#hair ruffled and messy as he throws his head back and forth singing into his closed fist

[babybeel]

omg i hope you're still doing the match up !! the ones I've been listening to lately have been

Absinthe - IDKH

Grand Theft Autumn - Fall Out Boy

Drink With A Friend - Mustard Service

Congrats on hitting 1K!!! I absolutely love your work!! <33

your music match up is... — MAMMON!

song rec: ballroom extravaganza - dpr ian

[rugbypolycule]

take your hand in mine

pairing: itadori yuuji x fushigoro megumi

characters: itadori yuuji, fushigoro megumi, kugisaki nobara, fushiguro tsumiki (mentioned),  fushiguro toji (mentioned), gojo satoru (mentioned)

rating: general audiences, no warnings apply

words: 1968

summary: yuuji is half-decent at painting his nails for a beginner. megumi is absolutely smitten and gets pulled along for the ride. they're both in love and clueless.

or: an intimacy fic where yuuji paints megumi's nails. because those boys deserve some quiet time.

ao3 link

Itadori Yuuji isn’t someone who gets embarrassed easily. He rarely pays attention to the opinions of others, and not for a lack of caring. He has such a strong sense of self, such an unwavering faith in his own mind that criticism often flies right over his head. On anyone else, the trait would far too-closely resemble arrogance – even self-centeredness. The pink-haired boy, however, is too gentle, too empathetic and kind. His steady confidence shines in a bright halo that threatens to overwhelm even those with the strongest defenses.

In simpler, more candid terms, Fushigoro Megumi feels like he can’t breathe when Yuuji smiles. If he were more honest with himself, he’d recognise that his feelings of breathlessness aren’t reserved for Yuuji’s full-watt smile. The truth is that around Yuuji, Megumi’s lungs work overtime. He is almost constantly filled with this restless sort of energy, the urge to act. It makes his fingers itch and his pulse lurch to his throat.

It’s a cool day. It had been overcast for a while, the clouds heavy with an oncoming storm so strong it could almost be tasted. Yuuji loves days like these. The feeling of his hair standing on end, the thickness of the air around him, the velvety grey of the sky. It is the sort of day that makes you want to stay inside with lights dimmed and quiet music playing.

Yuuji finds himself in this exact position, scrolling through Pinterest on his laptop. Ever since meeting Megumi and Nobara, he had discovered a newfound love for fashion. He loved bright colours and stark geometric patterns and shiny skin and lips. It felt fresh and energising. He loved the attention to detail that went into putting together a full outfit – the studded belts, sheer scarves, painted nails.

Yuuji loved the look of nail polish. He could wear his dark uniform and still bring colour into his life, and for cheap. Plus, going shopping with Nobara was always a fun experience. She had picked out a bright purple shade for Yuuji, but he had his eyes on a bottle bursting with golden yellow. He bought them both at her loud insistence. They ate sushi that day. It was nice.

Now Yuuji sits on his bed, yellow bottle in slightly trembling hand. His nervous anticipation doesn’t come from fear that people would think he looked weird or strange; he is more worried about messing up the application and look messy, about which Nobara often complained. The concern quickly dissipates, though, making way for Yuuji’s quiet excitement as he opens the bottle.

The breaking of the seal causes a wave of fumes to fill his room. Yuuji’s nose tickles. He sneezes a few times, coming dangerously close to spilling the yellow paint everywhere. Thankfully, his reflexes are stronger than his body’s averse reaction. He slowly lifts the brush out of the bottle, taking care to wipe off the excess varnish just as Nobara had told him. With a slightly steadier hand, he begins painting his left index finger. He moves on to the next, then the next, then his right hand (which is considerably more difficult and why didn’t Nobara say anything about that?) Though he was unpracticed, he didn’t make a huge mess like he thought he would. Save for a few yellow-tinged cuticles, he had done a pretty decent job.

For a while, Yuuji just sits back and admires his work. Nobara had told him to wait no less than 15 minutes before even thinking about using his hands. Yuuji lasts 5 minutes before looking for a cooking video to pass the time. Nothing was smudged, and Yuuji quite happily sits through more than a few videos before the smell of the nail polish becomes too much for him. It had been plenty of time now, so he doesn’t worry about messing up his nails as he opens the door to his room.

He stops short as he finds Megumi on the other side of it.

If anyone asked, Megumi was just walking past Yuuji’s room for no reason. In fact, he was only going to get water, and had to pass by Yuuji’s room in order to get to the common area. The reason he stopped at his classmate’s door at all was simply to ponder the possibility of getting a snack. There was no other motive behind it.

Sadly, all his excuses do nothing to hide his deer-in-headlights expression. Before he can open his mouth in order to deny being there on purpose, a hand is thrust towards his face. Megumi flinches back in a sort of surprised confusion before realising that Yuuji has yellow fingernails.

“Do you like them?” asks Yuuji, grinning at Megumi like an expectant puppy.

Oh. There’s that hummingbird thrum in his bones again. The rapid movement of blood that makes his head light and his breath shallow. Yuuji is beautiful.

“Yeah,” Megumi tries to answer. It’s at times like these, when he’s lost for words and doesn’t know how to move his face to seem genuine, that he really appreciates Yuuji’s personality. Almost anyone else would have thought Megumi disinterested, or worse judgemental because of his monotone and lacklustre response. Thankfully, Yuuji just huffs out a laugh.

“You don’t have to sound so excited about it, Fushiguro.” He rolls his eyes, still grinning, arm still extended. “I thought you would’ve appreciated it more.”

Megumi softly bats his hand away. “I don’t ‘not appreciate it’, Itadori. It’s cool. I’m just… thinking about how it probably wouldn’t suit me.”

Megumi gets whacked on the shoulder. “Hey!” He complains as Yuuji pulls him into his room and sits him down on the bed. The nail polish smell, not having quite left the room yet, makes Megumi’s nose wrinkle up. Yuuji lets out a giggle that sounds like sunshine on skin.

“What are you doing?” Megumi almost whines as Yuuji rummages around in his closet. Yuuji turns to face him, pulling a plastic bag out with him with a flourish. His smile hasn’t left his face yet, and Megumi feels like he’s drowning in it.

“Won’t suit you? We’ll see about that,” says Yuuji, confident as always.

Megumi tries not to splutter. “Well. Yellow isn’t really my colour, Itadori.” He says his name too softly, like he always does. He tenses up and hopes Yuuji doesn’t notice.

To his almost-disappointment, Yuuji doesn’t react. Instead, he pulls out a bottle of purple nail polish and throws it towards the bed, a way too smug look on his face. Megumi wants to kiss him so badly it hurts.

“Nobara got me to buy two,” he almost sing-songs, “so now you have to let me paint yours!”

In another reality, there is a Megumi that rips his gaze away from those brown eyes and mumbles something about Yuuji not making any sense. He leaves the room with his heart intact, and goes and eats ice cream with a spoon with his wolves in the dark.

Instead, he tries desperately to stay quiet, to suppress a gasp as Yuuji grabs his hand to inspect it. Megumi blames the tightness in his ribs on his binder and toughs it out. Except Yuuji’s hand is so warm and impossibly soft and that idiot shuffles close enough that their thighs are touching and it’s all. A lot.

Yuuji is still just cradling Megumi’s hand in both his own, turning it over and staring for so long it’s as if he’s trying to commit the skin to memory. The air is still thick with an oncoming storm, but now a tentative intimacy mingles amongst the electrified atoms. Megumi doesn’t dare move or speak, as if the universe will punish him by way of Yuuji letting go of his hand. He chooses rather to count each of Yuuji’s eyelashes, watch his nostrils flare as he breathes out in quiet concentration.

“You have really pretty fingers.” Yuuji murmurs, completely unaware of how devastating it is to Megumi’s heart.

Having been abandoned by his father, not knowing his mother, and his sister being in a coma, Megumi hasn’t been a close acquaintance to touch. Hell, even when his sister wasn’t confined to a hospital bed, he was too prickly and stubborn to receive hugs most of the time. Somewhere not-so-deep down, Megumi craves touch. Sometimes, he stares at the ceiling and wonders what it could feel like to be close to someone that didn’t involve the rigidity of training or the annoyance of Gojo’s hair ruffles. To feel warm and fuzzy and for it to be because of someone else’s hands.

Yuuji’s touch, combined with his soft words of praise, are a dream come true. Megumi can only cough awkwardly and watch as Yuuji starts to coat his short nails in purple. Yuuji’s tongue is almost the same colour as his hair, and it sticks slightly out of his mouth as he works. At some point Yuuji had turned that low music back on: a steady and slow lo–fi that does nothing to calm Megumi’s racing heart.

Yuuji keeps slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth on the back of Megumi’s hand as he glides the brush against his fingernails. It’s in all ways comforting as it is maddening, and Megumi does not expect the quiet, “you take such good care of your hands,” when it comes.

Yuuji chooses that exact moment to look into Megumi’s eyes. His face is so open and earnest and it’s becoming harder and harder to keep looking back without leaning forward into his space and just…

Megumi lets out a shaky breath. “Really? Thank you,” he replies, trying to sound as casual as possible with his pulse constricting in his jaw. His mouth feels dry.

Yuuji moves swiftly onto his other hand until all that’s left is his pinky. Not wanting to repeat the slight smudges he had accidentally painted onto Megumi’s left pinky, Yuuji pulls this last finger closer to his face, his breath fanning against it and sending shivers up Megumi’s whole arm. He finishes painting the nail quickly and carefully, but doesn’t put down Megumi’s hand.

Megumi can’t help the soft gasp he lets out as he feels a feather-light kiss pressed to his wrist. It’s as if his blood sings. They observe each other quietly for several moments – taking one another in, willing the silence to never break. Yuuji eventually pulls his face away from his work, now admiring the job.

“All finished.” Yuuji’s voice isn’t loud, but it fills the room. Megumi moves on the bed, beginning to pull his hand away. Yuuji drops his wrist in favour of grabbing Megumi’s waist with both hands, eyes almost panicked.

“You can’t leave yet!” His voice doesn’t raise above the volume of the music, but his words are emphatic. Megumi is trembling in his grasp. “You have to let them dry. And since I spent all that time painting your nails for you, it’s only fair that you stay here with me while you wait.”

Megumi is about to protest, knowing his limits are close to being reached. His face is burning hot and surely visible from the mere distance Yuuji sits away. He feels fit to burst.

The sky does before he has the chance.

The first clap of thunder sounds outside, and a pitter pattering of rain begins to thrum against the window. Megumi resigns himself to this still fume-filled room. He lies down on the bed next to Itadori Yuuji, feeling everything. He doesn’t answer when Yuuji asks if he wants to watch something, nor does he pay attention to whatever the pink-haired boy pulls up on YouTube for them.

Instead, Megumi exists in a content closeness to his friend, counting his eyelashes, and feeling the heat of Yuuji’s hands on his waist.

[chillmichelle]

Bad Nights

Shawn and Y/N are best friends in love with each other, so why does he keep being with other girls?

Word count: 4.8K

Angst & Fluff

-

November, 2012

“Don’t worry, Y/N, i’ll be fine.” Shawn has a little too much gel in his hair as he places his headphones in his ears, one after the other. There are small pimples scattering across his forehead, and his braces make his words seem a little slurred, but he confidently (Although Y/N can tell he’s nervous enough to practically shit his pants) stands in front of the movie theater, waiting for Jess to show up.

“Well, I guess if you say so…” She trails off, still feeling uneasy about leaving her best friend there. Shawn had liked Jess since the sixth grade, and now he finally had a shot at actually dating her. He’d been so excited, the date being the only thing he’d talked about for the past few days. Y/N had helped him choose what outfit to wear, what movie to see, and shown him the basic principles of getting her to like him.

Drowning in his father’s cologne, Shawn stands at his tall height in front of the local movie theatre, eyes occasionally shifting to the automatic wristwatch on his right wrist. He nervously tilts back and forth on the pads of his feet, seeing that as the minutes roll by his mind fills with more possible reasons why she isn’t there.

Y/N, who he assumes trudged off a while ago, stands at the corner of the movie theatre, staring at her unknowing best friend who teeters more and more. Y/N counts the minutes as they tick by, and with every person who walks into the theatre (some of them apologetically staring at the cold, defeated boy out front) his expression deepens, frown drooping more and more.

The movie’s started at that point, Jess is 30 minutes past when he was supposed to meet her. He runs the dialogue Y/N’s been feeding him through his head.

“You look beautiful.”

“Don’t worry, i’ll pay.”

“I’m glad you came out tonight.”

His heart is shattered, the one girl he’s had his hopes up for since the 6th grade had finally given him a chance, and then when his hopes had gone up, she’d abandoned him and stood him up. Shawn takes a seat on the bench in front of the movie theatre, not caring if anyone sees him as he bows his head.

Y/N takes this as her chance, she walks out from where she’s been silently watching him from afar and walks to where he sits sadly on the bench. Shawn, who wants nothing more than to sit there and disappear, think’s she’s just another person walking by. But then he hears the footsteps stop right in front of him, and spots the snow boots he gifted her for her 14th birthday on her feet, and his head lifts to meet her eyes.

“Hey Curly, don’t sit here looking like a debby downer when there’s whole spiderman movie going on inside.” Y/N pulls her cold hand out of her pocket, using it to grab his fist as she tugs on it for him to stand up. He looks defeated, eyes swollen, and Y/N can tell he’s properly heartbroken from being stood up.

“Just because the night doesn’t turn out like you want it to, doesn’t mean it’s a shitty night. When I first met you, you were putting gum in my hair.” She tells him, ruffling his improperly gelled hair and tousling the messy waves.

Shawn smiles a little but, lips just barely perking upwards, but Y/N is happy nonetheless, and she pulls his hand, which has now unraveled from his fist, and leads the way into the movie theatre.

-

“Shawn if you don’t fucking get your flat ass back here right now, I swear to god I will rip every curly strand off of your head!”

Y/N climbs over the mess of sheets on her bed, stubby legs trying to run after him as he dips out into the hallway of her home. Her phone is gripped tightly in his hand and he laughs as he merely jogs, long legs still giving him the ability to be far ahead of her.

“You’ve been on this phone since I got here!” He says, sprinting down the wooden stairs to her home. As he makes his way into the kitchen, he hears little feet pad down the stairs behind him.

“That’s because it’s important!” She yells back, finally having caught up to him. They circle around the counter, Shawn turning on her phone and quickly entering in her password. She takes his distraction to quickly run towards him, hands reaching out to snatch the phone out of her hands. He immediately raises his arm up, his height giving him the advantage as Y/N stands on her tippy toes and tries to retrieve her precious device.

