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theboywithburninghands · 7 months ago

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Oookay. This is a big one. This is the part where the shoe drops, so hang onto your butts… No but seriously, be careful if any of the topics here are a trigger for you, okay? Here we gooo- @fernstarsblog -oooo.

T/W: Drug addiction, sibling violence, toxic masculinity, acid reflux (to be safe), era appropriate sexism

Primum Peccatum Ch. 8: Nausea, Oh Nausea

The day after she received her engagement ring, Pomni faced yet another bugbear. Perhaps it was stress, or perhaps it was her eating habits, but a dreadful case of pyrosis had festered in her abdomen. She woke up early that morning, gasping and swallowing from a noxious, brutally hot bubble of stomach acid that had frothed its way into her throat. She managed to swallow it back down, but it merely rejoined the larger mass of bile that sat burning and unmoving in her chest. She coughed, her throat now feeling red and inflamed, and she stumbled from her bedroom into the washroom in search of alkalizers.

She opened the medicine cabinet just above the sink, rifling through the glass bottles of pills and brown tonics. Meadowsweet tablets, camphor oil, senna purgatives… no alkalizers. There were 100-tablet bottles of the confounded things sitting around any drugstore for a measly one crown, why had she or her parents never bothered to purchase one?!

No matter. The first ferry left at seven in the morning, she could return her library book and purchase a bottle in no time. Then she’d have the rest of the day to read with no distraction.

She pressed a hand to her chest and groaned. Pyrosis always seemed to emerge from nowhere, yet remained stalwart for days without proper treatment. She felt as though someone could have driven a spile into her chest and a torrent of acid would erupt from the tube, scorching and marring anything it touched.

Pomni clothed herself, a white dress today, grabbed her book from her nightstand and a pair of stockings from her wardrobe, and hurried downstairs into the foyer. Zooble had the front door open, sweeping detritus from the previous day’s rain off of the front stoop. Pomni had begun tugging on her stockings when Zooble finally broke the silence.

“Up early, are we, Ms. Shutnyk?” they said without looking up.

“Good morning, Zooble. I say, you wouldn’t happen to have any papaya tablets, would you? My chest burns quite a lot…”

Zooble finished sweeping the left side of the stoop, then glanced up, leaning on the shaft of their broomstick.

“I do not. If you like, I can fetch some for you on my afternoon grocery run. I hate to admonish you, but I did warn you not to neglect meals. You’re skipping lunch to avoid your parents, aren’t you?”

Pomni opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. As usual, Zooble had the most common sense in the entire estate. She had indeed been skipping lunch most days… all the excess bile in her stomach had to go somewhere. …She wasn’t sure if that answer was scientific, but it was a reasonable hypothesis.

“Very well then. I’ll purchase a bottle on the mainland. I’ve finished Humidity and I’d like to exchange it for something… heavier.” Pomni put a closed fist to her lips, fighting off a sour belch climbing up her throat. She pulled on her white pumps.

“Perhaps a dictionary?” Zooble replied, resting their chin on the head of their broomstick.

Pomni rolled her eyes, smirking. “I’ll take the suggestion to heart. Have a pleasant morning, Zooble.”

Pomni climbed to her feet, picked up her hat and handbag and hurried out the door towards the road. Once she was out of earshot of anyone, she allowed herself to belch. It provided a few moments of relief before the burning in her chest rekindled. She sighed and slid her novel into her handbag. The early sun cast a beautiful red and orange cone of light across the reach, birds twittered back and forth to one another, it was a tranquil scene. Pomni wished she could enjoy it more, but it was difficult to savor the splendor of nature when her chest burned so much.

She reached the pier and sat upon one of the benches. She had no pocketwatch, but the sun fully rose around 7:27 in the morning, so she would only have a quarter of an hour or so before the ferry arrived. She sat, drumming her fingers on the strap of her handbag impatiently. She dug into the leather slightly with her fingernails at a particularly bad sear of pain in her chest. A distraction would be much appreciated right about now…

She removed Humidity from her handbag. She had the book read twice, but rereading her favorite bits might pass the time somewhat-

“GOOD MORNING MISS SHUT-NECK!”

Pomni leapt almost a foot off of her bench at the sudden exclamation from behind her. She whirled about and glowered at the perpetrator.

“Bubble! For the love of the Allfather, must you shout like that?!”

The perfectly spherical shapeman grinned, showing off dagger-sharp teeth, and his beady little eyes gleamed with unintelligent enthusiasm. A leather satchel was wrapped across his entire, transparent body like a belt, the Postal Service crest embossed onto it.

“A thousand pardons, Miss Nut-Shack! But you’ve received a letter!” he squealed.

Bubble was the postman of Primum Peccatum. And although he was… abrasive, to put it delicately, he was impeccably punctual, largely due to the fact that he could fly. There were rumors that he came from a hidden oasis somewhere in Dovicia, but there were no anthropological reports detailing such a place. It was also unknown exactly how Bubble earned his occupation, as the HOA members either were unaware of ever discussing the matter or recalled that someone else in the Association approved his application. He probably had friends in high places…

“A letter? If it’s from the Telychian Heritage Institute again, please be rid of it.”

“Not this tiii~iiime!” Bubble sang, spinning in a full circle. “It’s from Blackshell Bay!”

Bubble flicked open his satchel and held out a letter, despite his lack of any sort of appendage to do so. Pomni accepted it delicately, worried she might be bitten. Bubble immediately snapped his bag closed and hovered a bit higher.

“Now then! Off to serve the rest of the happy folks on this miserable island! Godbwye, Miss Shed-Trick!”

With that, Bubble drifted off, tumbling away into the treeline like a marble dropped into a tank of water.

Pomni sniffed. She looked down at the envelope. It had been sealed and stamped with red wax, the stamp an ornate letter “K.” She read the return address.

Drexl Krolik

The Krolik Estate

2800 Kovach Ln.

Blackshell Bay, New Hirnantia

6YL B8H

A letter from Jax’s father. Had she not already been extremely uncomfortable due to her reflux, her chest would have tightened even more. She swallowed, breaking open the seal and removing the letter from its envelope. Her hands trembled a bit.

“To My Daughter-In-Law,

I was pleased to hear that my son has earned your trust during our visit. From what your father tells me, you are an intelligent and trustworthy girl, and I thus have faith in your ability to look after Jax. However, I was dissatisfied by the length of our conversation.

I still know little about you as an individual, and would like to remedy this. Therefore, you and Jax are cordially invited to my estate tomorrow evening at seven o’ clock. My other sons are quite eager to make your acquaintance as well. Dinner will be provided.

I look forward to your company. Please reply to this letter at your earliest convenience.

Fondly,

Drexl Krolik”

Pomni felt her already inundated stomach lurch. What manner of foolishness..? Tomorrow evening? And dropped on her so suddenly-! She was hardly used to Jax, now she had to contend with the entire family?!

“Suspicion is the proper response to some members of my family,” she remembered Jax saying. She felt like vomiting even more.

She hurriedly crammed the letter into her handbag before jumping to her feet and racing off towards The Rooker Estate.

—

Pomni arrived at Mr. Kinger’s front door, out of breath and perspiring. Her lungs now burned in addition to the rest of her chest. She grasped for her ring of keys, unlocking the door and sliding inside.

“Mr. Kinger?!” she called out, shutting the door behind her. “I apologize for arriving unannounced, but I must speak to my fiancé urgently!”

She received no reply, either she hadn’t succeeded in rousing anyone or Kinger had ventured into the woods early to collect insects. She crept up the foyer stairs onto the second floor landing, gazing hesitantly into the East wing. She chewed on her fingertips.

“Mr. Krolik?” she whispered harshly. “Mr.- Jax, it’s me! It’s Pomni, are you there? I have a matter of the utmost importance to-”

She let out a pained gasp and clutched at her chest. Acidic pain churned within like a smelting pool. All that running had only aggravated her condition. She needed relief.

“Oh, damn it all to The Void…”

She hurried to the guest WC. She had stayed the night at Kinger’s house enough times to know exactly how the guest wing was arranged, the furthest door on the right led to this bathroom. The door was left open a small bit, which spared her the embarrassment of having to knock and ask if it was occupied. She nudged the door open.

The guest bath was surprisingly tidy compared to the rest of the house. Kinger probably had no use using such a damp and private area as storage space. The privy sat on the far end of the room, the faucet on the left wall and the washtub on the right. How anyone was supposed to warm the bathwater was unclear, perhaps it was just a cold tap… Pomni shuddered a bit at the idea of bathing in cold water.

Sitting at the faucet were a few toiletries, no doubt belonging to her fiancé. A wide bristled toothbrush and a fairly new tube of Crowley’s spearmint dental cream, a silver comb and brush set, and a bottle of eau de toilette, lavender scented. Pomni opened the mirror cabinet above the sink, praying to the Allfather or any deity that happened to be listening that there were some…

“Alkalizers! Oh, Allfather be blessed…”

A half-full glass bottle of Dr. Tatasciore’s papaya tablets sat among the myriad of other medicines. Pomnu seized the bottle, which clinked against its glass neighbors, and untwisted the metal cap. She shook two of the dull pink tablets into her palm and clapped her hand to her open mouth. She ran the tap and drank from it greedily, the tablets swept into her belly along with the cold water. She let out a long sigh, twisting the faucet off and replacing the cap on the bottle. Her chest still burned, but now relief would arrive in a half-hour to an hour, “guaranteed or your crowns back!”

She let out another rather weighty, uncouth belch, thankfully stifled by her hand, and replaced the bottle of alkalizers. As she did so, her eyes fell upon a familiar tincture bottle. The holistic Jax had taken yesterday, supposedly some sort of cure-all from his native land. Pomni smirked to herself and picked it up, curious as to what sort of ingredients went into this miraculous bottle of panacea.

The label on the bottle had been partly removed, but some of the text remained legible.

“-NCTURE CAMPHORATED

1.83 gm opium per fl. oz

Warning: May be habit forming

Alcohol 45%.”

Pomni reread the label several times. It wasn't holistic. This was… laudanum. A tincture of opium. She read about it in secondary school in her health science lessons. Opium was a narcotic that came from the poppy flower. It was known for its soothing effect on both severe pain and on the brain, but it was extremely addictive. In fact, the New Hirnantian Ministry outlawed the purchase and use of laudanum for anyone under the age of 18 precisely because it was so addictive. Children used to be given the horrid draught to “calm them down,” before, nearly a half-century ago, the Prime Minister published a statement.

“Our children should be focused on learning and socializing, and spoon feeding them this brain-softening poison is setting our next generation up for catastrophe.”

Pomni put a hand to her mouth. The strange glassy sound she had heard, and the object he was toying with in his pocket the day they first met in her father’s library. It must have been a bottle just like this one. And opium had adverse side effects such as profuse sweating and digestive issues. It explained everything.

He lied about having dyspepsia.

He took some laudanum right in front of her and lied to her face about it.

He was…

He…

…How many lies had he told already?

Was… everything he said…?

Pomni set the bottle onto the faucet with a now trembling hand. Her chest burned with new pain. But, instead of fleeing the house, she marched across the hall to the guest bedroom and rapped sharply on the door with a closed fist.

“Mr. Krolik! Open the door this instant!” she ordered.

There were a few moments of silence before Pomni beat on the door once again. Her second rapport earned her a reply from behind the door.

“Pomni…? Goodness, what time is it..?” came Jax’s sleep-addled voice.

“Either you come to the door by the time I count three, or I’m entering myself!” Pomni declared. “One! Two! Th-”

The door opened, revealing Jax in a long, black nightshirt and white underclothes, hurriedly and begrudgingly rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“By the Allfather, what is the matter? Is there an emergency..?” he asked, his yellow eyes flecked with the red of unconsciousness, his fur mussed and sticking up in some places, and his usual smile absent.

Pomni removed the letter from her handbag and thrust it into Jax’s hand, the rabbit looking at it with bleary concern.

“You are a liar, Mr. Krolik,” Pomni seethed. “You have the gall to lie to me and then put this… this wretched stone on my finger?!”

Pomni twisted the engagement ring off of her finger and tossed it onto the floor. It bounced a few times on a dusty red throw rug before clattering to a stop on the hardwood floor.

“Pomni, I-” Jax began.

“Hold your tongue! You needn’t say anything else, you cad! I found your bottle of ‘holistic medicine,’ I had no idea opium was such a popular form of alternative therapy!”

Jax’s yellow eyes grew wide. “You-”

“I cannot believe I was beginning to grow comfortable around you! Hiding inebriety from me? When were you planning on divulging THAT little factoid, hm? During our vows?! What else have you lied about?!”

Jax looked down at the washroom then back to Pomni. “N-No, dear, there must be a mistake, I-I-I never-”

Pomni stomped a foot, a ream of nearby papers sliding over into an accordion-like line.

“Oh, please, lie to me again! That will certainly redeem your character! Near-eidetic memory, have you forgotten?!” Pomni tapped on her skull with a finger. “I recognize the bottle from yesterday, so don’t you dare insult my intelligence by trying to tell me you’ve never seen it before!”

Pomni pressed a finger onto the letter in Jax’s hand. “Well, I can promise you one thing, Mr. Krolik! I certainly am not going to lie to your father! I’ll tell him exactly what a dazed, two-faced opiomaniac you are! Oh, oh, and while we’re on the subject, I should tell my father about your little infatuation with poppy! Yes, I’m sure he’ll be positively DELIGHTED to know that the man he so GENEROUSLY hand-picked for me has been hiding this! Maybe fate will finally show me an iota of mercy and my father will call this ENTIRE GODDAMN WEDDING OFF!”

PomnI panted rapidly. All of the anger and vitriol about her situation that she had bottled up erupted out of her at once. Her heartburn flared with pain, but she hardly took notice.

“Please don’t tell your father…” Jax said.

“I’m afraid I shall, Mr. Krolik. After all, if it means being rid of you, I-”

“Please…”

Pomni jolted at the sound of Jax’s voice cracking. She looked up at his face for the first time since he opened the door and gasped softly.

His brow had crumpled and the edges of his mouth trembled like dead leaves on a tree branch. His ears were pinned back against his skull, and he had crushed the note from his father into a wad. Fat tears ran in rivulets down his face.

He fell onto his knees, prostrating himself in front of Pomni and clasping his paws together, note still wadded up in his left. Tears dripped onto the dusty throw rug and soaked into it.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… Please don’t make me go back… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry… Please forgive me…” he wept.

Pomni was rooted to the spot. She had never seen a man cry in person.

As a child, she earnestly believed only women could cry. It wasn’t until her teacher told her otherwise and read her a few of The 13 Steps, the thirteen tears the Allfather shed for humanity, that she learned such a thing was even possible. Even as a grown woman, she read about men weeping many times, but thought it so uncommon it could only happen in dramas. At her grandmother Clara’s funeral, while her mother sobbed hysterically, her father remained stalwart, pain visible on his face but not shedding a single tear. But here was Jax Krolik, crying and pleading like a peasant in front of his priestess.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Shutnyk, I’m so sorry…” he continued between hitching breaths and sobs.

Pomni held her hands out only to retract them back to her breast. She hadn’t the faintest inkling of how to help…

“M…” she swallowed at the bile in her throat, trying again. “Mr. Krolik, I… what brought this on? Please, th-there isn’t any need to grovel…”

Jax rose to his knees, wiping his tears on the back of his paws.

“I… truly apologize, Ms. Shutnyk. That was… decidedly improper of me. I… I should behave like a man… I know you think little of me already, but the least I can-”

“Please. Don’t speak. Dress yourself and meet me downstairs,” Pomni said. “We will discuss the matter in the reading room. Will Kinger be back?”

“He told me that he would be insect hunting this morning…” Jax said, sniffling.

“That gives us several hours… Very well. I’ll await you downstairs.” Pomni said, beginning her descent down the foyer stairs.

“Miss Shutnyk, I…”

“Please desist,” Pomni pleaded, turning around on the middlemost step. “This entire affair has me dreadfully confused, and it is affecting my pyrosis. I understand that you are sorry, and clearly this matter is of great concern to you… but we should discuss it first…”

Pomni turned and began to walk down the staircase, but quickly turned and walked back up to the second floor going past Jax into the restroom. She needed another alkalizer.

—

“Explain yourself.”

This was the first thing out of Pomni’s mouth the moment Jax, now dressed in a ruffled white shirt, a blue waistcoat and gray dress pants, sat opposite her in the reading room. He hadn’t bothered with shoes, but he was indoors and a beastman, so that hardly mattered. Pomni had waited for about a quarter of an hour downstairs, after picking up the ring she threw on the ground and putting it into her purse.

“Where would you like me to start..?” Jax asked, looking off into the empty fireplace.

“…Truthfully, it’s difficult to decide where to begin.” Pomni admitted. “…Right. I suppose we should begin with the most pressing issue. Why did you lie to me? About the laudanum.”

“Because I am ashamed.” Jax replied. “A 22 year-old-man, taking opium like a gibbering lunatic…”

“How often do you… indulge?” Pomni asked,

“Three to four times a day… occasionally five if I’m particularly unhappy.”

“Mr. Krolik, for goodness’ sake! How did this happen? What persuaded you to even… why?” Pomni found herself starting questions, only for them to die, incomplete, halfway from her lips.

