#only to be torn from his family for over a decade and miss EVERYTHING

[nobleriver]

I'm mad at the time I missed. Not seeing our kids growing up. I know we can't, but I just...I think about that time and...I just want to go back.

[bat-besties]

Who is Lili? (1)

Rose Wilson’s mother’s backstory is primary revealed in Deathstroke #15 by Marv Wolfman. I’m going to do a close reading of the first half of the comic, with the addition of some panels from Deathstroke #48, also by Marv Wolfman, recapping the events. I’ll follow up with her actions in the current comic timeline in my next post. 

Inherently, Marv Wolfman has crafted a story which relies on Lotus Blossom/Miss Saigon tropes around Asian women, and sexualises a survivor of political and military sexual violence. However, I think that even within the comics canon, it is possible to read the character of Lili differently by engaging directly with the text and putting aside authorial intent. To do this, I am treating Slade as the unreliable narrator he is. I am contrasting his narration with Lili’s on-panel art, dialogue, and actions, as well as a light touch of Cambodian history, to imagine a more rounded and human character. It’s creative criticism, rather than strict analysis. 

Right from the cover, Lili is literally described as “exotic”, and sexualised with a torn dress and unrealistic proportions. She’s also helpless, clinging to a white man in fear and unable to help herself. As if to add salt to the wound, there’s a large, purple flower in the background, illustrating the tropical setting and connoting beauty and fertility. It’s not a lotus blossom - but it’s close enough. 

But the answer to who Lili actually is gets more complex as the comic progresses. 

CW: discussion of sexual assault and sexual imprisonment, discussion of the Khmer Rouge atrocities, discussion of sexist and racist tropes around Asian women

The drawings of Lili continue to be sexualised and orientalist, with her next appearance set in an imagining of an exoticised Cambodian brothel, a world away from the brutal realities of women’s experiences under the Khmer Rouge. 

She introduces herself as “Sweet-Lili”. I’m not sure where this came from - it could be a ‘working’ name of some sort during her imprisonment, or a direct translation of part of her name, or a nickname. Whichever way, “Sweet” evokes the Lotus Blossom tropes of demureness and innocence set against sexual knowledge and experience. It also evokes her being consumable, even edible, for white men. 

She is fluent in English, showing a high level of education and also that her word choices are very deliberate. 

The next thing she says is “these are my girls” - this is where we immediately get introduced to the character’s priorities which will unfold over the next decade. In #48 it is revealed these women were once her servants, and have now been subjected to the same fate as her. Still, she never uses the word servants for them, throughout they are “my girls”. She equalises herself with them, emphasises their youth and innocence when Slade uses the derogatory “whores”. Most of all, despite being captives of the Khmer Rouge, they are hers. While she used to be their employer, in this dire situation where her nobility makes her a target rather than a social superior, she continues to lead them with a sense of responsibility. Now that a rescue party has arrived for only her, she isn’t going to leave her women behind. She steps down the stairs in front of them, opening her arms and making herself the centre of attention - she is relatively confident that Slade and his men are here to rescue them, but as these are women who have lost everything in a brutal civil war, I do think putting herself first is a precaution. 

When she greets Slade, it is by putting her hand on his chest in a flirtatious manner, something which the other women mirror with his soldiers.

This is to show her sexualised nature, and suggest gratitude towards Slade which will develop into romance. However, as someone who has survived the (implied) killing of her family through her captivity in a brothel, this could be read as a deliberate action she takes to both flatter Slade, and encourage her women (who are not meant to be saved at this point!) to use the attractions of the American soldiers to help rescue them.

She interacts with Slade as a fellow leader, and he asks if she is the princess.

 Slade calling Lili a princess is not his fault at first, it has been common historically for English translators to simplify the complex Cambodian royal titles into Prince/Princess even for very distant relations to the king, like Lili. (Without knowing her grandmother and mother’s titles I can’t work out what her exact title would be, or if she is entitled to one at all. Please tell me if you can work it out!)

She corrects him very politely, affirming she is royal and his target (“my father’s father was third brother to the king”), but not actually a princess. Despite this, both Slade’s narration at the very beginning of the flashback and throughout his recollections of her in #48, he uses the term “princess”. Once was a mistake, but his continual use, and later adaption of the term into an endearment for Rose, seems to replace the realities of Khmer Rouge’s political purges of the royal family with Slade’s Orientalist fantasy. 

However she corrects Slade with the brilliant line “But I am princess only to my girls” [sic], which elides her position from one of blood to one of responsibility. He has been sent to save her because she’s a royal, but she is extending her own protection over these common women. While missing out “a” could be a translation error, given how good Lili’s English has been so far I doubt it. Instead, I think she is transforming princess from a noun into a more active term; she is a princess “to” them, and being a princess to women is an active choice and responsibility. 

She quickly follows this with “You will save me now, yes?” which is just such a bold line in which she takes control of her own rescue. 

And surely - without even thinking about it, the Americans save her fellow captives as well. She’s achieved her goal without Slade even realising what she was doing.

He does observe her leadership as they escape, “Sweet-Lili kept them in line”, and the women are able to cook “incredible meals” from the surrounding nature, showing how efficient and well-organised the women are, in large part due to Lili. Slade says he doesn’t think he “ever had better”. 

And then we have the key key line, something which would be so easy to miss. “Could say the same for the nights”. 

The American heroes, the oh so noble saviours, are sleeping with the women they were sent to rescue from sexual slavery. Not only that, but it’s viewed as idyllic and part of their reward. I think that Slade does deep-down know this was wrong, as when he recaps the story in #48 after Lili’s death he claims they “trekked through the night and slept during the day”. This doesn’t align with this quote, or the fact that the women cook during the day, and all of the panels of the party walking and fighting in #15 are in daylight. This could be a continuity error, but I want to be consistent and not assume authorial intent.  

The women are so far from being safe from male sexual violence. Without guns, they can’t run into the jungle alone, so they have to stay with the “rescue” party and do what they want. What is an exoticised memory for Slade is any woman’s nightmare - including for Lili. 

