who has to deal with me. Because that’s what I was taught to believe. Learning that I deserve to take up space, set boundaries, say no, and be wrong sometimes is still a hard lesson for me. But most days, I believe it now. It takes other people believing it and convincing me. I still need that reassurance often.

My parents sold my childhood home.

Mentally, emotionally, I still lived there. I was still the inverted victim, still beholden to my stepdad’s whims and my mom’s complete cognitive dissonance. This was a blinking neon sign from the universe that it was time to move out. My mom told me when the closing date was so I’d have time to drive down and look at the house one last time. I didn’t go, and I still don’t regret it.

I started learning my boundaries.

After my spiritual move-out, I learned I don’t have to jump when my stepdad holds out the little circus hoop. When he otherwise shows zero interest in my life but still baits me with passive-aggressive texts, I don’t have to answer!! What a concept! I don’t have to feel guilty for not talking to my mom more than I do. We have very little in common, and I still have a lot of things to work through regarding her.

I learned how not to be so reactive.

Or rather, I’m still learning. Something else I learned in therapy is that over the course of my life, I’ve developed a desperate need to defend myself and to justify every action or thought I have, even to myself. It’d been especially troubling at work. My RSD led me to felt stupid, incompetent, and unseen daily; if my boss complimented someone, I believed it also meant he thought I was stupid and bad and wrong, otherwise he would have complimented me too. If my boss said something that even remotely sounded like I’d done something wrong, I’d race to build an impenetrable defense: “This is the reason I did that. Here’s my line of thinking. Do you understand? Can you please understand?”

Now I know that so little of what everything everyone says or does at work is about me. I can appreciate a coworker’s accomplishment and also realize it doesn’t take away anything from me. I’m not stupid or incompetent, and I’m a valuable part of the team. A lot of times, my boss and I are on two different wavelengths - that’s because I think a lot faster, which can be frustrating for him sometimes. He doesn’t fully understand me, but that doesn’t mean I’m doing anything wrong.

October

I let go of an old friend.

This was especially hard, because I had known this person for years. We’d gone through a lot together, and we’d shared some really important and emotional story plots and characters. I had agonized over whether I was truly important to her or not. It didn’t matter how much I loved her as a friend, or how badly I wanted us to be close again and remain close. I had learned to read the universe’s signs, and it was clear it was time to move on.

November

The election happened.

I was expecting things to turn out badly, but I still hoped for something good. And then something good did happen. I cried watching Harris’ speech. I felt a tenuous hope that things might finally start looking up, societally. I still haven’t really let myself fully embrace that hope, but every time I see a court shoot down another lawsuit, or hear about trump’s own conservative republican supporters tell him, “Okay, buddy, it’s time to step down,” I feel a little better. 

M and I went non-monogamous.

There’s so much I want to say about this, but it’s for another post. Suffice it to say that like every other experience this year, it has been unexpectedly challenging and ultimately a catalyst for  priceless growth. I’m unfathomably grateful that we’re doing this together, for the things we’ve learned so far, and for how much closer this experience has made us, even when I didn’t think we could get any closer. 

Turns out I’m not gray-ace.

I had identified as such for a couple years, which was why we wanted to try non-monogamy in the first place. On the surface, it perfectly explained my sexual personality. But every time I told someone my identity, I felt inexplicably sad. When I read about others having “normal” sex drives and “normal” relations with their spouses, I felt jealous.

Turns out I’m just traumatized, lol. Walking along this non-mono path has unearthed a lot of things, including this gem.

December

This was our first married christmas in our new house.

One of the handful of good things the pandemic has done for me was allowing me to back up my boundaries with hard evidence. It’s been difficult dealing with my stepdad bullying me about not coming over for thanksgiving, and having my mom subtly guilt me into making plans for next year already. But what I needed this year was a quiet holiday, instead of the usual weeks-long chaos, and I got it. And it was fucking delightful. I’ve dreamed of days exactly like that one - spending a tranquil morning with my spouse, sipping coffee and listening to music and eating treats. Deciding exactly how we want our holidays to be, because we deserve to.

I’m scared of what’s to come in the new year. I’m still an anxious mess, and some days I’m not strong enough to pull myself out of the spirals I throw myself into. I’ve gotten used to the pandemic holding my hand, allowing me to shelter in my home, helping me enforce my boundaries, teaching me who I am. When it’s over, I don’t know what will happen or how I’ll react or what I’ll learn next. I’m not finished rebuilding, but I don’t think that’s the point. I’ll never be fully rebuilt. But at least I’m figuring out the new layout.

[sonicrainicorn]

Only Us (Part 2)

Part of the Berry Done AU

Words: 10459 Desc.: Thomas and Logan have always been close. From the moment Logan was born, Thomas swore he’d do anything for his baby brother. Unfortunately, it was a promise to be taken to the extremes. (First part here) TW: Character death (mentioned), anxiety attacks, attempted rape/non-con (mentioned), relationship abuse, there is also exactly one (1) swear word

I’m actually a little sorry for this one.

///

It must have been a day after the funeral. Logan was in his room, laying stomach down on his bed with his face in the pillow. He didn’t want to do anything. Thomas was in the kitchen making cookies from scratch. Unlike Logan, he needed to do something. And then there was a knock at the door.

Logan didn’t think much about it at first. Yeah, it was a little weird, but maybe it was important mail or someone who tries to sell stuff. That happened sometimes.

He heard Thomas open the door and... let that person in. Okay. That didn’t normally happen. Still, it might not have been important. Maybe. Yeah, okay, Logan was curious now. He rolled out of bed and shuffled to his door.

There was a deep voice coming from the other side that he didn’t recognize. He didn’t focus on the words at the moment, he was more focused on the voice and the millions of questions it gave him. Who was it? Why were they here? What could they possibly want?

He tried to be as silent as possible as he snuck out the door. He didn’t want anyone hearing him for fear that they may stop talking. He learned recently that adults stop talking about important things when they see that a kid is nearby. But he wanted to know those important things. He peeked down the hall.

Thomas sat with a man at the dining table. The man wore nice clothes, but nothing that could be considered fancy. He looked serious, though. Thomas didn’t seem too happy about what he had to say. And then Logan heard the words “emergency foster care”. This man was a social worker.

Their mother had no siblings. There were no aunts or uncles or cousins to take them in. Her parents died before either of the boys had a chance to know them. There was no one to fall back on.

He and Thomas were going into foster care.

“We’ll try to be contacting your father as soon as possible,” the man explained. “But until then, you will have to be placed with an emergency foster family.”

“No,” Thomas said, borderline indignant. “I can take care of Logan myself. I-I helped raise him. I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sorry, but this is how it has to go. You two have to be cared for by a legal adult.”

“I’m going to be a legal adult. I turn eighteen next week.”

“And when that week comes you get to see him as much as you wish.”

Logan didn’t want to hear this anymore. He may have been young, but he knew what was going to happen. They were going to separate him and Thomas. The likelihood of someone wanting to take care of two teenage boys was slim. And when Thomas turned eighteen, he’d be free to leave. But Logan would be stuck. They wouldn’t see Thomas as a suitable guardian. He had no job -- no source of income. He was still in high school.

Going over all the facts made Logan feel... something. He felt his chest tighten and his legs go weak. There was a pressure pushing down on him, making everything seem too small. He needed to get out -- he needed to stop hearing this.

He ran back to his room and shut the door. He dove under the covers of his bed like a scared little kid. Maybe that’s what he was. All he was was a scared little kid who cried at things he couldn’t stand up to. Who froze up and ran away when he heard things he didn’t like.

He tried to wrap the blanket tighter around himself to drown out his thoughts. They were too loud. He couldn’t breathe. It was like his lungs forgot how to expand and contract on their own. They were doing too much of one and not the other, and he couldn’t focus enough to fix it. He knew he had to fix it, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. It was too much -- everything was too much. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stand it. It was too much. He couldn’t do it.

“Logan?”

That was Thomas. Focus on Thomas. Answer Thomas.

He couldn’t answer Thomas.

The edge of the bed dipped. “Logan -- hey -- I need you to listen to me, alright?” His voice was gentle. “Breathe in for four seconds, hold for seven seconds, and breathe out for eight.”

Logan tried to follow the steps -- he tried so hard. He couldn’t do it. He was choking. “I -- I --” A sob escaped his lips instead of coherent words.

“Alright. We’re gonna try something else, okay? Focus on me, Logan. I know you can do this. You know your room, right? What are five things you can touch?”

Logan knew one. “B-blanket.” Associate. “Bed.” Keep going. “P-pillow.” He kept track with his fingers. Using his brain was too hard. “Sheets.” He stretched out his arm to where he assumed Thomas was. “You.”

Thomas held Logan’s searching hand. “That’s good. You’re doing great. What are four things you can see?”

He peeked his head over his blanket cocoon. “Wall.” Expand. “P-poster.” Elaborate. “Th-the Doctor Who one. And the Winnie th-the Pooh one.” One more, “You.”

Thomas smiled. It erased the concern on his face for a brief second. “Three things you can hear.”

“My breathing.” It wasn’t as heavy anymore, though still a bit ragged. “My alarm clock -- but only in the morning.” It was easier to think -- to talk. “And your voice.”

“Two things you can smell.”

“The cookies in the oven.” Things were better. “The flour you dropped on your shirt.”

Thomas glanced down at the rather large white patch clinging to the front of his shirt. “That’s kind of embarrassing... Anyway, one thing you can taste.”

“Nothing that would be sanitary.”

Thomas chuckled. “That’s a safe answer.” He squeezed Logan’s hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Not like I’m dying.” He sat up. His limbs were wobbly. “How did you know how to do that?”

He shrugged. “You learn a thing or two when you get older.”

Fair enough, Logan supposed. He crawled closer to Thomas and put his head on his arm. It felt better to be near him. “What’s going to happen now?”

Thomas sighed. “We’re going to have to leave.”

“Right now?”

He didn’t say anything, but that was an answer in itself.

“Oh.”

He squeezed Logan’s hand again. “I’ll help you pack.”