“Wow, who’s Grant?” Shawn asks, eyebrows going up and down as he scrolls through the conversation on her phone. Y/N’s cheeks immediately flush, knowing that their conversations weren’t necessarily the friendliest. She jumps up to grab her phone, and fails once more.

Shawn’s eyebrows stay furrowed as he reads through the messages. His heart tightens up a bit, stomach weirdly flipping inside of him as he reads the displays of affection exchanged between them. Playing it off subtly, he clears his throat and laughs, tickling her sides before handing the phone back to her.

He should be used to it by now, but he isn’t.

Shawn had been standing by Y/N for the past fifteen year of their lives. They’d been closer than any of their other friends, having more inside jokes and spending more time with each other than anyone else in their group had. Y/N remembered the time he suckered her into the school choir, despite her tone deaf voice, and laughed with him time to time about how the choir teacher made her stand in the corner of the stage and play the triangle so that her voice wouldn’t throw off the whole performance.

Growing up, it seemed as if they were inseparable. People always thought they were dating, and when they would both deny the accusations (which people never believed), the suspicion grew even more. After all, Shawn and Y/N were both attached by the hip all the time.

But when Shawn left for tour at 15, things changed a bit every time he came back home.

He was never really in Pickering for long, and neither was she anymore, now that she’d gone off to college. When he would visit every few months ( if it were up to him it would be more often), she’d hear different stories about him from other people, ones that she didn’t want to believe were true, but ones that she knew were.

Y/N wouldn’t necessarily say that she was in love with Shawn.

Of course, she loved him as a friend. She loved the little dimples that he had during his chubby phase in elementary school, and she loved the way that his eyes changed shades depending on his moods. She always knew how to read him, and when Shawn went missing for hours on end after getting into a fight with his family, she always knew to find him behind the sketchy Gas station in front of their old elementary school, a handful of quarters in his pocket as he stress chews packs of gum and writes song lyrics into his mind.

So why did she feel that way every time she heard another story of him coming back from tour, to hook up with another girl who wouldn’t have dared to be with him if he wasn’t who he was? Why did her stomach feel uneasy whenever an advertisement for a gossip magazine, with him hugging a supermodel who was dressed in his clothing, bother her so much?

Why did she coincidentally get drunk every time he stood her up when he came back home?

She wasn’t exactly sure. She loved him, but she didn’t want to be in love with him. She was well aware that there wasn’t any way that he felt the same way as she did.

So she drowned herself in other boys, ones that just happened to also have hazel eyes and a head of curly hair. Ones that happened to also enjoy John Mayer, and ones that also just happened to play guitar.

She wasn’t the proudest she could be at her choices, ut what choice did she have, really? He was a celebrity, no matter how much he felt like her best friend from home.

Tucking her phone back into the waistband of her sweats, Y/N shoots Shawn a glare, flipping him off before she turns around to grab a cookie from the small carton she’d purchased. The carton was almost empty, and she sighed knowing that she’d eventually have to go back to the grocery store.

“So, tell me about this Grant guy?” Shawn asks, leaning his elbows onto the kitchen counter and placing his chin in the palm of his hand as he awaits her answer like a giddy school girl. Y/N scoffs, tucking a cookie into her mouth before speaking with her mouth full.

“There’s really nothing to say. It’s just a fling, I don’t really want a relationship right now.” She shortly answers. Unless it’s with you, she thinks to herself, but mentally slaps herself in the face. Shawn nods, trying to hide the feeling of hurt flinch at him from her words.

I don’t really want a relationship right now.

Shawn was sure that he was in love with Y/N.

It had taken him a while to admit it to himself, but he had been in town one night, visiting their hometown and strolling through the streets of his neighborhood, and he had seen a small basketball hoop on the side of the walls of one of the homes.

He immediately thought back to their childhood. When Shawn was 9, his parents had gotten him a portable basketball goal for their large driveway. After a day of practicing (missing all of the shots) basketball one day, with Y/N cheering him on jokingly from the sidelines, he’d fallen and scraped his knee on the asphalt. Instead of going inside and giving him a proper bandaid, Y/N had taken a scrunchie off of her wrist, and placed it on top of the wound on Shawn’s knee.

He still had the scrunchie lying around somewhere in his bedroom.

There was a party going on that night, and Shawn remembered seeing various childhood friends getting drunk at the party that was a short 10 minute walk away from where he was. Then he recalled seeing the video of Y/N, drunkenly singing along to a song from the early 2000’s, her arms pulling someone’s neck closer to hers.

And it had bothered him.

A lot.

Shawn had noticed from then on the feeling he would get whenever she would mention anyone else. He tried to fight his feeling, tried to find love in other girls, tried to save his friendship by stopping his feelings for his best friend. But after a while he noticed how all the girls he’d be attracted to, would have traces of her with them.

That girl at the bar looks pretty, he would think.

Shit, she looks like Y/N.

Shawn knew that one of these days, he was bound to say at least something to her. That’s why he would sometimes cancel his plans with her, he was so afraid of slipping up and letting her know that he loved her in some way. And as much as he did love her, he knew that having any of her was better than having none of her at all.

So he swallowed her words about not wanting a relationship, mentally cursed out whoever this Grant guy was in his head, and stole a few of her cookies, stress eating his way through his problems.

-

Y/N’s sitting next to Shawn in the passenger seat of his jeep, her legs are dangling due to how high the seats are, and she watches the way his arms flex as he rolls the steering wheel with his wrists on the surface.

“Remember the monkey bars at that place?” Shawn points to the abandoned preschool, vines forming over the worn out concrete structures. It was where Shawn and Y/N had both met, growing up on the crappy equipment together.

“I’m pretty sure our entire grade got the flu from those bars.” Y/N laughs, remembering the time her and Shawn both got sick. She swears that it was him who sniffled first, but he always assured her it was her who gave it to him.

Their reminiscing is cut short when Shawn’s phone suddenly buzzes a number of times all at once. Multiple texts hit his phone and Y/N, without thinking, reaches down to grab it from where it’s connected to the aux.

“I’ll check it”

She expects to see a text from his mum, or his sister, maybe his friends about hanging out now that he’s back in town for the winter, but instead she’s met with an array of text messages from various other girls.

She sees some of the texts have attachments sent with them, vulgar words pressing at the conversations that he was apparently having. Y/N’s stomach feels a bit sick from the flirty nature of all of the messages, and she quietly puts his phone back down onto the console before closing her mouth and waiting for the tears welling at her eyes to dry away.

“Y/N, they’re just-”

“It’s none of my business, Shawn.” Her heart pokes against the frame of her ribcage, the small piece of hope that she had that maybe, just maybe he could like her back being shredded as she stares out through the foggy, iced up window of his car.

-

Shawn stands on her front porch, a small bundle of daisies in his hand as he nervously paces back and forth. His footsteps are quiet on the hardwood of her patio, and he presses on in his head what to say to her.

He hadn’t been this nervous since his first performance.

He finally gathers his thoughts together, hands lifting up in a loose fist to knock at her door, but before his knuckles can reach the door, the door swings open and in a panic, Shawn throws the daisies over the bush next to the porch.

“Shawn?” Y/N’s eyes are wide. She has a cute little blush to her cheeks, and Shawn wants nothing more than to lean forward and shower he soft skin in kisses. He refrains, though, and clears his throat as he replies.

Why was he so fucking nervous?

“Hey.” His voice cracks as he speaks, he feels embarrassed at the action, but is relieved when Y/N lets out a snort, laughing at his mistake.

“What are you doing here?” She asks him, fingers tapping against the back of her phone as she awaits an answer.

“Thought maybe you’d want to go to the movies or something?” He suggests. His eyebrows raise and he gives her a soft look, and she’s reminded of how he looked back in secondary school.

“I’d love to Shawn, but I can’t. I have plans tonight, maybe tomorrow?” His heart drops a little, but he keeps his composure. Before he can reply, a pair of headlights flashes it’s way behind the two of them, and Shawn snaps his neck backwards to see a sports car pulling into her driveway.

The door to the expensive looking car opens, and a tall boy (not as tall as Shawn, but still tall) steps out of the vehicle. He has a bundle of daisies in his hand, and Shawn immediately curses himself for panicking and throwing them behind the bush.

“Y/N? You ready to go?” His voice is deep, hair perfectly done in a messy neat kind of way and Shawn hates it because he looks like a good guy. A guy who could give her a good time, without having any phony articles written about him or fans hating on his girl. Y/N lets out a little smile, a dreamy one that Shawn would admire if it weren’t for the fact that he wasn’t the one causing it.

“Yeah! Get back in the car Grant, it’s chilly outside.”

Y/N looks up at Shawn, her eyebrows raising a bit, “I’ll see you, Shawn.”

“Yeah, t-tomorrow?” He stutters out and she merely nods before walking towards Grant’s car. He waits for her, opening the door of the car before closing it behind her, and pulling out the driveway. Shawn stays standing on her porch, daisies scattered across her lawn as his chest aches a little bit at watching her leave.

-

“Heard Shawn had quite the night with that instagram model who goes to Western.” Y/N munches on some complementary pretzels as Brian speaks loudly to his friends across from her. Shawn’s excused himself to go to the restroom, and right as he leaves the boys continue talking about his crazy adventures as a celebrity.

Her heart aches just a little bit, and to relieve the tension, she fills the rest of her body with beer and floury chips. Her mind is a bit gone and she refrains from any sort of conversation in fear of giving herself away.

“Gotta give the man some credit, he has good game.” Im laughs as he reaches forward to steal a pretzel from the bowl held in Y/N’s lap. She slaps his hand away and stuff two more down her lips.

“Can I get a fucking pretzel?” Ian playfully questions. Y/N shakes her head, mouth too full to give a response. When she swallows a bit later, she opens her mouth to speak again.

“Why do you all always insist on talking about Shawn’s love life instead of getting one of your own?” She digs, a bit pissed off at them. She knows it’s not at all their fault, but she can’t help her emotions getting the best of her.

“Jesus Y/N, what’s got you so worked up?” Brian spits back at her, actually sounding a bit defensive. Y/N reaches for another pretzel, but faces disappointment when she realizes the bowl is empty.

The truth is that Brian was right. She had no right to be upset, at all in fact. She wondered to herself. If she hadn’t gone out with Grant, and if she���d instead gone to a movie with Shawn, would he have not slept with someone else that night?

Y/N knows she shouldn’t be talking. But last night she had begrudgingly ended things with Grant. He was a nice guy, and she knew of it for sure, but he wasn’t Shawn. She was planning on spending more time with him, maybe seeing what they could be to see if she felt anything more than friendship towards him.

And then he’d slept with someone else.

Did that mean that he didn’t like her at all? Did it, perhaps, mean that she’d given up Grant for no real reason? She wanted to believe that she had made the right choice in ending things with him. After all, she knew she had all of these feelings for Shawn that she was unsure of.

But was she trying for nothing?

“Did you finally realize you’re head over heels in love with Shawn?” She hears Ian say, and she’s immediately snapped back into reality.

“What?” She quickly asks, head snapping over to look at Ian. He has a relaxed expression on his face, the alcohol clearly having taken the edge off of him as he leans against the booth with his body slouching off of it.

“Well you’re in love with him.” He tells her, expression scrunching up after he says it, “Aren’t you?”

Y/N gulps, she didn’t want anyone else to know, especially Shawns friends. But on another hand, they were also her friends.

The part that conflicts her the most is the fact that she doesn’t even know how she feels. Was she in love with Shawn? Maybe. She was definitely bothered by the idea of him being with someone who wasn’t her. He knew her better than most people did, and he’d always at east made an effort to talk to her whenever he was home.

But he was Shawn.

He travelled the world every other month, probably getting with tons of other pretty girls in the process. He wouldn’t have time for her, and he wouldn’t like her after all of the other amazing girls he had the ability to be with. Y/N knew there was no way her feelings were reciprocated.

So she blames the beer when she nods lightly, eyes staring down at the bar table as she accepts the fact that there’s no way he’d ever want someone like her, no matter how much she misses him when he’s not home.

“Pretty fucking obvious.” Brian remarks and she turns to glare at him, throwing a crumpled up wrapper from a plastic straw at his face before huffing and leaning down to take another sip of her beer.

“Just drop it, i’m sure that he wouldn’t want me anyways.” She grumbles, head ducking down uncomfortably. The boys shrug, and they change the subject to some recent hockey match their school had. Y/N debates leaving, and she boredly fiddles with the napkins on the table before she feels a quick tug on her hood.

“Can I have a word with you?” Shawn stands behind her, jaw clenched, and he looks a little bit angry from what she can see. Her head hurts a bit from processing the words, and she’s aware that he probably heard her entire conversation with the boys.

When she doesn’t respond, he grabs her hand and pulls her out of the booth, walking her to the counter of the bar where the bartender stands with a cleaning rag and an empty glass in his hand.

The stand silently, both obviously overwhelmed by the plethora of information. She stares at the prefilled bowls of pretzels behind the bar, and feels like asking for one. Instead, she lowers her head and remembers where she is: Standing in front of Shawn, having just admitted that she’s in love with him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice sounds strained, as if he’s trying to keep it quiet. Y/N doesn’t want to be in front of him, especially when he seems irritated and angry, but she swallows her fear and responds.

“Just, didn’t want to ruin our friendship, I guess.” She quietly responds, tucking her bottom lip into her teeth. The room feels suffocating and her arms begin to sweat.

“Y/N, you should’ve told me.” He sternly says, “You have no idea what this means.” His eyes close and he shakes his head, stoic expression on his face. He smells like cologne and Y/N wants to tuck her face into his neck and just hug him. She then remembers that she might’ve just ruined their entire friendship, and her imagination shuts off.

“It’s embarrassing.” She truthfully admits. It’s embarrassing to her, yes, because she knows there’s no way someone as successful and amazing as him could ever love her back. She knows she’s stupid for loving him, and it kills her that he seems angry at her feelings. She knows just how much she’s going to be devastated because she’s in love with him, and all he sees is red.

“It’s embarrassing to be in love with me?” His expression hardens even more, if it’s possible and Y/N nods her head.

“Y/N, i’ve been in love with you for-” He takes a deep breath, “The longest fucking time.”

Y/N doesn’t know how to feel. Her shoulders feel empty, mood lifting, and she knows she’s no longer sad. But now she feels a surge of hurt rush over her.

He was in love with her, but he still messed around with all of those girls?

Grant was the first boy Y/N had ever given a chance since Shawn had left for tour, since they were both 15. Y/N never got further than an awkward kiss with Grant, mostly because it felt wrong to do so when she knew she had feelings for someone else.

And here he was, a hundred models literally in his contact list as he tries to tell her he’s been in love with her all this time.

