#holds my hands so warmly and so gently is worth more than the nations or the whole universe. i want to see everything with my everything

[painless-innit-colourful]

‘Two Down, One To Go’ - part 3

Hopefully I didn’t spend eight months burning the festival vods into my memory to end this badly. Tubbo was there for Tommy the night after he lost his second life, and he’d like to return the favour. After his temper gets the better of him, the last of the heroic Pogtopians must deal with the fallout and figure out what to do next. Featuring a little headcanon about how a person knows how many lives they have left.

part one | part two

---

After what felt like a century, it was quickly ended. Tommy was never going to win, that much was clear from the start, and it was clear in his movements and the growing fearful look in his eyes that he wanted it to end. Techno’s eyes met Tubbo’s for a split second as he dealt the final blow, a punch that landed square in the middle of Tommy’s face. There was a horrible crack, and Tommy slammed into the wall of the pit, blood gushing from his nose and down the white part of his shirt like a raging river. He tilted his head back as Techno advanced for the final time, pushing him away with the back of his forearm, pinning him against the wall, and it was unclear if the motion was to keep Tommy from attacking or from pitching forward. Their eyes met: Tommy’s were dilated with fear and pain, while Techno’s beady gaze was steely but triumphant. They seemed to come to some understanding (perhaps of what mortality is), for Tommy then shut his eyes and dropped his head. Techno stepped away, and the boy slumped to the ground.

With the ease and temperament of a cultivated warrior, the Blade straightened up, wiping at his face and smearing some of Tommy’s blood about his eyes. It was like he was wearing a crimson masquerade mask. For a few moments, there was again that uneasy silence: something about the Blade looking over the crowd kept them quiet, subjugated by his aura of intimidation. Then he looked away, and there was a small burst of noise from the crowd - like a firework - as they began to disperse, sensing the end of the dramatics.

The Blade put one hand on the side of the pit and hopped up with the grace of a dancer. Compared to Tommy, bruised and bloodied, you could hardly tell he’d been in a fight. He looked between the lingering scraps of the crowd, Wilbur waiting with a smile and his hands still in his pockets, Niki glowering at him, Tubbo looking at the floor by his feet and Tommy still slumped against the wall of the pit. One clear of the throat had all of them looking vaguely in his direction, but he was looking for Tommy’s attention. “So..?” “F*ck you man,” Tommy said through a mouthful of blood. The pigman just laughed, and it echoed around the cavern like thunder. “It stays in the pit.” And off he went, an arm lazily thrown across Wilbur’s shoulders as he painted pictures of a destroyed Manberg in the air with his hands and words, the crowd stalking them rife with gossip and gawking and money changing hands. Tubbo’s stomach dropped.

“What are we going to do?” Niki’s voice was soft, barely audible in the echoing noise. Tubbo leant his head back against one of the rough stone walls, the burns curling around his eyes stinging. There was a spluttering to his left: Tommy attempting to clear his mouth of the blood still trickling from his nostrils. “I don’t know.” He admitted, lurching forward to go and help Tommy. “No no, I’m coming up, don’t.” It took Tommy a couple tries to scramble out of the hole in the ground, one palm pressed ineffectively against his nose, still leaking down his face. “Bloody thing- hah-”

“C’mere-” Tubbo reached for his face, the edge of a smile creeping into his voice as Tommy tried to duck away, also ineffectually. “Nah I’m fine, trust me-” “Mate-” He’d managed to grab Tommy’s wrist, reeling him in and slinging his other arm about his waist to keep him there. He ignored the flare of pain from the burns on his chest and arms, instead grinning at the grimace Tommy was giving him as he pulled his hand away from his nose. “You’re doing a sh*t job with that nose bleed.” He pinched his nose, “Head back, big man.”

Tommy crossed his arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum and threw his head back. They waited in the growing quiet for an indeterminate amount of time, as the people became more settled, as Niki grew more restless next to them, as the pressure on Tubbo’s injuries ached more and more, until finally he couldn’t take the lancinating pain any longer, and sprang away from Tommy with a wobble, breathing heavily.

His eyes were screwed shut, as were his teeth gritted and fists balled up, nails digging back into raw flesh and bandages. Prime this hurts. He couldn’t seem to get enough air. He sank to his knees, retreating into Tommy’s jacket like a hedgehog or a turtle hiding beneath protective layers. His head throbbed, like someone was bashing on it with a hammer. Somewhere in the back of his mind - the logical part - he knew what was happening. The danger had passed, the fighting ended. His body had pulled down the protective wall it had raised since Schlatt had snatched the mic from him, and now he was feeling the full force of his injuries without the adrenaline rush to dull the pain. But the part of him that knew this, the part that was telling him he was fine wasn’t as loud as the headache trying to split his skull from the inside.

‘Get up,’ He fell back on his Manberg habitats: don’t cry around other people, don’t show weakness or injury. ‘Stop this now, and get up.’ He willed himself to stand, commanding one leg at a time up. He got one foot flat on the floor and almost stood on it, when another wave of nauseating agony swept over him and he pitched sideways, crumpling into a heap on the floor like a discarded suit blazer.

“Tubbo-” Roughly, he pushed himself off the floor, ignoring the stabbing sensation from his palms as he righted himself. ‘Stop this. Get up.’ “Woah- Tubbo, stop a second-” ‘Stop horsing around. For Prime’s sake, get up now.’ “Tubbo, wait- Holy Prime, stop moving, you’re hurting yourself.”

Tommy’s hands hesitantly grazed his sides, feeling through his borrowed jacket where the bandages got thinner as his eyes traced the rest of them covering most of Tubbo’s upper half where burns didn’t. “Aah- Sto- Stop-” Tubbo managed to get out, shaking his head quickly and falling away from Tommy, the movement making him feel lightheaded. The hands quickly retracted. “Knees?” He nodded, a lot slower than before. “Are- Are you okay? What hurts?” Tommy asked as he put his hands palm down on Tubbo’s lap. The older boy fought through a mental fog that threatened to cloud his vision. “E-Everything-” He exhaled quickly in something that might’ve been a laugh in another universe, staring down at Tommy’s hands on his knees and laying his own next to them. “My head- It feels like- like someone keeps hitting me and- m- my heart-” He shook violently, bandaged hands going to clutch his sides as if to hold himself together.

“Hey,” Tommy leaned closer so he was looking up to talk, his expression empathetic, a soft smile in his eyes as he spoke gently. “This happened before, remember? This happens when you lose a life. Remember last time, in the Camarvan? It passes. Just wait with me, alright?” “Everything hurts-” “I know,” He patted a steady rhythm into Tubbo's lap, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, like a waltz. Slowly, gradually, the agony receded, relinquishing his senses back to him, and he became aware that Niki had knelt by his side. "What can I do..?" Her mascara was running. Tommy gave her a soft smile, “I think… I think we should get out of this f*ckin’ cave. Get some air.”

“I think you need a change of clothes, big man.” Tubbo croaked, and they both looked down at Tommy’s shirt, stained rusty-red with the blood of multiple people. “Speak for yourself.” He said lightly, and Niki gave a breathy sigh. “I think we should burn it.” “His or mine?” “Both.” She said with a slight laugh, glancing behind her. “I could go find some for us now?” Tommy replied with a shake of the head. “Let’s just get out of here. Although-” He glanced at the axe by the side of the pit. “If we’re going up top we could do with a shield or two and some weapons, y’know, standard procedure.” He jumped to his feet and scurried away with a call of: “I’ll be right back!”

“Hey Tubbo,” He glanced up to see Niki smiling warmly, sitting cross-legged beside him. “Are you alright now?” “I’ve certainly been better.” Their half-hearted laughter flickered like candlelight. “So, um… What Tommy said about you being down a life… Is it true?”

His hand went to the tally under his collarbone leisurely, feeling through the bandages to the tiny, earth-shattering ridges beneath. Two. There were definitely two.

“Yep,” He breathed. “I am down to one canon life.” Stating the fact seemed to make it all the more real. He was the third of his friends to slip, and now he too walked the boundary between those that stay and those that have passed. “I’m so sorry.” She patted his leg. “If I’d have done something- if any of us had done anything-” “Don’t.” He caught her hand. “It’s not worth thinking about. Besides, the Blade has already made it clear that- that it wouldn’t have been worth it.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he felt it was warranted. Sure, military strategy dictated they’d done the right thing. Sure, they only lost one set of eyes on the inside, and not two. But it was like Tommy had said: it was getting less about the nations and the wars and the ideals by the day - at least to them. Of the three founding fathers of L’Manberg, they only had three lives between them now. Some resentful part of him wished they’d found the button. A front-row view of Manberg’s destruction would’ve been better than this.

