#my limbs feel so weird i didn't expect this would be where it directed for this shift

[farmdog]

unbothered; leaping and playing

[wyattjohnston]

never said a thing - pierre luc dubois

summary: everyone knows that luc wants a trade... you're just the only person he hasn't told directly.

word count: 2,667

main character: gender neutral reader

note: this is a very very late pinch hitter fic for @pcttymcrlecu as part of the summer fic exchange 2k23. thank you for your patience!

i had to fudge the timeline because i didn't realise luc's trade request happened post-season. i really feel like it happened before the trade deadline

You’d known about Luc’s trade requests before you met him—the entire city of Winnipeg, the province of Manitoba and the entire NHL fan base knew. It was inescapable, just like it had been when he was moved to Winnipeg after requesting a trade out of Columbus.

You were happier about the first one, less so about the second and that only got worse as time went on and the official third one came.

Meeting Luc wasn’t anything you’d planned but had still taken longer than you’d expected it to. Winnipeg wasn’t small, though it certainly wasn’t the largest city, and everyone seemingly had some sort of connection to the Jets—even if it was a Six Degrees of Mark Scheifele sort of deal.

A friend of a friend knew where the younger Jets players liked to spend their free time, as if that wasn’t widely known by everyone in their 20s anyway, and you found yourself in the same bar as Luc, Logan and Jansen.

You found yourself at Luc’s house a lot after that.

Nobody seemed to mind the weird, nebulous state of your relationship—situationship is probably the best word to describe everything that you were. It hadn’t mattered, not really, that you showed up at Luc’s house at the first text with little care for the time he sent his you up? text because he was always just as quick to show up when you sent him a photo of your empty bed without any words to accompany it.

It was always You and Luc, even though there was no You and Luc.

The trade request rumours go unmentioned in the time you spend together—the first alleged request being negated by a one-year contract and the second, the most recent, never coming up. You couldn’t forget them, though. You caught yourself looking at Luc when his back was turned, hoping you could will him to talk to you. Hoping he would explain the request. Hoping he would tell you directly.

Time passed, though, without any mention from Luc that he no longer wanted to be in Winnipeg. Without any mention that whatever You and Luc were had an expiration date.

The Jets lost four games in a row, ending their season in the first round of the playoffs. It hurt because they’re your team—a crushing disappointment especially after winning the first game so soundly and taking game 3 to second overtime—and you watched every game from start to finish.

It was another turning point in your situationship with Luc. As much as you were always a text message away, Luc never asked right after road trips. You never expected him to. It was a boundary set in place that you were more than happy to adhere to.

Except.

The text wasn’t even the usual you up? but an explicit come over that had your heart rate spiking. It was the most direct either of you had ever been and you didn’t know what it meant at all.

He’d barely arrived home when you were buzzed into the building if the suitcase at the door was any indication. He looked exhausted, standing beside the intercom with his forehead pressed against the wall.

You didn’t wait before moving towards him, your footsteps disgustingly loud in the otherwise silent apartment, and pressed your forehead into the space between his shoulder blades.

In a hoarse voice, muffled by the wall he was leaning against, Luc asked, “When’s it my turn to win?”

He wasn’t crying, something you were grateful for because you knew you were ill equipped to deal with it, but he may well have been. The sagging of his limbs, so tired and dejected that his muscles weren’t even tense, and the defeat in his voice were foreign to you.

“What do you need from me?” you asked, unable to think of anything else and not wanting to make a wrong move and upset him even more.

He signed, his entire body shaking with it, and admitted that he just wanted to go to bed.

You agreed, despite it being far from what you’d gone for. Moving him was easy; he put up no resistance as you led him down to his room. You’d never seen him so low, never moved him so easily, and, as many times as you had undressed each other in that very room, taking his clothes off was the strangest part of it all.

He helped you undress him in so much as he moved his limbs when he needed to, but he was very much just doing as he was told.

“You’ve got so many more years in you, Luc,” you said when you were finally laying in the bed.

“It never feels that way.”

Waking up in Luc’s bed wasn’t strange by any means, nor, quite frankly, was the morning wood pressed against your lower back. Being the familiar territory that it was, you roused Luc from his sleep and started your morning the right way.

He was visibly happier than the night before—or, maybe not happier but definitely less noticeably distraught—and falling into old habits was simple and welcomed by both of you. The closeness, physical and emotional, something he needed judging by the way he held you through breathy moans.

It wasn’t until you were showered and sitting at his kitchen island with a coffee as he got ready for end-of-season interviews, grumbling as he moved throughout the house.

Your timing probably wasn’t the best, waiting until you were standing at his front door saying goodbye just before he fronted the media, but you had never shied from the hard conversations. Even if you delayed them until the last—often worst—possible moment.

“I’ll see you when you’re back for training camp?” you asked tentatively, wringing your hands in your lap.

Luc hesitated for so long that you thought he might never say anything. He couldn’t meet your eye when he said, “Yeah. End of August, probably.”

You watched him carefully, scrutinising the painful casualness of his response, the lack of any giveaways that he was lying or that he hoped what he was saying wasn’t true.

You knew too much, though.

His casual demeanour faltered as you met him with an equally long silence—you weren’t hesitating for any reason other than to make him uncomfortable.

He shifted his feet and looked everywhere in the room except at you. He was opening his mouth to speak when you finally decided to keep talking, cutting him off.

“Are you ever going to talk to me about requesting a trade?”

Luc’s demeanour changed from confused to defensive immediately when he asked, “Do I need to?”

“I mean… yeah?” you asked, stumbling over your words. “You were really just going to leave for the summer and never come back?”

“I—” The colour drained from his face. “Yeah.”

With your hands pulling at the bottom of your hoodie, you felt your heart rise into your throat. There wasn’t anything else for you to say, which was a blessing because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure what would have come out.

You nodded once, stiffly, and then again after a beat before you let the barstool screech against the tiles as you stood. He didn’t make any move to stop you as you grabbed your purse, and you could feel him staring as you walked out the door. You cursed the apartment building for having quiet closing doors when all that would have made you feel better was hearing something slam behind you.

June came and went, July disappeared as quick as it arrived and August… well August dragged on painfully.

You worked through the perfect weather and the perfect photos your friends posted of their perfect vacations. It wasn’t all that different from every other summer since you graduated and it was no different to the previous summer because you didn’t see him then anyway.

A lot of energy had been spent trying to get him out of your mind, not least because all of your work colleagues seemingly spent their every waking moment talking about Pierre-Luc Dubois and his trade request. When the trade to LA had finally happened, all they could talk about was “eight years and eight point five million, who does he think he is?” or “he’s just going to ask for another trade in 2 years so jokes on them!”

You, though? Mostly you’d been able to move past it. August rolled around and you didn’t care about Pierre-Luc Dubois.

Until, that is, you were standing in The Forks Market, ready to eat your weight in mini donuts because it had been a long, long week, and, above every other head you saw him.

