#i own a guitar w broken strings

[moldycantaloupe]

When The Sun Won't Shine

Words; 2.4k

Realtionships; Mountain/Aether, Mountain/Aether/Dewdrop

Tags; Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, hurt/little comfort, Fluff, Anger, Lots of it, Character Study, Happy Ending, Kinda, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Mountain had to sacrifice his own mourning to help his packmates. He forced himself to forget his grief, treat it as if it was something he read rather than lived through.

Notes; @forlorn-crows deemed it Mountain March over on Tumblr, so OBVIOUSLY I had to write mountain angst.

Read under cut or on Ao3 if you so desire.

Mountain didn’t know what to do with himself that day. Everything had changed so suddenly, all too much. 

His pack had felt a distant pain when it began. As if a muscle had grown taught, ready to snap. They were all in their common room when it happened, all head’s snapping up in unison. The sharp pain in their chests confirmed it. Their Papa was in trouble. 

They all split into pairs to go searching. Aether with Dewdrop, Ifrit with Zephyr. Mountain would stay to watch their den, keep them from harm's way. That was his first mistake, he thinks. It was hours later when he finally felt his heart rip out. One, two, three. Strings snapping off a guitar. Mountain grew antsy, growling at the pain in his body. He put on a record to distract himself, pacing crop circles into their rug. He swears he can still see those outlines today.

The door had all but slammed open. If he cared enough he would’ve felt the whiplash, but nothing could matter in that moment. Vaguely, he remembers feeling his body drain of blood as Aether stood in the door, a limp discoloured Dewdrop in his arms, his lungs rattling. 

“Sister,” Aether choked out, unshed tears in his eyes, “she-”

Mountain was at his side in mere seconds, grasping at Dewdrop. He remembers beginning to shake then, the burnt smell of flesh forever branded to his mind. He cradled that small face into his hand, too hot for their little water demon.

“What did she do?” Mountain growled. “Where is Ifrit and Zephyr?”

Aether forced out a sob, his knees giving in to the tile underneath. Mountain fell with him, watched as the last string snapped.

“She took them.” Aether cried. “They’re gone!”

Mountain remembers yelling with Aether after the shock dissipated from his vessel, remembers feeling the last bit of himself snap loose. They both mourned together at that doorway, a newly broken ghoul between them. The moon was a blood red that night.

He wishes that he could say the rest of the night was a blur, that he doesn’t remember anything past that point. But he remembers it all like it was recent. Aether calling for Omega, a guttural scream for help echoing throughout the abbey walls. Omega taking Dewdrop away from the broken pair, having to spend minutes begging them both to let him take him to the infirmary, promising that he was not going to hurt their little ghoul. Promising his own life, his own home, just to make sure Dew would live through the night.

Aether begged Mountain, for what, they both don’t know. Begged for it to be a cruel joke, pleas rushing out of his mouth for their pack and papa to come back. Desperate for Sister to give them back. Omega kept in touch through their bond, updates coming in throughout the night. Mountain remember’s a second cry leaving his lungs when they were told what exactly happened to their water ghoul. His poor Dewdrop.

Mountain had to sacrifice his own mourning to help his packmates. He forced himself to forget his grief, treat it as if it was something he read rather than lived through. He became a pillar in their trio, something that couldn’t be brought down. That was the image he forced, the image he hoped his packmates saw. He turned his grief into anger, lashing out on his own time, away from spectating eyes. He would not become a fool for the ministry to play with.

The rest of the week was a blur to him. He only remembers the tears, the sleepless nights. The gasoline when Dewdrop woke and learned. He remembers practically forcing Aether to down food, to shower. Aether begging Omega to let him sleep, even if it was restless. He was so tired of the constant torment grief had brought, he just needed one night. 

Having to live with a mourning and newly made fire ghoul only brought them pain. He still has the scar from when he had to get an unwilling Dewdrop to shower. Promising anything just to get him to try and live.

The ministry gave them all so little time to mourn what they lost before they were sent a letter, informing them of their new Papa, and a summoning for the next new moon. Two new ghouls would be joining their pack. Mountain growled, Aether sobbed, Dew combusted. Meeting their new Papa was brief. It was easier when they found out it was the Cardinal, as lousy as he was. It didn’t make the heartbreak go away, but it was easier. 

Dewdrop was all anger. Not a moment went by without the yelling, the cursing. Glass shattering, knees falling to the ground in anguish, the tears. He locked himself away for days before Mountain and Aether busted through the door. That night was locked away in a part of his mind that he had no access to. All he could recall was the scream that Dew had let out, the idea that he had finally lost his Dewdrop. 

The summoning went as awry as it could. Instead of summoning two new ghouls, they summoned four. Mountain sneered at that cocky grin the multi gave him, as if he was egging on the pain. The love that the air pair had for one another shone through in the entire room, clinging onto each other with their life.. He felt something in him fester when they met the new water ghoul. He was so innocent, so pure. He was everything. He was nothing. He was not his Dewdrop. 

Aether was the personified version of grief. It wasn’t until after the summoning that Mountain had to track him down, finding him in his bathroom with his ceremonial robes in tatters. He was leaned up against the toilet, fat tears streaming down his face. Mountain forced his hands out of his hair, watching his nails come back red and bloody. 

“They’re really gone,” Aether cried. Mountain held him close, letting his own chest muffle the screams he let out. 

He took notice of Dewdrop and how he nearly avoided the new pack. The low growl when one of them came too close to him. He had finally accepted his fire, had finally decided he preferred his fire over water. But Mountain knew. Knew that with the snide remarks towards the new water ghoul, the angry stares their way, that he was still mourning his first element. 

It was years later now. He would never admit it but he hated his new pack in the beginning. They were not the warm and chaos of Ifrit, the slow melodies of Zephyr. Their chaos was like a lightning storm, their warmth more like a summer’s day rather a hearth. Their slow, tender moments were different. Calling them warm would be wrong, calling them cold would be a lie. He never knows how to explain it, so he doesn’t. He thinks, hopes, that at least Aether understands. 

It was a slow Wednesday. He was in the kitchen when he heard it, the slow start to the song he swore never to hear again coming from their living space. He turned in time to see Swiss putting the sleeve of the record on display, showcasing to the world the music that played that night. A record they hadn’t touched since, letting it rot away at the back of their stack. But Swiss didn’t know that. He couldn’t have. Mountain watched as he walked towards Cumulus on the couch, offering a hand to her. She giggled and accepted, being hoisted up onto her feet as he began dancing with her. 

He caught eyes with Aether just in time. He couldn’t bear it. The sorrow in his eyes. The mild acceptance that coursed through his stature. His eyes flickered over to where Rain was now with Dewdrop, dancing together. Dew had a dopey smile on his face, Rain laughing at some remark that Swiss had said. Mountain realized at that moment that, no, he wasn’t over it.

He waited until Aether looked back to the group to walk away, abandoning his tea. He slipped out of their den, walking out towards the windy skies. He felt the earth welcoming him underneath his bare feet, calling him home. He headed towards his greenhouse.

Once inside, he heaved a sigh. He felt the familiar sting in his nose, his eyes begging to let the tears slip. But he didn’t know how, he couldn’t remember how. When was the last time he had cried about his first pack? 

The earth ghoul made his way towards the back of the greenhouse, kneeling down to the flowers that occupied the space. They were the most taken care of out of all of the plants he catered for, one flower bed for each pack member, new and old. He sat down at the start of the flowers, staring at them. Monsella tulips, lavender, marigolds. Perfectly cared for. Something he couldn’t provide then, he provided now.

It was only recently when Mountain realized that he treated his past pack as an idea rather than a memory. Something that never existed outside of his head. He wished he could say that had scared him, but all he felt was numb. He doesn’t remember not feeling numb towards his grief. 

He always had a distraction from himself. His drums, his new pack, his plants. It was rare that he was by himself with nothing to do, to let his thoughts fester. It was always a couple months before the anniversary that everything would come to a head in his psyche, forcing him to relive the trauma all over again. It seemed he was the only one of them that experienced this, and every year he felt all the guilt and grief weigh him down.

He hid the first two times this happened, too overwhelmed to even begin knowing what to do with himself.  He hid in his room, door locked and curtains drawn. His pack collectively had given him three days the first time before Dew lock picked his way in, Aether eyeing the untouched food at the ground. He knows what it smelt like when they walked in; rotting leaves, mildew. He hadn’t showered for a week at that point, barely let the sun touch him. He fought tooth and nail with Aether to just get out of the bed, baring his fangs to the fire ghoul when he just stood there, eyes wide and unseeing. When he wanted to yell at both of them, he couldn’t even let out a word. All he could do was to give in and comply.

Now, he still hid away, but he left his door unlocked for his pack. Just to give them peace of mind.

He was forced out his head when he heard the door to the greenhouse open. He didn’t flinch, didn’t bother turning to see who it was. The scent of chlorine infiltrated his nostrils. He continued to pet one of the tulips, letting the soft touch ground him.

Aether continued walking towards him before he sat himself down right next to Mountain, close to the lavender. Mountain only gave him a glance to tell him that he was here, he was present. They sat like that for minutes, watching the flowers glow in the evening sun. Aether was the first to break the silence.

“Did Ivy ever tell you what Ifrit did when he was first summoned?” Aether turned to Mountain with a crooked smile. Mountain shook his head with creased brows.

“Papa was giving Ifrit a tour of the greenhouse, for some reason, and even encouraged him to touch one of the flowers.” Aether chuckled.

Mountain’s eyes went wide, his brows further creasing. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. turns out it was one of the flowers that Ivy had just gotten to bloom after maybe weeks of waiting, and, you know.” Aether made a noise that mimicked the explosion, hands gesturing a smoke cloud. 

It was Mountain’s turn to chuckle, running a hand down his face. “Oh, Satanas.”

“Yeah, you think Dew’s rage is bad, have you ever seen Ivy’s?” 

“No,” Mountain looked over at Aether, his hand against his chin, “and I never want to see it.”

They both laughed quietly, humming in unison when their laughs began to slow. Aether pursed his lips inward, rubbing his fingers over a stray rock.

“I miss them.” He nearly whispers.

Mountain sighed, his smile starting to slip. “I know.”

It was a minute more before he heaved a sigh, letting go of the tulip in favor of holding Aether close to him, letting the quint rest his head on his shoulder.

“I miss them, too.” He finally admitted. Aether looked up at him, a sad smile on his lips. Mountain felt the sting of tears from earlier, a shaky inhale, his form slumped. Finally, he let himself go.

Aether said nothing as Mountain silently cried, only rubbed at his shaking back in soothing notions. His hand covered his mouth, desperate to hide any whines that may leak through.

“I miss them so much, Aether.” He hiccuped. “It hurts so much.”

“I know,” Aether pressed a kiss into his shoulder, “just let it out for me, big guy.”

He let years of pent up tears flow out of him, finding comfort in his mate’s embrace. He cursed the ministry for what they did, what they had done to his pack and Papa. He let his years of anger, his grief, all his sorrow out. When his cries died down to small hiccups and shaky breaths, Aether had him stand. He wiped his tears away, smoothed down his hair, and walked them both back up to their den.

What waited for them was home. Nobody commented on his red, glassy eyes, or his slumped figure, or the way he held onto Aether as if he was his life. They all yelled at the two of them to sit down at the dinner table and eat, Cirrus specifically pushing them to the dining room. He ate in his own silence and listened intently to his pack talk about their days, random stories from the past, bickering with one another. Dew talked about something him and Zephyr used to do, a grin plastered on his face. Aether kept a hand on his thigh, rubbing circles with his thumb. He would never admit it outwardly, but that small notion kept him there. Kept him grounded during their dinner. 

Mountain caught eyes with him and gave him a soft smile, one that met his eyes. He was ready to finally accept this new life, he thinks.

[that-reading-geek]

Broken guitar strings

Crowley x Aziraphale, sugar daddy AU, Human AU

Chapter two

Contains nsfw scenes

Posted on A03

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale spend some quality time together before and after work, Aziraphale learning some more about Crowleys backstory, as well as his body.

Crowley and Bee meet with Muriel at Crowleys gig of the night, and spend the evening together. Crowley gets paid his first paycheck from Aziraphale.

When Crowley woke up to an unfamiliar room and blankets that actually kept him from freezing over night, the initial shock and confusion had him bolting upright and glancing around the room frantically. He stared at the bookshelves and cluttered desk, misremembering where he had accidentally fallen asleep last night. It wasn’t until there was a knock at the door and the smell of waffles wafting through that all memories of yesterday evening came flooding back to him, hitting him like a truck.

“Good morning dear, I made breakfast, I didn’t know what you like so I thought you can’t go wrong with waffles and berries!” Aziraphale said cheerily as he stepped into the room. He placed the tray of food at the end of the bed, before looking at Crowley puzzled. “Are you alright my boy? You’re looking rather frazzled.”

“’m fine Aziraphale... jus’... woke up confused...” Crowley mumbled, trying to smooth his hair down. “Sorry for falling asleep, didn’t mean to stay the night.” When Crowley looked to his right, he noticed the un-slept-in half of the bed, and suddenly guilt gnawed at his chest.

“Oh nonsense, it was quite nice to have your company,” Aziraphale giggled.

Crowley shrugged and flopped back against the pillows, he would go back to sleep if he was in his own bed, but alas he wasn’t, so instead he peered up at the other man.

Aziraphale tutted, “Come and eat your breakfast dear,” he said, although he did silently agree that more sleep would be divine.

Crowley realised that even after his 2 meals yesterday, which was far more food than he was used to on the daily, his stomach was practically clawing at him for food, and the smell of the waffles did seem delicious. He didn’t want to waste them after Aziraphale had clearly put in so much effort for him.

He sat up and scooted to the end of the bed, where Aziraphale had perched. The waffles were a beautiful golden brown, with syrup pooling off of them and a litter of berries scattered on top. He took the cutlery Aziraphale had so graciously offered him and cut a piece, before biting it with a satisfied moan.

With his mouth still full, he stabbed another piece and held it up to Aziraphale, “Have some.”

The other man only scorned him lightly for not finishing his mouthful before speaking, before taking the piece Crowley had offered him into his own mouth and chewing. The two spent their morning eating the waffles together and occasionally feeding each other mouthfuls or some berries, before Aziraphale was gently dabbing at his own mouth with his handkerchief and then doing the same to Crowley, despite his protests.

“Do you have work today my dear?” Aziraphale asked as they finished off the waffles.

Crowley nodded “Mmph, yeah, not till 12 though.”

Aziraphale hummed in thought, “Perhaps we could talk some more, or I could show you around, since we didn't get the chance to yesterday.”

Crowley blushed at the memory, but nodded all the same. The two stayed in bed for a couple more moments, allowing Crowley’s food to settle before Aziraphale was encouraging him out of the warmth and comfort to go on a little tour of the bookshop.

Crowley had his arms wrapped around himself, his button down and jeans were doing little to keep him warm now that he had emerged from Aziraphale’s blankets. He hadn’t changed out of yesterday’s clothes before falling asleep, and he somewhat regretted not bringing at least a jumper.

“Pull this on,” Aziraphale chuckled, handing Crowley a cream, cable-knit jumper from his wardrobe, “It may be a bit big, but no matter, we wouldn’t want you freezing, would we dear?”

Crowley took it gratefully as his lips pulled into an awkward line that was supposed to be a smile, “Well aren’t you an angel,” he teased, before pulling the jumper over his head. It was, as Aziraphale had warned, big on Crowley. But Aziraphale secretly came to the conclusion that Crowley looked rather adorable in his jumper, with the sleeves covering his hands the way they did. The smaller man didn’t pay much attention to it, just rather grateful for the extra layer, and he did have to admit it was rather comfortable.

Aziraphale showed him the whole bookshop, lower and upper floor. The ground level contained the main bookshop, as well as Aziraphale’s office and the small living space that Crowley blushed at the sight of. The blankets laying over the back of the sofa that hadn’t been there the previous evening solved Crowley’s question as to where Aziraphale had slept last night, and the sting of guilt made itself known once more. Upstairs contained the bedroom that Crowley found himself missing as they passed the door. Aziraphale showed him the bathroom, the little kitchenette and dining area, as well as a mini reading nook that was tucked away out of sight, with a window and pillows and of course a reading light. Crowley found himself running his fingers over the spines of perfectly looked after books, reading the titles and not recognising a single one.

“Do you too, have an affinity for reading dear boy?” Aziraphale said softly, coming up behind him to peer at the books he was looking at.

“Ngk, not really, ‘less its sheet music, like plants though,” He glanced up at Aziraphale, who had propped his chin on the smaller mans shoulder.

Aziraphale simply smiled and nodded, “I may have some music books or plant guides you could borrow downstairs, help yourself should the need arise.”

Crowley nodded and thanked him, finding himself leaning into the other man and welcoming the arms that wrapped around his waist. Aziraphale pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder that had Crowley’s face heating up and the tips of his ears burning red. He wasn’t used to this type of gentle touch, but he could sure get used to it if this was what came with their deal. He gasped softly as Aziraphale’s kisses, feather-light and innocent, climbed up his neck and found their ways to his cheek and lips. Aziraphale giggled and he squeezed Crowley’s waist gently, placing one more kiss on the tip of Crowley’s nose before pulling away.

The taller man checked his watch, before humming softly, “May I walk you to work dearest? We have about half an hour.”

“Need to go home first,” Crowley shrugged, shivering at the lack of contact, “Change my clothes and shit, don’t want to make you wait.”

“Oh nonsense, I don’t mind, honestly.”

Crowley shook his head, “I’ll meet you at the shop.”

Aziraphale nodded and gently took his hands, kissing the younger mans knuckles, before the two were making their ways to the front door and Crowley was walking down the street to his apartment.

Crowley managed to make it to his shift with about five minutes to spare. He’d changed his clothes and put his guitar on its stand, promising to practise as soon as he was home. He greeted Nina with a wave and pulled his apron on, hanging his sunglasses over the top hem. He began by cleaning up a few mugs from empty tables and taking orders. Aziraphale was sitting at a table in the corner, waiting for him as promised, but with how busy the coffee shop was currently, Crowley had no time to stop and chat.

About half an hour passed before the foot traffic was low enough that Aziraphale took his chance to join the relatively short queue and order his usual. Crowley had the drink ready just as he approached the counter, holding the cup out without meeting his eye.

“Thank you dear,” Aziraphale said softly, their fingers brushing as he took the cup.

Crowley only met his eyes when he saw Aziraphale put a £20 note in the tip jar.

“Aziraphale!” He hissed, “that’s too much.”

“Nonsense dear, its only £20,” Aziraphale giggled, taking Crowley’s hand that had been previously on the counter.

“Mmph,” Crowley said, eyes now trained on their joined hands.

“I’m going to go find a table, will you come to the bookshop after your shift?”

“Yeah... dinner?”

“What do you fancy?”

“Don’t mind.”

“Think on it, we’ll get whatever you like.”

Crowley nodded and took his hand back as Aziraphale made his way back to his table. Crowley started taking the next person’s order, and soon he was back in the swing of his shift.

“What was that about?” Nina asked Crowley once there was a break in customers.

“What was what about?”

“You and Mr Fell.”

Crowley glared at her, though the blush on his cheeks made it a lot less threatening than he intended. “It was nothing, just chatting.”

“You don’t chat Crowley.”

He huffed and turned away from her, ignoring Nina’s knowing look in favour of pretending to organise the fridge.

The end of his shift couldn’t come any slower, and once he was putting his sunglasses back on and hanging his apron up, Crowley was beyond exhausted. It was 6pm and he’d told Nina she could head home. Locking up gave him the opportunity to catch his thoughts; Aziraphale had left a few hours ago, and he couldn’t help thinking of the other man for the rest of his shift. Crowley found himself glancing towards the bookshop, catching Aziraphale’s eye once or twice, earning a big grin.

The musician wiped the tables and turned off all the lights, double checking everything before heading out and locking the door behind him. He made his way across the road to the bookshop, knocking on the door almost guiltily.

Aziraphale welcomed him in moments later, ushering Crowley into the shop and towards the back.

“Have you decided what we should get for dinner?” the bookseller asked softly, leading Crowley to a sofa, who simply shook his head.

He hadn’t thought about it since Aziraphale had said to earlier, and was regretting the pressure he’d put on himself now that he was sat down in Aziraphale’s home.

Aziraphale sat down beside him, keeping a couple feet distance between them. “Would you rather go out or eat in?”

“In... something quick, please.”

“How about I give you my phone and you can choose whatever you like? No pressure.” Aziraphale said softly, getting his phone from his waistcoat and holding it out.

Crowley took it slowly and curled into the corner of the sofa, scrolling through the food delivery app and seeing what there was to offer.

Aziraphale picked up a book that was on the coffee table, busying himself whilst Crowley found something for dinner. It wasn’t clear how much time had passed; Aziraphale only looked up once he felt Crowley tap him on the arm, the musician holding his phone out with a shy smile on his face.

Crowley allowed Aziraphale to pull him closer, the older man keeping an arm around his waist as he leant on his shoulder. Aziraphale hummed and pressed a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head, going through to add his own meal to the order before placing it for delivery. Crowley couldn’t help but curl into the others side, absorbing the warmth that Aziraphale’s embrace seemed to practically radiate with.

As they waited for food to arrive, Aziraphale asked about Crowley’s day, the musician telling him about the few memorable things that happened over the course of his shift. Crowley asked Aziraphale his own questions, learning about how the older man spent his afternoon when he wasn’t staring through the window of the coffee shop. He learnt about the book Aziraphale had been reading, the shelves he had organised, the conversations with customers that all ended in them leaving empty handed. He learnt about what Aziraphale was thinking, about where his mind had wandered as the evening drew closer.

“I thought about you a lot too,” Crowley said after Aziraphale told him about how he wished Crowley’s shift would end faster to give him an excuse to hold him again.

“Oh?” Crowley couldn’t ignore how Aziraphale’s hand had migrated from his waist to his thigh, gently petting his denim-clad skin. “Tell me more.”

The musician looked up at him, “just... general stuff,” he said quietly.

“Like? C’mon dear, I don’t judge.”

Crowley blushed and buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, looking away from the bookseller. “Like... mmph... meeting people you work with, or what your parents would think, or uhm... like what people will see when we’re.. out...” Crowley swallowed, “and the thing we did yesterday.” He looked up, expecting to see some sort of hurt emotion on Aziraphale’s face, or something more disgusted, but Crowley was pleasantly surprised when all he was met with was a happy smile and red cheeks.

“What do you want people to see when we’re out?”

Oh, so that’s what they were talking about now.

“I dunno... something normal.”

“Normal is rather far-fetched with an agreement like ours dear,” Aziraphale said softly.

