#its also rattling around my spooked brain and not helping <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[indecisive-dizzy]

why brain whyyyy

i just want to read a book why must it make me paranoid?? I want to Sleep 😭

[hvlfwygod]

WINDPIPE | BEN

tw: sleep deprivation, hallucinations, blood, self-harm, suicidal ideation, choking, violence/murder

A week ago, he had still been sleeping. He had let himself steal a few hours at night. Frightening as the nightmares were, confusing as waking up somewhere else could be, he had been telling himself it was necessary. Just something to suffer through. A few hours of fitful, awful sleep were better than no sleep at all. He missed being able to believe that.

—

Ben wasn’t sure if he was awake.

Jacob was talking, but there was no sound. Ben wondered when he fell asleep, and immediately started to panic because he shouldn’t be asleep. He scanned the room. What could wake him up? He saw a knife on the table and reached for it. It turned into a sword once it touched his hand, the blade suddenly long and sharp and already bloody.

“Ben?” Jacob’s voice cut through the illusion. Ben was holding the remote to the TV. He put it back on its spot on the coffee table. 

A cat weaved around his leg, mewing softly. The time on his phone displayed 5:38am. Had he really be sitting here for three hours?

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Got lost.”

“Have you not gone to bed yet?”

Ben blinked. “I just woke up.”

—

Ben couldn’t remember how many drinks he’d had. He also wasn’t sure why he was drinking. A memory floated to the surface— standing in the liquor store the night previous with an assortment in front of him— but he wasn’t sure if he could trust it. He fished in his pockets until he found a receipt, but the words slid off the paper before he could read them.

He was sitting on the steps outside his apartment because his bed was a trap and he was a timebomb. It was starting to matter less and less, though, where he was. Even now, when he closed his eyes he felt himself start to go under, sleep hooking itself to him and pulling.

He pressed the cool bottle to his neck and forced himself to stare, unblinking, into the early morning sky until the moment passed.

—

The last text he got from his manager: I assume we won’t be seeing you at all this week?

—

He was supposed to see Ariana today. He was supposed to see her yesterday, too, or the day before, or the day before, and before. All the times previous, he’d run off. No, no, all the time previous, she’d kissed him and then turned her back. Ben shook his head because the thought stopped making sense.

She was coming soon, he thought. He cradled a coffee, his third that day. His he-didn’t-even-know since he stopped sleeping.

He hadn’t exactly planned on stopping entirely, but the ride back from Boston convinced him. He had fallen asleep before they even pulled out of South Station. His dream had been filled with death and he’d woken up an hour later only because the person next to him shoved his head into the window. According to the rightfully spooked passenger, he’d been about to stand in his sleep, muttering for someone to come back, come back.

He just couldn’t do it, after that.

Ben yawned, rubbed his eyes, finished his coffee and ordered another. The door opened, opened, opened. He was beginning to wonder if he’d imagined this entire meeting.

The door opened. A tall thin boy walked inside. Ben jerked back and nearly fell out of his chair.

It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible.

Colin sat across from him and smiled. Blood leaked from his teeth. Ben watched his neck tear open, saw the moment the windpipe shattered. Colin was talking, but there was no sound.

Ben barely made it outside before he started retching.

—

The last text he got from Hazel: How are you doing? Are you sleeping better?

—

Skin crawling, hands numb, mouth dry, the whole world was fuzzy at the edges. A rapid heartbeat rattled his entire body. Ben kept touching his face as if that might remind him where he was and why he was crying.

—

He didn’t know what to call it besides a compulsion. A quiet urge, a small, pleading need that he could ignore, but only for so long.

Do the right thing the right thing the right thing.

He didn't know what that meant, half of the time.

Do it do it do it.

It was more than his conscience. It was like there was someone else inside his head, whispering at all times, murmuring so constantly it turned into a low hum. This is wrong, correct, do this, stop that, stop, yes, no, no, no, tell him, talk to her, answer her call, tell him tell him tell him.

He thought it might be better to bury all of this with him. But every time the thought occurred another, more urgent one took over. Do not die before you tell him don’t let him remember you fondly.

His arm was burning. He didn’t remember doing it but that didn’t make it any better.

He looked it up. After a few days awake your brain started to microsleep. You lost pockets of time, your brain shut down while you stayed up and blinking. He was sure this is what was happening to him. He was microsleeping through the day, through conversation, through a relapse.

You have to tell him tell him tell him tell him tell him.

He didn’t know what to call it besides a compulsion. Some far away desire shouted from another room. Something that made sense even when it stopped making sense. Waking dream logic, maybe, or just some ingrained comfort of seeing blood beading against his skin.

—

The last text he got from Ariana: I heard you're back from Boston, let me know when you're free.

—

"When was the last time you slept?”

Ben was in a place that looked like the infirmary and his hair was being pushed back by someone who looked like L.

I don’t know, he told her, unsure if he said it out loud. Hadn’t he just been in another city?��Now every minute was an hour, a day, another week awake.

“Can you try sleeping for me, Ben? Even if it’s just for twenty minutes? If you want me to wake you up after a certain amount of time, I can.”

Ben shook his head. Little lights danced in his vision.

L offered soup, and he accepted. But when she walked away to go heat some up, he left.

—

The last text he got from L: Please come back Ben I’m worried about you.

—

Ben was upright on his bedroom floor, hands pressed to his eyes, thinking about all the people who were dead who didn’t deserve to be while he was still here, wasting away.

He could see so clearly the exact moment the life had left his eyes. They followed him, unseeing, everywhere.

It was so unfair, it was all so unfair, and everything about him wanted to make it right. 

He couldn’t fix everything but he could do this, he could put the person who should have died first, five years ago, into the ground. He could do that.

—

Are you still up?

He was 13 again and trying to remember the number for a hotline he’d never actually call.

I just checked the time and you definitely aren’t still up.

I’m really sorry.

You shouldn’t be fighting for me this hard.

—

The last text he got from Danny: The taffy is amazing love you Benny

—

He was several drinks deep and had just talked himself off a ledge. The cat woke up when he stumbled from his room and out the front door.

The time on his phone displayed 3:42am. He didn’t remember which way Danny’s house was but he walked anyway.

—

He was in the woods, somewhere, when his mother visited him.

Ben jerked back so quickly he tripped over himself and fell. He caught himself on his hand and it sent a jolt of pain up through to his shoulder. Nemesis settled in front of him. His heart nearly came out of his throat.

“Ben.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ben.”

“Fuck you!”

“Bentley.” Nemesis took her son’s face and angled it upward. His eyes couldn’t focus on her face.

