#let’s dive into what drops to expect from the sneaker space this week

[freshthoughts2020]

[searchingwardrobes]

Valentine Throwbacks: Day 2

This was written a few years ago for the 14 Days of Valentine’s Prompts on tumblr. This was for day three: the meet-cute.

Summary: Emma Swan doesn’t do “cute.” So when she meets Killian Jones for the first time, well, she meets ALL of him. Or what happens when gym employee Emma walks in on Killian in the tanning bed.

Making a picset for this fic was simultaneously fun and frustrating. Colin’s chest hair is one of a kind, isn’t it? ;) I also didn’t want this to be NSFW, so the tanning bed pic isn’t exactly as described in the story, lol.

Words: almost 3k

Rated: High T ? I mean, Emma accidentally sees him nude, but that’s about it. I just can’t bring myself to rate this an M because it’s overall just funny and cute.

Also on Ao3

Tagging the usuals: @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @kmomof4 @let-it-raines @teamhook @bethacaciakay @xhookswenchx @tiganasummertree @shireness-says @stahlop @scientificapricot @welllpthisishappening @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @ilovemesomekillianjones @kday426 @ekr032-blog-blog @lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @nikkiemms @optomisticgirl @profdanglaisstuff @carpedzem @ohmakemeahercules @branlovestowrite @superchocovian @sherlockwhovian @vvbooklady1256 @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @delirious-latenight-laughs @jennjenn615 @snidgetsafan @xsajx​ @itsfabianadocarmo @spartanguard @hookedonapirate​

Emma Swan did not work her butt off just to wipe things. She practically crawled and scraped her way into a meaningful life after getting out of prison. She worked multiple jobs, lived in her car, ate nothing but beans straight from the can, and when the misery was all said and done, she had a college degree in exercise science. But like any field these days everyone wanted experience, so until she somehow got some, she was relegated to wiping things. Wiping down the equipment, wiping down mats, wiping, wiping, and more wiping. And she only made slightly more than the teenagers at the reception desk and the college guy who made the smoothies.

Emma sighed as she grabbed yet another fresh rag after her boss told her the tanning machines needed . . . you guessed it, wiping. She was paying more attention to her internal raging about how much her life sucked than she was to her superior telling her which beds were occupied. She was pretty sure she said they were all being used except for bed three, so Emma went all the way to the end of the narrow hallway that housed the tanning beds and stopped at the last door. If she hadn’t been distracted and moody, she might have thought to knock. Maybe. Then again, most people locked the damn door.

Well, not this guy. He also didn't wear underwear to tan like most people. Nope, he was completely nude. He lay there, in all his glory, shimmering under the UV bulbs like the god Apollo or something. And the Greek god comparison wasn’t an exaggeration between the light shining on him, and the chiseled muscles, and the perfect . . . He was sort of like a living version of the statue of the David, but tanned and with lots of chest hair.

“Who’s there!” he called out.

Emma gasped, then cursed under her breath as she turned and left, slamming the door behind her. She sagged against the heavy oak door, her heart racing. She groaned and covered her face with the hand that wasn’t still clutching the bottle of cleanser and rag. Had she just stood there and stared at the guy? Oh god, she had.

Suddenly, the door behind her gave way and Emma fell backwards with a yelp. From her place on the floor, she looked up to see Apollo himself standing above her, smirking, wearing nothing but a pair of tight, white briefs. Did he look . . . pleased with himself? She suddenly realized she was clutching the bottle of cleanser to her chest.

“Like what you saw, darling?” he asked with an arched brow. He had a British accent. Of course.

Emma rolled her eyes at him as she struggled to her feet, irritatingly brushing off his attempts to assist her. “Please, I didn’t even look. Do you think I want to burn my retinas?”

His eyes, which were an amazing shade of blue, seemed alight with mirth as he regarded her. “Then why the blush?” He leaned towards her slightly, his encroachment upon her personal space made all the more infuriating by his lack of clothing. She took a step back towards the doorway.

“Oh great,” she snapped, “you’re that type.”

His brow furrowed, and for a moment he actually looked slightly hurt. “What type?”

Emma crossed her arms across her chest, despite the awkwardness of the cleaning supplies clutched in her hand. “Isn’t it obvious? I mean, seriously, who uses a tanning bed in the middle of the winter? Except for –“ she vaguely gestured up and down his person, “wanna-be Calvin Klein underwear models.”

It was his turn to scowl and cross his arms over his chest. His very appealing chest that Emma was trying really hard not to stare at.

“Or maybe some people do it for their health. You ever think of that?”

“Yeah right,” Emma bit out, “health of what? Your sex life, playboy?”

His blue eyes sparked with indignation. “Oh, you get an eye-full and you suddenly know me?”

Guilt pricked at her for a moment. She was in the wrong here for barging in without knocking. But his smirking and innuendos had her defenses up. “I know your type,” she told him smugly with a tilt of her chin.

“You walk in on me, and I’m the bad guy?”

He had a point, and she knew it. She took several more steps backwards into the hallway and turned on her heel, her ponytail swinging with irritation all its own. “Ugh, I’ve got work to do. Wipe the bed down, I get tired of cleaning up other people’s sweat all day.”

Emma half expected him to get in one last word, but as she marched away, all she heard was the slamming of the door to tanning room three.

***********************************************************

The week of her little embarrassing tanning bed episode, there had been a slight lull at the gym. It had been the last week of January, when New Year’s resolutions were waning and the cold weather dampened people’s motivation. But now people seemed to suddenly realize that Valentine’s Day was only two weeks away, and the gym was once again packed. Even the indoor pool had been in more frequent usage, so Emma’s boss sent her to check the chlorine levels. With the flu epidemic, they couldn’t afford to let germs spread in the warm water.

It had also been a week since Emma had seen “Apollo the sun god,” much to her relief. But when she exited the women’s locker room, into the pool area, there he was: his muscular back an appealing sight as his arms cut through the water. He was evidently an experienced swimmer as he turned off the wall expertly and did a strong backstroke across the length of the pool. Emma shook her head and cursed herself. Damn it, she was staring again!

Emma was leaning over the edge, a nice distance away from the tanning god, getting samples of the water in little test tubes. She was shaking the first one to get a result when she was sprayed with little droplets of water. She looked up, her eyes angry, narrow slits, to see him, treading water easily with a maddening grin on his face. The pool water made his blue eyes almost glitter like sapphires, and he looked unfairly sexy wet.

“I’ve been hoping to see you again,” he told her. “We didn’t exactly get off on the right foot. I’m sorry I teased you, I was just trying to help you see the humor in the situation. It came off wrong, obviously.”

Emma purposely ignored him, staring at the little tube in her hand and trying to remember what the hell she was looking at. He cut through the water towards her, and rested his arm on the edge of the pool inches away from where she crouched.

“I’m Killian Jones by the way,” he said. Emma pressed her lips together in frustration as she blushed for absolutely no reason. She still refused to look at him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him cock his head. “And this is the part where you say, hello, I’m Emma Swan.”

She jerked her head so fast, she almost dropped the test tube. “How did you –“

“I can read, love,” he laughed, gesturing towards her right shoulder.

Emma groaned as she glanced down at her employee name tag. She got hit on all the time at the gym, and had heard a million different pick-up lines involving her last name. But she had sworn off men since Neal, except for an occasional one night stand. But those were never men from work; too much familiarity.

“Some men would take your silence as off-putting,” Killian told her then with a smirk, “but I love a challenge.” Then he had the audacity to wink before diving back under the water.

Emma rubbed her forehead wearily as she stood. The water was low on chemicals, so she pushed the handsome swimmer/sun bather from her mind as she collected what she needed from the supply closet. She measured the chlorine as well as a small dose of shock and added it to the filtration system, then she headed back for the locker room.

Emma wasn’t sure exactly what happened next. There was a puddle of water on the tile floor deep enough to send her sensible sneakers sliding out from under her. Then her arms were wind-milling in empty air, and the pool water seemed to be rushing up to meet her. But before she could hit the water, a hand shot out and grasped her by the elbow. She was hauled from the pool edge, colliding with a warm, wet, very masculine chest.

Killian Jones chuckled as his other arm came around her. “Next time, don’t stand on ceremony.”

Emma blamed her shocked surprise for her delayed reaction in pulling away from him. “Please, Jones, don’t flatter yourself.”

He tucked his tongue into his cheek and waggled his eyebrows, “Remembering yesterday?”

Emma fumed as she gave him a disdainful once-over. “I’m just shocked you’re not in a speedo, mister tighty-whitey.”

Killian’s eyes widened and his gaze went from playful to irritated. “You wouldn’t even know I wore tighty-whities if you hadn’t walked in on me!”

Emma threw up her hands in frustration, resisting the urge to shove him. “It was an accident!”

He arched one brow. “Like you almost falling in the pool?”

Emma scoffed as she crossed her arms over her chest, “Who said I was falling?”

“Fine,” he spat out, “next time, I’ll just let you fall.”

He brushed past her then, grabbing his towel angrily as he marched towards the men’s locker room. Emma started to stomp her way in the opposite direction, but then decided she better tread more carefully on the wet floor.

Not that she had needed Killian Jones to catch her. She was just fine on her own.

********************************************************

Several hours later, Emma walked into her apartment and kicked her gym shoes off by the door. Her feet ached as she dragged herself over to the couch and plopped down next to her roommate. She groaned and Elsa laughed, handing her a slice of pizza from the pie resting on the coffee table.

“Rough day?”

“Yeah,” Emma muttered around a bite, “tanning bed guy showed up again.”

“Oh,” Elsa laughed, wrinkling her nose, “that must have been embarrassing.”

Emma waved her hand. “Don’t want to talk about it. I just want to stuff my face with pizza and zone out in front of the TV.” She narrowed her eyes at the screen and groaned, “Not this, Elsa, seriously?”

Her best friend shook her head as she chuckled at Emma. “Dr. Oz gives lots of good advice.” She poked Emma in the shoulder. “You should listen to him, junk food junkie. How you’re ever going to be a personal trainer when you eat like a fourteen year old, is beyond me.”

Emma smirked and lifted two fingers, “One, I was gifted with an amazing metabolism. Two, my clients will just need to do as I say, not as I do.”

They both laughed then and continued devouring the pizza. Emma’s brow furrowed as she tried to follow the show, since she had missed the first half. “What’s wrong with this girl he’s talking to?” she finally asked Elsa.

“Seasonal affective disorder,” Elsa explained, “lots of people get it in the winter.”

Emma snorted. “Is that a real thing? It sounds made up.”

Elsa shrugged, “I don’t understand it, since I love winter. The snow is so pretty, and the cold – I just don’t get why it bothers people.”

Emma rolled her eyes and tossed a throw pillow at her friends’ head, “Okay, you’re weird, we’ve established that.”

Elsa whacked Emma with the pillow then hugged it to her chest instead of giving it back. “Seriously though, it is a real thing. My friend at work struggles with it. I finally talked him into seeing a therapist, and Killian says it really helps him. Some things that help are physical, like –“

The blood had drained from Emma’s face as she choked out, “like a tanning bed?”

Elsa’s eyes widened, “Yeah, actually, and he swims in an indoor pool, too. Why?”

Emma groaned, dropping her pizza back to the box. She covered her face with both hands. “Please,” she muttered between her fingers, “don’t tell me his last name is Jones and that he has a British accent.”

“Yeah, he –“ Elsa’s words cut off as understanding dawned, “oh my god, you’re not saying he’s the tanning bed guy?”

Emma peeked through her fingers, “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. He introduced himself today – at the pool. Trying to be nice, actually.” She moaned as she lowered her head to Elsa’s lap. “I’m a bitch,” she whispered.

Elsa just gave a tiny, soft laugh as she worked the tangles out of Emma’s hair with her long fingers. “Well, so am I, that’s why we’re friends.”

*****************************************************

Emma hoped that good intentions justified quasi-stalking. She had to make it up to Killian for being so horrible, and she couldn’t just wait around to bump into him again. She pulled his account up on her work computer and learned his gym routine. Killian Jones was an extremely punctual person of habit. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he got to the gym at 5 am and left at 6:30. Emma didn’t get to her shift on those days until 8:00. But on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, he arrived at 7:00 pm and left at 8:30, which were the same days that Emma worked late.

Unfortunately, Elsa informed her that Killian had come down with the dreaded flu. By the time he came back to the gym, and Emma had figured out how to approach him, it was February the 14th. It wasn’t ideal to approach him on Valentine’s Day. After all, she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. But if she put it off any longer, she knew she would chicken out. So on Valentine’s Day, when Killian Jones exited the gym, he found Emma Swan leaning against his black SUV with a smoothie in her hand. (That had taken additional stalking. To ascertain the smoothie he usually ordered and which vehicle in the parking lot belonged to him.)

“A peace offering?” Emma asked, hating when her voice cracked a bit. When he just stood there with his mouth hanging open, she rushed on, “And an apology? For walking in on you and then. . .well, for being a bitch.”

That finally got a chuckle out of him. He shuffled forward, and for the first time looked nervous. He tossed his bag in the back seat then turned to her with a smile as he leaned against the car with his arms crossed. “What brought on this sudden change?”

Emma’s face fell, and her eyes lowered to stare at the cup in her hand. “Your friend, Elsa Arrendale? I’m her roommate.”

“Oh,” Killian said, scratching behind his ear.

“And she didn’t tell me much,” Emma rushed to explain, “just enough to make me see how quick I was to judge you.”

Killian nodded. “So she told you I’m a mess this time of year, huh?”

Emma smiled and shrugged, “Hey, not everyone loves freezing their ass off the way Elsa does.” That got another chuckle out of him. “And besides, I’m a mess pretty much year round.”

“Well,” Killian said with a long sigh, “I was too, for a while. Right after my Milah died, I could barely get out of bed each morning. That was five years ago.”

Emma frowned. “I’m so sorry. Who was she? Your wife?”

“Aye,” Killian answered softly, “she died in a car accident. This time of year. We were going out on a nice date.”

“Valentine’s day?”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head and a false grin, “my birthday, actually, end of January.”

“I’m so sorry, Killian. No wonder this time of year is so hard for you.” She bit her lip. “Can you ever forgive me for being such a jerk to you?”

He ran his hand down his face, and afterwards, he gave her a more relaxed smile. “Of course I forgive you, Swan. I do make an arse of myself at times, so I can’t really blame you.”

They shared a laugh at that. Emma cocked her head, studying him and seeing him in a whole new light. “You have Valentine plans?”

Both his eyebrows lifted, “Can’t say I do. Why?”

She shrugged, “How about I buy you a drink?” She shook the smoothie cup still in her hand. “A bit stronger than this.”

Killian gave her a sinful smile, cocked his head, and tapped his lips. “I’d say you owe me a proper apology, love.”

Emma wanted to scoff, to roll her eyes, but all she could do was smile as a blush crept up her face. “That’s what the drink is for.”

Killian pouted then, quite affectively. “That’s all I get? When this time of year makes me so, so sad?”

What Emma did next was partly to shut him up. However, she had to admit, it was also because she had imagined what it would be like to kiss him a thousand times since the tanning bed. So she lunged for him, the smoothie falling to the ground forgotten with a thud and a splash. She hauled him in by the collar of his shirt, her mouth hungrily taking his.

Because she could admit it now: Yes, she liked what she saw.

[beckzorz]

Clever Fingers (one-shot)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader Words: 2815 Warnings: Swearing Summary: An exchange on the metro doesn’t quite go how Bucky expects. A/N: So after breaking a lot of hearts, I thought I’d soothe some spirits with a light-hearted one-shot I frankensteined out of three prompts. (That’s a word, right????) Thank you to @shield-agent78, @19mrs-rogers18, and @piensa-bonito for the following prompts, respectively: brush of the fingertips, lips, and rendezvous. Hope you all enjoy! Let me know what you think, but go easy on me—I wrote this in a hurry today. Just for you 😘

Bucky taps his fingers on his thigh. Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap-tap-tap. Fibonacci sequence, tap code, Morse code—he loses track fast. It doesn’t matter, not really.

He’s leaning against a pillar on the subway, his eyes half-obscured by the brim of his cap. He peeks out as the next train comes in, scanning the cars for the right number, but no. Not yet. There’s a specific train he’s looking for, and a specific car. He’s in place to slip in the right door, but he has to wait for the right train.

The rendezvous point is more specific than usual, in that way.

It’s got the makings of a good plan, but then there’s the short time window to retrieve the package. Someone—and Bucky doesn’t know whom—is going to slip him a thumb drive in the space between this stop and the next.

Three minutes, tops, and with zero chance to scout ahead of time.

Well, he’s dealt with worse. At least he’s not supposed to be killing anyone.

A cluster of schoolkids bounds onto the platform, loud and uniformed with heavy backpacks and a third of them with smartphones out. They’re young; twelve, thirteen? It’s been so long since he’s spent time around normal kids that he can’t tell.

