#ive cried now but it doesn't hurt. it feels soft. but it stings when it hits the bottom of my chin.

[squirmydonnie]

Vent: :(🙁😢😓😭😥😞😔

Trust issues or something

I have a hard time connecting to people. But I already knew that.

I don't really trust them. I get scared a lot. Or don't really say what I mean or what's on my mind. I don't want to cause a problem or make someone upset.

I make a whole bunch of efforts. I've made progress that doesn't feel like progress. Even though I know it's there, it doesn't actually feel like if accomplished anything. I've lacked that feeling for a while. And I think it would only come back if I felt a connection from it. Or some kind of meaning.

When I get a good grade I don't feel much towards it. Not because it was easy, but because it was hard. And all i got was this number for it. This number that doesn't have any meaning.

I have been hanging out with these same people. Without feeling like I am a part of what they do. NBB is always there. Or most often she is. Disturbing the peace for me. Even if it isn't actually peace. She isn't exactly helping. Making fun of me and everyone else at the table.

Other person I feel off about:

They love me. And I know it. And I feel bad. I feel like my care and what I do isn't enough. It's too much to say and not feel I making a mistake. So I'll keep it short. I am messing this up. I have to let myself connect to this person. I'm trying. But I feel like I am still closed. I put efforts, but its not what they deserve. They deserve someone who can get the words out without turning away from their phone after making a message. Someone who doesn't shy away from their feelings. I guess in a way I had quit daydreaming for you. I had other reasons. But I knew if I didn't, I'd be placing my imaginary friends over one of the realest people I know. Despite my connections there I want to connect with you. I don't want to make mistakes anymore. Even if you aren't aware of them. I don't care. I want to be the best I can for you. Please forgive me.

You don't even know about it. No one knows about the daydreams. No one knows what's been in my head.

I think you deserve someone better than me. I feel bad that you like me..

Or that you love me. I think its wrong

I'm scared my happiness with you is artificial or something.

I quit because I wanted to be more present when I spoke or talked with you. I just feel afraid that I may not be good. And all I wanted was to be good with you. I don't want to be bad. I think your making a mistake.

I wish I was better. I keep trying. But I'm afraid. I'm always afraid. And I don't like that.

Over the years anxiety has become more physical. I can feel it more.

I haven't daydreamed all day today. I should be proud but I feel nothing for this. I'm just aware it. I think that's all I'll get. I don't really care about any kind of accomplishment feeling.

I want love to squeeze the back of my head.

I want light pink to fall out.

I want to smile.

[fangirl-everythang]

Happy Father's Day Part 3

Summary: 3/3 Well, its the last part.

Warning: Sad, Mentions Death.

Word Count: 2269

"Harry? " I answer the phone.

"It's not Harry but glad you know your numbers." that high pitch annoying ass voice squeals. Rubbing my stomach, the baby's in go position and any day now my oven will be done baking. And of course, this bitch is answering his phone.

"Well bye-bye just thought you should know where he was at. " In the background, I hear Harry's voice going on about something so it must be true. Hanging up I sigh letting the hot tears roll down my cheeks. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I blame myself really, I let him back into my life and this doesn't surprise me. I gotta pee.

Waddling over to the bathroom door a gasp leaves my mouth feeling the surge of liquids fall between my legs. Holy shit. My water broke! Fuck gotta go. Thankful my bag was already in the car. Harry had insisted once I hit the 36-week mark claiming Styles's are either early or fashionably late.

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. My knuckles turning white as I grasp the wheel. Nope, I'm not pushing anything out of my vagina. Can't do it. I refuse.

The contraction going away after a few brief moments of completely unreasonable pain. Dialing the numbers, I know by second nature, thankfully she picks up on the fourth ring.

"I don't think you should drive y/n"

" Just call 911. I'm almost there! " Gemma ecstatically shouts. She's just like her brother, "Where's Harrold? "

I put the seatbelt on and wince. It's just 28 minutes I can do this. "He's with his whore."

I can hear an audible gasp, "he wouldn't he's so excited for Athena"

"Well I just called him and she answered. " I grunt keeping my eyes on the two lanes ahead of me. Fuck I hate merging lanes people don't know how to drive.

"I'll be at the hospital as soon as possible but my phones gonna-" the line went dead. She did say she was on like 10% oh well.

I can do this just focus y/n. "Hear that baby girl we're almost there, hang on okay Hunny. " I say as a reminder to myself that soon I'll be leaving with another human with me.

6 miles to go that's what I'm talking about, another sharp pain spreads throughout my abdomen while waiting for the light to turn green. "OH COME ON. FOR FUCKS SAKE!" they're getting closer by the minute. Shit. Arriving at a four-way intersection. I'm relieved to be at a red light, the contractions are longer and much more frequent. "Almost there Athena, this is the last light and a straight shot from there."

Abruptly my car is jerked forward with a sharp impact pushing to the oncoming lights. All I see are lights from both directions colliding with my 3,000-pound piece of metal. Sounds of shattering glass and sirens are the last thing I hear before it all fades to black.

||||||||||||||||

Harry's POV

"Has anyone seen Mr. Style's phone?" The helpful aid asked around the dressing room. I could've sworn I put it down for a moment. Y/n could go into labor any minute now and how I am supposed to know. Fuck. I'm stupid.

I was supposed to be here to perform and list nominees and then go back home to y/n. I can't wait to propose to her, she's all I could ever want and she's giving me the most wonderful gift I could ever ask for. Running a hand through my damp hair, the lights really build a sweat, I hear a familiar voice. "Looking for this lover? " she asks slipping my phone into my pocket.

"Good luck at home. " she smiles and winks. Before I could question it she walks away.