“You were in love with me?” She asks Shawn, her voice raising a bit as she no longer feels sad, “You were in love with me.” She repeats to herself, eyes darting into midair as she processes his words.

“Well then why did you talk to all those other girls?” She questions, wanting to clear things up before she’s sure that they have a solid chance. She sees Shawn gulp, a habit he has when he’s intimidated and her heart drops a bit because she knows he hasn’t changed.

“Shawn, you know how shitty I felt every time I would hear you got with another girl?” She bites at the skin of her lip, nibbling on the chapped skin, “You even cancelled on me sometimes just to hookup with other girls.”

Her lips curve downward. Shawn chokes, he thought that her reciprocating his feelings meant they would actually have a chance at being together, but he’d neglected all of his mistakes in his mental image of them together.

“That was-” He clears his throat, “A mistake.”

Y/N scoffs, “A mistake you made up until last night.”

Shawn knows it’s not supposed to be like this, they were supposed to be happy when they found out they loved each other. He’d been imagining this moment for months, yet now that it was here, it was so different. All because of his stupid decisions.

“Shawn  just found out I love you.” She tells him, sadness lacing her voice, “But i’m just not sure if you love me back.”

Shawn wants to step forward, and lock his lips against hers. He wants to tell her he loves the way she sometimes snorts when she laughs, or how her hair tangles in the morning, or how he knows every single detail about her from the day her parents separated, to how she likes her eggs. He wants to show her the photo album on his phone of candid pictures he took, just admiring her. Wants to run his fingers down her skin like he’d always dreamt of doing.

“Of course I love you.” He defends himself harshly, “I’ve always loved you. It’s always been you!” He tries to tell her. She shakes her head, not believing any of her words, but why should she? He hadn’t given her a single reason to make her believe he was serious about her. He sometimes declines her calls on tour, and he’d slept with another girl just the night before.

“Shawn, give me your phone.” She asks him. He furrows his eyebrows, not knowing what she’s trying to do.

“What?”

“Give me your phone.” She tells him more urgently. He grabs the device out of his back pocket, handing it over to her quickly, and she taps in the password before pressing on the messages icon.

Scrolling through the texts and contacts, Y/N feels her heart sink deeper and deeper. Now she was definitely sure that there was no way he loved her. He had the audacity to exchange these - these words with all of these other girls just moments before he had told her he loved her, and how was she supposed to believe him?

Shawn feels disappointed in himself, because his careless actions may have just costed him the one thing he’s wanted. The one thing that money, or fame, or acclaim can’t buy him. Her.

She clicks his phone off, half heartedly paying it onto the wooden bar counter before shamefully looking down at her shoes. Shawn doesn’t know how to fix things, or if she’ll ever want to be with him.

“I love you, Shawn.” She tells him, and Shawn’s heart skips a few beats at her words alone, “I’m just not sure if you’re ready to love me.”

And when she walks past him, coat clutched to her chest as she stumbles out of the cozy bar, shawn can’t help but smile a bit to himself as he remembers that the night may not be shitty, just because it didn’t turn out like he hoped it would.

[lovingsiriusoswald]

“Fragile, But Not Weak”

Part 7 - Her POV

Summary and Notes, Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight

Pairing: Fenrir Godspeed and Delinquent!Alice

Word count: 2710 words

Tagging: @christmaswarlock @midnightcradle @pianoperson @wishiwasfictionaltoo​ @plumpblueberry @bumbleberry-jamboree @forenah-gaijin @the-cashewpeia and @5-of-spades​ i’m so sorry this was a week late, i got into art a lil too much and i deadass forgot about this AAAAAA as usual, thanks again so much for the lovely comments you left on the previous one (´⌣`ʃƪ)♡

⊱ ──── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ──── ⊰

I was offered a lovely room, its interiors astonishingly decorated by the single bright, beautiful flower growing amongst the smelly, messy army men. Seth had a big smile on his face as I took in the sight. "Seth! This room is so beautiful!"

"It is, isn't it? I put my all in making it perfect just for you~" He sings as he smiles brightly at me. He places my bags down by the closet and turns back at me. "After all, a woman's safe haven is her room! Its the only place where she'd be comfortable."

He then walked towards me and gently holds my hands. "I know its overwhelming to stay in a place filled with brute men, but I can assure you that you can come to me whenever you need help. I'm the Big Sis of this ruckus of an army, and I'd be more than glad to help you, Alice."

"Big..Sis?" I asked very softly, unsure of what he was talking about.

"Oh, please don't get the wrong idea, I'm a man through and through!"

"I'm sorry for taking it the wrong way." I apologize as I start to look away from him.

"Its alright, Alice." He puts his finger underneath my chin and gently pulls my face upwards. Our eyes were fixated on each other for a moment and I felt like I was being pulled in a trance. "Come on now, I'm pretty sure that you're starved! You need to eat as much as you can~" He starts dragging me out of the room.

When Seth opened the doors to the kitchen, I was astounded by the huge amount of food placed on the long dining table. There was so much food, my stomach started to growl and my mouth drooled . "Come on Alice! Its time to eat!" Godspeed calls me over.

"What's happening? Why is there so much food?" I ask as I walk towards him. He had the biggest grin on his face as Ray holds his shoulder.

"We're having a welcome party for you." Ray answers and gives me a soft smile.

"A party?" My mouth drops open. I blinked several times, Why would they throw a party for me?

"You're officially part of the Black Army now, Alice!" Godspeed puts his arm around me and ruffles my hair with his other hand.

"W-wait wait, hold on, I didn't say anything about taking a side in this war." I remove his hand from my shoulder and grip his wrist tightly. He winces a little and looks at me worriedly.

"You aren't taking any sides, Alice. Don't worry." Sirius's calm voice "Just because you're here doesn't mean you have to fight. We promised to protect you, like family." His smile grows as he says the last word.

Why are you so nice?

"Now, enough with this war talk! You said you were starving, let's eat!" Seth pulls me to a chair beside where Luka sat. Cheers erupted in the dining area and I scanned the faces of these soldiers. They vowed to protect and keep me safe, even if they don't know who I am.

It felt surreal and overwhelming, I'm not dreaming, right? Unbridled emotions swelled in my chest and for the first time, it wasn't from fear nor regret. What good have I done? Do I deserve this kindness?

"What's wrong, Alice?" Luka asks softly.

"Oh! Nothing! I was just.. overwhelmed." I quickly plaster a smile on my face when I turned to look at him. Hunger got the best of me so I didn´t waste another second and indulged the savory and aromatic meals in front of me. "This is so good!" I say through my full mouth, unable to hide my amazement.

"I'm so glad you like it." Luka smiles at me. The fatigue that I was feeling  seemed to dissipate at each bite, recharging my energy and I've never felt so content.

"Woah, you really have such an amazing smile!" Godspeed exclaims out of the blue, making me almost choke on my own breath.

"Excuse me, what?" A chuckle erupts from my throat as I look up at him. He was seated across from me and had a goofy grin on his face. "Where did that come from?"

"Please don't think I lied, it was an honest compliment." He winks. A loud laugh slips from his lips and it was infectious. I stopped myself from laughing, but I couldn't help but grin. How dare he use my card against me. "Did that get ya?" He smirks at me as he wipes off the stray sauce from his upper lip with his thumb.

"Off guard, yes. Romantically, try again next time." It was my turn to wink and smirk at him, then we laughed at each other.

"Alice," Seth calls and I turn to him. "If it's okay, we'd like to know more about you." He has a soft smile on his face as he eats a spoonful.

"Well," I start. "In the Land of Reason, I work at a confectionery because I really like sugary food." I chuckle. "So when I decided to reside here, I wanted to continue my career."

"Other than being the sweet confectionery girl, what else do you do here in Cradle?" Sirius asks.

"Um, well, mess around in disguise?" I shyly answered, feeling my cheeks burn. "B-but I only do so because some soldiers slack off during their patrols!"

"Hey!" The man I'd thrown eggs at two nights ago reacts. I sink further down in the chair, suddenly ashamed of myself. Without my mask, I felt so vulnerable. "We don't slack off!"

"Yeah, I'd love to talk to the lady you were hogging off at the market about your duty." My mouth spits out the words without me thinking. My hands immediately cover my mouth and I glance over at the man, his cheeks flushed and his mouth agape.

"Your reaction to her statement proved that she was telling the truth." Sirius looks over at the man who sat back down to his chair. "We'll talk later."

"I'm sorry." I whispered to no one.

"You're not yourself without your mask, huh?" I hear Godspeed say as he places his elbow by the table and leans his chin on it. He had a smug smile on his face, he watched me as I try to sit properly. I hate how you read through me that quick, dammit.

"I'm too exposed to do anything stupid, my image would be ruined." I pout and reach for a glass of water.

"Have you always been a delinquent?" He asks, his tone serious but a smile still apparent on his face.

"Well, I guess, but not to the extent that I've become a criminal whatsoever." I breathe in. "Me and my friends were characterized as chaotic good, meaning, we have good intentions, but we do it differently and usually in a not so good way." A smile creeps on my face as I remembered the good days when everything was okay. "We do have rules though; we only mess with people, not hurt them. We replace things, not steal them. We usually do these things if we see something that isn’t right, or if we just want to have fun.”

"So you throwing that egg was something that you thought you did for the good?" Ray chuckles.

"Yeah, I'd like to think so. It was a bit rude that someone started shooting me for it." I eye Godspeed, who raises an eyebrow at me.

"Hey, I didn't know why you did it and you insulted my men. It was on instinct!" He exclaims defensively.

"Sure, you gun-shooting maniac." Seth rolls his eyes and Godspeed frowns at him.

"You wanna go?" He rolls his sleeve and clenches his fist.

"That looks like fun." I smile through the fork on my lips and watch them bicker back and forth, resulting in an arm wrestling match in seconds. The soldiers started to cheer and take sides, betting on who would win.

"Winner gets to be with Alice for a day!" Godspeed chips and Seth smiles, his feminine demeanor vanishing.

"If that's the case, you won't last a second!" Seth rolls his sleeve and places his elbow on the table, right in front of him.

"Hey now, I'm not a prize." I stood from my seat. "..but I'd love to see how this would turn out." I walk near them and witness their fight.

"Who's side are you on?" Sirius asks.

"I'd like to say Godspeed, but Seth is the 10 of Spades for a reason." I say as I look up at the taller man. Ray was beside him, cheering on his best buddy.

"That's good thinking, little lady." He pats my head and we watch the two fight, Godspeed's arms were slightly leaning down, but he's fighting as strong as he can. Through gritted teeth, I could see their amusement and willpower.

"Hear that Fenrir? Alice is on my side, give up now!" I could see Seth flex his muscles harder, making Godspeed struggle.

"Not fair! Ahh dammit. Another win for Seth!" Godspeed admits his defeat as Seth pushes his arm down. He immediately skips towards me and holds my hands.

"We're going shopping tomorrow Alice, its coincidentally my day off! It must be fate~" He hugs me and I giggle, memories of my old friends resonate to my heart and it aches with joy. I've missed this feeling.

"That sounds lovely! I can't wait!"

"You seem like you're used to being around men, do you have brothers?" Sirius asks as we walk to the lounge.

"I don't. I have a sister though, but we have a lot of guy friends — most of my friends are, actually." I smile at him and put my arms underneath my chest.

"When did you learn how to fight?" Godspeed asks as he stretches the arm he used to wrestle with Seth. "You kicked those Magic Disciples' asses with your bare hands!"

"My friends taught me how to defend myself, there were a lot of similar encounters back in my world. Minus the magic, though." I plop down the sofa and Luka hands me a strawberry and cream cake slice.

"I hope its as good as your expectations." He smiles sweetly at me and my heart nearly felt like it was gonna burst.

The men of the Black Army weren't a ruckus as Kyle had described them as. They're super sweet and generous, hospitable and very fun to be with. I actually felt at home and it's only been two hours since I got here. Do I really deserve this? Or is something gonna take this feeling away the moment I start to relish in it?

I took a bite from the cake and felt the sweet delicacy, balanced with the strawberry flavors and creamy texture, exactly how I like my cakes. "Luka! This cake is amazing!" I can feel my smile growing wider as I kept on taking another bite, my sweet tooth craving for more of the treat.

"Aww Luka's all red and blushing!" Seth teases him and I see him look away from me with a pout on his face. For a moment, he really did look like the Queen of Hearts. He tries to say something but he stutters, deciding to leave us in the lounge and went to what I assume was the kitchen.

"Is he gonna be okay?" I ask as I place the plate down by the nearby table.

"Yeah, he usually doesn't like being around too many people. He'll come around." Godspeed says confidently, beaming up at me.

After a few more hours of eating, I excused myself to go outside to breathe for a moment.

A gust of cool wind flutters the ends of my dress a little, inviting me to bask in the afternoon light. I pondered on the sweet emotions that grew in my chest, feeling my cheeks hurt from constantly smiling so much. Times like this had been very rare — almost like a luxury — ever since the fire. I wonder if I can make this feel a little longer, Maybe I should take Kyle's advice.

"Need some company, lady?"

On second thought, nevermind.

"Not really, but I don't mind." I look up at Godspeed as he sits beside me on the stairs to the courtyard.

"Did ya drink your medicine?" A small smile grows on his face.

"Oh shoot, I forgot." I gasp and I immediately got up, but I was stopped when he grabs my arm. He shows my pill bottle and a bottle of water. "Aww thanks." I smile at him and reach for it, but as I was gonna grab for it, he pulls them away.

"But first — answer me something." His expression turns serious all of a sudden, startling me. "You're too comfortable around Seth and the others, wouldn't Kyle be mad if he found out?"

Wait, what?

"Ha..?" I could barely even form a proper reaction. What was he talking about?

"You and Kyle are together right? I won't consent you to cheating— " He says this with a straight face and it was almost laughable.

"WAIT ONE SECOND GODSPEED." I almost scream as laughter erupts from my throat. "Me? And Kyle? Together? What made you think of such a thing?" More laughter rose from my chest and I had to sit down to clutch on to my aching stomach.

"Wait what?" It was his turn to be confused now. "You two aren't together?" Something in his tone changed, but I ignored it. I kept laughing until there was no longer any sound coming out of my mouth.

"No! He's my doctor and I'm his patient. That's all there is." I wipe away the tears that leaked from my eyes. "Plus, neither of us are interested in having a love affair whatsoever." I start to calm down and take deep breaths to cool myself down.

"Ah geez, I got really worried about that." He chuckles and he finally gives me my medicine. I check its label to see if it was the correct one, before taking one pill out and tossing it into my mouth. I take a few gulps of water and close the bottle cap.

