#if I know you in real life this should not be surprising

[zorilleerrant]

Ohhhh, I think about this a lot, and Murderbot is such a good example! Easing readers into a story will make it read well the first time, but if they ever try to reread it, all the exposition becomes glaring. Usually that's annoying and feels pointless, but sometimes it can highlight problems with the plot, characterization, or even the worldbuilding itself. It gets too big the second time through. (That's why everyone's always on about exposition.)

The typical way of getting around that is introducing a plot context or character relationship where people would be explaining the important parts of the story. Sometimes, people use an unusually verbose or nitpicky narrator who wants to keep talking about random mostly irrelevant things. Murderbot, though, does my favorite, and one I think is sorely underused: the stories just throw you in and assume you'll get it eventually.

(This is one of the particulars I'm talking about when I say fanfic ingrains good writing habits, too. Fanfic almost never tries to handhold you through establishing the known quantities, so it's no surprise a ficcer knows how to do this!)

It can be hard going into a story planning to do that, especially if you're a writer who does a lot of worldbuilding or otherwise keeps really detailed notes. You've made a lot of decisions! Unfortunately, to make the story flow, you're going to have to wait to share most of that with the reader.

The Important Parts:

There are things the narrator doesn't know about the world. Lots of things are true in real life, but you don't know them either; this is pretty much inevitable. Murderbot is fun about this, because some things it has opinions on, some things it doesn't understand, and some things just feel normal to it!

These include things most people in the world would know, and they include things the readers might/will likely know. Murderbot has a lot of trouble with emotions, which is relatable, because we've all had some trouble with that, but it really establishes how non-human it is that it often assumes humans never have any similar trouble. Characters in a different world won't always share the same premises as in your world.

The character should know things relevant to it. This is the most commonly talked about, I think, because a lot of the most aggravating exposition is a character 'learning' through an explanation of something they should already be deeply familiar with. It's not just about general facets of the world, though; it's important that characters know a lot about their established specialties. Murderbot may be confused a lot of the time, but when it knows something, it knows it. Or it's faking knowing it and it learned it from TV.

Different characters should know different things! I think this is often overlooked in favor of trying to streamline the worldbuilding, so most characters tend to have the same background but different specialties. But in general, lots of people are working from different premises and expectations about the world, not to mention different life experiences. Murderbot does this in an especially fun way because it's always speculating about whether other people know what it knows or if they think it knows what they know, adding an interesting metafictional quality to a strong basis for character building.

When the narrator likes or cares about something more, they talk about it more, and when they like or care about it less, they talk about it less. The worldbuilding is all equally important to you, and maybe to the reader, but a character will latch onto only specific things. Murderbot has so many of those specific things! And it will go on at length, until it gets to a metaphor roundabout on occasion. This fleshes out the character more than the world, but it's important to establish your lens.

Especially since most 'truths' about the world aren't universal! There are always going to be prevailing attitudes and common myths and personal biases. These add to the worldbuilding, because you can see different ways characters interact with the world and how they come to think this way. There's not just one culture, let alone one subculture, so you need things that seem different. Murderbot, with its relatively unique perspective, is adept at showing you how many different ways different people think about things. And yet, it keeps insisting all other SecUnits think just like it! Which is a particularly wonderful bit of character and worldbuilding.

Anyway, if you think you need to tell the reader something up front, no you don't. It'll probably slot in seamlessly three chapters later, and give you a chance to let the details appear organically. Let them live their lives and care about what they want to!

An important writing lesson I'm taking away from Murderbot is that you don't always have to ease your readers into the world and the characters and speculative concepts. Sometimes you can just start with the fun part where there's a sandworm trying to eat someone and that's fine too.

[djotime-allthetime]

Freaky Flashbacks

synopsis: you recall the gradual shift in your relationship with fred when prompted by questions at a panel promoting the movie.

wc: 13k+ (...)

warnings: rpf! reader is specified to be inexperienced! major plot point actually!

a/n: loads of backstory! and banter! and pedro and paul! and kissing!

i hope the format is as intuitive as i think it is, but just in case it isn't, italics means the start of a flashback and bold is the return to present day. feedback is writer's fuel!

cross posted on AO3

<<previous part

The energy in the green room was calm, easy. You sat perched on the arm of the couch next to Fred, laughing as Pedro recounted a story from a previous panel he’d spoken at. Fred’s forearm draped over your thigh, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small circles on your knee, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

The casual physical affection felt normal now, expected even. No one batted an eye. Not Pedro, not Paul, not anyone in the room.

Ever since filming began, your relationship with Fred had only grown in comfort and familiarity. The closeness of your characters on screen slowly but surely translated to your friendship in real life. And then something more…

Late nights of practicing scenes together turned into deep talks and sharing secrets in the warm light of his trailer. Only a few months into filming, the two of you were attached at the hip. Inseparable. It became a running joke. If anyone asked where either of you was, the answer was always with the other. 

-

“Where’s Fred?” An assistant called out onto the crowded set one day. “He’s needed in hair and makeup!” 

“Where’s y/n meant to be right now?” Paul asked, barely looking up from the script in his lap. The young girl looked down at the clipboard in her hands, combing through the schedules and call sheets. Costume department, she concluded after a few moments of frantic shuffling. “Well, there’s your answer then.”

Pedro had laughed for days recounting the story, shaking his head at how predictable you and Fred had become.

-

“Are you excited?” Fred’s voice softened, meant only for you now despite the buzzing room. You lit up with a smile and a nod. You were incredibly excited. You had never been a guest at a panel before. “Nervous?”

“Not really,” you shook your head and shrugged. “Just more surprised, I think?” You mused aloud with a tilt of your head. In all honesty, you weren’t sure why you were invited to the panel at this convention today. 

You knew that your role wasn’t as impactful as people told you it was, they were just trying to be nice. You had less than ten lines in the whole film. Being invited to a panel discussing the complexities of the plot and the acting behind it was an honor! But a confusing one.

You had a sneaking suspicion that, somehow, Fred was behind it.

“Surprised?” Fred asked, his eyebrows rising and dipping in quick succession in that way that they do. “Why?”

“Just that—” You glanced around, as if gathering evidence. “Everyone here was pretty high up on that call list.” Fred’s brows furrowed even further this time and you knew what was coming.

“Don’t do that to yourself, y/n,” he almost whined. “You were a driving force—”

“I’m not tryna minimize my work, Fred.” You chuckled lightheartedly, cutting him off before he went on a tangent. He was always quick to pop any bubbles of self-doubt that formed in your brain, but this really wasn’t the case. “I know I worked hard on this movie. We both did.” You held his hand in yours. “But… Alexander wasn’t invited.” You pointed out with raised brows. Alexander had played Ravi in the movie, the healer in the Colosseum. “I’m pretty sure he had more lines than I did.”

“But you definitely had more screen time,” came Fred’s quick rebuttal. “Actually, that’s why I told them you should come—”

“I knew it!” You exclaimed in a whisper, making sure your conversation didn’t attract any attention. You were enjoying the private moment in the crowded room and there was no need for it to end so quickly. “I knew you did this!”

Fred’s grin tilted, eyes glinting with quiet defiance. “What? Am I supposed to feel bad for wanting people to notice how good you are?” He laughed. “You had almost as much screen time as anyone here, but nowhere near enough lines. So I told them that your insight into your character and the plot was just as interesting, if not more.”

“Does this count as nepotism?”

“Shut up!” Fred giggled, lightly punching your shoulder. “I just feel like— If I can help you get the recognition you deserve, why wouldn’t I?”

“Alright, thank you all for arriving on time.” A producer spoke up, seemingly appearing out of nowhere and putting an end to your conversation. You turned away from Fred to face her as she spoke, a smile still lingering on your face. 

“We’re gonna start calling you guys out now, one by one. It’s gonna be in the order your names are set up on the table, so you just come out and sit in the chair farthest from your entry. Does that make sense?” She asked, receiving a few nods. “Is everyone ready?” Another round of nods and yeses left the group, yours along with them.

“Don’t overthink it,” Fred whispered to you with a squeeze of your knee. “Just enjoy the moment.”

At that, you could hear the producer hype up the crowd for the cast’s arrival.

“That’s our cue.” Pedro got up from the couch with a clap of his hands. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Fred replied, standing up along with Pedro. “How about you, old man?”

“Creaky at the knees, but it’s alright.” Pedro teased, giving Fred a playful punch on the shoulder. That’s when you heard Pedro’s name called out into the microphone followed by the crowd’s roar in applause and cheers. “Later, losers!”

One by one the cast was called out, Fred’s name being the last one before yours. You breathed out a sigh of relief, grateful to be sitting next to him.

“y/n l/n!” Your name blasted through the speaker, signaling your cue to head out onto the stage. You walked out with a smile and a wave, the crowd cheering at your arrival. You sat down at the long table facing the audience, right there next to Fred. 

Your name was printed on a place card in front of you, spelled right and everything. With every passing day of working on this project, you felt more and more that you had finally found your place in the world.

The producer���s voice blurred into the background, distant and dull. Your focus drifted to the sea of faces ahead—posters with your name in big bright letters, shirts with your face printed on them. Some people were even dressed as your character from the movie. It was surreal.

The warmth of Fred’s hand on your knee tethered you back to the present. His steady gaze met yours, silently reminding you to breathe. He knew how overwhelming it could all be. And he knew what you were thinking, he could see it too. He was so proud of you. 

Fred squeezed your knee twice, a small act to show you that he saw you. To show you that he was there for you. And maybe, cockily, he was saying ‘I told you so’. That your presence was wanted here, not just by him. 

“We’ll get started with questions from the audience then.” The producer announced, motioning for a member of the crew to turn on the spotlight facing the crowd. When the light turned on, it illuminated a microphone on its stand in the middle aisle between all the chairs, and, with it, an incredibly long line of fans. Each with a vetted question, the producer assured.

Most questions were for Paul, though that wasn’t surprising. Many for Pedro and Denzel, as well. 

You listened and laughed along, enjoying the easy going nature of the conversation. A lot of the questions were based on the acting, which was a topic well loved by actors of course. But some, as expected, were about the on-set dynamics.

“What was your first impression of your castmates?” A teenage girl asked Paul.

This launched a chaotic answer, with multiple people joining in at once, talking over the other and laughing loudly. 

“We all know that I was absolutely terrified of Denzel at the beginning.” Paul laughed, patting Denzel, who was sitting next to him, on the back.

“So was I!” Joseph cracked up. “But I thought Fred was such a sweetheart.”

“Oh, yeah.” You nodded with him. “Fred was incredibly kind to me on my first day on set.”

“Kind?” Pedro questioned, eyebrows upturned in surprise. “Little asshole is what he was.”

“He saves the sweet stuff for her,” Paul chuckled.

“Yeah, well Pedro was an old man calling me short and she was a pretty girl who was lost.” Fred defended himself with his arms crossed, tone clearly kidding. The crowd’s laughter rose at the banter, even if it was obviously turned up for the panel. “Who would you help, huh?” 

-

It was your first day on set and your very skin was buzzing with how excited you were. Your schedule said that you should start your day in the hair and make up department, and you heard someone say that it was next to the crafts center. But you couldn’t find either of them for the life of you. And you should’ve been worried about being late for your very first appointment on the set, but you were just too enthralled with it all.

The set was beautiful! Malta, as a whole, was absolutely gorgeous, but the set was something else. It truly felt like you were transported back in time— if you ignored the cameras, speakers, and lights, of course. You had heard of Arthur Max’s work on other productions, and of course knew of his work on the first movie. But experiencing it first hand was almost an out of body experience. 

You knew that, when the time came, immersing yourself on the set would be a piece of cake. An actor’s dream really, that was what this type of set was.

“Uh, y/n?” Your name being called out from behind you caused you to spin around. “Oh, it is you.” The man’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Hi, I’m Fred.”

Fred Hechinger. You knew exactly who he was.

“I’m y/n.” You replied, stretching out a hand for him to shake. “But you already knew that.”

“Yeah, well from what I hear, we’re going to be exclusively working together.” Fred laughed as he shook your hand. “Had to do some research on my scene partner.”

“Glad I’m not the only one, then.” You chuckled.

When your manager told you of his secured position as Emperor Caracalla, you knew you wanted to look him up. Many other actors accepted the role before flaking for ‘scheduling issues’, so you were never sure who you were actually going to work with. But once Fred’s acceptance was confirmed, you went on a deep dive. You watched as many of his shows and movies as you could, his IMDb tab constantly open on your laptop.

“They were calling for you in hair and make up,” he said. “I offered to look for you and help you find the way.”

“How did you know I was lost?” You raised an eyebrow as you asked. You weren’t really lost, more so taking advantage of the lack of directions.

“Oh, I know you’re not lost.” Fred shook his head with furrowed brows as he folded his arms, faux seriousness painted his expression. Fred’s effortless confidence had an unexpected charm. It was magnetic. “But if I tell them it took me a while to find you, then we can admire the set for a bit longer.”

Your surprise melted into quiet laughter.

And just like that, you had made a friend.

-

Back on the panel stage, you leaned into the mic, smiling softly. “He gave me a tour.” You recalled. “And he vouched for me at hair and make up, because I was almost half an hour late.”

“On your first day?!” Paul questioned in astonishment, eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Ballsy move, y/n. I could never.” Paul tsked and shook his head at you in disappointment.

“Hey!” You called out in offence, throwing an arm up in Fred’s direction. “Blame Fred, he’s the bad influence here!”

“Entirely my fault.” Fred nodded with his hand raised. “I take full responsibility for corrupting the child.”

“Oh, shut up.” You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re like two minutes older than me.”

“Two minutes?! For your information,” Fred pointed at the crowd as he spoke now, “I am years older than her. Years!”

Another fan stepped up to the microphone, pulling you back to the task at hand. “Were there any funny on-set moments or inside jokes that made it into the movie? Or at least stayed with you afterwards?”

“Bless you.” Pedro whispered into the mic, causing a wave of giggles to pass through the rest of the line up.

“‘Bless you’ was a good one, I liked it.” Joseph smiled before bursting into laughter at a memory, sending Fred a look from across the table. "Tell them about the sword!"

Fred groans, but the memory sparks in your mind—the clang of metal and his ridiculous deadpan expression.

Connie lets out a loud laugh as she recalls the incident. “Fear me!” She clapped her hands together as she giggled. “Oh, it was hilarious!”

“Fear me,” echoes in your head, and suddenly you’re there again, barely holding back laughter on the set.

-

It was a late night, you were filming the scene where the emperors confront Acacius and Lucilla regarding their treachery. Ridley had instructed Joseph and Fred to make their reactions as dramatic as they saw fit, considering how fervid the scenario would make the twins.

You had been filming for hours at that point, the energy amongst you growing more chaotic with each take. Everything was funny to you now as the sleep deprivation finally hit.

During one of the takes, Fred jumped out of his seat on the throne and grabbed a prop sword from a nearby guard, as was written in the script. He was supposed to point it at Pedro and Connie, yelling about their punishments, as Joseph held him back. But, with each shake, you noticed how unstable the prop looked.

A loud clang echoed in the marble halls of the set. The sword had fallen right off of its handle.

No one said a word. Fred’s face scrunched up in confusion and anger. He stared at the broken hilt in his hand, then at Pedro. Without missing a beat, he raised it like a dagger. “Fear me.” He whispered menacingly, nose to nose with the older actor.

That’s it. Pedro snorted so loudly that the entire set erupted into laughter. You and Joseph were crying from laughing so hard. Denzel was chuckling into his hand, and Connie was leaning on Pedro to stay upright. 

“How dare you mock me?!” Fred shrieked, staying in character, even when it was clear the take was a lost cause, if only to keep making the rest of you laugh. “I am your emperor!”

“Alright, alright.” You hear Ridley’s voice call out, winding down from his own laughter. “One more time, then we’ll call it a night. Someone fix that sword, please!”

None of you ever let Fred live it down afterwards. 

Pedro would grab a toothpick from the crafts table and follow Fred around with it, a soft and dark ‘Fear me’ heard under his breath.

-

"Honestly, I thought Ridley would leave it in the movie." Fred shrugs, laughing it off. “If only someone didn’t break and ruin it all.” He sent a teasing look to Pedro out of the corner of his eyes.

You wipe a few tears from the corner of your eye as you catch your breath. “It wasn’t even that funny. We were just so tired.”

“It was like four in the morning, we were done.” Joseph explained to the crowd, still coming down from his giggles. 

“Anything would’ve been funny to us at the time.”

After the crowd’s volume slowly dwindled, another fan came up and asked about Denzel’s performance. Denzel spoke about how much he enjoyed the freedom Ridley allowed the actors in this movie. How exciting it all was. 

Afterwards, someone asked about how Joseph balanced working on multiple sets at a time. Pedro joked about Joseph being sought after and hard to find, always in a different part of the world. Joseph shot back at Pedro that they were always together anyways, considering how they both were working on ‘Fantastic Four’ together.

Another audience member asked Connie how it felt to come back to this movie after more than two decades. She talked at length about the differences and similarities the two sets had. How it was both nostalgic and new. 

Someone else stepped up to the mic and nervously waved to the cast after the laughter had died down. “My question is for Fred.” Fred perked up and smiled, nodding at her to continue. “How did you prepare for the emotionally vulnerable scenes you had as Caracalla while staying true to both his character and his sickness?”

“That’s a really good question.” Fred nodded, his arm coming up from your knee to rub at his shoulder. It was so incredibly endearing to you how he reacted to attention. “It was important, definitely. To make sure that you weren’t just seeing his sickness, but the true him under it all. And I think Caracalla, the man and not the sick emperor, really shined in those vulnerable moments.” His hands gesticulated wildly as he spoke and you were enamored the whole way through, not expecting them to motion to you next.  “But, at the end of the day, I think you just really have to trust your scene partner.” 

Fred looked at you with a shy but knowing smile, “It takes a lot of practice to be vulnerable in front of someone, even if it is just pretending. And y/n was always incredibly kind and supportive whenever I lacked that—that vulnerability—that powerlessness. It wasn’t that I lacked it, per se. It’s just a difficult thing to tap into. And she was always there to help me through it.”

Your eyes dropped downwards as you felt your chin dip towards your chest, your head tilting slightly to the side as a smile grew on your face. The crowd awed in response to both Fred’s words and your reaction.

Fred’s compliment sent your stomach twisting in knots. You glanced at him, his hand went back to its previous position, resting on your knee, steady and grounding. It reminded you of that quiet morning on set when everything between you shifted.

-

The set was calmer that morning than what you were used to. The haze of sleep still clung to the few crew members needed on set this early. They shuffled about quietly, setting up for the day's shoot. Fred sat on the edge of the prop bed, script in hand, shoulders slumped forward as he stared at the lines that refused to feel right. 

You were sitting on a couch a few feet away, observing him, script laying forgotten in your lap. His fingers absently tugged at his earlobe, a nervous habit you had come to recognize at this point in your friendship. He had been having difficulties with connecting with Caracalla’s childlike vulnerability. And it wasn’t because he didn’t know the lines—Fred knew them backwards and forwards. 

It was the emotion, the raw vulnerability of Caracalla crying like a child to Lovie about Geta, that he couldn’t quite reach.

You had been running lines all night, but he wasn’t performing it to his own incredibly high standards. So you had told him to get a good night’s rest and that you could practice some more in the morning before call time. You spent some time researching trust building exercises, because you were sure that Fred had it in him. He just had to trust you enough to let it rise to the surface.

After you watched him run through the scene a few more times with no progress, you got a look of determination in your eyes. “Alright!” You inhaled deeply and dropped your script onto the seat next to you. “How about we try something else?”

Fred’s head snapped up at your voice, the both of you having been silently in each other's company prior to your exclamation. “Like what?”

“Trust exercises!”

He blinked, unimpressed. "y/n, I really don't think—"

“Come on, it won’t hurt to try!” You insisted, knowing that he was worn down and everything felt useless. But you had faith in him. “For me?”

He rolled his eyes but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Alright, fine.” You cheered quietly at his agreement. “What did you have in mind?”

You stood and moved to sit across from him, knees nearly brushing. "Eye contact. No talking, just hold my gaze. Nothing else."

“For how long?”

“As long as possible.”

He hesitated for a second but leaned in slightly, blue eyes locking onto yours. The silence stretched. At first, it was easy. The hours you'd spent together on set had built a quiet comfort between you. You were comfortable with each other now, as any pair of friends would be.

But slowly, the air around you shifted.

Had his eyes always been this blue? And so full of emotion? You wondered how you had never noticed these things about him before. The longer you looked, the more your chest tightened, like you were standing too close to the edge of a cliff. You swallowed hard.

Fred’s head tilted, his eyes scanning yours as if he were searching for something hidden beneath the surface. Then, without thinking, he lifted his hand and gently brushed his thumb along your cheek, swiping away an eyelash that had landed there. The touch was featherlight, but it sparked something within you. Something new.

You sucked in a breath, breaking the rhythm of your breathing and pulling Fred’s attention to your lips. 

He quickly pulled his hand away, clearing his throat. "Sorry. You had—uh—you had an eyelash."

You barely managed a nod, heat blooming beneath your skin. The air had changed so suddenly. It was sharp, tense, and neither of you knew how to break the spell.

More crew members were starting to file in, calling out names and times. The usual hustle and bustle on set was rising. Your name was called out from one side and Fred’s from another, instructions to go to wardrobe for you and hair and makeup for Fred.

“I—I should go.” Came Fred’s stuttered response as he slowly got up and backed away, his eyes now finding it difficult to stay on yours.

“Uh yeah, me too.” You nodded with pursed lips, just as awkward as he was.

That was different, you pondered as you walked away. You had never seen Fred in that light before. You had never reacted like that to his touch. This was entirely new territory for you. You liked Fred.

Oh no.

How predictable. Catching feelings for your on screen lover. You had to suppress the eye roll. This was something you had promised yourself you wouldn’t do once you got into the film industry.

But how could you resist? Fred was so kind and caring, so helpful and affectionate. His smile never failed to bring a similar one to your face. Now that you thought of it, you were a bit surprised it had taken you this long to notice. 

You had a crush on Fred.

And you were almost positive he didn’t see you in that way. 

This was horrible, you thought as you reached the wardrobe department. You were regretting everything. Not only was Fred no longer just a friend in your eyes, you were sure that you had ruined any chances of him getting this scene right after this. You groaned quietly to yourself as you changed into your costume in the dressing room. What a way to start the day.

But later, as the cameras rolled, Fred laid in your lap, perfectly in character. Something was different about him. He seemed more… open. More calm. When you softly carded your fingers through his hair to comfort Caracalla, Fred’s hand drifted to your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin without thinking. Almost in the same way he had that morning.

It wasn’t scripted. But you stayed in the scene, unflinching. You wiped away his tears as he moaned about his wretched brother and the empire he was forced to bear the weight of. He was delivering the scene perfectly. Almost like nothing unsavory had transpired between the two of you less than an hour ago.

Ridley, watching from behind the monitors, leaned forward. Eyes glued to the screen. Once the scene had played its course, he called it. "Cut!” His voice boomed through the speakers.

Fred carefully got up from your lap, though not straying far.

An assistant quickly came over with a walkie-talkie. Ridley’s voice broke through the static, fragmented but understandable. “Fred, that wasn't in the script."

Fred sat up quickly, already apologizing. "Sorry, it just—"

"I liked it. Let's run it again. Same way."

