#i think he just coped with his grief and trauma better than the rest

[apotelesmaa]

I dont the Otto Mentalis is evil theory holds much weight tbh I think he just replaced his trauma with The Grindset. Or he just went to therapy idk.

[yeyinde]

fever in a shockwave

pt., iii | stagnant on my betterment

“I don't want to lose you,” he's saying, and it's odd because he never really had you to begin with.

WARNINGS: angst, pining, yearning; eventual smut; trauma; grief and the existentialism of moving on; recovery; poor/unhealthy coping methods; codependency; reference to drug use (but it's just weed); reader has a backstory; spoilers for the series

WORD COUNT: 14,7k

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an update; this isn't the final part lmao dangerous words coming from someone like me oops. there's probably going to be three more parts after this.

There is no sense of closure when you watch the jagged pieces of a broken man fall to the floor by your feet. The splintered edges offer no succour, no victory, when they come to rest along the scattered ruins of a delusional love affair: alcohol bottles—Kraken, Captain Morgan—and grease-stained boxes of takeaway, most unfinished in favour of satiating yourselves on flesh, sex. 

(Booze, more often than not.)

Seeing him struggle to find meaning in what you say—watching that ethanol-soaked resignation filter through hazy, electric blue—brings a fresh pain instead, taking space in the hollow gaps where you expected vindication and self-worth to bleed through. 

You're doing the right thing, after all. Aren't you? 

Aren't you? (please, someone, anyone, say yes—)

Uncertainty is an uneasy, nauseating feeling inside your guts. Much like a broken bone, it emanates a visceral sense of perturbation through your body. Every synapse fires in protest; every nerve screaming out. They bellow one thing in unison: something is wrong and not quite right. 

You feel their cries deep in your being. Each muscle twitch and frayed thought that passes carries the echo of it. 

This pain, it seems, is cracking your ribs apart and exposing the rotting marrow to the open air. Slurping from the putrefying sludge, satiating itself on the sickness eroding you from within. 

It's all wrong. It feels wrong. 

Bear swallows. You watch the way his throat works around the bitterness that lashes across the cut of his brow; gyres darkening in his eyes. Storms on the horizon. 

(You think you'd welcome the squall. Might embrace anything to get out of this place—)

“That's what you want?” He rasps, thick and gritty, and you think about the last time he sounded like that—all torn up, and broken. Words mangled in his throat. Husked out when he told you about Rip, about the boy, his daughter, and—

No. No.

None of this is what you want, and it pains you that he can't see that. 

(Such a selfish, broken man.)

Inside the festering slurry of your marrow, an urge wells up. Bubbles in the putrid pools until it's frothing, raging against the walls keeping it trapped until it seeps through the cracks, leaking into your muscles, your tissue, your bloodstream. 

This silly little body of yours carries it up to your heart where it sinks talons into your pericardium, subsumes the serous in this terrible essence, this idea, this whim—

(“what?” the scoff he lets out trails on the coattails of what might have been a laugh in another life. if he was another man, maybe. you, more honest with yourself. but you are just two broken people in a run-down bar. humour exists somewhere in the muzzle of a loaded pistol. “got a saviour complex or something?”

or something. or something—)

Because the thing is: you do. 

You spend most weekends wandering around antique stores because you're convinced that everything deserves a home. A place of its own. You find the unwanted, the unsellable, and you let it take space in your lonely, cramped apartment. 

And why not? No one else will buy it. You're, technically, helping the environment. It's a win-win. 

(and more lies you tell yourself.)

These false promises are always made that one day, one of these days, you'll find something to do with it all—maybe you could learn how to make something out of it; stitch all the unuseable parts, the unwanted pieces, and create something that everyone will want—but so far, none of your rescues has ever been finished. Saved. They sit in a corner taking up space. Untouched. Unused. Collecting dust. 

That insidious whim curls inside of your heart, and whispers: 

it's never too late to try again. maybe this time, it'll work out for you—

It's the same one that lures you in, making you purchase a complete set of ugly-looking dolls because some ladies were recoiling at the sight of their lumpy, antediluvian faces, and you felt bad thinking that they were doomed to end up sitting on the shelf until they were unceremoniously tossed into the bin with all the other things that won't sell. 

And the one, now, that stares at the terse set to Bear's shoulders, the lines rucked across his broad, the helplessness etched into ashlar, and considers that maybe all he needs is someone. A friend, maybe. 

(And maybe, maybe, that it could be you—)

“Bear—” it would be so easy to swallow the words back down until you choke on them. 

You breathe in. Taste nicotine in your throat; the phantom burn of a memory from long ago: one once buried under the rubble of your crumbling foundations, now rearing into this yawning abyss as you waver on the precipice. This vacuum that syphons you dry. Leaves you empty, gaping. 

It’s your mum leaning over the railing of a mezzanine as she smokes a cigarette—the eighth in the last three hours, pack near gone—and tries (and fails; always, always, always) to find some temporal kinship with a higher power as you sit on the porch swing and drink in the scraps she tosses your way. 

(Today, it’s the way the smoke curls in the periwinkle sky like a naked gospel; grand televangelist to a crowd of one.)

She scrambles within the ruins of her own making to seek answers to compensate for the lack of worth that slips from the cracks. Left behind again. Again, but it’s not her fault. It’s never her fault. 

(You should know best, she tells you—you suckled from the shattered parts of herself before you broke away from the cradle of her arms. Genetics leaves you wrecked for company, for permanence.

It’s just not made for us, baby. We’re unloveable only because we love too much—)

An epiphany comes in the middle of her eighth cigarette, and she divines enough wisdom to come to the succinct conclusion that those broken pieces are not the cause of her misery. 

(How could they be when they’re a part of her and she’s a part of everything?)

Can't fix a broken man, she murmurs into the midmorning fog, blood-red mouth splitting into a sneer. There was beauty, you thought, to be found in the pale yellow of her teeth against the pastel dusting of dawn. Rapturous, almost. You couldn't look away even as the words snaked through the underdeveloped fibres of your mind. They're like someone who's drowning, you know? They'll grab on to anyone that gets too close and try to pull them under, too. Maybe because they want to save themselves, or maybe because they don't want to die alone. Better to leave them behind. 

Can't fix a broken man, (but maybe—)

Your dad tried to fix me, she adds, and it comes in the same cadence of an afterthought, blase; but the thinness in her voice, the reedy pitch of barely veiled urgency, all feigned indifference to the topic, all give her away. She's been waiting for this, you know. Gearing up in steady increments so that the blow lands harder when it's thrown. 

Isn't that stupid? And he couldn't even bother to stick around. What a joke… But I guess some people are like that, huh? Couldn't be me, she scoffed, jabbing her finger in your direction. You could see the yellow of her nails beneath the pock marks in her chopped, blue nail polish. And don't let it be you, either. The best thing you could ever do for yourself and someone else is leave. Don't cheat. Don't be the other woman. Just fucking—

The bubble bursts, and in that breaking, a truth is revealed to you in some strange, hangover-induced epiphany brought on by dehydration, malnutrition, and the terrific idea of going home with a man who has never once talked to you while being completely sober. It screams—first and foremost—you are an idiot, but beyond that, you really are your father's child, aren't you? 

Lost amid your memory, the emergence of a forgotten fallow, it’s Bear who shakes you awake when he reaches for you after the silence sat for too long. Fingers touching, too tender and too rough at the same time, and the juxtaposition makes you quiver as it ploughs disquiet into your being. 

Tears pebble in your lash line, threatening to spill over. You haven't cried in a long time and yet, yet—

His hand folds over your wrist, tight and unrelenting. Shackles against your bones. Grinding them into soft, fine powder. 

“C’mon,” he slurs, pleads; tugging you closer as if distance is what makes you say these things to him and not the heavy, overwhelming scent of alcohol wafting off of his numb tongue. “You don't know what you're saying right now—”

His fingers tighten. The midnight scabs on his knuckles tear from the strain, the stretch. Blood wells under the slit that lifts from his broken, battered skin. Pebbles like a tear-drop on the wrinkle of his bruised knuckle, and then sheds itself free. Running down the yellow mess of moulted flesh until it meets the cliff edge of where his palm rests against yours. 

“You don’t mean it. You can’t mean that. Stay with me, stay—”

The alcohol makes him sway where he sits, eyes upturned but focused inward, lost to thoughts and feelings and places unreachable to you. Ephemeral lines in jaded, blue sands. It slips, too, from between his fingers. Uncatchable to anyone but the flush under his skin, the slur in his words. 

Can’t fix a broken man. 

The motion dislodges the droplet and it waterfalls over his palm until his blood kisses the clean, unmarred skin of your hand. 

He doesn’t notice the way he bleeds on you (through you, in you; drowns you in it, in him—): outside of a thready determination built on drunk devotion, he doesn’t seem to see much at all. Clouded. Overcast. Those hazy eyes regard you with a thin, untouchable distance. Filmed over and too far gone for you to pull him back—

(and you can’t help but wonder if he even notices you or if, in those unending crevasses, an icy, broken bergschrunds, the misshapen silhouette of you strikes a different chord to him; if these slurred hymnals are just a hollow orison for someone else in your stead.)

—so you stop trying. Let it sit, let it rot. Smell the infection in the air as the wound splits apart. Gangrenous and beyond palliative help. 

Something must flicker across your face sharp enough to cut through the fog he drowns himself inside because his eyes widen slightly, and his hand tenses around your wrist. Tight. Unyielding. 

As his fingers dig in over your pisiform, deep enough to bruise—to mark you once more with his stain, his touch—you’re struck by the sudden thought of brittleness. It’s not something you’d ever considered yourself as—delicate, fragile—but with the way he holds you now, not at all dissimilar to the way he held on last night, fingers loosely wrapped around your wrist as he used your joints as a stress ball to calm himself down, you feel vulnerable. Swallowed whole, caught. 

What once felt like a comfort, a sense of security as you moulded yourself into an anchor point, a lighthouse on the sandy, dark shore, for him to find, to swim for amid the roaring waves dragging him down, now feels like dead weight. 

For the first time since you've met him, you taste chlorine in the back of your throat. Feel the pull of the currents dragging you down. 

You know all too well what it feels like to drown. 

You pull away. He clings tighter. 

“Bear, please—”

Please, you think. Please, please, please—

(If you keep stripping yourself bare, you'll be nothing but bones—)

He doesn't even notice. Nothing, it seems, will pull his fixed attention from every minuscule expression that flickers across your face as if the mere notion of weakness, of hesitancy, will give him reason to hold on just that much harder. 

“Can't just give up on this—” the words are tangled in his throat, caught on the end of a snarl, and vicious. He tugs on you, pulling you closer. “On us.”

“There's no us, Bear.” 

And it isn't a lie. Of course, it isn't. 

There's an empty chasm between you both, void of any tangible substance. Whatever he thinks this is, it can't work. Won't. Not in the real world. Not outside of the bottom of a bottle. 

You won't be his crutch. His bad habit. His midlife crisis amid a downward spiral. 

You can't be.

Won't be. 

(you will not be the other woman. you will not be your father's child.)

And it isn't remotely the same, you know. Bear's wife is—

Dead. Gone. 

—and yet, this whole situation still makes you feel like a homewrecker even though the home you demand he returns to is empty. 

Selfish, you think, but you can't even begin to know who you're referring to in this beautifully devastating moment. Bear, for chasing ghosts, drowning them in alcohol and bad choices and vices that end with bringing strange women back to his lonely hotel room just to feel more than the vicious bite of grief in his chest.

Or you, for pulling away from this drowning man because you're not strong enough to save him and yourself at the same time. 

(or—something sneers—you just hate the idea of being like either of your parents, but what can you do when you've stolen all of their bad parts for your own?) 

You think of the man in the bar. One hundred dollars to send him back home. Where he belongs. 

(...he can't destroy himself like this. You'd know that, though, as his friend.

send him home, alright?)

“Go home,” you say, harsh and severe. All the things that your mother wished she said to him. Regurgitated words spat out by his feet because borrowed doctrines are you've ever known. 

A fissure crackles across his expression, cutting through the fog. It's anger, bitterness, pain—some strange, fantastical amalgamation of the three—and it coalesces into broken defiance where it sits, clinging to the glossy grease around his brow, his nose. 

It makes your fingers itch with the urge to soothe—to unfurl the wrinkles in his brow, to tuck this grown man close to your chest until the tension in the thick set of his shoulders liquifies in your hands, and he melts into malleable putty. 

(Another trinket to collect dust on your mantle.)

You swallow it down—the salt and blood, and the pathetic pulse of your heart, and all. Hurt him, you think. Hurt him deeply. Deeper, still. Push him away and run. Run. Keep running until your legs give out, until your lungs collapse because if you don’t, if you don’t, you know you’ll stay with him until he throws you to wayside, until he wakes up one morning and decides that you are not enough compared to the big, wide world just outside his door; that your walls and your roof are not big enough for him—

“Please. Go home. Go home, Bear—”

Your words land like you knew they would, and he reels back for a moment, as if struck, but the anger, the twisted pain etched in the lines of his unkempt beard, his greasy brow, make stand firm. Unmoving. 

You catch the acrid scent of gasoline on his skin when he leans forward, forcing himself back into your space with his chin dipped low, eyes blazing with a defiant inferno. His scarred, battle-battered hands drop to his splayed knees, gripping tight. Holding firm. 

(Or holding himself back—)

His voice is a matchstick when he speaks. Smouldering embers sparking to life. Renewed with a sense of purpose you can't make sense of. What set him off? What made him flip—

(You're not worth it. You're not worth it—)

“M’not giving up on this.” 

His jaw is slack. Laxed. The words slip out slow, languid. Curling with a touch of humid derision, mordant humour, at the idea that after all of this, everything (nothing, you think—nothing, nothing, nothing), you could just walk away unscathed. 

If I burn, the crackle in his throat says, promises: then you're burning with me. 

“Bear—”

“I'm not giving up on us.” 

He leaves, and takes another part of you with him. 

(You sever a part of yourself and leave it in the mouldering hotel room that still reeks of stale sweat, cheap whisky, and sex.)

The aftermath goes like this: 

A tsunami of regret and indecision dredges up terrible, awful things—phantom memories and stains in the shape of fingerprints that pollute the inside of your psyche—ones that should have been left to rot at the bottom of your buried trenches. It makes leaving harder than it should have been considering the abrupt nature of this—whatever it is. 

(Untitled. Unnameable. Unknowable.)

There's betting on losing dogs, and then there's this: 

Pacing all your cards, all your coins, on one that wasn't even in the race. 

One foot in, one foot out doesn't apply when Bear has never even stepped over the threshold. That notion roots itself in the scorched fibres of your chest, knotweed in your alveoli, as you scent liquor on his breath when he speaks. A cavernous distance grows between want and reality. 

You thought you knew him. Learned and memorised all his hard lines, his soft valleys, the thick thatches of hair that dust his body like the dark depths of a riverbed; a nebula of loosely connected scar tissue—Orion's belt made of fine, silvery lines—and pock marks from blemishes and bumps born from the rich, enigmatic tapestry of his life beyond the mere sliver of you. Crows' feet in the corner of his eyes, but only when they're crested in pleasure, twisted in that tender sort of humour only comfort brings. 

It takes you a weekend to map out the burly topography of a man, and only seconds to realise you know nothing about him outside of this rapacious intimacy. 

And even though you want to feel like this was the right choice—because it is, it was—you can't seem to stem the sheer brutality in which regret tears through you as you stand alone in a desolate parking lot under the waning sun. A whimpering ending to a desolate beginning. 

Was it loneliness that brought you here, or just the mundanity of fearing failure? It's these unanswerable questions, these skewed thoughts, that tumble over themselves, struggling to stay buoyant in the molasses of your sicky grey matter. 

(Let them sink. Let them drown.)

These distant sentiments barely echo in the gaping vacuum of that is your mind. Untethered, whispering by as you stare, transfixed, at the broad strokes of pretty pastels in periwinkle, tangerine, and bluebonnet are rapidly consumed by the darkening sky that opens like a chasm above your head. The sight of it a little too close to the colours that danced in the aether when you both broke, finally, meeting somewhere in the middle, tangled webs. Broken people coming together in a cataclysm that was always, always, headed down a single path to devastation. 

(The perfect conclusion to a story without a beginning.)

It's something you shouldn't think about. Let them sink. Let them drown—

This looping, knotted thread is a dangerous one to follow—the agony of watching Bear storm off (even after asking, demanding, that you let him drive you home; an offer you quickly refused) is still raw and gaping; a pulsating wound in the back of your throat—but you're brittle enough to want it to hurt, maybe. Chasing that unequivocal high only self-flagellation brings. 

Masochism in failure. In heartbreak by your own design. 

And it should hurt, right? This lonely climax (not with a bang, but a fizzle) should devastate you. Cut you to the core. Leave false starts on your bones. Scars on your ribcage. A meteor shower in milky white. Something tangible. Permanent. 

But instead, it feels unfinished. More of a sudden paroxysm than a defining choice you've made. Concretely. Absolutely. It's a hollow win for your bruised ego. Your battered pride. It slinks, somewhere, in the depths of this renewed pain, and licks at the tender wound made when you pierced your chest and ripped your heart cleanout. 

Threw it at the floor by his feet. 

Quid pro quo, maybe. Or a desperate bid to rid yourself of the Bear-shaped hole now taking residence inside. 

(It's fine, though. That pesky thing, all wrapped up tight in thick layers of duct tape, has never really felt like it belonged to you, anyway—)

It's all such a beautifully horrific panoply, you find. Paradoxical. Oxymoronic. Smothering and somehow claustrophobic at the same time. Being burnt alive and dying from hypothermia. 

The cudgel of pain to your chest is white-hot and vicious, but there's a seismic polynya in the lavascape of sadness that drapes through the topography of your being like a sluice, and in that little island of ice sits the unrelenting sense of flat resignation. 

You left Bear of your own free will, but in the jaded fibres of your being, you know it was all—

Inevitable. 

And fuck—

(fuck, fuck, fuck—)

Was it? Was it all inexorable or are you just making up flimsy excuses for yourself? 

Yes, you think. And then: no. Maybe. Maybe. 

(you are your father's child—

and your mother's broken daughter.)

You want to cry, and scream, and break the pain against something willing to fight back, to cut you just as deeply as you hack at it, but all you have are fragmented memories swarming you in this vacant parking lot on the wrong side of Virginia Beach, and—

(don't let it in, don't—)

—you chase it, lure it all in as you compare the blue in the sleepy gloam to the colour of his eyes, and then—

Your back against a brick wall, his knuckles sticky with blood closing around the nape of your neck, pulling you closer. Closer. The wide expanse of his palm swallowing your wrist as he led you to his truck; then, heavy on your thigh the entire—ill-advised—drive to the Motel 6 down the road where you stand now, fragile, raw, and all alone. 

When this all started, when you finally had the cobbled remains of Bear’s lucidity in your arms, the flat press of his attention against your jugular, you considered it to be a victory—

(a victory in amber)

—but hindsight is a cruel, mocking laugh in the back of your head. Twisting the knife deeper, severing the fraying threads that anchor you to yourself. With a sadistic glee it tells you that while you might have won the battle over the bottle, you lost the war (—abysmally, and without even the haze of a fever in your veins to numb the hollowness of your loss). 

You just can’t fix a broken man, and you certainly can’t keep him afloat all on your own when you’re too busy trying not to drown yourself. 

It's just that the weight of your shared brokenness was incompatible and insurmountable to the grief in Bear’s heart, but really. You just wonder if it was inevitable that everything you offered would be passed over in favour of numbed indifference at the bottom of a bottle. For someone, something, else. And while you might have been the one to leave first, but somewhere in the misplaced hurt inside of your chest threatening to collapse in on itself, folding into a black hole that devours all of your messy, ugly parts, you know that Bear was never really there, anyway.

That thought stings more than it should because you know, you know—

It’s just not made for us, baby.

—and maybe it’s all your fault for forgetting that inevitability in the first place. 

