#love line event

[tetsuskei]

Love Line

Nick - @scarameownya

Note: This is written from Niko’s POV rather than second POV. I tried my best to stay in character for him. I hope you enjoy dear Nick! Puppetgear is so incredibly dear to me (just as you are) Happy Valentine’s day!

The air is heavily clouded with a sense of nostalgia. Walking among the streets of Sumeru City always seemed to put Niko at an apprehensive state. The amount of people is not something he is a fan of.

Now, there’s a small sense of melancholy in him. Though he’s able to place the source of this feeling, he pushes it down and discards of it.

Niko was informed by Sigewinne of a ‘special contact’ who was arranged to help with his arrival at the Akademiya. There was a small note passed to the young Kshahrewar student for reference. Nothing but a date, time and place were written on the scrap of paper. The person he’s meeting happens to be a fellow student from the darshan Vahumana. They are supposed to be waiting near Puspa cafe.

“How will I know what they look like?” Niko inquired, confused by the lack of description of the person.

“I believe that he should be wearing distinct enough clothing to be recognized.” Sigewinne explained. “He dresses flamboyantly enough.”

Niko could only roll his eyes recalling said information. Sumeru city is crawling with Akademiya students. And just how flamboyant would this person be? Would they be a weirdo? A nut case? In any sense, he could help himself. He doesn’t really need—

“Mekal, wait!” The young inventor yells, torn from his own thoughts. He watches in horror as the robot moves in a strange way, flying right into an innocent passerby.

Niko makes his way to the scene as fast as possible, pushing through the small crowd of people standing near the fallen figure.

“Woah, are you alright? Are you—“ He’s abruptly pushed back, thrown off by the strength of the individual.

“You should really learn to control your toys so that they don’t attack other people.” The man scoffs in disdain. He dusts his clothes off, fixing himself.

“Mekal is not a toy. They are the greatest companion known to existence!” Niko corrects, huffing.

Mekal, seeming to understand Niko’s words, responds in appreciation and excitement.

“A toy for a friend? How childish.” The man scoffs, readjusting his hat.

“The only thing childish here is that frisbee looking hat you have on.” Niko snaps, but then suddenly freezes. “Wait. You’re not—“

“Not what?”

“Are you from Vahumana?”

“And so what if I am?”

Niko stomps his foot. “Can you just answer the question instead of being an asshole, Frisbee? I’m supposed to meet someone here, and I barely have anything to go off of for description!”

It suddenly clicks in the man’s head. “It’s Wanderer, you small brained fool. If you call me—oh. So you’re the person I need to assist? You are truly more helpless than I expected. This may be below my pay grade.”

“Well, I don’t even want to be here! So!” Niko blurts, face hot with frustration and anger. “If you want to leave, then do it! Don’t waste my time!”

Wanderer is silent. It’s strange, Niko thinks, seeing the brash man suddenly quiet. Maybe he hurt his feelings?

“No-that’s not—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

“Oh? So now the human is pitying me?” A dry laugh escapes Wanderer. “In all of the years I never thought I’d see this day. Do you feel better after doing that?”

Niko becomes exasperated, squirming uncomfortably in his spot. The heat doesn’t help. “Look I think we started off on the wrong foot. The names Niko. I’m sorry for Mekal hitting you. It’s just, I’ve worked a lot on him so he means very much to me.”

“Getting attached to things won’t serve you well in the long run. But I suppose you humans can’t help it.” Wanderer replies.

“Are you not human?” Niko inquires, studying his features. He finds the longer he looks at the pale figure, the more his mouth becomes dry. Wanderer’s features are sharp, yet delicate and beautifully refined all at once. There’s not a single blemish in sight. It’s almost as if…he’s a doll. Niko’s chest hurts from even have formulated that thought.

“No. Does it matter?” Wanderer answers bluntly. There’s a flash of anger in his indigo eyes before he looks away. “I don’t need you to pretend to feel sorry for me or anything.”

Niko wonders if perhaps this was another sign of Aarush looking after him. The words Wanderer speaks resonate deeply within him. Niko’s hand presses into the cold surface of his anemo vision, his heart aching.

“Do you, believe in fate?”

Wanderer tilts his head. “What?”

“I don’t. Things don’t just happen to people for a reason. Why do bad things happen to people for doing no wrong? It’s awful.” Niko continues, staring off at the Sumeru skyline. “I also don’t like the idea of not having control over my own life. But I guess it can’t be helped.”

“I don’t believe in the gods, if that’s what you’re asking.” Wanderer answers before staring at Niko. “Well, what do you believe in then?”

“Dreams. I have a lot that I want to accomplish. That’s why I came here. So…thanks for helping me. I know you probably don’t want to after this, so I understand.”

