#just at the beginning of this year did i ever hear of the orpheus and eurydice story because i read sandman

[spacehomos]

i thought this guys name was Paulie Fevers, nope thats Polyphemus, ya know the man eating cyclops who couldn't find Nobody

[chaosheadspace]

For the writer asks, for Library Boys!

2. How'd you get the idea, what kicked this off?

24. How did you celebrate finishing?

25-27 I would love to hear some favorite lines, details, and lore

28. Write a summary for it but badly

Hi TJ, thank you so much for asking! I apologise beforehand, this is almost 2.5K :)

2. How'd you get the idea, what kicked this off?

Originally, @notallsandmen asked me if I would write another enemies to lovers fic after Ill-advised things. By that time I had written a library sex scene for @staroftheendless's smut prompts (yes, the very one where Hob has Dream against the shelf, at least part of that). And I just couldn't stop developing headcanons about them in this AU, how they'd look, what they'd be like, what their background looks like.

I am very much a pantser, and in the beginning the plot was clear to me up to where Dream loses Orpheus and Hob tries to console him. Everything after that was loose points I was trying to connect. I remember having written most of it up until that point and the last chapter and thinking, "not much left now, I think I can start posting". Lol.

Everything that happens between those two points came to me after that, all of Hob's backstory (I struggled with that, he's been kinda hazy in my head), the very thorough dip into the mental illness theme (the bulletpoint in my brain sounded something like "make Murphy feel better and figure out what it is exactly—and see where it took me, two fights, a sex scene and a whole chapter focused on it), Orpheus's journey. This is precisely why I don't like outlining—I do better without. The pacing might be shot to hell, but tbh I don't care about that very much, I care about having put down all I wanted you to see, all I wanted you to know about these two.

24. How did you celebrate finishing?

By taking a break, by finishing the blanket that came with the fic (lol) and by going "I don't think they're all that happy yet" and writing a bunch for the sequel. I'm also gonna commission some art from my Christmas money this year (don't know who yet, but I've got a few scenes I'd like to see).

25-27 I would love to hear some favorite lines, details, and lore

Biggest fun fact that hasn't found it's way into readers focus (hopefully "yet"), is that Matthew is Jessamy's younger brother. At the very start I had a plan about Hob and Murphy being oblivious about that and them getting into a big fight only for those two getting them back together via shenanigans. But then Murphy demanded therapy, and Orpheus demanded screen time, and Hob begged for backstory, and suddenly it didn't fit anymore, tone wise. I'm hoping to fit more Matthew into the sequel.

Favourite lines is rather…uh… I mean, it's 90K 😬

I loved writing them kiss, every single time.

The opening to chapter five holds a special place in my heart (the description of campus on the day of the summer festival), as does the poor philosophy faculty member that keeps calling the stacks for books (this is really not how it works lol). A lot of what happens in non-Dreamling plot is taken from my personal experience. A lot of it happened to me, or to my coworkers. The library I picture them working at is the library I did my apprenticeship in. (I also detest Gorgonzola.) There really are people every year accidentally ordering a cart full of bound journals because they thought they'd get single issues. I always loved doing those and brining them up personally to see the face of the person that ordered them. Was worth the three quarters of an hour of work before and after every time. What I did not include is the small railway system we had. There were little waggons to put the books into, and they'd bring the books upstairs via rails on the ceiling. It's one of the coolest things I've ever seen in my life.

I loved this part:

He can suddenly see right through the thick layer of animosity like glass, and underneath it is a beaten, bloody, hurt thing."

And this one, because it's my Murphy, condensed into a paragraph, in all his confusion and hurt and love:

It feels good to have someone's attention on him, regardless of the kind. Murphy sometimes thinks he shouldn't encourage Hob's temper like that, should maybe apologise, and on his most lonely, sleepless nights he fantasises guiltily about making amends and asking Hob out. But what would Hob gain from that? Murphy has failed at marriage, the most long-term emotional commitment there is. And there is also Orpheus. Murphy loves him more than anything, but he knows that most single people consider children from previous, failed marriages baggage. It's the last thing Murphy wants for Orpheus, to feel secondary because of a relationship.

I also loved writing Orpheus deciding to go with Calliope, just because of how raw it is, and how true it feels. As a patchwork family kid myself, while not having been in the exact situation, I feel very deeply about all of this, and exploring why someone would let their child go, and why someone would encourage them to go, helped me tremendously.

This part I love because it shows the security that Hob gives Murphy even back when they were on bad terms, and just how wrong Murphy is and how deep his self-deception goes:

He starts to taunt Hob again. It's easy, so easy to fall back into it, almost as if they never stopped. Murphy carefully sharpens his tongue again and tries it out on Hob's thick skin. It feels safe. Neither of them mentions the closet and the hugs and Murphy's tears, and he is grateful. It's not real. This is.

This part is a feeling I have very often about emotionally charged situations bc I'm shit at them (the "oh fuck, the jig is up" feeling):

This is it, he realises, this is going to resolve things one way or another. Suddenly Hob wishes Dream had called in sick for a day longer, or two, or had stopped him two days ago when he'd walked out of his office. He can't stand it. He can't face it, either. But he must.

I'm also very proud of this, because it's the turning point of the whole story and I think I executed it rather well. It's the most revised part of the whole story, and the one that took the longest, writing wise:

"Wait wait wait," Hob interrupts him and all blood leaves his face. "What's this about deserving? Did you—Have you used me to punish yourself because you don't think you deserve basic kindness?!" He is so tense that he feels his muscles might spring out of his skin, so angry that he thinks his blood might boil out of his ears. And then. And then all the tension melts out of Dream as he sees him getting angry, relief etched into his face and rimming his eyes with red, and something in Hob breaks. This is the part of Hob he is used to. This is the Hob he knows and is comfortable with. Shame and grief so profound it settles in his bones creeps up from his toes and into his heart. He doesn't want that. He wants, needs it to be different. "Oh love," he says, voice thick with sorrow, and sits down next to Morpheus on his kitchen bench, taking his hands into his own. "Oh darling, no."

I'm throwing this one in, too, because I think I was really fucking funny:

The only positive effect this information has on Hob is that it makes his erection wilt like a candle in front of a blowtorch.

I also loved doing the phone screenshots of their texts with the secret emoji story from the evening before that played out during the phone call chapter, but I don't think anyone picked up on that. It was fun regardless, a nice little easter egg.

I am skimming the story for this and am only on chapter 16. I think I have to reign myself in a bit. Chapter 16 is also kind of a companion chapter to ch13 (where they get their shit together) in terms of emotional intensity. While in chapter 13 they had to painfully try and pull themselves together, to be honest and open even if it hurt, chapter 16 is the culmination of the new start they made for themselves, a little bit of "what if we hadn't been like that from the start" but better, because of course they have been like that, and imo dropping a weight like that lets people fly higher. A tender start would have been sweet and nothing else, but here they're conscious of quite a few of each other's flaws, and know the other is earnestly trying to put the work in, and that makes it as delicious as an overripe peach eaten over the sink, sticky and ecstatic and glorious.

This:

The giggle Hob has been suppressing bubbles up his throat, and he moves quickly to tap his index finger to the soft wet redness. Scandalised, Murphy pulls his head back, smacking his lips. "Bah," he says, taken aback. "Who does that?" "I do," Hob says, still giggling. "Worked, didn't it?" "You," Murphy proclaims, swaying back to him and holding onto his hips, "are the worst." And then he licks a long, wet stripe up the side of Hob's face.

I just love their silly. They need the silly. Even if I forget, they demand it themselves.

All the house/home metaphors I did for Murphy's life, and the sea metaphors I did for his mental health journey.

Also proud that I managed to still keep them real and make them fight and make up and not have them be happy lovey doves all the time (which may seem surprising considering all I put them through, but still). I wanted to be conscious of making their relationship equal, to not have Hob carry Murphy's issues but have him lean on him, too (although he's certainly the stronger one of them, emotionally. Carrying wise, I mean.), to have them give and take in equal measure.

There was also a short snippet of Hob meeting Jessamy, that would originally go into chapter 20. But it didn't fit the tone, and the chapter did better what I wanted from it without it, so it got cut. Generally speaking, there's very little scenes that got cut. I don't care about pacing that much, and even less if a scene is necessary or not. If it's something I want to tell, I'm gonna include it. But there's a few that took the story in a direction that I didn't like, and that I wrote quite early on, that didn't fit the story as it progressed. (notably, for the sequel, Orpheus finding a dog while playing with his best friend and Hob and Murphy adopting it.)

This one, for me, is the best sentence from the recovery chapter:

He needs—no, he wants to take it into his own hands, so that his happiness stops being a thing that other people need to give him."

(I also asked notallsandmen if the sex scene at the end is over the top, and they told me that not only is Murphy on antidepressants, he's also in love, and at that point I threw caution out the window and decided they can as happy and as schmoopy as I want them to be.)

Chapter 22 was entirely unplanned. At one point I realised that while readers have an approximation of Murphy's past, Hob still has no idea what happened :D

I also loved doing the Christmas chapter. I put a lot of thought in what celebrations like this might look for Orpheus as a kid of two cultures. I think some traditions would have been quite important to Calliope, not because I picture her as particularly religious, but because I think she would have liked to keep them while living in England. And I think Murphy would have agreed with her, because he wanted her to be happy, and I don't think that he's got particularly happy memories associated with family celebrations until Calliope, and he might even have seen it as a way to break away from his own family and his own past, just like his marriage in general had been. So the abundance of greek Christmas traditions is very much on purpose.

I also love any and all interactions between Hob and Orpheus.

This one, because it always makes me cry, even when rereading my own story:

“Hello, little sparrow.” He’s sure that his relief bleeds through into his tone, softening his voice to a sweet, velvety caress. Orpheus makes an indefinable sound at the endearment. “You've called every day for a week,” he says, unsure. “I did,” Murphy assents. “Thank you for speaking to me today. I missed you.”

Also loved reusing this one, even if it might be too sugary:

“D’you think it'll work out?” He finally says. “All of it?” Turning his head slightly, Murphy kisses Hob's temple, his cheek, his neck. “We try,” he says, gently. “We try and try, and sometimes that means we fail. But Hob, it also means that more often than not, we make it work.”

I also love the last chapter and the conclusion to bits, but sometimes I worry that it might feel like a haphazardly slapped on bandaid to some readers (which it it very much not. It's another testament to both of their stellar decision making, and it will come to bite them in the ass :D).

This turned into a very long and convoluted ramble, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

28. Write a summary for it but badly

I cannot decide, so you're getting all of them (yes, I crowdsourced):

Library 4.0: parkour edition

Dr. D. M. Olympiou's and R. Gadlings guide on how to regulate your behaviour in library spaces using real life negative examples, now with annex detailing the consequences for your private life

'In which library assistant Hob finds himself the prime subject of new subject librarian Dream Olympiou's study onwhether you're being checked out of the library or checked out at the library.' (courtesy of @sleepsonfutons)

Two insecure idiots fuck around and find out…that they’re actually really good together (courtesy of @edgedancer77)

Surrounded by idiots: The four types of human behaviour and how to effectively fumble all of them when it comes to your hot but asshole coworker (based on: Surrounded by Idiots: The Four Types of Human Behavior and How to Effectively Communicate with Each in Business (and in Life))

How to hatefuck your way into better mental health (courtesy of @reallyintoscience)

[crocwork-clockodile]

Don't Look Back

This is a creative writing piece I did for a class this semester. I'm pleased with it, and with my other two pieces, so I thought I'd post them here! Here's The Tale of Sir Gylbard and Chosen's Choice.

Dividers by @plum98

They’ve never bitten us before, Eurydice thought distantly as she took stock of the grand, dark hall she found herself in. Not in our own forest. Not when we’re dancing. She blamed that fool “folk hero” Aristaeus. If he hadn’t crashed the party, she and her sisters would not have had to run, and then she wouldn’t have spooked that viper.

Thinking back on the moment, first there was fear, then pain, worse than she’d ever felt before, then quiet. All the while, she thought of Orpheus, her love. Wishing he could save her, wishing to see him, begging whatever gods might hear her to keep him safe. Then Lord Hermes, looking harried but sympathetic, was ushering her down to the ferry (“Don’t worry, hon, extenuating circumstances, you ride free. Extended family discount”) and before she really understood what was happening, here she stood, before Lord Hades. She had never seen him before, but he couldn’t be anyone else. Holding his scepter, he sat upon a dark stone throne in a great hall. He was imposing, sombre, but his eyes were not unkind. He briefly welcomed her to this new home and passed her off again to an attendant spirit. She barely had time to acknowledge the famed beast Cerberus standing patiently at the gates she had entered through. He seemed like a sweet fellow, and Orpheus always liked dogs –

“Though your timing is sad, Miss, I do think you’ll come to like it here,” her guide said. Eurydice walked in step with them through hazy, dark corridors, keeping her eyes forward. This couldn’t be real, she thought, I haven’t had a chance to be a wife yet. A single tear trailed down her cheek. By the grace of the gods, her guide didn’t let on if they noticed. She had to wait for a moment alone before she could let herself cry properly. Her guide spoke up again, valiantly attempting to fill the silence. “You’re a Nymph, yes? How fortunate! That means you’ve got a place in Elysium! It’s lovely there, even this time of year.” When Eurydice didn’t respond, their guide paused again, piping up after a moment, “You know, since the Lady’s Topside, things tend to get a bit dreary down here, but it’s not so bad where you’re going. It did, at the beginning, but you’d never believe the complaints we got! I mean, I guess the divinities would be used to a certain standard of living, but you’d think we’d personally insulted Diomedes’ mother when the temperature fell a little below – oh! Here we are!”

Before them was the most beautiful plain Eurydice had ever seen. The boughs of nearly every tree were heavy with fruit, the grass grew ankle-high and was softer than any she’d ever felt beneath her bare feet. Above her appeared to be a sky, but was too hazy and bright to be the same sky she had lived under before. The air felt pleasantly cool on her arms and face, and a breeze tugged playfully at her hair. It was nothing like her home before with Lord Pan and the other Nymphs, nothing like the home she had just started to build with her love. Perhaps one day she could learn to love this place, but now all she could think of was everything she had left behind.

“Thank you,” she said to her guide, her voice trembling and eyes blurring with tears. “This is perfect. I get to stay here?”

“You do, Miss. And it’ll only get better, since the Lady’s due back any day now. You’re free to wander around here as you please, but if you’d prefer to set up a little corner of your own, there should be a nice house for you.” As if summoned by their voice, Eurydice noticed for the first time a modest stone cottage nestled comfortably under the largest pomegranate tree she had ever seen.

“Thank you,” she said again. Taking this as their cue to leave, her guide bowed to her, assuring that if she needed anything, just to ask and someone would be happy to help her out. Eurydice walked slowly to the cottage. It was everything she could do not to rush in to hide and cry herself sick. She had only just become a wife, only just started building a life and a home with the only person she could ever want to do that with. Would she have to start again? How long would she have to wait for her love? She scolded herself for wishing he were here, she would never want anything for him but a long, fruitful life. But how long would she have to wait for him? What if he moved on, married someone else once the grieving was done? Would he even still want her when he finally arrived in Elysium? Settling down on a chair in her new home – too soft, too deep, how could she possibly think of comfort now? – she became dimly aware of the dull roar of water from outside. The ocean? A river? It was comforting to hear, anyway. Birdsong gave a melody to its deep undertone, and as she finally allowed herself to cry, the only thought she had was Orpheus is going to love it when he gets here.

~*~*~

Time was difficult to track down here, but eventually Eurydice met some of the other residents of Elysium. They were generally friendly, though of course, an unaccompanied woman had little to talk about with people like Hector or Patroclus. That didn’t bother her too badly, but she did notice that she was starting to feel lonely. She wondered often how her Orpheus and sisters were faring ‘Topside,’ as the residents called the world of the living. She knew Orpheus would love to meet some of these people, especially Lord Hypnos, who was so dear to his mother and aunts, the Muses. It was purely a stroke of luck when one day, while out exploring, she stumbled upon a party of very serious-looking ladies out for a stroll.

There were six of them. Their clothes flowed in a phantom breeze, and there was an air of authority about them. The three women on the outside of the group looked around vigilantly, as though guarding the three in the centre. They held themselves with the confidence that Eurydice had only ever seen in warriors. These were not just ladies, she realized, but Ladies.

“Hello,” Eurydice called to them, excited to meet some new women in this place. They stopped at once and fixed her with looks that varied from inquisitive to “knife-like.” Under their scrutiny, Eurydice nearly balked. She tossed away the remains of the pomegranate she had been eating and prayed she didn’t have seeds or juice on her face. I don’t want to be alone here. I need to make friends if it’s the last thing I do here. Mustering her courage and reinforcing her friendliest smile, she approached the party and spoke up again, “I’m Eurydice, a Nymph. I… arrived here a short time ago. May I ask who you Ladies are? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The three guarded ones, standing close together, moved in unison: a slow smile slid across their faces, sharp, approving. They appeared to be mirror images of one another, or perhaps the same woman at different stages of life. Each had midnight hair, fair skin, and a curious silver crown of crescent moons. Then, as one, they spoke:

“Greetings, Lady Eurydice. I am Lady Hecate. These,” the women gestured together to the others in the party, “are known as the Furies. It is true that we have not met many of the women who reside in this part of Lord Hades and Lady Persephone’s domain. We would happily welcome you for our evening meal tonight, so we might get to know each other better.”

This was better than Eurydice had even dared hope for. She eagerly accepted the Ladies’ offer, and over time (how much had passed since her arrival in Elysium?) she developed a routine. Sometimes she and the Furies would visit Lady Hecate for a meal, sometimes they would come to her. She still thought of her Orpheus often, but as time flowed vaguely on, she felt less lonely and unhappy to be apart from him. After all, it was temporary, right? He would join her eventually, and in the meantime, maybe establishing a new home here in Elysium wouldn’t be so hard. She wouldn’t be lonely with her new friends, and the beautiful landscape of the divine afterlife was starting to grow on her. The fruits here were delicious.

~*~*~

It was not to last, however. Eventually, she heard a rumor from a spirit who worked in Lord Hades’ palace that a man had entered his Hall begging for an audience with the Lord and Lady of the Underworld. “And I heard,” the spirit said, leaning in more urgently, “he’s still alive.”

Still alive? Impossible. Nobody could do that, how would anyone have even gotten here from Topside by themselves? And how could they have gotten past the ever-vigilant guardian dog? It was probably just a slow day in the palace; the spirits had to entertain themselves somehow. Deciding it wasn’t worth dwelling on much more, except to tell her friends the next time they shared a meal, Eurydice moved along. She hummed a tune that Orpheus had once composed for her as she picked pomegranates from her tree.

LADY EURIDICE.

She screamed, dropping her pomegranates. Where had that voice come from?

YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED IN THE HALL OF LORD HADES AND LADY PERSEPHONE.

What? But she had never been summoned to the Hall before, had never been inside since her arrival, which felt like years ago now. What could possibly be wrong? Unless –

Orpheus is here.

He’d joined her! He was finally here! Of course, it was terribly sad that he’d died, but now he was here, and as a son of Lord Apollo he was obviously going to join her in Elysium, and she could introduce him to everyone, and…

Her mind buzzed with all the things they could do now that her beloved was here. The songs he could write! The people she could introduce him to! The fun they would have, now that they could finally be together forever! Again, she seemed to float as she made her way through the metaphysical haze to the Lord and Lady’s Hall. And when she finally got there, her heart skipped a beat.

There he was, her beloved. Just as beautiful as she –

Wait. Not quite as beautiful as she remembered. His eyes were bloodshot and dark, his face ruddy, as if from crying. His frame appeared to sag, as though under the weight of Atlas’ burden. And… why did he look so strange?

The inhabitants of the Underworld looked much like they did Topside, but there was a subtle lightness to them, a fuzziness to their edges. Orpheus looked… too hard, too solid for this place. That rumor… could it be?

As though hearing her enter, Orpheus’ head whipped to find Eurydice. When his eyes fell on her, it was as though the heartiest feast had been laid before a starving man. He moved to approach her, but the voice of Lord Hades stopped him.

“Hold it, pup. You may have won over my wife and the Ladies of my domain, but you still need to abide by some rules.” It was now that Eurydice noticed the Hall’s other occupants. Lady Persephone sat beside her husband, trying to compose herself behind a handkerchief. She had been crying. Across the room, she saw her friends, the Furies, weeping into each other’s shoulders. Orpheus barely tore his gaze away from her to acknowledge Lord Hades again, then turned back.

“You may not touch her here, pup,” Lord Hades’ voice was clear over the sound of weeping. Even Eurydice felt hot tears blur her vision, and blinked them away furiously, refusing to let anything obscure the sight of her longed-for love. “I will let you bring her home, but get a good look at her now. After you leave this Hall, until you both reach the threshold of the world above, you may not look at her. She is to walk behind you until you exit. If you should fail, and turn to look, she will return to her place in Elysium forever more. You get no second chances, boy. Are you sure about this?”

“Yes,” Orpheus said, and despite being slightly raspy from singing and sobbing, that single syllable was still the most perfect sound Eurydice had heard since before she died. “I’m here, Eury,” he rasped, “I’m here, and I’m gonna bring you home now. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Home? But Elysium had everything they needed. It was so wonderful there, Orphe, she knew he was going to love it there, and they would still be together forever – Eurydice tried to say something, but found she had no voice. She could only nod.

“The dead may not speak to the living,” Lady Persephone said apologetically. “Follow him, dearheart.”

“Thank you, gracious Lord and Lady.” Orpheus bowed deeply to the gods and grasped his lyre to his chest. With one last look at Eurydice, he turned and walked out of the Hall. Bowing uneasily to Lord Hades and Lady Persephone, Eurydice followed silently. Curiously, her footsteps made no sound, either. Had they been like this when she arrived here? Nevertheless, she pushed forward.

Why was she so uneasy? Wasn’t this what she wanted? To be reunited with her beloved? But this felt wrong. She would have to endure winter Topside. There were snakes and wolves and storms Topside. If only he could understand that it only got better, that she was happy down there, and if he’d been a little patient, he could’ve been happy with her too.

Well. Perhaps this was the best way to do it. Now she had something to look forward to returning to. And be Orpheus’ wife Topside, like she was supposed to be. Best not to look back, just keep going forward. This was a new leg of her journey.

Don’t look back, that was the key.

Don’t look back.

“Eurydice? You’re still there, right?”

Don’t look back.

“Lord Hades wouldn’t have lied to me, right? You followed me?”

Yes, I’m here, and I’ll travel any road with you, my love. Our adventure’s just beginning.

“Eurydice, I can’t hear your steps…”

Don’t look back.

Orpheus, don’t look back!

“Eury? Are you there? I can see the exit.”

I can see it too, Orphe! We’re so close!

“Eury, please let me know you’re back there…”

I’m here! Don’t look back! Keep going forward!

~*~*~

He would join her, one day. Later, much later, Orpheus would make his way back to Lord Hades’ Hall the conventional way. And his Lady Eurydice, having returned to the home she had worked to build in Elysium, was eager to finally welcome him.

Thank you for reading! Please feel free to let me know if you like this story, and reblog, if you like! Please don't repost, though, I worked very hard on this piece.

I'm submitting this and the next few pieces of creative writing I'm posting to my creative writing prof as part of my portfolio, but I thought it'd be a shame not to share the stories I was so proud of with anyone else. <3

[citrus-cactus]

👀👀 i would LOVE to hear more about the harujin Dante's journey concept (if that's cool with you)

Oh yes, of COURSE that’s cool! Though I should say it’s less of an AU and more of… well, a vibe, I suppose, or a framing of their relationship that I’ve had for a while but never tried to explain outside of my own head. Also, my reason for feeling this way might not be that valid of an interpretation, since I’ve never actually read the Divine Comedy (but there is a substack book club for it now, and I have very seriously considered joining XD). But the broad-strokes concept of a character wandering alone, mourning for their lost love, stumbling into the underworld, journeying through all the levels of Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, and getting to see that person in some form again just feels very Haru/Yuujin to me… that, or there is just a part of me that wants to relate Harujin back to some sort of mythic/fairytale journey, or possibly something Utena-esque. But it doesn’t hurt that Appmon (imo) really sets up the Deep Web as being the App equivalent to the Underworld, with its own threshold guardians in the form of a three-headed Cerberus and Dante(mon).

I can even see something of the Divine Comedy being alluded to in the quest to rescue Yuujin and Offmon in the Ultimate Four arc: the “Hell” of the Ultimate Four’s domain is accessible through a graveyard, it is split into its own visually district subsections, and Haru needs to climb upwards in order to rescue Yuujin in time. As a 14-year-old, I doubt Haru would have actually read the Divine Comedy(??) (and Yuujin most certainly hasn’t!), but I did at one point want to write a little missing scene for them after the rescue that was absolutely going to have Haru muse on going through Hell in order to regain some sense of Paradise for himself, because if any character was going to notice a literary parallel like that, it would be Haru :3

More + spoilers under the cut

I really do love the theme of this type of journey for them though, so much so that this is how I keep framing my own attempt at a Yuujin-is-resurrected fic (I absolutely adore your take on the concept though, and I would read the heck out of that!!!).

This idea has been germinating in my head for several years, and I’m not sure it will ever bear fruit in the form of a fic, but it’s something I’ll think about/tinker with from time to time. Using the conceit of “appmon(/digimon) never really die,” my thought is, post-Application Project, Yuujin’s data is not actually gone, just… incomplete. He wakes up in the Appmon Graveyard (I mean, he’s kind of like a defunct app) with an in-tact sense of his digital self but no memories, save for a vague notion that he needs to get back to someone. Thus, Yuujin begins his own journey through and out of the Underworld, which of course involves him coming to terms with everything he is and everything that he was as he starts to remember everything leading up to how he got there. To circle back to Dante—and because I have been thinking about their relationship using this framework for far too long—as Yuujin starts to remember Haru and what happened, he would start to see Haru as some sort of idyllic abstraction of a real person (his Beatrice, if you will): pure, ascended, angelic, and wholly above him, someone whose love Yuujin does not feel worthy of anymore… until the end when it is revealed that Haru has been trying just as hard to find him just because that kind of resolution really f*cks me up. Ahem.

Oooough, an Orpheus and Eurydice AU would be brutally good though. Here’s the thing: the romantic in me genuinely want the final scene of the series to be true (in some sense) and for the two of them to have a happy ending… but there are just so many juicy things that could get in the way, and I love thinking about those as well.

Also, nobody asked for this, but as soon as I heard this song it became my post-canon Harujin anthem:

So yeah, mythic journeys. The Underworld. Harujin. I YEARN.

Thanks for the ask, I really appreciate having the opportunity to talk about this!

[ashintheairlikesnow]

For Kauri and Chris: it doesn't work as well as you hoped, does it?

(follows Time Apart)

CW: Former pet whumpee, past noncon references, fucky headspace around consent and SERIOUSLY misconstrued response to assault, some hardcore angst going on here, internalized victim-blaming

Chris feels fingers move through his hair, gently sweeping the shaggy copper to one side, and opens his eyes to see Kauri leaning over him. His wide blue eyes are warm, understanding.

"I saw Laken leave," Kauri says, gentle, and sits next to where Chris has curled up on his side on his bed. His fingers continue to run through Chris's hair, tingling over his scalp, a soft and subtle reassurance, words he doesn't have to hear. You are good, you are a good boy. "You want to tell me what happened?"

Chris closes his eyes again, turning his face to his sheets, to the faint scent of laundry detergent and the soft rustle of them against his skin. He tries not to see Laken's face, reddened and wet with tears, as they walked away. "We, we broke up."

Kauri's fingers pause - and then start up again, the moment so barely-there that even Chris almost misses it. "You broke up? Did they break up with you, or you with them?"

"Um. I, I, I thought they broke up with, um, with with me but then when they came over, they hadn't? But we just-... I, I broke... I broke up with them." His voice trembles, throat threatening to close up around the words, and he exhales, rocking himself forward and back where he lays, rubbing his hands reflexively over the seams of his pants, seeking out the soothing feeling of the texture there. "I told them I, I, I can't be with them anymore. I made them go."

