#bel.docx

[reapersmarch]

bodybag this wasn't supposed to be a multi-parter. fml.

This is stupid.

It’s really, really stupid, and you don’t even know what right you have to be mad about it, but you are, and it’s dumb, and you know it’s dumb. That’s what makes it worse. Actually—what makes this worse is that you know you’re to blame here.

You are unfairly assuming that this is in direct retaliation for that stunt you pulled a week ago, and you want to be mad at him, but you know you can’t be because you caused this entire mess to begin with. You don’t even think Bel did this vindictively, he was just likely doing exactly what you told him you were—moving on. You’re just upset because he’s spending time with someone else and doesn’t want to spend time with you anymore. Because of what you did. In case you’ve forgotten.

So, when you see it—a dark, angry purple blotch against pale skin, peeking out from the neck of his suit—you can’t really hide the stormy expression that crosses your face.

Stop that.

It’s unprofessional. It looks bad. You’re the Marshal. You have a girlfriend. Relax.

It’s not that deep.

Except it is—because you can hear him, protesting in embarrassment, and being teased by Anathema. You can see him draw his hood up and put his forehead against the table to try and hide the beet red flush of his face. You catch the good-natured laughter and ribbing and curious questions about his busy, exciting weekend, and—worst of all—you can hear him say in a small, sheepish voice that he had a good time.

Without you.

And you hate thinking of him being in bed with someone else, and you hate thinking that you drove him away because you’re a fucking imbecile, but you did and you are, and there’s nothing you can do about that now.

Impressively, somehow, you manage to make this all about you. Again.

He let you have it, and he was right: you are a fucking dick.

After your split (‘split’. You can’t break up with someone you were allegedly never dating to begin with), you rushed out and fell back into old habits—picking girls up at bars, putting notches in your belt, going on dates. They didn’t mean anything. Then you found someone you sort of clicked with, because she reminded you of him, so you kept going back. You like her well enough. You’re not really crazy about her or anything, but she’s fine. You’ve been going out for about a month.

You neglected to say anything because you knew it made you look like the World’s Biggest Asshole. Ricardo Ortega: does not do serious, would never do serious, not interested in doing serious—with a man. Even though that man had you wrapped around his little finger for almost a year. Even though you would’ve given him everything he wanted and more if he asked—and then he did ask. And you froze.

And then, you turn around and pick up a girlfriend, and you can’t keep your big mouth shut. You told everyone, because you knew it would eventually get back to him, and you wanted him to chase you.

How old are you, seventeen?

Where, exactly, resides the logic in that? How did you not foresee this being the exact outcome? You have the nerve to yank him around like a dog on a chain, then the balls to be upset when he doesn’t want to talk to you again? Because you, what, wanted him to chase you?

He was already fucking yours! You had him, and you let him slip right through your hands, and now look. You chased him right off a cliff, and you get to watch as your friends gather around him to find out who he’s spending time with now since it’s not you anymore, while you bitterly stare at the ice sloshing around in your glass.

Good going.

Couldn’t figure out how to be honest with yourself, so you make a mess of things. Couldn’t just admit that you were falling for him, so you hurt him. He didn’t deserve that, and you don’t deserve him, so this is what you get for being a coward.

You watch him disentangle himself from the gathering crowd, and slip out the side door into the alleyway. Probably for a smoke. Crowds always made him uncomfortable after awhile, and you know he usually needed to get away to clear his head. Habitually, you stand, then hesitate. It’s routine for you to follow and check on him, under normal circumstances. There’s nothing in the book about if circumstances are questionable.

Still, you do want to make sure he’s okay.

This is a bad idea, and you know it.

It’s the alcohol talking.

He doesn’t want to talk to you. You’re going to shove your foot in your mouth and make this worse, and you know that, but the alcohol has lowered your inhibition a little and is filling you with a kind of liquid confidence that would rival sober you’s ego. So you follow.

You find him outside next to the fire escape, resting his hip against the wall and playing on his phone, cigarette dangling between his fingers. He does a double take when the door opens, then freezes when he spots you. His expression pinches. He turns the other way, mirroring his original pose but facing away from you.

You’re just concerned for him and you’re checking on his well being as someone who cares about him. So obviously, you say:

“So, did you have a good weekend?”

Like the thoughtful, caring friend you are.

You can practically feel the heavy eye roll, even with his back to you.

“Yup,” he responds tersely.

This is clearly a very delicate situation to navigate, so you follow up with:

“Got a new boytoy, then?”

Your foot and your mouth are getting well acquainted with one another.

He gives a disbelieving shake of his head and a sardonic scoff of a laugh, because you sound so bitter and you’re doing a terrible job of hiding it. He doesn’t need to be able to read your mind to know that. He doesn’t even need to look at you to know you’re being bizarrely covetous in the licking of your wounds, and are actively ruining whatever remained of your already damaged relationship. He flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette.

“Yup.”

“Is he—”

“Fuck off, Ortega.”

Okay. You deserved that.

He never calls you by your first name anymore. It’s just ‘Ortega’ or ‘Marshal’ or ‘Charge’. He hates when you call him anything at all, but Niall feels wrong in your mouth, and he’ll never stop being Bel to you.

“Bel—”

“Fuck off. Ortega.”

In case it wasn’t clear the first time.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, because you are. You are the sorriest bastard in all of Los Diablos, and you’re kind of drunk, and you miss him and you think you might love him and you fucked up so, so bad and all you want is your friend back. If nothing else, you’ll take that, but you are still making a mess of this. Do you want to keep him or are you trying to push him away? Figure it out. Quickly.

He turns around to stare at you, and you feel like you’re ninety-three million miles away.

“You’re sorry?” he repeats, and you stand there looking like the royal court jester because you don’t really know what to say, but you are. You’re really fucking sorry and you would take it all back if you could. “You weren’t sorry a week ago, when you were perfectly content to lie to my face and only vomited up some half-assed excuse because I called you on it.”

“I didn’t—”

“A lie by omission is still a lie, Ortega.”

“I was going to tell you,” you reiterate, because you were. Eventually. When you worked up the nerve to do it. Or you would’ve after it all went sideways and you broke up with her. “Were you going to tell me?”

His eyes narrow. “Tell you what?”

You point at the mirroring spot on your own neck and he barks out a laugh. It stings a little, you can’t lie.

“No!” he continues laughing incredulously. “Of course I was never going to tell you, are you daft? You’re not entitled to every little bit of my life—you’re not entitled to anything about anybody’s life, but you think you are. You are so arrogant, Ricardo, and you can’t even see it. But—okay, fine. Fine! You want the sordid details?” You watch him put his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe. “I fucked another guy this weekend.” He flings his arms out to the side. “There, are you happy? I went out to a bar and hooked up with a guy in a bathroom, then let him take me home and fuck me there, too. Is that what you want to hear? Do you want to hear that he was better than you? That he—”

You don’t let him finish the thought. You’re drunk and upset and think you love him and are about to lose him, so you are going to do something very, very stupid:

You kiss him.

You couldn’t take it anymore, so you grab hold of his face, and you kiss him—hard enough to bruise; enough to rip the air right from his lungs and replace all the anger with shock. Shock that you’re kissing him, shock that he’s kissing you back. He lets you back him right up against the wall, press your body in tight against his, and kiss him and kiss him like you used to. He lets you press your face to the hollow of his throat and kiss there, too, and show him just how much you want him and miss him and think about him and crave him, until he regains his senses and pushes you back.

You’re a terrible, wretched, jealous thing and you want more and more and he won’t give you anything other than this.

“You’re an asshole, Ricardo,” he says breathlessly, but his eyes are focused on your mouth. “The biggest fucking prick I’ve ever met in my life.”

“I know,” you state, because you do. You’re aware. You kiss him again anyway, hungrier this time, because it’s the last thing you’ll get before he hates you for the rest of your life, and you wonder how far he’ll let you take this. How much can you push your luck? You test the limits of his boundaries again and again, and you know you’re pushing it when your hands find the small of his back. You know it’s dangerous when his fingers thread themselves in your hair and you feel kind of smug, and you feel like a dick, because you still know exactly how to press his buttons.

You attack his neck again—the other side, where he isn’t marked—and he isn’t sure whether to pull your head back or hold it in place. Could go either way and you probably wouldn’t complain, Especially not when—

“Ric… hold on…”

Not when he sounds like that.

“Fuck, Ricardo, stop… stop! Stop.” He gives your back a couple of light slaps in rapid succession and you wince, withdrawing reluctantly. He’s got his eyes cast skyward, grimacing in what you can only call shame. “You… fuck.”

Yeah. Sounds about right.

“I can’t believe I… fuck!” Bel presses a hand over his eyes and grunts in frustration. He pushes past you, pacing and dragging a hand down his mouth. “Ricardo. You can’t fucking do this. We can’t do this! You can’t keep—” he tosses his hands in the air in mounting frustration, each sentence tripping over the other to be heard first. “I didn’t want to be made a fucking scandal, Ric! You have a fucking—Christ! You are such a— I am so goddamn— Why do I let you do this? What is wrong with me? No, fuck that—what is wrong with you?”

A lot of things, probably.

“Bel—”

He punches you.

Gets you right in the nose.

Is it—?

No. He held back a little. It’s just bleeding. Gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning, though. You definitely deserved that one.

You watch him shake out his hand while he looks the iciest you’ve ever seen him, and you don’t know if that’s wholly directed at you. Talk about a mood killer.

Kind of hot though.

So not the time.

He doesn’t even say anything further, but you can feel the anger rolling off of him in waves. He stalks towards the mouth of the alley and disappears around the corner, and you have no idea what you thought you were doing, but you did it. Whatever it was, you did it, and in doing so, you successfully burned that bridge.

Actually, you blew it up in a most spectacular fashion, lit the place up like the Fourth of July. 

You kind of want to jump off a building before the guilt sets in, but you can’t because you’re the Marshal and your interpersonal relationships can’t supercede your duties. Even though they’ve been doing that the entire time.

So you fucked it worse. Now what?

[reapersmarch]

i think ric and bel should take a quick road trip outside of the city and do some actual stargazing on a hill somewhere. i need bel to see the stars without light pollution. i think it would be good for him. won't fix him or anything like that but. if he wants to look up he deserves to see the full picture at least

there has literally never been anyone more right in all the world than you, so what i have for u today chef:

yule shoot your eye out, or a look before you leap very special episode, seasons greasons!

“We’re here.”

It’s a little after midnight, and Bel is caught somewhere between awake and dreaming, half-nodded off with his head leaned up against the window and his arms folded for warmth. He startles a little when Ricardo speaks, then adjusts upright in his seat, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

When he’d been asked do you have any plans this weekend, his answer was a resounding, no. He never really did—or rather, he didn’t ever really have plans with others in the companionable sense. Not that he didn’t want to, he was always happy to spend time with his friends (he has friends now; that’s an odd thought), but he was too much of a homebody. Much of his weekend was eaten up by errands or a book. Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly zesty, he would spend a day in the dance studio. 

