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ohwynne · 11 months ago

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TIMING: Early December, before Rhett went missing PARTIES: Emilio @mortemoppetere and Wynne @ohwynne LOCATION: A local coffeeshop SUMMARY: Wynne and Emilio are walking Perro when they stop for some coffee. A lighthearted moment soon turns very real as the pair delve into Emilio's past. CONTENT WARNINGS: Sibling death, child death, suicide ideation.

It was a strange way of existing, this state Wynne found themself in. There was an endless feeling of relief that made them feel lighter, that pushed them towards believing they were more capable of things than they might have ever thought. But there was also a sense of deep dread, one that felt like there was something crawling under their skin, a cold feeling clawing at their insides. They felt it between their shoulderblades, like an icy touch. In their stomach, like some kind of bug or even a crawling parasite. In their hands, which itched for something they never seemed to quite reach.

It had gone well, hadn’t it? Only Padrig had gotten hurt and perhaps that was some kind of justice. They tried to convince themself of it, but still. Their pointing hand, their convicted voice had put him to death, had doled out a fate to him crueller than the death they would have met. It was a hard thing to live with. Murder.

But they lived. They had to live. For their brother, for the ones that had come before them. For Padrig, so that even his death wasn’t in vain. And so they continued to go out. To work. To see Ariadne and hold her tight. To try and believe that they were better than those elders. Wynne was with Emilio now, the air growing frostier around them as they walked Perro. They missed the apartment building, even if they didn’t exactly miss the Worm Row quite as much. It had just been nice to have the slayer close by.

He was still there, though. A continued presence in their life. They were endlessly grateful for him. Eyes flicked up at him as they buried their hands deeper in their jacket. “Do you reckon we’ll ever get back to our apartment?” They looked ahead again, watching Perro skip along with a smile on their face. Then, their gaze fell on a quaint little coffeeshop. “Oh!” Wynne grinned. “We should get something hot to drink. And a pastry!”

—

He’d been restless lately. Change in routine always did that, and there’d been a hell of a lot of that over the last few weeks. From the goo overtaking the apartment and rendering him effectively homeless to the quick succession with which he went from squatting in the back room of a bar to staying in a fucking mansion with someone who made his chest feel tight in a way he pretended not to notice, the recent influx of change was hard to deny. Emilio didn’t deal with it as well as he used to. Change made him paranoid, made him nervous, made him impulsive. Change made him stupid, sometimes. It drove him to run out and fight wardens in the woods, to get his ass drugged and his knee kicked in. It left him feeling like every small shift was going to pull the rug out from under his feet.

But he knew that was… inconvenient. He knew it was the kind of thing he was supposed to push down, supposed to ignore. The warden in the woods was Teddy’s demon, not his. Emilio had no real right to feel restless against a problem he’d made for himself. And he wasn’t the only one who’d been displaced by that building being covered in goo; arguably, he wasn’t even the most affected by it. Arden had lost Teagan, and regardless of how he felt about the nymph, he knew Arden didn’t deserve that. Wynne was going through a hell of a change, too, even if Emilio liked to think theirs was a more positive one. They were free now from the people who’d hung heavy over their head all their life, and that was good. But freedom was hard to wrap your head around, sometimes. Emilio knew that better than anyone.

So when they’d asked to meet up for a walk, he hadn’t thought about the way his leg still didn’t feel quite right or the fact that the stitches Teddy had included free with their ‘stop getting stabbed’ lecture itched more than he could stand. He didn’t even consider the chill that had taken hold in the air with the changing of seasons, or the way he hated the cold. He thought only of Wynne, and of how heavy freedom could feel on your shoulders. That was what was important, really.

It was easy to ignore the various aches and pains and even the cutting cold as they walked, Perro excitedly scampering ahead of them. “I don’t know,” he replied with a shrug. “Maybe. We know the building’s still there.” They’d been in it, after all. “Do you want to get back to it? Or would you rather keep staying with Ariadne?” There was an almost teasing lilt to his tone, a faint smile on his face. When Wynne pointed out the coffee shop, he had to hide his relief. Sitting down, he thought, sounded a lot better than it ought to. “Sure,” he agreed. “I’ll buy you something, come on.”

—

He was walking with more trouble than usual. Wynne had noted it moments before with worry, not sure what to do with the realization. They wanted to ask if something had happened, worry curling at the pit of their stomach but they didn’t want to breach that kind of topic just yet. The air felt almost light here, with the fall breeze and Perro’s excitement. They wanted to not think about the injuries shared among them both, among all those people they had grown to care about since moving here.

And though there was a desire within them to stop caring, a voice that said that perhaps it would be easier and more tolerable if they didn’t feel so bad about all those that got hurt, they could never commit to it. They didn’t even know how to, anyway. Even in those moments where they felt frozen from exhaustion, as if they would never get out of bed again, they felt themself weary with concern.

But for now it was okay to focus on the good, wasn’t it? Emilio deserved some levity and maybe so did they, something as simple and nice as a walk with a dog. They smiled a little at Emilio, before shrugging. “I don’t know. I’m fond of it. And I kind of miss my roommates and well, you.” Wynne flushed a little. “But it’s been nice to be with Ariadne this much. I do miss having my own space if that makes sense? I sometimes feel a bit like an intruder in her and her cousin’s space.” They looked up. “What about you? Don’t you miss the place a little?”

They walked up to the coffee shop. “Alright, but then next treat is on me,” Wynne said, opening the door to the shop. Their eyes scanned the menu, not dissimilar from the one at their old place of work. They missed getting to make themself all the coffees with the syrups sometimes. “Do you want to share something? What looks good to you?”

—

Silences with Wynne felt comfortable in a way they didn’t with most people. It hadn’t always been this way, of course; in the beginning, Emilio felt just as awkward with Wynne as he did with most people, uncertainty clinging to everything he did. He worried about saying the wrong thing, about doing something that was normal but hunter standards, by Cortez standards, but unimaginable to anyone else. He slipped up sometimes, still, even with them. Said something they found strange, asked questions they found concerning. But it didn’t feel as heavy as it normally might. Wynne was Wynne. For better or worse, they liked to be around him.

Enough to make them miss a terrible apartment in a building that had been falling apart even before it was covered in a fresh coat of supernatural goo, apparently. There was something kind of funny about it, the idea of Wynne longing for the place. There was something even funnier about the fact that Emilio felt the same. He missed the faint smell of mildew that clung to the walls of his apartment, missed the way his furniture all smelled like cigarettes no matter what he did, even missed Jeff’s habit of occasionally wandering into his unit when he mistook it for his own. But he missed the proximity to Wynne and Arden more than anything.

He hummed, the answer noncommittal but telling all the same. “I get that,” he admitted. “Feel like I don’t belong much in Teddy’s space. They wanted me there enough to kidnap my dog and make me come over, but… I don’t know. Probably feel like they made a mistake now. Not a great roommate.” He’d given Teddy ample warning of that, provided them with a list of reasons why they’d regret asking him to move in, but being given warnings and actually experiencing the things you were warned about were two different things. Telling someone you were going to stab them would never hurt the way slipping the knife between their ribs would. Emilio knew that from experience.

Following Wynne into the cafe, Emilio nodded despite knowing he probably wouldn’t take them up on the offer to pay for their next little outing. He looked up at the menu, stomach clenching painfully at the thought of food. It had been harder to eat than usual lately; the sudden and dramatic change in routine had thrown his already fickle appetite out of whack, and he’d hardly managed to pick at the meals Teddy kept cooking up for reasons that had little to do with the ex-demon’s odd flavor combinations. But Wynne was asking, and he knew he’d spotted a hint of concern on their face already at the way he was unable to entirely cover up the worse-than-usual pain in his leg, so he shrugged. “Whatever you want. We can split it.”

—

It was hard to try and picture Teddy and Emilio living in that big house that they had only ever known as the Leviathan’s abode. Did Emilio sit in the same kitchen they’d sat in as they’d had dinner with the demon? Did he fill the space where Wynne had shaken their hand with the Leviathan to make a deal? And then there was the whole case of Teddy and Emilio as a combination. They were both people they admired and loved but such stark contrasts of each other. The fact that they were friends, though, was nothing if not a good thing.