The older man pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stop apologizing, it’s making me sick. Besides, all you did was bump into me. If you think anything you’ve said to me would hurt my feelings, you’re poorly informed.”

“Well, I’m sorry that you’ve been treated in such a way to think like that. Everyone deserves some respect.”

This human, perhaps, is a tolerable one. But only that. Nothing more.

Wanderer purses his lips, scoffing. “Didn’t I just say to—never mind. I think this…’meeting’ is over. We can talk more about details later. Where are you staying?”

Niko shakes his head. “It’s fine, I can go—“

“You’re foolish. I have to at least make sure you don’t die getting to where you need to go. You don’t know your way around here. Besides, I can’t be responsible for someone’s death. I’ve got enough debts to make up currently.”

Niko stares at the indigo haired man in shock. Maybe he’s overthinking it, but he sees genuine concern in his eyes for just a split second. Begrudgingly, he gives the puppet the information he needs.

“Hurry up. It won’t be my fault if you get lost. I have things to do.” Wanderer scolds, not pausing to let him catch up.

Niko pauses, eyebrows stitched together as he processes the puppets contradictory statements. Even Mekal is confused. “You just said you wanted to help? Now you don’t care if I—“

“I’ll change my mind if you don’t move.” Wanderer sneers.

Bickering ensues as the two walk along side each other. Mekal trailing behind sheepishly. It’s enough to draw the attention of others around them, but no one seems to intervene. More than likely a smart move.

Somewhere not too far away, Nahida watches smiling brightly at the two disappearing figures.

She finally thinks that Wanderer will be just fine in this new chapter of his life.

[egophiliac]

still ruminating over Lost In the Book With Spooky Skeletons Part 1, so here's a selection of some of my favorite little bits! (...some more loosely paraphrased than others) (I just feel like Idia has no room to criticize in general, okay)

anyway, I'm sure we're just going to have a fun time celebrating Halloween and nothing bad is going to happen whatsoever! :)

[benevolenterrancy]

("Always. Continuously. With increasing apprehension, and decreasing hope. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this." -- paraphrased from The Beatrice Letters, Lemony Snicket)

[clearlydusty]

Just disappear.

[cherry-burst]

I can't believe Sylus canonically makes you beg him to fuck you. Thats actually crazy

[salamispots]

hmmm probs won't go with this style but we'll see

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

Darry's in the kitchen, makin' dinner again since Soda is banned from the stove for the foreseeable future. What compelled the kid to dump half a shaker of pepper into spaghetti, Darry will never know. But he doesn't mind, really. He's got one of their ma's old cookbooks on the counter and is piece mailin' together a casserole both Steve and Two-Bit had raved over last month.

Dallas sits at the table, arms folded and scowlin' hard. Darry had to chase him into the kitchen five separate times before he managed to set the table without driftin' back to the TV to watch a western. Darry's sure they've all seen it three times.

If I go back into that kitchen and those places still aren't set you're gonna be sittin' in there until I'm well 'n done cookin'. Dallas had immediately jumped back up and vanished through the door but Darry was followin' though. Maybe he was a tough hood everywhere else, but inside the Curtis home, he was just another one of Darry's rowdy kid brothers.

To his credit, he hadn't put up too much of a fuss so when he started leanin' to see the movie through the door Darry pretended he didn't notice. He only cleared his throat warningly when he started reachin' fallin' out of his chair levels of tilitin'. Every time Dallas would straighten back up and shoot Darry his meanest glare, proppin' his elbows on the table 'n pickin' at the peelin' paint.

At some point, Pony detangled himself from Soda on the couch and disappeared down the hall, returnin' with a notebook to sit across from Dallas. He glanced up at Darry before he plopped down 'n Darry nodded his approval. Sometimes he'd make them sit alone when they were in trouble, specifically Soda and Two since they were Darry's most rambunctious. Pony would distract Soda but him 'n Dallas enjoyed just sittin' in the quiet. It reminded Darry of how Johnny 'n Pony had been. His heart gives a sharp little ache and he shakes the thought from his head.

Greif had an odd way of sneakin' up on him.

Pony picks up his pencil and Dallas nearly falls out of his chair for how hard he's leanin'. Darry doesn't bother clearin' his throat, just knocks him up the back of his head gently and Dallas scowls hard and leans back.

He's not sure how much time passes, not very long. He finishes the casserole and slides it into the oven to cook. He sighs, listens to Two and Steve as they wrestle in the living room, waitin' to see if they'll knock it off themselves before they break somethin' or not. Apparently, the sigh he lets out it enough for Soda to kick them both in the ribs and they reluctantly separate.

Since Dallas has put up the minimal amount of huffin' 'n moanin' he opts to release him until dinner. Before he can open his mouth he catches a glimpse of a sketch Pony has his nose an inch away from. He's got his brow all furrowed and he's bitin' his lip hard enough to leave marks like he always does when he's focused.