They were allowed to bring whatever they could carry. Their social worker didn’t help. He made it seem like they needed to leave as fast as possible. Logan didn’t want to leave at all. But they left. It wasn’t until the house was fading from view that he realized Cara’s guitar was still in his closet.

~~~

Their emergency foster family was nice enough, but Logan was more glad about getting to stay with Thomas longer. It was an older man and woman. There were pictures of them with two kids. A boy and a girl. Logan assumed it was their children. He noticed a newer picture of the girl in a college graduation gown. There was another one with the boy in a suit and a woman next to him wearing white. He didn’t know why they’d want to be foster parents when they had their own kids -- emergency foster parents no less. A position where you get traumatized kids dropped off at your doorstep under short notice.

But they were nice. They let Logan and Thomas be alone in their room. And that was another thing Logan was glad for. Sharing a room. He didn’t think he’d be able to be apart from Thomas.

They sat on a bed together, not saying much at first. It was a rough month.

Logan had The Phantom Tollbooth clutched tightly to his chest. He was afraid to put it down. He didn’t want to forget it like another important item of his. “I left my guitar behind,” he muttered after the long stretch of silence.

Thomas paused. “I’m sure we’ll get it back.”

Logan didn’t know how to respond.

“Do you wanna see something?” Thomas asked with a small smile.

“Sure.”

Thomas hopped off the bed. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a large photo album.

Logan couldn’t stop the grin growing on his face. “You brought the photo album?”

He shrugged. “I just felt like I needed to grab something.” He sat back on the bed. The album was meant to mimic a thick book. It was dark blue and squishy with the edges being worn down from use. It was mostly baby pictures of both boys, which made it their mother’s favorite album. There were other pictures, but mainly baby pictures. “Wanna look through it?”

“Yeah, I like making fun of you.”

Thomas scoffed. “Whatever. Don’t act like you don’t have any embarrassing pictures in here.” He flipped it open to the first page.

The very first picture was of Thomas and their mother. She sat in a hospital bed with her newborn in her arms, smiling softly at the camera. She looked a lot younger here. Like the same age as Thomas and his friends. It made Logan realize that he didn’t actually know how old his mother was when she was first pregnant. He never noticed how much younger she looked compared to other mothers.

“She looks like a kid,” Logan couldn’t help but mutter.

Thomas frowned a bit, eyes glued on her face. “She was.” But he didn’t elaborate.

Regardless, the first few pages of the album were of Thomas. Their mother would pop up every once in a while with a large smile that made Logan’s heart ache, but it mainly focused on Thomas. There was his birthdays, his first day of school, him just being a little kid. And then there was another picture taken in a hospital. A story frozen in time.

Thomas sat on the hospital bed next to his mother, hanging close to her arm. They both smiled down at the little bundle she held. A newborn Logan. They gazed at him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

“I forgot how tiny you were,” Thomas commented with a hint of amusement.

“I’m still tiny,” Logan replied bitterly. He was one of the shortest kids in his grade. Cara was half a head taller than him.

“Well, when you were a baby you were a lot smaller than you should have been.”

“I was?”

“You were born a few weeks early.”

“I was?”

Thomas laughed a bit at the repeated phrase in the exact same cadence. “Yeah. But maybe you just got stuck with the short genes. You were a healthy size by the time you were one.”

Oh, lame. He was going to be short forever.

“I guess we won’t know for sure until you’re all grown up.”

That was less lame.

Thomas turned the page. His hand froze on it. There was a picture of their dad. It was one of the only ones Logan had ever seen of him; he smiled at the camera with Thomas in his lap. It was a small, polite smile. It wasn’t a large grin like their mother’s. Or a radiant beam like Thomas’s. It was subdued. It didn’t bring as much joy with it. Logan wondered if that’s what he always smiled like, or if that was something he did for pictures.

“Do you think he’ll take us in?” Logan brought himself to ask.

“I don’t know.” He turned the page.

On the fourth day, they finally had a permanent solution. They had a new social worker come in — a woman named Miss Janelle Wilton — to tell them that their father gave up legal custody. He didn’t want anything to do with them. The only thing to do now was put them into foster care.

And once again Logan found himself not understanding. He never had a dad before. He wasn’t familiar with the concept. But weren’t dads… supposed to want their children? Why didn’t their father want them? He noticed Thomas get angry at the news. Thomas was rarely ever angry. But the moment he heard that their dad gave up on them, he could barely restrain his fury.

They were going to be placed with foster families tomorrow. 

Families. 

More than one.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Wilton said. She seemed genuine about it. “We were unable to find a household willing to take both of you.”

Even though Logan knew that would happen, it still hurt to hear. This would be his last night with Thomas. Maybe ever. And he didn’t know what to do.

“I can’t believe him,” Thomas exploded as soon as they were alone in their room. It startled Logan. “He didn’t even want to try.”

Logan didn’t know what to say. He had never seen Thomas so angry before. He didn’t want him to be angry, but he didn’t know what to say to make it better. Unlike him, Thomas knew what it was like to have a dad. He knew how dads were supposed to be. Apparently, dads were supposed to try.

Thomas began to pace the length of the room, clearly doing it in an attempt to cool off.

Logan crawled onto his temporary bed and watched him. He still didn’t know what to do. He ran his thumb along the spine of the book in his arms. “Did you think that he would?” He got himself to speak at last.

“I don’t know — maybe. I hoped…” He sighed. “I wanted to believe there was at least something good in him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He paused, eyeing Logan briefly as some of his anger escaped. “I —” He sighed again — “I never told Mom about it, but I ran into Dad last year.” He ignored the wide-eyed look Logan gave him. “Honestly, he seemed more surprised to see me than I was to see him. I had no idea why. It wasn’t as if I expected him to be there, either.” He crossed his arms, his anger reigniting. “I was out with Valerie and Terrence — not exactly a witch hunt — yet he acted as if there was a reason I was there. Evidently, he didn’t want the kid he left ruining his date.”

Logan caught onto the bitterness in his words but decided not to comment.

“I tried to be nice to him. I tried to see the best in him. He's my dad so he had to at least be nice. But then he told me why he left. And it was stupid and selfish, and it was all because —" He cut himself off, catching sight of Logan. And his face softened a bit.

He tightened his hold on his book. "Because what?"

His face softened further, and he sighed yet again, his anger going out with it. "It doesn't matter." He sat beside Logan. "It was a dumb reason, anyway."

"Well, I don't think there's a smart reason to run away from your kids and wife."

Thomas snorted. "Yeah, you're probably right."

Later that night, neither of them could sleep. Dread hung in the air between them. The knowledge that they would be separated tomorrow stung with a bitter, almost palpable taste. Rather than stew in it alone, Logan decided to slip out of his bed and into Thomas's. Thomas turned his head to look at him.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, but you’re just a baby boy,” his voice tapered off into the ‘I’m-talking-to-someone-way-younger-than-me’ tone — which Logan always loathed. And Thomas knew this. He only ever did it to be annoying. To add to this, he kept cooing about his baby brother. Referring to Logan directly as his baby or little brother was another thing he did to be annoying. He wrapped his arms around Logan and squeezed him tight, continuing his baby talk.

“Noo,” Logan whined. He tried to wriggle out but found he had no room. It didn’t help that he still had his book between his arms. On instinct, he almost called out for his mom for assistance, but instead he said,  “Stop it. I’ll bite you.”

Thomas sighed as if it was the most ridiculous quest to befall him. “Fine.” But he didn’t let go. Logan decided not to comment on this. “You know,” he started softly after a moment, “whatever happens tomorrow, I’ll make sure to find my way back to you.”

Rather than risk bursting into tears coming up with a response, Logan buried his face into the crook of Thomas’s neck. He didn’t want to leave. Thomas was all he had left. After that, what else could anyone take from him? The few possessions he was able to grab before he left the house? What did those things mean in the end? He didn’t want things he wanted people. He could lose everything he ever owned, but as long as he had Cara, or his mom, or Thomas, then it didn’t matter. But that wasn’t his circumstance.

“Are you holding something?”

They both moved away enough for Logan to show his book. “I don’t wanna put it down,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Did you want to read it?”

“Um…”

“Or do you want me to read it?”

He nodded and handed the book over.

Thomas turned on the lamp beside the bed. He positioned himself so that Logan was still close, but he was able to hold the book with both hands. “‘There was once a boy named Milo who didn't know what to do with himself — not just sometimes, but always.’”

~~~

Before Logan left, he grabbed a photo from the photo album. He did it when Thomas wasn’t looking. Like it was some secret. But he didn’t want to be told he couldn’t take one or be judged on what he decided to take. He took the first picture he saw. Thomas’s fourth birthday. They were sitting at the dining table. Thomas was on his mother’s lap with his usual wide smile. She had her chin resting on the top of his head with sparkling eyes. The cake was decorated with blue frosting and topped with a number four candle.

He put it in his book.

He didn’t talk the whole way to his foster family. He didn’t even talk when he got there. There was no amount of coercing or gentle words that would get him to open his mouth. He just held his book close to his chest and kept his eyes cast on the ground. They left him alone soon enough. Not that it mattered.

His room was small. Light peach walls empty of any personality. Logan supposed he was meant to fix that, but he wasn’t going to. He didn’t want to get comfortable here. He didn’t want to stay. He wanted to be home. He wanted Thomas. He wanted his mom.

But there was nothing to be done about that.

When April 24th came around, Logan felt absolutely miserable. He was alone. He wanted his mom. He wanted to see his brother. It was Thomas's eighteenth birthday. His mom said eighteenth birthdays were special. It was meant to be special, but now they weren’t even together. He wondered if Thomas was doing okay. Was he at least having a good birthday?

Logan rolled on his side and stared at the empty wall. "Happy birthday," he whispered. The first words he said since being separated. And no one was there to hear them.

On the other side of town, Thomas laid in bed, absolutely miserable. His foster parents asked if he wanted to celebrate his birthday, which was nice, but he declined the offer. He didn't want anything to do with his birthday. This would be the first birthday without his mom's homemade cake. The first birthday without Logan jumping on his bed to wake him up in the morning because "it's your birthday, you gotta be up early!".

He missed them.

He regretted taking those little things for granted. He'd do anything to hear Logan run down the hall and burst through his door, interrupting his sleep. He wanted more than anything to see his mom act like her cake was still a surprise even though he always got the same one for seventeen straight years. But he didn't have that. He was alone.

~~~

Two years.

Logan stayed in the foster care system for two years. During that period, he had been forced to move houses a few times. Not as much as other kids, he was sure, but more than twice was still a lot. Many families were nice. Others not so much. The people that weren’t as nice were the ones that got rid of him the fastest. They told Miss Wilton he was a problem child. He was difficult to deal with.

Well, Logan didn’t know what they expected. He had his family ripped away from him. It wasn’t as if he was going to get over that with their faux generosity. Besides, all he did was not talk. Apparently, adults didn’t like that.

Miss Wilton soon came to realize that Logan wasn’t the problem. Anytime someone complained after her discovery, she would give the foster family a fake sweet smile and apologize on Logan’s behalf, then be on her way with Logan in tow. Logan noticed that she gave a lot of adults fake smiles. Her real smiles she gave to Logan and other kids.

She could also be snarky, so Logan ended up liking her.

The last family she found for him he stayed with the longest. They were more understanding than the others, which was a relief. But those last few months were filled with something a bit more important.

Thomas was trying to get legal guardianship.

It was tough and long, and Logan had never been so impatient in his life. Miss Wilton took him to the final court decision. And he almost cried right then and there. He saw Valerie and Terrence. Familiar faces that he hadn't seen in two years. Faces that followed him through his childhood. He didn't realize how much he missed them.

And then he saw Thomas. They stared at each other with wide, unbelieving eyes. Thomas smiled. A small one, but a smile nonetheless. Logan was reminded of home.

After that, the day was a blur. He remembered it being stressful. Of course it was. Strangers were deciding his future. Adults he didn’t know were choosing if he got to stay with Thomas or not. Putting it that way made it seem so silly. Thomas was his brother. Why shouldn’t they be able to live together? They’ve been together his whole life. It wouldn’t have been fair to come to any other decision.

Thankfully, whatever deity had forced them into this situation decided to side with them that day.

Miss Wilton showed genuine excitement and relief at the brothers being together again. She was happy that their permanent home would be with each other. Because she was happy, Logan knew he should have been happy too, but he just… couldn’t believe it. Not yet. Since the moment Cara left, his entire life had been going downhill. There was no way it would pick up now. He was half convinced the universe would pull a mean trick and he’d be ripped away from Thomas again.

But nothing like that happened. Miss Wilton helped Logan pack his things and took him to Thomas’s place. It was surreal to hear that Thomas had his own apartment. When last they left each other, Thomas hadn’t even begun to consider moving out.

When they got there, Miss Wilton explained some things that Logan tuned out. He caught a snippet about someone coming to check on them sometime soon, and maybe she said something about Logan, but he didn’t pay attention. He was too busy gazing around the room. There were a few things he recognized from the house — the couch, the dining table, the TV, the pictures — and he wondered what else had made it. Logically, he knew not everything could fit in here, but part of him still hoped. He liked being surrounded by familiarity.

Not long after, Miss Wilton said her final goodbye. Logan was sort of sad about it. She had been a constant presence in his life for two whole years. But he assumed her saying goodbye was a good thing. It meant that he had a permanent home to stay in.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Miss Wilton said before she left for good. “But I hope we never see each other again.”

Logan agreed.

She gave him one last, genuine smile. Then she left.

“She seemed nice,” Thomas said after a moment.

It then occurred to Logan that Thomas didn’t spend as much time with her as he did. To respond, Logan simply nodded.

There was a slight twitch of a frown at the nonverbal response, but he masked it with a smile. “Well, come on. Let me show you to your room.”

Logan trailed after him without a word.

Thomas talked for both of them on the short way there. He mentioned how he tried to get as much stuff from the house as possible, but he couldn’t get everything. That didn’t mean he didn’t try, though. “Valerie and Terrence helped out a lot. Oh — and Joan. They’re a co-worker of mine and they live a few apartments down. I’m sure they’d love to meet you — well — after you get settled.” He opened one of the doors.

One of the first things Logan saw almost made him drop his book. Cara’s guitar. It was resting on his bed, waiting for him. Before he rushed over to it, he decided to look around. It was almost like he never had to leave. His posters were on the walls, his little bookcase was there — even his bed sheets were the same. He dropped his book on his nightstand, finally feeling safe enough to let it go, and he opened the guitar case. It looked the same as when he left it.

That’s when reality started to sink in.

This was real. Logan was here with Thomas. He was allowed to stay here. There wouldn’t be any more strangers he had to live with. There wouldn’t be anymore wishing — begging — every night for Thomas to come back like he promised, hoping he hadn’t been forgotten or left behind. This was real. And he was here. Thomas didn’t break his promise at all. He found his way back.

Without realizing it, Logan started crying. He was home. He ran to Thomas and hugged him. They almost crashed to the ground from the sheer force, but Thomas was able to keep them upright. “I missed you,” he said at last. “I missed you so much.”

Thomas hugged him back, holding him close. “I missed you, too.”

~~~

Despite being together, things were still difficult. Money-wise at least. Thomas wondered how the hell his mom ran a house with three people when he had a hard enough time in an apartment with two. She must have been magic. Or maybe Thomas just sucked.

He tried his best, really, but that didn’t make things easier. Sometimes things were difficult to overcome despite a positive attitude. Everything costed money. And that was the worst. He had to pay for food, clothes, gas, rent — and that was just the basics. That didn’t count the school supplies Logan needed, or the phone bills, or the cable bills, or all the other bills that seemed to exist.

There wasn’t ever much spare money lying around. Almost everything Thomas earned went to pay for something. He didn’t have much to save, and that didn’t seem like it would change anytime soon.

He tried not to let Logan know how stressful this all was. The poor kid had been through so much already, he didn’t need to worry about his older brother. He didn’t like to think of it as lying, but he sort of… stretched… the truth. A little bit. Enough to be believable. Logan was a smart kid. He’d figure it out if things started to not add up.

So Thomas never let it get to that point. Did he have to get two jobs? Yes. Was he unable to work anywhere better because he only had a high school diploma? Yes. Did he know that having a higher education would get him a better job? Yes. Was he going to punch the next person in the throat who said that to him? Probably. He wanted to scream that he couldn’t afford to get a dang higher education because he had to raise his brother and put a roof over his head. There wasn’t enough freaking time in the day to earn money and go to school.

But he didn’t do that. He held his tongue and thanked that person for such wonderful advice that a million other people have said before.

People sucked sometimes.

Regardless, Thomas did the same things he always did. He took Logan to school, he went to work, he cooked dinner, he went to work again, then he slept. Interlaced, of course, was paying for things that needed to be paid whenever it was needed. One day, he noticed something. It was a small thing; he would have missed it if he wasn't paying attention.

