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whoacanada · 4 years ago

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Zimmerbro AU

Summary: Andrew Phillip Rowe could skate before he could walk, and it wasn’t until he was almost twenty and well on his way to becoming a Las Vegas Ace before he knew why.

a/n: that’s right we’ve got a secret zimmermann brother au based on the fact that Bob was an active pro athlete for almost 15 years before Jack was born and almost definitely had relationships before Alicia. This particular one resulted in a secret love child.

When the call finally went out that year — a request for players willing to billet the incoming draftees — Andrew had been the first in line.

His already sparsely decorated guest room had been primed for a new tenant since he’d learned Las Vegas’ abysmal season had earned them the first pick of the 2009 draft. In his mind, Andrew had envisioned a tearful confession. A family reunion nineteen years in the making where he’d finally get a chance to connect with a half-brother he’d grown up learning about through news articles and stats pages.

He wasn’t ready for Jack to pull out of the draft days before the ceremony; wasn’t ready for the claims of an overdose or speculation about suicide attempts. He certainly wasn’t expecting to have to open his home to a young man with limp blonde hair and deep circles under his eyes with the same enthusiasm he’d promised he’d offer to a son of Bob Zimmermann.

Andrew was hoping for a little brother.

He got Kent Parson instead.

______

“You remind me of my boyfriend.” Kent slurs one night, completely gone on Johnny Walker Blue borrowed from Andrew’s wet bar. “It’s your . . . face.”

“Shouldn’t talk about things like that,” Andrew cautions gently, covering his own surprise. “Never know who might be listening.”

“Who fucking cares? He won’t talk to me,” Kent continues, ignoring him and sniffing like he’s on the verge of sobbing or puking, both options equally unwanted. “They wouldn’t tell me if he was even alive.”

Another unwanted puzzle piece locks into place.

“Jack?” Andrew suggests softly, and Kent begins to cry.

“You won’t tell right?”

Andrew shakes his head no, long enough for Kent’s bleary eyes to focus on the gesture and take it seriously.

Things are different, after that conversation. Not worse, or better, just different.

________

“He’s my brother.”

Andrew admits this one night, for no reason other than that he can.

Kent is across the room, backlit by lights from the Strip, his legs dangling off the arm of his favorite couch as he scrolls through his phone looking for distractions. Parse hasn’t lived with Andrew for almost two seasons, but he still turns up like a bad penny whenever he needs to commiserate with someone who knows his more lascivious secrets. Truthfully, Andrew’s grateful for the company. He’s a pretty genial guy, but he’s always kept his distance, a personality trait he likes to think he shares with an unassuming sibling, but there’s no way to know for sure. The farther Andrew gets from the 2009 Draft, the less faith he has in a reunion that won’t just bring crippling sorrow to everyone involved.

A secret Zimmermann son who actually made it in the NHL. Who has his name on the Stanley Cup, not once, but twice, largely thanks to the spitfire forward lounging in Andrew’s living room.

“Who’s your brother?” Kent asks, not looking up from his phone.

“Jack Zimmermann.”

Kent barks a laugh and rolls his head lazily to smirk at Andrew.

“That’s funny. I guess you kinda have the same chin. Was Marky digging for chirps?”

Andrew has no idea what that means, but he sets down his tablet and says, “No, he’s actually my half-brother. My mom dated Bad Bob in ’84 and got pregnant.”

The lackadaisical smile on Kent’s face falters as his gaze sharpens, like he’s actually looking at Andrew for the first time. Andrew responds by gesturing at himself lamely.

“That’s not funny.”

“No.” Andrew agrees. “It isn’t.”

Kent swings his feet down off the couch and braces himself against the overstuffed leather. He doesn’t look mad, but there’s something too close to disbelief for Andrew to convince himself everything’s okay. It takes a moment, but Kent must find what he’s looking for on Andrew’s face.

“Does Bob know?” Kent asks with that familiar overfamiliarity, as if they both still have some personal relationship with the living legend.

“Yeah. When Mom got pregnant she told him she didn’t want the attention since it was only a fling — ”

“Who the fuck doesn’t lock down Bob Zimmermann?” Kent breathes. “Also, why the fuck did she tell you that?”

“No shit, right? She got him to sign away parental rights, set up a trust, never spoke to him again as far as I know. I didn’t find out until after I signed with the Aces. She didn’t want me to get blindsided if it all came out, but the story never broke.”

“I mean, does Bob know who you are?” Kent questions. “Does Jack?”

Andrew shakes his head no, because he doesn’t think so, and Kent flops back against the cushions, face slack with disbelief; it doesn’t take long for his features to shift to anger.

“You knew this whole time and you didn’t tell me? Even after I told you —“

“Okay, there’s a whole-ass difference between you fucking dudes and and me being ‘Bad Bob’s bastard’,” Andrew bites, curtailing Kent’s imminent hissy fit. Appropriately, Kent closes his mouth, almost pouting.

“Fine. But that’s fucked.” Kent says after a loaded moment of silence. “I’m sorry you’re . . . you.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry you’re you, too.”

“You know Jack’s signing with the Falconers, right?” Kent offers like the worst kind of olive branch, unintentionally telling Andrew exactly what he was up to during that stretch of time between New England games a few months prior. “It’s not public but it’s happening. Ink’s dry.”

“I know. That’s why I told you. It’s gonna be weird,” Andrew swallows, thinking about playing Providence in the coming months.

“Fucking right it’s weird.”

_________

For the most part, the Las Vegas Aces are decent, stand up guys. Even with the accusations of gambling debts and mob connections with the ownership group, Andrew’s never been asked to hit a certain player a little too hard, or to take a dive so the other team gets a shot at a power play. A lot of talk, a lot of conspiracies, ‘Typical Aces hockey’, but there’s no malice. Not really.

Andrew thinks it’s hilarious he plays the game a lot like his estranged father, but he’s not a legend in the making, hell, at this point he’s barely regarded as more than a mid-level, reliable center that can bring home 40 points a season.

Carly whips behind Zimmermann’s back to clip his skate with a stick, dropping a ill advised chirp that sets every player in earshot on edge. Parse is close enough to catch the quiet slur, stiffening like he’s been hit, and Andrew watches Zimmermann recover quickly, steely and resolute.

Jack has his mother’s eyes — not the warm brown Andrew catches every time he looks in the mirror.

“He’s a fucking goon,” Andrew breathes, gliding up to Jack’s shoulder in lieu of an apology. Zimmermann doesn’t miss a beat, his gaze flicking to Andrew with the quiet rage of ‘who gives a fuck’. Andrew admires his commitment to the game. Coming back after so much, after so long, to willingly subject himself to the same kind of treatment that Andrew knows likely led to his original fall from grace.

“Hey,” Kent ducks his head as he slides up a little while later, mouthguard clenched between his teeth, and asks, “You see his twink?”

At Andrew’s obvious confusion, Kent jerks his head toward the glass behind the Falconers’ bench, to a raucous group of fans all sporting fresh Zimmermann jerseys. Andrew’s gaze drifts along the row of faces, lingering longer on the familiar, handsome couple beside the blonde young man. He may be imagining things — the stadium lights catching a bad angle — but for the briefest moment, Andrew holds eye contact with his father.

“He’s cute, right?” Kent says bitterly, like he doesn’t have a partner of his own back home.

“Yeah, he is. You gonna do anything about the slurs, Captain?” Andrew counters, earning a stern look from Parson.

“I’ll deal with Carly.”

“Oh, you will? Because I’ve never seen you shut him down before.”

“I’ll handle it.”

Kent’s expression goes stormy, and he gives Andrew a hard shove before skating off to set up for the next shift. To his credit, he does grab Carly by the arm and tell him something that earns a look of displeasure from the larger man, but Andrew knows a verbal warning won’t curtail someone as dead-set in his conservatism as Carly.

The next play, Carly flashes Andrew a toothy smile over the lineman’s shoulder, as if they’re in on the same joke, and his vision goes red.

__________

“Bad Bob’s outside,” Scraps rasps, like whatever brief interaction he’s just had has physically winded him. “He wants to talk to Flip.”

Andrew blinks up from the water bottle in his hands, previously concerned with the pink-stained gauze wrapped around his knuckles. A few of the guys start chirping, but most of them remain silent, still processing the fact that Andrew assaulted one of their own without clear motivation, in defense of an opponent.

“That’s what this was all about? You gunning for a trade?” Sorenson spits from his stall. “Needed to impress Bad Bob by beating the snot out of Carly?”

“Maybe I am,” Andrew sighs, pushing himself to his feet, wincing at the way his jaw aches from the few good hits Carly had managed to squeeze in before he went down. “What the fuck are you gonna do about it.”

_______

Andrew’s grateful he kept his skates on. He needs the boost of confidence that comes with the added height, especially when he finds Bob Zimmermann waiting patiently in the corridor like he’s just another staff member and not the second most recognizable figure in modern hockey.

“Hey kid,” Bob greets, casting an approving, overly-familiar eye over Andrew’s padded bulk and sweat-slick hair. “You can throw a hell of a punch. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy beat the piss out of a teammate before. Off ice, sure, but never during a game.”

His accent is just as thick in private as every interview Andrew’s ever caught live — but his tone is unexpectedly warm, even grateful — when Bob laughs at his own recounting of Andrew’s assault attempt, the sound is light and joyous like nothing in the world comes easier to this titan of a man.

Andrew wonders if Bob can recognize the chin they share beneath a his playoff beard; if there’s any resemblance left in a nose that’s been reset a half-dozen times.

Andrew grew up loved and never wanted for anything. His step-fathers, both of them, had been good men who never left him looking for a father figure. It wasn’t until his twenties that Andrew even realized there was hole where his bio-dad should have been, and not just a regular hole, a yawning sinkhole threatening to devour his entire sense of self, because his biological father turned out to be a man he grew up idolizing as a personal hero.

He’s not mad at his mother, but when Andrew struggles to find his voice — which is bullshit seeing as he’s almost thirty-five and a god-damned professional athlete — he can’t stop himself from feeling like a misplaced child.

“Do you,” Andrew swallows, looking over Bob’s shoulder to see if anyone’s watching them. Finding they’re alone, he rallies quietly, “Do you know who I am?”

Bob’s jovial expression softens into something remorseful, but unfathomably kind. “I do, buddy,” he acknowledges, somehow squeezing three decades of affection into one term of endearment. “I’ve known for some time, now. The whole time, actually.”

That hurts more than expected.

“Does your wife? Does Jack?”

Bob shakes his head, but it isn’t a hard no.

“Alicia knows, and Jack has some idea he’s got a half-brother, but it’s all in the abstract. No specifics. Definitely doesn’t know you play. I wanted to respect your privacy and your mother’s wishes. She let me know she’d told you the truth a few years back and I wanted to give you the space you needed if you decided to reach out. When you didn’t, well, a man makes assumptions.”

Andrew looks down at the concrete beneath his skates and sniffs hard, fighting nasal drip from the smelling salts he’d needed in the third period; or, at least, that’s what he tells himself. “I had a plan, back when — ” he stops himself, looking down at his skates. Bob’s eyebrows lift in curiosity, leaving room for Andrew to gather his thoughts, but he doesn’t take the bait, unable to bring up what could have been just yet. Bob seems to grasp the context after the moment.

“2009,” he acknowledges softly. “Hell of a year.”

“Yeah. It was. Is he okay?”

“What, Jack? He’s leagues ahead of where he was then —”

“No, I mean, tonight. Carly clipped him pretty hard before I got in there.”

“Oh, a little bruised up, but he’ll live. Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Okay.”

Andrew looks down at his bandaged fist and realizes he’s completely forgotten how gnarly his face must look.

“Trainer says I’m alright, but I’m gonna get leveled with a wicked fine, I know it.”

“Was it worth it?” There’s a look of guilty pride on Bob’s face, like the man’s enjoying himself a little too much when he leans in and whispers, “You just did something I’ve wanted to do since Jack was in mites. Fucking lay out one of those fuckers that’s got nothing better to do than bitch because they can’t play,” there’s a moment of hesitation, as if he’s worried about pushing a boundary, before he adds, “How’d it feel to look out for your little brother?”

Pride, it turns out, in contagious, and Andrew feels like he could go back on the ice and do it all over again. “Pretty fucking great,” Andrew can’t help a smile, wincing when the gesture pulls at his split lip.

Bob slaps a hand on Andrew’s shoulder pads, then gets a grip on the back of his head, heedless of his sweaty hair.

“Crisse, you’re a fuckin’ beaut, kid. I’ve wanted to tell you that for years.”

Andrew can’t blame the smelling salts anymore.

__________

Jack clearly doesn’t see his father standing there with red-rimmed eyes, or Andrew in an equally unkempt state, and has no reason to think anything untoward has happened when he offers a handshake and pulls Andrew into a hug, bouncing his free fist off the back of Andrew’s pads. “I owe you a drink,” Jack says decisively when he pulls back, shooting a grin between his father and Andrew. “Can’t believe you did that.”

“More than a drink, I think,” the blonde guy Andrew saw behind the bench pipes up. Jack’s ‘twink’. Boyfriend. Whatever. “Dinner at least.”

“A pie,” Bob suggests tightly, keeping his voice even as he turns to quickly scrub his fist over his eyes. Andrew recognizes the statuesque woman who strides up beside Bob, and one quick look tells him she definitely knows who he is.

“Hello, Andrew,” Alicia greets softly, genuinely. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” he says, the tightness in his throat coming out as gruffness rather than emotion. “This is great, but I should go shower and, uh, it was nice meeting you all.”

Bob’s hand whips out and fists the sleeve of Andrew’s sweater, keeping him in place.

“You have plans tonight?”

Andrew debates lying, because he doesn’t know how to move forward from this point, but they’re all looking at him. Waiting. Expectant. There’s too much at stake, and yet somehow — A sharp whistle drags Andrew’s attention back to the locker room. Kent is peeking his head out, and god knows how long he’s been eavesdropping.

“Yo, Zimmermanns. Bittle.”

“Parson.” The blonde says curtly, earning a wry smirk from Kent.

“Flip, we got a presser if you feel like putting a bow on the evening,” Kent’s gaze drifts to Bob’s flushed face, and he adds, “Or, you can shower and slip out the loading bay while I cover for your aggro ass because this is not going to be fun. Your call.”

Andrew looks at the small family surrounding him, his family, and says, “I don’t want to explain.” Kent shrugs and ducks back inside while Bob’s brow furrows in confusion. “I can do dinner, but I don’t want to,” Andrew holds his hands out in front of him, trying to gesture what he means, and Bob snaps his fingers in understanding.

“Ah, ha, I got you, kid.”

“Neat. I’m gonna go shower.”

“We will be here when you’re ready,” Alicia offers. “Take your time.”

“Oh, I will,” Andrew replies before he can stop himself, cringing the second his back is turned because what the fuck could he be any more awkward?

Time will tell.

_____________

#zimbits #jack / bitty #omgcp #check please #my fic #my stuff #lost zimmermann brother au #bob's got another kid and I named him andrew again!#kent is not a bad guy #only carly is a bad guy and we hate him #long post #because it's a mini fic!

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ohnococo · 4 years ago

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A Mess - Chapter 2 | Zeke x F!Reader x Reiner

Summary: Taking place the morning after the threesome, everyone tries to get a feel for where you all stand. Everyone except Zeke, who knows exactly where he wants this to go.

Warnings: threesome, blowjobs, deep-throating, throat-fucking, vaginal sex, cumshot, cum swallowing, (light) aftercare

MINORS DNI/18+ ONLY UNDER THE CUT!

CHAPTER 1

Zeke is the first to rise, and quietly makes his way out of bed to start breakfast for everyone. If any of you are going to talk about what happened last night, he wants it to be with him there to suss out exactly what page everyone is on, and he knows neither of you will turn down pancakes. He isn't sure if he's happy or not to see Reiner joining him first, already fully dressed and very clearly surprised to see the table set for three.

Zeke can tell he isn’t sure if he wants to sit down, so he gestures towards the dining room table with his spatula, "Pancakes will be done in a minute."

Reiner holds a breath for a moment before sitting, as if it had been an order - and really it had been.

The open plan layout of Zeke's apartment makes it so they could very easily talk things out right here and now, but he wants to give Reiner the opportunity to speak first. He knows the younger man is the most likely of the three of you to have some kind of reservations over what happened last night, and he doesn't want to reveal his own hand too soon. Reiner doesn't speak though, not until Zeke is putting down the platter of food in the middle of the table, setting down syrup next to it.

Reiner laughs uncomfortably, "So... a threesome and breakfast, just my luck."

Zeke rewards the comment with the smallest smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and looks down at the younger man who seems to be begging him to talk first with the uneasy look in his eyes. Normally Zeke lives for a moment like this, one where he can just stand and cast his slightly amused stare at someone while they shift uncomfortably under his gaze, but for some reason that air of uneasiness reaches even him this timel. He reasons that he must just be too hungry to mess around.

"It took more than luck to make last night happen."

Reiner thinks on the words for a moment, but doesn't quite parse what Zeke is getting at, "What else did it take?"

"It took everyone wanting it to happen, and we all did. So it happened."

He nods, as if replaying the events of last night over in his mind for confirmation. "There's no problem between us then?"

Zeke laughs, realizing Reiner leaving the bedroom fully dressed and tense as ever must have come from him quite literally expecting a confrontation. It’s as if he’d initially forgotten Zeke was the one beckoning him into the room, calling upon him to finally fucking indulge.

"The only thing between us,” Zeke emphasizes the words with air quotes and a pregnant pause before continuing on, “is the woman lying in the bed we all fucked in last night. And I don't consider that a problem."

He hopes he doesn't have to spell it out further for Reiner, that last night wasn't a problem and that any similar nights in the future wouldn't be either. His little game had been fun, and for now he planned for it to continue. Whatever Reiner gleaned from Zeke’s words seems to be satisfactory, as he nods and uses his fork to grab a few pancakes off of the platter in front of him and move them onto his plate. Zeke starts to walk back to his bedroom, to wake you and let you know he's prepared breakfast - a rare occasion for him - but Reiner stops him through his mouthful of food.

"She's just brushing her teeth."

Interesting. Zeke wonders if you’d already discussed a few things, but doesn't ask as he returns to the table to begin serving himself.

When you join them you’re wearing a set of casual clothes you’d left at Zeke’s place for times you’d been too fucked out to leave the night before, and he’s happy to see you aren’t also fully dressed as if anticipating the same thing Reiner was. Your eyes go straight to the food as you take your seat.

“Is this some kind of special occasion?” You sheepishly meet Zeke’s gaze, before shooting Reiner a smile that you hope is reassuring. It is, and your presence seems to dissipate the last of the tension in his broad shoulders.

This time, Zeke’s laugh does reach his eyes and you feel at ease enough to begin serving yourself. “A little reward for you two stepping out of your comfort zone last night.”

