#i wrote it finally IM SO SORRY

[sxngjinkai-mp]

devil by the window

@mphaoyu

sungjin was doing his usual writing. it had been another usual day, with usual people and usual occurrences. how dully cliche! he was literally writing about how bored he was of cliches and how he wanted a new one-- but then it wouldn't be a cliche. how paradoxical. it was a fun chain to try and undo, making new cliches. by definition, by their own design, cliches cannot be new.

he hardly knew what the fates had in store for him today. the inciting incident of something he would never, ever forget-- a series of events that would shape the man he would become five, ten, twenty years down the line. a man to meet who would rock his world, and then tear it apart to its bare skin and bones. someone who would bare his soul to the elements and leave it in the dust.

a shadow approached, then footsteps. someone was standing in his periphery now. leaned over him, his pen, his writing, his notebook. "excuse me," sungjin said, scooting down the bench and away from the stranger. "this is private. can i help you with something?"

[gammija]

AU in which Jon took back the lighter from Georgie in 199, so they didn't start burning down the tower while Martin was talking to him, and that particular ending for the two of them doesn't come to pass. While Jon is up in his obsidian tower and the gang is trying to figure out what to do now, Martin can't help but exhaust all options that don't involve killing the Pupil of the Eye... including ones that involve spiders.

finally admitted to myself that this one is never gonna get finished so i cleaned it up a tiny bit for yall to enjoy. you can carbon date the age of this by all the small style and design changes :')

[plutoons]

Patty. Pleaaseeee tell me more and doodle more about patty please.

thinks about patty and swoons and gets sick in the head… 🫡 i got you mate patty doodles for you + some of my Thoughts in tags

[ghostyuri]

the cut that always bleeds

pairing…rain carradine x fem!reader x ellie williams

in which…ellie doesn’t seem to have time for you anymore; rain does.

before you read…angst + fluff. full transparency this comes forward very rain x reader! don’t count how many times you see the word ‘moon.’ pretend theres no errors challenge. also pls no one get mad at this it’s just a little (4k count) gay story. . .

you’re cold.

the bonfire is blazing before you, and you’re cold. rain is sitting by your side, just barely providing you the warmth you crave— but ellie is a deep void that’s sucking it from you, sucking the joy from you that your other friends have. 

she’s occasionally sparing you glances over the flickering fire, and every time your eyes meet, there’s something behind them. but she pulls away, devoting her attention to the girl beside her, forgetting you’re there. 

you’re not sure what you’ve done— why she got bored of your friendship and seemingly dropped it for another. not that she couldn’t have other friends, you just take notice when someone else is prioritized over you. and it's not a nice feeling.

she doesn’t hang out with you anymore, endless excuses that are so fucking lame that you don’t even bother arguing against them. your patrols are awkward, always quiet like you’re waiting for the other to start a conversation, but neither of you do.

what could you talk about? you selfishly don’t want to hear about the details of her life without you present in it. you miss that— her, more than anything.

but you know she’s happy, her face flushes hues of pink with each interaction with the brunette. she looks nervous around her, picking at the right things to say before they roll off her tongue. that’s how you know it’s a crush— you were once the same. not now.

you feel a weird resentment. it’s not anger, but annoyance, wondering when or if she would notice you’re no longer her shadow, and if it would bother her.

rain notices the inability you have to show a smile, her sister's singing slowly comes to a bittersweet end.

she leans closer to you while your friends whistle at ellie, her head lowering in embarrassment, a habit you found cute.

“you good?”

you turn your head, meeting her blue eyes, swallowed by concern and her hand finding your knee out of habit when things are wrong. it’s not even a question that you had to answer because she knew. you tell her an easy lie, “yeah…just tired.”

she believes it, you think, nodding in return.

“do you��want me to bring you home?” she shyly offers, neither of you paying attention to the green irises locked in on you. ellie didn’t care for whatever relationship you and rain shared— she loves you both and that’s that. but, you were her friend first. 

you were the new kid that enjoyed sitting quietly with ellie in the comfort of her garage, rain was more sociable and almost too kind for you, at the time. now, of course you adore it. you love that rain spends her company with you, caring for you, admiring you. she had a way of making you forget everything else, and more importantly, ellie.

so, ellie can’t help but feel the tugging of her heart, while you’re tugged away from her. and she doesn’t even care to realize, she had placed the first brick, and built the wall between you. 

she’s not a perfect person. but that’s not what you wanted from her or expected. you just wanted her there, with you, not near you as someone you used to know.

rain catches you in your head again.

“hm?” she hums, a gentle squeeze on your knee realizing you let her question linger with no response. you nod, wanting nothing more than the fresh air from the forest than the heavy smoke surrounding you, suffocating you the same way ellie did.

rain gets up, and you copy, now capturing the eyes of your friends. “we’re ready to crash,” she announces, an exchanged look with ellie that you don’t read into, “don’t stay out too late, kids.”

you two ignore the groans, rain rolling her eyes with a ‘yeah, yeah,’ as you walk away together. 

the dirt path darkens the farther you get away from the fire, only the moon providing light for you. it casts an eerie yet lovely shadow over the tall trees, dead with orange leaves clinging to their branches. they crunch and crumble beneath your feet, both of you finding peace at the noise. 

when you turn to rain, she’s watching the moon— intently, as it could disappear at any given moment. 

it’s sweet, her fixation, you wish you could take her camera and snap a photo of her for yourself. to hang above your bed the way she does with her favorite pictures…quite a few of you. then her head turns to you, and yours turns away, to your dirt-covered shoes. 

“what?” 

“hm?”

“you’re staring, y/n.” 

“am not.”

rain laughs quietly, your face burning with heat at getting caught. it’s not the first time, but it’s the first time she’s dared to point it out. you can’t help that her features are really fucking pretty, mirroring ellie in that sense. and that when she’s super focused, her lips part an inch and her eyes narrow in, and she looks adorable. 

rain changes the topic, her tone now serious, “sooo…wanna tell me what’s up?”

you bite your tongue, literally and figuratively, not having the courage to confess that her sister is the storm cloud above your head and the boulder weighing you down. again, she notices, because of course she does, and quickly talks again, “im sorry—i didn’t—you just seem off.”

rain is mentally cursing herself for how far from smooth her words come out, not sure how to help you in the way she desperately wants to. she wouldn’t push for you to tell her anything you weren’t comfortable with, and that’s often what made communicating to rain so easy.

just, not with this, not this time.

“gotta headache,” you give yet another short lie, hoping it goes over her head. it doesn’t, not completely, but she accepts it. rain nods, the silence between you two only lasting for a few seconds before she speaks again, “ellie’s singing that bad, huh?” 

the joke finally gets a soft laugh from you, rain feeling satisfied she earned it from you, that it causes her lips to tug upward. now it’s her turn to stare, to observe the beauty in you that she finds in the moon, how despite the internal turmoil you’re enduring, you still manage to radiate such light. 

she doesn’t blink. not until she steps on a twig, and swallows the air, redirecting her gaze forward again. it’s a weird feeling…in a daze from you. it’s forbidden, you have only ever been friends, ellie had basically built your friendship over a series of game nights as a trio.

how could she cross a line that has been firmly in place for years? would you cross it?

she goes quiet the rest of the way home, and you don’t have the energy to make a conversation, so it’s just the chirping from the insects and the occasional blowing of the wind. you don’t mind it.

when you successfully sneak back into the walls of jackson, rain continues to walk you back to your place, all the way up the steps to your porch and standing idly in front of the door. 

“well…” rain starts, looking up from her white and red sneakers to your face, “i hope you feel better—your head, i mean—if not you should head to the infirmary, just in case, you know.”

she’s so doting you almost consider her words, the lie you created falsely slipping into a short reality, and you nod. “yeah, yeah, will do that.”

“cool, yeah, okay,” rain’s voice is above a whisper, almost forgetting this is the part where she walks away. that’s until you pull away from the moment first, something of a tight-lipped smile on your face that was practically saying goodbye to her, opening your door. 

when it shuts, rain lets out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding, lingering on your doorstep for a few passing seconds, before forcing herself to leave.

and as if you jinxed it, there’s a subtle pounding on your temple when you strip from your outdoor clothes, but you couldn’t blame that on the wires in your brain. 

it was the heavy, so fucking loud, and obnoxious thoughts of ellie. how dina is probably cuddled into her side while you’re going to sleep in your lonely bed. you don’t like feeling alone like this, just moments prior you were fine— you had rain at your side. 

you wish you invited her in; and that she’d lay by you with enough space in your platonic comfort zones. she would happily do so, and she wouldn’t leave you until you fell into a slumber when she knew you were at ease. 

you fall asleep picturing that, picturing her.

the next few days are surprisingly, easy.

it’s easy to numb the hurt from ellie with the presence of rain, and she was making herself your shadow. lunch at the tipsy bison, leading you to the back where you’re tucked away from everyone else. it was nice, it was intimate. other evenings when the sun is setting and she’s at your door, the sky casting an orangish glow on a certain angle of her face that makes her look like she descended from heaven itself. 

she'd come with goodies from the greenhouse she spent most of her time in, taking the uglier veggies and fruits that she had grown and making a meal out of them with you, for you. she was taking care of you in every sense of the word, not allowing a frown to fall upon your face.

today was different, though.

you didn’t attend the bar and she didn’t show up on your doorstep. instead, you’re in her bedroom— the smell of wood filling your senses from her rustic furniture, making the room feel cozier. a bubble from the outside world you never wanted to pop.

you're sifting through her latest collection of polaroids, mostly— no, entirely —of the moon in its different stages. you don't point that out, though, you don’t find it repetitive. you smile lightly, your fingertips tracing the edges of the glossy photographs. rain observing your face as she mirrors you, sitting crisscrossed parallel to you on her bed.

“i know it’s not super exciting—“ she says, almost apologetic, downplaying the actual excitement she had when she pulled the stack from out of her nightstand to show you. “i just think she’s pretty.”

you’re eyeing one of the blurry ones, making an illusion that there were two moons; two bright, almost ethereal orbs hanging in the sky, like they're celestial twins. you hum, taking it in, then glancing up at her, her expression soft but expectant, she's been watching you closely this whole time. curious, you ask, “she?”

“oh,” her lips curl slightly, a tenderness, maybe shyness, to her voice when she swallows then speaks again, “people in the old world used to think the moon was—well, is, a feminine symbol—sorta like a connection, i guess. and…just look at her…she’s…”

rain trails off, and you don’t seem to notice how her dark pupils are deeply set on your face, like she was trying to remember each outline, catching herself fading from the conversation and into you.

“she's just...always there...and always different—but always beautiful," she gulps, shrugging, afraid you're losing interest, “i don't know...i guess i just like that idea.”

you feel crazy for thinking there's something else to her words, something that makes your skin flush, but you blame it on the intimate atmosphere. you hum again, letting the silence settle between you two, but the air just seems to grow thick, a subtle tension building in that moment. not bad, just...different.

when you're done admiring the photographs, your gaze drifts to hers. she clears her throat, and your heart pounds in your chest. she talks first after building the courage.

“do you...” rain begins, her voice wavering slightly, but she manages to push through it. “do you wanna go to the bonfire tomorrow?”

“tomorrow? i didn’t know they planned that,” you say, wondering why her simple words and question have a weight behind them, a half inviting and half uncertain look on her face. like she's desperate for you to say yes.

but, you're already trying to come up with a reason to why you’re about to decline. things have been okay. you don’t need to be there, around ellie, and slip away again.

rain shakes her head, “they didn’t. i just thought, maybe you and i…”

your breath gets caught in your throat. it's not a typical gathering, it's rain wanting to be with you, and just you. she can tell you're caught off guard, her mouth opening, “it’s totally cool if you don’t—”

“no, yeah, we can,” you agree in the most nonchalant way you can, like the warmth isn't spreading through your chest by the mere idea. rain is not a rebel, not in the same sense that ellie was, and already took hesitation to your group sneaking out; she is making an exception for you.

she doesn’t reply, chewing her cheek to prevent the grin ready to flash, and to distract herself from overthinking it.

and then, she ruins the moment.

