#how in All these years has nobody been bothered by the seams that exist where they shouldn't! like the pixels aren't square!!!!!!

[rav3nston3]

hi look at these :3 it's stuff from my tag server

[medusinestories]

Black Sails, IV (S1, ep 04)

- Silver's horrified face when he finds out he's going to have to roast pigs is a Journey, starting with shock, then fake smiling, and then this horrified shuddery expression. It's just as interesting when they drop the dead pig at his feet and he clearly doesn't know what to do with it and also finds it disgusting. I can absolutely see where all the Jewish John Silver headcanons come from, especially since it's unlikely that a London urchin has never seen a dead pig and raw meat in general before.

- Here we have the first performance of Cassandra DeGroot: he knows that the bay they'd chosen to do the careening was too dangerous, and warns the crew. He's immediately countered by Flint, who has much more persuasive arguments to get the careening done fast but in a risky manner. (this whole thing reminds me of our current COVID/climate situation, where scientists get talked over by politicians, and people prefer listening to the latter because they seem to offer much better prospects than the “catastrophist” former)

- In this episode Billy is now quartermaster and he shows himself to actually be really good at disciplining the crew, something Gates, DeGroot and even Flint recognise. However, he also agreed to do the careening only because he's afraid to say no to Flint and allowed the men to have a fuck tent, which he feared would distract them - and it did, the two men who placed the rope on the wrong tree decided not to follow his orders and go fuck instead. This all weighs on him enormously after the disaster with Randall and Morley, who accuses him minutes before his death of already being in Flint's pocket. It's pretty clear that more responsibility doesn't do Billy's mental state any good.

- Morley's story about the Maria Aleyne gives some idea of a timeline, albeit a faint one. The incident took place "a number of years back", before Billy joined. This means that Billy is a somewhat new addition to the crew. We know that Randall was bosun when Billy joined. This also establishes that Lord Hamilton has been dead for several years, which now begs the question: who is the Lord Proprietor that Richard Guthrie is now in touch with? Did Thomas have a younger brother who inherited the Bahamas? Was someone new appointed? Was there a gap between Proprietors that allowed the pirates to establish themselves even more after Lord Alfred's death?

- I just adore the fact that Miranda actually went to stinking, violent Nassau because she was just too impatient to wait at home and wanted to be there when the Walrus came in and immediately hear the news of Lord Alfred's death. She is that vengeful and angry and I love her <3

- Speaking of which, this episode gives us the Passive-Agressive Sex Scene which makes so many people doubt of Flint's attraction to Miranda. Just look at Flint’s face: this man isn't uncomfortable or sad he is PISSED. He plays starfish and glares at Miranda all through it (while maintaining an erection all the same!). Miranda must be hella frustrated (or determined) because she manages to get off in spite of all of this (also, how uncommon is it for a sex scene to end when the woman climaxes rather than the man?) It's only when it ends that both Flint and Miranda are both shown as vulnerable and sad and reflective, with Flint reaching up to touch her but not quite getting there - imo because he's still angry but knows that she (and he) needs comfort.

- This leads into the argument over Meditations, and Miranda explicitly talking about Thomas and not wanting to forget him. The book hasn't been touched in a long time, confirming the idea that Miranda shared it with Richard Guthrie because Flint refuses to touch it. Her grief, her loneliness, are incredibly poignant in this scene, and we see Flint shift from bristling and stonily glaring at her, to absolutely melting (Toby's facial expression shifts here are just *chef's kiss*) and finally being gentle and tender with her. However, even though he promises to make things better, Miranda clearly doesn't believe him anymore.

- This brings in a big theme in the episode: betrayal from people you care for/trust. Mr Scott asks Eleanor not to do anything rash in order to get the Andromache’s guns, only to discover her Plan B: to kill Bryson if he didn't comply. In the meantime, Richard Guthrie tells (a very sceptical) Miranda that he can only support Eleanor and Flint, because he pretty much has no choice in the matter. He then proceeds to betray his daughter by making a deal with Bryson and with Mr Scott, who’s still smarting from Eleanor’s betrayal and who Guthrie tries to convince by saying that Eleanor's endeavour will lead to her death and Nassau’s destruction (considering what we later find out about Mr Scott, Eleanor’s safety is probably not be the argument that actually compels Mr Scott - but he certainly doesn't want the Navy searching the area and finding Maroon Island, and needs a stable Nassau to continue supplying his island).

- The Undercooked Pig scene and Silver's attempts at communicating with Flint will never not be funny. Silver looks so small when Flint glares him down, but that doesn't last all that long: once Flint has taught him how to cook the pork, Silver seems much more bold, asking Flint how he learned to glaze the pig, insisting that Flint should trust him and not Billy. This is also a moment where Silver shows that, unlike Flint, he is incredibly perceptive: he noticed that Billy is "straining at the seams" because of the lie he told. And while Flint spits a "there is no we" and calls Silver a rodent, it's obvious that Silver's words still have an impact on him. Their collaboration is sealed when Silver hands him the cleaver so that he can save Randall (and himself). When Flint returns the cleaver to Silver, he's ready to accept that Silver is actually on his side (albeit for selfish reasons) and listens to him for the first time.

- Max believed that she could charm Vane's remaining crew into being kind to her - and overall it seems to have worked. While again I hate this plot, it does give an interesting insight into how even the worst pirate crew is portrayed: most of the men are happy to comply with Max and get sexual rewards "for gentle obedience". Most of them, basically, aren't violent monsters deep down. However there's always one, in this case That Big Bastard (I'm sure he has a name, I just can't be bothered to google it), who clearly gets a kick out of torturing/raping people and hates the idea of a woman taking the lead.

- Fuck You Jack is another theme of this episode. Vane is high on opium and booze and has basically lost the will to do anything. Anne has been courted by several other crews, but Jack hasn't received any offers (note there's no loyalty to Vane here, Jack’s ready to leave, but nobody will have him) and nobody is willing to help him after the pearl cock-up. Then Noonan wants Max back, which Jack refuses because she's the only thing keeping the few members of his crew loyal - and Anne isn't on board with that, leading to her telling him to fuck himself. This, btw, might have crossed Jack’s mind considering the position she was in when he found her. I think it’s easy to forget that Jack is portrayed as pretty callous and happily willing to treat people like pawns too.

- When Richard Guthrie talks about Nassau, he describes it as a place "a place where she [Eleanor] matters, a place where you [Mr Scott] matter", and adds that a place like this isn't meant to last. Nassau, then, is currently an utopia where women and black people can have some semblance of power - and he doesn't believe that this will ever be allowed to exist because this kind of story never has a happy ending in their current society. But when Flint talks to Eleanor about their project, he's of the opposite view: people don't believe that it's possible, but when they succeed, they'll say it was inevitable. It seems Flint is firmly in the camp of "winners get to tell the story", and that the story will influence how the rest of the world sees them.

- When the Walrus tilts and squashes Randall, Flint stops Billy from intervening and rushes to rescue Randall himself - even though he knows the ship will be cut loose at any moment. He puts himself into incredible danger in this moment. Why? Theoretically, it could be for a manipulative purpose: to look good to the crew, or to get rid of Morley. But Flint seems genuinely involved in the struggle to save Randall, and he barely had time to think before he ran off. I feel that this is a rare spontaneous moment for Flint, where instead of thinking about his plans or his position as Captain, he just thinks like a person in an emergency who wants to rescue someone else. He absolutely could have died out there. And while Billy seems to suspect him of having killed Morley, I don't find that reading compatible with what we're shown of Flint trying to save Randall. True, he may have kicked/pushed Morley at the very last second, but we’ll never know that for sure.

- Back to the theme of people betraying their loved ones, we have Richard Guthrie getting back to Miranda, telling her he knows who she is and revealing the "Thomas went mad because Miranda and Flint cheated" story which he heard from Lord Alfred himself. So now Miranda knows that her identity has been revealed and that Richard could spread the story to, say, Pastor Lambrick (let's not pretend this didn't cross her mind, she keeps her identity secret for a reason). And then Guthrie offers her a way back to civilisation. This, right after a kid threw a stone at her, calling her a witch. This, after Flint has promised to make things better, even as he goes deeper into reckless/utopian plans of fortifying Nassau. Backed into a corner, was Miranda ever going to refuse, if she could be safe and have him be safe? And obviously, Richard Guthrie isn't doing this out of the kindness of his heart. He apparently figured out that Miranda was a way to get in touch with Pastor Lambrick and that ridding New Providence of Flint and winning over the “good”, normal inhabitants would be a perfect beginning to buying back his influence on the Island - the end goal being named Governor, of course.

- If there was any doubt that Vane’s tough guy thing is part of an act, his opium hallucination of Eleanor makes it crystal clear: "you're alone, you don't have to pretend with me". That is, pretend that he's not afraid and that he's not vulnerable. The hallucination also offers Vane an explanation for why Eleanor is how she is: like him she's afraid of appearing weak. He's actually spot on, a big problem in their relationship is that they're too alike and are struggling for dominance. Which is probably why Vane wants to overcome his fear and weakness, and regain power by confronting his old slave master (btw, nice parallel with Flint haunted by Miranda in S3). The scene where Vane kills Noonan also shows him in a very animalistic light - at first he's cornered and somewhat pathetic, beaten, throwing up, only saved by the fact that a gun misfires. Then he turns violent: quick, instinctive and relentless, deaf to Noonan's plea to leave him alive, even if theoretically it could have been profitable for him.

- I have to say, I snickered quite a bit when Pastor Lambrick sees Richard Guthrie and tells him "God teaches us not to cheer when someone stumbles, in your case I may ask his forgiveness". I mean, I really see his point. He leads a group of Puritans who are trying to make a life for themselves on this island. Historically, people who lived and farmed in New Providence were constant targets for errant pirates, who robbed, raped and killed a lot of them. This is what the Pastor is trying to protect his congregation from (and Miranda, since he doesn't understand why she's with Flint and is likely terrified that a pirate lives so close to his congregation, hence the spies he sends out). There's a bit of a parallel with Billy, where both Lambrick and Billy are presented as being very preoccupied with the well-being of the group they're responsible for, and both are presented as, well, Goody-Two-Shoes - (self-)righteous, loyal, honest, caring. Except they're both human, and sooner or later they falter.

[villainscomplex]

this, at least.

hey so anyway yall know how there was that big boom of angsty ship fics right

,,,,,i wanted to write one too and I have no other excuse

!!! MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH !!!

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Quotev

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In his dreams, Asahi dies slowly.

His body is a mass of static and there is nothing but pain and pain and more pain. He’s vaguely aware of someone, somewhere, calling his name. Asahi, they’re saying, Asahi, please wake up.

And he does.

Asahi jerks awake violently, legs tangled in his blankets and hair plastered to the back of his neck, cold with sweat. He still feels like there’s — what? He doesn’t know the source of the pain, only that it is sheer pain, radiating through the core of his very being. It’d be easy to think it’s something simple, a bullet wound or head trauma, but the way it nestles into his chest and takes root there begs to differ.

In his dreams — nightmares, they prefer — Asahi is made of fear and desperation, of please, no, and the unnerving feeling that he’s forgetting something. There’s always someone with him, always whispering his name, fingers cold on his face.

It’s always the same scene.

He steps into a doorway and panic swells in his chest, but he’s never sure what triggers it. There’s nothing in the room but darkness, and then his feet come out from under him, and he is falling. The ground is far, and he falls forever and ever, until time stops short. He crashes into it in one graceless dive, shatters apart, and reforms at the seams with the sweet familiarity of agony.

He’s sure, with every fiber of his being, that something is missing. He doesn’t know what, or who, only that it is missing and the absence feels like a hole in his chest, a hollow place where the pain doesn’t reach.

Asahi leans forward in his bed, struggling to catch his breath. His hair falls like a curtain around his face. He can’t remember why he keeps it long, only that the idea of cutting it feels wrong, and so he lets it grow.

Suddenly, his bed feels unappealing and cold, and he staggers out of it into the quiet of his apartment.

If his life was a story, the narrator would say something like this — Azumane Asahi is a twenty-six year old man with severe amnesia and a wedding ring on a necklace, to which he doesn’t know the location of the missing pair. And that’s it, they’d say, just a detective with no memory and a lot of anxiety. He doesn’t think he’s important enough of a character to warrant any sort of life story.

His phone is where he left it when he’d arrived home the night prior, tossed onto his side table in a fit of weariness. The screen blinks dimly back at him, still miraculously alive, but only with about six percent to spare and at least three new messages to speak of. They’re all from one of the few people he actually texts, and even without looking at the contact name, Suga’s typing style is distinctive from Daichi or Shimizu’s.

He checks the time in the corner of his screen. It’s nearly five-thirty in the morning, which isn’t a bad time, but it’s still earlier than he normally gets up. Going back to sleep is about the most unappealing thing he can think of right now, so even if he isn’t a morning person, he plugs his phone up, clicks on the shabby TV, and goes to make a pot of coffee, listening to the steady drone of the early weather report.

The ring around his neck is a cold weight against his bare skin, small and heavy against the hollow where his throat meets his clavicle. It rolls and clinks softly against its chain as he moves, a quiet, ever-present reminder of a past he doesn’t remember.

It’s easy to make assumptions. He doesn’t know who has the pair to this ring, only that it feels too important to get rid of, so he keeps it around his neck. For all he knows, he was married once. Someone else had — maybe still has — the pair to this ring. He doesn’t remember being married or who his partner is, but he’s sure they must exist.

Maybe they’d left because he’d forgotten.

Asahi tucks the assumption away before his anxiety can take it and run. He’s got a life now and he can’t go ruining what he has by overthinking whatever he used to have. Lacking the vast majority of his memories hadn’t stopped him from rebuilding his life these past few months, bit by bit.

It’s only been a few months since the accident and even though he doesn’t remember it personally, that’s all everyone keeps referring to it as. The accident, like he’d gone and suffered a massive memory loss by total coincidence.

Asahi kind of hates it. He tries not to think too hard about it.

In hindsight, it hadn’t been an easy recovery. He supposes nobody ever really thinks about what would happen if they lost a chunk of their adult memories and nobody would tell them why. He’d had friends to support him through it, even if he had taken a while to remember the three of them, and because of their support he’d been able to get back on his feet.

He’s still a rookie at this detective work, but sitting down and poring over the facts and figures of the cases he’s investigating is oddly comforting.

Light peeks out from over the horizon as the morning settles in, blanketing the world outside and the living room within in a sheet of pale light. Asahi’s eyes ache from his lack of sleep. The bags beneath them have gotten worse, and he’s sure he’ll inevitably get scolded about them when he sees his friends again.

By the time Asahi arrives at his workplace, the city around him has come to life. It’s never quiet here by any means, but once the sun is up, it seems everyone takes to the streets at once. He leaves early to avoid the rush, but always inevitably catches the start of it and makes it just in time, stumbling into the doorway of the detective agency’s office.

“Hey, Azumane,” the receptionist greets with an easy smile, leaning over the desk to be seen, “just in time. Still relearning the trains?” Asahi isn’t too familiar with Narita, but the man is calm and rarely bothered by high stress situations, and he appreciates the cool head and easy attitude first thing in the morning. He’d been one of the first to make sure Asahi had felt welcomed here, and Asahi is eternally grateful for it.

“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck, averting his eyes, “it’s a lot to get used to all over again. I keep hoping I’ll just jog my memory somehow and miraculously remember.”

Narita laughs. “I’m sure it’s somewhere in that head of yours.”

Asahi doesn’t stick around to chat much longer, heading up to the main office. There’s only two others inside, both at their desks doing very different things. Akaashi, ever studious, is hunched over a case file from a recent completion of his, scribbling away. Kozume, on the other hand, their resident cyber specialist, reclines back in his chair, tapping away at his phone and looking like he’s half asleep. “Azumane,” Kozume yawns, “there’s some files on your desk.” There are in fact — Asahi turns to confirm — files on his desk.

There’s also a boy there.

His back is to Asahi, but he can see the slicked black hair, wild and dark, sharp against the evident paleness of the boy’s skin. The boy visibly straightens when Asahi turns to look, whipping around in his chair.

Okay, no, a man. A grown man.

Asahi feels a little like deer in headlights, caught in the sharp stare of the man’s golden eyes, interrupted only by the equal shock of bleached blond hair in the forefront of his bangs. Asahi feels pinned in place by that unblinking stare, and it takes him a moment to remember to move.

He circles to his desk a little hesitantly, starkly aware of the other man’s stare following him the entire way around. It’s still on him when Asahi seats himself on the opposite side of the desk, and Asahi steels himself to meet it, smiling nervously.

“Hello,” he greets, “I’m Azumane. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting any clients today.” “I’m Noya!�� The man declares, gives no further context, and slaps a file down in front of Asahi. “I need you to look into this.”

The words CASE CLOSED stands out in stark red lettering on the front. Asahi resists the urge to frown. It isn’t uncommon for them to receive requests to look into closed cases, but generally speaking, they’re a waste of money and time.

“Listen,” he starts hesitantly, “honestly, I’m still very new at this. Could I recommend you to one of our more experienced investigators?”

Noya shakes his head adamantly, looking appalled at the mere suggestion. “No!” He says, loud enough that Asahi flinches. “This is important to me! You have to do it!”

“I-”

Noya stares at him, lips turned down, eyes wide in a silent plea. Asahi takes the file.

There’s no photo inside, but it's very clearly labeled as involuntary manslaughter. The victim had only been twenty-five, but the details are absolutely minimal. There really won’t be a lot he can do with this, even if he does accept it. He’s sure the case is closed for a reason.

“Look,” he starts, raising his eyes.

Noya is gone.

Asahi leaps out of his seat, file in hand. Noya had just been there. He’s not surprised the man is fast, but Asahi hadn’t even accepted the case yet, and Noya hadn’t even stuck around to answer questions. Asahi races out of the office and into the entry lobby, head swinging from side to side in search of the shorter man.

“Narita,” he asks, leaning over the side of the receptionist’s counter, “did you see where that man went?”