"Holy shit, kiddo." He hadn't meant to comment but even just the edge of the portrait he's workin' on is an utter work of art. Pony jerks up and slams the notebook closed. He always was oddly shy about his work. Darry doesn't push it, he doesn't want Pony to feel like he's pryin'.

Dallas, however, doesn't share Darry's values of privacy. He watches as Steve disappears into his room without askin' 'n thinks maybe none of them do. He rolls his eyes again. Dallas, suddenly payin' attention again, reaches over 'n snatches the notebook out of Pony's hands, openin' it to the page Pony had been workin' in. Whatever smart shit he'd been about to say dies in his throat.

"Holy fuck, Pony." The sketch is nearly finished, clearly set from Pony's view of the kitchen, Dallas framed neatly in the middle, scowlin'. It's so accurate it could have been a photo, one of a spread of Dallas. In all of them, his eyes are bright and angry or dull and aggitated. He's either scowlin' or frownin'. In one particular sketch he's barin' his teeth so his silver one shines lime he does when hes truly hacked off. Darry looks between Dallas 'n the drawin' Pony's just added, notin' how he had lovingly managed to capture the singular fair freckle on Dallas' throat, the way his hair curled against the back of his neck, the set of his eyes as he peered through the door.

When Darry looks back at his kid brother Pony is bright red. Darry snaps out of it first and realizes both he 'n Dallas are just starin' at him.

"Pony, that's amazin'. Really, honey." Pony looks down at the table, still clearly embarrassed.

"It's just a sketch." He scuffs his toe on the tile and runs his hand up his neck in a way Darry knows he picked up from him. "It's not done, yet." Pony wasn't particularly good with praise. He looks up at Dallas who's still just starin' at the page. Dallas runs a finger along the high bones of his face recreated in lead.

"Is... is that how you-"

"Sorry! It's really not that good. I just like to... I dunno... I like to sketch you when you're angry. You just look tuff when you're scowlin' 'n all. That's all. It's not done." He finishes lamely, the flush creepin' down his neck when Dallas doesn't say anythin' else. The silence hangs for a long moment.

"I didn't know I looked like that. When I was mad 'n all." Dallas finally says. He runs a finger over his drawn brow as if he could smooth out the furrow. He shakes his head hard. "Sorry kid, that's tuff as hell. It's a real good drawin'."

Pony ducks his head again 'n Dallas runs the back of his hand over his eyes. "Do you... mind if I keep it?" Pony's eyes go all wide like he wasn't expectin' the question.

"Uh, yeah. Sure. It's you after all." Dallas rips the drawin' carefully out of the book and folds it gently in half, gettin' up and vanishin' down the hall to the room he shares with Pony 'n Soda. He ruffles Pony's hair as he passes, gently squeezin' his shoulder.

The second Dallas is gone Pony drops his forehead to the table. "D'you think I upset him?" Darry presses a kiss to his hair and pats him on the back softly.

"Nah, kiddo. I don't think he's upset." But Darry isn't sure exactly how to read that boy. Not nearly as well as he can read the rest of them. "He just needs a minute."

Dinner is a subdued affair despite Soda and Two's best efforts. As Darry expected, both Two and Steve nearly go to blows over the final servin' 'n only back down once Darry promises to make it again next week. Dallas says next to nothin' which makes Pony squirm around every thirty seconds.

When Two's finished lickin' the bowl, Darry shoos them all out, unsurprised to find Dallas silently startin' to collect up the plates and dump them into the sink. He wasn't like his brother's in that regard. When the other's wanted Darry's attention they would simply ask for it. Dallas refused to bruise his ego. He'd find an excuse to catch Darry as he ran to the grocery store or mowed the lawn or did the dishes. Darry didn't mind waitin' for him to decide to say whatever was on his mind.

"I didn't know the kid saw me as such an... angry person." He dumped another armful of dishes and silently picked up the dish towel as Darry started washin'.

Darry hmm-ed vaguely and handed Dallas a plate. He knew the kid wouldn't listen to him if he denied it, despite knowin' better.

"Pony just likes to capture people's emotions. You remember that time he drew Soda after he'd fallen and broken his wrist? Soda had nearly lost his damn mind at how pathetic he looked in that. He might've jumped Pony if it hadn't been such a good drawin'." Darry chuckles lightly but Dallas just gives a weak smile 'n returns the plate to the cabinet.

"Maybe... yeah." Between the two of them, the sink is empty in fifteen minutes and Dallas disappears down the hall to take a shower. He had a late night chore to run at Buck's, somethin' to do with an upcomin' pony race they had comin' up.