"Logan, are you having trouble seeing?" They were stopped at a light on their way to Logan's school. It was way early, and he was super tired, but this seemed kind of important.

"Uh…" Logan stopped squinting out the window. "No."

That wasn't believable, but he dropped the subject for the time being. It wasn’t until later that night that he decided to push it.

“Hey, bear,” Thomas called from the kitchen. He grabbed two identical boxes of noodles out of the cupboard. From far enough away, they were hard to tell apart. Thomas sometimes mixed them up at a glance. “What kind of pasta do you want?” He stood at the doorway and presented the boxes.

Logan, who had been sitting cross-legged on the couch doing homework, looked up and immediately grimaced. “Um… the one on the right.”

“Which one is that?”

“Uh —” Thomas could tell he was trying not to squint — “the good one.”

Thomas lowered the boxes with a frown. “You can’t see it, can you?”

“I can see it. Just… it’s a little blurry.”

“How much is a little?”

Logan hesitated, tapping his pencil on his notebook. “I can make out the shapes but I can’t read it.”

Thomas frowned further. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t wanna bother you.” He focused on the papers before him. “You’re always so busy, and I know money gets tight sometimes, so I figured if I didn’t tell you it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about that.” Thomas sat beside him. “I’m the adult here and it’s my responsibility. We have insurance for a reason, you big goof.” He threw his arm around him and pulled him in for a side hug. “Next time something’s wrong or you have a problem, tell me, okay?”

Logan gave him a small smile. “Okay.”

~~~

A new student entered Logan’s grade near the end of the school year. Logan only found out because they shared the same English class. He thought it was unlucky to join a new school so late in the year, but that wasn’t any of his business. Not like the new kid would care about his opinion anyway.

Unfortunately, the teacher decided to sit the new student beside him — even though there were two other seats available. Logan cursed his bad luck and kept his head down. He didn’t want to interact with anyone. Ever. He hadn’t made another friend since Cara left.

Unfortunately again, this kid didn’t care.

“Hey,” he said with a charming smile. “I’m Percival.”

~~~

So clearly Logan was gay.

Who knew.

He found and read different books on different sexualities to try to understand his confusion. He felt most comfortable identifying as gay, but the tiny section on asexuality in one of the books was always in the back of his mind. Okay, so, it was still sort of confusing, but saying he was gay felt like a good fit. At least for now.

When he mentioned it to Thomas off-hand, he said — and Logan swears he’ll never let him live this down — “Oh, shit, me too.”

It caught him so off guard that he laughed until he cried. Never, in his entire life, had he ever heard Thomas curse. And the first time he did was because they talked about being gay. Somehow that seemed very fitting.

But the tiny, little factoid that Logan left out — just a small detail — was that he and Percival were dating. Telling Thomas he was gay? Yeah, sure, easy. Telling Thomas he had a boyfriend? No. Nope. That would be a disaster. He’d probably freak out about it. In more than one way.

So that was his little secret for the time being. Until he was ready.

Well, it turned out the joke was on him because he accidentally let it slip about four months into their relationship. Like a dang fool.

He didn’t mean to. At all. But once it was out he couldn’t take it back. As predicted, Thomas freaked out. He demanded to know the details at the same time he tried to give advice. It was embarrassing and unnecessary and Logan would have preferred to sink into the earth than experience any second of this onslaught. Worst of all, Thomas wanted to meet him.

It wasn’t that he thought Percival wasn’t someone to meet his family — he was very sweet — it was just the thought of Thomas being an embarrassing older brother. Which he was. If he let them anywhere near each other he’d probably end up dying of embarrassment.

So he tried to push it off at first. It wasn’t necessary right now. Wait a little longer. But it turned out that Percival was on Thomas’s side. Logan felt betrayed.

They (well, with great reluctance on Logan’s part) settled on meeting up for lunch on the weekend. Logan insisted that Thomas bring Joan so that he could have someone to talk to in the inevitable event that Thomas started being embarrassing. He knew it would happen no matter how many times Thomas said it wouldn’t.

“Well that was fun,” Percival mentioned after the whole ordeal was over. They were by themselves now, walking through a park to Percival’s house.

Logan rolled his eyes. Predictively, Thomas had an embarrassing older brother moment. Thank God Joan was there to reel him back a bit. “That’s easy for you to say, you don’t live with him.”

Percival laughed. “Still. We should do it again sometime.”

Logan refrained from rolling his eyes again. “I’ll have to think about that.”

Then Percival stopped. He looked down at Logan with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Logan opened his mouth to say something, but he didn’t get the chance. Percival ducked down and captured his lips.

He wanted to suck in a sharp breath of air — an automatic response of surprise — but he didn’t. At least, he didn’t think so. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. It was sudden. A pressure on his mouth he wasn’t familiar with. The new, strange feeling of someone else’s lips. It was like fire, and teasing, and strawberry lemonade. And then it was over.

Percival pulled back, but their lips still brushed together when he whispered, “You’re beautiful.”

His chest fluttered.

~~~

Logan was sixteen when he realized something was… off. He didn’t notice where the feeling was coming from at first. Things between Thomas and him were fine. They weren’t currently struggling for money. All of Thomas’s friends were doing okay. What was left? Why did he have a bad feeling looming over his shoulder?

He wished he could have said that he pieced it together quickly. He wished he could have said he narrowed it down after going through every single option. But he didn't. He… he just didn't.

He didn't even know. It happened so subtly — like a pot heating bit by bit unbeknownst to the poor frog. Except Logan was the frog in this scenario.

He couldn't tell you what the first hint that the water was boiling was. It wasn't as easy as saying, "it started when he did this" because it all seemed okay. Everything was okay. He thought it was at least.

And then, all at once, it was very not okay.

Approaching their first year of being together, Percival wasn't as sweet anymore. Well, he was. But not all the time. Sometimes he said things that were a little too mean. Sometimes he brought up things he knew Logan was insecure about. Sometimes he didn't even seem like the same person.

But it was fine. He always apologized or made it up in some way. And Logan always forgave him. Again. And again. And again.

He felt like an idiot to not notice the pattern.

From there it only escalated. Suddenly, it felt like everything Logan did was criticized. Nothing he did was good enough or worth the effort to look at.

"Anyone can play guitar. It's easy."

Logan was inclined to agree, but coming from someone who didn't know how to play any instrument — let alone a guitar — felt belittling. It completely ignored his years of practice. Still, Logan shoved the guitar in his closet.

"Why does it matter that you won that scholarship?"

He wanted to say that Thomas was proud of him. But he didn't. Thomas was proud of anything that Logan did, though. It must not have been that impressive.

"I hate when you wear that shirt."

He kept it at the bottom of his drawer.

"Remember when you failed that math test?"

He studied every free minute he had.

"Your laugh is annoying."

He tried not to laugh again.

The first time Percival hit him was a surprise. It sort of seemed like an accident, but Logan was never sure. He wasn't sure about a lot. But even Percival seemed a little shocked after he did it. Logan wondered, if he had spoken up then, would it have ended there? Did his silence on the matter convince Percival he could get away with it? He didn't know.

It was almost two years into their relationship. He must have done something wrong.

Logan shuffled into the apartment. The place where Percival hit him the previous day started to appear a lot more visible as throughout school. To add to his bad luck, Thomas wasn't in his room. He tried to slip by but was caught before he made it to the hallway.

“Hey, Logan,” Thomas chirped. “Come here it feels like I haven't seen you all day.”

Logan hesitated. He could say he wasn't feeling well, or straight out refuse to turn around, but that wouldn't work out in the end. He couldn't hide this forever. Taking a deep, silent breath, Logan turned around.

The smile fell right off Thomas's face. “Oh, my God.” He rushed over to Logan. “Oh God, bear, what happened to you?” His hands hovered around Logan's face as if he wasn't quite sure what to do. It made Logan a little nervous.

His hands soon found their place cradling Logan's head. “What happened to your face, Logan?”

The anguished expression of his brother almost made Logan want to tell the truth. Almost. “I, uh, I fell.” That couldn't have been believable. 

“Please tell me the truth, bear.” Thomas furrowed his brows in worry. “Unless you fell down some stairs, I don't think your face should look like this.”

Logan pulled himself away. “I-it's nothing. I just fell.”

“Logan —”

“I'm fine, Thomas.” He retreated to his room. 

But that statement became less and less true with time. As the injury on his face changed colors to a more noticeable bruise, Logan found himself with others. The new ones were places less obvious and often hidden with articles of clothing.

All the while Logan tried to convince himself everything would be fine. Percival was a knight of the round table — a hero from Arthurian legend. But if that were true… then why did it feel so wrong to be near him? People don't flinch when the hero gets mad. People don't cower when a knight goes to see them. All the fear made Logan miss the talking. It had become subtle insults toward Logan recently, but that was better than fearing another injury.

Logan held on for a few more days. Each day he came home more tired than the last, with Thomas increasing his worry, until one day he couldn't take it.

He hauled himself through the front door. He dropped his backpack on the ground and went straight for Thomas.

Thomas was looking down at some papers but glanced up when he heard the noise. He gasped and dropped everything to be by Logan. “Are you okay?”

Logan wiped his tears and shook his head. “I'm sorry.”

“What are you sorry for, bear?” Thomas tried to reach a hand out to Logan but stopped when he flinched. “What happened?”

“Percy, he — he —” Logan wrapped his arms around himself. Sobs were choking him. “I-I didn't want to do it, Thomas. I didn't w-want to. H-he tried to make me. I was scared. I-I ran away — I ran away from him.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I'm sorry. P-please don't be m-mad. I'm sorry.”

Thomas didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to do. God, he was suddenly aware of how young they both were. He didn’t have infinite wisdom or a sense of direction like a parent should. He was barely going to be twenty-one next month. Something terrible must have been going on and Thomas wasn’t equipped to handle it.

“L-Logan, hey.” Thomas kept his hands to himself. “Let’s try to calm down, alright? I’m not mad at you, kiddo, I have nothing to be mad at you for.”

“B-but I —”

“Shh, it’s okay. We can sit down and talk, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

They sat down on the couch together. Logan hugged himself like he would fall apart if he stopped and Thomas tried to get him to breathe properly. It took a bit, but they got there. At least enough to not be so alarming. Then Logan told him everything. He showed him every bruise, mentioned every bitter conversation, and even what transpired today.

“We were just talking,” Logan explained. He was no longer crying, but the effects of it still altered his voice. “Everything was fine. It felt like things had gone back to normal — he was sweet and told me nice things, but apparently, there was an ulterior motive.” He tightened his hands into fists. “He wanted… he wanted to…” He sucked in a breath. “He wanted to do something I didn’t. I tried stopping him, but he wouldn’t listen. I, I didn’t know what else to do so I ran.”

Thomas didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? How do you even respond to that? This was his little brother. It wasn’t happening to anyone else, it wasn’t a story he heard about someone, it was happening right here — and it was his brother. He couldn’t imagine Logan going through this that whole time. He didn’t even want to think about what caused him to run all the way home. It was all so… awful. And he felt awful about not saying anything, or noticing sooner, or —

“It’s okay.” This wasn’t about him. It was about Logan. “Sometimes the best thing to do is get out of there as fast as you can. You made a smart decision.”

“It doesn’t feel like one.” Logan curled into himself.

Thomas pushed down the sick feeling in his stomach. “It is. He wasn’t listening to you so you did the only other thing you could think of. You got somewhere safe. It’s okay to run away sometimes, Logan — especially if you’re in danger.”

Logan remained silent.

Oh, Thomas wanted to hug him so bad, but he refrained from doing so.

The next day, Percival knocked on the door and asked to see Logan. Thomas tightened his grip on the doorknob to stop from doing something he’d regret. “He’s not here,” he responded in his usual cheerful tone despite the fact his blood was boiling. “He went down to the library to grab something. Would you like to leave a message?”

Percival smiled politely. “No thanks. I think I’ll just meet him down there.”

“Sure thing.” Thomas resisted the urge to slam the door in his face.

Logan was frozen in the kitchen. The only thing separating him from the front door was a wall. He didn’t dare to even breathe until he saw Thomas in the doorway. Before either of them could think to say anything, Logan’s phone started to ring. He felt his blood run cold.

“Don’t answer it,” Thomas said softly.

He didn’t.

That wasn’t an isolated incident, as it turned out. Percival came back the next day to ask where Logan had been — claimed he was worried because his calls were going unanswered. Thomas handled it with surprising grace, having a believable lie at the ready, but it wasn’t enough. Percival kept calling and when that inevitable day came where Logan had to go back to school, he couldn’t avoid him. And Thomas wasn’t there to help.

Nothing happened besides subtle anger and vague threats. Logan knew that the only thing saving him was being in public. He knew that once school was out, that there would be little time to get away. Percival wasn’t patient. So he sent Thomas a text to pick him up right as school ended. It wasn’t as if he would say no — he was wary to let Logan go to school at all — but Logan was still scared. Thomas was already doing so much for him. He didn’t want to push the limit.

Thomas: I could get you right now

As much as that appealed to Logan, he couldn’t. He was already making Thomas miss work to pick him up after school. Having him pick him up now would just be worse. He declined the offer, insisting he was fine. For now.

Once the final bell rang, Logan was the first one out of the classroom door. He wasn’t normally one to be so eager to leave, but right now he wanted to get home as soon as possible.

A hand grabbed his shoulder once he spotted Thomas’s car. "Leaving so soon?"

Every muscle in Logan's body froze. He let Percival spin him around to see his displeased face.

"I haven't seen you in a while," he continued. "The least you can do is come over so we can catch up on lost time. I was wondering what happened to you."

"I was busy," Logan mumbled. He tried to stand his ground, but Percival was more determined than him.

"Well, you're not now. So come with me. We have a lot to talk about."

Logan couldn't respond. He couldn't move away.

"Hey, Logan!"

Oh, thank Christ.

They turned to see Thomas running up to them. "We gotta help Joan set up their place for Talyn, remember?"

Logan had no idea how Thomas could lie on the spot like that despite hating lying so much.

"But Logan was just saying how he was going to stop by real quick." His fingers dug into Logan's shoulder. "Right?"

"Sorry, but this has to be done by — like — yesterday." He offered his hand out to Logan, who took it gratefully. "Maybe some other time."

Percival relented his hold. "Sure. Some other time."

Thomas flashed him a smile and dragged Logan back to his car.

Before they even got to the apartment, Thomas was already devising a plan to keep Percival far away. First thing first, Logan needed to be transferred to another school. There was no way he was spending another second of forced interaction with his abuser. Second, there needed to be a phone number change.

Logan listened to his near-ranting as they walked up to their apartment. He didn't have any input. What was there to say? This was a sucky situation from all angles.

"You'll have to stay with Valerie until this whole thing blows over."

That caught Logan's attention. Panic hijacked his senses, and words were leaving his mouth before he could stop them. "No! Please don't leave me somewhere. I don't want to be away from you."

"Logan —"

"Please. I, I can't be alone again. I'll do anything. Whatever you want — I'll do it."

"Oh, no, Logan —"

"Don't leave. Please. Please don't leave. How will I know when you'll be back? What if I have to get moved around again? What if you're gone for good this time and I don't see you again?"

"Logan, stop." Thomas cupped his face with his hands. Firm, but gentle. Just to get him to stop his erratic movements and focus on something. "I'm not going to abandon you, okay? I'm…" He studied Logan's face. "Alright. We'll both go to Valerie's. I'll have Joan keep an eye on the place." He wiped Logan's cheeks of the tears he didn't even notice he shed. "I'm not leaving you, bear."

For the first time in several days, Logan hugged Thomas.