You couldn’t leave in the rush that you wanted to, or at least suddenly speedrun the market, because you did want your donuts more than you wanted to leave so you turned your head, tried to hide behind some other people and hoped that he’d never spot you.

That was too much to ask for, of course.

The stall called your name and you knew that everybody in the immediate vicinity had heard it but still you collected your food and tried to make a beeline for the exit only to have your name called again.

You stopped but didn’t turn around, hoping that maybe Luc would just turn and leave but you knew that was foolish. You felt his presence as he got closer, his body so much larger than those around him that even without seeing him you just knew.

He said your name, in such a deceptively soft voice that you had no choice but to turn around, to look at him and see a sorrow on his face that you hadn’t ever expected. Definitely nothing you’d ever seen before.

“You got something to say or?” you prompted when he just continued to stare at you.

“How are you?”

You recoiled at the question, your eyebrows pulling together, followed by an eye roll so rapid that it actually hurt. Luc flinched himself but didn’t rush to say anything else.

“That’s not the conversation I want to have,” you said, brutally honest. “Especially not with you. So, I’m going to take my food and leave. Enjoy LA.”

You stepped away, causing him to stand up straighter and reach for you—but only briefly before he thought better of it. Still, he said, rushed, “Come back to mine.”

“And why should I do that?”

“I have—” he cleared his throat. “I have to talk to you and I don’t want to do that here.”

You hesitated but ultimately agreed when curiosity got the better of you. As much as you’d not wanted to think about him, it had been impossible to shake the desire for any sort of explanation.

Walking into his apartment again didn’t feel like a bad idea, but it did feel weird to see it mostly empty with packing boxes stacked against the walls. You didn’t need to be reminded that he was going—gone—and yet the reminder still had you looking away instantly back to Luc.

Luc pulled out the food that he’d bought at the market—an actual meal—and set it down on the kitchen island where the only remaining seats in his apartment were, just three barstools.

“I hope they gave you a fork because I don’t have any cutlery,” he said sheepishly.

You sat down beside him, placed your own bag down and told him, smiling to yourself, “I don’t think I need a fork to eat mini donuts.”

The laugh that erupted from him shocked both of you. You more so, you thought, because you weren’t sure you’d ever heard him laugh so heartily, so carefree. It ended up being the reason for your abrupt silence, the joy being pulled from you and a donut being shoved into your mouth to avoid any questioning.

He didn’t seem to notice that your laughter had stopped for any reason other than deciding to eat, so he ate his curry still smiling and starting a conversation about Ryan Gosling as Ken that you had to admit was endearing even if you didn’t want to. Your own contribution to that conversation was minimal despite how much you had enjoyed the movie in the first place.

“Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?” you asked during a break in the conversation where Luc was getting ready to start playing the movie’s soundtrack. That was so far past normal that you had to get out of it, that you had to bring him back to the reason you’d even gone to his apartment in the first place.

Luc looked chastised as he put his phone back down on the table. He turned the stool so that he was facing you, the one stool still in between you, and all joy had fallen from his face. He reached one hand out, resting it on the empty stool, and inhaled.

“I asked for a trade.”

“So, I heard.”

“I can’t keep losing.”

“Oh,” you said, feigning sympathy, “Because the Kings got so much further than the Jets did. Understandable.”

Whatever was left of his openness disappeared, his face making it clear that he’d shuttered. You didn’t care, really, when that was the lame excuse you’d gotten.

“I don’t even care about that,” you said, waving off the poor excuse. “Honestly, I don’t care that you requested it because whatever it’s your career and your life, you can leave if you want—why didn’t you tell me, Luc? If I hadn’t asked, I really don’t think you would have told me.”

“I should have,” he admitted, without hesitation, his face relaxing into something somewhat remorseful. “I know I should have. Even if we’re just… casual, fuckbuddies, whatever we’re calling it, of course I should have told you. It just took me until you got mad for me to realise that.”

 “What? You didn’t realise I was human until that moment?”

“I didn’t realise you cared.”

That chastened you quite effectively, because it was true that you’d never given much—or any—indication that it was more than just sex. Not a great deal more, at least not until you thought you were going to lose him, but enough that the friends in friends-with-benefits had clearly meant a lot more to you than it did to him. You couldn’t have expected him to know that when your conversations were limited to if the roads were okay on the drive to one another’s place.

You admitted, quietly, your eyes averted to your lap, “I don’t know if I did until I heard you wanted out. Then I thought about it at length and by the time I asked you about it… Lying to me is just about the worst thing you could have done.”

“I didn’t think you’d bring it up,” he said slowly. “I really just thought you would leave; I’d go back to Quebec and then, when the season started, I’d be somewhere else and then you asked and… I realised I cared about leaving you behind.”

Your eyes fell shut, overwhelmed by what he’d told you. You were sure nobody had ever cared about leaving you behind before. You wondered, briefly, how long it would have taken Luc to contact you if he hadn’t seen you that evening, though it was something that could be found out later. More pressing was the confession you’d just received.

Your eyes opened, and Luc was looking at you with a softness and longing that overwhelmed you all over again. All you did was laugh nervously, shyly, to yourself, and tell him, “I don’t even know anything about you that I haven’t learnt from the Jets’ broadcasts.”

“I don’t think I know anything about you either,” he confessed, unabashed. “I want to learn; if you want to teach me.”

Please consider leaving feedback—reblog and write in the tags or send an ask, I’m not fussed. I just want to know what you’re thinking!

i forgot i have a tag list rip (very sorry if you’ve already seen the fic!!)

@fallinallincurls @spine-buster @2manytabsopen @xcicix @sorryjustafangirl @senditcolton @shinyfalcon4 @laurenairay @jarmorie @diary-of-jj @its-bitchin-belle-bitches @sssstarstruck @pr3nt1ss

[py6oto]

more hlvrai x yume nikki au stuff!!!

this post is gonna have a lot more text than my usual posts. so sorry if you don't want that.

so people seemed to really like my idea (which is really unexpected !! i didn't expect it to gain any attention at all!!! but its also super awesome and im so glad they do!!) so ive been brainstorming a little bit.

heads up i know yume nikki is a very ambiguous game but im pretty new to it so if i happen to get any established information wrong please let me know !? ty !!

anyways. before we do the effects. please take some sprites.