Your eyes flicked to Fred, wide in surprise. He liked it. Ridley liked it. Fred shared his own surprised smile with you.

He finally got it. That obstacle was overcome. And Ridley noticed. It was exciting to have your work appreciated in that way. And he had you to thank, even if you thought otherwise.

And, in the process, something had shifted between you.

-

Then someone asked Paul who his closest friends were on set, pulling you back to the present moment. 

“You want me to make enemies of my colleagues now, do you?” Paul chuckled nervously, garnering a laugh from the crowd. “No, in all seriousness, I made many great friendships on this set. Pedro, of course Denzel, Connie, all great mentors that I can call friends now, I think. But who I spent the most time with on set? That would probably be Fred. Fred and y/n, yeah. They’re a package deal, as well. So yeah, it was always us three.”

His answer takes you back to a pivotal moment you had with Paul on set. You knew from then that he had your back, in every situation. Even in matters where he had no stake, you knew you could trust him. 

-

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky over the ancient stone set, casting long shadows across the Colosseum replica. The usual hum of activity filled the air. You were sitting on Caracalla’s throne overlooking the arena, legs dangling off the edge as you scrolled absentmindedly through your phone.

Paul plopped down beside you with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

“Easy!” You laughed. “What did the chair ever do to you?”

Paul leaned over slightly to peek at your screen, completely disregarding what you had said to him. “Who are you texting?”

“No one.” You locked your phone quickly.

Paul’s smirk deepened. “So it is someone.”

“No, Paul.” You shot him a look.

He tilted his head and grinned. “Oh, so it’s Fred.”

Your stomach flipped. “Paul!” you hissed, glancing around to make sure no one heard.

“Oh, come on!” Paul leaned back, arms stretched behind him. “When are you not texting Fred?”

You groaned as your palms covered your eyes in embarrassment. “It’s not—” you mumbled before smothering your face in your hands.

“Not what?” Paul teased, nudging your knee with his.

“It’s not a big deal.” You exhaled, peeking at him between your fingers. “We’re just friends. Don’t make it weird.”

Paul gave you a flat look.

“Friends?”

“Yes!”

He let out a disbelieving laugh. “Okay.” He shrugged, raising his hands in surrender. “Okay, whatever you say.”

“Thank you.” You breathed out in relief, glad he was letting it go.

After a short moment of silence, he spoke back up. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” He motioned to the air between the two of you with his pointer finger. 

“Paul—” You groaned, knowing exactly where he was going with this. 

“And I’d like to think that Fred and I are friends as well.” He leaned towards your side in his seat now, coming face to face with you. “I don’t take long walks with him on the lot, hand in hand. He’s not giving me his jacket when I’m cold. He didn’t let me braid his hair in the hair and makeup trailer.”

You glared at him. “That last one was one time.”

“Not the point.” Paul leaned closer. “He’s different with you.”

You bit your lip, looking away. “I don’t know… Fred’s—he’s sweet. He’s friendly. That’s just who he is!”

Paul raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, but he’s not that sweet or friendly with anyone else.”

You stayed quiet, fingers picking at a loose thread on the hem of your costume.

Paul’s tone softened. “Don’t sell yourself short, y/n.”

Your eyes flicked to his, hesitant but curious.

“You’re smart, talented, and funny. And let’s not pretend the Roman attire doesn’t suit you perfectly.” He gave you a playful nudge.

You laughed despite yourself. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” Paul’s grin changed into something more sincere. “Fred should consider himself lucky that you like him.”

Your cheeks burned.

“I just don’t want to—” You mumbled and trailed off. “Ugh, I don’t know. I don't want to make things weird between us.”

“You two are too stubborn for your own good. Someone’s gotta give.” Paul mumbled before raising his eyebrows at you. “You can’t yearn forever.” 

“Can’t I?”

His gaze softened as he took in your expression. “You really don’t see how he looks at you, do you?”

“What?” Your brows furrowed and you shot up in your seat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Paul laughed in shock, pulling back and looking out onto the expanse of the set. “Wow.” He muttered to himself. “I can’t tell which of you is dumber.”

“Hey! I can still hear you!”

“Maybe put some of your other senses to use then, idiot!” Paul retorted as he got out of his seat, the speakers on set calling for him to go someplace or other. He walked away mumbling to himself, leaving you sitting there, staring after him, unsure of what to think anymore. 

-

“And I, of course, was chopped liver.” Joseph spoke solemnly to the crowd, dragging you out of your reminiscence. “Paul loved Pedro, Denzel, Connie, Fred, and y/n. But not poor old Joseph.” 

Paul stumbled over his words as he backtracked. “And Joseph! Of course, I was always with Joseph!” Paul cried, pleading with an unyielding Joseph. All a bit to keep everyone entertained, you knew.

“No, no, you can’t undo what’s been done.” Joseph shook his head dramatically at Paul as he motioned for the next person to step up to the microphone. “You have made an enemy tonight, Paul. I hope you’re happy.”

“My question is actually for Joseph.” The fan sheepishly spoke, sending Paul an illusionary apologetic smile.

“I have what you can never have, Paul. The love and affection of the general public.” Joseph deadpanned as he looked over at Paul before turning back to the girl at the microphone. “Go on, darling. What’s your question?” Joseph smirked as he looked away, leaving Paul rolling his eyes.

“Well, um, Paul and Pedro had extensive physical transformations they had to undergo to prepare for the role.” Joseph rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion at the mention of Paul, the joke still running. “What did you have to do to prepare for Geta?”

“Not much, actually.” Joseph snorted. “I got really interested in the history of it, but in comparison to Paul and Pedro? Yeah, we got off easy. Didn’t we, Fred? Just loads of eyeliner.”

“Yeah.” Fred laughed as he nodded. “Shaving and eyeliner was our morning routine for a few months.” The crowd, as well as the cast, laughed at Fred’s note. “Emperor Caracalla is clean shaven, but I’m not.” He chuckled, hand instinctively rubbing at his chin at the thought of his light beard. “So I had to shave almost everyday, but that was about it for me.” With a glance towards you, you knew exactly what he was thinking about.

-

It had been another late night in Fred’s trailer. You were curled up on his couch, legs tucked under you, as you watched Fred pace back and forth. He had been reviewing lines, occasionally muttering to himself, but you hadn’t been paying close attention, not until the soft scruff along his jaw caught the light.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Fred,” you called softly.

He paused, blinking at you. “Yeah?”

You tilted your head, lips twitching. “You’re getting a little...scruffy.”

Fred instinctively brought a hand to his chin, rubbing over the light stubble that had started to grow in. “Ah, shit.”

“What?” You asked, sitting up now.

“Sam’s out sick,” He explained. “Usually, they shave me every morning. I don’t know how I forgot about it today. Emily needs me to be clean shaven tomorrow.” He mumbled lightly, as if he was only thinking to himself out loud.

You pushed up from the couch, standing up and stretching your arms over your head. “Let me do it.”

Fred blinked. “What?” It was like he forgot you were here for a moment. Or, more accurately, he forgot that you were actively listening to his stream of consciousness. He didn’t expect you to offer to solve this non-issue for him. 

“Let me shave you,” you repeated, stepping closer. You gently grabbed his chin, feeling his rough hair between your fingers. You turned his face this way and that, appraising the work you’d have to do if he agreed. “I mean, you can say no if you don’t feel comfortable with your fate in my hands.”

He giggled, eyes softening as he watched you study his facial hair. “Is this another trust exercise?”

You smirked, eyes lighting up and looking back into his. “Maybe.”

Fred considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Alright, Lovie. Have at it.”

The nickname sent a small spark through you, but you shook it off, hiding your grin as you gestured for him to follow you to the little bathroom in the corner of his trailer.

Fred settled on the closed toilet seat after you patted it, a silent command to sit down. He looked up at you with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. You rummaged through the small drawer under the sink, pulling out shaving cream and a razor.

“Fear me.” You whispered as you held aloft the blade, watching Fred roll his eyes at the reference.

“You better not botch this,” he teased, leaning back. He couldn’t help but admire you from this angle. The bathroom lighting highlighted your features so beautifully, though he was sure he’d think that of any lighting.

“It seems easy enough.” You shrugged as you squeezed a bit of shaving cream onto your fingers, rubbing your hands together before gently spreading it over his jaw. The cool foam made him shiver slightly.

Fred’s eyes got wide, his head frozen in your grasp. “You’re telling me you’ve never done this before?”

Your eyes sparkled as you raised your brows excitedly, grin wide. “I’m testing your limits. Is this one of them?”

You saw Fred’s eyes dance back and forth as he thought this through. It seemed the risks outweighed the cons, though not by much, because he nodded apprehensively. “Do your worst.” His eyes widened once more and then he winced. “That’s just a saying, please actually do your very best. Don’t hurt the money maker, alright?”

“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes with a snort. “I’ll be careful, don’t worry. Now hold still.”

Slowly, carefully, you dragged the blade along his jawline, your hand steady. Fred’s eyes flickered to yours, but he didn’t move. His breathing slowed, eyes dark and half-lidded as he watched you in silence.

The room felt smaller.

Your thumb gently tilted his chin, guiding him where you needed. His skin was warm beneath your touch.

“You’re doing well,” you murmured, focusing on the careful strokes of the razor.

“So are you,” Fred hummed. “You’re sure you’ve never done this before?”

“I’m that good, huh?” You chuckled, feeling him nod in response with the slightest dip of his chin in your palm. “Maybe I should go pro.”

“You’d leave all the glitz and glamour of being an actress and come shave my scruff every morning?” He asked, laughter lacing his words.

“You’re giving away Sam’s job that easy?” You raised your brows.

“To you? Of course.” He chuckled lightly. “Everything’s easy when it’s you.” The words slipped out, softer than he meant. The air thickened, and Fred’s eyes widened a fraction too late. The words weighed heavily in the space around you, stealing the breath from your lungs. Fred’s eyes flickered to yours at your silence. Whatever he said must’ve been the wrong thing to say, he thought, because your facial expression was unreadable to him. “I’m sor—”

“Everything’s easy when it’s you too, Fred.” You whispered back before he could complete his sentence. With one final swipe of the blade along his jaw, you stepped back from him and the moment. “There. All done.” 

-

You smiled to yourself at the memory, glancing back at Fred next to you. You preferred him with the facial hair, you concluded. 

“Who was the best mentor on set?” Someone else asked once they had their turn at the microphone, the question not directed towards anyone in particular. But Joseph took it upon himself to answer for someone else.

“I know who Fred’s gonna say.” Joseph whispered into the microphone, causing Fred to roll his eyes.

“It was me.” Pedro smirked, flexing his biceps and wiggling his eyebrows at Fred. “He can deny it all he wants, but I pushed that kid when he needed it. Didn’t I, Freddie?”

“You did.” Fred mumbled, a hint of a smile on the edge of his lips.

“Hell yeah, I did!” Pedro pumped his fist in the air. “Those stories are private, for Fred’s sake. But I’m a good mentor!”

“The best there is.” Fred confirmed, a slight blush colored his cheeks as he snuck a glance at you.

-

It had been a while since the moment Pedro cemented himself as Fred’s mentor in the younger actor’s eyes. He had learned a lot from him. Both as an actor and as a human being.

But something changed between Pedro and Fred one day. 

A day where you had been utterly exhausted. You were filming in a grand room, the scene depicting a party or gathering of some type, you couldn’t recall the details. Everything was as opulent as you would expect with the twin emperors, of course. 

You and Fred had been up all night, bingeing movie after movie, showing each other your favorites and analyzing every scene. When you saw him the next day on set, you were shocked at how awake he was. Everything felt like it was in slow motion for you. You had never been more appreciative of your lack of lines in this movie.

After a few takes of you blinking slowly in the background, Ridley had called for a break. Something wasn’t right with the focus on a few cameras and a monitor or two needed recalibrating. Technical issues that shouldn’t take too long to fix. An assistant director said the issue could take about half an hour to resolve, so you turned to Fred, a silent question in your eyes and a slight pout on your lips.

You and Fred cuddled often, but never outside of his trailer. Movie night was just an excuse for you to curl up in his arms at this point, though neither of you ever acknowledged that. 

But you were so tired, and the pillows on the couch were decorative and stiff. And Fred was right there. It would only be thirty minutes. Just a quick lie down.

Fred saw your face and knew exactly what you wanted from him. He leaned back into the couch and patted at his lap, giving you space to lie down. It didn’t even register to him that anyone would notice nor care. 

His hands instinctively went to brush his fingers through your hair, your nightly routine as of recently. With his cologne and his warmth enveloping you, as well as the soothing motion of his fingers against your scalp, it was less than five minutes later that you were snoozing away.

Pedro looked over and saw the two of you cozied up together and couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the scene. He had been trying to throw hints at Fred for weeks about the two of you. It was clear as day. But neither of you was brave enough to bring it up, fearing the other’s lack of reciprocation. If only you two could see what everyone else saw.

He shared a look with Paul, who was watching along with him. “Go talk some sense into him, Pascal.” Paul snickered lightly, giving Pedro a slight shove in your direction. 

“I’ll try my best, Mescal.” Pedro sighed. 

“Is she out?” He asked quietly once he had settled down beside Fred on the couch, not wanting to wake you up.

“Like a light.” Fred muttered, eyes never leaving your sleeping profile. “It’s my fault, really. Kept her up all night.”

“What did you watch this time?” Pedro smiled, knowing of the private movie nights held every evening in the trailer next to his.

“The Godfather.” Fred answered. “Actually, both of them.”

“The sequel is amazing.” Pedro nodded, but he wasn’t really engrossed in the conversation as much as he was in Fred. It was hard not to admire Fred as he admired you.

“Definitely.” Fred nodded, not even sparing Pedro a glance. The boy was in love and he didn’t even know it. But so were you, to be fair.

“She’s just as bad as you are, you know? Thinking too much, scared to say something first.” Pedro mused, eyeing you curled up in Fred’s lap. You never looked as comfortable as you did in Fred’s presence. Pedro leaned in and his voice dropped an octave. “You should tell her.”

“Huh?” Fred is finally pulled out of the trance you had unknowingly put him in, snapping up to look at Pedro for the first time since he sat down. “Tell her what?”

“I’m saying,” Pedro emphasized each word, “She’s just as oblivious as you are.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you should tell her how you feel!” Fred instinctively cupped his hand around your ear, guarding you from Pedro’s sudden laughter like it was second nature. You hadn’t even flinched, too deep in your slumber to notice. But Pedro did, he noticed Fred’s subtle protectiveness. It was sweet. And increasingly frustrating.

Fred scoffed, his cheeks glaringly crimson. “I think I’d prefer not risking those odds.”

“Buddy, trust me. Every single odd is in your favor.”

“Don’t quote the hunger games at me right now.” Fred rolled his eyes. 

Pedro frowned in frustration, leaning closer to Fred. “You really don’t see how gone she is for you?”

A few moments of silence pass between them. Fred’s eyes on you, and Pedro’s eyes on Fred’s lovesick expression. “...You really think she likes me back?”

“She’s not sleeping in my lap, is she?” Pedro smirked, standing back up. “Just think about it, would you?”

-

Fred buried his face in his hands to cover up his flushed cheeks. You shot him a concerned look, but he shook his head to ease your worries. You didn’t know about what had transpired between Fred and Pedro in the same way Fred didn’t know about what happened between you and Paul. And you both wanted to keep it that way. Too embarrassed that everyone else seemed to know of your affection for the other before you did.

“Did any unscripted scenes make it into the movie?” someone asked, pulling you back to the crowd once more.

You and Fred immediately glance back at each other with shy smiles.

Paul talked about the scene where he kissed Pedro’s forehead in the arena, even though it was technically cut. 

But then he turned to the rest of the table. “What about you, Fred?” He asked pointedly, noticing how you had looked at each other when the question was asked. “You had a scene they left in, didn’t you?”

Fred chuckled nervously, scratching behind his ear. “Yeah, a few made it in. But… you probably mean when I called her ‘Lovie,’ right?” The crowd roars in response and Fred’s ears turn pink as he tugs at them. “Yeah, about that…”

-

Fred had started calling you Lovie after that day he was having difficulties with that one scene. He hadn’t even realized when it started, but now, it was just second nature.

Today was the day you would be filming a scene you were dreading. The day Caracalla, the sick emperor you had spent months embodying a devotion to, would die. And you were taking it hard. You had somehow made a place for him in your heart. 

Fred thought it was sweet how your affections grew for his character. He assured you that he understood, working on a long term project like this always leaves an imprint on actors. 

The filming schedule on set didn’t rely on the order of the scenes, but more on the availability of certain sets and certain crew members. So even though this was nowhere near the last scene you had to film with Fred as Caracalla, nor was filming coming to an end anytime soon, you were filming Fred’s last scene in the movie.

The wardrobe department was a maze of fabric and armor, with soft R&B muffling through a nearby speaker, someone no doubt wanting to lighten the atmosphere in the stuffy warehouse. 

You sat hunched in a chair, eyes locked on the hem of your sweater, fingers twisting the fabric. You and Fred were waiting together to be given your costumes for the day.

It all felt so much heavier than you expected.

“You okay?”

Fred’s voice was gentle, but you didn’t lift your head. You just let out a quiet, shaky laugh.

“I’m being ridiculous.”

He came to crouch in front of you, elbows on his knees, watching you carefully. “No, you’re not.”

You sighed, pressing your palms to your face. “I’m getting emotional over the death of a villain in a movie.”

Fred’s head tilted. “Hey, we both know he wasn’t really a villain.” His voice carried a soft laugh with it.

Your lips twitched upward. “He was just misunderstood.”

“And syphilitic.”

You let out a wet laugh, wiping your face. “Yeah, and that.”

Fred grinned, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. Slowly, he stood and offered his hand. “Dance with me, Lovie.”

You blinked at him.

“What?”

“Come on,” he urged softly, fingers still outstretched.

The nickname barely registered in your mind. It wasn’t the first time he’d used it, but it felt different now, like a natural extension of you.

You slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you to your feet.

Fred’s palms settled at your waist, hesitant at first. But when you leaned in, looping your arms around his neck, his grip tightened, like letting go wasn’t an option. You swayed together, slow and easy, surrounded by walls of costumes and muffled music.

“How dumb is this?” you whispered, though the corners of your mouth lifted.

“It’s not dumb, Lovie.” Fred shook his head slightly, his hand gently smoothing over your hair. “Nothing you do is dumb.”

The nickname lingered in the air.

You exhaled, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

“I’d take care of him so well,” you murmured, only slightly serious.

Fred let out a soft chuckle, his breath warming the top of your head.

“You did, Lovie,” he whispered back. “You did take care of him.”

And later, when you filmed the scene, the two of you covered in fake blood and silks, you couldn’t differentiate your character’s tears from your own. It all felt like the end of something. It felt like mourning.

When Fred said ‘Lovie’ instead of ‘My love’ as he wilted in your arms, you didn’t even register the deviation in the script. Only when it was over, when Ridley’s voice crackled through one of the hand held radios, did it hit you.

“Beautiful. Keep calling her that, Fred.” Ridley commended. “Lovie. Should’ve thought of that myself.”

-

“So what he means to say,” you spoke to the crowd, “is that my dramatics fundamentally affected the movie.”

“She was actually so sad,” Fred frowned, “It was heartbreaking. It was an honest mistake, though. Calling her ‘Lovie’.”

“But did you tell them where it came from?” Connie asked, teasingly looking at Fred.

“We uh—” He chuckled bashfully. “y/n and I called her character ‘Lovie’, because it was hard to workshop a character with no name.”

“And then ‘Lovie’ stopped being the character’s nickname,” Pedro chimed in with further explanation, “And it started being y/n’s.”

“I thought it was so sweet.” Connie sighed. “And it suits her so well.” 

“Ridley loved it, too.” Denzel joined. “I heard him grumbling over the radio. Something about how he didn’t think of it before.”

“No one cried when Fred cut off my head, though.” Joseph shrugged with a shake of his head. “Take from that what you will.”

“Actually, I did.” You corrected him with a smirk. “Don’t underestimate my propensity to get emotional when it comes to film.”

“Did you?” Joseph perked up, leaning forwards to look at you across the table. “Did she really?” He asked Fred, like he was the authority on all things true about you.

“Oh yeah.” Fred nodded. “And the scene where Caracalla asks where his brother is. Inconsolable. Sad movies are her weakness. You should’ve seen her when we watched ‘My Girl’.”

“Don’t bring that up right now.” You closed your eyes and shook your head solemnly, raising a palm in Fred’s direction. “He wasn’t wearing his goddamn glasses, Freddie.”

“It’s alright, Lovie,” Fred chuckled, speaking away from the microphone as he leaned closer to you. His voice dropped lower, only for you to hear. “We’ll watch a happy one tonight. Non-negotiable.”

You nodded at him, a smile growing on your face. Fred never failed to make you feel special, like you were a priority to him. Your choices always came above his, no matter how hard you insisted. It was so easy to love him.

“And our final question to wrap up the panel—”

“Make it a good one!” Pedro called into the microphone, a laugh rippling among the crowd in response.

“Come on up, don’t be shy.” The producer smiled at the young girl last in line to ask a question. “What did you want to ask the cast, honey?”

“What was your first kiss like?”

An ‘aw’ passed through the crowd as well as the cast on a stage. But a slight sweat began to coat your palms. You had been admiring Fred and his kindness only a moment ago. So tranquil, almost like you weren’t sitting in front of a crowd of hundreds of people. But this one question sent a shock of electricity up your spine. You were an actress, you reminded yourself. They wouldn’t know if you told the truth or not, would they? 

You heard Paul mention a school dance, and Pedro talked about a pool party during summer break. Denzel mentioned his wife, Connie spoke briefly of a night in Paris when she was a teenager. Joseph and Fred had similar stories, a stage kiss for a school play and a local production. 

When your turn came, you stuttered over your words. It didn’t feel like you had enough time to make something up, at least not something believable. “I guess—uh—technically, it was on screen.”

“Technically?” Joseph asked, confused. 

“Yeah,” You swallowed as heat bloomed across your cheeks. Your lips were upturned ever so slightly as you recalled that day. “My scene partner offered to practice with me before filming. It was much sweeter than it sounds.” You laughed before letting out a sigh. “It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever.”

-

It was the night before you would film your first intimate scene with Fred. The two of you were sitting on his couch, scripts open but long forgotten. The quiet of the trailer is filled with the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of pages as one of you shifts. You could feel Fred’s presence next to you, close enough that your knees brush when either of you adjusts your position.

“I don’t think Caracalla’s ever had anyone look at him the way Lovie does,” Fred mused, breaking the silence. His voice is soft, contemplative, like he’s voicing a thought meant only for himself.

You glanced at him, your heart skipping at the sincerity in his tone. “What do you mean?”

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, his blue eyes drifting toward the ceiling as if searching for the right words. “It’s like… even through the haze of his sickness and his trauma, he’s desperate to be seen. And she’s the only one who really does that for him. He doesn’t know how to love, not really, but he tries in his own way.” His gaze shifted to yours, a small, delicate frown tugging at his lips. “It’s tragic really.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his expression, the way he’s peeling back a layer of himself in his explanation. “I think Lovie sees that too,” you said softly, barely above a whisper. “And maybe that’s why she stays.”

Fred’s smile faltered, his brows furrowing as he studies you. “You think she chooses to stay?”