“What would you have wanted, though?” Niki has this remarkable ability to see through people, almost as if she had heard his thoughts drifting to the button. He shut his eyes briefly, trying to think, and he was standing on the stage again, boxed in by yellow concrete and foes all at the same time. His eyes darted up to the rooftop of the NASA building, where he’d been only minutes ago. Wilbur and Tommy, highlighted figures in brown and red against the cheerful blue sky, each had a hand on their communicators, Tommy staring straight at him, mouth wide open in disbelief while Wilbur’s fingers flew furiously across the keyboard.

‘techno is on our side’

‘he wont hurt you’

“Wilbur said he wasn’t gonna hurt me.” He opened his eyes again, back in the ravine, though he didn’t doubt part of him would ever leave the concrete box. He looked Niki in the eyes, “I would’ve liked the truth, I think. I would’ve liked... to know.” She nodded, and the next time he blinked they were walking through the fields of a once-great nation together, anticipating frivolity and celebration to come, no matter how disagreeable the town they would be painting red. Ironic turn of phrase, to say the least. “This was really not how I expected today to go.” Niki’s laughter in response was sharp. “Definitely not.” She smiled sympathetically. “If it’s worth anything, I thought your speech was very good.”

He smiled indulgently, just in time for Tommy to reappear looking like a packhorse, weighed down with two shields and enough weapons to take back Manberg. None of these things were in his hands though: he was juggling three round grease paper packages, and Tubbo knew exactly what was coming when he stopped juggling and presented Niki with one, standing up straight for once and putting some false bravado into his voice.

“By the way Niki, welcome to Pogtopia. Here’s your dinner. A quick note, we’re not exactly equipped for high cuisine, so I’ll run you through how mealtimes work if you’re going to take your meals in the cafeteria-” He gestured at the bashed-up picnic benches they’d had to disassemble to get into the cave, and then reassemble to eat off of in the space next to the ‘kitchen’ in one very funny afternoon swearing at badly-translated instruction manuals. “Here’s the menu: since we were late back, we get yesterday’s leftovers, the emergency potato stockpile. Also, Technoblade does not seem to be in a chefing mood.” There was a round of awkward faces before he continued. “Tomorrow morning for breakfast: potato stew probably, hopefully not reheated. Tomorrow lunchtime: potato, maybe in a salad.” By now Niki was starting to figure out the pattern, the confusion on her face travelling through disgust to disappointment to resignation to acceptance. “Tomorrow for dinner: jacket potatoes- Hey, do you wanna guess what’s for breakfast the day after?” “Oh boy! I wonder…” They giggled, the first human sound to grace the cavern walls in too long. “I swear on Prime, I wouldn’t have asked for the pig’s assistance if I’d known he’d only cook us potatoes.” His eyes flicked momentarily to Tubbo, and his smile dropped. “As well as a couple other things, y’know…”

The air around them shimmered, or maybe that was just Tubbo’s vision. “We need to get out of here.” “Yeah.” Tommy’s response was quiet and laced with a foreign grief. They headed for the stairs together, Niki following attentively behind, and when their shoulders collided, their hands joined automatically in a softer hold than ever before.

“Did- Did you do that alone?” Tubbo asked Tommy as they climbed the stairs, part of a shuffling conga line of heroes and refugees and martyrs. He looked back for a moment, his eyelashes casting strange shadows down his cheeks from the swinging lamps next to them. “Do what?”

“What- What happened to me just now, and what happened in the Camarvan. When everything hurts and you feel like you’re going to die again.” Tommy’s somewhat guarded expression melted, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah.” He admitted in his softer tone, “At my house, before I came to tell everyone.” “Why?” Tommy turned away as they kept climbing. “We would’ve been there to help you, if- You didn’t even tell the others for ages though, did you?” He remembered a single terrifying moment in the middle of the biggest party they’d ever been to (thoroughly discounting today) when Tommy confided in him. “You didn’t want to worry everyone.” “I didn’t want their pity either.” He said, tone level.

“How did you do it?” “I… Don’t remember. I think I blacked out, at least functionally.”

Not only had his best friend handled, or tried to handle, the pain of losing a life alone, but he’d also attempted to silently carry that burden by himself. Just the thought of it put a weight over Tubbo’s heart. “I would’ve helped you.” He murmured as they took a left and escaped the crowd, heading towards another exit. “You did,” He said lightly. “All those nights you stopped me waking half the nation? That counts.” They crossed the floor of the small chamber at the top of the spiral staircase, and Tubbo suddenly dropped Tommy’s hand and stopped to open the enderchest against the wall. With careful hands he drew out the record with the red label and a smile from Tommy.

“That’s the real one, isn’t it?”  Tubbo looked between his two companions. “Anyone got a jukebox?” They didn’t have their bench, but no matter where in the world you are banished to, you’ll always have the sun.

Injured and weary, yet stubbornly surviving still, the three of them climbed the steps to the sky and caught enough of the last spillage of heaven for the day that they could fit in a full song. And by the last light, they had planned a plot. Of revolt and rebellion. Such familiar words.

And with the first stars rising as their witnesses, they hatched a smaller plan. A little catharsis, if you will.

---

The sky at dusk was gorgeous as the sun gradually sank out of sight. Tubbo wished he could enjoy it, but the ache in his being and his head and his heart was too much. “Are you cold?” He shook his head, but Tommy put his arms around him anyway. He was so careful, draping them where he knew there were no bandages; back, shoulder, standing just behind him and placing his head right next to Tubbo’s. Blocks turned in the jukebox before them, its red label swirling in the low light like a spinning skirt as the melody played for all the men and the beasts and the trees that came to listen.

Out of the blue, Tommy whispered in his ear: “Can I make you a promise I can’t keep?” “I- Yeah, sure.” If he hadn’t been so tired, he might’ve turned his head to see what Tommy was up to. All he knew was that his best friend had leant closer and squeezed his sides warmly. Tubbo ignored the slight painful twinge. “I promise-” He whispered, the words so soft they got lost in the song. “-to keep you safe, Tubso.” “Oh.” “I promise, as long as I live, to be there, to stand between you and Techno, or Eret, or Schlatt or Dream or Wilbur or- or Death him-bloody-self, and I promise to say ‘No you may f*ckin’ not hurt him’ and-” “Okay, I get it-” “-and I’ll f*ckin’ fight them, all of them if I have to.” “I’m fine Tommy, you don’t have to be all sappy for me.”

“It’s true.” And though he hadn’t moved that whole time, nor had his tone changed, Tommy’s arms suddenly felt a lot safer to be in. “No matter what happens, whether Techno is on our side or not, whether we get Wilbur back or get more people on our side or not or whatever, it’s me and you - and Niki - together against- against the world. And I mean that.”

Like a blanket straightened over a bed, a small silence settled over them as the last signs of the sun vanished behind the next hill. “Swear it,” Tubbo’s voice was barely above a breath. “On something important.” He couldn’t explain his sudden change of heart, but maybe the way his limbs shook with leftover adrenaline and fatigue and fear could. “I- I swear it on the discs. Me and you, ‘till the ends of the Earth.” “Always those discs.” He couldn’t keep the slightest hint of mockery out of his voice, but Tommy just hummed in disagreement. “If I swore it on the safety of the most precious thing, it wouldn’t be a promise, it’d be a paradox.”

By the time the meaning of his words dawned on Tubbo, Niki had reappeared, and Tommy let go out of his shoulders, a knowing smile gracing his features as he purposely avoided Tubbo’s scrutiny. “Had trouble finding it?” “No, actually.” She took a few deep breaths before continuing. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find a lighter in there.” Tommy and Tubbo shared a look equal parts bemusement and consternation. “Well come on then, the sun’s about to have gone down and I don’t know about you, but it’s getting a bit f*ckin’ cold out here.” “I think that’s because you’re only wearing a t-shirt, Tommy.” Niki teased, while the boy just shot her back an unimpressed look. “Yeah, well,” He turned to look at Tubbo, ruffling his hair somewhat roughly. “I lost my jacket like an hour ago.”

They tittered in tandem until Niki cleared her throat. “Who’s gonna do the honours?” His companions then immediately answered her question by looking to Tubbo. The edges of his lips curved upwards. “Can someone else hold it for me?” “I’ll get it-” “No, let me.” Tommy squinted at Niki.  “I think least injured should do it, just in case.” She reasoned. “Didn’t you get shot on the way out of Manberg?” “Didn’t you fight an entire crowd in Manberg by yourself?” “That’s a bit stupid,” Tubbo interjected. “I was trying to find you.” Tommy shrugged. “Okay, yeah, you hold it.”

Straightening her posture, Niki pressed the lighter into Tubbo’s hands and then held up the jacket. It was Tubbo’s Manberg Secretary of State uniform, jet black and singed and soaked-through in places. His thumb played with the catch over the hood of the lighter. “Just- What are we gonna do with it when it’s… on fire, y’know?” Both of his fellows stared blankly at each other. “One second.” Tommy took two steps backwards and disappeared over the ledge, and Tubbo skittered forward with half a laugh to see that he’d hopped down to borrow some water from the nearest pond. “Love the forward planning skills we got here.”