"That was something I never knew I would hear, you really are an idiot." I giggle as I hand Godspeed my pill bottle.

"Hey!" He pouts at me.

"It was a joke!" I reached my hand out to his head and started messing it terribly.

"Hey stop!" He holds both of my wrists, leaning close to my face with a dissatisfied look and I laughed in response. "What's that for, lady? Geez!" He lets go of one hand and desperately tried to fix his hair in vain.

"For messing with mine, dimwit." I pointed at the stray away locks on my head and stuck my tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes and pulls away, shoving the pill bottle in his inner jacket pocket and a grin was painted on his face. "Thanks for reminding me about that."

"No worries. I did promise to keep you well."

"Why are you guys so nice?" I asked hesitantly. The grin on my face almost felt natural again and I couldn't stop anymore.

"Well if it meant we could see you smile that brightly, we'd spoil you rotten with kindness." He chuckles as he watches the sun slowly start to set. The way his eyes shone against the last orange rays of the sun was just as enchanting as a magic crystal glimmering underneath the moonlight. He almost looked like he was glowing with the sun just by his side, outlining him like he was from a painting. His magenta hair swayed lightly against the wind and he looked amazing. There's no point in hiding how breathtakingly attractive he is — now I can see why the noble women that often visited the confectionery gush so much about him.

"We should head back inside, dinner will be ready soon and if you want the best meals, better be there early!" He then grabs my hand again and pulls me back, a fit of giggles erupting from me.

[your-old-enemy]

Pick It Up

Note: Yes, this was inspired by the poem in ‘You’ that Beck writes as a thank you to Joe, but the story is completely different so give me a chance.

Warning: Cheating, but it might be all good in the end. Also, this is complete trash I haven’t written anything in forever and a toddler was climbing on me while I tried to write this disaster.

Tagging: @tinyarmedtrex @tozierbinch and @androovanwyngarden bc reddie

Engine, engine number nine

On the New York transit line

If your love falls on the tracks

Pick it up, pick it up, pick it up

February 14, 2016

“Eds, baby, please, you know it’s not like that!”

“This is the last time you lie to me, Richie.”

Richie was desperately trying to calm Eddie down, to have him sit down instead of walking around their apartment packing his things into a backpack. Eddie, however, was on a mission to get his shit and get the hell out of there as fast as he could - he couldn’t look at Richie right now and he definitely didn’t want to be anywhere near him. For months, Richie had lied right to his face without even showing a hint of remorse for what he was doing. He’d never really had to work late, he didn’t actually go to meetings, or dinner parties, no, he wasn’t doing any of that, instead he was dropping his pants and fucking his boss without even thinking about Eddie, the life they’d built together or the future Eddie had thought they’d planned to share with one another.

“Please, just let me explain,” Richie begged, reaching out for Eddie’s hand but it was tugged out of his hold the second he caught it and Eddie looked at him disgust, but under that Richie could see his heart breaking into a thousand tiny pieces right there on their living room floor.

“Stop begging like a dog, Richie!” Eddie spat furiously at his boyfriend, blinking the tears from his eyes as fast as he could. “Or are you going to drop to your knees for me this time?”

Richie knew that he deserved it, of course he did. He willingly slept with someone else, and not just once. He’d believed that he could get away with it until he didn’t have to do it anymore - until he got to the top - but Eddie caught him red handed. Eddie only wanted to surprise Richie at work on Valentines Day with a picnic but instead he had found him bending his boss over a desk and it made him sick.

Eddie finally had all of his things together, and he walked to the door, but as he reached for the handle, Richie’s words stopped him in his tracks.

“Please don’t leave me like this.”

Eddie didn’t say anything, he just reached into his pocket and set the little black box on the small table by the door, and then he left without looking back.

February 14, 2019

Every year since his last one with Richie, Eddie spent the romantic holiday alone, drinking himself into a deep sleep that would leave him with a pounding behind his eyes the next morning. Normally, he would do it at home, but this year his friends had decided to make it a group event and come together to celebrate the love they all had for each other. Eddie was happy to spend the time with all of his friends at once, so he’d gotten there early with Bev and Ben and they’d started drinking while they waited for the others. Stan and Mike were next to arrive, hugging the other three in greeting as their drinks were brought to the table. Eddie was watching the door every few minutes, waiting for Bill and Audra. When they walked in he smiled brightly at the two of them and waved them over to the table, but he dropped his hand and his smile when he saw who walked into the bar behind them. Richie.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t expected Richie to be there, but he’d just assumed since nobody had mentioned it to him that the Trashmouth would have other plans tonight.

Eddie turned to ask one of the others what was going on, but Stan spoke before he could ask.

“It’s been three years, Eddie. We can’t choose between the two of you anymore. We love you both.”

Eddie scoffed at Stan’s words. That was so easy for him to say when he wasn’t the one who’d had his heart broken. Eddie knew that he could run, he had to see the night through and try to save face but he absolutely refused to talk to Richie, for the first two hours he didn’t even look at him as the group ate and drank together.

Four hours in, and Eddie was so hammered he couldn’t see straight. He was good at hiding just how drunk he was, though, always able to look put together and presentable. He watched Richie dancing with Bev, badly, to a song he didn’t recognise and all he wanted to do was go home.

He found Mike and informed him that he was leaving.

“Eddie, I don’t think you should go anywhere alone.” Mike said to Eddie with a frown.

Eddie waved off Mike’s concern. “I swear, I’m good. I’ll text you when I get home safe, yeah?”

Mike looked like he wanted to argue or have one of the others back him up here, but Eddie was stubborn and the others were all busy so he relented and let him go.

——

Richie had been throwing Bev around the dance floor when he saw Eddie leave. He’d been planning to talk to him all night and now he was about to miss his chance, so he ditched Bev and ran after him but Eddie was already down the block and Richie saw his head disappearing down into the subway.

Looking both ways as he moved, Richie crosses the road and followed Eddie down onto the almost-empty subway platform. The only other person down there was a homeless man propped up against one of the big tile pillars singing a song off-tune to himself.

“Eddie!” Richie called out, watching his small, drunk ex-boyfriend swaying back and forth on the edge of the platform while fumbling with his phone. “Eddie!” He called again when he was ignored.

“Go ‘way, Richard!” Eddie called back, shaking his phone with a frown as he tried to get the keyboard to cooperate with his drunk thumbs.

“Eds, come on-“

“Don’t call me that, for fuck sake.”

“Alright, Alright, Eddie. Come on, I’m sorry. Just let me take you home, please? You’re too drunk - would you please come back from the edge before-“

Eddie tried to whirl around, ready to yell at Richie to leave him the hell alone but he lost his balance and fell backward into the tracks. He curled up in the foetal position and groaned at the dull ache pulsing in his hip.

Richie rushed to the edge and leaned over, laying on his stomach to hold his obscenely long arm out to Eddie.

“Don’t move!” He told Eddie. “Most of that shit down there will fry you alive, just reach up and take my hand!”

Eddie looked ahead into the tunnel, the light shining through from the rapidly approaching the platform.

“Train is coming..” Eddie slurred.

The homeless man behind Richie was singing even louder now, and more off key, repeating the same line over and over again.

“Pick it up!” He yelled aimlessly. “Pick it up, pick it up, pick it up!”

“Sir, could you please shut the fuck up?!” Richie yelled frantically to the stranger before looking back down at Eddie. “Eddie, come on. Take my hand. Take it. Come on, I’ll pull you up!”

“Pick it up, pick it up, pick it up, pick it up, pick it up!”

At the last second, Eddie took Richie’s hand and Richie pulled him up onto the platform, rolling away from the edge and stopped on his back with Eddie on top of him. As the train sped past, the two of them just laid there looking into one another’s eyes as the gust of wind messed up their hair and ruffled their shirts.

“Are you ok-“

Eddie cut Richie off by throwing up right in his face.

——

Richie didn’t hear directly from Eddie for the rest of the weekend, but the other Losers kept him posted to let him know that thanks to him Eddie was alright but a little shaken up from his near-death experience. Richie hasn’t slept all that much, nightmares of ‘pick it up’ and Eddie being splattered all over the tracks running through his head whenever he closed his eyes, but he carried on with work.

Today’s segment on the radio station was a short story or poem entry contest. Some people called in, others tweeted and some emailed. The best of the best were put through for Richie to air.

“Alright folks,” Richie spoke as the song playing ended. “This next one is a little poem, from Anonymous.” After a beat, he read it aloud. “Engine, engine, number nine on the New York transit line. If your love falls on the tracks, pick it up, pick it up, pick it up.”

As he hit play on the next song, his phone rang in his pocket. Pulling it out quickly, he was shocked to see Eddie’s name on the screen but he answered the call.

“Eddie?”

“I know it probably won’t win the gift-basket prize, but I hope you liked it. I call it ‘Pick it Up’” Eddie said with a nervous laugh.

“You wrote it.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement from Richie.

“I wanted to thank you for the other night.. you saved my life.”

“Anybody would have-“

“No, they wouldn’t. You followed me out there, if you hadn’t I’d be dead.”

Richie sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to calm his pounding heart.

“Are you free after work?” He eventually asked, and he heard Eddie smile through the phone.

“I get off a half hour after your show ends.”

“Coffee?”

“I’ll be there.”

Richie definitely planned to pick his love up and never let go again.

[gwiiyeoweo]

Sometimes it’s difficult having two guardians bonded to your soul — especially when they come from rival factions. Ignis stays by his right, Ardyn at his left, with Noctis the metaphorical and literal wall keeping them from tearing each others’ wings off.

But with Ardyn’s return after his two-year disappearance, Ignis is determined to light up the demon with holy fire and righteous judgment.

Pairing: Noctis/Ignis, Noctis/Ardyn Rating: G

Ignis was seething.

He paced around the room — twelve steps forward, a quick turn, twelve steps back — as his shoes threatened to burn a track into the floor. Noctis thought there really would be a trail singed into the carpet, unless Ignis calmed down enough before he accidentally called forth holy fire in all his fury, setting fire to not only his furniture but also his Justice Monster figurines. He really liked his figurines.

“The nerve of him! The audacity! After two years of absolutely nothing, this is how he comes back? As the Chancellor of your nation's enemy?” Ignis hissed, throwing his hands into the air. White embers flicked off his fingers, sparking in the air but fading before they could hit the carpet.

“I'm sure there's a reason.”

At the foot of his bed, Noctis lounged on his stomach, his elbows propped up on a pillow as he tapped away on his phone — glancing up much too often to make sure his curtains didn't catch fire. In contrast to Ignis’ fit of rage, the prince was content to play away on King's Knight with apparent indifference. Or at least, that's the facade he was trying to keep up. His own stomach was a gnarled mess, and it wasn't only because Ignis kept far too true to his name, a walking fire hazard ready to combust and take everything within a fifty meter radius with him. "Besides, he's here for a peace treaty, for y'know. Peace."

“And a damn good reason it'll be or I will burn his entire collection of rags he calls his wardrobe and everything he loves,” he promised, stopping only to turn and point his finger at Noctis. The utter look of retribution, Noctis knew, wasn't aimed at him but at Ardyn.

“He loves me.” It's a matter of fact all three of them know, even if Ignis was starting to doubt Ardyn's side of things, and Noctis peeked through the dark of his fringes to look up at him, a wry smile pulling at his lips. “Are you going to set me on fire too?”

Ignis huffed and rolled his eyes, his ire temporarily subdued as he relented to Noctis. “You very well know what I mean,” he sighed. “I'd never hurt you, dear heart.”

“I know.” Noctis patted at the empty space beside him. “Sit down, just watching you stomp around makes me tired, and I don't want to explain to the maids why the carpet's all charred.”

Ignis obeyed, settling down the flames of his temper lest the bed catch on fire, and unceremoniously dropped himself beside Noctis, the bed dipping at the added weight. He ran a hand through those black silky locks, nestling his fingers into his skull and gently massaging, and pressed a chaste kiss to Noctis’ temple, voice soft and sympathetic as he murmured, “I know you're at least a bit upset as well. You can't hide it.”

And that, combined with the risk of Ignis burning down his room, had made the knot in Noctis' stomach. But it hit like a punch in the gut when the angel voiced it, the careful gentleness in his tone more like the slow peeling of a bandaid held down with super glue.

Noctis swallowed the hurt that rose up in his throat, letting his phone fall out of his hands to bury his face into the blanket. Ignis’ lingering touch in his hair was a small comfort, but it didn't ease the ache in his chest. His angel sensed it, could literally feel the tangle of sorrow yet relief in his messy swamp of emotions, and Noctis could feel Ignis prodding at the invisible bond that they shared. Noctis, in turn, reached out to that tether, and a wave of comfort raced toward him in a flood of unconditional love. Times like these made him truly appreciate these soul bonds, allowing them to express things that words could never do, or when Noctis was too stubborn to voice his troubles out loud.

Or to confirm that his other bonded was still alive and well, when he had decided to just disappear on Noctis for apparently no rhyme or reason. Or to make sure his guardian demon still loved him and didn't ditch him to return back to the Astralsphere because he got tired of Noct's brattiness. Or to learn that Ardyn held eyes and a dead blackened heart only for Noctis and that he's trying to finish his business as fast as he could to return to his little prince's side.

It hadn't been those exact words — they exchanged emotions and concepts in the place of language in that soul plane — but that had been the general message. And it was precisely why Ardyn currently held the top spot on Ignis’ shit list right now, when usually he held 5th place.

Because, instead of sending some vague concepts across Noctis’ bond, Ardyn could have at least used his few brain cells to oh, perhaps sit down with the poor boy and actually talk through whatever foolish plan he had in that empty space of his. But no, Ignis figured that would have been too much to ask! So naturally, Ardyn would just completely ghost their darling prince, without ever saying a single word of warning, for over two damn years. Because yes, that is precisely what a guardian who's bonded in both heart and soul to Noctis should do, especially since it would bring about unimaginable distress to the very one they so loved.

And to top it all off, Ardyn had the gall to saunter into the Citadel this morning, announcing himself as a diplomat for the very kingdom Lucis was at war with — all as if everything was right as gentle rain. He had only glanced at Noctis, sparing him nary a thought as he gave some grandiose speech. Ignis hadn't heard any of it, too infuriated at Ardyn but more concerned over Noctis. But his charge, much to his credit, had kept most of his composure, holding tightly to the neutral expression he regarded the entire Niflheim convoy with. But Ignis had known that expression, that mask he's seen too many times be pulled out to cover and hide the splinters of his dear prince's heart.

Even Regis, having met both his son's guardians, had barely held back the incredulity that threatened to surface. He had looked ready to riot, if the stiff knuckles that kept him from launching himself off the throne meant anything.