“I think…” You paused as you pondered. “I think she’s grown to love him somehow, through this strange, abusive, co-dependent… thing they’ve got going on. And she’s choosing to stay. What you do with love is a choice,” you replied, your voice tinged with something wistful and raw. “Not everyone handles it as carefully as they should.”

The air between you shifted, growing heavier, thicker, as the weight of your words lingered. 

It didn’t feel like you were talking about your character’s anymore. Fred’s eyes didn’t leave yours after you spoke, and you suddenly realized how close he was sitting. His knee brushed yours again, and this time, neither of you moved away.

“Does it scare you?” he asked, his voice impossibly quiet.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding against your ribs. “What?”

“Getting it wrong,” he said, his gaze searching for something telling in your eyes. “Love, I mean.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, but you held his gaze, unable to look away. “Yeah,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “It does scare me, I suppose.”

Fred nodded, a flicker of understanding passed over his face. “Me too.”

There was a beat of silence, and then, without thinking, Fred reached out, his hand brushed against yours where it rested on the cushion between you. His touch was light, almost tentative, but it sent a jolt through you.

“I guess that’s why it’s easier on set,” he murmured, his thumb grazing your knuckles. “You get to pretend, just for a little while, that you know what you’re doing.”

You laughed softly, but it caught in your throat when you saw the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“Fred…” you started, your voice trailing off as his fingers curled gently around yours. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“I’m nervous about tomorrow.” You confessed, eyes falling down to your lap.

“I know.” He replied. 

You furrowed your brows and lifted your head to look at him questioningly. “You know?”

“Yeah y/n, of course I know.” Fred smiled softly, reassuringly, “I think I would be a bad friend if I couldn’t tell that you were nervous. And I’ve seen your filmography, I know you haven’t done this sort of thing before.”

You didn’t know if it was a relief or not that he thought you were only nervous about the shoot. 

“Uh, yeah,” you nodded, eyes flickering downwards. “Never for a project, no.” You hoped he wouldn’t catch the half truth. Or maybe you hoped that he would. You weren’t sure how you felt about all of this.

You liked Fred. You knew this about yourself now. And sometimes, you think that maybe, just maybe, he might like you back. Paul never failed to seize an opportunity to tell you that, of course. But you were too scared to make a fool of yourself. And, selfishly, you didn’t want to lose what you had with Fred. But now, things were progressing. 

Fred was going to be your first kiss.

And that would be hard to overcome. Especially when you already liked him so much. You were afraid that you would imprint on him like a duckling, never seeing anyone else in the same light. And then what would you do?

“y/n?” Fred asked, his eyebrows knitted together in concern. “Are you alright?” You hummed in response, eyes still unfocused. “Do you wanna do a trust exercise or something?”

“What?” You questioned, finally pulling yourself back to the moment.

“For tomorrow?” Fred explained, raising his eyebrows as he spoke. “To help you feel better about it?”

You thought about it for a moment before nodding. This might be just what you need. It was so helpful with Fred that last time, and hopefully it could be for you as well. “You wanna do the eye contact one?”

“How about another one?” Fred asked, leaning back against the back of the couch.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Tell me a secret.”

“What?” You balked. “What kind of exercise is that?”

“A secret for a secret.” Fred shrugged. “How about I start?” You nodded, though apprehensively. “I’m nervous for tomorrow, too.”

“Are you really?” You raised a brow at him. “‘Cause if your secret’s just a lie to make me feel better, then you’re cheating.”

Fred giggled and shook his head. “No, I really am.”

“Why?” You tilted your head inquisitively at him.

“Nope, I already told you my secret.” He pursed his lips and shook his head again. “Now it’s your turn.”

You shifted uncomfortably, tucking your legs beneath you on the couch, the script forgotten in your lap. Fred’s gentle, observant gaze had a way of making you feel bare in a way that wasn’t unsettling, but intimate—like he could read every thought you tried to hide.

“I guess it’s not just in front of the camera,” you admitted softly, fiddling with the corner of a page. The confession felt inevitable, like it had been lingering between the two of you for weeks, just waiting for a moment like this to surface. “I mean… I haven’t done this before. Any of it. Not just on screen.”

Fred's eyes softened as he sat up slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, his focus entirely on you. “You mean you—you’ve never been kissed before?” His voice was quiet, not prying but careful, like he didn’t want to scare you away.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

For a moment, Fred didn’t respond. He simply watched you, and you could feel the weight of his attention, not heavy or oppressive. His brows furrowed slightly as if he were choosing his next words carefully.

“That’s… okay, you know,” he said finally. There was no pity in his tone, only a steady reassurance. “I know how intimidating this can be, even for people who’ve done it before.”

“It’s just—” you sighed, leaning back into the couch, exasperated with yourself. “It’s not that I think I can’t do it. I know I can, or at least I hope I can. I just don’t want to look ridiculous. I want it to look real.”

Fred smiled faintly, his head tilting as he considered your words. “It’s admirable, you know?” You hummed in question at him. “The fact that you’re sacrificing your first kiss for the production.”

“It’s embarrassing is what it is.” You rolled your eyes with a snort. 

“What?” He gasped quietly, the air still feeling ever so delicate between the two of you. “You're giving it away for Sir Ridley Scott! He’d be honored if he knew, I think.”

“He’d be confused if he knew.” You corrected him. “An actress in her early twenties who hasn’t been kissed before. I think I could apply to the Guinness book of world records.”

“Hey, come on.” He shook his head at you sympathetically. “You’re not breaking any records, trust me. There’s no deadline for this kind of thing.” He shifted closer as he spoke, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck in that familiar gesture you’d come to recognize as a sign of his sincerity, “But…I could help—only if you want.”

Your heart skipped. “Help?”

He nodded. “I mean… if it makes you feel more comfortable, we could—” he paused, exhaling as if second-guessing himself. “I could be your first kiss. Just to take some of the pressure off tomorrow. It’s not a big deal. Only if you’re okay with it, of course.”

The room felt impossibly quiet, save for the distant hum of the trailer’s air conditioning. You swallowed, your pulse thrumming in your ears. It wasn’t just the offer that stunned you—it was the ease in Fred’s voice, the way he treated it like something simple. Just Fred, offering to help you in whatever way he could. It was so sweet. He was always so sweet to you. But you couldn’t. Not like this

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, but you inevitably shook your head. “That’s really sweet of you, Fred. But I think I want my first real kiss to be with someone who actually really likes me, not a pity kiss from my scene partner. Tomorrow doesn’t count if I don’t count it. It’s fine, really. I was just in my head about it—”

Fred laughed before he could stop himself, interrupting your rambling. “You really are oblivious, aren’t you?”

“What?” You asked dumbly, not expecting him to say something like that after your vulnerable confession.

“Why do you think I’m nervous about tomorrow?” He asked incredulously, another laugh escaping him. “It’s because I actually really like you, y/n!”

Oh.

It was like someone knocked the wind out of you. 

You had hoped that he liked you back, maybe even thought it might be a possibility in the back of your mind, but to hear him say those words out loud? You were speechless. It was like a dream come true. All those months of pining for him, all that yearning, was reciprocated this whole time. 

“y/n,” Fred murmured, his voice low, soothing. “Can I be your first real kiss? Please?” He parroted your words back to you once more, breathlessly. You felt the blood rush into your head.

You managed a weak nod, barely able to meet his gaze. He waited a beat, letting the moment settle before he leaned in, his hand lifting to cup the side of your face. His touch was featherlight, his thumb tracing slow circles against your cheekbone. The intimacy of the gesture almost unraveled you.

Fred's lips brushed yours tentatively, the kiss soft and unhurried. His movements were gentle yet assured, he understood that this was new for you and he didn’t mind guiding you through it. His other hand found your waist, steadying you, and you felt yourself melting into him.

As the kiss deepened, Fred’s grip on your waist tightened subtly, anchoring you as he shifted. Without breaking contact, he eased you forward, guiding you into his lap until you straddled him, your knees on either side of his hips and your hands resting tentatively against his shoulders. His fingers flexed against your hips, drawing you closer until there was barely any space left between you.

Your lungs felt tight as Fred pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breath fanned over your lips and his hands lingered against your waist, sending butterflies crashing into each other in your stomach. You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—long enough for the rapid beat of your heart to settle into something softer, steadier.

“Was that okay?” Fred asked softly, his voice just above a whisper.

You nodded before opening your eyes to meet his gaze. There was something tender in the way he looked at you, and it made the words on the tip of your tongue feel less terrifying.

“Can we… do it again?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, and your stomach flipped as you realized how vulnerable you sounded.

Fred's lips quirked into a soft smile as his hand slid up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah,” he murmured, a soft laugh coloring his words as he brushed his nose against yours. “Yeah, we can do it again. As many times as you want.”

His lips found yours once more, and this time, there was no hesitation. Fred kissed you with more certainty, his hands firm as they traced the curve of your back, pulling you closer still. You could feel his quiet desire in the way he held you, the way his fingers flexed when you deepened the kiss.

You were glad that confession made its way out before you could stop it.

The next morning, you woke up with a strange mix of nerves and excitement bubbling beneath your skin. 

The day was finally here. 

The scene you’d been dreading—and quietly anticipating—was actually happening. But unlike the restless nights leading up to it, you felt more prepared. More steady.

You had filmed a few suggestive scenes with Fred before. As a syphilitic emperor, Caracalla had the propensity to be very comfortable and open in his desires. But you weren’t asked to be nude for any of those scenes, unlike this one. The complexity of not even speaking, yet being so exposed on screen was a little difficult to wrap your head around. 

This scene was supposed to depict you and Caracalla in the privacy of his lavish quarters when Joseph as Geta barges in and angrily informs his brother of Acacius and Lucilla's betrayal. You and Fred were to be undressed and only covered by sheets from the waist down. 

Clara, the intimacy coordinator, had explained that Fred would be leaned back in bed, propped up by a few pillows, while you sat in his lap. The scene would open with a close up shot of the two of you kissing gently, the camera slowly pulling back with you as you leaned back. Your lower bodies would be covered with various messy sheets, depicting the long night the characters had already had before the intrusion.

The scene was much more than physical, it was also meant to show the characters’ co-dependent nature. Even when his concubine was on him, he needed his hands to be on her, both showing his dominance and control over her as well as his reluctance to pull away.

Fred’s kiss lingered in the back of your mind like a warm ember, small but constant. While you still felt the nerves creep in when you thought about today’s shoot, there was a quiet confidence blooming alongside them.

When you arrived on set, you noticed immediately how different the atmosphere felt. The crew was smaller, the lighting dimmer—intentional choices to provide you with a layer of privacy. 

Clara was already on set, organizing the sheets and setting up the space. She glanced your way, smiling comfortingly, but she didn’t say anything. She knew of your apprehension and had been worried about you. But she noticed something new in you today. Maybe there was a shift in your energy or a slight lift in your posture, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she kept her observations to herself.

Fred was already there, standing near the bed where the scene would take place with Joseph. He smiled the second he saw you, that familiar softness in his expression grounding you more than anything else could.

“Morning,” he greeted, voice low and calm.

“Morning,” you replied, a shy tight lipped smile on your face as you stepped closer to him. Joseph greeted you but was quickly ushered away to his mark behind the door, not giving him enough time to notice the change between you and Fred. 

Clara approached you and spoke with her usual calm authority, a roll of skin-safe tape in hand. “Alright, let’s get these sheets secured,” she said, gesturing for you to adjust your robe.

But you stopped her with a small, assured smile. “I don’t think we’ll need the tape today.” Last night’s events forged a confidence deep within you. You knew your team had your back. You knew Fred had your back. 

Clara paused, blinking at you as if processing your words. Her sharp gaze flickered briefly to Fred, who stood a few feet away, his hands stuffed into his robe pockets. 

He tilted his head at your words, his brows furrowing slightly as he stepped closer. “You sure?” His voice was low, warm with concern.

You nodded, holding his gaze. “Yeah, I feel more confident now.”

Clara smirked faintly, a flicker of understanding in her expression, but she didn’t press. Fred’s gesture was subtle but telling. “Alright, just let me know if anything changes.” She said with a sense of finality before stepping away to oversee the set. 

Fred watched her retreat, then turned back to you with a concerned glint in his eye. He brushed your arm lightly to grab your attention. “You really don’t want the tape?” Fred asked again, his tone tinged with genuine care.

“Yeah,” You nodded with determination. “I can do it.”

He studied you for a beat longer, as if making sure you weren’t pushing yourself too hard, then smiled softly. “I’m proud of you.” 

“You helped.” You confessed in a whisper, a smile curling your lips upward.

“Yeah?” He asked in surprise, his grin only grew wider when you nodded in confirmation. “Glad I could be of service. We could sneak off and practice some more, if you’d like-”

“Fred!” You cut him off before he could say anymore, scandalised yet amused all the same. “You’re horrible!”

“And you’re cute, Lovie.” He smirked as an assistant pulled him away, cutting your conversation short. 

Another assistant pulled you forward as well, telling you to get into place so they could adjust the lighting based on your position. Fred smiled encouragingly at you from the bed he was laying in as you approached. An assistant helped you get into position, straddling Fred’s lap with your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. The position wasn’t unlike how you had found yourself last night in Fred’s trailer. With a quick glance into Fred’s eyes, you knew he was thinking the same thing.

The makeup artists fluttered around you, dabbing at your skin with soft brushes, unknowingly keeping the moment from becoming too intimate. The lighting crew adjusted their angles, the soft glow from overhead casting shadows that added depth to the space.

Fred’s hands found your waist instinctively, his thumbs brushing circles against the fabric of your robe. His touch was grounding, steady, and it calmed the last bit of tension lingering in your chest.

“You okay?” he asked, low enough that only you could hear.

You met his gaze, but your eyes kept drifting lower, to his lips. The memory of yesterday was still present at the forefront of your mind, your pulse quickened at the thought of doing it again.

Fred noticed immediately, a small chuckle escaping him. “You’re adorable.” He repeated his sentiment from earlier.

“I’m just—” You flushed, embarrassed at being caught. You were unable to find the words to explain the giddy excitement stirring in you. “I guess I’m excited to start.”

Fred’s smirk deepened, but he didn’t push it, not wanting to tease you any further. “Good.” His grip on your waist tightened subtly, the weight of his hands calming you.

As the cameras rolled, Fred’s lips found yours, his kiss was steady and deliberate, his hands guiding you gently as your body pressed closer to his. You pulled away from him when you heard your cue, the camera nearest to you swooshing in the air as it moved backwards. Soon enough, you heard the loud bang of the bedroom doors bursting open. You startled in Fred’s lap, the reaction a mix of yours and Lovie’s. For a brief moment, you weren’t acting on a set. It was just the two of you before Joseph barged in. 

Fred cradled you against his chest, covering your exposed form from Geta, like the scene called for. You couldn’t hear what Joseph was saying over the loud heartbeat in your ears, but you knew what the script expected of you and when. Fred’s warm skin and chest hair brushed against your arms as you huddled close to him. It was intoxicating. 

After the first take, you gently pulled back and shifted Fred’s position. “Keep your hands here,” you instructed, placing his hands firmly on your hips in view of the camera. “To show that he’s in control.”

“Okay,” he nodded, always open to your ideas. “You should try leaning into me more,” he added, his hands guiding your hips to tilt forward. “It makes it look like he’s really keeping her there.”

You furrowed your brows as you digested his notes. “Alright. Should I put more weight into it?”

“Yeah, exactly.” He nodded in encouragement. “Don’t hold back, I’ve got you.”

The next take felt even more intense. Fred’s hands pressed into your waist with more dominance. And you fell into him, relinquishing control, matching the energy you’d both discussed.

Between takes, he was quick to adjust the sheets, shielding you with practiced ease. Each touch lingered longer than necessary, his fingers brushing against your bare skin beneath the fabric, and every time you glanced up at him, his eyes held the same quiet intensity and kindness.

Joseph and Clara shared looks after each run through, the two of them noticing the shift in dynamic between the two of you.

“They’re different today.” Joseph whispered to Clara. 

“They’re more in sync.” Clara tilted her head as she observed the two of you. “Almost like…”

“Almost like they’ve been practicing.” Joseph smirked.

“About damn time, if you ask me.” Clara huffed, though amused all the same.

-

All these months later, and the memory was still fresh in your mind. And apparently, in someone else’s as well. “y/n?” Joseph’s voice broke the quiet hum of the green room. You were standing at the tea station, carefully deliberating over how much sugar and milk to add to your cup when he approached, his tone unusually hesitant. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” You didn’t look up, focused on swirling the tea in your cup. “As long as it’s not about my sugar-to-milk ratio, because I’ll have you know, it’s perfect.”

Joseph chuckled softly, scratching the back of his neck. “No, it’s not that. It’s… uh…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “You can totally tell me to fuck off and mind my own business if you don’t want to answer.”

“I gotta hear the question first, Joseph,” you replied with a playful smile, still not turning to face him. “But I promise I won’t be offended.”

He took a deep breath. “Was Fred your first kiss?”

Your hand froze mid-air over the sugar tin, the question catching you off guard. You finally glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s just…” Joseph shifted uncomfortably, his usual confidence replaced with something softer. “What you said back there—on stage—about cherishing the memory forever. It sounded a lot like you were talking about Fred.” He looked down at the tea he was fixing, his words careful, almost shy. “And honestly, it reminded me of that day on set.”

“What day?”

“When we filmed the scene in Caracalla’s bedroom.” His eyes flicked back to yours, searching for confirmation. “You and Fred were… different that day. There was this energy between you two, like something had changed. I thought maybe you’d finally, you know, come to your senses about each other, but what you said on stage—it made me wonder.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hiding the small smile tugging at your lips. “Well, you’re not entirely wrong.” You added a splash of milk to your tea. “We did come to our senses that day.”

Joseph’s eyebrows shot up, his curiosity piqued. “And… was he—you know…?”

You glanced at him, tilting your head in mock thought. “While I appreciate your sudden foray into investigative journalism,” you teased, “I think the answer to that question is classified.”

Before Joseph could reply, Paul’s voice cut through the moment. “Or…” he started, strolling toward you with an infuriating smirk. “The answer is a three-letter word.”

“Fuck off, Paul!” you shot back, your laughter bubbling up as you grabbed your cup of tea.

Joseph groaned, shaking his head at Paul. “You’re relentless.”

“And mean,” you added with a grin as you turned to head toward Fred, who had just entered the room and only caught the tail end of the conversation. He gave you an inquisitive look as he draped his arm over your shoulders.

“What are we cussing Paul out for this time?” Fred asked, his voice light and teasing. He leaned down, pretending to whisper conspiratorially, “What’d he do?”

“He’s mean,” you said with a giggle, your words laced with amusement. “Are you ready to leave?”

Fred nodded. “Yeah, the car’s waiting out back.”

“You’re leaving already?” Paul’s mock-pout followed you as you grabbed your bag.

“We’re literally seeing you guys at dinner in, what, two hours?” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

“And tomorrow morning,” Fred added, steering you toward the door. “Hopefully you’ll survive without us until then.”

As you walked out, Joseph’s amused voice reached you. “For the record, I’m still rooting for that classified answer.”

Fred glanced down at you, his brow raised. “What’s he talking about?”

“It’s nothing,” you said, stifling a laugh. “They’re just being nosy.”

Fred didn’t push, his signature crooked grin tugging at his lips as he leaned closer, his voice warm against your ear. “Well, whatever it is, I’m on your side.”

As always, you thought, smiling softly to yourself.

As you stepped out into the cool evening air, Fred’s arm still draped over your shoulders, you couldn’t help but glance up at him. The way he fit so effortlessly into your life—his steady presence, his quiet reassurances—made you wonder how you ever doubted his feelings for you. Looking back now, it seemed almost ridiculous. Every glance, every touch, every word had been there all along, waiting for you to notice.

“Ready?” he asked softly, opening the car door for you and offering you a hand.

You nodded, a quiet laugh escaping your lips at his antics. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

How could you not be, when everything he did made it so easy to fall for him?

[thedemonofcat]

Modern w/o magic

None of Jaskier's loved ones believe his boyfriend is real.

For one, no one's ever met him because of his "odd work hours".

Then, there's the fact that Jaskier goes on endlessly about his finer qualities (clearly overcompensating by making his "boyfriend" perfect).

And, finally, there's the absurd details about said boyfriend's life. There's no way some old man just found him abandoned in the woods to raise as his own.

Imagine their surprise when Jaskier finally drags Geralt along to meet his friends.

"You've all been a wonderful audience!" Jaskier exclaimed to the cheering crowd. As the band—comprising Jaskier, Priscilla, Essi, and, unfortunately, Valdo—walked off stage, they basked in the glow of their successful performance.

"I think we should go out for drinks," Priscilla suggested, prompting nods of agreement from the others—except Jaskier.

The lead singer was lost in thought, staring off into the distance. "Sorry, I already have plans. Dinner with Geralt."

Valdo scoffed. "Really, Julian? Still clinging to that imaginary boyfriend of yours?"

"Geralt is real," Jaskier replied, chewing his lip in irritation.

"Yet, we've never seen a single photo of him," Essi added skeptically.

"Geralt doesn’t like having his photo taken," Jaskier defended. He turned to Priscilla, seeking support. "You believe me, right?"

Priscilla hesitated. "I don’t know... this Geralt does sound a bit too perfect."

Before the conversation could spiral into an argument, a cough drew their attention. By the door stood a tall, muscular man holding a bouquet of flowers.

"Am I interrupting?" Geralt asked.

Jaskier's face lit up as he rushed over to greet his boyfriend with a kiss.

[servantofthefates]

The Perfect Spell Against Bullies

Yes, there is Karma. You can always wait for her to avenge you. But remember, the Universe helps those who help themselves too. Just be certain in your heart of hearts that balance is something you are restoring, not destroying.

STEP 1: Capture your pain.

When a stranger or someone you know has maliciously hurt you, in real life or online, write down on a piece of paper what they did or said:

He desecrated my altar. “Take down your ugly selfie.” She plays loud music just to spite me. “That dress looks so cheap.” They insulted me and my family.

Use a pencil and natural paper – anything uncoated by polymer.

STEP 2: Report the crime.

Day or night, whenever you feel the peak of your anger, frustration, self-pity or fear about what your bully did or said, go to a room with a mirror inside. A washroom… your bedroom… as long as you are alone.

Mirrors are portals to other realms. So hold the paper up to it, allowing those nearby to read about the crime.

STEP 3: Request punishment.

Speak:

Diabolus Ligat, Angelus Solvit

These words call upon the dark and the light forces of the world, so that together, they may weigh the perfect punishment for the one who hurt you.

Say the words to the mirror as many times as you like… as long as it takes for you to feel heard.

You should feel a gust of wind, or hear a creak, or smell a strange scent, confirming that your request has been received. Once you do, sincerely say thank you.

STEP 4: Throw it away.

Get rid of the paper, as if you are throwing away a receipt. An act of faith.

Then wait.

Together, a demon and an angel – labels most of us know them by – will fully investigate your case. They may decide to punish your bully not just for this but for all their past crimes. I know for a fact that this humble spell was used in the late 90s against a now-famous serial bully. He ended up in jail for years and for a crime he did not commit. In other words, the ones who heard the appeal used the law to bully him back.

So you may be surprised by the punishment. But trust that it is fair and honest.