“It began because I was in genuine pain. I told you about my brother Boone? For quite a while, I could do nothing but obey him. If he wanted my sweets, he had them, or else I earned a box to the eye. If he wanted a toy I had, either I gave it to him or he broke it in two. And he was clever about hiding it. He made sure the bruises looked accidental, or waited until my father and older brothers were well out of sight before he pounced. But, as I got older, it grew more difficult for him to bully me. I actually grew to be taller in stature than him, and he thus had a harder time using force when I could fight back just as hard.

“Oh, he tried to make it look like I was the instigator. ‘I haven’t done anything, father! He simply attacked me!’ It rarely worked. But, as I said, Boone is intelligent. When threats and blows stopped working, he changed tactics. He threatened to tell father about various things I had done behind his back, even things he had seen my brothers do. It wasn’t as effective most of the time. But there was one incident… Before we moved to Blackshell Bay, when I was 17 and he was 19. We were out running some errands, and on the way home, we were crossing a bridge, and he said something that incensed me.”

“What did he say?” Pomni asked.

“I shan’t repeat it. Apologies, but I feel ill even discussing it. Regardless, we came to blows. He shoved me, smartly, and I fell from the bridge. I broke my arm and three ribs. Even Boone felt terrible for what he had done, and he rarely felt much remorse for his actions.”

“…And that’s how the addiction began? To numb the pain of your wounds.” Pomni surmised.

“Correct. I can’t remember who suggested it, but it did the trick. …But then they took my arm out of the sling, and I found myself still wanting it. Just to help me feel better after an unhappy day, or just to help me relax before bed, or… just because I wanted it. And here we are.”

“And… I assume you don’t wish to return home because… Boone is there.” Pomni concluded.

“That is certainly part of it. Boone has apologized for his behavior, especially since my father had him flogged so thoroughly he had to eat his meals standing up… but I have my doubts. Besides, everyone there is so unhappy. Osvaldo has no support for his dream, my father is alone and low in funds, even Boone is probably desperately bored by now… I cannot go back. I’m… truly sorry I lied to you. I suppose I’ve done exactly what I accused humans of when we first met.”

Pomni swallowed. Her pyrosis had finally been quelled, but she felt ill regardless.

“I apologize as well. For saying all of that horrid nonsense. I… I still wish I wasn’t being forced to marry you, but I… I had no idea your situation was so dire. But I do think it was foolish of you to not tell me about your habit. When I saw that laudanum label, I… I thought everything you told me was a lie…”

“…I apologize. Whole-heartedly. I only lied about the opium… And, well…”

Pomni looked up. Oh blast it, what else had he kept hidden from her..?

“…I never finished Margaret’s Rise.”

He flashed a guilty smile.

“You never..?” Pomni began.

“I only made it about 600 pages through the novel before I had to return it to the library.”

He laughed shortly. Pomni managed a laugh as well. They both laughed for a small bit. Soon, Jax’s laughter turned to crying. He placed his forehead in his fist.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I-It’s not like a man to cry, I-”

“Hush,” Pomni approached him and, after a long moment of trepidation, managed to place a hand on his shoulder.

“You needn’t hide anything else from me…”

#the amazing digital circus #funnybunny #tadc jax #tadc pomni #jax x pomni #oh no cringe #tadc arranged marriage au #tadc zooble #tadc bubble #tadc kinger #tw drugs #tw sibling abuse

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rhetoricandlogic · 2 months ago

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REVIEW: Space Oddity by Catherynne M. Valente

Series: Space Opera #2

Published: September 2024, Simon & Schuster (Saga Press)

Genres: Science Fiction / Space Opera, Science Fiction / Alien Contact, Science Fiction / Humorous

Summary: The Metagalactic Grand Prix—part gladiatorial contest, part beauty pageant, part concert extravaganza, and part continuation of the wars of the past returns and the fate of the Earth is once again threatened. The civilizations opposed to humanity have been plotting and want to take down the upstarts. Can humanity rise again in this sequel to the beloved Hugo Award–nominated national bestselling Space Opera by New York Times bestselling author Catherynne M. Valente?

This review contains spoilers for the ending of Space Opera and minor spoilers for Space Oddity.

Truthfully speaking, I didn’t find myself with a burning need for a sequel when I finished reading Space Opera—yet Space Oddity remained one of my most anticipated books of 2024, if only because I had total faith in Catherynne M. Valente to deliver Good Vibes and/or Hilarious Insanity like no other author.

In this sequel that’s lowkey a meta commentary on the nature of sequels (“This time it will be different!”), we return to the Metagalactic Grand Prix, an intergalactic Eurovision-esque singing competition between countless species that determines everything from trade deals to resource allocations to potential wars to music chart-toppers.

Last year, humanity eked out a respectable tenth place in our first showing. This year, we’ve graduated from newbie, and soon become escort to a newly discovered species.

Where other novels may treat the Dreaded Exposition like a concert opener—quality may vary from offensively bad to mildly boring to surprisingly delightful, but nevertheless it’s the thing you have to sit through to get to the thing you actually paid money for—subtly weaving it through the text so as not to drag down the pace or distract from the plot, Valente’s exposition is the headlining star of the show—all the bloody intergalactic history and weird alien biology and that one ranting monologue about the Frankenstein monster that is the English language, sketched in run-on sentences that can span a whole paragraph, if not multiple pages.

While I was thoroughly amused by Valente’s bombastically stylistic writing (and her ability to build entire alien societies around a single pun), the absolute heart of this book for me is the Absolute Zeroes.

Good News: While lead singer Decibel Jones is the frontman of the band and the book, Space Oddity is actually, stealthily, a story about Fridged Woman–turned-paradox Mira Wonderful Star, and any time spent with Mira Wonderful Star is, well, Wonderful. It’s especially touching when Valente contrasts Dess’s washed-up ennui about placing tenth in the Grand Prix with Mira’s punk-hope enthusiasm about touring and exploring the galaxy.

Bad news: I probably took at least half a star off when I learned that Oort St. Ultraviolet, man-of-every-instrument and my favourite Absolute Zero, is relegated to a background character. (We’ve had a Decibel and Oort book. We’ve had a Decibel and Mira book. Am I wishing for a third book that’s all Mira and Oort? Yes.)

Space Oddity is an glitter-filled, imaginative romp that matches the frenetic energy of its predecessor. Valente’s maximalist writing style makes even the dullest topic (e.g. a never-ending intergalactic meeting that could’ve been an email) a sensory and humorous delight. But while Space Opera skillfully married the Absolute Zeroes’ sordid histories and personal hang-ups with grand intergalactic stakes, the finale of Oddity didn’t quite pack the same emotional punch—though, I’ll admit, I audibly gasped and shook my fist at the sky (affectionate) when I read that reveal about the Empty.

#Catherynne M. Valente #Space Oddity #mahreviews #long post

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lastchancevillagegreen · 1 year ago

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La Débâcle (1892) Émile Zola (582 pages)

Jean Macquart, one of the primary characters in Earth who experiences tremendous and horrific loss is now a Corporal in the military leading a group of men to battle in La Débâcle. Divided into three parts, the first part can be stupefyingly boring only in that for 170 pages Zola details the soldiers marching the country, endlessly retreating as they slowly become routed by the Prussians. We learn the characters, naturally so that by the time the second part of the novel arrives, there are many we care about (including the louts).

The second part is where Zola gets unrelentingly vicious. By this time the French army is decimated and scurrying away in an effort to save themselves. Zola details the monotony of war (in one segment, they lay in a cabbage field for seven hours) as well as the horrors: the maddening fear of death, the starvation, the loneliness and the fear.

The battle scenes are actually sparse, the real horror comes when Zola takes us inside a make shift-hospital, a segment that lasts at least 50 pages. Then there is the aftermath of the war in the town our characters hail from. Zola's people are often cruel and heartless, but here most of them are loving and kind, certainly intentionally contradicting people who must kill other people.

Zola details the aftermath of a surrender which many on the battlefield are not cognizant of. Many keep fighting unaware of the surrender. Zola savages Napoleon III and most of the Generals as incompetent and cowards (or brutally unaware of how their decisions harm the soldiers). And did you ever wonder what happened to all the horses used in war who lost their riders? Zola informs us of their plight. (In one scene one of the best characters loses his beloved horse Zephyr and the scene between the owner and his dying horse is so heartbreaking I found my eyes misting up, and I was in a bar at the time). Zola even documents the heartbreak of the agony trees suffer during wartime! Their broken branches, destroyed trunks, the sap substituting for tears, their remaining life as deformed memories of a war long forgotten, yet forced to carry the burden of those actions.

By the time the third part arrives I wondered what could possibly take place. Well, obviously I was no history major, but the final act comes detailing the battles between insurrectionists who want to destroy Paris, the French army who, despite surrendering, is still fighting the Prussians as well as the French insurrectionists, the latter who succeed in burning Paris to the ground, destroying everything around them. The calls of "Paris is burning!" now make me understand the origin of that phrase and the shock the people must have felt watching their beloved city burn to the ground.

I will admit I dreaded reading this book, fearful it would be a dull as His Excellency Eugène Rougon with the unending details of French government and legislation. Of course, in retrospect that book wasn't dull at all and neither was La Débâcle. This book might just be one of the most savage books about war I've read (and I read a lot of books about war for whatever reason). I'm not ready to call it Zola's masterpiece, Germinal will forever hold that spot for me, but La Débâcle is certainly one of his great novels (it currently hovers in the Top Five for me).

I've now read four Zola novels since 4 October with only one remaining in this series. I'd love to finish it off in November, but I have a massive 500+ page biography of a long forgotten musician who most of us have never even heard of (myself included until just recently). What little music from her I've heard is interesting but just try and find her only album (a modern day compilation) and you'll be paying three figures and that's for either the LP or the CD, the latter seemingly close to impossible to find, one appears on eBay and the dealer asks $400 while vinyl versions go for between $300 and $500. Once I get through that book, I hope to be able to finish the final installment of the Rougon-Macquart Series before November ends. But we all know how well plans work out, don't we?

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faerywhimsy · 1 year ago

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Vamptember Day 8 - "What's out there?"

@vamptember

Pulling this thread out and dusting it off. I wanna continue into a literary analog of Daniel through media in the 1980s. Cause he's a writer, yeah?

So it's not wholly out there that he's unaware of Charles Bukowski's semi autobiographical novel published in 1982, Ham on Rye.

Daniel has a cigarette hanging against the lip of one corner of his mouth. He's just been minding his own business in an infrequent moment of peace when these words come rattling into his eyes and through to his mind.

“The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left."

Daniel winces, plucking the ciggie out in a pinch between thumb and forefinger, then just staring down narrowly at the words. The words dance around on the page by the time he's done with them; read them over so many times he knows them by heart.

He looks towards the monster who's currently making whirring sounds in the kitchen with a newly discovered blender. Peace Daniel has been granted, if not quiet.

"At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidates who reminded them most of themselves."

Daniel huffs to himself. He was barely able to vote for presidential candidates before suddenly it hadn't seemed overly important in the bigger scheme of things. Lately, in Night Island, tucked in a world that's almost completely controlled by Armand, it seems less relevant than ever who's steering the rest of this big hunk of rock.

But—and this is a really big but—Daniel thinks that if Armand had turned him at 25, he would have been finished. That would have been enough of human life for him. He would have turned towards immortality with a smile on his face and a song in his heart.

Dammit. Daniel puts the book down softly, pages down and spine creasing. He doesn't wanna stare at the page any longer. He had quiet, up till this bastard of a book had him drawing lines between himself and the famous novelist.

It doesn't do any good. The words come for him anyway.

"I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life."

Daniel feels like his breathing is coming too fast. Or maybe he can't get enough breath in. He stares out the window in front of him, out towards the endless Atlantic Ocean, dark and still from all the way up here in one of the higher levels of the Villa.

Charles Bukowski's a novelist who quit writing for a decade cause he didn't have the immediate successes he dreamed of in the literary world. During that ten years, he almost drank himself to death.

Next year, it was gonna be ten years exactly since Daniel essentially gave up his life for a dream of immortality that still remained exactly that: A dream. For some time now, it's been a dream Daniel's been unable to wake from. An existential dread that follows him around like someone else's dog. On the one hand, he can't believe this is what his life has become now. Rudderless, yet without any inclination to reclaim the old taste for life he once had.

"They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior."

Armand has to know by now Daniel's mind has turned in a less than stellar direction, but he doesn't come to find or distract him. He doesn't leave the kitchen, and so Daniel is left alone with his thoughts and a book he'd been quite happy to have a minute of time to spend reading before.

At least the breathing thing has calmed down. He's taking long, slow breaths now, though he has to think about every one of them. That helps catch some of the thoughts that want to spiral and take him down with them. If he's thinking of every in- and outward breath, he's not thinking of each and every single way he's lacking.

Because Armand would have turned him by now if he wasn't lacking. What greater proof of it does Daniel really need?

"I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. Suicide?”

"Enough of this, Daniel."

Just like that, Armand's standing in front of him. There's a testy expression on his features, as though he's irritated by the very direction of Daniel's thoughts.

He leans forward and, for a moment, Daniel thinks Armand's reaching towards him. But then he collects up the book Daniel had been reading and scoops it under one arm without even pausing to look at the cover.

"Hey...!" Daniel started, half heartedly. In truth, he finds it a bit of a relief to have the book confiscated. He doesn't know if he'd have the heart to go back to it after this.

Armand narrows his eyes. "Don't force me to curb your reading habits, Daniel."

"You kidding? This is the first time I've had to read in weeks!"

Armand glares at him with a look that seems to say, And this is why. To be fair to Daniel, none of the last several things he's read had left him feeling like this!

Daniel also had his eye on Buckowski's earlier novel, Factorum, a book released only two years into the chase between he and Armand.

At the quick lifting of Armand's eyebrows, his brown eyes continuing to bore steadily into him, Daniel supposes he can pretty much just forget about that one as well.

"Yeah, yeah," Daniel says, hiding both his grump and his gratitude behind an increasingly comfortable sense of bravado even as he backs down. "I get it. Whatever you say, boss."

...

from Factorum:

#vc shitpost #mentions of suicide #the devil's minion #night island #daniel molloy #armand #charles bukowski #literary quotes #vamptember #vamptember 2023

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7r0773r · 2 years ago

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A Hero of our Time by Mikhail Lermontov, translated by Vladimir & Dmitri Nabokov

Contradiction is, with me, an innate passion; my entire life has been nothing but a chain of sad and frustrating contradictions to heart or reason. The presence of an enthusiast envelops me with midwinter frost, and I think that frequent commerce with an inert phlegmatic individual would have made of me a passionate dreamer. (p. 89)

***

'Is it possible', I thought, 'that my only function on earth is to ruin other people's hopes? Ever since I have lived and acted, fate has always seemed to bring me in at the dénouement of other people's dramas, as if none could either die or despair without me! I am the indispensable persona in the fifth act; involuntarily, I play the miserable part of the executioner or the traitor. What could be fate's purpose in this? Might it not be that it had designated me to become the author of bourgeois tragedies and family novels, or the collaborator of some purveyor of stories for the 'Library for Reading'? How should one know? How many people, in the beginning of life, think they will finish it as Alexander the Great or Lord Byron, and instead, retain for the whole of their existence, the rank of titulary counsellor?’ (p. 124)

***

“Why then did you hope? I can understand people who desire something and strive for it; but who wants to hope?’ (p. 126)

***

... Oddly enough, there are people who are ludicrous even in their despair! (p. 127)

***

And, perhaps tomorrow, I shall die! . . . And there will not remain, on earth, a single creature that would have understood me completely. Some deem me worse, others better than I actually am. Some will say he was a good fellow; others will say he was a scoundrel. Both this and that will be false. After this, is it worth the trouble to live? And yet one lives — out of curiosity. One keeps expecting something new . . . Absurd and vexatious! (p. 145)

***

The moon, full and red, like the glow of a conflagration, began to appear from behind the uneven line of roofs; the stars shone calmly upon the dark-blue vault, and it amused me to recall that, once upon a time, there were sages who thought that the heavenly bodies took part in our trivial conflicts for some piece of land or some imaginary rights. And what happened? These lampads, lit, in the opinion of those sages, merely to illumine their battles and festivals, were burning as brightly as ever, while their passions and hopes had long been extinguished with them, like a small fire lit on the edge of the forest by a carefree wayfarer! But on the other hand, what strength of will they derived from the certitude that the entire sky with its countless inhabitants was looking upon them with mute but permanent sympathy! Whereas we, their miserable descendants, who roam the earth without convictions or pride, without rapture or fear (except for that instinctive dread that compresses our hearts at the thought of the inevitable end), we are no longer capable of great sacrifice, neither for the good of mankind, nor even for our own happiness, because we know its impossibility, and pass with indifference from doubt to doubt, just as our ancestors rushed from one delusion to another. But we, however, do not have either their hopes or even that indefinite, albeit real, rapture that the soul encounters in any struggle with men or with fate. (pp. 168-69)

#vladimir nabokov #mikhail lermontov #book quotes

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mimi-cee-hq · 3 years ago

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Laundry Days - Aran x f!reader

Summary: Three times you picked up his underwear and one time you missed doing it.

Genres, other tags: fluff, slice of life, humour, meet cute, domestic fluff, not suggestive lol, married under 25, neighbours to married lovers ;)

Words: 1.6k

Warnings: manga spoiler

This is for @neoheros & @coophi's 2021 Summer Haikyuu!! Writing contest. (Okay I'm pretty shy at first so it feels a little scary to tag you two but here's my piece.) I was going for the married under 25 prompt but ended up doing neighbours to lovers too. :D

Don't mind me spreading the underrated characters agenda as well. lol.