“They kidnapped Perro?” Their mouth was a little agape as they asked the question, which was mostly rhetorical. Teddy had stolen a sheep as well, so for them to steal a dog to convince Emilio to live somewhere safer seemed right up their alley. Wynne frowned a little at Emilio’s assessment of himself. “Well, if they went through all that trouble they must want you there. And I’m sure you’re a fine roommate! It’s a big house anyway, right? I didn’t even know houses could be that big.” They had seen how Emilio lived, though, and could see some issues there, but they didn’t want to say them out loud. Besides, the bad was greatly outweighed by the good. “You’re a good person to have around.”

Their eyes moved over the menu across from them, written in chalk. There were a great many options and it was hard to choose, not just because of their own finicky appetite but because they also had to consider what Emilio might like. They hoped maybe sharing something would help his appetite, though. Eating with Ariadne made it easier for them to chew down on things, as seeing her enjoying things brought a little light to everything. So in the end they went for something sweet, because they gravitated towards that. “Hello, good morning,” they said to the barista, giving the kind of smile they had liked in their customers. “Can I get a latte with some vanilla? And regular milk.” They gave their decision a little more thought, as if this was one of the most important choices in their life. “Oh, and a cinnamon roll, please. And then for him …?”

Wynne let Emilio order and pay, scooting over to the other side of the bar. They gave a small scratch underneath Perro’s chin for being a good boy and then looked at Emilio. “Would you like to sit for a while? It’s cold out anyway.” They looked down at his leg for a bit but still didn’t say anything. They tried to come up with something else to say in stead. “We should get Perro a jacket.”

—

“Sí,” Emilio responded gravely, nodding his head. “Snatched him from where I was staying. Left a note for rescate. They’re a criminal.” His tone was utterly dry, deadpan in the way Emilio’s humor usually was. Of course, he wasn’t bothered by Teddy’s ‘kidnapping’ of Perro. Perro hadn’t cared (knowing him, he’d probably enjoyed the attention), and Teddy’s intentions hadn’t been anything sinister. Teddy often had strange methods of ‘helping,’ but that was usually their goal. Even if Emilio still didn’t entirely understand why they wanted to help so badly. Or why Arden did, or Wynne, or anyone. People in this town, he thought, had trouble recognizing a lost cause for what it was.

Wynne’s insistence that he was probably a good roommate only served as further proof of that. He snorted, shooting them a look of disbelief. “I don’t even like living with me,” he pointed out. “I cause more problems than I solve, I think.” Like the shit with Parker, for example. If Emilio had killed the warden, he thought, the situation would have been far better. As it was, he’d only served to worry Teddy more, to make things worse. What if Parker came after Teddy again now as retribution? Emilio didn’t much care if he was targeted for his failure to finish the job, but he couldn’t stomach the idea of someone else paying for his mistake. Wynne was wrong, he thought. He wasn’t a good person to have around at all.

He stood back and let Wynne study the menu, eyes darting around the cafe the way they often did when he was left to his own devices. He cataloged the room while they decided what to order. Made note of the exits, studied the people around them. Paranoia was a thing that had always plagued him, but it was always worse after an altercation. The one with Parker would likely leave him nervous for months. It took him a moment to step forward when Wynne went to order, busy deciding if the woman sitting in the booth in the corner talking on the phone was a threat or not. He almost didn’t realize Wynne was waiting on him until they turned. Shuffling forward with a wince, he offered the barista a nod. “Coffee,” he said. “Black. Uh… medium.” Mundane things like ordering a coffee often felt foreign to him still. He wondered if Wynne felt the same. They were better at it than he was, and he was glad for that. After what they’d been through, he thought they deserved normalcy.

Once he’d paid for their order, he rejoined Wynne, glancing down at Perro with a quiet hum of praise that the dog likely heard often enough to see for what it was. He looked back to Wynne as they stood, following their gaze down to his leg briefly and feeling a flash of shame or embarrassment or something along those lines that was difficult to pinpoint entirely. He wanted to insist that he was fine to walk, but doing so would mean admitting that Wynne had noticed he wasn’t, and he didn’t want to do that, either. In the end, he only shrugged. It was a listless motion, one that only saw him lifting one shoulder and dropping it stiffly. “We can sit if you want,” he agreed, pretending they were making the choice for themself instead of for him. “What’s Perro need a jacket for? He’s got fur. A lot of it. Built in jacket, no?”

—

He didn’t seem that upset by Teddy’s transgression, which made Wynne glad. They didn’t want the two of them to fight, even if they didn’t really grasp their friendship just yet. “I think we might all be criminals a little bit,” they pointed out mildly, “But that’s okay, because the rules are silly.” Most of them were, anyway. Some of them seemed a little more fair, like not murdering people. (But there should maybe be some exceptions, like in Wynne’s situation or in the case of that barn, where plenty of people had died.) “You got him back though, at least!”

His statement felt heavy and they looked at him for a moment. Emilio never really talked about himself in a positive way and it made them sad — because there was so much good and strong they saw within him. Why he couldn’t see it, they didn’t get, but Wynne was no stranger to self-hatred. Guilt and shame made them meanest towards themself too, but in their case they thought there was plenty of grounds for it. All the carnage they’d caused back home, the shortcomings of their existence, the awkwardness with which they carried themself. “That’s sad,” they said matter-of-factly. “You should try to like living with yourself. But I get it. Sometimes that’s hard. But you do solve a lot of problems.” Mostly theirs. That, too, was a point of self-hatred. Would they ever stop looking at people with seniority to guide them and hold their hands?

They watched the baristas, thinking distantly of how they had once rolled into a job like this. How Lauri had given them a chance, despite their odd appearance and hungry eyes. How it had meant freedom, making coffees for people who talked down to them or spoke to them in suggestive ways they didn’t understand. They missed it sometimes, even if their work at the gallery was a lot less stressful and came with better pay. They could go back to it, though — should they want to. The world was filled with possibility and thought hat was terrifying and overwhelming, it was also good. For now, they were just glad to be a patron.

“I do want to sit, yes,” they said, moving towards a table with Perro and Emilio in tow. For a second they wondered what people would think they were to another. Whether they’d assume they were family fo sorts. “That’s true. But maybe he does get cold. I wish we could ask him, you know? Or that we could read an animal’s minds. I bet he has a very high opinion of you.” Wynne wrapped their hands around their mug and looked out the window for a moment, before looking back at Emilio. “Are you okay? You seem like …” They shrugged. “You are hurting a little, or something. Did you fight a vampire?”

—

“I am not a criminal.” Emilio managed to sound mildly offended at the accusation, despite the fact that it was entirely true. So little of what he did operated within the confines of the law, and he knew that. Things like killing were still illegal, even when the corpses turned to dust once you were finished. Still, he was good at doubling down when he wanted to get a point across. “I rescued him. That’s how I got him back.”

That’s sad. The bluntness of the statement drew a quiet laugh from between his lips, and he nodded. “Yeah, probably is a little.” From what he’d been told, a great deal of his thought process could be described as sad. It fit well with the way his limbs sometimes felt too heavy to lift off the ground, or the way his bed became a casket any time he allowed himself to lie in it. “Easier to say it than to do it. Or to think it. I think sometimes, me trying to solve problems just makes them worse.” Or he didn’t do a good enough job. He’d saved Wynne and Arden from the vampire cult with the help of Metzli and Zane, but he hadn’t been fast enough to save Wynne the scar on their neck or the nightmares in their head. He helped with the shit back at Wynne’s compound, but not soon enough to keep their brother from dying in their place and not well enough to ease their guilt regarding what happened to Padrig. He’d never been able to save Teddy in a way that mattered, either, never been able to spare them new scars or new nightmares. The same could be said for Nora, for Andy, for everyone he’d ever tried to help. More often than not, Emilio came up short. He found new and inventive ways to fail people. It was all he ever did.