So, when his answer was followed up with good, keep your calendar open, Bel stood on edge all week just waiting.

He didn’t know what it was he expected when Ricardo pulled up at ten o’clock in the evening, suggesting they go for a drive—he didn’t know what to expect, period, but a two hour car ride out of town wasn’t anywhere near the top of his list. It didn’t matter how much he asked or whined or complained, either; Ricardo wouldn’t tell him a damn thing. 

So, okay. Two hours out of town it is.

He supposes.

The weather hasn’t been all that great for December—gloomy, dark, and generally rainy and wet—and even earlier today, it had been raining on and off consistently. It was almost disappointing that there hadn’t been any snow, especially this close to the holidays. A light dusting of big, fluffy flakes probably would’ve made whatever it is this trip is meant to be spirited and delightful, as opposed to gross and damp.

It didn’t exactly inspire much in the way of holiday cheer, even with all the colourful displays of lights, but it had dried up enough the further and further they got away from the city limits, until the clouds became sparse and the drizzle was little more than a distant memory. Much of the drive was spent in idle conversation or jokes or singing along to whatever bastardized version of a well-known Christmas carol came up on the radio.

Eventually, the conversation drew to a natural close, the radio on low enough to not disturb the peace of the drive, but audible enough to provide a comfortable background noise so Ricardo didn’t fall asleep at the wheel, and at some point, Bel closed his eyes. He doesn’t know when he actually dozed off, but is grateful nonetheless when the car finally stops and he can stretch his legs.

“Where exactly is here?” he asks, rubbing a kink from his shoulder, voice thick with sleep still. “It feels like the middle of nowhere.”

“That’s because it is.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You asked me to clear my calendar for you to drive me two hours out of town to the middle of nowhere?”

“I sure did.” Ricardo steps out of the car, chuckling, and Bel follows suit.

It’s undeniably cold out—enough that each inhale feels brisk, sharp, and every exhale comes with a puff of breath—but it’s not unbearable. Bel jams both hands into his pockets, keeping his arms pressed in tight to his body, and walks around the car to gain feeling in his legs once more. There aren’t any other cars here—here being a densely packed forest with no clearing in sight—though it looks a little like a campgrounds. It’s hardly camping season, though, and he sure as shit didn’t like the idea of crashing in an admittedly kind of creepy wooded area with no one else around except for the wild animals.

Between the two of them, they could probably fend off a bear. Probably.

“God, it feels good to get out of that car!” Ricardo says, stretching his arms far overhead and rubbing at his lower back.

“Tell me about it,” Bel responds in commiseration.

“What are you complaining for? You got to sleep the whole time!”

“Not the whole time,” he objects, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So, now that we’ve made it, are you finally going to tell me what we’re doing?”

“Exercise a little patience, Red, come on.” Ricardo reaches into Bel’s pocket and grabs hold of his left hand, lifting it to press a brief kiss to his knuckles. In his other, he holds a flashlight. He slips both of their interlocked hands into his own pocket and tugs at Bel’s arm until they’re both walking up the only trail there. 

“You don’t think a whole week and some change with zero idea what you’ve got cooking in that head of yours is patient enough?”

Ricardo playfully rolls his eyes. “We’re nearly there. Didn’t peg you for an ‘are we there yet’ kind of guy.”

“Really? Me? Not impatient?” Bel makes a face, and Ricardo laughs. “I guess you have gotten better at making me beg, even if it didn’t work this time.”

“I’m trying to instill lessons in you, be a good influence.”

He snorts. “You’ve instilled something in me, sure. Not sure it’s a lesson, but it definitely makes you a worse influence.”

“First I’m hearing you complain.”

They chat to keep the mood light as the path leads them further up a slight incline, until Ricardo turns around to face him, walking backwards. “Okay. We’re actually nearly there, so you need to do me a very big favour.”

“Okay…”

“Close your eyes.”

Bel gives him a wary look—“I’m not about to be buried out here, am I?”—and Ricardo returns it with an exasperated one of his own.

“Just do it.”

“Okay, okay.” He chuckles and acquiesces, shutting his eyes and allowing Ricardo to lead him the remainder of the journey. “This would’ve been much easier if you’d just carried me, you know.”

“Please. As though I would carry you uphill in the winter. Who’s defending us if a bear attacks then—you? With your eyes closed?”

“I obviously wouldn’t have my eyes closed if—you know what. Sure. I could take a bear with my eyes closed.”

Ricardo shakes his head, but declines to comment. Low hanging fruit.

When they finally crest the hill, he walks Bel all the way out to one of the picnic tables and gets them both seated before saying, “Okay. Open up.”

Bel sucks in a sharp breath.

From where they sat at the top, stretching all the way across the clearing, beyond it even, was an infinite whorl of stars—an endless ocean of them, backlit by the soft glow of the moon, each dancing and winking back at both of them. Low on the horizon, distantly, the arm of the Milky Way is just visible, curving upward like the arc of a rocket’s blast, headed towards distant worlds. Bel leans forward, his mouth falling open and his head turned skyward, hands folded in his lap as he tries to take in as much of it as possible.

It didn’t feel real. A glittering blanket of midnight blue covered the two of them, and it didn’t feel real. 

Ricardo just watches him for a time, soaking in the silence and the pure, unfettered joy radiating off of him in waves. 

“I was a little worried,” he admits, his voice punctuating the quiet and catching Bel’s attention. “With how crap the weather’s been, I didn’t know if this would end up working out or not. Apparently, the Aurora Borealis is supposed to be visible tonight.”

“Ricardo, this is… I don’t even know what to say.” There really wasn’t much to say other than: thank you, thank you, thank you. “This is so special, I—you were planning this?”

He gives a casual lift of his shoulders. “For a while. I heard that we were supposed to be able to see it all the way down here, which is rare, but city lights don’t exactly make for great sky viewing.”

Bel turns his attention back to the stars for a brief moment, then looks over at Ricardo who is still looking at him. “You planned this for—for me?”

It’s asked softly, hesitantly, almost confused. There was very little in his life that Bel adamantly adored—the ocean, space, a quiet reading nook, coffee, Ricardo—and an act of such immeasurable kindness, immeasurable amounts of love (because it is, undeniably, a confession, and even if it weren’t, it’s still born from a deeply rooted kind of love), was so unfathomable to him. Was he this transparent? Or was Ricardo more observant than he gave him credit for?

It doesn’t matter (it’s both).

“Well, yeah,” Ricardo laughs softly. “It’s only us here.”

His breath was caught, though Bel hadn’t noticed. Everything feels too much all at once, and he’s scared, he’s nervous, he’s elated, he’s thrilled, and the realization hits him squarely then: he is so, so hopelessly and utterly in love with him. There is no part of Bel that does not belong to him.

“I really am in love with you, I think,” he exhales before he realizes it’s left his mouth.

“You think?” Ricardo laughs and it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.

“No. I am. I—I am,” he corrects, heart squeezing in his chest as he quickly finds Ricardo’s hand in the dark. “Ric, this is incredible, thank you. I really, really love this—you. I love you.”

“Good—that you like this, I mean,” Ricardo stumbles, “Not that you—” He pauses. “You learn so much, just by looking up—you taught me that. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

Bel can do nothing but take his face in his hands, pressing their lips together in what feels like a first kiss all over again, both of them smiling through it.

“Okay, now you have to teach me something else,” Ricardo declares, lying flat against the picnic table and bringing Bel down with him. “What constellations are visible?”

“A few.” He hums, eyes roaming over the vast map spanning above them, then lifts his hand. “There. Gemini. And if you follow that trail of stars there,” his finger traces an invisible line in the air, “there’s Orion. Taurus is over there…”

Bel continues pointing out constellations and known stars, planets and the (approximate) location of certain satellites, with the occasional question or shared laughter in between, and it’s freeing, being this far removed from all of the nonsense in the city—all the way out there, where the only thing that matters is the two of them and when the light show is meant to begin. 

[reapersmarch]

i don't know. don't look at me.

“Careful, old man, don’t want you throwing your back out on the way up.”

Ricardo shoots Bel the dirtiest look he’s ever seen over his shoulder, and it fills him with a kind of glee. Standing there, arms crossed and head craned up, grinning beneath his mask, he watches him dangle freely in his harness, one hand holding on to the wall, the other raised to give him the finger. It makes him laugh, full and genuine. This had started as a bit of practice—Bel liked to stay sharp where he could, and being able to scale a wall in an emergency wasn’t a bad skill to have on hand.

Doing it while suited up was an even better one to have.

Normally, however, Ricardo wasn’t there, too. Normally, Bel had the entire gym to himself.

When he’d learned what Bel was up to, the Marshal insisted upon joining him; said it was a great idea, and that he should probably do the same, even though Bel was fairly certain that Ricardo had prior commitments he’d made forever ago.

He couldn’t complain, though. Even if he generally liked the solitude more—it afforded him time to unwind and decompress—he didn’t mind the company, either. It very quickly, however, devolved into a competition: who can climb the highest? Who can ring the bell the fastest? Loser pays for drinks afterwards.

Bel didn’t mind that, either. It was a fun little way to make the time pass, and he’d been doing this so long, he was confident he would win. He neglected to mention that part.

“I think calling me names is cheating,” Ricardo calls down, turning back around to focus on climbing higher. “So. I think you lose by default.”

“Mm… no. That’s not how that works,” Bel laughs. “I’m hardly responsible for your inability to remain focused.”

“What are you talking about? That’s exactly how cheating works! And—no, you’re totally responsible for it, actually.”

Ricardo reaches up; the bell rings. He starts his descent.

Bel checks the stopwatch in his hand and clicks it off once he’s back on solid ground. “A little under a minute and a half. Not bad, all things considered.”

“Not bad? That’s pretty damn good!” Ricardo huffs.

“Sure it is. If you’re old,” Bel snorts. He tosses the stopwatch at him, then trades places. “Your joints still function after that climb?”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I’d love to see you do better.”

“You’re about to.”

He checks his gear, then walks briskly up to the wall. There was no way he was going to lose.

“Ready?”

“Yup.”

“Okay… go.”

Very casually, Bel begins to climb, moving from one handhold to the next, periodically moving sideways, doing little hops to reach ones that are further out. He knows which colours to grab, which to not. Which ones have an odd grip and where your foot might get caught. No contest. It wasn’t really fair, in Bel’s opinion, that he was so obviously going to win, so he needed to find ways to stall—just enough to keep things even, but not enough to make Ricardo think that he was throwing the competition.

“Ready to call it, Ricardo?”

“Cocky doesn’t look good on you, Bel,” he teases. “You’re being a show off.”

“Hubris generally is the fall of most men, yes,” Bel agrees with an amused chuckle. “Most men.”

