#have you seen gale and hozier in the same room?

[nyxtheredbird]

I HAVE A TYPE, I KNOW

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.4}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) – (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

A/N: forgot to mention this in ANY of the previous parts but i do have a silly spotify playlist for this silly man. includes a LOT of hozier because... i mean.... y'all know exactly why. (Link)

Word Count: 5.9k

“I’m not sure that I’m understanding.” You frown, leaning against his desk, raising a hand to scratch at your head, combing over his words once more, trying to make sense of them through whatever means necessary. “You’re going on a trip? You? Gale Dekarios? Mister stays-in-his-tower-all-day, the same man who sends me just to fetch fresh water?” You laugh, truly figuring he was joking. That, maybe, he was trying to play you for a fool – and yet he looked so terribly solemn, the opposition an unsettling sight, and his expression only served to further disorient you.

“Yes, the Wizard of Waterdeep is leaving his tower. I know such a feat is quite unimaginable, but I assure you, I speak with complete honesty. I have matters to attend to that require my presence elsewhere. I’ll be leaving you to the tower, though you won’t be completely on your own. Tara will remain here by your side,” he explains, running a hand through his hair. His hand pauses when it rests on his hairline, holding back the front strands to clear his view, and he looks down at the hide pack grasped in his left hand. He angles his head back up at his bookshelf, pondering which of the story is most necessary to bring along with him. 

“Damn, it wasn’t the flowers, was it?” You chuckle awkwardly, breaking your attention away from your mentor to look at the flowers you’d picked yesterday, showing their first signs of wilting despite sitting in a vase of fresh water. You had only Gale’s misfortune with plants to blame. He hadn’t opened up last night, despite your ambitions, but they’d brought a smile – and the faintest of blushes – to his face, and that was good enough. Though now in retrospect the offering-slash-gift seemed a little too forward, and your attempt at a joke stemmed from the mildest of insecurities that maybe the indigo petals had given him the wrong idea and rendered him uncomfortable. 

“Pardon?” He asks, standing up straight again, his backpack hanging loosely from the curled fingers that held it, and you look back at him, meeting his gaze. You can’t quite place the reasoning behind why your stomach sinks, but there’s no mistaking the discomfort of a growing pit in your abdomen. There’s a nearly mystical forlornness in the creases on his face, and his eyes appear dim; you’re sure it isn’t the lighting in the room that makes them out to be so cheerless, as he faces the sun and it lights his features up in all ways except emotionally. 

“Is everything okay, Mr. Dekarios?” You ask, your tone quiet and more anxious than you mean to let on. No longer leaning so casually against his desk, you dare to take a step towards him, head craning to the left as you search his eyes, though you only find them to be harshly guarded from your inspection.

“There’s truly no need for such formalities,” he replies, straightening out his posture and taking in a quick breath, a dreadfully forced smile replacing the careful line that his lips had been forming. He lifts the backpack, jostling it, and nods his head. “I’m alright. Well, save for the slightest traces of stress, if I may be so daringly sincere as to admit it.”

You pause your approach, not wanting to scare him should he prove skittish if you get too close, and you fold your hands behind your back, glancing at the contents of the traveling pack he holds. You can’t see much, but you are able to make out the off-white cylindrical shape of a scroll. “Might I inquire why it is that you’re feeling stressed? If you know why, that is.” 

Gale contemplates the request, a commonly seen – at least on Gale – introspective expression knitting his eyebrows, urging you to remain patient as he crafts a response. Eventually, he concentrates on you again, subconsciously dipping his head. “I expect the trip to be a long one, is all. I fear I’ll miss this sentimental belfry. As dusty and aged as it is, I’ve spent countless hours inside of these walls – If it weren’t for Tara, I’m quite sure I would’ve made friends of the bricks and family of the columns long ago,” he muses, his sarcasm tainted with uneasy contrition. 

“Well, you know it’ll be waiting for you whenever you come back. If it makes you feel better, I’ll keep my perfect fire bolts to my own trained hands until I have you to supervise me again,” you laugh, tone purposefully parodic to lighten the mood, but the older man quickly shakes his head.

“Oh, gods, no – you’ll be doing no such thing,” he forbids, his immediate frown quickly softening out of instinct, as though he means to hide how serious his disapproval is. “You proceed with your studies and your practice, even if it is only Tara who can be present to guide you. I expect the flame to be perfected upon my next arrival,” he chuckles, and you find peace in his relaxation. Unfortunately, his pleasant expression is momentary, and the amusement in his smile fades as quickly as it came, leaving you with an unfamiliar turmoil in your gut, some twisting mix of doubt and rue.

Intent on making said amusement return, you don’t allow your own dissatisfaction to reveal itself, instead choosing to gloss over the strange ache by shrugging and rolling your eyes, further pursuing your playful façade. “Well, with you as my mentor, I’m certain I’m already on my merry little way to being the next Mystra – I’ll most definitely have a seat at the table of gods by the time you return.” Your lighthearted tease earns a quick cringe from the wizard, the outer corners of his eyes creasing as he virtually recoils, and then chokes out a fractured chuckle, shifting his gaze to the left.

Before you can ask what agitated him to the extent of deserving such a reaction, he speaks, the distress forcefully plucked from his face. “Beware – that’s quite the promise you’re making. Though it would be nothing short of an honor for this old stone nest to have hosted a premature god.” 

“A bigger honor to have mentored one, no?” You remind him, cocking an eyebrow. 

“I’ll be pleased so long as you manage to remember me, even once you’ve reached such admirable degrees of power. Praise my name to the high heavens – should you be so inclined.”

Why his response feels so incredibly despondent, you can’t really place. His tone takes on a strange, distant hurt – as though he were dejected by the mere idea of your potential (though rather improbable) apotheosis. However, such an attitude from the man who was, himself, mentored and sponsored by the very goddess you so jokingly threatened is… certainly implausible – it has to be – so you brush off the feeling as nothing more than a result of his unrelated stresses accidentally bleeding into this topic. Clearing your throat, you approach him, and the next expression on his face comes in the form of suspicion, though whatever mild paranoia might be cursing him isn’t strong enough to convince him to step away from you. Once comfortably close, maybe even a little too close, you look to the books decorating the dark wood shelf, pouting as you contemplate. “Fiction?”

Even if it does take him a second to process what you mean, he nods, clearing his own throat and shifting his attention to the variety of options, all of them being books he’s read far more than once, but familiarity never did keep him from enjoying the plots, or so he liked to tell you. “Indeed. I’m aiming for something to keep me company in the case of free time. Stories tend to pass that time quicker than studies, and… I’d rather leave any education material behind – for you, of course.”