But Wynne thought he was doing a good job. Maybe that counted for something. Maybe it had to. Things mattered when you made them matter. Emilio knew that. And he was bad at making them matter for himself, bad at giving himself breaks that he didn’t feel he’d earned, but maybe he could get better at it. Maybe Wynne was right — maybe he should make more of an effort to like himself as a first step. It seemed a monumental hurdle, a mountain disguising itself as a molehill. It’d be hard to drag himself up the slope. It was hard to drag himself much of anywhere, these days.

He let Wynne guide him towards the table, took a chair and sat in it and tried to hide the relief from his expression. Sitting down didn’t erase the pain in his leg — nothing ever had, not entirely — but taking the weight off made it a little less overwhelming. He shifted subtly, stretching the limb out a little. “Maybe one day he’ll learn to talk,” he joked, leaning back in his chair a little. Perro circled a few times before curling into a ball at his feet, resting his head on one of the detective’s boots. “Weird things happen in this town, right? Wouldn’t be surprised.” He wasn’t sure he’d like it. If Perro didn’t have a high opinion of him, it’d sting more than he’d care to admit. He glanced over at Wynne’s question, frowning a little. He’d known he wasn’t doing the best job at hiding his aches, but he thought he’d been doing well enough not to alert Wynne to it. Reaching down, he rested a hand on his knee and shrugged. “Not vampires,” he admitted. There was a moment’s hesitation. “There was a hunter. Real asshole. Hurting people who didn’t deserve it. Got into it with him, and he took a cheap shot at my knee. Thing hasn’t healed right in years. Guess he made it worse. It’ll get better, I think.” Or it wouldn’t, and he’d get used to it. Either way, the worst would be over soon. “Nothing to worry about, though. All good, ¿vale?”

—

“Oh.” They blinked at that statement, feeling a little bit like they had fully missed the mark. “I didn’t — I didn’t mean you are one. I think sometimes, maybe, we do things that go against the law though, right?” Wynne gave a little smile, that grew a little brighter as they moved onto the next thing. “You did! See. You are very good at saving people and animals.” They did look a little smug when saying that.

A lot of things were sad, it seemed. As purpose had fallen away from their life, Wynne had grown very much aware of all the sadness around them. Not just that, the pointlessness of it, the endlessness of it. All of that pain and cruelty just seemed to lead to more of it. Emilio’s lack of faith in himself just seemed to lead him to more proof that he was right to not think himself good, even if Wynne saw countless of examples of him doing well. “You can’t expect to make everything you try to fix better. Sometimes we slip up, right? I … I do too. I tried to fix something and there was bad and there was good.” They frowned a little, because they struggled with this themself. “But you have made such a change for me. Can that not be something you can at least accept? You saved me that first night in the woods, because you told me what to do. You saved me from the barn.” Their breath hitched in their throat at the memory of it. “You were the one who helped me get answers. So. You made my problems better.”

It was perhaps a little much to be saying at a coffee shop, but it made them feel so defeated when they heard Emilio speak like that. Because if someone like him wasn’t allowed to feel at peace and even proud with his accomplishments, how could they be happy with their own? They, so blundering and foolish and naive, doing more harm than good? It was crucial to prove what he meant to them, to make him see. Never mind the location or setting.

“Maybe one day!” They smiled a little at the idea, wondering what kinds of things Perro would like to talk about. “Do you think he’d speak English or Spanish?” Wynne figured that Perro was a Spanish name, so maybe it would be the latter. Or maybe that kind of magic would be above any kind of language barriers that existed. They mulled it over for a moment before returning their attention to the slayer across them, frowning at his revelation. “Oh, oh no, I’m sorry that happened. I mean, it’s … it’s good that you tried to get him for doing that, you know? I have — well, you know. That I know people who were hurt who don’t deserve it.” But it was probably not Rhett that Emilio was talking about. “Did you hurt him back?” How strange, that they hoped the answer was yes. They didn’t think themself cruel, but they were angry and growing more defensive with the day. “Um, just take it a little easy, okay? I will worry a little. ¿Vale?”

—

“Not me,” he replied stubbornly, digging his heels into the proverbial ground. But there was the faintest smile on his face as he said it, the smallest hint of amusement behind his eyes. Of course Emilio was a criminal. His very presence in this country was one that existed outside the confines of the law. But it was funnier to insist on something that was categorically untrue, and he thought Wynne might find their own sort of entertainment in it, so he insisted. “Ay, maybe sometimes, when I’m saving them from… being annoyed.” As if Perro had been anything but ecstatic to be picked up by Teddy.

It was much harder, of course, to accept what Wynne was saying. That he saved people sometimes, that his failures didn’t erase his successes. It was something Teddy had been trying to drive home, too, with those framed articles lining the wall of his new office. It was a nice gesture, just like Wynne’s words were nice to hear. The idea that he made a difference, that the things he did still mattered even when he was the one doing them… It wasn’t as if Emilio didn’t want to believe it. Of course he’d like to think that he was worth something, that the shit he did made an impact that wasn’t negative. But every time he tried to let himself cling to that, every time he tried to convince himself, that living room floor flashed in front of his eyes. Those corpses followed him around like ghosts no one else could see. His daughter’s name continued to haunt him with more efficiency than any poltergeist could ever hope to manage. He saved Wynne, but he didn’t save Flora. How could any man hope to be good if he’d failed to save his own child? And how could he explain this failure to Wynne without saying too much?

“I…” He trailed off, the words forever stuck in his throat. “I don’t know. The things I’ve done, the things I’ve failed to do… I think those are bigger. I think those will always be bigger.” He could save a thousand lives, and his daughter would still be dead. He could solve a million problems, and hers would never be among them. It was pouring into a bucket with no bottom — no matter how much you put there, it would always remain empty.

And so, it was easier to talk about something else. To imagine Perro with a human voice and a lot to say. “Spanish,” Emilio replied immediately, looking almost offended that it had been a question at all. “He’s too smart fo English. ¿Verdad, muchacho?” He looked down at the dog with a fond smile before turning back to Wynne. Had they been anyone else, he might have responded with the brutal truth — that he’d taken Parker’s finger and kept it, that he’d driven a knife into his flesh and been disappointed that it hadn��t landed somewhere deadlier. Wynne could handle it, he knew, but part of him still worried they might think less of him. He didn’t want them to be afraid of him. He’d never wanted that. “I hurt him back,” he said, opting for vague instead of specific. It would do just fine, he hoped. He huffed a quiet laugh at Wynne’s concern, looking amused. “You and Teddy. Always worried. I’ve had a lot worse than this, kid. I’ll be okay. But I can promise I won’t go looking for trouble for a while.”

—

Oh. He was joking. It dawned on Wynne finally and they let out a burst of laughter, a little sudden and a little too loud. They flushed a little. “Yes, right, I’m sorry. You would not even steal a sugar packet from here.” Sarcasm wasn’t really something they were fluent in, but they enjoyed a little breeze of playfulness between themself and Emilio. They shook their head a little at his next words, this stubborn insistence that he could never do anything right an old song. “I wasn’t when you —” They halted. They didn’t want to think about how they’d been when they’d been in the barn. “You’re a real hero.”

And to them, he was. To them, there was no one who quite matched Emilio’s bravery and power, no adult who had ever really showed up for them as he had. Wynne had always had a tendency to idolize those they looked up to, of course, always yearning for someone older and wiser to tell them what to do. To guide them into the right direction. Emilio didn’t quite do that — he just offered them space, while also offering a guiding and helping hand. There was little judgment. No rules he set that they could break and get in trouble for. But there was guidance. Someone who taught them a thing or two about self defense. Someone who came for them when there was danger. Someone who cared like none of the elders, none of their parents or aunts or uncles, had ever been able to. Someone who would save them, if need be.

They listened to him quietly. They knew that there was a lot that went unsaid. That Emilio had something in his past that was ugly and felt best not spoken of — but they knew by now that those things were good to discuss. They’d learned that by doing it themself. But they remained quiet for a second, letting Emilio move from one topic to another. It was easy to smile when they saw Emilio interact with his dog, though. So easy that it almost distracted them from the pit in their stomach. “What does muchacho mean?” Wynne looked at the little creature with a fondness, before returning to the topic of conversation. Emilio, who hurt people because they hurt others. Maybe in another life they’d have judged him for it, but they knew better now. Sometimes people needed to be hurt to put a stop to all the other pain. “Well. I guess he deserved it. Who did he hurt?” They frowned a little. “Should I look out for him? Not for myself but …” The others.

