#at every siren i hear my heart pounds in my chest i am so terrified of wildfires .

[heavenlydreamangelflyhigh]

they cut our power last night at 1am, the winds were so ferocious and there was so much debris that my eyelids felt gritty and i hsd sand between my teeth from just being outside. the glass table we had out there shattered, there is dirt on the windowsills of shut, locked windows and my lungs feel like glass

economic recession And a dustbowl welcome back 1930s!

[moldisgoodforyou]

on my mom's grave

wordcount: 3.7k

warnings: n/a

______

“How drunk do you think we’re going to get tonight?” Sophie asked, tipping back the last of a lemon White Claw as the two of them got ready for the night in her room.

“Dunno. I’m not really feeling it tonight.”

She paused, glancing back at him. “Do you not want to go?”

He shook his head and took the can from her, disappointed to realize there was nothing left. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m cool. Probably just won’t drink.”

“Is this about the phone call with your dad earlier?”

Rafe sighed, gritting his teeth. “It’s not - I’m fine, Soph.”

She crossed her arms and eyed him over, trying to get a read on his body language. “You’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” After Rafe tugged his shirt over his head, ready much faster than Sophie, he paced around the room for a few seconds before speaking up. "Hey, so...Sarah's getting presented at the annual deb ball in spring."

Sophie seemed unbothered, turning her back to him as she wrestled her way into a crop top to get ready for the night. "Those are still a thing? Cool, so you're going home for it?" She paused, glancing over at him in his polo. "Undo another button."

He did so, then rocked back on his heels with his hands in his pockets, trying to figure out what to say next.

She slowly turned back to him, realizing he was still tense across his shoulders. "What?"

Rafe rubbed the back of his neck, a tell-tale sign he was nervous and Sophie wasn't going to like what he was about to say. "Yeah...my dad wanted you to come home for it too."

"What? Ward? Why?"

"He, kinda, uh, wants you to be presented too?"

She just laughed, turning back to the mirror with her brow furrowed in slight concentration as she applied another coat of mascara. "Okay. Sure." But when he didn't elaborate, she turned back to him again, lips pursed. "Cameron. Tell me you told him no."

"...I didn't not not tell him no."

"Rafe."

He cracked under her stare. "I'm sorry, okay! Look, it's easy, all you have to do is throw on a pretty white dress and gloves -"

"A dress that costs thousands of dollars -"

"Hundreds, but - I'll cover you, obviously -"

"No." She turned back to the mirror, shaking her head. "Fuck no. I'm not going."

"Sophie." He nearly begged, stepping closer and running his hand through his hair. "Baby. C'mon."

"Don't call me that. No. I don’t fit into that part of your world.”

"Not even for me?" He pleaded, giving her a half-hearted grin. He ignored her last sentence, knowing any argument he had for her point would be dismissed in two seconds. "I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important, you know that."

She turned back to him with crossed arms, fixing him with a glare. "Do I know that?"

"Soph."

"Don't, Rafe." She warned, holding one hand out, but he stepped closer anyways.

"Angel. Please. For me." He forced a smile, tried cracking a joke. "I really don't want to have to call him up and get read the riot act."

She furrowed her brow and Rafe reached out and smoothed out the lines in between her eyebrows before he could stop himself, making her soften just a little. "If I were to say yes. What would I have to do?"

"Just wear the dress, attend a dinner, party the night before and party that night." He paused, thinking. "And stay at my house for the weekend. Be civil to my dad.” At her eyeroll, he fixed her with a more serious gaze. “Meet my grandparents. Hang with my sisters. C'mon, Wheezie adores you."

"You're lying."

"I'm not. She thinks you're cool. Sarah too, but she’s less likely to admit it." He kissed her forehead, hands going to her waist. "Please?"

"It's that important?"

"I swear. On my mom's grave."

Sophie frowned immediately, reaching up to fix his hair. "That's not necessary."

"You'll do it?"

"...Yes." When he made a small fist pump, she fixed him with a glare. "Only because I love you."

“I'll go down on you every night for the next two weeks -”

She rolled her eyes at his promise, shoving lightly at his chest. "You basically already do that anyways, Rafe -”

"Okay, fine, I'll tie you up, something, anything, god, thank you, Soph. You don't know how big of a favor this is. I mean it." He sighed in relief, the tension draining from his body.

She ignored him, turning back to the mirror to apply lip gloss, carefully smearing the wand across her lips. “Why does he want me to do this? I don’t understand.”

“Is that the sticky stuff? I hate that stuff, it gets all over me when we’re kissing -” He started, then quickly shut his mouth as she flipped him off without looking. “Uh, ‘to integrate you into our society.’ Direct quote.”

“Oh god.” She groaned, setting the lip gloss aside after applying it, then started searching through her jewelry case. “So I’m gonna have to be on my best kook behavior?”

He snorted. “Sophie Flint, a kook. Not likely.”

“Watch it.” She pointed a warning finger in his face. “You don’t see anything weird with this? Your dad hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“Rose does.”

“That’s not true either.”

Sophie raised her eyebrows, challenging him.

He shrugged, relenting with a sigh. “You’re not her favorite person, no, but neither am I.”

“You think this was more her idea? For Sarah to do it too?”

“Nah, actually, pretty sure it was my grandparents’ idea. Probably Granddad. My mom went through all this, so…”

She turned her back to him and gathered her hair, offering the clasp of her gold chain to him. “Your mom was a debutante?” She questioned with interest.

_______

Rafe rarely ever talked about his mom - Sophie had only found out how she died from a newspaper article in the online archives, and hadn’t wanted to bring it up since. All she knew was that Mrs. Cameron had passed away in a car accident when Rafe was fourteen.

Both Sophie and Rafe’s schools shared a building, despite them going to private academies, and overlapped for certain advanced placement classes. In freshman year, they were together for AP chemistry, with Sophie sitting proudly at the front of the class while Rafe sat in the back with a group of his friends, often cracking jokes at inappropriate times or throwing wads of paper at each other. Freshman year Sophie was the epitome of stuck-up - she resorted to insults instead of making friends and kept to herself, terrified someone might find out that she was on scholarship and wasn’t truly meant to be there.

The day after the car accident, Rafe was unusually quiet. Sophie hadn’t heard the news yet, it was barely second period and she wasn’t looped into the trail of gossip like the rest of the girls at Greenville. They were partnered for an experiment that day - Rafe had groaned when he heard Sophie’s name after his from the teacher, and Sophie barely suppressed a roll of her eyes. She took charge right away, getting all the supplies and set up their work station without even addressing him. After a few minutes, she slid the small glass of solution to Rafe, raising her eyebrows. “You can do the work too, you know.”

He was completely spaced out, only glancing up when she said something. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Sophie rolled her eyes, lifting a beaker and extending it to him. “Yeah. I know. Just drop in 10 milliliters of the solution, it’s not hard.”

Rafe sighed as he rested his elbows on the edge of the table, rubbing his temples. “Look, can you just do it?”

She finally took note of the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders were slumped, but misinterpreted it all. She smirked, taking on a taunting tone. “What, you’re still drunk from last night or something?”

He gritted his jaw, his entire body growing tense, and tugged at the collar of his polo. “Fuck off, Flint. Not in the mood today.”

She recoiled immediately, setting the beaker down with a little too much force. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“Don’t be a fucking bitch.” He spit back, standing abruptly. She winced as the stool squeaked across the floor, drawing everyone’s attention - as if they hadn’t had it already. Kelce stepped over and went to grab Rafe’s arm, possibly pull him away, but Rafe just wrenched his arm out of his grip. “I’m fine.” He growled, storming out of the classroom without looking back.

After a few moments of stunned silence, with Sophie on the verge of shocked tears, their teacher cleared her throat and redirected everyone’s attention, pointing one of the girls over to join Sophie instead. Molly made her way over, occupying Rafe’s seat in the space across from her. “Poor Rafe,” she murmured.

Sophie frowned, pulling her jacket tighter across her chest like a shield of armor. “Poor Rafe? What?”

Molly nodded, lowering her voice a little. “Yeah, you didn’t hear? I’m surprised he’s at school, honestly.”

“I didn’t...what happened?”

“Oh.” Molly frowned. “Um. You know that winding road, the one that goes downhill toward the ballet studio?”

Sophie didn’t, she didn’t even have a clue - the ballet studio was on the entire opposite side of the island from where she lived, the height of Figure 8, and she hadn’t ever had a reason to even venture that way. “Yeah? What does that have to do with Rafe?”

“Um, well, it was pouring last night, and his mom was driving down that road. I heard she lost control of the car and wrecked it. There was, like, a drunk driver that swerved into her lane, but she tried to avoid him and hit a tree.” Molly told her, careful on the details.

“I’m pretty sure the Camerons can replace a car.” Sophie replied, not wanting Molly to confirm where she thought she was going with the story. She dug her nails into the skin of her thigh anyways, feeling anxiety bubble up in her chest.

Molly shook her head, slowly. “Mrs. Cameron died, Sophie.”

Her heart dropped and she bit the inside of her cheek, hard. “Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m surprised you didn’t hear the sirens last night, I saw like eight police cars last night headed toward his house. I heard Sarah was in the car too, I think -”

“Is Sarah okay?” She couldn’t concentrate on anything but her ears ringing, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Oh, yeah, I think so. But god, how awful, right? The funeral is next weekend, Ward Cameron told my dad this morning. Is your family going?”

“Um...I don’t know.” Sophie glanced toward the door, hoping to god he would come back through the door and Molly would confess that it was all a joke, that she hadn’t just started something with Rafe on that day of all days.

________

Rafe nodded. “Yeah. ‘Course she was. I think she really enjoyed it, actually, she’d always tell Sarah when she was little about how pretty she would look in the dress, how important it was to learn the right etiquette and -” He cut himself off, realizing he was sharing too much, and deftly fastened the clasp before pressing a kiss to the top of her head, letting her step away. “All that.”

“Huh.”

He smiled to himself, thinking about how his mom would let little Sarah play dress up in her old ballgown with gloves that went up to her armpits, wobbling around in high heels twice the size of her feet. His mom would tell Rafe he’d have to watch out for Sarah with her escort, keep him in line, and that when he was in college he’d be presenting a girl as well. But he was nine and didn’t think of girls in that way quite yet, so he always scowled and left the room.

“It’s kind of cool, I think. The tradition of it all.”

“The ball? Have you been?” She caught his eye in the mirror as she adjusted her top, not wanting to push for too much information before he’d shut down altogether.

“No...I was gonna present Brooklyn at the one here in Columbus, sophomore year’s normally when the girl gets presented, but. Yeah. No, I meant, it’s kind of cool that you’ll be doing something my mom did.” He rubbed the back of his neck, meeting her gaze for a moment then looked away.

“Yeah?”

“She would have liked you. I know it.”

Sophie perked up a little, cocking her head. “You really mean it?”

“Yeah. She would have liked that you have an attitude with me.” He grinned when she turned back around and took his hand, tugging him over to sit on the bed next to her. “She was always saying I needed to find someone to match my energy, keep me in check. I wish she could have met you.”

“I did meet her. Once.”

He perked up, cocking his head. “You did?”

“Yeah, I served her when I was working at the restaurant at the country club once, I was only fourteen. I remember she made some comment about me being too young to work and I told her I liked it. Then she asked my name, and I remember she seemed like she knew already when I told her.” Sophie nodded. “She was really nice, left way too big of a tip and wrote my name on the bill. I always thought that was funny.”

Of course she knew, Rafe thought as he smiled to himself. She knew, because Rafe had come home and complained about a girl getting on his nerves every single week since seventh grade. She knew, when the complaints turned to “why won’t just be nice to me” and his mom had quipped that Sophie probably liked him - he had scoffed and walked away. She knew, because his mom had come home from the country club and told him Sophie Flint was a much nicer girl than Rafe painted her to be, and Rafe had immediately turned bright red and been embarrassed that his mom sought her out.

“I like that.” She leaned into him, taking his hand to play with his rings. “Will your grandparents be there? At the ball?”

“Oh, yeah. They sit on the board, I’m pretty sure, it’s this gigantic charity event. I’ll introduce you, but don’t worry, they’re chill. Nothing like my dad.” He adjusted himself so she was comfortable, then pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

She chewed on the inside of her lip, treading carefully. “I thought your dad grew up on the Cut.”

“He did. But my mom, no way. Kook through and through. That’s, uh, where a lot of my trust is from. After she died, um. She wanted to be sure me and Sarah were set.” He shrugged, ears turning red as he felt his throat getting tight.

Sophie frowned, feeling him closing off, and leaned closer to hug him, arms wrapped tight around his waist. “You know you can talk to me about this stuff whenever, Rafe? I’d like to hear more about your mom. She sounds like an amazing woman.”

“She was.” He nodded, settling his arms around her shoulders and rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes for a moment. “Thanks, Soph. This is a really big deal to me, that you’ll go. I know it’s not your scene.”

“Love you.” She murmured. “You’d better buy me a pretty dress.”

He laughed, leaning back just enough to tip up her chin with one finger and kiss her. “You’ll be the best looking one there. I swear.”

“Oh, I already knew that.”

“Okay, okay, big head -”

She swatted his arm, laughing as she ducked out from under him. “Watch it, or I won’t go -”

“I was kidding!” He exclaimed, wrestling with her for a moment before grabbing both her hands and pinning them above her head.

Sophie sucked in a breath, caught off guard. “We are going to be late.”

“We’re already late.” He pointed out, taking a moment to realize the lack of innocence in the position, then slowly smirked. “We could be later. They’re not gonna miss us.”

“Rafe.”

“Sophie.”

“No.”

“You’re positive?”

She just gave him a look, staring him dead in the eyes and willing herself not to react when he leaned down with a grin and kissed the bridge of her nose.

“Please?”

“Fine. The ball or sex right now. You choose.” She raised her eyebrows, arching her back a little on purpose, pressing her hips up against his.

“That’s not fair.” He frowned, immediately shifting his hips away and moving so both his knees were on either side of her instead. “This is blackmail.”

“Your choice.” She reminded him, biting her lip for good measure.

He faltered, sitting back on her thighs and letting go of her wrists. “Soph, it’s - it’s for my mom. I swear. Not for my dad, Rose, anyone else.”

Sophie dropped the teasing act right away, propping herself up on her elbows. “Right, right, sorry. I won’t push it.”

“It’s alright.” He climbed off her, standing, and offered his hands. “Five bucks James makes some joke about us being late because we were having sex.”

“I’m not taking you up on that.” She rolled her eyes, accepting his hand and pulled him into a hug. “Love you long time, Cameron.”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Love you too, favorite girl.”

“What do the dresses look like?”

“Uh...white?” Rafe shrugged, tugging on her hand to get her to follow him downstairs. “I dunno. When we go home for Thanksgiving I’ll book you an appointment to get fitted, I think it’s at some bridal shop on the mainland.”

“Sounds expensive.” She muttered, shaking her head.

“It’s…yeah. It’s not cheap.” He admitted, then shrugged as she followed him out the door, starting their walk toward the bars. “I’ll take care of it though. All of it. By the way, have you booked your flight home for Thanksgiving yet?”

“Um...no. I was going to look this week, it’s probably too late now though.”

“Hm.”

“Hm? Why, are you going home?”

Rafe nodded, not looking her in the eye. “Taking the plane.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“The plane...that no one else will be on...and it’s kinda ridiculous for you to waste money and carbon emissions on a separate flight…” He tried convincing her, a small smile playing on his lips as she rolled her eyes.

“You need to learn how carbon emissions work if you’re going to use that as an argument with me.”

“So that’s a no to sex on the plane?”

Sophie stopped in her tracks, confused. “That wasn’t - Rafe, what?”

“You, me, alone on the plane. Sorry, was I not clear enough?”

“I didn’t even say yes -”

“Oh, so you’re going to leave me all by myself on our one-year anniversary -”

She raised her eyebrows, challenging him. “When’s our anniversary, Rafe?”

He raised his back, stopping on the sidewalk to face her. “On my terms or yours? Because if we’re going with mine, it’s Halloween -”

“No, I had to ask you to be my boyfriend, it’s November 18th -”

“That is such an arbitrary thing, Sophie -”

“Hey! Stop stealing my vocabulary.” She interjected, pushing at his chest. “It’s the 18th, because I had to ask you out.”

“Okay. Whatever story makes you happy.” He shrugged, laughing when she shoved at him again. “Come on the plane with me.”

“...Fine. Only because I don’t want to miss our class reunion party on Wednesday night, I’m pretty sure some people still don’t believe we’re together.”

Rafe laughed loud at that, looping his arm around her shoulders and started walking again. “Pretty sure Topper still thinks it’s all an elaborate lie.”

“Does he know that we nearly hooked up in his room last winter break?”

“No.” He grinned. “Are you forgetting that you had to sprint into his bathroom right when I was about to kiss you because of some tequila thing you had?”

She tilted her head slightly. “You’re remembering wrong. That was sophomore year, before we were dating, I barely drank last year...you almost kissed me?”

“What? No, I think...remember, we were arguing over something, then you whispered in my ear to go up to his room and left. I went up a couple minutes later.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t going to make a move, Brooklyn and I were together then.”

Sophie scowled at the mention of Brooklyn. “I must have been hammered, I don’t remember any of this.”

“You wanted me.” He smirked, trailing his fingers along her collarbone. “One might say desperate.”

“No, no. All I remember is waking up in Topper’s bed feeling like shit, I had some crewneck on from your academy.” She ignored the blush creeping up her neck.

“How do you think you got there and got the sweatshirt?” He frowned. “I took care of you, Sophie. You really don’t remember?”

“I think I blacked out.” She confessed, shaking her head. “You took care of me?”

“Of course I did. Plus, I thought I was about to get some, I would have done anything for you.” He grinned, laughing when she shoved his shoulder. “Really thought that was the night I’d finally win you over.”

“Yeah, well, you can blame Sarah for her heavy pour that night.” She shook her head, smiling fondly. “I really wish I remembered that.”

“I wish you remembered too. Maybe you would have given me a chance before then instead of setting me up with Julia.”

“I - no! She asked to be set up with you, no, I did not instigate that at all.” She defended herself straightaway, cheeks flushing pink. “She said if I wasn’t going to make a move, then she was going to.”

“Sure. Whatever you believe.” He teased, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as they arrived at the bar. “Hey, Soph.”

She rolled her eyes, going to get in the winding line outside until he tugged her wrist back, pulling her to his chest. “What?”

“Thank you. I mean it.”

Sophie softened, smiling as she rose up on her toes to kiss him. “Of course, baby. I’ve got your back.”

taglist: @drewstarkey @lemur46 @jjmaybanksbaby @edgeofgr8 @quxxnxfhxll @obxtess @hoodpankow @vtgirl802 @outerbankies @messagesinthesky @nicolecarsley @svechnikolan @ilovejjmaybank @obxtess @abbyj1822 @oopsiedoopsie23 @g4bster @jjmaybankzz @freddymaybank @dontjinx-it @illbesafeforyou @moniamaybank @tovvaa @jailcalledlife @sunshineitsfine44 @randomficsandshit @outerbankspreferences @outerbanksbro @karsinner @kkmaybank @whoeveniskendall @lemur46 @outerbankies

[scorsoneamelia]

I like the way you write II wanted to ask if you could write a story where there is a shooting and link is shot

thank you so much :’) i like this idea a lot!!

this is gonna be a big one sorry it took me a while to write because it’s heavy lol

yall are gonna hate me for ending this the way i did lol

tw: shooting

         The thing about life is that you never know what to expect, everyday you live life never knowing how the day is going to end. Some like the idea of never knowing, some think it makes life more meaningful while some people sit on the edge full of anxiety because they need to know when their last breath will be. It’s like how some will take a test to tell them if they have the cancer gene, the Alzheimer’s gene, a disease, etc., and some will refuse to know because they’d rather not know than always expect the worst.

         Death is so familiar to Amelia, she’s seen her own father fall to his death right in front of her, even though she might not remember it as well as her brother did, the trauma still impacted her. Rolling over to notice that her boyfriend’s heart was no longer beating and his body was ice cold, her brother getting ripped out of her life too soon; it’s all familiar to her. You’d think this is what she’d be used to, the worst case scenarios but nobody really is ever used to hear the worst news of your life, no matter how familiar it may be.

          They had just been leaving from a dinner with Link’s parents, and although neither have them have spoken or seen much of one another since the afternoon on the beach; since the proposal, it was quiet. The only time they’ve communicated lately is for the sake of their son, who was currently being watched by Meredith. Link told his parents they’d both be there because it was ‘easier’ than explaining the alternative. Dinner was fine, the least amount of awkward it could have been, both of them putting on a smile and an act which was easy for the two of them since they acted like a perfectly happy married couple for her sisters before. This was easy.

          Link parked the car in front of a gas station, a small one along the outskirts of the city because he needed gas and a snack, even though he just ate. Neither of them said much to one another besides, “Be right back.” which came from Link and he was already exiting the vehicle.

            Amelia hadn’t said much to Link directly since he picked her up, she wasn’t sure what the right thing to say was and whatever she wanted to say, he wouldn’t care to listen and she knew that. He was hurt; and he was upset and even though she had her own reasons and feelings, hers weren’t important because Link was hurt.

             Her finger was tapping down onto her contact list to find Meredith’s number, a heads up that they might be a little big longer than expected cause the drive home will be a long one. Her attention was diverted away because there was a loud noise; an explosion sound and there was screams immediately followed after. Civilians were running down the street, people jumping into their cars to speed away, the sound of their rubber tires squealing against the pavement along with screams; terrified screams. A young girl ran out of the gas station, blood soaking her pant leg from the knee down and she was crying, her hands were trembling and she was dialling 911 on her phone.

