#i think curt might also be wearing the wrong jacket here??

[smytherines]

that I can help with!

thinking about them again I fear

[spencerreidimagines]

Lovely Little Details

//Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: none

A/N: hey y’all, sorry for the late post!! This just a little coffee shop imagine that foreverrrr to get out of my head lol. Hope y’all enjoy! p.s. there usually is a read more link but I’m on mobile so this post is just gonna be left as is until I get my hands on a laptop :)

It was in a quaint coffee shop that Spencer had first laid his eyes on her. She was tucked into a corner, with her head low and her eyes steady. Her hands cupped a steaming coffee mug dotted with stars and hand painted constellations, as her eyes followed the wandering city-goers through the window beside her. A leather journal was splayed open before her; with a shift of her elbow, he caught a glimpse of the ragged manifestations of her thoughts.

He spotted lines and dots and creatures lining the side of her page, her sketches on the journal's edge were specific; definite. He followed along the coils and stray hairs that sprung from her high bun, the slope of her neck, the slight smile that rested upon her lips...

Spencer sighed and righted himself in his seat to face the nearly empty coffee cup before him; he had been staring, he realized. He clacked his fingers against the table as he silently hoped the splinted moment when they caught eyes hadn't been as noticeable as he felt it was.

A name was then shouted in the background, and through the bustle of the cafe he heard the soft kick of someones hasty steps. He'd held his breath as he ran through the incredibly slim chances that it might be that stranger from across the room, a slight knot curling in his stomach as he had no idea what to say to this woman if she decided to confront him. When he felt a tap on his shoulder, his face shriveled into a grimace before he fixed himself to face this stranger, his eyes soft and apologetic.

"I think this might be yours," a mild voice floated to his ears, "They handed me the wrong drink, then just gestured over here so..."

"Oh," he responded, surprised, before reaching to take the cup from her hands and nodding in thanks, which she waved away with an awkward smile resting on her lips.

"I also noticed you staring earlier," the beginnings of an apology began to push against his lips before she continued on, "Which normally would throw me off but, you're kind of cute, so I thought I'd just...invite you to sit with me for a while."

His brows shot up in surprise before he composed himself and checked his watch, thankful that he still had about half an hour before his lecture, "Sure," he responded as he began to gather his things.

"Alright," she sighed, donning an accomplished smile before she turned on her heel and crossed the room to return to her seat, nerves now beginning to fester in her core as she absently scanned over her notes to distract herself from the growing pit in her stomach.

‘what on Earth was I thinking?' she thought to herself before she stifled her thoughts as Spencer set his things along the back of the chair and sunk into his seat. He flashed her a courteous smile once their eyes met.

"I have to admit," he started, "I'm a little surprised that you'd invite me over here after you caught me staring."

“You know, I'm surprised myself," she admitted with a small chuckle, "I don't usually do things like this, but something about you caught my attention," She paused as her gaze flicked to his hands playing at his sleeves, he was fixing the watch to peek out of his tweed jacket, "do you have somewhere to be?" she asked.

“I have a, uh, lecture in half an hour," he responded, his voice stern and yielding against her open ears.

"You're a teacher?" she asked, brow raised in intrigue, to which he nodded with a shrug, "That explains so much about you."

"It does?" he asked, his head lightly cocked to the side.

"Mhm," she hummed, taking a sip from her mug, "You seem like the scholarly type." His eyes flicked to the side as he digested her oddly forward answer, "What's your name?"

"Spencer," he said before he quirked his brow to silently request for her own.

"(y/n)," her gaze wide and inviting, before she set her mug down with a soft clink, and rested her chin onto her hand, "So tell me about yourself, Spencer, there has to be more to you than teaching."

"I only teach lectures occasionally," Spencer flitted his eyes to the table, her unwavering attention slightly overwhelming, yet warm enough to keep his own tethered between them, "majority of the time, I work in the behavioral sciences unit, in the FBI."

Surprise and intrigue flashed across her features as she raised her mug to hide her gleaming smile, "Behavioral sciences unit, huh? So you study people?"

"That's actually a misconception," he began, "we investigate federal crimes through a behavioral lens. The creation of this department is actually a pretty interesting story," She nodded for him to go on, and as he spoke, (y/n) followed his hands as they fluttered about, "When it was first established, most of the general public didn't believe that serial killers could've had the capacity for compassion in their early lives."

"Well, in their defense, it's pretty hard to see someone as a compassionate human being after you've been a direct witness to the families that they tore apart," (y/n) responded, frankly, "So, what changed their minds?"

"The profiles started working," he said matter of factually.

(y/n) just nodded, a simple frown on her face as she digested his information, "It must've taken years for a turn around like that," she lowered her mug, "I can only imagine how hard it must've been to get that department off of the ground."

Spencer scoffed, "Yea, not many people liked to change their minds back then," he responded, accents of jest and spite dancing along his words, "So, uh, what do you do?"

"I'm an author," she responded, pride flashing across her features before melting into rested humility.

Spencer's eyes flashed before his tongue dashed across his lips, he could only imagine the worlds hidden away in her mind, "How long have you been writing?"

"Oh, I've been writing for years, and it was a challenge to find a way to get paid for it," she responded, dismissive yet firm with her voice, "nobody believed me when I said that I was going to open up the world through my words; make it seem more inviting and colorful than it's turned out to be."

He watched a storm roll across her gaze as she followed her rippled reflection in her mug, her finger lightly playing at the rim. "I know I probably just sound like every other starving artist out there," she chuckled, "but I've dreamt this big since I was a kid, so a couple of naysayers aren't going to stop me from doing what I love."

Spencer nodded, "I know how hard it is to be doubted by the people who are supposed to support you," an empathetic smile flickered across his lips, "it took my mother years to accept my career path."

"Oh, yea?" she asked, "I had no idea you could meet so much resistance in becoming an FBI agent."

Spencer chuckled, bashful, "Most of the resistance came from how young I was. The other training agents were nearly ten years older than me when I started."

(y/n) startled a bit, "Ten years? How young were you when you started working for the FBI?"

"Twenty two." He answered simply, and upon realizing her blase response, he quickly followed up with, "Most agents join the FBI in their mid-thirties."

"Oh, I see I have a genius on my hands," she jested, "somehow, that doesn't surprise me." She muttered wistfully, her hands interlocked under her chin. "The jacket, the hair, the wide intelligent eyes; you have scholar written all over you."

"You could tell that just from what I was wearing?" He asked, a mild wonder tinting his words.

"Mhm, writers study people too," she responded nonchalantly, "passers by present so many details of who they are on the surface."

He spared himself a glance as her eyes turned to the bustling city goers, drinking her in as much as he could. The white sheen of the snow covered sidewalks bounced off of her skin; she seemed to steep in the weak winter sun. He followed how her shoulders rose and fell with a wistful breath before she darted her gaze back down to her journal, her fingers caressing the page as kindly as the breeze that spins autumn leaves.

"That's how I make sense of the world," she started, "those little characteristics that no one pays any mind to make the world so bright for me, and I want to share that perspective with as many people as I possibly can."

Spencer felt the apples of his cheeks grow warm as he gathered the earnest hope held in her eyes while she cradled the page between her finger tips. Her drive to share her craft ran so deep; she was so open and honest.

Before he could get another word out, his watch beeped, drawing both of their gazes to his wrist; their half hour was up. The rising excitement in his chest deflated as he began to tuck his watch back into its place, “I hate to cut this short, but I have to go.” He said, apologetically, “When can I see you again?”

"I'm not going anywhere any time soon." An easy grin spread across her lips as she scanned her frenzied notes, “I like to come to this corner of the coffee shop whenever I have writer's block, and I usually don’t leave until I have a decent story on my hands."

Spencer's lips quirked up to a grin that matched hers, before he nodded and stood to gather his things.

"On the off chance that I do leave before you’re done lecturing," she started, grabbing a napkin and scrawling something across it, "Here's my number. I would love to see you again."

His grin widened as he took the napkin and pocketed it before gathering the rest of his things, “I’m glad you invited me over here,” he said bashfully with his hand gripping his satchel’s strap.

“I am too.” (y/n) responded, her hands cupping her mug once more, while she smiled softly, “now go before you’re late.”

With a curt nod and a gentle wave, Spencer turned on his heel, and made his way to the coffee shop doors, a slight bounce in his stride as he let his mind travel mere hours ahead of him when he could see (y/n) again. Her and her idiosyncrasies drew him in, and he could not wait to figure her out.

[emersonfreepress]

New Year's Eve 2000 @ the Emersons'

"Is he here? Have you seen him?!"

The laughter in Heidi's clique fades abruptly and the queen herself scowls at her brother for his interruption.

"Seen who?" Jessie asks in such a sweet tone Heidi's forced to wipe that sneer off her face. Good ol' Jess. Curt can always count on her to diffuse the H-bomb before it even gets going.

"Gabe." Curt does another cursory glance around the room and still doesn't see him. Then he checks his watch and groans. "It's like five minutes to midnight, where the hell is he??"

"I'm pretty sure he isn't coming," Madison says. She crosses her legs and looks up for a second in contemplation. "Is he even in town still?"

"What do you need him for?" Brooke whines with a pout and a subtle toss of blonde hair. "Come sit with us, the countdown's starting soon."

"Brooke," Curt starts. "You're beautiful."

Brooke quits pouting and preens under the unexpected compliment, batting her lashes with a small smile. "Curtis..."

"But I see you all the time."

She deflates just as quickly.

"Cortés said he would be here, he wouldn't just..."

The girls all stare at him. Madison fails to hold back a laugh.

"Oh." Madison covers her mouth slightly. "Sorry."

"He wouldn't just lie to you?" Heidi asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. Her eyes add, 'Are you stupid?'

Curt just groans again and walks away. He can't explain himself to them. Jessie might know what he's talking about but he's only got four minutes left to find Gabe and he's already got his answer: they haven't seen him.

Is it possible he really didn't show? Curt doesn't know how to feel about that. He's not an idiot, that was sort of what he expected. Gabe has skipped the holidays in Emerson for two years straight and it was pure dumb luck that Curt even spotted him at all downtown last weekend. He didn’t seem all that different, busy as ever somehow, but he'd at least had enough time for Curt to invite him to his parents' New Year's Eve bash and to give a polite yes.

Curt sighs. Maybe that was the sign. The politeness. Since when has Gabe ever been polite to him?

It's only ever hostile neutrality or whining with that guy...

Three minutes.

Curt is being stopped by a former classmate/future nobody or some family acquaintance every few seconds now. Even if Gabe is here, there's no way he's going to find him before the clock strikes twelve. Sighing forlornly, he decides to make his way back to Heidi and her friends. At least Brooke is reliable for a kiss.

- - -

"Oh!" Jessie beams and jumps up from her seat. "There you are!"

Gabe gives her half a genuine smile before settling into a more careful one for Heidi and the Madisons—um, Brooke and Madison. He should probably stop thinking of them like that.

"Hey, Jess." The two hug and Gabe shuts his eyes for a quick second as he gives her an affectionate squeeze. They part and he greets the other girls. Heidi shoots him a nod of acknowledgment and a raised glass while Madison gives him a short wave. And Brooke... crosses her arms and ignores him.

Okay...

"Curt's been looking for you," Heidi says, holding an empty champagne flute out to him before standing to grab their table's bottle of Dom. "Apparently you promised him you'd come."

"Ah, yeah. I wouldn't call it a promise, though. " Gabe almost passes on the champagne but Jessie's bright smile leads him to accept the glass and the alcohol that follows. "More like..."

"Placating a child?" Heidi asks, amused.

Both Gabe and Madison laugh at that.

"Sure, that."

"One minute, everyone!" someone shouts.

"Here we go..." Madison gets to her feet, nearly reaching Gabe's height in her heels.

Brooke jumps up, perplexed. "What, already? Who the heck am I supposed to kiss??"

"Aw, I'll give you a kiss, Bee."

Brooke's arms uncross just to rest on her hips alongside another pout. "That won't count, Mads."

Madison just laughs in response and teases Brooke some more. Meanwhile, the remaining empty hands around the room quickly fill with glasses while more and more people begin joining the countdown. Heidi makes sure their group's glasses are filled before swapping the bottle in her hand for a tumbler of whiskey and downing it. Gabe also notices her shoes are off and to the side—someone's had a long night.

Jessie lightly nudges him in the side with her elbow, breaking him from his observations.

"So are you leaving tomorrow, after all?" The soft smile on her face is hopeful so Gabe sighs, regretful to disappoint her.

"Yeah." He rubs the back of his neck. "I just... This town is..."

"'Stifling?'" They both wince a little, Jess in her attempt to keep a smile on despite her disappointment and Gabe at hearing his exact word quoted back at him.

"Right. It's not the people—"

Jess giggles and pats him on the arm. "Oh come on, Gabe. It's the people."

He rolls his eyes with a light laugh. "Okay, yeah. Even just being here right now..."

Jessie sighs. "Yeah, I know. It's always weird coming back just after a few months out of state. I can't imagine after two years."

Gabe nods, the thin glass stem in his hand suddenly feeling a little too brittle for how tense he is. How tense this environment makes him. He shrugs, though.

"Well, I'm glad I got to see you, at least."

"Ten seconds! Ten! Nine!"

Jessie hits him with the full brightness of her smile and one of her tiny bounces of joy.

"Yeah! Me, too."

- - -

Just as the entire party begins counting down from ten, Curt finally gains sight of his sister and her friends again. Brooke catches sight of him too and smiles, knowing exactly why he's returned. He smiles back at her for a second before he falters when he sees...

Ha! I knew he meant it!

He's never wrong about these things. Curt smirks hard and licks his lips, unable to keep from internally gloating. Gabe showing up at all is a victory in and of itself.

"Eight! Seven!"

Oh, wait. No, it's not. Curt speeds up his approach.

"Six! FIVE!"

It's only really a victory if he reaches him at midnight!

- - -

"I have a good feeling about 2001!" Gabe rolls his eyes, cynical as always, but Jessie cheerfully insists. "Just watch, this year is going to be perfect and—oh! Three! Two!"

Gabe refrains from counting but turns with everyone else to face the giant screen displaying the Times Square Ball Drop.

“ONE! Happy New Year!”

The room they’re in, and the rest of the house, erupts in raucous cheers, shouts, and champagne glasses chiming. Jessie nearly crushes Gabe with a giant hug as she shouts “Happy New Year!” and that manages to pull a real smile from him, even as they almost spill both of their drinks. They both laugh and clink glasses instead.

“Happy New Year, Jess.” He turns to the other girls, who are just toasting each other. “Happy New Year, Heidi. Madison.”

Heidi wears a polite smile and nods as she raises her glass to him and Madison enthusiastically clinks her glass against his with a breathless “Happy New Year!”

Gabe turns to Brooke, who’s turned away from him and is fluffing her hair. Should he bother? Eh... might as well. “Happy New Year, Br—”

- - -

Curt is vaguely aware of Brooke leaning into him as he walks up to Gabe, but his tunnel vision forces him to sidestep her with a smile. Everything’s fallen into place: it’s a bangin’ party, it’s midnight, Auld Lang Syne’s just started, and the belle of the ball has finally arrived. He doesn’t wait for the boy to finish whatever he was saying and just goes for it.

Gabe’s eyes widen just a bit before Curt plants a kiss fully on his mouth, placing one hand lightly at his lower back for support as he leans into him. Gabe lets out a stuttered breath and clasps at the lapels of Curt’s suit jacket to keep upright. That brings a cocky grin to Curt’s lips and he raises his other hand to brush his thumb along the bottom of Gabe’s jaw, just as lightly.

"Mm." Curt darts his tongue out to savor his old classmate for just a moment longer before finally drawing back. With a boyish smile and a slight bite to his own lip he says, "Happy New Year, Cortés."

Madison makes a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a shriek.

“God—DAMN it! I told you I needed my camera, Jessie!” The girl darts away in a flash of jet black hair and spilled champagne, presumably to go find it. Brooke has gone pale. Heidi rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her champagne.

Gabe is frozen, gobsmacked. After he starts to feel others’ eyes on them, though, his expression finally breaks into one of angered incredulity and he shoves Curt away from him.

"What is your fucking problem, Emerson?!" He wipes his mouth on his sleeve as his face breaks into a subtle yet violent blush. "Is—" Gabe’s expression clouds, the brief panic that was there gone in an instant. "Is that why you invited me?!"

Curt frowns, confused.

"Of course! I said I couldn’t wait to kiss you at midnight!”

Brooke, completely forgotten, makes an indignant sort of squawking sound.

Gabe's hands curl into fists and the look he throws him is venomous. "Curt."

“And I’ve said kissing you's on my bucket list?” Curt blinks, lost. “Like, a thousand times at this point, Gabe."

Gabe’s fists curl tighter and Jessie steps between them, her glass waved between the boys like a penalty flag and a deceptively natural smile plastered on.

“Oookay! Curt, I think you just startled Gabe. I’m positive he didn’t think you were being serious, right?”

“No, I fucking didn’t,” Gabe growls.

Curt has the gall to look even more confused.

“For six years?”

Gabe shuts his eyes, his anger in danger of rising faster than he’s able to suppress it.

“Jesus, Curt. Just apologize.” Heidi looks more annoyed than anything else. But at least Curt finally catches on to the huge party foul he’s committed.

“Sorry! Sorry, man. I thought you knew what I meant.” Curt is, for whatever it’s worth, blushing now, seeming actually embarrassed for once. When Gabe doesn’t reply, he raises his hands in a placating manner, then brings them together at his chin with a truly pleading look in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I’d take it back if I could, don’t be mad!”

Gabe rubs a hand over his face and lets out a long, hard sigh. Then his other hand rakes through his hair briefly as he looks away from the blond idiot.

“Fine. Fine.”

Curt sighs in relief.

Then, because it’s very important to him, he asks, “It was good, though, right?“

Heidi barks a laugh, flopping back down into her seat. Jessie winces and pleads, “Curt, no...” Brooke, of course, seethes and plops into her own chair, quietly downing the contents of her flute.

And even though the anger has dissipated, Gabe’s annoyance surges to new heights. But before he can even voice his disdain, Curt’s looking around the immediate area as if something’s just dawned on him.

“Oh, wait a minute.” Curt huffs, dissatisfied. “I’m the only one without champagne!”

[soranihimawari]

running at 6a.m.

word count: 3.5k

random, but can you believe i haven’t written for hanamaki yet, @oikawa-obvs​? tagging: @m0nstergeneration20xx​ [youse all gotta thank them for this one, fr fr]

warnings: new neighbor x makki// seijoh 3rd years x baffoonery// slightly suggestive scenes [pg 13 recommended] // rated W for woo! 

<< |masterlist| >>

Of all the times in your high school career, you did not think you’d find yourself waking up before the sun when your neighbor called you at 5:45a.m. one weekend. Your neighbor, time and time again, has been trying your patience recently seeing that his sports club was asking for extra volunteers around this time of year for the conditioning exercises. Granted, your school was considered a powerhouse all because of one high caliber setter, and now you found yourself fumbling around your bed trying to ignore the chiming ringtone of your phone. Your eyes squint to readjust for the brightness of your Do Not Disturb setting to see the fourth missed call from him. You slide your finger in an attempt to unlock your phone the second time and redial the number.

“Morning ichigo no kori,” you state rather flatly. You knew the Hanamakis ever since you moved to this neighborhood to be closer to your high school after you had convinced your uncle and aunt to let them use their spare bedroom in the loft attachment of their town house. Your father was not shocked by this development in the slightest since he did lay out some ground rules between all parties involved. You did come from a single parent household, but given the fact the company your father worked for had a position opening up overseas in the Hong Kong office, you spoke at length about how you didn’t want to move right away due to your third year at aoba josai was about to begin again.Thus here you were, three months later, laying down in a comfortable full bed hoping neither of your guardians stirred from their slumber.

“Strawberry ice?” hanamaki was amused by this development. 

He remembered the day you moved because the moving truck was pretty hard to miss; his friends from the volleyball club were walking back from the convenience store with snacks only stopping briefly to ask if he knew about the family that lived there:

“You mean Kurarun-san?” hanamaki asked. He shrugged his shoulder explaining shortly thereafter he didn’t know them very well, but maybe his mom did. She was always seen talking about her day (the daily gossip) with the wife of the homeowner. “I don’t think they had kids.”

“You might be wrong about that,” his friend in arms, mattsukawa, mentions as his eyes wondered to where you were standing. Your arms folded over your chest observing the movers lower the ramp to the pavement. Now considering you were raised by your father, it didn’t surprise your uncle and aunt to say the very least, you grew up learning how to fix dirtbikes one summer with him. Your father taught you everything there was to known about rebuilding a motorcycle from spare parts, which to be fair, was a huge bonus to the quartet of volleyball boys across the way.

“Be careful with that! I built that bike from the ground up, ok?” you instructed sternly, lending a hand to the movers who nodded grateful you were there to help them when the bike teetered too far to one side. Your aunt came out of the garage clasping your shoulder when the bike was securely out and off the ramp.

“Oh wow, that’s a gorgeous bike dear,” your aunt smiled. “You going to take it out for a spin later?”

“Yep! Right after the movers leave for the day,” you said. Your smile did not go unnoticed by the boys who not only stopped to look, but now were staring at you. It was 16:24 (4:24p.m.) when Hanamaki Takahiro first fell in love with you.

True to your word you went out the rest of the week running errands for your hosts (did a little grocery shopping while wearing your favorite backpack) on Monday, then on Tuesday you took a little joyride to the library to familiarize yourself with the layout of the neighborhood, by Thursday you already knew the earliest and latest time you should be out the door to make it to campus, so by Saturday, you were free to help with the chores around the house. It was the same day your aunt had planned a special dinner with her neighborhood best girl friend, Hanamaki-sama, as you affectionately called her. You aunt reminded you to go start cleaning up after your uncle returned from buying the last of the ice cream pops at the store down the block. You took a quick shower and changed into a pair of jean shorts paired with a royal blue loose fitting dri-fit longsleeve v-neck. You wandered into the kitchen wearing ankle socks covered by your house slippers. You were tasked with setting the table trying to get a sneak peak at the hot pot dinner your aunt was stirring. After shooing you away with a short laugh, you took a glass out of the dishwasher drying rack and poured yourself some water. 

“Hanamaki-sama is bringing her son along too,” your aunt said, silently gauging how you’d react. You just sipped your water with a curt nod pretending to simmer down your nerves. Was her son older than you? Younger? Was he nice? Etc. 

“Apparently you’re going to be in the same year when the school year starts,” your uncle’s voice echoed from the living room. He shut off the television to join you two in the kitchen.

“Oh, that’s nice.”

DING DONG DING

“Looks like they’re here,” your uncle said, holding on to your glass for you. “Why don’t you let them in.”

You nodded, brushing your stray bangs behind your ear. With a soft sigh escaping your lips, you opened the door with a swift turn of the nob.

“My my, dearie, aren’t you gorgeous,” hanamaki’s mother greeted you tapping your arm gently. Hanamaki on the other hand, for as tall and lanky as he seemed, he seemed a bit lackadaisical upon seeing your bright smile greet them at the door. He held a small bowl that was filled with tri colored popcorn with a thin cellophane cover on top. The snack was his idea because he had heard his mother speak to your aunt at length candidly mentioning how you would watch home movies with your father’s family every weekend until you started primary school.

“Hello to you too hana-sama,” you reply motioning her to come in. Then you notice her son with strawberry blond hair walking in behind her. He had dressed a little bit more formal like how he would on days leading up to an official match (solid color slacks and relaxed-fit printed shirt with a small moogen [infinity symbol] embroidered on the left sleeve) “And you must be…”

“Hanamaki Takahiro, but you can call me Makki,” he says when you close the door behind them. 

“I saw you at the store the other day buying some popcorn,“ Hanamaki-san mentions when she hands you her light jacket to hang. “You know how we talk, anyways, your aunt told me how much you like bite size chocolate squares in your popcorn I heard.”

Makki says nothing when your eyes glance toward the bowl. You had a full conversation with him when you two kept looking at each other. Your aunt had washed her hands and joined you as she and Hanamaki’s mother exchanged casual greetings as they headed to the dining area; your uncle was giving the curry a final stir. You and Makki were thankfully, left to your own devices and my gods did you two relish in it. 

Earlier that afternoon, he was speaking at length about his mother had been invited over to their neighbor’s house. It wasn’t the first time Makki had come over before, yet he had trouble easing his nerves because you were also going to be there. Makki paced back and forth trying “to get his shit together” while the company he kept on call was chuckling in what would certainly be an entertaining story for future reference.

“Makki, if you don’t date her at some point in the first quarter of the year, i will gladly dote on her out of my own free will,” Mattsun meant well, but at the same time, Makki knew the threat was an empty one. He was on a video call with his friends who shared the same sentiment as Mattsun. Soon the time approached for when his mother told him about the dinner party at your place. 

“Listen Takahiro, take it from me,” Oikawa says. “Treat Mattsun’s words as not necessarily a threat, but more of a firestarter.”

“Makki!” his mother’s voice calls from the otherside of his closed door. “C’mon, let’s go.”

He ends the call after his teammates hang up.

--

The cold piece of technological glass rubbed against your warm cheek. With your eyes closed, you recalled hearing OIkawa and Iwazumi remind the other two to spread the word to their juniors to start their conditioning regiment this upcoming weekend. Be it as it may, Makki took this opportunity to ask you if you wanted to be his running partner (this was a trap his other friends laid out for him since they’re trying their best not to meddle too much in your private affairs). 

You grumbled into your receiver imploring your neighbor to reconsider waking you up this early for a morning run. You left a note on the kitchen counter next to the landline in case your guardians woke up ahead of you to discover your now empty bed. Stifling a yawn, you meet Makki at your front door, dressed in a light jacket and a pair of running shorts. Your shoes weren’t in the best condition for running, rather, they were an old pair you didn’t mind using for this house call.

“Who runs at 6a.m. on a regular basis?” you ask him with a coy smile.

“Psychopaths and,” he holds your hand to steady yourself when you step down from the ledge of your short walkway. Makki lets go of your hand for a second to whisper an alternative answer. “Lovers.”

“Oh,” you tease, poking his cheek. An amused smile tugged your lips upward which you did not bother hiding. “Of course.”

“You don’t have to sound so annoyed by it, chisana josei.” 

Makki had since insisted on giving you the nickname because it was what his other three cohorts dubbed you one evening when you came over to return something your aunt borrowed from Hanamaki’s mother.

“Makki, who’s at the--oh hello there chisana josei,” the charming boy wearing an alien lime colored shirt and pearl sweatpants peered around the corner of the living room. You were reluctantly (read as invited inside) to disrupt the boys only sleepover being conducted at the Hanamaki household. 

“She’s cute Makki,” another disembodied voice, this time it was much deeper, spoke up this time. His curious eyes wandered up and down, yet although you were fully clothed, you felt entirely skyclad by the giant. You laughed a little bit at the compliment. 

“I wouldn’t say I’m cute,” you said when you ceased laughing, handing Makki the bowl and other tupperware you aunt borrowed from his mother a few nights ago. Makki quirked his brow at his two friends, sighing at their comments and for a split second, you saw his bottom lip jut out in a slight pout. 

“Oikawa, Mattsun, shut up,” he stated praying Iwazumi would at least straighten them out later. Unfortunately for Makki, Iwazumi was game in making his friend sweat a little bit because so far, you were able to refuse both Oikawa and Mattsukawa’s praises/favors.

“Oh ho ho,” you observed the last member of the trio to speak up. “And what would you describe yourself as anyway? It’s not like Makki to keep such a pretty secret from his friends.”

“Not you too Iwa-chan,” lime green sweater guy whined. 

“Are you three always like this to every girl or is it just the ones that don’t like you?” your eyes glazed over and Makki didn’t want to admit it, but you definitely telegraphed that you were angry. Iwazumi realized this as soon as he found himself face to face with your shorter stature defiantly staring up at him. The other boys watching the silent argument continue before Makki calmly told you they were just messing with you. Introductions and apologies were exchanged as soon as your stubbornness subsided when the four boys surrounded you rather quickly at the hallway of Makki’s front door. If it weren’t for the fact that each of them had a qualm of serenity, charisma, and stealth boosted up by plus 10, you would have challenged them to a simple game of chess. Then again, they were literal pillars loyal to the princely type who bestowed upon you your nickname.

“If they really wanted to ruffle my feathers,” you begin to say, crossing your arms over your chest opening. “They’d form a reverse harem and vie for my attention. You included Makki. I’ll see myself out.”