Darry see's Dallas out, extractin' a promise to go straight there 'n back, checkin' to make sure he had his blade though he almost certainly didn't need to. He shoos Two out of his armchair and collapses down, only half payin' attention to whatever's on.

"Darry?" Pony was still bein' more uncharacteristically quiet than usual.

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"Can I go to bed early?" Darry turns his head to get a good look at the kid. He doesn't think Pony has ever asked to bed early a day in his life. Usually, he was the one fit to be tied every night when Darry tried to get them all to bed.

"Sure honey, all ok?" Pony nods his head and Darry crooks a finger. When he's close enough Darry presses a kiss to his forehead. Pony doesn't fight it and leans into Darry's shoulder for a moment.

"Yeah, I'm fine. G'night Darry."

"Night, kiddo."

It doesn't take long for the rest of the gang to decide they're tired. Soda crashes on the sofa against Steve's shoulder and Steve hauls him up and dumps him in bed. Two promised his ma he'd go home and Steve swears he'll be fine at his. Darry reluctantly doesn't put up a fight. He drops kisses to both their heads and reminds them the door is always unlocked.

Once the house is nearly empty he straightens up the few things out of place and drags himself to his room for the night. He's a heavy sleeper and he's exhausted enough to fall asleep right there in the hall but his body won't let him even dream of passin' out before all his brothers are home where they're supposed to be.

He counts on Dallas bein' back in an hour give or take and flips on the bedside light. He cracks the book on the nightstand Ponyboy recommended to him months ago. Pony had read it in one afternoon but Darry was draggin' through it five minutes here 'n there when he had the time.

Half an hour later he hears the door to Pony, Dallas, 'n Soda's room creak open but doesn't think much of it. He hears light steps pad down the hall 'n correctly assumes it to be Pony. Seconds later the door opens 'n closes again.

By the alarm clock beside the bed, it's another forty-five minutes before Dallas comes in. The walls are paper thin, so he can distinctly hear Dally kick his shoes off at the door and continue into the kitchen. He pauses there oddly long but Darry doesn't get up to interrupt.

It takes another ten minutes for Darry to hear the kid in the hall. He sniffs hard and Darry recognizes the sound of him rubbin' the back of his sleeve across his face. It breaks his heart but he leaves him be. Of all of them Dallas was the most fiercely protective over his ego and privacy. If it were anyone else, Darry wouldn't let that stop him from comfortin' him. But he knew the kid would get him if he needed it. He figured Dallas could see the light under the door 'n would know Darry was awake if he decided to come in.

Darry waits another fifteen minutes before he gets up to check on them. When he eases open the door Soda is sprawled out in one bed and Dallas is wrapped tightly around Pony in the other. Darry smiles fondly and goes to shut the door before he catches the paper clutched in Dallas' hand.

Darry slinks quietly across the floor to get a better look. He recognizes Pony's careful, controlled pencil markin'. The drawin' is one of his favorite Polaroids of Dallas, his smile wide and uncontrolled. Darry remembers the exact moment it was taken, his hair blown back from his forehead as Soda had taken a turn far too fast for Darry's likin'. Dallas had howled and stuck his whole head out the window and grinned.

Darry smiles fondly at the memory and catches the corner where Pony's written a note in his neat, loopy hand writin'.

I don't see you as angry. I see you as Dallas. My brother. (who just happens to look tuff when he scowls)

[emmavakarian-theirin]

lucanis: i can be a little silly. as a treat.

davrin: flinch and you're dead.

[finncakes]

I came here to say, if you are there, maybe you can talk to my friend Orym and try to say that we're okay and we're alive and hopefully we'll see you soon.

A Prayer Answered

[xinyuehui]

When Tides Echo ─── ₊ ﾟ⚬ ・。.

[starfighters]

@pscentral event 17: vibrance ↳ JYN ERSO and CASSIAN ANDOR

so would you wait for me?

[crystallizsch]

“Oh? *I* get to be in charge of our lovely Princes? Hehe. I graciously accept the challenge.”

[SR] Yuusha Tala -> GROOOOVY!! Glimmering Soirée (fan event by @starry-night-rose)

Groooovy!!: Hehe. If you want to dance with me, you’re gonna have to keep up with me first.

Set Home: Yeah, yeah… I know I’m just a glorified attendant and I don’t really have any say over the Princes... Look, just let me have this.

Home Idle 1: Helping Deuce act like a Prince has been really hilarious. But credit where credit is due, seeing him try his best is really charming.

Home Idle 2: Wow. Somehow Azul became less insufferable after being trained as a Prince. ….Wait. Nevermind. He’s still the same.

Home Idle 3: Kalim and Hornton seem to be a natural at this. I guess I should have expected that. It’s really nice to see them shine.