Looking down at the device my heart skips a beat, I have 146 missed calls. And I've been gone for 5 hours. Seeing Gemma's name on the screen again I swipe to answer.

"Hell-"

"Harry," she says sniffling.

"Gemma what's wrong? did I miss it? Oh my god I hope not"

"I think it would be best if you came now Harry." she breaks her voice cracking.

"Gem what?"

"Listen Harry, she needs you right now so please." she cries. Not needing another word, I tell Jackson the address and that I need to be there as fast as possible, 45 minutes later we're pulling into the Labor and Delivery section of the hospital.

"Congrats Harry!" Jackson says letting me out at the door. "Thank you!" I beam back at him.

Seeing Gemma, her eyes are puffy with tears still flowing. "Gem what's wro-," a sharp pain to my right cheek stings. Never has Gemma hit me like that, well not since I cut her prom dress. "How could you Harry? Cheat on her again WITH TAYLOR for Christ sakes!" She yells.

"I didn't cheat," I explain to my sister as calm as I can.

She looks at me with wild eyes pulling me into a hallway with fewer people, "Then what happened Harrold?" I clench my jaw instead of speaking, how dare she accuse me of cheating on my pregnant soon-to-be fiancé. Y/n Styles has a great catch don't you think?

"Is she here yet? Gem where are they?" I ask ready to see my new family.

She begins crying again "Harry there was an accident." Those five words make my breathing come to a halt. My heart shatters in a million pieces "Is Y/n okay? What happened?" She begins walking me to a door. "This one," she points. Looking through the glass I see y/n with bruises and cuts to her beautiful face, her stomach nearly deflated from when I last saw her this morning, a cast on a swollen leg of hers, and a sling holding a very damaged arm. Tears brim at my eyes looking at my love on that hospital bed. "She's awake." Gemma walks past me running to the outside.

I gently knock on the door, waiting for a response which I don't get. "Y/n?" I approach her almost as If I were going to help an injured puppy. "Hey love" I smile at her which she glares at me and then turns wincing in pain. "You wanted this didn't you Harry?" I look at her confused. "This is probably great for you, a way out. Well leave." She states using whatever energy she can find.

"Baby I didn't want- I want you and Athena" She breaks down in uncontrollable tears.

"You were with that her and couldn't even bother to pick up your phone!" she screams. "Y/n I wasn-" a knock at the door interrupts my sentence, "Come in" She says glaring at me as a nurse opens the door.

"Hey there Mama, we have a visitor." the nurse wheel in a tiny cart that has a bunch of equipment coming from it. She looks at me and asks Y/n, "Is this dad?" she nods and rolls her eyes. "About time you made it!" She smiles my way. Placing the beautiful baby in front of us. She's so small and fragile. "The doctor will be in shortly to talk to you." She states picking up the tiny child and putting her in Y/n's arm.

"Hi pumpkin," Y/n coos into her ear. "Guess who decided to show?" She smiles, a tear falling from the corner of her eye. She nods her head towards me as I go to hold her. She's so soft and precious. Her small eyes have a gorgeous mix of both mine and Y/n's. She has such a cute round face, I couldn't imagine her looking any different.

"Hi there angel, I'm so sorry I was late." I see a spot dampen on her blanket that surrounds her, knowing that I'm crying. Her small eyes shining like twinkling stars. So small I can feel her fragile body between my large hands.

Another knock before the door opens when several doctors walk in. "Mrs. Y/ln, unfortunately, we have some bad news,"

"Oh, hello there Mr. Styles." They state acknowledging my existence. One of the female doctors places a black and white image on the lighted board illuminating the small figure.

"Unfortunately, due to the accident, Athena has suffered from what we call a fetomaternal hemorrhage."

"What exactly are you saying?" Y/n ask looking at the child still in my arms.

The slightly shorter male doctor points to the image. "This is an abscess of blood in the brain. Unfortunately, the risk is too large to operate. I'd give her another day at most."

"You m-mean," Tears start pouring down her face" I was so scared she was hurt. I-I promise I saw the light it was red, and I-I stopped but," She began heaving losing more air with each word. I gently rub her back as I cradle Athena with one arm.

"She's still being monitored but I'm afraid she won't have much longer." The first doctor breaks the silence. "According to the police report the car that struck you from behind happened to be a drunk driver, Gage Joyce." I can feel the anger surging through me. "I remember the clashing of metal, glass breaking, the sirens but it all went b-black." She mumbles, seemingly remembering the awful experience. I grab her hand in hopes of comforting her but it doesn't seem to work.

"After striking your car at 72 mph it had ample force to push your vehicle into the opposite traffic. Your vehicle took the most impact and was hit by four other cars. On scene, EMT's said you were in and out of consciousness mumbling about a baby. Taken and brought to the L&D." he finishes.

"Fetomaternal hemorrhages are often caused by trauma and sometimes can be revered but in this case, we've done all we can do." They all frown looking at the small girl still in my arms.

"No, there's got to be more you can bloody do! We're in a hospital for Christ sakes!" I exclaim, passing my daughter to the love of my life. She gently caresses her soft skin. She's literally a perfect combination of us. I cannot lose my family.

"You can leave, thank you all for your help." y/n says quietly, they oblige by her wishes and leave us with our daughter.

"Harry," she wipes a tear from her face cautious of the IV placed on her hand, "If what they say is true, I just want to spend time with her." She sniffles. I nod understanding. She looks back at the small being in her arms, "Hi pretty girl, Mommy's so happy to meet you," she unfolds the blanket from her. I sit next to her on the small bed in the room that smells of sterilization. Placing my finger near hers' she wraps her small hand around my thumb, her grip so tight for someone so small. Y/n kisses her forehead, "Harry," she runs her finger along her small legs.