The party comes across the Khmer Rouge enslaving and murdering villagers, and sadly Lili is unsurprised by these conditions, telling Slade the exact diet of such prisoners. As Lili hasn’t experienced these conditions herself, I think this shows how she’s tried to stay updated on the suffering of her people, despite the brutal repression of information and killings of journalists. She feels deeply for every person suffering during the civil war. While she’s empathetic but unfortunately has to be practical - she doesn’t ask Slade to try to save these villagers. 

However, when an American soldier cries out at the murder, their cover is blown and all the Americans other than Slade and the women other than Lili are murdered. Slade fights the most brutally of anyone, killing all the Khmer Rouge and trying to protect the women before succumbing to his wounds. 

After years living alongside these women and protecting each and every one through their imprisonment, Lili watches them all be killed in front of her, by the very group which tortured and terrorised them. It’s horrific. These are the only people she has left from her old life, and they’re gone. 

She protects Slade, who comes down with a fever, including from the Khmer Rouge - we are never shown her fights, because Slade was not conscious for that. This is a much-needed reminder that Lili is only shown from his perspective. 

Over time, the two talk and share personal information, growing closer. I do think that she was honest with Slade about herself, more so than she could be with other people after the experience was over. She doesn’t have anything left to lose, is an ambush away from being killed, and Slade is a mercenary who cannot be shocked by anything she tells him. They’re going through a huge trauma together, and it forges a bond. He describes their relationship as “formal”, a strangely nice adjective from Slade which shows his respect for her (as much as Slade respects any women), and the fact that he did not make any advances before Lili did.

So Lili definitely still has some walls up.

One thing that never comes up is that Lili has her grandmother’s necklace on her the whole time. In Deathstroke #46 Rose runs to get it after Lili is murdered in the US, wanting her mother to be buried with it as it’s the only thing she has left of her family, so it’s clearly very important to her and was taken with her from Cambodia personally.

Now, it’s entirely possible that Slade does know about it but it isn’t important enough to include in the story. But it never appears on panel, nor does he ever mention her grandmother. I think it’s likely she kept it hidden, even as she dressed and undressed in front of him. It isn’t monetarily valuable, so she can’t have been scared of Slade stealing it. 

If it is an amulet, her grandmother would have personally had a Buddhist priest bless it for Lili, and this 1970 article shows how important this traditional item became during the war. It’s the most sentimental item she has - and she never shares that part of herself.

The two share a moonlight kiss, after an in-depth discussion “about the war, about her, even about me [Slade]”. She is shown to be the one leaning in, and I do think that she genuinely wanted to kiss Slade and share that moment with him. Interestingly, this kiss is only revealed in #48, when Slade feels more sentimental as she has just been killed. It does not factor into his initial recollection, showing how his focus is on sexual, not romantic, memories of Lili, distorting his view of her. We will never know what she said “about her[self]” to this American mercenary who saves her women and sleeps with them, kills for money and for protection, and could be the last person she ever knows. 

This is where we get to the most complex part of the recollection - the two sleeping together. 

Unsurprisingly, I’m going to reject Slade’s reading of this as a natural development of their closeness which was romantic and spontaneous. However, I do think that Lili does consent, and would not have maintained a future sexual relationship and friendship with him if she had not. 

One reading, building on what I’ve said above, is that Lili has been through these terrible traumas, is at risk of death or recapture, and has found a surprisingly sympathetic companion in Slade. As an unmarried Cambodian royal woman in the 70s, she would have been expected to be a virgin, and likely did not have much sexual experience before being subjected to repeated rape as a captive. The most positive reading of her relationship with Slade would be a reclamation of her own body and sexuality in a pursuit of fleeting joy in the most dire circumstances. 

Alternatively, and in my view more likely, you can read Lili as engaging in self-protection. She is unlikely to be able to get to Thailand as a lone woman, even with Slade’s gun. Slade has already almost died, he could easily decide the reward isn’t worth the risk and abandon her, or sell her back to the Khmer Rouge. She can’t know what he’ll do, and therefore she maximises her chances of being rescued by having this sexual relationship, the same way she survived in the brothel. Either she initiates proactively, or he does, and she is in no position to safely reject him. 

I don’t think this is antithetical to her conversations with Slade and continued relationship with him post-war. People are complicated, and ultimately Slade does save her, and would have saved her women, as well as being the only person who has shared her specific war trauma and heard her feelings at the time. 

[It’s really important to note here that, textually, none of these arguments hold true. In the text of the comic, Lili’s body becomes a reward for the white American rescuing her, and why she would desire him is not a question that occurs to Marv Wolfman.]

“It took us another two weeks to make it into Thailand. Wish it’d took two years” is up there with the most heinous things that Slade has ever said. 

It also shows that she didn’t keep a relationship with him the moment she got to Thailand and safety. Whether she was escaping him to freedom, or wanted to leave the unhealthy coping mechanism of him in the jungle, she did leave in the immediate aftermath of her rescue. Slade lets her, something which must have been a concern in the back of her mind after her previous imprisonment. 

I’m going to go into Lili’s life post-Cambodia in my next post, covering themes including tropes around Asian women as sex workers, her success and wealth, and her loving relationship with Rose. 

Here are some sources on representation and trope history I drew on to write this:

Before that, here's a post about her life between Cambodia and America and the Dragon Lady trope

https://www.washingtonpost.com/arts-entertainment/2021/03/26/asian-women-hollywood-portrayals/ 

http://unveilingthesilverscreen.digital.brynmawr.edu/tropes/lotus-blossom/

https://www.hercampus.com/school/american/the-dragon-lady-the-lotus-blossom-and-the-robot-archetypes-of-asian-women-in-western-media/ 

https://www.nytimes.com/1970/09/09/archives/amulets-are-a-vital-part-of-a-cambodian-soldiers-equipment.html

https://www.sbs.com.au/news/article/women-speak-out-over-khmer-rouge-sexual-violence/j5wwh30x1 

https://www.unwomen.org/en/news/stories/2019/11/feature-survivors-of-sexual-violence-in-cambodia-speak-out  

[houseofpurplestars]

‘My Heart is Broken’

By Dr. Soma Baroud

After losing my home, I felt broken. Humiliated. I have never experienced this feeling before.

For months we waited for the Israelis to leave Khan Yunis, so that we could sprint back home. But now, there is no home to run back to. Our mornings, which used to be filled with the potential of good news, are now empty. Our loss is complete.