“Fuck you,” Ben repeated. His words tumbled out of his mouth. “Are you that old woman? Was that you, fucking taunting me? Showing me how much I failed you?” Ben’s mind was spiraling on rage. His whole body felt alive with it. He was more awake than he’d been in days. “Fuck you. It’s always you. You’re the reason for everything.”

“Bentley, you are not asleep. I have not visited you in dreams.”

“Fuck you, fuck you.”

She let him go and towered over him. “Bentley, I am sending you away. Do you want to sleep properly again?”

“No.”

“No?”

Ben was on his feet again, somehow. He turned away from the vision of his mother. She was in front of him again in an instant.

“Fuck you!” Ben shouted. “Fuck you. I’m not doing shit for you.”

“You must.” The goddess knelt in front of him. “Ben, open your eyes. You will go to Chiron tomorrow and tell him—”

“I will not do anything you ever fucking ask me! Do you get that? Smite me kill me torture me I don’t give a shit I won’t I won’t I won’t—”

“Calm down,” she said. Ben realized that he had been screaming, and stopped. “You have no choice,” she continued. Ben realized that he had no choice. The fight slid out of his muscles.

“Where am I going?”

“Newfoundland. There is something draining the life out of the earth. You are getting a glimpse of what this feels like. What is happening is causing imbalance, as I’m sure you can tell. Those responsible need to be corrected. You will go and take care of this how you see fit.”

“Fuck you.”

“Bentley.”

“How I see fit? Fuck you. Why did you make me like this? Fuck you, fuck you.”

“It is not my fault you act against your own morality.”

“Fuck you, fuck you! You let us all die. You let—”

“I am making up for that now. You are helping.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you not think you could stand to practice your execution of justice?”

“Fuck you! You let him come back here and you didn’t stop him from killing someone and you didn’t stop anyone from dying and you didn’t stop me. He wasn’t a lesson, he wasn’t a practice round he’s dead, he’s fucking dead and I did what I saw fit and because of you I will never, never never never be able to— fuck, fuck, fuck fuck f...” Ben was sobbing. He couldn’t form words anymore.

“I am not asking you to kill anyone, Bentley.”

He didn’t answer.

“You know how to ease this burden.” She watched her son cry. “Go to Chiron tomorrow.”

—

Ben was a coward.

His wrist was swelling and tender, so he fumbled one-handed in the hanging planter and somehow, found a key.

He missed the lock three times before he made it inside.

Ben was a goddamn coward. He’d come all the way here clutching his confession close and now, when it was time to speak it, he could not bear to. Danny was asleep and blissful upstairs and Ben was a nightmare come to destroy his happiness. He wanted to die all over again.

He was on a couch, staring at the ceiling, hyperventilating into a pillow so no one would hear. Had he even closed the door, or had he simply marched inside and collapsed here? Had he woken the house up? Was Danny waiting just out of sight, watching Ben and weeping, crying over someone he shouldn’t?

—

Ben would tell him, but he waited until morning.

Except when he finally moved, the day was already halfway over. The sun sagged in the sky and the couch was sinking into the floorboards. A voice was whispering into his ear over: murderer murder murderer murderer murderer. Ben felt as though he were on fire, but he struggled to his feet anyway.

He walked, and walked, and walked, and finally made it outside, into a blistering sun, where he found Danny digging a hole into the ground.

“Thank you for everything,” Ben said. “I have something I need to tell you.”

Danny kept digging.

"Can we go back inside?” Ben reached for Danny’s hands.

Danny turned to face him, and he was crying.

“You missed the funeral.”

Ben realized with horror that he was dreaming.

—

The sun sputtered out, like last time. A hand pulled him to the pavement.

“Looks like they missed one,” Colin hissed.

An old woman was laughing, cooing, choking him.

He was in the middle of Manhattan and nothing was familiar, and he was staring into the face of something between a woman and a monster. 

“You must really have a death wish,” she said because he couldn’t.

He heard a car horn blaring in the distance and a man shouting that he should have listened, he should have gotten out of here when he had the chance.

“Do you even know who you’re up against here?” Colin and the woman asked, their voices layering over one another. “I could scramble your brains and then crack your skull open like an egg.”

“Your fate is decided.” Ben forced the words out. His throat burned. “I decided it. You deserve to die, so you will. It doesn’t matter what you do.”

Danny, I should have told you this as soon as it happened.

He was in the middle of Manhattan, and everything was too familiar, and he was staring into the face of someone he knew. Chase Peterson stared back at him, looking shocked even as his fingers tightened around Ben’s throat.

I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.

He couldn’t breathe. He was dying in a dream but somehow, he knew his body was, too. He was fighting for air, thrashing on Danny’s couch as his brain started to shut down. The whole dream went spotty.

I won’t be around for your birthday.

The old woman pulled Chase off of him. He gasped as air returned to him. Ben scrambled to his feet and watched himself walk. He was lightheaded, dizzy, but moving anyway. 

He was inside and outside of himself at the same time. Corpses stared up at the sky all around him. He stalked forward, and Chase was trying not to show on his face just how scared he was, and Ben was telling himself to stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop—

“You don’t deserve such a quick end,” he rasped out, weeping as he kicked Chase and felt the crunch of a nose breaking under his boot.

I’m sorry I made you fight so hard for me.

A sword went through his throat.

Colin died, and then he smiled at Ben.

He was bleeding everywhere, over everything. The whole world went inky red, red, red. Ben was screaming, but there was no sound.

He woke up.

[imnotcameraready]

chivalry is dead (14)

A/N: HUZZAH!!!! WE’RE BACK IN BUSINESS BABEY !!! oh my god, it is Finals Season over here and my last one is this thursday. sorry this is coming out so late! it was a difficult chapter to write, plus it was being written between studying s  o .,.,..,

speaking of! update in My Life is that i’ve been spending this past semester studying in a different country. immediately after my next final, i’m going home! but that means i’m also packing, and have a (long as FUCK) flight back home, and then i have to unpack and its going to be busy seeing all my family — this bad boy isn’t going on haitus or anything, but it might be more than a week until the next update! just giving y’all a heads up :’) after that, once i reestablish a Routine back home, then updates will resume at the usual 4–5 days between chapters aslkdghasldfxkh 

sorry for the long authors note, and thanks ! <3 

WARNINGS: panic, crying, threats, mentions of violence, thoughts of violence/fighting, sword mention, past violence, torture mention — tbh, idk what else is in here? please let me know if there's anything i've missed!

Words: 5577

AO3 link!

MASTERPOST! <– look here!! for the longterm warnings!! including sympathetic Deceit and cursing/swearing!

chivalry taglist: @starlightvirgil​ @forrestwyrm​ @daflangstlairde​ @marshmallow-the-panda​ @askthesnake​ @k9cat​ @patromlogil​ @theobsessor1​

general tag: @jemthebookworm​

hope you enjoy!!!