"Can you sing the song?" nodding and softly singing Isn't she Lovely by Stevie Wonder, in the small hospital bed as our new life falls asleep. All night I watch her little chest rise and fall allowing y/n to get some rest soon following my two loves.

By the early morning, nurses are rushing in because of the loud beeping from the monitor, waking y/n and I. It feels like everything is happening so fast but in slow motion right in front of me. Those three words are the ones I didn't want to hear. "No! no. I have to take her home. She's gotta go home..." Y/n screams, not being able to see her face due to the tears in my eyes falling and rebuilding themselves faster than the speed of light. "Call it." One of the nurses shouts.

"Time of Death 6:18 am March 7th, 2019"

As they cleared out the room, I see her small lifeless body curled into a blanket, almost as if she were sleeping, but no longer do breaths fall from her small heart-shaped lips.

//////////////////////////

Y/n hasn't said a word since we got in the car. It's been four days since we lost Athena. She slowly climbs into the car, still sore from the accident and birth. I go to the backseat holding back my emotions and putting the empty car-seat in the trunk of the car that should have been holding three of us.

Starting the silent journey back home she continues to look out of the window, a frown etched on her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks as she instinctively touches her somewhat deflated stomach. What kind of sick joke is this?

"Harry why were you with her?" she asks me looking down at what used to be her baby bump.

"I wasn't love, she took my phone while I was on stage." She just nods and remains silent until we pull up to the flat. She begins walking up the stairs as best she can. "Y/n wait, let me help."

"No Harry!" She yells. Pain evident in her voice, ignoring her I open the door and help her inside. "Harry I can't do this." I stare at her confused, "What can't you do y/n?"

"Us Harry. I can't look at you and not think of her." She sobs.

"Y/n we can-" I try to reason with her.

"No Harry, please just go." She whispers.

"I'm not losing both of you," I state holding back my own sobs. I feel like everything feels like it's getting smaller around me, suffocating in grief.

"You already have."

A/N: What can I say I have a thing for dark endings. Anyways I really appreciate the support loves. I hope you enjoy these! Right now I've been working on a Loki piece, I'm so excited for it. I changed the writing style tho, so it's not 1st person per usual. I think it's going pretty well so far.

xoxo Janelle

[ottelis]

"I gave you my life, Eliott," Lucas's voice shatters, splinters.

Eliott replies softly, broken, hollow, "And I gave you mine."

"No," Lucas says, low and dark. "No, you didn't."

.

.

aka: eliott and lucas grow up together, but are separated when eliott is institutionalized in paris after a severe depressive episode. they reunite two years later when eliott is released, but everything has already changed before their eyes.

epigraph. i. ii. iii. iv.

04—charcoal

tw: uses of the q slur and mentions of death, suicide, and electroshock therapy

july 18th, 1968

12:58

caen, france

~

The days start blurring together again, but the colors are a little clearer, rarely mixing and mudding together. Eliott thinks Friday was mostly gray; Saturday was a pale, sky blue; Sunday was a rich, muted green; Monday was a peachy pink; Tuesday, was a pale, pale yellow; Wednesday was a faded white; and today, Thursday, is a pastel orange. But all Eliott could think about all week was Lucas.

I don't know what to do, Eliott.

I'm sure you understand that your loyalty isn't as precious to me now as it was when we were younger.

We can't be together anymore. I was wrong back then. I'm not a queer. I know now. 

I don't think so, Eliott.

In that moment, I wanted to hurt you. And I knew that what I said would hurt you.

In your letter, you said that you just wanted to know if I would nurture your loyalty a little longer. I will. If you'll let me.

All these same words, swirling around in his mind until he's dizzy, until they burn behind his eyelids every time he closes his eyes. And he hears Lucas's voice through it all, every inflection of disappointment, fatigue, frustration, despondency, and hope, and Eliott feels the sting of it all over again. 

But Eliott doesn't feel devastated. He still feels that lingering sense of acceptance, and it veils him in a thin cloud of depression. Thin enough to see through, but thick enough to darken his surroundings, to start draining the color from everything ever so slightly. It's like a pain, an ache that doesn't hurt too terribly, but it still lingers, constantly trying to keep making its presence known. He can't deny that it's there, and he can't push the pain away as easily. It's bothersome, and it's dark.

He just can't figure Lucas out. And he can't figure out why he let himself accept Lucas's apologies so easily. He should've fought back. He should've asked him more questions, challenged more of his recent actions. He should've let himself take control for once instead of following Lucas's lead, only reacting instead of acting. He should've done so many more things in that moment instead of being so passive, but he can't picture himself taking the initiative again and marching up to Lucas's door and demanding he answer. Perhaps, a small part somewhere in the maze of his mind surrendered that day where the grass ends, and it took over the other night. And maybe that little spec is strong enough to convince the rest of his mind, his body to simply give up. Let Lucas move on. Let him marry Chloé, let him go to Paris for medical school, let him live a new life. Maybe there really is a parallel universe where they won't be together forever, and Eliott just happens to have the crushing misfortune of living in it.

He wanted to tell his mother what happened that night. But then he would have to admit that he's hurt Lucas more than he already has, and that he's upset because he finally knows that Lucas didn't love him as much as he loves Lucas. He finally knows that Lucas probably never loved him like that at all. And he's not only upset, he's afraid. Afraid that he'll come to the same realization that Lucas has. Maybe they really were just two stupid boys who needed more love than they had, so they turned to each other. They fell into each other's arms and crashed into each other's lips because they had nowhere else to go, nowhere else they felt safe taking refuge in. Maybe it all really was some passing fancy, something convenient that they took advantage of the few moments they had it. 

Maybe the love that has driven Eliott his whole life, the love that has shaped him and raised him up into the man he is now, was never truly real.