“Do you plan on having a lot of free time during your trip?” You ask, merely aiming to keep the conversation up as you scan his choices, weighing the possibilities as you try to imagine what he may enjoy rereading the most.

“In all truthfulness, it may only be free time that I find myself with,” he sighs, a quiet thump following his admission, and you look down towards the noise to find his travel pack now resting on the ground. Slumped, and open wider than it was previously, the contents are revealed to your prying eyes; the silver glint of a blade, the scroll you saw previously, a jeweled ring that glows with a faint orange, and at the very bottom is a lazily-wrapped bedroll, haphazardly stuffed into the pit of the bag. You expected to find a change of clothes, a little bit of gold for wherever he plans to visit, but find only an absence of what you deemed traveling necessities.

“Where are you going?” 

Turning your body reveals that Gale had moved across the room while you were investigating his package, and now he stood hovering over his desk, one palm flat against the surface. You were left only to watch the back of his head as he chose to gaze out at his balcony rather than meet your curious – and very concerned – stare. You know something is wrong, you’ve known all along, and you’d thought, or at least very desperately hoped you were overreacting. At least then you could ignore your aimless quells and instead put that energy towards cheering him up and making things better, but you are quickly realizing that whatever disturbs him is far outside of your pay grade, and understanding your hopelessness as an assistant is no help in overcoming his contagious dread. “North,” he answers, devoid of emotional attachment, his tone as dry as his throat. You shift your weight from your right hip to your left, an idle adjustment to bear whatever burdens he carries, aiming to prepare yourself for where this conversation could be leading.

“And… what exactly is waiting for you up north?” Your body moves forward in a slow three-step stride, your action haunted by the same hesitancy you exercised upon first meeting him, as if you don’t know the man who stands in front of you now. 

“Solidarity.” He inhales, slow and restrained. Then his head drops, releasing that same breath. He continues; “You’re a good soul. A fine housemate – an even better apprentice. You deserve transparency, but I’ve allowed our conversations to remain fogged by my own guilty conscience. Of course, all secrecy has really done is riddle me with more guilt, and yet I prolonged your innocence.”

“I’m… not following,” you speak tenderly, the tension rising both in the air around you and in your throat, grieving whatever confession he teases before he’s even announced it. 

“I won’t be returning. This trip will be my last. Due only to my own faults – there is no blame to be shared, before you ask.” He stares down at his desk, but then his focus shifts, and he watches your frame out of the corner of his eye, head just barely turned to see more of you in his peripherals. “I understand I’m asking a lot of you. To abruptly entrust you with the care of this tower, and my belongings, and darling Tara, it is a callous and inhuma–”

“Why?” 

Gale falls silent, his mouth closing, his preplanned defense never making it off of his tongue. There’s stillness for far too long, neither of you managing a word. It makes you wonder if he’s trying to be cruel, leaving your mind to its wandering, silently panicked thoughts. You can’t help but begin trying to decipher the codes in his body language, in the interactions you’ve had with him recently, in the hints of his teachings gone unsaid, or in the secrets he’s never shared. 

Just as you find yourself on a cliff’s edge of emotions, throat stinging with the urge to cry, your mentor stands up straight and approaches you, stopping when he’s a few inches away. He reaches for your wrist. He holds it, tenderly, the delicacy of his touch posing a silent request. Only after investigating the melancholy hazel of his eyes do you lift your wrist towards him, allowing him to guide it until you find yourself in a distantly familiar position.

He stands before you, holding your wrist in the space between your bodies while his spare hand takes a hold of the neckline of his robe, sliding it several inches down his chest, revealing the full mark of the weave, scattered brown hairs hardly shielding the brand from exposure. From there, he raises your wrist a little higher, and you recall the last time he allowed you to get this close, the memory leading you to straighten your hand and lay it against the pulse of the blight. Your touch is gentle at first, but when he gives a small nod, you ease your concerns and press more firmly, feeling the surprising softness of his skin, the texture of the hairs on his chest, and the distant beating of his tortured heart. 

Last time, you recall being mildly surprised at the heat it produced, as it had been centralized in such a small location. This time, you feel the artificial warmth radiating off of his chest from further regions than just the pinpoint location of the orb. And it’s much higher in temperature than you remember, his ribs home to a silently raging furnace. You can’t help but feel intimidated – not by Gale, but instead by what he contains. It beats much like his heart, but it’s slower, and yet even more determined. While you hardly understand why, you feel connected to a starving malice within him, some inhuman spirit that seeks a meal you aren’t sure truly exists, at least not in this realm. 

You look up at him, his eyes trained on the hand that rests on his chest. You’ve never seen worry so clearly displayed on his face; his eyebrows aren’t furrowed, but they’re firm, drawing faint lines in his forehead. His mouth doesn’t frown, it idles, waiting for the words to come to him before he makes any attempt to speak. His story is told in his eyes; the way he counts your fingers as they stem a connection with the weave, grounding himself in the stir of emotions, his gaze troubled and lost, nothing more than a clueless shell of the powerful sage he makes himself out to be. The powerful sage he’d made you believe in.

“It is the only god I answer to.” Gale meets your eye, the emotions that swirl behind his irises cause them to tremble, and you feel as though he seeks something from you. “It is all that I am; a vessel for the weave. I cannot run, I cannot hide, I cannot escape it. Try as I might to keep it satisfied, there is always more that it craves. This wildfire within me will reign carnage unforeseen by any prophecies, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it. The artefacts – they hold it back, but I’ve found it burns with newfound impatience. It wills for destruction, whether it be the body of the host or of those around me. As difficult a choice as it is to make, it is an inevitable one, and I much prefer the former of my options. I’d rather no books be written about the Wizard of Waterdeep than bard’s fables on the extirpation caused by his shameful gluttony.”

“So you’re going north?” You whisper.

“So I’m going north,” he repeats. “I’ll travel until I reach empty plains, perhaps even uninhabited mountains. Some place quiet, some place lonely, some place where my curse will not befall others. This is my fate, and mine alone. I only pray that my final chapter is selfless enough to rewrite Selûne’s judgment of me.”

“Why haven’t you told me any of this before?”