Home Idle - Login: Has anyone seen Grim? I swear I saw him lurking around here somewhere…

Home Idle - Groovy: I could go for "Belle of the Ball" if I really wanted to, especially since I'm the one who helped take care of everything after all. But alas, why would you vote for the magicless prefect..? Wait, unless.….

Home Tap 1: Where did I put that ghost camera? I was just holding it just a while ago… Huh? It’s around my neck? Well, that’s embarrassing. Oh stop laughing at me, will ya?

Home Tap 2: The others say I’m like a different person when I go into "manager" mode. …And they say it either like a compliment or an insult so I’m getting mixed messages.

Home Tap 3: Ugh. This cape is cool and all but people keep getting caught by it. So annoying.

Home Tap 4: Would I compete in being the Belle of the Ball if I wasn't taking care of the Princes? Depends. Would you vote for me? ~ ♡ …What do you mean you’ll give me a "pity" vote.

Home Tap 5: No, I’m not staring "longingly" at that band! …But hypothetically, do you think they’d let me play an instrument with them?

Home Tap - Groovy: Oh, wow. Crazy that they totally just left this violin here. Hmmm…..

notes:

i had fun with the voice lines aaah but it might have some changes when i’m done with the groovy (and i’ll properly put her in an actual card template)

also slight lore drop from one of the voice lines: yuusha has experience hosting formal parties pre-twst. basically she just locks in (a bit too heavily) when she has hosting duties.

(some of the voice lines also foreshadow the groovy 👀)

anyways i was just messing around a lot with the outfit design and the colors hgsdfjds

i tried my best making her purple color scheme agree with the limited color palette and i think it worked out??? idk idk--

also the cape was supposed to have patterns similar to the ceremonial robes so as to label her as someone from nrc.

i wanted to include a LOT more ruffles too but i had no patience for lining all of that 🤧

(bonus sketches/concepts below)

at first i based off her suit on hans frozen but then (because of pinterest giving me ideas) i realized i wanted a more fun outfit and so here i am-

(also help me i meant to have the voice lines to be just talking to anyone but it just hit me that it sounds like she’s talking to jamil 💀 girl they just can’t leave me alone they live in my head 24/7 rent-free)

[steamclouds]

Wedding outfits? Wedding outfits!

[connectjump]

this nobu sprite is my favorite because all I can hear `aw man were going to super hell guys. not ballin.` in nobu's voice.

[fishareglorious]

"I wish to hold your hand tightly. Your most loyal yet worst friend, Windsong." why are you like this. fruit

[ecoustsaintmein]

ghosts (part i of ????)

part two here

pairing: paddy x eoin; rating: M. slow burn.

this was the first time they'd had this conversation as eric and killian. but it was as if they'd had this conversation, many years ago, many times before.

(or, paddy mayne and eoin mcgonigal, reincarnated as eric love from 'starred up' and killian from 'angel'. they meet again, during the heights of the pandemic -- but they don't remember - until much, much, much later).

the next quack he saw after oliver was dr wilson, who was a no-nonsense scottish lady who struck fear more than deputy governor haynes ever did. she was young but wise for her years, with curly dark hair and spectacles and a soft dundonian accent. turned out she knew oliver baumer from some forensic psychiatry conference but it wasn't like eric to show that he's interested to know more. no, he didn't miss oliver, he said to her in their one-to-one session. he missed his dad, though.

--

seven years later, eric is allowed parole on the grounds of good behaviour. the world around him has changed, and so has he. is he fully rehabilitated? has that bloody posh quack oliver baumer cured him of his violence?

dr wilson told him she knew about haynes and cardew and the comings and goings of the previous corrupt prison regime. oliver blew the whistle and there had been a massive investigation and as a result, most of the inmates' cases were reviewed, including eric's.

'what would you do, then,' eric once asked, 'if you manage to rehabilitate me? then you'd be out of work, won't ya?' but now eric realized that there were worse evils out there in the world that subsumes the hearts of men.

subsumes.

ha.

there was once a time when eric would laugh in the faces of those who would use big words like that. but since he spent more time with tyrone, hassan, ashley, dr wilson, he'd started reading and expanding his vocabulary. he's even started reading poetry.

sublimation was a word he recently learnt. dr wilson was drawing a timeline of his life and a map of his thought processes and how he came to be the way he was. some things in his past can't be changed, she said, but the way he responds to things, can be altered.

neville died of stage four prostate cancer five months ago. dr wilson fought for eric to be allowed to attend his dad's funeral. he even has a social worker now, nate, who is about the same age as he is, but is a tall, strapping bloke from liverpool with a heavy scouse accent. they talk shite about football and how neither of their teams were doing well in the prem.

