#imagine him doing the blade runner face crush he likes so much. it would be uplifting for him in so many ways

[thecactifindahome]

One of the most important facets of my concept of Armand is that every iteration of the character would not merely kill his clone but that he should kill his clone, it's the through-line trait that connects them all. For most people it would be a dreadful experience, but his particular psychology is such that I think there's a 51% chance that it would just fix him, completely. It's the skeleton key that would make all of his separate issues fall away together. It would be a life-affirming triumph for him, and I think we can all agree that the 49% chance it makes him worse is also a very good outcome.

[jaepies]

𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙤𝙢 - attack on titan

*contains spoilers of s4 

reader!imagine

word count : 1,456

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you descended towards the mayhem of marley. flames were roaring, having no mercy on anyone as they licked anything they were able to get their hands on. if this was something of a movie, you would have stood there astonished at the scene playing out in front of you. truly it was a place where war had rampaged. eren’s titan stood in the middle of it like he was the puppeteer and the minuscule humans below him were his pawns, only able to move at his tyrant will.

no, he wasn't a tyrant.

he was eren, right?

eren wouldn’t want to inflict such pain onto others like this. the titan who savagely had just eaten willy tybur minutes before was merely a ghost of the boy who you had grown up with. this monster lacked the passion and empathy that used to reside inside humanity’s hope.

buildings were crashing down as you desperately manoeuvred yourself around the unfamiliar surroundings. even the air which you breathed in felt so different from across the ocean. it had been 4 years since the discovery of a world outside the island yet just being in marley gave you the same feeling of disbelief that you had experienced all those years ago.

except you couldn’t help but be entangled by the ropes of guilt.

all this destruction, all this anguish

each scream which rang out in the night sky,

was all caused by you and your comrades. with each thunder spear that you unleashed came with a haunting flashback to when bertholdt the colossal titan and the armoured titan reminded your people of the fear and destruction that laid beyond the walls.

chills crawled up your spine just thinking about it. the havoc that ensued that day was the exact same as the disarray underneath your feet. dead bodies crushed by the weight of fallen debris, you shut your eyes visualising the despair that will befall the corpses’ families. never able to get closure nor will they ever get the chance to say goodbye.

children were under those collapsed walls. their lives cinched from them before they could really begin. you felt as though you were an outsider looking into something you were not a part of. there was a sensation of detachment from reality as the ongoing battle scene became blurry around you. the realisation that you were the trigger for all of this was an agonizing punch to the stomach.

a sudden hand on your back forced you back into consciousness. it was connie - his face wearing a pronounced look of worry however the steel touch of his fingers held a separate message of its own.

‘follow the plan and make it out alive,’

solemnly, you trailed after the bald man onto one of the last standing roofs in the district, leaving all sins committed behind. still, there was a bitterness that laced the atmosphere; stifling your comrades' ability to talk

or maybe no one had the correct words to say.

there was so much that could be done, you had the advantage of power here. you were superior ones for once. these people ‘started it’ first as childish as that sounds. so why did you all feel so awful? standing on the rooftop gave you such height yet it felt as though you were falling into a pit of disgust and shame.

somehow, it was better when humanity’s only enemy at the time was the titans. there was an element of simplicity in knowing who the ‘bad guys and good guys’ were. the saying of ‘curiosity killed the cat’ seemed fitting and whilst you all were not dead yet, you couldn’t help but think everyone had gone too far. the greed of information led to the erasure of the line of distinction.

out of nowhere, more characters joined the narrative, more lives were put on the line which meant there was more to lose. the fiery passion which once encapsulated the faces of your friends was blown out by the coldness of knowledge. historia became another cog in this greater machine with no regards to her wishes, no one even stopped to entertain armin’s idea of communication.

this wasn’t the scout’s plan in the first place. if only time ran more slowly rather than propelling forward, lurching at the next tragedy about to occur. it was frustrating how no one could formulate an alternative to whatever you were doing, there had to be another, more constructive way to solve this issue. you were taught growing up that violence was and will never be the issue.

only a fool would draw a sword in the face of danger and a person with at least a morsel of integrity will bare all their vulnerability and use that as their weapon of choice.

the discomfort of the blades caught up to you. your hands drenched in a clammy sensation as weariness crept its way into your head. these weapons were your lifeline - a medium to plough your way through to the temporary camp of safety. each arduous day in the training corps was spent soaring through forests with the odm gear - you should be used to the feeling by now.

another building came crumbling down as eren boundlessly shattered the body of the town. confined by nothing and no one. was this was the freedom that he was always seeking? or was he just a lost boy hopelessly grasping at a mirage?

you couldn’t help but convince yourself that there had to be a conclusion for all this. every story has an ending whether it be a dismal one where the main character dies or a path where the protagonist encounters a happier alternative. a finale is a finale all the same. the flow of pages eventually come to an end as you move onto the next enticing book.

the ever-evolving idea of freedom made it ever so difficult to anticipate the finish line. just when everyone thinks they can see it on the horizon, more hurdles are placed in front of them, forcing all the runners to continue despite having been pushed past exhaustion a few laps ago.

you and your friends share the same desire of wanting to see how this all ends. the wish for all of this to be over someday is what keep you all going. constantly being fed that if you do your part in the narrative then all the pieces will fall into place. this is what drives you to seize the nearest machine of war and put two men into a long-lasting sleep.

guilt came trickling back - both of its arms threatening to envelope itself around your delicate neck, poised and ready to pull you down a pit that kept spiralling. but you kept meticulously moving forward.

all the clocks had been destroyed in the chaos nonetheless the incessant ticking taxed away in your mind. each tick hurried you further away from your morals. each tick painted your hands a deeper shade of crimson. each tick made more fall victim to the squabbles of humanity.

an explosion was released in the distance and the disruption of the ocean could be felt under your numb feet. the ships upturned against their will before even being given a chance to breathe. the sheer force of armin overwhelming liberio more than it already had been.

he strolled through the port so carelessly as if he was walking through the meadow during the springtime. sardonically, his steps drowned out the yelps of agony coming from the sailors swimming for the last time. you were grateful. your mind had reached the limits of its allotted space that held screams which would keep you tossing and turning at night.

the bristly feeling of a ladder came tumbling down onto you. peering into the ink of the sky, the recent discovery of the aeroplane came gliding in. the bite of its draft nipped at your skin as you began to ascend. the material of the rope rubbed your hands raw from gripping tightly.

fighting against the unwavering twisting and turning, the sight of the entrance gifts your body with a slight feeling of relief. you had survived another round of trying to live.

the embers of fire continued to rage on, proceeding to devour the remains of what you had left. you mused at how picturesque the landscape looked. it had to be a crime that such an abomination could be so alluring. the distance concealed any evidence of the bodies so all that could be seen was the fallen architecture. it reminded everyone of what they had accomplished as you flew away from marley and one step closer to freedom.

there had to be another way.

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[purgatoryandme]

Fade-touched. With no magic of her own, the Fade still dictates Hawke’s every move. It forces her to become a better escape artist near-daily - a runner from the moment her feet could first stay steady under her wobbling legs. Fade-touched. Fade-held. Fade-crushed. Her mother thinks the Fade is something they can run from. Maybe she’s right. Maybe if it were just the Fade, Hawke could tip it a crooked grin, do some fancy footwork, and then put it behind her like so many towns and Templars. From the moment she laid eyes on her twin siblings, though, and then again from her sixteenth year onward (a weight at her back briefly lifted, hefted into her arms like the twins so many years ago - begging to be spun, slashing through ozone and salt), Hawke knows there are some things that can never be escaped. Fade-touched. Fate-marked. She was always going to be a story.                                              ____________________ Fade-touched and fate-marked. Sixteen years old with a long sword strapped to her back (freshly cleaned and swaddled in oilcloth), Hawke contemplates that which cannot be escaped. On the long walk home she laughs bitterly over the irony of it all. A life spent on the run, perfecting the skill until it was second nature, and she can’t escape this one thing. She doesn’t even want to. She doesn’t know what she would be without it. (A person, perhaps) (Certainly not a story)                                             ____________________ Varric hears about her long before he sees her. Of course, that’s usually how his introductions go. His ears are open long before his eyes. None of his informants are terribly good with paints or charcoal, you see (useless bastards - he should get them to practice portraiture so he’s never caught so thoroughly off-guard again). The Amell siblings did not enter Kirkwall quietly. There was a lot of kicking and screaming and wailing. Business as usual, really. Most people didn’t enter Kirkwall willingly, and those that did were usually desperate enough for the usual theatrics to apply anyway. Still, the Amells made a splash. Disgraced (by an affair with an apostate no less) ex-nobles returning to an estate that’s been gambled away by a drunk?Juicy. Well, juicy to thieves. Until they proved to be dirt-poor Ferelden refugees barely worth whatever fee Arenthel was paid to get them into the city. Then, THEN, one of the siblings turned out to BE the fee Arenthel was paid. Just the one. Intriguing, but Varric can think of a lot of reasons Arenthel would pay for a pretty face - dark hair and blue eyes. Probably not the boy, too brawny and sour to be good at collecting information. The girl could be useful - her walking stick wasn’t fooling anyone, but those delicate features sure could. He’d overlooked the third Amell child entirely. A rookie mistake, really, her chosen last name notwithstanding. He let himself look (well, let his informants look) without really seeing. And when you were just looking...well. Hawke didn’t look like much. Or rather she didn’t look much like her siblings, who stood out in the way that you’d expect any purchase to in this city. In the way you’d expect a dirty secret to. It hadn’t occurred to anyone not in the know that Hawke was related to any of them. For all intents and purposes, coming from nobility as the Amells did, Hawke seemed to be a bodyguard (just like the red-haired guardswomen). She wasn’t the product of careful Kirkwall breeding. She didn’t even look Ferelden. Hawke’s nose seems certain to be her namesake. Prominent and high-bridged, hooked in a way that was unusual for people of her colouring (and, if Varric is being honest, the kind of thing that would prevent her from ever having a career at the Rose. Or, he’ll think later with ink and paper in hand, from ever being forgotten). Her skin is dark enough to look Rivaini, which, coupled with the russet-dark of her hair and her build (broad shoulders and hips, thick thighs, tall enough that his neck ached), is almost enough to make him forget the distinctly Ferelden nature of that nose. What makes him remember, what forces him to see the slightest family resemblance in the siblings he’s spying on, are her eyes frosty pale and narrow, or seemingly narrowed by thick heavy lashes, in the way only human eyes ever were (elves were always wide and guileless. Dwarves never seemed so...pointy. Qunari didn’t count - he didn’t look them in the eyes. Couldn’t at his height). Sharp, like ice chips, and made sharper against the warm tones of her skin. Wraith-like. Later, he’ll realize her eyes aren’t the same glowing Amell blue as the twins or her mother. Instead, they’re a shade of green so pale it’s nearly grey. He’ll only realize this when Carver makes it clear they consider her no sister of theirs, however, and he’ll wonder how he missed it over a week at her side. He’ll wonder that often about Hawke - how he missed things. How he missed her. 

She’s a stunner, that’s for sure. Just not in an entirely good way. She cuts an intimidating figure, larger than life somehow, with features so bold that Varric can practically hear the nobles waxing poetic about her ugliness for years to come. Choppy dark hair and mismatched armour over dense muscle just make her seem more boyish and boorish, adding another layer to the tableau. Adding another layer to the distance between her and her picture-perfect siblings.