Gale hesitates, and you see the ridge in his throat flinch as he gulps. “I thought it to be a mercy; to spare you from the truth was to spare you wholly. In hindsight, I recognize that this cat would claw its way out of the bag no matter the precautions I took, and my secrecy ultimately worked against my intentions – which I assure you, were nothing but the best – to protect you. Recently, if I may confess, I’ve come to doubt my decision to take you in.”

Your eyebrows flinch, you blink, unsure how you should respond – unsure how he expects you to respond. “Doubt?” You ask, deciding to allow him to share his story before you form an opinion on the matter.

“I believe I was desperate – not that I was fearful,” he clarifies, though the thin, watery line that sits on his lower eyelid betrays his defense, “but I reckon I didn’t think over my original promise to you as thoroughly as I should have. The truth is, I needed a second life. A chance to extend my own through a means that I understand, and have always understood, to be impossible – ambitious at best. I worry for Tara. I worry for this home. I worry for the secrets contained in my journals, or the studies that I have spent my entire lifetime, as short as it will soon be, perfecting and building. I yearned for an insurance; a way to prevent my existence from being a worthless one. If my intelligence enlightens no minds, if my studies save no lives, if my talent manipulating the weave means nothing, then I am nothing. I only wish to be more than a mere vessel for this scourge in my chest.” He pauses, his gentle hold on your wrist growing a bit firmer, and he closes his eyes, as though ashamed of the confessions he whispers. “My worries led me to you, believing you to be the answer to them. I never could have predicted that you would become my greatest worry of all.” 

Now, you let your lips curve into a frown, and he seems further wounded by your physical reaction. “More than a vessel? That’s–” You can’t prevent a scoff from leaving your throat, and you shake your head. “You’re not just the orb, Gale. You’re a person. You were a man before it, and you’re still a man now, aren’t you?” 

Gale’s hurt turns to confusion, and he shakes his head as well. “You’re not understanding.”

“No, I’m not,” you cut back, disbelief clear in your tone. “You’re the Wizard of Waterdeep. You act like you’ve never done anything of importance.” You retract your hand, and Gale is hesitant to release his grip, but he does nonetheless. “What are you even running from? If you want to make a difference, then stay and make one. Did you eat a bad meal? Are you seriously thinking straight?” You question, brows furrowed. 

“Your words flatter me, but I fear I haven’t made myself clear. I can’t stay. This mistake is not a mere embarrassment, this is not just an attempt to flee from my problem. There is no avoiding this fate. I’m going to die.” 

It’s unlike you to feel genuine frustration – anger – at a situation, especially one brought on by Gale’s words, but you can’t help the near boil in your chest. “You sound pathetic,” you huff, and Gale’s lack of insult only irritates you further. “Look around, Gale! Look at you.” You point at the black circle on his chest, prodding it with your finger. “You told me, when we first met, that you were a prodigy. That you were a master of the weave. I mistook you for arrogant, but that was being modest. You were, you are, Mystra’s chosen – who are you talking about now? Because I know it’s not the Gale Dekarios who has sheltered me, taught me, and supported me. I know it’s not the Gale Dekarios I’ve shared books and home with for the last year and a half.”

“You sound like my mother,” he chuckles, as if anything about the situation is amusing. “I’ve heard this speech before. You need not waste your breath on an inevitable doom such as myself. Please, save it. There are much better words to spend your time crafting.” He doesn’t scold you, he doesn’t defend himself, he merely deflects your disagreement, and you scoff – you’ve heard self-deprecation from him before, all of the prior remarks being attempts at humor, but there’s no sarcasm lacing his tongue this time around. 

“Do I mean nothing to you?” You ask, stern, barely keeping composure. 

That question seems to stir something within him, and he frowns. “Of course you mean something to me. You mean plenty to me – more than you may ever understand. Don’t be foolish.” 

“Yet you keep refusing to hear me out.”

“There is nothing to hear out,” he argues, a short sigh leaving his lips, signs of a growing irritation. You feel the need to latch onto that – to see him get angry means that he cares, and you needed to know that he cared, because he spoke about his own death as if it held the same importance as a simple meal. Like this suicide mission he threatened was a mere walk in the woods. It made you sick. 

“Grant me an audience, if you care. Even if you don’t care about yourself – if you care for me, as you’ve said you do, all I ask is that you listen.”

“There is no changing what I’ve been afflicted with – there is no undoing this curse I’ve wrought upon myself,” he continues, taking a step back and closing his eyes, searching for some kind of calm. If he believed you would grant him that mercy when he refused to have any mercy on you, he was more of an idiot than you’d ever expected. 

“You’re being unreasonable. For such an intelligent man, you’re closer to a jester than any wizard I’ve ever known. You are not just this curse – You are a scholar, and an accomplished sage, and a friend, and a son, and a mentor!”

“For the love of all that is blessed – stop talking!” He barks, shaking his head, his eyes squinted, his stress forming shallow lines across his forehead. He takes a moment, breathes, and then opens his eyes again and steps forward, placing his hands on your shoulders as though to steady you. “No matter your words, I am still a threat to every living being around me. The orb is unstable, I know this for a fact. I am living on borrowed time. Should I stay, I risk leveling the entirety of this city we call home and dousing it in a thick red paste that was once the breathing civilians. I have studied this feat, and all that may relate to it in even the slightest parallels, and there is no solution. No amount of words – read or heard – can prevent fate. Yell and bicker to your heart’s content, but know that it will all amount to nothing.”

“You speak without a care in the world for yourself. Aren’t you scared?” You’re pleading at this point, unable to grasp the idea that he’ll be gone so soon, that this disappearance has been building for as long as you’d known him and yet you remained utterly unaware. It was the content of nightmares, and yet he stared you in the face with such assurance. 

“I am terrified,” he sighs, grip tightening on your shoulders. “But I must trust destiny’s path for me. I will walk this road alone, just as I truly deserve. Your ‘great mentor’ is no more than a shell of a mortal man, and I have survived off of my greed alone. I could not be content with everything Mystra so graciously offered me, and I am facing the consequences of that naivety.”

“What are you talking about?” Again, you shake your head – you aren’t sure what else to do. You’re completely lost, unable to help the man you pledged your allegiance to. The man who took you in, who looked after you and asked only for your assistance in return for his undying generosity, is in need of assistance and you, his only trusted assistant, are completely unable to help him. It feels cruel, to him and to yourself. 

“Mystra was not merely my mentor. She was everything to me. My entire world revolved around her, and to an extent, it still does – She guided me to possess the wonders of the weave in ways I never imagined possible, and did it all while allowing me to share a bed with her, and find a place within her heart. I owe my life, body, and soul to her, and yet I was not pleased with the power she lent me.”