then oliver visited him in prison, only to tell him that he's moving to new brunswick. where the hell's new brunswick? nova scotia, oliver said. new scotland?

canada, oliver nodded. because he said they needed psychologists there and the nhs pay was shite and for all his pains oliver wasn't a saint.

jews don't have saints, eric said. oliver looked at him for a moment before they both broke into laughter. well, eric shrugged. you're a saint enough for me. you've performed a miracle. i don't punch people when they smile at me wrong now.

five months later his parole application was accepted and he was free.

except. two months later the whole country went into lockdown.

and this was how he met that irish waif, killian, with the dark curls and the dark eyes and the accent no one can understand, especially when he spoke, words swallowed underneath that blue mask that everyone's got to wear.

he never got to witness that wide, easy smile of killian's in real life, until six months later, but then, that's another story.

--

they met as hospital volunteers in south london, during the height of the pandemic. they both live two flats apart on the same floor, in the same council tenancy building, just ten minutes walk from st george's.

but they weren't friends, not straight away. there was nothing memorable about killian apart from that shocking mop of unruly curls on his head and that awful accent, though eric's learnt to keep quiet and let killian repeat himself several times to the staff and patients on the ward; 'it's killian with a k, not a c like cillian murphy,' he'd said, pulling at his ID badge and pointing at his name. 'this is how i look like under this mask, by the way,' he says, and the patients will laugh. it's a terrible photo, worse than eric's own prison mugshot.

they were wary of each other just as eric was often wary of strangers. he's sublimated enough by being kind to patients and their relatives on the wards -- he doesn't need to continue wearing the same mask with other people.

his new social worker, subodh, once chided him for this.

--

everyone seemed to struggle with lockdown, but eric thrived. he's so used to isolation that he never ran out of ways to entertain himself.

the internet is a beautiful thing.

--

he didn't realize who it was, not at first. eric has his allowances and benefits and saves them up -- he's got no need for new trainers or clothes; and even with food he's rationing them up like he did in prison, he's not a glutton for mickey d's or domino's or that chinese takeaway across the street.

but eric's got urges, sometimes -- an urge that started out as a curiosity, ever since he found out that neville and ashley were together.

the internet is a beautiful thing.

--

eric's watched too many of those videos, now, but to say that he has a favourite or a type would be a stretch too far. he's even tried jacking off to them, but he couldn't even get hard -- not when all he could think about when he heard the men on screen moan was to think of ashley and his dad, together.

no.

he slammed his laptop shut (yes, the same laptop that he got for free from that scheme subodh signed him up for). he learnt how to use vpn. just because he spent his formative years in and out of prison doesn't make him a technological heathen.

but the next night he decided to watch some solo videos instead of acted porn, and this was how he ended up clicking on the profile of user @/cuchulainn1995.

he never shows his face, and despite the irish handle he speaks with an english (sussex?) accent. the first thing eric noticed is he's got a low, deep, growling voice, and such big hands, long beautiful fingers. one of the videos started with cu chulainn (that's how eric calls him now) wearing a white button-up shirt and slacks, but slowly he unbuttoned it and palms at his slacks, deft fingers unbuckling his belt. the hand motion on screen was slow, steady, confident. eric was utterly mesmerised by the way those hands floated across, like butterflies, as cu chulainn stripped down oh-ever-so-slowly.

he's wearing a lacy bra underneath the shirt, flat against his chest, and a lacy thong that could barely hold in his entire length. he's well hung, slim, but he hasn't even grown into his full girth yet, as he begins to pump himself through the lacy fabric.

against eric's will, he got hard too, as he watches this stranger tweaking his nipple under the bra and whispering filthy things about wanting to fuck a bad boy and wishing to destroy something beautiful. this man who talked of not wanting to be fucked, but to fuck. all while wearing that lacy bra and lacy thong that eric wanted to rip up with his teeth.

eric's never come so hard in his life.

maybe that's why all of those losers raided the tescos for toilet paper. for wanking to videos this good.

--

killian's the one who approached him first, at the canteen, while eric was flicking through the copy of 'oxford book of war poetry' he found amidst the old magazine stacks of hello! and ok! in the nursing office.

the blt sandwich was a bit dry, and the coffee stale. this was eric's excuse for coughing up his food and spluttering them all over the table, when killian sat in the chair in front of him and asked, 'what passing-bells for these who die as cattle?'

'what the fuck?' was eric's only illustrious response.

'-only the monstrous anger of the guns,' killian replied, voice muffled under the mask. 'wilfred owen.'

'i prefer robert graves.'