             The gas station, the realization came and a wave of panic hit her, her heart pounding against her chest and now her hands were shaking. A man was running to the bleeding girls side, putting pressure on her leg while she cried out. Quickly, Amelia pushed open the passenger door and the screams were even louder. “He has a gun!”

             It only took a few moments before Amelia was throwing the gas station door open, knowing damn well that if there really was someone with a gun in there that she’d be risking her life. But there was something that was making her go in there, she wasn’t thinking and her heart was beating so hard in her chest it felt like it was going to pop out, and her hands were shaking and she couldn’t keep them still. Just as she expected, a white man with dark brown hair had the man who worked behind the counter at the gas station at gun point. His finger hovering over the trigger and his knuckles white, the innocent man had his hands raised in the air. The man had a black cotton mask covering his face so you could only see his hazel eyes, a backpack secured to his shoulder.

              There was a chime when Amelia opened the door, attention being drawn to her and immediately her hands were raised into the air, her breath being caught in her throat. “Don’t move, or I shoot.” The guy wasn’t facing her yet, but his eyes were burning into her. This was all too familiar, way too familiar. A man being held at gunpoint that worked at a gas station, her being in the same building and her hands trembling.

               “Amelia,” Link had been hiding behind a corner and he came out to expose himself, the gunman turning his attention to Link and pointing it directly at him, only causing him to raise his hands as well. “Sir, please, don’t do this.”

                Now that the shooter had his back towards the clerk behind the counter and his gun facing Link, he slowly reached for the cellphone to dial all emergency vehicles. Amelia didn’t move, she was frozen in place and her hands were still raised in the air and she was breathing deeply and slowly because she was about to have a panic attack. “One step and I shoot!” The man yelled, his voice was deep and it sent a chill down Amelia’s spine.

                “Link,” Amelia choked out, her voice thick with terror and there were tears trying to escape her eyes. “Link.” She said again, a cry coming out through her throat.

                 “Shut up!” The man yelled even louder, stepping closer to Link, his grip tightening around the gun. “I will shoot every single one of you.” There was no doubt this man would, there was a look in his eyes, a look that would terrify anyone.

                 There was sirens off in the distance, meaning someone had already called because the innocent man behind the counter couldn’t hold the phone still by how much his hands were shaking. The gun man heard the sirens, his eyes looking over at her as if she called them. “This pretty boy your boyfriend?”

                 “Uh,—“ was she supposed to lie in this type of situation? “Yes—, yes he’s my boyfriend.” Her breath was caught in her throat, it felt like she couldn’t breathe, like her throat was closing in on her.

                 “That’s too bad,” the guy laughed. His laugh was evil, the type of evil that made your stomach turn. A group of police cars rolled up at the front of the building, sirens and lights on and police men and women were surrounding the building within seconds. “Fuck!” He was yelling now, a frustrated hand running through his hair and he was bringing the gun down away from Link’s chest. Link thought it was enough time for him to make a run for it, ducking down and trying to make it to the front door.

                There was a ringing in her ears after the gun was drawn and the man’s finger pushed down onto the trigger, the bullet embedding into Link’s rib cage, blood wetting his white coloured shirt. She stopped breathing, it getting stuck at the bottom of her throat and her chest was tight. She could feel her heartbeat throughout her entire body, she could hear it in her ears and her hands wouldn’t stay still. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe and her chest was closing in. Her vision was blurry, black auras surrounding her eyes, and she was lightheaded, so dizzy she might fall over and it felt like her knees were about to buckle.

             The door behind her was thrown open and the chime went off throughout the store, her ears still ringing and she could barely hear anything. “Hands in the air!” The police were inside now, all guns drawn to the suspect. “Drop the gun!”

            She still stood there, losing her balance and grabbing onto one of the counter tops behind her. Link was laying on the ground, blood pouring out of his side and he was coughing, his face scrunched up in pain. His hand was reaching down and covering the injury with his palm, trying to put pressure on his own wound. Amelia couldn’t move, her legs were giving out and her entire body was shaking.

            She stood there for a few more moments, as the gun man tried to escape, running to the back of the store and one police man was talking to the man who worked at the station and another was standing over Link, calling for emergency back-up.

            “Sir,” the police woman was kneeling next to Link, addressing the injury. “Can you hear me? You’re gonna be okay, the ambulance is on their way.” Link was groaning and you could hear his pain.

             “Oh my god,-“ Amelia finally snapped out of it, running over to Link’s side, placing both of her hands on top of his ribcage putting as much pressure on the wound as she could. “Link, oh my god.” She was stumbling over her own words, panic arising.

             “Stay— Stay with me! You’re not dying, stay awake!” She was yelling, completely terrified, you could hear it in her voice and you could hear her crying. “Link, I love you so much, okay? I love you, I’m sorry...” She was in hysterics, you could make an ocean by the amount of tears that were streaming down her face.

            Her hands were covered in blood, and she was continuing to hold pressure. “Stay with me, Link, don’t close your eyes. Don’t-“ she choked on her own years. “Don’t leave me too.”

           Link was coughing even more now, she could see spots of blood in his mouth and his eyes were fluttering shut, so much pain written all over his face. “No, no, no!! No!!” Amelia was yelling even louder now, a police officer having to step in and try and comfort her. “You’re not leaving me too! No! Link! I love you, I love you!”

          “Ma’am,” the police officer said, placing a hand on Amelia’s shoulder. “No! Don’t touch me!” Amelia snapped, one of her hands reaching up to his throat and she could feel a pulse, it was faint and weak but it was there.

         “His pulse is weak, we’re not losing him! I am not letting you guys lose him.” Her hands were moving to the centre of his chest now, and she was doing CPR, because she needed him alive. 

         “I can’t do it without him, I won’t- I won’t survive this.” She wasn’t lying. She will not survive this. She can’t lose another person that she loves, especially to a gunshot.

          The police officer had the audacity to try and pull Amelia off while her bloody hands where pushing down on the middle of his chest, trying her best to keep him alive. “No!” Amelia screamed, using one of her hands quickly to shove the police officer away.

           “No! He’s dying, what are you doing?!” Ignoring the police, she continued giving Link CPR, also ripping her jacket off to put it against his wound. “I’m a doctor, I know what I’m doing.”

           She was sobbing, her entire body taken over with cries and shakes. There was still ringing in her ears and she was trying to slow her breathing so that she wouldn’t have a panic attack. There was so much blood, it was pooling on the floor and his white shirt was almost completely dark red and Amelia’s hands and wrists were coloured. She’s a doctor, a damn surgeon, she should be used to the sight of blood but there was so much. She could hear the sirens off in the distance meaning an ambulance was coming, he might be okay. She hopes he’ll be okay, she’s praying. Link’s eyelashes were slowly opening and then slowly closing, his hand weakly reaching for Amelia’s that was moving up and down on his chest. A weak cough escaped his lungs. “Please-“ She cried out, there was blood on her own shirt now.

            A team of paramedics and a gurney was next to Amelia, and they were taking over and instead of leaving them to do their job, she leaned over and grabbed Link’s face in her hands. “I can’t do this without you, Link, I love you.”

           The paramedics where then lifting him onto a gurney, a mask put over his face while one of the paramedics pumped it, giving him some oxygen. She grabbed his hand, hers shaking in his and his was weak, but his fingers were loosely intertwined with hers. They were rushing him into the back of the ambulance, and she followed, sitting down beside him in the van while paramedics worked to keep him alive.

             “I’m in love with you,” she whispered, tightening her grip on his hand. “Oh my god, I’m in love with you. Please god, I need him to live.” She was praying, begging, she needed him.

             The ambulance was already making their way to the hospital, Grey Sloan being the closest. She pulled his hand up to her cheek and there was still tears spilling out of her face, and her other hand was running through his hair softly. “You’re going to be okay.”

————————

             The doors of the ambulance flew open and the paramedic jumped out, pulling the gurney out with her. “GSW to the chest, pulse is there but it’s weak.” Owen Hunt, head of trauma was the one who was there to treat him, followed by her sister, head of cardio, Maggie Pierce.

              “Oh my god.” Maggie said softly, stopping in her tracks for a brief moment to focus on what she was looking at. Link in a gurney, covered in blood, and Amelia was also covered, stepping down from the ambulance. She was concerned, very worried, and confused why her sister was covered in blood. “What happened?”

             “Crazy gunman,” Amelia’s voice was so soft that Maggie could barely here her. Her eyes were puffy and it was obvious that she hadn’t stopped crying. “There was a robbery at the gas station and he shot him.” She broke down in tears again, falling to the ground. “He shot him, Maggie. I saw it happen, I saw-“

             Maggie kneeled down in front of her while Owen rushed Link inside the hospital to bring him into a trauma room. “Hey,” Maggie whispered. “I’m going to do everything I can to save him.”

            “Please-“ she choked out. “Please make sure he’s okay.”

             While she stood outside the window of the ER room, it felt like the world was moving in slow motion. The doctors working on Link were moving slowly, in her mind, and they were assessing the situation, their stress levels through the roof. Amelia’s hands were still shaking and she was covered in blood, if nobody knew what happened they’d think she was the one who was hurt.

            “He’s crashing!” Maggie yelled, immediately moving to his chest to start compressions. “I need a crash kart!”

             The nurses were running in with a kart with a defibrillator, soon after Maggie reached down for them. “Charge to 300!” She yelled and placed them on both sides of his chest before telling everyone to clear, and then they shocked him.

          “No rhythm, charge to 400.” She places the paddles on each side again before the shocked him once more. “C’mon.”

           “We have a rhythm!” Maggie yelled, placing the paddles back onto the kart. Amelia let out a sigh of relief before Bailey was running over, peering into the trauma room window herself.

            “Oh my god, what happened?” Bailey asked, slightly reaching over and touching Amelia’s shoulder for support, but she was numb. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak, the world was moving in slow motion around her. Her mind was all over the place, and she kept feeling dizzy.

           “I have to bring him to surgery.” Maggie said, coming around the corner while pulling the gurney with her. “I’m going to do everything I can do.”

            “I’m coming with you,” Amelia finally spoke, stepping forward and grabbing onto the gurney. Her pulse was still high, and her mind was still fuzzy.

            “You’ll wait in the waiting room like every other family member.” Bailey ordered, which made Amelia’s eyes roll and a huff came out of mouth.

           “Please, Bailey.”

           “It’s the rules, you know that.” And Amelia gave up, because it was the rules. She would have to wait like everybody else, and try to be patient but she felt like she won’t be able to sit still.

            “I’ll give you updates as much as I can.” Maggie brushed her shoulder before they were going through the Authorized Personnel Only sign and she was sliding down the wall. She couldn’t cry anymore, it was like she was out of tears. She sat on the floor, her back pressed against the wall while the blood dried onto her sink. She didn’t want to move, she couldn’t move. The waiting room was too far, she thinks waiting here on the floor is a better idea.

            How can something like this happen again? How can she relive something as traumatic as this? Will she even survive this?

[allyvampirelass29]

Chapter 8: Good Old Fashioned Nightmares

A HEROES Fanfiction   Angel Before the Fall Series By: Allyssa J. Watkins

"You know how I love a good old fashioned nightmare...... Sorry to keep you all waiting but I promise I'm worth it. Such generous hosts. I hope you don't mind that I brought a plus one. The invitation was too tempting, I couldn't resist sharing the fun........"

CLAIRE!!!! CLAIRE!!!! IT'S PETER, WHERE ARE YOU!?!? CLAIRE, C'MON PLEASE, ANSWER ME!!!!"

Peter tore down one long hallway and then the next, yelling loud over Claire's terrified screams and Sylar's taunts, feeling sick, his chest hurting like he was having a heart attack. "CLAIRE!!!! CLAIRE!!! DAMN IT, SYLAR!!!!!! Around another corner, and then another, revealing endless empty hallways, and each time his stomach clenched, so sure he was going to find her laying in a pool of her own blood, Sylar standing over her, having his sick fun, finger raised, laughing murderously.

"CLAIRE!!! TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE!!!" He screamed, his heart pounding, slamming against his rib cage. This was all his fault. He had just talked to her an hour ago. He was the one that gave Noah the go ahead, convinced him Claire was safe in her dorm. He'd been so sure...... She sounded so happy and carefree on the phone. He hadn't been worried at all. He was a damn fool. This wouldn't be the first time he'd underestimated that psycho. If Sylar had gotten to Claire that could only mean one thing...... Renee was dead.

"CLAIRE!!!!"

"Oh will you BOTH shut up? You're ruining my entrance, my ambiance. Claire, Claire, Claire, she can't hear you!!! But I LOVE that you can hear her. Shall we go louder?"

A spark of electricity over the intercom and Claire's tearful agony intensified.

"Ohhhh just listen to your daughter scream, Noah. Nice set of lungs, your little college girl. If I rip them out, do you think they'll grow back? So many possibilities. I can't pick. Do you feel it? That horror, that dread gnawing at your soul? I know, I did. Thanks for the idea, Bennet. SUCKS doesn't it? Payback's a BITCH."

Peter clenched his jaw, still running. I can't wait until you're laid out in a drawer at the morgue, you disgusting CREEP, spike nine inches deep in your skull, about to be fried alive. Then I won't have to hear your annoying as hell voice for the rest of my life!!! Every hair on the back of Peter's neck stood on end, his skin feeling like pins and needles, his stomach writhing. He'd known he was here, lurking in the shadows. He didn't know how, he just knew...... he....... felt him. They were connected somehow, maybe it was from the gruesome mistake of absorbing Sylar's powers that one time, but he could sense it. Great. I'm a Sylar Detector.

Suddenly he heard movement, running footsteps that were hurrying his way, and before he rounded the next corner, he froze. As he stopped, so did the footsteps. Matt? Claire? Or much more likely....... Sylar? Claire's screaming had stopped, and although the red lights were still flashing danger in the darkness, the sirens did not resume. It was eerily silent. He could hear his own heavy breathing, and his heartbeat pulsed along with the red lights. Man, I wish I had a gun...... he thought tremulously, wishing he'd taken Matt up on his suggestion. You were right, Parkman. I would feel better. He heard the click of a pistol right then, and flattened himself against the wall, breathless. Sylar. Peter could only heal when Claire was around, and who knew how close he was to her. Sylar could kill him, right here, right now. The element of surprise was the only weapon in his arsenal, his last ditch effort to stay alive. You haven't shot yet...... you don't know who I am. He steadied his breathing. It was time to fly into the face of danger. Literally.

He heard one tentative footstep, and he inhaled deeply. Flight then fight. One shot....... This is for you, Claire. Peter felt himself take off like a bullet, just as a fired shot sped by his head, and he collided with someone full force, knocking him down, a sigh of relief as he heard the gun clatter across the concrete. He quickly punched the shadow in the gut, but the shadow moved swiftly, easily pinning him down, hand on his throat. He waited for the finger to rise, or for the gun to fly back into Sylar's hand, but instead, the red lights glinted off of a pair of horn rimmed glasses.

"What the HELL are you doing, Peter!?!? I could have killed you!!!"

"Noah!!! I heard the gun, I thought you were him I-"

"I thought you were Sylar too."

Sylar chuckled maliciously, his voice like silk. "Isn't that adorable? Sorry Boys, but I'm one of a kind. Oh too bad, Noah, just a little to the left, and you would have shot him right out of the air! That really would have made my night! The sight of the two of you trying to kill each other has amused me so much, I'm going to do you a little favour. Besides, the kill isn't worth it, if there's no chase........"

"What the hell does that mean!? What's he going to do!? Peter asked frantically, as Noah slammed a new clip into his magazine, his eyes lethal behind his glasses.

Claire's sobs returned, as if Sylar was moving the intercom microphone toward her. "Claire, don't you want to see your daddy? Yeah? Then run, rabbit........ run."

A loud screech as the microphone fell over, a door slammed, and Sylar laughed coldly. "Claire Bear's on her way, Bennet. Follow the breadcrumbs."

"Breadcrumbs? Wait, why would he let her go!?"

"Blood, Peter. He means the trail of blood."

Peter went to take off flying, but Noah caught him fast, and clenched onto his forearm. "Noah! What are you doing!? We HAVE to find Claire!!!"

"I have to find Claire," Noah said, his voice cracking, tears in his eyes, one leaving a trail on his cheek. "YOU have to find Sylar. He let her go, because she's........ She's not healing....... She's dying slowly- bleeding to death. He's buying himself time while he hunts for Ally. It's a long story, but he injected her with Mohinder's serum, and-"

Peter felt his own tears fall, as Noah's eyes spilled over, his throat too choked up to speak, and for the first time, highly trained, expertly skilled, special agent, Noah Bennet, looked completely helpless.

"Noah....... This is my fault. I-I did this to Claire, I was so STUPID!!!"

"Don't go there, Peter. I was convinced she was safe too, thought I was just being over protective, hyper paranoid. When you're a father, you'll learn there's no such thing. I did this........" Noah's hand shook as he drew another pistol from a hidden ankle holster, handing it to Peter. "And I'm going to stop it. That sick, sadistic bastard dies TONIGHT, but first I'm going to break every bone in his damn body."

"Let me come with you! We'll find Claire, and go after Sylar together!"

"There isn't time. You have to stop him NOW, or he'll get away. I need you to go to the control room. I set up a trap of my own, after his little shop of horrors in Texas, knowing how much he loves the sound of his own voice. The minute he pressed the intercom button, nearly every door and window in the room was sealed shut, and after about half an hour, the room was sucked of all the oxygen. It's not going to last long, and it's certainly not enough to kill him, but it will slow him down. He has about ten minutes of suffocation before his normal brain function returns and he figures out that turning off the intercom opens the door. That's your window."

"Go get our girl," Peter said cocking his own pistol.

Noah turned away, and then stopped. "Peter...... if you have to kill Ally....... do it. It's worth the risk, worth the loss, if it destroys his heart."

**********

Two shots fired at the panel, and the storm door in the foyer opened to complete and total darkness. Noah burst out into the oblivion, his eyes red and swollen, both hands grasping his weapon. He remembered the secret stairwell behind the door closest to the intercom, the one door he didn't seal off. It would have appeared at the time, to Sylar, to lead out into another hallway in the building, when it actually lead outside. That must have been the door he pushed Claire out of. Once closed however, it automatically locked from the other side. Sylar, having set his distraction loose would have tried the far door, and by then the suffocation would have started. Godspeed Peter.

He sprinted through the dirt, and it wasn't long until he came across the foyer guard, his throat slit.

"CLAIRE!!!! CLAIRE!!!!" Noah shouted to the moonless night. It was so overcast, he could barely see a thing, the wind forcing him back, merciless, and he coughed, breathing in the dusty air. He ran around the right side of the building, headed toward the stairwell, his gun raised, intermittently eying the ground for blood trails. If my girl dies, I'm going to kill yours, Gabriel, right in front of you. I'm going to make her suffer, until you're desolate, out of your mind, and then I'm going to make you suffer, torture you until you beg me to take your life. I'm going to make you ask for it, say it out loud.

Noah raced past one of his snipers, dead, fallen from the roof, a bullet imbedded in his forehead, sniper rifle and attached silencer still in his hands. Darren. He ran faster. Another and another, Jimmy, Anthony, Thomas, Adrian, all five of them, murdered, and Noah felt his fury stoked as he realized, sickened, that the bullets that killed them were from their own guns. Sylar had used his powers, and forced them to shoot each other.

"DADDY?" It was faint, still far away, but Noah's heart leapt at the sound of his daughter's voice. Still alive. She's still alive.

"CLAIRE!!!! Baby!!!! I'm right here!!! I'm coming!!!!"

Noah tore through the dirt, kicking up clouds, lowering his gun, tears of joy blurring his sight, as he saw a sudden flash of shoulder length blonde hair, and a petite form staggering toward him.

"CLAIRE!!!! CLAIRE YES, Baby, you're okay!!!! I see you, Sweetheart!!!!"

Noah practically flew to his daughter's rescue, he didn't even feel the ground beneath his feet he was running so fast, didn't even notice he'd dropped his gun. But the closer he got to her, the more paralyzed he felt, assaulted by Sylar's heinous handiwork.

"Daddy!!!! Daddy something's wrong...... I'm not- I'm not healing!!!!" Claire's terrified face was dirty, streaked with blood and tears, a jagged gash the length of her forehead still bleeding, her skin fighting desperately to knit itself back together, but failing. Her dark blue University of Arlington Sweatshirt was torn, and soaked with blood, another huge cut in a half circle on her stomach. A smaller cut on her bottom lip, a few on her chin and clavicle, and one knee completely ripped open, her jeans spattered with even more blood.

Claire couldn't run anymore and she got close enough to Noah to collapse in his outstretched arms. He wrapped them around her as tightly as he could, his legs giving out beneath him, as he clinged to her, and he couldn't fight it anymore....... he sobbed and sobbed, his chest heaving, holding her closer, wiping the blood away from her face with his hand.

"You're okay, Baby, you're going to be okay! I'm so sorry, Claire Bear, I'm so sorry he hurt you, oh my God. Baby, can you forgive me? I promise, I'll never let him hurt you or anyone else ever again."

Claire hugged him back, eyes scrunched, crying into his shirt. "I'm so scared, Dad! I don't understand! Why can't I heal? It never takes this long!"

"I know, I know, Baby. Shhh, Mohinder's working right now to reverse it."