~~~

“Well, since you just fell for me you should probably know my name, at least. I’m Patton.”

~~~

Logan was nineteen when he met Patton. He was nineteen when they started dating. And he had never felt… more like a kid. Patton was silly, and kind, and loved dumb puns. Whether he knew it or not, he was helping Logan unlearn everything Percival taught him. It wouldn’t be perfect. There would still be emotional scars that would never heal, but he would be able to function again. He wouldn’t start every day in fear of what would happen. Patton made things okay.

They had been dating for exactly a year when they kissed for the first time.

It was in the evening. Logan was planning on spending the night so they were in Patton’s room (Logan had to answer at least twenty different texts from Thomas to assure him that he was fine and he’d call if anything happened). It felt like sleeping over at Cara’s again; there wasn’t much of a plan to go to sleep, just to have fun. At around midnight, Patton sprung up from his spot on the floor and excitedly claimed to have an idea.

Logan didn’t even get the chance to process what happened before Patton was searching through his closet. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.” He pulled a box out and grabbed an even smaller box from within it. “My parents sent this to me before they found out I took in Emile and D. And, well, you know what happened after that.” He took out a globe-like projector and plugged it in before shutting off the lights.

“Patton —” the rest of his words died on his lips when Patton turned it on. Dozens of specks showed up on the ceiling. Like someone took a paintbrush and flung white paint across the room. Then he noticed that some of those specks weren’t random. They were constellations. These were stars.

“That’s a lot better than I thought it would look,” Patton laughed. He sent a grin over to Logan. “What do you think?”

Logan tore his eyes away from the ceiling. He tried to bite back a smile, but he couldn’t help it. “I think it’s wonderful.”

Patton gave him that look again. Like he mattered more than anything in the world. He did it a lot, but Logan still didn’t understand why. He continued to study Logan’s face before asking softly, “Can I kiss you?”

Logan’s breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded against his chest, yet he still nodded. He practically melted when it happened.

It was gentle. A soft presence against his mouth that was different than anything before. The unique, strange feeling of someone else’s lips. It was like fresh chocolate chip cookies, and the Jabberwocky poem, and guessing the names of random dogs on the street. And then it was over.

It took Logan a second to open his eyes again.

Patton was a breath away, his eyes sparkling under the synthetic stars. “Was that too much?” He backed up a fraction more.

Logan pulled him in for another kiss.

~~~

Patton wasn’t supposed to know that Logan could play the guitar. Truth be told, he hadn’t touched it in a while. But he opened his closet to put something away, and there was the case. He didn’t think much about it; it had been in there so long already that he ignored it.

But Patton didn’t.

He spotted it and gasped so loud that Logan felt his heart shoot to his throat.

“I didn’t know you could play guitar!”

Oh crap. Logan glared at the case like it made its presence known on purpose. “Sort of.”

“Can you play something for me? Please?” He brought out his puppy eyes and kind smile. “Just one song.”

“I-I don’t know. I’m really not that good.”

“Normally, I take your word for things, but not for this. I have to hear for myself.”

Logan held back a grimace. Patton was determined. He may drop it now, but he’d bring it up another time, and another until eventually, Logan caved. “Fine.” He grabbed the case, ignoring the pang it sent to his chest at the thin layer of dust. “What do you want to hear?”

Patton resembled a puppy trying to hold in his excitement. “Something simple.”

Sure. Simple. He could do that. He sat beside Patton after taking the guitar out. It looked the same way he remembered. A bit older, and out of tune, but still the same. He almost forgot why he stopped playing it. As he placed his hands over the strings he remembered. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. As his panic rose, he tried to formulate a way to back out, but then he noticed Patton giving him a patient smile.

He couldn’t tell Patton why. That could change everything.

It was just one song. He could do that. He pushed all his fear far, far down and started strumming.

Hey there, Delilah What's it like in New York City? I'm a thousand miles away But, girl, tonight you look so pretty Yes, you do

He kept his head down the whole time. He couldn’t bring himself to look up as he noticed every single mistake he made. He half expected to be stopped when he got to the second verse, but that didn’t happen. Patton didn’t interrupt him or utter a single word. Not until he finished, at least.

“That was so good!” He clapped. “You’re amazing.”

Logan’s cheeks turned hot. “Not really. It’s just a guitar. Anyone can do that.”

“Even if that were true, not everyone can play and sing at the same time.”

Well. Maybe.

Later, after Patton left, Logan saw Thomas sitting on the kitchen counter. “So I heard you serenading Patton earlier,” he muttered with a smirk around his coffee mug.

“Shut up.”

~~~

If someone told Logan that he'd end up marrying Patton, he would have been convinced they were lying. There was no way Patton would stay with him that long. Patton was wonderful, and sweet, and caring, and good, and Logan was just… Logan. There was nothing spectacular about that.

But as it turned out, Patton thought he was the most wonderful thing to grace his presence.

They did get married.

Logan couldn't believe that it happened. He was in disbelief the whole day. It didn't sink in that Patton chose him of all people until that night when they gazed up at the artificial stars on the ceiling. This was real. Patton wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. He could have had anyone else but he chose Logan.

And Logan was so glad that he did.

It had been such a long time since he felt this happy.

~~~

The social worker helping them with the adoption process was Mrs. Rachel Hernandez. She was nice. She reminded Logan of Miss Wilton.

Even with the kind assistance of Mrs. Hernandez, Logan was still very nervous. And now for several reasons. The very first and obvious being he wasn't sure he'd be a good dad — actually, that was most of the reasons. Another reason, unrelated to that, was the whole process reminded him of being torn away from his brother. It was silly, he knew, but the connection was still there. Along with all the anxieties it brought.

A lot of these kids were like him; stuck in an unfortunate circumstance that they had no say in. Logan was considered a lucky one. He got to return to his family. These kids were up for adoption because they weren't as lucky. He knew how it felt to lose everything you were familiar with and be thrust into the hands of strangers.

Then one day, after months of waiting, they had a match.

"I understand you were only intending to adopt one child," she started, and Logan wondered for a moment if this was how his first foster family was talked to when the prospect of siblings came up. "But Roman has a twin brother. We'd prefer to keep them together, but if you're adamant about only one then —"

"No," Logan blurted out before he could stop himself.

Mrs. Hernandez and Patton stared at him in wide-eyed shock. He normally kept quiet during these talks unless he had to answer something. And he never rose his voice like that.

His cheeks flushed. "I mean… I would prefer to not separate any siblings."

Mrs. Hernandez turned to Patton for his opinion.

"Uh," he tore his eyes away from Logan. "Yeah. I agree with that sentiment."

After everything had been dealt with, they left the office. But when Patton sat in the driver's seat, he didn't start the car. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "So…" he started casually. "What was that?"

"What was what?" Logan pretended to be interested in the parking lot.

"You know what."

Ugh, it would have been so much better to ignore it. He sighed. "When I was put in foster care, they separated me from Thomas. So I know how it feels to not have your brother with you during one of the most stressful times in your life."

There was a pause. "You never told me that."

Logan shrugged. "I didn't want you to feel any worse for me than you already did."

Patton fumbled for a response, but in the end, he couldn't seem to find one at all.

The day they met Roman and Virgil, Logan was instantly reminded of being at Miss Wilton's side all those years ago. They were hesitant — scared — and didn't say a word. Logan knew better than anybody what they must be feeling.

Maybe that was the real reason they spoke to him first.

"Daddy!" Roman marched into the living room, a tiny scowl on his face. It was a day before their eleventh birthday "Virgil touched my stuff!"

"I did not!" Virgil shouted from the bedroom.

"Then why is it missing?"

"You didn't put it away."

Logan rolled his eyes. They had a habit of yelling across the house to each other. He blamed Patton. "Roman, if you're going to argue with your brother, at least do it in the same room."

Roman huffed and crossed his arms. "My color pencils are missing and I haven't touched them."

"Where did you leave them last?"

"In the room."

Logan stood up. "Let's go look for them, then." He followed Roman back to his bedroom. He still shared with Virgil. They didn't mind it yet, but Logan had a sneaking suspicion it would start soon. 

Not even two minutes in the room and Logan found the color pencils. "They're right here."

"Oh." Roman took them with a sheepish grin.

"I told you you didn't put it away." Virgil stuck his tongue out at him. "This is why I'm Daddy's favorite." To emphasize his point, he hugged Logan's side.

Roman gasped dramatically. "No you're not — I am." He dropped his color pencils and rushed to Logan's other side. "Tell him I'm your favorite."

"Well, he's not because I'm his favorite."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh."

"Daddy!" Roman tugged on Logan's shirt. "Which one of us is right?"

"Neither of you. I don't have a favorite." He smirked at their disbelieving pouts. "You're both my little beasties. It's hard to have a favorite when you're tearing up the place all the time."

They took offense to that, blaming each other for the messes they made (together) and insisting that they were the good twin and the favorite because they cleaned up. It was only interrupted by the front door opening.

Roman gasped. "Dad's home."

"I'm gonna ask him who his favorite is." Virgil took off.

"It's gonna be me!" Roman followed after him.