This can't be the end, Chris. Not like this. Laken looked like he'd slapped them, their face pale and red both at once, eyes wide, dark pools demanding he take it back. This can't be the end of the line for us.

Then, then, then what is? Just, just go. I don't-... I don't, don't, don't want this any longer, for you. You shouldn't-... I, I, I'm... just go home, Laken. You shouldn't, shouldn't have, have wanted a whore anyway.

Chris. You know you're not-

I know I am! I, I, I almost had-... I almost-... I almost cheated on you last night!

Laken had swallowed, lips barely moving. You what?

I let, I, I, I let someone touch me, and it felt good, you know? It felt good. I, I, I got-... I, I got turned on by it. Like a fucking- He'd heard Handler Petrus in his mind, felt him against his back, the weight and heat of him, whispering into his ear while he sobbed. I'm still just a fucking slut. I'm, I'm, I'm still what I was, and it won't ever stop and-... just fucking go, Laken! Just get out and, and, and and and and-... and, and-

Chris, please-

Just fucking go home!

Chris-... baby, god damn it, I don't care if you-

But I do! Get the fuck away from me!

They'd left. Chris had listened to their footsteps running down the stairs and out the door, heard their car pull out of the driveway, and he'd cried into his pillow until it was damp, until he couldn't hear their car any longer. His phone buzzed twice, a text from Ben and another one from Akio, but he didn't answer.

He didn't answer when they called after that.

He didn't answer Jake calling to him from downstairs, he didn't answer Antoni in the doorway, he didn't answer any of them at all. He just stayed right here, on his bed, and knocked his head into a pillow he held against the wall until he calmed down enough to stop.

And then he cried more.

His head pounds, a dull throb, and he feels dried out from all the tears. Like he'd been crusted with salt, like his professor who told the story about Lot's wife and Orpheus and Eurydice. Don't look back or you'll turn to salt, you'll go back down into the empty places alone.

He can't not look back.

He groans, smacking himself on the thighs reflexively, repeatedly, as if he can stop his thoughts that way.

Kauri doesn't try to stop him, only pulls his hand back to give Chris the space to move. "Did you want to break up with them?" He asks, simply. His voice is calm.

"No. Yes. I, I don't know." The seams of his pants aren't enough, and Chris breathes against the sense of a chaos inside of himself, a swirling mix of self-hatred and grief. His hands move up to tap on his stomach. Finger-twist-tap-tap-tap. It doesn't help as much as he needs it to. "I didn't... want them to, to, to have to be with me."

"I think Laken is capable of making that choice for themself." Kauri sits slowly back against the headboard, breathing out, his eyes moving over the messy contents of the bedroom. The pictures Chris has taped haphazardly up on the walls, the shelf with his stim toys on it, his computer on the desk half-buried in a pile of clean clothes he hasn't folded. "If they want to be with you, that's their decision. Do you want to be with them?"

Chris wants to say yes, but the word sticks in his throat. His heart pounds inside him, all out of rhythm. He just nods against his sheets, and feels Kauri brush fingers through his hair again. "But, but, but, but I'm, I'm not worth it, I'm t-too hard, I'm still a, a, a pet too much."

There's a silence. Then, "Is that what you really think?"

He'd love to be able to say no. He'd love to be able to say he's being dramatic. But instead, in a small, soft voice, Chris whispers, "I just. I just. I, I, I don't know a-any-anymore. I... Yes."

Kauri is quiet, and then his hands are on Chris's face, wiping away with his thumb a tear Chris hadn't even realized had escaped. Chris had flinched from the same gesture when Laken did it, but he holds for Kauri.

"Oh, honey. I used to think that, too." Kauri sighs, and Chris opens his eyes, looking up at him, seeing a faraway expression.

He shifts, moving to rest his head on Kauri's thigh, a silent request for the petting through his hair to begin again.

Kauri smiles, a little faintly, a little sad. His fingers move over Chris's scalp, settle over the top of his scar, start again. "I did that for years, Chris. I told myself I was a pet, just another Romantic, that I deserved everything I did to myself and I didn't deserve anything better. I woke up in alleyways and on park benches and sometimes in the beds of guys I couldn't remember meeting. I got... I got hurt by some of them, and I told myself it was what I wanted. I got drugged a few times, I drugged myself a bunch more. I tried to make myself not want to be cared about anymore."

Chris thinks about the taste of gin and olives down his throat, throwing back dirty martinis until he threw them back up again, until he couldn't stop hearing Sir's voice inside his head, feeling his lips against the back of his neck. Hands on his hips, phantom ghost touch, moving him into position.

"It... didn't work as well as I'd hoped. Every time I told myself I didn't deserve love, even when I believed it... that didn't mean I didn't still want it. Need it, even. But I wanted, so badly-..." Kauri's voice catches, and his eyes close, briefly, as he steadies himself. "I wanted to make sure everyone around me hated me as much as I hated myself. But God, Chris, it hurts so much to live that way. Don't... don't be like me. It took me years to realize I didn't deserve that pain, that I didn't deserve to be punished for leaving Owen."

Chris is silent, now. Kauri's voice is always almost hypnotizing, deep and a little melodic, and it settles some of the buzzing awful noise inside of him.

"I had to learn-... to accept... that what happened to me makes up a lot of who I am, because it was the thing that made me, but it isn't all of who I am. And if I keep repeating the patterns I came up with to protect myself... I'm not really protecting myself at all." Kauri smiles, a little. "I'm only laying siege to myself, and I'm the only one who starves inside the walls. I-... I built those walls, and Jake kept trying to knock them down, and I kept building them higher. And Nat would throw food over the wall, and I'd throw it back. And... I think I got a little off track. My point is that... is that I shattered myself, over and over again, because shattered is what I was taught to be. But eventually I had to admit that breaking myself into pieces was just cutting me up, not anyone else. Do you understand?"

Chris swallows, his throat opening a little bit, and he hums. Kauri's leg is warm against his ear and his cheek, his hand is warm over his hair. Chris grips onto the silicone feather he wears always on a cord around his neck and runs it over his lips, feeling the carved vanes move against thin, sensitive skin. "Kind of."

"You try to see the light in everything," Kauri says, and the love in his voice makes Chris smile despite all his pain. "That's always been what made you stronger than me, Chris. You saw the world as full of good things you were here to discover. You never hated yourself like I did. I don't want you to start now."

"How... how did you, um, did you learn to to to stop?"

Another long exhale. Outside, two birds are singing in the trees. "Time, mostly," Kauri says, finally. "And... that guy I went home with once, when I came back all... fucked up. Remember that?"

"Y, yeah."

"I realized... I realized, when Jake was helping me up the stairs, that every time I tried to push him away, he was still there. And every time I hurt him, or Nat, or Antoni, they were still there. And that you were-... you were so new, Chris, and I was teaching you this really awful idea that you can't get better, and I couldn't do that any longer. I couldn't. It's not instant, and there are backslides, and some days getting out of bed is the hardest thing I've ever done. But I do, because I love the life I've made, and I know you love yours. You worked so hard for this, Chris, for everything you are and you've done since you came to live with Nat. Don't give that up because... because you're struggling. Don't let them win by convincing you you can't be anything else."

"I'm so-... it feels like a shell," Chris says, and pushes himself up to sitting, legs out to one side, tucking his head into the crook of Kauri's neck. The older man's arms move around his waist, holding him close, one hand moving up to keep stroking through his hair as he bites down on the feather, chewing on the familiar plastic. "Like I, I, I built a shell, and when Nova-... it cracked."

"Yeah. I know how that feels." Kauri turns his head, pressing a kiss to the top of Chris's hair, easy and comfortable. Chris hums around his feather, rocking just a little. The rising tide of grief inside him threatens to become a wave he can't withstand. He pushed Laken away, too far away, he made them leave him.

He broke up with them.

He made them go.

He can't take that back.

"Listen to me," Kauri whispers, lips against his scalp. "When I was at my lowest, when I hated myself the most, when I demanded Jake abandon me to what I kept telling myself I wanted... he didn't. He was still there. He was still there, and even if we weren't going to be together, he was still willing to help me stand up as a friend. When I was nothing but pieces drawing blood, he still loved me. He loved the pieces as much as the person, and he helped me put myself back together. It's not perfect. It's not overnight. And you'll still have hard days. But it's worth it, Chris."

"Why? Why, why, why is it worth it?"

"Because the world is beautiful," Kauri says, repeating his own long-ago words back to him, and Chris almost smiles. "Because I love the world, now, Chris, and I decided to try as hard as I can to love myself. I learned that from you."

"What if-... what if, if, if it's too late? What if I can't t-talk to them, or-"

"Then we'll stand you back up from there, and start moving forward again. You'll never lose us, we're family, Chris. But I think you should talk to Laken, and tell them what you're feeling, and let them decide how to react instead of deciding for them. They love you." Kauri puts a hand under his chin and lifts it, so their eyes meet. "Let them love you hurting just as much as they do when you're not."

"What if I don't... want to try any longer?"

"Then we'll be here to help you through that, too. All of it. Any of it. For better or worse, Chris, I'm your big brother - and so is Jake, and so is Antoni - and you're stuck with us whether you like it or not."

Chris tucks his head back down so Kauri can't see the tears well back up and run down, even as they soak into his shirt. His teeth grind down on the silicone plastic between them.

"I, I, I fucked up, Kauri," he whimpers, and then starts to sob. "I didn't-... I, I, I just don't w-want to be in m-my body anymore..."

Kauri holds him close.

"I h-hate it, I hate it, I hate it," Chris wails, and Kauri rests his chin on Chris's head and lets him cry. "I hate being p-pretty, I hate my, my, my, I hate that they made my body like this, I hate that I g-get scared and and and, and, and I can't stop things from happening to me, I h-hate that I hurt Laken, I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it!"

"I know," Kauri whispers. "I know, honey. I know."

"I h-hate myself-"

"Sssshhhh, I know."

Chris doesn't know how long he cries for.

But eventually he falls asleep in Kauri's arms.

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @whumpfigure @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears

Playlist for this piece:

Lewis Capaldi: Hold Me While You Wait Rob Thomas: Pieces Vienna Teng: Between Aerelie Brighton: Breathe Josh Ritter: Girl in the War Beth Crowley: Runaway Train

[roger-that-cap]

doubt comes in

orpheus!bucky barnes x fem!eurydice!reader

summary: a retelling of orpheus and eurydice for an extremely late entry for a mythology challenge!!

warnings: uh- yeah i was not playing with this myth lol… fluffy beginning, uh, that’s all imma say about that and ALSO i haven’t edited this so haha, i am running on fumes but had to post this jeez 

word count: 11.3k good god

There were gods that were unexplainably strong. There were some that could bend fire and metal to their will, some that could string up love and cast it upon others, and others that knew more of war and how to win more than they even knew themselves. Others were the faces of glory, like Zeus and Hera and the sun god Apollo and so many others. There were many that were worshipped by humans every day of every week, and others that were forgotten until they were desperately needed. There were some that lived immortal lives and demanded respect from humans and gods alike, and then there were the ones invested in their art, in themselves, in the beauty of life itself.

That was Bucky. He was so immersed in song, in the gift that he had inherited from his mother, Calliope, that it was all he could think about. It was what made him different, it was what made him stand out from the boys that he grew up with that were just plain old strong. He had a talent, he had a mother that was a myth and a legend alike, and he had a lyre. He had a lyre, a lute, his voice, and a bit of speed, and that was all that he would ever need in life. That, and a pretty landscape to look at while he strummed his golden strings. But that was all he ever thought he would need- which was why he was knocked right off of his planted feet when he saw you walk by.

You were a human. You were a beautiful girl, probably the most beautiful being he had ever seen in his entire life. He had met goddesses and nymphs and princesses alike, but never had he met someone who had such a sweet face, such a gentle aura, and even more, a beautiful voice. You had only said a few words to someone else that were delivered with a gentle smile, but he could have sworn that your words were a melody. Before he knew it, your entire being was stamped into his mind, and he knew that he would never be able to forget you.

It was by complete chance that the next day, he decided to wallow in his sadness by a fountain in public, strumming his lyre too quietly for anyone else to hear. Anyone who knew him knew that he was devastatingly off. And coincidentally, the only ones who truly did know Bucky were Steve and Sam, two forest nymphs that had been his best friends since he taught them the ways of the lute years and years ago. They were sitting by him in silence on the marbled fountain, waiting next to him for the second shoe that they doubted would ever drop. But then, like Bucky was a sunflower following the sun itself, his back straightened, his head perked up, and his mouth dropped, his eyes wide and swirling with admiration as he watched you- the same human woman he was enamoured with- walk through the square again, a woven basket full of fresh fruits on your arm and your lilac dress swishing in the wind.

“No way,” he heard Sam mutter, and Steve poked his side.

“You were always such a doubter,” Steve mumbled, but the smile on his face was audible through his tone. “There she is, in the flesh.”

Bucky could hardly hear anything but the soft melody stirring up in his mind, louder than his racing heart, and just as tender as the feelings swirling inside of him. He saw you wave to the older woman you were talking to and then start to walk away, and he knew that he couldn’t let you go, not when the Fates so obviously gave him a second chance. Without a second thought, he slid off of the fountain, leaving his friends and his lyre, striding towards you with the brightest smile, trying to cover the fact that he was nervous.

His clumsy feet were carrying him a little too quickly, and he could hear the snickers of Steve and Sam from behind him. He craned his head backwards to look at them and laugh too, but he tripped over his own left foot, barreling right into you and knocking you flat onto the ground. His half immortal heart beat heavy and hard in his chest as he watched you wince under him. He scrambled up, cheeks flushed and hand shaking as he watched you sit up and brush the dirt off of your dress. He was looking down at you with a look that he prayed wasn’t as desperate as he felt. But he had to know you.

“I’m Orpheus,” he started, and when you turned your bright eyes to him with your brows furrowed, he shook his head like he was trying to get water from his hair. “No, I meant that I was sorry- I’m so sorry. For knocking you over, miss.” He extended his hand to you again, and he swore that he saw your lips quirk up a bit at him. You took his hand and stood up, brushing the fabric of your dress once again. He caught a trail of your scent, and he was immediately overtaken by the scent of fresh flowers and lavender.

That was when he really got a good look at you for the first time. The first time he saw you had been brief. You weren’t even looking anywhere near his way, and he only caught a look at your stunning side profile before you walked away. His vision had been practically blurred from excitement while he walked up to you, and he was so embarrassed about crashing into you that he was subtly trying not to look in your eyes. But… damn, he had been missing out.

He swore that time stopped. His own heart stopped beating, even the sluggish beat leaving for a few moments. The noises from the town square were so dull that they seemed muted. The stares of Steve and Sam felt so far off that he didn’t even notice them. All he knew was that he was utterly entranced by you, and for a second, he could have sworn that by the look in your eyes, you felt the same way. But like the blaring of an alarm, something knocked you both out of it, putting you in the present, with present problems.

“Oh, the fruits,” you muttered, looking at the peaches and apples that tumbled right out of your basket, bending over quickly to collect them despite the fact that they had gotten bruised. Bucky’s heart jumped to his throat with guilt when he realized he had ruined the fruit you had either picked or paid for, and then he was rushing to get them even faster, praying to the gods that you didn’t automatically hate him.

After looking into your eyes, he doubted he could live with himself if you even so much as disliked him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I don’t have the best footing,” he apologized again, gently placing the fruits back into your basket.

“It’s okay,” you said, and your eyes trailed behind him to look at his friends that were howling with laughter, holding onto each other. He saw your displeasure, and his heart dropped when he understood that you probably thought they had sent him over just to mess with you. Your eyes whipped back to Bucky, and he blushed something fierce. He felt his cheeks warm up under your scrutiny, and then there was a smile creeping back onto your face. “I'm Eurydice.”

Oh, Gods. Eurydice. He swore that he had never heard something so beautiful in his life. He had grown up with the Muses, even had a mother as one, and was surrounded by music and poetry and epics every second of his childhood. Music was imprinted in his mind, every note embedded in his everyday life, yet still it was the most beautiful- “But I go by Y/N.” No. Eurydice was now second. But your name, the one he knew you had chosen for yourself, was the most beautiful thing that life had ever offered him to hear.

His brain was going many miles a minute, as quick as Hermes on a mission, but all he could do in the end was blink and offer his true name first, like politeness called for. “I’m Orpheus,” he extended his arm again to you, and you shook it twice. Your hand was soft, so soft that he didn’t want to let go of it. He would never forget the feeling of your hand in his, and the way he swore that the nerves under his skin were alight with the gentlest and sweetest of fires. “You can call me Eurydic- I mean, Bucky. I’m Bucky.”

You could both hear the laughter coming from Bucky’s friends, and while you were cracking a small smile, Bucky was dying on the inside. “You like to be called by other people's names?”

“I wouldn't mind being called by yours,” he blurted softly, his words coming out as a quick and uncalculated slur. He blinked abruptly when he realized that he was truly having the worst first introduction he had ever had in his life, and it was the one that somehow meant the most to him. “I- only because Eurydice is such a pretty- so is Y/N- I… I’m sorry.” He shook his head, knowing that he was so close to just having to walk away. Instead of embarrassing himself further, he just gave you a short smile and waved, turning on his heel.

“I’m Orpheus, then. Maybe Bucky, too.” He slowly turned back around, a shocked look on his face. Had you really spoken to him again with your own free will?

Bucky knew that he wasn’t ugly. No god or demigod was ever ugly, other than poor Hephaestus. He knew that he had his own sort of charm and that he could bring the roughest of people to tears and the saddest of people to joy with his music, but he didn’t know anything else. He had three redeeming qualities that swirled in his head constantly- he was pretty, he had music, and he had a famous mother.

“Are you a singer?”

“Huh?” So much for eloquence.

You bit your lip. “You speak… you speak like you have a song in your heart. Are you a singer?”

He was stumped. Most knew at least of his music if nothing else. He was the most famed god or man to ever strum a lute besides maybe Apollo. Most knew nothing of his personality and nothing about him other than the fact that he was born to play and sing, and you didn’t? Where had you been living? “Well, I’m Orpheus.”

There was a grin on your face, and Bucky knew that he never wanted to see anything other than that for the rest of his life. “And that makes you a singer?”

He opened his mouth again, ready to talk about who he was born from and where he learned to play and who taught him, but when he looked deeper and saw the spark of mischief in your eyes, he leaned back and held back a small smile of his own. His heart fluttered and grew two sizes. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

“Maybe I don’t,” you said, obvious teasing in your voice, and somehow it still stayed kind. “Maybe I do, and just wanted a free song out of you.”

She knows me, he thought, and his heart may as well have let out a lovesick sigh from within the confines of his chest. She has never heard me sing before, but she will. I’ll sing her a thousand songs.

“I’ll sing you all the songs you desire if you marry me,” he blurted, and while his mind was scolding him for uttering those words so quickly, his heart was steady on beating and so sure of itself that he told his mind off.

To his subtle surprise, you didn’t look shocked. You weren’t disgusted by his rather bold approach and most importantly, you weren’t laughing at him. He held onto your silence in limbo, waiting for you to say something that would either crush him to bits or send his soul rising so high that he reached the cloudy gates of Olympus.

“If you can make me a song that can make the skies open up and weep without singing a word, then I’ll marry you.”

His heart soared. His hands shook. He could have sworn that even his toes clenched. But all you could see were his wide, boyish eyes, and the hopeful look that dawned across his face. He nodded quickly. “I’ll do anything.”

He saw your lips pull up into a smile, genuine and even a little shy, and he couldn’t help but want to step closer. But he knew he had already been up front and abrupt, and the last thing he wanted to do was scare you away.

“Okay,” you said, nodding your own head slowly. “I’ll see you soon, then, Bucky.” You took a step back, eyes still connected to his blue ones until you finally turned around and walked away with the same basket on your arm, same dress swaying with the tuneless song of the wind.

The three of them stood in silence, watching you walk away, taking pieces of Bucky’s heart with you in your cradled arms. The bustling of the town was loud, moving about like nothing of significance had happened right where they were all standing, and Bucky found it nothing short of insane. Did no one else just see how the world stopped turning for that one girl? How the Fates put a pause on the clock just so that they could meet?

Steve’s voice brought him out of it. “Did you just ask for her hand in marriage?”

He didn’t even have the energy to shrug. All the swirled in his mind was love, passion, music, and you. You, you, you. “I had to.”

“How will you even find her again?” Steve asked, his logic once again being the only thing that held Bucky down to the ground.

“I know the work of Eros when I see it,” Sam said to Steve, shaking his head somewhat fondly at the pale boy with brunette hair who was still staring off in the direction you left in, like you would miraculously appear again. “They’ll find each other again soon enough.”

The hours went by and then the daylight turned into night and back to day again, and Sam’s words couldn’t have been truer. Your spirit and your face and your voice found Bucky with every few seconds that passed by. He couldn’t blink without seeing you. He couldn’t listen to anyone without hearing you. He couldn’t breathe without smelling your beautiful scent. Everything tasted bland, looked plain, and sounded like white noise after he met you. He knew that until his last (and unlikely) breath, his heart would ache for nothing more than to be yours. He wanted his ring to be on your finger, and yours to be on his.

So he began to make a song.

§§§

He worked tirelessly. The hours below the sun that used to be spent laughing and playing with Steve and Sam were exchanged for hours of composing. His normally perfect posture was hunched over as he tried to find the melody that had stirred in his heart when he first saw you- because he knew that was it.

By the end of twelve days of pure struggling, most of the song was finished. He was a fast worker, so fast that it made everyone else’s heads spin, but he felt it was going too slowly. But then again, he was fast at everything. The melody was as stuck with him as his skin was to his body. He was sure that it would never leave him, even if he wrote a thousand more songs. And part of him never wanted it to go, because it was so you.

He had only held one conversation with you, and it wasn’t long enough, but he felt like he had known you for years. He felt like he had sung to you hundreds of times and danced with you a hundred times more. Your soul felt so familiar yet so foreign that he had to chase after you, and had to discover anything that he could have missed. He knew that you were his destiny, and he had a feeling that you knew he was yours.

The song he was writing wasn’t sad, but it brought tears to his eyes all the same. It wasn’t about longing or loss or chasing after something that would never come to you, but it made Steve and Sam wipe their eyes all the same. It was about your beauty, your inherent wit and kindness, and the way that you set his soul free from chains he didn’t even know of. It was about a love he had never dreamed of finding or even thought to be true, and that was enough to make the three of them weep.

“I think it’s finished, Buck.” This came from Steve after he wiped his eyes again, sitting through the full song again even though his heart aches for a love he had never felt before. “Sam thought it was done days ago.”

Sam had left the two of them alone days ago, claiming that he couldn’t stand to hear the melody and cry each time, claiming that it was beautiful but too much. It made sense. Even Bucky himself was starting to feel the effects of it. But Steve was a stubborn thing, and he would sit through it for as long as Bucky would play it.

“You think it’s enough to make the skies open and cry?” Bucky breathed out, loosely quoting the words he had heard from you not too long ago.

“Even if it’s not, it will surely win her over,” Steve said. “She was already wooed by you, you’re a fool not to see it. She was excited enough that you even agreed to make the song in the first place, anyway.”

Bucky sat there for a few minutes as his fingers tingled, expecting to be used again to pluck the magnificent strings. But he set his instrument down on the log he sat on, sighing and placing a hand under his chin, his thoughts trailing over to you for the thousandth time. “I hope she accepts it.”

Steve just looked at him. “I think that if you came empty handed and told her half of the words you tell me and Sam, she’d follow you anywhere.”

Steve was right. Steve had to have been right, or he was going to wilt right in front of you. He had to be. The brunet nodded, biting his pink lip before opening his mouth again. “Where do you think I’ll find her?”

§§§

It didn’t take long to find you at all. Bucky went to find you alone, finding you because something inside of him told him to search the flowering fields nearby, and there you were. There was a hat made of straw over your head to cover your eyes and face from the sun, and you had the same basket on your arm that you had the other days. It was empty this time, and he had no doubt that you were looking at the flowers for fun before going to look for fruit. He couldn't help but smile fondly at you from across the field, and then he was gripping his lyre and taking a deep breath.

“Y/N,” he called out, his voice full of emotion instead of being the strong sound he wanted it to be. Nonetheless, it caught your attention, and then your pretty eyes were wide on him. Immediately, your feet turned in his direction and you made your way across the meadow, and he followed suit. He met you in the middle, so nervous that the grin that was deep inside of him wasn’t coming out at all.

You were both at a loss for words as you stood close to each other. His hands shook at his sides, aching to hold your hands in his. He wondered if they were as soft as your voice, or as smooth as the petals flowers you admired. “You came?”

He blinked. Of course he did. It was all he could think of doing. “My only regret is not coming sooner,” he admitted, and he watched you angle your eyes downwards, and he smiled at your shyness. “Would you like to hear it?”

Your eyes were connecting with his again, and he could have sworn that your smile could have put him in an early grave. He was momentarily stunned by you and your brightness, so stunned that he hardly even heard what you said. “Of course I would.”

“So then you’ll hear it,” he said softly, his heart and mind completely taken over by you in your presence. He fixed his lyre into position, his fingers already fixed into the correct spots as he began to play your song.

His eyes were shut as he strummed just as he had practiced thousands of times, but he knew it felt different. His body was buzzing with excitement and something else he couldn’t identify, but he loved it. It made him play stronger. His eyes shut even more as he felt the music, swaying side to side a bit as he felt his heart open up to you, finally content with you hearing the song.

He didn’t even realize that he was done until all he could hear was quiet sniffles. He pried his left eye open, almost too scared to look for your reaction, but when he saw that you were just looking up at him with watery eyes and a wobbly smile, he opened his other eye, ready to spring into action.

The only thought going through his mind was that it was impossible that you liked it. The way you were looking at him reminded him of the way people looked at sculptures of ancient monsters— a muted type of awe, but also a sense of discomfort. He brought you to tears, and not in the way he wanted to. He ruined it.

“I- was it bad?” He blurted out, and he cursed himself at ruining his own chance. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you didn’t like it-”

“How long have you been playing that song?”

You were too beautiful. Too gentle. You were melting his brain into mush, and he doubted that he would be able to pick up his lyre for another round even if you begged him. “I… I just made it. For you, I made it with you in mind.”

Your facial expression didn’t change. “Where’s the ring?”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“The rings we’re going to wear when we wed,” you said, almost teasing. “Do you have them?”

His eyes widened. “You want to marry me?” He asked, leaning forward a bit in shock. “The sky didn’t- the rain never came.”

“I cried,” you said, a small smile on your face. You still hadn’t wiped your tears, and he watched them frozen on your face, stuck in time. “I didn’t expect the work of the gods. I just wanted you to play for me.”

He was bewildered. He had half of the mind to ask you if you truly meant it again, but he took his excitement and ran with it. “And you… you feel this too?”

You took his right hand into yours, and he swore that his souls ascended to the gates of Olympus and waltzed right in. “I felt it the second I saw you, Bucky.”

He blushed something fierce before looking down at the ground, shame overtaking his sheer admiration for you. “There’s something I should tell you before you say you want to be with me.”

“Tell me anything,” you encouraged softly, one of your hands coming up to brush his warm cheek.

“I don’t have much.”

And he didn’t. He had Sam and Steve and a nomadic lifestyle. He never stayed in the same place for long, and he didn’t have a roof over his head. He didn’t need one. Rain and wind and fire didn’t bother him. He preferred to live under the canopy of trees and the protection of nature. But he knew humans didn’t. He knew humans— especially women— liked when their partners brought things to the table, and he had nothing but strings and whistles. He had nothing materialistic. He had no gems, no coins, no house, and fancy clothes— nothing money could buy. But he looked at you and saw that you deserved it all, and even more he saw that he had no way to even provide it for you.

“I live in many different places, I don’t have a home. I don’t have money. I don’t have… I can’t buy you dresses or shoes or any of the stuff you would probably like… and I’m sorry. I know that will probably change everything, but I just wanted you to know.”