"It hurts........." Claire sobbed harder, and Noah cradled the back of her head. "It hurts so bad! She looked up at him with stricken, glistening eyes. "Dad........ am I going to die?"

Noah felt fresh tears fall, his hand shaking as he smoothed her forehead, stroking her bloodied hair. "No, Claire Bear. I'm not going to let that happen. I love you. I love you so much!"

"I know I-I don't say it enough," Claire managed tearfully, grasping his arm. "But....... I love you too, Dad."

Noah cried harder, and went to pick her up like he used to when she was a little girl, as she started to tremble, her blood dripping, staining the dirt red. He didn't know what happened next. Her shrill scream was like an arrow to his heart, as she was yanked away, pulled from behind, out of his arms as if by an invisible string. Noah's whole body shook violently, hands frozen out in front of him, eyes wide, incredulous, yelling her name as she disappeared from view.

**********

"DAMN it, Renee, you better be DEAD!!!!" Noah hissed furiously into his phone as the line picked up, back inside the outpost. "You had ONE job, KEEP MY DAUGHTER safe from that KILL HAPPY LUNATIC!!! If he hasn't taken off your whole damn head yet, believe me, I WILL!!!!!"

What Noah heard next stopped his heart mid-beat. He thought for sure he was having some kind of traumatized, psychotic break from reality.

"Wow. Overreact much? Dad, he's not dead, just discovering his long dormant love for Nicholas Sparks. C'mon don't be mad, and please don't kill him, I'm fine."

Claire's voice, which not fifteen minutes ago had been rife with tortured sobs, sounded happy and light, as she munched on something.

"Cl-Claire?" He stammered, desperately confused.

"No, it's your other daughter," she joked, crunching in his ear. You, okay? You sound weird."

"Where are you.........?" He asked breathless, his eyes darting back and forth. This...... this wasn't possible.

"Ughhh for the thousandth time, I'm watching a movie, in my dorm, with my friends! There is no alcohol, there are no drugs, there are NO boys!!! Except Renee. And that's your fault. Don't believe me? Send Peter over for a fly by, I'll save him some popcorn."

Noah's hand began to shake with dark intention, the confusion becoming wounded fury, gritting his teeth. This wasn't Claire. But he knew exactly who it was.

"SCREW you, Sylar!!! How much of an idiot do you think I am!?"

A girly laugh, and Noah's blood ran cold, disturbed that Sylar could sound so much like her, know her laugh, her humour, her mannerisms.

"Are you really sure you want me to answer that question? Another laugh and then the voice on the phone got really quiet. WAIT, hold on, why did you just call me Sylar!?!?"

Cut the act, you sick, son of a BITCH, you think I can't tell when I'm talking to my own daughter!? Oh you've got some nerve!!! WHERE'S CLAIRE!? You better hope she's alive. Either way you're screwed, because even if she is, you've PISSED me off SO much, I'm still going to torture your little girlfriend. You killed your own girl the second you touched mine!!!! Deal's off."

"Dad, are you on crack? This is me, this is Claire! What the HELL is going on? Why do you keep calling me, Sylar!? Is he there? Oh my GOD!!! I could kill Peter, he told me Sylar got away, and that you guys were just hanging out!!! I'm an IDIOT!!! I should know by now when my father and uncle "hang out," it usually means the world is going to end!"

"STOP IT!!!!! You conniving, soulless BASTARD, I said STOP IT!!!!! I just watched my daughter nearly bleed to death in my arms, don't you DARE impersonate her now, DAMN IT!!!!!"

"Dad........ you're scaring me. What do you MEAN bleed in your arms? I've been- I've been here the whole night! What happened?"

"Did you talk to Peter?"

"Yeah, earlier, I don't understand."

"Peter thought he talked to Claire, and it was YOU all along. Nice one. Well I hope you've had your fun, because I'm about to have mine."

"DAD!!!! This IS CLAIRE!!!!"

"It's not funny, Sylar. Hang up the damned phone."

"Daddy....... I swear, it's me. I promise."

"Prove it."

"I-I starred in the school play as Cinderella when I was seven, and I asked you to be the prince."

"What, did you ransack her room before you took her?"

"You helped me make butterfly wings out of paper mache for my third grade art project, the first movie you took me to see was The Little Mermaid. For my sixteenth birthday, you got me my first pair of real diamond earrings, and when I had my heart broken by Jason Mays, Freshman Year, you called in sick, and we ate double fudge ice cream and watched old Audrey Hepburn movies all day long.

"Who coached your T-Ball Team?"

"You did."

"What did I tell you the night of your Junior Prom?"

"That I shined brighter than every star in the sky, and if you could have had anyone be your daughter, it would still be me. You said you'd never been proud of anything in your life, until you looked into my eyes that first time. That you felt....... overwhelmed and terrified. Because now you had something to lose.

"Noah?"

Noah grabbed his radio, more tears in his eyes. "Do you have him?"

"No. He's not here, Noah. The doors were still sealed, but the place was empty, I had to break the doorknob to get in. According to the surveillance tapes he was never in this room."

"That's not- That's not possible."

"There's something else."

Noah heard a muffled sound and then a click.

"Hello Boys. Now it's a party, huh? So nice of you to wait up for me."

Sylar, sounding exactly as he had earlier, word for word.

"Noah....... it's a recording. The whole thing. His voice, Claire's screams. It was set on a timer. Right up until our accidental run in, and then it was relayed through a live feed, and a phone taped to the intercom. He played us.

"Dad? Dad are you there? Dad, answer me! If you need me to come I will!"

Noah raised up the phone slowly, his fingers struggling to hold onto it. "That's right, Claire Bear, you got it exactly right......... It's really you, isn't it? Stay-" Noah shook his head, wiping his eyes, trying to remember to breathe again, as intense relief flooded through him. "Stay with Renee, Baby. Promise me. I need you to stay safe."

"But Dad! I can help!"

"Promise me, promise me right now you won't come here, Claire."

"I promise. Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"You stay safe too, okay. Take that conniving, soulless bastard out. For me."

"Language, Young Lady." Noah said, half laughing, half crying. "I'll do it Claire, for you......."

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 

[thereen]

Dream Journal: The Old House and the Would-Be Murderer

I walked through the meandering halls of a dark house. At times, my fear of the dark got the best of me and the urge to run out into the night was overwhelming, but alas, a door was nowhere in sight, and neither was a window big enough to fit an adult. The floors creaked, cool gusts would blow by me. A ghost? Perhaps. An open window? Probably more of a possibility, but I, being the kind of person who believes in things unseen, decided on the ghost option, giving myself the fright that I wanted so hardly to shake. 

Suddenly, a red flashing light shone in the distance. “Curiosity killed the cat,” I thought to myself, but nevertheless, I was drawn to it. I could feel my heart pounding, the lump in my throat building. A web waved like a flag every time that ghost flew by, and each time, it seemed to have more flies caught in it. I tried hard to avoid it touching me. It was right in the way of the light, but it would not stop me; I would see what this crimson signal was all about. I ducked under the web and crawled past it. I got closer and closer to the light. I felt as if it were calling to me. “Come closer,” it would say. “I am your friend.” Strangely, it brought me comfort.

I finally reached the room the light was coming from. The walls were illuminated red each time it would flash, its light piercing through the webs that tried to hinder it. “No more of this. I’ll free you,” I said to it. I looked around for something to grab the infested webs with. There was no way I was touching this grossness. I found a pointing stick, one that had a cartoonish gloved hand pointing its finger at the end of it. I grabbed it and quickly proceeded to clear the thick, massive webs. And suddenly...a sound.

“Blip, blop, bleep, woooo,” I heard coming from it. Could it be...? “Oh. My. God,” I said out loud with a very wide smile on my face. “R2???” Out came R2-D2 (yes, the droid from Star Wars) from his blanket of webs. Overjoyed surely I think because he no longer had that mess all around him. Sadly, I don’t understand Droid, but I knew he was being friendly. Now that I had him by my side, I was no longer afraid of the gusts of wind blowing by me. I had a loyal friend. He led me through the meandering halls and out the front door that had been so hard to find.

This dream then shifted to a completely different setting. R2 was off in his world, and I was back in mine. I walked through the streets of Laredo, my hometown, but something was very wrong. Fires burned on every block. Crime was rampant. I could hear screams in the distance, along with gunshots and police sirens. I heard the laughter of a few drunk men, one of which was being very violent towards a woman while his friends seemed to be entertained by it all. Anger overwhelmed me, as did fear. The fear was mainly because I knew that I was not going to let them continue doing this. I would be the one to put a stop to it. I brazenly walked up to the group of men and told them to leave her alone. They stopped and stared at me, the group looking at the abusive man waiting for his next move. He got closer to me and asked, “Oh, do you want to be the bitch that takes her place?” I got more nervous at this point while the woman sat crying on the ground, her tears glistening by the light of the nearby fire. “You leave her alone. She’s coming with me,” I said. “Take her,” the man laughed. I admit, I was surprised that that was all it took, that I wasn’t at the end of about a dozen fists. I helped the woman up and she held on to my arm, burying her face in the fabric of my shirt and crying as we walked away. We suddenly reached my grandparents’ home in Laredo, my hometown, but it was as it was when they were still living. This didn’t phase me in the dream. It was as if this was real life. I told her that she could stay in the smaller house that my Grandpa had built for my great-grandmother, my Grandma’s mother, who had passed years before I was born. The woman thanked me as I opened the door for her. I went into the main house to say hello to Grandma and Grandpa. “Hey Reenie boy,” said my Grandpa as I went up to him and hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. I could smell his cologne so vividly, feel the softness of his “guayabera” shirt, and hear his footsteps, the ones that seemed louder depending on the kind of boots he wore, on the wooden floor of the kitchen as he walked towards me. “Hi, Grandpa! Hi, Grammita,” I said as I walked towards my Grandma who was sitting at the kitchen table working on the books for my mom’s beauty shop, which was right next door. “Hi, hijito (ee-hee-toh, Spanish for little son),” she said as I gave her about 6 quick kisses in succession on the cheek, an imitation of the way she would kiss all of us grandchildren. The doorbell rang and my grandparents looked towards the door. “Quien sera,” asked Grandpa.  “I’ll check,” I said. “There are a lot of shady people out there and I think we should maybe turn the lights off so they think we aren’t here,” I said as the door slowly opened. A very tall and muscular man came through the door. He wore a trucker-style hat over his straight shoulder-length blonde hair. Tattoos covered his entire body, starting from under his nose. HIs skin was very heavily scarred. His eyes, empty. His mouth...missing. Tattooed scarred flesh took the place of what may or may not have once been is mouth. He had no shirt on, and there was no specific design to his tattoos, just shapes, almost paisley-like at some points. In his right hand...a small revolver. I became terrified. “This is it,” I thought to myself. “This is how I go. Will it hurt? I need to protect Grandma and Grandpa first and make sure he doesn’t hurt them.” I looked at the large century-old portrait of Jesus that hung in the living room, illuminated by a neon-lite that was added in the 60′s by my grandfather, one that would only be switched off by him. “Help us, Jesus,” I prayed. “Please. I don’t want to die and I don’t want him to hurt my grandparents.” “Grandma, Grandpa, go out the back door,” I said in Spanish, hoping and praying that the man would not understand me. Grandpa had his arm around Grandma, who held onto him terrified. “Salte, Caro (Leave, Caro),” Grandpa said to her, but she would not leave his side as he stood his ground. He then got in front of her, blocking her from any harm that may come. He stood right next to me as the man pointed his gun at my chest. Not able to speak, the man reached for his wallet and signaled to us to give him what he wanted. I looked at Grandpa who was staring the man down. Grandpa had been a police officer for over 30 years and was now retired. He didn’t fear too many men, and if he did, he hid it well. I reached for my wallet slowly and inched towards the man. I could see sweat running down his face, the hair that peeked from under his hat and around his ears soaked in it. He was nervous, and I had to take advantage of that. “Quedate conmigo, (Stay with me),” said Grandpa, but I knew I had to make a move. He still had his gun pointed at me. I reached out with my right hand to give him my wallet and as he reached his left hand to get it, I grabbed the gun from his right, surprising myself. I didn’t hesitate and shot three times. The man groaned loudly as he fell back onto the floor. My Grandma screamed as Grandpa held her. I walked backwards towards them, still aiming at the man who was now bleeding out on the green carpet. He looked at me angrily as he lay there, a look that said “I should have killed you when I had the chance.” I looked at the portrait of Jesus and said, “I’m sorry I hurt someone, but he was going to hurt us and I couldn’t let that happen.” I broke down and started crying. Grandpa put his hand on my shoulder. “Ya mi’jito. Ya.”

I added a sketch of the intruder. I promise he looked a lot scarier in person.

[catherinewrites]

D&D Character Snippet

This is a medium length introduction to another D&D character of mine. It is under the cut because of length. Please read and enjoy. I would really like any feedback if you have any. Thank you for taking the time! 

   I lie in the dark, staring at the stone ceiling above me. The darkness is closing in, but I can’t let it overtake me. Slowly, images of my father’s face begin to flood my mind. Young and elven, sharp features, golden hair and skin, and his bright eyes. I can’t forget those eyes. He stands as such a contrast to my pale skin and dark hair, though he always said my eyes reminded him of the forest canopy in summer.

  He wasn’t my biological father, but he did raise me. I never knew my real father and was always told that my mother was found, wounded and dying, with me clutched to her chest. I had just been an infant…a human child taken in by a Sun-Elf tribe. Daylight dances behind my closed eyelids as if it was breaking through the forest canopy over my home. Home. Tears begin to well up, and I run my hand through the cool waters of stream with my father at my side. He was showing me how to catch fish. Oh, how I remember that day. It was my 11th year of being a part of the tribe. I remember, I was so happy and I had just been given a feather by the Giant Owl that protected our part of the forest, Beyoris. It was a blessing, father had told me, something that I could use to focus my magic and become stronger. I stooped low, watching the ripples in the clear water and eyeing the fish swimming underneath. Suddenly, water splashes over me. He caught a fish. Just reached out and grabbed it, like lightening. Just as suddenly, a fish breaches the water, scared by the commotion. I reach out for it, not wanting to disappoint him, but I slip and fall face first into the creek. I get up, sopping wet and embarrassed, but he is laughing. He laughs so hard he drops the fish and it flips back into the stream. This is what I need to remember…my father sitting cross-legged by the stream, laughing with the sun glittering off of his golden skin.

Fara…my darling girl. How you impress me. He looks to me, smiling.

   A second memory invades my thoughts. This day was just as bright, the sun soaring high in the sky, but a darkness seeped into it. Sun Elf soldiers had come from the Capital City, Evereska, to collect some supplies. I was told that this only happened once every thirty years, and that I needed to stay quiet and hidden in our lodge. Not long after they arrived, I was being drug out of the lodge by a fearsome High Elf Captain. I won’t ever forget that moment. No matter how much I may try. I see my father, standing there, staring at me with a terrified expression. The captain yells and I try desperately to loosen his grip. Humans are forbidden, I hear him say. Our ways are sacred. I look up at my father, tears running down my face, I beg him to help me. Two soldiers are standing behind him, pressing close to him, one whispers something to him and he looks to me. It’s a heartbreaking gaze that will burn on in my mind until I die. But what’s worse than that look, is when he averts his eyes. His face hardens, his decision made. I scream at him, begging him to help, to do anything, and the soldier throws me to the ground, pinning me down like a prey rabbit. Another soldier comes over, binds my hands and hoists me up. As they take me away from my home, from my family, I can see the Captain speaking to my father. He looks up after me one last time, before we turn around a corner and I lose sight of him.

   Sobbing in a dark, cold cage. Is this how my life is supposed to go? I’ve spent four years in this desolate place. They tried to make me a servant, but I was too flighty and unwieldy, so they threw me down into this gods-forsaken dungeon. I worry now that I’ve been forgotten about and left to rot. The food came sporadically during my time down here, but it has been about a week since I have seen another soul, except for the rats who scurry in and out through their crevices, taunting me.

   Fara Nachedel, surnamed for my adoptive father. I try to picture him again but I can only see his eyes. Broken and defeated, they hold a piercing sadness that chokes my heart inside my chest. Why didn’t he help me? Because they would’ve killed him of course. But he is my father! He is supposed to protect me! You didn’t want him to get hurt, did you? No, I didn’t. Of course, I had to obey. They might have killed him for breaking their laws, but they took me as repayment for the sin instead. You can’t die in the dark here.

   I shoot up, my head spinning from the jolt of movement. I can’t die in here, I won’t. The voice that was in my head manifests behind me. A beautiful young woman, with hair as black as a starless night, stands in front of me. I shake from standing, my strength siphoning from me with every passing minute. My voice is hoarse and almost useless, my throat as dry as desert sand, but I try to speak. I falter and kneel to the ground, my head swirling around me. The woman glides up to me, and touches my cheek, lifting my head. She speaks to me, but not out loud. I hear her voice, as before. An echo in my mind.

           Darling Child, why do you suffer so?

           The Captains face comes to my mind and a hard rage builds inside my stomach. The Sun-Elves did this, they put me here. They stole me from my family and took my life away from me, and for what reason? What did I ever do to them?

           Nothing, Child. You didn’t do anything. They are the ones who stole you, imprisoned you, wronged you, and I can help you repay the favor.

           Her eyes were dark green and glinted like the grass in a meadow, swaying in a cold wind. I almost stopped breathing, I felt so overcome by them.

Repay the favor? I just want to live. I just want to go home.

           Of course, you do, My Sweet, and I have exactly what you need. I can get you out of here, take you home.

           How? How can I get out?

   She smiles, but it seems off. Like a reflection of your face in the calm waters. It looks like you but is somehow not the same. It should unnerve me, I think.

   Let me help you, young one. I am a very powerful being, I can give you my blessing. It will make you strong enough to escape, to take on anyone who tries to stop you. I just need you to do one thing for me in return.

           Anything.

           Good. She leans toward me, pulling me close to her, whispering. You shall take my blessing and murder the High-Elf King. A dark laugh fills my head. You shall be my pretty little siren, beautiful and young, but deadly to the touch.

           A sick feeling takes me over. A dark dangerous air has flooded my small stone cell. I look toward her, her face just inches from me, and I see her green eyes flooded with black veins. Her hand crawls down to my neck and I feel the air constrict in my lungs. I can feel the black veins winding up my throat as her perfect features morph into the terrible form of a decrepit corpse, and she hisses into my ear with a gravelly voice.

           “Go now, my little siren. Let my name drip from your lips along with the blood of your foes. I am the goddess Talona, you shall obey my will and destroy those who have wronged you.”

           A sudden horrifying pain overwhelms me, and I black out. My eyes flutter open, but I am unsure of how long I have been laying on the ground. I sit up and slowly, I look around. Dead mice are scattered around me, probably twenty or more, and their bodies are withered and blackened. My heart pounds in my chest and I feel a surge of energy like I have never known before. I look down at my skin and it glows with renewed life, but the Giant Owl feather, hangs, molted and black around my neck. I stand, one thing taking over my thoughts. I have to get out of here.

   I grab at the cell door, shaking it. The rusty metal hinges twist and emit a screeching noise that grabs the attention of a guard upstairs. I can hear his boots coming down the stone steps, they echo through the dungeon. I pin myself against the wall, instinctively, and wait. As the guard closes in on my cell, I can feel my hand burning. A thirsty need for something, but what? His body comes into my view and I thrust my hand through the bars, grasping his neck. Black veins shoot up my arm and the burning intensifies, though it is almost a pleasurable feeling. His golden skin withers under my hand, and I realize that I am consuming his life force. Before I know it, his body slumps to the ground. It resembles the rats a bit, I think, all blackened and dried out. I reach for the keys that lay against his hip, and slowly unlock my cell. Once the door opens I can feel a huge breath of air return to my lungs, and I step slowly from my cell, fearing the floor might crumble away beneath me. The floor is steady and firm, so I run.

   I navigate through the dungeon blindly, running up the stairs at a breakneck pace. I see more guards, but I duck past them. Reaching the courtyard, I come to a stop, gasping in the night air. The moon looks down on me for the first time in a long time and my toes curl against the soft grass. I almost lose myself in the beauty of the night sky, before a voice shatters my thoughts.

           The King, siren. Kill the King.

           I look back toward the castle and I can see guards coming out after me. This ‘goddess’ that blessed me is nothing but a demon. No good can come from the power to take life so easily. I will my feet to carry me toward the outer wall and begin to scale it. My hands grasp at any handhold I can reach and I’m over the wall sooner than I thought possible. Jumping down to the other side, I take off into the dark forest. Hopefully in the direction of my home.

           I journey for an hour or so before I find a familiar path and the stream. I stop to drink the cool clear water, then after another hour of traveling I am at the entrance to my home. The familiar trees wrap heavily around a hidden path. My father emerges from the entrance, and I almost can’t stop myself from running to embrace him, but the look on his face holds me in place.

           “What are you doing here, Fara?” He stares down at the ground, refusing to look at me.

           “I’ve come home, father. I escaped that awful city and I’ve come home.”

           “This is not your home, not anymore. We broke the laws, keeping you here with us, and that is not a mistake we can make again.” He lifts his head slightly, and I can see a deep scar running the length of his face, from his temple to the right side of his chin.

           “What’s happening.” It’s all I can get out.

           “You need to leave this place, before they come for you.” He turns away. “You are not welcome here anymore.”

           “Father…”

           “Go Fara!” He screams at me. “You need to leave or they will kill you this time!”

           “They can’t do any worse to me. Not now.” I step towards him but he turns his back to me again. “Fine,” My tears fall onto the grass at my feet. “I will leave, Father, if that is what you want.” I turn to go but I hear his voice one last time.