Logan smiled at the commotion they created.

~~~

He sat on the bed with his wedding ring clasped tightly in his hand. Angry, hot tears still rolled down his cheeks and he hated it. He wanted to stop crying. It had been hours — why was he still crying?

He unfurled his fingers. There were indents in his palm from how tight he held his ring. He wanted to throw it. Break it. Do something to it. But he knew he would never bring himself to do anything he thought of. It would only upset him later.

So he put it back on.

It didn't feel right there anymore, but he couldn't bear to lose it.

He let the tears fall even as they turned from angry to distressed. He was an idiot, wasn't he? He should have known this life was too good to be true.

He wasn't destined to have a happy ending.

[astrozones]

Sanders Behavioral Health; Chapter 5: Virgil’s Assumptions

hey gays I’m Aster and I’m actually posting woah. it’s also on ao3 which is where I post as soon as it’s out so.

uhhhh discord- Astro’s Zone

yeethaw- 

ANGST AHEAD

Virgil found himself in front of the door to Roman’s house, which was, frankly, ginormous . His house was almost as dramatic as he was, for God’s sake! He shuffled around at the doorstep, working up the courage to ring the doorbell.

He just had to force himself to do it! Just reach out and press the button, no regrets!

He pushed the button.

Regrets.

Roman had probably been kidding- right? They weren’t even friends yet, why would he have invited him? Well, technically Patton had invited Virgil and Logan to Roman’s house, which was confusing in itself, but that wasn’t the point, the point was-

The door opened, Roman standing in front of him with a smile, but was quickly pushed aside as Patton launched at Virgil, trapping him in a hug.

“MY SON HAS ARRIVED~” Patton shouted, arms tight around Virgil. Roman looked amused.

“I- ok I guess we’re doing the son thing- erm, can I breathe? Please?” He wheezed out. Patton let him go, cheery disposition not faltering in the slightest.

“Patton got here about 10 minutes ago, Logan has yet to arrive,” Roman started. “You’re welcome to come in.”

“Ah, right.” Virgil skirted around the boys and into the house. He looked around.

It had a very, well, home-ly feel to it. The windows allowed a few streams of light into the room, and a viewing of the sunset. The floor was mostly carpeted, from what he could see, and he was standing on the few bits of wooden floor there were. He assumed he was supposed to take his shoes off- or, wait, what if he was wrong?

“I think I understand why you’re so dramatic, now.” He said bluntly, turning to face Roman, who looked sheepish.

“Yeah, this place is pretty dramatic. My parents work a lot and are very stressed, so they like to have somewhere nice to return to. I’m really grateful I have all this, really, even if- well now I’m rambling!” he laughed. “You can take your shoes off and we can wait for Logan before I show you around?” he offered. Virgil nodded.

Roman told him to deposit his items in the corner of the living room as they waited. None of them said anything, just stared at random corners in the room waiting for someone else to peep up.

Virgil stood and walked over to the fireplace, which had a few books on the mantel. Virgil picked up a book that was titled 'The Hospital Is No Place To Meet Future Boyfriends' by Queen_Whovian_And_Everything_Else555. Well that's a weird pen name for a professional author , he thought. He shrugged it off.

He noticed other books like ‘Waste Away’ from NicoAndTheNineGalaxies, and ‘April Fool’s (Would You Be So Kind) by TiredPanAndNotAFan. Okay, clearly either Roman or his parents had a weird obsession with weird author pen names.

“I didn’t know you could read, Roman,” he commented, looking over yet another book with a strange author. He smirked as he heard Roman splutter behind him.

“Hey! I totally read! Those’re my parents’ books though. Mine are in my room.” he explained. Virgil shrugged.

“If you insist,” was all he got to say before the doorbell rang again. Patton nearly flew to the door to greet Logan, Roman following at a much slower pace. Virgil would’ve stayed in the living room, but followed them because, well, anxiety .

Patton bounced around a very confused Logan, screaming about how ‘the whole family is here!’ Virgil was glad to be the one viewing the Magic (or Insanity, depending on who you ask) of Patton, rather than be on the receiving end.

“If we’re all a family, excluding Roman, then why don’t we share the same last name?” Logan asked, trying to prove a point. It was a futile attempt.

“Well than we can make up a last name!” Patton dragged Logan into the house. “Why not Sanders! Get it? Cause we all go to Sanders Behavioral Health!” he giggled. Logan sighed, shaking his head.

“If you say so, Logan Sanders,” Virgil smirked. Logan glared.

“Aaaaanyways do y’all want me to show you around or are we just gonna stand here?” Roman interrupted. Logan physically cringed, but nodded.

And with that, they were off.

—

“Jesus Christ,” Virgil sighed, falling onto Roman’s bed. “I thought that ‘little’ tour was never gonna end!”

Roman snickered, letting the others into the room. “Yeah, it’s pretty large, my parents kinda just want the best for me… Sorry, that was a bit rude, wasn’t it?” Roman shook his head.

“Anyway, we’ll probably hang out here for most of the day, but we only have one guest room, so I was thinking 2 stay here and the others in the guest room? I mean, I’m claiming a spot for this room, so one more here and… yeah” Roman finished awkwardly.

“‘m not moving from this spot for at least a day,” Virgil mumbled, fiddling with the blanket he was on top of. Patton and Logan nodded, content with this plan.

“The guest room is similar to this, with a king sized bed as well, so it should be pretty comfortable for you guys!” Roman grinned at the two. “I’ll lead you back there, and you can get yourselves situated.”

“I’m staying here,” Virgil said immediately, causing Roman to laugh. They all chatted for a few minutes before the others left the room.

And Virgil was alone with his thoughts.

Maybe they had left him on purpose, maybe they were already bored of him. He heard Roman’s laughter from down the hall, and he shrunk into his hoodie.

Distraction- Find a distraction, Virgil.

He glanced around Roman’s room. He had… a lot of Disney posters, to say the least. A lot of musical posters in general, really. A Disney poster for just about every movie they had, even the more obscure ones. And the musical posters varied, from Mamma Mia! to Avenue Q, and Chicago to School of Rock.

Damn. To say he loved musicals would be an understatement.

Virgil walked over to the bookshelf that Roman, surprisingly, actually , had. He scanned the titles, finding a huge collection of fairytales. If they weren’t actual fairytales, they were twisted fairytales, he could only assume. With titles like ‘The Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister’ and ‘My Name is Rapunzel’.

The few titles he did recognize were The Lunar Chronicles, a story following Cinder, who was essentially Cinderella if she was a cyborg, overthrowing a dystopia with other fairytale characters. The only reason he recognized that was because he had seen so many people reading it at school that he had eventually decided to pick up the book himself.

Virgil fiddled with his hoodie strings, needing to do something that wasn’t crushing his head between the bookshelf and the wall behind it. He flopped down on Roman’s bed.

He couldn’t really describe why he had the impulse to do that. It was, to say the least, disturbing. But he could hardly think when the buzzing in his head was so loud. It was like a bundle of thoughts trying to push its way out, begging to be released.

He felt annoyed that the only word he knew how to describe it with was buzzing, but he couldn’t think of anything else, just that it was there and it wasn’t right and it mentally hurt .

Virgil closed his eyes and just… well, he existed . He tried to push the thoughts and buzzing out of his head by just letting go and focusing on the world, focusing on the little things that made him happy. Like outer space, like reading, like getting into a pool at just the right temperature on a hot day. Simple things. Simple, distracting things.

He was having a hard time resisting the urge to use the harsh edge of the table beside him to cut his arm open.

He was fine, he was safe, he was okay .

And okay was an okay thing to be.

—

He was almost asleep by the time the others returned. The moment the door slammed open, he was sitting straight up and panicked.

!!!TOO LOUD!!!!!!

“Jesus Christ,” he started, rubbing at his eyes, trying not to let the panic show. His heart was going a mile a minute. “Warn a guy, yeah? I was almost asleep because you took so long.”

“Well jeez, so rry I’m not psychic!” Roman jumped on the opposite side of the bed, the impact nearly causing Virgil to fly off his end. He glared at Roman, who smirked.

“So, what are we supposed to do until we sleep?” Virgil asked. Roman shrugged, and Logan looked indifferent.

Patton, however, bounced on his feet.

“Why not hide and seek? This place is big enough to have a lot of places to hide in! It could be fuuuuuun!”

Logan sighed, “I’m not particularly interested in playing children’s games.” was all he said. Roman fixed him an accusatory stare, which caused Logan to groan, before agreeing to play.

Err… what?

Both Roman and Patton badgered him to join their game, and after a few minutes, Virgil relented, on the contract that he could be the seeker. He was not about to squeeze himself into a small space for an undetermined amount of time today, thank you.

They established a couple rules- no going outside the house, no revealing other’s spots, and they weren’t allowed to move many items, or they might break something.

They made a system where every participant would text Virgil once they were hidden, because they weren’t sure how many seconds were needed to hide in the obnoxiously large home.

Virgil had to wait in Roman’s room once more until everyone was hidden. He even had to switch his notifications on (he usually had them off so they wouldn’t ring at inopportune moments. It was a valid fear, okay? He had notifications on for a lot of YouTubers.) just for this game. He hoped to a God he didn’t believe in that he remembered to switch them off before he went to sleep.

About 10 minutes later, he finally got the notification from Roman (the last one who had found a spot) that he was ready. He waited for a couple seconds more, the bed was so comfortable, before forcing himself up and out of the room.

He walked down the hallway to a railing at the end, overlooking one of the living rooms. From his vantage point of two floors up, he couldn’t see anyone, but that still was no certainty. Years of anxiety had forced him to check every place, and it was time to finally use that for something good.

He walked into a few more rooms, overanalyzing every place one could hide, even the more obscure ones. Nothing.

Virgil found himself in Roman’s mother’s room. Roman had only mentioned it on the tour, as with most of the rooms, saying, ‘My dad snores too much so my parents sleep in separate rooms.’

It was clean, not a speck of dust to be found, not a thing out of place.

At first glance, at least.

Virgil shuffled through the room, checking under the bed, that was a lot of bottles , and in the closet, where he only found a bunch of family photos shoved into a corner.

There was an apology note for Roman, dated 4 days prior, because apparently his parents were extra, too.

He knew he shouldn’t read it, but… his curiosity told him he had to, and it was right there and there were no good excuses for it, but he did it anyway.

The letter’s contents included Roman’s mother apologizing for not being able to be there that day, telling Roman he was a good son, and that she was so, so, sorry for not appearing until the next day. It was signed with a heart.

Roman really had life going for him, didn’t he?

Virge couldn’t help but feel jealous. Roman had all of this, the whole house, anything he wanted, supportive parents, everything. While Virgil had grown up being pushed around and suffering, Roman was probably laughing and getting presents every day. It just didn’t feel fair.

Why was Roman in therapy, anyway?

It didn’t add up. He was likeable, extroverted, fit, had kind parents, rich, and if Virgil was being honest, not bad looking in the slightest. So why was he there with the kids who had extreme issues?

Maybe… maybe he had lied to get into the group, lied to get attention .

∨İгｇ¡🇱 ωαડ Ｓ໐, 🇸๏ ш🇷०በ🇬.

He pushed his thoughts away with a sigh, giving the room a final once-over before leaving, closing the door behind him.

One more down, an insane amount of rooms left to go.

—

10 minutes later, he found Patton had contorted himself into an empty kitchen cupboard. It took 5 minutes to help him get back out.

They chatted while Virgil searched, Patton was very careful not to give anyone away, to Virgil’s chagrin.

—

After searching for what felt like 30 minutes, they still had no clue where Logan or Roman were. Virgil slumped against the door to Roman’s room with a sigh, thumping his head on the wood.

“Y’think we can just hang here until one of them gives up?” he asked. Patton shrugged, causing Virgil to groan.

They chatted about nothing for a few more moments, before Virgil decided to speak up against something that had plagued his mind since he left Roman’s mom’s room.

“Not to sound rude but, do you think… Maybe Roman’s faking it? Like of course there’s a chance he isn’t, but, looking around, don’t you think it’s a ‘lil suspicious? He’s got everything he wants and he acts so happy all the time and… I dunno…” he finished awkwardly.

“I don’t know, Virgil, but I doubt it. Why would he want to fake being in therapy?”

“To laugh at us! To laugh at those of us who are actually suffering!” Virgil spat. Patton backed away a few steps.

“Calm down a bit there, kiddo… I’m sure Roman has issues of his own, just because it isn’t on the surface doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Virgil allowed himself to be calmed down, Patton giving him an awkward side-hug once he had. 5 minutes later, they were participating in the game once more.

—

The room had thin walls.

—

Virgil eventually found Logan in the basement that Roman hadn’t shown them on the tour. Logan explained he had noticed the door and, seeing that Roman hadn’t explained it, decided to investigate.

Virgil groaned at his own stupidity.

—

When Virgil had finally found Roman, it was when he had completely given up.

“Y’know what? Fuck this,” he said, ignoring Patton’s disappointed stare. “I give up! I really do! Roman must know some weird, obscure hiding place that he didn’t show us. So yeah, I’m giving up.” Virgil threw open the door to Roman’s room and-

Roman was there.

Roman was there , lounging on his bed, phone in hand, and looking at them expectantly.

Oh, for the love of God-

“What took you so long?” he snickered, sitting up to face them. Virgil stammered to find the words he was looking for, and might as well include the right emotions he was trying to wrangle up, too.

“You- I- Found you.” He finally got out. Roman smirked.

“Nuh-uh! Thin walls!” he knocked on the wall behind him. “I heard you say that you gave up!” Virgil groaned.

“How long were you in here, anyway?” Logan asked. Roman smiled.

“I snuck in here after Virgil disappeared into another room! I’ve been chilling here ever since.”

For a reason Virgil couldn’t figure out, Patton looked concerned, and guilty.

—

After the game, Roman roped them all into watching Disney movies, which was no surprise to Virgil considering the amount of posters.