You took a step forward, strong and secure, and then your chin was tilted upwards. “Like I said, where are the rings?”

Bucky grinned.

§§§

The day of your wedding was blessed by the gods, whether they admitted it or not. You married each other in the meadow Bucky found you in with a small crowd of people, and when you kissed as man and wife, peace washed over the both of you, and it felt like your marriage had been approved by all far and wide. The kiss that you shared to make the wedding official was short and sweet and full of the most innocent of passion, and he felt so adored by the soft touch of your lips that he felt a singular tear cross the terrain of his pale face for the first time in years.

He didn’t even deny it.

He didn’t deny the way that you danced together was perfect. He had never guided you, had hardly even danced with another woman, but it was perfect. It was like he had practiced with you before a hundred times, and the feel of your hands in his was what kept him sane. He was convinced that you could do anything new with him and it would feel like you had done it before, just because you were so familiar to him as a whole.

He had known you for what felt like seconds in the grand scheme of things, but you knew him inside out and he knew you better than he knew himself. He could find you in the dark, you could identify him with just a whisper of his voice, and he could fall in love with you over and over without even touching you. He would perform the Sisyphean task of falling in love with you over and over again if it meant that he could be next to you.

And luckily, it turned out that you didn’t need the things that Bucky was sure you were going to. He got you a small house just for the two of you to come back to, and he still roamed around in the area. Steve and Sam would walk off and come back weeks later, just like they used to when it was the three of them together. And there would Bucky be, at the house he made possible for you, and happier than ever.

Bucky lived an extremely modest life with you, and he liked it. Farming and getting water from wells and working for the food that was on your tables, cutting wood to feed the flames in the pit in the middle of your main room. Life was somewhat repetitive, so repetitive that he was scared he would lose you to your wild imagination and beautiful, adventurous heart. But it had never been as fulfilling as it was with you.

The little things were what made his day. It was waking up with you at his side, tucked into his arms and still sleeping soundly while he made songs up in his head dedicated to you that made him smile. It was listening to you hum to yourself while you washed corn and peaches and squash in the buckets of water you had carried down the hill that served as your property. It was the way you would pull him out of a funk by taking his hand and leading him out of his chair, dancing to music that didn’t exist, or the way you would coax him to sing to the moon because you wanted a longer night. A longer night meant more time spent with each other.

When you woke up after your long nights, sometimes you would coax him out of bed for some daily challenge, a challenge that usually he would end up beating you at. Part of him believed that you just wanted him to show off, but you always said otherwise. You would challenge him in singing only to have him go first and not even sing, claiming you had already lost. You would tell him you wanted to race him to the stream and back, knowing that you would lose by a long shot. He could run circles around you if he hardly tried, and that was just in his godly blood. But there was never any jealousy, never any animosity, never any bitterness. It was all just sweet, it felt.

You were just so magical. It was so simple, the things that made him happy, but he knew that just one call from your soul to his was more than just communication. He craved it. He knew from the moment that he met you that his soul would always seek yours, even into the afterlife. He knew that every day with you would be as beautiful as you were on your wedding day, shining brighter than any gem or any star in the night sky. And none of it would ever change.

§§

Things changed. Just as the sun rose and set, so did time. It cranked on without a single hint of Bucky aging, and you were still as youthful as you were the three years prior. Life was still beautiful, and that was all that mattered.

You had traveled around the world with him, kissed in so many different cities with different kings and different cultures and different music. You had met so many different people, lived so many different lives, just to go back home and settle there. It was wonderful. He loved you, and you loved him. It was the kind of love that was never at risk of fading or thawing away. It was the kind of love that was only spurned on as the years crawled by, the days acting as twigs added to an already strong fire. It was such a beautiful thing that he had with you, and every day with you felt like one that was blessed by the gods themselves.

Until it didn’t.

Bucky had never felt fear in his heart like he did when he heard your scream travel across the meadow. He didn’t even put on his shoes before tearing off to find you, torn between begging you to make another sound so that he could hear you or pleading the gods to make the sound of your distress stop and never happen again. His chest rose and fell with the exertion, and he knew that he had never been so afraid in his life.

The scream was all that echoed in his mind when he ran through the woods, and as he stumbled upon fallen fruits and flowers that he just knew were yours. He realized he was at the end of a ravine almost too late, and when he looked down, following the steep curve of the slope with wary and partially-knowing eyes, he immediately doubled over.

There you were in all your fallen glory, legs bent unnaturally and neck twisted even worse. The light yellow of your dress was stained with brown and dark green, and in some places a deep red that made him sick to his stomach. Your eyes were looking up at the sky, staring right into the sun as it shone down on your figure, taunting him just like the breeze that began to make your dress look so lively.

Bucky fell to his knees right on the edge of the ravine, his heart not even lurching when he lost his balance. An arm reached out to you, like it was stuck in the moment before you fell and he could reach you. Tears were coming down his face slowly, steadily as he fought to get breaths in. He called your name.

He didn’t know how many times he called your name, or how far the sadness in it traveled. It must have been loud and long enough, because before he knew it, there were hands on his shoulders. They were warm and familiar and even the smallest bit comforting in that moment, but not enough. He wanted your hands.

“Let’s get away from the edge, Buck.” It was Steve’s voice, strong and gentle and the backbone of the situation. Bucky’s eyes pried open at the feeling of Steve’s sturdy hands pulling him backwards, and he retched in his mouth at the sight of your broken, soulless body at the bottom. He hadn’t even realized he had gotten so close to it himself.

“I’ll go down to…” Sam started, trailing off with a soft and distraught look on his face when he caught sight of Bucky again, and Steve nodded at him.

“Let’s get you up, Buck. Up and Washed off.” He hadn't even realized he was dirty at all. His hands were covered in dirt and under his fingernails were the same earthy brown he was used to. He had been pulling up grass from where he grieved without even noticing.

His sobs were so loud that they hurt Steve’s ears. His dragging steps were causing such a disturbance to the land around him that animals seemed to crane their necks at him and cast their glances his way, as if wondering how on earth a person could be that distressed. His mouth was moving, but it looked and sounded more like babbling and trembling as waterfalls came down the canvas of his pale skin.

“Buck, you have to calm down. You’re about to have an attack.”

He didn’t know if he meant heart attack or a panic attack, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you were dead, all twisted up at the bottom of a ravine. Your soul had left the earth, left your body, and you were just laying there like you had never been alive. Like you had never held his hand, or kissed his cheek, or wore his ring or laughed or sang or read fine poetry while eating the fruits you had picked. Seeing you down there with your open and dim eyes felt like you had never lived at all.

“Keep walking with me, buddy. You’re going to be just fine.”

But he wasn’t. Every step he took away from you made bile come up in his throat. He wanted to be as far away from your lifeless body as possible, but he didn’t want to ever let you go. He wanted to hold you close to him until it felt like you were alive again. But as his heart beat seemed to freeze up but race like a horse all the same, he realized that you would never be alive again. You were only as alive as your last few moments, whether they were filled with the joy and freedom of having the wind on your face or the fear of falling. He could do nothing to change it.

But he would try to do everything.

§§

He spoke to everything and nothing. Steve and Sam would take turns coming to him after they celebrated your life. It reminded Bucky of the way that his mothers friends used to come watch him while his mother was off and away somewhere, and how it felt like they thought of him as a cute little burden. He knew deep down that his friends cared for him more than anything and that he cared about them just as much, but he couldn’t think about anything but you. He wouldn’t.

It was a service that made the skies open just like you said they would for his voice. The day lilies that surrounded you and Bucky seemed to be weeping with him. The wind came from east to west and west to east, spinning around and throwing in the scent of the flower with the smell of oncoming rain, reflecting the turmoil he was feeling on the inside. He could have sworn that the earth had trembled just like his hands that held your cold and still ones. But if the world had caved down under him at that moment, he wouldn’t have moved. He wouldn’t have opened his mouth to scream, or even say a word. He would have only held your hand tighter.

He spoke to the moon more often than he did Steve and Sam. They hovered, but it was the kind of hovering that Bucky felt he would appreciate sooner or later. He would sit every night and talk to the moon with his legs pulled into his chest, small and in such a vulnerable position that it would have made him feel uncomfortable at any other time. But he was vulnerable. He had been knocked off of his feet and winded. The world kicked him while he was down more times than he could count, and they had opened his chest and peeked right into his heart before seeing it was unworthy and walking away from him. It left him bleeding out in the forest while he listened to the birds eventually go on back to chirping, and watched the flowers push through and grow, and people laugh and smile and talk like nothing changed.

He was doing just that. He was lying in the flowering fields that he would always swear belonged to you, the both of you, when he heard soft footsteps. He didn’t care to look up. He knew it wasn’t Steve or Sam, but why would he care? He had nothing to be scared of now that you were gone.

“You’re Orpheus.” It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t even blink, but an annoyance he couldn’t shake bubbled up inside of him at hearing the name his mother granted him coming from a stranger. As much as he wanted complete silence, he couldn’t help but say- “Bu- sure. I’m Orpheus.”

“Everyone heard, you know.” The voice was of an old, frail woman. Bucky knew that without even looking, He ignored the fact that pity was strong in her voice, and that he knew exactly what she was talking about. He ignored the way he knew that she thought that she had the right to talk about his wife, about the way he had lost you far too soon. She knew nothing. But he let her speak. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t say a word. He didn't even recognize words as an option. He would stay silent and wait until she left. Maybe if he was quiet enough or stared up at the sky in such a still manner that it scared her, she would leave him. If he pretended to be as dead as he felt, he was sure she would leave.

“There hasn’t been a good song since you’ve stopped playing.” He heard rustling, and then he dared to look off to the side to see the old woman struggling to sit, cane wobbling in her hand as she finally plopped her frail bones onto the ground near him. He sighed heavily and looked back up to the sky. “You know, you’ve gotta be the most moving musician to ever walk the earth, from both god and man.”

It was a compliment that would have had him blushing years ago. It would have had his young mind fumbling for his lute or lyre and clearing his godly voice, asking if she wanted to sing with him or just listen. Now, it incited nothing. It meant nothing. “I doubt I’ll ever play again.”

“You pleased god and man,” the old woman carried on, almost like she had never heard him open to speak with that raspy voice of his that was so uncharacteristic of him that it hurt to hear. “Anyone would have done anything to hear your music.”

He finally turned to the side to look the old woman in her face, and he blinked at her. “I’m grieving.”

“You could persuade anyone with seven strings and five notes, don’t you understand that?” Her voice was almost angry. It was hard and nearly pleading, so different from her previous tone that Bucky snapped his head her way. “If I were you, I would have been at Death’s gates.”

They were staring at each other. Bucky was looking at the decrepit woman with curly gray hair that looked like she had dodged a visit to the Gates of Death herself more than once with shocked eyes. His heart started to beat again, like her words were arousing some kind of vicious hope that he never even knew could exist.

“The gods blessed your union. They won’t ever say, but they did bless your marriage. What makes you think that if you beg, you won’t get a blessed reunion as well?”

She disappeared within seconds of her final words, leaving a revelation swirling around in his mind and haunting his every thought.

§§

His feet ached. His hands were beginning to blister from stroking the strings of his tired lyre, and his throat was even beginning to strain. He had been singing for hours, pouring his heart out at the hidden gates of the Underworld, begging for an audience. But above all the physical pain ranked the ache in his heart, the unbearable feeling of your death sitting on his shoulders and ripping him apart from the inside. His grief was destroying him.

Hades might as well have had ears plugged up with the same wax that was used by Odysseus and his men. Usually he went undisputed, because just as life was certain, so was death. There was no questioning the decision of it, or the Fates, or the rule of Hades and his acceptance of his dear Eurydice into his kingdom. Everyone was allowed to plead and beg, but no one ever went down to the gates of the Underworld to ask for the release of a loved one, whether they were man or god. But there he was, standing in dirtied pants with fingertips plucked pink, and tears running down his face.

He didn’t know if he would ever gain the strength to leave. He didn’t know what he would do if someone even bothered to humor him. He wasn’t going to be able to have you back. He was never going to be able to bring you back up above, have you under the sun and shining beautifully like you were born to do. What would he beg of them? For them to let him see that your soul ended up in the Asphodel Meadows? For them to let him hold you one last time before you drank from the Lethe and forgot everything that happened? What if you had already drank from it? Each thought made his stomach lurch more, and his music grew louder and more desperate, like the final battle cry of a warrior.

His back was up against a tree as he sang out again in the night, praying for someone to hear him and take pity on his poor soul. Strike me down and send me with her, if you cannot give me the gift of seeing her again. The same tears that had been steadily pouring down his face were gathered in a puddle at his unmoving feet, yet he didn’t mind. He couldn’t.

“You have woken my wife.”

Bucky’s playing stopped immediately. “What?”

The man before him was dark. He was tall and seemed to take up almost the entire space even though he was only a bit wider than Bucky. His shoulders were broad and his chin was strong, and his eyes were sharp even under the gloomy look they had to them. His cheekbones were sunken in and his eyes had a ring of black around them, like he hadn’t slept in a thousand years. His lips were set in a hard line, but he didn’t look displeased. Most notably, he had a dark aura surrounding him, even black most coming from behind him and nearly encasing him.

“I don’t repeat myself, and luckily, it looks like you heard me the first time.” His voice was deep, enthralling, like a song that Bucky would never dare write himself.

What was a man this terrifying, this powerful, doing in the forest? How had Bucky woken a soul when he was in soulless territory? He hadn’t seen houses for leagues.

Something inside of Bucky begged him to apologize. It begged him to get into his knees and look downwards towards the growing grass and hope to be spared. If this was before he lost you, maybe he would have listened to it. But what did he have to truly live for now that his darling was gone?

“I’m sorry to have brought you out of your dwellings because of my grieving.”

There was a certain kind of silence that would have made Bucky’s skin crawl if he even dared to look the being’s way. “Grieving?”

“My wife.” He breathed out, finally letting his arms loose as he let his trust lyre fall down to his side. “She… has fallen prey to death.”

“Ah,” the man said, his voice nearly a scoff. “I see. The circle of life.”

“And now my life shall go in circles, on and on and down the same miserable path without the woman I love,” Bucky stated, resting his head back against the tree. “I wish I knew a man that grieved. Me… I live amongst gods. We don’t grieve. We don’t die. I have never met a man who had an inch of grief in his heart. I feel like the first to ever feel it.”

“We can lose people in other ways than death,” the man said. “Death is the most absolute, but it seems to hurt a lot less than voluntary abandonment.”

“This is my first brush with death, and I have to admit that I’m not the biggest fan.” What an understatement.

“That’s a shame. My wife is quite the fan of you and your… grief. She says it’s the most moving thing she’s ever heard.” Bucky just nodded, eyes far off. “She wants to meet you.”

“I don’t really want to meet anyone.”

“You don’t want to see my wife? You don’t want a two way ticket to the world you’ve been singing about taking passage to for days now, Orpheus?”

His head turned slowly, eyes widening as he tried to piece thoughts and facts together with his sluggish mind. “What?” But he knew. He knew with another glance at this man that he was no man at all, but one of the original gods. He was Hades, in the divine flesh, standing right before him with a glint in his eyes that meant he was satisfied by Bucky’s shock. He went to his knees, kneeling as a sob piled up into his throat.

“Your Excellency,” he began to plead, recalling back to the times he was a young god, listening to his mother explaining the way that he should speak to all the gods who came before him- especially one as powerful as Hades. “I apologize. My mind is not set right— the loss of my wife has taken a toll on me. Please forgive me.”

“Your grief blinds you.”

There was no point in lying. “It does.”

“I, too, was blinded by grief. In fact, it happens every other six months, though I suppose you young gods and humans call it winter and fall. My wife would leave, gone with a stroke of wind and then come back only to wilt again. But she, just like your own wife, will learn that there is nothing we can do about the situations we are in. Destiny will have us where she has us, and your Eurydice’s path above has ended.”

Bucky wanted to scream at him. He wanted to refuse him and tell him that Destiny and the Fates would have to bend to his will, because there was no other way. He couldn’t last another day without you, let alone a lifetime. But the god he was speaking to was Hades, and Bucky was just Orpheus, a low level demigod.

“However, my wife still wants to meet you. She wants to hear your song clearly, where it’s not muffled by distance.” His heart began to race. His hands were shaking. His eyes were wide as he tried to take in a deep breath, waiting for the gloomy god’s next words. “If you agree to see her and play her that song of yours, I’ll let you see this wife you speak of. Does that sound fair?”

Nodding was all Bucky could do to stay awake.

§§

The Underworld was just as gloomy as it was in the stories. Black and grey ran together to create a shadowy world, dismal and dark. It was full of strange sounds, like the whistling of thick wind that almost sounded like wailing humans. The air was so heavy that Bucky was finding it hard to breathe, and there was a mist so hard to cut through that Bucky could hardly see more than three feet in front of him at a time. Hades led him, and the only reason he could see him was because of his true height showing, and the fact that his dark smoke was even darker than the mist.

His hands shook. Both of them held onto his lyre for dear life. It was close to his chest, strings facing away from him, but still it felt like he could feel the vibrations of it, like the air was mocking him back by playing a song of its own. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and fall to his knees, the environment putting him in near shock.

But he had to find you.

Hades stopped in his tracks, turning his sunken face towards Bucky, who had to fight to not flinch. “If you play for my wife and she likes it, I’ll take you to see yours.” He nodded his head quickly, putting his lyre into position, his arms trembling with anxiety. The double doors opened without the old god even touching them, and then Bucky was faced with an ancient throne room, elegant and dark all the same.

The first thing he did once he got near the sitting Queen of the Underworld was kneel. Tears were already swirling in his eyes, and his throat was lurching. If he were a human, he was sure that he would have been throwing up. He prayed silently to his mother, calling upon the strength of the Muses and their talents into his blood once more.

It was silent until the queen finally spoke. “So you’re the musician?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“I expected you to be much older,” she said, her soft voice a plain contrast from her husband’s, and the dark setting of the Underworld. And then, Bucky understood that the stories weren’t embellished. At first thought, she didn’t seem to belong down there, least of all with Hades. He didn’t dare look up at either of them. “Your grief seems to be centuries old.” It felt like it was. The hole in his heart felt older than he was.

“This is Orpheus, son of Calliope,” Hades explained. “He can’t be more than a few thousand years, if I remember correctly.”

“Young, very young.” Persephone mused, the tone of her voice almost curious. “And what causes you to play this song?”

He explained it. He explained all of it. Your death, his need to see you, his stupid hope of bringing you back home where you belonged. He left it all on the table for them both to hear, even though he knew that the odds were unlikely for him. He didn’t care. He didn’t care if he got ridiculed or thrown back out of the gate, all that mattered to him was that he tried his hardest to get you. And that you knew, deep down in your forgotten mind, that he tried.

“Your music has moved me so, truly.” Persephone said, and then Bucky looked up. She was beautiful, flowers all over her body. She was the brightest thing down there, no doubt, and she still had that godly glow that all the other gods had, a golden rim around her body. She turned her face toward her husband without taking her eyes off of Bucky. “And I want to give you a chance.”

Bucky’s heart stopped. “Your Excellency?”

She was facing Hades now. “Give him a condition.” She muttered, her hands gripping the arms of the throne she sat on. “But let him try.”

Hades frowned. “If I let her go, how many humans do you think will hear of this tale and try to do the same?”

“None.” The goddess answered quickly. “They’re afraid of you. This boy is not. And unlike gods, humans accept death. They know that it is a part of the cycle, and they wouldn’t dare dispute it. This is just a confused young god. He hasn’t seen death before. This will be the only time anyone will ever ask this of you, Hades.”

It was pure silence. It seemed to stretch on for eons as Hades contemplated his wife’s words. The lyre had fallen to the ground minutes before, and Bucky felt himself reaching for it. Tears were streaming down his face now. “I’ll play for you again. I’ll play for you for a decade straight if you let me take her home at the end, if you let her remember me.” He added desperately, body trembling with anticipation.

Hades had dark eyes, and those dark eyes were full of uncertainty and something close to anger while he stared at Bucky, with a look on his face that was so blank that it frightened him. His wife’s hand was on his chest as she pleaded with him on Bucky’s behalf, yet he only stared Bucky down.

“If you can walk your way out of my domain without turning back to look at her, you can take her with you above ground.” Bucky sobbed. “If you look back, boy, she stays in the Asphodel Meadows.”

Bucky sobbed again.

§§

His back faced everything. He couldn’t hear anything except for the beating of his own heart, the heartbeat that seemed to extend all the way down to the fingertips that gripped the infamous lyre in his hand. He shook with every breath, and every blink was harsh on his eyes as he tried not to cry.

He wished he could hear you. He wished he could hear your soft voice reassure him, tell him that you remembered everything, that you were right behind him and that you would follow him everywhere, just like he would follow you. Just like he had followed you. He wished he could hear you.

He wished he could feel you. If your warm hands could just ghost over his shoulders and push him forward without quite letting go, he would have made the trek a thousand times. If he could feel your hands brushing away the hair out of his line of sight, he would have been walking before Hades even gave permission. He wished he could feel you.

He couldn’t. But he would walk anyway.

He hardly heard Hades give permission, his ominous tone echoing through the otherwise empty cavernous area, or the sound of Persephone’s whispers. But he could feel it in the air, suffocating and burying him.

Every lift of his foot was agonizing, every step far heavier than he ever imagined he could bear. But he would do it for you. He would push. Every whisper of doubt that crossed his mind, he would throw away.

It didn’t matter that at times, he wasn’t sure if you got what you needed from him. It didn’t matter that he felt like you weren’t fulfilled by the life you had with him. He had faith. It dwindled with every step, but he had faith. He would keep it and nurture it with every breath he had inside of him on the long journey back home.

Seconds started to feel like minutes, and minutes started to feel like hours. He hated it. His throat was closing in on itself like his voice was his enemy, like the voice everyone thought was so golden was the voice that would be the final nail in his coffin.

His feet were still aching, but the ache had become dull. Louder and more painful was the feeling of the cold biting his skin, like it was a reminder to stay conscious, to stay alert and thinking. Thinking was his vice and virtue. The silence was too loud. His mind was in pain, his heart even worse as he started to feel like the cold was his antagonizer. It was cold up above. It was in the cold where you suffered the most, where you struggled to stay positive. It was in the cold where he could hardly provide for you. It was in the cold where he had to hold you so close to him that air didn’t stand a chance between the two of you because every other man had already chopped the good wood.

But at the same time, he began to feel warm. It felt so warm to his skin that it felt like he was about to step into Tartarus. And it was in the warmth that you dressed in that pretty, short dress that got you harassed by men without humanity. It was in the summer that he found he couldn’t defend you. It was in the summer that he had a flash of realization that he wasn’t strong enough. It was in the summer that he got an even more fleeting flash of the thought that he wasn’t enough at all.

It was in the spring, in the months where there was sun and soft breezes, that he realized again that he was of no help. He had gotten a job one spring that was honest work, but brought in a lot less for the household than you did. He was working with the hands that were already calloused over to help men far more experienced than him craft things to sell to the town. He worked hard to come home tired just to know deep down that for all his work, he had not much more than chump change and a positive outlook to his name.

It was one autumn that he realized how much he had failed you, and he swept it under the rug like he did every other season. One autumn, he walked in on you crying in the arms of your friend- the local plum vendor that Bucky always used to buy from- about how you were terrified of being pregnant. As he walked through the Underworld, he asked himself how he could have ever forgotten that moment. Because what you said had shaken his heart to the core.

“There’s no way I would be able to take care of it.”

It wasn’t the certain doubt that was plants in your mind. It wasn’t the fact that neither of you had noticed Bucky hovering in the door because you were sobbing so hard. It wasn’t the way the woman comforted you better than he thought he was ever able to- because with him, you just never addressed the bad. It was as swept under the rug as dirt was. It was the way you said “I”. Alone. By yourself. Him and his contributions weren’t even in the picture. Were they even contributions?

It was never his voice that was his greatest feature and his worst. It was his mind. His mind was his killer. His mind was a killer, his poison and his weapon, and he was turning it right onto himself. His legs trembled as he fought the urge to look, to crane his neck and get his disappointment over with. Were you following him? Did you even remember him- or had you already drank from the river that would steal all of the life that you had before? Had Hades tricked him into leaving quietly?

And if you did remember him, why on earth would you follow him? You would be following him back to a land that was full of struggle and making it through day by day. You would be trudging after him this time only for him to bring up the rear in everything else. He would be the one smiling at you after you came from working to the bone, providing for him and yourself. That was all he ever had to offer, a smile and a song. What could he truly trade for a smile and a song? What could he get you?

Nothing.

What could he do if you got hurt again?

Nothing.

What could he do with his life when he surfaced and found you not there, far behind in the Underworld?

Nothing.

The doubt piled up. It replaced the faith like the faith was a forest and doubt was a wildfire. Every footstep added to it. He was convinced. He was sure that the result of him turning around at that one moment could be no worse than him turning around when he got to be above ground and away from the suffocating death. You weren’t going to be there. Whether he turned right then or in a hundred years, you weren’t going to be there. If you were in your right, beautiful mind, you would have seen him begging and turned your eyes from him and pretended like you hadn't known him.

He couldn’t tell where he was. His breathing was too shaky for him to think about anything else but breathing and thinking about you. It was too dark. His feet hadn’t touched grass yet and he knew he had to try to keep pushing, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He was bursting at the seams to confirm something that he already knew was coming for him.

His feet dragged. His steps sped up but it felt like he was fighting quicksand. He was struggling to walk through it, fighting to take breaths in it. The shallow breaths were somehow pitched high, bouncing off of the rocky, cavernous walls he began to hate. The only thing on his mind was doubt, doubt, doubt. It was a fever he couldn’t sweat out. A tremor he couldn’t shake away. A dark color he couldn’t paint over. A shadow he couldn’t run from. And just when he couldn’t fight it anymore, he saw light.

He never ran so fast in his entire life. He wanted to escape the feeling clawing at his throat and chest, the dread and preparation for pure disappointment. He wanted to step into the light, step into something he knew, before he allowed himself to collapse in grief again. It felt like the light was getting closer, and then it would fade again and come back lighter. He didn’t register the sound of sobbing until the sound faded out and stopped echoing, and then he was aware that his feet were touching the grass.

His feet were touching grass.

His hands shook as he raised them to his face, cupping his cheeks as he came to the realization that he was out of the nightmare that was the Underworld. Emotions were rushing into him faster than he could understand what they were, and then his mind stopped. His face was dry. His head whipped around.

Your eyes were wide and watery. Your dress was torn and bloody, just like it was when you had died. Your hair was a mess, and you were shaking from crying so hard. You stood there like a ghost, transparent and out of place, but crying real tears all the same. The sobs he had been hearing weren’t his own. They were yours. And you were still encased by the shadows of the Underworld.

You had been trying to catch up to him.

“Oh!” His exclamation was more of a dying moan than anything else. His trembling hands cupped his mouth again as he watched you cry again, crying even harder than that one time where the leaves were falling. He uttered your name once, and then once turned into four times, and as your cries got louder, his muttering turned into a shout, your name the one word he was calling out over and over again.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry baby.” He watched as you opened and shut your mouth over and over, shaking your head as silence was all you could produce. “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” He was drawing blood from how his fists were clenched. “Baby, my sweet love, my darling,” the names were dripping from his tongue like honey, like it was a balm that could soothe the both of you. His apologies were just as tender, as quiet and disbelieving as the language his eyes were speaking. He couldn’t help but reach out to you with a dying apology on his lips, his foot crossing the barrier you would be stuck behind forever, and just before he touched what must have been your cold skin, there was nothing but air.

Nothing but your lingering presence and his poisonous mind.

§§

He never thought that life could be so meaningless. Even before he met you, he felt like he had a purpose. He was an entertainer, a traveling man, a man who brought joy and music with him effortlessly wherever he went. Not anymore.

He was empty, and he felt like an empty glass jar. He wasn’t even an empty box— he was something anyone that had eyes could see right through. Everyone saw him and knew he was the one who had lost a wife and in turn given up all his divine talent. They looked at him through lenses that were wet with pity. He hated it.