“by the way…ellie has been asking about you.”

damn it.

“she has?” your stomach flips, rain catching the glimpse of hope in your eyes, but it doesn’t last, not when you continue to speak again. “we haven’t been…”

“i know,” rain says softly, “that’s why she—”

“she’s busy these days,” you cut rain off, the feeling of comfort that ellie still cares, not able to overpower the bitterness you hold. going through her sister, to reach you? pathetic. she could spare five minutes from her dina-centered days to simply check in on you.

you add, “and i’ve been busy, too.”

with rain. she nods, letting it end there.

rain loves her sister, obviously, but she’s aware of her screw-ups that sometimes involve the ones she cares about. and as much as rain had a habit of figuring out her family and friend's problems, she couldn’t, not with this, not with whatever was going on between you. 

ellie will cross that bridge when she comes to it. and so will you. the best she could do was simply be there when you two needed her. 

and you need her.

the next night, rain had shown up at your doorstep the very moment jackson had gone dark. hair neatly tucked half up, adorned in that crimson jacket of hers, smelling like a mix of the clementines she grows in the greenhouse and the generic soap she slathered on her body. a scent that reminds you you’re okay.

rain was making simple conversation on the trail there, still on alert for any possible unwelcome eyes or visitors in the surrounding woods, whenever her eyes weren’t on you. the moon is full, and you look beautiful. she almost said that, but decided against it.

when you approach the clearing, it is an odd feeling to be there without hearing ellie’s honey voice sing a familiar song, the crack at a smile on her face if her eyes would land on you…that was a while ago, though. 

you barely sigh, watching rain tug off her backpack and bend over, getting the fire started while you sit on an empty log. you wait, bouncing your knee before you interrupt the silence. “it’s quiet.”

fantastic observation, y/n. rain spares you a glance, “that’s a good thing— means it’s just us.”

though she had meant it in the sense you’re safe, there’s an edge to her voice that makes your skin flush, and your heart thuds a little harder than you care to admit.

it is the most intimate setting when rain successfully gets the fire to spark, poking at it until it grows into a steady flame, then joining you. sitting directly next to you, thighs mere inches from touching. “i brought a blanket,” she mentions, “just in case you’re cold— get cold.”

“i’m fine, rain.”

“okay—i just don’t want you getting sick or anything,” rain finds it necessary to explain, a smile flashing on your face at her taking you into consideration. you chew at your bottom lip, and rain shoves her hands in her pockets.

for some reason, the energy feels charged, somehow electrifying despite the calmness of it all, the crackling of the fire and the occasional brushing of her leg against yours.

you're both quiet for a while, not sure what to say, to address whatever was hanging in the air like the mist in the surrounding forest, acting like barrier between you two and the rest of the world. that's when you feel her shift beside you.

rain is hesitant, but she nervously questions you, “was it…really your head that night? i mean—when i walked you home.”

you weren't ready for that. it feels too loaded, and your throat tightens.

but, you glance from the fire to her anyways, ember flames dancing on her delicate features, contorted in slight worry. she looks as ethereal as the moon, and maybe it's the setting, the trust you feel in this moment; that you show her some honesty.

“no,” it comes out lowly, and you shrug, trying to pass it off like it was truly not a big deal, “just didn’t want to be there.”

she still wears that face, a gentle intensity. her brows knit together, trying to push for more without making you uncomfortable, “…how come?” 

your sister. for a moment, you debate those words, considering telling her the truth, the full truth. about how you have felt about ellie, and how ellie has made you feel. like shit. chewed up stale gum at the bottom of her dirty black and white converse. it doesn't leave your mouth.

you awkwardly chuckle and fiddle with your fingers, “i dunno— i guess i just…”

you hesitate, her stare so intense you have to look back into the fire. you search for something simpler, but still raw, no longer wanting to hide all of your feelings from rain. especially when shes staring at you the way that she is.

“didn’t feel wanted?”

you hate the words as soon as they leave your lips, it sounds flat out pathetic as if you had only said them for pity. but it's true. you felt like a burden that night, there for no reason at all, dimming the mood with your disconnect from the group. it’s the nerves that make you continue to add to it.

“like…everybody had somebody,” you begin, managing to talk about ellie without explicitly saying her name, “and i was just there? i don’t know.”

you chuckle lightly at the end, but rain sees through it, through you, covering your hurt. her expression softens instantly.

“that’s not true…you have me.”

you blink at rain, her voice ever so gentle, and she reaches out, placing her hand on your knee. you like her tentative touch, so simple, yet it acts like an anchor keeping you at bay from the unfriendly thoughts in your head. it causes that internal warmth she's made you familiar with, to course through your body. from your toes, to where her hand rests, to your shoulders.

rain squeezes your knee gently, like a reassurance. a promise to her words, and the air tightens.

your gaze meets hers, the softness and sincerity behind her blue eyes, your cheeks warmer than the fire in front of you. it is just the crackling of the fire, and a howling of the wind through the trees, and you shiver. but, that's not thanks to the sudden coolness.

it's her stare. the goosebumps rise on your skin, and it happens, like that.

a mutual decision made by your eyes, a flickering between them and your lips. you lean in slightly, breath catching as your nerves grow, but she eases them when she does the same, assuring you that she wants this.

both of your hearts beat like rabbits, and your lips connect.

and then there was nothing else, no thinking, no brooding, no ellie.

just rain.

she takes it slow, cautious at first, once again squeezing your knee, but this time it’s to reassure herself— that you’re actually kissing her, that this is real, not in her head. it's not your first kiss ever, not at all, but it's the first that felt like it had meaning. like all of the love she has grown for you is on full display, wanting, needing, you to feel it.

you need to grab her, your hand slides to the back of her neck to somehow pull her closer, yet she’s the one deepening the kiss. not in a messy way, not in a rough way. she doesn’t want that from you, not yet, at least. it’s still just as tender as it is passionate, it’s like a dream.

and for a moment you had pictured with someone else, maybe even in this exact place on this exact log, this feels…right. 

when time is no longer paused, and you finally pull away, your mouth is still parted collecting your breath. “fuck…” rain mumbles, and then she laughs, “holy fuck.”

the smile she wore quickly falters from her face, the euphoria switching to concern, “that was okay— right?”

“yeah—yeah,” you whisper, the little smile returning to both of your faces, ignoring the sudden sense of unease you had felt. it was okay, fucking better than okay and you think you want more. but when you look forward again, it’s to the fire, to the log across that ellie would occupy with her pretty voice and guitar.

and then there’s rain, shyly looking at her red and white sneakers.

a minute doesn’t even pass. you swallow thickly, leaning forward, and kissing her again.

it’s an hour later when the flames had died, a quiet walk back home with stolen glances. you’re both in a haze, minds foggy with the thought of the other. though, yours wavers, a certain pair of green eyes flashing in your head. it was supposed to be her— that’s what you had used to think. 

ellie and you, not you and rain. so naive, you were. and so wrong, because rain felt right. she felt perfect.

and your schedule is quickly prioritized around rain over the following week. her free time was yours, and yours hers. 

walks around jackson taking photos of the things she found beauty in— the light in a dark world. which included you, often off guard, or stupid faces in her bedroom. 

the sleepovers sharing her bed, rain always meeting your hands beneath the blanket, a sense of relief she craved. the chocolate chip pancakes in the morning, making sure your days started nicely, and that you were happy. all rain did was make you happy. 

and ellie, on the sidelines, took notice.

she wasn’t losing her friend— she lost her friend. to her fucking sister. not that she was upset with rain in any way, or you for that matter, it just was how it was. something she could’ve prevented. 

it’s another night you’re getting ready to go meet rain, slipping on a hoodie when you hear the knocking at your door. you already know who it is, she was still using her signature rhymed knock. two beats off from rain.

you cross your living room, twisting the knob and opening the door. ellie stands before you, in a common dark flannel and her mullet seemingly freshly trimmed, neater than usual. probably the work of someone else’s loving hands.

“hey…can i come in?” she scratches the back of her neck, and you scoot out of the way as an answer. she enters, taking in the comforting aroma of your home she hadn’t realized she missed so much. it somewhat eases the tension in her shoulders, her nerves calming. 

you slowly trail behind her, the woman sitting on your couch hunched over, elbows propped on her spread legs. this was serious, and you really don’t want this right now. 

her mouth opens before yours does, though.

“how are you?”

oh. her question catches you off guard, but it’s genuine, not surprising since she’s just a distant echo in your life these days. “i’m good,” you give her a short real answer, and she doesn’t give you time to elaborate or even ask her back.

“yeah? and—you and rain?”

you blink at her. her tone is so accusatory like any possible response will just be flat-out wrong. 

even if it’s the truth, especially if it’s the truth.

the unfortunate part is that ellie did have some right to know what your relations were with her sister; but there is nothing to tell her, because just like her and dina, you’re not calling yourselves girlfriends.

you’re friends, technically. friends that have gotten closer and closer, spending more time with each other than anyone else. letting the spark between you two grow into a flame, and into a fire. 

maybe that is the very reason why the question had left ellie’s lips, seeing a mirrored version of her and dina in you and rain. and if that is the case, why is her voice laced with venom, not obvious, yet clearly there? 

she knows you’d never hurt rain, and rain would never hurt you. there is no valid reason for her to take issue with the idea you two had something. not in your opinion, at least.

your silence is an unspoken or undecided answer, and ellie leans back, tongue-swiping her teeth. 

“right, okay,” it comes out as a rasp, with a short nod. she begins again, “you could’ve told me.”

you can’t help it— you rebuttal her. “kinda hard when you’re not around.”

“wha—” ellie’s brows furrow, suddenly standing up, eyes darkened and narrow, “every fucking time i come here, you’re gone, you know that?”

you feel a nonexistent spotlight on you that you don’t want to be under, and ellie isn’t even done speaking. “there are nights neither of you are home—so what, you’re fucking sneaking out too? it’s one thing to hide it, but to be stupid?”

“so you suddenly care about me?” you mutter, and her jaw just barely drops, taking offense at your words, pausing before she even can respond.

“how…could you even say that?”

there is no irritation in her voice this time. it’s flat, even somber, matching the energy shift in the room. you’re quiet, unable to make another snarky comment. you stare at her shoes, them approaching you, staying in place when she was just a few feet from you.

then, you look back up at her. 

“you know i love you,” ellie tells you blankly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, something she has said a million times over. 

it’s different when you haven’t felt her love, or any sort of affection from her in weeks, and the three words seem like more of a chore. nearly meaningless to you. the only person that made you feel like you had a purpose, was now rain, and that realization fucking stings. 

“i have to go,” you disregard the current conversation, ignoring the dry humorless chuckle that escapes ellie’s lips, “can you leave? please?”

she remains still for a moment, staring at you, and you dread it. the silent observing, waiting for you to crack, drop this curtain you’re holding up to prevent her from seeing how you truly feel. 

how you’re coming to terms with your heartbreak, before the woman that broke your heart, that was never in her possession in the first place— not that she was ever aware of. 

she nods. 

ellie forces herself to move, walking past, shoulders nearly brushing when she walks past you. you wait to hear the door open, but her palm is resting on the knob.

“i…know i messed up…” she admits, “but…you could’ve come to me.”

she’s making this harder. making your mind envision a reality where you were the one that fought harder, not her. that you didn’t slowly watch the gap between you two widen, and just expressed to her how poorly she had made you feel.

that would be easier than this. she would still be your closest friend…and rain wouldn’t. 

rain, who is currently waiting for you. her bed most certainly made neatly, reserved for you to fall asleep in, her arm bound to snake its way around you and stay in place until you woke up.

ellie debates her next choice of words, but nothing comes from her. with dread, she leaves you, alone, frozen in place trying to unpack everything. it feels impossible, and you no longer have the desire to see rain, as much as she could numb this. 

you lay down in your own, and much colder bed, but your curtains are drawn wide open and the moon is shining through your window— and she looks beautiful tonight. rain is probably admiring her, wishing she had you next to her to do so.

maybe ellie is doing the same. and maybe tonight, you’re still on her mind, even if she’s gazing at it with someone else.