Virgil was a bit of a Disney fan himself, but he wasn’t going to let that slip out to these strangers, surely they’d make fun of him for it.

One might think that Virgil was being stupid for forgetting that the only reason they had been watching them in the first place was because Roman forced them to. But anxiety was a pull, constantly overanalyzing the most simple things and underanalyzing the more complex. It wasn’t a case of ‘this is a bad thing, I should be anxious’, it was ‘this could be a bad thing, I should be anxious. So many things can go wrong’.

And that could was warped into will, no longer a maybe, but a definite, no matter how the situation actually happened.

It wasn’t fun in the slightest.

—

It was quiet.

Near silent, if it weren’t for the crickets chirping outside.

Patton and Logan had long since left the room to go to sleep. That left Virgil laying on the side of the bed he had claimed, silently scrolling through Tumblr, and Roman to get ready to sleep.

Roman had been staring at himself in the mirror for 10 minutes before Virgil took notice.

“You must really like yourself, huh?” Virgil deadpanned. This only supported his theory.

“Wha-” Roman jumped and spun around as he spoke, hand on his chest. “Oh, um… not really- WAIT I mean- uh- mOVinG On!” He cut himself off before glancing at the mirror once more.

Wait , he thought. I’ve been a dumbass, haven’t I?

Virgil made a lot of assumptions.

Just because the mental diagnosis isn’t obvious doesn’t mean it’s not still there!

“‘s there any like… weird hidden areas you know of ‘round here?” Virgil asked. Roman turned back to him, thinking.

“Wanna hang out on the roof?”

—

“I’M GONNA FALL!” Virgil shouted, clutching onto the gutter as if it were his only hope for survival. Roman snickered.

“C’mon, I’ve done this for years!”

“ We are three storeys high you bitch!”

—

Through a hefty amount of consoling, Virgil had finally reached the top of the roof, sitting on a small part of the roof that was flat, and clutching onto the chimney.

“So you’ve done this since you were a child ?” He asked. Roman was spread out on the slanted roof, seemingly indifferent to the fact that one wrong move could send him to his death.

“Mhm. I was the more adventurous type, if you couldn’t tell.” Roman glanced at him with a smirk. “But yeah. I find it calming up here, nothin’ to disturb ya but the wind. Plus, the stars are pretty.”

Virgil wouldn’t help but agree.

“Didn’t take you for a space nerd,” he said. Roman turned back to face the sky.

“I’m not, really. It’s just pretty. The most I really know about is galaxies, because they’re beautiful, really. I recommend looking up the Rose Galaxy, it’s my favorite… sorry, I’m rambling.” Roman laughed awkwardly. “But other than that, I don’t know much. Just the names of a few beautiful places.”

“That’s better than nothing,” Virgil supplied. Roman hummed. “I like planets, personally. ‘Coulda guessed your favorite was based around roses though.” he laughed. Roman smiled.

“The whole Disney thing kinda gives it away.” Virgil added.

“I hate that you aren’t wrong. Floriography has always been an interesting topic for me. But to be fair, roses have different meanings based off of the color.” Roman sat up, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but was holding back. So, Virgil acted on a whim.

“How so?”

It was like setting off a glitter bomb. Roman turned to him, and Virgil could practically see the stars in his eyes.

“WELL! Of course red roses mean love, yellow roses are for jealousy, pink is grace and elegance! Blue’s mystery, peach for gratitude, and purple are for pride and enchantment.” Roman paused for a second, calming himself down. “And I need some christmas roses.”

“What’re christmas roses?” he asked. Roman smiled. In his rant, he had scooched over towards Virgil, not enough to invade his space, but just enough that he was able to whisper,

“Well, I thought it fit well with the whole therapy thing,” he started. “But christmas roses mean relieve me of my anxiety.”

“Bitch I need some too!” Virgil said before nearly falling off the roof by laughing.

—

“I refuse to die crawling down a roof!”

“Well how else are you gonna get down, then?”

“I won’t. This is my home now. Just throw some food up here every now and then and I’ll be golden, because I am not falling off a roof .”

“Oh my god ,”

—

The beauty of a king sized bed, he found out, was that two, maybe three people, could fit on it  without even having to be close to the other.

Virgil went to bed without even changing his clothes, a nasty habit he had picked up. He stared at the wall, willing his brain to recognize that it was time to sleep.

He felt Roman start shifting on the other end, another insomniac, before he spoke up.

“And I oop- OW !”

Taglist because apparently I have that now:

@too-attached-to-fiction

[steebrogurz]

Save Me (Part 4)

Summary: Bucky comes to your rescue during a fight with your boyfriend.

warnings: none

word count: 2294

a/n: thank you so much for reading my fics!! it means a lot to me and i hope you keep enjoying my fics. please reblog and tell me what you think

Bucky leaves me standing in the hall and I groan in frustration and shame then walked through the door locking it behind me. It’s a small bare room but the bed looks soft and that was all I need at the moment. 

I unzip Bucky’s jacket and I’m about to take it off when a knock sounds that the door startling me. “Who- who is it?” I ask while I know that Alex can’t hurt me while I’m here my heart still beats a little faster.

“It’s Steve.” there’s a pause. “I have a few things for you.” 

My curiosity outweighs my fear at the sound of his voice so I zip up the jacket again and unlock the door. Steve stands on the other side of the door holding my purse in one hand and a bundle of clothes in the other. 

“Your phone’s been ringing for the last hour and Bucky wanted me to give you these.” He holds both of them out to me with a warm smile and I thank him before closing the door again. 

I dump the clothes on the bed and dig into my purse for my phone to see that my sister had called me three times and texted at least 7 times. I don’t bother reading her texts right now instead I put my phone down on the bed and and inspect the pile of clothes Steve dropped off, a pair of black sweatpants and a grey t-shirt. Both are clearly made for men and I scoff at the image of Bucky going through his own clothes to find something to give to me.

I take off Bucky’s jacket and hang it on the back of a chair that sits in the corner of the room. The ripped remains of my own t shirt come off next and is thrown into the opposite corner of the room, but before I can put on the other shirt my phone begins to buzz. It's my sister again and of course she wants to FaceTime. 

I stare at the screen for a second trying to decide if I should just decline it and call her back. But she'll find out about everything eventually and we've always told each other everything, so I smile as best I can and answer the phone.

"Hi- oh my God!" I can see that she's already lying in bed but when she sees my face she bolts upright. "What happened?!"

I heave a shuddering breath, "Um, Alex happened. We had a fight this morning and then he attacked me earlier tonight." 

She turns and shakes her girlfriend awake talking about how she's going to come and stay with me. 

"No, Sarah. Sarah! I'm ok, I promise I'm safe." 

She stops and looks back at me with the most serious look on her face I've ever seen. "Did you kill him? Because you can't go to jail if it was self-defense. I know I live an hour away but I can come and help you hide the body, we'll be your alibi if we need to be."

Gratitude spreads through my chest and I smile at her. Leave to my dear sister to offer to help hide a body, that's always been our sibling relationship. We stuck together through everything and always had each other's backs. "No I didn't kill him, but thanks for offering to help get rid of him. And I'm actually not at home right now anyway." I turn myself around showing her the bare room.

"Oh. Ok well where are you then? Are you at a motel or something?" She squints and brings her phone closer to her face so that all I can see are her eyes and forehead, as if that would help her figure out where I am.

"I'm at the Avengers compound." A note of disbelief colours my tone. Saying it out loud to Sarah made it more real, and it was finally sinking in that I'll be sleeping in a building full of super heroes. 

"You're where?! You're with the Avengers? How did you manage that?" Sarah laughs and I start telling her about everything that happened today, starting with the pregnancy and ending with me yelling at Bucky. 

When I'm done talking both Sarah and her girlfriend, Rose, are staring at me through the phone with stunned expressions. And Rose is the one to break the silence. 

"I'm really sorry you went through that today. Alex is an asshole, and we're both happy that Bucky was there to help you." I nod thinking about everything he's done for me. 

"Speaking of Bucky," Sarah speaks up turning the phone towards her. "It sounds like he's got a crush on you." Rose nods in agreement and I gape at her words. 

"What?! No, he's just being nice and helping me. He's an Avenger! That's what he does." I protest, but my heart starts beating faster at the thought. Could he have a crush on me? I feel like I'm back in high school asking my friends if my crush like liked me and I roll my eyes at her. "Even if he did, I'm probably not going to want to date for a while after what happened today." They both nod in understanding. 

"By the way, what did you want to talk to be about? Steve said you've been calling my phone for the last hour." A blush creeps up my face when I use Steve Rogers's name so casually as if we'd been friends for years. Both Sarah and Rose grin into the phone and Sarah raises her left hand to show me a sparkling diamond ring on her ring finger. I gasp and all thoughts of earlier are chased away from my mind with excitement. "Oh my God! Rose it's beautiful! Congratulations I'm so happy for you!" My excitement wanes slightly when I think about needing a date for the wedding. 

“I know that look, Y/N. The wedding won’t be until next year so you’ll have plenty of time to find a date… or not. There’s no pressure for you to bring anyone at all.” Sarah shrugs and I shake my head at her. My very intuitive sister always knew what I was thinking, it got annoying sometimes.

“Yeah, tell that to mom,” I scoff. "Now that you're getting married I really need to step up my dating game if I'm ever gonna get her off my back."

“Well,” she says suggestively, drawing out the word. “You could always bring Bucky, I bet she’d love that.” She winks at me and Rose nudges her in the ribs. 

I bark and unamused laugh. “Alright, I’m gonna go but thanks for the suggestion that will definitely not be taken. Give Katie a kiss for me and congrats again. I love you.”

“Ok honey, we love you and we’re so glad that you’re safe. If you ever need to talk or need a place to stay I’m always here for you.” Sarah blows me a kiss and I wave at them both before hanging up. Talking with Sarah always made me feel better and the happiness of their engagement helped to keep my fear and anxiety at bay.

I toss my phone back onto the bed and put on the t-shirt and sweatpants. Both are at least three times too big and I have to roll the cuffs up multiple times to keep from tripping on them. I tie the hem of the shirt so that I don’t look like a child wearing her dad’s t-shirt careful not to make it too tight and I glance over at the jacket hanging on the chair. 

I could just give it back to him in the morning, that would be the appropriate, normal thing to do...but I should also apologize to him for yelling at him earlier. 

That’s what I tell myself to justify standing outside his door and knocking. This has nothing to do with the fact that I feel cold without him beside me, or that I strangely miss the way his gaze seems to pierce right into my soul. 

I wait for a couple minutes outside his door with no answer so assuming he’s either asleep and just doesn’t want to talk to me I turn back to my door, but just as I reach my room again his door opens. I look down at his jacket and step forward, thrusting it into his hands.

“I wanted to give this back to you. There might be some blood on it...sorry.” Bucky looks at the jacket and back up at me, I can see the smile in his eyes but not on his face. 

“Thanks, good night Y/N.” He goes to close his door again and I jump forward with my hand out to stop him.

“Wait!” When he pauses and turns his icy blue gaze on me again and my heart rate picks up. “I, um, also wanted to apologize for earlier. That wasn’t fair to you and I’m sorry. I just- there was a lot going on in my head and with everyone asking if I'm okay...I just didn’t know how to handle it-”

“I get it,” he cuts me off still watching me with those icy blue eyes. “You just went through something really scary, the last thing you need is someone telling you how to feel. I'm sorry too, I should've known better.” 

I nod and shudder at the thought of how he’s able to know how someone is feeling and what they need after a traumatic event. I take a deep breath trying to work up the courage to ask my next question.

“Can I- can I stay with you?” I ask, hoping he won't just close the door on me. He looks into my eyes and I silently plead with him, begging him to say yes, I don’t know if I’d be able to sleep otherwise, and I breathe a sigh of relief when he silently nods holding the door open for me to walk through. “Thank you.”

His room is almost exactly like the one I was set up in. The walls are bare, and a chair sits in the corner. The only difference is that the bed is bigger than mine but looks just as soft. What strikes me is the complete lack of personal items in the room and I turn to face Bucky. “Do you live here?”

He shakes his head. “No I have my own place, I just figured you’d be more comfortable here than at a stranger’s house.” He closes the door but stays where he is watching as I gingerly sit on the bed feeling the soft blanket beneath me. 

"Well I don't know if I'd call you a stranger anymore," I said looking up at him. He had his arms crossed over his chest. "I mean, you saved my life twice today. That bumps you up to at least aquaintance status." That smile I saw in his eyes earlier returns and spreads to the rest of his face as he chuckles and comes to sit on the bed beside me while still keeping a respectable distance.

"You're funny," he muses. "I like that." 

It sounds like he's got a crush on you. Sarah's words repeat in my head and I smile to myself. "I guess that's my coping mechanism." I must be feeling bold right now because the next thing out of my mouth surprises us both. "I talked to my sister about what happened today, and she seems to think that you 'have a crush on me'." I raised hands in air quotes to show they were her words and not mine. "Is that- I mean I told her that you were just helping me, 'cause, well, you're an Avenger, it's what you do. Right?" I take a deep breath to steady myself and calm my mind that's now panicking. 

Bucky just stares at me, which isn't helping, and opens his mouth as if to say something as he processes my rambling. Finally he sighs and smiles. "So first of all: I'm not an Avenger. I'm just a cybernetically enhanced guy trying his best to live a normal life. And second of all," he pauses and chews the inside of his lip leaving me to wait in agony for his next point. "Second of all: she's not wrong." 