Yeah, thank god he’s not supposed to be killing anyone.

It’s another couple minutes before the next train arrives. More people mill onto the platform. Rush hour is still seventy minutes away, give or take, so it’s not painfully crowded. Just uncomfortably so. No one bumps into him, at least. Fortunately, he can stop worrying about the platform, because this train is the right one. He ambles inside with feigned indifference and makes his way to the end of the car, where he leans against the wall, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

Bucky studies the people in the car. The students, of course, making a ruckus at the other end of the car. A family here, another there. A few scattered businessmen and women with their heads buried in their phones. One’s even on a call. There’s a young woman with a baby strapped to her front sitting near him, another a few seats away with a quiet small dog in a bag, and a third in an oversized sweater asking for money.

And there, at the far end of the car just before the students, is someone with eyes on Bucky. A young man with airpods in, his dark eyes wide as he stares. When Bucky catches his eye, the young man smiles and looks down, cheeks darkening a little as he pulls out his phone.

Embarrassed for being caught staring, or…

Bucky pushes himself off of the wall and grabs onto the overhead pole as he starts towards the young man.

Halfway between stops, now.

“Excuse me, sir, do you have a dollar?”

Bucky takes in the woman in front of him in a single glance. She’s not quite meeting his gaze; one hand is held out, the other is stuffed in her pocket. Her jeans are frayed, shoes dirty, hair more than a little unkempt.

“No, sorry,” he says. He brushes past her, nudging her a little out of the way as he makes his way to the young man. Behind him, the beggar approaches the next person.

“Excuse me, ma’am, do you have a dollar?”

By the time Bucky makes it to the man at the other end of the car, jostling has knocked a few other commuters against him, and the train is slowing. The dark tunnel is replaced by the next station rolling into view.

The young man perks up when he spots Bucky.

“Hey,” Bucky says. He licks his lips, taking in the young man’s thoroughly unextraordinary appearance. Reasonable outfit, sensible sneakers—if a little flashier than necessary—and a guileless smile.

“Hey man!” He’s excited, clearly. He holds up his phone. “Can I get a selfie?”

Bucky’s heart stutters. “Uh—sure.” He plops down beside the young man, forces a smile for the camera, and waits for the delivery.

The doors open.

“Thanks so much, man!” The young man is grinning outright now. He pops to his feet. “This is my stop! Have a great day!” He rushes out of the train.

Bucky stands up slowly, stomach clenching. This is a transfer station; it seems like half the people who’d been on the train had left, and a totally new crowd was filtering in. A middle-aged woman slips past him to take his abandoned seat, pulling out a book. An old man sits across from her, using the pole to ease his drop down. A third of the schoolkids are gone.

And Bucky’s screwed.

He grips onto the nearest pole, head ducked so all he can see is the floor. His vision swims as the train lurches on.

How? How did he miss it? What did he miss? Did Tasha’s contact even make it?

He whips out his phone from his back pocket, left hand shaking a little. The screen is blank. No alert, no cancelation. Nothing at all, except a sinking suspicion that he’d fucked everything up.

The mission parameters were clear as glass. Exchange on this train, between the two previous stops. No repeat, no second chances. The drive’s even set to wipe its contents in another two hours.

Not nearly enough time to fix the mess he’s made.

The train slow again, and this time Bucky bursts out ahead of anyone else. He whips his head around, staring along the platform, but it’s wrong, all wrong. Wrong stop, wrong time, wrong, wrong, wrong.

A warning beep, and then the doors slide shut with a thump. Bucky spins to watch the subway leave. It pulls out of the station.

With it goes any hopes of fixing his mistake.

—

Bucky scrubs his hands along his face. The scrape of stubble on his right palm is grounding, more grounding than the haunted look in his eyes as he stares at himself in the cracked bathroom mirror.

He can’t remember the last time he failed a mission this simple. Had he ever? He’d always done his job, always succeeded…

The buzzer rings.

Bucky groans, but he makes his way over to the intercom.

“Hello?”

“Let me in!”

It’s Natasha, sounding as annoyed as anything. Bucky sighs and buzzes her in, forehead pressed against the wall. Soon enough, she’s pounding on his door. He lets her in.

“Finally! Why didn’t you get in touch? Where is it?”

Natasha barrels inside, red hair flying behind her in a wave as she spins in a circle, looking for—

“Whaddya mean?”

“The drive, idiot! They said it went perfectly, at least on their end…” Natasha draws up short, eyes narrowing as a smirk grows across her face. “Oh my god, did you not realize it? They got the jump on you?”

Bucky’s head is reeling. “This wasn’t a fight,” he says, but Natasha’s already digging in his pockets. He swats her hand away from his ass—“It’s not there, Tasha!”—but she only flashes him a wicked grin and keeps looking.

“Aha!”

Natasha yanks her hand out of his jacket’s right pocket.

In her hand—the drive.

“What the fuck?!” Bucky yelps. Natasha dives for the laptop on the coffee table and slams the drive into the USB port.

Bucky falls straight to the floor, tailbone rattling from the impact.

“What the fuck.”

Natasha chuckles. “I was wondering why my contact was so blasé about the delivery. Guess she thought you’d notice her.”

Her?

“Or at least be a gentleman enough to give her a dollar,” Natasha finishes.

Bucky could’ve kicked himself.

—

Thank god for small miracles—Natasha promises to keep his slip-up to herself.

That doesn’t stop her from making private jokes at his expense, of course.

Of course.

—

There’s a party downtown a few weeks later. Data from the drive targets it as a potential spot for a weapons deal, a big one, complete with alien tech.

“I don’t know how the hell there’s even any unclaimed alien tech left on the planet,” Bucky grumbles.

Natasha snorts as she climbs out of the taxi behind him. She fluffs her dyed hair and pushes her bright plastic glasses up her nose. Her shoes are dangerously tall, more so because Bucky knows just how dangerous heels can be in Tasha’s hands. And she’s packing a lot of heel tonight.

Among other things.

He really doesn’t know how she hides so much in such tight clothes.

Then again, people might well ask him the same tonight.

Bucky had let Natasha pick his outfit for a change. It’s one of many favors she’s blackmailed out of him to keep his gaffe a secret. He can’t really blame her; lord knows he’d probably do the same. He doesn’t look bad, but it’s far from his usual layers. Natasha had brought out the holographic cover for his arm, with strict instructions to keep it dry, to go with a fitted t-shirt with a dark floral print reminiscent of a jungle at nighttime. And then the jeans, which look far too snug, but they’re a stretchy fabric perfect for dancing.

And ass-kicking.

If it comes to that.

Natasha leads Bucky past the long line. The bouncer lets them in with a private nod for Natasha; the wonder of bribes, or is he a connection?

Doesn’t matter, Bucky decides as the music starts to thrum straight down to his bones. It’s a couple flight of stairs down to the flashing ballroom. Natasha slants a smile at him before she melts into the crowd.

Bucky’s mission is simple: backup. His phone is waiting in a hidden pocket on his jeans, safe from prying hands and close enough that he’ll hear as soon as Natasha needs his help. In the meantime, recon.

Bucky makes his way to the bar along the left-hand wall, a few steps up from the packed floor. It’s as good a view as he’ll get before making his way to the balcony. He scans the room as he waits for one of the bartenders to get to him. The music is loud, but he can hear a few conversations here and there. A couple to his left, a group of single women to his right. There are a couple of uncomfortably young faces—is he getting older, or are there kids in here with fake IDs?

Both, probably.

“Want something?”

“Yeah, whiskey on the rocks.”

Bucky slaps down some bills in exchange for the drink. He slips out from the press of people at the bar and climbs up to the balcony that lines the ballroom. From his spot by the railing, he can see the dj bopping his head to his beats, the lighting rigs on the stage, and even Natasha, weaving seamlessly among the crowd. He downs his whiskey, the burn an old memory.

Someone nudges his arm as he drops his empty glass on a passing tray.

“Scuse me, you dropped your phone.”

Bucky shakes his head without looking at the woman beside him. “Not mine.”

“Really?” There’s amusement in her voice.

Bucky finally glances to his right. “Listen, it’s not—” His voice fails him.

Oh.

The phone in her hand is totally his. Bucky frowns.

—

Inside, you’re laughing.

Bucky Barnes’ eyes are glued to the phone in your hand. His phone, the one you’d swiped while he was ordering a drink.

“How the…”

His gaze snaps to your face, and sudden realization clicks.

“You,” he breathes. He huffs, a smile tugging at his lips. “Shoulda known. You’ve got clever fingers.”

Bucky looks you over without shame, his pupils darkening as he takes you in. Your disguise on the metro had been good, but for all that his disinterest had been the point, you can’t can’t help the thrill that runs through you as he licks his lips at the sight of you.

He holds out his hand for his phone; his fingers brush yours as you hand it to him. The light touch leaves your hand tingling.

“Do I still owe you a dollar?” he asks, voice low.

You tilt your head and study him. The hair brushing his cheek, the sparkle in his eye, the dimple in his chin; all that, and you can still feel the phantom touch of his fingers on yours. The other day, you’d been too wrapped in character to appreciate him, but now…

“I’ll settle for a dance,” you tell him.

“Well, if you insist.”

But he’s smiling, and there’s a fresh bounce in his step as he grabs your hand and tugs you towards the stairs.

A slight movement below catches your eye. You stop short, eyes narrowing as you watch a string of men file down the hallway towards the restrooms and the back exit.

Bucky steps close. “What?” he murmurs, his breath hot on your ear. You suppress the shiver that runs up your spine.

“Seven o’clock.”

His eyes land right where yours are. “Ah.” He lets go of your hand with a sigh. “That dance is gonna have to wait. Sorry.” Bucky forces a smile and hurries off before you can cut in edgewise.

You gape after him.

Really!

You’re hot on his heels as he patters feather-light down the stairs and along the side of the room to the back hallway. You hurry ahead to catch the back exit door before it swing shut. When you slip through, panting, Bucky spins, eyebrows flying to his hairline when he spots you.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hisses.

“Helping,” you say.

The door opens again—it’s your contact, Natasha.

“Oh, you made it!” she whispers. “Come on, Bucky, no time to dawdle.”

Natasha leads the way up the stairs, pulling a pistol from under her dress and carefully loading it. You reach under your shirt and grab the gun from the chest holster against your skin. Bucky huffs with the same amusement as before as he preps his own, though you can’t help but notice that his eyes had lingered on your exposed skin.

But you can think about that later. Right now, time to focus.

—

Five minutes later, the arms deal is broken up thanks to some excellent feats of acrobatics from the two Avengers and some well-aimed shots from yours truly. Natasha calls in SHIELD, pacing barefoot now that one of her heels has broken off after she lodged it in one of the prone men’s thighs.

Serves him right, really.

Bucky tugs you aside. His hand is cool on your arm. For a moment, you’re startled, then you remember: under whatever disguise he’s got on, that hand is metal.

Well, this is the Winter Soldier, after all.

You smile up at him, adrenaline still running fast through your veins. “What’s up?”

“I underestimated you three times now,” he says. His eyes flit across your face, apology and hope painted on his features as he finally meets your eyes. He steps closer. “Feel like maybe I owe you more than one dance.”

He’s close, dangerously close. You can feel his radiating body heat, and his broad chest is only inches from yours. You can smell him now too, without the press of bodies and despite the metallic tang of blood. There’s some of it on his cheek, and you lick your thumb to wipe it away. Bucky swallows, never taking his eyes from yours. He reaches up and wipes a spot on your jaw clean as well. Your breath catches from his gentle touch.

“Can you forgive me?” he asks.

You bite your lip to hide your smile, but Bucky sees right through it. He smiles back, eyes crinkling as he tangles his fingers in yours.

“Three times, huh?” you say. You tilt your head towards Natasha. “Think you have this handled, Agent Romanoff?”

“Hm? Sure, why?” Natasha’s eyes narrow as she spots you and Bucky standing together, hands linked.

“This man owes me some dances,” you tell her. “And I don’t intend to let him slip away again.”

“Third time’s the charm, huh?” Natasha asks, grinning.

Bucky presses a kiss to the crown of your head and squeezes your hand. “Guess so.” He lowers his voice and tugs you back towards the party. “I ain’t letting you and your clever fingers get away, either.”

“Don’t worry, Bucky,” you say. He raises an eyebrow at your cheery tone. You just grin. “I’ll make sure they get put to good use.”

“You tease.” He wraps his arm around your shoulders and presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek. “Guess we’ll hafta see whose got cleverer hands.”

“I look forward to it. But first, Mr. Barnes, you owe me some dances.”

“Yes I do.” Bucky clears his throat and offers his other hand with a flourish. “May I have this dance?”

You press your cheek against his shoulder and smile.

“Yes you may.”

[danfanciesphil]

too high (can’t come down) by @danfanciesphil

Suspending himself 7,000 feet above the rest of the world seems likely to be a sure-fire way for Dan to escape normality, and isolate himself for the foreseeable future. The Secret of the Alps, a small hotel tucked into the side of the Swiss mountains is too niche for most avid adventurers to have heard of, making it the perfect place for Dan to work as he sorts through his problems. Unfortunately, privacy is a coveted thing, and as Dan soon finds out, the hotel harbours one guest who values it more than most.

Rating: Explicit Tags: Enemies to lovers, snow, mountains, skiing, hostility, slow burn, secrecy, longing, repression, nobility, classism, cheating, eventual sex

Ao3 Link

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty (Final Chapter!) *NSFW*

[Three Months Later]

‘...on Friday, Philip Lester (formerly Novokoric) spoke at the Refuge Centre for Domestic Abuse Victims, where he opened up about his own experience with emotional marital abuse. Since his scandalous divorce from Sir Nikolai Novokoric of Switzerland, Lester has become a dedicated philanthropist, using his notoriety which arose during the controversial coverage of the split to spread awareness about domestic abuse, LGBTQ+ discrimination, homelessness, poverty, and many other important global issues. This Tuesday, Lester is expected to appear at the United Nations conference to discuss Third World Poverty…’

The folding seat beside Dan’s is wrenched down, and a young woman with badly-dyed pink hair plops into it, holding a Starbucks cup and an Urban Outfitters tote bag stuffed with books and papers. Dan lowers the lid of his laptop to shift some of his stuff out of the way of her feet.

“Is it just me or does it get more rammed in here every week?” the girl says. Dan stares at her in mild dismay; usually he projects such a cold, unfriendly aura that nobody dares sit within two seats of him. He’s seen this girl in a few classes before, but he can only barely remember her name. It’s something like Ramona, or Rowena... Or maybe it’s neither. She turns to Dan, brandishing a strong, confident smile. “I’m Roshina.” Ah. Neither. “You’re Dan, right? The guy who dropped out and then... dropped in again.”

She tips her head back and cackles for a second, then begins pulling various things out of the tote bag. Dan grimaces, staring at the little cacti prints decorating the bag. What is it with hipster girls and succulents? 

Whilst he’s not thrilled that he’s apparently earned a reputation amongst the student body as the notorious failed quitter, he hasn’t the energy to challenge her on it.

“Guess so,” he replies in a mutter. 

He opens his laptop again, hoping it might signal to her that he’s busy, and not up for a conversation. Of course, every line of the article is like having someone plunge a fresh, thin needle into his chest, slowly stitching the word ‘fool’ into his skin. But his need for information about Phil is as urgent as his need for water. He can’t look away. 

“Ooh, I love that guy,” Roshina says, leaning in towards Dan to read the article as well. She leans her elbow on the back of his seat, the coffee in her hand hovering close to Dan’s nose; it’s something chai-spiced. Dan recoils as subtly as he can, pressing himself into the opposite edge of the chair. 

The article includes a photo of Phil behind a podium, his glasses on, wearing an impassioned expression, mouth open halfway through some dramatic statement or other. 

“If I were as famous as him and I’d just, like, lost my hot rich husband,” Roshina says, loudly, right into Dan’s ear, “I’d have no shame. I’d be applying to Big Brother or Love Island. Just shows there are some blokes willing to do the decent thing after all!”  

Dan cannot imagine why Roshina thinks he’d care what she might hypothetically get up to in her fantasy version of Phil’s life. He imagines Phil sneering at this girl’s audacity, saying something snippy and derisive like: ‘And if I were as vapid as you, I’d perhaps rethink my decision to pursue a career in the legal field, as it’s highly unlikely anyone’s going to hire a solicitor with bubblegum pink hair.’ It makes Dan smile, just a bit, and then in the next second, he’s back to being a bitter old maid. 

“I wouldn’t give him too much credit,” Dan grumbles, eyes stuck to the photo of Phil, spewing some boring line about domestic abuse like he didn’t need to be practically dragged to his own divorce settlement by the cuff of his ear. “He’s probably getting a buttload for all these appearances.”

She snorts at him, rather loudly and obnoxiously considering this is, as far as Dan remembers, their first conversation. “Don’t you read Perez Hilton? He keeps zilch. All profits from his public appearances go to the charity he’s promoting at the time.”