Remy was being uncharacteristically quiet. Patton and Deceit could tell it was unusual, given the Bard’s conversation prompts garnered single word answers. “Mhm,” “No,” or “Yeah.” When the Artist asked where they were going, Remy only said “Emile’s place.”

Something must have happened. But they couldn’t figure out what.

They were walking through another indoor alleyways, roofed by a walking bridge, when Remy turned left and opened a door. It seemed he knew the ins and outs of this town easily, despite how much more detailed it’d become. And, as Deceit had noted earlier, it HAD become more detailed. Through the door was a set of stairs and up the stairs was a small garden courtyard, with a pastel pink door at the end with a sign denoting it as “Dr. Emile Picani, PsyD.”

“That’s incredibly professional, all things considered,” Deceit gestured to the placard.

“Ah, I think it’s to mark the building as a doctor’s office,” the Playwright said, nose scrunching, “I’ve never seen that before, though.”

“You haven’t?”

“Not on Emile’s door, no. We should look into researching the laws surrounding doctors’ offices.”

“Research?” Patton asked, “Wait, what do you research for?”

“For creating, Patty-cake. We don’t just invent how much blood is in the human body, the different types of swords, how refrigerators work. That’s all research,” the Playwright seemed so pleased with himself.

“Yeah, like we’re any good at it,” in contrast, the Artist was more dejected. “We aren’t good at researching, using references, anything realistic. That’s….”

“We don’t have to research anything, if we just memorize it all! Or if we just make stuff up!” the Bard bumped hips with the Artist and summoned his ukulele again, strumming the first few chords to ‘Your Welcome’ before Remy put his hand on the instrument.

“Stop,” his voice was so serious, “Look, uh. It’s pretty bad.”

They formed in a semi-circle around him, Remy’s hand on the door. He pushed his sunglasses up and rubbed his forehead.

“Emile called me in the middle of giving midday naps, so I haven’t had coffee in a hot sec, so sorry. But, like, okay,” he fixed his glasses and shot everyone a look, turning slow to get the whole semi-circle. “Logan’s a lil’ spooked. Emile’ll explain what happened. Just don’t be loud, a’ight?”

The group shared looks at each other, mostly confused, though Patton gave them all his patton-ted Dad glare.

“Well,” Patton said, turning to Remy with a final determined grimace, “Alrighty. Open sesame?”

Remy opened the door cautiously, peeking in himself before opening it wider and allowing everyone else entrance.

The first room was a sitting room, themed similarly to how Emile’s office with multiple cartoon-themed posters. There were some couches and chairs around a larger coffee table, a few other coffee tables between the seating. An assortment of magazines and children’s books were displayed on the main coffee table. There was a reception area to the left, with a sign in sticker list and a computer behind a desk, but with no receptionist and no patients.

Just Emile and Logan sitting on the main couch. While Emile was sitting upright on the left, hands calmly folded in his lap, Logan was sitting very il-Logan-ly. Slouched tiredly into the opposite corner, glasses folded in the hand he was using to rub his own face, legs kicked out. Patton’s brow furrowed, inspecting Logan’s positioning. He could almost smell the grief radiating off of him.

Virgil, the Child, and the Thief were nowhere to be found.

Emile looked upon hearing the door’s hinge. He offered a tired smile and motioned to the seating. “Hey, everyone’s here,” his voice was quite soft, despite Deceit and Patton’s preconceived notions about him.

“Joy,” Logan sounded tired, almost defeated.

Once the initial shock wore off, Patton rushed to his side, setting a hand on his shoulder and sinking down to kneel beside him.. Logan flinched away, and Patton lifted both hands again immediately. “Sorry! Sorry, kiddo,” he bit his lip for a second, then continued, “What happened?”

Logan shifted two fingers, flicking one eye at Patton. It was bloodshot, with the surrounding eyelid puffy red. He examined Patton’s expression, with his cheeks puffed up and brow pinched together, and closed his eyes again. He couldn’t keep looking at Patton’s face, not when he’d nearly watched Roman — not Roman, the Thief, die. Nearly. And then he’d let Virgil and the Child both get kidnapped. Plus this headache, the same one from the previous night, was throbbing in the back of his skull, only exacerbated by his crying.

Good Lord, he’d been crying. Another thing to tick off the figurative “New Things” list.

“Do you want me to tell them?” Emile spoke slow and soft.

Logan shrugged. Someone had to, and it wasn’t going to be him. “Thief could explain,” Emile suggested, still treading lightly.

His crossed arms seized closer, and Emile winced. Jinkies. Shouldn’t have brought up the Thief.

“Oh, he’d better,” the Bard hissed, a muddled anger laced through his voice.

He yelped when the Artist elbowed him in the side, shooting him a dark glare. Emile looked between them and stood up. “Yeah, you’d all — well, maybe just the Romans? Deceit and Patton can stay out here, and we’ll tell them together. How’s that sound, Logan?”

He made a bit of a choked sound in trying to answer. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d just stood there.

“Kiddo?”

He was so useless.

“Logan, buddy, move your hands.”

“No,” he hissed.

“Breathe with me,” he heard Emile again, to his side, “I’ll count again, okay?”

This was pathetic. No wonder none of them listened to him. Dealing with plentitudes of positive emotions were hard, he couldn’t have imagined — oh, now was he imagining things?

These overly-abundant negative emotions were increasing such that he could feel a spike in his brain’s norepinephrine levels, which was silly in and of itself because he didn’t even have a physical brain for these hormones to spike within.

Patton tapped Logan’s elbow again, gently holding his forearms as Logan’s hand squeezed his face even tighter.

“Well, isn’t this dandy?” the Bard’s voice was a little too loud as he ran his hand through his hair, mussing it up before smoothing it back once more.” We broke Professor Glum. Where’s Thief?”

“Hey,” Patton said, shooting him a Dad glare. “Zip it, lock it, and put it in your pocket.”

The Playwright sank down beside Logan, on the opposite side of Patton. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Logan since they entered.

The Bard backed up with a scoff. Clearly something was wrong! And Logan didn’t want to tell them! His stomach lurched with nervousness; they’d never seen Logan so rattled. If the Thief were here, he’d tell them what they did wrong. Plus, the Bard missed him, regretted their fight.

“Logan, dear, it’s okay,” the Playwright said, watching him shift uncomfortably, “How about Bard, Artist, and I go talk to Thief. It has been a dramatic few days and being reminded of my….of Roman’s fragmented state can’t be helpful in stabilizing you.”