(shame on me—)

The thread you warned yourself not to chase gets tangled around your throat, choking you with the very same line you should have stayed far away from. It feels like hollow cyclicity—a gluttonous ouroboros gorging on itself—when it all, eventually, leads back to the beginning. 

Your fault, again, for trusting broken guidelines in the dark. For betting on losing dogs. For picking up another stray who already had a home. Another trinket to gawk at that ended up being chock full of arsenic, killing you with every touch. 

But He's gone, now, despite the fire that raged in his eyes, he still left you here to burn on your own. 

(inevitable—)

You should learn when to let go, you suppose, and fight the urge to bite your nails down to the wick just to taste blood in your mouth that isn't his. 

For the most part, though, you’re fine.

You’ve always been a good liar (“terrible, actually,” Bear snorts, and it’s the closest you’ve ever come to seeing him roll his eyes. “Jesus, never play poker if I'm not around—”), and especially to yourself, so after a moment of self-reflection in the form of a scalding bath and a purging cry in your car as you shoddily cut the Joe Graves-shaped cancer from your aching heart before it can metastasise and infect you further, you come out of it all standing, somehow. 

It might be the pastiche of indifference you slip into; a facsimile of the one, jaded and so bone achingly tired, that fell over you when you stumbled out of the bathroom, ready for something more only to find a man half-gone already to a bottle in the span of a few moments alone with his thoughts. 

Regardless of what it is, it works (—in shades, and only as long as you cling so tightly to anger that your fingers bleed and your joints ache—), and you let the familiarity of your unpractised trot to some gnarled finish line lead you forward.  

A clean break, you think (—hope: plead, bargain; wishing so hard on every eyelash that falls, every eleven you come across so that something, someone, listening might cradle the delicate splinters in their arms and nurse this whim, this want, into fruition), and you'll be fine. Fine. 

You have to be. 

But the thing is this:

Despite your best efforts to put some sense of distance between you and the heartache that must be, at least a little bit, on par with being gutted, a clean break is never clean, is it?

Case in point—

Thinking about him makes you bleed, and you think about him constantly. 

(Regret, then, is a wellspring in which the pain drinks and you didn't know a body could thirst this much.)

And it's made even worse when you realise just how bullish a man like Joe Graves can be. 

Maybe it's the thought of everything that had built up between you shattering into pieces that awakens this sense of urgency within him. Clinging, perhaps, to the only form of comfort he knows. The only one who toughed it out—in part, due to your employment obligation; the rest? an unresolved saviour complex when it comes to the people even a contrarian wouldn't place a bet on. Maybe. 

(Probably. Undoubtedly. 

You stopped trying to find the reason why you kept picking up the strays who always bite you in the end.) 

Whatever the reason, Bear is persistent. Relentless. 

He makes it Wednesday (you'd left him behind Sunday evening—day of the Sabbath, you learn; how fucking ironic) before his campaign starts. 

It's forty-six missed calls, half a dozen texts (because he doesn't like texting—he likes talking. Face to face. No fallacies, no bullshit), and thirty voicemails (twenty-seven of which are drunken ramblings you don't even bother to listen to, and the rest—

Pick up. We need to talk. 

Listen, I—

I fucked up. I fucked everything up—

Delete. Delete. Delete. 

What are you supposed to do with any of that, anyway?) 

The crux of the issue that Bear seems to miss swims in ethanol and leaves behind a five-minute voicemail filled with slurred I miss you's amid a background chorus of a rowdy bar. Then, a woman's voice—a woman who isn’t you—urging him back for more shots. 

You can imagine how the rest of that night unfolded. 

(You wonder if the word meant for you—I miss you—was still on his tongue when he followed her back.)

It's your fault (again; always) in the end because while you don't answer him—neither text, nor call; all voicemails deleted—you can't bring yourself to block him, either. 

You let it sit somewhere in the murky middle. Untouched but looked at. Longed for. 

It would be so easy to just give in. To let Bear back into your life—properly this time, maybe—and to take him up on those slurred promises made at two in the morning about coffee shops on the boardwalk, and breakfast at the Gulfstream, and movies and dinner, and talking until three in the morning, fucking in the back seat of his pick-up truck—

But that's the thing about yearning, isn't it?

Everything seems sweeter when you want it bad enough. 

So, you drown yourself in him. Stand as close to the fire as you can without burning alive.

Dousing yourself in the scent of ethanol cleaner. Clinging to broken pinky promises. Thinking about peanut butter and bacon staining your fingers. Prying information from rotting timber, and keeping the saprophyte that falls off the wood in your pocket for safekeeping. Filling space on a drumroll because you talk too much, anyone ever tell you that? 

(ad infinitum.)

Taping the ugliest bible verses to the back of your eyelids just to get closer, to feel closer, only to come to the realisation that you have no stake in religion to care about the deeper meaning behind it all. Metaphors and imagery are hollow when they mean nothing at all. 

There's no comfort, no succour, to be found in the thin pages. 

(You roll them up and smoke them instead. Easier to digest that way, you find.

Bear would probably hate it, and that alone balms the hurt some. Marginally, infinitesimally, because nothing can cauterise this gaping hole in your chest so you might as well fill it up with paper mache instead. Origami cranes with how much you hate him miss him need him want him written on the inside.)

You ache. Moulder. But you let it all rot inside of you until it's a congealed mess of putrefying memories and the moulted remains of the yearning you kept locked in shackles; the one that keeps biting, gnawing at the limbs of its cage to free. 

It's easier to let it all decay together in a controlled space so that you can bisect the necrosed mass in a single go. Sever the limb to save the body. It's a mantra you repeat as you call in sick to work over and over again. 

The flu, you say, and if the sniffle you give is from crying, and the cough from the weed you've been smoking all morning (blue dream, the shaggy-haired kid tells you with a nod; adds: the good shit), well. No one—especially your shitty boss and his shitty work ethic—has to know. You balm the hurt in a way that makes you feel good, smoothing it all over with trashy reality television (though, the Japanese dating show you end up dozing off to is pretty good, admittedly), and junk food. 

Moving on—even some sad, pathetic facsimile of it—helps. Routines forged in wilful avoidance take the edge off of the livewires inside of your body, nerves overstimulated and burning up with a fever much too hot, too vicious, for you to palliate with home remedies. 

And so, you throw yourself into it. Become a human battering ram against the ghosts in your head. 

Things quickly become more of a coping mechanism than a potential, but that's fine. It's all fine. It'll work in the long run until the bruises that line your flesh fade along with the want and the hope, and the terrible memories, too. 

(Terrible, in the way only a desperate, all-consuming one-sided love can be.)

All of it up in flames, in smoke. 

You burn through an ounce in retaliation while watching his name flicker across your screen, and then spend an hour googling whether or not weed is really addictive (it isn't, but the routine, the habit, can be), before deciding that this whole affair is stupid, anyway. 

It's a carousel of self-pity, spite, and masochism that feels like it might never end. Your efforts to palliate the sickness amount to a week of paid sick time spent watching a slew of old romantic dramas on repeat, and ignoring the string of texts that pour through (talk to me, let me fix this, let me—). All voicemails are immediately deleted before you can even hear the hitch in his voice. 

It's duct tape over a gaping wound. Drifting aimlessly along Lethe, careless and indifferent, but all the while, desperately reaching down and cupping water into your palm for a sip that never seems to quench the thirst in the back of your throat.

You think you could drink until you're just standing in a dry riverbed and still feel parched. Effloresced by your own hand. 

(as usual. as always—)

But this wound is still raw, still tender, even beneath the tape. 

Ignore it. Ignore it—

(—before the edges begin to tear. Cloved down the middle.)

Another buffer is born when you get a text message from your boss—u comin in tmrrw?—and realise you can't avoid it, work, forever. 

The prospect of going back on Friday evening—tomorrow, you suppose (the days have been slipping like molasses through your spread fingers)—makes you nervous. 

You're not ready to see Bear. 

But more than that (deeper than it, too), you’re not ready to see Bear unaffected by all of this. Sitting in his usual spot, in their chair he barely fits in, ordering the same drink over and over and over again. 

Moving on, too—in his own way. Meeting someone else.

(His horoscope holds no punches when it tells you a past relationship may re-enter your life, which may open your eyes to a world of new experiences—)

It isn't as if he usually pairs celibacy with his whisky, and with the plethora of ignored messages (read receipt turned off), unanswered phone calls, and deleted voicemails, you know it's inevitable for him to give up. To get the hint—whatever that might be. Move on, maybe? 

(get your shit together and chase this properly, Bear, jesus christ—)

You consider calling in again, but without any paid sick days left at your disposal, you know you can't afford to. So, you swallow it. 

(And if it takes a little longer than usual to get ready for work, then so be it.) 

Even with all of the false bravado you can scrape together come Friday, your nerves are frayed. Raw. The anxiety rolls off of you in waves, noticeable enough that even the regulars loitering outside (the ones who usually try and bum smokes off of any passersby, yourself included) offer you a cigarette. 

(Politely turned down, but fuck—fuck—you wish you took it.)

The first hour into your shift is spent trying to pretend you're not aware of the way your roaming eyes skirt to the door in thirty-second intervals. Traitors. Or the involuntary flinch each time the door opens. 

It would be easier to get lost in the familiarity of this desolate dive bar on the fringes of town, and so, you do. 

(Try to, anyway.)

Immersing yourself in the routine of it all—the motions of pouring drinks, sizing the newcomers up (profiling their personage down to a drink and a random idiosyncrasy); the astringent scent of alcohol, the mild barley and hops; the noise of hushed conversations lulling between the static rumble of the television (sports, per usual). 

The clock ticks down the seconds, the minutes, hours. You pour drinks. Clock the local gossip. Listen to the patter of condensation dripping into the tin bucket beneath the hole in the roof. In between the threadbare stirrings of routine, you find yourself waiting with dread gnawing at your insides until they're shredded and raw, pulsing ligaments burning with the fever of infection. 

But it's moot. All of it. 

He doesn't come back to the bar. 

Where you expect to see his broad shoulders slouched over the counter, head hanging low over his steady accumulation of shot glasses (a drinking challenge with only one participant; his demons the spectators), the seat he usually occupies remains empty. 

And maybe you're idealistic and stupid and wet behind the ears, but a part of you expected him to. To wander up to the counter with roses and chocolate and sobriety etched into the Neptune blue glow of his eyes, and to pick you, to choose you, but—

A fairytale. 

The box on the counter—complaints—$5—is picked up by some wayward frat boy, and the mocking laughter that follows makes you think of cobalt blue, and peanut butter and bacon burgers in the empty parking lot near the beach, watching the endless midnight black ocean rock against the sandy shore. Talking. Talking. Talking. 

Everything. Nothing. All the things in between. 

You told him about college—failed the first semester, and then my dad… well. Anyway, had to drop out for a bit. But. I went back. Stupid, I know, and it doesn't matter but—

His hand falls on your arm, fingers a little greasy from the sweet potato fries, the ones he kept sneaking from your pile when he thinks you aren't looking, and he says:

It matters to you. 

And it did, but only because it was something your dad mentioned a long time ago—I'd be proud if you followed in my footsteps—and despite everything he'd ever done, his attention, his affection, was all you'd ever wanted. 

Yeah, you'd said, and stared out at the vat of blue until your eyes burned. Yeah, I guess so. 

Well, he had peanut butter staining the corner of his mouth when you blinked the sting from your eyes, and turned to him. What do you wanna do?

Nothing. Everything. 

Your dad once picked you up from practice, hands tight around the steering wheel. He filled you in about his day (stupid fuckin' guy from upstate came down and bought all the houses we were fixing to sell), complained about your mother (god, you know, that woman didn't even tell me what school to pick you up from? Said I should know where my daughter goes to school, as if I'm not working all damn day to keep you fed, and—), and gave you the biggest piece of advice you'd ever get:

"Look, no job is better than real estate. All that crap you think you want to do? Not important. All you need is four walls and a roof, and that's it. The rest is secondary."

(If that was true, why weren't you enough for him? Why weren't your four walls and roof enough to keep him?)

A shrug. I don't know. I've never been good at anything. You think of bruised knees. Scraped skin. Chasing a car, a dream, that never once slowed down. Can't even run right, it seems. 

I can teach you. He clears his throat when you look at him, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand twice but somehow misses the dollop of peanut butter tangled in his beard. M’used to training men, I'm sure I can whip you into shape. Teach you how to run. Put you through the wringer until you come out sprinting on the other side. 

"Teach me how to swim instead." 

The bark of laughter he let out was cut off when you held your pinky up. 

His brows bounced, incredulous. "Really?"

"A Taurus always keeps their promise." 

"Christ's sake," he shakes his head, and you count the lines on his forehead when he turns, and rubs his fingers against his temple so hard, you wonder if he's trying to chisel through his skull to get at where it hurts the most. "I might not even be a Taurus."

"When were you born?" 

His tongue pokes out from between his teeth, chin dropping to his chest when he huffs. You watch the way his shoulders shake, the flesh softening around his neck when he dips it low, and wonder if this is what it was like to yearn. 

His eyes spark, Neptune blue, when he looks up. He says nothing, but holds his pinky up to yours, the digit swallowing yours whole. 

It's a promise. He squeezes your hand in three pulses. One. Two. Three. You think you might get lost in the canyons that keep dividing inside of his eyes. 

"Bet you were born in April." 

"Not even close." He grins, all teeth, and drops your hand. Motions to the fries spilling over your console with his chin. "Finish up."

"Oh, did you even leave any for me? Thought you ate them all."

"Watch it."

Your stomach churns at thoughts, the memories. Plagued by him, it seems. So tantalisingly out of reach, and yet—your phone vibrates in your pocket; another voicemail left for you to listen to in your car and pretend that this whole thing is fine—so close. 

He's everywhere, it seems. The scent of this place makes you think of him, and the stench of sickness—

Every square inch brings back some reminder of him. 

When he got too trashed the first few visits and stumbled into the washroom. His bulk falls into the cheap door frame, and sends the ugly photo of what might have been the boardwalk crashing the floor. His call of: take it outta my tab when it shattered into pieces. 

(You didn't. You hated that picture, anyway.)

When he knocked over his shot of tequila when you told him you thought he'd look really handsome in a beanie—a touch too bold, high off of the ethanol that leaked from his pores—and the rubescent smear over the bridge of his nose that followed. The ruddy stain on the counter—nail polish, you think, from that time a group of bridesmaids stumbled in after a wedding on the beach, and used the washroom to freshen up—matches the shade of his blush. 

You spend an hour before closing scrubbing the counter down until your fingers are cracked and dry and burning from the chemicals you douse on the cheap, aged wood. It doesn't come out. Nothing you do will ever make the table unsticky. It's too far gone. 

Like him. Like—

"Whisky," a man barks, slapping a dollar bill down on the stain. "Two shots." 

Four walls and a roof, right? Right. Right. Right. 

The walls here bleed condensation from the humidity outside, and the roof leaks when it rains. Always. It's patched up with duct tape and pipe dreams. 

(Like you—)

The box on the counter catches his attention, rheumy eyes skimming the words. He scoffs. "Funny. Make me a drink worth a tip, and maybe I'll—"

"You know what?" You snap, throwing the wet cloth down with a splat that sends droplets pelting across his abdomen. There's a vindictiveness in seeing the splatter on his smooth, unwrinkled shirt. 

Your eyes sting from the bleach, the lemon cleaner. Pebbled tears in your lash line threaten to spill over, but you swallow it all down. You won't cry. Not now. Not anymore. 

Your hands twitch, an aborted motion to scour the wetness from your lashes, but you stop it in time. Curl your fingers into fists instead. 

(And stupidly, nonsensically, you have the sudden, passing regret over washing your hands of the blood he'd spilled on your skin.)

"I don't work here."

"Since when?"

"Now. Get your own whisky, and take your shitty tip, and shove it up your ass—"

Quitting your only source of income certainly isn't the wisest decision you've ever made—but you've never been wont to make good ones, anyway, and so, you think it's all perfectly fine, considering. 

Considering. 

If anything, it's better than waiting around for the inevitable collapse of this shaky, patchwork foundation of paper-mache you cobbled together (reinforced with pipe dreams) to come crumbling down around you when Bear wandered in.

(If he ever would—

Fuck. You hope he does. Hope he doesn't. 

Get better. Come back—)

You sit in your car at the end of your shift—the very last one after several odd years of growing roots down into the worn floorboards, and keeping more secrets about the occupants in this town than you care to admit—and just—

Breathe. 

Sort of. 

It's twisted in a way that makes you entirely too aware of what everyone would think if they knew about it. So, you cup this little secret between the palms of your hands, and cradle it to your chest, only exposing it to the outside world when things become too much. It's easier to say you count to ten—in, out, in, out—than to admit that your methods of self-soothing, of quelling the visceral sense of anxiety from pinballing around inside your guts like a marble, is to lean back, close your eyes, and pretend that you're back in the deep end of the swimming at the local chapter of a YMCA. 

Drowning, of course. 

Or some fictive version of it. 

It comes to life in smeared yellow against hazy blue. A cacophony of muted sounds in the background—exultant shrieks of children, splashes in the distance, the low chatter of garbled conversation—is all you can hear in your underwater sanctuary, but only just. Noise is distorted and strange. A warbled mimicry of noise. 

Your world is pressed into a cerulean marble, untouchable and inescapable. You linger in the centre, floating aimlessly in stagnation. 

Down here, nothing matters. Everything is dissolved in the heavy chlorine that saturates the cold waters, and whatever resilient pieces remain sink low to the pool floor, scattered around the yellow goggles just within arm's reach. 

You sink with them. Your thoughts become liquid; mercury slinking around your head. Intangible. Nonsensical. And above all else—silent. 

Or they're supposed to be. 

But even down here where nothing can touch you, where no one noticed you haven't surfaced in ages, your thoughts are carried by the lulling currents. Saved from your murky grey matter, from the sap that traps them in the mouth of a pitcher plant, they buoy to the surface, unmoored now. Free to scream at you in whispers. 

You think of Bear.

Or rather, you think about not thinking about Bear. 

About other things. And nothing—forced white noise. Static. What you're going to do now that you don't have a job. The scabs on his bloodied knuckles. No. Work, maybe. Finishing up that degree you promised yourself you'd get, if only to fill some absent void in your chest—or a futile obligation to a man who forgot your birthdays. Who spelled your name wrong on holiday cards—on the rare occasions he ever bothered to send them. 

Other things. Other things—your faucet is leaking. You'll need to call the property manager to fix it. You need to get gas, too. Groceries. 

Faintly, you catch the musk of his cologne still clinging to your passenger seat when you breathe in. Hold it, count to ten. It makes you remember the warmth of his humid breath on your cheek when he leaned in close, tapping your console as he pointed out your CHECK ENGINE light was on. Had been, you confessed sheepishly, for a few weeks up to that point. 

Stupid pothole, you grumbled around the electricity running down your spine when his arm brushed yours as he leaned back with a derisive snort. 

You caught the headiness of white oak, musk, when he turned his face to you, decidedly unamused by your answer, and flatly told you that you were driving around in a death trap. 

Things not even on its last leg—it's in the damn grave. 

Whatever, you shrugged. I'll just hit another pothole on the way home and it'll turn off. 

Jesus Christ—

He didn't smell terrible. Faded cologne from a few days ago. Something woodsy. Cedar, maybe. Leather, smoke, pine. Sweat from the unrelenting humidity. Loam clinging to his skin. Spiced rum around his collar when he spilled his drink down his chin (you, eagerly, hungrily watching the amber droplet roll down the length of his neck—). He always seems to smell like he had been working in a thick, taiga forest in the dead of winter. Cindersap. Evergreen. Sweat-soaked leather. Chopped wood. 

It congeals in your senses. Glueing to soft tissue, embedding itself in your skin. Permanent, unshakeable. 

Unwashed sheets shouldn't be appealing. Motel shampoo. Cheap soap. The muted smell of old, stale cigarettes. 