[bweeeb]

PUPPY EYES

Synopsis: When Pedro doesn't take you to the awards ceremony for his new movie, your relationship starts to go downhill with the thought that maybe you're too young to give him everything he needs.

Warnings: nothing major, angst, couple with problems, Pedro and you are 26 years apart.

Career, projects, new movies, memories, and that topic that always left you unsure—was it negative or positive anticipation when people brought up relationships?

It wasn’t news to anyone that five months ago, when you and Pedro made it official that you’d been secretly seeing each other for a year, people started digging into every little detail. And a few months ago, the age difference between you two didn’t bother anyone in your social circle. Both of you were adults who knew exactly what you were doing with your lives.

Even your parents, who had initially been surprised by the man 26 years older than you, eventually came to accept your choice. So it shouldn’t bother you or anyone else anymore.

"So, I don’t think you’ve ever openly talked about your relationship with Pedro Pascal after making it official. Is it okay if we discuss it?"

The podcast host smiled at you, and you let out an embarrassed laugh, shrugging.

"Why not?"

"How did you two meet?"

"We worked on the same movie, so we were constantly together on set. One thing led to another."

"And you never thought, like, ‘Wow, he’s way too old for me,’ since there’s a significant age gap?"

"Twenty-six years, isn’t it?" Another host interrupted.

"Didn’t he say in an interview that he wouldn’t date anyone with more than a 20-year age difference? Doesn’t that make you curious about what changed?"

"Well, when we met, I didn’t think much about it, and I don’t think he did either. Yes, he mentioned that he wouldn’t date someone with a 20-year age gap. But I’ve always had a thing for DILFs, and he’s definitely one. One thing led to another, without either of us realizing it."

Your cheeks flushed as you spoke honestly, your eyes briefly catching your publicist’s approving thumbs-up from behind the glass.

"I think it’s much more about connection than anything tangible, you know? Our age difference is almost unnoticeable in our day-to-day life now."

"Pedro is, what, around 50 years old? Let’s not pretend it’s entirely unnoticeable." One of them chuckled, and you narrowed your eyes, frustrated at how your words were twisted.

"You’re young, clearly with the body of a 23-year-old, while he’s middle-aged. I think people are just curious about what made you stay." The other one chimed in, leaning toward the mic. You smiled politely, glancing between the camera and the hosts.

"Maybe the real question is what makes him stay. He had a firm opinion, and suddenly, it changed. Pedro has the purest and most beautiful soul in the world. He laughs at his own dad jokes, he shows me things I’d never imagined because he’s from 1975, and he’s a man with a capital M who treats me like the last rose petal in the universe. So, honestly, if he ever agrees to do an interview with you, maybe you should ask him what makes him stay.

"After the podcast aired, what you thought would be a calm discussion turned into a social media battleground. People twisted your words and intentions.

"A man taking care of a child—what nonsense."

"Really, ask him why he stays because she’s unbearable."

"Did she call his jokes ‘dad jokes’? Who does that to their boyfriend? RUN, PEDRO!"

"She’s just after his money."

"The most boring woman in the world is with the hottest man alive. How does that even happen?"

"She has nothing to offer him. Relax, ladies, it won’t last three more months."

"Dakota Johnson seemed interested in him; I wouldn’t be surprised if he ditches this corn husk for her."

"If I knew he was into younger women, I’d have listed a hundred better options than Y/N."

"Wait, guys—he didn’t even take her to the Gladiator premiere. How serious do you think this is?"

It was exhausting. Even though you avoided reading the comments, they popped up everywhere, and all the therapy you’d done to maintain a stable mental health seemed to be slipping through your fingers. But Pedro couldn’t know, so you plastered on a sweet smile whenever you saw him, even as doubts began to creep in.

Maybe you really were the worst option for him. Maybe someone older, with similar experiences, would be better. Someone more mature, less bubbly and silly.Sitting in the car, you stared blankly out the window as Pedro talked about the Gladiator premiere—the one you hadn’t attended because you weren’t invited.

"Hey, are you okay?" It wasn’t that you weren’t listening. You just didn’t have much to say, so you let him keep talking.

"Yeah, I’m fine. Go on."

Your smile didn’t falter, and you silently thanked yourself for being a good actress.

"No, you’re not fine. What’s wrong?"

"Of course I am. It must’ve been surreal, babe. Even Dakota Johnson was there, right?"

"Yeah, but what’s wrong with you?" His eyes left the road momentarily to glance at you. You shook your head.

"Nothing. You’re just imagining things." You leaned over, cupped his face in your hands, and pressed a kiss to his lips before pulling away.

"Eyes on the road, old man."

"Okay, but I thought I was your daddy."

He exaggeratedly rolled his eyes as if offended. You loved that about him—the way he was so expressive and dramatic, some might call it embarrassing, but you found it endlessly entertaining.

"You know when you’re my daddy," you said with a mischievous smile, swallowing the rising bitterness in your throat. That night was the last time you slept at his place. Over the following days, you insisted on being dropped off at home, and Pedro didn’t argue. He simply observed your strange behavior.

At first, he thought you might be pregnant and unsure about what to do. But then he remembered you weren’t the type to hide something like that. He considered that maybe you were overwhelmed with your new projects, but you usually loved talking about them. And then, his thoughts landed on your relationship. Had he done something wrong? He couldn’t pinpoint anything.

Five days later, the two of you were at a dinner with friends. Everything was going well until it wasn’t.

"Hey, Y/N, why didn’t I see you at the premiere? I thought I’d catch a glimpse of you in a glorious dress," Lux, Pedro’s sister, asked.

Your cheeks burned, and your heart raced with nervous discomfort. Were you supposed to admit you hadn’t been invited? No. Your mom had taught you better than that.

"I…" A nervous laugh escaped your lips as you shifted uncomfortably in your chair. You didn’t dare look at Pedro beside you, though you could feel his guilty puppy-dog eyes on you. You wouldn’t give in.

"I had some things tied up with the script for the movie. It was a hectic week."

In reality, the script had been finalized, and even if the writer had faced complications, you’d have found time to support your boyfriend and contribute new ideas to the director.

"Ah, really? What a shame. I hope everything’s okay now," Lux said.

"Oh, it’s all sorted," you replied, forcing a smile.Your smile faltered briefly when Pedro’s hand tried to find yours under the table. Clearing your throat, you stood up, announcing that you needed to use the restroom.When you returned, Pedro was chatting with one of his friends, and you were grateful he was too preoccupied to bring up the earlier conversation.

"Wow, did you do something with your hair? It looks blonder, or is it just me?" Hazel, one of Pedro’s friends’ girlfriends, asked politely.

"Yeah, I did. Amelia’s amazing," you replied.

"Oh my gosh, give me her number, please. I need something this stunning."

"Of course, I’ll even book you an appointment if you want."

"It’s impressive how an older man managed to snag someone as beautiful and sweet as you," Lux teased. Normally, you would’ve laughed it off, but everything felt different that night. You chuckled falsely, smiling as you’d been doing all week.

"Oh, come on, stop that," Pedro said, sounding uneasy. He could sense your odd mood.Of course, you were acting strange.

Everything had been strange lately.

Later, in the car, your gaze rested on your hands in your lap while you felt Pedro’s eyes boring into the side of your face.

"Honey—"

"If we could not talk about this now, I’d be much happier. Can you just take me home?"

"You know I want to—"

"Pedro."You turned to him, tired of pretending. Your voice was tense, and he immediately understood how serious it was. You never called him by his name. "Stop." Your tone wasn’t angry or annoyed, just lifeless. That terrified him. Women didn’t usually scare him. At nearly 50 years old, he thought he’d learned to handle these situations.

"I’m sorry, okay."

His gaze returned to the road, while you looked out the window, waiting to get home.

As you were arriving, you realized he wasn't taking you to your house but to his instead. Closing your eyes, you let out a sigh and covered your face with both hands.

"What are you doing?" The words came out muffled as you felt him slow down.

"Going home."

"This is the way to your house."

"My house is your house, darling."

"You know what I mean," you whispered, exhausted.

"I thought you didn’t want to go. That it would be too much pressure for you, that... that you wouldn’t want people talking."

You heard him lament, and biting your lip, you sniffled. You tried hard not to act childish in the situation, looking up and taking a deep breath, reminding yourself not to let the tears fall.

"I know," was all you managed to reply before your voice broke.

"I... I just need to think for a bit."

"Think... right. Think about what?"

"Can you please take me home?" Pedro nodded at that and drove to your building. For the first time, he felt a strange haze between the two of you.

"Thank you." Even in the awkwardness, there you were, sweet as ever. Pedro could never deny how much he appreciated that about you—the way you always thanked everyone for everything. You were so pure. "Anytime." You opened the car door and stepped out, but before you entered the building, Pedro got out and called after you.

"I'm sorry. And I love you." That’s what he said before you turned to look at him with sad eyes—the same expression you wore when you thought he had forgotten to pick you up for a date, only to find out he was planning a surprise trip to Chile.That night, Pedro went home with his tail between his legs. When Lux called him in the morning, he couldn’t have felt worse.

"You look like one of the infected from The Last of Us. Gross."Lux teased as Pedro rubbed his face with his left hand."What do you want?"

"Wow. Rude."

"Sorry, I didn’t sleep. Just tell me why you’re calling me at six in the morning."

"I was thinking about how you said Y/N was acting strange, and I agree. Last night, she was quieter than usual. Pero luego empecé a preguntarme: ¿la invitaste al estreno? Porque se puso muy rara después de que lo mencioné y estaba revisando los comentarios..." ( But then I started wondering—did you invite her to the premiere? Because she got all weird after I brought it up, and I was checking the comments...)

"Ya te dije que no revises los comentarios. La gente está loca". (I already told you not to check the comments. People are insane.)

Pedro rolled his eyes, sighed, and collapsed onto the couch, exhausted. You and Pedro had talked about ignoring online negativity countless times. Neither of you usually cared about it. You weren’t starting now, were you?

"Lo sé, lo sé, pero se están portando fatal con ella. Y al no invitarla, la gente pensó que la estaban dejando de lado". ( I know, I know, but they’re being awful to her. And not inviting her made people think you were sidelining her.)

Lux sounded worried, almost angry.

"Eso es ridículo. Yo nunca haría algo así. Ella lo sabe. "(That’s ridiculous. I’d never do that—she knows that.)

"La compararon con Dakota Johnson. No es justo, son completamente diferentes. Dijeron que te cansarías de la 'niña'. Sabemos que es más madura que la mayoría de las mujeres, pero aún es joven". ( They compared her to Dakota Johnson. It’s not even fair—they’re completely different. They said you’ll get tired of the ‘kid.’ We know she’s more mature than most women, but she’s still young. )

Pedro propped his elbows on his knees and sighed. You had never acted immaturely. You never made rash decisions or threw tantrums over small things. You never picked fights or complained about work or friends. People didn’t know anything about your relationship—how could they?

"¿Crees que está preocupada? "(Do you think she’s worried)

"La mujer está intentando mantener la compostura y alejarse antes de que la abandones, como todos han estado diciendo". (The woman’s trying to hold herself together and pulling away before you ditch her like everyone’s been saying.)

Lux sighed and continued,

"Deberías haber escuchado cómo habló de ti en ese podcast. Nadie más sería así, no como ella. Haz algo. ( You should’ve heard how she talked about you on that podcast. No one else would be like that—not like her. Do something. )

Fuck. Pedro thought. He’d be stuck working all day, knowing you were likely asleep now. As the day went on, you ignored his missed calls. Not as an act of immaturity but because you needed personal space. You planned to talk to him eventually, but your phone felt like a weight you couldn’t bear. Instead, you threw yourself into work, ensuring every detail was perfect.Later, your group decided to go out for dinner, and you joined to keep your mind occupied. You loved them all but remained mostly a listener. Exhausted from a sleepless night, you struggled to follow the conversation, though you smiled at their stories.After dinner, you excused yourself to the restroom. As you washed your hands, you overheard two women talking in mocking tones.

"Do you think it’s a PR stunt?"

You frowned, listening as the other responded,

"It must be. I mean, it’s all over the news, and she’s playing the sad little girl role."

"Yeah, right? He used to call someone 25 a kid, and now he’s with a 23-year-old? Ridiculous."

"Did you see the photo of him with Dakota at the bar?"

"What? When?"

"Today, about an hour ago. She was kissing his cheek, and even if it’s for the movie, I doubt it. They weren’t even working."

"Think he’ll trade her in?"

"She won’t last ten days."

You grabbed your phone and opened Twitter. The first thing you saw was the photo of him and Dakota. He had that drunken smile on his face as she wrapped her arms around his neck. You weren’t the jealous type, fully aware of how PR worked in Hollywood, but it still stung.You washed your hands, turned to face them, and said,

"At least I’m more than a nameless extra without a single line. The only roles your venomous tongues will land you are in adult films, and not the Pearl kind—cheap, disgusting ones. Have a good night.

"With that, you left, hailed a cab, and went home. Fighting back tears, you repeated to yourself, Don’t cry. It’s just a picture. You ignored him all day, so stop acting like this.But for the first time, you cried over something like this.

Your head ached, and with the tip of your nose red, you picked up the phone and called him—without thinking too much, without wrestling with your thoughts. You just did what you felt needed to be done.The first call went straight to voicemail, and even though the thought of not wanting to humiliate yourself for him crossed your mind, you ignored it, knowing you were the one who had lost ground first. On the second call, your phone was answered, and the muffled sound made you swallow hard—he was out of the house.

“Hey.”

Your voice came out low, and you heard some murmurs on the other side, blending with loud conversation.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice called from the other side, and you grimaced. “Uh, hi. Is Pedro there?”

“Uh, he’s kind of busy right now,” she said.

“Busy…” you repeated softly. “Who are you?”

“Carly.”

Carly? Who the hell is Carly? you thought immediately.

“Then tell him I called, Carly.”

“And you are…?” The mocking tone in her voice irritated you, and your expression was far from pleasant.

“A friend. Tell him a friend called.”

“Great.” She hung up without saying anything else, and you wrapped yourself in your own cocoon of blankets that didn’t warm you like Pedro did.Suits was playing on TV while you avoided going to bed, eventually falling asleep without even realizing it. Around 3 a.m., frantic knocks on your door startled you awake, making you look warily down the hallway. The doormen usually informed you of anyone coming to your floor.

Cautiously, you peeked through the peephole and saw him there, rubbing his face with his two hands, five times bigger than yours. You stopped, stepped back from the door, and sighed before opening it. Once you unlocked the door’s security latch, you looked at him and almost closed it again upon seeing your reflection, still wearing his shirt.

“It’s late. What are you doing here?” Your voice came out softly, and you saw Pedro stammer as he raised his hand in a nervous tic.

“A friend?”

“What?”

“Why did you say you were just a friend, sweetheart?” Pedro asked, stepping forward. You didn’t step back, only shrugged and gave a disheartened smile

.“She said you were busy. I thought it would be more… convenient than saying something else.”

“You’re something else. You’re my girlfriend. And my fiancée. And my wife. And I don’t care if you want to be the mother of my kids when I’m a hundred years old.”

He’s so drunk, you thought.

“How much tequila did you drink, Pedro?”

“The whole bottle.” He laughed, moving closer and gently touching your face. He’d always been gentle; being drunk didn’t change that.

“Please don’t tell me you’re breaking up with me.”

“I won’t say anything to you while you reek of cheap booze and cheap women.” You closed the door behind him and stepped away, heading to the hallway and your closet to grab a towel and clean clothes for him.

“Take a shower. If you sober up, we’ll talk.”

Pedro knew what you were thinking—that he’d gotten mad, drunk with his friends, and gone out with women named Carly. But he hadn’t done anything other than stare at the karaoke machine, hating every second he wasn’t there to mock what he was hearing.

“Everything’s cheap,” he laughed, following you.

“You know what isn’t cheap, Pedro? My patience. I haven’t slept well in over a week, and now it’s almost four in the morning, which means it’s been twenty minutes since you showed up at my door, and I don’t know why the hell you’re not naked yet.”

Your words left your mouth, and Pedro smiled at you.

“One day without you, and I forget how hot you are when you’re bossy and sleepy,” he slurred, making you laugh softly as you turned on the shower and pushed him into the bathroom.

“Don’t fall in there, please.”

Fifteen minutes after you pushed him inside, your eyes were heavy, and the strange way your body associated his presence with a different kind of rest annoyed you. Without realizing it, you fell asleep on the couch, wrapped in your blanket. It was as if your body said":

— Oh, it’s okay; Pedro’s home, so we’re safe,— but was your heart safe?When he saw you asleep there, the tequila had only left him dizzy—nothing a cold shower couldn’t fix. He approached and carried you to your room without thinking twice, whispering as he looked at your face:

“I’m so sorry, my preatty little thing.”

He laid you on the bed, and as he was about to leave, he heard you murmur:

“Stay. Please.”

Without hesitation, he lay beside you, pulling you against his chest and wrapping you both in a cocoon where it was just the two of you.

“Have you ever thought that maybe I’m not the right person for you?” you murmured, burying your head in his neck and feeling his hands trail up your back.

“Have you ever thought that maybe I’m not the right person for you, sweetheart?” he emphasized, and you sighed.

“I’m scared of losing you when you realize I’m too young, too naïve, and haven’t even experienced half of what you have.”

“I don’t even know why you’re thinking that. I’m the one who’s old. You’re perfect, intelligent, hot, and extremely talented—a young woman who fell into the arms of an old man like me.”

“Yeah, but I think maybe one day you’ll want someone your own age, someone like Sarah or any of your exes. I think it’s okay if you get bored of me, start feeling ashamed, and—”

“Stop. Stop that.” Pedro cupped your face, pulling it from his neck and making you look into his eyes. Your hands rested on his chest as you stared at him, and with a disheartened smile, Pedro caressed your face, clearly upset. When had your relationship reached such a fragile state?

“I didn’t take you to the premiere because the press is cruel. They’d talk about you, probably reinforce the rumors, and talk about me—call me a disgusting creep. I was going to take you, but all of our advisors told me not to risk exposing you in a bad light. I… I would never feel ashamed of you, for God’s sake. Look at you. A woman of any age wouldn’t hold a candle to you in a million years.”

Sniffling, you climbed onto his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. Pedro sat on the bed, hugging you back, his hand resting gently on your waist.

“You don’t need to worry about anything. Whatever was written about you was a lie. God, I don’t think I even know how to live without you by my side anymore.”

You laughed, and a smile appeared on his lips.

“You don’t need to worry either. Other men lost their appeal the moment you wanted me.”

“That’s good, sweetheart.”

His hand traveled to the back of your neck, his large fingers running through your hair.

“And who was Carly?”

“A friend of the group.”

" And why did she have your cell phone?"

" It stayed on the table because I focused on looking at it for five to five minutes waiting for you to send me a message. "

“And the photo?”

He knew what you were referring to, and when he took it, he hadn’t expected it to reach you before you two made up—if you made up.

“It was to promote the movie, sweetheart. Dakota’s engaged.”

He brushed your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear.

“Hmm, alright.” You looked at him, tracing your fingers from his hair to his beard until they stopped at his mustache.

“Stop looking at me with those puppy-dog eyes. It makes you irresistible.”

“Like this?”

He did it again, and you laughed, kissing his lips immediately after.

“Mm-hmm, like that.”

You murmured against his lips as he smiled at you, and you whispered,

“I love you.”

“I love you more, sweetheart. Just you.”

Pedro pulled you close, laying you back against the soft mattress, kissing you as if it were the last moment of your lives. At least, that’s what both of you hoped.

÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷

I apologize if there are any mistakes in this writing. I didn't proofread it with the best eyes.

Requests are open

[phyrestartr]

Sacrosanct | Adrian Tepes x M!Reader | (PT.1)

W/C: 3.8k C/W: mentions of emotional abuse, blood and gore, canon-typical violence, religion, religious abuse, religious themes, death, mentions of death, depression, alcohol abuse Tags: PLOT!, SFW, eventual NSFW/sexual themes, drama, repressed romantic feelings, slow-ish burn, childhood friends, starts s4 (eventually moving into nocturne), mutual pining, angst and drama, hurt/comfort, reader is kind of an ass lol

Note: soz if there are any spelling/grammar errors---I have been tweaking this so much and I'm so tired of it so I'm just posting the first part to get over it lol o(--( hope it's fun to read!!

1. A Man Amongst the Ghosts

Isolation was an unkind thing. Whispered secrets, foul howls and the like plagued the afflicted's everyday, wrenching away all hope of peace. The dolls, ones made in fits of lonely mania, kept Alucard some sort of company until those humans wandered through, filling in the emptiness that Trevor and Sypha once filled themselves; Taka and Sumi never could replace a Speaker and a Belmont, but the attempt was appreciated. 

Until their humanity showed. Their hatred of vampires, their distrust of anyone beyond themselves, their desperation—all reflected in dark, stone eyes as they loomed above him like the grim reaper, ready to take their pound of flesh from the bloodline that'd evaded Hell for so long. Yet what the two did not know, and what Death had always known, was that Alucard decided to live. 

But what's the point? That disease of a question never was to be answered. His mother would no doubt remind him of how precious and sacred life was, how he simply needed to seek out a spark of inspiration to once again find meaning, but how was one supposed to see meaning in the meaningless? Alucard didn't have an answer. Adrian didn't, either. 

Maybe I just need to wait for a surprise, he lamented. Another world-ending threat, or something. Maybe I could start one myself. I've nothing better to do, anyway. 

The dhampir sighed as he walked up the steps. Then, in the mouth of the great building, he paused; before him stood a figure, cloaked and still, facing the castle stairs. 

“Oh, God,” he breathed, rubbing his eyes, “not another one.” Surely, there was a way to cleanse the castle. Surely, there was a way to remove the spirits of his past, the ones who came and went as they pleased while Alucard watched on and suffocated. Surely, everyday life didn't need to be so—

His trance snapped at a sound. The castle made noises, but it didn’t scuff leather soles against stone, nor did it kick rubble out of its way to make room for hollow, echoing footsteps. Any noise the place made was slow and languid, like it was straining with each and every attempt to haunt its inhabitant; however, those footfalls were brisk and quick and so much like his mother's when she was in a rush. 

But that wasn't Lisa Tepes. It was an intruder—a real one. A man amongst ghosts.

A distant door closed, and Alucard exploded into movement.

Magic fuelled his steps, hurtling him forth in smears of vibrant crimson as he pursued the whisper of a heart beating. Whoever had tried their luck sounded calm, unbothered. Alucard was eager to change that.

The dhampir burst into the lab. A sharp yelp harmonized with the slamming of the door. Another shout was cut short the moment Alucard grabbed the stranger by the throat and pinned them to the wall with a resounding thud.

“Do you have a death wish?” He growled over whatever the stranger tried to say. 

A pause. Then, the threat was answered with a laugh, something sardonic and bitter. 

“A death wish?” They—he—scoffed, clawing at the gloved hand keeping him pinned. “Is that meant to intimidate me, you stupid, blood-sucking beast?” 

Alucard squeezed harder, earning a sharp whimper from the intruder. “It should scare you very much, yes.” 

“Wait,” he squawked. 

“Why should I?” Alucard snapped. “If I don't, you'll take from this place, won't you?” 

The stranger’s pawing turned into thrashing. 

Alucard continued, “If I don't, you’ll return and attempt to kill me. Worse, you could kill me the second I—”

“Adrian.” 

His grip weakened. 