“Ditto,” the Artist mumbled, still tugging at the strings of his hoodie from where he stood, just barely inside the doorway. The Bard nodded, too, eyes still pointed away.

Roman hated being so useless, and something in their chests told them that it was partly his fault.

Emile looked between each of them, then at Patton and Deceit. Remy must have left unannounced; that was okay. Emile would probably hunker down in his office after this to watch a movie. Maybe “Lilo and Stitch.” He needed something feel-good after this. Maybe some of the other characters would even join. That’d be nice.

What he NEEDED to do was diffuse the tension in here! Wouldn’t want them all stewing in this mystery for too long. Emile cleared his throat and stood up.

“How about we split up, gang? I’ll take the Romans all back to talk to Thief, and Deceit and Patton can stay here with Logan?” Emile looked up at Patton, then at Deceit, with a tiny smile waiting for verification.

Deceit met his look with a small nod. “I agree. It would be best for us to talk to Logan alone.”

“It’s been a long day,” the Artist voiced their collective thoughts, “We do need a breather.”

“That it has,” Logan said, clearing his throat and coughing a little. He lowered his hands into his lap and released a smidge of the tension in his shoulders, looking at Emile directly. “I….I agree with Dr. Picani. It would be more manageable to talk to fewer faces.”

“Well, then, alrighty,” Emile stood up, cracking his back as he did so, “Let’s blow this popsicle stand an’ head to Thief.”

He led the three Romans away, all of whom went quiet and guiltily. Patton and Deceit could hear Emile’s voice trailing off into gentle warnings about “he’s fine now, but just go easy on him, ‘cause it probably hurts, oh, what is ‘it,’ uh.”

Deceit waited until the door closed after them to let out an exhausted huff.

That’s what this was. Exhausting.

“C’mon, sit down,” Patton said, motioning to Logan’s other side on the couch, “Everyone else is gone. Think you can tell us what happened, teach?”

Logan exhaled. He could do that. It should be easy. Emphasis on should, because nothing about this, about reassembling Roman like a Lego set without instructions, was easy. Nothing about sword fighting was easy, either.

Still, a process of facts would be easier for Logan to convey, which he did. He explained how he and Virgil had chased the Child and the Thief into an alley, how they’d encountered the Dragon, and how there’d been a fight. How it ended with Virgil and the Child being taken by the Dragon.

He also added, almost as an afterthought or almost betraying how much he didn’t want to be thinking about it, that the Thief had gotten a 27.65 centimeter gash across his chest, 6.43 centimeters at its deepest and deep enough to cut through part of his bone. Patton looked like he was going to faint, face paling at the image, and Logan jumped in to clarify.

“It required magic to connect the bone back together, but it’s been handled thoroughly enough and Thief will heal fine. No vital organs were damaged, and he is currently laying on Dr. Picani’s other couch to regain the blood he lost,” he explained, now taking Patton’s hand into his own and squeezing. “He will heal fine.”

“I don’t doubt that, but, still….” Patton squeezed Logan’s hand, too, and then took his other. He held both of Logan’s hands in his own and pulled them close together, giving them small, reassuring squeezes. “I’m sorry you had to see that. It sounds horrible.”

Ah. Yes. Logan pursed his lips again and swallowed. No, he wouldn’t cry again. Not right now. “Thank you, Patton, but I’m handling this.”

Deceit cleared his throat, and the two looked up. He was scowling, eyes not distinctly watching anything, definitely not watching them, hair falling out of his hat again, definitely not distraught. It seemed that the bycocket fit worse than his bowler.

“Just to clarify,” he said, and they both could hear that he was holding some thoughts back, “Virgil and Child are with Dragon.”

Logan pressed his mouth into a tight line.

Of course Deceit would focus on that fact. He didn’t know what he had expected from Deceit. Sympathy? Unrealistic. This Imaginative excursion was turning him sentimental. Wanting things he would, should never receive.

“Yes,” he hated how tight his voice sounded.

Deceit nodded slowly. He was still trying to process Logan’s story, and how he appeared. Patton and Logan had been working together for a much longer time than himself; he had never seen Logan so distressed. The typical emotionless facade was gone. It was unnerving, almost. Like, he knew that the whole “emotionless” thing was a big lie but seeing the lie revealed was very different from just hoping.

He wanted to lean down, kneel down. Use his gloves to wipe away the logical side’s tears. Promise that everything would be okay. That they would retrieve Virgil and Roman and that all would be well.

Woah, there, Deceit. One lie at a time, or you’re going to start tripping over yourself. You know you aren’t allowed to do that.

Patton, however, drew Logan’s attention once more, tapping him on the arm. He held his arms out in front of Logan’s chest, as an offer.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice soft, “Can I hug you?”

Logan blinked, slow. He wasn’t much for hugging, but physical comforting would probably aid him in lowering his pulse. And….Patton. After a long pause, Logan said “Yes.”

He leaned back on the couch, letting out a slow exhale and closing his eyes, letting Patton wrap his arms around his shoulders. If only he could sleep. That would benefit him greatly. They should have asked Remy to knock him unconscious before he left. He was less overwhelmed and more exhausted by the adrenaline and intense emotions he’d been wracked with. He began counting beats in his head, using Virgil’s breathing technique to slow his own oxygen intake.

Patton let Logan snuggle into his shoulder, trying to exude as much positivity as he could. This whole situation was like a swirling toilet flush, all his prior excitement about entering the Imagination going down the drain. He just wanted to make sure Logan was alright.

That all of them were gonna get out of this alright.

“You know, I kinda wish we had a different first quest into the Imagination. This’ all a lot more, er,” what was the right word? “High-stakes. Than I’d’ve wanted it to be.” That wasn’t the right right word, but it was close enough.

He was worried that pointing out the seriousness of the quest would garner some sort of negative reaction, but Logan just nodded. In truth, they were all in agreement. It would have been easier to understand Roman had they understood the Imagination more, or if he’d just communicated how he felt.

But well, Deceit was the only one bitterly remembering that none of them were adept at swallowing their pride. Including himself.

“It’s too serious,” Patton continued, “I don’t want anyone getting hurt in here.”

“People have already been hurt, Patton,” Logan reminded him, voice lacking any bite.

And people would always be hurt, and there had to be something Deceit could do about that. The “best” thing to do would be to wait for the night. But what if something happened between now and then? Deceit couldn’t get the image that the Thief had described out of his mind.

What would happen? Would the Dragon really dismember — he couldn’t think of that. No, Deceit had to protect them.

It was a matter of pure self-preservation. That’s all.

Without warning, Deceit stood up, causing Logan and Patton to jump. He strode to the door and exited.

Logan and Patton watched the door for a few seconds before realizing what had happened. Logan was the first one up, Deceit’s name halfway off his lips as he swung open the door. “Where are you going?” he asked, following.