           “Just know, that I will always love you like my own…I am sorry it has to be this way, but I don’t have any choice.”

           My fists clench at my side and my shoulders shake under an uncontrollable pain and sadness. “There is always a choice, father. But it seems you have already made yours.” Without looking back at him, I run back the way I came, to my stream. I use the cool water to wash the tears, dirt, and sweat away, before curling up next to it and trying my best to fall asleep.

           A nightmare comes to me in the form of Talona. She stands before me, wrapped in smoke and the stench of death. Anger burns in her eyes and she screams at me. She tells me I betrayed her and I denounce her blessing. In her fury she tells me that I will be cursed. Cursed to hurt the earth that I so dearly want to protect. My druidic magic shall drain the life from anything I touch, including other people. I start awake, staring into the bright sunny sky.

   When I awake, I notice the grass where I was laying is withered and dead, and it crumbles under my touch. There is no way, did this goddess really curse me like this? Then, I sense someone watching me and I look around, ready for a fight. What I see in front of me doesn’t scare me, but it delights me. The Giant Owl, Beyoris; protector of the forest, is standing at the streams edge. His great wings curl over his back and his talons dig into the muddy dirt.

           “Fara Nachedel, young child. It is good to see you again.” He tilts his head and looks at me with his large round eye.

           “That is not my name,” I tell him. “I am Fara Nachedel no longer.”

           His head tilts the other way. “Oh…well then, may I ask. Who are you?”

           His question stuns me, yet so did my answer to his first question. If I can’t be me anymore, then who can I be? I stand slowly.

           “I don’t know, but my fath-…the Sun-Elves have made it very clear that I am not welcome among them. As much as I hate the thought, that part of my life needs to be over. I need to start somewhere new.” I pause, lifting the owl feather from around my neck. I hold the corrupt trinket in my hands, ashamed of what I did to that guard.

           “Great Beyoris, I am afraid that I have made a terrible mistake. I aligned myself with something, I’m not too sure what she was, but I am not worthy of your blessing.” I hold it out to him, kneeling, head down, as I was taught so long ago.

           “Stand child.” His voice was fierce and firm. “You have never needed my blessing more than you do right now. I know that scourge that creeps along my feather. Talona, the goddess of plagues, she has infected your body with a terrible curse.”

           “I was going to die, and she tricked me. I never would have accepted if I knew what power she would give me.”

           “I know that, child. Though, now it seems you have quite a journey to make. I can only tell you that it may take you to the harshest ends of this world and you will be tested in ways you can’t possibly imagine.”

           “What do you mean?”

           “If you want to rid your body of the infection from the Goddess.”

           “There’s a way? Tell me, how?”

           He lowers his great head. “I do not know, young one. I can only tell you to journey through Neverwinter. This is a land of myths and legends and you need to track down any information you can on her and her evil magic.”

           His great wings flap at his side, swirling the air around him. “I can try to help when I can, but this is a journey that you must undergo on your own. Now, I ask again, if you aren’t Fara Nachedel anymore, then who shall you be?”

           I think for a moment, but it comes in a flash. I know who I am, who I must become to survive, at least for now.

   “My name is Siren.”

[yzareenxiv]

Dreams

Her eyes lowered down to her hands- long fingers, calloused fingerpads, long black claws. Flexing her fingers sent tingling, electric waves of numbness down her arms all the way to her elbows. Taking deep breaths hurt. Shifting her shoulders hurt. Moving too much hurt.

Her heart hurt.

Closing her eyes, Zareen rested her head back onto the pile of pillows. She’d cried so much that her eyes burned, moments of pain and fear and betrayal snatched between sleep that was wracked with nightmares. Something was chasing her, something was coming, something was there in the dark behind her eyes and watching her, waiting...waiting...waiting…

Her eyes snapped open and she startled, hissing in her breath as she looked around the room with her ears swiveling and twitching as she scanned the room frantically. The curtain between her bed and the other swayed a little and fear clawed up her throat. She was helpless- she was hurt- she bared her fangs at the unknown and snarled viciously in defiance.

The curtain stilled.

She watched it, unblinking, until her eyes burned and the muscles at the base of her ears hurt from holding them perked forward so tensely. It did not move again, perhaps had never moved at all, and finally she allowed her eyes to flutter closed in a long blink to let them recover from the staring.

I am in a cave. There is no fire but the shadows flicker around me as if there was. There are things moving in the dark behind me, circling, prowling. I cannot see them- they jump from shade to shade. Sitting across from me, across the fire-that-is-not, is Sarangerel as I first saw her. Red dress, silver accents, hair perfect, claws beautifully lacquered. The blue limbal rings of her eyes are glowing in the dark and there is no smile on her painted lips.

“You’re in danger, darling. The monsters are waiting on the other side of the door- if you invite them in thrice, you’ll never be rid of them.”

A flicker in the light and the Xaela is no longer a Xaela, but a demon with Sarangerel’s smile that curls wickedly before I hear the whisper in my left ear. “Knock-knock.”

I shake my head so hard the gold bangles in my hair whistle through the air then leap to my feet, whirling with my hands curved to bring my claws to bear. The shadows flicker and she is gone, vanishing as if snatched backwards into the dark. I stand alone, my body illuminated by a fire I cannot see and my eyes darting from light to shadow to light again. I want to see (I don’t want to see) but there is nothing beyond the shifting shadows. I feel it, though, like pressing my hand against a curtain and feeling whatever it is pressing back against the other side.

It’s so hard to stay calm- every instinct is screaming at me that there’s danger here. Something foul, like a fog that lies over the water or a deadfall of trees concealing the snare. I turn, slowly, but there is just the empty cavern. Stepping slowly around the source of the light, my shadow joins the others, like a black-paper cut-out that is stark against the swirling and flickering. I am become a shadow-puppet and each time I step forward my shadow steps too, in jerky paper-doll motions. Claws, blacker-than-black, shred through the chest of my shadow and I press my hand to my heart only to feel my claws sink into the skin- I stare down at it, gods what have I done? My blood is rubies in a magma flow and as I watch it spill over my hand, something wraps around my ankle and pulls my feet out from under me.

Everything slows. I have time, endless time, to watch my sparkling, blazing blood form droplets in the air that seek each other, drawing themselves together. The shape they form is something wonderful, something terrible, something sublime that looks down at me with golden eyes and rosettes of shadow-against-firelight before I fall into the shadows with the crash of shattered crystal.

I am falling and not falling. Floating. The dark slithers across my skin, my tattoos animating, sending tendrils curling around my ribs, across my stomach, around my hips, around my thighs, around my throat. Thorns sink into my chest in a tangle of shining ink vines that bloom flowers of arcing lightning and blue-white flame. I curl around myself and roar- this is not what I want! I’ve worked so, so hard- I’ve sacrificed so much! My voice calls something in the darkness and I know it’s too late- I can’t...I can’t….

I close my eyes.

“Sister. You don’t stand alone, remember that.”

I open my eyes. I’ve fallen asleep on my knees in front of the fire, the sand biting into my skin and the ocean waves crashing to my side. Something is cradled in my hands- a pendant crafted of silver in the shape of a heart, a delicate butterfly worked into the filigree. There are two solid sources of warmth to either side of me and I feel safe though I dare not turn my head. A low rumbling emits from each of them, stones rolling down mountainsides, and I can’t help but smile.

“I look forward to walking this path with you two. I love you *so* much.”

“I love you, too. My brothehs.” I say, looking to Dunrai. He is him and not-him, a statue that grinds stone-against-stone when he turns his head to look at me. I shrink away and his tail swings around, sharp spines sinking into the skin of the hip opposite him. My head whips to that side to find myself looking up into the steel eyes of Khenbish. His body is formed of blades, steel folded over steel that screams and sparks as he wraps his hand around my shoulder, his fingers biting deep.

“Sister. You have to rememberforget. We always carry a part of our past with us. Remember to be the mirrorlight.”

Their voices layer over each other and I cannot understand, I do not want to understand. I shake my head and look down at my chest to see the skin gone, the muscle gone, the bones forming a cage around which thorny vines crafted of ink pierce my beating heart. Rubies and magma flow down my stomach to pool in my lap, igniting heat between my thighs. My brothers speak again, insistent, sad, their voices a cacophonous whisper in my right ear.

“Knock-knock.”

I fall forward into the fire and the world spins with me as I surface from beneath a sea of black ink. I scrabble, splashing, until I find purchase on something solid. My claws sink keep and the copper-metallic scent of blood fills my senses. I recoil, all knowledge of how to swim suddenly lost as I frantically flail in the ink- I’m terrified of what I’ve wounded, I’m terrified I wounded something, I’m terrified. I start to sink, the ink that flows into my mouth as I go under the surface tastes like blood and I swallow even as I scream. Teeth sink into each arm and I am ripped upwards in a gout of ink and blood and thrown through the dark. Landing on my feet, stumbling forward, I fall into a roll and rise into a crouch with my ears pinned back, my fangs bared, one great paw drawn back with claws unsheathed. A tiger gazes back at me with red-blue glowing mechanical eyes that spin and whirr and click as they focus. A coeurl gazes back at me with eyes that change from vibrant green to grey nothingness so quickly it makes my stomach churn. Both bare their fangs and words fall from their tongues in dripping, molten gold that flows in trickles across the bloodsoaked earth. “We love you. Our fire and storm. Our darkness and our light. We are yours, you are ours. We love you, we love you, we love you.” The gilded words wrap around me in delicate, molten chains so slender a thought would snap them. I try to step back, to fall back into the ink, but the chains sear into my skin and I am snared and unable to run. They approach and I can see the gold chains hidden in their fur in the moments before the tiger sinks his fangs into the back of my neck and the coeurl sinks her fangs into my throat. Their words fill my veins with gold. “Everything. Always.” I scream and it is ecstasy, I scream and it is agony. They drag me down and I fall, I fall, I fall… I see the faces of my friends both near and dear and more distant, they look worried and their moves are moving frantically in unison, trying to get me a message that I cannot hear over the rushing, pounding, war-drum beat of my heart. For a moment, a mere crystalline instant between heartbeats, there is silence and distantly I hear Dusk’s voice, filled with hatred that sounds like mocking laughter. “Knock---”* Zareen woke in a panic, scream piercing the silence of the room. She sat up so quickly that something sharp ignited heat in her chest and she screamed again. In an instant, Urieth and Eleonore were in the room- one pressed her down to keep her from sinking her own claws into her chest and the other checked her for damage. She didn’t know which hands belonged to who but the frantic adrenaline-fueled panic lasts only until she recognizes the faces of the women. The strength flows out of her as if someone cut her strings and she goes still, turning her face away as the echo of knocking starts to fade from her ears. ((Tagging for mentions: @ninth-threnody, @talesfromthegameff14, @dunrai-ffxiv, @eyespywithmyoneeyegtfo, @sharlayan-siren, @witchfightrhythm ))

[antheminmyheart]

a circus ain't a love story (Barlyle)

I know that, obviously, cars did not exist in the time period the film takes place in. I tried to think of ways to modernize the fic, but couldn't think of anything that I liked. I still wanted to use Getaway Car by Taylor Swift, though — the inspiration struck me after realizing just how Barlyle-esque the song sounds. So, in the case of this fic, the "getaway car" is more of a metaphor than anything! And, of course, I DO NOT own the song or the lyrics, have no association with Taylor Swift, and am not making money in any way using this little oneshot.

Nothing in this oneshot is *too* graphic, but I put an M rating just in case

---

No, nothing good starts in a getaway car

It all seemed too good to be true. When P.T. Barnum first approached him about joining his circus, Phillip viewed the man's promises as an opportunity to finally escape his parents' iron-clad clutches. After Barnum promised him 10% in all profits earned by the circus, he jumped at the chance to leave his old, stale playwriting life behind.

He didn't realize, then, that when you jump, you're bound to fall.

And when you fall, you break.

He was the best of times, the worst of crimes

I struck a match and blew your mind

But I didn't mean it

And you didn't see it

Phillip always admired the ringmaster's energy, but sometimes the man was too spontaneous for his own good. They got along well until Barnum insisted on leaving to tour with Jenny Lind — a woman who, really, caused much more trouble than she was worth. Their fights leading up to Barnum's departure were too loud, too passionate, and always left Phillip feeling terribly confused. Barnum would storm away in a huff, leaving Phillip to wonder — was this all a game? Had Barnum only used him, used him for his wealth and to get close to Jenny Lind — a woman that he didn't even know?

When Barnum left, Phillip still couldn't clear his mind of his troubling, thunderous thoughts.

But it was after the fire when things really changed.

The ties were black, the lies were white

And shades of grey in candlelight

I wanted to leave him

I needed a reason

It seemed only minutes after the fire that Phillip was released from the hospital and found himself in a confusing, terrifying affair with P.T. Barn — er, Phineas. After Charity and the girls left him, upon hearing the news of his affair with Jenny Lind, it was Phillip that Phineas turned to in a sudden moment of need. Phillip accepted his kisses and affection willingly enough at first, but the man had many troubles — too many, Phillip found, to possibly handle — and Phillip quickly went from being excited for their nights together to being downright wary and hesitant.

Phillip moaned for Phineas, led Phineas to believe that he was who Phillip lusted for, but after the first few couplings, he felt nothing but... detachment. Though he laid willingly with Phineas, he allowed his mind to wander and, on the inside, his heart ached as the older man moaned with release above him. He was left aching (Phineas worked himself up to be so frustrated that he was rarely gentle) and empty afterwards, the furthest from content he could be without being downright forced, as the older man rolled over with a sigh beside him and quickly fell asleep. He never complained when he found that Phillip had gotten up and left the bedroom in the morning — either he didn't remember falling asleep together, or he just didn't care. And, even though Phillip felt no real want for the man, that hurt him more than he'd ever care to let Phineas know.

X marks the spot, where we fell apart

He poisoned the well, I was lyin' to myself

I knew it from the first Old Fashioned, we were cursed

We never had a shotgun shot in the dark

If Phineas ever questioned their "relationship" (whatever it could be called), he didn't let on about it. Phillip didn't need convincing that he admired the man — that's what the feeling was, admiration — but he had been a fool to think he could feel anything more for the ringmaster. He was grateful to Phineas for getting him out of a hellish situation — he certainly did not miss his mundane plays or his father's regular beatings — but he'd go mad if he had to fake his way through a romantic or sexual relationship with Phineas any longer. He was almost tempted to tell Phineas that he was lying with one of the other circus acts just to get the man off his back. But, knowing Phineas, he'd surely check with said circus act, and then—

How'd he even end up in this mess in the first place?

He couldn't remember anymore.

You were drivin' the getaway car

We were flyin', but we'd never get far

Don't pretend it's such a mystery

Think about the place where you first met me

Sometimes, Phillip would read about his parents in the newspaper. Reading about his father, who had officially 'cut all ties' with him, left a deep, aching wound in his chest. It was because of his father that he ended up at the bar every night, eventually leading to his first meeting with Phineas.

So, really, it was his father that Phillip could thank. Meeting with Phineas had been the perfect getaway, the key to his new life – or so he'd thought.

In retrospect, it probably wasn't a great idea to make business deals when you were near-stumbling drunk and could be easily persuaded by a singing man wearing a top hat.

We're ridin' in a getaway car

There were sirens in the beat of your heart

Should've known I'd be the first to leave

Think about the place where you first met me

It was in a newspaper clipping where Phillip found out about his father's passing. All his breath whooshed from his body and he set the newspaper down on the table before resting his head in his arms.

He didn't realize Phineas was in the room until he heard the deep, rumbling voice ask him if he was all right.

He said he was, but he didn't lift his head from the table.

A firm, strong hand came down to rest on his shoulder and he turned his head to peek at Phineas. The man promised that he'd make it up to Phillip that night, he'd make sure that Phillip forgot all about his father, but they couldn't do anything about it right now. They had a show to run, after all, and they needed to hurry if they didn't want to be late.

Phillip started to get up, started to go for his coat and top hat, but then he paused. He turned to Phineas.

Actually, he said, I think I'll go to the bar tonight.

Phineas stopped, paused as if considering Phillip's words, then slowly nodded. He asked if he should come along.

Phillip said no.

In a getaway car, oh-oh

No, they never get far, oh-ahh

No, nothing good starts in a getaway car

Going to the bar wasn't the best idea, but Phillip needed to get away. So, he found himself drawn back to the place where it had all began.

He quickly lost track of how many drinks he'd consumed, but thankfully the bartender didn't ask questions. When somebody came through the front doors, his grip on his glass tightened and he looked back at the entry with bleary eyes. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought it was Phineas.

No, not Phineas. Just an older-looking man with salt and pepper hair.

He tried to relax, but try as he might his shoulders remained tense and he sat perched on the barstool as if ready to bolt at any moment. The bartender asked if he was all right.

Another, he demanded.

This time, the bartender hesitated.

I'm paying you, aren't I? Another!

He said a silent thanks when the bartender finally took his glass and filled it. The cool glass between his fingers was a blessing and he didn't hesitate before tipping the drink back and downing it in one gulp.

He got sick before the alcohol had the chance to settle in his stomach.

He didn't remember falling off of the barstool.

It was the great escape, the prison break

The light of freedom on my face

But you weren't thinkin'

And I was just drinkin'

He woke up to a pounding headache and a red-faced Phineas.

What were you thinking?! Phineas demanded.

Phillip groaned and rolled onto his stomach. He was lying in a bed. Their bed? Phineas's bed?

He didn't know anymore.

As Phineas proceeded to demand why he felt the need to get so drunk, Phillip drifted back into himself. He had a skull-splitting headache, but even that was forgotten as he drifted away, away from that room, and away from the circus.

Are you crying? Phineas asked.

With a jolt, Phillip realized that there were, in fact, tears on his face. He lifted his hand and had just looked down to study his wet fingers when he felt Phineas's weight settle next to him on the bed.

Phillip, if there's anything you need to get off your chest—

I can't, he said, looking up.

Phineas paused. Frowned. Waited in silence for Phillip to continue.

I – I... nevermind.

Phillip got up. Swayed a little, dizzy with a hangover, but ignored it and managed to stumble his way out of the bedroom. He had no idea what time it was, if they had a performance coming up, but he didn't care.

All he cared about was getting out of there.

Wait! Phineas called. Where are you going?

I'll see you at the circus.

While he was runnin' after us, I was screamin', "go, go, go!"

But with three of us, honey, it's a side show

And a circus ain't a love story

And now we're both sorry (we're both sorry)

Phillip beat Phineas to the circus. Truth be told, he was very surprised that Phineas didn't try to follow him, but he was also relieved. He knew that he would need to deal with Phineas eventually, but to have even the shortest of breaks was a relief.

He sat on a bale of hay talking with Anne Wheeler, and felt a terrible guilt that started by twisting its way through his stomach and crawling up toward his brain. Anne was beautiful, talented, funny, and smart — everything, he'd thought for years, that he had looked for in a potential bride, before he found himself swept up in the most confusing relationship of his life with a man who had dug his own grave by kissing Jenny Lind. Somehow, he had dragged Phillip down with him.

If the affair with Phineas never started, Phillip wondered, would he have found comfort in the arms of Anne Wheeler?

She was so beautiful as she sat there, smiling and laughing with him. He didn't even know what they were talking about, he was so distracted by—

No. He couldn't think like that.

Even if he did manage to leave Phineas, that meant leaning the circus. He couldn't take Anne away from a world she loved so much.

He planned to leave, and he had already gotten attached to the circus itself. That was hard enough. He couldn't get attached to Anne, too. Hadn't he learned his lesson with Phineas?

The circus was no place for a love story.

X marks the spot, where we fell apart

He poisoned the well, every man for himself

I knew it from the first Old Fashioned, we were cursed

It hit you like a shotgun shot to the heart

When Phillip finally worked up the courage to tell Phineas that he never felt the... whatever it was supposed to be, between them, it had gone about just as badly as he'd expected.

Phineas stumbled back, as if shot, and stared at Phillip with wide, wild eyes.

What do you mean? Aren't I enough for you?

Phillip watched him, gulped, tried to force words out of his mouth. The anger melted away from Phineas quickly, like snow melting on the first day of spring, and he stumbled back into his armchair with his head in his hands.

Weeping.

Phillip stared. Horrified.

He couldn't do this.

I'm sorry, he whispered.

Phineas looked up. He looked like a child peeking out at Phillip from between his fingers.

Don't leave me, Phineas begged. Don't go.

Silence.

I'll be better. I promise. Please.

Phillip stared. Gulped. Tears gathered in his eyes.

Phineas stared at him, looking miserable.

Phillip's hands shook.

Okay, he whispered.

Okay?

I'll stay.

You were drivin' the getaway car

We were flyin', but we'd never get far

Don't pretend it's such a mystery

Think about the place where you first met me

That night, Phineas tried to be better. He tried to give Phillip what he wanted, tried to give more than receive.

It didn't work. Try as he might, Phillip found himself detaching again. Phineas's actions built up a release waiting to uncoil in the pit of his stomach, but Phillip's mind wandered.

He thought of Anne, but quickly shooed her face away.

He thought of the bar. Oh God, the bar — he should hate that place for what it had done to his life, but he found himself longing for it. He longed for a time when he didn't know Phineas Barnum's face from the average Joe next door.

When he cried, Phineas thought it was because of his performance. Letting out a slight, contented grunt, Phineas kissed Phillip's forehead after they'd finished before rolling off of him.

