#elias being the typical stuck-up

[justagalwhowrites]

Lavender - Ch. 12

A mass casualty incident results in a close call as Joel tries to figure out what he can live with. A continuation of Lavender Ch. 1 - 11, found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Canon typical violence. Whole fic is very violent and smutty so Minors DNI, 18+ only. No use of Y/N.

Length: 4.8k

Tuesday, April 7, 2009 - 6 months later 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Andrew was leaned back in the office chair behind the front counter of the clinic, looking up at you. “I’m pretty sure you could set that man on fire and he’d still worship the ground you walk on.”

“There’s something wrong,” you shook your head, perched on the desk, your nails rapping on the underside of the table top. “Something’s going on, I can feel it. It’s like he’s pulling away from me…” 

It was a slow day in the clinic. You’d had three patients in three hours. But you weren’t about to SAY it was a slow day in the clinic, that was a sure fire way to get flooded with emergent patients and make it so you were stuck here all night. 

Of course, the way things had been with Joel lately, being stuck there all night might be a bonus.

“You could try actually talking to him you know,” he said. “Maybe ask if there’s something wrong…” 

“Is that what you and Jess do?” You teased. “Talk about your feelings like adults?” 

He laughed.

“Adults seems like a strong word for it but,” he shrugged. “Have you ever told him anything that happened? Anything at all? Or have you just tried pretending as though we still live sometime before the world ended?” 

“You’ve become more of a smartass in your 20s,” you glared at him. He snorted and you sighed. “You know, Joel and I dated for three years before. Two of those were long distance. And that was somehow easier than this.” 

“Well his kid died and you’re hiding everything that traumatized you when the world ended so that’s part of it,” he said dryly. 

“Jess needs to stop giving you psych major advice,” you muttered. 

“No, the QZ just needs a therapist so you can go work your shit out.” 

Marta, a girl who had just started working at the clinic came and leaned on the counter. 

“Man, it’s slow today,” she sighed, looking bored. You and Andrew both groaned. She frowned. “What?”

“You’ve cursed us,” Andrew muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Whatever happens in the next 10 minutes? On you.” 

“What’s going to happen?” She scoffed. “It’s been dead all day.” 

“Stop making it worse!” You groaned. 

“It’ll be fine,” she said. “You’ll see.” 

Nine minutes later, a security guard from the main gate ran up, out of breath and splattered in blood. 

“Convoy from Atlanta got swarmed,” he was panting. “Need medical, everyone you can spare.” 

“Shit,” Marta said. 

You ran and grabbed the go bags of emergency supplies, sending Marta to go grab Dr. Lee and Dr. Elias from home. 

“Kristen,” you yelled to the one remaining nurse in the floor as you ran out the door. “Hold down the fort and try to keep everyone alive until we get back!”

“Dammit Marta,” she muttered, sitting down at the front desk and glaring at the door, almost daring anyone else to come in. 

You, Dr. Martin, Lucy - another nurse - and Andrew ran clear across the QZ, loaded down with medical equipment until you reached the front gate. 

It was absolute chaos. People were bloody, moaning. Someone - a kid - was screaming. Your ears rang, tension growing in your chest. You dug your nails into your palm, grounding yourself, and took over. 

“Set up a supply station there,” you pointed to an alcove of a building that should provide shelter in case a spring ran decided to move through. “Andrew, you’re lead on triage with Lucy. Lucy, you handle everything yellow down. Move yellow to the clinic when you can. Flag Martin or I for orange and higher. Security can do infection scans once we’re through triage unless there’s a visible bite, overnight holding for green and blue transfers at the main gate, we don’t have the kind of room at the clinic for this…”

“This is fucked,” Andrew looked out at the 100 or so people. 

“And it was a slow day,” you muttered. 

You all jumped into action, Andrew and Lucy only getting one or two patients in before flagging more emergent injuries. One person had part of a steering column lodged in their stomach and you got security to rush him to the clinic to get stabilized until you could get there. Another had an almost totally amputated arm and you completed the amputation in the field with Andrew holding him down. You stitched chest wounds closed, set exposed bones. Blood that wasn’t yours was on your face. Lee and Elias showed up about an hour in.

“We’ve got it,” Martin said, working on a head lac that looked like it came from a skull fracture. “Go handle surgical.” 

You just gave him a nod, racing back across the QZ and directly into a scrub room. 

Kristen had managed to stabilize the patient with part of a car in his stomach - her trauma nurse skills from before the outbreak being infinitely handy in the QZ - and it took you hours to patch him up. 

You were relieved that Martin was back when you got done, working with other patients that he’d stabilized in the field. 

“They’re doing infection testing now,” he said by way of greeting. “These folks are cleared to go into holding but there’s a lot of failures at the gate. Can you run some euth kits down?” 

You glanced at the clock. It was pushing midnight. You were still covered in blood. 

“Yeah,” you sighed. “I’ve got it.” 

You gathered the supplies and ran, again, back across the QZ to the gate. Your legs were tired. You wanted to just lay down and sleep in the road. Or at least have the luxury of trudging to the place where you’d be killing people. But you had to run. If you didn’t move quickly, people who could have been spared the horror of turning would need to be shot instead of humanely injected, putting them out of their misery before the misery truly began. 

You still hated it. 

Security directed you to holding. There were about two dozen people who were pinging as infected. You gave them a quick examination - confirming a bite - and tried to tell them what was about to happen in a way that wasn’t horrific. But how did you tell someone you were about to kill them - even if it would be painless, even if it would be a mercy - and not have it be horrifying? 

Some were numb, just nodding along. You asked if they had anything they wanted to say, anyone they wanted to leave a message for. Few did. Others were inconsolable, screaming and sobbing. You stayed with them until they fell unconscious - which only took a few minutes - and tried to set your feelings aside until you were done. 

It was after 2 a.m. when you reached the teenaged girl’s room. 

You saw her through the pane of glass in the door first. She was sitting on the bed, staring into space. Her face was wet. 

“Oh no,” you breathed. You couldn’t help it. You knocked once and then opened the door. 

“Hi there,” you gave her a sad smile. 

“You’re here to kill me aren’t you?” She asked, her eyes wide. 

“I need to check you over first,” you said. “Confirm…” 

She stuck her arm out, a bite mark at her wrist. 

“Then yes,” you sighed. “I’m here to kill you.” 

She sniffed once and then nodded. 

“I can tell you it’ll be better this way,” you said softly. “I’ve seen people turn. It’s hard. This is better. Like falling asleep after a really long, hard day.” 

“I don’t want to die,” she was crying. “I didn’t even do anything yet, no one is going to remember me yet…” 

“What about your family?” You asked, cautiously taking a seat beside her. She didn’t object. 

“My parents died out there,” she nodded toward the gate. “Before we made it this far. We were supposed to be coming here, FEDRA sent my dad here…” 

You nodded slowly. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Bethany,” she sniffed. “Beth.” 

“Beth,” you said. She nodded. “Would it be OK if I remembered you? I’d like to remember you.” 

“You don’t even know me,” her chin quivered. 

“We have a few minutes,” you said, glancing at her wrist. “Tell me some things about you. How old are you?” 

“I’m 13,” she said. 

“What do you like to do?” You asked.

She paused for a moment. 

“I played soccer, before,” she said. Her tears were slowing. “I scored three goals in the last game I remember. My dad called it a hat trick.” 

“That’s impressive,” you smiled. You brushed some of her hair back from her face. “You must be good.” 

“Yeah,” she nodded, smiling a little. “Yeah, I am.” 

“What else do you like?” You asked. “What makes you feel something?” 

“I write poems,” she said, looking down at her lap. 

“Poems?” You asked. 

“They’re not very good,” she shrugged. “But I like them. They help me think, understand what I’m feeling. I’m not great at making them rhyme, though.” 

“Poems don’t have to rhyme,” you said. “They just need to capture a feeling. Do your poems capture a feeling?” 

“I think so,” she shrugged. 

“Then they’re good.” 

You glanced at her wrist again, the signs of Cordyceps working their way up her arm to her brain. 

“I need to inject you now, Beth,” you said. “You’ll be awake for a few minutes after that. We can keep talking if you want.” 

“Will you stay with me after?” She asked. “I don’t want to die alone…” 

“I’ll stay,” you said. She nodded. “What’s one thing you’ll miss about Atlanta? Did you live there a while?” 

“Since I was nine,” she sniffed. You prepped the syringe. “I liked the weather. It was always warm there.” 

“Just a small poke,” you said, pressing the needle into her arm and pushing down the plunger. You pulled it back and massaged the spot on her arm gently. “I bet it is always warm there. I went to college in Texas, it was always warm there. It was nice. I miss that, too.” 

She looked at you. 

“If I lie down, will you hold me?” She asked. You nodded. She stretched out on the cot and you lay behind her, tugging her back against you. She snuggled into your body. “Can you stay until I…” 

“I’ll stay,” you said quietly. “Is there anything you want to tell anyone? I can find someone, get them a message…” 

“My friend, Cara, in Atlanta,” she said. “Can you just tell her goodbye for me? That I’ll miss her?” 

“Is she 13 like you?” You asked. She just nodded. “I can find her.” 

“Thank you,” she said. She was quiet for a minute. “I think I’m going to miss the sky. I always liked the sun and the clouds and the stars. It was so big. And the moon. I always wanted to be someone who got to walk on the moon.” 

“It’s a good goal,” you said. You could feel some of the tension leaving her body. “You’d be a good astronaut."

She nodded a little. 

“I’m getting tired,” she said. “Really tired…” 

“It’s OK Beth,” you kept holding her. 

“There are poems, in my bag,” she said, her voice fading. “Can you keep one for me?” 

“I’ll keep them all,” you said. You held her closer, stroked her hair. “It’s OK, Beth. It’s OK.” 

You held her until she stopped breathing. 

You were numb as you gently pulled yourself from her body, going to her bag in the corner. Inside there was a notebook. The pages were crinkled and the cover was peeling but it was almost filled with poems. Your eyes couldn’t seem to focus enough to actually read any, but you held it to your chest and went to the next room. 

You weren’t paying as much attention as you should have been when security let you into the next room. You were focused on not crying, trying to treat the person you were about to kill with the dignity they deserved. 

“Hi there,” you said. 

He turned toward you and ran, arms outstretched, teeth bared. It took you a moment to understand what was happening, process it fully. You barely had a chance to scream before he collided with you. 

You tried to hold him back but he was large and you were tired, your arms giving out quickly as your hands instinctively clutched the notebook and the euthanasia kit. The man’s mouth got near your throat just as security burst in the door and shot him, covering you with blood. They pulled him off you and screamed for something but you couldn’t really understand what. It was like they were speaking a different language. They pulled you up and moved you to the cot and you sat there, staring into space for a moment. You set the kit and the notebook down as one of the guards gently took your chin and tilted your head, examining your neck. 

“No!” 

Andrew’s voice snapped you out of your own head. You blinked for a moment, surprised to see him there, surprised to hear him screaming. He tried to come in the room but a guard held him back. 

“She’s not…” he was straining in the guard’s arms. “You’re wrong!” 

It confused you for a moment. You weren’t sure what he was yelling about, it didn’t make sense. 

“We haven’t tested yet,” the guard said. “It doesn’t look like a distinct bite, it could just have been a cut in the scuffle and it’s nothing…” 

You frowned, your hand cupping your throat. There was a sharp pain at the side. Your hand had a smear of blood when you pulled it away. 

“I got bit?” You looked up at the guards for a moment. 

For a moment, part of you was relieved. If you’d been bitten, you could just be euthanized and that was that. You wouldn’t have to keep trying anymore. No more days where you killed more people than you saved, no more wondering what the child you lost would be like now, no more trying to figure out why the person you loved more than anything else was growing distant. 

“We don’t know that,” the guard said quickly. “We’ll get a scanner in here in just a second…” 

As if on cue, Elias ran in, eyes wide. 

“They don’t know yet,” Andrew said quickly. 

“I’ve got a scanner,” Elias said, pushing past the guard who was busy holding Andrew in place. He all but ran to you, kneeling at your side and taking your arm. You felt the prick as it collected a sample and waited a moment. The scanner glowed green. Elias’ shoulders relaxed. 

“Negative,” he held it up to show you. 

“Thank fuck,” Andrew sighed from the doorway.

“It could be a false negative,” you said.

“It’s not,” he said, voice certain, his eyes soft. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen Elias like this. He’d taken you under his wing, worked with you for years. He was probably the closest thing you had to a father. You just hadn’t realized he might have felt the same way about you. “You’ll be fine, hear me? You’re going to be fine.”  

“Do we move her to holding?” One of the guards asked. “We can’t leave her in here with…” 

“We can take her to the clinic,” Andrew said quickly. “She should be at the clinic.” 

You barely remembered the walk across the QZ. Your legs were heavy. Andrew’s arm was around your shoulder. There were guards around you. You were still covered in blood. 

“I’m going to go get Joel,” Andrew said from the other side of the bars as soon as you were in holding. 

“No,” you shook your head. “No, don’t… that’s OK.” 

“He’d want to be here,” he frowned. 

“It’s fine,” you said. “Don’t drag him down here, it’s just 12 hours, I’ll be fine. He doesn’t even need to know, he has to work early tomorrow anyway…” 

“Can’t have you back here,” the guard said to Andrew. 

“Oh come on,” he protested but the guard shook his head. Andrew narrowed his eyes at him. “Fine.” He looked to you. “You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine. I’ll be back here in 12 hours. You’ll be fine.” 

You smiled a little and nodded, waiting until he left before you let exhaustion and numbness consume you. 

***

“Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot, Joel,” Tommy snapped as they sat in their sparsely furnished living room, beers in hand. 

“It hasn’t gotten better,” Joel replied, taking a drink. “I don’t think I can keep doin’ this.” 

“At some point that girl is gonna stop forgiving you for being a dumbass and she’s not gonna take you back,” Tommy warned. Joel sighed. 

“Maybe she should,” he said, swirling the beer in his glass. 

For Joel, adjusting to QZ life had been shit. He wasn’t used to existing with people anymore, functioning with rules and not just taking what he needed when he needed it. He’d blown the three chances you’d gotten him for permanent job placements. He’d been so bored doing building repair he’d snapped at his coworkers one too many times. His manager at the warehouse job had been a fucking jackass and didn’t take too kindly to Joel telling him so. The third one really hadn’t been his fault, a guy on the delivery crew he was on cat called a girl who couldn’t have been more than 14. Joel decked him in the middle of the street. 

“Don’t know why I can’t just come work in the clinic with you,” he muttered one evening, sitting at your kitchen table.  

“Really?” You’d raised your eyebrows at him, incredulous. 

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “You must have something that needs doing.” 

“Well yeah,” you laughed a little. “But Joel, come on. You have no medical experience or interest in getting any. Your bedside manner is shit….” 

You trailed off. He waited for you to finish. 

“And?” He asked. You sighed. 

“And…” you looked at the ceiling for a moment before looking at him again. “I helped set that clinic up. It means a lot to me. I don’t want to damage it by convincing my boss to hire my boyfriend only to have him punch the first guy who looks at me funny.” 

He ground his teeth before getting up and going for the door. 

“Joel,” you sighed. “Please don’t…” 

“Should go check on Tommy,” he muttered. “Haven’t seen ‘em in a few days.” 

He stalked out and didn’t come back for two days. He’d been stuck doing odd jobs ever since. 

The unease at being away from you hadn’t gotten any better. Every time you weren’t near, he felt sick. His chest got tight, his stomach turned. He couldn’t handle it. He knew he couldn’t live his life glued to your side, always touching you, always knowing you were OK. He knew that. But he wasn’t sure he could live his life loving you, either. It was too scary, too painful. It was like his mind was bracing for the worst, all the time. Anything at all was better than being caught off guard by losing you. It was self preservation, trying to not love you. He wouldn’t be capable of surviving your loss. It would be safer to cut things off when he had control. He’d stay alive if he could just fucking do it. Love was just too big a risk. 

“You really just want to live in misery for the rest of your goddamn life?” Tommy asked, getting worked up. “Because that seems to be what you’re gunnin’ for.” 

“I just want to not be afraid all the fuckin’ time,” he snapped. “I want something quiet and easy, something that isn’t overwhelming all the goddamn time. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

“Fuckin’ moron,” Tommy muttered, downing the rest of his beer and going to bed. 

Joel stayed up for a while after, staring into nothing, trying to imagine what life without you would be. He could still keep an eye on you. Check in, make sure you were safe. But if there was some distance, maybe he could pull himself away from you. Have some hope of disentangling himself from you enough that it wouldn’t destroy him if you got hurt. It was the end of the world, you were going to get hurt at some point. You were safer in the QZ than outside it, the life you’d built here was relatively safe. But at some point, you’d get attacked by a patient, piss off FEDRA, get bit by an errant infected that had worked its way inside the walls of the QZ. It was coming. He could feel it coming. He needed to be far enough away from you when it happened that it didn’t kill him. Otherwise what had been the fucking point of all this? He had to live for Tommy at the very least. Keep his kid brother’s nose clean. He couldn’t do that and lose you, not like this. 

He got up early, worked a shift dealing with some sewer maintenance. Wednesdays were shorter days for you so he decided to go to your place after getting cleaned up. He hadn’t figured out how to extract himself from you yet, not really. He used that as is excuse for still showing up at your place almost every damn day. It was self preservation. He needed to be near you until he could figure out how to not be. 

But there was something off about your apartment when he walked in. The air was oddly stale, like it hadn’t been disturbed in more than a day. The note he’d written to tell you he was planning to sleep at his place was in the spot where he’d left it on your table. It was like you hadn’t even touched it. You hadn’t been home. 

Oh God, you hadn’t been home. 

He ran out so fast he had to double back to lock your doors. He took the stairs two at a time, the fist that wrapped around his chest when you weren’t near gripping tighter. He ran for the clinic. Fuck, he hoped you made it to the clinic yesterday. If he hadn’t, he’d have to rip the fucking city apart to find you. He would, he didn’t give a fuck, but a starting point… he needed a starting point. 

He ripped the doors open. Andrew wasn’t at the front desk, instead a woman he’d seen in passing but whose name he’d never bothered to learn was sitting there. 

“Mr. Miller,” she called but he ignored her, going for the doors leading to the back. He yanked them open and started checking exam rooms. No sign of you. He yelled your name, looking around for some sign of you, someone who knew where you were. The woman from the desk caught up to him. 

“Mr. Miller,” she said. He looked down at her. “She’s back in holding…” 

His legs damn near gave out. 

“Holding?” He fought to keep his voice steady. His head spun. The grip on his chest got tighter. “What… how…” 

“There was an incident early this morning,” she checked her watch. “She should be free to go any minute now. Andrew is waiting too…” 

“Where?” He asked, looking around. He’d spent almost no time back in the exam area, he didn’t know where shit was. The woman pointed him down a hall and he ran for it until he almost ran into you, tucked into Andrew’s side with his arm around you, a blanket over you. You were covered in blood, staring straight ahead like you were in a daze. 

“Good of you to fucking show up,” Andrew glared at him. 

“What happened?” He asked. 

“Convoy from Atlanta got overrun by infected,” he muttered, continuing to guide you through the clinic. “We were out doing what we could until well after fuckin’ midnight. Guards said she didn’t sleep either… Around 3 a.m. she was doing euthanasias when one turned earlier than they expected. We thought it might have gotten her on the throat, the scanner was negative but there was a scratch… She was already so covered in blood we weren’t sure what it was from…” 

“Oh Baby,” he went to hold your face but you flinched away from him, clutching something in your arms closer to your chest. A notebook. He frowned. “Can I see that?” 

He went to take it from you but you pulled it away. 

“She was like Jessica,” your voice was flat. “I killed her, too…” 

Joel frowned, looking from you to Andrew. 

“Shit,” he muttered. “Let’s just get her home…” 

The three of you got odd looks from everyone around you, two large men helping the dazed, bloody woman home. No one dared stop them, though. Joel let you into your apartment. Andrew peeled the blanket off you slowly. You were still in the clothes you’d worn the day before but they were caked in blood and mud. You clutched the notebook to your chest. 

“Hey,” Andrew said, brushing your hair back. “Can I leave you with him? Is that OK? Will you be OK?” 

You frowned a little but nodded. 

“Good,” he kissed your forehead. “I need to go see Jess, give her an update… Don’t shut down on me, OK?” 

You nodded again. He looked to Joel. 

“She goes totally non-responsive?” He said. “Come get me. Immediately.”

“Non-responsive?” Joel asked, keeping a hand on you. 

“I’ve only seen her do it once,” he said. “It took a lot to get her there but last night was fucking awful…” 

“I’ve got her,” Joel said. Andrew looked him up and down. 

“Fuckin’ better,” he muttered, giving you a last look before turning to go. 

Joel needed to get you cleaned up. He tried to extract the notebook from your grasp but you held tight. 

“Baby, you have to let this go,” he said gently. 

“I told her I’d keep it,” you said softly. He wasn’t sure he’d seen you blink yet. “I promised…” 

“You can have it back after you shower,” he said. Your hold on the notebook loosened and he was able to pull it away. He steered you to the bathroom and turned on the water as he slowly, carefully removed your bloody clothes. 

“She was like Jessica,” you said again. Your voice was quiet. 

“Who was?” He asked, hesitant to push you too far. 

“Beth,” your eyes met his for the first time. “I killed her, too. She wanted to live, too.” 

Joel got your shirt over your head. 

“Who was Jessica?” He asked quietly. Your eyes searched his for a moment. 

“Louisa’s daughter,” you said eventually. “She called me after you did that night. She was afraid. Louisa had turned, she needed help. I picked her up. I killed… There was a neighbor. She had a collie named Rebel, Louisa used to sing ‘Rebel Rebel’ when they’d walk by the house… She’d turned, too. I killed her, got Jessica out. 

“We were OK for a while,” you were staring at Joel’s chest now but it was like he wasn’t even there. “Found Andrew in the woods. But, on my birthday, we got overrun by infected… I held them off but one came from the side, got her from there. We were so close to a check point, they saw the bite, they killed her… I didn’t see it coming, not the infected, not them shooting her… She was so scared, Joel. I held her, tried to make it better… She didn’t want to die and I let her… I told her I’d keep her safe and I let her die…” 

Joel pulled you into his chest, his arms going around you so tight he should have been worried that he was going to break you but he just couldn’t hold you close enough. 

“It’s OK Baby,” he said, voice cracking. He was drowning memories of that night. Running with Sarah, promising to protect her, feeling her die in his arms… You were still covered in blood. 

He finished getting you undressed and helped you into the shower. He stepped in with you, fully clothed. He carefully tipped your head back, rinsing the blood from your hair before moving on to the rest of you. 

“It’s OK Baby,” he said again. 

It took time to get you cleaned up. He helped you into sweats and put you to bed when you got out of the shower. He climbed in beside you and you wrapped around him, clinging to him. He looked down at you, his chest still tight. You were going to be the death of him. He could feel it. If he didn’t get some distance soon, loving you was going to kill him.

A/N: I did warn you that drama was coming. I'm sorry to say that things are going to get worse for Joel and our FMC for a while before they get better. But they will get better EVENTUALLY. It'll just take some time. And some plot points.

Thank you again for reading and interacting! Reading your thoughts and feelings about this piece is such a joy, I appreciate each and every one of you. So much love!

[redwolf17]

How do you go about making small side OC characters like many of the ladies that Sansa has? Do you create them to fit the story, or move the story around them? As an aspiring writer, any advice would be appreciated, your work is exemplary and worthy of study

Awww, thanks 🥰

Hmmm, it's a bit of both? I wanted Sansa's ladies to be spread across the regions of Westeros. I began by considering which houses Sansa would want to honor/keep close, houses who were not already on the small council or represented amongst Olyvar's knights/pages/squires. I had plenty of options for each kingdom; for the Reach, I picked a Hightower as a nod to a reader who is fond of them.

Denyse Hightower and Valena Toland aren't technically OCs; they exist in canon. Usually ladies-in-waiting were unmarried and young-ish, but as I didn't want a pack of teenage girls and women in their early 20s, I killed off Denyse Hightower and Valena Toland's husbands. Lady Waynwood canonically has multiple unnamed granddaughters; after checking the wiki, I found that her granddaughters could plausibly be anywhere from 1-30ish, and decided to make her namesake Anya a maid of 20. Gael Celtigar, Roelle Cafferen, and Elaine Lydden were made up from whole cloth, and are also more typical ages for ladies-in-waiting.

At that point, I just sort of mused over what range of personalities I wanted to include. Denyse Hightower being a bit scholarly/academic was irresistible, and Valena's characterization is based on the limited stuff we get in TWOW sample chapter. In TWQ, Roelle had been briefly mentioned before at the masked ball; I decided she would be stuck on Red Ronnet despite him being a fuckboy. The Waynwoods are noted to be homely, hence Anya getting that short end of the stick; her personality is relatively steady/mild.

Gael Celtigar ended up being a bit on the hormonal/horny end of the teenage girl spectrum because I did *not* want Elia Uller to stick out as the only female member of the retinue with an "improper" sexual appetite. (Thanks for that, btw, GRRM, it was totally necessary to have 13-14 year old Elia actively lusting after and pursuing grown men in the TWOW sample chapter, not like you've already made a bad habit of oversexualizing the Dornish UGH). Gael is otherwise a perfectly lovely young lady; god forbid teenage girls experience normal desire :/ dang medieval setting

I don't have any arcs planned for any of the ladies; their characterization will naturally expand/deepen as they pop up in future chapters and their personalities unfold to me, so to speak. It will be a mix of what suits the character and what is necessary for the story, if that makes sense?