Despite only being a few years older than you and Reiner, Zeke is much more experienced, or ’worldly’ as he’d so smugly describe it, but he could tell from the surprise on your face you’d thought last night might have been some kind of happy fluke.

“Are you saying last night was in your comfort zone?”

“Yes and no.”

It wasn’t a satisfying answer, but you know better than to expect too much from Zeke, and the way he sits and passes the syrup to you before serving himself with the remaining pancakes on the dish makes it clear that this line of questioning is over.

Zeke can tell you’re comforted by the fact that you and Reiner seem to be on the same page after breakfast; neither of you making moves to head for home while looking to Zeke to set the course of the day between the three of you. There’s still a question hanging in the air, a need for further clarification, but the fact that you both seem to happily agree to Zeke’s suggestion that you all join him in watching a movie after eating indicates to him that this entanglement will be easily continued.

After a short debate casual enough to have you all relaxed and feeling more like the same three friends you’d always been, a movie is decided upon and you take your seat first. It’s your usual spot by the arm of the couch, and Reiner seats himself on the other end, leaving a space for Zeke in the middle. It’s normal enough, but Zeke intends to establish things quickly and wraps his arms around you, picking you up and plopping you down in the middle of the couch before taking your previous seat. You laugh a little as you settle into the cushion, thereby settling in between the two men, and tuck your feet under Reiner’s warm legs as Zeke pulls you into his side so you can relax against him.

This wasn’t exactly the movie Zeke had wanted to watch, but he’d conceded to yours and Reiner’s wishes to allow you two to feel you had some power in this situation. You two did, of course, but not quite as much as Zeke thanks to his disregard for any possible consequences to the impulsive actions he’d been carrying out lately. Though with the amount of thought and planning he put into each move, he didn’t quite consider them impulsive. To him, these decisions were more… daring, or selfish at worst.

In any case, Zeke had no intention of finishing the movie in the first place, though he at least allows the three of you to make it ten minutes in before his hand round your waist starts rubbing slow circles into your side. You lean into him a little more, and he presses a small kiss to your forehead. He leaves it at that, very much aware of Reiner watching the two of you out of the corner of his eye. Then you stretch your legs out, after pulling your feet from under Reiner’s thigh. Whether you mean it flirtatiously or not, Zeke can’t help smiling to himself as you rest your legs on Reiner’s lap, and he places a hand on your calf, stroking your skin gently.

The three of you linger like this for a little longer as well, before Zeke has had enough and with a bent finger at your chin, turns you to face him. It was clearly what you’d been waiting for as both men gently stroked at your body, and your lips meet Zeke’s without further prompting. Your kiss is hungry, with you sighing against his mouth already, and Zeke opens his eyes to look over to Reiner - whose hand was moving up to rub at your thigh as you gently massage your foot over where his cock had slowly been hardening since he’d started touching you. Zeke pulls away before you do, nodding his head towards Reiner before leaning back to remove his own shirt. You understand him perfectly, turning to get on your knees and begin kissing Reiner. He groans at the loss of contact from your foot, but is happily satiated by your lips, wasting no time as he parts them to allow your tongue into his mouth.

His kiss is more eager than Zeke’s, rougher even, as he pulls you onto his lap so you’re straddling him. Zeke closes the distance, moving to the center of the couch to dip a hand beneath your leggings and tease at your slit through your underwear. You moan into Reiner’s mouth, and his involuntary thrust upward sends Zeke’s finger pressing harder against you. You’re on the bearded man in a second, craning your neck to kiss him while continuing to grind down onto his hand, and only part lips when Reiner pulls your shirt up and off. The action pulls you back to the man beneath you as he kneads at your breasts and he’s left groaning into your mouth this time at the feel of the supple skin cupped by his large hands.

For all of Reiner’s pining Zeke still hadn’t expected him to be quite so voracious. As the two of you continued on in this back and forth, each switch of positions leading to one more article of clothing being removed, anytime you pulled away to give Zeke a taste of your lips, Reiner was immediately making up for the loss of contact by sucking marks into your neck. Soon, you’re so wet that Zeke has to peel your underwear from where they cling to your folds as you maneuver with Reiner’s aid to help in getting them down your legs and off, leaving you fully bare between them now that this final bit of clothing is gone - with the two men left in just underwear. He hums appreciatively at the soaked fabric before tossing it onto the floor and pulling you up to stand.

“Bedroom, now.”

You head off quickly, with Zeke pinching your ass as you go, and Reiner is following close after. Zeke takes his time walking back, turning off the forgotten film before he goes, and he stands to watch in the doorway as you’re already lying next to Reiner on the bed, grinding down onto one of his legs and gasping his name into the air as he suckles and kneads at your breasts. Your heavy lids flutter open, and you reach out to Zeke, beckoning him closer. He circles past your outstretched arm, around the other side of the bed, and sits at your side - pulling you into another kiss as the younger man continues to have his way with marking your flesh.

As breathing gets heavier, and the kisses between you and each of the men get sloppier and hungrier, Zeke can’t help but notice how very un-spontaneous it somehow still feels. You roll over to kiss him, arm outstretched to pump at Reiner’s cock. Then, a few moments later you kiss Reiner, your other hand moving to slide up and down Zeke’s length. You’re still enjoying yourself; groaning at the affections, pressing into whichever hands are on you at the moment, and when Zeke pulls your hips off of Reiner’s muscled thigh he’s pleased to find that you’ve left him glistening with your slick. Still… it’s as if Zeke can hear you counting out the seconds of each movement, getting lost in the heat of the moment for only a few fleeting seconds before reminding yourself that you must attend to the other man as well. It’s just not the same as it had been last night.

Eventually Zeke has enough of this, and intends to do something about it, but is surprised to find Reiner doing it first. He grabs you by the back of your thighs, sweeping you onto your back as he rolls on top of you and wraps your legs around his waist for only a moment before he’s sitting back to take in the view of your needy pussy beneath him. Zeke watches contentedly as the younger man seems to be very much in the moment, pumping his cock with one hand, then reaching down with the other to begin fucking your pussy open with one of his broad fingers, then two - glistening more and more each time they pull out of your warmth ever so slightly. Then, something clicks, and you’re not worrying about anything but taking just what you need to be able to have Reiner buried deep inside you.

Zeke leans away for only a moment, pulling a condom out of the top drawer of his bedside table, and tossing it onto your stomach.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says to Reiner, as he positions himself by your face. You’re pleasantly quick in reaching for his cock, squeezing it at the base before you wrap your lips around the head, sucking gently - but then Reiner’s thumb joins in his movements to rub at your clit while his fingers inside of you continue to slide against your walls, and you can’t stop yourself from moaning around Zeke’s cock.

He takes the opportunity to push himself deeper, though still only halfway, into your open mouth. It prompts you to suck harder, and bob your head in an attempt to give Zeke even part of what you were feeling. Reiner groans at the sight of you with a mouthful of cock, and decides enough is enough as he withdraws his fingers from you and tears open the small packet to hurriedly roll the condom on. Even without being able to see him through the angle your head is at as you suck at the cock before you, you know what’s coming. This has been the longest Reiner had gone without touching you since you’d undressed before the men, and you shiver at the feel of the head of his cock teasing it’s way up and down your slit.

“Yes.” your words of encouragement are muffled, but they do still work to make Reiner finally make the push to slowly begin filling you.

It’s thick, and god does it feel bigger than it looks as you stop your movements on Zeke to gasp and sigh around him with each inch further Reiner stretches you. It’s a lot, clearly more than you can handle while staying focused, and when Reiner lets out a groan as his hips are finally flush with yours Zeke is sure you’ve never been so full in your life.

Zeke rests his hand on the back of your neck, holding your head up to make it easier for you, and you finally give him the suction he needs, though you tap his hip while looking up at him - your sign to him that he can fuck your mouth. He does, albeit slowly, eyes darting from your pretty face twisted in pleasure to the sight of Reiner slowly fucking you open. After a few moments of groans and your careful adjusting to being filled at both ends Reiner picks up his pace, hips meeting yours in a harsh slap after a long push forward. Zeke matches his pace as he slides his way deeper and deeper into your mouth, though he doesn’t go so far as pushing through to the tight squeeze of your throat just yet.

“Careful, Reiner, you’ll wreck her with a cock like that.”

Reiner’s eyes are off of you, and on Zeke in an instant, and he twitches inside of your pussy at these words. Zeke’s grin is verging on nefarious as he finally pushes his cock into your throat, holding you in place lightly enough that you can pull away if you really wanted - though he knows you won’t.

“She wants that though, don’t you, sweetheart?” Zeke looks down at you, with your eyes watering as you take the cock down your throat quite enthusiastically, before he pulls out of your mouth entirely.

You cough, and catch your breath, then quickly nod your head ’yes’ as you look over to Reiner with hungry eyes. In an instant, your mouth is filled with cock once more and as Reiner begins to fuck you harder, his hand laid across your abdomen so he can rub at your clit, Zeke matches the new pace easily.

“That’s my girl.” Zeke revels in the noises coming from your soaked cunt as well as your mouth as the head of his cock breaches your throat again and again. You manage to pull a surprised little grunt from him as you begin matching his thrusts into your mouth, sending pleasant vibrations through Zeke as you moan and climb to your peak on Reiner’s cock.

Zeke feels wetness travelling down to where his hand supports your head, and whether it’s tears or drool from having your throat fucked, it has him throbbing already. He receives another vibration from your throat as you purr around him. You’d felt him twitch, and it only has you redoubling your efforts as you fuck your throat onto his cock, now taking over most of the movement as Zeke braces himself for what he knows you can do.

“Fuck, you’ll finish me fast like that.”

You look up at him, mischief in your eyes, and Zeke knows you understand exactly what looking up at him like that does to him. Your cheeks hollow as you suck on his length while pulling back and you run your tongue along the underside of him as you push forward. He’s given only brief moments of sliding into your throat before he’s pulled back again, and each time the smooth head of his cock hits your tongue you can taste the bitterness of him leaking for you. Zeke’s balls are tightening already, and before he knows it he’s given in to the pull of your throat.

“Where do you want it?” Zeke pulls his cock from your mouth to allow you to answer, pumping it furiously as he tries to hold out long enough.

Your reply is your wide open mouth, as you stick your tongue out and close your eyes. Zeke complies wholeheartedly, biting down on his bottom lip as he greets his climax with low groans and covers your face and tongue with his warmth. He is careful to avoid his load getting anywhere near the upper half of your face, and with his hand still on the back of your neck to prop you up, you part your lids only slightly to look down at Reiner - who is awestruck by the vision of you taking cum on your face so happily. He’s cute like this, and your pussy flutters around him in time with the butterflies in your stomach as you feel his cock throb inside of you at the sight of you swallowing everything that had landed on your tongue.

Zeke rests your head on the pillow below and then reaches down to where the two of you meet, taking over Reiner’s quick pace against your clit and allowing the taller man to grip your hips tightly and pound you harder. The stretch of him fucking you so deep has shivers coursing through your body, and the sight of Zeke’s eyes stuck on your pussy being spread wide by Reiner has that telltale pressure coming to a peak inside of you.

“Cum with me! Cum with-”

Reiner can only nod, mouth open and hips stuttering as the clench of your pussy and the sweet sound of your voice pulls him right over the edge with you. He clings to your hips for dear life even after he’s emptied himself, and doesn’t stop thrusting til he’s groaning from being nearly overstimulated, just to make sure you ride out your prolonged orgasm with the aid of his cock and Zeke’s hands. Your arching back straightens and your chest heaves as you try to catch every breath lost as you’d cried out at the intensity of your orgasm. Both of the men stop, with Zeke lying down next to you and Reiner slowly pulling out - leaving the two of you with shivers as he does.

“This is pretty fun, right?” Zeke sighs, brushing your hair away from your face. You laugh, and nod breathlessly.

Reiner stands to toss his used condom into the small trash can next to the bed as Zeke had done the night before then gestures to your face, “You got a washcloth anywhere?”

Zeke looks back at him, almost annoyed. He was enjoying the view, cooling cum all over your face be damned, but stands to go get it himself. Reiner takes his place on the side of you opposite from where Zeke had been, and pulls you to rest your head on top of his chest instead of the pillow. Once Zeke returns, damp cloth in tow, he wipes at your face gently and you smile once you’re finally cleaned up.

“I could get used to this… I feel like I’m being pampered.”

Reiner smirks, already beginning to doze off, “Yeah, it is nice isn’t it?”

The two of you are too sleepy-eyed to see Zeke with a rare warm smile as he joins the two of you in lying on the bed, allowing himself a rare afternoon nap.

CHAPTER 3

#aot smut #aot fic #reader insert #reiner x reader #reiner braun x reader #zeke x reader #zeke jaeger x reader #zeke yeager x reader #zeke x reiner x reader #reiner x zeke x reader #zeke x reader x reiner #reiner x reader x zeke #my writing

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dothwrites · 4 years ago

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Cas using Enochian pick-up lines on oblivious Dean. Dean doesn't get them, Cas feels rejected each time, and Sammy is done with it all! Can I have that fic, pretty please?

ah, this has been sitting here for a WHILE, so i’m sorry that i’m trash

lost in translation

---

It begins when Dean is pathetically trying to impress his crush.

Or at least that would be Sam’s take, if Dean cared enough to ask him.

Dean would rather say that it began with a simple misunderstanding, one which could happen to anyone.

He doesn’t ask Cas’ opinion of the situation (and Cas would say that’s the whole crux of the problem).

Whoever has the correct perspective, no one would argue about the beginning of the affair. It starts one afternoon when Dean is contemplating switching Sam’s creamer with buttermilk, just for a break in the monotony. Cas is with him in the library, his customary suit and coat exchanged for a hoodie and a comfortable looking pair of jeans which Dean suspects used to belong to him (there’s something vaguely familiar about that hole in the knee, and it wouldn’t be the first time Cas has pilfered his room for clothing; several of Dean’s shirts have ended up upon the angel’s body. Cas always seems perplexed when Dean calls him on his thievery, plucking at the shirt with faint confusion--Oh this? I found this down in the laundry room a few days ago and thought it looked familiar, do you want it back? And the question is phrased so forlornly that Dean can’t help but allow Cas to steal another article of clothing out from under his very nose.). Cas dresses down these days. And slouches. Right now, his chin is in danger of disappearing into his chest. The sight delights Dean. There for a while, he hadn’t been sure Cas was capable of relaxing.

It’s an overwhelmingly quiet afternoon. It’s nice, because Dean loves to spend time with Cas when there’s no imminent blood or monsters on their horizons, but it’s also boring. Dean sneaks a glance at Cas over the top of his book. Cas seems perfectly content to sit all day reading some godawful thick, leather bound tome. Dean finds himself less than content, but he doesn’t want to leave Cas. He sighs, shifting in his seat as he pretends to read. After a few more minutes, he sighs again, this time with a little more spite in the sound.

(Dean’s about three seconds away from kicking his feet and whining I’m bored, but Cas doesn’t need to know that.)

Cas mutters under his breath. Dean recognizes the guttural syllables of Enochian, which is Cas’ go-to language for when he’s saying something hateful and he doesn’t want to get called out on it. Tough luck for him, though, because Dean’s heard one of those words enough to parse its meaning.

“Did you just call me stupid?” he demands, slapping his book down on the arm of the chair.

Castiel looks at him, his eyes wide with surprise. “You...understood that?” he asks. “You understand Enochian?”

Not in the slightest, is what Dean should say. He understands one word, and that’s only because Cas uses it enough as an insult that it managed to stick in his mind. But something that looks like fondness, and admiration, and other nice adjectives which Dean would like Cas to apply to him, shines at the edges of Cas’ eyes. So he rolls his eyes a little bit (the audacity of Cas! Asking him if he bothered to study something which was not strictly required!) and scoffs, “Uh, kind of hard not to at this point, you know, what with...” He waves his hand at Cas, hoping that the vagueness of the gesture will cover a multitude of sins.

And really, he should come clean. If the past fifteen years have taught him anything, it’s that nothing good comes from lying to your nearest and dearest. But this is just a little white lie. Like when he was sixteen and he told Brandy Fletcher he could play a rocking drum solo, because he wanted to impress her and there was no way he would ever be called upon to perform such a task. This is just a little fib, made so that Cas doesn’t think he’s a fucking idiot.

Plus, there’s something which looks horribly similar to gratitude shining in Cas’ eyes. The emotion brims over until those baby blues can hardly contain it, and Cas looks so goddamned happy. Dean’s not a monster. He’s not going to take that away from Cas just so he can come clean with a Gotcha! moment.

Cas bites at his lower lip, looking uncommonly shy. Worry starts to stir in Dean’s gut, which is only compounded when Cas says something else in soft yet clear Enochian. As the new phrase doesn’t have the word stupid anywhere in it, Dean doesn’t have the slightest idea of what Cas is saying. The guilt squirming in his stomach gets worse when Cas looks at him, with gentle anticipation, as though he’s expecting a reply. Dean does what humans have been doing since the beginning of time when confronted with a language they don’t understand and smiles, wide and sunny, at Cas. Cas’ forehead creases but he returns the gesture. His eyes are still brimming over with emotion and the sight does something to Dean.

Dean begins to suspect that he may have started something which he is not equipped to finish.

---

After that, things get a little weird. Considering Dean’s general life, that’s saying something.

Dean catches Cas looking at him more, like Cas is having a one-man staring contest with the side of his face. Cas staring at him is nothing to write home about, but his looks have gained new intensity. It makes Dean’s innards squirm with worry as well as something deeper. He’s not willing to examine that feeling any closer, though it is pleasant.

As if the soulful looks weren’t bad enough, there’s also the thoughtful slant of Cas’ eyes to worry about. Every time he looks at Dean, he looks like he’s working himself up to something momentous. Since momentous decrees from Cas usually come hand in hand with world-ending events and revelations, Dean thinks he can forgiven for dodging Cas’ presence.

It does him no good: the bunker, for all its space, is only so large in the end, and Cas was once a heavenly messenger who has the patience of millennia. Add that to the fact that Dean needs to eat at least twice a day, and the game of Cornering Dean becomes a game of cards, in which the deck is stacked firmly in Cas’ favor.

Dean sneaks into the kitchen sometime between midnight and two am. If Sam caught him, then he would get a talking-to about the most appropriate times to eat, better digestive function, and the ravages of heartburn in a man his age, but it’s not his brother sitting at the table when Dean flicks on the light.

It’s Cas, who blinks owlishly at him, before his face splits into his brightest smile.

(Cas’ brightest smile is an awkward, crooked little thing. On a regular human being it would be considered unbecoming. On Cas, it’s a thing of glory.)

“Dean,” Cas greets him. Hearing his voice in that low, rough voice never fails to send a little shiver down his spine, and today is no different. “This is an odd time for a snack.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a little lamely. The shock of finding Cas in the kitchen has kind of killed his appetite, but it’s not like he can turn around and leave. “Just, you know, had a craving. Why were you here?”