(body horror ((multiple eyes, messed up limbs, gunshot sounds)) under the cut!!! pls stay safe !!! ) (also a huge lore dump. sorry!)

id think this au takes place in a universe where the resonance cascade was real (aka not a game or simulation) and it'd be like, maybe a few months after it. gordon is traumatized as hell and it haunts his subconscious to the point he feels the need to isolate himself completely. he relives his trauma through eerily consistent dream worlds and then dies on a random tuesday. credits roll. audience cheers. wonderful story.

the vision for the sprites is that tommy functions as a "friendly" npc (like monoko and the other girl i forget the name of please forgive me) and benrey functions as poniko, uboa being "xenrey" or essentially messed up alien benrey (the weird...white...blood....world...room...uboa takes you to when you interact with it is simply replaced by xen. that's it. benreys house is a direct gateway to that time gordon fought god and won and isn't that amazing.)

i might remake the "uboa" sprite in the future because i don't really like it right now. im very new to pixel art and imitating YMNK's style is a little hard.

i like to think this imaginary game would have the teensiest tiny bit of dialogue, only when interacting with benrey. when you interact with his "regular" form, he says "you're not supposed to be here." and repeats it every time you interact, not saying anything else.

i know one of the biggest things that makes yume nikki stand out is its lack of dialogue, but listen, i think it would work well!!! seeing as this is the only time a character actually talks to gordon through understandable dialogue (unless i come up with something else!! haha) i think it would be confusing and throw players off because it breaks the pattern of being either ignored or silently acknowledged. someone talking directly to you after hours of isolation is confusing and unpredictable. which is what benrey is. confusing as hell!

im not sure what function tommy would offer, if any, i kinda want him to maybe give gordon an effect (soda effect could work?)

i dont think he'd bring any jumpscares or intentionally unsettling things to the table. seeing as he was the only one by gordon's side when the rest of the team proved itself to be a threat, i think it's logical he'd remember tommy in a warmer light than the others- which is reflected in how instead of unsettling or ignoring gordom, dream tommy simply smiles and gives him the ability to drink a soda any time. soda effect.

does this soda effect make you see faster like tommy said?

as much as i'd love to, no. probably not. because i have no idea what the hell seeing faster means.

maybe you can get a caffeine overdose. if you spam 1 enough times you will get very fast for as long as the soda effect is on. like the bycicle effect, but better, because you can taste it!

but no, it won't help you see faster. i don't know how to translate that sentence into understandable english.

now, coomer and bubby!!!! i apologize very deeply for i have not made sprites for them yet. i promise i will!!! it's just very late today and if i draw anything else i will actually just pass out.

im not very sure what i want for them yet. i think theyd be similar to tommy, but they'd have different functions. maybe they all give gordon different effects. or maybe they scare him! i dunno, i feel like there'd be a certain level of distrust from gordon to the old guys, like, of course he doesn't hate them but itd be hard to remember them super kindly and harmlessly when one of them ruthlessly tried to murder you with 300 clones of himself and the other tricked you into an ambush that cost you your arm, as much as you love them.

also!!! i completely forgot gordon lost an arm when i made his sprite. oops. it's okay its just a very realistic prosthetic

anyways. this post is getting too long so i think I'll save the boomer talk for when i actually post their sprites. its time for EFFECTS !!

i haven't been able to come up with many words yet. but i have some effects and a slight idea of how gordon would earn them.

concept art is beautiful

from left to right (because my handwriting is absolutely hideous!)

SODA - earned by interacting with TOMMY. wherever tommy is??? i dunno! pressing 1 will make gordon drink the soda and earn a temporary speed boost.

CAR??? - part of me really wants to rename this one but it's so funny to me i want to keep it. it's just a car. he literally just whips out a car and starts driving. what a legend. this effect lets him get across water areas faster (even faster than the soda!)

LONG HAIR - literally just gives him long hair. there is no practical use for this. nothing will happen. it just gives him long hair. isnt he beautiful.

ARM - earned by interacting with a dismembered arm found... somewhere.... probably some dark room. you know that effect where madotsuki literally just becomes a head? yeah. this is that but it's an arm because of course it is. this is an opportunity and i will not give it up. there is no use for this either. it just makes him a slow sad lonely arm.

MINIGUN - found by interacting with a certain object in POTION !! WORLD !! YEAHHH!! DARNOLD REFERENCE !!! pressing 1 will let you shoot the hell out of your enemies and make them pay for their sins

SWEET VOICE - found by interacting with any of the orbs in COLOR WORLD. 1 will allow gordon to song a beautiful, colorful song that will soothe any npcs he might have angered and make them stop trying to murder him.

POWERLEGS - MAYBE given by coomer npc? idk! this is all brainstorming and a work in progress! 1 makes gordon jump real high, allowing him to reach otherwise unaccessible areas

GHOST - ghost. he's a ghost. he's transparent. he flies. 1 makes him do a little ooooo noise and all the npcs run away from him because the place is haunted. ghost.

GLASSES - literally just pick up some glasses from the floor. putting them on will uncover a few hidden details across the map that may be necessary for progress ... like a very small and specific set of stairs

SMALL - makes gordon very small. i thought the original effect was super fun so i just kept it unchanged. small gordon. he can clone himself and make a gordon army. small. im thinking he finds it thru a coomer clone that is abnormally small. he interacts. small effect. small!

SHORT HAIR - literally just short hair. gordon can't seem to pick a haircut!

UMBRELLA - ...umbrella. makes it rain. shelters gordon from the rain at the same time. can be used for the same purpose it has in yume nikki which is putting out fires or stopping pre-existing rain.

there's supposed to be more effects and i still need to plan all the worlds and hidden rooms but ........ maybe when the sun is out and i have slept and i can think better !!! let me know whatever suggestions or ideas you guys have. i love hearing them a lot ^_^ thank you if you read all of this!! i promise hlvrai animations are not over this is just an au that has temporarily taken over its okay my content is not changing to yume nikki hlvrai only

gordon no

2023.07.27

[ventebleck]

INKTOBER DAY 3: PATH

Running in the cold autumn, my lungs hurt, and my bones ache. I felt the contrast between the coldness of my surroundings hitting my body, with the hot blood of my wounds. I didn't know if I was going to survive, but I wanted to.

I wanted to live.

I could still hear the yelling. I could smell the fire. I could taste the desperation in the voice of the victims, begging to their captors, knowing damn well they were just wasting their breath.

I tried to fight, I tried to protect my people, but it was in vain. I was not strong enough, not fast enough, not brave enough. So I ran.

I knew I was being followed. I knew I did not have much time. My legs were falling me, and sooner or later I would stop, and they would catch me.

I was slower, I was weaker. I needed to think of something.

With the few forces that were left on my body, I sprinted as fast as I could until I found a small river. I jumped across, and kept on running onto the thick forest in front of me.

I lost all my energy quickly after that, and I collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. I expected the barbarians to find me, to hear their weapons, and to feel the cold steel on my skin.

But that never came. As I laid there on the forest ground, trying my best to get my breathing under control, I saw that I was alone. Around me only trees gave me company, and the only sound I could hear was the sound of wind through their leaves.

When I finally got up, I examined my surroundings with more detail. I realised then that the trees surrounded me in a circle—I couldn't see where I came from. The river was not far away, and yet I could not see it or even hear it anymore.

Then I took a step forward, and I froze in fear. When I walked, the trees in front of me disappeared, and new ones appeared behind me, maintaining my body in a perfect circle of vegetation.

I didn't understand what was happening. Was I dead? Was I in purgatory? Did I hit my head when I collapsed on the ground, and I was dreaming all of this?

Even though the space around me before the trees prevented me from seeing further away was fairly large, I started to panic. I felt trapped, confined in a green enclosure.

My adrenaline kicking in, I started running once again. I was changing directions irrationally, feeling like I was going insane.