My son never wanted to leave the house in the first place. He felt rooted there. His bond with the place was different from the rest. He cared for the trees daily, counting the days to olive harvest and the date season. He planted mint and basil. He protected everything he planted from the elements.

When the war started, he did everything he could so that we didn’t feel compelled to leave the house, and abandon the goats, the chickens and the trees. He even managed to generate some electricity using solar panels and fetched fresh water from a nearby mosque.

But when the Israeli army took over Khan Yunis, we had no other option but to leave. We returned to the house every time we had a chance, only to see it deteriorate, day after day: Shells exploded in the backyard; olive branches shattered; dead chickens and goats; broken windows and doors.

Every time we returned home, I would fall into a deep depression. But then the children would remind me that all could be restored, as long as the house itself remained standing.

The last time we returned, it was in its worst shape yet. The doors were gone, the windows fully shattered or broken, and even the balconies had collapsed under the weight of the bombs. Our kitchen was destroyed, even our clothes were removed from the closets and torn to pieces. I couldn’t sleep, but the kids kept reminding me to remain grateful, that our loss was not as bad as others, that there was still hope.

But now .. What can I say? Oh, my heart aches. Everything is gone. Three decades of life, of memories, of achievement, all turned into rubble.

This is not a story about stones and concrete. It is much bigger. It is a story that cannot be fully told, however long I wrote or spoke. Seven souls had lived here. We ate, drank, laughed, quarreled, and despite all the challenges of living in Gaza, we managed to carve out a happy life for our family.

Here we celebrated birthdays and holidays, broke our fasts in Ramadan, and entertained friends. This was the same place from which our kids completed their studies, excelled in universities, and from which some of them left after celebrating their weddings. Some of them have succeeded in their lives, and others are still trying, but it all started from here, from this heap of rubble and broken dreams.

I know that life does not always go the way we plan, or hope. But after all of this, this horrific war, all I had hoped for was to simply go home, and sleep. I mean truly sleep as I haven’t slept for nearly a year.

I had kept everything that reminded me of the kids as they grew up. Scraps of old papers with their handwriting as children, old drawings, and even gift wrapping from past birthdays. It was all kept there, classified, categorized, cherished.

The very details of the life of my husband, who was martyred or remains missing, only God knows, were all there. I wanted to keep everything exactly where he left it before the war.

I told the children that no matter what happens, don’t remove anything that reminds me of your father. Keep them exactly the way he placed them before he was gone.

Now, everything else is gone as well.

I want to stop. I don’t know how.

Oh, how my heart is broken …

[quinloki]

Family Ties

Fem Reader x Donquixote Doflamingo

CW: Language, violence, blood, moral ambiguity, murder, sexual themes and situations 18+ only

Chapter 1 - Table of Consent -

Chapter 23: Family Ties

The limo pulled up to the empty lot. There had been a building here, but after the damages it sustained from two mafia families tearing through it, it had been torn down. You stepped out of the back of the limo, the gravel of missed debris from the recent demolition crunching underneath your boots.

Donquixote Doflamingo, Edward Newgate, and Trafalgar Law exited the limo after you. The weather was getting colder, but winter wasn't quite here yet. It'd been some weeks since everything had happened, and your life was finding a new rhythm.

You were now officially (Y/N) Newgate, only daughter to Edward Newgate, CEO of Grandline Automotive, Inc.

Monet, Vergo, Diamante, Marco and Thatch had perfected a turn around story for you while you were recovering, and once you were ready it had been practiced to perfection and released to the world. It sounded absolutely asinine to you from the beginning, but the media and the world had eaten it up, and Monet and the Family's network had fabricated undeniable proof to go along with it.

The short version was simple enough: You were Newgate's daughter from the start. Your then-pregnant mother - meant to become Pops' wife - had been kidnapped from the Newgate estate by Sakazuki, who was so desperately attracted to her he had done something unforgivable. Afterward you were raised by your deranged false-father until the tragedy at the Moim. It seemed most of the world thought the Moim was a convention for businesses, and that maybe only one or two had criminal connections – so admitting everything happened there wasn't going to ruin your, or Pops', public images.

Unwittingly your true blood-father saved you from being ruthlessly murdered by Sakazuki and raised you without knowing you were his daughter for the last two decades.

It was all complete hogwash, but the public and the media had eaten it up. Pops had been a father to you for so long that it was natural to act like father and daughter, and the interviews had gone as smooth as silk. The bonus from it all was that you were now legally his daughter and never had to speak of your biological father again. Pops had always made a better father anyway.

The Marines had lost face in the fallout from it all, and to add salt to the wounds, the allegations of Edward Newgate being head of a criminal organization had been shown to be false. The origin of his underworld ties had come from Sakazuki's office, and once his integrity had come into question, everything under his control had been crumbling. His absolute justice had rotted the foundation beneath him so epically that they World Government had released a statement denouncing the philosophy entirely.

"You okay, (Y/N)-ya?" Law questions as you looked around the lot.

You nod. "I remember coming here," your voice is barely a whisper. "I woke up half-way through the drive, I think." You rub your arms absently. "I got tasered for kicking up a fuss."

You step forward, putting a hand out to a wall that wasn't there anymore as memories slowly start coming back to you. Flashes of memories fill your head, pieces of the hours spent here before everyone had descended upon the safe house. Your father had already started the process of trying to break you, but you couldn't bring yourself to put it to words.

You survived it, the people around you didn't need to hear the terrible details.

Doflamingo's hand slips over yours and you realize you're trembling. He pulls you into an embrace and holds you quietly while you just shake your head, trying not to cry.

"You had signs of layered bruising," Law says after a moment. "I found at least six sets of taser burns, maybe more, but it was hard to tell from all the other wounds. Your face was swollen, and your lips were split in multiple places. The inside of your mouth was shredded from the force of the blows to your face pushing against your teeth. You had stress and hairline fractures on twenty-seven bones. Two toes were broken, and you had several dislocations in your fingers and one shoulder."

You're trembling stills, and you squeeze Doflamingo before taking a step back.

"We might not know what happened, but we saw the end result." Law explains. "You don't have to verbalize anything you don't want to, (Y/N)-ya, I just want you to know you're not going to spare anyone here. We already know."