Narita frowns at him. “What man? I haven’t seen anyone pass by.”

“I-” Asahi sighs, dragging his fingers through his hair hard enough to yank it out of his half bun and just resigns himself, tucking the file under his arm. “Nevermind. Thanks anyway.” Narita gives him another odd look as he turns away, returning to the main office. When he enters, Akaashi and Kozume both glance up strangely, matching the look Narita had previously given him, but Kozume loses interest much quicker than he’s gained it, as if this is a perfectly normal, everyday incident. Akaashi’s gaze tracks him all the way back to his desk, and only then does it fall away, leaving Asahi to his own devices. For a long time, Asahi just stares at the file. Case closed stares back at him, bold and red and final.

It isn’t to say that it’s quite uncommon for them to get a closed case to investigate. Generally speaking, it’s recommended to avoid closed cases. More often than not, they lead to dead ends and more broken hearts than when they began. The police may not investigate as much as private detectives, but they weren’t always wrong by any means. But Noya hadn’t given him too much of a choice in the matter, so against his better judgment, Asahi opens the file.

It’s almost pathetically small, three pages at most. There’s no photos, but from what Asahi can gather, it’s a twenty-five year old man who fell victim to an armed robbery incident, whose death was ultimately ruled involuntary manslaughter as a result. The culprit had never been caught, but the man’s partner had suffered some sort of collateral damage. There’s no further information on any of the three; the partner is unnamed and there are no photos of the man or the partner.

There’s nothing here that points to the case being anything other than what the file says, much less any sort of connection. He considers, briefly, that maybe Noya is the partner and wants the man brought to justice, but he doesn’t have any confirmation to this theory. It just seems like a home robbery turned homicide.

It’s essentially a dead end. There’s no address to begin the investigation and no family on the file to contact in regards. If Noya is the partner, Asahi could start there, but if he’d suffered some sort of trauma related to the incident, then Asahi has to take his testimony with a grain of salt. And this is all based on assumption — he doesn’t even know the extent of Noya’s personal involvement with this entire situation.

Noya hadn’t left him any contact details.

The thought strikes him abruptly, and Asahi sighs. This isn’t going to go anywhere without Noya’s cooperation. Asahi hadn’t agreed to investigate it in the first place. Resigned, he closes the file again and slides it underneath a few others on his desk, where it’s quickly forgotten in the wake of the rest of his work.

When he leaves that evening, files tucked away in his bag, the sun hangs low over the horizon, lethargic orange rays reclined across the darkening sky. It’s as beautiful as it is ominous, and Asahi ducks his head to avoid wandering eyes as he hurries to the train station, long coat swishing behind him.

The temperature sinks as it grows late, and despite his scarf, Asahi’s face burns with chill by the time he gets to the stairs leading down into the train station. People swarm around him, talking and huddling, faces as red as his own and stark with the relief of getting somewhere decently warmer.

Close enough to the rails to actually get on the train, but not close enough to get trampled by those trying to get good seating, Asahi tucks his chin into his scarf and takes a steadying breath.

He wonders if he was always an anxious person like this; had too much noise always been overwhelming to him? Had he ever walked with his head up, unconcerned about the opinions of those around him? Was this ever present bundle of nerves set deep in the square of his chest just a side effect of a tragic accident that nobody will tell him about?

He slides his thumb over the crest of the wedding ring on his necklace, a motion that feels like nothing but pure instinct, and then nearly yanks it clean off his neck when a hand grips his elbow, hard, and he flinches.

Asahi looks down.

Staring back up at him indignantly, lips fixed into a frown and golden eyes wide, looking as if he’s entirely unbothered by the cold despite being in nothing but a t-shirt and basketball shorts, is Noya.

“Azumane-san!”

Asahi is unbelievably shaken right now. After all, the odds that Noya would show up at the same train station as him were slim, even for this side of the city, but here he is, grip hard on Asahi’s elbow. If Asahi had gears in his head, they’d be stalling right now, and the little embodiment of his consciousness would be trying to restart it to no avail.

When the wires finally reconnect, Asahi gasps. “Why don’t you have a jacket?”

The words come out more demanding than he intended, but it’s too late to apologize, so instead, Asahi strips off his overcoat, and then the coat beneath it. Goosebumps prickle over the nape of his neck where it’s exposed to the cold, and he hurriedly yanks the long coat back on, handing the other off to Noya. Noya, who has since let go, looks a little surprised as he accepts it.

“I’m fine!” Noya huffs, but he pulls the jacket on regardless.

The sleeves slip past his fingertips, effectively dwarfing him. Asahi thinks it would be rather comical if he wasn’t so upset at this precise moment, but even swallowed up by Asahi’s undercoat, Noya feels like a force to be reckoned with, a storm lying in wait.

Asahi can’t put his finger on it, but Noya’s brash personality seems familiar, somehow. Mentally, he goes through his limited list of friends. Sugawara fits the bill closest, but even his chaos is of a different sort.

The train whistle breaks him out of his thoughts. He spots the lights as it barrels down the tunnel.

“Have you solved the case yet?” Noya asks, gaze still fixed on Asahi, unwavering.

Asahi frowns at him. “Listen,” he begins, turning his gaze back to Noya.

His words die in his throat. Noya stares back at him, eyes glittering in the faint light of the underground station, wild hair stirred around his face by the gust of cold air the train brings with it. The doors hiss open, but Asahi doesn’t move to get on yet. People stream by them on their way on or off the platform.

He can’t say no. He doesn’t know what it is, but Asahi is suddenly resigned to seeing this through. Noya’s eyes are intense and focused, hard with determination and a type of fire that Asahi can’t remember ever seeing before. He can’t say no.

“I haven’t,” he says, “but I’m going to investigate it as best I can.”

Noya’s grin makes him think that perhaps this is the right decision after all.

The train whistles again. Asahi starts, whirling back around to the platform. Oh no, the train’s going to leave.

“Are you-” He begins, glancing back to Noya, intending to ask if he’s getting on the same train.

Noya is gone. Asahi stares incredulously at the spot where the man had been, dwarfed in Asahi’s coat. He turns, glancing a full circle around himself, trying to spot that shock of blond in the crowd, but no, Noya is gone.

Maybe he got on the train.

Asahi follows suit, tucking his overcoat a little tighter around him as the doors slide shut. The people on the platform all blur together in a mass of color as the train pulls away, but Asahi swears he catches the piercing stare of golden eyes. It’s gone before he can think too hard about it, and Asahi spends the train ride and subsequent walk home staring into space. He hadn’t gotten Noya’s contact info.

“I’m home,” he says to no one as he opens his door and steps in, taking his shoes off.

Maybe he should get a dog.

Sighing heavily, Asahi drops his bag onto the floor by the door, where it tips to the side and lets a few papers and files slide halfway out. He pays it little mind, figuring he can think about it later, and makes his way down the narrow corridor into the bedroom at the back.

It’s sheer muscle memory that gets him through his nightly routine, and by the time he lets his hair down and flops into bed, he’s too exhausted to think. The somber tendrils of heavy sleep drag him deep into the sheets.

He dreams. (He has nightmares.)

Wake up, wake up, wake up, the voice is saying. Asahi, please wake up. Please don’t leave me. Please, no. Please, no.

This time, when Asahi jerks awake, the sun is still low below the horizon and his phone reads 4:36 A.M, but there’s no chance of him going back to sleep so he dons a hoodie and decides to do something with himself. In the end, Asahi goes for a run. It’s been a while since he’s just gone out like this, so he takes the short route that loops through the backside of a local park. Asahi jogs what he can, but it quickly becomes clear that he isn’t nearly as in shape as he clearly had been once. He can tell he used to be muscular and healthy prior to the accident, but he’s hardly been focused on maintaining that post memory loss. Still, running feels natural, so he tries to keep it up.

He runs into Noya again. Asahi rounds the bend, huffs of breath forming white clouds in the chilly morning air. There’s only a handful of other souls up and about this early, and from what Asahi can tell, they’re all out running too. It’s a nice change of pace to get his mind off of everything, but it’s clear the universe has other plans. As he nears the park’s massive lake, he spots a figure sitting right at the bank of it, leaning precariously over the water.

Even from this distance and without his glasses, he recognizes Noya’s wild hair paired with the white t-shirt and black shorts combo. Noya’s back is to him, but he visibly straightens as the sound of Asahi’s footsteps approach, head twisting around to fix those ever startling eyes on the taller man. “Azumane,” his eyebrows pinch, “what are you doing here?” There’s this nagging feeling in his chest. It strikes him as odd again; something about Noya is so unnervingly familiar to him, but he can’t put his finger on it. He’s sure if they had known each other prior to his memory loss then someone as headstrong as Noya seems to be would have said something about it by now, but Noya doesn’t seem bothered like Asahi is. He shakes it off.

Something seems off. Noya is quieter, more pensive. His gaze has returned to the surface of the lake immediately after confirming that he knows the person approaching him. It’s a strange change from the loud, fierce boy Asahi has started to know him as. “Noya,” he greets softly, joining him carefully by the water. “I was out for a run. Are you okay? Aren’t you cold?” “Oh,” Noya seems to remember something, “I forgot your jacket. Sorry.” Asahi shakes his head. “It’s okay. You couldn’t have known I was going to come running. It isn’t like I’ve done this in a while.” Noya is staring at him again, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He’s frowning — it’s only a faint, downward quirk of the lips, but it seems so out of place on Noya’s features that it catches Asahi off guard. A matching frown slips onto his face.

“Have you made any progress?” Noya asks suddenly, peering up at Asahi intently. “With the case, I mean.” “Noya, it’s only been a night,” Asahi reminds him gently. “I’ll look into it more later, but nothing’s changed from when you asked me yesterday.” “Yesterday?” Noya echoes, as if confused. “Oh… Right. When you gave me the jacket. Okay.” “Are you sure you’re okay?” Asahi persists. “I’m fine! Listen, I’ve gotta go, ‘kay? I’ll catch you again sometime soon.” Noya takes off before Asahi can so much as consider asking about contact information. At this rate, he’s going to be stuck only contacting Noya whenever they happen to run into each other in town. Belatedly, near the tail end of his run, he realizes that Noya must live nearby, to have been at the park.

So why had he been all the way across town yesterday? Asahi glances back, as if the answer will appear behind him. The cold wind replies, whispering through the bare branches of the trees. He just can’t shake the feeling that something is too familiar about Noya to forget. Maybe it’s just the man’s strange tendencies or the way he seems so desperate for the case to be solved as soon as possible, but Asahi just can’t get rid of this feeling. He doesn’t know what it is yet, only that it feels too important to completely dismiss a third time.

So this time, he tucks it away in the back of his mind for safekeeping.

⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤

“Oi, Azumane,” Kozume leans around his laptop, “what was that new file you got? An investigation?”

Asahi starts at the sound of his voice. After the two loudest members of their agency had gone off on lunch, the room had finally become quiet enough for Asahi to focus on his research. His desk is in clutters, public records scattered across the surface, laptop balanced precariously on the corner and held in place only by half of a large, opened book. Asahi is in the middle of rereading the case file when Kozume speaks up. He's so focused that, in his surprise, he nearly takes out his laptop himself. Kozume just lifts one disinterested brow, strands of dark hair slipping back into their usual place over his face. “Uh,” Asahi begins, eloquently, “something like that. Client wants me to look into a closed case. I think he’s probably got some pretty personal roots in it, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him it isn’t a good idea to reopen old wounds.” “You’re too nice, Azumane-san.” Akaashi remarks from his desk without looking up. “Sometimes, it’s best to put a stop to it before it can start.” “Then again,” Kozume muses, “I guess we are getting paid for this, huh?”

They lapse into a mutual silence again.

Asahi feels like there are still eyes on him, but Akaashi is still looking at the paperwork on his desk and Kozume has returned to his laptop screen. The rest of the employees aren’t here, and Narita is presumably still at the front desk. With a faint frown, Asahi shakes the feeling away and returns his attention to the files.

His information is severely limited. That’s the biggest issue. If there had been an address on the file he could have started his investigation there, but Noya would be the easier source. The only issue with that is that Asahi still hasn’t gotten Noya’s contact information to ask him about it. That being said, he’s not even sure if Noya actually knows anything or if this just happens to be a personal investment of his. Asahi isn’t in the habit of prying about people’s personal connections to a case. As long as he can get their information and go on about his business, he’s content, but Noya is so forthright and intense that Asahi can’t help but be curious.

It bothers him, but he doesn’t know why.

“Oh,” says Kozume, voice breaking into Asahi’s thought process abruptly again, “another robbery. I wonder if it’s a chain?”

When Asahi looks back up, Kozume is still looking at his laptop, but now he’s leaning closer to the screen, visibly reading something. He turns away and wheels his swivel chair over to the side table by the door to retrieve the remote.

“Last I heard, there wasn’t any correlation between the places that were being hit.” Akaashi replies, gaze lifting from his papers. “They’re thinking it’s separate cases, but who knows. The police don’t read too into situations if the evidence is obvious.” “Lazy asses,” Kozume scoffs, clicking through channels on the overhead TV.

“Robberies?” Asahi speaks up, confused.

He hasn’t been actively keeping up with the news outside of early weather reports recently, a little more concerned with his own issues and his work. It’s more than enough to balance work and the whole memory loss thing, and while he definitely should be better about keeping up with the rest of the world, it hasn’t been his main concern as of late.

Kozume settles on a news channel. The news anchor is in the middle of reporting on the subject at hand — another local robbery. It’s the third in the past two weeks, but there’s no evidence to connect it to the other two. This one had targeted a tiny, one bedroom home on the city outskirts. Asahi frowns at the news coverage. He doesn’t understand why anyone would target a place where there was unlikely to be anything to be gained, but he feels bad for the homeowner. The newscast says they came out undamaged since they weren’t home at the time, but nonetheless, he understands the feeling of having your life uprooted suddenly.

Asahi shakes his head and returns his attention to the files before him, scribbling notes down on things to look into further and potential leads. He’ll have to remember to find Noya again and get his contact information this time. Noya is the best lead he has at this point, and hopefully he can get something out of the other man to get him somewhere in this seemingly dead end case.

In the background, the television drones on.

When evening gives way to the end of his work day, Asahi finds himself searching the rush hour crowd for the tuft of electric blond that he’s becoming so familiar with. He can’t figure out why he’s trying to find Noya here; after all, he’d come to the conclusion that he lives on the other side of town, so he doubts he’ll see him here. On the other hand, it’s possible Noya works over here too. It’d be a strange coincidence for him to be in the same working and living situation as Asahi himself, but it’d make sense as to why Noya had come to their agency in particular. It's possible that it's also the opposite way around, with Noya living here and working on the other side of town. All of the facts Asahi knows check out with one of those theories; it’d explain why Noya was at the train station, too.

But by the time he gets to the station, he hasn’t spotted Noya anywhere. Even amongst the people waiting on the platform, he can’t see the wild, dark hair, and there’s a pang of disappointment in his chest. He tries to ignore it, but it’s a persistent feeling, and more surprisingly, one that doesn’t feel new. He can’t imagine forgetting someone like Noya, but he’d forgotten someone like Suga already, so his memory loss isn’t discriminating.

The train whistles a warning. Asahi startles, hurrying on instinctively. He hadn’t even realized the train had pulled up. He looks for Noya one more time, but upon confirming that the other man is nowhere to be seen, averts his gaze to his feet. The train doors hiss shut around him, before it lurches into motion, pulling away from the platform.

It’s strange, he thinks, how lonely the platform looks disappearing behind them.

When the train comes to a hissing stop at his destination platform, Asahi’s phone begins to vibrate aggressively against his thigh. He waits until he’s clear of all the people to check it, unlocking the screen to several tests and a missed call from Suga. Just as he’s going to check the texts, Suga’s name lights up his screen again. Asahi nearly drops his phone in his haste to answer the call.

���Asahi!” Sugawara practically yells. “Have you been keeping up with the news?”

Asahi slowly brings the phone back to his ear as he walks, having held it away in his haste to avoid having his eardrums blown out.

“The news?” He echoes. “Like the robberies?”

“Yeah! Apparently, there was another one! I guess the person tried to fight back and get this - they ended up in the hospital with multiple gunshot wounds.”

Asahi grimaces. If all of these robberies are connected, then it could be a problem. Generally speaking, most robbers would flee if they were caught or met with resistance, but if this one had no qualms with hurting people, it could get dirty. Asahi is hoping they aren’t connected, but it’s starting to look doubtful. He’ll have to catch up on the situation when he gets home.

“That’s-”

Asahi cut off, turning his head to follow the abrupt streak of color that had caught his eye. He’s a few blocks from his apartment, at best, but now he turns around entirely, gaze searching. He spots it again just in time to watch it vanish through the door of a tiny coffee shop. Asahi hesitates.

“Asahi?” Sugawara calls from his phone. “Hellooo? Earth to Asahi! What happened?” “S-Sorry, Suga,” Asahi says quickly, feet already guiding him towards the building, “I have to go. I’ll call you back later, okay?”

“Huh? Hold on, wh-”

The line goes dead as Asahi jabs the end call button, shoving his phone unceremoniously back into his pocket as he enters the cafe. The bell chimes gently overhead as he pushes the door open, and someone at the front calls out a greeting that he only half hears. He’s busy thinking about how Suga will be upset with him later for hanging up so abruptly; he’s thinking that maybe he should feel a little worse about that than he does, and it has him wondering if he’s less of a friend for it. He’s busy thinking about how he’s sure to get an earful later, but his body is moving across the cafe, toward a booth in the corner where he can see the backside of dark, wild hair, and the small flick of a tag sticking up from the inside of a white t-shirt.

The man in the booth lifts his head when Asahi rounds the table, piercing gaze fixing onto the detective. It’s as if he comes back to earth all at once, awareness lighting his eyes and his expression picking up in something vaguely resembling surprise. “Asahi!” He half yells, slamming his palms into the table and standing in one motion.