When he’s done messing about, he scales the rest of the wall with a practiced ease, and gives the bell a quick little tap before beginning his descent.

“What time am I at so far?” he asks.

Ricardo checks the timer and frowns. “…‘Bout a minute.”

“Accurate time.”

“Forty-five.”

“Uh-huh.”

Midway down, Bel kicks off the wall to turn himself upside down, wrapping his leg around the rope cord to maintain his hold. “See?” he says, one hand extended nonchalantly, and even though Ricardo can’t see it, Bel puts on the biggest shit-eating grin. “Told you I’d win.”

“You haven’t touched the ground yet, timer’s still ticking,” Ricardo tells him. He stands about eye level with where Bel is dangling from, eyes half-lidded in a placid expression of amusement. “Sure you want to push your luck?”

“Eh. I’ve got time to play with.”

Ricardo hums. He pauses thoughtfully for a moment, then reaches up, fingertips finding the seam of Bel’s mask and tugging gently. He pulls until it slips past his mouth, and Bel can’t stop the confused little noise of surprise that escapes him.

“What are y—” 

The gap between them closes. Ricardo holds Bel’s head steady, face between his hands as he kisses him, thrilled with just how much of his skin turns maroon. It’s brief, but it lingers. Then he does it again. Then once more, for good measure.

He makes sure Bel doesn’t fall from his legs giving out, and sets him back on his feet, speechless, then takes a look at the stopwatch.

“Ooh, two minutes. Rough!” Ricardo grins crookedly as Bel pulls his mask up the rest of the way, gawking at him. “Guess you’re buying.”

“That… No!” He splutters “That’s cheating!”

“Is it?” Ricardo asks innocently. “Huh. Nnnno. No, I don’t think it is. I’m hardly responsible for your inability to remain focused. So I win.”

Hubris. The downfall of most men—including Bel.

Well, there are worse ways to go out.

[reapersmarch]

find an island far away from me, a shipwreck lost at sea where nobody goes, no search party; nobody knows but me. or, a lesson in being honest.

“Do you ever wonder how different things could’ve been?”

You lean over the railing, peering down at the crash of foamy white waves breaking over the shore, arms dangling over as you listen to him talk. You fidget with your watch. You’re never really sure what to expect when Bel asks you to meet him here.

Before, you could take an educated guess: a hang out, a hookup, a chat, a drink—any of which you were more than happy to oblige. You were just thrilled he was actually asking you to do something.

It’s almost a little bit embarrassing, in retrospect, just how much you craved his attention. You were used to getting that from others, being the center of it, as both the Marshal and as just you, the charming, friendly, handsome flirt. You were used to having pretty girls approach you at bars, all vying for your attention, and garnered a reputation for putting notches in your belt—not something you’re overly proud of, exactly.

And then along came a telepath who told you his name was Niall. But nobody ever calls him that; they all call him Val. You were fairly certain you heard ‘bell’. He chuckled and said, okay. Bel it is. A bit forward of you to do something so intimate as give him a nickname when you’ve only just met. He usually likes to at least be wined, if not dined, before crawling into bed with a stranger, but he could probably make an exception for the Marshal. He wants to see if you live up to the reputation.

It was the first time in a long time that you could recall blushing—really intensely blushing, from your neck to your ears—and for once, you were at a loss. You could’ve said something clever like, you weren’t expecting to find a Valentine this early, but you only managed a nervous laugh and a swift change of topic.

You knew this would be trouble. You were right.

But not in the way you thought.

It was messy and complicated, as these things are bound to be, and you couldn’t—didn’t. You didn’t want to be honest with yourself. It was a scary thing, realizing this was becoming more than just physical. It’s not something you had really prepared yourself for, so when he brought up wanting more than what you were able to give him, you leant into that: yes, he was absolutely right. You could not give that to him because you ‘don’t do serious’, and it would be too complicated being in the public eye, what with being the Marshal and all, and him being an unregistered vigilante.

Never mind that you’d practically been dating over the past several months prior. It was obvious to everyone else around you but you.

You don’t think you ever once refuted the claim. Dodged it, maybe, but never denied it. It was too much to think about, too complicated. Too messy.

Then he died.

And a part of you was buried with him.

That was a hard lesson to learn—being honest when it counts.

You spent seven years holding on to guilt and remorse, letting it gnaw away at you like a—what would he have called it? A singularity. An infinitely dense gravity well in your chest cavity, consuming everything in you, and leaving nothing in its wake. Funny, how much of him shadowed you.

You managed. Poorly, but you did.

Then it all drew to a hard stop because there he was, in this shitty, out of the way diner, and you weren’t sure if you were seeing things or not: Was that really him, or was it you desperately wanting it to be him? Had you forgotten what he looks like? Had your memory been so blunted by time that you would doubt yourself? No, you would recognize him anywhere. It had to have been him, but you’d never heard of the dead walking, and you were beginning to wonder if you were on the brink of some sort of breakdown because you were trying so hard to will him back to life.

But you knew, without a doubt, it was him because you saw the earring, and you felt the well collapse and the hole in your chest go supernova.

Looking back, you’re not sure how you missed it—Entropy. It’s been right there in front of you. You knew. You just chose not to.

You still choose not to. There’s no solid proof. You create doubts in your own mind to absolve him of whatever sins you think you can forgive him for.

And now, here you are, called to the pier with the sun hanging low in the sky, painting it orange and pink, lending a warm glow to the city. You don’t know why, but it feels like you’re being sent to your execution.

Fine day to die.

“In what sense?” you ask, because you do, sometimes, wonder if things could have gone differently. Could this have been saved, could you have tried harder, been more open, told him you loved him sooner? Would that have changed things? Fixed them? Prevented this?

Somewhere, there is a timeline where this works.

You watch as he turns away from the water, leaning his back against the railing and gripping the bars with his palms, head turned towards you, only just. The sun brings out the red in his hair, tinges the green of his eyes hazel.

“I mean…” he hems and haws, and you know he’s holding back from what he really wants to say. “Don’t you ever picture ‘what if’ scenarios?”

“Like… what if my shirt is really on inside out and no one’s saying anything?”

“Sure,” he says, letting out an amused, patient exhale through the nose. “But more along the lines of, ‘what if you and I had worked out?’”

“Ah.”

“Mm.”

That kind of conversation.

“I used to wonder that, from time to time,” you admit, “when you were gone. ‘What if we’d been a little more honest with each other’? Don’t know if it would’ve changed anything, but might’ve had a good time at least.”

“Do you still wonder it?”

“Sometimes. Is that where this chat is going?”

He shakes his head, turning to look off in to the distance.

“After Heartbreak…” he starts, and you’re surprised because he never talks about it much. Not that you blame him. Hard thing to stomach. “When I left, Ricardo, I never looked back. You stayed, and I never looked back to see if you were still there.”

He’s lying.

You know he’s lying. He has a tell: he plays with his earring when he’s nervous, and—oh.

He’s not wearing it. You don’t know why you didn’t notice earlier.

He’s still rubbing at his ear lobe, but there’s no earring for him to fidget with.

You don’t recall ever seeing him without it, other than the time he tried to very quickly hide it from you in the diner. Was that intentional? Has he been trying to bury you again after digging you back up?

“I needed to move on,” he continues, bursting the bubble of your thoughts like a pin. “When I retired, I swore I’d just continue with my life and never turn over my shoulder because there was nothing there for me anymore. Sidestep died.” You flinch involuntarily. “Then you found me, and I…” he draws the sound out. “Seven years is… it’s a long time, Ricardo. It’s a long fucking time to carry a torch.”

Tell me about it, you think. 

“I was in love with you, you know. Back then.”

You knew.

Or at least, you had a hunch, and that scared you, too. It was a strange game of tug of war—let him avoid you, pull him back in; keep him close, push him away—until it just became awkward and uncomfortable and the whole thing disintegrated in your selfishness. You couldn’t bear the thought of not having him any longer, but you couldn’t respect that he wanted it to end. You did shitty, petty things in an effort to make him jealous, and then had the audacity to be surprised when they worked and he stopped talking to you.

You were kind of an asshole, upon reflection, and you aren’t really sure why he gave you the time of day.

“Seeing you again brought up a lot of—” Bel gestures nebulously with his left hand, and you understand intrinsically “—and I found myself falling in to old habits. Wanting to help you because it’s you and I missed you, and I said that I wouldn’t, but I did, and I still felt a little bit in love with you. I broke a lot of my own rules for you, Ric.”

“Still breaking them?” you ask, because there’s a lot in there to pick out and unpack, but you think you should probably let him finish, so you fall back on humour.

“Still breaking them,” he agrees. You push yourself upright to mirror his pose, leaning back against the railing with your arms folded. “I used to fantasize about it all the time—what if we’d taken the right path instead of the left? What if I’d said something? What if you did? What if nothing bad happened and we got our happily ever after? But you couldn’t see a way to make it happen, and I couldn’t find a way to keep holding on. So I stopped wondering.”

The soil is freshly turned, and he’s putting you back in your grave.

You’re about to lose him.

Again.

“We need to stop seeing each other. It isn’t healthy.”

You wonder, for a moment, if this has to do with Entropy, just so you can blame it on something. It might. If you’re right and he is, then you’ll be pitted against one another—again—and it’ll be difficult and brutal because you still love him and you don’t know if you could bring yourself to stop him, but you’re the only one who can. You wouldn’t let anyone else.

Or it might not.

Maybe you’re wrong and he isn’t Entropy at all, and he really is just retired and trying to move on, but here you come, being selfish once more.

“I’m sorry that I fixed you in place, Ricardo. I thought you would root me, too.”

Time has a funny way of eroding away at you. You’re older, a little smarter than you were, but you’re still finding old parts of yourself beneath the surface. When the wind blows the sediment away, there’s the old you, wanting so badly to hold on to him, keep him tethered to you, make all these promises you aren’t even sure you can keep—but you still can’t even be honest. No matter how much you’ve changed, you can’t be honest.

If you told him you loved him, you think he would stay, but you wouldn’t be happy, and neither would he.

But you do. You really love him, so you’re standing in the crosshairs, just waiting for them to take the shot.

“Okay,” you manage, running a hand down the back of your neck, and you can’t find anything more to say, because the weight of this is too heavy. “I’ll miss you.”

He takes hold of your wrist and presses something into your palm, folding your fingers over top—“I know.”—and smiling sadly. “The span between us may be as far as the sun and the sea, but you’ll never be far from my thoughts.”

He kisses you on the cheek and you watch him leave until he’s a small speck down the sidewalk. You open your palm, and there it is—a small lightning bolt with a spot worn down from worry, and you think:

The sun and the sea were never so lucky as to have crossed paths.