A part of him is happy this didn't destroy him as much as it could have, but a larger part hates that he's not as upset as he should be. He's practically lost Lucas, his best friend and, dare he say, the love of his life. He should be wailing and gnashing his teeth and pounding his fists into the earth and crying out in anger at God, at fate, at whatever thing has taken almost everything he loves away from him. He should be surging through every day with a hungry, raging flame of anger. Or he should be in such mourning that he fears his eyes will never be dry again. His whole body should heave with his sobs, his mouth should always taste of the bitter salt from his tears, he should feel the strain on his heart, wait in perfect patience for the moment it breaks and he'll finally be free from his pain. He'll forever be known as the boy who died of a broken heart, who died because he loved someone far, far too much. He has a right to feel angry, to be completely shattered. But he doesn't. He's just tired. And he doesn't know how to wait for Lucas to reach out to him and tell him that he's ready to talk. He doesn't know how much longer he can be in this depressed, almost apathetic state before it morphs into something worse, something he can't control. He just doesn't know.

Him and his mother are eating lunch as his mind is still running rampant, trying to hold back all the feelings of guilt and depression so she won't notice. It's trying to find a solution, too, though it isn't sure which problem it wants to fix. Eliott isn't sure, either. He isn't sure where to begin, or if any solution will actually work. His confusion, his desperation is growing, and he doesn't want it getting out of control. He doesn't want himself to get out of control. Not again. Every time he loses control, he—

"Eliott," his mother begins, her voice soft, a little sad. "I'm thinking about visiting Papa today. Do you want to come with me?"

Eliott looks up, blinking away his reverie. He takes a deep breath as he tries to think about her question. The last time he was there, his father's memory helped him more than he thought it could. And maybe he could tell his father everything that happened. He could tell him the truth about everything, all the truth he never got to tell him when he was still alive. Yes, he won't be able to answer, or give him a hug or tousle his hair, but maybe if Eliott just says the words out loud, he could start feeling better. Maybe.

He nods, giving her a small smile. "I'll come."

She smiles back at him. There's something shining in her eyes, and he can't tell if she's happy or if she's about to cry. "Good," she says, her voice wavering slightly. She clears her throat. "Is it okay if we go once we finish our lunch?"

He nods again. "That's okay."

"I know you've been feeling down again, honey," she continues, still quiet. "And I think this will help you."

Eliott bites his lip, but nods. "I think so, too."

"I love you," she says, reaching across the table and placing her hand on top of his. "You know that, right?"

"I know," he smiles. "I love you, too, Maman."

Eliott doesn't eat much of his lunch, but his mother smiles at him understandingly and offers to wrap it up and save it for later. He smiles back at her and accepts.

"I can make us some tea when we come home," she says as they walk out the front door. "Does that sound good?"

"Sounds good," Eliott agrees. "Thank you, Maman."

"You're welcome, honey," she smiles, kissing him on the cheek. "Ready?"

He nods, and the hum of the engine and the music on the radio is almost soothing as they make their way to the cemetery.

It's a beautiful day, but not quite as beautiful as the day his father died. The air is just a little too humid and stuffy, the wind is a little too harsh, the sun a little too dim. But his father always liked summer. He was rarely sick when it was warm, and he usually felt strong enough to go down to the beach with Eliott and splash around in the water with him. They would go down to the library and read books together, or just wander around the town. His father was so close to seeing another summer, but he was too sick, too weak to live another day. He wonders again if his father's half-open eyes saw one of the most beautiful days France had ever seen before he died. He hopes he did.

He blinks as he hears the engine and the music suddenly cut off. They're here. The cemetery doesn't look nearly as dreary in the broad daylight. Most of the markers are a light, weathered gray, and the grass is a much brighter, healthy green. The eerie silence of the place is interrupted by the soft rustling of leaves, branches in the wind. It's almost beautiful.

He hears his mother unbuckle her seat belt, so he does the same. He takes as many deep breaths as he can. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the idea of only seeing his father in a cemetery, and only seeing his name, and only seeing the two little dates and knowing, in between them, how little time he spent with his father. It's a strange feeling. He always feels a ghost of a shiver running along his spine here, but yet he's filled with a catharsis, a kind of comfort.

He follows his mother to his father's grave, and he sees tears in her eyes. He puts his arm around her, and she rests her head on his shoulder.

They reach his grave, both releasing a heavy sigh. She doesn't weep like she used to. He can hear her sniffle, but he can't feel her trembling. Still, he holds her close, holds her up. He knows she still needs it.

They stand there for a moment, silently mourning. Not very many thoughts have run through Eliott's mind, and he hasn't yet cried a single tear. He only feels that lingering sadness he's felt the past few days, and the pain of it is dull, yet plunging. He hates how he barely feels anything right now.

"Maman," Eliott begins, speaking past the familiar lump in his throat. "Can I talk to Papa? Alone?"

She looks up at him, worry written all over her face. But she smiles. "Okay. I'll be in the car."

"Thank you," he smiles back, enveloping her in a tight hug. 

She pulls away, kissing him on the cheek before walking away.

The cemetery is eerily, eerily quiet before Eliott finds the courage to speak.