The stranger gasped in lungfuls of air before hastily pulling back his hood. His face—your face—illuminated in the gentle morning light. 

Your gazes held for a long, long moment, one that might have gone on forever, one that might have only been a delusional second, but it was…familiar. Secretive and special, like when you lifted sweets from town and shared them underneath a table in the library.

“Don’t tell Miss Lisa,” you whispered, eyes glimmering with mirth despite your serious disposition. 

Adrian huffed and took a sweet roll from the basket. “I wouldn’t dream of it. She’ll be completely cross if she finds out.”

You nodded, and the pact was formed. “We must make sure we wash our hands afterwards,” you added as you ripped a roll in half and nibbled on the frayed edge. “I, too, will be cross if we get sugar on the books.” 

“Ugh, you’re so annoying.”

You turned your nose away like a pompous brat, and Adrian laughed.

His grip loosened more, and your pulse started to slow against his gloved fingertips. 

“You,” Alucard said slowly, sluggishly. “Why?”

“I’ve come to do the work your worthless self has refused to do, you brute,” you sneered.

Alucard released you and watched you collapse. You rubbed your throat, hand shaking.

“I forgot how much of an asshole you were, alchemist.”

You glared up at him through tear-coated lashes. 

“I've never forgotten how much of a spoiled brat you were, Adrian.” 

“Alucard,” the dhampir corrected. 

“What?”

The blonde turned away and wandered to where he'd seen you puttering. “They call me ‘Alucard,’ now.”

You scoffed. “The opposite of Dracula, yes, of course, how very dramatic of you.” He heard you drag yourself back up to your feet. “It's a stupid name.”

“So is ‘(Name)’.” 

“Oh, fuck off. If you're going to insult me, at least make it worthwhile.” 

You stepped up beside him, straightening out your clothes and fixing your disheveled hair. Alucard glimpsed flashes of light-coloured markings against your skin before they vanished beneath your clothes. He had no mind to wonder what they meant, but he did find them pretty.

“What are you doing here?” He sighed, suddenly so, so defeated. “This isn't your home.”

You sucked your teeth. “It was, once.”

“Not anymore.”

“Your mother said I'd always be welcome.” You picked books off the floor and set them on the cracked desk. “‘Always’ hasn't ended just because she's passed.” 

Alucard's face twisted. “Don't speak of her. You have no right.”

“She was my mentor,” you said offhandedly. You threw a few more books onto the table. “I mourn her, too.”

“Yet you weren’t there when—”

“Neither were you.” 

The cold left Alucard's veins, exposing his raw nerves to the needling truths he had shunned in favour of shutting down, disappearing into the numbness of winter. What right did you have to remind him? What right did you have to reappear and give him grief? 

Thorns punctured the backs of his eyes. Alucard held his head and staggered back. He needed wine, and badly. 

“Just—don't touch anything,” he grumbled as he turned away, ignoring whatever it was you hissed back at him. The man didn't have the energy to start a losing war with you.

—

Time passed. Alucard ignored you. He even forgot you resided under the same roof as him unless he stumbled upon you in the kitchen or engine room. You kept to yourself for the most part, and he kept to himself. It wasn't horrible. 

You were horrible, however. You were nothing short of an entitled menace to society and, more personally, to Alucard himself. Still, somehow, Lisa had liked you enough to give you a room, and Dracula had found you promising enough to let you stay in that room, much to their only child's chagrin.

“‘He has nowhere else to go,’” Alucard muttered aloud, echoing the words his mother spoke back then. “‘He's alone.’” He stared up at the cellar's ceiling before taking a long drink of wine. “‘I'm sure he'll be your friend.’”

He thought of Sumi and Taka. He thought of Trevor and Sypha. He thought of empty shadows. And when he couldn't stand the thoughts any longer, he drank, and decided the castle was too small for all those ghosts and two living men, that it wasn’t allowed to be anything but cold and painful and lonely. Bonds, people, just made life agony. 

Alucard rubbed his eyes. His shoulders trembled from a heavy inhale. 

He needs to leave.

Resolve sobered him. Alucard stormed out of the cellar like he was about to face his father again, like his life was on the line along with humanity’s fate. In a way, it was; if he didn't deal with the nightmarish imp sullying his home, he'd be no use to humanity, he'd be in no position to be sober enough to ever do anything besides mourn and cry, and that couldn't last forever. 

The lab doors came into view with the quiet shuffling of odds and ends before he threw the doors open, and stepped inside with purpose. 

“You,” Alucard commanded. “You're to get out of my castle immediately lest I—”

He slowed to a halt and took the space in; the lab was warmly lit, and it no longer reeked of blood, sweat and magic, but instead of herbs and wood; a majority of the room was cleaned, or at least straightened out, and many of the books and equipment had been returned to their rightful places; what was left of the floors, walls and furniture were free of most filth, too. It almost seemed to masquerade as a home again.

You were even on the second floor, staring out the largest window with a cup of tea in your hand—a calming sight Alucard had taken in plenty of times in the past.

“You're cleaning,” Alucard said as he approached you. 

“Astute observation, vampire.” You sipped your tea as you stared out at the vast sea of green cedar. “I'm surprised you live.” 

“Tch. Not even Dracula could kill me,” Alucard huffed. “Wine doesn't stand a chance.” 

“I'm not so sure. That horrible stench coming off of you suggests you're already a walking corpse.” 

“So you came back to play the part of maid?” Alucard asked instead of biting back. 

Your nose twitched with the threat of a snarl. “Someone has to clean up this fucking mess and it's surely not going to be you.” 

“Well, I—”

“No, shut up.” You collapsed into a nearby armchair with a sigh. “You don't get to defend yourself.”

Alucard scoffed and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “I was going to sort things out.” 

“Before or after you drank yourself to near-death?” 

“You're still as miserable as I remember.”

“Oh, on the contrary, I think I'm much more miserable now.” Your gaze dropped. “This house is a mess.” 

Alucard scoffed, hackles rising. “Of course, it's the house you worry about.” 

You frowned. “Someone has to.” 

“Are you ever going to learn how to be pleasant?”

“I wasn't made to be pleasant; I was made to be exceptional.”

The dhampir laughed, earning a hot glare. “You mean by those mad heretics that attempted to open the gates of Hell over and over? Is that meant to be ‘exceptional’?” 

The muscles of your jaw tensed, and Alucard thought he heard the grind of teeth. Your family, whoever they were, were a weak spot for you. He knew that well.

“Fuck you,” you uttered like a pagan curse. “You've no idea what I've endured, what my makers were like.”

“My father is Dracula,” Alucard said, “he tried to kill me, killed thousands of humans, tried to end the world—”

“Yet you still live, and the world is still in-fucking-tact, isn't it? Maybe not your world, but the one that matters most.” You glowered out the window as you stood. “As far as I see it, you're rather lucky.” 

“Lucky?” He repeated, an edge of hysteria lifting his voice. “Really, you'd call this lucky?”

“It could have been a lot fucking worse.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“You wish.” 

You turned sharply and abandoned him. Alucard listened to your brisk footfalls disappear behind a collage of distant bookcases, some broken, some intact. The rifling and shuffling of wood and paper took over not too long after he lost sight of you. You'd so easily gone back to work. 

He's always been that way, Alucard remembered. Would rather putter about instead of dealing with people. His mother had never been anti-social. His father was, however. Maybe your shared distaste and skepticism about humans was what bonded you. Maybe humans made you so jaded, too. Maybe, in another world, they'd have made Alucard the same. 

He wandered after you, following phantom footsteps until the dull clapping of book covers became clear. You were mumbling under your breath, exasperated and annoyed as always with the one-sided argument you engaged in. It was another common sight; Alucard recalled finding you bickering with the air far too often in your shared younger days. Lisa never had an explanation for her son, but she had words of comfort to explain your quirk. 

I thought you didn’t remember your parents, Alucard wanted to say, but that look on your face, the one that stirred something in his chest and ate everything in his veins, snuffed out whatever flame of confidence he thought to face you with. 

–

Alucard let you be for a long while. He didn't know how long, per se, but at least…a while. Some time. Maybe a week or two. A month? Hard to tell.

When did I kill those two? He wondered dryly as he wandered back from yet another trip to the river. Feels like centuries ago…maybe longer. Is this what Father felt in that long, miserable life of his, until he met Mother? He didn't want to dwell on it long.

Instead, he dwelled on the man standing before the skewered warnings at the castle's front door. 

He could see your foot tapping and shifting to and fro—toe, heel, toe, heel—the same way you had as a younger teen. Alucard hated it, especially when your hard leather soles clacked against the hardwood like a woodpecker knocking on a tree. 

Alucard snorted. Woodpecker. That summed you up nicely.

“What are you smiling about, vampire?” You snapped. Alucard thought venom might shoot from your eyes or flame might spew from your mouth.

“Why are you staring at…those?” He asked instead. 

Your expression weakened into something a bit more innoxious. “I'm wondering why you needed them,” you said, turning to the gruesome display. “And if I should summon them again to kill them myself for whatever they've done.” 

Alucard couldn't look away from you. “‘For what they’ve done,’” he echoed, voice weak. “What makes you think they’ve done anything at all?”

“Adrian Tepes would not skewer someone if they weren't as damnable as the fucking night beasts staked in their company,” you decided, pointed words acrid with something intense.

A weak warmth spread across Alucard’s skin. The feeling tried to go deeper, back to somewhere long forgotten, but he didn’t allow it. How could he, after so many had taken that sacred place for granted?

“Oh.” The dhampir cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “I see.”

Your eyes flicked to him and pinned him in place. Yet, a moment later, your brows lost their creased tension while your stare abandoned its edge in favour of something kinder—or perhaps less lethal—as you gave him a quick once-over before your stare ultimately landed on the bare skin peeking out from beneath his jacket. 

Your eyebrows raised a little, smoothing out your chronic resting bitch face, and your eyes lidded so slightly. Alucard fought the urge to pull his jacket closed while at the same time resisting the impulse to throw his jacket off. You still did strange things to him.

“Where is your shirt?” You asked. 

Alucard cleared his throat. “I, ah. It's…complicated.” 

One of your brows quirked as you turned to face him, arms crossed. “I highly doubt that.”

Alucard could not find it in himself to admit his melancholy stopped him from doing anything—merely speaking such a thing into the world would be too much to bear.

“Fine,” you scoffed. “Then what's that scar?” 

“My father,” he said. “He—well. We had a disagreement, you could say.” 

You winced. “Dracula must have been far gone to hurt you.”

Alucard flickered a smile. “He was.”

Your lips parted, then sealed again, but you didn't look away. Alucard saw sparks of the you he used to find comfort in with the way you beheld him; you wore that thoughtful, gentle look whenever Adrian found himself in trouble or in pain. It warmed him to know you might not have changed much in that way.

Before your old friend could admire you much more, you turned and straightened out your cuffs with a neat, crisp flourish. “Well, that’s a shame. I quite liked your father.”

“I know.” 

Alucard couldn't find anything more to say. Yet you still stayed put as though you held out hope for him to say something more. But he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t, and you were not known for having the patience of a saint.

Helpless, Alucard watched you disappear into the gaping mouth of the castle doorway. It was strange, he thought, how your silhouette seemed to meld with the shadows as soon as you stepped out of the sun. Then again, he was slightly out of his mind. 

Instead of following after you, he braved a glance at the rotting faces of Taka and Sumi. “He’s been here much longer than you two,” he murmured, eyes casting back to the ground. “And he hasn’t tried to trick me, kill me, or fuck me. Maybe this is how bonds are meant to forge.” A long, heavy sigh left him. “I don’t know.” 

Eventually, he found himself wandering the halls, his sad, half-filled pail sloshing beside him and occasionally spilling onto the hardwood. You'd yell at him for it, probably spew something about ruining the already battle-ruined floors, but the punishment didn’t seem too harrowing; at least he'd have company.

Then, he heard a noise, and followed it like a fool following a premonition. However, his quest actually had a prize at the end: you, messing about with pipes in the boiler room set beside the engine room. Your hands were speckled and smeared with grease and other shiny residue, yet your clothes were as clean as they could be with your shirt tucked properly and sleeves rolled up to reveal a stretch of skin marked with faint, blue sigils.

He stepped forward when you tried to twist a piece of pipe free with just your fingertips. Gently, he brushed your hand aside before gripping the measure of pipe and yanking it free with a single, easy motion. 

“You could have asked,” Alucard said, holding the pipe out for you. “Instead of ominously vanishing into the castle, I mean.”

Your nose scrunched as you took the piece with a dirtied rag and set it aside. “You seemed too busy wandering around, looking like a dejected donkey holding a bucket, and, last I checked, mules don't make for great conversation.”

Alucard set the bucket to the side. “Well, I'd rather champion the removal of pipes so you may keep your delicate, frail hands clean. Seems better than being a sad donkey, at the very least.” 

“Hm. You already need a dozen baths, I suppose, so this can't be too uncouth for you,” you said, leaning away from him and looking over some schematics. 

“Oh, well perhaps I should go bathe rather than help you, then.” 

“Ah-ah,” you scolded. “Your fate is sealed. Remove the next two pieces, vampire.” 

Alucard rolled his eyes but did as he was told, much to his chagrin; he'd rather have running, hot water again than constantly wandering to the river day by day, of course, but he'd have to survive a short stint of servitude under your cruel, critical rule for that to happen. It wouldn't have been worth it if he hadn’t been hoping for petty banter and a chance to ask questions. 

“Those markings,” he said, “I've been wondering about them.” 

“Hm.” 

“Care to explain?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Will you?”

You turned away, and Alucard stifled a sigh. Wonderful first attempt at an actual conversation. Almost as tactful as Belmont. He grimaced. God, please make me into anything but Belmont.

“Alchemical sigils,” you said, striking through Alucard’s thoughts. 

The dhampir's mind whirled for a snap. “Really,” he said. “I suppose I should have recognized them.” 

You hummed in maybe annoyance or agreement before turning back to the machine. “They're lesser-known. Most present-day alchemists are forgemasters, besides. They've little need for incantations when they've their chosen tools.”

Alucard leaned down to peer over your shoulder at whatever you were scrutinizing in the boiler. “Hm. Then your markings are a tool of sorts?” He wondered.

You frowned. “A curse may be more accurate.” 

Alucard glanced at you again, then to the back of your neck when another symbol—a familiar thing, one that looked like a star of sorts—caught his attention, and sparked a machination of curiosity and alarms in his mind. “A curse.”

Your hand clapped over the mark, and you turned to him, sharp and quick like you were expecting to parry.

Alucard raised a hand to surrender. “I didn't mean to—”

“Quiet,” you snapped. The word twisted strangely, like a distortion rippling in water before calming again. “Do not expect more from me than that which I give you. Do you understand?” Alucard nodded, and you seemed to calm. “Good. Now, just shut up and do as I say, yes? No more questions.” 

No more questions. Your demand only piqued his curiosity.

After helping you with what would become a lengthy, gruelling project, Alucard found his way to the rickety Belmont vault and wandered through aisles upon aisles of books. A worried sickness curled in his stomach and chest; last time he'd been down there, he'd brought two others with him.

He shook his head. Focus. You need a book about alchemy. Old alchemy, no less. 

There were plenty of books to choose from, but Alucard was quick to realize alchemy was not the core of your mystery, but the root; it was something related to it, something that used alchemical symbols and other sigils born from similar knowledge. 

And finding a hexagram etched into the crumbling spine of an old, leather book gave him a solid start. 

“Hm. Ars Goetia,” Alucard said aloud, tongue thoughtful with every syllable.

As though something answered him, the air hummed. It buzzed with life, reverberating with something kinetic and physical, like the bone-rattling depth of a choir. Books shuddered, earth shifted, debris fluttered from the roof—then, it all receded, drifting away like a midnight yawn and leaving nothing but a dissonant, distant ring in its wake. 

“Well,” Alucard exhaled, “that was interesting.” He sat himself in a mostly-intact chair, and opened the book. “I wonder if that was meant to ward me away. I suppose time will tell.”

---

Thank you for reading! Feel free to comment your thoughts or if you'd like to be tagged for the next part :'D

[atangledfate]

She tried her best to get to known Duo, learning about his past and why he came to them in the first place. It didn't help that the lad was pretty jumpy and a bit timid. But in training he seemed to catch on real fast and, was always on point when she needed him. It had been a rough that first day but she'd come to rely on him somewhat. He was calmer then tangle and more personable then Whisper. Lanolin had really sort of taken to the kid, though she always felt he was hiding something. Everyone had there secrets right?

Walking through the library it really was a grand place. It reminded her so much of the archive at restoration only less work and more a place of learning. She could probably have gotten lost here for hours and not even realized. Though she was happy to find whisper in a corner with a stack of books she'd picked out. Though the two nearly missed her the way she could blend in even here was earie at times. The wolf watched the two pass by with an eye peeking open though didn't interrupt the two in there task.

" Well... whisper is where she said she'd be... not to surprising. Looks like she's found something of interest... let's check on Tangle... Honestly more worried about her then i am anyone else... "

================================================

Back in the Magic section Tangle gripped the big lizards hand Gentle knowing her Tail could easily CRUSH steel and bend titanium! The last thing she wanted to do was accidently hurt somebody! She was pretty good about controlling her strength though! her bright smile and up beat demeanor had always led her to easily making friends, and being a jot to be around. Like a ray of sunshine, people did seem to flock to her.

" Oh WoW second big royal type i've met! What are the odds..."

She rubbed the back of her neck a little surprised he'd wanna see her in action! though she guessed they were as curious about them as the other way around.

" Heh, You'd be the second Sensei i'd picked up in as many weeks! I'm sure Mighty wouldn't mind, he's always saying i should keep pushing my limits! But i wouldn't mind... Long as the boss sheep is ok with it..."

" Oh my tail? Eh well its pretty special! not even my brother can do what i can with mine! We mobians are sometimes born with gifts. Sonic got his speed, Lani can control sound! and i got a super stretchy tail! in retrospect... guess i got the weird power! "

============================================

Lanolin crossed her arms from here they could see Sedan and Tangle talking and, they seemed just fine. Though she did wonder who they were exactly. But by Tangle's body language she was enjoying the conversation. Which only left Duo missing, and that kind of worried her. Her hand on her chin as she looked across the magic section and back across the rest of the library. Yet before she could get to worried a gentle tap on her back made the sheep let out a cute BAA! in shock! causing both her hands to clamp over her mouth! well that was embarassing!

" AH! "

She whirled around to find Duo reeled back as if he'd done something wrong! clutching a book in front of him! how he managed to sneak up on them was a mystery, and yet there he was a history book on application of magic in every day life.

" ah---umm Ma'am... sorry you walked right past me, an i heard my name an--- ah are you ok? "

Reyna could see that, Duo seemed to have a steady head on his shoulders. Plus, there was the fact hopefully Whisper could help them as well.

"Hopefully he'll be alright then. I'll trust your stance on him." She says nodding. She doesn't see Tangle in fiction, but it's pretty close to magic. So she leads Lanolin down that way, figuring that the Lemur might have tried to head there instead. They would pass through the sections Whisper and Duo were in too, so it was a win win.

Sadan is impressed by the dexterity with the tail. Very few people have such skill, even if it's clear this isn't a normal tail by any means. He shakes it happily, very interested in this Lemur already.

"Sadan, Emperor of the Ancient Empire. A pleasure to make your acquaintance Tangle. If you seek a teacher, I'm sure I could find time to give you a lesson or two. I, for one, would like to see your own skill in action. Very few can use their tails with such dexterity after all." He introduces himself, admitting his admiration.

As they don't see Duo, Reyna feels confused. She was expecting Tangle to move, especially since fiction wouldn't offer as much insight as magic. However, she wasn't thinking Duo would be somewhere else.

"Huh. Where do you think Duo went?" She asks Lanolin. The sheep would know the cat better than her, so it'd be wise to ask.

[jisokai]

You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 6: & yet i’ll always choose you.

sero hanta x reader ch 6/6 | 15.8k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: violence between family members (a singular slap) notes: ready to run by one direction, shelter by porter robinson & madeon, all the stars by kendrick & sza (this is not a songfic; i forgot that song existed when i chose the title and then when i properly listened to the lyrics i realized it fit LOL)

you make a decision.

✰.

"How do you help a family miracle? You hug your sister."

- Bruno, in Encanto

Looking back, your life has primarily moved forward through a mixture of obligation and chance. There was never any sort of choosing or clinging, just an acceptance of what needed to be done. Things worked out on their own, oftentimes with you as the stagnant one and the events happening around you—through you. You lived as if life was predetermined, as if a wide length of silk has been wrapped around your chest and tugging you through life.

So it’s hard, when something—someone appears, and you want to choose him.

Silk is slippery. It’s woven water that slides against every surface including itself. With unpracticed hands, every knot will come undone, unraveling before you until it’s a puddle on the floor. You only ever learned how to sew and stitch, to bind fabric with a needle and thread. You’re the opposite of Hanta, who knows the raw silk itself—hanging for him to play an endless game of tangling and escaping. He knows the knots intricately, how to bind or set himself free in an instant.

Hanta is sad when he has to leave. You see it in his watery eyes and hear it in the crack of his voice. But he has some sort of unfathomable trust that things will work out in the end. You should too, given how your life has led so far, but you can’t.

You want him. You want him and Momo and Kendou. You want the circus and the costumes and to see the world together. You want to make beautiful things, impossible things, things that can only be forged in a place where everyone believes in magic with their full being. You want it all.

You don’t know how to chase it.

Maybe it was purposeful—choosing a dream you always thought was out of reach, one you never considered a real possibility. It’s safe here, where the choices are made for you, or never presented in the first place. But now that you finally want something… how do you start?

When the week passes and the circus is gone, in some ways it feels like it was never there. How could something that’s everything to you, everything you want, fizzle into nothing but faded memories in an instant? You cry and you hurt and you long for something that’s gone.

It feels like grieving.

Grieving, you realize, is another thing you haven’t done before.

Abuela is steeped into every detail of your life—her wrinkled hands the ones you always reached for first. She’s the one who taught you to sew, the one who called you her tucán. Abuela is the reason you and Hanta crossed paths for the first time in Quito, the reason you found yourself in Milan and by Midoriya, and ultimately Hoshi no Sākasu.

When you think about it, abuela is the thread that has been pulling you forwards.

But she’s gone—a fact you haven’t come to terms with.

The grief rolls through like a tsunami, a high wall of powerful water that roars forward with the intent to destroy and submerge. Maybe it should have been predictable, the week with the circus your earthquake, the shifting of plates radiating seismic energy through your foundation. But the water comes by surprise and at full force, knocking you off your feet and the breath from your lungs. 

You packed your schedule ahead of time with work, the following weeks filled with costumes and gowns and dresses. It distracts you, like you knew it would, your hands and your head focused on nothing but the bounce of a needle stitching fabrics. It keeps you from thinking about the circus in Switzerland, three hours away by train. Life has shifted with the absence of the circus, and you’ve found yourself back into the stagnant routine that existed before. 

Except, now you cry while you work.

It happens unknowingly at first, only noticing when dark blotches appear on the fabric between your hands. You pause, lifting the pad of your finger to trace the tears collecting on your waterline, the wetness taking you by surprise. But when it rains it pours, and you have to take a break to let the clouds of your irises clear before forcing yourself to resume sewing.