[reapersmarch]

tell me lies, and i'll justify them look before you leap, orrr, what happens when it all comes tumbling out start here prev • next

a note from me to u: this is (very slightly) canon divergent in the sense that I wanted to write a very specific confrontation between ricardo and bel and even though I think placing it in the canon "legs broke" ending would have worked just as well, I think the stress would've killed him and would've just been... kinda depressing honestly, so. slight divergence of "they narrowly avoided the semitruck and now have to deal with the fact that bel told him he's entropy", so please be advised and enjoy!

There are no two ways about this, and no sense in mincing words: this fucking sucks.

And that doesn’t even really begin to cover it.

In fact, there probably aren’t enough words in the English, Welsh, or French languages for you to begin to describe what, exactly, you’re feeling here. Awkward. Tense. Edgy. Uncomfortable. But, none of those are enough, either. It’s more like… you’ve been in a dead sprint for so long, your lungs have finally given out, and you know that the only way this ends is in death.

No one to come save you, no way for you to crawl your broken body out of this one.

You condemn yourself to your fate, and stretch your neck across the block.

The executioner, this time, takes the shape of Ricardo’s side profile as he drags a hand down his mouth, turning over and over and over what you’ve just told him.

There’s a saying that you’ve always been particularly fond of—if you smell shit everywhere you walk, check the bottom of your shoe.

Or: you are the lowest common denominator. 

Your strength was never math—it was always science, a natural inclination towards it, which is ironic given how much math there is in astrophysics. You were only ever a casual observer, though; never really one to know the exact application of the first and second laws of thermodynamics, but you knew what they felt like. 

The first law states that energy cannot be created or destroyed; only changed. You suppose that’s true enough. It did hurt, when you fell from the heavens. It hurt when you felt your wings melt, the wax burning skin like molten glass as the ground rose to meet you, kiss you, embrace you like an old lover. When you felt everything in you shatter and shake, stain the concrete, rearrange at the molecular level until you were no longer you, it hurt.

So, maybe you can’t destroy energy. You can fundamentally change it, however. You can destroy a person—ah. But you’re not a person. You never were. Let’s try again.

You can destroy a thing. Push it to the brink of ruination, only to bring it back from that point and say, “See? You were fine. You were just fine.” Do that enough times, and eventually the thing breaks. Machines slow and rust, clothes get holes in them, regenes snap and bend and morph until they do what they’re supposed to. They break.

And then what? The energy changes. Sidestep dies, Entropy is born.

If the first law is the making, then the second law must be the unmaking.

It states that when energy changes from one form to another, entropy in a closed system increases.

Funny how that works out.

But that’s true, too.

When did you start tearing yourself apart? When he entered your life again? When you let him enter your life? When you handed him the scalpel and lay yourself down across the operating table, guided his hand to your chest and said, ‘cut here’?

There is a bitter edge to the very idea that he occupied so many of your thoughts, had you tearing yourself asunder every other night, but you could never tell if you took root in any of his. That the bliss of silence could just as quickly be replaced with the violence of static—you never knew just how violent static could be until you met him, that it was even capable of doing that kind of damage.

Anchors, as you are learning, can be used to sink as readily as they can to secure.

So. Yeah. It’s you. You’re the through line here. And so is he. And you’ve just confirmed that for him.

He was bound to figure it out eventually; you couldn’t hold it together long enough to keep the division separate. The lines of Sidestep and Entropy blurred into one another forever ago, when you decided to stop and do good, be good. You just couldn’t stop being Bel, even if you wanted to—and you desperately wanted to.

In your ardent need for affection, your unholy want for companionship, you lowered the drawbridge, and you took everyone in. You put the crown to his head, made him king of your domain, and couldn’t fathom how you were dethroned.

“Ricardo—”

“Don’t.”

He’s not done processing, it seems.

That’s fair. You might not’ve even foreseen this conversation, but he had an entirely different vision of how this would play out in his head.

(Not that you would know.

This is all just conjecture.)

The smoking wreckage of this barely functional car that you managed to veer into a back alley in an industrial zone is not where he pictured having it, for one. For two, he thought you were related to Hollow Ground, somehow.

Also kind of fair. You did have an uncanny resemblance to one another, one which you are not in a place currently to dissect, and he did spot you exiting his… lair, you guess.

You have a sneaking suspicion that neither of you expected to live through that encounter, and now that you have, it’s like holding on to a lit firecracker and waiting for it to blow your arm off.

���I’m sorry,” he lets you say. You’re not sure why. You don’t know what you’re even apologizing for, and it rings remarkably hollow when the ripple effect of your actions outweighs whatever guilt you could possibly be feeling. He does not acknowledge this though. He can’t even look at you right now.

You’re not sure if it’s better or worse that you told him the truth. Maybe letting him believe his conspiracy theory would have been the safer thing to do, but you have always laughed in the face of safety.

“I think,” he starts after an eon, “the part I hate about this the most is that I still love you.”

There it is, the axe. The blade right at your neck.

He told you this already. In his apartment when you let yourself be convinced to stay the night; let him talk you into his bed, let him hold you and tell you everything you’ve been wanting and waiting to hear, what you foolishly refused to see across all this time—the second time you’ve ever shared a bed. Quite possibly the last.

He told you he loved you, and the weight of that crushed you instantly.

It was fine when it was just you—burying yourself in years of regret, choking back every almost half-muttered declaration, and forcing yourself to be content with whatever you had going on. It wasn’t so much a problem when you were two ships passing in the night; everything you were experiencing was all self-inflicted. Sure, it was miserable. Sure, you thought it would be kinder to drive your car into the ocean. But you had a handle on it. Mostly. It was contained, even if you couldn’t keep it from showing in your face. Even if you couldn’t hide the way you still look for him first in a room, or the way your hand always manages to find his arm when you need it—a steadying point on the horizon.

It was contained. You never let it spill out of you in more than a trickle.

This, though.

Sitting there and being told it’s reciprocal, that he loved you—still loves you, somehow.

This is killing you.

He loves you, and you still can’t unstopper the bottle.

Not because you don’t want to—you would love to. You have been shouting it with your actions for years, you have been howling it, without ever saying a single syllable of the sentence that is piercing through your skull, currently.

You can’t uncork this because the truth has to come out, and when the tell-all gossip column finally spreads the word straight from the devil’s mouth to his ears, he’ll hate you, and you’ll still love him.

“I don’t know what to say,” you tell him, because you don’t, and you can’t stop looking at him but he won’t look at you.

“Were you ever going to say anything?”

“Eventually,” you try to assure him. You can’t really assure him of anything, but you are baring as much of yourself as he’s willing to see. “It was always—I wanted to. Ricardo, I really, really wanted to, but—”

“You couldn’t.” He finishes for you.

You don’t have anything to add, so you purse your lips and fidget with your hands for a while. He doesn’t say anything else, still gazing out the window as though something fascinating will occur there.

“Ricardo, please, just… look at me. For a second. Please.”

He doesn’t.

You reactively reach for his hand, then stop yourself halfway, fingers curling in on themselves. You don’t deserve comfort. You have no right to ask for it.

You betrayed his trust.

You may as well let your head roll.

Your hands find the hem of your sweater and lift until the flesh of your abdomen is exposed, intricate lines of bright orange crisscrossing in every direction.

He finally looks, but you can’t anymore.

“This is why,” you state, as though it’ll answer everything—and in some ways, it does.

This is why: I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t be honest. I never let you in. I never asked for help. I tried to lock you out. I was afraid of you. I'm sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

Take your pick.

“After Heartbreak,” you drone, like you’ve numbed yourself to it, “I didn’t exactly have the best time.” Understatement of the century. “I’m sorry you mourned. I’m sorry you had a funeral, and that, in your eyes, I’m dying a second death currently, but I fucking had a good go of it, Ricardo. When they hauled me back to the Farm, they poked and prodded and so much worse. They fucking—please don’t look at me like that—they put me back together so they could split me apart again, and do whatever else they wanted, because it didn’t matter; I don’t exist. ‘Less than’—isn’t that what you said once?” He flinches.

“I didn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant.”

You let your sweater fall back into place.

“When I was there, they did everything within their power to keep me out.” Two fingers against the temple. “Went so far as to take something they knew had the potential to fuck them up worse than I ever could, they were that afraid of what I would do. You…” With thumb and forefinger, you rub at your eyelids, exhausted. You sort of wish you could gouge them out. “Sometimes, not being able to feel you is nice. It’s nice not hearing everything so loudly, knowing that I don’t have to try to shut you out because you can’t let me in. Knowing that I could relax because it’s just you—it’s Ricardo, it’s Charge, it’s just my shadow. But on my worst days, you fucking… you feel like them, Ric.”

You feel like you’re going to vomit.

“You feel just like them, and then my shadow isn’t comforting anymore, and suddenly, I’m afraid of the dark.”

You pivot before you’ll let him acknowledge any of that. You don’t want it acknowledged. You don’t want to know what he has to say about any of it. Maybe that’s selfish. You don’t care.

“So that’s why… Entropy. The only way I could see how to fix it was by becoming Entropy and giving the public something to rally around. Voice of the fucking people and all of that bullshit,” you chuckle in spite of yourself, dropping your head back against the seat. “Which meant that by default, I couldn’t tell you a thing. Even if you wanted to, there wasn’t a way you could help me that wouldn’t also make you a target,” you say, “and I couldn’t trust myself around you.”

That’s a fairly important distinction.

You didn’t trust him enough to reveal anything, this is true. The Rangers were staunchly in the adversary bucket given the nature of what they are. But you didn’t trust yourself around him.

You couldn’t trust that you wouldn’t unhinge that jaw and speak. You couldn’t trust that you would be able to control yourself.

You were right.

You threw yourself at him, hoping the landing would be softer this time, and it was worse.

“You’re right,” you hear yourself say, head lolling to the side to smile bitterly at him. “The worst part about all this is that I still love you; I can’t make myself stop. In seven years, I couldn’t make myself stop. It’s pretty stupid, actually, because I knew, deep down, that you were just like that. Ricardo Ortega, the flirt. The unfairly handsome, outrageously friendly Marshal Charge. You knew how to make someone feel like the most important person in the room. That was just you, but I couldn’t stop myself from falling for it. No one had ever looked at me the way that you did, and I—”

He kisses you.

He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, like you’re the oasis in the desert and he hasn’t seen water in weeks. He kisses like a man starved, and you’re the last thing he’ll ever taste. He kisses like he loves you—still, despite—and it knocks the breath from you.

He pulls back enough your lips are just barely grazing, stroking his thumb along your neckline and pressing your foreheads together.

“—I just wanted to feel alive,” you finish. 

And you do. You feel more alive than you ever have in your thirty years, and now he’s looking at you the way he always did, seeing you, intent on you, and you realize—he has always looked at you this way. When his eyes fixed on you, they were waiting for you to notice. Even here, in this barely functional car in the back alley of some industrial zone, where you thought you were going to puke your innards out from the stress of this conversation.

The only thing you did vomit up was words, so that’s incredibly impressive for you. 