“I-wait, what?!” Makki finally had heard enough. 

“I have spoken,” you mentioned over your shoulder looking at his confused expression. “I’ll let you know when I’m back home. Have fun boys.”

You shut the front behind you, shaking your head whilst casting a glance to the heavens above, grinning like a wild cat.

“That went well, don’t you think?” OIkawa said, returning to his spot on the couch. “Makki, what’s with that look?” 

Mattsun and Iwazumi both shrugged when dragging their host back toward the kitchen area to gage how their friend suddenly realized something right then and there. It was 21:07 when Mattsun and Iwazumi realized their friend was in like with someone a month before their third year would commence. 

“I like her,” Makki found his voice suddenly and Oikawa had a large smile on his face. 

“Stage five, acceptance,” Mattsun states before he blocks a throw pillow aimed at his direction. Iwazumi shakes his head before laughing at the strawberry blonde’s luck.

--

When you two round the corner of your block for the fourth time, you slowed your pace while Makki turned around and began running backwards facing you. Sweat covered both of you in a glowing sheer shine as the sun was ever presently rising. 

“Slowing down already?” Makki taunted. 

“I’m not the one on the school’s volleyball team,” you explained in between your short breaths. “You submit your body to this kind of torture willingly and call it conditioning training?” 

He stopped jogging backwards for a second, instead opting to walk briskly toward you when he noticed your breathing becoming more steady. Makki might always be the first to challenge Iwazumi to an arm wrestling match and really gets along well with reading Mattsun’s expressions, but he was always reliable in helping keep Oikawa’s personality in check right behind the aforementioned. 

“Pretty much, chisana josei. C’mon,” he knelt down with his back toward you signaling to get on. You gladly accepted the piggy back ride on these mornings. It was the top reason why you didn’t mind the morning calls as much anymore. 

“I’m not too heavy for you?” you ask sheepishly, wrapping your arms around Makki’s shoulders when he stood up. 

“For the nth time, y/n, you’re not.” He shifted his arms underneath your knees, locking you in place after allowing you to shift your weight a little bit for comfort. 

“Ready when you are,” your breath fans across the back of his neck, causing his usually smooth spun cotton candy colored baby hairs to spike up. You pretended to not notice how pink his cheek was when you raised your head a short distance while he began his cooldown lap.

“Thank you Takahiro,” you say in a hazy tone, resting your head against his shoulder once again. He muttered a quiet “no problem,” internally screaming at himself for trying to not to die from the way he fell harder for you with every step he took. 

Makki glanced down a few minutes later, being greeted by your peaceful sleeping expression when he woke you up again arriving at his place once again; he was too proud to admit you were rather clingy as you got more drowsy during the third time you were invited to a film night. 

By this point, you had been living with your aunt and uncle for a week and a half, which in of itself was a delight for them. Yet it was rather treacherous for you because since the night you returned Makki’s bowls, you were often found crossing paths with either Oikawa, Mattsukawa, and/or Iwazumi. Sometimes Makki was with them or more often than nought, the boys were alone. Considering that the market was exactly in the center part of all your places of residence, the probability was rather high.

However, as a sign of good faith, OIkawa, with Makki’s blessing apparently a detail you were not aware of at the time, invited you to come along for a movie marathon the week before his birthday. Unbeknownst to you, as your eyes continued to droop during movie five of the line up, Makki froze when you decided to snatch one of the spare pillows from Oikawa’s sofa and used it as a buffer to rest your weary head on your neighbor’s lap. The boys were howling behind their eyes as they watched their friend finally succumb to the one time their newly appointed token girl friend had Makki wrapped around her finger by the simplest gesture the minute he started running his fingers through your hair. 

“Aaand here I thought Makki wasn’t going to get any sort of affection from a girl this year,” Oikawa teased. 

“Shut up and let me enjoy the movie,” Makki retorted. The other two in the living room sharing the couch with you and Makki noticed your childlike grin fade the deeper you fell asleep to the soundtrack of the movie.

Now you were sleeping again, tugging on Makki’s shirt instead, burrowing your head in between his shoulder blades causing his heart to jump to his throat. 

“Mmm, don’t want to go,” you mumbled. “Too early.” He found the spare key where his mom usually left it (in the rain gutter above the door frame) and opened his front door with ease; he coughed to clear his throat.

“OK,” was all Makki could say in the front of his peaceful hallway, kicking off his running shoes before entering the rest of his house. Upon reaching his room, he left the door slightly ajar as he laid your groggy self down on his bed. He was about to tuck you in after tracing your prominent features with his index finger, leaving a message on your cheek: “I like you my chisana josei.”

“Me too, ichigo no kori,” you murmur as you stifle a yawn, prying one eye opened allowing your selfish need to see Makki’s face turn to stone.

You pull yourself high enough to bump the tip of your nose with his, causing your lips to briefly brush past his own. Immediately upon receiving said peck, Makki regained his composure rather quickly allowing his hands to find their way on to your shoulders pulling your lips back on to his again. Her lips always looked so inviting, plump and deliciously filled with the right amount of venom and sugar, Makki thought. You inhaled a sharp breath. There was a growing rhythm between you two within the fleeting seconds you counted in your head.

“Mmph~!” you nodded in a miniscule way to keep Makki setting the pace your body reacting to the way Makki’s hand openly traced over the exposed parts of you; you cautiously looping your arms propelling him forward. Makki crawled back onto his bed the moment he guided you back down amongst the wrinkling sea of the bedding; his body now hovered above you with knees on either side of you, thus caging you beneath him. You pulled away first, revealing a hauntingly entancing smile. 

Makki’s face seemed a bit more flushed than when you started running your regular route less than forty-five minutes ago. 

“Now look who’s the breathless one,” you chastised your host in a cheeky manner. 

For the first time since July, Makki really studied your features, trying to commit every imperfection to memory tethering it to this love-drum beating in his chest. You laid there surrounded by the dark gray and black undertones of the surrounding pillows, your attire cascading a holographic reflection of the ever rising sun, illuminating your figure. Makki was the only one who got to baskin your natural face with the lack of makeup; your heaving chest; your scar above the bridge of your nose from when a crab nicked you with its claw as a child in the market. Despite your insecurities you told him about one day, returning from the store with him together, Makki saw only beauty. 

He could tell behind the way your pupils were focused on his own, the sun’s rays enhancing his reflection in them that caused his heart to bask in the light of a new day. Makki liked the way your hair was frizzy and tangled from the way his hands tousled it in his hands when he laid you down beneath him. Her hands were strong yet at the same time gentle. And her sweetened lips tasted like spun sugar fresh from the fair. Makki bent down toward your left side and whispered something before he continued to kiss you senseless.

The way I know you relented as Makki played with you hair and held you tighter and tighter, was something you craved, even if you weren’t pondering it before, you returned the seemingly unspoken gesture with a similar kindness. 

You cradled Makki’s face in your hands, pushing back his saccharinely hued textured hair again, asking him to catch his breath for a moment, synching his breathing with yours.

“C’mon Takahiro, b r e a t h e,” you advise, your eyebrows added to your pleading, moving one of your hands to rest against the middle of his chest tapping your fingertips lightly against his chest. You took advantage of this tonal shift; using your lower body to coerce his in switching positions with him. You were now the one hovering him, your hair undone, snuffing out the morning’s rays eagerly trying to sneak their way through the blinds of Makki’s room. This was not how either of you thought running at six in the morning would have ended, yet here you both were caught in the throes of your own summer enquinoxal love. Whether you two would want this to continue was entirely up to the two of you. 

As Makki’s breathing finally returned to his resting rhythym, you allowed his hand to caress the side of your face, tucking a few long strands of hair behind your ear. 

“My pretty chisana josei,” he said in the lowest register of his voice. “Finally.”

“...call me that again,” your voice has a slight lilt in it when you sigh. “I need to get used to it.”

Your natural smile could rattle the stars and Makki was determined to make sure not only knew that, his friends in arms also knew it too.

“Mine,” Makki said looking away like a child about to get scolded. 

“Uh-huh,” your retort mixed wonderfully with a chuckle harmonizing the two. You release him from your hold, checking the time on the analog clock when you quietly lept off his bed. “Get some sleep dear one; you earned your keep.” 

You tapped your fingers over your lips glancing at Makki long enough to watch him bring an arm over his eyes. Literal steam could have been escaping his ears with how your taunts drove him mad.

It was 06:59 when y/n and Hanamaki decided this was when you truly loved another.

--weekend messaging rates apply--

Suffice to say you made a mental note to make good on your word, but opted to maintain the peace seeing him outside with said dessert with a grin. 

[sotiredblah]

Crash Landing On You - Alternate Ending - Part 7

In which Gu Seung Jun takes care of a few things before he’s reunited with Dan with a little help from Ri Jeong Hyeok.

Gu Seung Jun had read in some romantic novel that distance made the heart grow fonder. At the time, he thought that it was just a sappy line that women fell for, so he had tucked it away into his box of tricks, occasionally taking it out when he was attempting to seduce women.

He never thought that there would be any truth to it.

And yet, here he was, over a three thousand miles away from the woman that he loved, and he thought of her every day.

He would be texting her constantly, updating her about how his day went, what he ate, something he saw that reminded him of her. He liked sending Dan lengthy messages and often sent her gifts through China on her birthday.

Dan, in return, replied to each of his messages with a short “Too long,” or “Okay.”

She wasn’t much for public displays of affection, Seung Jun understood, but that was fine with him. He loved how curt she was anyhow.

He doesn’t let her know where he is though. He kept that private, no matter how much it hurt him. He was trying to right the wrongs that he did as a conman.

Well, some of them. In his mind, some of the acts that he committed were perfectly validated. Especially when it was a case of taking from those more fortunate than him.

Gu Seung Jun considered himself a modern-day Robin Hood.

It had taken three long years away from Dan, but he had finally finished what he had set out to do.

He had recently returned to England to apply as an ambassador with the consular services. As his last act, he had been able to create a clean version of his personal file, with the help of some underworld contacts, one that didn’t list any of the swindling or illegal activities that he had been a part of.

He might have also fudged a few things on his resume, but Seung Jun figured that he had more experience than the average applicant.

Gu Seung Jun looked at the passport and ID in his hand that identified him as an UK Diplomat. The UK government had been slightly surprised when they had learned of his requested embassy, but they had nonetheless granted his request.

He would be starting his term in a few months. Until then, he would be staying in London to learn the ropes of diplomatic service. He was visiting the North Korean embassy in London today to introduce himself to their ambassador.

“Gu Seung Jun?” a man dressed in a black suit approached him from far away, the familiar red pin gleaming as he drew closer to Gu Seung Jun. There was familiarity in his voice, Seung Jun thought.

It wasn’t until he was standing two feet away from him that Seung Jun realized that it was Ri Jeong Hyeok.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Ri Jeong Hyeok said as he looked Seung Jun over. “You’re Gu Seung Jun.”

Seung Jun smiled faintly. Life was just full of surprises, wasn’t it?

--

“Why are you here?”

Ri Jeong Hyeok drank from his cup of coffee while Seung Jun watched him in anticipation before he answered the question.

“I’m the pianist with the National Symphony Orchestra,” he told the other man.

The name rang a few bells in Seung Jun’s head. “Isn’t that?”

Ri Jeong Hyeok nodded. “Yes, the same one that Dan plays in.”

Seung Jun shifted uncomfortably in front of Ri Jeong Hyeok. He didn’t know how much he knew, nor did he know what Dan had told him about him. He didn’t even know what their current status was between the two men.

The last time they had seen each other, Ri Jeong Hyeok was asking for information about how to sneak into South Korea. Seung Jun had helpfully provided all of the answers that he had been looking for, although if he had to admit it, there were some personal selfish reasons that he did so.

Ri Jeong Hyeok’s voice broke into his thoughts. “She’s doing fine by the way.”

“Se-ri?”

Ri Jeong Hyeok shook his head. “Dan,” he answered simply, instantly telling Seung Jun just how much he knew.

“After her Europe trip, she visited me in the village. She told me that she saw Se-ri and that you would be away from our country for a while,” his mouth twitched. “I don’t think either of us expected that you would be away for so long though.”

“I had a few loose ends to take care,” Seung Jun mumbled, feeling like a chastised schoolboy.

“Of course,” Ri Jeong Hyeok took another sip of his coffee.

“Has she been drinking a lot lately?” Seung Jun couldn’t help himself.

“Not that I’ve seen,” the other man replied. “We don’t really see each other often.”

“And are there any men…” Seung Jun swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence.

“I believe that the ring that she wears on her hand takes care of all the would-be suitors,” Ri Jeong Hyeok answered in his slow way.

Gu Seung Jun blinked twice, before he felt the tension that he felt fade away.

“So why are you here then?” Seung Jun realized that Ri Jeong Hyeok had never answered his question. “A pianist doesn’t have to be at the embassy and there are no concerts scheduled in London or England right now.”

“My father asked me for a favour,” Ri Jeong Hyeok replied. “He said that he wanted someone that he trusted to interview the new British Diplomat. As it just happened, I was in London to help out with the selection of the Queen’s Group scholarship.”

Seung Jun nodded thoughtfully.

“Does Dan know that you will be coming back?” Ri Jeong Hyeok asked him.

Seung Jun shook his head. “I wanted to surprise her.”

“In that case, shall we work together?” Ri Jeong Hyeok asked him, a slightly mischievous look slowly spreading on his face.

“Why…?”

Ri Jeong Hyeok shrugged. “I never got to thank you for your help. Without you, things could be very different right now,” he extended his hand across the table. “What do you say?”

--

Ri Jeong Hyeok tapped Se-ri on the shoulder. “I need to step out for a quick second,” he whispered gently into her eye.

“Don’t take too long,” she told him, mesmerized by the performance in front of her.

Ri Jeong Hyeok nodded before he buttoned up his suit jacket and walked out of the dining hall, but not before checking that Dan had an empty seat behind her.

If anything Ri Jeong Hyeok had expected slight pushback from Se-ri when he told her what he wanted to do, but to his surprise, she was more than willing to help out.

It turned out that Se-ri had been figuring out how to pay back Dan as well.

Seung Jun was already waiting for him in the hotel lobby when his elevator arrived, so without further ado, Ri Jeong Hyeok told the other man where Dan would be waiting for him.

Together, they both snuck quietly back into the dining hall.

And when Ri Jeong Hyeok noticed that Dan was resting comfortably against Gu Seung Jun, he tugged Se-ri’s hand and motioned at the other couple in the room.

Se-ri smiled gently. “I’m so happy they got their happy ending too.”

--

So I figured that I wanted to explain how Gu Seung Jun was able to reunite with Seo Dan.

This wasn’t part of the original oneshot, but I’m kinda happy I got the chance to add this in. This chapter takes place in between part 6.

[patricia-von-arundel]

A Small Indulgence

I said I’d eventually get around to writing something with a little more substance, and finally found the time today to sit down and finish this thing. I’m still kind of having the voices of these characters come and go in my head - think of radio reception, fading in and out - so hopefully they were being as cooperative here as it felt like they were being. Writing Byleth is fucking hard. 

Also on AO3

Rating: T (violence)

Summary: It's not doubts about the coming battle that plague Edelgard after truths are revealed and promises made - it's her doubts about Byleth... and about her own feelings.

They camped the night before close enough to see the silhouette of the monastery, a dark, looming mass against the gathering dusk. The tension, palpable as the chill in the air, was perhaps inevitable - but Edelgard knew there was also nothing to be done about it. 

Still, it was distracting - and she had too many things threatening to distract her at the best of times. Which tonight most certainly was not. Nor, if she was honest with herself...

Nor was tension the right word for what she felt. 

Fear.

What she felt was fear. 

Not only about the battle to come, but also about whatever might come after it. Selfishly, as well, fear of what it might mean for herself. There was control in helping shape the future, but none at all in what ultimately occurred. 

The day melted away in what seemed no time at all. There were inspections, instructions, final discussions, directions, commands, and only when Edelgard ordered that both meat and dessert be served with the evening meal - it would boost morale, and soon the problem of sufficient rations would solve itself - did she realize she had not eaten nor sat down since breakfast. She added dinner to her mental list, knowing both Hubert and Dorothea would invariably notice and chide her. 

What was it like, to be one of those soldiers? She watched them for a time - most were talking and laughing, though she saw some somber, pensive faces, meals only picked at. Some of them would never eat again. They would put on armor, ready their weapons... and die in mud and filth and their own blood. 

Of course, the same was true for her. But this she had chosen. How many of those before her had truly chosen to be here? They were following orders, as they had sworn to do. Her orders. 

Perhaps sometimes it was for the best, being so alone now. Leaving no one behind to mourn or grieve or cry at her loss. So many of these men had families. Parents, children, brothers and sisters. 

"Your Majesty?" The voice of an earnest-looking young soldier, turning a sheaf of papers over and over in his hands. "The final weapons inventory is complete."

"Back to work, then..."

The soldier looked a bit startled. "Hm?"

"Nothing. Thank you."

For the best, but very lonely. 

As the young soldier walked away, one of the tables shouted for him. "How do you always draw the worst duties? Catch!" He deftly caught the cake they tossed him, and left laughing and shaking his head. 

So very, very lonely. 

She left them to their meal, and their enjoyment. 

Work continued as the sun sank below the horizon. Candlelight flickering on the map before her, on her glove as she traced one finger along battle lines she had long since memorized. She still wasn't happy with the plans for the western approach - it felt as if it had a weak spot, a potential hole, but where that might be was elusive. 

She considered calling Petra - the master of spotting such things, with her hunters' eyes - but Edelgard hated to disturb what little sleep anyone might be able to get on a night like this one. Hubert would be close, of course, but he, too, should be asleep, and she wasn't going to encourage his behavior (as if it would not continue regardless). 

And there was the one she wanted to see...

I will protect Edelgard. 

But it wasn't like that. She couldn't fall victim to what might prove dangerous assumption. Especially not now. 

She rolled the map again with a sigh, finally giving in to the dull ache that had begun to thump behind her eyes. She needed to at least attempt sleep herself. Blow out the candle, and sleep. And tomorrow - 

Tomorrow, take back the world. 

"With you by my side," she murmured - if only to herself. 

Protect Edelgard. 

The memory was there, echoing as she prepared for bed, as she combed her hair, coiled it up so it would not tangle in the night, changed her clothes. Beneath blankets, eyes resolutely shut, she reminded herself several times - to stop being utterly ridiculous. She attempted to review the map again, mentally. She told herself to sleep. 

Eventually, she did. 

 -

The battle raged with the fierce, bloody violence that she had feared. Endless, the other side, and in helmets and armor, as if soulless as well. Edelgard could feel the harshness of her own breath, the growing heat in the muscles of her arms, as she cut through them. Sprays of blood - those, too, were hot, but quickly cooled and grew sticky against her skin. 

Tattoos of death. Senseless, meaningless death. Death by her blade. Death by her hand. But still, she swung her axe, and still, she killed them. 

"Edelgard!" Byleth. She darted through as if their enemies were motionless. "An opening - into the monastery. This way." And cat-like, she was gone again, leaving Edelgard to try to chase after her. 

I would follow you anywhere. 

The inside of the monastery was shockingly quiet, after the chaos of battle outside its walls. No students, no staff - even the cats seemed to have vanished. It was almost unnatural - eerie. 

But Byleth seemed sure of herself. "Leave your weapons here."

"My... weapons?"

A curt nod. "I have another idea. They'll just weigh us down. Let's get to the cathedral."

Edelgard did as told. She had given Byleth lead, after all, for a reason. Even when that lead was disquieting. 

Protect Edelgard. 

My teacher...

Past the greenhouse, the dining hall. The dormitory - all her things would still be there. Books and ribbons and letters from her father. Uniforms she would likely never wear again. 

And the cathedral itself, looming over all like the monstrosities that dwelt within it. Edelgard felt her heartbeat quicken. She glanced at Byleth - expressionless. Sure of whatever it was that she had planned. 

No chorus rang out inside the cathedral. There were no prayers. Just the lone figure waiting at the end of the nave. The one they had come here to seek. 

Rhea. 

She smiled at them. That serene smile that was more of a mask than any Edelgard had worn. "I've been waiting."

Byleth nodded. Still expressionless. "Where?"

"Just in here. Come."

Edelgard's heart felt like a trapped bird, flapping desperately within her chest. 

I will protect Edelgard. 

When Byleth followed Rhea, she went with them. She felt small, suddenly. Defenseless. Something was wrong. Something... 

Her breath caught at the turn. A place she knew, but not here. A place windowless, dark, cold. Stone walls, stone floors. And...

Chains. 

"No." She took a step back, shaking her head, panic already clutching her. "No, please-!"

Byleth grabbed her arms. Her grip was like steel. 

Edelgard fought her. Bucked and struggled and tried to kick. But she was a child again, and Byleth lifted her effortlessly. Rhea watched, wordless - but still, that serene smile, as Edelgard felt the desperate, terrified tears began to fall, and the painful cold of the manacles Byleth closed around her wrists. She began to tremble - the cold, and the fear. 

Byleth stepped back, standing with Rhea, her face still expressionless as Edelgard cowered against the wall, legs quivering, finally giving out. She sank, pulling her knees to her chest, shaking and small and helpless. 

But she forced her eyes up, meeting Byleth's. "My... my teacher?"

I will protect Edelgard. 

Cold, hard eyes. "You are not the only one with betrayal within them, Edelgard."

"My teacher - please! Please! Don't-!"

But they left her. The door closing, the thud of the lock, and then silent darkness, broken only by her harsh, desperate sobs for breath. 

Her sobs, and the skittering of the rats in the walls. 

 -

She woke with a choked gasp, pulling her arms tight against her chest. In the moonlight, she could see the walls of her tent. No stone. 

Still, she squeezed her eyes shut - as if that could hide the memory already seared across her mind. Told herself none of it was real, as if that did anything either. Deep breaths. Turning on her side, pulling the blankets up with her shaking hands. 

The leader of an empire, trembling in her bed like a frightened child. 

But that was why. Why they had to do it. She knew she couldn't prevent every nightmare for ever child in the world, but she could see to it that some nightmares, at least, could never happen again. That the children of Fódlan could sleep safely in beds, and not in chains. 

Perhaps then her own nightmares would finally cease. 

With her breath and heart finally mostly calmed, she sighed, pushing the blankets away and sitting up. No use in trying to sleep now - she knew well how this mental ritual was performed. And the night air, cool and crisp as it was, might help clear her mind. She left her gloves and jacket - it was well past evening curfew, and she knew where the sentries  were stationed. No one would see. 

Outside was dark and quiet, no noise but gentle wind through the trees. Candles still burned in a few tents - Hubert's among them, she noted with a touch of amusement and complete lack of surprise - but it was the light from the monastery, far above them, that caught her eye. 

They knew she was coming. Of course they knew. 

Rhea knew. 

"I shall never wear chains again." Spoken softly - but the truth rang through her like the bells in the cathedral. 

"Edelgard?"

She jumped - startled not only by the sound, but also by the owner of the voice. She brought her arms up, crossing them tightly against her chest, as if Byleth might otherwise be able to see the heart once more beating madly beneath. 

"Couldn't sleep?" Byleth was still dressed, and Edelgard realized she wasn't even sure where Byleth had been all day. 

Meeting with Rhea?

Edelgard wanted to think it was ridiculous to even consider, but her own actions of late spoke otherwise. She wanted to dismiss the very idea, nonetheless. Byleth would never betray her. 

Would she?

The expressionless face. Rhea's serene, sweet smile. 

I will protect Edelgard. 

She was shaking again. She tightened her arms against her chest, hoping to hide it, and suddenly very aware once more of the scars criss-crossing her bare skin. If Byleth noticed either, though, she said nothing. 

Edelgard took a deep breath. "Just... just another nightmare."

Please don't leave me. Please, please don't ever leave me. Don't leave me to those chains. The loneliness...

Words she knew she could never say. Or so she had to force herself to believe. Especially now. 

"I'm sorry."

Edelgard looked away. She didn't know quite what to say. She wanted to ask - about Rhea. About where Byleth had been. About her decision to stay. More words she could not say. 

"Edelgard?"

Either of them could die tomorrow, just as easily as any of those soldiers laughing over a meal. Either of them, or both of them, and Edelgard had long since ceased to believe in the promise of an afterlife. 

All the words she might never have the chance to say. 

"My teacher..."

Byleth watching her, waiting patiently. But not expressionless - not truly. That tight smile. Those eyes, bright even in the dim light. 

Another deep breath. "Might I ask... a small indulgence?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She let herself fall against Byleth, her hands fisted between their chests, eyes closed and her breath short, harsh. There was no hesitation in Byleth's response - arms wrapped around her, pulled her closer, though they were stiff, as if not accustomed to holding someone. 

Well, that made two of them. 

But she was warm, and she was there. And slowly, Edelgard felt the trembling ease. 

"I know our path is the right one," she said then, softly. "But still, I feel doubts and fears. So much I cannot control." She laughed, though there was no humor in it. "Even my own dreams."

She pulled away. Only a small indulgence, she had asked for, and already, it felt a much larger one. "I should let you get to sleep."

"You should try, too."

Edelgard nodded. "Yes, my teacher."

"I like your hair like that." Byleth reached out, brushing her fingers against one of the coils. "Goodnight, Edelgard."

And she turned and walked away, leaving Edelgard to reach up, and rest her own fingers where Byleth's had been - wondering. 

-

The next day, so many words still unspoken, Byleth was gone. 

[writeanapocalae]

Alii Inspiriti

Inspired by Art | Read on AO3

Warning for Emotional/Physical Abuse

It was a rough job, it would be unusual if there was a day in which anyone not assigned to desk duty to be free of bruises. Scrapes and bandages were as common as cups of coffee and, while the androids were able to heal fast enough that most marks would be gone in a matter of hours, even they weren’t free of such wear.

Gavin was sitting at his desk, glaring at the empty seat across from him. It was uncommon that Nines would be late to work but this was a full fifteen minutes. They had gotten really banged up the night before, the human had gotten shoved through a window, so he had to assume that Nines had called out or was, at the very least, sleeping it off. It wasn’t like he’d fallen any, just banged his spine on the railing outside, but there were a lot of small gashes, twinkling shards shoved deep. He’d said no to a hospital visit though, as well as any of the care his brother tried to give him. He just took care of it on his own.

Gavin’s head swiveled, the rest of him stuck in place, as the door opened and the detective stumbled in. He wore a long black coat and tight black turtleneck and more bandages than could be hidden under the material. There were bandages on his face, one poking up from under the high neck of his shirt, and soft wrapped around his fingers. The bags under his eyes were even darker than usual and he was cradling a cup of coffee as if the paper were the holy grail itself. He glared at everyone he passed as he went to his seat and fell into it. There were a few glares, the strongest coming from Connor, but he ignored them all.

“So you finally decided to show your blocky head,” Gavin gritted out through a sneer. “Thought you’d finally kicked it.”

He didn’t take off his jacket. He dug out a bottle of pills, pouring some high potency caffeine into his hand before chasing it down with his coffee. “Not in the mood,” he said, even less emotional than usual. “Kind of wishing I did.”

The sneer dropped from Gavin’s lips. As much as he didn’t agree with working along the human, who had shown himself as being clumsier and more apt to getting himself hurt than most, he still had his programming to tell him not to push it. Human life was paramount and Nines didn’t sound like he was joking really.

“You still feeling like shit?”

“Worse than yesterday.”

“It always gets worse before it can get better.”

Nines’ mouth was in a straight line. He didn’t make eye contact with Gavin. He played with the engagement ring on his finger, a nervous tick that Gavin had noticed early on. He wore a few rings but that was the only one that he didn’t take off, that didn’t get tossed and juggled or rolled along knuckles as Nines thought.

“You better be more careful,” Gavin suggested, “don’t want to leave that girl of yours all alone do you?”

“Hmm,” Nines grit out around another mouthful of coffee. He smelled like cigarettes.

When Gavin took a quick scan of the room he noticed Connor, sitting perfectly straight at his desk, eyes soft with concern as he stared at Nines.

---

“No,” Gavin shoved Connor’s shoulder, offsetting him, making him take a few steps back. “Guy might be a dick and a half but lines exist for a goddamn reason and I’m not crossing them.”

“It’s more than a few bits of glass!” Connor shoved back, with his words instead of his hands. “You know he won’t go to a doctor, but there’s something wrong here, you have to see that.”