Only further confused, you blink several times, his words finding your mind a difficult place to settle in with the tornado of thoughts and feelings that raged within your skull. “You– You were her lover?”

“I understand it’s hard to believe, a mere mortal man laying with her holiness, and it only deepens the canyon that is my regret. I believed I could prove my undying love for her through means no other mortal has ever even dared of imagining. Well, through means only one other man has ever dared attempting. Do you recall the story of Karsus?” He asks, taking in a deep breath, and you reply with only a small nod. “See, when Mystra was resurrected to rule the weave, there was a part of the weave that remained inaccessible to even her great power. A fool I was, to believe I could retrieve that final piece without repercussions. In my pursuit of professing my boundless affections and gratitude for her, I opened a pandora’s box, and when Mystra learned of my disobedience to her orders, she left me. Rightfully so.”

“She what?” Your jaw slacks, the buffet of this new information providing only a headache where you expected answers. It made sense, now, why he was so touchy at the mention of her – this curse he found himself hexed by was caused by his feelings for her, feelings you never even knew existed, and she’d abandoned him in his time of need?

“As you know, the piece became one with my body, and has left me with an incurable appetite for the magic contained in enchanted artifacts. The temporary stabilization those consumptions provided has long past fled, and I find the orb entirely out of my control. Without satisfaction, it threatens to rupture, and it will reign tragedy on my surroundings with my body as the time bomb – you understand I do mean that quite literally. I am a danger. A threat. I am the blight within me, no matter your objections, however passionate and good-spirited they may be.” 

It isn’t only the presence of his hands that make your shoulders feel so heavy. It was far too soon in your apprenticeship for him to part, but with the urgency in which he spoke, it wouldn’t be long before he left. You were angry – or, at least you most certainly should be angry. You should be yelling at him, scolding him for springing this on you at the last possible moment, and you even go so far as to lock eyes with him, prepared to voice your pounding thoughts, and yet it’s the eye contact that renders you speechless. The only thing you feel aside from your confusion is a stirring guilt. Your mouth falls open, tongue seeking the words that your throat lacks, and you shake your head, pleading with him, pleading with his fate. 

Gale looks at you with pity. It stings worse, like salt in the open wound that was your bleeding heart, to know the man who would soon be forced to tangle with death took pity on you. The hands on your shoulders pull you in, and you lean into his chest, expecting to cry, but you can’t even manage tears. His arms wrap around you, and your upper half falls limp, relying on his strength to support you. Strength you’ll soon be without. 

It’s stupid to cry, and you’re almost glad that you fail to do so. It’s stupid to be worked up over. The entire situation is hopeless. Perhaps there is solace to be found in understanding that it’s inevitable, that there is nothing you could possibly do to change the circumstances, but you struggle to see that as a silver lining. 

There was still so much to learn – so much he needed to teach you. He was leaving you a fortune, a home, even a companion, and yet you were utterly ungrateful. He didn’t understand, he couldn’t possibly understand, that you’d only ever be satisfied with him, and there was no point in communicating that now. It would only serve to increase his guilt, and he deserved what little peace may come with believing you’d somehow manage without him. Eventually, you aren’t sure how long it takes exactly, you return the hug, your hands clasping behind his back. 

The mood is long past soured, but his warmth is unchanged. The comfort he provides is as persistent and reassuring as ever, even if it does little to quell your concerns. Your appreciation of him thus far, as endless as it has been, has certainly not been enough. So you appreciate this moment as much as you can, burning it into your memory. His warmth, the faint, familiar scent of sandalwood and sage, the sound of his breathing – his presence as an entirety. Memories would never do him justice, you knew that, but memories would soon be the best you could manage of him, so they had to be perfect, clear, permanent. Even when you tighten your hold on him, refusing to give him up so easily, he doesn't say anything, allowing the bliss-laced ignorance of fate to linger for a little longer. Where you just about burrow into his chest, his hug is much gentler, polluted by the bittersweetness of his proclamation. Although the contact is minimal and noticeably restrained, his chin rests on one of your shoulders, his stress evident even in the reticent huffs of his breathing. 

However much you wish otherwise, the hug too comes to an end, and Gale pulls away, leaning down to be perfectly eye-level with you, an all-too-familiar snide smile on his face. He holds your jaw with one hand, while the other remains on your shoulder, and both hands squeeze where they rest. “I have no doubt that you’ll make me proud. All I ask is not to let this place rot away without me. I don’t expect you to carry on my studies, or ‘gain a place at the table of the gods’. I only wish for you to find success. Follow your dreams, the whole spiel. Wherever you may find that happiness is entirely up to you. I’ll rest easy so long as it is found.” 

You return his smile – as empty as it is, you want to give him hope. Of course, it’s hard to pull from an empty trough, but perhaps he doesn’t mind. With a pat of your cheek, he stands up straight again, taking in a breath and returning his attention to the books he’d been perusing before the whirlwind of a confession. Helplessly attached, you lean against his side, shifting your attention as well. After a few moments of scanning, you approach the shelf and reach for the faded orange cover of a book, the silver words embedded on the spine having lost their shimmer long ago. Gale tilts his head, curious at your choice, and you glance over the cover before handing it off to him.

“The Would-Be Saint,” he remarks, taking hold of the book and looking over it himself. In search of a confirmation, he looks up at you, meeting your eye. You nod, and only then does he reach for his traveling pack and slip the book inside. 

“When do you leave?” 

“I’ll make my departure this afternoon.”

“I’ll miss you.” The words have to be squeezed out of your still tensely tightened throat, and you offer another small nod, not wanting to say more for fear of cracking. The two of you would never see one another again – you want to leave him with a positive image of you, you’d hate to add to his worries. Staying strong wouldn’t make up for your inability to fix the situation, but at least it was something.

“I’ll miss you too,” he replies, still smiling, and you wonder if he is attempting the same false composure as you. Your perception of him could never be ruined, or even damaged, but you remind yourself that you should still be grateful for the generous thought. 

Then, there’s a moment where you can’t quite read his eyes, as the anguish in his expression is clouded by some other, notably foreign, emotion. It lasts just a moment – and then he looks away, towards his balcony, and clears his throat, and the mystery vanishes. It leaves you with a new, small but certainly present, twitch of discomfort, and you attempt to follow his lead, distracting yourself with the surroundings. 