That night was the first night that Phineas pulled Phillip close as he drifted off to sleep. But Phillip stayed awake, wide awake and unmoving, staring at the blank, black wall.

Phineas's arms felt like chains around his torso.

We're ridin' in a getaway car

There were sirens in the beat of your heart

Should've known I'd be the first to leave

Think about the place where you first met me

Why him?

That was one of the many things that Phillip couldn't figure out.

Why had Phineas selected him to help run the circus, to become close with, to lie with? He supposed that he could understand Phineas from a business aspect — his family's money certainly helped, and even after he died Mr. Carlyle had left him a (very) small amount — but he couldn't understand what had happened to lead Phineas to Phillip in a more... physical way.

The man loved women, did he not? He had been married to Charity for years, and only split because he'd been kissing another woman. Not a man.

So. Why. Him?

Phillip was too afraid to ask.

He'd been too afraid to leave him, had been worked down by Phineas's vulnerability, but he had to leave. He had to.

He'd find a way.

In a getaway car, oh-oh

No, they never get far, oh-ahh

No, nothing good starts in a getaway car

He was a fool.

He was a fool to take that business offer.

He was a fool to associate with P.T. Barnum in the first place.

He'd been blinded by the chance to leave his old life behind.

He didn't think to stop and ponder the consequences.

But even then — how could he have predicted this?

Never in a million years would he have thought himself to be in this situation.

He was suffocating.

Nothing good had come out of this.

Nothing at all.

Phillip closed his eyes.

Blocked out the deep, shuddering gasps from the man above him.

And drifted.

We were jet-set, Bonnie and Clyde

Until I switched to the other side

To the other si-i-i-i-ide

It's no surprise I turned you in

'Cause us traitors never win

It didn't used to be all bad. Before the fire, and before Jenny Lind, Phillip highly respected Phineas Barnum. The two got along incredibly until their arguments over the tour with Jenny took over all their time together.

Before then, working with Phineas was the most fun Phillip had ever experienced in all his life. They made an incredible duo and were often complimented over their abilities to make the circus a breathtaking experience no matter how often a person went. Phillip believed that crossing over to "the other side" was the best decision he'd ever made.

Oh, how quickly that had changed.

He had a plan now, at least. He had money, he had resources. All he had to do was slip away from Phineas... and leave his circus family behind.

He couldn't think about how difficult that part was going to be, though. He was so close. He could taste freedom on the tip of his tongue, could feel it coursing through his veins. This time, he really couldn't wait anymore.

The next stage of his plan was risky, and terrifying. He waited for a moment when he and Phineas were alone, when Phineas was actually in a rational mindset and not attempting to paw away his clothes.

It was now or never.

Phineas, I was wondering.

Hmm?

Would you like to leave the city with me? Just for the weekend — Lettie can take over the shows.

Phineas stared at him and he held his breath. The ringmaster blinked once. Twice.

Away? With you?

Yes.

Alone?

Yes.

Phineas smiled and visibly relaxed, sinking low into his chair. His smile was soft, his eyes warm. For a moment, staring at Phineas in this state, Phillip thought... maybe I could really love him.

No, he shook his head. No, I couldn't.

Phineas hadn't said anything so Phillip chewed on his lower lip. Well? he asked.

Phineas's eyes sparkled.

I'll fetch us a carriage.

I'm in a getaway car

I left you in a motel bar

Put the money in a bag and I stole the keys

That was the last time you ever saw me

They had booked two rooms, telling the hotel staff that they were there on a 'business meeting,' but Phineas snuck into Phillip's room that night, still incredibly drunk from fooling around at the bar earlier in the evening. Phillip, for once, forced himself to remain totally sober as he watched his former friend and business partner drown himself in alcohol.

When Phineas stumbled into Phillip's room, it was a wonder how he didn't manage to wake up everyone in the motel. Phillip shushed him only with promises of sex, which, of course, flustered Phineas and shut him up near immediately.

Just one more night, Phillip told himself as the tears rolled down his cheeks and wettened his ears. Just one more night and then it's over, you never have to lie with him again.

After Phineas fell asleep, satisfied and drunk, Phillip crawled out of bed and stood on trembling legs. He dressed, grabbed the money, and, with one last look back at Phineas Taylor Barnum, left the room, silent but for the slight 'click' of the door as it closed behind him.

Phillip Carlyle did not look back as he freed one of the horses from the carriage and left the motel behind in the night.

Drivin' the getaway car

We were flyin', but we'd never get far

Don't pretend it's such a mystery

Think about the place where you first met me

The ride was rough, Phillip hadn't ridden a horse in years and certainly wasn't used to horse riding in the dark, but they managed to find another motel in the next town or two over.

Phillip tied up the horse, checked in (it was quite late, but the staff managed to be persuaded with more profit than they'd seen in a week), and crashed as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He dreamt of Phineas that night.

We're ridin' in a getaway car

There were sirens in the beat of your heart

Should've known I'd be the first to leave

Think about the place where you first met me

He woke with a start, but relief flooded his body once he remembered where he was. His body was sore with the after effects of sex and horse riding, but it was also slack with relief.

He was finally free.

Sighing, he got out of bed and dressed. Nobody in the main lobby questioned why he was there — he supposed word hadn't gotten out yet of his leaving the circus — but he made quick business of eating breakfast and checking out.

Now that he had no more obligations to Phineas, the circus, or his parents, Phillip Carlyle was, for the first time in his life, free to do whatever he desired. He had the entire world at his fingertips.

He was thankful to P.T. Barnum and the circus troupe for getting him out of a lifestyle he had no business living, but Phillip realized that that was all they could ever do for him.

Soon, Phineas would become nothing but a distant memory.

In a getaway car, oh-oh

No, they never get far, oh-ahh

No, nothing good starts in a getaway car

It was in a theatre, some months later, when Phillip caught sight of Phineas Taylor Barnum for the first time since his departure. The lights in the theatre were low, the show was about to begin, but Phillip gasped and ducked his head, careful not to let the other man spot him.

Phineas looked like... he'd seen better days. He sat slouched in his seat and kept his head low, avoiding eye contact with those around him. It was the only time Phillip had ever seen Phineas not trying to be the center of attention.

The ringmaster shifted and turned in his seat, and Phillip quickly looked away. After a moment, he attempted to peek at the man from the corner of his eye, but voices erupting from the stage caught his attention instead and he faced forward.

The show was about to begin.

I was ridin' in a getaway car

I was cryin' in a getaway car

I was dyin' in a getaway car

Said goodbye in a getaway car

Phillip tried to sneak out of the theatre earlier, as not to be caught, but was caught up when an actor he knew — a man who'd played lead in one of Phillip's own plays, in fact — spotted him in the hall and stopped to chat. Apparently, he'd been cast as understudy for the male lead, but his use in the play hadn't been needed.

By the time the actor let him go, Phillip was swept up in a sea of people leaving the theatre. He tried to get out, tried to push forward, when—

Phillip?

The stranger's familiar voice pierced his ears and Phillip cringed as he turned around, not quite ready to make eye contact with Phineas Taylor Barnum.

Phineas, Phillip spoke, head bowed.

Phillip — can we talk?

Phillip looked up into those eyes — empty, hollow — for the first time in months, and gulped. He glanced around the still-crowded halls and, though nobody seemed to be paying them any mind, he felt his face redden with nerves.

All right, I suppose, but—

I know somewhere private we can go.

Phillip was surprised. Did Phineas just happen to hang around this particular theatre often?

Still, perhaps against his better judgment, he agreed to go with the crestfallen ringmaster.

Ridin' in a getaway car

I was cryin' in a getaway car

I was dyin' in a getaway car

Said goodbye in a getaway car

What the hell!

Phillip spluttered as he pushed back against Phineas's broad chest, gasping once Phineas's mouth left his. The ringmaster had taken them to an empty room where the theatre stored some of its smaller props. The lock on the door was broken and they'd been able to get inside easily enough.

Phillip had been a fool to think that 'talk' was all Phineas wanted to do.

Phineas... Phillip took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Tears wettened his eyelashes, but he refused to cry in front of the older man. When he opened his eyes again, Phineas wouldn't meet his gaze. I don't... want this... anymore.

Phil—

I thank you, Phillip cut in, and I appreciate all that you did to get me away from my suffocating life in the upper-class. But I can't do this, Phineas. I don't... desire you... in that way, anymore.

But you once did.

Phillip said nothing. He couldn't... because it was true.

What did I do? What can I do to make things good between us again?

Were things ever really good between us, Mr. Barnum?

Phineas flinched at the name, but said nothing.

You used me. I thought, maybe, that I could... learn to love you, or at least lust for you. But, Phin — you used me after you turned your own love life to shambles.

Phineas backed up. He stood against the wall, lips pressed together in a thin line. There was no trace of the extravagant ringmaster Phillip had once known.

Phillip sighed. Took a step forward, causing Phineas to look up hopefully. But, Phillip only reached up to trace Phineas's cheek and shake his head.

It's time for me to move on.

Phillip, please—

Phillip went for the door, opening it a crack before glancing back at the man over his shoulder.

Goodbye, Phineas.

Said goodbye in a getaway car

---

So, that was weird and impulsive and just... what? Lol, but it was my first 'songfic' and I hope you guys liked it! The writing style was fun and different for me to try, too — especially the dialogue, which was highly inspired by the novel The Road by Cormac McCarthy

[catherineofearghail-blog]

This is a reworked version of my characters story for our D&D game.

I can only lie in the dark, staring at the stone ceiling above me. The darkness is closing in and I can’t let it overtake me. Slowly, images of my father’s face begin to flood my mind. Young and elven, sharp features, golden hair and skin, and his bright eyes. I can’t forget those eyes. He stands as such a contrast to my pale skin and dark hair, though he always said my eyes reminded him of the forest canopy in summer.

He wasn’t my biological father, but he did raise me. I never knew my real father and was always told that my mother was found, wounded and dying, with me clutched to her chest. I had just been an infant…a human child taken in by a Sun-Elf tribe. Daylight dances behind my closed eyelids as if it was breaking through the forest canopy over my home. Home. Tears begin to well up, and I run my hand through the cool waters of stream with my father at my side. He was showing me how to catch fish. Oh, how I remember that day. It was my 11th year of being a part of the tribe. I remember, I was so happy and I had just been given a feather by the Giant Owl that protected our part of the forest, Beyoris. It was a blessing, father had told me, something that I could use to focus my magic and become stronger. I stooped low, watching the ripples in the clear water and eyeing the fish swimming underneath. Suddenly, water splashes over me. He caught a fish. Just reached out and grabbed it, like lightening. Just as suddenly, a fish breaches the water, scared by the commotion. I reach out for it, not wanting to disappoint him, but I slip and fall face first into the creek. I get up, sopping wet and embarrassed, but he is laughing. He laughs so hard he drops the fish and it flips back into the stream. This is what I need to remember…my father sitting cross-legged by the stream, laughing with the sun glittering off of his golden skin. Fara…my darling girl. How you impress me. He looks to me, smiling. A second memory invades my thoughts. This day was just as bright, the sun soaring high in the sky, but a darkness seeped into it. Sun Elf soldiers had come from the Capital City, Evereska, to collect some supplies. I was told that this only happened once every thirty years, and that I needed to stay quiet and hidden in our lodge. Not long after they arrived, I was being drug out of the lodge by a fearsome High Elf Captain. I won’t ever forget that moment. No matter how much I may try. I see my father, standing there, staring at me with a terrified expression. The captain yells and I try desperately to loosen his grip. Humans are forbidden, I hear him say. Our ways are sacred. I look up at my father, tears running down my face, I beg him to help me. Two soldiers are standing behind him, pressing close to him, one whispers something to him and he looks to me. It’s a heartbreaking gaze that will burn on in my mind until I die. But what’s worse than that look, is when he averts his eyes. His face hardens, his decision made. I scream at him, begging him to help, to do anything, and the soldier throws me to the ground, pinning me down like a prey rabbit. Another soldier comes over, binds my hands and hoists me up. As they take me away from my home, from my family, I can see the Captain speaking to my father. He looks up after me one last time, before we turn around a corner and I lose sight of him. Sobbing in a dark, cold cage. Is this how my life is supposed to go? I’ve spent four years in this desolate place. They tried to make me a servant, but I was too flighty and unwieldy, so they threw me down into this gods-forsaken dungeon. I worry now that I’ve been forgotten about and left to rot. The food came sporadically during my time down here, but it has been about a week since I have seen another soul, except for the rats who scurry in and out through their crevices, taunting me. Fara Nachedel, surnamed for my adoptive father. I try to picture him again but I can only see his eyes. Broken and defeated, they holds a piercing sadness that chokes my heart inside my chest. Why didn’t he help me? Because they would’ve killed him of course. But he is my father! He is supposed to protect me! You didn’t want him to get hurt, did you? No, I didn’t. Of course, I had to obey. They might have killed him for breaking their laws, but they took me as repayment for the sin instead. You can’t die in the dark here. I shoot up, my head spinning from the jolt of movement. I can’t die in here, I won’t. The voice that was in my head manifests behind me. A beautiful young woman, with hair as black as a starless night, stands in front of me. I shake from standing, my strength siphoning from me with every passing minute. My voice is hoarse and almost useless, my throat as dry as desert sand, but I try to speak. I falter and kneel to the ground, my head swirling around me. The woman glides up to me, and touches my cheek, lifting my head. She speaks to me, but not out loud. I hear her voice, as before. An echo in my mind. Darling Child, why do you suffer so? The Captains face comes to my mind and a hard rage builds inside my stomach. The Sun-Elves did this, they put me here. They stole me from my family and took my life away from me, and for what reason? What did I ever do to them? Nothing, Child. You didn’t do anything. They are the ones to stole you, imprisoned you, wronged you, and I can help you repay the favor. Her eyes were dark green and glinted like the grass in a meadow, swaying in a cold wind. I almost stopped breathing, I felt so overcome by them. Repay the favor? I just want to live. I just want to go home. Of course, you do, My Sweet, and I have exactly what you need. I can get you out of here, take you home. How? How can I get out? She smiles, but it seems off. Like a reflection of your face in the calm waters. It looks like you but is somehow not the same. It should unnerve me, I think. Let me help you, young one. I am a very powerful being, I can give you my blessing. It will make you strong enough to escape, to take on anyone who tries to stop you. I just need you to do one thing for me in return. Anything. Good. She leans toward me, pulling me close to her, whispering. You shall take my blessing and murder the High-Elf King. A dark laugh fills my head. You shall be my pretty little siren, beautiful and young, but deadly to the touch. A sick feeling takes me over. A dark dangerous air has flooded my small stone cell. I look toward her, her face just inches from me, and I see her green eyes flooded with black veins. Her hand crawls down to my neck and I feel the air constrict in my lungs. I can feel the black veins winding up my throat as her perfect features morph into the terrible form of a decrepit corpse, and she hisses into my ear with a gravelly voice. “Go now, my little siren. Let my name drip from your lips along with the blood of your foes. I am the goddess Talona, you shall obey my will and destroy those who have wronged you.” A sudden horrifying pain overwhelms me, and I black out. My eyes flutter open, but I am unsure of how long I have been laying on the ground. I sit up and slowly, I look around. Dead mice are scattered around me, probably twenty or more, and their bodies are withered and blackened. My heart pounds in my chest and I feel a surge of energy like I have never known before. I look down at my skin and it glows with renewed life, but the Giant Owl feather, hangs, molted and black around my neck. I stand, one thing taking over my thoughts. I have to get out of here. I grab at the cell door, shaking it. The rusty metal hinges twist and emit a screeching noise that grabs the attention of a guard upstairs. I can hear his boots coming down the stone steps, they echo through the dungeon. I pin myself against the wall, instinctively, and wait. As the guard closes in on my cell, I can feel my hand burning. A thirsty need for something, but what? His body comes into my view and I thrust my hand through the bars, grasping his neck. Black veins shoot up my arm and the burning intensifies, though it is almost a pleasurable feeling. His golden skin withers under my hand, and I realize that I am consuming his life force. Before I know it, his body slumps to the ground. It resembles the rats a bit, I think, all blackened and dried out. I reach for the keys that lay against his hip, and slowly unlock my cell. Once the door opens I can feel a huge breath of air return to my lungs, and I step slowly from my cell, fearing the floor might crumble away beneath me. The floor is steady and firm, so I run. I navigate through the dungeon blindly, running up the stairs at a breakneck pace. I see more guards, but I duck past them. Reaching the courtyard, I come to a stop, gasping in the night air. The moon looks down on me for the first time in a long time and my toes curl against the soft grass. I almost lose myself in the beauty of the night sky, before a voice shatters my thoughts. The King, siren. Kill the King. I look back toward the castle and I can see guards coming out after me. This ‘goddess’ that blessed me is nothing but a demon. No good can come from the power to take life so easily. I will my feet to carry me toward the outer wall and begin to scale it. My hands grasp at any handhold I can reach and I’m over the wall sooner than I thought possible. Jumping down to the other side, I take off into the dark forest. Hopefully in the direction of my home. I journey for an hour or so before I find a familiar path and the stream. I stop to drink the cool clear water, then after another hour of traveling I am at the entrance to my home. The familiar trees wrap heavily around a hidden path. My father emerges from the entrance, and I almost can’t stop myself from running to embrace him, but the look on his face holds me in place. “What are you doing here, Fara?” He stares down at the ground, refusing to look at me. “I’ve come home, father. I escaped that awful city and I’ve come home.” “This is not your home, not anymore. We broke the laws, keeping you here with us, and that is not a mistake we can make again.” He lifts his head slightly, and I can see a deep scar running the length of his face, from his temple to the right side of his chin. “What’s happening.” It’s all I can get out. “You need to leave this place, before they come for you.” He turns away. “You are not welcome here anymore.” “Father…” “Go Fara!” He screams at me. “You need to leave or they will kill you this time!” “They can’t do any worse to me. Not now.” I step towards him but he turns his back to me again. “Fine,” My tears fall onto the grass at my feet. “I will leave, Father, if that is what you want.” I turn to go but I hear his voice one last time. “Just know, that I will always love you like my own…I am sorry it has to be this way, but I don’t have any choice.” My fists clench at my side and my shoulders shake under an uncontrollable pain and sadness. “There is always a choice, father. But it seems you have already made yours.” Without looking back at him, I run back the way I came, to my stream. I use the cool water to wash the tears, dirt, and sweat away, before curling up next to it and trying my best to fall asleep. A nightmare comes to me in the form of Talona. She stands before me, wrapped in smoke and the stench of death. Anger burns in her eyes and she screams at me. She tells me I betrayed her and I denounce her blessing. In her fury she tells me that I will be cursed. Cursed to hurt the earth that I so dearly want to protect. My druidic magic shall drain the life from anything I touch, including other people. I start awake, staring into the bright sunny sky. When I awake, I notice the grass where I was laying is withered and dead, and it crumbles under my touch. There is no way, did this goddess really curse me like this? Then, I sense someone watching me and I look around, ready for a fight. What I see in front of me doesn’t scare me, but it delights me. The Giant Owl, Beyoris; protector of the forest, is standing at the streams edge. His great wings curl over his back and his talons dig into the muddy dirt. “Fara Nachedel, young child. It is good to see you again.” He tilts his head and looks at me with his large round eye. “That is not my name,” I tell him. “I am Fara Nachedel no longer.” His head tilts the other way. “Oh…well then, may I ask. Who are you?” His question stuns me, yet so did my answer to his first question. If I can’t be me anymore, then who can I be? I stand slowly. “I don’t know, but my fath-…the Sun-Elves have made it very clear that I am not welcome among them. As much as I hate the thought, that part of my life needs to be over. I need to start somewhere new.” I pause, lifting the owl feather from around my neck. I hold the corrupt trinket in my hands, ashamed of what I did to that guard. “Great Beyoris, I am afraid that I have made a terrible mistake. I aligned myself with something, I’m not too sure what she was, but I am not worthy of your blessing.” I hold it out to him, kneeling, head down, as I was taught so long ago. “Stand child.” His voice was fierce and firm. “You have never needed my blessing more than you do right now. I know that scourge that creeps along my feather. Talona, the goddess of plagues, she has infected your body with a terrible curse.” “I was going to die, and she tricked me. I never would have accepted if I knew what power she would give me.” “I know that, child. Though, now it seems you have quite a journey to make. I can only tell you that it may take you to the harshest ends of this world and you will be tested in ways you can’t possibly imagine.” “What do you mean?” “If you want to rid your body of the infection from the Goddess.” “There’s a way? Tell me, how?” He lowers his great head. “I do not know, young one. I can only tell you to journey through Neverwinter. This is a land of myths and legends and you need to track down any information you can on her and her evil magic.” His great wings flap at his side, swirling the air around him. “I can try to help when I can, but this is a journey that you must undergo on your own. Now, I ask again, if you aren’t Fara Nachedel anymore, then who shall you be?” I think for a moment, but it comes in a flash. I know who I am, who I must become to survive, at least for now. “My name is Siren.”

[jostenminyard]

Signing on the Line - Ch. 3 & 4

Summary: When Neil Josten is offered a position as a starting striker for a professional Exy team, he feels like all of his dreams are coming true. He signs the contract, not caring about the strict morality clause that controls who he can and can't date in the public eye.

Then he meets Andrew Minyard, the top-ranked goalie of a rival team, and then Neil thinks he might just have to care after all.

A/N: Feautured in these chapters: photoshoots,  flirting, and meeting up in fancy hotels - ooh, la, la.