Ignis hadn’t missed the little details, however; he’d known what to look for, how Noctis’ breathing became too even and steady, the tight clench of a stiff jaw, the sudden rigidity in his spine, the nails that bit into his own left palm. And underneath it all, Ignis had felt the storm of grief and betrayal swirling into a veritable maelstrom that could impress even Leviathan and Ramuh, all coiled into a gnarled knot in Noctis’ heart. It had  taken him everything to not cause a scene, because while he and Ardyn certainly have their differences, this whole fiasco was just on a different level from their regular petty squabbles.

So yes, Ardyn was an absolute genius. At being a fuckwit.

Ignis wanted to say he didn't understand how or why Noctis was so willing to forgive, but he couldn't deny it. He understood far too well and despite the grievances, he somehow felt relief upon having Ardyn again. Because not only did Noctis share a bond with Ignis, he shared one with Ardyn.

Ignis knew from experience just how much love Noctis regarded him with, could always feel it within the soul bond they shared; and as much as he hated the demon, he knew Noctis held nothing less for Ardyn either.

“It’s fine,” Noctis muttered, a poor attempt at a lie.

“No, it is not.”

And it wouldn’t be until Ardyn brought his sorry ass in here to explain himself. Ignis had half a mind to just stalk down the halls and find the man himself, to grab him by those ridiculous scarves and ruffles at his neck and drag him through the corridors and throw him at Noctis’ feet, regardless if they were in public or not. The only thing really stopping him from going was his concern for Noctis. His prince, despite his brave front, was not in a good headspace right now.

So of course, Ardyn's timing would be absolutely impeccable. As always.

Noctis snapped his head to the twin doors, heavy ornate things trimmed with gold, though the gleam and shine was swallowed by the inky darkness seeping through the cracks and keyholes. A black smoke wafted through the crevices, coiling and crawling through the air and carpet, bringing with it the unmistakable odor of sulfur and ancient fire.

Ignis’ eyes dilated, nostrils flared, and it took all his willpower to reign in his instincts that screamed and snapped at him to prepare, defend, attack. His senses were sent on high alert, warning sirens bellowing at him to take Noctis and flee or to strike the vile thing before it could get the chance, to burn it with white fire and holy light. He barely managed to swat his righteous fury and divine flames down, but his wings itched so terribly at his back, beckoning to breach into the physical plane and drape themselves over Noctis to shield and protect.

He knew, as well as he knew his bond and love for his prince, that this demon posed no danger. His mind knew, his heart knew. But the memories and duties etched into his body forgot. It had been so long, that he grew accustomed to the lack of company, that all the time and familiarity spent with the accompanying demon fell to the wayside. Two years wasn't long in the grand scheme of things, not for beings such as himself, but it was enough for old instincts to return, to forget that Ardyn wasn't an enemy but an… insufferable ally.

They watched as the dark tendrils coiled and gathered into themselves, climbing higher into the air as they took on the shapes of arms and legs and that gaudy overcoat. Wisps of auburn hair fell over his face, and golden eyes gleamed through the darkness that spread into skin and a wicked smile.

“Noctis, my dear, oh so good to see you again.”

Ardyn brandished his hat and bowed his head, flourishing a hand to the side in his typical dramatic fashion. With that infuriating grin Ignis so despised, he raised his eyes toward Noctis, as well as an extended hand.

But before Noctis could even think to take it, Ignis was upon the demon with all the same divine wrath he took upon the war fields. Lapels tearing underneath his white-knuckled fists, Ignis drew them face to face and bared his teeth, a man ready to absolutely destroy if Ardyn dared answer wrongly.

“Explain.” Ignis hissed, embers threatening to turn into flames. Ardyn's lapels were already beginning to smoke.

Ardyn, unsurprisingly, looked rather peachy. His grin didn’t falter, but he tuned it down into a patient smile, as his eyes set amicably upon the furious angel even as he threatened to burn him alive. He only appeared mildly perturbed about his singed coat, the promise of holy retribution a mild inconvenience at best, and he spared a slow glance at Noctis before returning his gaze back to Ignis.

“My good Scientia, let us try to be civil about this — I'd rather you not burn my favorite scarf.”

And that, a wrong answer.

Ignis shimmered in a light of gold and silver, dragging out Ardyn's own crimson and obsidian, before forcing them out of the physical plane. His downy wings flared for just a moment, clashing against the demon’s leathery pair, and the two blinked out of reality in a flash of magic.

Noctis didn't even have the opportunity to have his say in any of it, and he could only watch as Ignis pulled Ardyn and himself into the Astralsphere to duke it out there, instead of turning Noctis’ room into armageddon. He wouldn't have to tug on the threads of his bonds to know what sort of chaos their conflicting powers must be blending up. He could picture a clash of black and white flames filling the void of their plane, with Ignis raining down holy judgment and Ardyn dancing around like it was all a mere game of tag.

This wasn't how he expected their reunion, and he really would have liked to hear Ardyn's explanation for his ill-timed two-year disappearance. But Noctis was also a bit bitter at the demon's lack of tact, so if Ignis wanted to let off some steam and take his frustrations out on Ardyn, then that was quite fine too. He only hoped they wouldn't take too long. It was already getting lonely.

 “And you couldn't tell us this prior to your disappearance because?” Ignis kept his arms crossed, looking every inch of a dove whose feathers were ruffled. There’s some soot on his cheek, the cuffs of his once meticulous suit singed black and torn. His hair lost its usual styling, the gel not enough to hold through whatever chaos it had to endure. Noctis rather liked it down.

Ardyn didn’t fare better, who sat on his knees and kept his hands in his lap before Ignis and Noctis, like a brat being lectured for some playground bullying. He lost one of his scarves and a layer of clothing, his vest a frazzled mess with the buttons missing. One of his sleeves looked close to falling off, the burnt threads barely keeping the seams together., and his ratty hat had certainly seen better days. He scratched his sparse beard with one finger, turning his eyes upward. “Short notice, no time to be had.”

Ignis was just about to go for another tussle, when Noctis managed to hold him back and saved Ardyn’s face from a white-knuckled punch.

“Okay, okay, time out! We’re using words this round, okay? Words. ” Noctis pulled at Ignis’ arm and shuffled him back a few extra steps. He looked to Ardyn and waited for an affirmation; when the demon nodded in compliance, he turned to Ignis who only stared back with a disgusted look on his face. Noctis, though, didn’t relent and stared back harder, setting his eyebrows in a stony gaze and his lips in a firm line. “ Ignis. ”

Ignis could be a child sometimes with that stubborn streak of his, but ultimately, he’d always say yes to Noctis. “…Fine.”

Noctis thanked him with a soft kiss to his jaw, successfully cooling the angel’s simmering ire by a few degrees, and turned to sit on the floor with Ardyn, sitting just across from him. “Alright, so take it from the top one more time. You know I have no idea what you guys say when you poof out of reality.”

He may be more generous and patient than Ignis — and hold actual love for him while the angel barely had the tolerance — but he was still upset. Ardyn’s shoddy explanation didn’t help with his mood or loosen that dagger of betrayal wedged in his side, even if he knew full well the demon had only his best interests in mind. But while he had absolute trust and faith in Ardyn, seeing him waltz into the audience chamber as the fucking Chancellor of Niflheim, the empire that had almost managed to kill the Prince when he was only a child, did not appeal to his logic.

"Well, for starters, we all know your lovely kingdom has been at war with Niflheim for the past… However many decades." Ardyn made a gesture in the air.

"Ah, yes. Start off with a riveting little prologue, why don’t you?" Ignis struck in, his patience running on fumes now. "Now on with it."

Noctis shot a look at the angel. " Ignis. "

"I'm using words. You told me to use words, and I am using them."

Noctis rolled his eyes; Ignis was technically right but still. He allowed him his loophole and turned his attention back to Ardyn. "Okay, and?"

"And you know what my role is, what I must do as your guardian demon."

Noctis nodded.

Demons were still demons, guardian or not. They handled the nefarious aspects of life, worked hand in hand with sins and sinners, walked beside destruction and crawled the earth like vipers. They were everything the old scrolls described them to be: cruel, cunning, and always looking for a poor soul to drag down. Some looked hideous, their skin and bones a mirror to their blackened hearts, others looked like art come to life — to tempt, to beguile. (Ignis would spit out how Ardyn needed to “put his face on” every morning, else there would be black slime oozing out of every orifice.)

But in the case of a guardian, in the case of Ardyn, it meant he wasn’t restricted to the goody two-shoes book of moral conduct that restricted Ignis. He could get his hands dirty and black and dip into the most unsavory tactics Ignis would never be allowed, all in the name of protecting his chosen — Noctis, his heart of hearts. He was the serpent that lashed its fangs and venom, the undying roach that creeped in the darkest cracks, the bloody hound that crushed limbs and tore flesh asunder.

The man willing to play diplomat for the enemy kingdom just so he could break it down from the inside, to never let it harm another hair on his beloved prince ever again, so he explained.

Noctis and Ignis stared at each other, their own faces reflecting each other’s thoughts of ‘What The Fuck Ardyn.’ Ignis, at least, no longer held the flames of anger in his chest, cooled down to smoldering embers now that they got a proper explanation. It… made sense, sort of. Ignis, by the sole virtue of what he is, could never play into deceptive tactics. Ardyn was free of the shackles that limited his counterpart, and he made use of that.

“You had Scientia here to keep you safe and warm within his soft downy wings.” Ardyn said, flicking off some ashes off his shoulders. “I was more than confident he’d mind you while I wormed my way into Iedolas’ good graces.”

Ignis slipped off his glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Still, you —”

“Asshole!”

Noctis reached over to his bed and shucked a pillow at Ardyn, hitting him squarely in the face and knocking his hat down with it. The demon looked as if it did more damage than any of the flaming daggers made, and Ignis was sure he landed one straight in Ardyn’s right arse. He crossed his arms in smug satisfaction, drinking up the man’s expression of ‘did he really do that noctis please why.’

“You couldn’t have said something before you decided to vanish like that?” Noctis didn’t snarl, but his tone and voice pierced harder than any furious scream could. There was something heated in the center, with its edges tipped with sharpened ice, and he made sure to drive it home.

“Now princeling, I did say it was imperative.” Ardyn held both his hands in the air, as if placating a wild beast turning its fangs on him. Noctis could be terrifying when his rage got the best of him, rivaling the flames of both guardians put together. “Wouldn’t want them firing the weapon that blasts your father’s Wall down, do we? Right? Scientia, do work with me here.”

“Five seconds, Ardyn.” Noctis dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. He looked ready to tear his own hair out. “You could have spared five seconds to say ‘Hey, I’m gonna make sure Niflheim doesn’t invade your country anymore, so toodles’ or something.”

Ignis cleared his throat, staring pointedly at them but ignoring Ardyn’s plea for help. “He does have a point. At the very least, a sticky note could have been something.”

"Cursed traitor, I’ll pluck your dainty feathers out like a chickatrice for hell’s oven,” Ardyn murmured. He’d rather pour a cup of holy water over himself than bear the brunt of Noctis’ ire any longer, however. It stung to hear his tone and see how cross he was, but he could feel the line in his soul burning from Noct’s end. Ardyn understood the reason behind the anger and distress, why Noctis felt torn between his fit of being left in the dark and his relief of finally having Ardyn returned to his side. He accepted his shortcomings, really.

“Noctis, precious boy, do forgive me.” He reached to brush tentative fingers against Noctis’ cheek, giving him the chance to pull away and brush off his hand should the prince so choose. Or bite him, whichever. But he only leaned into the touch, even pressing his hand over Ardyn’s to splay the full palm of his hand against skin.

“Just say something the next time you pull that sort of stunt. Please?” Noctis sounded incredibly weary then, laying everything out in one single exhale.

Ardyn knew this wouldn’t be the end of it, that there would be more to come later. But for now, they both wanted to just sweep it under the rug and salvage what should have been a happy, tear-jerking reunion. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said, pulling Noctis to his chest.

Noctis sniffed, then sneezed straight onto Ardyn’s burnt vest.

“Ah, sorry again. Forgot about the soot.”

 “That was still a dick move,” Noctis grumbled, hiding his face behind his fringes. But despite Ardyn’s idiocy and the near fallout, he’s relieved to finally have him at his side.

The soul bond had barely been enough to quell his anxieties, the only thing keeping himself together being Ignis’ gentle reassurances and Ardyn’s warm tugs sent across their link. It didn’t make up for the lost time and space between them, when the demon would have always been hovering by his shoulder — just out of sight from the humans but within Noctis’ reach — so he’s making Ardyn repay his debts as he spoke. Noctis looked up, from where he perched himself in between Ardyn’s legs and pressed his own back against the demon’s chest.

As if the physical contact could somehow fill in for the two years’ time he’s gone without.

“So I’ve been reminded for the sixth time.” Ardyn lightly kissed the crown of Noctis’ head and laced his fingers atop the boy’s lap, essentially locking the prince within his hold. “I am sorry, princeling. I didn’t think you’d be so lonely, especially with Scientia still at your side.”

“You are an utter fool, Ardyn,” Ignis cut in, from where he worked in the kitchenette, and pointed the business end of a fruit knife at him.“You know how anxious he can be. Imagine how he had been when he thought you left for good.”

"Oh, you foolish thing," Ardyn sighed, peppering kisses along Noctis' shoulder. "I'd never give you up for even a thousand damned souls."

Noctis whined deep in his throat, conflicted between drinking up the comforts and fighting off the embarrassment that came with the onslaught of affection. He wiggled in Ardyn's hold, mumbling between his breaths, and buried his face into his hands. "Just, just shut up and keep cuddling."

Ardyn did just that, zipping his mouth closed and gently laying his chin on the boy’s head. Noctis reached a hand over the couch cushions, grabbing the remote then flipping through the channels to some food channel, and tucked himself just so until he found that perfect spot.

“Ardyn, care for some strawberries?” Ignis called out, already preparing a separate bowl.  

“Absolutely.”

It’s funny, Noctis thought, how they always managed to just settle. Especially Ignis and Ardyn, being enemies by instinct and creation, yet they found moments to silently draw their truces and put away their flames and weapons, falling into domesticity whenever and wherever their prince was involved. He missed this, all of this. And he’d never voice it aloud, but he had begun to miss their constant bickering, their grumblings and hisses filling in the cracks of silence. No doubt that would all come later, probably after Noctis fell asleep, tucked between the weight of both their bodies and protective wings.

“… Can I get whipped cream on mine?” Noctis piped up.

“Of course, love.”