“Mmph... I know, just-“

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then another to his forehead, and a final one to his lips. “We can try and do normal.”

Crowley nodded and tucked his head underneath Aziraphale’s chin, an action that was short lived as Aziraphale said: “Now about what happened yesterday...” the older man’s hand was still rubbing his thigh, his voice quiet as Crowley peered up at him.

The two gazed at each other, eyes locked as the musician tried to ignore Aziraphale’s hand on his thigh. Moments passed of simple staring and gentle one-sided touching, Crowley hesitating to rest his hands anywhere other than his lap.

A knock at the door caused Crowley to practically jump out of his skin, leaping away from Aziraphale before attempting to play it cool. He sat back against the sofa, watching as Aziraphale calmly stood from the sofa and answered the door, taking the food delivery and tipping the driver graciously.

As Aziraphale returned, Crowley pretended to be busy on his phone, only glancing up to meet Aziraphale’s eyes before darting back to his phone. Aziraphale only chuckled and pulled the food containers put of the bag and onto the coffee table, before leaning over and pecking Crowley’s cheek, mumbling “come eat,” against his skin.

Crowley nodded softly and slowly put his phone down, noting how Aziraphale remained close as he did so. The musician simply smiled up at him and leant forwards to pick up his food, watching as Aziraphale did the same. Curled into the corner of the sofa, Crowley opened his food and the cutlery that came with it and ate, noticing how Aziraphale left him alone for the time being. The two talked them participated in a one sided conversation, Aziraphale asking questions for Crowley to nod or shake his head to, the musician slowly unfurling and sitting closer to the other.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?”

Crowley looked away from his food to look at Aziraphale, “What?”

“Earlier, when the food arrived,” Aziraphale explained, “I was touching you and now you’re not coming very close, I just hope I haven’t over stepped your boundaries.”

“Oh,” Crowley almost whispered, “no, not uncomfortable, sorry, just uhm... different.” He haphazardly explained. “Not really used to it, but didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief, placing his now empty food container down and turning to face Crowley properly. “How come it’s different?” He asked softly.

“ngk, haven’t had a... relationship for a long time, just hook-ups, nothing serious enough that there’s enough time for casual touching.”

Aziraphale nodded, “Do you prefer that? Hookups?”

“Not really, not most of the time anyway,” Crowley said softly, “I like the personal stuff, having someone look after me for once, I like it... uhm, when you hold me and touch me, all I thought about after you left...”

Aziraphale smiled softly and shuffled to sit closer to Crowley, holding an arm out to the younger man, an invitation which he less than hesitantly accepted. “May I continue?”

Crowley nodded and curled in close, finishing off the last of his food as Aziraphale wrapped his arm around his waist, continuing his gentle touches and kisses. He put his now empty food container on the table and allowed Aziraphale to pull him into his lap, smiling as he leant against the older man. Crowley couldn’t help but let his mind wander and Aziraphale continued his innocent touches, thinking about the other man’s hands all over him, under his clothes, weaved into his hair. Glancing up at Aziraphale, Crowley thought back to their agreement, and then to the burning sensation Aziraphale’s fingers now left on his body.

It wasn’t until Crowley felt the tingling sensation of Aziraphale’s hands on his inner thigh that he recognised his own arousal. He could feel himself leaning into the other man’s hold, wishing Aziraphale’s hand would touch him where he needed it most.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale mumbled softly, smiling at Crowley’s near desperate nod. He allowed his hands to wander further in, cautiously noting Crowley’s reaction as he rested his hand on the younger mans groin. Earning verbal consent, Aziraphale carefully unzipped the fly of Crowley’s jeans, gently sliding his hand into the waistband of his boxers and palming the man carefully.

Crowley gasped softly at the feeling of Aziraphale’s soft hands on him, he keened, tucking his face into Aziraphale’s chest as the other continued palming him gently. The musician couldn’t help but allow his own hands to wander towards the fly of Aziraphale’s slacks, attempting to return the favour, however his hands were stopped short by Aziraphale’s free one, Crowley blushing as the other whispered: “Let me look after you.”

When Aziraphale’s fingers finally wrapped around his dick properly, Crowley let out a moan, hand reaching out to grip onto the older man’s arm. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile as he watched Crowley’s eyes shut in pleasure, back arching in a gentle curve as he began pumping his hand, allowing him to bask in the long overdue pleasure he could supply.

Aziraphale pressed gentle kisses to Crowley’s cheeks, trailing his lips along the younger man’s jaw and to his neck, before pressing a final one to his shoulder and beginning the process once again. Crowley keened against him, hands fisting the sleeve of Aziraphale’s shirt as the movement on his cock sped up. The musician practically melted into Aziraphale’s hold, moans slipping past his lips in a tenor he didn’t know he was capable of.

“Angel!” He gasped when Aziraphale squeezed his shaft, the pet name slipping out before he could even stop himself. The older man simply grinned and pumped his hand faster causing a string of curses and more repeats of the accidental nickname to pour from Crowley’s lips, before he was babbling that he was close, cumming over his thighs and Aziraphale’s fingers with a deep shudder.

Crowley nestled into Aziraphale’s side as the older man ran his fingers through his hair, the two sitting in a comfortable silence as Crowley caught his breath. With cum drying quickly on his thighs, Crowley shifted in mild discomfort, before beginning to stand from his place on Aziraphale’s lap. The older man stopped him in his tracks, grabbing a tissue from the box on the coffee table and cleaning Crowley up before scooping him into his arms and standing from the sofa.

“Mmph-“ Crowley huffed, glancing up at him questioningly.

“Shall we get a bath dear boy?” Aziraphale smiled softly, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead.

Earning a nod, Aziraphale carried Crowley upstairs and into the bathroom, carefully setting him on the sink counter to run a bath. He added bubble bath and lent a tray across the top, fetching various soaps and scrubs. He set the items on the tray before walking over and standing between Crowley’s legs.

Crowley undressed himself , kicking his jeans off and tugging them of when they got stuck on his ankles. He slowly pulled his shirt off too, sitting in his boxers as he peered up at Aziraphale. The other man in question grinned at the sight of Crowley now bare chest, before allowing Crowley to kick his boxers off before lifting him up and carrying him to the bath. Aziraphale set Crowley in the warm water, kneeling beside the tub allowing the musician to get comfortable. He took a bottle of body wash and pouring some onto a wash cloth, before beginning to wipe him down once gaining consent.

“I don’t need all this Angel...”

“Nonsense, aftercare after sex is necessary.”

“That was hardly sex...” Crowley mumbled, “and I don’t want to be wasting your water.”

“Oh hush, you never have to worry about that.”

Crowley could only blush and allow Aziraphale to clean his body, he turned to allow him to reach his back, relaxing under the other man’s gentle touches.

“This is beautiful,” Aziraphale said softly, running his fingers gently down Crowley’s back, where a tattoo of a red and black snake marked his skin.

“Thanks,” Crowley whispered, “got it for my 18th birthday... I’d like more... maybe on my arms.”

Aziraphale smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to the tattoo, “that would be lovely...”

After the bath, Crowley was wrapped in one of Aziraphale’s robes, sitting in front of the mirror and carefully towel drying his hair. Aziraphale sat on the bed behind him, watching the way Crowley’s hands expertly moved his hair into the position he liked. Crowley glanced at him through the mirror, eyes only catching for a moment before he was looking away again.

When he was satisfied with his hair, Crowley stood and crawled onto the bed with Aziraphale, leaning into his side once the position was offered. Aziraphale carefully placed a kiss to the top of his hair, holding Crowley close and keeping the musician warm. He leant back, laying against the pillows with Crowley’s head on his chest, the two simply cuddling atop the bedsheets. Aziraphale wrapped both arms around Crowley, pulling him closer in order to properly provide after-care cuddles.

“Mmph, can’t stay long,” Crowley mumbled, pressing his nose into Aziraphale’s shirt.

“No?”

“No... got stuff tonight, with Bee.”

Aziraphale hummed and nodded, “then we better make the most of it hm?”

Crowley smiled drowsily and curled in closer, peering up at Aziraphale through his eyelashes. The older man smiled and kissed his forehead, whispering sweet nothings until Crowley began to nod off. The musician fought to stay awake, but soon gave into the sleep that grappled him, finding comfort in the warm that Aziraphale provided.

Aziraphale let Crowley sleep for a little while, he wasn’t sure what time his plans with Bee were, but he assumed that with how fast he had fallen asleep, Crowley deserved that extra nap. He watched Crowley’s chest rise and fall with each breath, watched his lips part and eyelashes flutter gently, watched as a lock of hair fell from its place and into his eyes. Aziraphale gently brushed the hair from his eyes and pressed a kiss to his forehead, before laying back and enjoying the quiet closeness.

Crowley slept for 3 quarters of an hour, eyes fluttering open, before he sat upright in a panic, accidentally slapping Aziraphale’s chest.

“Ngk, sorry, wha’s time?”

“About 9:30, you didn’t sleep too long.”

Crowley nodded and huffed, looking down at where Aziraphale was stilling laying.

“What time are you meeting Bee?” Aziraphale queried.

“Uhm.... bout 10... better get going,” Crowley mumbled. He watched as Aziraphale finally sat up, the older man pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Better get dressed then my dear, i'll walk you out.”

As promised, Crowley did pick up his guitar and practise once he was home, he made sure it was properly tuned and practised a couple of chords, before Bee was texting him that they were outside and he had to pack up to go and meet them. He practically floated down the stairs that lead to the pavement, guitar slung over his shoulder as he greeted Bee.

“Ready?” they asked, eyeing Crowley’s restless hands. The musician was flexing his fingers quickly and shaking his hands at his sides.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Crowley said, continuing to stim.

Bee only hummed and started walking, hands buried in their pockets as Crowley trailed behind. They waited awhile before finally saying:

“You good? You haven’t stopped-“ they mimicked his hand movements, -“you’re not nervous are you? You’ve performed here loads.”

“Ngk, s’nothing, not nervous.”

Bee nodded slowly, not convinced, but dropped the subject and continued the walk in silence. The two approached the bar that both had seen many times, it was one of Crowley’s more regular gigs, most people that worked there knew him, and at least he could score a free drink every now and then. Bee held the door open as Crowley stepped inside, throwing a 2 finger salute to the girl working the bar, she smiled back at him with a nod, and Crowley left Bee to go and set up.

Setting up was always his favourite bit, the regulars would come and sit nearer the front to chat and keep him company, sometimes receiving certain requests or that he come and join them for drinks once he was done (which he usually declined). His favourite regular by far was a young person who went by the name Muriel, the first time he’d met them they had been dragged to the bar by some co-workers and promptly left at the table whilst they all went to the bar to get Shitfaced. They had watched silently, but always smiled and waved whenever Crowley caught their eye or in-between songs. It took a couple more nights until the two spoke, Muriel had approached Crowley as he was packing up and introduced themself. Now, whenever Crowley worked here, Muriel was always the first face he looked for in the crowd of tables.

“Hiya Mr Crowley,” they said, sidling up next to him.

Crowley grinned as he out his guitar down, “Hello Muriel, alone again tonight?”

They nodded somewhat enthusiastically, before hopping up to set on the edge of the stage. They kicked their feet lightly and the two made idle chatter as Crowley finished setting up. Muriel told Crowley all about work and what they’d been up to, whilst Crowley nodded long and occasionally let slip a few details of his own. The two continued talking until it was time for Crowley’s set to start, and a small crowd had formed to listen to their regularly scheduled musician.

Crowley felt in his element in the bar, he had people who actually enjoyed listening to him, he felt comfortable to be more open and himself. Having friends only made the experience so much better, he would never trade the memories he’d made here with anything else. He played a couple of songs from his normal set before taking a handful of suggestions, ranging from the classics to some he had to Google sheet music for; no one cared how well he played, they just enjoyed how personal it was, and everyone had fun.

It was almost midnight when he finally finished, wiping the sweat from his forehead and hopping from the stage to join Bee at the bar. A cold glass of beer had been passed his way, which he accepted gratefully as he leant against the counter. Muriel approached the two slowly, before taking a seat on the other side of Crowley.

“Heya Muriel!” Bee cheered loudly, tipsy, “drink darlin’?”

“Just a j20 Bee,” they half-shouted over the music now playing over the speakers.

Bee nodded, “you got it.”

A j20 spritz was soon slid to the sober of the three, and Muriel accepted it eagerly, clinking the bottle with Crowley’s glass before sipping at the drink. The three participated in half-drunk chatter as Crowley worked off the adrenaline from his set.

No one kept track of how much time passed, only leaving when Muriel’s yawns became frequent, Crowley offering his apartment for the night. With Bee leaning on his shoulder, Crowley led the way home, keeping up the soft chatter between himself and Muriel, more to keep them awake and aware than anything.

He gave Muriel his keys once they’d reached the steps leading to the front door of the building, allowing himself a free hand to help Bee up the stairs and then to the next set that led to his apartment. Once inside, Crowley dumped his friend onto the bed, sighing when they groaned and swaddled themself with his blankets.

“Let me get you some clothes and set up the sofa Muriel...” he said quietly, “Could you get Bee some water? Cups are in the top right cupboard.”

Muriel nodded and did as they were requested as Crowley found some clean pyjamas for them to borrow and sorted out the sofa. The two got settled for bed, Muriel offering to take the sofa and Crowley scooting in next to Bee, who had already taken up three quarters of the bed.

“Bee move your ass,” Crowley hissed, earning a simple groan as they shuffled to give him more space.

He laid back and ignored Bee as they rolled over to face him, pulling up his phone to check if the bar had sent him the money from todays gig. When he opened the app, his total was more than he’d expected, confused, Crowley went to check the tab which told him any transfers had been made to and from his account.

“Shit...” he mumbled, causing Bee to perk up and nosily peer at his phone.

They snorted and grinned, “You musta done good today for him to pay you that much, gabe didn’t even pay me £350 our first day together.” Crowley didn’t meet their eye, still staring at Aziraphale’s name on his screen. “what’dya get up to anyway?”

“We didn’t.. fuck or anything,” Crowley whispered, “but we didn’t... keep out hands to ourselves. And he gave me a bath after... and let me nap on him... it was nice...”

Bee laughed loudly, earning a long ‘shhh’ from Crowley, and then rolled to lay their arm over his chest, “Well done Crowley,” they slurred, before dozing off without a moments pause. Crowley sighed and put his phone down, before pulling a blanket around Bee properly, pressing a soft kiss to his best friends forehead, and closing his eyes to sleep. He didn’t miss how they curled in closer, and sighed contently as the two drifted off.

[gin-stan]

I keep thinking moon knight animatic thoughts, so here are some ideas on how I'd animate characters to these songs:

[From here, foward quotes are me explaining how the lyrics relate the character and their stories.]

1. Humans touch by TWRPtube:

It's Layla and Marc singing (and dancing) w/ to each other, but their muppets and a disco ball pops out at some point. Their puppet costumes switch from normal clothes to their avatar suits on beat. The costume change happens via a spin transition either physically (the puppets) or camera. Or a whip to the side.

"we were such a good team/still going strong"

Layla singing to marc how she'd doesn't understand what happened Marc is trying but can't really explain to Layla why he backed away .

"I never did you wrong until the ne× me came along"

[MK and possibly Steven coming into play].

"Now I'm alone on the boulevard of broken streams."

"I'm just a toy to you, my love"

And it continues, Layla feeling a bit betrayed and confused. Maybe due to the suit and other trauma in his life, Marc doesn't feel "human" anymore since his autonomy is practically gone due to his servitude to Konshu and being a superhero/having to protect ppl.

"I need a humans touch, but you don't need me"

He needs Layla but he believes she doesn't need him cause she'll only get hurt bc of him (due to konshus jobs and promise to take Layla instead if he doesn't fall in line).

You could analyze lyric to apply it to their relationship.... I'm not gonna do that. But you get the idea Σ(Ｔ▽Ｔ;)

2. Friends in low places by Worthikids.

It's in a paper mache animation style with bolts (flat pins) on the characters joints.

The first part (guitar riff Part before the lyrics come in) is a title card introduction to marc and bushman. It details Marc's last moments due to bushmans betrayal, "on that hallowed night when I lost my life.." him meeting konshu and becoming MK.

"I was chosen for a second chance at life"

Konshu granted Marc MK power in the pyramid.

Konshu is doing the laughing in the background cause he just got a bog3 deal.

"I am the watcher I watch for all of time"

Shows him looking over the city Konshu will be pulling the strings and moving MK around like a puppet.

"I got friends in low places, just another one in a long line of no ones"

Shows previous mooknights in a line up behind or besides Marc/MK like in ATLA.

We get a visual of marc walking/staggering the background changes between locations and nights and day cycles by spinning the background like a wheel. Marc switches between, MK himself, Steven and Jake all walking through the streets of whatever city theyre currently located in.

You get the idea the ending shot is MK looking over the city and konshu looming behind him as "friends in low places fades out "

3. So we fall by Stupendium. So I know this is the odd own out but hear me out:

The fall guys singing abt being exploited by higher ups are replace by past avatars of all the Egyptian gods. Singing to MK abt how unfair their life as a avatar was and how some came to perish.

They didnt know what they were really getting into. Or the things they had to do. Ect ect. The ones pulling the strings using them for their own entertainment as they risk their lives to fulfill their duties.

Warning Marc on trusting his own boss to much and

This is done in a puppet style also or paper mache.

It's a bit silly but who cares.

There's more to each but it's too much to all type out. My ambitions are too high so I'll never get around to actually doing it. But I wanted to get my thoughts out there at least lol.

[moomeecore]

I JUST WANT TO LEARN TO PLAY AN INSRUMENT! ANY INSTRUMENT! but my weak body, carpell tunnel, general impatience, lack of skill and adhd WONT LET ME

[elekinetic]

What are your hcs about the Stranger Things characters’ futures? Like concerning their careers, where they wind up living, pets, colleges, or anything else that you want to talk about!

ohhhh i’m torn. i want them to all end up in the same place. i don’t think this is the canon answer but this is what makes me happy:

the party ends up in california for college. they all go to uc santa cruz, cause they didn’t get a chance to do the whole college application thing while saving the world and owens pulled some strings. el and max are roommates. dustin mike and lucas get put in a triple, but if mike starts staying at a certain party member’s single most of the time…..that’s none of their business. max starts as a neuroscience major until she fucking hates it. she’s at the arcade one night and watches someone repair a broken machine and is like, oh shit. that’s kinda cool. she switches to computer science, then to computer engineering bc CS is for nerds. (dustin does CS.) lucas came in as a political science major, but he realized he was way more interested in helping max with her neuroscience homework. he ends up doing a double major in political science and human health sciences. mike majors in communication cause it’s a compromise between getting a business degree like his parents insist and studying something he’s actually interested in (this is the problem. mike has no clue what he wants to study). will is a visual arts major obv. el switches her major about seventeen different times (zoology, religion, international relations, mechanical engineering). she ends up graduating w mike in communication bc its the easiest to apply her various credits to. el and dustin get really into improv. el also does theatre, and mike ends up getting dragged into the tech scene. lucas plays club basketball and gets involved in student govt. he sets up a lot of food and blood drives. the party goes to a board game club, but will goes EVERY week and makes a bunch of great friends. max learns guitar and starts playing at open mics (el is the only one who knows. and lucas, a little later). they all join the college radio station. first its dustin helping a mutual friend fix radio tech, then its will filling in for a mutual friend’s missing cohost, then it’s will and lucas starting an advice show, and el and max starting a show where max makes the tapes and el just talks about whatever she wants, and mike fucking around in the background of all his friends’ shows and shouting out unsolicited comments. when they all move off campus, mike and will, dustin and lucas, and el and max get their own apartments respectively. lumax starts talking abt moving in together and el is like “i love you both but i am not trying to third wheel in my own home.” thus, henderhop house is born. these two were BORN to be roommates. they become such good friends and are so respectful of each others space and are so so communicative! and they both love to cook. henderhop lives together for like, six years post college. listen, they have two cats together. they don’t want to traumatize them with a divorce. mike and will get a dog when they’re older (late 20s, early 30s). they used to catsit for their neighbor, but mike is crazy allergic. it always sounds like he’s going through puberty again. the party ends up in southern california. el becomes an archaeologist and travels a lot. dustin lives in pasadena and works for JPL. max does some work with him, does some contacts for a few different companies. she eventually becomes a professor and spends her off time doing research. lucas becomes a pediatrician. later in life he serves on city council, then turns to non-profit work. will get a job as an illustration intern at a comic house straight out of college and works his way up from there. mike bounces around office jobs, does some time at a publishing house, and goes back to school for a creative writing MFA. he sells some original stuff but he ends up mostly writing comics for IPs with will. they make a name for themselves in the Star Wars EA and actually get invited to a couple comic-con panels. dustin flips his shit.

[whumpmatsus]

I am just absolutely in love with how you write! I think I have a good iromatsu idea; after a prank gone wrong Kara gives Ichi the silent treatment to the extreme; does not talk to him, sit near him, or even stay in the same room when they're alone and even switched sleeping spots. Kara thinks it'll teach Ichi a lesson, but really it devestates Ichi and Kara tries to comfort him now.

aaaa thank you!! everyone is so nice with compliments like that, it motivates me to write more and always puts a smile on my face to hear kind words!!! <3

and ahhh this is definitely a good Iromatsu idea!! it was so much fun to write ;7;

Ichi stop being so emotionally constipated and show your feelings to your brothers, they love you and it'll make you feel better ;w;

-

In hindsight, perhaps Ichimatsu should have known better than to mess with Karamatsu’s guitar.

It would be one thing if he fucked with the leather jacket, or the sunglasses, or one of the tank tops with Karamatsu’s own face on it, because he’s pretty sure Karamatsu has an endless supply of those. His guitar, however, is something which doesn’t have a backup. It’s quite possibly the only thing Karamatsu loves more than himself, though obviously not as much as he loves his brothers.

For some stupid reason, it only hits Ichimatsu after the prank he pulls that this guitar is probably Karamatsu’s sole most important possession.

Of course, by the time it does hit him, the damage has already been done. He thought that the expression on his brother’s face would be over the top, hilarious, and the highlight of his day.

Instead, it’s burned into his brain in the worst way. When Karamatsu saw his younger brother letting the kitten in his lap bat at a ball made of his guitar’s strings, it was as if someone had just shoved a knife in his back.

God, Ichimatsu hates that kind of expression. That betrayed, wounded, raw look.

That hurts. What hurts worse is that for the rest of the day, it’s as if Karamatsu only has four brothers. Ichimatsu tries to apologize, and he’s met with Karamatsu walking out of the room entirely. No matter what he does, Karamatsu doesn’t want to be near him. He goes so far as to eat dinner in the other room with their parents rather than sit around a table with Ichimatsu.