“You make it very easy to worry about you. And that’s not a comfort, that you’ve had worse. Just take it easy, okay? For at least a little while.” They took a sip from their coffee, letting the warmth gather in their stomach before returning to what he’d said before. Wynne looked at him with inquisitive things. “What kinds of things? Do you think you failed to do, I mean?” They were pressing carefully and hoped it was something gentle. “I’d … like to understand. If that’s okay.” For a moment they were caught with the fear that he’d chastise them as Padrig or their mother might have, but they remembered soon enough that this was Emilio. He was good.

—

“That would be a very bad crime,” Emilio agreed. Meeting their eye and not looking away, he reached a hand out, grabbing a sugar packet from the dispenser on the table and slipping it into his pocket with a barely contained grin. “Something I would never do.” But, of course, the expression fell as they continued. A hero, they called him. There was something almost laughable about the title, something harsh and wrong. It wasn’t one he deserved. He knew that. Heroes saved people in ways that mattered. And Emilio didn’t. Wynne was alive because of Metzli and Zane just as much as Emilio. But those bodies in Mexico? There was no one left but him to carry the blame for that failure.

Letting the conversation of Perro distract him, he smiled fondly, albeit less carefree than his earlier attempt. “Boy,” he replied. He looked over to Wynne, expression turning a little more serious. “He hurt Teddy,” he said quietly. “You should watch out for him. I don’t know if he’d hurt anyone undead, but other people, maybe.” Ariadne was likely safe; cutting anything off someone undead usually just left you with dust, goo, or glitter, and most of the time, their appendages weren’t different enough from that of humans to spark interest the way Teddy’s tail evidently had. Emilio suspected Wynne was asking for their girlfriend, but he knew they had friends, too. And some of them could be in just as much danger as Teddy had been.

Wynne spoke again, and he shifted. Don’t worry about me, he wanted to insist. Worry about people who’ve earned it. But to Wynne, he belonged on that list. And maybe it was because they were a good person, and maybe it was because there was so much they didn’t know.

He looked down at his hands. For a flash, a fraction of a second, he could see the blood there. Under his nails, going up his arms, flaking into every pore and crevice on his skin. Wynne spoke, and he knew the question was coming before the syllables hit his ears, but he dreaded them anyway. Don’t ask me that, he wanted to beg. Please don’t ask me. I don’t know how not to tell you, and you don’t want to know. But his pleas remained silent, and the question came the way it was always going to come. And how could he deny them? They were asking him. How could he say no?

He remained silent a beat longer, looking at the table the way one might look at a gallow. His finger went to his wedding ring absently, the last tangible reminder of a life he’d left behind. Wynne knew that story, knew more of the truth than most. But they didn’t know the full story, and they wanted to. They were asking.

So Emilio would tell them.

“She rushed the wedding,” he said quietly, still fiddling with that ring. It was looser than it used to be. He didn’t have to twist it as much to get it off his finger these days. If he kept on like this for much longer, he’d have to transfer it from his finger to the chain around his neck with Juliana’s, let it rest against the silver stake charm Teddy had given him and the cross that hung alongside it. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “I wanted to wait a while, but she rushed it. Didn’t know why, but didn’t mind it. Figured it’d make her happy, yeah? Wanted that.”

He paused, letting his eyes slip shut for a moment. His throat felt tight. The pit in his stomach, the one that was always there, felt bottomless now, like a thing you could never hope to conquer. “She told me,” he continued quietly. “That night, when we got back to our house, in the living room. She told me. She was already a few months along. Wanted to get married before she started showing, keep people from… thinking differently about her. I didn’t care about any of that. I was happy with it. With her. With both of them.” He opened his eyes, glancing up and meeting Wynne’s gaze briefly before looking away. “We named her Flora, when she was born. I was a mess. Yeah. Walking back and forth in the living room, didn’t know what to do with myself. She was so small. And it was my job — It was my job to keep her safe. And I didn’t… I couldn’t do it.”

He inhaled sharply, exhaled with a shudder. “Couldn’t keep any of them safe. Not her, not her mother. Not my nephew or my brother or my sister. Not my mom, either. You want to know what I failed to do, Wynne, it’s — I failed to do anything that mattered. I can save a thousand people, and it won’t make up for the ones I didn’t. Nothing will.”

—

They giggled as the other reached for the sugar packet and put it away, only more giddy when they saw that grin on Emilio’s face. A rare sight they wanted more of, that they felt proud of having accomplished. Wynne also reached forward, getting a packet of sugar themself and tucking it in their jacket pocket, rubbing the grains of sugar together. “I would also never do something like that.” They had stolen plenty of packets of sugar when they’d ran away from home, as it was a free way to get some calories and energy in their systems.

“Mu-cha-cho,” they repeated. “It’s Bachgen in Welsh.” But that mattered very little. Their eyebrows creased as they looked from Perro to Emilio at the revelation that a hunter had hurt Teddy. “Then …” Were they a vengeful person? Did they believe in an eye for an eye? Why shouldn’t they? “Then that’s good. That that hunter knows what it’s like to be hurt. I will keep an eye out. I don’t want anyone I care about to get hurt.” They pushed their lips together. “Again.” They felt the topic of Ariadne hang in the air but didn’t address it, as there was another unspoken party there. Rhett. Wynne didn’t want to think about him.

It had been forward, to ask him what he’d failed at. It was the kind of thing they had not been raised to do — Protherians didn’t ask questions. They got the information they required and did what they had to with it. You did not pry further. Did not ask your mother why you were supposed to die, did not ask your father if he ever felt sad about it, did not ask your mentor if there wasn’t anything to be done. Wynne had asked all these questions and it had never ended well. It had always ended with a reprimand, a punishment to fit the crime of curiosity.

But Emilio was not like those people. Emilio had said that he would never lie and after their first meeting in those woods, he’d told them he’d answer their questions. Those had been self-indulgent, but they had all been met with the truth. Even if it was uneasy. Even if it might have been better to not know. Still, they felt something flare through them — an anxiety that was unfair but flared harder with every beat Emilio took.

Wynne wouldn’t rush him, though. He had always shown patience with them and their confessions. So they listened quietly as he spoke about his wife. They remembered that necklace bouncing against their chest in the barn. They felt a heaviness crawl through their system as Emilio told the story of his pregnant wife, who was now dead. There was no child clinging to his legs. Perhaps it was their pessimism to blame, but they felt a scared tug in their stomach as the story went on.

He had said he hadn’t been able to save his wife. Juliana. But it went further than that. There was that little girl, Flora. Siblings, a nephew, a mother. He laid out all their bodies for them to consider, showing them the loss that hung around his neck along with that ring. Wynne looked at him quietly and sadly. A tear rolled down their cheek. Their hands fell from the coffee cup and they were not sure what to do or say, because nothing that would make this right. Just as there was nothing that would make it right that Iwan was dead.

“I … I am sorry that you lost them. I know that doesn’t help. That it’s not my fault. But I still am.” No parent should lose their child, or so some people said — but Wynne’s had been willing to watch them bleed out. Emilio had lost his Flora still. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. But you told me — you told me something that I think you should listen to okay? When you told me about Iwan. That it wasn’t my fault. That it was someone else who chose to do it.”

Someone had killed them. They understood that now better than ever. Someone had killed the people Emilio loved and he blamed himself for not having stopped it. For maybe not having died himself. Though they had no term for it, something Wynne did understand was survivor’s guilt. Perhaps not like this, but they understood the weight of being alive when another wasn’t. “But I … I don’t know. I just don’t …” They wiped at their cheek. “I’m just really sad that happened. That someone did that. But they did. Not you.”

They reached out a hand, resting it on Emilio’s. They wanted to hug him more than just this, but it was something. “I wish it was different for you.”