Asahi flinches at the abrupt shout and one of the employees glances their way. Ducking his head bashfully, Asahi makes himself as small as possible as he slides into the booth across from Noya, reaching out to gesture Noya back into his own seat. Preferably, he thinks, as quietly as possible.

Luckily, Noya drops unceremoniously back into his seat, staring intensely at Asahi.

“What are you doing here?” He demands.

“I…” Asahi grimaces, knowing how strange this is going to sound, “I saw you coming in. You never gave me any sort of contact, so I haven’t been able to reach you for anything regarding the case.”

Noya visibly straightens. “Have you figured out something new?”

“Well, not exactly, but-”

“Oh,” Noya continues, cutting him off, “I don’t have a phone.”

Well, that certainly threw a wrench in things, didn’t it? It’s just Asahi’s luck, he supposes. Still, he’s got to figure out some way to keep up contact with Noya, since he’s Asahi’s only sure link to the case.

His phone buzzes incessantly in his pocket.

“Okay, then take mine,” Asahi grabs a napkin from the table, fishing a pen from the front breast pocket of his jacket. “And if you can, just let me know if you come across anything new. Can we meet again sometime here to sit down and talk? Like Friday?” Noya takes the napkin and with surprising tenderness, folds it, and tucks it into the pocket of his black basketball shorts. He’s staring at Asahi still, but Asahi can’t tell what he’s thinking about.

“Okay,” Noya says, “Friday.”

And there it is again; Asahi meets his gaze and he feels like he’s missing something, like there’s a piece here that he should be aware of. He can’t shake it, that feeling that he just knows Noya from somewhere, from before all this.

“Noya,” he breathes, “have we met before? Before you came in with the case?”

Noya scrutinizes him for a long moment, almost unresponsive, as if the question hadn’t even registered to him. There’s something off about the entire moment, the motionless state of someone who feels like he should always be moving. Slowly, his lips pinch into a frown, just a little downward tilt that looks so off on his features. His expression darkens, hooded over like a shadow fell across him.

He looks unsure. He looks scared.

It’s only for a moment, so quick that Asahi is sure it must have been his imagination because then Noya is laughing, loud and rambunctious and more like the one that seems familiar to Asahi.

“No way!” He decides. “You must be imagining things, Azumane-san! There’s no way you’d forget someone as cool as me!”

Asahi feels like his veins have frozen over. He’s cold down to the bone.

“Of course,” he agrees, smiling shakily, “that’s true.”

There’s a seed of doubt rooting itself in his chest, and Asahi is too scared to try to figure out the root of it.

He stands again, bidding Noya a good night, and hurries out the door before the other man gets another word in edgewise, but he feels Noya’s gaze follow him out the door. His phone vibrates in his pocket again, and he takes it out, preparing himself for the earful he’s going to get.

Something is reassuring about Suga’s ranting on the other end. It gets him home.

When he looks over the case again that night, he writes details about the recent robberies down on a notebook next to it. He gathers what he can from the news and more from the internet. Tomorrow, he’ll get more info on it from Kozume, and Friday, he’ll get what he can from Noya. He doesn’t know yet if he’s making progress here, but he’s hoping for the best.

At this point, it’s all he can do.

It isn’t until he’s getting ready for bed, braiding his hair back out of his face, that the thought strikes him. He’s thinking about the tiny coffee shop, about the bell over the door, about the way Noya had called him Asahi. He has the distinctive memory of introducing himself only as Azumane.

So where had Noya gotten his given name?

⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤

“You look different,” Noya remarks.

Asahi feels like he’s having deja vu. He hardly knows where the week has gone, and now he’s back at the tiny coffee shop with Noya. They’re seated in the same booth as before. Noya’s shirt tag is sticking out. Asahi has his hair loose.

“It’s the hair,” they say, in sync, and Noya grins when Asahi cracks a smile.

“Finally!” He laughs. “I was starting to think you couldn’t smile properly! You’re so nervous all the time that I was starting to wonder how you’d ended up in this line of work.”

Asahi tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “Well, I’m sure it probably wasn’t my dream career, but I don’t remember enough about my old life to know how true that is. I guess it seems like a pretty unpredictable career, but it’s routine enough to be comforting.”

Noya frowns at him. “Whaddya mean you don’t remember?” Asahi winces. Outside of the fact that nobody else wants to discuss the accident, Asahi tries not to talk about it too much. Trying to remember gives him an intense migraine, and he hates the pitying looks he gets from it. He hates feeling helpless, and there’s this part of him that wouldn’t be able to handle it if Noya looked at him like that.

“I had an accident a while back,” Asahi replies vaguely, waving one hand dismissively, “nothing important.”

Noya’s watching him like he doesn’t believe him. Asahi avoids his gaze; he has the distinct feeling that Noya will see right through him otherwise.

“Okay,” Noya finally says, “then what about that necklace you’re always playing with? The ring. Are you married or something?”

Asahi doesn’t even realize he’s messing with it until Noya points it out. He’s busted, caught like a deer in headlights under Noya’s drilling questions. His words die in his throat, lips parted but nothing coming out.

I don’t know, he thinks, clenching his fist around the ring. He shoves it back into his shirt and grips the edge of the table, focusing on keeping his hands there. “No,” he manages, smile tight again, “but it doesn’t matter. We’re here to talk about the case, remember?”

Noya’s gaze flicks down, but he doesn’t push it.

“Right.”

Noya talks. It’s not all connected, more stream of thought and dropping details as they come to him, but Asahi listens. He takes notes, putting things that he knows already on one page and things he’s hearing for the first time on another. Some of Noya’s tales have nothing to do with the case, but Asahi lets them slide, and then he realizes that Noya hasn’t been talking about the case for a while.

But here’s Asahi, pen down and still listening. There’s something about Noya’s energy that’s so easy to get wrapped up in, and Asahi hadn’t even realized he was in it until it was too late. Maybe it’s the way Noya feels familiar to him, like second nature, or the way he’s sure he must know Noya from before, but the sensation is contagious, quick like electricity and quiet like a thief.

“Azumane-san?”

Noya’s voice breaks into his thoughts again. Asahi starts, focusing back on the task at hand. He doesn’t know when he’d stopped writing, or when the case discussion had ended and the casual talk had begun, but he does realize, belatedly, that they never got their coffee. The baristas bring them out here, he’d noticed, so it strikes him as a little strange.

“Sorry,” Asahi tells him, “I just realized we don’t have our drinks.”

As if on cue, Noya’s gaze moves from Asahi to the woman approaching their table. Asahi tears his gaze away from the man in front of him to focus on her as well, putting on his most polite smile as she sets the coffee down in front of him.

“Here you go,” she says, “sorry about the wait.”

She turns to leave, and Asahi realizes that she’s only brought his drink.

“Sorry, ma’am?” He calls quickly. “What about my fri-”

He turns to gesture at Noya and falters. The seat across from him is empty; Noya is gone. The employee gives him a strange look, glancing between him and the empty booth across from him. Asahi swallows his sentence back down, where it feels like a thick lump in his throat.

“Nevermind,” he says instead, “thank you.”

She glances at the booth opposite of him again and then seems to simply accept it as strange, for she turns and heads back to the front, leaving Asahi alone with the ghost of Noya’s electric presence.

He ends up getting a to-go cup for his coffee.

Asahi doesn’t know how he got back to his apartment, only that he gets there and he comes back to awareness when he’s unlocking his front door. He falters, hand on his doorknob, gaze fixed on the crook between his thumb and his forefinger. Everything comes back all at once. Is this the right thing to do? Should he have just followed the advice and refused the case upfront? He doesn’t even know when Noya had slipped out. Had it been the brief moment he’d turned his attention to the girl at the shop? Asahi hadn't even heard the bell.

Why hadn’t Noya said anything?

Asahi is starting to think he’s getting too ahead of himself, thinking one normal conversation and a borrowed jacket makes them friends or something. But there’s the thought he’s been hesitant to admit to himself; he wants to be friends with Noya. Something about the other man makes him feel comfortable, regardless of his eccentric nature, and he’s starting to think that maybe Noya was right about his career choice being the wrong one for him.

He can’t afford to get attached to every other person he meets in this line of work. Noya is the first, but Asahi can’t say for sure if he’ll be the last, and Asahi doesn’t even know when the line in the sand got washed away. He doesn’t know if it happened halfway through their conversation or the first time he’d realized something about Noya was too familiar to ignore. Still, Noya had been right about one thing: there’s no way Asahi could have forgotten someone like him.

It’s the only reason Asahi is hesitant to let the feeling of familiarity go.

He realizes with a start that he’s still standing outside, so he pushes the door open and ducks into his apartment. Whatever he ends up deciding to do here, he’s got all the information he thinks he’s going to get from Noya. For now, he needs to crack down on the case. The longer he drags this on, the worse it will get for the both of them. He wants to give Noya the best chance he has of moving on from this, and the only way to do that is to solve it as soon as possible.

Asahi takes his shoes off at the entryway and heads into the living room, setting his bag down next to the low table in front of his couch. He yanks his hair up into a half-hearted bun and collects his notes and files, adding them to the growing pile on the table. Clicking the television on for background noise, he gets to work sorting. The details are still minimal, and the progress looks minimal, but it’s better than nothing. Besides, there’s still that robber at large, and while Asahi has no surefire proof to connect the two outside of a gut feeling, he’s learned very quickly to trust his gut.

He glances up at the TV just in time to catch a glimpse of a reporter standing in front of a house, door caved in and front yard taped off by obnoxious yellow crime scene signs. It catches his attention immediately, so he glances down at the caption.

Armed robbery. Voluntary manslaughter.

Asahi’s heart jumps to his throat. His eyes dart down to the file. What were the odds?

What if it hadn’t been involuntary? The file states that the person had been found dead at the scene, a victim of multiple gunshot wounds from a robbery gone wrong. Robbery. Check. Armed suspect. Check. Had they considered a lack of qualms against hurting people? Asahi flips his notebook to a fresh page and begins charting all the locations the robber had hit thus far. Maybe there’s some sort of pattern they’re overlooking, a rhyme or reason to the places the robber is targeting.

His facts are minimal but sure.

The robber only targets houses, never businesses. The types of houses vary. No known pattern thus far.

The robber is armed and dangerous. Generally, there’s minimal damage to any people they happen to rob, but when those people get in the way or fight back, it’s a different story. There have been people both hospitalized and killed.

The robber has no qualms about killing people who got in the way.

Asahi stares at the page. Finally, at the bottom, he writes Noya? beneath his list of facts. He doesn’t know what the precise connection is with Noya’s case in all of this, but if he can predict where the robber is going to strike next, maybe there’s something to be found there. That’s only if the police themselves don’t beat him there first. Either way, hopefully, some sort of confession would come out and Asahi could call this closed properly. If this is unrelated, then he’s going to have to think of something else fast.

It’s nearly four in the morning when he finally talks himself into going to sleep, but it’s restless at best, and he rises early. He’s off on weekends, so they’re his only opportunity to go get things done if he doesn’t want to go right after work. The case weighs heavily on his thoughts for the entirety of his morning run. When he passes the lake he’d run into Noya at that time, he pauses, only for a moment, to glance around, but Noya isn’t there.

Asahi keeps running, but he’s starting to feel less like he’s keeping active and more like he’s trying to get away from something. He feels like he’s running away from a lot of things, as of late. It can’t be helped.

Azumane Asahi is a coward, he tells himself, and this time he doesn’t think it’s a lie at all.

The next time he sees Noya, it’s on the same route and nearly a week later. Asahi finds himself searching the route consistently without even knowing if Noya even lives in the area, hoping to catch some sort of glimpse of the other man. He hasn’t heard anything from Noya since the day at the coffee shop, and he’s starting to grow a little concerned.

His traitorous heart says something else, but Asahi tries not to listen too hard to things made of glass.

There’s rustling overhead when Asahi passes beneath a tree. It’s followed by a loud yowl, and it’s this that makes Asahi falter in his steps. He pauses, turning his head up to squint into the branches. The early morning sun is bright, near blinding, but the shadow that covers Asahi blocks it out.

He sees the little tag sticking out of the collar of the white shirt first, and then the outstretched arm, pale and skinny, reaching out to a higher branch. Asahi can mostly only see the person’s silhouette, but he knows that figure anywhere.

“Noya?” He calls up hesitantly.

Golden eyes fix on him immediately. Noya looks vaguely surprised, arm still outstretched, lips parted into a perfect little circle. There’s a cat a few branches up from his perch, a skinny little tabby with all of its fur puffed out. Its teeth are bared at the other man, a low growl rising in his throat.

Asahi hasn’t ever seen a cat react like that to someone. Usually, the strays around this area are calm, used to the joggers and families who come through the park trails all the time. He frowns a little at the sight, putting one hand on his hip and using the other to shield his eyes as he peers up.

“Oh,” says Noya, “Hey, Azumane. Fancy seeing you here.”

“I run here every morning now,” Asahi frowns, “you already knew that. What are you doing up there?”

Noya gestures to the cat, who swings at his moving hand. “I came up to save him, but he won’t let me anywhere near him. I think I’m just gonna grab him and deal with the consequences later.”

“What.” Asahi intones.

Noya reaches for the cat.

“What?” Asahi repeats. “Wait, no-”

Noya stretches out of his crouch and snatches the cat in one quick motion. The tabby immediately begins yelling, claws sinking wherever they can reach. Noya yelps, and then takes a surprised step back into mid-air. Asahi shouts. All at once, Noya and the cat come crashing down through the branches, and Asahi slides down on his knees beneath them, breath leaving his body as they collide.

Asahi groans softly from his place on the ground. Noya scrambles off of him, eyes wide. He’s still holding the cat, who looks shaken, but overall unharmed.

“Asahi!” Noya gasps. “Are you okay? Shit, I’m sorry!”

Asahi waves him off with one hand, sitting up slowly. His torso aches where he’d ungracefully caught them, but at least they seem unharmed. His hair falls loose around his shoulders, and he looks around for the tie, only to find it snapped on the ground. It’d been fraying, so he isn’t surprised, but it’s still a little inconvenient.

“It’s okay,” he manages, when he finally catches his breath, “are you two okay?”

Noya beams, holding the cat up victoriously. “We’re totally fine!”

The cat bites Noya’s hand. Noya drops the tabby, and he bolts without so much as a glance back. The short man sulks as he stares after the vanishing animal, crossing his arms over his chest. There are claw marks down the length of his forearms and branches still stuck in his black basketball shorts.

“Rude,” Noya says, getting up.

He offers a hand to Asahi, but Asahi, a little doubtful that Noya can lift him, stands on his own.

“You should be more careful,” he says, frowning.

“I had it handled!”

“You fell out of a tree.”

Noya purses his lips. “You know. Fair.” He sticks his index finger out as if to agree that Asahi has a point. “You got me there.”

“How did you even get up there?” Asahi asks, gazing up at the tree.

There aren’t any visible branches that Noya could have used to climb, and Asahi has to admit that even with his height, he would have been hard-pressed to reach the lowest ones. There’s no way to get a handhold on the trunk, either, so he’s not sure how Noya got up there to begin with.

Noya shrugs. “I climbed? The cat couldn’t get down so I went up to help him.”

Asahi sighs. “Okay, Noya. My apartment isn’t far from here, so let me at least treat the scratches. It’d be bad if you got something.”

Noya hesitates, but then he looks down, inspects his arms, and grimaces a little.

“Okay, lead the way.”

Asahi tucks his hair behind his ears and turns, starting at a steady pace back up the pathway. Noya keeps at his heels, carefree and cheerful as he turns his arms over, inspecting his new battle scars. It’s almost endearing, Asahi dares to think, but he’s still not over how the cat had acted with Noya. Asahi is sure Noya isn’t a bad person, but he’s never seen a reaction like that in the months he’s been running here.

He frowns back as if the tree itself will give him answers, but it stands tall and silent, shadowed against the pale blue sky.

When they climb the steps to Asahi’s apartment, the realization hits him like a bullet. He’s bringing Noya into his apartment. How had they gotten here? Is his apartment even clean? It’s so plain that he doesn’t know what Noya is going to think about it. Had he done the dishes already or were they still sitting in the sink?

Anxiety settles in like a second skin, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. They’re already at the door and Noya is looking up at him expectantly, waiting for him to unlock it. Asahi tries to hide the way his hands shake as he puts the key in the lock and opens it, letting Noya into the dark entryway.

Noya kicks off his shoes at the entrance, and Asahi follows suit, stepping in ahead of the other man. The sink is clean. The living room has a few books on the table and stray papers from his brainstorming session the other night, but otherwise it isn’t unacceptable. He flicks the light on and crosses to the table, shoving the papers messily together.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company,” he says, “make yourself at home and I’ll grab my first aid kit.”

Noya plops onto the couch, looking around like a curious child. Asahi feels strange having someone over like this. He seldom has company, especially new company, and he feels like he’s being assessed for some sort of test. Clutching the papers to his chest, Asahi hurries into his room for the first aid kit in his bathroom.

Noya is still sitting on the couch when Asahi returns. His gaze is fixed on a photo hanging on the wall. It’s of Asahi, fresh out of the hospital, Suga and Daichi standing just behind him in the frame. Shimizu had been the one to take it, and it’s one of the earliest things he still remembers. Noya frowns at it a little, like he’s struggling to think about something, and Asahi just figures he must have zoned out.

“Noya?” He says as he nears.

Noya straightens, almost imperceptibly, turning his gaze to Asahi as the other man crouches in front of him, opening the first aid kit and setting it aside on the table. Noya gets the hint and offers out his arms while Asahi prepares a cotton pad for cleaning the scratches.

“Ouch,” Noya hisses once Asahi starts dabbing over them.

Asahi shakes his head, holding Noya by the wrist to keep his arm steady.

“Are those your friends?” Noya asks suddenly.

Asahi glances up at him, and then back at the photo. “Yeah,” he says, turning his gaze back onto his task. “The one with the silver hair is Suga. The dark-haired one is Daichi. Our other friend, Shimizu, took the photo, but she’s not very fond of being in them. They were there with me when I was in the hospital for a while.”