Hope that helps! 💕💕💕

[fictionkinfessions]

Anyways double confession here is me ranting like crazy about the amount of shit I remember, whether through it being a part of my original lore my creator made or through my own formed memories

(TW: Rape, (pseudo)incest, injury/limb loss, abuse, abuse of autistic people for the way they act/period-typical ableism, grooming, period-typical homophobia)

ANYWAYS. I am a TMA oc, that's my first statement.

Im technically immortal/ageless, and my creator started my story largely in 1900s. I met Jonah at a party my parents had forced me to, and due to being drunk and incredibly lonely due to the fact I was a a hotdog magician and had not really been capable of getting into any of kind of relationship. We ended up becoming very close to each other and he gave me a way to properly go no-contact with my parents which was a big feat.

I'd also lost one of my childhood lovers to the Church, as they'd found out and killed him so yyayyy.. /s

Jonah was to say the least a terrible fucking person, and had raped me before as well as just generally being physically abusive, though I was no better and equally as bad. He also often would restrain me during meltdowns I would have from overstimulation, which was shitty smh,,, terrible terrible man

At some point we were really stupid and ended up getting hunted by,, well Hunters, and we made it out relatively okay besides my right arm being ripped off (FUCK MY CREATOR FOR FORCING ME TO BE LEFT HANDED IT WAS THE 1900s BITCH)

ANYWAYS Uh

Another thing in my source was that Avatars were technically entirely separate from Humans in a way, and when you begin to become an Avatar you are considered a "child" by Avatar standards, and can be in a way "imprinted" on by Older Avatars making you effectively their child in a way. I stuck around with Jonah despite the way he treated me even up to him being Elias, and I would often bring Jon messages from Elias(Jonah) whenever he needed me to. I was pretty much seen as Elias's "Helper" in a way.

Whenever Jon had begun becoming an Avatar, I guess the best way to describe my reaction was maternal?? I felt really bad he was being left to flounder, and accidentally 'imprinted' on him in a way. I did the same to Martin a long while later when he was starting to isolate himself due to Peter, and then later went ahead and told both of them. Except I also often flirted with both of them and sometimes very explicitly, so add that and the fact that by all technicalities, at least in Avatar terms, they were my children.. yeah it was a bit strange.

Despite this I did end up in a weird form of relationship with those two so. Yay?

Anyways I love how my entire source is just horrifically "Problematic" (in the eyes of certain ppll….) and I also get to bully the fuck out of The Archivist for making me Oh and I'm FUCKING FRENCH IN MY SOURCE

Good lord sorry for dumping all that here LORDY I forgot how bad it was

(TMA OC Fictive)

[magnetaxel]

( TIMOTHEE CHALAMET, CIS MAN, HE/HIM ) AXEL CAMPBELL the TWENTY-SEVEN year old is known as THE MAGNET within the group. they are known to be PASSIONATE and CONDESCENDING  which makes sense when you think about how HE SPENT TWO YEARS IN A CULT but i guess we’ll find out for ourselves.

✖ 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬

↳ caard | introduction ↳ connections | plot ideas ↳ playlist ↳ pinterest ↳ musings ↳ visage

✖ 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐬

full   name.   axel elias campbell

nicknames.   ax

age.   twenty - seven 

date   of   birth.   january 31, 1999  

place   of   birth.   california

gender.   cis - man 

pronouns.   he / him

sexual   orientation.   bisexual  

insipired by.  pactrick verona ( 10 things i hate about you ), sam weir ( freaks and geeks ), the narrator and sometimes tyler durden ( fight club ), holden caufield ( the catcher in the rye ), andrew neiman ( whiplash ), tom ripley ( the talented mr. ripley ), chandler bing ( friends )

✖ 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

los angeles. there was nothing more axel hated that have been born and spend the first years of his life in this place. the kind of place where everyone's got their own script, their own lines rehearsed to perfection. yet, behind the glittering lights and palm trees he found nothing but emptiness, like a soundstage after the cameras stopped rolling. his abhorrence for it burned fiercely within him, especially considering he hailed from the part he despised the most: the affluent enclave.

thankfully, it only lasted ten years. michigan felt like a much better fit for axel. while not perfect, it offered a sense of space where he could disappear for days without bumping into anyone—a habit his parents despised since he often used it as an excuse to escape. but for axel, those moments brought a temporary peace, easing his aversion to so many other things.

axel's teenage years are a sore spot for his parents. a staunch rebel, he defied the constraints imposed by his family's wealth and status. despite being a bright student, he disregarded authority and boundaries at school, landing himself in the vice principal's office for truancy often. unlike typical truants, axel wasn't out indulging in vices; instead, he spent his days in the library reading or dozing off. while his behavior nearly led to expulsion on multiple occasions, daddy's money always managed to secure his place in school.

despite his introverted nature, axel had a natural charm that endeared him to others. he remained puzzled by this, but people were consistently drawn to him, leading to his popularity in high school. this popularity often clashed with his preference for solitude. while his twin brother reveled in hosting weekend parties, axel preferred retreating to his room to play drums or bury himself in a good book.

axel wasn't exactly the life of the party, but when he decided to join in, he had a way of turning the gathering into something memorable.

after graduating, axel found himself torn between the universities that had accepted him. ultimately, he chose to stay in michigan, pursuing a major in comparative literature and a minor in linguistics. however, a year before completing his degree, he quietly left without offering much explanation. he vaguely informed his parents that he intended to embark on a backpacking journey around the world, disappearing from most people's lives for two years. recently returning, he resumed his studies at the university but found himself adrift. that's why, despite the volatile nature of his relationship with aaron, he agreed to join him at his lake house.

growing up with ace as his twin was a mixed bag for axel. on one hand, having a built-in best friend and partner in crime was a source of comfort and joy. yet, ace's deep understanding of him also made axel feel exposed and vulnerable at times. their brotherly relationship was tumultuous, marked by highs of friendship and lows of conflict. currently, their bond was strained due to axel's unexplained departure. oftentimes, axel feels stuck in a perpetual tug-of-war between individuality and unity, never quite sure which side he belonged to.

✖ 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲

isfj, type 9 / the peacemaker (enneagram), melancholic (temperament), chaotic good, aquarius, ravenclaw.

for some reason he's charming, which he sees more as a disadvantage than a virtue. even when he tries to be obnoxious people don't take it that way.

much to his chagrin, he also has a naturing and protective personality. he struggles to say no. and if he trusts you and considers you a friend, believe it that you will have his loyalty till the end.

a fucking snob. not about money but he will judge you over your taste in music, movies and books.

while friendly and approachable, he can also be quite reserved and private, especially when it comes to sharing feelings.

very sarcastic, he tries not to be but he just can't help it. also a tad cynical.

typically laid-back and easygoing who prefers to avoid conflict and drama.

deeply impulsive.

✖ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

axel has been playing drums since he was five years old. his parents realize he would not be good at sports so they decided to channel his energy to music. much to his chagrin, he picked the most annoying instrument to have at a house.

learned russian just for fun but he can also speak french.

his guilty pleasure is watching reality shows. he's so ashamed for it.

no one knows this except for 3 people but he's extremely claustrophobic. the 3 people who know are the ones that got stuck with him on an elevator.

hates vegetables. he really does, he can't stand them. green juice? fuck that, should be illegal.

he's trying to quit smoking so that's why he always has tic tacs or gum with him to ease the anxiety.

can't do math for shit. so i bet he's been scammed several times with his change.

has a spotify playlist that lasts 700 hours of music.

the cult thing... if you've read the rumor that shawn mendes was in one, it was that one.

he was shocked when aaron d-worded, but didn't cry. i'm not saying he didn't care, he's just like well...

✖ 𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐧

the magnet

this is the leader, the one people always look to. he just always seems to have the answers and be protective of those he loves. this muse and aaron often butted heads over who was really leading the group. they are the fraternal twin to the spitfire. they are originally from california but moved here at 10 and have stayed in michigan.

[scruffyplayssonic]

Are the ArchieSonic comics actually an 80's/90's syndicated cartoon? Episode 64-65: TwoMulti-part finale (part 5: Espio the Chameleon)

Welcome back to my look at the ArchieSonic comic series, and how it shared a lot of the same story tropes as a typical ‘80s or ‘90s syndicated cartoon! Today I’m continuing my look at the various finales that were seen throughout the life of the ArchieSonic series, and same as last time, this will cover the final three issues of Knuckles the Echidna: #30 - 32. While Knuckles was busy trying to fend off a bloodthirsty hunter and a very, very angry gorilla, Espio the Chameleon had his own problems. He was the star of the B-stories of these final three issues: Hiding in Plain Sight, The Best of Friends, and The Worst of Enemies.

The story began with Julie-Su on horseback (or streaking pasha-back, whatever), searching for Knuckles. She hadn’t been able to find him, but did come across Espio, Mighty, and newcomer Ray the Flying Squirrel, who was moving to the Floating Island to live with Mighty after being rescued from an alternate dimension. Espio didn’t really have anything better to do so he offered to help Julie-Su look for Knuckles. After awhile Espio spotted something that Julie-Su didn’t, and had her pull over.

It was another chameleon named Barney, who had been injured and had been camouflaging himself for protection. Barney lost consciousness after warning Espio that he’d been attacked by something shiny and hard, and Julie-Su loaded him up on her pasha and took him to get medical attention.

With the outsiders gone, Espio prompted the other camouflaged chameleons to uncloak. One of them, Liza, offered to show Espio what had happened, which led to a nasty surprise:

That’s right, that guy. Who’s suddenly Espio’s best friend. Some of you may be asking, “Er, who is this guy again?” and that’s a fair question. Valdez was still something of a mystery back then too, quite honestly. He was introduced in the Sonic comics rather than the Knuckles ones, when Geoffrey St. John had been tasked with putting together a new secret service team to serve the King.

Valdez, a character who had never before been seen in the series, was the first person that Geoffrey recruited. All we found out about him was that he had been living on the Floating Island, he’d had some kind of unknown history with Geoffrey, and Espio had apparently warned him that Geoffrey was trouble.

We then got to see him go through several training missions with the rest of the recruits until the King authorised them all for active service. Their first mission was to go to the Floating Island and try to find out what had happened to Queen Alicia ten years prior.

They eventually uncovered the truth that both she and the never-before mentioned Prince Elias were both still alive, although the Queen was in a cryogenic coma in the medlab in Haven, where the shady Brotherhood of Guardians operated from. They actually discovered Haven about the same time as Knuckles, who was busy uncovering a sleeper agent within the Brotherhood when he bumped into them.

After that Valdez and the rest of the secret service were tasked with missions such as investigating the breakout at the Devil’s Gulag, rescuing Nate Morgan from the villains who had escaped that prison, and evacuating Mobotropolis when Robo-Robotnik (later known as Eggman) attacked the city. During that attack Valdez had told the rest of the team to get the people to safety while he held off Robotnik’s forces, and had vanished after that.

Later in the Girls Rule Super Special Hershey infiltrated Robotropolis to try and find out what had happened to Valdez, only to discover that he had been roboticised.

Is it though, Hershey? Plenty of robians had been able to get their free will back over the last couple of years, and while they were still stuck in a metallic body at least mentally they were themselves again. But no, death is better than that, whatever you say.

Anyway, back to the present with Espio meeting Mecha-Valdez. This second part of the story is the worst one, because it’s mostly one long exposition dump to remind people who this guy was. It also didn’t help that the dialogue was pretty terrible.

Ken Penders thinks this is how people talk. This is not how people talk. And it is definitely not how teenagers talk. Anyway, Valdez had been injured and captured during the invasion of Mobotropolis and Eggman had taken particular interest in him, as he wanted an agent who knew their way around the Floating Island. So he roboticised him and reprogrammed him to have a bit more purpose than the average robot slave.

This was an interesting time in the series when it came to roboticisation. For the most part up until this point, victims of the roboticiser had been just mindless drones who obeyed basic orders. But around this time we started to see some robots such as Valdez and Uncle Chuck that had been programmed to have a semblance of their old personalities and memories. Just, you know. Evil.

So anyway, Valdez wanted the island’s Chaos Emerald, and Espio was reluctant to cooperate.

So Valdez ordered that Liza be roboticised and punched Espio in the face when he tried to intervene.

Valdez then threatened to do the same to all the other captured chameleons unless Espio gave up all the info he had on Knuckles. Espio agreed on the condition that Valdez free everyone else, but Valdez was not willing to give up his hostages and pointed out that Espio wasn’t exactly in the best position to bargain.

So Espio led the robots to, coincidentally, the same place that Knuckles had been fighting for his life in that same issue - Hydro City. And just like Knuckles, he tried to lure his opponent into a trap. The only difference is that his trap actually worked. Espio was able to tackle Valdez into the water and… drown him, I guess?

I’m pretty sure robots don’t need to breathe underwater, but as Kenny P. didn’t bother to show us what actually happened to him, let’s just assume that he thought robots can drown. Espio was then able to free the other chameleons by shooting the one remaining Swatbot guarding them.

Maybe Shadow the Hedgehog’s game should have been about Espio instead.

Awww yeah, cool guys don’t look at explosions. 

The last three issues of Knuckles the Echidna, while far from the worst material that Ken Penders has ever written, are nonetheless a bit of a slog to get through. I’ve already gone over why I don’t like King of the Hill, and this Espio story wasn’t good either. Penders was trying to create this great dramatic moment with Espio’s best friend being turned to the forces of evil, but considering that Espio and Valdez had never been seen interacting in the comics before this point - not even in the issues of Knuckles that Valdez had a significant role in - it just felt hollow. Penders didn’t even bother giving us a flashback showing Espio and Valdez together or anything, not even during the exposition dump that made up 40% of part 2. We were just told that they were best friends and were supposed to accept that. In fact, the only other time we got to see Espio and Valdez together was over a decade later, when Ian Flynn had taken over the series and decided to develop Espio's backstory.

It comes back to what I have said in the past about Penders not using the Chaotix well in the majority of the series, pushing them to the background in favour of Knuckles’ various clones grandfathers. The few times the Chaotix showed up during the Knuckles series they were usually taken captive or guarding the island while Knuckles was away doing more interesting stuff.

Even when they had a three-issue arc named after them, they spent a good portion of it high on Lemon Sundrop Dandelion while Julie-Su and Constable Remington became the focus of the story instead. And Charmy was written out of the series to go be the Bee Prince after some gory panels showing him in surgery. Ick.

And so it was that the Knuckles series ended with Espio walking away from a cool explosion, and the Archie team had to scramble and change their plans now that the book had been cancelled. The Sonic Adventure adaptation was about to kick off at the time Knuckles the Echidna was cancelled, and it had originally been intended to be a massive crossover taking place in both the Sonic and Knuckles books as well as a Sonic Super Special. Knuckles’ segments were instead moved to be the B-stories of the Sonic issues.

Oh Tikal, what did those evil artists do to you? :(

Whether or not those stories were cut down to allow for the reduced page count or they were just broken up across more issues than originally planned, I don’t know. But figuring this whole thing out must have been a logistical nightmare for the Archie team, especially since SEGA certainly weren’t helping. As I recall, the legend is that the ArchieSonic team had to get the game’s story from cover artist Patrick Spaziante, who imported a Japanese Dreamcast and copy of Sonic Adventure. Big oof.

While the finale of the Knuckles comics were pretty bad, things could always be worse. And next time I’m going to look at an instance of that worse when I cover Naugus Games, the finale of the Sonic Super Special quarterly comics! Yaaaaaaay!

…why do I do this to myself? LOL

[a-mag-a-day]

MAG 39 - apple cutting

This is the first time we see Jon perform under immense stress: He does very badly xD

This is the first time we see Martin perform under immense stress: He does very well :)

So Jon is bad at leading. Sasha is just waiting for instructions. Martin actually does lead - hot take: Archivist!Martin? (I know, it's more Web!Martin^^)

I like how the subject of the corkscrew is handled. We don't see anything, it's audio only, so there has to be a workaround in order to let us know, what someone is holding in their hand. Sasha asks Martin if he drinks, he starts explaining it's for the worms, that a knife was not sufficient and that the corkscrew is better. Only in the very last sentence we hear, what item they're talking about. It's great, it feels natural!

While we're at the subject (canon-typical Flesh content warning) - you know what else other than worms can be super easily removed from your body using a corkscrew? The femoral head of your thigh bone after is has been cut off! (I'm not kidding, surgeons use a corkscrew for this when implanting an artificial hip.)

JON "[Softly] Well… thank you." - Jon sounding soft when talking to Martin is everything!

JON "I don’t want to become a mystery. I refuse to become another goddamn mystery." T___T

Jon and Martin's bickering and heckling in this episode is so cute!

Ahhh, finally Jon admits, there are definitely real statements. When I was first listening I was waiting for this moment!

Martin and Sasha freaking out when Tim returns sounds like the sort of cinema audience everyone hates when watching a horror movie XD

TIM "Statement of Joe Spooky, regarding sinister happenings in the downtown old" - oh god I was howling when I first heard this XD

JON "Stay with it, Martin. Tim. What happened to Tim?" - Jon again helping Martin keep his coherence there^^

MARTIN "Push the sceptic thing so hard!?" - Martin snapping is the best, he should do it more often!

JON "Have you ever taken a look at the stuff we have in Artefact Storage? That’s enough to convince anyone. But, but even before that… Why do you think I started working here? It’s not exactly glamorous. I have… I’ve always believed in the supernatural." - ::::´(

JON "Because I’m scared, Martin!. Because when I record these statements it feels… it feels like I’m being watched. I… I lose myself a bit. And then when I come back, it’s like… like if I admit there may be any truth to it, whatever’s watching will… know somehow." - Jon and Martin talking heart to heart is even more cute than the bickering! Also first time explanation, why Jon's such a theatre kid when recording.

JON "Why haven’t you quit?" <.<

MARTIN "Don’t really know. I just am. It didn’t feel right to just leave. I’ve typed up a few resignation letters, but I just couldn’t bring myself to hand them in. I’m trapped here. It’s like I can’t… move on and the more I struggle, the more I’m stuck." - Excuse me, but after that line I was thinking the EXACT same thing as Jon like "OMG… You can't move on? You have unfinished business? You died here???" … Also obviously our first hint about them not being able to leave the Institute.

MARTIN "No, no… it’s just that whatever web these statements have caught you in" - T____T - "well, I’m there too." ::::)

ELIAS "You know how those two are… John puts on a good show, but sometimes I swear he’s worse than Martin." - Elias is already shipping them XD

SASHA "I think John’s got a lighter somewhere." - I always forget that the lighter gets mentioned here. In general I'm bad at keeping track of that thing, I was subconsciously aware that it existed during my entire first listen, but there is a very funny chat with my sister about this when we get to MAG 197.

ELIAS "He’s not smoking again, is he?" - Why does he care? Afraid of too much Web-influence?

ELIAS " I really don’t want to have to find another Archivist so quickly after Gertrude" - capitalist corporate scum…

TIM "Funny story really / Fine! Fine! Gas… bit light-headed. / Although the ones down here are faster for some reason. And quieter." + Tim pulling down his pants - I just freaking love S1 Tim!

That pause after Martin confesses using the recorder for his poetry is amazing XD This episode truly is an office romcom!

Has Sasha ever read the statement of Amy Patel regarding Graham Folger? I get that she couldn't leave while watching the table, it being hypnotic and stuff. But not turning on her heels and running away when suddenly seeing a shadow of a person IN FREAKING ARTEFACT STORAGE after she just told us that this is an awful place with scary and potentionally super dangerous items is such a person-in-horror-fiction-acting-against-all-logic trope xD She and Jon are so much alike xD

SASHA "Show yourself." - Are the actual last words of Sasha. So many people get it wrong and pick "I see you".

Sasha screaming RIP ears again.

I like that echo-y hushed effect for the first words of Not!Sasha.

PRENTISS "Archivist." - My first thought back on my first listen "Huh… She calls him Archivist again… Could be something up with that".

So in general, yeah, amazing episode! Still one of my favorites!

Sasha screaming hurt in more ways than one

[evcrythingnice]

inspired by: bubbles // the powerpuff girls; luna lovegood // harry potter; maggie vera // charmed; amy march // little women; usagi tsukino // sailor moon; peter parker // spiderman; debbie gallagher // shameless; cassie ainsworth // skins 

wanted connections can be found here.

the basics ;

FULL NAME brynne magnolia utonium NICKNAME(S) bubbles (given by beatrix) AGE AND ZODIAC twenty two / gemini HOMETOWN townsville, usa CURRENT LOCATION elias, california, usa GENDER cis female SEXUALITY bisexual PRONOUNS she / her MYERS BRIGGS infp / the mediator ALIGNMENT neutral good  TEMPERAMENT sanguine TRAITS carefree, wholesome, emotional, and ditzy FACECLAIM sarah jeffery

 past ;

brynne’s bio can be found here. 

despite the three of them being created at the exact same time, test tube babies in the most literal sense, the utonium triplets naturally filled roles that mimicked a certain birth order: beverly as the oldest, beatrix in the middle, and little miss brynne as the baby. it’s a dynamic that’s followed them to this day.

growing up, brynne liked to think of herself as a normal kid - even if her powers made her a little bit special. she thrived in school and joined lots of clubs, emerging herself in the full experience of being a typical american child. well, as best as she could.

the nickname ‘ bubbles ’ came from beatrix in childhood. when they were learning how to fly, brynne would float in the air, bouncing to and fro. trixie said it reminded her of a bubble, and the nickname stuck from then on. 

present ; 

brynne’s first big move towards independence happens when beatrix is still in townsville - she gets a job in the dietary department of the city of townsville memorial hospital. it’s a great way to meet people, earn some money on her own, and still help the city of townsville ! everyone has to eat, especially sick people ! 

when that job doesn’t work out (more about that can be found here) brynne redirects her sights on nursing school. her goal is to redirect her life, immerse herself fully in the college experience, and hopefully find herself along the way. 

future ;

for now, i can see brynne finding a life in elias and settling down here in adulthood, working her way up as a nurse at the medical center or hospital. as of 10/22 she’s a brand new baby so i haven’t put a whole lot of thought into her future. more to come !

connections ;

sisters - beverly & beatrix utonium 

roommate & new bestie - reagan cymbeline

friends - leonardo hamato, donatello hamato, michelangelo hamato, serena fain 

more to come - let’s be friends !

[bcrgamvts]

status:  closed. @eliaswyler

who:  danika  &  elias

where:  their apartment

it’s  actually  rather  embarrassing  that  this  stupid  pullout  couch  is  giving  her  as  much  trouble  as  it  is.  on  any  other  given  day  it  shows  kindness  to  her  by  allowing  danika  to  open  it  up  with  no  problems  whatsoever.  there  must  be  some  bad  energy  floating  in  the  air  or  some  cosmic  joke  going  on  since  it  seems  like  the  more  her  irritation  grows  at  this  stupid  piece  of  furniture,  the  more  it  refuses  to  budge.  maybe  it  was  her  mistake  of  folding  it  back  into  couch  mode  so  she  could  do  her  daily  morning  stretches  and  youtube  yoga  classes.  typically  such  activities  were  ones  she  did  in  the  living  room,  but  her  pride  has  been  in  a  semi-permanent  state  of  being  wounded  and  now  she  takes  the  cowards  way  out  of  avoiding  elias  by  spending  most  of  her  time  in  the  office.  office  now  her  bedroom.  danika  lets  out  an  aggravated  groan,  throwing  her  arms  up  in  frustration  when  her  latest  pull  of  the  handle  didn’t  work  in  pulling  out  the  pull  out.  it  seems  stuck  and  she’s  clearly  not  strong  enough  to  manhandle  it  out.  the  weighing  of  her  options  (  giving  up  and  accepting  defeat  by  laying  on  the  floor  vs.  swallowing  her  pride  and  asking  elias  for  help  )  leaves  much  to  be  desired  between  both,  but  she  wants  to  nap.  so  she  silently  treks  out  of  the  office  and  when  she  doesn’t  see  him  in  the  living  room  or  kitchen,  danika  wanders  toward  the  main  bedroom.  she  can’t  help  but  awkwardly  linger  in  the  doorway  before  clearing  her  throat  to  make  her  presence  known.  “hey,  elias,”  danika  begins  with  brown  eyes  finding  purchase  on  the  paintings  above  the  bed  and  avoiding  eye  contact.  “can  i  bother  you  for  a  second  and  borrow  your  muscles  ??”  her  hand  gestures  back  to  the  rest  of  the  apartment.  “the  pullout  is  being  difficult  and  i  think  it’s  stuck.”

[sakabasous]

I’d like to think they all met up at least once in their childhoods

[rarepears]

I am just here begging for fic recs.

specifically under appreciated game of thrones and Harry Potter. It’s so difficulty to find truly great ones. I am stuck looking through collections.

Get a good dose of rare pair of Doran Martell/Blaise Zabini with Better to bind your brow with willow (--And follow, follow until you die,) by llamallamaduck

Although this is technically a Harry Potter reborn as a Targaryen, this ain't your typical Targaryen story as this Harry Potter considers her (yes, female Harry Potter) real father to be Jaime Lannister. Carpe Diem (Aut Mori) by Ravenclaw_Peredhel

Have you ever read a reluctantly soft and protective Uncle Voldemort? No? Time for you to read Dress Down by slex (slexenskee)

Lord Mortis The Accident by BlueLaceAgate is pretty much a story of chicken aka Harry Potter accidentally fools the world into thinking that his alter ego is this very Important and Powerful Dark Wizard and now he's committed to sticking to his act with the help of the Golden Trio.