You were surprisingly calm about the whole thing. You don’t think you are physically aligned with your body at present, so this is probably the biggest contributing factor, but maybe that therapy session did you some good after all.

“You’re an idiot,” Ricardo tells you gently. “The biggest idiot I’ve ever met. The biggest, prettiest pain in the ass idiot to deal with.” And you laugh, even if you do feel yourself wanting to cry. “You still look like you, Bel, at the end of the day. This is just you on a really bad one.”

“The worst fucking day imaginable, really,” you manage, muffled against his shoulder.

“Yeah. But you’re still you, and that’s all I care about.”

[reapersmarch]

but it all comes down to what you're willing to give up look before you leap start here prev • next

Two missed calls and a text.

Bel squints at his phone for a while—partly because he isn’t wearing glasses, and partly because he’s trying to decide whether or not he should respond. It’s exceptionally late. The clock on the oven behind him reads nearly two, but both calls came in at quarter after; the text, at one-thirty. Bel knew why he was awake, but why the hell was Ortega up? And why was he calling at this hour?

Call me when you get this.

Seriously?

The electric kettle pops. He pours hot water over his teabag, the scent of peppermint steam filling the room, and sits back down at the kitchen island, still staring at the screen of his phone. No voicemail. No other calls or messages since. Just ‘call me when you get this’, and nothing else. Bel grimaces and turns his phone face down on the counter. This is the last thing he expected to be faced with after thrashing his way out of a nightmare, and he didn’t really have the capacity to deal with that, either.

The dreams always left him feeling hollowed out and scraped raw, like he was still there in the free fall, suspended in time; a hair’s breadth from re-entry into the Earth’s atmosphere. No stars were visible from this height, just the endless inky void and the sun reflecting off the planet’s surface.

Every time, he hoped he’d burn up before he hit the ground. Every time, he felt the impact of the ocean against his back.

A few weeks have passed since the diner encounter, and, after a little persuasion and some persistence, Ricardo’s kept in regular contact, much to Bel’s chagrin. He knew that if he didn’t offer up some means of staying in touch, Ricardo would’ve found a way regardless. It was easier to just relent and give him his number instead of letting him worry himself to an early grave. They’d be seeing each other on a semi-regular basis now, anyway, given that he agreed to assist the Rangers again (against his better judgement), so it was important that Bel was easily reachable.

That was the excuse Ricardo gave, anyway.

Which just goes to show that, even if everyone was still dealing with the second coming of Sidestep, there was still work to be done; fires to put out, people to protect. They couldn’t all draw to a halt just because Bel clawed his way out of a shallow grave.

Things could never be the way they used to, but it felt less awkward than it did before, at least. Well, except around Chen, but that was to be expected. The two of them got on like a drought and a forest fire—which is to say: catastrophically. Or remarkably well, depending on how you looked at it. A controlled burn may scorch the earth, but its ultimate purpose was renewed growth.

That aside, it was relatively easy enough to fall into casual, idle conversation, nothing too deep or too complex, though Bel never really liked small talk—it was always too inherently nosy. You can call it polite conversation—how are you, how was your week, how’s your mother doing—but really, it’s just curiosity. Everyone loves to know everyone else’s business solely because it’s not theirs, but that didn’t equate to a lack of care or empathy. Someone really could want to know all those things because they genuinely care about the answer, after all, but that didn’t mean Bel wanted to share all of them, either.

He turns his phone over again, double taps the screen to get it to turn on. Call me when you get this.

His expression pinches as he rubs at his eyelids. He doesn’t need to respond. It’s late. He’s exhausted. It’s a bad idea.

But he doesn’t want to be rude.

Why are you even awake? He types, watching the cursor blink a few times, thumb hovering over the little paper airplane button. Bel shakes his head. So much for not being rude.

He deletes the message.

Everything okay?

Send.

Frankly, he could and should have ignored it; just… let it be, and told Ricardo that he checked his phone in the middle of the night and forgot to respond. Why the hell was he worried about being rude at two in the morning?

Two little checkmarks: read.

Three dots.

Couldn’t sleep, Ortega says, figured you were up.

Bel purses his lips and raises an eyebrow. And if I’d been asleep?

Would’ve dealt with it.

He sighs. Three dots again.

Can I call you?

Read: 01:55.

Bel starts typing, stops. Starts again: Why do you want to— No— Going back to—

He grimaces.

02:00: Fine, he types. The cursor blinks.

02:01: Send.

His phone begins to buzz almost immediately. Deep sigh. He answers.

Hey.

It’s breezy when Bel steps out onto the patio, a gale pushing through a set of dark looking clouds and exposing a splotch of starry black sky above. The neighbourhood is quiet and still, the only sound the rustling of the wind in the trees or a distant plane overhead. This is exactly why Bel picked this spot. It was suburban, safe, unassuming.

Peaceful, almost.

He slides the door shut behind him as gently as possible, then sits down on the stoop, setting his mug down on the step below. From his pocket, he fishes out a lighter and a cigarette, phone held to his ear by a shoulder.

“Hey yourself,” Bel replies, tone hushed. His voice feels so much louder in the absence of other noise. “I take it this isn’t an emergency.”

A pause.

Well. No. Another pause. Would you have answered if it was?

“Obviously.”

Mm, I’m not sure that’s as obvious as you think it is.

“Well, now that just hurts my feelings, Ricardo.” Bel chuckles, rubbing a hand down the back of his calf. “You know you’re the one who called me, right?”

I’m aware, he laughs, too, and Bel feels lighter for it. 

“So, what’s got you up so late?” he asks, taking the opportunity to light up. He leans back until he’s laying flat on the cold wood of the porch, staring skybound, the end of his cigarette glowing orange. The full moon peeks through gaps of dense cloud formations, as bright as daylight, casting long shadows across the yard. It was a nice night to be outside.

The conditions could’ve been better, but Bel didn’t come out here with the intent to stargaze, even if that’s what he was doing now in an attempt to ground himself. Just being absorbed in the night air was already helping him settle. Hearing Ricardo’s voice didn’t hurt either.

Just couldn’t sleep, Ricardo sighs down the phone. It sounds tinny and far away, muffled through the speaker.

“Why did you think I would be up?” he asks, taking a drag off his cigarette and tracing the outline of Orion’s belt with his pinky.

Well, I was right, wasn’t I?

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds.

“Ricardo.”

Do you still look up?

Bel raises his eyebrows, pulling his phone away to stare at it for a breath in astonishment. He puts it back to his ear when he hears Ricardo starting to speak.

I just thought—

“Yes.”

Oh! Good! That’s good!

“Not as often as I used to,” he admits, “but, yes. Sometimes.”

Is that what you’re doing now?

“…Yeah.” Bel lets out an amused exhale through the nose. “Not the reason I’m up though, funnily enough.”

Couldn’t sleep either?

He hums a response.

You know, I’m glad you still look at the stars. I’d be sad to hear that Heartbreak… Ricardo trails off. Anyway.

He stands, crossing his room to lift the shades, glancing out the window over the city skyline. The clouds clear enough for the moonlight to shine through in streaky rays, but they’re eaten up by the light of the streets below.

Same sky. Same moon. Not quite the same view.

“After that, I started looking up more,” he says. “I think because… I thought it would feel like you weren’t gone.”

Silence.

Why are you telling me this, Ricardo?

“Because it’s two a.m. and I’m feeling honest, call me crazy.” Ricardo lets the blinds fall back into place then sits back down on the mattress, running a hand over his head. “Hey, do you remember that winter I made you sit by the water with me?”

It was the best night of his life. Of course he remembers.

Yeah. I thought I was going to lose my fingers to frostbite.

“It wasn’t that cold.”

Poor circulation, Ric.

“Okay, fair.” He hesitates. “My point—I used to sit there every anniversary and, uh. Talk. Catch ‘you’ up on what was going on. Usually around this time.”

Bel falls so silent that, for a moment, Ricardo thinks the line might’ve gone dead. It’s only the sound of a car lock alarm in the background that lets him know they’re still connected.

“…Really?” is what eventually ends up coming back at him.

Yeah, he answers softly.

“Did it… help?”

Sort of. Not really, he admits. It made me feel a little better, anyway.

Bel sits up, drawing his knees up to his chest. He didn’t know if it was the distance that made it easier to say all this, that turned a late night conversation into a two a.m. phone confessional. He couldn’t absolve Ricardo of anything, and wasn’t exactly one to play therapist, not when his own problems dwarfed him, but it was strangely… nice to hear, in some regard.

That he was missed.

I guess that’s why I called, Ricardo continues, I wanted to hear your voice this time.

His chest constricts, breath catching in his throat. Bel pulls his phone away from his ear to look at it again, like it has all the answers, like it’s the most precious thing in the world right now—because it is, and it does. What do you mean I loved you for the rest of my life, and you missed me for the rest of yours? What do you mean I still linger in parts of you that I didn’t know existed? That every time you pass the ocean, you think of me?

What do you mean?

He doesn’t know how long he stares at his screen—minutes, hours, an eternity—long enough that that tinny, faraway voice pipes up again:

Didn’t fall asleep on me, did you?

“No,” he promises. “No, I’m still here.”

Okay. Good.

“So… catch me up, then.”

A soft laugh. On what?

“Anything.”

I thought you didn’t like small talk?

“It’s not small if it’s you.”

Yeah?

“Yeah. Besides,” Bel starts, leaning back on his hand and glancing back up at the stars, “I missed you, too.”

[reapersmarch]

alrighty! figured I'd make a proper intro post now that there are so many of you here.

hey hi hello u can call me anika (or rune or reap, I literally don't care, ones just my real name), i'm thirty and i like int fic - both reading and writing it! i'll be real, this is primarily a fallen hero blog at this point even though it's REALLY supposed to be my sideblog for art and writing LMAO I am completely fine and normal about ricardo ortega and chargestep, in particular, my step and ortega.

it's mostly 18+ bc i say raunchy and suggestive things and sometimes talk ab weed. so it goes.

i'm genuinely really easygoing and i like to think i'm friendly. don't take anything i say too seriously, i have a generally comedic disposition. please, say hi!! i'm a chatterbox and love to gab!!

i mostly post about one guy and that guy is my sidestep, and it's MOSTLY shitposts

I swear a lot and say deranged things from time to time. such as it is.

DO NOT under ANY circumstances: repost my art or feed it to the AI slop machine. do not claim my art as yours. do not use my art as icons/banners unless we're friends, I drew it for you, or gave you permission. I will beat you to death with hammers.

here are some links:

rune.txt <- my text post rambling tag (i sometimes forget to use this)

reaper's rewards <- my art tag

cool w(h)ip <- my wip tag

fh: bel <- my sidestep!

inf: avery <- my infamous lead singer! (barely used tag. sorry miss avery)

bel.docx <- fic that i've written about bel

are we electric? <- my ortega/bel tag (I use chargestep as a catchall)

look before you leap <- my chargestep fic that spiralled out of control (also on ao3)

thanks for stopping by!