Gavin shook his head, chewing on his lip. “If you care so much, why don’t you just ask him?”

Connor’s hands were in fists at his sides. His head was down, his gaze glossy with wetness. “I have, trust me. He used to be so elegant, so sure of himself, I can’t place when but he suddenly lost all of that and when I asked he kept me out. There’s something wrong, not just right now, though I know it’s more than a few cuts, but it’s been wrong for a long time now.”

“Is that your amazing detective mind at work? Something is wrong?”

That got Connor to glare at him with those big brown eyes. “He’s your partner. You should care if he’s alright.”

“And he’s your brother. You do something. I’m not scanning him.”

Connor lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag, running a hand through his hair as he looked away from Gavin, out onto the rest of Detroit. There was a shadow in him, some darkness that he couldn’t get out. Gavin didn’t want to be there for when it broke free. He turned and went to the stairs, leaving Connor and the roof behind.

---

The railing had hit Nines in the spine, right across the lumbar. That would have bruised badly, hurt like a bitch, but that wasn’t what this was. Nines had been using the coffee as a shield, to hide the fact that he was cradling his ribs. Now that he was out of coffee, pulling himself up, wincing, dragging himself to the break room for a refill, it was obvious that every move hurt. Gavin watched him, not scanning, not using any android tricks to figure out what had happened, but putting his brain and detective training to proper use.

Nines was hiding the fact that he was hurting, which led to why he didn’t like hospitals. He didn’t want anyone to know, didn’t want anyone to ask about it. The damage wasn’t from the crime scene or from any other recent incident. He was clumsy now, when he used to be sure of his footing, as if he was acting out evidence that he hurt himself. When asked about his personal life he was short and curt, to the point, but he always had something positive to say about Denise, as if he was protecting her honor. Gavin had a lot of information in his head, a lot of past cases to study that had similar features. It was easy to figure out what was happening.

Connor didn’t know, he believed his brother’s stand offish attitude, the way he was so painfully in love with his fiancee, the fact that he kept everyone else out. It was clear to an outsider, but for someone who was close, it was impossible to see.

He waited half an hour between the time that Nines left to pack up some files and follow him to his apartment. He’d never been there before but it wasn’t hard to find, he knew the address from Nines’ file anyway. Taking a taxi just made everything easier, gave him time to think up what he wanted to say. It also left him with some time to think about what he was doing.

He didn’t like humans. He didn’t have a good relationship with Nines and, if anyone asked he’d say that he didn’t like him either. What did it matter what humans did to one another, anyway. As long as he wasn’t involved they could tear each other apart and he wouldn’t have a single instability. He did like Nines though. He was smart and analytical and hard as fuck to read, making Gavin loud and obvious just by proximity. He was good at his job and, when he was pressed to be, he could be genuinely kind. It was the kind of kindness that came easy but was hidden away, as if it could be used against him. Considering what Gavin was doing, he’d guess that it had been.

They were partners. He couldn’t do his job if Nines was wounded for no reason. That was the logic of it. He could pretend it was the only one.

The complex was big and it was nice enough on the outside but in surprisingly poor condition on the inside. It wasn’t anything that would raise flags in humans but Gavin could see the black mold growing in the windowsills and the thick layer of cigarette smoke not only dyed the wallpaper but felt tacky against Gavin’s sensors.

He could hear everything. No one here was quiet. There were dogs barking, children crying, food burning, arguments and love being made. Humans were messy and self destructive. This wasn’t the sort of place that he’d imagine Nines living on his own terms.

Another argument, though after a moment of listening, Gavin could tell that this one was one sided. He adjusted his posture, stopping in front of the door, clutching at the folder at his side. Everything inside of him told him to break down that door, a thousand different scenarios building in his mind in under a minute, none of them good.

He knocked. Everything went quiet.

The door opened and he looked down, finding a blonde woman of small stature, without much muscle mass or intimidation. Her smile was more plastic than anything that Gavin was made of. She was pretty, according to ratios and studies. Even if Nines had told anyone what was happening, they wouldn’t believe him if they saw her. He was a big strong man, he should have been able to defend himself, especially from someone so small, that’s what they would have thought.

She noted the blue of his jacket, his model number, and her cold brown eyes met the yellow LED on his temple. The smile fell, replaced with a disgusted smirk. She crossed her arms and turned back to the room behind her, “Hey, Dick, that plastic shit from work is here. You wanna deal with it? It’s creeping me out.”

Gavin fought the urge to emote, to act like the deviant that he was. He was trying to fit in, be a nice little android, not raise alarms. Her hatred was visceral. He remembered when he met Nines, how he’d thought that the man hated androids, how well Nines had played the part, and how slowly that had faded. He could guess that his dislike was worse than most because of Denise.

She took a step back as Nines took her place, leaning heavily in the doorway. He didn’t look like anyone that Gavin knew. His hair was ruffled and mussed, his skin pale and clammy. His blue gray eyes were darting around, half on Gavin, half on his fiancee. He was wearing a baggy t-shirt that hung in a way that revealed his jutting collar bones, the bandages and, worse, the bruises, around his throat, and revealed more bandages and bruises down his arms. One of his wrists was an angry red, wherever it wasn’t black and blue from bruising.

“What are you doing here?” Nines said, his voice grimmer, angrier, and more hollow than Gavin had ever heard it. Again, putting on a show.

Gavin put on a smile that he hoped would be read as nice and held up the folder. “The case from Monday, I believe I may have come up with some theories on it. I was hoping that I could come in and talk to you about it.”

Nines’ eyebrows furrowed. “Why are you talking like that?”

Gavin took a step forward, practically inviting himself into the apartment. Nines backed up, letting him in, though it was more on instinct than anything. “I am talking like a normal, boring ass android. Cyberlife thought it would help us be better liked. Is it working?”

Nines shook his head once. “What do you think?”

“I think, Oo! A table!” Gavin brushed his way into the apartment, setting his folder down on the table. It was clean. Everything was clean. With the way that the rest of the complex was, he was expecting the apartment itself to either be a den of depression or a mess for other reasons. He took a quick scan of the surroundings, no where near as in depth as what he’d do at a crime scene, even though he knew that this was one. There was a little bit of dust, invisible to the human eye, and two dirty dishes in the kitchen. There was a bit of broken glass embedded in the carpet, not deep enough to have been there for very long but deep enough that there had been an attempt to vacuum it up.

He opened the folder and pulled out the documents. He was glad he actually had been thinking of the case, because it was easy to talk about, even with Nines so uncomfortable at his side and Denise standing behind them, blurting out comments every once in a while. Most of them were kind in the sickening lovey-dovey way but there were some that were downright cruel, either to Nines or to Gavin. Those sat on the idea of Gavin being Nines’ replacement or that the fact that he needed help was why he wasn’t a Lieutenant yet.

“Really, Dick, you’re such a waste of police time, couldn’t your little toy do all this for you?”

Gavin threw a glare her way and she seemed more than a little bit surprised at how human he could be. Nines didn’t even respond to her, though his eyes were started to get wet and he chewed on the dried skin of his lip.

A red alert joined the objectives in Gavin’s UI: Remove Richard Anderson from the scene. That was an objective he wouldn’t fight against.

[Gavnyan 7:36pm] You got a spare room, right?

He kept talking over his theory, pretending that he wasn’t texting Connor and recording everything that Denise was saying.

[Detective Twink 7:40pm] Yeah why?

[Gavnyan 7:40pm] Big bad meatbag needs a place to sleep for the next couple forever and he’s not doing it here.

[Detective Twink 7:40pm] Nines? What’s going on?

Gavin reached out, casual, slow, and placed his hand on top of Nines’. The human immediately froze as Gavin’s fingertips rested on the horribly finger shaped bruises on his wrist.

“You keep talking about Nines getting replaced,” Gavin said, his voice far more calm and steady than he was feeling. “You should be more worried about yourself.”

“What?” Denise growled from her place.

[Gavnyan 7:41pm] I’m about to ruin this woman’s whole career.

[Detective Twink 7:41pm] What are you talking about?

Gavin stood up, ignoring all of the papers, and turned to her. “I’m done, okay? I’m sitting here, pretending everything’s fine and dandy and like I don’t want to beat your face in and that’s hard enough, but having you treat Nines like shit right in front of me? You’re seriously asking for my fist in your face right now.”

She impressed him with the way that she squared off, tossing her blonde hair and getting into an aggressive position. He hadn’t been broken down over time like Nines had, but he could imagine how after months of verbal abuse her turning physical would work.

“Please,” Nines tugged on his hand a little bit, trying to get Gavin’s attention and free himself at the same time. “It’s fine. It’s just a joke. Come on, you say stuff like that all the time.”

He had. He wasn’t going to ever again.

Gavin slid the ring off of Nines’ finger. He wanted to throw it at her like he was in some romcom, but instead he just released Nines, walked up to her, and placed the ring on the counter next to her.

“You’re never going to talk to Nines like that again. You’re never going to see him again, if I have anything to say about it.”

She laughed nervously. “Says you? You’re just a heap of plastic! You can’t pretend you hold any power here.”

He cracked his neck in both directions before wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting her, swinging her so that she was under his arm. She squealed in surprised anger. She was pelting him with her fists, kicking out with her feet, but he didn’t care. He had a job to do.

Nines was following him, silent and shaking, as he carried Denise out onto the little porch and deposited her there, only to lock the sliding glass door before she could follow him back in.

“What are you doing?” Nines was frazzled, panicked. His voice was still steady, but there was no way Gavin couldn’t see how he sweat, how to quaked, how he was staring out there.

“I’m getting you out of here. Pack your things.”

Denise was screaming insults at him, at both of them. Nines was just standing there, all six foot two of him, looking absolutely tiny. He was staring out at her. “I can’t leave. She’ll kill me.”

Gavin rolled his eyes and took Nines’ hand, leading him towards the bedroom. “No she won’t. Not as long as I’m here.”

---

Nines had rather little, just some clothes and books and electronics. He packed quickly, once Gavin started to do it for him, all of it fitting in an old gym bag and two grocery bags. Denise was yelling at a neighbor by the time they were leaving, probably getting someone to get the door open for her. Gavin kept a hand on Nines all the while, keeping his attention off of Denise and on the task at hand, leading him out of the apartment and down the stairs and outside.

His jacket hid a lot of the damage but his neck was still fairly obvious. Connor paled as he saw it, as he understood everything that he’d missed. Nines didn’t want to press charges but Connor did and Gavin had what she said and a few photographs of the visible damage to indite her with.

There was nothing in the spare room aside from a closet and a bed but when Nines sat n it he just sort of slumped, all of the tension in him unfolding. He wasn’t paying attention to anything, whatever was said to him didn’t land. Gavin brought in a chair from the table and then gave him some space. He could hear Nines try not to shatter as he stood in the living room, discussing what had happened with Connor. They could stay as long as they needed to, the both of them. Gavin didn’t know what to say to that but he knew he would have demanded it if it weren’t offered.

He didn’t need to sleep. He didn’t even need to enter stasis more than once every five days. Still, he sat in the chair next to Nines’ bed, half conscious as the man slept. He could have taken the couch, he probably should have. Staying here would be creepy at the very best. He didn’t want to be that far away from Nines though, not if he was needed.

And he was. At 4:37am Nines turned onto his side, upsetting the damage to his ribs. He tightened in response, making it all worse, and then he was awake, heaving in deeps breathes. The room flickered red with Gavin’s attention, as he got up from the chair and moved to the bed, forcing Nines to lie down flat with the most gentle of touches he could muster.

He could see easily in the dark could see how blown Nines’ pupils were, the only light in the room coming from Gavin’s LED. He flinched as Gavin ran a thumb over his jaw.

“She’s right, isn’t she?” Nines’ voice was pinched. “I’m a failure. I couldn’t even get away from her. I’m that pathetic.”

Gavin adjusted their positions on the bed, helped Nines sit up. Nies should have been asleep, he was exhausted, but he was going to have time to sleep tomorrow. Connor had already agreed to call in on Nines’ behalf to get him some time off. He still looked pale, still looked uncertain, looked so little like Nines that it made Gavin uncertain of what he was doing. He knew though, that what he was doing was the right thing, possibly for the first time.

“You’re not pathetic,” he corrected, “And you’re not pathetic. Look, I’m not a nice guy, so don’t make me say this shit twice. Any experience I have gets set into my programming, changes the way that I react in the future. That’s pretty damn human, and I agree that it’s stupid to be made that way. But what I’m saying is that I get it. I was programmed a certain way and that bitch fucking, she programmed you through experiences and words.”

Nines leaned against Gavin’s shoulder, head against his neck. “I feel strange,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s too much.”

Gavin wrapped an arm around Nines’ shoulders, saying with the action that it was alright, that Nines could take his time, that they didn’t have to move from that spot. He hoped that Nines understood that too.

Nines fiddled with his finger, with the tan line from where his engagement ring had been. Gavin put his hand on Nines’ arm, stilling him for the moment. He stared forward, at the closet door. The door hadn’t done anything against him but he was still glaring at it as if it were Denise herself. Part of him wanted her to come after them, so he could show her what he was capable of to take care of his partner. And that feeling was strange too. He couldn’t place when he started to care about Nines.

“Give it time,” he advised, as if he had any experience in these things. “Give it time.”

[johnsspacesuittight]

A lil unfinished SAF fic

Hi Spies Are Forever fandom, here’s a little Curt x Owen fic I never really finished, but I kind of like it so I thought I may as well share what I have

__________

Agents Carvour and Mega

Banquet for the American Republican Party

Manhattan, New York 1954

Curt glared at Cynthia annoyed as her assistant came by with his suit hanging it on the door inside his hotel room. "Why do I even have to be here? I have more important things to do than spend my evening dancing and parading around here." He said pulling back a few strands of dark hair with his free hand. The other was hand-cuffed to the heater on the wall beside him.

"MI6 will be there tonight Mega, and they will expect my best agent to be there. Especially since they are bringing that bastard Owen Carvour." Cynthia said hinting for her assistant, Susan, to take the suit over to Curt. "Besides, there is a lot of important people there tonight, you never know when you might need a good agent. So behave, will you Mega?" She commanded rather than asked giving him a glare.

Rolling his eyes Curt gestured to the handcuffs that tied him up and with an annoyed groan Cynthia ordered Susan to take it off him. Rubbing his wrist with an annoyed expression Curt accepted the suit Susan was handing him. "Now if you'll leave me alone to get dressed." Curt suggested beginning to shove the two out of his hotel room.

"If you dare even think of climbing out the window Curt I swear-" Cynthia didn't even get to finish her sentence before he had slammed the door in her face and locked it behind them. Knowing he was well alone Curt pulled the t-shirt he was wearing over his head and easily exchanged it for the white dress shirt belonging to the suit Cynthia had got him.

The banquet was starting in an hour and Cynthia had just managed to drag him down there threatening to fire him if he didn't come. When he had then still refused to join her for the banquet she had locked him to the heater to stop him from escaping and taken his own gun, to which Curt had finally given in. Figuring it wasn't worth loosing his life over a boring banquet, although he might just die of boredom from it anyway.

Parties like that really wasn't Curt's favourite thing in the world. He was way too impatient to manage just wandering around and talking to people that you actually hated but had to pretend that you liked because it could cause a civil war or even a world war if you didn't. Curt preferred dangerous situations that gave him an adrenaline rush, which was why he was an agent for the government in the first place.

Only about fifteen minutes later Curt was all dressed up in the suit which consisted of a black bow tie, a white jacket and his usual black shoes that Barb had given him three months back. Curt had only worked for the American secret service for two years, but had quickly become their best agent, a grand scale professional who could compete for the title of the world's greatest spy. One of the only few standing in the way of that was MI6's Owen Carvour. Whom Curt had yet not met, he had only heard the rumours.

With his hair as styled as the rest of him and another quick glance in the mirror Curt decided he looked good enough and opened the door to walk out and down to the ground floor where the ballroom was, and the banquet was to be held. If it hadn't been for his quick reflexes Curt would have walked straight into the tiny frame just about to knock on his door. Curt stopped in his tracks.

"Barb!" He said surprised at seeing the younger woman all dressed up like this. She was wearing a long ball gown in blue, and her usually terrible blonde haircut was pulled back into a slightly less terrible hairstyle. "You look nice." He complimented, even surprised himself that those words came out his mouth while talking to her.

Her cheeks flushed a deep red and Curt cursed on the inside knowing complimenting her wasn't going to help. "Curt, I -we were looking for you." She stuttered slightly, smiling shyly. "You look nice too." She then added, realising she hadn't given a response to his compliment.

"Thanks Barb, you ready to head down?" He then asked and she nodded, doing her best to keep up with him as he begun walking down the hall. She was quite a small woman and it wasn't weird that she had trouble keeping up with him. They reached the end of the hall in a minute and took the elevator down to the ground floor from there.

Entering the ground floor of the building was a mess. People were everywhere, most of them more important than Curt would ever be. Leaders of governments, agencies and parties, people that could in fact end up creating a world war if they got of on the wrong foot. Both Curt and Barb discovered Cynthia at the same time, and with a much lesser tempo then a few minutes before, they headed over to her.

"Ah Agent Mega, Agent Lavernor, welcome. Barbara I want you to meet someone, this is Aron Marco who works for NASA." And as Barb was thrust into an excited conversation with the man with glasses Curt headed away from the scene. He gazed around, trying to find the bar but before he had the chance a voice behind him spoke. "Looking for the bar as well?" The voice carried a strong British accent and an obvious charm to it, and as Curt turned around, coming face to face with the man who had spoken he understood why. With dark slicked back hair and a face that seemed to carry a constant side smirk the man was just of Curt's taste. Dark mysterious eyes that he could already tell held much history. He was taller than Curt and carrying his dark grey suit with great elegance.

The man's smile widened just a little as their gaze's met, maybe almost in recognition. "Ahh, amusing that I was to just bump into someone like you." He said, then offering Curt his hand. "I am Owen Carvour, also known as your greatest competition Mr. Mega." He smirked charmingly as Curt took his hand and shook it. The two paused for a moment their gazes reading into each other, and Curt almost forgot that his hand was still gripping into the others. In a swift movement he let the other's hand fall and turned his gaze somewhere else, pretending to still be looking for the bar.

Not really meaning to Curt discovered the bar and met eyes with Owen for a second nodding to the bar behind him. Owen smirked turning around to see it for himself then he looked back at Curt and offered him his hand again. For a moment Curt hesitated fearing that someone in the room might notice, but upon seeing that everyone there seemed quite busy with their own things he laid his own hand into the others.

Owen led him across the room to the bar, with their hands well hidden between them. Owen sat down at the bar first, catching the attention of the bartender. Their hands had already then let go of each other. "Two vodka martinis for me and the gentleman." Owen ordered as Curt elegantly slid into the barstool beside him.

The bartender nodded and went to work, paying no attention to the two anymore. "So you're Owen Carvour huh?" Curt questioned looking him up and down. "I expected someone greater looking I must admit." He added and Owen turned his head just a bit with an amused and just as charming as before smirk.

"What am I not good enough for you?" He questioned raising his eyebrows expectantly. Curt really expected the great Owen Carvour to be even more professional looking, this man wasn't bad looking, he just didn't look like as much of "the world's greatest spy" as Curt would've thought. Although Curt wasn't exactly sure what he had expected.

"Oh I didn't say that, in fact you are just my type." Curt smirked bobbing his head just slightly closer to Owen who's smirk was just as evident. Just a second later both had a drink before them and had their attention turned away from one another. Curt had picked up his glass and was spinning it slightly in his hand, the ice and glass hitting with each other in clinking noises. Owen had picked his up and seemed to be examining it for a moment before he turned to Curt, his glass still raised.

"I propose a toast." He said, turning Curt's head as well so that their eyes met once again. Curt frowned slightly at this idea, not knowing exactly what they were supposed to toast for. This wasn't much of a special celebration exactly, for the two of them to meet. "To what?" Curt questioned scrunching his eyebrows slightly together.

"To the world's greatest spies." Owen smirked and Curt let out a laugh, lifting his glass up to Owen's and letting them clink together. "To the world's greatest spies." He repeated and then both took a nice big sip of their vodka. Curt looked at Owen as he sat down his drink and ran a hand through his slick dark hair pulling it back. He was about to speak up again, but he didn't have the chance because they were abruptly interrupted.

"Agent Mega, you've met Agent Carvour." Cynthia's voice rung behind them and Owen spun around swiftly practically leaping off his chair to greet her as a real gentleman. He took her hand and leant in close kissing her softly on the cheek.

"Cynthia," He said and Curt noticed how his accent made her name sound almost delicate which wasn't something he was used to thinking about her. "Always a pleasure." He smirked and to Curt's surprise Cynthia looked actually flushed at this greeting. Which he had in fact never seen before either. Maybe Owen was in fact as charming to women as he appeared to Curt.

That was when Curt noticed the man that had arrived with her. He recognised him immediately from the organisation's files. He was the leader of MI6 and therefore also Owen's boss. "Yes, it's been quite the pleasure in fact." Curt responded to Cynthia's previous comment and couldn't help but notice the widening smirk on Owen's face as he said this.

"Well, boys," Cynthia began pausing to straighten her dress. "Andrew here and I have been discussing recent happenings and come to discover you two are working on the same leads. And as this is international business we thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to work together on the next mission." She explained and Curt could feel Owen's eyes on him and already knew him well enough to know the smirk on his face.

"That sounds like a marvellous idea Cynthia, I'm sure Curt and I will quite enjoy working together." Owen said, Curt finally looking at him again instead at Cynthia. "Or what do you think chap?" Owen then added, hitting Curt swiftly but not too hard on the chest. Curt nodded in agreement which seemed to make Cynthia quite happy. She exchanged a glance with Andrew before nodding.

"Well good, now if I may borrow Curt for a minutes there are a few people I need to introduce my best agent to." Cynthia then said taking a hold of Curt and pulling him away from both the leader of the MI6 and it's best agent. She pulled him along to some important world leaders that he didn't pay attention to, not because he was bored but because he was too busy staring at Owen from across the room. The other seemed to be playing it cooler than he was, chatting to a few people and dancing with beautiful women in long gowns. Only when he did his eyes stayed with Curt every time they had the chance. The small glances and smiles Owen sent him from across the room as he too chatted and danced around were driving him mad.

Curt had always known he wasn't exactly like everyone else, that women weren't so much his area as everyone seemed to think. He respected women and liked their company but that was all. Men on the other hand, that was a little more complicated. Now Curt knew it was wrong and every piece of society told him no, but Owen wasn't the first he'd met that he had taken interest in or who had taken interest in him. Yet Owen for sure was the most intriguing out of those he had met. First of all he was a spy, he recognised Curt's lifestyle and the way he lived. If anything Curt felt it was perfect because they were both spies and now they were even working together. If fate wasn't trying to cook something up between them Curt didn't know what was happening.

"Curt." Barb snapped a finger in front of his face, catching his attention again. He had switched Cynthia out with her about an hour ago and had been dancing and chatting with her for a while just because he had nothing else to do, and because Owen seemed so busy with his own things. "What were you thinking about?" Barb questioned and Curt just shrugged.

"Just a mission Cynthia was talking about earlier. I'll be working with Agent Carvour from MI6." Curt made sure his way of addressing Owen made it seem as though he thought of the other agent purely professionally, because there wasn't supposed to be any other way for him to think about Owen.

"Oh yes, Owen." Barb commented acknowledging that she knew of him, maybe even personally. Though Curt took noticed that she didn't speak of him like others seemed to do. Even when Cynthia had been calling him a bastard earlier it had been with admiration, Barb spoke of him as if he didn't matter to her at all. No admiration in her voice, her eyes didn't light up she didn't seem to be interested, at all even though she sounded as though she knew him, which Curt found interesting.

He was about to say something more when he looked over to the spot Owen had previously been in and not seeing him there. Almost in distress Curt glanced hastily around although trying to make it seem as though he was just looking casually around. When he didn't see Owen anywhere else in the room he went over all the possibilities for where he could have gone and settled for the most likely to be the toilet. "Excuse me for a moment Barb." He said quickly as he begun moving through the crowd trying to not interfere with anything.

When he arrived at the toilets he paused for a moment outside realising he really didn't have any good reason to be in there. He could just wait outside to see if Owen was in there, but then decided he would go in. Just in case it was empty in there other than Owen and he could do what he had wanted to for an hour and a half.

Just as he came through the door of the men's bathroom, hands grabbed his shirt collar and pushed him towards an open stall. Before he even had the chance to process what was happening Owen's lips were on his only moments before they entered the stall which he quickly shut behind them, still kissing Owen. "You're as smart as I thought." He said breaking apart from Curt for a moment and smirking slightly at him with those shining dark brown eyes. Then Owen was kissing him again and Curt let his arms join too placing them around Owen's neck pulling him even closer to himself.

Curt had been with men before, though never for more than a night never for more than a short amount of time. He had never got to know them or developed real feelings for them but Owen was already so different, for Curt knew he already had feelings for him. He had only known Owen for a few hours, and he didn't know much about him, but Curt could already tell Owen understood him in a way no one else could.

"We should get out of here." Curt breathed letting go of Owen for a second to look him in the eyes and speak to him. The other's eyes sparked with curiosity at this comment and stopped for a second to push back his dark hair, which Curt found way too attractive.

"Are you sure?" Owen questioned keeping his voice low incase someone was in the bathroom or was about to enter it. "Do you want to do this?" He said putting his arms around Curt's neck and running them down the back of his head and through his hair.

"I want you." Curt whispered kissing Owen again tenderly. The other smirked, before nodding and backing out from the stall letting it close behind him. Then Curt heard him going over to the sink, washing his hands as if he had just been to the toilet and then his steps across the floor leaving. Then Curt did the same. Exited the bathroom stall and then the bathroom.

He met Owen right outside, waiting by the door beside the bathroom, one that led out into an empty lobby. Owen's smirk was apparent, and Curt was itching to kiss him again right then and there, but knew the better of it. Owen nodded at him professionally, and opened the door, holding it open for him. Curt walked outside, and Owen followed suit, letting the door slide shut behind them. The moment it closed Curt kissed Owen again, having already checked to see that no one was around. He could feel Owen's constant smirk still on his lips as he kissed him back, pushing him up against a wall behind them.

Owen then pushed back a little. "My room," pecking him in between sentences. "Or yours." He smirked, his arm up against Curt's throat as if they were in a fight, and not in the middle of making out with one another.

"Mine is just a few floors up." Curt grinned pushing away his now quite messy dark hair. Owen grinned too and nodded, taking his hand and pulling him towards the elevator. The room was still empty, and the moment Curt had pushed the button for the floor they were going to he begun kissing Owen again. Not roughly and hungrily anymore, just body against body close, lips softly touching in between. When the elevator opened the two stood a feet apart, with arms crossed, but the floor was just as empty as the rest.

Curt took the lead, heading for his room, and Owen followed closely, Curt could almost feel his breath on the back of his neck, but it wasn't an unpleasant thing. When they finally reached his room, Curt put the key in the hole and swung the door open, pulling Owen in after him by his collar. Owen closed the door, and locked it, before pushing Curt up against it while freeing himself from his jacket at the same time. Then he begun tugging at Curt's jacket, but Curt had other plans, pushing instead Owen, while still kissing him, towards the large bed.

....discontinued

[kiruuuuu]

Siegemas 2018 Day 9

Kapkan/Glaz oneshot in which their opinions differ while they’re out hunting. (Rating G, fluff, ~1.6k words) - with the prompt: “How many Christmas sweaters do you own?”

I’m substituting in for someone else, so I apologise for the delay! :) I’m loving this event and can only once again invite everyone to check out all the great fics already written, easily available at @dualrainbow​!! 💞💞 Thank you to everyone who’s making this possible ♥

.

Finally stumbling across what looks like relatively fresh tracks is an immense relief. After almost an entire week, even Kapkan’s enthusiasm has dwindled to a low simmer – trudging through thick snow, saving his companion from repeatedly smacking himself in the face with branches and eating canned food gets old after a few days, as does sleeping out in the cold (though they only attempted it once before admitting that returning to one of the camps scattered around the area is the more reasonable choice). They’re trained to survive at these temperatures and could easily cope, that’s not it, yet they’re here for fun and therefore would prefer to separate pleasure from work – whatever that entails. In this case, it’s worrying about their noses freezing off and praying their fingers won’t be too stiff to take the shot once they actually come across their intended target.