He hated himself for doing the same to the humans who had lost loved ones. He felt horrible for giving them those looks, for telling Steve and Sam their stories without really knowing it. Now he was going through the unimaginable.

Nothing mattered, he learned. He thought that thought over and over again every time he woke up and every time he was going to sleep. He thought it while he sat in the cold on one winter night with no fire in the fireplace. It was something that would have made him worry a bit, or made him irritated at himself. Nothing really caused him to get angry or sad anymore. He was just there. It was like he was living yet another death by extension. The world gave him his cards and he played them in the worst way possible. But that’s what he did. He couldn’t change it.

He couldn’t change anything. All he could do was pray that you forgot the way that he failed you time and time again, and then where it was most important.

He would remember enough for the both of you.

****

hi guys! i feel like i literally have come back from the dead with all the time i’ve been in and out of here. it’s been so hectic and busy that i’m proud i got this out so soon lmao- i worked hard on this, so if you were feeling it please like and reblog!!

[the-ghost-king]

About the cupid scene, Nico was forced to come out, but its also made very clear that Cupid is the bad guy. So is Aphrodite to an extent. They have a twisted and fundamental misunderstanding of love and how it works for mortals. I get that people could be mad about how Nico was forced to come out and putting him through more emotional trauma, but I also think its very realistic in showing how callous and cruel the gods understanding of love is.

I am reminded of the quote by Madeline Miller, "There is no law that gods must be fair..."

I also understand why the scene might be traumatic for other young LGBTQ+ readers, I've seen a lot of people talk about the fear of being outed in regards to them reading that scene as a kid. I completely respect their feelings on that, and I understand that as well. However, as someone who had been forcibly outed once before reading that scene, that scene really helped heal me. I don't think the Cupid scene is inherently homophobic, and I'm often bothered by the lack of nuance regarding around how it's handled.

I recognize it's a very emotional scene, and that people may have a hard time fully separating their emotions from that scene, but at the same time if there's a group of people saying "hey I understand why you disliked this scene but it was really helpful to me as a child because of the different experiences I had" maybe slow the breaks and hear what others also in the community have to say before determining if the scene is homophobic. You don't have to like the scene, and yeah maybe the scene did hurt you but that doesn't make it homophobic.

I want to specify on my word choice there a little closer, because of course outing someone is an act of homophobia, and the scene is homophobic in that sense. However often times the conversation about homophobia in this scene goes to "Rick was homophobic for writing this" where personally I would say this scene toes the line at being too far without ever crossing it. Some people may think this depiction crosses the line into "Rick was homophobic for writing this" which is fine, but just because something depicted homophobia and hurt you doesn't mean it was homophobic. Something doesn't have to out rightly be stated to be bad, in order to be read as bad*, and the Cupid scene does a wonderful job of depicting this.

I talk here about how Nico is shown what love is, and how love is treated by Nico, and how it affects his character. I think it's important to note that Nico's entire storyline can essentially be encompassed in an Orpheus-like or Odyssey-like tale. Nico's undergone this huge emotional and physical labor all in the name of having some form of unconditional love. I think that post is a really important read in the context of this one because I very carefully outline how love shapes Nico and how Nico shape and chooses his own definition of love, but I want to specifically dig into the Cupid scene on this post.

The big criticism often seen is "it's homophobic" which I covered above, and I want to clarify I'm not upset with or mad at or trying to tell anyone they can't dislike it or even say you can't say it's homophobic (my words on my one post are a bit off I'll admit) but the problem I have is when people believe they hold a moral high ground for thinking it's homophobic, or they remove all nuance from the discussion with "it's homophobic". Which is frustrating and annoying because it's a very complex scene, and it really changes Nico's arc and personality and it does help characterize him.

The big reason it shapes him so much is because of the other largest reason the scene is criticized, Cupid's behavior. What often fails to be recognized in those scenes is that Cupid is intentionally painted as the villain, this is very important to the scene.

In the context of this scene Nico makes an unspoken choice, a choice of "what is love to me?". I talk about how Nico claims his narrative in BoTL when he overcomes Minos, and he partially peaks that arc by convincing Gods to join the final battle of TLO. Following that arc however, Nico falls into his second arc, his crush on Percy was important in PJO, but not as important as it is in HoO.

By HoO Nico's entire character revolves around Percy, how to help Percy, how to aid Percy, etc. All of this has to do with Nico's crush on Percy, but also as an act of repayment because Nico hurt Percy- Nico lied to him about knowing him at New Rome in SoN, and he goes to Tartarus shortly after... This mirrors what Percy did after Hades tricked Nico... Percy choked Nico because he was upset with him, so Nico tried to win back Percy's affection by bathing him in the river.

The Cupid Scene is the resolution of Nico's arc, he is essentially given a choice- Cupid or Jason?

For this reason, we do see Nico recognize love for what it has been vs how it could be.

Cupid is there to represent what love is, to Nico love is brutal, and painful, and a lot of hard work... Nico has made himself utilitarian in love simply because it is the only way he can find any affection. Love to Nico is about flaying yourself for the benefit of others, to trample any and all parts of yourself simply to appease those you care for, because you want them to love you so much as you love them. The parallels I could draw between Nico and Orpheus, or Nico and Odysseus... I'd be here a long while...

In that scene Jason represents the alternative form of love which Nico chooses after his interaction with Cupid.

Jason says during the scene that he "preferred Piper's idea of love" which has to do with kindness and caring, etc, and then Jason becomes the embodiment of that idea during the scene- which showcases the alternative of what love can be, thus making Jason a personification of love in the context of that scene.

Jason looks to Nico, he doesn't ask for more, he simply looks to Nico with understanding and acknowledges him for who he is, and he does the exact opposite of what Nico expects:

Jason loves Nico where he is, without conditions, without forcing Nico to become something more. Jason didn’t force Nico to say more than what was necessary for him to understand, Jason looked at Nico and he called Nico brave.

Cupid is a more volatile form of love than Aphrodite, Cupid shoots arrows that makes people animals, that can make a god grow insane, but Aphrodite's form of love is about acceptance and humanity (think to how she picked Ares over Hephaestus even if it was perhaps "wrong")- both are about truth but one is about force and the other about acceptance.

When Nico walks out of there, he makes his choice- he is forced to come out yes, Cupid is wrong for doing this, but Jason again stays a figure of love in Nico's life. Jason basically says, "Good job, I know that was hard, thank you for sharing and let me know if you need anything, people will care about you and understand you," again and again and again to Nico, he doesn't tell Nico he has to come out, and he agrees to keep it between them for now. Jason is love as acceptance, Jason is the first person who unconditionally loves Nico, and that's the choice.

Will Nico accept unconditional love? If the answer is no, then Cupid wins and Nico is denying himself. If the answer is yes, then Jason and Nico win, and Nico no longer needs to make himself utilitarian in love in order to be loved.

The choice is made with Reyna and Hedge, most specifically Reyna.

When he accidentally comes out to them, and they accept him without making a big deal of it, without show, just that acknowledgement and "thank you for sharing" and Nico accepts their words and friendship still- Nico made his choice then to accept the love he was being freely given.

“He carried so much sadness and loneliness, so much heartache. Yet he put his mission first. He persevered. Reyna respected that. She understood that. She'd never been a touchy-feely person, but she had the strangest desire to drape her cloak over Nico's shoulders and tuck him in. She mentally chided herself. He was a comrade, not her little brother. He wouldn't appreciate the gesture.”

This is where we see the slow and steady, and healthy, end to Nico's arc in regards to love really grow into itself, and he begins to heal. He no longer sees such an intense need to make himself utilitarian for love, and he begins to heal from his internalized homophobia too.

(Internalized homophobia discussions with Nico also bother me too often times, people too often assume you can't date while struggling with internalized homophobia or at least very heavy handedly imply that which is just not true... You may have some issues in your relationship, but you can work through the internalized homophobia while building a new relationship and be just fine. Also to assume someone has an unhealthy relationship because of internalized homophobia is weird and lowkey reinforces the idea that "broken" people don't need love, but also does a huge disservice to so many LGBTQ+ people who are happily married/themselves but still struggle with these feelings, and to see a healthy relationship depiction despite someone in that relationship struggling with internalized homophobia is fine and good actually. As long as the individual can recognize what they're dealing with, and work through it in a healthy and constructive manner, then there's nothing wrong there...)

When I started this post to be honest I thought I would have a lot more to say, it's a scene that touched and changed me so deeply as a person, and beyond that in a more objective experience it completely changes Nico's character, by turning his arc around and beginning his healing process. To be honest, there probably is more to be said on it, I just haven't found the words yet... I know parts of this post are clunky and in a year I'm going to read this and see all the places it could be better but for now I'm content with it.

Whether or not someone considers the scene homophobic is a subjective experience, but I think this is a very well written scene purely for the characterization and symbolism, intentional or otherwise. I don't really care that much to debate if it's truly a homophobic scene or not, I can see both why people say it is and why people say it isn't and that can be culminated into "people have different needs" and "minorities aren't a monolith". Personally my much larger complaint is the complete lack of nuance and insight scenes like this are handled with, not the matter of personal opinion an individual reaches on the scene.

*the post uses the word "adult audience" and yes, fair point, children should not be able to decipher symbolism to the extent adults can. But older children and young teens, which the RRverse series are sold for, is when critical thinking skills and media analysis do begin to become parts of classroom curriculum. The scene does an excellent job of not outright stating Cupid is evil, but of depicting that in a very clear cut way.

[barbarianprncess]

“Forget it, you’re a fucking asshole.” and “Nobody’s seen you in days.” that would be inchresting 👀👀

for mari my beloved, 

(aka @chironshorseass ) 

as you know this sort of got away from me. one second i was writing a drabble of angst, the next I'm on the 16th page with no end in sight. so this maybe isn’t what you were expecting but have 5k of post-botl/pre-tlo pining idiot besties who are in love :). 

(also this hasn’t been beta’d and i'm welcome to volunteers i just finished and got so excited i had to post.)

(dear one anon who asked for 'forget it you're a fucking asshole' too, if you're reading this, don't worry yours is coming too i promise)

(final s/o to @posallys for letting me scream about them)

24 hours

read on ao3

enjoy <3

                                                      ...

Percy is fucking exhasted.

He was supposed to be back at camp four days ago. The deal was he’d spend weekdays at camp to plan and train and weekends at home to relax. But, he kept putting it off, opting to keep the weight on his chest that’d been pushing him down since last summer bearable, and not crushing the way it always was at camp. So, when he gets through the barrier, aside from nodding hello to Beckendorph and Silena, he makes a beeline to his cabin. He manages to keep his eyes down until he’s standing at his porch steps- and that when he sees her.

Annabeth is pacing on his balcony. She’s wearing jean shorts and her camp shirt, but instead of her typical ponytail her hair is in two intricate braids that reach her breastbone. She’s muttering to herself and wringing her hands together and for a moment Percy forgets. He forgets the past year and all the arguing and the bitterness and he sees Annabeth is worried about something and he reaches out as if to hold her. To wrap his arms around her and tell her that everything is going to be alright.  

But then he remembers.

He retracts his hands.

He clears his throat and Annabeth startles. Her grey eyes are as intense as ever and he can almost see her defences come up. He hates that it's because of him. Annabeth is the first to break the silence.

“Hey.” Her voice is small but clear. Not yet vulnerable, but gives Percy the sense that it could be soon.

“What’re you doing here?” He isn’t sure he said it out loud until she ducks her head and flushes.

“Nobody’s seen you in days.” It’s not the accusation he expects. It's also not an answer to his question. Just an observation.

“I’m here now.” He says it like it’s an invitation. He then becomes incredibly aware that he's still looking up at her from the bottom of the steps, so he grabs his duffel, bounds up the stairs, and opens his cabin door. He hesitates and meets her eye with another silent question. She answers by stepping inside.

He drops his bag by his bed and turns on the light. The air is charged with unasked questions and unfinished conversations. He can’t stand it. He’s about to attempt small talk when she says something that nearly knocks down where he stands.

“I miss you.” She’s wringing her hands again and she won’t look him in the eye, but takes his silence as confusion.

“That’s what I came here to say, that I miss you.”

Percy isn’t sure what to say. Percy isn’t sure this conversation is really happening, she’s broken so many of the fragile rules they’d been following all year. He’s 98% sure this is a really vivid daydream to cope with…. well everything.

He decides that on the off chance this is real he should play it safe so, he states the obvious.

“I’m here. We’re here, together. We’re together and-” She cuts him off and begins to ramble.

“Strained and awkward and it's like there’s this chasm between us of all these things from last summer. From our kiss, to you dying, and then you not dying, and Rachel, and Luke, and Luke being Not-Luke, and it’s like we can’t have a conversation anymore and that sucks ‘cause..”

She pauses for the first time to look up at him and her eyes are shining.

“You’re kinda my best friend. And I miss you. Everything sucks and I'm tired of fighting. And I really miss you.”

Percy’s too shocked to say anything. It occurs to him that he should respond but he can’t find the words. All the unspoken rules they had in place and Annabeth had just steamrolled right through them. Percy realizes his mistake in staying silent as Annabeth flushes and turns to leave.

“Forget it, you’re a fucking asshole.” And oh no Annabeth had just swallowed her pride (which he knows better than anyone is no easy feat) to say everything he’d wanted to hear and he can’t let her walk away.

“I miss you too.” The words tumble out of him, clunky and a little awkward but earnest. Annabeth stops and faces him, eyes suspicious in the way that breaks his heart a little bit.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

Annabeth exhales and shoots him a tremulous smile he hasn’t seen in forever, and oh he’d forgotten what it did to his chest when she did. Before he does something stupid like tell her he thinks her smile is the best this he’s ever seen, he clears his throat.

“So…. this chasm you said, what do you propose we do about it?”

“24 hours. For 24 hours everything that I listed before is a non-issue. After that we can go back to…..whatever it is we’re doing now. One day, where we’re just two friends spending a day at camp together..”

“Best friends.” He corrects without thinking. She rolls her eyes, and he almost giggles because he’d missed her eyerolls too.

She holds out her hand to shake, all business-like and gods he missed her.

“Best friends. 24 hours.”

He takes her hand. Her shake is firm, her palms are warm, her eyes are bright, and she is beautiful.

“Where do we start?”

...

Apparently it starts with homework.

After he asked where they’d begin, Annabeth had flashed him a wicked grin, damn-near dragged him off the porch, and made a beeline to the Big House. Before last summer, Annabeth had been “tutoring” him. Once a week they’d head down to the Big House and spend hours combing through myths and legends, practicing Ancient Greek, and all things Demigod 101. It probably wasn’t ever that useful considering Percy barely remembered any of it, but Annabeth had always insisted. After last summer they’d non-verbally decided to take a break from it (eachother), and they’d never started back up.

Usually he’d halfheartedly complain that it was pointless and say some form of ‘I know enough to not die and that's good enough for me’ every five minutes, but today he nods dutifully along as Annabeth talks animatedly about Orpheus, and Theseus, and all the other -eus’s. He’ll ask a dumb question that they both know he knows the answer to, but she answers him anyway. He watches the wisps of hair that refused to be tied down, and counts the tiny sunspots across her nose and the way she wrinkles her eyebrow when she forgets a name.

It’s not terrible. It’s kinda the opposite. He’d forgotten that she made studying not terrible.

He’s so screwed.

...

The stables are almost empty when they get there.

After 2 hours of studying, (one hour of studying, one hour of laughing and talking and calling it studying) Annabeth declared it was his turn to pick the activity. Tired of sitting still Percy lands on tending to the pegasi. It was one of his favorite things about camp plus he got to teach Annabeth something for once. Annabeth was comfortable enough around them but she never spent anytime with them that she didn’t have to.

When they entered the barn, Blackjack gave him a look and he blushed remembering all the times he’d come to the stables with Beckendorph to vent about how much he missed Annabeth, (He didn’t even know horses could give looks but here we are) and silently told him it was a long story and to be cool. Annabeth had stopped next to one of the cleaning stations and was looking at him expectantly. He cleared his throat and they got to work. He showed her how to brush them and how to get tangles out of their manes, where to scritch them and where not to scratch them. He showed her how to check their feathers and make sure their wings were healthy and how to get them to be still enough to check.

Annabeth was excellent with them, gentle hands and kind eyes. Whenever she approached one she would look them in the eye and talk to them like the intelligent creatures they were. Each time she got started taking care of a new steed she’d gently reach for the muzzle and say in a soothing voice:

“Hi, my name is Annabeth and I'm going to groom you today. Don’t worry, I'm friends with Percy, and he taught me exactly how to take care of you. If I’m doing something wrong, let him know and he’ll tell me how to fix it. I promise I’ll do my best to make sure you feel like a brand new pegasus.”

Frankly, it was fucking adorable.

Pork-pie had taken a special liking to Annabeth, telepathically asking Percy if she could groom him more often. When he told this to Annabeth she’d beamed and enthusiastically agreed to come down whenever she could. Percy had off-handedly suggested that they take them out for a bit and Annabeth immediately started to release Pork-Pie from his stall.

They flew over camp for what could’ve been minutes or hours. He was lucky that Blackjack could fly himself because Percy couldn’t take his eyes off his flying partner. Her braids held firm, but a few rebellious curls were now whipping with the wind. The atmosphere combined with the speed they were flying, made her cheeks red and splotchy. Her smile is brighter than the sun, and eyes- gods her eyes were going to be the death of him. The sun and her mood (he had this theory that her eyes changed color based on her emotions) had made them almost blue, they are full of laughter, and Percy adores her. And when she directs her sunshine-smile at him, Percy can’t help but smile back.

(He doesn’t stop smiling until they land.)

...

As they're putting their pegusi back in their stalls, Blackjack decides to give him some advice.

“I know I don’t understand all of your fragile human emotions, but I know enough. There’s a lot of bad in this world of ours, and from what you’ve told me about this war business it's only gonna get worse. You gotta make the most of the good.”  He tilts his head over to Annabeth who is cooing at a preening Pork-Pie.

“You and ladyboss, you’re good together. And really nothing else matters.”

He doesn’t have time to even think about a response when Annabeth is walking over from Pork-Pie’s stall, and telling him it's time for a picnic.

...

(“What did Blackjack say to you? You looked kinda flustered when I got you.” Percy almost drops the plate he’s piling with food from the buffet. He’s gotten three pointedly confused looks at the sight of him and Annabeth together and not strangling each other and a thumbs-up from Grover. He and Annabeth are getting their food and then they’ll go sit by the beach.

“Oh,” He clears his throat and goes with the first thing he thinks of. “Blackjack calls you ladyboss.” Good that's good, not technically a lie either.

“Huh. Weird.” Annabeth, seemingly satisfied with this, returns her attention to the grapes she is adding to her plate.)

...

“Where do you go?” Annabeth asks. She’s sitting next to him in the sand brushing crumbs off her fingers. They had been eating and watching the ocean in comfortable silence and Percy furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “Lots of days when you’re at camp for lunch and sometimes dinner you just disappear for hours. And I know you aren’t going home because your stuff is still in your cabin. Where do you go?”

It’s not an accusation, just a question. Percy gets the feeling she doesn’t want to know so she can disturb, she just worries. Percy knows her. He knows she’s always planning for the worst and she needs to be able to get to him if there's an emergency.

(It strikes him that she notices when he disappears and he feels guilty but also just a little hopeful. Because she misses him as much as he misses her.)

He stacks their plates and rests them on the blanket they’d been sharing. Percy stands up and holds out his hand, gesturing for Annabeth to do the same.

“C’mon, I’ll show you.”

...

He tells her to close her eyes. She gives him a skeptical look but obliges and holds out her hands, a silent request for him to guide her. It’s almost easier to take her hands in his without those trademark eyes on him. But it’s not any less intense. As soon as their fingers interlock sparks of electricity lick up his arm. Now that her eyes are closed he can look at her face up close without fear. Her curls had gotten more unruly as the day went on, and the ringlets that framed her face blew lightly in the ocean breeze. He leads her slowly towards the ocean, using his powers to dry any spot she walks on. He sees her brows furrow when she notices how far they’ve walked towards the ocean without their feet getting wet, but she doesn’t say anything. He parts the water for her to walk through, and when the water rises above their heads, he forms an air bubble that moves with them, keeping them dry. When they get to a good spot, squeezes her hand signaling for her to stop with him, but tells her to keep her eyes closed. Then he closes his eyes with her and calls out to the ocean's creatures, making himself a beacon.

Here I am, he thinks. The son of Poseidon.

Come to me.

Minutes pass.

“You can open your eyes now.” He whispers.

She does, and lets out a soft gasp, “Oh, Percy.”

He smiles and looks out at the scene before them. He’d come down here after a particularly bad day and just wanted to sit in silence. It was an accident, calling the creatures to him. Subconsciously, he must have sent a message along that he was feeling alone. And all sorts of sea creatures - from greek monsters and to great white sharks to your average cod had flocked to him. And he didn’t feel so alone. So now, whenever he couldn’t take the human world, he’d come down here and talk to the fish.

This time he’d actually concentrated on getting a message out and they did not disappoint. He couldn’t count all the animals that had heeded his call but it was a sight to behold. He had willed some glowing coral from the deeper ocean to stay in that spot, which created a multicolored tint to everything around them.

Normally they come right up close to him, but this time they were hesitant. And as he listened to the creatures and heard more than a few whispers of Athena and stranger, he’s suddenly reminded that she’s the only person he’s ever done this with. It’s his favorite place, and she is the only other person ever to see it.

“It's okay guys, she’s a friend.” He reassures them. When he looked back at Annabeth, her mouth was still hung open and she was staring out at the scene in front of them in wonder. He smiles at her dazed silence and uses the hand he’s still holding to tug her up to the barrier of the bubble. The first creature willing to accept Annabeth is a baby spotted dolphin. He swims towards the clumsily with eager fins and pokes at the barrier with it’s snout. Annabeth's eyes widen in fear and look up at him and it takes a second to realize she isn’t afraid of the animal, but of their bubble popping.

“Don’t worry, the bubble won’t break unless I break it myself, and it’ll last however long I want it to.” He reassures her. He senses her hesitation so he guides her hand up to meet the snout of the baby dolphin who seems fascinated with Annabeth herself. He reaches his snout and head bumps directly into the spot on the bubble where her palm is placed.

Annabeth lets out a laugh, the kind of laugh that sort of bubbles out of you without warning and it’s the best thing Percy’s ever heard. He watches as the shock fades for her features and she pets the infant creature through the sheen of bubble keeping them dry. The animals begin to warm up to Annabeth as well, and as soon as they figure out she’s not some evil Athena agent sent to destroy the ocean, they join in on the fun. Hundreds of ocean creatures of all sizes begin doing tricks, nuzzling up to the flexible barrier, all vying for Annabeth’s attention. Annabeth herself is happy to oblige. Ever consistent, she introduces herself to each creature she meets. She smiles and laughs and reaches out to all the animals she can. Percy is happy simply to watch her and keep the bubble up but then she turns to him, eyebrow drawn together in concern, pointing to a particularly awnry seahorse, and asks what it's saying.

“He says his name is Frank and that he’s ‘too pregnant for this shit.’”

Annabeth stares blankly.

“His words not mine.” Percy offers hands up in surrender.

Then she snorts and then they’re laughing, they’re laughing harder than they have in years, and it's that kind of hysterical laugh where everything around them makes it more funny, and soon Percy’s clutching his stomach and Annabeth is beet red.  As soon as it subsides enough to get words out Annabeth is shaking his arm saying “Do that one! What's he saying? Oh my gods what even is that? Does that one like me? That ones majestic, what's his name? Oh Percy, look!! Look at that one!”

So he translates and they laugh and he teaches her different species and Annabeth nods along like it’s very important stuff. She pets the baby dolphin through the bubble and listens intently to all the animals telling her stories, even though she can’t understand a word until Percy tells her what they said. And when it’s time to go he sees the tears in her eyes and tells Percy to promise the baby that she’ll visit all the time, even though they both know she can’t.

(Apparently the baby dolphins name is Arnold, and according to his mother, he was so enthralled by Annabeth because when he first saw her he thought she was an angel.)

(Percy thinks he’s not too far off.)

...

(“That was incredible Percy. Thank you so much for sharing that with me.” They had been walking in silence as they made their way back to camp using the bubble, enjoying the afterglow of their adventure.

“Yeah, of course.” She smiles at him and looks ahead.

He’s not sure why he does it but without looking at her he reaches out and ever so carefully, and brushes her fingertips with his.

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t say anything.

Then suddenly, miraculously, her hand tilts and their fingers are interlocked.

And there's no pretense of guiding her somewhere, they’re just….holding hands.

And it's perfect.)

...

Percy thinks if he’s not in love with her, he’s pretty damn close.

Because this feeling, the one he gets in his chest when he looks at her, is what love feels like.  

...

When they resurface, they’re met with twinkling lights and the last three stragglers singing softly at the campfire. It’s almost time for lights out.

Oh.

Oh no.

Annabeth seems to be coming to the same realization, as she clears her throat and lets go of his hand. He misses her fingers immediately.

“So, I guess we should start heading to bed.” She looks at him, hopeful but he’s stuck. Stuck in the feeling of dread at the idea of waking up tomorrow and not having his best friend. Suddenly the idea of leaving her side is so unbearable he can’t speak.

“Goodnight, Percy.” She’s turning around and backing away when the words lodged in his throat come unstuck.

“8 in the morning.” She turns giving him a ‘what are you on about’ look.

“That when you came and got me at 8 in the morning. We agreed on 24 hours. It's only been 12.”

She smiles slow and wide, “You know you're right, that math checks out.”

“We had very clear terms. We even shook on it.”

“Yes we did.”, she nods gravely. “It’s a binding agreement, we can’t just ignore it.”

“So what do we do?”

She flashes a wicked grin. “You aren’t the only one with a secret spot.”

...

Percy arrives in the Big House 20 minutes after curfew was called, exactly as Annabeth had instructed. He felt her presence before she re-materialized in front of him and in a low conspiratorial whisper tells him to follow her.

They sneak down to the basement and Percy is confused when she keeps walking towards the corner. She lifts up a floorboard and starts climbing down a ladder. She beckons him to join her and when he makes it down the ladder, he can’t help the smile that breaks out. It’s a sort of underground attic, complete with a worn dusty couch, blankets and an old TV.

“I found it my first year at camp by accident. I was down doing chores and one of the broom strings got caught under it. I didn’t have many friends except for….” She lets him fill in the blank rather than say the name out loud. “And when he wanted to be with kids his own age, I’d come here. There's only five movies down here and I memorized them.” She looks down at her shoes. “I know it’s not the sea floor but..”

“Are you kidding? It’s awesome. What are the movies?”

They dig around and end up finding two more that apparently seven-year-old Annabeth did not think worth the time. They watch Die Hard first, (“Oh my Gods I can't believe you haven’t watched Die Hard. This is a travesty. It’s a classic Annabeth.”) then Pulp Fiction, ("I can’t believe it, all the shit you gave me for not seeing Die Hard, and you haven’t Pulp Fiction?? You absolute heathen!") and Clueless. ("What? It has to be full of violence and toxic masculinity to be good? It’s a good movie Percy, shut-up.") Before he knows it, it’s 3:54 am shaking with hysterical silent laugher at Annabeth's impression of Dionysus.

“Oh my gods oh-OH! Do you know what we’ve got to do?”

“Uh-oh, what?”

She grins impishly and a little deliriously. “We’ve gotta go to our spot.”

“Ah, of course. Yes, our spot, totally.” He says in a voice he hopes is neutral, in an effort to gage if she’s serious.  

“Oh my gods.” She gasps, offended.

“What.”  

“I can’t believe this.”

“You can’t believe what?”

“You forgot our spot.”

“I’m sorry Annabeth, until four seconds ago I wasn’t aware we had a spot.”

“Oh my gods. I can not believe this-” He can tell she’s messing with him, and not actually mad.

“Annabeth, just tell me where it is.”

“I simply can not believe this, you absolute heathen-”

“Stop calling me a heathen, and tell me where it is.”

She smiles, “I can show you.”

...

“Oh, of course! This is our spot!”