[reapersmarch]

if i'm already out of time, then make it worse look before you leap, or, wings made of wax make for terrible flight start here prev • next

Hospitals never suited Bel very much. They were too reminiscent of times he’d rather leave dead and gone, bodies buried beneath daisies and marigolds in a field overgrown. He hated them. Hated their clinical nature, hated the overwhelming stench of iron and bleach; the steady beeping of machines, and doctors in white coats, talking medical jargon and vitals.

It made his teeth itch.

This is the last place he wants to be, but he caused this mess so, unfortunately for him, this is where he has to be.

Really—Bel didn’t have to do anything. He could have feigned ignorance, woken up the next day, and acted surprised, or not even acted at all! Does it make it more or less believable for him to be here in the immediate aftermath? More or less suspicious? More or less obvious? 

Is venturing into a place that makes your skin crawl and your anxiety spike for someone you put there to begin with, someone you still care about, courageous? Or careless?

It’s less a point of need and more a point of want: Bel definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent, did not need to be there; he wanted to be.

Either way, he couldn’t very well pull punches—Entropy wasn’t Bel, after all, and Bel definitely wasn’t Entropy—but he didn’t actively want to hurt Ortega, even if he may have warranted it for how often he made Bel want to rip his hair out. Instead, it became the world’s longest game of keep away, with him maintaining his distance and reading each of Ricardo’s moves before they could do any severe damage. That is, until Bel needed to stop enjoying the spar, and actually extricate himself from the chaos unfolding. Then he had to end it—quickly. Without fucking him up too much. Still, Ricardo got a couple good hits in, sent his suit’s HUD into overdrive, which meant the escape from Argent was touch and go for awhile, but Bel still put him down and out. As gently as possible.

Well, as gentle as one could be at the emergence of their cocoon, anyway.

Some villain he turned out to be.

Too soft to follow through when confronted by his past, too unwilling to compromise on his morals. Always just playing dress-up.

Bel draws the seat closer to the bedside and can’t help himself—he reaches out to press his palm to Ricardo’s jaw, stroking his thumb alongside a cut on his cheek. Seeing the damage up close was making his stomach churn, but what right did he have to feel so? When he stood at the crossroads, stared down the long barrel of the path he wanted to take, he knew this was always going to be a possibility. He knew that he’d have to finally carve open his chest cavity, cut out the rotted parts of Sidestep that still remained, and stitch himself back together again.

Face old friends, make new enemies.

This has always been on the table. Can’t regret it now.

I know. I know. I’m sorry. Don’t hate me. You will, but please. Don’t.

This should’ve come easy for him. Eden aside, Bel was already accustomed to living two lives—he’d done it before. He did a terrible job of keeping them separate, but you know. Still. He had experience with it, it shouldn’t be that difficult.

“You look like…” His gaze roams over every gash and bruise, every dried smear of blood, before settling squarely back on Ricardo’s eyes. “Shit,” he finishes, half-exhaled and voice tight.

“Yeah, I feel it, too.” Ricardo chuckles then winces, dropping his head back against the pillow. His fingers curl around Bel’s wrist as he turns his face inward to kiss his palm. “What are you even doing here?” As casually as he tries to ask it, he can’t hide the disbelief laced throughout the question, like Bel is the last person he ever anticipated at his bedside—because he is, he supposes. He may have stopped being so evasive, finally letting Ricardo prop the door open instead of having it shut in his face unceremoniously each time, but they hadn’t reached a point where he thought Bel wouldn’t take off running in the dark of night if he so much as looked at him funny. Even if his boundary had dwindled from five feet to one, that’s still a gap between them.

“The hell do you mean?” Bel asks, taken aback. “It was all over the news, Ric. I was worried.”

He realizes his mistake when the corner of Ricardo’s mouth quirks up into the slightest of grins.

“You were worried about little old me?”

Bel stumbles over himself for a moment, considers stammering out some half-baked excuse or spinning it in to some other kind of yarn. Instead he says, “Immensely,” completely sincere. Why even deny it? It wasn’t as though there was time for him to stop and say, I know I just kicked your ass, but you’re still good, right? Even if there had been an opportunity for him to make that kind of foolish, frivolous mistake, it likely wouldn’t have been more than a quick check to make sure he was still breathing.

He was worried. Even though he had no right to be. Even though the reason they were even there, in a hospital room, talking like this to begin with, was the direct result of his actions, he was still worried. Did he hit too hard, did he do too much? Should he have taken Ortega out of the picture to begin with, forced him to stay home and not get involved at all?

Maybe there was another way, another solution. Could he have warned him, somehow? Surreptitiously? Without blowing his cover?

His concerns really should have been: was I subtle enough? Do they know it’s me? Can they tell? And those questions do float around nebulously in his mind, somewhere, in the back of it. At the forefront was still the overwhelming amount of care for Ricardo he couldn’t seem to rid himself of, no matter how hard he tried to keep it quelled.

This, though. Honesty. It didn’t suit him, funnily.

Ricardo senses it, too. The raised eyebrows and wide-eyed stare say plenty.

Bel has been lying to the entire universe for so long, that this kind of frank, brazen honesty, surprised even him. Before Heartbreak, before Entropy, a tease like that would’ve had him in a tailspin, spouting a hundred thousand denials, then a hundred thousand more. Maybe dying had been good for him. Maybe cratering out like that knocked the fear out of him, did a hard reboot of the machine, and formatted the hard drive.

Doubtful. Not implausible, but doubtful.

It was nigh impossible for Bel to imagine himself climbing out of the impact zone triumphant and changed for the better, not when all signs pointed to ‘abandon all hope, ye who enter here’. So, maybe, he’s just so efficiently worn himself down to nothing, the mask has slipped enough to let the authenticity shine through.

“You’re probably going to need stitches,” he carries on before Ricardo can comment on it. “For at least a few of these. You weren’t even suited up, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t—” “Exactly.”

“—there wasn’t time to think, Bel. I just acted. The same way you would’ve—don’t look at me like that, you know you would’ve.”

He did. He took every precaution to make sure the collateral damage was minimal, that no one would be seriously hurt, just a little spooked. But he also had the benefit of his suit and preplanning the entire ordeal. The necessity outweighed the risks, but that didn’t mean he had to be entirely thoughtless in his actions. Bel lets out a long, drawn out sigh, collapsing forward and folding his arms on the bed, head settling down on top as he looks sidelong at Ricardo for a time.

Still looked like him.

Still felt like him.

Different men.

“So, Entropy, huh?” he says after a bit.

Ricardo huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah.”

“Kind of appropriate, given the amount of chaos they’ve stirred up.” Bel raises his eyebrows and gives him a placid expression. “What? It’s true. Everything submits to entropy eventually. That’s how you got your ass handed to you.” Despite everything, he offers a teasing smirk, lifting his head enough to balance his chin on his forearm. “Retirement’s made you soft.”

“It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if you were there,” he counters lightly, and Bel’s smile falters. I was, he thinks despondently, I was there. I did this. “Could really use my partner back. You know what they say. If you’re looking for Charge…”

“I’m sorry.” It slips out before he has a chance to stop it. “I am so—”

“I know.” Ricardo lifts a hand to stop him, then lets it settle on his back, rubbing back and forth between his shoulder blades. “You’re retired. I know.”

You don’t. You have no idea. I hate this. I need this. I have to do this. I’m sorry.

“Hey.” A brief squeeze of Bel’s shoulder calls his attention back to the room. “Lost you there for a sec.”

He stares blankly at Ricardo, guilt crushing his chest, knocking the wind from him. Bel pushes himself upright, hesitates. One selfish thing. He’ll allow himself a singularly selfish action.

It takes a little doing—“Squish over.”—and he is exceedingly gentle in his maneuvering, but Bel eventually settles on the bed next to him, wedged between his side and the guard rail. It’s not comfortable—it’s a hospital bed, they aren’t meant to be—and he’s so afraid of hurting Ricardo worse than he already has, he won’t settle his weight anywhere, but it’s doable.

“Is this okay?” he asks, head resting on his chest, tucked beneath his chin.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” Ricardo murmurs into his hair. “I think this is the first time we’ve actually shared a bed.”

Bel presses his thumb against his bottom lip in an effort to stem the flow of apologies that want to escape him. This felt like self-flagellation. He could stop at any time. Really.

But it didn’t hurt.

(Yes, it did)

It felt fine.

(No, it didn’t)

It wasn’t bothering him.

(Yes, it was)

“I think you’re right,” he says, adding another lashing across his back, voice thick. “S—” He stops himself, swallows the lump in his throat and the apology he wants to holler along with it. “Next time,” Bel starts, “we won’t wait so long.”

“Next time, huh?” He can feel Ricardo’s laugh rumble in his chest, feel it buzzing against his skin, and for the briefest of moments, things almost feel normal. That glimmer of the past, silvery and hazy, feels so much closer than it is—it feels right beside them, not seven years gone, and all Bel wants to do is live in it; stay right there in that slice of life removed from time. “Does that mean—”

“It doesn’t mean anything yet,” he lies, but when he feels the gentle sweep of Ricardo’s thumb against his side beneath his sweater, he caves: “Not until you’re out of here, anyway.”

As reluctant as he was to go, Bel was becoming increasingly suffocated by the… everything, of the hospital room, and he’d already stayed longer than he meant to. He makes himself sit, then stand, taking a minute to smooth out his clothes, and run a hand down his throat thoughtfully.

He doesn’t think very deeply about this next part; he just does: Bel leans down and kisses him.

And kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, until he really actually does need to leave.

“So,” he instructs, drawing back so their lips just graze, “don’t take too long to recover.”

Translation: I miss you. I’m sorry. I love you, still.

He smiles faintly, straightening out before the bewildered expression has a chance to leave Ricardo’s face, and ducks out of the room quietly. 

What a mess.

[reapersmarch]

it's nothing but time and a face that you lose. look before you leap, or, bel and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day start here prev • next

“You know, you look pretty good for a dead man.”

Bel sinks further in his seat. This is not how he’d anticipated a reunion would go.

For one, he didn’t anticipate a reunion, period, full stop. He’d been dead so long, he figured everyone had moved on and he’d be able to get away with everything without worry—more worry. Worry was always an issue for Bel. Stress didn’t value him as much as he seemed to value it, given how often he put himself in situations that would make a hummingbird croak, but he figured Sidestep had faded out of the limelight by now, had to’ve. Nearly a decade on, there was no way he occupied anyone’s thoughts any longer. One less thing to worry about.

So he thought.

For two, he had envisioned it much, much more romantic than this.

Well. ‘Romanticized’, would be the more appropriate term.