And yet, in this marbleised world, you think of it. 

Of his skin, and the way it feels against yours. The slight sheen of grease along his nose when it nudges the soft slope of your neck. The rough drag of his beard over your pulse. Wry curls that end up on your tongue after he'd kiss you. 

Any plans on shaving?

He dragged his cheek over your collarbones, eyes lidded, heavy. None at all. That a deal breaker?

You hold your breath until your lungs start to quiver, to ache; until you're dangling precariously on the verge of hypoxia with ink blots splashing across your vision in a garish Rorschach (they're all butterflies. with knives. what does that say about me, doc?). Phosphenes scatter in a nebula of colour. Your throat constricts around nothing, empty. Empty. The urge to swallow follows on the coattails of a pitifully fleeting euphoria. Temporal and untouchable, but you still reach out, grabbing and grasping with straining fingers because you'll hate yourself forever if you don't try. Scrambling, desperately, to catch cosmic dust on the tips of your fingers. To imbue your disjointed cracks with the chemical makeup of a Magellanic cloud until your broken parts burn incandescent. Kintsugi in cuts, scraps, of Andromeda. 

But for as much as you want to shatter your lungs into infinitesimal pieces, and scatter them across the universe, your body has a failsafe against stupidity. 

It forces you to gasp, gulping down thin, crisp air until you feel the burn in your chest from overexertion. 

You open your eyes, and wish the world around you was still draped in teal and hazy yellow. That you could taste chlorine in the back of your throat. It's a brutal awakening to find a gossamer of silken midnight draped over the parking lot in the back of the dive bar. Empty, barren, save for yourself and the chef. A man you guess you'll never see again. 

Soft, crushed ochre smears a hazy ring in the east. The dawning sun of a new day. 

Leaning against the old leather of your car, your eyes cut to the console briefly. The CHECK ENGINE light is off. You made Bear groan, out loud, when you hit a pothole on the freeway and it flicked off, like you knew it was. Problem solved. More duct tape over what is probably something wrong with your engine (probably dented the filter in your catalytic converter, Bear grumbled, and you nodded along, pretending like you knew what that meant). 

A light catches your eye. Your phone buzzes on the dashboard, screen illuminated in the reflective surface of your window. 

You could pretend you were getting a call from RAEB if you tried hard enough. Answered it, maybe, and feigned ignorance while you chatted away to him like nothing happened. Like you sometimes don't try to drown yourself on land. 

You reach for it, fingers tingling at the last vibrations before the screen cuts out, and bring it close. 

It takes a second, but the voicemail icon pops up in the notification bar beside a text from your friend sent hours earlier begging you to come out next weekend (haven't seen you in forever okay?? come out w us!!). 

You don't know why he keeps trying. Why he's so persistent over something that is, quite decidedly, nothing. 

The icon taunts you. You hate seeing it—always have. It can't be swiped away. Can't be hidden. It irks you somewhat, seeing this little symbol. 

Make it go away—

You shouldn't. Not when your insides are this raw, this fractured. Broken. But you turn your phone over in your hands for a moment, mood mulish and itching for something. A fight, maybe. Something to be angry about, justifiably. To vent your frustrations. 

You tap it before you really think things through, watching as it dials VOICEMAIL and the automated message pops up after a ring. 

Please enter your password—

You have one new message. To play your messages, press one—

It starts shaky—like he's moving. You can hear the shuffle of his body, the rasp of his shirt. A door slams. He huffs. 

Look, uh. I'm not… I'm not good at this kind of thing. I was hoping—hoping we could talk… but. I guess I, uh. Anyway—

It goes quiet. You reach up to hit SEVEN on the keypad, delete the message like all the others, but a noise stops you. The screen hums under your finger. 

I've been thinking lately. About a lot of things. The team, myself. You. I made—some bad calls. Got some good men…uh, into some trouble. The kind of trouble you… don't walk away from. 

It made me think about Rip. I told you about him, right? In the—the motel. Rip is—Rip was… important to me. To us. Saved my life. In Iraq. Mosul. Bullet nearly hit me but somehow, he pulled me back just in time, took the bullet instead. Right in his stomach. And you know, he, uh—he huffs. It sounds like a laugh, but one he's choking on. He got right back up and took the bastard out. Just—wasted him. I owe him my life. Always have. It's muffled, as if he has his hand pressed to his mouth, keeping the words in. Should have saved him, but I couldn't. Couldn't do a damn thing to help him. I let him get that bad and I knew. I fucking—I knew. I saw it. Watched him spiral. And now—shit. Now I'm—uh, talking to your voicemail at four in the morning—

You think you catch what am I doing before the line cuts out. 

Fog settles in the midmorning dawn. You lean against the headrest, clutching your phone, and try not to think at all. 

(wash, rinse, repeat)

The hole in your chest, filled in with clay and papier-mache, crumbles under the seaspray.

What am I doing. It stays with you. 

These flimsy excuses become a house of cards. 

It doesn't surprise you much at all when they wobble, falling on top of you.

It's his name flashing across your screen—just Bear—as you lay in bed days later, pretending not to think about him that starts it all.

(again, again, again)

This is all a cruel sort of timing, you think, and feel the harsh thud of your heart so strongly against your rib cage that you wonder if the silly thing might break through them yet. 

You shouldn't answer. Know, without any hint of uncertainty, that Bear has the potential to pull you back in—fish to a pretty, glimmering lure—and that the moment you acquiesce to one thing, others will immediately follow in rapid succession, much too quick for you to keep up with. 

There will be no stopping the deluge once it breaks. 

And yet—

What did you expect?

The words thrown back into your face echo in the small of your flat as the walls around you wobble, teetering on the edge of collapse. 

Like most things when it comes to him. 

After the second buzz, one that sends a thrill through your spine that you refuse to give attention to, you hesitantly press your finger against the green answer key and slowly bring the phone up to your face, inches away from your nose, before stopping. Abruptly. 

You can handle Bear at a distance, you think, and so, deciding better than to have him murmur directly into your ear, you quickly tap the speaker button, and stammer out a muzzy greeting. 

“...Bear?” 

There's a sharp inhale that threads through the speaker, and you know, all at once, that he hadn't expected you to pick up. Was, instead, ready to meet and reluctantly embrace the cool, blithe distance of your voicemail. 

“You answered,” he hedges, and you wonder if the wariness in his tone means anything deeper. “I didn't think you would.”

Despite his honesty, there are shades of derision tainting the gruff timbre. 

“I wasn't going to,” you volley back, matching the fickleness of his misplaced scorn with your own. 

“Then why did you?” 

“You know why,” you admit quietly. 

No one is around to see your boundaries crumble. To watch as the cards you kept so close to your chest dip once, quick enough for him to glimpse them, to see what is tucked in the palm of your hand. 

In that loneliness, you find a sense of freedom that you had been missing. One tinged in the bitter coat of nostalgia. 

It feels too much like those nights spent arguing about the meaning behind the perfect pour (and why yours would always be trash), and showing him abysmal creations on Instagram in a thinly veiled attempt to make him see that you weren't, objectively, the worst at it. 

Back when you held the patchwork remains of your bruised, duct tape heart out over the countertop that never seemed to ever be clean as an offering to a man who bluntly looked down into the nozzle of his bottle instead. 

He huffs a little, then. Put-off, maybe, by the distance you pitch when giving in is always just within reach. “I don't see the problem.” 

“Well, yeah…” you mutter, shuffling in bed to get comfortable. You drag your knee to your chest, as the other stretches out in the sheets, and lazily wrap your arm around your shin, fingers digging into your flesh. Bruising, biting. It centres you, this fleeting pain. “You wouldn't, but I'll have you know—”

It's comfortable. The thought is a battering ram, one that hits hard, vicious, and dredges up the realisation of just how much you missed this. And just how easy this all is with him, even know when your heart is in tatters and you can hear the slur in his words (though, that might be his usual mumble—the man is hard to understand on a sober day, what with his penchant to grit words out between his teeth, as if he needs to tear them to shreds, to chew on them, before forcing them out), the normalcy in all of this, or as normal as this abnormal situation can get, is a bludgeon to your resolve. 

“...what, huh? What'll you have me know?”

You'll get suckered back in again, but this time, all the way to the event horizon. Inescapable. 

“You know, Bear.”

It's flimsy when he huffs, and sounds too much like relief when he growls: “Then why fight it?”

“I don't want to talk about this right now.”

The line goes still, but you catch the hitch in his throat all the same. “We should. I can fix this. We can fix this. You can't just decide—”

You can, you think, and drop your forehead to your knee, letting the phone slide down the valley of thigh and stomach where it comes to rest on the clothed crease of your hip bone. A prison. Your body is the cage. 

Not being able to see him gives you some sense of power back, and you reach for it. Needing to wield something decisive and distant before the rough timbre of his voice, his desperation, scoured your resolve into thin powder. 

“ Just give up, Bear. It's over. There's nothing to fix because there was nothing there to begin with.”

“Nothing there, huh? Is that what you think?”

Overtaking the bitter resignation is anger. A bone-deep fury that simmers to the surface, dredged up from the bottom of the bottle you thought you lost him to. You can hear it in the sharp breath he takes, the little growl he lets out. 

“Fuck that,” his viciousness stabs into your defences like a battering ram. Unrelenting, dizzying. You make to step back, but he fights you on it. Keeping you close. Blazing anger so hot, it nearly burns you. “You waltz into my life, chasin’ after me and then, what? You just decide it's too much for you? I warned you. I fucking warned you, didn't I ?”

“I—I know. I just—”

What, you wonder. What? Because was it ever as simple as wanting a hurting man to be a little less lonely in an empty pub? 

It's moments like this that make you contend with your self-sabotage, the unmaking of yourself (morality, compassion, kindness) by your own hands. Your complicity in all of this is staggering, and suddenly the idea of a clean break feels vile. 

How could you drop a man you spent months pursuing, expecting him to change overnight? 

Your faults, and flaws, soften the part of you that wants to run, fleeting into the dark to avoid the consequences of your actions. 

It takes two to tango, and the idiom bludgeons through the headache like a battering ram. 

“I guess I just wanted to help, at first. To be your friend. You seemed so—” lonely. Sad. One bad day away from slipping too deep into the bottle that he couldn't climb out again. 

His laugh is ugly, biting. “What? Pathetic? A sorry fucking drunk—”

“Alone.” 

It quiets him, this soft confession. 

“Can't save everyone,” is what he says after an agonising beat, and you think of the priest he tore into viciously for uttering the same sentiment. Bruising with his words, his tone, instead of his fists. Creating walls from the craters it left behind. 

“Doesn't mean you can't try.” 

“Wasted your time, don't you think?”

“No.” The word is immediate. Forceful. “With you? For you? No. But Bear. The thing you don't get, what you don't understand, is that you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. And maybe it's selfish, and honestly, I know it is, but you always risk your own life whenever you try to save someone from drowning, and I know I'm not enough to help you.” 

He's quiet. “Reading up on being a lifeguard?”

“In my spare time.” 

A huff. It's barely a ghost of laughter. “Yeah. Yeah. Well. Hope it all works out for you.” 

You can imagine the grim twist of mouth as he says it. The downward pitch to his chin, dipping in his misery. 

“I hope the same for you.” You whisper, and it feels like finality. 

Moments ago, the thought might have brought a sense of bitter relief to you, but now it just feels sickeningly like loss all over again. 

“Shit,” Bear grouses suddenly, and then draws a sharp breath once more. “I miss you,” he rasps on the exhale. 

You don't know why he would, but you understand, maybe, because you do, too. 

(So much, so much, so much—)

“I miss you, too, Bear.”

The tentative words seem to shake him, and all at once, he's commandeering again. Authoritative, in that way only he can be. 

“I'm getting better,” he rumbles. “I gotta. For the—for the team—”

It's the wrong thing to say, though, and he seems to realise it midway through. A quick course correction comes with a rushed, and for me, too, that reminds you too much of all the times you heard this same thing from behind the counter as you topped up their third, fourth, fifth glass. 

You know better than to believe in this hollow gospel, this midnight epiphany, and for the most part, you don't. It's all empty words. False promises from a prophet, spoken as a defence mechanism against the ugly reality of what happens when people catch on to their bad habits. 

But it's Bear.

Out of everyone who murmured the same phrase in that exact tone, you believe in him just a little bit more than the rest. 

(Stupid, stupid, stupid—)

It's his intense tenacity. That gritty determination seems ingrained within his very being. Inseparable. 

You wonder when you started divining truths from its scripture. 

“I don't want to lose you,” he's saying, and it's odd because he never really had you to begin with. 

“Bear—” It's late, and your thoughts are just running themselves aground. Turning into a tangled, indecipherable mess. “I need to get some sleep. Can we—can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Will you answer?”

It's deserved, of course, but you know that particular knife twist hurts him just as much as it does yourself, and whatever little vindication he finds from it is swallowed, quickly, by regret. 

“I just…want to talk to you.”

You imagine that somewhere between the lines, the things unsaid, sits the glaring truth of his sudden devotion, his obsession: 

there's no one else. 

(never anyone's first choice—)

“Sure. Okay, yeah, we can. We can talk. You're—” you need distance. You need space. A minute, maybe, to sort through the ugly thoughts making webs in the back of your head. “You're my friend, Joe. We're… we can be friends, again.”

“Friends?” 

It's not what he wants. That much is clear by the threadiness in his tone, but at two in the morning and with your thoughts liquifying into syrup, it's all you can offer him, all you're willing to give. 

Friends. It makes you remember the limbo you sat in before, the murk and heartache of watching him ply himself with overpriced liquor and then stumble out the door, sometimes with company but most often, all alone and with just ten minutes to spare before closing. The yearning. The pining. The want that made you feel sick to your stomach with guilt for some unseen, unknown woman back home. 

(“Dead. She's dead—”)

It sickens you even more to think about that. The ring he kept, the sadness that draped over his shoulders in a swath of agony. The one he didn't take off, not even for you. The warning signs were there. 

You just ignored them all.

Friends, you murmur again, and wonder where, in all this, you went wrong. The beginning, maybe, when you looked at him and couldn't bring yourself to look away. Friends. We can be friends, Bear. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Best friends,” you echo back, hollow and thin. “With matching bracelets and everything—”

“Thought it was a tattoo?” 

“That, too.” 

“Okay,” he acquiesces quietly, but you can hear the threads of obstinacy in his voice when he says it. The combativeness, the steadfast refusal to fully submit, rears in the things he doesn't say, pitching bivouacs in his tone. This isn't over, it says. You're not over. “Friends.”

It's scornful, and you hate the way it blisters under your skin. Burning hot, the same feverish delirium that turned you incandescent with just his touch. 

Everything about Bear tells you to relent. Submit. 

It would be so easy to just give in. 

And the thing is:

You want to. Desperately, achingly. 

His certainty, his acuity in all of this, has a way of dismantling your sense of reason. Or, at the very least, your rationale for why you're keeping him at a distance. It's not just being diametrically opposed, though; this is the unerring knowledge that your complicity needs to be curbed. That you are, in small parts, responsible for this barren husk of a man. For aiding and abetting in his spiral, sure, but mostly for expecting him to greet you with sobriety when he woke up, as if spending an entire weekend between your thighs was enough to negate all the demons clawing at the walls of his skull. Scarring bone. Chiselling into marrow. 

Simply put: you're not enough. You knew this, and yet—

Pursued, persisted. Laughably, even echoed the same words you repeat now to a man on the verge of going nuclear under the pressure of his rage, his grief. 

It's impossible to make a levee out of skin and bones, and no matter how much Bear might want to try—maybe has tried with his late wife, with a bottle, with vice, with bloodied, bruised knuckles and a chip on his shoulder deeper than a canyon—it's just not feasible. 

Too bad, you think, that this bone-weary epiphany didn't come sooner. That you didn't kick him out when you realised those beautiful valleys in his eyes were really just trenches. 

Hindsight, of course.

(How were you supposed to know that the rough growl in his timber wasn't a security blanket against the world but just the aftereffects of inhaling too much artillery fire?)

You should have, though. Your mum was a how-to manual on the things to avoid. She could channel wisdom directly from a man's marrow, and you—made in her spitting (vitriolic) image—seem to have learned nothing at all about divination. 

And you—forgotten ilk—can barely tell the difference between a portend and good fortune when you sift through clumps of barley tea at the bottom of your cup. 

For all of her stolen wisdom, you make a promise to yourself that you won't tear yourself into pieces just to make a safety net for him out of your flesh. Or set yourself on fire to keep him warm. 

(Not anymore, anyway—)

But then, cruelly, viciously, you wonder if you ever really helped him at all, or if this is just a manifestation to assuage your own guilt. Doubtless, you find. What have you done for him that wasn't, in some part, mutually beneficial? All this time, you've been gambling equivalence with a broken man, and then ran the moment those jagged pieces cut you. 

And maybe a little bit of this hesitancy is rooted in fear as well. A fickle thing you try to ignore in favour of something that makes you seem more altruistic than you really are, but still lurks in the shadows, in the words you, too, won't say. 

Things like: 

He's never met you sober. Not completely. And certainly not in a way that counts. 

Each interaction is marred with some form of a buffer between you both. Distance shaped in sips of his (fourth, fifth) beer; a shot of whisky. 

What if he doesn't like what he finds sober? 

You heard enough jokes at the bar about falling in love drunk and then waking up sober. If this is that, you don't know how you'd regain any sense of ground back. 

The precipice you clawed your way up to is endlessly steep, treacherous, and yet: you still let yourself fall. Still took the risk in opening your hand just to show him your still-beating heart. 

Return to the sender, you think a touch hysterically, deliriously. 

In the suffocating silence, his voice rings out. Quiet, rough, as if his vocal cords were made of charred wood, smouldering embers, and not warm, wet tissue. It's just your name, but the sound of it seems to drag you down to yourself, if only in increments.

“You good?” He asks when you hum noncommittally in response. 

With your forehead braced against the slope of your knee, it feels like bowing your head in a confessional when you whisper, paper soft, “I'm tired, Bear.”

It sounds like he is chewing on glass when he sighs. Throat torn, raw. The ghost of it whispers across your chin; fingerprints tapping over a tender bruise. 

“Haven’t been sleeping much these last few days. Been thinkin’ of us. Of you. And the team. All the people I let down—”

“Bear…” 

“And I—I want to see you soon. When you're ready. I'm not going to rush things this time. Not gonna mess it up again—”

He speaks like this is settled. Over. As if you've already climbed into the palm of his hand, and all he has to do is just close you up tight in his fist. A little flower he can carry around in his pocket. Kept safe. Kept close. 

It's—

A lot. Overwhelming. He sounds sober enough, and you know that he's not wholly dependent on drinking—it’s palliative; a coping mechanism to numb himself from the reality of everything else that happened to him—but there's a real crutch there that can't be erased by determination alone. But thinking about that—the future—makes your chest feel like it's going to cave in on itself; collapse and become another black hole in the Milky Way, swallowing everything down. 

You need to breathe. You need to think—

“You should get some sleep, Bear. And—”

Don't drink. Stop. Get help. Talk to someone. 

But the words are empty. Hollow vessels to placate your sense of responsibility. Your own guilt. 

Coward. You've always been so good at running—

“Take care of yourself.” 

“Yeah,” he rasps. The hushed timbre makes you tremble. “You too. Get some sleep. I'll talk to you in the morning.”

And so, this delicate dance made of putting duct tape over fractured promises and palliating the sickness in patchwork hope begins again, working in pieces. 

There's a distance that lingers between the folds of you both, unspoken hurt and distrust—a lingering symptom of letting yourself get swept away by the idea of a man rather than the flesh and bone cut of one—but despite it all, each misgiving that passes your mind when you see Bear’s name flash across the cracked screen of your phone, it works. 

Somehow, somehow. 

It isn't as deep as missing puzzle pieces, because as much as you and Bear seem to connect on a level beyond sex, and booze, and fleeting highs to numb a phantom ache in the pit of your chest, the idea of soulmates seems to be frangible for your fractured selves; with all of your jagged, sharp edges, something so soft would break into pieces, shatter apart. But it is something. 