Annabeth chuckles, “I told you.” They’re standing at the edge of the forest at the tallest of the rock clusters to the far left. It's the one they used to go to after their first quest, the place where Annabeth taught him the constellations. The place where he made his first real friend. Not people he hung out with to avoid getting picked on. Not a searcher who happened to like the demigod he found.  His first real best-friend.

They climbed up easily and lay down looking straight up at the sky. Annabeth points up at the floating memorials, and Percy dutifully recites the legends of how they earned their place in the sky. They're shoulder to shoulder and their fingers graze each other for longer than necessary. And slowly they lull into comfortable silence, arms overlapping, at some point Annabeth's head lands on his shoulder. Percy freezes for a while, staying absolutely still as if she’s a wild creature who could bolt at any moment. But then he relaxes, and she relaxes and he’s pretty sure she’s asleep until she takes in a shaky breath and whispers, “Hey, Percy?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re gonna be okay right?” He can tell she's trying to mask the vulnerability in her voice. And he can’t see all of her face from the angle they’re laying, but her nose is on his collarbone, and her hair is tickling his chin.

He closes his eyes, and he thinks. He thinks about Luke and Rachel and how nothings been the same since Percy blew up that mountain.

He thinks about seeing her for the first time, grey eyes wide hair falling off her shoulders and how even after everything he just went through, he felt safe. He thinks about ‘you drool when you sleep’, and the way she looked at him when he was claimed- awestruck and pitiful at the same time. He thinks about rolled eyes, stamped feet, and frustration always just under the surface. He thinks about silent truces, and letting guards down, and shared oreos in the back of a mobile zoo. He thinks about sweaty palms gripping each other in the Underworld, and shaky hands giving him a good luck camp necklace. He thinks about camp fires, stupid jokes, learning about the stars, and how the just fit.

He thinks about postcards and iris-messages, and how she punched Matt Sloane square on the nose. He thinks about how despite the arguing and the confusion about Tyson, she was always there when she needed him. How she didn’t hesitate to sneak out of camp with one of the first species he ever learned to truly fear, because he asked her to. He thinks about her in a dress and how tongue-tied him in guinea pig form. He thinks about her broken sobs and how she clutched at him in their underwater bubble. He thinks about winning a chariot race, the softest of cheek kisses and how in this world of gods and monsters, she’s the only thing he was really sure about.

He thinks about how she was the first girl he ever danced with, and how light everything felt when she was around. He thinks about how it felt strangely familiar when she fell off that cliff, and how only days later realized that it was the same desperation he had when Hades took his mother. He thinks about how gutted it was when he found out she was thinking about joining the Hunters. He thinks about his visit from Aphrodite and how even though she changed form, her hair smelled like lemons the entire time. He thinks about when he saw her on that cliff it was like the sun came out. How he saw her face and it was smudged with dirt and cuts but she was alive and he could breathe again. He thinks about how his throat closed up when he thought Artemis was going to pick her for the Hunt. He remembers how when they danced on Olympus, for a song she was prettier than Aphrodite.

He thinks about planning a movie date, and how he discovered Annabeth doesn’t get any less pretty when she’s mad at him. How she sat right next to him at dinner and how when she fixed his armour, his neck burned wherever she touched him. He thinks about falling in a whole and holding her hand and how they’d done it before but it felt different that time. He thinks about ping pong table meetings and how he became aware of the fact that he’d follow her anywhere. He thinks about the determination in her when she faced the Sphinx, and how the same fire was in them right before she kissed him. He thinks about how she tasted like smoke and salt, and how for the 3.2 seconds that his lips were hers, the first thing he thought was ‘we fit like this too’. He thought he was going to die but it was okay. It was okay that he was going to die, because he had gotten to kiss her. He thinks about Calypso’s Island, and how he dreamt about her every night. How when he crashed his funeral, she held like she couldn’t bear to let go and how that was fine with him. He thinks about the blur that was the labyrinth, full of unshed tears, words that cut, and how despite all the scream fights and the terror, and the barely contained rage, none of it lessened the fierce protectiveness he feels for her. How despite it all, she's still the best thing that's ever fucking happened to him. He thinks about the last line of her prophecy, and how she thought it was about him.

He loves her.

He’s not sure if he’s in love with her because he’s 15 and he hasn’t exactly had time to date around but he knows that for a fact. Knowing Annabeth, loving Annabeth has made him who he is. She is burned into his DNA. Somehow the 12 year old with princess curls and eyes that cut, crawled under his skin. He knows he’s done the same to her, even though they’re both too stubborn to say it out loud. They could never really leave each other, even if they tried.

So Percy shifts so he can see her face in the pale moonlight, brushes a curl out of her face and says,

“Yeah. It’s us Annabeth. We’re gonna be alright.”

She smiles soft and real because she knows him, so she knows he means it. He’s not sure who reaches out this time, but they're holding hands and staring at the sky in a silence that speaks volumes.

They stay like that until it’s sunrise and they have to sneak into their respective cabins. Looking at stars, fighting sleep, and forgetting about the rest of the world.

______________

(They hold hands all the way back to her cabin.)

(He doesn’t stop smiling the whole way back to his own.)

______________

if your still here hi! thank you for reading. send in prompts from this list, or any sentence starter you want to read. ask box is open for those and if you just wanna say hi :)

[alittlebitmaybe]

comme un écho

AKA whoops i talked to @yoursummerfrost about orpheus and eurydice and then tripped and fell on this very weird ficlet that is only sort of what i meant it to be. uh oh. (title lifted from “it’s never over (oh orpheus)” by arcade fire because i’m incredibly literal sometimes)

warnings: off-screen major character death

*

The mage had told him to perform the ritual in a field of wildflowers.

“Plenty of life,” she said.

Jaskier had asked, “For what?”

“To feed it,” she said, and did not elaborate.

And as he follows her instructions, surrounded by blooming weeds and swaying grasses, he sees that she was right. As the herbs and other unmentionables in the bowl burn, scorching the wooden sides, the green around him darkens to black. He feels the magic tugging at his energy and resists it. The ruin spreads from his epicenter, cursing the very dirt on which he kneels. A slow but inexorable exchange, and Jaskier thinks it fair. Geralt had watered the earth with his blood and now the earth must give back.

“You’re out of your depth, bard,” the mage had said as he turned to leave, her lips pursed. Was she amused or disapproving? Jaskier didn’t care, nor, he suspected, did she. Her pockets were full, and his own empty.

He hefted the lute higher on his back, clutched at the strap across his chest.

“And yet,” he said.

“He will not come easily,” she said.

“He never did,” Jaskier replied.

The flame in the bowl burns out with a flare of noxious smoke that stings Jaskier’s eyes, makes him cough. The world hums. It’s a tune of his own, as of yet unsung, plucked from his consciousness. It reaches out to him and burrows under his skin. Pulling. He follows it.

Between two gnarled, ancient trees, in the arch of their overlapping branches (Which belongs to which? Where does one stop and the other begin? If one was broken, would the other suffer for it?) the air shimmers.

The tune fades and in its place is a whisper saying, Come.

*

The stairs spiral downward for hours, days. Jaskier’s legs do not ache and he does not hunger, but it is ever so quiet. He takes the lute from his back and plays every song he’s ever composed in Geralt’s honor. Maybe Geralt can hear them. Maybe he will know Jaskier is on his way.

“Get ready, Witcher,” Jaskier says to the darkness. “Gather your underworldly things. You won’t be coming back any time soon. I can promise you that.”

And he says, “I’m sorry that you were alone. I’m sorry that I was too late.”

And he says, when the darkness presses upon him, when it seems the stairs will never end, “I don’t know when I began to love you, but it has been long enough that I don’t know how not to.”

And he says, “I’ve done this for you. You deserve to have a better life. You deserve to live.”

And he takes one more step and trips, for there is no stair where he expected there to be one. He taps the toe of his boot against the ground. It’s solid. He lifts his hand in front of his own face and it is invisible. There is no breeze, no sound, no smells, no light. There’s nothing down here.

In the face of such vastness, Jaskier is insignificant. He is nothing. You are nothing. You are less than a flea clinging to the fur of a great beast. You will be mine. You will become a part of me. You will cease. You will be forgotten.

“Hold on now,” Jaskier says, head whipping around. “Who’s there?”

I am everything that has been. I await everything that is. I anticipate what will be. I am.

“You’re Death,” Jaskier realizes, perhaps belatedly.

There is no such thing. I have no name. I have no need of it.

“That’s okay,” Jaskier says. “I don’t give a rat’s arse who or what you are.” His heart thumps arrhythmically, and sweat drips from his brow. He swipes it off on his sleeve. He is far under water. His lungs fill. He ignores it, swallows. Throws back his shoulders. “I’m here for Geralt of Rivia.”

There is no Geralt of Rivia.

“Bullshit.”

You are insolent.

“I’ve been told.”

You will be mine.

“Perhaps.” Jaskier licks his lips, an unbreakable habit. “But I will live on.”

You will not.

He laughs a little, despite himself, a nervous little giggle that he stifles as quickly as he can, clearing his throat. “On the contrary, I am an artist. I shan’t die as long as my art lives. And art does not die.”

Art? Art is not living. I have no use of it.

“Exactly,” he says. “Yes, precisely. It does not live or die. It simply is. Whatever you—whatever you are, being of, ah, all-ness…or what have you—whatever you are, whatever comprises you, you have none of art. You have no music, no stories, none at all. You will always lack it.”

There is a thoughtful pause.

I desire it.

“I can give it to you. Did you hear? I played my whole way down.”

I heard.

“Did you enjoy it? Three words or less.”

It was pleasing.

Jaskier exhales. “That’s actually a decent review, as these things go. I’m glad. I mean, would you like more? I could write you a song. Got a decent hand at improv, me. Won’t take a moment.”

A song. For me?

“Yes,” Jaskier promises, feeling the weight of it as it passes over his tongue, “a song, only for you. I shall never play it again. Well, um, on one condition.”

You want Geralt of Rivia.

“Oh, you were paying attention. Smart one, you are, Your…um, Majesty.”

I can retrieve him. If I am careful. He is me. I am him.

“Truly, I understand. His loss, for me, was…” Jaskier struggles for adequate words. “Irreconcilable. But you will always have the memory of your song to take his place.”

You sang of him.

“I do. Rather habitually. Every day of my life, in fact.”

Hmm.

“You sound like him already. So, whaddaya say?”

Play for me.

*

He plays, and every note that vibrates out from his lute, every note that leaves his mouth disappears from his mind. It is absorbed from him upon conception. He doesn’t know what the last measure was, nor what the next will be. He does not know what key or time signature his song is in, but he knows it’s a song. And that is all he promised.

It ends, and Jaskier does not notice. Possibly his jaw hangs open stupidly for minutes after it is over. He closes it.

“Was, um, was that…”

Yes. I will give you your reward.

“You will?” Jaskier asks, surprised despite himself.

I will release Geralt of Rivia, for you have given me something in return. And I will regain him, as I will gain you. We will meet again, bard.

“I—How do—”

You will walk forward. You will ascend, and he will follow. Until he emerges above, he is still a part of me. You may not look upon him, as you may not look upon me. You must not look back.

“How will I know he is there?”

He will follow.

“How will I know it is him?”

You must have faith.

“How—” Jaskier chokes now, tears welling up. He is glad no one can see. “Will he be—himself?”

Entirely. Once he emerges.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers.

It is time. Walk forward. In three paces, you shall begin to ascend. Be well, bard.

*

Jaskier climbs. The stairs remember his tread, the shape of his feet. It’s easy.

There are footsteps behind him. Are they Geralt’s? Do they match the way he shifts his weight, the deliberate heel-toe steps that Jaskier has been hearing for decades? He’s not sure.

Jaskier is afraid. More afraid than ever before. There could be anything back there. Anything at all. He must not look.

But he is not forbidden to talk.

“Geralt?” he says, tentatively. “Geralt, is that you?”

A grunt. “It’s me, Jaskier.”

And it is, thank the gods, it is. “Sounds like you,” he says, voice carefully measured, lest he sob in relief.

Silence. Four, five more stairs. They will not end. When will they end?

“How’ve you been, Witcher? It’s good to hear you again, my friend.”

“Where are we?”

“Well, who’s to say,” Jaskier says lightly. “Tell me, what do you last remember?”

“Bleeding out in a forest. I couldn’t get up. I waited to die. I…died. I died, didn’t I, Jaskier?”

Jaskier chooses to take that as rhetorical, and does not answer.

“Anything else?”

“Not until now. Is this a dream?”

“To my knowledge, no, Geralt, it is not. I pray that this is not a dream.”

“Then where—?”

Jaskier picks up his foot, sets it down. One stair at a time. There have been hundreds, there will be more. Is that light above? No, a trick of his eyes. He is still blind.

“Not to worry. We’ll soon be outside. It’s a beautiful day, you know. Big blue sky. Everything in bloom. Your favorite time of the year. We’ll have to do some foraging, stock up for potions. I have your things, of course, but I don’t know the shelf life of your concoctions.”

“A quarter year.”

“Ah, might have to make fresh, then.”

But no, it is growing brighter. Jaskier can see the faint silhouettes of his hands, the edges of the stairs to come. If he were to turn back he might be able to see the gleam of Geralt’s eyes, but he mustn’t.

Why mustn’t he? Oh, yes, the warning. He—can’t look back. He must not—

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again. “I’m dead.”

“You are, Geralt, yes, is that what you would like to hear?” Jaskier says, a little hysterically. “But you won’t be for much longer, if we just keep going.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Where? Where?” His pitch climbs with the staircase. Around and around. Dizzying. So many circles. “Above, Geralt. Back home, of course.”

“Why?”

Jaskier has to stop himself from whirling around. “Good gods, you ask me why? I follow you for decades, I immortalize you in song, and the witcher asks me why.” He draws in a great lungful of air, releases it. “I love you, you great idiot. I have loved you.”

The response comes, so softly, a mere rumble, “I know. That’s why I asked.”

The stairs are made of warped stone. He can see that now. They are well worn, dipping in the centers. It can’t be far. “Please, Geralt, we’re almost there.”

“You haven’t answered me. Why you would do this.”

“I was supposed to let you rot, huh? I was meant to live on as if it was fine? As if nothing was missing?”

“Yes,” says Geralt. “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to come back.”

“Of course you did. Of course you do.”

“I don’t,” says Geralt.

Jaskier stops, and behind him the second set of footsteps also halts.

“It was peaceful. It was my time.”

“It wasn’t,” Jaskier whispers. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

There is a touch to the small of his back, a gust of air across the nape of his neck. So familiar. He aches.

“Jaskier.” A strong hand closes around his wrist. He doesn’t look down at it, not even a glance. “The world doesn’t need me anymore.”

“What about the monsters? The wars?”

“There is Yennefer, and Ciri, and Eskel and the rest. There will always be someone.”

With dread creeping through his limbs, Jaskier says, “You’re telling me you don’t want to come back. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

He can almost hear the creaking of the intertwined, ancient trees above. It is just a few more steps.

“You can’t tell me that, not when I—”

Arms come around him, and he shuts his eyes. “Jaskier, I would rather have done what I have done and no more, than continue on and overstay my welcome. I would rather have my peace.”

“What if I need you?” Jaskier breathes.

“I am with you.”

“You weren’t.”

Geralt’s hand comes to rest over his heart. It is not cold nor hot through Jaskier’s doublet. It simply isn’t much of anything at all. There, but insubstantial. It trails its way up his jaw, traces over his bottom lip. “You forget,” Geralt says, “that I am in your words. That I will live on. Isn’t that what you said? Art does not die.”

“You heard.”

“I must have.”

“That’s not fair.” Jaskier sniffles, knowing full well he sounds like a child. “I came all this way. I have always followed you. What am I supposed to do now?”

“Whatever you wish.”

“I will sing of you until I can’t any longer, to anyone who will listen, and to many who will not.”

A smile, pressed to his ear. “I can think of no better way to be loved.”

Something nags at Jaskier, and he can’t say what. He is surrounded by a body he knows as well as his own, yet it’s not right. Why?

The body releases him. It says, “Look at me, Jaskier. That’s all you have to do.”

“You’re not Geralt, are you,” he says with trepidation, eyes still squeezed tight. “Are you? Don’t lie.”

“Jaskier.”

He breathes in. Opens his eyes. Grips the lute strap in both hands. Turns.

Silvered hair, sad golden eyes, a sharp nose, wispy around the edges.

“Geralt,” he whispers, reaching out even as the form dissipates. Called back to the bottom of the stairwell.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” it says, and then it is gone.

[waitimcomingtoo]

Wait For Me

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: you tell Cap the story of all the times you and Peter waited for each other. Takes place during Engame

Listen to Wait For Me from Hadestown for the inspiration behind this story

Masterlist

6 years ago

“Whats the B for?” You asked as you traced your fingers over the shiny brass clasp of Peters suitcase. It was your first time hearing of his superhero abilities, and he had pulled out his suit to confirm his identity. You had always known there was something special about Peter, something that set him apart. Him being a superhero came as no surprise to you, so you were more distracted by the monogrammed suitcase where he kept his suit.

“Benjamin. Like my uncle.” He said as he watched your face for any signs of judgement. There was the slightest whisper of a smile on your lips as you rubbed your thumb over the engraving.

“I remember him.” You nodded and looked up at Peter, squinting your eyes to get a good look at him. “Benjamin. I like that for you. It’s fitting.”

“Is it? I always thought Benjamin was an old mans name.” He laughed shyly as he scratched behind his ear.

“No. It’s cute.” You told him and he flushed. “You look like a Peter Benjamin, you know? Some people just look like their names.”

Peters mouth opened and shut a few times and he tried to think of a response. He wasn’t used to talking to you everyday, much less used to how pretty you’d gotten. 10 years apart and suddenly you were hanging out in his bedroom everyday, catching up on the part a of each other’s lives that you had missed. Your delicate features, now more defined with age but still soft, made it hard for Peter to think around you. He thought he’d never see you again after you left but here you were, folded up in his bed and running you fingers over the material of his Spiderman suit.

“I’d say the same for you, but you never told me your middle name.” He said finally, thinking back in his memory for any indication of what it was. “It begins with an E right?”

You smiled softly at him, appreciating his keen memory.

“Eurydice.” You told him and he tilted his head.

“What?” He asked, not realizing that was the name.

“It’s Eurydice.” You repeated. “It’s from greek mythology. It was my mother’s favorite story growing up.”

“What’s the story?” Peter set the suitcase on the ground and scored closer to you to give you his full attention.

“You really wanna know?” You tested him, still able to tell when he was lying.

“With all my heart.” He said as he crossed his heart with his fingers. You rolled your eyes at him, not having seen that movement since you were litter.

“Okay. There are a few different versions, but this one is my favorite.” You began. “A long time ago, there was a poor woman called Eurydice and she was married to a musician named Orpheus. Eurydice knew they were gonna starve if they didn’t make some money and buy food, but all Orpheus wanted to do was make music. She ended up selling her soul to Hades-“

“Wait, you were named after a devil worshipper?” Peter cut you off with a laugh.

“No.” You shoved him playfully. “Hades is the god of the Underworld. He’s not the devil.“

“Okay. Go on.” He urged you, leaning his chin on his hands, unintentionally squishing his cheeks.

“So Eurydice sells her soul and gets sent to the Underworld. When Orpheus finds out, he goes on this long, dangerous journey to the Underworld to find her. He gets there and plays his music for Hades, the song he’s been working on instead of getting food. Hades was so moved by his music that made a deal with him: if he can walk out of the Underworld with Eurydice following behind him, they can both go free.” You went on, smiling at Peters squished face.

“Sounds easy enough.” He shrugged.

“It wasn’t.” You held up a finger. “There was a catch. Orpheus was never allowed to look back and make sure Eurydice was still behind him. He just had to trust that she was. He wasn’t allowed to look at her until they were both out.”

“So what happened?” Peter leaned forward, eager to hear the rest.

“They walk the long, scary way back to earth, guided only by a lantern. Orpheus goes the whole way and never looks at her. But right as he’s about to make it out-“ ,You paused for effect and Peter whined in anticipation, “-he caves. He looks at her and she’s sent straight back.”

“He couldn’t do it? He couldn’t take that last step?” Peter exclaimed, frustrated with the ending.

“He couldn’t wait to see his wife.” You sided with Orpheus to defend him.

“But he was so close!” Peter whined, getting worked up over a fictional story.

“I know. That’s what makes the story as beautifully tragic as it is.” You told him.

“Orpheus was an idiot. You’re lucky she named you after Eurydice instead.” Peter grumbled and you laughed easily.

“He wasn’t an idiot. He could see the world for how it could be, in spite of the way that is was. He just couldn’t wait to see his wife.” You said softly, still taking Orpheus’s defense.

“I bet I could do it. I could’ve gotten us both out.” Peter said definitively after a beat of silence.

“Oh, yeah? You think you could be patient and trust your girl?” You challenged him.

“If I truly loved her, yes. I’d wait forever if I had too.” Peter said confidently. “Wouldn’t you?”

You thought about it for a moment, not blind to the irony of his question. You looked Peter deep in his warm brown eyes, the eyes of your best friend since you were little, and nodded.

“Yeah. I think I would.” You said softly.

1 month ago

“What about you? You haven’t move on?” A member of Cap’s support group sounded from beside you, tearing you away from the memory. You blinked as you came back to reality and saw the faces of the rest of the members looking at you expectantly, including Cap.

“Sorry?” You asked, not having heard the question when you were lost in your daydream.

“You mentioned in the first meeting that you lost your boyfriend in the Blip.” The member, a man who lost his wife and daughter, repeated. “Have you moved on from him yet?”

“No.” You said, sitting up and fixing your shirt. “No, I haven’t.”

“Why is that after five years of him being gone? You’re the only one in the group who hasn’t moved on.” He asked. He wasn’t being reproachful, just curious. You and Cap were the leaders of the group and watched each week as the members slowly got their lives back to normal after losing their significant other in the Blip. It hadn’t even occurred to you that you were the only one who hadn’t moved on.

“Because I’ve already met the love of my life.” You said confidently. “I know it’s been 5 years. But I have already met the man I’m supposed to be with. Now I just have to wait for him to come come. He waited for me, and now I’m waiting for him.”

“He might not come for a long time, if he ever does.” A woman in the group spoke up. She wasn’t trying to be harsh, just realistic. You gave her a tight smile and nodded.

“I know.” You said. “But that doesn’t matter to me. I’ll wait forever if I have too.”

The meeting ended shortly after a few more members told their stories. It was nearing the anniversary of the Blip, and everyone was on edge. You were quiet as you and Cap stacked the chairs up, obviously to his stare.

“What did you mean back there when you said he waited for you?” Steve asked gently as he pushed a row of chairs against the wall. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of how long it had gotten, and leaned against the row.

“It’s kinda a long story.” You told him. He took two chairs off the stack and set them down, gesturing for you to take a seat.

“I have time.” He remarked as he took a seat. You laughed lightly as his action and sat down, picking nervously at your nail polish.

“I met Peter when we were 3, and we were best friends almost instantly.” You began. “We learned how to ride bikes together, started school together, basically made all our foundational memories together.”

“Okay.” Steve nodded, urging you to go on.

“My dad did a lot of business in California when I was little and when he got promoted, he decided to move there. My parents didn’t tell me about the move until the day we were leaving. I was crying my eyes out in the taxi when we passed Peter’s apartment building.” You said, looking up at Steve to see his reaction. He was looking at you intently, having never heard you tell the story before. “I pressed my hands against the window of the taxi and stared at his building, totally heartbroken, until an idea came to me. Mind you, I was 7 at the time and had a love of action movies.”

“You didn’t.” He smiled coyly, knowing what was coming.

“I did.” You chuckled. “I jumped out of the moving car and just booked it. I didn’t stop running until I got to his door.”

15 years ago

“Y/n? What are you doing here?” Peter asked as he opened his door to you. You had done your secret knock so he knew it was you.

“I have to go, Peter. I’m moving. My daddy got a new job.” You panted, out of breath from running. Peters eyes widened, hearing the world possible news of his short life.

“Moving? Where?” He asked, suddenly aware of your red eyes and running nose, all signs that you had been crying.

“California.” You told him.

“Like with the movie stars?” He asked, childlike excitement replacing the pain.

“Yeah. That’s what my daddy said.” You nodded, remembering what your dad had told you to keep you from crying. You had to leave your best friend, but you’d be with the movie stars.

“When are you leaving?” Peter asked, picking at the paint on his door.

“Today.” You finally caught your breath. “We’re going to the airport right now.”

“But…but I won’t get to see you if you’re in California.” Peter mumbled, starting to get emotional.

“I know. I don’t want to go, Peter.” You shook your head, beginning to cry again.

“Then don’t go.” Peter protested. “You can stay here with me. Aunt May and Uncle Ben won’t mind.“

“Okay. Okay, and then we can stay together.” You agreed, liking his plan.

“Y/n?” Are you up here?” You suddenly heard your mothers voice and your eyes widened, as well as Peters.

“Get inside.” Peter pulled you in his apartment and slammed the door behind you, reaching up on his tippy toes to lock the door. You both panted from the quick move, the sound of the phone ringing get drowned out by your heavy breathing.

“I don’t want to leave you, Peter. You’re my best friend.” You cried, bunching the end of your dress in your fists.

“You’re my best friend too.” Peter hiccuped as he cried. You wiped your cheek on the back of your hand and used the bottom of your dress to wipe his face too. He smiled at you, giving you that warm feeling he always did.

“Please don’t fall in love with anybody else.” You blurted. “Wait for me to come back.”

“What?” Peter hiccuped again.

“I’m gonna grow up and I’m gonna make my own money and I’m gonna find my way back to you. Or, or I’ll run away and get on an airplane.” You plotted as Peter nodded along. “I’m gonna come back for you, Peter. I will, I promise I will. You just need to wait until I get back so we can get married.”

“Peter? Is Y/n here?” Mays voice called from the kitchen, making you both jump. You hugged each other and backed away as May came into the room.

“Go away!” Peter screamed, fully in hysterics now.

“Y/n, sweetie, your mom is on the phone. She said you ran away from the taxi.” May said gently as she bent down to talk to you. She noticed your scrapped knee, bleeding now, but you didn’t even seem to notice.

“I’m not going. I’m not leaving Peter.” You stated, clinging to him tighter.

“What’s going on here?” Ben asked when he heard the noise. He saw his recently orphaned nephew clutching his best friend and immediately understood.

“I can’t go to California. I won’t! I won’t leave Peter.” You cried, gripping the back of Peters overalls for supports.

“Aw, honey.” May sighed in sympathy as she out a hand over her heart at the sight of the terrified children. “It’s okay. You and Peter can write each other letters and video chat. You’ll still be able to see each other.”

“No! She has to move in with us.” Peter shot down Mays idea. Her heart broke for her nephew, already having witnessed him lose so much. The flowers from his parents were still on the table. She couldn’t bear to see him lose his best friend too.

“She can’t Peter. She has to be with her own mommy and daddy.” May tried to reason with him.

“Why? I’m not with mine.” Peter protested, making May tear up. Before she could respond, your mother knocked on the door.

“May? Ben? Is Y/n with you?” Your mother asked through the door. You and Peter began to tremble as you clung to each other.

“No!” You screamed, cowering into the crook of Peters neck.

“Ben, can you settle them down?” May asked as she went to open the door. You and Peter tried to run but Ben caught you.

“Now listen you two, if you really love each other and I know you do, you’ll find your way back.” Ben said prophetically, making you and Peter release your grip a little. “I met your Aunt May once when I was 7, and again when I was 17. I believe in you two. I believe you’ll be reunited one day. But for right now, Y/n has to say goodbye.”

You slowly let go of Peter and turned to face him, tears streaming down your young face.

“Goodbye, Peter.” You mumbled, dry heaving from how upset you were. Your mother and May exchanged glances, not being able to watch their children say goodbye.

“Goodbye, Y/n.” Peter whimpered, wrapping his arms around you and giving you the tightest hug he could.

“Wait for me?” You whispered in his ear.

“I will.” He whispered back.