“What were you there for?”

Asahi grimaces, remembering why he’d avoided the subject the last time he’d talked to Noya. “Uh,” he starts hesitantly.

He can feel Noya’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t meet his eyes. Asahi gets the feeling that he’ll spill everything if he does, so he stubbornly keeps his focus on treating Noya’s scratches.

“It’s okay, Azumane-san,” Noya laughs, “you don’t have to tell me. I was just being nosy.”

Asahi exhales, a little relieved. He wraps up Noya’s first arm, having finished treating the scratches there. Moving onto the second one, Asahi grabs a fresh cotton pad. He frowns as he sets back to work.

“Noya,” he starts, “where did you go, the other day? At the cafe, I mean?”

Noya stiffens a little under his grip.

“Sorry about that,” the other man mumbles, “I had an emergency I had to handle, so…”

“Oh,” says Asahi, unconvinced, “okay. I was just worried… You just up and vanished without saying anything.”

Noya doesn’t go into any more detail, and Asahi doesn’t push it. He gets the feeling Noya isn’t telling the whole truth, but he’s not going to try to force it out. He has his own secrets, and he’s sure Noya has plenty himself. Despite seeming like a very open person, he’s come to notice that Noya is strange, like he’s never quite there most of the time, and the times that he is, he seems so full of life that he’s ready to burst with it.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Noya’s voice is painfully soft.

Asahi’s heart aches. He doesn’t know why that gentle voice hurts, only that it does something strange to him. He catches himself holding his breath, as if even that will break this moment. He knows better. He knows better. He doesn’t know Noya, and Noya doesn’t know him. They’re client and employee, nothing more.

Asahi doesn’t even know himself. How could he even hope to let someone else know him?

“It’s okay,” Asahi gets out, but his voice sounds foreign to himself like it’s coming from someone else speaking in his place instead of him.

Something about the intimacy of the moment makes Asahi feel like he’s an outsider, watching his own hands and fingers tenderly take care of Noya’s newly acquired scratches. He knows there’s more on the man’s face, but he’s scared to raise his gaze. He’s scared that whatever is happening is going to shatter the moment they make eye contact. Asahi is going to realize it’s all in his head, or Noya is going to realize it’s strange for him to be in what is essentially a stranger’s house.

He feels like he knows Noya. The feeling won’t go away, but Noya has told him that he’s sure they’ve never met. Asahi couldn’t forget someone like him, and Asahi is inclined to agree. He’s stalling now, and he knows it, and he’s sure Noya knows it, but neither of them say anything about it as Asahi cleans over the scars a second, and then a third time.

Finally, he bandages the second arm. Noya’s skin is cold beneath his grip, freezing like the other man has been standing in negative temperatures for hours. Asahi knows this isn’t the case, so he assumes Noya must just run cold in comparison to Asahi himself. Noya seems unbothered, either way.

“Thanks,” Noya finally breaks the silence.

Asahi dares to raise his gaze. Noya’s eyes are trained on him, sharp and focused with such intense clarity that Asahi is momentarily taken aback. Noya looks as if he’s a page ahead of Asahi, waiting for him to catch up. Asahi isn’t sure if he should, much less if he wants to.

“Well,” he replies, averting his gaze to get another cotton pad, “I wasn’t just going to leave you after I watched it happen. I don’t mean to be rude, but you seem like you’d neglect taking care of them.”

Noya grins crookedly in the corner of his vision. “You’re right,” he says, “I would. But that’s not all I was thanking you for.”

Asahi pauses, mid-turn, pad raised to start in on the scratches on Noya’s face. He blinks, confused. “Huh?”

“That was for everything,” Noya continues. “I know this case isn’t easy on you. I’m sorry I dumped it on you, but something told me you’re the only one who can handle it, and I always listen to my instinct. It hasn’t steered me wrong yet. So I was saying thank you for putting up with all of this.”

Oh, Asahi thinks, and then says, “Oh.”

Noya laughs. “Oh?”

“Sorry. No, wait. I mean… You don’t need to thank me.” Asahi reaches out, carefully starting to clean the scratches across Noya’s cheek.

“Ow,” Noya says, again.

“Sorry,” Asahi frowns, knowing there isn’t much he can do about the pain.

“It’s okay. I got myself into this, so I’ll tough it out!” The golden-eyed boy declares.

Asahi smiles to himself. Noya’s energy is near contagious, and he’s just about forgotten about his previous anxiety of having the other man in his house. Noya seems nonchalant and uncaring, like he doesn’t care to judge how Asahi lives either way.

“There,” Asahi says, putting bandages over the last few scratches. “Done.”

Noya gives him a double thumbs-up, grinning so widely it looks painful. “Cool! Thanks, Asahi! You’re the best!”

Asahi holds both hands up placatingly. “I wouldn’t go that far…”

“No!” A fire lights in Noya’s eyes, and he reaches out, grabbing both of Asahi’s hands so abruptly that the brunet squeaks. “It’s true! Don’t go selling yourself short, okay?”

Asahi’s voice catches in his throat. He wants to protest again, but Noya’s gaze is so intense that he physically can’t bring himself to do anything more than nod in agreement. It seems to satisfy Noya, so he releases Asahi’s hands and hops up from the couch.

“Alright! I’m gonna head out now, but I’ll see you soon, yeah? We’ll get this done!”

Noya reaches out, bumping Asahi’s shoulder with his fist. The little tap startles Asahi back into reality, and he scrambles to his feet, following Noya to the door and watching him put his shoes on. At the door, they both hesitate. Asahi looks down at his feet, but he can feel Noya’s gaze on him.

“Be safe,” Asahi says, finally.

Noya stares at him for a long moment. Finally, he reaches out, squeezes Asahi’s arm, and then turns away and bolts down the stairs. Asahi watches him jog down the road, and then vanish over the crest of the hill, out of sight, but never out of mind.

Maybe, he considers, he should have tried to make him stay.

Asahi stares at the hill Noya had vanished over for a long moment longer. He stares as if he’s waiting for the other man to turn around and come back, citing that it’s too late to head home, and the trains aren’t running anyway, so it’d take a while on foot. Asahi still doesn’t know if Noya lives nearby or closer to the agency, but either way, he could have thought of something.

He stares on, but Noya doesn’t come back. Finally, Asahi closes the door behind him and flicks the lock.

“You’ve been busy lately,” Kozume remarks, the following Monday, without looking up from his Switch screen.

Asahi doesn’t know how he gets away with playing video games at work so often, but he supposes as long as Kozume is efficient at his job, their boss doesn’t really care. He’s starting to give Asahi some eyes about the case he’s on, so he knows it’s time to hurry up and wrap it up.

Narita comes in, bearing coffee. He hands them out to each of the others in the room, setting Kozume’s next to him and handing Akaashi’s off. Crossing to Asahi, he offers out the coffee.

“Same as usual? How’s it going?” He asks.

Asahi accepts the warm drink from the receptionist. “It’s going,” he sighs, “I haven’t made too much progress outside of some guessed predictions. My sole witness has this habit of up and vanishing and apparently doesn’t have a phone to contact.”

Narita nods sympathetically. “Client isn’t making it easy, huh? This is probably your first one of those, but I see them come through all the time. It’ll work out, so don’t stress too much.”

“He can do with a little stress,” Akaashi comments, taking a sip of his coffee.

Narita turns to give him a withering look and then turns back to Asahi. “Anyway, drink up while it’s warm and then go back into this thing with a fresh mind, yeah? Good luck, Azumane.”

Asahi watches the receptionist go, and takes a long drink of his coffee. It burns his tongue, but he doesn’t flinch away. The moment of pain, however brief, does its part to make everything come into sharper focus. Three days from now, he’ll have been slugging through this case for a month. That’s the time limit he’s going to give himself; if he hasn’t figured this out or made any significant progress in the next few days, he’s going to tell Noya he can’t do it.

Resolution set in his mind, Asahi dives back into his work with renewed vigor.

“Don’t stay too late,” Akaashi says, later that night.

Kozume is already long gone, and Akaashi had finished his work, so he’s getting ready to leave too. It’s just Asahi now, with everyone else out. The black-haired man puts his jacket over his arm and strolls out. Only a moment later, Narita peers in.

“Azumane? Someone is waiting outside for you.”

Asahi glances up, confused. He hadn’t been expecting anybody, but it’s as good a reason as any to change location. He nods in acknowledgment to Narita and hurries to pack his things, pulling his bag over his shoulder and heading out.

Outside, he glances around in search of the person. It takes him a minute to spot them, but when his gaze shifts down, it catches on the streak of blond in Noya’s hair. The other man looks up when Asahi emerges from the building, and then stands immediately when he realizes who it is.

“Noya?” Asahi questions, surprised.

“Hey,” Noya smiles crookedly, “sorry for showing up out of nowhere. I was out and I just ended up here. Are you getting ready to head home?”

Asahi readjusts his bag. “Yeah, I just finished for the night. How did you end up way out here again?”

Noya opens his mouth to answer, and then closes it again, frowning in confusion. Finally, he just shrugs a little, as if he isn’t sure himself.

“I just did,” he says. “Can I walk with you?”

Asahi hesitates, but finally nods in concession. Noya falls into step beside him as he heads out towards the train station. It’s later than Asahi usually leaves, and the streets are nearly empty now. The sun is starting to set beneath the taller buildings in the distance, and Asahi gets the feeling it will be well past dark by the time he gets home.

“Do you live around here, Noya?” Asahi asks, glancing down at the other man.

He recalls seeing Noya back near where he lives, as well, but maybe the shorter man just gets around a lot. This is his chance to finally figure it out, so Asahi seizes it.

Noya hesitates a little, lips parting like he’s going to speak, then closing again. “Uh,” he starts, glancing around, “well-”

Noya cuts off, gaze catching on movement nearby. There’s a girl, no older than seven or eight, stumbling down the sidewalk. Even from this distance, Asahi can see the scrapes on her knees. She’s bawling, rubbing her face with the back of her hands, but steadily making her way down the sidewalk nonetheless, like she’s on a mission.

Asahi exchanges a look with Noya, and they both hurry toward her. Noya reaches her first, crouching in front of her and starting to talk. Asahi is a short pace behind him, catching up just in time to hear the child speak through her tears and sniffling.

“A bad man came into our house,” she sniffles, stuttering around her hiccups, “and Mama told me to run away and get help, but she’s stuck there with him!”

Asahi’s blood goes cold. This is it. The one time he hadn’t been trying to find the man and it practically fell into his lap. Noya is clearly thinking the same thing, expression hard and eyebrows downturned. He meets Asahi’s eyes and nods.

“Hi,” Asahi says, crouching down, “I’m a detective. I can go help your mama, but I need you to tell me which house is yours. Can you do that for me?”

The girl sniffs, looking up at him. “T-The one with the flower mailbox Mama and I painted…”

Noya is already running. Asahi squeezes the girl’s shoulders, getting back to his feet.

“Listen carefully. We’re going to go help your mama, so I need you to be brave for me, okay? Find someone and ask them to call the police for you. We’ll make sure your mom is safe.”

The little girl’s gaze follows him as he runs after Noya. He has no chance of catching up with the spitfire of a man, but Noya waits at the door for him, clearly trying to find a good way in. Asahi glances into the shattered window. The coast seems clear. He gestures to Noya and creeps around to the front door, opening it slowly.

It doesn’t creak, and Asahi thanks any god that exists as he and Noya sneak into the quiet house. Asahi puts a finger to his lips, signaling for Noya to follow him. Together, they quietly round the corner and immediately come face to face with the robber.

They catch the man by surprise. Asahi sees it in the glance he gets of the man’s expression before he’s forced to leap out of the way, bullets riddling the wall where he’d just been standing. To his right, Noya hisses from his spot on the ground, and Asahi has to suppress the nausea that rises in his chest at the sight of red blossoming across Noya’s shoulder.

“Noya,” he gasps, scrambling over, “I’m so sorry. I should have reacted faster. You’re going to need medical attention-” “Asahi,” Noya’s grin edges on pained, but he’s pushing through, nudging Asahi away. “I’m fine. I'm tough, remember? So don’t worry about me. I’ll live, so worry about that kid’s mom first. You bust that guy for the both of us, okay?”

His fingers brush Asahi’s cheek, cold against the skin there, and Asahi’s everything zeroes in on just that sensation. He focuses on the way that Noya’s hand feels against his cheek, electricity at his fingertips. He focuses on the way that regardless of whether he’d known Noya before or not, he knows him now, and he wouldn’t ask for it any other way.

Kissing Noya feels like second nature. He’s careful of the other man’s shoulder, even if it’s nothing more than a brief press of lips, but when he pulls away, Noya exhales like it’s the first breath he’s taken in years.

“Stay safe,” he tells Asahi, “‘cause if you die on me, I’ll summon you back and annoy you as a ghost.”

Asahi laughs. “I won’t. Get somewhere safe, Noya.”

He squeezes Noya’s hand and then hurries into the hallway, keeping low and staying alert. He doesn’t know where the robber is, but the robber doesn’t know his location either. But only one of them has a gun, and it isn’t Asahi, so he’s at a disadvantage here. His priority is getting the woman out safely, but he hasn’t seen her yet, so he’s hoping she’s already hiding somewhere safe. His and Noya’s arrival had distracted the robber for a moment, and he just has to hope the moment is enough if he can’t find her first.

Asahi ducks behind the couch just in time to avoid being seen by the man who creeps in through the next hall. He drops to his hands and knees, sneaking around the side to watch the man’s slow progression towards the kitchen, where he assumes there’s a side door. The man’s gaze sweeps the room once, twice. Asahi creeps forward when his back is turned, and the moment he takes a step to move away, Asahi lunges.

He’s scared. God, he’s terrified. He shouldn’t have made any promises to Noya. He isn’t immortal. If this man gets the upper hand, Asahi knows he has no chance.

But he can’t think about that. Right now, he can only focus on survival, on grappling with the man before him for control over the single gun. The robber’s eyes are wide, wild with disbelief. Asahi can’t figure out what he’s so surprised about; surely, he’d expected someone to come after him eventually for all of this? Asahi pulls and the man resists, They shove and turn and twist, brute strength against brute strength, fighting for control of the situation. A stray shot shatters a vase, and there’s a muffled whimper from the closet next to it.

The woman.

Asahi has the upper hand. It’s only for a moment, but the sound distracts him, and the moment is more than enough. The robber twists around and slams his elbow into Asahi’s face hard enough to send him pinwheeling back into the coffee table, head slamming into the wood hard enough to make his vision go black, and then blurry. The aftermath leaves Asahi feeling like there’s an army in his skull waging war against the bones, pounding relentlessly against his forehead.

It hurts. It hurts. He can’t think. He can barely see straight.

He’s been in this situation before.

When he manages to get his vision to focus, only a little, he is staring down the barrel of the gun. The man’s chest heaves, expression twisted in fury, all bared teeth and vicious stance. And this is it — Asahi has no chance here. This is the end, and his promise to Noya will go unfulfilled after all. He thinks about Noya, laughing loud and free, holding his hand to the sunlight so the golden band on his finger glitters. Except Asahi doesn’t know where he picked up that memory. His head is pounding, a steady thump, thump, thump against his skull. His head is pounding and he is thinking and Azumane Asahi is going to die here and now, just like the man in the case he’d been trying so hard to solve. He can’t even close his eyes, watching the man’s finger on the trigger as if in slow motion.

But it never comes.

Instead, there is Noya, howling bloody murder, all feral motions and vengeful anger, streaking out of the hallway and barreling into the man. They both hit the ground and the gun skids away from them. Asahi’s shaken, but he still notices the lack of red staining Noya’s white t-shirt. Asahi trembles, but he realizes right away that Noya’s wound looks as if it had never existed to begin with. Noya looms over the man like a wraith, teeth bared, golden eyes glittering with a promise, a threat, and Asahi thinks to grab the gun before the man recovers from Noya’s winding attack. The would-be thief writhes beneath the other man, but Noya is unyielding and less hesitant than Asahi.

He takes the flower pot off the table and breaks it over the man’s head, knocking him out cold. Asahi is left in stunned silence, clutching the gun, staring at Noya as he hunches over the unconscious man, shoulders heaving with every breath. Asahi is still concerned; he can’t see Noya’s wound, or any sign of it, but for all he knows, Noya had just managed to find an extra shirt. It’s doubtful and farfetched, but it’s the only possible explanation, isn’t it?

“Asahi,” Noya gasps, “Asahi, are you okay? Did he hurt you? You’re bleeding.” He hadn’t noticed, but now that the adrenaline is wearing off, Asahi touches his head and his hand comes away red. He stares at his fingertips, dizzy, and finally sinks to his knees. Noya scrambles off of the man and barrels right into Asahi, straddling his waist to lean over and inspect Asahi’s head. Outside, sirens wail as their backup arrives, and Asahi sighs, relieved that the little girl had found somewhere safe. The officers come flooding in. Asahi feels like hell, but he’s more worried about making sure everything gets taken care of, so he directs them to the woman hiding, and then to the unconscious robber on the ground. It’s over.

Reaching out to touch Noya’s face, Asahi feels like sobbing. “I’m okay,” he rasps out, “I’m okay. You got shot, though, didn’t you? You shouldn’t do reckless things with a wound like that.”

Noya scrambles back off of him and out of Asahi’s reach before the detective can inspect his previously injured shoulder. He takes a little step aside, gaze averted, frown fixed on his features. Asahi’s eyes follow him as he moves away a little.

“Noya?” He frowns, moving to stand.

One of the officers shouts. Asahi’s attention catches on the shout and his gaze follows, catching sight of the previously unconscious man thrashing on the ground. He’s on his stomach facing Asahi, and one of the officers is straddling his back to cuff him. It’s his expression that catches Asahi’s notice, the sheer rage, face twisted up in hatred. His eyes glitter furiously, lips pulled back to bare his teeth in a snarl.

“You’re supposed to be dead!” He shouts. “You both died! I know I killed you, so why the fuck are you still alive?!”