“I need to gather a few more items to bring along with me. If you’ll excuse me,” he says, dipping his head and moving towards the door. You reach for him, catching his arm and stopping him in his tracks. He looks back at you, his face slightly red, but you assume it’s due to the vulnerability he expressed in the conversation.

“Please don’t leave without saying goodbye,” you request.

He sparks a small smile, and he shakes his head. “I would never. I’ll return to you for a better final moment. I’d hate to leave this off on such a melancholy note.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

You hold his gaze for an extra moment before releasing him, trusting him wholly; he wouldn’t lie to you. Especially not about this. He gives one last nod before walking away, and you decide to spend the rest of your morning in his study, picking up spare items that are out-of-place, making the room a little neater. It’s a nervous tidying, most certainly, but you hope it will keep you busy. And you want his final viewing of the study to be a pleasant one, not one tainted by his stressed irresponsibility. 

–   –   –

“I’ve made a mistake. A terrible, nightmarish, dire mistake.”

“Oh, you’ve made plenty of those, Mr. Dekarios. What is it this time?”

“I can’t leave. I can’t possibly leave.”

The tip of her tail flicked, and then a low purr followed, vibrating with a sense of pride – of amusement. “Foolish boy. You’ve realized, haven’t you? I’d believed you’d be clueless enough to remain completely unaware; you had me worried for a moment there.”

“Worried?” He squints at the Tressym, confusion replacing his guilty expression.

“You didn’t really think I’d be so eager to release you? Oh, you doubt me. I’m wounded. You don’t have the heart to disappear. You just needed a reason to stay.”

“I don’t want a reason to stay.”

“But you’ve found it, haven’t you?”

“Against my better judgment.”

Another purr, this one sounding more akin to a chuckle. “What mistake have you made, dear?”

“I’ve allowed my heart to overrule my head.”

“A wondrous thing, love is.”

“A treacherous thing.”

[hollyhomburg]

Reasons Wretched and Divine (Pt.2)

(Dog hybrid! Namjoon x Reader) (ft. Bear! Taehyung) (Eventual Polyamory) 

Tags: graphic domestic abuse, minor body horror, blood, major character death, hybrid mistreatment, implied spousal rape, unplanned pregnancy, depression, nightmares, PTSD, Dog hybrid! Namjoon, Bear Hybrid! Taehyung, 

W/C: 5.2k

Song Rec: Hozier- to be alone

A/n: so yeah! here is the much-awaited second part of reasons wretched and divine! No jimin or yoongi in this yet. but it’s coming! 

- There is a moment when everything shifts, the world spinning off its kilter. You tearfully holding the pregnancy test in your hands, the horror welling up in your stomach that Namjoon feels in turn when it really really hits him what it means, what you’ve been going through. 

- Because he’s seen the hickeys, but he never thought- it never made sense- but now- You're hyperventilating, your breaths coming in deep gasps that rattle around your chest like a gale-force wind. Namjoon holds you up, stopping you from falling to the bathroom floor.

- Your lower lip quivers, and your shoulders to small for all the ache that lies between. You ghasp out his name “Joon- Joonie- this can’t happen- this wasn’t supposed to happen to me- if I have his kid- he’s never going to let me go.”  

- Namjoon wishes- wishes beyond anything he’s ever wanted- every desire he’s ever had because this takes precident- he wishes that the pregnancy test could be wrong. 

- But as he lets out his own choked breath even he can admit-  your scent is changing, it’s different now than it was when he first met you. slowly shifting to become somehow softer and sweeter, a change that he can’t quite place yet but probably would have been able to tell in a few days and now that he knows he can pinpoint it. 

- “Namjoon- I can’t” you sob and he pulls you to his chest, thanking his lucky stars that this happened when your husband was at work, that he’s not here for this. “I don’t want to raise them here- I don’t want this-” 

- Namjoon swallows back his panic, the part of his brain that was trained to deal with crisis taking over, knowing that once he suggests this the future might be out of his hands.  “We can leave- we’ll go- I think- We could leave now- it might be our only chance-“ 

- In a very haphazard way you grab as much as you can carry, and the money you keep around the house and a few things you can pawn maybe, you throw it in the first bag you can get your hands on. 

-  It’s probably better if you stay off the roads Namjoon’s says, and he knows that there are some train tracks a little ways away through the woods- you’ve heard the sound of it on occasion on the quieter nights- you could follow that. You might have an old college friend in the city you could stay with and Namjoon does too- the old captain, Namjoons old partner- maybe him. 

- Maybe he could take you to the police station and you could give a statement- and if the police system really was for protecting the people, maybe that would be enough to put your husband in jail.  

- You pile everything into one bag and don your most sturdy coat- in a panic you don’t think to check. Only to open the door to find your husband about to reach for the doorknob, come back from work early. 

- The way your husband just grabs Namjoon’s arm and twists it until it breaks will haunt you forever- the savage crack that started the worst night of your life.

- Namjoon’s scream echos off the walls. your husband closes the front door calmly. Freedom and safety so close and yet, so out of reach. Your hopes falling in a second. 

- What happens next isn’t pretty, the night passes on in a blur of pain and words that will haunt your dreams, and will one day make you reach for namjoon after- reassure yourself that he’s still there, that he’s still alive, that you both survived. 

- He goes for you after Namjoon’s incapacitated, his hand around your throat.  he manages to get both of you to the basement while namjoon pleads- “please don’t hurt her- I promise it was my idea-  please-.” neither of you is surprised when he pushed you down the stairs to the basement and then namjoon after you. Namjoon’s arm bleeding rivulets from where the bone pokes through. 

- The night moves on, syrupy slow and painful, and looks a lot like this.

- Namjoon with an inwardly piercing collar with barbs so that every single time he lunges to protect you it digs into his neck. Your husband screaming until his voice has turned hoarse.  “So you wanted her so bad that you were going to try to take her away from me? well, This is what your protection gets her!” 

- Blood in your mouth where you’ve bitten your cheek, spilling out onto your red lips when he hits you- the same cheek had touched Namjoon’s cheek just a few weeks ago, he remembers it vividly, and the gentle stroke of the back of his fingers to brush your hair behind your ear. And now- your husband grabbing you by your hair and shaking you like a leaf in front of Namjoon.  

- “Maybe after I kill her she’ll be reborn as a bitch and she’ll finally be at your level mutt. But then again you’re both already worthless.” 