Rather comically, it took Tommy about a minute to lug the bucket of water back up the hill. “We will have no forest fires tonight.” And the three of them giggled a bit more. “Okay,” Niki said, wiping at the corner of her eye. “Ready?”

It took more force than usual for Tubbo to get the lighter to work, and once the flame appeared he snatched his fingers away, conscious of the flammability of his bandages. Niki held the blazer before her, arm high in the air, and Tubbo reached out, touching the end of the lighter to the edge of one of the sleeves. At first, nothing happened, and then, the jacket caught. Abruptly, Niki was forced to let go of the flaming piece of clothing as the fire raced up and across it in seconds. “Holy sh*t.” She whispered. “F*cking sh*t indeed.” Tommy tugged Tubbo back towards him as the blazer dropped into the wind, flapping downhill as it dissipated into dark ash. “I was not expecting that.” “Probably the amount of alcohol soaked into the fabric,” Tubbo said with disdain. “Good f*cking riddance, Manberg.” “YEAH!” His friends cheered together, and he watched as the fire consumed the uniform he’d despised so much. The flag on the left lapel seemed to glow as the flames ate away at it, and that made them three out of three for burning a Manberg flag.

“I heard there was a special place,” Tubbo and Niki looked at Tommy with incredulity as he began to sing the anthem, but there was a certain mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he sang, and they joined in, the familiar words and melody both a comfort and a thorn. “Where men could go and emancipate, The brutality, and the tyranny of their rulers,” Tommy held his hands up, silencing the other two as he grinned. “Well this place is real, don’t be afraid, With Tubbo-” He pointed to each of them in turn. “Tommy, Niki, F*CK TECHNOBLADE-!”

The three of them fell about laughing. “You should do it louder Tommy, I don’t think he heard you-” Niki said between the hooting emanating from a small crowd gathered at the Pogtopia tower and the hysterical laughter of her comrades. His shouts echoed throughout the little valley they overlooked, and they soon resumed the tune, joined by members of the rebellion across the land, humming and singing along whether they were allowed or not. To be a traitor is not a respectable thing, but sometimes it is better to follow one’s heart than one’s leader.

“It’s a very big and not blown up L’Manberg!” It was as if the land itself was singing, and Tubbo hoped they could hear this chorus back in Manberg. “For L’Manberg!” For those that were unsure, that needed to hear that paradise had existed and could again. “For L’Manberg!” For those that were still left behind, keeping their heads down and staying out of trouble, especially after tonight. Tubbo tried to inject as much panache into his voice as he could, partially for them, for those that were rightfully too afraid and unable to sing along. But mostly because he wanted JSchlatt to hear him. “For L’Manberg!” He wanted to walk through the nation he’d served for so long, waving the correct flag, singing their song, and he wanted especially to scare the sh*t out of that tyrant. I survived, he wanted to say, standing at the other end of the trigger. I survived, and I’m leading the choir, and we’re going to have our land back thank you very much, no matter how many tallies on our charts. “For L’Maaaaaanberg!”

For L’Manberg, and for everything it stood for. Tubbo, like his friends, is down to his final life, and he’s sick of playing nice.

---

Taglist: @nixavia @zrenia @spaceheatertrash @hitherto-blue (Please let me know if you’d like to be on the taglist in future :)

[jinkisbelly]

A Simple Request - 11/?

Pairing: Jongyu

Rating: Pg

w/c: 1.8k

Other Parts can be found a little ways down this [x]   Ao3  AFF

Summary: The Fae King is under a lot of pressure to conceive an heir, while given a deadline by the Council he turns to his personal guard and best friend to help him with it  

Warnings: Future mpreg

           Jonghyun is led down twisty alleyways and between homes. The kingdom this late at night is beautiful and quiet, almost like a dream. Faera is never this quiet. With all the different species living within the capital city, there was always music and sound of bustling life even in the dead of night because of those who were nocturnal. He loses his way as he focuses back on Jinki, not that his limited knowledge of the city's layout would help him that much to begin with. Before he knows it, they stop in front of what entirely looks like a dead-end, dark green, and tightly woven vines rising up to where the two buildings on either side of them curve and connect. 

           The question he’s about to ask is forgotten when Jinki looks over his shoulder and beams, so beautiful and free in a way Jonghyun knows he hasn’t done since he stepped over the border into his homeland. There’s a tug on his hand, and then they’re stepping towards the thick vines at the end of the alleyway. Jonghyun knows he should be concerned, should be worried, but all he feels is safety as Jinki’s grip on his hand tightens. He trusts Jinki, more than anything, so it’s not difficult to put his well-being in the man’s hands and follow him through without resistance. Jonghyun still squeezes his eyes shut as they’re about to hit the wall of vines, only to gasp as tingles travel over him, and a cool mist falls onto his skin. There’s a sound of water splashing and soft twinkles, and when he finally opens his eyes again, they are no longer in the middle of a great city.

           There’s a lagoon with a small waterfall trickling into the blue pool. Wisps flutter across the plush, green surface. Some are landing on big pink and red flower petals, while others float to greet them with quiet tinkles and warm impressions. “What is this place?”

           “I made it as a child. This used to be an abandoned fletcher shop.” Even with how absurd such a statement was, Jonghyun could do nothing but believe Jinki. He had seen the man do amazing things, impossible things even. He’s seen him walk through dragon’s fire unharmed and create a flourishing forest on ground completely destroyed by the war. Creating this gorgeous grove as a child was the least of it all. “It was after Saferus hatched for me and my parents ordered Master Wixu to take him from me. Master did so against his wishes. I ran away from my manservant and.. Created this.”

           “It’s beautiful.”

           “Thank you. It’s nice to be back.” Jinki finally released his hand, slowly stepping further into the grove. Jonghyun finds himself missing the strength and warmth of the man’s hand in his own the moment it slips away. Jinki’s fingers run over the flowers as he passes them, each growing a bit more as he continues by them. Each step a flower popped up as he lifted his foot and Jonghyun fondly grinned. This place was so attuned to Jinki and his magic. It reminded him of all the times he watched Jinki meditate, only for the plant life around them to go from finally groomed and trimmed, to almost wild as his magic ran away from him. “I agree with Saferus, that it was his magic that allowed me to do this.”

           “I don’t know,” Jonghyun raised his eyebrows, holding his hands behind his back when Jinki stopped to look back at him. “I’ve seen you do miraculous things. With and without Saferus near.” 

           “A keeper is only as strong as their connection is to their dragon.” Jinki gave a little smile before continuing on his way. He disappeared around the corner of a large rock surface for a long moment. When he appeared again he was pushing a large wooden chest in front of himself. His smile was wicked as he straightened and put his hands on his hips. “I knew I left these somewhere around here.”

           “These?”

           Jinki snapped his fingers and the lock on the chest fell open. When the top was lifted inside blankets and a few throw pillows were visible if only a little old. He picked up the blanket on top, holding it over his loosely crossed arms. “I don’t particularly want to return for a while and I figured comfort would be nice.”

           Jinki wasn’t meeting his gaze and before Jonghyun thinks about it completely, he’s crossing the distance between them and resting his hand on the man’s arm. “We can stay here as long as you wish.” 

           “Thank you.” 

-----

           Every so often Jonghyun would feel the grass against his skin as he shifted, brushing across his foot or hand, and each time it was soft and cool. Now though, he’s on his side warmly gazing across at Jinki’s beautiful profile. The man’s eyes are closed, but there’s a peace to his expression as his chest slowly rises and falls with his even breaths. Jonghyun felt at that moment he could spend forever looking at him and never truly get tired of it. Suddenly there’s a smile curling on his lips, amusement in Jinki’s voice as he asks, “Yes, Jonghyun?” 

           “I apologize.” 

           “Don’t need to,” Slowly Jinki turns, left arm coming up to bend under his head, cheek squishing a little as he settles, “Something on your mind?” 

           “Do you want to talk about it?”

           Jinki slowly raised his eyebrows, “Depends on what ‘it’ is.”

           “How you feel, you know,” Jonghyun lowered his gaze from the other man’s eyes, biting his bottom lip for a moment. “About being here, what happened at dinner, and all that.”

           “Ah, well. I feel a bit abandoned, like the only family I truly have is Saferus.” Jinki’s leg brushed against his as he shifted a bit, but he was still as he spoke again. “To my parents when I chose Saferus I was turning my back on them and my people. That only worsened when I chose to remain in my duties instead of joining them in their fight against Faera and the Fairies. The sentiment is still felt by veterans who fought in that war. I’m not welcome here.