*****

A few articles of clothing spilled out of the dryer and onto your feet. Oops. Your neighbour must have forgotten them. You should've checked first.

Your own damp clothes sat inside the washing machine next to it, waiting for their turn to enter the dryer. It wasn't possible now.

You sighed, retrieving the phone from your pocket and scrolling until you saw the name of the neighbour who lived a floor below you.

Ojiro Aran.

You were sure this was the right person after a second look at your texting history. Who'd bring the garbage to the curb, where the lawnmower was kept, and keeping the duplex's stairway clear were some of the conversations you had with him.

You had yet to meet the guy, but he seemed amicable enough.

After shooting him a text, you thought to give him a call instead. Perhaps he'd think a phone call was strange. However, your clothes were damp and you shouldn't leave them for long. Was he even home?

You sighed. Crouched down, you returned the clothes on the floor back into the machine. A scarf, several socks, and a knit hat made their way back inside. But what was this?

Underwear. Men's underwear.

You scrunched your nose as you lifted it from the cold, tile floor. Was that a hole in it?

Click.

"Sorry I just saw your text!" a tall, dark-skinned man blurted out as soon as the door was unlocked.

"Oh! It's alright! I only texted you a few minutes ago!" you quickly explained, waving your hands in front of you.

You shouldn't have done that. The underwear was hanging from your hand.

"Ummm…" Aran scratched his cheek, eyes retreating from you.

"Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry!" you spat out, tossing the incriminating object to him. "It just fell out of the dryer when I opened it so I went to pick it up!"

Once in his hands, he recognized it as the one with the seam coming undone. "I… umm… should probably have thrown this one out."

"Umm… yeah… you probably should." Those words slipped off your tongue before you could catch them.

"I- I guess I'll go now," Aran said hastily.

He shut the door.

You let out a breath. That was awkward. Heat continued to linger in your body and you weren't sure who was more embarrassed by the encounter.

Wait. His clothes were still in the dryer. Did you dare ask him back?

The door slowly creaked open and Aran peeked his head into the room.

"I forgot something, didn't I?" Aran sheepishly asked.

"Yeah." The corners of your mouth lifted into a smile. "Yeah, you did."

"I'm Aran by the way."

"Y/n."

You never thought this would be how you'd meet your future husband.

*****

The office chair in your apartment was a comfortable spot for folding clothes. The webcam caught your face as you chatted with Aran whose image filled the monitor.

You smiled. Your husband was winding down after a long day with the team and decided to check up on you.

"I'm alright," you told Aran. "I miss you though."

"I literally just saw you yesterday!" he said. "I miss you too."

After that fateful yet awkward encounter with him in that laundry room two years ago, you had run into each other more frequently at the front doors of your duplex. Your classes ended at similar times four out of your five school days. You were surprised he even started a conversation with you. You wouldn't have been able to bear the embarrassment. Fast forward to a confession, a kiss and a rock-embedded ring, and you got a small, snowy wedding during winter break.

It was back to the books for you now, and you dreaded it. Chores seemed much better, easier. Plus doing them for your newly-wedded husband? You got giddy about that.

You quirked your brow, lifting a familiar piece of clothing from the basket.

"Hey, I thought you threw this one out," you mentioned to Aran, dangling his underwear in front of the camera.

"I did! That's, uh, probably a different one."

"Just how old are these?"

"Hey! Wait a moment! Are you folding clothes?"

You avoided the eyes on the screen. "Maybe."

"You have your paper due in a few days! I told you I was going to do it after flying back home."

"I know…"

Aran's eyes narrowed at you, a trademark expression of his. "You're procrastinating again, aren't you?" His tone implied disapproval.

"But I'm still being productive!"

"Y/n…"

"Okay, okay. I'll stop." Your foot pushed the basket away, sliding it across the floor. Maybe you could fold them after you hung up.

Aran must have read your mind. "Show me what the laundry bin looks like."

You groaned. He saw right through you. Complying, you removed the clipped webcam off the monitor and directed it at the pile of unfolded clothes.

"It better be like that when I get home."

"Alright," you said with a pout.

"Love you."

"Love you too."

Must he stop you from doing chores? They were a simple reminder you were married to him, as if the gold on your finger wasn't enough to show you.

You were his wife.

A smile snuck into your lips whenever that thought crossed your mind. The honeymoon phase was a peculiar, strange, lovely stage.

Yet it was fleeting.

*****

You groaned as you stood in the middle of the bathroom. Aran's white track pants hung off the counter, the red t-shirt he got for free from first year college laid on top, and of course his underwear, which likely went through hundreds of washes, remained on the floor.

Great.

You rubbed your temples, your headache getting worse by the minute. It was Saturday morning, and Aran, who was nowhere to be seen, had left his mess behind.

I'll clean it up later, he would tell you. You knew his mother had spoiled him, always picking up after him. You understood why he was like this, but why couldn't he just start doing it now?

"Do you have this problem?" you asked your friend through your wireless headset.

"What problem?" she asked.

"Does your husband always leave laundry around on the floor?" You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Aran never picks up after himself."

She laughed. You weren't sure if it was because you were a young, amateur wife or if she understood all too well.

Knowing her, probably a bit of both.

"Okay two things."

You listened.

"One, don't say always or never. That's lying."

"I'm not lying," you snapped back at her. You began to regret asking her.

"Are you sure he never picks it up and always leaves it on the floor?"

You left no comment.

"Exactly."

"Okay fine, but that still doesn't solve the problem. If only he just did it, it would solve everything–"

"Number two," she interrupted.

You groaned at her and she gave an amused snort in return.

"If you weren't picking up his underwear, it means he's dead."

You were aghast.

"You know I'm right."

Still aghast.

"What? No husband, no mess."

"I can't believe I asked you for advice."

"But it's true."

"Ugh," was all you could utter. She had several years more of marriage experience than you, yet you didn't want to acknowledge it.

You hung up the phone after you finished deciding today's outing with her, but you hadn't addressed the issue in front of you. Your head throbbed again.

Sighing, you picked up the underwear.

A few minutes later, the front door opened and you dipped your head into the hallway. Aran shuffled grocery bags through the door and into the kitchen. He yawned, placing the milk, eggs, and other items into the fridge.

A familiar coffee brand peeked out of a bag on the floor. Right. You didn't have your coffee yet because there wasn't any left.

You wrapped your arms around Aran and relaxed against his broad back.

"I can't put the food away like this," he said with a chuckle.

"You left your clothes in the bathroom again."

"Oh shoot!" He dropped a bag and started towards the bathroom but you tightened your grip on him.

"I put them away already," you told him. His body relaxed and he caressed your arm around his waist.

The honeymoon phase was a fleeting phase, novel tasks turned mundane, but your love for him grew deeper still.

*****

Aran was away again, this time at Tokyo in preparation for the Olympics. He eagerly called you during breaks, wishing to see his favourite person – although your hands were full as well.

"I miss you," he told you, his smile displayed on the screen.

"And I miss picking up your underwear," you told him with a smirk.

Like clockwork, he narrowed his eyes at you with a comeback. "Why don't you say you miss me like a normal person?"

"Because I'm your wife. I'm special," you told him as he rolled his eyes. "I wish I could be there though."

"You wouldn't be able to spend that much time with me anyway," he said. "Besides, one of us needs to stay home."

"I know." You smiled.

"I gotta go," he said as Atsumu yelled in the background. Aran blew a kiss at you.

You snorted. How cheesy. You returned the kiss anyway.

Hearing a mischievous squeal behind you, you told him, "I gotta go too."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

After you hung up, you turned around and sighed. A soggy wet diaper sagged on the floor and the little guy jumping in the crib giggled at you as if he did the funniest thing in the world.

You rolled your eyes and smiled before picking up the diaper.

"Alright kid. Let's put a diaper back on you and wash your sheets."

*****

I hope you liked it. This is a little different from what I usually write but I hope you still enjoyed it!

I blame Aran's current concern for giving me this idea along with the person who suggested I write Aran fluff. (As well as the seasoned wife I know who told her husband, "If I wasn't picking up your underwear, it means you're dead." lolll.)

I hope you stick around my blog to check out my other works! My current work in progress is a fake dating Suna series. I can't believe we're on chapter 10!

If anyone is interested, I have a Google form for my taglist.

#aran x reader #aran fluff #aran fanfic #ojiro aran x reader #ojiro aran #aran ojiro #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fanfic #haikyuu oneshots #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu scenario #haikyuu fluff #C/R_HQ!CONTEST #hihqnetwork #animehorizons #angelwalker’s virtues #inarizaki #inarizaki x reader

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journalofanobody · 3 years ago

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Current Reading

A haunting Orwellian novel about the terrors of state surveillance, from the acclaimed author of The Housekeeper and the Professor. On an unnamed island off an unnamed coast, objects are disappearing: first hats, then ribbons, birds, roses—until things become much more serious. Most of the island's inhabitants are oblivious to these changes, while those few imbued with the power to recall the lost objects live in fear of the draconian Memory Police, who are committed to ensuring that what has disappeared remains forgotten. When a young woman who is struggling to maintain her career as a novelist discovers that her editor is in danger from the Memory Police, she concocts a plan to hide him beneath her floorboards. As fear and loss close in around them, they cling to her writing as the last way of preserving the past. A surreal, provocative fable about the power of memory and the trauma of loss, The Memory Police is a stunning new work from one of the most exciting contemporary authors writing in any language. (Amazon)

--------

I'm a long-time fan of Yoko Ogawa, and especially like her short stories. Her voice, her pacing, and her marvelous ability to maintain dread and vague creepiness just below the level of the most ordinary situations. Haven't finished it yet, can wholeheartedly recommend it. Check out "Hotel Iris" too, if you have a chance.

#Michael Boiano #Recommended reading

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andmaybegayer · 3 years ago

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Last Monday of the Week 2021-12-20

It's chrisminth.

Listening: Do it better by The Blah Blah Blahs, which I know about because it's one of the songs in Forza 5. I mostly use Forza as a surrogate for a commute to keep me focused on podcasts but sometimes a race is hard.

Extremely peppy pop music. Good for a racing game.

Reading: Oh yeah I finished Children of Dune last week but I wrote about Skin Horse. So far this is the most Frank Herbert of the Dune novels I've read, like, Dune is more Dune than Dune Messiah but Children of Dune is more Dune than Dune.

I am detouring through something else before I get to God Emperor.

Watching: Watched Die Hard because it was on TV, first time I've ever actually watched that at Christmas Time. Extremely dated in every way, from the European villains to the lack of AK-47's and RPG-7's to the idea of an upstart Japanese megacorp instead of a Chinese one.

Making: Not a good week for making, although my grandmother has decided to dump a ton of dressmaking fabric on us so I might actually learn how to do non-repair sewing. Maybe.

Playing: Just started The Outer Wilds, loving it. I would describe it as Wonderful and Dreadful in very literal interpretations of the words. I've found at least most of the main plot threads and I managed to get to the Sixth Location but I have not yet even mostly explored Dark Bramble or the Hourglass Twins so I'll probably need to do that to resolve the last remaining puzzle pieces. This music whips.

Computer Stuff: It's my blog and I decide what goes in it so I'm doing a physical tool recommendation here instead, namely picks.

I got these a few months ago and they basically never leave my desk, there's always something you need a pointy, slightly bent, metal, thing to manipulate. Scooping dust out of crevasses or plugging in ribbon cables or combing out some wires, these do it all. Straight and complete right angle picks are the least useful, with the 45° pick being the one I use the most. These are super cheaply made, as you can tell by the electrical screwdriver handles, but they get the job done and that's what matters.

#last monday of the week #Spotify

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

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Secrets ~ 3

Warnings: noncon sexual acts later in series

This is dark!Bucky and dark!Steve and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A buried family secret comes to light thrusting you to the forefront of an old alliance.

Note: Finished this before work! Hope y’all enjoy.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

There was a flurry of activity around the jet waiting on the tarmac. You sat in the car, still cuffed, trapped, as you watched the crew hurry. It was barely noon yet and you were exhausted. Barnes returned and slid in the other side. You ignored him and kept your eyes out the window.

“Shouldn’t be long before we can board,” He said. “You look unhappy, your highness. Is there any way I can help?”

“Uncuff me, let me go home and live my life,” You snapped dryly. “That would about do it.”

“Get it all out now.” He chided. “The king won’t stand for your lip.”

“‘The king won’t stand for your lip’,” You mimicked and grunted as you leaned a bit too heavily on your hands. “I really don’t care what he wants and I certainly don’t care what he thinks of me. All the better if he hates me.”

“This isn’t about feelings. He will marry you regardless of his personal bias,” Barnes assured. “It will be easier, however, if he has a reason to tolerate you.”

“Do you really live by the forgotten words just because they were written down?” You scoffed. “You know how absurd that is? I’ve seen the stories, he could marry anyone--”

“No, he can’t,” Barnes intoned. “Those forgotten words are not forgotten. The kingdom remembers the agreement. They remember how much we gave to the flagging country of Ecklun. They remember we were promised a princess.” He looked at you. “You. We paid our dues and we expect a return on it.”

You shook your head, finding it hard not to laugh sardonically. It was all backwards. This was the shit you read about in textbooks or fantasy novels. It was bullshit.

“Would it disqualify me to tell you I’m not pure?” You snickered. “To tell you I didn’t save myself for the king I never gave a second thought about?”

“It doesn’t bother me and surely not him.” Barnes shrugged. “He’s had his own fun, but I would advise you to not be so flippant about it with him. He is not one for cheek.”

“If I am who you say I am, I will do as I like.” You snarled.

“Very well. I can’t stop you. I can only warn you against it.” He pushed his head back and sighed. “You know your history, you recall how kings can be.”

👑

You sat on the plane in a plush leather seat, white and pristine like the rest of the interior. Barnes was across from you, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. Once you’d taken off, he’d quit checking his watch and settled into the flight without a second glance at you. You couldn’t do the same.

Aside from your anxiety and anger over all that had transpired, your hands remained bound behind you and kept you from leaning back or getting comfortable in the least. You teetered on the edge of the seat and glared at him.

“What do you want, Duchess?” He asked without lifting an eyelid.

“Can’t you at least take these off?” You grumbled. “My shoulders are killing me.”

He shrugged and said nothing.

“You can’t expect me to sit through this whole flight like this.” You hissed. “Shit, you don’t treat me like a duchess or whatever you claim I am.”

His eyes opened sharply and he uncrossed his arms. He sat forward, his jaw ticked as he inhaled deeply through his nose.

“You will not use that language further,” He warned. “Understood. It is unladylike. Unseemly. I won’t tolerate it and neither will the king.”

“Language? I’m sorry I don’t talk in iambic pentameter.” You scowled.

“You know what I mean. No more shits, fucks, and all that.” He seemed disgusted by the words on his tongue. “If you feel the need to moan, pretend you are a child.”

“Oh, gosh, will do, mister,” You said dryly. He raised his brow and his nostrils flared. “If I promise to watch my mouth, will you undo these?”

He blinked and checked the time again. He seemed to weigh the option as he angled his head one way then the other.

“Well, I can’t have you arriving in cuffs, I suppose,” He stood and reached into his pocket as he neared. “But don’t think I won’t bring them back out if needed. You understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Barnes, I swear to be a good little duchess,” You quipped.

He huffed and pulled you forward as he reached around you to grasp the cuffs. They came free and he drew away. He backed up as he put the key back in his pocket and dropped the cuffs in the empty seat next to him. He leaned an elbow on the rest and held his chin as he watched you. You sat back as you stretched your arms in front of your, turning your hands and rolling your wrists.

“We have a lot of work to do,” He ran his fingertips along his short stubble. “A lot.”

👑

Time seemed to stand still. When you arrived, it was morning in Astrania, the rest of the day lost in the difference. A man in black led you down the steps to the tarmac, Barnes behind you, and another man. You were taken into the airport, away from the general public, and guided through the corridors meant for employees only.

Barnes came up to walk beside you. A sudden tide of displacement washed over you. It was all real. You were far from home, stranded, trapped, in a land you didn’t know. With a title you didn’t want. For a purpose you dreaded.

The man in front of you stopped short before a door and turned back to look at Barnes.

“Cameras are here.” He said curtly.

“Already?” Barnes frowned.

“They must’ve seen the royal jet circling,” The man replied. “Apparently, they’ve been on alert since your departure.”

Barnes sighed and nodded. He unbuttoned the single button of his jacket and pulled it off. “Just make sure you keep them away.” He opened his jacket and turned to you. “Here.” He tried to shroud your head in his blazer and you dodged it. The man behind you blocked you. “Come on. There’s gonna be at least a dozen photogs out there and you far from ready for an appearance.”

“Are you serious?” You snorted.

“The longer we wait, the more will be there,” He said. “Now come on.”

He threw his jacket over you and you caught it. It smelled like expensive cologne and sweat. He wrapped it around you so that you could barely see and grabbed your arm to guide you onward. Unsteady, unsure, you let him usher you ahead and a heavy metal door opened, a streak of light visibly past the hem of the jacket as you could barely see your own feet.

A buzz of voices and the shutter of cameras greeted you outside and you clutched the fabric tighter. Barnes kept on, a few warnings to the vulture-like photogs as the way was cleared ahead of him by your stalwart escorts. A car door opened and you were angled inside quickly.

You caught yourself on the seat and felt a nudge to move over. Barnes climbed in as you righted yourself and the door closed heavily behind him. He pulled his jacket away and shook it out as the tinted windows flashed with the cameras outside. He grumbled and folded his jacket in his lap.