'of course.'

this was the first time they'd had this conversation as eric and killian. but it was as if they'd had this conversation, many years ago, many times before.

killian tore up his roll and dipped it in his golden vegetable soup. he pulled down his mask and ate voraciously. like he hadn't eaten in months.

it was the first time eric saw killian's face, in full.

killian smiled, as he licked soup off his fingertips, inadvertently making kissy noises as his lips left each finger. 'i prefer yeats,' he said, oblivious.

eric tried not to stare, he really did. there was something about the movement that was so familiar to him.

but he couldn't place it.

he also thought, that birthmark on killian's left hand looked familiar too --

but surely not?

--

eric's throwing money he doesn't have to cu chulainn, subscribing to his live videos and in his head thinks that he's having a parasocial relationship with this faceless man with a beautiful body, like one of those marble statues the brits pilfered from ancient greece.

his colouring was dark, gingery, and eric wondered if they were as coarse as his own hair. eric wondered if he was as dark, or darker in real life.

in the busy chatbox filled with filthy comments from horny subscribers, eric once gathered the strength to type, 'if ur english why the name cu chulainn?'

eric watched the slight pause in the body language, face unseen from the neck above. and then, for a split second, the sussex accent switched to a soft irish lilt, 'who says i'm english?', and eric thought, 'i've heard this voice before.'

but eric forgot everything when cu chulainn started his show, and when he called his audience a 'good boy'.

eric thought it was a private message just for him.

--

they bumped into each other, at the aldi queue for the self-service checkouts, a metre apart. eric eyed the shite killian's got in his basket -- bananas, spinach, macaroni, yorkshire tea and a bar of dairy milk. eric eyed his own -- pot noodles, crisps, rich tea biscuits. then killian waited for him outside, humming mindlessly, a foldable umbrella in hand. it's started drizzling -- then raining, hard, unheard of for tooting, before walking up to their flat together.

eric pulled up his hoodie and made a point not to stand under killian's umbrella, although he's getting drenched like a wet soppy dog and killian called him out for it. 'stop being an eejit and get under the brolly,' he said, without raising his voice, and eric acquiesced.

--

it's only natural that when the government announced that 'members of a household could be part of another household' as a 'support bubble', that eric became killian's.

and killian eric's.

subodh told him that it's good that he's found a friend, though under no circumstances did eric admit that killian was 'a friend'. they had nothing in common, he said. apart from the poetry and the football (why does he support liverpool? he's irish, for fuck's sake).

eric's been in killian's flat, which was a mirror image of his own, except that they were filled with the most bizarre trinkets when eric's was more spartan. killian never let him inside his bedroom, though, and eric's never pressed further.

killian grew herbs in his flat. a pot of chilli, too. there was a time when he grew up on a farm, he'd said, and everything he ate was from the land around him, because he learnt how to grow them. he learnt how to forage in the wild, he learnt how to slaughter animals. he's good with a machete and an axe too, he'd said, before he realized he'd said too much and fell silent.

this was when eric knew that there was more beyond the softness of killian's visage - there were dark secrets there, hidden behind those eyes, underneath those long, dark lashes.

eric spent more time at killian's flat than at his, since the support bubble rule was introduced. killian can cook. and for some reason, despite saying that he's living on benefits too, he's got subscriptions to all the streaming services and has the latest games on his ps.

eric wondered where he got the money from.

--

it didn't take long for him to find out.

--

in eric's defense, it was killian who told him to fetch his phone charger from the bedroom.

killian's bedroom, which for the past three months had been off limits to eric, because the door was always shut and killian had never invited him in, not even for a casual 'this is my room' tour. boundaries. if there's one thing he's learnt from oliver and dr wilson and the likes of 'em, it's to learn how to respect people's boundaries.

it's the grey wall and the bedspread that caught eric's eyes first. his first thought was, surely not. his second thought was, surely not.

it wasn't as if there were toys splayed across the room for eric to see. the room was pristine, unlike the mess that was the living room, but eric had just seen one of cu chulainn's videos yesterday and this was where he had sat.

and the laundry basket was in the corner of the room. there was no weird smells, no bras, no lacy thongs - but he noticed the slacks and the white button down shirt. killian had never worn slacks and a white shirt to work, he was always in his casual stripey t-shirt before he changes into scrubs, and then, oh then, there's his belt.

the belt.

the images of killian's fingers, on the ps controller, or when he picks up a brown roll and dips it into soup during lunch hour, come rushing back. the birthmark on the back of killian's left hand, as he unbuckles his belt and unzips his slacks and touches himself. the way his knuckles disappear as he works his fingers up into himself.

and he hears killian's irish lilt, now, in cu chulainn's forced english voice. eric realizes now that he's one of the men who's paid for the way that killian's living.

eric doesn't feel anger. he doesn't feel panic. he's floating, in this room, because he's always seen it through the pixels of his laptop screen, but never like this. he doesn't even know whether he wants to hate killian or hate himself, because at the end of the day eric was the one who had been searching for it, again and again, like a man obsessed; addicted. killian was just there, doing his thing.