If asked two weeks ago, Kapkan would’ve held a heartfelt speech about hunting being his favourite pastime by far, allowing him to rest his mind, sharpen his senses, in a way grant him a reset. Ordinary worries pertain not to the realm of broken twigs, soft imprints in the ground, movement in the distance; these are the times he can really let loose, his thoughts as focused as a bloodhound smelling injury, a hunting dog going on point, and yet strangely free simultaneously. He wouldn’t explain this part, but he feels one with nature when he tracks another living being down, triumphs over it eventually and then makes use of it to feed himself. Wild game tastes vastly different to normal meat, provides its own seasoning based on its diet, can be sweet or possess an intrinsic herbal flavour. The whole process is almost sacred to him.

“Thank God, let’s shoot this clumsy deer and then go home”, Glaz moans from behind him upon spotting the hoof prints and leans against the nearest tree trunk, almost so hard that he upsets the masses of snow precariously balancing on the larger branches further up.

Kapkan turns to him with a scowl. “It’s a moose. And I told you it’d take a while, they’re elusive – especially at this time of year.” His friend is still panting and wordlessly rolling his eyes at him, presumably at his correction. He’s well aware of what they’re hunting even if he’s thoroughly tired of it. “And you’re still walking wrong, that’s why you’re exhausted now.”

“Am I also wearing the wrong colour?”, Glaz jokingly wants to know though it’s probably only half-amused. Kapkan is aware of his own persistent nagging. They haven’t been talking much the past few days on account of Glaz largely complaining and Kapkan harshly reprimanding him for it whenever they do. A few times, he felt as if the atmosphere shifted between them from a comfortable to a slightly hostile silence, yet Glaz always returned to his usual, cheerful self at the end of the day.

Humouring him, Kapkan decides on a display of goodwill and retorts: “Show me and I’ll tell you.” Glaz’ wide grin is met with a glare when the sniper reveals a horrendously tacky, apparently knitted piece of clothing. “Really? How many of these do you own?”

“Christmas sweaters? Enough to last me a week without wearing the same one twice.”

In Kapkan’s eyes, it’s yet another gap between them, another obstacle. He despises everything to do with Christmas, courtesy of the entire holiday being nothing but a thinly-veiled commercialised and capitalistic disgrace – especially the way it’s celebrated in the West, where it’s about whose parents gave whom the most expensive gifts. In Russia, it’s celebrated two weeks later and focuses more on the familial aspect and on a feast rather than spending money to disappoint relatives.

And Glaz inexplicably adores it, adapting traditions from all over the world and endorsing them together with other operators, wanting to visit the German Christmas markets, placing elves on the shelf everywhere, expressing his enthusiasm for eggnog and Christmas pudding, insisting on putting up several Christmas trees around the base.

Their views are incompatible and almost make Kapkan regret bringing him along, partly because Glaz references the cursed holiday often but also because his friend is going to miss more than a week of pre-Christmas cheer, instead opting for this particular miserable existence. Maybe he agreed to come along out of politeness.

“We don’t have to shoot a moose, you know”, Kapkan announces out of the blue, earning a confused glance from Glaz who was busy adjusting his snowshoes after having zipped up his jacket again. “We can leave if you want.”

“What? No, I’m having fun!” The other man must notice the doubt creeping into Kapkan’s expression as he adds: “Really. I’m sorry if it didn’t seem that way, but I like it. It’s been too long since I cleared my head a little. And I’m not leaving without a trophy.”

“Are you sure?”

Glaz flashes him a small smile. “Yes. I’m sorry for complaining. Let’s follow the tracks, shall we?” Once they’re on the move again, shuffling side by side, the younger man speaks up again: “I’m glad you asked me to come along, I know how much this means to you.”

His heart skips a beat and he has to remind himself that Glaz means hunting and not his own presence, though he would’ve been correct on both accounts. Fortunately, Kapkan manages a neutral: “Do you?”

“You used to do this with your uncle, right? And you keep saying how it’s your favourite. Besides, your best stories are about inexperienced idiots making the stupidest mistakes on the hunt, so I’m proud you made me the offer of accompanying you.”

As always, his honesty is disarming and leaves Kapkan at a loss for words. He fails to understand how Glaz can say these words so easily, have his feelings lying on his tongue, make himself so vulnerable. Kapkan is concerned, confused, and… and a little envious. Maybe he could make an attempt himself, reveal that which occupies him so much it takes a toll on his mood and causes him to be curt with the one man with whom he’d like to speak for hours. I don’t know how to talk to you, he would tell him, but your presence calms me. I want to understand you but I don’t know what to ask. I’m glad you’re here but worried you’re not enjoying yourself.

It’s impossible. Blood gathers in his cheeks at the mere thought of being this direct and yet, he’s determined. “What do you like so much about Christmas?”, he eventually gets out: a weak peace offering.

Still, he must’ve done something right since Glaz’ face brightens. “All of it”, comes the passionate yet unhelpful reply. “I love picking out the best gifts for people, there’s just so much fancy food but most of all, it brings people together. When I ask them how they celebrate Christmas, they’re usually stoked to show me and readily let me be a part of it. I think it’s the fact that it’s about sharing, whether it’s meals, presents or just happiness.”

Kapkan mulls it over. Granted, when put like this, it sounds like the best of all worlds, though he remains doubtful nonetheless. “I’m not convinced it really is as selfless as you claim it to be.”

“Oh, I think it is. Julien’s entire extended family comes together to celebrate and he didn’t hesitate for a second to invite me as well. He said his parents are always glad about more guests, so I’ll actually spend one Christmas in France and one at home.”

This is the first he’s hearing of this. Of course, he was aware of the two younger men being friends yet didn’t think they were this close. The previous year, all the Spetsnaz operators (among a few others) remained in the base and on call, allowing everyone who celebrates the holiday two weeks earlier than them to return home. He assumed it’d be the same this year, was looking forward to the less hectic air. Was looking forward to some more time alone with Glaz.

“I see”, he responds non-committally.

“You know what, why don’t you come along as well? The more, the merrier. I’m absolutely sure Julien won’t mind and that way, maybe you’ll change your mind about Christmas.” Glaz nudges him, the place of contact tingling for a few seconds. “And isn’t it only fair? If I waded through the snow for you, so you’ll have to survive celebrating this holiday with me.”

The offer is tempting, he can’t lie to himself, though part of him is still wondering how much of it is a sense of obligation or genuine offer. Glaz might feel like he owes Kapkan, and in that case he shouldn’t -

“I’d be really happy if you joined me.”

Kapkan almost stumbles over his own feet. When he turns to his friend, he’s watching him with an expectant, hopeful look in his light blue eyes, eradicating any shred of uncertainty Kapkan still might’ve had. He’s being earnest. Glaz would be really happy.

Quickly, he averts his gaze again before his embarrassment shows, grumbles a reluctant yet affirmative answer and can’t help but smile secretly when Glaz immediately expresses his enthusiasm, even shakes him a little in contagious excitement. While they continue stalking their moose, Glaz chatters on about all the things they’re going to do, all the songs they’ll inevitably hear, all the people they’ll meet, and maybe Kapkan’s perception is flawed but he thinks they’re walking a little more closely than before.

It’s possible Christmas really isn’t so bad.

[perseuesjackson]

say yes (to the dress)

ao3

words 1701

summary Izuku thought picking a wedding tux would be easy, but Kacchan sure has him proved wrong.

a/n definitely not inspired by my recent obsession with watching say yes to the dress  ....i don't even really like it but i can't stop

anyways, i just kept imagining every single picky bride or bridesmaid or mother to be kacchan being like "no, this neckline doesn't suit my figure" but i wrote it with tuxes

lmk if u want a dress version

Izuku huffs a sigh, stretching out his neck. It’s tight, sure, but it isn’t a bad fit. He doesn’t mind—he’s never really cared about how his muscles look, or if his shoulders are too broad or not. He didn’t mind the freckles on his face and the unruliness of his hair. Being toned mattered, yeah, for being a hero, but not for aesthetics. Not for him.

But for Kacchan?

“No.” His words are curt, tense. He has his legs crossed and his arms as well. Even knowing Kacchan and his temper, Izuku knows he’s irritated. “It’s too fucking tight. I said, tight but not strapped in. It should be taught, not like his pecs are stretching out the dress shirt. What other shirts do you have?”

The attendant is quick to placate Kacchan. “Bakugou-san, we also have these selections, what about this fit?” He holds it up to Izuku’s chest and stretches it out. “The shoulders seem like it’ll be a nice fit, shows off the broadness of them.”

Kacchan clicks the back of his tongue, making a tsk sound as he stares at it. “Try that one on, Deku. The color isn’t good, but let’s see if the fit is a match.”

Izuku sighs again, closing his eyes in exasperation as he grabs the shirt. “Kacchan, this one isn’t bad. Can’t we just—”

“Are you kidding me? You’re too big for the shirt, look at these hole gaps between the buttons. It’s so off; you’re better off wearing a hospital gown than this tight fit.” He pushes Izuku back into the changing room. “Hurry and change.”

Izuku pouts, thinking about how he’s trying to hurry the entire process. They’ve been here for an hour and a half already—and they were still on dress shirts. He mourns just thinking about how much longer blazers, vests, ties, slacks, and shoes will take.

“Kacchan,” he calls as he unbuttons the shirt he has on. (It is pretty tight, but not to the point where Izuku cares.) “You already have your suit picked out right?”

“I gave the exact instructions to my old man a couple days ago. It took a long ass time to decide on things, but—” there’s a quick pause, and Izuku imagines Kacchan cracking his neck “—they’re my parents. I can make these demands.”

“I see,” Izuku answers, already wondering what he told his parents if Kacchan didn’t consider his words today as demands. .Katsuki knows almost no boundaries—even when it comes to his parents—and he wonders if auntie and uncle can handle it all. But then he thinks about auntie Mizuki’s fiery temper that Kacchan inherited and thinks that they’ll probably be alright.

“Okay.” He stretches out his neck and unlocks the door. Stepping out the platform, Izuku spreads his arm and asks, “What about this?”

“It looks wonderful!” the attendant says, though he’s said that for the last four. It’s not that his words are empty or false, but just that Kacchan’s standards are that high.

“...The fit is good,” he finally says.

Both Izuku and the attendant breathe a sigh of relief.

“But I was right — the color is all wrong.” Kacchan turns to the employee. “Show me your color selections.”

“Of course,” and at this point, Izuku wants to say something to the man, because he looks so worn out. “We have several options for that design.” Kacchan’s handed five different hangers, all of which he puts against Izuku’s chest for investigation.

“No,” he decides. Izuku is so sick of that word. “They’re all wrong.”

“Kacchan, it’s just a suit.”

“It’s your wedding tux. Of course it matters. This is the top store in the region—there’s no way they don’t have something good here.”

“I like this one.” Izuku peers down at the one he’s wearing; it’s a dark green, so much so that it looks sort of black, but there’s an obvious tint it. “Can’t we just go with it?”

Kacchan grimaces. “It could work,” he finally relents. “If we find the appropriate blazer to go with it. Maybe different looks—suspenders might work, or a longer coat… Nothing too out of style, you may not be able to pull it off. What else do you guys have?”

This was unbelievable. Izuku had thought finding a bridal dress for Ochako had been difficult (she’s more picky than you realize, and there was also the budget to think about) but Kacchan had come smashing in. Izuku always previously assumed that women’s bridal dresses were harder; there were so many different designs while men only had one or two options for a tux.

Wow, was he wrong.

“Not pure black. I’ll be wearing that; it’ll clash. Besides, Deku look better in a lighter color.” Kacchan regards him again, observing the fit against his chest, his torso. His gaze makes Izuku flush. “Not too light. Dark gray. Maybe a navy. Something lighter to tone it up but still a darker wash to highlight his muscles.”

“Okay,” says the poor employee, who’s red and damp from all the stress Kacchan’s giving him. “How about this. What does the groom want?” He looks pointedly at Izuku, who has no words. He didn’t really have a vision coming in; just a nice fitted suit, dark wash, something that looks good. Izuku didn’t even get a chance to say his thoughts when they came in — little as they were — since Kacchan started to make demands before anyone could ask for anything.

“I don’t know. I’m not really fond of anything white.” That’s probably the best he could offer. He didn’t really know much about any of the other options.

“Right. So no white, that’s great for us to work with.”

Kacchan circles around him again before saying, “Deku isn’t known for his fashion choices. Take a look at his hero suit.”

“Hey!”

“Bring us that coat in a deep indigo. It may clash with the dark green, but let’s see it. Deku’s hair and eyes just may set the whole thing.”

Really, Izuku had come in here thinking it would be something quick. Or at least, he hadn’t planned his whole day around this. Thankfully, he had listened to Kacchan’s advice in leaving the entire day free, but he had thought that meant leaving room for hiccups or unforeseen mishaps, not Kacchan’s pickiness!

The next couple hours goes on slowly, with Izuku picking up clothes, taking them off, and putting them back on again. He’s probably spun on the stand he’s stand on enough times to drive a hole in it.

Finally, when he’s loops a tie around his neck and tucked it under his collar and buttoned up his blazer, he thinks he’s done. Izuku admires himself in the mirror for a beat before looking at Kacchan.

Kacchan’s standing with a hand to his chin and a furrow in his brow.

Just say yes already!

“Let’s see the cuff links,” and oh my god, they had to decide on that as well? Any would be fine! Who would even pay attention to them?

Thankfully, Kacchan has a quick and calculative eye, because it takes him a speedy scan over the options and a couple tries before he decides, “There. The gold brings out the green in your eyes and sets the dark of your dress shirt well. It’s a good match.”

“So?” Izuku questions. It’s one part sassy and two parts anxious. He just wants Kacchan to say yes already.

“Turn.”

He obeys and circles once. When Izuku returns to facing Kacchan, he spreads his hands to show more of the outfit, but also to say, Well? Are we good?

“Perfect.” Kacchan steps forward and brushes a hand along the lapel of his suit jacket. “Yeah, it’s good.”

Despite that Izuku has been waiting over four hours just for Kacchan to say those words and wants to scream them outloud so badly, the simmering gaze on Kacchan’s face as he regards the entire tux, then Izuku’s face has him faltering. “Kacchan,” he whispers.

“You look good, Deku.”

He had never been one for appearances; Izuku knows he’s plain looking, and although he is built fairly well thanks to the demands of One for All, it sometimes does look awfully imbalanced with his baby face. But with Kacchan looking at him with such a smoldering, passionate expression, Izuku can’t help but to lean down from the platform he stands in, and presses his lips to Katsuki’s.

“It better. We spent a long time looking.” He smiles, frustrations of being cooped up in the shop all day suddenly gone. “It’s a little pricey though—”

“I’ll cover it. If I’m going to be so picky about what you wear on our wedding, I’ll pay for it.”

Izuku’s heart tightens. Kacchan rarely shows his consideration so blatantly. “You’re not going to be this picky about which flowers should go on our rehearsal dinner tables are you?”

Kacchan scowls. “I have to be, because you have sense for aesthetics.”

Izuku takes one more turn around to look at himself in the mirror. “It really does look good. You have great taste, Kacchan, even if it took you years to get there,” he teases, glancing at him through the reflection of the mirror. Izuku brushes a hand over the blazer, buttoning the suit together. “I can’t believe I’m getting married in this.”

Kacchan grunts in agreement.

Izuku spins on a pivot, facing Kacchan once more. The sudden realization has him almost bursting at the seams, and he can’t help to gush, “I can’t believe I’m marrying you in this…!”

He reaches forward and winds his arms around Kacchan’s neck. The stand he’s on gives him a good extra ten centimeters, and it’s an interesting to see Kacchan look up at him for a change. He wraps his arms around Izuku in return and presses a kiss to Izuku’s chest, over the extravagant tux ensemble he chose.

“I can. It’s about fucking time.”

Izuku laughs. “I get to marry you.” He says it like he still can’t believe it.

Finally, Kacchan smiles. He breaks into an ear-splitting grin, one that has Izuku soaring because he made that happen. “Yeah,” he agrees, “you do.”

[maevefiction]

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 23

When we arrived at Estelle J Wilson, there wasn’t a parking spot to be had. Even those earmarked for funeral attendees were taken, and as we drove past the main entrance to head around the block in search of one for ourselves, there they were…news vans from local affiliate stations WWL, WDSU and WGNO. A few feet down I spotted the paparazzi, four or so as best I could tell, lurking and waiting.

I turned to Tom, smirking. “Weh-hel, THIS is going to be a lot more interesting that I anticipated. Apparently.”

He pulled into an open space two blocks down from the funeral home and put the car in park. His right arm rose, then settled on my shoulder, hand grasping the back of my neck, massaging gently. “You okay to do this?”

I shrugged, enjoying the way the fabric of my dress seemed to float around my arms. His massaging continued in spite of my movement. “I’d like to tell you to turn around and go back to the hotel, but somehow I don’t think me not showing up for my mother’s funeral would improve upon the situation. And I know I’ll have to talk, because, hey-o, I can’t even run past them. But, on the bright side, at least I had the sense to wear my yoga shorts underneath the dress so there’s no chance of a wardrobe malfunction during any of this.”

Tom laughed, lines appearing around his eyes, relaying the story of a man who enjoyed doing so and had for his entire life. “Thank god for small favors. If I happened to get a look under there at this point they’d all be in for far more of a show than they’re equipped to handle.”

“Dude. Was that supposed to help? Because…not helping.” I leaned over and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips, then opened my door. The ibuprofen I’d taken had helped immensely, and I was fully capable of walking without crutches, albeit slowly. Chances were that using them, though, might garner some sympathy from the press. Tom watched me pull them out of the car, eyebrows raised. “One, I can move faster if I use them. Two, I want everyone to feel sorry for me. Sorrier. Don’t ruin my moment, Hiddleston.”

“Perhaps I should carry you instead if it’s attention you’re seeking.”

“Not attention. SYMPATHY. If you carry me, people will feel LESS sorry for me. Not part of the plan. Plus, it’s like, two blocks and you’d fucking keel over. Also not part of the plan.”

He got out of the vehicle and came round to the passenger side, my messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “Thomas, you are a god among men, unashamedly carrying your woman’s purse.”

His eyes lit up, and he pointed at it. “This? This is NOT a purse, darling. THIS is a EUROPEAN CARRYALL.”

I raised my forearm up as far as the crutch would allow. “Nice. Second Seinfeld reference of the day. High-five.”

The palm of his hand connected with mine, tenderly, and our fingers twined together. “Remember, I’m going to be right there with you. And if you don’t wish to say anything, simply don’t say anything.”

“Um, I’m sorry…I’m supposed to be the one telling YOU that, yes?”

He grinned impishly. “Tables, Maude. Oh how they turn.”

As we reached the news vans, the noise began, seven people shouting out questions all at once, cameras and mics pointed in my direction. The cacophony caused my brain to shift into crisis management mode, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Tom stood at my side, transferring his weight from one foot to the other. My gaze moved from one reporter to the next, looking them straight in the eye. The noise died down, then out. I took a deep breath and began to speak.

“Hello there. How’s everyone doing today?” They turned to one another, shoulders shrugging, faces contorting into expressions of puzzlement, unsure as how to proceed. “Under normal circumstances, I’d be happy to give you all the time you need, but I’m running behind as it is and have in inkling that it would be just a wee bit disrespectful if I were to be late for my mother’s funeral service. That being said, I think I DO have enough time for one question from each of you.” I pointed to the young, dark-haired woman in the floral print dress holding a WWL microphone.

She cleared her throat, then motioned to her cameraman to begin recording. The other two crews followed suit, and I assumed the paps were recording as well. “Ms. Gallagher, do you have anything to say regarding your ex-husband’s arrest?”

I had plenty to say. So, so much to say…ninety-nine percent of it unsuitable for television. “First, allow me to mention that the Winchester family has been in my thoughts ever since I heard the news. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to have someone invade the sanctity of your home, where you’re supposed to feel safest. And someone armed…it must be terrifying. Mr. Bonaventura’s actions were deplorable, and I trust that the Louisiana justice system will dole out the appropriate punishment when the time comes. Next question, the gentleman from WDSU. And please, call me Maude.”

He was short, chubby and dressed in a tweed jacket that I was certain made him feel like he was in the ninth circle of hell. “Maude, is it true that he intended to break into your mother’s home but chose the wrong house in error?”

Suppressing the smile that fought to spread across my face was a daunting task. “That’s my understanding, yes.”

The reporter from WGNO didn’t wait his turn, and exceeded his inquiry limit within seconds. “Why would he need to break into her home? I’ve seen a copy of the will…it was to go to him, without question. Are you contesting it? Have you taken possession illegally? Did you lock him out? Is that why he did it?”

What a total douche canoe. I wanted to slap him, but stared him down instead as I prepared my reply. “Gosh, I think that was five questions, not one. I know, I know…math is hard, right? Anyway. My mother died intestate, which means the entire contents of her estate passes to me according to Louisiana law. The will that was in Mr. Bonaventura’s possession was revoked, and another was not created. You can contact her attorney, Bartholomew Stevens, if you have additional questions regarding the matter. As to why he did it, my guess is he came back to New Orleans expecting something, and when it turned out that something was actually nothing, he grew rather malcontented. Next question, you in the red T-shirt.”

He held out his phone to better capture our exchange, sun creating a halo around his blonde, curly hair. “Maude, is it true that Mr. Bonaventura cheated on you with your own mother, and that your father killed himself because of it?”

Tom muttered something under his breath, and I hoped I was the only one who’d heard. The inner calm I felt in the face of a question that would have caused a breakdown just days earlier made me feel damn near invincible. “Absolutely correct.” I pointed at the young Asian woman dressed in a bright purple track suit and pink Converse Hi-Tops. “You’re next, please.”

Her face was an expressionless mask. “According to Passages Hospice, you never visited your mother there prior to her death. Is that accurate, and if so, why?”

“Yes. That’s correct. As to why…my mother suffered from alcoholism and Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Though, in actuality, it was everyone close to her who did the majority of the suffering. Her cause of death was alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. The last time I saw her was in 1998, when I walked in on her and Mr. Bonaventura during an intimate encounter. No-contact is a widely accepted method for dealing with toxic people in order to facilitate recovery. I was contacted by the hospice when she passed as I’m the only next of kin. Gal in the tank top…your turn.”

The tank top was an old-school wife beater, paired with khaki shorts that reached her knees. Her white- blond hair was short on one side, long on the other, with pink tips. “My sources tell me that you’re an alcoholic too. True or false?”

My jaw tightened. They’d obviously been speaking with ‘mourners’ in spades, and it was no surprise that a good number of people here still thought of me as drunkard Mary’s drunkard daughter. “In September of 1996, my boyfriend was killed in a car accident. Shortly after his funeral, I discovered I was pregnant. Soon after THAT, I miscarried. I found myself unable to cope with such profound loss and used alcohol to self-medicate. Since I honestly can’t say whether I wasn’t capable of stopping or just chose not to during the time I was drinking, alcoholic is probably an applicable term. I’ve been sober for seventeen years, though. Last question, gentleman with the man bun.”

He laughed briefly, then frowned slightly, as if he was reconsidering asking what he’d planned to. “Hello, Maude. I spoke with Mr. Bonaventura’s current wife, Anna Beth, this morning via phone. When I asked her how she felt regarding his arrest, she expressed relief and indicated that he abused her verbally and physically. Is that something you experienced during your marriage to him?”

I gave a curt nod. “Yes. It was. Unfortunately, it was something I’d endured for years in my own home prior to marrying Mr. Bonaventura, so it didn’t seem abnormal to me until after I removed myself from the situation. If my sources are correct, Anna Beth was very young when she met and married him, as was I. It is my hope that this incident will allow her to move on with her life, heal and find the peace she deserves. Okay, folks. Apologies, but that’s all I have time for. Thanks so very much for your cooperation.”

Man bun raised his hand, then pointed to my walking boot. “Maude, I’m pretty sure we’re all wondering how that happened. Would you mind…”

My eyes rolled skyward. “Damn, and here I thought you wouldn’t notice.” Laughter rang out. “I wore heels to dinner last night, and they got the best of me. Right down on my ass in the middle of the Palm Court Café. It’s just a sprain, two weeks and I should be good. Seriously, though…gotta go. You all enjoy the rest of the day.”

They stepped back and to the side, allowing us to pass. Four crutch swings later Tom appeared in front of me, the admiration in his eyes flooring me completely and freezing me in place. Two steps brought him close enough to lean in to kiss me, admiration replaced by ardor and fire, grasping the back of my neck with one hand, sucking my bottom lip into his mouth so forcefully that I came. It was a tiny orgasm, over and done in two seconds, but an orgasm nevertheless. His grip on my neck tightened, and I knew he must have felt me shudder. He deepened the kiss, and as our tongues met I heard camera clicks, faint, as if they were down at the end of a tunnel, far away. A distant repetition of ‘Excuse me, Ms. Gallagher?’ grew ever louder, finally snapping me back to reality. I pulled back, looked past Tom to discern the source, and was mildly humiliated upon seeing Reverend Thompson standing there. His face was as red as a cherry tomato, the flush extending down his neck and, I assumed, beneath his clerical collar.

He cleared his throat, hands clasped behind his back. “Ms. Gallagher, we’re about to begin. Follow me, please.”

Tom remained in front of me, a look of astonishment on his face as he mouthed the words ‘Did you…?�� I plastered a polite smile on my countenance, nodding at him as I addressed the reverend.

“Apologies, Reverend Thompson. Thank you for your patience. Lead the way.”

As we walked toward the entrance Tom fell into step beside me, whispering in my ear. “An orgasm. From a kiss. MY kiss. Man alive, I feel like a fucking rock star right now.”

My head spun in his direction, ponytail swishing back and forth across my neck in its wake, eyes narrowed. His mouth dropped open, then closed again as he reached out to touch my bare shoulder.

“Maude, I’m sorry, that was a dreadfully self-centered thing to…”

I grinned and shook my head, speaking softly as he removed his hand. “I’m just screwing with you, Thomas. That lip thing…it…DID something to me. Anyway. Allow me to assure you that you are a fucking rock star. MY rock star. And as an added bonus, it would have REALLY pissed my mother off to know that I was making out with the sexiest man alive at her funeral.”

“That’s not a title People magazine has bestowed upon me as yet, Maude.”

“I’m well aware of their prior woefully inadequate choices. But I just did.”

“And that’s infinitely more meaningful, of course.”

“Nice save, Hiddleston. If they don’t put you on the cover soon, though, they’re going to be getting some…calls.”

We’d reached the front door, and Reverend Thompson held it open for us. The service was being held in the same room as the viewing, and as we approached I could see it was packed well beyond its limit. After pausing for a moment to prepare myself to walk the gauntlet, I opted to do so without the crutches, resting them against the wall to the right of the doorway. Reverend Thompson motioned for us to enter before him, and Tom offered his arm. I gratefully accepted, and as we crossed the threshold all heads turned, row by row, gazes fixed upon us. Tom’s face was expressionless, the dark blue of his button down shirt reflecting in his eyes, black trousers sitting low on his hips, black leather tie perfectly knotted at his neck. Even less graceful than normal due to the height difference of my walking boot and my black Birki, I kept myself in check by counting the number of steps it took to reach the front of the room where the closed casket rested, covered in a blanket of pink roses. Two seats were vacant in the front row, on the aisle and next to Anne. The whispers began when we were halfway there, fifteen steps in. My head remained high, jaw firmly set, as I passed by the throng of people who’d decided attending the funeral of someone they hadn’t given the remotest shit about in order to obtain a firsthand account of the event so they could later spread any juicy gossip they managed to gather was an ideal way to spend a summer afternoon.

Tom continued to hold my arm until I was comfortably seated next to Anne, then took his place at my side. Anne patted my knee as Reverend Thompson half-jogged to the front and began. I put my right hand over hers and squeezed, and Tom reached out to take my left one in his. After the introductory portion of the service, I zoned out, Reverend Thompson’s voice becoming very similar to that of the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon. All I heard was ‘wah wah, wah wah wah wah wah, wah wah’, and eventually even that faded away into nothing. Man bun’s words haunted me, and my thoughts turned to Anna Beth. I’d been strong enough to get away from Will on my own, but I’d actually had somewhere to get away TO, the funds to get there, AND enough to start over with. Those were luxuries she did not possess, and there were three children she’d need to support on her own going forward as well, another hurdle I hadn’t had to clear. Marrying at such a young age had more than likely put her in a position wherein she had little to no employment experience, and few marketable job skills…or none whatsoever. Though I’d intended to donate the proceeds of the estate sale to the Metropolitan Center for Women and Children, I found myself seriously considering sending them her way instead. It would have to be done anonymously, of course, and Barty already had a way to contact her. Part of me felt as if I’d be slighting the many to help the few, but in this instance it was personal. We had an ill-fated kinship, Anna Beth and I, born of lies emanating from a man who’d used us for his own nefarious purposes, violence and mental abuse his means of controlling us so we’d never dare to question a single blessed thing as he fulfilled his unscrupulous objectives.