She’s certainly something - maybe something he hadn’t learned the words for yet (something that will send him, drunk and careening, to his library time and again. Paging cover to cover through poetic epics for a hero that had even a fraction of the something he wanted to describe). Not at all what he expected from the whisperings or from keeping tabs on the mage Amell in case the Templars ruined something interesting before it got to be INTERESTING. He’d expected a catlike rogue or some Feredelen beauty. Something for the history books, you know? Tawdry and bawdy and fitting to the tales he’d later spin in the Hanged Man for drunks and gentry alike. Varric’s forgotten that first impression a thousand times over and reread it on an old ledger just as many times. Hawke has a way of doing that to him. Making him forget the past, replacing it with their present (visceral like a knife to the gut. Which he’s experienced with her. More than once). Hawke also has a way of being underestimated at first glance. Maybe that’s why Bartrand refuses her and the little cutpurse thought he could get clever. Varric puts on a show with Bianca. Hawke is alone - no siblings in sight. She’d only volunteered herself for the expedition. It’s jarring to suddenly have the woman he’s been watching for hours watch him back. Even as she makes quips with the best of them, Varric can’t help but feel like she’s waiting for a blow. Hawke’s guarded in the way a kicked dog is. Unpredictable in the same sense. It makes Varric nervous, but also makes it impossible to walk away. He wants this one on the expedition. He thinks she’ll make it worth his while (just like Arenthel earned her money four times over with just one of a set of three. She passed up on an apostate beauty who knew healing magic. Hawke was definitely someone he’d take a bet on). She does. Creators, she does and then some, wrenching Varric and Anders, the Grey Warden she’d blackmailed and cajoled into accompanying them, through the Deep Roads with an animal glint in her eyes that increases with every day spent in the dark. She jokes with them often, but it isn’t until the near-endless battling with Darkspawn drains even her to the ends of her reserves that she begins to tell them stories to keep their long march going.  “My father was an apostate.”  She tells them, not meeting their eyes, likely anticipating and disliking their knowledge of this fact (Anders, through his willingness to come along at all. Varric because he was Varric - no stone unturned),  “He was never contained in the Circle. To hear him tell it, he was never escaping anything. He moved because he felt like it. Because there was a great plan that he was following, and if it lead him away from the Templars? So be it.”  Garrett Hawke was a man who did not exist, at least according to every record Varric had scoured (and he had, he believed, scoured them all). Varric had thought, up until this point, that the name was simply an alias. He still thought that, but now...  Well, he had to wonder. Hawke’s sibling had never been caged. Perhaps her father flew free, too?  Anders certainly seemed to think so (the animal glint in Hawke’s eyes was fever-bright in his own, near-glowing against the dirt and Darkspawn blood smeared on his skin).  “Freedom isn’t free.”  Hawke says, a sardonic little twist to her lips causing her teeth to flash in the torchlight as she glances at Anders,  “He paid for it in destiny and a dragon was the shopkeep.”  Varric would laugh at the frustrated befuddlement on the mage’s face if it wasn’t echoed on his own.  “My father made this blade.” Another day, another story. The long sword on Hawke’s back stayed wrapped, no matter the fight to be had, twin daggers finding themselves home in her hands and her enemies throats. It was only exposed in moments like these - where she carefully oiled it as they made camp. “We forged it together, but the materials were things he had for years. It was mine to carry the moment it was finished. I’d never heard my mother so angry with him.” “Were you just a pipsqueak?” Varric asks, struggling to imagine her as something so small and soft as a child,  “Not quite as tall as your sword was high?”  Her eyes crinkle, or at least he thinks they do (torchlight stopped being an option in the morning, and Anders’ mage light was a dim and eerie substitute).  “I was thirteen.”  She tells him, lifting a hand to indicate how tall she’d stood then (about his height, he was chagrined to see),  “Beth had just come into her magic. Father took me on a hunt the moment he realized, deep enough into the Wilds that nobody stood a chance of finding us. We came back with a blade, no meat to speak of, and to a little girl who had half-incinerated our cottage. My being a child bore no mind in her anger.”  She snickered, despite the flicker of something Varric felt at the image she’d painted (a child standing apart from their siblings, pushed there by a parent declaring their favourite, widening the chasm with the gift of a weapon handmade and crafted in a moment no other family had witnessed - an intimacy impossible to intrude on and rendered in steel),  “Carver also flew into a bitter tantrum about wanting a sword shortly afterwards. Both her angels were little hellions for years after that hunt.”  Despite knowing they were being baited, Varric still asked the question that had taken root in his mind; “What made them stop? I’m certain it wasn’t from maturing - the very idea would probably bring your brother to tears.” Hawke’s calloused hands caressed the edge of the blade, skin just barely splitting (a cut so thin blood didn’t even bead. Or at least, that’s how the mage light made it appear). Her face was carefully blank no matter how Varric strained his eyes as she replied,  “They realized what it was for.” 

                                            ____________________ Varric tucked Hawke’s stories away for later contemplation. He embedded them into the skin of his arms with quill and ink, determined to remember their exact wording, on the night (or day or midmorning or whatever passed for time under the blasted Darkspawn damned ground) when Anders finally allows Justice out to play, emitting enough light and power that they can struggle their way to the surface, and Hawke mutters something about the Fade that has the spirit’s pupilless eyes settle on and see her. There’s something there.  A story.  He pieces it together in fits and starts. Junior, Carver Amell (who doesn’t deserve to go by that name, not with the sharp distaste he displays whenever Hawke calls him Carver like he’s asked), trails after them post-expedition and post-Bethany (sweeter than her brother, her bitterness reminiscent of dark chocolate instead of stale beer and regret) entering the Circle. Hawke doesn’t turn him away - Varric suspects she can’t after her sister turned her back on her protection and willingly joined the one thing their family had run from for years - and so Varric has a source of information.  He’s somewhat loathe to use it, though. He doesn’t love the way Junior wields his words. They’re such clumsy weapons - he’s liable to hurt himself just as badly as he intends to hurt Hawke. 

Still. Still - Varric is shameless in his pursuit of a story. He’s done more disgusting things (though sometimes...sometimes Hawke looks at him, ice-chip eyes warmed by firelight and wine and Wicked Grace, and her mouth twists a little. That same sardonic grin he’d seen underground when she told them freedom isn’t free. And he doesn’t like that look sitting on her face, not when it’s turned his way).  And it’s worth it. It repulses him to think it, but all those little bits of information he’s hoarded are worth it. Because their party is chased down by Tevinter thugs in a set-up orchestrated by a magic-hating elf tattooed in lyrium who can physically reach into a person’s chest to crush their heart, and the most fascinating thing to happen was little brother’s subsequent freak out.  “Chase him off!”  He hissed into Varric’s ear, bent double to do so and no doubt rendering himself a comical image (red-faced under Fenris’ cool scrutiny and Hawke’s stiff-backed refusal to turn to him).  “He can literally tear my heart from my chest. Forgive me if I’m not inclined to chase him off my lawn.”  Varric hissed back, half-hysterical as Fenris’ gaze drifted between them.  “You’ll have bigger things to worry about if he sticks around!”  Junior fired back, shaking Varric by the shoulders and gesturing at Fenris’ bristling armour and weapons.  “Hawke’s ‘I murder dragons and also really big spiders’ sized sword is almost the same size as his. While you’re all busy seeing which is the bigger thing to worry about, I’ll just run off to High Town in a set of heels where you lot will never think to look for me.”  Varric mutters, much more careful than little brother (the littlest, with his petty attitude - a little dog barking at some junkyard Mabari) to keep his voice down, though Fenris’ lips twitched anyway.  “Don’t talk about it like that.”  Junior snarled viciously,  “Her using it near him is exactly what I’m worried about. I don’t know what it will do.”  Now Fenris’ shoulders were drawing up, impossibly spiky pauldrons growing dangerously close to his ears as his gaze flitted over to Hawke, who sighed unhappily.  “I’m not going to stab you, Fenris. Not even in a fun way.”  She said, sliding her daggers back into their sheaths and rolling out her neck with a crooked grin (one that didn’t reach her eyes and sent another stab of dislike rolling through Varric towards her bratty little brother that rose in sharp competition with his curiousity).  “Is it enchanted?”  Fenris asked, gravelly voice walking a knifes’ edge between interest and distaste that mirrored Varric’s own thoughts too well for comfort (he was pretty sure Fenris was crazier than a nug on lyrium - the comparison wasn’t flattering).  “I’m pretty enchanted with it.”  Hawke replied, sweeping the oilcloth bundle off her back and resting her weight on the pommel, driving the tip of the blade against the cobblestones below,  “Most people find gifts enchanting, though.”  A not at all smooth or subtle evasion, though Varric had to admire the way she’d managed to imply that if it was enchanted, it certainly wasn’t her who had done it. Fenris had cottoned on to the same idea, but Carver looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel.  “Your...brother certainly seems to think there is something I would find distasteful about it. I doubt he’s worried about my wellbeing.”  The humour in Fenris’ voice didn’t quite cover his unease, but it did reflect a desire to please. Varric was certain the elf meant to stick around if he could  now that he was certain Hawke was no mage. “Distasteful?” Hawke laughs, leaning more heavily on the blade and flicking her gaze to Carver on time to see his wince,  “No, he only applies that word to our kinship. He thinks you’ll turn out to be a thief.”  Fenris’ jaw set and Varric’s heart quickened in response. Carver’s fingers practically crushed his shoulder.  “Of a blade?” Fenris asked, taking a menacing step forward.  Hawke chuckled again, though her knuckles had gone white where they wrapped around an exposed silvery green pommel.  “No,” She shook her head, sardonic twist of the lips in place as she tutted, “Of a life.”  Offence coloured Fenris’ sharp retort of,  “Yours?” Making it blunt and threatening as he drew even closer.  “Not mine.”  She shrugs,  "One that can’t be stolen, bought and sold. It’s a pointless fear related to those.”  She taps a single finger against Fenris’ exposed throat, directly over a silvery green line, before leaning back and hefting her blade back to its resting place between her shoulders. Carver abruptly lunged forward, fingers still buried in Varric’s tunic (dragging him a stumbling step towards Hawke despite his dwarven weight. Quite the feat for little brother).  “Don’t let her touch you!”  He snapped at the elf,  “Or she’ll kill you, too!”  Turning on her heel, Hawke's face disappeared from view. She began to stride away, heading off to the Hanged Man most likely, without a single glance back. Instead she called out over her shoulder: “Maybe my poison touch doesn’t affect dwarves, because Varric’s not dead yet, Carver. I think you might actually beat me to that particular punch.” Needless to say, the elf followed. Varric did, too, unable to walk away when his last sight of her was her back.  Junior didn’t.                                               ____________________ “She’ll kill you, too.”  Words meant something to Varric. Even the ones spilled from an imbecile’s lips (one who had realized Varric was not his friend, unfortunately. He couldn’t mourn the loss much, though something in his chest felt slightly out of place when Hawke cast a look about the Hanged Man on Wicked Grace nights and sighed at the utter lack of her brother’s presence. He’d come crawling back eventually, as unable to ignore her and she was him).  “Too.”  Meant something. It meant something in the context of that damnable blade, that sardonic twist of Hawke’s lips that meant she was telling a story, the one that meant honesty and a certain resignation (an animal glint in her eyes in the dark, a cornered animal that always knew the tunnel had an end, that always knew it was going to fight to its bloody last).  “What made them stop?” “They realized what it was for.”  “She’ll kill you, too!” Not enchanted, but enchanting. Apostate-forged in the Wilds by a man who bought his freedom for the price of destiny from a dragon. The answer was obvious. Somehow, though, Varric couldn’t quite put pen to paper. Couldn’t write down a new observation in one of dozens of journals dedicated to Hawke, the only way to keep track of all that made her her before she talked her way into making him forget.   Sighing, Varric pushed his unbound hair back from his face. Slipped his glasses from his nose. Pressed his forehead to the page as he closed his eyes.  He was shameless for a good story. Ruthless in its pursuit. He wanted - no, needed - answers.  And yet.  He could wait for this one. For another sardonic twist of the lips. For more crumbs that Hawke would drop at his feet, knowing he would pick them up, finding their reassembly as inevitable as her brother’s dislike and her mother’s silence (living in a manor Hawke had purchased with children Hawke had been bought and sold for).  Pressing his face ever further into the paper, Varric groaned in horror.  He didn’t want to be another inevitability in Hawke’s life.  He wanted to be a choice.                                      

[ft-dads-au]

The Loudest Silence

I Take Pride In What I Am 2020 Prompt: Quiet Pairing(s): Sting x Yukino (Unrequited), Human (Weisslogia x Female Skiadrum), Master Bob & Weisslogia, Weisslogia & Sting

A Collaboration by @mdelpin​ and @oryu404​

AO3 | FF.Net

Summary: “I really like you...as more than a best friend…” 

Yukino had been his best friend since...forever? Sting couldn’t even remember not being friends with her. She was a beautiful girl, smart, kind, and funny... 

There was just one problem. 

 “I love you, I really do, but I can’t love you like that.”

April 25, 2008

“Hey, Sting? Can I talk to you for a second?”

It was a beautiful day, but not even the warmth of the sun kissing his skin or the gentle sea breeze could lift Sting’s mood. He should be at the beach on a day like this, eating shaved ice and playing volleyball with his friends. Not moping in his backyard, twisting himself up in knots about what had happened with Yukino earlier that day.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you…”

Sting wasn’t oblivious. He’d noticed it a while ago, how Yukino was acting shy around him when she’d never done so before. And touchier. Reaching out to grab his hand or put hers on his shoulder too many times for him to ignore. Sometimes, when she was chatting with some of the other girls in their class, they’d all look his way and break out into giggles, and one of them would say something to her that made her blush, all flustered.

He’d been avoiding her for some time now, feeling guilty every time he saw the sad look on her face when he all but ran back home right after school, with some lame excuse like having too much homework. That guilt was only outweighed by the hope that she’d back down, but the very scenario Sting had been so afraid of had finally played out that day.

“I really like you...as more than a best friend…”

Yukino had been his best friend since...forever? Sting couldn’t even remember not being friends with her. She was a beautiful girl, smart, kind, and funny...

There was just one problem.

“I love you, I really do, but I can’t love you like that.”

Sting didn’t like girls. He’d much rather join them as they giggled and batted their lashes at cute boys.

As a kid, he’d always been drawn to guys he’d see in movies, video clips, or magazines, but it wasn’t until reaching his teens that he’d finally recognized it for what it was. The swimmers, surfers, and runners he’d see at the beach... Sting could watch them all day, and as soon as he realized that was precisely what he was doing most of the time, it was kind of impossible to deny the attraction he felt.

To himself, at least. He hadn’t been ready to admit that to anyone else yet, but Yukino’s confession had put him on the spot. As he’d watched her gather all her courage to express her feelings, a spark of hope shimmering in her eyes, he’d decided she deserved better than to be strung along. She deserved to know the truth, even if it broke his heart to tell her.

And just as he’d feared, she didn’t take it well. The hope in her eyes was replaced by the gloss of tears, and she’d left without saying another word.

“I’m sorry, Yuki…”

Sting rolled over on the grass, dropping the comic book he’d been trying to read in the hopes of distracting his thoughts, letting his eyes follow the white wisps of clouds that were slowly drifting through the sky above him. What would happen next? Would she tell her parents and sister? Their other friends? Classmates? How would they respond? And more importantly, would this mean the end of his friendship with Yukino? Sting was having a hard time imagining his life without her as his friend, they always did just about everything together.

“It’s way too hot to be racking your brain like that,” his dad’s chuckle suddenly sounded, snapping him out of his thoughts. He sat down next to Sting on the grass, shielding his face from the bright sunlight with one of his hands. “What’s bothering you, son? Anything I can help you with?”