Everyone knows what Ichimatsu did, but none of the others have ever seen Karamatsu quite so upset either. It would be a miracle if they aren’t all pissed at him, too.

The worst blow comes when they’re all getting ready for bed. Ichimatsu is more tired than usual for whatever reason, so he’s prepared to fall asleep the second his head hits the pillow. When he settles into his spot at one end of the futon, he rolls over with the intention of giving Karamatsu a gruff, apologetic hug… only to come face to face with very obviously not Karamatsu.

He hisses something about why the hell Totty is in Karamatsu’s spot, and Totty gives him the explanation that Karamatsu asked to switch tonight. “… But I’ll take the hug, though,” he teases as he cuddles up, so Ichimatsu can’t shove him away or he’ll be an asshole.

Even with the youngest sleeping soundly pressed against him, Ichimatsu barely sleeps a wink himself. He doesn’t like this. Despite the fact that he tries to convince himself he doesn’t give a shit about Karamatsu, the truth is that Karamatsu is still his big brother. The thought of admitting that he loves Karamatsu and thinks he’s cool leaves a horrible taste in his mouth, but…

He doesn’t like this.

He wanted to play a stupid prank and maybe just get on Karamatsu’s nerves a little bit. He never wanted to have Karamatsu so angry with him that he won’t speak to Ichimatsu, that he doesn’t even want to sleepnext to him.

This… hurts.

-

Although Ichimatsu may not sleep much during the night, he refuses to get up in the daytime when everyone else does.

Sometimes that’s not so worrying. The others know Ichimatsu sleeps a lot at odd hours when his depression kicks in, and rather than risk getting growled at, they often just let him sleep. As long as they can get him up in time for lunch, it doesn’t usually affect him too much.

… It’s after 2 P.M. now, though, and even with everyone knowing he’s awake, Ichimatsu won’t get out of bed.

Out of all the brothers, regardless of the fact that Karamatsu has been trying to teach his little brother a lesson, he’s probably the most worried about this. Even though he’s definitely angry about what Ichimatsu did, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to forgive him.

It was heartbreaking to see that Ichimatsu would damage something that means so much to Karamatsu. Even with how much Ichimatsu doesn’t like him, Karamatsu never thought his little brother would intentionally do anything to his guitar.

But… he did notice the look on Ichimatsu’s face every time Karamatsu gave him the cold shoulder. Combined with the fact that Ichimatsu is staying in bed, Karamatsu thinks that maybe he went a bit too far with this punishment.

Ichimatsu doesn’t even lift his head when Karamatsu pokes into their shared bedroom and calls, “Brother?”

So he creeps in a bit more. And more. And more, until he’s standing at the edge of the futon, five empty spaces away from his brother. Most of the time, he’s so good with words… even if he has to plan them out beforehand, or even if they sometimes sound painful.

Now, he doesn’t really know what to say.

“Ichimatsu…” He frowns and traces circles in the carpet with his foot. “It’s nearly three in the afternoon. Aren’t you getting up?”

What he gets in response is a listless shrug. It’s not in typical Ichimatsu fashion, though. “What’s the point? Leave me alone. You haven’t had any problem doing that so far.”

Ouch. Unfortunately, Karamatsu supposes that fair is fair.

He inches forward until he’s not too far, then lowers himself down next to Ichimatsu. “I’m… sorry about that.”

“No, you’re not. And you shouldn’t be. I’m garbage, and what I did was shitty. Shittier than you and your entire wardrobe.” Ichimatsu’s knees come up to his chest, body curling into a tight ball. “I deserve to have you mad at me for the rest of my life. You hate me and I hate myself, too. I’m…”

There’s a weird sound, like Ichimatsu is choking on his own words. “… I’m sorry. Just go away. Don’t bother with me. I’m not worth your time.”

Every word feels like there’s a vise tightening, tightening, tightening, around Karamatsu’s heart. That’s… what?? Ichimatsu really thinks that Karamatsu hates him?

He definitely wouldn’t have expected to see his younger brother so broken up about that fact. Ichimatsu often goes out of his way to avoid Karamatsu’s company, so shouldn’t he be relieved that Karamatsu stopped wanting to be around him?

A quiet moment passes before Karamatsu reaches to drape an arm over Ichimatsu. There’s practically no resistance as he pulls the fourth eldest in against him, gently rubbing his shoulder.

“I don’t hate you,” he murmurs. “It’s… true that I’m upset with you. Or at least I was. This was… I wasn’t going to shut you out forever. To be honest, I thought you would be happy that I wasn’t bothering you anymore. I anticipated that perhaps my silence would make you angry. That you might snap at me after a day or so and tell me you were sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel…”

He shifts his hands around with the intent of trying to move Ichimatsu to face him, but stops cold when his palm meets dampness on his brother’s cheek.

Is Ichimatsu… crying??

Karamatsu freezes at that thought. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Ichimatsu cry since they were kids. Then, he pulls his little brother in closer. There’s no struggling, no protests, just a stifled sob as Ichimatsu ducks his head down.

Karamatsu rests his head against the top of Ichimatsu’s. “… Did my treatment really hurt you that badly? Are you really that anguished by the idea that I would stop wanting anything to do with you?”

There’s no response except a nod, something that Ichimatsu seems to try and stop anyway.

A soft exhale puffs against Ichimatsu’s neck, and the way he stiffens suggests that the sudden warm air sent a shiver up his spine. “I’m… so sorry. I truly didn’t believe it would hurt you so much.”

“You’re still my Karamatsu-nii-san.” The admission is followed by a sniffle as he rubs at his eyes. “Just because I’m trash doesn’t mean I don’t…”

“Ahahah… you love me. That’s it, right?” Karamatsu teases lightly. He tugs his baby brother closer still, and is surprised when Ichimatsu abruptly rolls over to bury his face against Karamatsu’s chest.

Ichimatsu’s skinny arms find their way around Karamatsu’s waist, hugging as tightly as he can bring himself to. He hates it. He hates that Karamatsu is right,and how he can’t even actually say the words himself, and crying, and everything about this. Why is anyone, even his big brother, still bothering with him?

“… Please don’t be mad at me anymore,” he mumbles. That begging voice is so small and barely even sounds like him, even to himself. “I don’t… I don’t like it.”

Karamatsu chuckles and gingerly rubs Ichimatsu’s back. It’s a little sad to consider, but their relationship has become so strained now that they’re adults, to the point that Ichimatsu being so honest about his feelings to anyof his brothers, especially Karamatsu, is rare. It would probably be easier to pull his teeth than to get him to confess that something is wrong until it’s bubbling over and he can’thide it anymore.

He holds Ichimatsu as close as he can, and it feels like Ichimatsu is trying to keep himself tiny and safe inside the embrace. A kiss is pressed to the top of Ichimatsu’s head; a shaky, tearful breath is the instant reaction. “All is forgiven, my brother. I would never dream of truly abandoning you like that. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for upsetting you to such a degree.”

He gives a cautious squeeze, reassured when Ichimatsu squeezes back. “You are one of the most important people in my world, Ichimatsu. You’re my little brother, and I love you very much, and I regret to inform you that there is most likely nothing you can do to ever change that.”

Ichimatsu relaxes, if only slightly. He’ll get up soon, and even though hearing these things isn’t a magic switch that makes him feel better about himself or what he’s done… it’s a comfort. It means that Karamatsu isn’t so angry with him that he’s been disowned.

“If you are ever hurt or insecure about any of that,” Karamatsu hums softly, “all you need to do is come find me and let yourself be held in my arms. I hope you know that.”

… Well.

If he didn’t before, he certainly does now.

[calmlftv]

falling. - c.h. blurb

description: a lil bit more angst, but this time inspired by cal’s instagram story cover a few months ago! 

word count: 1.5k

warnings: angst but w a happy ending.

w/n: apparently if i listen to falling by harry styles enough i’ll write something sad. oops 

taglist: @spicycal​ @castaway-cashton​ @irwinkitten​ @n-ctarinenga​ @notinthesameguey​ @blackbutterfliescal​ @ashtonsos​ @loveroflrh​ @bestyearssos​ @treatallwithkindness​ @bestyearslftv​ @another-lonely-heart​

****

It’s been 4 days since you and Calum fought, and the radio silence was starting to become absolutely deafening. 

All you wanted was his strong arms wrapped around you, his breath on your neck as he buried his face there, the smell of his clothes enveloping you in an even bigger hug than the one he was physically giving you; all you wanted was him, his giggley laugh that usually became silent when he was really happy, your fingertips tracing his tattoos while you laid in bed together, limbs tangled around each other while he sang you a love song. You missed him desperately. 

But that night always comes back, the way his voice sounded when he snapped at you, the exhausted and annoyed frown on his face that dragged all of his beautiful features down. Your voice snapping back, alcohol on your breath as you finally told him everything that was bothering you; thinking about it now, you couldn’t remember what you were so upset about anyway. You just know it broke the most beautiful relationship you had ever been in. It has pushed you away from the love of your life. 

Now, it was 2 a.m., your eyes stinging from the tears you had let out earlier as you laid in your best friend’s bed. She had let you stay with her after the fight, giving you her bed as she slept on the couch in her living area. You were even sharing clothes; the idea of walking back into your home with Calum filled you with anxiety, knowing he would be there and knowing you would have to see him. See his face, smell his cologne and hear his voice. 

Your mind restless, you threw the covers off, dragging your hands down your face before you looked around the room. Your best friend’s electric piano was in the corner, music stacked high and random papers filled with chords for her favorite songs splayed out everywhere. Before you gave it much thought you swung your legs over the bed, padding over in your bare feet and baggy t-shirt before reaching out and pressing the power button. 

The bench was cold against your bare thighs, the cool faux leather almost calming as your hands played over the keys. You hadn’t played in so long, your hands itching to dance over the ivories as you pulled out your phone. You pulled up the only song you had been listening to these days, muscle memory kicking in as you learned all the chords in a short time. You opened your camera, facing it towards you and starting a video recording as you played. 

“I’m in my bed,” you sang, your voice a bit rusty from the years of no use. You continued despite that. 

“And you’re not here. And there’s no one to blame but my drink and my wandering hands.” 

The words of Harry Styles floated from your mouth, the music swelling and falling as you pressed forward. You lost yourself in the sounds, forgetting about the video recording and just letting the music take over. Your own voice surprised you as it quickly warmed up, your hands tense while you played and played; your best friend padded over, rubbing her eyes and smiling as she heard you in her room. She leaned against the doorway, arms folding in front of her as she quietly watched you, just enjoying the sound of your voice. 

Once the song was over you held the final chord, letting it ring out around you as you sat there. Tears fell on the keys, the overwhelming numbness taking over shortly after as you stopped the recording. Quickly you posted the first chorus and verse to your Instagram story, typing an i’m sorry on it and praying that Calum wouldn’t see it.

Your best friend quietly moved behind you as you did this, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and watching you caption the video before she silently sat with you. The two of you played and sang until the sun came up and your voices were aching, giggles escaping between songs as the two of you just fell into the music over and over again. 

As the sun came through the windows the two of you moved to bed, sharing the soft mattress together like you’ve done a million times before. You both quickly fell asleep, the lack of sleep catching up to you as your eyes fluttered closed. 

It was 3 p.m. when you woke up again, your best friend shaking you awake. 

“Y/N,” she said, patting your cheek. 

“What?” You groaned, burying yourself deeper into the covers until she grabbed your arm and shook you again. Finally getting the message you sat up, your phone being shoved into your hands as you wiped the sleep from your face. 

Opened on your screen was Calum’s Instagram page, the sight making you groan. “Why are you-” 

“Shut up and watch his story,” she said, reaching over and tapping the colorful circle around his profile photo. 

What popped up was Calum, a sad look on his face as he played his guitar in what looked like the living room. His pouty lips were pulled down at the corners, the camera a bit far and the lighting a bit dark but the circles under his puffy eyes were still obvious. The words i’m sorry too sat in a corner, small but readable to you.

His fingers picked the strings of his guitar softly until his voice followed. 

“You said you care, and you missed me too…”

Your breath caught in your throat as your actions from the night before came crashing back to you; the plead for him, the caption on your video and the caption on his. Heart swelling, you looked at your best friend, her eyes watching you as Cal’s voice swelled. 

“C’mon,” she said as the story closed, tugging you gently off the bed. She tossed some clothes at you. “Get dressed.” 

You nodded, confused but listening to her. Once you had clothes on she came back, sitting you down as she brushed out your hair and cooled your undereyes. When she was finished she pulled you up, handing you the bag you had come there with and ushering you out the door. She sat you in her car and started to drive, her plan finally dawning on you as anxiety flared up in you. 

The home you shared and created with Calum looked exactly the same; not like it should have changed at all, since you know Calum wouldn’t have done anything, but the sight of it still so perfect against your broken and nervous heart was stark. Without words you got out, bag clutched tightly in your hands as you looked at your best friend. She gestured for you to continue, her butt staying in the car as your feet carried you to the front door. 

Your key was in your bag but you opted to knock instead, a hand nervously running through your hair as you waited for the answer. 

You blinked and suddenly the door was open, Calum’s tall frame taking up the doorframe. His eyes were rimmed in red and puffy, dark circles hugging the lower lid as he looked at you. His brown eyes were darker than normal, no doubt reflecting how he felt inside. 

His eyes were wide as he looked, yours the same size as you both just took each other in. His hair was messy. 

“Hi.” You said, your voice hoarse. 

“Hi.” His voice was soft, his features lined with sadness. 

You tucked some hair behind your ear. “Can we-” 

“Yeah,” he answered, stepping aside to let you in. You waved to your best friend, her giving you a nod before heading home.

Once inside you set the bag down, turning around and burying your face in Cal’s chest. His arms immediately found their way around you, his grip tighter than it ever has been as your shoulder shook. 

“I’m so sorry,” you choked out, tears already falling down your face. Calum’s chest heaved, a tear hitting the top of your head as he breathed you in. He missed how perfectly you fit against him, how much you smelled like home. 

“I’m sorry too,” he sobbed, pressing a kiss to your head before you pulled back enough to look at him. “Can we work this out? Please?” 

You nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks again. “I’d really like that,” you said, Calum pulling you back against his chest. He squeezed you until you were both done crying, his hand lifting your chin so he could press a kiss to your forehead. His lips found yours a moment later, his hands on your hips as he still squeezed you. 

After you both pulled away he bent down, throwing you over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs. You couldn’t help but laugh, this being your favorite thing. “Calum Thomas!” 

A chuckle met your ears as he carried you upstairs. “I missed your laugh, doll. Had to hear it again.” 

You giggled, letting him carry you to bed before he covered you in kisses and cuddles.

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 5,687

Chapter Warnings: swearing, implied s.uicidal ideation

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur visits L’Manhole, has his first encounter with the blood vines, and finally sees Tommy again.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Four: head in the dust

L’Manberg really is just a crater in the ground, now.

He knew, of course. Ghostbur saw it in the aftermath, in the aftermath of the TNT and the withers and Techno and Phil standing shoulder to shoulder with Dream, an unholy alliance that no one else stood a chance against.

(is he angry at them, for allying with Dream? he’s done the same thing, and business is business no matter the devil you’re dealing with, as long as you don’t mind your soul being blackened)

(for Tommy’s sake, there is anger. for anyone else’s, well. he doesn’t think he has a right to be indignant on their behalf, not about this, not unless he wants to add being the worst type of hypocrite to his stack of crimes)

But Ghostbur was focused on Friend, then, and not so much the ruin of everything else. It hits differently, to see it now, to see a crater in the ground filled with rubble and broken buildings, the remains of something that used to be more, that used to stand for something, that aspired to a symbol that it could never truly embody.

(not when it was built on a flawed foundation, traitors and child soldiers and a flight path too close to the sun)

Overhead, thunder rumbles. Distant, but there are clouds gathering.

The melody comes to his mind unbidden, lilting and soft. He hums a few bars experimentally. And then a few more, staring out over the wreckage, eyes tracing over the remains of structures that are both familiar and not. So little of his L’Manberg was left by the time Phil and Techno destroyed it, and it is odd to recognize what it turned into, Ghostbur’s memories at odds with the knowledge that he wasn’t here to see it, was very much dead and at peace.

He keeps humming. There is a

(symphony)

song, the song, begging to be played, and he wishes he had his guitar. He’s not sure where it is. He can’t remember whether Ghostbur had it, whether it was left to be destroyed along with everything else. Or whether it was abandoned in Pogtopia, and there it still lies, gathering dust in an empty ravine with the remnants of the potato farms and the training rooms and the corridors they hollowed out and called their own.

The words won’t come to his lips. He knows them intimately, like he knows his own name or perhaps even better, but he holds back.

Lightning forks through the sky. For a second, all the world is black and white, his vision painted with stark shadows. The clouds are darkening; the skies will open up any moment now. He feels a burst of fear, a burst of get inside, get inside now, you’ll melt, and then remembers that he is not Ghostbur, and that a little bit of rain won’t hurt him at all.

It is time to move on, though. Lingering here will gain him nothing.

He looks out over what is left of L’Manberg one last time. And then turns on his heel and continues walking down the Prime Path, his coat flaring out behind him.

It feels so odd to be here, to be walking this road so openly. He hasn’t seen anyone yet, and he probably has the oncoming storm to thank for it. And he is thankful; he’s not sure how he would react if he ran into anyone, or how they would react to running into him. There are old friends here alongside old enemies, as well as people that he hasn’t even met, not really, not properly, not as himself. Time’s marched on without him, and if he’s being honest, he doesn’t know what to make of the changes that have happened in his absence.

He does know that he doesn’t particularly want to see anyone. Anyone other than Tommy, that is. So he’s glad that no one seems to be out and about.

He’s lost in his own thoughts. So he doesn’t notice the vines until he trips right over one, barely catching himself before he falls. He frowns, his humming dying in his throat at he stares at the obstacle.

This is definitely new. Did Ghostbur know anything about it? He can’t remember whether or not he did, which is hardly a good indicator of anything. Either way, now that he’s seen one, he sees a lot more, dotting the landscape all around him—and they were down in the crater too, weren’t they? Thick vines, blood red in color, creeping across the ground and over buildings. They fill him with a sense of uneasiness; the way they grow reminds him of kudzu, covering things and choking the life from them, parasitic and nigh on impossible to get rid of.

He crouches by the one he tripped over, examining it. It’s so large that a person would need an ax to make a dent in it, and frankly, he’s surprised that no one has by now. At least in the case of this one, which is definitely a hazard to anyone trying to use the Prime Path.

He reaches out and pokes it, not sure what he’s expecting, and then his mind fills with

(a warmth, glowing and red and sickly and creeping and wrong wrong wrong)

(a warmth, glowing and red and comforting and familiar and right right right)

(s t a t i c and it h u r t s)

He jerks his hand away, trying to shout, but the sound that escapes him is more of a whine. His momentum carries him backward, and he scrambles back a bit for good measure, his eyes fixed on the vine, half-expecting it to rise up and attack him or something of the like. It does not, but it takes a moment before he feels steady enough to stand, and even then, fine tremors run through his limbs, his body breaking out in a cold sweat.

What the hell was that?

He looks around, forgetting about his earlier trepidation, hoping that there is someone nearby to ask about it. But there is no one.

“Schlatt?” he calls, hating the shake in his voice. But there is no flash of blue, and no smug asshole stepping into view, so he assumes that the ghost isn’t nearby at the moment.

He lets out a breath. Runs a hand through his hair. And he keeps walking, not sure what else to do. He still doesn’t have any weapons, couldn’t do anything about that—that thing, even if he tried. So he keeps walking, giving it a wide berth, and tries to calm himself down, tries to focus on seeing Tommy. Nothing is more important than that. Not the wreckage that was once his city, not the strange and slightly terrifying red vines, not the corner of his mind that is whispering for him to get out while he still can, to leave before he’s well and truly trapped here, stuck in a new lease on life that he never wanted.

(rest rest rest if you want to rest again there’s no one to stop you yet but this is your last chance)

None of that matters.

Tommy’s house comes into sight a few minutes later, and he smiles to see it. In the end, it��s not much more than a hole dug into a hill, but it’s Tommy’s, and that’s always been what matters. He ducks inside, surveying the chests that line one wall, the doorway that leads to the room with the jukebox, a set of stairs leading downward. There’s not much in the way of decoration, but Tommy has never been one for it.

Tommy’s not here, though. The bed looks slept-in, and no dust gathers on the chests, so he’s been here recently, which is a relief. He probably won’t have to go hiking across the entire server looking for him. But he’s not here, and Wilbur’s not sure what to do while he’s not. Should he wait in his home? Maybe. But then, he doesn’t want to startle him too badly, and no one likes returning to their house and finding an unexpected guest, no matter who that guest might be.

He purses his lips, glancing around again. And this time, something tucked in the corner catches his eye. Its shape is familiar, and his heart leaps and stutters, but—no. It can’t be.

(he doesn’t remember whether Ghostbur had it or not but that shouldn’t mean that Tommy does, shouldn’t mean that Tommy managed to hold onto it all this time, between war and exile and war again, because that would be impossible, and even if it weren’t why would he want to keep it for so long why would it matter so much to him)

But it is.

He lifts his guitar with hands that have begun to shake once again. Plucks a string. It’s out of tune, but that can be fixed. It’s a miracle that it’s here in the first place.

He lets out a breath, thin and wavering. He looks around, at this home that is Tommy’s, not his. It wouldn’t feel right to wait here, not when he doesn’t have permission, not when Tommy’s not aware of him at all. So he steps outside, and takes a deep breath; the air is humid and electric, the anticipation of the rain permeating it already. The clouds have grown darker in the minutes he spent inside Tommy’s home.

He takes his guitar and heads for the bench.

It’s Tommy and Tubbo’s bench, really. But with this instrument in his hands and rain about to fall, nostalgia is is tapping out a three-four waltz in his chest. He sits gingerly, setting his guitar across his lap, his fingers already flying across the strings and frets, testing chords, turning the tuning pegs. It takes a few minutes before he’s satisfied with the sound, and by then, a drizzle has begun to fall.

Briefly, he considers going back inside, or mining a few blocks and building an awning of sorts over the bench. But there’s no point in it, really; he enchanted this guitar to last a long time ago, and a bit of water won’t do a thing to it. And what can the rain possibly do to him now?

(he gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes, and the water means imprisonment and freedom all at once, and something settles inside him, something that pulses with the pattern of the raindrops)

Thunder rolls. But the rain doesn’t seem to be getting any worse than this light shower, so he strums a few chords experimentally. His fingers remember them better than he expected, because he’s not sure when he last sat down and played, truly played. Before Pogtopia, at least, and with that thought, he picks out a familiar melody.