“Well,” He bemoaned. “That does change things.” He shifted on the seat. “Driver. Go on.”

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“Your arrival will be a headline by the next hour,” He explained. “That means we have even less time to get you… ready.”

“Oh, such a tragedy.” You snipped.

“Trust me, duchess, while you insist on making a mockery of this, you do not want to face the media without preparation,” The car began to move and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “They will tear you apart. What matters is their perception not your intent.”

“Ah, is that your job then?” You wondered. “You’re supposed to make a lady of me.”

“I am to educate you,” He insisted. “A tall and no doubt foolhardy task,” He growled. “But my king gave me an order and I will do what I can to mold you into at least a semblance of a lady.”

👑

Lush green fields turned to rolling hills. You watched the scenery, almost forgetting where you were and why. The picturesque countryside awed you and sent a chill through you. It truly felt like you had stepped back in time; even as if you had arrived on an entirely different planet.

Trees planted in careful lines closed in around the road and led to a row of tall hedges and you stopped before a gate of curled metal, topped by sharp points. It opened after the driver gave a short honk. The long drive was laid with mosaic stones and curved before the rounded steps of a great mansion. The double doors at the top were decorated with golden knockers and the handles were wrought and twisted elegantly. The car came to a halt and Barnes, as was his habit, checked his watch.

Your door was opened by the driver as Barnes climbed out the other side. He rounded the vehicle and beckoned you towards the steps. He walked beside you and you could sense him watching you from the corner of your eyes. The doors opened as you approached the stairs and liveried servants appeared from the other side as they welcomed you with eager smiles.

“All is prepared duchess,” He gestured ahead. “The palace has been readied for your seclusion. You are the only task left.”

“What a welcome,” You sneered. “I might be unlearned in the habit of nobility, but I don’t think it is usual for one to speak to a duchess in that tone.”

He smiled and took your arm, hooking it through his as he urged you up the stairs.

“The king has permitted me full reign in your training,” He said as he guided you through the open doors. “He will forgive me my own missteps if I can prevent your own.”

You dragged your feet as you entered the vast foyer. The floor was of white marble veined with gold, the decor shared a similar color scheme, and portraits hung from the walls, vast likeness of women in garb dating from the earliest medieval periods to the last century. You detached from Barnes and looked around.

“This is the Palace of Regia,” Barnes explained from behind you. “These are your foremothers. The queens of Astrania, each of whom took their pre-marital seclusion here. Each who married and served their kings proudly.”

You recalled the tradition, common to many countries but mostly retired since Victoria reigned over England and much of the globe. You turned back to Barnes and blinked.

“How long?”

“Two weeks,” Barnes answered. “Two weeks to ready you for the king’s presence. You will be taken to the capital at the end and attend your engagement party so that you can acquaint yourself with your future husband. Your wedding is scheduled the next week.”

“Engagement party? Wedding?” You echoed. “That’s… three weeks. Not even a month.”

“Yes, so we should get to work.” He neared and grabbed your shoulders. He pushed them back. “Stand straight.” He poked your chin up with two fingers. “Head high, shoulders back.”

“What are you--”

He rounded you and his hand gripped your waist and squeezed. He shushed you and ran his other hand up your spine.

“You must hold yourself like a queen. Mind your posture, your highness.” He said.

You pulled away from him harshly. “What are you doing?”

You were shocked as you felt a slap on your ass and he swiftly caught your hips and drew you back to stand before him.

“I am trying to save you a lot of grief.” He said. “Stay.” He bid as if you were a dog. He released you and came around in front of you. “As I said, head up, shoulders back.”

He stared until you obeyed. You sighed and stood straight as you could. He grinned.

“Let me tell you, Duchess, the cameras, the public, they will judge you even more harshly so you want to give them as little ammunition as you can so that they cannot turn their muzzles on you.” He girded and grabbed your arms, adjusting them before his hands settled on either side of your neck. He tutted. “You cannot hang your shoulders like a hunchback.”

“I don’t--”

“You do.” He insisted. “Now,” He removed his hands and walked backwards until he was near the wall. “Walk to me.” You squinted and he lowered his chin. He chuckled and waved his hand to beckon you forward. “Come on.”

You rolled your eyes but took a step. He hissed. “Keep your head up. Shoulders straight. Don’t sway like that.” Each footfall had another comment until you were right before him. He gestured you to turn around and he kicked your feet closer together and again touched your hips. “Let them know you’re a woman but do not flaunt it. Walk as if there is a string running straight through you. Lift your feet.”

He nudged you and you began to walk again. He followed not far behind and you heard his displeased grumbles. He fixed your shoulders, your hips again, told you to keep your feet closer together, head up!

You were growing more and more annoyed by the second. You were tired. You hadn’t even had a chance to register everything. You were in a palace, marching beneath the eyes of dozens of dead queens, far from home and all you had ever known. It was all so foreign, so different, so startlingly unfamiliar. You hated it.

“Enough!” You spun to face him and he stopped short. “Holy shit! I haven’t even--”

He grabbed your hand and smacked it like you were a child. “Language.” He warned.

You tugged your hand back and gaped at him. “What the fuck--”

He took your hand again and smack it harder. “Your highness, let us not be children.”

“Don’t touch me--” You tore yourself away. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“If you insist on acting like a child, I will bend you over and spank you like one.” He said. “Now, stand straight.” He crossed his arms. “And mind your mouth.” You stared at him, stunned. He raised his brows and nodded to you. “Don’t make me count, Duchess.”

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sickficenthusiast · 3 years ago

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Soggy From The Chemo (a sick/angstfic)

TW for cancer descriptions as well as chemo and addiction. I tried my best to depict it as realistically as possible, but lemme know if there’s anything I need to change in the future. I wanted to get a better idea of what I’m going to be putting my boy Elijah through in this novel of his and the start of the fic had been sitting there for a while, so I decided to finish it. I hope you enjoy if you decide to read!

An overwhelming sense of heaviness sat unabatingly across Elijah, as he sat half-laying on the leather seat which made up a part of the ring circling the entirety of the sterily formulaic chemo room. It was a feeling he had become accustomed to in the month which had dispersed since his life had ended. To the vision of hourglass grains, it may appear to have been just another gentle upheavel of a day, but to Elijah's unilateral vision, another reality was conjured. No more was Wednesday merely a day, or a headache merely an inconvenience; now each Wednesday burnt his veins with sickened throes of dread from diagnosis association, and each headache faded blindly into the next, and left him in a constant state of turbulent vibration and bone nausea. Eating was a chore, sleeping was a dream, and living had effectively halted. He had tried to continue working, but all he was able to manage was three days a week on a really good week, so that left leagues of time spent of him wasting away in his flat, trying desperately to maintain some sense of normality. This came in the form of him throwing himself into his painting and drawing, anything to keep his brain off of the topic of itself, of the cancer which festered within itself.

He had stage 3 small-cell carcinoma with brain mets. The newly formed brain tumour which had incited the need for a diagnosis had only been an extant result of a bigger problem he had never paid attention to while it had slowly developed within him. It was one of the biggest cancer killers for veterans, and it looked like it had gotten ahold of yet another. Who even knew how much dirt, shrapnel, chemicals, bone-fragments and active war-zone inhalants he had drawn into his lungs during his deployments, or how many cigarettes he had smoked through to keep his hands from shaking from the memory of it? He always chalked every one of his early symptoms to the smoking, it made sense for his chest to hurt and for him to be set off coughing at random, right? For his lungs to produce acidic rust and for him to have to sometimes fight for breath? Surely, he was just losing weight due to the stress and the trauma.

Like the fucking idiot he was, he had ignored everything until his condition had advanced to the point it had metastasised elsewhere so that he could no longer ignore it. It demanded his undivided attention, and boy fucking shit did it have it now.

A constant physical sense of dread weighed down upon him now, never having let up since first hearing Michelle gasp out that word through her tears, and certainly remaining steadfast atop him now, as the amber chemo syrup slowly dripped into his veins from the IV in the top of his hand, knowing deep in his aching bones that he would be completely laid low once he got home that night, as if he ever wasn’t low these days.

Perhaps he had thought that each infusion would become easier because he would have a better idea of what to expect each time, but that had turned out to be a total sham – every single session he was left feeling worse than the last, and could expect to be glued to the couch, his bed, or the bathroom floor for at least the first four days afterwards. He had begrudgingly taken up knitting to craft himself some personalised beanies to hide his barely peach fuzz-covered head, and his mouth was a constant bleeding mess of sores he still couldn’t work out how to combat. His complexion had seemed to permanently lighten from the gorgeous deep brown it usually was, perpetually washed out in appearance with a face once nicely toned left puffy and swollen. Everything he tried to put in his mouth was coppery in taste and never wanted to stay. His clothes, which were now practically always heavy and wintery-intended, constantly became heavier and grossly damp from the treatment-induced sweats, and he trembled with a fever he could never seem to break. His chest and head constantly hurt to the point of tears and sometimes blacking out, and he had a total of six more grand-mal seizures since his first. His mind seemed to have come to a complete stand-still, so foggy he could barely speak at times, and when he did it sounded as if his voice was totally alien to him, as if someone else entirely was steering his ship. They hadn’t passed their aptitude test, however, and they steered him into walls and sent him to the ground it seemed every time he tried to walk, to the point Michelle, who had become his biggest support system and makeshift caretaker, had suggested they look into a wheelchair for him. This wasn’t a big deal for her, she already used one spasmodically for her MS when it got particularly burdensome, but Elijah was extremely unimpressed with that idea – he hadn’t even needed one when he had returned home disfigured from war, why would he suddenly start using one now? That was an ongoing fight between them, but aside from that Michelle was entirely in his corner, taking him to appointments, getting his groceries, caring for him where no one else could. He knew his family so wanted to be with him in this, but by this point they had scattered, all the children now independent, and many had ended up returning to Italy. Two of his siblings, Bella and Mattia, still remained in the country, but they were nowhere near him, it would be an insurmountable task trying to get to him, and it wasn’t something he could expect them to do. He didn’t have any friends outside of work he could actually trust.

Michelle really was the only one he had, and he couldn’t be more grateful for that.

He nervously sucked on what was so lovingly called a ‘cancer pop’, a warm-tasting turmeric and cinnamon popsicle he was always given every infusion, and despite it hitting his stomach awkwardly and making it twist in protest, it was like practical heaven on his sore-infested mouth. He had managed to down a warm, almost sickeningly sweet tea and a few digestives since sitting down, as the staff insisted he eat as much as he could during the sessions (probably due in part to the fact they knew he found it so hard to do so while at home), and while the actual chemo hadn’t started making him feel sick just yet, you weren’t exactly given a lot of time to recover between infusions – he was still fighting off the last dose. Plus every time he didn’t spit out the bloody mucous he produced regardless of whether he had been coughing or not, it just got swallowed and went straight to his stomach. Swallowing a concoction like that would make anyone green around the gills, not to even mention he did it multiple times a day.

As he ate his popsicle he found he stopped breathing while performing the sucking motion, and thus when he would eventually stop and swallow what he had worked off the stick he would have to fight to regain some of the oxygen he had missed, which with his cancer-riddled lungs was an extremely hard undertaking. He got out of breath so easily, merely sitting still and not moving at all, just doing nothing but breathing, he would get winded, tiring out just by the mere effort of pulling air in and pushing it back out. They were currently in the middle of assessing whether he needed supplementary oxygen, but apparently he didn’t quite meet the threshold just yet. Elijah couldn’t help but be stuck on the distinction, yet. How encouraging. You’re fine for now. But how long would that last? He had unknowingly left his cancer simmering within him for quite some time, what seemed like a drastic and rapid outcome had in actuality been a long time coming. He hadn’t just woken up one day with stage 3 cancer – it had once been a vague tickle in his chest, probably a year ago, where he had just chalked it up to smoking a bit too much. Well, he hadn’t technically been wrong.

Because this wasn’t the paediatric oncology unit and he and Michelle weren’t married or in that kind of relationship, it was encouraged that she didn’t accompany him to the sessions, where he and everyone else there were severely immunocompromised and were already putting themselves at risk just by being there to get their medicine. Michelle entering the hospital unnecessarily would up the risk of either carrying or coming down with all the various illnesses they generally tried to keep away from the cancer patients, which would in turn put Elijah at great risk of getting sick, and with his lungs was a very dangerous situation. Thankfully thus far they had been successful in keeping from infecting him, but that wasn’t due to luck – he and Michelle barely took off their face masks, and everything in his flat had been disinfected and re-disinfected again. They were putting their all in keeping him as healthy as they possibly could, and that included him being alone through these awful sessions. He always left with a little less of himself, a part he knew he would be slow at regaining, if he ever did manage to. Another part Michelle would never get to see again. If he got through this and went into remission, which was admittedly a far-cry when he had only started receiving treatment when it had already metastasised, he wouldn’t come out of it whole. He could almost feel the holes this poison drug burned through his veins right to his skin.

He returned from war, only to walk himself right into another one that only he was a member in. There would be no Reggie’s or battle mates, or even Iraqi girls to carry him to safety now. He started this new war, and he was the only one who was able to fight it.

Although, he guessed he had a new battle mate. Too bad she had to wait in the car.

“Hey, Eli, tried to keep the car warm for when you got out. How you doin’, can I get you anything?” Her reassuring voice was a blessed anchor he could grab onto as he stumbled in a miserable haze from the sliding doors and fell into the passenger seat of his car. He always left these sessions hollowed-out, nothing behind his tired eyes except exhaustion and utter emptiness. As he sat panting damply, hand resting on his heaving chest, he fought not to be swept beneath the waves he constantly struggled against, because Michelle didn’t deserve that. He was already at the mercy of his brain tumour to lash out, still struggling to keep some of the Elijah he loved so dearly around. Where would he be to accept all this help from her, when she didn’t need to be doing anything for him, just then to verbally abuse her and curse her out for only trying to help. But it was so fucking hard, these weren’t conscious decisions he was making to act out, given literally any other alternative he would take it in a heartbeat.

So, unable to look up into the pure expression of concern he just knew would be drawn across her face, he swallowed thickly, tasting blood, and murmured,

“Thanks, it was fine, I just really want to go home now. I want Private…”

Private was his blond fox terrier, and without fail he would lay either in his lap or beside him, or at his feet, every single time he came back from chemo, and just that tiny gesture meant the world to him, always at least got him a little bit emotional, which frankly wasn’t hard these days. All he wanted right then was his couch and his baby, Private just seemed to have that ability to warm him when nothing else could, in more ways than just one, and he definitely wanted to get in some much-needed cuddle time before the chemo would catch up with him. At least give him a few minutes.

After a brief shower in which he just stood beneath the water unmoving, he immediately changed into his comfy pyjamas and a huge hoodie along with a few (dozen) blankets and parked himself on the couch, and much to his joy Private wandered over to him and jumped up beside him, heading for his lap as if on autopilot. He laid down beside him with his head and front feet draped across his lap, and Elijah’s hollow heart swelled oh so subtly, working his real and prosthetic fingers over his almost cotton-y fur, smiling for the first time that day as he murmured,

“Hey boy, you keeping daddy company?”

”Of course, why wouldn’t he want to?” Michelle giggled as she walked around the couch to set the bucket which had been appointed specifically to after chemo and nothing else by his feet, the plastic liner within it rustling with each movement. She also placed down his freshly-filled Glospee water bottle, the ice within rattling most satisfyingly, a glass of also iced ginger ale, and his webster pack. “I’ll start making dinner when I’m finished up here, but can I get you anything before I do? Your sketch book or your switch?”

Elijah still couldn’t handle the look he could hear in her voice, so didn’t meet her gaze when he requested,

“Probably just the remote today, I am…” he paused to catch his breath and rub at his face, “so, so very tired tonight…”

Michelle smiled sadly down at her very best friend. What she wouldn’t give to be able to cure him, she so deeply ached to see that old smile of his back on his face, one which told absolutely no tales of what he had seen in life. She hadn’t seen it in so long, even before he had been diagnosed, because the old him had already been in the process of being sapped. Why had this beautiful man had to have been the one to be laid low by his own body like this? Why hadn’t it been her? Why were her own symptoms beginning to go into remission when no one was sure if Elijah would ever have that chance?

If she kept standing there she may just speak that sentiment aloud, which wasn’t something Elijah necessarily needed to hear, not at least when he was meant to be resting. She reached down for the remote on the coffee table and handed it off to him, her hand lingering on his as she felt her eyes growing warm, a painful mass forming in her throat. It just wasn’t fair…

It really wasn’t fair. Elijah had eventually turned the tv on to Netflix and had been getting lost in The Haunting of Hill House while Michelle cooked in the background, but gradually he was losing the ability to concentrate on it, and all his focus was instead on how cold he was. Even with all the layers he currently had on, it was doing nothing to gift him any warmth, and he was left violently shivering while pulling all the blankets around him as tightly as he could manage, Private eventually moving himself to be sitting fully in his lap and stretching his head and front feet up to rest on his stomach up to his chest, essentially hugging his person. Elijah would be totally remiss not to hug him back, and making sure the blankets were still covering every possible inch of him, he wrapped his arms around his fuzzy body, nuzzling his face against his baby’s. He made sure to try and keep his teeth from chattering while he was so close to Private’s mouth, he couldn’t risk being licked anywhere near it. He knew then, logically, that he shouldn’t be allowing him to be so close to him, but cuddling with Private was some of the only physical contact he made, Michelle refused to risk it where possible, so he was totally touch-starved, not to mention that his puppy was like a walking heated blanket, how could he possibly keep him away when he was sometimes the only form of warmth he was able to experience?