Dan throat suddenly feels very dry. All profits? What’s he living on? He scrolls down the page a bit more; Roshina jabs at his screen suddenly with a short, green fingernail. She’s pointing to another article advertised at the side of this one, with the headline: ‘Give and Thou Shalt Receive: Phil Lester spotted with Possible New Man’.

“Click that one!” Roshina squeals excitedly. “It was just posted!”

Dan is about to tell Roshina in a clipped, irritable tone that he would rather pick up her fluffy pen and drive it into his eye, but she’s already batting his hand away, apparently oblivious to social etiquette. He’s trapped in his seat, forced to watch as she clicks the baiting link. A photo pops up at once, taken through an open car door, of Phil crammed into the back seat with Martyn and a ‘mystery’ person. Except it’s not a mystery-person. Not to Dan, and not to the author of this article, who has, to their credit, obviously done their homework. 

Dan shifts uncomfortably as Roshina laps up the photo, eyes round and gleaming. He feels nauseous, and the smell wafting from her latte is not helping. Not that anything helps the sickness that sits at the bottom of his belly perpetually nowadays. Ever since he re-enrolled, courtesy of his doting and quietly ecstatic parents, Dan has been off food, off socialising, off anything much except sitting in his room scrolling through the endless media cycle of Phil-related articles. 

“Says here this dude used to be Nikolai’s photographer!” Roshina exclaims. Dan says nothing. He doesn’t want to entertain speculative notions that just because PJ, who used to work for Nikolai, has been papped in Phil’s proximity, that it means they’re dating. Even the idea of it has Dan gripping the hard plastic of his armrest to staunch his wave of paranoia. “PJ Ligouri is a UK-based photographer that jumped ship from Nikolai’s press team alongside his former PA Cornelia Dahlgren. The latter is currently dating Martyn Lester, Phil’s older brother. Suspicions of PJ’s involvement with the younger Lester were first aroused when he was noticed photographing Phil’s appearance at last month’s Climate Change Festival-”

Dan slams the lid of the laptop closed so suddenly that Roshina squeaks, yanking her fingers away just in time. “Battery’s low,” he mutters, folding his arms across his chest. He sinks down in his seat, intending to stay that way until the lecture starts, letting the white noise of Roshina’s indignant voice keep his intrusive and unpleasant thoughts of Phil and PJ, and all the things they might be doing, at bay. 

*

“Hey,” Martyn says, “it’s Corn for you. She wants a private word.”

Phil frowns, not looking up. “Tell her I’m the wrong brother to call for that sort of thing.”

“She says it’s pretty serious,” Martyn says, ignoring him. 

Phil lets out a frustrated sigh, letting the open file he’s been reading fall to the couch cushion beside him. The Red Cross have sent him a buttload of information that he needs to know inside out before his address at the United Nations conference later today. He’s been back and forth with the Red Cross for weeks through phone calls and emails trying to get up to speed, but there’s so much to know in such a short space of time. He has to look like he’s dedicated to this project, and he is, but the UN invited him last minute - he hasn’t had a lot of time to prepare. 

He’ll have even less time if Cornelia keeps pestering him about schedules and meetings or whatever this is about. Of course, despite her constant bothering, Phil would lick the soles of her comfortable-but-cool sneakers to keep her around. She’s a scarily good Press Agent, Phil has no idea how Martyn ever took her on back when they were rivals. They work much better as a team, sharing the role for Phil on a voluntary basis, whilst working a few other part-time jobs. 

“Something about a girl with blue hair?” Martyn prompts, and Phil’s heart skips. 

“Hand it over.”

“Say please to your big brother,” PJ scolds from the other end of the couch, though he doesn’t look away from his phone screen, which he’s been Skyping his girlfriend on for the past half hour. He angles the phone at Phil, pulling his headphones out of the jack; Sophie’s round, sweet face fills the screen. “Soph, tell him to use his manners. You’re a lady.”  

“Use manners,” Sophie says, then pulls up her nostrils to look like a snout. “But I’m no lady.”

Phil smiles at her, but his heart is pounding too violently to give her a proper response. He holds his hand out for the phone in Martyn’s hand instead. PJ plugs his headphones back in, voice lowering. 

“Hey, Corn,” Phil says as soon as the phone is against his ear. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” Cornelia says, then clears her throat. She’s not diving straight in to whatever she has to say, so Phil immediately knows this is a sensitive topic. He stands from the uncomfortable sofa he’s sat on, moving over to the window, as far away from Martyn and PJ as he can get in this tiny room. “So, Mona Kemp just contacted me. You remember her? From The Secret of the Alps hotel.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “Yes, I remember the manager of my prison cell, funnily enough.”

She clears her throat again. “Right. Yeah. Well, apparently they’ve just rented out your suite for the first time since you left.”

Phil waits, but Cornelia seems to need prompting. “Uh huh…”

“And the new guests, um, found something.”

The tiny workers controlling Phil’s brain are suddenly thrown into uproar, frantically combing through his memory for any inkling of what incriminating item he might have left in that godforsaken place. His jaw clenches so hard he can feel a twitch, but he stoically stares through the glass pane to hide his panic from the other people in the room.

“Oh?”

“It was like a��� recording device?” Cornelia says, and Phil wishes he could see her in the flesh, read her expression to know how bad it is. 

Although they’re both technically in the same building, the United Nations Headquarters are impossibly huge. She’s downstairs somewhere amongst the thousands of behind-the-scenes worker bees, making arrangements with press and security for the conference. It’ll be hours before she finds her way back up to this bare, lifeless green room they’ve been given use of. 

His eyes flutter closed, picturing Dan, stood defiantly at the foot of a four-poster bed in his wrongly-buttoned shirt, his soft cheeks pink from exertion, spewing garbled information about a thieving girl with blue hair, and how she’d recorded him arguing on the phone. 

“Mona seemed to know who’d put it there somehow, I don’t know,” Cornelia continues in a harried voice. “She said it was the daughter of some family that won a holiday up there. Anyway, obviously this device is a serious breach of privacy, and I’m sure that if you wanted to press charges-”

“What’s on it?”

“Hm?”

Phil pinches the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, conscious of saying too much in case he alerts Martyn, who is already at maximum stress level, and probably listening right behind him. The seams of Phil’s head are bursting, still crammed with straggles of information about water filtration systems and monthly overseas school supplies. He can’t take this in right now, can’t be bothered to give an annoying fangirl brat with an inflated ego the time of day. And on top of that, he cannot listen to Cornelia pretend she hasn’t already listened to that recording, whatever it is, from start to finish. 

“What’s on it, Cornelia? Don’t play dumb.”

There’s a pause; Phil looks over his shoulder and catches Martyn’s eye. He immediately tries to busy himself with meaningless tasks, neatening files and shoving PJ’s lighting equipment into the corner of the room. Phil turns back to the window, shaking his head. Martyn is just as much of a dirty snoop as his fiancé is. They’re made for each other.

At last, Cornelia speaks. She sounds like she’s moved somewhere with less people in the background. “There’s a few. They’re… mostly x-rated.”

A deep, dizzying flush sweeps down Phil’s body, and he feels his mind threatening to fold inwards on itself. Thanks to a herd of mediation and personal response trainers that Nikolai had him spend weeks with years prior, Phil is able to keep himself relatively calm. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, and stays quiet for a minute whilst he thinks of something to say that will help the situation.

“Send the recordings to me,” Phil instructs after a moment. He keeps expecting a sudden surge of anger to well up inside of him - at the blue-haired girl, at Nikolai, at Dan, at himself even - but all that floods through him is a deep, swirling melancholy, dappled with peaks of intense regret. “And for the love of God don’t show anyone else. Especially my brother.”

“Okay, boss.”

“And tell Mona thank you for… being discreet.”

He doesn’t need to check that Mona had quickly and quietly taken the recording device down with a crisp, dismissive explanation to the new guests. He also doesn’t need to check that she hadn’t listened to them herself; Mona is an honest, rule-abiding woman, and would never dream of such a thing. He should send her a fruit basket one day. ...When he can afford fruit baskets again. 

“I will,” Cornelia assures him. “What do you want to do about the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The blue-haired girl. She could have really messed things up-”

“Don’t do anything,” Phil says sternly. “She wants attention. Notoriety. Don’t give her any.”

“Got it.”

“Just send me those recordings. Then get rid of any copies you or anyone else has, for God’s sake.” He hesitates. “Perv.”

She giggles. “Sounds to me like you’re the perv, mate. Not sure I’d have let someone blindfold me on the first shag, he must’ve been really into you-”

“Fuck off, Corn,” Phil says tiredly, no venom in his voice, then hangs up. 

He goes back to his case files with a weight in his chest. They’re suddenly a lot harder to take in. 

*

The bed Phil currently calls his own is far less luxurious than the one he used to sprawl out in when he was a resident of The Secret of the Alps hotel. It’s barely even a bed, really, as it pulls out from a couch, but Phil never bothers folding it away, as he’s only ever in here to sleep. Sleep is what he should be doing right now, in fact, but there’s no way he could drift off right now, not after hearing what he’s just heard.

Phil stares at the battered play button on the audio player window that’s open on his laptop, which balances on his knee. If he clicks it again, it will be the fifth time he’s heard the final recording Cornelia sent over, which is far too many times to be reasonable. She certainly hadn’t been wrong in her description of the audio. X-rated is possibly even a little demure. 

He worries his lower lip between his teeth, hand long ago having reached beneath the covers to ease some of the intense pressure between his legs. He shouldn’t click play again. The other person in this recording is long gone, and his quick exit was more than enough of a message that he doesn’t want to be found. There’s no point in torturing himself with Dan’s ghost. His... incredibly hot ghost. His fingers press more insistently against his crotch. 

Just then, an email from Cornelia pings up in the corner of Phil’s screen. He whips his hand away from his pyjama trousers, feeling very weird about doing any such thing whilst his sister-in-law-to-be is contacting him. To distract himself from the urgent pulses of arousal coming from beneath the covers, he clicks the email.

From: Mona Kemp To: Cornelia Dahlgren

Fwd: Phil Lester

Dear Ms Dahlgren,

On my first attempt to send over the recordings, it appears the hotel’s rather dated computer system failed to include this final, rather short one. I’ve attached it in this email. Once I’ve confirmed you have received it, I shall dispose of the recordings altogether.

Please send Mr Lester my sincerest apologies again for the atrocious breach of privacy. I no longer have his contact information, but he is welcome to get in touch with me for a formal apology, and we would be more than happy to compensate him with a free stay whenever he might choose to return.

Sincerely,

Mona Kemp Hotel Manager of The Secret of the Alps

Upon reading the line ‘free stay whenever he might choose to return’, Phil lets out a loud snort. Poor Mona. He’ll never tell her, but he’d have to be dragged back onto that cable car kicking and screaming. Even then, he’d probably beg Kaspar to hurl him out of it before they reached the summit. He’ll see how he feels about another trip up there in a few years, perhaps with time his stint there won’t feel as traumatising. 

He clicks the attached recording, readying himself for yet another auditory reminder of his sordid, expletive-riddled, excruciatingly hot fling with Dan. There’s a crackle as it begins playing, and Phil turns up the volume, straining to hear anything more than a few vague rustles. This doesn’t sound like the other recordings. Perhaps the device had just picked up Phil talking in his sleep or something.

And then, he hears Dan’s voice. “Phil?” It’s quiet, but clear as a bell. “Phil.”

Phil sucks in a breath. It’s not that three months have wiped the memory of Dan’s voice from his mind, but when he hears it echo through his eardrums, it’s usually the words he spat in that last argument, when he’d announced he was leaving, as if Phil wouldn’t give a damn. He hasn’t thought of Dan’s softer, sweeter voice in some time. He’d forgotten how Dan could sound, at times, without the strain of lust or fury warping his vocal chords. 

Then there comes a muffled ‘thump’, followed by a grunt of pain.

“Wha?” Phil’s voice says.

Phil clicks pause and checks the timestamp for the recording. It reads 02:01am on 14th April. That’s the day Dan left. Early in the morning. How come he can’t remember this?

His heart thuds, coming to the gradual realisation that he’s listening to a conversation he’s never heard before. One he never even knew had taken place. Had Dan come to say goodbye to him after all? Has Phil been living under the impression that Dan had snubbed him, ran off without a word, when really…

Phil sits up straighter, turning the volume up to the highest level. He clicks play again. 

*

“Did you watch the stream of your fave giving his rousing speech at the UN?” Roshina asks as she settles herself into the seat beside Dan’s again.

Silently, Dan begs her to sit literally anywhere else, but her mind is apparently closed to telepathy. He wonders if she’d believe he’s suddenly been struck totally deaf. Unlikely, but it might be worth a try if it meant he didn’t have to talk about Phil again today; he’s only just stopped crying for long enough intervals to make it to class.

“Yeah, uh, think I saw some clips on Twitter,” Dan replies, aiming for the sweet spot between vague and already-up-to-speed. 

In truth, he watched it start to finish, at 1am because of the time difference, hunkered over his laptop in bed, tears streaming down his face. 

“God, wasn’t he marvellous?” she sighs, hauling a load of books and pens she won’t use out of her tote again. Yes, he was. “He can hold a room for sure. I think it’s ‘cause you can tell he’s passionate about this. ” She grins at him. “Or maybe it’s because of his deep, sexy voice. D’you think?” 

Dan stares back at her, wondering if she genuinely expects him to respond with words. “Uh...” 

Luckily, she doesn’t seem too bothered about Dan agreeing. She pulls out her phone and begins cycling through her social media apps with the concentration of an atomic physicist. “Oh look,” Roshina exclaims just when Dan thought he might get a moment of peace, “our man is trending.”

Dan digs his fingernails into his palm. Don’t look. Just don’t look. “Can I see?” he asks, hating himself.

She angles her phone at him. There are two hashtags pertaining to Phil. The first is #AmazingPhil. The second is #PhilsUNSpeech. Roshina clicks the first, and scrolls slowly down a timeline of people enthusing about Phil’s fiery yet intelligent speech which he gave at the United Nations headquarters yesterday afternoon, about the poverty crisis in several African countries. He seems to have really knocked it out of the park, judging by the response he’s getting. Dan drinks the raining compliments down greedily, trying to glean, selfish though it may be, what Phil’s mental state might be right now, in reaction to all the sudden attention directed his way. One particular tweet catches his attention. 

@nikolaischmikolai: saw #amazingphil at the airport after the conference! such a cool guy, didnt get a selfie cos he was in a hurry to get his flight but he signed my ticket with a Muse quote! #inspiration

Back at the airport, Dan notes. Already jet-setting off to his next glamorous public appearance. It won’t take long until people start throwing money at him for all this ‘charity work’. They’ll give him a Netflix documentary series, or a book deal, or any of the other wank that just gets handed to celebrities. 

“Lucky guy, seeing him IRL. I wonder what he’s like in person,” Roshina ponders, scrolling through more tweets. 

“An emotionally stunted, obnoxious adrenaline junkie with no filter on the silver spoon stuck in his gob,” Dan mutters, before realising he said that slightly too loud. Roshina is staring at him oddly. He shrugs, pinkening. “I imagine, anyway.”

Thankfully, before Roshina can respond, Professor Warren calls the class to attention, flicking the PowerPoint to the title page, which reads, ‘Marital Dissolution: The Litigation of Separation and Divorce’. The irony is stifling.

*

Sleep is closing in on Dan from all sides. He’s trying to resist the urge to slip into blissful unconsciousness, but Professor Warren’s baritone voice is making it so difficult to stay alert. His eyelids sag, then shut entirely. It’s just as the waves of promised unconsciousness are beginning to draw him out into that sweet, deep void that the door of the lecture hall opens with its hideous squeak. Dan frowns, inching down further in his uncomfortable chair to try and get away from the noise.

“Excuse me,” a loud, plummy voice calls, interrupting Professor Warren mid-flow. Dan frowns harder; the voice is instantly grating, as if it knows to burrow straight beneath Dan’s skin. It skims along the shores of his half-dream, splashing through the shallows in the distance, but Dan is too far out to be reached. “Is Dan Howell in this class?”

Dan’s eyes snap open.

“Young man, I am in the middle of a lecture!” Professor Warren replies in his gruff, incredulous voice, the one he uses in seminars to pick on students who haven’t done the reading. Dan’s been on the receiving end of this voice rather too often. “I must insist that you wait outside until-”

“I’m sorry, Professor, but this can’t wait,” the voice says, even louder. “Dan Howell? Dan, are you in here?”

A slight Northern tinge is detectable beneath the upper-class overtones. Chills course down Dan’s arms. This cannot be happening. He sneaks a glance at Roshina; her mouth is a round, pink circle, eyes bugged out so far it looks almost cartoonish. He looks left and right, noting that several people are also turning his way, alight with excitable intrigue. It’s no use. He’s going to have to confront this... situation. Dan sits up just enough that he can peer through the shoulders of the people in front of him, to the short flight of stairs that lead up to the lecture hall door.