After a few moments you started speaking. "He told me I'd been out for days, that we were thousands of miles away from any help and no one would find me. He told me to call him father. That... that was how it started. How it ended too, I never said it."

You walk around to where the back of the building had been and look into the woods beyond. You take a step but stop after a moment and stay out of the trees. You're quiet for a long time as the memories of the night play through your mind.

The details didn't matter anymore, you survived.

"I didn't know where we were when he dragged me into those woods. It didn't matter. He fell in the dark and landed bad. I got dragged down with him, but I didn't hit anything solid. He was disoriented, but I couldn't know for how long. Instead of running, I ended things.

"I was weak, but by the time he caught up with what was happening it was too late. I made sure I felt his heart stop, I didn't want to see his face looming over me ever again." You turn your back to the woods and face the three of them. "My only fear was that I'd die in those woods and none of you would know, and it hurt. It hurt to think that..."

You hold a hand out and cover your eyes with your other hand, sniffling and taking a moment to steady your voice. If anyone touches you right now, you'll lose control and won't be able to say what you want to. "Thank you, all of you, for coming out here for me."

"Oh, lass." Pops' big arms wrap around you. He's been leaning into his fatherly role lately, and it was obvious the old man was delighted for it to be official. "That's how family works."

"She's not his family yet," Law grumbles, jerking a thumb toward Doflamingo.

"She's not your family at all." Your boyfriend shoots back.

You and Law laugh at the same time, and even Pops' starts chuckling. "Let me tell him, let me!" You manage to gasp before anyone can say anything.

The look on Doflamingo's face was not amused at all, "If he's your brother -."

You put your hands up and shake your head. "No, n-... er... well, yeah, I guess legally we are now."

"You're my aunt, technically." Law corrects.

"Ah, right! Pops' had a son, and he married Law's mom and ta-da," you gesture to Law.

"Your last name isn't-." Doflamingo starts, but stops, realizing he might be wandering into uncomfortable territory.

"Newgate was a heavy name, and my son had no interest in the family business." Pops explains easily, still hugging you lightly as he speaks. "He changed his name when he was 16, and then took his wife's name when they married."

"I grew up knowing about Grandpa, but it wasn't until college when I met (Y/N) that I ended up coming to Grandline city to visit and met him face to face." Law explains further. "After that I decided to open my clinic here."

Doflamingo's expression was neutral, but you could tell he wasn't terribly thrilled about the revelation. You pat his arm reassuringly and smile. "It's cold, let's go back."

.

.

.

.

A month after your walk around the lot with Doflamingo, Law and Pops, you were putting the finishing touches on your Christmas outfit. You'd moved in with Doflamingo and were adjusting to your new life. You were even willing to consider quitting your jobs and becoming an official member of The Family, but you'd requested to have until after the holidays to make that decision.

Changing your routine in the middle of what would probably be a string of happy celebrations, between your adoption to Newgate and the survival the last year's insanity, seemed like a little too much to do all at once.

There was a soft knock at the door, "Come in!" You call out, slipping your heels on and turning toward the door.

Doflamingo steps inside, a crisp white suit with a Christmas red tie, and blood-red almost black shoes. A color reversal of your own Christmas red dress with white accents. He did like to show you off while also showing that you were his - matching without matching exactly. You twirl for him before he could ask and smile.

"Are you ready to go, my love?" He questions a satisfied smile on his lips.

"Mm, I am. We have some time still, don't we?" You step closer, letting him hug you loosely.

"We do, but I have something to show you before we head out. Will you indulge me?"

"Much as I can, I shall." You reply as he kisses your forehead gently before leading you out of the room.

The Donquixote Family estate was done up in tasteful Christmas decorations, and had been for the last couple of weeks. A surprising number of family members enjoyed the holiday, and you'd seen Monet and Vergo wearing Christmas hats since November. Sugar and Dellinger were obvious fans, and Machvise was baking so much you were worried the local flour prices would spike because of it. Gladius was another surprise when it came to Christmas, you'd caught him with bits of tape and wrapping paper stuck to him and had eventually helped him wrap a ton of gifts. He didn't quite have the talent for it.

Doflamingo took his jacket off and put it around your shoulders before leading you out into the back garden, to the well-cared for Wisteria tree. There were no blooms, but lights had been threaded artfully through the branches and vines, and paper-blooms decorated it, creating a convincing illusion that they tree itself was still full of life. You remembered the first time you came to this tree, after having spoken with Monet, and it had quickly become one of your favorite places in the estate. Even without the blooms, there was just something calming about being near the tree.

There was a quiet moment as the two of you enjoyed the peace of the area.

"It's beautiful." You murmur.

"It's the first year we've tried something like this, I'm glad you like it." He replies. His glasses were tucked into the front pocket of his shirt, and he was smiling down at you.

"You all did this for me?" You question, caught a bit off-guard.

"It was a family effort," He assures you as you turn back toward the beauty of the tree, appreciating the effort a little more than you had earlier.

"But this," He states quietly, and you turn toward him in time to see him kneel next to you. "Is entirely for my benefit."

The small box comes from his pocket and your heart skips a beat.

"You needn't become a member of The Family," He explains, "but I would love for you to become a member of my family. To stand beside me as an equal in this life. To lean on me and allow me to lean on you, as we already have in the past. (Y/N), I love you in ways I didn't even know existed, will you marry me?"

Your hands are up to your face, and you nod silently, trying your best to not cry just before going over to your father's place for the party.

A mischievous smile curls his lips, and he reaches out for your hand. "Let me hear you say it, my love."

"Yes!" You gasp, stepping forward and hugging him. "I'll marry you, Trouble!" It's a little unfair how easy it is to hug him even while he's on a knee like this. You lean back and he slips the ring on your finger, kissing the top of your hand before pulling you into a proper kiss.

Leaning back, you kiss him one more time before smiling into his eyes and running your fingers through his hair. "You might not survive this party," you muse.

"I've already spoken to your father," he replies.

"Mm, but I have five brothers now, and a protective nephew." You tease, causing him to roll his eyes. "My friends are going to be there too, and you'll be on your own."