Chapter 3 on AO3 | Chapter 4 on AO3 | Previous chapters here 

It feels like Neil’s lit a torch, and now he has to run as fast as he can to make it to the Olympic cauldron before the flame burns out. Except he’s never fast enough, no matter how hard he tries.

He has to burn, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He signed a contract and put his fire in the control of somebody else’s hands.

He’s just not sure if he hates it, when his fire is up against Andrew Minyard’s ice. He thinks he might like it, actually, because it’s not a lie. Right down in his core, where he keeps his love for Exy safe and untouched, he feels the twist and burn of determination to prove Andrew wrong.

Besides the media’s exaggerations and rumours, their rivalry is real.

Which is why Neil doesn’t hate it.

Which is why he doesn’t deny his manager when they book him a deal with the official NEL monthly magazine. The magazine plans to dedicate their seasonal starter issue to the Seakings and the Nighthawks.

They want Andrew and Neil on the cover.

He tells himself he says yes for two reasons: he likes the idea of Riko fuming over losing his cover model status for the first time in two years.

The other reason is split into two halves; he might’ve said yes simply for the opportunity to provoke and spite Andrew. He might’ve also said yes simply for the opportunity to see Andrew.

He tries not to think about that last half.

-

There’s a new reason for the buzz in the air, a month before the season starts. An undying energy that already has the fans flocking the streets in their aqua-silver jerseys.

All the games played in the NEL from October first to November sixteenth mean almost nothing to the Exy world. What matters is November seventeenth, when San Francisco plays against New York in the most anticipated of all rematches.

It’s all anyone can talk about, all anyone cares about, and with every pair of eyes in the Exy world on him, Neil takes the pressure they give to him and turns it into motivation.

He started this feud, he asked for the world to look at him, and he doesn’t regret it. Neil was the NCAA failure who couldn’t get a team to sign him, and when he did sign with a team, his failure status changed to Kevin Day’s sidekick.

Now Neil is simply Neil; the rookie who challenged the NEL’s top-ranked goalie.

And, in a way, that’s exactly who he is.

He practices with more grit than he did throughout his five years of college. He practices with Kevin, with his team, and sometimes by himself, at near four in the morning. Sleep is impossible when no matter what he does, the image of Andrew in the goal sticks in his head.

So he stands alone in the stadium and throws shot after shot until he can’t feel or think about anything but his pounding heart.

It churns out the oddest song, that continues to ring throughout Neil’s mind when he eventually does try to sleep.

Kevin gives him as much advice as he can, but whenever he says Andrew’s name a look of scorn is never far behind. Neil can hear the betrayal in his voice like it’s still fresh.

“Andrew only ever plays his best game when he has incentive,” Kevin tells him after night practice, the two of them in the lounge, watching clips of the Nighthawk’s latest open practice.

Neil frowns, twisting his hands up together. “. . . am I the incentive?”

Kevin answers that with a sharp look and a sharper shrug. “I don’t know, but I’ve never seen him play like this before.”

It settles heavy in Neil’s stomach, and adds a few more raucous beats to that neverending song in his head.

-

It’s nearly 6:00PM when his phone goes off, an unknown number flashing across the screen. Besides the constant phone calls from his manager and the occasional call from his coaches, his phone remains mostly silent nowadays. It strikes enough curiosity in him to answer.

“Hello?” Neil says cautiously, not wanting to give too much away to whoever’s on the other side.

“Your blood was already all over Riko’s hands. Now it’s a mess.”

“Andrew?”

It’s terrifying to hear that voice, deep and rumbling and somehow still smooth, right in his ear. It’s even more terrifying that he has no idea how Andrew could possibly be calling him right now.

“How’d you get my number?” Neil asks when Andrew says nothing to confirm it’s him.

“If that were important I’d care enough to remember,” Andrew says simply. “Moving on - Riko’s not happy about this upcoming magazine spread. Or really, he’s not happy about you. He says I need to put an end to this.”

“So Riko’s making you call?” His smile comes instantly, evident in his voice as he says, “Are you sure he doesn’t own you?”

“Riko says I have to end it. I don’t think I want to.”

“And why’s that? Are you having fun?”

Andrew says without pausing, “I like making you look incompetent.”

“But you see me as a challenge,” Neil says slowly, remembering Kevin’s words - Andrew sees Neil as incentive.

“I never said you are incompetent.”

Neil’s smile twitches into wider, bigger, brighter. Not sure what to say to that, he chews at his lip to try and tramp down his grin. “Thank you.”

“You still don’t stand a chance.”

“You wouldn’t be calling me if you thought that.”

Against his best efforts, Neil’s smile refuses to budge, even as the line falls quiet. In the background of the call on Andrew’s side, a car honks, sirens go off, a soft murmur of voices can be heard from down below. The sounds of a New York City night.

Andrew must be outside, somewhere secluded if he’s talking to Neil.

Neil thinks about finding Andrew outside in the loading docks that night of the banquet. The only other soul in that huge, huge room that needed to breathe, needed to escape the role they’ve been cast in.

It’s only fitting that their roles have woven together.

“I need to know,” Andrew says, after a comfortable moment of silence. “Are you Kevin’s clone? Or is there something else you live for outside of your contract?”

For a second, Neil’s mind splinters off into various directions, trying to figure out the path that Andrew means. He knows he can’t ask directly, or else Andrew won’t believe what he answers with, so he says what he thinks he should say.

“I don’t really know what else to live for,” Neil answers, a bit wistfully. “This is my life.”

“How sad. Let me know if that changes.”

There’s not even a chance for Neil to get a breath in; the line goes dead as soon as Andrew’s last word is said.

Neil holds his phone to his ear, then slowly lowers it, swimming in confusion. Even more confusing is the ache in his chest that he’s never felt before. It feels like the burn of a breath you take after being held down under water.

He ignores that feeling and looks at the unknown number with the New York area code. He saves it as a new contact, naming Andrew ‘03’.

He doesn’t touch his phone for the rest of the night.

-

He arrives at LAX just as the sun is rising, and he’s in a chair getting makeup put on an hour before morning practice would usually start.

The studio isn’t quiet by any means; the set decoration team is running around placing props and fixing backgrounds, the photographer is talking to the lighting department, the stylist is rolling a clothing rack back and forth across set.

It’s quiet to him though. There’s something even louder in his brain, a screaming chaos, shouting nerves that refuse to stop attacking his spine every time he looks over and sees Andrew.

Andrew is leaning back in a makeup chair, eyes closed and feet propped off the vanity in front of him. He hasn’t so much as glanced over at Neil since he arrived. Neil tells himself he doesn’t care.

It’s just them today, to shoot for the cover. Tomorrow the starters for the Seakings will fly in for the remainder of the photoshoot, then immediately fly back to prepare for their first preseason game, while the Nighthawks will be photographed in New York.

So that leaves Andrew and Neil. No Riko, no Kevin, no coaches. Just them.

There is no possibility for anything, because what could Neil want from Andrew? What could Andrew give him? Nothing. There’s nothing Andrew could even offer him, so there’s nothing for Neil to choose.

Still, Neil has to reach for his water bottle and take a long sip, forcing his gaze away from Andrew, pushing those thoughts away.

It’s then that he notices the camera being set up in front of a large, white NEL backdrop further back in the studio. Two chairs have been placed next to each other on the right, directly facing another chair placed to the left.

It looks like a setup for an interview, this Neil knows. What he doesn’t know is why.

Frowning over at the scene, Neil looks to his manager and asks, “What’s that for?”

Though he already has an idea.

His manager says, while staring at his phone, as if this isn’t of any importance and that Neil should have already been in the know, “For your behind-the-scenes interview with Andrew.”

And that was exactly what Neil was guessing, but all the same, his heart stops in his chest and all words fall from his mouth.

“O-oh.” He glances at his reflection then, hoping something in it will ground him. It’s to no avail; his heart decides then to start pounding. “Like - together?”

“Like together,” his manager says, one eyebrow quirking while his eyes remain on his phone. “Any problem with that?”

Neil takes a deep breath and chances a glance over at Andrew. No, there is no problem, because to have a problem would mean he has an issue with being near Andrew, and . . .

And Neil sort of wants that, for whatever reason, so -

“No, no problem.”

After a makeup artist attacks Neil’s face with a variety of brushes and sponges, and after he’s dressed in the first outfit for the day, he’s led to the interview setup, where Andrew is already sitting. He looks as relaxed as he had earlier, his legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded over his stomach and his eyes closed. He doesn’t open them when Neil settles down beside him.

A fact that Neil is thankful for, because even just sitting next to Andrew has Neil’s skin feeling hot and his lungs feeling tight. He wrings his water bottle until the sound of the plastic crackling is louder than his pulse.

But why, is what he wonders, why does he feel this way? He’s done a thousand interviews, done them with various teammates in this exact situation before, in fact. He’s even been nervous for a few of them.

Never like this. Not to the point where he can’t sit still, feeling so helpless, as if his veins are vibrating under his skin.

“Stop.”

The one word, uttered so simply, is like slamming on the brakes. Immediately, Neil stops. His hands go slack around the bottle, his shoulders slump, and he finally looks to his left.

“Stop what?” he asks, ignoring how out of breath he sounds.

Andrew opens his eyes then, and finds enough energy to turn slightly to look right at Neil. He says nothing, but he doesn’t have to.

Neil uncurls his hands completely, muscles surging with relief as he does so, and lets out a deep breath.

“Sorry.”

But now that his hands aren’t busy, the franticness is building inside of him again, so Neil allows his gaze to settle fully on Andrew. Calculating everything; his eyes, his posture, his easy and calm breathing - as if he really isn’t breathing at all.

“. . . what kind of questions do you think they’ll ask us?” Neil tries, looking for any sign that Andrew is as affected as he is.

That gets a slight frown in his direction, but ultimately Andrew lets out a sigh and closes his eyes again. “All that matters is the answers you decide to give.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Mhm.”

Just as Neil’s about to start in on choking the life out of his water bottle once more, with his every bone feeling full of electricity, Andrew speaks up and says, “You don’t have to answer any question that you don’t want to, or even how they want you to.”

Neil lets out a laugh bordering on skeptical. “Oh really? Do you have some sort of secret that I should know about?”

“It’s not a secret. It’s called ‘standing your ground’.”

For whatever reason, that feels like an insult, and it sinks heavy in Neil’s stomach. He looks around the studio at the various crew members, the lighting setup and the props and everything that’s designed to make fake things look real, and sighs.

“As if I ever had any ground in the first place.”

“Mhm,” Andrew says again, and nothing else.

Neil is spared having to think of a response by the interviewer approaching them. She introduces herself and reaches out to shake Neil’s hand, but is quick to pull back when Andrew simply stares at the offering.

“Nice to meet you both,” she says, smile never flinching, and takes the seat opposite them. “Shall we begin?”

The interview is made of simple questions at first; how long have they been reading the magazine, what their favourite issue is, what team did they root for the most while in college, easy things that Neil already knows how to answer.

But easy is never how anything stays.

“Neil, now that Andrew, a top-ranked player, is sitting here beside you, how do you feel about him? Are you still optimistic about your chances?”

Neil’s instinct is to laugh a bit, and turn to face Andrew. When Neil smiles, it’s for him, and not the camera. “I feel good. I mean, yeah, you might be top-ranked, but statistics are just that - statistics. Right, Andrew?”

Slower than snow melting, Andrew turns his head to look at Neil, without an ounce of feeling in his expression. “I hate you.”

Neil’s smile crashes a few levels, but he’s quick to hide it and face the camera again. “. . . it’s going to be fun proving him wrong.”

The interviewer smiles, and looks to Andrew. “And what about you, Andrew? Hate is a pretty strong word regarding Neil, don’t you think?”

Still sounding as void as his three previous words had, Andrew shrugs and says, “Hate could mean many things.”

“So is Neil as ferocious in person as he is on the court?”

Andrew’s eyes are fire on Neil’s face. “Not at all.”

That fire burns and boils the spite in Neil’s chest, and Neil is quick to face him again and snap, “As if you’re anything special off of it.”

“Never said I was.”

“Which is a shame,” Neil says airily, dramatically shrugging his shoulders. “I sort of hoped that there was a soul in there somewhere, considering how much you bring to each game.”

“Oh, Neil,” and it’s a wonder how any person could sound so empty and yet still be condescending, “There wasn’t - until you came along.”

It’s said so viciously that it must be an insult, but it pricks and pokes up Neil’s spine until it reaches his head, and then Neil feels hot all over again.

He’s saved - or maybe, interrupted - by the interviewer when she suddenly makes a cooing noise, her eyes wide as she says, “Ooh, that sounds promising. So is it true then, Andrew, that you’ve been playing with more precision during your practices because of Neil?”

“Because of how foolish he is, perhaps.”

“And you, Neil? What’s been your incentive?”

Neil can’t look anywhere else but at Andrew’s face and those burning eyes. “Andrew.”

And he’s looking at Andrew, and Andrew is looking right back at him.

So when the next question is asked, it doesn’t surprise Neil as hard as it should, not at first.

“Now Neil, let’s chat about your past. You were unable to find recruitment with any other NEL teams because of the incident involving the news of your father. Does he have any impact on you now that you’ve made it?”

Then it sinks in, and Neil’s hot blood turns cool, as quick as it takes for his head to spin around. He faces the camera with a paled face and shocked eyes and stammers, “Uh, what? I don’t . . . I can’t answer that.”

It’s been months since he last uttered anything regarding his family and his father. He’s spent every day since then storing it away, pushing it back, leaving it in his past. Having it spoken about so blatantly feels as if his entire mind has been raked over and pulled apart.

“Surely you must feel something like pride or victory. What would you say to your father if given the chance?”

Neil’s hands curl in on themselves once again, nails biting into skin. The room is spinning and he has no clue what’s where or why. He’s back in that moment, with the reporters and the questions and the anger and the fear and being so clueless as to who he is.

“I haven’t thought - uh, are there any other questions?”

“Whatever’s the first thing to come to mind.”

“I - I guess -”

“And what about your mo-”

The interviewer’s too-enthusiastic voice is cut off abruptly by Andrew saying, “He said no.”

In a tone so solid it makes the screaming room go silent.

Neil doesn’t breathe.

“Oh, I was asking Neil, but if you have something to say on the issue . . .”

Andrew’s expression is darker than it was minutes ago. He doesn’t frown or sneer; all it takes is one look and it dims the entire world. “And Neil said no, so unless you have any other questions pertaining to what you’re really here for, I think we’re finished.”

The interviewer’s mouth hangs open but nothing comes out. Her eyes flick from Neil to Andrew to someone behind the camera, as Andrew slips out from the chair, not deigning anyone with a glance as he leaves the studio.

Neil remains seated, every limb feeling heavy, his eyes unable to look away from the doors that Andrew just pushed through. His manager comes up to him, on the phone with someone, speaking angrily and looking focused for once. Neil catches his own name somewhere in the conversation - along with his father’s.

Neil tunes it all out, however, every voice and word said to him. His lungs ache, and he doesn’t notice anything until they suddenly don’t.

Because the moment he’s finally able to breathe again is the moment that Andrew walks back in through the doors and returns to set.

-

It’s a half hour before Neil is called to set. His nerves are still in disarray, but just like he does on the court, he pushes them away to focus on the task at hand. He does what he’s told, playing the role set out for him. He’s never done such a high scale photoshoot before, so he doesn’t hesitate in tilting his chin this way and that way when instructed, smiling when they ask him, conveying every emotion that they want him to convey. It’s clear what story they’re trying to tell.

Is it a story he actually believes in, though? Does he really hate Andrew the way the world is saying he does? Neil doesn’t think so, not even when he catches Andrew’s gaze between touch-ups and smiles, and all Andrew does is blink.

There’s just nothing to hate. Neil’s thought a lot about Andrew since first meeting him, and he can’t come up with a single reason. Rivalry doesn’t equate to hate.

Before Neil can go back to set after touch-ups, a hair stylist ties an aqua-coloured bandana around Neil’s head in a band, pushing his bangs back from his face. She says, sounding satisfied, “Now that’s more like it, hey, rookie?”

Neil itches to reach up and take it off.

When Andrew is called to set, that’s when the entire train derails. A story can’t be told when the character refuses to say their lines. Demands and requests are called out, but Andrew reacts as if they were never even said. Either on purpose, or simply because he just doesn’t care.

“Andrew, can we at least get a smile?” the photographer asks, lowering the camera from her face. “Make it grim, vicious, guarded. Anything.”

Andrew’s face stays the way it’s been all day; cold and plain, not a single emotion shuttering across it.

Neil watches without breathing, hands curled into fists and nails biting his palms. If he ever refused like that, if he ever denied what they wanted him to be . . . he wouldn’t exist.

Yet Andrew stands there, hands shoved in the pockets of his tailored pants, looking the way he always is and not what they want him to be. And he doesn’t disappear.

Neil is smiling by the end of it. If he can’t deny the rules, can’t break them, then he’ll happily watch Andrew do it.

Eventually the director yells out in frustration, turning to Andrew’s manager and demanding compliance, but Andrew’s manager simply shakes her head. The director calls for lunch, spewing obscenities as he walks away from set, talking loudly with the production team as they all voice their annoyance over Andrew.

Neil can’t stop smiling, and he finds that he doesn’t even want to.

It’s a surprise, though, when Neil turns from set and finds Andrew waiting for him. He’s staring at nothing, but once he’s sure Neil is there beside him, he heads for the door.

Neil follows without question as Andrew stops in front of his manager, holding out his hand silently until his manager produces a package of cigarettes and a lighter. Then he turns for the exit, turns down a hallway, down a staircase, and out a backdoor that leads into an alley.

Neil still asks no questions as Andrew leans against the wall of the building, designer suit be damned, and lights up. He asks no questions as Andrew takes a deep drag, then passes the cigarette off to Neil.

“That’s not a good look for you,” Andrew finally says, words slow and raspy. He points with his now-free fingers up at the bandana still fixed around Neil’s head.

“Thanks,” Neil says, mocking intent clear in is voice. “I’m choosing to wear it.”

“You are,” Andrew says in agreement, reaching back for the cigarette.

Neil frowns, eyebrows and mouth twisting up. “That was called sarcasm. Have you heard of it?”

“The definition must have changed then.”

“What do you mean?”

Andrew takes his time with answering, instead choosing to lean his head against the brick, closing his eyes, breathing up a cloud of smoke to the sky. “You have a choice. If you don’t like it, take it off.”

“After you just pissed them off like that by refusing to smile? Do you know how to, or have you never felt joy before?”

That gets one eye open. Andrew’s half glare is icy enough to freeze fire. “There’s nothing to smile about here,” he says, simply. “Though that must be news to you. If they say smile, you smile. If they say run, you’d ask where to? It’s sad.”

Neil lifts a hand to his head, feeling the soft curls of his hair tousled around the bandana, shaping a face that should be his but somebody else has made. They tied his hair back and removed the past five years of his life, turned him back into the freshman rookie at Arizona.

His hands move, as if to take the bandana off, but he can’t.

“It’s not up to me,” he says, quietly.

Andrew has both eyes open now, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall. “Sad. You are far too concerned with pleasing people who only want one thing from you. It’s your face that’s going to be on the magazine. Your name being played with.”

Andrew takes another two or three drags of his smoke, time passing as slowly as he breathes. Then he turns to Neil, holding the cigarette out of the way, and says clearly, “Come here.”

As stunned as Neil is by such a sudden command, he takes the few steps separating them until he’s right in front of Andrew.

Andrew’s hand motions towards the bandana. “Do you want to be this person?”

Neil’s response is automatic; “No.”

Without hesitating, Andrew snags his fingers into the material and pulls it free from Neil’s head, tossing it over his shoulder just as quickly.

“Then don’t be this person.”

He places the mostly-gone cigarette between Neil’s fingers, then pulls open the door that leads inside, leaving Neil alone in the alley.

He finishes breathing in the rest of the cigarette, eyes never leaving the aqua-coloured material that sits on the dirty ground of a Los Angeles alleyway. Neil doesn’t pick it up.

Once inside, he goes back to his makeup chair, allowing the artist to touch up his face. It’s difficult to stay still when Andrew is only a few feet away, when Neil can’t stop thinking about him, when Neil replays the brush of Andrew’s fingers through his hair over, and over, and over.

He allows himself to spare a glance in his direction, watching as an obviously-anxious makeup artist brushes powder over Andrew’s cheeks, Andrew reclined in his chair with his feet up on the vanity again.

There’s no reason to get up and walk over, but there’s no reason not to, either, so Neil chooses what he wants to do. It’s the strangest sensation, allowing his feet to go where they want to go.

Stranger that it’s towards Andrew.

“Hey.”

The makeup artist ignores Neil’s interruption, but Andrew immediately opens his eyes.

“I wanted to say thank you, for, uh, for earlier.” His hand comes up to rest on the back of Andrew’s chair, fingers squeezing tight to stop himself from altering something he isn’t allowed to change, touching something he can’t touch. “You know . . . the only time I get to say anything that I actually think, it’s about you.”

Maybe he is being played like a puppet, but his rivalry with Andrew is real. Everything he’s said about Andrew has been the truth, regardless if the world hears it as hate.

It’s not.

The universe pauses and sits in sharp silence. Andrew sends a fierce look at the makeup artist, ushering her away, then looks back at the mirror as the universe presses play.

“So there is something outside of your contract?”

There’s intention in Andrew’s voice, intention that Neil wants to respond to. He immediately understands what Andrew was asking with that phone call, and it sinks his chest in. He can't.

“It’s not something I’m allowed to have.”