“Please!” I begged, looking up at the blue sky, “Let me out of here! Anyone!”

I fell on my knees, desperation creeping in. What was better, to die from a gunshot or via starvation? At least the first option was faster, right?

Tears were falling down my cheeks. I felt bleak, desolate, depressed…

Until I wasn't any more. I was still crying, but I felt the sadness stuck in my throat, without being able to express it. My mind was calm, fully alert on my surroundings; It felt like I was forced to feel at peace, not able to express anything else.

What the hell was going on?

The trees in front of me began disappearing, creating a small trail. I got up, the tears still flowing, unable to stop myself as I move forward.  As I walked, slowly this time, I could see how the grass began slowly fading into a stone road, that I didn't notice before.

With my mind calm, I could even see faces in the trees. Faces hidden, and not entirely human, but something told me that it was okay, that they were just curious; and against my better judgement, I moved forward.

I don't know for how long I followed that path. I just know that at what point, my tears dried, and this weird, unfamiliar peacefulness faded slowly, until my own calmness took control. It was also dark—I could already see stars and the occasional peek of the moon through the clouds.

During that time, those faces got closer a couple of times, empowered by my compliance, and then I could tell that they were everything but human. Four long limbs, and an even longer body. A smile that never left their face. Long, white hair and big, yellow eyes that, sometimes, were the only thing you could see between the trees.

I believed that they could sense my feelings. When they got closer the first time, not even the powerful feelings of composure could subdue my growing fear, and once I started being afraid, they disappeared, like they weren't there in the first place. Maybe that's why I couldn't see them before.

After a couple more tries, I was calm enough for them to finally get closer. They just looked at me, like they had never seen a human being before. Then, they got back to look at me from the trees once again, their eyes never leaving my side.

I arrived at what it seemed like the end of the path. It just abruptly stopped, and grass continued on like nothing. I felt confused for a moment. Perhaps I should've gone the other way around instead?

Before I could turn the other way, one of those… creatures, got closer. It was bigger, slowly walking towards me, almost slithering. Their limbs reminding me of the hind legs of horses, but without their hooves—It just stopped at one point, like four stump legs.

Once the creature was in front of me, they got their neck down to look into my eyes. Their smile was bigger, with more teeth than the other ones, and I smiled too, feeling more awkward than scared.

When I did that, the creature's smile got even bigger, but this time it felt genuine. The creature then turned around, and started to leave. I noticed how the trees didn't mysteriously move any more. Whatever strange occurrence was happening before no longer applied.

I thought about going back to my village, or whatever was left of it, but I knew that there was nothing or no one left for me there. In the best case scenario, I would find empty streets, and I would have to rebuild the town alone—in the worst case scenario, the barbarians would still be there, and I would be killed on the spot.

The big creature was still moving, all the other ones following it, finally not looking at me. I knew then that they were trying to get me there—that they were guiding me, but to what?

I looked at the ground. The stone path stopped, and in the grass now you could see the stomprints of the creature.

I looked ahead, and I followed them.

[failing-to-write-again]

Germany x Ireland!Reader: Snow Storms and Confessions

Ok so the plan was to post another scenario and write two more yesterday. But Tumblr did an oopsie and deleted everything.

Every cloud has a silver lining however, my friend sent me this gem of a find and all I could think about afterwards was this story. I was going to write them as scenarios but I found it difficult to imagine situations for the other characters.

So here's a different story. A one shot...goody.

---------------------------------------------------

*Ireland's POV*

I sat there cold and alone in the Russian airport terminal. My flight cancelled due to the violent snow storm outside and no hotel room to go to. All the other countries had already left, the usual flights to Ireland weren't available. Just one at 10pm when a blizzard was due. Russia didn't exactly give a direct response when I brought it up...

*flash back*

"Little Ireland! You are feisty small one, you're lack of fear is amusing."

"I'm not being feisty I just want to know why there's none of the usual planes to my country. I don't want to end up caught in the blizzard"

"Она умнее, чем выглядит...I don't involve myself petty plane issues. Perhaps this is fate, you believe in a lot of those magical fairy tales no?"

she's smarter then she looks

"Она также гово��ит по-русски. Что ты прячешь?"

she also speaks Russian. What are you hiding?

*flash forward to present*

Just before I could pry, Germany got the meeting started and I was left to get to my seat and ponder over Russia's behaviour. He's a strange study for sure.

Germany was as well. We became properly acquainted in the early 1900s only labelling ourselves as friends around the 70s when I joined the early version of the EU (then EEC). He definitely is a layered character, and even though he is sweet once I became closer with him, he seems to still be hiding aspects of his personality. But enough about that I'm cold and have to figure out where I'll sleep tonight.

"Ireland? Vhat are jou doing here?"

Speak of the devil and he shall arrive...

"Hey Germy, my flight got cancelled and it was the only one available, my hotel booking also ran out so I'm just sorta stuck here haha."

A rather enjoyable shade of red spread across his face at the mention of the nickname. I'd do anything to see those little cracks in his tightly woven character. Anything to see the little smiles or chuckles, the crush I'd developed over years of friendship pushing me to.

"V...Vell mein flight vas cancelled as vell...vould you like to share a hotel room vith me? I still have an extra day."

Panic.

"I wouldn't be against it, but you probably would like to not share a room so I understand if you don't want to and everything. Thanks for the offer though"

"Nein it's fine I don't mind ve're friends ja? It's ok!"

The air is so fucking uncomfortable. Big brother France is looking on in disappointed from Paris. I just know it. After a few more rounds of pitiful back and forth we agreed we both were ok with sharing a room and set off, chittering throughout the walk.

*[insert timeskip joke] Germany's POV*

Ireland was in the bathroom getting ready for bed as I sat mentally preparing to sleep beside her.

At some point my feelings of friendship began to be replaced with... love as Italy put it. I thought I was ill whenever my heart would flutter like a manly butterfly near her. After voicing my concerns to my brother and Italy, bruder proceeded to have a laughing fit. Italy took the time to gush about love long enough for me to come to the conclusion I was in it.

Ireland. She's not perfect by any means and we've had our fair share of arguments and disagreements. Though we always manage to work then out. Would it be the same if we were dating? I would be living in a dream if that was true...

The door opened and in she came. In the shorts she wore for sleep her false leg was on full display. I remember helping her make it, replacing the standard wooden one for a metal one with upgrades bring added whenever we visited eachother or were together in our free time from longer summits. The leg, essentially fully functional due to her use of spells and my use of metal. Light blue swirls, famous for their use in her history giving off a slight hum in the dark room, dancing up and down the metal limb. Gott she was an angel.

"That meeting left me a wreck." She stifled a yawn, lowering herself slowly to the bed beside me. The blue began to fade slowly as she stopped using magic, bleeding up her leg until disappearing once it reached the end of the metal at her upper thigh. "How does it vork?" I lowly hummed.