Sting sighed, sitting up and facing his father. As nervous as he was about coming out for the second time that day, he could really use someone to talk to. Carrying this secret was wearing him down, he’d always been a terrible liar, and he just wanted to stop hiding. His parents were usually patient and understanding with him...Surely he could tell them this, right?

“Yukino has a crush on me,” he mumbled, picking a few blades of grass and rolling them between his fingers absently.

“Oh? Well, if you want advice on how to woo a girl, I’m not your guy,” Weiss chuckled, “At least, that’s what I’ve been told. But I can tell you this: as long as you just be yourself-”

“Dad, stop,” Sting cut in, “I don’t like her that way, and I wanted to tell her that without hurting her feelings.” He rubbed at his face in exasperation, “Besides, I tried being myself, and it didn’t go well at all. She might not want to be my friend anymore...”

“I’m sure you’re overreacting. You two have been friends for years, what makes you think she’d throw that away?” his father asked, offering a reassuring smile that crushed Sting under its weight, making him feel terrible about not being the son he was thought to be. There was also a hint of worry reflected in the slight furrow on Weiss’ brow as he waited for Sting to explain what was troubling him.

“It’s because I’m-” Sting hesitated, fighting an inner war between the part of him that longed to be free from the constant feeling of deception, and the part that just wanted to live up to everyone’s expectations. He could still chicken out if he wanted to, find some half-assed excuse for his words and behavior so he could stall for a little longer, but the truth would have to come out eventually. Besides, if Yukino ended up spreading the word, it would reach his parents sooner rather than later anyway. He’d prefer his dad hear it from him.

“I’m gay,” he admitted in a deep exhale, and just saying it out loud lifted such a huge burden from his shoulders already. He finally found the courage to look his father in the eyes, seeking his reaction, desperately hoping for the kind of understanding he was used to from him.

But it wasn’t there. Nothing was there. Instead, his dad was unusually silent. His expression was blank, as if he was looking right through Sting. Like he wasn’t even there.

“Oh.”

Oh? That was it? He’d just poured out his heart, and all he got in return was an Oh?

“Ugh, never mind,” Sting got up, suddenly feeling everything and nothing at the same time. A disappointment so vast it left a big empty hole that numbed him. “I’m outta here.”

Deep down, he was still holding on to the hope that his dad would stop him and call him back so they could talk about it, but Weisslogia remained quiet. He just let him stomp off without as much as uttering a single word, right when Sting needed him more than ever.

Resisting the urge to wait or look back, Sting rushed through the sliding door, passing the kitchen, where his mom was busy prepping food. For once, he wasn’t hungry.

“Now, now, why the hurry?” his mother called out, trying to soothe as always— a bright smile on her lips meant to lift his spirits managing to accomplish the very opposite.

He’d never felt so lonely before. Two of the people closest to him had let him down already, and he asked himself why she would be any different. He ignored her, simply because he couldn’t handle one more.

0-0

“What happened?” was the first thing to come out of his wife when Weisslogia stepped into the kitchen, the start of a rambling that interrupted all the thoughts he still hadn’t sorted yet.

“He already seemed off today, but then he just stormed off with a face like thunder and slammed all the doors in his path. I tried to talk to him, but he won’t say a word, doesn’t even want to come out of his room…” Skiadrum abandoned the fruits she’d been cutting, covering them with mesh food protectors to keep the bugs away, and sat down on one of the bar stools at the island counter, waiting for Weiss to give her an explanation. She was worried, and he couldn’t really blame her for that.

No matter how upset he was, Sting was never unresponsive. If anything, he’d come straight to them if something was bothering him, and could easily talk their ears off about it to help him process his emotions. Knowing that, Weiss felt awful about how their conversation, or lack thereof, had gone.

“It’s my fault,” he sighed as he sat across from Skia, running a hand through his hair. “He came to me with...something, and I wasn’t much of a help.”

“Something? Nothing too serious, I hope?”

“Well…” Weiss hesitated, unsure if he’d make things worse by telling her what he knew about their son without asking him first. But he wanted to soothe his wife’s worries and fix his mistake, and he couldn’t do that without Skia’s help. He was way out of his depth.

“Well?” she repeated, impatiently waiting for him to answer her questions.

“Well, Sting just told me that he’s homosexual.”

The frown of concern immediately fell off Skiadrum’s face, making way for a deadpan expression. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see that coming,” she said, the tone of her voice indicating that she already knew the truth.

“Wait, you knew?” Weiss asked her, perking up from his slumped position in surprise.

“Oh, come on! I’ve suspected it since he was 7! Remember that day when we spent half a day shopping with him for a winter coat? And ended up buying one from the girls’ department because he insisted all the boys’ ones had boring colors?”

He’d probably never forget that day. They’d been to every single clothing store in town, had thanked all the helpful staff members who had cheerfully tried to coax their son into liking one of the available options, but Sting was immune to even the best of sales pitches. ‘Nope, I hate it,’ he’d said, carrying an attitude that was so hilarious for a kid his age it made Weiss’ tired feet worthwhile.

“I figured he just liked brighter colors,” Weiss mumbled, shrugging his shoulders, “and he always kind of went his own way. Headstrong, just like his mother,” he tried to tease, but he lacked the spirit for it.

“That could’ve been the case, but there have been other signs pointing in this direction,” Skia argued, “and adding them all up, it just made sense to me.”

Signs? Weiss wasn’t sure what exactly she meant. He’d never reached that conclusion and the fact that his wife had made him feel even worse.

He knew he was oblivious to many things, but this was their child they were talking about—his son. And Weiss had always assumed he knew him through and through. Apparently, he’d been wrong. He wasn’t the attentive father he’d hoped to be.

“Why did you never mention it?” he sulked, wishing he’d gotten a heads up so he wouldn’t have been tongue-tied at the admission.

Noticing his dismay, Skiadrum got up to pour them both a glass of wine. “Because I could just as well have been wrong, and even if I wasn’t, it was still up to him to decide when he was ready to talk to us about it.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” she asked once she’d sat back down again and had a sip of wine, “Did your conversation go that badly?”

“There, uh...there wasn’t much of a conversation,” Weiss admitted guiltily, “I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t really say anything.”

Skiadrum almost choked in her wine.

“Oh my God, Weiss, really?!” she bleated, hiding her face in her hand, “Of course he’d take off at that, he must be thinking you’re rejecting him!”

“I’m not,” Weiss quickly assured, but as he tried to put himself in Sting’s shoes, he realized that was exactly what it must have looked like. “Oh, crap...I really messed up.”

“No, you haven’t-” Skia reached across the table to take her hand in his and chuckled, “Okay, maybe a little, but we all make mistakes. If I’d told you about my suspicions, this might not have happened, so I’m at fault here too. Now, let’s clear it up together, shall we?” She smiled at him and squeezed his hand, “You go talk to him, I’ll get started on a peace offering.”

She got up again, taking her wine glass with her as she moved to the counter and made room for the mixing bowl.

Weisslogia nodded absently, absorbed in his own thoughts. He had to admit, now that his wife had mentioned it, he was starting to see some of Sting’s quirks in a new light.

He was still letting the news sink in, trying once again to think about what he wanted to say, what he was supposed to say. But his mind was caught up in events that had happened long ago and knowing what he did, he couldn’t help but be scared for his son. And with that thought in mind, he decided to call the one person he knew who could help him.

0-0

“You did WHAT?” Bob yelled at Weiss through the phone, outraged at what he’d just been told, “Weisslogia Eucliffe, you utter simpleton!”

“I know, I know…” Weiss agreed, “and I’m working on it, okay? I just- I don’t know this stuff, and I really need your help.”

“Pfft, obviously,” his long time friend scoffed, “This stuff...Oh, that poor kid.”

“Not helping…” Weiss reminded him through gritted teeth, forcing a smile onto his face even though he knew Bob couldn’t see him, but he hoped it would help him remain somewhat positive. “Look, I just want to be a good dad, but I’m way out of my league here. I’m guessing he has questions, and I don’t know how to answer them. I’ll have to give him the talk again, don’t I? Where do I even begin? And what if someone-?”

“Pipe down,” Bob interrupted with a sigh, and it was then Weiss realized he’d been pacing through his study, almost pulling the old, corded phone off the desk. “Seriously, grab that pipe of yours and calm down. I’m getting stressed just from listening to you.”

He took that advice, even though he usually never smoked inside the house, opening a window and hoping the smell wouldn’t linger for too long.

“Okay,” Bob began, “First of all, I think it’s great that you want to be there for your son to answer his questions and give him the bees and the bees talk and all, but do you really think he’s lining up for that?”

“The bees and the bees?” Weiss puzzled for a moment until he understood what Bob meant, “Oh! I get it!”

“God, if you were any slower, you’d be going backward. Anyway, the point is, I know you want to protect him, but that really isn’t what he needs from you right now. All he really needs is for you to tell him that you’re proud of him and that you love him. Can’t be too hard, right?”

Bob’s words hit Weiss hard, leaving him speechless for the second time that day. The difference was that this time, he knew exactly what to say, what he should have said in the first place, and it broke him to realize that he hadn’t. He’d been so focused on the details that he’d lost sight over what was most important.

“You’re right. I screwed up, Bob,” he said miserably, “I let my boy down, what kind of a father am I?”

“This isn’t the time for that, Weiss. You weren’t expecting it. It happens, nothing is lost yet,” Bob assured him, “Trust me, you’re already doing better than a lot of other parents out there just by making an effort. Kids get thrown out of their houses for this or receive far worse responses than complete silence. God, the shit my dad said to me…”

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” Weiss immediately replied, remembering some of the things that Bob had shared with him about his earlier life.

“Water under the bridge, love,” Bob dismissed his apology, “You were the first person to accept me just the way I was, Weisslogia. You can do this. You’re going to march right into his room and put him out of his misery. Meanwhile, I will email you all the resources we use at the center so that you can be ready when he does ask questions. How does that sound?”

“Thanks,” Weiss smiled weakly into the phone, thinking it was a shame that Bob had moved back to Magnolia. He missed having him around as a friend. They had been through so much together during the time they’d lived together as roommates, first in med school and later when Bob had spent a few years in Edolas.

He could still remember all the terrible reactions Bob had gotten just for being proud of who he was and being unafraid to show it. He’d endured everything from name-calling, discrimination, and threats, to actual physical abuse. The latter was still freshly engraved on Weiss’ retinas like it happened only yesterday instead of decades ago, and the mere thought of something like that happening to Sting was enough to send his protective instincts into overdrive.

“Weiss?” Bob’s voice had turned somber, and Weisslogia instinctively tensed up. “I know where your mind is going, but… it was a different time. Our situations are different, okay? He’s going to be just fine.”

“Okay,” Weiss managed, he didn’t fully believe it, but his friend’s words did give him some comfort. “Thanks again, you’re the best.”

“Any time, dear,” Bob chirped, “Let me know how it went, and give Skia a big hug from me.”

They ended the call, and Weiss put out his pipe, feeling better now that he’d talked to Bob and got the reality check he’d needed.

He took a deep breath as he left the study and made his way upstairs, smiling at the sweet smell coming from the kitchen.

0-0

Sting’s room was a mess. There were clothes scattered all over the floor, ripped out of the closet as he’d picked out the ones to shove in a bag under the sound of loud music. Sting knew that the incident between him and his dad wasn’t over just yet, but he wanted to be ready to get the hell out if worse came to worst. He’d heard about parents having bad reactions before, but he had never expected that from his own family and best friend. He just assumed the worst, not knowing what to expect anymore.

As he took down the fairy lights that were hanging on the wall right next to his bed, his attention was gripped by the pictures he’d hung up just below them. Pictures of places he loved to visit, like the beach or the zoo. Pictures of him with Yukino and with his parents. He took one of them down, carefully removing the thumbtack and pushing it back into the wallpaper while he studied it up close.

It was a picture of Sting and his parents that one of the nurses at the clinic had taken last year. Sting was wearing his dad’s white coat and name tag for a class presentation. It looked kind of silly, as it was a few sizes too large on him, and they’d stuck with that theme by making funny faces at the camera—a happy family like they’d always been.

Pfft, yeah, right. What a joke!

Sting gazed at it, still remembering how he’d felt that day, so eager to fill his father’s shoes. His father was someone he’d always looked up to. He worked hard and had made a difference in so many people’s lives over the years, running the clinic, where everyone was treated equally regardless of how much money they made or what job they held.

Apparently, he didn’t view everyone as equally as Sting had thought.

Not able to contain his frustration, he moved over to his nightstand to grab some of his comic books. There were several he hadn’t gotten around to reading, and he wasn’t about to leave them behind. Once he’d scanned them all and picked his favorites, he turned around to put them in his already stuffed bag and nearly jumped out of his skin when he noticed his dad standing in the doorway, staring at him in dismay.

“Can we talk?”

“Oh, so now you want to talk?” Sting chided, struggling to close the zipper of his bag, “Okay, sure. Whatever you have to say, just say it.”

His dad sighed, the sound inaudible over the out-of-place pop tunes but visible through his body language, “You surprised me, that’s all.”

“I surprised you?” Sting slung the words back, “How do you think I feel?”

Outraged by his father’s words, Sting couldn’t keep still, his body thrumming with nervous energy. He began taking a few items out of the bag, throwing them aside to make room for different ones.

“Can you please turn that down so we can talk?”

When Sting ignored his request, his father went ahead and turned off the music himself. “There, that’s better. It’s a hot day, isn’t it?” he pointed out, “Why don’t we sit outside for a while?”