Normally there's a ghosted feeling of abuela’s hands hovering over yours. They're familiar and faint, kept at a distance and bringing just the twitch of a somber smile to your lips. But now they're firm and dense, like real skin and flesh and blood. The sensation makes you cry harder. Your crying makes them feel more real. Your hurt and your grief brings her closer, brings her to life.

You don't do anything but work and cry the first few days following Hoshi no Sakasu’s departure. You complete one dress through hours of tears. 

Your friends find you this way, sobbing with bunches of chiffon in your hands, wiping your eyes and nose with the sleeve of your shirt.

“Oh,” Chiara coos, immediately running a hand through your hair before holding your cheeks.

Davide grimaces behind her as his eyes sweep over you and your desk. “Nuh uh, we are not letting this continue.”

You clutch the fabric tightly when he tries to pry it from you. “I have orders to finish.”

Chiara scoffs. “They can wait.”

But they can't. You busied yourself strategically, so you wouldn't have time to do things like cry.

“You always manage somehow. You can take an hour break.”

It's a struggle, but you end up on your couch cocooned by a blanket and flanked by your friends. You grip the tea they made for you spitefully, the heat of the mug burning your palms. You bite your tongue, too annoyed to respond to their gentle questions, but they're Chia and Davide—eventually you cave.

You speak quietly and nonsensically, unsure how to explain everything that happened in the past couple weeks. Maybe they'll think you're crazy and chalk it up to delusions.

But they're Chia and Davide, so they don't.

“Dammit,” the latter answers. “This guy is stealing you away!”

“Davide,” the other scolds. “Be fair. From what Tucano says, he is not just a guy.”

“Neither of you are helpful,” you grumble.

“We're processing,” Chiara quips.

Davide nods. “Poorly.”

They sigh in unison, but with different tones. Davide's is whiny and tired. Chiara’s is thoughtful.

���Why didn't you say anything?” Davide eventually asks. “It's been days since they left.”

You groan, turning your head to bury into the blanket over your shoulders. Chiara watches you pitifully.

“She's been dead for months,” you eventually spit. You have to separate the words from their meanings to keep a sob at bay. Your eyes water. “I figured it was some weird delayed grief that would go away after a few days.”

Davide looks at you pitifully too now, though on his face it's more akin to disgust. “Babe…”

You avert your eyes.

“You know that's not how this works.”

All you manage is a grunt. You don't care if you're being stupid. You know you are, deep down, but it's easier to play into the ignorance.

Chiara sighs again and leans back against the couch, and then onto you. Her shoulder bumps yours, head tilting to rest in the crook of your padded neck. She speaks softly, “Haven't seen you cry since she first died.”

They're simple words, nothing incredibly deep or metaphorical, but they make your chest hurt. You purse your lips as fresh saltwater pools in your lashes, cascading down your cheeks. Your sob is a broken sound, jolting your body so harshly that Davide takes the mug from your hands at the near spill. Chiara scoots closer to you, body turning to face yours as her arm comes around your waist.

Davide keeps his distance, never the most physically affectionate, but he slides a hand up and down your arm, a soothing assurance that he's here too.

“I miss her,” you choke suddenly. The words spill out. “I think about her every day.”

Chiara hums affirmingly. “We know.”

“I—” you hiccup. “I loved her more than anyone else.”

And it's true. Abuela was your everything, the one you looked up to the most, the one you always wanted to be. You loved her more than you loved anyone. You loved her more than you loved yourself. You loved her… more than anyone else loved her.

The thought sits bitterly in your stomach, like a weight that keeps sinking and sinking and sinking. 

“What's that face for?” Davide interjects. 

You blink, neutralizing your expression when you realize you were scowling. You groan again. It's an ugly thought, no matter how true it is to you. Ugly thoughts are meant to be kept inside, not spread where they could hurt others or… be disproven.

He pats your leg quickly, a sign he won't let you escape answering. You wince at the thought of vocalizing that part of you: raw and possessive and self entitled. The part of you that justifies never going home, to keep abuela's remains to yourself. Here, in Italy—where she died in your care.

“Nobody else cared about her like I did,” you nearly whisper.

“Oh.” 

“Tucano…” Chiara trails off hesitantly. “You don’t know that.”

But you do. You’ve known it for years, eyes always taking in the room and the dynamics between your family members. You think of mamá when she raised her voice, speaking in an uncharacteristic irritation at abuela’s deteriorating mental state. Your sister was the avoidant type, feigning ignorance when she noticed something wrong or conveniently busy when help was needed. Tíos and primeros would chip in, but also hurried to pass abuela to the next person.

They cared when she was in Italy, when she was finally gone and they didn’t have to be the ones looking after her. 

They didn’t deserve her, you concluded.

You don’t answer, and your friends don’t press. Chiara stays leaning against your side while Davide rubs your arm. You know the skepticism sitting in their throats. You know Davide wants to ask why you’re only looking through a small lens, through your limited perspective. You know that Chiara wants to ask why they don’t even deserve to see her. You know that you want to ask yourself why you have the right to keep abuela from going home.

Nobody says a word. Instead you all sit there quietly, together.

“You’re going on holiday,” Chiara demands when you try to return to the studio an hour later.

“What? I was just on holiday for a week.”

Davide’s eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead. “You were literally working for the circus and you were in the studio while they were here.”

You try another angle. “I have deadlines! I can’t take time off—it’s unfair to my clients.”

“You always give them longer estimates than it actually takes. Just say you had a death in the family.”

“That happened months ago!”

“Then say you had some suppressed trauma come up in your grief counseling and you need to work through it!”

You stare blankly at Davide. He widens his eyes and flips his palms as if he’s waiting for you to accept the obvious answers he’s offering.

“I can’t do that Davide, they already paid.”

“Then it’s PTO?”

You rub your eyes in annoyance. You’re tempted to claw them out entirely.

Chiara pats your back. “We’ll figure something out. But you need a break, and you can’t deny that.”

Your stomach aches like you might be sick. Maybe you do need a break, for your mind and your heart and to finally get to the grief you’ve been ignoring for months. But you can feel your lips tightening at the thought, your stomach twisting in fear. The sewing helps take you from the real world, to give you something else to focus on.

You’re worried that if you take a break, you won’t be able to start again.

The next weekend you’re hugging Davide and Chiara at the train station. Their arms awkwardly come around the giant backpack latched around your hips.

“Let us know when you get to your hostel,” Chiara demands.

“And when you’re back in range,” Davide adds.

You nod.

The pink line takes you an hour closer to your destination, whizzing north along the industrial and suburban outskirts of the city. Fields and farmlands start to populate along your route, parallel roads of green. Eventually you’re humming along the beginnings of mountains, the forests close enough that you can make out the edges of individual trees. They’re brown trunks and naked branches, fans of grey poking from the earth. But between them are clusters of green—evergreen bunches. The further you go, the taller the peaks rise, dusted with white.

You exit the train in a city situated by a lake, a large pool of blue that lays calm—still. You only see flashes of the water before you’re parked in the station, scanning your ticket and walking out onto black tile streets. The buildings are smaller here than Milan, with more space between their exteriors. A looming mountain pokes through the alleyways, a slab of white limestone erupting from the ground, topped with sparse green and heavy snow. Your heart races at the sight while you speed walk towards the bus stop. 

Soon.

It takes the bus an hour to drop you off at your destination, despite covering less than a fourth of the train's mileage. You don’t mind. Instead you sit comfortably with your bag on your lap, staring out the window as the clunky vehicle winds through the mountains. You grin the entire time, already imagining the hot cocoa you’ll make yourself tonight, huddled by the window of your hostel with a scarf around your neck.

It’s exactly what you do, peering up the edge of the mountain the building resides on. You send a message to your friends to let them know you’re fine, a selfie with your drink. Just as your thumb hits send, your phone flashes with a call.

It’s from your sister.

For the first time since abuela died, you hesitate, before eventually turning off your ringer and setting it down to go to voicemail.

You spend one night in the hostel and five in the mountains. You hike up and down summits during the day and tend to fires in the warmth of small cabins at night. The peaks are jagged rocks, granite teeth wedged in the gums of the earth, at first overlooking the northern cities and lakes before you lose the buildings behind shrouds of rocks and trees and snow. 

You don’t speak to anyone for three days—in the thick of your hiking. Your only companions are the swifts that fly ahead and the occasional owl in the trees. You curse when one takes flight, spreading glorious spotted wings. You wish you knew more of the birds here. The only other animal you catch is an ibex standing precariously on a cliffside—suspended only by mere chips in the wall. It looks unfazed by the height and the minimal footing, instead at peace, giant horns proud atop its head and sure steps carrying it upwards. You wish you could call out and ask for advice: to ask how you can do the same.

In contrast, you spend your day treading through white crystals up to your knees. It’s exhausting, your body moving slowly and through the entire day to reach your next bed. But it’s good for you; it’s what you need.

Crying comes as natural as walking, tears clumping as ice in your lashes. You huddle your body further under layers of wool and down, face burying into the cloth of your scarf. Every few kilometers you pause, catching your breath and blinking through the sun to see where you stand: high above the rest of the world. The brown of wintery grass rolls beneath you with those spiky leafless trees and clumps of evergreen. The balds are tinted yellow with harsh edges of silver from scattered boulders. You breathe in crisp, cold air—the kind that burns your lungs.

When you turn to continue walking ahead, the snow around you glistens. Sunlight strikes the frozen dust, light refracting in a pile of white sparkles. Millions of sparkles, like every star in the sky was plucked and tossed atop this mountain range—for you to shuffle your boots through and sob while you wander through thoughts and memories of abuela. You’re walking north, in the direction of Switzerland. But by now it’s been over two weeks since Hoshi no Sākasu left. They must be in Austria now. East.

The nights are cold, infinitely colder than the city. The air bites at any exposed skin, rubbing it raw to bloom splotches of red. Even so, you leave the warmth of cabin fires for extended periods of time to stare above you, into that other world in the sky. Stars twinkle in response, shining and winking and falling. They’re abundant, like every grain of sand and every snowflake on earth was scattered into the night. 

Your eyes trace the constellations you know: simple ones like Ursa Major and Orion. When you run out, your mind starts to connect the stars on its own, searching for patterns from your life. You see Santi and you see Marco. You see your sister and your mother. You see abuela.

You see Hanta.

In this moment, in all the moments from these days in the mountains, you realize again that you are a speck. You are nothingness and everything, something painfully unknown while entirely familiar. The mountains and lakes and vastness of blue atmosphere remind you that everything you don’t know is waiting for you, patiently, sitting outside of your blood and flesh for you to start heading towards it. The tiny snowflakes and speckled sky and clumps of morning ashes remind you that everything you ever need to know has been within you all along.

By the time you’re back in a hostel, showering and running laundry and packing your bag to take a bus and then the train home, there’s a resolve in your chest. You don’t know what it is quite yet or what it’s pointed towards, but you are determined to do something.

Your phone charges overnight, but you don’t turn it on until you board the bus. Rows of notifications populate your screen when it flickers to life. You clear them all and open your messages.

The most recent one is from Hanta.

You haven’t spoken since he left, not sure what to say or if you want your relationship to unfurl over text. He must feel the same uncertainty, if it’s taken this long to reach out. His message is straightforward—a quick pleasantry followed by a check in, since apparently Momo tried to reach you just after you started your hike. You can sense his apprehension through the little grey bubbles.

You respond with a photo from your third day on the mountain, the endless layers of ridges settled beneath the sky, bluer and bluer as they get further away. There’s a moment of hesitation before you send another, this one a silly selfie you took the day before—sporting icy eyelashes and red cheeks. You quickly add a third message, a brief explanation that you were on holiday without service.

After replying to the other crucial messages you turn your phone off and stare out the window, watching as forests become farmland and farmlands become cities.

Settling back into your work routine comes naturally. Your hands glide through thread and fabric, not without hiccups, but with confidence and security. There’s an ease to your movements, an embodiment of patience and distance from your craft. Navigating the shift of deadlines and compromising with your clients was awkward, but it happened.

Hanta responds to you, a little message that says your trip looks fun—and cold. You give him a short reply, a simple It was. The phone is heavy in your hand as you stare at the screen. Eventually you cave and ask him how Switzerland was, and what he thinks about Austria.

Something opens between you two after the initial hurdle is cleared. You don’t message every day, but you talk often. Hanta sends photos of him at different restaurants and landmarks—mostly with Shouto—and you respond with pictures of your sewing projects. Seeing his face brings an urgency to your chest, one that makes you want to run to the station and board the first train North.

You send a picture of your most recent gown, sheer black fabric that twinkles, sewn with pearls and metal discs. This time you take the photo in your mirror, awkwardly giving the headless mannequin bunny ears with your free hand. You stare at the picture with a furrowed brow, retaking it a couple times before you get one that you look less stupid in. After sending it you grimace. 

Your phone pings nearly immediately, several times with messages from Hanta. He says ‘SO PRETTY’ followed by a string of heart emojis. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the idiotic grin you know you’re wearing.

The phone blares your ringtone, nearly making you drop it from surprise. Your heart races, thinking it’s Hanta, so you almost answer it before you check the contact. You freeze when it’s your sister’s name on the screen.

You don’t turn off your ringer and ignore it this time. Instead you stare at it, thumb hovering over the answer button until it eventually goes to voicemail.

You call her three days later.

It doesn’t go through, since you do it in the morning. Back home it must be the middle of the night. That choice may have been purposeful—easier, if you know she won’t pick up.

In the afternoon you get an assault of messages from her: all caps, swearing, littered with typos. She calls you again and again, but you don’t pick up.

You pick up for Hanta.

He calls when you’re settling into bed for the evening. You answer while yawning, drawing out the words of your greeting. 

“Sorry,” his voice murmurs through your speaker. “Is this not a good time?”

He sounds tired, the softness of his tone filling you with warmth. You could fall asleep like this, easily.

“It’s perfect,” you reply. A twinge of guilt runs through your stomach. You don’t pick up for your sister like this.

You talk until you fall asleep, mostly hushed conversation about what you two have been up to in the past weeks. He tells you stories about Switzerland and Austria and preparation for Germany. You talk about your current projects and your time in the mountains.

The turmoil you’ve faced regarding abuela and your sister remains unspoken.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but in the morning you find that the call has ended, a morning greeting from Hanta in its place.

You call your sister again. This time it’s at a reasonable hour, but still during her workday. After three rings you think she won’t answer. But she picks up.

“Dio, quiero estrangularte,” she immediately bites through the speaker. The sound of her voice makes your breath catch, her threat completely going over your head.

“Te extraño,” you answer. I miss you.

She yells at you through the phone while you sit and listen. Or, partially listen, mostly basking in the fact that she’s speaking to you at all. The words don’t fully process, but you assume they’re threats and complaints and demands that you come back with abuela and an explanation. The berating lasts several minutes, you biting the inside of your cheeks to keep from smiling the entire time. Her voice cracks towards the end, choked noises separating her words. She’s nearly panting when she finally finishes.

“Lo siento,” you manage to whisper.

“Just—” her breath hitches. “Just shut up.”

You nod, waiting for her to continue.

She doesn’t. It’s silent for minutes. You can imagine her face, her lips parting as if to speak before they close in apprehension, the mix of a pout and glare she wears when she doesn’t know what to say. Normally you would ask her questions to get her started, intuiting what she wants to talk about. You don’t know if that’s something you can still do anymore.

You know she wants answers from you: to ask why you did what you did, how you could stomach making such a decision. But you also know that she knows why you did it. She knows you, knows how you feel towards abuela and towards the rest of your family. She knows how you are, running away when things get hard—running away, but always caving and coming back. There’s no point in asking; you both know this.

“Tía abuela is so mad at you.”

Tía abuela—abuela’s sister and your great aunt. You nod, lips pursed. “I can imagine.”

The huff of your sister’s amusement crackles through the speaker and you feel a confidence that everything will be okay.

You call frequently, every few days at the minimum. It’s awkward for the first few minutes of every call, until someone breaks the ice and eventually you’re laughing and gossiping like you used to. One of your tías is getting a divorce, your primero is newly engaged but his mamá doesn’t like the girl, and a family friend just lost an absurd amount of money in recent investments. You listen intently, eagerly taking in everything you’ve missed these past months.

“You kidnapping abuela is the hottest drama though,” your sister states blankly. “Mamá can’t escape it. People still bring it up every chance they get.”

Your stomach twists with guilt. Mamá’s always been soft to you, a stark contrast to abuela’s quips. “How is she faring?”

“Fine.” You can visualize the roll of her eyes on the other end. “She was sweet on you, but you know she’s ruthless to the others. Tía abuela is giving her a lot of shit, but she’s still the new head of the family.”

There’s a pause. You know what she’s going to say.

“I told her we’ve been calling. You should talk to her.”

You exhale. You should, to at least apologize for stealing her mother and her child all at once.

“Maybe,” you hum, and that’s the end of it.

“I’m moving to Japan,” you blurt the next time you call. It takes you by surprise, not the words you meant to say. You almost drop your phone. Why did you say that? You never came to a decision about whether or not to work for Hoshi no Sākasu.

“What!?” your sister screeches on the other end.

“What?”

She whines, “Ay, Dios mío.” You nod. After a few minutes of silence she asks why.

“I got a job offer,” you explain quietly.

“For…?”

“… A circus.”

You hold your breath during the silence that follows. She laughs. The sound brings a wave of relief through you. You aren’t sure why you were anxious to tell her—why you assumed she wouldn’t understand what it means to you.

She understands; she always does. “How’d you land that?”

You smile. “A miracle.” 

The miracles being Hanta and Midoriya. Kendou and Momo. Abuela.

“You taking her with you?”

It’s a jab and you know it—feel it. It’s your sister pleading, Come home. 

Later when you hang up, you sit quietly with yourself, phone tucked in your palms. The little rectangle is heavy with the weight of your conversations. It should be heavier, also holding your messages with Hanta and Chiara and Davide, stored with photos of abuela and mamá.

It takes several calls with Kendou before you give her the official acceptance of the position. Despite your confident claims to your sister, a piece of you was anxious the opportunity was no longer available, even with Kendou’s assurance that they could wait. When you finally breathe the words out over the phone, they don’t feel real. You ask her to keep it a secret for a little while, at least until the news settles in your own heart. Right now it’s a riptide, a violent storm within you as you sift through the emails of contracts and information.

You let her tell Momo, so long as she keeps it to herself, and you’re greeted by a warm message welcoming you to the team. Your eyes water while you respond. Your time with Momo isn’t up—there’s no longer a maybe lingering around the thoughts of being able to work together again.

It takes two weeks to tell Hanta.

He’s brushing his teeth while you mumble about your day, his phone propped up against the sink. The circus just landed in France, this being his first night in Paris. You’re on the couch, swaddled in blankets while your eyes linger around the interior on his end—marble walls, white towels, a random photo in a black frame.

“Are you rooming alone?” you ask when you finish your debrief.

He shakes his head, leaning to rinse his mouth before he wipes the residue on the back of his hand. He reaches for you and your heart races, thinking he’ll touch your face—only to jostle the screen while he leads you out of the bathroom. It’s a funny angle, the underside of his chin. It reminds you of looking up towards his face while laying on his chest.

“Nah I’m with ‘Roki. That’s how it usually is,” he answers. The next second the camera falls as if he dropped it, shaking violently with smears of creamy white and black splotches before he bounces into frame, beaming as he lays on his stomach on one of the hotel beds. His grin blooms an ache in your chest. You wish you were there with him.

You hum, saying, “That’s too bad,” before you can stop yourself.

“Huh?”

You pause, realizing where your mind was going. Heat creeps up your cheeks while Hanta stares at you through the camera. “Just—” you stop yourself, not wanting to tell him this way.

But he’s looking at you so curiously.

“I… I was hoping we could room together.”

It’s silent.

Hanta blinks at you, face and body frozen otherwise. You try to read what he’s thinking, if he’s putting it together, but he looks scarily neutral.

Then his head shifts abruptly to look at you dead on. His hand comes to his mouth, fingertips lightly pressing his lips. His expression doesn’t change except the slight widening of his eyes. He speaks quietly. “Are you… Does that mean what I think it does?”

You nod, face carefully neutral to assess his reaction.

He yelps. The camera shakes before falling and going black, but you can hear him scrambling and the bumping of the phone as he tries to pick it back up. You can’t help your smile—the fondness stretching across your face when he finally comes back into view looking like a puppy.

“Is this real?” he asks meekly. It’s almost a whisper. You wish you could hold his face and kiss him.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “It’s real.”

It’s a precious gift to watch Hanta take in the information, face shifting between emotions rapidly before finally landing on something like a pout. He’s tearing up, eyes like giant marbles as they shine with joy.

“You… you chose—” he pauses. Me, you think he wants to say. “You chose us? The circus?”

Your own eyes are glassy, you can see them glistening in the tiny square in the top corner of the screen. Your lips twitch as you nod. Yes, you’re about to say—that you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. That you chose everyone. But you pause. You’ve been scared to make decisions and declarations, scared to admit to yourself why you make the choices you do, why you pretend they aren’t choices so much as obligations you just fell into. That you had to.

You feel that way with Hanta right now. But choosing to follow what feels like a duty or obligation is still a choice. You smile.“I chose you, Hanta.”

For the next two months, you work and you pack and you say goodbye, your own life rapidly shifting as the weather warms. You decide your time in Italy will come to an end at the start of June, after all your orders are finished. You’ll spend the break period in Costa Rica, tending to the wounds long left behind. Momo offers to hire a moving service that can move your things to her house (or estate, she calls it), to give you peace of mind until it’s time to settle in Japan.

Your stomach twists in knots every time you think about it—about going home.

The moving process starts early with you purging yourself of furniture and decor and clothes you don’t want anymore. Every time you say goodbye to something, your heart feels a little lighter. You sell those costumes you know you’ll never wear again and you argue hotly with the landlady to wiggle out of the lease you signed for the next year. She caves with a scowl when you pull the dead nonna card.

Chiara and Davide assist you, preventing you from taking the decluttering too far.

(“Babe, you still have another month,” Davide protests when you take pictures of your dining table to post online for sale. “Are you planning to eat off the floor?”)

(“Tucano—” Chiara groans when she steps into your studio, feet disappearing under bundles of fabric. “How do you work in this mess?”)

You spend as much time as you can with them, soaking in the final days with your throuple—as Davide puts it. The three of you have weekly gatherings at your place, filled with pastries and fruit and wine. Some days your conversations are a time of laughter. Others, tears.

“I can’t believe I was right after all,” Davide sighs, nursing his third glass of a purplish cabernet.

You make a face. “When you said I would fall in love with one of the performers but then break up and have awkward tension?”

Chiara gasps loudly, nearly a cackle. “What?”

Davide scoffs. “When I said you would leave me for a man.”

You roll your eyes, but Chiara comes to your defense first. “They’re leaving us, first of all. And Italy, and opera dresses. Second, they’re leaving for the circus.”

Teeth scrape against the inside of your cheek as you consider her words. You recall what you told Hanta over the phone, when he asked if you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. Maybe the wine is loosening your tongue, but you find it easier to admit tonight.

“I’m leaving for the circus, but Hanta was a big part of that.”

Davide screeches an, “I knew it!” while Chiara’s face morphs into a frown.

“Hanta,” she repeats back in a mimicking voice. You slap her arm. Her head comes to rest on your shoulder. “You can’t forget about us, okay?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“We should visit! I’ve always wanted to go to Japan.”