Cas looks around the kitchen, his mouth pursed. “I like it here. It’s peaceful.”

Dean looks at him, waiting for the punchline. “You were sitting in the dark, dude.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t need lights to see in the dark,” Cas says, as though the knowledge that his best friend has some freaky see in the dark cat eye nonsense going on with him isn’t the weirdest thing Dean’s heard all day.

“Great.” Dean opens the fridge and pulls out a container at random. He spares one second to hope that Sam got rid of all the moldy food before he samples the contents. “Well, I think I’m going back to my room now.”

He wants to get out of here, not so much because he doesn’t want to talk to Cas (he has no problem with late-night chats with Cas, it’s just that he would prefer such chats take place in his room, preferably in his bed, preferably while both participants were significantly less dressed), but because Cas is starting to get that look again, like he’s getting ready to drop an atomic bomb’s worth of shit on Dean in the middle of the kitchen.

“Dean.” Cas stands up. He twists his fingers together before he realizes what he’s doing, and then places them flat against his thighs. He takes a deep breath. Before Dean can stop him, Cas opens his mouth.

Low, rolling syllables flow through the kitchen, the harsh notations of Enochian softened by Cas’ voice. There’s a question in Cas’ eyes, and Dean would answer it, if he only knew what Cas was asking.

The kitchen falls into silence. Dean gets the distinct impression that walking away is not the appropriate reaction. If only he knew what the appropriate reaction was.

He settles for plastering a fake ass smile on his face and loosing a brittle laugh which threatens to shatter the lighting fixtures. The corners of his mouth hurt from the wideness of his smile, but not even the small twinge of pain can take away from the brief flash of hurt in Cas’ eyes.

“Yeah. You bet.” Dean barely restrains himself from giving Cas a big thumbs up.

Cas’ face, if possible, turns even more disconsolate. Dean’s stomach twists at the sight.

This would be the correct moment to confess. Cas, I don’t have the faintest idea what you said, but I’d really like it if you could say it again in English, so that I could maybe comment on it. Sorry I’m such a jackass.

Dean does not confess. He reaches out and claps Cas on the shoulder, almost buckling Cas’ knees under the friendly contact. Dean almost stops, but he continues to his room, trying to erase the memory of Cas’ stricken face.

---

It gets worse.

Cas says something in Enochian to him the next morning, a tiny, hopeful smile darting across his face. Dean gives him a weak smile in return and tries not to focus on the longing, almost desperate tone of Cas’ voice. “Ok, Cas,” he says, when it becomes clear Cas is angling for something more than a smile that makes it look like he ate some bad tacos.

Cas takes him by the wrist. This time the syllables which come out of his mouth are almost frantic. His eyes are wide and imploring, and his voice cracks on the last word.

The truth, Dean. Tell him the truth.

“Look, I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says. Confronted by the weight of his failings and his inadequacies, he flees. All the while, he feels Cas’ eyes on his back.

---

It gets worse.

Cas continues to mutter Enochian at him, alternating between frustrated, hurt, mocking, and pleading inflections. Each time, Dean looks at him in a mixture of helplessness and shame.

The last time Cas tries, there’s a faint snap and tingle of grace curling around the room. Dean can taste it in the air, ozone and electricity, before it makes the lamp closest to him spark and pop. “Great, now you’re killing the furniture,” comes out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Cas recoils as though Dean reached out and slapped him. He says something else in Enochian, his voice small and defeated. He won’t even look at Dean.

If Dean were a better person, he would come clean. He would apologize to Cas and beg his forgiveness. He would take Cas’ scorn and irritation and lump it in with the rest of the shit that’s gone wrong with his life, and they would move past this.

Dean’s not a good person. Hell, he’s not even an okay person. He’s a piece of shit who got a hell of a lot luckier than he ever deserved, and Cas is just naive enough not to realize that.

---

It gets worse.

Sam walks into the library one afternoon with a dazed look on his face which means he’s just emerged from being caught deep in a book. He runs his hands through his hair and only then seems to realize that Dean and Cas are sitting at opposite ends of the library, deliberately ignoring each other. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut.

“You guys okay?” he asks, glancing back and forth between them.

“We’re good,” Dean says shortly, flipping a page of his book with unneeded aggression.

Sam flicks his eyes towards Castiel. Cas looks over the top of his book, his eyebrows twisted in a scowl. He mutters something most definitely not English under his breath, staring at Dean.

Sam chokes on nothing.

“You all right there, Sammy?” Dean glances at Sam, only to see that his brother’s face is bright red.

“Yeah, I’m great.”

Castiel says something else in Enochian, sounding more forlorn than angry. Dean didn’t think it was possible for his brother’s eyes to get any wider. “Something you want to share with the rest of the class?” Dean asks. He keeps his eyes on Cas, but the question is meant for both of them.

“I think you two should really talk,” Sam says, looking back and forth between him and Cas. “I think you’re both missing some information.”

“What do you mean--” Dean pauses as the obvious answer comes to him. “Hold on. You can understand him?”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room,” Castiel says, proving that he can speak English just damn fine when he wants to. Then, because Cas is an asshole whose main job is torturing Dean, he mutters something in Enochian.

Sam snorts.

If he didn’t know he would later regret it, Dean would put both of them in the ground.

“Well, if you want someone to talk to you, then knock it off and speak English!” Dean snaps. “I’ve got no idea why you’re babbling on like that and looking like I kicked your puppy when I don’t answer.”

Cas scowls, the full wrath of Heaven in his eyes. He starts what sounds like it will no doubt be a lengthy tirade (in Enochian of fucking course), before he’s interrupted by Sam.

“Dean doesn’t understand Enochian, Cas!” he shouts.

Two pairs of eyes snap to Sam. Dean’s are filled with furious betrayal, Cas’ with frustrated confusion. Sam ignores them both, rolling his own eyes to the ceiling. “Yeah, look, I’m sorry to cut in your drama or whatever, and I’m sure that you two could keep this up for another three weeks, but I value my sanity. Dean, nut up and tell Cas you don’t speak Enochian. Cas, stop running into a brick wall and tell him what you want. I mean, good God, it’s like I have to do everything around here myself!”

Sam’s complaining never ceases as he peruses the shelves for the particular book he’s looking for. Both Dean and Cas are referred to multiple times as idiots, sometimes assholes, and once even idjits. Throughout his litany of abuse, Dean and Castiel refuse to look at each other, though Dean does feel a telltale prickling at the back of his neck several times. Every time he looks at Cas, however, the angel has his eyes firmly fixed on his book.

Dean wonders if Cas would get more pissed if he told him his book was upside down.

“You ever think about how much pain and agony you could save me if you two assholes would just talk to each other?” Sam finally snaps. Arms laden with books, he levels a fearsome glare at the both of them. “For homework, neither of you are coming out of this library until you’ve actually talked to each other like rational adults. And if you make any weird noises, I’m going to smother both of you in your sleep.”

He stalks out of the library, leaving Cas and Dean alone once more. Cas looks up from his book, finally realizing it’s upside-down, while Dean puts down his own book. They stare at each other for a long moment, then speak at once.

“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t understand Enochian?” “What were you trying to say to me?”

They stop. Dean swallows, gathers up all of his manly courage, and speaks.

“So what were you trying to say to me? It must have been pretty exciting to get Sammy clutching his pearls.”

Cas tilts his head. He considers Dean for a long moment before he crosses the space between them. Cas leans forward, putting his hands on the arms of Dean’s chair. The gesture boxes Dean in, a turn of events which Dean doesn’t struggle against.

“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t speak Enochian?”

Pinned beneath Cas’ gaze, Dean squirms uncomfortably. Now that it’s just him and Cas, his deception seems childish. Would it really have been the end of the world if he’d told Cas he was too stupid and selfish to learn his language? It would have just been another disappointment in Cas’ life, but has it been worth these past few days of being at odds with Cas?

Heat flushes along the bridge of Dean’s nose as he mutters, “I wanted you to think I was smart.”

Damn super-angelic hearing. Cas doesn’t miss a beat, though his forehead creases. “You wanted...what? Dean, you are smart.”

He says it so naturally, as though Dean doesn’t struggle over translations or speaking Latin or cross-referencing indexes or any of the thousand other things that seem to come naturally as breathing to Sam and Cas. “Yeah, sure, I’m a regular fucking genius,” Dean mumbles.

“You’re capable of finding the problem with a faulty engine with a single look. You built your own EMF meter out of a spare Walkman. Despite your efforts to hide it, you’re very well-read, and you have an innate understanding of some fairly complicated mathematics. I’m not sure exactly what humans qualify as intelligent, but I feel as though all of those skills count.”

Dean knows his whole face is red. Heat prickles along the tips of his ears and down his neck. “Jesus, Cas,” he mutters. Unable to withstand the force of those blue eyes, he darts his glance down towards the floor. “Most people don’t start sweet talking until the third date.”

“Well, I’m an angel,” Castiel says, smugly, as though that solves every argument (not a bad strategy; that line’s worked for Cas for years. What else can you say after that?).

“All right, I answered yours, now you answer mine. What were you trying to say to me?”

Amazingly, Cas’ cheeks color.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean wheedles, when Cas doesn’t immediately answer. “I told you mine.”

Cas looks off to the side. He actually shuffles his feet before he answers, “It was just a thought. I thought, maybe, we could...Never mind. It was stupid.” He looks back at Dean and rolls his eyes, showing how ridiculous he finds this whole trial. “I guess, roughly translated, it would amount of something like ‘If only he were as decisive as he is pretty, then there would be no problem’.” He forces a weak laugh. “I said it in the heat of the moment. I was frustrated.”

Dean blinks in astonishment. Only one fact has managed to slip through the tangle of Cas’s words. “You think I’m pretty?”

Castiel’s blush deepens. “Anyone who has eyes would think that,” he says, a little roughly.

An automatic flush spreads across Dean’s cheeks, but he’s able to ignore that. He’s much more interested in what else Cas might have been telling him. “And what was something else you said?”

Cas coughs. “’Your eyes are bright as the sunrise, yet they fail to see what is in front of them’,” he says. If possible, his already rough voice has deepened.

“Another.”

Cas doesn’t pretend coyness. “’You had my heart from the first time I saw your soul’,” he says, in a near whisper.

Dean can’t hold himself back. He snatches Cas�� hoodie in his hands and drags Cas down to his level. Cas lets out a surprised grunt before he gracefully collapses atop Dean. He’s barely managed to balance himself on Dean’s lap before Dean’s lip are on his.

Despite Dean’s rushed actions, the kiss is sweet and almost chaste. Cas’ lips are warm and chapped and utterly wonderful. At first, they’re stiff, but only for a second. Then Cas relaxes into the kiss, sighing happily as his hand cups Dean’s cheek. Cas’ stubble scratches against his chin. He’s going to bear the marks of Cas’ affection later, and he couldn’t be more thrilled about it.

Cas parts from him, but not far. In fact, he’s close enough to Dean that when whispers a phrase in Enochian, his lips brush against Dean’s.

A shiver of delight runs down Dean’s spine. Now that he knows the gist of what Cas was trying to say to him, Enochian fills him with illicit glee. “What did that mean?”

Cas kisses him again, adding a cunning sweep of his tongue across the seam of Dean’s lips. “’Of all the stars in the heavens, you shine the brightest’,” he translates, resting his forehead against Dean’s.

Heat floods through Dean once more. It’s everything he ever dreamed of hearing. It seems impossible that he could have it. There should be a rule against it. Dean Winchester doesn’t get what he wants.

Except, apparently, Dean Winchester does get what he wants, as evidenced by his lapful of angel murmuring Enochian endearments into his ear. “Hey Cas?” Dean tilts his head to catch Cas’ eye. “When I first saw you, sparks flew. How would you say that in Enochian?”

Cas thinks for a second before a smile spreads across his face. “I’ll teach you,” he promises, before he pulls Dean’s face towards him once more.

(Sam’s warning about making weird noises makes a lot more sense now.)

#destiel #destiel fanfic #destiel fic #deancas #deancas fic #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #canonverse fic #fluff #dothwrites

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pagesofkenna · 3 years ago

Text

i tried so hard to wait but anyway massive Our Flag Means Death spoilers behind the readmore

the tumblr algorithm is getting better about which posts to rec and tonight it's been all OFMD stuff re: Lucius and now I have to say my piece which is

Lucius possibly dying was the #1 thing I was most upset by in this very upsetting final episode. like everything happening with Ed is bad bad bad but I went into the finale really hoping the show title wasn't going to manifest in reality wrt the main characters and for the most part it didnt! Stede and Ed lived! but the other most prominently out gay character getting killed as part of a character regression arc??? cut me so bad

and not like in a morally bad way necessarily even though I spent most of Thursday torn about how I felt about that! and ultimately I decided I'm not interested in policing the moral purity of queer media, and like most importantly the part of this I was most upset by wasn't 'this is a morally objectionable thing for the writers to do' but 'this is a morally objectionable thing for the CHARACTER to do' and its actually, like, really damn effective writing and I shouldn't be cushioning the blow by pulling myself out of the narrative to object on a meta level!

the reason that one act was so emotionally effective on me is because Lucius is Baby Stede! I always interpreted him as who Stede would have been if Stede had gotten out, escaped to the sea, and become a pirate before having family responsibilities to run away from. Lucius being the only one who could read or write indicated to me that he was also a rich boy running away from a gilded cage, and that he'd realized much faster than Stede had that that life wasn't for him. Stede and Ed being made to sign their names in episode 9, and Ed only able to sign with an X, seemed like an intentional reminder that this class difference is still a notable wedge in their relationship

and on top of all that, Lucius is maybe the most emotionally mature member of the crew, wrt relationships. that moment where he tells off Izzy Hands is still one of the hottest scenes in the show. he's open with his sexual availability and expects all his partners to be honest and straightforward as well, which leads directly to him parsing Stede and Ed's relationship quickly and effectively advising them on how to navigate that relationship

which is why Ed, regressing back to Kraken Blackbeard, HAS to kill him, in order to solidify that regression both for himself and the audience. Lucius knows his vulnerability, has direct ACCESS to that vulnerability, is a constant reminder of Stede and presumably why Ed thinks Stede ditched him, and is so frickin easily killable

which leads me to my main conclusion here which is!!!! I don't know if Lucius is actually dead or not!!!

I wouldn't be surprised if we get a season 2 and he somehow comes back but I also wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't!! it was... not a just death for a character that important, but NONE of the character deaths in this show have been 'earned' the way traditional media would usually make them (except maybe Calico Jack). and if Lucius was actually still alive, why wasn't there a brief shot confirming that? It kinda does suck to tell an audience a character is dead only to pull a 'psych!' months/years later!

but the thing i keep going back to is......... we never see what Ed did with Stede's secret closet?? the first place Stede took Ed when they met, the room where Ed told him who he was. I feel like the editing/writing on this show has been very deliberate, and the 'fancam' moment of Mary talking about what love feels like, when Stede flashes back on that scene in the secret room, deliberately reminds us that that room exists. Stede said he had it built secretly, so none of the other pirates would know about it. when we see the pirates clearing out Stede's stuff it's just the books and the furniture (unless we did see him clearing out the closet and I just missed it?), because of course they wouldn't have known to clear out the secret room

it seems wildly grasping at straws to suggest Lucius hiding in the secret room but also!!!! it's silly and comedic and would be so satisfying!!! Lucius, unable to swim and clinging to the side of the ship, discovering a porthole to a room he's never seen before and climbing in. Lucius getting to act out the same role as the ghost of Nigel haunting Stede over his failures, ghost in the walls tormenting Ed for his mistakes and all that

(the even more self gratifying image would be Ed actually saving Lucius just to hide him in that room, but that feels like too much of a stretch.)

I just... have been taking a very long time to process my feelings over the finale. and I'm still not done and seeing other people talking about it is helping. I went into these episodes assuming the show was completely done-done, and was surprised by what was obviously a 'vying for season 2 semi-cliffhanger' which has completely emotionally destroyed me. and the ambiguity over Lucius's death still kills me but I'm also pretty damn impressed by it as a writing choice? even if i also hate it and wish we'd just gotten a sappy happy total finale?? but if tragic cliffhanger means more story down the line then I really can't complain???

anyway I'm a wreck I just wanted to talk about Lucius

#also... it says 'keep reading' now not 'read more' do we still call it the readmore?#i still call it the readmore #this is re: lucius

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peaceoutofthepieces · 3 years ago

Text

you were my crown

chapter 4

Ao3

~^~ The scrape and swoosh of curtains opening followed by a blast of light to his face woke Jens up. He winced and jerked away, raising a hand in front of his face before he came to his senses enough to shoot up and look around in bewilderment.

Lucas stood watching him by the window with his arms crossed over his chest and head cocked, completely unimpressed.

Jens pulled the covers up over his chest with a sputter. “What are you doing?”

“My job,” Lucas said bluntly, rolling his eyes slightly at Jens’s gesture and pointedly turning away. “I didn’t pick you for the modest type. Does this mean I won’t actually have to be involved in your bathing?”

It was too early. There was too much in that little bit of speech to parse through with his sleep-addled brain. It was too early to be reminded of Lucas’s heavy sarcasm and persistent disrespect. He did not have the energy to step up to the taunting, nor was he awake enough to fret over Lucas connecting him and modesty and bathing all at once and how that made him jittery.

Jens let the covers slip away from him carefully, ignoring the sleep still clinging to his limbs to step out of bed, ambling his way to the table. Faux confidence carried him to where Lucas had laid out his breakfast. Well, ‘laid out’ was generous. He saw Lucas look over his shoulder at him as he lifted the plate and drew it with him to the head of the table. Only when he sat down did he allow himself to look back at Lucas, finding the boy’s gaze quickly glancing off his stomach.

“These are, obviously, private chambers.” Jens raised a brow. “You’re supposed to knock.”

Lucas met his eye and raised a brow back. “I did. Multiple times. And I called your name. I thought someone might have offed you in your sleep, and the door was open, so.”

Jens sunk slightly in his chair and repeated, “You’re supposed to knock. Wait to be invited. You’ll lose this position right away if you don’t obey basic courtesies like that.”

“Pity,” Lucas said dryly.

“It will be, when you’re dead.”

Lucas’s expression went blank at that, and he turned away to neaten the curtains. Jens glanced at his breakfast, then returned to watching Lucas’s back.

“The carriage was waiting for you?” he asked. “You found it okay?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Lucas replied calmly, his tone clipped with mock politeness. As he turned around and slowly came closer to Jens, however, some of the usual passive aggressive emotions slid from his expression. “It was better than walking would have been, I imagine.”

Jens tilted his head and failed to hide a small grin. He knew the chances were high that such a response would simply shut Lucas away again, but he couldn’t help it. “Is that a thank you?”