"I have survived far worse than your friends and family, my love." He stands up, tilting your chin up and stealing another kiss. "And I won't be on my own – you said yes."

You feel the heat rush through you so swiftly that you aren't sure you need his jacket to keep warm. The party was going to feel terribly long, but there was more than just a flimsy promise of thanks, or a passionate desire of interest between you two.

You had family ties in this city now, in more ways than one.

~Fin

[jbmymusic]

THE "LOST" ALBUM - "JERSEY"

Okay, so I decided tonight to reinstall Nero Cover Designer, so I could recover the album covers without having to rebuild them. You know, that program we used in the physical media days.

In my files, I found a folder called "The Lost Jersey Album". Inside was the cover that was originally intended, the songs, and liner notes I wrote in 2015, which in turn sparked a ton of memories, of where I was in 2002-03, when it was recorded, to 2005, when I realized the masters were gone, to 2015, when I found demos of every song and organized it all, to 2016 and why it went again to the back burner.

Let's start with the 2015 liner notes to set the mood...

"So, way back in 2002, immediately after the release of 'Everything Happens', I started work on a second album as an immediate follow-up. Encouraged to do it by my then-manager Jeremy Knapp, I busted out an album of songs I had written during the 'Everything Happens' writing period that I ran out of time to record."

That's NOT entirely factual; one song was from high school. Anywho...

"We finished the master recordings of what was to be called "Jersey" in January of 2003. Then life happened..."

Life happened: a 2 year relationship ended. Then I fell HARD for someone else that fucked my world up, I had my own issues going on. Basically, I took a 2 year sabbatical from the entire area. Met some new people, wrote new music, grew up a bit. To continue...

"Fast forward to 2005...back in Petoskey. I set about to release 'Jersey', only to discover the matter recordings were GONE. The case that held them, and the track listing were in my vault of recordings, but the actual masters had disappeared."

This I'm pretty certain I KNOW what happened. Remember that relationship that had ended I previously mentioned? We still lived in the same place - damn slumlord - so she got pissed off when I fell hard for someone else. When I left, she took a lot of my things -supposedly to my mother's. When I returned, half my stuff wasn't there. I mean PERSONAL things, like Christmas ornaments my great-grandmother made, my teddy bear from when I was a baby. There were other things missing as well, just normal things I knew I owned.

How do I know it was her? In 2016, a mutual female friend was helping her move and she came across a box of things that were mine. The ex-girlfriend said she was going to burn.it all...and got a black eye from the mutual friend, who forced her to bring it to me at her house. No tapes though; my guess is she mistook a few songs to be about that person I fell for. Okay, ADHD button off...

"That time in my life had passed anyway, so I just skipped it and went on to the songs I had written in the two years, which became the 'Unanesthetically Torn-Out Heart' album. I never looked back...until 2015."

HAHAHAHAHA! Little did I know...

"In 2015, I discovered the demos for "The Lost Album", as it became to be called. It brought back a lot of memories, and a lot of yearning to complete it. So in the summer of 2015, I started working on new recordings of the songs, revisiting that era one last time."

'...one last time' MY ASS! IT'S STILL HERE!

I can tell you what happened there: ONE song got done. "Don't Say It's Over (feat. Marlowe Meade)" was finished. Then my "mother" FINALLY, after decades of begging, told me my biological father's name. I was working at my day job 6 days a week, plus being a husband and dad. That left zero time to work further on "Jersey", as I went to try and hunt down my pop.

I tracked him down. He had passed in August of 2015.

Needless to say, there was a bunch of mixed emotions. Happiness that I met the rest of my family, hatred towards my "mother" and her parents, and bitterness at myself for not just dropping everything when she told me his name in June of 2015. 10 weeks. I could have had 10 weeks.

I started writing like mad. I forgot about "Jersey". "Don't Say It's Over (feat. Marlowe Meade)" still went on the next album - it was too damn good of a song to NOT use, but everything else was cast aside, yet again.

LOL. So here's the INTENDED track list in 2003:

Anymore

Addiction

Black Widow

Better Think Again

Don't Say It's Over (feat. Marlowe Meade)

The Love Is Gone

Losing It All

Why Do I

Lies, Lies, Lies

I Cried

Goodbyes & Sorrows

There's a few I might just cut still. "Addiction" was the one from high school and has been rewritten at least 5 times since, but I'm not as fond as I was (long story for another night). "Losing It All" has a better version now. I think "Better Think Again" does as well. "Why Do I" and "Lies, Lies, Lies" will probably go poof. I think "Lies..." might even have been from a batch in high school, come to think of it. Even still, ALL would need to be recorded...again.

Maybe I should just take the best of the rest and use them now. Maybe I should just trash it all, even though every ten years they rear their heads like a Michigan Dogman.

Oh, yeah, one more thing. The cover of Jersey? Yeah, that's the profile pic on here, but in full B&W. Some things just won't go away...

[valentinescorpion]

Brutality and Ballgowns

Chapter 1: Tea Party

The teacup was dry and empty, only tarnished with the stain of a long forgotten red lip and the leftover muck of the leaves lingering in the bottom still a bit soggy. Any passerby would find this the most uninteresting part of the abandoned estate still filled with the treasured hoarded for decades, and yet the stillness of the tea party and the lack of disturbance served as a ghost of those very suddenly departed.

The land itself was left barren and burnt. The grass unnaturaling molten and brown tarnished with soot. With every step that Arnold took little clouds of dirt and dust would linger on his worn leather boots. As he walked through the halls he felt chilled by the accumulation of dust that lingered everywhere like a fresh coat of snow; against the normally flawless floors, the diminished and torn walls, and the ruined family portraits of immeasurable value. The true haunt and terror however was the silence. A type of bone chilling silence only brought by disease, death, and war. The emptiness found in every room, every crack, and every hall.

Arnold is a very scruffy looking middle aged man with a strong build. He stout yet ganling as if he suddenly grew overnight. He lived life like a bull in a china shop, seemingly too big for the estate and for most normal tasks. Despite his recurring clumsiness he was summoned for his duty and sentenced to serve the imperial ministry, almost escaping by a year. And thus overnight he was forced to pack all of his measly and few belongings and stumble out of the estate.