It’s beyond surreal, to take in the sight of Phil, here, in this dingy light-less hall, looking exactly the same as ever, but somehow startlingly different. He feels as though the image of him has smacked sharply into the back of his head. In the next moment, Dan realises that Roshina has literally smacked him.

“You know him?!” she hisses, incensed. “Why didn’t you say?”

Phil lets out a suffering sigh that makes Dan’s teeth grit together. He’s gazing out across the rows of students as if he were surveying his Kingdom. Dan hunches over, trying to hide. There must be a hundred people in here, thank heavens. Suddenly, Roshina has her green-taloned claw on his upper arm; she hauls him up with surprising strength, though he does his best to struggle free. 

“Dan,” Phil calls out a second time to the general room, ignoring the fact that Professor Warren looks to be on the verge of spontaneous combustion, “I kind of know you’re in here. Could you just… I need to talk to you.”

Dan swallows, feeling the back of his neck prickle from how many eyes are on him now. Phil isn’t wearing his glasses; perhaps he’s blinder than Dan assumed he was, as Roshina now has him in a vice grip, ensuring he stays bolt upright in the chair. 

“It’s just dawned on me who you are, young man,” Professor Warren says then, cold, “and I’m sure in your world this kind of disruptive behaviour is tolerated. But this is an academic setting, not a press interview. Please leave my lecture. You may speak with whomever you like in an hour.”

“Dan, I know you’re in love with me,” Phil says, with a sweet, butter-wouldn’t-melt smile. “I think we should talk about that, maybe.”

Cheeks furiously flaming, Dan looks down at his folding desk covered in meagre study tools for some kind of murder weapon. The best he has is a laptop charger, which he might be able to fashion into some kind of lasso and choke Phil from afar if he really tried. Stifled snickers erupt behind people’s hands, and practically everyone is staring at him now. With little other option, Dan shoots to his feet, stuffing everything in his bag. He doesn’t give Phil the satisfaction of meeting his eye, but as he’s finally shut his gob, Dan reckons the dickhead has spotted him at last.

Bag slung over one shoulder, Dan forces his way past Roshina’s fishnet-wrapped knees, then past a few other amused students to the aisle. He stalks down the stairs as quickly as possible, head down. He can sense Professor Warren’s disapproving glare on him; this little stunt will not earn him any favours, and he’s already on the Prof’s list of ne’er-do-wells. Once he begins the climb of stairs towards the hall doors, Dan finally lifts his head to aim his icy expression at the infuriating human that has inexplicably decided to saunter in and humiliate Dan like no time at all has passed. The corner of Phil’s mouth is lifted just a tad. Dan had honestly forgotten, what with all the heartache, just how punchable he is.

He says nothing, just grabs Phil by the upper arm and marches him up the remainder of stairs, then through the doors. Once they’re outside the lecture hall, which opens directly onto the main outdoor campus, Dan lets go of Phil like he’s burning, and strides across the tarmac, feeling the burn of mortification stinging him from all sides. Of course it’s raining, Dan thinks as he walks, the scent of rain-soaked concrete misting the air.

It’s not long before he hears footsteps hurrying after him. “Dan, wait!”

Furious, Dan stops in his tracks and whirls around. “What are you doing here?”

Phil comes to an abrupt halt in front of him, eyes round. He blinks at Dan, mouth parted; for a moment, Dan is equally dumbstruck. Seeing him so close, after months of only glimpsing him through a screen, is disconcerting. Was he always this stunning? Did Dan really somehow grow used to the vivid, swirling blue of his eyes? 

“I… could ask you the same question,” Phil says after a while. 

The annoying non-answer immediately slaps Dan back from gooey-ville. He gives Phil a withering look. “I’m a student here.”

“Thought you dropped out.”

Dan grits his teeth again. How is it that Phil always knows to pick at the very knots Dan doesn’t want to unravel? 

“Well, I dropped in again.” He folds his arms across his chest. To his utter dismay, a smattering of the students milling around the campus plaza have begun to look up from their phones and tablets. There’s a lot of pointing and murmuring going on, presumably because ‘Amazing Phil’ has appeared out of the blue to fight with some normie. “Why’d you have to announce to the entire hall that I’m ‘in love’ with you?” Dan demands, pointedly using air quotes to convey the ridiculousness of that concept. “I have to finish out the year with the people in there.”

“Actually, you don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t start.”

“What?”

“Don’t start with the whole ‘you gave up on giving up’ thing. I know, okay? I’m back exactly where I was before we met, hating every aspect of my life. But we can’t all be famous charitable heartthrobs.”

Phil smirks, his lowered eyelashes catching tiny droplets of rain. “Heartthrob?”

“Oh my God,” Dan says, one hand coming to his damp forehead, “what do you want?”

An actual crowd of people is forming around them, seemingly oblivious to the fact they’re all steadily getting soaked. Dan wants rather badly to bolt far away from this spot. But that would mean leaving Phil behind, again, and annoyed though he is, he just can’t wrench himself away a second time, not when he’s only just reappeared. Phil shifts, pulling his smart jacket tighter, eyeing the people gathering around them. Several of them have unsubtly pulled out their phones to film this exchange. 

“I had this dream,” Phil says, inexplicably.

“That’s great, Martin Luther King,” Dan says dryly, “I’m sure your doting fans would love to hear all about it, so just look into one of these nice people’s lenses and remember to speak clearly-”

“I had this dream that you crawled into bed with me,” Phil interrupts, continuing as if Dan hadn’t spoken. An eruption of titters spills from their group of onlookers; Dan has to close his eyes and breathe to stop himself from stepping forwards and kicking Phil in the kneecap. “In the middle of the night. And you asked me to give you a reason to stay with me.” 

Immediately, the backs of Dan’s eyes strain and ache, pushing tears into his ducts. He wills the rain to fall harder, to disguise his reaction in case he can’t keep the tears from spilling over. 

“And in my dream,” Phil continues, “I couldn’t think of a reason. I just thought... you must already know how much I like you. I’d told you so many times that you were constantly on my mind. I’d done stupid, reckless things to be with you for just a few hours. I’d left my husband. But there you were, in my dream, asking me for something more. I couldn’t understand what it was you wanted me to say. I didn’t have anything left. Nothing I could think of that might stop you leaving.”

The rain is soaking through Dan’s t-shirt, sticking it to his skin. He shivers, trying to let the alien words fold into his drizzled, muddy mind. 

“It’s too late for this,” Dan points out, toeing the tarmac with the tip of his trainer, watching the light grey slabs slowly pinpricking with dark circles. “And it was just a dream, like you said.”

“I’ve thought of a reason, though.”

Dan’s eyes lift. He wants to say he doesn’t care, that their brief attempt to grasp at the wisp of some connection that sparked between them was doomed from the start. The chance has passed them by - they’re no longer up a mountain with only each other for company, they’re back in the gritty rainy reality of their starkly different lives. 

But he also aches, body and soul, to know that reason. The thing Phil never said, that Dan has imagined him saying every day since. God help him, he yearns to hear it more than he yearns for oxygen in his next breath. So he says nothing, lips pressing tight. 

“I was really lonely,” Phil says, grimacing as a fat raindrop strikes his pale cheek. “I spent three years in a far off retreat nobody knew about, cut off from everything I’d known. The cold of that place, along with the isolation... I think it seeped into my bones. I just went numb. I forgot how to feel anything.”

Dan looks away, casting his gaze around the people on the periphery of this strange conversation, all of them listening intently, so ready for some dramatic story to add to their social media timeline.

“And then you came,” Phil says, apparently oblivious to the entourage. “Like you’d been flung up the mountain by mistake. You had no more clue why you were there than anyone else. And you were so…” he heaves a sigh, running fingers through damp, dark hair. “So fucking annoying.”

A ripple of laughter goes up around them; Dan chokes out a cough of indignation. “Isn’t this supposed to be a reason you wanted me to stay?”

Phil smiles, showing the barest hint of teeth. “You got on every single one of my nerves. It was like you’d specifically been planted there to piss me off. Everything about you was just… so frustrating.”

Dan cocks a suggestive eyebrow, because it’s decidedly his turn to embarrass Phil after the many things he’s inferred about Dan so far. On camera. “There were occasions where Louise had to pull me aside and cool me off so I wouldn’t beat you with your ski pole. So don’t think it was one-sided.”

“But that’s just it,” Phil says, taking a teensy step closer. Dan’s backpack strap is sodden, and his face is misted with moisture, but he can’t seem to make himself move an inch, because Phil - god damn him - looks fucking incredible all wet, in a Mr Darcy-emerging-from-the-lake sort of way. “You made me feel things again. Sure, most of the feelings were anger and exasperation, but it was still better than the void that was there before.”

“Wow. I don’t know what to say. This is all so romantic,” Dan says scornfully; their audience titters, and Dan feels a small surge of pride that this time they’re laughing with him. “Are you getting to some kind of point?”

“Yeah,” Phil says, laughing. “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”

Dan snorts, turning on his heel. Enough. “That’s a line from Sherlock, you dick-”

“Hey, I’m fucking about, I can do better,” Phil pleads, grabbing his arm. Dan thinks about pulling away, but he settles for just turning to glare some more, very aware of Phil’s touch, how his warm, wet fingers feel even through the soggy material of his t-shirt. “How about…” 

Phil is really close to him now, his deep thinking cutting a crease between his brows. The rain has deflated his quiff, making it stick to his forehead. Somehow, even with a makeshift emo fringe, he looks infinitely radiant. Dan imagines that in comparison, he resembles a drowned rat, his hair frizzed and unattractive, and it’s all being caught on film, which is fantastic. Phil drops his voice to a murmur, presumably so it can’t be picked up by people’s shitty phone mics. 

“Arguing with you every day, up in the heavens of fucking nowhere…” Phil shrugs, smiling. “That was the most fun I’ve ever had.”

A droplet spills from Dan’s left eye, and he wipes it away, furious with himself for allowing it to leak out. “Wow,” he chokes out. “You must have been really bored up there.”

Phil nods, eyes trained on Dan’s traitorous smile. “Is that... your way of saying you don’t hate my guts?” 

Dan feels himself tense. Phil’s hand is still on his arm, and his thumb strokes gently over the damp skin just below his sleeve. “You know I can’t provide you with, like, champagne or- or um, suites in fancy hotels or…” 

He trails off, because he’s allowed himself to look into Phil’s eyes properly for the first time; they really are so many separate shades of blue. There must be dozens of colours in their depths. He’d have a job naming them all.  

“I’ll settle for the occasional kiss between battles,” Phil replies. 

Dan splutters softly, cheeks warm against the shivering rest of his body. His eyes flit to their audience, several of whom have their hands over their hearts and mouths.

“Not here,” Dan replies, taking a hasty step backwards. “Let’s, uh,” he glances around for a break in the crowd, “let’s go somewhere… less here.”

He turns before Phil can answer, pushing through a throng of camera-faced people, letting Phil find his way to catch up. They get halfway across the campus main square before Phil says coolly, “not to ruin the theatricality of this moment, but where are we going?”

Dan looks at him, then stops in his tracks. Crap. “Y-you can’t come back to mine.” He blushes, fidgeting. “I’m… living with my parents. At the moment.”

“Hmm,” Phil says, dithering. “Not ideal.” 

“Where are you staying?” 

Phil hesitates, and Dan has to prod him in his damp ribs to make him answer aloud. He sighs eventually. “Susan.”

Dan’s eyebrows shoot towards the rainclouds above them. “Your plane?”

“Yeah. S’all I’ve got to my name right now, pretty much.”

Dan nods, considering this for all of about five seconds. He can already sense that they’re beginning to be followed. Dan grabs Phil by the wrist. “She’ll do.”

*

Considering what a smooth, relaxed pilot Phil is, Dan is genuinely baffled by how terrifying he is as a driver. Phil has parked Susan on some farmland about two miles from campus; the owner of the plot had recognised Phil’s plane when he’d landed it in the local airport and practically jumped at the chance to offer him a place to stow it - presumably to earn himself some bragging rights for bestowing his hospitality on a semi-celebrity.

This suspiciously good samaritan also gave Phil use of his truck for the day, as the farm is in the middle of nowhere, and Phil needed a way to get to Dan’s university campus. The truck is an old, squeaky thing caked in mud; as far as keeping a low profile goes it does a grand job, but it doesn’t reek of safety. For most of the journey, Dan is clutching the ceiling handle, shrieking whenever another car comes the other way as Phil careers them down narrow country lanes at sixty miles per hour.

Eventually, after Dan has come worryingly close to crapping his pants, they reach the field where Phil’s plane is sat, less shiny than Dan remembers her, but just as intimidating. The rain is easing up, but it’s left the green countryside dripping and muddy; Dan is not particularly looking forward to trekking across the wet grass. 

“I’m literally never getting in a car with you again,” Dan states vehemently, legs shaking as he steps out of the truck.

“Wimp,” Phil says dismissively, slamming his door closed. The sound echoes around them, bouncing off the trees that fringe the field. “I’m just a little rusty. There’s less traffic in the sky.”

As his heart settles back into its normal rhythm, Dan shuts his own door and follows Phil across the grass to the plane. Phil presses a button as they approach and a short set of steps protrude in a neat glide from Susan’s door.

“Missed you, babe,” Phil says, hopping onto the first step before it’s completely extended.

Dan blanches, nearly slipping on a patch of wet grass. “Uh, what?”

Phil looks over his shoulder, amusement coating his expression. “I’m talking to Susan.”

“Oh. Yeah. I- I know.”

Phil laughs and ducks inside the plane. Dan looks around at the vast, endless fields that surround them, startlingly green and lush from the burst of rainfall. There’s nothing for miles aside from a tiny farmhouse in the distance; they’re alone together again. It’s a different kind of deserted expanse to the snow-covered mountains, but a familiar sense of isolation hovers in the air. 

Susan’s sleek interior has changed since Dan saw it last. For one thing, what little floor space had been at the back of the plane has been largely taken up by a pull-out bed. It’s unmade, the covers rucked and creased, which in the cramped area makes the whole place look messy. Phil shimmies around the bed to a what looks like the counter of a small bar, opening a neat pull-out contraption that reveals a sink. There’s a kettle too, which Phil holds under the faucet.

“Uh, so you live here? Permanently?”

Phil nods.

“Jesus,” Dan mutters, toeing the empty red bull can on the floor near the bed. “Quite the fall from grace. How are you coping without 24-hour maid service?”

“S’not so bad,” Phil says with no apparent hint at insincerity. He kneels on the bed and leans over to grab the red bull can, which he then throws into the bin, rather stylishly. “At least here I’m not in debt to anyone.”

“So you own the plane, then?”

Dan sits gingerly on the bed, mainly because there is nowhere else to sit apart from the two seats in the cockpit, and he can’t even look in that direction without blushing. It seems both long ago and entirely too recent that he was sat there with Phil knelt before him, high above the peaks of the Swiss mountains. He seems to remember, from his last visit, more seating in the back here, but as he studies the bed he’s perched on, he realises that this is the seating, folded out into a small double bed.

“Yeah,” Phil replies, pouring boiling water into mugs. “Nikolai let me have this and the ring.”

Dan’s eyebrows raise. “You’d think he could’ve spared a couple of… million.”

“I’m glad he didn’t, actually. It would’ve detracted from my trustworthiness, I think.”

“You mean about all the charity stuff you’re doing?”

“Exactly,” Phil affirms, lifting both mugs and carefully sitting on the bed beside Dan. He hands one over, and Dan takes it. He doesn’t particularly feel like tea, but then he is wet and slightly chilly from the rain, so it will probably help chase the cold from his bones. “So.”

“So,” Dan echoes.

They lapse into silence, blowing on their scorching drinks. Eventually, Dan abandons his, knowing it will be too hot to drink for some time. He places it carefully on the shelf beside the bed. “I need to ask you something,” Dan says.

“Yes, the theories are right, I am naturally ginger.”

“What?”

“What?”

Dan shakes his head. “Not... what I was gonna ask. It’s about that dream you mentioned.” He hesitates, heart squeezing tightly. “Did you... remember anything else about it?”  

Strangely, Phil shifts away from him. It’s a telling movement, and even though Dan’s not been around him for some time, he’s ninety percent sure that the expression Phil’s features are forming is something like ‘sheepishness’. He squints at the older man as a gut feeling blooms that he’s going to want to throttle him within the next few minutes.

Phil swallows tightly, placing his own mug on the floor. “Well. I don’t really need to, um. Remember.” 

“What d’you mean?”

Phil grimaces, seeming wary of Dan’s reaction, then reaches beneath the bed, drawing out a Macbook. “This is Martyn’s old one,” Phil says when he catches Dan’s raised eyebrow. “Nik kept mine.”