I should warn you that this is Arya Stark X Tywin Lannister, but Arya is aged up so it's not so fishy and this slow burn just somehow makes it work. Plus the quality of writing!!! From Harrenhal, With Love by Sleepless_Malice

the sun and the lion by Space_Samurai Karma is great. This is just what the tin says: "Queen Elia Martell finds solace in a young knight after her husband brings Lyanna Stark and their son to court."

From Where Blessings Flow by Failed_to_Deanon Rare pair (Robert Baratheon/Elia Martell) + even better writing = what more can you ask for?

But honestly, you should just look through Failed_to_Deanon's entire catalogue of works. Like Realignment by Failed_to_Deanon where just crowned Robert Baratheon marries newly widowed Elia (whose husband Roberty personally killed) and still has Elia's Targaryen son remain crown prince. Why? Because Robert wants to be Rhaegar's opposite in every way... which also means being a good husband to Elia, a good father, and most certainly not someone who schemes for the throne. Plus he's also erasing every hint of Rhaegar from memory - Rhaegar's children are going to remember Robert as the better parent, the public is going to remember Robert as the better ruler, and so forth. I really can't recommend this author enough!

[puckinghell]

Not A Typical Christmas Story | Elias Pettersson

Summary: You’ve never loved Christmas, and there’s nothing that can change that; especially not your best friend’s grumpy Swedish friend who you don’t even like. However, when you’ve gotta be forced into the Christmas spirit to write a Christmas story for class, there’s only one person who is willing to try and help you. Words: 14k (I’m SO sorry) Note: Here it is, a Christmas story in November. Honestly I’m nervous to post this, I’ve never put so much of myself into a story, but here we go. I loved loved loved writing this and I hope you guys like reading it. Also, the cliche scenarios were stolen from a random blog post. 

--

“You’re such a fucking Grinch.” Brock takes a sip from his hot chocolate. There’s murmur in the bar around you, and he’s muttering, but you still hear him clear enough.

“Hey,” you protest, lightly hitting him on the arm. “I’m not a Grinch. Just because you put up your Christmas decorations in October and have been singing All I Want For Christmas Is You since July, doesn’t make me the Grinch for not doing that.”

Brock raises an eyebrow. “You literally just said you hate Christmas.”

“I did not.” You stubbornly cross your arms. “I said I hate Christmas stories.”

“That’s basically all there is to Christmas,” Brock brings in, and that’s probably fair enough.

Apart from the food, presents, family time, decorations…

Fine. Maybe you don’t like any of those either. But not liking Christmas is not the same as being a Grinch: you’re completely fine with letting everyone enjoy their festive December, as long as they leave you out of it.

Which is exactly why you’ve been complaining to Brock. And as your best friend, it’s literally his duty to listen to you; unfortunately it also means he’s gonna make fun of you. Just a little bit.

“I just don’t get why I have to write a Christmas story,” you mope, a little pathetically. “There’s so many Christmas stories in the world already, Boes. And they’re all the same! The foreign sports car breaks down in a blizzard and the city slicker gets stuck in a bar with a bucktoothed chicken strangler with an IQ of 7 whom he decides, through love or delirium, he cannot live without. Or the sadistic Christmas-hating miser of the pathetic backwoods town, who makes his money grinding the faces of the poor, is inspired to a change of heart by a teary-eyed child who bears a striking resemblance to his dead daughter, and donates all his money so that the ghost town can continue its wretched, grimy, poverty wracked existence.”

At that, there’s a muffled snicker from the side of the table. You’d almost forgotten that Elias was there, to be honest.

You raise your eyebrow at him. “What? You’ve got a better Christmas story?”

Elias raises an eyebrow back, but doesn’t answer. He usually doesn’t. Brock says he’s talkative enough when you’re not around, although you for the life of you do not know what you’ve done to earn his judgment.

“Don’t bite Petey’s head off,” Brock chides. He’s always trying to keep the peace between you two, and sometimes you feel bad that he has to police his two best friends.

Today is not one of those days.

“He’s laughing at me!”

“Because you’re being ridiculous.” Brock sighs. “It’s just a Christmas story, Y/N. You’ll write it, you get a grade for it, it’s done. How hard can it be?”

It’s clear that Brock has no idea how hard it can be to write a decent story. Sometimes, you wonder if he can even really write or read: maybe he’s just memorized a bunch of words and called it a day.

You let out a grumble and drop your head on the dingy, sticky table in the rundown bar that Brock and Elias are so keen to go to, probably because they never get recognized there. Not surprising, considering the fact that the age of the average customer is above 85.

Normally, you like your creative writing course. People told you to get electives you thought were actually fun, as your normal college courses are taxing enough, and you’ve always been a writer.

Or, well, been a writer… You write. You wouldn’t call yourself a writer: you’ve never published anything and you can’t be a writer before you make money from it. But you like writing. There’s at least a hundred half finished Word documents sitting on your laptop at any given moment.

But this project isn’t fun at all. All the students in your course were excited to get to write a Christmas story. It is December, after all, and most people have gotten properly into the Christmas spirit by now. However, you’ve never liked Christmas – for reasons that you will not think about with Elias’ judgy eyes on you – and you usually write scary stories, so this is not up your alley.

“Hey,” Brock’s voice sounds, and it’s gentle now. He’s probably noticed you’re actually having a mental breakdown over this. “It’s just one stupid story, and it doesn’t even have to be good. Just write about like, animals that can talk.”

Elias snorts again, and this time you can’t even blame him.

You lift your head only to shoot Brock a glare. Brock raises his hands in helpless manner, rolling his eyes as he goes.

“I’m trying to help.”

“I’m going to get beers,” Elias says suddenly. It’s the first thing he’s said all hour, you think, and the sound of his voice almost startles you. “I think you’re more helpful when you’ve got a beer, Boes.”

He’s not wrong, but you won’t tell him that. Instead, you stare at his retreating back, disappearing towards the bar.

“Why do you hate him?” Brock says, and he sounds a little accusing.

“I don’t hate Elias, just as much as I don’t hate Christmas,” you tell him, before you realize that that technically doesn’t speak of your innocence, so you try a different tactic. “He doesn’t like me either! He never talks when I’m around.”

“Cause you make him nervous!” Brock exclaims. He pushes his now empty mug towards the side. “You’re always making snappy remarks at him.” He stares at you with big blue puppy eyes, his bottom lip pouting out. “I wish you would just get along. I love you both and it’s very annoying to have to always be in the middle of you.”

In reality, it’s not like Brock really has to be in the middle of anything. If it was up to you, you would simply not ever see Elias, and you’re pretty sure that’s the only thing you and Elias would ever agree on. But Brock somehow always brings you together: like how today he’d forgotten to mention his teammate’s presence when he asked you to come out for a drink.

But you don’t blame Brock, not really. You think there’s another universe in which Elias and you could be friends. You’re very similar, in a way: you’re both not from Vancouver, both don’t have your family around, and you share a similar sharp sarcastic humor and a love for teasing Brock.

The first time you met Elias, you were hopeful. Brock was, at that point, your only friend in Vancouver, and the two of you had become best friends like you’d grown up in each other’s pockets. If Brock liked this guy so much, you figured you’d like him too.

But Elias hadn’t seemed to feel the same way. You met at one of Jake’s parties and Brock had introduced you with the statement that you were going to be beerpong buddies, because he’d already promised Troy.

Elias’ eyes had been a little too intense, as they traveled across your face. You could feel them burn into your skin like lasers, and when his eyes finally met yours it had felt like being hit by the entire universe at once.

“Oh,” he’d said, and it had been filled with… not even disdain. You could’ve handled disdain, because you could’ve called him out on that. But this had been indifference, that you’d heard in his voice, and that was something you didn’t know what to do with.

He’d not said anything else all evening. 

Ever since then, you’d put stone after stone into the wall you build between you and the quiet Swede, every single time he so much looked in your general direction. Nothing big ever happened between you: you hadn’t had any huge fights or massive blow outs.

It was just indifference, that ate at you until it became reluctance and then annoyance, and it’s that same thing you can read on Elias’ face now when he quietly sits in a corner, listening in on your conversations with Brock.

Yes, it would be easier for Brock if you and Elias could become friends, or at least friendly enough.

“Sorry, Boes,” you tell him with a sigh. “I just don’t think it’s ever gonna happen.”

--

“Is there a reason you’re not wearing a shirt?”

You raise your eyebrow at Jake, who opened the door wearing black jeans, a Santa hat, and literally nothing else.

"I lost a bet,” he says solemnly, opening his front door further. You stomp the snow off your boots on his porch, then move past him into the house.

It��s freezing cold outside and Jake’s house is lovely and warm, which makes you happy to be there if only to enjoy the heating. It’s not like you don’t have heating at your flat, but the electricity bill is high enough every month without you turning the thermostat up as high as it goes, so usually you try to keep warm with sweaters and blankets.

Brock told you to dress pretty though, so you wore a dress to Jake’s party. Which means it’s a good thing he’s got the heating going.

“You look lovely,” Jake smiles, taking your coat from your hands. Having him act like such a perfect gentleman in the outfit he’s wearing makes you laugh, and he shoos you inside when he notices.

You like Jake. In fact, you like all of Brock’s friends – except the one, of course – and that’s the only reason you said yes to coming to this party. It’s not like you’re against parties, but it’s a Christmas party: and despite the fact that it’s the first week of December, you’ve already heard enough Christmas music to last a life time.

“There she is!” Brock hoots, when he spots you. He opens his arms and you give him a quick hug, saying hi to Bo and Holly, who he’s standing with. “I have a brilliant idea,” Brock says however, before you can even ask the Horvats how they’re doing. “And you can’t say no right away.”

That definitely means you’re gonna wanna say no right away.

“I’m not promising that,” you hum. Just at that moment, Jake appears with a glass of prosecco that he hands you, and you send him a grateful smile. He disappears just as quickly, which is probably the better option considering what Brock’s about to say.

“I think you should make an actual, real effort to get into the Christmas spirit this year.”

“I don’t think so,” you immediately answer, but Brock waves away your protests with a wave of his hand.

“That’s not the part you’re gonna wanna say no to.”

“Oh dear,” Holly laughs, and you glare at Brock.

“What, then?”

“I think you and Petey should get in the Christmas spirit together.”

The sentence is bizar enough that you burst out laughing. Surely he’s kidding.

“Are you drunk?” you ask, then, turning to Bo: “Is he drunk?”

Bo shrugs. “Not yet, I don’t think. Tipsy at most.”

“Think about it,” Brock says. There’s a glint of excitement in his eyes, which promises nothing good for you. “You’re staying in Vancouver this Christmas, right?”

You don’t say anything: the answer is yes, and Brock knows that, because he’s been trying to convince you to come back to Minnesota with him for a month. However, as you’ve told him every time, there’s no way his girlfriend would appreciate that, and you don’t like being a third wheel. Or - but you haven’t told him that - a charity case.

“And so is Petey!” Brock proclaims. He motions somewhere to the left, where the Swede is probably hiding between all his teammates, trying to stay as far away from you as possible. “So both of you have to stay here in Vancouver, alone, during Christmas. And he loves Christmas, and you don’t, but you have to write that Christmas story and it would be so much easier to do that if you actually celebrated Christmas, so he can teach you how.”

Your best friend isn’t making a lot of sense, and there’s too much information to process so quickly. First of all, you didn’t know Elias would be alone for Christmas, although you suppose it makes sense that he can’t go back to Sweden just for 2 days of Christmas. Secondly, you don’t need someone to teach you how to celebrate Christmas: it’s not like you don’t know, and much more that you choose not to.

And third: fuck. You’d basically forgotten about that Christmas story.

“It’s a brilliant idea,” Brock says proudly and a little smug. “And I haven’t told Petey yet but I know he’ll be down.”

This time, you respond: you start laughing hard enough that Brock’s smile slips off his face.

“I really don’t think he will,” you giggle. You reach out, patting Brock’s arm with a smile. “Boes, you’re a sweetheart, but stop worrying about me. My life isn’t bad because I don’t like Christmas.”

It’s bad for some other reasons, like financial debt and family misfortunes, but not because of a lack of reindeer ornaments and bad mulled wine.

Brock pouts. “But…”

“No,” you cut him off. “I can write that Christmas story just fine on my own, thank you. And if you’re worried about Elias, you can ask him to Minnesota.” You take a step back, glancing at your empty prosecco glass. “I’m gonna get another one of these.”

As you’re making your way to the kitchen, you can still hear Brock’s sputtering.

Although Jake’s house is filled with people, the kitchen still seems quiet. It’s not until you’ve let the door fall closed behind you though, that you notice movement in the corner.

“Oh,” you say, a little annoyed to be caught off guard. “It’s you.”

Elias barely glances in your direction. “Just getting some water.”

Elias’ style is always a little funky, and if you didn’t dislike him so much you would’ve appreciated how daring it is. This time, though, you literally can not help but laugh at him.

“Nice sweater,” you say, and it doesn’t even come out as sarcastic.

Elias looks down at his sweater like he didn’t even notice he was wearing it. It has a reindeer stitched on, except the reindeer looks… Well. Baked.

“Quinn got it for me,” Elias says, and he sounds a little sheepish, which is not a tone you hear from him often. “He’s got the same one.”

“A little co-dependent,” you tease, and it comes out too light and easy for it to be directed at Elias. He looks a little surprised, too, at how jovial it sounds.

“You look nice,” he says, then. He’s looking at you now, and you can feel the weight of his eyes press against your skin.

There’s something about Elias’ gaze that makes it feel like your lungs are constricting, and you don’t know what it is. You could blame it on the fact that his eyes are the kind of piercing blue that authors would compare to the ocean or maybe the summer sky, but Brock has blue eyes too, and you never feel like that when he looks at you.

“Uhm, thanks,” you bring out. The awkwardness settles over the kitchen like a heavy cloud of fog, but for some reason your first instinct isn’t to just run out of the kitchen, like you usually would.

This is definitely Brock’s fault, for making you feel bad about Elias being alone in his sauve but empty apartment in Vancouver on Christmas, when he apparently loves the holiday so much.

“Brock thinks you could teach me how to love Christmas,” you blurt out, and Elias looks nothing short of utterly baffled by your statement. You sigh, and explain. “We’re both in Vancouver around Christmas and apparently you love Christmas and I don’t, so he thinks you should teach me how to love it. He thinks it would help me write my story.”

Elias seems to ponder that for a second. When he speaks, his voice is tentative. “Do you think it would help?”

Your first instinct is to, once again, call out no and laugh it off, but for some reason you don’t. Elias sips his water like he’s prepared to wait for your answer, and you give yourself some time to think.

Realistically, getting into the Christmas spirit, or at least getting an idea of what other people feel when they’re in the Christmas spirit, could really help you pull off this story. You’re good at putting yourself in other people’s shoes, which is how you manage to write characters you don’t necessarily see yourself in.

When you wrote a story about a doctor, you talked to your friend who’s in med school about it for a week. Now, you wanna write a Christmas story. It wouldn’t be an awful idea to be around someone who loves Christmas.

“Maybe,” you admit. “But you don’t have to do it, I know you’re probably busy…”

Elias shakes his head before you’ve finished your sentence.

“When hockey goes on break, and all my teammates go home for the holidays, I won’t have anything to do.” He shrugs: it looks careless but in the most forced manner, like he’s trying to hide just how much it does matter. “We could do something, I guess.”

I guess. It’s not really the most enthusiastic response you’ve ever had, but then, this is not normal for you and Elias.

“You know what the ultimate Christmas plot is?” Elias says then, a little hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “A Christmas party is in fear of flopping thanks to a lack of Christmas spirit, but is rescued by some energetic soccer mom with no life.” He grins. “I could be the soccer mom.”

To your own surprise, you burst out laughing at his description. You didn’t think he was really paying attention when you were describing cliché Christmas plots in the bar with Brock, but maybe Elias pays attention to more than he admits.

“Fine,” you hear yourself say, and you honest to God have no idea where that came from but you know Brock is gonna shit himself with excitement when he hears. “When hockey goes on break, you can be the energetic soccer mom and try to bring me into the Christmas spirit.” You smile. “It won’t be an easy task, Pettersson.”

Elias raises an eyebrow but there’s nothing judgmental about it, this time.

If anything, it’s a challenge.

He sticks something out to you: it’s your glass, now filled again with prosecco, which he somehow managed to fill up without you even noticing.

“It’s on,” he says simply, and when he raises his water glass in the air, you don’t even hesitate to clink it.

--

“Shopping is not a Christmas outing,” you say, stubbornly crossing your arms. “And I really don’t think this is gonna get me into the Christmas spirit.”

“What do you mean?” Elias deadpans, as he yanks a shopping cart free from all the others. “Middle aged housewives fighting over discounted wreaths? There’s nothing more Christmassy than that.”

You snort. “Right. It’s just gonna be spoiled crying kids who want toys that they already have and parents pretending it’s Santa who spoils them so they don’t have to take responsibility for their kids being rude drama queens.”

Elias laughs. He pushes the cart into the department store, and you reluctantly follow him.

“That’s another storyline,” he says.

“The unexplained dilemma of parents who do not believe in Santa, and yet we, the wise audience who knows better, are left to wonder where they think these toys came from? ‘Psst, honey, Santa’s not real, so from whence came these marvels?’”

“I don’t know half of what you’re saying.” Elias holds up a string of Christmas lights. “But we’re getting these, honey.”

It comes out sweet like caramel and too serious to be anything but sarcastic, so you push the cart into his heels. Elias simply laughs and continues on his way.

The department store is busy, which is exactly why you usually try to avoid going there in December. You’d think Elias, being Elias Pettersson, would also try to avoid crowds, but it’s like people don’t see anything but Rudolph; nobody recognizes him as he skillfully pushes his way through the crowds, putting stuff into the cart that you barely know what to do with.

You’re thankful for it. It would be awkward if people did recognize him, and it’s strange to notice that that would be the thing to do it; there’s no awkwardness now, with him making snarky remarks at the quality of the ornaments or the fact that Canadians apparently love what he calls the ‘tacky’ side of Christmas.

In fact, you almost find that you’re enjoying yourself. It might as well be a Christmas miracle after all.

“When was the last time you had a tree?” Elias asks.

Your brain short circuits for a full five seconds, and then when you answer Elias stares at you as if you’ve grown a second head.

“Uh, probably when I still lived with my parents and they got it?”

“We’re changing that right now.” He spins on his heels and speed walks in the direction of the trees, too fast for you to protest.

You think of the last time you got a Christmas tree and an involuntary shiver makes its way down your spine. There’s a good reason you don’t like Christmas, and the tree plays a crucial part in it.

But Elias doesn’t know that. So you can’t even blame him for looking excited when he somehow manages to find you the perfect size tree for your apartment – even without ever having been in your apartment.

“This one,” he says smugly, but when he notices your expression, his face falls. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow. You could tell him, now, tell him about the last time your dad went to get a tree and never came back.

But that’s a long time ago and there’s no reason for Elias to know that. He’s not your friend, and he’d probably not even care. If anything, he’d feel sorry for you, and that would be even worse.

“That one is fine,” you tell him, and you promise yourself you just won’t put it up.

The tree gets your mood down but Elias doesn’t seem to notice. He collects some more stuff, like a throw blanket with Christmas pattern that you actually don’t mind, because you’re always cold and a person can never have too many throw blankets.

He also puts in an ornament with the Canucks logo, which you want to use to slap the smirk off his face, and a Rudolph pluche toy with a red light up nose.

“Like you, when it’s cold,” he teases, flicking your nose, and you wonder if you could use the Christmas lights to strangle him.

Finally, when you approach the end of your trip, you realize a teeny tiny problem.

“Uhm, Elias?” you ask, “I think we may have gotten too much.”

Elias rolls his eyes. “Brock said you don’t have any decorations, so this is the perfect amount.”

And it would be – if you wanted Christmas decorations – except…

“I can’t afford this,” you snap, and you can feel your cheeks heat up, and maybe the tips of your ears as well. God, this is embarrassing.

Elias’ face softens, and that kinda just makes it worse.

“You’re not paying for it,” he says, not unkindly. “This wasn’t your idea.”

“It wasn’t yours either,” you remind him. Granted, a bill like this would hardly break the bank for Elias, but you’re not about to let him pay for you just because he feels bad. You let Brock buy you dinner sometimes but that’s it, and only because he actually likes your company and because he always wants to eat at stupid fancy restaurants.

This is Elias. He doesn’t value your company, and he’s not your friend, and you won’t let him pay for you.

Elias doesn’t say anything, eyes searching your face for something. You’re not quite sure what he finds, but finally, he speaks.

“Consider it my Christmas gift to you,” he says. “You can pay me back by making me lunch, cause I’m hungry.”

And strangely enough, the thought of spending another two hours with Elias doesn’t make you wanna hurl, or throw yourself in front of oncoming traffic. In fact, you’re surprised to note that you actually had fun on this trip, and it was mostly thanks to Elias’ dry commentary on the other shoppers, of which not one sentence failed to make you laugh.

You don’t believe in Christmas stories, like the one where some weird technical glitch in the matrix gets fixed just in time for the Christmas tree in the center of town to light up, just as the guy and girl figure out their complicated emotional differences.

But maybe you can allow yourself to not actively dislike Elias’ company, at least while you’re stuck with it.

--

There’s exhaustion settled deep inside your bones, like your feet are made of concrete as you somehow manage to drag yourself up the stairs. You don’t usually mind living in a bit of a shit hole building, considering the fact that it’s very cheap – but on nights like these you wish there was an elevator you could take.

Working out in the morning before taking a double shift at the coffee shop you work at was a bad idea.

It takes you a few seconds to find your keys in your bag. It’s late enough at night that you can’t really see much; there’s lights in the hallways but most of them don’t really work, the flickering glow of them barely enough to illuminate the ceilings.

When you open the door, you instantly notice there’s something wrong.

Or, wrong… That might not be the right word. The word that comes to mind, actually, is fuck.

You’d forgotten all about Elias.

After buying all the Christmas decorations, he kept bothering you about putting them up. You hadn’t really been planning to, and unfortunately Elias knew you well enough to somehow know that.

Nobody reads you as well as he does, like his blue eyes pierce right through your skin and stare straight into your heart. It’s one of the things you find most unsettling about him. Keeping things close to your heart has always been your way to cope, but it felt impossible to do that with Elias around.

He’d kept asking you if you were gonna put up the decorations and you kept waving him away, until he finally decided he had enough.

“I’m coming over tomorrow,” he’d said – or, threatened. “Brock gave me your spare key, so you don’t have a say in this. I’m putting up the tree.”

“Don’t you dare,” you’d answered, making a mental note to deal with Brock’s traitorous ass later. “I can put up my own tree.”

You could, you just weren’t planning to do it.

“You could, but you won’t,” Elias had said, unimpressed. “So be there or don’t be there, I’m doing it.”

You had totally meant to be there. You weren’t as much of an asshole that you would let him do all the work after he also paid for it, and he was technically doing you a favor. But then your colleague asked you to cover her shift, and, well…

You forgot. And clearly, Elias hadn’t.

In the corner of your tiny little living room is a pine tree. There’s no ornaments in it except for the Canucks one that Elias bought you, but there’s what seems to be about a thousand lights in it, and it must’ve taken him hours to put those in.

It’s not even just that. The Rudolph toy is sitting on your bookcase, there’s candles on your dining table and on the couch is the Christmas throw blanket.

Under the blanket is Elias.

His head is resting on the arm of the couch, blond hair a little messy. His eyes are closed, eyelashes fluttered against his cheekbones, and he looks strangely peaceful.

You feel something settle in your stomach.

You imagine him sitting on your couch, waiting for you to come home because he wanted to see your reaction. You can imagine his little smug grin as he took in his work, way too proud with a simple string of lights in a Christmas tree. And maybe, maybe, he even thought about you celebrating Christmas here with the place looking exactly like this, and maybe that made him smile.

And then you didn’t show up. 

You wonder if you should wake him, to kick him out of your apartment, tease him for waiting for you, or even to say thank you. But his chest is rising slowly with every steady breath, and you’ve never seen Elias look so tranquil, so at peace.

For some reason, waking him feels like a crime.

So you step closer and tug the blanket a little more over his shoulders. You tell yourself it’s because the place gets so stupidly cold at night, and you can’t have him get sick and have a miserable Christmas because Brock would kill you, but you know it’s not about that at all.

It’s about the fact that coming home to a cozy, decorated apartment after the exhausting day you’ve had was actually pretty nice. And it’s about the fact that for some reason, Elias’ sleeping figure on your couch makes the place feel more like home than it has ever before.

And maybe it’s because the night is dark, and Elias can’t hear or see you, but when you whisper: “Goodnight” into the quiet living room, it sounds a lot like thank you.

--

When you wake up, there’s the smell of pancakes in the air. It’s a smell you would recognize anywhere, and it startles you awake too quickly for it being so early in the morning. You nearly jump out of bed and follow your nose towards the kitchen.

If anyone would’ve asked, you would’ve bet money on it that Elias would’ve woken up on your couch annoyed as hell, and booked it out of there as soon as his legs could carry him. But somehow, like a mirage, he’s standing at your stove, making pancakes.