Those three words hit me like a freight train and knocks the wind out of me. I wasn't expecting an answer like that, I was prepared for him to shake his head, tell me anything but that. Now I'm at a loss for words so we sit there staring at each other again waiting for the other to make the first move.

I briefly glance down at his lips, they look so soft and inviting and my mind goes blank except for one thought: Fuck he’s hot. I look back up to his eyes and my brain restarts, I blink a few times and turn away so I can think clearly. “I should- uh, I should go to sleep.” I crawl further onto the bed and slip under the covers facing away from him, and after a few seconds I feel the bed dip as Bucky gets in behind me. The bed is big enough to allow us to have our own space without the chance of wither of us accidentally touching the other, and I lie there with my eyes closed willing myself to sleep but the reality of Bucky lying there so close yet so far away keeps gnawing at the back of my mind and I wonder if I’ll actually be able to sleep.

tags: @oliviawestbay @doralupin01 @whatsupbucky

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Imperfect and Human Are We

Prompt: Whumptober Day 30, Recovery

Summary: MarkBop struggles with the temporary loss of his voice after the events of "Choke," and in a manner of speaking, so does Cameraman Jim after the events of "Silenced." Maybe Bop is just the person to help CJ start healing.

Warnings: Injury recovery, self-worth issues

Tagging: @peribloke @tired-eldritchhorror (ask to be tagged!)

Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober Series)

Enjoy!

~

MarkBop hates this.

One week ago, Bing brought him into Dr. Iplier’s clinic after he’d been strangled by a mugger. Apparently there’s nothing surgically that Dr. Iplier can do, and Bop just has to wait for his throat to heal on its own.

And that means no talking.

Not that he can, anyway. He’d lost his voice moments after he woke up from nearly suffocating to death and hasn’t yet gotten it back. Even if it comes back tomorrow, Dr. Iplier won’t let him talk until his throat is good and healed again.

It’s not that Bop is so upset about not talking. He knows a little bit of sign language, and Oliver gave him a notepad he snagged from the control room so Bop can write out more complicated sentences. He can still communicate with Bing and Oliver, still let Dr. Iplier know how he’s feeling.

But he hates not being able to sing.

Singing is what he was made to do. He was created to be a singer, and so he is. He listens to music nearly every waking moment, devouring albums like they’re candy and then listening to them again, over and over, until he knows every note. He only ever pauses the endless music to hum to himself, to tap the counter he’s sitting at, to draw out the earworm in his head by singing it. He’ll stay up all night, singing and recording until his throat hurts, and in the early hours of the morning he’ll crawl into bed with Bing and whisper love songs to his sleeping form until he falls asleep himself. If he can’t sing, then what else is there?

What else is there?

“What if I forget?” Bop writes on his notepad for Bing one day, too anxious to think through signing it. “What if I spend so long not singing I just…forget how?”

“You won’t forget, babe,” Bing reassures him, kissing him gently, “There’s no way you could forget how to sing. When your voice comes back it’ll be just like it was before.”

Bop wants to believe him, he knows Bing is right. Dr. Iplier has explained as much to Bop a few times already, reminding him that he’s a figment, and he can heal from anything. Reminding him that he was made to sing, and he could never lose that about himself. But Bop is afraid that every day he goes without singing is a day he loses muscle memory, breath control, skill. He might still be able to sing, but he’ll be out of practice and worse for it, won’t he? He fears gearing up to sing for the first time when his throat heals only for his voice to screech, to wobble when he wills it to be steady, to crack on high notes or fail on low notes.

But, even with all that anxiety in his head…he knows it could be worse.

Lightning apparently strikes twice at Ego Inc. because just a few days ago, Cameraman Jim was brought into the clinic with bruises, a black eye, and a crushed hand. Bop wasn’t there when he was admitted, but to hear Bim tell it, it was horrific. Poor CJ endured surgery on his hand to set the bones and remove the fragments that were too small to realign. His hand is bandaged, casted, immobile, leaving him with only one hand to sign with. Bop’s seen him after his surgery a couple times now during his daily check-ins with Dr. Iplier. Both times, Reporter Jim was there too, sitting on CJ’s bed with him and pressing his forehead to CJ’s, not speaking, just staying close.

Bop knows CJ’s left the clinic by now, probably healing the same way Bop is: One day at a time, hoping, wondering, fearing.

It’s confirmed when RJ approaches him one day, out of the blue.

“Music Jim?” he asks, “Can I, um, ask you for something?”

“Sure,” Bop signs, “What’s wrong?” RJ seems nervous, uncertain, to the point where Bop could’ve mistaken him for CJ had he not, well, spoke. The twins are practically impossible to tell apart without their differing personalities.

“It’s about CJ,” RJ says, “I mean, I know he got hurt and he has to get better, but…” He sighs, fidgeting. “But what happened really messed him up. More than his hand and his eye. He just…he won’t communicate at all. Not with me or Bim Jim or Doctor Jim or any Jim!” He hugs himself. “He could still sign okay with only one hand, and he could shake his head or nod or point to things, and I’ve tried to make him feel safe enough to speak but just…nothing works. He won’t do anything. I know he’s upset but I don’t – well, I mean, I kinda do know why he’s so upset.”

“Why?” Bop asks. He’s sort of forgotten that RJ prefaced this by asking for Bop’s help. He’s worried now, and curious, because he didn’t hear much about what happened to CJ, but what he did hear wasn’t good.

“Because the guys who hurt him…they…” RJ’s voice gets quiet. “When I scared them off, one of them called CJ the r-word, and I think…I think they said a lot of bad stuff to him while they were beating him up.” RJ sniffles. “And I think that’s why they broke his hand, because he was probably signing to them, and they must not’ve…not’ve liked it.”

Bop doesn’t know enough sign to convey how horrified he is by that knowledge. It must show on his face, because RJ nods in acknowledgement.

“It’s not the first time people have been rude to him,” RJ continues, “But no one’s ever been so cruel, and it’s never…” He whimpers. “It’s never happened when I wasn’t there.”

Bop fumbles with his notepad to write It wasn’t your fault as fast as he can manage. RJ sighs when he reads it.

“I know that, I guess,” he mumbles. “Bim Jim keeps telling me that. And he’s right, and you’re right, I just…I’d feel better if I could get CJ to communicate with me.” He brightens a little as he looks at Bop. “That’s why I came to you.”

What can I do?? Bop writes, hoping his face conveys his confusion accurately. It must, because RJ actually smiles a little.

“Well, what happened to you was a little similar, right?” RJ asks. “I mean, it was some cruel human who hurt you, and you got hurt somewhere important to you. I was thinking you could relate to him, and maybe help him out of this.”

Bop considers. It stings a little to be reminded of the reason for the notepad he’s writing on, but he knows RJ doesn’t mean anything by it. And maybe RJ has a point. Maybe CJ feels like Bop does: Gutted, purposeless, drifting, begging for the future and fearing it in the same breath. From what apparently happened to him, it wouldn’t be surprising. And Bop likes the Jims; they’re weird and goofy but sweet, and they keep asking to report on Bop’s latest covers and song releases, even though Bop is far too nervous to go on camera. If he really can help CJ, he wants to at least try.

“Okay,” Bop signs, and RJ immediately lights up.

“Thank you, thank you, Music Jim!!” he exclaims. He hugs Bop, a gangly long-limbed hug that’s tighter than Bop would’ve expected, before jumping back to bounce with excitement. “CJ’s in Bim Jim’s greenhouse!”

Bop nods and can’t help giving RJ a pat on the head before he goes.

Bop’s been to the greenhouse himself a few times, and he’s not surprised that CJ’s there. It’s a beautiful space, full of green and growth and light shimmering in from…somewhere. The greenhouse isn’t on the roof or even the top floor, yet natural light streams in through the ceiling anyway. Bop always shrugs it off as one of Ego Inc.’s weird-yet-convenient magical quirks. When he steps inside, the place is as bright as ever, the plants are glittering with water drops. The room is misty and humid, but it doesn’t take long to find CJ. He’s looking at a huge bundle of violet chrysanthemums. His hair is damp, there’s a plastic bag beaded with water over the cast on his hand. He’s probably been in here for a while.

Bop approaches him, making like he’s looking at the chrysanthemums, too. CJ’s eyes flick to him, but he says nothing and continues to stare at the flowers. He doesn’t smile. There’s bags under his eyes. Bop’s heart aches to see how bad he looks. He takes a deep breath and turns to CJ, catching his attention.

“Hey, CJ,” he signs. “How are you doing?”

CJ looks at him but doesn’t respond. Not a nod, a head shake, a furtive glance, nothing. No wonder RJ was so upset, if this how CJ’s been acting. Bop takes out his notepad.

I’m guessing you’re not doing great, Bop writes, showing CJ the notepad after. CJ makes the slightest sound, a huff of breath out his nose, as if to say yeah, obviously. But it’s something, at least. Bop smiles, a little sheepish but happy for a response.

Yeah, I know, but I heard about what happened to you. Bop cringes as he writes, remembering what RJ told him, comparing it to the cast on CJ’s hand and the thin, yellowed ring still around his eye. I’m sorry. That sounds horrible.

CJ frowns, lips pursing like he’s holding back a reaction. He seems like he wants to look away but doesn’t want to be rude.

The moment stretches long and uncomfortable. But Bop keeps looking at CJ, and CJ keeps looking at Bop. Maybe CJ is tired of staying silent and closed-off, or maybe Bop came at the right time, or maybe Bop somehow said the right things. But CJ lifts his good hand, hesitant.

“You got hurt, too,” he signs, “How is it not being able to talk?”

Fortunately, Bop can read sign better than he can use it, and CJ’s questions rings loud and clear.

It really sucks, Bop admits. I’m still afraid I won’t be able to sing right when my voice comes back, even though everyone tells me not to be.

CJ nods, considering, before raising his hand again. He lowers it, biting his lip. He finally raises his hand and replies, still apprehensive, but once he starts he can’t seem to stop.

“Why can’t I just talk like normal people?” he asks, fingers shaking, “You can’t talk because you’re hurt. I don’t have any excuse. My voice box works but I can’t use it. RJ keeps telling me that those guys who hurt me were wrong, that I’m not stupid or weird because I can’t talk. And I know if I asked him why I can’t be normal he’d say I’m fine how I am or that I’m normal for me or something, but I just…” His hand pauses in the air for a moment. What Bop thought were misty droplets on his cheeks might actually be tears. “I don’t want to hear that. I just hate that I’m not normal. I hate that I need my hands to talk and one of them is broken. I hate how I feel broken.”

Bop feels his eyes tear up. He stares at his notepad, unsure of how to respond for a long moment.

I feel pretty broken right now, too, Bop finally begins, Being silent sucks. It feels so hard to get a word in sometimes, it makes me feel like I’m disconnected from people. This house is so loud, everyone’s so loud, and I love it, but I love it less when I can’t be loud, too. It’s like it swallows me up.

CJ’s eyes are wide and glittering as he reads, like Bop is speaking to his deepest thoughts. Maybe he is, for all Bop knows. Bop smiles gently as he continues writing.

But it’s not all bad, he continues, I feel like I’m better at listening lately. Not that I was bad before, but it comes easier now. It’s easier to focus because I’m not talking or singing to myself all the time. And I know, really know, who my friends are. The ones who look to me in the conversation and give me a chance to communicate. It’s hard to talk with people, but not with Bing and Oliver. They don’t talk over me or through me, they still keep me in the rhythm. I think there’s a lot of good in being quiet, as long as you have people you can still make yourself heard around.

CJ whimpers, wipes his eyes with his good hand before replying.

“I wish I could talk. All the time.”

Maybe you will one day, Bop writes, You’re still young compared to most of us. Maybe you’ll get enough confidence to talk all the time. But even if you don’t, you’ll still have all your other ways of talking and interacting with the world that people like me don’t, that we don’t even know about. I’m gonna go back to talking all the time and be a worse listener and bad at focusing again, but not you. He grins. You’ll still have all this cool stuff going on. It’s hard not being normal, but it’s fun, too. Plus, being normal is hard sometimes, too. Being a person can be hard. We’re all just people. We’re all weird here, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

CJ nods. He still looks sad, but he seems to be gathering himself.

“Maybe part of it is that I can’t film right now,” he admits, fingers slow. “With my hand like this, I can’t even hold a camera. I already tried shooting one-handed with my smaller cameras but I just can’t do it. I wouldn’t feel so bad if I could just…just…”

Do what you were made to do? Bop writes. He shows it to CJ, sees him duck his head with the slightest embarrassed smile, before he continues. I get that. It’s really hard. But I’m sure Doc’s told you that your hand will heal completely and eventually it’ll be like it never happened. That’s what he told me about my throat. He sighs. It’s hard to believe, but we have to trust him. He knows what he’s talking about. We just have to get through this. I think it’d be easier for you to get through this if you actually tried to communicate with people a little. He lightly, playfully shoulder-checks CJ, who’s come to stand beside him to read what he’s writing. CJ smiles again, a little bit broader.

“Yeah,” CJ signs. He looks away from Bop, back to the chrysanthemums. “I’m not really used to not being able to share an experience with RJ. He doesn’t know how I feel right now, he doesn’t know what I’m thinking, when he usually…just does. It sounds weird in words, but I like not having to worry about that. I like that he knows me so well. But he doesn’t know what I’m going through now, he wasn’t there when I got hurt, and he can’t…figure out all this stuff.”

So tell him!! Bop writes, animated, and CJ actually giggles when he reads it. He’s your brother, he loves you, he just wants to help you be okay. He’s the reason I came to talk to you in the first place. Bop grins. Maybe he knows what you’re feeling right now better than you think.

CJ nods. He smiles at Bop, a full, sunny smile, and his eyes sparkle. He hugs Bop, not as tight as RJ did but just as haphazard. This time, Bop has enough time to hug back. For a long moment, all is quiet, quiet without the internal noise of communication, only the dripping of water throughout the greenhouse and the hum of the fans. The sun somehow shines through the ceiling onto the pair, dappling the floor around them, and the flowers are as bright as ever, those purple chrysanthemums standing proud.