A wave of sympathy washes over Dan from head to toe, swiftly followed by a surge of anger for Nikolai Novokoric. Phil opens the Mac and clicks around a bit, then turns to Dan, clear concern dressing his face.

“So, you remember that girl? With the blue hair?”

*

Ten minutes later, Dan is sat in gobsmacked silence, his own confession of love reverberating through the air. No use denying it now. “That little fucker.”

Phil winces. “Yeah. Well, anyway, Mona and Cornelia destroyed all the copies.”

Dan’s eyes bulge. “Except this one!”

“Well yeah,” Phil says. His mouth twitches, and Dan zeroes in on it. “But… I reckon I’m allowed to have one.”

“Oh, do you?”

“It’s sweet.” Phil nudges him with his elbow. “And, y’know…”

“No, please enlighten me.”

“It’s… pretty hot.”

Dan’s frown deepens. “That’s a strange choice of adjective.”

“Well, maybe not the part where you bear your soul to me in a largely embarrassing midnight confession,” Phil says, so Dan hits him in the arm, “but the other recordings-”

“Other recordings?!”

Phil pauses, caught out. “Oh. Uh, yeah. From what I can gather the recording device began recording any time it picked up noise, so there are a few…”

He trails off, and Dan buries his face in his hands for a few seconds, then takes a deep inhale, straightening up. “Show me.”

“Not sure this is the best time-”

“Phil, that’s a recording of me doing a variety of explicit deeds. Fucking play it to me.”

Phil hesitates, scanning Dan’s face, then shrugs, pulls up a different recording, moves the play bar to the middle, and hits the space key.

“Kiss me,” Dan’s voice says, husky and breathless. “Kiss me and then fuck me.”

Regret, regret, regret- Dan lunges for the laptop, slamming the space bar. Unfortunately, he manages to press another key as well, and a different recording pops up. Before either he or Phil can do anything to stop it, Nikolai’s voice is pouring from the speaker.

“...my God, don’t tell me you actually top in this-”

Phil slams the lid of his laptop shut smartly, two pink spots appearing on his high cheeks. “I’ll delete these, I think.”

Dan’s fingers push into his temple, massaging the spot. “So good of you to hang onto them until now, you wanker.”

Silence falls, and for a moment the tension is taut to the point of being unbearable. Then, Dan hears a quiet, barely audible giggle. He looks at Phil, incredulous, and immediately upon seeing the creases of laughter around his glinting eyes, feels a swell of laughter bubbling up in his own chest. The tension snaps, and they let their streams of laughter spill out. Phil cards a hand through his hair, reaching for his tea again.

“Y’know,” Dan says, eyes glazed as he watches Phil’s plump, pink lips seal over the rim of his mug, “you’ve already lured me into your…” he gestures to the plane interior. “Den. Kind of redundant at this point to play it cool.”

Phil looks at him quizzically, sipping. “What do you mean?”

“Well, as you have clear, recorded evidence of my unfortunate attachment to you right there,” Dan says, stretching out on the bed a little more, settling into the familiar atmosphere of mildly absurd, irritation-fuelled hysteria, “and I willingly endured your death-defying driving skills, then followed you into your plane in the middle of nowhere, it might be a reasonable assumption that I’m, like,” Dan waves a hand in the air between them, “D.T.F.”

Phil chokes around a mouthful of tea. He places the mug down sharply, eyes wide. It makes Dan laugh, and he leans back onto his hands. As it turns out, having every last scrap of his dignity laid out before them both is rather empowering. He has nothing left to hide, no reason to be coy, and it’s now up to Phil whether he takes advantage or not. Dan really hasn’t anything else to lose, at this point, sad though that thought might be.

“I didn’t want to assume,” Phil objects, scandalised, “I’m trying to be a gentleman!”

Dan nods gravely. “By playing me audio recordings of me asking you to ‘kiss and fuck me’?”

Phil’s mouth opens, as if he’s about to retort, but at the sight of Dan’s smirk, he closes it again, a laugh escaping. “If I do one of those things now, can you pretend I waited until, y’know, a respectable amount of time had passed?”

“I could pretend I had a sudden urge to shuck off my wet clothes,” Dan suggests with a hand thrown across his forehead for emphasis; he’s enjoying the unusual sensation of having the power over this situation, and as usual when he feels even a lick of power, his theatric flair rears its head. It doesn’t matter that his heart doubled in speed as soon as Phil hinted at physical contact. “And then,” Dan continues, voice as dramatic as if he were addressing a theatre-ful of patrons, “as you’re finding me a spare shirt to cover my immodesty, you can’t help your gaze lingering on my bare skin - you try to stop yourself, but your hand reaches out of its own accord to stroke across my chest - my breath hitches, and-”

Phil dives across the bed, pinning Dan to the mattress and kissing him. “Hmm,” he mumbles into the seam of Dan’s lips, “I forgot you never shut up.”

Dan’s arms come up to wind around Phil’s neck, a zing of pure joy ricocheting through his body as his familiar weight settles on top of him. 

“I haven’t forgotten that you’re ten times more tolerable to listen to when you’re naked,” Dan says, turning his head to urge Phil to kiss along his jaw. “Please comply.”

Phil chuckles, leaning up to pull his shirt off. “Better?”

A punch of air leaves Dan’s chest; his hands spread themselves over Phil’s toned stomach, re-learning the crevices either side of his belly, the smooth curvature of his hips. 

“Much.” His index fingers trace the line of hair that leads from Phil’s tummy button beneath the waistband of his trousers. He pulls at the waistband impatiently. “Even better without these though, I reckon.”

Phil sits back on his haunches, positioning himself on top of Dan’s thighs. “Yeah?” he asks, already sliding the zipper down. Dan’s cock pulses, still trapped by his jeans. Phil is putting on a show, but Dan no longer has the ability to call him out on it. His eyes won’t unstick themselves from the sight of Phil shimmying his trousers down his thighs, revealing a pair of black boxer briefs so tight that they might as well be nonexistent for all they manage to conceal. “How’s this?”

Dan shoots him what he intends to be a withering look that probably doesn’t come across very menacing. “I don’t remember you being this vocal.”

Phil smiles, using Dan’s shoulder to steady himself as he peels the trousers off entirely. “Shut me up, then.”

Not needing to be told twice, Dan grabs the backs of Phil’s thighs and manoeuvres him back until he’s sprawled on his back. He pulls off his own t-shirt, getting more impatient by the minute to entwine himself in Phil as deeply as possible; he’s been starving himself of this, for months, and now he wants to feast. As soon as he’s free of his t-shirt, Dan begins pushing his lips against the miles of bare skin covering Phil’s upper body. Phil’s breathing goes strange and stuttery, and his hand loses itself in Dan’s hair.

“Fuck,” he whispers as Dan seals his mouth over a nipple, “I’ve missed you.”

“Still talking to Susan?” Dan asks with a snort, and Phil smacks him lightly in the back of the head.

“Susan doesn’t talk back nearly as much.”

In response, Dan chooses to trail a line of kisses downwards, through the valley of Phil’s pectoral muscles, over the plane of his stomach, nipping gently at that tantalising rivulet of hair slicing through his pelvic region. When he gets to the boxer briefs, he pauses, lifting his gaze as he tucks his fingertips into the waistband.

Phil makes a sort of choking noise as their eyes meet, which is pleasant to hear. “Lift,” Dan tells him, and when his hips rise, pulls them off in a flourish. Dan had thought the thick, gorgeous shape of Phil’s cock was deeply ingrained into his memory, but even the image he’d conjured up in the dead of night, when he couldn’t stop himself from indulging in nostalgia, had been lacking in the exquisite detail of reality. He takes hold of the base in one hand, letting the warm, pulsing flesh push all thought from his mind. “I missed you too,” he says, and Phil whimpers.

Dan takes his time blowing Phil, letting him glide in and out of his mouth as he lifts his head and sinks down again and again. Phil’s body slackens, sinking into the hard mattress so totally that it’s as if he hasn’t relaxed once in all the time that’s passed since they last did this. The sensation of Phil atop Dan’s tongue is comforting in its thickness, stretching his lips wide, reminding him of how it feels to be so open. He would like for Phil to know this, wants to share the intoxicating power of utter vulnerability. He pulls off, suddenly alight with an idea, and sits up, crawling over Phil’s spread body until his face hovers above Phil’s. 

“You know what Nikolai mentioned,” Dan begins, testing the waters. 

Instantly, Phil’s hands stop wandering over his back. “Are you seriously bringing up my ex-husband right now?”

Dan chuckles, then sweeps a tongue over his lower lip, tasting Phil there, salty and sour; Phil’s eyes fall to the movement with obvious interest. 

“I’ve just been thinking,” Dan continues, determined to persevere with the thought if it could lead where he hopes it might. To soften the blow of blindsiding Phil with Nikolai’s name, Dan dots a few light kisses over his jaw. “When we… did things before. Were you just indulging me, because I suggested we try it a certain way, and it was my first time?”

Phil arches his head backwards, wordlessly encouraging Dan to move his lips to his neck. “W-what do you mean? It was always amazing with you.”

“Hmm,” Dan says, sucking gently at the spot right below Phil’s ear. “So you never wanted to do it a different way? Like…” His hand, which has been resting on Phil’s hip, trickles over his thigh, dipping into the cavern between Phil’s legs. He lets his fingers wander even lower, past the swell of his balls. He watches Phil’s face intently, trying to gauge the reaction, and presses the tip of one finger to the tight, puckered entrance at his rear. “This way?”

For the first time, Dan is able to witness the crystal blue of Phil’s irises thinning and nearly disappearing entirely, swallowed up by the black holes widening in their centres. It’s not until Dan removes his finger that Phil is able to summon a response.

“I- I don’t have much of a preference,” he whispers, stammering. “Is… is that something you’d want to try, or-”

“Phil,” Dan interrupts, feeling the smile teasing the corner of his mouth as he sees through Phil’s poor attempt at nonchalance, “do you want me to fuck you?”

Phil is quiet for a moment, but Dan holds his gaze, one eyebrow cocked, hopefully looking far more in control of himself than he feels. The elbow he��s using to hold himself up begins to tremble, threatening to give way, but he holds steady, needing to hear Phil speak the words.

Then, Phil nods, just once. “Yes.”

Dan smiles, leaning in to seal their mouths together. The eagerness with which Phil responds conveys his excitement, and Dan lets him twine their tongues together, allows Phil’s arms to draw him in around the neck. After a few minutes however, Dan’s self-control is reaching its very peak, what with Phil’s cock trapped between their bodies still, and the anticipation of what it might be like to slip inside of him lurking so tantalisingly on the horizon.

Dan unwinds himself carefully, sitting up and reaching for the button of his own jeans. “Do you have, um, stuff?”

His question prompts Phil into immediate action; he sits up, peeling himself off the bed in order to stagger over to an overhead cupboard, which he reaches up to open. Dan’s fingers stumble on the zipper of his jeans, attention ensnared by the sight of the lean, naked body in front of him, stretched out in a delicious long line of pale, pure skin, hiding terrains of thick muscle, tightened by years of diligent workouts. His cock strains against the fly of his trousers, imagining what it might be like to bury himself inside of such a temple; his fingers work frantically to open the zip. Eventually, Phil finds what he’s looking for, and throws a bottle of lube and a four condom packets onto the bed.

Dan picks a few of the foil packets up, eyebrows raised. “I’m flattered that you presume so highly of my stamina, but-”

Phil shuts him up using the method he seems to be realising is the most effective - jumping back on the bed and kissing him hard. “Thought we could take it in turns,” Phil growls into Dan’s mouth, because obviously he’s intent on driving Dan to the brink of insanity. 

A strangled noise escapes Dan’s throat, and he pushes Phil backwards until he’s astride him again, back to pulling off his jeans, which thankfully goes a lot more smoothly this time. He slides his underwear off too, then reaches for the condom packet, ten steps ahead of himself; Phil’s hand on his arm makes him pause.

“Woah, uh, it’s not my first rodeo but I’m probably gonna need a little prep before-”

“Shit,” Dan mutters, throwing the condom aside for a moment. He shakes his head, blood thrumming in his ears, and smooths his hands up Phil’s gorgeous thighs. “Sorry. Okay, what do I do?”

Phil sits up, reaching for the lube, and un-pops the cap. “Want me to do it?”

Dan snatches the bottle from him. “Fuck right off.”

He pours some of the gloop onto his fingers, remembering how, when they’d done this before, Phil had warmed the substance before letting it touch his skin. He copies the action, coating his hands with it, then looking to Phil for further instruction. Phil opens his legs wider, allowing Dan to fit himself between them.

“Have you ever done this to yourself?”

“Only since you did it to me,” Dan admits before he can stop himself.

Phil grins, unsubtly conveying his thoughts around this, and Dan only barely resists the urge to flick him in the balls. “Same thing, then,” Phil says.

“Will it hurt?”

Phil eases himself back down onto his elbows. “Doubt it,” Phil answers in a soft sigh. He lets out a little moan as Dan’s fingertips press against him. “Fuck. No, I don’t think this is gonna hurt at all.”

Dan’s fingers slide into Phil as easily as if he were pushing them into warm bread dough. The walls of hot, soft muscle close in around him, drawing each finger deeper as he adds them one at a time. Phil murmurs vaguely bossy commands, telling him to scissor and stretch, but half the words are lost to his groans of bliss, each one making Dan shudder more violently than the last.

“Ugh, Dan,” he says, voice desperate despite it seeming like barely any time has passed. He has one hand wrapped around the back of his right thigh, holding it up to allow Dan better access. Dan moves closer, brushes Phil’s hand away and lets the crook of Phil’s knee drape over his shoulder. “Fuck,” Phil mutters, but doesn’t protest. “Y-you can stop now,” he urges, but Dan keeps on, wanting to be totally sure. Phil seems so tight, so impossibly tight, and whilst it is maddening to picture thrusting inside of such tightness, the thought of hurting Phil without meaning to is terrible enough to keep Dan stretching with his fingers, just in case. He changes the angle just slightly when his wrist threatens to cramp, and Phil swears, louder than he has so far. “Fff-uck. Do that again.”

Dan does do it again. He does it many more times, pressing the pads of his fingers to that same spot until Phil is writhing against the covers, until his gasps sound more like gurgles, until his hands are scrabbling at Dan’s wrist to pull his fingers free.

“Fuck, Dan please, I’m ready, I’m ready,” he garbles.

For a long moment, Dan is too hypnotised by the wrecked, flushed mess that’s become of the Adonis-like man sprawled out naked before him to react. He stares at Phil’s reddened, slick lips, puffy from where he’s been biting them. 

“Dan,” Phil chokes out, desperate.

The sound of his name slaps Dan back into coherence. He pats the space around him, searching for the condom packet he’d thrown aside before. It seems to elude him for a while, but eventually he finds it, and rips the packet with his teeth. Thankfully, condoms are a part of sexual experience that he is not out of his depth with, as Beth had insisted on him using at least one, sometimes more, whenever they slept together.

He rolls it on with ease, thankful for the many opportunities he’s had to practice for this moment, and takes hold of Phil by the hips, dragging him forwards with a sharp tug, until the head of his cock is aligned with Phil’s slick opening. Phil is staring at him in amazement, and Dan doesn’t blame him - he’s exuding a confidence born purely of adrenaline, and it’s making him into someone unrecognisable, someone composed and assertive. Someone hot. 

“Ready?” he asks; his shaky voice somewhat shatters the illusion.

“God, yes,” Phil replies, apparently not noticing. 

Dan inches his hips forwards, letting the head of his cock press past the outer rim; Phil’s head tips backwards, a sigh of ecstasy spilling from his throat. His hand releases its grip on the covers, and he brings his long fingers to wrap around his cock.

Even the sight is intoxicating. Ignoring all other sensation for now, Phil looks maddeningly good this way; Dan’s hips almost lock in place, just watching him feel. The thin branches of Phil’s neck bones are protruding beneath the skin, mottled from where Dan has nipped and bitten. His puffed chest is rising and falling rapidly, his shoulders trembling, misted with a sheen of rainwater and sweat. He ducks his head again, meeting Dan’s eyes, and Dan remembers he’s supposed to be moving, that he is supposed to be the one in control of this. He doesn’t feel very in control, suddenly, too shaken by the onslaught of sensation attacking from all angles.

As if he’s gleaned these concerns from Dan’s mind through osmosis, Phil says, “wait,” and Dan pauses, terrified he’s done something wrong. Phil sits up, glazed and sluggish, then pushes Dan backwards with a hand against his shoulder.