"Papa," he begins shakily, taking what feels like his millionth deep breath. "I need to tell you something. I never got the chance to tell you this while you were alive, but," he pauses, trying to taste the words before they come out of his mouth. They taste strange, unfamiliar, but they're right. "I'm queer, Papa. I... I don't know if there's a better word to describe it, but I don't think my heart falls in love with just boys, or just girls, or just boys and girls. It just falls in love. It runs rampant and it drags me along and I can't help but listen to it and follow it. And, somewhere along the way, it fell in love with Lucas. I don't know when or why or how it happened, but it did. And, not long before you died, he told me he loved me, too. And then we kissed. And, suddenly, we were calling each other mon amour and finding little places where we could kiss again and fall even deeper in love," Eliott chuckles as a single tear rolls down his cheek. "I wonder if people saw me back then and wondered why I was so happy. And not the happy I am when I'm manic. Truly happy. I've never been so happy in my life, Papa, I swear it. I didn't even need to be around him to be so beyond happy. I just had to say his name, or picture him in my mind, and my heart would soar. I was in love, Papa, I am in love," His smiles, his laughs disappear. "But he's angry with me. Or, he was. I'm not sure. When I first came home he was. He was angry because of what I did before I had to go to the institution. And he didn't talk to me for weeks, and he started talking to me again the other day at his birthday party. But he doesn't want to talk about anything that happened before. I think he's hoping I'll just forgive him and then we'll never have to talk about any of that again. He... He feels so much but he refuses to let it show on his face. He refuses to let other people see it. He refuses to tell anyone about it. He's stubborn and he bottles everything up and then he lashes out and then he realizes how much he can hurt people and he hates being reminded of that, of how powerful his words are, how sharp his tongue is. And... I don't know how to help him. He's worse than he was when we were younger. And I know in the back of my mind that I'm probably the reason why he's gotten worse, but I don't know how to help him. He won't tell me how. I know every inch of him except for his mind. His skull might as well be empty for me. I can't figure him out anymore. And I think he's given up on figuring me out, too. And... he's engaged now, and he says he never loved me the way I loved him. And when he said that, I think it confirmed everything I was already thinking, and I was okay with it. I accepted it. Well, parts of it. I don't think I could ever forget how happy he made me. That's the part I can't seem to accept. If he didn't love me the way I loved him, why did that make me so happy? Why did I take his little crumbs of affection and let my smile spread and let my heart fall in love with him? I just... I'm afraid that this is really where we grow apart. I'm afraid that universe is branching off into other universes and we're on completely different paths. And, if we are, if that's what's happening, wouldn't it be my fault? I chose to try to take myself away from him, and now he's made his choice, too, I think. I don't know what to do, Papa."

He knows his father couldn't answer, but when the silence comes back, unsettling and snaking underneath his skin, it makes the lump in his throat break open in a strangled sob. He breathes, slowly, rubbing at his eyes. He breathes, breathes. He walks away, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. He breathes again, as slowly as he can. He calms himself down, leaving himself with that lingering, prickly sadness that's been haunting him for days.

He hopes he doesn't look like he's been crying as much as he has been when he reaches the car and climbs into his seat.

"Are you okay, honey?" his mother asks almost immediately. "You look like you've been crying."

He nods, taking another deep breath. "I just miss Papa."

It's not a lie, but his father isn't the only person he misses so much he feels like he could burst.

"We'll get you home and I'll make you that tea I promised," she replies, placing her hand on his shoulder. "Would that make you feel better?"

Eliott nods again, smiling a little. "It would."

His mother doesn't try and talk to him as they drive home, which he appreciates, but it's still a little too quiet for his taste. He turns up the radio a bit, even though he isn't particularly fond of the song that's playing. The day is still beautiful, his sadness still haunts him, Lucas is still quiet and distant, his mother is still far kinder than he deserves, and his father is still dead. Everything has changed, but in this moment, nothing has.

They arrive home, and Eliott sits at the table as his mother makes tea. He looks out the window, towards the water, watching the waves lap and froth and imagining the music they must be making. He still hasn't gone swimming since he came home, but whenever he entertains the idea, something holds him back. Lucas can't come with him, and neither can his father. The last time he went swimming alone was when he tried to let the waves crash over him and sweep him away. He's not afraid of the water, not like Lucas is now, but he supposes he's at least wary of it now. Maybe, if Lucas really does want them to be friends again and tries to fix things between them, they can go swimming like they used to. They could wade out, little by little, so Lucas doesn't get too scared, and the chilly sting of the water will wash all of Eliott's bad memories away. Couldn't they?

The kettle boils, and the waves seem to calm.

He turns his gaze back towards his mother, who began to pour the water into their mugs. He smiles at her gratefully as she hands him his, chuckling when she reminds him that the tea will be hot.

"So," she begins, setting Eliott ever so slightly on edge. "What did you tell Papa about?"

Eliott sighs, bobbing his teabag above and below the water. He decides to tell the truth, at least a piece of it. "Lucas."

"Have you heard from him again at all?" she asks carefully, adding sugar to her tea.

Eliott shakes his head. "Not at all."

"You're sure you don't want me to talk to him or Madeleine?" she asks again.

Eliott nods. "He'll talk to me when he's ready."

"It's been almost a month since you came back, honey," she replies. "What's holding him back?"

"He has his own life now, Maman," he shrugs. "One that I probably need to stop intruding on. I don't think he wants me in it."

"Why wouldn't he want you there with him?" she asks, almost frustrated. "You two have spent almost your whole lives together. You go away for two years, and suddenly he doesn't want you around anymore? It doesn't make sense."

"I told you what he said," he sighs, putting his tea off to the side. He's still not angry. He's just still tired. "It wasn't the two years that I was gone. It's the reason why I was gone for two years. It's because I tried to kill myself."

The words fall from his mouth so quickly it makes him feel sick to his stomach. It makes the color drain from his mother's face. It makes a tense silence fall between them.

"I'm..." Eliott chokes out. "I'm sorry, Maman. It's just that I can't undo what I tried to do that night. I can't unwrite those letters I wrote, or unthink the thoughts that made me want to try in the first place. I can't unmake Lucas's anger. And I don't think I can unbreak our friendship. He'll patch a hole in it then move on and never look back like he always does if he decides to talk to me again."