“Promise?” You asked as you pulled away.

“Promise.” Peter said as he crossed his heart. You did the same before your mother took your hand. You cried as she dragged you out of the apartment, looking back and reaching for Peter the entire way. You broke free from her for a moment and ran to Peter, kissing him on the lips like you’d seen the movies stars do. His eyes were wide open the entire time, but he liked it. Your mother scooped you up, said goodbye to May and Ben, and left the apartment. May and Ben stared at Peter as he touched his lips, still feeling your kiss. He sniffled, trying not to cry again as he watched his best friend leave him for the next ten years.

1 month ago.

“So, yeah. That was the first time he and I were separated. I don’t know which time was worse. They both killed me, just with different weapons. At least when we were 7, I was able to say goodbye.” You shrugged it off as you finished telling Steve your story. He stared at you in awe as you kept your composure. He had listened to a hundred songs stories about losing a loved one, but none of them had moved him like that did.

“How did you guys reconnect? Did you actually run away?” Steve asked, fully invested in the story now. You chuckled softly as his keen memory.

“No. I tried to but I never got very far.” You told him. “I ended up moving back to New York for college. My friend and I rented an apartment instead of living on campus.”

6 years ago.

“Shoot. I’ll meet you up there. I forgot a bag in the lobby.” Your roommate sighed when she realized she was missing her carry on.

“Okay. Text me when you get it.” You told her. Instead of getting on the elevator, you decided to stretch your legs and take the stairs. You had lugged your suitcase up a long flight and were about to round the corner when you smacked into someone. You almost went flying down the stairs, but something grabbed your shirt, something you’d later find out was a web, and sent you in the other direction. You collided with the stranger, feeling their firm grasp around your waist to keep you from falling back. You both panted as you caught your breath, feeling the strangers breath fam your face.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking and-Y/n?” The man asked. You blinked a few times as you stared at his face until you realized you knew those brown eyes.

“Oh my God, Peter?” You whispered as your eyes scanned his face, memorizing every new line and crease. His eyes were just as wide as yours, studying your features right back. An unfamiliar feeling filled your tummy as you stared at your childhood best friend, now fully grown. You couldn’t find the words to express how you were feeling, so you let go of your suitcase and wrapped your arms around his neck. Peter hugged you back immediately, taking in your scent. You were wearing perfume, something you hadn’t done when you were seven, but his super scent allowed him to smell your usual smell underneath it. Hugging you now felt different than it had when you were younger. His arms were wrapped around your hips, something you definitely didn’t have before. Your forever messy hair was longer and neat for once, as he was always used to seeing it in two braids. He could’ve cried holding you, but he didn’t want to scare you off. You pulled away and cupped his cheeks, smiling at what you saw.

“You look exactly the same.” You let out a breathy laugh. He did. He still had the boyish features you loved. The only difference now was he was taller and incredibly fit.

“Is that a good thing?” He chuckled, pleased to see your smile was just as he remembered.

“It’s the best thing.” You nodded, looking him up and down. “I can’t believe you never grew into your ears.”

“And you! You finally learned to brush your hair.” He dished it right back and you realized how much you missed his sense of humor, even better now with age.

“Shut up.” You scrunched your nose and smoothed your hand down with your hair. “What are you doing here? Did you move?”

“You remember my old place?” He raised his eyebrows, suddenly aware that his was still holding on to you. It didn’t seem to bother you, so he didn’t move.

“Uhh, Lee Towers apartment building, room 4D with the little flower sign under the peephole.” You recited, the view of his apartment door forever engraved in your no memory. The door always looked so big when you went from your height. “How could I forget? I practically lived there.”

“I know you did.” Peter smiled brightly at the memory of all your days spent in his apartment, the apartment he said goodbye too once Ben died. “May and I moved here a few months after high school started for a fresh start.”

“And I just moved here for college.” You said, mostly to yourself as the wheels in your Brian turned. You looked at Peter fondly and a smile tugged at your lips. “Your Uncle was right.”

“What do you mean?” He furrowed his eyebrows as you his face flushed from your close proximity.

“We found our way back to each other.” You said softly, your breath ticking his face.

“Yeah. I guess we did.” He bit back a smile, still reeling that he had you back in his arms after 10 years.

“Come on. You can tell me everything that’s happened for the past ten years while you help me unpack.” You grabbed his suitcase with one hand and his arm with the other. “But first, I gotta see May.”

1 month ago

“We talked the entire day. The sun started coming up and I was still telling him stories.” You smiled to yourself as you remembered the reunion. “We bounced back so easily, I felt like I had never left.”

“When two people are that right for each other, time has no effect. I speak from experience.” Steve smirked, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

“I know you do, lover boy.” You teased him. “I’ve seen your lady. She’s absolutely gorgeous.” You commented, having seen the photo of Peggy he kept on him more than a few times.

“She was.” He agreed. “And I found her just as pretty as an old broad as I did when we first met. Time meant nothing to me.”

“See? Sometimes, moving on is the wrong way to go. Some people are worth waiting for.” You decided, happy to have someone who agreed with you.

“So what happened next? Did you guys fall in love right away?” Steve asked, curious in the ending.

“No. It took about 3 months for us to finally bring up that conversation from before I left. We focused on rebuilding our friendship first.” You explained.

“I tell ya, I haven’t been this invested in a story since my presumedly dead best friend from the war showed up with a metal arm and a bloodlust.” Steve chuckled. “Keep going. How did you get together?”

“Relax. I’ll tell you.” You chuckled easily. “He and I had just got home from a college party. There was drinking, but Peter and I stayed away from that. A boy in our biology class, however, did not. He was flirting with me a little too much for Peters liking. I didn’t flirt back, but that didn’t matter to Peter. Another boy was after me and he got upset.”

5 years ago

“Whew. I don’t know about you, but think I’ve hit my party limit for the next month.” You blew out a breath as you kicked your heels off into the corner of Peters rooms

“No, me too.” Peter agreed, admiring the way you looked in your party dress one last time before you changed out of it. You shut the door to his bathroom but left it slightly ajar as you changed behind it. Peter made sure not to look, happy that you couldn’t see the flush on his face. You emerged from the bathroom in a hoodie and sleep shorts, taking a seat on Peters bed.

“You’re quiet.” You poked him, tilted your head to meet his eyes. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head and took your feet into his lap to rub them, knowing they were aching from your high heels. “Did you uh, get Brads number?”

“He told me his number but there were letters and some movie titles in it, so I’d say no.” You laughed, wincing a little when he touched a sore spot.

“He was all over you.” Peter grumbled, moving your feet next to his lap so he could trace small patterns on your leg.

“He was also drunk on 5 Black Cherry White Claws and wearing his belt on his head.” You reminded him in an attempt to cheer him up. He was clearly upset over something, you could tell by the way he wouldn’t look at you.

“He’s on the soccer team.” Peter brought up and you looked at him strangely. “I heard he gets good grade too.”

“Are you trying to set us up or something?” You laughed him off as you pulled your knees up to your chest to lean your chin on them.

“No. No, I just…” ,he sighed, “do you like him? In that way, I mean?”

“Peter, I don’t even know him.” You dismissed the idea. “Plus, he made a total fool of himself tonight. He threw any chance he had with me away the second he opened his mouth to show me his Viking impression.”

“Do you like anyone else, then?” He asked with a shrug, slowly looking up at you.

“Why are you asking me this?” You asked him curiously. You never talked about things like this together, lest it lead to a conversation neither of you were ready for.

“I’ve just been thinking a lot lately.” Peter admitted, looking down at his hands nervously. “Do…do you remember the last thing we talked about? Before you left, I mean.”

“When I asked you to wait for me?” You laughed softly, noticing the tips of his ears turning pink.

“Yeah, that.” He gulped.

“Of course I do.” You shrugged like to were not big deal, even though it was the biggest deal to Peter. “To this day, that’s the boldest thing I’ve ever done. Kissing you and then running away? I pulled a real Cinderella on you that night.”

“I thought it was sweet.” Peter defended, slightly offended that you were taking the situation as lightly as you were.

“It was stupid. We were kids and we had no idea when we were gonna see each other again. At the time, I had no idea how unrealistic I was being, or how much I was asking of you. Didn’t I propose to you or something?” You cringed at the memory. Peter stared at you in shock, angry that you were making fun of one of the most momentous moments of his childhood.

“I didn’t think you were asking for that much.” He said assertively. “Nothing I wasn’t planning on doing anyway.”

“What were you planning on doing?” You asked, finally noticing how upset he was.

“Waiting for my best friend to come back so I could be with her.” Peter said, tears stinging his eyes as he tried to compose himself. “Marry her, even.”

“Shut up.” You shoved him playfully, but he didn’t let up. Your smile faded when you realized he was serious.

“Why are you making this a joke?” Peter asked bitterly. “Do you know how hard that day was for me?”

“Do I know how hard it was?” You repeated in shock. “Peter, I had to leave my home and get on a plane to live in an entirely new state that I had never been to before, all with no warning. My mother had to rip me out of your grasp while I kicked and screamed. I know exactly how hard that day was.”

You turned away from Peter and folded your arms, glaring at his wall while hot tears streamed down your face. You had been trying to avoid this conversation in fear of how it would go. Fear he didn’t wait after all when you had turned down every boy who approached you in the past ten years because they didn’t amount to Peter. The fears were feeling very real in the moment and it overwhelmed you.

“Why did you kiss me?” He asked quietly. You looked at him over your shoulder and saw that he was crying too.

“Something inside me just told me I had to.” You shrugged slightly. “I had to give you something to make sure you wouldn’t forget me.”

“I could never forget you.” Peter said assuredly. “You don’t forget your first love.”

“I guess you don’t, do you?” You smiled softly and wiped your tears on your hoodie sleeve. “I loved you before I knew the meaning of the word. But I didn’t really need the meaning, looking back. The feeling was enough. Feelings for you.” You looked at him shyly. “Feelings that told me I needed to kiss you before I lost the chance. I guess that’s what happens when you’re 7 and in love with your best friend.”

“Well, I’m 18 and in love with my best friend. What happens then?” Peter declared, tired of beating around the bush. You turned to him and tugged your sleeves over your hands.

“Peter, what?” You whispered.

“That kiss you gave me was my first kiss.” He admitted.

“Mine too.” You said simply.

“It was also my last kiss.” He continued. You opened your mouth and shut it, taking on the weight of what he was saying.

“Mine too.” You breathed. You and Peter stared at each other, looking at the face of the best friend you’d fallen in love with, the one you’d always been in love with. You swallowed as you prepared to ask Peter the answer to a question you asked him when you were 7. “Did you-“

Peter cut you off by pressing his lips to yours, holding your face in place with his hands. You put your hand on the back of his neck and kissed him back, feeling a tear fall down your cheek as all your fears dissipated. Peter pulled away and rested his forehead against yours.

“Yes.” He mumbled against your lips. “I waited.”

1 month ago

“That’s how it started. We were only together about 9 months before he disappeared.” You told Steve. “You know, I still go home every night and hope he knocks on my door. I always expect him to burst through the door, his flannel flowing behind him like a cape and just pick me up and kiss me. He’d thank me for waiting and I’d tell him it was nothing, that I was happy to do it, because he was worth it.”

“You know, I used to think you were stubborn. But I get it now.” Steve looked at you fondly. “That’s a love worth waiting your entire life for. What I don’t understand is how you sat in that chair for 5 years and never told us that story. Why wouldn’t you say something?”

“Because it’s ours, and it’s all I have left of him.” You smiled sadly. “I don’t want to share it and make people sad, because it’s not a sad story. To me, it’s the greatest love story of all time.”

“We’re gonna get them back. One way or another, we’re gonna fix this. I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to reunite you guys.” Steve said definitively.

“Why?” You asked him.

“Because I don’t want your story to end like that. You’re 23. I can’t sit back and watch you sit on the bench for the rest of your life, waiting for somebody to come home. I’m gonna bring him home. All of them.” Steve declared.

“How?” You asked. It had been 5 years already and no progress was made to get them back.

“I have a friend I need to talk to. You’re coming with me. Come on.” He stood up and held his hand out. You looked him up and down before smirking and taking his hand.

Present Day

Since you helped bring the Avengers together to set the Time Heist in motion, Tony decided it was only fair to let you help out in the final battle with Thanos. He leant you an Iron suit that you were currently using against a slew of space dogs. The more you fought off, the more came to attack you. It didn’t help that your heart was beating out of your chest knowing that Peter was somewhere on the battle field. You didn’t know how long you had been fighting, but your arms ached with every movement. You sucked in a sharp breath as a space dog lunged at your uncovered face.

You were about to cover your face when you felt something attach to your suit from the back. Before you could react, you felt a tug and flew through the air. You landed in somebody’s arms and saw the battlefield upside down as they dipped you, just like in the movies. They brought you back up and you were suddenly face to face with Peter Parker.

“Is my damsel in distress?” His Queens accent filled your ears as your eyes fell on his smirk.

“Peter?” You said breathlessly, eyes filling with tears at the sight of your boyfriend who you hadn’t seen in 5 years.

“I think so, unless my dust particles reconfigured into Zooey Dechannel.” Peter said sarcastically, making you erupt in laughter as the tears fell down your face.

“Peter!” You squealed, throwing your arms around him and hugging him as tight as you could. His new metal suit made it different, so you restarted to running your hands through his hair, trying to touch any part of his skin that you could reach. In the distance, Steve saw the two of you embracing and smiled to himself.

“Hi.” He laughed in your ear, appreciating all the affection. In his mind, he had seen you just a few hours ago. He didn’t register how much this meant to you. You buried your face in his neck and took in his scent.

“You smell like a new car.” You laughed in happy surprise, looking him up and down to take in his appearance. He looked exactly as you remembered, every freckle and hair in the same place.

“It’s the suit. Mr. Stark made it for me.” Peter said excitedly.

“Its beautiful.” You breathed, not taking your eyes off his face.

“Thank you! I haven’t actually seen it yet but it feels really cool.” Peter said as he looked at his hands. He was obviously to the moonstruck look you were giving him, just happy to be near him. “Mr. Stark got really mad at me because I snuck on the spaceship after he specifically told me not to sneak on the spaceship but it was a good thing because I helped get rid of the bad guys using the technique we saw in Alien.”

“Wow.” You nodded, just happy to be hearing his voice again.

“And the bad guy was like this half squid, half person who spoke with a British accent even though he’s from space.” Peter went on, childlike excitement filling in the brown eyes you’d been missing for the past 5 years. “Y/n, I don’t mean to overwhelm you, but I’m pretty sure there’s a second Britain in space that we don’t know about.”

“Really?” You humored him, tears of happiness still rolling down your face.

“It was so cool, Y/n. Until I died, anyway.” He laughed. “I wish you could’ve been there.”

“I wish that too.” You cried. “I’ve really missed you, Peter.”

“I’ve missed you too.” He smiled brightly. Your lip began to tremble at how I overwhelmed you were and Peters protective boyfriend instincts took over.

“Hey.” He took your chin between his fingers and tilted your face up. “Listen, I know it’s been five years for you and I’m a fool to even ask. But, by any chance, did you-“

You put your hand on the back of his head and pulled him into a kiss. The feeling of his lips on yours after all those years triggered a waterfall of tears to flow. You wrapped both arms around his neck as he held your waist firmly against his, kissing you as hard as he could. You sobbed into the kiss before pulling away, peppering kisses all around his mouth and jaw.

“Yes.” You smiled as he wiped away your tears. “I waited.”

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[thatisaname]

You know those annoying 'actually everything is connected' theories ? Well, I've got one about The Mechanisms' albums

(Please hear me out I swear it's good)

The Bifrost Incident ends with a world-ending catastrophe. The Gods arrive into the world, dragged in by Odin's train, and they destroy it.

What's the first sign of their arrival ? Communications breaking down.

Civilization-ending catastrophes and communications mysteriously breaking down... Doesn't that remind you of something ?

Yep, that's it: the catastrophe mentioned in Holder of the Grail.

This unknown catastrophe that cuts Fort Galfridian from the rest of the world and destroys an entire civilization could very well be the one that starts in Terminus.

Meaning that the events in High Noon over Camelot could be the direct consequences of the events of The Bifrost Incident.

But it doesn't stop there.

Arthur survives. He is, as Mordred puts it, "the once and future king". To our knowledge, he was never officially called King of Camelot but sure enough, he kind of was the King of this place. But... what about after ? If we see Arthur again in the Mechs' canon, it means there's a strong chance he will wear the title of King.

And who is the only character in the Mechs' canon who ever wore the title of King ?

Now hear me out.

After the events of Ulysses dies at dawn, all hope seems to be gone. Ulysses dies in peace, but all hopes of revolution seem to have faded away. The Olympians' grasp on the City seems impossible to challenge in the slightest. But one day, a strange ship crashes in the middle of the darkest street of the City.

Out of the wreckage climbs a man, with a half-empty pistol. He takes a look at the strange new world around him, and nods gravely. He has a destiny to fulfill.

Arthur will be King. That's the lasts thing Mordred told him, and he won't let this last thread to his past disappear. So, he gets to work. In one month, the whole city has heard of him. In one year, even the Olympians fear him.

When people ask him if he's really going to fight the Olympians, the man who calls himself Cole laughs, and answers calmly that it's not the first time he takes over a planet.

The City learns to fear his name and his gun. To many, he's just another crime boss. Some rumors start to spread, saying that he is an Olympian, just like the others. And this gives Arthur an idea.

Arthur starts to take a stance against immortality and the Acheron. He uses his men to spread anti-Acheron propaganda, calls out the Olympians' corruption and even manages to expose the Sphinx scandale using Oedipus' old research. The oppressed people of the City follow him and many of the Olympians' men turn against their old masters. A year later, he launches the first world-wide rebellion the City has ever known.

General Cole utterly beats the Olympians, and executes them all - which takes a little longer than expected, but still, finally works. He seizes all of their research and locks them away. He is elected King of the city, now renamed New Constantinople.

(PS: Hades doesn't stop the rebellion and just escapes. Mainly because they've run the Acheron for so long they got a bit bored of it. Also, because Brian seems to really like Cole for whatever reason.)

At first Arthur's reign is calm and prosperous. King Cole grows old and stays merry. But eventually people start realizing that Cole's longevity might not be natural. His subjects, especially the older warriors who fought at his side during the Revolution, start to get a bit suspicious: what if Cole had used the Olympians' technology to extend his own life ? What if he had become an Olympian in the end ?

Arthur didn't become immortal, but he did use the Olympians' research to extend his life far beyond his normal lifespan. Now that he is King, he refuses to let death get in the way of his destiny.

You know the rest: King Cole turns into a bloodthirsty monster, and finally, General White's rebellion puts an end to his reign and his life.

Now you're going to say: "But Arthur and Cole are so different. How could Arthur become Cole ?"

So first of, Arthur turned evil only after almost a millenia of technology-expanded life which definitely caused damage to his mind. As Jonny says in Once: "the technology that had extended his life throughout the millennia had warped his mind as it had withered his body".

(Which, by the way, is also what seemed to happen to those who were "brought back" from the Acheron in Ulysses, cf Orpheus' backstory)

But Cole isn't that different from Arthur:

- Cole and Arthur both fight with a gun, and both seem very skilled at it.

- Cole is paranoid. Which would make a lot considering Arthur's backstory: just when he was about to save his world, Arthur saw his two lovers being shot in the back by his own son, who then proceeded to completely destroy the world, sparing no one but him. Nobody in the universe would be more afraid of betrayal than Arthur.

- Cole is driven by a thirst for conquest. Arthur was too: in the very beginning of HNOC, he takes over Camelot and establishes a personal rule on the city. With good intentions, sure, but still.

- They have the same outlook on fear.

Remember when Arthur said that ?

Well...

Yeah...

(Also the three little pigs could act as a sort of dark reflection of what Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot once were: three unbeatable warriors, matched by no one... except this time they're not united by love for the other two, but by fanatical devotion to a leader)

So, in this theory, the "ending" of the Mechs' universe would be pretty optimistic. No matter what insane authoritarian rulers will try to do to stay in power, justice, truth and love will win in the end - even if it requires a lot of suffering and death to get there. Or, as Arthur said:

[joyfulsongbird]

Bruises And All- Chapter 8

I've moved a couple things around so that I don't have to commit to decisions in the story I'm anxious about quite yet. enjoy this chapter!! after months of silence!!

here's a link to chapter 7!

ao3 link to chapter 8!

***

ORPHEUS knows he’s naive.

Knows he doesn’t have a perfect understanding of what the world is really like. He’s been told enough times. Mister Hermes says he’s different, says he’s special. That doesn’t feel right. He’s not any more special than anybody else, than Persephone, or Hermes himself, even Hades. He’s just a boy. Not much else matters, as long as they’re good. Good people aren’t special, they’re just people. They look like anybody else.

“Eurydice?” he catches her hand when she’s passing by the bar after lunch, she’d disappeared for awhile, he doesn’t know where to. But he doesn’t stop her because of that, he stops her because she looks upset. Her eyes are ringed with pink, like she’s been crying recently. He doesn’t like that, he doesn’t want her to cry. He just wants her to be happy, to stay.

“Are you okay?”

She slips her hand out of his, smiling softly. “Perfectly fine. Thank you.”

In the moment between her saying that and her stepping to leave, he follows her eye line, confused at minuscule pause. And even more confused to find that she, though very briefly, catches Hades’ eye. He’s frowning, deeper than usual, and dipping a mug of what looks like black coffee.

She’s turning to go before he says her name again. “Eurydice.”

Her eyelashes are so long. And they’re wet.

“Did- did Hades say something to you?”

She’s quick to reply, quirking her lips into a smile. “No. No, he didn’t. Don’t worry.”

“But he-”

“Nothing happened. Okay?” her expression turns stern, as do her words.

“Um- okay.” he starts to turn away first this time, hurt bubbling in his chest that he doesn’t want to show on his face.

“Hey. Hey, Orpheus.” she reaches for his hand first this time, taking it in both of hers. “I’m sorry. I’m just- I’m tired. I’m stressed and tired. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

“Why are you so stressed?” he asks, still relishing in the way she hasn’t let go of his hand yet, and doesn’t seem to want to.

“No specific reason, really.” even he can tell she’s lying. “Just about the future.”

“The future?”

“Like I said, nothing specific. Just… a lot of thoughts.”

“Well that’s gotta be tough.” he aims for lightness but it falls flat, she just smiles weakly at him, dropping his hands and walking towards the bookshelf against the wall. When the bar is open, they always pride themselves on having other things for people to occupy themselves with besides getting drunk. Books on history fill the walls, some fiction mixed in, but mostly old school books Orpheus read after he’d dropped out of school and the occasional folk story Mister Hermes had collected over the years. He liked to do that, to listen to people’s stories and write them down. Keep them as reminders of the past. He claimed he didn’t really read them after he’d first written them down but sometimes, Orpheus saw him leaned up against the wall, holding a book in his hands and his eyes skimming down each page hungrily. He loved those stories, though he didn’t want to admit it.

She picks out a thick book from the wall, holding it gingerly. Orpheus tries not to look like he’s staring at her, he’s really trying not to, but the way she moves just constantly draws his eye. Gracefully, she floats about, but with a heavy air to her. Like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders but she has learnt to bear it so skillfully. So beautifully.

“When do you think the storm will let up, Hermes?” Persephone calls from her table where she sits, playing solitaire by herself.

“Shouldn’t be more than a day, by now. Hurricanes like these leave a lot of damage but never last too long.” he says, as he dusts off a couple glasses. Orpheus isn’t watching Hermes or even Persephone, his had been on Eurydice even before Persephone had started speaking but her reaction to Hermes’ answer makes him frown. She briefly clenches her fist over the sides of the book and glances up, eyes scanning across the bar, stopping once more on… Hades.

Orpheus may be a little naive, sure, but he can figure out when something strange is going on.

He can’t bring it up though, until almost that night, when he finally gets a moment alone with Eurydice. When they’re cleaning up after dinner, put in charge of washing and putting away the dishes. The three others are scattered upstairs and downstairs, Hades and Persephone turning in for the night upstairs in bed. And Hermes is downstairs tending to the furnace.

As she cranes her neck over the sink, reaching for the sponge that she had dropped, she pauses.

“What is it, Orpheus?”

“W-what?”

“You’ve been acting weird all afternoon, what is it?” she straightens up, her jaw set tightly, her arms up to the elbows are covered in suds and soap and it only looks a little ridiculous to see her stony expression and then take in the rest of her.

“You keep- every time anyone seems to say something about the storm ending or anything like that, you look at Hades. Why?”

She freezes, everything in her body turning taut for only a moment before it all releases but for a moment, there was genuine panic in her eyes. Fear like he hadn’t seen before. Like an animal looking for an escape route, a fear he can barely even comprehend.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not.”

“We just had a conversation, it’s fine. I’m handling it.” She turns back to wash the dishes some more but Orpheus catches her wrist, not hard, gently so she could pull away if wanted to. And she does, after a moment or two, but doesn’t continue with washing the dishes, she just stands there, head bowed slightly.

“Does he want you to leave?” Orpheus asks, outright.

She swallows slowly. “No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Eurydice-”

“For gods’ sake, Orpheus, can you just leave it alone? I’m not going to bear every inch of my soul to you.” he steps back at the harshness in her voice, how… angry she sounds. Pain ripples through his chest and he steps back, leaning against the back counter of the bar. Things go on in utter silence for a while, Eurydice washes the dishes and places them on the rack. He’s supposed to be drying them but he’s afraid she doesn’t want him close right now. They’d have to be standing almost hip to hip for it to work well and she’s already so skittish… and angry… he doesn’t want to upset her anymore.

After too long, she turns off the faucet, and braces herself against the sides of the sink. Her exhale is loud enough for him to hear, before she turns around to face him.

“I’m sorry.” she says quietly. “I feel as if I’ve been so terrible to you today. And I really am… so sorry, Orpheus. I don’t mean to lash out. There’s no excuse, really, I just don’t know how to cope, it’s ridiculous. One thing starts upsetting me and it’s like I have to burn all of my bridges and hurt everyone around me.”

He stays silent, what can he say to that? What can he say to console her? To tell her that he’d never, ever blame her for her past bleeding into the present? Tell her that he’d forgive her a thousand times over?

She wipes her nose with her sopping wet hand, which does nothing to help. “I told you I wasn’t very nice.”

He doesn’t want to cry in front of her, though it’s an inevitable end, but when she lets her eyes rise to the ceiling and her arms come around her torso, trying to soothe herself. He can’t help it.

“Can I hug you?” his mouth comes out strained and like he’s on the verge of tears (because he is). Her eyes snap to him suddenly, her mouth forming a perfect O in surprise before she nods once, stepping forwards.

She’s warm. And much smaller than he thought. It takes a few moments before she relaxes into his embrace befores she stands on tip toes to bury her face into his shoulder. He sniffles, trying not to pay attention to the way she wraps her arms so tightly around his neck, like she never wants to let go. The way he holds her around her midsection, he doesn’t want this moment to end. Where they’re both just teary-eyed, affection starved kids who need a damn hug. Instead of a… whatever they are now. Something worse. Something far more complicated.

When she pulls away, she’s smiling. Her thumb brushes a tear from under his eye, he wants to replay that moment of tenderness a hundred times.

“You’re so nice, ‘rydice.” he murmurs. “I really like you.”

“I know.” she whispers back.

“I can’t force you to stay, I can’t ask you to give me an answer, but… I don’t want you to go.” it’s the truth. It’s one of the most truthful statements he thinks he’s ever said. Nothing he has said before this moment has ever been more true.

She nods, unable to speak even a word. He does not ask again, doesn’t ask about the side glances between her and Hades, doesn’t ask why she’s crying over this simple confession. Doesn’t even ask why she’s so on edge all the time, when she’s safe here with them. He wants to tell her she is safe but he has a feeling she wouldn’t believe him.

She places a hand on his cheek, his eyes follow that slender arm down to her shoulder, where once again, he sees those prominent bruises. He tries, he really does, to tear his eyes away from her pain. It doesn’t last more than a few moments, before Eurydice lets her hands drop away from him.