[ghoulodont]

Hyaline

After Dewdrop is injured during a concert, Rain is there to help him heal.

Ship: Raindrop Characters: Dewdrop, Rain Words: 11.3k

Hurt/Comfort, Broken Bones, Sickfic (arguably), Caretaking, Injury Recovery, Skeletour

Read below or on AO3

When it happens, he thinks nothing of it at all. He’s in a hurry between songs and the stiff sole of his uniform boot skids over the edge of the stair as he steps down onto it. His foot drops onto the step below, then the one after that, with his ankle pressed into an awkward position as it suddenly takes the full weight of his body. His reflexes, mechanical and automatic, have him catching himself before the signals from the event can even reach his brain. He finds himself at the bottom of the staircase with one hand on the railing keeping him upright.

What’s concerning, though, is when those same reflexes, ones that caught him just moments ago, subsequently prevent him from stepping with that same foot flat on the ground at the bottom of the stairs. A bright electric pain runs up his ankle that, briefly, takes his breath away. He shifts his weight back to his other foot to give himself a second to recover. He pulls the strap of his guitar over his head.

The stage left guitar tech, ready and waiting to help him swap instruments, reaches for the guitar. “You okay?” he asks.

Dew nods. He takes the new guitar and puts it on. He gently rolls his ankle, which aches with the movement. It’s throbbing now, pain only increasing with time.

He’s ready to just walk it off until he takes his first step back up the stairs to the stage. Putting weight on his foot rekindles the same electric pain, so intense that his knee buckles as a structural measure to alleviate it, absorbing his weight and redirecting it downwards until his shin hits the stairs. He reaches out with one hand and grips the railing; the other holds the neck of his guitar away from the surrounding structures.

If he doesn’t get upstairs right away, he’s going to miss the beginning of the next song. They’ll start without him. He scrambles, panicked, and tries again to take another step before he’s even upright. The metal edge of the stair bites into his shin. His throat feels tight, like a hand is grabbing the back of his collar and pulling, holding him in place, keeping him from moving forward.

“You sure you’re okay?”

He collects himself and pushes himself back up to his feet — or foot, balancing again on just one. He looks down at his boot, which looks okay, the same as it always does. Is he okay, though? He can’t get up the stairs, or really walk at all, so maybe not.

“I think maybe I twisted my ankle or something,” he admits. Saying it out loud makes his face burn with shame. He doesn’t have time for this — the whole production doesn’t have time for this. He shifts his weight again, the other way, easing pressure onto his injured leg. It protests with another lance of sharp pain. He grits his teeth and pushes through. It’s bearable, but not ideal. He tries his best to take one step forward and manages a short and inadequate little hobble.

Suddenly everything is too much, too tight, too restrictive. His boots are so heavy. It’s dark, and the ceilings, the underside of the stage, are low. The stairs are insurmountable. He pulls out his in-ear monitors. He wrestles his guitar strap off with an unsteady hand.

His guitar tech takes it from him and nods at the stairs. “You should sit down.”

He does, one hand on the railing again to lower himself carefully onto the steps. His head swims. He leans back, supporting himself with his elbows. Even without any weight on it, his ankle screams at him. He can’t tell if it’s actually still getting worse or if he’s just losing his grip on everything.

The guitar tech is talking into his radio. He’s inaudible from this distance but it’s obviously about him, about the current situation, sharing with the whole crew that he’s unable to do his job and is fucking up the show. He tips his head back, trying to get more air in his lungs. Above him, the next song starts.

Wardrobe is the first on the scene, asking which leg it is. He points to his left one. She kneels and begins to remove his boot.

Despite her clear attempt to be gentle, Dew whines like a kicked dog when she pulls the hard leather over his heel, pressing the stiff sole against his toes and forcing his ankle to bend. There aren’t any laces she can undo, or zippers to open, so she’s pulling the front and back of the upper apart as much as possible, stretching the small panel of elastic on either side. The convenience of just being able to step in and out of them, something he had appreciated, is now turning against him.

It goes beyond that — if he didn’t have to wear these stupid boots, none of this would have happened anyway. Of course, the knee-high boots from the previous uniforms would have zipped all the way down the side and allowed his injured ankle to come out without pain, but with their more flexible soles, thinner and more pliable leather, there’s no way he would have missed a step on the stairs while wearing them in the first place. They were custom made; he and the other ghouls took turns tracing each other’s feet on pieces of paper to send as a reference, and then when they arrived they fit perfectly. The current boots came in logo-plastered shoeboxes from some factory somewhere.

More people start showing up, buzzing around and making the bottom of the staircase a nexus of far more activity than is usual during the show. He avoids eye contact with familiar faces, too ashamed of the drama that he has inadvertently set in motion, that’s still unfolding in front of him. Someone puts his foot up on a folding metal chair.

A paramedic arrives on the scene, ushered in from beyond the curtain. He places a big equipment bag near the end of the railing and squats next to the chair. To some degree, Dew knew implicitly that this would happen, was the sequence of events that he was consenting to when he took his guitar off and sat down, but experiencing it in the present reveals just how much he had been denying it, shoving it away into the corner of his mind and making it as abstract as possible. But, no, there really is a guy in a fancy, official-looking paramedic uniform peeling off his sock right now and asking him what happened.

“Slid down a couple stairs. Twisted my ankle.”

“Right, did you land on this part?” The paramedic points to the outside surface of his foot, in front of the prominent bone of his ankle. A crew member shines a flashlight at it.

Dew nods. He averts his eyes, as if maybe one less viewer will make a difference in how he feels right now. It doesn’t put a dent in the amount of scrutiny.

“Have you been able to put any weight on it?”

“A little.”

“And how much are you able to move it? Can you point your toes?”

He can, slightly, if he pushes through the pain and forces himself to. It feels like his ankle is tearing itself apart at the seams but he keeps going. He should be able to do this — he doesn’t want to think about what it might mean if he can’t.

“Stop, that’s enough.”

The paramedic runs him through several more movements, all similarly painful and difficult, as the song on stage above them finishes. He presses inquisitively on a spot near his ankle that makes him physically recoil, pulling his foot off the chair and towards his body in a protective instinct. The sudden, jarring movement hurts too. He feels like a line of dominoes toppling over. He blinks away the stars in his vision.

He replaces his foot on the chair slowly. He drums his fingers on the edge of the stair he’s sitting on with no particular rhythm. “Can’t we do this after the show?” He doesn’t need to be able to do all these exercises in order to perform.

“You need an x-ray of this,”

“I need to get back on stage.”

The paramedic briefly glances up at the tour manager, who is standing over them with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. “Well… as long as you keep your weight off it as much as possible…”

The tour manager nods and reaches for his radio. “We can put a chair—”

“Absolutely not,” Dew snaps.

“Okay, well, let me get it wrapped up and you should be able to hold out for the rest of the show.” He digs in his big bag of supplies.

Dew lets his head fall back. The stage lights beam down on him as the next song starts. It feels like he’s looking up at the surface of a lake from below, sinking under. He can’t hold his breath for much longer.

The paramedic offers him some pills — “ibuprofen,” he says. Someone else passes him a bottle of water. His hands shake as he brings it to his lips.

He begins to feel more composed as the paramedic wraps his ankle in an elastic bandage, each loop of the stretchy fabric holding him a little more together. The compression is soothing, in a way. It’s a bit uncomfortable in how it presses down against sensitive places but overall it feels like it’s pressing back against the throbbing pain emanating from inside.

When his shoe goes back on, he’s ready for the brief pain of his ankle flexing to accommodate the opening. He squeezes his fists tight and rides the wave of dizziness it brings. Actually, though, once it’s on, the thick sole and inflexible leather that he was cursing earlier make his ankle feel much more stable. Maybe it’s all not as bad as he thought.

Hands help him to his feet, move the chair out of the way, bring his guitar. He puts some weight onto his foot. It hurts, but he can deal with it. He can make it up the stairs, onto the stage. He leans hard on the railing and watches his feet carefully with each step. Someone is following behind him, probably to catch him if he falls again, but he doesn’t. When he gets to the top, he straightens out his guitar over his body and takes a deep breath.

He looks up to see Rain staring at him from halfway across the stage. He can feel the concern radiating off of him, but his thoughts are opaque. What does he know about what happened? And what can he communicate back to him, anyway? Dew just nods at him, an acknowledgment of nothing in particular, or maybe that he’s okay.

Without the support of the railing, walking across the stage is arduous. He takes a few steps forward, just enough that he’s not standing conspicuously in front of the stairs. The weight of thousands of eyes presses into him, a familiar energizing presence now shifting to the forefront of his mind, its usual vivacity twisting into something more hostile, critical.

Despite being back on stage, playing his part like nothing happened, the shame doesn’t fade. If anything, it gets worse, becomes more pointed, digs itself under his skin with sharp claws. What was once a blanket of panic and a singular goal is now crystallized regret, specific flashes of memory, little questions and details, spreading out kaleidoscopic.

But, no, the goal is still singular — to finish the show. And he will. All this angst for a misstep, for what, a twisted ankle? He’s going to put some ice on it and will be fine by tomorrow, he has to be. He focuses on playing, being there, his duty as a live musician.

He’s so focused that Rain ends up sneaking up on him, appearing by his side unexpectedly. He bumps their shoulders together, gently, a barely-there brush of spandex covered skin. Dew bristles at the attention. It would be so normal in any other context, any other show, antics and interactions like this. Now it feels too noticeable, like he’s pointing out that something is wrong. There’s worry in his eyes; Dew doesn’t want to see it.

And when Rain makes his way to his next unofficial mark, returning to the comfortably rehearsed flow of the song, it feels like being stranded on an inhospitable island, having sent his savior away. He’s alone here with his pain, which is becoming harder and harder to push through.

As much as he tries to pour himself into the performance, he can’t shake his mental countdown of how many songs are left. It’s a north star he doesn’t want to be following but it glistens too bright to look past, outshines every other light in his sky, blinds him. Really, it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Everything continues as orchestrated. Phantom comes over to play next to him and then goes back to his own side of the stage. Rain comes and goes. Two songs left. One song.

When the house lights come up after the last note, all the energy he’s been holding onto begins to leave him, faster than he anticipated or planned for. He can’t be on stage for a single moment longer. He turns and limps to the stairs, lifts his guitar strap over his head, vision gray around the edges. His ankle feels like a live wire.

He practically has to be carried off the stage. He passes his guitar to the tech at the top of the stairs, then makes his way back into the underworld with one arm slung over a supporting shoulder, in clear view of the audience — it doesn’t matter.

He’s led to a chair which he carefully lowers himself onto, weight askew on one leg. Feet cross the stage above him. With only plain white lights on, kept at a steady intensity without any strobing or motion, it’s both brighter under the stage and easier to see the motion of those above it, casting shadows through the metal grate.

A wardrobe assistant is back to take his shoe off again, before he can even catch his breath. He doesn’t have it in him to protest, nor to stifle the pathetic groan he makes when his ankle bends, just like the last time. He’s back to hating these boots again now — why was he ready to forgive them earlier? The assistant sets it aside carefully. The boots are her responsibility, after all, not him. She’s extricating her charge from the scene.

Someone puts his foot up on a second chair. He feels awkward and in the way, vulnerable, bridging a leg-length gap like this in an already tight space.

The paramedic begins unraveling the bandage from his leg. Even the air touching his freshly exposed skin hurts. There’s a huge purple bruise below his ankle now, starting near the bone and spreading down toward the sole of his foot and forward toward his toes. It’s swollen, too, all of the usual edges softened like a crude replica of what it’s supposed to look like.

When he starts poking and prodding at it again, presumably for some medically relevant reason, and not just to torment him, Dew looks away, up at the stage above him. Eight pairs of feet stand in a line. This isn’t part of the performance, so it’s okay that he’s not there with them. The sudden tightness in his throat at the image, an off-center row of bodies, insists otherwise.

And then the show is over. Papa and the ghouls make their way down the stairs and spill out into the underworld. Instead of dispersing to their own individual after-show tasks and personal whims, they gather around Dew’s chair, first Rain, then Phantom, then Mountain, then Aurora, until they’ve all followed each other’s lead and joined in on the fuss. Their chatter and worry settles over him like a dark cloud.