"Honey," his mother starts, but the word dies in her throat and she doesn't say anything else.

He shakes his head, running his hands through his hair. "I wish he would just talk to me and tell me he just doesn't want to be friends anymore so I can stop hoping and wishing that things will go back to the way they were. No matter how much things keep changing right in front of me, a part of me still keeps imagining a world I remember, a world that's kind to me. I wish he would tell me if he's going to kill it or nurture it. It's tearing me apart. He's tearing me apart."

She doesn't know what to say. He can tell from the way she purses her lips and the way she can't quite look him in the eye.

"It's okay," he tells her. "I wouldn't know what to say to me, either."

She sighs, lightly tapping her fingers on the table. "Maybe you could write everything you're feeling? Or maybe draw?"

Eliott shrugs, but the idea flows easily into his mind and lifting his spirits, if only slightly.

"You haven't drawn in a while, haven't you?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "I gave Lucas a drawing for his birthday, but I don't think I've drawn anything like I used to since Papa died."

"Do you want to try it? We can go and buy some supplies," she proposes, hope in her eyes.

He nods. "I'll try it."

july 20th, 1968

01:11

caen, france

~

As much as Eliott believes drawing will help him, he's had to work up the courage to simply pick up the new charcoal pencils his mother bought him yesterday, let alone put them to paper. His mind is full, as always. Full of emotions, memories, ideas of what to draw, ideas of what he would say to Lucas whenever he's ready to talk. if he didn't know better, he would've thought he was in another mania based on his scattered mind alone. If he was in a mania, the thoughts would've pushed him, urged him forward as he followed every wit that crossed his mind. But his thoughts are suffocating him, backing him into a dark corner. His mind seems to be teetering on a fine line between mania and depression, and it reminds him of the day he tried to take his own life. And that terrifies him.

He remembers someone saying that when anniversaries of traumatic events arrive, people's emotions are heightened to a frightening degree. Anxiety, depression, fear, despair. Today marks two years since Lucas's drowning, and two days from now will be two years since Eliott's suicide attempt. He hates how close together two of the worst days of his life are, but things were so different back then. Eliott was frightened, desperate, traumatized. Lucas was dead for the longest, most frightening ten minutes Eliott could imagine. How could he ever forget that? How could he ever recover from knowing that beloved body was ever lifeless? How could he chase away the frightening possibility that Lucas's heart stopped before Eliott could cling to him and swim desperately to shore? How could he live knowing that Lucas's drowning was all his fault?

Last year, Eliott's mental state while he was at the institution was deteriorating rapidly, and the anniversary coincided with another failed medication trial. He spent the anniversary of Lucas's drowning with the bit in his mouth and the shocks ripping through his brain, and he spent the anniversary of his suicide attempt still reeling from the shocks, too weak and disoriented to spend too much time dwelling on remembering. He doesn't want to spend the anniversaries this year in that same situation, but his terror only grows at the thought of having to deal with it with a somewhat clear mind.

And how Lucas must have felt, must feel. All because of Eliott.

He shakes his head, shakes away the memories, the possibilities, the blame. He looks back down at his new sketchbook, feels the chalky charcoal rub smoothly against his fingertips. He takes a deep breath, letting his eyes slowly close.

Breathe. Create. Forget. Just for a minute or two.

He opens his eyes, and he touches the charcoal to the page, letting his mind control his hand. Whatever's on his mind, it'll speak in tones of dark black or faded gray. The picture will be black and white, but Eliott's heart will provide all the color.

may 27th, 1966

19:47

caen, france

~

The sun is setting, kissing the water and making it blush a fierce gold as Lucas kisses Eliott softly, gingerly on a rippling sea of wrinkled bedsheets. Their legs are tangled together, and their foreheads touch and their noses tickle against each other. Lucas weaves his hand through Eliott's hair, wrapping the occasional strand around his finger if he finds a small curl. Eliott can feel Lucas's eyes on him, but he's staring at the little mole on his neck, the dip of his collarbone, how his skin turns into something like honey in the light of the setting sun. 

"He'll be okay, Ellie," Lucas finally says, still the softest, kindest thing that ever sang in Eliott's ear. "He'll get better."

"It's different this time," Eliott mumbles, fidgeting with the collar of Lucas's shirt. "He's never been this sick before. Never. I'm just waiting for Maman to call and tell me that he's dying, or that he's already dead. It could be any minute now."

"She won't," Lucas replies, kissing the tip of Eliott's nose. "He has some of the best doctors in the country looking after him. They'll make him good as new."

"My papa's been sick my whole life, Lu," Eliott shakes his head, tears filling his eyes. "Every time he gets really sick or he goes to the hospital, all I ever hear is that he'll get better. Someday they're bound to be wrong. Someday he'll be too sick and the doctors won't be able to save him."

"He's not too sick," Lucas reassures, but his voice is thin, almost breaking. "He's not too far gone."

"You keep saying that," Eliott says, finally looking up at Lucas. He sees something in Lucas's eyes he rarely sees; pity. 

"How could I tell you that your papa might die?" Lucas sighs, closing his eyes. He shakes his head, opening his eyes again and gazing at Eliott with that same pity. "I know what it's like to lose a father, but not like this."

"You don't have to tell me," Eliott replies. "And you don't have to try and tell me things you don't believe."

Lucas is quiet, biting his lip and avoiding Eliott's gaze. Ever so quietly, he says, "I know."

"Lucas," Eliott begins, taking a deep breath. "Hold me. Please. Hold me until this is all over."

The corner of Lucas's mouth turns up into a sad, half-smile. "Okay."