"The magic I use to move the leg? It's a weird mix of electricity and telekinesis. I use the electricity to stimulate the metal wires and pistons you put into it and use the telekinesis to make it move in a more natural way. I just wish it didn't glow, it makes it impossible to hide"

Hide? Why hide it? It's beautiful...is it inappropriate to say that out loud? I settle on a less invasive response.

"Why hide it? The blue looks like the tattoo you always joke about getting?"

She went quiet did I go to far? No she always said when I went too far same as I always did if our discussions on my...past got too vivid...She continued.

"When I lost my leg, I lost a part of myself. The image of the country who would fight anyone to be free, that had the confidence of countries ten times her size, it was gone. I kept up the act in letters and statements acting like the leg didn't phase me...Then I got to finally see my siblings again. None of them were allowed near me after one of my attempts for freeedom out of fear I'd help them escape or convince England to go rogue against his boss. They watched me struggle to do anything, they watched me have to ask for help to move, they watched me weak. It's been hard adjusting...then..."

She took a deep breath and looked up. Something she often did when trying not to cry. I gently lay a hand on her back and put on the calmest voice I could.

"Then vhat? Take jour time, I know it's difficult, but please tell me vhat happened?"

"I met someone. They helped me without even realising it. They slowly built up my confidence in myself, taught me how to laugh and smile like I used to. Obviously my family helped but the help from this person stuck with me more I suppose. He built me up, tried to help when he didn't have to."

He. My world slowly shattered and fell around me. So she has somebody else. Someone better. Someone who can show her all the love they probably expect being raised by someone like France and England.

"Oh...vill jou tell me more about him?"

She let a slow smile spread across her face.

"He's kind and sweet but covers it over with a stiff outer shell. He has many talents...so many talents. He's amazing really, but one thing in particular is what I think made me fall for him."

"Vhat vas it? That he did"

I was probing. I was pushing too far into her private life. If she never spoke about him in all our years of friendship, she had a reason not to. She's a damn ex-spy and rebel leader she knows how much to trust people. But...I didn't care. I wanted to know. Needed to. I had loved her for years only for her to slip away the moment I had started working to con-

"He built me a new leg. Then he called it pretty and sleek and said he liked the blue the magic made on it."

Oh...this was...not what I expected. I was the one who built the leg...she knows that...she...she...

"Ireland I..."

I slowly pulled her gently, she was straddling me so I could look into her eyes.

"Do jou really. But vhat I've done. How could jou?"

"Fall for a lovable human being? It's rather simple. I'm just hoping you'll give this amputee a chance."

She looked at me hopefully through her eye lashes. At that moment I realised why us Germans aren't seen as great romantics. We're better at doing, not speaking. So do I did.

I kissed her. Pouring every piece of emotion I felt for her, because of her into it. Desperately trying to show her how much I cared regardless of how bad I'd be at saying it. And it was bliss. My pulse was racing faster then any of my, no Germany's, F1 cars.

She was with me, not my country, not my people, ME. And I'm going to be selfish.

Her soft warm lips, pushing against my colder ones. Tasting like that brand of chocolate she loves mixed with the minty taste of toothpaste. Her arms, laying around me neck, playing with the hairs on the back of my head. My arms, pulling her closer filling every gap between us I could find. I was in heaven, kissing an angel, and I wasn't going to give it up for anything. The entire world could be damned so long as she was in my arms. Everything Italy, France, Spain, Bruder, and all the other countries preached about love suddenly clicked. I loved her. I never wanted to leave her side. I wanted to be her hero, her Ritter (knight), her lover.

And by the way she was kissing back she wanted to be mine.

*POV switch*

HOLY FUCKING SHIT HE'S KISSING ME!

HOLY FUCKING SHIT I'M KISSING HIM!

AAAHHHHHHHH!!!

I barely thought of anything else, all I could focus on was getting drunk off his kisses. He was kissing me like the world was ending and I loved it.

At some point it went from me in his lap to beneath him on the bed, staring into icy blue eyes.

"vell..." He drawled "ve have a hotel room, a snow storm. no ozher countries on zhis floor, or anyvone for that matter until tomorrow. and a very horny country. vhat do jou suppose ve do Ms.Ireland?"

I spoke before my mind could think. "Well Mr.Germany. A second, equally as horny country is beneath you so the real question is...Was wirst du dagegen tun?

What are you going to do about it?

Snap.

"Ich heiße nicht deutschland Ich heiße ludvig" he growls out. Responds very well to German if the kisses are any proof.

My name isn't Germany. My name is Ludwig

I leant up to whisper in his ear..."Es ist gut zu wissen, was ich später schreien werde. Ich bin (Y/N)."

It's good to know what I'll be screaming later. I'm (Y/N).

I hear a growl before my hands are held above my head with kisses attacking my neck...If this was Russia's plan for only having only one flight home then he's getting cookies next meeting.

*both POV*

Thank God/Gott for snow storms.

[paganchristian]

A picture I took out the window, a peaceful ride in the country, the rolling hills, the cows, the clouds, the blurry images streaming by like a tape, a childhood feeling, memories of gazing at the sun or the moon out the window and the ribbons of powerlines dancing, how beautiful they felt to me then, how full of happiness they seemed to be, dancing in such lovely curves, in rhythm with the music on the radio. 

 It reminds me of something simpler, more innocent, and more joyful, and more hidden, from the world, untouched, unseen, unfound, but wholly at home, loved and belonging, not alone, just almost yet unborn, living in a cocoon where the smaller and more simple the world, the better it is, and if the only other creatures who know me best are my other friends who are children.  And we all inhabit a secret world where innocence is everything and nothing but innocence exists. My sisters, though, weren’t that innocent and kind in all ways, to me.  And disturbing things had already taken root in me, in religious obsessive confusion, at that young age, and a feeling of numbness was starting to settle in, and a repression of my natural personality had already begun to work its way into my life.  It’s visible in home videos where my behavior began to change, and though no one says they knew why, I recall that a teacher was an influence upon me, to stifle my joy and exuberance, and as submissive as I had been taught at home too to be, I willingly shrank into a tiny shell.  But if I just vaguely let my memory rewind itself into the territory of faulty memories and feelings that tell more than facts, I can tap into a sense of pure innocence that I think is actually a mixture of reality, and fiction, and wishes and present tense life that has let me regain a feeling of childhood again, and paradise regained.  

I think that my relative is reachable, if only I reach them in such a delicate way, and I found and really saw and wanted to read again, this book I’d gotten, about mental health issues, certain mental health conditions they have.  It’s been sitting there but something just suddenly made me want to read it again, so eventually I may, though I’m having some difficulty with it, because I feel depressed by the subject matter.  I feel unsure that it will really help me.  Their particular manifestation of this condition is not typical and I don’t know if the book addresses this variation.  But maybe I can find other books or good websites that address that particular variation of the condition.  And really that condition might be a secret locked door that will let me reach them much better, if I can find the key to open things, because it is well known to have tremendous impacts on relationships of all kinds.  Whether it extends to our family relationship, they seem to have the idea that it doesn’t but after all I’ve read, and sensed and they have seemed to hint, I wonder if it does.  I wonder if I could help them much better with their problems if I understand all this, and yet, this condition is notoriously hard to treat so maybe it is more of a matter of accepting what is.  Sometimes it’s treatable but often it seems to be very resistant to treatment, unless the person with the condition t is very willing to cooperate.  