And that might just be enough. So, you let it root. Let it grow limbs, and leaves, and curl around you like gentle, strangling wisteria until it reaches up to your chest. 

This delicate, fragile thing makes a home, again, inside the empty landscape of your heart.

(shame on me, you think, but still pick up his call as this tender, soft thing you're nurturing snakes across your jugular where it's the warmest, leeching heat from the fever that thrums under your skin.)

Despite his bold declaration, though, he seems to waver on a full pursuit. Content, almost, to maintain this idea of closeness without shattering the bubble you've reconstructed. 

It's odd, though. 

Bear is a man who seeks logic out but always ends up relying on his hunches. Emotional in the sense that he places all confidence in himself beyond the scope of what he might be able to deliver. If his determination can't bring him across the finish line—well, then it was unwinnable from the start. 

For a man so tenacious, so driven, his hesitation in all of this surprises you. 

But something has to give eventually. 

It always does.

Bear isn't terrible at texting, but he prefers phone calls. Something he admits has less to do with his occupation (no, I won't have to kill you for telling you this, you need to stop believing what you see on tv), and is more just a way of gleaning nuances he can't with written word. 

Though, not always. 

There's a softness when he speaks tonight, a quality you're unfamiliar with, as he confesses on a hushed memory, half musing aloud when the world is dead asleep and the sun is a distant idea in the back of your head, that he used to write letters to his wife whenever they weren't on the phone talking. Or Skyping each other. 

“Deployment with a group of guys doesn't leave much room for privacy,” he says, as if he hasn't just unravelled this hidden part of himself at three fifteen on what was meant to be a rather mundane ending to your Thursday. “They're not really, uh, sensitive to that. We're on top of each other for most of it, anyway. Asking a whole room to clear out just so I can talk isn't happening. So, uh, we—uh, me and Lena, we wrote letters.”

There's a stutter in his voice when he relays this to you, and you're struck numb by it all. Lena, you think, putting a name to a concept. 

“Oh,” you say, and you're not sure what to think about it. So, you don't. You tuck it aside, where all the other things you've learned about Bear go. The ones revealed to you in shambles. “That sounds— romantic. ”

It makes him scoff, and it's this terrible, broken thing. “Romantic, huh? Is that what you think?” 

You hum, taking it in. The grand reveal of his ex-wife (she… we, he corrects and clears his throat like it burns: we decided to separate. See, uh… see other people), and his marital problems, you connect the dots lingering in the foreground. 

You're not completely ignorant of his intentions. 

It's the first move on a fresh chessboard: a show of his commitment to this—whatever it might be—and how serious he's taking it all. Where you'd been the only one to dare pry open the rusted nails keeping your secrets at bay before, he's taking the initiative to do so now, to meet you somewhere in the middle where the olive branch still grows. Placing his bets before the race. Offering himself, and his secrets, up as collateral in this strange game you found yourself in. 

But does he know that you can still hear the slight slur in his voice when he speaks, or notice the way he seems to skirt around the conversation of his drinking habits on the days when it must be hitting him harder? Surely, he must. 

And yet, he still calls. Still decides to gamble with your devotion in maintaining a strange facsimile of friendship with whisky on his breath, slurring his words, and gives out the pretence of playing for keeps under the table. 

Maybe he knows you'll still give him the chance to keep playing no matter how many times his luck runs dry. It makes sense, considering. 

You'd always had a weakness for men like him. 

(Stupid—)

Outside of the tipsy phone calls, you've yet to hear him completely gone. A testament to his dedication, maybe, but you know the first week is always the easiest. When the high of the epiphany roars through their bloodstream, and the weight of the world doesn't feel as crushing as it once had, it's easy to make deals you don't have the means of keeping up with. But the debt is insurmountable to those who aren't fully invested, and the collectors are vicious. 

Still. Still. 

This is as close to sobriety as he's ever been, and you soak up his unbridled attention like you're starving for it. 

And in all honesty, you are. 

Bear is a strange, complex web of a man. Full of grit, anger. Misery curls in the corners of his eyes, hidden there amongst the powder keg of obsessive devotion just waiting to go off. You scented kerosene on his skin—napalm drenching his pores—when he'd lifted two fingers up and nearly snarled his order from across stained cedar wood. 

Having the brunt of his fire listing your way is a character study in restraint, in penance. It taps against the delicate binds holding everything back, and loosens the ties with every piece of him you're given. 

It's hard, you think, to stay so far away from someone when you're wobbling on the brink of devotion. Love, in shades of obsession. The taste of which settles in the back of your throat like a sickness, aching each time you swallow. 

You're not sure what it is about Bear, about this particular brand of miserable, angry man, but his very existence feels like it was constructed, handspun, to make you hunger for a taste. 

And then, you know. It's just that, isn't it? Miserable, angry man. 

(saviour complex, maybe. maybe, maybe, maybe—)

It feels deeper than that, though. It might have been the cause for this unravelling, this unmaking between you both, but the rest—the helplessness and the anger and the worry; answering his call even when you swore you wouldn't, leaving him in the motel room like a bad dream smeared across your pillow only to pick him up again, another bad habit in a sea of others—is than just a simple desire to fix problems that are not your own. 

(especially when they aren't your own.)

“Never really been the romance type,” he rumbles, shattering this strange, introspective reverie you've fallen into. 

“You seem to be doing okay for yourself, though,” you volley back, a touch too cautious compared to how it all was before. When you'd read him his horoscope, and pester him about trying your audacious food combinations he'd complain about, but eat, anyway. 

“Is that what you think?”

“It's what I know.”

You expect him to pick up your jab, turning it on you instead. Something caustic, something severe. Something equally mean and mordant in the way only Bear could be. But he doesn't. He lets it fall to the wayside instead, humming under his breath in something that might be acquiescence, or maybe avoidance of the topic entirely, and shifts back into neutral territory. 

How was your day? He asks, as if that wasn't one of the first things he'd said to you when you answered the call.

“Fine,” you hedge, breezing the word out between your teeth. “It was okay. Bear—”

“I, uh, have a meeting tomorrow,” he steamrolls through your concern like it's made of paper instead of the broken remnants of your heartache. “Another eval., to see if I'm fit to return to training. Make my way back to being an Officer.” 

More secrets are revealed to you in the slow dawn of his unfurling fist. Held out like a beacon, a piece of candy. Good job, it says when you reach for it like the good, obedient dog you are. 

Pavlov's finest. 

“That sounds…” You're not really sure what it means, in all honesty. Words coming together to form a sentence. The meaning is absent from between the lines. You could infer, but you've never been good at guessing. So, you stagnate. “Good. Um, really good, Bear.”

He huffs, and you take it as a laugh—or as close to one you'll get from him. “Gotta pass the eval first.”

“Should be easy for you.” 

“Should be,” he mumbles, and you catch the faint end of a muffled groan. “But I've been slacking. Put on extra weight. Need to burn it all off before I can really get into the old routine. Gonna fall behind worse than a newbie.”

Newbie being growled out in his flat intonation makes you snort. 

“You find something funny? ”

“Ha, no—” his words turn over in your head—put on extra weight—and, damningly, you remember what all that extra weight felt like, stretched out beneath you; arched over your body, heavy and suffocating, and—

Fuck. 

Bear catches the hitch in your breath, and makes a questioning noise in response. You can't let him ask. Can't let him know that you keep painting a picture of his hairy belly brushing against yours in the forefront of your mind. His biceps. Burly is what you'd thought of him before. Thick. Husky. A heavy man, in more ways than one. 

The softness around his waist belied the hard muscles below. You could feel it pressing firm against your palm when he rolled under you, bracing your hands over his chest as he let you ride him. 

That's it, sweetheart. Just like that—

“No,” you swallow around the desire welling up inside of your throat. “Nothing.”

He hums, and it's tainted in disbelief. Like he knows, somehow, what you were thinking of. What you keep thinking of—especially after these phone calls, his voicemails, when you're lying in bed with your fingers whispering between your thighs—and you almost expect him to call you out on it. To demand an answer. 

Instead, he offers a tender truth that nudges against the soft pulse in your throat. 

“...Not drinking as much helps.” 

You almost want to call him out on the as much he tacts on to the end of his confession, to question the logistics behind those two words. To quantify it in a number, in tangible data. Something concrete you can plinth your hope on. But the answer scares you. 

Too much and you'll fall all over again. Too little and you'll have no choice but to run. 

So, you retreat in the face of his truth. A coward. 

“That's—It's good. That's good, Bear—” and it is. Of course, it is. Great, even. He isn't even yours and this silly notion of pride staples itself to the front of your chest for the world to see. “I'm, um. I'm proud of you.”

It sounds hollow, pyrrhic, coming from you—repentant enabler—but the airiness in his voice strikes something deep inside. Pulses against a dormant place that comes alive, fecund with the bittersweet stirrings of hope germinating in the fibres. 

Skingraft over the wound. 

“Proud, huh?” 

And the sound of his voice cuts that thread as soon as it forms. 

His voice is pitched low, throaty. He draws the syllables out as he says, at length, “I, uh, keep thinking about you.” 

You should warn him away. Tap the impish fingers sneaking to the cookie jar—a thorough chastisement to keep wandering hands in check. Bad dog, is the passing thought, and you try to swallow down the hysterical giggle that bubbles in the back of your throat. 

You should.

But you don't. 

It comes out breathier than you intended when you say his name, and it sounds much too malleable in the face of this tactile man. 

“Been thinkin’ about you a lot.” 

“Yeah,” you whisper. Too much. Too much. “Same. Uh, me too.” 

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Going out with some friends. Probably going to get dinner. Watch that new movie that just came out. And, um, have a few drinks after.”

“How're you getting home?” 

“Taxi, most likely.”

He hums low, throaty. The sound seems to reverberate through the phone and tremble deliciously down the length of your spine. “That so?”

“I'm not going to be drinking much.” You weigh the ethics of discussing your intentions to drink, to get completely wasted, and maybe go home with someone who isn't Bear, who doesn't even so much as look like him, before waving the thought away before it can take shape. “It's just—social. Getting caught up. Haven't seen them in a while because of school and stuff.”

And because you've invested so much of your free time spinning in circles around a man who didn't even really seem to look at you (who insisted on calling you kid to force distance and indifference between you) until a few months ago, letting your social life dawdle on the wayside. 

Not that there was ever much one. It's easier, sometimes, to push people away than to explain the inner workings of your borrowed scar tissue. 

He hums again—and he really needs to fucking stop doing that before you do something stupid, something reckless, like remember the way he sounded when he lifted his head up after coming deep inside of you, panting in your ear from exertion, and groaned just like that when he shifted forward, inching his softening cock further you, seemingly content to stay like that as you melted into the mattress that reeked of stale sweat and sex.

“I'll drive you.”

Your breath catches. “You don't have to.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but it's decidedly noncommittal and comes completely undone when you catch the crackle of iron in his mulish tone as he adds: “but I want to.”

And he will, is the underlying promise that brims to the surface, wrapped up neatly in a way that brokers no real room for a counterargument. Not that he'll give you the chance to make one. 

Still. You try, if only to snatch at some modicum of control that slips, gossamer thin, between your fingers.

“It's fine. Making you go out all that way is kinda…”

“Don't worry about it. Beats paying for a cab, anyway.”

“Bear…”

It's firm when he says: “let me drive you home. Make sure you get there safely.” Final. But to soften the blow, he adds, voice tender like a bruise: “Just let me do this for you.” 

And how are you supposed to stay no to that?

“Okay, Bear.”

(Answer: you don't.)

[inbarfink]

Okay, so when it comes to “What Remains of Edith Finch” I’m generally among those who subscribe to the reading that there is nothing supernatural about the ‘family curse’ - that it is nothing more than an unhealthy coping mechanism that became a self-fulfilling prophecy through a tradition of neglect and recklessness also maybe some slew of undiagnosed hereditary mental illnesses. But one aspect of this interpretation that I’m not really on-board with it is the idea that this makes the ending of the game, like, a totally unambiguously ‘bad’ tragic ending.

Well, either way it’s always a pretty sad ending, y’know. Everyone is dead. I mean in the sense that, like, if the ‘curse’ is nothing but the stories of the Finch family making them think they’re cursed - then Edith writing her little book and passing on these stories to her son is just perpetuating the Curse and probably dooming the poor boy. They would’ve both probably been better off if Edith did let those dangerous stories die with her. Right?

Well, that’s not really how I see it. I don’t really think this is a narrative is about how Edie and her outlook on death is, like, 100% totally wrong and dangerous and Dawn Finch was 100% totally in the right about trying to escape the family stories - as much as it is about Edie and Dawn both being flawed women and neither really handled their grief perfectly. Since Edie’s attitude kinda dominated the family and Edith herself kinda used to side with her great-grandma over her mother, the story focuses more on her realizing that, y’know, Dawn’s perspective might have a point. But just cause Dawn might’ve had a point doesn’t mean she was always right either. I think the point is more that Edith has to understand both her great-grandma’s and her mother’s side so she can strike a healthier balance between both of their attitudes.

Like, the thing is that the ‘Curse’ is mostly just generational trauma (and if there is a real supernatural Curse than it is still a metaphor for generational trauma), and the thing with trauma is that wallowing in it and letting it define you like Edie did is really not healthy - but neither is repressing it and trying to run away from it like Dawn tried to do. Edie might’ve been wrong about many things, but she was right about this:

The ‘Curse’ won’t leave Dawn and Edith just cause they left the House, or just cause they stopped listening to Edie’s stories. Because the Curse and their Trauma are the same, so it will follow them in some form wherever they go. The big thing I keep thinking about is Edith’s comment after Sam’s story.

This isn’t about Sam’s death being especially important for figuring out the ‘mystery’ of the Finch Curse, or it being an especially fascinating or beautiful story or whatever. It’s because it was an especially traumatic event for Dawn, that undoubtedly effected her for the rest of her life. But due to her fear of the effects of Edie’s Stories, she never really opened up about it with her daughter in any way. Seeing the pictures of Dawn and Sam’s last trip together, Edith feels she now has a greater understanding of what made her mother tick - and wishes she could’ve known about it when she was still alive.

And that does go farther down the family tree. Sam was the first Finch to show a real dislike to telling the Stories like Edie like. Although admittedly he wasn’t quite the rebel Dawn was:

And pretty much everything about how he acted around his children, especially the real shitty stuff, was informed by the trauma of Calvin’s death. 

And, like, obviously Edie’s idea of handling trauma did no favors to him, (She made him share a room with his dead twin for eleven years) but I think also his attempts to almost totally avoid and repress his Issues when he became an adult only made things worse and not better.

Now, you might be wondering how this relates to Edith and her son Christopher. Well, the first thing to remember is that Edith didn’t know for sure she was going to die when she started that journey. She wasn’t just planning on leaving that little book to her son in case she dies - she wanted to learn the stories too, and have a better understanding of the stories she knew already. Because these stories inform the trauma she grew around, and she wanted to understand it better before she became a mother. Dawn knew quite a lot about the danger of growing up in a household that wallows in and romanticizes trauma - and did her best to avoid repeating this mistake with Edith. Edith knew quite a lot about the danger of growing up in a household that repressed and runs away from trauma - and she doesn’t want to repeat it with her child as well.

And as for writing it down for Christopher in case she’s not around to share the stories with him. Well, the first thing to note is that I think that even if Christopher never had Edith’s book - he was already bound by the ‘Curse’ from the start. Like, yeah, he doesn’t have the experience of growing up with a traumatized parent raised by another traumatized parent raised by another traumatized parent - but growing up knowing his biomom died at childbirth can be a pretty traumatizing experience on it’s own. We don’t know much of his family situation outside of that, but the fact that there seem to be no one around to escort the Literal Child as he takes a ferry to go lay flowers at his birth mother’s grave doesn’t really bode well.

So I think, first things first, from that angle, Edith’s journal could be importantly therapeutic to him as well. You know, have some sort of connection to his mother and her side of the family that he’s otherwise can’t really have? Like, this book isn’t just some darn list of dead Finches. There’s a lot in here about Edith herself and her own thoughts and her life and family and that’s maybe connection Christopher would want with her? Something that might make him process his grief for her a bit better? Something to make him feel more connected with that side of his family?

Now, let’s also consider the fact the Finch Curse is at least somewhat public knowledge: the Odin Finch newsreel mentions it, Barbara’s death was very well-publicized at the time - and the ‘Tales of Terror’ comic calls it “another ghastly tale inspired by America's most unfortunate family” - implying that they expected their readership to be at least kinda familiar with the idea of the Finches being ‘cursed’. I think that’s pretty likely that, even without the journal, if Christopher dug even a little bit into who his birth mother was he would’ve found at least a mention of a rumor of a ‘Family Curse’ .

Or, hell, seeing how the Finches (and especially Edie) seem to have been local celebrities around Orcas Island - if Christopher lives anywhere near that area, really all it will take is him saying something like “hey, I’m Christopher Finch!” or “my mother’s name was Edith Finch” and then someone would say “oh yeah, like the famous Orcas Island Finches? That cursed family that keeps dying?” and seeing how he has no living relatives on his mother’s side - he would’ve probably believed it, or at least allowed the possibility to wriggle into his heart - and then… well, the Curse will just live on regardless of Edith. 

Note that Christopher is already wearing a cast before he even read the book (and is, again, a child taking a ferry to visit his mother’s grave all alone) - it seems like something of the ol’ Finch recklessness has already made it to him, whatever it’s in his genes somehow or just the rumors of the curse getting to him. But it is not entirely on Edith’s journal.

And like, one of the things I think made the Curse such a problematic mindset is the way it prevented the Finches from ever learning from their mistakes. You know, if every death is a result of a malevolent supernatural force haunting the family - then there’s no need for introspection of how what they could do better in the future. Challenging this mindset was probably one of the best things about Dawn’s mindset. But learning from past mistakes is equally impossible when you convince yourself it’s all the fault of a supernatural curse as it is when you straight-up have no context for what happened before. If nothing else, the stories in this journal can serve as a useful lesson about not clinging to the past, or not letting your grief define you, or how you shouldn’t try and make a perfect 360 degree spin on swingset or how you SHOULDN’T LEAVE A BABY ALONE IN A BATHTUB JESUS CHRIST

Because it’s not like this journal is just, like, a totally uncritical reiteration of Edie Finch’s stories for the next generation or something. I think the game makes it pretty clear that although Edith Sr. and Edith Jr. are meant to mirror each other on some level, their attitudes when it comes to the stories of the family are pretty different. 

Edie was characterized as someone who cared more for what makes for a good story over the truth, as someone prone to inventing or exaggerating tales, as someone who reveled in the romanticism of being Doomed, and memorialized the death of her loved ones more than their life. Like, one of the things that really crosses a line for me about the Edie Finch Method of Grief is just how much the circumstances of the death are prioritized over the life the person had before it. 

It’s not always so blatant cause the Finches tend to die in ways that poetically tie with their personality and hobbies (Molly loved animals and fantasy and she spent her last moments in a hallucination of transforming into various animals, Sam loved hunting and photography and he died taking a picture while hunting, Walter loved trains and ended up being run over by one) but… there’s certain areas where it’s actually kinda unclear if the connection is actually there or if Edie is kinda forcing it for the sake of a good story. 

Like, Barbara was a horror movie child star and her death reads like a cheesy horror story - but that’s because Edie chose a cheesy horror retelling to represent it. Maybe if we knew the real story of how she died, it wouldn’t be quite so on-the-nose. Did Gus actually love flying kites to the point it defines his entire personality or was that just something he did on the day he died? Either way, he’s defined by that one activity forever now. 

And Gregory… like I’m sure he enjoyed bath-time, but the fact he’s memorialized almost exclusively with bath toys and soap is kinda fucked-up. I’m sure he had other toys he loved to play with outside the tub as well, but all of his memorials are focused entirely on the thing that killed him.