Asahi’s heart falters in his chest. His head hurts. God, it hurts.

“I robbed you months ago! I shot that boy to death! You were dead! You’re supposed to be dead!”

He keeps shouting it. Asahi is cold to the bone, dropped into an endlessly deep pile of fresh snow with no way out. All he sees is the man’s face, and all he hears is dead and his head hurts so much. He’s supposed to be dead? He’s alive, though. He’s alive, but he doesn’t have memories, and he’s supposed to be dead. What boy had he meant? Noya? Did that mean Asahi had known him before after all? Had they both lost their memories?

Something is screaming in the back of his mind to come out. Asahi clutches his head in his hands, feeling panic swell heavily in his throat, suffocating him. His vision is dark at the edges and the gun is on the floor beside him, just within his gaze.

“Asahi,” Noya croaks behind him, voice soft and pained.

Asahi, it echoes and echoes and echoes, and all at once, everything slams back down. He remembers, and he doesn’t know how he could ever forget. The wedding band burns against the hollow of his throat like a brand. He watches, dumbstruck and breathless, as the robber is hauled out. He remembers who he is. He remembers who Noya is.

“Yuu,” he gasps, whirling around.

But the other man is gone.

⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤

Asahi hates the smell of hospitals.

The nurse tells him he’s fine to leave, but he needs to come back for another check-up in a week to make sure there isn’t further head or brain damage. The doctors know his memory has returned, so they’re hopeful, but Asahi can’t share their joy. He goes home, empty-handed and desolate. He’s thinking about everything, about Yuu, about the wedding band around his throat. He doesn’t know where the other man had vanished to this time, but he hopes he’d at least had the sense to get medical attention.

And a week goes by.

In the seven days that Nishinoya Yuu is gone, Asahi dreams.

In his dreams, Asahi dies slowly.

His body is a mass of static and there is nothing but pain and pain and more pain. He’s vaguely aware of someone, somewhere, calling his name. Asahi, they’re saying, Asahi, please wake up.

Except this time, he doesn’t. This time, the pieces reconnect themselves. He is not the one in pain, nor is he the one being called out to. In his dreams, Asahi comes home to their shared home and finds Yuu on the floor, riddled with gunshot wounds and already bleeding out. In his dreams, Yuu is unconscious, and Asahi is sobbing, his voice cracking as he tries desperately to call the police.

“Yuu,” he’s begging, “Yuu, please wake up.”

In his dreams, Azumane Asahi does not make it home in time to stop his husband from fighting a robber. Azumane Yuu had fought alone and lost, and by the time Asahi had gotten back, he’d already been half-dead. Asahi hunches over him, pleading with any god that might listen.

He doesn’t know when he got up, only that he’s standing. He doesn’t know when the man appeared around the corner, only that he’s surprised by his appearance, and when they fight, Asahi does not win. He sees the table come into his line of vision.

There’s pain, and then there’s nothing.

Asahi wakes slowly from the darkness as the pieces slide together in his mind. Suddenly, everything makes sense. He hadn’t given the theory any thought before; it’d simply been the most unbelievable thing, but now he’s sure. It all makes too much sense. The name, the vanishing acts, the same outfit all the time, the strange looks Asahi would get when he would bring Yuu up with others, the missing bullet wound in his shoulder.

Yuu is already dead.

Asahi thinks the cold chill of resignation is the hardest part.

When he sits up, Yuu is sitting on the end of his bed. Asahi can see the door through his blood-stained shirt. The sight makes his heart ache anew. How cruel, he thinks, to make him fall in love with this man all over again, only to lose him once more. Had he really ever had Yuu to begin with?

Yuu looks like he had the last night Asahi had seen him as Azumane Yuu, and not Noya. His face is pale and hollow, golden eyes set into his features, a shade duller than Asahi is used to seeing them. His shirt, previously white, is riddled with bullet holes and stained with blood. Asahi is scared to even breathe for the fear of Yuu leaving once and for all.

Yuu doesn’t look at him when he speaks.

“I’m dead.” It’s not a question. Yuu knows this is a fact. “Right?”

“I’m sorry,” Asahi chokes out.

It isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. He has so much more he wants to say to Yuu. He wants to tell him how sorry he is. He wants to tell him that it should have been Asahi who’d died that day. Yuu had so much to live for, and Asahi barely knows how to live for himself. He wants to tell him how much he loves him, how they were supposed to have a whole life ahead of them. Their adventure had only just begun and it had been torn out from beneath them before they could take the first step.

Asahi chokes on his breath. It isn’t fair. It still isn’t fair.

He wants to say, please, don’t leave me again.

Yuu’s form flickers. Asahi covers his mouth to stifle the sob there. Yuu is in front of him now, gaze soft with acceptance. Even in death, he is the stronger of the two of them. Even now, his unwavering dependability makes Asahi feel safe.

“Asahi,” he says, ghostly fingers brushing past the strands of hair by Asahi’s ears, “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Asahi manages. “Why are you sorry? Yuu, I’m the one who should be apologizing. If I hadn’t gotten held up that day-”

“Then you would have died too.” Noya cuts him off.

Yuu stares him down, golden eyes piercing, and Asahi falters beneath that gaze.

“Asahi, I’m saying sorry because I promised you forever, but I have to go now. I love you so much, you stupid crybaby. I love you more than anything, and even if we were reborn, I’d find you again in ten thousand lifetimes. It’s always going to be you. You’re the kindest, bravest person I’ve ever known, and I’d do everything the same if it meant I had the chance to love you.” Asahi feels like he’s suffocating in his own words. He wants to grab Yuu and hold him close, but his hands pass right through the other man’s shoulders.

“I don’t know what to do without you,” he sobs, “Yuu, I don’t want to go without you. I don’t know how to socialize properly, and nobody else reminds me to take my meds. I can’t ground myself alone when I have an anxiety attack, and you always know what to say when I have a nightmare. I’m not brave. I let people walk over me when you aren’t there to tell them to lay off. You can’t leave because I don’t know what to do without you. I’m brave when you’re around because you make me feel like I can be.”

Yuu laughs. It’s a strangled half sob.

“Someone as cool as you shouldn’t be such a crybaby. You’re your own person, Asahi. You don’t need me or anyone else, even if you think you do. I’m not the one who makes you brave. You do that. And I need you to be extra brave for me now, okay?” His smile wobbles as he reaches out, hand hovering over Asahi’s cheek. “I need you to be brave enough to live the rest of your life, even if I’m not there to live it with you. I wish I could stay and make you as happy as you made me. I wish we could travel the world and have kids and grow old together. But I’ll always be with you.” And this time, when he reaches to touch Asahi, his palm settles over the ring strung around Asahi’s neck and stays there. The point of contact is warm, pulsing out into Asahi’s chest. He feels like he can breathe again. Asahi is so tired of being scared.

He manages a shaky laugh. “You still have my jacket.” Yuu smiles, something soft that touches the edges of his eyes. “Yeah,” he huffs, “sorry about that.” Asahi covers the hand Yuu has over his chest with his own. “Yuu,” he says, “I love you. I love you so much and I always have, and I’m sorry I never said that enough. I’m sorry that we couldn’t have the life we deserved. But I’ll keep living for you, as long as you promise to wait for me. Find me again in the next life, and the one after that, and the one after that. Please let me fall in love with you again.” A single tear slides down Yuu’s face.

“Always,” he says.

Asahi does not get his coat back, but he feels it like a pit of warmth in his chest when Yuu is gone. He sinks slowly forward, gathering the blanket up in his arms and pressing it to his face in a futile attempt to gather the last bits of Yuu’s presence from the fabric. But he’s gone, and Asahi is alone again, with nothing but the ghost of his memory and a promise. His room is empty and the pit of warmth in his chest is a sorry excuse for Yuu’s presence. He’s alone for now, but he’s going to be brave, and he’s going to find Yuu again in the next life. He may not have him now, but he’s never going to let him go again. He has that.

His fingers close slowly over the ring dangling from his neck, pressing the memories there deep into his chest where they’ll make a home.

(And this, at least.)

[untitledtheunknown]

Okay, five random hc from the list for Kerry and V maybe? 😙

Assume with V you mean Valor, my actual V is barely existent... rip to him... Anywhooooo

3. Scars or painful spots

Kerry is pretty clean for scars, he's got the one on his lip, and a few dusted on the knuckles from fights. The only other one he's got is a faded one on his thigh from a car crash from years ago. Nobody ever sees it, hasn't been too worried about making it vanish.

Valor is just a mess, honestly his scars should be a lot worse but synthetic skin he's had replaced a few times means the current count is pretty low. But he does have a number; most obvious one is the giant one on his face, that he got back in 2027 serving as private military for Lazarus and doesn't plan on having it be removed. 3 bullet wounds in his chest on the right side, one in his upper abdominal, all gotten from an assault on a Wraith camp when he was with the Veils. 2 long scars on his left pectoral, gotten in a Tyger Claw knife fight. Another big scar on his left side gotten from explosive debris. He's got another long scar thats mostly faded/hidden from constant procedures on his back, calls it his seam where they would cut the synthetic skin open to get to the parts underneath. He's a bit sensitive with that one, but rest he hardly notices anymore.

4. Best places to kiss on their body

Kerry without a doubt is the corner of his jaw to right behind his ear lobe. Man just melts, he'll tilt to give better access, and its really just the easiest way to take control over him. Its just the switch, turns the brain off, makes him go horny.

Best place for Valor is his hips, he has the best sensitivity still around his hips and thighs so kissing along his hip line, that deep V... yeah he'll notice and perk up with interest.

13. What gets them flustered

With Valor its touching, feel him up the right way, get close and personal and you'll start to work him over. Make him a bit weak. He's very much a dom once things get going but that start up, he's a follower, engage with him show intent, get him hot and bothered and lead the way.

Kerry I guess could fall into dirty talk, but its the specifics with a guarantee in the tone, the promise that this is what is going to happen to you next. The low voice, tight grip, and venomous promise on the lips of specifics of what you're going to do to him. Weak in the knees, turns that man into a believer.

16. Dark secrets/’skeletons in the closet’

Valor's is what happened in 2027 at Forward Base Beta, giant scar on his face, fear of water, yeah he won't talk about it. Thats all kept buried deep down and hidden from everyone.

Kerry’s is an incident back in 2054, he killed a man. Never had planned on killing someone like that, nor has he ever shot someone in cold blood again, hell never shot someone since... he doesn't regret doing it, doesn't lose sleep over it. For all intended purposes, the bastard deserved it.

18. Things they’ll never admit

Something a bit dumb, but back in 2006 Valor got to see Samurai live, his dad took him to NC and it was a surprise. A very young Valor got to meet Kerry and Denny after the concert, got photos and got to hold Kerry’s guitar. Dumb shit they won't admit to each other is that Kerry is who inspired Valor to start playing and writing songs. He knew how to play a bit but that short meet is what lit the fire for him to really learn.

On the flip side Valor is 100% sure Kerry doesn't remember meeting him back then, why would he? He met dozens of fans that night alone. But Kerry does distinctly remember meeting Valor and his dad because he remembers the voice their accent, and that they didn’t speak English to each other. Afrikaans isn't exactly common in NC.

Neither knows, neither will ever prolly find out.

[jemej3m]

The One Thing I Won’t Dare To Say

Slowly, ever so slowly, things began to change. Andrew, unaware of how small things could make such problematic differences, began to notice different affectations between himself and Neil, and doesn’t realise how much it matters. 

And then he realises his mistake, or not so much his mistake, but the changes he’s missed, and it’s nobody’s fault but his own. 

He discovers that he freezes, only momentarily, almost letting those words slip. 

But he wouldn’t say them. He couldn’t. He can’t. He won’t. 

So he doesn’t.

Andrew would never tell Neil -- for no particular reason, as he’s given up finding one -- how much he likes Neil’s legs.

But he’s sure that Neil already knows.

He’s not subtle when he snaps the elastic of Neil’s tiny fucking shorts that he wears during summer, which is, unfairly, rather extensive in Southern California.

He’s not subtle when he keeps a pair of them in Neil’s little selection of clothing in his own apartment when he graduates. For Neil to wear. Around the house. If he wanted to. No harm in it. None at all.

He’s not subtle when Neil hooks said shorts on his finger with a grin and says, “I hate you.” because Neil knows that’s not what Andrew means, and Andrew should have definitely said something else, because Neil comes out the shower wearing nothing else --

Andrew makes a big show of burning the pair of shorts when they move in together. The smoke alarm goes off, and the entire apartment gets evacuated. Andrew’s face is as blank as stone, but Neil’s laughing too hard for the firemen who’d responded to the alarm to get a word out of him.

Andrew loves his runner’s legs. But he’d rather admit God was real than have Neil know that.

~

Neil almost never laughs with anyone but him, and Andrew loves it. Honestly. Wholeheartedly. Neil’s laugh is short and high and when he gets into a fit, he can’t stop. He’ll be resting his head on Andrew’s lap, cheeks flushed from his third shot of gin, laughing hysterically as Andrew continues to mock Kevin in a theatrically low, gravelly voice. Neil’s palms are sweaty and they grasp Andrew’s jaw, and then lock loosely around his neck, and then grip his shoulders. It must be awkward, considering he’s sprawled across the couch but with his head at an odd angle on Andrew’s thigh.

But he’s laughing.

Andrew pauses, almost -- almost -- smiling (A mere raise of the corner of his lips), as he waits for Neil to calm down. It happens slowly, because Neil will remember something, or hiccup and laugh at himself, or look up at Andrew and continue giggling.

What a child. Andrew brushes the curls away from Neil’s forehead and waits, until Neil’s swallows and smiles loosely at something, but is quiet. He knows the barriers he’s been given, and wouldn’t dare breach them in his state, but he brushes Andrew’s lips once before letting his hand drop.

“Hey.” He smiles a little wider, and Andrew feels like he’s going to be sick.

Andrew says nothing. There’s nothing he could say right now that he wouldn’t regret in the morning, because there’s no words that feel right to say in this moment of time. He can’t imagine saying those three words without the bitter taste of bile at the back of his throat: Neither of them have been loved or loved and it’s too foreign of a concept to either of them, so why does Andrew want to say them? 

But it’s not the right time. Or it could be the right time, but Andrew’s not the right man. 

So he says nothing.

~

Andrew shouldn’t like it when Neil gets angry, but he does.

Neil gets angry because Kevin is winning. Neil gets angry because the FBI stopped by and threatened to take him into custody for no reason other than you know what you did, despite him having done absolutely nothing. Neil gets angry because someone called him the wrong name -- again.

And Andrew finds himself admiring Neil.

Neil is a flame. Red-hot on the outside, with auburn curls and the lightest of bronzed shine on his skin, a smattering of ash-like freckles. He’s a little more brazen once you know him -- or, he knows you, the mysterious entity that he is -- berating you with a sharp tongue that spits heat.

And at his core -- blue, blue, blue, the shimmeringly deceptive blue of his eyes that exists deep within him, the hearth that is Neil’s anger, nestled deep inside. And when Andrew sees it rear it’s head, uncontrolled and bursting at the seams. Well. He knows what it feels like to be on the edge of losing all inhibition.

Neil’s anger doesn’t ignite any unwarranted feelings in Andrew. Merely, he feels an even deeper connection with Neil than ever before, the more human Neil becomes, and the more Andrew understands himself.

Andrew lets himself like it -- the flame, the burn, the sparks, all of it -- because it’s never made him feel more alive.

But he never tells Neil that.

~

Neil stops sleeping like his subconscious knows there’s someone to stab him through his stomach as soon as he awakes, and starts sprawling out across the mattress, pure of bad intentions, merely the victim of getting used to a safe-space.

They’re all the same.

But Andrew notices, because of course he notices -- how Neil stops sleeping facing the wall, curled in, with one hand under the pillow and a small divot between his eyebrows. He stops sleeping like a corpse: Completely still and devoid of any movements larger that a careful breath. He lays on his back, and then -- better yet -- curled into Andrew’s side. He lays with a hand reaching out, slowly spreading his fingers over Andrew’s chest.

Andrew, too, is a victim of this routine. This lapse of judgement that he’d gotten himself into: This awful decision, this life sentence that feels as though he’s sold his soul and doesn’t regret it at all. Andrew stops sleeping so lightly, because how on earth could he sleep lightly when Neil’s hand on his chest is an irresistible weight, pulling him into the mattress and safe confines of their small haven?

They graduate. One after the other. This continues to evolve after they move in together, years later still, when there’s two king single mattresses pushed together to form a double, just in case there’s an awful night where sleeping alone is damnation but touching one another seems worse.

In the private confines of his own mind, he lets himself say this:

Andrew loves this about Neil. The way Neil sleeps. When he isn’t plagued by nightmares, when he isn’t tense or injured or ill: When the golden light wafts in from slits in the shutters, coating Neil’s eyelashes in their bronze glow, making his curls soft and his freckles melt into golden skin. When his lips are a little puckered, curled up at one corner, and there’s the tiniest hitch in his breath when his hand reaches out and finds a lack of Andrew’s torso, fingers curling against the sheets.

Andrew slides back down to where Neil can fist his fingers into the cotton of his pyjamas, and knows he won’t breathe a word of how much he loves Neil like this, but wishes -- no, hopes -- that one day he might find the courage to.

~

He has stories painted across his skin and Andrew takes delicate care in worshipping each one of them, silently, reverently.

Andrew loves each of these scars. None are self-inflicted, not even the stitch scars that held together some of the more gruesome gashes.

These scars aren’t pretty, not thin and neat like Andrew’s are: Andrew wouldn’t call his scars pretty, but he didn’t slash without abandon. He aimed for precision: Neil’s markings are pure cruelty. How much pain can the body withstand? How much blood or skin can a living being lose? Puckered gunshot wounds and the ragged territory of where his skin was shredded after rolling out of a car: The mix-matched, jagged gashes next to his spine, just above his right hip, and the beginnings of what probably would have been the same thing on the other side. Neil said his mother had just swooped in to save him before Jackson had the chance to make it symmetrical.