          "Over the years they've reached out with letters, bits of gifts, summons home. At first, I was hurt by what was said during the treaty signing and even as those feelings passed, others filled their void." Jinki let out a deep breath, then another, before speaking again. "They never apologized for their words or how they made me feel since I was just a boy. They told a child to choose between this new destiny and their family, and immediately cut ties with me straight after I made what they believed to be the wrong choice. As silly as it is, I thought I would have made my parents proud with all I've done."

           “To me, you’re wrong about one thing.” 

           “And what’s that?” 

           He finds Jinki’s right hand resting against the blanket between them and gently grips it. “While I have my sister, you’re the closest person in my life. I’d like to think we’re family by now, Jinki.”

           Jinki pulls his hand away, but before the ache of rejection can settle completely in his chest, the man is pushing his fingers into his hair and a kiss is pressed against his forehead. When he speaks his voice is but a whisper, “You’re right.”

           Jonghyun finally looks up when Jinki pulls away just a bit, but the hand remains softly intertwined in his hair. He can’t place the expression on the other man’s face, but whatever it is, it makes him feel safe; immensely cared for. Jinki’s eyes are so warm as a smile slowly forms on his lips, and for a moment Jonghyun could see himself falling in love with a man who has a gaze like that. “Your parents might not be proud of you, and sure, there are some elves who believe their leader’s lies, but there are so many people who love you, who have you to thank for them being alive. You saved so many lives. Hell, you’ve saved mine more than I can count. If it’s worth anything, I am proud of you Jinki, always.” 

           “It’s worth everything.”

           Before Jonghyun knows it, he’s being tugged closer, the back of his head cupped with Jinki’s hand. Immediately he wraps his arm around Jinki’s waist, snuggling closer as if pulled by a string. Jinki rumbles quietly as he shifts to hold him better with both arms, chin on the top of Jonghyun’s head. He knows then he’s never felt as warm or safe as when he’s in Jinki’s embrace, and a part of him doesn’t ever want to leave. When Jinki doesn’t try to pull away, he stays, even as sleep finally tugs at his consciousness and he stops fighting it, letting his eyes close.

-----

           Jinki wakes up extra warm with something soft brushing against the tip of his nose. The scent as he breathes in is familiar and even with his still half-asleep mind, he presses closer, breathing it in deeply. With a rumble deep in his throat, he relaxes again. There’s a slight movement against him and instinctively he tightened his hold. It takes a long moment for him to realize what, or rather who, he’s holding, but that just makes a smile pull on his lips as he finally opens his eyes. 

           He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but from the sun hitting the outside of the vines it’s early morning. There’s a blanket thrown over their intertwined legs. Soon they’d have to head back to prevent a national incident, but that could wait a bit more. Jonghyun was still sleeping and after the past few days, rest was exactly what he needed. If Jinki was honest with himself, he was also a bit selfish. There was something about holding Jonghyun so close that Jinki wanted to cherish. For a few moments, he could pretend he had said those simple words with so much meaning hanging from them, and they had shifted from friends to partners. He knew it could never be, not with their roles and destinies. Even if he ignored all that, there was no way Jonghyun would ever feel the same way about him. 

           Maybe it was a bit depressing the more he thought about it, cherishing little stolen moments such as this. One day Jonghyun would find someone to love as much as he deserved. Whenever they finally had a child together, he would lose all these little moments, so he’d take what he could. His parents taught him never to refuse one's blessings and he wouldn’t start now. Jonghyun wiggling back into his hold broke his thoughts and all he could do was gently chuckle, affection and fondness bursting into his chest.

           Just a few more minutes, that’ll do just fine.

----

[saventhhaven]

Fright Night - Part 2

Pairing: none

Tags: angst, mystery, Halloween

Word Count: 3,150

A/N: All right, just so you guys know, this was initially only a two-part series, but part two would’ve been waaaay too long, so I split it up! With that said, a lot of the Halloween stuff in the story will still be happening when I post the finale tomorrow, which is definitely not Halloween anymore, but you know :)

(Gif not mine)

The fake spiderwebs you had just finished hanging drifted gently from the railing of your front porch in the breeze.

"It's looking good!" You jolted a bit in surprise before smiling when you realized who was speaking to you.

"Hey, thanks, Chloe." Your neighbor smiled warmly as she made her way up the porch steps to you.

"How are you holding up?" she asked. You shuddered involuntarily. It had been Chloe who heard you scream this morning when you found the girl's body in your back yard.

"I've definitely been better," you admitted as you began to strategically place fake spiders in the fake spiderwebs. To say it had been a rough morning would be the biggest understatement of the year. You shook your head. "God, my heart just breaks for that girl's family, though." Chloe nodded sympathetically before holding out a Tupperware bowl to you. "What's this?"

"I just made some soup for dinner, and I thought you might want some. I'm sure you're probably not much in the cooking mood." You and Chloe had been friends ever since you had moved in - for two years to be exact - and she was the nicest person you knew.

"You're a really good friend," you informed her as you took the plastic container, earning a good-natured laugh in response.

"I try. Anything I can do for you?" Rolling your eyes, you snorted.

"If you had asked me that a couple of hours ago, I would have had you fend off the reporters that kept knocking my door down." Chloe's eyebrows knit together into a frown.

"Seriously? God, those assholes wouldn't know what the words 'too soon' meant even if they hit them over the head." She definitely had a point. People had a right to know if there was a rabid wild animal in the neighborhood, but still, you couldn't say you appreciated all the reporters that had tried to squeeze every last detail out of you less than an hour after discovering the girl's body. You were sure it was probably all over the local news by now. Not to mention, everyone in a thousand-mile radius had been pausing in front of your house to stare all day. "I wish you would've called me," Chloe continued to rant. "I would have come over here and told those idiots to stick their cameras right up their-"

"Chloe, it's okay," you reassured through an amused smile.

"Sorry," she apologized, letting out an exasperated breath. "That just pisses me off for you. Have some respect for the dead for Christ's sake." You nodded your agreement.

"Anyway, I think they're finally done now. It's been a few hours since the last one asked for a statement. I'm mostly just trying to keep busy now, you know? Keep my mind off of it." You held up one of the fuzzy fake spiders for good measure.

"I totally get that. You want me to hang out here with you for a while?" You shook your head and gave her a grateful smile. "No, I'm okay. But thanks."

"All right. I'm gonna head home, then. There's a bottle of wine in the pantry calling my name. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"I will. Thanks, Chloe." And then, you were alone again, left to your thoughts and the last of your decorations. You usually put them up at least a week before Halloween, but you had been busy. Work had been hellish before you left, and all you had been wanting was some time to yourself. Now that you had it, though, you found yourself wishing there were more things for you to do. Anything that could take your mind off of the horrifying scene you had come across this morning, really.

Plastic bat in hand, you balanced tediously on a step-stool, stringing the fake creature up above your head.

"Excuse me." You paused mid-bat-hanging and glanced over your shoulder in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. Approaching your front porch were two handsome men, both dressed in professional suits. You quickly finished securing the bat in place and stepped down, brushing the dust from your hands off on your pants. "Are you Y/N?" As the two men marched up your steps, you got a better look at them. One was tall; the other was a bit shorter; both had expressions that told you they meant business. You sighed and shoved your hands in your pockets. Great. More reporters.

"I am," you answered. "How can I help you?" Both men pulled badges from the inside pockets of their blazers with well-rehearsed grace.

"FBI. I'm Agent Russel," the shorter one said. "This is my partner Agent Elliot." Unease settled in the pit of your stomach.

"FBI?"

"That's right, ma'am." Both men tucked their badges away.

"We just have a few standard procedure questions, if you don't mind." Mind? Why wouldn't you mind people non-stop pestering you about a traumatic experience that happened less than twenty-four hours ago?

"We realize the events of this morning are still very fresh, and may not be easy to talk about," Agent Elliot commiserated. You blinked, caught off guard. This man had almost read your mind.

"We'll try to be quick," Agent Russel added, "and then we'll be out of your hair." You held back a sigh as you thought it over. They were the FBI. It wasn't like you could just say no. Well, legally speaking, you could, since they were coming to your home, but was that really worth all the trouble?

"Sure," you complied. "Come on in." Bringing the soup from Chloe with you, you held the front door open for the men. Once inside, the two of them looked around your house analytically. "Can I get either of you anything to drink?" you offered. Agent Elliot held up a hand and shook his head.

"No, thank you, ma'am. It's like my partner said: we'll try to be quick."

"So," Agent Russel began, diving right in. "Our reports say you found the body in your back yard this morning, is that correct?" You nodded.

"Yes."

"What time was that?"

"Around seven. Sometimes I like to have a cup of coffee on the back porch, but..." you trailed off with a sigh, not needing to say anything else. Agent Elliot nodded thoughtfully as he finished scribbling something down in his notepad.

"And when you found the body, did you notice anything odd?" You huffed.