“To get Virgil. Simple,” it was really not simple, not in the slightest.

“That….is a horrible idea. Nor is it simple,” Logan wanted to scream, because  he frankly regarded Deceit as one of his more coherent cohorts, less eccentric than Roman or Patton and more cohesive than Virgil. But this is a level of sacrificial that he didn’t anticipate the typically cautious and selfish Side could reach.

And, still, Deceit continued walking. He stopped at the top of the stairwell and took a deep breath.

“It is a simple idea. I’m going to be in and out, and,” if he didn’t confuse Logan further then he’d probably follow, and Deceit wouldn’t dare put any more of his... “If I die, I die.”

Logan spluttered. That didn’t make any sense.

Deceit tried to escape, but was suddenly caught up in a pair of arms. Patton hugged him tight, pulling him back from the stairs. Less restraining him and more hugging him stationarily.

“Dee,” his voice was more desperate, “You can’t just go—”

“No one else seems to be acting with any urgency!” Deceit didn’t struggle in the hug, he didn’t want to hurt Patton or anything, but it was quite the annoyance. “Don’t you both understand? We’ve been thoroughly warned that Dragon is dangerous, and now we’re just going to leave Virgil with them to get tortured?”

Maybe the Dragon wouldn’t hurt Virgil, but Deceit wasn’t going to leave that to chance. His carelessness had led to Roman being literally shattered by insecurity as well.

Gosh, he had really failed them.

No, not failed. He hadn’t failed. Deceit didn’t fail, it wasn’t a thing he was allowed to do. He was simply going through a difficult disguise.

And now he was going to make things better, and then he was going to slink back into the dark corners of Thomas’ mind where he so thrived, would go back to watching the other Sides with a yearning he chose to ignore.

“Of COURSE we do not want Virgil to be hurt,” Logan’s voice wasn’t offended, definitely not, not the least bit hurt by Deceit’s assumption, “But we cannot enter without a plan, either, and you cannot traverse the Imagination alone!”

“I can and I will, let go of me,” the second part was directed back at Patton as Deceit lowered a hand onto his arms and shoved.

His grip was iron, though. The thoughts racing through Patton’s mind were like darts, trying to figure out the perfect bullseye explanation of what was nagging at his mind. Because, before they came into the Imagination, everything was a little more carefree. A little different. Oh, what was that?

“No. I–I, oh, hang on,” he grumbled into Deceit’s shoulder, holding him down and trying to word his emotions. Patton’s emotions, everyone’s emotions. Everyone was a little less wound up outside. But in here, it felt like everything was almost too dramatic! Between all the screaming and yelling, and all the swear words, goodness he stopped keeping track for the swear jar because there were so many. Like, 60 so far.

That was definitely bending the morals Patton liked upholding, of keeping things PG-13 and kid-friendly. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with all of THEM?

“Patton,” Deceit’s voice grumbled, bringing him back from his thoughts. “Are you planning to elaborate? Because, if not, then let me go.”

He sure was! If he could figure out how to make words work.

Patton made a drawn-out “eh” sound, waving his hands back and forth as he tried to word it. “I think — and Logan can DEFINITELY back me up on this — it’s safer, is more logical, hurts less people, will hurt you less, will make me not cry, will make Virgil not angry, will make, uh….” he counted in his head, frowning against Deceit’s back, “Will make five out of seven Romans happier, if you wait for all of us to make a plan together.”

Logan hummed in approval with Patton’s statement, and Deceit squinted at them both

He couldn’t deny that Patton had a point. As the anger wore off, it was replaced with a frozen pit in Deceit’s stomach, chilling him to the bones with worry and a vague understanding. He wasn’t usually this worried.

Perhaps it was due to Virgil’s absence. Virgil was the mediator of their worries.

Or maybe it was something else.

But even if it were something else, Deceit didn’t want to risk Virgil getting hurt. It wasn’t as though Virgil had never been hurt before. Deceit wasn’t malicious, but he certainly wasn’t doctile, and neither were either of the other concealed Sides. There were reasons he had to keep the veiled, after all. None of them were walks in the park.

But this was a true villain, without the inhibitions of keeping Thomas running, in a world Roman had created to hurt himself.

….Deceit’s arms felt a little tingly in Patton’s grip. Was that typical of hugs? He had felt a little sore after the Bard that morning, too, but had chalked that up to it being an unusually long hug.

You know, maybe hugs just weren’t his thing. It didn’t have anything to do with him not being hugged enough. And he wasn’t going to indulge that thought further. He wasn’t going to indulge himself.

“I think,” Patton’s voice cut into Deceit’s thought process again, softer now than earlier, “We’re all in a bad mindset.”

“Clearly. These circumstances are nothing like nothing within the reality that Thomas would have to face, and are nothing I have ever prepared for,” Logan responded, voice more level.

“....You’re just gonna say that?” Patton sounded incredulous.

Deceit scowled, looking down from them, up at the walls, as Logan clarified that he was thoroughly prepared for every possible real-world scenario but wasn’t prepared for the “imaginative nonsense” that Roman’s world wrought.

Patton was right, Deceit realized, far too right. They were simply in a bad mindspace.

“I don’t want to pursue Virgil alone, but I refuse to let him stay with Dragon for any longer,” he stated, cutting off whatever tirade Logan had continued onto. “Patton, can you let go? I won’t run.”

Both of them blinked at him, and Patton slowly released his extended hug. They had been serious, earlier, about accompanying him. But the more Logan considered the consequences of splitting up the team, the more he was wary.

“I don’t think it would be wise for any of us to go without formulating a plan,” he said, holding a hand out to Deceit.

“Well, I’m not just leaving him. I can’t,” and Deceit then raised a hand to his own mouth, cursing himself behind his hand.

Master of secrecy he was. Hopefully the other two wouldn’t—

“What do you mean, can’t.” Oof.

Deceit exhaled, shaking out his hand as he drew it away from his face, thinking of a cover-story. One came quick enough. “Wouldn’t it be dreadful if Thomas’ Anxiety was killed by his Ego?”  

That would throw off the scent and puts the situation in a different light. But it just made Deceit feel worse.

It was stupid. He should have been consoling the others. HE didn’t need it.

Patton and Logan shared a glance. They both didn’t want Virgil to be hurt — alright, let’s stop beating around the bush here, they both love Virgil. Patton says it about ten times a day, and he’d swear off cookies if he were wrong about Logan loving Virgil, too! And they love Thomas. They don’t want Virgil getting hurt already, but they also don’t want Thomas getting hurt.

Logan nodded slightly toward Deceit, one of his eyebrows twitching up barely.