The iron mark on his shoulder. The divot of a stab wound in his stomach.

Andrew loves these scars, because they are Neil’s, and he loves Neil. He does. He does. He does, he does, hedoes,hedoeshedoeshedoes --

Neil.

Neil smiles across at him: They only thing between them is space, and Neil’s hand lying limp on the sheets. Andrew’s hand is resting lightly on Neil’s hip, thumb absentmindedly swiping over the small, familiar ridge that marked the end of Neil’s gravel burn.

“Hey.”

Andrew looks up at him.

He still doesn’t say anything.

~

That’s the thing with strong, stubborn mentalities: Changing them is an enormous, draining effort. Sometimes it’s necessary.

It was very necessary.

Andrew regretted.

His fingers were gripped tightly around the steering wheel, looping his way through the sparse traffic as he escaped the city confounds to get onto the interstate and get into the next state over. He couldn’t feel anything: He couldn’t breathe.

The last time this happened, the last time they had been cryptic, was when Neil had vanished and they hadn’t been allowed to say anything at all.

This time was very, very different. Neil wasn’t gone: He was just.

Dead.

Almost.

Apparently. Vague answers were all that Andrew’d gotten.

That’s why Andrew was hellbent on driving as quickly as he could, unable to to breathe, or think, or feel.

All those missed opportunities to tell him: Andrew lamented over each one with startling clarity as he was honked at continuously the closer he edged towards the next state over’s biggest city. Names of locations were useless. He just needed to drive.

He didn’t dare drive too close to the hospital, for the fear of being too tempted to merely park in the ambulance bay instead of searching for a park and then being forcefully taken out before he had the chance to see him. He parked on a side street and ran faster than he’d ever bothered to before, not letting himself think about how if he didn’t run fast enough, he might be seconds too late, not letting himself hear Neil’s voice taunting him about doing more cardio, not letting the shiver that ran down his spine affect him.

He burst through the entrance’s doors and grabbed the first person in a white coat that he saw. “Neil Josten. Where is he?”

~

Andrew hated Neil’s team. They moaned and groaned: one was crying and a few were furious but Andrew knew that none of it was genuine: They were mad about Neil fucking up their game, scared about how it would affect their season. They weren’t concerned, not in the slightest, that Neil was on his deathbed.

Also: None of them knew that Andrew was here for Neil. Andrew was wearing one of Neil’s old black hoodies that he’d snatched on his way out, sitting in the corner. Listening to them lamenting about the turn of events.

He’s not dead. He’s not dead.

His lung had been punctured by a broken rib, the doctor had said. Slamming into a wall would do that to you.

He’s not dead. He’s not. He can’t be.

His spine was dislodged. Having a mark twice your size crush you into the wall would do that to you.

He’s not dead.

“For all the shit he’s put us through,” A striker said. “He kind of deserves this.”

“Jesus Christ, Rowen.”

Rowen shrugged.

Andrew curled his fingers into fists, feeling the blade of his knife beneath his armband: It was warmed by Andrew’s body heat, and if Andrew didn’t have any common sense, it’d be buried deep within that striker’s chest.

Andrew called Kevin.

“Fucking finally.” Kevin gasped. “Is he alright?”

“Don’t know. How many of the others know?” The others. The old Foxes.

“All of them?”

Huh. None of them had bothered to text Andrew.

“They shouldn’t have bothered you.” Kevin’s voice was strained. “I told them not to. They’re desperate to know: Text Wymack when you find out, won’t you?”

Andrew hesitated.

But Neil wasn’t just his. He had a whole family of people who were just as anxious to hear he’s okay as Andrew was.

“Sure.”

Kevin swallowed.

Andrew hung up, and pulled a knee into his chest.

~

“You’re trading Neil Josten onto our team.”

His coach hummed. “Is he alive?”

Andrew ground his teeth together.

“Sorry. That was insensitive. But there’s still a few weeks left of the season, Andrew.”

“He’ll be recovering.”

She paused.

“That’s true enough. I’ll see about it, though II can’t promise anything. And Andrew?”

He grunted.

“You’d better be on your best behaviour if I pull it off. Fucking in the locker room is not allowed. You’re excused from practise this week until the game, but you’d better be in Dallas by 2:30 PM, sharp, alright?”

“Fine.” Thank you would have tasted too bitter on his tongue.

“You’re welcome.” His coach said, smoothly, knowing better. She hung up, and Andrew stared at the time stamp blinking up at him for another moment before tucking his phone away?

“Andrew Minyard?” It was well into the morning when an exhausted nurse dragged herself out, and waved Andrew down.

Neil’s team slowly turned to look at him rise out of his chair and breeze past.

“Is he ok.”

The nurse smiled weakly and nodded. “He’s stable.”

“What the fuck?” Rowen stood up, black curls bouncing. “What is he doing here?”

“Mr Josten’s team, I’m guessing?” The nurse asked. The coach nodded and walked forward: The woman turned back to Andrew. “As his only emergency contact, you’re the closest thing we have to a legal guardian. Do you want them to wait?”

“I want them to get out. Take me to see him, please.”

She smiled, and lead the way, leaving the ruckus of a shaken Exy team behind.

“You two should really get married.” She said, lightly. Her name pin read Jane.

Andrew said nothing.

“Seems like he’s one for getting into all kinds of trouble. It would make this situation a little simpler.”

“I’m the emergency contact.”

“For some doctors, that’s not good enough.” She smiled gratuitously. “You’re lucky this is N-Y-C.”

New York. Right. That’s where Neil played, lived. A thousand miles away.

“Will he be able to play?” Andrew hated that he had to ask that. But this was Neil’s life on the line: Any serious damage to Neil spine meant he wouldn’t be able to play, and the Moriyamas would kill him before he even woke up.

“Nothing that won’t heal. It may take a while, though.”

“How long is a while?”

“Perhaps up to six months. His skull was heavily fractured: He might have to have it reconstructed, depending on how he goes over the next two weeks.”

Andrew huffed. “Where the doctor?”

Jane smiled thinly. “It’s a big city with lots of people. What you see is what you’re getting, Minyard.” She pushed the door of a small, private room inwards.

Andrew’s never seen Neil hooked up to so many wires before: He’s got a fat tube coming out of his mouth and fluids in both arms. Regulators are measuring all his variables, but Andrew only has eyes for Neil: Red curls semi-shaven, both eyes blackened, nose a little crooked.

A chair is pushed behind him as he stumbles to Neil’s bedside, and his hand immediately cups the burnt cheek, being as gentle as he can.

“Please be careful.” Jane murmured. “He’s stable but vulnerable.”

“When will he wake up?”

“When the sedatives wear off.” She stood on the opposite side of the bed with crossed arms. “Then we may have to imitate to let him heal: Usually with such injuries, he’d be comatose. He’s strong, though. But he’ll be in a lot of pain.”

~

Neil wakes up the next morning, stiff, frozen, and grips Andrew’s hand so tightly that his fingers felt crushed.

He’s immediately put back under sedatives, but for just a moment, Andrew’d seen those blue, blue eyes.

I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him when he wakes up.

~

The whole team is here. Andrew has to leave for his game in Dallas, and in a brief moment of panic, unwilling to leave them alone, he’d let it slip to Kevin that Neil was alright: Sedated, but alright. Now the whole team is here, standing at the end of his bed, shaken but so, so relieved.

Neil doesn’t even know they’re here.

It’s been almost a week: Soon Neil would have healed enough to be conscious without blacking out from pain. He’s undergone three surgeries on his skull and been put into a back brace so he remains still when he wakes up, but he looks gaunt. And pale. And thin.

Or maybe Andrew’s paranoid.

“Andrew,” Kevin jostles him out of his thoughts. Andrew’s been staring at Neil the entire time: Not that it was any different than normal, but he doesn’t act like a love-sick idiot in front of the rest of the Foxes, or anyone for that matter. But he’s watching Neil: He’s seeing whether or not the voices of his family bring him out of his induced slumber.

“He’s fine. You have a flight to catch.”

Andrew’s face is stone but his heart is racing. He clears his throat as quietly as he can. “You’ll text me.”

“If anything happens.” Kevin tilts his head to the side, speculating Andrew’s dulled mood. “Of course I will.”

Andrew shoves past the rest of them out the door.

~

He’s back from Dallas at 1:27 in the morning, and walking back into the hospital at 1:49.

“Sir --”

“Don’t worry, Evan.” Jane puts a hand on his shoulder. “Go take a break.”

Evan looks mildly bewildered by the older nurse: Jane leads Andrew right back to Neil’s room.

Kevin looks relieved to see him.

“Nothing happened?”

“Don’t you trust that I’d text you?” He stands up.

“In such a hurry to leave?”

“I can’t fathom him like this.” Kevin shakes his head, looking gaunt in the dim lighting of Neil’s heart monitor display. “He’s always protected me. Sitting here -- feels wrong. I’m not strong enough to provide the protection he needs. I can’t stand between him and the Moriyamas like he did for me. I can’t --” He gestures helplessly.

“Quit the wallowing, Kevin.”

“What if this is it for Neil, Andrew?” Kevin stresses. “What if Ichirou decides that six months is too long of a recovery period? What if something is fucked, forever, and we didn’t realise?”

“He would rather die than run.” Andrew says, meditatively. Evenly. Knowingly.

Kevin’s head hangs, and he looks at a peaceful Neil once more, before pushing the chair away from the edge of Neil’s bed and brushing past Andrew without touching. Andrew resumes his position in the chair that Kevin had been keeping warm.

Kevin pauses by the door. “You know. Ages ago. After Neil came back from the FBI and told us everything, Nicky said you’d protect him. He wasn’t lying. You’d die trying, but.” Kevin’s grip on the door handle tightens. “You’d try anyway.”

“Your point, Kevin.” Andrew is more shaken than he wishes to let on. He hopes Kevin is tired enough to miss it.

“I don’t know.” Kevin is being point-blank honest. “I guess I just needed to make sure that you knew.”

“Knew what?”

Kevin pauses. “That you didn’t deserve anything that happened to you, Andrew.”

Silence.

“The others have booked hotel rooms about a block away.”

“Press.” Andrew reminds him. “Muggers.”

Kevin flaps his fingers in Andrew’s general direction. “I got it covered.”

Andrew goes back to gazing the planes of Neil’s face, mapping the topography of his burned cheek.

~

When Neil wakes up the next morning, Andrew is highly alarmed. Panic overcomes him when the blue eyes blinked at him, and he reaches out, yanking on the remote and pressing the bell button a thousand times over.

Not-Jane walked in, bristling. “What’s the commotion? I didn’t see anything abnormal across our ends of the monitors.”

“Why is he awake?”

“Andrew.” Neil’s voice is as thin and as easily shreddable as rice paper. His fingers are looped around Andrew’s wrist.

“The sedatives wore off.” She shrugs. “I’ll get a doctor.”

She leaves, and Andrew is grappling at Neil’s hand, his grip weakly returned, but still returned. A pulse. Neil is breathing, thinking, looking at him.

“I --” Andrew is choked by the weight of these stupid, stupid words that he promised himself he’d say, the weight of them sickening. He can’t swallow them, so he has no other choice but to spit them right out. “Neil.” 

Neil smiles, a weak, dazed smile, and Andrew is so, so gone.

Andrew brushes a kiss over Neil’s temple as he sit down again, clenching his shaking hands in Neil’s sheets. He doesn’t realise he’s missing the only opening he’ll have to say it: I love you. I love you. I love you. 

He doesn’t know that he’ll wake up tomorrow, in this same chair, and be unable to say it. 

But it’s ok. Because Neil already knows. 

Neil smiles softly and closes his eyes. Andrew lets him. 

~

Andrew regrets, and he hates it. An unshakeable weight on his shoulders is all it is, and he can’t shove it off. 

Neil is gorgeous, far from perfect and everything that Andrew needs. 

Andrew will tell him. 

It just will take a few more years. 

~

Neil’s standing in the kitchen. Well, he was. Now he’s sitting on the counter, cross-legged, and sifting through bills that were shoved into their mailbox earlier that week. His coffee rests beside him, bitter and black, and his curls hang over his forehead, auburn and too long. 

It’s years after their first gold medal, five after their second and a few weeks after their third, and Andrew’s knee creaks when he gets up from the worn couch in the living room. 

It’s no longer Sir and King: King gave way to Prince in an awful six month period of unexpected grief quite a while ago, now. Three years, if Andrew remembers correctly, which he always does. Sir is still kicking, looking after the younger kitten with grace. 

Neil rips open the mail and looks over the bills with disdain, and Andrew watches him. He recently had his hair cut, a fresh buzz that Andrew loves to run his fingers through: Andrew can see the raised scar of so many surgeries, all those years ago, and that tiny window of opportunity slamming closed as soon as that nurse had walked back in. 

Three words. One. I. Two. Love. Three. You. 

Honestly, it seems so fickle that there’s so much weight laid into them, when they’re just words. But that’s human nature, fickle, fragile and obsessed with more, more, and God be damned if Andrew wasn’t the same. 

But he promised he would say them. He could. Now, if he wants. He can. He will.

So he does. 

~

this is pure indulgence

also: roughly 3.8k of ooc andrew nonsense 

[emileewilson]

THE G WORD

 I wrote this blog months ago. It’s time to share my story and some exciting news! I’m re-branding my business to include herbal education, workshops, and more! The entrepreneurial journey has been fun for me as I grow and expand my offerings. I am so happy to offer skincare and beauty services, but my practice has evolved into so much more. The following true story is told from my heart and I hope you’ll embrace my new brand with enthusiasm and support.  This is my story from Gypsy Skin Spa to Wild N Rooted. 

 It has been brought to my attention recently that a word exists. This word is part of our English language and our cosmology. This word has many meanings, it is powerful, controversial, and mysterious.

 Gypsy.

 Some people believe it to be a racial slur, others believe it to be a lifestyle and some have no idea what the word is, means, where it comes from, how to say it, or even care. You can see where this may cause some issues and concerns. Due to its controversial nature, I used it once, but will refrain from using it moving forward out of respect for those reading this who deem it offensive.

 This is my story and how I birthed my lifestyle brand in 2015. This word resonates with me deeply in a very authentic way. It is an expression of my being.  After being attacked online and accused of being a racist, I strongly felt the need to tell my story. I want to talk about it. This dilemma, this idea, this age of offending is an opportunity for education and to begin co-creating a high vibe around the label.

 You see, our English language is convoluted in historical accounts that many of us didn’t even know existed. For instance, the word “Bucket List” actually comes from hanging someone by “kicking the bucket” out from beneath them before they die. Did you know that Hooligans are associated with the Irish? Vandals, the Germans? The G word are associated with the ethnic group, Roma or Romany, who immigrated into parts of Eastern Europe. The locals thought they were from Egypt or Egyptian (hence gyp) which we now know as they begin to have a voice in literature and other cultural affairs. They identify with Roma, Romani, Romany, or Rroma. I’m what you call a European Mutt, which is essentially a dog mixed with who knows what and I don’t like it very much. Alas, society has deemed that description appropriate.

 My focus is on the positive aspects of the G word discussion and how we can use it to free the people under this guise, not slander them. More importantly, that we stop grouping people together and/or generalizing, stereotyping subgroups of people or minorities in the first place.  There are good people and bad people. Period. There are all types of different people in this world. I mean, there are ALOT of us!  We have different ideas, perspectives, opinions, customs, foods, languages, fashions, economics, currency, status, religions, and experiences. This all happens simultaneously as life spirals along, upwards and outwards.

  My personal story regarding this particular identity began when I was 30 years old, also known as my Saturn Return, when the walls around me would literally come crashing down. My roommates and I were residing in Marina Del Rey, CA and we all lived peaceful, independent lives. A large development company purchased the property and our landlord told us to vacate. During this time, I also lost my job and couldn’t afford to pay my bills. A dance troupe that I created and adored fell apart at the seams and my Grandmother passed away. I went on unemployment and moved back in with my parents. Welcome to the Boomerang Generation.

 Although grateful for this landing, it was uncomfortable. I got a part time job in a small salon, but my business couldn’t thrive without clientele.  Soon enough, I decided to go back to College in Fullerton and soon I found myself back in Los Angeles living in West Hollywood. This was an interesting time. I had ditched an abusive boyfriend, my car was broken into, very important documents like college homework and documentary drafts were stolen. I was drunk most of the time falling into a deep state of depression. I had also discovered Ayahuasca as a medicine, something that would change my life in the most extraordinary way.

 Still to come at 32 years old, I was forced to file Bankruptcy, the banks wouldn’t accept my income loss or life changes. Eventually, I found another spa in Redondo Beach, CA and moved into a room with the generous Persian couple who owned it. A month later, I met a nice Indian man in Hawthorne and I rented a room from him. He was a single father with a daughter and a gorgeous white Shepherd named Bella. To supplement my income, I began working as a cocktail waitress while developing my clientele. No more than 3 months later, the restaurant folded. My inappropriate employer kept my last paycheck and I wasn’t making enough money at the spa to live on my own. I moved back to Culver City with my Aunt and shared a room with a friend. I lived there for, you guessed it, about 3 months. During this time, I was able to get another part time job in Santa Monica at a small spa called Petite Spa with a lot of potential, as well as taking up an offer to work for a high- profile ticket broker in Huntington Beach. This led me to a short stint in Orange County. I even got a third job working part time at another day spa. Less than 3 months later, I was fired from the office job and so I quit the esthetic job and moved back to Los Angeles. I found a small studio in Mar Vista, CA. One room, no kitchen, and it became my sacred space for 2 years.

 With hardly anything, but a strong will and a humbled spirit, my private practice as an Esthetician and Herbalist was born. The journey was already under way.