killian had been here, last night, doing his thing. and eric had fantasised of doing more, imagined that he could be touched the same way, on this very same bed. eric leans down and touches the ikea bedspread, clean - it's as if killian's washed all the stains off of it from last night, and the room itself smells woody, citrus-y. it smells like killian.

it smells nice.

killian barges in and asks what's taking so long, wooden spoon in hand, flour dust on his nose and cheeks. he's attempting to make sausage rolls from scratch, he says.

eric's eyes glaze over, like he's neither here nor there. he only ever had sausage rolls from greggs and his own mum was a terrible cook, so homemade pastries were out of the question.

the phone charger is still plugged in at killian's bedside, where he's dumped his camera and lighting equipment in a storage box. eric pretends not to see it, and hands the phone charger to killian, careful not to let their fingers touch.

'you ok?' killian asks, concerned.

'yeah,' eric lies. 'it's just that, i've never been in your room before. it's nice,' he says --

-- which isn't a lie.

killian softens, as he tilts his head to one side and squints at eric. 'aye, because you never asked, ya daftie.'

it's almost fond.

--

some nights eric will wake up, alone in his bed, grouching. he remembers the night he was about to be executed by the prison guards, to make it look like he's hung himself, before neville saved him.

he dreamt of walking out of prison, with no one to greet him but a dreary, empty council flat near tooting broadway.

some nights, eric will wake up, alone in his bed, grouching. but this time, he doesn't remember that night when he was about to be executed the prison guards, to make it look like he's hung himself, before he ended up walloping all of them, before walking out into the hot desert sun.

he dreamt of walking out of prison, but this time killian is there, saying, 'the dead arose and appeared to many,' -- except this isn't killian and he isn't eric, and eric struggles to remember the name of this man who looks so much like killian and yet just isn't.

his mannerisms are still the same, though, from the way he stretches and yawns and grins like a cheshire cat, and he is as generous with his touches as killian was. this man laughs at his unfunny jokes about sweating in hospitals and nightclubs and getting someone's goat, and serves him soup from the gazelle that eric-who-is-not-eric has allegedly shot.

killian-who-is-not-killian smiles, as he licks the soup off his fingertips, inadvertently making kissy noises as his lips leave each finger, and eric thinks, oh.

oh.

--

paddy, he says.

eric wakes.

--

at lunchtime, killian shows him an empty notebook that one of the elderly patients had gifted him, on late shift last night. it's worn and battered, faded ink on the yellowed pages.

'she stopped me in the corridor and told me i had to have it,' he says, 'and then she was gone.'

'which ward was this?' paddy asks. 'maybe she's just a bit off, ya know, with delirium.'

'aye, it was off rodney smith ward,' killian nods, before leafing through the pages again, carefully.

a note falls out.

'from paddy, to eoin,' killian reads out loud, squinting to make out the words.

'eoin,' eric says, weighing the word on his tongue, before deciding that he enjoys the way his lips have moved, the way his throat has closed, to form the lovely sound ringing between them.

'paddy,' killian agrees.

--

'so, the sand of the desert couldn't keep your soul buried, eh eoin?'

--

killian thinks, when he was growing up, his real da used to say: 'coincidence was god's way of being anonymous.'

but this isn't what he chooses to believe.

he believes it's more like poker: life won't always give him easy hands, but it'll be down to killian how he chooses to play it.

so he chooses to believe that it was out of his own free will that he chose to sit at that table and quoted wilfred owen at eric love.

he chooses to believe that it was out of his own free will that he chose to wait outside aldi in the pouring rain, umbrella in hand, to walk eric love home.

he chooses to believe that it was out of their own free will that they became friends, despite the dreams that he had been having lately: of quiet conversations in flimsy tents, of secret trysts under the desert moon.

'when it was the desert, and you, and me,' killian thinks --

only those words weren't his, nor were they eoin's, but from a fragment of eoin's soul that paddy's carried with him.

from egypt to sicily to normandy.

from dublin to ballymena to newtownards.

and now, to fucking tooting, of all places.

how poetic.

--

he couldn't find the woman again. she was, he thinks, not of white-european descent, and her accent was foreign, but killian had thought nothing of it when she handed him the notebook--

-- and disappeared.

the nurses had never seen her before, when killian attempted to describe her. and with everyone wearing masks, it became even harder to identify who killian was talking about, and the nurses looked at killian as if he was still hungover from whatever he'd smoked the night before.

killian will call her 'eve', he thinks,

and the notebook his forbidden fruit,

these phantom memories are akin to a serpent.

'take a bite,' they call out to killian;

-- and so he does.

this way, at least, he'll live.

--

tbc.

part two here