Eliott manages to smile back as he cuddles closer to Lucas, resting his head on his chest. He feels Lucas's arms enfold him, holding him tightly yet softly. He feels Lucas kiss and whisper into his hair, feels his thumb gently caress his arm. He listens to Lucas's heartbeat, feels the soft cotton of his shirt brush against his cheek, smells his salt and his sleep, and he prays that somehow, Lucas is right.

Lucas's breaths start evening out, and his heartbeat slows. Eliott looks up and sees that his eyes are closed, and that his lips are parted ever so slightly. Lucas could always fall asleep so easily, and Eliott always envied him for it. But he smiles, kissing the tip of Lucas's nose, his forehead. He doesn't stir, and he snores quietly.

Eliott watches him for a moment, studies the way his long eyelashes fan against his cheek and are lengthened by their own shadows. He watches the small strands of hair falling over his forehead drift on the breeze from the open window, from Lucas's breathing. Lucas smiles, ever so slightly, in his sleep, and he sighs contentedly.

He's so beautiful, Eliott thinks. How did I ever deserve him?

Eliott carefully pulls himself away from Lucas's hold, finding his bag and pulling out his sketchbook and pencils. He climbs back onto the bed, still careful about waking Lucas. He starts drawing Lucas's head, etching out every sleepy line in his face, every messy strand of his hair. He draws the sloping line of his neck, the hills and valleys of his shoulders, the slightest curve at his waist. He draws his open hand resting by his face, his fingers slightly curled and his palms almost completely shadowed. He tries to draw all the little fibers he can see in Lucas's shirt, chasing the hems and trying to reign in every loose thread. 

He stops drawing for a moment, wishing he had a colored pencil that matched the shade of Lucas's skin in this light, and what such a color could be called; pale honey, ambrosia, euphoria, tenderness. He tries to commit the color to memory, the perfect blend of oranges and yellows and dusty pinks. His grin widens at the thought that maybe, if the world is kind to them, Eliott will see this color over and over again. That he'll see the love of his life look so heavenly every day, and be reminded again and again that Lucas is his, and that he is Lucas's. That he'll fall deeper and deeper in love until he forgets what it's like to live in a world where his soul wanders aimless, alone. He offers up another prayer that, like they say, thoughts will become words, and words will become actions, and that actions will become habits. For Lucas is the most addicting and yet satisfying habit Eliott could ever have.

His heart sinks, just a little, as he studies his drawing. It's beautiful, but not as beautiful as Lucas truly is. His heart sinks, just a little further, as he imagines people thinking Lucas is one of the most beautiful people they've ever seen, without ever seeing him like Eliott does.

He leaves his sketchbook on Lucas's nightstand, carefully crawling back into his arms. But Lucas stirs, and his eyes slowly blink open. He smiles when he sees Eliott, tilting his head down to kiss him again. Eliott kisses him back, hoping Lucas can taste the love that fills his chest and presses against his seams, the love that only appears as long as Lucas lives, breathes, sings.

"Why'd you get out of bed?" Lucas asks, his voice deep and crackling.

"I drew you," Eliott replies. "While the sunlight was still shining on you."

"You did?" Lucas grins, tracing Eliott's cheekbone with his thumb gingerly.

Eliott nods, grinning back at him. "I did."

"You'll have to show me when I'm less sleepy," Lucas says, kissing Eliott again. It's soft, slow, smiling lips against smiling lips. "I love you so much."

Eliott feels his heart glowing, bursting. He kisses him a little deeper, a little harder, making the smallest moan rumble from Lucas's throat. Eliott slows then, breaking away for a moment before kissing him again, gently, patiently. Lucas melts into him. They stop for breath, almost chuckling at each other out of pure joy.

" I love you, too,"  Eliott says against Lucas's lips. "More than anything."

They become like the waves against the shore, their lungs harmonizing in slow, sweet sighs. They hold each other, their bodies fitting together and clinging as tightly as they can. They slowly fall back asleep, braving the darkness they're entering together. The wind flows through the window, gathering their secrets and vowing that they'll keep them, falling silent and dying in the sky's throat. The moon is still bright, her freckled face smiling sadly as she watches them, knowing all the threads of the universe and knowing how they all tie together. She whispers, sings, "All is well. There is a calm after the storm, a peace after the war, a warmth and a comfort when burning heat fades away. Brave through, my darlings. To be brave is to be alive, to be well. All I ask is that you remember, still, to be gentle all the while."

The Lallemants' phone rings.

july 20th, 1968

10:17

caen, france

~

Eliott wakes with a jolt from a dreamless sleep. The sun is well on its way through the sky, its rays almost completely lighting up his room. He sits up, fighting against his head and heart weighing him down to his bed. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and tries to ignore the throbbing pain in his skull. He looks down at the floor, where his small binder of drawings lies open. On the left hand side is the drawing he made of Lucas while he was sleeping, the last serious drawing he ever did before his father died. The pencil markings are weathered slightly, the page stained a pale, pale yellow. On the right hand side is the drawing he did a few hours ago, another of Lucas, but the way he looked the moment he opened the door and saw Eliott there. Eliott reaches down and picks it up, studying it more closely. 

Lucas's mouth gapes open slightly, highlighting his cheekbones and his jawline, exposing his teeth. His eyebrows are raised, curtained behind stray locks of his hair falling over his forehead. His eyes are wide, sparkling with something like shock, despair, confusion, realization, recognition. Eliott still hasn't figured out what that something is, or what he can call it, but he thinks he'll never be able to forget it. It should've struck him to his core. It should've warned him that something was wrong, that something was different. But he didn't see it, then. He was too blinded by Lucas, by the future he thought they could have together, loving each other like they used to. 