(i heard there was a)

He stops. Stares out into space. The view really is nice from here, vines notwithstanding, though he’s sure it would look better in the light of the sun. Still, there is something about the rain that soothes him, fills in a few of the shattered cracks of his soul. He feels odd, distant, and he doesn’t think it will last, but he’ll take his moments of peace when he can find them, now.

He plays a different song. Something simple, something peppy. And then something else. He doesn’t dip into his own songs, doesn’t feel quite ready to do that

(though there is a song, a symphony, waiting just beyond his hearing, and if he lets them his fingers will fly)

yet, so he dips into the repertoire of songs that he knows, that he’s learned over the years, nights spent around campfires and in forests and under trees and beneath the stars and by the crackling fireplace of the house he once called home, his brothers lounging nearby and calling his playing shit, his father laughing and chiding them and watching him with a gleam of pride in his eyes, his wings tucked behind him and at rest. All of them, at rest.

He doesn’t sing. But he hums along. Quietly, at first, and then with more confidence. The sound of the rain fills his brain until it’s just about all he can hear, the rain and his guitar and his humming, and it’s as if the rest of the world has fallen away for a little while, leaving only him and this bench and the water that is slowly soaking his clothes and plastering his hair to his forehead, and this rain isn’t at all like the rain from last night, really. That rain was cold and biting and it hurt, really, especially in those first few moments when his skin felt so raw, so new. This rain is gentle. Like a caress, almost.

He barely notices what he’s playing. Until he settles on a song, and he is struck by the memory of playing it for Tommy when they were kids, trying to help him fall asleep. It always worked like a charm. Phil used to joke that it was a magic spell, or Tommy’s off sequence, a hack into his code. And then Tommy would scowl and call him a bitch, and Phil would laugh, and Techno would roll his eyes and claim he wanted to leave, but he never did, not really.

(until he did, that is, until he left for Hypixel and the only thing any of them knew of him for a long while afterward was what they could glean from his short messages and the newspapers announcing his wins)

He tilts his head up for a moment. His eyes are watering, but it’s the rain falling on his face. That’s all. He keeps playing, playing and humming, and

(Tommy is drifting off, his eyes sliding shut before he gets through the song, and he lets the chord fade away and his nah nah nah trails into silence, and he smiles and ruffles his little brother’s hair and whispers good night)

Tommy says, “What the hell?”

(take a sad song and make it better)

He hits a wrong note, his fingers spasming, and he flinches. He is suddenly very aware of himself, of the way his coat has begun sticking to him, of the water dripping down his face. The rain is coming down a bit harder now, hard enough that he perhaps should have made that awning after all. He swallows, his gaze fixed on his guitar, on the way the water evaporates when it makes contact with it, the enchantments still holding strong even after all this time.

The rain stops being a comfort. It’s just rain, now, and he feels so terribly present in this moment.

He shifts on the bench, and turns so that he can look behind him.

And it’s—

Tommy. And Tubbo, too, standing next to him. They’ve got an umbrella held between them. They’re staring at him, Tubbo in shock and Tommy—Tommy in—he doesn’t know, can’t tell

(shock yes but what else he doesn’t know is there excitement does he dare hope for happiness please let it not be horror please not anger even though he deserves it he does he knows he does)

what he’s feeling beyond the obvious surprise, and perhaps a bit of disbelief.

His fingers finally still on the strings.

“Hello, Tommy,” he says.

It’s pithy, in the face of everything. It’s weak. It’s too little, too late. It’s all he can think to say.

“What the hell,” Tubbo is saying, an echo of Tommy’s exclamation, “what the hell?” But Wilbur really only has eyes for Tommy, who is standing there, unmoving, unblinking, and worryingly mute. Tommy is never so silent. In the face of a challenge, in the face of something undesirable, in the face of anything unexpected, Tommy’s first instinct has always been to be loud, to shout and yell and puff himself up like a bird playing at being predator. And yet here he is, quiet. Just staring. Eyes wide.

Slowly, Wilbur puts his guitar to the side, and stands. No more words come to his mind. Getting to his feet seems to take all of his energy, all of his willpower, and then he’s glued to the spot. Frozen, his heart in his throat, beating out that traitorous rhythm. Tommy is still just staring, and he wishes he would do something, anything, would rail at him or curse or step forward or run the other direction, because anything would be better than this stalemate, this thick tension that rests between the two of them. Maybe then, Wilbur would be able to find the courage to bridge the gap.

(unless the gap doesn’t want to be bridged and Tommy’s changed his mind after all, has decided that he doesn’t want the return of the man who made him a soldier and then a fugitive, who stole the remainder of his childhood away and replaced it with shadows and paranoia and enemies at every turn and the worst one of all right in front of him, who was supposed to be his brother but turned into a monster and who could blame him, really, if he decided that, if he decided that his life would be better off without such a one in it)

“Tommy—” he starts, not knowing what will come next, and his voice cracks. His voice breaks, terribly, like the word doesn’t belong in his mouth anymore, like he doesn’t have a right to say the name like he used to, and perhaps he doesn’t, after everything he’s done, and then—

“Wilbur,” Tommy whispers, barely audible over the rain.

“It’s me,” he says. It’s a confirmation and it’s a promise and it’s an apology. He wonders if Tommy can hear it.

And then, Tommy is running, is charging straight at him, and Wilbur doesn’t have time to react before Tommy is barreling into him, taking them both to the ground, and all the breath exits his lungs with a soft whumph. And then, there is a fist in his face, and he sees stars, pain erupting in his nose, and he grunts. His vision clears after a moment, and Tommy’s face fills his line of sight, red and splotchy and twisted up. He’s all but sitting on his chest, making it difficult to get that air back. His fist is still raised, still poised to strike again. Wilbur’s surprised that it hasn’t.

“You bastard,” Tommy says. “You bastard, what the actual hell is this, Wilbur you bastard, you can’t just—how are you even here? What are you—how are you—”

Wilbur reaches up and touches his face.

It’s an instinct, really, to touch Tommy when he gets worked up. He’s a bit like a cat, in that way; he’ll pretend until the cows come home that he doesn’t like physical comfort, that he’s too much of a big manly man to do anything more than slap someone on the shoulder, maybe, much less hug them, but as soon as contact is made, all of that flies out the window. If it’s timed right, that is, and Wilbur has had years to become a study in Tommy. So he reaches out and holds his hand against Tommy’s face, and half of it is to calm him down and half of it is for Wilbur to reassure himself that his brother is here, that he’s fine and that he’s real, because he didn’t think that it would be an issue but now that he’s here, looking at Tommy in the flesh, he can’t get the image of Tommy-in-exile out of his mind, worn down and ragged and eyes entirely devoid of life, at the end of his rope even if Ghostbur couldn’t see that, couldn’t understand the pain he was in.

(you should have been there for him should have been there to protect him to keep him safe but you weren’t and whose fault is that and now look at him he’s grown up without you when he shouldn’t have had to grow up at all)

Tommy goes completely still.

“Tommy,” he says. “I am so fucking sorry.”

It’s like a dam has burst within him, and everything he’s been holding back floods him. He looks at his brother, his brother who is still a child and yet looks at him with eyes that have seen more war and death than any child should, and he is struck with the knowledge that he is the one who did this, that he is the one who planted the seeds, that Tommy went to war with him, for him, and he repaid him by isolating him and hurting him and pitting him and Techno against each other and insisting that there was no one he could trust. And perhaps he’s no Dream, but what difference does that make, in the end, when Dream would never have been able to get his hands on Tommy in the first place if it weren’t for him, for his stupid, selfish actions, for his weakness and his inability to see reality for what it was?

He broke, and Tommy paid the price for it. And now here they are.

His vision blurs. It could be the rain. It could be.

“I am so sorry,” he repeats, and it’s a struggle to get the words out, because his throat feels so thick, like it’s closing in on itself. “So sorry for everything, for—god, Tommy, for all of it, I never should’ve—”

“You’re here,” Tommy says, and Wilbur falls silent as the air is once again driven out of his lungs, this time by the full weight of his brother collapsing on his chest and clutching at his shirt, burying his face in the fabric. “You’re here, you fucking—you’re here.”

“I’m here,” he agrees, and he brings one hand up to rest on Tommy’s back and starts carding the other one through his hair, a motion that Tommy usually protests, but now doesn’t say a word against.

“You bastard,” Tommy mumbles. “You’re such a bitch, you—you left me, you promised you wouldn’t and then you left me,  what kind of shit move was that, huh? You absolute—you complete—you stupid bitch!”

“Gremlin child,” he murmurs, and it comes out so soft and so fond and more than a little bit choked up, “I know, I know, I’m so sorry.”

“You’d better be,” Tommy says. “Fuck, Wilbur, I’m so glad you’re back.”

And that gives him pause, just for a second, a moment in which he has no idea how to respond to that, because he isn’t. Not in the broadest sense. How can he be, when the thought of the void still lingers in the back of his mind like a siren’s call, when he’s been ripped away from that peace and shoved into a body that feels everything too sharply, too keenly?

He’s not glad for that.

(he’d escape, if he could, he thinks, but he can’t afford to think on it too long, can’t afford to let that longing settle into his skin, especially not now and not here)

But Tommy can’t know that. He decides it right then and there: Tommy can’t know that. He’s been through so much already; he shouldn’t have to deal with Wilbur’s shit on top of all of it. Shouldn’t have to know that he doesn’t want to be here at all. That he meant it when he told him he didn’t want to be brought back. That he still means it. That he’s not here by choice, no matter how good it is to see his brother again.

Tommy can’t know that. Tommy can’t know that, because it would hurt him, and Wilbur knows that he is not a good person, that he hasn’t been for a long time, but he’ll be damned before he hurts his little brother again.

So, Tommy can’t know.

It’s easier than it should be, to pull together a quick facade. A bit of a mask, a bit of a farce, a bit of a lie, just enough to give the impression that he’s less damaged than he knows he is. He can be broken in private. Tommy shouldn’t have to deal with that. Shouldn’t have to see it.

(he dragged Tommy down with him once)

(never again)

“Me too,” he says,

(and it’s a lie, a lie, a lie, twisted and poisonous on his tongue, tasting of ash and gunpowder)

and smiles.

Tommy pulls away from him, enough to look him in the eyes. His face is blotchy, but Wilbur doesn’t comment on it.

“You’re not upset?” he demands.

“Why would I be upset?” he asks.

“I mean, earlier,” Tommy says. “You do remember that, right? When we talked? And you said you didn’t—you didn’t want to come back? I thought you’d be upset about it.”

“I remember,” he says. “It’s alright. I’m just glad to see you.”

(the question: how many half-truths can he tell?)

(the answer: as many as it takes, and never mind the fallout)

“Yeah?” Tommy says.

“Yeah,” Wilbur replies.

“Well then,” Tommy says, and then, he suddenly seems to realize the position that they’re in, Wilbur sprawled on the wet grass and Tommy half-lying, half-sitting on top of him. Tommy clears his throat, and his next motion is to awkwardly climb off of him, dusting off his pants and looking away awkwardly as if to pretend that none of that just happened. It’s typical, really; Tommy’s always been allergic to overt displays of affection. That much, at least, hasn’t changed.

He sighs, sitting up himself. And then finally remembers that Tubbo is here, too. Has been the whole time, standing there uncomfortably, white-knuckling his grip on the umbrella. He makes eye contact, and there, in Tubbo’s eyes, is the wariness that he was expecting to find in Tommy, that he was surprised not to see.

“Hello, Tubbo,” he says quietly.

“Hi, Wilbur,” Tubbo says. A bit short, a bit cold; not hostile, but not precisely welcoming, either.

“I owe you an apology as well,” he says. “A lot of them, really. I’m sorry for what I did.”

The expression that passes across Tubbo’s face is unmistakably one of surprise. Is it the apology itself? Or was he not expecting Wilbur to apologize to him, specifically?

“You’ll understand if I can’t quite forgive you,” Tubbo says, and Wilbur nods.

(Schlatt grinning on the stage and he knows, he knows that Techno will be unable to withstand this kind of pressure, knows that what Schlatt demands, he will be given, and there is a boy in a box shaking and begging, a boy that Wilbur has known since he followed Tommy home one day, all those years ago, a boy in a box, a sacrificial lamb, and Wilbur turns aside and doesn’t waver at the sound of his scream)

“Of course,” he says, and stands himself. The rain is letting up a bit, and he casts a glance back at his guitar, still sitting on the bench.

“Have you just been sat out here in the rain?” Tommy asks. “Why didn’t you just wait inside? How long have you been here, anyway?”

“Here? I don’t know. It hasn’t been too long,” he says absently. He picks up his guitar again, though he makes no move to play it, holding it loosely at his side. “I thought the rain felt nice.”

“You thought the rain felt nice—”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Wilbur,” Tubbo interrupts, “but how exactly are you back?”

And that—that draws him up short.

Because for the question to be asked like that implies that Tubbo doesn’t know, which means that whatever Tommy did, or got Dream to do, Tubbo wasn’t told. Which makes no sense; Tommy tells Tubbo everything. That’s just the way of the world. And when he looks to Tommy, Tommy is watching him with a curious expression, like he’s interested in the answer too, and that doesn’t make any sense, because Tommy had to have at least known that something had happened, because if he didn’t, that means—

(how many strings does the puppeteer have?)

“I thought,” he starts, and he can’t keep the dread from his voice, “I thought that I should be asking you that question. Since you said that Dream could resurrect me. I thought you got him to do something.”

There is silence for a very long time.

“I’ve been to visit a couple of times,” Tommy says quietly. “The prison, I mean. I hadn’t asked him about it yet. I’ve—I’ve been thinking about what you said a lot. And I wanted you back, so I was probably going to bring it up at some point, but I wanted to be—I wanted to try to be smart about it. I didn’t want the bastard to get one over me. And uh, that thing you said about Schlatt, I didn’t want that to happen, either. So uh, I haven’t actually spoken to Dream about it.”

“Wait, but that doesn’t make any sense,” Tubbo says. “Dream’s got a book, yeah? That Schlatt had? That’s how he knows how to do it, right? But he doesn’t have that in prison, so how could he have done anything?”

He tries not to let his reaction show on his face. But his eyes dart around, seeking out blue, trying to see if Schlatt is around to hear this. He doesn’t see anything, though that doesn’t necessarily say much.

Should he mention Schlatt? Or would that just make things worse?

“I woke up in a forest,” he says. “That’s literally all I know. I woke up in a forest, and it was fucking cold, and I was fucking alive. Beyond that, I’ve got nothing.” He pauses, gauging Tommy’s reaction, and decides to save Schlatt for another time. As well as the fact that he spent the night at Techno’s. All of that can wait until Tommy looks a little less—fragile isn’t quite the right word to use, or at least, it shouldn’t be, because Tommy has been many things but fragile has never been one of them. But there is a brittleness about him, and Wilbur can’t help but be afraid that if he says the wrong thing, if he steps wrongly, Tommy might snap. Might break into little pieces. Or might not, might fracture on the inside and pretend that nothing is wrong, might pull away and refuse to let anyone help him because he thinks he doesn’t need it, or worse, that he doesn’t deserve it—

“We’re going to have to go speak to him, aren’t we,” Tommy states, and yes, yes they are, Wilbur would love nothing more than to see the green bastard face to face and put his fist right through his teeth and wring out an explanation for himself, but—

Tommy’s eyes are hooded. He’s trying to hide it, trying not to let it show. But he’s tense. Like he’s expecting a blow.

(he rages, boils from the inside out, but he can do nothing because there is no one here to fight. no one here to blame. Dream is not here. Schlatt is not here)

(there is no one but himself)

“Yes,” Wilbur says, “but I don’t see why we’d need to right now. We can wait a bit.”

He doesn’t want to wait. He doesn’t want to wait at all. He wants to march down to the prison right now and demand his answers. But the poorly concealed relief on Tommy’s face makes it worth it.

(there is something in him screaming that it doesn’t matter, that this is more important, that Tommy can be a bit uncomfortable if it gets him what he wants, that there is a bigger picture to worry about and they are all ants caught up in a flood, but no, no, no, he sacrificed Tommy to this voice once and he won’t do it again he won’t he’s going to be better)

“Yeah, let’s make that bitch sweat for a while,” Tommy says, all bluster, but it’s comforting in its familiarity. “I bet he’s just waiting on us to come and ask him about it. Bitch has got another thing coming.” He grins, sharp and wild, and Wilbur almost takes a step back, because how long has it been since that expression was directed at him?

(the scene: the results are in and they’ve got a majority, and Tommy is whooping and hollering and Wilbur hates himself for giving him false hope, because he’s got the results in his hand and they should have won but he’s about to have to crush that infectious joy of his, and there’s really no way to do it gently, so he waits just one more second, one more second for his brother to be happy, and then he speaks and the smile slides off Tommy’s face like chalk washed away in the rain)

Too long.

So when he speaks, his voice is entirely too soft.

“I feel like I’ve missed a lot,” he says, and it’s an obvious non-sequitur but he doesn’t care. “Would you like to catch me up?”

And Tommy grins and grins and grins, and he knows he’s made the right choice when Tommy slings an arm around his shoulder and starts talking his ear off, and Tubbo rolls his eyes but follows along with them, and it feels so good and so right and he’s missed this, he has. If life were made of only moments like these, perhaps he would be able to be happy to be here.

For now, being happy in the moment will have to be enough.

“So I’ve got to ask, you don’t feel particularly like blowing anything up at the moment, do you?”

“Tubbo, that’s so fucking rude—”

It stings, the reminder, but it’s deserved. So he smiles, and he answers, and above them, the rain stops.

[sweetmisschesire]

Pt 2

Maysibelle (mayday)

Mayday is the last fight before eve

So the fight starts with her singing and the brothers blasting their way in

Since they dont have a guitar player they just sort of use some recordings they render to their liking to make up for it

So in their interruption imagine it like the Highway to Hell opera video, only right before the singing of the rock song starts maysibelle stops the music by snapping her fingers

She has both those mannequins neon j made for her and actual people dancing

After she stopped the music the dancers stopped with the human dancers moving off to the side of the ballroom for their own safety

This is the dress she is wearing

And this is the mask

And hair

(She speaks in an aloof, emotionless tone)

“Ah so this is the infamous duo who don’t know their place”

(Z is zuke w is west)

W: and what exactly is our place

“Away from these districts, learning how to play respectable music”

Z: you all need to come off it already, what do you have against rock?

“It boisters itself as superior in music and yet now look at it. Only the talentless dare practice it. “

W: me thinks the lady doth protest too much

“How dare you. Leave, now.”

Z: sorry but not without this district

*laughter* “very well then have at you”

So the video i linked before with the three songs is what plays during her battle

(This is not a fun fight for west, gotta add some humor)

While she sings west and zuke have to dodge the mannequins as they dance towards them as a attack

They find out they’re mannequins when a mask gets knocked of one of them leaving the oulines of pupiless eyes on a blank face

W: mannequins why mannequins?

Z: seriously those things still freak you out?!

W: yes! Especially ones that dance on their own!

They also keep getting hit by something they cant really see

Zuke: what the heck is going on what is even hitting us

W: she’s got nice pipes though, but we can play better

The next phase starts with the second song and after theyve beaten the mannequins, with a head of one being knocked into her mask damaging it

The mannequins are cleared out and some life sized marrionettes drop down

W: it gets worst! Please no dolls.

Her costume in this phase is this (it was under her dress)

And both her and the marrionette dance ballet as she sings

The difference here is the marionettes will lift up and drop down so they have to watch the shadows to see where they land

This is also how they start understanding what’s hitting them

Z: *watches a shadow fly towards his brother and hit him* so that’s what been hitting us? Bro! Watch for all the shadows on the floor, i think that’s what was getting us in the last phase!

W: why am i the one she keeps aiming for?! Lady lay off already!

Z: bigger target?

They cut down the marionettes from their strings leaving them useless with west panicking when one touches him and throwing it at maysibelle, fracturing her mask more

“I’ll get you for that.”

W: you’ve literally been going mostly after me already!

(She changes her costume during the convo, she walks behing a screen and steps out in it)

“As your brother said you are indeed the larger target. And your brother has been far more respectful than you.”

W: hey

Z: she’s kind of right though

The skirt is a bit shorter covering her feet bit easy to move in

No assistance this time though she has fans she throws that are weapons and they still have to dodge the mystery attack

At one point dk west trips over a doll that somehow lands on the floor

W: *screams*

“..... it’s just a doll. And don’t you dare break her.

Z: bro we’ve gotta do something about this fear of yours

The end of this phase after they’ve hit her enough ends with wth west knocking on of her fans back into her mask which is now covered in cracks

“Are you incapable of anything but disrespect?”

W: are you capable of talking like you can feel emotions?

“Perhaps i should hit you harder?”

Z: you are just on fire today bro

W: what she acts and talks like she can’t feel anything

“Emotions are meant to be controlled, it is inappropriate to let others see you in such a state.”

W:...

Z:... what

W: you know you would probably have an easier time telling people how you feel eithout that mask

“Don’t you dare to touch it! I am never to show my face in public!”

Z: okay this is getting a bit uncomfortable

W: what kind of messed up logic is that?

“I don’t expect you to understand his teachings. Nor do i expect you to understand that you two could never power Vinyl City!”

W: says you and every other so called artist. Can’t wait to prove you all wrong

“I’ve had just about enough of you. Since you’ve made it further than i thought capable, allow me to show you my true power. Bask in trance techno opera, all i was ever born to do.”

Z: alright now it’s really uncomfortable

She walks behind another screen and steps out in this

The lights center on her and the brothers can make out this black smoke like mist surrounding her a bit

She moves her hands to the start of her phantom of the opera performance and the mist moves with her

Z: that’s what was hitting us before?!

As she sings she sends out this mist that is basically like energy and they have to dodge it while attacking her

They get to the lull in the song with no singing

Z: whoever you’re doing this for you dont have to

West isnt quite following yet

“Hmm, charming. I do this because i must. But since you seem to love doling out advice, allow me to return the favor.”

“Apologize. She deserves that much from you, and more.”

Zuke is surprised by this and maysibelle gets in a hit as she goes back to singing

W: maybe focus on the fight instead of small talk?

Z: ...

W: seriously she’s just messing with ya

Z: no she’s not. I know exactly who she’s talking about

It takes a lot to get through this fight and maysibelle actually shows some signs of anger and frustration before immediately pushing them down

This is where west starts picking up on something being wrong with her

Towards the end of the song they work their way up to her and zuke manages to push though and smash his drumsticks down

Hebhad been aiming for her microphone but accidentally hit her mask finallt shattering it

The music stops as she screams and drops to her knees covering her face

W: woah man that was a bit much don’t you think? You coulda broker her nose

Z: I don’t think that’s the reason she screamed.