“Thanks,” whispers CJ, so quiet that Bop almost doesn’t hear it.

Bop’s jaw drops and his heart swells. CJ’s never spoken to him before. Excitement courses through him but he’s determined not to ruin the moment. He only hugs CJ tighter in response. When they finally pull away, they smile at each other, each elated but a little awkward. They don’t sign or write anything more, and nothing more is needed. CJ only waves goodbye, still smiling, before practically bouncing out of the greenhouse, no doubt to find RJ. Bop waves after him and sighs to himself, happier than he’s been since he got hurt in the first place.

He lingers in the greenhouse for a while in front of those purple chrysanthemums, just enjoying the moment.

[itscooltobefanficy]

Feeling Alive- Part 11

Summary: Dance school!AU (or the Step Up/Pride and Prejudice mash up nobody asked for). Bucky Barnes is forced to take twelve hours of commercial dance classes to pass the year- and that just happens to be your regular weekly dance class.

Introduction

Part 1 (Slow Hands)

Part 2 (Stay)

Part 3 (There Will Come a Time)

Part 4 (Weapon of Choice)

Part 5 (Came Here For Love)

Part 6 (Where the Sky Hangs)

Part 7 (When Can I See You Again?)

Part 8 (Manhattan)

Part 9 (Skip To The Good Bit)

Part 10 (Poison & Wine)

Clean

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Reader

Chapter 12/?: Clean

Word count: 2412

Warnings: swearing and ANGST

Just... YOU GUYS. I am utterly indebted to your enthusiasm and love. Thank you a hundred times. (Because TSwift is who she is, the version of Clean I linked is a cover, but you can find the original on Spotify).

Y: Hope you’re OK, despite the awful situation

Y: Give my best to Steve tomorrow

Y: Try to sleep as much as you can

Y: OK I’m hoping you’re asleep, good night

~~

Friday is your day off. You can’t decide if that’s good or bad. On the one hand, you don’t have to try to get through a day at work, with all that happened yesterday clouding the back of your mind- on the other, you have nothing to distract you from the horrible reality of the situation. You force yourself to get up and make a start on tidying your apartment. Anything to keep your mind from swerving back to the ugly bundle of Steve’s knee resting on stark white blankets, or the expression of hopeless anger on Bucky’s face.

Y: Hope you’re bearing up

Y: Try to keep eating etc.

You know that Bucky’s probably in class or at the hospital, so the fact that he isn’t replying doesn’t bother you too much. Instead you try to stay focused on the tasks in front of you: vacuuming, sweeping, rearranging your bookshelf until finally everything looks neat once more. Then you check the time and pick up the phone.

“Hey!” Wanda’s voice is strangely cheerful in your ears. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Wanda,” You answer, then take a deep breath. What do they say about bad news? There’s no easy way to deliver it. “Ah, it’s about Steve?”

“Steve? Is he OK?”

You silently offer thanks to Wanda’s preternatural talent for reading your voice.

“Um, no. Not really. He’s dislocated his knee.” Even just saying it, your words shake slightly with left-over shock.

“Oh, God. Shit. When did that happen?” You can picture Wanda’s face, creased with helpless concern.

“Yesterday,” You tell her, “I’m sure the Academy will be in touch but-”

“No, I’m glad you told me,” Wanda instantly reassures you. “Are you OK?”

“Bucky came to see me,” You say, slowly, unsure how to put what you’re feeling into words, “Then I went with him to the hospital… They’re all really-”

“I can imagine,” Wanda says, gravely. “Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing today. So far.”

“It’ll be OK. He’ll be OK.”

“Wanda, he’s not going to be able to dance again.” Your voice wobbles, unshed tears threatening once again. God, you’re sick of crying.

“Oh, God. Do you want me to come over?” Wanda’s offer is perfectly serious; she’s come across town for less before. But you can’t face dealing with such a concentrated outpouring of sympathy and concern. In fact, you can barely face dealing with anything at all. All you want to do is bury beneath the duvet and hope the day, along with all its misery, disappears before you next resurface.

“I’m OK,” Is what you say, rather than coming across as totally insane. “Thanks, it means a lot- but I’m OK. Just want today to be over with.”

“Yeah, OK. Just know I’m on the end of the line if you need me.”

Your heart swells with affection. “Thanks, Wanda.”

“Anytime. Look after yourself, yeah?”

“Will do. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Stay strong.” The line clicks off.

You drag in a few carefully measured breaths. The pressure on your chest eases slightly.

Y: I’m going to bed, know I’ve been saying this a lot but hope you’re OK

You eventually fall asleep with your phone face down on the floor, trying to switch off the tick of anxiety in your heart.

~~

On Saturday, you get a text at half eleven.

Hi Y/N this is Nat. Steve is out of hospital. Has yet to hit anyone with his crutches although I’m sure it will happen soon. We are safely back at the academy. Thanks for your help on Thurs.

Reading it, your heart momentarily unclenches- he’s out of hospital, in good spirits by the sound of it- but then, rereading it, a different kind of discomfort begins to well up inside you. Of course, you’re glad Nat has sent you an update; but why is Nat texting you? Nat doesn’t even have your number.

Maybe his phone’s flat. That’s what you tell yourself, and that excuse sustains you through the rest of the day.

Y: Probably building up a backlog of these but glad to hear Steve’s back safe

Y: Sleep well

~~

On Sunday, you cling to imagining a smashed screen, maybe dropped in the attempt to get Steve up those lethal stairs. The waves of doubt tug stronger and stronger, but you can still ride them out. One more day, you insist, one more day and he’ll text you. One more day and it will be fine. Just wait one more day.

~~

Monday comes, and there’s no word. At work, you’re flat and subdued- but after telling Lola what happened to Steve, she accepts that as enough reason for your mood and leaves you alone. You keep your phone in your bag the whole day, and when you unlock it to find a blank screen as you walk out of the library, you can taste the bitter sting of disappointment coating the back of your throat. But there’s one last option left. One last hope, one last maybe.

You tap Bucky’s number and hit call, then lift the phone to your ear. All he has to do is answer. Then you can put your fears to rest.

All he has to do is answer.

After the twelfth discordant ring, you slowly drop your hand and press your thumb carefully to the screen to end the call.

It’s still not over, a voice inside you insists, it still might be alright. He’ll come on Wednesday and make everything alright.

You try not to think of it as a fool’s hope, and carry on walking home.

~~

On Tuesday, you carry a hot, singeing coal around in your chest. It stings with each prod of your thoughts in Bucky’s direction, with every hesitant, anticipatory glance at your phone. Nothing seems able to dislodge it. You find yourself chewing your lip, fidgeting with your hands whenever they’re not occupied. Your mind won’t drop the why, the what’s happening, the is he OK, the did I do something wrong; until each worry is gnawed to splinters that jab and crack under your constant scrutiny.

That night, you convince yourself it’s not worth crying over, and force yourself to sleep, even as your thoughts run in endless circles.

Why?

What’s happening?

Is he OK?

Did I do something wrong?

~~

You’re strung as tight as wire through the hours of your Wednesday shift. When the clock reaches five, you seize your belongings, wave a quick goodbye and dart out the door. You spend the minimum possible time back at your flat- diving in, struggling into your workout clothes, grabbing your bag and dashing out again- before striding, with butterflies fighting in your stomach, down the road towards the bus stop.

You know you’re early- which is why you’re surprised to see Sam and Nat already waiting at the stop. Only Sam and Nat. Your stomach drops to rest somewhere on the pavement.

Still, at least you might get an explanation. You square your shoulders and hurry over.

Nat looks grim. That’s your first clue. Sam’s smile is forced, slightly uneven at the edges. You look from one to the other. “Are you OK? How’s Steve?”

How’s Bucky? You want to ask, but you keep a lid on that question.

“Steve’s OK,” Sam replies, “Not great, but he’s dealing with it.”

You nod, then force yourself to say it.

“Where’s Bucky? Is he-”

You don’t even know: OK? Better? Worse? Avoiding me?

Nat glances at Sam.

“What?” You ask. You’re trying to keep your voice light, joking, because it’s fine, right? Everything’s fine. But when Nat looks back to you, her face makes your heart sink.

“Bucky got an exemption from Fury,” She says, carefully, “This was supposed to be their last week anyway. They only had two more compulsory hours to complete, so he asked to be excused from attending the class.”

“Oh.”

Your mouth can’t manage anything else. What does that mean?

You stare at Nat, pleading wordlessly with her to explain. She grimaces slightly, then shifts her gaze to Sam. His eyes widen; then he looks at you, and his expression settles into something more sympathetic. He takes a deep breath.

“Don’t- don’t beat up on yourself, Y/N, but Bucky’s…”

He trails off, and your heart lurches.

“Bucky’s what? Is it Steve? Is it the auditions?” You’re losing the fragile grasp you had on your temper; your normal checks have been frayed by the crises of the past few days.

Sam’s face crumples up. “We think so. He’s just- sometimes he just puts the blinkers on and that’s it-” Sam reaches out, maybe reacting to the way your heart feels like its collapsing in on itself, and delivers the final blow with a rough kind of care in his voice, “- For everything else.”

You don’t need to ask anything more. You don’t even want to hear it; you can’t stand to hear the final nail being hammered in the coffin.

Everything else: everything us.

That’s it for everything else.

Your throat has closed up, but you refuse to cry here, in case Nat and Sam bear word back to the academy of your reaction. You’ll be goddamned strong. So, you swallow painfully and stare away down the street as you force down the roiling, sickening waves of emotion. Deal with it later, you tell yourself, right now, hold it together.

So you do. You hold it together through the bus ride, then through Wanda’s looks of concern as you prep for the class, and then through the class itself. So what if you perform the movements with all the feeling of a robot? If it keeps you from crying in front of everyone, it’s worth it. The two hours pass in both an agonising drag and the blink of an eye; all of a sudden the music has stopped and everyone’s filing off the floor. Wanda makes a beeline for you.

“Talk to me. Right now.” She gently takes your arm and steers you towards the corner. A black tide seems to rise in your throat at her words; you wrestle it down, but not before your eyes start stinging.

“Y/N?” Pepper appears at your shoulder, her delicate face pulled into a frown. “Are you OK? You seemed a little…”

“Sad,” Clint signs, striding up to your little huddle.

The black tide surges again. You frantically glance around the studio- but everyone else seems preoccupied packing up. Some are already heading out, waving to Wanda. You bite your lip.

“Um, I’ve got something to tell you all.”

~~

Fifteen minutes later and the four of you are sat on the floor of the studio. Pepper has her arm around you, Wanda is handing you her emergency sugar stash, and Clint looks thunderous.

“So,” You sniff, “I think that’s it.” Your voice shudders on the last word, but you push on. It’s nearly out, the whole sorry tale, and you’re already feeling a little lighter. Your hands keep up with your words, just about. “I don’t think my pride can take chasing him anymore.”

“Damn right!” Wanda says, indignantly, just as Clint begins to sign something else.

“Do you want me to go beat him up?”

You snort, but shake your head.

“He’s not worth it,” Pepper affirms, her face stern.

“He’s not,” You agree, ignoring the way your chest clenches at that statement, “I don’t even know why I’m so invested. Why I was so invested.”

Wanda shrugs. “Life’s a bitch, sometimes.”

“You’re not wrong.” You give a watery laugh. “Feelings are a bitch.”

Clint shrugs, then winks at you. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Remind me, how many dates have you had with Laura now?”

Clint shuts up, and the three of you laugh. Wanda springs to her feet.

“Come on, group therapy is closing for the night.”

You accept Clint’s hand up and manage a smile. “Thanks, guys. For-”

“Don’t mention it,” Pepper instantly replies.

“Any time,” Clint tells you.

“Absolutely.” Wanda pulls open the door. “Now, Pepper is going to drop you home in her fancy car, and I’m going to sort out our competition entries. Clear?”

“Chrystal,” You reply, then impulsively stride over and hug her tightly. “Thank you.”

“You’ll be fine,” She tells you, then presses a smacking kiss to the side of your head, “You’ve got us!”

Looking around at them, you actually believe her.

~~

Pepper does drive a fancy car. She runs her own start-up company, providing appropriate technical support to the city’s high-profile firms and organisations, and although she’s ever modest you know she’s very good at what she does. Her apartment is on the other side of town, near the financial district, so she normally carpools with Clint- but when Wanda issues an order, you don’t usually disobey it. So you hop in the back of her Mercedes without protest, and listen idly as she turns on the radio.

Oddly, you feel better for having sobbed your heart out on the floor of Scarlet Studios. The combined pressure of disappointment, sorrow and fury hasn’t disappeared; but it has eased. When Pepper draws up to the curb outside your flat a little while later, you lean forward in your seat and dangle your phone in your hand.

“What?” Clint’s sign is a little cramped from having to turn around.

Fuck. You don’t actually know the sign for erase. You instead give an apology and say, “Pepper? Can you erase Bucky’s number? I don’t trust myself to do it.”

Pepper twists in her seat and looks carefully at you. “Are you sure?”

You nod decisively. “I’m done.”

Done with bright blue eyes and dry laughter and a smile that simultaneously split apart and stitched back together your poor, battered heart. Done with sharp wit and stupid jokes and the gentle heat of swaying together to music that soared and seduced. Done with pouring all of your soul and care into someone who clearly didn’t want it. Done with waiting, and hoping, and hurting all at once.

Pepper clearly sees the certainty in your eyes. She takes your phone, swipes it open and you watch as she opens up your contacts and begins scrolling down.

Bucky (Dancing)

Delete this number?

With one tap of her finger, it’s gone.

AN: I’M SORRY WRITING THIS CHAPTER WAS SO SAD BUT STICK WITH ME LOVELIES (you’ll never go hungry again!). Sorry, Disney references are probably a side-effect of so much misery. The Pain Train trundles on! You know where to find me to shriek/cry/flail. Thank you again for your support <3 (P.S. Thirteen is finally finished. Haven’t quite decided if there are going to be one or two more parts before the epilogue- which you guys will decide on! So basically a few days until the next update. Stay strong <3)

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Part 12