Eliott briefly entertains the idea of what could've happened if he had listened to that ghost in Lucas's eyes, if he had just walked away right then and there. He wonders which is worse: knowing Lucas is angry and knowing the distance that's growing between them is all his fault, or not knowing why Lucas is upset and letting their friendship fall apart, wither away naturally. Which is worse? Animosity, or ignorance?

He sighs deeply, putting the drawing back in his binder. He wants to reach out to Lucas today, somehow. He probably won't try and talk to him, not yet. Maybe a letter?

Eliott tears a blank sheet from his sketchbook and moves over to his desk. His hand hovers over the page as a thousand words flit across his mind, as he tries to catch the ones that feel right. He starts writing.

 Lucas,

I've been thinking about you, and us, and everything that went wrong. And you were right. I was selfish. I was foolish. I was a boy. I was sick. I'm still sick. My sickness will never go away, no matter how many shocks they gave me, and no matter how many times I scream and pray for it to leave me alone. It hurts people and sometimes I can't stop it. It's hurt you so many times. I've hurt you so many times.

I was sick that day. A dizzy, euphoric sick. I was in love with you. And your name, your face mingled with my mania and it took me higher than I've ever been before. I couldn't imagine being away from you for even a second. So, I woke up at dawn and bounced around my room and thought about all the things we could do together as I got dressed. Then I went over to your window and woke you up, and we raced each other down the street until we couldn't breathe and our sides were aching. Do you remember us finding almost every alley and kissing until our lips started turning blue? Do you remember me dragging you to almost every shop and promising to buy you anything you wanted? Do you remember that whole morning, the beginning of that afternoon? To be honest, all of that is a little hazy for me. All I remember is you. Your smiles, your laughs, your breathing, the taste of your lips, the feeling of your skin. All I really remember is you.

But what I really remember is when we got to the beach. I'll remember that hour as long as I live. I'll remember those ten minutes as long as I live. But everything I felt then is nothing compared to what you went through. I'll never try to understand it, because I don't think I ever could. But what I do understand is that you never would've gone through what you did if it weren't for me. If I hadn't been sick, or if I had been able to control it, or if I wasn't so attached to you, or if I didn't love you as much as I did, you would've never known what death tastes like, or seen his dark, inky face, or felt his cool, welcoming embrace. 

You told me the day I came home that you don't go near the water anymore because it reminds you of me. It doesn't remind you of dying. You're not afraid of drowning again. It reminds you of me. I took that away from you. I took all the memories of splashing in the water, and watching the waves breathe against the shore, and I tainted them, darkened them before your very eyes. I almost let the water take you. I almost let it take me, too. The water consumes, erodes, strangles. Just like I do. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't blame you for not being ready to talk. Take all the time you need, Lucas. Live your life a little more. See what it's like without me. See if you're happier. Because you deserve all the happiness in the world, Lucas. You deserve to breathe every particle of it, swim in every drop of it. And you deserve even more than that. You deserve love. Dizzying, breathless, heart-racing love. I don't know if I can give that to you. I think I've given you all the love I have. I want you to decide if it's enough, even though you deserve so, so much more. I've told you before that I'll be waiting for you, and I still will, but if you decide you need to walk away, I will, too. I'll stop waiting, and I'll let you find the happiness and love you deserve. I won't blame you. How could I? Maybe Chloé really is the love of your life, and maybe she can be the one to give you everything you deserve. I won't blame you for that either. How could I?

I feel that I'm full of hope, Lucas. A part of me hopes that I can learn how to control this sickness, figure out its warning signs, its weaknesses. Another part hopes that my touch and my heart will soften, and that my mind and tongue will calm. But there's a third, larger part that hopes for nothing short of the best for you. It hopes that no more of your tears will be shed unnecessarily, that your mind will never worry for another unnecessary second, and that your heart will glow as brightly as it can until it must dim and flicker out. And may your heart live as long as it can. May it bleed scarlet and passion and loyalty. May it sing with all its voice. May it guide you down any dark, winding path and carry you every step of the way. May it love so fiercely that it may burst, but it's not afraid to. And may you hold it, nurture it. May you live.

Yours,

Eliott

 He sighs deeply as he sets his pen down, reading over his words again. He's exhausted, and his heart aches, but it feels right. He folds it and places it in an envelope carefully. His hands starts shaking again as he writes Lucas's name, and he hopes he'll recognize his handwriting. He seals the envelope, the lingering sadness he's felt for days dulling, numbing. He takes another deep, deep breath and leaves his room, walking down the stairs to deliver the letter to the Lallemants' mailbox.

"Where are you going, honey?" his mother asks from the kitchen, looking up from her bowl of cereal.

"I'm taking this to the Lallemants'," he replies, not waiting for her response. He tells her that he'll be right back as he closes the front door behind him. 

The sun is still shining brightly, but he can see dark, looming clouds peeking over the horizon. The waves are loud today, crashing against the shore with a shout, a cry. It's hot, stuffy. He picks up his pace, almost jogging to the Lallemants' mailbox.

He opens the slightly rusted mailbox, its creaking grating against his ears. He winces, then shoves the letter inside. But the sadness starts to come back, slowly, just beneath his skin as he does. He shuts the mailbox and hurries back home, the sun shining brighter and the waves crashing louder and the heat becoming unbearable. 

He stumbles as he walks up the porch steps, and he lets himself fall, exhausted. Tears are suddenly spilling out of his eyes, and there's a strong, familiar weight crushing his chest. He hugs himself, rocking back and forth as the tears become loud, choking sobs. His mother must've heard him, because he suddenly feels her arms wrap around him.

"What's wrong?" she asks through her tears. "My baby boy..."

He wails into her shoulder, feeling his heart shattering slowly, slowly into pieces as the acceptance becomes full, filling his chest and nearly stopping his breath.