“What’s wr-”

Dan lands back on his tailbone, and suddenly Phil is astride him, piled in his lap like a huge, gorgeous, naked gift. He angles himself without needing to look, keeping his eyes locked on Dan’s the whole time, and sinks himself back down onto Dan’s cock, lips parted, eyes fluttering. A moan pours out of Dan’s throat as the unexpected bliss crashes over him, as the sensation of slick, hot, closeness grips him by the soul. He is buried inside of Phil’s pure, angelic body, as far as he can get. It’s agony, because Phil has gone still, letting himself adjust to the intrusion. Dan’s head falls against Phil’s chest, trying to keep calm when he wants so badly to shout at Phil to move even slightly, would trade everything he owns for the relief of it.

And then, miraculously, Phil does.

“Fuck,” Dan whispers, brokenly, as Phil’s hips begin rolling forwards.

His fingers dig themselves into Phil’s arms, and he buries his face deeper into Phil’s chest. Phil’s arms wind around his shoulders. He lifts his hips up until Dan almost slips out of him entirely, then spears himself back down with a shudder.

“God, Dan,” Phil groans, speeding up the pace. He uses his grip on Dan’s shoulders to keep steady, bouncing up and down in Dan’s lap faster and faster, barely letting Dan gasp even a snatch of air. “Dan- Dan, would you touch me?”

Delirious, Dan mentally berates himself for not having the common sense to do this before now. He reaches clumsily between their bodies, barely holding himself together, and closes a fist around Phil’s cock, which is hot and rigid to the touch. He pumps his hand in time with the thrust of Phil’s hips, and in less than a minute Phil is crying out, biting down on Dan’s neck so hard that Dan wonders if he might bleed. Phil’s come splashes Dan’s chest and stomach, coating his hand, and all Dan can think is how he wishes he could taste it.

Dan doesn’t last much longer after that, as Phil doesn’t so much as stutter in his rhythm. He manages to push his hips upwards a few times, to make the most of this miraculous moment, locked together with Phil in the most intimate possible way. As the tip of his cock presses once again into that spot that makes Phil weak, Phil jerks and gasps in his arms. That’s the moment that Dan is unable to hold on any longer. He squeezes Phil’s arm, groaning into the crook of his neck as he feels his own release fill the condom, a hundred white-hot stars scorching over his skin in a brilliant, blinding shower.

For a minute after, they don’t move, draped over one another in various ways, just reorienting themselves as they float back to this dimension. Dan pushes his lips against Phil’s damp skin in a way that doesn’t feel chaste enough to be kisses. Eventually, Phil leans backwards, slowly lifting himself off Dan’s lap, letting him slip out. With a shaky, fumbling hand, Dan pulls off the condom, putting it carefully on the floor because he’s too spent to dispose of it properly just yet.

In the next moment, he feels damp fingers around his wrist, and then Dan is being pulled, until he’s flat on his back, Phil’s arm stretched out beneath his neck. They both stare at the ceiling, listening to the sound of their own gradually slowing breaths.

Dan rolls onto his side towards Phil, trailing fingers up his ribs, then into the cavern of his underarm, twisting the snatch of hair there between his fingers. He’s sweaty, and it’s still confusing to Dan that it doesn’t gross him out; instead, the musky, heavy scent of Phil’s perspiration is intoxicating, makes him want to bury his face in Phil’s shoulder and lick the moisture from his skin. So he does.

Phil turns to peer at him, amusedly. “Perv.” 

Dan smiles, not caring that it seems peculiar, because he knows Phil doesn’t really care. “Was it okay?” Dan asks, as if he isn’t fully aware of how beyond incredible the last half hour had been for both of them. 

“Amazing,” Phil replies, rolling onto his side to kiss him. 

“I don’t think I’m as good as you at… that.”

Phil’s mouth twitches, and he leans back to stare into Dan’s eyes. His pupils are returning to a more even size, though they’re still taking up most of the space in Phil’s irises. The ring of azure around them glimmers brightly.

“Wouldn’t sell yourself short, mate,” Phil says. “I had a very good time.”

Dan snorts, mostly at Phil’s use of the word ‘mate’. “So you prefer it, then? Being like… the one who… um.”

“Bottoms?”

Dan’s only response is a mortifyingly quick blush.

Phil laughs, prodding Dan’s red cheek with his finger-tip. “I mean it. I don’t have a strong preference for either way.”

“It’s just Nikolai seemed so, like, surprised when he found out-”

“Dan,” Phil says, already grimacing, “I’m only gonna address this once with you, because I don’t particularly want you thinking about this in detail, but having sex with Nikolai is a very different experience to having sex with you. And not in a good way. Could you ever imagine him being as considerate of my preferences as you’re being right now?”

Dan’s nose wrinkles. “You have a point. So… you’re good with either? Top or bottom?”

The flame in Dan’s cheeks is fanned even saying the words. “Hmm,” Phil says, then leans in to kiss Dan again, harder this time, knocking him backwards until he’s on his back again. “Think I might need a reminder of what it’s like to top again. Y’know, just so I have all the evidence before I make up my mind.”

“Jesus, you’re more of a horn-dog than I remember,” Dan laughs, though he’s already winding a leg around Phil’s to pull him closer.

*

They’ve been holed up in Phil’s tiny living space, at the back of a stationary plane, mostly naked, for almost twelve hours. They’d napped for a while, but now they’re awake, watching an episode of Parks and Recreation because Phil has never seen it and Dan simply cannot allow anyone he associates with to not get his references to the show.

Somewhere in the middle of one of Leslie’s rousing speeches, Phil’s phone beeps. It’s not the first beep they’ve both pretended not to hear, and it’s perhaps for this reason that now Phil sighs and reaches for it, his other arm around Dan’s shoulders, fingers tickling idly across his upper arm. He frowns at the many messages filling the screen, scrolling through a few, then placing the phone upside down on the bedside shelf again. The amusing dialogue of the show loses its potency; Dan waits, breath held, for the inevitable.

“I’m gonna have to get back to work soon,” Phil says, just as Dan predicted. “I kind of… ran off on Martyn and Cornelia and PJ after the UN thing.”

“I figured,” Dan says, already resigned. “It’s okay. It was, um. Good to see you, and stuff. Weird without all the snow and altitude. But good.”

“Come with me,” Phil says. From the way he has the offer so readily at hand, Dan knows he’s been holding it back for a while. He pretends he hasn’t heard, instead focusing on the screen, where Leslie has just fallen into a giant pit. Relatable. Phil nudges him beneath the blanket with one foot. “Dan, did you hear me?”

Dan sighs, struggling out of Phil’s embrace. They should have talked about this sooner. Now they’re going to fight, and one of them’s going to hurt the other, and then they’ll split apart again for an indeterminably long bout of miserable, awful separation.

“I heard you.”

Dan runs a hand through his still-damp hair. They’d had showers a while ago in Phil’s tiny closet-shower. Though it would have been extremely nice to have stood beneath the spray together, there was no possible way they could both fit, so they took it in turns. Dan had gone first, and when he’d emerged, Phil had made more tea, and produced a packet of biscuits. He’d given Dan a robe - stolen from The Secret of the Alps, he noticed - for him to dry off and set him up with the laptop to watch Parks and Rec until he’d cleaned himself of the evidence of their debauchery too. It had been wholesome and unusually soft behaviour; entirely too easy to fall into, and forget that their circumstances didn’t allow for such kind, sweet interludes without a price.

“You don’t even want to be a lawyer,” Phil says, like it’s as simple as that. “Just think it over a bit more-”

“I did that,” Dan snaps, then checks himself, breathing deeply. If he can avoid getting upset and defensive, that would be ideal. “I already did the freaking out and running off to re-evaluate my choices. It didn’t work. You were there, you know it didn’t work.”

Phil shuts the laptop, cutting off the peppy American voices of the Parks and Rec cast. “What exactly didn’t work, though? What did you expect to happen up there?”

Dan laughs humourlessly, gesturing between them. “Not this.” He winces. It came out meaner than he intended it to. “I mean, obviously I’m glad I met you and we dragged each other into a destructive pattern of secretly bonking behind closed doors...”

“Heartfelt,” Phil replies; even though it’s sarcasm, Dan can tell without looking over at him that he’s smiling.

“..but, even you have to admit it probably wasn’t the smartest decision on my part. Or yours, come to that.” Dan picks at the thin, messy bedclothes, frowning. “I don’t think I’m very good at the self-reflective stuff. S’just better if I crack on, stop fantasising that there’s some dream career waiting in the wings somewhere.”

“Having a job that makes you happy isn’t a crazy fantasy, Dan,” Phil says. He makes everything sound so easy. Dan kind of misses that about him, dangerous and seductive though it is. “You could come with me. We could work it out together.”

“Come with you where?” Dan asks, turning to him incredulously. “No offence, mate, but you’ve got no more clue than I have right now. You have no money or plans, you said it yourself. It’s very admirable, all the charity stuff, but what’re you gonna do when the public grow bored of you without all the divorce drama? How are you gonna fund your humanitarian schemes?”

Phil shrugs, a composed, slightly amused smile gracing his features. He looks entirely unbothered by these questions, and Dan is suddenly so envious of his ability to shrug off anxiety that it makes a spurt of anger shoot through his chest. He rolls his eyes, throwing the covers off his legs. He’s about to get up, to find his clothes and put an end to this brief day-cation from reality, when Phil’s hand on his arm, gentle and cautious, gives him pause.

He waits, the warmth of Phil’s fingers draining the frustration from his bones, easing the tension in his body. Phil shuffles closer, hands sliding to rest on Dan’s shoulders, then rubbing gently, thumbs digging into the knots of taut muscle. It's so glorious that Dan sinks back into him, immediately slackening, his mind abruptly washed of every concern that had just been plaguing it.

“Has anyone ever told you that you think too much?” Phil murmurs into his ear.

“I get the feeling you’re about to,” Dan retorts, then feels a satisfied sigh slip out as Phil digs his clever fingers in deeper.

“I’m going to Africa,” he says in a low, soothing voice that Dan knows is probably one he’s been trained to use in stressful situations, but works so well that he can’t be bothered to protest. “There’s a cluster of villages in Kenya that need a lot of help. Installing water filtration systems, building schools, that sort of thing. That’s where I’m going next.”

“Oh. Right.” Dan’s shoulders tense up again. Africa. Could he be jetting off further? “How long f-”

“You should come with me,” Phil says for the third time. His hands become still on Dan’s shoulders. “I’m serious. We could use you out there.”

Dan rolls his eyes, though Phil is behind him and can’t see. “As convincing as that is, we both know I have the muscles of a cooked noodle, so I doubt I’d be much use to you-”

“It’s not always about physical labour,” Phil interrupts, like he’s prepared this argument months in advance. He’s too good at debating, that’s the trouble. Dan’s never stood a chance trying to last in the ring with him. “You’ve got other hugely beneficial skills, I’ve seen it myself. You can fix pretty much anything you put your mind to. That’s kind of extraordinary.”

Dan blinks, not sure how to react to the unexpected praise. “Well... I don’t know about ‘anything I put my mind to’-”

“Even so, you’d probably have a hell of a lot more clue than I would,” Phil points out, and Dan has to admit, although he’s never witnessed Phil attempt to repair or even patch up anything beyond his own fragile ego, he doubts very much that he’d be particularly skilled at it. He tries to imagine Phil with a spanner in his hand, tightening the joins in the municipal pipe under the blaring, scorching African sun. He has to hide his bubble of absurd laughter.

“I’m not a fan of the heat,” Dan protests, weakly. 

Whilst this is true, and he’d deliberately chosen the destination of his last runaway attempt to be the opposite of somewhere hot, Dan can feel his soul yearning for the adventure. For being with Phil, daily, their perpetual bickering exacerbated by the blazing sun, and then soothed by the cool night air, locked away in some dark room they’d built together, free to kiss each other’s sun-blistered skin all night long. His fingers itch for the fantasy, and he clenches them into fists, knowing he shouldn’t dare to so much as want it.

Phil places a kiss to his shoulder, then leans away. “Yeah, you’re right,” Phil says, making Dan’s heart sink. “I mean, when you’re so passionate about law, a little sunshine seems laughable doesn’t it?”

Dan rolls his eyes, but a laugh escapes anyway, so he turns to whack Phil in the arm. Phil lets him, then catches him by the wrists, holding Dan’s gaze. “I think you could be happy. I think we could make each other happy.”

One of Dan’s eyebrows arches. “I think we’d drive each other bonkers.”

Phil smiles. “Same thing, I reckon.”

Dan shakes his head, knowing in every cell of his being that this is completely mental, to abandon his life again for a man who infuriates him daily. But he also knows, perhaps even more strongly, that he’s as in love with Phil as he is exasperated with him. “If I leave again… I won’t be able to come back.”

Phil squeezes his hands around Dan’s. “No,” he agrees. “Me neither.”

Dan chews his lip, though his resistance has more or less melted away. “Are you only offering to take me with you because you feel sorry for me?”

“Yeah,” Phil says, teasingly. “I’m rescuing you from a life of paperwork and office parties.” A smile breaks across his gorgeous face, making his eyes soften, crinkle at the sides. His voice drops into its rare tone of sincerity. “Dan, I’m asking you if you’d come with me. Because I watched you attempt to ski away from me up a hill and fall straight down it, and somehow managed to fall tragically, pathetically in love with you in the same instant. I want you to come. Because don’t really fancy trying to stay away from you anymore.”

*

Dan’s not sure how it happens really. One minute, he’s in a lecture hall with the most annoying girl on the planet talking his ear off about succulents and her hot personal tutor, and the next he’s in the front seat of a fully-fuelled plane, beside a stunningly handsome philanthropist-slash-ski-enthusiast-slash-pilot, headed for a continent halfway around the world. He hasn’t told his parents where they’re going yet. Phil hasn’t told the public, or Pj or Cornelia or Martyn. It’s all a bit ‘up in the air’. They’ll tell anyone who needs to know when they land again, when the intense rays of sun are soaking into their pale skin, flooding their veins with Vitamin D.

Dan reaches across the chasm between his and Phil’s seats, letting his hand dangle invitingly until Phil notices and takes it, rolling his eyes and telling Dan he’s a “right sap”. But he threads their fingers together anyway, angling the yoke towards the sky, and Dan leans back in his chair as the clouds zoom closer, welcoming the oncoming oblivion. A wild thought swims at him from nowhere, as if it fell straight out of the Heavens: 

He’d be just fine if they never had to come down.

The End.

(Yes, there will be an epilogue. Stay tuned for updates about that!)

[paperspell]

Kingdom Hearts || Three Half Promises

Rating: Teens and up

@mimiplaysgames and @lyssala are most definitely the MVP of this work. That being said, go check out their stuff!  

Summary: A character study of Aqua and Terra from childhood to adulthood

Chapter 4: The sweet wilderness | I’ll show you where the dandelions grow

As promised, during the next following days Aqua tries her best, not only to be neutral, but to treat Terra with gentleness. She lets him have first pick at everything, from the food spread to chores to bath times; Terra hasn't noticed at first – he is so used to getting things without sharing anyhow – but soon he grows suspicious of her graciousness. With no preamble to her actions, she sees the confusion sweep through his face, and that in itself she finds wickedly hilarious. Terra examines whatever help she gives with shrewdness, as if she has poisoned the salt shaker, or hid the broomsticks, or flooded the bathroom if it was his turn to wash.

As retaliation, he takes three times the number of books he regularly does from the shelves, leaving her no choice but to work around it and study sections which hasn't been mention by Eraqus yet. Terra also distances himself further until training time. He does more physically taxing warmups, like jumping higher than her, just to show he can. When they spar, he wins without relenting on any of his attacks.

Despite constantly losing, Aqua feels herself gaining the experience Eraqus said they need, not just from a Master, but from each other. She still can't manage a sliding dash the same way Terra can, but her footwork is getting better, her blocks are solid, and the handling of her wooden sword is not so clumsy anymore. Terra seems to sense Aqua's improvement as well, and their matches become fiercer.

One day Eraqus ends their fight early and surprises her with a high compliment on how far she's come in a matter of a few sessions. She beams at this, and although Terra is off to the side, decidedly not happy at this recent development, it does not dampen her spirits.

The Master continues on to give them with another great announcement: both students have more or less gotten the hang of using quick blitz. They are ready to move on to various stunning strikes.

"We will save that for tomorrow, as it is a big lesson," Eraqus clarifies, just as Terra's beginning to strap his armor tighter. "Instead, why don't you two take the time to work on other aspects of endurance? I think a race across mountain path will do."

Since they're already at the summit, the race will finish by the forecourt. Whoever reaches the middle of the base wins.

"Simple enough, I'm sure," Eraqus says, standing at the starting line.

"Yes, Master."

The two of them crouch on either side of Eraqus, Terra to the left, Aqua to the right. As Eraqus begins the countdown, Aqua can't help but feel secretly pleased; she was the fastest girl of her grade in Radiant Garden. On some occasions, she was an even match for the upper years, and so when they held tournaments during summer school, she was always within the top eight. Although Terra is smirking now, thinking the race is his, she plans to give him a small shock by the end of it. Their sneakers grip the grass, their arms poised to take flight–

"Go!"