It was a subtle expression, much too subtle for Patton to interpret, but he could definitely tell that Logan was asking something. Patton just shrugged.

That didn’t seem to matter, as Logan nodded curtly and looked up to Deceit with a steady expression.

“Yes, but even you must admit that there are no preservation benefits to you going to rescue him alone. Plus, if we are staging a rescue, we should aim to retrieve Child and Damsel as well.”

“I–” he had forgotten that there were two others trapped. Now he was sheepish. A foolish oversight. “You’re right. We should. All the more reasons to go now.”

Logan shook his head. “You might have a sword, but Patton and I are unarmed and likely would not fight.”

“Oh, well, um, teach?” Logan and Deceit both looked at Patton, who was grinning sheepishly, “Sorry, but your Pop’s ready to pop off on Dragon. He’s been pretty bad, and bad Sides get grounded.”

Deceit snorted, but pressed his lips together harshly. The concept of Patton grounding someone, figuratively and literally, was ridiculous.

Though he would pay real money to see the moral side knock someone out.

Oh gosh, that was an actual possibility in the Imagination. Deceit might be granted the opportunity of watching Patton kick the daylights out of someone. That pleased him way more than he’d like to admit.

Meanwhile, Logan just frowned. “Excuse me, you are going to unleash a confetti popper on Dragon? Why would you use a celebratory cracker as a weapon, in a world where weapons are readily available to us?”

Now it was Patton’s turn to facepalm himself, rubbing his own forehead. “Ah, sorry! Pop off’s another one of those modern slang terms the kids’re using these days, maybe a good one for the notecards?”

Logan nodded, conjuring his set of notecards and taking notes as Patton explained. “It’s when you’ve got a lot of stuff bottled up inside of you, usually some kinda anger, and then something upsets you enough for that figurative bottle to open. Like a cap popping off? I think that’s the entropy.”

“The….etymology?”

“The entomology!”

“Getting closer. Etymology.”

Patton grinned a little and shrugged again. “That.”

“I see,” Logan fixed his glasses, “Also, to ‘pop off’ can also be defined as engaging in a physical altercation?”

“In some cases!”

“Mmm.”

Logan slipped the notecards away again and clapped once. “Well. Thank you for that, Patton,” he turned to Deceit, who’d been watching and listening with a vacantly fond expression, and motioned to him with both of his hands, “Returning to the original subject matter, Patton and I are still unarmed, and would not be of service while you storm a literal castle. If we want to guarantee Virgil, Child, and Damsel’s safety, then we need to outline a plan.”

“Oh, so just because you took a little vocabulary learning break, we’re ignoring the high-stakes of everyone being in peril?” Deceit asked, fixing his hat and forcing himself back into a scowl, “You’ve got no sense of urgency and we can’t have that out in a duel.”

“Do you?” Logan crossed his arms. This debate was actually helping him feel better about their future prospects. “Having a sense of urgency is Virgil’s job. Ours, together, is to concoct a longer but more cohesive plan.”

Logan’s voice is, as always, too level. He’s much too aware for his own good, Deceit thought, and his own frustration returned tenfold.

“Virgil isn’t here to do that job, so I’m taking it up!” he gestured to himself with his thumb, but stopped midway through the motion. He’s just as flippant and it’s proving Logan’s point. Slowly, he drew his hands back to his chest and exhaled sharply, saying with fervor  “We must get him back.”

Patton’s head turns back to Logan when he lets out his own frustrated exhalation. There was something here. He was on to something, but Patton just couldn’t figure out the pieces. Meanwhile, Logan and Deceit’s argument continued before him.

“If you’re so concerned about preserving all of us, as a group, for the betterment of Thomas, then why are you going to such lengths to put yourself in a position of unsafety to save another Side? I don’t understand.”

“Because we can’t let him get hurt, isn’t that obvious?”

“I agree, but I want to hear your explanation. Why not?” Logan asked.

It was a simple question, but it struck a chord much deeper in Deceit than it should have. It almost made him feel ashamed at how angry he was.

He HADN’T failed.

“I’ll die before I let Virgil be hurt again,” his voice came out as more hiss than enunciation. “Any of you.”

Deceit’s declaration hung in the air for a second before he realized what he said. You could almost pinpoint the moment he realized he’d said too much, as he turned back around to the stairs, if only to face away from the pair.

“Oh?”

Please, please don’t bring it up. Deceit considered possible alternative stories. Some kind of lie about the other Dark Sides, perhaps? Logan and Patton weren’t as familiar with them as he was, he could definitely make something up about how they interacted, something about their hostility.

“Deceit?”

“Deceit,” one of them grabbed his arm, likely Patton, “Hey, kiddo, you’re okay.”

Curse his pride. Deceit wanted to tear his arm out of whoever was holding him’s grip because the burning indignity of his confession was making the weird feeling return in full force.

He wanted to grip his cloak and hide his hands again, so they couldn’t see them shake. Why were his hands shaking, anyway? He didn’t have anything to hide. Why would he hide?

Patton swallowed. ‘Any’ of you. Deceit was an actor, same as Roman, so Patton always had a hard time figuring out what to make of him. So this was a hunch. Just a hunch.

Just a hunch and a little hope.

“I don’t,” he looked at Logan, who was frowning at Deceit as one would an unsolvable puzzle, “I don’t understand.”

That was okay. “It’s a hard thing to understand,” Patton found himself responding, grin growing, “Love’s a queer thing.”

Deceit groaned. Logan rolled his eyes, though his cheeks tinged pink. None of the tension was lifted.

“That’s absurd,” he murmured, talking about the pun.

“Is it?” Patton whispered, talking about something more.

That drew both of their attentions back to him, with confused, expressions wrapped in a special kind of denial.

Was he strong enough to admit it? It was funny, in the same way that adultery or the puppets were, because Patton wasn’t known for admitting things.

Baby steps. He couldn’t scare himself or either of the other two away.

“Deceit,” he said, looking at the other with a firm expression as Deceit turned over his shoulder, “Once we’re, uh, out of the Imagination….d’ya think it’d be okay if we moved your bedroom to the Mind Palace? With the rest of us?”

Forward, but careful. Deceit blinked, leaning back only a little, only in surprise.

How tender a way for Patton to invite him into their lives.

He stepped back around, expression guarded.

Logan looked up from Patton to Deceit, less guarded and more stepping back. This was curious indeed. That tightness in his chest returned. He didn’t quite understand what Patton’s offer meant — of course, it would be beneficial for Deceit to have a room in their Mind Palace, so he could be central in conversations if he was choosing to become more prevalent in Thomas’ decisionmaking. There must have been another reason behind it, however, because his pulse was quickening once more. His fists closed at his sides and he could feel how sweaty his palms were. Was he nervous? For what?