The sound of the crowd around me rising to their feet derailed my train of thought, and I left my seat as fast as I possibly could, not wanting anyone to have the slightest indication that I hadn’t been paying any attention to the service. At all. Tom’s arm slipped around my waist, and we remained where we were until the rest of the room cleared. Anne offered to join us at the cemetery, asking to hitch a ride in our rental car as she’d taken a cab to the funeral. I was pleased to discover that the news trucks had departed, but the paps remained, photographing and filming Anne and I as we waited for Tom to bring the car round for us. At Greenwood it was just the three of us, the hearse driver, and the folks responsible for the interment procedures. I remained back at least fifteen feet from the crypt, silent the entire time, having already said my final goodbyes to the people who’d brought me into this world. We left for as soon as they began the closing process, and I looked back over my shoulder one last time as we made our way out of the garden, wanting this moment to be my last memory of my mother. Dead. Gone. Sealed inside a coffin, inside a mausoleum, never to speak new words that could hurt me ever again. And that was enough to shift the specter of the past from translucent to transparent…what used to only allow light to pass through while masking the details was now completely clear, entirely visible. The thing about the past is this…it’s always present. There’s no escape from it. You can run, you can hide, but it will inevitably find you. There is, of course, a better solution, one I’d finally been brave enough to attempt. Face it. Embrace it. Remember it. Learn from it. And, most importantly, try your best to not let it fuck your life up too badly along the way as you moved further and further beyond it.

Tom and I bid Anne adieu as we dropped her off at Café du Monde, then hurried back to the hotel so we’d have enough time to change, pack, check out, and arrive at the airport by four. Our flight was scheduled to leave Louis Armstrong International at five-thirty and arrive in New York at nine-thirty, and if the gods were feeling generous we’d be settled into my apartment an hour or so later. Or, I should say, our apartment. A foreign concept as far as I was concerned, but one that made me deliriously happy. And that was something I could totally get used to.

**************************************** The duration of our first-class flight was primarily spent sending each other naughty text messages, each one filthier than the last. Afterward there was much debate as to who started it, but I refused to confess even though I was guilty as sin. He was just sitting there, in his cargo shorts and white V-neck T-shirt, up against the window with the sun reflecting on his pretty fucking face, driving me insane.

The hollow at the base of your neck, right above your collarbones. My tongue needs to be there. Like, now. – M

Go ahead. No one will notice. We’re in the last row. – T

Hmm…is it me or did that make your nipples hard, Thomas? I can see them right through your shirt. Guess they’ll be the next stop for my tongue. – M

The first stop for MY tongue is going to be your mouth, Maude. Running it over your lips, your teeth, then thrusting it in and out over and over until your moaning alerts the passengers in front of us. –T

Back and forth we went, until the final exchange.

I’m going to work my cock into your ass, inch by inch, until I’m buried inside you. Then I’m going to slip three fingers into your pussy and fuck you with them as well, so I can feel my cock from the INSIDE through the oh-so-thin wall that gives both of us so much pleasure as I pound your ass relentlessly, my thumb massaging your clit until you want to scream…but since you can’t, I’ll be forced to cover your mouth with my hand in order to keep you quiet. – T

And just as you’re about to come, I’ll invite you to fuck my mouth. As soon as you pull out of me, I’m going to drop to my knees and suck your cock so hard you’ll see stars. I’ll sneak my index finger in my beside it at some point, get it nice and wet, then run it between your ass cheeks until I find that glorious pucker. My finger will keep moving round and round the rim as I keep licking at and sucking on your cock, loosening you up, stretching, until you’re ready…then in it goes. Then out, then in. Again and again. I’ll wait until I feel your rhythm start to falter, then I’ll press my finger down on that magical spot inside you and swallow you whole as your come shoots down my throat, hot and sticky. You’ll have bruises on your knuckles for a week from biting down on them so hard. – M

That broke him. He stood, put his hands in his pockets to hide his raging hard on as best he could, pushed past me and locked himself in the bathroom. When he returned he was smirking, and I’d thought I wouldn’t need to, but he kissed me, long and slow, and I found myself in the loo a few moments later, pants around my ankles as I attempted to rub one out so I could make it home without fucking him in the back of the car that would be waiting for us. Or on the plane. In front of everyone. My phone dinged, and I bent to pull it out of my pants pocket. He’d sent me a video he’d made during his turn, hand on his cock, jerking himself off, standing right in the same spot I was in now. That was all the inspiration I required, and then some. I deleted it as soon as I finished, then texted him to remind him to do the same. Even though his face wasn’t visible, it still wasn’t something that should be kept around. Despite the fact that I wanted to watch it a thousand more times.

As we circled LaGuardia, I began singing Frank Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York’. Quietly, I might add, until Tom joined in, then a good number of the other passengers in first class, turning it into an impromptu sing-along that grew loud enough as we reached the final chorus to warrant a shushing from the flight attendant. We disembarked, picked up our luggage, and found the driver holding a sign with GALLAGHER written on it. Tom had given the company my name in an attempt to avoid any unnecessary scrutiny, but it turned out to not make a difference as this was New York, where no one gave much of a fuck about how famous you were. I’d seen Madonna try to cut line at a bagel shop once, only to be rebuked none too gently by everyone already waiting, resulting in her taking her place at the back of the queue, laughing and saying she should have known better than to do such a thing on her home turf. There was not a single soul standing still as we followed the driver to the curb, everyone looking down and walking quickly as they sought to fulfill their own personal missions.

Forty-five minutes later we arrived at 250 Mercer Street in Greenwich Village/NoHo, a wide smile spreading across my face at the prospect of being home, growing ever wider when I turned to Tom and it hit me that for the first time since college, someone I loved was coming home with me.

He leaned over me, peering out my open window, craning his neck to see how high it went despite the fact that it was dark.

My hand found his thigh and settled there. “It’s 16 floors in some spots. Building was erected in 1888, renovated in 1979 and remained rental apartments until 1986 when it went co-op. My dad bought it in 1995, for exactly how much I don’t know. He signed it over to me for a dollar a few months later, and I didn’t pay any attention at all to the paperwork. Surprising, right? I’d have to pull the deed to find out the amount. Now it’s worth around eight hundred thousand or so, but I don’t care, because I am NEVER selling it. I’m on the 5th floor. And yes, there are elevators. Thank god.” I opened the door, stepping on my right foot gingerly. The pain was back, mainly because I was a fucking moron and not only forgot to take my ibuprofen but had packed it away in my suitcase instead of my carry on. The crutches were in the trunk, and the driver brought them around first for me, the followed with our luggage.

Tom came out on the curb side as well, stretching, arms up over his head, T-shirt riding up just enough to reveal his belly button and the start of his happy trail as he glanced around at the street signs and location. “The Village, yes?”  

“Technically it’s right on the border of Greenwich Village and NoHo. Best of both worlds and all that. Washington Square Park is right over that way…” I pointed in the correct direction, but it looked like I was pointing at air since it wasn’t visible. “You can totally see it from my window.”

Tom tipped the driver, who’d brought the luggage right to the door for us when he realized it was way too much for one person to carry. The glass door opened towards us, and out stepped Murray Goldberg, my favorite doorman. His uniform was black, with gold trim and buttons, exactly the same as it had been when I’d moved in, and, according to him, as it was when he started back in 1987. He was in his mid-sixties, not much taller than I was, with thinning white hair and gold-framed John Lennon glasses.

“Well, well, well…look what the cat dragged in. If it’s isn’t Miss Maude Gallagher. You were supposed to be back for the July 4th weekend…how I worried and worried!” He chuckled as I half-embraced him, crutches tucked to my side with my elbows.

“Oh please. You are so full of shit, old man. You didn’t even notice I was gone. And besides, look what I brought back with me!” I released him and gestured to Tom. “Murray, this is Tom Hiddleston. Tom, Murray Goldberg.”

Murray glanced at Tom, then rolled his eyes at me. “So THIS is why you went AWOL.” He held his hand out to Tom, who shook it vigorously. “Nice to meet you, Tom. Welcome to 250 Mercer.”

Tom grinned. “Thank you, Murray. Pleasure to meet you as well.”

Murray looked puzzled for a moment, and I knew it had dawned on him that Tom was an actor, but he shrugged it off and poked my arm, suddenly switching to a thick Brooklyn accent. “Englishman, eh? Whatsamatta, New York guys not good enough for ya anymore?”

I snorted. “Nice. Offend him before he even has a chance to see the place.” We all laughed, and I pointed to my walking boot. “I’m injured. I don’t suppose you can dig us up a luggage dolly from somewhere?”

He shook his head at Tom. “Been back less than five minutes and she’s already a giant pain in my ass. Wait here.”

They loaded the cart while I watched, and Murray wished us a good night as we headed for the elevator. Tom wheeled it inside and I punched the 5 button quickly, hoping to avoid company. My strategy was successful, and less than a minute later the stainless steel sliders opened, my white apartment door visible from where we stood. It turned out that crutches were useful for holding elevators, but I felt completely useless as I watched Tom struggling to drag the cart up over the lip and onto the grey carpet.

I pointed to the left. “C503. That’s us, right over there.” Grabbing my messenger bag off the pile of luggage, I fished out my keys, put the correct one in the deadbolt, then pushed down on the handle. The door swung inward, and I reached in and flipped the light switch. I turned around to see Tom, his eyes wide and slightly misty. I grinned, leaned my crutches against the sideboard and threw myself at him, arms wrapping around his waist. “Welcome home, Thomas.”

****************************************

To the right of the door, behind the bathroom, was a metal staircase that led to the loft. Tom unloaded all the luggage there, then brought the cart back downstairs to Murray. I fumbled around in the sideboard drawers, looking for my spare apartment key. It was way in the back, buried under entirely too many takeout menus…all of which reminded me that I was starving. The stove clock said it was 10:55. Most of the Thai and Chinese places would be closing soon, but The Bagel Café/Ray’s Pizza was open, and they had a huge menu to choose from.

“New York, I have missed you so very much. Where else can I get breakfast delivered to my door in the middle of the night if I want? And cannolis. And cake. And…”

My musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. I opened it just a crack, peeking out and pretending to be wary. “Yes?”

Tom raised a brow and grinned.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

He feigned exasperation, arms crossed, frowning and tapping his foot.

“Oh, right. You’re that totally hot guy who followed me home from Hawaii.” I opened the door fully. “Well, come on in, I guess.”

Tom grabbed my waist, bending down to kiss my neck. “Totally hot guy wants to drag his totally hot woman to bed, but he’s suffering the effects of food deprivation and fears his performance will suffer unless calories are consumed forthwith.”

I passed him the extensive Ray’s menu, pulled my phone from my pocket and hefted myself onto one of the kitchen bar chairs, mentally noting that finding the ibuprofen should be next on my to do list. “Let me know what you want. I’m going to add my stuff to the order while you’re deciding.”

I ordered a Meat Lover’s Omelet with bacon, home fries and toast, an everything bagel with scallion cream cheese, a slice of strawberry cheesecake, a large orange juice and a large black tea with cream and sugar. Tom was still perusing the menu. I managed to be patient for a bit, but then leaned forward, putting my face between him and the paper.

He laughed. “Someone’s nearing hangry level orange.”

“Mmm, not quite yet but if you don’t make up your mind soon things may get ugly before the delivery guy gets here.”

“Well, no one wants that, do they? I’d like a large Irish Crème coffee, a cranberry scone, a Gone Bananas smoothie, a Greek salad and a deluxe cheeseburger with bacon, please.”

“Dude, your order is even weirder than mine. I’m impressed.” I entered his items and my credit card info, then pressed the submit order button. Forty minutes according to the website, which was unusually fast. I slid off the chair and stood on my left foot as I reached for the crutches. “It’ll probably be an hour before it gets here. There should be some water and soda in the fridge, though, in case you’re thirsty. I’m going to go scare up some ibuprofen so I can maybe walk upstairs at some point this evening.”

Tom shook his head. “No, stay. I’ll get it for you. Where is it?”

“In one of my suitcases. I think. All I really know is that I packed it.”

“Do you keep any here in the house?”

My mouth dropped open. “Well, shit. Yeah. The bathroom, cabinet under the sink. Wonder how long it would have taken me to come up with that? Oy. It’s the door behind you, on the right.”

He came back, shaking the bottle, then went around the corner into the kitchen, opening the stainless-steel refrigerator door and letting out a low whistle. “Soda, water, basic condiments and some whipped butter. Toss in some ancient moldy leftovers and a few bottles of beer and it would be identical to mine. Though mine’s just white. Not fancy and shiny like this one.”

He passed me a bottle of water across the counter, and I quickly swallowed two tiny red pills and stuck my tongue out at him. “It used to be much shittier, trust me. Back in 2011 everything was in such bad shape I said fuck it and decided to put the money into renovating it. Plus, I needed more storage options. For books. Want the official downstairs tour?”

“Indeed I do.”

I pointed at the kitchen. “Where you’re at…that’s the kitchen.” He smacked my hand gently and rolled his eyes. “Countertops are concrete, back splash is glass tile. Gas stove over yonder, mainly used for boiling water and reheating takeout food. Next to the fridge is a Fisher & Paykel DishDrawer. It’s a dishwasher, but it pulls out like a drawer and takes up a lot less space. We won’t talk about how much it cost. It’s embarrassing, and I didn’t really NEED it but damn, it’s really fucking cool. Don’t open it, though. I think I may have forgotten to do them before I left. After seeing my mother’s house I don’t like the cabinets as much as I used to, but at least they have stainless pulls instead of gold. Bathroom next.”

Tom rounded the corner and followed me the seven steps to the washroom. “You’ve already seen this. And you’ve looked in the cabinet under the sink. Hopefully there’s nothing too embarrassing in there, though I tend to keep most of that stuff in the loft. Floor is teeny tiny marble tiles, walls are subway tile, because, New York, and the shower is black glass tile. I love glass tile. I have no idea why, but I do. The overhead light in there is awesome…I abhor showering in low light. Can’t see shit. The fixture is a Grohe, and it’s got a rain head AND a massager. In retrospect, I would have gone with just the massager because the rain head gets water in my eyes constantly. And here we have a sink, and the excrement receptacle. Very exciting, no?”

He chuckled. “Excrement receptacle. I’m stealing that one, if you don’t mind.”

I waved my hand. “Sure, fine, why not. Now, let’s adjourn to the living area. To your left is the sideboard, where I keep all the crap I don’t have another place for. The mirror above is handy for making sure there are no boogers hanging from my nose before I leave the house AND for watching myself burn things in the kitchen. Up next are these very cool metal lockers that function as my coatroom and general storage. They all have a different combinations and I don’t know the two on the far end so please don’t turn the dials. To your right is a dining set that is not anywhere within the scope of my usual taste, but it was a gift from Anne when I first moved in and part of her parent’s estate so it remains. Recovering the seats in black leather made them more palatable. There’s a matching hutch on the wall behind it, which I use for books instead of dishes. The rug is from her, too. Sorry, am I rambling? Just let me know if you want me to shut up.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m enjoying this immensely. This…this is the place you call home. I want to know every detail, the how, the why, the significance of each and every thing and what it means to you.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Yeah, well, we’re only going to be here for three days and I did plan on leaving the house to do stuff so…anyway.” I gestured to the windows. “Those are eight feet high, the ceilings are twelve. There’s a remote on the coffee table that opens and closes the shades. Some people don’t mind parading around in the buff in front of the entire city, but I try to avoid it. Emphasis on TRY.” He laughed. “The bookshelves are custom…I designed them myself. Underneath are storage cabinets, which hold more books, my speakers, and some DVDs and CDs. The rug under the coffee table is also from Anne, and the white sofa…I have no explanation for it other than it had clean lines and metal feet. How it’s remained unscathed in light of my clumsiness is a mystery. The chaise part is pretty cool, though, and the TV’s on a swivel so I can turn it in that direction. Both pieces of art are things I found while traveling. The one by the windows was at an estate sale in Boston, and the big one is from a gallery in San Francisco.” I held my hands out to the side at shoulder level. “So, that’s it, I guess. If you turn around you’ll see the loft, and as soon as my meds kick in we can go up and unpack. Oh, wait. One more thing. Here’s your key.” I reached into my pocket, then held it out to him, allowing it to lay flat on my palm.

He lifted it slowly, the pads of his fingers brushing delicately against my hand, the connection creating a current of what felt like a thousand volts. It surged through me, and when I met his gaze he burst into tears. I wound my arms around him, crutches falling to the floor with a metallic whump, kissing each wet cheek in turn as my own eyes began streaming.

Wiping at his eyes with the back of one hand, his other arm around my waist, he smiled softly. “Wow. Sorry about that…I just…I…not even seven days ago I was certain I’d lost you forever and here we are, actually, finally in New York and you’ve welcomed me into your home…into your LIFE…and I’m just…I’m…so…so…GRATEFUL, Maude. And thankful. All that we’ve learned about each other, how much closer we’ve grown…which, honestly, I wouldn’t have believed to be possible, given how close we already were…I feel…unburdened. Lighter. Freer. I feel…ALIVE. So very much alive.”  

His mouth was on mine before I had a chance to speak, and when he did the lip thing again I lost my mind completely. One hand was up my shirt, caressing my breasts first over then under my bra, the other down my shorts, inside my underwear, two fingers abruptly thrust inside me, pumping in and out. I glanced at the stove clock as I undid his zipper and wrapped my hand around his throbbing cock. It read 11:25. At least fifteen more minutes before dinner arrived. Plenty of time.

He whimpered pitifully as I began stroking him, voice breaking when he managed to speak. “Oh…Maude…I wanted to wait and take my time but…ohhhhh, GOD…I’m afraid I’m more than a little desperate for you, my love. May I have you, please? Now?”

I walked him backward toward the coffee table, fumbled for the remote and hit the button to close the shades, then grabbed waist of his shorts and pushed them down over his hips until they fell unceremoniously to the floor. He did the same with mine, dragging my panties with them, pausing to allow me to lean on him as he lifted my right leg to pull them over the boot. Our mouths met again, mine open and waiting for his tongue. His kiss was at first gruff, then yielding, gasping as I sought to imitate the forcefulness he’d displayed when sucking on my lip, pulling his into my mouth with a ferocity I hadn’t known I possessed. I felt myself being lowered onto a surface, which I assumed was the chaise portion of the couch, but wouldn’t have cared if it was a bed of nails.  

Suddenly his weight was upon me, cock hard and leaking against my entrance. He broke the kiss to hold my head in his hands, our foreheads almost touching, gazes locked. “I love you, Maude. I will love you all of this life, and in each and every one that follows. I will love you as the world turns to ash around us. I will love you as the universe collapses into itself, and in the blackness of the eternity that awaits, I will remain, with you, at your side, holding your hand, never to let go. This love…it knows no bounds. It is forever. Two souls made one, together unto infinity. I love you. I love you.”  

He shifted his hips, pushing himself inside me, slowly, stilling when he hit bottom, and I wept against his shoulder, hands at his waist under his shirt and grasping his hips. He wrapped his arms around me, hands in my hair, his lips on my neck, kissing every spot over and over.

“I love you, Thomas. Never let me go. Please. Never let me go.”

We began moving together, all gentleness cast aside as we raced at breakneck speed to feel the completeness that resulted only when the physical and the spiritual combined. His hips slammed against mine so savagely I knew I’d wake tomorrow to bruises, and my hands moved further up and under his shirt, fingernails digging in, then raking down his back as the head of his cock nudged my cervix and I came, pleasure and pain intermingling, a chasm opening and suspending us in a single instance of time and space as I felt his cock pulsing in tempo with my walls, then erupting its liquid fire inside me, like a volcano buried deep in the ocean floor.

The only sound in the apartment was our breathing, both of us panting and gasping. Tom rose up on his elbows, conducting a visual inspection to determine if I’d incurred any damage.

“Fuck, Maude…I’m so sorry…that was positively barbarous of me…are you all right? And your ankle…I forgot about THAT altogether…”

I placed my palms on his chest. “Barbarous is a bit harsh, don’t you think? I’d go with delightfully uncivilized. Either way, it was electrifying. And I’m fine. How’s your back, though? Let me see.”

“My back? Why?” He whipped his shirt off and slipped it under me as he pulled out and turned around. Eight welts stretched from his shoulders to his waist, four of them bleeding in spots.

My hand flew to my mouth, dampening a loud gasp. “Now that there, THAT’S barbarous. You. Are. Bleeding.”  

He craned his neck to see behind him, then got up and went to look in the sideboard mirror. I got up, and hobbled over to stand next to him, clad only in my T-shirt.

“Tom…shit…I’m like…SO sorry. Yikes. I’ll go get some peroxide…”

He started at his reflection, head tilted, puzzled. “I didn’t feel that. At all.” As he turned around to face me, his hands reached for mine, grasping them. “What I DID feel was you. Us. I want you to know, Maude, I meant every word of what I said. Every word.”

“I know. Thank you. I…I…I’m not sure if I can formulate a reply that would convey my own feelings adequately…”

A kiss cut me off, his tongue forcing its way past my lips and teeth to reach mine, and when he pulled away he pointed at the couch. “You already did, my love.”

The blush began in my already flushed cheeks and spread all the way down to my breasts. My gaze shifted from his face to the floor. “Oh.”

Tom chuckled. “Suddenly modest, are we?”

I let go of his hands in order to cover my face. “Oh. My. GOD. Shut. UP.”

He roared with laughter, the sound echoing in the open space that surrounded us. I turned on my heel as quickly as my injury would allow and opened the bathroom door, looking back at him over my shoulder.

“I’m still going to get you some peroxide, in spite of the fact that you’re a complete and total asshole.”

The laughter continued as I searched the drawer, then abruptly ceased as someone knocked on the door and loudly announced ‘delivery for Gallagher’.

I took off my T-shirt and tossed it to Tom. “Here, put this on. And don’t forget your shorts. I’ll hide in here. There’s tip money in the dish on top of the sideboard.”

Figuring I might as well pee while I was in there, I giggled as I sat down on the seat. “Excrement receptacle. Damn, I’m fucking hilarious.” I could hear Tom thanking the delivery guy as I finished up and washed my hands, followed by the sound of the door closing. He was in the kitchen when I came out, removing the food from the bags and placing it on the counter, sorting it into two piles. I put my underwear back on and dug a T-shirt out of my luggage. There was no way to be sure whether it was clean or dirty, but it passed the sniff test so I deemed it wearable.

We ate at the dining table, him snatching half my bagel and a good sized chunk of my omelet. The cheesecake and the scone went in the fridge so we’d have something on hand that passed for breakfast, and as he loaded the silverware into the dishdrawer (which had been empty, thankfully) a yawn escaped him, so powerful he dropped the fork he’d been holding.

I bent to pick it up, remembering he’d been up hours before I had. It seemed a physical impossibility that the press encounter and funeral had occurred earlier that same day, and suddenly all I wanted to do was lie down with him snuggled against me. He closed the drawer and pushed the start button, and I reached for his hand.

“Come on, you. Time for sleep.”

He let go, shaking his head. “We haven’t unpacked, nor have we texted Luke and Simon to let them know we arrived safely and to find out if they have as well, and we still have to call Norman…”

I grabbed my phone from my shorts, which were still on the floor where he’d dropped them. “There. Luke and Simon texted. Where’s your phone? Let’s text Norman, too.” He passed it to me. I typed quickly.

Hey – just wanted to say thank you for reaching out, and no worries. The internet, as they say, is forever. Appreciate you noticing and providing clarity as to the source. Hope filming the rest of the season is going well. Best, Gallagher & Hiddleston

I turned the screen so Tom could read what I’d written.

He nodded. “That’s perfect. Thank you.”

I hit send, set my phone on the sideboard and turned off the downstairs lights. “Let’s go. Move that ass.”

He snorted and followed me up the stairs. It felt like it took forever with the stupid boot, and I dreaded having to pee during the night.  I turned back the covers, then stood by the dresser at the bottom of the bed and removed my shirt and panties, Tom’s arms winding around my waist from behind, holding me in place so I didn’t fall over as I wrangled the underwear over the boot.

His voice rumbled in my ear. “So, this is where the magic happens…”

“Ummm…if you’re referring to solo magic, yes. Lots of it. But other than that, no. Not in a long, long time, anyway.”

His grip loosened and he stepped back, silent until I turned around.

“Maude, I’d forgotten he lived here with you…I’m…”

I raised my hand to stop him. “Shush. There’s no longer room in my heart, or my head, for anything other than what’s right in front of me. What happened can’t be changed, nor would I want it to be. Life is meant to be experienced in the moment. If you dwell on the past or focus on the future, you miss everything in between. Trust me. I know. And I’m so very, very done with missing out. Now get those clothes off.” I held out my right arm, palm up, towards the platform that held a queen size mattress. “This way to my bed, sir.”

[disinvited-guest]

3/13/18 Recap

Here is the first one! This show was truly fantastic.  It was banter heavy and they played a lot of songs I had never heard live before. I also got to meet @forktailfarmer for the first time at this show.  Yay!

So it turns out Missouri is huge.  I drove through it for the vast majority of the 7+ hours it took me to get from my uncles’ house in Indiana to the venue.  When I finally got there, I parked in the wrong place, went around the side of the building and Curt was just coming out of door.  I pretended not to notice him, and I think it worked since I was wearing a jacket over my tmbg shirt.  I then realized I was in the wrong parking lot and went back to move my car.  I parked in the right place after a trip to a bathroom and went around side of the building again.  Curt was  walking out that same door as I went by.

I got into line and waited with the other fans who soon showed up.  We saw Linnell walk in front of building briefly and listened to them soundcheck Let's Get This Over With and Music Jail. They seemed to be having some trouble with the former, playing one bit over and over, and I made the comment that it didn’t sound like we would be hearing it that night.

An hour before doors, they checked us all and moved us to an inside waiting area.  Curt was just wandering in and out of the space, once or twice with Scott and the new lighting guy.  They then let us in to the room, which was basically a warehouse with absolutely enormous fans on the ceiling and windows along the top of the walls.  While we were waiting in there, Flans did a vibe report, which I tried to watch, but couldn’t really hear.

Some general notes from this show:

I was right in front of Flans’ mic, and so he got up super close at several points in the show.

Curt was absolutely FANTASTIC! He seemed much more comfortable with everyone else than when I saw them in February, and it really boosted his performance..

The guys came onstage and immediately shattered my prediction by jumping into Lets Get This Over With.  It didn’t go entirely smoothly, but it was exciting to hear anyway and I liked that they had Linnell on accordion for it.  Flans gave us a quick greeting and told us they were playing two sets. Linnell responded snarkily. I can’t remember exactly how, but their back and forth went on long enough that Flans told the audience that them talking was all the show was “the second set is all spoken word”

From there they went into Ana Ng, and then straight to Damn Good Times.  The audience supplied quite a bit of the backing vocals for the latter, I saw Linnell grin and move back from the mic because of it.  This  was  when Danny recognized me and I got a big smile!

Flans mentioned the venues name, The Truman, and said that adding to the number of venues they had played at that were named after presidents.  He started to list the presidential places they had played, but only name the Lincoln Theater before someone from the crowd shouted “Trump Hotel.”  

Flans responded they hadn’t played there, then moved his mic stand closer to the crowd and made several comments that weren’t quite criticisms before deciding “We’re not gonna get political, we’re just gonna assume everything we think in here”-pointing to his head-“is what you’re thinking, it’s like television” and started into Racist Friend.

Curt came on in the middle of the song and blew everyone away, and then the band went straight into Hey Mr. DJ, ending with the crazy fast, shouty ending.  Afterwards Flans said that he was tempted to shout “one more time” and try to do it again at the new speed.  He then introduced Curt, adding that he was from Kansas City!

It turns out that Mark Pender, the other trumpet player who worked with tmbg, is also a Kansas City native and the Johns riffed on that idea for a while.  Flans said that trumpet players must be in bloom here, and Linnell suggested that only cities that stretch across 2 states can have so many trumpet players.