Are you dreaming?

“Am I dreaming?” you ask out loud, and Elias swirls around on his heels.

“Don’t scare me,” he snaps, annoyed, but the annoyance flows away within seconds. “I was hungry.”

“So you made pancakes?”

Elias laughs softly. “I can’t make much else with what’s in your kitchen. You need to go grocery shopping.”

You really do, but you can’t think about that right now. Not when Elias is standing in your kitchen like he owns the place, like it’s normal for him to be there.

It very much is not. So why doesn’t it feel wrong?

“Uhm.” If he’s here, you figure you should at least be polite. “Do you want coffee?”

He waves towards your coffee machine. “I already put it on.”

You stay quiet as you make the coffee, a little too aware of the way Elias moves pancake after pancake from the pan to the stack, movements relaxed and almost lazy. It’s Sunday morning and it’s not that late, but it feels like it could be one of those mornings that stretches out endlessly, dark grey clouds outside your apartment as Vancouver slowly wakes up.

Neither of you speak until you’ve sat down at the table, pancakes and coffee in front of you. It’s awfully domestic and you don’t know what to do with it: it’s become easy to snap or snark at Elias when Brock’s there as a middle man and Elias looks like he’d rather cut off both his legs than spend another minute in your presence, but it’s not like that now.

Now, Elias seems quietly content to sit in your kitchen eating pancakes that he made on your stove while you were asleep. Now, Elias seems completely comfortable scrolling through his phone while you stare at him. And this Elias, you have no idea what to do with.

“We’re gonna do something Christmassy today,” Elias says, between two bites of pancake. “I’m just trying to figure out what.”

You raise an eyebrow. It’s been only a week since Brock had the awful idea to make Elias teach you how to be in the Christmas spirit before booking it to Minnesota, and so far Elias has seemingly put way too much time and effort into it, while you haven’t even put one word in your empty word document, that you ironically titled ‘Not a typical Christmas story’.

Then you remember the night at Jake’s party, and how Elias said he wouldn’t have much to do once all the guys went home to their families.

Suddenly, you feel for him. You know what it’s like to be lonely.

“The Christmas market isn’t on today,” Elias continues, oblivious to your mental dialogue. “But we’re going there soon. And we need to watch a bunch of Christmas movies.”

You hesitate. Are you really going to do this?

“I might have an idea for today.”

Apparently you are.

Elias’ eyes finally focus on you, expression curious. He doesn’t say anything but he’s clearly waiting for you to continue, so you take a deep breath and go for it.

“I’ve never gone skating.”

An hour later you’re at the local outdoor ice rink, and it’s not until you see the crowd that you realize this might’ve not been your smartest idea. It’s Sunday, it’s December, it’s not awfully cold: you think at least 1/3rd of Vancouver is at this rink.

“Uhm, I might not have thought this through,” you state a little bashfully. You can already see a few Canucks jerseys on the ice, and although you can’t see the back that well you wouldn’t be surprised if a bunch of them carried the number 40.

Elias shrugs. He seems unbothered, but then he mostly does. You can never really read him, and it’s one of the things you find most unnerving about him.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m wearing my glasses.”

He is wearing his glasses, which he rarely does. You’re not even sure he needs them or if they’re just a fashion statement. He’s also wearing a hat, so maybe he’s thought this through more than you.

But surely just glasses and a snapback won’t stop Vancouver from recognizing the Canucks biggest star?

Apparently, it does.

Elias goes to rent the skates, because he couldn’t be bothered to go back to his apartment to get his own. He’s put them on within 20 seconds, while you’re still struggling to wiggle your foot into the first one.

He laughs and you shoot him a deathly glare.

“Don’t laugh at me! We can’t all be professional hockey players.”

“I don’t think you need to be a professional anything to lace up a skate,” Elias answers dryly. He turns to face you, then pats his leg. “Give me your foot.” 

It’s embarrassing to make Elias tie your skates, but it would be more embarrassing to ignore him and then spend 20 minutes struggling with them. So you swing your foot into his lap. 

Long fingers work swiftly around your laces, and suddenly your skate is tied, fitted closely around your ankle. Elias pats your shin, then holds out his hand for the other foot. 

You swing your second leg into his lap. 

“I don’t know how you do this so fast,” you mutter. You can feel the flush on your cheeks and you hope Elias assumes it’s because of the cold.

“I’ve got many talents,” Elias deadpans, and you can’t stop yourself from laughing. 

“Juggling, unicycle riding, and lacing skates?” 

Elias nods. There’s a smile tugging at his lips. “All very important skills.” 

Finally, you put your skates back on the floor and waggle towards the door to. the rink. Elias has jumped onto the ice before you can even think about moving. 

You stop. Is this really a good idea? You could break both your legs here.

“Don’t be scared,” Elias says, correcting guessing the root of your hesitation. He’s gliding on his skates with ease, shuffling back and forth the way hockey players always do during the anthems.

Because he’s waiting. For you. Because you’re going skating together.

This is the weirdest fucking thing that’s ever happened to you, kinda like a fever dream; and that’s enough motivation to step onto the ice.

You stumble a bit, and Elias reaches out to grab your elbow to steady you.

“Careful, it’s slippery.”

“Unsurprisingly,” you mumble beneath your breath, and Elias’ grin goes a little wicked before he promptly lets go off your elbow and slides back.

Bastard. But the ice is slippery and you’re not steady on your skates, so you scramble forward only just enough to reach Elias again, wrapping your hands tightly around his arm.

“Do not let go,” you hiss.

“Do not be a smartass,” he shoots back, but thankfully he doesn’t move away again. Instead, he carefully takes both your hands away from his arm and takes them into his own, turning so he’s skating backwards and pulling you along.

If you don’t have to move your own feet, moving is a lot more fun, and you feel yourself loosening up. Every now and then you stumble, but Elias’ grip on you is firm and he never wavers, even when you yank on his hands to pull yourself upright again.

You’ve always noticed how graceful Elias is on the ice. There’s something about him when he skates that has always caught your attention, even if you would never admit that to him. But without the hockey gear, it’s even more clear how elegant he moves.

You, not so much.

“You better not be laughing at me,” you grumble, a little annoyed that you have to cling onto Elias as a lifeline in order not to break your neck. 

Elias raises an eyebrow. “I never do that.”

It should sound sarcastic but it really doesn’t, and you wonder if he’s momentarily forgotten every single interaction you’ve had with him over the past year.

Your expression must speak volumes because he rolls his eyes. He swiftly moves, so he’s skating next to you instead of in front.

He’s still holding your hand.

“I never laugh at you,” he clarifies. “I laugh because you’re funny. It’s different.”

And, oh. That does something to your stomach, something that you probably shouldn’t be thinking about right now.

Elias doesn’t seem to want to dwell on it either, because suddenly he pulls his hand away, skating a bit to the front to where you can’t reach him.

“You can do it on your own,” he calls over his shoulder, a cheeky smile playing around his lips.

And it turns out you can: you don’t fall, you keep moving – albeit a lot slower than Elias – and it’s actually kinda fun.

You can do it on your own, but. It was more fun with Elias next to you, anyway.

--

When Elias texts you to tell you you’re going to the Christmas market that night, you haven’t seen him in three days.

But you’ve been texting. He’s been sending you stupid Christmas songs that you mostly don’t listen to, and Christmas movies you’d prefer to never see. You send him ideas for cliché Christmas stories that you can almost hear his disapproving snort for. 

Santa becomes a prima donna and holds Christmas hostage until his ego is stroked in the form of songs written in his honor by reindeer who are willing to give their very lives for the cause.

Elias’ answer comes swift.

No. That has definitely been done before and also, someone could call animal services.

When Brock asks you how you’re liking your time with Elias, when you FaceTime him during dinner, you fall into silence.

What are you gonna tell him? That you smile every time you see his name pop up on your phone? That you have no idea anymore why you didn’t like him all that time? That you now understand what he meant when he used to say “Petey just needs a little time”?

“It’s going,” you hum noncommittally, chopping another carrot.

Brock laughs. “You’re so full of bullshit. I can literally see you trying to hide a smile. You realized I’m right, didn’t you?”

“You need to shut up,” you tell him without any heat. “We’re civil. He’s bored, I’m in the middle of writer’s block crisis. We’re not getting married, Boes, it’s just better than doing nothing the whole week you’ve deserted me.”

“Sure,” Brock drawls, and it doesn’t sound like he believes you at all.

“How’s the pups?” you ask, and Brock laughs because that wasn’t even slightly subtle for a topic change. He clearly decides to let you, however, starts talking about Milo’s new habit of burying people’s gloves in the yard.

The thing is, you don’t really wanna talk about Elias with Brock when you don’t even know yourself what you think of him yet. Fine, you don’t hate him, that’s clear. You’ve realized his air of indifference is just a shield, a wall that crumples as soon as he laughs. His teasing remarks are familiar now, feel friendly the way they feel when they come from Brock, and you’ve realized he’s one of the funniest, smartest, and kindest people you know.

But Brock would just push it into something it’s not. When he comes back, you’ll probably go back to being ‘Brock’s friend’ instead Elias’, and you wouldn’t be surprised if everything goes back to the way things were. Maybe with less animosity, but when Elias has a bunch of different people to choose from, why would he choose to hang out with you?

But for now, he doesn’t have any other people to hang out with and he does choose to hang out with you, and you’re hit once again with how weird that is when you step into his car the next evening.

“Dude, it’s way too cold to be going outside,” you grumble, shutting the door of his car behind you. Inside the car it’s warm and cozy, and Elias has an amused expression on his face when he turns to you.

“Good evening,” he deadpans, “I’m good, thank you, how are you?”

“Right.” You can feel your cheeks flush and hope he thinks it’s because of the heat in the car. “Sorry.”

Elias laughs. “It’s not that cold,” he chides, pulling the car into the road. “You just didn’t dress properly.”

You look down at yourself. You thought you’d dressed quite warm, but there’s an icy chill in the air that promises a chance of snow, so maybe it’s not warm enough. You didn’t even take gloves, you realize now, or a hat.

Well.

Elias is grinning while he stares ahead at the road, and you kinda wanna smack him except for how it also makes you smile. He’s dressed a lot warmer than you, and with the scarf almost up to his chin and a beanie on his head there’s not much risk of him being recognized anywhere.

“I brought extra gloves,” Elias says, then. “You’re not gonna be able to enjoy it if your hands are cold.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Elias, not to be a downer, but we’re going to a busy market that revolves entirely around Christmas, and I don’t like Christmas or crowds. I don’t think I’m gonna enjoy myself either way.”

“We’ll see,” Elias says simply, and it sounds like a promise.

It’s easy to keep up the conversation on the way there, light teasing from you and genuine interest from him. It’s comfortable, both the warmth in the car and Elias’ laugh next to you, and when he parks the car you almost don’t wanna get out.

At least he does have gloves for you, and he gives you a scarf, so you’re not that cold when you step out into the night air.

The Christmas market is busy, hoards of happy people looking for some Christmas cheer. You stick close to Elias’ side: if you lose him in this crowd, you’ll never find him back.

At least it’s pretty. The sky is already dark but the Christmas market has been lit up with seemingly millions of lights in every color imaginable.

“I don’t think purple is very Christmassy,” you say, flicking a purple light hanging off the stall that Elias is browsing.

“I prefer the white ones,” he answers, eyes kept firmly on the handmade ornaments in the stall. “They look like stars.” He turns, holding out an ornament. It’s a glass star, and it reflects the lights like a kaleidoscope.

It’s, objectively, beautiful. You don’t have to like Christmas to love it, but when you reach out for it, Elias laughs and pulls it out of your reach.

“I thought we decided you’re not to be trusted with glass.”

He’s referencing a time long ago, when you were hanging out with Brock and he happened to be there, and you dropped a glass and Brock had made a whole spectacle of it.

To be fair, you hadn’t really put Elias in the memory you keep of that day, because he was simply there: as Brock’s friend, as someone who happens to linger in the background. He’s lingering in the background of many memories, you realize now, but you’re starting to realize you prefer the ones where he’s front and center.

You walk past more stalls, filled with either tacky Christmas stuff – you buy Brock some socks with Santa on them because you can’t not – or handmade things, which you actually like looking at. Elias buys some things for his parents – “I’ll send them to Sweden,” he says, and he looks a little too sad so you start chatting about how Rouss kinda resembles a reindeer, somehow.

You’re walking past the food stalls when Elias asks: “How’s the writing going?”

You freeze. That’s not a question you were ready for, and it leads to the inevitable urge to blurt out the truth. “I haven’t started. I just don’t think I can.”

Elias’ eyes on you are thoughtful, like he’s searching for something in your soul. If he tries hard enough, you think he’ll look right through you: nobody has ever made you feel so open, so visible, as he does.

“Brock didn’t tell you why I don’t like Christmas, did he?”

“No,” Elias admits, “but I figured it was a better reason than red is not your color.”

“Hey!” you protest, stepping to the side so you can bump your shoulder against his. “Red is totally my color!”

It’s not, but Elias doesn’t push it. Instead, he smiles warmly, and suddenly you want to tell him.

“When I was young, my parents used to fight a lot. One day, two weeks before Christmas, they got into a massive fight. I listened to them from my bedroom and then my dad came upstairs and told me he was going to find me the perfect Christmas tree. He got in his car and went to get the tree, or so I thought. I never saw him again.”

You sigh. “It’s not, like… I’m over it, mostly. I just can’t help but feel that same feeling every year around Christmas. It’s like hoping for something you know will never happen. Like you’re reading a book and the happy ending never comes. ”

“That’s why it’s hard to write the story,” Elias hazards a guess. He looks curious, but he doesn’t look like he feels bad for you, which is what you would’ve disliked the most.

He points to one of the stalls, then. “They make the best hot chocolate in town. Want one?”

You nod, following him towards the stall as you continue talking. “It is. But I do also find Christmas stories boring to write. It’s always the same concept, just in a million different ways.”

Elias smiles. “That’s the fun of it, no? You know the happy ending always comes. It makes you feel good.”

“It’s boring,” you repeat, stubbornly. “The girl from the big city with a job paying upwards of 8 figures goes back to her hometown for Christmas and somehow falls for some high school fling who still lives in a basement, but makes a mean cup of hot chocolate and says thing like ‘What can I say? I was stupid.’” You cross your arms. “You can’t tell me if we took the Christmas element away you would voluntarily read that story.”

Elias laughs. “Some people would. Isn’t that basically the story from The Notebook?”

“Have you ever watched The Notebook, Elias?” you frown, and he shrugs.

“No, but Brock said it made him cry.”

Which isn’t surprising, because a lot of movies have made Brock cry. You wonder what Elias would do if you put on The Notebook on your upcoming Christmas movie night.

Elias turns around, then, two steaming cups of hot chocolate in his hands. He smirks when he hands it to you.

“What can I say? I was stupid,” he quotes, and you can’t help but giggle as you take the cup from him.

“You didn’t make this, you just paid for it. It doesn’t count that way.”

“After this we should probably go,” he says then, glancing at his watch.

The words sink into your stomach like a heavy stone of dread; you don’t really want to go home, and the realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You’re happy, right now, and if ‘feeling Christmassy’ basically translates to feeling happy, well…

It’s not Christmas, though, that’s got you feeling this way. You could care less about the pine trees and the tacky music and the reindeer and the big man with the white beard and red hat.

You care more about the blonde man beside you, staring into the distance with the brightest blue eyes, and the way he somehow always makes you laugh.

Damn it. How much you hate it when Brock is right.

--

With Brock telling you how much Elias likes Christmas movies, and Elias having pushed you for this Christmas movie marathon for days on end, you were expecting a bit more excitement from him when it finally happens.

You can tell something is wrong from the moment you open the door. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, and when he smiles at you it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly, moving past you into your apartment.

“I hope you’re ready to rewatch the same exact movie with only minor differences all night,” you joke, but Elias doesn’t even look up as he methodically pulls off his coat, kicks off his shoes and pitter patters into your living room.

He scoffs when he sees your tree, still empty except for the Canucks ornament that he got you.

“Really?” he asks, and for the first time in a while you can’t tell if he’s joking or actually upset with you.

This is the Elias that you knew before, the one that you didn’t like because you could never reach him, guarding his heart like a fort. But this time, you know what it’s like to have the other Elias, and you already miss having that Elias in your life.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you bring out, and it comes out a bit shaky. Elias turns around and his face softens slightly.

“I didn’t mean that.” He sighs. “I nearly canceled this.”

Your heart sinks.

“I get grumpy when I’m not feeling good and I don’t want to take it out on you.” He sinks down onto your couch, kicks his feet up on the coffee table like he’s been there a million times before. “But I didn’t wanna cancel, so. I didn’t.” He sounds almost helpless, like he’s not sure if he should be saying what he’s saying.

But your traitorous heart lifts immediately. If he didn’t want to cancel, it means he wants to be here, and that’s really all you need to know.

“Well, I’m gonna make popcorn, then,” you say, keeping your voice light. “You pick the movie. I don’t care. They’re all the same anyway.”

Elias rolls his eyes, but it’s good natured. “They’re not the same!” he calls after you as you disappear into the kitchen.

“Every Christmas movie ever was written by someone who didn’t know what to write,” you tell him, knowing he can still hear you from the kitchen – the benefits of living in a tiny apartment. “Writer’s block? No problem. The solution: a little bit of Christmas magic. ‘We can’t pay the rent’, ‘I’m sick’, ‘My boss is making me work on Christmas’. Poof, with a jingle of bells, problems solved in the form of a generous benefactor, aspirin, or a hit man.”

“If that’s the case, why can’t you write a Christmas story?” Elias calls back teasing, and you give him the finger through the wall.

He might not see it, but you’re certain he can feel it.

You take the popcorn and walk back to the couch, letting yourself drop onto it next to Elias. You misjudge the distance a bit, causing you to sit a little too close to Elias for it to be strictly friendly; but Elias doesn’t budge, so you don’t move either.

You’re pressed against Elias shoulder to thigh, and you can feel his body shake when he laughs.

“I like this cliché,” he says, nodding towards the television. “Let’s see if you can guess it.”

You watch the movie in relative silence, eating popcorn and enjoying the warmth of Elias body against yours. You have to admit you lose focus every now and then: the movie isn’t that bad, but it’s hard to focus on anything with Elias so close. Every now and then, when something funny happens, he exhales a sharp breath of laughter, and sometimes he hums as if he’s agreeing with what’s happening on screen.

He smells nice, too, and finally you get tired enough that you get a little brave: you let your head drop against his shoulder, tugging your feet under yourself.

“Figured it out, yet?” Elias asks softly.

“Yep,” you answer. The movie is nearing the end but you figured it out within the first ten minutes. “Basic physics, not to mention common sense, are thrown to the wind as Christmas repeats every day, disappears from the calendar, or is hurled into the past or future.”

Elias doesn’t respond, and suddenly you wanna know.

“Are you okay?” It’s probably a weird question, and very out of the blue, so you hurry trying to explain. “Cause you came in very sad, and like, if you don’t wanna talk about it with me that’s fine but I think it’s good to talk about things sometimes so if you wanna…”

“I’m fine,” Elias says, cutting you off, but it doesn’t sound dismissive. It sounds a little amused, and when you turn to look at him, you find him smiling. “Worried about me?”

And it’s the strangest thing, but you are. “A little.”

Elias’ face softens. “I promise I’m okay,” he says. He reaches out, then, places his hand on yours and squeezes. “I just talked to my parents before I came here, on Skype, and they were talking about Christmas and it sucks that I can’t see them for the holidays. But it is what it is.” He shrugs. “I sulk for a bit and then I move on.”

You never really go home for the holidays, but you understand how awful it must be to be stuck alone in Canada with your whole family in Sweden.

You blame the quiet, late night energy for what comes out of your mouth next.

“I think I could be convinced to make you a Christmas dinner if you ask nicely.”

Elias laughs, and his hand is warm when you turn your palm up and he laces his fingers through yours.

“If I ask nicely, will you watch another movie with me right now?”

You pull the Christmas themed throw blanket over your legs before letting your head drop against Elias’ shoulder once again.  

“You don’t even have to ask.”

--

“I have an idea,” Elias says through the phone, and you don’t quite recognize the tone in his voice at first. “Well, it was Brock’s idea, but I think it’s a good one.”

Anything that was Brock’s idea immediately fills you with doubt, and you frown. “What?”

That’s when you realize: Elias sounds excited.

“Brock knows someone with a cottage, about two hours from here. It’s in the forest and it’s supposedly very Christmassy. We should go for a night.”

He sounds quietly pleased, and you don’t have the heart to tell him no.

“Okay.”

Objectively, though, it’s an awful idea. A Christmassy cottage in the forest also sounds like it would be very romantic, and you’ve finally come to terms with the fact that what you feel for Elias is definitely not just friendly comradery at this point. Feeding this feeling would not be smart, considering the fact that it’s almost Christmas and after that you’ll most likely never spend time with Elias like this again.

Sure, he might be at parties with the other Canucks or Brock might invite him for drinks with you, but it won’t be like this. You’re not stupid enough to think this will last: that would be a real Christmas miracle, and Christmas miracles don’t exist.

“Sometimes I wish I could read your mind.” Elias’ voice startles you despite the fact that his words come out softly. It’s been quiet in the car, apart from the low murmur of the radio in the background, for a good fifteen minutes.

You’re on your way to the cottage and your thoughts are going a million miles per hour.

You look over at Elias. He’s staring ahead at the road, one hand on the wheel and the other in his lap. He looks relaxed. Comfortable.

“It’s usually nothing interesting,” you say, and you thank the universe that he can’t know what’s going on in your mind.

“Are you thinking about your story?” he asks, and you weren’t, but it’s as good an excuse as any.

“I’ve gotta email it to my professor in four days,” you admit. “And I haven’t put a single word on paper yet.”

You’ve tried, that’s for sure. You’ve spent hours on your laptop, staring at a Word document. You’ve typed sentences and deleted them, tried to outline the story or just wing it while typing. Nothing works, nothing feels right when it stares back at you from the screen.

Elias hums noncommittally. “I think you think about it too much,” he says. “Just don’t worry about it. And write what you know.”

You scoff. “I don’t think anyone wants to read a Christmas story about a father who bails on his family, Elias. Nobody likes sad Christmas stories.”

He smiles. “Any sad Christmas cliches on your list?”

“Each and every event, whether holiday related or not, is tainted through the loss of a dead relative. Example: “Can I have a glass of water?” “Your, uh, *swallow*, your grandmother used to drink water.””

Elias laughs before reaching for the radio and turning up the music. You never listen to Christmas music, as a rule, but somehow you don’t hate it now that it’s blasting through his stupid sports car, the world flying past you through the window.

The drive is filled with Elias humming along to Christmas music and you laughing whenever he pulls a face at one of the lyrics. You spend at least 30 minutes debating if ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ should still be allowed on the radio – no – and whether or not Michael Buble is the king of Christmas – in Europe, apparently yes.

By the time you reach the cottage, you feel a lot more positive.

Until you see it.

“Uhm,” you bring out, staring at the place in front of you. Elias barks out a laugh, but it sounds mostly disbelieving.

“When Brock said ‘cottage in the forest’, I pictured something different,” he says sheepishly.

“I guess this shows the power of speech?” you offer. “Like, ‘cottage in the forest’ and you think of this beautiful rustic romantic getaway. But this is more ‘cabin in the woods’: I think we’re about to get murdered.”

Elias raises an eyebrow. “Romantic?” he repeats, an amused tilt to his voice, and you nearly get back in the car.

Way to put your foot in your mouth.

Luckily for you Elias doesn’t dwell on it. Instead he wanders inside, where at the very least it looks a little better.

It’s cold, and there’s no working electricity, but there’s a fireplace and a billion candles, and it’s decorated quite cosy. Maybe even Christmassy, if you really squint: although you’re happy to notice there’s no tree.

It’s easier than you thought it would be, to spend an evening in some dodgy cabin with Elias. It’s easy to chat about everything and nothing, to cook dinner with him. How domestic it feels to tease him about how slowly he chops the mushrooms, while he somehow makes sure your wine glass is always full.

Silence doesn’t fall until long after dinner. The fireplace is on, fickle candle light giving the room an orange glow. You’ve somehow ended up with your feet in Elias’ lap, although you can’t remember how they got there: you’re painfully aware of the heavy grip of his hand around your ankle.

The wine has given your brain a nice fuzzy feeling, has softened up the edges around your thoughts. And all you can think, now, is how nice this is: to have Elias right there next to you, blue eyes fixed on the ember flames burning in front of you.

“I’m glad that Brock kept forcing us to hang out,” you say, without thinking. Elias glances over at you.

“Forcing us?” he repeats, as if he’s not sure what you mean.

You shrug. “Come on, Elias, we didn’t like each other before this. You probably didn’t want to hang out with me as much as I didn’t want to hang out with you.”

The words hang heavy in the air for a second. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear you saw Elias flinch.

“Actually,” he says tightly, and your heart does a traitorous swoop. “Brock never forced me to come. I always asked. If I knew he was gonna see you, I asked to come along.”

The words hit you like a freight train. You can feel your heart beating in your chest. But surely there’s no way you’ve been wrong all this time?

Brock did say Elias didn’t hate you.

“But… I thought you didn’t like me.” Your voice sounds small in the quiet room. It feels different here, so far away from the city: when the night is so silent all your thoughts sound so loud.