—

Things were light, for a moment, with that packet of sugar in his pocket and Wynne’s laugh bouncing around the table. Moments like this were dangerous ones, Emilio often thought. You could get caught up in them, could get lost in them. They’d make you think that the world was a bright place, a decent one. They’d lure you into a false sense of security, have you thinking that life was all stolen sugar packets and quiet fits of laughter. And it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. The world, in its fullest and most terrible sense, was dead kids on living room floors and cults sacrificing their children to demons just to give themselves a leg up.

The real world had more people like Parker than it did people like Wynne. There were more people like Emilio than there were people like Teddy — more barely contained monsters who did terrible things and survived them, even when they shouldn’t. Wynne said it was good that he’d hurt Parker, and Emilio didn’t regret it but he wasn’t sure how he felt about them thinking so. Was it bad? Was it a sign that he’d influenced them, poisoned their morality to make them more like him? He pushed the thought away. “He’s still out there,” he warned, and there was something unspoken to the statement. He won’t be for long, maybe. Or I’m going to kill him just as soon as I can. Both were true, because he couldn’t fathom being dishonest with Wynne.

It was why he told them the truth, when they asked. In more words than were needed, in a monologue that was uncharacteristic for someone as frequently stilted in his language as Emilio tended to be, but that felt like the easiest way to say it. Even with his limited grasp on English, getting to the point with a long-winded story that avoided certain words was easier than saying the simple, brutal truth — that he had a daughter once, and he didn’t now. That he was only a father until his child had died. That there was a little girl, once, who had his eyes and his tendency towards keeping them open long after the sun had set in the sky, and that those eyes only existed on him now all the same.

It was easier to make the story a long one than it was to accept just how short it really was. To avoid saying the word itself, to keep that poisonous syllable from his tongue. He gave Wynne a long-winded story that started with Juliana and ended with no one because it felt kinder than saying my daughter is dead. Because a hundred words were easier to say than four when those four words were so goddamn heavy. He couldn’t fathom the weight of them sticking to the roof of his mouth.

So he told Wynne the truth in the form of a story, and he didn’t look at them as he said it. He focused his gaze on the street behind him, and he worked to keep that street as it was, made an effort to stop his mind from transforming it into a different one, one littered with bodies. What was the greater sin, he wondered — that those bodies were there at all, or that his own hadn’t been among them? Was he angry because he’d let them all die, or because he hadn’t died with them? He’d never quite been able to figure it out.

Wynne reached for him, and Emilio didn’t pull away. He let his eyes dart to their face, but only for a moment. Their eyes were such a deep shade of brown. Hers had been, too. He hated apologies, most of the time. Someone heard what had happened and said I’m sorry, and it made him so angry that he couldn’t think, made him want to rip the words apart and sharpen the syllables into knives and cut the goddamn world to shreds with the blades. But Wynne said I’m sorry, and there was no anger even if there was no relief, either. Emilio only nodded stiffly, focusing on the street behind them again.

It was funny, hearing his own words parroted back to him like this. They’d made sense when he’d said them to Wynne, they’d felt right. But trying to apply them to himself felt like an impossible thing. What happened to Wynne’s brother wasn’t their fault, but what happened to Emilio’s daughter still felt like his. He still saw her blood on his hands every time he looked down, still saw her corpse around every corner. It was his job, he thought, to protect her. It was what parents were supposed to do. It had been his job to protect Jaime, too, whose father hadn’t stayed to watch him grow. And Juliana, who wore his ring around her finger. And Edgar and Rosa, who were better than him, who deserved the air in his lungs so much more than he ever could. And his mother, who gave him everything he had, who made him into something useful. Of all of them, Emilio had never understood why it was him who had survived. A cruel joke from the universe, maybe; or some punishment from some higher power.

“I should have stopped it,” he said quietly, because he should have. “I was supposed to,” he added, because he was. “What happened, why it happened, it — It doesn’t matter. It was my job to protect her, and I didn’t. It’s — Parents have a job. A duty. And I failed at mine. Failed her. There’s no way around that.” People kept telling him that it wasn’t his fault and, every time, it felt like pity. Like a consolation prize, like a thing people said just because they felt some obligation to. It wasn’t your fault, or it’s okay, or you did all you could. Empty phrases, meaningless things. The truth was right there, etched in granite. He had a job, and he’d failed it. He’d had a daughter, and he didn’t now. How could it be anyone’s fault beside his own?

Wynne took his hand, and their touch was a gentler thing than he deserved but he was too selfish to pull away. “It is how it is,” he said quietly. “Wishing won’t do anything at all.” He’d made his bed, hadn’t he? All that there was to do now was to lie in it and rot.

—

They understood the crushing weight of being alive. Not just the sheer concept of roaming this earth as a person whose heart beat and body had to keep moving in spite of it all — but to be alive despite. To have survived when others hadn’t. The guilt that came with every breath, with every step, each morning ray of sun and each sleepless night. They understood the crushing weight of having outran fate, of being alive when you shouldn’t be. They had made a trade when they had ran, even if they hadn’t done so willingly — they had still chosen their life over that of another. And with that came that pressure on their chest, that rock in their stomach and their shivering tears.

But they were also still and in spite of everything, glad to be alive. Those morning rays of sun sometimes made their stomach ache, but there was opportunity with every new breath and step and sometimes in those sleepless nights, they came to worthwhile conclusions. Sometimes Ariadne laid down next to them.

Was Emilio glad to be alive? To have survived that? To still walk here, even if his leg hurt? Even if he had a dead daughter, a dead mother, wife, brother, sister, nephew in his past? As they looked at him, Wynne wasn’t sure. It made them feel heavy. Because Emilio had laughed moments before, played such a central role in their newfound life, had so much to bring to the table — but as he sat there now it seemed like he saw nothing in it. That the crushing weight of having survived had perhaps already crushed him.

And what could they do in the face of that? What could they offer? Their apologies and expressions of empathy, but they were empty air. They knew that. They were band-aids on gut wounds. Whenever people told them such things they were nice to hear, but they didn’t change what had been done, what had gone wrong. What they regretted. What they resented. None of that could be fixed. Not with a different way of thinking, not by listening to the people whose opinions they valued.

The truth remained, no matter what was said and done now, that their parents and community had brought their brother to the altar in stead of them. The truth remained that Emilio’s family had been slaughtered and that by some stroke of cruel luck, he’d survived as the only one. They could do nothing in the face of either thing. They blinked at Emilio, who spoke of failure and duty as if it would do anything now. As if the guilt either of them carried would do anything now. The dead tended to remain dead — it was better that way. Even if it ripped you open like this.

“I don’t —” They were quiet. Was this why he had been so angry at their parents? Why he had been so adamant about them being wrong? Why he had punched their father, why he had come to their rescue? Wynne felt something grow in their chest. Not the usual weight, but the one that came with tears. And Emilio had saved them, but he hadn’t been able to save her. So they understood, now. That it mattered less, the things he had done for them. They mattered, but she was still gone. It wasn’t like they were drawing a comparison, they were just starting to gain the picture. And it made them swallow thickly.

They didn’t want to cry over someone else’s story. This wasn’t about them. “I am sad that you feel that way. I wish — I know that if you could you would have. Saved her. But I also know words don’t really matter.” She was dead. Iwan was dead. They had both had a duty and there were a hundred things that could have gone differently, but they hadn’t. Iwan and Flora had both died due to their inaction. Wynne knew there was no making it right, even if they wanted there to be. Even if they wanted Emilio to be okay with being alive, still. They wanted to know what they could say to make it feel a little better. If there was a way to. If there was a way to come back from things like these.

And if there wasn’t, then at least they could do this. Take his hand. Get up from where they were seated and close the distance. It was a little awkward, with them standing and Emilio sat down, but it didn’t matter. Because they knew words didn’t mean anything. That the bodies remained dead and rotting. That the world was cyclical and death was part of it, and sometimes there was choice in it but most often there was not. That you had to make peace with it, even if no one told you how, just that you had to. They knew that Emilio was a man with a mind so stubborn that they couldn’t sway it now, in this coffee shop. That maybe they never had to, that they just had to do things like this. Listen. Embrace.