Apparently the crowds’ laugher at this was unexpected, because Flans complained that we were reacting too quickly “It’s a Tuesday night, it's not even that late, there’s no reason for you to be drunk, but we expect it anyway.”

Linnell chimed in, saying that this was the point of the show where a guy would start shouting random things at them.  He did a great impression of drunken gibberish then added “And you realize he would be shouting those things even if he was the only person in the room.”

This reminded Flans of a time when he saw a Reggae band and everyone in the crowd was high “I, unfortunately was not” and whenever the band did something cool, the crowd would shout “Rewind!”, and the band would do whatever it was again.

He then told us about the only other time he saw that happen. He was in a movie theater (he told us the movie, but I don’t remember what it was) and there was a scene where a bus and a train crash into each other and the crowd all immediately stood up and shouted dewind!

“But the projectionist was not as kind as the reggae band” Flans finished.

The rewind thing became a running joke, and was shouted by the crowd at several points, with varying degrees of success.

I believe it was After All Time What when they mentioned the rearview mirror, which was fixed to Linnell’s keyboard.  Apparently it was newly purchased from a truck stop in Kansas.  Flans tried to explain to us what it was for, saying there were parts of the show where Linnell needed to see Marty. “It's all part of our ongoing effort to improve the quality of the show”  Linnell told us that he had the idea onstage but it took a long time for him to remember it when he was offstage.  He told us that the real reason he needed it was to see when Marty was making fun of him.

Somewhere around this part of the show, the guys discussed Young Marble Giants, another band who had been on Electra at the same time they had, made up of two guys and a girl.  Apparently when they were touring Europe the first time, all of the “cigar smoking interviewers” would ask them where the girl was.  They of course had no idea what they were talking about and would answer “what girl?”  Linnell thought that was good, because it made them seem mysterious.

Flans asked Linnell to introduce the next song and Linnell told us “This song is about a Pencil Rain, but I’ll leave the title a surprise.”

During these past few songs, Dan Miller had been on and off the stage.  He was having trouble with his guitar, but it also looked like he was filming something on his phone.  Eventually he switched guitars for a bit and let the crew fix whatever was bothering him about the first.

They went straight into Music Jail from Pencil Rain, then paused because Flans didn’t know what came next.  Linnell started the keyboard part for Everybody Conga, but Flans stopped him and had Marty go straight into No One Knows My Plan.

After the song Flans said that the mirror must not be working and asked Linnell if they needed to put a light on it.  Linnell said they didn’t.  The mirror worked and he and Marty had used it to do a thing on Music Jail.  Flans joked that if the mirror didn’t work, their other option was walkie-talkies and demonstrated to us how it would work “kssh-are you stopping the song now Marty?-kssh” Linnell then brought up the band Phish, who apparently has ipads to text each other onstage with. Flans thought that those texts “should be a matter of public record” and needed to be projected onto a screen onstage.

They played Dead and I Left My Body, and then Linnell went to get clippy and Danny put down his bass and walked towards the keyboards in preparation for Cloisonne.  He couldn’t get there though, because Linnell had gone back to the keyboard mic so he could argue semantics with Flans.

Flans said that the audience might “notice Linnell playing an incredibly large piece of metal.”  But Linnell interrupted, saying “I’m not playing it yet, I’m holding it.”  Flans corrected himself, then told us “You don’t recognise the Contra Alto Clarinet because it stayed in its case at your high school concert band recital, next to the bass clarinets.”

Then Linnell, still at his keyboard mic, took a complete left turn and told us “contra alto clarinets are like bitcoin, if you get one now, you’ll be set later on.”  Flans cracked up, and agreed that they would be “worth a lot in post-apocalyptic future with no electric,”  then Linnell moved away from the mic and Flans introduced Danny on the keyboard, telling us we should note how he “plays with incredible precision.”  Finally making it up to said  keyboard, Danny peeked over it and grinned at me before they started the song.

After Cloisonne, Linnell started to introduce the Mesopotamians, telling us about when he “was watching TV three thousand years ago.”

Flans interrupted him to say that “TV was better then” and launched into a bizarre tangent about the fourth version of I Love Lucy, where she was a dinosaur.  After Flans did his best Dinosaur Lucy impression, Linnell (who was getting over a cold) said that he thought he sounded like her.  

Flans responded in the same voice “Where’s the girl?” (referencing the Young Marble Giants thing from earlier) and then continued on his I Love Lucy theme with “My name is Lucille Ball and I love the taste of Menthol cigarettes.”  This fell a bit flat with the crowd, and Flans told us “some jokes we make for ourselves.” and continued on “Have you seen my dinner? It was a bunch of menthol cigarettes.”  Apparently this was one of the jokes for them not us, because the Dans were both grinning and when Flans added “ And they were lit!” they cracked up.

Bringing things back to the song at hand, Linnell said “Anyway, this is what I watched on tv 3000 ya when i was hallucinating!” and they started The Mesopotamians.

Afterwards, Flans told us that the first set was winding down, and he forgot to make some stage announcements.  He delivered them while ticking off items on his fingers “ We have a new album. It’s better than it has to be. People have noticed.”  The then asked anyone who bought a vinyl copy of the album to hold it up.  Several copies popped up around the room and Flans told us “See, it’s like a calendar but it has a record inside.”

The last song of the first set was Spy.  For the ending, Linnell had everyone play opposite several sound effects, including a doorbell, buzzer, and sawing sound.  When Flans got control, he stopped everyone but Curt (he had to clarify he wanted Curt to keep going). Curt would play long blast, then there would be several beats silence.  Flans built everything else up around that and it sounded absolutely wild and amazing. Eventually he added in the audience for a bit.  Linnell would play a choir note on the keyboard and Flans had us match it to...mixed results.  Flans brought everyone on stage to a crazy crescendo and they left the stage to thunderous applause.

The second set was preceded, of course, by the Last Wave Video and the guys didn’t even wait for the outro to go onstage.They went straight into Older with no preamble, then Flans started to introduce Tippecanoe  “people always want us to play old songs, so this one is from 1840” but Linnell interrupted, saying that wasn’t what was next on the setlist, Flans was confused and Linnell said they could play it if Flans wanted, but instead Flans turned back to us and said “People always tell us they hate our new songs”, he called on the theatre majors in the audience to fake their enthusiasm and they played I Like Fun.

They then moved on to Tippecanoe.  Flans told us we had “Probably heard the title from the one time you woke up from your nap in 9th grade history” and that it was “actually sung in bars,” very controversial, and the “song that was sung before your great-great grandfather was punched in the face.”

After Tippecanoe they introduced Marty playing the school bell For Shoehorn.  The bell apparently “induces a strong Pavlovian response” and Linnell went off on a small tangent about it making us want to knock over chairs and throw books.  Marty stood between them for the song, he would lift the bell to just over his head, hit it at the appropriate time, pause, nod, then lower the bell and stand with his eyes closed, head bowed, and hands in front of him.  It was hilarious.

Linnell introduced Self Called Nowhere by saying it was a song his grandmother taught to him.  He then clarified that he had taught it to his grandmother first, then she had taught it back to him when he forgot it.  Goof.  

Flans then had Marty play “the best part of a Phil Collins show” eventually, Flans told Marty to stop, but he was so into it, it took him a few seconds.  When he did he looked at Flans and asked “Rewind?”  The crowd picked up on it and started shouting “rewind!” and so Flans had him do it again.

Linnell then started the accordion part for How Can I Sing Like a Girl while Flans introduced it.  “This next song is from our...Factory Showroom album and its about being in junior high school choir.”  

After that, the Dans returned to stage, and Marty moved back to the drum riser, where he ate a snack while watching Curt’s intro to Istanbul. Once again, Curt used both the regular trumpet and the valve trombone, which was fantastic.  Flans had the guys do two fake endings, which fooled most of the crowd both times.

I believe it was here that Flans asked everybody where Omaha was.  The crowd shouted “North” back at him. He was slightly confused by their response and many people in the crowd pointed which way North was.  Eventually Dan and Danny pointed in the same direction from stage.  Flans then complained “who booked this tour?”  Since they had traveled such a long way to get here, he explained, he had kinda thought they would be going in the opposite direction.  He then turned to the crowd and stated “As you can see ladies and gentlemen, I have no idea where I am.”  Everybody laughed and he leaned into the mic to add “God is done with me,” which made everybody on stage completely lose it.

They then launched into a run of songs with no banter: Number Three, Wicked Little Critta, and Twisting.  Wicked Little Critta was noted on the setlist as “no words” but Linnell did the words for it, so I’m not sure why. Dan and Danny were really goofing around during that song, since there are large sections they don't play during.

Flans introduced Mrs. Bluebeard as another new song then shouted “Theatre majors, we’re counting on you! We’ll accept lit majors too, just fake your enthusiasm!”

Linnell then told (with Flans chiming in) the Amy Schumer show story with the “I hope you go to see your favorite band and they only play new songs!” line and Flans told us “We tried to start a conversation with her on twitter about it but it didn’t happen.”

I’m not positive, but I think it was after Bluebeard that Linnell told us all a story about how someone at a show made eye contact with him, flipped him off, and nodded. And how he didn’t know what was happening.  Flans said that the lady who had flipped Linnell off was “the definition of a diva,” since she believed everyone else understood what she was going for.

Linnell demonstrated how the lady had flipped him off, and Flans warned him that it would be all over the internet now  “I did that at a show, now you can search on the internet and find that picture everywhere.”  Apparently, this upset his mom, and when he told her “I’ve done a lot of shows mom” she said (he did a great voice for it) “Yes, but why did you have to do that?”

Linnell then decided that it was actually Flans’ mom who flipped him off and that it was all payback.

They played When Will You Die, with “us and Curt” wondering. Afterwards Linnell got his accordion, and there was an issue with a bit of feedback.  It didn’t seem like a big deal, but Flans said they dreaded a little bit of feedback because it could build up.  Linnell chimed in that “it’s like an air raid siren to us.”  Flans then announced Turn Around as Turning for some reason.  I’d never heard it live before, and it was truly fantastic.

Then it was time to Introduce the Band.  After Marty’s solo, we all shouted rewind and he did it again.  After introducing the guys in the band, they thanked all the crew members, including the lighting guy, who was new for this leg of the tour.

Flans then decided he was going to look in the crowd for beards.  He decided that there were “40% less beards than average, but the ones that are there are very prodigious” and announced he was going to make eye contact with the two best beards.  Danny came to the front of the stage to point out the ones he thought were best, although Flans made different picks.  With the beard matter settled, they closed out the set with Birdhouse in Your Soul, with an especially awesome “interruption” of the guitar part by Curt.  

The cheering and clapping for an encore quickly morphed into a chant of “Rewind! Rewind!” that lasted until the guys came back on stage.  Flans went straight up to the mic to tell us  “We just had a very interesting band meeting... We’re never telling that story again.”  This was greeted with laughs, cheers, and even a shout or two of “rewind.”  Flans then told us “We’re gonna play some songs and then we’re gonna leave again.”

Linnell told him that that was actually a good segway because that's what the two songs were about.  They then played End of the Tour and New York City, which I suppose could both be about that.

The cheering for the second encore didn’t include many shouts for a rewind (it’s a really hard word to chant guys).  Marty was the first one back onstage, and he started the beat to Particle Man as the others joined him.

Linnell put on his accordion as Flans started us clapping, and then told us “Don’ts stop clapping, no matter what happens onstage, no matter how much we beg!” then in a much calmer voice “I was just kidding, you can stop clapping.”  Most of the audience kept on going, but a few stopped, L pointed one person who did shook his head.  The interlude this time was Here You Come Again.  After Particle Man was over, Linnell stayed on the accordion and they played Doctor Worm for their final song of the night, the big highlight of that was a big Linnell jump at the end of the solo.

They were right back out with a case of stickers, and Flans handed me a big stack of them.  I did my best to stay out of his way while holding onto my spot in hopes of a setlist.  The girl next to me then started begging Danny for a setlist.  He told her he couldn't, so I assumed they were saving them for something and turned to move out of the rest of the crowd’s way.  Not a second later though, I heard the same girl scream “thank you” and turned back just in time to miss getting one of the two remaining setlists that Fresh was giving out (which I assumed were the last ones).  

Danny noticed and caught my eye, looking mildly concerned, and I shrugged and smiled at him because it wasn’t that big a deal.  But then he walked back and got a setlist from the side of the drum riser and brought it over to me.  I took it with my left hand and handed him his mini with my right.  He looked at it and smiled at me before leaving the stage.

I tried to give Flans his mini, but he said he wasn’t signing anything, and I gave up.  I met briefly with Amber (the other Amber obviously, I didn't meet myself) and her entourage (husband, sister, sister’s husband) and then they headed over to the merch stand while I went to the circle forming around Marty (who had started signing) to give him his mini.

I was standing pretty far back, watching the crew start to pack up when Danny came back onstage and motioned me over.  He said he loved the mini and wanted a picture.  I was slow on the uptake that he wanted a picture with me and it (since I am both a complete ditz and was starstruck), but once I realized I pulled out my camera and a very kind fan waiting on Marty offered to take the picture.  

Sanny sat on the stage with his arm around me and his head leaning on top of mine and we both smiled at the camera.  After I got my phone back he told me he wanted me to send him the picture.  “Are we friends on Facebook?” I nodded.  “Just post it there and tag me.  What’s your name again? Ashley?”

“Amber”

“Ok, Amber” and a smile.

I grinned back like a idiot and there was a brief pause (nice, not awkward I think) before I mentioned I had made minis for the other guys.  He said he could take them back for me.  I asked if he was sure, since I didn’t want to make him carry them all, but he was ok with it so I pulled the rest from my purse.  He seemed impressed, especially that I had made a Curt, and asked if I had made them all.  I babbled for a bit about that as I got every one out, telling him how I had a lot of energy after the Cleveland show and had driven home and started on his at 3am, and how of course I would make one for everybody.  I got another radiant smile, and then he took the minis backstage and eventually out to the bus, which I later learned to my delight through several social media posts. I give myself a B- on how I handled this interaction.  I am kinda embarrassed because I think I acted like a ditz, but I was at least semi-coherent.

Since I had given Danny all the minis, I figured I wouldn’t waste Marty’s time and left the venue walking on air.

[rustandruin]

jealousy, turning saints into the sea

AO3

Aaron’s so busy considering the enormity of his and Robert's relationship that he almost misses Enzo’s introduction, which is much less awkward, and a lot more fond than his own, as Robert shyly shares, “Aaron, this is Enzo. He’s a client.”

At that, the taller man just rolls his eyes. “He’s lying,” Enzo teases. “My father is his client. Robert and I are old friends.”

Or, when Robert reconnects with someone from his past, Aaron is forced to question just how much his ex-husband really means to him. [Leading into Valentine's Day 2018]

CHAPTER 1: coming out of my cage, and i’m doing just fine

He doesn’t recognise the man when he pulls up at the scrapyard. But based on the make of his car — a gunmetal grey Lexus Ls400 — and the casual ease with which he steps out and shrugs on what looks like a very expensive brown leather jacket over a pair of impeccably pressed jeans and a dark green flannel shirt, Aaron can tell he’s here to see Robert. (Everyone who's ever come to see him has worn overalls —  or been a member of his family.)  

It’s confirmed a few minutes later when he asks, “Excuse me, but do you know where I can find Mr. Robert Sugden?”

The man’s accent lilts French, placing an emphasis on different parts of the older man’s name (“Rob-bear Soog-den”), making it sound both strangely foreign and intimately familiar at the same time. Aaron doesn’t know why it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, but it does.

“He’s in there.”

He almost grunts out the answer, indicating the portacabin with a nod of his head.

But he needn’t bother because almost as if on cue, Robert appears in the doorway, a frown on his face as he gazes down at his phone.

“Robert?” The man calls out, still a few steps away. But it doesn’t matter because the warmth in his voice carries across the distance with an ease that leaves Aaron feeling drenched with it.

The man in question looks up at the sound of his name, his face quickly moving from puzzlement to delighted recognition, before he exclaims, “Enzo?!”

It hardly takes a second for the grin to spread across his face, lighting it up more than Aaron has seen in recent weeks — or perhaps, even years. He tries not to think about that too much, but it’s hard to deny that the Robert Sugden standing in front of him now appears years younger and much freer, with all the stress of these last few years having melted off of him in an instant at the sight of this man.

“What are you doing here?”

Robert all but runs towards the other man for a handshake and kiss on both cheeks that turns into a full-on, one-armed hug. (Both “pecks” lingering a little too long for Aaron’s liking, as does the hug.) When the blonde man steps back, he’s practically vibrating with an excited energy. (Definitely not to Aaron’s liking.)

“Well, I was in the area and I thought I would come see what the famous ‘Home James’ looks like,” Enzo’s tone is playful and his smile continues to be friendly and wide. But somehow it still manages to rub Aaron the wrong way.

“What? You were just drivin’ around the Dales and decided to pop by for a chat?” Aaron blurts out. He doesn’t care if it comes off as rude because he’s still trying to figure out what it is about this stranger that is rubbing him the wrong way.

Nonetheless, his words seem to do the trick as they remind both Enzo and Robert that he’s standing there, a nearly ripped-off car door in his hands.

“Oh. Enzo, this is Aaron,” Robert says, taking his eyes off the other man for barely a second to glance at Aaron (still wearing that big grin of his), before returning them to Enzo’s chiseled-from-golden-marble-with-a-hint-of-salt-and-pepper-stubble face. “He’s…”

My ex-husband… My best friend… The man I still love even though we broke up months ago…

Aaron runs through all the options of what Robert might say next in his head, not sure what he’s anticipating — or dreading. After what seems like an eternity of uncertainty he gets his answer.

“... a friend.”

It doesn’t sting. At least not as much as he would have expected, but it doesn’t sit quite right either. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. There’s simply too much history between the two of them to sum up their current relationship into a word that’s compact yet meaningful enough to hand out to strangers for ease of identification. How do you say, “Here’s the man I imagined spending the rest of my life with, the man I walked down the aisle — or at least across a bar — with, only now we’re not together, but I still love him and am having a hard time letting go, enough so that I made us promise we’d remain friends, even though we both decided that we needed to be apart for the sake of both our selves?”

Aaron’s so busy considering the enormity of them that he almost misses Enzo’s introduction, which is much less awkward, and a lot more fond, as Robert shyly shares, “Aaron, this is Enzo. He’s a client.”

At that, the taller man just rolls his eyes. He turns to face Aaron.

“He’s lying,” Enzo teases. “My father is his client. Robert and I are old friends.”

As he says the last two words, he reaches out to playfully poke the blonde man in the stomach, which in turn makes Robert step back and attempt to swap his hand away, his cheeks turning pink as he protests, “Hey.”

Aaron’s cheeks grown warm as he wonders if Enzo’s use of the word “friend” is the same as his and Robert’s.

But he doesn’t say any of that out loud. Instead, he just goes with another nod and a curt, “Nice to meet ya.”

And almost as soon as they first began, it would seem as if their introductions are over, as Enzo simply discards Aaron’s presence in order to focus all of his attention on Robert. “So, are you going to give me a tour? Or do I have to beg?”

(If the deep-seated dread he’d felt creeping into his stomach hadn’t coalesced before, it has now, causing his insides to churn with anxiousness he does not want to name.)

He tries not to watch as Enzo attempts to poke at Robert once more, only this time the blonde deflects it easily, smiling as he responds with an, “Alright, alright. Not like I have much to do here anyway.”

He takes a step forward, making his way closer to the taller man as he flashes him a pleased grin.

“This is the scrapyard, which Aaron runs…” Robert says gesturing around. “But we do share an office.”

For a second he wonders if Robert’s going to mention Adam and how until just a few weeks ago, Holey Scrap had had two owner-employees until he’d had to get involved and help one of them flee the country. But as Robert simply moves on with his abbreviated tour, the younger man realises that just like everything else in their life until this point, this too is a fact that will be compressed and sanded down, if not just omitted entirely from the narrative they’ll present others with. And while it really shouldn’t matter, it does prick at him more than he’d care to admit.

Enzo looks around and nods appreciatively, his gaze skimming over Aaron as if he’s just another piece of scrap and not the main reason Robert had invested in this business in the first place.

“Not bad for a farmer’s son,” he teases.

Aaron finds himself frowning at the amount of familiarity practically oozing from the Frenchman — or at least he thinks the man is from France, no one has confirmed it either way. (Though he feels that given his experience living in the country and dealing with French contacts, this is a fairly well-educated guess.)

But Robert just chuckles. “Brave words from a glorified delivery man.”

Enzo barks out a laugh at that, his head tipping back and causing his curly locks to fall back as well. His deep baritone reverberates through Aaron, causing him to be a little turned on despite himself. (And thus making him grumpier.)

Thankfully when he looks over at Robert he sees that it hasn’t had any effect on the man, who just stands there with a pleased smile (the kind that comes from knowing you’ve made a good joke) that is yet to leave his face.

Only his relief is short-lived because Enzo doesn’t make an effort to defend himself (or really expound on the joke). He just returns that same smile — only now it’s loaded with a kind of fondness that Aaron can’t quite bear to look at — and both men are left standing there just smiling and staring at each other and Aaron’s ears are burning from remembering when that was Robert and him.

He’s surprised when he hears Robert speak up, his voice all soft and quiet, the way he loves.

“Fancy grabbing a drink? Be nice to catch up.”

“I was just thinking that,” Enzo replies. He then turns towards his car, “I can drive.”

“Please. You think I’ll still get in a car with you after what happened in Seville?” Robert argues with absolutely no venom in his voice as he walks towards their cars. “You’re joking.”

“That was 10 years ago,” Enzo points out, not really defending himself.

“Yeah, and I still have nightmares about drivin’ off a cliff.”

Despite his protests, Robert still gets into the passenger side of Enzo’s vehicle — a sign that he’s not only forgiven this man his past actions, but he’s also perfectly comfortable letting this man risk his life. (This may be a stretch on Aaron’s part, but he’s currently not in the mood to be fair.)

Aaron hears Enzo say something, but he can’t quite make out what. All he knows is that Robert’s laughing in response — and not one of his usual amused chuckles, but a full on chortle, the kind that washes over you and warms you to your toes. (It's one of Aaron’s favourite sounds.)

As he watches them drive away, he tries not to give into that weight slowly building in his chest as it tells him that for the first time since he’s known him, Robert hasn’t really bothered to bid him goodbye — or invite him along.

He tears apart the rest of the car with a surprising ease.

:::::

When he finally calls it a day and decides to head to the pub, he’s not shocked to find Robert and Enzo there. What is unexpected is how close they’re sitting, tucked away at a table in the corner, heads bowed, arms barely a centimetre away from each other, and eyes repeatedly flitting to each other’s faces.

He doesn’t mean to look and spot them, but ever since Robert Jacob Sugden first walked into his life, it’s like he activated an internal honing system whereby Aaron can step into any room and always know where he is.

He looks away, but can’t stop the twinge in his chest as whatever Enzo says incites another burst of laughter from his ex-husband.

“Who’d have thought Robert Sugden had friends?” Charity snarks from her vantage point at the bar.

“Well, friends he hasn’t slept with,” she amends eyeing him as the younger Dingle throws her a dirty look in response. “Though that might not be the case for long with Mr. Tall, Dark and Very, Very Handsome.”

She follows it up with something like a purring noise and Aaron feels any remaining appetite he’d built up prior to this exchange depart from his body at the sound.

“Aren’t you datin' Vanessa?” he fires back, unchecked annoyance slipping into his voice.

“Doesn’t mean I still can’t admire from afar,” Charity replies, fanning herself with her own hand. "Even 'Nessa'd enjoy that fine specimen of a man."

“Oh come off it,” Vic pipes up, appearing from the kitchen as he gets up to go. “With everythin’ that’s been happenin’ with Rebecca and Seb, Robert’s been nothin’ but stressed. He deserves a nice break and a chance to catch up with an old friend.”

(Aaron — albeit grudgingly — agrees with this statement. Even if he doesn’t quite agree with the person it’s about.)

Before he leaves the pub he throws one last glance at the table in the corner. But unlike every day before this one, Robert doesn’t look up to meet it.

The twinge in his chest grows sharper.

:::::

Later that evening he finds himself covering the bar, thanks to his mum having gone away for the weekend, and Charity having another one of her last minute date nights with Vanessa.

“I really owe you one babe,” the taller Dingle tells him as she checks her lipstick in her portable mirror. “You are a lifesaver.”

“Yeah, yeah, thank me later,” he grumbles back good-naturedly.

He’s busy texting Alex, who’s in the middle of another shift, but is nevertheless attempting to convince Aaron that they need to watch The Room together the following weekend when Robert walks into the bar. He doesn’t even need to look up to know that the older man has entered the premises. As always, he just knows.

But when he looks up a second later, he sees that Enzo is with him. (And even if he hadn’t Charity’s blatant flirting would have given it away.)

“Can I get you anything?” She asks, suggestively leaning on the bar. “A pint? A glass of red? A tall blonde with legs for days and a million ideas for what to do with your body?”

“We can go somewhere else,” Robert interjects, eager to put an end to this entire uncomfortable spectacle. But to his credit, Enzo just laughs it all off.

"Why don't we start with two of the first one?" He replies gamely. "And how about I let you know if I need the third?"

He punctuates the last part with a wink and Aaron rolls his eyes so hard he nearly sprains them. Beside him, Charity almost swoons.

“Isn’t Vanessa waiting for ya?” He asks, reminding her of what awaits her on the other side of the pub door.

“Oh right… My date,” she replies perkily, excited at the prospect of seeing her new lady love — as if she weren’t eyeing a perfect stranger like he was a piece of meat a few seconds ago. “Well boys, I’m off.”

She slaps the bar twice before slinging her purse onto her shoulder.

“And you,” she says, pointing a finger at Enzo. “Give me a call when you get tired of this one.”

She waves her hand at Robert, who just rolls his eyes. Enzo says nothing. That same polite smile still on his face.

With Charity finally gone, Aaron takes a step forward and clears his throat. “So, um, two pints. Right?”

“Uh yeah. Thanks,” Robert responds, before turning to survey the pub for an empty table.

What Aaron means to say is, “I’ll bring these to your table.” But what comes out is, “So, how did you first meet?”

Any pride he feels at saying that casually is blown away by the blush that takes up residence on Robert’s face as Enzo practically guffaws.

“At the beach,” Robert answers quickly, his face getting darker.

“He thought I was drowning and he tried to save me,” Enzo adds over him.

“I was trying to impress someone,” Robert states determinedly, the red in his cheeks clear evidence that he’s embarrassed by his actions.

“Yes,” Enzo replies, laughing a little harder. “My sister. The lifeguard.”

Aaron cracks a smile at that, even though he’s picturing a younger Robert (only a year or so younger than him), shirtless as he gives Enzo mouth-to-mouth. He feels a tug at his heart at the image.

“Hey. It worked,” Robert argues weakly. “It got her attention.”

“But she wasn’t interested,” Enzo adds, before giving the other man a playful nudge. “Lucky for you, I was.”

Aaron steadies his face as he tries to read Robert’s reaction. The older man is shaking his head.

“I’d look up the meaning of the word ‘lucky’ if I were you,” Robert quips back, a small, but no less pleased smile on his face. “This one kept gettin’ me in trouble all summer.”

He says the last part to Aaron, nodding at Enzo at the end.

Unable to stall any longer, Aaron places both pints on the bar in front of them. Enzo picks his up and holds it up towards Robert. “Well, I would say it was the start of a beautiful friendship.”

The blonde nods and picks up his drink and clinks it against Enzo’s. “I guess I can cheers to that.”

He’s about to take a sip when his phone goes off, and Aaron finds himself letting out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding — like a prayer he’s made has been answered.

“It’s Diane,” Robert explains, concern in his voice. “Could be Seb. I better take it.”

He hits answer and immediately heads towards the door, leaving Aaron and Enzo alone. It’s only when he turns back towards Enzo that he realises that the other man was watching Robert leave as well, his eyes focused on the blonde’s rear end — decidedly not something someone who was just a friend would do.

As the other man takes another sip of his drink, Aaron attempts to get more answers. If only to calm the irritation bubbling up inside him.

“So you’re from France then,” he asks, hoping to finally nail down this man’s backstory.

“Oui,” Enzo says with a proud smile. “My family owns a vineyard in Nice.”