He didn’t picture bumping in to his… ex…? They had never put words to it, never needed to until Bel felt he suddenly did need to. So much so, he torpedoed the entire affair to spare himself the grief later. Counterintuitive, perhaps, but at least he was right in the end: it really didn’t matter once he died.

Regardless, he didn’t picture bumping into his past here, in this shitty, greasy little diner, so far out of the way of civilization, while he looked his absolute worst—hair sticking out in every direction beneath a beat up baseball cap; last night’s clothes; the worst five o’clock shadow; glasses off, head back, eyes closed, while a cigarette burned away between his lips. The bags beneath his eyes did him absolutely no favours, but the caffeine counteracted what little sleep managed to track him down. If he wasn’t wandering his own nightmares, haunting himself from within, then he was haunting himself from without—staying up to evade the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future, throwing himself wholly into this metamorphosis he was cocooning for.

Perhaps it was a bit arrogant to feel so vain, but in his mind, when he did entertain the fantasy of maybe reuniting with Ortega, it was much more forgiving. It was far more dramatic and windswept than this. In this elaborate stageplay he’d crafted, there was a big reveal, a heated exchange, tears! Laughter! Reminiscing! Maybe even a kiss or two.

General frivolity. 

How apt, then, that the most tragic thing Bel could have conjured in his head paled in comparison to the actual tragedy occurring here, now, live.

“Yeah.”

It’s all he can think to say, really.

There’s not a whole hell of a lot you can talk about when one of you has been technically and legally dead for seven years.

It is, however, about as awkward as you’d expect.

With the dust settled and the hugs hugged and the questions answered, it was uncomfortably awkward. Both had so much to say, and neither of them knew how to say it.

How have you been? simply wouldn’t cut it. Neither would, what have you been up to lately? or, nice weather we’re having, huh?

“You, uh…” Bel bounces his leg beneath the table, arms crossing tighter as he turns his attention out the window. “You look pretty good, too, for having just stepped out of the retirement home.”

Ricardo huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Gotta be back before curfew, though. They only let me out for day trips every once in a while.”

Bel cracks a smile at this. In his left hand, he turns the bolt earring over and over, thumb grazing back and forth against a spot where he’d worried it down some.

“I can’t believe you still have that.”

“Have what?” He cocks a brow, then purses his lips when Ricardo points at his hand.

“The earring.”

As quick as he’d tried to be, Bel’s reflexes had dulled from years of disuse. He didn’t unclasp it fast enough once Ortega had spotted him, and couldn’t shove it in his pocket surreptitiously enough before he got to the table.

He scoffs.

“What am I supposed to do, get rid of it?”

“Whatever you want with it,” Ricardo replies gently. “I’m… glad you kept it, though,” he admits. “It’s kind of nice to see.”

Bel opens his palm, using his thumb to nudge the earring forward some. The truth was this wasn’t the original, of course it wasn’t. That was discarded forever ago, when they scraped the splattered mess he made off the pavement and into the back of the ambulance. This was the other one.

Bel didn’t need two bolts, it seemed like overkill, so he wore one and pocketed the other, keeping it locked away with the other things he’d deemed important enough to lock away. When he’d found it again, beneath the emergency cash and IDs, it was like being anchored ashore after floating adrift at sea for so long. He had been spinning out of control, caught in a whirlpool of neverending turbulence; assailed on all fronts by every bitter feeling he was forced to choke down, all the hurt and rage and sorrow.

And grief.

It was always grief.

A mourning for what was, and what never will be; for what was lost, but never found again. A funeral dirge for the you that has left; an elegy for the you that still lives.

Then, the earring. That stupid fucking earring. He couldn’t be rid of the shadows that hounded him fast enough, but here he was anyway, with it in his palm, feeling very much like a dog person. The irony was bitter. No matter how much he’d been split apart, torn up, atomized, antagonized by the betrayal of abandonment—he always came back to Ortega.

Always a tether.

Always a brick tied to the ankles.

“It kept me grounded on my worst days,” he tells him, curling slender fingers over top and slipping it into his breast pocket. “…Still does.”

Why am I telling him this?

Because it’s easier than starting over.

They couldn’t go back, but Bel could pretend they were seven years younger, and none of this had happened. He could pretend the chasm between them wasn’t insurmountable, that it really could just be that easy—fall into old, familiar habits again, reach out and take hold like nothing’s changed and you haven’t been divided by distance and separated by time. He’d gotten better at playing his part.

He had to.

Starting over, relearning everything about each other because you’re no longer the same people you once were—it was too much, it turns out. At least, this iteration.

“Bel, you look like shit.”

He gives Ortega a flat, half-lidded look.

“Gee, thanks. I wasn’t aware.”

“I mean that lovingly,” Ricardo promises. “When was the last time you slept? Or ate?”

“Last night; this morning.” Bel pushes away from the table, rising to his feet, and Ricardo does the same.

“Wait,” he starts, extending a hand out towards his wrist, stopping just before contact. It takes everything in Bel not to flinch. “Wait, wait. Bel, don’t just disappear on me.” Again, his tone betrays his unspoken intent—don’t disappear on me again. “Please?”

Bel purses his lips, averting his gaze and quickly scuttling around him, all but sprinting out of the building. Ricardo, however, is faster, his stride longer, and he cuts his escape short, forcing him to stop walking abruptly. Bel rubs at tired eyelids with thumb and forefinger, annoyed. “Ricardo, I am fine,” he insists.

“I’m just worried about you, Bel,” Ricardo emphasizes. “Heartbreak—”

“Was a long time ago,” Bel cuts in, sharper than he means to, once again stepping around the taller and broader of the two of them, desperate to be done with this. “We all dealt with it differently, I’m sure.”

“Did you deal with it at all?” Ricardo challenges from behind. Bel’s expression sours. He needed a cigarette, badly.

How? He wants to shout. How was I supposed to? 

How could I? I was a slab of meat and tubes for the better part of two years, then strapped to a table for the other five. You got to move on; I didn’t.

Maybe that isn’t fair. Maybe he didn’t know.

He had to. He had to have known.

He had to, or everything Bel has been carrying with him has been for nothing. Every thread of betrayal that had woven itself so deeply into the tapestry of who he was, all the despair that found a home in him, swelled up like a balloon and kept him buoyed—if Ricardo didn’t know, then Bel certainly didn’t know where to put it all.

“In my own way,” he lies, wrapped up in a promise with a bow of feigned sincerity. “I’m dealing with it.”

Ricardo doesn’t believe him. Of course not. Why would he? He wasn’t wrong—Bel looks like shit. He knows he looks like shit, he feels like it, too. He jams his hands into his pockets and lifts his shoulders. “Believe it or not, I’m coping.”

Ricardo pinches at the bridge of his nose. “You should be more than coping, Bel.” 

“Is it my fault you have the worst sense of timing?” he asks testily. “Look—” Bel sighs through his nose, pressing both palms against his eyes and rubbing until he sees stars. He needed to get into character. He needed to take the starring role in that Shakespearean epic he’d concocted in his head, grab hold of the narrative, and direct it like he’s been doing. Like he’s gotten so good at.

“I’m sorry, Ricardo,” he says, and he means it, his expression softening and tone easing off. He doesn’t need to fake it—the guilt seeps through every word. “I don’t mean to be so irritable, I just… you caught me on a bad day, Ric. I mean, look at me.” Bel gives a mirthless little chuckle, gesturing to himself. “I’m hungover, running on fumes, and I look properly pathetic—retirement is going swell, by the way.” He takes a step forward then stops, takes a half step back. Five feet. This is as close as he would allow. This is his line in the sand. “This just… wasn’t something I was prepared to face today.”

It’s a small mercy, Bel thinks, that the parking lot is sufficiently empty; only little pockets of others like them, sparsely peppered across the asphalt, tucked out of sight between cars. No one would pay any attention to their conversation, and he would ensure it remained that way.

When he left his apartment this morning, he’d been hoping for a little bit of quiet. The diner was good because he could shut his brain off for a time, have a coffee and a smoke and allow himself the space to wallow. More importantly, though, he could blend in. No one paid any mind to another scruffy looking nondescript guy loitering in a corner booth; they all melded together after a while.

It was out of the way. Discreet. Definitely not a place Ricardo would frequent.

In that case, statistically speaking, there was no reason for them to be sharing space currently. Right? It just shouldn’t have been possible. Six degrees of separation scarcely mattered when you never maintained contact in the first place.

So, if the question is as follows:

What are the odds that, of all places on all days in all cities, the two of them would encounter one another here—at this diner, on this day, in this city?

Then the answer must be broken down as such:

Scenario one: Is one person searching for the other? (Yes. Endlessly. In every window, in every doorway, in every crowded space; I keep hoping I’ll catch a glimpse of your face as it was when I saw it last, kept fondly in a part of me I’d rather forget.)

Scenario two: Are neither looking for one another? (You cannot search for that which does not wish to be found. It comes to you when you least expect. This is what it means to haunt. To be haunted.)

Scenario three: Are they both seeking each other? (Yes. Still. Always.)

In a city the size of Los Diablos then, sans the ability to sense the other telepathically, it works out to:

OPTION 1: 0.23% chance of finding the other person.

OPTION 2: 0.0084% chance of bumping into one another.

OPTION 3: 2.46% chance of finding one another. 

Results: Unlikely, but not impossible. ‘Nonzero’ is still not zero.

Bel never did believe in serendipity.

He did believe, however, that somewhere along the way, he must’ve open-mouth kissed the devil.

“I don’t think you look pathetic,” Ricardo says, interrupting the frenetic mental pacing Bel was doing in the annals of his fraying mind. Leave it to Ortega to hone in on the one topic that isn’t even relevant. Of all the things he could’ve pulled from that, why is that the one he latched on to?

Bel shakes his head, as if to clear it. “What…?”

“I don’t think you look pathetic,” Ricardo repeats, taking a step forward. Bel takes another half step back. Five feet. It was like dealing with a cornered feral cat—any sudden moves, and he might bolt. “I think you look like you. It’s just you on a bad day, Bel. And—” he pauses. “Yeah. It is a lot to deal with, huh? I don’t really know how you prepare for it.”

That’s the thing they don’t tell you about resurrection: it’s less a blessing, and more an absolute fucking nightmare.

The world doesn’t stop turning, even when yours feels like it’s ended, even when yours has ended, and when you come back, it’s to places and people you no longer recognize. You’re no longer you. They’re no longer them. And the last piece you have of each other is an outdated fragment of a memory, viewed through the tinted lenses of nostalgia.

You’ve changed.

So have they.

But you still look like you. And he still looks like him.

“I have to run, Ricardo,” Bel says quietly, voice just above a whisper, walking backwards away from him, the canyon stretching further. “I’ll think over your offer, okay?” Despite it all, “It was good seeing you.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, smiling faintly. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “You, too.”

[reapersmarch]

what a match; i'm half-doomed and you're semisweet.

look before you leap, or, how the ground rose to meet him

follow up to this!