He liked to believe his departure was a sad affair full of tears and hugs as he was surely to be missed by most. His duke he served was sure to miss him as were his children, he dutifully served them and cared for their livestock and horses for decades. But after his departure in the night, in the following morning most woke up and proceeded within the day without a single difference besides an extra leftover portion of porridge at meal times and a left over hand to care for the horses.

Those two years were full of nothing, but very mean remarks and exhausting days for Arnold. During his first few days of training he found that he was the oldest of all the drafts and the most prone to accidents. By day three, he turned in his dull and borrowed sword for a tablet where he was assigned for mail and tax collections. He became quite good at this, as he was sent quite far out among rural parts of the kingdom with nothing but farms and cattle. Knocking on doors, getting yelled at through said doors, then when the doors opened to burly men ready to fight, they always found themselves far outmatched by Arnolds towering build holding his tiny little notebook. He worked from sunset to sunrise to go home to a cold shower in whatever dingy inn he was staying in to sleep in a tiny shared room.

So the day he was finally dismissed he practically ran back to the manor in the south prepared for a lovely welcome and a slightly larger bed. But instead he found burned crops, dead cattle, and empty everything.

As he stalked throughout the main manor he became more and more distraught, unable to find a single inhabitant, not even a rat. All the food left to rot, beds left neatly tucked covered in a blanket of dust, and all the clothing in the ladies room left neatly hung just as.

His heavy footsteps stopped right before the master’s suite. A room he has never been in and never wanted to. The room where people only close to the duke entered and men like him left either decapitated or fired. The feeling of dread and fear sat heavy in his gut, as he shakenly extended his hands and felt them grasp onto the metal door knockers. He lifted and knocked them all of three times and waited a very suspenseful ten seconds before opening the heavy metal ornate doors to a long carpeted hallway. The hallway sat as dark and dingy as the rest of the house. Arnold continued to push past his anxiety and fear whether that be because of curiosity or fear to venture down the hallway.

The sound of his cough echoed off the empty walls caused by the amount of debris in the air which only caused more dirt and soot to float around. He felt chilled by the slightly ajar doors. He passed by all the rooms dark and very eerily empty. He stopped once he hit the last door in the hallway, the largest of them all. This particular door was embellished in gold detailing and the door knobs large rubies in the shape of a lion. Slightly the edges of the door on both the left and right side stood little wear in the stone. A sign of friction and wear over time of wear the knights would stand guard of the duke’s family. No longer feeling the need to knock, Arnold’s large hands grasped the door knob feeling the cold stone in his hand before pulling the door open.

He felt all the saliva leave his mouth and all the terror leave him. He only felt a chilling emptiness. There sat the duke. At his desk in the back center of the room. Arnold approached closing the distance before the terror came back catching him like a wrecked ship in a wave. The duke was dead. Yet preserved. He looked like a wax figurine of himself, but so dead and translucent you could see all the bones in his body. His clothing is still perfectly captured and a pen in hand. All the items at his desk were impeccable as if not touched by the hands of time.

Not bothering to turn his entire body he slightly looked to the table he passed by in his rush of entering. There sat the duchess and their two daughters. All sat at the table as dead and lifeless as the duke. But what he found when he walked over made him stumble back and not bother any longer to preserve the integrity of the castle. Rather in haste he grabbed a book off of one of the many bookshelves lining the wall, broke one of the stained glass windows, and jumped out hurriedly making his mad escape into the forest that surrounded the manor. The duchesses tea cup sat empty and seemingly dry, yet if you were to take the cup and tip it upside down none the tea leaves would fall. They remained soaked and touched the cup in the ugly shape of a crow. But both of the daughters’ cups sat full of fresh tea.

[amjustagirl]

CHAPTER 2 - FALLEN

Fic Summary:

The sky Oikawa Tooru’s heart seeks is a world away from the earth yours is buried in. You are a fool to trust him with your heart anyway.

Where Oikawa Tooru tries to recapture your heart. 

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3

Pairing: Oikawa Tooru x fem! reader

Genre / Wordcount : Angst (7k words), cameo from MSBY 4

Warnings: One non-explicit bedroom scene.

Masterlist link here!

Tag list link here!

You catch sight of Oikawa Tooru as you bustle through the hospital’s sliding doors, your usual cup of coffee in your hand that you buy on the way to work. He’s seated in the waiting area next to a middle aged man you guess must be his manager, from the way he jumps to his feet immediately to act as a human shield as you call out breathlessly - 

“T - Oikawa? What are you doing here?” 

Tooru’s head swivels around to meet your gaze, and you’re shocked by the lifelessness in his eyes until you glance at the bandages wrapped around his swollen knee. 

Oh. 

You try not to stare, but you do so anyway. The sight of your ex-boyfriend makes you feel as if you’re seeing a ghost, a specter from some past life. You last saw him when he was twenty one, young and proud, wax wings fully spread, a speck in the skies. What a difference five years makes. His shoulders are still broad, and the tilt of his jaw is still proud, but the light in his eyes has faded to darkness, and the pallor of his skin suggests far too much time spent away from the sun. 

Icarus, Icarus. Your hubris has led you to such heights, but look how far you’ve fallen. 

It’s surprising there’s no news of his injury, considering he’s one third of Japan’s trifecta of setters in the volleyball scene’s monster generation. With the Olympics rapidly approaching with just over a year to go, an injury must be devastating, especially to Oikawa Tooru, with dreams of Olympic greatness and victory on his native shores. 

A nurse materialises to usher Oikawa away for surgery before he can respond to the pity in your gaze. You look around. He’s alone, save for his manager. No one deserves to be wake up alone after surgery, so you call after him - 

“I’ll check in on you after you’re done! Gambatte!”

He responds with a thumbs up and a weak smile. 

You flip through his medical files once you get the chance. 

Oikawa Tooru, twenty six. Pro-volleyball player for EJP Raijin previously, currently playing in the Argentinian league. Narrowly missed out on making the cut for the previous Olympics, but went on to represent Japan in the last three World Cups, alternating with Miya Atsumu and Kageyama Tobio. Obviously hoping for another shot at the Olympics, but that’s looking bleak from what you’re gleaning from his medical records. 

His right knee has always bothered him, even during his high school days. Now, a decade later, it looks like he’s managed to tear his tendon to shreds. 