Elias shrugs. He doesn’t look upset, per se, but his face is carefully closed off and you know now that’s not a good sign.

“I know you thought that,” he says, voice flat. “I know that first night I came off as rude.” His smile is wry. “I was nervous, I didn’t really speak English, and you’re very pretty. I guess it was a recipe for disaster, on my end, so it doesn’t surprise me you didn’t like me.”  

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks, your heart pounding in your throat. You’re hearing his words but they sound almost foreign, and you can’t quite believe he’s really saying them.

“I’ve always liked you, though,” Elias adds, almost as an afterthought, carelessly like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t know what that does to you, your mind going into overdrive.

You’re not an easy person to like. That’s not you being hard on yourself, you just know you judge too harshly, react too quickly. You go into downwards spirals of negative thoughts, you put opinions into people’s mouths, and most of all, you don’t believe in happily ever after.

People, in your experience, don’t stick around for people who won’t promise them happily ever after.

But Elias is here, having brought you to this cabin, having pushed and pushed to be around you: and you didn’t even notice. You thought he was just doing Brock a favor, you thought he was just bored. He’s not been very outgoing about his affections, but you can tell that they’re there; from the way he’s put up your Christmas tree to how he always listens to every word that falls from your lips. No, he’s not been very outgoing about with his affections but he’s been plentiful with them, and you just didn’t notice.

“Elias,” you start, but the sentence dies on your lips when he turns to face you, suddenly a lot closer than he was before.

“What about now?” he asks. You must look as confused as you feel, because he clarifies right away. “What do you think about me now?”

There’s nothing unsure about the question, and you think the answer is been pretty clear. You wouldn’t be here if the answer wasn’t clear. But despite that, despite that he seems to already know what you’re gonna say, you wanna say it anyway. You think you have to say it anyway.

“Now I like you,” you tell him, sitting up straighter. “I really like you, Elias.”

The last thing you register is the pleased smile tugging at the edges of Elias’ mouth, and then his lips are against yours.

The kiss is soft but not hesitant. Maybe he’s giving you time to think about it, this way, if this is what you want: but in that moment there’s nothing you want more, nothing but a fierce desire to trace your hands down his body.

As soon as your fingers touch his arm, Elias deepens the kiss. He kisses exactly how you would expect him to; giving you everything, no trace of doubt or hesitation.

There’s nothing frantic about it, nothing scary. With every second that ticks by you fall a little further into it, your mind a lovely shade of blank – with the exception of the boy in front of you, like all your nerves screaming his name.

“Hey.” Elias’ voice is soft as he pulls away. He doesn’t take his hands away from where they’re laying against the bare skin of your back. “We don’t have to go further.”

He’s giving you an out, you realize, a second to gather your thoughts. You could pull away now, you could put some space between the two of you.

You scoot forward, moving even more into his lap, and carefully curl your hand around his jaw. He leans into it slightly, and your heart screams with how much you want him.

You don’t answer. Even as a writer, you realize that words are sometimes overrated. Instead, you press your lips against his, placing your heart in his hands as you kiss him once more.  

--

It takes about two hours after you get back to your apartment for the reality of it all to comes crashing down at you.

The night at the cabin was wonderful; magical, even. If you would write the perfect Christmas story, it would be a lot like that.

Except you’re not writing a Christmas story – you should, of course, but you haven’t started and that’s because Christmas stories are unrealistic.

You and Elias, your story - no matter how wonderful – is unrealistic. What were you thinking? That Elias, being who he is, would simply… What? Become your boyfriend?

He’s Vancouver’s biggest star, everyone’s favorite person. You’re just another lonely writer who lives mostly in their own brain. You’re just someone else who is hard to love; like your parents, like your sister, like all the friends you’ve seen get their hearts broken.

You call Brock.

“Wow, calm down,” are the first words that come out of his mouth when he finally speaks. You’ve told him most of the story by then, sentences coming out in shallow breaths and tears already burning in the back of your throat. “What the hell do you mean ‘hard to love’? That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not.” You swallow. “Brock, it’s not real. What I’m feeling. People fall in love all the time and they all believe that’s it, their perfect story, but how often does that story end up a tragedy?”

“Y/N…” He sounds mostly sad. “You can’t live like that.”

But your mind was made up long ago, so long ago when you were just a child. When you saw the tragedy that was your parents love story, and then later it was only settled deeper, when you saw your friends get hurt, when your sister got cheated on.

“I can’t make myself the protagonist of my own tragedy.”

“Petey isn’t going to break your heart.” Brock’s voice is sharp, and you realize this is not a fair position to put him into: how can he be honest to you when that means breaking Elias’ trust?

“He won’t mean to,” you whisper. “But it’ll happen. It might not even be his fault. I’ll probably break my own heart somewhere along the line. But happiness doesn’t just come along this suddenly, Boes.”

“What is it does?” Brock asks, and you don’t have an answer.

What if it does is less scary what if it doesn’t, and the next few days when Elias calls, you don’t pick up the phone.

--

You shouldn’t have opened the door.

“You’re avoiding me.” Elias sounds... hurt. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him sound like that. You’ve learned that when he’s upset, he mostly sounds indifferent; locks his emotions behind a wall for nobody to see.

And maybe it’s a testament to how well you know him, now, that you can pick up on the change in his voice. Or maybe it means he’s decided to let you in.

God, you hope it’s not that last one. Hope he didn’t make that mistake.

You sigh. “I’m sorry, but…”

“Don’t.” Elias cuts you off by pushing past you into the apartment. He stands glaring at you in the middle of the living room, arm crossed. “You’re not doing this.”

You have to.

“It’s just not gonna work,” you try. There goes the crack in your heart, bursting open like someone squeezes it with an iron fist.

You’re doing this to yourself. But that’s better than the alternative: better than having Elias do it way further into the story, when there’s something to destroy.

There’s nothing to destroy, now. There’s only the prologue to the story, and now the epilogue. A story with no middle won’t be remembered.  

“That’s not true.” Elias isn’t backing down. “You can’t tell me nothing this past month has meant anything to you.” He frowns. “Does this have anything to do with your Christmas thing? Would it be different if this had happened in January?”

You laugh, but there’s no humor there. If only it was that simple.

“This has nothing to do with Christmas, Elias. This just isn’t real. There’s no happy ending to my storyline, and I’m not dragging you down with me.”

You let your eyes fix on him, on the way he stands there stubbornly, still fighting for something. For you. If only it made a difference.

Elias doesn’t say anything, for a while. Finally, voice timid, he says: “You’re gonna throw this away because you’re scared.”

You are scared. But that’s not why you’re doing this.

“Damn it, Y/N.” Frustration rings clear in Elias’ voice, now. “I know you feel what I feel! You can’t just ruin that because you’re not brave enough to say what you want!”

“It doesn’t make a difference, Elias!” You’re hurting too, and you can hear your own voice getting too loud.

“I wanna live in a world where people don’t get hurt, and everyone’s got enough money and nobody ever has to skip a meal!” You swallow, hot tears pricking behind your eyes. “I wanna live in a world where people don’t get in the car to get a Christmas tree and never come back, and I wanna live in a world where Santa’s real, Elias, but that’s just not reality. That’s not how life works.”  

Elias’ eyes are dark, his jaw tense. You know you’re not gonna like what he’s got to say before he’s even opened his mouth.

“Maybe not,” he says tightly, “but you live in a world where people can choose to love each other. It doesn’t have anything to do with Santa, or magic. None of those things are real, but love is real, and you can choose to believe in that.”

He grabs his jacket, is walking towards the door before you can even comprehend what he’s saying. At the door, he turns around. His eyes shine with sadness.

“I want to love you, but you have to choose to believe that, too. And if you can’t, then I guess it won’t ever be real.”

When the door closes, the last piece of your heart breaks in two.

--

“Merry Christmas!”

Brock’s voice is bright and cheery. He’s clearly only just woken up, his blond hair a mess and Milo passed out in his lap.

“It’s not even Christmas yet,” you tease. You curl your legs closer to yourself, your coffee in one hand and your phone in the other. It’s nice to see Brock, even if it’s just over FaceTime.

Getting your heart broken is even worse when you can’t really talk about it to your best friend, because you also broke your best friend’s other best friend’s heart.

It’s a complicated issue, is the thing.

“It’s Christmas Eve tonight,” Brock says, rolling his eyes. “That’s basically Christmas. Are you still moping?”

“Hey,” you protest. “I’m not moping. I’m sad. It’s different.”

You have been moping, a bit. The first two days after your final talk with Elias, you didn’t even really come out of bed. You just sat there and you wrote.

That’s the only good thing to come out of this, you think. You somehow not only wrote your story, it’s maybe the best story you’ve ever written.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Brock’s voice is gentle. “You can talk to me, you know? I won’t use anything you say against you or tell Petey or whatever. He’s been talking to me too.”

Your heart does a somersault. If Elias has been talking to Brock, Brock probably already knows everything; in a way, you can’t believe he’s still talking to you if that’s the case.

More than that, though, it brings an opportunity. To find out what you’ve been wondering since Elias stepped out of your apartment.

“Is he alright?”

“Are you?” Brock counters, like that matters.

You stare at the coffee in your cup. It’s too hot to drink still, little puffs of steam climbing through the air.

You’re not doing so well, admittedly, but that’s probably fair. You were the one to broke off the story, in the end. And you hate to admit it to yourself – and you definitely won’t admit it to Brock – but you’ve been wondering if you made the right choice.

“I wrote my Christmas story,” you say, instead of answering his question. “Handed it in yesterday.”

Brock lets you change the subject. “Cool. What did it ended up being about?”

You sigh. “It was about me.”

Brock raises his eyebrows, interest clear in his eyes. He doesn’t push you, and you’re glad for it. You need a moment to find the words.

“I wrote about a girl who hates Christmas because it reminds her of things that she’s lost. And I wrote about how scared she is of gaining something because that means she can lose it again.”

Brock’s voice is soft when he speaks. “But someone teaches her? In the story?”

He knows you too well. You laugh quietly. “Yes, someone takes her through all these Christmas cliches to make her realize why they’re cliches. It’s not because of the act itself. It’s because you spend time doing it with someone you love.”

“She loves this person, the one that teaches her,” Brock hazards a guess.

There’s no longer any doubt that he knows exactly how you feel about Elias.

“She loves him but that scares her even more. Because if she loves him, she could lose him. And Christmas has always been the time to remind her of loss and heartbreak. So she assumes it’ll just end in hurt this time too.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Brock says.

And you know. Somehow, writing the story, you realized that. Because as you wrote about this girl, that was exactly like you, you found yourself not wanting to give the story a realistic ending. You wanted to make it right, wanted her to end up with the person who taught her how to love Christmas and how to love him.

So you did. You gave your story a happy ending. And in doing that, it’s like you gave yourself permission to want a happy ending for yourself, too.

But there’s just no way. Life isn’t a fairytale, and the Christmas cliché where the girl who throws it all away gets back her perfect boy by stealing Santa’s microphone in the mall and making a grand speech about how pushing him away was the biggest mistake of her life, simply isn’t real life material.

“It’s not too late, you know.” Brock’s sitting up straighter, almost as if he wants to come through the camera and tell you in person. “If you wanted to change the ending. You could. He’d let you.”

Your heart starts beating faster and it has nothing to do with the caffeine you’re drinking.

All this time, you’ve been wondering. Wondering if it’s too late.

“How would I do that?” you ask. “Hypothetically.” 

Brock’s grin is so bright you nearly have to close your eyes. “Send him the story,” he says, without thinking about it; the jerk probably has been thinking about this since you started telling him what it’s about. “You should send him the story. Kinda like a message in a bottle.”

When you say goodbye to Brock, his eyes are fond when you tell him “Thank you” and mean it. Without him, you don’t think you would’ve had the courage, but now it feels like the only possible ending comes with you taking your Word document and putting it in an email.

--

To: e.pettersson40@hotmail.com

Attachment: Not a typical Christmas story.pdf

Message:

Elias,

I’ve tried to write this letter a million times, to tell you what I should’ve said that night. I can’t say I’m not scared what you’ll think, but who am I to know what the future holds? If my heart was paper I’d fold it, throw it to the wind and hope it’d end up in your arms. So here it is, my paper heart, in the form of the most cliché Christmas story of them all. The one where everyone ends up with their perfect happily ever after.

Signed with love from me to you,

Y/N.

--

There’s three rapid knocks on the door, and then silence.

Your heartbeat speeds up like you heard gunshots instead. Within seconds you’re on your feet, almost running to the door.

There’s only one person that could be at your door on Christmas morning at 9am, right?

When you open it, something heavy dissolves in your stomach, a sense of comfort falling over you like crawling into bed after an exhausting day.

“Elias,” you breathe.

For a second, you just stare at him: he looks like he’s barely slept at all, dark circles surrounding his eyes, which somehow seem more blue than they ever have before.

“Merry Christmas,” Elias says then, thrusting something forward. You grab it in reflex.

It’s the glass star, the ornament from the Christmas market. The one that you had told Elias you found beautiful, the one that reflected all the lights like a million little stars. The one that reminded you, even, of Elias’ eyes.

It’s still beautiful. And suddenly there’s tears running down your cheeks, warm against your skin.

Elias frowns. He looks a little worried, unsure; as if he shouldn’t be here. But God, he is here, on your doorstep, and he brought you this ornament, and you know that it has to mean what you think it does.

“I’m sorry,” you bring out. “For everything, I…”

You can’t finish your sentence, because Elias steps forward, his arms outstretched, and you launch yourself at him like a missile. He catches you easily, presses you against his chest and buries his face in your shoulder.

“I read the story,” he mumbles. You can barely make out the words, but they hit you like a ton of bricks anyway. “You believe in Christmas miracles now?”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he asks, because he already knows the answer.

“I don’t know,” you admit. You pull away a little, but keep your arms firmly locked around Elias’ waist, and his hands remain on your back. “But you’re here, so. I think I might have to start.”

Elias laughs, moving closer again to press a kiss against your head. You can feel his lips move against your hair when he speaks. “What about us? You believe in us, now?”

You don’t answer him, but you think he can tell from the way you kiss him, anyway.

--

You tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders, smiling down at the opposite end of the couch. Elias is talking in Swedish and you don’t understand a word he’s saying, but you can tell that he’s happy, smile bright and eyes fixed on the laptop screen in front of him.

He’s been talking to his family for the past hour, and watching him has been a great source of entertainment for you. He blushed when his brother mentioned your name, and finally he did introduce you to them.

“This is Y/N, I’m forcing her to watch Christmas movies with me all day and then bake cookies,” he’d laughed, and you didn’t tell him that there’s nothing you’d rather do.

“Jag älskar dig, hejdå,” Elias says, and then he finally closes the laptop. “Hey,” he hums, poking your thigh with his toe, “my mom said she can’t wait to meet you, so. Be warned.”

You laugh. “I would love to go to Sweden. I read something about cakes.”

It feels natural, to crawl over to the other side of the couch and lay down between Elias’ legs, head resting on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear and it’s enough for your eyes to close on their own accord.

It’s not like you’ve had much sleep the past few nights. But now, you think you could finally sleep peacefully, knowing that Elias is here and he’s not leaving.

His hand moves down your side, sneaking under your sweater, fingertips soft against your skin.

“It’s snowing,” he says, suddenly, and you open your eyes to look out the window.

Indeed, there’s little flurries of white powder fluttering through the grey Vancouver sky.

“That’s too much,” you roll your eyes. “The great grandmother of Christmas cliches.” Elias raises a questioning eyebrow, so you explain. “As the final crisis is resolved, everyone runs out in the street on Christmas Eve to discover that it’s snowing! In Nigeria! During a drought!”

“We’re in Vancouver,” Elias deadpans, and it’s only because you know him so well that you see the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “And it’s not Christmas Eve, it’s Christmas Day.”

“Minor details,” you shrug, placing your head back on his chest and closing your eyes again.

“We’ve gotta decorate this sad excuse of a tree.” You can hear the smile in Elias’ voice as he talks. “Two ornaments does not make a Christmas tree.”

“Later,” you hum, curling your fingers into his sweater. “We’ve got all day.”

Elias laughs. “The tree is supposed to be decorated before Christmas, typically.”

You can’t help but smile at that. “We’re not a typical Christmas story, though.”

“Maybe not typical, but still pretty good.” His arms tighten around you and you can feel him press a kiss into your hair.

“Pretty fucking good,” you agree. “If you get me off this couch today it’ll be a Christmas miracle though.”

You shouldn’t have said that: no sooner than the final word leaves your lips you’re being lifted into the air, legs dangling helplessly as Elias throws you over this shoulder. Your giggles come out a little hysterically. 

“I told you miracles are real,” he grins, unceremoniously carrying you towards the bedroom.

You’ve just come from there, but you’re really not against the idea of going back.

“What about the tree?” you squeal, lightly slapping his shoulder.

“Tree can wait,” Elias decides, as he dumps you onto the bed and lets himself fall over you, leaning on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.

“Tree can wait,” you echo in agreement, and you let your body relax into the mattress as Elias kisses you. When he tries to deepen it, you turn away just slightly, keeping your nose pressed against his cheekbone. “Hey, Lias?”

“What?” Elias mutters, sounding a little annoyed to be denied another kiss.

You smile. “Merry Christmas.”

His laughter sounds bright.

“Merry Christmas, babe.”

[honey-dewey]

Light Me A New York Torch

Pairing: Oberyn Martell/GN! Reader

Word Count: 2,045

Warnings: Mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions of gore, ghosts

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell​

The prompt for this week’s Writer Wednesday was given, as always, by the lovely @autumnleaves1991-blog​​, and the masterlists are created by @clydesducktape​.

You couldn’t remember when it started. When you began to see the people no one else could see. But it had been going on for years, and it was no longer as unsettling as it had once been. Instead, the slightly faded people wandering through the crowds of Sunspear were a comfort, coming with the knowledge that after death, there was still some kind of life. 

The ghosts never bothered you, and they never bothered others. They mostly kept residence where they’d been buried, never venturing past the wrought iron gates of their respective cemeteries. But occasionally, especially whenever you made visits to the castle, you would see ghosts, their silver fog trails and oozing injuries marking them as some of the valiant dead. They liked to sit in on meetings, especially the important ones. You never cared, always nodding a brief hello if you were alone. 

But it was the Princess of Sunspear who you spent most of your days with.

Elia Martell was buried just outside the castle, in a cemetery dedicated to members of the Martell bloodline. Her name was etched beautifully into a tombstone, her two children beside her. You never met the kids, but Elia loved to spend time in the sun with you, listening to stories you told. Now, you sat on a small bench, waiting for your ghostly friend, a bag of fabric beside you as you worked on a new robe for the Prince. 

“Is that for Oberyn?” 

You looked up, smiling at Elia. Her face was near ruined, the color faded with death, but her smile was still beautiful, even if it was streaked in blood. 

“Of course,” you said, examining the neat backstitching you’d been working on all morning. “Who else wears fabrics this expensive?” 

Elia laughed, sitting beside you and looking out over the sea. “How is he?“ she asked softly. “Is he doing well?” 

You nodded. “He is.” You set down the sleeve you’d been holding in favor of focusing entirely on Elia. “Doran fell ill, so Oberyn is going to be heading to King’s Landing for him. He leaves in a week’s time.” 

Elia hummed. “Travel will do him good,” she decided. “He’s grown too comfortable here in Sunspear.” 

“Comfortable?” You asked with a laugh. “How so?” 

“He’s like a cat,” Elia said, echoing your laugh. “A cat who’s found an awfully gullible human to leave it a bowl of cream every night.” 

You laughed, your project abandoned in your lap. “Unfortunately,” you said once you’d regained yourself. “I think this cat is soon to be declawed. Did you hear what Doran was planning on doing?” 

“Please, enlighten me.” 

You and Elia both jumped at the new voice, and you turned to see the last person you wanted to see right now. Prince Oberyn. 

“Ah, my Prince,” you said, bowing your head. “I didn’t see you there.” 

Oberyn smiled, looking at the bag at your feet. “Who were you talking to?” He asked, entirely unaware of Elia sitting beside you, her bloodstained eyebrows turned up in worry. 

“Old ghosts,” you answered honestly, knowing he wouldn’t believe you. Most people never did. “Elia likes the castle gossip.” 

Oberyn chuckled, laying his hand atop his sister’s tombstone. “She always did,” he hummed, and Elia stood, standing beside her brother. She gently reached out to touch his face, her thumb gliding over his cheek. 

“Tell him he’s too thin,” she said softly, her voice full of worry. “He looks too sad.” 

You sighed. Elia, no matter how long she remained youthful, would always be Oberyn’s older sister. She would always harbor that deep flame of concern in her belly. “Elia’s worried about you,” you said, not bothering to stand. 

“I suppose she would be,” Oberyn said, turning back to you. “Mind if I sit?” 

You shifted your stuff over, allowing Oberyn to sit beside you. He peered into your bag, smiling a bit. “Fabric looks nice.” 

“Well, it is for you,” you said, drawing the half finished sleeve out of the bag again and picking up where you’d left off. “I figured you’d like the color.” 

“It’ll suit me well,” Oberyn agreed. 

Elia looked from you to Oberyn, her face lighting up. “Oh gods!” She said eagerly. “He likes you!” 

You ignored her, not wanting Oberyn to assume you were out of your mind. “Are you bringing Ellaria to King’s Landing?“ you asked, picking up your needle and continuing to rhythmically backstitch the hem of the sleeve. “I don’t think she’s been yet.” 

“She hasn’t,” Oberyn said. “I will bring her when I leave. She’s grown bored here in Dorne. She’s never truly left the kingdom, and I promised her travel.” 

You nodded. “Does she need a new robe?” You asked. “I have some beautiful sheer fabric that I can’t wait to use.” 

Oberyn smiled. “You work too hard,” he said lightly. “Ellaria is not in need of a new robe.” 

“I work just hard enough,” you countered. “I’ll make her a new one when you return.” You tucked your things into your bag, the waxed spool of thread falling gracelessly on top of the pile of fabric. “I’ll see you tomorrow Oberyn.” 

Elia followed you all the way to your sewing room, which was shocking, considering she almost never left the cemetery. The entire time, her face practically glowed, and as soon as the door was shut, she squealed with happiness. “He’s in love with you!” 

“Who, Oberyn?” You asked, dragging the wooden dress stand towards your desk and beginning to put fabric pieces onto it. “That’s like saying I’m in love with expensive fabrics. It’s a damn near daily occurrence. Oberyn being in love with me means nothing.” 

“Mhm,” Elia hummed, sitting up on the windowsill and watching you pin the half-finished sleeves to the body of the robe. “Do you like him?” 

You almost stabbed yourself in the finger. “No!“ you insisted, grabbing a pin cushion and sticking the head of a pin into your mouth. “He’s funny and kind and, sure, maybe a bit handsome, but no! I’m not in love with him!” 

Elia’s cat-like grin told you that she didn’t believe you in the slightest. “You love my brother,” she said happily. “Oh! This is amazing!” 

Rolling your eyes, you threw an empty spool at Elia, watching it soar through her chest and out the open window. “Hush up,” you said firmly. “I need to focus.” 

Seven days of focus later, you were presenting Oberyn with his new robe, Elia by your side. 

“How does it fit?” You asked, smoothing the fabric between Oberyn’s shoulders, watching it stretch as he shifted. “Too tight, too loose?” 

“It’s perfect,” Oberyn promised, turning. “I’m sure I’ll be the envy of everyone in King’s Landing.” 

You smiled. “Be careful on these buttons,” you urged. “If you lose any of them, I might just cry. They were very expensive.” 

Oberyn chuckled. “If I have time,” he said. “I shall look in the King’s Landing marketplace. They might have some nice fabrics and things for you.” 

Your belly heated. “You don’t have to,” you said, sending a minuscule glare in Elia’s direction as she grinned wildly. 

“You deserve a thank you,” Oberyn insisted. “I know you must’ve worked many long nights to finish this robe.” 

“It truly was not that bad.” You didn’t disagree with him. You knew just how long you spent awake to put that robe together. 

Oberyn’s smile never faded as he turned to his horse. “I’ll be back,” he promised. “Tell Elia I’ll visit her when I return.” 

Elia hovered her hand over Oberyn’s. “Stay safe little brother,” she said, and although he couldn’t hear her, you swore Oberyn’s eyes shone brighter as he turned his horse away and rode off.

Two weeks later, after many boring days, you were met with a surprise. The cemetery had not one waiting figure, but two. Elia, ever the permanent fixture, and then another horribly familiar body. 

“Oberyn?” 

The second figure turned, and you gasped. Oberyn’s face looked as if someone had torn it to shreds. His eyes were no more than rusted red craters in his face, and his mouth was stained in blood. His hair was sticky and matted to his temples, where two identical injuries lay. He was in his leather armor, and you were desperate to know what happened. 

“So you weren’t joking,” Oberyn murmured. “You really can see ghosts.” 

“What happened?” You asked desperately, not caring if anyone heard you seemingly talking to yourself. “Who did this to you?” 

Oberyn sighed. “I was the Imp’s champion,” he said. “In a trial by combat. I fought The Mountain, and lost spectacularly.” 

You wanted to scream. “Why?” 

Elia shifted on her tombstone. Oberyn took a breath. “Revenge,” he admitted. “For Elia.” 