“What happened?”

“Dude, have you been walking on that?”

“Oh no, Dew, that looks really bad.”

All eyes are on him and the macabre spectacle of his bloated, discolored foot. It’s embarrassing, and it’s enough to make him question, briefly, if he really will be on stage tomorrow like he should be, has to be, will be, will be. He will be. Now is not the time to think otherwise.

Meanwhile, the paramedic starts wrapping his ankle back up again, lifting it and pressing on it in ways that make the muscles in his thigh jump involuntarily, sending startling little jolts of pain streaking up along his nerves. It’s all too much. Dew leans his head back and covers his eyes with one arm.

“Let’s leave him alone, guys.”

It’s a relief, but a little part of him wants to reach out and grab them and hold them here, to not be alone. Still, he would much rather be alone than fussed over like this. It’s a trade-off he’s entirely willing to make.

One by one, they filter out through the curtain, off to the dressing room or the green room or the bus or wherever else. Soon the only people left in the vicinity are the crew working on their load-out tasks, the paramedic — and Rain.

Rain is standing right next to him like it’s his own leg propped up on the chair, like he’s just as much a vital and irremovable part of this scenario as Dew is, frowning thoughtfully at his ankle as it disappears under the bandage. When he notices Dew looking at him, he offers him a small, gentle smile.

“How are you doing?” He places one hand on Dew’s shoulder and rubs back and forth.

He’s doing fucking awful, obviously, and he doesn’t want to be pitied. But the hand on his shoulder isn’t pity, it isn’t platitude. It feels like the most normal thing that has happened all night, or at least in the past hour.

“I mean—” Rain waves his hand as if to indicate the general situation. “Considering.”

Dew forces out a heavy breath that doesn’t take with it any of his tension, only serving to keep his frustration from rising further. “This sucks,” is all he can say, and even that catches in his throat.

Rain kneads his shoulders with both hands, pressing his thumbs into the base of his neck in small circles. The heat from his palms sinks through the fabric of his tailcoat.

Meanwhile, the paramedic puts an ice pack over his wrapped ankle. He can’t feel the cold through the bandage. It’s probably more a formality than anything else, one step in flowchart in an emergency medicine handbook somewhere that describes the official procedure for what to do if someone falls down the fucking stairs. What’s next? He doesn’t want to ask.

“Listen,” the paramedic starts, like he’s about to speak candidly, maybe say something that Dew doesn’t want to hear. “You really should get an x-ray of this soon, either tonight or tomorrow. We can take you to the emergency department if you need but you’ll likely be waiting for a while, and there’s not much they can do for you anyway, besides pain management and setting you up with a referral. I talked to your manager… you may want to just make an appointment with an orthopedist in the morning.”

Dew nods. “What time does the bus leave?” It’s the first thing that comes to his mind, despite everything.

“Four, I think?” Rain glances up at a nearby equipment case that has some papers taped to it, any of which may or may not be a schedule.

“Definitely no guarantee that you would be seen by then.” The paramedic zips up his bag. “As long as your pain is under control I would say it’s not necessary to go tonight.”

The expression “under control” leaves a fair amount of room for interpretation. He would describe the pain as… significant. Really, his leg could fall off completely and if he was given the choice he would still rather take the bus than whatever the alternative is. Thinking about it fills him with dread. He’s not sure what’s worse — that he would be abandoning the rest of the band or that they would be abandoning him, leaving him here in an unfamiliar city.

“I’ll be fine,” he says.

The paramedic nods and hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Take ibuprofen every 6 hours, add paracetamol too if you need. Keep it elevated, ice it for 20 minutes at a time. And keep your weight off it as much as you can.“

Once he exits the underworld, through the curtain with his big bag and fancy uniform and medical advice, Dew deflates. He sinks down in the chair and lets his head fall backwards until the crown of his hat comes to rest against a metal truss supporting the stage. He wants to tear it off his head and throw it on the ground, but unlike the boots it’s done nothing wrong. It would be collateral damage, and he would earn the ire of the wardrobe team. He probably shouldn’t even be letting it be pushed up against a solid object like this; it might get dented. He tips his head forward instead.

For a minute, he closes his eyes and just breathes, feeling his upper body rise and fall. His ankle throbs. His whole body is sore from standing unevenly, holding his weight off center and limping, even for such a short amount of time. The muscles around his hips, up his back, down the sides of his thighs, feel overworked.

Rain rubs circles between his shoulders, only stopping briefly a few times to move out of the way of crew members darting about. Dew sits up upon hearing him apologize out loud to someone stepping around them.

As soon as they’re alone again, as much as they can be, Rain asks, “Should we move somewhere quieter?”

The idea of moving sounds miserable, but the underworld has indeed become more and more saturated with activity as the entire crew mobilizes to systematically deconstruct every part of the production and pack it onto trucks. Some time soon, there won’t be an underworld anymore, because there won’t be a stage. And they need to get their uniforms off, anyway.

When he tries to stand up, shifting all his weight onto one bent leg, Ran grabs his arm and holds it firmly, all but hauling him to his feet. He waits a moment for him to find his balance before he places that arm across his shoulders, behind his neck. He wraps his arm around Dew’s waist and pulls their bodies together.

The first few steps are awkward, and they have to pause for a moment to figure out how to navigate the curtain, but they soon find a rhythm. It’s not comfortable, and he has to think about every step, but it feels safe and secure to have a hand on his hip, a solid torso pressed tight against his own.

Rain only lets go when they’re at the threshold of Dew’s dressing room, carefully unraveling their arrangement of limbs once Dew is firmly situated with one hand braced against the wall.

“Do you need help with your— anything?”

Dew shakes his head. “I think I’m good for now.”

“Okay, well, text me if you need me?”

“I will. If I do.”

Rain pulls the door almost all the way closed. He peeks through the opening one last time before closing it completely.

Now alone, Dew lowers himself onto a nearby couch with a huff. It’s not like he’s going to fall to pieces if left unsupervised. He takes off his hat and places it next to him, then unfastens his collar and takes that off too. He rolls the zipper pull of his bodysuit between his fingers. He doesn’t need help with this, he’s not that incapacitated. He tugs the zipper open.

Getting out of his uniform is an awkward, partially seated, one-legged ordeal, and showering has the opposite of its usual relaxing and refreshing effect. When Rain returns, knocking gently on the door, he’s flopped on the couch again, bandage dampened around the edges, one pant leg askew to accommodate it.

Rain’s face falls upon opening the door and seeing him there.

“I’m fine,” Dew answers, before Rain can ask anything.

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, do you maybe want to head out to the bus?”

The enclosed space of the bus does sound appealing, as does its familiarity, even if it’s barely more familiar than this dressing room, only by a few days. He doesn’t want to move, though, and he doesn’t want to see anyone else, to be subject to their questioning and scorn.

“Everyone else is going out tonight, I think,” Rain adds.

“Yeah, okay.” Dew pushes himself upright on the couch with a hand against the armrest and starts trying to extricate himself from the depths of the seat cushions that he’s been pulled into.

Rain takes both of his hands and helps him stand. When Dew reaches for his bag, Rain shakes his head. “I’ll come back and get it.”

Pressed together again, arms wrapped around each other, they make a slow step-by-step procession to the bus. Once they make it through the door, Dew is ready to collapse onto the nearest chair, but Rain keeps going straight up the narrow, curving staircase and into the upstairs lounge, where he lowers him down onto an L-shaped couch.

“Put your feet up,” he says, helping him turn and sit lengthwise, nestling him into a leather-lined corner. He arranges throw pillows around him, behind his back, under his foot, like he’s a piece of fragile glassware being prepared for transport, loaded up in a cardboard box padded by butcher paper and bubble wrap.

“Is that good? Comfortable?”

“I’m fine,” Dew says, a refrain that might be more for his own reassurance than anything else.

“I’m going to grab some stuff. Is that okay?”

Dew nods, but his head barely moves. His body feels limp.

“Okay?”

“Yes!” Dew snaps, and immediately regrets it. “Sorry. Yeah, that’s fine.” He swallows the lump forming in his throat “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right back.”

As promised, Rain comes and goes, taking care of little tasks and bringing with him various provisions and amenities. He brings another pillow for Dew to rest his foot on, and a new ice pack from the freezer. He puts away their bags. He brings them food, which Dew picks at. He puts on a movie, which neither of them really pay any attention to.

Dew’s foot, on its improvised pillow pedestal, radiates an irritating but overall bearable ache. The cold of the ice pack eventually does sink all the way into the bandage and provides some comfort as well. If he holds completely still, it’s not so bad.

“Did you want me to get you something else?” Rain’s eyes are fixed on Dew’s barely-touched plate, brow creased with worry.

“No, I just—” Even thinking about food makes his stomach turn. He really should eat something, if he’s so worried about being ready to perform tomorrow, but that worry sabotages itself too ironically. He has to look away to quell the wave of nausea that rises.

Rain takes both of their plates away.

When he comes back, he sits down carefully next to Dew on the couch and gets as close as he can without jostling him. Their shoulders press together gently.

“What do you need right now?”

Dew looks over at him. Rain always knows what he needs. Asking him something like this is not really a request for information, it can’t be. It’s him taking a small step back, giving Dew the space to express himself.

“Please, just—” Dew’s face heats up. “Distract me.”

“Okay.” Rain takes out his phone. He pulls up an app with black and white squares. “Help me with this.”

Dew rolls his eyes. “Come on, you know I’m not good at these.”

“Just try.” He tilts the screen towards him.

It takes them over an hour to get through the puzzle, and the distribution of work is not equal by a long shot — Rain vetoes most of Dew’s answers as “not crosswordy,” and pulls random trivia out of thin air, justifying it by saying “some things show up often enough that you remember them.” Still, it occupies his mind, more so than when they’ve done this together in the past, which usually ended up being a spectator sport. This time, Rain pulls him in, over and over, prompting him to give answers, even if they’re mostly rejected.

They move on to some other word game, then briefly to a video game on the big TV, which proves to be too much excitement for Dew’s body that would very much prefer to remain as motionless as possible. Rain pulls up another crossword, and Dew mostly just watches this time, letting the letters wash over him. Now that it’s been pointed out to him, he does see the repeated words, EEL and OSLO and TSAR, their component parts all spinning together into a probabilistic blur.

He’s so tired, maybe more than he can ever remember being after a performance, despite standing in one spot for a large part of it. He rests his head on Rain’s shoulder.

Sounds of activity fill other parts of the bus as the rest of the band gets back from their outing. It’s not clear how Rain did it, who he told and what, but nobody comes in and bothers them, which is particularly impressive considering how coveted the space they’ve currently sequestered tends to be. It’s probably as much for their well being as it is for his comfort, considering he would likely bite someone’s head off if they looked at him wrong.

Rain’s phone congratulates him for solving another puzzle. He turns the screen off and sets it aside.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”A reflexive answer. “Tired.”

“Do you want me to help you to your bunk?”

Fuck, he forgot he would need to move again. His bunk is only a few meters down the hall, but the idea of rearranging everything, getting comfortable again, sounds overwhelming, to say the least. He groans.

“Do you want to stay here?”

He nods, his cheek rubbing against the soft fabric of Rain’s shirt. Procrastination probably isn’t going to make anything easier in the long run, but it’s so inviting.

“One second,” Rain says.

Dew lifts his head as Rain’s shoulder eases out from under it. His arm is suddenly cold without a body pressed up against him.

He closes the lounge door behind him. Beyond it, there’s sounds of movement, muffled talking. It’s not possible to pick Rain in particular out of the eclectic soundscape. Nearby, someone laughs, high-pitched and silvery, maybe Aurora. Downstairs, music thrums through the fancy sound system, treble attenuated by the floor, and Swiss sings along.

Rain comes back with an armful of blankets and pillows. He dumps them on the couch, then pulls one blanket out of the pile. He places it over Dew’s body, taking great care not to let it tug at his injured leg.

“Do you want to lie down or stay like this?”