He notices some of the people left are peering over and sees the cameras oving to see her better

Z: *frowning* do you all not know how to respect someone’s privacy?!

They back off a bit startled at him zuke picks up a cloak that came off a mannequin from earlier and drapes it over her

Maysibelle readjusts it so the hood shrouds her face completely she grasps at the shards of her mask trying to put it back together

“can’t let them see can’t let them see can’t let them see”

W: okay what is wrong with-

Z: west don’t. Look i have no idea why you think those things. There’s nothing wrong with your emotions or the way you look

“How would you know? You’ve no experience of them.”

Z: yeah but do you either?

*voice quivers, but still remains emotionless not crying* I don’t remember my face. It’s been so long.”

W: how do you not-

Z: west. Just...why? Why not let yourself feel or show?

“I’m not allowed.”

Zuke moves towards her but she cuts him off

“Leave. I don’t need your pity.”

Z: that’s not what i-

“I said go.”

The two leave her ballroom and she calls out to them still gripping her mask pieces

“Remember to apologize. You owe her so much.”

Interlude

Z: that was super uncomfortable

Kliff appears

“What was uncomfortable?”

West goes to answer but zuke cuts him off

Z: the walk back, the fight was really exauhsting so it was uncomfortable wslk back

West gives he brother a loo and kliff shrugs

“Well good job getting another district. She was gonna beca hard one. Go get some rest we’ll take the last district tomorrow”

As the two leave to their rooms west talks

W: what was that back there?

Z: kliff keeps ignoring me when i mention how bad the nsr artists look and i dont know if you’ve noticed but i listened to some of maysibelle’s fans on the way back

W: and?

Z: they were praising her for staying “proper” during our fight, like they really do expect her to not show emotions and when i asked them about that thry say it’s what they expect of her how she’s always bern this way

Z: west there’s something really wrong with the nsr artists it’s like they’ve been... broken

W:... what did she mean by apologize

Z: it has to do with the last district.

Z: it’s nadia’s district.

This was a long one

Next one will be long too, mainly cause if the last fight with tatiana

I’ve really hurt mayday huh? :D

[ok-ak]

a list of ✨things that make me happy and make me feel like myself✨, bc i keep seemingly forgetting the joy i find in things and taking myself way Too Seriously:

the color yellow

iced salted caramel lattes w oat milk and lavender

anything bee, honey, or honeycomb related

purple flowers

tassels

the entirety of Ben Howard’s Every Kingdom album

the beginning notes of Blindsided by Bon Iver

Chloe perfume, the original kind

the Tiny Chef

My comfort shows: new girl, schitts creek, law and order

Madewell, and everything they sell

my Warby Parker glasses bc they fit my face perfectly & none else do

When you finish a hot yoga class & then the teacher puts a iced lavender towel on your forehead

the feeling when you go to a dance class, learn a routine, and nail it by the time the small groups perform

curly bangs

my Vans collection

Bergamot & Amber candles

Frank Ocean

layered gold jewelry

August by TS

the feeling i get when i read Toni Morrison novels

my order from CAVA w/ a glass of pinot noir

the build up to ‘well be alright’ in Fine Line, the song

coral blush

My old NY apartment

Chapel Hill, NC

my best friends cat, Kittles

buying my mom things she deserves, especially $ skincare she won’t buy herself

sunshine & sun-related quotes/art/prints

rooftops

spending all day in the ocean

choreographing a contemporary dance piece & teaching it

small gold earrings paired with small silver earrings

peace signs

hats worn backwards

the MFM podcast

the feeling when sitting on the floor petting a dog

the proud feeling when finishing a well written document

burnt orange nail polish

Louis Tomlinsons’ expressiveness when he talks and walks

The feeling when i read my daily devotional and it matches what i’m going through that day

Yoga with Adrienne

Wearing multiple rings at all times, esp the ring i made for my best friends wedding

Fenty face mist

Hillsong’s The Stand

Sitting on my best friends couch while she watches Gilmore Girls for the 83th time, even though i’ve never watched it on my own

sending memes to my friend while she’s at work

Publix, the superior grocery store

Baby otters holding hands

Snoopy

Rihanna/ Zendaya, doing anything ever

mango Bubbly water

the bookstore, in NC, from that one trip

the feeling after 3, but not yet 4, mimosas

soft amber lighting

pinterest boards of those houses with all those prints that i’m too overwhelmed to hang in my own living room

my leather, card holding phone case

my Columbia Uni Alum zip up that is the perfect level of worn in

They’re Real mascara

PJ, my penguin pillow pet

the anthropologie in Chelsea

RVA Instagram accounts

the song Hometown Glory

Lianna La Havas, Corinne Bailey Rae, & NAO’s music

Degas’ Little Dancer statue

the feeling of looking at art at the VMFA

Driving over the GW Bridge

Sitting on the rocks at Belle Isle

when girls play guitar

my broken in brown leather jacket

the Richmond Ballet hoodie that i’ve had since high school

the handful of people i’ve followed on youtube since 2010

forehead kisses

when people dye the ends of their hair purple

breakfast sandwiches with hot sauce

seafod pasta

taking 40 minute walks and feeling renewed after

the look of a headband + turtleneck + a blazer

when you make plans and they just work out without any snags

the feeling at the height of a good fic when you want to stop reading it so it won’t end

underling important notes that were written in black ink with a purple pen

having a cookout at a swimming pool

the phrase ‘creme de la creme’

driving fast to any Prince song

routines on a Sunday afternoon

dancing, poorly, to Gas Pedal with my friends in a crowded bar

The Dollop podcast

Mexican food

James Blake’s Into the Red

Dear Evan Hansen

striped or color-blocked sweaters

The movie How To Be Single, for some reason

Pizza with pepperoni, arugula, and chili oil from the place down the street

Movies on projection screens

Stringed lights with the bigger bulbs

exclamation points! and, commas

Baby, used in any fic ever

a shirt tucked into a skirt paired with ankle boots

Pesto

the Lazy Sunday Morning perfume

[pixelatedrose]

Brilliance Part One

Brilliance Of a Dying Star

Part 1 | Next Part

Pairings: Roceit, background Intruality, eventual background Analogical

Word Count: 2,577

Warnings: uncensored swearing, break in, knife mention, panicking, if there’s anything I missed please please tell me, and if there’s anything you would like me to tag, don’t hesitate to ask!

Summary:

Roman Prince lives in a world where the population is split between super powered people and normal people. These super powers were soon named Flaire. And even though he desperately wished he had a Flaire of his own, Roman lives life working in a cat cafe alongside his coworkers, a few of which have Flaires. His life is fairly normal and tragically mundane until a local superhero crashes into his apartment.

Chapter 1

  Roman Prince walked along the side of the street in the brilliant red and purple light of the quickly dying sun. His guitar slung over his shoulder and the people in the streets dwindling. His yellow converse he had drawn leaves and flowers on, now starting fade. A particular scuff mark on the toe of the right foot encased with a fond memory.

  Above him, a young girl with wings for arms flew scarily close to his head. “S-Sorry!!!” She yelled behind her, her flight wobbly.

  Roman turned and called back, a smile on his face. “It’s fine!! Keep up the good work, Auri!!” He kept walking before he heard a crash and a rustle of leaves a ways behind him, followed by Auri's yelp. He smiled at the ground and shook his head.

  He walked on as a boy with four sets of eyes passed him by. He walked on when a person made entirely out of rocks sat watering his plants. He walked on when a girl with hooves and spiraling horns sat playing hop-scotch with her little friends.

  He only paused when he reached the door to the small, beat up apartment building.

  “Home sweet home!” Roman smiled, opening the pale and faded green door. He walked around to the stairs, shooting finger guns to the man at the front desk. Roman climbed the steps to the third and top floor, trying not to internally complain about the elevator being broken. Only two rooms on this floor, roman turned to the one on the left and put his key into the lock.

  He greeted his house with a bright smile, knowing no one was there to return it. “Hello, house…” He whispered, throwing his keys into the bowl near the door. He pulled off his jacket and slung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs as he made his way to the solemn couch in the room, flopping down on it over the arm, letting his feet dangle off the edge. He removed his earbuds from his pocket and took out his phone, selecting spotify as he plugged in the buds.

  Pressing play on his playlist, Roman sat and took in the last of the day.

~~•~~

  The world where Roman lived was an exciting one. Or at least it had been. Things had much lost their glamour after the first age of powers showing up.

  In this world, the population was at a fairly equal split between people with Flaires and people without Flaires. No one quite knew who first started calling the powers popping up ‘Flaire’ but it was clear why. All these new people surely had much flair, so the world thought it was clever to start calling the powers Flaire.

  Flaires worked and presented themselves in many different fashions. A few of the kids in Roman’s neighborhood had physical Flaires, like Auri. Roman knew of more that had Flaires that let them shoot lightning from their hands or could bend light with their hands.

  Roman though? He didn’t have a Flaire. He was okay with that, but it did make him upset from time to time. As a kid, he’d always wanted to be a hero. He wanted to help and save people so badly it almost crushed him when he found out he didn’t have a Flaire. But he managed. He was happy. He liked where he worked, he'd come to terms with his financial situation, and he was alive. He was alive and alive was good.

~~•~~

  It had been a few minutes and Roman was starting to drift off into sleep when he heard something shatter from his bedroom. He tore off his earbuds and bolted upright, his heart pounding.

  He listened closely as he heard someone curse from the room, the door only barely cracked open, so small you couldn’t see in.

  Roman quietly got off his couch and moved into the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the counter and swiftly slunk behind the cracked door. From outside, he could hear something else- something big- moving around. He tried to ignore it and crept up behind the door, holding his breath and calming his heart, gripping the handle of the knife till his knuckles turned white, he threw open the door and swung wildly.

  “WHO ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU HERE?!” Roman shouted, his voice cracking slightly. So much for a manly approach to this… he thought with fear latching onto his heart.

  But after seeing the intruder, he had to reevaluate everything.

  The intruder was dressed in an elaborate costume, a black and yellow hood thrown up over their head and a yellow scarf wrapped around their neck and obscuring the lower half of their face. They wore a loose yellow shirt that tucked into their black gloves, over the shirt they wore a baggy, sleeveless black top that tucked into their pants. In fact, everything about the outfit seemed loose and baggy, including the black pants they wore which tucked into their knee high black boots. They almost looked like some sort of fantasy assassin.

  The intruder was on the ground, ducked behind Roman’s bed. When Roman had barged in loudly yelling, they bolted upright and grabbed Roman’s wrist, twisting it and forcing him to drop the knife. They put a hand over Roman’s mouth before he could scream and pushed him hard against the wall, still holding his wrist.

  The something big moved again outside, it sounded almost mechanical. The intruder slowly sunk to the ground, forcing roman down with them. As they shrunk, a grey sheet seemed to materialize over them. Roan could see through it though, the way you can see through normal cloth from one side, but not be seen from the other.

  If Roman’s mouth had been free, he was sure he would have shrieked when a bright shining light, reminiscent of a large eye, peered in through his broken and tattered blinds.

  The intruder moved in closer, pressing up against Roman, making them smaller. It seemed they were like that for forever, the tension so thick you could spread it on bread and eat it.

  Finally, finally, the thing passed and the two listened soundlessly to the thing retreating. And finally, the intruder got up, the grey sheet vanishing.

  Roman stayed on the ground, in shock. He silently watched as the intruder peered out the broken window before sighing and starting to climb back out.

  “W-wait!!” Roman shouted, finally getting a hold on himself. “You can’t just leave!!”

  The intruder stopped and turned, their golden-amber eyes not quite matching one another, the cold venom string out at Roman. “Yes.” They said, their voice slightly husky and rough. “I can.” And without a warning, they leaped back out the window.

  Roman rushed to try and catch them, but found himself watching as the intruder ran on the air as if it was as solid as the ground below them.

  And in a moment that only someone that lived in Newflower City could experience, Roman huffed to himself. “That fabulous bastard broke my window!!”

~~•~~

  Roman woke up shivering. He had placed cardboard sheets over the broken frame and taped it, but that wasn’t going to help much with the cold. He sighed and rolled out of bed, thinking of the obvious hero that had crashed into his apartment the night before. I hope they caught whoever they were trying to fight...And I hope no one else was hurt by that thing… Roman thought as he got ready for the day. He shook off any anxiety he had in his heart and glanced over at the clock before panicking. He was going to be late for work.

  Roman rushed out the door, and started running. He only just caught the bus when he texted his boss and coworker.

  Hey, Vee, I’m running a bit late today. Tell Logan to save me a muffin or something for me, will ya?

  Roman let out a puff of air before remembering something.

  Oh yeah, I have one hell of a story for you later, don’t let me forget.

  A few minutes passed before his phone buzzed again.

  Emo Nightmare: Ight, I’ll make sure specs saves you something. And what could possibly happen between last night and now that merits ‘one hell of a story’?

  Roman closed the chat with his friend and hyped himself up for the story he was going to be able to tell.

  He walked in the door of the Catfé and quietly rushed himself into the back to put on his apron.

  “Hey! You’re late, Prince!” Roman’s coworker, Alice,  hissed. “You were late last Saturday too! Why don't you just set an alarm?” She asked, handing him a blueberry muffin.

  “It messes with my beauty sleep! If I’m awoken by that horrible beeping, I’d never look good again in my life!” Roman said, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t had time to brush his hair that morning, instead opting to take a bite of his muffin. “God, this is good…” Roman said under his breath. “Hey, Lo!! You’re the best baker ever, you know that!!” He called to the baker who was taking bread out of the oven.

  “I know, now if only you could manage to get here on time.” They said, sighing and pushing their glasses up.

  “Hey!! A man needs his beauty sleep! It’s hard work to look this pretty!” Roman said, heading out to the front to begin his shift.

  “Oh, is that right, Princey?” A teasing, smooth voice asked from the counter.

  Roman huffed. “Hey there, Virge. And yes. It is right.” Roman watched his friend laugh softly before yelling back to Alice to get Virgil’s coffee.

  “So what’s this story you have for me?” Virgil asked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

  Roman smiled. “Well-”

  Someone on the other side of the counter cleared their throat. A woman with a neat hair bun and slim suit stood near the order counter, her prehensile demon tail flicking back and forth in impatience.

  Roman sighed. “I’ll tell you during break, I gotta run. Besides, don’t you need to let the cats out?” He asked before sliding over to take the woman’s order. By the time he was done, Virgil was gone.

  Soon, little feline figures began to file out of a cat door in one of the back rooms. Five, six, seven- ten!! Eleven cats poured out and around the area, climbing on cat towers built into the structure and flopping down into cat beds on the ground. One particular cat wiggled his butt and launched himself onto the counter towards Roman. That is before being caught midair by Virgil.

  “Sorry, Ro! Merlin missed you yesterday, you know how it is.” He apologized.

  Roman laughed and reached forward, petting the grey ragdoll. "I missed you too, buddy!"

~~•~~

  Roman loved his job working at the cat cafe. It was owned by a nice man who had a big heart. And even though Roman was just a small time barista, him and Thomas got along splendidly. Thomas had known Logan for a very long time and wanted them to be his baker and Virgil had gotten recommended by Logan, Roman however, had only known any of them for two years. 

  Of course in those two years he’d gone camping twice with Logan and Thomas, gone to the aquarium twice times with Virgil and once with Logan, and spent every break they had sitting on the counter in the back talking, laughing and teasing one another as Logan baked raspberry thumbprint cookies for the three of them and the golden haired boy they obviously had a crush on.

  And on the weekends, Virgil and Logan and sometimes Alice and Thomas would agree to let Roman drag them to the gay bars he played at with his small time band. And when everything was all over, they’d all relax and have a few drinks before parting ways. They had started to become a tight knit family of sorts.

  Roman couldn’t be happier with his friends and his job. He had left his desires for a Flaire behind him. He was okay being normal if normal meant his friends.

~~•~~

  “So,” Virgil started, pulling himself up onto the counter in the back with a blackberry soda in hand. “Tell us about this crazy thing that happened to you last night, Ro. What was it? You broke a plate? Your neighbor is actually ten giant bees in a trench coat? Oh oh oh!! I got it! Aliens!” Virgil began laughing as Roman swatted at him.

  “Har, har.” Roman said flatly.

  “Honestly, Virgil, the only mystery here is how you manage to find the strangest flavored drinks. Last week it was mint.” Logan said, amusement twitching the edges of their lips as they dodged under Virgil’s pitiful blows. “Roman? Do tell what happened to provoke such a dramatic reaction from you.”

  “Thank you, Logan!” Roman flourished and jumped onto the counter next to Virgil.

  He relayed the break in and his encounter with the hero, embellishing a bit here and there.

  “Wow…” Virgil said, crushing his soda can and tossing it at the recycling can across the room, cursing when he just barely missed. “What a bitch...See this is what I’ve been talking about,” He jumped off the counter and picked up his can. “Heroes are just stuck up bastards who have no consideration for everyday people like us…” He tossed the can away and turned back toward Roman, leaning against the wall. “You should sue for property damage, Ro. Find out who they were and sue.”

  Roman waved his hand. “Honestly that just sounds like more trouble than it’s worth. And they were kind of hot though…” He said dreamily.

  Virgil snorted. “Your pansexual ass is attracted to literally everything that’s ever breathed in your general direction.”

  “And what’s wrong with that when everything is so pretty?!” Roman huffed.

  Logan checked their wrist, smiling fondly. “Roman, Virgil, it’s time you two get back to work.”

  “Awh!! But the cookies!!” Virgil whined. “They’re not done yeettt!”

  “And they won’t be for another ten minutes, Virgil. I’ll make sure to set some aside for you and Roman once they are completed.” Logan reassured their friend.

  “Fiiine.” Virgil relented. “But I expect one free drink as compensation tonight!!”

  “Expect no such thi-”

  “Thanks, Lo!!” Virgil stuck his tongue out at Logan and left with Roman.

  As the two came out to the counter a familiar bubbly voice caught Roman’s attention. “Hello!!”

  “Ah! Right on time!” Roman said to Virgil, not needing to face the counter to know it was the cute golden haired boy that Logan had a crush on. “The usual-” Roman started, turning around to face him before abruptly stopping himself.

  “For me, yep! What about you, Dai?” The boy said.

  The reason Roman had cut himself off so violently stared at him with the same cold gaze and golden-amber eyes, one not quite matching the other. He wore a beanie with a yellow and grey hoodie. His ears were pierced multiple times and he now had a nose ring where it had been absent last night.

  Roman bristled and so did the stranger. And at the same time they yelled, the stranger’s voice making it all the more clear it was the same person from the night before.

  “It’s you!!”

Tag list:

@iwillsithereandtrytocontribute @gattonero17 @soupgromlin @melodiread @septiplierdantisanders @just-a-hufflepuff @themagicheartmailman @awesomefanderhufflepotato @lofinnfish @dabookwormcat

(I kinda tagged everyone that said they wanted me to write this fic, (As well as my general tag list) is that okay? if you didn’t want to be tagged, please let me know!!)

Edit: I’m so fucking sorry I forgot to add the warnings

[sassyduckqueen]

Team Miraculous: Stoneheart (1/2)

New Lukanette story. Done in a similar style to my 30 Days of Lukanette but with Viperion as a hero from the very beginning. Hope you guys enjoy

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Jules, you ok?" Luka asked as they walked to school. She had been more quiet then usual as they walked but he wasn't surprise. It was a new school year and she was nervous. She sighed softly and looked at him.

 "I d-don't w-want to be in C-Chloe's c-class again," She mumbled, pushing her hair back before letting it fall again, making him frown.

 "You'll be fine," He smiled, ruffling her hair. "I believe in you,"

 "T-thanks," She mumbled as they turned left. "I j-just... y-you know..."

 "Yeah, I know but this year is gonna be different for both of us," He grinned, looking to the sky. "I just know it,"

 "Y-you're t-too h-happy," She grinned, making him smile before they turned a corner. He frowned as he saw an old man struggling to walk before he felt over. Luka rushed over and helped him up, grabbing his cane for him too.

 "Are you ok?" He asked, concern in his face but the old man smiled and nodded.

 "Thank you, young man," He grinned before going on his way. Luka nodded and turned back to Juleka before they crossed the road and headed into the school yard. He gave her some more words of encouragement before heading to his own class. He grabbed his seat in the back and took out his notebook. He flicked it to a clear page and began to write his next guitar piece. The teacher came in and began to hand out their timetable for their lessons. Luka took his and looked at it before sighing. He had double maths straight away. He groaned and mentally wished he had his guitar with him. Unfortunately, the school didn't like him carrying around a guitar to communicate with people, despite the fact that he made more sense with it. He also hated that the teachers claimed that music wasn't everything. To him, Music was life. It was all around the world. From the air to the sound of people's heartbeats and he could hear it all. He could feel every note in everything. It was just what he did. His mother said it was his language and a gift. He wasn't so sure if it was a gift but he agreed with it been his language. He understood music to an almost supernatural extent. It was literally second nature to him. It was very to how a snake can feel vibrations in his eyes. He could feel music in a similar way. The bell went and he sighed to himself. Time to face the horror that was double maths. He closed his notebook and put it in his bag before heading down to the maths area. However before he could, the school shook violently. Luka frowned and looked around as a second tremor caused everyone to panic. Luka rushed over to the window and looked out. His eyes widen in shock as he saw a figure made of stone. It grabbed a car and threw into the wall.

 "KIM!" It growled, making him frown. He bolted to the door and ran out into the courtyard as his first instinct was to find Juleka and make sure she was ok. A girl with red hair rushed by him looked excited but a good few other students were rushing out, panicking. He frowned deeply before crashing into someone.

 "Oww," The girl mumbled as he got up and helped her up. She had pigtails in her hair and bright blue eyes. "Sorry!"

 "No worries. It was my fault anyway," He smiled but worry washed over his face. "I don't suppose you'll seen a girl with black and purple hair have you?"

 "You mean Juleka?" She asked. He nodded. "She was in the libary,"

 "Thank you!" He replied, running over as students ran out. He rushed into the library and looked around. Fortunately, it didn't take long to find her. She was curled up under the table, having a mild panic attack. "Jules,"

 "Luka!" She gasped, hugging him. He hugged back and rubbed her back. "T-there's a monster! Not l-like a cool m-monster e-either!"

 "I know," He replies, helping her up as a teacher came in.