“Come on, we’ve gotta finish up.” she says and he nods silently, moving to pick the rag up off of the counter and begins drying the dishes. After a long, painful silence, in his peripheral vision, he sees her jump up to sit on the counter, not too far away from him. Just swinging legs back and forth, looking awfully young.

“Thank you, by the way,” she says finally.

“For what?”

“For being kind. For making me feel… safe.”

He can’t help the smile that creeps up onto his face, he hums quietly under his breath. “I’m really glad you feel safe.”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. He wonders what she looks like when it does.

[mikauzoran]

Lukadrien: Zebras Can’t Change Their Stripes: Chapter Nine

Read it on AO3: Zebras Can’t Change Their Stripes: Chapter Nine

Luka didn’t last long after brunch.

By the time the dishwasher was loaded and Luka had finished teasing Adrien, Luka’s headache was back in full force.

“I need to go lie down before I throw up,” Luka groaned, gingerly massaging his temple. “Or maybe I should throw up and then go lie down.”

“No vomiting,” Adrien chastised, taking Luka by the elbow and gently guiding him back towards Luka’s bedroom. “I don’t want that breakfast I lovingly made going to waste. You need to digest those nutrients.”

“I’ll do my best,” Luka chuckled weakly, consenting to be escorted just so he could indulge in the warmth of Adrien’s hand on his skin. “…Sorry about all this.”

Adrien clicked his tongue.

“Shh. No apologies. Go lie down and feel better,” he instructed as he deposited Luka onto his bed. “And call me if you need anything because I want to be helpful, okay?”

“Okay,” Luka reluctantly agreed, still feeling guilty.

“Promise?” Adrien stressed, not believing Luka for a minute. “I don’t want to come in here to check on you and find you dead. You call me if you need me.”

Luka let out a soft laugh, smiling dimly. “Okay. I promise. Thank you, Adrien.”

With a patented wink that did things to Luka’s heart, Adrien turned to go. “Feel better soon, Orpheus.”

 Adrien and Plagg had four years’ worth of television to catch up on, so they settled down on the couch with a fresh-baked batch of gougère and spent the afternoon watching Netflix.

Adrien kept the volume relatively low so that he would hear if Luka stirred and needed him, but the apartment remained quiet, so Adrien assumed that Luka was either dead or sleeping.

“Quit fussing,” Plagg purred soothingly from his perch on Adrien’s shoulder. “He’s a grown man. He’s survived this long without you, so he can obviously take care of himself to some extent.”

Adrien snorted as he scrolled through the myriad options filling the screen, searching for their next show to binge. “You didn’t see what a mess this place was when I moved in. It’s apparent that Luka’s been running on empty for a while. Maybe he can take care of himself, but maybe he shouldn’t have to. Maybe I can do it better, and maybe he should know that he doesn’t have to go it alone all the time.”

Adrien took a deep breath and sighed it out. “I worry about him.”

“You worry too much, Kitten,” Plagg chuckled, flying down to point at the screen. “That one. Trixx said it was good.”

Adrien arched an eyebrow. “Lupin? Like the book series?”

A knock at the door cut off Plagg’s reply.

Adrien set his brand-new laptop aside and made his way to the door as Plagg retreated to his hiding spot in Adrien’s left shoulder.

“I wonder if it’s Josie or Jacob come to check on Luka. …Though, they were pretty trashed last night too,” Adrien muttered as he put his eye to the peephole.

Sucking in a gasp, Adrien sprang back from the door, hissing, “It’s Marinette!” in a whisper.

“Plagg, what do I do?!”

Plagg floated back out into the room with a shrug. “Let her in? Don’t let her in? There aren’t a lot of options, so it shouldn’t be too complicated.”

“But it is,” Adrien insisted, running his hands aggressively through his hair in his panic. “The last time I saw her, I threw my ring at her and ran away after my father was just revealed to be the big bad we’d been fighting for almost a decade.”

“You threw the ring at her feet, not at her,” Plagg corrected calmly.

“And then I ran away and left her to deal with a huge mess,” Adrien groaned. “Not to mention I completely missed the fact that my father was evil. She either thinks I was in on it or that I’m a total moron.”

“Kid—” the kwami attempted to interject.

Adrien wasn’t listening as he clutched his head in his hands and sank to the floor.

“Plagg, what if she hates me?” he whispered, horrified at the prospect.

With a sigh, Plagg alighted on Adrien’s knee. “Kid, she’s agonizing over the exact same thing herself.”

Adrien blinked, regaining some composure as he focused on Plagg. “What?”

“Adrien, Marinette thinks she failed you,” Plagg gently explained. “I mostly stayed in the box while you were gone, but I’ve heard Tikki stressing about it. Marinette is all caught up on how she ruined your life and wasn’t a good enough friend to you and failed you as a partner when you needed her most. She thinks you hate her…but you don’t, do you?”

Adrien’s brow crumpled in confusion. “What? No. No, of course not. None of this is Marinette’s fault. She always did everything she could for me. I just…I didn’t let her help me after…”

Plagg nodded. “Do you think she’d put so much energy and time into worrying about you if she hated you?”

Adrien gulped as the puzzle pieces aligned in a way that didn’t quite make sense to him. “…No?”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Plagg affirmed.

A tentative knock came again at the door, making Adrien jump.

“Hello?” Marinette called from out in the hallway, her voice muffled. “I know you’re there. Please open the door.”

Slowly, Adrien got to his feet, mustering every ounce of courage he could manage.

He took a deep breath, held it, and unlocked the door.

“Thank you,” Marinette sighed in relief. “I’m sorry for coming over here, but I—”

She abruptly cut herself off with a gasp when the door opened to reveal Adrien instead of Luka.

Her eyes went as wide as mooncakes as she slapped a hand over her mouth in disbelief.

Adrien pushed down his fear of rejection and smiled, opening his arms in invitation. “Hi, Buguinette. I’ve really missed you.”

“Chaton,” she choked, slamming into him like a billboard and nearly crushing him with the force of her hug. “Adrien.”

“Marinette, I’m so sorry for leaving the way I did…for not being able to handle any of it. I’m sorry for staying away so long. I don’t know if you can ever forgive me, but—”

“—Shut up, you stupid cat,” she blubbered into his shirt. “I’m the one who should be saying sorry after everything I’ve done.”

She pulled back slightly to face him. “Adrien, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. I didn’t—”

“—Shh,” he sniffled as tears of mingled relief and joy streamed down his cheeks. “Marinette, I didn’t let anyone be there for me. I pushed everyone away so that I didn’t pull them down with me. There is absolutely nothing I blame you for.”

She blinked at him, stunned, as he smiled down at her beatifically, offering absolution.

“But…if I had just been better,” she protested. “I could have—”

“—Shut up, you dumb bug,” he whispered, pulling her back into a hug and resting his head against hers. “I’m not mad at you, and I don’t think anything is your fault. It’s all in your head, My Lady. You were always the best at beating yourself up.”

She settled into his arms, tightening her own hold on him as well. “So…we’re okay?”

“So long as you’re not mad at me,” he agreed.

“I could never be mad at you, Idiot,” she pouted into his chest.

“You’ve been mad at me before,” he chuckled, beginning to sink into the familiarity of their old partnership.

“Not for real. Not for long,” she snorted.

They stood there for a long stretch, regaining their equilibrium and absorbing the reality of everything being okay.

Eventually, they pulled apart and took a good look at one another.

“…Are you okay?” Marinette inquired cautiously as she noted how thin he seemed and the subtly-off pallor of his skin.

Adrien grimaced, averting his gaze. “Not yet, but I think I’m finally headed in the right direction. …I don’t really want to talk about it, but the past four years have been rough, so…it’s going to be a bit before I’m ‘okay’ again.”

Marinette nodded, reaching out to rest a supportive hand on his bicep. “Is there anything I can do?”

She gave his arm a squeeze.

A sheepish smile turned up the corners of his mouth, and he shot her a coy look. “Be my friend again?”

With a roll of her eyes, she lightly swatted at him. “Adrien, I never stopped thinking of you as a friend.”

Fresh tears began to well up in his eyes. “R-Really?”

With a bashful smile, she met his gaze and nodded. “Even when I was afraid you wouldn’t want anything to do with me anymore. …So, what else can I do for you?”

“Give him head pats and tell him he’s a good boy,” Plagg suggested from where he’d made himself comfy among the savory cheese pastries on the plate on the couch. “It makes him really happy when you tell him he’s a good cook.”

“Plagg,” Adrien groaned, giving his kwami an eyeroll. “No one is going to eat those now that you’ve rolled in them.”

“That was the plan,” Plagg snickered.

“I see that I needn’t have worried about you, Plagg.” Marinette gave a half-amused snort. “Luka came to get you for Adrien. It all makes sense now.”

“It was sweet of you to worry,” Plagg chuckled, holding up one of the cheese puffs. “Want a gougère? He made them himself, and they’re delicious.”

Marinette quirked an eyebrow at Adrien. “You cook?”

Adrien blushed as his hand went to the back of his neck in his habitual gesture. “I mean…just a little.”

“He’s amazing,” Plagg bragged as if he himself were the one to be praised.

“What can you make?” Marinette pressed, giving Adrien a gentle nudge with her elbow.

“Anything,” Plagg cut Adrien off before he could downplay his talents. “You should get him to cook for you sometime.”

Adrien bit his lip and tentatively offered, “Would you like to eat with us? I made a whole bunch of soups this morning.”

Marinette’s mouth rounded into an “o” of surprise. “I would love to, but I’m not sure if I should impose like that.”

Adrien waved away her reservations. “It’s not a problem at all. Luka’s totally cool with me inviting friends over. Besides, I was just thinking about getting Luka up and making him eat something anyway, so you should join us. He’s kind of having one of his bad days because of The Breakup, so I’m sure he’d appreciate your company.”

Plagg winced. “Uh…Kid…”

Marinette looked utterly puzzled and opened her mouth to seek clarification, but the moment was interrupted as Luka’s bedroom door creaked open.

“Hey, Adrien, do we still have some of that…” Luka froze, putting out a hand to brace himself in the doorway as he registered Marinette’s presence. “…potato leek soup you made the other day,” he finished flatly, redirecting all of his mental energy to not panicking.

“Sure. I’ll heat some up for you, if you want,” Adrien replied enthusiastically, missing the tense, thick atmosphere between Luka and Marinette.

“I actually just invited Marinette to eat with us,” Adrien continued excitedly as he started towards the kitchen.

“Chaton, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Marinette sighed.

Adrien blinked and looked back and forth between Marinette and Luka. “Why not? Luka doesn’t mind, do you, Luka?”

Luka winced, wishing for an akuma attack to call Marinette and Adrien away so that Luka wouldn’t have to deal with this situation.

“You didn’t tell him,” Marinette gathered, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

“I didn’t see the relevance,” Luka answered defensively. “I didn’t think it mattered, and I didn’t want to make things awkward between you two.”

“What’s going on?” Adrien tentatively broke in. “What didn’t Luka tell me?”

Luka shot Marinette a warning look, but the word came out as a plea: “Don’t.”

Marinette rolled her eyes, confessing, “I’m the ex-girlfriend.”

Luka slumped against the doorjamb, cringing.

“There’s no reason to keep it a secret from him,” Marinette insisted with a twinge of exasperation.

Logically, Luka knew this, but…

“Wait.” Adrien spoke up again, whipping his head back and forth to take them both in. “You two were…”

Adrien’s brain crashed as he thought back to all of the objects he’d sorted through when he’d cleaned up the apartment: the books, CDs, DVDs, notebooks, articles of clothing…

Adrien had known that Luka and Marinette had dated and broken up several times over the years, but…knowing that Marinette had been the cause of Luka’s suffering this time gave the whole situation a new aspect.

Luka had said that his ex was in love with someone else, and, now, Adrien wanted to shake Marinette and demand whom she was in love with and how she could let someone like Luka go for anyone else.

“Sorry.” Marinette’s voice broke into Adrien’s thoughts. “I’m sorry for coming. I just wanted to check on Plagg and return some things. I know you said you didn’t think you’d be ready to see me for a few weeks at least, but…I found some things I thought you’d like to have back before then, and I was concerned about Plagg.”

Marinette ducked out into the hall and grabbed the two bulging trash bags she’d left sitting beside the door. She then produced an apartment key and handed it to Adrien. “Sorry about all this.”

Adrien shook his head. “No. I…I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

With a tired smile, she pulled him into a quick hug, assuring, “Don’t worry about it.”

She pulled back, taking his hands in hers and giving them a squeeze. “My phone number’s the same, and my trapdoor is always open for you, if you want to come over and hang out. My parents would be ecstatic to see you too, if you wanted to drop by. We’re still at the bakery.”

“I’d really like that,” Adrien admitted, getting choked up all over again at the thought that there was someplace where he’d be welcomed with wide-open arms. “Talk soon?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “As soon as you want.”

He squeezed her hands back as he leaned in to place air kisses to the sides of her cheeks. “See you, Buguinette.”

“See you, Chaton,” she replied, voice full of warmth.

Then, with a hopelessly forlorn wave to Luka, Marinette slipped out of the flat.

Biting his lip, Adrien turned to face Luka, and the apologies quickly began to tumble out.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea,” Adrien stressed. “I never would have let her in if I had known.”

Luka blinked, startled at Adrien’s reaction. “You’re not mad at me?”

Adrien’s head quirked to the side. “Why would I be mad at you?”

Shaking his head, Luka crossed the living room to take a seat on the couch, careful of Adrien’s laptop. “I don’t know. I kept a secret from you just like everyone else you trusted who let you down?”

Adrien winced as he too sat on the couch. “Okay, but it wasn’t really any of my business, so…”

“You’re still really good at making excuses for people who don’t deserve it,” Luka sighed, tipping his head to rest against the back of the couch.

Adrien shrugged. “It’s a defence mechanism. It’s better than feeling bitter and betrayed all the time.”

Luka took a long, steady inhale. “We need to get you some therapy.”

“I’ll go if you go,” Adrien bartered.

Luka looked to the side at Adrien. “You want me to go to therapy?”

Adrien nodded. “For your drinking problem and self-worth issues and martyr syndrome.”

A slow smile spread across Luka’s lips. “…You are mad at me.”

Adrien shrugged again, trying to maintain apathy because it was easier than dealing with the complex mess of what he was actually feeling.

“No.”

He tried to hold onto the fiction that the whole incident was his fault, but it slipped through his grasp like a fish.

“Why didn’t you tell me Marinette was your ex?”

Luka forced himself to meet the wounded accusation flickering like flames in Adrien’s eyes.

“Because it hurt,” Luka answered as honestly as he could. “It’s still too painful to talk or even think about. …You know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Adrien flinched as his own hurt instantly vanished. He moved the laptop and the plate of pastries out of the way to scoot in close to Luka so Adrien could wrap his arms around him.

“Besides,” Luka whispered as Adrien pulled Luka into his chest. “I didn’t want to mess up your relationship with her. I didn’t want you to think you couldn’t be friends with her because she’s my ex and you’re afraid of ending up on the street again if you upset me or something. I know you had feelings for her in the past too, so…I didn’t want to make things complicated.”

“Oh, Luka,” Adrien sighed as he nuzzled Luka’s hair. “…I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For…I don’t know. Existing?” Adrien laughed mirthlessly.

“Don’t be,” Luka stressed as he drew back and sat up. “You’re one of the good things about this universe.”

That assertion got a startled chuckle out of Adrien.

“…Please don’t feel like you can’t be friends with Marinette now.” Luka got them back on topic. “I really don’t want to mess things up between you two. You can have her over. It’s not a problem.”

Adrien rolled his eyes and gave his head a disbelieving shake. “Luka, it is so a problem. I’m not going to invite the woman you’re still a mess because of into your private space. You’ve been emphasizing to me how this is my home and how you want me to feel safe and comfortable here, but what about you?”

Luka’s brow creased infinitesimally. “Me?”

“This is your home too,” Adrien explained. “You should feel safe and comfortable here. Marinette and I will just hang out at her house or some other place.”

Luka pursed his lips, already beginning to feel uncomfortable at the prospect of Adrien and Marinette spending time alone together.

“Maybe…Maybe in a week or two you could start having her over,” Luka suggested.

Adrien arched a suspicious eyebrow.

“I have to get used to being around her again sometime. I do want to stay friends with her once I can stand to see her without feeling like there’s a gaping wound in my chest,” Luka explained.

Plus, Luka knew he’d feel better if he could keep tabs on Marinette and Adrien so that Luka would know when the dreaded event had occurred. He wanted to know as soon as it was certain that he had lost Adrien and Marinette to one another.

Adrien was skeptical about having Marinette over to the flat, but he didn’t argue. “Okay. If you think you’ll be okay, but I don’t want you pushing yourself, all right?”

Luka waved away Adrien’s concern. “Don’t worry, Adrien. I promise it’s fine. And…”

Luka took a deep breath.

“Listen. If you and Marinette decide you want to see each other romantically…”

Adrien stared at his roommate, trying to figure out what Luka actually meant because the words Adrien thought he was hearing made no sense.

Luka sighed, shaking his head. “I’m not saying it won’t hurt, but I’ll get over it because I want you two to be happy more than anything, so if you two decide that that’s what you want, you have my blessing.”

Adrien kept staring for nearly fifteen seconds before he demanded, “Why are you like this?”

Luka’s head slowly tipped to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why the hell do you think I’d be heartless enough to steal the woman you love from you?” Adrien huffed.

“Adrien, it’s not like that,” Luka tried to explain. “She loves you, and I know how much you loved her in the past, so if you two decide—”

Adrien clamped a hand over Luka’s mouth, physically stopping the flow of idiocy.

“Shut up,” he whispered, voice tinged with hurt. “I’ll have to consult Nino for the final verdict, but I’m pretty sure that’s against the bro code. Now, I’m going to try to repair my friendship with Marinette because she’s someone who’s very important to me, but I have no intention of pursuing anything romantic with her. At least not now or any time in the near future.”

Luka kept quiet, but he thought to himself that the heart didn’t always cooperate. He doubted that Adrien could stop himself from falling for Marinette again just like Luka hadn’t been able to keep his own feelings for Adrien in check.

“Maybe several years down the road something will happen, but that will only be if you’re completely over her and happy with someone else. I’m not a home-wrecker,” Adrien informed hotly, removing his hand from Luka’s mouth. “Okay?”

Luka smiled wanly. “Rarely do we get a choice when it comes to our feelings, especially when that feeling is love, but I appreciate your commitment to the bro code.”

Adrien gave his head a defiant toss. “I may not be able to control my feelings, but I can control my actions.”

Luka’s eyes widened.

“Besides,” Adrien continued, the heat coming out of his voice. “I’m not in any shape to be pursuing a romantic relationship at the moment. I’ve got a lot of healing to do before I think that would be a good idea.”

Slowly, Luka began to nod. “…You constantly amaze me with how mature and wise you’ve gotten.”

Adrien stuck out his tongue. “I needed an adult a lot of times over the past four years, so I became my own adult.”

Luka grimaced. “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?”

A genuine smile started to peek out onto Adrien’s lips.

He gave Luka’s hair a playful tussle, replying, “Right back at you. Now get up and let me feed you. It’s time to eat.”

Luka made a show of grumbling and groaning, but he allowed himself to be extracted from the couch and towed to the kitchen.

“What time is it even?”

“A little after three-thirty,” Adrien responded as he headed over to the fridge to get out the potato leek soup Luka had been asking about.

Luka moaned miserably, dropping his head to the countertop. “I have to go to family dinner tonight, and I’m dreading it.”

“Don’t go,” Adrien suggested as if it were that simple.

“Then Juleka will think I’ve been drinking,” Luka mumbled into the granite of the counter.

“You could tell her something came up and you had to stay home with me,” Adrien suggested.

Luka lifted his head. “…Isn’t the fact that you’re back in Paris a secret?”

Adrien shrugged, scooping out some of the soup into two bowls to microwave. “Now that Nino and Marinette know where I am, it kind of takes the pressure off. It’s okay if you tell your family. Say that I’m having a bad day and I need you to watch Disney movies and snuggle with me.”

Luka bit the inside of his cheek. “I’m not very good at lying, and I don’t exactly like the idea of trying to deceive my family. I’d better just go and bite the bullet.”

“If you like, I could go with you,” Adrien offered as he placed the bowls into the microwave. “If you think your family would be okay with it, I mean. I could take some of the spotlight off you and distract them with how I was homeless until you rescued me. Maybe seeing what a mess I am will make you look better by comparison.”

Luka’s forehead crinkled up. “You don’t like talking about all that, though, and Rose and Maman will have lots of questions.”

Adrien shrugged again, putting on a brave smile. “It’s okay. It’s probably not going to be easy, but I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to,” Luka stressed.

“I want to,” Adrien countered with determination, and then his voice softened, filling with gratitude and tenderness. “You went and faced Marinette to get Plagg back for me. If you can do that, I can spend one night distracting your family so they maybe don’t notice how hungover you are.”

“Adrien,” Luka whispered, profoundly moved by Adrien’s willingness to face an uncomfortable situation for Luka’s sake.

Adrien cocked his head to the side. “Hm?”

Luka swallowed and shook his head. “Nothing. You’re just… You’re really amazing.”

Adrien beamed, shooting Luka a patented wink. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

Luka’s stomach flipped, and his heart fluttered.

Suddenly, he was sure that Adrien was going to be the death of him because there was no longer a doubt that Luka loved this astounding human being.

[druid-for-hire]

new hadestown au: BIKER ! EURYDICE, in which she’s a rogue lone-wolf biker dwelling in the urban jungle of a Neo Tokyo-type city called Hadestown, wracked with biker gangs, violence, poverty, corruption, and civil unrest, still recovering and rebuilding from an apocalyptic event many years ago. Heavy-handed with the AKIRA inspirations here, haha.

She fights for herself on the dangerous streets, an illegal racer with a consistent top-three placement and a reputation for ferocity that earns her the money she needs to scrape by. And then she meets Orpheus: a dopey bartender who has no place being in her business.

okay okay okay i’m gonna be jumping around a lot here. be warned. thanks @supercantaloupe, @regzillas, @birdmanlyss for your contributions! (sorry if i missed someone it’s been a while)

she's a lone wolf in a city infested with biker gangs and it's brutal

she's run over plenty of limbs in her day

then there's orpheus, this gentle, kind-hearted soul, an indie musician and shes like. fuck. now i gotta keep this bastard safe

puts a long pipe with a mess of bolts and metal on the end in his hands and tells him he'd better buckle up and learn to fight the road

this sort of thing is common among biker gangs to cause destruction and knock people off their bikes onto the road. other types include mallets, hammers, baseball bats, etc

shes small but knows a lot of self defense and is very good at handling herself on the road

besides teaching orpheus to steel himself and yes use that pipe on people, push them off and jam it in their wheels and let it break if it does, she's gotta teach him to hold on while she pulls all this crazy shit on her bike

she avoids taking him on the road because having to fight people gives him so much stress but he also stresses about her so it's all weird

the first time orpheus sees her run over someones arm hes like ""???????????????????!!!!!!!!"

"Don't worry it doesn't happen often" "WHAT IS 'OFTEN'"

she has a red songbird on her helmet and flowers on her jacket

and flowers painted on her bike too probably

or patterns like on the album cover

orpheus thinks it’s the prettiest shit he’s ever seen

so eurydice races, right? everyones like “who is this tiny little upstart” and then she takes off her helmet and shakes out her hair and everyone loses it

somethingsomething ig hades (who is something of a crime boss here, similar to Tombstone from the Spectacular Spider-Man cartoon, but not so unambiguously villainous in nature) becomes a contractor and he catches her in like, a bad contract that's hard to get out of without some kind of consequence

and now orpheus has to topple a capitalist again

anyway she like, meets orpheus in this little bar he works at

it's about lower middle class, so it's not too bad but it's still mostly populated by like, poorer people and bikers, etc.

they meet and it's cool and fun blah blah Come Home With Me shit

also this is a scene:

biker!eury: we gotta cross through downtown orpheus: what???? but there's a riot going on there! right now! eury: that's too bad, it's the fastest way! that's why you get this! (tosses him her pipe weapon) orpheus, barely catching it: sajskhsfdfs ???? eury: and i am gonna take this. (kicks open a trunk and takes out a rifle) orpheus: ???????!!!!???!?? WHERE DID YOU GET THAT AND DO WE REALLY NEED IT eury: Yes we do now come on orpheus: H-HOW did you get it eury: (loads gun) no worries orpheus: No i have many worries HOW DID YOU--

actually, on this emergency ride, orpheus proves surprisingly competent with her pole weapon—ruthless even, and eurydice wonders just where and how the hell he learned that

the conversation she has with him about that is the same one where he shows her his old, old scars

(besides ruthless—orph has apparently learned how to pose and intimidate. he does stuff like putting the tip of the pole-pipe to the asphalt as they’re riding, skipping on the road and creating sparks)

eurydice loves her bike more than certain relatives 

certain complications lead to it being destroyed by hades as punishment for doing him wrong. and it destroys her. that is her most trusted sacred bike, that thing has been with her since she was a teenager

once she repurposes that devastation into white-hot anger orph has to physically restrain her from hunting hades down and breaking his kneecaps with a thick lead pipe

he's never seen her this absolutely devastated and furious

he goes to persephone for more work because he wants to buy eurydice a new bike

he keeps it a secret from her until he leads her out to a garage, hands over her eyes

(some of these bits are copypasted from my friend @regzillas​)

orpheus takes his hands off and says Tada!!! it's just like the old one, there's no painted birds but she can do that. She just stands there in total silence mouth open, and orpheus goes 'so? do you like it?' before she bursts into tears. and at first orpheus is like :O!!!!! oh no!!! do you not like it? and eurydice through sobs just says 'nobody's ever done something like this for me’

it's... beautiful, it's touching, it's deep and it's love and she's so in love and she loves him so much, and she cries and holds him close and takes him in and she's so overwhelmed by her emotions, full of the care that orpheus so freely gives to her; and it's a breath of newness, fresh air in the cycle of dread and bitter anger that haunts the city (but she's still going to find hades and shoot him in the foot)

he just holds her and kisses her head

they spend the day painting it, the day after he buys the bike

hand-painted. and they both leave their handprints in paint on it, like carl and ellie do on their mailbox in the beginning of Up

a significant amount of time is spent thinking of a good name

theres lots of joking and eurydice playfully shoves orpheus and he falls over into paint

okay i wrote something like. Obnoxiously long for orpheus. i sort of have his backstory in this down, but i don’t have anything for eurydice unfortunately :( suggestions are welcome! but first: Hermes

biker!au hermes owns a chain of bars, several of which find their patronage among the ruffian youth, several of which are more refined and serve the middle class, and another several of which serve the upper crust hermes has a hand in every world and it serves him pretty well, and his chain is a bit of a channel of communication and its unspoken rule that whatever socioeconomic class or gang or organization you're a part of, hermes' chain is neutral territory no fighting allowed

eurydice walks in and hermes just gives her a Look and taps the 'no fighting' sign and she huffs

hes >:( if anyone does try to start shit. the honor system is strong enough that usually the other patrons will just throw them out, and if there are really problems, they'll hear from hermes personally

he maintains a very strict "no bitching in my fucking kitchen" atmosphere

and now, Orpheus

this really is kind of akira but without the government conspiracies; the city is a neon corrupt hellscape that’s still struggling to rebuild after an apocalyptic event that wiped it all through. the city is wracked with frustration and violence and anger, there are still urban ruins everywhere and the scars of rebuilding and struggle are plain in every corner of life; plain to see are the shells of ruined buildings, gigantic boats levelled from the sea and left in the middle of inland sectors.

orpheus was abandoned by his mother at an early age—kind and timid, he had to learn fast how to be suspicious and cautious in cruel ways. he couldn’t land himself a spot in any of the groups that other ragtag raging folks had eked out for themselves, still too hesitant or ungraceful or young for any of them. sure, he made friends, sitting and talking with lots of people, but never got to really team up—all he could do was just fight for himself in the blown out corners of the city. weapons made from whatever he had. a young child already spitting blood and teeth in hadestown’s vicious ground-floor landscape.

hermes is his mother’s close old friend, though the times they see each other are few and far between. when he saw him, hermes hardly recognized her son, wild-eyed and clawed and alone in one of the city’s more dangerous neighborhoods, with a pole full of screws slung over his back. how did she lose track of her kid for so long? he thinks. and takes him in.

hermes eventually realizes that his mother didn’t lose him. meanwhile, tiny orpheus, kind-hearted orpheus, despises hermes at first. he’s full of suspicion and desperately wants to lean into hermes’ kindness, but the streets have taught him to hold back. he spits curses at him, though the words slide right off hermes’ shoulders. it’s not genuine.  just frustrated. and picked off of the delinquents that were his friends, just like most everything else about him.