But for now, he’d allow himself to just be, with Ardyn at his back and holding him within his arms, and Ignis plopping himself right beside them, handing each of them a bowl of fruit to nibble on. The baking competition on TV was an afterthought, something to settle his gaze on while he relaxed in the comforting presence of both his guardians. He’s not sure if he could ever deal with another separation like that ever again, didn’t even dare to think of the possibility, but all he wanted right now was to enjoy having his family back together again — with Ignis holding his right hand, and Ardyn’s chin settled on his left shoulder.

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 2

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Things Ernesto can do: charm people. Things Ernesto cannot do: say mass in Latin. But hey seize your moment, who needs a plan when you go charisma, am I right.

***

Chicharrón had been Santa Cecilia’s gravedigger for as long as Héctor could remember.

He seemed to have hardly aged since the days when Héctor had been just a little boy running wild in the streets along with other orphans, but not because he’d aged well: it was more that he’d always looked old, and a decade or two made hardly any difference. He was perpetually in a bad mood, always scowling unless he was well in his cups, telling somebody how he’d lost his leg – and slamming his wooden leg on the closest table for emphasis – or playing his guitar.

It had been the guitar that had first lured Héctor to the old hut he lived in. Like most children, he’d been scared of him; getting close to him before darting off had been a common game to prove their courage. But one evening, when Héctor had been hanging in the cemetery to avoid an older kid who’d promised to rough him up - Héctor had really wished he had an older, bigger friend to help him out at times like that - there had been music.

Later on he wouldn’t quite remember the words, but the sound alone, and the melancholy in Cheech’s voice, had drawn him closer. Playing with his eyes shut, Chicharrón hadn’t noticed he was there at all until he’d stepped over a freshly-dug grave – for el señor Delgado to be buried in the next day, Cheech had explained later – and fallen in it with a cry. The music had stopped, and Héctor had climbed out to see Cheech glaring down at him, a stick in his hand.

“Well, look at that. It lives. And you don’t belong here if you’re alive, muchacho,” the gravedigger had scoffed, and lifted the stick. “Now get out of here, before I change that and bury you--”

“Can you do that again?” Héctor had blurted out, catching the man by surprise. He’d blinked down at him, clearly confused.

“What?”

“Play the guitar,” Héctor had said, brushing some dirt off his clothes, still looking up at Cheech in stunned fascination. “It was good.”

That had definitely caught old Chicharrón by surprise. “Are you pulling my leg now?” he’d asked, and Héctor’s eyes had shifted to the man’s wooden leg. Cheech had followed his gaze and, suddenly, laughed. Coming from him, it felt almost as alien as singing. “Hah! You know what I mean. Are you mocking me, kid? Because if you are--”

“I want to hear that song again!” Héctor had insisted, and grinned up at him, giving him the kind of endearing look that usually gained him a smile from passerby and, if lucky, even an apple or a tangerine. Cheech was definitely not going to give him either, but at least he didn’t smack the look off his face. “Por favor? I didn’t know you could sing.”

Cheech hadn’t been that easy to convince, but in the end he’d given up, and played a couple of songs for him before telling him to get lost. The same had happened when Héctor had returned the next day, and the next and the next.

A week later Héctor had asked him to teach him how to play, no longer content with just listening. Chicharrón had mumbled, huffed, grumbled and complained… and then he’d taught him all he knew about music. Well, almost: Héctor already could sing, kinda, because the sisters at the orphanage had him and some other kids singing in a chorus at church from time to time, and on special occasions. But it had been Cheech to teach him how to coax melodies out of a guitar’s strings and how to read a music sheet.

A few months later, he’d written his first song. It had been about the dead coming out of their graves for Día de los Muertos and then getting confused over which grave was whose, forcing the gravedigger to herd them back and forth across the cemetery and into the right grave before sunrise, beating them up with his wooden leg if they got too stubborn.

It would have horrified Padre Edmundo and the sisters at the orphanage, and it had made old Cheech laugh so hard he’d almost spat out a lung, or so he’d claimed. Héctor hadn’t been sure if spitting out a lung was actually possible, but getting even a chuckle out of the gravedigger was an accomplishment.

“Hah! Now this is what I call poetry. You’ve got a gift there, muchacho,” he’d said, and had ruffled Héctor’s already messy hair with a calloused hand. For all the gentle words the sister always had for him, for all the kindness Padre Edmundo had always shown him, somehow Héctor hadn’t been prepared for that… and Cheech clearly hadn’t been prepared to see the boy in front of him burst in tears.

“Oye, oye, what’s that? Are you loco? I don’t get you, kid,” he’d said, his voice gruff as ever, but he’d crouched down before the sniffling boy and given him an awkward pat on the shoulder. Héctor had wiped his eyes and wished he’d ruffle his hair again, but he hadn’t. “Stop wailing. You’re here to sing, no? Very well, let’s sing. See if you can give a grito as loud as your wailing...”

They had, and it had been fun, but Héctor had left feeling embarrassed of his outburst – so embarrassed that he hadn’t visited for a few days afterwards. And when he had, Cheech hadn’t mentioned the incident: he’d just handed him a guitar all of his own.

“I found it among my old junk. Was about to throw it out, but maybe you could put it to some use,” he’d muttered. It looked like it had been built out of the remains of a broken guitar and a few more scraps, and Héctor - while really struggling not to cry again - had pretended not to have noticed the cuts and splinters on Chicharrón’s hands… but he’d never forgotten, and he still had that guitar.

“You should throw away that piece of junk and get you a new one.”

Héctor held back a grin at Cheech’s grumble. “It serves me just fine,” he said, strumming the guitar. “Whoever made it knew what he was doing.”

“Hmph,” Cheech muttered, and suddenly seemed very focused on the old spade he was getting some rust out of. Next to him, his equally foul-tempered pet rooster - Juanita, he called it, and no amount of telling him the rooster was male had seemed to matter at all - was glancing around like a guard dog, head bobbing.

Only a few steps away, next to the shack Cheech lived in, there was a coop with several chickens and plenty of chicks in it, peeping incessantly. The old gravedigger kept a lot of chicks, claiming to be waiting for them to grow and fatten before eating them, but Héctor had yet to see him butcher a single one; he grew attached, the old grump, just like he’d grown attached to him.

Not that Chicharrón would admit as much if he had a gun pointed at his face.

“I didn’t get you then and I still don’t get you,” he was saying now, still not looking up from the spade, obviously unsatisfied with the results his effort to get rid of the rust were yielding. “Especially with this priesthood nonsense.”

“Heh! You mentioned only a dozen times, or a hundred. Aren’t you happy to see me on the straight and narrow path to the pearly gates if heaven?”

“Pah! Straight, narrow, twisty, a goddamn maze, whatever. Any path leads to nothing but that,” Cheech had muttered, tilting his head towards the graves. “And you’re not priest material. I’d like to have words with the nuns who put that idea in your head.”

Hector shrugged. “Well, to be fair I can’t think of much else I could do. No family, no properties, no nothing. They did keep me from dying on the steps of the church, fed and clothed me. This is how I can repay the favor, I guess. I rather like being alive, you know?”

“Not letting a baby die is basic decency, idiota, not some feat to celebrate or reward. I wouldn’t have let you starve or run around naked, either. That’s one low bar,” Cheech muttered, causing Héctor to laugh again.

“I think I’ll be fine. I like it here, and I like helping people out. Someone’s got to look after all those kids. Got to make sure they don’t get in too much trouble. Like me,” he added, and strummed his guitar again before looking around. “Any idea where Miguel is, by the way?”

“Not the foggiest, and you’re not the first to ask,” Chicharrón grumbled. “Those two troublemakers came looking for him, too. Almost hit one of them with the spade, and Juanita gave the other a good peck on the shin. What do they think they’re doing, slinking around like that? They’ll send me to an early grave and if so I’ll make them dig it first.”

“Those two-- You mean Óscar and Felipe?”

“Sí, sí. The brothers of that novice, Imelda. That’s another one I don’t get. God knows if her becoming a nun would be a waste,” he added, and thankfully seemed to entirely miss the way Héctor bit his lower lip. “Anyway, haven’t seen Miguel. A bit odd. He’s usually here to annoy the hell out of us both. Just like you when you were his age, that kid. Hope he won’t get roped into the church, too.”

That was a bit off, Héctor had to admit. Where was he off to? Had he gotten in trouble with the sisters and found himself grounded? Maybe it would be best if he went to check, just for his peace of mind… and possibly to put in a good word for his early release, if need be.

As it turned out, it wasn’t needed.

“Héctor! Cheech!” Miguel’s voice rang out through the cemetery, causing both to turn. The boy was running up to them and skidded to a halt a few feet away, panting a bit but grinning from ear to ear.

“What is it, chamaco? Did you find Sister Marilena’s secret stash of chocolate?” he asked, and Miguel laughed, shaking his head. His hair was sticking out in all direction, and suspiciously damp.

“No, still looking for that. But that’s not-- the new priest is here,” he said, and his grin widened. “And he’s the best priest.”

***

“So, that’s the new parish priest?”

“The one talking with the Cordero widow?”

“Do you see anyone else dressed like a priest?”

“He’s… young.”

“And handsome, unless the beard is deceiving.”

“Sister Sofía.”

“I’m saying it how it is, Imelda. I’m saying it how it is.”

“You should be calling me Sister Gabriela,” Imelda pointed out, but she already knew it was pointless. Hardly anyone but the Mother Superior and a few of their older Sisters ever bothered; Sofía kept saying that she’d only use it when - and if, she’d add with a wink - Imelda actually took the vows.

There were a few moments of silence as they watched the new priest - he was quite young, yes, in his mid-twenties at most, and Imelda imagined most would describe him as good looking - laugh at something the old Cordero widow was saying, showing pearly-white teeth that seemed all the more blinding in the middle of that black beard. That didn’t escape any of them, either.

“... He is very handsome.”

“Nice laugh, too.”

“Almost a waste, for that one to have taken the vows.”

“Et tu, Sister Antonia? I thought your interest lay in the fairer sex.”

“What? I just so happen to have working eyes.”

“So does the old widow.”

“Are we quite done? It wouldn’t look good, you know, if he spotted four nuns--”

“Three nuns and a novice. You’re still on time to change your--”

“Do not finish that sentence. It still wouldn’t look good if he turned and saw the four of us--”

“Ogling?”

“... I was about to say ‘staring at him while chattering like old crones’, but I suppose ‘ogling’ describes it best. Three nuns ogling at a priest as the novice tries to be the voice of reason.”

“Well, we do have eyes to admire the wonders of God’s creations,” Sister Sofía said lightly.

“Never seen you looking at a sunset like that,” Imelda muttered, but precisely none of them seemed to hear her. She was about to add something a bit more scathing, but she spotted a movement out of her eye… and she wasn’t the only one.

“Oh, there’s novice Héctor!”

“Talking about waste.”

“Padre Edmundo did women everywhere a disservice by leading him to priesthood. But it’s not too late yet, Imel--”

“I am not hearing any of this from the mouths of brides of Christ,” Imelda said, rolling her eyes, but her lips did quirk upwards for just a moment as the nuns chuckled. Still, she made a point to turn away without another look towards the new priest… or Héctor. “Since you’re all so busy, it seems someone should go back and tell Madre Gregoria that our parish finally has a new priest.”

“Oh, good idea. I’m certain she’ll be happy to meet him.”

“She’s old enough to be his-- oh, I’ve had it with you,” Imelda huffed, and left with quick steps, doing her best to ignore the resulting, barely muffled laughter.

***

Seeing the new priest standing on the steps of the church, where he’d seen Padre Edmundo greeting his parishioners for so many years, felt… not quite wrong, but not right either. For the lack of a better word, it felt jarring.

Padre Edmundo had been old, with a back that had begun bending under the weight of his years, very little white hair still stubbornly clinging to a leathery bald head, and a few missing teeth. This Padre Ernesto was much younger - maybe only a handful of years older than Héctor himself - with a full head of thick black hair, back straight as a rod, and all teeth still in place. They were showing just now, she he smiled at the old Cordero window and waved her off before she walked down the steps of the church, clearly looking to tell more people about the arrival.

It wasn’t hard to see why Miguel, who was right at his heels, had been so impressed with him… and yet Héctor had to keep chasing away the unfair thought that no matter how good he may turn out to be, he simply could not replace Padre Edmundo.

“He has a horse, too,” Miguel was saying. “His name is Dante and he’s so big! Barely fits in the old stable where we used to keep the donkey. Padre Ernesto let me ride with him, you should have seen Óscar and Felipe’s faces when they saw us!”

Héctor hadn’t seen their faces then, but he definitely could see the expressions of plenty of bystanders who were beginning to gather around the church, clearly eager to take a look at their new parish priest. It was easy to tell Héctor wasn’t the only one who had been expecting someone… different.

Still, maybe a priest so young would be good for their parish, and Héctor had a duty to help him for as long as he could. Then he would take his vows, and he would be sent… wherever the Church saw it fitting to send him, he supposed.

I still think you should be our new priest, Miguel had said a couple of days ago, and Héctor had laughed it off, but the truth was that he’d hoped he could be just that, someday; that once he took his vows, he may be allowed to serve at the parish of Santa Cecilia after Padre Edmundo grew too old or passed away. He loved his town, loved its people, and had no wish to leave - but Padre Edmundo had died, his novitiate had yet to end, and the town needed a someone to lead the parish. They couldn’t just wait for him to be ready.

As he walked up to the church’s step, barely listening to Miguel’s words and pretending not to have noticed Imelda walking away just as he approached, he told himself it was probably for the best. Maybe some time away without-- Imelda -- distractions would do him good. Maybe he’d even get to travel, and have a wealth of stories to tell when he returned. Miguel would be sorry to see him go-- maybe so would Imelda -- but he’d be happy to hear what he’d been up to when he got a chance to visit, or at least so Héctor hoped.

But he’d worry about that later. He was still a novice, and he had work to do there.

Héctor was only a few steps away from Padre Ernesto and had already opened his mouth to introduce himself when someone passed him by quickly, almost making him fall down the stairs when he shouldered him. Héctor regained his balance just on time, and Miguel gave an angry yell.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, pendejo!” he exclaimed. It would have normally gained him a threat of getting his mouth washed with soap, a scathing retort on how much worse nuns had gotten at teaching proper manners to street urchins, plus a comment on bad role models while glancing meaningfully at Héctor - but this time Gustavo didn’t seem to notice either of them: he was already in front of Padre Ernesto, talking and gesturing, nearly oozing slime.