 "School's been evacuated and is closed for the rest of the day," She stated, making the two of them nod. They left the library. Luka looked round and noticed the girl with the pig tails, looking worried. He walked out with Juleka as the teachers directed them out before the two headed back to the Seine. It didn't take them long to walk there, though Luka felt a little unsafe on the boat but it looked like the monster wasn't anywhere near their home. Juleka instantly headed back into her room as he put his bag down and turned on the TV and flicking it onto the News.

 "I'm personally asking all Parisians to stay at home until this situation is under control," Mayor Bourgeois demanded as microphones and cameras were pushed to his face. Luka frowned deeply as it switched back to the TV reporter.

 "As incredible as it seems, it's been confirmed that Paris is indeed been attacked by a supervillain," Nadja Chamack confirmed as she read her lines. Luka frowned even more as he listened. "The police have been struggling to keep the situation under control,"

 The scene switched to an interview with the chief of police, Roger Raincomprix, who appeared to have a broken arm.

 "Be conidient that strong arm of the law will come crashing down on- urg!" He gasped in pain as he lifted his arm before looking meekily towards the tv. "I mean the other arm,"

 "Great," Luka mumbled. He didn't really have much faith in the justice system. Probably because his mother was a bit of a rebel but it was obvious they had bitten off more then could chew. He sighed to himself before a small hexagon shaped box caught his attention. He rose an eyebrow and picked it up. He noticed the odd red symbol on it and frowned deeply. "What's this doing here?"

 As soon as he opened it, a blinding green light burst from it, causing him to drop and shield his eyes. It formed into a small little creature that looked like a little snake but with arms and legs. It had it's eyes closed as Luka stared at it in completely shock. It blinked and opened it's eyes before crossing it's legs and smiling at him.

 "Greetings, my name is Sass and I'll be your Kwami," The little creature declared with confident. Luka stared at it in shock before freaking out.

 "Jules!!" He began to shout but the little creature waved it's head and shook it's head.

 "You mustn't tell anyone else about me, Luka! No one must know I exist,"

 "How did you know my name?" He gasped, worried. "Are you... real?"

 "Yes,"

 "So I haven't gone... you know.... crazy?"

 "No,"

 "Ok, good... why are you here then?"

 "You have been chosen to be a wielder of a miraculous," The little creature nodded. "I grant the power to reset time but this power must be used for the greater good,"

 "Ok that seems fair... wait is that how that stone creature exists? Is that because of a Kwami?"

 "You're a fast learner, Luka," It replied, nodded. "But yes. That creature is an akuma and it must be stopped. You will find two others who will help you stop it,"

 "Whoa! Hold up! I'm suppose to stop that thing?!" 

 "Using your super power. It's called Second Chance. You have five minutes to use it but in that time, you can reset time as much as you want but once that five minutes is up, you'll detransform back into your civilian mode," The creature explained, causing Luka to nod as he picked up the bracelet in the box. "That is the miraculous,"

 "I have a question... a few questions actually," He gasped as he put it on. It sparkled like a normal silver bracelet. "Are you like a snake? Also what if I fail? How do I even use this super-"

 "Slow down. One, you'll have team mates, two, yes I am a snake and three, all you have to say is Sass, Scales Slither,"

 "Sass, Scales Slither?" He repeated but as soon as he did, the bracelet came to life. "H-hey! What's going on?!"

 A lyre appeared in his hands and his everyday outfit was replaced with a new suit then a mask appeared around his eyes before he found himself stood in the living quarters of the Liberty in a green snaked based suit. He moved around, frowning to himself before noticing Sass wasn't around.

 "Sass... where did you go?" He frowned as the little Kwami didn't answer. "Sass? Please, answer me?"

 Nothing. He frowned softly before looking towards the TV.

 "Stoneheart is heading towards the Montparnasse tower," The woman on the TV stated but Luka frowned as he noticed a girl on a bike following the monster. He took a deep breathe before placing the lyre on his back.

 "Ok, Sass said I would have team mates so maybe I should go and find them first," He mutter before exiting the boat and running as fast as he could through the streets of Paris. He stopped and frowned as he realized he was had made it to the Arc de Triomphe in less then five minutes, despite it been a half an hour walk from where his home was. He looked up at the Paris rooftops before running and jumping. He misplaced how high he could jump and found himself crashing into a roof. "Oww,"

 He got up and dusted himself down as he heard a yell. He looked over and saw two people hanging from a pole. One was a girl dressed in a one piece that was red with black dots and the other was a guy dressed as a black cat. He would guess they were the others Sass told them about. The cat boy freed them and stood up.

 "I bet you're one of the partners my Kwami told me about. I'm... hmm..." He looked away to think as she tried to pull a string . "Cat Noir... yeah, Cat Noir and you are?"

 She yanked it free and it landed on Cat Noir's head. She sighed.

 "I'm madly clumsy," She mumbled, frowning. "I'm so clumsy,"

 "No worries, clumsy girl. I'm still learning the ropes too," He grinned. "I wonder where our other partner is,"

 "My Kwami mentioned a third hero..." She mumbled, rubbing her arm. Luka took a deep breath and jumped down, getting their attention. Instantly, the cat boy came over.

 "Hi! I'm Cat Noir!" He grinned, holding out his hand. Luka slowly took it and shook it.

 Lu- I mean... um.... Snake....Viper.... rion... yeah..." He mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm Viperion,"

 "Viperion! Nice to meet you!!" He grinned before running up and chasing after the monster. The girl took a deep breathe before following. Luka sighed to himself and jumped up, this time landing ok before he ran towards the stadium. He landed on it as Cat Noir hit the creature, making it grow bigger. He frowned and watched as it growled and threw a football net towards the girl he saw on the news. Cat Noir went to throw his baton but the creature grabbed him and the bug girl looked terrifyied. Luka jumped down and pushed her out of the way before the net hit her. He got up but was swiped up next to Cat Noir. "Hey, scales. Think you can poison him?"

 "That's not my power, whiskers," He replied as they both struggled.

 "Hey! Super redbug girl! What are you waiting for?!" The girl shouted as bug girl watched in terror. "The whole world is watching!"

 It was like the girl's words hit a chord in her before she swooped down and wrapped her yoyo round it before diving up and running. She turned and faced it.

 "Animal cruelty? How shameful!" She gasped before yanking the rope freeing them. They both rolled over and she gasped. "Sorry it took me so long,"

 "No worries," Luka grinned.

 "It's cool, Wonderbug!" Cat grinned. "Let's go kick his rocky behind,"

 He went to run off but the bug grabbed his tail and pulled him back.

 "Haven't you noticed he gets bigger and stronger with each attack?" She mumbles, looking like she's thinking. "We have to try something different,"

 "Like what?" Luka asked but Cat grinned.

 "Let's try using our powers!" He grinned. "You go first, scales!"

 "Um ok..." He mumbled, pushing the head back of the snake. "Second Chance!"

 Both him and Cat blinked as he looked around. 

 "Did anything happen?" Cat asked as Luka looked at the bracelet. He nodded the head of the snake was moving so he pushed it back. Both him and Cat blinked as he looked around. 

 "Did anything happen?" Cat asked, causing Luka to look at him.

 "You literally just asked me that,"

 "No, I didn't," 

 "You literally did then I pushed this back and you asked me again," He replied, pushing the head back. Both him and Cat blinked as he looked around. 

 "Did anything happen?" Cat asked, causing Luka to look at him again.

 "Dude, why are you asking me that again?"

 "I haven't asked you that before..."

 "You asked twice," He replied before his mind clicked. "Ooh... I see... everytime I push back this,"

 He pointed to the head of the snake that was slowly moving.

 "It resets time but only I remember," 

 "That's it?" Cat gasped, a little disappointed but the girl seemed impressed.

 "That is useful," She smiled, making Luka smile too.

 "Ok! My turn!" Cat grinned. "Cataclysm!"

 His hand became covered in a dark energy and he grinned excitedly before turning to them,

 "I can destroy anything I touch," He declared before touching the lamppost, destroying it before facing Stoneheart. "It's just you and me now! Time to rumble, soon to be rubble!"

 "Cat Noir! Wait!" She cried out as he ran towards the villain. He jumped and slammed his hand down but nothing happened. He placed his hand on again before grinning up at it. 

 "I guess I only had one shot at my power," He gasped before getting kicked back before looking at Luka. "Mind resetting?"

 He nodded and went to but she stopped him.

 "No," She stated, causing both of them to look at her. "You won't learn that way and you only have five minutes before you turn back. Didn't your kwami explain anything?"

 "I guess I got a little overexcited about my new life!" He grinned, causing Bug girl to roll her eyes and Luka to smile a little before she turned and faced the creature.

 "Well, up to me," She mumbled, throwing up her yoyo. "Lucky charm!"

 A diver suit appeared out of thin air and she caught, getting an odd look of both Viperion and Cat Noir.

 "Superpower?"

 "My Kwami told me I have to break the object which the what-cha-ma-call it..."

 "Akuma?" Viperion asked, making her nod.

 "Yeah.. where the akuma is hiding,"

 "Well, he's made from stone," Cat Noir pointed out, making her gasp.

 "His right hand..." She mumbled, pointing to it. "It's closed,"

 "He's never opened it," Viperion points out. "He caught both me and kitty cat with his left,"

 "It's like the russian dolls," She mumbled. "The object isn't on him. It's hidden in his fist,"

 "So what's your plan?" Cat Noir asked as she looked around. She smiled and pointed to the suit.

 "This," She replied, grabbing a hose pipe. "Viperion, I need you over there. When I say, turn on the tap,"

 "Right!" He replied, running over as she wrapped her yoyo around Cat's feet.

 "Don't resist and trust me," She declared, swinging him around and throwing him at Stoneheart, who caught him before she jumped at him with the diving suit at hand. "Catch me if you can!"

 He open his fist and caught her.

 "Viperion! Now!" She shouted, causing him to turn on the tap, which in turn filled up the suit and forced Stoneheart to open his fist again, freeing her. She jumped down and stamped on a purple rock, breaking it and freeing a little butterfly. Stoneheart turned back into a normal kid as Viperion switched off the tap and walked over as Cat Noir got up.

 "That was amazing!" He gasped. "You were both amazing!"

 "Um... thanks..." She mumbled as Cat's ring beeped. "You better go. Our identities must remain a secret,"

 "I should go too," Luka replied as Alya rushed over with her camera. "I hope we meet again soon, you two,"

 With that, he jumped out of the stadium and headed home. Just as he reached the boat, the transformation dropped and he caught Sass in his hand, who looked tired.

 "Are you ok?" He asked.

 "I need food," He mumbled as he curled up in Luka's hands. Luka nodded and entered the boat before placing Sass on the side and looking in the cupboard. "Do you have cake?"

 "I thought you were a snake. Don't snake eat mice?"

 "Bleh. I like cake," He mumbled, causing Luka to laugh softly before he took out a fairy cake. He gave it to Sass as the news showed him and the other two fighting off Stoneheart.

 "Ladybug. Call me Ladybug," 

 "Ladybug?" He questioned before smiling. "It suits her,"

 He began to make his food but the news suddenly took another negative turn.

 "Just as Paris is about to celebrate it's new heroes, panic ensures again as people are been turned into Stonebeings. No one is sure if what will happen. Will these creatures come to life or be stuck in time forever?"

 "What?!" He gasped, looking over in shock. "But we defeated Stoneheart?!"

 "Did Ladybug capture the akuma?"

 "Um... she broke the object and a purple butterfly flew off,"

 "So that's a no then," Sass replied, eating the cake. "The butterfly is an akuma. They must be captured or it multiplies itself and this happens. If Ivan becomes Stoneheart again, all those stonebeings will awake and become his army,"

 "Oh god. How do we stop that?"

 "Find the akuma and capture it,"

 "How do I do that though?"

 "Only Ladybug can purify and restore Stoneheart and the damage he's done,"

 "Oh... so me and cat just help her?"

 "Yup," 

 "Wonderful... when do we go after Stoneheart?"

 "We'll have to wait for him to return,"

 "Great,"

[404fmdhaon]

creative claims verifications — downtown baby

summary: a song written for some random npc he meets in berlin. warnings: none (written semi-drunk, don’t read). wc: 1825 (not including lyrics or dates)

(sometime in 2014).

bc’s buildings never feel as hallowed out as it does on early morning sunrises.

no windows, the studio’s only a place for show when passing bodies become the cleaning ladies peeking through the window in raps on the door (he shakes his head, two fingers in the air that screams: not today, another day). his body hovers over a guitar, fixed inside the pocket of his arms — a guitar he’s touched for the first time in months. and in hindsight, he really doesn’t know how to play.

yet, he tries when the first strings pluck something melancholic. no chords, it’s a string of repetition that sing the odes to a lonely night inside a studio. when he gets home? he has no recollection — home becomes this safe space with the couch already engrained ready to swallow him whole when exhaustion takes its toll.

first, it comes in steadiness where the guitars free-fall into a gentle lull. he imagines sundays to be like this — the poise of something standard, just constant. deserted places inside a studio, he thinks it’s near habitual when his body stumbles into the room he’s deemed his. 

second, comes when the pace quickens and the sting on his fingertips give rise to the heat and layer of rouge. call him a sadist, he presses harder — the force of visceral pain giving into the emptiness he’s filled himself with. there’s nothing more that gives into the loneliness he doesn’t feel anymore. the numbness of an aching phantom pain, music that no longer yanks out the fervor it once did, and what he craves most is the overarching freedom of music in full revolt. the blaring sounds of speakers and not so much the meager tones that barely encase the hums of the strings.

yet, he plays on. presses record when the strings become nothing but a broken record of the same three notes. it’s repetition when a mind’s at a halt, already encased and engrained in another thought — the thought of another song trapped inside the walls of his hard drive. still, he just continues.

and when his mind rids the instrument at play, the second coming of something bland ensues. he pulls out his keyboard, a few clicks into logic. (he’s a creature of habit, and he’s the first to admit). so, when the settings already surmise a standardization of kickdrums in base, he fidgets. lets his fingers assemble the baselines of something old — a kickdrum that plays off-beat in the hums of the guitar. 

looming. eerie — call it an effect of the time of day or an effect of laziness, his mind already wanders into the restlessness of his feet tapping along and a head already in sync eating, feeding into the music that lies in his bones. (here, he wonders — selling out, was it worth it at all? now, is this just a time for broken hopes and wasted hours?). 

talentless is how he sees himself. pitiful in the way he doesn’t try out creativity for the punches of something new that rides with the harmonies of the chart — pavlov’s dog, and he’s only been trained with the act of self-criticism wrapped up in false bravado for sake of others. shitty beat, a shit simplicity. nobody buys it, not when he’s sitting inside a company that slaughters him for food.

sell out for the masses, he’s accepted the notion many times before. but he still presses on.

presses on when the third cue comes in the safe haven of keys — the keyboard, and he realizes, he’s been a fucking fraud all along. classically trained in each and every term of hours invested into hakwons, and all he manages is a bare four key press tampering with a simple flit of keys. there’s a progression that ensues near the end, and he knows this is a dead beat only hinders the effects of too many hours torn and dry. his fingers scratch his head, a distaste in perfection leaving him to leave the blue screen then and there with a steady force pulling him back onto the sofa.

palms on his head — he closes his eyes. sleep is for the weak, and in this case — he’s so fucking weak.

—

(sometime in 2016).

he meets her on a sunday.

some rusty pub in downtown berlin — berlin the scene of nightlife and non-stop parade of underground pubs. (gyujeong gives in when he’s guised inside the anonymity of a foreign country). 

he steps outside for an air, free from the clouds of smoke that engulf his lung inside. yet, when he’s out away from a manager and the incessant patterns of clubs gone haywire, he manages to balance a cigarette between his lips. hands dug deep into the pockets, patting and salvaging a lighter no longer there — he groans, lets his eyes flicker to a girl in a pink wig, curved lips that speak: i’ve been watching you.

she’s pretty. almond shaped eyes and a killer smile between the smoldering cigarette, dressed inside nothing more than the rags of yesterday. he shoots her a look, narrowed eyes. her footsteps follow off-beat with the booming speakers of the club, and her hands raise a light.

“you’re welcome.” she says, the coyness in her voice unavoidable. she wears bravado like he’s never seen, and he arches a brow in question.

“i didn’t say thank you.”

“you should.”

“no.” 

“i’m celine.”

“that’s not your real name.”

his own cigarette burns on, ash collecting in the ends. his fingers curve across the thin stick, tapping it away as his eyes stare deadly into hers. she’s intoxicating, her aura is. no alcohol, only the thrumming steadiness of nicotine running in his veins, yet he’s brought to a halt of words when curiosity takes over.

-

the night ends early morning monday when he stumbles in past too many glasses of wine and the taste of sin resting upon his tongue. his hands reach for a pen, the hotel notepad shuffled in the side. he realizes, is this love? or is this a dazed dream into a figment he’s lost into the night.

yet, he writes of her.

you’re my downtown baby your eyes are the stars of the night you’re the dream i wanna dream of every night baby without you i can’t do this anymore.

he writes for the confidence she walks in when it becomes intoxicating into his lungs — each shared conversation of make believe and maybes, the future uncertain. (he asked for her number, she said : room 628). 

he writes for each lapse of laughter caught up in the weariness of alcohol sitting on his tongue, his hands wrapped in hers engulfed in the scent of smoke-tainted clementines and vanilla. she tells him he’s delirious underneath french wine and berlin stars, and he tells her she doesn’t know him.

she never knew him, he never knew her.

but what he thinks of is tomorrow, and the time that ticks against their fleeting memories.

“don’t think this is forever.”

“i don’t.”

“good. today and tomorrow.”

“number 628, 6 pm.”

he envisions her slender arms and some german movie indecipherable to his cause — what he craves most is the skin on skin contact that comes when his lips inch closer to hers, only to barely graze the surface of silent mutters. (he drowns in her, he has. he will).

but physical magnetism dies when she parts her mouth. 

elbow to floor, palm to head, he stares — collects each trace of her into his memories to splurge out now. from the faux mole drawn underneath her eyebrows and the dimple that dips in when gutentag gets exchanged for bonjour. he loses himself in her, gives her a piece of his soul when she purses her lips alluring her in each step of the way.

let’s watch a movie then drink all night long let’s light a cigarette and talk all night long.

gyujeong knows, time is uncertain. not when the pen writes more permanencies than the fleeting words she gives. and what she’s given him becomes a timepiece of tonight and the hope for tomorrow. half-dazed, he lights another cigarette — the lighter that becomes the image of her. smoke in the air, she’s her downtown berlin. the taste of a new city he’ll never stretch anew.

a one time piece into escapism, he gives into her. gives into every touch and every word, breathing in the pieces till he dries his mind empty and blank — it’s lost, he’s lost. they’re lost, and she’s still floating high above while he remains stationed into the anonymity he loses the second berlin becomes a wasted touch of nostalgia.

—

(sometimes in 2016).

insomnia hits him like a train wreck.

not when he’s in the dorms lounging inside the room he canvases as his makeshift studio, but when he’s inside the same walls of a studio. the cacophony of marred notes and juxtaposed instruments no longer providing the safe haven they once were.

creative stump.

he calls it when his head tilts, and the straw balances between his mouth. one sip, americano doesn’t jolt him awake, no. it steadies the curse for mouth clicks into a dead hard drive he hasn’t touched in years.

one dated: 2014, he opens. finds the beat once satiated with sell-out written all over it and a mind that breathes in the beats he once deemed helpless. it’s the same noise of the simple guitar rift and steady baseline. the punch comes from the piano inside the ghostly repetitions. 

but he opens it up, and it’s the jostle of berlin sitting underneath his skin, unable to forget. he remembers it all with the notes sprawled out in front of him.

downtown baby.

the mic’s already in place and he realizes — those are the only words he has left to give to the woman who’s given him it all.

he sings the first few chorus in the beginning. the first take’s too gritty, and he realizes her touch is far from that — it ripples at the surface, lingers. when it stays too long of fragile fingers carding through his hair, and the softer laughter that comes from the cheap shots of “your hair feels like my golden retriever back home.”

so, he goes with take eight when it becomes a mirage of roughness laced with the drag of his voice — uncertainty comes in tone, the apprehension that embeds inside the chorus when he sings. never polished, imperfect inside each polished frame of smiles and whispers wrapped up in a pink wig.

verses continue, and he doesn’t find satisfaction — not with the first, tenth or twentieth take. it’s too fine tuned to his status quo. and he’s never been ruthless nor a crippling force when it comes to her, no. he’s been the one that disarms, falls back into the trap of tongue-tied merciless confusions.

so, he gives that to her.

gives it in when his voice perches back to drag of singing rap, the lyrics conspicuous in a punch of early-morning mania. perhaps, he doesn’t know what incoherencies come from mind at bay, just the after effects of jaded yesterdays.

[ne0n-thunde1]

Happy holidays y’all!

This is my gift for @ghosttransmissions ! I hope you like it!!

The girls first Christmas

The girl was the first to wake up, as the winter sun flittered through the filthy windows. She usually had to be woken up by the others, with varying degrees of care, but today was different. There was a little note at the bottom of the beaten up mattress she slept on. ‘Merry Christmas kiddo!’-Party’s handwriting messily done in black marker- ‘If the suns up come wake us up’ It looked like party had written something about kobra and not waking him, but it had been crossed out. ‘No going outside without us!’ Jet had messily added, with a little doodle of the ‘sandy Claus’ they had told her about the night before.

She leapt up and ran down the hall faster than a tumbleweed in a storm, giggling happily. The worn door- it’s from before the war’s Dr.D said!- Came open as she leant against it, before throwing herself onto the nest of mismatched blankets and pillows That’s Party’s and Jet’s bed. With a soft thud she lands, laughing, followed by a grunt from both of them. Jet’s long limbs were tangled around party, who looked at her with a smile.

“Merry Christmas kid!” Their hair was stuck to one side of their face, and despite only just waking up, they were wearing the familiar wide smile that only appeared just before a big concert or celebration. Jet slowly untangled himself from party, still half asleep, eyes only partly open. “Morning sunshine..” he mumbled and ruffled her hair. Party chuckled and nudged his arm

“Wake up, c’mon it’s Christmas! And I’ve got to go help wake up kobra! Not every day I can do that and not get in a fight after.” They laughed and rolled off the makeshift bed, then stands up and picks up the girl.

“We could sneak up and jump on him, or throw pillows, maybe put the radio on loud next to the bed, If we’ve got enough water to spare we could throw some on him..” she thought for a moment, weighing up how wrong they could go, but how funny they would be. Jet rolled out the bed in a similar way to party, standing up then pulling on their jacket and stretching. They snuck up behind party, holding a ‘sandy claws’ hat and pulled it over his head, red fabric matching their hair. “Hey!” They scrunched up their face “I could have dropped her!” The girl laughed and pulled the hat down over their eyes. They let out a mock scream and put her down.