You let out a watery sob. “You bastard!” You screamed, swinging your fists as Oberyn, who merely took the fist to the face, allowing it to pass right through him. “You stupid bastard! I can’t believe I’ve lost you! You! I can’t-“ you fell to your knees, sobs wracking your body. “I don’t want you to go.” 

“Who says I’m going anywhere?” Oberyn said, crouching beside you and letting his fingers glide under your chin. The chill racing through your skin forced your head up, so you were looking into his face. “I’m not going anywhere, my little seer. You’re stuck with me for as long as you live.” 

You reached out, thumbs ghosting over Oberyn’s bloodied cheeks. “You’re a mess,” you mumbled. “A bloody fucking mess.” 

“Well,” Oberyn hummed. “I did just die yesterday.” 

The rest of the day, you lay in the cemetery with Oberyn and Elia, occasionally joined by two children Elia admitted were hers. The leaves on the surrounding trees were finally beginning to fall, peppering the ground with dots of vivid orange until the once green grass was hidden beneath a blanket of autumn. It was peaceful, even when silvery clouds rolled through the sky and bells began to toll in the city. Shouts, too far off to decipher, split the air, and wails followed shortly after. 

“It seems the world has learned of my death,” Oberyn murmured. 

“It seems so,” you agreed. “The common folk have lost a good man.” 

Oberyn smiled. “But not you,” he said. “You’ll never lose me.” 

You laughed. “I do believe I am stuck with you forever,” you said. “Wanna head into the market tomorrow? I need to make you a funeral robe.” 

Looking up at the fog silver sky, the breeze making the leaves dance on the air before they fell to the ground, Oberyn nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly, watching Elia play with her children. “We can make it a date.” 

“A date,” you repeated. “Of course.”

[vale-ocs-roleplay]

     “You can have your secret as long as I have your heart”  

 ― Oscar Wilde

Name: Elia Strigoii

Race: Pureblood vampire

Age: 500+

Apparent age: 20-30 years old

Date of birth: November 1st

Height: 181 cm

Appearance:

Elia has the typical characteristics of the Strigoii family: pale blue eyes that seem to shine in the shadows, fiery red hair and an extremely pale, corpse-like complexion.

The sweetness of his face contrasts with the deep dark circles that color his lower eyelids, but he has no other particular signs, other than the sharp nails and pointed ears typical of his species.

He presents himself as a young man whose age is not well defined, but in any case he could hardly be confused with a boy. He appears as a tall man, distinguished despite his mortuary face, constantly dressed in dark clothes reminiscent of the nobility of the past, his vermilion hair stretches up to below his shoulder blades, even if he happens several times to collect them in different manners.

Elia has a physical characteristic that no one could notice from the outside. In Elia’s body there are two hearts: the largest (the one really of him), is in the center of his chest as usual. Unlike what humans believe, vampire hearts aren’t necessarily dead and inactive, particularly those of some pureblood vampires. Although his heart does not present the classic activity that it carries out in the human body, it remains an active and living muscle that reacts to certain stimuli of its owner, despite not taking care of the circulation of the blood that does not flow in the vampire’s veins, as happens with humans, which is why Elia is extremely cold when touched.

The second heart is extremely small and is at the height of his navel. This heart, on the other hand, has no activity, it is dead and simply stuck in his bowels; despite this it is said that to kill Elia it is necessary to destroy both of his hearts.

History:

Before getting to know Elia better, perhaps it is better to tell the story of him from the beginning.

Strigoii is a name that occurs in Romanian mythology. They are said to be bloodsucking creatures that belong to the world of darkness, creatures from which the figure of the literary vampire as we know him was born. They are said to have two hearts or two souls.

This is not true, or at least not for everyone. The Strigoii are not a species in their own right, in reality it is simply one of the oldest pureblood vampire families in Romania, it is so ancient that only very few of today’s members remember its origins, despite being composed of immortals.

Despite being a rather large family, it remains closed and reserved, despite the social prestige it holds in the nocturnal environment.

Unlike many other vampires, including purebloods, Strigoii have never (at least officially) integrated with humans, except through hunting or extreme necessity. They never go out into the sunlight despite having all the knowledge to evade the problems that would arise in coming into contact with the sun’s rays, and also never ingest anything other than blood, despite having the possibility (even if food does not however, it is a source of nourishment).

Despite this vaunted purity of the blood of the family that has persisted for centuries and centuries not to want to mix with the human race, in truth it is not entirely true that in the past there have been no contacts with that world.

In reality, there is only one example with two hearts.

Elia despite his venerable age is one of the youngest vampires of the family, son of two important members, Dragomir and Beatris and second of three siblings.

Even if the family insists on hiding it, although rare around the world there are damphir born from Stiroii and human beings who for more or less ethical and more or less selfish reasons broke the usual family order.

Beatris, Elia’s mother, was still considered relatively young when she conceived him, and unlike many of her family, she did not hold back her curiosity for the human world.

She was neither the first nor the last vampire to have intercourse with a human, but what happened is that, despite her already carrying a child, she conceived again.

So two hearts developed, one purebred, and the other, a more unique than rare case, completely human.

If due to the nature of the brother, or if for reasons of the simple cycle of life, the human being did not have the opportunity to develop, but his heart was absorbed by the growing older brother.

When Elia Strigoii was born, his case aroused the curiosity of the family, even if they considered it natural that the vampire had devoured the human, and also of the other purebred families that despite being kept in the dark of the truth of the facts, began to make assumptions not so distant from reality.

It is said that Elia is not only inhabited by the heart, but also by the soul of his younger human sister, whom he later named Helen, who has been communicating with him through his dreams since he was a child.

Personality:

Elia lives with a sense of guilt towards his sister. Although he never says a word to anyone, it is a feeling that torments him since his earliest years of life.

He loves neither humans nor vampires. He continues to meet the expectations of the family out of respect, but he does not appreciate the falsehood and hypocrisy that winds its way, while he sees humans as being too full of themselves for their position.

His attitude varies from being cold, serious and detached to irony and malice. He knows how to judge well with whom he can afford to let the hedonistic side of him shine through, for example with his siblings Emil and Eva.

Hardly Elia ever comes into contact with human beings, if not out of necessity, but in those rare cases it is even more rare that he has relations with them. His sisterHelen is the only exception. He loves her dearly, but at the same time he despises her human nature, imagining that if she was a vampire like him, then they could really be together. As a child he used to talk about the dreams in which his little sister appeared with his parents, but as he grew up those stories gradually faded away. Now the only one who can hear about Helen is her younger sister Eva who, being younger than Elia, has a sort of incorruptible admiration for her brother, which guarantees her confidence in him.

Since the family is isolated from the human society, Elia retains attitudes typical of past ages that still exist in vampire society. He likes classical music, theater and poetry. In addition, he loves animals very much, so much so that unlike other vampires he rarely feeds on their blood, favoring the highest quality human blood.

Despite bragging about the superiority of vampires over humanity, in reality Elia is curious about their world and in his heart he would like to know more, but he knows that by nature nothing good can come of it from the encounter between him and humans, and what happened to the unborn sister is proof of this.

Powers and abilities:

-Like every vampire, he has superhuman strength, superior even to many of his kind. He possesses increased speed and is generally gifted with rapid healing.

- It can transform into an animal, generally its preferred form is that of a fox, but it also often transforms into the classic bat.

-It can turn into fog, although this seems to have repercussions on his health.

-Wanting he can transform a human into a vampire through the classic embrace, he did it only once in his life and he never wanted to reveal either the reasons or who the vampire was.

-He can go out into the sunlight with proper precautions, but he almost never does.

-His saliva is healing.

-He can immobilize someone with his gaze according to his will, but this only lasts for a maximum of one minute.

-If he is not killed, he is immortal

[cassandraclare]

The Anniversary Party

Someone asked me about the flash fiction this month, and I realized I’d sent it out in my newsletter, but forgotten to post it! So here’s the whole Jan/Feb story, in which we get a bit of background on Cordelia and her family. Art by Cassandra Jean, of course! This is the last of the flash fiction stories, and it’s been a pleasure to share them with you!

THE ANNIVERSARY PARTY

FRANCE, 1899....

Cordelia did not like Menton very much. She should have, in theory. Menton was a pretty seaside town, a jumble of pink and yellow buildings along a small harbor, mostly slips for sailboats and some fishing boats. The air was warm and Mediterranean, the fish was exceptionally fresh, she could see Italy from her bedroom window across the far side of the harbor. What was there not to like?

They had come for her father’s health—why else did they go anywhere, after all—and Cordelia could understand why Menton had a reputation as a healing destination for the sick and the elderly. Indeed, her father’s health had rebounded since their arrival a few weeks earlier and he was in a period of good spirits, willing to dance with her in the parlor and even managing to drag a smile out of Alastair on occasion. Alastair had entered a turbulent adolescence, as Cordelia overheard her mother say to her father. Cordelia hoped that when she was Alastair’s age she would maintain her composure a little better than he was managing.

But Menton’s charms quickly faded for her. Its popularity with the sick and the elderly meant that the town’s population had a large proportion of both, and while Cordelia wished them all well, they did not offer her much in the way of companions or even adults interested in conversation with a girl for whom French was her third language, and not very strong. The beach turned out to be made not of sand but of large round pebbles—Cordelia had never heard of such a thing, a beach made of rocks, very uncomfortable on bare feet, not pleasant to lie on, and offering no opportunity for building castles or digging trenches.

Worst of all, her parents continued to be as antisocial as ever, making no efforts to reach out to the local Shadowhunter community (the closest Institute being in Marseilles). And so Cordelia was alone. Sometimes she was alone with Alastair, but he mostly ignored her, and even so they were both duly sick of each other’s sole company after a week.

The only source of relief was the knowledge that this, too, would pass—the Carstairs family moved constantly, obsessively, for the sake of her father’s health. Cordelia could never understand the logic of it, except that she agreed that it was worth doing anything if it meant her father’s wellbeing. In this case, it was a bit of a relief. She knew they would not stay in Menton more than a few months.

This was, she felt, why she was so alone. Her family never stayed anywhere long enough for her to meet anyone her age, much less make friends. Her only real friends in the world were Lucie and James Herondale, and only because, Cordelia knew, Will and Tessa Herondale had always worked very hard to make sure that their children saw the younger Carstairs. It was still a rare treat to see them, as the Herondales ran the London Institute, and thus were usually in London, and occasionally in Idris, while Cordelia and her family were all over the map.

And here again, the Herondales came to her rescue, this time in the form of a letter her father read aloud at the breakfast table.

“’Good morning, Elias and Sona,’ – I say, how would he know what time of day we’d read it, the man is mad as a hatter—”

“We are reading it in the morning, though,” Cordelia said. Her father gave her an indulgent smile and went on.

“’It is a capital day here in London, and I hope it will be a capital day in Paris six weeks hence, when Tessa and I will celebrate our nineteenth wedding anniversary. As it is not the custom of any known culture to make a to-do out of the nineteenth wedding anniversary, we have decided to throw an enormous party.’”

“A ball!” cried Cordelia, but a worry poked at her. Would her parents attend such a thing? Her father was frowning at the letter, but possibly he was simply trying to make the words out better without his glasses.

“It’s not a ball,” said Alastair, who had stopped halfway down the stairway to listen.

“’A ball, if you will,’” her father read on. “Well done, Cordelia.”

Cordelia stuck out her tongue at Alastair.

“’We would love if you and your darling children would join us…if you would do us the pleasure of responding…,’ et cetera, et cetera…” Her father scanned the letter. “And then it has the date and the address and all that.”

“It started out strong, but it ended in something of an anticlimax,” Alastair said.

“Can we go?” Cordelia said eagerly. “Can we please? I would so like to see Lucie and James. And maybe  I’d meet some of the people Lucie talks about in her letters!”

“I would like to see anyone at all other than you lot,” said Alastair mildly. “No offense intended.”

“Alastair!” Sona scolded, but Cordelia was not about to let Alastair distract from the main point. She redoubled her efforts in the direction of her father.

“Papa, can we go, please? You’ve recovered so well, surely a trip of only a few days would be possible. Don’t you want Shadowhunter society to see how well you are?”

“Hm,” her father said. He looked at her mother, who looked back. They exchanged a series of incomprehensible looks with one another.

“If you think it would be a good idea,” Sona said to Elias. Cordelia’s father gave Cordelia a long look. Cordelia tried to catch Alastair’s eye, but he’d turned away and was looking with disgust into the middle distance, a typical expression for him these days.

“I think we could manage a train trip and a few days in Paris,” her father allowed. “I do adore Paris.”

Cordelia threw her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

#

Cordelia spent the next weeks in a state of constant dread. She didn’t dare remind her parents of the upcoming trip, lest they remember that they had intended to cancel and not attend after all. It had happened before, but never before for an event in which Cordelia had a strong investment.

But when the event was a few days away, her father brought up the timetable of the Calais-Méditerrannée Express train at breakfast. Tickets were bought, bags packed, and still Cordelia could barely believe it when she found herself the evening before the party, pulling into the Gare du Nord in an elegant blue train car, clutching her hands in her lap in anticipation: Paris, at last she was in Paris! She would see her future parabatai, and her brother, and the cream of Shadowhunter society, and she would do so in Paris.

The next day found her gazing into the full-length mirror in their rooms at the Hôtel Continental on the Rue de Rivoli and wondering that she was even the same girl who had been miserably pining away a few days before. Her mother had helped her select her dress, a frothy lemon confection of lace and silk. She wasn’t entirely sure it suited her, but it was very elegant.

Even Alastair regarded her with something in the neighborhood of admiration when he came in to fetch his gloves. “You look surprisingly mature,” he told her. Cordelia thought that was probably equivalent to a full swoon, for Alastair. For his part, he was clearly aiming at “mature” as well, having put on a brown sack coat with only one of its buttons buttoned, and having dared to apply a dab of pomade to his black hair, which, Cordelia had to admit, did make it shine compellingly.

“You look like you’ll be trying to impress someone at the party,” Cordelia teased him. “Anyone in particular?”

“Everyone,” Alastair sniffed. “Everyone that is anyone.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes.

Her father was in high spirits as they entered the carriage a short time later, joking and laughing. Her mother was quiet, watching her husband with a smile and a considering expression, and that is how they were for the entire ride to the Paris Institute.

#

She had been practicing her French, and when the imposing figure of Madame Bellefleur greeted them at the Institute door with a paragraph of rapid-fire enthusiasm and questions, she understood them: welcome, how was their journey, isn’t it frightfully chilly tonight. She began to think of a reply, and found that her entire speaking ability in the French language had departed her brain in exactly that moment.

Her father’s French was fluid and expert, and Cordelia felt a little rush of pride as he said, “Madame Bellefleur, dear! You are looking as lovely as ever, Odile. But what has become of you, that you’ve fallen so far to be working the door?”

Madame Bellefleur laughed, a hearty chuckle that made Cordelia like her immediately. “I sent the maid off to enjoy herself. I like answering the door, Elias — it may be the Herondales’ party, but it’s my Institute.”

Inside, Cordelia slipped away from her parents as soon as it was feasible and went to look for her friends. It took her all of five minutes to become hopelessly lost. Unlike any Institute she had been in before, this one was laid out as a labyrinthine series of interconnected salons. Each looked much like the last, and was crowded with adults, none of whom Cordelia knew, and most of whom were speaking in rapid French. She had not spotted a single Herondale, and the clatter and chatter of the party guests was beginning to make her feel less like a young sophisticate at the ball and more like a little girl who had lost her mother at the market.

Out of nowhere came a whirlwind of petticoats, which turned out happily to be Lucie Herondale, throwing herself into Cordelia’s arms with great force and a squeal of delight. “Cordelia, Cordelia, you must come, Christopher is going to teach us how to eat fire!”

“I’m sorry?” Cordelia said politely, but Lucie was already pulling her toward the door to the next salon. “Who is Christopher?”

“Christopher Lightwood, of course. My cousin. He saw a man eating fire in Covent Garden and he said he’d worked out how to do it. He’s very scientific, Christopher.” Lucie’s progress was stopped short, and Cordelia looked up to see a tall, slender older girl, with dark hair braided atop her head and a striking look. She was wearing a lacy blue dress without much enthusiasm. She raised her eyebrows and stared Lucie down. “And this is his sister Anna,” Lucie said, as though she’d planned the encounter.

“Christopher will not be eating any fire,” said Anna, “or indeed anything other than the canapes tonight.”

Lucie said, “Anna, this is Cordelia Carstairs; she’s going to be my parabatai.” Cordelia felt a rush of affection for her friend—she felt so alone so much of the time, but she wasn’t, not really. She was going to have a parabatai; neither she nor Lucie would ever fully be alone again. Or that’s how she had come to understand it would feel.

Anna, however, merely arched an eyebrow. “Not if Christopher burns the Institute down, she won’t.” She turned her piercing gaze onto Cordelia. “Carstairs?” she said curiously. “What Carstairs?”

Cordelia knew what that was about. She gave Anna a smile. “Jem Carstairs is my second cousin. I only know him a very little bit, unfortunately.” Jem, who had been Lucie’s father’s parabatai, had a long and tragic story that ended with his having become a Silent Brother. He was Brother Zachariah now.

Would he be here? It was strange to imagine among the sparkling, laughing conversation, the clinking of glasses, a parchment-robed silent figure drifting about. But why wouldn’t he be? Lucie spoke of him all the time. Cordelia felt a little frisson of nerve at the thought of meeting him again—eagerness but also worry.

“Any Carstairs is welcome,” Anna smiled back airily. “And obviously any parabatai of Lucie’s is essentially a member of the family. Speaking of which.” She turned back to Lucie. “Don’t encourage Christopher, Lucie. You know how he is.”

“It wasn’t my idea!” Lucie protested. “It’s Matthew who set him on it. You know how he is.”

“I don’t,” said Cordelia mildly.

Lucie gave her a look of wide-eyed horror. “Oh, dear, what kind of host am I? Here is my best friend in the world, and I haven’t even introduced you to everyone! Anna, we must go.” She reached for Cordelia’s hand again.

“It was lovely to meet you,” Cordelia said to Anna.

Anna tipped her glass in Cordelia’s direction with a small smile. “Likewise.”

“All right,” Lucie narrated as she pulled Cordelia into yet another salon. “Matthew is Matthew Fairchild, he’s the consul’s son but don’t worry, he’s all right and not a bit stuck-up about it, and anyway Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Henry ran the London Institute when my Papa was young—he lived there, you know—and they’re over there, actually, hullo Aunt Charlotte!” Lucie waved a hand madly.

Cordelia looked over and quickly spotted Charlotte Fairchild—even someone as socially deprived as she was recognized the Consul—who was in the middle of saying something very serious to a group of equally serious-looking people, and didn’t notice Lucie’s wave. It was funny; Charlotte was tiny, bird-like, and towered over by the men around her, but she had a presence that dominated the room regardless. It was an admirable way to be, Cordelia thought.

Next to Charlotte was a red-headed man in a Bath chair, who did see Lucie wave, and waved back madly himself with a grin. Henry Fairchild. He was too far away for them to speak, but Lucie pointed at Cordelia and raised her eyebrows. Henry raised his hands and exclaimed in pleasure, and Cordelia waved too, a little less madly than the others.

“Is that Matthew with them?” Cordelia said. “The tallish one with his father’s hair?”

Lucie snorted. “Oh no! Matthew would be so offended. That’s his older brother Charles. He’s, well….”

“What?” said Cordelia.

“He’s a little dull.” Lucie had the good manners to look ashamed at her admission. “He’s very interested in politics and Shadowhunter business and all that, and he treats us all like children.”

“We are children.”

“Yes, so is he!” Lucie said impatiently. “But you wouldn’t know it from the way he acts.” She sighed. “He’s an all right sort, though. Next salon!”

With rapid speed Lucie took her through the remainder of the people Lucie considered it important for Cordelia to know. Her Aunt Cecily and her Uncle Gabriel—Gabriel also turned out to be among the group surrounding Charlotte—who were Anna and Christopher’s parents. Her Aunt Sophie, who had worked at the Institute as a mundane and then Ascended and married Gabriel’s brother Gideon.

Gideon, Lucie explained, was not here, because Thomas—oh, it was a shame that Cordelia was not going to meet Thomas, and also Thomas would never have allowed Christopher to get within a mile of fire to eat it, if he had anything to say about it, but anyway Thomas had broken his leg and Gideon had stayed home with him.

“Also there are the older girls,” Lucie said darkly. “Barbara and Eugenia. But they’re not much like us. They’re not even here; they had something else tonight. Can you believe it?”

Cordelia wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to believe it or not believe it, having never met either girl, so she only shook her head understandingly.

“Lucie!” A woman with heaps of curly scarlet hair was advancing on them at speed. “I need someone to help me put out the silver. Congratulations, girl, you’re hired.”

“Bridget,” Lucie protested. “Bridget was my nursemaid, when I was young enough to have a nursemaid,” she explained to Cordelia.

“And now your repayment of my kindness to you continues,” Bridget said sharply, “with the putting out of the silver. Come along.”

“I can help,” offered Cordelia.

Bridget looked offended. “I’ll not have a guest doing work at a party. This one here is hosting the thing.” She dragged off Lucie, who gave Cordelia a beseeching look of apology as she vanished into the crowd.

This left Cordelia back to meandering a bit aimlessly. Perhaps, she thought, she would go back and speak more with Anna, who had been so kind. Perhaps she would seek out her own family and see how they were making out.

Where were her family, though? After a few minutes’ wandering she spotted her mother, who seemed to be unusually in her element, animatedly telling some story to a captivated audience. But she couldn’t find her father, or Alastair, anywhere. It was a large party, surely, but she would have expected her father to be with her mother, or if not, captivating his own audience. Cordelia had been able to tell that he was the second-most excited to go to the party after herself. So where was he?

Perhaps, she thought, he had slipped away to the library. She wanted to get a look at the Institute’s library herself, anyway. She managed enough French to ask directions from one of the waitstaff.  It was down an iron spiral staircase, and Cordelia allowed herself to feel like a princess descending a tower.

The library had a tremendously high ceiling, which gave it an airy feel, but on the ground it was crowded with ancient, heavy oaken bookshelves, all of which were piled so densely with books that they were bent over by the weight, and it was astonishing that they had not already collapsed. Cordelia loved the place immediately. It was crumbling, in the most beautiful way possible. The light was warm and orange, and dust motes floated in it. It smelled pleasantly of must and old paper, and here and there were chairs of cracked, heavily aged and stained red leather.

Down at the other end of the room there was indeed a figure seated on the windowsill, curled up with a book, but it was obviously not her father. As she got closer, the dark-haired figure raised its head to peer at her, and she realized: it was James Herondale.

Part 2

“Hello,” said James Herondale. He peered up at Cordelia owlishly, as though he’d just come out of a reverie and wasn’t quite returned to the fully waking world.

“By the Angel, I’m awfully sorry.” Cordelia couldn’t help feeling she had interrupted something. She had met James before, of course—Will Herondale had been nothing if not diligent about making sure that his children and the Carstairs children knew one another—but she would not have described him as a friend, necessarily. He was a bit unknowable, in his odd way.

“No need to apologize,” James said mildly, “it’s me who’s skiving off this party to read.” He sat up rather suddenly, as if he’d only just realized he had been splayed casually across the windowsill and he should seek some kind of propriety.

“Most people don’t skive off parties,” Cordelia said, amused. “It’s usually lessons and chores, that sort of thing. Do you not like parties?”

“I like parties just fine,” James said, a bit defensively.

Cordelia crossed her arms and said sternly, “Well, I am in the library because I wanted to see the Paris Institute library, but also because almost the whole party are strangers to me. But they’re your friends, aren’t they? Wouldn’t you want to be with your friends? Matthew, and Thomas and the rest?”

James gave Cordelia a long look. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “They are my friends, I suppose, but really they’re more like relatives. I’ve always felt out of place among them.”

The thought of James being out of place anywhere struck Cordelia as funny. Compared to herself, he was self-assured, charismatic, effortlessly interesting. Compared to her awkward discomfort inside her own body, he was graceful and strikingly handsome—

Good Lord, Cordelia thought, where had that come from?

It was true, though. Among the pillars and medieval arches of the library he looked as at home as a marble statue, an oil painting of a classical youth at study. How could someone who matched his environment so perfectly be uncomfortable?

“I always feel out of place too,” she offered. “But I thought it was just because my family is always traveling so much. I’ve never stayed in one place long enough to make friends.” She looked down at the ground. “Maybe it’s more complicated than that.”

James said, “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Cordelia gave a little laugh. “Well, yes. We are. But how often do we see each other? Once a year, maybe twice, if we’re lucky?”

He shrugged. “I don’t see most of the people at this party more than that, anyway. We’re always in London and they’re usually in Idris. Although we’re meant to go to Idris this summer, so perhaps I’ll see them a bit more. And of course, we’ll all be at the Academy this fall.” He sighed. “Maybe I’ll start to think of them as real friends at some point. I just feel so different than them. Like…like everyone else is looking out at the world, at other people, but I am always looking inward, instead.”

Since to Cordelia James appeared to glow from within slightly, this struck her as an odd facet of his personality, but she supposed that the shy and retiring came in all shapes and sizes. “‘All man’s miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone,’” she quoted. “My father always says that.”

“Your father sounds very wise,” said James.