There’s somberness in Neil’s voice, sombreness that Andrew doesn’t respond to. He sits still and uncaring. “But do you want it?”

He’s never been asked that before.

Because of that fact, he can’t look up again, can’t bring himself to meet Andrew’s eyes in the reflection.

“I’ve never wanted it,” he says finally, and it’s not a yes, but it’s not a no.

“Doesn’t answer my question,” Andrew says, like he expected Neil to say that. He doesn’t give Neil the chance to try though, and instead slides from his seat to stand by his manager.

It’s fifteen minutes before they’re both called back to set. The director takes one look at Neil’s restyled hair, and widens his eyes to match the rage he had yelled out at Andrew.

“What happened to your hair?” he asks, and looks around for the hair stylist. “We have a cover to shoot for, you need to be ready.”

“I’m not wearing it,” Neil says back flatly, and something real bursts and bleeds in his chest, but it doesn’t hurt.

“Don’t be difficult. It’s not for you - it’s for the picture.”

“I’m not wearing it.”

“Do you want us to continue with this photoshoot or not?” he snaps, and waves over for the hair stylist. “It’s very simple; keep the stupid thing on your head and smile when you’re told. Got it?”

Fight fills Neil’s mouth, words and curses that can only be stopped by biting down on his tongue. It wouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Not here.

His ‘no’ is nonexistent here, just like it’s always been and always will be.

So Neil sighs and bows his head, and when the stylist pulls yet another bandana through his curls and ties it tight, he doesn’t take it off.

The photoshoot leads back underway, but this time Neil doesn’t smile, because it’s not asked of him.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man who’s meant to be his enemy, a man he’s meant to hate when he really doesn’t, though, feels like another lie.

The world won’t know, when the magazine comes out, that they really don’t hate each other, not that way. The cover shot will most likely be the two of them staring each other down, an inch of space between their faces. The world will never know the ideas being thought in that space.

Andrew is offering something.

A decision, a choice.

Something he can say no to - something he wants to say yes to.

Something Neil hasn’t ever had before. It’s always been what he has to do, no other options.

It’s not something anyone else can decide for him. It’s not even something he can decide to feel for himself, because you can tell yourself you can't, but it doesn’t stop you from wanting to reach out and touch, be touched. He’s never wanted that before, either.

How could he say no?

It’s the first time his body and his mind have been a cohesive yes. Funny, that it goes against everything his contract states, that it’s everything he should say no to.

“Andrew.” He says it in the last second they have together, before they’re broken apart by the stylists and makeup artists. “I want it.”

Andrew considers Neil for a moment, expression unreadable, but Neil knows he isn’t truly as bored as he looks. He leaves without saying anything, and Neil knows that’s not the end of it.

He’s proven right an hour later, when his phone goes off with a text message from ‘03’. It’s a bunch of numbers that at first glance mean nothing. It doesn’t take Neil long to realize the numbers are coordinates, a time, and a room number.

34.066042, -118.410602

10

753

Chapter 4

His hood is pulled up over his head, a baseball cap is lowered over his face.

It’s a precaution, though he’s pretty sure the only people who might recognize him right now are the people who’ve had their TV’s turned to a sports station over the past month.

Stepping out of the cab, he leaves behind his last checkpoint of safety, and enters an entirely different world. Fancy doesn’t begin to describe this hotel, with its palm trees and marble fountain. The doormen wear sharp, fitted suits, and greet him with a small bow.

The inside is even worse; a crystal chandelier hangs above Neil’s head as soon as he steps through the revolving doors. In his baggy hoodie and hat, he suddenly feels a bit out of place. Very, very out of place.

It takes a minute to find the right elevator, an even longer minute to work up the courage to press the button, and another sixty precise seconds to step onto it when the doors open. Then there’s no going back, the only direction is up, up, up to the seventh floor.

What’s on the seventh floor is everything he cannot have. It’s everything he signed away. It’s also what he doesn’t understand.

Neil isn’t stupid. He knows the risks and the dangers. What he doesn’t know is what he feels, he just knows that he feels it, because he hasn’t ever before.

Not like this. It’s never itched up inside of him. He’s never felt the scratching of sharp curiosity, clawing at his insides in an attempt to get out.

He’s been fine without it. You can’t want something you just don’t feel. He knows, realistically, he could be fine without this, too, but the thought of never knowing, never finding out, never trying, is enough reason to get him out of the elevator.

He has to know why he feels this, what this is, where it’s coming from and how. All he knows is that it’s because of Andrew.

What is it about Andrew?

The fact that it could ruin everything, if anyone else ever found out, doesn’t scare him. If anything, it comforts him, because he signed a contract saying he wouldn’t let people see this, wouldn’t let them know.

Andrew did, too.

So who out of the two of them is going to tell?

So what could it hurt to just find out? To feed an answer to his tightening heart, and finish the rhythm that’s been stuck in his head since he first shook Andrew’s hand.

The door with the gold 753 comes into view much too quickly, but having made his decision a long time ago, Neil doesn’t hesitate this time, and raises a hand to give a steady knock on the wood. It takes a minute, but soon there’s the sound of footsteps, and then the door is swinging back open.

Andrew stands there, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He looks at Neil, then fishes his phone out of his pocket, clicks a button, and holds the screen up for Neil to see. “Eager?” he asks around the cigarette.

The time is flashing on the screen. Four minutes before ten. “Traffic wasn’t terrible,” Neil explains, and steps around Andrew to get inside.

The door closes, sealing them in, feeling almost as final as it had when they were locked in the court.

Andrew makes his way to the minibar and asks, “Did anyone see you come in?”

“I don’t think so. Hey - why’d you make this place so hard to find?”

Andrew says without looking at him, “To be sure you wanted to find it.”

He turns around and hands a bottle of something to Neil, then takes one for himself and makes his way over to the windowsill, turning the crank on the window and pushing it out as far as it will go. He lights up, completely ignorant to the placard on the wall that declares this suite as a non-smoking room.

“Not a fan of following the rules, I see,” Neil says conversationally, eyes glancing up at the placard.

“Five-hundred bucks a night. It’s a smoking room.”

Managing a grim sort of smile, Neil finds a place on the bed, facing Andrew where he sits at the window.

Settling into silence, Neil suddenly feels - awkward. Too aware of himself, from his clothes, to his thoughts, to this aching unknowing that he hates - because Andrew must know.

Neil’s been painted to look inexperienced by the media. He hates that sitting in front of Andrew, he is that painting, has no clue what to do or how. It makes him want to tear off his skin and try again, to be another picture, to know better.

Oblivious to Neil’s internal panic, or maybe because he’s all too aware of it, Andrew leans over and passes Neil his pack of smokes and a lighter. They smoke and breathe and drink in silence, and the longer each second stays quiet, the more Neil’s heart starts to settle.

He had expected go go go and now now now and desperate and quick just to get it over with. But Andrew sits there with his head tilted back, looking as if this is the only reason he invited Neil over tonight, like there’s nothing else expected.

So Neil has to ask, his cigarette nearly burnt down to a stub, “How many times have you done this?”

Andrew takes that as an insult, it seems, judging by the scowl that darkens his face.

“I mean -” He doesn’t know what he means, he can’t say it. “You signed this all away,” he tries, waving his hand around. “You don’t seem that bothered by it. Like you’ve found a way around it.”

Andrew shrugs, confirming Neil’s suspicion, acting as if signing away everything you are inside means nothing. “You could say that,” he says. “But I’m not going to let some words on a paper decide who I fuck anyway.”

That sends a sudden bolt of heat down Neil’s chest, feeling more like a punch than anything else. He ducks his head quickly to hide the flash of red that colours his cheeks. It’s dizzying to hear this - whatever this is - put into words.

“What if you get caught?”

“I can’t get caught,” Andrew says. “I’m not hiding anything, I’m just not telling. There’s a difference.”

Neil nods, though he doesn’t understand.

Andrew sips at his drink, studying Neil intently over the mouth of his bottle. “There’s a reason I never signed your team’s contract.”

“And what is that?”

“Is this sport really that important to you that you’d forfeit every cell you are?”

It’s not difficult to hold Andrew’s gaze now. He means it when he says, “It is every cell I am.”

Andrew looks as if he wants to roll his eyes, but he refrains and takes one last drag of his smoke before stubbing the end out against the pristine windowsill. “That’s what I thought you’d say,” he says, turning his body to face Neil better, letting his legs part and his shoulders relax. “I don’t believe it.”

Then it’s back to not being able to look at him. Andrew’s eyes are like a searching spotlight, so bright, exposing everything. All Neil can think about is the small distance between him and Andrew’s open legs, Andrew’s steady gaze, reading him and cracking him open.

“Or else you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Neil uses his drink as an excuse to avoid eye contact, lifting his bottle up up up until he can drain it. Andrew seems to be giving him the time he needs to answer that, so Neil takes it, studying the label of his beer with serious intent once he's finished.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here because I’ve never -” Neil starts, then stops, and finally looks up. “How am I supposed to pass up something I’ve never felt before?”

That changes something in Andrew’s structure. He’s quick to straighten himself and tower his presence over Neil. He says like it’s law, “You don’t feel anything. If this is going to be anything, it will be only physical. Do you understand?”

Neil doesn’t understand, because he most definitely does feel something. He doesn’t know what it is, and the only reason he knows it’s there is because it’s never been there.

He wants to think it’s simply because Andrew’s tied up in Neil’s love for Exy now, but then again, so is Kevin. He wants to think maybe it’s because Andrew is a means of security now, because Andrew can't tell anyone.

But that doesn’t work; Neil only wants because it’s Andrew.

Looking at him, at Andrew’s guarded gaze and venomous stance, Neil can’t pinpoint what it is about him.

The last thing it could ever be, however, is his touch. The last time Neil’s fingertips have brushed Andrew’s skin was the night they met.

It has to be something else.

Neil doesn’t mind figuring it out, but he has to say, a smirk tugging at his lips, “How could it only be physical when all we’ve done so far is shake hands?”

Andrew’s vicious expression stays where it is for a long moment, increasing in darkness, until suddenly he snaps his head around to stare out the window. “You’re a lot more difficult than I thought you’d be.”

“I’m a challenge, remember?”

Andrew lets out a slightly more raspy breath, a skeleton of a laugh. Neil feeds on it. It puts him one step closer to solving this.

Though he isn’t quite sure what he’ll do when he figures it out.

“Then where do you want to start?” Andrew asks, after another suspension of silence, surprising Neil with his voice.

For a moment there, he was expecting to be sent away. He didn’t think he’d be given another decision to make. Letting out a small laugh, Neil shrugs and admits, “I was hoping you would tell me.”

To his confusion, Andrew doesn’t answer that, and instead hops off the windowsill to walk over to the desk by the mirror, picking up a large leatherbound menu.

“We should eat,” Andrew says, tossing the book at Neil. “Order whatever you want.”

He isn’t hungry at all, his stomach too twisted up to feel anything, but he thinks maybe that’s not what Andrew is asking.

“What are you having?”

Andrew sighs at that, but lifts one dismissive shoulder and says, “Ice cream, probably.”

“Then I’ll have that.”

Whatever he had expected from tonight, sitting on a bed with Andrew Minyard and eating ice cream out of expensive serving dishes was not part of that.

The TV plays in the background, drowning out most of Neil’s attempt at conversation. Yet somehow, it’s not awkward. It’s almost as if this is how it’s supposed to go.

Andrew doesn’t talk, but he listens, even if he doesn’t lift his eyes to meet Neil’s. He stirs and picks at his dessert as Neil rattles on about this and that, topics mostly covering Exy, as that’s all he’s accustomed to talking about.

He starts off by mentioning how many of Andrew’s games he had watched throughout college - he had watched many. He mentions his days in little league, and how it was his only escape from a strange home life he wouldn’t understand for years to come. He starts to mention being recruited by Kevin, the day his coach at UOA had approached him and said ‘There’s a recruiter for the Seakings here to see you play tonight’ before he realizes, he really doesn’t want to talk about Kevin.

Or Exy.

Or anything about the game.

But what else to say?

He wants to find the reason why he feels so high about Andrew and uncaring about everything else; his whole career sits right outside the locked hotel door and Neil doesn’t think once about it when he’s talking to Andrew.

After a few moments of silence, stirring at melted ice cream, Neil thinks off the top of his head and tells Andrew about the weird dream he had last night, something he wouldn’t think to tell anyone else, because who else would listen?

The abrupt change in topics seems to shock Andrew, because there’s a quirk to his eyebrow and a twitch at his lips.

“So what about you?” Neil asks, giving his spoon a lick. “What kind of messed up dreams have you had?”

Andrew graces him with a cold look. “I’m living one,” he says, but after a minute, he surprises Neil by elaborating. “It’s pointless to wonder about them. They’re always going to be unrealistic, and I don’t approve of false hope.”

“I get that,” Neil says, nodding, though he isn’t sure he does get that. “Whenever I dream about flying, I wake up disappointed that I can’t. It always feels so real.”

“It never is.”

“Thanks, I’ll try to remember that next time I’m unconscious.”

Andrew looks at him again, and this time, he doesn’t look away.

Once they’re done their ice cream, they set the bowls down on the ground, as if they aren’t worth the rent of a house. Not having anything to keep his mouth and hands busy now, Neil glances at Andrew’s lips, and wonders too much about them.

“How am I doing?” He has to ask, half joke, half panic.

“Terrible,” Andrew answers, but it sounds half mocking, half bite. “But I’m not grading you, and I don’t plan on telling anyone else.”

“I know.” Neil shrugs a bit. “That’s what convinced me to come.”

Knowing Andrew would keep it a secret isn’t the reason he’s here, but it is the reassuring force that had him take those last few steps towards the door.

He’s here because -

And then he thinks he gets it.

Andrew’s been giving him chance after chance all night to turn around and walk away. The click of the lock wasn’t as final as the lock on the court had been; that had been somebody else’s decision, that neither could escape from. Being in here with Andrew, all Neil has to do to leave is leave.

Andrew is the opposite of Neil’s contract - he’s freedom.

Neil’s never had freedom. He’s never had freedom want him in return.

So uncaring about the rights or the wrongs because neither affect him, Andrew does things because and only if he wants to, despite all the rules and regulations.

For Neil, a man whose entire life has been rules and regulations, self-imposed and forced, it’s invigorating.

It’s freeing. It’s having the option of leaving if he wants to, staying if he wants that more. It’s whatever Neil wants to do, as long as he really wants to do it. No forcing, no pushing, no pressure.

Just a question, with so many answers.

That’s the reason he’s here. That’s the reason he wants Andrew.

Focusing on the TV after coming to that realization is difficult, and it shows in Neil’s bouncing legs, anxious fingers, in his eyes that keep averting from the screen to look at Andrew, waiting for Andrew, wanting Andrew to look at him.

The program cuts to commercial, and Andrew remains still as stone, a safe distance away from Neil’s jittering body.

And -

He’s slower than Andrew, clearly, because it seems Andrew had already come to Neil’s realization long ago. Andrew sits still and away from Neil because he’s waiting for Neil, not the other way around.

And here it is again, the reason he wants this; having a decision. Andrew’s given him space to draw out his lines, figure out his boundaries, and now Neil has to decide if he wants Andrew across them.

His name is attached to a contract that binds up his entire life, lining his body, keeping him contained. Now that he’s outside of it, playing within his own lines, he doesn’t know where to start.

But he does want to start, and that’s a first.

So he tries to make that first move, of his own volition, sitting up on the bed to face Andrew, who keeps his attention pinned to the TV. His apparent disinterest doesn’t deter Neil, not when Andrew is straightening out his legs on either side of Neil and slowly uncrossing his arms.

Then they’re face to face, nearly skin to skin, but not quite eye to eye; Neil is looking entirely at Andrew’s lips.

“Can I?” Neil asks, still staring at Andrew’s mouth, and his heart thrums up alive at how much he wants an answer.

Andrew lifts an eyebrow, and asks back, “Can you?”

It can’t be all that difficult, Neil thinks, and leans forward to reach for Andrew. His hands instinctively come up to cup Andrew’s jaw, because that’s what feels right.

Wrong.

His hands are stopped abruptly just inches from Andrew’s face. Andrew wraps his fingers tight around Neil’s wrists and holds him there, not pushing him away but not allowing him closer.

Once he’s sure Neil is contained in his hands, Andrew closes the distance between their lips and kisses him.

Neil didn't know it could feel like that.

It’s - odd. He never understood the point of it, and he doesn’t understand it now, but it’s just that with Andrew’s lips against his, he almost never wants to breathe again if it means he can keep kissing him.

The drag of curiosity, of knowing I want this, whatever this is, pulls him forward for more. He gives in completely to Andrew’s hands around his wrists, sagging his body forward and letting Andrew hold him up.

Being touched by Andrew feels like being told a million words at once. Like secrets being shared, no one else around to hear, only them and this and whatever comes next.

The kissing lasts for another minute, maybe two, maybe a hundred. Neil’s sense of time gets warped when he feels Andrew’s tongue against his, so really it could be the next day and he would be none the wiser.

Until Andrew flexes his grip around Neil, slowly ushering him back but not letting go. He says, firm and certain, “There are rules. Can you follow them?”

But how could Neil answer that when he can’t even remember his name, the English language so vague to him now? He blinks away the fog from his eyes, pushes through the daze, and only comes through to the other side when Andrew gives his wrists a squeeze.

Ever since Neil met him, and likely long before that, Andrew hasn’t followed a single rule that’s been put in his path. Laws and guidelines never mean anything to him. He’s his own person, player, game.

If Andrew comes with rules, then they must mean something. Neil nods his confirmation, then realizes a second later when Andrew doesn’t let go that it needs to be a vocal one. “Yes.”

He hardly recognizes his voice.

Andrew drops his wrists and puts a foot of space between them, but keeps one finger jabbed under Neil’s chin.

“I need to know that you really want it. If you need to stop, you say stop. If you need time, tell me you need time. Yes is yes and no is no.”

Neil looks at Andrew and meets the challenge in his eyes straight on. It settles weird in his stomach, twisting it up, because that challenge isn’t vicious or harmful. It’s as if Andrew’s waiting for Neil to say no, but even more than that, it’s as if he’s afraid he’ll say yes.

“I understand,” Neil says, holding himself very still as Andrew takes his hand away, in case such a simple word invokes a serious reaction. It’s risky to look away from Andrew’s eyes, but he needs to see where his hands are now; clenched up tight in the blanket, far away from Neil. “Where can I touch you?”

He asks without thinking it through, because he has to, confused by all these lines being drawn. So far it seems as if none of them lead to Andrew, but rather create a barrier around him.

“That’s the second rule,” Andrew says calmly, keeping his eyes on Neil’s face. “You can’t.”

Somewhere in the distance of Neil’s mind, there’s the sound of tires coming to a screeching halt. He snaps his head up quickly, unable to mask his continued confusion, but it quickly dies where it’s spread out across his face once he looks at Andrew’s.

It wouldn’t be a rule if Andrew didn’t need it. So instead of asking why, Neil says, “Okay.”

For whatever reason, that knocks the ice off Andrew’s features and shows what’s hidden underneath - shock.

It makes Neil wonder if anyone’s ever wanted to follow Andrew’s rules before. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t follow anyone else’s.

Andrew blinks and the ice comes back, sharpening and freezing everything from his eyes to his lips. “Do you have any rules?”

Neil shrugs and shakes his head. “Not yet. I’ve never done this before.”

Andrew’s response is silence, but he seems to hear whatever it is he needs to hear, because he doesn’t push it.

And oddly enough, it doesn’t fall back into more kissing, though Andrew does look between Neil and the windowsill for a considerable amount of time. He makes whatever decision he needs to and indicates with a jerk of his head to follow. Then they sit at the windowsill together, legs bent up and toes nearly touching, exchanging a lighter between them to light two separate cigarettes.

Andrew looks contemplative, remnants of challenge still in his eyes, looking almost angry with something. With himself.

Neil has to ask, “Is it usually like this?”

Whatever this is or is supposed to be or can be - Neil has a suspicion this isn't how it usually goes.

Andrew looks out at their view, breathing out a cloud of smoke into the gap of the open window, and shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s rare for someone to get past the second rule.”

Neil’s mouth wants to drop open to form another question, but he keeps it closed and fills in the blanks for himself. It’s clear now why Andrew looks that way; he doesn’t know what to do.

Has anyone ever said yes to him?

No, that’s not it, Neil thinks.

Has anyone ever asked him for a yes?

Content to wait it out, even if it never happens, Neil moves from the windowsill to sit on the bed, only to be stopped by a hand on his wrist.

Neil pauses immediately, and looks over his shoulder to where Andrew is, still sitting, taking one last drag of his cigarette. He never lets go of Neil’s wrist.

As soon as it’s stubbed out, grey ashes smearing into white wood, Neil is being hauled closer and downwards, just enough for Andrew to grab the back of his neck and pull him in for a kiss.

A hand on his neck and a hand around his wrist, Neil feels contained in a way that makes him feel free. He’s safe here. His no means no here.

He says yes here.

Somehow, someway, through quick pecks and violent nips of teeth against lips, they end up on the bed. The pillow feels like concrete when Neil’s head hits it, or maybe that shock of impact is from having Andrew’s entire body weight over top of him.

His hands instinctively come up to touch. Andrew is a hot, heavy, real thing above him and Neil wants to know every inch, so it doesn’t seem so foreign, but he can’t. Like a flashing red warning, blaring loud through his ears, he reminds himself to kill the need to solve things.

Andrew will show him whatever he wants him to know.