So they embraced him. They did it tightly, with conviction. They didn’t know if it would help, but it was better than stumbling over words and trying not to cry. “Thank you for telling me,” they said in stead, pulling back from the embrace. They didn’t want to overwhelm him. “My friend … my friend suggested we’d plant something for my brother. Maybe we can do something symbolic for her too.” Maybe that was the answer. Action, after the fact. Too little, too late, but something, at least. Something for those who lived in spite of what fate had planned for them.

—

He used to be religious. He didn’t think he was anymore — he still felt some of the things associated with religion, but the faith that was necessary to call it that had died long ago. But he used to be. He used to pray, sometimes, used to think that maybe there was someone listening, that maybe it made a difference. He’d sit on his knees with his hands clasped so tight his fingers hurt, would murmur promises that couldn’t be kept and beg for relief that never came.

He didn’t think he’d ever been particularly good at it. There was something kind of funny about the thought. Religion wasn’t supposed to be something you could be bad at, but Emilio had been, anyway. His mother told him so once, looking just as disappointed as she always did. You only pray when you want something, she’d told him. As if God exists to be at your beck and call, as if you’re worthy of that. You serve Him. Not the other way around. He’d never been good at accepting that. He was a selfish thing, he knew; a bad one. He wanted the world to work for him. Maybe that was why it never did.

Confession was the same. He sat in that too-small booth not long after the massacre, stared at the wall of it in silence until the priest had prompted him to speak. He remembered begging for forgiveness, remembered knowing he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t remember the exact words — most of the time after the massacre was either an uncertain blur in his mind or a too-crisp picture he didn’t want to think about with nothing in between the two extremes — but he remembered the desperation. He remembered the priest’s silence, remembered thinking anything would have been better.

Forgiveness, as it turned out, was a thing you earned. And Emilio didn’t know how to earn his. He didn’t know how to find redemption when everyone he needed forgiveness from was too dead to offer it. People here told him it was okay — Wynne, Zane, Andy, Teddy — but it wasn’t their place to decide that, was it? There were so few people who had the ability to forgive your sins. Everyone he’d sinned against was dead, and God was silent. What was left? Who could redeem the irredeemable?

Wynne was quiet, and Emilio couldn’t blame them. What was there to say in the face of this? What response could be given? He remembered how small he’d felt when he’d learned about their brother, how awful it had been to relay the news to them. There were moments where neither words nor actions could offer anything resembling relief. There were wounds that would never stop bleeding, aches that would never fade. They couldn’t be bandaged with pretty words or promises. They just were.

And Wynne understood that. They said as much, admitted it. Words didn’t matter, even if they were nice to hear from time to time. Nothing would fill that gaping cavern in his chest, just as nothing would fill the hole in theirs. Flora, Iwan… Neither had deserved the fates the world had given them. Neither had earned the bloody ends they’d been met with. But what did the world care who deserved what? What happened happened, would happen again a thousand times. People died who deserved to live. People lived who deserved to die. If there was a God, Emilio thought, he’d make Him explain Himself for that. He’d make Him give a why.

(You only pray when you want something.)

Wynne stood, crossed the distance between them, and even now, there was a part of Emilio who wasn’t quite sure what to do with the embrace. They wrapped arms around him and he froze for a moment. Some part of him, the part of him that would always be that six year old kid locked in a shed, expected something sinister. Even knowing it was Wynne, even knowing that they would never intentionally do anything to hurt him. Some part of him was waiting for a flurry of pain, for a knife to the back or a more sinister embrace, but none came. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his arms up from where they sat at his side, wrapped them around Wynne carefully, and returned the embrace.

They thanked him for telling them, as if the story was something they were glad to know. Emilio couldn’t imagine that it was. It was a burden, he knew; a weight. It was a heavy thing to carry, even now as it was divided among more people. Wynne, who embraced him here. Rhett, who buried those bodies in Mexico. Andy, who told him it was okay. Teddy, who insisted that his failure didn’t define him. The weight of the thing was more evenly distributed than it used to be. Emilio didn’t know if it helped, but he didn’t think it hurt. Sometimes, he thought, that was all you could really ask for.

“Someone said I should do the same,” he said quietly, thinking of the shitshow that ended with Alex knowing the truth. There was something nice about the thought, something good. He’d never been to his daughter’s grave, though he knew it existed. Maybe having something he could visit and think of her would offer some relief, even if only in the smallest sense. “I’d like you to do it with me, whatever it is. I think I’d like that.”

Flora was gone, and it would never feel right. It would never be fair. There would be no redemption for the failure, no forgiveness. But maybe there was something to be found in the embrace, anyway. Maybe Emilio should just take what he could get.

—

The dead were without forgiveness. There was no need for such things, Wynne had learned. There was honor in death. Not only that, but it was natural. The balance of the world required that things lived and died. There was no life without decay. There were no boons from a demon without the death it required. There was a purpose to death. There was supposed to be a purpose to death. That was what they had been taught, that was how they’d lived. Sewing bones in sleeves and pillowcases, slitting the throat of a chicken, preparing their entire life to die. There had to be a purpose. So what need was there for forgiveness.

But what if what if there was none? What if these sentiments were nothing but other empty lies? All those lambs and chickens and squealing piglets that had died on the altar had been a waste. As had Jac. As had Iwan. What good was there in murder? What good was there in dying so soon? What purpose had there been in Emilio’s child being killed?

The dead were without forgiveness because there was little left for them to do. But Wynne hoped that if they existed out there, these people Emilio had lost, that they would forgive him. Not that he’d done something wrong, but he’d done all the things to deserve that kind of mercy. For them to take the weight off his shoulders, that responsibility he carried that Wynne recognized within themself. They wished these things were possible.

They wished they could speak with Iwan one more time. That they could have known Emilio as he had once been. That their life hadn’t always been about dying, which often left them feeling as if they didn’t know the first thing about living. They wished.

And maybe that was what grief was, at the end of it all. Wishing for things that could not be. The impossibility of wanting something that was not attainable. Not because of personal or worldly limitations but because death was in the end still definite. Even if you believed in a God, a heaven and a hell. Even if you believed in reincarnation. In purpose. In fate. There was still a definite gap left that could not be filled. A constant lack.

Wynne had ran from home, hadn’t they? They had lost people when they did. They had lost Iwan — but they could still wish to see him again, could still hope that perhaps one day their brother and them would find a way to reunite. But ever since they’d learned what had come of him since their abandonment and betrayal, those wishes and hopes had grown futile and childish. He was gone, bled out. They didn’t even know what they’d done with what had been left after all was said and done. If there had been anything left.

They wondered what had become of Emilio’s family. If they’d been buried. If the vampires had undone them as violently has they had with some of the humans in the barn. If he’d been there, to see them laid to rest. They wanted to ask, but they didn’t. They thought of burying their grandmother when they’d been young. They’d buried most of their death back at home, especially those that had died of natural causes. Those deaths were to return to the earth. Purpose. What purpose?

Emilio returned their embrace and they were glad for it, holding onto him for a moment. They hadn’t done this much at home. Their parents weren’t affectionate, except for when their father mussed their hair or flicked her chin playfully. They wondered why they were thinking of that now, that lack of a strong embrace back at home — it felt inappropriate to compare their father to Emilio. Wynne pushed the thoughts aside.

“I think we should do it together,” they said. “We can make a place for them. Together or separately, whatever is good.” They looked at him, biting their lip. “It’s too cold to do it now, the soil is too hard but we can do it when the earth is warmer and softer. We can look for a spot somewhere.” It would be good, to have somewhere to put their grief. A place to visit. Wynne swallowed thickly and moved back to their seat, blinking a few time to rid themself from the tears that were still threatening to come up.

They took a long sip from their coffee, were quiet for a moment. They looked down at Perro. “I’m still glad we met. Even if …” They shrugged. “Even if bad things happened before that.” Maybe they both thought there was a better reality out there were they were dead, but this was what they had. And Wynne was glad Emilio was part of it.

—

Growing up, death had always been an expected thing. More so, Emilio suspected, than it was to those not raised as he and his siblings had been. It was a shadow that had hung over his life for as long as he could remember. It was reflected in his father’s absence, in the stories his mother told him, in the blood he was ordered to wash from his hands. The life of a hunter was one designed with death in mind — with years of dealing it out until it was dealt to you. It was short and violent, every time.