Lucas scoffed and rolled his eyes, but didn’t retreat, which Jens took as both a positive answer and sign.

“You’re off to an okay start, otherwise,” Jens offered. “I mean, you’re here, and you managed to bring breakfast. Sander’s tour must have been worth something.”

Lucas hummed. “Sander met me at the door,” he admitted.

Jens laughed. Lucas’s lips twitched at the reaction, and Jens thought, pleaded, Maybe. Maybe, hopefully, eventually. It seemed unlikely that they would ever be friends; it seemed impossible that they wouldn’t have to be something.

Jens had earned himself a new companion, someone who would be able to take the edge off the loneliness of his life, and he had doomed himself to one less possible friend. It wouldn’t be a real option even if Lucas didn’t hate him—because Lucas was his servant and had his own friends, and Jens couldn’t really have any.

It cut his laughter down abruptly, and he had to remind himself that it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about him. He couldn’t have let anything happen to Lucas, to any innocent, and that was all.

He managed to keep his smile, and gestured at the seat next to him, nudging the second plate towards Lucas. “Come eat.”

Lucas blinked at him. Then he pursed his lips. “I don’t need your scraps.”

“Well, good, because I usually try not to leave any. But you should eat your own breakfast before it goes cold.” Jens pushed the chair out with his foot, making Lucas step back.

“My own breakfast?”

Jens nodded at the plate, smile twitching. “What else was that supposed to be for?”

Lucas hesitated. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “I thought…”

“You thought I was going to stuff my face while you’re expected to starve?” Jens guessed. When Lucas pursed his lips again instead of replying, Jens huffed in amusement. “The servants also get meals, Lucas. Usually they eat breakfast earlier, though it depends on the job. You would be expected to eat yours first before coming to me, so you’d be ready to start your duties.” His smile widened. “Here I was thinking you’d simply wanted to eat with me.”

There was a slight flush to Lucas’s cheeks, but he still managed a derisive huff at the statement. However, he finally moved, carefully taking the seat Jens had offered at his right hand. He pulled himself close to the table as Jens pushed the plate in front of him, then hesitated. “I had something to eat before I left home,” Lucas said.

Jens poked at his egg, then took a bite. “What did you have?”

“Just...some fruit,” Lucas mumbled.

“If you don’t want to eat it, that’s alright,” Jens said. “But it’s for you.” Then, “I can’t imagine fruit is all that filling. Have more when it’s available to you, Lucas.”

Lucas appeared as if he was going to argue again, then swallowed the words down and dug in. Jens watched him only long enough to make sure he didn’t actually dislike the food or wouldn’t change his mind, then politely glanced away and focused on his own meal. It was rude to watch someone else eat, is what he’d always thought, but he couldn’t help shooting occasional looks at Lucas, couldn’t help but notice the way he quickly devoured the food once given permission.

When he paused a moment to rub at his chest and clear his throat, Jens wordlessly poured a cup of water and handed it to him.

Lucas took it with a small, surprised ‘thank you’, and gazed at Jens for a moment before finishing off his food. It was, admittedly, less than Jens’s and probably not entirely as appetizing, but it was mainly down to Lucas’s speed that he was finished when Jens still had a quarter of his plate left. Lucas grew a little awkward at the realisation, but simply shrunk back in his chair and sipped at his water before asking, “What should I do, now?”

“Let your food sink,” Jens said. “There’s no rush. I won’t personally need you much today. You might be asked to do the polishing, but don’t let anyone bully you into cleaning anyone’s things but mine. That isn’t your job, and if anyone tries to make it one, tell me. Likewise with the stables and the horses. You can help out in any cases you want to, but we already have people doing those things, so just tend to whatever is mine. Okay?”

Lucas nodded hesitantly. He looked a bit nauseous; Jens wasn’t sure if he was overwhelmed or had just eaten too quickly.

He found himself trying to be reassuring regardless. “Sander will guide you around for the day, anyway.” He furrowed his brow, looking around at the door as the realisation occurred to him. “Isn’t he supposed to be here, anyway? And weren’t there supposed to be guards stationed outside my door?”

Lucas shrugged. “Sander said if it was my job to get you your breakfast now there was no reason for him to traipse after me. I guess the guards idea hasn’t been implemented yet.”

“My mother might not be happy,” Jens said, swallowing thickly. Trying to eat faster so Lucas wouldn’t have to sit and watch him was not working well. “But it’s her own mistake, so I guess we enjoy it while we can.”

This made Lucas quirk a brow at him, but this time he did not seem annoyed at Jens’s smile. In fact, it almost looked like he wanted to return it. Instead, Lucas looked away, taking in the room. It only lasted a moment before he was inevitably drawn back to Jens’s bare torso.

Jens sat back in his seat, and Lucas’s gaze flickered up to him. “Ask,” Jens said.

Lucas shook his head. “I won’t. If you want to tell me, then you will. It’s not any of my business.”

It wasn’t a surprising response, really; not from Lucas. Jens considered him, then prodded at the jagged scar on his stomach, cutting through the muscle like lightning. “I’m not modest,” he said eventually. “I’m just never sure of how people will react.”

“It’s just a scar,” Lucas replied. It wasn’t dismissive, nor was it comforting; it was fact. There was no judgment or pity in Lucas’s voice, none of the usual irritation or sarcasm. He showed a faint curiosity and nothing more. “I have one on the back of my shoulder from falling out of the bed when I was seven. One on my foot from where a calf stood on me. This—“ he brandished the inner side of his left arm at Jens “—from when I fell off a cart with Kes and broke my arm. Should I go on?”

Jens huffed, shaking his head. But he leaned his arms on the table and accepted the truths for one of his own. “I was stabbed when I was ten. They would have sliced me in half if they could’ve. Probably should have died, honestly. My father did.”

Lucas’s eyes darkened and he pressed his lips together.

It was something everyone knew, the trajedy that killed the King. It had been more of a battle than a war, because it had done nothing but silently brew until that single fight. The culprits had all died in the process or been caught in the aftermath, at least, and the kingdom had mourned and rallied together.

But then there was this.

“I didn’t know anyone else had been involved,” Lucas said, quietly. “I mean, with the rest of the family. I thought they were only after the King. No one ever said any different.”

Jens shrugged. It wasn’t as heavy as it once would have been. “I guess they thought I would just be the next King if they didn’t do something about it. And I would’ve been, if I hadn’t almost died. It was the only reason my mother took over.”

“You were ten,” Lucas said, dumbfounded. “You were a child. You couldn’t have been a leader or a threat.”

“I still don’t think I could be,” Jens returned with a slight laugh. “But different people will always expect different things.”

Lucas stared at him as if he had never seen him before, or was seeing something new. He leaned forward as if to settle on the table with Jens, but was interrupted by a knock and the door swinging open.

Jens whipped his gaze around, expecting to see Sander or one of the boys again, and instead catching sight of his sister.

Lies strode over to them with all her usual elegance, the pale green lace of her dress sleeves flowing around her arm as she lifted her hand in a greeting. She made a thorough examination of Lucas and no attempt to hide it, before settling an unimpressed look on Jens.

“You know,” Jens told her, “the purpose of knocking is completely defeated when you don’t wait for an answer.”

“I was worried you were being murdered,” Lies said, too loftily to be serious. She looked from Jens to Lucas. “But he’s harmless, isn’t he? Aside from the killer looks.”

Lucas snorted in surprise, then immediately covered his mouth with his hand. Jens blinked at him before staring sharply at his sister.

Lies rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that look, you know he’s not for me. A little...delicate, for my taste. Surely someone’s catch, though,” she quickly added in Lucas’s direction, who dismissed the assurances with a flick of his hand and an amused smile.

“Did you want something?” Jens asked, brow raised.

“I brought gifts,” Lies said, gesturing behind her to where two guards now stood in the doorway. Lucas sat up in his seat at the sight and shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, and Jens shot another sharp look at his sister. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just following orders to take care of my little brother.”

“You’re not even ten minutes older than me, Lies.”

She, predictably, ignored him. “I also have orders to give.”

“What, so you aren’t just here to stick your nose in?”

“Well,” she shrugged, looking at Lucas again. “I had to see what you’ve made all the fuss about.”

“I haven’t made a fuss.”

“Are the orders for me?” Lucas asked, interrupting their bickering with an unusually polite tone and patient expression.

Of course, he would even like Jens’s twin better.

Lies indulged him with one of her most winning smiles. “No, no. For you, I simply wished to introduce myself.” She stepped further into the room, rounding behind Jens to Lucas’s side of the table. He rose to meet her, and her smile widened. “I’m Lies.”

Lucas bowed and held out his hand. Lies slipped her own into it easily, and Lucas brought it to his lips in a gentle kiss. His eyes flicked past Lies to Jens, pointed and mocking, and Jens felt himself bristle again. The understanding he had thought passed between them just moments ago slipped through his fumbling fingers as if it had never truly been within reach.

“It’s an honour to meet you, Princess,” Lucas said. Jens really might kill him himself, eventually. “I’m Lucas.”

Lies hummed, amused. “How chivalrous. You’ll have to be careful where you take him, he might be new competition.” She winked over her shoulder at Jens.

“I don’t go anywhere,” Jens said, confused. “Nor do I compete for anything.”

Lucas snorted again, and this time something thrummed in Jens’s chest.

Meanwhile, Lies sighed and ruffled Jens’s hair, finally parting from Lucas’s careful hold. “Pardon, Lucas, it seems like I do have an order for you. Try in some of your time here to make this one less boring, will you? This is joyless.”

“I’m not sure it’s possible, Your Highness, but for you I’ll try.”

Lies beamed at Lucas, clapped her hands once, then pointed sternly at a scowling Jens. “And, for you, mother dearest has ordered a family lunch.”

Jens blinked. It wasn’t entirely unusual that they would have such family get-togethers, but it wasn’t entirely usual either. They were reserved for special dates, birthdays and anniversaries and the like, or for announcements their mother wished to break to them before anyone else. It was certainly no one’s birthday, and as far as Jens knew, it was not an anniversary either. “Moyo and Aaron are still here. I’m supposed to meet them for lunch before they leave again.”

“Don’t argue with me, Jens, I’m just the messenger. Take it up with her if you want.” Lies shrugged, already on her way back out the door.

Jens looked back to Lucas, who had already returned to facing him with his arms crossed. Jens tucked his own arms around his stomach, his thumb absently rubbing over the scar there. He was not modest, and likewise, he was not self-conscious, but then again, he never had anyone looking at him that wasn’t his family or Robbe, with Senne and Sander being the odd exception. None of the maids have ever really seen him in such undress, even, despite readying baths and bedsheets and the more complicated clothing he was so often forced to wear; this was outer garments or just the buttons, laces and ties he could not manage himself.

He felt barer when it was Lucas. This wasn’t exactly embarrassing or scary or uncomfortable. He wouldn’t have sat with Lucas so long if it had been, and he wouldn’t have mentioned the marring of his skin himself. But it was unfamiliar; it was new. He felt twitchy and hot in the face of it. Unsure.

Thankfully, Lucas was as unaffected as ever and spoke up first. “I can see the similarity.”

Jens raised a brow. “We’re not identical.” Lies’s hair and eyes were lighter, and she wasn’t quite as tall, and her face seemed both softer and more delicate than Jens’s at once. There were similarities amongst all of them, but they bore no closer resemblance to each other than they did to their mother or Lotte.

“No, far from it,” Lucas agreed. “She is much more likable.”

Jens resisted the urge to throw food at him.

Lucas’s lips twitched as if he could tell. “Does this mean I won’t have to bring you lunch?”

“No,” Jens sighed. “It also means I won’t be able to guide you through anything until after that. But I’m sure that doesn’t disappoint you.”

Lucas simply shrugged.

“I’ll tell Sander. You could have lunch with the boys, if you want,” Jens suggested.

“Could I?”

It wasn’t hopeful. It was not a request, not curiosity, not to seek permission. It was dubious, deadpan disbelief. Jens supposed Lucas was right not to expect the offer to be casual or genuine; servants were there to serve.

“You would have been there with me, anyway. You are expected to stick with Sander for the most part. And you have to eat, regardless. Join them with Sander, if you want to.”

Lucas considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. What until then?”

“First,” Jens rose to his feet, “you’ll help me find one of these ridiculous shirts my mother likes and then help me get it on.” He moved towards his wardrobe, and looked over his shoulder when Lucas did not follow.

Lucas blinked at him. “Seriously?”

Jens huffed a laugh. “Welcome to the life of a Prince.”

|*~^~*|

The only saving grace about having lunch with his family was Lotte. She had beamed at Jens when he came in, then immediately scowled as he ruffled her hair. Now she was perched next to him at the table, one foot hooked up onto the chair out of sight of their mother who, of course, sat at the head. Lies sat across from him, managing to look both bored and completely composed at once.

It was becoming concerning. They had gotten through the first half of their food on idle chit-chat, and Ellis hadn’t told them why they were here.

Lies, like Jens, kept flicking looks at her. Like she was waiting, but not like she was curious. Like she knew.

“Care to fill us in?” Jens eventually prompted.

His mother looked up at him as Lies faltered with her food. “Pardon?” Ellis asked.

Jens flicked a hand between them. “Whatever it is we’re all gathered about. Whatever you’ve already obviously talked to Lies about.”

Ellis sighed, considering her plate before passing a hand over her mouth. She folded her arms over each other and looked at him steadily. “You are going to need to start preparing to take over the throne.”

Jens blinked.

“Isn’t Jens already doing that?” Lotte asked, with the easy, childish curiosity Jens didn’t feel he was allowed to have.

It made their mother gentle, which shouldn’t have been a relief. Jens knew how much she adored her youngest daughter; even if she didn’t have much time to show it. “Of course,” she began to explain. “It has always been the path he’s been on. But I mean, really start preparing. Deciding what kind of leader you will be...and who you will have by your side.”

“But…” Jens hated how small he sounded, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Why? You aren’t going anywhere. What’s the sudden change?”

“You can never be too prepared,” Ellis said lightly. “Besides, you can assume the throne any time. It is not always a passage that only follows death.”

“But there’s no need. And I don’t want to.”

Lies huffed. It sounded considerably less amused than when she’d been trading teases with Lucas in his chambers this morning. “You know this isn’t about what anyone wants, Jens.”

Jens frowned at her, feeling shame and irritation bubble in his chest at once. It didn’t dissipate when his mother covered his hand with her own.

“She’s right. You’ve always known your duty.” She took a breath that turned into a sigh. “And the kingdom has always been restless under the rule of a single queen. You know it was never supposed to be my throne.”

It threw him back in his chair. Of course he knew—he’d admitted the same fact to Lucas just this morning. The realisation made him dizzy now.

The kingdom was restless about their Queen?

It seemed impossible. Since his father’s death, there had never been an attempt on the throne. The kingdom had never been more cohesive, more peaceful. It had never run smoother than it has while guided by the flick and flow of Ellis’s hand. They loved her. Jens heard the nasty comments about their family in general, about any kind of royalty, but even those people always held a grudging respect for the woman after meeting her.

But Jens didn’t go anywhere. He didn’t see anyone, not really. No one that wasn’t already close to their family.

If there were rumbles of disloyalty, how would he know?

If those people existed and discovered Ellis had somewhat stolen the throne, what would happen?

How stupid and reckless could Jens be, and why did Lucas specifically seem to bring it out in him?

He realised immediately and with abrupt clarity that he absolutely could not admit this to his mother, and pressed his lips tightly shut.

Lucas didn’t even care. He didn’t say anything about that. You chose to trust him only a day ago. Don’t change your mind now. He hasn’t given you a reason to yet.

He didn’t bother acknowledging that by the time ‘yet’ arrived, it might be too late. It wouldn’t help.

“I...I wouldn’t rule any differently,” he said, swallowing. “And Senne would just move into his father’s position, right? He and Sander would be there, and Robbe.”

Ellis smiled, but it looked more like a pursing of lips. “Of course, I assumed as much. But that’s not what I mean, darling. A single king may be an improvement, but the ideal kingdom is run by a king and his queen.”

Jens stared at her. “Hang on. You’ve arranged this to tell me I need to get a wife?”

Lotte sunk away at the snap in his voice, and he glanced at her in apology. Lies seemed entirely unaffected, sitting with her chin propped on bridged hands.

“You’re the Prince, Jens,” Ellis said, stroking his hand gently. “And you’re beautiful, and charming, and the people love you. Everyone has already been waiting years for you to find your Princess.”

“Hoping they’ll be the lucky one,” Lies added, with only half the sarcasm Jens was sure she wanted to use.

Jens shook his head. “It’s not my fault I just haven’t met anyone like that.”

“Well.” His mother drew her hand away. “That’s why I’ve invited King Ackermans and his daughter.”

Oh. Oh, no. No way.

Lotte understood just as quickly. “Wait, Jens doesn’t even get to choose?” She seemed appalled at the idea, leaving Jens feeling very justified in his own anger.

“It’s not set in stone,” Ellis said. “But I think it is a good match.”

Jens’s fury must have been showing on his face. She hastened to add, “You and Jana used to be such lovely friends when you were children, Jens, surely you remember.”

Yes, Jens thought, when we were children. The last time he had seen Jana was before his father died—a good ten years ago. The last time she had come from the bordering kingdom was for his father’s funeral, when Jens hadn’t even gotten to see her, still on his own deathbed.

“You’re lucky that it can be this simple,” Lies said.

Jens gritted his teeth. “Easy for you to say when nothing rests on you,” he snapped.

Lies glared at him, clearly prepared to retort, before Lotte leaned towards her and quietly pleaded, “Don’t fight.”

Her mouth snapped shut, and she glanced at her little sister before carefully relaxing in her chair.

Jens didn’t want to fight, either, but he was too annoyed to settle. He pushed away from the table, the scrape of the chair loud and grating on his nerves further. He pointedly avoided Lies’s apologetic eyes and Lotte’s crestfallen expression, but Ellis never knew how to go ignored.

“Jens,” she called after him. “You haven’t even finished your lunch, for pity’s sake, sit down!”

He let the door slam shut behind him.

|*~^~*|

Robbe met Lucas’s eyes as he crept through the open doors to the stables and quickly raised a finger to his lips. He was impressed when Lucas gave absolutely no reaction—no questioning gaze, no raised brow, no quirk of the lips. Lucas simply glanced over him as if he wasn’t there, exactly how he wanted.

It made it all too easy for him to creep up on Sander.

He made it to the knight entirely unnoticed and quickly curled his fingers around Sander’s sides, digging in with enough pressure to feel like a jab and enough lightness that it wouldn’t hurt. The result was exactly as intended; Sander jolted and whirled on Robbe with his hand moving to grasp a sword that wasn’t there. Just as quickly, the hand was around Robbe’s throat. Then it dropped even quicker.