And I’m not a therapist of course and they’re not coming to me for psychological treatment, yet sometimes loved ones can help far more than therapy, as was the case for me, with my bipolar and anxiety, and yet my case was different, by far, than average.  And the loved ones and friends helped a while, but then I changed myself over decades of struggle and isolation and being totally alone and unable to voice my feelings to those who didn't’ care any longer (and therapy and drugs didn’t help either, but I was never treated for bipolar type 2/cyclothmia, only depression, so not sure about that aspect of the drugs).  Sometimes family and friends and loved ones can help, other times not.  Then the ones who helped me eventually turned their backs on me, but maybe it was too much, maybe it’s more of a burden than most can stand after a while.  

Even therapists are often depressed and they have one of the highest suicide rates of the occupations, I think I read.  It makes sense, if you think of the burdens they are feeling if they can’t help but feel overwhelmed by all they hear from others and then not being able to help them, as often people don’t respond well to treatment, and then therapist likely was attracted to that occupation because of relating and sympathizing with those suffering, which means they are more likely to be depressed or vulnerable to depression or mental illness, you would think, than the average population.  It’s not uncommon for therapist to have their own therapists too.  

But anyway, if I just have to accept my relative’s issues rather than help them, because their mental condition is often not responsive to treatments, well, ok.  And that makes me think, about the idea that maybe sometimes we can’t even stand to see our flaws, and it will destabilize us if we do, and not only that, but we need to be validated in our wrong ideas, so that we feel like we have a sense of purpose and worth, and it’s really strange to think of that.  Usually people don't think that way and yet I have lived that out myself and it really feels, looking back, that I did need that.  As long as it doesn’t do any kind of harm to anyone and it’s the best you can do, then maybe sometimes people are so trapped in their delusions in certain ways for the time being that they might need that. 

I think that I don’t have to worry so much about upsetting the fragile balance of my family member, if I just don’t go too in depth or say too many things that seem too challenging, too judgmental, or whatever, about their issues.  Not that I’d say it as criticism or advice or even suggestions directly aimed at them anyway, but just like I said, if I made a blog or wrote letters or made a website or whatever like that and shared it with them, this is my life, my interests, and instead of expecting you to be interested I will just give this to you to do as you so choose, to read it, or not, to respond or not.  It’s not directed at you, just a depiction of my life, my life story, my interests, my passions, the things I’d share if I felt I could share, but since I don’t want it to be a burden or an obligation, since I feel like maybe I’m too far out on a limb for anyone to relate to all that much, I will just share it in this distant, kind of detached way.  

If you really want to talk and enjoy responding to what I say, maybe we can find new things to talk about but if not we already talk a lot, every once in a blue moon, which is enough for me.  This is just throwing this out there, just in case we can be even closer than we are (We are now already close in this rarely talking but I trust and love you so much kind of way, even if we don’t need to talk much, maybe couldn’t find anything to talk about in common.  But we’re there if things fall apart, or if we just have to vent to someone.  That kind of “close-ish” family relationship type of thing).  

And I know that if I did that my views, my values will be confrontational and challenging to them, because they have expressed such extreme sensitivity and offense and misunderstandings over other people that I know they would see my views in the same way and they have told me they stew in rage and self-loathing and bitterness and feeling abandoned over the littlest of things.  I know it’s fragile and yet I feel like if I just keep things very low-key, simple and only  occasionally hint little bits of what might be considered “too positive”, or “too simple”, or “too spiritual” or too cool and aloof, too detached, or too whatever it is, too judgmental, that they might read and distort and misinterpret me to mean...  

Then I think I can write these things.  I just have to carefully weigh each word, even when I’m putting it in this detached, distant space that is not directed at them, but just my own thoughts.  My relative needs someone to help them somehow, and they are not willing to reach out or look for help in many places at all, so I’m one of the very very extreme few people (or maybe the only person) who is in a position to help them.  The only other person they are very open to is just as stuck in the same mental condition they also have and so I don’t have any real hopes for them to help.  

I don’t feel the best qualified to help myself.  I’m not always the most optimistic or the most encouraging or the most good at compliments and cheering people up and framing things in this really friendly, kind, gentle, uplifting way.  I try m y best but it seems that it just flies by me and I’m oblivious.  I see others responding in much more helpful ways but I don’t even understand how they do it or what they’re doing but I just see that it’s much more uplifting and encouraging and validating and enthusiastic and whatever.  More insightful, clear and well-articulated, more helpful, and so many different things I see many do much better than me, when it comes to cheering up people or helping people who are down and troubled.  

 My main strength, I think, is that I don’t judge and expect too much, and I’m actually not overly optimistic, not unrealistically, so, and not overly simplistic, because I’ve been there myself.  Yet because I’ve overcome things in this really weird and difficult way, sometimes what I say sounds too simple and easy, but it’s not.  It’s just so simple it’s hard to trust and be willing to try (and others may need other things but my case was not and is not minor and if it worked for me, it can work for some of the worst cases of depression, which mine was one of the worst my former psychiatrist, an expert in the region, said he’d seen, in his many years of treating people.  He expected I might be depressed all my life).  It’s not that I needed only simple things to help, because what helps me is elaborate and complex, many-layered, immense, and even still, fragile, and only healing but not curing me,...  But parts of what have helped me the most are very simple and sound dismissive to some people, but it’s not.  

Anyway, maybe I can learn how to be more helpful and encouraging in ways I see others doing so much better than me.   But it’s just one more thing for me to try to figure out, when life feels like too much.  And when I can’t just wait before I act to figure it all out, because they need my help and care right now.  Though sometimes things change much more quickly than you would ever expect, once you have the right information and take the right actions to grow, improve and change yourself.  So I am hopeful.  And I ask God for help, as ever.  Yet when I wrote all this about my relative on this blog, things seemed to change, and I noticed and felt like reading that book though before I’d had it on the shelf for months and it felt hopeless, worthless, but suddenly I saw it differently.  Something about blogging, what is it, it changes my feelings.  Maybe it’s some mysterious energy of people reading or maybe it’s something else, like my own consciousness reacting in new ways to the focused sort of social atmosphere and the endorphins of that or maybe it’s something else.  I wonder what it is.  

[himbowelsh]

For BabeRoe: Five times Babe caught one of his friends wearing his clothes and very much minded and one time he didn't mind at all.

AN: these five times prompts always take me a long time bc, well, i’m essentially writing six fics, but i LOVE them and i love writing them!

The fault might lie with Babe, if he'd been idiot enough to leave his clothes lying around where anyone could pick them up. The thing is, he didn't. Bill is anal about keeping laundry in its proper place -- “in your drawers or in the basket, the hell is this, rocket science?” Babe doesn't get the chance to leave articles of clothing lying around anywhere except his disaster zone of a room, and if he somehow manages to leave something behind, it never stays there for long.