"What, besides the fact that there was a dead girl on my lawn?" The moment the snippy remark left your mouth, you regretted it. Reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose, you squeezed your eyes shut. "I'm sorry," you apologized. "It's been one hell of a day. I don't even know what she was doing in my yard. The neighbors have been saying that a lot of high school kids started mischief night a night early, but..." You sighed heavily, the two agents nodding their understanding as you took a moment to gather yourself. "No. I didn't see anything."

"Last night, did you see or hear anything outside that might have suggested any sort of distress?"

"No," you answered with a shake of your head. "I was out having some dinner with some friends from work."

"Do you have any enemies?" Agent Elliot asked. "Anyone who would want you hurt?" You frowned at his odd question.

"Enemies? With all due respect agents, what does that have to do with an animal attack?"

"Just covering all our bases, ma'am," Agent Russel replied shortly.

"No."

"How long have you lived here?"

"I moved in just before Thanksgiving two years ago. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before." The two men exchanged a glance before agent Elliot flipped his notepad closed.

"Y/N, are you aware that this isn't the first animal attack this neighborhood has seen?" You frowned. Animal control had told you that the slash marks on the girl's body were from a bear, but the nearest set of woods was nearly half an hour from here. It didn't make sense this morning, and it didn't make sense now.

"I didn't know that," you admitted, now even more confused than you had been earlier. "How many have there been before this one?" You eyed agent Russel, who was peering out a window into your back yard.

"Six over the past four years," he chimed in. "Do you mind if I have a look around in the back?"

"Not at all." As he exited through your back door, you turned your attention back to his partner. "Why haven't I ever heard about these attacks?"

"Well," Agent Elliot began to explain, "you said you moved in two years ago in late November?" You nodded. "According to the reports the sheriff gave us, they stopped in September of the same year. My guess is the authorities have tried to keep it quiet since then. This type of thing wouldn't exactly bring good publicity to your town if it somehow hit national news."

"Huh." Suddenly, a startling thought occurred to you. "You don't think this could be a repeat of the same pattern, do you?" Agent Elliot looked both interested and impressed for a fleeting moment before quickly returning to his placid expression.

"I'm... afraid I'm not in a position to say." The sound of your door closing effectively halted any continuation of your question, and you looked up.

"The yard seems secure enough," Agent Russel announced. "I think that's all we have for you today, ma'am." He held out a hand, which you shook. "Thank you for sparing a moment of your time for us."

"Of course. Can I assume this case is in good hands with the FBI? It's not that I would mind seeing you two again, I'm just hoping to never have this morning repeat itself." The men exchanged a brief, indecipherable look, before giving you two of the most charming smiles you had ever seen.

"Understandably so," Agent Elliot agreed, shaking your hand as well. "We'll do our best to get to the bottom of it quickly. But in the meantime, if anything comes up - anything at all - give us a call." After handing you their card, the two agents were on their way. Halfway down the walkway to their car, though, Agent Russel turned around, calling out to you.

"Y/N?" You raised your eyebrows in question.

"Yes?"

"It's best if you stay inside tonight. Lock the doors and lay low. Just in case whatever attacked the girl comes back." At his advice, you felt your blood run cold. You had already been worried about the possibility of the animal coming back, but hearing an official say it made you all the more worried.

"I-I will," you assured. With that, the men got into their car and drove off. A chill ran up your spine as you shut the door behind you and locked it. Today just kept getting weirder and weirder. Quite frankly, you couldn't wait for it to be over. You glanced over at the soup from Chloe, which sat on your kitchen counter. Sweet of her as it was to bring you dinner, you didn't have the appetite to eat anymore. As you ascended the stairs to your bedroom, anxiousness gnawed in the pit of your stomach. Lock the doors and lay low. Just in case whatever attacked the girl comes back. You shivered. With a warning like that, you weren't sure you would ever be able to get to sleep tonight. You glanced out the window and took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. At least you had the rise of a beautiful full moon to look forward to.

Dean let out a heavy breath as he drove. The boys had gone back to their motel room to change, grabbed a quick dinner, and had been patrolling Y/N's neighborhood ever since. Sam looked over at his brother at the sound of his sigh.

"You okay?"

"I just feel bad for her," Dean answered. "She didn't deserve to get sucked into all of this."

"I agree, but Dean, we have no control over that. Sometimes bad things just happen to good people. You and I know that better than anyone."

"I guess," the older Winchester grumbled. Dean switched the Impala's lights off as they pulled up in front of Y/N's house for the fourth time in the past five hours. "You sure our wolf would come back here?" Sam gave a slight shrug in response. No, he wasn't one-hundred percent sure, but it was the most logical answer.

"I still think when it killed that girl last night, it was after Y/N. Think about it; Y/N said she was out with friends last night, right? What if our monster was waiting for her to get home and thought the girl was Y/N? Maybe she was just-"

"In the wrong place at the wrong time," Dean finished.

"Exactly. But Y/N said there was no one that wanted her hurt," Sam remembered. "I don't even know where to start with who might be our monster." Dean shook his head with a sigh.

"See, that's complicated," he interjected. "Just because she can't think of anyone that doesn't want her hurt doesn't mean there isn’t anyone who wants her hurt." Dean groaned, irritably, passing a hand over his eyes as his brother brainstormed. Suddenly, Sam sat up a bit straighter as he came to a realization.

"Wait," he said. "If I'm right, and it was waiting for Y/N to come home last night, it has to be someone she knows personally. It has to be a close friend or someone who would know what she had planned. This wasn't random." Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel thoughtfully.

"I think you might be right." The boys sat in silence for a while after that, listening closely for anything that might have been amiss. After about another half an hour of more nothing, Dean let out an exasperated puff of air. "All right," he started. "It's after midnight, it's a full moon, and we've still got squat. Should we do another few laps around the neighborhood?" Sam checked the chamber of his gun, counting the silver bullets.

"We might as well." Normally, Dean loved to drive his baby, but the driving around in near-complete silence was getting old. As far as boring nights went, this made the list of top ten, coming second only to the time that Sam insisted he listened to his podcast over the Impala's speakers since he had left his headphones at the bunker. "Do you think we're going about this the wrong way?" Sam asked his brother as the car purred peacefully. Dean raised his eyebrows in question, his eyes never leaving the road.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. I feel like there's something we're missing. Or maybe-" Sam was cut off as a nimble and inhumanly fast creature darted out in front of the car, the Impala barreling into it. The creature was thrown backward, and Dean slammed on the brakes, his car's tires screeching against the pavement in protest.

"Go, go!" Dean exclaimed. The boys didn't waste a second, getting out of the car and sprinting at their monster, guns drawn and ready to shoot. The angry roar that came from the werewolf heightened their senses as it prepared to charge, but it didn't get a chance to attack. Sam was faster, firing a silver bullet before it could get too close. In the almost complete darkness, they saw the monster recoil in pain and clutch at its shoulder. Sam had missed the heart. With another enraged snarl, the werewolf whirled around, taking off on all fours and rounding a corner behind a line of houses. Gunshots rang out in the night as Dean shot bullet after bullet, none of them hitting his target. "Damn it!" he swore. Again, they ran after their monster, but by the time they turned the same corner the werewolf had, it was long gone. Sam turned to Dean as he tried to catch his breath.

"Did you see its face?" Dean shook his head.

"No. Did you?"

"No," Sam answered. "It's too dark." The two boys stood in the night as they listened for any sign of which way the monster could have gone, but with no luck. Dean clenched his jaw, more than a little pissed.

"...son of a bitch."

By the time the sun rose, the Winchesters still had no leads on their werewolf. So, exhausted and irritated, they headed back to their motel for some shuteye. Tonight was the last night of the full moon, so they had to be ready to go all night again. It was their last chance, or they had to wait another month. Around eleven, Sam's phone began to ring, rousing him groggily from only a few hours of sleep. Grabbing the offending device from the nightstand, he accepted the call.

"This is Agent Elliot."

"-just woke up, and-" Sam jolted upright at the woman's panicked voice and hurled a pillow at his brother, who groaned unappreciatively, but otherwise did nothing. "-bruises and blood-" Sam held the phone away from his mouth.

"Dean!"

"What?" Dean snapped.

"It's Y/N!" At this, Dean was wide awake almost instantly, throwing off the blankets and coming over to listen in on the call. Sam pressed the phone against his ear once more.

"Y/N, slow down. What happened?"

"I don't know!"

Before Dean could even knock on Y/N's front door, she was already there opening it for them.

"Okay," Sam said in a placating tone. "Start from the beginning and tell us exactly what happened." As Y/N paced in her living room, it didn't go unnoticed by either boy that she was covered almost head to toe in bruises. Bruises that most definitely hadn't been there yesterday. She shook her head frantically as she hugged herself.

"I-I went to sleep last night not long after you two left," she began, her words still coming quickly. "And when I woke up, I was covered in bruises, and I have no idea how I got any of them." Dean's eyes honed in on a wet, dark red stain on the shoulder of Y/N's shirt. "I mean I've never sleep-walked in my life, so unless someone broke in and-"

"You're bleeding," Dean pointed out. Y/N stopped pacing.