He begrudgingly ate the chicken noodle soup Michelle had made, her go-to the first dinner after chemo, grimacing at the thick taste of metal cloying the experience and at the warm food touching the sores in his mouth. Michelle sat in the armchair across from him silently eating her soup, mostly watching her friend struggle with his own. She was proud of him for trying to eat; he still tried, regardless of how much it would soon bite him in the arse. It always did, like clockwork, and yet he gave it a go, every time. She hoped his tv show would be a distraction to him when it eventually did go south. Until then she would watch him, and make silent plans to race for the heavy-duty gloves as soon as she was needed to intervene.

At least two hours later Elijah had decided he was too tired to remain sitting up, and changed tactics to be curled up in a tight cocoon of blankets, his head resting on a pillow which was wedged between him and Private’s back. Michelle had turned the heating up until she was almost dripping with sweat when he had asked her to, but still, somehow, he was shivering like his life depended on it. He kind of wished he had gone into this as a more overweight person, because at least when he would start unintentionally losing weight he would have a longer time to go before he was skin and bone. He wasn’t entirely there yet, but he was by this point far thinner than he had ever been, and just on that front alone he had next to no heat reserves.

This utter cold, however, did nothing whatsoever to combat the sweat which soon became forming.

It seemed to take absolutely no time after its inception that he was thoroughly drenched. Every single article of clothing he had on was at least damp, and still more dripped from every inch of his almost hairless body, finding no pause between that and the shivering which found a similar amount. He absolutely hated this part, it was almost as if he had developed a new layer to his skin made entirely of slippery humidity, and it always left him totally disgusted. No matter of drying off or showering or fucking anything slowed it down, and all it did was cool him down more. He was so freezing. He clutched himself beneath the blankets, his hands slipping on his exposed skin, and moaned. He knew what the next step was.

And soon it rushed in, seemingly free-falling into him. Nausea swelled in the pit of his stomach, tightening his upper torso and worsening his trembling. This nausea burned his essentially traumatised stomach lining, the contents within seeming to churn in a circular motion, like an overfull blender, while he himself was trapped in a washing machine. He was becoming dizzy and the familiar taste of metal was blooming across the back of his quivering tongue, two more signs he was going to throw up, and soon. It didn’t necessarily scare him, but he knew how much it hurt every time, and how out of breath it left him. It was such an uncomfortable process, and one that wasn’t relieved with its fruition – he would left at the mercy of that process for days to come, more often than not over a week. He was nauseous and vomiting more often than he wasn’t these days, he was admittedly used to it by now, but that didn’t make him any more thrilled about it.

He tried to swallow it down and ignore it, laser-focussing on the current episode he was on, but even though he had rewatched this show hundreds of times, he couldn’t work out what was happening, as if this was his first viewing. He hadn’t really even broken his attention from it, but that didn’t matter to his foggy, knackered brain; it was as if he hadn’t been paying attention at all, and trying to now was just tiring him out more than he already was. But anything, anything not to focus on the god-awful feeling in his belly.

But it wasn’t exactly something he could just will away, his reaction to the medicine and to the disease itself wasn’t exactly in his control, and soon enough he felt so sick that it hurt to breathe, and he knew he should start the process of sitting up to grab his bucket (it wasn’t safe for Michelle to come into direct contact with his bodily fluids so the moment he began feeling the possibility of vomiting it was just safest to either grab his bucket or run to the toilet).

When Elijah began sitting himself up, Michelle knew exactly what he was after, could already see the nausea in his face. She quickly got to her feet and crossed over to him, grabbing up his bucket and plunking it into his lap before sprinting from the room to get her gloves. Elijah was gagging almost as soon as he was upright, clutching to the rim with both hands in a white-knuckled grip, while his stomach visibly pulled inward. H retched desperately, panting just before his ab muscles squeezed hard and a flood of his dinner drained from his mouth and nose, splattering noisily into the plastic liner.

“Huh, you actually kept that down longer than I thought you would, Eli, congrats,” Michelle half-heartedly joked as she re-entered the room and sat down beside him, rubbing his soggy back as he gutturally gagged, a gurgling growl preceding another thick dousing of dark orange vomit to burst hard from his mouth, leading him to pretty much shove his entire head into the bucket to keep the possibility of a mess to the absolute minimum.

The explicit sting present in an inordinate number of points in his mouth was made even more obvious when the next time he threw up, blood from his oral sores mixed with the acidic sick to colour the already off-putting orange into a downright panicky red. If it weren’t for its blatant reason, he was sure Michelle would have had him in the emergency department in a heartbeat. If he weren’t mistaken, he was sure she would already be thinking about it regardless, further evidenced by the subtle tightening in the muscles of her hand he was trying to focus on present on his back. Between the ice in his bones, the fire in his mouth, the tight nausea swirling in his belly, the clammy spinning in his head, how much it hurt to breathe, and how badly his body craved to be unconscious, it was all just too much for him. None of this was fair, why the fuck hadn’t he just died in combat instead of coming back disabled at the mercy of his body eventually killing him anyway? He had fought so hard to stay alive, for what? Just so his own body could kill him later and far slower? What had it all been for when his own worst enemy was himself? What hadn’t killed him certainly hadn’t made him stronger. Why had he done this to himself?

From deep in his battered chest he sobbed, hot tears flooding his eyes, just in time to choke up more seemingly pure acid. The effort of forcing it up and then feeling it on his wounds was an agony he wouldn’t wish on anyone, and one he wished he coud be far away from. He begged his body to cease, please, he just wanted to sleep, but it took many more mouthfuls of vomit to be expelled for him to get a break, finally coming to a stop in a totally breathless state, fighting for air and sobbing raggedly. He knew he should try and calm himself down so he could better catch his breath, but that didn’t mean he knew how. He was in such an acute state of misery, he wished he could be hugged but that wouldn’t be safe. That was why he couldn’t even have an ungloved hand rubbing his back. Why couldn’t he just be normally sick, where sure you didn’t necessarily want to pass it on, but it wasn’t as if your bodily fluids were essentially corrosive in that situation. He could be held without discretion with bare hands, not instead handled like some sick animal. Michelle may as well be wearing a hazmat suit to Elijah’s skewed perception, and there was something really dehumanizing about that which burned him down to his very soul. He knew these precautions she had to take were only for a few days after each infusion, but that still didn’t mean it didn’t somewhat hurt – that was when he needed her the most!

He had been quick to accept Michelle’s offer to be taken to bed after he finally stopped vomiting for the time being, but had had to be half-dragged half-carried to his bedroom from how absolutely drained of energy he was, sagging heavily on her shoulder while she led him slowly down the hall and to his bed, which he practically fell into. In the time he had been up and walking the temperature had seemed to lower still, and by the time he got to his bed he was seeing double from the shivering, his teeth surely going to break from chattering so hard. He miserably crawled under his blankets and removed his prosthetics while Michelle rushed to grab the rest that were still on the couch, laying them down across his trembling form. He felt so incredibly awful, folding his hands over his still loudly churning belly and groaning.

He was getting a headache. A disgusted shudder ran down his spine, curling up on his side and whimpering, trying not to start crying all over again. God, please just let him sleep, he was begging now. It wasn’t fair.

Michelle brought through the freshly scrubbed and lined bucket and sat it on the floor beside his bed, resting his water bottle on the beside table which was cluttered with various pill bottles and boxes.

“There we go, sweetheart, I’ve let Renee know I’ll be staying over, again, so I’ll be right here if you need anything at all. Just try and get some rest now, you so dearly need it…” she said softly, so wanting to run her fingers through his hair, curl up beside him and hold him until he fell asleep, but not wanting to risk hurting herself. If she were also being honest with herself, she was stressed, for obvious reasons, and desperately wanted a cigarette. She had continued smoking them back at home so to keep it away from him as best she could, but she really desperately wanted one right then, broaching more into the realm of needing it. But where would she be, smoking while looking after her friend with lung cancer? This was an internal fight she was steadily losing at, however, and she was already in the process of figuring out where she would sneak to after he was asleep to get her hit. How could she be so weak? How could she do this to him, and to herself? If not the entire reason Elijah had gotten sick it was at least a high contributor, so why couldn’t she give them up knowing this was an option for her fate to lead her towards?

Well, they were both addicts. Addiction kind of has a habit of overpowering every morality you have to see itself fed. She truly didn’t want to hurt Elijah. She was just too weak to not.

“’Chelle?”

“Yeah, Eli?”

“Please stop smoking.”

“Okay, sweetheart.”

Michelle ran this exchange over and over in her mind as she sat huddled in her car, lighting a cigarette in her clasped hands before inhaling and blowing out its toxic cloud. This had been the last thing he had said before falling asleep, and not even five minutes later here she was, having actively lied to him and doing exactly what he had asked she stop. Tears ran down her cheeks as she sucked on the filled paper, holding it in her mouth before letting it billow out as she sobbed on the exhale, hiding her burning face in shame. What the fuck was she doing? How could this stupid little thing have such a hook on her, when she was actively being shown what could happen to her down the track? She was betraying him, truly she was, and betraying anyone else in their situation, and betraying herself. He had asked her to stop, and she couldn’t. She wanted to grind the cigarette under her foot, stub it out and be done with it, but the thought made her so nauseous that she had to hurriedly take another drag to calm herself down. Quitting was not a likely outcome at any point in her future.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Elijah…” she moaned in inner turmoil, as she tremulously inhaled pure cancer directly into her lungs, blowing it out in another, even louder sob.

She’d need another cigarette to calm this crying down.

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sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe · 3 years ago

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Heretics, it has been... some time, has it not? Some time since I regaled you with my dulcet tones, some time since you've heard from the apostate behind the painting.

Well. Here I remain, and to here I return, to speak directly to you, rather than from behind the shield of my prose.

I went to a poetry slam, heretics. I performed at a poetry slam, heretics. My tongue stumbled against the uneven ridges of my teeth, and my soul began to pool about my feet, but I stood upon a spotlit stage, and read work, my work to a crowd of people. And they liked it. They really liked it.

I find your support invaluable, each time you do funky little numbers in front of my eyes it makes my heart leap and bound and swallow a few more filing cabinets, just for you. But to have the canvas of my life's work displayed for a group of strangers, before me, a crowd I had been part of, and would summarily return to, and not be rejected?

To be encouraged, my work celebrated with applause and words far kinder than any I had hoped to hear... I doubt I will remember it anything less than fondly.

A few housekeeping things, then, as my bleeding personal life can only stave off Those Roving Bones for so long;

I'm writing a book! Those of you a year in will have known this, no shame upon those who hadn't, it's taken me quite a long time, and as a result my writing style and standards have mutated somewhat.

also someone said altering tenses were a mark of unprofessional writing and i argue that what is first person present than the constant battle between the past and the future and that ever fleeting now, but steady arguments do not stave off existential dread, and I was deathly afraid of that for a few days. which was fun.

It has not crawled its way towards a blood child of its own, but someone quite dear to me suggested that I simply, publish other things of my own, perhaps from the piles of work I have accumulated after I realized I actually enjoyed this and would like to do it for a living, yes I wrote a novel for kicks, I was twelve and stupid, now I'm significantly older and self-aware. Which is something.

But I'm... I'm compiling a poetry anthology, some of which will ring familiar to you, heretics, some of which has never graced eyes beyond my own, and I hope to have physical copies by the end of the year, and digital distribution for those less inclined to wait.

I never thought I'd get this far. I doubt any large number of people will purchase it, I don't expect you to, heretic, and I do not fault you for lack of funds or interest. But if you've reached this far, I would like to thank you regardless.

Thank you for accompanying me so far into a journey I have so far to walk, and I can't fucking wait, thank you for indulging in my funky little word meatballs, I can't wait to figure out filet mignon, thank you for reading this, this weird update with wandering plots and no through line but my passion for an art I had no idea I was growing when I started this.

My profile picture should be changing within the next few weeks, it might be longer, it's not done yet, but it is mine, and I hope you all like it half as much as I do.

My username may be changing alongside it, but never to fear, that will be accompanied with far larger a focus, so you will notice should that come into effect. How do we all feel about Skeletal Scribes and 's' alliterations? there's a third consideration rounding out the set, but it shouldn't be strenuous to suss out, seeing my stylistic strain.

also i just put the finishing touches on a chapter of the novel, i broke 5 thousand words in a purely dialogue project i've been biting through, and all around have been crafting prose like you wouldn't fucking believe. or maybe you would, i don't live in the space between your ears.

Things are changing, just as many will hold themselves static, and I hope to see you there. As always, to you.

#writing update #writers on tumblr #poetry anthology #novel updates #poetry slam #poetry #sin the ironic paladin speaks #also i've been listening to #undercover martyn #by #two door cinema club #for about three hours now #and that may or may not be making me somewhat nostalgic #look there's a lot of dread that lives in the cavity of my chest i've just begin telling it to kindly fuck off #mixed results

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adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy · 5 years ago

Text

“Forget what I said,

It’s not what I meant

And I can’t take it back

I can’t unpack the baggage you left.”

- Falling, Harry Styles

A/N: the long anticipated third installment of “that angsty threesome story.” this shit hurted y’all. that’s all i’m gonna say. hope you enjoy :)

Sharing Isn’t Always Caring masterlist

word count: 13k

content: A N G S T, drunk sad!harry, melancholic relationship flashbacks, and Niall being an amazing friend. oh and lots of pining pain

preview:

“Y/N, I am so sorry.”

He really didn’t know what to expect on her part but he was willing to take anything she deemed fit. Screaming, yelling, cursing— anything. Anything was better than the suffocating silence that had been hanging over his head for what had felt like eons.

What he didn’t expect was the energy he received in response. It wasn’t brutal or enraged or bitter, it was just…hollow. It was tired and defeated, as if she’d spent hours combing through her feelings to the point of surrendered exhaustion. She held no spite or resentment, just a tone of flatlined renunciation and honest common sense.

“I know.”

The answer was curt and calm and for some reason, it packed a harder punch than anything he could’ve imagined. He would have rathered she tell him off and shout in his face and even slam things; at least then he would know she was still sorting through the ordeal and trying to come up with a resolution.

But this was way more difficult to stomach. If she had no screaming or crying left in her, it meant she had already come to her senses on the matter. It meant he had no wiggle room, no chance to change her mind, no way to win her back. It was cold and condemning; it felt like a death sentence.

or Harry and Y/N breakup after the incident and the next two months are the worst either of them have ever known

///

Two months and thirteen days.

That’s how long Harry and Y/N have been broken up.

It’s poetically ironic, if you ask him, and he felt like the universe was playing a cruel game at his expense. Though it’s not like he didn’t deserve it.

The length of time that had passed was coincidentally parallel to how much time he had spent sitting on his couch that dreaded Saturday morning— which had been two hours and thirteen minutes— wringing his hands, boiling in his regret, and waiting for her to come out of their bedroom with a verdict on their relationship.

When Y/N had finally surfaced from her hiding spot, she had barely acknowledged him other than a few one-worded, snipped answers to his questions. She was headed out, she’d said, and that she would return later. Her path had been straight for the front door and the body language and aura she had displayed from the frame of their room door to the frame of the front door had been enough to clearly communicate a simple message: Don’t come after me.

He had followed her to the edge of the corridor that led to the exit, but he knew better than to chase her once she was out of the door. He remained put and watched her walk out without so much as a glance back.

She needed time, he had assured himself. Y/N needed a chance to cool off on her own and smothering her would do nothing but dig him further into the hole he was already neck-deep in.

In hindsight, Harry should have gone after her. Maybe it would’ve made a difference, or maybe it wouldn’t have at all, but all he’s aware of now is that he’d never know.

The minute she got back, a few hours later when the sun had just finished dipping over the stretch of forest that extended beyond the balcony of their apartment, he could immediately tell he had to prepare for the worst.

From the second Harry had met Y/N, he had always been able to read her. It’s something he prided himself in and something he always admired about the connection they shared— that it had been instant. It had been one of those rare pockets in life when he met someone and clicked with them automatically, so effortlessly that it was almost fictional. He’d always been a hopeless romantic and he had his mother and sister to thank for that; growing up with two women who constantly fed him stories about true love and the importance of emotions had molded his relationships down to the very core. And through that characteristic, which had been engraved within the man he had grown into, was how he and Y/N so easily came to be.

Harry had been able to read the nervous excitement she was wading through on their first date, watching her with fond amusement as she had contemplated the menu, trying to pass as nonchalant but being betrayed by the obvious cinch in her brows.

He had been able to read the first time she had wanted him to kiss her, eyes absorbing her features like the pages of a novel. He had picked up on the metaphors she depicted in the form of wine-swollen lips twitching with longing anticipation. He had picked up on the similes that translated into her slowly dilating pupils, the glittering specks of color that shimmered in the depths of her irises dancing with anxious enthusiasm as his face drew closer to her’s. He had picked up on the analogies that painted themselves onto the warm, supple skin of her cheeks as he cupped the side of her face with the palm of his large hand, fingers tucking lose strands of hair behind her ear as he thumbed over the faint smile lines chesiling themselves into existence along the edges of her mouth, her action thick with enamored awe.