Volleyball is a cruel, demanding mistress, especially for one not born a genius. 

The surgery to repair a torn knee ligament is delicate work, requiring an experienced surgeon, and the road to recovery requires extensive physiotherapy. It’s no wonder he’s resorted to the modern Tokyo hospital you work in rather than returning to his native Sendai to recuperate. The downside of doing so though, is that he’d have to recover alone. 

You wrinkle your nose. He may be your ex-boyfriend, but he doesn’t deserve that. 

The sun is setting when you finally find the time to slip into his room. 

As expected, he’s still asleep. The anesthetic will take some time to wear off. From the looks of the surgeon’s notes, the surgery was a success - though you know from the nature and extent of the injury that his road to recovery will be long and winding.   

So you seat yourself in the visitor’s chair with a hot cup of tea and an onigiri to stave off your hunger at not finding time for a break any earlier. You had an awful day at work today, two of your patients puked on you, another tried to fight you when you drew his blood, and the senior registrar in the ward assigned you a mountain of paperwork that you only just managed to complete, so you give in to sleep yourself as exhaustion settles into your bones.

“Princess?”  

You snap awake at the familiar nickname, ignoring the flush working its way up the back of your neck as you leap to his bedside to check his vitals, only relaxing when you’re satisfied everything’s fine. 

“You’re just waking up after a surgery, Oikawa”. When his forehead crinkles in confusion at the sound of his surname, you correct yourself. “I mean - Tooru”. The corners of his cracked lips tilt up in satisfaction. 

“Will you stay with me?” Tooru murmurs, eyelids beginning to droop again. 

You smile fondly despite yourself. “Do you want me to?” you ask. 

He manages to pout even as he’s falling back asleep. “I asked, didn’t I?” 

You smooth his hair from his forehead, slotting your hand into his. “Fine, fine. Go to bed, sleeping beauty”. 

He huffs an amused breath from his nose before he closes his eyes, contented. Trust Tooru to be shameless enough to cling on to his ex-girlfriend without a shred of awkwardness. You end up staying in his room for hours, watching him sleep.

The heart that you’ve locked away behind bars of bone and steel twitches, just once. 

You frown when the nurse catches your sleeve. “A patient’s looking for you” she says, just as you’re about to go off on a short break. 

“Who?” you reply, wondering whether it’s Sato-san who vomited this morning, or Imai-san whose blood pressure niggles at your mind. You do not expect the nurse to flush pink as she replies - “Oikawa-san”, describing the sweet young man with lovely brown eyes and such a charming voice. 

You slip back into his room when your shift ends. You expect to see a shadow of a man with broken wings, and you do catch a fleeting glimpse of Tooru staring wistfully out of the window, face tilted towards the sun before he turns to you with a wide smile and a pleased - “you came!”  

This is the Oikawa Tooru you are accustomed to dealing with. “Stop flirting with the nurses”, you tell him briskly, bustling over to look at his files. “They have jobs to do, don’t use them to carry messages to me.”

“But I’m boredddd.”

“I’m sure you have volleyball videos to watch.”

“I watched them all day today. ‘Sides, I watched all the matches on today already, twice – and I have plenty of time to watch them a third time. I have plenty of time to catch up with you, I haven’t seen you in so long!”

Five years since you broke up to be exact, but you sidestep that fact neatly, pouring over his medical file instead. His doctors’ notes indicate his recovery is promising. He brightens up when you tell him so, playfully complaining that hospital food is shit in a thinly veiled attempt to steal your food, a habit he’s clearly not outgrown. But you’re not all that hungry anyway, so you split your pork bun in half and hand it to him, dropping into the visitor’s chair. 

“So how’re you feeling?” 

“Like shit. My knee hurts so muchhhh.” 

You shrug, careless. “That’s pretty expected, to be honest.”

“Hmph. I thought they’d have taught you some bedside manners in medical school”, he snipes, though the effect is rather lost when his cheeks are comically round and full of food. 

You laugh, the stress from your day lifting from your shoulders.  

“I seem to forget them when it’s you.”

“So mean”, he pouts, hiding the familiar gleam in his eye that appears whenever he’s trying to analyse his opponents, take them apart. “As punishment, tell me about yourself. What have you been up to these days?” 

You decide to treat him like any old friend, giving him the condensed run down of your professional life,  how you’ve graduated from medical school (with top marks I bet, he interjects), how you chose to stay in Tokyo instead of returning to Sendai (your parents must miss you he says, and you brush him off with an airy they have other children, they’ll survive), how you chose to work in this hospital because you’re considering a specialisation in Orthopedic surgery (because of your grandma, I bet, he says, and you choose not to correct that, using your silence as a lie).  

He in turn tells you about the highlights of his career, how he’s spent a year at EJP Raijin before he was headhunted to the Argentinian league, how he spent four years overseas save for summers back in Japan to train with the national team, how he’s hopeful, even now, of recovering and fighting for his spot on the Olympic roster next year. 

You already knew all of that from news alerts on your phone you never forced yourself to delete, diverting him instead with a question about life in Argentina, nodding as he reminisces about his apartment in San Juan where he gets to watch the sun set over the Andes mountains, the kitchen that he stuffed full of Japanese groceries like daishi and mirin and sake and miso in his first year there just so he has a tangible reminder of home. 

You stop yourself from wondering whether he thinks about the little home he shared with you with such fondness. That time has passed. 

His voice wavers as he spins you stories about his teammates - Matteo, whose family owns a vineyard and taught him to appreciate wine like a proper Argentinian, Miguel, who makes the best empanadas and gets roaring drunk every time they win a match, Gabriel, who takes him to his family’s home in the mountains every other weekend because his grandmother is convinced that a single young man without family in the city will starve if he’s left to his own devices. 

It seems his wings were durable enough for him to soar across the oceans, his grit and determination the foundation of the new life he’s built, whole continents away. 

“It’s funny how the world works”, you remark off hand. “I never expected to see you again.”

His eyes gleam again. “The universe seems to work in funny ways.” 

You start spending breaks in his room, scarfing down your lunch and dinner while he talks your ear off about the horrible sitcoms or ridiculous game shows he’s watched today. You catch him watching a video of Kageyama’s serves and you’re amused when he practically hisses when you comment idly that his kouhai has certainly improved since his high school days. 