"That's another thing." She took a step closer to the boys, her voice shaking as she spoke. "I woke up with this." She tugged at the neck of her soft, gray t-shirt, pulling the fabric down past her right shoulder. Sam and Dean stood in stone silence, neither of them moving an inch as they stared at the bullet wound on Y/N's shoulder, just below the edge of her collarbone. Exactly where Sam had shot the werewolf the night before.

Thanks so much for reading!

Happy Halloween!

The finale should air tomorrow!

Taglist: 

@cole-winchester​ @alexwinchester23​ @1-am-made-of-stardust​ @thorukindig​ @fiftyshadesoffandom6783​ @hobby27​ @indigyptian @youshrimpdickfucknugget​

If your username has a strikethrough, it means I was unable to tag you!

[brishu]

My Week At Sea - Part 2

Day 5

Several years earlier, one of my closest friends visited Jamaica and came back more disturbed than relaxed. He said the Jamaicans at his resort were so insistent on servility that they left no room for him to relate to them as people. Knowing enough about the Jamaica not enmeshed in the vicious net of tourism, he would have loved to penetrate the hotel workers’ subservience, but nothing he said or did could disrupt their forsaking their own dignity, and he was never going to align himself with the kind of racist, paternalistic assholes who enjoy a dynamic like that. I felt like I had already experienced something similar on the boat with Addy (even though she was Trini) and I was bracing myself for a flow-going day where, for the sake of my family, I settled into the role of passive oppressor as quietly as possible. I understood that all concerns like this were predicated on acknowledgement of the inherent unfairness of American foreign policy, resulting in this dark-skinned person working harder and being smarter than me, but my portion still being much greater than his. And what little he does have is far too dependent on my caprices. I guess this makes me a “snowflake” because, upon confronting poor foreigners, rather than leverage my financial power for maximum enjoyment, I would rather abrogate belief in the Manifest Destiny and deal apologetically with the Jamaican, as though that restores any balance whatsoever.

And maybe for the cruisers who opted for a high tea on a plantation or a day in the life of Bob Marley or 18 holes on Cinnamon Hill, Rastafarian minstrelsy was a welcome aspect of the experience. But again, thanks to the superior research of my wife, we had a fantastic, and perfectly comfortable excursion. Latenya, our guide, and Desmond, our driver, were kind but hardly subservient. In fact, on the bus ride to our first stop, I asked a question about Michael Manley and when my wife said, “Now you’re just showing off,” Latenya chimed in with a confirming, “Mmm hmmm.”

Throughout the ride of about 80 minutes, on the left side of the road with Desmond’s steering wheel on the right, Latenya told us about Jamaica’s history, economy and education system. Jamaica has six National Heroes and one National Heroine. Bob Marley ain’t one of them, Marcus Garvey is. Latenya also invited everyone on the bus to introduce himself in Jamaica patois: “My niem a’Brian. Me come from Brooklyn.”We were a smaller group, with only three other families: one group from Quebec, one from Mexico and one from Rochester. Guess which group asked every Jamaican we met if he knew Usain Bolt.

Again it bears remarking what an excellent job my wife did picking excursions. Ours was a two stop trip. The first was Mystic Mountain, where we rode a sky tram from the bottom to the top, gliding higher and higher, away from road noise and above the tree canopy to the summit.

That is my parents with one of our daughters in the car ahead of ours. To the left is Dolphin Cove Bay. At the top we had the opportunity to ride a self-braking roller coaster modeled after Jamaican bobsleds. I thought it might be some kind of kiddie ride but I was thrillingly wrong.

After the ride, one of the older Quebecois dudes asked me about Brooklyn and mentioned that it seemed to be the epicenter of political activity these days. My father took this to mean the guy was anti-Trump, but, considering Quebec’s reputation for cultural purity, I was more cautious in my replies. He asked me if I thought people were really going to start moving to Canada in droves and I said that I doubted it. I did not ask him his feelings about Trudeau, nor Stephen Harper because I could care less. And there was something opaque about his line of questions, as if he didn’t want me to know whether he was looking for kindred anti-Trumpism, or trying to coax forth the specious arguments of a, well, snowflake. For whatever it’s worth (not much), I think he came away respecting me, as much for avoiding hairtrigger political opinions as for the contrast between our interactions with our kids throughout the day’s adventures and those of the people from Rochester with their little boy. “Look at this Dylan! Look at that Dylan! Hey Dylan! Do you like this? What about this? Dylan! Dylan!” At some point I arrived at the belief that he was neither named after Robert Zimmerman’s stage name, nor his Welsh namesake’s, but rather after Luke Perry’s character on Beverly Hills 90210 and nothing you can say will convince me otherwise.

Our second stop was Konoko Falls. This is us at the bottom:

And we all made it to the top, some of us with a greater sense of accomplishment than others:

Above Konoko Falls was part of an old tea plantation now converted into a nature preserve, replete with caged tropical birds, towering ginger blossoms, two snapping turtles named Pretty and Ugly and the resting place of one of my compatriots whose visit didn’t go so well:

We got jerk chicken and pork with pigeon peas and rice for lunch and Latenya and our Konoko guides ate with us. I thought about complaining to them that the jerk wasn’t spicy enough, because it wasn’t, but then it would be all “Oh look at the white boy eating like an islander!” so I skipped it.

The bus ride back to the pier was fascinating for its foreign mundanities. I’ve noticed that every country seems to have dinstinctly shaped curbs along its roads, and that the grass can be a different species too. This may seem like nothing, but it etches different borders into your field of view, giving you the abiding sense that you really are somewhere else. And then there are the commercial accents that give you some sense of a place’s imperatives:

The silhouetted animals suggest Central Dealers is a great shop for hunters. But what about the explosion behind the bullet? Come on down to Central Dealers and fuck that nice blue sky up real good! Was this the area’s biggest munitions depot, asserting dominance via advertising a la Coca-Cola? Or was it a fledgling endeavour, betting the store on a billboard’s pyrotechnics? Whatever security Central Dealers offered its customers, here’s the sign that’s supposed to assure citizens of their official safety:

Pierside at excursion’s end, Latenya and Desmond bade us all farewell with their hands held out. At the outset of our tour, they had said they would take care of us and hoped we would take care of them. So everybody hunched over, trying to keep their larger bills out of sight, extracting what they felt was appropriate and stashing the rest away to let the money they held represent the pinnacle of generosity. I gave Latenya $20 and Desmond $10 and that seemed acceptable to them. As I got back on the boat, I wondered how long the guilt would have lasted if I had tipped poorly or even not at all. But, deprived of the opportunity to savor that regret, I resumed the grim business of enjoying a high state of privelege as we set sail for Hispaniola.

With two days left, we began to get elegiac. For some, that meant the trajectory of sloth had hit its nadir and it was time to start rousing back to the surface of baseline real world functionality. For others it meant make your memories now before you part ways from all of these other fine folks. For my daughters it meant writing a thank you note to Addy for bringing them cookies one night and a towel gorilla another:

Initially I was touched, but then my older daughter told me she just wanted to let Addy know “how great her service has been.” I was not the first parent, drunk or sober, to have to measure out the proper combination of approval and correction, but somehow I did manage to mask my horror at her blithe superciliousness, and suggest she say, “Thanks for taking such good care of us” instead.

The first time we saw Addy after we’d left the note in the room, she said thank you but I sensed that she actually felt put upon by the gesture, as though it demanded a stronger connection with us than she was comfortable making. It also occurred to me that she was worried we might leave a sweet note in lieu of a healthy tip, which seemed to impel her to convey that our kids’ note didn’t mean very much to her. I tried to signify to her that I totally got her cool reception of the note, but whether she got my wordless message, I really don’t know. The next night after I stuffed the envelope she had left in our room, she greeted me far more warmly. I guess the proper way to hold up my end of this interaction would have been to smile, pat her gently on the shoulder and move on, thus concluding our business together. But I’m afraid what I did, in some tiny way, was needlessly assert some kind of superiority, silently expressing “We coulda been friends but I guess all you care about is money. Oh well.” But of course, I only pulled that shit because I fell into the older and grosser dynamic of the little white snot who can’t get enough of mammy’s loving forebearance. This all happened quickly enough to play it off, as though we’d had a vanilla interaction without wrinkles or subtext, but I felt the gnarls and, no matter how professionally dispassionate Addy might have been, she must have felt it too. But before I took my millisecond plunge into the depths of racism, we went to Haiti.