Edith’s attitude, as can be seen through the game, is different. Edith can appreciate the beauty of Edie’s stories but also cares quite a bit about truth and accuracy. The difference is most obvious when it comes to their books. Both Ediths wrote a story about coming back to their old childhood home and discovering the family secrets - only Edie’s story, “The History of the Finches”, seems to be complete fiction and based on what she would’ve wanted to be true, while Edith did actually go to her old childhood home and tried to record it as accurately as possible. And while she’s limited in telling the death stories that Edie kept records of, she also notes the points when they seem ridiculous or inaccurate to her. 

She documents the tall-tale about how Sven was killed by a dragon, but also clarifies that he was killed while trying to construct a dragon-shaped sled. Rather than just perpetuating Edie’s joke for the sake of the fantasy. 

Plus, she doesn’t just focus on the Finches’ deaths, she does try and tell Christopher about their lives as well. It’s not always easy, since with the older generations Edith often doesn’t have much to go on outside of Edith’s memorialization, but she does try to get a General Vibe out of them from their room and other mementos they left behind (like Sam’s improvised darkroom in the wall-passegeways) rather than just the death story. And when it comes to the people Edith actually remembered well herself - Lewis, Dawn and Edie - she’s constantly telling little anecdotes and details of their life together. 

In a way, I kinda divide “What Remains of Edith Finch” into three main parts. The first third of the game, with Edie’s kids, is the one that centers on the mystery of whatever the ‘curse’ is real or not - and is also a character study of Edie herself via the lense of the people that she lost. The second part is basically that but for Dawn, it’s about Edith learning to understand her mother’s character via the loss of Sam, Gregory, Gus, Sanjay and Milton. The Lewis segment is a transition between that third and the last third - which is about Edith Finch herself. Even if Edith can paint a full picture of both life and death for all of her dead relatives, she can at least give Christopher a good insight to his mother, grandmother and great-great grandmother. 

And notably, the two people Edith ‘has’ to memorialize herself without Edie’s postmorten involvement, Edie herself and Dawn, get a very different treatment from every other Finch. They don’t get a ‘proper’ Death Story documenting or describing their last moments. The closest thing is Edith’s flashback of the day they moved out of the House, which is more of a Death Flashback for the Finch Family as a concept than to Edie and Dawn as individuals. We do know that Dawn died of some sort of illness, but it’s delivered to us at the end of a longer passage about the life they had together. And we really don’t know anything but how Edie died at the end. 

If Edith doesn’t know how Edie died, she’s shown no interest in trying to figure it out - if she does already know, she doesn’t think her spesific cause of death is important to write down for her son. The important thing is for him to learn what kind of person Edie was in life, and Edith has more than enough understanding of her great-grandma to memorialize her without defining her entirely through some sort of of romanticized tragic death. 

And, like the most important thing to remember is that Edith questions the concept of the Curse in her journal. Like, the game and the journal are one and the same. So, like all of these passages that are important for the ‘there’s no supernatural curse’ interpetation:

Christopher is reading these lines as well. If we are capable of playing “What Remains of Edith Finch” and understanding the ‘Curse’ as being a self-fulfilling prophecy - then Christopher is also capable of reading his mother’s journal and coming to the same conclusion. I mean, it’s not a certain thing. There’s plenty of players who read the Curse as a real supernatural force and that’s also a valid interpetation of the game’s text. And there’s like, actual grown-ass adults who played this game and decided it’s actually about a serial-killer granny. So maybe it’s asking a bit too much from a little grieving eight-years-old to immediately understand this as a story of unhealthy trauma coping mechanisms through the generations. 

But my point isn’t that there is 100% no possibillity of Christopher dooming himself like every other Finch before him, or that Edith made the objectively correct decision in writing this journal and basically saved her son from the ‘Curse’. It’s just that he’s not doomed... it can still go either way. Christopher might have read this and started to believe in the Curse and perpatured the cycle onwards, or he might have come to the same conclusion Edith did - that believing in these stories made them real - and decided to try and do better than those who came before him. Or maybe he came to one conclusion but will later change his mind. As long as he’s alive, there’s is at least the possbility that things will turn out better. 

“What Remains of Edith Finch” ends with the shot of the two things that ‘remained’ of the two Edith Finches of the game. The House is What Remained of Edith ‘Edie’ Finch Sr. A glorious and sad monument of mourning, now forever frozen in time as a memorium for the tragedy of the Finch Family. And Christopher is What Remained of Edith Finch Jr. An actual living human being with his whole life ahead of him, who still has the potential to doom or save himself. 

Good luck.

[rainboneish]

i see some people on tiktok and twitter acting like gojo not getting memorialized is the only logical conclusion to his arc to either

1) symbolize how no one really understood him and/or could reach him or

2) he shouldn’t be an exception and no other sorcerer got a funeral/memorial either, that’s just how sorcerer society is

and while i firmly believe there is no objectively correct way to end a story, the attitude some of those fans are showing trying to act like everyone who wanted something different is less media literate than they are is annoying me so time to bring up reasonable counters to those arguments:

on 1): complete understanding isn’t a prerequisite for affection and/or grief. Multiple characters (Yuji, Yuta and Shoko at the very least) are shown to have some amount of care for him and them wanting to lay his body to rest, or at least offhandedly mentioning that it was done does not contradict their lack of complete understanding of him in any way. Yuji himself says that he will never forget Gojo (Yuji is also arguably the only character really given closure about Gojo’s death in the story through that flashback (with the exception of Satoru Gojo (hehe see what i did there) and the other deceased characters in 236)

In fact, one could argue that them not fully understanding that Gojo wanted everyone to move on from him and “forget” him would have been reinforced by them grieving him

(I don’t personally think that them processing his loss in a healthy way (read, all the studies about how funerary rites are important to a healthy grieving process) would be contradictory to his wish but since people want to argue that that’s why it was done i think it’s fair to bring up the counter)

on 2) this could easily be solved by having the characters honor all of the recently deceased. (Nanami, Yuki, Choso (what better way to mark him accepting his human side like Yuki told him to)) People keep bringing up how none of the sorcerers got a funeral (as well as Todo’s speech in Shibuya about how they live in through their comrades) and while that is correct (in fact, Todo’s speech represents the whole reason why the last couple chapters are named after Gojo’s dream of a reformed jujutsu society, a dream that his students are now carrying out for him, one of the main issues with traditional jujutsu society (and consequently one of the reasons that lead do Geto’s defection and the formation of Gojo’s dream) is the fact that sorcerer lives are treated as expendable, the fact that sorcerers aren’t given the time and support they need to process the trauma they are put through on their missions.

Part of letting the kids experience their youth is also giving them healthy coping mechanisms and while i am not someone who believes that every character needs a “therapy” ending (hence why i’ve been yelling about not wanting Gojo (who is satisfied with his own death and afterlife) to come back to life to un-learn all of his unhealthy coping mechanisms and his (partially self imposed) isolation as the strongest) i do think getting time to acknowledge and process their losses is part of that.

(Looking at Megumi especially, he might have kept distance between himself and Gojo, and fanon portrayal of their relationship often makes it deeper than it is in canon, but Gojo was still the most consistent adult mentor figure he had in his life, and he experienced Sukuna killing him with his body, a letter isn’t gonna cut it i’m afraid… Megumi’s character arc in general is one people are criticizing and i do to some degree agree that while him freeing himself from Tsumiki specifically being his sole motivation is something, him immediately finding new people (Yuji and Hana, the latter for guilt reasons) to base his reason for living on is a bit… but that’s part of characters not needing to have a perfect therapy ending i guess…

people like to bring up that Nanami, who has been dead for a while now, was also never shown getting a funeral but characters were shown processing his death once the fight was over, both through the conversation between Gojo, Shoko and Ijichi and through Ino requesting and using his weapon in the fight against Sukuna. Yaga’s death was also discussed between Gojo and Gakuganji (changing his conservative outlook) as well as as a motivator for Kusakabe

While Yuji was definitely shown processing Gojo’s death (in chapter 265 and 271) the characters i personally would have liked to see processing/commenting on Gojo’s death the most are Yuta and Shoko,

Yuta for “i will share the mantle of becoming a Monster to take some of the load of Gojo-sensei” reasons (all this talk about how concerned everyone was about what it would mean for his humanity to have to take over Gojo’s body and then we don’t get a single panel about how he actually felt about it after the fact)

and Shoko because we get all these glimpses of her caring about him in her own way (most notably the “i was there too, wasn’t i” moment as well as her stress smoking during his fight against Sukuna, and in a way still being his closest and oldest confidant, even if they never connected the way he did with geto (hence why he felt comfortable leaving the letters for Nobara and Megumi to her, as well as being the reason why he was a little miffed at her lack of reaction to the body-switching plan). Shoko isn’t an emotional character, she is very desensitized to the death and injury of people around her, but the scene by Tsumiki’s grave and her comment about Geto’s body confirms that she (to some degree) considers it an honor and a privilege to be able to give them post-mortem care. I never wanted a scene of her crying over his body or anything, but a scene of her standing by his grave (which could have been inserted between the Tsumiki grave scene and the panel of her throwing away her cigarettes) would have done enough for me.

People like to make fun of everyone asking for a funeral by saying “sorry y’all didn’t get a ten page funeral with everyone crying about Gojo”, but personally i would have been happy with a single panel showing his grave/ossuary with an epitaph (possibly the same for Geto so we finally get confirmation that Gojo’s (and the Hasaba twins’) wish of having his body put to rest was fulfilled, especially after those panels in 270 sowed more doubts), maybe a couple extra panels of the characters i mentioned earlier

also not to be extra brain rotten stsg but Gojo being put to rest in a way where he is with suguru (Shoko being the person most likely to make those arrangements for both of them and also being the person who knew how much they meant to eachother the best) or him being memorialized together with everyone else who fell in those past couple months would symbolize that while he might have been lonely in life, he is not lonely in death (just like he wasn’t lonely anymore in the airport scene in 236)

what i haven’t seen people bring up much is that sorcerers as a whole are said not to be religious. Despite the heavy buddhist themes in the story, sorcerer society as a whole is described as secular, something pointed out by the chairman of the star religious group. On the world building front i think it would have been interesting to know how they process their dead, past the general vague description of “shoko handling bodies” and “having to make sure the body can’t be misused/the sorcerer won’t turn into a curse after death”. Maybe that’s my little goth heart but i really would have liked to know, we see people end up in the morgue but no one really knows what happens after that. Maybe everyone (whose body can be recovered) is cremated and disposed of in some unknown location (Greek cemeteries have “bone digesters”, big pits where bones are put if the family doesn’t rent an ossuary/claim the remains after the lease on the grave plot is up, maybe it’s something like that), maybe there are ossuaries like the one pictured in the Shibuya OP (it’s still unclear to me how much input Gege had in those), maybe the cremated remains are given back to the family on a case by case basis (especially for people from non-sorcerer families who might have religious beliefs). Either way, it’s something i think would have been interesting to know, plus lack of big funerary rites doesn’t really mean the characters can’t think of/mention their deceased comrades.

now i’m not saying everyone who has a different opinion on this is wrong, again, that’s not the approach i like to bring to media analysis/commentary, in fact this whole rant is prompted by my distaste for people doing that, but that is what i personally would have liked to see to call this a 10/10 ending for ME

[lattebiscotti]

in the kp season 2 of my dreams i need to see the vegas and pete coping with their respective trauma and doing it badly.

vegas must've been insufferable after the hospital, unsure of his place in the world, his world, and not used to having to be so careful of his every movement (not that he’s unfamiliar with wounds, bullet or otherwise), having to move slower and with care, around his new reality and around his new relationship, and he must’ve been going crazy at not knowing what his new role is, or the absence of one, despite it being what he most likely needed, but just because not being the head of the second family might be a blessing in disguise that doesn’t mean it’s easy to adjust to (i got nothing left, i don’t have anything to offer), plus the grief of losing his father, and some part of him would still be that child that thinks that he could've should've must’ve been a better son and then maybe his father would've loved him back and what would his father think of him living his life like this? that not only he didn't defeat the main family, but couldn't even be head of the second family like he was always supposed to be? incapable and now also weak in body?

and on the other hand pete, who yes, made a choice for his own benefit and his own heart for the first time in his life, who found his perfect match in the man that tortured him for days on end, that had to go from years and years of discipline, of being part of a well oiled machine, just following orders, shutting off all his feelings and emotions, to the freedom of doing what he pleases, following his heart, but not knowing what to do with the rest of his life beside being with vegas.

we talk so much about pete having to convince vegas to dom him again but i also want to see them having sex because they don't know how else to communicate what they're feeling, and for it to be bad because they both need something different but they don't know how to say it and sex brought them together so they believe it can also fix them but that's not how it works.

i want them to have bad sex and then the aftercare is a mess because they both feel hollower than before and then i want them to try again and one of them finally safewords and the other is so, so relieved as well and then they don't leave the house for three days of silence and stuttered conversations started halfway through till they both manage to work around communicating what they are individually going through and how they can/can’t support each other through all this cause they simply don't know how 

[euryleli]

I love reading fanfics that don't rely solely on byler interactions.

There's nothing wrong with focusing on mike and will and their dynamic, but I wish we got more byler fics that HEAVYLY feature the party.

Mike and will have lives outside of their relationship. Their bond with dustin, lucas, max and el is not less important just because it's platonic. So let me see them interacting with their best friends, the ones who would do the impossible to keep their party safe and sound, who would be so supportive and so so happy for mike and will.

They're. Best. Friends.

So let me see it. Show will and lucas confide in each other, lessening their burdens and talking through their problems. Show me how much lucas, the boy who risked venturing alone in the woods, in a lab full of the "bad guys", cares about will byers. Show me will being there for lucas, taking care of him when he can't bring himself to get up from max's bedside and rest. And show me mike and lucas actually talking and solving their issues from s4, let mike apologize for missing lucas game, the one that mattered. And let mike have his breakdown for lucas to pick him up.

Show me mike and dustin navigating through their grief, let them cry for eddie and carry his legacy onwards. And for god's sake show me will and dustin, standing side by side ready to carry on to another fight. Show me how much will loves dustin and how much they missed being around each other, because the party needed will in Hawkins and will really needed a trademark dustin hug!

Show me mike and max and their silly little bickering! They love each other and everyone knows that insults and half hearted jabs are just their love language!! Show me how much seeing max in that hospital bed fucked mike wheeler over, let him read to her when lucas can't bring himself to do it, when his voice fails him, let mike help her when she wakes up and has to do copious amounts of physiotherapy, when she wakes up and hates the way everyone treats her like shes made of glass and mike is always there to be a bitch to her - which is their normal. They understand each other, being so similar and all so they call each other out on their bullshit. And please I BEG YOU show me madwise bonding over their shared ud trauma, their complicated family dynamics and let them see how similar (despite their obvious differences) they are. Show me will, max and el being a menace of a trio, let them have sleepovers. Show me will drawing max just like he remembers her - so full of life and movement and color with her fiery red hair and attitude. And show me him finding her again and being a key to get her back from wtv hellscape dimension she went. Let them make jokes at their own expense, use dark humor to cope with the horrors while simultaneously terrorizing everyone with their awful no good actually horrifying jokes - they still think they're hilarious, even though mike and lucas say otherwise.

And finally, show me willel - the wonder twins! - being family, because they're bonded by something much more powerful than blood. Show me the silly little things they did to pass time during their 6 months in California and how will and el went from being strangers with a connection to the ud to no one even questioning their sibling status because after the initial strain, it comes naturally to them. Show me will being the older brother that jonathan was to him, show me willel dancing and singing to 80s pop music, show me one of them having trouble sleeping and the other being there to keep them company - because there's no one else in the world that can understand them better then the other, even with the different circumstances. Let me see el and will help each other through their lonely days in California, let them be each other's anchor.

And let mike and el be friends!!!!! Mike was el's first real friend and that's fucking important too! It's everything! They care so much and it pains me to see fics where after the breakup, mike and el basically don't interact as if mike wheeler didn't love her - just because it's not romantic doesn't mean it's less real.

The kids and their friendship are such an integral part of the show and even then - for plot reasons - the party spends most of it's on screen time fragmented. In s1 we're missing will, s2 it's eleven alone, byler as a duo and henclair + max, s3 is missing dustin and s4 is the same as s2. Still, they're best friends, all of them.

I'm just sad we don't really see them all, I guess. I just want a +100k fic that delves deeply into byler but also everyone in the party because I love them so much and they deserve the world!!

[miss-tc-nova]

Rather Than You - Cait Sith & Kitsune!Reader

I get the feeling this isn't exactly what you were looking for...but it's pretty on par for me. I actually had fun with this after finishing rebirth and I really REALLY love kitsune, so that was fun. But anyway, you've waited long enough so enjoy!

WARNING FOR FF7 REBIRTH SPOILERS!!!