The two of them sprint past their Master, almost equal in distance before setting a steady rhythm. They rush through the narrow pathway set by the mountains before emerging on the other side. They trample onwards, and Terra inches forward. Aqua tries to keep pace with him, but it's then that she feels something is off.

Whereas she normally is able to get an early head start in any race she's participated in, she can barely keep up with Terra now. It's all wrong – she's losing her sense of balance, can hardly find steady footing on this uneven road. The dirt flies to her face as her feet land and pebbles bounce, hindering her steps. Terra gains more momentum further down the path, leaving her stumbling after him.

Aqua gasps as she trips slightly from a dimple in the road. In an abrupt understanding, she figures winning is not as simple as she thought.

She hadn't expected him to be so quick, especially since she is longer legged than he is. But here and now, there is nothing else to describe him except free flying. His body, so used to years of heading down this area, already knows the swells and dips of the land, whereas hers is just now adapting and learning. His feet do not snag, he leaps through puddles and trenches with ease, and yet still, there's more to it.

Every time Aqua is on the verge of catching up, Terra would dive into an unmarked route, leaving her with full advantage of the smoother road. Not that it matters much, because still, his decision has an unseen advantage of being a shortcut, optimized only if one knows where to precisely put down their steps to make it matter, which he has down to science.

The gap's becoming wider, leaving little judgment as to who is going to win, and so Terra, in one bold move, actually turns his head to look back.

In that moment alone Aqua feels her legs tense, her vision clears. He is ahead, but just a few paces. She begins to time her breathing, widen her sprints and the swing of her arms. Looking for breaks in the ground, she plants her feet where she deems best, never hesitating for more than a quarter of a second. With the evening of her breath, she can feel herself pulling forward now, almost reaching to where Terra is.

He comes in first, reaching the forecourt a full five seconds before she could. They pant for breath as Eraqus comes to meet them, but before he fully arrives, she can see the confident smirk playing around Terra's lips again. Of course, he had expected this, saw his advantage sooner than she did.

"Nice win," Aqua says, once she catches her breath. She reels in her annoyance, remembering what Eraqus had mentioned last night. To show camaraderie, she extends her arm for a handshake.

Terra stops short. His expression turns to one of brief confusion to that of sharp suspicion. He seems undecided, trying to see whether the congratulation she offers is genuine. However, he doesn't have enough time to work through it, because soon the Master is a few feet away, and so he musters up a monotone "thanks" before it becomes too awkward. She drops her hand back to her side.

"A splendid race," the Master intones, "the both of you were neck-to-neck during the last leg. If it stretched on a bit further, I can't honestly say who I think would win."

Terra is fully frowning now. Aqua hides a smirk of her own.

They go in for lunch, heading towards the kitchen, where Eraqus bakes them a loaf of good, warm bread, each a thick slice full of nuts and raisins. There's a pot of stew in the middle of the table, the smell rich with wild game and vegetables. When they seat themselves for the meal, Aqua and Terra both reach for the soup ladle at the same time.

Aqua withdraws her hand quickly, gesturing for Terra to serve himself a bowl. After a week's worth of this, she can now sense Terra's growing annoyance.

"It's fine," he says, voice suddenly sweet as syrup, "you're the guest."

He smiles placidly, but it does not reach his eyes.

"Terra, I would hardly call Aqua a guest," Eraqus corrects, without looking up, still slicing bread for himself. "She's been here long enough, and this is her home as well as yours."

"Okay," Terra nods, and without skipping a beat reaffirms with, "then ladies first."

The two pupils stare at each other, both tight-lipped. Aqua is wearing some of Eraqus' old clothes, from when he was younger. Although the Master had trimmed the ends and sleeves, it still looks too big, and drapes around her like a tunic. She has a feeling Terra sees her as anything but a lady, probably less since the day she's arrived.

She takes the ladle, pouring a generous amount. She drops it just as she finishes, so the moment Terra reaches for it, his hand catches the splash from the broth.

"Sorry," Aqua says, sounding not sorry at all.

"Don't worry," replies Terra with equal coolness, "you can't help it."

The Master clears his throat, and they both settle down. Terra wipes his hand with a cloth. Aqua tears a sizeable chunk of bread to her mouth. With Eraqus mediating in between them, they don't dare to disrupt the peace, passive or otherwise.

At one point Aqua stretches her leg under the table, only to bump it into Terra's. They both jolt before resuming their glare. Terra expects her to retreat back to her corner of the table, but Aqua plants her feet right next to his, since he's on her side, not his own. His legs are invading her space and stubbornly, stubbornly, she's not going to give it up. However, judging from the grim determination of his face, neither is he.

Terra's foot is steadily pushing Aqua's back. In one swift motion, she brings her heel crashing down on the tip of his shoe. To the boy's credit, he did not utter a sound. However, his fingers clench around his spoon so tight she could see the whites of his knuckles. The silent war rages on, both of them becoming more generous with overly polite formalities.

Eraqus sips his tea with a brief sigh escaping his nose.

During the span of the next few days, Eraqus goes on to dividing their chores in a way that makes it so the two of them would be on opposite sides of the castle, or at the very least, separated by surrounding walls. Both morning and evening duties are carefully paced so that Aqua and Terra would be out of each other's way when it comes to cleaning, prepping food, or maintaining the scenery outside. Aqua suspects Eraqus wants the both of them to resolve their issue on their own; he has little desire to step into something that is their responsibility, let alone time to do so.

As of recently, the Master has started traveling again to restock on food supplies and other necessities. Sometimes he will be gone for a whole day, leaving behind food and instructions for his students. After Aqua's measurements are taken, Eraqus visits an old colleague to meld proper armor for her. He also gets something for Terra too, handing the boy a burlap sack one night after dinner. Terra disappears for the whole morning on the day after, emerging from the woods only for lunch.

With so many hours left unsupervised, Aqua is free to catch up on things. However, without any company to urge her forward, she grows tired of spending hours alone, practicing the stun strikes they've just learned or studying more history. Additionally, Terra still hasn't returned the books he hoarded away, and so Aqua spends the early half of the days racing through mountain path alone. She trips less now and can actually brace her feet better on the road. She makes a game out of chasing her shadow, which usually stretches in front of her during late afternoon, when she races from the forecourt to the summit.

On the fourth day of Eraqus' absence, Aqua goes out for her usual run. She stands at the very edge of the circular court and then, mimicking Eraqus' sage like tone, remarks, "This shall do perfectly. Now, on the count of three…"

And when the count ends she shoots past the even floor to the rocky earth. Although she knows she can never catch up to her shadow, she still tries to pursue it with unparalleled gusto, sometimes envisioning Terra in its place. It works her up all the more, and she thinks how next time, next time, she won't even give him a chance to look back.

The air still holds some of the chills of winter. When Eraqus had went to fetch her from Radiant Garden, spring had just started. By the feel of it, in Land of Departure it is still early in the season, with some of the flowers just shy from blooming.

As she speeds onward, she recalls a particular lesson about the seasons, in which all the worlds that Eraqus has discovered so far rotate around their suns at the same speed, always around the same positions and finishing their year with 365 days. The Master had said it's as if the worlds know that had once been one and are trying to coincide with each other.

"Remember, each world does have a consciousness of its own, so it wouldn't be all that surprising if they are trying to replicate the pattern it knew once before," Eraqus informed them, before moving on to the tilt of a world's axis.

The wind rakes its coolness over her hair, snapping her out of the memory. She makes it to the summit in record time, plopping down on grass near the pond, to dip her feet in the water. The stillness of her body relaxing comes and goes, taking away her adrenaline and leaving behind boredom at its wake. There is something else too, something she can't really place until the hush of her surroundings reminds her – she's alone.

For all the peace she sought back when she didn't have it, she wants nothing more right now than the bustling of other children, the midnight whispers and full belly laughter during recess. How Terra can stand being by himself for this long is a mystery.

She opens her eyes in a lazy haze.

Aqua hasn't seen him since breakfast. She had lunch by herself a while ago and swept around the castle long enough to know he wasn't there. Usually, he would make at least another appearance throughout the day before the Master came back at night. She's about to wonder where he is exactly, before she sternly reminds herself that there's no point – because she shouldn't, in fact, doesn't care at all.

The water sloshes as she stands on her feet. She decides to run back to the castle again, just to add in extra practice. She jogs until it comes to view again, but instead of going to the entrance, Aqua finds herself doing a quick turn, upping her pace to a full sprint as she heads towards the pine trees. Her moves become so automatic she doesn't sense him until they bump into each other round the neck of the woods. They both fall to the ground, hard. It takes a mere second, but as soon as Terra regains his senses, he scowls at her.

"What was that for?" he huffs, rubbing his forehead.

"It wasn't on purpose," she bites back. She's rubbing her forehead as well, wincing at the pain.

"Yeah? Well, be more careful."

She doesn't have a good argument for that, but luckily, a pillar of light shines at the front of the castle. Eraqus has returned.

They look at each other for a beat, before scampering off to meet the Master. Without thinking about it, they up their speed down the road until they are racing against each other.

Terra yet again has the lead, however this time, to her immense satisfaction, Aqua notes that the gap is smaller than before.

They reach Eraqus just as the last of his armor fades.

"Master..." Terra wheezes, bowing in a way Aqua knows is less as a sign of respect, and more as an excuse to catch his breath. Although she is in no position to judge.

"W-welcome back..." she chokes out, heaving just as hard.

Eraqus smiles at the sight of them.

"I'm glad to see both of you hard at work even when I'm away. Did you have a good race?"

"Yes sir," Aqua replies, because it's obligatory, and then because she can't help it, adds "I think I've gotten faster."

"Yes, I saw," Eraqus remarks. "Your progress as a whole has improved drastically. Didn't I mention before? You have great potential."

Aqua grins at this. Her smile widens at the sight of new clothes and her very own armor, which Eraqus reveals in a flourish of light. The clothes have little flair, more on the solid and simplistic side, but she knows on sight they'll fit better, and the fact they are completely new and not worn is enough. The armor is in its repressed form, shining as double shoulder bands. They gleam as sunlight hits it.

"Thank you, Mr. Eraqus." She hugs the gifts close to her chest.

"I'm glad you like it," the Master chuckles. "You should put them away when you get the chance. I dare say your closet has been empty long enough."

The Master takes a moment to survey her enthusiasm, before remembering another gift he has yet to give.

"Ah, and Terra, this is for you."

The usual burlap sack that would normally bring delight from Terra, its contents appreciated fully only by him, is now greeted with aloofness. Aqua notes his quiet acknowledgement of the bag, and his utterance of a colorless "thank you."

It comes out quiet, so much so that it's lost under the thumps of Eraqus' retreating steps. When Terra accepts the gift, his left hand clenches the pouch tightly.

Both students hurry off in opposite directions, each clutching their presents with various degree of gratitude.

With Eraqus' business done, he becomes present around the castle again, which means once more the two children are forced to be amicable around each other. Even though Terra's comment has lessened in bite, his mood, if possible, has turned sourer. The fine line between rivalry and contempt has been breached somehow, and Aqua can't pinpoint how or when it happened. Crossing swords with Terra has become dangerous, and he would laugh meanly at her losses. He drops their mocking formalities to openly ignore her, or if the moment presents itself, to rudely correct her on this and that.

Aqua fumes in silence during one particular evening, rubbing at a sore spot where Eraqus' blade had reached her, and where Terra had taken advantage of it during their match directly after. She creeps to the opposite wing, where Eraqus' room is, to ask for some ointment when she hears the Master's voice, stern enough to make her spot at her tracks.

"…and nobody deserves it, least of all Aqua. Understand?"

There's some resistance in the air before a response.

"Yes Master," Terra grumbles, and then because he can't help himself, "but she's alright so far. Why do I even have to help–"

"Because," Eraqus interrupts, before Terra can really voice his displeasure, "if your roles were reversed Aqua would never refuse to help any new students I choose. If I told her to look after you in the same way you were supposed to for her, I have no doubt she would readily agree. She has a certain light about her that makes her reach out to people, not push them away. Certainly not out of jealously, and even less so out of fear."

"I'm not jealous!" Terra exclaims. "And I'm not scared of, of anything."

"My boy, admitting these unsavory facts is the first step to confronting the darkness. And hardly anyone is afraid of nothing."

This time the end of Eraqus' sentence is met with heavier silence, and an even more stilted "yes Master."

Aqua is about to edge away from the scene when she discovers she doesn't have to; Terra rushes out, his face darkened by what had transpired. At the sight of her, he's completely outraged. He opens his mouth, and despite not wanting to, she flinches.

No words come. In the heat of his frustration, Terra stomps off. Aqua hears him going down the steps, follow by the entrance doors being swung open. Feeling guilty, she follows him to the forecourt, where he's pacing away.

"How much did you hear?" he demands, as soon as his surprise wears off.

"Not much," she admits. "Just the part about me. I don't know anything else, really."

He stares hard at her. After some time mulling it over, he drops his gaze.

"Okay." He says. He clears his throat. "Okay."

The lapses of speechlessness between the two are always terrible, but this feels like the worse one yet. Aqua bites her lip.

"But I–" Aqua starts, before her voice catches, "I think we should try to help each other, instead of always fighting. That's what Mr. Eraqus mentioned right? It'll be easier that way."

"That is easier," he agrees, "especially for you. But your light and mine are different. There's no way I can – I can…"

Terra stops pacing. Unable to continue with this line of thought, he gives it up entirely before rounding at her with another.

"And it's not 'sir' or 'mister,'" he says sharply. "It's Master. Master Eraqus."

Although some part of her knew what Terra said was right, Aqua couldn't help but feel a rise of indignation. Terra huffs in a haughty manner, practically embellishing an unspoken so there, now you know, remark. And then, to quite possibility ensure he's getting the last word on things, he makes to go.

"Wait."

"Now what," he sighs.

"I want a race," she blurts out, surprising even herself. As soon as it leaves her mouth, however, she's sure the whole reason she followed him out tonight is to propose a challenge to end all this.

"We're gonna be doing that tomorrow, so what's the point?"

"Practice," she states simply. By the jerk of Terra's body before he halts, Aqua knew she's peaked his interest. Additional training is something he's never refused. "We can race through the same path as earlier, right to the summit."

Terra stands with his arms crossed, deciding whether or not they should, but as she heads over to the starting point, he follows. When she crouches, so does he.

"Okay, so on my mark–"

"No," he says crossly, "on mine."

"Alright…"

Terra begins the count to three. Just as the last count leaves his lips they both burst forward, feet flying over the dirt road. The wind whips around them, hitting their faces as they each pull forward to gain the lead on the other.

Tonight is just as perfect as the last, bright enough to see the path before the shine of each lantern, quiet enough for them to just concentrate on their evening out their breaths as they pump their legs harder, swing their arms faster.

Aqua feels confident. They are neck to neck, and Terra isn't able to build that distance he had during their previous races. Although she cannot see his face, she can feel his shock at her improvement, his pace no longer lax as he struggles to genuinely gain more speed. Still, he reaches the next bridge first, which forces her to splash through the stream.

No matter – she's not afraid to go off path. She'll embrace any route, so long as they led to the finish line. Terra, sensing the difference, tries to monopolize the smoothest road, which leaves her to trend on slippery grass, gravelly dirt, and more ponds to slosh in. Her sneakers are caked with mud by the time the bridge to the summit comes to view. Her chest is aching as she attempts to suck in more air. Despite it all, it's wonderfully, deliriously, fun.

Aqua laughs out loud.

Her mood further heightens as she inches closer to Terra, his back ridged as he detects her moving up, sensing that the impossible is happening. He's startled now, with his vain attempts to push forward, but she knows in her heart she's faster, and so, without much resistance, she breaks free from their matching pace. She vaguely notices Terra's alarm as he falls back, because soon his presence drops from behind her altogether.

Aqua slaps the mountain's base as she slows down to a halt. She gulps down air, wiping the sweat off her face. After righting herself, it dawns on her – she's won the race. Success is sweet on her tongue, and she's flush with triumph. She turns, ready to drink in Terra's disbelief.

He isn't there. Strange, she has expected him to be by her side now.

"Terra?" she shouts, her voice rising in pitch ever so slightly.

"Ergh…"

A low moan answers her, and she twirls around to see the boy lying face down on the ground. He was getting up slowly to a sitting position as she runs back towards him.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, rubbing his nose. "Just tripped."

When he removes his hand, she could see blood smeared on it. Her eyes make their way back to his nose, and she's stunned to see a heavy trickle gloss over his lips, to the point of his chin, where they curve and land, with a prominent splatter on his white shirt.

Aqua extends a hand to help him up, which he ignores. He gets up quickly enough, trying to brush it off like it's a small matter. But on his first step, his ankle shakes, and Terra trembles horribly before he falls back down.

"What's the matter?" she asks in alarm. All thoughts of her victory vanish instantly.

"My ankle," Terra hisses. "I think I sprained it."