He opened the door that led out to the balcony they shared and walked out, leaving the door open for Sting to follow.

Sting took one last look around his room, trying to decide what to do. His dad was acting oddly calm, which allowed a voice in the back of his head to suggest it might not be so bad. Still, its negative counterpart immediately reminded him that he hadn’t made any attempt whatsoever to stop him from packing his stuff either.

He’s just gonna let you leave, just like he let you walk away before, it taunted, and Sting had never felt so worthless.

Despite his fears, he went outside, his eyes glued to the ground because he knew it would only take one glance at his father’s face for him to break.

“Have I ever told you that your mother and I thought we’d never be able to have children?” his dad spoke the moment Sting stepped out on the balcony. “We’d been trying for years, and when it finally happened, your mom had a miscarriage that almost took her life. After that, we’d decided not to try anymore. But then, when we weren’t expecting it, you came along.”

He came closer, putting both his hands on Sting’s shoulders, “Hey, look at me.”

Sting obeyed hesitantly, noticing to his great surprise that his dad was smiling at him, the way he did so often. A proud smile that was both everything Sting wanted to see and unbearable to look at at the same time.

“You are the best thing that’s happened to us, and nothing will ever change that,” he said, hugging Sting close to his chest. “I’m so sorry for not having the words to tell you that right away.”

Sting’s doubts melted away as he felt the warmth of his father’s arms wrapped around him, and the reassurance of kisses pressed into his hair. He’d so sworn to himself that he wasn’t going to cry, damn it, he wasn’t a little kid anymore. But in that moment of overwhelming relief, he felt five years old all over again.

“You smell of pipe,” he accused as he sniffled, burying his face into his dad’s shirt anyway, squeezing him so hard it made his old man chuckle.

“It was prescribed this time,” his father replied innocently.

“I’m sure,” Sting nodded, unsure whether he should be convinced.

“So, are we okay, or…?” Weisslogia asked, pulling away to look him in the eyes again.

He considered the question.

Were they okay?

Sting thought about how discouraged he’d felt just a few short minutes ago when he’d thought that everyone he loved was now against him. Now that he realized that wasn’t the case, he felt kind of bad for having so little trust in his dad, and for all the bad thoughts his anger and fear had fed him.

“Yeah, I- uhm, I guess I may have overreacted a little? You know, with the whole packing my bag thing…”

“No, it’s understandable. I can only imagine how scary it must’ve been for you to tell me, and when I should’ve been there to take those fears away, I only made them worse. Definitely not my proudest moment as a parent,” Weisslogia remarked. “But I need you to know that I’m thankful you’ve told me and that you can always ask or tell me anything. I may not have all the answers, but I’ll do my best to be there for you whenever you need me.”

After a brief moment of contemplation, Sting shrugged his shoulders. “Consider yourself forgiven,” he smirked, trying to joke it off, but he quickly dropped the act.

“Thanks, dad. That means a lot to me.”

“It means a lot to me too,” his dad smiled again, giving him another quick hug.

“I should talk to mom, huh?” Sting figured, remembering how he’d shut her out earlier when she’d tried talking to him.

“Only if you want to,” his father assured him, “but I have a feeling she will take it much better than you think,” and knowing his parents too well, Sting guessed that this feeling his dad was speaking of was probably more than just that.

It didn’t matter. Sting took his word for it, which made him a lot less nervous when they went back inside. His suspicions were confirmed when they came down the stairs and were greeted with the smell of something sweet and familiar. His mother would often bake a treat of sorts when he was upset, and it seemed like today was no exception.

“Hey, mom? There’s something I want to tell you,” he called out to her, taking the stairs two steps at a time, feeling more confident knowing that his dad was right behind him.

“Yeah?” she answered once they’d reached the kitchen, and sure enough, there was a plate full of cupcakes waiting for them on the island counter. She was just finishing topping off the last one with white frosting.

“I hope it won’t melt, they’re still a bit warm,” she mumbled to herself before turning her attention to Sting, “but they’re not quite done yet, something is missing…”

She rummaged through one of her cabinets, one that was perhaps even messier than Sting’s room was at the moment. Sting shared a look of wordless astonishment with his dad at how she was even able to find stuff in there, but it didn’t take long for her to return to the plate.

One by one, she decorated the cupcakes with a generous amount of rainbow sprinkles and smiled at the end result.

“That’s so much better,” she winked at Sting, “I think they’re perfect like this, don’t you?”

Sting could feel himself getting emotional again at her words, and he ran around the kitchen island to wrap his mother in a hug. “Thank you,” he managed to get the words out before bursting into tears.

“It’s nothing to cry about silly, this is a happy occasion,” he could hear the smile in her voice and feel the warmth of her body, and it struck him how lucky he was to have her as his mother. He hugged her even tighter, remembering what his father had said about her having almost died before he was born until she gently pushed him away to get a look at his face.

“I know,” he sniffled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, “It’s just been a rough day.”

“Well, why don’t we sit down and have some cupcakes, you can tell me all about it.”

He nodded, already grabbing a cupcake and shoving the whole thing in his mouth before finding his way to one of the stools on the other side of the island. He hoped his mom could help him figure out what to do about Yukino because as relieved as he felt at the moment, he knew there was still an uncomfortable conversation in his future.

His mother waited patiently, watching him eat cupcake after cupcake, for once not even scolding him for his lack of table manners even though he could feel the stickiness of the frosting on his face.

He was getting ready to explain his predicament when the doorbell rang. His mother handed him a napkin with a smile and got up to answer it.

“I’ll get it, it’s probably one of the neighbors or something, I’ll be right back.”

Sting watched his mother walk away from the kitchen towards their foyer, grabbing another cupcake from the tray as he waited for her return.

“You feeling better?” his father asked, and Sting had to laugh when he noticed his father’s face was also covered in frosting.

“Yeah,” he admitted, after handing him a napkin of his own, “I just wish -”

“Yukino!” Sting heard his mother’s cheerful voice and tensed up once again, “You didn’t have to ring the doorbell, sweetie, you know you’re always welcome to come in from the yard!”

The sound of their steps echoed on the tiled floor, and Sting felt the cupcakes he’d already eaten settle in his stomach like a lead weight. Even though his mom was acting as if everything were normal, she had to have noticed that Yukino’s eyes were puffy, and her cheeks were blotchy from crying.

Not that Sting looked any better at the moment.

“Sting, look who’s here!”

His father saved him from responding, “Yukino! It’s been a while, how are you, dear?”

“Just fine, Dr. Eucliffe, thank you,” she attempted to smile, “Is it okay if I borrow Sting for a few minutes?”

Sting could feel the combined weight of both his parent’s glances, but it was his father who answered. “Of course.”

Just as he was getting up from the stool, he felt his father’s hand grab his and squeeze tightly as he mouthed the words Just be yourself at him. He gave a small nod in return and led the way outside through the sliding door.

“Do you wanna...sit here?” he gestured towards the bench swing where they had often whiled away entire afternoons, feeling kind of awkward and unsure what to say.

“Okay,” Yukino’s voice was quiet, and her movements were stiff as she sat down. Sting sat next to her rocking the swing slowly to give his antsy legs something to do.

They sat like this for several moments, neither saying a word, and Sting came to the conclusion that she had come to break off their friendship. The way she had rung the doorbell instead of coming in like she always did, how she wouldn’t even look at him.

It hurt, but he decided to be the bigger person.

“Sting, I-”

“It’s okay-”

Sting stopped talking and gestured to her to continue.

“I, uhm, I wanted to say I was sorry for running off on you like that,” Yukino’s voice quavered, and when she finally looked at him he was shocked to see the sadness clouding her usually sunny features,” You’re probably pretty mad at me, huh?”

“Mad?” Sting’s head jerked in confusion, “No, of course not. I was just scared that you’d hate me and wouldn’t want to be friends anymore.”

“No, of course I want to be friends, the best of friends. I just-” Yukino sighed, “I was embarrassed and a little hurt and confused.”

“It was probably dumb of me to think that-” she began, and once again, Sting could hear the tremble in her voice. It made him feel terrible for making her feel that way, but he also knew he couldn’t have avoided the situation for much longer.

She took a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to help much. “Sorano said I was being silly, that this way I could have you forever and we could talk about boys and go shopping and-”

She wasn’t able to continue, as the tears that she had been trying to contain refused to stay hidden any longer.

Sting tapped her on her shoulder, and when she finally peered at him, he held out his arms in silent invitation. Yukino hesitated for a moment before accepting his embrace.

“You’re not silly, it’s not like you can choose who you like or anything…” Sting talked while letting her cry out her feelings in his arms. He sighed before apologizing, not for who he was, but for how he had inadvertently made her feel. “I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you.”

“Yeah, Sorano said that too,” she sniffled, moving away to begin the interrogation he’d been expecting, “How long have you known?”

Sting averted his eyes and kept them fixed on the flowers in his mother’s garden, “About two years, I guess…”

“Oh. That’s a long time,” Yukino replied, and Sting could hear it, the hurt in her voice, intensifying the guilt he’d already felt over the way he’d handled this.

“You could have told me,” she chided, “I’m your best friend, and I didn’t even have a clue.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Sting snapped, frustrated that she still didn’t seem to get it, “especially not with the way you were acting.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, immediately regretting his outburst, “that was uncalled for. It’s just… none of this is easy for me. I’ve heard the way people talk at school about this stuff, what was I supposed to do?”

“You don’t need to apologize, you’re right, I was out of line,” she replied, holding his gaze evenly.

“I did want to tell you,” Sting ran his fingers through his hair, thinking of all the times he’d considered the idea, but something always made him hold back, and then she’d developed a crush on him. “But I- I was nervous about how you’d react, and I had no idea how or when to bring it up.”

Yukino nodded before looking down at her hands which were clasped on her lap, “It just all feels so strange, we used to tell each other everything, and I don’t want that to change.”

“Neither do I,” Sting shook his head, “No more secrets?” He held out his hand with only his pinky extended, breathing a sigh of relief when Yukino met it with hers right away.

“No more secrets.”

“So...are we good?” Sting still felt a little unsure until she flashed him one of her smiles. It wasn’t as vibrant as always, but he could glimpse a ghost of her usual smile lurking underneath, and he knew then that they were going to be okay.

“Yeah, we’re good,” she assured him.

“Thank God, I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d rather spend a lifetime of talking about boys and going shopping with.”

“Good,” Yukino managed a giggle,” cause you seriously need some fashion help.”

“You know what?” Sting examined the clothes he was wearing, wrinkling his nose at how plain they felt. When he was still younger, he hadn’t given a damn about what anyone thought of his fashion choices, and he’d love to get that back after hiding for so long.

“You’re totally right. Half the contents of my closet are already on the floor, I might as well throw some stuff out and get a new wardrobe,” he decided.

Yukino rolled her eyes and teased, “How is that any different from how your room normally looks?”

“Shots fired.”

Yukino laughed as she swatted away Sting’s finger guns. The sliding door opened, and they turned to see his parents bringing out plates of food.

“Everything okay, you two?”

Sting smiled at his parents, “Yeah, everything’s just fine.”

And for the first time that day, he actually believed it.

[spookilyfingergunsoutofexistence]

How do you measure power?

Chapter 2 of ?

Read on ao3 here

Prologue next chapter

This is the first chapter.