“I could have killed you,” Sander said, with his usual brand of over-expression that could have just as easily been under. The tone was indignant, the words irritated, the pout of the lips a whine, the light in the eyes fond. All were out in force, and all conflicted and made each other lesser.

Robbe snorted in response. “Uh-huh.”

“Seriously, Robbe,” Sander frowned. He was fixing Robbe’s collar with one hand; the other was slipping around Robbe’s wrist. “You need to stop with that.”

“Because it annoys you that I can still do it so easily?”

Sander sniffed. “I knew somebody was there.”

“No, you didn’t,” Lucas said.

Robbe had forgotten he was there, but when he shifted his eyes from Sander he saw the boy was grooming Jens’s horse and not even looking at them. He seemed caught up in the brushing motion, petting his other hand along the horse’s side absentmindedly. He looked more content than Robbe had seen him so far.

“How would you know?” Sander demanded.

Lucas looked over to raise a brow at him. “I was here.”

Sander opened his mouth to argue, then simply huffed and waved Lucas off, returning to where he’d been fixing a strap on his own saddle. He didn’t quite let go of Robbe right away, so Robbe was drawn to his side in the process. He couldn’t say he minded.

He poked Sander’s side. “Don’t be mad,” he requested.

Sander huffed again. It faded midway as Robbe leaned his chin on Sander’s shoulder and knocked their heads together lightly. Sander’s hands paused for a second, and he was smiling by the time they resumed their task.

“That’s better,” Robbe grinned, pushing himself away to wander towards Lucas. “Are you two joining us for lunch? I’d rather not listen to Moyo and Aaron alone.”

“You can’t survive a day without me, that’s all,” Sander called over his shoulder. Robbe glanced back just in time to catch Sander’s wink and rolled his eyes, despite the warmth in his stomach and his growing smile. Sander hung up his saddle and returned to Robbe’s side, knocking their shoulders together, as tactile as Robbe himself.

Robbe loved him.

He loved Jens, and he loved his mother, and he loved his other friends, but none of them were like Sander. Losing his mother would break his heart, and losing Jens would be something like losing a limb; he’d never function the same.

But Sander…Robbe couldn’t bring himself to imagine what it would be like to lose Sander.

He wasn’t sure what that meant.

He just knew he felt content when Sander easily pulled him to his side, softer today without the usual chainmail or cloak. It was just a washed-out black tunic for Robbe to rest his cheek against. Soft and worn; comfortable and familiar.

He was startled when Lucas spoke. “Are you sure it’s alright?”

“Jens told you it was, didn’t he?” Sander said. “He’s not testing you or anything. He’s not that smart.”

Robbe made a small sound to rebuke him, which Sander predictably ignored.

Lucas only huffed, then hesitantly shook his head. “I know Jens said so, but that doesn’t mean…it isn’t really your duty to babysit me. We don’t have to be friends.”

Sander’s hand tightened for half a second on Robbe’s shoulder, and a pained look crossed his face. Robbe understood. Sander had been just as unsure of their kindness in the beginning.

“No one has to be,” Robbe agreed, quickly. “But that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re asking you if you want to join us for lunch because we’d like you to.”

“And because you’ve already been brushing that horse for seventeen minutes. You are going to get tired of it eventually,” Sander added.

Lucas’s hands dropped quickly to his sides, and he looked at Sander in bewilderment. “How would you even know that?”

Sander snorted. “I was here,” he lightly mocked.

Lucas narrowed his eyes at him, but his lips were twitching. Robbe got it—Sander was irresistible. It made his heart swell with pride and clench at once. Something in him tripped and faltered as Sander left him to take the brush from Lucas and put it away before clasping Lucas’s shoulder.

The fears he’d developed yesterday seemed real, all of a sudden. He’d half-talked to Jens about it while lying on his bed, while Sander had still been missing—busy with Lucas. He’d been overthinking it while Sander was away with Lucas and Jens. He could picture it with sudden clarity, now. It wasn’t just new duties that would be taking up Sander and Jens’s time; it was a whole person. A person with whom feelings and care could be involved. A person that would be involved with all of them, even if he had only been altering one dynamic.

Robbe curled his arms around his stomach and wrapped the feeling away. Neither Sander or Jens would leave him behind. The notion on its own was ridiculous.

Lucas could be Sander’s friend, because he could be Robbe’s too. It was way simpler than his brain was trying to make him think.

“Robin,” Sander said, in that way that suggested it wasn’t the first time. He was smiling at Robbe, holding out a hand, and Robbe reached for it without a thought. Sander gave him a gentle tug. “Coming?”

Robbe fell into step alongside Sander and allowed himself to enjoy the light sweep of Sander’s thumb over his knuckles before pulling his hand away. Lucas hesitantly followed along by his other side, pulling too-short sleeves down over his wrists and watching his feet. He flickered a glance at Robbe, and his shoulders loosened when Robbe smiled instead of looking away.

“You’re his best friend, right?” Lucas asked after a second. “Prince Jens, I mean. You’ve lived here a long time but you just genuinely like him, don’t you?”

Robbe blinked, surprised by the question. He probably shouldn’t have been. Everyone knew him; he realised that. Everyone certainly knew Jens, and they knew who Robbe was to him. Robbe occasionally forgot that this didn’t mean they were known, and it definitely did not mean they were automatically liked.

Lucas had every right and reason to be skeptical. Robbe should have expected it and been prepared for it, but even Sander had never questioned them much.

But this question was easy.

“I love Jens,” he agreed. “He might as well be my brother. But it isn’t just that we grew up together or I feel I owe him anything. Jens is one of the best people I know. He always has been. There’s plenty to like about him.”

“Well, now, let’s not get carried away,” Sander interrupted. “Others here are just as likable, if not more so.”

Lucas raised his brows as Robbe rolled his eyes. Neither could hold back a smile. “You, for example?” Robbe said, already dripping sarcasm.

Sander placed a hand to his chest while tugging the library door open. “Why thank you, Robbe, that’s so sweet of you to say. But I was talking about you.”

Robbe’s prepared retort died on his tongue, and he felt hot as Sander grinned down at him. He resisted the urge to raise his hands to cover his cheeks.

Lucas simply hummed his agreement. “You are the nicest. Even without knowing you—the kingdom adores you. I can understand it.”

“Understand what?” Moyo questioned from inside. He wiggled his fingers in a wave when they all turned startled gazes on him. “Have we just swapped one pretty boy for another?”

Aaron slumped back next to him with a groan. “Don’t tell me Jens is actually bailing again.”

“It didn’t seem like he had a choice,” Lucas said, in Jens’s defense. He pulled a face once he realised this.

Robbe considered him. He hadn’t known how to respond to Lucas’s compliment, and he was glad they had been interrupted so that he didn’t have to. But there was something about the way Lucas had said it and how he had asked about Jens in the first place that made Robbe turn back. “Why can’t you understand why people like Jens?”

Lucas blinked over at him in surprise. Robbe just smiled sheepishly at him, and Lucas shrugged, uncomfortable.

“Do people like Jens should be the first question,” Sander said. Robbe punched his shoulder.

“They do, I suppose,” Lucas admitted. “My friends didn’t have the highest opinion, or I guess just didn’t really care, but then…I guess they like him alright.”

“You don’t,” Robbe said.

“I didn’t say that.”

Moyo nodded as if Lucas had said something very smart. “Good. Probably shouldn’t give them any more reasons to accuse you of treason.”

Lucas pulled another face.

Sander tugged them both to sit down. “Okay, continue while eating, please. I need to move afterwards.”

“Move?” Moyo and Robbe asked.

Sander looked to Robbe. “Jens and I told you, didn’t we? I’m moving rooms closer to his because of this whole business?” He gestured at Lucas.

“I’m sorry,” Lucas said. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

“It’s no big deal,” Sander shrugged.

Robbe watched him, not feeling quite as sure.

Sander denied Lucas’s offer of help, urging him to take time to finish his lunch (unnecessarily—Lucas had devoured his food) and then to enjoy the short time he would have free of both Jens and Sander. Robbe stood up to follow, however, and Sander didn’t argue with him.

Now they had half of Sander’s things moved in a single trip between rooms, and Robbe was pondering the best way to ask Sander if he also thought this was a terrible idea.

He settled on asking, “Are you sure you’re okay with all of this?”

Sander dumped some of his clothes in the wardrobe and shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be? This room’s better than mine. I think they’ve even got a comfier mattress. Why is that kind of special treatment wasted on guests?”

Robbe smiled slightly, but tried not to fall off track. “I’m not just talking about the room.”

Sander turned to face him slowly, moving shirts from one hand to the other. “What then?”

“All this is a bit…I don’t know. It was kind of a rash decision, right? It’s a lot of…responsibility.”

Sander snorted. “Are you saying I’m not responsible enough, Robin?”

He couldn’t believe Sander was making him spell it out when he knew exactly what Robbe was talking about. “You’re not healthy enough, and you know it,” he breathed.

Sander’s face went blank as his hands froze. He stared at Robbe, who refused to look away. Sander broke the gaze first, turning back to his wardrobe and fiddling with a hanger. He said nothing.

“Sander,” Robbe whispered, imploring. “You can’t take this on. Never mind the pressure, but you can’t be expected to be available all the time. And now switching rooms? It’s too much.”

“It’s very little for them to ask of me, Robbe,” Sander argued, abandoning his task to turn and face him. “I’m a knight. This is nothing.”

Robbe shook his head. He had known Sander would fight him on this, but it still always hurt when the older man refused to listen. “You know it’s not. Sander, you—“

“It’s been months,” Sander cut him off.

His voice was quiet and strong at once. He looked so small just then, even though he was obviously determined. He’d straightened his shoulders and was holding Robbe’s eye, and still, something lurked underneath. There was a silent desperation, a wildness that Sander had always seemed to contain, confined tightly in his chest but always threatening to explode. It was there in his eyes, a plead mingled with the insecurity he truly felt.

It wasn’t just that he wanted Robbe to believe him. He wanted Robbe to convince him. To reassure him that he was, in fact, right, and more than capable of holding the weight he’d placed on himself.

But Robbe cared about him too much to do that.

“I know,” he said softly. “But it has been months before.”

Sander instantly shook his head, insisting, “Never this long. It’s different.”

Robbe closed his eyes. It wasn’t, and it wouldn’t be, regardless of how much Sander tried to will it into existence. Robbe knew it; he’d already seen it. He couldn’t let Sander believe it and be reckless with himself as a result.

But what more could he say?

I’ve seen it firsthand. What happens when you can’t get out of bed for a day, then two, then a week? There’s no way of hiding it, now—what would be your excuse?

What made you think you could do it, in the first place?

“Mama…” Robbe started, trying not to be hurt by how Sander rolled his eyes and turned away. “She’s been well this long before and it didn’t last either, Sander. It’s not—we don’t even know what—“

“I know,” Sander cut him off, moving towards him abruptly. His hands fluttered by his sides as he stopped in front of Robbe. “I wasn’t thinking of that, I didn’t realise…I didn’t think of how it would be necessary to be around all the time. But I can’t take it back now, Robbe.”

Robbe shook his head. “Of course you can. Now is the perfect time to take it back, before it gets too far.”

“No one else will treat Lucas right.”

“You can’t know that.”

“They’ve already shown it! He’s unhappy enough here, and Jens is a disaster, and I committed to them both.”

Robbe swallowed, shaking his head more. Trying to think. “What about Senne?”

“He has enough duties. Besides, it’s his brother involved in all of this.”

“They don’t even get along. I’m not even sure they speak.”

Sander sighed. “They do, but that’s not the point. Just—“ he curled his hand around Robbe’s wrist. He was no longer looking him in the eye. “—don’t doubt me. I won’t be able to do it if you don’t think I can.”

Robbe’s heart dropped into his stomach. Then he dropped his head against Sander’s shoulder and sighed back. He slipped his hands around to Sander’s back and curled them in his tunic. “Sorry. You know I think you can do anything. I just…”

“I know.” Sander hugged him back, tipping his cheek against Robbe’s head. “You’re probably right, though.”

“No, Sander—“

“I hate it, but I know you’re right. I know I’m not—that it won’t just—“ Sander broke off on a sound of frustration. Robbe squeezed his waist. Sander squeezed back. “But maybe it won’t happen. That I’m needed and I can’t…I don’t think it will be this important for that long. They’re not even making me keep an eye on Lucas every second now, and it’ll ease up from here.”

“But if it does happen?”

“I’d hoped I’ll have you,” Sander admitted quietly. “And I—I could probably talk to Jens, if I have to.”

Robbe tried not to sound too eager. “He would understand. They could help.”

Sander pressed his face harder against Robbe’s head. “There isn’t any helping this, Robbe.”

“You don’t know that. My mother, she used to be worse. I mean, she still gets bad, but it used to be constant, Sander. And more extreme. But she has help now.”

Sander didn’t say anything, but his head still lay heavy. Robbe hugged him tighter. Sander clenched his hands around Robbe’s shoulders. “Just promise me I’ll have you,” he eventually whispered.

Robbe ignored the swoop of his stomach, and the burn of his nerves where Sander’s thumb brushed bare skin, and whispered back, “Always.”

#van der stoffels #vds #sobbe #wtfock #skam nl #prince!jens au #vds royalty au

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autumnslance · 4 years ago

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((Shadowbringers 5.3-5.4. I wanted to have this done by the 15th of January but didn’t quite manage it because these two idiots are wordy as heck, and I initially started in the wrong place and POV. I wrote roughly 8000 words total and only ended up using half of them. There are letters and pining and admitting things happening here.

Below the cut as usual for those who prefer Tumblr to Ao3, but the formatting may work better on that site.))

Aeryn stepped through the mirror and into the familiar space of the Ocular, taking a moment to reorient herself after the rush of journeying between worlds. Once the vertigo had passed she left the Tower, the Crystarium guards greeting her as she crossed the Exedra. It took some questioning before she was finally pointed to where Ryne was currently; training with Captain Lyna just outside the city gates.

She simply watched for a time as Lyna tried to keep her distance while Ryne tried to close in. Aeryn did not announce herself, simply noting how Ryne’s bladework had improved, at least one new trick learned since the last time Aeryn had watched her fight.

“That is enough for now,” Lyna said as they reached a breakpoint in their dance. “And the Warrior of Darkness has waited long enough,” she continued with a wry smile in Aeryn’s direction.

Ryne started, then turned with a grin, hurrying over to give Aeryn a hug. “It’s good to see you! Oh sorry, I’m all sweaty…”

Aeryn laughed, brushing damp strands of hair from Ryne’s reddened face. It was still winter in Eorzea, but in Norvrandt spring was on the horizon and the morning was warm. “Not to worry. Hope you don’t mind the interruption.”

Lyna waved them off. “Go on; we can catch up later.”

Aeryn nodded, knowing the captain wanted word of her grandfather, and G’raha had given Aeryn a small package to deliver, but that would wait until Lyna was off duty and had readied herself. There was an order to such things with the stoic woman.

Instead, Aeryn turned back to Ryne and smiled. Had she gotten taller? “I have a question, if you’ll indulge me.”

“Of course!” Ryne answered as they walked across the bridge into the city. “What is it you need?”

“I have a note from Thancred; he and Urianger are currently on a mission, but he left me instructions for tod--well. The day it is back on the Source.”

“I see. What are the instructions?”

“I’m to ask you about the black willow box he kept in his room here.”

Ryne paused, a little sharp breath escaping. “Ryne?” Aeryn asked.

“Sorry! It’s just I was under strict instruction never to open the box, though I have the key now, of course; I still didn’t dare. It’s where he kept,” she hesitated.

“Kept what?”

“I’ll show you; it’s a good thing--I think--that he wants you to see. Come on!” Ryne dashed toward her apartment as if she hadn’t just completed a long practice session with the captain of the guard. Aeryn picked up her own pace to follow along after.

It did not take long for them to reach the apartment Ryne used to share with Thancred. As the girl opened the door, Aeryn realized it was the first time she had returned to these rooms since the Scions’ departure from the First. It was much as she remembered, though lacking Thancred’s continued presence. Evidence of Gaia’s frequent visits were visible instead, from lipstick-stained coffee mugs at the sink to dark ribbons left on an end table to a book that did not seem to be to Ryne’s taste on a sofa cushion.

Ryne paused in front of the door that had led to Thancred’s small room. “I haven’t been in here since,” she trailed off, shaking her head. “Gaia and Taynor sorted most of it, actually, so only a few personal things remain. I should probably move to a smaller suite to let someone else use the space…”

“Maybe you need a roommate,” Aeryn suggested. “Perhaps Gaia could stay with you.”

Ryne reddened. “We’ve considered it, but I’m just…” She gave a helpless little laugh as she shrugged, looking up at Aeryn apologetically. “I’m just not quite ready, I think. It’s silly, but there’s a part of me that keeps hoping they’ll find a way--a safe way--to return. Even just for a little while.”

Aeryn squeezed Ryne’s shoulder. “It’s not silly,” she said quietly. “And I keep hoping that, too. Fairly certain Y’shtola has it at the top of her projects list.”

Ryne laughed, truly this time. “She would!” She looked at the door again. “The box should be on the shelf above the writing desk,” she offered Aeryn a small key. “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Aeryn nodded, taking the little key and entering the room.

It was familiar, yet unfamiliar. Always small, it had kept from being cramped mainly by virtue of Thancred’s own minimalist tendencies with his added reluctance of accumulating things on the First that he would have to leave behind in the end. Even so, the room felt barren, many necessities and items missing, given away to be used by others in need among the Crystarium’s residents; naught went to waste while still usable.

The bed was neatly made; her eyes lingered for a moment, recalling a handful of pleasant times curled up together in it. They had often met in her own chambers for privacy, especially when feeling the need for more than simple closeness. There was a bench under the shuttered window; he used to clean his gunblade there, storing materials and parts in a chest beneath the bench. Nothing remained but the seat.

The writing desk was really a tall square table, a stool for the chair, in a corner of the room. Two simple shelves hung on the wall above it, some of Thancred’s personal effects that remained neatly placed upon them. The black willow box was a simple but lovely piece of old Nabaath make. It was familiar only in that it was a part of the room, always upon the shelf above the desk, a background decoration.

She had to stretch a little to pull the small box down. She unlocked it, pondering what it could contain for one last moment before opening the lid to find out.

Neatly folded pages, Thancred’s familiar handwriting covering them, five different bundles marked by Vrandtic dates in Eorzean lettering. The earliest one was dated five--no, six years ago now, in the midst of Thancred’s first year in this world, just after the Vrandtic new year. The second bundle was dated a year later. Then the third, then a fourth. The final bundle broke the date pattern, written...She shivered. The dates would have been the time after they assaulted Mt Gulg and before seeking Emet-Selch and the Exarch in the Tempest, when she had lain in a Light-induced fever for days in between.

All of the letters, long and detailed, were addressed to her.