The dawn makes itself known, spilling misty grey light over the sheets and across Bel’s face, causing him to wince and draw the covers overhead. It was early—the world was still asleep, and the only thing he had for company on this particularly dreary Saturday morning was the pattering of rain against the window.

Well, and Ricardo’s snoring.

From the living room, of course.

It wasn’t loud, just periodic, but it was enough to make Bel grunt out a sigh and sit up. It had been, honestly, kind of stupid inviting him to stay the night. After the slew of calls and texts to let people know that, yes, Ricardo is alive and well, and yes, he got home safely, he’s with me—Bel—yes, that Bel—Ricardo had made himself right at home. Not that he had ever been inside Bel’s home before.

Every time they’d hooked up, Bel had been strategic about it—once, it was an alleyway; once, in his office. A car was usually the nearest and easiest, but any quick and dirty would do. So long as Bel didn’t need to remove all his clothes, the location didn’t really matter. If Ricardo really wanted to make it count, however, then he’d take them back to his place, typically at Bel’s behest. It wasn’t difficult to get him to do what he wanted—Ricardo was easy. All Bel really needed to do was pout a little and flutter his lashes, and it worked, every time, without fail. So when he’d said that the couch at Ortega’s place was better for making out on, he bought it, no questions asked.

It was strange having Ricardo here. Bel suddenly became very self-conscious, overly mindful of what he said, what he did—in his own home! This was primarily why he didn’t want anyone else here. His apartment was his sanctuary. A safe place where he could decompress and exist without having to think so often. He didn’t have to think about whether his smile was sincere enough or his sense of humour convincing enough. He didn’t have to hide parts of himself away, just to be accepted. He could walk around half naked if he wanted to and wouldn’t give a quarter of a shit.

Ricardo being here changed that.

Once a door is opened and the threshold crossed, it’s hard to get it shut again.

Another hard won lesson. Another string.

Bel should’ve kicked him out after they finished going at it.

Well—really, he should’ve held fast and not brought him over at all, but at the very least, he should’ve sent Ricardo home in a cab after getting off.

Sighing, he turns to squint at the clock on his dresser. Half six. Far too early to be awake. Bel tosses the covers back and climbs out of bed, crossing the hall to the bathroom. A shower was out of the question until later, but the rest of the routine stayed the same—get out of bed, wash face, brush teeth, decide between glasses or contacts (glasses today; he didn’t feel like fighting with contacts this early), then head to the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on. He passes through the living room, pausing momentarily by the couch, amused. Ricardo was effectively dead to the world, face buried in the pillow and the blanket pulled almost completely overhead. So much for making breakfast.

Though, it is early, he supposes.

There’s a yawn Bel can’t quite stifle as he reaches up into the cabinet for two mugs and a small tin container of ground coffee, almost empty when he shakes it. He’d have to get more eventually, later, when Ricardo was gone.

Or… maybe he’d want to come?

No.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

He’s pushing that one as far off to the side as possible, choking it down and trying not to regurgitate it back up. It was so… domestic. In a way that did not suit him. Bel braces his hands on the edge of the counter and drops his head forward, grimacing. What the fuck? This was strictly meant to be physical; when did domesticity even enter the picture? When was that ever something he wanted? Why the hell would he want that?

Is that…

Do I want that?

It was another incredibly human urge—the want for normalcy. For stability. Affection. To be loved. To be wanted. Cared for.

Bel hated it.

You need to be a person—a real person, not just a puppet playing dress-up—in order to be worthy of those things.

You need to deserve them.

Ricardo did.

Bel didn’t.

He needed to recalibrate, refocus; put his head on straight and stop being so—

He’s just straightened up when a pair of arms, bed-warm and still slack from having just risen, snake around his waist, pulling him back flush into the embrace, startled.

“Well. Good morning,” he says softly, fighting the blush as the weight of Ricardo’s chin settles on his shoulder, face nuzzling against the crook of his neck. There’s a sigh against his skin as warm hands slide beneath Bel’s sweater to press flat against his stomach.

“It’s so early,” he complains in a murmur, voice thick with sleep still, pressing his lips to a spot behind Bel’s ear. His hands don’t go any further than where they’ve settled, thumb stroking lightly against the exposed bit of flesh where the sweater has raised. “Come back to bed with me.”

It isn’t really much of a question; more a suggestion than anything, and one that he knew Bel probably wouldn’t kick up a fuss about. As easy as Ricardo was, Bel was even easier. 

“Tempting offer,” he replies, as one hand inches upwards and the other, down, fingers tucking just past the waistband of his pants. Ricardo knows what he’s doing. He knows it’s having the desired effect by the way he hears Bel’s breathing hitch, feels him shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he tries to hold the hem of his sweater down. “Might I ask what’s in it for me?”

“Well, you get to come back to bed with me,” Ricardo says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, now pressing a kiss to the exposed join of his neck and shoulder. He grins lazily when Bel turns quickly to face him, one hand splayed against his chest to push him back and give them a little space, then withdraws all at once, leaning back against the opposing kitchen island.

“I didn’t go to bed with you to begin with,” he exhales sharply, in an attempt to settle the rush of blood to the head. Both. 

“Mm,” Ricardo hums, rubbing a hand over his bare shoulder. “That’s why you should come to bed with me now.”

Bel shakes his head, turning back around to pour fresh coffee in to both mugs. He presses one into Ricardo’s hands. “You were the one who was supposed to be making breakfast, not me.”

“Hey, and I was gonna,” he protests, taking a pull from his mug. “It’s not my fault you’re up at the ass crack of dawn. It’s not even seven yet.”

Bel chuckles quietly, crossing one arm over his chest while they sip their coffee in silence. Admittedly, there was something nice about this. If he let himself indulge just a little bit, revel in the comfort of Ortega’s presence, privately enjoy the way this all made him feel so alive—just for a moment, just before it all comes unravelling—was there really any harm in that?

Okay, so, maybe he couldn’t have more than this.

Even if it felt like he was plunging his hand into a vat of acid, even if he was letting Ricardo burrow too deeply beneath his skin, even if the waste of muscle pumping in his chest betrayed him in the end—it wasn’t criminal to enjoy himself.

The lie would fall apart eventually—either through guilt or a misstep or Bel’s complete inability to keep it together in Ortega’s presence—and when it did, when the wings finally melted and the impact left the ground cratered and all that remained was a smouldering pile of ash and shattered bone? At least he’d be able to say, ‘Well, I was happy for a time.’

“Hey.” Ricardo hooks a finger beneath Bel’s chin, drawing his attention and smiling fondly. “Lost you for a second there.” 

Bel looks a bit owlish, as though startled, but recovers quickly enough.

“Sorry,” is what he says. For what, he isn’t sure. Waking him up, maybe. Meandering mentally. Being so damn cagey. Ricardo chuckles and presses his lips against his forehead.

“You haven’t done anything worth apologizing for. That I’m aware of, anyway. You did bite me last night, which—”

Bel holds a hand up to stop him. “Let’s not.”

Ricardo spreads his hands and lifts his shoulders. “Okaaay, but then we have to talk about the other thing.”

“What other thing?” he asks nonchalantly. Bel winces internally when Ricardo raises a skeptical brow.

“I think your exact words were, ‘we can talk about my inability to lie to you later’.”

Ah, crap.

“I was hoping you’d forget about that.”

“Hope denied.” A gentle flick against the forehead. “We need to talk about it. What’s eating you? And be honest this time.”

Bel purses his lips, scooting around him to go sit on the couch instead, and Ricardo follows.

“I—” It’s hard to find the words. To know what to say, how to say it, when to say it. Bel doesn’t even want to say a damn thing. Verbalizing it was… difficult. How do you put all that into words?

How do you tell someone, I’m not what you think I am, please don’t hate me. I just wanted to know how it felt to be like you? How could he possibly turn to him and say, it’s you, it’s you, it’s always been you; there’s nobody else?

How do you take every ounce of joy and grief and heartache, every doubt, every desire, every single wretched fucking thing he’s ever felt about this man, bind it all up and cast it all out into the light? Distill it down to a single drop, easily consumed?

Like this: you ruined me.

He runs a hand over his mouth and holds it there, as if to keep it all trapped inside. Uncorking this felt too burdensome, and Bel… he was already burdening himself enough as it is. It would be easier if he could just crack his skull open, lift out his brain, lobotomize himself, and be done with it. “Can I… ask you something?”

A one-shouldered shrug. “Sure.”

Bel angles his body towards him, draws his knees up beneath him. He takes in a sharp breath as though he means to speak, hesitates.

“If… If you weren’t you, and I wasn’t me,” he starts, “if we were two completely different people—would this go differently?”

Ricardo sits up a little, eyebrows raised. “Now you’ve lost me.”

“There’s only one way this ends, Ricardo,” he says. “You and I both know that. It’s not serious.” Wish it was. “It doesn’t have to be.” Wish it did. “I just want to know: in some other timeline, some other universe, some other place—” Bel gestures nebulously. “—could it have been?”

“Is that what’s been bothering you?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know!” Bel tears his hands through his hair again and again, like it might kickstart his harried mind, before he drops his face into his palms. “Ricardo.” A beat. “I like you. I like working with you, I like spending time with you, I like being around you. You’re fun and funny and kind of an asshole, but you have a good heart and a great ass, honestly, and—look, no strings attached would have been fine had you picked anyone else on this planet, but I am covered in them. In strings, in baggage, take your pick, and IIIII…” Bel draws the sound out, grasping at his sleeves and glancing off to the side. “I want complicated. I want messy. I want something more than what you’re willing to give me. So I just… I want to know, Ric.”

The silence stretches taut between them, a fraying rope just waiting to snap. It’s a loaded question, Bel knows it is. He doesn’t really expect an answer from him—he’s just falling on the sword himself before he lets Ricardo run him through.

“Sorry,” Bel continues after a bit, when the quiet becomes unbearable and the overwhelming urge for the ground to swallow him whole begins to take over. In any other situation, he could’ve had his answer already. He wouldn’t have even needed to let it build to this point—he would’ve just looked. Dug around a little until he found what he was looking for, been satisfied with that, and moved on with his life without anyone knowing. “You don’t have to answer that, really. I don’t—”

“Yeah.”

Bel snaps his head up so quickly, he might’ve gotten whiplash, and Ricardo… well, it was his turn to look away.

“If things were different, yeah,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s… Bel, you deserve far more than what I could ever give you, so, I mean—”

“No, no,” Bel interrupts. “I…”

“I mean it! I mean it,” he promises, hesitating before he drops his hand on Bel’s knee. “You are… you’re great. Really. You’re smart, you’re thoughtful, you are much too good for me. It’s… I like having fun with you, but…”

Crash. Bang. There’s the impact zone.

Ground zero.

“It’s fine.” Bel makes himself smile a little. “I asked.”

At least he was happy for a little bit.