- hours later your husbands cellphone starts to ring upstairs and he goes to retreive it. You’re crumpled on the floor motionless, Namjoon’s hand is starting to go numb. it’s hushed and cryptic at the top of the stairs, you can barely make out the words but you’re not really trying to do anything but muster the energy up to crawl to where namjoon’s tied to the wall, leaving a small trail of blood as you go. stilling when he pears down from the top at both of you. “I’ll deal with both of you later, get ready to meet the devil mutt.” 

- but this is already hell- There is already too much blood on your clothes, too much red.  

- Namjoon knows enough to know that the blood between your legs isn’t a good sign if you’re pregnant. You manage to crawl over to Namjoon and get him free just before you truely pass out and Namjoon drives you to the hospital, almost crashing the car several times (he’d never driven one before, and doing it with one hand wasn’t easy).

- They treat you and your baby. And Namjoon almost sags in relief when one of the nurses tells him you’re both okay- actually does fall over, the adrenaline finally fading and the true pain of his broken arm really hits him, sending him to his knees now that he knows that you’re safe- that you’re going to be okay. 

- They diagnose it as compound fracture; now in a thick and bulky cast. Cracking it back into place had hurt almost as much as the initial break. Namjoon is just being wheeled back to his room from the x-ray when one of the nurses comes leading two police officers. 

- Namjoon gives a statement to the police in his room while he waits for one of the nurses to come by and tell him that you’re awake and out of surgery. Since he introduces himself with his police number, they take his word as the truth (namjoon was worried- your husband was well known in town, but police do protect their own- even their hybrid units) 

- Then they leave, after they give Namjoon reassurance that a man will be placed outside your room until your husband is found and booked for the crime of attempted murder. A crime scene photographer will be coming by then as well- They’ll take pictures of your wounds later when you're awake- of course.

- A nurse hovers, and namjoon shoots up out of his wheelchair when she says that you’re ready for him, that you’ve been asking for namjoon and that you’re awake. 

- When Namjoon sees you in the hospital bed, the light of morning streaming through the window across your bruised face, he falls into you. Crying heavily into your lap as the stress and fear finally breaks from the day before, the nurse standing barely pausing as namjoon breaks apart. As Namjoon strings his good arm across your waist and gets as close as he can to you, you reach out to him too- hand fisting in the back of his hospital gown as strong as you can with how bruised up you are. 

- “I was so fucking scared- and it’s-“ “it’s finally over,” you say, more than a little weepy yourself. Namjoon pulls himself up onto the bed so that he can press his forehead against yours, an uneasy smile tugging on his lips, cheeks stickey with tears. 

- later, with you leaning against Namjoon’s good side, your cheek against his bruised collar bone, the officers come by to guard outside your door. And they must have you stand so that they can take photographs of your injuries. Namjoon refuses to leave the room when they do, even though they got a woman police officer to take the photos. He won’t leave you alone now- not when your husband is still out there. 

- He turns to the officer, “is there any word on the suspect yet?” it feels so much better to call him that, and Namjoon is anxiously anticipating seeing your torturer in handcuffs. The woman nods, “they should be taking him in now”

- But they aren't. 

- The police officers arrive to the farm to find him still absent, the farmhouse empty with all the lights on, door open, exactly how you left it. His car is missing as well. It takes them a few hours before they find it parked just off the interstate The next morning. 

- it takes them even longer to find your husband at the bottom of a ravine a few hours later, a bullet in his back and one in his skull.

- You and Namjoon are suspects at first but since they have video footage of you both at the hospital around your husband’s time of death you’re mostly cleared. No one mourns the loss of your husband, least of all you and Namjoon.

- You linger in the hospital for a few days, the doctors just want to make sure that there really isn’t anything wrong with your baby. And they allow namjoon to sleep in your room in your bed once he makes it clear that he will make himself a nusance if they don’t.

- Namjoon’s old captain comes to visit, Namjoon is surprised, but he guesses that his old precinct must have been called and given his id number after the police got involved. You’re still asleep, namjoon seated when he knocks on the open door. 

- They talk softly at the door for a long while, until your stirring sleepily and reaching for namjoon. and namjoon sees the old captain's eyes darken when he sees the fading black bruises on your cheek. The stitches at the top corner of your lip that will probably leave a scar. “Have you found somewhere you want to be?” Namjoon nods, smiling gently at your sleeping form. “yes, I believe I have.” 

- The old police chief is the one that drives both of you back to the farmhouse, your introduction is brief and a little less than ideal as you’re still in a fair bit of pain. Both of you get more tense as the farmhouse comes into view, the rolling vacant hills and the yellow police tape blocking the front door. But you both don’t really have anywhere else to go other than here. 

- “He deserved what he got,” he says to Namjoon before he pulls out of the long driveway. If anything Namjoon wishes he was the one who’d done it, but you both have your freedom now so Namjoon will count his blessings and take your husbands mysterious death as one good thing. 

- As a result of your husband’s death, you become very very wealthy and inherit not only the farm but Namjoon too. “You know, if you wanted your freedom I’d let you go, even like- get you an apartment and find work for you somewhere else or-” 

- “Don’t be ridiculous I’m staying.” he’s mad at you for about half a day because of that, spends an afternoon angrily throwing things into a bunch of bins to be put in the attic. How could you even think of letting him go? where else would he want to be but here helping you- especially after the last few months? Now that it’s over things are...not good but strange in their emptiness. 

-  But you had to offer, you had to ask him if he wanted to stay with you, you don’t have anywhere to go but this house, and it isn’t exactly filled with the best memories, even if your husband is gone. 

- The first night you and Namjoon walk into the house and just sit for a while, realizing that this place will never be hell again, if either of you have anything to say about it. 

- You live the first few days after the funeral in a fog, but then when it breaks, it’s when you go into your husband’s old den, where he kept his guns, and decide to sell them all- you have no use for them anymore, you don’t want them anywhere near here.  

- Then you tare away all of the modern things and the decorations your husband put in the farmhouse.  Namjoon finds you burning your wedding photos in the fireplace, and just says, “What can I do to help?”  

- You point at the fine china plates in the cabinets, and you have the vivid memory of your late husband backhanding you across the face after you’d dropped one. “Take care of those.” 

- You cracking open his expensive bottle of champagne for Namjoon, giving it to him because you can’t drink. You dance in the living room shattering glass after glass and plate after plate into the trash bin that Namjoon brought inside. You throw your old mattress out the top floor balcony and drag it onto the gravel. Namjoon pours gasoline on it and both of you shout and crow as your damned marriage bed burns and burns under the stars.