Enjoy

Tw: mentions of death, violence, blood, crime, mentions of cheating, Mentions of malnutrition, terrorist attack, mentions of bombing, coma

~~~~

“Sam! Hurry up. Visiting hours are nearly over.” Virgil was pacing the kitchen waiting for his girlfriend Samantha. She’d been at the hospital at the time of the attack. What had been at first reported as a chemical spill was soon reported for what it truly was, a terrorist attack. A bomb that contained a highly toxic, radioactive substance had been let off in the west wing of the hospital. Samantha worked on the east ring with Patton. The explosion alone killed over eighteen victims and within hours the highly radioactive substance had caused high amounts of radiation poisoning. Death spread throughout the hospital like the common cold. Months had passed since the attack and people were still under quarantine. Many like Patton who had been deemed to be in a coma had died and almost everyone in a half a mile radius of the hospital had high levels of radiation inside them; most fatal amounts but some were lucky. No one in that entire hospital walked out ok and yet here Samantha was- burn scars on her face from the explosion but only a low level of radiation. Virgil didn’t question it. He just felt lucky she was ok. Right now though he was just excited to see his best friend for the first time in months. Sure, he was anxious about the gas masks and hazmat suits and inspections he would have to go through to see Patton and he couldn’t even imagine what he was going to say to Logan. Logan had always been the quiet type and they had never really got along or talked much but they both shared an appreciation for space. Logan had visited since the day he heard about the explosion. He had gone every day since. He couldn’t even touch his husband without wearing gloves or having some sort of material between them. Logan had been forced to wear a suit and a gas mask for all these months. Not only that but he had to wear a radiation monitor which would beep obnoxiously when he had to leave. They wouldn’t let him leave the building without first washing himself down in their on-site cleaning station and taking some mandatory pill that apparently lowered any form of radiation poisoning. To Virgil the whole procedure sounded insane. By the time you’d got in or out your loved one could be dead.

Samantha walked downstairs and fondly rolled her eyes as she watched Virgil pacing the hall. She gently placed her hands on his shoulders and stopped him from pacing, “Virgil.. Breathe.. Breath with me storm cloud. Did you take your meds?” Virgil nodded and slowly breathed along with her feeling himself slowly become calmer. He built up his courage as he walked out of the door and on to the quiet streets of his small town. Virgil had grown up in this lively, little town. It had always been a colourful place full of cheery people and an uplifting atmosphere. To an outsider it didn’t have much to offer but to Virgil it was his safe place. Everyone was so friendly and in this place you knew everyone. Nothing ever changed. That’s why the attack had affected Virgil so much. It was like his entire world had changed. This lovely town that he adored with his entire being was now a place of tragedy, death and despair. No one left their homes anymore. Streets were filled with an eerie silence. Streets full of colour and joy, once filled with people and innocent young minds playing around in warm bustling markets and parks. Store fronts packed with flowers of bright orange and red hues now lay decayed. It was as though someone had painted over the town with dark greys and dull browns. A dismal, depressing atmosphere had taken over what had once been paradise. Virgil felt tense just walking down his street; a street he had walked thousands of times. The gloom was equivalent of a large boulder resting on each residents’ shoulders. Virgil had always been a sore thumb among the town. His whole aesthetic was based around darkness and edge but even he despised the inky black fog that now engulfed his town in darkness. In hard times most tight knit towns in fairy tales and stories are said to band together and ‘rebuild’ but this clearly wasn’t the case. People cared more about living themselves then risking their lives to help others and so the people of this town had locked themselves indoors. After the attack, many places of work had closed as a safety regulation for both the customers and staff causing many people to be out of work and lose money. People in the town had started to go hungry and many resorted to crime. Crime rates were at an all time high and now there was reports of superhuman robberies. It was truly a time of terror.

Virgil walked quickly, practically dragging Samantha along with him. His eyes frantically searched the streets in case of danger. He would be useless if any danger would befall them but if push came to shove and he was in a fight or flight situation at least he could run. Damn he was a fast runner.

“C’mon Sammy..” his voice was hushed, “If we go quickly we might not run into any trouble.” The pair hurried down the long, winding road towards the hospital in town centre. Sam looked ready to fight anyone who even looked at her funny. She had her fists clenched as she raced just behind Virgil and her eyes squinted, searching the shadows for any sign of life. Virgil would be lying if he said he was focused on the streets. He was more worried about the woman he had firmly clasped in his grip. They had been through a rough patch lately over the past months of the attack. Samantha had a habit of lying little and often- Virgil usually let it slide but he’d just been so paranoid lately and when Sam would spend her nights away from home and only return late at night it made him anxious. What was she up to? Was she off running some crime circle or maybe she was cheating on him? Maybe she didn’t love him anymore and had found somebody else. It would explain how she managed to survive the attack; maybe she never was even there at the hospital that day. He wouldn’t put it past Samantha to have lied but he couldn’t bare confrontation without having solid evidence. Part of him hoped he would never have to confront her, he loved Sam and he wanted her to be real with him. Maybe he’d forgi- No. He couldn’t forgive that but he shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe she was just lucky.

One bad turn. It took one bad turn before they were faced with bats and knives. All thoughts of Sam cheating flew from Virgil’s mind as he froze in the face of danger. Panic bubbled inside of him like a volcano ready to erupt but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. His basic instincts were stripped away as he just stood there gaping as though he was a fish. The men looked blood thirsty and cold. Much different to the fishermen they had once been. Virgil had been well acquainted with most of the men. He knew their names, their wives’ names and the names of all their children. He could tell you where each lived and had babysitted for many of them before. Whatever former relationship he shared with each of these men was clearly gone now as they all cornered the young couple. “Richard.. Buddy. How are the kids?” Sammy asked. She sounded calm- threatening almost. The man clearly flinched from the question, but the group got closer still. Persistent. Virgil felt like he was in the lion’s den. Perhaps he was already trapped within the lion’s jaws, his head ready to be snapped off at any second. If he reached Patton it would be a miracle. He could feel the breath hitting his face. The repugnant smell of fish encased him. This was not how he imagined death. He had imagined it to be slow and graceful. He had imagined it to be a welcomed experience once he had reached old age and was married to Sammy and had kids. Death was nothing like that. Cold metal burned his skin. The blade pressed against his sensitive neck drawing a fresh line of crimson blood. His eyes stung with unshed tears as he stared into the eyes of old friends. This surely couldn’t be how he died…

“Stop you fiends!” A loud, obnoxious voice yelled. A booming sound that send shivers down Virgil’s spine. The men all froze- not in horror but as though on command. Their angered faces turned blank and robotic. They all fell back into line as though they were military men and just stood there. “Go home and leave these people be!” The voice demanded. The men oddly left without argument. A man with neatly styled brown hair and caramel skin walked out from the shadows and towards the couple. He was wearing a dark brown oversized sweater and a warm smile. His faded blue jeans looked out of character for that of a super hero. He clearly was just some guy but to Virgil he was a hero. “Roman O’Connell?!” Virgil shrieked. Just his luck that he was saved by the guy he has spent the entirety of high school crushing over. Hard. Virgil had been an anxious bisexual mess all his life and of course that sexy budding author had managed to write himself back into Virgil’s life somehow. “I thought you moved to New York to try and get onto Broadway.” Roman chuckled at this. It was a low sound that bounced against the walls and brought a small smile to the young emo’s face. “Yeah. I moved for a bit, but I changed my mind. My first book took off and I decided I was better off at home. Who knew that weeks after I moved back the world would come crashing down on this small place?” Virgil nodded in agreement. He met eyes with his old friend. Roman had grown so much. He looked so much more mature and at peace. He’d always been an over-confident clown but now he had an air of responsibility around him. “So you’re playing superhero now O’Connell.” Sam commented. Her eyebrow was raised so high Virgil thought it might fly off her face. Roman looked shocked at first but he quickly recovered. “Why of course!” he exclaimed, “You know I can’t bear to leave a gorgeous damsel such as yourself fall victim to such a brutal attack, dear Samantha.” Virgil groaned at Roman’s theatrics. That was the man he knew. The man who flirted and hid behind walls. The man that constantly walked the line between fiction and non-fiction.

“But how did you do that? Those folks looked like zombies. Are you one of those superhumans?” The three fell silent at the question. Roman looked awkwardly between the two. The answer to the question was obvious and yet held such a level of secrecy. It wasn’t normal. “W-Why yes.. I am. The radiation… It changed me. It’s like writing a story. Everything I narrate comes true within reason. Pretty cool right?”

“Cure Patton.”

“What?” Roman and Sam both looked at Virgil shocked. “Bring all the people who died from the attack back. Bring Patton out of his coma. Narrate it. Just say, ‘Patton woke up and all the people who died were saved.’ If you’re some big hero now you should save them.” Roman stared at Virgil with soft, heartbroken eyes. He wanted to help those who were in pain more then anything, He knew Patton- he would love to help him and to bring back those who were dead, but the feat was just…. Impossible. It was beyond his reach. “Virgil my powers don’t work like that. I’m sorry. Truly, I am but I cannot just wish people back to life. I cannot perform the impossible.” Virgil sighed. He was asking the world from somebody he hadn’t seen in so long. It was unfair. They all stared at each other in an uncomfortable silence for a while until Sam spoke up, “Well Roman, it has been lovely seeing you but I’m afraid it’s time we go. Visiting times are almost over.” Roman nodded and Virgil went to say his goodbyes to his old friend before being quickly rushed away by Samantha off towards the hospital. Virgil sent Roman an apologetic look as he was dragged away which was met with a small smile. That stupid smile that made Virgil’s knees weak and his heart pound against his rip cage. He knew it was wrong to like Roman whilst he was with Sam, but he couldn’t help it. It was only a harmless crush and it was clearly obvious due to Sammy’s reaction. He let his thoughts whisk him away as they raced along the barren streets towards ‘Sunnyside hospital’. An ironic name for a place so dull and full of sadness, especially since the sunshine in a lot of the towns day to day life was currently laying half dead on a hospital bed. Virgil just wished he could do something to help his friend. He just wanted to see him. To be there for Logan. God, he couldn’t imagine how much this all hurt Logan. Patton and Logan were like the sun and the moon- one was bright and warm, making everyone’s days better and the other was mysterious and beautiful. They both worked together in making the Earth brighter and without one their would be complete darkness and despair.

“Virgil.. We’re nearly there. We’d be there faster if you’d hurry up.” Sam urged as she dragged him down the street. Virgil hurried behind letting his mind settle as his soul focus became the hospital. The building was in ruins since the explosion. The west wing looked like a post war zone. It was destroyed, rubble crumbling to the floor and overgrown plants growing into the walls. The building reeked of decay. The east ring wasn’t any prettier. Broken walls were covered by white sheets that blew in the wind. The entrance to the hospital had become a quarantine zone in which you would go through the prior mentioned process before visiting any family. The hospital had only been open to close family for the first couple months but now it was the first day in which friends could visit. Virgil sprinted the rest of the way to the entrance. The adrenaline finally catching up with him. He had to go see his friend right now. They both entered the hospital and went through the long, tedious process. Finally, after being suited up and ready they were walked down the halls towards where Patton was being kept. The hospital was full of agony. As Virgil walked he could hear the howls of patients in pain and the cries of family members in utter anguish. A pool of dread sat in the bottom of his stomach. Maybe he didn’t want to see his friend like this. Patton had always been the strong one. The guy that had been there for him when Virgil was at his lowest or was feeling his most anxious. Seeing Patton hurt felt like the curtain call. He didn’t want to think about a reality in which Patton was dead. It was silly right? Everybody dies but Virgil just couldn’t imagine a world without his best friend.

They reached the door. E34. His hand rested on the door handle. He knew his hand was shaking, the door handle rattled under his grip. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Click.

The door opened to a dimly lit room. Logan sat asleep on a chair beside Patton’s bed. Their hands clasped together. Patton’s was unmoving whilst Logan’s was gripping Patton’s limply. Both men looked broken. Logan’s black hair was long and greasy- a complete change to his usual buzzcut style. It flopped over his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t washed himself or eaten for days. His glasses were askew on his face and his shirt was dirty as though he hadn’t left in a long time. Virgil tried to avoid looking at his friend. The man’s curly blond hair had grown since he’d last seen him. It covered his eyes. His round glasses sat on the desk covered in a thin layer of dust. His normally red, freckle-filled cheeks were drained of all colour. He was unnaturally pale and sickly. His pink lips were as pale as his skin and he looked thinner then usual. Virgil found himself looking away from them both, gripping Samantha’s hand tightly who let out a sob once laying eyes on the couple. He ran his eyes over Patton’s limp body once more. He was still in his nurses’ uniform. He looked so at peace- as though he was ready to go. He watched his hand that Logan held intensely. The hand twitched slightly and as though by a miracle they intertwined. Despite the crazy, despite the blood shed and crime. Despite every odd fighting against it love had found a way. Love had wo-

A shrill scream erupted from Patton’s lips as though he were still in that explosion. The sound shook Logan awake. The sound thundered against the walls with ear piercing intensity and was laced with pure terror. As quickly as the hand was intertwined it was ripped away. Patton sat up quickly. His eyes that were once a deep ocean blue were now a pure white. Even the pupil was colourless. Virgil stared on in horror as his friend frantically looked around the room. Scanning every surface with his eyes.

“Patton! Patton! My love it’s ok. You’re safe I’m right here. You’re fi-“

“I’m dead.”

Taglist:

@sandersfandersblog

[imsickoftheseshadows]

London - A Short Story.

Harping did not define the emotion I experienced, for several months, after Axel had left me. 