When he traces it back, his friends’ awful track record of pilfering his clothes starts with Julian.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Babe demands, striding into the studio (their glorified term for the rec room they all spend their time in when they want to hide from their responsibilities). His question is accusatory; he doesn't care. There is no good reason for Julian to be sitting cross-legged on the couch, soaking wet, in nothing but a pair of boxers and a sweatshirt.

Neither articles of clothing belong to him. Babe knows this, because he is the house’s unofficial Laundry Guy. He's dealt with Julian’s mess of a wardrobe to recognize when his friend is wearing his own clothes and when he isn't. Right now, he definitely isn't, because that's the same sweatshirt Babe wore to the movies a few days ago.

And those boxers… also do not belong to Julian.

“Julian,” he repeats when his friend seems too caught up in his phone to look up at him. “Where did you get those?”

“Hmm?” Julian glances up, looking surprised -- as if he’s just noticed Babe’s presence, the faker. He shrugs thin shoulders concealed in Babe’s sweatshirt and leans back into the couch. “I got caught in the rain. These were the only dry things I could find.”

The storm outside is a killer. It swept in out of nowhere, while Babe was lucky enough to be inside the house. He heard Julian stumble through the front door a few minutes later, but he never considered the implications of his friend getting caught in the storm until now.

Staring down Julian, wearing his sweatshirt and his boxers, he's not sure what to say. A part of him feels defensive; another part feels a little violated.

“You're wearing my boxers,” he emphasizes, as if this justifies every baffled emotion swirling through his head.

Julian glances down at them, shrugs, and twists his pale legs beneath him before returning to his game. “I thought these were Bill’s, to be honest.”

Bill doesn't wear checker-patterned boxers. Bill wears solid colors, the Italian flag, and (on rare occasions) briefs. Babe would love to not have to know this, but now he kind of wishes Julian did.

“Am I…” He pauses, hesitates, wondering if he's breaking some sort of unspoken friendship rule. Or just a house rule -- no one wants Julian going commando on their couch. “Can I ask you to take off my underwear?”

“Sure. You can ask.” Julian sounds almost bored, but when he looks up at Babe, there’s a smirk on his lips. “Don't mean I'm gonna do it.”

Torn between defeat and fury, Babe styles for the least-offensive option and just stalks away. He doesn't want to throttle Julian, but if he has to look at him wearing his underwear anymore, he's not going to be able to be held responsible for what he might do.

He loses this round. At least, he thinks, it's just one (weird) isolated incident.

He thinks wrong.

He’s just stepping through the door when he comes face to face with a sight he could have gone his entire life without seeing. (Okay, maybe not -- he’s seen it before, and he’s not happy about it but he knows it’s inevitable that he’ll see it many times again before he dies.)

“Dammit, Bill, will ya put some pants on?”

Bill waves a hand over his shoulder, not even bothering to glance up at Babe. He’s laser-focused on running the vacuum back and forth over a particularly stubborn spot in the carpet. He’s been whining about that stain for weeks now, ever since Julian dropped a taco (and then picked it up and at it). Today, he’s finally decided to do something about it.

While dripping wet, wearing absolutely nothing.

Babe shields his eyes and walks straight into the coat rack, because of course he does. It’s that kind of day. “I don’t need to see your bare ass!”

“I didn’t need to haul your stupid scrawny ass up to bed when you got wasted on tequila bombs, tried to go skinny dipping, and hit your head in the pool. Did I? Fuckin’ no, but I did it, because I’m a great goddamn friend.” Bill leans down to train the suction right on the stubborn stain. Babe feels like he’s been dropped into a very screwed up production of Macbeth.

“I swear to god,” he says, still fumbling to figure out where the stairs are with his eyes closed. He’s touching something that might be a fur coat, but could also be Spina’s chest. “If you don’t put some clothes on now I’m calling Frannie.”

“She loves my ass.”

“I’ll take a picture and send it to everyone, then.”

“I’ll strangle you.”

Babe doesn’t even know where his phone is, let alone which direction Bill’s standing. He also doesn’t want something that horrifying on his phone. It might melt, or explode, and none of his awful friends will buy him a new one.

“Bill,” he finally sighs, slumping in defeat. “Just put some pants on. Please.”

Bill considers this question for a long moment (way too long, in Babe’s opinion) before snorting. “There’s a t-shirt and shorts in the bathroom. I saw them when I got out of the shower. Go get ‘em.”

He’s so eager to not have to stare at his friend naked any longer -- and, frankly, to have an excuse to leave -- that Babe scrambles to the bathroom. He doesn’t look at the clothes he grabs off of the towel rack. All he registers is that they’re a t-shirt and shorts, actual clothing for Bill to wear so he doesn’t traumatize the nice old couple that lives next door. (The curtains were wide open. How the hell could Bill be doing that in full view of the whole neighborhood?)

He makes it back to Bill in record time, and flings the wad of clothes at him like he’s scoring a winning touchdown in the Superbowl. He keeps his eyes screwed shut until he hears the vacuum switch off and Bill sigh.

“There. I’ve got clothes. You happy now, Heffron?”

Babe finally risks opening his eyes, and doesn’t bother stifling his sigh of relief. The shirt is too tight and the shorts are too short, but Bill’s full moon is no longer offending everyone and their mother. Babe is content up until the moment he realizes something that kills and buries his good mood.

“Hey, those are my clothes!”

Bill just casts a wink over his shoulder. “You gave ‘em to me.”

The vacuum switches on again, drowning out Babe’s groan of frustration.

Of all the people he expected to stab him in the back, Spina was the most unlikely suspect. Spina is the nicest of them all. He’s loyal. He’s a stand-up guy. He has a closet full of comfy clothes all of his own.

Babe doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this.

“Spina! Buddy, you've betrayed me!”

Spina just shrugs, pulling Babe’s baggy sweater (which isn't quite as baggy on him) tighter around his shoulders. “It's freakin’ cold, Babe. Sorry.”

The heat has been off all weekend because someone (no one wants to say Bill, but two people pay the bills in this house and Fran has never missed one in her life) forgot to pay the company. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing, except it’s the middle of winter, and Babe is pretty sure humans need warmth to survive. If someone doesn’t get the heat turned back on soon, the rest of the house has made it clear that they’re going to murder that someone and use him as a human fire log.

So Babe can understand why Spina would be wearing a sweater, just not his sweater. “Come on. That’s the one Gene got me for Christmas!”

“Why d’you think I’m wearin’ it now?” Spina demands. “It’s the warmest thing in this goddamn house.”

Gene is from Louisiana, where the coldest they get in winter is still enough to melt ice cubes. His experience of northern winters have been nothing short of a horror story, so he’s become an expert in remaining a human furnace at all costs. He’s always wearing the warmest clothes, and he gives them as gifts too. Gene’s sweater might be the only thing standing between Babe and life as a human snowman, and currently that sweater is on Spina’s ungrateful back.