“I’m fine like this.” He leans forward a little bit as Rain puts a pillow behind his head. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” Rain sits down next to him, on the shorter side of the couch, and pulls a blanket over himself. There’s not anywhere near enough space for him to lie down.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“Oh. I was going to sleep here.” He pulls his blanket up a little higher, for emphasis. His brow furrows. “Unless you wanted me to leave—”

“No,” Dew says, whinier and more pathetic than he wishes he would sound. “I mean, as long as you’re comfortable.”

“I’ll be fine.” He pinches a sliver of his lip under one fang, a telltale sign that he’s thinking hard. He’s probably not even aware that he’s doing it. “I just want to be here if you need something. Because I’m not sure you would text me.”

A stalwart champion of independence inside him says that of course he would, that he doesn’t need to be watched over. But it also says that he wouldn’t need anything at all. “I might not,” he admits.

Rain smiles. “See?” For a moment, his expression fades into something more distant, wistful.

Then he stands and putters around the room, straightening up video game controllers and forgotten throw pillows. When he turns off the lights, the room is inky black for just a few seconds, until Dew’s eyes adjust, and Rain is a gray figure sitting back down on the couch.

Dew rests his head on his shoulder again. He closes his eyes. He focuses on remaining absolutely still, breathing steadily in and out. He is so, so tired. Surely, if he just lies here, sleep will come. The lounge is pleasantly dark, calm, quiet enough — the sounds from the other parts of the bus are normal, something he’s learned to tune out.

The only thing that’s really threatening to keep him awake is his ankle. Without any other sensations competing with it, the pain expands to fill all of his awareness. It carries with it a reminder of its context, the troubles it has caused, and that it will cause, the show tomorrow, the unknowns.

Rain sighs quietly underneath him. If he concentrates, he can feel his pulse, beating steadily near where his shoulder meets his neck. Maybe he’s imagining it, or his perception is distorted by the pain that’s throbbing with his own heartbeat. He lets himself believe it’s real for now.

He finally dozes off, evidently, because all of a sudden he’s waking up, the bus is moving, and his foot is on fire. The wail that leaves his mouth doesn’t feel like it belongs to him.

“Dew?” Rain’s voice is quiet, unsure. If he wasn’t already awake, it wouldn’t have been loud enough to wake him.

The bus shudders as it goes over a bump in the road, fancy suspension system be damned, and even that gentle motion sends a lance of pain through his ankle. He yelps, caught off guard. Instinctively, he sits forward and reaches for it, but stops himself halfway. His hand flops ineffectually on his shin, arm heavy with exhaustion. He clenches his fingers and digs his nails in.

The pain is so intense that it ignites a buzzing urge to move his whole body, to roll his shoulders, to open and close his free hand in a white-knuckle fist. Gravity tugs against his every movement. The skin on the back of his neck prickles.

“Dew, is it your foot?”

He nods, frantic, jaw clamped shut. He doesn’t know what kind of sound he would make if he opened his mouth to speak.

“Let me get something for it,” Rain says, already standing up, blanket crumpling on the floor.

Dew sits back against the couch with a thump. Maybe Rain will bring a saw, and he can cut his leg off and be done with it. He presses a fist into the center of his forehead, between his eyes. He bites his tongue, hard.

When he comes back, he’s holding has an awkward armful of items. He pushes the door closed with his elbow. “I’m sorry, I should have woken you up to take this,” he says, handing him a small pile of pills. Dew doesn’t care what they are. He would take anything at this point.

Rain presses a bottle of water into his hand, cold, condensation barely starting to form on the outside. Drinking from it is like an anvil hitting his stomach.

“Do you want ice?” He holds up an ice pack.

“Ice, yes—” Dew grabs at it. Rain moves at the same time, placing it on his wrapped ankle. It feels like pressure, nothing more.

Dew groans. He leans forward, reaches down and presses the ice pack onto the bandage — he can’t feel the cold at all, just another layer of dull pain on top of the rest of it. He tears at the bandage, pulls the end of it free and loosens the loops tucked around his lower leg. It’s too tight, too intricate, he can’t get it off. His breaths speed up, rushing in his ears, and it doesn’t feel like they’re bringing in any air.

“What’s wrong?” Rain turns on the lights. The sudden brightness jolts through his eye sockets.

“I need the ice to— It needs to be closer.” He pulls on one loop and it tightens another. He pushes the whole tangle of bandage downward, but it just gets stuck around his ankle, which screams in response. The ice pack lies discarded on the couch.

“Okay, okay,” Rain soothes, panic brushing at the edges of his voice. He starts pulling the loops free, one by one, a longer tail of loose bandage dropping onto the couch each time. Cool air touches overwarm skin.

It’s not fast enough. Dew reaches out to join him, to tug on the bandages again too, but Rain takes his hand and places it firmly on his knee, out of the way.

When only a few loops of bandage remain, wrapped around the end of his foot near his toes, Dew takes the ice pack and presses it into the heart of the pain, the point where his ankle bone meets the side of his foot. This, finally, provides some slim modicum of relief. He lets out a shaky breath. The lounge is quiet, filled only by the sounds of the bus in motion — wheels on the pavement, the engine.

Rain rubs his back, slow, firm strokes up and down his spine. “Better?”

“A little.” His voice comes out raspy, uneven, too tight to sustain a proper whisper.

“Can I do something else?”

“What else even is there to do?” His voice cracks on the last word. His eyes burn.

No, no, not over something like this, like he’s a child that scraped his knee on the playground. He looks up, leans his head back. Tears pool against his sclera, creeping higher until they begin to refract the lights above him into a dizzying sparkle.

Rain doesn’t say anything, just keeps rubbing his back. Because he’s right, there’s nothing he can do. He fucked up, and these are the consequences — humiliation, exhaustion, and excruciating pain.

He can’t even keep forcing himself to believe that he’s going to be able to play in the show tomorrow, to do his job. He couldn’t handle the costume and the stage layout and the setlist and the schedule. And on only the third show, too. There’s no point to him being here, he’s going to be sent home.

This is what finally makes the stupid tears spill out onto his face, leaving a hot trail down to his jawline, first on one side and then the other. He inhales through his nose, sharp and involuntary, making a gross sniffling noise.

“It’s going to be okay,” Rain soothes.

Dew shakes his head, vehement. He must not understand what’s at stake. He hasn’t put the pieces together.

“It’s hard right now but it’s going to get better.” So naive.

“It’s over,” he squeaks, followed by another gasping inhale that he can’t control. He clamps his hand over his mouth.

“No, no it’s not, nothing is over because of this.”

He can’t speak. He shakes his head again.

“Are you thinking about tomorrow?”

He nods. Tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that.

“Everything is going to get taken care of, you just need to focus on feeling better.”

“I’m trying. I can’t—” His breath hitches. “I’m so. Tired. And I can’t sleep.”

“I’m sorry.” Rain brushes away tears with gentle fingers. His hand is cold against his flushed cheek.

“It hurts so much.” It’s embarrassing to admit it even though it’s plainly apparent from his behavior, his distress. He’s weak for being unable to endure the pain of a minor injury like this.

“I know.” His hand dances across his face, from one side to the other and back, wiping fresh tears as they fall. “Just hold on for thirty minutes, and the medicine will start working. Less than that, now. Twenty-five.”

It’s optimistic of him to think that whatever non-prescription drugs he scrounged up will change anything, but it’s enough to focus on for now. He exhales a shaky breath.

“Do you want me to distract you? Or put something on the TV?”

He shakes his head. “I just want to sleep.”

“Okay,” he says, like this is an actionable request and not a plea for mercy.

Rain gets up and dims the lights to a barely-there glow. He fluffs pillows and adjusts blankets. He returns to his spot on the couch.

Dew tries to get comfortable. He sits back against the couch, until that feels wrong and he has to lean forward again. He adjusts the ice pack. Briefly, he tries to lie on his side, but it proves to be too much motion for his ankle. Rain’s careful handiwork falls into disarray, blankets twisted and tangled. Through all the fidgeting and adjusting, he keeps rubbing Dew’s back, arm, shoulder, whatever is accessible.

The minutes stretch on like this, until the pills kick in, all at once. The relief is euphoric. A warm ocean cradles him; he floats on its surface, buoyant in the saltwater. It’s amusing, distantly, to feel a such a dramatic effect from over-the-counter pain relievers. It’s not an absence of pain either, just a decrease that pulls him back over the edge from agony to something more tolerable. Even that makes him feel high.

He sinks into the cushions. His muscles feel like jelly. Next to him, Rain seems to relax a little bit too, slowing his touches. Sleep awaits with open arms.

When he wakes up, light is filtering in through the blinds. The bus is stopped. He’s lying flat with head in Rain’s lap, and Rain is sitting perpendicular to him, legs extended, upper body slumped in the corner where the two sides of the couch meet. He’s still asleep, judging by his breathing.

Dew shifts slowly so as not to wake him. His whole body feels stiff, mildly sore. His ankle aches, but the pain isn’t as bad as it was in the middle of the night.

He looks down at it, tucking his chin toward his chest. It’s still sticking out from the tangled blanket over the rest of his body, resting on a single pillow. The ice pack lies on the couch next to it, melted, as does a heap of elastic bandage. It’s more purple than the last time he saw it, and more swollen too. He wiggles his toes experimentally. He stops right away when pain shoots up his leg with the tiniest movement.

He starts easing his head back down into Rain’s lap but pauses when he moves in his sleep beneath him. He sits up instead, just as slow. His head spins. He blinks and rubs a hand over his face.

His phone is wedged between two couch cushions. He checks the time — it’s still morning. In his notifications is a text from one of the production coordinators about a doctor’s appointment in the early afternoon.

So he wasn’t asleep for very long at all, and has a couple of hours to kill before his appointment. It really would be nice to sleep more, to spend some time not thinking about anything. The idea of actually trying to fall asleep again, getting comfortable, sounds like too much of a chore. He’s tired, but not unbearably so. He should just commit to being awake.

It’s not like he can go anywhere, though, or do anything else. He flops against the back of the couch next to him, tipping over sideways so that he doesn’t have to move his legs. His cheek presses into cool leather. He sighs.

“Dew?” Rain’s voice comes unexpectedly from behind him, raspy from disuse.

He jumps, startled.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Sorry if I woke you up.”

Rain shakes his head. “Did you get any sleep?”

“I just woke up a couple minutes ago.”

“Good. That’s good.” He’s already kicking into gear, getting up and collecting the pillows strewn across the room.

When he reaches Dew’s side of the couch, Rain picks up one end of the abandoned bandage, lifting a long tail out of the limp pile. “I guess we should put this back on?”

Dew grimaces. “I guess.” He’s not interested in anything touching his ankle, but if he wants to stand up or move around at all, he would probably be more comfortable with it at least a little bit immobilized.

“Unless the ice…?”

The tips of his ears start to feel warm. Unless he wants to make a big dramatic scene over it like last night? “No, it’s okay now.”

“Okay, well, did you want to do it? Or do you want me to do it for you?”

“Can you?” His voice comes out small.

Something like relief washes over Rain’s face. “Sure, of course.”

Rain sits down at the end of the couch. He takes one end of the bandage and presses it into his skin, holding it there, on the top of his foot near his toes. Dew hisses through his teeth at the contact.

“Sorry,” Rain says, lifting his hand away. The bandage crumples down onto the pillow.

“It’s fine, just do it.” He clenches his teeth, hopefully not in a way that’s noticeable.

He hesitates, but then holds the bandage against his foot again. He loops it around his foot one, two, three times, then pauses to adjust, pressing down with cautious fingers and gently tugging the free end with his other hand. Elasticized fabric slides under Dew’s arch.

In the end, his ankle is wrapped up again, though not quite as neatly as it was before. He puts his foot down next to his other one. The difference between them, visually, is concerning. The bruising is covered by the bandage, but the swelling is compounded by the additional layers covering it, making it look massive.

Rain helps him down the stairs to the bathroom, gets him things from his bag, brings them both food again so he doesn’t have to go all the way inside. It’s humiliating to need to be assisted with every single task, to do nothing of his own power, but if it had to be anyone helping him… now that’s an embarrassingly saccharine thought.