One might think that this would make it less painful. Emilio used to think so. Back when he was a kid, when he had a father who existed only in the form of a name rarely spoken and a long line of relatives who died slow and bloody in ways he could only pretend to understand, he’d thought of death as a simple thing. It happened to other people until it happened to you, and it was easy. It was something you practiced the same way you practiced with your knife. If you repeated the motion often enough, you’d get good at it. You’d perfect it. And, in his arrogance, he’d thought that he had.

But then came Victor. Then came the day his uncle went into the woods with his brother and came back alone. And death, this familiar thing, this art he thought he’d mastered, shifted so quickly into something else. It was sinister, it was heavy. He didn’t know how to carry it anymore. His mother had never been happy with his reaction to his oldest brother’s death, had never understood it. She’d be ashamed of him now, too. At his inability to compartmentalize, his failure to push the memory of his daughter beneath some forgotten rug the way she had done with her husband, with her oldest son. He was supposed to be better at this, he thought. He was supposed to be good at it.

But maybe there were some things you couldn’t practice for. Maybe you could never really get good at grief, no matter how much experience you had.

After all, Wynne had been given practice, too, hadn’t they? They’d spent so much of their life looking towards its expected end. And Emilio was certain that they didn’t deserve that, would have never told them they were wrong not to want it. Wynne deserved to live, just as Flora had. Just as Victor had, or Jaime, or Edgar, or Rosa. And if all of them deserved to live, and Emilio knew this, then why was it so hard to believe that he might, too? Why was the weight so much easier to carry when you were slipping it off someone else’s shoulders?

Wynne held him, and his mother would have said he was weak for accepting it but he couldn’t fathom the thought of pushing them away. Wynne held him, and he let himself hold them back, let himself feel it. Was this okay? He wondered, two parts of his mind arguing. Was it okay to accept comfort, even when you weren’t sure you deserved it? Did it make him wrong, make him bad, make him broken? He didn’t know. Maybe that was a part of grieving, too: this endless not knowing.

“Okay,” he agreed, his voice sounding odd even to his own ears. Thick, like something unseen was coating it. It didn’t sound like him, but it did, too. “Yeah. We can… We can do it together. I’d like that.” The idea of Flora having some symbolic resting place next to Iwan felt right, somehow. Two people who had never met and never would, two children snuffed out by a world too cruel to hold them who were strangers to one another, connected only by the people who had loved them. Emilio didn’t know anymore if he believed in Heaven, but maybe life after death existed in the connections you gained through the people who outlived you. Maybe there was some form of afterlife for a daughter of an angry father and a brother of a brave sibling that existed only in the plants that would grow side by side.

He held his coffee in his hands, curled himself around the smoke that rose from it. Was he better for knowing Wynne? He thought he was. Were they better for knowing him? They seemed to think so. Maybe that was the only thing that really mattered. Regardless, though, he was glad to have met them, too. Glad to know them, glad to have been able to help them even if it didn’t feel like he’d done enough. “Me too, kid,” he agreed quietly. “Yeah. Me, too.”

#dash.#emilio.#depresso.#our intention was to make a ligthhearted thread i promise....

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ramblingthoughtsofayoungadult · 5 years ago

Text

What a Night-Chuck Bass Imagine

Requested: Yes

Warnings: mentions of sexual harassment and usual party shenanigans

Gif is from slytherinnpride

Estelle’s “American Boy” blasted throughout the entire Plaza penthouse. The penthouse was filled with the Upper East Side elite’s teenage children, all wearing the nicest night out clothes money could buy. The endless flow of Dom Perignon, multiple seduction attempts, and short trips to the back bathroom would have one convinced that it was a typical Friday night high school party. In a way, it was a typical high school party.

But it was Wednesday.

Y/N Y/L/N had been snapping about that fact since Y/B/F/N burst into her bedroom an hour prior, commanding that Y/N join her at Dina Maxfield’s party. While Y/N was not the biggest party animal, she did like to attend a few here and there; she could not get into Princeton with subpar grades after all? But, her enthusiasm for attending parties was drastically diminshed after Lucas broke up with her via text. So, Y/N was more than happy hiding away from high school and all other high society parties in the safety of her room, watching Buffy: The Vampire Slayer.

“Y/N, it has been a month since it happened!” Y/B/F/N had declared as she teetered further into Y/N’s room in her towering Louboutin stilettos. “The appropriate mourning period is over and it’s time for you to have fun!”

Y/N’s nose immediately wrinkled in distaste and she had burrowed herself further into her bed, as though her blankets were steel and not cashmere. “Go away,” she’d groaned.

Y/B/F/N had continued to ignore Y/N as she stormed into her closet and began rifling around the expansive area. “You have all these amazing pieces and you refuse to take any opportunity to wear them.” After selecting the most amazing dress to go with some Chanel pumps, she returned to Y/N.

The poor girl had simply laid in her bed, y/e/c eyes looking dead as she watched the plasma TV mounted on her wall. For Y/N, it could have always been worse, she could not have the energy to try to go to school. At least she was moving.

Y/B/F/N had sighed and sat next to her. “I know this breakup hurt you a lot, but, you cannot let him hobble you like this. He definitely hasn’t been holed up in his house watching TV every night.” She shook her head. “I know you don’t wanna hear this, Y/N, but, things will only get worse while you’re here.”

“But...I need to know how this episode ends,” Y/N had muttered.

“You have TiVo!”

Y/N was not quite sure when she broke, somewhere between being forced into that Gaultier dress she thought she’d never wear and arguing against having her hair flat-ironed, but she did know, deep inside, that Y/B/F/N was right. She was sick of missing out on all the coolest parties and the most insane antics. Lucas was never that fun to go out with anyway, he always got too jealous if a boy even glanced at Y/N. Y/B/F/N had to be a better party partner.

Y/B/F/N snatched up some glasses of Dom and handed one to Y/N. “To getting out of the house!”

“To getting out of the house,” Y/N echoed.

The glasses clinked and Y/N savored the taste of the expensive champagne. The song switched to Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi” and Y/B/F/N coaxed Y/N into dancing to it.

“One second.” Y/N downed the rest of the champagne, grabbed another glass, and let Y/B/F/N drag her out onto the dancefloor.

Y/B/F/N shimmied her hips to the music and playfully twirled Y/N around, causing the other girl to laugh. As she kept drinking, Y/N found it even more enjoyable to laugh and laughed so hard, her stomach cramped.

“It’s been so long since I laughed like that,” Y/N breathed absent-mindedly.

“Hey, I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Serena teased as she hugged her from behind.

“Hi!” Y/N squealed as she clumsily threw her arms around Serena.

Serena chuckled as she helped Y/N balance. “How much has she had to drink?” She mouthed to Y/B/F/N.

Y/B/F/N held up two fingers in response and Serena’s eyes widened. “It’s been awhile.”

Y/N and the blonde were not the best of friends, but they were close enough since second grade. Whenever Blair didn’t go to a party, Y/N would be the one to hold Serena’s hair back as she threw up in the bathroom. Y/N was so proud that Serena was doing better since she came back.

Serena wore a white sequined mini dress with silver pencil-thin Jimmy Choo pumps. Her hair fell down to her back in free curls.

“Hey, I’m glad that you came out tonight; I’ve missed you,” Serena said as she pulled Y/N to stand at arms-length.

“Same. I would have been out sooner but Y/B/F/N dragged me,” Y/N giggled.

“She’ll thank me later,” Y/B/F/N breathed.

Y/N was not sure how much time past but she knew she had around four drinks when she heard Rihanna’s “Please Don’t Stop the Music”. Y/N threw her head back.

“I love this song!” Her closed eyes and high pitched voice punctuated her emotions.

Kati and Isabelle, who had been sitting in the same area of couches as her, giggled at Y/N.

“Do you wanna dance?” Y/N swung herself forward, gripping the couch beneath her for leverage. “I’m gonna dance.”