Premise: Cait Sith gives his own life to save the others

Words: 1,788

~~~~~

               The journey together hasn’t been long, but it’s been the wildest ride. There have been reckless escapes, cautious subterfuge, and more close calls than I care to remember. Despite these harrowing events, I would do it all over again.

               Or at least I thought I would.

               Many would many would think me a fool for so quickly growing attached to the little animatronic. I learned the hard way that they were right. Our first encounter had me instantly charmed. That charisma broke through the stress and chaos of our mission, bringing smiles or even just sarcastic eye rolls. What’s more is that he listened, even when no one spoke.

               Long before Nanaki, I suffered the chains and needles of the mad doctor—all for simply existing. My magic, my body, my existence all became an eager fascination for dissection. There were traumas aplenty in that laboratory and I will never be the same free spirit I’d been all those decades ago.

               But Cait Sith brought back genuine smiles, even by accident. I didn’t need to speak a word, but he always knew just the ridiculous act to pull me from morbid ruminations. And when I did speak, he listened, waiting until just the right moment to say the right words. I never understood how an artificial creature could have such empathy, let alone for someone like me. We couldn’t be any more different, but thanks to him, I began to have hope again.

               Then came the betrayal. Watching the keystone fall into Shinra hands simply because we trusted him tore me apart. I wanted to scream, I wanted to tear him apart, I wanted to disappear. His actions cut deep and now I feel more alone than ever before.

               Even now, I haven’t quite come to terms with it, evident by the trial forced on me in the Hall of Resurrection. But there’s nothing I can do—there’s no time to cope. All I can do in this moment is forget who I am and move forward.

               My name shatters the delusions I’d thoughtlessly chased, giving me only a fraction of a second to avoid the claws closing down on me. Even then, I lose a few hairs at the end of one of my tails for my neglect.

               “Focus up!” Cloud demands, rushing past to swing at the massive wall demon.

               Though the man’s been acting out of sorts himself, he’s right—this is no time for self-pity. A shake of the head dislodges the distraction, hopefully, and I turn my full attention to the fight at hand.

               Twin tails flicker, multiplying to nine in their flurry. In my hands, flames the color of clear skies ignite. All this pent-up grief would serve me better in other ways.

               Walls crawl ever closer as we battle not one, but two of these monsters. I give all I have, hoping each burn I inflict will lighten the burden in my heart. It never does, but I fight on regardless.

               Golden light glitters on the floor, catching my eye. In its midst, entirely unaware in her concentration, stands Yuffie.

               There’s no second guessing what happens next. My body lurches forward at the single notion of getting her clear of the attach. It doesn’t matter how hard the collision is or that, while she falls clear of the attack, I don’t.

               An immense weight bears down on my leg before a powerful snap echoes in my ears. Pain sears through my muscles, tearing a scream from my mouth. Officially, I’m down and out for the rest of this fight, struggling to stay conscious against the agony.

               “I can’t mend the break, but I can help.”

               Warmth seeps into the pain, dissolving it bit by bit, until it becomes bearable enough to pry my eyes open. The demons are gone. All but Cloud shows me their concern, Aerith holding a gentle hand against my leg.

               “Thanks,” I breathe.

               She nods. “Can you stand?”

     ��         The slightest movement sends fire through the limb and blurring my vision. “Not without help.”

               A shoddy splint stifles the shifting, at least allowing me to stand, but it’s Barret’s strength that helps me move forward.

               Ahead of us lies an altar where stands our ex-SOLDIER companion. As we make the last steps, the Temple trembles, Cloud seemingly unaffected by the chaos he’s caused. Aerith confirms that the Temple is crumbling around us, meanwhile Barret leaves my side, struggling with Cloud to replace the black materia. When that doesn’t work, grim reality spreads through the group.

               “I’m back—just in the nick o’ time!” A pair of fingers tip off the ear to me as if he wasn’t a traitor.

               I can only stare, utterly dumbfounded at the audacity of this cat to show his face again to the people he stabbed in the back.  But before Barret can put a few holes in him, Cait Sith rolls beneath the sinking altar, giving his all to keep it from collapsing.

               “Run—while there’s still time. Leave the heavy liftin’ to me!”

               Air hitches in my chest.

               “For real?” Barret asks, his own arm straining against the platform.  

               Aerith steps forward. “But what about you”

               “No need to fret about a bot like me. I wasnae built to last.” The cat’s knees quiver. “I wish I hadnae skipped leg day. Cannae hold out for long, so run…as if your lives depended on it!”

               Vincent makes his entrance, calling for us to follow him to the exit. The others begin to rush past me, meanwhile, I’m paralyzed in more ways than one.

               “Hey cat, ‘ppreciate it.” Barret’s hand releases the altar, leaving the struggling feline to bear its full weight.

               “Off with ya.”

               This is when I notice Barret coming straight for me. I choke past the lump in my throat.

               “No.”

               “C’mon.”

               “No!” I stumble in an attempt to back away from him.

               It takes the man very little effort to hoist me over his shoulder, all while my fists pound uselessly against his back. Watching Cait Sith grow farther and farther out of reach grips at my heart, the jerking feeling rattling my vision.

               “No! Cait!” I reach out in vain. “NO!”

               My heart surges forward as I race back for the cat.

               “Oi, what are ya doin’?! Get out of here!” he shouts.

               “I’m not done with you!” Tears slip past my anger.

               He peers up, the worry falling from his face. “Oh, I get ya.”

               “You…stupid cat!”

               “I know. I’m sorry.” Even his stuffed moogle doesn’t slow the altar’s progress all that much.

               This torture far exceeds whatever ache a broken leg could inflict. All this anger and grief mixed together pours forth completely out of my control as I scream at him.

               “Sorry doesn’t cut it! What were you thinking?! After everything we’ve been through, how could you do that to us?!”

               He grimaces as his legs give a little more, but then he turns a pure smile on me.

               “I was thinkin’…that, if someone had to get hurt, I’d rather it be Shinra…than any of you.”

               Even if the rage falters, there’s enough sorrow to take its place and keep the tears flowing.

               “I knew this place was dangerous…and that maybe we’d lose someone.” Those ears flop as he shakes his head. “But I couldnae stand the thought of that bein’ you.” His weak laugh is interrupted by his straining. “I know I could never hope to have a life as long as yours, but I’m honored to have had the pleasure of meeting you in the time I had.”

               A hand over my mouth doesn’t stifle the shuddering sob.

               “Cait…”

               “Now there’s a whole wide world out there. And I know it can be scary and dark and cruel…but people like you and the others make it worth savin’…So you go out there and save it and find the good that makes livin’ worthwhile.”

               My knees meet the stone just as his do. “Cait! Please!”

               “Just…remember me now and then…okay?”

               A hand shoots forward, passing right through the altar with no effect. There’s nothing I can do.

               The small bot begins to crumple. “It was a good run…while it lasted.”

               The moogle’s eyes begin blinking in error.

               “You did…what you could.”

               “Cait, no! Get up! Please!”

               “The rest is up to them.”

               Those are his last words. The altar finally reaches the ground and Cait Sith is gone.

               Pieces of the ceiling finally start to give way, crumbling around me. A massive section falls, bringing down Cait’s moogle, who reaches out to lay a hand on the altar. All while I watch, utterly useless.

               In the following moments, the Temple continues to collapse until finally, it all comes crashing down.

               My eyes snap open, a sharp breath filling my lungs. Dust billows past, clouding the dusk sky but clearing quickly.

               Careful, Barret lowers me onto the ground, the stabbing pain of my injury returning. “You alright? You passed out for a while.”

               Rubbing my eyes, I peer past him into the vast gaping hole where the Temple of the Ancients once stood. It doesn’t even compare to the emptiness creeping over me now.

               A sob rattles my chest.

               “Now that’s not a sight you see every day, eh?” 

               All gazes immediately fly back. Upon a large stuffed moogle stands a little crowned cat, proud of the entrance he’s made.

               Barret voices everyone’s confusion. “But you—we saw you!”

               His little boots meet the stone floor as he hops down. “If I popped my clogs, they’d be sobbin’ in the streets at the Saucer. This beautiful body’s but one of many!”

               The feline strolls right up to me, throwing his arms out, prepared for the embrace he knows I’m dying to give. Without hesitation, I snatch him up, arms tight and relieved tears flowing.

               Just as his face nuzzles against mine, I hear his words, soft and low.

               “You were his favorite.”

               My heart stops.

               He may look like Cait Sith, may talk and act like him—he may even have the same memories—but this is not my Cait Sith. We travelled and fought together. He was the one who spoke when I could not. He wove tales and sang lullabies when I was afraid to sleep. And now he’s well and truly gone.

               “Sephiroth.”

               This new Cait Sith gasps, wiggling free of my arms.

               “Get somewhere safe! Now!”

               I don’t protest or fight back when the massive moogle scoops me off the ground. Even as it hurries away, sending fresh waves of pain through my injured leg, I simply stare at the back of the cat, slowly coming to terms with the fact that I’d lost yet another person that I cared about.

~~~~~

Nova’s Final Fantasy Masterlist

[sygneth]

Already obsessed with your post apocalyptic disco au and your art is amazing!

You said that Jean is actually doing a bit better in this scenario but how would Kim and Harry deal with it?

Heyyy thanks anon!! Really glad you like it

Now let me write you an essay

So, I think that both HDB and JV are more similar to each other than is shows at first glance, they are both very sensitive (only one is hiding it well under a bitchface and snarky comments) and their work is slowly killing them, plus, especially in Harry's case, Jean has his coping mechanisms for that (ekhm, anger), probably being hated by society for his job where he technically is supposed to help them, only adds to it.

In the post-apo scenario, both the society and the RCM disappear and with them a great source of both Harry's (and Jean's) problems. Of course, there will be all stages of grief at the beginning, and probably some sort of survivor guilt, but eventually he would come to terms with the fact that it happened and they are still here and will manage to deal with it. Maybe even have some fun, because if everything's gone and there is nothing worse that can happen besides death (and such an event probably reevaluates one's sense of the value of own life) and your only goal is to survive to the next day and try to make the most of what you've got... (I agree very much with the comments under that post about Jean, post-apocalyptic worlds are an escapist fantasy, you can do whatever with no consequence, and your life goals become very basic, primitive even)

I feel like at the end of the day Jean would just enjoy his solitude and simple life goals, and Harry... There is a chance that a literal apocalypse would be an event shaking enough to give him a new point of view on life itself and have a sort of "carpe diem" arch. I can see him trying to get the absolute maximum of the time he is given with his two best mates and a dog.

As for Kim, I think that the beginnings would be very hard for him, and would break him in a way. His life was quite all about the work, and now he suddenly doesn't have any goal and everything he cared for is gone... so it's time to get into survival mode. Paradoxically I think that would make him get along with Harry and Jean much better, he would be able to relate to those two broken dudes more. I think that Kim would be the one who will lack some sort of a bigger goal the most, but he will manage. He's not a quitter and he would probably eventually set his goal as "keeping these two here alive".

ANYWAY, this AU is meant to be a silly and light one for me to play (and have some rest from EOE deep analysis), so I could dig deeper into the psychological consequences, all the potential traumas and problems, but that's not the point (let's see how long can I hold back lol) i just wanted a scenario where they will be relatively happy and it's not my fault it takes an actual apocalypse :shrug:

I'm up to discussing anything about this au anytime tho, give me all your silliest thoughts to munch on

[tastefulstars]

Kiss The Stars/Kiss My Scars

warnings: 18+ only mdni. angst. reader has been physically harmed. grief and trauma. hurt no comfort. unhealthy coping. depression. running away. not proof read.

w/c: 4.8k

a/n: i dont know what this is except its sad

masterlist

You tried your best to breathe through the pain as you settled down in the chair beside Eddie's bed.

You took your bandaged hand in his and waited, hoping that he'd wake up and tell you everything.

Your eyes slip closed and images appear behind your lashes.

There's a boy walking through the park, sad and lonely and you muster up all your courage - all your five years worth - and march over to him.

"What do you want?" He sneers, angry at the world and you plant yourself in front of him, hands on your hips.

"You're sad"

He glares at you and tries to push around you but you're not having it. You hold you ground and to an outsider watching, it would have been a sight to see - a tiny little thing bossing around a taller, gangly boy.

"A friend will make you feel better" You say matter-of-fact, "I will be your friend."

The boy snorts and tells you to go away, he turns and walks the way he came and you just follow him. His agitation growing the longer you trail after him until he faces you.

"Leave me alone!" He shouts, face splotchy and eyes watery.

"No" You say, defiant, "Friends don't leave"

It all made sense to you, you were his friend now and he was sad - why would you go when you could help him feel better? And you knew exactly what to do.

You stepped closer and wrapped your arms around his middle and hugged him. The boy froze, like he wasn't used to physical affection and you just squeezed him harder.

You felt the moment his anger dissipated, his arms curling around you and tears wetting your shoulder.

The door opening brings you back to the moment, voices filter through your memories. You turn slightly, lowering your head and letting your hair hide you.

You ignore the newcomers, Eddie's friends - hellfire club members and a few other's you weren't even sure were his friends. You ignore them when they speak to you, asking you questions. You hunch further in on yourself, stitches tugging and pain flaring through you.

You let yourself slip back into your memories.

You're nearly seven and you and Eddie had been exploring the woods out near the trailer park when you tripped, tearing your knees open.

His eyes are wide and glassy but he cuddles you against his chest as big fat tears roll down your cheeks.

"It hurts Eddie" You whine, hands and legs shaking.

"I know" He breathes, "But you're brave. I'll carry you back to the trailer, Uncle Wayne will know what to do."

He squats in front of you and awkwardly helps you clamber on his back. He distracts you from the pain as he walks, telling you made up stories of a brave adventurer who traveled all over the world to help all sorts of different creatures.

He holds your hand as Uncle Wayne cleans your knees before he puts plasters over your wounds.

"There you go, all done. You're super brave kiddo, don't think I could have handled that." Wayne says, ruffling your hair and Eddie beams at you.

"See? Told you that you were brave!" His enthusiasm was infectious and you giggle, everything right again.

"Kid?" Wayne's voice cuts through to you, his hand gently rests on your shoulder. "You alright?"

"Not supposed to be out of my bed" You confess on a whisper.

"I know, the nurses asked me to try to convince you to head back"

You would scrunch your face up if it wouldn't cause you agony. Wayne just sighs, sitting heavily in the chair next to you.

"Figured it'd be a lost cause" He says, "Been damn near impossible to separate the two of you since you were five"

You can feel more eyes on you than Wayne's and you don't turn, don't want to face them. Not now.

"Didn't think Eds had this many friends" Wayne observed dryly, his eyes darting around the gathered crowed.

"Oh, we're from school!" Dustin's voice says, too loud and too cheery and you tune them out.

You're starting middle school and you couldn't be more scared. You didn't know anyone and Eddie was already a couple years above you and what if you didn't make any friends? What if you couldn't answer any questions and everyone thought you were dumb?

"Stop, stop" Eddie's voice cuts through your worrying, "Look at me, Bug"

His hands are warm on your cheeks and he cradles your face as you look at him. You feel yourself calm as you look into his deep chocolate eyes and he smiles at you.

"You're going to make so many friends and you're going to blow your teachers away with how smart you are, okay? And I'll still be there, we can hang out during lunch!"

"Promise?" Your voice is small, "Promise you'll still want to be my friend?"

"I promise, silly Bug!" His voice is light but you know he means it, "We'll be friends til we get old and wrinkly!"

"And even after that?"

"Even after that"

Wayne comes home to find the two of you curled up asleep on the couch, limbs tangled.

"There you are!" Your nurses voice fills the room, loud, "Should have known you'd be here"

You sigh, knowing she'd make you head back to your own room. For the first time since your company joined you, you lift your head.

Your eyes flicker over them - Dustin, Lucas, Mike, Max, Robin, Nancy, Steve - you're confused as to why most of them were there. Dustin, Lucas and Mike you could understand but the others? You were pretty sure they hadn't spoken to Eddie once before he disappeared.

Their eyes are wide as they take in your bandages and injured state.

"Come on, Honey" Your nurse says, "Gotta head back now"

You shuffle, weight pressed on one leg and you stand but you don't get very far before your injured leg gives out on you. Pain rips through your body and you whimper, your nurse catches you and gently eases you onto the side of the bed.

"I'll get a chair, don't push yourself"

"What happened to you?" Nancy asks and anger flares inside you.

"Does it matter?" You snap.

"Of course it does" Lucas says softly, "You're hurt and you're Eddie's best friend"

Your arm wraps around your middle as the movement of breathing hurts and you sigh.

"Don't know why you lot care but Jason Carver happened to me"

"What?"

You're saved from having to explain further as the nurse returns. She helps you into the chair and pushes you back into your room.

The days pass slowly and you know you're not helping yourself heal as you sneak out of your room, slowly limping your way back to Eddie's side. Wayne sits with you as often as he can, hand holding yours or carefully hugging you into his side.

He never presses, never asks for details as to what happened and you're thankful - not sure if you can handle thinking about it without breaking down.

The others are present often and you still can't work out why they're there - so you don't. You stop thinking about them and let your mind wander when they sit near you.

You turn sixteen, you do your best to help Eddie study but there's only so much you can do when he doesn't care enough to try. You feel disappointment when he turns to dealing to help with their finances but you refuse to let him know that, not wanting to hurt him.

He offers to share a joint with you and you confess you've never done anything like that before and his hands gently rub your biceps.

"It's okay if you don't want to, Bug" He murmurs, "But you know I wouldn't offer If I thought you wouldn't enjoy it"

"I know, I'll do it with you"

He takes your hand and leads you to his room, you watch - stomach flipping as you watch his deft fingers roll the joint. He shows you how to breathe it in and explains how you'll feel.

Thirty minutes later, you're both laying on his bed. You're on your sides, facing each other and fingers brushing.

"I like boys" Eddie whispers and he looks scared, like he didn't mean to let that slip out and you squeeze his hand.

"I like boys too" You say and his lips curl, giggle leaving his lips.

"I. I- um, I like you though" His eyes are half closed and lips are parted slightly, "You're the only girl I like"

"Hmm? You like me, huh?" You're teasing and there's a whisper of a thought a the back of your mind but you can't focus enough to grasp it.

"Yeah" He shuffles closer, nose brushing against yours. Your bodies naturally entwine, legs throwing over the others and arms wrapping around torsos.

"I like you too, Teddy" You breathe, his old nickname slipping from your lips mindlessly.

His lips brush against yours softly and the two of you laugh quietly, lazily kissing until you fall asleep.

"Eddie talked about you" Steve says, breaking you out of your reverie.

"What?"

"Before-" He gestures to Eddie, "We were with him, he talked about you"

You were tired and didn't want to listen, your eyes slip closed.

"He wanted to call you, to tell you where he was - that he was safe but..." He trailed off, "We didn't think it was the best thing to do, to drag you into it"

You couldn't deal with this, to know that they were with Eddie while you were frantic with worry, when you were being-

You shake your head.

You're out with Eddie and you're wagging your eyebrows at a guy and Eddie groans.

"Cute?" You ask, "Want me to talk to him?"

Eddie groans, covering his face with his hands before peeking out from between his fingers. He looks at the guy for a few minutes before nodding slightly.

You grin and saunter over to him, wrapping your arms around his and beaming up at him.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Uh, sure" His voice is smooth and he was charmingly boyish.

"Are you flagging?" You lower your voice and lean in close, he jerks slightly and stares down at you,

"I. Um, I- if I were?"

"I'm asking for my friend"

Your eyes flicker to Eddie and he glances between the two of you, you take his hand and lead him over to your table.

"Eddie this is my new friend!" You say cheerily, happy to be the social buffer for them as they talked.

You didn't mind Eddie sleeping around with guys, happy to cover for him. You knew that while he loved you, there was just something you couldn't give him - and you didn't resent him for wanted to find that with men.

"Hey-" Steve says softly and gently shakes your shoulder, "Come on - you're falling asleep."

"'M awake" You say, stubbornly.

"Did he seriously hot wire a RV?" Dustin's voice cuts through your haze.

"Dustin" Nancy hisses and you don't miss the way she shoots a look in your direction.

Your heart hurts, there was the whole secret event that happened between Chrissy dying and Eddie showing up at the hospital. One that everyone else in the room was privy to except you.

You heave yourself up and gritting your teeth through the pain. You limp out of the room without saying another word.

You're sitting on the side of your bed with tears in your eyes when your nurse walks in for her rounds.

"Coming or going?" She chuckles.

You shake your head and tears roll down your cheeks.

"Couldn't get back into bed" You confess, your voice watery and full of pain.

She doesn't judge you for crying, helping you back into your bed before leaving with a promise of coming back with medicine.

You don't sneak out again.

Wayne visits you before he heads to Eddie's bedside, concern plain on his face. Your parent's don't visit at all, you don't even know if they're alive after the earthquakes.

Your mind is numb, pain a constant companion.

"Bug?" Eddie asks quietly.

"Hmm?" You turn away from the movie and peer up at him, he's chewing his lip and looks nervous, "What's up Eds?"

"Would, could- No, forget it" He sighs, refusing to look at you.

You shift out of his arms, kneeling on the couch beside him. You take his face in between your hands and whisper his name.

"What is it?"

"I, um. I've been with guys before right?" You nod, "But I've never. I've never been with a girl and um, I love you. And I want, can we try?"

"You want to have sex with me?" You clarify, heart beating wildly in your chest.

"Yeah, um. You're the only girl I like, y'know? The only one that does anything for me when I-" He cuts himself off, cheeks flushing.

"You think of me when you get off?" You whisper, he whines and nods slightly, "Eds, I love you with my whole heart, and if you want to have sex with me then I'd be honored but please don't feel like you have to do it"

"I don't!" He shouts, eyes wide and panicked, "I don't, I think about it a lot actually"

"Really?"

"Yeah, you're my girl" He shrugs, like he hasn't just rocked your worldview.

You straddle him and slam your lips onto his. It doesn't take long before he's carrying you to his bed, locking the door behind him. The two of you kiss, pressed close against each other, your fingers buried in his hair.

"If you need to stop, or if it doesn't feel right - you tell me okay?" You pull back, stern.

"I promise"

The two of you help each other slide clothes off in between kisses and soft touches.

"God, you're so fuckin' pretty" He breathes, hands skimming along your body.

"All yours, Eddie" You answer, "Always yours"

"I love you so much"

He presses two fingers into you and bites his lip, you keen softly and rock down onto his hand.

"It's so- You're. So warm and wet" He stutters, cheeks flushed bright red, "Like, warm velvet"

"Good?" You ask, tits bouncing as you pant.

"Good" He nods, "Different but good"

You help him slide into you, gripping the base of his dick and you don't think you'll last long. He stretches you and fills you and you feel him all the way up to your throat.

"Oh god" He's whining, "Fuck, fuck!"

It's sloppy and messy, the two of you bucking into each other and holding tight. Eddie entwines your fingers, pressing your hand against the mattress as he rolls his hips into yours.