“Buddy, I love you,” he says, “but take off your clothes.”

Spina wraps his arms tighter around himself. He sees the glint in Babe’s eyes, and he’s ready. “I can’t do that, Babe.”

“Spina --”

“No!”

Spina lets out a yell as Babe tackles him. They both go tumbling off the couch in a ball of flailing limbs, hollering bloody murder all the way. When they hit the floor, it’s a wrestling match. Babe has got a good grip, but Spina’s not going down without a fight.

They wind up tearing the sweater, messing up the couch, and Babe smacks his head against the coffee table. When the stars clear from his vision, Spina is already sprinting from the room.

Well, at least they exercise is keeping them warm.

Just as Babe is starting to think he has the worst friends in the world, they still find a way to surprise him.

He steps out of his bathroom in full-on Spiderman regalia. He’s got the suit; the mask; even a tiny miniature “web shooter” that really sprays silly string everywhere. Smokey Gordon’s costume birthday bash is going to be wild, and Babe is ready for it.

He stops cold in the doorway when his eyes land on his two friends, clustered together in the middle of the kitchen. Liebgott is stooped over, his head buried in the fridge, muttering to himself as he paws through their leftovers. Grant has hoisted himself up on the counter, and is swinging his legs while munching on Bill’s favorite potato chips.

They’re both wearing Babe’s clothing.

Grant has stolen Babe’s favorite yellow and orange striped t-shirt, matching it with basketball shorts, with a bright red Phillies hat backwards over his messed-up hair. Liebgott is in a striped button-up, and wears a pair of skinny jeans that do not fit him at all. He has his hair slicked back, and looks all the more uncomfortable for it.

For a second, Babe can only gape. Then he tries to inhale, chokes on air, and remembers how to use his words again. “What the hell are you assholes doin’?”

Chuck raises a nonplussed eyebrow. “What’s it look like? We’re dressed up.”

If he’s being honest, Babe has no clue what the hell it looks like, but he knows one thing for sure. “You raided my closet!”

Liebgott emerges from the fridge, half a pickle hanging out of his mouth. “We’d agreed that we'd all go as each other. I'm Grant, can't you tell?”

“The correct question,” pipes up Grant, “is what are you wearing?”

Babe glances down at his (amazing) Spider-Man costume, then back up at his friend's again. His eyes are close to bugging out of his head at this point, but he doesn't care.

“If you're Grant,” he says to Liebgott, “why the hell are you in my shirt?”

“Because this guy wouldn't let me anywhere near his closet.”

“Do you think I'm an idiot?” Grant stares and Liebgott hard, daring him to answer. Liebgott opens his mouth, closes it again, then tries one more time before giving up. Grant smiles. “Not to mention, you're the one who left your door unlocked.”

“Yeah,” agrees Liebgott. Babe gets a very good view of the half-chewed pickle in his mouth. “Who's really at fault here?”

Babe gapes at them. His eyes swivel between Grant and Liebgott. He opens his mouth, makes some weird noises, chokes on his own spit, and realizes that nothing he says will make a difference. It's his own fault for agreeing to do anything with these two in the first place. Great as they are, Babe always winds up the butt monkey in their trio, and even though he doesn't like it, he also doesn't know what the hell to do about it.

Finally, he sighs. He's not going to argue; they've got a party to get to, dumb costume arrangement or not. “You like superheroes,” he says, pointing at Liebgott. “Now let’s move, I ain't gonna be late because of you idiots.”

He storms out of the house, Grant and Liebgott following behind him. Liebgott brings the pickle jar.

All he wants is a glass of water. A parched throat is the only thing capable of dragging him out of bed after a long, trying day spent learning to kickbox from Toye. (Babe relearned two things that he already knew: he is not made for kickboxing, Joe Toye is a beast.)

Swallowing stings, and his mouth is dry as the Sahara desert. When he finally manages to haul himself out of bed all his muscles protest. He knows he'll have one nice collection of bruises tomorrow, but he'll wear them like battle scars. They'll hurt like a bitch, but the defeat will just be a reminder of why he should avoid getting into the ring with someone who could probably benchpress him. (Not that Babe is one to shrink from a challenge, but Toye is his friend, thereby it's okay not to want to fight him.)

He stumbles out of his room on feet that feel like lead blocks, and is halfway down the hall when he realizes that he isn't alone. The hallway light is on, illuminating a figure standing in the doorway of the living room. A head full of curls is silhouetted against the dim light; a black t-shirt hanging just above to the middle of bare thighs. Babe blinks hazily for a moment, brain not quite registering what he's seeing, before he recognizes the person in front of him.

“Frannie?”

“Babe.” Fran’s silhouette is backlit against the dim hall light. She is frozen in place, torn between looking awkward and guilty. She does a weird side-step to block the living room doorway, which does nothing to disguise the oversized band t-shirt she is wearing. Babe’s eyes settle on the worn logo, and he feels a familiar exasperation creep over him.

“Tell me that's not my shirt.”

Fran hesitates for a moment before answering, “I’d love to.”

“Are you wearing anything under it?”

Another pause, too long to be interpreted as anything other than the negative that it is. Fran’s lips purse, and she tilts her head like she's considering the question. “Well...”

That's all Babe needs to hear. He holds up both hands, doing an about-face before he can see any more than he needs to. If Fran is standing there half-naked in the shirt Babe left lying around the living room this morning, chances are that Bill is just inside the living room -- probably less decent than Fran, filthying up the couch they all share.

It's par for the course for his friends at this point, but Babe is still disgusted.

“Oh my god. I'm moving out.”

“Good luck finding someone else who’ll take you,” Fran calls out to his retreating back. Then, after a beat -- “This shirt is really soft! What detergent do you use?”

Babe’s bedroom door slams behind him. He never gets his glass of water.

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

In the hazy morning light, it's hard for Babe to make out much; but the figure of Gene standing over the coffee maker, wearing nothing but an oversized Phillies t-shirt, is impossible to miss. For a second Babe isn't convinced he's really awake. It would be all to easy to dream of a sight like this.

Then Gene turns around, smiles at him, and Babe knows this is no dream at all. “Do you mind?”

In spite of himself, Babe feels a grin spreading across his face. He sidles into the kitchen, not bothering to flick the light on, and loops his arms around Gene’s waist. Gently, he presses Gene back against the counter and leans in to capture his lips.

Babe’s mouth is still dry. Crust stings the corners of his eyes. The both have morning breath, and Babe’s half-awake brain makes everything feel hazy and out of focus.

But he knows the contours of Gene’s lips as well as the back of hand. The taste of him, the hand cupping his cheek, the eyelashes fluttering against his own -- this is all very, very real. The best way to wake up is with Gene’s lips on his, Babe decides.

When they pull back, Babe can feel a small flush on his face. Gene’s lips are still quirked, like Babe’s told him a funny joke, but his eyes are gut-wrenchingly gentle.

“G’morning to you too, cher,” he mutters, and Babe grins.

His boyfriend can wear his clothes any time he wants.