He had been able to read just how taken Y/N was with him the first time they had slept together. It was certain in how she had clung to the bare, sweaty muscles of his shoulders as her nails clawed memories along the soft sides of his torso, her head dangling over the edge of the kitchen island to allow him the intimate comfort of pressing hot, wet moans to the searing skin of her throat. He had whined and shuddered as he’d spread her open over the cold marble surface, fogging it with the heat of their conjoined bodies, the air tinged with the scent of desperate sex and blurbs of orgasm-drunken praises that to this day he can feel burn his lungs. Barely coherent mumbles of “God, been needing you for the longest time now.” and “Fuck, you’re an absolute dream.” and he had even made himself susceptible to some of his deepest vulnerabilities, confessing how quickly and dangerously he was falling for her in a breathless little whimper of, “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Tiny zaps of invisible electricity had passed through her fingertips and into the flexing tendons of his back, revealing that she was just as scared and jittery and needy and absolutely whipped for him as he was for her. He had never been able to read her better than at that intense, emotion-packed moment, and he knows he’ll cherish that wordless instance of assurance for as long as he lives.

The only other occasion that competes is the first time Harry had known Y/N loved him. They had planned to go bar-hopping with their friends but, in a spur of laziness and utter disinterest, had decided to stay back. The night had been filled with board games and hot chocolate and half-burnt quesadillas because Harry had bought a new panini press that he didn’t quite yet know how to work. He knew she loved him when he beat her at CandyLand for the third time in a row and in a whirlwind of victory dancing, he had knocked the coffee table with his knee and ended up with cooled cocoa all over his striped pajama pants rather than in his belly.

He knew she loved him because she wasn’t upset that she’d have to help get the stain out and she wasn’t mad that he’d gotten marshmallow goo on the carpet and she wasn’t angry that his silliness had ended with her favorite vase rolling across the ground. All Y/N had been focused on was Harry and that ridiculous wide-toothed grin of his, her own lips nestling into an endeared smile as he giggled out of sheer shock at his ruined pants, clutching his stomach and throwing his head back against the couch cushions. Through teary, delight-blurred vision he saw her staring at him with this doe-like gaze, her eyes soft and glossier than he’d ever seen them, a tender laugh evident on her cheeks. Her eyebrows had been slightly furrowed with a type of disbelieving wonder at the utter moron she had chosen to share her heart with, but specifically at how she loved him all the more for it.

That’s when Harry had read that she loved him and she had confirmed it with words about ten minutes later as they both sat on their knees against the ground, scrubbing at the mess he’d made and sharing soft little snickers under their breath.

In the end, all of these milestone moments in their relationship had all funneled through his mind the minute Y/N had walked back into the living room on that forsaken day, hours later. They all sped past the inside of his eyelids every time he blinked, each one dissipating with each step she drew closer. She had stood before him as he sat forward tensely on the couch, forearms propped on his knees as he grasped his knuckles nervously, though they had stopped cracking ages ago.

It all flashed back to him like a film on fast-forward and it was because for the first time ever, he wasn’t able to read her face and it fucking terrified him.

Y/N’s eyes were the first factor that had given away the impending end. Even at the darkest of times, Harry could always count on Y/N’s eyes for support. They had always held a permanent admiring warmth towards him, even beneath clouds of rage or annoyance or worry. They had been empty that day.

Her lips had been etched into a emotionally-detached straight line, though the corners dipped down ever so slightly. Her eyebrows were void of any wrinkle, groove, or lifting that would suggest even a smidge of sensitivity and somehow her cheeks seemed more sunken in, as if the last couple of hours had aged her years.

Y/N had approached him with her hands cradling each other before her stomach, footsteps heavy against the carpeted ground, muffled yet somehow loud. She’d taken a seat before him on the glass coffee table, knees pressed together tightly and unintentionally brushing his as she settled her hands into the crease between her inner thighs, nails digging into her palms. Her shoulders hunched forward as if the weight of the world was using her back as shelf, the flyaway hairs that had fallen from her ponytail kissing along her jaw and caressing her temples almost apologetically, as if trying to comfort her for what was next.

Y/N hadn’t spoken a single word before Harry was already breaking down.

It wasn’t dramatic or spontaneous like the break-up scenes in the rom coms he often fancied; it was quiet and concise. The hot tears streamed down his cheekbones and followed the slope of his sharp jaw, squeezing out of his tear ducts and rolling along the bridge of his nose, itching the very tip, to which his instincts responded by spurring him into wiping away the water with the front of his shoulder.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to look up at her out of self-hatred and shame— how could he be as selfish as to cry when everything that was about to unfold had been solely of his doing. He knew he didn’t deserve the best outcome, but he had hoped for it. Prayed that she could find it in her tattered heart to grace him with the option to rebuild what he had so recklessly torn down. He didn’t deserve it and he’d felt like he never would, but he had promised himself he would try and earn it if she gave him the chance.

But that was just the hopeless romantic in him flaring up again. Reality was sharper and much icier.

Harry had taken in a deep, trembling inhale, feeling it cut his lungs and tug at the pit of his stomach. He’d released it in stuttery spurts through his nose, back muscles contracting with dread. He found it in himself to uncoil one of his index fingers, gently grazing the curve of Y/N’s right knee with the bed of his nail.

She’d tensed up momentarily, toes curling into the rug below her feet, but didn’t shed him away. It was the first time he’d touched her since last night and though it made her feel sick to her stomach, she figured she’d allow it as a parting gift.

The air stood still for a few elongated seconds that seemed to drag out for an eternity. Finally, one of them spoke up.

“Y/N...” Harry had choked on the singular word, swallowing thickly in an attempt to recuperate.

The syllables seemed to lodge in his throat, outright refusing to emerge, likely due to the fact that he spent the day soundlessly moping to himself. He forced them out anyways in a low croak.

“Y/N, I am so sorry.”

“I know.”

Harry had cleared his throat softly, mind treading through his jumbled thoughts to try and sew together a worthy sentence, the pad of his forefinger tracing down the visible threads of Y/N’s worn jeans.

“I didn’t mean any of it.”

Though it’s the truth, it sounds feeble and pathetic. His words had then started tumbling out of his mouth with no rhyme or rhythm but simply in an attempt to communicate his rawest emotions.

“That’s not an excuse or anything, but I just want to make sure that you know. And if I knew all of this was going to happen, I would’ve never brought it up in the first place. You’re important to me— I hope that all the time we’ve spent together shows that— and to lose you over something like this…” Harry pauses, choking up at the sheer notion of having to let her go. He continues his speech slowly to avoid another mishap, though it quivers nonetheless. “To lose you over something that was so stupid on my part would tear me to shreds, Y/N. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. There’s nothing I can do now except apologize until my voice gives out and pray that you give me the chance to make it up to you. I know I don’t deserve it and I know that the damage I’ve done could be beyond repair, but I also know that I will spend every second trying to mend it if you allow me to. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you and I know we’re young and that it sounds dramatic and I’ve been told a billion times over that I love too deeply for my own good but I don’t care because I know it’s the truth. Without even the slightest bit of doubt.”

His words had echoed across the walls of the flat, the dim buttery light of the single lamp in the living room casting their seated shadows over the creme surfaces. The dark silhouettes of their bodies seemed to absorb his message, picking it right out of the air and engulfing it into the ominous shade.

All that could be heard was Y/N’s faint breathing as she processed his confession and the occasional sniffle on his part. The silence stretched for exactly two minutes and fourteen seconds— Harry had counted. A frail distraction, but a distraction either way.

A deep inhale had cut off his mental stopwatch and he could tell Y/N had cried recently before arriving because the air had to force itself through her stuffy nose. His index finger had twitched anxiously against her knee. He found himself counting again, this time the target had been the thin lines of the rug beneath the reinforced glass of the coffee table. He hadn't known it then, but his urge to count whatever he could to pass the time had been the start of what would later develop into a coping mechanism.

“I don’t know what to say.”

It had only been a day but Harry had missed the sound of her voice more than he’d ever care to admit. She was talking to him rather than at him and it was enough to halt the fresh flood of tears that had been gathering across the glossy sheen of his irises. It was a victory, no matter how small.

The sentence she spoke, however, was a whole new battle he had to face within itself.

The words hurt, but luckily, they didn’t cut. There were dozens of harsher possibilities of what could’ve come out of her mouth and that makes him thankful for what he’d received.

Harry had shifted in his seat, pulling the sleeve of his old Greenbay Packers sweatshirt over his free hand and tucking his arm across his stomach. His other hand remained on Y/N’s leg as non-intrusively as possible. “Is there anything you want to get out? Anything at all? I want to hear it no matter how bad you think it is. I deserve it as much as you deserve to express your feelings.”

He hadn’t noticed when, but at some point he had absentmindedly tilted his head up to look at her. What brought it into clear attention was when she did the same and their eyes met.

Y/N’s expression had crushed the oxygen from Harry’s lungs.

He had hoped it would be different after everything he had said. That her eyes would hold some form of love within them, even if it was shrouded with sadness and disappointment. He had aimed to draw an ounce of forgiveness from her that he could cling onto and expand; he had aimed for redemption.

Instead, her eyes held the same barren gaze that she had doted when she had walked in— vacant acceptance.

Her own speech had confirmed his worst fears.

“I don’t know if we have a future together. All I know is that right now, I feel like I could never forgive you for what you did. Watching you treat someone you barely knew the way you treat me made me feel like what we have isn’t real. Sex can be something both meaningless and meaningful and the lines between those two is finer than most people think. And even though I know in my heart that you’re telling the truth about not feeling anything towards her, I just can’t let it go. I can’t. I can’t get over the fact that you called her what you call me. That you kissed, touched, and held her the same way you do me. You made her feel the same way you make me feel. And the whole time, I was sitting there watching you do it, begging you not to and trying to communicate to you that you were crossing the line and you didn’t even notice.”

Y/N had lifted her hand from her lap, running the back of her wrist across her cheeks messily. Harry could see the tears sparkling on her lashes and he felt like his chest cavity was going to collapse in on itself.

When she had spoken again, her voice was tight and packed with all of the pain she’d been holding onto since the incident happened.

“You took all of the private little things that had built our relationship and shared them with someone else just to get your dick wet.” She releases a short spurt of a laugh, miserable and humorless, her palms smacking down against her thighs as she shrugs her shoulders for emphasis. “Intimacy is the most important factor of genuine love and you went and tossed it around like it was nothing. We’ll never be able to regain that; not in the way we had it before. I don’t know if I could ever trust you with it again. I shared myself with you because I love you— we opened up to each other in that way because we worked up to it. And now that you so carelessly let yourself have it with someone else, I’m too disappointed and hurt and fucking terrified to let you see me vulnerable like that again.”

Y/N had locked her eyes with Harry’s and his heart had shattered into a million shards.

They had been swollen and bloodshot, tiny red veins webbing across the dull white, scraping at her irises and relentlessly chipping the color from them. There was no twinkle left whatsoever; the specks that normally decorated around her pupils had completely defused, disappearing into the murky sea of the muted shade behind them.

“You broke my fucking heart, Harry, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to let you pick up the pieces.”

He had never heard her say his name like that, so dismal and void of emotion. He’d never felt more unworthy of love than at that moment and he knew there was nothing he could do to change her mind. He’d fucked up and now he had no choice but to marinate in it for the rest of his days.

The process of separating was painfully fast.

As it turns out, when she had left the morning after everything had happened, she had gone to visit Niall.

Niall had been the mutual friend that had introduced Harry and Y/N in the first place so, naturally, Y/N’s first instinct had been to seek his counsel. She had kept the details of the breakup to herself but from how distraught she had seemed when Niall had opened the door to his flat, his hair sticking up at weird angles and his eyes crusted over with sleep, he had known it was not on good terms. She had stood there with dried trails of tears staining her cheeks as her entire body shook like a leaf and the second he had opened his arms caringly, she immediately collapsed into them, violent sobs wracking her body unapologetically.

The Irish lad was as big-hearted and supportive as friends came and it was seen in how he offered her the spare room in his apartment that was normally occupied as a home gym.

“I haven’t had a roomie since I was twenty but as long as y’don’t leave your dirty underwear in the living room, I think we’ll get along just swell.”

With Niall’s help, Y/N had finished moving out by the end of that same week.

They did the brunt of the job while Harry was busy at work, though there was an awkward instance when he unexpectedly came home early on the last day of moving.

Luckily enough, Niall had been the one retrieving the last couple of items so Y/N was saved from the ordeal.

The two men had contemplated each other, Niall standing with the cardboard box tucked beneath his arm while Harry stood parallel to him stiffly, keys grasped tightly in his fist. Harry didn’t know how much Niall knew of what had happened, and he didn’t want to stick his foot in his mouth, so he had remained silent until the blue-eyed boy finally spoke up first.

“Mate, I don’t know what happened between you two or why, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this torn up before.”

Harry had sighed, partially in relief, but mostly in forlorn agreement at Niall’s comment. This was Y/N’s indirect way of telling him that the reason behind their breakup was meant to be kept a secret amongst their friend group. It was one last act of kindness towards him on her part because both of them knew that if word got out on what had happened, everyone would likely turn on Harry and shun him out. Y/N didn’t want that for him— despite everything, she found herself genuinely wishing him the best because she still loved him. A part of her always would, no matter how deeply she tried to bury it.

The last thing she needed was to cling onto bitterness and make him suffer; it would be counterproductive considering her end goal was to move on. The whole situation would stay hidden and hopefully everything would eventually blow over.

Avoiding each other proved trickier than expected in the beginning, but it gradually became routine amidst their everyday lives.

Y/N avoided grocery shopping at Harry’s favorite market and he proceeded to change the coffee shop he went to every morning before work, well aware that it was the one she fancied the most due to the specific brand of creamer they carried. Y/N insisted on the second closest movie theatre whenever she went out with her friends for a film, knowing that Harry liked the one closest to Niall’s apartment because it was smaller, more homey, and did free refills on popcorn and drinks. Harry started frequenting the gas station near the twenty-four hour gym instead of the one near Y/N’s place of work and started doing his early morning jogs at the park on the opposite side of town, which wasn’t too bad considering it was only about a ten minute drive. Y/N stopped going to art museums all together— they were mainly Harry’s thing, either way.

When it came down to their friends, they did the best they could. Whenever there would be a plan to go out for lunch, dinner, drinking, or any other event, they made sure to invite one and not the other, alternating turns. It kept the situation fair, though birthday parties were much more complicated. Staying on opposite ends of the club or flat would have to do.

No one ever questioned the breakup too thoroughly, thankfully. All Y/N told them was that it ended really badly and that what was best was that they stayed clear of each other. Harry stuck to whatever he learned Y/N had said, brushing off the occasional curiosity thrown his way with a tired, “I’d rather not talk about it, yeah?”

They were grateful to all of their friends for not pushing for details too much and respecting their privacy. Family members were harder to shake off, but both managed to keep things under wraps with the right amount of sternness.

///

Three weeks and four days had gone by, according to Harry’s calendar, and things were remaining seemingly civil. That is, until Harry had a bit too much to drink on the fifth day and ended up drunk calling Y/N as he sat on the floor of his kitchen, eating from what he was sure was an expired box of Cheerios while counting floor tiles and wondering why the fuck he even liked tequila in the first place.

The phone had rung three times and then the line abruptly cut off, sending Harry right to voicemail.

“Hey, this is Y/N! Sorry I couldn’t come to the phone right now, just leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible!”

His eyes had immediately begun to water as her voice crackled through the speaker of his phone. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d heard it and he hates that he had almost forgotten its gentle trill. The bright chime of her words were so different than the last time he’d heard her speak— her tone was easy and good-natured rather than dismal and hurt and he missed when she would regard him that way. Now, it was directed at a random person on the other end of her phone line who she might not even know and for some reason, that made his stomach twist.

The Cheerios had started to taste funny so he opened the cabinet across from his spot on the ground and chucked them in the bin. He had then leaned back against the wall of the kitchen island, head repeatedly thunking against the polished hardwood as he redialed her number and waited, tiny hiccups plucking at his vocal chords and shuddering his shoulders without consent.

This time, it had rang only once before cutting off, meaning that she knew it was him and that she was actively delicining.

But Harry’s stubborn and insistent— which admittedly are some of his worst traits— and the fact that he had been shit-faced had fueled these characteristics. He’d continued to call her another four times before the line was finally picked up.

His voice had filled with enamored relief as he quickly sat up, a weak smile starting to spread his cracked lips. “Y/N, hi, I—”

“Harry, you gotta cut this shit out, man.”

It wasn’t Y/N. The person speaking had a much deeper voice with a smooth, raspy undercurrent covered in a heavy Irish accent. Their tone held a stern yet concerned edge.

“This isn’t good for either of you. You’ve got to try and move on, H.”

It was Niall and he was on Y/N’s phone and Harry could feel himself about to vomit.

He had forced himself to speak, clutching his stomach with one hand as if it would keep the bile from rising. His words came out slurred and numb, tongue feeling heavy and unbelievably large in his mouth. “Where’s Y/N?”

“She’s asleep and you should be, too. It’s three in the morning.”

Harry’s brows had cinched down angrily over his lashes. Somehow, in his muddled brain, he was able to form a coherent train of thought about the current situation. If Y/N was asleep, that meant her phone had probably been on a nightstand beside her bed or splayed across her duvet or even on the floor considering she had a habit of twisting and turning too much. If Niall had picked it up, it meant he had to be in close proximity to her. It meant he had been in her room, possibly in her bed...

Harry’s throat burned as acid rose from his stomach.

“I wanna talk to—”

He was cut off by the alcohol he’d had earlier resurfacing and splattering across the off-white kitchen tiles he’d been counting.

The spluttering noises filtered through the phone crystal clear, much to his friend’s disgust.