He takes another pile of pills, at Rain’s direction. He can see what they are now — two tylenol and four ibuprofen. It seems extreme, if not dangerous, but he’s not going to question it, not after last night.

Then they wait. Waiting, in general, is a very normal part of being on tour, but not like this, anxious, with something looming ahead. He should be killing time with the rest of the band, maybe out and about somewhere, excited for the show tonight. So should Rain, but instead he’s entertaining his petulant boyfriend with games and videos, switching to something new as soon as it stops holding his attention.

“I would be fine by myself, you know,” Dew says, as Rain scrolls through a list of movies for the millionth time.

Rain frowns slightly. He puts down the TV remote. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“I mean— you don’t need to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Well, I do want to.” He picks up his phone and scoots over next to Dew.

They’re in the depths of a Wikipedia rabbit hole when he gets a text that a car will arrive soon to take him to his appointment. Rain helps him walk a short distance across the sunny concrete parking lot to where, by the time they make it there, the car awaits. He offers his arm to hold onto as he lowers himself into the back seat, pivoting on his one leg.

The clunk of the door closing feels abrupt. Just like that, he’s alone. Why was he expecting otherwise? He looks down at his feet on the freshly vacuumed floor mat, his single shoe. He feels a little bit like he’s being brought to his execution.

The opposite door opening pulls him from his thoughts. Rain gets in the car and closes the door behind him. Right, of course. He settles back against the seat. Rain is watching him with big worried eyes, like maybe he can see his thoughts spilling out from how hard they’re churning.

He actually isn’t sure what he thinks is going to happen. As it stands, his ankle is simultaneously damaged beyond repair and just a little bruised. He’s overreacting and at the same time his life is ruined. He needs an x-ray just as a formality, but the doctor will give him devastating news which he dreads hearing.

Out the window, trees pass by, weathered brick walls, iron fences. Carbon copy rowhouses sitting pressed up against each other become gated estates hidden behind foliage as they leave the city center. They’re dropped off in front of an unassuming building, and make their way inside.

The waiting area is fancy, in a subtle way. They sit on a real sofa, like one that might be in someone’s living room. It doesn’t quite feel like a doctor’s office. It calls attention to how unusual this whole thing really is, the context, the logistics of it all. It’s not necessarily normal to be able to schedule a same-day doctor’s appointment at the drop of the hat anywhere in the world unless, perhaps, you’re a key part of a concert tour with a budget in the millions. He could put a price tag on his leg.

They aren’t there for long before a doctor arrives and ushers them to an exam room. Her white coat seems out of place at first, at the threshold of the oddly domestic waiting area, but she fits in better once the door is closed, with pale gray cabinets and a little stool on five caster wheels. Dew sits on a padded table.

She asks him what happened, where it hurts, all the same as before. Saying it is embarrassing every time. As much as he can, he leaves out the parts about the concert, the stage, the costume, just mentioning the stairs, that he tripped, that he received first aid right away. Behind her, Rain raises an eyebrow when he describes how he stood and walked on his injured leg for mysterious and vague reasons, with no clear motivation.

She unwraps the bandage from his ankle. He knows what it looks like underneath, but it’s still unpleasant to see it again. The weave of the fabric is imprinted on his skin. She asks him to lie down, and he doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

“What do you do for work?” Her fingers press into the side of his leg near near his calf and start to work their way lower.

“I’m a… musician.”

“I see, so are you on your feet much? She digs into his ankle bone in a way that’s unpleasant but not exceedingly painful.

“Um, I’m on tour right now, so—” He flinches when she touches a spot on the side of his foot, his words interrupted by a strangled yelp.

“Is this where the pain is worst?” She presses on it again, more gently, just indicating to it. It’s like the deepest, most sensitive bruise he’s ever had, like an exposed nerve.

“Yeah.” He stops himself from squirming on the table, wriggling away from her hands, from the close observation. “Yes, I think so.”

“Let’s get an x-ray of this, and we’ll take it from there, okay?”

He’s directed to a room at the end of the hall. Rain helps him down from the exam table and supports him as they walk there together. They’re getting better at this, more coordinated and in tune with each other’s motions. It’s a good thing, in the sense that it’s easier to move around, but it’s not a skill he wants to be developing in the first place.

When they get there, a technician asks Rain to wait outside. A door closes between them.

The room inside is dark, and is full of white equipment, austere plastic-shelled machines and furniture, utilitarian fixtures. The technician instructs him to sit on a hard table at its center. She places a rectangular panel underneath his foot. She adjusts his body with light, barely-there touches, bending his knee, extending his ankle, pointing his toes so that the sole of his foot is flat on the panel. Something inside his foot, at the point where the doctor pressed, protests being stretched this way. The chill of all the rigid surfaces, and of the air in the room, sinks into his skin.

When the technician presses a button on the machine looming above the table, it shines a rectangle of light on him like sun through a window. The shadowed lines between the panes form a crosshair that she aims at the middle of his foot. He feels exposed, lit by a spotlight and placed in front of a camera that will look inside him, through him.

He holds still while she steps into another room, leaving him entirely alone. This must be what it’s like in a museum after closing time, a curio on a pedestal in the dark surrounded by white walls. A day’s worth of attention evaporates off him like steam into the air.

She comes back after barely any time at all. She takes two more pictures in the same manner, one with his knee tipped inwards and one with it rotated all the way out until the whole length of his leg is resting on the table. Then he’s done, and is sent back to the exam room.

He manages to limp back to the door, where Rain seems surprised to see him emerge by himself. They make their way down the hall again, retracing their careful, methodical steps.

When they get back to the exam room, the doctor isn’t there. Rain leads Dew to the table — no, not again. He shakes his head. There is a pair of chairs on the other side of the room, across from a desk. Rain helps him into one and sits in the other.

Dew exhales; what starts as a sigh becomes a frustrated groan. Every time he sits down he’s reminded how tired he is. The only thing preventing him from curling up right here and trying to fall asleep is that he knows he wouldn’t be able to, not with the anxiety and the pain, the lights, the unfamiliar surroundings. His leg hurts more from having briefly walked on it.

“Doing okay?” Rain is looking at him with big eyes again.

“I guess.” He slumps down in the chair, melting under his concerned gaze. As much as the question makes him squirm he really does appreciate that Rain is being so attentive. If only he could express it in a normal way, instead of whatever he’s doing now. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Of course.”

“And thank you for walking me everywhere. Because I can’t walk by myself.”

“Sure. But actually I was going to ask—” Rain sits up a bit straighter, turns toward him slightly, like he’s about to change the subject to something serious. “Were you walking by yourself earlier? In the other room.”

“Just a couple steps. I think it was a bad idea.” He looks down at his bare foot. “It hurt.”

“You could have asked me to help you.”

“What, through the radiation-proof lead door?”

“I would have heard you.”

Dew scoffs. He probably would have, though. Somehow.

There’s a brisk knock on the door, and then the doctor opens it and walks in without any delay. Dew scrambles to sit up properly in his chair. She sits at the desk across from them. Suddenly this all feels very formal.

“I took a look at your x-rays,” she says. “I’m afraid you’ve broken your foot.”

Dew’s blood runs cold. Branching timelines slam together; disparate possibilities collapse into a single present. He distantly feels Rain’s hand on his arm.

“Here, let me show you.” She turns to her computer, clicks a few times, then rotates the monitor towards him.

On it is an x-ray of a foot, looking down from the front. It looks exactly like the paint on the front of the uniform boots, the same stupid boot that made him fall. A startled laugh bubbles up from his chest before he can stop it.

“You can see the fracture here.” She drags the mouse cursor along one dark line through a gray-white bone. “And here.” She moves the cursor to another, similar looking line.

Dew struggles to formulate an intelligent question. In the end, what comes out is, “It’s broken twice?”

“Yes, it’s broken in two places. Two fractures.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s not uncommon.” She folds her hands on the desk in front of her. “Based on the location of the fractures, and because they are well aligned, I believe it will heal on its own over time. About six to eight weeks.”

She’s saying it like this is the good option, but Dew isn’t sure what the other possibilities might be. How else do bones heal? Probably better not to think about it. He nods.

“I’m going to give you a special boot to wear. You can put as much weight on your foot as you feel comfortable with, but only while the boot is on. Alright?”

That means he can stand, he can walk. He can be on stage like normal. The sudden sense of relief is so potent that he feels lightheaded. He nods again.

“Don’t push yourself too hard. Walking a bit will help with healing, but start slow, listen to your body, especially for the next few days.”

He feels a little bit like he’s been caught doing something naughty, even though it actually hasn’t happened yet. It’s as if she can read his mind. Or maybe everyone thinks this, and she’s just responding to an observed pattern.

“Other than that, elevating your leg and using ice will help with the pain and swelling. You can take the boot off while you’re resting, it’s just to make walking more comfortable ”

Dew nods. “Okay.”

“Do you have any questions?”

He shakes his head. No, not any that he’s going to risk asking, and maybe getting an answer that he doesn’t like. His mind was already made up the moment he got permission to bear weight on his leg, even though it came with some caveats that he may or may not follow to the letter.

“Great, let me get that boot for you.”

As soon as the door closes behind her, Rain is on his case. “You’re thinking about the show tonight, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” He can’t help but smile a little at Rain’s very predictable discernment. At least he didn’t say anything out loud in front of the doctor.

“Just be careful, okay? Take it slow, like she said.”

“I will.”

When the doctor comes back, she’s carrying a very tall and bulky item of footwear. It’s black, at the very least. It won’t be too out of place with his stage uniform. It even has a similarly thick sole.

His foot and leg are wrapped in a soft foam sleeve and then five velcro straps are tightened around it, holding a metal frame in place. The top of the boot ends just below his knee. His toes stick out just slightly from the liner.

He stands up slowly. Involuntarily, he holds his hands out to balance. Rain reaches out and grabs one of them.

The boot forces him to put most of his weight on his heel, which does indeed hurt less than standing normally. Now that he knows where the broken bones are, it seems obvious. He’s still trying to wrap his head around it, that it was his foot, not his ankle. He was so sure he hurt his ankle. It doesn’t really matter that much — it’s all connected, anyway — but the sudden clarity is jarring.

He takes a small, experimental step. This is fine. It’s doable.

“Feels alright? I can grab you a pair of crutches if that would be easier at first.”

He shakes his head. “No.” Absolutely definitely not. “Thank you.”

Apparently that’s enough, and he doesn’t need to convince her any further of his supposed accession to pacing himself and doing as he’s told. He feels almost giddy. It could have been so much worse.

Despite his new ability to walk on his own, Rain doesn’t let go of his arm as they head back down the hallway to the waiting room and out the front door. As he begins to feel more confident, he takes longer and longer strides, but soon reaches an upper limit — the inability to bend his ankle is way more disruptive to his gait than he expected. The sole of the boot is much thicker than that of his other shoe, too, which makes it feel like he’s walking sideways along a small but annoying hill, stepping up with one foot and down with the other.

Outside, the two of them sit on a wooden bench as they wait for the car to come back around and pick them up. The air is pleasantly cool, and warm sunlight shines down on them.

Dew extends both legs out in front of him. The boot is huge in comparison to his other leg. It looks ridiculous on him, completely out of proportion. He should be grateful that he’s going to be able to be on stage at all, let alone standing up, walking, but instead he’s finding new things to be embarrassed about. At least he’s not going to be sitting in a chair with everyone running circles around him. It’s just a shoe, another in a collection of notable footwear from the past day.

They make it back to the concert venue in time for soundcheck. It’s a place composed of seemingly endless hallways. All of them are, but endless is longer than usual today, considering the circumstances. By the time they reach the arena floor, Dew’s ankle — no, his foot — is really starting to ache. In the underworld, he stands with all his weight on his good leg.

It’s strange to be here again. Last time he was under the stage, everything was so different. Memories flank him like a pack of wolves.

It’s not the same place, though, technically. The stage is the same, but he’s miles away from where he was last night. The ground under his feet is different.