“I guess you wouldn’t be wanting a glass of our House Red then?” Aaron jokes awkwardly. He's reaching for small talk and coming up short — despite the time he'd spent in Callais all those years ago. Besides, it's not like his business trips back and forth from the country had resulted in much cultural exploration. (Even the one time he’d gone with Robert had resulted in the two of them spending most of that weekend in their hotel room. Not that he’s complaining about that.)

He’s pleasantly surprised when Enzo laughs, and for a split second, he catches a glimpse of what Robert might see in him — a kind of open warmth and freeness that he and his ex-husband both have trouble expressing with others.

But you did just fine with each other. A voice in his head reminds him, as he works to shake it off.

He searches for another avenue of connection, unwilling to let Enzo migrate to that same table in the back just yet.

“Must have been strange findin’ out Robert’s a father now,” he ventures lightly. (He’s not trying to remind the other man that the friend he may be romantically — or sexually — interested in is a father now, but if that’s something he takes away, the younger man won’t complain.)

The older man shakes his head as he keeps his pint glass back down on the bar. “No not at all… He actually told me last month.”

“Last month?” He blurts out the question before he can stop himself. “I didn’t know he’d left town.”

It’s a lie because he very well knows where Robert was — recovering from a car accident and then helping him help Adam escape.

“No… He actually called me asking for some help with a special favour he was doing for someone,” Enzo explains. “And you know Robert, it is ‘ard to say no to ‘im.”

And suddenly, Aaron gets the sense that he’s not the only one doing the sussing out. The Frenchman’s words may sound casual, but the thoughtful stare he’s pinned him under belies that fact that he not only knows about his and Robert’s marriage, but also their divorce, and now their attempt at being friends while moving on from each other. It’s clear he’s judging Aaron both to see if he’s worthy of his old friend’s affections… as well as how much competition he’ll be going forward.

The younger man feels his cheeks heat up at the scrutiny. Nevertheless, he still responds, holding Enzo’s gaze the entire time.

“Yeah, but sometimes you have to.”

He doesn’t sugarcoat it. Of the two of them, only he was married to Robert Sugden, and he’d loved him for better and for worse the entire time — if not longer than that.  

After a minute of studying Aaron, Enzo seems satisfied, returning his attention to the drink in front of him.

Fortunately, that’s when Robert returns, a look of relief on his face. “Sorry, about that. Seb was just refusing to stop crying unless I held him.”

He looks from Aaron to Enzo and back. “What did I miss?”

“I was just telling Aaron how we got back in touch because you called and asked for my ‘elp,” Enzo shares. He gives Robert that same friendly smile he’s been giving him all day long. Only now there’s also a hint of hunger in there — not that Aaron can fault him for that. Robert’s wearing his fitted black leather jacket over the maroon shirt that makes his blonde hair pop and lends his eyes a sexy darkness that is affecting the younger man at his very core.

Unable to fight this want, and quite frankly, chafing against the boundaries he’s imposed on himself when all he wants to do is reach out and touch his ex-husband’s arm, Aaron finds himself resorting to more childish behaviour. And he knows — he knows — he should rise above it, but it’s been a long day and he can’t stand another minute of this poncy Frenchman undercutting the magnitude and fabric of his relationship with Robert. So he says, in a voice that is all innocence and honey, “Oh was it that favour I’d asked you to help with?”

And so what if he almost fist pumps in celebration when Robert agrees with him, saying, “Yeah. Enzo was the contact I was telling you about.”

If that rattles Enzo he doesn’t show it. He just keeps on smiling.

They’re interrupted once again by Robert’s phone ringing, an image of Diane appearing on the screen.

“I should take this,” the blonde informs them.

"Why don't we just go back to your 'ouse?" Enzo suggests, playing the trump card he's been holding this entire time. "That way you don't have to leave Sebastian, and we can catch up over dinner."

You’ve been catching up all day. Aaron silently fumes. How much more do you need to know about him?

To his immense disappointment, Robert considers and agrees to the idea.

“How much for the drinks?” He asks Aaron, reaching for his wallet. The action only emphasizes the absence of his wedding band.

Unable to think of anything else (or really formulate any kind of response at the sight), the younger man just waves his hand.

“It’s on the house,” he mumbles.

He’s rewarded with a surprised-and-slightly-puzzled smile from Robert. “Thanks.”

For a second Aaron wills him to look at him, really look at him, and excuse himself from Enzo and pull him aside to ask if everything's okay and if he needs to talk because he seems stressed. But he doesn't. He just turns to Enzo, and gestures that the man should walk ahead of him.

So Aaron is left nodding and smiling as he watches them exit the pub.

When they’re finally gone, he has to lean against the counter as he lets out a full-body sigh that seems to emanate from his very soul.

:::::

By the time closing time rolls around, Aaron’s calmed down somewhat, thoughts of Robert and Enzo falling away from his mind as he serves more customers, and remembers to reply to Alex’s (many) texts, and follows up on Liv and Gerry’s eating habits. (As much as their friendship has been good for each other, they somehow seem to regress into unhealthy children when it comes to their food choices.)

The fact that he’s feeling more like himself isn’t lost on him — though a tiny part of him also argues that those other feelings and the behaviours they caused are part of him as well. He imagines telling Robert that, because he knows exactly how the other man would respond. (“Just because you don’t like those feelings or the things you do when you feel that way, doesn’t mean it still isn’t you. The sooner you accept that the kinder you’ll be on yourself.”)

He’ll be the first one to admit it, Robert Sugden gives great advice. It’s one of the many reasons he’s glad they remained friends. As much as he loves his mum and Paddy and Cain and the rest of the Dingles, sometimes it’s like they don’t fully understand the depth and darkness of what he’s feeling. It’s like they’re scared talking about that stuff will make it real — which as far as he’s concerned, it already is.

With those thoughts running through his mind, he locks up like he promised, pocketing the front door keys, which he plans on returning the next morning… or rather, in a few hours.

But he stops in his tracks when he sees the door to Keeper’s open up, light spilling out from the inside. There’s a chance it could be Vic, but he knows, just like he always knows, that this has to do with Robert.

And as usual, he’s right.

Robert appears in the doorway, and just like he has been all fucking day, Enzo is right beside him.

Only now he’s moving to step around Robert, but he’s doing so in a way that allows him to step into the other man’s personal space, their arms brushing together. And worse still, the step forward he’s taken isn’t all that far at all. In fact, he’s barely standing a foot away from Robert, forcing him to look up at him with bright and shining eyes — the kind Aaron used to be on the receiving end of whenever Robert had thought he wasn't looking. (Though how much if it is alcohol-induced or late night-related, Aaron doesn’t know.)

But it’s a skilled move. The kind Robert used to like to pull on him the entire time they were together, not at all caring that they should have been past their constantly flirting stage and well into their comfortably co-existing together one. (Of course, considering it’s Robert Sugden, Aaron isn’t sure if the flirting stage ever ends with him.)

If it didn’t cause his annoyance to bristle, it would be almost fascinating to see Robert be on the receiving end on one of these moves. Aaron’s never actually seen someone who isn’t him (or Rebecca) pursue the older man romantically, and it’s interesting to see what Robert’s response is. And while it’s not too different from how he’d react to Aaron’s romantic advances, there’s also that shyness that Enzo seems to keep bringing out in him — almost like he’s reverting to the time when he’d had a crush on the older man. (Aaron’s not a fool. He’d have a crush on Enzo if the circumstances were different, so it’s not a far leap to imagine Younger Robert having one too.)

And just like that, time starts to move slowly, like an accident taking place in slow motion, only it’s the very thing that Aaron’s been dreading and trying not to picture for the last few hours…  

Enzo cracks another one of his jokes, his low murmur carrying all the way over to the pub, where the younger man finds himself frozen, not wanting to draw attention to himself, though seeing how both men are currently gazing at each other, he’s not sure it’s possible.

Robert’s reaction is another laugh, this one his wry chuckle. If Aaron had thought that his previous noise had hit him in the gut, this lighter sound grips him by the heart and tugs, reminding him of how much he cherishes it, even though this one’s not his to get. (Something he has to remind himself has been that way for some time now…)

Both actions complete, it’s time for the sway.

As both men stand there, they stare into each other’s eyes, small smiles on their faces, their hands remain tucked into their pockets, each of them moving ever so slightly forward and backward, the whole sequence a delicately choreographed dance meant to amplify the growing tension between them. Aaron doesn’t need to see their faces to know that their gazes are switching back and forth from each other’s lips and eyes, each of them waiting in bated breath, with neither one ready to take the plunge.

It isn’t long before Enzo actually does.

And then it’s like everything is moving much too fast.

Aaron can hear his heart beating in his ears, as he watches Enzo’s lips cover Robert’s, the other man not quite responding, but not moving away either, every second of it stretching into whole lifetimes of possibilities with Aaron seeing a future where it’s Robert and Enzo attending haulage conventions and vacationing in France and trading rings at an altar and raising Seb to speak two languages and only answer to Sebastian.

Thankfully before he can go too deep into that rabbit hole, Enzo pulls away and steps back.

Aaron tries to slow his breathing. His chest feels tight, like someone’s sitting on it, and the pounding in his ears has only gotten louder.

But he still can’t look away until he sees how this plays out. Robert’s unresponsiveness serving as a tiny lifeline cast out into this swirl of emotion, with him paddling toward it furiously. For all of Enzo’s sexy moves and finesse, he wasn’t able to get Robert to actually kiss him back, was he?

Maybe breathing regularly is a possibility again.

… But just like he’s been doing all day, Aaron's raised his hopes too soon. Because even as Enzo is turning away, Robert’s hand is reaching out to stop him.

Aaron watches as his ex-husband lifts his head to plant his own, much, much more chaste kiss on the Frenchman’s lips, before he steps back and smiles.

If he’d thought he couldn’t breathe before, it’s much much worse now. Now he can’t feel anything  — not even the furious churning of his own stomach.

So he continues watching as Enzo says something flirty, coaxing another laugh out of Robert before walking down the garden path backward (and with a hint of a swagger). He gets into his nearby parked car and drives off, the other man just standing in his doorway with a smile on his face the entire time.

Once he’s sure that Enzo’s gone, Robert goes back inside, shutting the door behind him. Not long after, the living room lights go off.

He doesn’t notice Aaron standing there once.

And somehow, that’s what stings most of all — that their friendship is going to be just like any other. Not the version they’d managed to carve out for themselves in these previous weeks since Christmas; where they’d trade lingering gazes and offer meaningful bits of advice while still being as emotionally supportive as they’ve always been. Because they don't know how to be “just friends.” They never have. They’re Aaron and Robert. For better or worse, they’re tied together in a way Aaron never wants to unpick or understand because everything about it works.

Until it doesn’t. He reminds himself.

And yes, he’d known that getting over Robert would hurt — if not flat out ache — but he hadn’t been prepared to see him with someone else quite as yet. (Though if he’s being honest with himself, he’s not sure he’d ever have been prepared.) Now he understands Robert’s first reaction to seeing him with Alex. It’s genuinely difficult to see someone you’d loved as much as they’d loved each other be with someone else after knowing just how happy they’d made you.

They say you’re not supposed to let go when you find your True Love… So why did I?

NOTES: 

I feel like I've been outlining and writing and rewriting the first chapter of this fic for forever, but it's only been two weeks since I first had the idea and started. As of now, it's set in the days leading up to Valentine's and the day after, because that's what I'd come up with before we got the spoilers. (And honestly, I'm too tired and flu-ridden to truly go back and rejigger things any more than I have.) That said, I hope the writing is up to snuff, because this is as best as I have in me at the moment.

This fic is really my first time tackling a couple of things. I've never written a multi-chapter fic before, and I've never actually delved into either jealousy or writing my own original character (and putting one of my favourites in a relationship with them). So I hope the emotions of the story come across well (and build up believably) and that Enzo feels like he could exist within this universe. (Even if he isn't featured in this as much.) As a model for Enzo, I'm using the actor Ed Quinn (Eureka, One Day At a Time) mostly because I've been watching season 2 and he's in it a lot. I also like the idea of Robert being romanced by a taller man than him, because him and Aaron are the same height and as much as I love that, I wanted a slightly different romantic dynamic than we've seen between him and Aaron. I also wanted to explore a little more of Robert's past, because I think that the thing that truly makes Aaron jealous is not just Robert's sexual chemistry with someone, but also his emotional connection. And ideally, it'll be clear that Enzo is able to offer that to Robert. (Please let me know your thoughts on this if possible. I'm in the middle of writing the next two chapters so any feedback would be much appreciated.)

As always, I hope I got the voices and the tone and everything else right. (If I got any actual factual/show details wrong, please let me know!) If you have any other thoughts, comments, questions, or concerns, drop me a line below or find me on Ao3 as her_dark_materials! 

Hope you're enjoying the countdown to Valentine's!

[yuudetama]

Meet Me At the Carnival [Part 1] // BTS’ V

What do you do when the person you’re looking for is already gone?

Angst, Carnival AU. Word Count: 5k.

Part 1 // Part 2 [Final]

I’m looking for somebody. Can you help me find him? The carnival breathes, it spins, it sparks flames like a firecracker; it is alive. You try to stand firm on the ground, but it’s hard when bodies are sweeping past you like a crescendo wave crashing at all the wrong times. They veer off in every which way to breathe in the magic of the circus: dancing bears, elephants wearing funny little hats, tattooed men juggling five, six, ten flashing knives at once. A clown spinning dishes on a knobby stick. Children grabbing greedily at powdered funnel cakes, fairy floss. Everywhere you turn there is something to see, and there is something for everyone who enters this strange, fantastical land. Please, he’s very important to me. Having been deemed unsafe and improper by the orphanage, it introduces itself as a peculiar space from the get-go. Since childhood you’ve gathered and become one with tales of the carnival, yet standing in the very place of those stories now, you find yourself taken aback. The activity is simply overwhelming. Attraction-seekers surround you from all the unpleasant angles, pushing you backwards, forwards, this way and that, like seaweed struggling against the surge of ocean water. “Move, you’re in our way!”

A hand pushes you aside and you stumble over the flattened grass. A group of schoolboys runs towards the pirouetting bear, yelling dares of bravado at each other over the din of the crowd. They hardly spare a backwards glance, not bothering to apologize for their haste. That’s fine, that’s okay. Apologies are not what you came looking for. In the grand scheme of things, those boys hardly present themselves as an issue or even a speck of dust in your mind. He said he would be here, you see- An elbow jabs into your back. This time, however, you manage to stand your ground. The pain comes in quick, hard pulses, and in response you plunge a hand into your pocket. A soundless breath leaves your lips when your fingers wrap around a little glass sphere. The weight in your hand is small, but it is comforting. It is comforting and reminds you of a place once called home. I’ve come a long way to meet him- The elbow pokes you again, accompanied by a voice that reeks equally of jest and rotted beer. “You, girlie- you lost?” The marble falls into your pocket. You avert your eyes and step back, but the beer-festered man simply presses himself closer. “No, thank you, sir- If you would excuse me, I’m to meet somebody-” “No thank you and a sir!” Yellow stained teeth flash in an ugly laugh. “Well well, ain’t you the pretty polite missy! Tell you what, you an’ me can go over there and you can tell me all about your no thank yous and a sirs-” He makes a clumsy swipe for your arm. Alarmed, you try to evade his advances but the crowd presses against you, leaving no room for escape. The intoxicated man leers at you, this time making a grab for your waist. Instinctively your hands fly up, but as they do a flash of red steps in front of you, blocking the lecherous motions of the impolitic man. “Aye, not so fast,” the red speaks. You blink and find yourself staring at the backside of a fearsomely tall woman. Her hair flows over her shoulders like a scarlet river; in the bright heat of the day, the colour only enhances the austerity of her stance. She looks down at the man. “Let’s not get carried away here, shall we? We wouldn’t want to have to escort you out, now.” Her voice is mild but carries with it the promise of following through with whatever escort method she has in mind. The man, on the other hand, is too far gone to tell a sparrow apart from a seagull. “You want to throw me out? I’m a paying customer, I’m what keeps your business runnin’, you don’t do that to a good customer like me-” “We’ll survive,” the woman says smoothly. “Now, are you going to leave, or do I have to ask again?” He opens and closes his mouth like a gaping fish, too slow to answer in a witting manner. Beside him the crowd mills about in all different directions, pushing carelessly past you and the red-haired lady, creating a momentum that causes the man to sway gracelessly on his feet. “Aye, not worth it.” He spits in a last-ditch attempt to recover his dignity, but the effect is ruined when the nicotine-stained spittle lands on his shoe. “Wouldn’t want to dirty my hands anyways… Buncha hoors…” He swaggers off into the crowd, leaving behind the stench of partially-digested beer and abhorrent body odour. The woman shakes her head. "Drunks," she says dismissively. "Always at every show. Like fleas you can't shake off a dog." She sweeps her eyes over your hunched form. “Look after yourself, girl. It’s not always this easy getting rid of the bastards.” “Wait!” you blurt out when she turns to leave. At this close of a distance you’re able to recognize her military jacket and training boots. “You were in the show earlier, weren’t you? With the lions?” “Aye, that was me. I train the animals here.” “Then…” Hesitation catches your voice but you shake it off. You’ve come too far a ways to act shy now. “Could I ask you to take me to the ringmaster?” She cocks an eyebrow. “The ringmaster isn’t partial to visitors,” she informs. “He prefers to remain undisturbed when he’s working.” “Please, I must ask him something.” “And what might that be?” “There’s somebody I need to find.” Your voice comes out in a whisper, but you know the woman has heard it from the way she crosses her arms and studies your expression. A little girl bumps into you, nearly dropping her ice cream cone on your feet, but you don’t dare look away from the lion tamer. Perhaps she is convinced by what she sees in your face, because she drops her hands. “Alright, come with me. I’ll take you to see the ringmaster.” I’ve waited a very long time to see him. Please. ------- She leads you to a quiet area behind the grand tent. A caravan is there, so silent and still that it looks tantamount to the giant oak it stands beside. The carnival bustles with life around it, but somehow, somehow, it feels as though not even the sounds of the circus can penetrate the caravan walls. The lion tamer tells you to wait and slips through the door. You tug at the loose threads of your jacket, trying to calm your restless mind. The jacket is frayed more so than your nerves, but you think that your state of anxiety isn’t too far from catching up. What seems like an eternity passes before the woman reemerges from the van. “Go on, then,” she says, shooing you inside. “The ringmaster will see you now. But keep in mind, girl, he’s a busy person. Try to keep your questions nice and quick, alright?” Inside it is dim, illuminated only by a lamp and the odd candle here and there. It’s not very big but the sparsity of furniture creates an illusion of enhanced space. A dressing mirror, a small bookshelf, a writing desk. The sounds outside are muffled, making you feel disjointed from the peculiar world you had just stepped out of. A lone man sits at the desk, jotting notes with a slender quill. Black top hat, black mask, black coat. An extension of the shadows residing in the caravan. He dips his quill in ink and scratches at the parchment before speaking. "Who are you and what business do you have in my carnival?" "I'm looking for somebody-" The ringmaster waves his quill impatiently. "So I’ve been told. But that doesn't answer my question: who are you?" You tell him your name and he repeats it. "No surname?" You shake your head. “No surname,” you echo, and it sounds hollow even to your own ears. The feather pauses as a pair of dark eyes observes you from behind the mask. But the silence only lasts for a handful of seconds, and soon the quill resumes the task at hand. Scratch-scratch-scratch. “Who is it you need to find?” Outside, a group of children shrieks with delight at the troupe of dancing bears. You swallow nervously and continue, “His name is Taehyung. I think he might have joined your carnival seven years ago. He intended to work here as an acrobat. He… I watched the show earlier but didn’t see anybody who could have been him, so I was hoping you could tell me if he was here or not.” The ringmaster makes no comment but you think that he listens to you with no ill intent. Feeling emboldened by his interest, you add, “It’s very important that I find him. Please, sir, I wouldn’t be wasting your time if it-” “He’s not here,” the hatted man cuts you off. Scratch-scratch-scratch. “There is no person here who goes by that name.” The curt nature of his reply takes you aback. “Oh,” you say after a moment. “Are… Are you sure?” “Quite.” He shuffles his papers, dips his pen into the murky pot, and continues his work. “I am the ringmaster. It’s my duty to know the name and face of everybody who comes to join my carnival.” “Oh,” you repeat, only this time it’s fainter. The word trembles in the air before vanishing like candle smoke. Why are you here? I am looking for someone. It’s very important. I must find him. Can you help me find him? The ringmaster, it seems, also knows how to interpret certain silences, because he soon answers in kind. “For what reason do you seek him?” “I owe him something,” you say. Your throat has become dry, and the words come out in a raspy half-whisper. “And I’d like to give it to him as soon as possible.” He sets down his pen. Hands fold together on the scratched surface of the desk, and for the first time you notice that he’s wearing gloves. Satin cloth, the colour of ivory, melded perfectly with his hands like a second set of skin. “As I’ve said, there’s nobody like that here. Perhaps you’ve come to the wrong carnival.” You press your arms against your sides. Crushed by the weight, the marble digs into your hipbone from its hideaway in the pocket. The pain is not unbearable but it is sharp and clear, and it fills you with a renewed sense of resolution. You clear your throat. “May I stay anyway? Please. I’ve come a very long way. I can’t go back until I find him.” He regards you for the briefest of minutes. The ringmaster, the mastermind behind this whimsical land, the biggest enigma the carnival has to offer. He picks up his quill and resumes his writing. Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch. “Do as you will. Our doors are open to everybody who wishes to enter.” ------- “Taehyung?” Twigs snap underneath your footsteps, but not a voice breathes back as you tread deeper into the forest. "Taehyung? Are you here?" You shriek and stumble backwards when a figure suddenly drops down in front of you. “Taehyung! You idiot, you almost gave me a heart attack!” "Sorry, sorry," he laughs. He raises his palms in a gesture of apology. “I thought you knew I was up there. Didn’t you see me go up?” “No, I didn’t. The branches are too thick to see a monkey like you climbing up.” You peer at the treetops. Even the lowest branch is high, too far from the ground for a normal person to jump gracefully down. After ten years you still don’t understand how Taehyung does it. At the age of seventeen he should be lumbering around with two left feet, just like the other boys who run and trip through the town streets like a group of trolls. When you tell him this, he only looks pleased. “Didn’t you know? I was born to fly.” And you can’t really argue with that. Because, if there is one thing you could say without any hesitation whatsoever, it is exactly that. “Someday I’m going to fly in the grand tent,” he was constantly saying. “I’ll perform for people all over the world and they’ll be amazed, you’ll see.” And you didn’t doubt him for a second. Taehyung was born with the sky at his feet, destined to fly just as Icarus once did over the sea. Except Taehyung doesn’t have bronze wings, and there is nobody to warn him not to get too close to the sun. No, Taehyung only has you, and it hurts to think of how he’s not even aware of it. Blonde hair flops over his eyes, tousled by his short freefall from the tree. He pushes it back absentmindedly and asks, “Anyway, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to help the kids with their studies.” You ignore the splinter in your chest and point to the direction from which you had appeared. “The kitchen is a mess. The boys got into an accident and spilled flour everywhere. The matron wants us to come inside and clean it.” “Never a dull moment in that place, I’ll give her that.” Taehyung grimaces. “I don’t see why we have to bother with cleaning, though. It’s still a dump even on its best days.” “It’s not a dump,” you say automatically, although you understand perfectly where he’s coming from. “It may not be the best place to live but the orphanage is our home until-” “Until somebody, by some miracle, decides we’re worth keeping, I know,” he finishes with a groan. He runs his fingers through his hair again before offering you a hand. “Alright, then. Let’s get going before the witch shrieks at us.” You scowl at him, feigning disapproval at his language, but you take his hand anyway. He grips yours in return- a habit the two of you have kept since childhood- and his palm is calloused from years of swinging from trees, but it’s warm and strong and god, you hope that he can’t hear how loudly your heart is pounding. He grins at you. So familiar and heartbreaking to look at, but it’s the only thing that has kept you from yielding to misery throughout the years. “Come on, let’s go home.”