Of course, Axel was not the only man I had pined for; in fact, there was Jack, the other musician who had flown across the Atlantic at summer’s close; there was Tim, a film professor at my university, and Enrique, a South American artist who had told me he was possessed by the devil. But Axel, the New York singer and delicatessen owner, had been special – He was thirty-five, six-foot three, and rail thin, with a vague Williamsburg air that was pretentious enough to clot a Californian cocktail. His first record, evocative of Blade Runner’s score, was perpetually spinning in my bedroom. He was a frequent collaborator with James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem, who I had admired twice as much as Axel, though had little fantasies about (I will admit I had developed crushes on several of my favorite artists, though James was lower on the totem pole aesthetically than someone of Axel’s caliber).

This recollection isn’t about Axel, but I cannot tell this story without him.

My twenty-first year had proven uneventful – I still spent too much time in collegiate cafes, scrolling through online-dating profiles, and reflecting on whether or not I would ever be ready to leave my comfortably suburban dwellings. I sensed a trace of finality about this season. It was my last autumn enrolled in university, and I would be deciding whether to pursue a professorial path, or obtain stability between the walls of a cubicle. My distraction, Axel, visited biyearly, when we would meet either at The Standard or The Roosevelt, and I would make the pilgrimage to Los Angeles. Already half a year had passed, and Axel was not to return until the following January.

My town was in its final stretch of Indian Summer on this particular evening – The saffron sun unfurled the paper night, brittle and arid. I settled into my bedroom, arrested by the mushroom clouds of milk enveloping my black tea. Halloween was a fortnight away, though I would be spending it in class. I thought about Axel regularly, simultaneously a daydream and a diversion, envisaging the perpetual cigarette dangling from his mouth. Tonight, he weighed heavy in my mind. I picked up my phone, and began to stalk his social media.

Nothing remarkable, I thought, as I peered at his posts. One of Axel’s newest videos, a capture of him expertly playing with a Moog synthesizer, had an entrancing, obscure comment. My ex-girlfriend told me she hates music. The commenter was familiar. I tapped on his thumbnail. The eyes, mass of ginger hair, and Cheshire grin, were reminiscent of Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange. His profile betrayed him. Beneath his portrait was the name of his band, which I instantly recognized as the English musicians who had scored my first break-up, and had several alternative hits in the US. Lovehurt, I recalled, and began to murmur the lyrics. I thought nothing more of it, and decided to follow him.

I returned to my homepage, and began to think of getting ready for bed. A silent banner flashed across my screen -- GeorgeGibson has followed you. I reclined, falling betwixt my pillows, and held my phone over my head.

No harm in liking a few of his photos – Is three years ago too far? I sensed my desperation. I was in bed, fully-clothed, and it was nearing midnight. My tea had gone cold, and my cat was fast asleep at the foot of my bed. George was sensationally attractive, though I couldn’t imagine being so ambitious as to write to him.

My phone vibrated with another notification.

Hello Madame, it read, in the form of a direct message. I hesitated to respond. Is this really happening? I rolled over onto my belly. Where are you from, I typed. It’s quite late here.

I live in London, he replied. Have you ever been?

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We corresponded via WhatsApp over the course of two months – He sent me music; I responded with poetry. Facetime became our preferred mode of communication, though the time difference made it difficult to coordinate our video chats. I began to fear that our contact would eventually taper off, especially when my boredom seemed so conclusively quelled. I blocked Axel, in case George ever asked about us.

I’ve never left the country, I wrote, but I’ve always wanted to see England.

He had spoken of the prospect of me visiting him in prior conversations – I conjured up possible stories to tell my family, if I hypothetically, unexpectedly set off for London. We’re still strangers, I thought. Constant correspondences or not – But when will I ever have the chance to take a trip like this again?

I basked in this quaint fantasy by making an appointment to apply for a passport. No harm in having one of these on hand. I drove down to Orange County, two hours south of my house, to retrieve a copy of my birth certificate. My passport arrived within two weeks. Tickets to London were unreasonably cheap, though I had heard London in January was brutal. I wavered between fiction and reality – George, the famed musician, and George, the friend I had made, so eager to take me to the stationary shops with Italian stamps from the 1970s. I checked plane tickets daily, and told George I was on the verge of making a life-altering purchase.

Know I can only spend a couple of days with you, Taylor, he typed. My band will murder me if I’m away from our recording session for more than a weekend.

I was at my local café, alternating between sips of black coffee and bites of an overcooked frittata. My bangs had grown long enough to tuck behind my ears – I nervously fingered each strand, calculating my response. Christmas was to come and go, as though the seasons had become perpetually stagnant. It could rain for days, and the sky would still be a blaze of azure at dusk.

It doesn’t matter, I answered. The tickets are mine, and I arrive three weeks from today.

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I feigned connectivity issues. I silenced all notifications, and then turned on Airplane Mode. I wanted to be certain – I wanted to be confident that not a single person, even those I had entrusted with my private line, would contact me for the next five days. LAX was bustling with people, and I was anxious to remain remote until we were tens of thousands of feet above the technicolor skyline. I had no idea that there was one terminal for all departing international flights. I wore three sweaters to lighten my carry-on, and arrived six hours before my flight.

My parents did not know I was leaving until I boarded the plane. My mother sobbed when she found out, and I consoled her by stating I would phone her the second I landed. I didn’t. My story was simple: I was off to London for a girl’s trip with one of my best friends from high school. It was a spontaneous, last-minute decision that we decided we had to do before graduating college.

George was concerned. How could you not tell your parents, he had written, moments before I boarded the plane. My story was partially true – It was spontaneous, as in, I would have never left America if I hadn’t felt compelled to conduct a transatlantic, pseudo-love affair. George had urged me, and now my departure was met with cool reserve. I started to question my mental state. I ordered three glasses of wine, one after the other, upon takeoff. 

I touched down in London around 10 in the morning, and the ground had been veiled by impenetrable clouds, as though I had fallen into heaven – all was in reverse. I noted the specks of cars lining the roads in the opposite direction; the silver buildings and the lush foliage. The tarmac was barely visible from my window, but the jet bridge was clear – and on the other side would be a man and a city, and he was to be my tour guide for the first two days.

Before dealing with border control, I hurried to the airport’s restroom. No toilet seat covers. I caught a glimpse of my reflection -- Perspiration ruined my hair and the little makeup I had applied. Fortunately, I had a spare pair of hoop earrings in my purse, but my complexion remained ghastly. I rushed through the border, anxious in line. I quickly handed over my unblemished passport to the border control officer.

“Who do you know here?” I paused, searching for the answer in the lines of my arrival card.

“It’s a friend – An Internet friend, whom I will be checking into the Hilton in Islington with.”

The officers, an elderly man and towering woman, exchanged dubious glances. They asked for more information. I acquiesced, thrusted my return ticket in their faces, and after several minutes, was allowed through.

The escalator was in sight, and I began to sense an onset of anxiety – I am in a foreign country, about to check-in to my first hotel. I stumbled over my carmine suitcase as I approached the exit; my luggage matched my tired eyes. The heels I had worn so well in Los Angeles were unfit for cobblestone streets, and I clumsily found him, in the front of the crowd, with a ticket for the Heathrow Express in his right hand. 

We embraced, and upon contact, my visage colored damask rose. 

He was five-foot-eleven, and wore a brown bomber jacket with black leather boots. He pursed his lips, full and heavenly, while I stared, in awe. George was cool in a European sense – He owned boots, and trainers, and foreign vintage labels, but was a minimalist and adored neutral colorways. His accent, crisp and clipped, was warm, and I instantly wondered what it would be like to miss him after only two days.

He took my luggage with his left hand, and we dashed toward the train.

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We arrived at the Hilton in a black cab. He upgraded my room. We made love for an hour, and I thought I was going to faint.

“I want to take you around Islington,” he whispered. 

Morning had bled into afternoon, and we were languorous, lazy and lounging. I happily obliged, sensing the ghost of passion about my being. I changed into a dress, and reapplied my eyeliner, but remained equal parts self-conscious and jet-lagged. Does he find me as attractive as he did online? It was frivolous to question this, though my mind was tainted with uncertain thoughts. He put on his trousers, then laced up his boots. My parka, bought at a discount, was colossal for my frame. He smiled endearingly, and we took the elevator to the lobby.

I was clumsy against cobblestone, my ankles buckling beneath me – George caught me twice, and kissed me with each fall. We arrived at a bijou cocktail lounge in Clerkenwell, which appeared to be a repurposed home – the corridor led into segregated rooms, with hundreds of vintage books along each wall. We both had whiskey – This will wake you up. I quietly quaffed my drink, while he took apathetic sips of his. He grasped my hand.

“It’s so lovely that you’re here,” he paused, studying my expression. “Are you feeling okay?”

I was drowsy, disengaged, and enamored. The stained-glass windows could not hide the somber skies, yet I gazed at each cloud lovingly. Everything was perfect.

He took me to another lounge, and then to the British Film Institute, where I imbibed a glass of Malbec in the café. A Hot Chip song boomed through the stereo, and he reminisced the time that he played at a festival with them. Alt-J played next, and he discussed his disdain. I finished my drink and wandered toward the gift shop, where I searched for obscure British DVDs, blissfully unaware that they were region 2 locked (until arriving home). I hung onto his every recommendation, as a schoolgirl would a handsome instructor. I chose Jean-Luc Godard cinema critiques and Stanley Kubrick’s photo book. He picked up a copy of Caligula.

By nightfall, we had arrived at our final bar, which was two-stories, with the bottom floor having been fashioned from a basement. A beautiful woman in a blue beret was reading Proust by the entrance, and he commented on the pretentiousness of the lounge. We went back to the hotel shortly after, as my exhaustion had faded into delirium.

I woke up around 2 am. I noticed that he had spilt tears of wine; red vino, according to the bottle, a Tempranillo. I think I had it in Echo Park one lonely summer ago. The crisp, white sheets were speckled with blood. He turned over, noticing that I was awake – He kissed me, and I realized that I was ravenous, for the first time since leaving Los Angeles. 

He went to buy us a kebab, England’s guiltiest pleasure (I found this out much later). He left the BBC on, and the reporter was exploring Donald Trump’s ascension to the presidency. Not here. I changed the channel, and absentmindedly flipped past an Amy Winehouse documentary. I began to thumb through my newly acquired Jean-Luc Godard book, then sifted through the treasures of the day.

By the second chapter, the door swung open, and George appeared, grinning, with a fistful of candy and two kebabs. I pulled the covers over my head as he fell into bed next to me; devouring the kebab, popping open a can of Coca Cola. He unfastened his duffel bag, and revealed bags of chips not sold in America. I clasped the delicacies close to my heart, and dissected the Reese’s Pieces bar.

“You don’t understand,” I laughed. “This is a novelty to me!”

We finished our respective dinners, and slept until noon.

Our room was littered with candy-wrappers and wine bottles; our ardent affair had been in view of several landmarks – the London Eye was in sight, and Big Ben was covered in scaffolding.

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The following day, George showed me his favorite stationary store, Present & Correct. He bought a stamp book, and then promptly lost it at the second scarlet pub we went to. We began our afternoon at a café, where everyone drank their coffee black and from a French press. The coffee was rich enough that creamer was unnecessary – I tasted it slowly, for pleasure, and because I knew he would be leaving at midnight. We went back to the British Film Institute, and he explained a music project he conducted, where he had recorded the sounds of London, while I examined other books from more obscure directors. I kept forgetting that I listened to his music for a number of years before knowing who he was. He stopped speaking for a moment, and shyly reached for my hand.

“George,” I paused. “Do you really have to leave tonight?”

He waited, appearing distraught. “I want you to come be with me in the summer. Can you do that?”

We sauntered to another pub, each one more grandiose than the last. I began to drink out of apprehension, dissolving my worry with each swallow. I wasn’t sure if he noticed – If he did, he didn’t seem to mind. I grew bored of the pub; I grew exhausted of our reservations. I remained awestruck, which translated into perceivable uneasiness, and called for medicinal drinking.

We stopped in Charing Cross, London, after mindlessly walking through the city. He stopped to show me his old apartment, which was built beneath one of the many cobblestone streets. I was two glasses of wine in, and twice as lecherous. He took me to Foyles, knowing such bookstores had fallen out of popularity in America. I bought a book on witchcraft, a Gustav Klimt novel (solely because of a chapter titled “Klimt’s Women”), and an autobiography entitled Art Sex Music (a friend I met later would call this his curriculum vitae) at George’s urging. I didn’t want to forget my fleeting emotions, nor him. I knew our time together was rapidly dissipating. The sky had blackened, as had my mood, though the wine began to enhance my synthetic insouciance.

George chose an Italian restaurant – Why not beans on toast? I knew nothing of British cuisine, and trusted his selection. We sat next to a heat lamp outdoors, in the frigid night, as there were no seats left inside. I peeled off my homely parka, even though I was cold, to remind him of desire. We caroused some more, and I embarrassed myself with comments of a dramatically wretched past – A lack of female friendship, men in power that had plagued my adolescence, and inappropriate commentary on my familial ties. He politely beamed the entire way through, even as I mistakenly slurped my pasta, and messily consumed a slice of his pork pizza. I poured the remainder of the Tempranillo into my glass, and asked him again to stay.

I was not immune to the social anxiety I faced at home – Abroad, I was aware of my unpalatable Californian accent and absence of fashionable clothing. I became hyper-conscious of my unnaturally stiff disposition. He was understanding, but courteously, clinically so. I knew I would be infatuated with him for months after our transatlantic love affair -- I silently wondered if he would ever tell Axel about a young, nameless brunette girl from Los Angeles, who flew across the Atlantic Ocean to make love to him.

He walked me back to the hotel, as I half-smiled and asked him to be with me one final time.

“We’re never going to see each other again.” I spoke with finality.

“I know we will. I’m coming to Los Angeles soon, don’t cry.”