Aeryn carried the box to the window and opened the shutters, letting in the natural light of day. She sat at the bench, picked up the first letter, and began to read, brows already rising at the first line.

My Dear Aeryn,

It’s been roughly half a year, to me, since I arrived in this world. We search for a means to send me back, but given the dangers, it’s difficult to say if we shall ever be successful. I hold onto hope, given we have made the impossible happen more than once—particularly when you are involved.

I know so much less time is passing for you, even as time is difficult to track beneath the eternal Light, but the people still mark the hours and days as best they can--perhaps better than we do in the Source, reliant as we are upon the sun and stars. So as the calendar year turns to a new page, I find myself confronted by reminders of you at every turn, my own mind noting the dates, as if counting down to your nameday in truth.

Violas grown in the Hortorium call to mind your favored hair decoration and your scents carried with it. The heather meadows and clear mountain springs of Il Mheg make me think of the taste of your magic. Treasure hunters in Mord Souq unearth duelist rapiers reminiscent of your combat style. The grey waters of a lake, shifting in color and tone under the burning sky, remind me of your eyes and ever-shifting moods.

I think of our new situation, how fragile it all still seems, our duties as Scions, the distance between Ala Mhigo and Doma keeping us apart more often than I liked. Especially after already having denied my own interests for far longer than I care to admit.

I fear now, not knowing when I may return to your side--in whatever capacity--that I am forgetting important things, and I very much do not want to. So indulge me as I list your various qualities that I admire, to remind myself why I allowed myself to maintain my impossible infatuation for so long, even as you became one of my dearest friends...

Aeryn eyes widened as she turned to the next page, then quickly checked the several pages following; Thancred had indulged his bardic habits, writing in verse and engaging in wordplay. Even the most innocent descriptions and memories of moments together, professional and extremely personal, were laden with puns and innuendo--not entirely unexpected from him.

She was mostly through the verses, trying to parse every dedicated line, when a knock at the door startled her.

“Aeryn?” Gaia called. “Everything all right?”

She cleared her throat. “Fine; I’ve quite a bit of reading to do, though; I may need some water.”

The door opened, Gaia appearing with a tray already in hand. “Ryne thought you might--are you all right? You’re redder than I have ever seen, and that’s saying something.”

Aeryn pressed a hand to her warm cheeks. “I’m fine. Just...wasn’t expecting some of what I found so far.”

“Is that good or bad?” The girl asked, setting the tray on the nearby side table in easy reach. There was a small tea service and also ice water, bless them.

“It’s...Better than good,” Aeryn replied. “I may be awhile, though.”

Gaia shrugged in her nonchalant, pretending-not-to-care way. “Doesn't matter to me, but I was going to drag Ryne out for a while, just so you know. You’ll be fine here by yourself--won’t you?” A little genuine care came through in the last two words, despite her attempts to seem otherwise.

Aeryn nodded.

“All right. Enjoy your reading, and we’ll see you later.” Gaia gave a little wave before leaving, quietly closing the door behind her.

Aeryn cleared her throat again, sipping the cup of minty green tea--bless those girls again--and set the first letter aside for now. She would get back to that later; alone in her own room, where she could bury her face in a pillow and shriek like a schoolgirl when overwhelmed by his words, godsdamn him. For now, the second bundle had her curious.

My Dearest Aeryn,

I almost let the date slip by, I am ashamed to say. So much has happened in recent weeks...

She read through two pages of his recounting Minfilia’s story and the reincarnations that had followed, offering a small hope to Norvrandt; of Urianger and Y’shtola’s arrival, his anger at the spell’s failure and yet relief at seeing Urianger again; and their shift in focus upon learning of the Eighth Umbral Calamity.

...Urianger’s vision of the Calamity, of our deaths, is a sobering thought. The idea of you fallen especially freezes my blood. I cannot bear the thought.

So I redoubled my efforts to rescue the girl bearing Minfilia’s name and appearance. She sleeps now on a cot in this Mord town as I write. She can’t be more than twelve or thirteen summers; a frail little thing with no skills aside from reading books thicker than she is, and asking innumerable questions. They taught her nothing, simply locked her in a windowless cell under the waterline. For at least ten years, that is all the child’s known. If the fate Urianger saw for us makes my blood freeze, her situation makes it boil again. Should I chance to meet Eulmore’s General--the man responsible for her “care”--I will let him know exactly what I think.

Tomorrow Minfilia and I shall attempt to reach Nabaath Areng, the site of the Flood’s halting; the girl says she must go there, as if pulled. I have a hope I dare not voice yet. The Blessing of Light does work in such interesting ways.

But that is on the morrow; tonight, though a day late, I wished to write to you as I did last year. With the date in mind you have also been in my thoughts--when I’ve had a moment to think, at least--and I find myself recalling more and more often the little things. Simple things. Things I fear I may forget, having been here for years now, years without the way you tilt your head when you have a question. It initially annoyed me actually, you were so quiet but now, gods I would give much to be in your silence again, to see that quizzical look. Anything to see the little furrow between your brows when you’re thinking. When you prop your chin on your hands as you stare out a window, tea forgotten in your hand. How you unconsciously wriggle and make faces as you read, reacting to the pages, lips silently moving as you devour each word...

“Oh I do not,” Aeryn muttered--realizing in the same moment that she was doing that now. She sipped her tea and kept reading, noting how he wrote, as much as what; the moments where he had scratched out words, or underlined others. The splots where the pen had sat on the page a moment longer than normal as he thought of what he wanted to admit to. The way the letters slanted in places where he was eager. There was no poetry this time, fewer puns and word play. He had written when tired and possibly injured, given the shakiness of some lettering.

There were places where he couldn’t remember clearly--what perfume had she worn on the day of a particular memory? Was she wearing her red coat, or a blue dress in another? He wasn’t certain.

The letter wrapped up several pages later.

...I must get some sleep, given the long trek across the Amber Hills awaiting. I don’t know what will happen when we arrive, but whatever it is, I’ll keep the girl safe. Taking care of her is the only thing I can do, lacking the skills of the Exarch and our colleagues. Particularly now that we have abandoned the idea of going home--yet. I still don’t know how I feel about that, having struggled to find a way back for so long now, but there must be a home to return to. To save ourselves, we must save this realm. Forgive me; as much as I yearn to see you again, I wish for you to live far more. Despite everything, I still remain

Yours, Thancred.

Aeryn drew in a sharp breath; the previous letter’s signature had been much simpler, after all the floweriness of the verses. This simpler, newsy, reminiscent letter had such a different feel to it, so much changing for him in that year. Her eyes kept drifting to that closing.

It took a few moments before she was able to refold that bundle and open the next.

His next year in the First; this one another detailed description of events he survived, and quite a lot about Ryne, still only known as Minfilia at the time.

...I actually began this letter yesterday, as we rested in a small inn at the edge of the Greatwood. I thought of seeking out Y’shtola, but am unfamiliar with those dark and twisting paths, and was low on ammunition. Minfilia was exhausted, unable to fight or imbue cartridges, and I won’t risk her more than our constant travels already do.

It was she who reminded me that I had been writing, before she made me take my rest as well. I’ve never told her about these letters, but she’s a bright girl and I have told her of you. Sometimes it’s simply because she is curious about you, and the hope that you’ll come here and save yourself, as well as the rest of us. Many times though I don’t mean to say anything, but the stories simply come, like a slumbering spring awoken by new rains, bubbling up and overflowing the riverbanks.

It’s something about her, I suppose, that makes me remember, and so I must speak before the memories fade back into the dustier corridors of my mind. Perhaps an effect of her unique Blessing? Or perhaps simply her childish curiosity drawing it out of me.

There’s a selfish part of me that wants you to meet her. It would mean that you’re here, for one, but also I think you two would get along. She’s a good girl--with her moments of petulance and stubbornness, as many youths are wont, but she’s come such a long way already, has learned so quickly.

I fear influencing her. The choice she must make is so important, and it must be hers. You would be a much better role model; you inspire others to do what’s best simply by your presence. I’ve felt the lack of you more keenly this last year than ever before...

Aeryn read through, noting he wrote it more like a conversation she had yet to answer. Memories of their adventures and companionship were woven through the words more naturally as he spoke to her. She smiled as he spent a good chunk of the letter not even realizing how he had gushed about Ryne and all she had learned and how she had grown in that first year they spent together, as if he were trying to ensure Aeryn would love the child as much as he so obviously did--even if the foolish man hadn’t been able to tell the girl so until it had almost been too late.

But then, that was Thancred; locking his thoughts and feelings behind stoicism, snark, and literally in a box on a shelf.

She traced her nail along the letters of his name--again signed “Yours”--before tucking that bundle away and picking up the fourth.

By this time the twins were somewhere in Norvrandt, though Thancred had no opportunity to see them as Eulmore’s hunters were ever close. He wrote to Aeryn of his frustration with how many Scions had come to the First but she was still so far away and still in so much danger, alongside the rest of the Source and this shard itself. If she couldn’t come to Norvrandt to break the Light’s hold over the realm then the girl would have to make her choice sooner rather than later--and perhaps face the same fate as all of her predecessors.

He admitted that he feared both of those outcomes. He seemed to have begun to cross out that line, but had stopped himself.

...A nasty part of me believes you will never receive these nameday letters. That these are simply my way of remembering yet another important woman in my life I will never see again. I try not to dwell on such thoughts, try to keep busy, but you know me. Perhaps better than anyone since our Minfilia. How I wish I could speak with you again; patrolling through Mor Dhona, lunch at Rowena’s cafe, stargazing on the roofs of Ala Mhigo, reading in the Waking Sands’ dusty library. Simply holding you until we fall asleep, those few, rare moments we had. You always made me say more than I ever meant to; you’ve a way of drawing me out despite myself—and failing that, of simply being there as a brilliant, warm presence.

There are places here I want to show you, things I want to share. Yet I fear your coming, what it will mean. What changes I’ve experienced. What we had was...comfortable, and felt right, after so long, and yet it was still so new and fragile. I used to be confident in my ability to be delicate, but these last few years with this girl have made me feel boorish and clumsy. And I know I have changed, not just because of her, but everything in this hard world. Will you recognize me when we meet? Will you still want me, when you were already so uncertain before?

I suppose I shan’t know until you’re here, or we find a way home. Given the Exarch’s record, the former seems more likely. And it still worries me, much as I know it’s the better course to preserve all we hold dear...

Aeryn stared out the window for a long moment; she had known of his doubts, his fears; when she had arrived and finally found him again, it had been difficult. Yet despite everything, they had gotten past it.

She eyed the final bundle, slimmer than the rest, those dates seeming so heavy though she had no conscious recollection of them, given her state at the time. Having finished the tea, she poured a glass of water and began to read.

Aeryn,

Ryne assures us you will still be Aeryn when you wake; her wards hold for now. I pray long enough to find a cure for what those bastards did to you. What we did to you, unknowing. Will you be pleased to know I have not struck Urianger for his part? I was too tired and injured as we returned, and occupied with carrying you besides. Now I simply am too weary in heart and mind to conjure that initial anger, and he has had time to explain how the Exarch coerced him into his confidence.

I am still not happy about it.

For five years I waited to see you again, thought about you through many days and most nights--such as they are, here. It’s funny what one can become accustomed to in time. Finally seeing you again was a jolt to every one of my senses as the missing you had long since become more real to me, much as I longed for your presence.

And as I feared, you hesitated. I don’t blame you; I know this place changed me. What we had back home was still so new, despite the prior years we had known each other. So I tried to be content to merely be in your company once more. We had rebuilt our friendship once, we could do it again. I had been a fool to think I deserved more.

Then you sought me out in Rak’tika. Do I need to tell you how you intoxicated me that day? I hope I was a comfort, both in words and in the release you needed. The distance still felt too great, but this much, at least, I could give. I thought it would be enough, to simply be what you needed in the moment.

I know now that I was once again fooling myself.

These last few months traveling and fighting and just being together have been a strange mix of stress and relief; our mission had been dangerous and difficult in so many ways, and yet working together, it was hard not to get caught up in the optimism, in the feeling that things would turn out, that we would find a way.

And you were here; your quizzical headtilts, your faces when you read, the white flowers in your hair. Your silences, your laughter, your strength in combat and your helping with every common chore in the vicinity. I thought I could simply be happy to bask in your steady light.

But now, seeing it tear you apart, it is not enough; it never was, and never will be. I can live with it, should that be your wish. My wish, however, is to continue what we had once begun. To hold you close not only occasionally but always.

Aeryn felt a hard lump in her throat; there was a decent space between the lines, the ink thick where he had hesitated, the initial letters shaky. Still he had written them:

I am in love with you, Aeryn.

It’s taken me time to collect myself after rereading what I just wrote and fighting the urge to burn the whole page. A part of me fears that you will scoff, though the greater part of me knows--hopes--better of you.

And the gods know you deserve better than me, but if you’ll have me, I certainly won’t complain.

I know after everything with Ryne I ought to say it to you aloud. That it may already be too late to do so. I pray that isn’t the case. I pray I find the courage and the words both to say what you deserve to hear. Even should you never reciprocate; if that should be the case, you shall never hear another whisper from me on the matter.

But I hold out a small hope, that you will, that you do. That we will have the chance to discuss the matter further. That you survive.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I only know I’ll be at your side until the end; there’s nowhere else I can be.

Ryne is calling; hold on just a little while longer, darling.

Yours always, Thancred.

She covered her face with her hands, emotions and memories flooding over her. There were words before finally confronting Emet-Selch in his memory of Amaurot. More than words on returning to the Crystarium, bodies twined together in relief and comfort.

Then she had returned to the Source to report their success. She came back to the First as quickly as she could, though; not only was there still much work to do, but he was here, and things were...not exactly different, but not quite the same, either.

As she reread the last page, she noticed a swiftly written addendum on the back. She turned it over.

I carried these letters all the way to the Tempest, thinking if I failed to say anything I might at least give them to you--they are yours, after all. But of course no time seemed right, and with a screwing of my courage (and pointed prodding from Urianger), at the last I was able to say what I wished. Miraculously, you said it too.

And now here we are, you peacefully asleep while the night sky wheels overhead and I still hear the celebrations outside despite the ungodly hour. I’ll rejoin you in a moment, but I needed some time to attempt to process the last few days. What happened in the Tempest. The fact you’re alive, and healthy, and claim to love me in return.

I’m not entirely certain why, but I won’t complain, either.

Rereading these letters, I’m not sure I’m quite ready to hand them over yet. They’ll return to their box for now, and perhaps in a few days I’ll be ready to show you.

Aeryn laughed lightly; of course he had hesitated to share them. The letters showed all his vulnerabilities behind the serious, confident facade he had developed. And with everything in the Empty, and then Elidibus, it was no wonder the letters had fallen to the wayside.

Until her actual nameday on the Source had come around, his note delivered with her breakfast by Tataru per Thancred’s instructions while he was on his latest reconnaissance. It wasn’t as if he could have brought the letters with him, after all--nor given them to her in front of the rest of the Scions in the Ocular, nevermind how public their relationship was now.

She rubbed her face--she had cried more than a few times while reading--and replaced the letters in the box. She locked it, and pocketed the key.

The girls were still out so it was no trouble to take the tea service to the sink and clean it, along with the other dishes, giving her time and activity to settle. She finished by washing her own face, removing some evidence of her emotion.

Since the first year she had joined the Scions, they had given each other gifts; she had discovered his nameday from Minfilia, gifting him the orchestrion roll of a song she knew he liked from a favorite minstrel. Her own first nameday as a Scion had been missed due to Lahabrea and Baelsar’s schemes, but Thancred was certain to make up for it. Sometimes they were late, or even early, but they always managed a little something, even as friends.

Aeryn took the box with her as she left Ryne’s apartment. She still had a few people to see while here on the First--starting with Lyna and the messages from G’raha--but then she would retire to her own suite in the Pendants and do a bit of rereading.

And maybe a bit more once she returned home, too; after all, if she timed it right, it would still be her nameday, and the best time to reread her present.

#Final Fantasy XIV #Lyn Writing #Shadowbringers #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #Shippy Nonsense #Aeryn Striker #Pining

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 50: Jon

“Do you have anything to declare?” the rather bored-looking man behind the counter asks without looking up from the paperwork.

For a brief second, Jon oscillates between how would you react if I told you what was in my pocket and yes, I declare this to be a complete waste of time, but he’s anxious to get this over with, so he simply says, “No, nothing.”

The man rattles off a few more standard questions, which Jon answers with only about half his attention. His eyes keep wandering over to the gates, just a dozen or so yards away. It’s so close, he’s almost there…

“Right, that’s everything,” the man says at last. He stamps Jon’s passport and pushes it, along with the requisite forms, over the counter. “Welcome to London. Next!”

Jon moves towards the down escalators, awkwardly attempting to stuff the papers back into his bag as he walks. Well, technically walks. He’s moving at a fast clip that doesn’t quite count as a run but could probably keep up with one. Part of his brain wanders off down the path of linguistics and semantics, trying to figure out what distinguishes a run from a fast walk, but most of it is preoccupied with what’s on the other side of those gates. Through the portal, down the stairs, outside and to the Tube station; he’s not thrilled about it, actually, but under the circumstances, it’s the best he’s going to be able to do.

Damn Julia for destroying his phone. Again. Nowhere has pay phones anymore, either. God, they’re going to be so worried, he promised to check in and he didn’t and now he’s a whole day overdue from what he originally said would be the latest he’d be back. The trains should be running, even this early, he should be able to get home before they have to leave for the Institute, and if he doesn’t he can just go the rest of the way to the Institute and meet them there…

He’s tired, he’s jet-lagged, he’s stressed. He’s used up too much of himself, given in to the Eye more than he should, and it’s overwhelming. He’s learned virtually nothing useful on this trip and he just wants to be home. He feels like he could sleep for a week. Or at least like he wants to.

When this is all over, he promises himself. When it’s all over, after the Unknowing, if Elias is still around, Jon will insist on vacation time for himself and his team members. They need the downtime, and Jon won’t lie, the idea of getting to spend a few weeks with just Martin and Tim is appealing. For the moment, though, he’ll have to settle for a few hours.

He would dearly love to take the day off. But Elias has made it clear that he wants them to think time is of the essence, so he can’t tip his hand and stay out too long. Maybe they can come in late. On second thought, though—he glances quickly at the outsize clock on the wall—he’s not going to make it home in time for much more than a quick nap, if that, before they have to leave. Maybe he should just go straight to the Institute, use the phone in the Archives to call and say he’s back, and curl up on the cot he still keeps in the storage room. He can at least get some rest, maybe—

“Jon! Jon!”

Jon’s head jerks up and whips around. He doesn’t have any checked luggage, so he just kept going and he’s crossed the line from the passengers-only area to the public area, but he hasn’t been paying attention to much around him. There’s a bit of a crowd, but not so much of one he can’t see Tim and Martin watching him from a few yards away.