You know what, maybe Logan was just allergic to the Imagination. That’s why his hormones were being regularly imbalanced and causing visceral physical reactions to emotional stimuli.

Patton smiled a tiny bit more, and offered his hand to Deceit. “I think,” he started again, gentle as ever, “Roman would take it personally if we left without him. ‘Cause he’s worried about Virgil, too.”

Deceit looked at his hand, then up at Patton.

Inclusion. Teamwork, like he’d preached earlier.

He wasn’t ready to admit what he truly wanted. Deceit wasn’t personally selfish. But he could….he would allow himself to indulge in the thought of wanting to be wanted.

He took Patton’s hand, and Patton pulled him a little closer.

“Fine.”

Patton smiled.

“Hey!” the trio turned back to the door to see the Artist poking his head out, “Where’re you guys going?”

“Nowhere!” Patton chirped back, waving his other hand, “We just wanted some fresh air!”

Logan and Deceit shared another look. It was best to keep this agreement to themselves, for now. They wouldn’t want to overwhelm any of the others.

“Okay, uh. Well,” the Artist jogged out to join them.

His hood was pulled over his head, tugged into a small opening where only his face was visible. He looked around at Patton, then Deceit, then Logan, and nudged Logan slightly with his elbow. “I never got to say, um. I’m sorry. For getting mad at you this morning.”

That felt like so long ago, and so much had happened since then, Logan had almost forgotten that it was all the same day. He nodded slowly. “Of course. While it was an unconventional and fairly belligerent method of relaying your discomfort, I understand why you reacted in such a way.”

He opened his mouth to continue, but then closed it again and clenched his jaw tight as the headache came back once more. What WAS that? Logan waited for it to dull back once more before continuing, “I will avoid making similar observations in the future.”

“Uh, thanks,” the Artist watched him with worry for a few seconds before looking around the trio again and stuffing his hands further into his pockets, “Should we go inside? We need to outline what we’re gonna do.”

“Awh, outline? ‘Cause you’re an artist?” Patton asked, his usual cheeky grin returning, “I’m proud of that one!”

The Artist rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, whatever, Pop Rocks. Let’s just get inside. Bard and Thief miss you guys.”

He turned away, leading them back to normalcy with a slight new understanding of each other.

[constantfluxx]

GHOST!MAGNUS. OBVIOUSLY MALEC. PLZ.

👻The Spook Cruise👻

Port of Call: MALEC!Itinerary: ghosts! 👻👻👻Captain: @kionem 😘 

[-submit a prompt-]

Alec shifted uncomfortably on the sidewalk, hands shoved into his jacket’s pockets. Anxiously, he glanced up and down the street, keeping an eye out and wincing every time Jace’s struggling summoned a high-pitched rattling from the chain link fence. “Come on, man, this is stupid. Let’s just go home.”

“You kidding me?” Jace grumbled, a final strike at last breaking the fence’s padlock. The gate swung open, and he shot a wide grin over his shoulder, the streetlights giving his golden eyes a wild gleam. “This place is perfect. If anywhere in this dumb town is haunted, it’s here.”

Well, he couldn’t argue with that. The lot had been closed off for about a decade now, the yellow police tape stretched and discolored from years of neglect. It sagged from where it’d been wrapped around the house’s porch entry, hardly posing any kind of barrier to the two teens. Of greater concern was the way the wooden steps and floorboards creaked loudly beneath their careful footsteps, threatening to give way at any moment. The entire house was charred black, and the charcoal smell of flames still tinged the air, as if they were breathing in fresh embers and ash.

Alec shuddered, his hands gripping the camera hanging from around his neck. “It’s also an active crime scene. If we get caught in here—”

“The cops haven’t been here in years,” Jace interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Everyone dead, and any hope of evidence burned to a crisp. It’s a cold case no one cares about anymore.”

Despite everything else, Alec couldn’t help but sigh at the remark. Jace was right, and the reminder made Alec’s heart go out to the mysterious trio. The reported story was there’d been an accident, a gas leak or something, that killed the couple and their young child, but no one in town believed it. If that were the whole story, why was the place still closed off and protected by the city a whole decade after the fact? Most of the townsfolk whispered of foul play, but whether it’d been the mother, the father, the child, or maybe even someone else, no one could say for sure - not even the cops, apparently.

They steadily made their way into the master bedroom, white police tape barely visible upon the floor through layers of caked dust. They outlined two bodies, an adult’s and a child’s. “The dad’s, right?” Jace asked, crouching beside them.

Alec’s eyes shifted warily towards the bed. It was one of those fancy, four-post beds, or had been anyway. The sheer drapes had been eaten through in multiple places first by flames and then by moths, and whatever remained was so dirtied it looked nearly opaque black, much more like cobwebs than veils. “Yeah,” he finally replied, slowly moving from the bed towards a nearby dresser. “They found the mom in—”

His heart skipped a beat, and he whirled. Jace sprung to a stand, camera raised. “What is it?!” he hissed, his heart racing.

A cold sweat had formed on Alec’s skin. He swallowed, gathering his strength before answering, but still his voice shook. “I… I thought… I saw someone,” he managed to reply. “In… In the mirror…”

Jace eyed the mirror mounted above the dresser. It was just as dusty and charred as the rest of the house, only tiny blotches of its metallic backing still intact. He smirked, eyes sliding back to Alec as his pulse returned to normal.

Alec screamed, feeling fingers upon his back. Jace caught his punch in one hand, bursting into laughter at Alec’s terrified expression. “Asshole!!!” Alec yelled, yanking his fist free and shaking off his nerves.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Jace stepped around him and back out of the room. “Let’s split up. We’ll cover more ground and can get out of here quicker that way.” He paused in the threshold, turning a raised brow at him. “Unless you’d rather spend the night here?”

“Fuck off.”

Jace snorted and took his leave, Alec glaring after him the whole while. Only when his friend was completely out of sight did he finally release his breath, turning back around towards the bed with a groan. “I’m gonna kill him,” he muttered under his breath.

But when he opened his eyes again, he froze, his heart gripped with so much fear he swore it’d stopped beating entirely.

The round face of a small boy stared up at him, quiet and still. His eyes were as dark as his straight, black hair, and his face would have been something like bronze were it not for the pale of its translucency. Alec’s eyes grew wide, and wider still, his entire body shaking. He begged himself to scream, to run, to do something, but no amount of will could break through the horror…

…and, through his wide-eyed staring, he eventually came to notice the slight glistening at the corners of the boy’s eyes. He blinked, his brow slowly furrowing, and he gradually came to realize the boy looked just as scared. Bit by bit, he managed to calm down, and eased himself lower to the ground. “H… H-Hey, there,” his trembling voice whispered, one hand raising before him.