Day 6

Royal Caribbean has the lease on Labadee, Haiti until 2050. It’s a peninsula they tout as a private island, but Haitians are barred entry by company employees with paramilitary backgrounds reinforced by rolls of razorwire. When ships aren’t in port, the only people there are maintenance crew and the aforementioned mercenaries. When ships do make landfall, a village comes to life. Crowds fill the beaches, giant palapas become cafeterias, trams convey cruisers to various recreations, and rows of stalls are filled with authorized merchants’ authentic Haitian wares. The excursions we booked for the day included one ride on the Dragon’s Tail roller coaster, which, like the previous day’s bobsled ride, was an alpine coaster. I actually liked this one better than the Jamaican one because on the bobsleds, you start at the top, hurdle down through the rainforest and then get hauled back up. The Dragon’s Tail pulls you up first and then you shoot down the tracks, careening through the mountainside forest, curving out over the sky-colored sea, applying the brakes as infrequently as you dare.

As our older daughter and I swooped to the bottom, we could hear her younger sister squealing gleefully from the shuttle behind us. Our ride ended about a minute before my wife’s and hers. My parents also rode, but they were more liberal with their brake application and finished long after we had all dismounted the ride.

Following this, we had tickets to spend an hour in Labadee’s aqua park, which was like a floating inflatable obstacle course. This was a lot less fun. The inflatable slides were very difficult to climb and our daughters were whining about the discomfort of the water. At first I just thought they needed to toughen up, but then my own skin began to crawl. My wife asked the lifeguard on duty and he said the water was teeming with micro-organisms that stung but the pain was only brief. Oh. We did not last the full hour.

Delivered from the duppy-infested cesspool masquerading as tropical amusement, my wife found a more secluded spot on the beach, away from a lot of the noise our boat had brought to the “island.” My parents parked on lounge chairs closer to the pop-up cafeteria and I took the girls to a playground with a sprinkler system not unlike that in the onboard kiddie pool area. I sat on a curb and watched them play with a group of other kids. To the left of them a 6 on 6 beach volleyball game was taking place. Some of the guys’ torsos were right out of the Top Gun scene(Did they lower the nets for the shots of Mav spiking it? I think they lowered the nets). Others were right out of Dollar Night at Molly Brannigans. But interphysique comeraderie was in full effect and all the players were having fun, possibly even more fun than my children were getting spouted on by a fiberglass hippo. I wanted to play. I wanted my kids to make lasting friendships so I could leave them and go make friends of my own. But I could neither dump them on some other unsuspecting parent at the playground, nor did I want to. They were so happy they’d lost track of time. And watching their industry flare up, even for something as trifling as dumping cupfuls of water down seasawing flumes ad nauseum, was its own pleasure, even if I had to miss a few sandy, heartfelt high fives for the marvelous plays I definitely would have made if I’d gotten into the game.

Back on the boat, we gathered for our penultimate dinner together. Something about the semifinality of the it, whether the extra snappy service from our waiter Richard or the table circulating of the executive chef, raised expectations that this meal would be special. So I was actually relieved that even the big night food was so mediocre because, spoiled as I am by my wife’s cooking, I was looking forward to getting back home rather than being sad that this wonderful journey couldn’t last forever.

After dinner my wife took our daughters to a show in the ship’s large theater while I took my parents to the Schooner Bar to play trivia. Seats were scarce so one man holding a whole table invited us to sit with him. He was a very friendly man and his name was Guy, so obviously he was Canadian. Guy was like the mayor of the boat. This was his and is wife Linda’s 13th day at sea and they seemed to know everyone- cruisers, waiters, vendors and officers. I felt assured that, for all of Guy and Linda’s good fortune, tonight was their lucky night because they got to be on my trivia team and few people alive knew more trivia than me. The subject that night was movie themes and just as the game began, Guy and Linda introduced us to Eric and Samantha, a couple from Atlanta. My smugness about my encyclopedic knowledge might have seeped out a bit as I assured all four other adults that they were in good hands on my team. But as the game went on and we got better acquainted, it became apparent that whatever winning ways I embodied were paltry compared to those of Eric and Samantha. A popular subject among cruisers meeting on cruise ships is their cruising history. With neither cockiness nor abashedness, Eric showed me a picture of him, Samantha and several other relatives crowded around Steve Harvey on the set of Family Feud. Then he explained that while on the cruise they had taken with 27 other family members on the steam of their Family Feud winnings, they wandered into a Bingo game and won the cruise they were on with us. So, while I doubted Eric could identify movie themes as quickly or accurately as me, I made sure he saw that I understood that, contrary to initial impressions, me wagon, him star. Though when we did not win (19 out of 20 I could answer within two bars, but I am not ashamed of my unfamiliarity with the soundtrack from Divergent), I took responsibility while still ceding leadership to Eric and Mayor Guy.

Eric told us that his free cruise did not include drinks, so he was probably the soberest of our lot. Guy explained that he had purchased one of the beverage packages and then greased a few waiters with $20 apiece. Now they brought Linda and him whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. I think Guy put away more than I did, so it seemed unwise for my father to try to keep up with him. On the other hand, once the trivia game was over, Guy, Linda, Eric and Samantha insisted that my parents join them at something called The Quest. They actually discouraged me from coming along and warned me that my wife and children should definitely skip it, as whatever The Quest was was decidedly NSFW. But they didn’t know my kids, who were as proud of their grandpa as Guy and Linda were for how game he was:

The Quest was sort of a concentrated scavenger hunt where the entire auditorium was divided by seating area into teams while the cruise director commanded each team to bring him a man in drag, a man with a hairy back, a picture of a woman in front of the White House, etc. I’m still not entirely sure why Guy and my dad were barefoot, but I think Linda wanted them prepared to drop trou. Samantha, Eric, my mother, wife (elbow pictured to my left) kids and I were less competitive about The Quest than my father and his new Canadian bff’s, but no less amused.

By some dubious criteria, a different section was proclaimed the winner of The Quest, but we didn’t care. We had laughed hard and expressed unabashed fondness for folks we just met, and at some point, my wife did a headstand in her seat, which garnered evening-long admiration from our neighbors in the seats. It all felt like the postmodern equivalent of the conga line, a postmodern letting down of the hair and kicking up the postmodern heels. I have no idea what postmodern means, nor any interest in learning. What I do understand is that socially, this was the most fun we’d had all week. We drunkenly struck up new acquaintances and took each other to new heights of enjoyment. I was so glad this had happened and deeply appreciative of Linda, Guy, Samantha and Eric for enfolding us so easily into their little band. As we parted ways, Linda asked for my personal info so she could send me some of the pictures and videos of my father’s antics. In the spirit of the moment I envisioned remaining in touch with our new friends for years to come.

Throughout the cruise I had been missing my brothers and cousins, who had made the family cruises we’d taken 15-20 years ago so much fun. And probably because that evening was really the only time we had been truly sociable with other cruisers, it was at that moment that I started thinking about my grandma and aunt, who were no longer alive. I know that part of what evoked their memories was the surrogacy assumed by my parents, now grandparents themselves, and Guy, with his Canadian Jimmy Buffet avuncularity. But of course, I was also thinking about mortality, and that if my departed relatives could have been on this trip with us, they’d have known from their time on the other side of the grass not to spend one second wallowing or actively seeking despair aboard the world’s second largest ocean liner. So ultimately, their specters were conjured to goad me into maintaining the warmth I felt toward our new friends before relapsing into dyspepticism, to stand vigil over my own happiness until it became more habitual. Weeks later, Linda did email me several pictures and videos from The Quest. And they were nearly all of Guy. I am still wondering whether I should reply with a slideshow of our trip. Or a link to this account…

Day 7

At sea all day. Spiritually too. I think at one point I saw Eric at some distance and found myself retreating the other way. I felt too much pressure to recapture whatever bonhommie we had established the night before. It occurred to me that I’d had a platonic one-night stand. But I also just wanted to be comfortable and relaxed and standing around, maintaining eye contact while chuckling about last night’s zaniness could not compare to finding somewhere to lounge, read and nap.

For the kids’ benefit I rode the zipline, one last time, delivering on a promise I had made weeks earlier, that I would invert myself while zipping, and hang like a bat, a feat I’d performed at summer camp 30+ years earlier, and presumed I still remembered how to do.

I made it about 10 feet before the lifeguard yelled “Don’t go upside down!” and I immediately complied. In retrospect, I doubt they would have thrown me off the boat for disobeying the guy, and even a ban from future zipline use would have been meaningless since the zipline was 10 minutes away from shutting down for the rest of the cruise. Maybe I wanted the younger, world-traveling recreation specialists to think I was cool, and, zipping along 80+ feet above the ground, my version of cool was readily obedient rather than daringly rebellious. So, while I can say I stopped my stunt because the boat made me, a braver man would have held his pose a bit longer.