Jon breaks into a run, never taking his eyes off of the two people he’s wanted most to see as they do the same towards him. He somehow manages to avoid tripping on a small child dragging a rolling suitcase and flings himself into their arms.

For the first time in almost two weeks, he feels some of the tension leave his body. Martin is soft, Tim is solid, both of them are warm, and he’s safe here. The song the Primes danced to, the night the three of them moved into their house, floats through his head, and he clings to Tim and Martin and inhales the scent he’s come to associate with home. For a long time, they just stand there clutching one another.

“Melanie’s right,” he says at last. “Jet lag sucks.”

Tim and Martin both laugh, a little desperately. Jon laughs, too, and looks up. Martin has at least a day’s worth of stubble growing on his chin and Tim’s shirt is inside out. It looks like they just rolled out of bed and came straight for the airport, or…oh, God. “Tell me you two haven’t been sitting here waiting for me since yesterday.”

“We thought about it, but no,” Tim assures him. “The Primes called and said you’d be coming in this morning.”

“We got them one of those throwaway phones,” Martin adds. “Honestly, we should’ve done that a long time ago, but…it’s a long story. We’ll tell you about it when you’ve had a chance to get some rest. You look exhausted.”

“So do you.” Jon looks from Martin to Tim and back again. “I’m sure we can take a half-day without anyone getting too upset. Do you think Sasha and Melanie will handle things for us?”

“Sasha owes us,” Tim says. He eases back but keeps one arm around Jon; Martin does the same. Jon shifts his arms so they’re behind Tim and Martin’s waists. “She’s taken a fair bit of time off these last couple weeks—and it’s for good reason, so don’t think I’m saying otherwise. But she owes us. I’m sure she’ll hold down the fort for a couple hours.”

“I’ll text Melanie when we get to the car and see what she says,” Martin offers.

They walk out of the terminal together and to where Tim has parked his car. Jon half-expects they’ll talk on the way home, but they don’t; he really is exhausted and he can tell they’re tired, too, so the ride is made in silence. None of them speak when they get to the house, either. They just head inside, where Tim and Martin pull Jon into the bedroom and none of them really bother to change into their sleep clothes, just shuck their outer layers and collapse into bed together.

Jon is plagued by his usual nightmares, plus a couple new ones, but honestly, at this point he’s used to them. He wakes up abruptly, but not screaming, and is momentarily disorientated by the brightness of the room and the awareness of another presence in the bed before he registers that he’s back where he belongs, safe and secure between Martin and Tim. Well, between is stretching it a bit; among might be a better word to use. They’ve somehow managed to end up in a tangled pile of limbs and extremities. Jon’s cheek is pillowed on the soft, warm fleshiness of Martin’s upper arm, his neck fitting easily into Martin’s elbow, and one of Tim’s legs is hooked over Jon’s hip. He normally doesn’t like the sensation of skin against skin, or at least he hasn’t with anyone he’s ever been with, but this feels…right.

Something clicks into place, all at once, and it makes his breath catch in his throat. When he called to talk to Tim and Martin because he needed to hear their voices, he didn’t expect to get so relaxed and comfortable that he stopped thinking before he spoke, and as soon as he heard the words love you both slide out of his mouth he panicked and ended the call before giving them a chance to reply. He’s spent as much of the last three or so days as he can—when he can spare the brainpower for it—turning his feelings over and over and trying to analyze them. He doesn’t doubt he meant those words, but he’s been trying to parse out what he meant by them and what it means for them all. Everything he’s been through between then and now has meant he’s been a bit stressed, a bit on edge, and hasn’t really had a lot of time to think about it clearly.

Now, though, he thinks about the safe and secure feeling he gets when he’s in their arms like this, about the desperate way he’s mentally cried out for both of them every time he’s been in danger, but also about the moments of deep and utter happiness they’ve shared over the last year, the nights they’ve laughed so hard they start crying, the afternoons they’ve spent with Charlie in their kitchen. He thinks about falling out of Helen’s tunnels into their arms and the perfect moment of joy when he saw their faces in the airport. Most poignantly, he thinks of the yawning chasm that seemed to open up the minute he crossed beyond the security barrier when he left London two weeks ago—the empty blackness that separated him from Martin and Tim—and for the first time, everything coalesces into pure certainty.

Love you both. Of course he does. He loves both of them with a depth he’s never felt before, and it scares the hell out of him because he runs the risk of losing them both to what’s coming. At the same time, it fills him with a sense of utter peace, because he has them now.

He wishes they could just stay like this a little longer, but an alarm he hasn’t realized someone set goes off and both Martin and Tim stir with varying noises of dismay. They’ve got to get up, got to get to the Institute. Still, Jon clings to them both for a moment more before, reluctantly, he climbs out of bed to go take a shower.

Tim drives them to work, and none of them argue.

Sasha meets Jon with a huge hug when he walks in. Surprisingly, Melanie offers him one, too. It’s a bit stiff, but it feels genuine, and Jon takes it willingly.

“I’m sorry you’re trapped here,” he tells her. “But for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”

Melanie shrugs. “My choice. Maybe one I shouldn’t have made, but still…my choice. Glad I can help. Now tell me what I need to do.”

Jon’s more grateful to her than he can express. Looking around at the Archives, at the assistants, at his family, he can see now what he wouldn’t let himself see before: Sasha’s hunger, Tim’s exhaustion, Martin’s strain. They’re all on edge and they’re all walking a fine line. Melanie hasn’t fallen as hard as they have; she’s still just a regular assistant. Still a bit of an outsider looking in. She’s far enough away from all of this that she can…well, she can’t walk away, but she’s at least not having her soul sucked out of her body with every step she takes. And she’s choosing to be here, choosing to help. She’s someone he can trust to protect his people without reservation or hesitation.

And if what the Primes have said is even half true, which it seems to be, she can probably handle herself almost better than the rest of them.

“For starters, I’d like to hear what you’ve been up to while I’ve been gone,” Jon says. “Then, perhaps, I can tell you what I’ve been up to. We—we need to make plans.”

“War room or downstairs?” Sasha asks. “Either one should be fine. Elias left sick about twenty minutes ago, so we can all convene without him knowing.”

Jon is startled. “How do you know?”

Melanie looks gleeful. “Sasha went up to tell him you were back and that you’d be in later today and all that, and while she had him distracted, I distracted Rosie and mixed laxatives in with the creamer she was putting in his coffee. A lot of laxatives.”

“The whole building heard him, practically.” Sasha smirks. “Rosie wanted to call him an ambulance, but he insisted he’d be fine to get home on his own and that he just needed rest or something like that. I didn’t read his mind,” she adds, evidently catching something in Jon’s expression. “Or hers. Manal told me.”

“See, this is why I drink tea,” Martin says with a straight face.

Jon is torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to scold them both for recklessness. Instead, he says, “If you’re sure…let’s go ahead and do this up here. The seating’s a bit more comfortable.”

Melanie turns on her heel. “I’ll go get them.”

Jon ducks into his office only long enough to grab a couple of things, then joins the others in the War Room. There are a couple of additional pins on the board and a new color of string; considering it stretches from London to Beijing to start bouncing around the States, Jon guesses it’s tracing his journey. The whiteboard has a list of the most common names and places they’ve seen in the statements, with tally marks indicating how many statements they’ve come up with for each, but Sasha begins erasing it with the explanation that they’ve already made a more permanent copy of those notes. They’ve also set up a secondary tea station in the room itself, which Jon appreciates, since it means Martin doesn’t have to be out of his sight for the length of time it would take him to brew tea for them all.

God, the separation anxiety is terrible.

Melanie arrives with the Primes just as Martin finishes up the tea; Jon Prime crosses over to where Jon stands, smiling wanly, and pulls him into a hug. “I hope your trip went better than mine,” he murmurs in Jon’s ear.

“I doubt it,” Jon mutters back. Jon Prime sighs regretfully and lets him go.

He gets a hug from Martin Prime, too, and then they all settle into seats in a rough semicircle around the boards and single desk. Jon brings the mug of tea to his lips and inhales for a moment. Jon Prime is right, it doesn’t taste as good when Martin doesn’t make it. “Right,” he says at last. “Fill me in. What have I missed?”

“Not much, honestly,” Tim says. “A few live statements, Elias being a dick, and…whatever that mess was on Tuesday. But we haven’t been able to find much about the Unknowing.”

Jon is instantly on edge. “Tuesday? What happened on Tuesday?”

“Pick something,” Melanie mutters, with just a bit of an edge to it.

Martin sighs. “Peter Lukas was here.”

“What?” Jon barely manages to stop from dropping his mug. “I-I thought—I thought the deal was that he had to stay away from you.”

“The Institute doesn’t show up in those pictures in the Light, apparently, so there’s no way for the Keeper to actually know he violated the contract,” Martin says. “Unless someone tells him, which, well, if I can figure out how to find him, I’m going to. I got it on tape, at least, so there’s evidence. But yeah, apparently he had a meeting with Elias and made a trip down here first.”

Upset, Jon reaches over to touch Martin’s arm lightly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’ll admit it was a bit rough, but that’s just because I was already kind of…not at my best. I took a live statement two days in a row,” Martin admits, wincing under Jon’s look. “But anything he did to me, I got over pretty quickly.”

Jon doesn’t like the emphasis Martin places on the word me, but when he turns to scan the others, he realizes the one who looks the worst off is Martin Prime. Jon Prime meets his eyes, and his lips flatten. “Peter Lukas trails the Lonely after him. I wasn’t here,” he says softly. “Martin woke up alone and…”

“It was a bit touch and go,” Martin Prime says. “But we’re all right.”

“Where were you?” Jon asks his counterpart. It’s not like him to go haring off around London, especially during the day.

“Hill Top Road. Your team found a statement I remembered…when Martin brought it to me the first time, I remember being tempted to investigate but feeling very strongly that I shouldn’t. I had the same feeling this time, so I went,” Jon Prime answers. “I thought I might get some…useful information.”

“Did you?”

“Not about the Unknowing.”

Jon waits a second, but it’s obvious Jon Prime isn’t going to say further, and he decides not to push him. Sasha evidently comes to the same conclusion. “I feel bad that I missed all of this, but I was out for the afternoon. My uncle called and wanted to talk to me, so everyone told me to just go.”

“Is everything all right?” Jon asks.

“Depends on your definition of ‘all right’,” Sasha replies. “He’s being released next week. Which is great, and I’m actually quite excited about it. But he also—he had a statement.” She points at the shelves. “Tape’s in there if you want to listen to it later, but short version, the Corruption killed my parents and grandparents. Uncle Wade and I probably had a lucky escape ourselves.”

“Sasha, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Anyway, that was basically all that happened with us while you were gone. What about you?” Sasha pushes her glasses up her nose with her middle finger. “Did you learn anything useful while you were gone?”

“Maybe? Not by actually following Gertrude’s path, though.” Jon takes a sip of tea to brace himself, then sets it on the desk and takes a deep breath. “Did Martin and Tim tell you about what I found in Chicago and Pittsburgh?”

“Fat lot of nothing,” Melanie says. “Except for the fact that Gertrude Robinson managed to not actually get charged with anything after being arrested.”

“Essentially, yes.” Jon glances from Martin to Tim and back, knowing they’re going to be upset. “As you know, then, I planned to take the bus from Pittsburgh to D.C., then fly home. I should have been home yesterday. But…well, the bus I was on made a stop to allow us to stretch, and I was…accosted.”

“Jon,” Tim says, “did you get kidnapped again?”

“Only a little,” Jon protests. He knows how feeble it sounds, but it does at least get a surprised laugh out of Martin. “I’d—I’d had a feeling I was being followed since I landed in Chicago, but by the time I got to Pittsburgh…I’m sorry I didn’t say anything while we were on the phone on Monday, but I-I didn’t want to worry you two unnecessarily. But by then I was sure. I had hoped the cop that was stalking me would be left behind, but no, he was still after me when the bus stopped.”

“You got kidnapped by a cop?” Martin’s voice rose a bit in pitch.

Jon shook his head. “No, by someone chasing that cop. Alleged cop, anyway. You recall that statement last year, the—the anatomy professor with the students with the strange names?”

“Wh—oh, yeah, the Stranger statement. First live one after…” Martin waves a hand around the room, indicating the Primes, the timeline on the whiteboard, and his own scars.

“Well, apparently one of them was hiding out as a Chicago beat cop. Must have recognized me, or at least spotted the Eye’s influence on me. But he didn’t actually manage to get to me. I got kidnapped—or escorted, as she would have it—by Julia Montauk.”

Sasha’s eyes widen. “Robert Montauk’s daughter?”

Jon nods. “She’s working with Trevor Herbert. The vampire hunter. He’s still alive…somehow. They’re over in America hunting…monsters. Mostly.” He shivers slightly, remembering the smug sneer on the man’s face: The line gets blurrier every day. Could he…no. No, he won’t think about that.

Martin and Tim both reach for Jon’s hands at the same instant. He clasps them both, grateful for the connection. Melanie frowns. “Fill me in. Who are these people?”

“Robert Montauk was a serial killer, but he was also working with the Dark,” Sasha tells her. “Julia Montauk was, well, his daughter. She gave a statement a few years back. Trevor Herbert was a man who spent basically his whole life hunting vampires. Or at least that’s what he calls them. There’s this whole…thing. We thought at first he died of lung cancer, like, literally in the middle of making his statement, but apparently he survived.”

Melanie taps her finger on her mug. Her eyes go vacant for a moment. Before Jon can continue, though, she turns to Jon Prime. “So is he part of the End or the Hunt?”

“The Hunt,” Jon Prime says, looking surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought so, but the whole cheating-death thing made me wonder, that’s all.”

“A lot of—of avatars have cheated death, in one way or another,” Jon Prime says slowly. “But it’s their patrons, I suppose, keeping them alive. One more favor.”

Melanie hums. “’S irrelevant, I guess. Anyway, I’m up to speed now. Go on. You got kidnapped by a Hunter and—the daughter of the Dark?”

“She’s with the Hunt now, too. I got their statement while we waited for Max Mustermann to—well, regrow a body.” Jon shudders a bit again. It was all a bit grisly. “They obviously didn’t know anything about the Unknowing, but I was hoping Mustermann would.”

“Did he?” Martin asks softly.

Jon sighs. “Mostly what we already knew. He didn’t even know when it was set to happen, just ‘when things are ready.’ I’d have tried more questions, but Trevor and Julia decided they weren’t going to get anything else useful out of him and dispatched him.”

Tim sighs, too. “So you got a net total of…nothing.”

“Not quite. Julia and Trevor offered me a—a thank-you of sorts, for helping them catch Mustermann. Apparently they’d been after him for some time.” Jon lets go of Tim and Martin’s hands and reaches into his pocket. “I made a deal at the time. Bring this back to England, promise to dispose of it after, and I’d get all the information I needed.”

Jon Prime chuckles slightly. “That sounds familiar.”

Jon pulls out the folded page he’s been carrying for two days. Martin eyes it apprehensively. “Jon…what did you do?”

Melanie leans forward. “Is that—leather?”

“Technically, I think leather has to be tanned first. It’s just skin.” Jon studies it. “There’s a book—Mary Keay had it. It’s got pages on it with—it’s hard to explain, but the pages are sort of…possessed by the spirits of people who’ve died. Technically, mostly people she murdered. Gertrude Robinson knew how to do it too, and…she bound Gerry into it. Uh, Gerard Keay.”

Sasha’s eyebrows shoot up. “Gertrude Robinson murdered Gerard Keay?”

“No.” Jon reconsiders. “Not technically, but I’m inclined to hold her responsible. She had to have known how little time he had left—his cancer was incredibly advanced when he was admitted to the hospital. But I-I don’t think violent death is necessarily a prerequisite for being bound into the book, just…fresh death. I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re right.” Jon Prime massages his temple with one hand, eyes closed. “I would rather not know those details, but unfortunately I do.”

Martin Prime slides a hand between Jon Prime’s shoulder blades and rubs gently; Jon Prime leans into him and sighs, almost inaudibly. Martin studies the page in Jon’s hand. “So what did he tell you? I—I’m guessing you…summoned him.”

“Nothing yet,” Jon answers. “Like I said…he promised to tell me everything he could if I would just bring him back here, and then burn the page after we’re done.”

He unfolds the page, takes a deep breath, and begins to read aloud. As the last time, the air grows thick and heavy, and the words taste bitter on his tongue. He aches with sympathy for the dying—technically the dead, but reading it, he feels there, the same way he does when he reads the statements.

“‘And so Gerard Keay ended,’” he concludes, lowering the page. And just like last time, there the figure is in front of him, with no clear idea of when he appeared or how he got there. Martin makes a strangled noise of surprise. Jon can’t help but smile a bit as he makes eye contact with the specter. “Welcome home, Gerry.”

Gerry grins and makes an ironic little half-bow. “Archivist.”

“My friends call me Jon.” Jon waves a hand around him. “And speaking of…this is my team.”

He introduces each one of them in turn, including the Primes. Gerry is particularly startled to see them. “Time travel? I didn’t know that was possible. How’d you do it?”

“Spiral,” Martin Prime says succinctly. “Not the best option in the world.”

Gerry studies Martin Prime for a minute, then gives Jon Prime a meaningful glance with a raised eyebrow. Jon Prime rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond smile on his face as he kisses Martin Prime’s temple. Martin Prime relaxes a little, and it occurs to Jon, all of a sudden, that he’s jealous, at least a little bit.

Turning back to Jon, Gerry folds his arms across his chest. “All right. I suppose you’ve got questions.”

“Just one,” Jon answers. “How did Gertrude plan to stop the Unknowing?”

He knows what the Primes did, but he’s hoping against hope Gertrude might have had a different plan. Blowing up a factory will work, but he’s afraid to let Tim get that close to an explosion in the name of revenge. Unless there’s a way to do it long-range…

“Don’t know,” Gerry says casually.

Melanie throws up her hands dramatically. “Great! Just great. Big help.”

“Hey, now,” Gerry protests. “Okay, I don’t know exactly, but…Gertrude reckoned it couldn’t be stopped ahead of time. It could be delayed, but nothing we could do would actually stop it properly. Even the Dancer could be replaced. But once it starts, it might be vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable to what?” Melanie presses.

“I dunno.”

Melanie lets out a string of profanity that would have had Jon’s grandmother washing his mouth out with soap and salt water. Sasha hides a laugh behind a cough. “Seriously, she never said?”

Gerry’s eyes twinkle. Jon’s pretty sure he’s enjoying teasing them. “She did say she had something that might disrupt it.”

Sasha rolls her hand in a go on gesture. “What?”

“Not long before I went into the hospital, she told me that if something got her first, I was…” Gerry pauses, and there’s a flash of pain in his eyes. Jon realizes he really, truly did care about Gertrude, in his own way. “There’s a storage unit on an industrial estate up near Hainault. She said she rented it under the name Jan Kelly, and hid the key somewhere in the Archives.”