Chiara nods quickly, hair brushing your neck. “We should go in the spring. I wanna see the sakura bloom.”

They escalate into making plans to visit, now entirely independent of whether or not you’re in Japan in the spring. You smile to yourself. Chiara was your first friend, who later introduced you to Davide as a client. A couple years passed and now they’re the people in Milan you hold closest. They were friends without you, but became more intertwined when you arrived. You hope they’ll be good friends even after you leave. 

Watching and listening to them now tells you that you have nothing to worry about.

They help you load boxes in the van at the end of June. Your last order is finished and the lease comes to its end. The remainder of your things go into a large suitcase and backpack for you to live out of at Chiara’s. You stay with her for one week, idling in your favorite places around Milan in her clothes. It’s a stretched out goodbye, one that has been happening in fragments since you first declared your departure. These days don’t feel real. You can’t fathom that you’ll soon be across the world, walking through familiar streets—ones that have certainly changed in your absence.

You and Hanta talk less as your move gets closer, primarily because the circus has landed in the Americas, the time change an increasing obstacle. Knowing that you’re following their footsteps, soon to be on the same land again, feels special. It feels like a confirmation that you’re making the right choice. 

You start listening to basic Japanese lessons and download an app to memorize hiragana. Your finger hesitantly draws the characters, lip jutting in a pout when you get one wrong. When you and Hanta do find pockets of time to talk, he gently corrects your pronunciation of basic phrases.

Chiara has to work the day that you leave, so you have a tearful goodbye at her front door before Davide drives you to the airport later in the afternoon. You wonder if this is the last time you’ll sit in his car, legs against dark leather. The thought triggers other sentimental musings, questions of the next time you’ll sleep over at Chiara’s, or the next time you’ll have a real Italian pasta.

Davide holds you at the terminal, one of the few hugs he’s ever offered. He cries easily—still reading you down, just with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose. You’re forced to promise that you won’t forget him. When you finally leave him to roll your bag to the check in line and then to security, you turn back once and catch him scowling. 

You land in Spain before boarding the eleven hour flight to San José. Floating above the ocean—separated from your friends and soaring to your family—strikes something deep in your heart. It’s a mix of aches and pains and fears swirling together, making your body feel so heavy you think you might start plummeting into the Atlantic. Your feet shuffle to cradle your bag between them, tucked under the seat in front of you. You itch to pull it out and open it, to check that abuela is still resting in her wooden box.

San José is just as you remember. Stepping outside hits you full force with an assault of hot, humid air. Your skin begins to glisten, clothes already clinging to you in the few minutes it takes to walk to the buses. The next one comes in half an hour, so you park yourself on a bench and lean against the backrest. Palm trees tower over you, their grassy leaves fanning between the ground and the sky. A cluster of sparrows floats under their canopies, entering your vision only to leave moments later.

By the time you pull your bag along the sidewalk of your childhood street, the sun has sunk beneath the horizon. You slow your steps as you reach the driveway of your home. The house isn’t in view quiet yet, shrouded behind the trees that gate you from the neighbor. You pause at the corner of the fence, fighting the knots in your stomach and the thrumming in your hands. It should just be your sister and mamá inside. You can handle them.

Despite your incessant self-assurances, several minutes pass before you step down the sidewalk. They’re slow and hesitant. Your head tilts upwards, taking in the canopies of cecropia above. The street lamp illuminates the leaves from below, displaying faded green against the black of the sky. Their shapes are round but segmented, the webbed fingers of a frog. You catch scarring on the thin branches, knots and welts in the wood that take the shape of spiraled eyes, watching you. You can hear the rustling of palm trees, the scrape of leafy hairs as they blow above you—

In front of you.

You bring your chin down, looking ahead to the lemon tree in the yard. You nearly yelp in surprise at the sight of your sister. She blinks while you flinch, hand holding one of the branches so she can clip the fruit with her other.

No greeting passes between you. You demand, “Since when do you take care of the garden?” She’s the type to complain about dirtying her shoes while walking to the car. The dresses feel like a weight in your suitcase. Would she even like them?

She scowls at the accusation in your voice. “Ever since you kidnapped the person who used to.”

You don’t have an answer, still too stunned. Her eyes similarly trace over your form, mouth twisting when she takes in your clothes.

“And you still dress like that?”

You can’t hold back your laugh. You missed her.

You missed home.

Seeing mamá is harder. She’s quiet and soft, always a subdued presence, but now with a new touch of somberness. She looks sad—and easily shattered.

You meet her at the door unexpectedly. She’s waiting when you enter, immediately standing from the sofa to reach for you. Her touch is firm over your arm, hands turning white from the intensity of her grip, like she thinks you might disappear at any moment. Tears spring without warning. You try to blink them away, to keep your face from twisting in a sob, but you cry easily.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say. You don’t add more, not sure how to eloquently apologize for stealing her own mother, for leaving, for making life at home and with the family excruciating.

Her dark eyes shine back at you, slightly curved from the twitch of her smile. She looks happy, though a quiet sort of happiness. Not one for words, her reassurance comes from how she reaches for you, pulling you into a hug. Your wet eyes land against her shoulder, steeping into the fabric of her shirt. One of her hands comes to your head, smoothing over your hair as she hums—a content sound, one she makes when things are finally coming together.

You take the box of ashes out shortly and offer them to mamá. Her face tightens when the realization strikes her, and you feel more guilt and regret swirling in your stomach. Should you have waited?

Delicate hands take the box, thumb tracing a band of dark brown towards the bottom of the lid. Her eyes soften before she stretches it back to you.

“Keep her with you,” she nearly whispers. “Until we have the ceremony.”

You swallow. Do you deserve that? To keep holding onto her after all this time? After all that you’ve deprived your family of? Mamá’s eyes don’t waver, holding a command you have never been able to disobey. You take the box.

Your mother fusses over you, helping you carry your bags to your room. She starts fluffing your pillows before offering to bring you some water, and you have to grab her by the arm to get her to stop and listen while you tell her I’m fine and Thank you. She leaves with an anxious expression, you think out of fear that you’ll vanish in the middle of the night. A quiet, “Buenas noches,” filters through just before the door shuts.

You flop onto the bed with a sigh. One of your newly fluffed pillows bounces off and lands on the ground. You sigh again.

Despite the exhaustion deep in your body, you can’t fall asleep. You lay in your childhood bed and stare at the ceiling, your vision no different than if you closed your eyes instead. Even though you’re blind to your surroundings, you can feel the relics of an earlier person littered on bookshelves and tucked into drawers—someone who had their grandmother.

You’re certain that hours pass, but you can’t bring yourself to check the time. An idea comes to mind and you act before thinking it through. You turn so you’re sitting upright on the bed, hand gently waving towards your bedside table until it lands on the wooden box you placed earlier. Once it’s safe in your hold, you rise and leave the room.

You know this journey through the hall to abuela’s room. As a toddler you walked this route nearly every night. You were frequented by nightmares, ones that disappeared as soon as you took refuge with your grandmother.

The floorboards creak under your weight, reminding you to keep to the left to minimize the noise. You take your time, hugging abuela to your chest while your other arm extends to feel for the doorknob. It makes contact immediately. You twist slowly so the latch opens quietly, then push through with your shoulder quickly so the squeak of the hinges aren’t drawn out.

Your feet shuffle forwards, soon pressing your shins against the mattress. There’s the faintest smell of lemons—a scent that tightens your chest. You crawl forwards, bringing the box to rest between the two pillows at the headboard. A wave of exhaustion rolls through you immediately. You don’t bother settling under the covers; as soon as your head touches the pillow, you’re asleep.

Closing your eyes transports you to another world, an older world that you are young within. You’re speaking a language you don’t recognize, but one you understand every word of, conversing back and forth with a boy you’ve never met. He has kind eyes and a soft voice that you want to always say yes to. He has rough hands, but they cradle yours gently. In the next moment you are both older, adults, and he is watching you sadly. You don’t have words to explain his expression, what it invokes in you, but you can tell that he is leaving—not by his own choice.

You are alone and angry and in constant fear, conjuring images in your head of what has happened to him. If you’ll ever see him again. You don’t know this man, but he is everything to you. He has left everything to you, too: a daughter. You look at her face until it becomes your own, staring at a man who is your father by name but not by blood.

The story repeats, this time with a man who gives you meaningful glances. His eyes aren’t as kind but they are entirely on you. He says he’ll give you everything. He takes it back when you learn you’re pregnant, with twins. He leaves without a word.

You’re woken by an assault of light flashing your vision. You squeeze your eyelids shut, trying to block out the blooms of painful red and white static. Turning your head offers some relief, angling yourself from the sun and instead pushing your face into a pillow.

“Get up,” a voice barks. Your sister, you realize, pulling back the curtains.

You groan, drawing it out as if asking a question.

“I’m not letting you sleep past noon,” she continues. “Come help me with the garden.”

You roll over to face her, eyes sticky while you work to hold them open. Your head has the heaviness of a stone. The warmth of the bed lulls your body back under, to whatever lives you were living in your subconscious.

“Kay,” you eventually mumble.

She looks at you skeptically before nodding and leaving, with a promise to return in a few minutes if you don’t appear downstairs.

In the fresh silence of the morning, you turn to lay on your back. Your head brushes something hard. You frown, tilting it back and forth. It scrapes against something with sharp edges. When you turn, you see abuela, her box of ashes still tucked between the pillows. You blink in surprise before going still. The dreams from last night run through your mind. You’ve never had one like that before. You stare at the box, attempting to recall the faces that passed by.

The garden work doesn’t last longer than a couple hours. You pull weeds and harvest the ripened crops—mostly peppers and bananas. The midday sun burns hot and bright and you immediately begin to sweat through the sleeves of your shirt. Your sister doesn’t let you complain, quipping back that it’s your fault for sleeping in.

When you bring the harvest inside, your mother graciously receives it in the kitchen. For the first time today you get a proper look at her face: it’s the older, wrinkled, and saddened features of that first baby in your dream. She looks like a young version of abuela. You halt while several fragmented thoughts abruptly click into place. 

Your dream, your abuela and mamá, your sister…

You.

Tears well in your eyes without warning, immediately sliding down your cheeks. Mamá doesn’t question it. She embraces you, rubbing your back carefully.

When you calm she switches topics, not probing what brought on your outburst. Instead she sifts through the vegetables carefully, picking ones to set on the counter for lunch.

“Hopefully we get a lot tomorrow, or else I’ll have to run to the store.”

You hum in question.

She stops rummaging, eyes lifting to you carefully. “Did your sister not tell you?”

You blink. “Tell me what?”

“We're having a big dinner tomorrow.”

You inhale sharply, heart racing. Big dinner is a synonym for family dinner. Tíos and primeros and amigos de la familia. Tía abuela. It was going to happen eventually, an event you can’t avoid. You knew this, you know this. But you didn’t expect it’d be this soon.

You aren’t ready, aren’t sure you’ll ever be ready. You could throw up.

“Who—” your voice cracks as you manage through the words. “Who’s coming?”

Mamá doesn’t answer.

“So everyone,” you respond to her silence. She doesn’t offer any confirmation or denial. You leave the room.

When you enter your bedroom you curl up beside the bed, shielding you from the door. Shaky hands reach for your phone, calling Hanta by instinct. You don’t know what he’s doing today, if he’ll pick up.

It only takes two rings before you hear him greeting you with a dramatic, “Konnichiwa!” before switching to Spanish. “How’s life back home?”

“Hanta,” you say flatly, urgently. He hums, the sound much lower and with a twinge of surprise. “My family’s coming over tomorrow and I only learned five minutes ago.”

There’s a drawn out sigh on the other end while he conjures a response. “How’s that feeling?”

You nearly laugh. “Like I’m going to throw up and then run away.”

He giggles on the other end. The sound makes your heart pang, but your stomach lightens with a sort of relief. “No way,” he insists. “You’ve come too far to run. And there’s no way I’m letting you put this off if it was your main hesitation for joining us.”

You smile, lips pulling tight against your teeth. “I can make my own choices,” you retort.

“Too bad, I know you already signed the contract.”

You sigh, nodding your head solemnly. You did.

He doesn’t say anything more, letting you take your time.

“I’m just…” you start, trying to find the words. You aren’t ready. You’re still processing being back home, in your old bedroom, with mamá and your sister. You’re— 

“Scared,” Hanta fills in for you. 

You fight the urge to scowl. You fail.

“Yeah,” you huff.

He giggles again, and you know it’s from the tone of your voice. “I’m afraid for you,” he admits. “But you have to do it, yeah? And you’ve already done the hard part of coming home, seeing your mom and sister. And you’re still alive and well after that, right?”

You nod at his words and hum in agreement.

“Was everything okay with them?” he asks. 

You explain what happened when you came home: finding your sister by the lemons and your mom waiting by the door, how neither of them properly yelled or expressed being upset with you.

“Woah… That’s incredible,” he says. “Maybe the rest of your family will move on once they see you too.”

“There’s no way. That was mamá and hermana. Tía abuela is an entirely different character, and I’ve already heard that she’s pissed.”

He huffs. “Sounds like my abuelo. Those people love the strongest though.”

Your call continues, you two catching up on the past few days. He speaks excitedly, but his voice lulls you to a calmer state. By the time you hang up, a piece of you thinks everything will be okay. The two of you exchange goodbyes, and then you’re left in the quiet solitude of your room. It only lasts for a minute, before the door slams open.

It’s your sister, standing with a giant grin across her face as she excitedly demands, “Who was that?”

Tía abuela slaps you the moment she enters the room. 

Your cheek stings from the contact, a sharp pain that tingles across your skin. It dulls quickly, but you wonder if there will be a bruise. The coppery taste of blood blooms against the side of your tongue. You must have cut the inside of your mouth against your teeth.

These thoughts distract you from the accompanying verbal assault: a string of insults and accusations that you’ve heard before, from yourself. You take it quietly and with a stoic expression. Your eyes trail to the floor, not wanting to meet hers as she berates you in front of your relatives. Nobody speaks when she finishes. The only remaining sound is her ragged breath.

A long pause follows. You don’t raise your eyes, too embarrassed to meet anyone’s gaze.

The silence is eventually broken by your nephew. He cries, yanking his hand from his mother in attempt to run out the door. The room unpauses, relatives rushing after him while loud commotion fills the space. A gentle touch on your cheek brings your attention to your mother. There’s a shine in her eyes, a quirk to her lips. Maybe she finds this funny. You think you would too.

Nobody speaks to you, not willing to take on any part of tía abuela’s wrath. You don’t mind, standing awkwardly to yourself in the corner, and shunning yourself in the kitchen when the others take their plates to the dining and living rooms to eat. Nobody invites you over.

Later there’s another commotion, in the living room with your nephew again. Tía abuela tries to feed him a spoonful of rice, but he refuses. She insists, and he slaps the fork from her hand. Gasps release throughout the room, your cousins immediately going to scold him, but he screams and runs. You can hear his footsteps approach the kitchen. You freeze, not sure what you should do.

He barrels straight for you, short arms coming around your hips while his face buries into your stomach. You grunt at the impact, but stand frozen and wide-eyed. His parents enter—your older cousin and her husband—with tía abuela trailing behind them. Your hands fly to your nephew’s to pull him from you and hand him over. He’s too young to understand, too young to get in trouble. But he fists your shirt tightly and yells, “No!”

You tug him again. 

“She hurt you!” he wails. The sentence is partially muffled by your shirt, wetting with his tears and snot, but everyone hears it. Your heart drops. All the adults in the doorway freeze.

You cast one careful glance to them before you make up your mind and grip your nephew by his underarms, hoisting him to your hip. His face is red, with teary eyes and black curls clinging to his temples. You watch him glance at you and then the door, laying his chest against yours as if to offer himself as a shield. Your eyes well with tears.

“I hurt her too,” you say quietly, running a hand over his hair. Your voice is firm, and loud enough that you know the others will hear.

He hiccups, head turning to look at you in shock. “You hit tía abuela?”

“No,” you say with a huff of laughter. “But something worse.”

His eyes widen impossibly, full moons against a dark night. Brown irises drift to your cheek. There must be a mark, still flared and angry. A small hand comes to touch it gently, a tingling sting radiating from the contact. You’re certain there will be a bruise tomorrow.

Tía abuela doesn’t speak to you, but others finally do. Your nephew’s outburst broke the invisible boundary, opening a gap for others to greet you. They don’t say much, eyes still cautiously flitting to tía abuela, but it’s a start. Nobody chides you, but nobody looks excited either.

Everyone but the kids. You watch your nephew whisper with his cousins, giggling as they look towards you and then dart their eyes away when you meet them. One of them approaches you during the goodbyes, gently tugging at your shirt to get your attention. He’s another nephew, this one from a family friend.

“Did you really punch tía abuela?” he asks, eyes wide with wonder.

Yours nearly pop out of your head. A stifled laugh sounds from behind you—your sister’s voice.

“Not…” you don’t know how to respond, what the appropriate explanation is for a seven year old. “Not exactly.”

His eyes stay glued to your face. You feel cornered here, wondering if you said the wrong thing. A voice calls his name. He grins wide before running off. You exhale in relief.

You get small waves and head nods from everyone else. Only when tía abuela is out the door does someone finally pull you for a clumsy, messy hug—your tía, the second eldest of abuela’s children after mamá. She holds you tightly, with the quiet promise that you’ll talk more soon. You feel her sincerity in the hand clutching your wrist.

When the door finally closes, your sister releases the longest breath you’ve ever heard. Mamá appears with an ice pack covered in cloth, motioning to hold it against your cheek. It’s long overdue, but you accept it graciously.

“That went better than I expected,” she says quietly. You agree.

“You totally could have dodged it,” your sister adds.

You agree. You could have, if you wanted to.

The bruise fades after a week, in time for the ceremony to scatter abuela’s ashes. Family members have come and gone by the house, warmed to catching up with you. You see tía abuela again, this time without the slapping and screaming. She ignores you, except for a fair amount of side eyes while conversing with mamá. When she says goodbye, her eyes meet yours for a moment right before slamming the door.

The ceremony takes place on the beach. The sight makes you think of Hanta and that beautiful tent—black sand glitters like the dust of diamonds under moonlight. No words are spoken; the only sounds being the lapping waves trying to reach your family on the shore. Tía abuela lights the candles of the vigil while mamá opens the ashes and pours them into the hands of your relatives. Tía abuela’s sharp eyes watch closely, lingering on you when mamá finally makes her way around.

Abuela’s remains are soft and light—grey ash spotted with clumps of black residue. Her body is the feathery weight of dry sand, and yet you feel like you are cupping the entire world and universe. This is not the dust that sweeps through the air after a fire; you are holding the dust of stars and planets and moons. You are holding the weight of your lineage, the connecting point between the bloodline that lives, and the blood that has passed. If you squint, you can make out shapes and images in abuela’s remains. They’re vague. Dreamlike.

One of your younger tíos begins the music with his Quijongo, the stick thumping steadily against the bowstring. You close your eyes at the sound, akin to the whistling of wind through trees. The airy notes of your cousin on the Ocarina join shortly, and then the gentle shake of Maracas. Their performance draws on for a few moments before tía abuela starts to hum. It fills your body with warmth, a feeling so intense you almost shiver in the summer heat. Her notes are clear and bodied, like her entire soul is unraveling into the air—settling above you like the salty humidity. 

She falls into a repeated chorus, the sign for everyone to join. You open your eyes when you begin to hum with her—with everyone. The sound sweeps through the circle around you, tía abuela illuminated in the center by candlelight, orange haze gently fanning to reveal the faces surrounding her in a warm glow. The humming changes when your mother shifts her intonation. Others follow her lead, adding their own twists and slides and delays to the song, pulling a deeper and richer sound through layers of complexity. You try to channel abuela’s energy with your own voice, sharpening the ends of each note and adding a roughness to your tone. 

You close your eyes again, letting a warm buzz sweep over you entirely. A charged energy has bloomed within, taken you completely, as if your body has more spirit than it can contain. Your arms burn.

When abuela has been scattered over the sands of your home, everyone falls silent. Your eyes again drift around the circle, taking in the many praying faces of your family, slowly dimming as the flaming wicks reach their end. You lift your gaze to the sky, soaking in the faint moon and sprinkled stars.

A figure flies above, the shape of a large bird. Your heart skips a beat before it races, catching the familiar outline of a macaw. They’re daytime birds, ones that sleep when the sun does.

You wonder what brought this one here, now.

The following month brings new grief. The grief of old relationships as they change and fizzle, the grief of your previous self, the grief of your pride when you say your apologies over and over—understanding the multitudes of ways you hurt your family. You grieve your anger and your spite, coming to terms with the detriments of your self righteous attitude.

There’s a special grief in the pain of being forgiven, too.

There’s a beauty in this sadness and this ache: the beauty of memory. Abuela begins to appear everywhere, and in all of those people you once thought weren’t deserving of her. It hits you the hardest with mamá, a face you see daily and with each moment growing more and more similarities between her and the deceased.

You’re envious that abuela lives in her features, in the slope of her nose and lips. Some were passed down to you and your sister, in matching smiles but otherwise your relationship isn’t apparent. Even you and your sister look nothing alike, only sharing the eyes of a man you don’t know. A man you saw in a dream now weeks ago, one who promised you everything for one brief moment.

He appears one day.

You’re freshly showered from a morning in the garden, heading toward the stairs to meet mamá in the kitchen, passing the square window on the second floor. She stands in the opening, a frame capturing a moment in time: her in the driveway with someone. He’s tall with tanned skin and curly hair—an aged version of the second man from your dream. You watch him smirk at mamá, a sharp sliver of teeth. You can’t hear her, but she waves her arms and her lips move rapidly. Her chest heaves and you think for the first time in your life you’re watching her yell at someone.

The man takes one step closer. Your mom shoves him at the shoulder. He stares at her openly before finally turning away.

His head tilts towards the window, gaze immediately locking onto you. Despite the distance, the shape of his eyes is clear: they’re sharp, intense. For a brief moment you think you’re looking at your sister. You break the stare, turning your head sharply before moving away from the glass.

You stand still for a minute, back against the wall. Your heart pounds in your chest and ears, crawling uncomfortably up your throat.

“I think I saw my dad,” you say abruptly the following day.

You watch Hanta’s face go still. “Huh?”

“He was in the driveway with mamá. I’ve never met him, or seen pictures. But I have his eyes.”

“He must be hot.” You deadpan at his response and he laughs. “Sorry. Did you get to talk to him? Or ask your mamá about it?”

You shake your head. She didn’t say anything when you came downstairs; she’s never said anything before. You’ve never felt a reason to ask, always happy enough with the family you have. If that dream from last month had any indication of the kind of man he is, you’d rather keep things the way they are.

You don’t see him again.

Your second month at home is busier now that you’ve reintegrated with your relatives. You go from spending most days at mamá’s to getting pulled along excursions to other houses and local spots. You’re put on impromptu babysitting duty for your nieces and nephews, shaken awake early in the morning to hike with your cousin, abruptly shoved into a car during the afternoon for a trip to the beach. You find yourself in markets and on the sand and in the jungle. It’s exhausting, but you love it. You missed it.

You still maintain the garden with your sister and call your friends regularly. They ground you into the soil of your home, even across the ocean. Your joint chat with Chiara and Davide populates with pictures, frequently including ones of them smiling together at your usual places. Swiping through them fills you with warmth, and a distant ache. 