"Love you, baby" He breathes against your lips, "Love you so damn much"

You whine and press your fingers against your clit and you shudder around him, clenching down on his cock and he shouts - stuttering and shaking as he spills inside you.

You hold him against you, gently running your fingers through his hair.

"I love you, too" You breathe, feeling content and whole.

Steve starts visiting you in your room. You can't bring yourself to look at him, staring blankly at the roof above you.

He takes your hand, warm palm pressed against yours.

"Are you okay?" His voice is soft and you can hear the concern laced in his tone, "You haven't come over in a few days and Wayne said you're not talking"

You close your eyes, fighting back the tears and pain and panic.

"You don't have to talk to me" He continues, "I know we've never really spoken before but I care about Eddie and with how much he talked about you, I kinda feel like I know you too"

He squeezes your hand softly and talks about nothing in particular.

You listen, eyes closed and breathing evenly. You feel tears seeping out of the corner of your eyes and seeping down your temples.

Steve just talked, fondness for Eddie evident when he speaks of him. He tells you about how Eddie almost died to protect Dustin, to protect Hawkins, to protect you.

You hated that Eddie was hurt, hated that Jason was driven to hunting him and in turn - hunting you, hurting you.

You hated that any of this had happened.

You turn your face away from Steve and do your best to slip away from everything.

You're front and center at The Hideout, cheering Eddie on as he performs with the boys. He's stunning on stage, completely lost in the music. He's sweaty and panting when he finds you after his set, you plant a kiss on his lips.

"You were amazing" You coo and Eddie smiles shyly at you.

"Thank you, baby" He presses kisses all over your face.

The two of you spill into your room, hands and lips wandering and clothes sliding off bodies.

Eddie hovers over you, eyes drinking in your features. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, fingers trailing over your skin.

Your heart expands and you wrap your legs around his waist, holding him close.

"Baby?" He murmurs almost distracted by his task of mapping your face, you hum.

"You don't mind that I see guys do you?"

"No, it'd be hypocritical of me wouldn't it? I go on dates too" You murmur, "You have a lot of love to share Eds, I love that about you"

He noses at your cheek, a soft noise coming from deep in his chest.

"It's just us, yeah? No pressure or anything" You whisper.

"I'll always be yours, til we're old and wrinkly"

"And even after that?" Your laugh turns into a moan as he presses inside you.

"Even after that"

You have more visitors now, they come and sit beside you and talk and you don't listen. You're trapped in your own mind, filled with terror and pain.

You knew you'd be sent home soon, your wounds healing better now that you stopped forcing yourself to walk the corridors.

The nurses gave you soft instructions - use a cane when walking, attend physio for your leg and hand, take your medicine, rest your eye and not to strain it by reading or watching television too much.

Wayne shows up on the day you're due to leave, arms full of your medicine and a change of clothes.

"I haven't been able to get a hold of your parents kiddo" He tells you softly, "I'll take you home and you'll stay with me for now"

You can't bring yourself to protest, to insist you'll be fine so you don't say anything at all.

One you reach Wayne's car, you've broken out in a sweat. Pain laces every breath you take and you feel like throwing up.

Wayne helps you out of the car and you almost sob when he helps guide you as you lower yourself onto Eddie's bed.

"Can I get you anything?" He squats in front of you and you shake your head.

"Alright, I'll bring you some water and-" He glances at his watch, "You can have some more pain killers in a couple hours"

You absently nod and lay down, Eddie's scent washing over you and you lay there.

Time slips away from you and you don't feel tethered to reality. Your mind drifts in nothingness and your body is numb, despite the pain.

You're searching for Eddie, looking in his usual hang outs with little success. You're walking back home when Jason finds you.

"Hey!" He snarls, grabbing your arm and spinning you around to face him.

Your heart jumps into your throat and you try to yank yourself out of his grip.

"Where the fuck is he?" Jason spits at you, his face twisting and contorting with fury.

"I don't know"

Jason's hand grips you tighter, your words making him angrier. He yanks at you, shoving you into his car. You try your best to get away, to break his hold on you but he's too strong.

You panic, beg him to let you go to no avail. He's lost in his fury and if he couldn't get to Eddie, you would have to do.

He pulls up at his house, dragging you into the house.

You wake with a scream tearing from your throat. Your leg throbs, as does your eye - pain shooting through your skull.

You whimper, fear crawling up your throat and your chest tightens. You can't breathe and your vision swims.

Your whole body shakes but there's a steady warmth on your hands and you try to focus on that. You cling to it and then you can see - see Uncle Wayne next to you, hear his soft voice, feel his gentle hands holding you.

It takes a little while but your breathing settles and you don't feel like you could shatter at any moment.

"Do you want to try to sleep some more?" You shake your head, heart beating a little faster at the thought.

"I'll make you a drink" He says and helps you out of bed and the two of you shuffle into the living room.

He presses a warm mug into your hands and you feel something inside you settle as you inhale the smell of hot chocolate.

"I'm sorry Uncle Wayne" You murmur around your mug, eyes rooted to your lap.

"Don't be kiddo" His voice is kind and it makes you want to sob all over again. You hear him shuffling around the tiny kitchen, hear his soft footsteps.

You place your half drunk mug on the table before you fall asleep sitting upright on the couch, chin resting on your chest.

Eddie's wrapped around you, his chest flush against your back. The two of you sway gently as you watch a band play their set.

Eddie's chin rests on the top of your head and you feel so safe, here in his arms. You turn your head, press a kiss on his jaw.

"I'll be back in a second" You say against his skin. He smiles down at you and presses a kiss on your lips before letting you go.

You slip to the bathroom and on your way back you see two guys pointing at Eddie. You move closer and try to make out what they're saying.

"Isn't he the town dealer?" One asks and the other nods.

"We should jump him, take whatever he's got"

And you move before you realize, fist colliding with one of their faces. You're not very strong but your anger fuels you and you slam your fist against their faces again.

Security drags the three of you out, you stumble and catch yourself before you trip.

"Cut it out!" The guard says, "Don't make me call the cops"

You see Eddie rushing out, having seen you practically being carried out of the venue.

"I'm sorry Eddie" You feel ashamed for your quick temper.

He just shakes his head and leads you to the van.

"You wanna tell me why you're beating up random men, now?"

You shrug.

"They were goin' to jump you"

"So you... jumped them first?" You can hear the amusement in his voice and your lips twitch, knuckles aching.

"Was defendin' your honor" You pout and your petulant tone has Eddie cracking, laughter bubbling out of his chest.

"Well, then" He chuckles, "However will I replay you?"

You roll your eyes as he gently takes your hand, kissing your swollen fingers.

You grunt as you climb into the car, muscles seizing and your head sways, vision leaving you for a moment. You close your eyes and breathe as Wayne drives.

"Want me to come in with you?" He asks as he approaches the Hospital.

"It's okay, you need to get to work" You say, voice small as you ready yourself for the incoming pain of having to move.

"Give me a call when you're done and I'll take my lunch, drop you home"

You shake your head, not wanting to be a burden or a nuisance.

"I'll sit with Eddie once I'm done" You offer a weak smile, "No need to go out of your way"

"You sure?" His voice and face betrays his worry for you.

"Yeah, 's good" You shift, opening the door, "See you tonight, yeah?"

"See you later, Kiddo"

Physio was awful. Sweat drips down your back as you attempt to relearn how to use your left hand and build strength back in your right leg.

Tears leaked down your cheeks, and the therapist didn't comment, encouraging you to try again, that you were doing really well.

You limp your way out, pausing at the corridor that would lead you to Eddie. It doesn't take long for you to turn away, to head to the front lobby and call a cab.

You keep your head down and watch out of the corner of your eye houses that blur together, and you find yourself outside your childhood home. Nothing's changed. You limp your way inside, past the walls that hold family photos and artwork, past the rooms that once housed your family and into your room.

You don't take anything in. You carefully lower yourself and sit on the edge. Your eyes are kept focused on your shoes, knowing that just over there are pictures of you and Eddie before, before the world ended and Eddie was wanted and you were carved up.

Darkness cocoons you as you bury yourself into the sheets, blanket wrapped tightly around your head and you sleep. You know that you wouldn't be able to go back to your old life, not with the way that things were.

Days pass you in a blur.

You're not sure how long you've been home for, how many times the phone rang or the doorbell sounded. You eat when your stomach hurts and you do your exercises and take your medicine.

Weeks past without seeing another person, without seeing Eddie. Wayne and Steve, and even some of the kids had tried to get a hold of you - ringing and stopping by but you ignored them all. You knew you were breaking Wayne's heart but you couldn't, couldn't bare looking at Eddie and knowing that he'd blame himself for what Jason did to you. You, secretly, guiltily, didn't want Eddie to look at you and turn away - to not want you anymore.

You're not sure when it happens but you find yourself packing a bag. You slip into your car in the middle of the night and you feel your heart clench as Hawkins disappears in your rear view mirror.

You don't stop for hours, until you're far enough away and you feel comfortable enough to find a motel. The cheap blankets itch your skin as you lay, watching the early morning light as it slowly creeps up the wall. You think about the letter you left for Eddie- you wonder if he'll find it, if he'll read it and how heartbroken he'd be. Your eyes slip closed to the thought of Eddie and you dream of Jason.

You're searching for Eddie, looking in his usual hang outs with little success. You're walking back home when Jason finds you.

"Hey!" He snarls, grabbing your arm and spinning you around to face him.

Your heart jumps into your throat and you try to yank yourself out of his grip.

"Where the fuck is he?" Jason spits at you, his face twisting and contorting with fury.

"I don't know"

Jason's hand grips you tighter, your words making him angrier. He yanks at you, shoving you into his car. You try your best to get away, to break his hold on you but he's too strong.

You panic, beg him to let you go to no avail. He's lost in his fury and if he couldn't get to Eddie, you would have to do.

He pulls up at his house, dragging you into the house. You scream and kick and try to get out but he's tying you to a chair in his garage before you can escape.

"It's all his fault" Jason is snarling and enraged, his face twisted and his hands rough against your limbs.

"He took her from me" He continues, getting into your face and you've never felt so scared as you do looking into his eyes.

"He took her from me so I'll take you from him."

Your screams are ignored as he picks up a knife, as he presses it to your skin.

You wake feeling more tired than ever, the dreams sapping what little energy you have but you press on. Slipping into your car, you do your best to put as many miles between you and well, everything.

Days pass in a blur.

-

My Eddie,

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I'm not there, not with you like I always promised I would be.

Jason took and took and took and nothing is left of me but a memory, and even that will die too.

Thank you for loving me, even when I wasn't lovable.

[unohanabbygirl]

How did those who died before react to the deaths of their family who died later? (I don't know if I make myself understand) for example, how Jacaerys reacted when he found out how his mother died, or Aegon how his mother's end was. also what it was like to find out for Rhaenyra that her youngest children survived but all traumatized.

Everyone’s initial reaction varies but one person who I feel really stands out is Aegon when he found out about how his mother died. Their relationship in the past wasn’t a good one no matter how you look at it with Alicent basically having been forced into the role of being a mother at such a young age. It doomed their relationship as mother and son from the very start.

Though its evident that young Alicent tried her best and did what she thought was right, she never grew to be a good mother towards him. The constant pressure, resentment, and overall lack of being able to relate to him led Aegon to resenting her as well. There was also a huge lack of respect towards her on Aegon’s part due to witnessing the way Otto had control over his mother. This eventually led to him believing that Alicent was just weak rather than seeing her as a victim of her father’s mental and emotional abuse.

Did they love each other? Absolutely. However, neither of them knew how to express that love. Did they like each other? Not at all, and I feel Aegon easily confused Alicent’s dislike of him due to the time in her life he represented as well as the frustration his actions drove her to, for hatred.

I say all of this to say that once Aegon was reborn to a version of Alicent that wanted to do better and actively making it a point to show him love through both words and actions, it changed his own feelings towards her for the better as well. So around 11-12when Aegon was ‘learning’ about the dance in detail, finding out that their deaths hurt Alicent so badly that she went mad with grief was a lot to handle. Learning that she began to hallucinate in her last days and grew to hate the very color she’d always been so proud to wear really took a toll on him. It was the moment Aegon realized that she loved him from the very beginning, only doing what she herself was taught by Otto. Showing love through harsh words and constant criticism rather than through softness and kind words. Its a fucked up way to raise a child, but what else is there to expect with Alicent being a woman raised by the faith with a father like the one she had?

So yes, tween Aegon had a very eye opening moment when he learned about his mother’s death. But he gave her a big hug and kiss when he came home after school so its okay.

As for Nyra, learning about her own childrens trauma was a very sad moment, but history can only recount so little of how deep these issues ran. Yea, we know that Egg wore black for the rest of his days and never smiled, but only he, Daenaera and Viserys knew of just how much mental torment he was suffering in day by day.

It hurt to learn that her boy became known as “Aegon the unhappy” and “Aegon the dragonbane” but part of her refuses to acknowledge the deeper meaning in such names. It hurts to think that her son lived such an unhappy life, so she simply doesn’t (avoidance to help cope. Classic) However, seeing as Egg is still suffering she won’t have any choice but to look deeper as it becomes clear her sons aren’t as okay as she wants them to be.

[gisenchy]

the weight of grief

i’m compiling the different things i’ve written around the internet into one place. i’m currently locked out of my old livejournal, and i don’t have the heart to make a new one. 

There's something to be said about the level of neglect that we grow accustomed to. The level of pain we can stomach before it oozes out of us or explodes like a grenade. I read somewhere that laughter is what happens when your body cannot contain the joy you feel. But what about anger? What about pain? A friend of mine eats a whole cake in one sitting and I wonder: where does it all go? I scroll endlessly through Twitter, Instagram, the news, Youtube, hours upon hours of my time before looking up and wondering where it all went.

Of course, it’s not just my time. It’s also my energy spent. Some days I wake up after an appropriate amount of rest (Though for a millennial, is there anything other than tired?) completely exhausted. Not just sleepy from having woken up, but a sinking feeling in the top of my eyelids that compels them to close. When I’m extra tired, I get this weird metallic taste in my mouth and my body just doesn’t seem to hold any water. I drink two litres of water in one go and my throat will still scream of thirst. I unlock my phone and scroll and scroll and scroll and absorb the information, the grief, the trauma and the pain like a sponge. It's no wonder my body cannot contain water, when there is no room for it. I once told my counsellor that I don't ever want to be known as someone who didn't care, especially about the things that move the world and bring pain to so many people. I use this as a driver to learn and in most cases, unlearn the false ways of the world. His response was that caring does not mean I have to feel angry or sad all the time. He also said that many people probably aren't thinking of me that way or at all, even. The past few weeks I have reneged on my usual diet of information and discomfort to allow myself a little space to breathe. I couldn't cope with the onslaught of death and despair that COVID-19 brought into my home (didn't even stop at the doorstep to knock!) and felt like the shell of a shade of a portion of myself. I needed to protect myself. I wanted to stop feeling so fucking sad all the time. There's an episode of the Bobo & Flex Show wherein the hosts discuss the question: "Would you rather be sad or angry all the time?" Naturally my response was anger. I would just rather be angry. Anger feels like a driving force towards action, a reaction to things unjust and cruel. However, that anger has given way to just an intense feeling of despair as of late, and I fear that the space I had given myself over the past few weeks has dulled my capacity to feel any drive towards change. Sure, I've exhaled a bit and accepted uncertainty, but was that selfish of me to want that? Am I any less empathetic or caring than I was previously, when I consumed and absorbed All Things Bad, because I thought it made me a better person?

What I have learned over the past week is that the unrelenting pace of cruelty and evil in this world never stops. I joke that I have a separate stomach for bread, do I have another body for grief? I grit my teeth, clench my knuckles, blink back my tears, exhale deeply. Where does it all go? It goes anywhere and everywhere. My last reference for you is something plucked from Death of The Endless: everyone knows everything but pretend that they do not to make life tolerable. The world has always been bad; the only difference is that now we can see it clearly, without end. I don't know whether I'd rather be sad or angry all the time; I only know that I want to care. I suppose that is the only thing that makes life tolerable. 

[talokanda-forever]

The weather has been kinda whack here in the West Coast and we're expecting a winter storm for the rest of the week, so we're bracing ourselves for some wind and rain which is very much needed in this drought. I'm doing a lot better today than I was this weekend and I have an extra Claritin with me for emergencies if it gets bad, just in case! I love hearing your thoughts on Son of Monarchs! Tbh I was expecting it to be more dramatic (maybe I've seen too many Filipino dramas and was expecting the theatrics lol), but I do like it was more subtle and subdued. Tbh, I didn't like it much at first because it felt slow. But the more I think about it, the more it sticks with me, and I end up liking it more than I originally thought. It made me think of the recent losses I've had and how I'm handling my grief, and I agree with what you said, it's so interesting to see how Mendel and his brother cope. One thing that stood out to me though was I was surprised how much older his brother was? In the flashbacks they looked like they were maybe a couple years apart, but in present day, his older brother looks so much older than him, I would've thought he was like a tio or another older cousin. And that scene in the hallway- it's expected maybe they'd be blowing up in each other's face and it reminds me of the dynamics I see in my family whenever we argue (especially since my fam are one of the few in the States while the rest of our family is back home in the Philippines), but I do like how again, it was more subtle. It wasn't explosive, and sometimes if it's on the quieter side, it's much more heartbreaking.

Also the tattoo with the butterfly ink ... idk if that'd work in real life, but it took me a while to understand the symbolism behind it and the reasoning Mendel had when he got the tattoos. I thought it was going to be a trail of butterflies all along his arm, but I love how it was fragments of it along his arms, chest, and back. I loved that visual and it was so creative! And it ain't a Tenoch movie if he doesn't have at least one (1) shirtless scene 😉

Ok, this took me WAY too long to respond. Work is still kicking my ass. In fact, I put in a full day today and I don't work weekends. Oof! Anyway, I wasn't really sure what to expect with the movie, but enjoyed it on the first viewing. And if I like a movie, I will watch it multiple times to make sure I'm picking up on all the subtleties. I'm a movie nut so I love doing that. This is one I've seen multiple times. The Mexican cast had the strongest performances. The others were just "meh" for me. Except for the dude playing the tattoo artist. He was awesome. I wouldn't be surprised if he were actually a tattoo artist and not just an actor. I hadn't thought about how much older Mendel's brother looked compared to him, but you're absolutely right. I looked up his age and he's about 11 years older than Tenoch. The characters don't have that much difference in their ages, but him looking older certainly fits. You definitely gets hints that his life in Mexico was much more taxing than Mendel's life as a biologist. Plus, having gone through AND remembering his childhood trauma certainly wouldn't help. I really do enjoy movies that incorporate symbolism. Probably because I also like solving puzzles. And yes, I thought it was creative the way they did his tattoo. Oh, and Tenoch gorgeous as hell and shirtless is the icing on the cake. 😁

[mirabel-on-a-bicycle]

@missbolt 😭😭🫂♥️

And I can't say this enough. Wille in grief is something that's done so so right here. (please go through the tws at the end)

Erik dying wasn't just some plot point that Lisa was done and had over with just to raise the stakes for Wille. His absence is always there, creeping up on Wille when he least expects it. When he's enjoying himself at a party, when he's with Boris, when he's being dragged away, even more painfully so when he's at the castle. Every. single. time. He can't fucking escape it.

And yea sometimes grief is one big cathartic release, but sometimes, when the emotion is so overwhelming and so beyond the body's capacity to process it, it is unfeeling numbness, a total shut down.

Like, this UW counselling centre article breaks down the 5 stages of grief into its behavorial patterns, and... do you see how Wille coded it is??

(the rest of it is also very telling of how he deals with the grief of losing Simon as well)

@darktwistedgenderplurall !!! I think you're so so right about Wille having survivors guilt, cuz your story shows how great a motivator it can be to do something life altering that the person might not have done otherwise, how it can even last someone an entire lifetime :(

And that made me wonder... is Wille even aware of how much he subconsciously masks his grief? Because this much is clear. Wille's mind actively tries to protect him the only way it knows, by processing all that grief in little pieces over time.