Jon remembers the key he found under the floorboards with Gertrude’s laptop. “Oh. Uh, I think I found that, actually.”

“Well, it’s in that storage unit,” Gerry says. “Whatever she thought might disrupt the ritual, stop the Unknowing, that’s where it is.”

“But you don’t know what it is.” With a sinking feeling, Jon realizes it has to be some kind of explosive.

“No,” Gerry answers. “When I asked her, she said she’d show me when we got back to London. Mind you, she had this weird look in her eyes, like it was some kind of joke.”

Melanie sighs. “So we’ve got a net gain of…a storage unit.”

“Hey, at least I know where to go now,” Jon points out. “It’s something, at least.”

Gerry looks around at them, then turns to the Primes. “Did it work when you did it?”

“It did,” Jon Prime says quietly. “But we lost a lot in the process. We were hoping there might be another method.”

“I reckon if there was, Gertrude would’ve had more than one plan set up,” Gerry says. “She was like that. Never put all your eggs in one basket unless you only have one basket, or you’re damned sure of it.”

“Or you don’t have that many hens,” Sasha says.

Jon sighs and nods. “Thank you, Gerry.”

“Sure. Glad to help what I could.” Gerry studies Jon thoughtfully. “Don’t forget what you promised.”

“As soon as we’re done here.”

Gerry nods. “I think I’m ready to go now. Thank you. For bringing me home.”

“Of course. Uh…I dismiss you,” Jon says, a bit awkwardly.

Gerry sighs in relief and smiles. He gives a wink and a thumbs-up to Martin and Tim, and then he’s gone.

Jon sighs, too. He folds the page back up, then goes over to the metal trash can in the corner, drops it in, and fishes out the spiderweb lighter he keeps finding in his pocket even though he has definitely quit smoking. “Right,” he says, mostly to himself, then lights the page on fire.

None of them speak while the page crumbles away to ashes. Once it’s done, Tim exhales heavily and slumps in his chair, rubbing at his temples with his eyes closed. “Christ, that hurt.”

“Hang on.” Martin grabs Tim’s mug and brushes a hand gently against his cheek before hurrying over to the tea station.

Jon barely stops himself from dropping the trash can and hurries back to Tim’s side. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

“I’ll be okay. Just—lot of power, you know? It’s getting harder and harder to stop from seeing the marks without trying, and the—the page itself was bad enough, but watching it burn—I don’t know why, but it was painful.” Tim takes a few deep, slow breaths. “I’m okay, Jon, honest.”

Jon doesn’t move from Tim’s side until Martin comes back with the tea and slides it into his hands. After a few moments of inhaling the tea, with Jon on one side of him and Martin on the other, Tim finally looks up and manages a smile. “Sorry for worrying you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tim.” Jon takes a chance and brushes the hair on the back of Tim’s neck lightly. “How are you feeling?”

“Bit drained,” Tim admits. “Should be okay tomorrow.”

Jon Prime sighs. “Tim, if you’re using your abilities…whether you mean to or not, you’re going to need a statement to really recover well.”

Melanie half-rises from her seat. “I can go try and grab you one. Then you can, I don’t know, read it while we go look at this storage unit?”

“We can do that later,” Jon says, waving her to sit down. “Look at the storage unit, I mean. As for the statement…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the tape Tim locked in his desk drawer weeks ago, the one labeled in Gertrude’s distinctive handwriting with nothing more than a date and location. He holds it up to show everyone. “This is the statement we’re pretty sure is my father’s. Anyone who wants to can leave…but I think it’s time we listen to it.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonmartim #(yes both are applicable here shut up)#Gerard Keay my beloved

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passionate-reply · 4 years ago

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This time on Great Albums, we tackle a slightly more obscure artist, but one who’s near and dear to my heart: Frank “Fad Gadget” Tovey, the very first artist signed to Mute Records, and the one behind MUTE 002. Find out what’s so great about him by watching my video, or reading the transcript that follows after the break.

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, I’m going to be digging into the work of Frank Tovey, better known as “Fad Gadget.” While Tovey was the very first artist signed to Daniel Miller’s Mute Records, his legacy doesn’t seem to be remembered quite as strongly as many of his labelmates. He never achieved the heights of pop stardom that Depeche Mode did, and despite being a daring and experimental artist in his own right, he doesn’t have quite as prominent a cult following as, say, Einstürzende Neubauten. Fad Gadget may not be for everybody, but he’ll always be an important artist to me. As a teenager, he helped me bridge the gap between listening almost exclusively to mainstream synth-pop, and becoming much more interested in underground styles like industrial. And my first love was this album, Tovey’s third: Under the Flag.

Tovey’s first 7” release, featuring the tracks “Back to Nature” and “The Box,” was released on Mute Records in 1979, as MUTE 002, second only to Daniel Miller’s own “Warm Leatherette.” His early singles, as well as his debut album, Fireside Favourites, stuck to a similar sonic template as “Warm Leatherette”: sharp, punkish assaults on common decency, propelled by a harsh synthesised pulse or two. But for his second LP, 1981’s Incontinent, Tovey went in a different direction. He maintained his bile, and impatience with the societal status quo ante, but assumed the guise of a Medieval fool, and incorporated a substantially larger proportion of traditional instruments into his sound.

Music: “Blind Eyes”

For his follow-up to Incontinent, Tovey would straddle the line between gritty, industrial synth lashings and that counter-cultural dark cabaret. And sometimes, he’d even do it within the same track, as on the fearful “The Sheep Look Up.”

Music: “The Sheep Look Up”

On “The Sheep Look Up,” a sparse, piano-driven intro unfurls to reveal a menacing electronic undercurrent. But the piano doesn’t depart from the track--in fact, it keeps up with the pace just fine. As jarring as the synth’s entry feels initially, it’s never the only source of tension in the track. Like a lot of great electronic music, Under the Flag approaches technology with nuance. While it’s one figure in the album’s bleak, dystopian landscape, it’s far from the only one. The lyrics of “The Sheep Look Up” are much more concerned with criticizing mob mentality and mass outrage--not to mention the role of governments in stoking that outrage, peddling jingoistic nationalism and seething hatred of perceived enemies of the state. In a lot of ways, this is a tale as old as time, and one that’s as likely to be told alongside a lute as it is a synthesiser. Sometimes, tradition itself is the target of Tovey’s ire, as on the track “Plainsong”:

Music: “Plainsong”

“Plainsong” is named after one of the earliest forms of music in the Western tradition: the monophonic, Latin-language chants used by the Church in the Early Middle Ages, also called “plainchant.” The track sonically embodies the wearying effect of simplistic, repetitive chanting, with its choir of distorted voices that repeat the main chorus, and refuse to stay in tune or rhythm. The title would seem to lead us to interpret “Plainsong” as an indictment of religious indoctrination, in particular, but I think it can also be read more broadly. Aside from that title, the lyrics don’t actually mention religion in any concrete sense, which makes me inclined to interpret it as also applying to all the other ways society uses music and rhyme to instill its values into people. Who among us wasn’t raised with insipid sayings like “blood is thicker than water” or “curiosity killed the cat,” that reinforce social norms and squash independence of spirit? Religion, like technology, is only one of modern society’s countless rotten pillars. While Tovey doesn’t single out religion in “Plainsong,” he is clear about the victims of such brainwashing being “young ears.” Childhood is invoked several times on Under the Flag, but features most prominently on “Love Parasite.”

Music: “Love Parasite”

The titular “Love Parasite” is, of course, a human infant--though it’s insidiously portrayed as something monstrous. Those of us who dislike children might be inclined to read “Love Parasite” as a brutally honest portrayal of parenthood as a miserable, soul-sucking experience, and hence as a rebuttal of the societal expectation that everyone ought to have children. While I do like that interpretation, I think it’s also important to remember that the “Love Parasite” is a human being, too. The fact that so many unwanted and unloved humans are brought into this world to begin with produces a tremendous resource for those institutions like church and state to exploit. It’s precisely this relationship between vulnerable people and the apparatus of government that defines the narrative of the album’s title track.

Music: “Under the Flag I”

The title track of Under the Flag is actually split into two parts. The first half of it appears as the opening track, and the second half closes out the album. That makes it even more tempting to parse it as a summation of the album’s themes than a title track normally is! Rather than distilling the overarching ideas of the album in a more abstract way, the “Under the Flag” tracks drill down to the level of an individual, struggling to make his way in society. He’s one of those unwanted children who grows up without a stable home life, and ends up working for the government and trying to make a difference in the world...but failing. By giving us this singular protagonist, Tovey centers his focus on human suffering at the most relatable and personal level possible. And with the final line of “Under the Flag II,” and hence, the entire album, he asks us, quite pointedly, “Under what flag?”

Ultimately, “under what flag?” is the central question proposed by the album. It also seems to be the question being asked by its striking sleeve design, featuring a photo of Tovey by the famed Anton Corbijn. The first thing we notice is its bold, black-and-white colour scheme--perhaps a nod to the idea of black-and-white, good-vs.-evil style thinking, often favoured by demagogues and others who seek to mobilize the masses. But after a second or two, we quickly realize that while Tovey is a flesh and blood man, the flag he seems to be holding up is merely painted on the wall behind him. It’s an image that perfectly epitomizes the contrast between the arbitrary, superficial nature of concepts like nations, and the painfully real human suffering that they can cause. Throughout the album, Tovey pits these abstract notions of communal well-being against the plight of the individuals they victimize--as on “Scapegoat,” a track centered around the perspective of the one person who’s saddled with the blame of a whole society.

Music: “Scapegoat”

After the release of Under the Flag, Tovey went on to release one more album under the name Fad Gadget: 1984’s Gag. He then released several albums as Frank Tovey throughout the remainder of the 1980s, first heading in a more synth-pop direction, and ultimately ending up releasing a full album of folk music, 1989’s Tyranny and the Hired Hand. While perhaps initially perplexing, I’ve always thought it was a natural move for Tovey. He was clearly interested in the exploitation of the underclass, and the expression of their fundamental humanity. And those themes are truly timeless.

Music: “Sixteen Tons”

Sadly, Tovey wouldn’t get a chance to re-emerge in the 21st Century, as many of his contemporaries did. He died in 2002, aged just 45, due to a congenital heart defect, while fresh off of releasing a new greatest hits compilation and supporting Mute labelmates Depeche Mode on tour. I can so easily imagine Tovey thriving in the present day, with the rediscovery of so much underground 80s synth in the 00s, and the impact that that had on electronic music--not to mention how he would react to our era’s tumultuous politics. To me, he’ll always be the artist I’d bring back around for one last release if I could.

At any rate, my favourite song on Under the Flag is “For Whom the Bells Toll.” Admittedly, this is a somewhat sentimental pick for me, since it was one of the first Fad Gadget songs I heard and really liked. It’s got clattering mechanical percussion, harsh, textural synth swipes, and, boldly enough, no actual bells. In the context of the album, it stands out for being a bit straightforward, thematically, with a narrator simply pining after a lost love--presumably one who’s deceased, given the title. But what I think really sets it apart is its less-than-conventional vocals. Besides some singing, and a bit of background yipping and howling, we also hear some disgusting, dry retching noises, and even a very hi hat-like sneeze. It’s one of the most memorable instances of Tovey’s artistic preoccupation with our lowliest bodily functions, which, considering the scope of his career, is quite impressive. That’s everything I’ve got today--thanks for listening!

Music: “For Whom the Bells Toll”

#music #great albums #album review #album reviews #fad gadget #frank tovey #industrial #industrial music #mute records

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magioftheseas · 4 years ago

Text

Rivalmance Week Ficlets #3

For the AkeShuAke Rivalmance 2021

Day 3: Illness/Injury/Flowers

Under a read more as it’s almost 1.5K but can also be read on Ao3.

There’s someone who keeps bringing him flowers without fail and it’s quite the mystery.

There’s a lot that he doesn’t know. He’s been in the hospital for a few weeks now. No memory—not even a name. Some of the nurses have taken to calling him Taro as sort of a joke and a means of practicality, but he doesn’t think that’s right.

He doesn’t know, but he just has the feeling.

There’s a lot about himself that’s strange. The injuries, for starters. According to the doctors, he had been inflicted with a near-fatal bullet wound to the chest. He had even been comatose. It was suggested that his memory loss was due to shock, but even the doctor seemed unsure.

All the same, he was treated and recuperated. The staff could be rather detached at times, but he was helped quite a bit. Either out of professionalism, actual compassion or—well. Because of his looks. He may not know much, but he has noticed that he gets fawned over.

So much so that when he gets the first bouquet, the nurse just giggles.

“Seems you have an admirer, Taro-kun,” she remarks, cupping her cheek. “Apparently this young man saw you and just couldn’t resist!”

The bouquet is addressed to his room number. There’s a note attached but not any words on it. Just a scribbled drawing of a crow. A similar drawing of a crow accompanied the next bouquet. And the one after that.

Thus, he had taken to calling the secret admirer Crow.

...except something about that felt wrong. Really wrong. Wrong in a way that he can’t quite parse.

Alas, he had nothing else to call this admirer beyond Strange and Persistent, so Crow it was.

Crow was very strange. And very persistent. While the bouquets were always arranged beautifully, the flowers chosen were—hm. Red china asters and daisies. Quite the unusual pick, one that seemed suspiciously pointed.

He suspected that Crow knew him, but couldn’t do much with this suspicion besides theorize.

Was Crow a former lover unable to face his amnesiac once partner?

(That didn’t feel right.)

Was Crow a stiff colleague who merely felt for his plight but didn’t feel comfortable approaching him?

(That didn’t feel right either.)

Was Crow a stalker taking his opportunity or even a prankster?

(For some reason, he preferred that option.)

Well, he was about to be transferred soon. He was still getting used to his crutches and he was still experiencing chest pains and headaches, but the doctors said he was sturdy and stubborn. Admittedly, he preened under the praise even as he still felt frustrated at how clear it was that the staff coming to a loss of what to do with him.

No one had come to ‘claim’ him as it were. Perhaps he didn’t have anyone. No one at all. Not even enemies.

No one except the annoyingly aloof and elusive Crow. So, he writes up a note of his own, demanding answers and at least a presence, to be given to Crow at the next opportunity. Since he was at the end of his rope, he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he got nothing in response or, worse, if Crow decided to stop sending flowers altogether.

Imagine his surprise (and relief) when he’s finally told he has a visitor and finally, finally, the mysterious Crow makes his appearance.

He’s not sure what he expected. But—this person, this young man who can’t be further than a year from him in age was—well.

Well, his curly black hair looked like a bird’s nest, so perhaps Crow wasn’t so unfitting. Except he just doesn’t want to call this person that. He doesn’t know why, he just doesn’t, especially when this boy is so miserably hunched before him with a gaze obscured by thick, overbearing glasses.

“Taro-kun,” the nurse chided sweetly. He almost forgot about her. “It’s rude to gape.”

He shuts his mouth, swallows, and—“Sorry. Can you give us a moment?” Whoever he was, he smiles pleasantly like it’s something he’s done all his life. Even if he’s not the slightest bit happy. Whatever. That smile is enough to get the nurse giddy and eagerly going along with it.

But, Crow has straightened up, and—oh, Crow’s gaze is dark. A grim steel, piercing like a blade.

“...you really don’t remember anything?” Crow asks once they’re alone, and, wow, that’s quite the deep voice for someone so dead set on appearing unassuming. “Nothing at all?”

“Obviously not,” he replied, unable to help a scowl. In a way, he is pissed that it’s turning out Crow is unfairly attractive once observed. He waves his hand at Crow, gesturing for the other to come closer. Crow does, almost too quickly.

Almost too eagerly.

“I don’t...” Crow is looking at him with such expectation that it’s embarrassing. “I don’t...remember anything. And I don’t have anyone or anywhere else to go. You’re my only lead, so I just... I wanted to actually talk to you.”

“You don’t know me,” Crow pointed out.

“I don’t—but I get the feeling I can trust you.” He needs to pick out his words carefully. “If not, well...it’s better than rotting away without a clue.”

Crow’s lips curl into the slightest smile. It only reaches his eyes enough to be a mere flicker in that intense gaze. It’s here that he’s starting to piece together that whatever relationship he had with Crow was more complicated than he feared.

And he is...afraid. For some reason, he’s very afraid.

“...can I get your name first? I want something to call you.”

“What have you been calling me in your head?”

It’s annoying how afraid he is of someone who both interests and frustrates him. More so when this person flusters him as well.

“Because of the drawing, I think of you as Crow.” Why does he feel so embarrassed to admit this? Urgh. “It was that or Stalker. But if you insist on being obtuse, I suppose I can settle for Weirdo.”

And Crow—Stalker, Weirdo, Crow, Someone Important laughs at him.

It’s such an attractive laugh. What the hell.

“I guess it’s not that weird,” the person admits, but then, he sweeps down, taking his hand and gripping it tight between his gloved fingers. “I’m Akira. Kurusu Akira. That drawing—was supposed to be you. You’re Crow.”

...I’m Crow?

That—that actually sounded right.

That sounded right.

“You do know me!” he bursts out with, gripping Akira’s hand greedily and eagerly in return. Akira does flinch, gets red in the face, and he’s too excited to take satisfaction from that. Finally, finally—! “Then, you’ll help me right? Akira? You—you know me. I-I’m not asking you to take me in, but...god, I feel like I’ve been waiting for something for so long. And your flowers—!” He needs to take a breath. Ah, was he perhaps gripping Akira’s hand too tight? “China asters—those mean recollection. In...in flower language. And change... It’s...”

It’s...strange. What was our relationship? Well, I can figure it out. I can find out. Finally, I have somewhere to go, someone to start with.

“Whatever’s between us, it’s something significant,” he presses avidly. “So—you’ll help me, right? Akira?”

He’s pleading. For some reason, he wants to beg. Grovel, even. Especially with the stricken way Akira looks at him.

“...Akira?”

Akira blinks. Why—does he look like he wants to cry? And yet, Akira’s expression still steels in resolve.

“Obviously...I’ll help you. I’m sorry I took so long, Crow. I’m sorry...” Akira looks as though there’s more to say, more to do, but he settles with this for now. “For however long it takes, I’ll help you. Even if you never get your memory back.”

He has thought about just accepting the name Taro and carving out a new name for himself. For some reason, he was never able to go through with it. And now faced with Akira, he realizes he never would. It turns out that he’s someone who hates the idea of giving up.

“I’ll do everything I can, Akira. Now. I have questions. And I expect you to answer them.”

“It’s going to be complicated,” Akira says gently as a warning, and he does hate that a little. He’s not sure if he hates the tender way Akira regards him. For now...

For now...

“We have all the time in the world, so we might as well start somewhere.”

#shuake #akeshu #goro akechi #akechi goro #akira kurusu #Magi fics #rivalmance

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