Everyone seems very relieved to see him, and keen to express it, which is embarrassing, but thankfully other than that they give him space. If he had to tell the whole story right now of everything that’s happened he would probably combust. It’s hard enough just telling the story to himself, remembering it, the details. He does his best to reassure everyone that he’s feeling okay.

Soundcheck, at first, boosts his confidence. He really will be able to do this. He’s standing, playing, but a new problem arises — he can’t use his pedals properly with the bulkiness of the boot, and his ankle fixed in one position. So close, yet so far.

He’s in the middle of considering if he’s willing to relinquish control of the pedal effects to his guitar tech, or just to some computer maybe, or even leave them out altogether, when Phantom bounds up to him, sprightly as ever, and offers to do it for him.

“I can be your feet for tonight,” he says.

Poor Phantom, like everyone else, probably has been wondering about him after the drama he caused last night, and has been very politely leaving him alone in spite of it. This is the first chance he’s had to offer to help, and really, how can Dew say no?

After soundcheck, Rain helps him to his dressing room, seemingly intent on forcing him to rest for a while. The bus lounge they so selfishly annexed would probably still be available, as would, of course, his bunk, but the parking lot is so far away. Inside, his uniform is waiting for him, including both of the associated shoes.

He collapses onto the couch. Walking is still exhausting, even with the boot, or maybe because of it. Rain sets him up with pillows under his foot and a plastic bag full of ice, and he even manages to take a short but much-needed nap before he has to get ready for the show. If Rain sleeps too, he’s not sure. What he does know is that he’s there when he falls asleep and still there when he wakes up.

Getting into his uniform, when it’s time, is about as much of an ordeal as it was to take it off last night. He has to remove the boot to change his clothes and then put it back on again, which means wrestling with an excessive amount of velcro that seems to have a mind of its own and a desire to stick to everything in its vicinity. When he’s done, a mismatched pair of shoes remains on the dressing room floor, his own right one with the left from his uniform.

The boot looks the same as before — bulky, out of place. It might actually look even bigger now, given how tight the bodysuit is, maximizing the difference between the sizes of his legs. It is what it is, an inelegant, unattractive thing that makes it possible for him to walk, just barely.

Anticipation builds over the course of his final preparations for the show until, finally, he’s standing on stage again, the audience buzzing on the other side of the curtain. He feels an unprecedented level of self-consciousness. The boot really sticks out, literally, and he’s not going to be up to his own standards. He’s going to be a disappointment.

When the curtain falls, everything comes into focus. The important thing is that he’s here, even if he can’t participate in all the ways he wants to. He can still play. Phantom helps with his pedals, as does Rain. Papa comes to him, instead of the other way around.

By the halfway point of the set the pain in his foot has increased to a dull roar. His back and hips ache from the unsustainable distribution of his weight, the unequal height of his shoe and boot. He moves less and less, stands in one place. It starts to be a distraction.

He can hear Rain in his head telling him to take care of himself. Also, he can see Rain in real life watching him, surely eager to say the same thing, given the opportunity.

Dew hobbles carefully to the drum riser. Between parts, in the short interval in which he can use his hands to steady himself, sits down on the steps. In no time at all, Rain is there too, standing next to him on those same steps, perfectly casual — he stands here all the time.

The six weeks or longer that it’s expected to take for him to heal will extend through what remains of this part of the tour. Maybe, hopefully, he will feel better as the shows go on, become more mobile. Maybe the rest of the tour will be like tonight. Suddenly, for the first time, he’s okay with that possibility.

[snailfen]

at the very least heres this. go my suitloon qpr

[atlanticsea]

soldier/poet/king - patrick/tashi/art

based on that one quiz i made four years ago. if you're interested, you can click here to read all my thoughts on art being the most king to ever king, tashi being a poet with a strong soldier streak despite contradictory results, and patrick being a self-destructive soldier.

[veilswarden]

the ossuary arena

after seeing it unloaded in Ghil Dirthalen's video, the arena has been preying on my mind. finally, after spending far too long in photo mode, I managed to get it loaded. this will be a long post explaining where to find it in game and how to get it to load (or what worked for me at least) with pictures.

(as a note, this was found on pc using the better photo mode mod by aether)

The original entrance was in the Lower Inner Cells area through a now covered/filled archway flanked by two statues. Having found a few unused areas in Veilguard before, it seems to be the done thing to fill the gap with rubble and random archways smooshed together.

If you go through the wall here it will be unloaded.

You'll be able to see some details but it will mostly be wonky rocks and lava so I'd recommend continuing on through to the Blood Vault.

When in the blood vault, I went into the south east room before going into photo mode but it might work from elsewhere in there. Face your rook south-west if you're bad at remembering directions (like me), go into photo mode. Still with your camera facing south-west, move up to the top of the tower, then forward in that south-westerly direction and you should come across something that looks like this:

Congrats! this is the arena! go forth and explore to your heart's content!

+++

For those who reach this, I took pictures of the area as best I could as if the original entrance in the lower cells was open. So, going through that original gold archway, flanked by two statues, you'd be greeted with this:

Continuing down these stairs and around the corner at the bottom, this is what you would find:

Down on the left side, just out of frame in the picture above, there is a small archway in the wall that leads to another room with tables/alters of some kind, blood splatters and rubble on the floor, and bookshelves across the back wall:

Going back into the main area, we'll go up that staircase on the right, follow it up and down the ramp on the other side into the actual arena:

This is it! I'll include some random images at the bottom of this post of different angles and other bots and bobs but yeah, here's that unreachable arena in the Ossuray.

If I had to guess, I'd say this was meant to be a dragon fight, especially given this concept art by Albert Urmanov. Even though we didn't get the actual fight, I'm glad we have this at least.

+++

Now for other angles and random shit:

(from the opposite side and from the top looking down)

(the god statues around the arena, i only know ghilan'nain and elgar'nan off the top of my head (they're the first two), sorry)

(some closeups of the statues around the area, i'm pretty sure the last one is from inquisition as well)

(finally, the loneliest health jar. it only appears when you go there in its unloaded state. i feel sad knowing there is a jar out there that i'll never be able to smash)

[1-800-i-ship-it]

omg i just finished orv im going insane im im i can finally look at that doc of things i saved for after i finished orv and can look at spoilers...i can finally unblock that orv spoiler tag...im so normal about orv

[oh-no-its-bird]

Fugaku ignored him, too busy staring into the home through an open window with a sudden grimace. "Oh sage, she's here." "Who?" Kakashi tried to think of the kind of person who he might be upset to run into. "Your rival?" "Worse," Fugaku despaired. "My fiancé." (Kakashi continues to get into fights with people more than twice his age. And also just twice his age, but Obito hardly counts in his book.)

Chapter 5 of chasing shadows is !! Now !! Up !!!! Ft. dysfunctional Fugaku and Mikoto who, despite being engaged, don't seem to like each other very much; Shisui being a literal toddler; And Obito and Kakashi never failing to prove that they bring out the worst in each other every time they interact

[cursedconstellation]

I just had the absolutely diabolical thought-

After Cas died the last time, Dean just shut down. He wouldn't let Sam speak of him, he wouldn't let himself think of him, if he saw a man in a familiar trenchcoat, he'd just turn away. Any of Cas' belongings made it to an old shoe-box, stashed away so well it could only gather dust, intentionally forgotten. As far as Dean Winchester was concerned, Cas might have not existed at all.

Sam, of course, wouldn't leave it alone. Every once in a while he'd mention the angel fleetingly, only to be ignored. He tried being forward, cornering Dean and begging him to at least acknowledge a part of their life was missing. He tried being careful and gentle in his approach, trying to spot a hint of vulnerability in Dean, that momentary, blink-and-you-miss-it look in his eye when he'd hear his name. He tried to be casual, off-handedly say something to catch him off guard.

"Oh, I think this was Cas' favourite mug," off to the shoebox it went.

"Cas really liked this song," and coincidentally, he'd never hear it again.

"Cas would've loved that," and whatever 'that' was would never be mentioned again.

No matter what he said, as soon as Cas' name was uttered, Dean suddenly could not hear it. Even when it was left unspoken, as soon as it became clear who 'he' that Sam incessantly talked about was, it fell on deaf ears.

Months went by, and Sam would not give up, he'd never give up. However his attempts would become more sparse and he'd go weeks without even trying to say anything alluding to Cas. In fact, at a certain point, although he could not remember exactly when, he actively avoided the topic, just as Dean did. Some days he was too tired to confront the reality of his brother being severely unwell, and played into it, just to give himself a couple of days of false normalcy. Because Dean was 'fine'. He said so every time Sam dared to ask. So, some days Sam allowed everything to be just 'fine'.

It was one of those streaks, then. They'd have breakfast together and make a small talk, about anything and everything - as long as Cas wasn't mentioned. Dean would make a bad joke, and Sam would roll his eyes. They fell back into decades long routine, only occasionally broken by Sam, who would always end up coming back to the topic of the angel. He'd always try and catch Dean off-guard, even though he knew the outcome by heart by then. Dean would simply look away, the same, dark look over his eyes, and while he'd stand still, the same as before Sam said anything, he seemed miles away.

That day Sam didn't plan on saying anything. In fact, he himself forgot about it, caught in Dean's denial. It was truly easier that way, to just take Dean at face value, to ignore the fact everything he said, did, or perhaps even thought was a facade. The day itself wasn't remarkable in any way, either. It was as if the entire world adjusted to ignore the fact Cas ever existed in it.

They had their usual banter over breakfast, only to split up after finishing - Sam hid away with his laptop in hands, Dean would leave to work on Baby. In fact he worked on her so much, Sam wasn't sure there was anything left to improve. He never doubted that was in fact what Dean was doing, as he'd always hear banging and scraping of metal even through the walls. It was like that then, too. There was clanking, and music, and occasional roars of the engine. Yet-

At one point it stopped.

Sam only noticed it after a couple of minutes - the music still played, echoing through the bunker, but there was no other sound accompanying it. There was no delicate vibrations from tools being tossed onto the floor.

Perhaps it was his hunter instincts kicking in, or perhaps simple paranoia, but there was something unsettling about that silence.

Sam carefully put his computer away and followed the music up the stairs, listening in closely for any sound of distress, or even any sound at all, but Led Zeppelin blaring from the speaker drowned everything out. Once he reached the garage and the music barely sounded like any melody at all, with mild annoyance, he turned it off, for a moment relishing in the sudden silence.

Except- he heard heavy breathing, as if someone was gasping for air despite being locked in a place deprived of oxygen. It was loud, it was panicked, it was-

It was Dean. Dean, sitting with his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, tears streaming down his pale, clammy face. Before Sam could even move, Dean looked up at him, eyes wide and glistening, and he looked so terrified and helpless, for a moment it felt like he was just a scared kid, who saw something in the darkest corner of his room.

Between heavy, disorganised breaths, he managed to pant out,

"My ears keep ringing, and it sounds just like him."

[capricores]

i love being friends with earth sign placements (sun/moon/asc/venus) so much. you will not find better friends. the way they're so caring, attentive, nurturing, kind-hearted?! the fact that they initiate and plan things for and with you?! the way they listen so well and give amazing yet gentle advice?! the way they remember all the little things about you and your interests and give the most thoughtful gifts and remind you in small ways that they remember everything about you?! i hope every earth sign placement is having a great day and knows just how positively impactful they are in their friend's lives!!!!!! we love you!!!!

[dangaer]

still thinking about shin amnesi.a memo.ries.