(Maybe that's why it makes so much sense that he still feels so much, that he acts the way he did with the snow globe, and that even years down the line, he'd be going about his day, and boom suddenly he'd remember that his brother died. And after a couple minutes of thinking about how his brother must've felt then, or maybe right before in the car, or during the phone conversation they'd had, and a thousand what ifs later, he'd continue with his day again.)

How young royals portrays Wille's grief is revolutionary. Not a single verbal reaction the moment Erik died, or even during the funeral. But it made a point to show that it'd stay with him forever.

[oki so i had completely forgotten about this in the drafts but i just read 'The Thing in the Mirror', a fic by @zee-has-commitment-issues and after like an hour of trying to recover from how absolutely. BEAUTIFUL. it was I realised that she just really really gets it and puts it into much better words than i ever could so go give it a read i beg u]

(tw: mentions of grief and coping with it. article tws: mentions of trauma, police brutality, alcohol and drug consumption. fic tw: pure unfiltered sadness.)

It's as if he felt trapped in that moment...

...just like the frog

[khonshoe]

i wanna talk about post-series marc

thinking about how tired he was during his service to khonshu, how he hoped he’d be killed by the people he was dealing khonshu’s justice to. thinking about his promise to steven—that he’d disappear after his work for khonshu was complete. 

it occurred to me that, with how fiercely marc fights to protect and insulate steven from khonshu and his work, it’s unlikely marc would have attempted suicide that night in khonshu’s temple if steven was around. (or perhaps he wanted to end things quickly—make sure he didn’t risk steven fronting during their death.) but during the show? when steven is active and fronting often? marc makes it his mission to protect steven regardless of the cost to himself. 

however, i also believe that steven becoming active gave marc an out—a way of dying while keeping steven safe. 

while marc and steven develop a shared understanding of each other during the show, once marc is finally free (for the most part) from khonshu’s manipulation i don’t think his suicidal tendencies just… go away. because that’s not how mental illness works, and because marc is someone who has deeply rooted issues of self-hatred and lacking self-worth.

marc would never harm the body permanently—wouldn’t risk harming steven. but i think as the dust settles, he becomes… a little distant. maybe it starts with him letting steven front more often. spends an increasing amount of time in their headspace, especially when he’s going through a rough patch. excusing his absence as ‘taking time off’ or ‘resting’ now that he has the chance. then, becoming less active even in the headspace. trying to fulfill his promise to steven in a way, trying to subtly fade away. not quite dying but not living either. 

but steven would notice. and he wouldn’t let marc waste his life, would urge marc to break his self-imposed and try to heal. 

speaking of healing. i don’t think steven would push marc to get therapy, not after marc’s behaviour in the duat psych ward. and marc would undoubtedly have shown incredible reluctance when it comes to seeking professional help. while i believe steven would seek therapy—not for their did (i doubt marc would be comfortable with that given his psychiatric trauma) but for his grief for wendy—i don’t think marc would ever be present during those sessions. 

however, marc knows he needs help and i do believe he’d seek help even if it takes a little push. and i believe that little push would be couples counselling. 

awful coping mechanisms aside, marc and layla have a really strong and healthy marriage. layla is incredibly respectful of marc’s boundaries but she affirms her own when she’s upset or disagrees with him. they are equals and they clearly love each other deeply. i have no doubt that they will fix their marriage. however, the problems they need to work through are sensitive. marc’s trauma is a landmine field, and layla’s struggling with her own resurfaced trauma on top of the pain marc put her through and her grief at the extent of the  lack of openness in their relationship. not to mention the divorce letters that were probably his suicide note to her (better to make her think he’s alive and no longer loves her, than make her endure the loss of someone she cares for so deeply.) it’s probably going to take more than talking and working things through on their own to fix their relationship. 

hence, couples counselling. 

it’s probably stressful enough that marc might struggle to sit through full sessions because of his trauma. but i believe it’d be manageable enough that he’d be able to actually unpack the issues that need to be addressed in a healthier way, and learn to communicate better with layla. it would also be a sort of exposure therapy for him too, a way for him to adjust to professional help and build up to seek the form of therapy he actually personally needs.

tldr; i’m totally normal thinking about how marc is doing post series.

[burgundy-and-navy]

and now for my thoughts on paul coker (and ben)

There are few soap opera deaths that have been handled as well long term as paul cokers, especially considering he was a secondary character. I really liked paul and I liked him and ben together, despite the turmoil that defined the beginning of their relationship they were sweet together. Do I think it would have worked out long term, who knows, the point is they never got the chance to find out, paul died in such a horrific manner. And boy did eastenders turn the knife. There are a bunch of details from those episodes that keep me up at night: i love the scenes between phil and ian as they wait; the hug between ben, kathy and phil always gets to me and there's something so visceral about seeing a bloody ben pressed against kathy's pristine white jacket; there's the way at the start of the episode les leaves a cup of tea outside paul's door and at the end has to tip it out because paul is never coming home; everything about the tattoos makes emotional (and i know it wasn't a proper engagement or whatever, but you don't get that tattoo there if you're not thinking that this is the person you want to spend forever with, they were a promise, a commitment); and then there's the fact that the last time we ever saw paul alive he was walking off holding ben's hand and then he died and the last time we saw them together at all ben took his hand as paul lay in the backroom of coker's. It is all devastating, but its about the way they continually show that paul's death fundamentally changed ben.

It defines ben's development for the rest of 2016. There's the immediate grief, his relationship with pam and les, his desire for revenge (because once again this is how the mitchell's were taught to deal with emotions) and phil talking him down!! (and its such an interesting time for the ben and phil relationship because phil is trying and he's better than he has been but it's still not good enough and its pretty bad when grant is the one to tell him he has to go to the funeral). And the grief informs how he reacts to phil's illness, the fact he can't bear to lose anyone else and is trying to distance himself by the end of the year, but not being able to fit in with the beales either. So he's adrift from both sides of his family, and the fact that this life that he made himself, with the boyfriend and the flat and the family was taken away from him in the space of a night (and don't think about that one too much).

in 2017 we see the renewal of grief during his 21st as he's reminded of the plans they made, and there's a over a year until he tries dating again and we get the introduction of the ring. Even in 2018 he kisses the ring before he leaves walford.

Then there's 2019. And the writing for ben gets so much better once eastenders introduces the vulnerability to ben by acknowledging both the full complexity of his relationship with phil and his ongoing grief over paul. And there's the scene between callum and ben with the headband, and the amazing flatwarming monologue and eastenders sets up the fact that ben telling callum about paul is this massive show of vulnerability and intimacy. And its the fact that during pride ben is playing with paul's ring before stuart comes in and attacks him. But this all tends to be grief, its in july when we see more of the trauma and the ways he tries to cope. It's not just the fact paul died, but that ben feels infinitely responsible. And he self-harms by provoking those blokes because he feels guilty and thinks he deserves it (and this directly parallels a scene in the aftermath of stella when phil goes out starts a fight because he can't feel with the grief and guilt over ben being hurt). We see that trauma every time he says he's going to ruin callum, the disaster date (all it takes is a mention), the christmas break up, even before the marriage.

And then there's 2021 and we see the grief and the trauma and the mitchell way of dealing with big emotions, and we also see these things in relation to callum and phil. Firstly max bowden's line reading of all we was doing was holding hands is absolutely devastating (did not know how many more devastating line readings were to come). But this is the first time we see callum kind of fail when it comes to paul. Don't get me wrong he's lovely and the speech about knowing how much ben loved him is so good. Callum is really good at dealing with paul's death as something tragic in ben's life. He doesn't know how to deal with it as something traumatic, something that challenges ben's ability to think rationally. Promising to get simon's details was a mistake, a well meaning one but that was never going to end well. Callum does his best, he stops ben leaving, but he is out of his depth which isn't a bad thing, it's just a thing. This is callum's first relationship, he had this almost fairytale story (until this year) where he met this guy who changed his world, he married the first person he ever really loved. He is a romantic, look at the about of declarations, the whole I spent half my life looking for something. But having ben mitchell be your first relationship is a bit like being thrown in the deep end. He has insecurities over ben's sexual history and he has no real idea of what being in a relationship means (hence all the ultimatums) and he is with someone who, bless him, has some issues. It's like a really awful sneak peek at what's to come. But phil was able to get through to ben, by listening. Callum went in with the you need to change you're behaviour, no you can't go after simon. Phil went in with if you need this that's okay but lets take a moment (sometimes phil is good). Ben responds when he thinks people are listening to him and understanding him.

And then there's 2022, the most explicit way of addressing the fact that yes ben does have ptsd over paul's death (give ben an onscreen diagnosis you cowards) and that no callum isn't great at dealing with it. And it's not just paul, when ben says he's scared that goes back decades, but paul is treated like the defining trauma in ben's life at this point (or at least the one he can openly talk about, hi stella). And we get flashbacks, and nightmares, and an inability to take care of himself given he was seen wearing his dressing gown in the middle of the day, and trying to find any way to keep callum safe, keeping his distance and when that doesn't work going on the attack (don't love the vigilantism story, bit messy, but the idea works). And i love the way they explicity address with both pam and callum that ben built a narrative for himself that if only they didn't get split up, paul would still be alive because he could have done something (because he's the hard man, he's phil mitchell's son) and really its just another way to feel guilty but it also was his way of dealing. And when he couldn't protect callum that narrative the he desperately held onto was ripped to shreds. And Callum is good in the beginning, but I think he ends up just getting tired of it. This isn't the romantic story he wants for them so he stops listening and starts with the ultimatums and the posters. Again he can deal with paul as something tragic, but not as something traumatic, so he kind of manipulates ben into changing his behaviour. He continually tells ben to get over it, like that's something he can do (don't get me wrong he can heal but that's different).

Enter Lewis. And once again the show remembers that ben telling someone about paul is the greatest act of vulnerability, intimacy and trust ben can show someone and that moment, in the club when lewis asks if he lost someone, makes me feel a little ill. But lewis said he was sorry for his loss and callum tells him to get over it. And still when it comes down to it ben chooses callum.

[emerald-chaos]

Daydream

**gif not mine! credit to the owner**

So, I couldn't help myself. This is a continuation of my previous Bucky fic Insomnia because I just really enjoyed the dynamic between Bucky and the reader. I had a lot of fun writing this part and I love building things up between the two of them. If you guys like this or are interested in seeing more - please let me know! I love talking with people and hearing their ideas and such.

Much love xo.

Pairing: Reader x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 2079

Warnings: cursing, struggles with mental illness, mentions of sex (nothing entirely explicit but better safe than sorry), alcohol use, and really poorly written jokes lmao

Fingers threaded into hair.

Hot, opened-mouth kisses marking every surface of your neck.

Nails trailing down his back leaving raised, red lines in their wake.

“Oh my god,” you groaned as you let your head fall back and continued to rock your hips into the man in front of you.

Strong hands tighten their hold on your hips, sure to leave purplish-blue bruises for the morning.

“C’mon, baby,” he grunted, face buried in your neck as he helped your body to grind against his, “I got you. Let go, fuck, let go for me.”

A pair of slender fingers snapped in front of your line of sight, tearing you from your daydream and bringing you harshly back to reality.

“Hmm, what was that?” You blinked a few times before you turned your attention to the redhead who you, apparently, had been having a conversation with.

“Are you serious?” She laughed, “I’ve been talking for the past 10 minutes! I looked over and you had that far off, glossy look in your eyes. Not to mention you’re bleeding.”

A hand found its way to your lower lip and you realized she was right. You had been so lost in wet dreamland that you chewed a layer of skin off of your lip. You hoped she didn’t notice the heat rising in your face as you cleared your throat, grabbing a tissue from the coffee table.

“Sorry,” you muttered, pressing the tissue against your injured lip, “guess I got lost in thought.”

“Is it one of those flashbacks again?” She asked kindly, facial expression softening.

You nodded quickly, knowing fully well that the statement was a lie. Your gaze drifted over the woman’s shoulder to the subject of your previous thoughts. It would be easier to explain the common occurrence of your PTSD than it would be to explain that you were reminiscing on the hot, steamy, passionate sex you had the night before.

Bucky was situated across the room, leaning against the counter as he talked to Rogers and Wilson. The unfortunately tight, black, short-sleeve t-shirt he was wearing left nothing to the imagination. It accentuated every muscle of the body you had gotten to know so intimately not more than 10 hours ago. His muscular arms were crossed at his chest and he was sporting his signature scowl. Everything about the sight sent a shiver down your spine. You finally had a taste and you wanted more.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Your friend’s voice gained your attention once more.

A small smile found its way to your lips as you met her gaze again. Apart from Bucky, Nat had always been a good trauma buddy of yours. From the beginning she had been someone you felt like you could confide in and someone who would understand your troubles. Sometimes you wondered if a requirement of joining the avengers was to have a fucked up, tragic backstory.

“I’m okay, Nat.” You reassured, “Just got lost in my head again.”

“Whatever you say. Maybe the party tonight will help you get your mind off of things,” She mused as she pushed herself from the couch to stand up. She paused briefly before she turned to you again, “you are coming, right?”

“Yeah,” you snorted, “Tony actually threatened me if I didn’t go this time, so, I guess I have to.”

After the last party you skipped out on, Tony cornered you in the hallway and gave you quite the interrogation. Then he went on a spiel about how staying in your room all day and all night was bad for you and that if he didn’t know better he would think you weren’t appreciative of what he’d done for you and blah, blah, blah. Tony really was a good person underneath all that hair gel. All he wanted was to help you break out of your shell and give you the family he knew you were lacking. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be a pushy asshole.

“Good, I’ll see you there. I’m sure Barnes will too.” A devilish grin painted her lips as she watched your jaw drop. Before you had a chance to say anything she was off down the hallway.

Fuckin’ Natasha.

*******

A pile of clothes littered your bed as you slipped another dress over your form. Not once in your life had you ever been concerned about what you were wearing or what you looked like, but there was something about tonight that made you want to turn heads. Your eyes raked down your figure as you twisted from side to side, admiring the way the black dress hugged your body in all the right places. Not to mention the thigh high slit in the dress showed off probably the only body part you weren’t self-conscious about. Tony, being the theatrical and over the top man he was, once said that you shouldn’t show up to his parties if you weren’t dressed to court a royal or to bring a man to his knees. Guess you were shooting for the latter.

As you put the finishing touches on your look for the evening, you felt that familiar heavy feeling settling into your chest. Your body always had a tendency to go into fight or flight mode when you became too familiar with anything or anyone. It felt like every fiber in your body was screaming for you to retreat into sweats and stay in your room, to not allow yourself this opportunity to enjoy the people you’d grown so close to. You know what happens when you let people in.

Grief, trauma, coping - it made it really difficult to live a “normal” life. Everyday tasks are daunting, it can be next to impossible to have intimate friendships or relationships, and not to mention the intrusive thoughts that infect your mind on a daily, if not hourly, basis. Here you were, the happiest you’d been in years. You were finally in a place where you felt loved, comfortable, safe - and yet your mind was trying to self-sabotage again.

You took a moment to close your eyes and take several deep breaths. When you opened your eyes you locked eyes with your reflection in the mirror and made a pact with the girl staring back at you. The intrusive thoughts and self-doubt couldn’t continue to have a hold over you anymore. You gave yourself a small smirk and nod as you made the decision to throw caution to the wind and give the party a try. What’s the worst that could happen?

*******

Come to find out, the worst that could happen would be your competitive nature overcoming the rational, thinking part of your brain; which in turn would lead you to enter in a drinking contest. Thankfully a small portion of your pink, smooth brain was still functional enough to tell you when you’d reached your limit. Now you sat comfortably on the couch, legs tucked underneath you as you joyfully watched your friends argue.

“Dr. Banner, my friend, you are one of the most intelligent people I know. However, you are wrong.” Thor stated simply as he finished the rest of his drink.

“Thor, for the last time, water is not wet!” Bruce retorted, throwing his hands up in frustration.

You let out a loud snort before thinking, “Oh yeah, water. I should drink some water.”

Your feet planted themselves on the floor and slipped back into your pair of shoes. As you made your way to the kitchen you were pleasantly surprised by your balance and coordination, considering how much alcohol you’d consumed. Seems that drinking with Thor has done wonders for your tolerance.

While you were busy searching the refrigerator for a bottle of water, you were also oblivious to the soft sound of footsteps coming into the kitchen. After retrieving the beverage, you closed the door and turned to leave. Instead, you turned right into the chest of a figure that was definitely not there a moment ago. You yelped as you clutched a hand over your chest dramatically, your face filled with horror as though you’d just come face to face with the grim reaper.

“Jesus Christ, Barnes!” you scolded.

Bucky was holding his abdomen as he leaned back, consumed with laughter at your reaction. You huffed and wanted to be offended, but he looked so damn cute laughing that you couldn’t help but join him. You pushed his chest playfully and grumped as you hopped up to sit on the counter, opening the water to gulp about half of it down. Bucky couldn’t help but grin at your pouty state as he finished up his laughing fit.

“My apologies, sweets. Didn’t realize I’d be makin’ ya scream twice in one day.” He teased, grinning even wider as he did so.

Your jaw dropped at the comment, quickly looking around to make sure no one else was in the kitchen to hear what he had said. After seeing that the coast was clear you kicked your foot at him out of annoyance, only for his metal hand to catch it smoothly. The two of you locked eyes, motionless for a moment before he moved closer, sliding his hand from your ankle to your thigh. In the moment, you damned yourself for choosing this particular dress. The closer he got, the faster your breathing became. The contrast between his cold embrace and your flushed, warm skin sent a shiver down your spine. Abandoning the water bottle, you ran your hands up his abdomen and chest until they rested on his shoulders. Following a small nudge from his knee, you parted your legs to allow him space to stand between them. The heat in your face at an all time high as he pressed his flesh hand to your cheek.

“Haven’t been able to stop thinkin’ about you.” Bucky whispered as he stroked the apple of your cheek with his thumb. Each word that left his lips had you feeling way more intoxicated than any liquor you’d had all night.

As quickly as it started, his touch was gone and his back was turned as he opened the fridge. Before you had a chance to open your mouth to ask what the hell just happened, Tony was entering into the kitchen.

“Well, well, well. Surprised to see you here, Annie.” Tony beamed as he laid eyes on you.

Yes, Tony had nicknamed you after little orphan Annie. Yes, he also referred to himself lovingly as Daddy Warbucks. Yes, any person in their right mind would probably be offended, but you were just fucked up enough that you found it kind of hilarious.

“Wish I could say that it’s a pleasure, Tony.” You grumped back, upset that you’d been cockblocked and by Tony no less.

“Never lose that spunk, kid.” Tony winked as he turned to see Bucky retreating from the fridge with a beer in hand. “Inspector Gadget! Good to see you too.”

As much as you didn’t want to encourage him, you couldn’t help but laugh. Much to your dismay, Bucky simply raised his bottle to Tony as if to say “cheers” and padded out of the kitchen.

“He has such a way with words.” Tony teased as you rolled your eyes.

A sigh left your lips as you slipped off the counter and back onto the floor, muttering a “goodnight” before leaving the kitchen and heading back to your room. Although you wanted nothing more than to find Bucky and finish what he had started in the kitchen, you came to the conclusion that you were probably too drunk and definitely too tired.

Back in the comfort of your bedroom, you went about your normal nighttime routine. As you exited the bathroom, you couldn’t help but notice a piece of paper that had been slipped beneath your door. Grabbing the paper from the floor and plopping back onto your soft mattress, you opened it to read the note that was scribbled in black ink.

Never got the chance to tell you how gorgeous you looked tonight. Gotta say, I’m a big fan of that dress.

Sweet dreams.

- B.

When you finished the note, it felt as though you were floating on cloud 9. Even when you laid your head down and tried to welcome sleep, Bucky’s words were still replaying in your head over and over again - like they were lyrics to your new favorite song.

Turns out you were down for Bucky Barnes, and you were down bad.