As soon as the door slammed shut, I undressed, filled the bathtub, then mourned my solitude – a constant sob ebbed and flowed. I wrote, incomprehensibly, in my sanguine, store-bought moleskin journal. I took my phone off airplane mode. I sent him a thank you note, fully understanding that I would never see him again. Several moments passed, and twenty text messages from my family came through. I turned on the BBC, and stayed up all night. I became pragmatic at the break of dawn.

I texted my friends, those of which who had known of my secret trip, and then fell into fits of laughter, for two reasons:

I had no idea why I was crying at the Hilton, in a double bed, and God, I had gotten stupidly wine-drunk.

[angelkurenai]

Imagine Jensen confessing he accepted a role in a movie because he knew you, his celebrity crush, were in it.

“And here we are with the star of the movie, Jensen Ackles!” the woman grinned as Jensen did the same at her “Jensen, it's so great to see you here! Tell me, how does it feel to be on the big screen after all this time in Supernatural?”

“Wow it is certainly... weird, I must admit. I mean I was and still am so used to the Supernatural family that I had a hard time processing it when I got asked for this movie, I almost asked them if they had the wrong number and wanted to call Ryan Gosling or something but no- they insisted they wanted me!” he laughed, shaking his head as you smiled behind the camera. Seeing as your own interviews were over about half an hour ago you decided to hang out behind the cameras to watch your co-star and... more than just that, have his own last interview.

“But I think everybody will agree to hear and see that you actually accepted it, right?”

“Well, my friends and family really were. I was so glad that above all I didn't have to stop Supernatural for some time or anything, we managed to make it all work; because I honestly could not say no to this movie! There were so many things that made me say the big yes, but above all it's Blade Runner who would say no to this role?” he laughed softly and the interviewer nodded her head.

“Agreed, and I think everybody was very pleased to see that you indeed were the best choice for Officer K to the point that they want more than just one movie now. Tell me, though, if you could pick the three top reasons that made you take the role: what would they be?”

“Uhm well, in no particular order I think one would definitely be me being a huge geek when it comes to Blade Runner. I've been a really big fan of the first one since I was a kid, you'd have no idea!” he chuckled “Another one would definitelybe the amazing cast and crew. Getting to work with such amazing directors and Harrison Ford himself is a dream coming true and something that really made me want to jump at the opportunity the moment I heard it!”

“That would seem as a good reason too, yeah. And one more?”

“One more, oh.” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck “I- I think I'm going to regret saying this, out loud that is but uhm-” he cleared his throat “Alright I'm just- I should say it quick and without waiting so-”

“So?” she asked “Your main reason I'm guessing would-”

“(Y/n)!” he exclaimed, cutting her off and her eyebrows shot up. She giggled as Jensen laughed nervously.

“(Y/n), wow that is something I... didn't expect to hear and now- now I am intrigued. Do tell more?” she insisted and Jensen laughed nervously.

“Oh gosh, time to turn this into fifty shades of red.” he cleared his throat “I- I mean, have you seen her? There is no way I'd pass a movie when I found out she'd be my costar!”

“Costar and a lot more in the movie actually.” she said with a smirk and Jensen laughed, shrugging.

“Guilty” he shook his head “Point is, I know I am her biggest fan and I can fight anyone that dares to claim different, those scenes were just... an extra bonus.” he laughed “It would be a dream to be in a movie with her and- honestly? That was the first and main reason as to why I said yes.”

“So you'd say she's your celebrity crush?”

“I would actually but-” he glanced around “Just because she always finds her way around here somehow I am going to refer from that because I won't hear the end of it.”

“But you've become great friends, haven't you? And you've only knows each other for what- two years now?”

“Uhm well, I'm going to be honest: it's longer, much longer than just that. We- we met back in the beginning of Supernatural actually. I- I can't remember why she was there during season 1, and neither does she, but yeah- we go way back.” he grinned nodding his head.

“Wow, really? I'm surprised something like this has slipped the fans' radars considering how much of a buzz there isaround you two lately!”

“Trust me, that I know! Jared must be the number one shipper, that I am sure about!” he leaned back in his chair “And he sure as hell finds every possible way to tease me about (Y/n) whether I am talking with her on the phone, skype or just texting. He's just found his new favorite hobby that is most certain!”

“I'm sure he has a lot of fun with that! But uhm let me ask you something else too: Seeing as your character actually proposes in the very end to (Y/n)'s character, do you think – being single for so long – you would ever take this step and with who?”

“Taking this step hm. Uhm well, honestly first I would really have to find the one-” he chuckled, glancing at the camera where he had spotted you from before and grinned “-uhm yeah, done already I think. There are a lot of things that need to be in a relationship especially if someone wants to spend the rest of his life with another.”

“Would you? I mean as I said you've been single for very long, do you think you could make it? Leave all you have for something unknown actually.”

“Well, it really depends on how I'd feel for the person and how they too would respond to be honest. But you know, if they're the one- I wouldn't hesitate to give up my life for them.” he shrugged, this time completely serious and only a soft genuine smile on his face.

“So this... one you found, because you said it don't think I didn't catch that-” she smirked pointing a finger at him as he laughed “Do you think she'd be the one? And no vague answers here, Mr Ackles because all these years of hunting have rubbed off on you and you are still avoiding to answer.” she narrowed her eyes at him and Jensen looked at you laughing as you grinned at him.

“I am not!” he raised his hands in the air “But if you so want an answer, ask her to walk in!”

“Ask who?” she looked around.

“The answer, obviously.” you said with a smirk as you made your way around the cameras to your costar and wrapped your arms around his shoulders from behind as you kissed his cheek.

“The answ- oh!” her eyes widened as hiding your face in the crook of his neck you raised your hand to show her the classic diamond ring on your finger.

“He's a sap.” you chuckled, as he kissed the side of your head.

“Just the best for my fiance!”

[smittyryker]

Fertilizer (Newtmas)

I really, really love Newtmas…

Requested by @adnanmehanovic​, I hope you like reading it as much as I liked writing it!

(My gif)

Just after Thomas came up in the box, Newt had been nothing short of amazed by him.

The bravery that radiated through Thomas, that could have been easily mistaken for stupidity, did nothing but intrigue him.

Newt often stuck by him, advising to Alby that they should make him a Track-hoe so that he himself could train him in the field. But, Newt wasn’t a moron; not at all – He knew Thomas belonged with the Runners, although the Brit wanted nothing more than to stay with him during the day and sleep aside him at night.

Newt glanced at Zart, knowing he should take up his position nothing less than seriously, although he did have a crush; and the first one he could remember, at that. That had to mean something… right?

“You want to be helpful?” He caught Thomas off-guard by tossing him a bucket. “Go fetch us some fertilizer.”

The Greenie sighed, running his free hand through his short brown hair before grabbing a shovel.

Thomas knew he was asking a lot of questions that were unrelated to the wonders of Gardening – serious business he might add – but he would rather gain as much information as he could instead of falling into the infrastructure where the Creators tower over cowering Gladers.

That sure was how it seemed, anyway. Three years, and no one found a way out? To say Thomas was discouraged was an understatement, but he was immensely curious.

Despite this, he attempted keeping his wondering to a minimum if he really was going to be forbidden from ever going into the Maze; like Gally and some others wanted.

In the meantime, he found himself thinking of Newt. He respect him, hell, liked him, more than he cared for anyone else. It was him who had treated him with kindness when the Keeper of the Builders and his followers showed nothing but anguish towards the him. In this prision, in this lifetime, Newt was everything.

As Thomas began to hack at the soil with his shovel, his brain recalled more personal attributes that Newt obtained – his smooth, accented voice and his blonde hair that fell slightly over the side of his forehead in tufts. Thomas couldn’t shake the thoughts even if he tried.

Audible breathing coming from behind him startled Thomas, causing him to twitch and the shovel he held to poke into his side. His head snapped around anxiously, and was instantaneously relaxed when he saw the Brit who was the main character of his mind.

“Need help, Tommy?” Newt asked, grinning when he realized how much the brunette had seemed to be struggling, having barely got any fertilizer into the bucket.

Thomas dusted himself off before kneeling on the ground. “Yeah, could use some. You must have forgot to tell me where I could actually find some.”

Newt’s face lit up for a second; just enough for Thomas to catch it.

“Don’t get smart. Come on,” Newt urged, patting Thomas’s shoulder as a signal for him to stand. “You are, in fact, in a crummy place for finding anything.”

“Gee, good to know.”

Thomas followed Newt deeper into the Deadheads, often craning his neck behind him to take doubletakes at what looked like skeletons at first glance; and to his dismay, his eyes did not deceive him.

Newt must have noticed. “I know. There wasn’t much elsewhere we could have put them,” he said, in reference to the rusty bones.

Thomas shook his head, but verbally agreed, no matter how much the sight made him almost nauseous.

Again, Newt’s sharp eyes and kindhearted nature confirmed he wouldn’t miss a beat. His hand was on Thomas’s shoulder in a matter of seconds as a showing of comfort. It was a silent cue that everything was going to be okay, and impossibly, Thomas believed it.

“Are those Runners?” Thomas questioned, his tone serious with an immense foreshadowing of curiosity.

Newt shook his head, hand still stuck on Thomas’s body. “Some were, but none of them died while running. Those who did are still out there.” He paused and retracted his hand back to his side. “Well, their clothes are.”

Nothing about the conversation was nonchalant. Thomas would have shivered at the words if he wasn’t so enticed by what he imagined the Maze was like. “That’s… grim.”

“Isn’t it?” Newt sighed. Then, he took a step closer to Thomas, looking him dead in the face with his eyes holding light in them. “But I’ll bet you’re still looking to go out there.”

Thomas looked at him incredulously. “And you aren’t?”

“No,” Newt answered fast. “I did my time.”

By the way Newt was so dismissive and quick about his own addition to the conversation, Thomas decided to look past it.

“But, maybe I’ll look into the whole you-becoming-a-Runner thing. If not, I might let it slide if you wanted to, I dunno, sneak in with the Runners.”

A grin spread onto Thomas’s lips, gently nodding his head. “Why do you let me be like this?”

Newt shrugged, well aware of the reason. “I bloody like you, Tommy.”

“W-what?” Thomas asked, bewildered, the words coming out as a gasp.

“And I was doing a good job of hiding it until you asked and tempted me. Bastard,” he chuckled, eyes aiming down at the blades of wispy, long grass so he didn’t have to make visual contact with the handsome brunette.

Thomas chortled, biting the inside of his cheek. “Sorry, Newt.”

“Buggin’ should be,” he laughed, looking up at him finally. Thomas was relieved their gaze was connected on both ends.

Thomas reached his hand out and brushed his fingers against Newt’s, to which Newt slowly intertwined them together. Thomas felt a warmth growing in his stomach that he had never felt before, butterflies flapping in his stomach madly.

Little did he know, the usually collected Second-in-Command was the victim of the same symptoms. Newt squeezed Tommy’s hand tighter.

“So, about the running thing…”

“Can we talk about it some other time? I thought we were having a moment!”

“We are!” Thomas replied fast, to Newt’s engagement. “But, what about the fertilizer?” He began to tease.

Newt squeezed Thomas’s hand a bit more. “Shuck the fertilizer,” he said, kissing Thomas’s cheek to make him hush.

[myriadimagines]

You’re My Everything

The Maze Runner One Shot

Characters: [FEMALE] Reader x Gally + Newt & Minho

Warnings: mentions of violence 

Request: “can you do this one shot of gally based off the song ocean by misterwives and they're dating and it's cute thx boo 👀” - purityimagines

Word Count: 1,378

A/N: first The Maze Runner one shot I think ? i hope it’s still okay !!

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“The box is coming up!”

Gally looked up from the structure he was repairing as the alarm began to blare through the Glade. Setting down his tools, he jogged over to the box with the rest of the boys, pushing them aside so he could see the box clearly. The heavy, metal doors creaked open, and Gally peered through the mesh metal gate to see who was inside. The other Gladers peered into the box, trying to catch a glimpse of the new Greenie, but they all hesitated when they only saw boxes of supplies.

The Gladers reached down to open the doors, and Gally hopped inside the box. He sifted through some of the supplies, tossing up a bag of tools he had requested. Another builder caught the bag and began to walk off, when Gally suddenly felt something cool pressed up against his throat. He could hear all the other Gladers yelling in alarm as he felt himself being pulled backwards.

“Where the hell am I?” you demanded, keeping the small blade you had found against Gally’s throat. You had hidden behind a bunch of boxes when you had woken up, and stayed hidden when the box opened and you were greeted by a large group of boys. A blonde boy jumped into the box with the two of you, calmly holding his hands out.

“You’re in the maze.” the blonde boy replied, and you scoffed and tighten your grip on Gally.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you snapped, and Gally could feel your hands trembling slightly. Even though he was being threatened, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for you. He remembered the first time he was in the maze; he was horrified.

“Just put the knife down.” the blonde boy continued. “We’re all trapped here, and it’s not going to help anyone if you start a fight. We’re all trying to help each other.”

You didn’t respond, and the boy took a step closer.

“I’m Newt.” Newt introduced himself, trying to calm you down. “Do you remember your name?”

“No.” you shook your head, beginning to panic. “I-I can’t remember a thing. Why can’t I remember anything?”

“You’ll remember your name eventually, Greenie.” Gally finally spoke up, and you finally let him go. Gally stumbled forward, rubbing his next as he turned to face you, and his eyes widened when he realised you were a girl. You had your hair tied up out of your face, your eyes bright with both fear and determination. Despite the fact that you were about to slice his throat open a few seconds ago, Gally was immediately attracted to you.

Newt held out his hand, and you reluctantly handed him the knife. Everyone seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief as Newt looked up at a dark skinned boy who was hovering above you all. Judging by the air of authority he seemed to possess, you guessed he was a leader of sorts.

“A girl, Alby?” Newt asked, and Alby looked at you, his expression serious. “We’ve never had a bloody girl before.”

“I gotta say, Greenie,” Gally chuckled slightly, and you looked at him in surprise. “You make one hell of a good impression.”

“Sorry.” you smiled at him apologetically. “Why do you keep calling me Greenie?”

Gally and Newt exchanged looks, before Gally cleared his throat and attempted to explain. “It’s, um, what we call the new kids who get sent up here.”

“Who did this to us?” you asked quietly after a pause, and Newt shrugged as Gally folded his arms across his chest.

“I wish I knew.” he sighed, shaking his head. “I wish I knew.”