Hanta is equally diligent with his communication. His responses to your own photos always result in grins that pique the interest of your family members. You learn to wait until you’re alone to read his messages.

(He sends a video one evening, of a recent training session. The phone is still, likely propped on a table or chair, while he moves through an unpracticed routine—a freestyle. It could be mistaken for casual stretching. Even so, every motion is smooth, every transition is seamless. At one point he anchors his legs before leaning back in a bundle of fabric. The camera is close enough to pick up the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You save the video with warm cheeks, watching it again several times throughout the day. He’s so captivating.)

One rare morning when you rise before your sister, you tend to the garden alone. The work is minimal: watering some sections and picking ripened tomatoes. Less than an hour later you step inside with a heavy basket of sweet red, heaving it on the counter. The consecutive thump of footsteps sound down the stairs—your sister must have woken.

You turn to greet her and freeze.

In her arms are dresses, the dresses you made her. Dresses you haven’t shown her. Her eyebrows are arched high into her forehead as she asks, “So tell me why these are exactly my size and style?”

Heat flares up your neck. Instead of explaining, you demand, “Why were you in my room?”

“Why is this my size?”

Several moments of silent glaring pass. You still refuse to answer. She laughs.

“You sap! You are so fake.” The grin on her face stretches wide. Her arm bends to press the garments to her chest while her other one points at you. “This is embarrassing for you.”

You nod, absolutely humiliated. Your plan was to hang the dresses in the back of her closet the day you leave for Japan. At the very least you could avoid her reaction over the phone. But now that she’s found them, more than anything, you’re just relieved that her eyes are shining with glee.

She likes them.

Towards the end of August you’re in regular conversation with Kendou and Momo about moving to Japan. Kendou assists your preparation for work while Momo helps with housing. The latter recommends you visit in person before committing to a lease, and insists you stay with her until you get situated. You attempt to refuse, but she doesn’t relent. When you try suggesting you at least pay her something, she laughs. 

“I’ll quit,” you threaten.

She grins, nearly singing, “Too late. Besides, I have your things hostage at my estate.”

You sigh, defeated.

The next day you get a call from Hanta in the evening. His pouting face is the first thing you see when you accept it.

“What?” you ask in amusement.

“Why’d you ask to stay with Momo? Why not me?”

Your jaw nearly drops. Can’t they let you share your own news? And why is he acting like you begged her to host you?

“Hanta, I tried to refuse but she has my stuff already.”

“You should move it to my place.”

You laugh. “You’re crazy.”

He pouts harder, puppy eyes sparkling. “Why not?”

“Hanta—” you sigh. “I thought you wanted to take your time?”

He groans, flopping his head onto a pillow. You grin.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “I just miss you a lot right now.”

The confession strikes your heart, claws an ache through your chest. He’s straightforward with his feelings and his words, sending shivers of giddiness through you.

“I miss you too,” you admit. The busy days with your family have been effective distractions, but that longing always reappears—in the quiet of the nights and mornings, or during these calls when you can hear his voice so clearly. So close. “We have less than two months left.”

He groans again. “That’s so long.”

You agree, and ask him what he plans to do when the tour finishes mid-September. The circus cast has a month break before training in Tokyo resumes.

“Last time I went to Ecuador to see mamá’s family.”

You hum. Maybe you could meet him there and catch the same plane to Japan. Neither of you say anything, but you can tell he’s thinking something similar.

By the time September sweeps in you live everyday with a buzz thrumming beneath your skin. It’s a constant energy, restless anxiety knowing that you’ll be moving soon. You and Hanta have started working out the details of meeting in Ecuador. He tells you that he’ll know his plans in a few days.

You keep yourself busy to ease your agitation, more beaches and mountains and markets. The full days have you exhausted at night, enough to sleep instead of letting your mind race in excitement.

Today you wake early, finishing the garden tasks before the sun arches overhead. You have plans to spend the day in the city with your sister. You already know where you want to eat lunch, and you can guess which bakery she’ll demand you visit afterwards. While you make your way downstairs quickly, she takes her time. The water from her shower stops running just as you reach the living room. You sigh. 

After several minutes of listening to pattering footsteps above you, the chime of the doorbell rings. You frown. It deepens when your sister calls, “Can you get that? I invited someone to join.”

You were looking forward to a day of just the two of you, not prepared to have a third presence. Knowing your sister, the guest is your older cousin—who you love, but is usually overwhelming to be around for longer than an hour.

You open the door with a huff, ready to greet her with the most enthusiasm you can muster—

But Hanta is standing at the doorstep.

Your eyes fly open at the sight. Immediately they trace his face—his dark hair and eyes. He’s disheveled, sporting stubble along his lip and jawline. His hair is longer than it was half a year ago, bunched in a knot at the base of his neck. Long wisps fall at the sides of his face, framing him. He’s in warm weather clothes—an unbuttoned tropical shirt with loose shorts and sandals, and a big backpack.

You swallow. He looks good.

He grins immediately, reaching for your hand as he says your name. You’re too stunned to hear it, focused trying to process the fact that he’s here.

“Hanta…?” you eventually ask. Your eyes burn and your nose stings. Tears surface.

His face softens, smile turning gentle. He tugs your arm, encouraging you to step closer. Your heart thumps quickly and loudly in your ears. You think your chest is going to explode.

“Yeah,” he nearly whispers. “Can I hug you now?”

You nod fervently and let him pull you by the waist. His bag prevents you from wrapping your arms around his torso, so instead you loop them over his shoulders. He buries his face into your neck with a sigh, his breath sending shivers down your spine. Your cheek presses into his hair while you inhale the scent of him: sweet oranges. There’s a thrumming against your chest, but you can’t differentiate your heartbeat from his.

“Missed you,” you mumble quietly.

“Yeah.”

Your mind races with questions. How did your sister manage to contact him? Everyone told you the circus  still had a few more days before the tour officially ended—did they finish early? Did Hanta leave early?

You don’t ask any, instead squeezing your arms to clutch him harder. His grip tightens in response and a rush of euphoria runs through you—to be held like this, by him.

The shutter of a camera breaks your moment of bliss, immediately prompting you to jerk away. Hanta’s grip doesn’t let you go far, keeping your chests pressed together while you lean your head back to turn to the sound. Mamá fumbles with her phone, grumbling that the ringer was supposed to be off. Your sister stands beside her with a giant smirk. You want to cower away in embarrassment. Hanta doesn’t let you escape him, so you resort to burying your head into his shoulder.

He laughs, a symphony of glee. You peek at his face and see no traces of fluster. He looks happy.

His grip loosens enough to let him step aside and introduce himself, but his hand holds yours tightly. The greeting he offers feels dutifully Japanese—bowing as he states his full name, thanking mamá for the care—but the words come out in Spanish. You blink at his formality and its out of place nature in your family, on him.

Mamá ushers the two of you inside, insisting it’s her pleasure and for him to make himself at home. It occurs to you that she also knew he was coming, already expecting to let him stay. You look at your sister with wide eyes, hoping for an answer, but she continues to grin smugly, widening as she deliberately looks at your intertwined hands.

She interjects before mamá and Hanta can get invested in their conversation. “You should go soon.”

You frown. “Huh?”

“I did invite someone over—for me to hang out with.” The look she gives you says all you need to know: it is your older cousin. “Unless you want everyone to know about your boyfriend today, you should leave before she comes.”

You can feel the headache forming at the thought of your extended family finding out. So you nod, hurrying him to your room to drop off his bag.

“Maybe we should go to the beach,” you tell him quickly. “This city is small and I would really like to wait a couple days before anyone finds out you’re here. The beach will be fine, and we can visit the next city over—”

Hanta leans to press his lips against your own, effectively halting your speech and thoughts. The words die in your throat as you immediately kiss him back, mind melting as his hand cradles your neck. He takes a slow step forward, backing you up to the door. He’s radiant with warmth, his front entirely flush to you, removing any distance. 

The kiss is passionate—that searing heat you’ve missed for too long. He smiles against you, softly scraping his stubble against your cheek. An embarrassing noise slips from your throat, originating from somewhere deep inside you.

He hums before pulling away, only long enough to breathe before he’s on you again.

“I missed you,” he whispers after a proper pause.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

He glues himself to you for the entire day. His arms are firm over your waist while he sits on the back of your moped, you speeding along the road to the beach. He pulls you by the hand when you park, grinning wide as his feet sift through the sand. The air and ground are warm, Hanta a thousand times warmer as he holds you on the shore. You lay on your back, him on his side so he can throw an arm over your stomach and stare right into your eyes.

You speak in quiet voices about everything you can. He kisses you often, stealing them between every pause of your words. When you jokingly chide him for it, insisting you need to speak, he settles for grazing his lips over your neck and collarbone, shifting to your knuckle when he wants to see your face. 

Sometimes the conversation lulls, and all you do is watch each other with soft smiles and glistening eyes. 

In the water, his gaze becomes stronger, too strong for you to handle. When you surface from a wave, he’s the first thing you see, crooked grin and wet hair. You immediately dip back under. There’s a certain weight in his eyes that you can’t handle.

The next time you break for air, he’s out of sight. Before you can turn to look for him, a hand tugs you from behind. It’s Hanta, pulling your back to slot against his chest. His head dips to your shoulder, lips running over the skin, arms snaking around your waist so you can’t disappear again.

You close your eyes at the feeling—his heat and his honest affection. You’re embarrassed by the tender displays in public, susceptible to the gazes and opinions of others. But maybe you deserve to have this moment, to be the annoying couple at the beach.

Couple? you wonder. You shake the thought away. Whatever this… thing you have with Hanta is, you don’t know how to name it. Neither of you have spoken about labels or exclusivity, but… couple feels almost derogatory. 

The two of you stay out until the evening, not sure when your home is safe to return to. When hunger settles in you drive with Hanta into the city.

This is his first time in Costa Rica, but he's in a different element in Latin America. Speaking Español brings out facets of his personality that are less noticeable in English or Japanese—a more playful but direct version of him. You wonder what you might learn about him as you continue to study Japanese.

He hugs you tightly on the ride home, arms back around your waist. He tries to tuck his head in the crook of your neck and shoulder, but the clunky helmets enforce a distance. You ride slowly through the night, careful of the winding roads, slow enough to catch the rustle of monkeys darting along the powerline. Every time you come to a stop, your ears flood with the ringing of insects and the soft, steady tone of night birds.

The house is quiet at night. Mamá is the only one present, greeting you with a quiet smile. She offers you dinner, and then some fruit when you decline. Hanta’s lip pouts at the mention of fried plantains, puppy eyes forcing you to agree.

“You can stay in my room,” you tell him afterwards while climbing the stairs. “I just need to grab a couple things.”

He trails curiously when you skip your door to go further down the hall.

“I’ve been sleeping in abuela’s room,” you explain.

He doesn’t follow you into the space, instead waiting by the doorway. You swipe your charger and book from the bedside table before smoothing out the covers and leaving.

Hanta doesn’t ask any questions, and you don’t offer any details. You wonder what he’s thinking, what he wants to know. His eyes linger over you, watching you closely. You wish you knew him better, wish you could take one look at his face and know immediately what’s turning through his heart and mind. Maybe he feels this way towards you, too.

This time when he enters your room, his eyes drift through your shelves and desk. They brighten when he catches a picture frame, nestled with a younger version of you and your sister standing in front of mamá and your grandparents. You don’t remember your abuelo well, only having fragments of memories. The only pieces of him you recall are the ones captured in photos; maybe they aren’t even real memories, just scenes you conjured from your imagination to pretend.

“You look like your abuelo in this one,” Hanta says.

Is this too much? For him to be here, looking through your artifacts of life and smiling fondly over old pictures? Part of you still feels like you’ve only known each other for a week, still chasing him through tents and trying to discover their makers. The other part thinks you’ve been in each other’s arms through your months of separation.

A seed inside you says, He’s been with you before the circus, too.

Hanta’s still smiling when he looks at you again. You swallow, catching that joyful glint in his eyes. For him, this is long overdue.

(This being the intimacy and the affection and the opportunity to learn everything he can—to find his way into every opening of your being and make a home for himself. For both of you.)

In this stillness and quiet of the night, you search your heart for how you really feel—untampered by fears of what’s right or what others may think, what the standard for relationships is supposed to be.

You want him—like this. Forever.

Under soft covers and cocooned in Hanta’s warmth, you manage to fall asleep in your own bed. You enter a dreamless sleep and rise naturally with the sun. Your sister doesn’t barge into your room to wake you, but you still dress for the garden and get to work. She’s there already, clipping the last round of tomatoes.

She gives you a pointed look that you return with your own. Neither of you speak, instead trading glances through the morning as you join her tending. She’s nosy and wants to know the details of how you met, what your relationship is like. You communicate that it’s not her business. You know you’ll fold and tell her eventually.

When you re-enter the house, you’re ambushed by the sight of Hanta in the kitchen helping mamá with breakfast. He wears her floral apron, diligently cutting onions while answering her questions—about his work and how it led you two to meet. His voice stops when he sees you, immediately grinning. He asks if you’re hungry.

After breakfast he insists on washing dishes. Your sister volunteers to dry, so you and mamá clean the table together. You can hear your sister grilling him from the kitchen, Hanta answering every question with ease.

“He’s a good man,” mamá says softly.

You nod.

When you two wiggle into your bed a second time, he asks you to wake him if you rise first. You frown. “Don’t you need your sleep?” 

He yawns, punctuating your point. “Maybe,” he slurs. “But I didn’t like waking up alone.”

Your heart pauses while you nod slowly. He hums with satisfaction and promptly falls asleep. You kiss his forehead. His hand tightens over yours.

On the third day, one of your tía’s and multiple cousins show up unexpectedly. You’re showing Hanta the garden, explaining how to hold the clippers, when a car pulls in and you sigh, knowing this will be the end of your peace. Hanta takes the chaos happily. He says he’s excited to meet everyone, albeit nervous.

Your extended family loves him. Everyone does, you start to realize—with his calm but lively energy, his honesty, his charm. Seeing him meet your relatives strikes you with awe, and a new wave of gratitude. 

Even tía abuela can’t dislike him. You’re anxious for their introductions, but then you watch Hanta softly bow his head—that Japanese filial piety overtaking him—while he politely says, “Mucho gusto, tía abuela.”

You catch the purse of her lips, the glint in her eye as she takes him in, and you know that he’s won her over already. Her eyes flit to you with the undertones of approval and you want to hug everyone in the room from your relief.

Things don’t fully mend by the time you leave with him for Ecuador. Tía abuela still won’t hold an extended conversation with you, some cousins mention abuela offhandedly to stir tension, and occasionally one of your tíos stare at you with anything but forgiveness. But you came home; you brought abuela home with you. This time when you leave, you’re leaving her behind—scattered along dark sand and blue water.

Mamá weeps when she says goodbye, holding you long in her arms. She says that she’ll miss you, that she loves you, and that she’s happy for you. She just hopes you’ll come back. You promise that you will.

Your sister is sharper with her words, insulting you through tears as she jabs, “You better not die.”

You nod vigorously.

Quito is different than you remember; too many years have passed since your first and last visit. It’s still beautiful and lively, with long markets and silver buses stretched down the roads. You board one, eventually winding your way along jungles and mountains, passing squares of shrimp farms by the coast. Hanta lets you take the window seat, happily holding your hand while you stare outside.

Ecuador is another sort of beast, with more chaotic roads and a harsher sun than Costa Rica. As you approach Hanta’s city along the sea, crumbling concrete buildings make a repeated appearance. The work of earthquakes, he tells you, an unwinnable battle for the poorly constructed towers—salt water and sea sand hiding in their walls, ready to surrender in an instant.

The edge of the shore appears. The sand is white, almost grey like ash. Like your abuela, now scattered along the Pacific. Did she make it down here after the past few months? Will she spread to the shores of Japan—to Musutafu?

When you arrive at the front of his house, you are struck by the familiarity. It takes a moment to remember that you’ve been here before, when Hanta ran with you across the ocean and led you through his home from the back porch. But that was a home from over a decade ago. Now parts are faded and parts are changed, but you still recognize it as if it were your own.

Hanta’s family is lively. His parents aren’t home—still working in Japan—but he opens the door to greet grandparents and avunculi and cousins. You watch his abuela’s face shine as she pulls him into a hug. His slender frame towers over her, awkwardly hunching to average their heights. The sight blooms a pang of something in your chest, the sting of an injury, and you swallow to avoid bursting into tears.

After surviving the introductions he leads you to his room. As soon as the door shuts and you have a moment of quiet, the tears resurface.

“Woah, hey,” Hanta says gently when he notices. His attention immediately fixes on you, hands abandoning his bag half unpacked to cradle your face. “Are you okay? Was that too much? Was someone out of line?”

You nod and then shake your head, trying to answer yes and then no respectively. It must be unconvincing, your face still twisted from holding back sobs.

“I’m okay,” you croak. You’re just overwhelmed, and maybe envious, from watching Hanta with his grandmother. From seeing loving touches and crinkled eyes. Curly white hair and wrinkled hands.

Hanta makes a complicated face. You gauge that he’s unconvinced and worried.

“We can go somewhere else,” he bargains. “Or you can rest here until you’re ready. Or a third option I don’t know right now.”

You nod, trying to agree with the second one. You’re fully crying by now, sniffling and blinking through tears. “I promise I’m okay,” you try to convince him. “I just need to cry, I think.”

He doesn’t question you, instead nodding and gesturing for you to sit on his bed. He lowers with you, carefully hugging you into his side. It’s a mourning cry, a weeping to express a hollowness in your heart, a loss that still hasn’t filled itself. Hanta remains a silent support, rubbing your back soothingly even after your sounds shift to sniffles. You press your face into his chest, tears smearing against his shirt. 

He’s warm. He’s always so warm.

You wonder how long you’ll live like this, still crying at random as if abuela’s death was a recent one—not a year in the past. Something tells you it’ll be often. 

Maybe you should apologize to Hanta in advance.

But his hold on you—firm while gentle—reminds you of his patience. He would tell you not to be sorry.

The week you have in Ecuador together is a busy one, spent meeting more family and getting yanked to Hanta’s favorite places. This time you’re the one on the back of the moped, leaning into his warmth as he winds up and down the roads. He lives on a small peninsula in the northern coast, where you can watch the sunrise from one beach, and then cross the city to catch the sunset on a different shore. 

The water turns red in the evening as the sun dips down, the ocean reflecting the brilliant rosiness of the sky. You and Hanta bob on surfboards in the water—yours long and wide and foam, his narrow and made of resin-coated wood. You soak in the remaining light, that fiery ball of light tucking under the horizon. There’s a tug at your heart when you remember the tent of floating oranges. When you glance at Hanta, he’s already staring at you. He grins.

You only get to see the coast of Ecuador during your stay, not touching mountains or jungle.

“Next time,” Hanta promises.

Next time.

Life doesn’t feel quite real when you board the plane together. Your goodbye to Hanta’s family felt more dramatic than your own, mostly because everyone was weeping and offering hugs all around. Tears pricked your eyes when his abuela pulled you for a hug, asking that you take good care of him. You promised you will.

You slide into the window seat, immediately pulling up the shade to look outside. You’re at the front of the wing, still parked on a giant slab of foundation and surrounded by the tunnels of the airport. Hanta plops down next, immediately snaking his arm around your waist and leaning into your side.

“Excited?” he asks.

Terrified is a more accurate description. “Yeah.”

He hums like he wants to ask more, but he keeps his questions to himself. You turn to look at him, his gentle eyes. They’re dark, dark like the night sky and shimmering with the sparkle of a thousand stars, ready to be plucked and pulled and woven into a timeless tale of love.

He has his abuela’s eyes.

(Is this how it’s going to be—you always searching for meaning and connection to the dead, never able to let them rest entirely, finding ways to make them alive time and time again? Is this who you are—someone who rereads the same book since childhood, clutching it close like a holy scripture that guides you forward?

But they are all you know, all you’ve ever chased, a child watching a display of magic and wanting nothing more than to be part of it.)

The voice of the flight attendant sounds through the speakers. Her voice crackles through the intercom as she reads from the safety brief.

Your eyes drift to Hanta’s skin. It’s darkened considerably since returning to Latin America. His cheeks and nose are splattered with an array of freckles. They’re constellations against his skin, a map of everything you’ve wanted. He leans to press his face against yours, like he can transfer those markings if you touch for long enough.

You turn to the window when the plane starts to roll forwards. Hanta’s chest presses against your shoulder while he leans to watch with you. His hand comes over yours, holding your fingers gently before raising them for a tender kiss.

There’s a jumble of knots in your stomach, like one thread tossed and turned until it became impossible to unravel. You’ve never been to Japan. You’ve never been contracted for a circus company. You don’t know Japanese and you don’t even have your own housing. All you have is a visa and the promise of a job awaiting your arrival. This is different from moving to Italy, fueled by nothing but the hunger for money. This time it’s a hunger for life, a hunger to find something—or, to follow what you’ve already found.

This time when you leave this part of the world, the part with your home, there is no obligation to do anything but what you want. A total freedom, the freedom to chase whimsical childhood dreams. Dreams of stars—The Circus of the Stars—and outrageous costumes and people you love.

The plane starts to dart down the runway, picking up speed to eventually lift and soar into the sky—a white aluminum bird against cerulean blue. Hanta’s lips press into your temple, hand squeezing yours. You grin while staring at the city of Quito below, clusters of buildings fading away with each passing second. The vessel of the plane chugs onwards and upwards, brushing through a mist of clouds—through the clouds, until they’re an ocean below you.

You squeeze Hanta’s hand back, interlocking your fingers like threads on a loom. Despite your fears, you feel ready.

Ready to stretch out your lives like the billions of stars in the sky, and to weave them together in a continuous, unbreakable fabric.

✰.

The circus is coming. And this time, you’re coming with it.

just a note about aerial silks: aerial silks for performance are not made of real silk, they're typically made of like some sort of synthetic fiber like nylon or lycra for safety purposes but i'm pretending like that isn't the case for the ~metaphors~

my sappy afterword can be found here

[ratgirlcommunist]

Ambessa x reader where she makes you sit on her strap while she’s on a meeting 🥰

Ambessa x reader where ties your hands behind your back and feeds you fruit

Ambessa x reader where she is a pirate and you are a siren that she caught by accident (she falls in love reluctantly)

Ambessa x reader abo where your nations are at war and your a princess that needs to mary the war lord to stop the bloodshed (oh no, don’t make me mary big scary lady nooooooooooo) (Ambessa falls in love at first sight and keeps trying to be nice (unsuccessful) but reader has been told she is pure evil so she thinks it’s a trick)

[helmip]

guess who!? hint: it's a self portrait :)

[kindahoping4forever]

And everyone gasped

(no one was surprised, not even a little)

[septembersung]

My stress dreams almost always involve zombies but last night was a new and horrifying twist. Awake, I see connections to the Reavers from Firefly, but in-dream it was a dreadful and brand new reveal.

[sciderman]

Hey sci what are you favorite musicals

to the surprise of no one my favourite musical is probably book of mormon,, i think i just love the genre of musicals that make you belly laugh

recently i watched the spongebob musical and honestly... has no right to be as good as it is

underrated genre that are my favourite: showtunes about living in blissful denial. that involve pink sequins.

[varjopeura]

.

[m0e-ru]

whoever sent me that link just know im laughing at you for having reddit on ios

[kameonerd566]

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