[catboyidia]

Zack gets de-aged bc of reasons, asg have to coparent him, how does that go?

well it definitely depends what age we’re talking but overall i think it would be hell for asg but it would go pretty smoothly, but by vague age ranges i think:

- baby zack: a sweet little angel, babbles a lot, but isn’t super fussy! i think he sleeps a lot, and is kind of noisy, but isn’t a big crier and just wants to be held and sleep for the most part! they divide the work between the three of them, although none of them have many complaints

- toddler zack: the worst nightmare you could possibly imagine… constantly getting into things, having a fascination with doing really dumb and dangerous stuff like trying to put knives in electrical outlets kinda dumb and dangerous, and he runs around everywhere and hides, he’s the nightmare toddler that people complain about basically! poor genesis is stressed out of his mind trying to find zack, sephiroth is running around to hide all the potentially dangerous things and cover the outlets, and angeal is trying to make sure zack stays in timeout because if he looks away for one moment zack will just vanish

- child zack: loud and rambunctious but not nearly as bad as toddler zack would’ve been! he runs around and likes making a mess of things, he thinks everything is something he use as a training object because he’s in his wanting to be a hero phase, but he doesn’t get himself into too much trouble otherwise. since zack wants to be a hero and asg are all first class soldiers, zack would probably look up to them and beg and plead for them to train him, and they all bond with little zack because of it, with angeal teaching zack the basics, genesis desperately protecting the furniture, and sephiroth agreeing to “spar” with zack and letting zack win every time. i also think zack would be very polite and willing to help, so long as he’s given incentive to do so! he follows (most) instructions and rules that angeal sets, and he doesn’t get into *too* much trouble, although he makes a lot of messes and more often than not genesis has to take care of any wounds zack sustains from playing and training! overall very chaotic but asg can manage him, and they wouldn’t hate the experience

[caramelmochacrow]

WHOS NOA I NEED TO KNOW AND COMPLETE THE HINASATO JUNJUN TRINITY

Hehe, buckle up because I'm one of her biggest fans!

Here are some cards of her before I ramble!

Noa Fukushima is from D4DJ Groovy Mix and a member of one of the DJ units, Photon Maiden. The reason why Noa joined the DJ unit is because of her love of literature. She joined a theater workshop and was complemented greatly on her acting skills. This eventually led to her deciding to be a performer and auditioning to join Photon Maiden. Noa is curious about anything and everything, she has an amazing memory and extensive knowledge because of it; she likes reading books and anything cute. She doesn't hesitate sharing her interests at all! She's one of the most emotional characters in D4DJ, but also the most logical. She can go from squealing about cute things to talking strategy and making references to academic sources in a few seconds.

Because of her extensive memory, knowledge and love for reading, Noa is one of the smartest and talented people ever in D4DJ. She has won a national essay writing competition in elementary school, been complemented by her friend Towa about her skills in sports and cooking, and repeatedly been called a genius ever since she was young. However, because people have been calling her a genius, her peers and teachers assumed Noa could handle anything by herself, distancing themselves from her. This caused Noa to believe that everyone around her think she's terrifying and keep her problems to herself. Since Noa believes she is a terrifying person, she started to research on how to be cute so that people will like her more. At first, this was done similar to a zoologist studying animal behaviors, but thanks to one of the girls in the series (Kurumi), this made Noa realize that being cute is something that can be fluid and depend on the beholder. This soon developed into observing cute things out of pure love and trying to see what can make anything classify as "cute", even though she herself isn't. As D4DJ has gone on, Noa has learned to be kinder to herself and eventually managed to find herself to be cute, but she still has many steps to go. I think I managed to talk about everything I know about Noa, so I'll end off here. I will say everything I have said isn't everything about Noa (I haven't even talked about how she acts with girls) so if you have more questions about her, just ask away! I love talk about my faves in D4DJ <3 (I might take a bit because I'm a little busy atm, lol)

P.S I actually haven't said it yet, but since you bring up Junna, I assume you're kinda knowledgeable with Revstar, so I'll tell you that everyone in Photon Maiden voices someone in Revstar as well. The DJ, Saki Izumo has the same voice as Akikaze Rui; the vocalist, Ibuki Niijima has the same voice as Koharu Yanagi; Towa Hanamaki (the blue-haired girl in the first card) has the same voice as Mahiru Tsuyuzaki. Actually, there are 7 VAs in D4DJ (including Photon) that also work in Revstar but I think I'll stop talking here, lol.

[nanami-is-nanamean]

I like playing hsr-- as my irls say, im a bit of a grind/build player. I can attest to that, because no joke-- i spent an entire year just grinding and farming for materials for my characters. So you could say that im a bit well versed in how these characters work and run and tick. Of course, when you have two obsessions, its kind of inevitable that youd smash them together like dolls so--

Here's JJK characters typecasted as HSR characters

Please note that im more well versed in the characters as units so im gonna typecast them as such— i know jack about their plot and stories so i may or may not make a part two or more lmao

Lets go-- everything is under the cut

OH-- quick note!! Ill be doing the 06 class first because im more familiar with them, and most of my info comes from my own experience playing, and Prydwen my beloved lmao

- - -

Gojo Satoru:

For Gojo—as a unit, i wanna say that hes either the strongest unit currently or some kind of nuts shielder. Its an either or because duh. Bruv is Quite Literally The Strongest and Quite Literally Untouchable.

If were going with the former, aka the strongest—id say that he would be what is currently considered the meta, which is Acheron. I dont have an Acheron, but my friend does and she lent me her account so i can build her Acheron and other units and LET ME TELL YOU. HOLY SHIT. Even unbuilt, Acheron hits like a motherfucker dawg. Its genuinely crazy. Her Technique as well (heh) also lets her oneshot almost anything which is also inline with how he works. Jeez, i should probably go back to building her account...

If were going with the latter, aka nuts shielder ala Infinity, i was thinking either Fu Xuan or Aventurine—but settled on Fu Xuan as it filled out more of what Gojo could do. While she does actually take damage, as she directs damage to herself, she heals it all back which honestly?? Amazing symbolism for Gojo tbh—considering the fact that hes the most important figure in Jujutsu society, everyone would be fucking gunning for him man. And he'd just as easily bounce back and brush it all off with a quick smile and Purple. And speaking of purple—esteemed colleague, that is Just Her Ultimate.

But yeah—Gojo would be either Acheron or Fu Xuan, depending on what aspect of him were focusing on.

Geto Suguru:

I'm gonna admit—this one was a little hard for me because who tf uses summons. And then it hit me.

Dear lord, my boy is just Topaz. Or Jing Yuan. LMAO—

Makes sense tho mechanically—Geto's technique is all about summoning curses to fight. Either for him or with him. Its just that the choice between Topaz and Jing Yuan capitalizes on what sort of fighting styles Geto wants to use. Topaz is more reliant on Numby doing damage, while Jing Yuan can do damage on his own without the help of Lightning Lord. This means then that Topaz is if Geto wants his curses to fight for him, and Jing Yuan is if he wants to fight with his curses.

Also the fact that I considered Sushang for him just because she summons a giant fucking chicken for her ult is. W o w .

Shoko Ieiri:

Dawg. To be honest with you. I think this is gonna be the hardest one for me to typecast unit wise. Because like—Shoko is a heal bot fr fr. And like—thats literally all the Abundance characters man. I CANT JUST SAY "shes every Abundance character" AND CALL IT A DAY. I mean I CAN but I WONT because I have STANDARDS. So I suppose I'll knock off the ones she can't possibly be unit wise.

Bailu is an Instant No. If she can bring people back from the dead Bailu style, JJK would be a WHOLE DIFFERENT STORY. and YEAH YEAH the Gojo/Yuuta thing is different—Gojo was already super dead, she just transferred Yuuta to Gojos body my guy. Not Gallagher, since w've never seen her in a combat situation and we have no idea what pure RCE can do to a curse—and before you say im wrong, nuh uh dawg—youre thinking about Reverse Cursed TECHNIQUE. I'm talking energy. The two are very different. Thats like saying putting the car in reverse is the same as using diesel instead of gas. Luocha is also a no go since, if she can just cast a Simple Domain that heals everyone in range, JJK would be a completely different story. And, as much as this pains me to say it—she cant be Huohuo either, because if her healing people would also replenish their CE, JJK would be a different story—at the very least with more people alive in it lmao

And so. This leaves us with our F2P basic units. Lynx and Natasha. Which... honestly? Its weirdly fitting and cathartic in a strange sort of way. Its guaranteed they'd be there to help because you receive them as units early on in the game—just as guaranteed that Shoko would be there to help and heal any and all sorcerers who come to her. All units need healing, in any way shape and form—without em making sure our teams our alive, we quite literally cannot get thru half the content of the game. I would know, that friend DID NOT build any of their sustains. Constantly fighting for my life until I built Gallagher lmao.

But yeah—unit wise, it does fit. They both mainly are there to give healing and basic support to the units, without drastically buffing them or debuffing their opponents. Theyre just there to make sure the team is alive, and honestly? 🫡 you go babe. heres a free cigarette, on me.

Nanami Kento:

Immediately I knew what the fuck I wanted him to be. Break effect character. Aka, current meta. So, obviously he'd be Boothill and Robin right?? Well—not exactly...

He'd deffo be Boothill thats for sure, but not so much Robin. Nanami's powerset is pretty simple—he focuses on a target and then, depending on his goal and/or amount of cursed energy, proceeds to put a weak point on them of which to hit. He can't be Robin because of how she works—she needs to transform via Ult to deal that optimal break damage and strike weak points despite whatever shes facing not having a fire element weakness. Whereas Nanami can just hit, without needing to transform into something else or needing a cursed tool or something.

For a little bit there, I considered Xueyi but ulimately said no because of her follow up and her being able to attack multiple enemies at once. While yes, I can flavor the follow up as a black flash or something (even though i really shouldn't since black flashes are based off luck and "being in the zone"), the multiple targets thing I really couldn't ignore because we've never seen him attack multiple targets at once—the closest thing we have is him being fast enough and strong enough to one shot curses back to back.

I was left with Sushang and Luka at this point, and ended up with Sushang. I was already settled with Sushang, when I remembered that Luka existed lmao—but decided to give him a shot anyways. I shouldn't have given him that shot because he doesn't fit Nanami as a unit. He's a Nihility "charge" unit—charge in the sense of, he needs to build up a certain stack to properly break and deal damage. When you relate that to Nanami, it doesn't work. Like I said, Nanami is simple and straight-forward, no muss and no fuss. There's a lot of mussing and fussing around with Luka that doesn't mesh well, along with the whole debuff thing Nihility has going—Nanami doesn't do that kind of DOT damage in the series, and doesn't deal too much of a handicap that I could consider it.

Nanami being Boothill and Sushang makes sense to me too. Nanami is a relatively fast person, being able to kind of run on water, fend off dozens of curses at the same time whilst taking minimal damage, and keep up with a Mahito that transformed himself into being really fast, and hits hard—both with the boost and assistance of his technique and without it. Like—he canonically killed Haruta 6 times. Were it not for his Luck Technique, his skull would've been pulverized by the first punch.

Boothill and Sushang's entire deal is to hit hard and hit fast—or at the very least, stay ahead of their opponents in the turn order via Break—Weakness, Super, or otherwise. Boothill's mechanics are a little more complicated than Sushang's but they're relatively simple and tracks with how Nanami works—he can force element weakness (Nanami's CT), hits really good and really hard to those he's focused on/appiled weakness on (nanami's CT again), and is able to clear out multiple enemies at once/inquick succession despite being a single target focus due to how strong and fast he is (nanami's CT and fighting style in general). Sushang's mechanics are much more barebones—she hits hard and she hits fast, which is basically the essence of Nanami in battle.

Haibara Yuu:

Motherfucker dude, this one is EASY—my boy is OBVIOUSLY Pompom. BUT NO WAIT IM BEING FR THO—we barely see him in both the manga and the anime, and I even looked up whether or not he's a playable unit in JJK Cursed Clash or JJK Phantom Parade. He's not there dawg. He's literally just the mascot—😭😭😭 UGYFHBKSFSBHVDVKFHKSD

And as much as I'd love to make assumptions abt his technique and how he works—aka theorize abt the meaning of his name, make educated guesses with the short screentime he had, I don't think I can make a good guess or assumption on how he works.

So yeah. He's Pompom, he's an NPC KHDFJHGSIDKFX—

Rip Haibara, even in death, you don't due nothing other than change the trajectory of everyone's lives via dying BUKJRNLDFJXB

---

Thanks for reading...??? Genuinely feel like doing a cont to this but like—them as HSR character lorewise, or turning them into actual HSR units, or doing the other characters. Its p fun!! Also let me engage with HSR in a diff way other than me logging on, grinding Robin's domain, getting a bunch of shit artifacts and ignoring the main quest LMAO—