Y/N bounced back out onto the dancefloor, giggling as she threw her hands in the air and twirled. She tossed her head back and forth, rolled her neck, and kick, ball changed at some point. She didn’t care, she didn’t care and it was wonderful. There was no Lucas to drag her off the dancefloor, no students who may be documenting this for later; it was just her and Rihanna.

And something hard pressing against th small of her back.

Y/N lazily opened her eyes and furrowed her brow. At first, she thought it may be Y/B/F/N joking around, but then, she spotted Y/B/F/N across the room, doing jello shots with some basketball players.

“You’re so hot,” a guttural voice husked in her ear.

Y/N’s stomach tightened and she felt her body tense up. “Thanks?”

A pair of thick hands began roaming over her body, squeezing harshly in the places with more fat. Y/N yelped and grabbed at the wrists.

“Okay, that’s enough.” She tried to keep her voice ligthhearted as she took some steps away from the person. She did not get far in the crowd when she was yanked back by her wrist.

Y/N gagged on the fog of CK One and looked up into some angry green eyes. Then, she noted the navy Brooks Brothers polo and chinos. Trevor Addison, captain of the swim team.

“C’mon, Y/N, relax, it’s a party,” he chided.

“I am relaxed. I just...I just need to find Y-Y-Y/B/F/N,” she stuttered out.

Trevor tsked at her and pulled her against his sweaty chest. “You don’t sound too good; let me take you to the bedroom so you can lie down, it’s the least I could do.”

Trevor started pulling her in the direction of the bedroom and Y/N did her best to fight it. Unfortunately, her inhibited motor skills were making her fumble and flail instead of fight.

“Let go of me!” she cried, but no one could hear her over the music.

Trevor laughed callously. “Please, don’t act like you didn’t want this, dressed like the slut you are!” Y/N pushed against him, tears welling in her eyes. “Stop it, Trevor!”

“No!” Trevor snapped. “Peter, Jack, Will, and Lucas all bragged about how good you are in bed. Now, it’s my turn!”

Y/N’s stomach dropped as the tears started to roll down her cheeks. With everything going on with Serena, Blair, Nate, Chuck, Dan, and Jenny, Y/N’s stunts went under the radar. She felt the dark cloud of shame hang over her and wondered if that was why no one really approached her after her breakup with Lucas despite her not really being social or open.

“Trevor, can’t you hear? Y/N isn’t into it or you,” Chuck drawled.

Y/N perked up and could not keep herself from gaping at Chuck. He stood behind Trevor, his shoulders relaxed and dark eyes staring right at Trevor. An outsider would think Chuck looked bored, but it was the total opposite. In fact, he was enraged and it looked like it was taking everything in his power for him not to punch Trevor.

Trevor laughed in Chuck’s face. “Oh? And what are you gonna do? You can’t buy me off, Chuck, my father owns the biggest media conglomerate on the east coast!”

“That assumption is almost laughable, but I can assure you,” Chuck took a step closer, “if you do not leave Y/N alone, you will be thrown out of here once every member of the soccer team has a turn kicking your ass.”

Trevor narrowed his eyes at Chuck. “They wouldn’t!”

“Sure, they would.” Chuck continued glaring at Trevor for a moment. It felt like a decade to Y/N and she would have moved if she didn’t think it would escalate the situation.

Trevor huffed and pushed Y/N towards Chuck. “Whatever, you can have the whore.”

Chuck grabbed Y/N by the forearms. “Oh, I wouldn’t have said that if I were you.”

Chuck waved someone over and seconds later, Trevor was surrounded by Nate and the rest of the soccer team.

“Let’s take this outside, shall we?” Nate asked rhetorically.

A couple of his teammates pushed Trevor in the direction of the door and everyone stared after them in shock. As soon as they disappeared, the party resumed.

Chuck scanned over Y/N’s face. “Are you alright?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah...I’m fine.”

“You’re crying.”

“What?”

“It’s fine.” Chuck gently led Y/N to another bathroom, sat her on the counter, and handed her some tissue. “It’s not your style to come to parties alone.”

Y/N snifled as she blew her nose. “I’m here with Y/B/F/N.” She sniffed and shook her head. “She wanted me to come out tonight and this happens.”

“Don’t let that neanderthal keep you from having a good time. Tonight’s the first time I’ve seen you not looking like a zombie,” Chuck argued.

“Chuck Bass has been watching me? That’s a shocker,” Y/N dead-panned. “I thought you were busy with the nightclub and Blair.”

Chuck glanced away and his jaw clenched at the mention of the brunette. “While I appreciate your concern, Vitrola is doing just fine. As for Blair, that isn’t a matter of concern.”

“Oh, sorry, I haven’t been keeping up with, well, anything going on.”

Chuck nodded. “Lucas had you in a vacuum, didn’t he?”

Y/N shrugged. “But it was nice, he was nice for a while. I’d like to say I don’t know where anything went wrong, but I do know. He didn’t like that I wasn’t always available, but, I have a life!”

Y/N was unaware of the force of her words until they came out and she immediately shrank back when she realized what she had said.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say all that.”

Chuck shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ve been through worse.” He straightened up. “We should find Y/B/F/N.”

“Do you think I’m a slut?”

Chuck raised an eyebrow at Y/N. “What?”

“You heard what I said,” Y/N groaned. “Trevor kept calling me that, like I was something to pass around.”

“No, I don’t think you’re a slut. You’re a girl who takes what she wants and not many guys can appreciate that.”

Y/N sighed and rolled her eyes. “Great.”

Chuck stepped closer to her. “But I can.”

She looked back up at Chuck and felt like he was staring into her soul. Y/N and Chuck never had any kind of falling out or negative interaction. In fact, Y/N spent a lot of her time staying as far away from him as possible. She supposed he had some sort of change of heart the first time he and Blair got together. When they broke up, there was no way Y/N was going to go near him lest she wanted to face the wrath of Blair. But, Y/N and Chuck spoke occasionally after his breakup and it was always entertaining. Plus, there was that one night at Vitrola...

Y/N still blushed at the memory.

She’d had one too many margaritas and happily joined the burlesque dancers onstage. There were not many people in the audience, but the most notable member was Chuck. He looked deliciously mischievous in the velvet booth as he watched her belt out “Big Spender”. Y/N loosely followed the choreography of the other dancers. At one point, she’d straddled Chuck’s lap and crooned,

“Spend a little with...me,” into his ear.

The Monday after, Y/N was forever grateful that Chuck had not mentioned anything about that night to anyone. Plus, she’d met Lucas at an opera after party that Monday night. Lucas probably would have never approached her if he’d heard about that night, but, Y/N probably would not have felt as numb for the past month if he hadn’t.

“Chuck,” she breathed.

He kissed her cheek. As much as he wanted to go straight for her pouty lips, he was not that kind of guy anymore. He could wait and he would wait. “Let’s go find Y/B/F/N and get you some water, okay?”

Y/N nodded absentmindedly and allowed Chuck to help her get off the counter. She felt robotic as he led her over to Y/B/F/N, who was cackling with some juniors.

“I hate to interrupt,” Chuck said over Kanye West’s “Heartless”.

Y/B/F/N stopped giggling, turned, and her eyes widened as soon as she saw Y/N. “Y/N!” She hopped up and hugged her. “What happened?” she asked Chuck accusingly.

“Relax, Y/B/F/N/L/N, I helped her when she was getting harrassed by Trevor,” Chuck said.

“That douchebag!” Y/B/F/N hissed. “You okay?” she asked, turning back to Y/N.

“Yeah.” Y/N looked at Chuck. “Thank you so much, for everything.”

“Anytime.”

“Let’s get you some water.” Y/B/F/N waited until Y/N had some water in her to call a car to take them back to her house. As they skirted by the shiny skyscrapers and 24 hour restaurants, she asked, “What was that look Chuck was giving you?”

“What look?” Y/N muttered.

“That look like you were the only important thing in that room,” Y/B/F/N quipped. “ I mean, I guess he’s better now since he saved you, but, it’s kind of weird. What are you gonna do?”

Y/N had no idea.

“I’m too drunk for this...conversation” Y/N stated.

#gossip girl imagine #chuck bass imagine #requested

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