 In 2016 I studied in New York with a wise, old woman named Susun Weed, a Witch. All five of her apprentices were not allowed to say the word “guy.” It was unacceptable around her and she would only accept “Gaia” instead. It was difficult to change my habitual language, but eventually I started to remember. I admired how she created her reality, yet I feared her verbal abuse. Ironic eh? I lived on her land for two weeks and was initiated as a Green Witch, polishing my toe green as the final induction. The Washington Post wrote a great article about the word “guy” and its origins. Although now common language, the Oxford English Dictionary defines it as a “person of grotesque appearance.” When I came back to L.A, I began noticing how many people said “Guy” when referring to myself and women. It really bothered me. I attempted to correct them several times, then held my tongue, then it became plain awkward. Nobody cared. It was a construct. Once I realized my offenders never intended to insult or hurt me, I stopped physically hearing it. I can’t even remember the last time. I know they’re saying it, but I just can’t hear them.  The origin of “guy” has become a fun fact in Etymology. Now it means “a man or woman.” It’s amazing how our language morphs, twists and turns, along with history, experiences and ideologies.  

 Why am I telling you my life story? Well, because it all has to do with the G word. With all of that being said, we are still in a predicament because the G word is STILL used as a derogatory ethnic slur in other parts of the world.  In this very moment. In fact, people all over the world continue to oppress minorities and entire countries still deny genocides and documented accounts of massive human extermination. This pains my heart so. I dream of a peaceful planet where all cultures can learn from one another, respecting the language, food, music, fashion, art, and religious views. May we all migrate toward our tribes. This is a tall order; however, THIS is my focus, not how the G word has dubious meanings around the globe. My work is to continue finding my truth, my voice, and stand up for what I believe in. Of course, my writings and teachings are a part of this. I believe in service to the people, empowering women and leaving the world a cleaner place. It’s that simple.

 There is freedom and oppression within the G word. It has become an archetype. At age 3, my mother chose this as my costume on Halloween, dressing me in a gold scarf, bright red lipstick, blush and hoop earrings (clip on of course!). Let us think about it as an archetype. Like Witch, Faerie, Crone, Goddess, and Bitch, all those that we have reclaimed.  Allow for the good, the bad, and the ugly. I don’t subscribe to living in a paradigm that even allows for racism. Using the word racist and race separates us more than it holds us. I think that for people in the U.S, the G word conjures up feelings of traveling, romance, fashion, mystery, a free spirit, natural living, family, and determination. The irony and most painful part of this archetype is that one group of people on one side of the world felt and feel offended by it, and the other groups in the West have gained wild open-hearted freedom from it. We must ponder as a society, no matter where we were in the past, we are here today and need to continue moving forward together. We cannot suspend each other in the past. As my Mentor once said, “It’s ok to look into the rear-view mirror every once in a while, but you can’t drive the car that way.”  

 I consistently check myself and tune into my energy. When I’m feeling off, I have to take a deep breath and move it into a higher vibration. Living in society with different people has its challenges, but I believe it is our human right to feel happy and free no matter what our circumstances. I wish this upon all cultures. Instead of accepting a slur from the oppressors, the people of Romany are in a great position to reclaim themselves. Let us embrace the real G word and may they come into the light. Let the women tell their stories, entering into evolution. My prayer is that we release the word into the ethers and let peace fall upon the land of the aggrieving. My highest belief about this is that we are one human race thriving together on Planet Earth.

 So here we are back in my studio apartment. I knew exactly what I had to do. I had to create work for myself, with my own two hands. I had to discover my passion, my gifts, and share them with the world. I had to learn from other women and I also promised myself I would stay in one place as long as I could. Humbled by my life on the road, I was finally feeling confident, independent, and free once again. I began embracing my call to the wild, to ceremony, Paganism, the plants, and natural healing methods, reading books, apprenticing, and attending workshops. I studied myself. I studied others. Along with the Magician, The G word was becoming a strong presence in my life.  I still receive gifts to this day that represent G word magic.

What I did not know until recently is that the Romany are STILL being oppressed in Eastern Europe and the G Word is not a nice word at all.

I interviewed a couple Roma men that I found online. I interviewed Romany women who use the term in their business brand. They told me that the prejudices are still occurring against them. They all said they are not personally offended by the word, but warned that others may be. As a woman of mixed European descent, I am always searching for cultural traditions that I can call my own. I grew up with a small family and little tradition.  This is partly why I am so drawn to the archetype and the lifestyle, one that allows me freedom, contrary to what others feel the G word means.  

 I am a privledged white woman. I will use my voice to help others in need. I will continue to lead by example. I am a Lover. I am a Magician. I am a Manifestor. I am not an oppressor. I am not a racist. I AM wild and rooted.

 The Archetype that I felt would continue to represent my journey, my dream, and my passion was Gypsy (oops I said it), but after months of pondering the last three years of my life in the herbal world and reading historical accounts of this word and how misused it has been, it has left a rather bitter taste on my lips. I have decided to evolve myself, my name, and my brand to include more herbal knowledge, medicine making skills, and workshops. A name that I feel will bring the people together. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Things really do happen for a reason and sometimes buttons get pushed for a higher purpose. I will be launching a new website soon so stay tuned!!! I created a name that represents my most divine constitution. A name that is not controversial, or offensive, but one that remains powerful and meaningful to me. I belong to no one.  

 I AM WildNRooted!!  

Emilee Amara

Holistic Facials, Herbalist

[thewriterandthewitch]

Audrey knows best (MadWife)

One short fanfic.

Laura x MadSweeney (MadWife)

Rating: Teen and Up. (Mentions of sex)

Summary:

Laura returns to her best friend's house to ask for another favor. This time, she brings a tall leprechaun with her.

You can read it here or in ao3.

Audrey knows best

“Have you had any new hallucinations?”

The psychologist asks the question she has been asking her every week and Audrey shakes her head, in a mute “no”, while she fixes her eyes in the ugly butterfly-shaped pin the woman wears on her lapel.

Rhonda Machado may be an exceptional psychologist but she has a horrible fashion sense. She doesn’t ask another question and Audrey looks up, confused and impatient. She knows the game her psychologist is playing: Silence makes everyone uncomfortable and if Rhonda lets it fill the room for too long, Audrey will end up confessing her most disturbing thoughts. The problem is that it always works.

“Why a zombie? Why couldn’t I hallucinate her as she was before she died?” Audrey shakes her head. “Sewing her arm back was positively disgusting.”

“I don’t know. The mind is a complex mechanism. Do you want to venture a guess?”

Audrey shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to punish her… so I imagined her as a corpse. She was always too pretty outside, too ugly inside.” Even as she says it, she feels a little bit guilty, but she swallows it back.

“Why were you friends then, if she was too ugly inside?”

“I was naïve. I thought she was unreachable and cruel to men but genuine to me.” She laughs, letting the anger rein free. “I was so fucking stupid.” Audrey blinks, allows herself to be lost in her own thoughts and then, she rushes to apologize. “I am sorry for my vocabulary.”

“You can swear if it makes you feel better.”

It shouldn’t but it fucking does. And only for a second, Audrey understands her dead former best friend – because Laura loved to use the crudest words to describe everything. She looked delicate outside but she had such a dirty mouth. Men loved that.

“I always envied the spell she had on men. They smiled at her as if she was the most enchanting princess they had ever met and they just felt the need to protect her at any cost. Shadow wasn’t an exception. Laura smiled back at them, she batted her eyelashes and seduced them in her own subtle way – but it was never real, you know, she liked the attention but she never really cared about them.” She shakes her head, feeling suddenly sad. “Shadow wasn’t an exception.” She repeats.

Audrey remembers when Zombie Laura told her Shadow was the light of her life, and now she wants to laugh hysterically again, but she contains herself.

When Audrey leaves her psychologist’s office, she doesn’t feel better – or saner for that matter. She understands that Laura was only a hallucination, a product of her mind, but she still can remember the pungent smell and the sounds of her bowel movements. It was so disgusting that it’s difficult to accept it wasn’t real.

She decides to go buy food and some ingredients to make pies. She knows she still has plenty of apple pie in the fridge but making them has become her latest obsession. Once, before her life became a fucking Greek tragedy, she loved to decorate scrapbooks – now, the mere sight of colored paper makes her want to puke. Cooking is therapeutic; it saves her from her thoughts, her anger, and her tears.

Audrey only spends half an hour in the supermarket and she arrives home just before the sunset. When her car reaches the driveway, she’s surprised to find a heavily damaged ice truck parked in front of her house. Audrey grabs her grocery bag and steps out of the car without taking her eyes off the ice cream truck.

She almost shrieks when she recognizes Laura Moon, her particular zombie hallucination, in front of the wheel. She looks alive, or dead, or something in between – a little bit worse for wear than the last time she hallucinated her. Audrey hugs her grocery bag against her chest and starts walking toward the main door with urgent steps.

“Audrey!” Laura calls after her, getting out of the truck.

“No, no, no, no. You’re not real!” She screams, not stopping for a second.

Audrey allows herself only a quick peek, to check if Laura is still there. She is and she isn’t alone. A very tall redheaded man descends from the copilot seat and leans against the hood. He has scratches on his face and he looks quite intimidating. The man reminds her of the rough-looking lumberjacks and hunters from the covers of her romantic novels.

“What…?” Laura starts asking but Audrey slams the door in her face.

Safe inside her house, Audrey takes a deep breath to calm her fast-beating heart. She moves toward the kitchen's window and positions herself in a spot where she can still see them without being seen. She watches in silence how Laura returns to the car to grab a box of chocolates and then, she brusquely “hands” it to the tall man, hitting him in the stomach with it.

“Why do I have to bring the chocolates? She’s your friend!”

“Because you smell… well, not good, exactly. Just slightly less disgusting than me.” Laura answers. “I don’t want the chocolates to smell like expired meat.”

The man snorts, a prideful smile forming on his face.

Laura stops in front of her door. “Audrey, I’m very embarrassed I’m doing this again but… I need your help. I brought… I brought some peace offering.”

“I don’t think a box of chocolates will make her forget you died with her husband’s dick inside your mouth.” The man retorts and Audrey nods, agreeing with him, even when he can’t see her.

Laura sighs but doesn’t contradict him. She keeps speaking to the closed door. “We’re going to stay here, waiting, until you open this door. We aren’t going anywhere.”

Audrey shakes her head, furious. She opens the main door and looks at Laura with hate.

Laura smiles as if everything was fine with the world. “Hello, Audrey.”

“You’re dead… and rotting on my doormat.”

Laura simply nods. She seems unperturbed about this fact and Audrey considers it a clear sign that she’s just a product of her imagination.

The redhead turns lightly towards Laura. “I thought she already knew.”

“She does.” Laura looks back at Audrey. “You know. Remember? We had a heart to heart, first in the bathroom, then in your car.”

“Yes. I mean… no.” Audrey shakes her head. “I talked to my psychologist and we decided that you were a product of my imagination. It took weeks, weeks, you hear me? But I finally came to terms with the fact that you weren’t real, that I just made you up because I was feeling guilty for hating you so much when you were dead and buried.”

Laura sighs and shakes her head. She walks into the house without asking for permission. A putrid smell hits Audrey when she passes in front of her so she steps back and covers her nose with her hand. Laura shows her a resigned and even self-deprecating smile.

“If I were only part of your imagination… would I smell so bad?”

“I assure you she’s real. She wouldn’t be such a pain in the ass if she weren’t.” The tall redhead man says.

Audrey blinks at him, “And who are you?”

“Mad Sweeney.” He says, offering her his hand to shake.

“Mad?” She asks while she shakes his hand.

He nods. “Mad as a hatter.” He says, showing a smile that seems too long and two white-teethed for his face.

Without bothering to ask permission, Laura turns the AC on with such strength that she almost tears the wheel off. “Cold is good to conserve cadavers, you know.” She explains. Audrey doesn’t know what to answer to that so she simply nods. Laura moves her hand over her collarbone, where the seams are opening and Audrey can see her bones. “Audrey, I know you still hate me and you’re in your right… but as I said, I need another favor.”

Audrey folds her arms and looks at her former best friend with apprehension. “Is it the car, again?” She holds back from commenting that Laura’s truck is a complete mess.

“No. We need to stay here for some days. It won’t be for long…” Laura shoos away a fly that’s circling over her head. “Well, he needs a place to stay. I will come and go. I have some… errands to do.”

“What kind of trouble are you in? And I don’t want more lies, Laura, I’ve had enough of your secrets…”

Audrey observes how Laura and Mad Sweeney exchange stares. He nods, answering Laura’s mute question. Audrey looks at their wordless understanding with unconcealed surprise. In all the years she has known Laura, she has seen multiple guys trying to form an emotional connection with her but their stares and smiles were always one-sided. Laura smiled back at them but in the same way than an actress smiles at her co-lead, they were never genuine smiles.

“He betrayed a god so he needs to hide somewhere,” Laura explains as if she were explaining the plot of a new movie.

Audrey raises a brow. “A god?”

“A Nordic god, to be more precise,” Sweeney adds. “A one-eyed manipulative son of a bitch with a penchant for storms.”

Audrey shakes her head and looks at Laura with anger, “That’s the lie you want to feed me? You’re hiding from a fucking god?”

Laura extends her arms, showing the marks of her body. “Is that really so difficult to believe?”

Audrey bites her lip, trying to resist the temptation of believing her. Hallucinating her dead best friend is one thing, believing in the existence of a dangerous Nordic god is something else entirely.

Audrey looks at Mad Sweeney with an expression of mocking disbelief. “And what are you, then? A genie?”

“Do I look like a sodding genie?” He asks, deeply offended. “I am a leprechaun.”

She raises both brows, not even trying to hide her skepticism. “A leprechaun? Well, you don’t look like a leprechaun, either. Shouldn’t you be more…?” She gestures with her hand, indicating the size of a kid or a dwarf.

“Don’t even say it. Nobody likes stereotypes.” Sweeney says, with an almost threatening tone.

“So about that favor… what do you say?” Laura asks with a pleading tone. It’s an odd expression in her face, something Audrey hasn’t seen before.

Once again, Audrey bites her lip, meditating. She smiles with courtesy at Sweeney. “Do you mind if I talk with Laura in private?”

Sweeney gestures with his hands, expressing that he doesn’t mind. Audrey grabs her former best friend from the arm and pushes her towards her bedroom. Once they’re inside, she locks the door.

“Who is he?”

Laura blinks, confused. “We weren’t lying. He’s actually a leprechaun.”

“No. Who is he to you?”

“A travel companion. That’s all. He needs something I have, I need his guidance… more or less.”

Audrey looks at her with disbelief. She knew Laura. She knew Laura’s relationship with men – it was always a sordid, depressing and very basic-needs affair.

“Is that how they call it nowadays?”

Laura raises both eyebrows, surprised as if the thought had never crossed her mind. “It’s just a platonic business arrangement and I’m married.”Audrey looks at her with a face that clearly says: ‘are you fucking with me?’ Laura shakes her head and for a moment, she even looks embarrassed. “Well, I am dead and I am pretty sure my vagina isn’t in the right position anymore.”

“So how does that work? You being alive when your organs aren’t in the right position…”

“Long story short: I have a magic coin inside my belly that’s keeping me alive. Ginger Minge here wants that coin so he’s trying to find a solution. Meaning: Resurrection.” Laura stops to swallow a worm that has crept through her throat to her mouth, and continues. “He took me to the goddess Easter but she said she couldn’t resurrect me because I was killed by a god who calls himself Mr. Wednesday.”

“You met Easter? You mean… like Happy Easter? Bunnies and Chocolates?”

“Yes, she’s very nice but useless for what I need… I haven’t given up, though. I will fucking hunt God himself if that’s what it takes.”

Audrey frowns. “What the hell happened to you? When you were alive, you were the biggest atheist I knew and… now you’re looking for God? We live and then we die and we rot. Those were your exact words.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly wrong,” Laura answers, caressing one of her scars with the tips of her fingers.

“You’re also hanging out with a damn leprechaun and running away from gods, and you tell me all this with the biggest conviction.”

“Yes, now I’m a great believer. Whatever. This world fucking sucks and gods aren’t much better… but I don’t have time to discuss religion, ok? So can he stay?”

Audrey looks at the closed door, remembering the strange leprechaun that’s still waiting in her living room. “Can I trust him?”

“He won’t hurt you,” Laura says.

Audrey notices that she didn’t exactly say she could trust him and, for a second, she considers throwing them out of her house but she doesn’t - because lately, her life has been an endless cycle of pity parties and boring days. She needs a distraction and she’s damn curious, too. It’s probably a horrible idea to offer refuge to a leprechaun who has infuriated some dangerous gods but the idea of knowing about that world and not being part of it is even more distressing. She’s tired of being in the dark, so she nods.

“Yes, you both can stay.”

Laura smiles, looking relieved. Audrey doesn’t return the smile – they aren’t friends again. She only nods her head, as if this was a business transaction, and moves to open the door.

Audrey steps out of the bedroom with a friendly smile and looks at Mad Sweeney, who is still waiting in the middle of her living room, holding the box of chocolates:

“Apple pie?” She asks.

+++

The three of them sit at the table, around the apple pie. Mad Sweeney is eating as if this was his last day on earth but Audrey can’t swallow even a bite because she can feel Laura’s strong scent in her taste buds. The silence is uncomfortable and, for a second, it reminds her of her therapy sessions.

“So… are you from Ireland, then?” Audrey asks, trying to be nice.

Mad Sweeney looks up, surprised that she’s addressing him. “There’s no one more Irish than me in this country, deary.”

“What about your parents? Did they immigrate here, too?”

This time, he seems really shocked by the question, “Nobody has ever asked me about my parents before.”

“Please, don’t get all emotional on us now,” Laura tells him, cruelly. Mad Sweeney gestures at her with his big hand, as if he was shooing away a fly.

“Actually, I haven’t thought of my parents in a long time… I was human once. A king, you know?”

Laura rolls her eyes but Audrey bends over the table, interested. “You mean a real king? Crown on your head…?”

“Aye, and a throne under my butt.”

Audrey feels tempted to tell him he doesn’t look like royalty but she doesn’t want to offend her guest.

“What happened to your kingdom?” She asks, instead.

“People killed it – when they stopped believing in it. That’s the worst way of killing someone, you know, forgetting them.”