“Jesus, Harry, just get yourself together, will you?” There’s a pause on the other end of the line and then Niall’s voice had come through again, gentler and less annoyed. “Do you need me to come over and help?”

“No.” Harry had blurted out with panic evident in his demeanor. He’d wiped at his soiled mouth with the sleeve of his black Nike jumper, staring hollowly as the mess before him traveled across the cracks of his floor. An all too familiar swelling had started to fill his tear ducts. “No, I’m fine. Goodnight.”

Apparently, it had been the third time he’d drunk-called in the span of two weeks, though he didn’t remember the first two times. He did remember this third time though— the stench stuck to his sweatshirt for a while.

///

The next month that followed that cursed Friday night had been significantly better for Harry.

He went out with friends and actually had fun more times than not, as long as he didn’t let his mind wander to what Y/N could be doing since she wasn’t with the group. Slowly but surely, he began to mend.

The movies had always been his and Y/N’s favorite date idea so the first couple of times he’d gone out to see a film after the breakup had been tough, but he’d powered through the rough patches. Their favored seats at the very back of the cinema had gradually just become exactly that— seats. He was eventually able to enter a theatre without even as much as a glance to the last row. When Harry would go out to eat, he relearned not to order in excess anymore since he wouldn’t be needing those extra fries or two extra beef tacos or those couple buffalo wings she used to pick at religiously. Going out for drinks was easier on his wallet now that he could drink both of the two-for-one Happy Hour shots, the only issue being that sometimes he’d forget and order the next round while he had a perfectly untouched whiskey shot right there. He had sworn off tequila— he could still feel the way it had seared his throat, somehow manifesting an aftertaste of honeyed cereal.

Niall usually went out with the rest of the gang, but not as much as he used to and that bothered Harry extremely— bothered him to the point where he’d get the overwhelming urge to tear his hair out if he allowed himself to amble in his head too much. He hated being the jealous type, especially when he was no longer entitled to it. Especially not when Niall was such a nice best friend, willingly present for him on the nights where things went downhill and he needed someone to pick him off the ground— literally— and tell him that he would be alright.

The days Niall missed out were spent with Y/N and it wasn’t a secret. Harry had heard about how much closer they’d gotten recently through conversations that would happen across the other side of the booth, when his friends thought he wasn’t paying attention or that he was too sloshed to be properly present. He wasn’t, though. He was hyper-aware of every anecdote and syllable exchanged and it would make his mouth go sour.

One night, he had drummed up enough courage to ask Niall outright about Y/N. They’d been out bowling and the Irish brunette had been standing off to the side waiting his turn, sipping on a pint and cackling his ass off every time Adam rolled the ball into the sideline gutters.

Harry had been standing next to him for a while, leaning back against the machine that redispensed the bowling balls, taking tiny gulps of his third white rum margarita. The liquor filled his tummy with a certain type of empty warmth that numbed his better judgement and before he could talk himself out of it, the words were escaping his lips in a low, sheepish tone.

“How’s Y/N?”

Niall had paused mid-sip, his entire body going rigid for a second as he kept the rim of his large glass perched at his lips. He had then pulled back from his beer, licking the froth off his Cupid’s Bow and craning his neck to acknowledge the green-eyed boy directly.

“She’s doin’ good. Treading through the bills and tryin’ t’fill the rest with thrills, like we all do.”

Despite the light nature of his response, Niall’s accent had been heavier and Harry’s not sure if it was due to the alcohol or the tension-packed subject of conversation. Probably both.

Harry had nodded his head slowly— casually— and taken an ice cube into his mouth, cracking it with his teeth in the way Y/N used to scold him for. He had stared intently at the condensation gathering around the tips of his warm fingers for a few heartbeats before looking back up at Niall with aching curiosity.

“Is she happy?”

The Irish bloke had opened his mouth to answer, and then hesitated, thinking over what he had been about to say. That teeny fraction of time filled Harry with enough nerve-grating suspense to that he was sure he’d pop a blood vessel.

Niall had cleared his throat softly, sighing tiredly through his nose. “She’s better than she was right after the split.”

Harry hates that Y/N’s doing better. He knows how petty and selfish it comes off, but he can’t help it. If she’s doing better without him, it means she might never need him again— it means he’s replaceable to her. He can hardly fathom that thought without the backs of his eyes prickling.

Harry had swallowed thickly, nose stinging and jaw clenching. “Is she seeing anyone?”

Niall tilted his cup against his mouth, savoring the tanginess of the beer, grateful for its help in making this talk way easier. He’d given Harry a sympathetic slink of his head. “I don’t think that’s the type of question you should be asking, Har. One day, you might not like the answer you get.”

Harry’s fingers had tightened around the stout cylindrical glass in his grasp, rings biting into his skin. His voice came out strained but unwavering. “Is she?”

His friend’s blue eyes had flitted across different points of his face, sussing out Harry’s attitude and whether he could be convinced to back down on this specific topic.

When it was obvious he wouldn’t budge, Niall sighed heavily once again, this time through his lips. “She’s not, no.”

Harry can’t quite place a name to the flood of emotions that had crashed into him like a tidal wave. The closest he can relate the experience to is breaking the surface of an ocean of suffocating uninformed doubt, instead filling his lungs with illogical optimism and stunned relief.

There was hope for them, even if the sliver was fine as a hair.

Harry had found himself drawing closer to Niall, eyes doe-like and pleading, the neon lights of the bowling alley washing his face out with bright purples and drunken blues. “I wanna see her.”

“You can’t.” The objection had been quick and authoritative, causing Harry to blink as if he’d just been smacked between the eyes.

“Why?” It was a stupid question— he knew why. It wouldn’t be healthy for either of them.

“Because you’re only going to set yourself back. And even though you might not be thinking of the consequences it could have, I am, and I’m not going to let you hurt her or yourself more than you already have.”

And that’s when Harry realized that Niall knew. He’d heard the whole story.

The guilt-ridden young man had broken eye contact, looking down at his scuffed heeled boots. “You know.”

“She told me a while back.” Niall’s confirmation had hung across Harry’s shoulders like a lead jacket. “You fucked up, mate. Bad.”

A weak, remorseful, “I know.” was all he could muster.

“She knows you didn’t mean it, but I don’t know if you can come back from this, H.”

Harry repeated his previous phrase, but this time, it had been heavy with a form of undignified recognition. He was slowly coming to terms with the crushing possibility that he might never get her back.

He’d downed the last of his drink, feeling it reluctantly settle into his stomach. He had then locked gazes with Niall once again, his own conflicted and needy, which in turn caused his friend’s to mold into one of deep worry and pity.

“Will you just...Will you tell her that I love her so much. That I love her to the point where it’s pathetic. And that I’m so fucking sorry. That a day doesn’t go by when I don’t think of her and that I’d give fucking anything to earn her trust again...And that I found her Sherpa jumper under the bed and washed it in case she wants it back.”

Niall had snorted lightly, shaking his head in amusement at Harry’s ability to be so unintentionally pure even under the most stressful circumstances. He’d tossed an arm across the jade-eyed boy’s loaded shoulders, pulling him into a hug that was very obviously needed.

The reluctance had melted out of Harry in less than a breath, his arms wrapping around Niall’s torso, face pressing into the shorter man’s broad left shoulder. The tears he was holding back were evident in his quaking voice. “I miss her.”

Niall had remained silent for a while, not wanting to push any more boundaries.

He had made due with running his palm across the expanse of Harry’s back in soothing circles, only speaking up when he felt his mate’s tears seeping into his knitted sweater.

“You’re gonna be okay, yeah? You’re gonna get through this.”

Niall wasn’t entirely sure if his words were the truth. All he knew was that he wanted to be there for his best friend, so he comforted him to the best of his ability and prayed that whatever happened in the couple’s future would bring them closure.

Harry had gotten home that night feeling deflated and more regretful than ever. The emotional exhaustion had fused into his muscles and joints and he’d ended up collapsing on the couch, too depleted to take the walk down the corridor that led to his bedroom.

His sleep was restless and worthless, as it tended to be of late, but it beat having to sulk consciously. The pain was less sharp and his sorrows were covered in a hazy fog that somehow made everything bearable. He slept well into the afternoon and awoke with a mean kink in his neck and a dull thumping in the back of his skull— karma, obviously, for his lack of self-care and shitty drinking habits. Nothing coffee couldn’t fix.

///

As it turns out, Niall had struggled some to pass on Harry’s message to the intended party.

Y/N had been sitting on the couch when he’d gotten home from the bowling alley, snuggled cozily in a Friends blanket Niall had gotten last Christmas in a game of White Elephant. She had been so focused on an episode of Master Chef that she hadn’t even heard him unlock the door.

Y/N had momentarily glanced away from her show when she saw Niall enter the living room through her peripheral vision, watching as he toed off his rusty brown Clarks boots, kicking them into the corner beside the television stand. “How was bowling?”

“It was good! Mitch beat me by two points but, frankly, I think he cheated while I went to refill my pint.”

Y/N had scoffed in amusement, taking a sip of the chamomile tea in her Mickey Mouse mug, shaking her head distractedly. “Can you even cheat in bowling?”

Niall had shrugged his navy blue peacoat of his shoulders, draping it over the backrest of the worn recliner that was perpendicular to the couch she was currently inhabiting. He’d arched his eyebrows challengingly. “Obviously there has to be a way ‘cause I never lose. And especially never to Mitch and his shitty hand-eye coordination.”

Y/N had set down her mug in the small hole created by her crossed legs, the warmth of the drink radiating through the ceramic cup and seeping through her cloud-patterned pajama pants, heating her inner thighs soothingly. Her expression had then matched up to his, brows raised tauntingly. “Or maybe you were just off your game.”

Niall had slumped into the old recliner, sighing heavily as it creaked and extended. The Irish bloke had snuggled deeper into the cushioning of the seat, absentmindedly wiggling his toes in their rainbow polka-dotted socks before giving his housemate a pointed look. “Maybe you should shut up and go back to watching random people make squash noodles.”

“Actually, it’s eggplant ravioli.”

“Actually, that sounds like arse.”

A round of bubbly laughter had belted out of Y/N and it had been contagious, the same type of giggling escaping from Niall’s lips. Then, comfortable silence had fallen over the two as they centered their attention back onto the cooking show.

Niall hadn’t been sure how to approach the topic. There was no real proper segway into conversations about exes— he didn’t want to upset Y/N with the sudden intrusion on her healing process. But he had made a promise to Harry.

Aside from the obvious negative factors, mentioning him would also give Niall insight into how she was currently feeling about the entire situation. He’d be able to accurately gauge what her emotions had resolved on the matter and therefore be able to give Harry a solid response on whether he had any chance left for reconciliation. He’d be able to confidently tell him whether hanging on was worth it or if letting go was the best choice.

Though Niall and Y/N had been living together for almost two months, she hadn’t started opening up to him fully about the breakup until three weeks in. And even with the whole story laid out bare for him to examine, Y/N shared very little of her mending path with him until they were five weeks in. For a while, her version of “opening up” was simply telling him what had occurred and he’d had to fill in the rest of the mental and emotional blanks himself.

It had not been hard to come to the conclusion that she had been feeling like utter shit right after it happened— insecurity was awfully present as well as the haunting weight of thinking she wasn’t enough. Though Harry had put those worries to rest the day they had separated, they still lingered in her subconscious, constantly poking and prodding and picking at the membrane of recovery she had developed around her heart.

Y/N had felt numb for days after she had ended things. Boiling anger had created a buffer for the pain that was dwelling just under the surface and it had powered her for about three weeks. Then, at four in the morning on a random Thursday, her real emotions had burst through the fine cracks that had been webbing themselves into that unstable wall of rage.

She’d had a dream about him that was actually a memory. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the scene as it had been one of many alike— they had been cuddling on the couch. But for some reason, it cracked something inside her.

It had been scarily vivid to the point where she could feel the ridges of Harry’s finger pads tenderly passing over the skin of her exposed arm as she had laid between his legs, her head nestled into his strong chest, ear drums thumping with the sound of his relaxed heartbeat. She could feel his breathing, pectoral muscles rising and falling with penetrating inhales that had fallen into rhythm with her own. There had been faint movement above her and a sudden warmth had erupted across her forehead, his lips flushing caringly between her brows. The heated glow had washed down her temples and nose like syrup, vignetting her mind with a feathery, sleepy haze. It dripped over her tingling cheeks and buzzing ears, running down her neck and infusing into her chest, calming her from the inside out. He had whispered something unintelligible against her skin, his deep voice warbled as if he was talking underwater. Though she couldn’t make out what he was saying, the mellow, pleasant tone of his voice was enough to lull her. She had never felt happier, more fulfilled, and more at peace than at that moment.

Harry had always been the one factor that could drown out the static of her troubles with the simplest caress of his touch. He could make any problem sink away just by cupping her jaw and thumbing over her cheekbones. Could make the end of the world creak to a stop just by knitting his mouth to her’s. Could melt away any obstacle by brushing his palm over the dip of her spine. He had always been there, and at the time, it had felt like he always would be. Through that assured remedy of relief, she had been able to live her life one step at a time, bracing even the worst moments with a clear mind and strengthened energy, all because he stood behind her— with his warm hands and consoling aura— every inch of the way.

Y/N didn’t have that anymore and though she pushed it down and claimed it didn’t phase her, she was falling apart inside.

It was only a matter of time before it came rushing out all at once.

She had jerked awake from the dream as if she’d been stabbed, face wet with tears, her pillowcase dampened to the point where she would have to replace it. The breakdown that followed hadn’t included any screaming or slamming or stomping; it had been quiet and concise, much like Harry’s on the day she had left.

She’d laid on her side, wrapping her arms around herself and tucking her knees to her chest, drawing into her body as if it could keep all of her feelings from spilling out. Heavy tears had swelled her already bloodshot eyes, her entire face stinging as fresh sheens of water washed down the dried saltiness of the ones prior. Her nose had run so badly she’d had to resort to using an old t-shirt as a tissue. The sounds that had escaped her were low and broken— cracked, stuttery whimpers with no real words behind them. The noises were just another outlet for the aching to seep out; her eyes just weren’t enough.

Her back had hunched over as she constricted into herself even further, burying her face into her sopping pillow, feeling hot tears soak into the saturated fabric. She could barely breathe that way and it helped calm her down some— no air meant no sobbing. No sobbing meant she was on the way to picking the pieces back up to put herself together again.

It took her awhile to come to her bearings. Her body had stopped shaking but the tears didn’t seem to want to go away. It irritated her that she couldn’t control this— she hated not being able to do anything other than just drown in it.

Without meaning to, she had released a gut-wrenching growl of frustration that tapered off into another round of heart-breaking sobbing. Her stomach throbbed, the pain so deep it was almost palpable.

Y/N had hoped the pillow would muffle it enough not to wake Niall, unaware that he was already up. He’d awoken on his own, making a trip to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. He’d been sipping at it slowly, mind still stuck in a meaningless dream, when the sudden noise had echoed down the hall that led to Y/N’s room.

Niall rubbed at his tired eyes with the palms of his hands, irises grey with sleep. He had blinked a few times, downing the rest of his water and setting the glass down carefully onto the marble counter, trying to limit any sound interference as his ears strained to listen for any more crying. He had wanted to make sure he wasn’t imagining it in a half-unconscious stupor.

But no, it was very much real. If he focused enough, he could just barely hear the soft sobbing coming from his friend’s bedroom. He had a good guess on what it was about.

He’d stood still for a moment, mulling over what he should do. His first instinct had been to go in and comfort her, but with more thought, he wondered if it would be better not to meddle in her grieving out of respect for her privacy. He knows that if he were crying over a bad breakup, he’d want to be left alone. But he also knows that shouldering a burden like the one she’d faced could put anyone in a really dark place; he wasn’t just going to stand around and let her crash and burn.

Niall had wandered down the corridor attentively, footsteps light as to not startle Y/N. He’d turned to knob to the door with immense care, pushing it open with his shoulder and peeking in.

The crying had stopped abruptly, which gave away that she knew he was there. He couldn’t see much in the dark room— the moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the curtains didn’t do much for the fact that he was lacking his glasses— but he could see the silhouette of Y/N’s body curled up under the duvet, trembling ever so slightly with the effort of keeping in her sobbing.

Her housemate had cleared his throat to get rid of the gravel in his dormant voice, as well as to fully alert her of his presence. His words had still come out in a raspy croak, but at least they were understandable. “You alright in here?”

Y/N had sniffled feverishly, desperate to put out a collected facade. She hated when people saw her so vulnerable without her anticipating it.

“Y-Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for checking in.”

Her voice had cracked near the end of her response, giving away that she wasn’t good at all. The air had been silent for a moment, then Niall’s muddled footsteps thudded against the thick carpet.

Y/N could feel him standing behind her, his body heat radiating off him like a furnace, the soft scent of his ocean-scented deodorant tickling her itching nose. “Are you sure?”

There had been no response other than the comforter tightening around her frame. Her hair was splayed across her face in a wild, matted mess, keeping him from being able to read her features.

Niall had sighed heavily and then the bed had dipped with his weight, sheets shifting and springs squeaking as he settled into place beside her, swinging his legs up onto the mattress.