As we gathered for our final dinner together, nobody else in my family had seemed eager to track down our friends from the night before, opting instead to drink, read and relax free of recent entanglement. And while we did little to reinforce whatever social bonds had been forged during The Quest, I wondered how many lasting friendships had been struck up that week, how many Facebook and Instagram connections made, how many romances burgeoned, or breached. How wide did the spectrum of emotion, from sadness that this magical time was ending to eagerness to get home, stretch? I had been surprised throughout the week by how many people I talked to who owned their own business. Maybe I shouldn’t have been. But I could understand why they would value a week of lethargic gluttony more than somebody whose real life entailed fewer pressures and better food. Just to steer clear of consequential decisions, to be able to screw up without harming anyone, must have been quite a tonic. I didn’t have those worries to leave behind, so I was less likely to embrace the daze.

All week long I had been pressuring myself to blow past whatever gulf there was between my personal inclinations and the style of indulgence that seemed to make my fellow cruisers the happiest. I tried convincing myself that transcendant pleasures were available if I could just ignore my myriad reservations. And even though I felt like the social version of a picky eater, I found plenty onboard to enjoy. I just didn’t have a deeply restorative experience, nor did I need one, nor did I need to care about as little as possible to enjoy being with my family. And I should note that when we left the dining room after dinner that night, the number of faces basking in the glow of devices, sometimes 10 out of 10 people at one table, was staggering. Throughout the cruise I had posted a few pictures on Instagram, but nobody in my family had taken their phone out at dinner. The tv in our room never went on, and the iPad I brought for the kids to watch on the plane stayed in my backpack all week. Surveying the dining room, I felt considerably less guilty for not connecting with more people who seemed to prefer remote electronic relationships to the friends and loved ones right in front of them. I was cautious not to milk too much superiority out of the tableau of ghostlit faces atomizing families’ last night together, but I also felt vindicated and relieved, that by remaining aloof of the vapidity, I really hadn’t missed much. Meanwhile, I knew that while the onboard sense of community had felt robust to some and anemic to others, I was so ready to return to my village of snowflakes that my departure felt like more of an escape than my arrival had.

Day 8

We got off the boat with considerably less fanfare than than we had boarded it. As the massive Port Everglades processing center spit us back out into the world, I wondered whether the feel of unceremonious credential-stripping was intentional, a touch of unpleasantness designed to make you long to return to the company’s care and good graces. Or was it simply the jarring difference between being active paying customers and former paying customers? I don’t know much about branding, but I know that Royal Carribean is a multi-billion dollar corporation and I could intuit that hundreds of suits were working every angle they could think of to open new revenue streams, and then it was another department’s job to integrate these ideas into the unified identity of a bona fide Royal Caribbean product, which was something like island pleasure,  sanitized by Scandinavian experts. Based on their financial performance, these initiatives were well-executed. But held up to the scrutiny whose discouragement I so zealously ignored, the swarm of photographers, dangling of status upgrades, nutritionists of obscure nationalities selling secret fat cures in the spa, licensced gemologists convincing cruisers that this boat was among the world’s finest jewelry shops, delighted welcome vs. slightly disgusted goodbye, felt unified only by the anchor logo and the feel of aggressive upsell. Woe be unto any of these poor bastards who found themselves in Marrakech.

On the bus from Port Everglades back to the Miami airport, I recognized an older Israeli couple I had overheard speaking Hebrew at breakfast one morning. They seemed strangely un-Israeli in that they were A) Befuddled by travel and B) Polite. At the airport a large line formed outside to check bags. My wife went inside and came back telling us the lines were shorter. The Israeli couple asked where we were going and in Hebrew I told them about the smaller lines inside. On our way in, they asked my parents why I spoke Hebrew and they didn’t and, though the answer wasn’t that complicated, I think my parents were just happy to interact with fellow Jews who weren’t from Long Island. And maybe the Israelis were happy to talk with us for our hamishness, though at the moment our most attractive feature seemed to be my ability to explain the various options a typical airport kiosk offered them, and to help them make their choices. In a way, their cluelessness about airplane security gave me great hope for Israel’s current safety situation, but conversely, a grim outlook on Israel’s regional prospects, since her progress in security had not been accompanied by commensurate diplomatic strides.

We had several hours to kill before our flight. My wife’s AmEx platinum card got us into the Miami Airport Centurion Lounge. This was a lavish prospect, and one that I was somewhat reluctant to enjoy because it extended our access to food and drink at a time when I had already shut the door on such perks. My wife’s card granted admission for the four of us and at her insistence, we bought guest passes for my parents. My father almost never lets me treat him to anything, but in this case he did, for which I was glad. And it was nice to have this extra time together, relaxed, needs met, surrounded by traveling Miamians who may or may not have been drug lords.

After nearly three hours passed pleasantly in the lounge, it was time to go to our gates. My parents and daughters exchanged warm goodbyes and then my wife and I covered whatever shortcomings lace through our expressions of gratitude with vague but intentional maneuvers meant to convey that we deserved a great deal of credit for the joy they got from their granddaughters. It could be something as outwardly innocuous as, “Hope y’all had fun with the girls, “ but subtle as it was, I could neither deny the ulterior motive in saying it, nor harness my identification of this shittiness as means of surmounting it.

Our gate was full of crying children, which tested my inner saint. On one hand, I genuinely cared about these kids, and felt confident that I could cheer them up in short order. I often did just that with funny faces or even conversations if the sad kid was close enough that it didn’t seem weird. But on the other hand, I felt helplessly triumphant that my kids were such sanguine travelers, and the attendant feelings of parental superiority were hard to avoid.

We had purchased our tickets with an American Airlines credit card, which I was led to believe accorded us some type of boarding priority. But by the time active military, first class, business class, diamond star medallion, platinum status and American Airlines Advantage Preferred had been invited to traipse planeward across the special carpet, we were one of maybe 10 families left to board. Once again the special feeling extended on point of sale was withdrawn post-purchase.

I had booked the aisle and window on both sides of the same row, knowing it would give us flexibility to offer an aisle or window to whichever middle-seater was willing to switch so we could sit three on one side and one on the other. Instead, we got entangled with a scattered group of elderly Italians and again I felt like an unacknowledged superhero for being able to help another family in their mother tongue. The Italians reunited, our family contiguous across the aisle and a formerly middle-seater on the aisle ahead of us, we were seated comfortably and the plane took off.

On our flight down to Miami, each seat had its own entertainment system. The older plane we rode back to new York was equipped with monitors hanging intermittently from the ceiling, all broadcasting a long-form infomercial for a new show on NBC. Mostly I read or napped, but sometimes I would look up at the screens and watch behind the scenes clips about a show called Emerald City which was set in Oz well before Dorothy’s arrival. Cast members were interviewed in full costume, while special effects experts and producers wore t-shirts and stubble. Even though I couldn’t hear any of it, it was clear they were speaking with great seriousness. But a sublte aspect of their postures betrayed network brass compulsion. The cast included unknown actors plus a few “prestige ones” like Vincent D’Onofrio and Joely Richardson and there was something performative about the passion they exuded, which in some respects I found comforting, since it showed a tiny but perceptible leaking of the awareness that they were all involved in something expensive, derivative (it was clearly meant to be Wizard of Oz meets Game of Thrones) and preposterous. Maybe some of the younger cast extolled the show without irony, just young beef- and cheesecake thrilled by the chance to be on TV. But while the older actors and creative types all seemed engaged in a chaarade, it struck me that the millions of people who might be interested in watching this drek would have to actively ignore the micro-signals emitted by the more aware members of the show’s creative team. And this more effortful form of ignorance, this determination to elude the minefield of buzzkills that spoil superficial entertainment, even at the expense of sensitivity toward loved ones’ feelings, was as prevalent on land (or in the air) as it was at sea. Millions of enormous people geared up to consume, consume, consume, happy to think as little as possible, all while remaining vigilantly unaware of even their lack of awareness that no amount of material plenitude would turn them away from devices and toward the friendly people at the shore at whom they had such a hard time waving.

But what did that say about me, flogging the same distinctions over and over again, careening headlong into the buzzkills, coopting any human foible I could find as an excuse to remain aloof of the fray? Was I afraid of what might happen if my brain just shut up and let me enjoy the festivities too? Yes. I was.

Back home that night, we settled in to watch the Oscars. I imagined a Monday to Monday voyage at sea, where we attended an onboard Oscar party. My musings got specific as I pictured cruisers name-checking the Vanity Fair party as proof of their cinematic sophistication,  and then my own parsing why their citation felt obtuse while my own impassioned takedown of Whiplash signified a superior comprehension of what was good and bad about movies. But why was I still litigating arguments that never even took place out loud? Surely I didn’t think the Quebecois from the Jamaica excursion, or the guys I’d watched a basketball game with one night, or even Linda, Guy, Samantha and Eric were sitting at home now wishing we’d gotten to know each other better. And neither was I. So what the fuck was my problem? Well, I have many. And it’s not a cruise’s job to solve them. If I didn’t fit in on the boat as snugly as other folks, I needn’t see it as a loss, nor justify it philosophically. I’m me, they’re them, and none of them will read this anyway.