“NOoooooo.. I hath been slain..”

After a few minutes of preparation, the girl and party are armed with pillows from around the diner, jet stood behind with the Polaroid camera, all three silently holding back giggles. Party cautiously opened the door, the girl sneaking in under their arm, party following with jet behind him, lightly treading. The girl threw the first pillow, hitting kobra square in the face.

Kobra is a heavy sleeper, ghoul however, is not. He moved out the way as the first pillow was thrown, and added their own pillow into the hail. A chorus of laughed filled the small storageroom turned bedroom, joined with grunts and yelps from kobra. Jet laughed and watched the chaos.

By the end, kobra was curled up and clutching a pillow as a shield. “W-What the hell? Go the fuck back to sleep!” He yelled from behind the pillow.

“It’s Christmas morning Koko.” Ghoul grinned excitedly and pulled the pillow out from his grip “You gotta get up.”

“Yeah Kid!” Party pulled their brother to his feet. “Last one to the Christmas cactus is a drac kisser!” They laughed and set off running, kobra swearing as he pulled on his glasses and ran after him, stumbling a little, the girl giggling and following behind.

This left jet and ghoul to slowly followed behind, laughing happily. No matter how old their boyfriends got, they always acted like kids sometimes.

The night before, as the sun had set, the four had gathered together as many brightly coloured things as they could, as the girl listened to the radio. They ended up with a few bandanas, bright plastic cables and a can of blue spray paint. “Hey kid!” Ghoul smiled as the rest crowded behind him. “Remember that Christmas thing? Well, it’s time to decorate the cactus!” The girl picked up the radio and ran over to them, a skip in her step. “Yay! So sandy claws can find us right?”

“That’s right kid” jet grinned “We gathered all the brightest decorations we could, and some paint.”

“You get first decoration kiddo” party looked at Kobra’s slightly disappointed face. “Youngest Always gets first.” She looked through the rainbow pile, the four crowding around her, old Christmas songs that show pony had found for DR.D playing on the radio. After a few moments she pulled out an old bandana, neon green and pink.

“Where do you wanna put it?” Party crouched down, ruffling her hair

“Up there!” She smiled and pointed at the second highest point of the cactus, the top of an arm like branch. “Lift?” She made puppy eyes at Jet.

“Why’d you never ask me bean?” Ghoul pouted dramatically

“You’re shorter than Jet like me!” She giggled as Jet picked her up, chuckling as kobra bent down to hug ghoul and party laughed lightly.

“True.. but you didn’t need to point it out.” Ghoul grumbled.

After a few moments of lining the bandana up just right, the girl tied it around the prickly arm, Jet cheering as the other three clapped, a proud grin filling her face, sticking her tongue through the gap from her missing front tooth.

“Let the decorating begin!” Party pulls out a rainbow feather boa and wraps it around the centre as ghoul paints a smiley face in neon blue on the arm and kobra hangs an old crimson bauble he found in the sand on a spine. Jet carefully puts the girl down and they join the careful mess, all adding their own decorations and paint to the cactus, careless singing and improvised lyrics filling the air with laughter and joy.

It looked like a bomb hand blown up, throwing paint and random bright objects over the cactus.

“Still needs something at the top..” kobra stepped away from it and tilted his head.

“Didn’t dr D say he used to put a star on top of a tree?” She bit her lip and thought.

Ghoul looked at party, wide smile creeping over his face. Party shook their head, defensively stepping back and crossing their arms.“No. Not happening.”

Jet grinned “I’m with ghoul.”

The girl looked between them, trying to figure out what unspoken thing they were discussing. They always did that when they got excited or didn’t want her to know about something. Of all the great and wonderful things they did, this was the one she hated.

“Your mask would be perfect.” Kobra beamed and ran back into the diner, party letting out a yell as they struggled to catch up with him, a small cloud of sand lingering for seconds after they got inside.

It clicked for the girl as she joined Jet and ghouls laugher

Kobra emerged seconds later, holding the mask like a trophy, party smiling and shaking their head behind him.

“You want to have the honour poison?” Kobra held out the mask, the sun now set and moon the only light.

“Thanks Kobes.” Party took it, then carefully placed it on top of the cactus. The 5 admired their work, before cold winds came, biting at their faces and they headed inside to sleep.

Kobra got outside first, skidding to a stop in the sand, followed by party and the girl. She stopped dead in her tracks, five brightly wrapped parcels now sat under the cactus, each with a label on it.

“Sandy claws came! Sandy claws came!” She smiled and jumped up and down as ghoul and Jet came into the sun, blinking as their eyes adjusted.

“Hell Yeah He did!” Party laughed

The girl looked closer at the parcels, trying to read the labels like Jet had taught her to, the four smiling with childlike happiness l as they gathered around, ghoul leaning against kobra as Jet put his arms around party.

“This ones for kobra!” She smiled and struggled to lift the foot stall sized box, tied with cheap shiny yellow ribbon with various coloured paints splashed across it. Kobra moved to help her, ghoul almost falling over as his weight went from on kobra to air, a surprised curse followed by laughed escaping him.

“Sandy claws brought me something?” He grins and lifts the heavy box, making it seem as if the girl was taking most of the weight as it rattled. “This is heavy!” He chuckled.

“Open it!” She giggled and bounced as kobra set the box on the sand, struggling with the ribbon. Ghoul smirked and undid it in seconds, kneeling beside him in the sand and stuck his tongue out.

“Show off.” Kobra smiled and kissed his boyfriend quickly, then pulled the lid off the box. His eyes glittered like the computer parts and robot scraps inside. He gently dug through the box, amazed at the stuff. “How did y- sandy claws get hold of this stu-“ he pulled out a broken Nintendo power glove, party smiling widely.

“Thank you.” He got up and hugged the four, then the girl. “How about you go check the other parcels?”

She giggled and grabbed another parcel, a small oblong box with neon green ribbon

“This one says..” she struggled to read it for a moment. Jet looked at kobra. Usually his handwriting was pretty good. “Party!” She jumped up and giggled, lifting the package with ease and handing it to them.

“For me?” They grinned and undid the bow then opened the lid. Inside was a bright pot of poison red hair die and a mix of random paints.

“Holy sh-sugar.” They lifted a few of the tubes up. “Still sealed?.. damn this is is the good stuff. Sandy claws really is magic huh kid?” They ruffled the girls hair before hugging the rest of the floor, whispering a quiet thank you to each of them. No one wanted to ruin the magic for her.

She already had the next gift in her hands. “Jet! This ones yours!” This time the present was wrapped in paper, makeshift glue holding it shut.

Jet knelt down and accepted the gift as she held it out to him, shaking it a little. With a wide smile, they ripped the paper open, and a small bag of guitar strings a a pick fell out. He held them like they were pure gold.

“You said you needed new strings!” She looked at them. His old strings snapped a few weeks ago.

“Yeah.. sandy claws really is magic like that. He knows what you need.” He shared a smile with the others, mouthing Thank you’s and how did you get these’s?, only to get mischievous grins and shrugs back.

“There’s two left..” she picked one up and read the label. “Ghoul! This one says it’s for you!” She bounced the painted shoebox as she dashed over to him, party and kobra both looking slightly alarmed. She handed it to him with a wide smile “You really are being sandys little helper” he smiled and ruffled her hair as he took it and opened the lid. Inside was a Polaroid camera, clearly old but with a new coat of paint, a portrait of the desert. He carefully looked it over and put his eye to the viewfinder.

“This is amazing.. thank you!” He bounced up and hugged them all.

“How about you check the last present kid?”

She knelt down beside the large box “this one says.. me!” She grinned and took the lid off, the four crowding around. A soft meow cane from the box as a small, black kitten stick its head out, looking at the girl. Ghoul grinned and snapped a picture of the moment.

“A cat!” She picked it up, smiling as the cat looked at her, then gently put their head against her.

“Looks like they like you.” Party smiled and softly petted the cats head.

“They’re the best gift ever!” She laughs as they lick her cheek.

A sparkle lit up in party’s eyes.

“Hey Kobe’s. I’m gonna build a sand man.”

Party was sat in the sand, hair newly dyed.

“I’m gonna build a better one.” He grinned and jumped up, finding a spot then piling sand into a mound.

Party party started beside him, in a similar way, two trenches being made as sand was piled high. The girl played the radio, jet playing and singing along. Show pony refused to let Dr.D play anything other than the same 15 songs all week.

“I think we” he gestured to the girl, Jet and the cat, “Shall judge who wins”

“Sounds fair.” Kobra nodded, starting to smooth the edges and form a head.

“May the best win?” Party held out a hand, the other working on smoothing out the body a little.

“May the best win.” Kobra shook it, quickly returning to making the head.

“Hey, Jet!” Party stopped for a moment “go grab my helmet for me? And the bottle cap box. We need to decorate these piles of sand!” They grinned, having finished shaping it, though not giving it a head.

“Why’d you need your helmet?” Kobra looked confused as Jet got up to grab them.

“You’ll see soon. Your head looks good.”

“Yours seems to be missing.” Kobra laughed, the cat climbing the body shaped mound.

“Here.” Jet handed party his mousekat helmet and put the jar of bottle caps in the sand. “It’s looking great love” he smiled and picked up the cat, sitting down then handing the cat back to the girl.

Party placed their helmet on top of the sandman, then added a few bright bottle caps as kobra formed a smiling face by pressing the caps into the sand.

Party had finished a few minutes before kobra, and sat beside Jet, wrapping and arm around his shoulders as the girl and ghoul played with the kitten, petting them and rolling around a ball of paper they made. When kobra finally fished, half smile matching the sandman’s wonky grin, ghoul, Jet and the girl stood up and inspected the sandmen.

After a moment's discussion between the three, they turned to party and kobra, who sat in the sand beside their creations.

“We have come to a conclusion” Jet announced, the other two snickering behind him.

“We will let the cat decide!” She held up the meowing black kitten before putting them down between the two sandmen then stepping away.

The cat looked at each of them, tension rising as the five watched. It’s paws were near silent as it walked and climbed up a sandy pile, then sat on the blue fur of the mousekat helmet.

“FOR FUCKS SAKE. YOU CHEAT.” Kobra overdramarically fell to the floor, then burst into laughter.

“Victory!” Party grinned and picked up the cat, spinning around then hugging them close.

“They only chose yours because it had the mouseKAT helmet you didn’t even make.” He pouted.

“Creativity little bro.” They teasingly grinned, prompting kobra to stand up and step closer.

“Says the cheater.” He smirked

“Am not.”

“Am too.”

“I’m going to play some guitar, who’s coming?” Jet sighed and walked back to the cactus, the girl and ghoul following.

“Want to help me figure the camera out?” Ghoul smiled at the girl as the cat sat on her shoulders.

“Sounds fun!” She smiled as Jet sat down to play and ghoul picked up the camera.

After a few minutes they had it figured, ghoul held it out, facing towards him with everyone doing their own thing behind him, and snapped a photo.

When they were all around the best table in the diner, the least worn and torn one, eating the canned peaches Dr.D and show pony had given them as a gift, all singing to the radio, ghoul handed kobra the Polaroid.

“I took this earlier. Could you write something on it? Maybe we should start a scrapbook or collection or collection of important memories..”

“Sounds like a great idea” kobra smiled as he carefully wrote ‘girls 1st Christmas’ across the bottom.

[shes-soparticular]

What Happens in Bali...

There are certain announcements you just shouldn’t make on April Fools day.

A/N: Fluff. Very light mention of smutty happenings.

Words: 4033

              It was only half past three in the afternoon and Alex had already had one hell of a day.

For starters, she’d woken up late only to trip over Shawn’s guitar case on her way out of the bedroom. A stubbed toe wasn’t enough to ruin her day but instead it was her husband she cursed under her breath as she grasped the handle of the guitar case. How many times had she begged him to stop dropping his shit in the most inconvenient places? There was an entire room in their home devoted to his guitars so why in the world did he insist on leaving it outside of the bedroom door where she was bound to stumble over it? Frustrated, she’d picked up the case to move it to its rightful place just for the lid to fall open and Shawn’s favorite guitar to spill to the ground. It smacked the ground with a loud thud, the neck broken off at a right angle, narrowly holding on by the strings. “No no no no…” She whimpered to herself, kneeling down to scoop up the broken instrument. As she immediately pictured herself packing a bag and driving off into the sunset to avoid admitting she busted his most prized possession, Shawn rounded the corner.

“Honey, where’s the-” He stopped dead in his tracks the second his eyes fell on the guitar, his jaw going slack. “Oh god, what did you do?”

Her panicked eyes met his as she scrambled to her feet. “I’m sorry, it was an accident! You left it right in the doorway, I tried to move it and I don’t think you even latched the case shut…” Alex chewed on her lip, carefully picking up the neck of the guitar with shaky hands. “Maybe we can put it back together?”

Rubbing his jaw with his face turned towards the ceiling, he stood in silence, seemingly trying to filter whatever it was he wanted to say. After a long pause, a deep and frustrated sigh escaped him. “It’s one of a kind, custom made. The one Mayer gave me. It can’t be fixed or replaced.” The disappointment in his voice ate away at her, as much as she wanted to remind him it really wasn’t her fault to begin with. No matter who was to blame, something incredibly meaningful to him was irreparably damaged and her heart broke for him.

Letting the pieces drop gently back to the ground, Alex rose to her feet and pulled Shawn’s hands into hers. A more sincere apology was working its way to her lips when she felt a small hand on her calf. Glancing down, her gaze was met by little brown curls and doe eyes that matched her own. “Good morning, Matty.” Reaching down to pick up their two-year-old son before he could touch any jagged pieces of splintered wood, she notices his eyes focused on Shawn. Almost looking for…reassurance? Shawn mouthed something back to the toddler, although Alex couldn’t quite make it out.

“Apwil Foos, Mama.” Matty’s sleepy voice finally announced, his head still on a swivel between Alex and Shawn. For a minute, she was totally lost trying to interpret toddlerese. That is until the deep frown on Shawn’s face stretched into a devious grin, his fist reaching out to Matty for one of their father/son fist bumps. It’s then that it dawned on her…it’s April 1st. How in the world did she not see straight through this ruse? She was literally on her way to the kitchen to cover cherry tomatoes in chocolate as her own April Fool’s joke. She should have immediately guessed that this whole broken guitar act was her husband’s way of beating her to the punch. Putting her palm on one of Matty’s ears and leaning his head into her shoulder to cover the other one, she narrowed her eyes at Shawn. “You asshole,” She hissed, quiet but sharp. “That was so mean! I was freaking out!” Seeing the all too pleased look on his face didn’t help matters and it took all of her energy not to give him a swift kick in the shin. Looking back down at the pieces again, it now occurred to her how cheap and flimsy the wood looked and how light it had been in her hands. That little shit had a cheap replica made just to send her on a guilt spiral.

“The look on your face? Priceless.” Shawn didn’t even try to hold back his laughter, which only got his little shadow started too. Matty always wanted to be in on every joke, even though he rarely understood what was happening. It was next to impossible for Alex to stay angry while surrounded by the laughter of her boys, but she wasn’t going to let Shawn get away with it so easily.

“Laugh it up,” She raised her eyebrows and shot him a frosty grin, pushing Matty into his arms. “I’ll get my revenge. Just wait.” Their prank wars had only escalated over the years and April Fool’s Day was the ultimate challenge considering they were usually each on high alert. Last year, she’d convinced him that he’d leaked naked photos of her which culminated in him trying to schedule an emergency conference call with his entire team at five in the morning. Two years ago, he’d fooled her with what turned out to be a fake (and incredibly unflattering) tattoo of her face on his back. Point being, she would never have had her guard down had it not been first thing in the morning before she’d fully cleared the sleep from her eyes.

“Oh, you mean those tomatoes you hid in the back of the fridge?” The look on Shawn’s face couldn’t have been more smug. “You’re going to have to try harder than that. I don’t think you’re going to get me this year.” Hoisting Matty to sit on one of his shoulders, he glanced up at his giggling son. “You’ve made your Mom lose her edge, buddy. She used to be so good at pranks, now your Dad is the master. If you’re lucky, I’ll teach you the art of deception.”

“You absolutely will not teach our child how to deceive us.” Alex rolled her eyes, hard, watching nervously as Matty leaned a little too far backwards on Shawn’s shoulder. Thankfully, Shawn had this eerie sixth Dad sense where he always managed to catch Matty by the shirt or an ankle before he totally wiped out. This time it was an ankle, Matty laughing his head off as he hung backwards over Shawn’s shoulder. It took a minute or two for Alex’s heart to start beating again (did a toddler really need to be 6+ feet off the ground??) and she reached out to peel her son off of his father and bring him back into the safety of her arms.  “Consider that, Shawn. He’ll be sixteen and joyriding in your car before you know it and it’s not going to be my fault.”

Shawn contemplated this, knowing his wife had a really, really good point. Matty had an endless supply of energy and it probably wasn’t the best idea to teach him how to use it to mess with them. He’d likely do enough of that on his own. “Fair enough. Sorry, bud.” Engulfing his little family in his arms, he planted a kiss on each forehead. “Happy April Fool’s Day, good luck getting me back.”

This earned yet another eyeroll from Alex, but her head was already swimming with ideas for vengeance. Could she have his car towed while he was at the studio that afternoon? No, too obvious. Convince him her parents were fighting and her Mom was coming to stay with them indefinitely? No, too frightening. Was he right about her losing her edge? Had she lost her special touch at taunting and tormenting her husband? No way, she’d come up with something. She had to. “Just give me a real kiss and clean up this dumb guitar before I send the real one off the balcony.”

His eyebrows shot up at her threat, but they both knew it was completely empty.  “You would never.” Leaning in, he brushed his lips against hers teasingly, still withholding the kiss she’d demanded. “You love me too much.” This was true, he had her there.

“Maybe so, but all is fair in love, war, and April Fools.” She grumbled back, using her free hand to wrap in the hair at the back of his head, pulling him all the way in for her morning kiss.

Alex had spent the better part of the morning running errands, hoping for divine inspiration to strike her when she least expected it. So far? No luck. Taking Matty into the grocery store probably wasn’t the best idea, considering it took every ounce of her mental strength. Making it through the supermarket with Matty was as close as she would ever get to playing an extreme sport. Whether it was scooping him up seconds before he’d pulled out the bottom box of a display of goldfish crackers or wrangling him off of the top shelf he’d managed to climb up in the cereal aisle, she was pretty sure she could cancel her gym membership and create her own CrossFit style fitness program based entirely on chasing toddlers around public places. A woman with two small children passed by her, one crying about the flavor of jam they’d picked and the other swiping an entire shelf of toothpaste into the cart as she shared a knowing look with the frazzled mother. The tight but soft smile they shared was the equivalent of throwing a Mom gang sign to show their support for one another. As they passed out of view, Alex stared down at Matty. “I think you’re going to be an only child, sir.” She wasn’t sure if it was the smug look that he shot her (and god damn, why did he have to look just like his Dad?) or the fact that she was passing a wall of pregnancy tests, but the thought hit her like a ton of bricks. Bali. Fucking Bali.

    When she insisted over and over that she didn’t want anything for her birthday other than to go out for brunch and whatever trinket Matty could make her out of dried macaroni, that hadn’t satisfied Shawn. But Alex just wasn’t the materialistic type, not to toot her own horn or anything. She’d just never been a big fan of jewelry, she was the queen of thrifting and had a penchant for vintage clothing versus whatever Hermès or Saint Laurent was peddling, and other than her phone, what electronics did she really need? Travel, though, that was her Achilles heel. She could never say no to a trip, would bend over backwards if it meant making an adventure happen. Of course, Shawn was well aware of this weakness. Thus, what she thought was a ride to her birthday brunch was really a ride to drop Matty off with Shawn’s parents before catching a flight. To Bali. The number one destination on her bucket list.

Being that it was a last minute, spur of the moment trip, she hadn’t put a lot of thought into packing her bag. In fact, Shawn’s exact words had been, “Yyou have thirty minutes to pack before we leave for the airport, sorry.” Thus, there were several things she’d forgotten. One, her cell phone charger. No big deal, she’d use Shawn’s. Two, sneakers suitable for hiking. Not a problem, she could pick up a pair when they got to Ubud. Three, her birth control. Yeah, that one was an issue. It wasn’t like this was just a trip to LA where she could pop into any CVS pharmacy and grab an emergency supply of her super specific birth control prescription. It was a ten-day trip. To Indonesia. And it wasn’t like she was going to just…not have birthday sex with her husband in one of the most beautiful villas she’d ever seen in the most breathtaking place she’d ever been.

    They had mutually agreed to wait another couple of years before giving Matty a sibling. Shawn had an impending tour starting later that year and neither of them could imagine trying to manage two little ones on the road. Ever since Matty was born, they’d decided that he and Alex would travel along with Shawn whenever possible. It wasn’t always realistic and it was rarely easy, but it kept them together and that was all that mattered. Before they’d even decided to try for Matty, they’d swore to one another they’d give him as fulfilling of a childhood as they could. To them, fulfilling meant creating memories for Matty he could look back on fondly later, shared with both of his parents and surrounded by love. So no, it wouldn’t be a normal childhood by any definition. Matty’s first steps had been on a moving tour bus. His first word had been in Spanish while they were at a café in Buenos Aires. He’d already seen more of the world in his short two years than most people saw in a lifetime. But Alex wouldn’t have it any other way. Yes, it was difficult to calm a teething baby in a different hotel room every night or to find something akin to Cheerios in a foreign country when that’s the only thing Matty would eat. Yes, there were nights that she wanted nothing more than to tuck Matty into his own bed rather than a green room pack and play. However, those things paled in comparison to her son getting to see his Dad every day. To be there to catch him after those first steps. To spin him around in celebration after that first word. To make him laugh, to wipe his tears, to just simply be there. All of that being said, it wasn’t impossible to do with one child. But adding another to that mix? It just wasn’t something Alex was ready to do.

Yet that didn’t stop her from letting Shawn push her up against the shower wall in Bali, thrusting into her as the warm water cascaded over their joined bodies. She’d mentioned to him after unpacking that she’d forgotten to pack the pill and maybe they should pick up some condoms. It was one of those suggestions they both nodded over with no intention of actually accomplishing. And within twenty minutes, there they were having risky shower sex with reckless abandon. After that, their shared mindset was that the damage was done and they might as well enjoy their trip unencumbered. It wasn’t like Matty happened the FIRST time they had completely unprotected sex, so the chances that a ten-day vacation would totally derail their two-year plan didn’t seem likely.