More silence followed, Y/N refusing to budge. She hadn’t wanted to drag him into this considering he was still friends with Harry; she didn’t want to split him down the middle or force him to take care of her alongside her ex. She knew Niall too well, certain that he had been offering help to Harry, too. She’d heard him answer the array of drunken phone calls on her behalf so she wouldn’t have to deal with more trauma. She’d heard him leaving the house at unintelligible hours only to return smelling like Harry’s favorite vanilla cinnamon candle. She’d even found one of Harry’s t-shirts (which she had gotten him herself) in the laundry basket, which had probably been lent to Niall after an alcohol-related accident.

Niall was too kind for his own good— too caring. Y/N had learned a lot about him in the time they had lived together and the one characteristic that stood out more than anything was his savior complex— his default setting to provide love and assurance to anyone that needed it, no matter the stress it put on himself. She didn’t want to take unfair advantage of that.

Her friend’s voice had torn her out of her guilt trip, loaded with adamant concern. “Y/N, I’m not leaving this room until I know you’re genuinely better so stop being stubborn and let me help.”

She’d jerked suddenly when she felt his large hand coast up her back. His touch was gentle and nurturing, squeezing her shoulder expectantly. It wasn’t hard for her to let go into him.

Y/N had turned towards Niall, hand ducking out from beneath the duvet cocoon she’d swaddled herself in, moving her hair out of her splotchy face. Their eyes had locked and she’d immediately felt the remaining anguish flush out of her system.

The look on his face was so kind and protective and it made her feel safer than she had in the last couple of weeks. Even in the limited lighting, she could see his eyes were glossy with the genuine desire to help her heal, inviting her to share her problems with him, silently promising that they could shoulder the weight of it together. She didn’t have to fight this on her own.

Y/N had spent the rest of the night in Niall’s arms, crying into his chest and utterly drenching his Eagles t-shirt, though he didn’t complain once. He had kept his lips pressed to the top of her head, running his warm palm up and down her shuddering back and telling her that she shouldn’t bottle up her feelings— that it didn’t make her weak to show them, that openly sorting through them with someone else would make it less scary, and most importantly, that it was “okay not to be okay all the time.”

For the next month or so, Y/N and Niall’s heart-to-hearts had been a real breakthrough for her. All of her undealt fear and self-doubt no longer badgered her anymore— it was almost all gone. She hadn’t felt this emotionally liberated since before the split and she could feel the shards of her heart welding themselves back together, ushering her into a more healthy, serene state of mind. She was on the road to her old self again and the relief it brought was otherworldly.

It could be seen physically, too. The bags under her eyes had faded and her face carried a certain rejuvenated glow that it had lacked for weeks. Her smile and laughter were buoyant and loud again, not hindered by any inner conflict anymore whatsoever. When she went out with her friends, she didn’t find herself mentally checking out in the middle of conversations or movies or drinks like she had plenty of times before. She actively participated and engaged in events instead of just going through the motions and it felt so fucking good to get a taste of actual joy for the first time in so long. Things were looking up, and though she still had that hole in her chest that only Harry could fill, she was learning to deal with it in a beneficial and independent manner. It was okay not to be okay all the time.

///

All of these instances had scattered across Niall’s eyes, whirling around in his skull as he sat back in the old recliner, trying to decide if he should pass on Harry’s bowling alley message onto Y/N. He knew she was doing way better, but he didn’t know if hearing from Harry would break her all over again. He didn’t want that, but he also didn’t want the sheer sound of his name to send her into a self-destructive spiral for the rest of her life— she had to learn to cope with him being mentioned regularly because it was bound to start happening again. People couldn’t walk on eggshells around both of them forever.

And Niall also needed to know where she stood on her relationship to the British boy— whether she was willing to give it another shot or whether it was best to tell Harry to move on completely. They were adults, after all, so questions needed to be answered and ties needed to be either tightened or severed for good.

“Harry was there.”

“I know, Niall. That’s the reason I wasn’t.”

Her tone had taken him by surprise. It had been jokeful and amused, holding no obvious resentment he could detect. It’d been a good start to the Ex Talk, if Niall had ever seen one, as long as it didn’t turn into her using humor as a deflecting mechanism.

“He asked about you.”

Y/N’s hands had tightened around her mug, crossed legs shifting her weight. She had broken away from the television screen, meeting Niall’s cautiously hesitant gaze. Her eyes had held an emotion that he couldn’t quite place— it was mostly blank, but it held a smidge of something he could only think to refer to as pained curiosity.

When she’d spoken again, it had been soft and fragile. “What’d he say?”

Niall had leaned forward in his seat, elbows propping onto his parted knees as his fingers sifted together, chin resting on his knuckles. His voice had been as cautious and hesitant as the look in his sky blue irises. “He said to tell you that he misses you and that he’s terribly sorry. That he’d do anything to earn your trust again, that a day doesn’t go by that he doesn’t think about you, and that he loves you so much ‘to the point where it’s pathetic.’ His exact words.”

Y/N had been quiet for a while afterward, the TV droning on in the background with chefs running around kitchens, cursing about food burning and incorrect ingredients. Niall hadn’t pushed her on an answer; he’d simply sat back with his hands flat across his belly, allowing her all the time she needed to process the speech.

When she finally spoke up again, her voice had been taut, strained by the heaviness of the message she’d received. “Anything else?”

Niall had intentionally left the lightest part of the conversation for the end, hoping it would provide her with some form of ease, as minimal as it would be. “Yeah, he said you left your Sherpa jumper at his place and was wondering if you wanted it back. If I were you, I’d say yes. Fleece sweaters are fuck-you-in-the-arse expensive.”

His comment had the intended affect, his heart fluttering with relief as he watched Y/N’s face break into a huge grin, eyes crinkling as airy laughter bounced all around her. Some of the tension in her body remained, but most of it had dissipated out. A fraction is better than none.

Y/N had managed to talk through her giggles. “Yeah, I think I would like my sweater back, actually.”

“Great!” Niall had clapped his hands together once, head wobbling in a jerky shake for silly emphasis. He’d pushed his palms against the armrests of the recliner, catapulting himself onto his feet and pointing at Y/N playfully. “I’ll get that sorted for you, then. Now, if you need me, I’m gonna be in my room, passed out on my bed for the next twelve hours, neck-deep in a beer coma. Feel free to check if I’m breathing every now and then, yeah? Got a dentist appointment next week that I’d hate to be dead for.”

Y/N had sat on Harry’s words for the next week or so. They hadn’t spurred her into a meltdown (as she’s sure Niall had worried they would), but they did loiter in the back of her mind, keeping her awake past appropriate hours by playing her heart strings like a violin.

There was one part of the message specifically that took up a chunk of her sleep more than the others, scattering inside her head and running along the crevices of her brain, the meaning behind it stirring the pit of her stomach into a hollowed frenzy: I love you so much to the point where it’s pathetic.

That one measly sentence carried so much baggage to unpack.

Harry’s choice of words were transparent on how he was dealing in the aftermath of the split.

Y/N knew how much of a hopeless romantic he was— it had been obvious in the way he had put her on a pedestal for the entirety of their relationship, constantly showering her with all different types of affection to let her know how much he cherished her. It ranged from the simplest gestures— like keeping her favorite chocolates stocked inside the pantry at all times— to extravagant actions— like randomly buying her an expensive necklace she’d stared at for a bit too long at the mall. He was always aware of her, always going out of his way to show her how much he loved her, and she had never felt more appreciated than when she was with him.

When it came to expressing that love verbally, Harry only ever connected it to words that carried positive connotations. Words like, “truly,” “madly,” “deeply,” “immensely,” “entirely,” and “wholeheartedly.” He wanted her to know that when he thought of her, any negativity was immediately expelled from his mind; she could always make him happy, no matter what.

This being taken into consideration, one can understand why Y/N had been utterly baffled when Niall had told her that he’d referred to his love for her as “pathetic.” It gave her insight into just how hard he was taking the breakup— hard enough to the point where he was so desperate to get her back that he felt pathetic. This told her that he loved her so much he was willing to admit that it was sad and pitiful, especially since he was a grown man, and especially because they’d been split for just over two months. That span of time is long enough for a person to at least start moving on; long enough for someone to sever themselves from that stage of hopelessly clinging to what once was and to look forward to what the future could bring.

But instead, Harry had allowed himself to regress back into a lapse of needy pining, pleading with Niall— and in public, no less— to tell her that he missed her so much it was embarrassing; that he cared for her to the extent that it was humiliating; that he loved her to the point where it was miserable. He wanted her to know that what he had done had been tearing at him nonstop since it happened, that it would likely haunt him for years to come, and that he would never forgive himself for it.

All of these confessions weren’t any different than what he had told her the day they had broken up— they were the same bullets he’d hit when he was sitting before her, teary-eyed and distressed, begging her to give him another chance. However, for a reason unbeknownst to her, they penetrated deeper this time, slamming her square in the chest like someone had punched through her ribs, squeezing her heart with their fist.

Maybe it was the fact that she had finally let go of the splintering anger she’d been clutching onto from that day, which had likely blinded her from absorbing the rawness behind Harry’s apology. Maybe it was that she’d had weeks to work through all of her jumbled emotions, finally untangling herself from the bitterness that had been clouding her mind for what felt like ages. Maybe it was just the simple notion that she fucking missed him— missed him more than her pride would ever let her admit.

Missed the way his nose would scrunch up in distaste when he didn’t agree with something, the way the edges of his eyes would wrinkle when he smiled, missed his boyish giggling and how it would go up in pitch when he laughed too hard. She missed the way his dimples would carve into his cheeks when he smirked, the way the little mole under the left corner of his lips would jolt with the slightest motion of his mouth, and the way his large, warm hands would feel as he would knot their fingers together, his thumb caressing over the tops of her knuckles.

Y/N missed the way her head would sink into his chest when she would hug him, his arms cradling her against his body while he played with the ends of her hair. She missed the small group of freckles at the base of his neck— missed tracing them with her lips while he chewed on the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting into spontaneous giggles at the feathery sensation. She missed the way he smelled, like mandarin shampoo and musky, spiced deodorant and his ocean salt cologne and that stupid fucking candle.

Y/N had remained on the fence for a few days about what to do, mentally jotting down the pros and cons of reaching out to Harry to make amends. The defining moment had been the day she’d gotten her sweater back.

///

Niall had gone out with Harry to see a movie, returning home with the Sherpa jumper hung across one of his forearms, tucked into his elbow. He’d held it out for her between his thumbs and index fingers, flapping it back and forth triumphantly, eyebrows arched with dramatic glee as a huge goofy grin buckled his cheeks. “Look at what we have here, then!”

He’d tossed it towards her on his way to the kitchen, belting out a cocky, “You’re welcome!” over his shoulder before disappearing behind the archway.

The minute Y/N had caught the hoodie in her arms, the scent hit her like a bus. It invaded her nostrils without permission, sending a sharp ache through her chest.

It was perfectly faint since Harry’s smell never tended to be overpowering— he had a very light hand when it came to cologne, well aware that too much could be agitating. That being said, the brand he used was potent even when dispensed in small amounts, so it’s salty sea aroma usually lasted through a couple of washes. He had probably nonchalantly chucked the jumper into the laundry with his clothes, which had resulted in the smell being strung through every single thread of the fabric.

Beneath the initial layer of his cologne laid the softer scent of the vanilla cinnamon candle that she knew too well. It was tender and homey, just the right ratio of sugar and spice, its cozy undercurrent enveloping her in familiarity.

It launched her into a round of fleeting flashbacks.

The fractions in time consisted of a winter day spent snuggled on the sofa under thick blankets, half-empty mugs of hot cocoa discarded on the coffee table and a Netflix show drawling on aimlessly in the background. Not a single soul had paid attention to the screen; Y/N was too busy straddling Harry’s lap, planting wet, sloppy kisses down his throat as he dangled his head over the side of the armrest, hands gripping her hips needily as she rocked against the bulge in his sweatpants, a dreamy, pleasure-drunken smile adorning his swollen lips. Low hisses and weak whimpers had resonated from deep in his chest, rolling off his tongue as his mouth had absentmindedly fallen open at the warmth growing between her thighs. Her fingers had twisted into the loose curls along the back of his skull while she’d gasped his name all breathy and whiney along the underside of his jaw, working herself against him at a desperate pace, his palms trailing underneath her pajama bottoms to grope at her ass.

Harry’s voice had been distant and echoey in the memory, but it made her cheeks sizzle nonetheless. “God, I love you so fucking much. Could spend the rest of my life between your thighs...Could spend the rest of it anywhere as long as it’s with you.”

Another flashback had shuffled forward like a deck of cards. This one was of a foggy, rainy evening spent napping soundly in their bed, limbs tangled messily with their bodies half-naked, her heated lips pressed to the lulled pulse that throbbed beneath Harry’s flushed neck. His hand had been petting over her mussed up hair, mouth pressed lovingly to the ridges between her brows, smoothing them out in order to defuse whatever was troubling her in her dreams.

She’d awoken, her eyelids heavy with the remnants of sleep, her mind partially conscious as she had taken in a long inhale, blowing it out through her nose. Harry had run the pad of his thumb over her lashes gently, helping her get rid of the blurriness that had taken her under. She had blinked up at him drowsily, a watery smile spreading her buzzing lips. Harry hadn’t said a single word and he didn’t have to— he’d just stared down at her over the tops of his lightly colored cheeks, the right edge of his mouth flicking upwards in endearment, his bright jade irises glossy with fondness. He didn’t have to say a single word because his expression silently told her everything she needed to know.

Y/N had snapped out of the memories in the blink of an eye, a sudden tickling sensation bristling down her cheeks. She’d reached up to touch her face in confusion, the tips of her fingers coming back wet, the water glinting cruelly under the dim lighting of the living room. Her brows had furrowed in objection, both at her tears and at being so abruptly yanked out of moments in her life when she had been the happiest. Her body reacted out of instinct, desperately searching for a trace of him to clasp onto, her hands fumbling to bring the flouncy material of the sweater to her nose.

She’d taken a saturated breath in, the pleasant odor hugging her trembling frame and kissing her heart. The tears had then started flowing freely across her waterline and down the bridge of her nose. They had seeped into the fleece hoodie and she’d immediately jerked back from it, not wanting the treasured item to suffer the same fate as most of her pillowcases. She didn’t want to do anything that would make her have to wash it— she refused to let the comforting aroma leave her.

Y/N spent the next three days in that jumper, only taking it off to shower. She wore it religiously, taking it to work, to the superstore when she went grocery shopping with Niall, to lunch with a friend, to a doctor's appointment she barely paid attention to, and even to bed. In the span of seventy-two hours, she had developed an addiction to the scent that was woven into the fluffy article of clothing, needing to have it around her at all times in order to function properly.

It was sad, really. It was just a smell and she knew it would eventually fade away, but she just couldn’t help herself from wanting to be wrapped in it every second of the day. It reminded her of a time in her life when everything seemed flawless— where there wasn’t a gaping hole in the center of her chest that could only be filled by the one person who had accidentally hurt her beyond compare.

Y/N couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the flood of memories that the stupid hoodie had fished out from the corner of her subconscious, where she had shoved them with the intent of never looking back. They loitered her dreams, broadcasting over the inside of her eyelids for hours on end, dissolving away when her alarm blared beside her ear, leaving her with a hollow feeling toiling at the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know how long she could deal with it, but her sanity was starting to wear thin, cautioning her that she had to do something or else she’d go absolutely mad.

On the night of the fourth day, Y/N finally cracked.

///

Two months and thirteen days.

That’s how long Harry and Y/N have been broken up.

It is currently 11:43 PM, meaning that in a meer seventeen minutes, it would be two months and fourteen days since the split.

Harry is laying in bed, as far away from his digital clock as possible, watching a random Christmas movie that Netflix had recommended, one hand buried in a bowl of kettle corn that he’d already refilled twice as the other holds his phone an acceptable distance above his face.

The movie is cliche, if he’s being honest; something about Santa Claus dying and passing on the torch to his dead-beat son that didn’t want it, so it ended up going to his overly-perky younger sister instead. The twist was supposed to be that a woman had never been Santa Claus, but he could see that ending coming from a mile away, what with her natural ability to get along with kids and the fact that she dressed like a literal Elf on the Shelf. It’s heart-warming in the way that all Christmas films are and it had the witty humor one would expect it to, alongside a cute furry animal sidekick that people couldn’t help falling in love with.

But it just didn’t really impress him. The message is sweet, the execution could’ve been better.

Yet, he only deemed it fair that he finish the movie. He’s already three-fourths of the way done and though the intended surprise was obvious, he might as well see it through.

In the middle of the climax scene where the young woman was putting on the Santa suit for the first time, his phone dings with a chime he hadn’t heard in too long— two months, thirteen days, twenty-three hours, and forty-four minutes, to be exact.

Harry had been so startled he’d dropped his phone on his face.

“Ow! Fucking hell!”

He sits up in one quick, stiff motion, the hand knuckle-deep in the popcorn bowl flying up and knocking the dish upside down, the sticky kernels rolling across his disheveled duvet. The sleek black device falls into his lap, nose pulsing in pain as it had taken most of the heat, his caramel-coated hand rubbing messily along his flannel pajama pants to try and get rid of the stickiness. He then pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger to stifle some of the stinging, bumbling to get his smartphone into the palm of his clean hand.

The screen lights up with a text message and Harry blinks a few times to make sure he’s not imagining it in some type of pain-induced hallucination.

But no, the message is very much real and it’s authenticity sends him into a dull stupor for a minute. He comes back to when the phone vibrates with another ring, alerting him for the second and last time that the person he wanted to talk to the most had actually reached out to him; it was in his best interest not to keep her waiting.

Y/N: Hey, are you free to talk tomorrow?

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