Audrey nods, understanding. She may have never been a queen but she knows how it feels to be forgotten.

“I know what you mean. In some way, I was forgotten too.” She looks at Laura, who seems busy making a mess of her apple pie with her fork, without eating it. “My husband cheated on me with my best friend. The two people I loved the most forgot all about little me… they took me for granted, disrespected me and fucked each other when I wasn’t looking.” Furious now, Audrey looks at Laura. “Was the sex good, at least?”

Laura, looking resigned and guilty, shakes her head. “Not at all.” She says. “He was too insecure, especially with his tongue, always wanting to please.”

“Fuck you, Laura.” Audrey spits out.

Instead of feeling out of place, Mad Sweeney makes himself comfortable on the chair and looks at them as if they were the protagonists of a popular soap opera.

Audrey, however, feels embarrassed by her fit of anger and she looks at Mad Sweeney with mortification. “I am really sorry. That was very uncivilized of me.”

“Civilized is overrated,” Sweeney says.

“He’s more foul-mouthed than the two of us combined. Believe me.” Laura says but Audrey avoids looking at her. Laura rolls her eyes. “Come on, Audrey. What do you want me to say? I’m sorry?”

“Why did you do it?”

“My cat died and…”

“Okay, and my grandmother died five years ago and instead of having an affair, I spent my Christmas bonus on comfort food.”

“He was close, he was just there…” Laura tries to explain.

Audrey shakes her head. She looks up at Sweeney. “Boy, you had bad luck!” The leprechaun nods in agreement although Audrey hasn’t explained yet what she means. “You lost your opportunity to ride the whore. If she had been alive during your road trip, she would’ve jumped your bones… just because you were there.”

Mad Sweeney raises a brow; he seems more amused than uncomfortable.

“For God’s sake, Audrey…” Laura exclaims and she looks at Sweeney’s amused smile. “And you, drop that smile, I wouldn’t have fucked you even if you were the last penis on earth.”

“Are you sure? You have a weird obsession with my prick.” Sweeney pretends to be recalling the different moments. “First, I go to pee, there you come… wishing to take a peek, I’m sure. Then, you hold my balls in your hands…”

Audrey opens her eyes wide, surprised.

“Over his pants!” Laura specifies, for Audrey’s benefit. Then, she looks back at Sweeney. “And do I have to remind you I was aiming to hurt you and not give you pleasure?”

“Oh, darling… but there’s such a thin line between pain and pleasure.”

“Really? Next time, I will make sure to crack them.” Laura shakes her head and looks at Audrey. “As you see, he’s a disgusting piece of shit. I would never fuck him. Dead or Alive.”

Laura sends a heated stare toward Sweeney, challenging him to contradict her. However, it’s Audrey who talks:

“I would.” She says, shrugging.

“What?” Laura asks, confused.

“I would fuck him.” Audrey specifies. She sends a seductive smile towards Sweeney, who looks adorably surprised.

Laura shakes her head, uncomfortable, disgusted and for some reason, angry.

+++

Audrey shows her a small room, a lot smaller than the one where Sweeney is staying. It has a big window, though, which will help with her putrid smell. Laura touches the pillow with her fingers and tries not to remember all the times she stayed over for a girly sleepover with Audrey.

“It’s a good thing you have so many spare rooms,” Laura says, with an uncharacteristic shyness.

“Yes, we bought a big house because we wanted a big family. Good thing it never happened, though.” Audrey answers, with bitterness.

Laura nods, looking guilty again. “You should tell Mad Sweeney you were joking, you know. If you don’t want him to come to your room in the middle of the night…”

Audrey smiles, making Laura even more uncomfortable. “How old do you think he is?” Audrey asks. Laura immediately recognizes the tone of her voice. It’s the same she used during college when she asked Laura to find out if a boy she liked was an artist, a law student or a computer geek.

“He doesn’t look over forty.” Laura answers.

“Yes, but he’s a leprechaun… isn’t he like 200 years old or something? Like the vampires from the movies.”

“Maybe. Maybe older. I think he said once that he came to America in the 18th century.”

“Can you imagine how experienced he’s in bed?” Audrey asks, with a naughty and too curious smile.

Laura doesn’t answer, she just shakes her head and Audrey moves toward the door, getting ready to leave for her own bedroom. Laura doesn’t want the conversation to end on that note, though, so she calls her name. Audrey stops at the door, with her hand on the handle.

“He killed me. You know?” Laura says. “I thought my death was my fault but he was the one who caused the accident. Divine intervention, because a god ordered him to do it.”

Audrey frowns. “Why are you helping him, then?”

“Well, unfortunately… I need him.”

Audrey raises both brows. It’s the first time that she hears Laura saying that she needs anyone. Laura recognizes the expression on Audrey’s face and she shakes her head.

“No. I don’t need him in the abstract sense of the word. I need him for a very specific reason: My resurrection. He’s the guy who knows everyone – every god, in this case, and where they live. He’s just a very convenient GPS... so I need him alive until we find a solution to my alive-inside-a-rotting-corpse situation. The problem is that he has the tendency of awakening the fury of very powerful gods.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I thought you should know who he really is… before you do something you can regret.”

“Oh. I see.” Audrey says. “I guess I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” Laura asks, confused.

“I thought you brought him as a peace offering: ‘Here you have this Sex God, have sex with him and be so grateful that you will forget that I fucked your husband.’ That would be your thought process – you’re messed up enough for that.”

“He’s not a Sex God.”

“Not literarily, maybe, but good enough for a mere mortal like me,” Audrey answers with a small smile. “In any way, it’s obvious you don’t want me to have sex with him.”

“I don’t care if you have sex with him.”

“No. It’s pretty obvious you don’t want me to… because you like him.”

“That’s absurd. Haven’t you heard us arguing before? He’s annoying as hell.”

“He killed you and you are still traveling with him. More than that, you’re protecting him from a god he pissed off… it’s the most selfless act I have seen you do in your whole life.”

“It’s not selfless if I have very selfish reasons to do it!”

“I thought you said you met Easter. I am sure she knows all the gods, too… which means you don’t really need Mad Sweeny and still, you don’t seem to want your revenge.” Audrey smiles, triumphant. “You like the leprechaun, Laura Moon.”

Laura shakes her head. “You’re wrong, but think whatever you want.” Laura puts a lock of her hair behind her ear and tries to talk with innocent indifference. “Does your very wrong assumption mean you’re not going to have sex with him?”

“What? No. As I already told you once: Fuck your feelings, Laura!” Audrey shows her an evil smile. “Sweet dreams.” She says, before exiting the room and closing the door.

Laura stays frozen on her spot for several seconds, trying to understand what she’s feeling and thinking. Death has made her more emotional – which it’s so fucking ironic. She doesn’t need to sleep anymore but she likes to pretend that she could, if she wanted to – so she lies on her back on the bed and looks at the ceiling as if she could see the stars there.

She doesn’t care if Audrey and Mad Sweeney have sex – but for some odd reason, she does. She’s a possessive person, and even when she isn’t interested at all in Mad Sweeney - or that's what she tells herself - she still likes to think he’s hers somehow. Her travel companion, her ally, her killer.

She pays attention to the silence, trying to hear steps or whispers outside her bedroom, but three hours go by without any noise. The fourth hour, however, breaks the quietness of the night. Outside, in the hallway, another door opens and Laura sits up on her bed with all her senses alert.

She immediately recognizes the leprechaun’s heavy steps and before she can realize what she’s doing, she’s opening her own door and looking at Sweeney with a very unfriendly expression. He jumps, surprised by her sudden presence, and takes some steps back.

“Fuck, Deadwife! You should wear a sleigh bell.”

“What? Are you scared of ghosts now?”

“Nah. The dead don’t scare me.”

“Where are you going?” Laura asks, her voice piercing and accusatory.

“Just going to the loo. Wanna come and take a look at my prick?”

Laura shakes her head, feeling more relieved than disgusted. She glances at Audrey’s closed door.

“I think I will take a rain check.”

“Maybe some day, Dead wife.” After these words, he starts heading towards the bathroom and Laura watches him walk away. She stands there until he enters the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

Laura glances at the closed door of Mad Sweeney’s bedroom and in a split second, she makes a decision.

+++

The first thing Mad Sweeney notices when he returns to his bedroom after taking a leak is Laura’s smell. It’s fucking impressive, in the worst way possible, that the thick walls that separate his bedroom from hers aren’t enough to protect him from her smell.

He sighs and doesn’t even bother to turn the light on. He’s so tired that he feels his bones aching and he just wants to lie on the bed and let his mind wander. He takes his shoes, his pants, and his shirt off; and throws them to the floor. It’s a natural ritual that he has done for years, but when he finally gets comfortable under the sheets, he feels his back touching a smooth-but-cold-as-ice something. A shiver shakes his whole body and he jumps out of bed, cursing under his breath.

“Can you stop screaming like a baby girl?” A familiar voice asks.

Mad Sweeney blinks, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness. There, in front of him, lying on his bed is Laura Moon: As dead as always, as angry as ever. The leprechaun looks around the room, trying to figure out if he went to the wrong room but no – this is the guest room with the mustard yellow colored walls and the closet with the creaking door.

“What are you doing here?” He’s so tired he doesn’t even have the strength to insult her.

“Don’t jump to the wrong conclusions, Ginger Minge. I’m not interested in bumping uglies with you.”

“Well, then you’re the queen of the mixed signals, considering you’re in my bed.”

“I’m trying to save my friend from making a mistake. She’s grieving and emotional and she’s not thinking clearly.”

“I suppose I’m the mistake.” He says and Laura nods. “You always find new ways of insulting me. Well, fuck you… or better not, because I would rather not touch your moldy skin.”

She smiles, “You always find new ways to insult me.” She spits back at him. “What are you waiting for? Get into bed!”

Sweeney doesn’t move for several seconds, remembering the coldness of her inert body. He’s tempted to throw her out of the room with insults, curses and his picturesque vocabulary. He obeys her, instead. He’s not sure why - there’s simply something in her eyes that’s demanding and pleading at the same time and he doesn’t find the courage to disappoint her.

The bed is big and he tries to stay as far away from her as possible. The horrid smell reminds him of the boat that took him to the new world and he wonders, with bitterness, why every journey he starts includes companions with poor hygiene. It’s not Laura’s fault, he knows, but blaming her gives him a pathetic satisfaction.

“You’re going to fall from the bed if you keep moving farther,” Laura says, with a tight voice that indicates he has offended her. He doesn’t answer, but he creeps closer to her.

The silence dominates the next twenty minutes and, for a second, Sweeney thinks Laura has defeated her own death and has finally fallen asleep. Of course, it’s just wishful thinking. She clears her throat before talking:

“I don’t think this is a good hiding place for you. We will set off tomorrow to look for another.”

Sweeney doesn’t bother to ask her why. He thinks he knows. “Trying to protect your friend from the big bad leprechaun? And here I thought you were a crappy friend.”

“Well, better late than never.”

Laura is lying and she knows it. She’s still an asshole, a lepre-cunt. She doesn’t care for Audrey’s wishes or wants – not if they interfere with her own. She wants to be better but right now - as she lies in the darkness, listening to the silence and expecting Audrey to barge into the room with a nightie - she can only think: 'I can be better tomorrow. Tonight, I will be just myself.'

[everythingisbetterwithpirates]

Our Dirty Secrets

The pitter-patter of incoming rain loomed closer with every step Margharette took towards her cabin in the middle of the woods, nestled against a hill and overlooking the ocean. She could smell the damp soil every time the wind blew her way. After several drops had already stirred her hair, Marge finally made it through the front door, giving the moderately sized but singular area she called home a quick inspection and eventually locking the door behind her. Gloves were thrown on the small leather couch at her left, fabric dyed blue and gold, intricate geometric combinations hand stitched along each seam. About seven years ago, Margharette discovered she had a talent for fixing furniture and decorating it too. Ever since then, she has been building said talent. Through trial and error, she refined her skills and this had been her first completed project. One built from scratch and a personal touch among the art she collected.

Again the sound of rain interjected in her thoughts. This time it came from directly above as it fell and slid along the roof. With the sun disappearing into the horizon and the clouds rolling low in the sky, the home was as dark as it needed to be for humans to lose sight of obstacles along the way. This proved to be little challenge for Margharette who calmly evaded the small, round and high table three steps to the left. The buttons of her suit were undone, jacket tossed on the left corner of the bed. Five steps in and the woman turned to the right, left index finger licked before it was used to undo the knot of her tie. Before rising unto the elevated kitchen, she paused at her fourth stride and uncoiled the tie from her neck, letting it fall to the floor and listening for signs of life from the wall behind her. If Wilder was home, she'd hear the snoring. If she wasn't, Margharette knew she was alone with her thoughts.

The woman rose, using the single step along the divide and elevation that lead to the kitchen area. After making her way around the kitchen table, toes narrowly avoiding the legs of her chairs, Marge came to stand in front of the sink. The weight of whatever dream had been haunting her for the past couple of days slamming into her shoulders and chest like a brick wall. She gripped the edge of the sink and the counter with both hands in order to keep her body from collapsing in the wake of a torrent. Margharette screamed at the top of her lungs. From the dark and lifeless cabin in the woods came the roar of what could be mistaken for a wounded animal.

In the dark, cold home, a pipe broke. Water rushed from the sink with enough strength and volume to push Margharette across the room. She slammed into one of the walls, hand breaking the window but body helplessly pinned in place. The cabin flooded with unnatural haste, Marge soon finding herself with only the air already in her lungs available to keep her alive. It wasn't enough. Though she tried to swim her way out once the pressure had equalized, there were no windows or doors to be found. The light that barely filtered through from the surface was the only guide she could find in an otherwise cold and dark ocean deep. The only source of warmth there was to have was the growing burning that came from her lungs as they demanded more oxygen. Margharette gasped for air, only to succeed in taking in more water. The dim light shook violently, this being the result of body spasms, extremely close to succumbing.

When her eyes opened again, she stood in front of the same sink as before, only it was now daytime. A hand still gripped the edge of the counter, but the left was carrying a fresh cup of coffee. Gentle plumes of steam billowed from it's surface, the bitter aftertaste lingering in the tip of her tongue. Margharette also wore something more comfortable. A simple and over sized white shirt with a small hole along the right side hung over her upper thighs, bare toes wiggling on the rickety floorboards. A deep inhale brought the pleasing aroma of her drink back into play, sending a minute but definite shiver up her spine. Marge smiled, turning away from the kitchen and making her way out through the backdoor.

The gentle sway of the grass as the wind rolled along the hill tickled Marge's ankles and even her knees as she made her way across, not bothering to put on any shoes. The warmth of the earth itself was something she valued far higher than the fleeting passing of fancies or the comfort of friendly faces. No matter what, it would always be there -- or at least, that was how she saw it. Hair fluttered in much the same way as the greenery and flora carefully selected and planted all around her. Soon, her gaze met the matching hue in a deep, blue sea. Carefully, she took a seat along the incline where the roots died and the sand began, digging her feet into the latter. Across the expanse of the horizon her gaze traveled, another satisfying drink from her cup of coffee taken.

"Hello again, sweetheart." The gruff voice came from her left. Margharette recognized it's source in an instant, soon lowering the cup and turning to face the translucent image of her father. Though Marge looked mostly like her mother, height and body shape included, the same dark hair and fluid eyes mirrored that of the man now sitting beside her. "I'm about to do something stupid, aren't I?" The woman asked with a soft and respectful tone, shoulders slouching. It was another sip of coffee that kept Margharette from melting into the sand or trying to stick her head beneath it. The two watched the waves go by, clear and sunny skies the playground of gulls in the distance. "Yes. You are only human. This isn't the first, nor will it be the last. Thankfully, you've inherited a lot more from your mother than you care to admit." The man replied through a channel of tones and distortions. His words pulled on a string that struck a somber chord. She took another drink from her cup of coffee before leaning forward, knees bending as they rose. Eventually, she'd lean forward, coffee held over her upper arm. "How is Victoria?" Margharette murmured, hooded gaze following the movements of a bird in the distance. Father and specter rose from his spot, a few steps forward taken. Through him, Margharette watched the waves crash into rocks in the distance. However, there seemed to be little care towards this, the woman calmly drinking from her cup. "She's not with us anymore, Margharette -- the answer has not changed." It was with a smile that she responded to his answer. After getting to her feet as well, she began to make her way towards the shore, cup left along the incline. "May she rest forever." As the woman passed the ghost, there was a sudden change in wind. Silver and black glow swirled, caving their human formation and disappearing into the air. Marge pulled on her shirt, tossing it to the side and doing the same with her underwear soon after. A serene posture and expression settled with every step she took into the water -- her goal being to reach the rocks on the distance, around the bend of the earth.

Hands gripped on the edge of the counter and the sink as tightly as they had done in the beginning. It was nighttime -- the pitter patter of rain even louder than before. Margharette no longer had any of her work clothes on. She didn't have any at all. Water dripped from her hair, sometimes tickling the tip of her nose. Her hold only loosened when her hands began to tremble. It was with a deep breath and a few steps back that Marge began to pull on the reigns of discipline. What began as a routine of neck stretches slowly transformed into a sway with rhythm. The left shoulder gave a roll, followed by a twitch. In the darkness of her home, Margharette closed her eyes and imagined a light of her own. She focused on this single point, shedding away more nervous ticks here and there -- and then the deep exhale came. From head to toe, the woman's posture melted into a quietly confident one. Eyes opened to reveal the sharpness of her stare, one that fell on nothing and nobody. Head turned then, searching for a lamp that ought to be there. A half step towards it was taken, Margharette stepping on a broken piece of wood. It was then that she realized the kitchen table wasn't even there anymore. The wind whistled through the broken window not far away, sound penetrating the wound on her hand and making her painfully aware of it's existence. "Fuck me.." Margharette grumbled, head shaking before she quickly began to clean up before Wilder got a chance to see it.

@thewildercard ( For mentions )

[thybophelps09-blog]

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