But now, as she sits on the edge of the tub waiting for not one, not two, but three pregnancy tests to reveal their results, Alex can’t help but feel incredibly foolish over their tropical fueled heedlessness. Deep in her thoughts as Matty sits on the floor in front of her, ramming a toy firetruck into her ankles and driving it up and down her calves, she lets out a long sigh. Bali Alex™ really hadn’t had future Alex in mind when she insisted on having sex on every surface of that villa, sans goalie. The simultaneous sounds of the front door creaking open, Matty’s feet scurrying out of the bathroom, and her cell phone alarm blaring to announce the moment of truth yank her out of her thoughts and bring her back to reality. A reality where there were a total of six pink lines in front of her. Well…she does love adventure, doesn’t she?

     There’s no sense in making a big production out of it, so she simply marches out into the kitchen with all three positive tests clenched in her hand. Matty is already there, perched on the kitchen counter eating what appears to be rocky road ice cream. She grimaces at the sight, knowing the sugar rush to come considering she’d already caved and given him gummy worms at the supermarket. “I come bearing ice cream for Matty and wine for Mommy, since I’ve been feeling incredibly guilty all day.” Shawn holds up her favorite bottle of red, two glasses already waiting on the counter.

     “Hold that thought, oh, maybe for the next eight months.” Alex sidles up to the counter, grabbing one of Shawn’s hands so that should could place all three tests into his palm. “Three of a kind, Mendes.” The look on his face as he stares down into his palm quickly changes from confusion to shock and then…amusement? He hands the tests right back to her, shaking his head in the process.

    “Whoa, you’re pulling out the big guns, eh?” Now the look of confusion transfers to her face. “Not gonna work, Alex.” What? It’s not like she expects him to pick her up and spin her around or anything (okay, maybe she does), but this really isn’t the reaction she’d expected. What the hell was he even talking about? And then, for the second time that day, it hits her. April Fools Day.

    “Wait…you think this is an April Fools joke?” Her eyes nearly double in size, an incredulous laugh leaving her chest. “This is the absolute worst thing you can joke about on April Fools, I would never.” She truly wouldn’t. There were certain topics that were just off limits when it came to pranks and this was possibly the biggest one. Yes, she could be ruthless when she wanted to be, but she’d never cross this line.

    “That’s what you want me to think.” Shaw’s guard is still up, eyes raking over her to pick up any sign that points to her lying. He knows her tells. The way she always looks up through her eyelashes. The way she always drops one hip, trying to look calm and collected. He can read her like a book. But right now…she must be putting on the performance of a lifetime. Because the tone of her voice sounds a little too earnest, the look in her eyes a little too disconcerted. He’s ready to cave, about to pull her into his arms, until the memory of the prior April 1st fills his head. The one where her voice had been quaking and her skin burning red as she showed him risqué photos of her he had supposedly leaked. He remembers how quickly that quake turned into a belly laugh and how she’d done a victory lap around their bedroom declaring herself winner of April Fools. Nope. She must be desperate to one up his prank and she was just going to the greatest length she could. “You waited for it to become socially unacceptable and THEN you strike. Classic Alex, you almost got me.”

    “Okay, so how did I fake these positive pregnancy tests then? You think I’m out running around stealing pee from pregnant ladies?” She’d folded her arms against her chest, eyebrows raised to challenge him.

   “I don’t know, you can probably buy fake ones on the internet or something.” He finds this completely plausible, shoulders shrugging as he steals a bite of ice cream from Matty’s dish. If he could get a cheap replica guitar made with ease, why couldn’t she figure out how to fake a pregnancy test? “Wait, does this go all the way back to Bali? Were you already setting me up then?” The scoff this earns from her feels like it further proves his suspicion. To him, it seems as though she’s laying it on too thick.

    “You are going to feel so stupid when this kid shoots out,” Alex laughs softly to herself, reaching up to brush non-existent salt off of his shoulder. “And I’m never going to let you forget it.”

It’s still dark when she wakes to his fingers running softly down the skin of her back. As her eyes slowly flutter open, she sees the red numbers on the alarm clock reading 12:01am. She knows exactly why he’s still up and why he’s tugging her from sleep. “Mmm, you just been laying awake waiting for the clock to strike midnight?” At the sound of her voice, his hand snakes around her waist to pull her backwards against him, her bare skin pressing against his.

“Yes.” He momentarily buries his face in her hair, taking in her scent, waiting with bated breath to hear what she’s ultimately going to say. To see which direction their lives are about to go. “This isn’t a prank, is it?” His fingers ghost across her flat stomach, tracing circles and shapes that give her goosebumps.

“What are you hoping to hear?” She shifts on to her back so that they can lock eyes, the mixture of fear and excitement reflecting between them. But the fact that the excitement outweighs the fear calms the endless train of thoughts surging through her head.

“I’m hoping I was wrong.” His hand stills, as he takes in every detail he can. The freckle under her right eye, the curve of her hip, the way her chest rose and fell with every breath. She places a hand on top of his, threading their fingers together.

“As always, I’m happy to tell you that you were wrong.” A soft giggle floats from her but it’s quickly captured by his lips. Despite the fact that they’re wholly unprepared, despite the fact that this derails their plans, this kiss is filled with relief. Relief that they have one another to navigate life with, come what may.

When the need for air finally becomes too much, their lips part, foreheads resting against each other in quiet satisfaction. He brushes his thumb across her stomach once more, a smile spreading across his face. “Our Bali baby.”

“We can’t call her that, we’d have to start calling Matty our “backseat of the Jeep baby” and I think he might resent that.” Yes, she’s boldly calling this baby her. She can’t say why, but she has a pretty good feeling about it.

“Backseat of the Jeep? No way, that’s not where Matty was made.” He rolls on to his back, pulling her half way on top of him. He knows it has to be too early and maybe it’s just the moonlight streaming through the window, but he swears she’s already glowing.  “Bathroom of the AMA’s.”

“Oh, okay sure, that’s MUCH more poetic.” She swears her eyes are going to hurt from rolling so often in a twenty-four hour period. “We get one trip to ourselves and what do your dumbasses do? Make another baby.” She hides her face in his chest, but he can still feel that grin of hers.

“Happy Birthday?” It comes out as a chuckle as he reaches to pull her body up further so that her face hangs over his. “I mean, are we really that shocked? We knew this could happen, we did literally nothing to prevent it. I don’t want to speak for you, but I think we wanted to let this happen?” They weren’t the type of couple that sat down and made long lists weighing the pros and cons of every decision. They were more of an “I jump, you jump” couple that just took life as it came and went for the ride. So it wasn’t unnatural that this is how they’d end up adding to their family – by exploiting a mistake like forgotten birth control and silently letting fate take it’s course. Or maybe that was just an incredibly refined way of making an excuse for the fact that they were stubborn about wanting raw sex on vacation, no matter the consequence.  Either way, everything would work out. They both knew that without a shadow of a doubt.

“I think maybe we did.” Alex admits, bumping her nose against his before stealing another kiss. Her teeth close teasingly against his bottom lip, pulling it lightly. “But really I just wanted to get rawed on vacation, let’s be honest.”

Tagging @fourtristattoos for Dad!Shawn week 🥰

[a-cai-jpg]

this is how the story ends.

Sometimes, she can barely remember the way he looked.

She can still hear his voice—breath curling around her name and low baritones tickling her ears. Sometimes, if she closes her eyes and tries hard enough, she can trace his features with the tips of her memories—grasping at his eyes, the curve of his lips, the slopes of his cheeks—only for them to slip away like smoke. 

He returns to her only as she drifts aimlessly between wake and sleep, teetering dangerously along the border as her eyes focus hazily on his smile. He fades in and out of her mind, and she thinks she can still feel the warmth his fingertips left around her wrist, on the curve of her waist, against the tips of her ears as he softly brushed back her hair.

As life shuttles her from one end of the hemisphere to the other, she wonders whether he had really existed. Whether they had really existed. But, even time and an aging mind can’t erase the scalding fingertips he had haphazardly left on her life. 

.

.

[m a d r i d,  s p a i n]

On the Amtrak from San Francisco to Los Angeles, she finds herself in Madrid, summer. He is next to her, an ice cream cone held loosely in one hand as he points with the other. They are laughing, her head thrown back as she lets the warm, slightly humid wind caress her cheeks. He pauses in the middle of suggesting Let’s sit at a café—the heat’s killing me to take in the way her eyes crescent and shine, like the blinking fairy lights drawing waves along their bedroom wall back home. She averts her attention from the scene around them—a street performer jubilantly strumming the strings of her guitar, a six or seven year old shrieking with laughter as his parents chase after him—and looks at him, head cocked to the side. He smiles and leans in.

.

.

[t o k y o,  j a p a n]

She drags her suitcase through her apartment door in Los Angeles and ends up at the top of the Tokyo Tower, nighttime. The sweet scent of cherry blossoms wafts even to the height of over three hundred meters. The night chill is a sliver harsher up here than the central streets of Shibuya. She’s anxious, sweat pooling at her palms as she looks down at the twinkling city lights below. Her fingers inadvertently twist themselves into the hem of his loose, white t-shirt. He glances at her and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close. I won’t let you fall, he whispers against her ear as he lightly brushes her hair with his lips. She smiles and huddles closer to him, feeling the warmth of his chest radiating against her side. 

The scene is picturesque—the hum of the city dimmed as the two of them lean against the floor-length glass separating them from the hurtling descent back to the winding streets of Tokyo. They watch the lights slowly blink off one by one as the city settles into its pseudo-slumber. Staticky music plays in the background. Her eyes drink in the miniature metropolis, and she feels “acrophobia” become just another foreign word she can’t understand in this foreign country. 

She wonders if this is what forever feels like. She wonders if this can last into eternity—her steadfastly leaning into him, stealing his presence and the scent of his Calvin Klein cologne, watching time pass them by. 

What are you thinking about? He asks, nudging her slightly. She cranes her head back to tell him, eyes crinkling as a chuckle bubbles in her throat, and falls. 

.

.

[l o s  a n g e l e s,  u s a]

She lands in a building on the edge of the LA financial district. She brushes through the office, balancing a thick stack of papers and a Starbucks coffee. Recently, her sweet tooth has abandoned her, and she finds the words an iced Americano, no cream or sugar please tumbling from her tongue. 

She reaches her cubicle and drops the papers onto her desk. Absently, she drags a finger across the thin layer of dust that has gathered at corners of her unusually neat, organized working area. It looks exactly like how she left it, one Thursday afternoon after mechanically organizing and re-organizing the objects on her desk. The uncanny feeling that someone has broken into the office and replaced every single one of her items with an exact duplicate settles uneasily in her gut.

It feels foreign. The sticky notes lining the plastic divider, the handful of her favorite pens gathered in a metallic mug, the photo frame placed face down, the PC monitor with the light blinking orange. It’s as if she is here to replace the girl who had previously occupied this space, a shadow of who she had once been.

She turns around, and he is behind her, grinning as he offers her a cup of coffee from the office Keurig. He’s wearing a light blue button down, the first two buttons undone because she always claimed, You look too stuffy with it buttoned to the top. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows because he never liked the way it interfered when he typed. She can smell the rich warmth of the coffee tempting her to reach out and grab it from him.

His eyes twinkle as he edges even closer, the coffee mug the only thing separating them. Her heart races, and she swears the vibrations are transmitted through the cup and into his fingers and up his arms until they are in sync with his own heart beat. Three creams and one sugar on Mondays, right? There’s a bit of a giggle in his voice, connotations of an inside joke, warm and familiar, lightly dusting his words. She doesn’t reply and stands on her tiptoes and kisses him.

“How was the business trip?”

The question registers too loudly, too jarring to her ears—like the lights of a surgery room switching on and glaring down at her. She reflexively lifts the corners of her lips, but the smile reaches her eyes a half-second too late. She watches her co-worker’s eyebrows furrow, her mouth pursing like it’s about to open and say something, so she beats her to it.

“It went smoothly,” she says. “A bit tiring, but fine.”

She tries for a small grin.

It must be lopsided, because her co-worker stretches out a hand and places it on her arm. She tries her best not to flinch and widens her smile despite the strain in her cheeks. One last sympathetic pat, and the hand is gone. There’s the sound of a chair wheeling away, the delayed “click-clack” of a keyboard, and she finally sinks into her own chair.

She feels strange. Like she has unzipped her skin, stepped out of it, and donned a replica that is slowly shrinking and suffocating her—figuratively-literally squeezing the life out of her.

Her computer shudders to life, the bright blue Windows screen doing nothing to startle her from her reverie. Her arms unconsciously wrap themselves around her torso, and she digs her nails into her side as if about to rip off this flesh-colored cloak she has sewn on.

The sight of her wallpaper forcibly drags her out of her mind. She scrambles for the mouse, fingers slipping—right click, personalize, change wallpaper, default. Her cursor hovers above save, entertaining a brief, wrenching moment of hesitation before she presses down on her mouse. The resulting click is dull with weariness.

The steadfast pain pounding away in the hollow area in her chest intensifies. 

She ignores it. 

They have lunch in a café a couple of blocks down from the office building. A chicken salad for me and a breakfast panini for the lady please. He orders without looking at the menu. He knows too well her idiosyncratic love for breakfast foods, no matter the time of the day. Why? He had asked once, as he amusedly watched her wolf down a McDonald’s hash brown at dinner. Because, she had replied with a cheeky wink, I don’t like endings. He hadn’t asked further—maybe he understood, maybe he didn’t—but he never forgot. Good thing this café serves breakfast 24/7. For weirdos just like you. He stresses the last word, eyebrows raised and lips parted in the faint beginnings of a laugh, and leans back in his chair. She looks at the way he lounges comfortably in the wicker-woven chair, the midday sunshine dancing across the dark crown of his hair and highlighting the warm browns and reds, and thinks she might be in love.

She reaches across the table to take his hand, but the scene fades to black and white, and her fingers close over thin wisps of smoke ghosting across her palm.

.

.

[n e w  y o r k,  u s a]

Her fingers ache as she presses them against her iced smoothie. The sun is partially hidden behind the clouds, its rays fighting futilely against the stubborn, autumnal, and distinctly New York-ian chill. She’s sitting on a park bench, staring straight ahead with contemplative eyes, as if she is trying very hard to recall a memory long buried in the abyss of her mind. She mindlessly rubs at the condensation dripping on her plastic to-go cup before placing it down on the bench, next to the sandwich wrap she’d nibbled around. 

The white noise of the New York office rumbles at a higher decibel than the LA one, humming a constant reminder that the day is fading. She had arrived early this morning to a nearly empty floor, but the space quickly filled up with the sound of office workers going about their routine—sharp peaks of laughter, chairs screeching as they drag against the linoleum, heels echoing as their wearers rush from one end of the building to the other. The sounds crescendoed as they bounced off the walls of her mind, and suddenly, the world was thrown into a sharper contrast and everything was a little more saturated than before. She took a deep breath she couldn’t let out, and then someone made eye contact and was walking towards her and speeding up and opening their mouth and she turned and walked down eight flights of stairs to the front door.

She takes another sip of her smoothie and feels someone settle their weight next to her. Why did you leave LA? he asks, reaching for the sandwich sitting in between them. He pauses, seems to think better of it, and rests his hand back onto his lap. He looks at her expectantly, but she continues to squint at the skyline.

He waits patiently and counts the number of bikers and joggers he can see. The wind crinkles the edges of the sandwich wrap, and he shivers. 

An eternity or two passes them. Time expands and crashes, the momentum shocking the core of the Earth and rolling off in waves of tremors imperceptible to everyone but her. She blinks rapidly. 

“So I can stop seeing you.”

She gets up, tosses the sandwich and smoothie away, and makes her way back to the office.

.

.

[I N T E R L U D E]

She sits at her makeshift desk, bedroom lit only by the singular lamp standing in the corner. Her hand is sore from gripping the pen and pressing the nib heavily into the ream of paper in front of her. Ink splashes lightly from the tip, and she drags it angrily across the sheet.

   I thought                   You promised                         

                           We were supposed to go to Taiwan this year     

       Your mom called the other day       

                                                             I can’t go anywhere without   

                                 I think I’m cracking from the inside out      

          Why         

                                                   You lied.    

                                                                                                   YOU LIED.    

YOU LIED YOU LIED YOU LIED YOU LIED YOU LIED YOU LIED YOU LIED YOU LIED YOU LEFT YOU LEFT YOU LEFT YOU LEFT YOU LEFT YOU LEFT WHY DID YOU LEAVE WHY DID YOU LEAVE WHY DID YOU LIE WHY DID YOU DIE

The sun had long set. She remembers watching the sky bleed splashes of fiery orange and navy from the living room floor, arms wrapped around her bent knees. She had sat with her head against the window for an immeasurable period of time, listening to the hushed echoes of off-tune carols and the sounds of her neighbor’s children welcoming their father home. The digital clock on her nightstand is blinking, red numbers flashing warningly.

She takes a deep breath and loosens her fingers. Her knuckles creak as she stretches them. She wipes at her cheeks and starts over.

It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. 

Your mom called the other day to wish me a Merry Christmas and ask if I was going to return home for the holidays. She said she wanted to make me dinner. She said I should visit home often, and visit her, and visit you.

I think she’s lonely.

On March 21st, I cancelled our plane tickets to Taiwan. They wouldn’t refund the ticket price because it was too close to the departure date. 

You know, I think I was waiting. I think I thought you would come back, and in April, we would be driving from Taipei to Kaohsiung. You always said you wanted to visit the motherland. December’s almost over.

It’s really cold in New York. I don’t think you would like it. The snow isn’t the soft, fluffy kind you see in Michigan. Do you remember when we went to visit Jackelyn? It was the first time I had seen snowfall. I ran outside at 8PM and you had to chase after me with a jacket and a scarf. It didn’t matter though, because you ended up stuffing a snowball down my sweater.

The snow in New York is grey. It turns into wet, slippery slush as soon as it touches the pavement, and by the time it accumulates into a pile, it becomes dirty ice. 

The other day, I slipped on a patch right in front of my apartment and cut my palm against the jagged pavement when I tried to break my fall. When I got home, I realized I didn’t have any Band-aids, so I had to go back outside to buy some. You were always the one with the first aid kits and disaster kits. If an apocalypse hit now, I don’t think I would last very long.

Like right now, the world is ending. The world is falling apart, crashing down around me, and I’m sitting at this desk. I’m writing these words on this sheet of paper, and when I’m done, I’ll stick it in an envelope and scrawl your name on the front, and then I’ll drop it in the mailbox and pray that God will take pity on me and it will get to you. But I know it goes nowhere. It goes in the shredder, and then the trash can, and then the landfill, and then maybe it’ll become one with the earth, and I guess in one way or another it reaches you. The paper, I mean. I don’t know if the words do.

I hope—

I’ve been having a recurring dream. I’m in our apartment in LA again. It’s morning, maybe a Sunday because the sun is already filtering through our blinds. I feel it warm my cheek. I can hear the sound of the water boiler in the kitchen. I roll over to feel your side of the bed, but it’s cold. Something in me jolts, like my body is trying to remind me of something I have forgotten. I panic, but then I remember. You’re probably buying breakfast.

I like eating ham, egg, and cheese bagels for Sunday morning breakfast.

The doorbell rings, and I get out of bed blearily, grumbling under my breath about how you forgot to bring the keys with you. A small voice in my head asks how you got into the building in the first place, but my brain is still sleepy and slow so the thought filters away. The doorbell sounds insistently, and it feels like I’m dragging myself through sludge. When I finally yank the door open, the shrill ringing doesn’t cease. You’re not there.

Instead, it’s me. I’m pressing the doorbell again and again. There’s a desperate look on my face as I increase the frequency of the rings. Finally, it’s just one long, sustained pitch.

Then, it hits me.

I realize it’s always going to be me ringing the doorbell. It’s always going to be me opening the door.

Suddenly, the me outside the door stops the noise. She places her cold palms against my cheeks and says something I can’t hear.

This is usually when I wake up, sometime between late night and early morning.

It’s during these hours that I miss you the most.

Lately, I’ve been seeing you less and less.

When I see your face, it’s blurry, smudged around the edges. When I hear your voice, it’s a wavering pitch, like it’s trying to find the key of a melody it hasn’t sung in a very long time. When I feel your touch, it’s the ghost of a breeze the wind leaves behind.

She stops writing and takes a shuddering breath. Her hand is trembling.

I’m afraid I’m going to forget you.

The pen falls from her grasp. The clatter interrupts the dark silence but is quickly swallowed by the night. Ink smears where her tears splatter across the page.

.

.

k a o h s i u n g,  t a i w a n

The camera clicks, and she pulls it away to inspect the photo. There’s a streak of blue across the bottom, and then it’s the green of Cijin island and the striking white of the Cihou Lighthouse. She looks back up at the structure on the other side of the water and sees a movie play on the television.

She’s in LA, sprawled across the couch with her legs over his lap. He grabs the bag of popcorn she’s hugging in her arms and stuffs a handful in his mouth. We should do that some time, he says. Don’t speak with your mouth full, she admonishes, kicking her heels lightly against his thigh. Do what? He gestures at the screen. Drive around Japan and explore every lighthouse. 

She takes the popcorn back. You do realize she’s just finding the lighthouses in the Setouchi region, right? Not all of Japan? He shrugs. Well, we can do all of Japan. Or find a list of the coolest lighthouses in Japan and go to all of them. She laughs. But the coolest lighthouses are probably the hidden ones that aren’t on any tourist itineraries.

He ponders that for a moment, watching the screen intently as the female protagonist smokes a cigarette. They sit in silence for a moment, letting the sounds of the movie filter into the space between them. Then, he wraps his arms over her legs and pulls them close to his chest.

You’re right. I guess we have to find them on our own then. It’ll take a while, wouldn’t it? We can take a week off every year and just drive up and down the coasts of Japan. I feel like by the time we’re 80, we would’ve covered all of them.

Okay. 

Really?

Yeah. But, why?

Because lighthouses are great. She learns the contours of his history through the landscape of the lighthouses. Even in a coma, he is helping her unravel the pain and fear and confusion, guiding her forward with each unexplored lighthouse on the map. 

The horn of the ferry sounds. She hands her ticket to the attendant and boards the boat. She leans against the railing of the top deck, watching as the lighthouse looms closer. The spring, April air smells sweet and young. Soft sunlight glistens off the crests of the rocking waves and throws patches of brilliant blue and green into sharp relief.

As the ferry draws her nearer to Cijin island and the lighthouse, the wind caresses the side of her face and whispers a question in her ear. 

Are you still afraid?

She smiles and closes her eyes. Her reply is lost in the sounds of waves lapping against the edge of the boat.

author’s note