“Actually,” said Cordelia, “I think Blaise Pascal said that, and my father was only quoting him. You’d get along with my father,” she went on, surprised to find herself saying it out loud. But it was true; both her father and James had the same sense of the world being a bit too much for them, of preferring solitude, of seeking refuge in books. “I should go find him,” she said. “Again, I’m so sorry for interrupting your reading.”

James put the book down on the side table next to the window. “Again, please don’t apologize, I’m always happy for the opportunity to talk with you.” Cordelia found herself blushing, a bit, but James didn’t appear to notice. He stood up and said, smiling, “I shall escort you in your endeavor.”

On the way out of the library they fell silent, and Cordelia began to feel a bit awkward. It was usually so easy to speak with James, and yet she was unaccountably tongue-tied. Finally, desperate for a conversational gambit, she blurted, “Did you know that the original Paris Institute library burned down in 1574 when someone opened a Pyxis containing a Dragonidae demon?”

James raised his eyebrows. “I did not know that, Miss Carstairs,” he said, and Cordelia burst into giggles.

The smile was wiped quickly off her face, however, by the arrival of Alastair, who looked grim. “There you are,” he said, but he sounded more relieved than angry. He had a tired look in his eyes. “Father’s not well,” he said. “He’s asking for you.”

“Oh!” said Cordelia. She felt a brief, uncharitable flash of annoyance — her father’s sickness had spoiled so many parties, even Cordelia’s first rune-day. She turned to James. “I should go to him.”

“Of course,” said James. “I’m so sorry to hear he’s not well.”

“There’s an old monk’s chamber down that hall,” Alastair said, gesturing. “Father said he wanted to be someplace cool and dark.” He shook his head, agitated. “Sorry, Cordelia.”

Cordelia wasn’t sure what he meant—perhaps that it was usually her that Elias asked for when he wasn’t well, and not Alastair? She hoped it didn’t hurt Alastair’s feelings. She assumed it was because Elias believed girls made better nurses than boys, though she wasn’t sure that was true.

She left James and her brother there, looking askance at one another, and went down the hall until she found a short little heavy wooden door set in the wall. It swung open at her tentative push, and inside she found only a bit of dim light and a sparsely furnished room, with a small platform bed in the corner on which her father sat, his arm over his eyes.

“Papa,” she said, “I’m here.”

He groaned. “Cordelia, my love. It came on so suddenly.”

Cordelia felt a wash of guilt at having resented her father. “I know. I’m here, Papa.”

She went over to the bed and sat down next to him. The room was suffused with the strong smell, herbaceous and strongly bitter, that she associated with his episodes—the medicine that the Silent Brothers gave him to keep his health under control, she assumed.

“I’m sorry to ruin your party, Cordelia,” her father said after a moment. His voice was throaty, his words slow, as though it pained him to speak.

“No,” said Cordelia gently. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I know you had looked forward to the party as well.”

He looked up from his arm and gazed at her fondly. “I already feel better now that you’re here.” He reached out and took her small hand in his larger one. “You’ve always been my best charm for getting well.”

Cordelia rubbed his hand anxiously. “What can I do, Papa? Is there anything you need?” She glanced around the room, looking for anything that might be helpful. Her eye fell on one of the room’s few decorations, a small shelf with a selection of cloth and leather-bound books arranged haphazardly across it. “I could read to you,” she said. That was what she would want if she were feeling ill, after all. To be read to would be the greatest act of love she could receive, so it only made sense to offer it here.

“Yes, that would be very nice.” Her father closed his eyes and smiled, as if in anticipation.

Cordelia went to examine the shelf. Doubtfully she said, “Well, in English we have either the 1817 classic How to Avoid Werewolves—”

“You mean, socially?”

“I’m not sure,” said Cordelia. “Your other option is the classic travelogue of the Shadowhunter Hezekiah Featherstone, Demons With Whom I Have Had Relationships.”

“Should you really be reading that second one?” her father rumbled.

“Papa!” said Cordelia, scandalized. “I don’t think they are romantic relationships.”

“Well then,” said Elias, settling back on the bed, and Cordelia thought he did already sound like he was feeling a bit better, “surprise me.”

#

James thought, it wasn’t Cordelia’s fault that he had been left alone with her older brother. It was only an unfortunate side-effect of the situation.

Though only a couple of years apart in age, James had always thought of Alastair as impossibly older than him, and Alastair, for his part, had treated James as impossibly younger. James supposed this was a natural result of being an older sibling. Certainly he could not imagine taking anyone fully seriously who was only his little sister’s age. In this circumstance, however, it left him unsure what to say to Alastair, or whether to wait for Alastair to speak, or whether to simply bolt from the room at top speed and assume Alastair was too slow to catch him.

Alastair ended the mystery by saying, in an odd tone, “My apologies for all this. My father is often unwell.”

“It’s all right,” James said, feeling strange to be reassuring an older boy. Tentatively he said, “Your father is a hero, after all.”

“What?” said Alastair, thrown off guard.

“Your father,” James said. “He killed the demon Yanluo.”

“Not by himself,” said Alastair.

“No,” said James, “but still. My father says an experience like that can leave scars. It’s a kind of sacrifice that heroes make, taking those scars so others don’t have to.”

He had meant it kindly, but was dismayed by the way Alastair’s face shut down. He became a blank, and when he looked at James, it was clear that he had ceased to regard James as being present in the room, or indeed, existing at all. “Quite,” he said. Without further comment he headed down the hallway toward the library..

“I’ll see you at the Academy,” James offered, one final try. “This fall. I’ll be starting.”

Alastair turned back, and in the same oddly neutral tone, he said, “That’s right. I suppose you will.”

After Alastair departed, James stayed where he was for a while, alone in the narrow, whitewashed corridor of the Institute. There was a party shaking the very rafters of the building, and yet here there was only silence. James thought of Cordelia, comforting her ill father, of Alastair stomping off for the sake of stomping off, obviously with no destination in mind.

His father had always made such an effort to get the two families together, the Herondales and the Carstairs. He had told so many stories about them, and was always encouraging their spending time together. And James had always been fond of the Carstairs, especially Cordelia. But now he thought, it’s odd, really, how little I know them as people.

He thought of the cousins, the parents’ friends, the Enclave members celebrating above. Other than his own family, he knew so little about any of them as people. And while he felt safe here, in the quiet, in the dark, he could tell that the world would not let him remain there for much longer. He would be out in the world, and he would need friends, and family, to help get him through.

Perhaps at the Academy, this fall.

[slapshot-to-the-heart]

Shotgun - m. tkachuk

And here is 8.7k of a road trip with Matthew Tkachuk, which honestly, is the real dream. Let me know what you think of it, reblog (I love looking at tags!!) and pop into my inbox if you’d like!

Wine pairing from someone with zero authority on the subject: a nice brut rosé - crisp, fruity, bubbly. Plus, I like the vibes. 

It all started with a text. What are the chances you can get the week after next off? Matthew had sent. Madison’s brow furrowed. Doubtful, but I can try. Are you going to tell me what this is about? There was a week left in the season before playoffs started, and with the points spread in the Pacific being what it was, the matchups were all but locked in. It took less than a minute to get a response. No :) I’ll let you know once you get an answer. She got approved for the time off two days later. Her phone rang as soon as she texted him the news. “How do you feel about road trips?”

---

Maddy had met Matthew about a little over a year prior, soon after she moved to Calgary from her hometown of Toronto. Having finished her first week of work as a computer programmer, there was nothing Madison wanted more than to let loose and enjoy a few drinks with her friends. She was sharing a two-bedroom with her best friend Emily, who Maddy would swear up and down was the sunniest, warmest, most kind person she’d ever met. Not like Maddy wasn’t a nice person — she was — but where her idea of relaxing meant going out bouldering, or camping, or a last-minute road trip, Emily was more of a homebody. 

But going out meant going out, and so Emily was happily dragged along to a bar downtown; which one, she couldn’t really say. Madison walked up to the bar as soon as they entered, catching the bartender’s eye and ordering a Tom Collins. She tapped her fingers on the counter as she waited, glancing around the room. It was ten o’clock on a Friday night, so it was plenty packed. “What are you getting?” Madison asked Emily curiously. 

She held up her Molson. “I’m a woman of simple tastes. Plus, I didn’t feel like waiting around for the bartender to actually make me a drink,” Emily added dryly. 

Maddy rolled her eyes. “What’s the point of going out to a bar when you’re just going to be drinking something you could get at the liquor store?” Emily stuck her tongue out. The bartender slid Maddy’s glass over, taking her card and swiping it through quickly. “Thank you!” she chirped, whipping around to head over and snag a free table she had seen a few minutes before. 

She never ended up getting to the table. Instead, she ran straight into 6 feet, 2 inches of pure Midwestern beef. “Woah!” Matthew said, steadying her as she watched her glass fall to the floor, thankfully not breaking but absolutely spilling its entire contents over the wood. “You good?” 

Madison nodded, grabbing a rag from the bartender. Matthew followed suit, joining her on the floor. “Got a little on my shoes, but it’ll be fine. They won’t stain.”

Matthew nodded, giving a final wipe before taking her rag and handing both back over the counter. “Did me spilling your drink all over you ruin my chances of getting your name?”

“Madison St. Pierre,” she said, laughing and sticking out a hand for him to shake. 

“Matthew Tkachuk, but—”

Maddy cut him off. “I probably already know that?” Matthew ducked his head sheepishly. “I may be a long-suffering Leafs fan, but I don’t live under a rock.”

He took a sip of his beer, leaning up against the bar. “Not from around here, eh?”

Maddy shook her head. “Just moved a couple weeks ago. I’m from Toronto, moved here for a job. I do computer programming,” she said by way of explanation. 

“A smart girl.”

She tilted her head. “You could say that.”

“Well,” he said, “I feel bad about spilling your drink on you, let me buy you another.” 

Maddy laughed. “If you insist. It’s really the least you could do.”

Matthew nodded at the bartender, ordering her another Tom Collins and putting it on his tab. “You and your friend are more than welcome to join us,” he gestured behind him to where the rest of his group was sitting, “we were playing a drinking game and could use a few more players anyway.”

And that was how Matthew met Maddy. 

---

Day 1 

Ten days later, Madison was hefting her duffel bag into the trunk of her Nissan. It was 7:00 on a Tuesday. Normally on a day off she’d be taking advantage of every possible minute of sleep she could get, but lines to cross the border could be long and they wanted to get to Montana by lunch. She waved goodbye to Emily, hopping in the driver’s seat and starting the engine. Matthew had initially suggested they just get a rental car, since it would save Maddy the 20-hour drive back. But a quick Google search let them know that the chances of finding a company willing to let them drop off a Canadian car in Nevada were slim to none. Plus, Maddy had always liked driving, so it wasn’t really an issue for her. They weren’t going to be alone on the trip; Matthew had invited Elias and Rasmus along. She felt a little bit like a school bus driver, stopping at Elias’s complex to pick him up, then Rasmus’ condo, finally pulling into the underground lot of Matthew’s apartment building. Holding one hand up in greeting, he wheeled his suitcases over to her car.

Maddy unblocked her seatbelt, hopping out to help him. “Why on earth did you need so many bags?” she huffed, turning one on its side and wedging it in between hers and Elias’s. 

He shrugged. “I’ve got a bag for the trip, a bag of actual clothes and workout stuff for the series, and the suit bag.” He hung the offending article on a hook. “Did you think I’d be able to set my vanity aside for a whole four days?”

“I should have known that would be too much to ask.”

Matty threw his head back, laughing. “Anyone ever told you how funny you are, Mads?”

“Once or twice, Ratthew,” she said, slamming the door shut. 

Maddy hopped back in the driver’s seat, jamming the key in the ignition and turning the engine on. “Next stop, boys, is America.”

---

Well technically, the next stop was a gas station off of Highway 2, about twenty minutes from the border. “Wait, wait,” Matthew said, a conspiratorial grin on his face as Madison took the pump out of the gas tank. 

She raised one eyebrow. “What?”

He made grabby hands at her keys. “Let me drive.”

“Why?” Madison asked. “I’ve been driving for like what, two hours? I’m not tired yet.”

“I’m the only American in the car.”

Maddy put the pump back. “And?”

Matthew looked sheepish. “Someone said that the border patrol officers will tell Americans ‘welcome home’ when they’re coming back. It’s never happened to me flying so I wanted to see if it would be different in a car.”

“If it means that much to you?” she said, tossing the keys over the hood of the car. Matthew caught them. Maddy rounded the back of the car before she could see him ducking his head, blushing. 

They arrived at the Piegan/Carway crossing shortly after. With exactly zero cars in front of them, Matthew pulled straight up to the booth. 

“Purpose of your visit?” the officer said, looking into the driver’s side. 

“Three of us play hockey, we’re road tripping down to Las Vegas before our playoff series starts in a few days,” Matty answered easily. 

He nodded. “And how long will you be in the States for?”

It was clear either this man had never watched a series of professional sports in his life, or he was just following a standard script. “Depends?” Matthew said, fully aware of how questionable that sounded. 

Maddy piped up from the passenger seat. “I’m driving the car back, so I’ll be back in eight days.”

“Right,” Matthew nodded, “But this trip to the US, we’ll be back in seven days. We’re flying back on the team plane, so it’s not a land crossing.” He decided to forego mentioning that, barring a sweep, they’d be back again in two weeks.

The poor officer looked bewildered. “Team plane?”

Matty shrugged his shoulders. “We play for the Calgary Flames, the team charters a plane to fly us from Calgary to wherever we’re playing and back. We decided to take the scenic route this time.” 

“Okay,” he said, but Madison still wasn’t convinced he actually understood what Matty was saying. If the border officer thought anything of the American, Canadian, and Swedish passports he was handed, he didn’t say anything. Giving a cursory glance, he handed them back. “Welcome back,” he nodded to Matthew, waving the car through the gate. Matthew pumped his fist.

---

An hour later, Matthew pulled into a dirt parking lot on the edge of Glacier National Park. “WE MADE IT!” he exclaimed, putting the car in park and throwing his hands up. 

“We drove three hours,” Elias said from the back seat. 

“And?” Matty challenged, opening the door. 

Maddy grabbed her backpack, stuffed with sandwiches and snacks that they had gotten on their way in. “If you guys brought hiking boots or good tennis shoes, now’s the time,” she said, lacing up her own boots. “There’s a loop around here that’s a little under four miles long, doesn’t sound like it’s too difficult but there is some elevation climb, so better safe than sorry.” People typically didn’t peg her for it, but Maddy was a very outdoorsy person at heart. She had taken up rock climbing in high school, and was a regular at the bouldering gyms back in Toronto until she moved. She’d found a climbing gym she liked well enough in Calgary, but with Banff just over an hour away from the city, the park had become her go-to for climbing and hiking. Matty had come with her on more than one occasion, and had surprised her with a long weekend camping for her birthday in March. The snow hadn’t all melted yet, and waking up to the powder-dusted fir trees outside of their tent had been one of the most beautiful sights of her life. 

“Everyone’s got a full water bottle?” she asked, tying up her hair. The last thing anyone wanted was to get heatstroke in one of the most remote parts of the park with only one phone that could even connect to an American cell tower. 

The group started off at a leisurely pace, wandering off-trail to check out anything and everything that caught their interest. The edge of the St. Mary Valley served as the perfect backdrop for lunch, Maddy pulling the sandwiches out from her bag and doling them out. “Oh thank God, I’m starving,” Elias said, grabbing his food from Maddy practically before she even had it in her hand. 

“Did you not have breakfast?” she asked incredulously. 

He nodded. “I did, but I’m still hungry. Should have brought snacks.” Off to his side, Matty snickered. 

 Day 2

Elias had volunteered to take over from Matthew to drive through the night, switching off sometime around sunrise with Rasmus. “I 100% have a crick in my neck,” Maddy grimaced, blinking the sleep out of her eyes and checking her phone. 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Matthew smiled. Maddy groaned, leaning into his side. Almost instinctively, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. He unscrewed the cap of his water bottle, taking a few gulps before setting it back down on the floor of the car, where it promptly rolled away. 

“Who do I have to blow to get a decent cup of coffee around here?” Maddy groaned. Matthew almost choked on his water. He had to get his mind off of the idea of Maddy blowing anything or he was about to have an issue. He pulled out his phone, jumping on Google maps. 

“There’s a little coffee shop a few miles ahead, off of the Spruce Drive exit?” he asked tentatively. 

She yawned. “As long as they sell caffeine, I’m game.” They did indeed sell caffeine, and after inhaling two cappuchinos and a small mountain of pastries later, Maddy hopped back behind the wheel. “You sure bear claws and muffins are on the meal plan, boys?” she asked, a smile playing on the corner of her lips. 

Rasmus waved her off. “It’s not like you’re going to rat us out, are you?” 

She shrugged, wiggling her phone in her hand as she pulled up at a stoplight. “Bold of you to assume I don’t have Coach’s number in my phone.”

Matty plucked her phone from her hand, placing it back by the center console. “Be that as it may, sweet Madison, you neglect to remember that I’m the only one with coverage in the U.S.” He might not strike most people as a particularly sentimental person, but Matthew loved his family, and decided that the extra charge was well worth being able to call his parents and sister whenever he was missing them. 

She stuck her tongue out at Matthew. “You ruin all of my fun, you know that?” All he did was grin. The drive to Mesa Falls wasn’t long at all, they had just finished their food — Matty popping bites of muffin into Madison’s mouth as she drove — when she pulled over to the curb by the sign. Maddy threw the boys’ backpacks to them, pointing to the single bathroom stall in the tiny rest area. “Go change, I’ll use the car.”

“Why can’t we have the car?” Matthew complained.

She looked at him. “Three full-grown men, all over six feet, in one car. I know you see each other’s dicks all day in the locker room, but I’d really rather not have that in my car. Think.”

Matty made an “o” with his mouth. “Gotcha.”

Swim trunks were much easier to get on than a wrap bikini, Madison was finding, and the boys were finished changing well before she was done figuring out her top. She bit her lip, poking her head out of the door. “Matty?” 

He turned around, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

“Could you help me tie this?” she asked, gesturing to the halter top. “I think it’s stuck or something.”

Matthew swallowed hard, his eyes widening as he tried to stutter through a sentence. “Uh, yeah. I can do that. For sure,” he said, shuffling over to the car. He gently untwisted the straps, gathering them into a bow at the base of her neck and trying very, very hard to not think about how soft her skin felt underneath his fingers. This was one of his best friends. And best friends weren’t supposed to think about that kind of stuff. Right?

Behind them, Elias and Rasmus shared a glance. They had expected something was going on between them, really ever since the party in November, but this was something new. They had never seen Matthew gone this far for a girl before. And they liked this side of him. 

“Thanks,” she said, squeezing his shoulder before disappearing back into the car to throw on a coverup. “How long is the walk to the actual waterfalls?”

“Not long,” Elias responded. “Ten minutes or so?” It was an easy walk to the falls, which were mercifully empty when they got there. They kicked off their sandals, leaving the bags under a nearby bush. Matthew knew Madison was pretty. She wasn’t a nun and he wasn’t a saint; she had seen him shirtless more times than he could count and he had seen her come out of his guest room in nothing but an oversized t-shirt of his after she stayed the night. His thoughts hadn’t exactly been innocent. But as she pulled her t-shirt over her head, leaving her clad only in that damn red bikini, he was convinced he’d never seen a more gorgeous sight. 

She turned around just as Matthew tore his eyes away, looking mischievously at him. “Last one in?” They sprinted to the water. Matty let her win. 

---

About half of their stops had been planned in advance; the others were pulled from websites or Google suggestions or whatever their waitress’ recommendation was for a local must-see. The Idaho Potato Museum fell into the latter category. Rasmus had floated the idea shortly after they had left Mesa Falls, and seeing as how nobody had anything better to suggest, they ran with it. 

“Free taters for out of staters,” Matthew said, reading off of the pamphlet they had been handed at the welcome desk. 

“Will they give me extra since I’m Canadian?” Madison wondered aloud. “For all intents and purposes they think you live in Missouri, Matty.” The nickname rolled off her tongue so easily, she didn’t even think twice. 

He passed the paper to her, the tips of their fingers barely brushing together, but Matthew could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. “Don’t get greedy, Mads.” They walked down a dimly-lit hallway lined with black-and-white photos. 

“Did you know that the first potatoes grown in the United States were planted in Londonderry, New Hampshire, by Scotch-Irish immigrants?” Elias read off of a placard, his voice sounding like a disinterested radio announcer. 

Maddy shook her head. “I didn’t, thank you so much for imparting on me this most important knowledge, Elias.”

“My pleasure,” he replied. 

“Did you know that you could survive off of a diet of only potatoes and butter?” Rasmus chimed in, reading another sign. 

“Really?” Matthew asked, leaning in to read. He turned to Madison a moment later. “Really, apparently.”

Half an hour of wandering later, Matthew and Madison had stumbled into the “artifacts” portion of the museum. “What kind of artifacts does a potato museum have?” Maddy asked, looking supremely confused. 

Matthew wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Why don’t we see?” For some reason, he decided it would be a good idea to hold his hand out for her. And for some reason, Maddy took it. 

The “artifacts” turned out to consist of some old farm tools, dusty burlap sacks, and the world’s largest potato chip. Elias and Ramsus were on the other side of the museum, leaving Matthew and Madison to drift through alone. “Crisp, actually,” Matthew said, reading the card under the glass case. “Because I guess they’re worried about people stealing it?”

“There’s a difference?”

He shrugged. “Apparently it’s only a chip if it’s a slice of potato. This was made from dehydrated potato flakes, or something like that.” Maddy wasn’t sure if it was the sepia-tinted lighting, or the lingering memory of how Matty’s fingertips burned like fire against her back as he tied her bikini, or if there was something particularly romantic about dehydrated potato flakes, but they were alone in the room and suddenly she was looking at him a little bit differently. Matthew looked at her, gaze soft as his eyes flickered almost imperceptibly down towards her lips. Her lips. His body leaned in, and just as she closed her eyes, waiting for his lips to meet hers, wondering if they were really going to do this in the middle of the Idaho fucking Potato Museum—

“We were wondering where you guys had gone off to!” Elias’s Swedish accent cut through the silence. Matthew threw his head back, silently cursing his teammate’s timing. If Elias and Rasmus realized anything was off, they didn’t say. “The lady at the front said it’s closing in ten minutes, so we thought we should head out and get something to eat.”

Maddy nodded in agreement, her cheeks burning. “Sounds good. I could go for some food.” They made their way back outside, Matthew settling behind the wheel as he steered the car back onto the highway. He tried to shake the almost-kiss from his mind, but the more he tried to forget it, the more the memory stuck. 

Elias looked down at his phone. “Yelp says there’s an Indian place coming up on the left if that sounds good to you guys,” he said, shaking Matthew from his thoughts. 

Maddy scrunched her nose. “All due respect, I don’t trust this town to make good Indian food. Potatoes, burgers, meat, sure. I buy it. But I haven’t seen a single person of color since we left Glacier.” 

“Fair.” 

The burgers were good; nothing to write home about, but Maddy was honestly thrilled to eat something that didn’t come out of a bag. The plan had originally been to drive through the night again to reach Salt Lake City by the early morning, but Maddy made it clear her back didn’t take too well to sleeping in the car, and the others agreed. “Rasmus, mind finding a hotel nearby? Doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just somewhere not too far off of the freeway,” Madison asked. He nodded, pulling out his phone. They had gotten tired of passing around Matthew’s phone anytime they were out of Wifi range, so after a little complaining and one of Maddy’s puppy-dog eye looks, he finally relented and turned his hotspot on. 

“There’s a Holiday Inn up off of the next exit if that sounds good to you guys,” Rasmus said. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the Post Malone song that Matty had plugged in. They switched the aux every few hours. 

“Yeah, works for me.” Madison hummed her agreement; Matty nodded. Rasmus flicked on the blinkers, gently cruising down the offramp, pulling into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn about half a mile down the road. 

Madison bit the inside of her cheek. “They’re going to have rooms available, yeah?” 

“Mads, it’s May in the middle of nowhere, Idaho. I don’t exactly think they’ve got business lining up out the door.” Matty said, looking at her from the side as they walked into the hotel lobby. 

The whole trip was Matthew’s idea, so he insisted on footing the bill, handing his credit card and license over to the receptionist. Maddy snickered behind her hand. Matthew turned back to look at her, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “Something you’d like to share with the class, Madison?”

“Missouri licenses look weird,” she commented.

“And Alberta’s any better?”

She scrunched her nose. “We have a dinosaur on ours. Beat that.”

“I’ll let you have that one,” Matty said, the corner of his lip twitching as he thanked the receptionist, tucking the cards back into his wallet. She handed over the room keys, Matthew passing two to Rasmus and Elias and one to Maddy. “I had us together, if you don’t mind.” 

Madison shook her head. “Fine with me.” It wasn’t unusual for her to stay over at Matthew’s apartment, either after going out or when their movie nights ran a little long and she woke up to Matty tucking her into the bed in his guest room. She had a toothbrush in his bathroom, a change of clothes in the dresser. She had offered to take her stuff back a few months ago, not wanting any girl he might bring over to get the wrong idea. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he had said when she asked, waving her off. Though, come to think of it, he hadn’t brought any girl home — that she knew about — since sometime around the beginning of the year. 

They waved goodbye to Rasmus and Elias, promising to wake up bright and early to get the first crack at the breakfast buffet when it opened at 7. Matty swiped his card, holding the door open when the light turned green and the knob twisted. “After you, m’lady.” 