(hermes knows he’s gotten his trust when orpheus starts getting soft, when he’s crying over littler things; it means he’s been deemed safe to be vulnerable around, and he damn near starts crying himself.)

orpheus owns a little vespa! it’s covered in stickers, some of them worn out and old, some places with just the adhesive and the fuzzy white paper from where he tried to pull them off. some of them aren’t even proper stickers and just shit he peeled off from places while he was wandering around and stuck onto the vespa

even in canon i see him as the kind of guy who like. you look at him and think jesus how is this guy still alive he’s so noodly and soft, but he’s unexpectedly sort of street smart

anyway i mentioned this before but didn’t elaborate. biker au orph, to eury's surprise, does have his collection of scars, since he had a bit of a rough go at life

also he’s just ungainly and runs into shit

you can see em on his sketch page. he has a bit more than what’s shown, but what’s visible is a little slash across the bridge of his nose onto his cheek, and two on his left forearm. he probably has a stab scar in his side from just getting fucking knifed. the ones on his left forearm are from when a drunk coming out of a bar charged him with a fork

eurydice also has scars. kind of hard not to with the kind of life she lives

ok thats it. For Now. i don’t know how persephone or the fates or the workers factor in, if at all. I barely know how Hades factors in, mostly what i’ve said so far and that he does what he does to support himself and persephone. ah well! just have this

as this is extremely based off of AKIRA, i verily recommend listening to the movie’s soundtrack. besides the fact that it slaps hard as hell, the opening song, Kaneda’s Theme, has the perfect vibes for the city and the tone of eurydice and orpheus riding at night through it

[wavesmp3]

eurydice

juyeon x reader - retelling of orpheus and eurydice, steampunk au - warnings: mentions of death - wc. 3.4k - a/n: originally posted for another group but yolo

--

juyeon hadn’t expected the underworld to be this quiet. although, when he thinks about it, he isn’t sure what he did expect. there’s an eerie stillness in the silent air that drips down his torso and dangles by his feet begging him to stay. be weary of the underworld the guide had warned him it lives to tempt fools like you. 

‘fool’ was the word the guide had used. juyeon had denied it in the moment. “love,” he said to the guide, with a determined set to his jaw, “i’m doing this for love.” but now as he wanders the silent darkness and unnatural heat of the underworld with only a lantern to light his passage, he thinks that perhaps the guide wasn’t too far off. for his love made him foolish enough to make a deal with a demon and travel the underworld all in search of you. 

“you came.” you say to him once he finds you with a voice so quiet it almost gets lost before it reaches his ears. you don’t look shocked to see him. you don’t even look happy. in fact, you barely look like you. juyeon doesn’t recognize the hollowed shape of your face and the dull line your lips make. he found your body in the darkness, but for a moment, juyeon can’t be positive he found you with it. 

“of course,” he gulps, and you don’t make any indication that you’ve even heard him speak. he swallows again and shifts the lantern to his other hand, bouncing slightly on his heels. he fights the urge to shove his fists into pockets, and another, more prominent urge to turn around and run straight for the sun. “you waited.”

“well, yeah,” you shrug, “what else is a dead person supposed to do?”

--

juyeon remembers the day you died. remembers it too well, almost. he remembers the ringing in his ears and a hollowness inside his chest. he remembers the way he couldn’t cry. the way he couldn’t feel sad. he remembers hearing that you had died and thinking there was no way in hell he’d let it stay like that. juyeon knew, from the moment he heard, that he’d come and find you.

juyeon hasn’t cried. but right now, staring at the face of someone who’s been dead for too long, he feels like he just might.

--

“you made a deal with a demon.” you repeat, voice still void of anything sounding remotely like you.

“yeah.” he says, picking at a spot below his chin, faking nonchalance in the same way he would’ve when he first met you. the same nonchalance that you used to poke his side and tease him for. but when he does it right now, you barely seem to register the words let alone the tone of them. “for you. i made a deal for you.”

you nod. “what is it?”

“you get to come with me back to the real world...”

“...but?”

“but you have to walk behind me the entire time. and I can’t look back. not once, not until we’re back up above.”

“and what happens if you do?”

“you die.” he waits a beat. “again.” 

you utter something incomprehensible, a small croak that sounds faintly like a scoff. “kind of like eurydice.”

juyeon leans forward. “what?”

you meet his eyes suddenly, as if only now realizing he’s been next to you this entire time. you blink. “nevermind.”

you don’t make a sound after that, don’t even move a muscle. juyeon didn’t expect you to be elated, but he did expect you to at least be surprised. and your lack of shock, your lack of… you, creates a knee-deep river of doubt in his mind. “you don’t have to come with me.” he says with what he hopes is reassurance. “i didn’t come here to force you back. i came here to ask.” 

and the silence that comes after he says it stretches into eternity. an infinite eternity that ends the second your mouth twitches, just barely, into what juyeon swears is a smile. “you came.” 

he inhales, and the air tastes faintly like hope. “i couldn’t let you go.”

“okay.” you accept, fiddling with something juyeon can’t make out in your hand. and the admission, makes him release a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. juyeon knew coming down here was a shot in the dark. literally. his friends had made sure he knew. even the guide had made it clear: sometimes the dead don’t want to return. so, yeah, juyeon knew there was no guarantee you’d want to follow him back to the real world and no guarantee you’d agree to the demon’s terms. but all that doubt, all those voices telling him no seem so insignificant when he hears you say: “i’ll come with you.” 

you meet his eyes again, and this time they look a little more like yours.

--

throughout his relationship with you, juyeon grew fond of the way you cracked your knuckles and joints. it’s stress relief you’d tell him popping your neck for the fifth time that morning. he’d found it odd at first, concerning even. but now days, juyeon can’t seem to find the way you crack your back every time you get up as anything but endearing. 

even now, as you sit on the tattered, green couch you bought off the old apothecary owner, juyeon feels nothing more than a small pang of affection for the way you crack your knuckles while reading a book.  

“hey,” juyeon begins, sitting next to you on the couch, “eric gave this to me today.”

he hands you the folded ad for a ticket to center circle. the once-in-a-lifetime tickets that were only offered once every few years. 

you study the ad for a while, running your finger against the crease in the paper. juyeon shifts uncomfortably in his seat while you do. 

“i don’t want it,” you shrug, folding the paper back up and tossing it on the coffee table.

“but,” juyeon refutes, eyes trained on the discarded paper and brows furrowed, “it’s your dream.”

“you dummy,” you tease with a numbingly sweet smile. and for a moment, you don’t say anything else. instead you capture his hand and pull on each of his fingers, cracking his knuckles like you do with yours. and it’s while staring at his hands that you mutter, “dreams change, you know.”  

--

the walk to the real world begins quietly. 

“do you remember the myth of orpheus and eurydice?” you say from somewhere behind juyeon, voice quiet and yet far. and yes, it must be far because the words sound like they’ve been echoing off the rocks and stones for years. 

“remind me.” 

“from what i can remember, they were in love.” you wait a moment, and juyeon could bet that if he turned around right now, he’d find you somewhere far behind him, cracking your knuckles. “and when eurydice died, orpheus convinced hades to let her go on the same terms as your deal with the demon. or something like that.” 

“i see,” juyeon whispers. “so what happened when they made it back to earth?” 

“that’s the thing,” you say, this time nearly yelling the words, “they didn’t. orpheus looked back at the last second.” 

juyeon stops walking. “well, that’s not going to be us.” 

he hears you sigh. “i know.” 

juyeon starts walking again, holding up the lantern that emits just enough light to see his feet and nothing else. “so why’d he look back?” 

“i don’t think the myth really says. some say he got impatient. others say orpheus began to doubt that eurydice was actually behind him and then also doubt that hades would ever let her go. but I think they’re all wrong. maybe he looked back because eurydice asked him to.” 

the implication makes juyeon gulp. “why would she do that?” 

you don’t answer the question. “why do you think orpheus turned?”

“i don’t know.” 

“turn around and you will.”

“that’s not funny.”

quietly, you say: “it wasn’t a joke.” 

juyeon pretends to not hear. 

--

when juyeon realized he loved you, it wasn’t something big or spectacular. it wasn’t a tidal wave of emotion that crashed and dragged him below the tide. rather, it was a small wave of adoration that lapped by his feet, a cool and calm sensation that made him want to dig his heels in the sand and wade further into the water. 

when juyeon realizes he loves you, you’re sitting on his kitchen counter, complaining about work. 

“i love you.” he admits, walking towards where you sit. he doesn’t miss the way you still and the way you refuse to look anywhere but at your own hands. and juyeon knows it’s too soon, too fast. it’s only been two months since he’s known you. one month since you started dating. he knows it’s too soon to have fallen in love. but that doesn’t really change the fact that he has. he repeats it, feeling a deep need to cement this moment further into his memory and another to memorize the image of you sitting on his kitchen counter smiling at your hands.

“you don’t have to say it back or anything,” he tells you, wrapping his arms around your waist, “i  didn’t say it so that you would-” silently, you cut him off, leaning forward until your forehead is pressed against his. “i just wanted you to know cause i do,” he continues softly, “i love you.”

your eyes flit up to his, lashes brushing against his brow bone. “i know.” it’s then that you take his face between his palms and press your lips to his. 

it’s three weeks after that moment in his kitchen, that you return the statement, although you don’t return it with the words themself. 

he meets you on one of the benches outside the warehouse after work. when you see him approaching, something seems to visibly soften throughout your entire body. you pull him down to sit next to you on the bench, wrap your arms around his torso under his heavy coat, and bury your face into the space between his shoulder and his chest. 

juyeon places a kiss on your temple. “you okay?” 

“i had the worst day at the plant.” you mumble into his coat. 

“do you wanna talk about it?” 

“no,” you hesitate as if deciding what it is that you do want. after a moment you answer: “i just want you near.”

--

“do you feel that?” juyeon hears you ask. 

“feel what?” 

“the rain?” 

he holds out his palm and stares at the darkness above. how could it possibly rain in a place like this, juyeon wonders to himself. 

“no.” he finally answers. “i don’t feel anything.” 

“it’s pouring!” he can’t tell. he doesn’t hear the rain, doesn’t hear the thunder you claim to have heard. but he hears your voice, and it sounds warbled as if coming from behind curtains and curtains of pounding rain. he can tell you’re yelling to be heard over it. “you still don’t feel it?”

“no!” he yells back.

“i’m tired.” 

“we’re almost there.” he says to the darkness that stretches before him, praying that it bounces off the emptiness of this world and finds you. “we just have to make it through the night.”

“no, juyeon, i’m tired.” you repeat frustrated. and with the way you say it, juyeon isn’t sure what exactly you’re tired of.

“do you remember your first storm in ironport?” he asks, a desperate attempt to take your mind off the current storm, and another, more hopeless effort to make you miss home. 

“yeah,” you murmur, voice no longer a desperate yell. and yet somehow, juyeon hears you better now than he did before. “of course i remember.”

--

the day of your first ironport strom is also the day you kiss juyeon.

in all transparency, juyeon hadn’t noticed the dark clouds gathering above and the distant rumbling coming from the farmlands in the west. he’d been too distracted with watching you nod off during the trolley ride back from the warehouse, too distracted trying to make sure your head stayed perfectly balanced on his shoulder. 

but by the time the trolley does squeak and stutter to your stop, it’s pouring. you slowly get up and hover by the exit, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “i bet you hadn’t insisted on taking me home now.” you say between a yawn.

juyeon shakes his head and joins you by the exit, wearing a smile that feels too bright against the weather outside. “make a run for it?” he suggests. 

you scrunch your nose and crack your knuckles. “yeah, okay.” you find his hand, and fit it against your own. “ready?” 

juyeon swallows the fluttering in his stomach. “ready.” 

despite the running and shocked yelps, you’re drenched before you even make it to the end of the street. and it’s sometime after the second turn that you both give up entirely, jumping into puddles at the corner of rosebud and kicking water at each other. 

“look,” you exclaim, pointing at the sky, “there’s a break in the clouds.” juyeon looks up at where you point. ironport is known for its ferocious storms with dark grey and angry clouds that tumble across the sky and linger there for days on end. juyeon, living in ironport his whole life, has seen his fair share of the town’s storms, but this, juyeon has never seen. over the farmlands, the clouds part across the sky and a golden light comes pouring over the grassy hills. your voice comes out low. “it’s beautiful isn’t it?”

his eyes land on you. “yeah, it is.”

and juyeon’s so lost, mindlessly staring at you that he almost doesn’t register the way you stare back at him with a lopsided smile, grab his color, and pull him towards you until his lips meet yours. 

almost.

--

“still raining?” juyeon asks, just to check if you’re still behind.

“yeah.” 

“you must be drenched.” 

“i am.” you pause. “and cold.” it must be a test, juyeon thinks. or a trial of some sort, because how is he supposed to not turn around right at this moment and give you something to make you warm.

after some time, you ask: “how do you know you’ve made a mistake?” 

he tilts his head at the question. it’s an odd question, yes. but something to pass the time he assumes. “you know the sensation you get on the air lift right before the drop by the watchtower.” he waits for some affirmation that you’ve heard. it never comes. “it feels like that for me. like a rock in my gut. i know i’ve made a mistake because i feel the wrongness of it.” 

you let out a small cough. “do you feel that right now?”

“no.” something akin to fear settles underneath his tongue. “do you?”

--

when eric asks if you and juyeon are friends, juyeon doesn’t think to mention the way you two have been hanging out at the warehouse every day after work or how much he enjoys talking with you. it doesn’t phase juyeon to describe the lack of air in his lungs each time you’re so much as mentioned or the smile that appears whenever you’re near. instead, he shrugs, and says, “yeah, i guess we’ve gotten close.”

--

“it stopped raining,” you murmur softly, sounding close. so close juyeon thinks he can smell the rainwater dripping from your clothes and hear your arms flailing in the darkness. it takes a moment for him to realize, you actually are. 

“when did you get so close?” 

“oh, juyeon,” you smile, or at least he imagines you do, “i’ve never been far.” 

--

the second time juyeon sees you is not a coincidence. he’s been spending every evening at the warehouse since your first conversation together, hoping at some point you’ll walk in with the other plant workers. until finally one night you do. 

“small world.” he begins, meeting you at the bar. 

“yeah,” you reply, and a sudden warmth fills juyeon when you purse your lips, as if there’s a private joke waiting on your tongue, “we’re all closer than we assume.”

--

the first thing juyeon thinks when a sort of warmth fills his body, is that there’s a fire growing in the dark abyss that is the road between the underworld and the real one. 

it’s only when he hears you say, “juyeon is that the…?” does he realize that the warmth lingering in his fingertips is from the sun. the world around him is still entirely dark, the only light being from the lantern still. but before juyeon sees the light of the sun, he can feel the sunlight and taste it on his tongue. 

“it’s almost over,” he says to the new warmth in his knees and to you who’s now so close behind him.

you don’t respond. and some small part of juyeon that’s buried under oceans of grief and love, knows what the silence means. a miniscule, almost negligible, part of juyeon knows how to interpret your lack of response. 

but the larger, more intruding part of juyeon that can’t bear the idea of letting you go, selfishly asks, “what about your dream? what about center circle?”

you sigh, and it’s the first sound you’ve made since noticing the sun. “oh juyeon, i stopped caring about center circle the day i met you.”

--

the first time juyeon sees you is at the warehouse. and as soon as you enter with the other plant workers, juyeon knows you’re new. he can tell by the way you talk, with an accent that sounds too western to be from around here, and from the way your face is the only one he doesn’t know. curiosity is what he tells himself and eric when asked later that week. juyeon approaches you at the warehouse bar because he’s curious. although, curiosity doesn’t begin to explain the churning in his gut and the chill running down his spine as he does. 

“hey,” he greets, resting his elbows against the bar. “i’m juyeon.” 

you study him before answering, as if determining whether you should even bother with giving him your name. lucky for him, you do. 

“you new around here?” he asks, despite knowing you are. the polite thing to do, he figures. 

“what gave me away?” you snort.

“ironport’s a small town.” he shrugs, with a degree of nonchalance that doesn’t at all match the current pace of his heart. “the people that are born here tend to die here as well.” 

“not me.” you mutter, shaking your head. “i’m certainly not dying in ironport.” 

juyeon seats himself on the barstool next to you. “is there a preferred place of death then?”

“center circle.” you tell him, as the barkeep slides you your drink. “it’s been my dream since forever. i’ve worked my way up from the wallows. if i die before getting to the center circle, i’ll walk there from hell myself.”

“that’s insane.” he responds half-teasing, half-not.

you take a long sip from your drink. “i know.” 

“and yet?”

you meet his eyes steadily. “and yet i can’t let it go.” 

at the bottom of his gut juyeon again feels curiosity tug.

--

“juyeon,” you breathe, so close he can feel it on his shoulder. “come back to me.” he doesn’t respond, acts like he doesn’t even hear the words. instead, he steps forward, feels the warmth of the sun on his cheek, and then sinks back into the cool sensation of your forehead knocking against his neck. 

“come back to me, okay?” you repeat into his back. “but don’t come back too soon.” 

“and you’ll wait for me?” he asks, yearning for nothing more than to turn around and kiss your eyelids and nose and cheeks and lips. wanting nothing more than to turn around and memorize your face in all the ways he forgot to do while you were alive and on earth. 

“well yeah,” you smile against his shirt, “what else is a dead person supposed to do?”

and for a small second, relishing in the sensation of your chest shaking with laughter against his back, juyeon feels at peace.

“so have you figured it out yet?” you start, lifting your chin from his shoulder, and interlocking your fingers with his. “have you figured out why orpheus turned?” 

“no.” he returns, with a squeeze. 

“but i guess i’m about to find out.”  

[deafwestnewsies]

you tell me you love her (i give you a grin)

And I'd choose our fate a million times over.

david jacobs x jack kelly (unrequited love)

read it on my ao3!

The grass crumpled beneath his boots. His shadow left a broad dent in the shade

(his body was still a marvel- when had Jack Kelly become so strong? When did Jack Kelly grow into his wimpy shoulders and snivelling ankles? When did Jack Kelly ditch his dreams of a boy to become a man?)

that towered over a lean man who was casually basking in the weak October daylight. He frowned at the sudden loss of warmth, but his eyes danced with mirth as he gazed over his former selling partner, current best friend, and long-time confidant. “Why, Jack Kelly. I thought you stood me up.”

“I’d neva, Dave,” Jack bent down in the mellow grass next to David. “They caugh’ me onna big shipment just as I was ‘bout to leave for lunch. Tell Esther that the market’ll have a good deal on trout tomorrow.”

Their heads nearly touched at the temple, and if Jack had the nerve or the gall, he could move a miniscule inch and connect their homely skin. It would only take a second- and what is a second, honestly? A moment in time? In the everlasting universe? And Jack Kelly wasn’t a very smart man, but he knew that humans only took up a small part of the whole existence of the world and a single second of humanity could manage to be wasted on the shifting of a cold, lonely wrist to lay on the freckled arm of another-

David rolled onto his side, more interested in a patch of dandelions than the market predictions for the next day. “Besides,” scrunching his nose, as if that would clear his irreverent musings on the universe, “not all o’ us are fancy medical men with all the break time they could ask fa’. I’m the big man pullin’ the weight ‘round here.”

(And it was true, to some aspects. Jack brought home honest-to-goodness bakery bread on Fridays so they could practice Shabbat without travelling, as Mayer so liked to do. He gave Les nickels to spend at the fair and bought Sarah hair ribbons for no particular reason. There was the gas bill he had paid one particularly difficult December, and the endless hours of doing various handiwork around the house when David was studying and Mayer’s old aches came to haunt him. The Jacobs’ home was also Jack’s, not because he needed it, but because they needed him.)

(He needed it too, he supposed.)

A yellow dandelion hovered over his nose, gently twirling with the teasing hum of David leaning in so close. Jack’s teeth snapped at it.

“You can drink the milk of these, I read,” David mused.

Jack wrinkled his nose. “Dandelion salad‘s only good tha first five times. Plus, it’d turn Crutchie’s tongue yellow.”

Dropping the little flower altogether, David rolled flat on his back and turned to gently nudge Jack on his shoulder with his premature wrinkling forehead. “Jackie,” he whispered.

(“I love you,” he would go on, later in Jack’s dreams. “I’ve loved you since I met you, I love you like a wildfire, I love you so much I cannot bear it, I love you like every character in all of my books, I love you.”)

“I’ve met a girl.” There was a hint of mischief in David’s tone- and Jack didn’t recognize it. There was suddenly a gated city wrapped around David’s heart and Jack was frantically scrambling for the key; For the first time, he was locked out of David’s life. He was an onlooker upon territory he had memorized by touch, by heart, by memory.

“Yeah?” If David had been paying attention, the word would have pinged around his Tin Man heart- hollow, empty, overused. “The Walking Mouth finally has someone to use it on?”

He relished in the feel of David’s uncalloused palms shoving playfully at his tanned, muscled arm. “Don’t be crass,” the boy chided. “Her name is April.”

(Jack was born on a misty-eyed April morning, with the clouds swabbed over the sun and an ominous wind blowing throughout the emptied streets. His mother had called it a bad omen. His father couldn’t fathom why.)

The crook of Jack’s elbow was full of David’s lingering fingertips; A question he didn’t dare ask left a sour taste on his tongue. He smiled at David’s far away face, his gaze belonging to a girl,

(a girl, a rotten girl, a girl that wasn’t even Katherine because that would have hurt much less, understandable even. She was an unimportant girl and she would never be enough for Davey, his Davey)

(A girl.)

and his smile was full of thorns.

---

“I can’t believe-” the words were practically ripped from his throat. “We’s goin’ so fast!”

David couldn’t drive in the technical sense, but he was captaining a true automobile as the Earth did spin. Jack sat in the passenger seat to crow at any poor little commoners that walked along the beaten path, none of them good enough to ride in the electrical engine Mr. Ford had handcrafted himself.

It had been a graduation present from a fellow doctorate student (one with a wealthy father and ill-meaning connections), a spin in his brand-new electric carriage for his reliable old pal, David Jacobs. Jack’s eyes widened to the size of half-dollars as the man passed over the keys to David- David, who had once put the wrong shoe on the wrong foot and walked around crooked all day, too proud to admit he had made a mistake- and they tried to conceal their excitement as the engine turned over for the first time.

He was going to do it. Right here, right now, in this strange man’s car, with clunky work boots on his feet and David’s spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose.

“I love you!” Jack roared over the engine.

“I’m going to ask April to marry me!” David practically sang into the wind.

Jack’s throat closed up, his skin was set on fire, and he suddenly wanted to see what happened when you jumped from a gadget that was moving so fast.

“Wait, what? Did you hear me?” David’s hair was beginning to grow long enough that it was wild in the gust of the automobile. “I’m going to ask her to marry me!”

(When he was seven, another newsboy- only a handful of months older than him- had asked him if his momma had ever taught him about love. No, Jack had replied, both sour about being outsmarted by a kid who picked his nose and not ever having a momma in the first place. “It’s this great big tree that grows on the inside of our tummies,” the boy went on. “And one day, someone ‘s gonna come along and pick all ‘f th’ fruit on our branches, one by one, until all you have are pretty green leaves. That’s love.”)

(That same boy would kiss him in a dirty alleyway seven years later, and Jack would crack a joke about all of his apples still being intact. The boy would stare back with blank, unrecognizable eyes.)

Jack couldn’t even be angry- he wasn’t strong enough to be furious anymore, not when his days were long and the nights were spent clutching at empty bedsheets. He couldn’t be angry at his good, unselfish Davey, the boy who rubbed at his mother’s aching feet when she spent too long at the factory lines and clumsily darned socks when his sister couldn’t feel her slender fingers. There was no resentment for the beautiful, dark-haired girl who had accidentally collided with David at the grocer’s market when they reached for the same can of something-or-other. She had been nothing but kind to the gentle giant who lurked in the shadows of David’s life, telling inappropriate jokes and interrupting their dates. April always made a place for him at their table.

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all year,” Jack called out, and watched his words dance away in the wind.

---

Katherine had struck him, hard, when he asked her to marry him.

He cradled his jaw with a shock that reverberated around his skull. “Kathy, what did I-”

“You are the most selfish, careless man I know, Jack Kelly.” Her skirts whirled around her ankles- the candy-pink cotton matching other bridesmaids’ dresses to contrast the delicate white lace of April’s wedding dress. David Jacobs was now a married man, and Jack Kelly a desperate one. “We all see how you look at him. There’s not a single person who hasn’t noticed. Get it through your thick, unfeeling skull.”

(“They say,” David’s vows were memorized. His voice never wavered. “That only someone in love would truly understand the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice: a man walks through the Underworld to save his begotten bride, to only turn around and lose her at the very last second. I’ve spent years pouring over that story, wondering why Orpheus would be such a fool, such an irresponsible, lovesick fool, if he truly loved her. But now, standing before my own darling little bride, I understand. I’d turn around for one last look at you. I’d turn every. Single. Time. I’m your fool, April. And I’d choose our fate a million times over.”)

“He doesn’t love you,” Katherine’s voice was heavy with disgust. “And I’m beginning to understand why.”

---

The train ticket was heavy in his palm. “I just don’t see why you have to go,” David whispered. “Who is my son going to learn his bad habits from? Who’s going to teach him how to hawk a headline for extra change? How to poke fun at his papa?”

“He has Les.” Jack’s voice was a barely audible rumble, rusty with misuse. He didn’t talk much these days, Jack Kelly now preferred to linger in the background of conversations, the memory of a bright young man he used to be. Those days had come and gone without much complaint, even if Jack secretly yearned to be so terribly free that he believed in a future for a gangly, fresh-faced boy and a hardened boy with the silver-tongued lies.

(There were rumors, you know. About horrible men and horrible things, about broken ribs and jail time even the Mayor would disapprove of. Jack didn’t do much to dispel the irrational stories people told about him.)

(To prove a lie is false, you must present the truth.)

(Jack didn’t have a truthful bone left in his body.)

A carefully measured silence stretched between them. “Is this about…” David’s hand instinctively reached for Jack’s rough palm- a second of contact, the flash in the pan, their moment in the universe.

He withdrew from his gentle touch, and taking a bullet to his leg

(Jack was twenty-three and alarmingly brave. David was twenty-two and studying to become a doctor. They both cried as David’s unsure hand stitched an unclean wound back together- David, tears of worry; Jack, hopelessly lovesick and falling apart at the seams.)

had been less painful. “It’s about Santa Fe, Dave. Kiss Esther goodbye for me, won’t you?”

The platform to the train was busy, flowing with New Yorkers that had somewhere to be, a place to go, or a person to meet. Jack was the lone soul that took his time to feel the cobblestone under his worn-down boots, the ragged laces dragging against the streets that raised him as their own. His suitcase, a single-handled brown leather

(the only item inside was a bundle of letters, all addressed to David Jacobs)

thing, had never seen a polish rag or repairman’s case, and he felt as if he had the weight of the world to carry with him all the way to New Mexico, where the cattle roam free and Jack Kelly wouldn’t have a broken heart to board up behind slats of wood. The train whistle blew, sharp and piercing, and Jack couldn’t resist his own dreadful hubris; He turned.

And David Jacobs had already disappeared into the swarm of faceless people with their endless inventory of needs to be met, so Jack Kelly got on a train to Santa Fe.