- And for a moment, the two of you are so gloriously free that it’s almost like the last 6 months never happened. Namjoon looks over at you across the fire, your cheeks finally glowing like he’s never seen and Namjoon yearns, his head spinning with alcohol- the first time he’s ever been drunk and he realizes he wants you- needs you. And maybe it’s wrong- because you’ve just gotten out of that hell of a relationship. 

- He doesn’t have to want- not for long. 

- Because that night, you drag Namjoon’s mattress out of his room, and put it next to the single mattress from the guest bedroom side by side in the living room. You sleep with Namjoon there, cuddled up under his arm feeling safer than you ever have before. Falling asleep with a smile on both your faces. 

- Namjoon’s never had a home but he can feel himself start to carve one out here with you.  

- You and Namjoon wake up early and watch the sunrise over the hill, you drive into town and buy your weight in wildflower mix spreading it along the fields that your husband kept prim and proper- because who needs plain grass when you can have flowers? When you can have queen Ann’s lace, snapdragons, cosmos and buttercups in excess. Filling jam jar after jam jar with color in your white and black themed house.

- But then the nights get longer. And the two of you realize that your husband might be gone, but the memories never will be. One night Namjoon is woken by your screaming. He never sleeps deeply anymore, is always twitching awake from some nightmare. His arm might have healed, but there is always a lingering fantom pain, a slight numbness in the tips of his fingers that he feels when he reaches out to help you button your jacket, or flick of bit of fuz off of your shoulder, or gently tug your hair from where it’s gotten snagged. 

 - most nights you thrash around in your bed until namjoon shakes you awake. You sob into his arms and fall back asleep eventually hiccupping even in your sleep, clutching onto namjoon like he’s still the only good thing in your life. 

- Namjoon just holds you, running his fingers through your hair realizing that it’s going to take more than just a few weeks for the weight of what you’ve been through to really fade. The nightmares come almost every single night without fail, Namjoon moves into your room- the guest room for now- though you’re in the middle of repainting the master suite. 

- It gets so bad that you stop sleeping at night, twitching awake when you fall asleep and staying up to watch late-night television no matter how much Namjoon asks you to please come to bed. Namjoon wishes he could just hold you and make it all better but it doesn’t work that way.

- love won’t fix this, even if Namjoon will love you in whatever way you let him. even if it will always be this way- just namjoon and you gently and carefully takeing care of each other. 

- Sometimes you go easily, and other times the shadows under your eyes are so deep that he sits on the couch with you (an old velvet thing you found in one of the back of the barns and pulls you to lie your head on his lap, running his fingers through your hair- the only thing that makes you relax these days. For a little while, the way he can see you pleasantly shiver, the tension slowly receding is enough. 

- “Did you know I used to dream of doing this- back when we used to hug in the hallway at night?” he says one night when sleepiness has tempted to think confessing might be a good idea. You turn your face from the tv. “No- you didn’t” you say, a small smile tugging on his lips, tempting ideas that he shouldn’t be thinking, Namjoon should give you your space. 

- You don’t sleep when you can avoid it. It gets so bad that Namjoon gets worried, he begs you really to tell the doctor. There isn’t much that they can do safely with you being pregnant, not much medication that’s safe to take. But sleepy time tea, melatonin, and therapy twice a week on Monday and Friday do wonders too. 

- Namjoon brings you your sleepy time tea every night, and he can judge if you’re going to go to sleep by the amount your hands shake when you take the cup from him. 

- You get better, the flowers begin to bloom with spring, and your belly gets a little rounder at the front a tiny bit noticeable just enough to show if you know- if you’re looking for it. Namjoon can’t stop looking at it, something pecular and soft digging it’s hooks into his chest, and you never seem to judge or be uncomfortable with the affection you see in his face. 

- on a cold night, one of the few, you and namjoon sleep closer than usual, his nose bauried in your hair, his arm slung around your waist. his hand open to cradle your stomach- just a little, just a little bit protective, as much as he dares. that night you don’t have nightmares- you sleep straight through till morning for the first time in a verry long time. 

- He thinks you’re finally getting better until he wakes in a thunderstorm and finds you standing in the grass underneath the torrent, shivering in your thin clothes. Your shoulders are shaking and your large white shirt is sticking to your skin, your lips are turning blue.

- “Honey, come inside, get dry,” his hands smooth over your shoulders, a whine low in his throat. Recently he’s gotten more comfortable with showing his lupine instincts again. After so many years holding them down. his tail hangs low between his legs. ears pressed against the side of his head. 

- He doesn’t like the way you’re shivering. Doesn’t like the way that your eyes are staring off into space, angry and tear filled. Like you can barely tell that Namjoon’s there, so lost in the painful maze of your own memories that he can do nothing but stand and wait. He’s just about to say your name again when you speak. 

-  “Namjoon,” you say, your voice shaking, angry, teeth gritted, and Namjoon catches a little bit of your sweet scent, twined with pepper strong anger, you’re furious under his gentle fingers, looking to wipe away the warm tears that mix with the cold spring rain. “This can’t be all there is, this can- I can’t just be this, there has to be something good, something better to come out of this.” 

- You feel so cheated, none of this is the way you wanted it to be, your life, your first kid, you didn’t want to resent them- the life already nestled with in you- but you did. Or maybe resentment isn’t the right word for it- maybe fear that you would resent them clouds your judgment and makes you unsure...if you even should keep it. 

- Even if you know you want to, you’d always wanted to be a mom, and despite the fact that the child is your exhusbands. You know it won’t feel like that forever. 

- And though you thought that maybe- you’d be doing in alone. You look at Namjoon and know...that he’ll be there, probably, in all likelihood, in all hope- you think he’ll stick around. You’d never force him into any sort of role he didn’t want. But his hands when he touches your stomach feel like a balm to ease away your worry And fear of being a single parent. None of it seems so weighty with him around, with him looking at you so tenderly. 

- Maybe in another world, another timeline, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe you where suposed to have met Namjoon first. You’re sure of it sometimes, that your life was supposed to be different and that nothing was supposed to go this way. You feel bitter and angry, but the only person to be angry at- the only person you want to scream and shout at- is 6 feet under already. 

- Not for the first time, you wonder who killed your late husband. You wish you could take them out for coffee or maybe cook them a nice meal.

- (Maybe one day you will get the chance) 

- You thought after he was gone everything would be okay, but you never expected it to be this way for everything to feel terrible even if you were free, for things to be this bad, to be haunted by the memories like a house would a ghost.  

- You look like a ghost, wan and thin and pale, soaked to the bone.