“Why thank you, good sir,” Maddy giggled, ducking under his arm into the entryway. She stopped at the end of the hall, eyes flickering into the room. 

Matthew stopped behind her. “What’s up?”

“There’s only one bed.”

His head jerked around the corner, not like he doubted her word or anything, but he needed to see it for himself. There was only one bed. One big bed, one very comfortable-looking bed, but one bed. Matty dropped his bag on the floor. “Uh...D’you want me to call down? I can see if they’ve got another room if that would make you more comfortable.”

Madison pursed her lips for a second before shaking her head. “No, it’s fine. We’re adults, we can share a bed without burning the house down.” It wasn’t like Maddy was lying for Matthew’s sake; she really was fine with it. Maybe a little too fine. But they had slept together — in the innocent sense of the word — before, and everything had turned out okay. His arm draped over her shoulder as she cuddled into his shoulder on a late night, her legs tangled in his when some of his friends from St. Louis were visiting for the weekend and took the guest room. He had offered to take the couch that night, but Maddy didn’t want to relegate him to a night of back cramps and drafty breezes, especially when he had an early practice the next day. Nobody ever made it weird, so it wasn’t weird. 

She took her bundle of clothes into the shower, relishing in the feeling of hot water raining down on her aching muscles. Maddy was loving the trip, genuinely, but being in a car for twelve hours out of the day took something out of a person. Slipping into an old college t-shirt, Madison thought for a moment about putting on a pair of sweats. It wasn’t particularly cold — the opposite, in fact — but she didn’t know if it would make Matthew feel weird if she wasn’t wearing pants. Fuck it, she thought, pulling up her boyshorts. If he had an issue with it, it was his problem. Throwing her hair up in a towel to dry, she turned the doorknob, poking her head out the door. “Shower’s open if you wanted to hop in,” she said.

Matty nodded, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “I shouldn’t be too long, why don’t you find something for us to watch?” he asked, tossing her the remote. It wasn’t quite nine o’clock, and while she was tired, Maddy knew if she tried to go to sleep she’d wake up well before dawn, and that wasn’t something anyone wanted. Madison climbed up onto the bed, tucking her feet underneath her and grabbed the channel guide. True to his word, Matthew was in and out in under ten minutes, rubbing his hair with a towel as he walked out. Athletic shorts. Shirtless. Maddy couldn’t help but give him the once-over, having to jerk her eyes back up to his face the moment she realized what she was doing. Matthew met her eyes, the ghost of a smirk playing on his face. “I can put a shirt on if you’d like…”

“No! You’re good,” Maddy replied, maybe a little too quickly to avoid suspicion. 

He ducked back into the bathroom, throwing the towel over the shower curtain. “So, what did you settle on?”

She looked back at the TV. “Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives?”

Matty jumped onto the bed. “Guy Fieri. What a legend. Awesome. Where’s he going?”

Three and a half episodes later, it was almost eleven, and Madison’s eyes were starting to droop. Sometime midway through the second episode, when Guy was visiting an Asian fusion restaurant in Colorado, her head had drifted onto Matthew’s shoulder, where it had stayed ever since. His arm wrapped loosely around her, Matty brought his hand up to brush away a stray piece of hair that had drifted into her face. “Getting sleepy, Mads?”

She yawned, nodding and trying to push herself up. “‘M looking forward to a good night’s sleep in an actual bed.”

Matthew laughed softly. “Let’s get you in bed, then.” He threw back the comforter, Madison crawling under, and reached over to the nightstand, turning off the lamps and TV. “Give me your phone,” he said. 

“Why?” Maddy asked, her brow furrowing. 

“You always forget to charge it overnight, and I don’t want you to be grumpy when it dies at 10 AM.” She mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a concession, handing over her iPhone. Matty plugged it in, clambering beneath the sheets. “Sweet dreams, Mads. Good night.”

“Night, Matty.”

 Day 3

 The first thing Madison noticed when she woke up was the warm, unfamiliar weight slung around her waist. It took her a moment to realize that it was Matty’s arm, who hadn’t woken up yet. For some reason that she couldn’t quite identify, or maybe didn’t want to confront quite yet, it wasn’t unwelcome at all, and she savored the last few minutes of physical closeness before he woke up. And he did, wake up, that is. His cheeks reddened as he opened his eyes, pulling his arm away to wipe the sleep out of his eyes. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly.

Maddy ducked her head. “Nothing to be sorry about. I didn’t mind.”

Matthew yawned. “What time is it?”

“Uh, just before seven,” she said, rolling over to look at the alarm clock. “I’d love to stay in bed a little longer, but we did promise the boys we’d meet them down at breakfast soon.”

He nodded, making a very concerted effort to not read into her statements any more than he absolutely had to. “Yeah, good idea,” he said, tossing the covers off and walking into the bathroom. “I’ll sit on you if you’re not up by the time I get back out there.” Maddy took the opportunity to change, threading a belt through her jeans and half-tucking a t-shirt. “I like the look,” he said when he walked out, as Maddy was twisting her hair up into a bun. It wasn’t entirely unusual for Matthew to compliment her; she had accompanied him to more than one charity event for the Flames as his date, but she had always been dressed up. Dress, heels, makeup that she probably stressed way too much over. Dressed to the nines, never in jeans and a t-shirt before. But she didn’t really notice, the compliment meaning just as much to her as if she’d been in a floor-length gown. 

“Thanks,” she said, stuffing her clothes from the night before back into her duffel. “I packed the rest of your bag while you were in there, figured I might as well.”

It was Matty’s turn to thank her, squeezing her hand appreciatively before giving the room a quick look. “We didn’t forget anything, then?”

Madison laughed. “We really didn’t stay long enough to unpack, but yeah, we’ve got everything, don’t worry.”

---

Elias had volunteered to do the drive down to Salt Lake City. Matthew’s inner six-year-old had returned, insisting that the group stop at a dinosaur park in a rural part of Utah. What “dinosaur park” meant, Madison wasn’t sure, but it made Matty happy, so she didn’t fight it. 

The museum was mostly outdoors, with life-sized dinosaur models dotting the massive field. “Were you much into dinosaurs as a kid?” Matthew asked Madison. 

“Kind of?” she replied noncommittally. “I always loved learning about them, but never had like a ‘dinosaur phase’ like David or Cody,” she said, referring to her older brothers. “My family used to go to the Canadian Museum of Nature a ton when I was a kid, since it was only a few hours away in Ottawa, and it has like a billion fossils in it.”

“Which was your favorite?”

“Pachycephalosaurus,” she said easily.

Matthew blinked. “Pachycephalo-what?” he asked in confusion. He thought he knew all of them?

Maddy laughed. “Pachycephalosaurus. They had these really spiny heads. But secretly, I think I was a little bit of a teacher’s pet who just liked saying the name. Pretty sure they were actually native to Alberta?” she added. “What about you?”

“Well, now I’m embarrassed to say.”

“Oh, come on,” Madison said, nudging him with her shoulder. “Promise I won’t make fun of you.”

“Fine, fine,” Matty gave in, “it was the brachiosaurus.”

“How come?” she asked curiously. 

“I liked the long necks.” 

They spent another hour or so at the park, Matty grabbing a keychain on the way out. “They didn’t have a brachiosaurus,” he muttered, half-angry, picking up a T-rex one instead. It wasn’t a long drive to the actual Great Salt Lake, and for some reason, they had trusted Elias with the aux. Much to Maddy’s chagrin, he didn’t end up playing ABBA, and they were instead led to cruise down I-15 to the dulcet tones of J.S. Bach. 

Madison looked down at her phone. “Anyone want to go see the Joseph Smith sphinx?” 

“Joseph Smith?” Rasmus questioned.

“Sphinx?” asked Elias.

Matthew laughed. “You know those Egyptian statues of like the cat ladies? Where they have cat bodies but the faces of people?” 

“Joseph Smith was the founder of the Mormon church,” Madison explained. “Well, technically it’s called the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, but—”

“Know-it-all,” Matty said in a sing-song voice. Madison shot a glare at him from the back seat. 

“But most people still call them Mormons. And apparently they made him into a sphinx.”

Elias looked at her, still dumbfounded. “But why?”

Maddy shrugged. “Honestly? Beats me.” The weather had dropped too much by the time they had reached the lake to make swimming very practical, so the four of them settled for taking off their shoes, rolling up pants, and wading into the shoreline. 

Matthew bent down, picking up a chipped white rock from the ground, the water just lapping at his fingers. He handed it to Madison. “For you.”

She took it gently, running her hands over the jagged surface. “Aren’t you not allowed to take anything from a national park?”

He winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” They stopped at a Chipotle just as the sun was beginning to set, Matthew taking over driving duties from Rasmus. The plan was to drive for another two hours or so, stopping somewhere in southern Utah for the night to spare themselves from another night spent in her Nissan. 

They drove in silence for a while, Elias and Rasmus drifting to sleep in the back row, before a road sign caught Matty’s eyes and he spoke. “I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon, you know,” he said as they continued down I-15. 

Maddy looked over at him. “Do you want to go?” She didn’t know where the suggestion came from, but it was out of her mouth before she could take it back, and after a moment, she realized that she didn’t even want to.

His eyebrows raised as he glanced over at her before turning back to the road, the car’s headlights the only thing in sight. “You mean it?” 

Madison shrugged. “Yeah, why not?” She quickly popped the directions into her phone. “It’s only a few hours out of the way, if we drive through the night instead of stopping somewhere we should have more than enough time.” 

“But didn’t you say sleeping in the car made your back hurt?” Matty asked curiously. 

She smiled softly. “I don’t mind, really. I’ll drive. You’re more important.” Honestly, Maddy surprised herself with her boldness. She wasn’t shy by any stretch of the imagination, but it hadn’t escaped her that the dynamic between her and Matthew had changed in the past few weeks and was about to come to a boil. Matty wasn’t exactly the type of guy Madison expected to have a lot of friends who were girls. And a part of her hated that, hated that because of his reputation she automatically assumed when they became friends that all he wanted to do was get in her pants. There had only been one time in their entire year of friendship when they’d even done so much as kissed, and it wasn’t exactly what you’d consider normal circumstances.

---

It was November of the previous year, about six months after Matthew and Madison had met. Matthew had been even more in his head than normal; he hadn’t scored a single point since midway through their East Coast road trip over two weeks ago, and the disappointment was really starting to rag on him. It might not have been something he outwardly showed all that much, but those who knew him knew that Matthew was actually a deeply sensitive person, who took pride in his wins and carried losses with him well after they had faded from the minds of the rest of the hockey world. 

When it had gotten to the point where his frustration was starting to affect his game, Maddy knew it was time to do something. “You’re so much more than your stats, Matty,” she had said, calling him right before she left for the Saddledome. “I know you take this personally, and you feel like you’re letting down the team, but that’s bullshit and somewhere deep down, I know you agree.” Matthew grumbled something that might have been an agreement. “Your team trusts you, they trust you with the puck and with the A, and you’re never going to disappoint them as long as you’re giving it your all. And if you’re the Matthew Tkachuk I know, there’s never a time when you don’t. And win or lose tonight, there’s nothing you could do to change the fact that your family loves you, and your friends love you, and I love you too. Okay?” Clearly, something in her little pep talk had flipped a switch in Matty, because he returned in spectacular form that night, scoring a hat trick in a roaring 5-1 win over the Coyotes. And he didn’t throw a single punch all game. 

A good game without a travel day following usually calls for going out, and a great game with your best friend scoring a hat trick definitely calls for going out, so she dragged Emily along to the bar that Matthew had told her to meet the team at. Matthew had pulled her into a hug the moment she arrived, kissing her cheek and trying his damndest not to spill the beer in his hand on her shoes. An hour and a half into the night, Madison was four drinks in, well and truly drunk, and Emily had wandered off and appeared to be flirting with an extremely oblivious Noah Hanifin. 

“How are you doing, Mads?” Matthew asked, coming up from behind her barstool and resting his hand gently on the small of her back. 

She looked back at him, a goofy smile on her face, and took another sip of her drink. “I’m good, I’m realllly good,” she giggled. “Did I ever get a chance to tell you how good you were tonight?” Matthew shook his head, very poorly concealing a laugh. He had had more than one beer, sure, but he was nowhere near as gone as Madison. “Because you were really good. A-ma-zing,” she added, punctuating each syllable. Her eyes softened as she leaned in. “I know the points drought was starting to weigh on you, and I’m really glad you were able to do this for yourself. I’m always proud of you, Matty, but I was a little extra proud of you tonight. People sometimes write you off as just another good player without any real subsistence,” she paused, correcting herself, “substance, off the ice, but I know the real you, and the real you is even more incredible than the you that plays hockey. It’s my favorite thing to see.”

“It is?” Matthew asked softly, leaning into the hand that had begun to caress his cheek a little bit imprecisely, but that somehow communicated every kind of unsaid word between them. 

Madison nodded, touching his forehead to hers, and then she tilted in. And then she kissed him. Her lips met his, and she tasted like lime and spearmint chewing gum and his favorite kind of tequila. Her lips met his, and it seemed like the room stood still; he barely heard his teammates’ wolf-whistles or Emily’s elated gasp in the background. Her lips met his, and he drank in every second of the kiss until she pulled away. 

---

Maddy hadn’t been drunk enough to black out that night, and she came to the next morning with a roaring headache and the pang of regret in her heart. She thought it was shame at her behavior, embarrassment that she could act so impulsively, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized. The fact that she kissed Matthew wasn’t the issue, not to her, at least. It was the fact that she was drunk in a bar after a hockey game and that wasn’t how she wanted it to happen. She pushed her feelings to the side, trying desperately to focus on work and supporting Matty through the rest of the season, but they always tended to flare up when they were least welcome. Like at the Idaho Potato Museum.

Which of course meant that Matthew would choose this moment, driving down I-15 with two sleeping Swedish hockey players in the backseat, to bring it up. “I remember when you kissed me, you know,” Matty said softly, reaching up to brush his fingers over his lips, like if he tried hard enough he could remember what it felt like to have Maddy’s pressed against his. 

Madison froze, which isn’t exactly what you’re supposed to do when you’re driving. She thought he had forgotten. He had never brought it up, so she really had no reason to believe he would have remembered. “You do?” she asked, swallowing.

She saw him nod out of the corner of her eye. “Mhm. I hadn’t thought about it in a couple weeks, but back in Idaho, in front of the World’s Largest Potato Crisp…” He let out an airy chuckle. 

Maddy breathed in sharply. So she hadn’t imagined that. Her fingers tapped nervously against the faux leather of the steering wheel. “Yeah…” She trailed off nervously. “I was drunk.”

“Oh, you were hammered,” Matthew agreed. “But do you regret it?”

There it was, the million-dollar question that she somehow actually had the answer to. A long moment passed before she answered, figuring it would be best to just rip the band-aid off. Worst case, Matty would hate her and she’d only be stuck in a car with him for ten-odd more hours. No big deal. “No,” she whispered, voice so small he almost didn’t hear it. 

“I’m glad, because I don’t either,” Matty said. Madison hazarded a glance to her side; he looked almost nervous, and nervous wasn’t a look Matthew Tkachuk did all that often. “I had wanted to for a few months, but it always seemed like it was never the right time, or something interrupted us, or I didn’t know how you felt about me. But you made the first move, and I’m glad you did.”

“How come?”

He sighed. “I don’t know how long I would have waited to do something, or if I ever would have done anything. I feel like sometimes…,” he searched for the right words, “the confidence that I have on the ice can be misleading. Hockey is about reflexes and instincts and knowing the game, but it’s also thinking three steps ahead, anticipating every possible outcome and preparing for them. And that’s the part that I carry off the ice. I think I was worried if I ever brought it up with you, if I ever mentioned that I so much as remembered the kiss, you might clam up and tell me it was a stupid, drunken mistake, and I don’t know what I’d do if you said that. Because I don’t know how you feel about me, not like that”

Her breath caught in her throat, but she managed to force the words out, as scared as she was about admitting them. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.” Matthew had never seen Madison like this before, unsure and worried and downright vulnerable, and it meant so much to him that she was letting him see her like that. 

Matthew let out a watery laugh. “Only pretty sure? Hurts my ego a little bit.” Maddy opened her mouth, but he waved her off. “Because I’m definitely sure I’m in love with you.” This wasn’t ever how she imagined telling him, and it wasn’t how Matty thought he’d tell her, on a freeway in Southern Utah on their way to the Grand Canyon, but sometimes life throws unexpected things at you and you have to roll with the punches. 

“When did you know?” Madison asked curiously. 

Matthew bit his lip. “Few months ago? I knew I liked you as more than a friend probably since you kissed me, but it was after that game against Vancouver that I really understood I had fallen in love with you.” Maddy remembered the game. It had gone terribly for the Flames, a 4-0 shutout with more than one fight and the bench racking up penalty minutes. What she didn’t know was what made that one special. Matthew looked over at her, answering her unspoken question. “Why that one?” She nodded. “I think it’s because it was such a shitty game. I wouldn’t have blamed you at all if you had just skipped out after the end of the third, I know I can be hard to deal with after a loss. But you didn’t leave, you stayed. I remember seeing you outside the tunnel, swallowed by my jersey because it’s three sizes too big for you and you refuse to let me buy you another—”

“I don’t want another because it’s yours, and I love it,” Maddy said quietly.

Matthew smiled. “Your call. But when I turned the corner and saw you, I realized three things at the exact same time. You were there for me when you didn’t have to be, and I wanted to be able to do the same thing for you. Second, you’re who I wanted to come home to. And last,” he gathered his thoughts, “I realized if I never saw another girl in my jersey for the rest of my life, that would be fine with me.”

“I think I knew when you introduced me to your family, when you flew me down for the All-Star break?” He nodded in recognition. “Just seeing you with them, how much you love your parents and adore Taryn. You even managed to not chirp Brady for a whole dinner.”

“My mom threatened me.”

Madison laughed. “Even so. It just gave me a whole new side to you. I had seen you with your friends, and with the boys, and with me, but it wasn’t the same. How deeply you cared about making sure I fit in with them, and had fun, and felt included. It was the last piece of the puzzle, really.” Her hand rested on the center console after she downshifted.

“So, are we going to do this? Do you want to do this, Mads?” Matty asked, wrapping his fingertips gently around her free hand. 

Flipping her hand around, she interlaced her fingers with his. “I’m all in if you are.”

Matthew bent down, kissing their hands. “I’ve been all in since the moment I met you.” He glanced behind him to the backseat, where Elias and Rasmus were still fast asleep. “What do you think they’re going to say when they wake up?” 

“I’m not sure,” Madison said, laughing. “Probably tell us it’s about time. Pass me my phone, will you?” Matthew pulled out her phone from where it was charging on the passenger side. 

“What do you need to look up?” he asked curiously as she pulled off of the freeway and into a gas station; the directions were already programmed into the car’s navigation system.

Maddy gave a coy smile, gently putting the car into park. “I’ve got to text the girl’s chat, tell them they’ve got to make me a jacket. They’re going to go wild.”

 Day 4

 The chat did go wild, even more so after she sent a picture of her kissing Matty’s cheek. After about a half-dozen “we called its” and a promise for her jacket to be ready by the first home game of the series, she turned her phone off, leaning over to ruffle Matthew’s hair; he had taken over driving sometime around four o’clock. “I like that I can just do this now,” she mused, playing with his curls as they crossed the border into Arizona. 

“Please, no PDA in front of the children,” he said playfully, gesturing to the backseat. Elias flipped him off. 

The entrance to the Grand Canyon was only an hour past the state line, and there were more than a few cafés to grab a quick breakfast at. Most of the day was spent walking around the vast expanse of the park, marvelling at its natural grandeur, and taking more than a few incredibly aesthetically pleasing Instagram pictures. A few minutes before they had to pack up and leave for the last leg of the drive, they had hiked over to the South Rim. 

Matty leaned on the barriers overlooking the canyon. “It’s so big.” 

Rasmus snickered from behind them. “Duh, Tkachuk. That’s why they call it grand.” 

He ducked his head, blushing. “Yeah, I mean, obviously. But it’s just kind of surreal, you know?” Madison nodded, leaning her head on his shoulder. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and if either of them had turned around they would have seen Rasmus and Elias sharing a very “I-told-you-so” look. “Kind of reminds us how small we are in the grand scheme of things.” 

It seemed like only a few minutes later that they were pulling into Las Vegas, Rasmus steering the car into the underground lot of the team hotel. None of the boys were expected at practice until the next morning, and they had decided before leaving that the easiest thing to do would just be to book the rooms for the one night. 

“Anyone feeling up to going out?” Maddy asked as they walked down the hallway to their adjoining rooms. “I found a tiki bar a couple blocks away, great Yelp reviews.”

“Sounds good,” Rasmus said. Elias nodded. 

“I’m in,” Matthew added, unlocking the door. “Meet out here in ten?”

The break allowed Madison to get a much-needed change of clothes while Matthew hopped in for a quick shower, emerging in a T-shirt and very, very nice-looking pair of black jeans. Maddy bit her lip, looking him up and down. “You like what you see?” Matthew asked, expression cocky. 

She shrugged. “I don’t have to hide it now.” Madison slipped her phone into her back pocket, grabbing her jacket from where it was slung over the lounge chair. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Matthew said, poking his head out the door. “Boys are already out.”

The walk to the bar couldn’t have been more than five minutes, but it felt like twenty in the best way possible. She was holding hands with Matty, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing over the top of her hand, the twinkling lights of dozens of Vegas casinos in their view. Two and a half mai tais and an hour later, the group sat at a table in the corner as Maddy giggled, retelling a particularly embarrassing moment on her high school volleyball team when she tried to make a dive that instead ended up with a ten minute pause in gameplay and the worst nosebleed of her life. She finished the story to raucous laughter, leaning into Matthew’s side. He bent down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “What is it, Matty?” she asked, pulling away to look at him. 

Eyes soft, he tucked a piece of her hair back behind her ear before speaking. “Just thanking God I invited you on the trip. And for the Idaho Potato Museum.”

Madison laughed, the sound like music as it reached his ears. “We should write them. Thank them for helping to get us together. Maybe they’d give us season tickets.”

“Who needs season tickets when I have you?” Matty chuckled, leaning in and pressing his lips to hers.  Sure, Madison was a few drinks in when she kissed him. And sure, it wasn’t like Matty was exactly sober either. But this kiss was different. This kiss was the start of everything. 

[evcrythingnice]

full name → bria angelina maldonado utonium  current age → twenty two faceclaim → lizeth selene adopted daughter of → brynne utonium powers/abilities → weather manipulation, telekinesis, genius intelligence and photographic memory, skilled chemist, multilingual pronouns → she / they

— they are described to be ;

+ outgoing, social, confident - impulsive, stubborn, self-involved

— biography ; tw - we’re talking about making kids in labs  

bria maldonado’s earliest memories took place in the heart of mexico city, in a little house transformed into a group home for kids just like them. it was labeled as five suns orphanage, but bria learned pretty young that kids with powers - kids who were different - they didn’t typically get adopted. kids here just stuck around until they aged out of the system.

but that was okay because at least bria was growing up with people who were going through the same kind of learning processes they were. 

bryson arrived soon after bria did - she was four at the time - and she soon refused to go anywhere without him. from their earliest years at the orphanage to even their safest moments as they adjusted in elias - as utoniums - she had a hard time leaving him out of her sight. bryson was the first person to show bria concern for their well-being, teaching them that these powers they possess can be great or horrible depending on how you use them. it was such a big lesson to learn so young, but to this day - bria’s older brother is their moral compass, even if they don’t always listen to it.

when bria and bryson were adopted, bria quickly grew fond of her auntie trix. while they loved chemistry, and bonded with the professor over that, bria spent her formative years wanting to be like beatrix. it influenced their style, their demeanor, and even the types of music they listened to. so it made sense, when bria got themself in a bit of a bind last year - that was exactly who they called. 

— the past year ;

bria had gotten bold in a very short time when it came to their knowledge and ability in chemistry. ever since meeting the professor and discovering he was a scientist, bria had glued herself to him and demanded he teach them everything he knew. in his old age, professor utonium reminisced about his time as a young scientist in his experiment era with this braggart sort of air about him - the time in his life that created bria’s mother and favorite aunties. he made it sound like it was easy for people who were as intelligent as they were to do what he did all those years ago, especially with how much technology had evolved since then. it made bria want to try just to see if they could. maybe that the experiment could be used to help with tedious tasks bria didn’t have time to prioritize - things like laundry and chores and writing research papers. 

and try she fucking did, hardly even thinking about what they would do if they succeeded. she compiled research in secret for three years, subtly picking at the professor for information by feigning interest in his glory days. on their twenty first birthday, bria had finally collected enough data to confidently compile a recipe and attempt their first experiment. 

their twenty first birthday. on june 21st, 2021. 

and then she met una-julie. well - she created una-julie with the idea that if her grandfather and uncle donnie could make people in a lab, it couldn’t be that fucking hard. the original idea was to make a kid - research seemed to think that would be easier - but for some reason or another ( overshot or, perhaps, even the date ) out came a full fledged 21 year old - same age as bria.

even smarter, too.

not knowing what to do, or how to explain to her family that there was a new person in the house, bria called their auntie trix who quickly agreed to take una-julie in while they sorted it out. and apparently that time was now - because over a year later, una-julie was leaving townsville and moving in with bria for the next month. apparently, auntie believes she needs to socialize.

just in time for term paper season.