The boy shied into himself, eyeing Alec’s hand. He realized something about his hand appeared to bother the boy, so he quickly lowered it again with a soft, mumbled apology. As he’d guessed, it got the boy to relax again, his face turning back to regard Alec’s.

“Um…” Alec murmured, wracking his brain for what he should do next. This is insane!!! I’m… I’m talking to a ghost??? What the hell?! “M-My… My name’s… Alec…”

The boy didn’t respond, only continued to stare.

Alec closed his eyes, thinking back to all the news stories that’d come out at the time. “Your… Your name is…” He remembered thinking the name sounded peculiar. That, ultimately, is what made it stick out, and he couldn’t keep a triumphant smile from brightening his face as he finally declared, “It’s ‘Magnus,’ right? That’s your name?”

To Alec’s great relief, the boy managed a small smile, then slowly nodded. A moment later, however, an anguish consumed his face, and the glistening at his eyes worsened. He turned around and began staring at the bed, a tiny hand reaching out and slipping its fingers through the mattress’s edge.

Alec followed the boy’s gaze towards the pillows. As it dawned on him what the boy was thinking about, his heart fell, taking his voice with it. “You… miss your mother… ?”

The boy wiped at his eyes, then twisted around to regard his father’s outline upon the floor. His brow narrowed, the pain in his expression worsening.

“Your father killed her?” Alec asked, a strange kind of anxiety swelling within him. He was now the closest anyone had ever gotten to actually uncovering the truth, but though he knew others would want to know the story he loathed the thought of sharing it with anyone. Magnus was telling him, and that made it feel somehow personal and special, like a close-kept secret.

The boy shook his head, then turned to a toppled nightstand. His finger lifted, its point directing Alec’s attention towards a wooden box.

It was decaying and misshapen, its fire-exposed splinters the home of maggots and probably a roach or two. Still, as Alec moved closer and knelt beside it, he could still see with a tilt of his head the box’s once-velveteen interior and its shallow, long indent. He frowned, puzzling out the silhouette, then finally looked back over his shoulder to the boy. “…a dagger?” he asked.

A half-pleased, but half-saddened look touched the boy’s eyes and smile. He looked back to the bed, where his mother’s corpse had been found, and Alec’s heart broke.

“She… took her life,” Alec murmured, raising back to a stand. Why did he feel so helpless? He looked back at Magnus. “I’m sorry.” His eyes drifted to the father’s outline. “…Your dad got upset?”

The boy’s lips pursed, and his hands balled into fists. He was now all but glaring at the outline.

Alec frowned. “Your dad… burned the house down… ?” he asked, but even as he did he doubted that was the right answer - he could see the guy being angry about it, even going so far as blaming his kid, but burning the place and killing them both in the process seemed a bit… much…

Magnus was sad again, but it was a kind of fiery sadness. Hands still fisted, he turned his head, and Alec’s eyes trailed over towards a bronze candle holder, discarded and forgotten where it’d rolled and bounced and came to rest under a fallen standing lamp and armchair. A few feet away was a thin, dark blotch that sported a muted shine in the sparse moonlight piercing the house.

“Wax,” Alec realized in a hushed whisper. “A candle.” His eyes crossed back across the floor, connecting in a fairly straight line the candle holder, the father’s outline, and Magnus’s outline. Magnus himself had come to sit there, face hidden in the wrap of his arms around his raised knees. It took a while, but finally Alec pieced it all together, and hesitantly moved closer to Magnus. “Your mother killed herself… You found her here, and your dad walked in…”

As he sat beside Magnus on the ground, he reached out to lay a hand on the boy’s back, remembering at the last minute he couldn’t. Somehow, it’d become easy to forget he was interacting with a ghost. A ghost. He blinked and shook his head, still marveling the phenomena, but continued. “Your dad got mad at you, and it upset you. You threw the candle you’d been holding at him, and…” He sighed, looking around at the destroyed home.

I guess the story’s truer than people think, even though it’s not the full story.

He glanced back at Magnus. The boy was still hiding his face, but he’d stopped shaking. Alec’s expression softened, and when he spoke again it was filled with sympathy. “Hey… It’s… It’s alright. You were upset, and you made a mistake.”

Slowly, Magnus lifted his head, peering quietly over his arms. His eyes were reddened from crying, but the tears had ceased to flow. Still, he seemed wary, eyeing Alec in a silent anxiety.

Alec considered things for a moment, then offered a smile. “I won’t tell anyone. We can… keep it between us, if you like. And…” He hesitated, then slowly extended his hand between them. This time, rather than holding up to wave, he laid it flat, palm-up, like he was offering something. “…I know I’m nobody, and I certainly don’t hold any significance in your life, but… Well, for what it’s worth, I forgive you, at least.”

For a long while, Magnus stared at Alec’s hand, and Alec grew nervous. Was that the wrong thing to say? Had he upset the boy further? What was he doing, conversing like this with a ghost?! But then, Alec caught the subtle lift of Magnus’s small mouth, until a small, sad smile pinched his cheeks and softened his eyes. At long last, the boy extended his hand, moving his fingers toward’s Alec’s…

“Alec?”

Alec started, eyes snapping up to the threshold.

Jace was standing there, a brow peaked. “What… are you doing… ?”

“Uhhh…” Alec looked to his side. The space beside him was completely vacant - not even the dust upon the floor had been disturbed. “…Nothing,” he mumbled, standing up and dusting himself off. “Just, uh… thinking…”

Jace rolled his eyes and turned around. “Let’s get out of here. I didn’t find so much as a shifting curtain, much less any actual ghosts.”

As he followed his friend, Alec glanced over his shoulder to the body tape on the floor. He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed to find nothing there. “…Yeah, me neither,” he softly lied.

Jace whined and complained the whole way out of the house, declaring the whole thing a “waste of a perfectly good night” and wishing they’d gone for the hospital one town over. Alec droned most of it out, still contemplating his encounter with the little ghost boy and offering little more than the occasional “yeah” and “uh-huh” to appease Jace.

At the gate, Jace gave a final groan, then wove as he departed into the night. “Well, whatever. We still on for karaoke tomorrow?”

Alec glanced up at him as he pulled the gate shut, awkwardly wrapping the chain through its frame to keep it closed. “Uh…” He cast one last look across the overgrown lawn to the crumbling house. There, in the window… He swore he saw a tiny face, and beside it a tiny, waving hand. Alec smiled, nodding at the foggy silhouette, then looked back at his friend with a goofy smile.

“Yeah, Jace. Sure thing.”