"You–" She gulps. "You really think so?"

Terra tries rotating and flexing his foot. He winces and lets out a shaky breath.

"I'll go get Eraqus–"

"No," Terra calls out thickly before she can take a step. "It's way past after hours. We could get in trouble for being out so late, and so far away from the castle. The Master…the Master doesn't need to know…"

Terra's a bit white in the face now, with his bloody nose showing no sign of stopping, even when he tips his head up. Aqua reaches for his hand, but he pulls away. He stands shakily on his good foot, but it isn't enough to support him.

"You need help–"

"I'm fine," he retorts firmly. "I've gotten plenty of sprain ankles before. They always go away after a few days."

"We don't have a few days," she reminds him. "We need to get back to the castle now."

Terra chews the inside of his cheek, knowing the truth of her words. His good foot is still shaking, and he's about to lose his balance. He sighs hard through his nose, turning to her. She walks over to his other side, looping her arm around his waist to grab a fistful of his shirt. He leans on her, however begrudgingly, as they match steps with one another. It's the best Aqua can hope for, and she's careful not to brush his arm as they hobble away from the mountains and back to the castle.

The two try to sync as best they can, but what ends up happening is either Aqua's too fast, or Terra's too slow, and they strive on, tripping over every loose rock.

"Watch it!" Terra yelps, at what is the tenth time they nearly fell.

"Sorry…" Aqua mutters.

The wind is picking up, with a hint of chill that wasn't there before. Aqua shivers. Maybe Terra hasn't realized it just yet, but there is a faint rustle in the bushes. Something is howling in the distance, far and yet too close to her liking. Occasionally yellow eyes will blink at them from the dim, and her heart races, recalling the attack that happened so long ago in Radiant Garden. It's tempting to go running back to the castle on her own, away from all this. But there's still Terra to think about, and really, she rather be together than alone in the darkness.

It's quiet when they finally get back. All the rooms had their lights put out. She's glad for the rugs on the corridors; they do well to muffle their steps and Terra's dragging foot. Careful not to stain the carpet, he pulls his shirt up to soak up the blood from his nose.

Terra whispers directions on how to get to the medic room. Up until now, she hasn't been even aware of its existence. On ground floor, they make two rights until they reach the end of the hall to a small room no bigger than a standard bedroom. Two beds are crammed on opposite corners, one of them looks slept in before, and is covered with clean sheets, while the other has no such impression. She wonders how often Terra got hurt, and how little Eraqus knows about it. She sets him down the bed, and Terra has a look of instant relief now that pressure isn't being applied on his bad foot.

"What now?" she inquires.

"I need some ice from the kitchen. It'll help with the swelling," he says, his voice muffled with a rag soaking the remaining blood on his upper lip. He points at his ankle, which is now plump and angry red.

"Okay," she nods. On her way out, she notices a roll of bandages and tosses it to him, which he catches effortlessly.

It's a hard feat, suppressing her nervousness while speeding through the dining hall to the double doors that leads to the kitchen. It's dark, so she has to feel for the ice chest. She opens it, groping for the ice, until she secures a pouch and drags it out. Slowly, almost catlike, she creeps back out of the kitchen. Aqua entertains the thought of running back. After all, Eraqus' study is well above them. There is little possibility of him still being awake at this hour–

The lights flicker on. She nearly drops the bag.

"Aqua," Eraqus says with astonishment. "What are you still doing up?"

Eraqus prods lightly at Terra's ankle, causing the boy to wince. His nosebleed has stopped, gratefully. Despite that, the drops on Terra's shirt are sure tells, and Aqua's confident they haven't fooled Eraqus for a second.

After a few more examinations, the Master confirms that a few days' bed rest is in order. Terra can walk around, but not without a crutch. The ice packet is pressed directly on the swollen joint, causing him to shudder violently.

"Sir, but what about a cure spell? Or a potion?" Aqua asks, once she finds her voice.

"Those are needed only for flesh wounds, my dear," Eraqus explains. "This is a bit more complicated than that. Aside from battle, we must not rely too heavily on magic or aides to help us. The body is also a conscious thing – it needs to learn to heal itself when it matters most."

He goes to check on her as well but does not discover any new marks of injuries. Once the Master notes that both of them are relatively well, he starts pressing them with questions.

"May I ask what you two were doing at the mountain trail, and at this hour?" he asks, quietly but no less serious.

They look away, ducking from the full onslaught of his question.

"We were just training Master." Terra says, but he ruins his confidence with the shifting of his eyes.

"Even though it is midnight?" Eraqus is not convinced. "You should know better, Terra."

"I-I," Terra splutters, tongue tied further as Eraqus raises a questioning brow. "I forgot..."

"That was very foolish of you, my boy. Various wild animals roam at this time of night – fortunately you have not encountered any of them, lest your injuries would have been far, far worse."

"Yes Master," Terra mumbles bitterly. The strands of his hair cover his eyes as his head hangs low with shame.

Aqua peeks over Eraqus' back, remorse clawing her chest.

This is all wrong. It was she who suggested they race through the mountains, she who threw caution to the wind. And yet here is Terra remarkably, inconceivably, taking the blame on both their behalf. She can't phantom why; he's made it very clear he despises her.

But as Eraqus remarks exactly what punishment should follow, it dawns on her.

Terra is not fighting back against the Master. In fact, he embraces it as just another one of his duties maybe because – as absurd as it sounds – he's now fully accepted his responsibility to help her. As the Master said, Terra knew better, and she did not. Now he has to reap the extra chores bestowed on him once he's finished healing.

"U-um..." She coughs. Neither one of them looks her direction. "Mister – uh...Master Eraqus! Sir! I..."

Aqua feels her throat closing up. However, it is too late to retract her call. Master Eraqus turns to face her in surprise.

"It was my fault too," she says, unable to keep the small quiver from her voice. "I challenged Terra to race me. It was wrong, but I told him it was for extra training...even though I just wanted to beat him at something. A-and he got hurt because of me."

Master Eraqus is silent for a while, considering the change of events.

"Is this true, Terra?"

Terra opens and closes his mouth. For the first time, he's looking at Aqua, not with the degree of sharpness she's used to, but with wonderment and maybe a little bit of hope.

"I...yes. It's true Master." He confirms this, still staring at the girl who is curiously sticking by him, even though she's shaking like a leaf.

Even more strange is yet another twist; after a moment of surveying both of them, Aqua swears she can see the corners of Master Eraqus' mouth twitch upwards, just a little.

"How unfortunate Aqua," Master Eraqus continues, "I will have no choice but to punish the both of you, then."

Both students' jaws gape open.

"However noble your intentions, both of you have still broken rules, and on top of that, got hurt doing so." Master Eraqus brushes past Aqua to the doorway. "When Terra recovers fully, both of you will be put in kitchen duty, and you are to sweep dust for both wings of the castle. Understood?"

They snap, ridged in place. "Yes Master!"

He leaves them then, and Terra breathes out a sigh of relief. Apparently, this is considered a light sentence, if his relaxed face is anything to go by. He looks much better than he did, moments ago – still, she feels the need to apologize, mainly because the guilt still hasn't settled right with her; if anything, it's threatening to come out.

"Sorry," she croaks.

"It's not your fault," Terra mumbles. "I mean, I'm the one who fell–"

He looks up to meet her eyes and is immediately startle by the tears pooling around them.

"Wha – stop!" He panics. "Stop crying! S-stop crying…please…!"

Aqua isn't even aware of it. She touches her face, smearing the tears trailing down, and responds with equal shock.

"O-oh," she sniffs, "sorry…"

She swipes at her face. Terra has good enough manners to throw some tissues her way, which she catches effortlessly. Through the tears, she can make out Terra's worried expression.

"Hey," he whispers, "are you…are you okay?"

"Yeah…" She blinks back the tears fiercely. "I-I don't know – why…"

Aqua can't find the reasons for the tears, even after they stop falling. Terra eases up a bit as her face dries, before speaking again.

"Why…" Terra tilts his head to look at the ceiling. "Do you really need…a reason to care about the things that matter?"

They turn to look at his bandaged ankle.

"It was dumb of me to run and fall like that," he says, low to the point she nearly couldn't hear it. "But…well, you were pretty fast."

He admits this with a crooked smile. Sheepishly, just enough to almost be an apology. But whether it is meant to be one or not, it's the first she's ever gotten from him.

"Thanks," she says, once she finds her voice.

Because it's late, and they need dire rest, she leaves him be.

It takes a couple of days, but once Terra's ankle heals and both children finish their punishment, Terra takes her to see his project in the woods. It's a few yards away from the creek bed the Master had shown them weeks ago, the very place Aqua had yearned to explore deeper into. Here is where Terra has stationed his secret place; a bed of flowers and vegetables growing in tilted soil, protected by sturdy planks of lumber that makes a fence. The burlap sacks he had received from Eraqus reveal themselves to be seed packs and fertilizers.

They are surrounded by towering tall pines, oaks and evergreens. However, even with this amount of seclusion, the sun makes its way through, shining past the leaves to cast streams of gold that tickles their hair, their shoulders, their feet. The air is sweeter here, in this small space, and she can hear the songs on birds much clearer.

Terra peers at her to the side, rubbing his neck. She gives him a tentative smile.

His eyes flicker at her expression. His arm drops, and the break from his face, as if something is stirring up inside him, clenches at her. He returns her smile in full.

That's when Aqua sees it, from where he stood – the first dandelion of the year, and she knows; spring has come at last.

[honkellujah]

=>Party.

Gamzee sat in his block, getting ready for the party he'd invited

Terezi to attend with him. It wasn't an official church party, just something the newer recruits did about once a week to blow off some stress from a week full of training. He picks out a fairly color coordinated outfit, in all pinks and purples to match his paint.

Stripping off his church sanctioned clothing, he wiggles into a pair of fishnets and puts some tiny shorts on over them. He throws his hair into a messy ponytail before slipping on the top he'd picked out, it was just easier to manage it in hoods that way. After he gets it on he takes a minute to check himself out in one of the mirrors along his wardrobe space.

Terezi seriously thought she was gonna look better than this? Sister was dreaming. He was going to get ALL of the attention, just how he wanted it. He loved it when people stared, when their jaws dropped.So long as they kept their hands to themselves.

Satisfied with his appearance, he moves to go sit on the cushioned bench in front of his vanity. Rustling around for a moment and pulling out a large bottle of assorted pills. He'd promised Terezi that he wouldn't do drugs around her, she hadn't said anything about him not being allowed to be high in her presence. He picks out what he wants and tosses back the handful with a swig of faygo. The bottle quickly goes back to its hiding place, he did intend to keep his promise to the tealblood. Her company was welcome and enjoyable, Gamzee had missed hanging out with her, even if all they did was pick on each other and mess with other people....and maybe make out sometimes.

The invite to this party had been a way for him to sort of test the waters after what had happened between them a few nights prior. When she'd asked to come hang out, he'd been...surprised. He was even more surprised at the course of that night's events, and with himself. He'd never realized just how attracted he was to strong willed women like Terezi, or that he sort of enjoyed it in a way he hadn't expected to when she insulted him.

He slips on a pair of ankle length socks over the feet of the fishnet stockings, wearing any kind of boots with fishnets was never very comfortable for long and he intended to dance for a pretty decent length of time.

Grabbing the knee length converse sneaker esc boots he'd picked out for this ensemble, he completes his look for the evening.

Remembering he'd told Terezi to meet him in the part of the station where the recruits quarters were, he checks the time. He heads out fairly quickly after Tutini finishes up getting ready. She may not have been allowed a night off again since the incident at the symposium, but Gamzee wanted her to have a good time regardless. Tavros had been right about her being nicer if he was nicer.

Making their way down one of the many long corridors of the church station, not really making small talk on the way. Tutini does mention she's glad that Terezi is hanging around again, she had always liked the tealblood more than any of the other friends Gamzee brought around, specifically because Terezi didn't put up with his bullshit.

The both of them run into Kezato on the way, and he of course, tags along, following Gamzee around with his camera and snapping several mundane shots of the smaller clown walking down the hall. 

Gamzee spots Terezi from a good ways down the hallway. Her outfit is

pretty dope. The colors were pretty much what he'd expected. She was almost always in some combination of teal and red when he saw her.

As they approached the legislascerator, Gamzee was able too make out more details. Her top was like a bra, but thicker, with eyes printed on it, one on each breast. Her shorts were patterned with a sort of geometric square design with a lot of different colors, she had on gloves that went to her elbows, but they didnt have any fingers. She wore legwarmers and slippers of some sort that looked like dragon feet, spines down the back of her legs and everything. She had forgone her usual glasses for a pair of goggles.

She lifted her nose to the air, sniffing as the group approached and turns to Gamzee.

He smiles and greets her with a little jape about how he's impressed with her outfit. "Wow teal an red, I be so surprised."

She jabs back with a comment about his. "At least I don't smell like a trashy pack of striped fruit gum."  

"Got some big ol' eyes there Rezi."

"Hey, stop staring at my tits!"

"They all started it by starin' first!"

They both laugh and the group heads into the party.

It's fairly loud, electronic music blaring from a rig that clearly wasn't set up professionally, everything is pretty janky. There's lights overhead changing colors and shining over the crowd of clowns. Some of them seem to hold their breath when Gamzee strolls into the room. They were the newest additions to the ranks, the ones who didn't really know him beyond his title and position. Everyone else was fairly used to him attending these parties.

He seems to pay very little attention to the stares of awe, though inside he's enjoying every set of eyes that's on him. He wasn't here for their attention (well not entirely) he was here to have a good time with Terezi, to help her cut loose without the aid of substances. Sister needed to get her chill on, she worked too much.

He asks her if she wants to dance, and grabs her hand to lead her out to the floor with him when she says yes. They're having a pretty good time for awhile. After a few songs, the floor starts to get more crowded with clowns trying to get as close to their future leader as possible, and Terezi's demeanor seems to change.

She gets irritable and sort of aggressive, quickly removing herself from the dance floor and going to stand off in a quieter corner.

Gamzee follows her, actually somewhat concerned. He had wanted her to have a good time, and clearly that wasn't happening. He stops in front of her and looks up to speak with her.

"Woah, Rezi, what's up? You ain't havin a good time no more?"

"Fuck off Gamzee!"

"What the fuck? I'm just tryinna ask you what be up? You aight and

shit? Like I all thought everything was chill an then you was suddenly rushin off. I invited you to this shit to have a good time. If you ain't we can leave?"

"Yeah, sure, like you totally care if I'm alright. You don't want to leave. You don't care about my comfort. You're garbage!"

"Well then ya must be real into dumpster diving huh?"

That gets a laugh out of her, well a snort, but he was counting it.

"Are you implying I have bad taste?"

"The motherfuckin worst."

"My sense of taste is pretty much amazing. I wouldn't expect you to

get what good taste really is, I'm sure you lost your sense of it to

the drugs eons ago."

"Can ya taste this?" He flips her off.

"Hmmmmm?" She leans forward and licks his finger, slowly and with as much slobber as possible.

"Tastes like whiny little bastard, as I suspected it would."

He gets huffy, stomping a foot and cursing while he tries to find something to wipe his hand off on, settling for a clearly drunk fellow clown that passes by them.

"Seriously I don't even have to try anymore, you're so easily offended.

He growls briefly and shoves her, playfully..but a little too hard.

She laughs and grabs him by the straps of his top and lifts him up like it's nothing for her.

"Don't ever do that again."

He wiggles around in her grip, not really trying to get away from her. He was kind of enjoying this...it was...exciting. He lets out a fairly pathetic sound that makes it clear how he feels about the situation.

"Oh are you getting off on this again? Like you did the other night? You're so fucking gross Gamzee. I'm could throw you across the room, right now and you're just thinking of making out with me aren't you?"

She drops one of her hands, still holding him up like it's nothing and grips one of his wrists. Flipping their positions so she's pinning him against the wall.

"So motherfucking what if I am?"

"I don't recall the court granting permission? Maybe if you plead your case I might be amicable to that."

He rolls his eyes and sighs, mostly for show, even if she couldn't really see him.

"Please, Rezi?"

"I mean, I guess I could, but why should I? Present your case!"

"Fuck...cause..cause I REALLY want ya to?"

"Hmmm." She gets very close to him, pressing him harder against the wall, their lips barely touching, then she pulls away and laughs.

"That's barely a case! Come on Gamzee, arguments, facts, evidence! That’s how you build a proper case!"

He whimpers. She sighs.

“Court runs on a strict schedule, hurry it up, clown!”

"I..Imma bad clown, an you the only one qualified enough to bring me to justice. I all need a proper interrogation."

She smirks. "Oh is that so? I think the court can agree to those terms. This officer will interrogate the suspect, thoroughly.” 

She kisses him, pressing him into the wall. They go on for several minutes before quickly exiting the party to go back to his block.

Leaving a very confused Tutini and Kezato behind at the party.