“… Truly blessed to welcome you here,” he was saying. “After Padre Edmundo’s unfortunate passing, Santa Cecilia has gone too long without a proper priest,” he was saying, and Héctor had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Oh yes, he had noticed him there all right. Jabs like that were typical of Gustavo: the parish sexton had enjoyed poking fun at Héctor since they were both boys, and had only grown more ill­-spirited as years passed, to become worse than ever since Héctor had decided to take the vows. Héctor had learned to ignore him most of the time… but sometimes he wished he didn’t wear the cloth he did so that he could sock him in the jaw without consequences. Not that he would ever admit that aloud, especially in front of Miguel, who was still bristling.

“… A tiring journey, but uneventful, thankfully. I mean, thank God,” Padre Ernesto was saying. He had a pleasant, warm voice. He crossed himself, and Gustavo did the same.

“Thank God,” he echoed. “Is there anything you require, Padre?”

“I would be grateful if you could see to my horse. Some food and water for myself as well, if you please. Oh, and a razor,” he added with a laugh, reaching up to rub his beard-covered cheeks. “The sooner I can get this thorn bush off my face, the sooner I’ll feel like a human being again.”

“Of course, Padre, leave it to me. Out of curiosity, which order do you belo--” he began, only to trail off when Padre Ernesto abruptly glanced behind him and his gaze found Miguel. He smiled broadly.

“Ah, here’s my little guide!” he exclaimed, winking, and stepped past Gustavo. He reached to ruffle Miguel’s hair before looking at Héctor. “And you’re Hé-- Brother Héctor, I suppose? I heard a lot about you before we even made it to the church.”

Héctor smiled, glancing sideways at Miguel. “Good things, I hope.”

“For the most part,” Padre Ernesto chuckled, and Héctor decided that yes, he liked him already. He could see why Miguel did, too.

Behind Padre Ernesto, Gustavo was rolling his eyes. Miguel noticed and spoke, all sweetness and light. “Why don’t you go tend to the horse like Padre Ernesto said, Gustavo? Poor Dante must be so tired after the long journey.”

That earned him a glare to which he answered with a grin, but there was nothing he could retort right there and then, and in the end he did as asked, mumbling something Héctor didn’t quite grasp. Not that he cared to, with Padre Ernesto clapping a hand on his shoulder and speaking again - or trying to. By then a small crowd had formed outside the church, and people were beginning to approach in small groups, speaking all at once.

“Padre! Welcome to Santa Cecilia!”

“I need your blessing, Padre.”

“I need to confess, it’s been two months since my last confession!”

“Confess-- oh. Oh! Of course!” The slightly hesitant expression that had crossed Padre Ernesto’s face faded within moments, so quickly that Héctor wondered if he’d imagined it. He smiled, and gestured towards the church. “I’ll be happy to confess and absolve all of you, uh, later. I first need to rest, lest I pass out in the confessional booth, and that would do good to precisely no one, no?” he added, and his smile widened.

Héctor didn’t think he’d ever seen some of those old battle axes even smile before that moment, and yet there was a collective chuckle.

Well, look at that. And here I thought an outsider would have trouble winning them over.

A few more pleasantries were exchanged, and Padre Ernesto somehow managed to make even la Madre Superiora smile when she arrived, an old woman who was tough as leather and heavy-handed as they come with misbehaving children and adults alike. It was no accident that Miguel had vanished as soon as she’d come up the steps.

“We do look forward to hear Mass from you,” Madre Gregoria was saying. Padre Ernesto’s smile seemed to waver for only a moment, a hand clenching on the crucifix hanging from his neck, and Héctor supposed it may be nervousness; he looked young enough to have never served as a parish priest before. Then the moment passed, and the smile was back.

“I look forward to it as well,” he said. As they spoke a few more nuns - Sister Sofía, Antonia, Luciana and María Fernanda; no Imelda - approached to greet him. Knowing Sofía as well as he did - though not as well and others, really, which was to say not biblically - Héctor wasn’t surprised to see she was looking at the breadth of his shoulders rather than heeding his words. When her gaze wandered to him, Héctor raised an eyebrow.

En serio?

Sister Sofía’s lips quirked. Héctor tried not to roll his eyes and turned his attention back on Padre Ernesto, who was talking about his journey to Santa Cecilia and how good the Lord had been to keep him from harm, no hint of nervousness left in his voice despite being the center of all attention and curiosity, with such a responsibility to the town on his shoulders.

Héctor wished he could be half as confident.

***

“I’m fucked. I am fucked. I am so fucked.”

Flipping frantically through a Bible entirely in Latin, Ernesto allowed himself a few decidedly unpriestly curses that may or may not have called the integrity of Virgin Mary into question. Not sermon material, he knew at least that much, but he suspected knowing what not to say wasn’t a good enough basis to hold mass.

Nor were his vague memories of attending mass, which went back to… about a decade earlier, actually, for his Confirmation. Even up to then, he’d mostly snoozed through them; the only exceptions had been the times he’d sung in the choir, which meant he was too impatient to get singing to pay attention to anything said.

He rather wished he had now but, as his current predicament showed, foresight was not among the many gifts of Ernesto de la Cruz, only son of a miner and a seamstress from slightly left of the middle of nowhere, Mexico. He hadn’t even realized he would be expected to say mass, in Latin, until he’d found himself trying to recall exactly what a priest is supposed to say to give absolution after a confession.

Well, this is it, he thought. He’d originally planned – bit of a strong word, that – to keep the act up for maybe a couple of weeks, as long as it took for the army to hopefully move up north, and then leave again… possibly at night and possibly with some food as well as money for his trouble, courtesy of the parish’s box of offerings. After all it was money meant for the poor and, at the moment, Ernesto owned little other than the clothes on his back, a pistol, a handful of bullets, and his horse. If that didn’t count as poor, he couldn’t imagine what would.

Now it looked like the ‘take the money and run’ part of the plan would need to be enacted much sooner than that. The thought of telling the truth crossed his mind, but he dismissed it quicky; the vast majority of people, probably including those of Santa Cecilia, hated the Huerta government, and he’d been fighting and killing for it until just the previous week. Perhaps they’d welcome him for deserting the Federal army - he’d been drafted against his will, like so many others, maybe they’d understand - or perhaps they’d hang him for having ever been one of them. He wasn’t going to risk it.

He’d keep up the charade and stay a couple of days, Ernesto decided, enough for him and Dante to eat and rest. His horse was hungry and exhausted and so was he; he was desperate to sleep in a proper bed, and have a decent meal - or two or three - after eating hardly anything but strips of salt beef for three days and then nothing for the past two, aside from one stupid bird he’d managed to shoot down.

He could avoid saying mass until then, Ernesto thought, tossing the Bible on the bed. He’d pretend to be sick, maybe fake a splitting headache; after traveling all the way there under that sun, no one would be surprised.

Sun’s packing a good punch today, eh, Nesto?, Alberto had muttered only a few days earlier, riding slightly ahead of him as they scouted well ahead of their unit as instructed, to ensure no revolutionaries were in wait among the rocky outcrops. They found no one; no revolutionaries, no soldiers… no witnesses.

Beats harder than my old man, Ernesto had agreed, his face blank as he pulled out his pistol and took aim.

One shot at the back of the head had cut off the other man’s laugh, and granted him a way out of the army. It had been nothing personal: he’d even liked Alberto, who had joined the army the same day Ernesto had been drafted and often asked him to sing to pass time. But he’d been a supporter of the government, would have never agreed to run off or keep silent if he did and, in that moment, he’d been the one thing  between him and freedom – so he had to go. Ernesto had been handed a way out, and seized his moment when he had to. He’d keep doing so until he was safe from that stupid war, and the damn army.

They don’t get to complain. They put a gun in hand, taught me to use it, made me use it, made me a murderer. I’m trying to survive. Nothing more.

Reassured that he still had the situation firmly under control, Ernesto went to the basin of water on the small table at the far end of the room, where Gustavo had left a towel, soap and a razor as requested. He threw some water on his face, and looked up into the small mirror to see his reflection for the first time in days.

Maybe it was the thick beard or the dark shadows under his eyes, or the tired look now that he had no jovial act to keep up, but he found himself thinking he looked at least a decade older than he was. But it was all right: the beard would go now, to make him less recognizable in case soldiers just happened to come to Santa Cecilia, and a good night of sleep and a meal - whatever priests were allowed to eat during la Cuaresma would seem like a king’s dinner compared to what he’d been living on - would take care of the rest.

Humming to himself, Ernesto lathered his face with soap and began to shave, careful to leave a mustache so that his face wouldn’t look too naked. By the time he was done and smiled at his reflection in the mirror, he felt a lot better. He could charm those idiots for a couple of days, and that was all he needed. After all, Miguel had described Santa Cecilia as an utter bore of a town.

What could possibly change in two days?

***

“Oye, Imelda. May I come in?”

“... You already let yourself in, so I guess.”

“Thanks. Chocolate?”

“We are supposed to be fasting and giving up on luxuries throughout la Cuaresma.”

“We are also supposed to be committed to lifelong chastity.”

“I am.”

“That’s why I brought you chocolate,” Sister Sofía said lightly, placing the dish with bits of dark chocolate on Imelda’s desk. She rolled her eyes, but then her stomach grumbled and she reached to take one. They weren’t fasting in the sense they ate nothing, of course, but their portions were smaller and, well, she was hungry.

“Isn’t Sister Antonia available to entertain you tonight?”

“Guess what she gave up.”

“Unfortunate.”

“I’ll find something to distract myself. I’ve been picked to help out at the parish, since Gustavo won’t bother to touch the laundry, dust or make meals,” she added, looking entirely too pleased with herself, and popped some chocolate in her mouth. Imelda sighed.

“And I suppose this isn’t due to a newfound passion for laundry, cooking and cleaning.”

“It’s due to curiosity, mostly. We already do all that at the orphanage, anyway.”

“I have serious concerns as to what you’re curious about,” Imelda said drily. “And what made Mother Gregoria pick you of all people? She’s not so stupid she cannot guess--”

“She reaaally wants that donation my papá promised.”

“... Of course,” Imelda muttered. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Sofía’s family’s wasn’t precisely rich, but they owned land and were significantly more well-off than most others. “They came to visit you last week, didn’t they?”

“With a list if potential husbands, and someone ready to write to the Vatican to free me from the loving clutches of the Catholic Church.”

“And none interested you?” she asked, but she already knew the answer. Her own family had been questioning her choice, arguing that it wasn’t a matter of religious calling but rather her ‘womanly stubborness’ to be picky over her marriage perspectives.

Which was, truth be told, absolutely correct, but Imelda would eat a live scorpion before admitting as much. There was absolutely no one-- no one available -- in Santa Cecila whom she could imagine herself married to.

She could have simply stayed unmarried, but the prodding would have never ended; her brothers seemed to be the only ones who didn’t care whether she married or not. Eventually, she’d figured taking the veil would shut them up. It hadn’t quite silenced them yet, but that should change once the novitiate was over and she took her vows.

And then, perhaps - once the Revolution was over - she could sign up to go on missions, to travel, to see places. She would like that. It had been one of the perspectives that had convinced her to take the veil, along with that of a better education. She would have loved to stay at home, in Santa Cecilia… but not at their terms.

“I have standards, Imelda,” Sofía was saying, unaware of her thoughts. “Admittedly low ones, but I have them. Let alone if it’s about something I’d need to endure for more than a night, or however long it takes me to get my hands on arsenic.”

That caused Imelda’s lips to quirk. “Thou shall not kill.”

“A nice suggestion. Are the rifles and bullets in the basement meant to water flower beds?”

Imelda’s smirk faded within a moment. “Not so loud,” she hissed, giving a quick glance towards the closed door of her cell. She turned back to Sofía with a scowl. “I told you, it’s only for a week. They will send for someone to take them soon.”

“I sure hope one of those bullets finds its way into Huerta’s heart, for all the trouble they are,” Sofía muttered, but she did lower her voice. “I’m amazed you haven’t joined the fight, really.”

“I’ll be of better use to the Revolution here,” Imelda replied, and it was true. She could hide weapons, pass on messages, occasionally find a hiding place for someone, and smuggle them in the infirmary if wounded. “They need as many friends in the clergy as possible. Padre Edmundo turned in a blind eye--”

“No, he just really didn’t realize a thing. Trust me.”

“... But we don’t know where this Padre Ernesto stands,” she added, and a sudden thought hit her. She turned to Sister Sofía to see she was grinning. “Oh. So this is what you’re looking to find out by serving at the parish.”

Her grin widened. “Among other things, yes. I’ll report my findings. All of them.”

“Stick to the ones relevant for the cause, if you don’t mind,” Imelda muttered, causing Sofía to chortle before she gave her an oddly serious look.

“Perhaps it is time we involve brother Héctor. He may not be the parish priest, but--”

No, Imelda thought. No. Too dangerous. “Sofía,” she said slowly. “Look at me in the eye and tell me you really think he could keep a secret without it showing on his face clear as day.”

“Oh, I think he’s a better actor than you give him credit for. It’s only his helpless love for you that he cannot hide,” Sofía added, the grin back, and Imelda regretted even replying to her.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she muttered pointedly, and focused on the book in her hands. Not religious reading, but the Lord could forgive her, or mind His own business for once. “I’d like to be left along with my thoughts,” she added, and to her relief Sofía did not insist.

“All right. I’ll leave some chocolate for you here,” was all she said before taking the dish and walking out, leaving Imelda alone with a novel she now couldn’t possibly hope to focus on.

***

“Madre de Dios, Padre, are you really that desperate to meet the Lord early? You need rest. I will let you have a room for another night.”

“If He wills it, I shall gladly meet Him. I must be on my way.”

“It’s a long road to Santa Cecilia. What are you seeking so urgently?”

“Salvation, if I may have the presumption to ask for it. Is this enough for the churro?”

“Qué?”

“The… the burro, I apologize. My Spanish is not… is it enough for the donkey?”

“Sí. You, uh. You may want to take my hat, Padre. The sun beats hard these days, and you’re very... well…” Pablo paused, not quite sure of what he should say. Very white, he’d been about to say, but that wouldn’t be quite correct at the moment, given that the gringo’s face was decidedly reddened by the sun already. “... Sunburnt,” he finally said.

Father John Johnson - what an exotic name, Pablo had thought when he’d introduced himself - turned away from the satchel he’d been trying to the donkey’s saddle, and smiled.

He was already sweating, ridiculously light blond hair plastered to his forehead. He looked young, with a scraggly blond beard along his jaw, but there was something in the thin line of his mouth and the somber expression in the watery blue eyes - a bit unnerving, those - that made him seem strangely old, too.

Then he smiled, and he suddenly didn’t look a day past thirty.

“That would be very kind of you, Paul,” he said. “You truly are a good Samaritan.”