- Namjoon tugs you inside feeling his heartbreak when you go into his arms limply and easily, like you don’t know how to do anything but follow his hands. namjoon a benevolent puppeteer. He gets you inside, gets you warmed up with a bathtub waiting. when he goes out to the kitchen to get started on some tea he sees that he left a light on out in the barns, twinking dimly with the others down at the bottom of the hill. 

- As he hovers his brain turns over all of the empty and unused space, the barns, the chicken coup unused, even the sturdier show room. There is so much room on the farm, so much space.

-  Inside his head, an idea blooms like a flower. small and yellow and hopeful. 

- He dosne’t say anything at all when he helps you out of the bath, still in a fog, dries you off with a warm towel, he’s a little detached But inside his chest, crackling in his lungs, buttercups take root like hope as he thinks. 

- Even as he dries’ your hair and you dry his, your hands lingering over his ears and rubbing. “you take such good care of me” you say, but he’s barely paying attentionl. Would it really be so easy? could it really be done?

- It’s not until later, with you streached out on the bed beside him, your hand lingering an inch away from his on the bedspread. Both of you have been awake for a while, just listening to the thunderclaps outside and enjoying the quiet warmpth indors that Namjoon murmurs the words into open air.

- “I think have an idea, something that we could do to...help I guess. to make this good” you sit up and look down at him. and he lets himself cradle your cheek in one palm. “i want to make this better for you.”

- You swallow, and prod, and namjoon talks quick, words fast and puncy as they come out freely. Suddenly the idea takeing form as you nood along. a bright understanding blooming in your eyes. and your replies- fast with excitment as you realize, and build upon his idea. 

- “We could change the barns- we could make it like- bunk rooms-” “yeah and then we could get the kitchen like- we don’t even use the second sitting room- make it bigger-”  - You decide to open up your farm property as a home for wayward hybrids, strays, and those fleeing abuse. you’ll take anyone really, anyone who needs a safe place. 

- The barns on your property are already half renovated, nearly ready and easily transformable from being a garage for your late husband's expensive car collection to housing. You sell the antique car collection for no small amount of money, and even sell his newer car too, keeping only the old red truck, and a smaller more fuel-efficient sedan for what you might need. 

- It’s a good thing your late husband had a penchant for things expensive, the barns are already refurbished and winterized (the winters don’t even get that bad here- it rarely ever snows in any significant amount). They’ll be warm enough you think for the winter, but seeing as its early spring. You know It will be a while before you’ll find out. It’s easy to turn the lower floors of barns into common space and the above hayloft into rooms full of bunk beds. 

- There is a set of train tracks a few miles behind your property, and you and Namjoon chart a path through the woods, drawing arrows on the trees with white spray-paint back in the direction of your farm. At the place where the forest breaks out into train tracks, you hang a sign. “Safe place for hybrids this way: free food and shelter.”  You put up a few other signs along with a shitty map that Namjoon draws at bus stops and along the bridges of major interstates.

- Namjoon rests a hand on yours as you drive away from another truck stop.  letting you know that he’s proud of you with his soft smile and his dimples poking through. You reach over prodding at them with a soft look on your own face.

- “I didn’t know you had dimples,” you say, because in truth- you don't think you've ever seen him smile so wide. he makes a noise on the back of his throat and keeps looking at you like that. 

- There might be a little bit of blush on your cheeks as namjoon keeps looking, soft and gentle, but you keep your eyes on the highway in front of you. 

- It takes a few days, but then the first few start trickling in. You think you might be a little overbearing, a little over Eger to open up your home, because the first few hybrids don’t stay for more than a meal, eyeing Namjoon and the scars on his face With wary eyes. Even if he’s just an over-excited little puppy, he is a little too intimidating looking. 

-  The disappointment when they eventually move on crushes you and Namjoon. And after a little, while he makes himself more resigned, a little colder and shyer around the other hybrids. 

- And then one afternoon while Namjoon helps you in your garden on the edge of your property (which has been completely unattended in the last month since your husband's death) you hear it, someone wading through the stream. Muted chirps of “ow ow ow- stay away from me-” Namjoon comes upon the person on the riverbank, his arm swelling from countless bee stings, face scratched up by brambles and two curved ears sitting furry in his long tangled hair.

- “I’m Taehyung,” the bear hybrid tells you as you give him an ice pack and Benadryl to put on the bee stings (which he got when he tried to raid a bees nest for its honey). He eyes the fresh teal paint and mortar dust disaster of your kitchen (in the process of being renovated and widened substantially, made larger for a future you only hope you have). 

- You feed him and give him a cleaner pair of clothes to wear. You offer him a spot in your house or in the barns after dinner, and none to surprisingly- he picks the barns. Makes him more comfortable he says, makes him feel like he’s not intruding. 

- The next day you meet him out in the field, early in the morning before the sun hangs high and shines hazy and golden. You’d been Intent on waking him for some breakfast Only to find that he’s already standing looking out over the backfield, twiddling a daisy over his fingers. Looking out in wonder at the sheer magnitude of flowers. 

- But there is a sadness and longing in his expression, Taehyung looks at everything around him that is lazily and quiet and simple and wants to be apart of it with every fiber of his being.  

- “Is it really okay if I say here more than you’ve let me? Are you sure I won’t impose at all?” he turns- half panicked with worry that you’ll turn him away. “I can help you with things around the house? To pay my rent and my food if you only let me stay- just please,” 

- You can’t help but notice the darkness in his eyes, and the paler band of skin around his neck that must have been from a collar. You don’t know what Taehyung’s coming from, but it’s obvious he needs a place to be safe, to take a rest and be still. You saw his shoes yesterday, how worn out on the bottoms they were- you don’t know how long he’s been running, but he’s certainly running from somewhere. You want to give him a space to heal a little, from whatever put that darkness in his eyes.  

- “Of course! you can stay as long as you want Tae.” Taehyung swallows past a thickness in his throat, as you both watch a little bird flicker from out of the woods and land on a nearby fence post. small and blue, it trils a brief song in search of a companion and then flutters off. (You can’t remember ever seeing a songbird on your ex-husband's property. Maybe they too have returned along with the flowers.)

- Taehyung’s hands shake as he gently tucks the daisy he cradles behind your ear, and then shyly stuffs his fists in the pockets of Namjoon’s old shorts. “No one’s called me Tae in a long long time.”

[nyxtheredbird]

“With you, I forget my goddess.”

He’s so hozier coded I’m gonna cry.