Andrew keeps his body raised in certain places, carefully arranging his knees and his arms to hold himself where he wants to be. Neil responds by pressing his own body further into the mattress, as if telling Andrew he gets it, he’ll give him his space.

All he can’t control, all he doesn’t want to, is the way that he’s breathing. One kiss and it’s heavy, two kisses and it’s desperate, three kisses and Neil thinks he’s suffocating, whining low in his throat and gasping in the half second that their lips aren’t touching.

He thinks maybe Andrew wants to smother him breathless, because his kisses quicken, raining down relentless.

A bite on his lower lip abruptly stops them, however, and Andrew asks right against Neil’s mouth, “Do you want this?”

And suddenly it all seems so very simple: this is not a contract. There are no false pretenses here, no mask he has to wear. It’s not you must do this or you won’t have anything. It’s do you want this? If you do, we can. If you don’t, we won’t.

“Yes,” Neil gasps out, and his voice is quickly swallowed up by Andrew’s lips and tongue and hands again.

Some people search for people. Some people wait. Neil was neither, not caring about being alone because he always had a game to play, a team to lead, a dream to make. But if he wasn’t searching and wasn’t waiting, then why is he reacting like this, like every touch of Andrew’s fingertips adds missing pieces to him?

His legs part without him thinking it, his throat twists out Andrew’s name, his heart beats somehow steady as Andrew’s hands skim lower and lower, as Andrew shoves Neil’s hoodie further up his chest and exposes all his skin.

“Tell me to stop,” Andrew says, between kisses planted to Neil’s neck and collarbone.

Neil throws his head back and grits out, “I don’t want you to stop.”

It was a question concealed as a statement, Neil realizes, and Andrew hears whatever he needed to hear in Neil’s answer. His kisses follow the path that his hands had made.

In the back of Neil’s mind, forced there because what Andrew’s lips and hands are doing right now takes priority, he thinks about the dangers. If anyone ever realized, saw, told, then Neil’s dream would be finished, his life would be over.

Then why does it feel like it’s just now beginning?

Andrew yanks Neil’s hoodie down from where it was bunched under his armpits, but it’s Neil who reaches out to rip it off.

That gets something - not a smile, not even a smirk - but a something in his direction. It also gives him a brief pause, enough to realize Andrew’s eyes are hazel, and not dark hateful things.

The world thinks he hates him, and Neil will live just fine with that, as long as they never know how willingly and easily he submits to Andrew’s hands. They push and pull and pinch and part and Neil says yes to it all, so desperate for Andrew to start.

Andrew kisses places that nobody else ever has, places that nobody else has ever touched, even with hands. Neil’s pulse races underneath Andrew’s lips, and his heart stops completely when Andrew’s cool breath blows over the mark of a wet kiss, and it scares Neil.

It scares Neil that he wasn’t searching but now he can’t imagine anyone else but Andrew.

He reminds himself of the reason; Andrew is safety that nobody else can give him, a set of rules just for them, a decision, an underlying trust that neither will give the other away because then they’ll both lose. The offer of yes or no.

That’s it.

There can’t be any other reason Neil is only thinking, and has only ever thought, Andrew.

As the kisses, bites, licks and marks continue, the need to grab something deepens and engraves itself like a scar across Neil. “Andrew,” he says, or tries to say but ends up gasping. He doesn’t want to ask for it, not wanting to force Andrew to give it, but he needs - he doesn’t know what he needs. “I -”

There’s a blur of blonde hair above Neil, a slick swell of heat from Andrew’s mouth around Neil’s neck. Andrew pulls back the very instant he hears his name, leaving Neil cold all over.

At Neil’s silence, his non-vocal no, Andrew looks like he’s about to sit up and forget about all of this, and Neil’s heart beats hard in sudden protest.

“No, never - nevermind,” he stammers, and closes his legs dangerously close around Andrew, but still not enough to touch. “Keep going.”

Andrew must be starving, and just as cold as Neil was, because he doesn’t waste a second and continues painting Neil’s neck with spit and kisses.

And Neil, watching how Andrew grips and grabs him, settles for clutching at the blanket underneath them. Leaving claw marks against the silken material is worlds safer than leaving claw marks down Andrew.

Neil’s about to tear holes through the blanket when, without looking or taking his mouth off Neil, Andrew reaches up with one hand and grabs hard at Neil’s wrist. Another anchor, another pinpoint of safety.

Unlike every other hold, this one doesn’t seem to be to keep Neil in place. This ones to give him something to feel.

Neil’s been throughout various variations of breathless, but never like this. The very proximity of Andrew is like a body check on the court, but it doesn’t hurt, it just leaves him gasping for air that can’t be breathed.

And suddenly, Neil wants more, in a way that he has never wanted more before.

But Andrew is pulling back.

Neil doesn’t mean to, truly, but he whines and whimpers the barest minimum of Andrew’s name.

As quiet as that one word is, it echoes and fades until silence consumes it.

“That’s enough,” Andrew says, the sound of his voice so strange now - so strange, but exactly what Neil needed to hear. He looks down at Neil, nothing about him heaving and shaking in the way that Neil is falling apart, and wipes at his mouth.

Andrew’s cheeks are red, his lips are redder, his eyes don’t look hazel anymore but rather something sparkling, so Neil lays there until he’s sure he’s not hallucinating any of it.

Sometime later, perhaps five seconds or five minutes, Andrew offers a hand and pulls Neil upright. His eyes and lips and cheeks are still surreal colours, which makes Neil think that Andrew just isn’t real - because Neil has never wanted anyone’s touch so much.

Then, as if he were reading Neil’s mind, Andrew reaches out and touches the pad of his thumb to Neil’s bottom lip, swiping across it in a way that could read as gentle if you weren’t Andrew, weren’t Neil.

It feels like he’s being asked a question; silent but as vital as air. Neil meets Andrew’s surreal eyes and nods, and it’s only then that Andrew removes his thumb to trace over his own lip, looking thoughtful and utterly at odds.

It must be common to be this breathless. Feeling weightless and drowsy, Neil can’t imagine having it, but the burn of wanting more more more scorches his insides. He says that to Andrew with his eyes.

It can’t be common, however, for Andrew to give one furious wipe to his mouth and push away from the bed to sit at the windowsill. Like more is wrong, like more can’t be done, like more is what he wants too much, like more really is something that Neil just doesn’t understand.

Neil watches him, and doesn’t ask why, because there are rules for a reason.

And, being honest, Neil doesn’t care about the more entirely - he cares about the Andrew of it all. So he keeps his mouth shut, because he knows Andrew wouldn’t want to hear it.

And, being honest, Neil isn’t going to tell him because right now, as he furiously puffs at a cigarette, Andrew looks the way Neil feels - like it’s more than just more for him, too.

Instead he tugs on his hoodie, and joins Andrew at the window. He hesitates before taking the offered cigarette, not wanting to burn away Andrew’s taste, but the scent of smoke always helps him reset his breathing.

But he really doesn’t mind never breathing again.

Even though the sky is dark, the lights of Los Angeles refuse to go down without a fight. Looking out at some strange version of night, the concept of time becomes even more confusing for Neil.

He doesn’t want it to become day.

And, as if he were reading Neil’s thoughts, counting down their seconds - as if he just wants Neil and nothing else - Andrew leans over and plucks the cigarette away from Neil and holds it out of the way, then grabs Neil with his free hand and pulls him to his lips.

This kiss is sour and ashy.

This kiss pauses time.

Neil figures this isn’t common at all, for either of them, or anybody.

But the last thing he could ever say is no.

[dgarski]

This Journey (Part XXXVI)

What I know about why I'm alive

I've been told many stories about what happened to me. They tell me that I had three things happen to me, all at the same time: A seizure, a heart attack and a stroke. How much of one do I remember more than the other? That would be a flat zero. I don't remember chest pains, I don't remember any seizure either. I do remember a brief moment when I was trying to speak to a fellow coworker, and my words came out all slurred. That's it. I passed out and all hell broke loose. How many people do I have to thank for recognizing what was happening to me, and figuring out a way to save my life? I think it's probably into the dozens. I know that my buddy Dennis was right there trying to get me to breathe. He knew what was happening from his own experience with his mother. He knew that I was going into a seizure, and he wasted no time in trying to help. By his words, he told me that there were several people there who were helping me after I collapsed. One was trying to get help via a 911 call, another was cradling my head. Dennis told me that he was pounding on my chest to revive me. He said that my eyes had rolled back and my tongue had gone back as well. Somehow, his efforts proved successful. I have no idea who else was there that evening at post E-31. I was out cold. I don't remember anything. I think about that entire time frame; and it still makes me very anxious. That absolute helplessness alone, is terrifying to me. My life was literally hanging in the hands of a handful of people. Then the rescue squad showed up and the paramedics took over. I actually do vaguely remember coming around briefly to hear one of the paramedics say my name. I recall dry heaves that felt like someone was punching me as hard as they could, right in my stomach. I remember the sirens when they began to pull away...then I was out cold.

I was in the I.C.U. for at least a week as the doctors tried every possible test they could think of to bring me around. I just wouldn't wake up. Four days of my life disappeared. No recall, no memory of anything. Then one day, I started to come to. I started waking up and drifting in and out. My family was there to greet me as I tried to climb out of the cavern-like depths of unconsciousness. All I know is what they told me. I don't remember anything about any of it. I don't remember anything I said or did. I don't remember any conversations I had. Apparently, this is normal and expected. I see some of the pictures and videos taken of me when I was laying in the hospital bed, and I look like I'm next to death. It is absolutely scary and mortifying for me to see and hear about what had happened to me. I had a blood pressure level that was way off the charts. I'm told that it was measured at 230/130. Hypertension was the indirect/direct cause of the triple threat. Nobody seems to have any clear answers as to what caused what first, or why it happened the way it did. Why was I knocked out for four days? There are so many questions I may never get answers to. The doctors here continue to have me get tested. I recently had an EEG and an MRI done. Maybe their looking for something in particular. I can only wait for the results. I hear all the stories, read about the percentages and facts about people who have been through similar situations, and how they sometimes come out of it far worse than I did and all I really understand is that a stroke is the silent killer. I had a hemorrhagic stroke. It is unclear if the stroke caused the heart attack or the seizure caused the stroke, etc. I know that I am on a lot of medication right now. My blood pressure is at normal levels as a result. The doctors and nurses who have tested me have all basically concluded that there doesn't seem to be any lasting effects from the stroke. Every time I do some sort of occupational rehabilitation test, I pass with little effort.

I think back to that emergency room that night, and wonder what was actually done to me to save my life. Was it like something you might see on T.V. drama? I wonder what my fellow coworkers must have been thinking that night. Then there's my family. How terrifying must it have been for them to hear about my collapse? I can't even begin to imagine how they all must have felt. So many people came together in a very short amount of time, to make sure I stayed alive. Clearly, it worked. They saved me. They saved my life. They all worked their individual magic to make sure I didn't go under. I find that amazing beyond description. How could I ever show enough appreciation to every person from my buddy Dennis to the last rehab nurse before I left the hospital, to all who have taken care of me since? They say you pay others back by paying it forward. That, I think I can do, but it will take time. A lot of time. I am so beyond grateful for every single person who was there that evening three months ago tonight.

My life was saved, and now I am allowed to begin it all over again.

[letterstoocean]

ocean, 

i did it. got it out.  at what cost,  i am not sure, may never see you again.  but know i love you always have and always will

ok so here it is.  The one chapter that kept me from completing the book for so many years. I wrote it before, but didn't really write it.  For years i heard a voice in me, a dark evil voice that sang to me no matter how hard i tried to drown it out or run away from it. It has haunte dme to the point that i believe i do not have a home and has killed so many relationships, and probably the one that mattered to me most.  That fear told me it It was time to stop. You can only be scared for so logn before it eats you alive and becoming something else. I found that voice and music in me and dealt with it.  The past two weeks have been nightmarish, lonely and i believed i was not going to come back.  But i keep I searching inside of me ripping open doors i slammed shut. And then i found it.  And that is jsut it.  I shut it away.  You cannot do that.  It happened. there is nothing i can do about that.  But once the darkness in you has a name and a face, then the dragon is easier to defeat... And now i am pissed!!!  Pissed i let it have a hold of me all those years. That voice will never win!!!  Never!!!  It is time to prove that. This book will be done soon...  I have got this now!!!! Chapter Six Ocean: Sometimes you see the beauty in some one, even when they don't. You tell them, but they don't believe it, “well as long as you see it, that is the important part.”   If you could only see what I see.... I can see the distance between us.  Not in miles, but in me.  In what I have to do to heal myself. To get back to you in one whole piece. Going through my journals I keep seeing the same thing over and over but not knowing what it truly meant until now. waiting for my ghosts to catch up... Reading that now I can see the things that I have been so afraid to write.  Things that happened when I was a kid that  I couldn't let go. Things that cut my heart and never really healed but left a scar so deep my heart beats around it. This is a mountain  in the distance. Dark and looming with jagged edges and no path to get over, I keep believing I am getting close but the distance stays the same. Now the shadow of that mountain is stretching to me and I feel all my warmth going away. I know I have to climb it. I know it is the only path that I will find to truly be with you again. To be happy.  To let that child go. The terrifying thing is that it is a long road and I don't know how it will end or where it is going. I am going on faith and my faith sometimes gets shaken. I am afraid of my own words. So afraid I will actually give the ghosts more power in speaking of them and that mountain will just get that much bigger. I know around that mountain is you. Around that mountain is a life without fear of the ghosts that have haunted me all these years. But being in this shadow I am afraid that when I do get over it, you may be gone.  I will still feel you in my soul,  but that will be all. And life without you is just as terrifying of the ghosts I keep running from. I hold on too hard, I know. It is no longer a rabbit hole I am falling down, but a mountain I may fall off of.  I cling to you because you help the fear go away. But doing that I do not get closer to the mountain or you. It keeps me at this distance waiting for my ghosts to catch up. I now know that I have to go to my ghosts.   I have to climb that mountain, conquer that mountain and even still climb down the other side, which at times is just as hard. I have to do this to set the ghosts free. I have to do this for you and me. I want to so much to be in your arms, to laugh at silly things no one else laughs at but us. To wake up on rainy days and do nothing but nap and hold you as we dream of the sun and things to come. I truly do not know what this mountain has in store. I know things happen how they are supposed to happen and right now, this has to be done.  And there is no one else to do it but me. I hope when I came down on the other side at least I can see the path that will lead me back to your smile. To you.   No longer waiting for my ghosts to catch up I am walking into the shadow of the mountain of all those horrible things I have hidden away. Confidence is being scared, no terrified of every next step but having the strength to do it anyway and ready for what life brings. I love you. I miss you. I miss feeling you put your hand in my hand and feeling you squeeze tight and not let go. I miss you walking up behind  me, putting your chin on my shoulder and whispering hi and waiting for me to turn and kiss your lips. I miss these things so much. I miss when we stood under the stars. Moving so close to you, I could feel your heartbeat enter mine.   I could not stop trembling as I stared in your eyes. They were deeper than the stars shining above us. “To kiss you.”  I whisper as my shaking hands reach up and caress your cheek. “Do it.” you whisper back. That small distance between our lips seemed a lifetime. The excitement lasted longer. When my lips caressed your lips, a fire and a sigh of relief roared through me.   The moan was instant and you grabbed me and kissed me deeper.  As I kissed back and bit your lower lip you say, “tongue.” I give it to you, and the fire became a storm and I could not get enough of you,   I still cannot get enough of you. And that is the way it should be. My bridge, my ocean,  my tide that rises and falls over my shore.....just to hold you. Just to hold you. To feel you underneath me, over me, beside me.   To feel you as I do now with the distance between us. To feel us close the distance. To feel your music inside of me.   I am singing to you, hear my music.I love you, my oceanRiver He was screaming in his sleep.The scream came from down deep inside of me.  It gurgled and bubbled its way up through him and the nightmare that was causing it.  He screamed in the the dark until he could no longer catch his breath, and even then the scream tried to work its way out through his gasps. He woke up and tried to wipe the nightmare from his face.  Swiping his hand again and again across his face as his gasps for air still held more screams and tears.Sweat poured out of him as he crawled to the trash can and made it just in time to throw up.  He fell onto his back and cried himself back to sleep. Then there was nothing. The Turtle Incident We we were in South Houston again.  It seems at this time in my life we always wound up there.  We were living right on the edge of the a nice school district and mom had even bigger high hopes for us both. We were sharing an unfurnished apartment with a man she went out with once, but didn't really connect with.  He needed a roommate for the expensive apartment he just rented and mom agreed. Mom was living at the bar she worked at just to try and pay the rent. As always she was never home. The mans name was Bruce. He was an alcoholic and very very angry man.  Angry at everything and he took that anger out on me. Five foot five a hundred ten pounds, he was a pale ghost with soulless eyes. He had a stinky scraggly beard that came down to his muscle less chest and it always had food in it. White beer foam seemed to a permanent fixture around his lips and his speech always had the same angry slur no matter how much or how little he drank. He hated me.  He hated me more than anything in the world.  I honesty believe he saw the world that hated him in me and decided I was everything that went wrong with him. “You know one of these days, you keep pissing on that toilet seat, I am gonna cut that little pecker off.” In various degrees of verbal abuse he would tell me how worthless I was. How my mom was a “white trash whore”.  How I was the son of white trash whore and would never amount to anymore than the trash I was. This went on for months. “You even think of telling your mom, and I will kill you both.” He would always lean down close to my face whenever he told me this.  The smell of beer and cigarettes reeked as he belched in my face.  When I looked into those soul less eyes, I knew he would mean it.  He would kill us both. So I kept my mouth shut. Every night I would curl up in a ball and wait in pure fer for the creak of the hall floor. He would walk up, stand in our doorway and sway back and forth as he sharpened his pocket knife he always carried in his pocket. He never said a word. Just his silence, the silhouette of him in the door and that knife against a wet stone. School was just as bad. The clothes the sirens had bought me were now filthy and once again I was the stinky kid in school.  Even though we had hot water and a shower, I was so afraid of Bruce that I wouldn't bathe.  I was so afraid he would come in and come my pecker off  that I chose to stink and be bullied for it. Everything about love, romance and a home that the sirens opened inside of me vanished.   I completely gave up.   Bullies at school, teachers ignoring me believing there was no hope, teachers looking the other way when I was getting picked on. Getting beat up or chased as I walked home then getting to the apartment only to have a drunk, angry man threaten me in various ways. Life became a dark painful shadow for me. A scene in a horror movie I lived over and over again. Mom did her best.   One day I came home from school and she was actually there. With a smile on her face she had a turtle in a small glass bowl. “One of the guys at the bar gave it to me.  I thought you would like it.” she said as she handed me the turtle. “what are you going to name him?” He was a small thing with a tiny grin on his face that never went away.  I picked him up and he stretched out his neck, and rested his head on my chin. He was just happy. I named him Grin and at that in my life he was my only friend.   He was something to look forward to. An actual light on an otherwise dark days and even darker life. I loved that turtle. One day I walked into the apartment and our roommate grabbed me by the hair, pulled my arm behind my back and shoved me into the kitchen and over to the sink.   The sink was full of water and Grin was swimming around trying to find a way out.   “Listen you lil cocksucker.” he held my head still as I squirmed and tried to get away.  “Stand still or you will make it worse. Lesson time.”   I stopped and stayed quiet as I stared at Grin swimming below me. The little guy swam straight for the edge of the sink, little claws scratching against the white linoleum his little his  and grinned. “You touch any more of my shit, bring any more fucking varmints in my home, or eat anymore of my food...” He pulled the plug on the sink and flipped on the garbage disposal. Instantly a whirlpool began and Grin struggled not to get caught up in it. I know I screamed  and couldn't stop screaming. But the scream sounded distant to me, like it wasn't me but another boys screams echoing in my head. He pushed my face closer to the sink as Grin got close to the drain, his little legs kicking harder as he tried to escape.   And then he went down into the garbage disposal. I know I was still screaming as I closed my eyes and heard the crunch of bone and shell and after the water was gone I felt little junks of him hit my face. I screamed even harder and bits of him flew into my mouth where I tried to spit out and started to gag.  Still screaming the entire time I did. I heard Bruce laughing as he raised my head and threw me against the fridge. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the knife.  With a click it came open and he pressed the blade against my nuts. Lesson time wasn’t over yet.   “And if you piss on the toilet seat one more time, I’m going to cut your cock off and put it down the garbage disposal as well.  Do you hear me?” Crying with snot running out of my nose and vomit on my chi I nodded as turtle guts fell off my face. I felt my pants grow warm.  I was so scared I pissed myself.   “Good. Lesson time is over. Don't even think of telling your fucking mom.” He left slamming the apartment door behind him, leaving me sliding to the kitchen floor wiping my turtle off my face and crying.   I’m not sure which upset me more, the turtle guts in my face or the fact that I had just pissed all over myself and it was the only pair of jeans I had.  The kids at school would beat me even more if I  went to school  smelling like piss. After I wiped off the tears, I grabbed moms shampoo and washed my jeans in the bathtub. I wrung them out the best I could, put them back on and then walked down to the apartment complexes library.   I sat on the outside bench in wet jeans and waited. The sun was starting to set and it was getting chilly.  I prayed I didn't have to wait too long because I could already feel my teeth chattering from wearing the wet jeans. A woman stopped one of the dryers threw her clothes in the basket and left so she could fold her clothes at home. I locked the door, took off my pants and threw them in the dryer hoping there would be enough time to dry. I threw the underwear away in the trash can.   My clothes still smelled like pee the next day. Then there was nothing.