“Pablo. That’s my christian name,” Pablo pointed out, unable to keep some annoyance out of his voice; he had done that before, and kept referring to his son Eduardo as Edward. But he’d caused no trouble and blessed his home as well as paying for his stay without trying to haggle for a lower price, and it was more that could be said of some people. He took off his hat to hand it to that crazy, crazy gringo.

He had to be crazy to be there at all. Mexico wasn’t a good place to be those days, with Huerta’s iron fist on them all and revolutionaries fighting it with all they had, and it could be especially dangerous for an American, depending on who he met on his way. There was no love lost between Huerta and that country, who refused to recognize his regime as legitimate… and as a whole, truth be told, not many people liked gringos for a host of excellent reasons, the theft of their land up north still too fresh in their memories.

Had it not been a priest, and had he not been a God-fearing man, Pablo wouldn’t have let him in his inn - much less give him directions to Santa Cecilia and sell him a donkey, no matter how much money he offered.

“I wish you a safe journey, then,” Pablo said as the priest climbed up on the donkey, a bit clumsily. Not that Pablo had expected him to hop on effortlessly: he was a bit on the pudgy side. The previous night, his wife had quipped that his face looked like a ball of raw dough.

“Thank you,” Father John said, reaching into a satchel as though to check for something. He pulled out a worn-out copy of the Bible, and opened it briefly; Pablo got a glimpse of a piece of paper tucked between the pages, as worn as the Bible itself, like it had been handled and read many times over. The man’s features twisted as if in pain for a moment before he closed the Bible and put it back in the satchel. He nodded at him.

“God bless you, Paul.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. With a sigh and no small amount of effort, Pablo decided to ignore it. “May I ask what you plan on doing in Santa Cecilia, Padre?”

The smile faded a little, and John looked suddenly older again. “The Lord’s work, if He finds me deserving,” he said gravely, and got the donkey moving. “The Lord’s work.”

***

A/N: a note about the OCs: I fully take the blame for Sofía, but it should be known that John is pretty much a collective creation of the Coco Locos server. I only take about 25% of the blame for his pompous ass.

***

[Back to Part 1]

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

New Friend

Rating: G

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 2309

Summary: Baz Pitch gets dragged to his mum's coworker's kids's birthday party. He doesn't know anyone there. But there's always opportunities to make new friends. Based on "platonic kiss" request.

Read on AO3

AN:  So I had to wrack my brain for a scenario for platonic kiss. This is what I came up with. Pure adorable child friends fluff. Hope you all like it :D

Baz

“Mum, why do I have to wear this?” I groan, pulling at my green plaid button down.

“Because we’re going to a party and you should look nice,” my mother coos from the driver’s seat. She has the nicest voice.

“It’s itchy!”

“That’s because it’s new.”

We get to a red light. She reaches back and pats my knee. My tension eases slightly. “Don’t worry, little puff, there’ll be plenty of kids there. I’m sure you’ll have fun.”

I put my hand over her’s “Thanks, mum.”

We arrive at the park shortly. It’s big and green with lots of shady trees. There’s a wood and metal play structure that surely can’t be safe. Next to the kiddie pool, a picnic table is draped with pink plastic sheet and covered in paper plates and food. A banner above reads “HAPPY 9th BIRTHDAY, AGATHA!”

Mum greets a man and a woman, handing them the perfectly wrapped gift box. They don’t really acknowledge me. Big people tend to ignore small people like me. I look around. There’s lots of kids running, some wearing party hats.

“Baz, sweetie.” I look up at my Mum. “Why don’t you go play, hm?”

I nod. “Okay.”

I walk slowly to the playground. I don’t know anyone here, really. The party is for my mum’s coworker’s daughter. She’s the headmaster at Watford, a fancy private school. (I’m too young to go yet. But I will someday.) There’s a blonde girl scampering around with a “birthday girl” crown. Guess that’s Agatha. She’s going up and down the slide with some of her friends. I just stand awkwardly near the edge. I don’t have a lot of friends, and neither of them are here. Plus I’m not good at making new ones. I shuffle my feet in the dirty, looking at my shoes.

“Hello!”

My head snaps up. The other boy, the source of the cheerful voice, stands right in front of me. He looks about my age. His hair is wild mess of bronze curls topped with a party hat. His tawny skin, along with his white shirt and jeans, are all covered in dirt. That wide grin threatens to split his freckled face in two.

I blink a couple times. “Hi...”

“What’s your name?”

“Um, I’m Baz.”

“I’m Simon. I like your shirt. Wanna play?”

It takes a moment for me to process all that information. Simon keeps standing there with that huge smile.

“Uh, sure.”

“Awesome!”

He grabs my wrist and hauls me forward. He drags me to the sand pit. Simon jumps in with a huge leap, and I step in gingerly behind him. We sit there cross legged. I hope I don’t get too much sand on my pants.

Simon hands me a bucket. “Here, wanna make a castle?”

“Okay.”

We pack wet sand into two yellow pails. He smushes it in, brow furrowed in concentration. I go with the more practical route of using a shovel. Of course, I finish before him.

“You ready?” I ask.

Simon nods vigorously. “On three?”

“One,” we say together, “two, three!”

Our buckets smash into the ground. We both pull them up slowly. The second I’m done, mine crumbles, and I can’t help but pout. Guess my sand wasn’t wet enough. I really wanted to make a tower.

“Hey,” Simon says, putting his dirty hand over mine, “it’s alright. Sand can be a big jerk. Wanna go on the swings?”

He’s still smiling. It’s like looking into the sun. How can one person be so bright and cheery? It’s fascinating.

“Okay,” I reply.

“Yay!”

And he’s off like a shot towards the swings. I trail behind. By the time I get there, Simon is on his stomach, throwing his weight back and forth.

“Look I’m Superman!” He shouts. He extends his body flat and makes whooshing noises. I giggle slightly.

I sit like one is supposed to on a swing. I kick my legs back and forth a bit, tossing up some dust.

“So how do you know Aggie?” Simon asks, now tracing circles in the dirt.

“I don’t,” I say curtly. “My mum just works with her parents. How do you know her?”

“Her family and mine are friends. We’ve known each other since we were babies.”

“Really?”

Simon nods vigorously. “M-hm. Her mum says we’re gonna get married one day. But Penny says I don’t have to marry anyone.”

“Who’s Penny?”

“Hey, Simon, tag!”

Another girl runs up and hits Simon’s shoulder with an amazing amount of force. Her brightly coloured clothes are just filthy as his, wild dark curly hair going everywhere. A pair of glasses slide down her nose until she pushes them back up.

“Ow, Penny!” Simon moans. “We’re not even playing!”

Penny (I must assume) puts her hands on her hips and pouts. “Well you’re definitely playing now cause you’re it!”

She dashes off across the playground. Simon looks at me and sighs. “I guess I’m playing now.”

“So it seems.”

“Wanna play too?”

I can’t remember the last time I played tag. Maybe at Dev’s house a few months ago. I usually read alone at recess when people play it at school. So I just nod. Simon smiles menacingly, and smacks my shoulder.

“Then you’re it!” He runs off giggling.

“Hey! Get back here!”

I jump off the swing. He is very fast. My feet throw up lots of wood chips as I run. We bob and weave through the structure. Down the slide, up the monkey bars, everywhere. But he can’t lose me. I just follow the bronze curls and loud laughter.

“You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!” Simon taunts, which only fuels me more. I do not like to lose.

I finally get close enough to do what I plan. I launch forward and tackle him to ground. He practically squeals as we fall. My new shirt is going to be filthy from this, but I don’t care. I'm having too much fun. We roll and tumble on the dirty ground. Simon and I laugh and yell far too loudly. He kicks my legs and smashes his fist against my back. He’s scrappy, but I’m strong and stubborn.

“Simon Snow Salisbury what are you doing?!”

We stop to look up. It’s a tall blonde woman. Her hair is curly like Simon’s but much longer. She’s definitely got the same sort of freckles and blue eyes as him. She looms over us, arms crossed and tapping the toe of her sandal.

“We’re playing, Mum,” Simon says with a sheepish smile.

“Well it looks like you’re fighting again. I thought we talked about this. It’s not nice to fight!”

I quickly stand up. “No no, don’t worry Ms. Salisbury, I attacked him first. He was just fighting back.”

Simon stands up too. “And we were just playing! I wasn’t gonna really hurt him.”

Ms. Salisbury’s lips twist, then she sighs. “Very well. As long as it was just fun. And I came here to tell you it’s time for cake.”

Simon gasps and throws his hands in the air. “I love cake!”

She giggles, ruffling his hair. “I know, dearie. Now come along. You too... oh I didn’t catch your name, sweetheart.”

I stick out my hand, like my father has taught me to. “Baz Grimm-Pitch.”

Ms. Salisbury blinks in confusion, then takes my hand. She shakes it delicately. “Hello, Baz. I’m Lucy.” Her eyebrows move together. “Is... your mother Natasha Grimm-Pitch?”

“Uh-huh.”

Lucy grins widely. Simon seems to have inherited that look from her. “Oh lovely! I should’ve known, you look just like her. But it’s been ages since we’ve seen each other. I must talk to her later. Come on now.”

I follow them to the picnic table. All the other kids are sitting down. Penny waves and pats the spot next to her, which Simon takes. I stand awkwardly, unsure what to do. There’s no room anywhere. Simon turns to look at me, expression concerned. He shoves closer to Penny and motions for me to sit. I nod graciously, then sit next to him.

Agatha’s mother brings out a huge pink cake with lots of candles. We sing together. Simon does so very loudly. He’s off key but enthusiastic. Agatha blows out her candles eagerly. Thankfully, the adults get to passing out slices quickly. I really want some cake. I love anything sugary and sweet. My father says my sweet tooth is out of control.

Simon eats with gusto. Pink icing gets all over his face, from nose to chin. I laugh at his messiness.

“Jeez Simon,” Penny sighs, “can you not find your own mouth?”

Simon sticks his tongue. Which is also covered in frosting. I chuckle even more. Simon elbows my side with a half smile.

“So, Baz,” Penny says, “what do you like to do?”

Simon nods. “Yeah what do you do for fun?” He says, mouth still filled with cake.

“Um, I read a lot, I’m learning violin, and I play football.”

“I’ve never been good at football,” Simon sighs. He turns to me wide eyed. “Could you teach me?”

“Sure, some other time. I don’t have a football here now.”

“Awesome! You can come to my house. We can play with my LEGOs!”

“Can I come too?” Penny asks.

Simon nods. “Of course! We gotta ask my mum though.”

“Ask your mum what?”

Lucy seems to manifest behind us. She kisses the top of her son’s head. He looks up at her with that Salisbury grin.

“Can Baz and Penny come over some time? We want to play football and LEGOs.”

“Sure. As long as Mitali and Natasha are okay with it. But you’re actually going to be seeing more of Baz and Penny very soon.”

Simon gasps. “What does that mean?”

“Yeah,” I say, “what do you mean?”

“I mean, that you’re all going to Watford together in a couple years.”

All three of us smile. Simon claps in excitement, bouncing in his seat. I’ve always known that I was going to go to Watford someday and I’ve always been excited, but it’s even better that I’ll know more people there. Especially Simon.

“That’s awesome!” Simon yells. “Is Aggie going too?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Simon claps again. He turns to Penny. “What if, you and Aggie are roommates,” he turns to me, “and you and I are roommates? Then we could all have someone! And we can be one big group!”

His happiness is infectious. I can’t help but smile. “That’d be awesome.”

“Yeah!”

Simon resumes piling cake in his mouth, and so do I. (It’s very good.) Though we soon stop to discuss our favourite superheroes. I like Batman, but he makes a very strong case for Superman.

The sun is setting by the time Simon and I are in the sandpit again. Our sand castle is perfect. (He taught me a trick to pack the sand better.) Simon drives a stick into the top turret.

“What should we call our fortress?” he asks.

I lean my chin on my fist. “Hm. Sand Fortress?”

Simon shakes his head. “No that’s boring! How about, Dragon Castle?”

“Why dragon?”

He shrugs. “I just like dragons. Don’t you?”

“They’re cool. I like vampires more though. They’re scary!”

“True! Then this,” he gestures to our creation, “is the Dragon-Vampire Castle!”

I practically beam. “Perfect. And we’ll use our magic powers to protect it.” I pick up a stick and swish it around like a wand. Simon picks up his own and clashes it with mine.

“Baz and Simon, wizard protectors!” he shouts.

We start drawing patterns in Dragon-Vampire castle with our wands. That is, until two shadows appear over us.

“Well well,” my mum’s voice says, “what have you boys been up to?”

We turn to face our mothers. They look down at us with smiles.

“We made a Dragon-Vampire castle. And we’re the wizard guards.” Simon says. I nod in agreement.

“That's lovely, sweetie,” Lucy coos. She leans down and pinches his cheek. “My rosebud boy, the great wizard.”

“Muuuum!” He swats away her hand. “I told you that you can’t call me that anymore. I’m too big now!”

“Oh you’re never too big to be my rosebud boy. But now,” she stands up with her hand outstretched, “it’s time to head home.”

“Noooooo!” We both whine.

“Oh don’t give us that,” my mum says, “you two have been playing for hours! Lucy and I will arrange a playdate soon. Plus, I bet you’ll see plenty of each other at Watford in a couple years.”

“Alright,” Simon sighs. He stands up and shakes off the sand. I follow, brushing dirt off my shirt sleeves. We walk to our mothers. Mum leans down to my level, face all pinched together.

“Goodness Basil, your face is filthy,” she mutters. She licks her thumb and tries to wipe it off. I push her away.

“Ugh Mum! Gross!”

Simon laughs heartily. I turn to him with a scowl, but his smile makes all my ill will disappear.

“Now Simon,” Lucy says, “say goodbye to Baz.”

“Bye Baz!” He wraps his arm around me in a big bear hug, and plants a big wet kiss on my cheek. My eyes widen. Only my Mum kisses my cheek and it’s usually only a peck. It feels weird, but nice. I hug him back.

“Bye Simon.”

Simon pulls away with one last wave. I wave too. Mum and I walk in opposite direction together.

“Did you have fun today, little puff?” she asks.

Thinking about today's activity, it's been amazing. I made a friend, and that’s a very big achievement for me. I absentmindedly touch the spot on my cheek where Simon kissed me. All I can think about is how much I want to see him again. Simon Salisbury, my new friend. “Yeah, definitely.”

AN: Another request done! I pretty much based this off how my friends and I played when we were little. A lot of superheroes and stuff. Hope you enjoyed it!

PS: These kiss requests have been keeping me very happy this summer. I'm astounded how many people want to read my work. I just want to say thank you for that :)