“I wish I knew my last name.” you sighed as you rested your chin on Gally’s chest, the two of you lazily lounging in his hammock in the afternoon sun. There was a cool breeze blowing through the Glade, and Gally chuckled as he ran his hands through your hair. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Of course I do, y/n.” Gally shrugged. “But, I mean, do you think we’ll ever remember anything? Who knows what those people did to us.”

“I wanna make them pay for what they did.” you said angrily, and Gally smiled and leaned over to kiss your forehead.

“You were always fiery from the first day in the maze.” Gally grinned, remembering the day he first met you.

“Gotta show you boys who’s really boss around here.” you smirked, and Gally laughed, his smile lighting up his face. He leaned down to kiss you again, on your lips this time, and he could feel you grinning against his lips.

Just like every other Glader, Gally was miserable in the maze. The runners came back every day with no way out, and even though they had established a way of life, they were trapped. But ever since you came along, Gally felt less alone, and he even had a little bit of hope that they would one day get out. Everything just felt so right with you, even though everything about the situation was wrong.

Gally watched as you fixed one of the pillars in the sleeping area of the Glade, before wiping the sweat off your forehead and taking a step back to admire your work. Nodding to yourself, you looked over your shoulder to see Gally staring, and gave him a friendly smile. Gally quickly smiled back, and ran his hands through his hair and straightened his shirt as he watched you approach. You had been at the Glade for a few weeks now, and you were settling in well. You had grown close in particular with Gally, seeing as he was the first person you interacted with when you arrived. Not like Gally was complaining; he loved your company.

“Hey, Gals.” you greeted, and Gally smirked. You were the only one he allowed to give him a nickname. “Did I do okay fixing the sleeping area?”

“Looks good, y/n.” he nodded, and you beamed. “You were born to be a builder.”

“Thanks.” you replied, a little shyly, and the both of you blushed. Behind the both of you, someone whistled, and Gally whipped around to see Minho standing there, an amused expression on his face.

“Well, don’t let me interrupt.” Minho smirked as he jogged past, making a point of winking at Gally as he moved past. Rolling his eyes, Gally turned back to you, rubbing his forehead.

“Sorry about Minho,” Gally sighed. “He’s such a piece of klunk sometimes-”

Before Gally could finish his sentence, you suddenly grabbed his shirt and pulled him towards you, kissing him. Minho whooped from a distance as the other Gladers began to laugh and clap, and you pulled away, your cheeks red.

“S-sorry.” you blurted, clearly flustered. You had developed a major crush on Gally, and you were tired of the weeks of flirting with him and listening to the teasing from the other Gladers. You felt like you were in a happy state of bliss with him, and you wanted to be with him forever. Running your hands through your hair, you stammered. “I just-”

But before you could come up with some lame excuse, Gally grabbed your face and kissed you again. He ran his hands through your hair as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulled him closer. And in that moment, it felt like the skies had cleared and the sun shone brighter, and Gally wanted to stay forever in that moment.

“You know, babe,” Gally suddenly piped up, after recalling the memory of your first kiss. “It’s been a year since we first got together.”

“Really?” you perked up, smiling. “Wow. I can’t imagine what I’d do without you in my life.”

“Nothing compares to our life together.” Gally ran his fingers up and down your back, and you nodded in agreement.

“I love you so much, Gally.” you whispered, and Gally caressed your face.

“You are the only thing I care about in this shucking maze.” Gally confessed, and you smiled. “I never want to let you go, y/n. You’re my everything. I love you.”

“And you’re my everything too, Gally.” you giggled as you pressed your forehead against his. “You’re my everything.”

[readbookywooks]

Everything came crashing back into his mind. The Glade, the Grievers, the stinging needle, the Changing. Memories. The Maze couldn’t be solved. Their only way out was something they’d never expected. Something terrifying. He was crushed with despair.

Groaning, he forced his eyes open, squinting at first. Chuck’s pudgy face was there, staring with frightened eyes. But then they lit up and a smile spread across his face. Despite it all, despite the terrible crappiness of it all, Chuck smiled.

“He’s awake!” the boy yelled to no one in particular. “Thomas is awake!”

The booming sound of his voice made Thomas wince; he shut his eyes again. “Chuck, do you have to scream? I don’t feel so good.”

“Sorry—I’m just glad you’re alive. You’re lucky I don’t give you a big kiss.”

“Please don’t do that, Chuck.” Thomas opened his eyes again and forced himself to sit up in the bed in which he lay, pushing his back against the wall and stretching out his legs. Soreness ate at his joints and muscles. “How long did it take?” he asked.

“Three days,” Chuck answered. “We put you in the Slammer at night to keep you safe—brought you back here during the days. Thought you were dead for sure about thirty times since you started. But check you out—you look brand-new!”

Thomas could only imagine how non-great he looked. “Did the Grievers come?”

Chuck’s jubilation visibly crashed to the ground as his eyes sank down toward the floor. “Yeah—they got Zart and a couple others. One a night. Minho and the Runners have scoured the Maze, trying to find an exit or some use for that stupid code you guys came up with. But nothing. Why do you think the Grievers are only taking one shank at a time?”

Thomas’s stomach turned sour—he knew the exact answer to that question, and some others now. Enough to know that sometimes knowing sucked.

“Get Newt and Alby,” he finally said in answer. “Tell them we need to have a Gathering. Soon as possible.”

“Serious?”

Thomas let out a sigh. “Chuck, I just went through the Changing. Do you think I’m serious?”

Without a word, Chuck jumped up and ran out of the room, his calls for Newt fading the farther he went.

Thomas closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. Then he called out to her with his mind.

Teresa.

She didn’t answer at first, but then her voice popped into his thoughts as clearly as if she were sitting next to him. That was really stupid, Tom. Really, really stupid.

Had to do it, he answered.

I pretty much hated you the last couple days. You should’ve seen yourself. Your skin, your veins…

You hated me? He was thrilled she’d cared so much about him.

She paused. That’s just my way of saying I would’ve killed you if you’d died.

Thomas felt a burst of warmth in his chest, reached up and actually touched it, surprised at himself. Well … thanks. I guess.

So, how much do you remember?

He paused. Enough. What you said about the two of us and what we did to them…

It was true?

We did some bad things, Teresa. He sensed frustration from her, like she had a million questions and no idea where to start.

Did you learn anything to help us get out of here? she asked, as if she didn’t want to know what part she’d had in all of this. A purpose for the code?

Thomas paused, not really wanting to talk about it yet—not before he really gathered his thoughts. Their only chance for escape might be a death wish. Maybe, he finally said, but it won’t be easy. We need a Gathering. I’ll ask for you to be there—I don’t have the energy to say it all twice.

Neither one of them said anything for a while, a sense of hopelessness wafting between their minds.

Teresa?

Yeah?

The Maze can’t be solved.

She paused for a long time before answering. I think we all know that now.

Thomas hated the pain in her voice—he could feel it in his mind. Don’t worry; the Creators meant for us to escape, though. I have a plan. He wanted to give her some hope, no matter how scarce.

Oh, really.

Yeah. It’s terrible, and some of us might die. Sound promising?

Big-time. What is it?

We have to—

Before he could finish, Newt walked into the room, cutting him off.

I’ll tell you later, Thomas quickly finished.

Hurry! she said, then was gone.

Newt had walked over to the bed and sat down next to him. “Tommy—you barely look sick.”

Thomas nodded. “I feel a little queasy, but other than that, I’m fine. Thought it’d be a lot worse.”

Newt shook his head, his face a mixture of anger and awe. “What you did was half brave and half bloody stupid. Seems like you’re pretty good at that.” He paused, shook his head. “I know why you did it. What memories came back? Anything that’ll help?”

“We need to have a Gathering,” Thomas said, shifting his legs to get more comfortable. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel much pain, just wooziness. “Before I start forgetting some of this stuff.”

“Yeah, Chuck told me—we’ll do it. But why? What did you figure out?”

“It’s a test, Newt—the whole thing is a test.”

Newt nodded. “Like an experiment.”

Thomas shook his head. “No, you don’t get it. They’re weeding us out, seeing if we’ll give up, finding the best of us. Throwing variables at us, trying to make us quit. Testing our ability to hope and fight. Sending Teresa here and shutting everything down was only the last part, one more … final analysis. Now it’s time for the last test. To escape.”

Newt’s brow crinkled in confusion. “What do you mean? You know a way out?”

“Yeah. Call the Gathering. Now.”

CHAPTER 49

An hour later, Thomas sat in front of the Keepers for the Gathering, just like he had a week or two before. They hadn’t let Teresa in, which ticked him off just as much as it did her. Newt and Minho trusted her now, but the others still had their doubts.

“All right, Greenie,” Alby said, looking much better as he sat in the middle of the semicircle of chairs, next to Newt. The other chairs were all occupied except two—a stark reminder that Zart and Gally had been taken by the Grievers. “Forget all the beat-around-the-bush klunk. Start talking.”

Thomas, still a bit queasy from the Changing, forced himself to take a second and gain his composure. He had a lot to say, but wanted to be sure it came out sounding as non-stupid as possible.

“It’s a long story,” he began. “We don’t have time to go through it all, but I’ll tell you the gist of it. When I went through the Changing, I saw flashes of images—hundreds of them—like a slide show in fast forward. A lot came back to me, but only some of it’s clear enough to talk about. Other stuff has faded or is fading.” He paused, gathering his thoughts one last time. “But I remember enough. The Creators are testing us. The Maze was never meant to be solved. It’s all been a trial. They want the winners—or survivors—to do something important.” He trailed off, already confused at what order he should tell things in.

“What?” Newt asked.

“Let me start over,” Thomas said, rubbing his eyes. “Every single one of us was taken when we were really young. I don’t remember how or why—just glimpses and feelings that things had changed in the world, that something really bad happened. I have no idea what. The Creators stole us, and I think they felt justified in doing it. Somehow they figured out that we have above-average intelligence, and that’s why they chose us. I don’t know, most of this is sketchy and doesn’t matter that much anyway.

“I can’t remember anything about my family or what happened to them. But after we were taken, we spent the next few years learning in special schools, living somewhat normal lives until they were finally able to finance and build the Maze. All our names are just stupid nicknames they made up—like Alby for Albert Einstein, Newt for Isaac Newton, and me—Thomas. As in Edison.”

Alby looked like he’d been slapped in the face. “Our names … these ain’t even our real names?”

Thomas shook his head. “As far as I can tell, we’ll probably never know what our names were.”

“What are you saying?” Frypan asked. “That we’re freakin’ orphans raised by scientists?”

“Yes,” Thomas said, hoping his expression didn’t give away just how depressed he felt. “Supposedly we’re really smart and they’re studying every move we make, analyzing us. Seeing who’d give up and who wouldn’t. Seeing who’d survive it all. No wonder we have so many beetle blade spies running around this place. Plus, some of us have had things … altered in our brains.”

“I believe this klunk about as much as I believe Frypan’s food is good for you,” Winston grumbled, looking tired and indifferent.

“Why would I make this up?” Thomas said, his voice rising. He’d gotten stung on purpose to remember these things! “Better yet, what do you think is the explanation? That we live on an alien planet?”

“Just keep talking,” Alby said. “But I don’t get why none of us remembered this stuff. I’ve been through the Changing, but everything I saw was …” He looked around quickly, like he’d just said something he shouldn’t have. “I didn’t learn nothin’.”

“I’ll tell you in a minute why I think I learned more than others,” Thomas said, dreading that part of the story. “Should I keep going or not?”

“Talk,” Newt said.

Thomas sucked in a big breath, as if he were about to start a race. “Okay, somehow they wiped our memories—not just our childhood, but all the stuff leading up to entering the Maze. They put us in the Box and sent us up here—a big group to start and then one a month over the last two years.”

“But why?” Newt asked. “What’s the bloody point?”

Thomas held up a hand for silence. “I’m getting there. Like I said, they wanted to test us, see how we’d react to what they call the Variables, and to a problem that has no solution. See if we could work together—build a community, even. Everything was provided for us, and the problem was laid out as one of the most common puzzles known to civilization—a maze. All this added up to making us think there had to be a solution, just encouraging us to work all the harder while at the same time magnifying our discouragement at not finding one.” He paused to look around, making sure they were all listening. “What I’m saying is, there is no solution.”

Chatter broke out, questions overlapping each other.

Thomas held his hands up again, wishing he could just zap his thoughts into everyone else’s brains. “See? Your reaction proves my point. Most people would’ve given up by now. But I think we’re different. We couldn’t accept that a problem can’t be solved—especially when it’s something as simple as a maze. And we’ve kept fighting no matter how hopeless it’s gotten.”

Thomas realized his voice had steadily risen as he spoke, and he felt heat in his face. “Whatever the reason, it makes me sick! All of this—the Grievers, the walls moving, the Cliff—they’re just elements of a stupid test. We’re being used and manipulated. The Creators wanted to keep our minds working toward a solution that was never there. Same thing goes for Teresa being sent here, her being used to trigger the Ending—whatever that means—the place being shut down, gray skies, on and on and on. They’re throwing crazy things at us to see our response, test our will. See if we’ll turn on each other. In the end, they want the survivors for something important.”

Frypan stood up. “And killing people? That’s a nice little part of their plan?”

Thomas felt a moment of fear, worried that the Keepers might take out their anger on him for knowing so much. And it was only about to get worse. “Yes, Frypan, killing people. The only reason the Grievers are doing it one by one is so we don’t all die before it ends the way it’s supposed to. Survival of the fittest. Only the best of us will escape.”

Frypan kicked his chair. “Well, you better start talking about this magical escape, then!”

“He will,” Newt said, quietly. “Shut up and listen.”

Minho, who’d been mostly silent the whole time, cleared his throat. “Something tells me I’m not gonna like what I’m about to hear.”

“Probably not,” Thomas said. He closed his eyes for a second and folded his arms. The next few minutes were going to be crucial. “The Creators want the best of us for whatever it is they have planned. But we have to earn it.” The room fell completely silent, every eye on him. “The code.”

“The code?” Frypan repeated, his voice lighting up with a trace of hope. “What about it?”

Thomas looked at him, paused for effect. “It was hidden in the wall movements of the Maze for a reason. I should know—I was there when the Creators did it.”

CHAPTER 50

For a long moment, no one said anything, and all Thomas saw were blank faces. He felt the sweat beading on his forehead, slicking his hands; he was terrified to keep going.

Newt looked completely baffled and finally broke the silence. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, first there’s something I have to share. About me and Teresa. There’s a reason Gally accused me of so much stuff, and why everyone who’s gone through the Changing recognizes me.”