  ------- "Just because I brought you here, girl, doesn’t mean you can hang about as you please.” You glance up to see none other than the woman who had rescued you the day before. Her words are reprimanding but her eyes are crinkled into a smile. Today her fiery hair is pulled back in a ponytail, allowing the sun to cast shadows from her cheekbones. Fumbling to your feet, you try not to trip over the roots of the oak tree. "I'm sorry, I know I'm not allowed back here. But I dropped something in front of the popcorn stand and it rolled underneath the caravan." You unfurl your dirtied fist to reveal a little golden sphere. "A marble?" She peers down. "You were digging in the dirt for a wee marble?" "It's not just any marble," you explain as you stuff the tiny glass back into your pocket. "It's special. Somebody gave it to me long ago and I've had it ever since." You want to thank her for her help the other day, but the words are lost as you become distracted by the flutter of black cloth. The ringmaster is standing behind you, regarding you with a look of barely-there interest. “Excuse me,” he says, and you scramble aside. He nods in acknowledgement at the animal trainer and sweeps inside his caravan. And that’s it- there are no hellos or good days or if you haven’t found your missing friend, I’m afraid you will have to leave. You twist your fingers when the door clicks shut. “He won’t kick me out, will he? I have no money left to pay for tickets or-” The lion tamer stops you with a shake of the head. “Don’t worry about him. He may look like a fright but he means well. He looks after us, see? The carnival isn’t just a business, girl, it’s a family. We all accept each other here without asking questions. The ringmaster knows more than anyone what it’s like to have people you love and want to protect, even if they’re not with you anymore.” And that’s why you’re still here, is what she doesn’t say. You realize that the carnival folk are a lot more perceptive than they seem. They occupy a whimsical wonderland that looks senseless from the surface, but within this world are people who become family through nature, who forge bonds that overlook namesake and run deeper than blood. It’s the kind of family Taehyung would have wanted, you think. She begins to saunter towards the performers’ tent, but not before nodding at your pocket. "Best keep that close to you. You wouldn't want it to roll under the lion cage next time." “I will,” you answer, although by the time you speak the lady is long gone. “This is the last thing I’d ever want to lose.” ------- Crossing your arms, you tap your foot to an impatient beat. “Come on,” you complain, doing your best impression of a one-legged drum dance, “We have to go, it’s almost dinnertime. Do you want to eat leftover rolls again?” “Just give me five more minutes, and I promise we’ll leave.” Taehyung’s voice is muffled as he continues to search through the grass. When you give no reply, he looks back at you and crinkles his face. “Come on, have I ever broken a promise to you before?” “... No,” you admit grudgingly. “Exactly. So stop complaining and let me- Aha! I knew I’d find it here!” In a flash he’s scrambled to his feet and standing before you, holding out a fist with an air of undisguised triumph. You look at him dubiously, but he only urges you to hold out your own hand. “Go on, it’s a gift for you. I meant to give it earlier but I thought I’d lost it. I hadn’t realized it’d fallen from my pocket.” You peer at the object he’s dropped into your palm. “Your old marble?” you say dubiously. It’s a glass ball about the size of a button, with air bubbles and golden flakes that make it look like a bite-sized galaxy. “Not my ‘old’ marble,” Taehyung scolds, flicking your nose. “It’s my lucky marble. When I have this I always land on my feet, no matter where I’m jumping from. But I’m better at landing now than I was before, so I’m giving it to you. It’ll keep you safe. Make sure to keep it close, or I’ll get mad at you.” “And if I lose it?” you joke. “Then I’ll really get mad. Don’t forget, it’s a gift from me. If you lose it it’d be like losing your best friend,” he warns. It’s easy to tell that the little glass means quite the lot to him, because Taehyung hardly ever gets this serious about anything. Warmth floods your insides and you cradle your hand, clutching protectively at your newfound treasure. “In that case, I’d better keep a good hold on it. Thank you, Taehyung.” He smiles but says nothing in return. There are times when Taehyung does nothing but chatter and laugh and fill up the quiet, but there are also moments when the two of you can understand every i and every t without having to say them aloud. Which is why, as you begin walking back to the house together, you know the reason behind his lagging steps. “You don’t need to tell me,” you say when he opens his mouth. “I already know.” He stops mid-step but you continue walking. You only make it three steps before he catches you by the sleeve. “We’ll both be turning eighteen soon,” he says quietly. “They won’t have any obligation to keep us after that. Have you thought about what you’re going to do then?” When you say nothing, he adds, “In two weeks’ time the carnival will arrive in town. You know I’ll have to leave with them but... Won’t you at least consider coming with me? It may be a risk but it’ll be one worth taking, I’m sure of it. Think of all the excitement there, all of the adventures we could have. We have no place here, anyway.” I could stay to look after the children, you want to argue, and you could stay, too. Then we would have our place. You want to resent him for thinking about a future without you in it. It’s always been you and Taehyung, Taehyung and you, fending off whatever hardship or hatred the world has thrown your way. How can he be so selfish, you think, wanting to leave you here all alone while he goes off trapezing on his worldly adventures? How can he be okay with that? And almost immediately that animosity turns on itself. Because, how could you be the selfish one and ask him to stay? How could you ever chain down your Icarus, when all he wanted to do was fly next to the sun? The marble lies in your grip, a small, delicate thing, but suddenly it feels as though you are carrying the weight of a thousand burning suns. ------- The heat is unbearable. The sun is unforgiving during your fifth day at the carnival. It’s angry, harsh, hot enough to scorch grass and scare away a good number of the usual entertainment-seekers. The torch juggler sets aside his routine for the day and the animals pant, lie on their sides, anything to escape the burden of the blistering heat. The lion show is one of the carnival’s most anticipated attractions, but when the beasts refuse to budge from their shaded cages the ringmaster cancels their scheduled acts. As a result, patrons drift away in a sea of disgruntlement after the acrobats finish their show, and the grand tent is left empty by mid-morning. Empty is a good word for it. The seats are empty, the stage is empty. Ticket stubs and popcorn kernels litter the ground, a half-hearted tribute to everything the circus has to offer, but the fun and thrills are the last thing on your mind as you sit alone in the front row seats. Today, the grand tent does not burst with the excitement of cartwheeling clowns or booming music. It only feels defeated, mournful, as though it has lost something precious and has no way of gaining it back. Empty. “The show is finished for the day. The animal acts will resume tomorrow.” Somebody slips into the seat beside you. Although you know who it is, you raise your head like an automated machine. The ringmaster returns your gaze with a steady stare of his own. He’s dressed in his usual top hat and mask, but somehow appears unbothered by the insufferable heat. “I’m sorry,” you say after a pause. “I just wanted to sit here for a bit.” “The tent is closed to visitors after performances end,” he reminds you, but his tone is less reprimanding than it is thoughtful. Your gaze drifts around the deserted stage. “Do you want me to leave?” You can feel the ringmaster’s eyes boring into the side of your face. “I doubt you have anywhere to go.” His tone is so mild that you can hardly take offense to his words. At any rate, he’s right. You have no real home, no family. The person you're looking for is nowhere to be found, and you have no money for the train back to where you came from. No home, no money, no family, no friends. Empty, with no way of gaining back what is lost. As if sensing your grief, the ringmaster speaks abruptly. “Tell me about this person you’re looking for.” He’s studying you through his mask but you can’t tell whether he is asking out of curiosity or kindness. It may be a combination of both, or it may simply be neither. Either way, it hardly matters. His words do nothing to ease the loneliness that cracks your insides. Does anything exist in this world, you wonder, that can heal this feeling? Memories, perhaps, but your memories are old and mock your intentions. They taste vaguely bittersweet when you think back on your past, to the days spent with your precious friend. To when you and he would parade around town, pretending that your home existed somewhere outside of the orphanage. To when you would lie on the grass together side-by-side, laughing at the clouds and humming at the touch of the sun. “See that?” he would sometimes say, tracing the outline of the fluffy whites with his fingertips. “Someday I’ll fly high enough reach those. I’ll jump so high up that even the birds will be jealous of me." And then he would turn to you and smile that beautiful smile of his. You remember it as clear as crystal rain, blissful and innocent and simply so full of Taehyung, and suddenly it feels as though the weight of the ragged world has settled on your chest. You’re miles and miles away from the place that’s supposed to be home, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as when you think about Taehyung. Nothing could ever hurt more than when you think about him. You realize that the ringmaster is waiting for an answer. He looks at you expectantly, so you rapidly blink out the hurt in your eyes. Slowly you begin. “He came to the orphanage four months after I did. We were both young and alone, scorned by the world, but it wasn’t until I saw him swinging from the laundry rope one day that we began speaking to each other.” Yet another memory dedicated to your freefalling boy, but this time you can feel your lips twitching into a wry grin. “It was my turn to wash the bedsheets, but the rope snapped and he fell into the water basin. I don’t think he realized that it wasn’t meant to hold up seven year old boys. The matron found us and we both had our dinners taken away as punishment. But I wasn’t angry at him. He apologized by sneaking me bread from the kitchen. I thought that was very kind of him. We ended up sharing the food and finding better places for him to swing from the next day.” You peek at the ringmaster. He says nothing as he listens to your story, but his presence is comforting. It somehow gives you the strength to say aloud what has been haunting you throughout the years. You spread your hands out in front of you. “Taehyung could fly. It was his dream to be an acrobat. There was a forest close to where we lived, so he practiced swinging from tree branches whenever he had the chance. Every time he jumped the clouds reached out to kiss him. The birds loved him, the sky loved him… I loved him.” Glancing at the ringmaster, you add, “Your carnival came to our town just before we turned eighteen. The matron refused to take us and we didn’t have any money to go on our own, but Taehyung never stopped talking about it. He was always saying how he was going to join one someday, so when you came it was like a wish come true for him." "And you ended up following in his footsteps, looking for him," the ringmaster finishes for you. "But as I said before, he isn't at this carnival. So why haven’t you left?" You suspect he is curious rather than angry about your extended visit. In any case you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. "I'll keep looking until I find him." "That doesn't answer my question. Why are you still here?" A perfectly valid question which calls for a perfectly valid answer. But when you try to search for the right one, the words evade your grasp, as slippery and elusive as water, and when they fall away you make no attempt to call them back. You brush away a ticket stub clinging to your coat hem. "Because maybe I'm afraid of what I'll find." You make it halfway to the exit when he calls after you. “What is it?” “I’m sorry?” You look over your shoulder. The ringmaster is still seated where you left him, but he makes no move to hurry after you. With his mask and black coat, he looks remarkably similar to how he first appeared- as a shadow, blending in quietly with the backdrop of the grand tent, watching and observing the tears and cries and cheers of the audience. “You said before that you owed him something,” he clarifies once he sees that he has gained your attention. “What is it that you owe him?” It had always been Taehyung who was the brave one. He had no qualms about teasing the younger children or defying the matron’s oppressive rules, no fears about leaping from heights that would make a grown man shake in his boots. But now, you can’t help but think that he would be proud of you and the way you respond to the ringmaster’s question, a confident answer that rings out with only the slightest hint of a quaver at the end. “A goodbye.”

[artificialqueens]

Welcome to the Dollhouse Pt. 2 (Violet/Trixie)

Trixie has a crisis and Violet is, well. Violet.

AN: Pt. 2 of idk! Also I have a tumblr now.

“I’m not doing that,” Trixie said, getting up off the couch. “Have fun with your stroll down memory lane, Frankie, but I’m not getting involved in this shit.”

Violet stared at Trixie for a moment and cackled when they realized he wasn’t joking.

“Seriously, bitch? What the fuck?”

“I’m not,” Trixie spat, storming out of the room, “fucking doing that.”

“Trixie!” Violet called after him, scrambling over the couch, phone in hand. “What the hell!”

“No, nope,” Trixie grabbed his bag and started tossing things into it. He wasn’t sure what he was doing or where he was going to go, but he needed to leave this place. Now.

He turned and found Violet staring at him in the doorway, mouth hanging open.

They silently regarded one another for a moment. Trixie threw his backpack over his shoulder.

“What’s your fucking problem?” Violet said, breaking the silence. “Why are you so freaked out? Literally last night you were in the kitchen going on about–” and here Violet did, maybe not the most insulting but definitely top three, impression of Trixie, and said: ‘I need to just stop being such a PUSSY about LIFE and have Boomer come up here and turn my asshole inside out–”

Trixie laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. He started and stopped his answer a few times before finally tossing his backpack onto the ground and holding out his hands, like, what do you want me to say?

He settled with: “I’m not a porn star, Violet. I’m goddamned drag queen.”

“What’s the fucking difference?”

Trixie blinked.

“I know this is impossible for you to grasp,” he said, “even with those big man hands, but: I really don’t want to sit on that couch with you and watch my best friend… yank he doodle.”

Violet’s eyes narrowed. They shook their head and groaned, looking up to the heavens.

“Yes you do,” they said, finally looking back at Trixie. “And I don’t know why you’re afraid to admit that. I know this is impossible for you to grasp,” Violet said, slowly approaching him, “with those… petite, feminine fingers,” Trixie swallowed, “but I know you, Trixie Mattel. And I know exactly what kind of girl you are.”

A darkness that had been dormant inside Trixie for years began to stir as his former competitor drew closer. His heart hammered inside his chest as he held his lips and teeth together in a grim line.

Violet was close, now. Too close. They looked as if they were going to reach out to him, to touch him, but thought better of it, crossing their arms, straightening their spine and drawing a deep breath.

“Your life is about to change,” Violet said, voice even and calm. “Everything is going to be different when you get on that plane and go back to California, and I think,” Violet said, “it’s time for you to relax while you still can.”

Violet held out a hand to Trixie.

“C’mon, Firkus,” they said. “I promise it’ll be fun.”

Trixie did not break eye contact until he finally brushed past Violet, heading back into the living room.

Katya still had his hands full on the TV screen, one fastened around his cock and the other cupping his chest as if he were wearing his tits. Trixie sighed, staring at the paused image of his debauched business partner.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Katya in a compromising position. It hadn’t even been a month, actually. After a week or so of missed calls and complete radio silence from the Russian impersonator, Trixie had begun to suspect the worst… until Katya had sent over a snapchat of some stranger’s balls in his mouth with the message: “don’t worry Trixie, I’m only smoking dick. See you Monday.”

Tears had streamed down Trixie’s face as he brayed with laughter, the relief and joy swallowing him whole.

But something about watching Katya pull the padge like this… Trixie shook his head.

“She didn’t make this for us to watch,” he said. “It’s not right.”

Behind him, Violet rolled their eyes with violent frustration.

“What makes you so sure?” Violet walked around to lean over the couch. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she sent you that on purpose.”

“You’re wrong,” Trixie said, crossing his arms. “We’re not like that. She asked me this afternoon to watch her stupid short film, and she fucked up. She’s old, Violet! She doesn’t know how technology fucking works!”

Violet just quirked her eyebrow.

“And they call me a bad actor,” they said. “Get out, Mattel. Go take a walk. Have a glass of water. I promise not to watch one more minute until you get back.”

Trixie pressed his fingers into his cheek for a moment, thinking. Finally, he grabbed his jacket and walked out the door.

Violet listened to him walk down the hallway. They clicked their tongue and settled onto the couch, pulling out their phone.

V: Hey

K:Hey.

V: Can I ask you something?

K: I’m not really in the mood. Especially if it’s about my cum.

Violet rolled their eyes.

V: Did Trixie just get dumped or something before she came out here? She’s less fun than usual.

K: Yeah.

Violet nodded to themself, considering their next question.

V: Cuz of you?

K: Yeah.

V: That’s fucked up.

K: Yeah.

*

Trixie wasn’t sure if he was shivering because of the cold, or because of the horrible tempest of emotions churning in his stomach.

A sickeningly familiar voice in his head asked: Why are you being so fucking dramatic?

Trixie didn’t have an answer. He just kept walking until the comforting smell of coffee lured him into a warm building.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was Katya:

K: You know I was kidding, right? You don’t have to show me your wiener.

I know, Trixie began typing. He paused, deleting the message. Instead, he wrote:

T: Did you send me that video on purpose?

The ellipses appeared on the other side of the conversation for a moment, then disappeared. When they came back, Trixie realized his mouth was dry.

K: Do you want to be mad at me, or would you prefer an alternative fact?

Trixie blinked, feeling a pulse in his temple throb.

“Sir?”

Trixie looked up from his phone into the wide green eyes of the Dunkin’ Donuts cashier.

“How can I help you?”

Trixie stared back at the kid.

“I don’t think you can,” he said.

“Oh,” the kid said. “I’m…sorry?”

“Me too,” Trixie muttered as he walked back out onto the cold street.

*

Violet was waiting on the couch when Trixie came back.

“Feeling better, Squirrel?”

“Not really,” came Trixie’s curt reply.

Disappointment flickered across the young queen’s face.

“So you’re out?”

“Violet, I was never in.”

Violet nodded and sniffed, getting up off the couch to refill their champagne.

“Oh well,” they said. “I thought it might be fun to have a scene partner for my big comeback. But I guess I’m better off solo.”

“I don’t fucking need her, David.”

It was the fall of 2015 in Atlanta and Violet was, once again, screaming at her manager. Trixie had come by to pitch a gag for the next segment, but heard the ruckus. Despite his better judgement, he hung back to listen.

“You’re my fucking manager, man. Mine. Me.”

A deep male voice replied: “Right, Violet. I’m your manager. I’m looking out for you, and your career, and I’m sorry, but you do need her right now. You’re not likeable,” he enunciated the word carefully, and Trixie wished more than anything that he could see the look on Violet’s face.

“FUCK likeable,” Violet spat. “I’m an artist. And this is all–this is bullshit. I’m the future of drag and you fucking people just want me to be another clown. ‘Oh Violet, you have to do fashion police. Oh Violet, Andy Cohen says he wants you behind the bar! You can watch rich white women get drunk, you’ll love it!’ Fuck you. Fuck this.”

And with that, the young queen burst through the door, stopping at the sight of a stunned Trixie Mattel.

They just stared at each other for a moment. Violet rolled her eyes and continued on, leaving Trixie alone in the hall.

Back at the apartment, Trixie said: “you’re really going through with this.”

“Uh,” Violet, as usual, looked at him like he was an idiot, nodding slowly, “yeah.”

Trixie blinked rapidly and shook his head. This nightmare was never going to end.

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” Violet said, and for the first time since this all started, all the condescension had been dropped from their tone. They shrugged, continuing: “it’s only fair. I mean, really, a video isn’t going to change anything between Katya and I. But I understand that…” and now Violet took care to make sure Trixie was looking into her eyes - really listening to her, “…that might not be the case, for you two.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to send her a sex tape,” Trixie said. “Maybe that would change things between you and me.”

Violet let Trixie’s words settle in the room before they finally nodded, their lips quirking up in a small smirk.

“I considered that,” they admitted, setting their drink down and approaching Trixie. “And I decided that I don’t care. Because you’re not like that, right?”

“You’re a selfish asshole,” Trixie said.

Violet’s eyebrows shot up. Finally, some real anger. Maybe they were getting somewhere.

“Come on, Trix,” they said, “It’s not my fault that you refuse to seize life by the balls and get what you wa-”

Trixie rushed at Violet then, grabbing their face and crushing their lips together.

They separated and Violet’s mouth was hanging open and they said: “what the fuck, Firkus?”

Trixie licked his dry lips, awkwardly detaching his hands from Violet’s face.

“All I want,” Trixie said quietly, “is for you to shut up, Violet. I want you,” and now he was pushing her backwards toward the couch and Violet’s eyes were black saucers, a cornered animal, “to shut up, and stop. For a minute. Just stop.”

They stood like that for a moment, neither knowing what to do, where to look, what to say.

“Okay,” Violet murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not,” Trixie muttered. Violet opened their mouth to protest, but shut it at the look on Trixie’s face. “You’re not. I’ve come to accept that. I used to admire you for it.” Trixie laughed a little. “I used to think, ‘what must it be like, to walk around the world like Violet fucking Chachki? To not give a shit about what anyone thinks? To not care about anyone but yourself?”

Trixie took a seat on the couch. Violet hesitated for a moment before joining him, quickly glancing at their forgotten drink on the countertop.

“And then I come out here,” Trixie continued, staring at Katya on the TV in front of them, “and I thought: maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she’s changed.”

Violet was quiet, waiting for Trixie to continue. Trixie didn’t.

“Can I talk now?”

Trixie shrugged. Violet cleared their throat.

“I am sorry, Trixie. I really,” their eyes darted from the screen, back to Trixie, then somewhere else, staring at nothing as they gathered their thoughts. “I thought I was doing you a favor. I just - I don’t know. I thought you and fucking Katya had this stupid thing going on, and I thought… Everything happens for a reason, right? Look.” Violet grabbed Trixie’s hand, making him look them in the eye. “I know you blame me for Dollhouse failing, but–”

“You burned the Dollhouse down, Violet,” Trixie said. “You lit the match in front of my fucking face and walked away.”

Again, Trixie surprised Violet.

“So poetic,” they said, dry. “Fine. I did. Whatever. That project wasn’t right for us.” At Trixie’s look, Violet snorted and amended her statement: “Alright, it wasn’t for me. I knew you’d be fine. Fuck, man, look at you! Nothing will ever fucking stop you. You are the star nobody fucking asked for, Trixie Mattel.” She smacked Trixie in the shoulder, making the other queen flinch. “And you have a fat cock. And frankly…”

Trixie leaned into the back of the couch, pressing his palms into his eyes.

“…I think you do need to put that thing on video.” They ran a hand through their long hair. “Shit, man. I can’t think of anyone I want to make a porn with more than you. How legendary would that be, just as a rumor? Could you fucking imagine?”

“And how would a sex tape,” Trixie began, ignoring the flattery fluttering in his gut, “not end in disaster, Violet? I have dreams. Lofty fucking dreams! This is just the beginning for me. And these things are made to be leaked.”

Violet laughed.

“So what? You remember what happened last time my porn got leaked?” Violet grinned, barely holding their laughter in. Trixie tore his gaze from their mousey teeth, their brown eyes meeting. “I won.”

Before Trixie could think of what he could possibly say in the face of Violet Chachki’s unshakeable determination, his phone started to ring. He didn’t need to look at it to know who it was. Neither did Violet.

“I have to take this,” Trixie said, monotone. “It’s my little sister.”

Violet rolled their eyes and watched as Trixie disappeared behind the door of his room.

Once the door was shut, Trixie hissed into the phone: “you have 30 seconds to explain yourself and less than 24 hours until my plane lands and I come kick your fucking crackhead ass.”

“Wait,” Katya said on the other end of the line. “Did you say kick or lick?”

Trixie hung up. Katya called back.

“Trixie! I’m sorry! Listen. I am so sorry, I didn’t mean for this to be a thing, it was just like, a prank - I thought you would laugh! I’m sorry.”

Trixie was quiet.

“Peter was right about you,” he said. “And me, I guess.”

Katya’s voice as gentle. “Peter was a jealous, snivelling, narcissistic nancy who put mayo on everything.”

“I am also a jealous, narcissistic nancy who likes mayo,” Trixie said.

“But you have other qualities that make up for that.”

Trixie smiled for the first time in hours. He drew a breath and rubbed a hand over his face.

“I think I’m about to do something really stupid.”

“Nothing you do is stupid,” Katya said. “You’re the smartest girl I know. I’m not joking, bitch.”

Trixie pictured Katya on his balcony, shoulders hunched as he smoked his 15th cigarette of the day (he was doing better; maybe by next week he’d be down to ten).

He thought about Violet, sipping her champagne in the other room, waiting patiently until she inevitably got what she wanted. As always.

“I gotta go. I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Oh - okay. Love you.”

Trixie hung up and walked out to find Chachki exactly where he knew they’d be, glass in hand, ready for whatever was to come.

“Alright, Frankie,” Trixie said. “Go get your fucking singlet.”

[aromatickindling-blog]

Hmm, I’ll sort this out into the Stardew Valley Farmer as villager prompt with visuals and less words one day...

Green

Appearance:

    Green's an average sized young woman with minty hair tied up into a messy ponytail, part of her side swept bangs awning her sharp aquamarine eyes. If you're observant, you can see slight bags under eyes, covered with foundation powder to avoid questions from people. Her wardrobe's quite functional, filled with different boots for all occasions, thick working gloves, shade hats, winter fur caps, and cargo pants in different neutral colors, working well with her cotton button jackets. Her favorite happens to be the dark green formal jacket with a popped collar. The equipment she carries on her hip belt is well-taken care of, polished to the nines before being covered in all sorts of filth. She does have a strong liking for long scarves, goggles, and small, subtle hair pins, though.

    For some reason, her freckles tend to appear in curves and triangles; she has one that looks similar to Orion's Belt that she brings up as a conversation piece if she has to do small talk. Of course, she does take pains to cover up the scars she's gotten from her spelunking adventures in the mines and the Skull Dungeon. A Serpent pack left a particularly nasty one stretching down her left calf to her ankle. She prays to Yoba no one notices.

Summary:

    An ambivert erring on the side of introverted behavior, Green's the one of the twin grandchildren of Stardew Valley's previous farmer, come to take over Smaug farm. Thanks to years of neglect and her grandfather's 'brilliant' idea of staking land in a wilderness full of monsters, she's got her work cut out for her. Worse yet, with the Gotoran-Ferngill Republic conflict in full swing, she's especially reluctant to open up to anyone in the Valley. However, with the Adventurer's Guild and the Museum in town, she'll be able to settle in. Yet if anyone bothers getting to know her well enough, they might detect a hint of loneliness in her eyes.

At her Grandfather's grave, Green has planted an orange tree and told him:

    "If I can't see myself becoming part of the community here, Grandpa, I'll at least keep my part of the deal. I'll make sure the farm is up and running smoothly by the end of the second year. If the war continues...if Sage isn't back home here at that time, and I'm still unable to find someone I can trust here...I'll come after him. I'm sorry Grandpa, but I hope you can understand me on this. Mayor Lewis can take over the farm; it'll be a great source of revenue for Pelican Town...they'll need it more than I do. But thank you...for giving me an out from my former job. It was suffocating."

...For some reason, every Friday and Sunday Green never fails to greet the traveling cart merchant. Apparently, the two exchange letters; strangely, the writing doesn't match the merchant's personal chicken-scratch. After the bus has been repaired, you might even catch a glimpse of her with a strange bodyguard speaking about a "Mr. Qi." Who is this Mr. Qi, anyway?

Love: coffee, hazelnuts, goat cheese, poppy, fairy rose, dinosaur egg, all fossils and bone artifacts, duck feather, thunder egg, all soups, bone flute, mead

Likes: all flowers, all fruit, dried starfish, ornamental fan, ancient sword, fiddlehead fern, all dwarf scrolls, iron bar, copper bar, maple bar, lava eel, void salmon, honey, garlic, hot pepper, cloth, arrowhead, wine

 Dislikes: truffles, truffle oil (don't ask), super cucumber (once again, don't ask), beer, pale ale, morel mushroom (she's reminded of that one frog with all the holes in its back. And bot flies, the spawn of the underworld)

Hated: wicked statue, skull brazier, elvish jewelry, prehistoric hand axe, golden mask, Robin's axe

Personality:

    Green's the quiet observer of the twins, almost akin to a shade behind her brother's bombastic front. She's not the type to normally initiate conversation either, so only when she is required to, when she wants to give advice, or when she needs information will she, reluctantly, start one with a person. She's very polite about it too. But, you may have found her committing a social faux pas during the first year when she climbed on everyone's houses for a bird feather or little critter. Mayor Lewis chewed her out harshly for it. From then on out, it was only natural cliffs, rock faces, and trees she would climb onto, if not her own farm buildings.

    She is often found doing work on the farm, at the museum with Gunther, or training with Marlon at the Adventurer's Guild during the day, almost always with a cup of coffee and the occasional maple bar. Once Smaug farm is up and running, she does build a small training arena in front of the greenhouse. Don't ask why. When evening arrives, she disappears into the mountains and doesn't return home until 1:00 am in the morning. Some days may involve her leaving for Calico Desert early in the morning until 1:00 am. Shane often swears he would see blood leaking out of her when she was returning home at night. No one believes him thanks to how well Green dresses her wounds. This can only last so long with how she's burning the candle on both ends. On the weekends, no one is capable of tracking her down while she's out on her foraging hikes, much to her relief. Even better is during those evenings when everyone is at Gus's Saloon, when she can sneak into the Community Center to repair it with the Junimos before going home to refine sketches, put away gathered inventory, and generally wind down for the night with a tune from her harp, a nice hot soak, and a quick gaming session. Only on Sundays does she dare oversleep to offset the lack of it during the weekdays.

      Once more comfortable with people, she becomes more straightforward with her answers, although any questions regarding her family or her spelunking episodes are deflected or redirected to another topic. Outgoing villagers are more likely to get to this point. Snarky jokes will be made about the topic at hand, light teasing may occur if she is addressed directly, and, if it pops into her head, a few puns. Don't ask about her hikes or finds, she will become quite detailed with the scientific basis for everything she came across.

    Yoba help her if any of the single townsfolk become interested in her. Poor Green won't know what to do with herself, all her secrets might be spilled into the public square with that kind of relationship. What should she do now, how much of her activities should she cut back to spend time with them, what will they think of her once they find out what she's been trying to hide from the villagers, will their relatives approve of her, how long before they find out about her hiding her wounds from plain sight, do they like mint breath or coffee breath, are they allergic to poppies and fairy roses, will they mind her fossil collection, should she pick up cooking again, video game nights or movie nights, are they up for hiking, are they not okay with PDA, do they like cuddling, will they not mind her wrapping her arms around them as a greeting, do they like nuzzles, nape kisses, why her, and why are they even interested at all?! THESE ARE ALL IMPORTANT QUESTIONS...at least in her mind, they are. This is why she comes off as aloof, not only as a deterrent for anyone interested, but also as a result of her trying to strangle any feelings of affection that might develop for anyone else. Also, Yoba help the poor sap that does start to develop a crush on her; her lack of self-care and time during the weekdays is sure to wear on them.

    But, she is more than willing to make adjustments for them should they accept her, all of her. Green's probably going to ask them to come out to the beach at night near the solitary rock to spill her heritage as a half-Gotoran, half-Fergillan to them, mental escape routes calculating in her head but another part of her pleading this will be okay and she's just paranoid. From there, if accepted, she will tell about her brother and her parents, how Sage left for the army after a nasty spat with her regarding the Gotoran conflict, how her Gotoran Father died for helping the Ferngillan side, and how her Ferngillan Mother's MIA, probably in an underground resistance movement against the Gotoran government. She's only had her brother as a social crutch before he left, and it's the main reason why she bottled herself up. Why bother with people if all they're going to do is break your heart once you're close with them? But, she'll admit she was wrong, and then apologize for unloading all of this onto to them, and for not trusting them as much before. From there, she'll become more and more honest to them about her activities.

    The letters she was swapping with the merchant happened to be correspondences with her brother, usually curt and to the point. She makes it a priority to leave out any bitterness from his leaving her since he's in danger and needs all the help he can get. As for Mr. Qi...money is great and so is spelunking. That's all I'm going to say, other than it's a dangerous profession that has left her with a number of gashes...all of which she's refused to go to Harvey's for, much to her partner's dismay. As for the music drifting near the railroad tracks at night, it was her playing a couple tunes her father taught her on her mini-harp. She might even offer to serenade them from time to time.

    Despite her insecurities about herself, Green's quite the affectionate lover, offering sweet words in their ear, leaving small gifts for them after she visits their house, engaging in conversations more often with them, and giving out subtle public displays of affection, whether it be the joining of their hands, brushing their shoulders clean, a lingering look, or a soft caress on the back of their hand if they're slightly agitated. It's still quite confusing to her what to do and she'll hesitate early on about it, but she'll slowly ease into it...and wonder how the hell did this happen??? Then not care and nestle in close to them at night after pressing a kiss to their neck. Grandpa works wonders in keeping his grandchild in Stardew Valley. What a magnificent bastard he is.

Inventory:

·         Mini-harp

(You can hear the notes of a melody off near the mountaintops during the night, drifting down onto the railroad tracks...)

·         Obsidian knife

(A memento of her brother, before he left for Gotoro. Held closely to the hip, sometimes the chest whenever she thinks of him. It's as though the essence of the sea has imprinted onto this knife.)

·         Lava katana

(Can't go wrong with cauterizing deliberate wounds on monsters. Makes it less messy! Smells horrific...)

·         Herb satchel

(Most remedies have plant-based compounds to thank for their use. After trips to the mines or the Skull Dungeon, its strangely lighter. Smells strongly of mint.)

·         Pack

(Contains most essentials, from food to water to tools and, of course, a loaded first-aid kit. Got to be prepared for all sorts of insanity the spirits bring about when they're angry. For some reason, the pack smells of pine needles.)

·         Sketchbook

(Contains all sorts of colored sketches of landscapes, plants, monsters, rocks, animals, and even pressed flowers...wait...some of the villagers are sketched in here too? Has a light floral scent.)