You ignore his spluttered protests that service records aren’t everything and besides, his own spike serves have definitely won Japan a game or two last year until, with the air of a boy king, he commands you to sit next to him on the hospital bed so he can pull up a compilation of his serves and his best moments. 

Years might have passed, but you’re still hopeless at refusing him. Besides, isn’t it better that you distract him from the sorry state of his knee? So you do as he says, ignoring the faint flutter of your traitorous heart as he leans into your side. 

“See? I told you my spike serves are amazing?”

“Yes, yes. I already knew that. I watched so many of your practices in university, remember?”

He looks at you strangely. “Did you?” he asks, leaning his head on his hand, eyes boring into yours. 

You think of evenings spent sitting on the bleachers, homework in your lap as you watch as the boy you love builds the strength in his wax wings in preparation for his eventual flight. “Yes”, you admit, sheets rustling as you shift away from him, avoiding his perplexed frown. “You were probably too focused on practice to notice.”

You already know you shouldn’t spend so much time in his room, but you’ve spent most of your life doing what you should instead of what you want to so just this once, you ignore rational thought in favour of sentiment.

After all, he’ll be discharged from hospital in a week, then you’ll never see him again. 

Tooru promptly proves you wrong the day before he’s scheduled to be discharged. 

“I need someone to help me move into my apartment.”

“Hire a mover”, you tell him. You don’t even look up from your notes. 

“Already did”, he chirps, undaunted by your apparent disinterest. “But it’d be nice to have a friend who I know will be nice enough to help poor old crippled me put my stuff away.” Then he grins cheekily, “plus I checked with that pretty nurse – Yuna-san was it? Anyway, she told me you’re off tomorrow, so you might as well spend the day with me.”

There goes your excuse to wriggle out of having to spend your rare day off with your ex. 

“I have a mountain of sleep debt to pay off”, you protest, but faced with wide brown eyes and an embarrassing wobble of his lip, you comply. Still, you manage to get the promise of a free dinner out of him, so you suppose it’ll do.

Tooru doesn’t have much to unpack, a couple of cardboard boxes of clothes and books, probably because most of his belongings are still in Argentina. He laughs and raises his hands in an attempt to placate you when you lift an eyebrow, first at the lack of kitchen equipment in his furnished apartment, second at the weights and volleyball he tries to smuggle in behind your back. 

“You’re not supposed to exercise for at least a month or two”, you cluck your tongue, sighing with disapproval at the furtive look he casts at the volleyball sitting at the corner of his living room.

“I can set while sitting on a stool! Don’t scold me, my heart can’t bear it”. He throws a hand across his face, brow creased dramatically. 

Icarus, Icarus. You’ve already fallen once. Will you seek out the sun again? 

A string of familiarity loops into a knot over your heart. If you close your eyes and count to ten, you can imagine that you’re eighteen again, chiding the boy you love for practicing too hard. But you’re twenty six now, a full fledged adult who should know better than to dabble in sentiment again (especially when it comes to brown eyed boys who only dream of the sun), so you slash through the threads connecting you to him with a flash of your teeth, bury your beating heart deeper into the dungeon you’ve built years ago of white bone and solid steel.  

“Do what you want, but your neighbours will hate you if you keep thumping that damn ball against the wall.” You say, simply, dismissively. 

“No one could ever hate me”, he declares with bravado. “I’ll charm them all with my charm and good looks.”

“Ridiculous”, you huff, dumping the last of his clothing into the cupboard. “Where’s the dinner you promised? I want ramen and gyoza at least.”

“So demanding”, he lilts. “I’ll order in. Tonkatsu ramen with char siu, bamboo shoots, extra spring onions with gyoza on the side?” 

Your heart struggles against its shackles. He still remembers your order.  

“Yes”, you finally say. “You got that right.”

He grins at you cheekily, as if to say of course. 

After you gulp down your ramen, devour your gyozas, you pack up, ready to leave. You have an early shift tomorrow, and you’re already dreaming about your soft bed whilst dreading the cup of coffee you’ll have to down tomorrow morning just to stay awake. 

He catches your wrist, presses the spare key to the apartment into your hand.  “Come back. I want to see you again”, he says, an order and not a plea. 

You are about to make up an excuse, tell him anything but the truth that you suspect it’s bad for your heart to keep seeing him again. 

“Please” - he adds with a tint of fragility to his voice. 

“I’ll be back when I can”, you finally say. 

“Tomorrow?” he looks up at you with hopeful eyes. 

“We’ll see”, you pry your hand loose from his grasp, slip out the front door. 

You stay away for two days, citing your work schedule as an excuse until he wears you down with a barrage of cutesy line stickers aimed at driving home how lonely he is and how much he misses your presence. You’re being dramatic as usual, you text him dryly, but you turn up anyway at his apartment on a Friday night, letting yourself in with an armful of reports and a bucket of oden. 

“How’re you doing? Are you listening to your physiotherapist? Eating properly? Sleeping well?”

“You sound like my mother”, he grouses, rolling his wheelchair to the dining table. 

You flick at his forehead, he slumps back in his wheelchair.  “Stop bullying the cripple’, he wheezes through his chortle. 

“You deserve it”, you retort. “Don’t run away from the question. How’re you feeling?”

“It still hurts”, he admits with a mock sniff. “It should stop hurting by nowwww.”

You push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. “That’s to be expected. Your sinews just got stitched together two weeks ago. Not sure why you’d expect any less.”

“Bah, rude. At least you didn’t say I told you so”, he grumbles, spooning oden into his mouth. “That would be insufferable.”

“Well, maybe you’ll listen to me now that I’m actually a doctor”, you inform him pertly, batting away memories of a teenage boy with hazel eyes shouting indignantly at you after practice in the Seijoh gym.

Tooru snorts. “I can’t believe my eighteen year old self was dumb enough to open my future self up to a jab like that”, he complains, chewing on a cabbage roll grumpily. 

“We’re all dumb at eighteen”, you remark. “You’re no exception.” 

“You were dumb enough to date me”, he teases with a mocking smile.  

Your spoon slips from your hand momentarily. It’s the first time he’s alluded to your past relationship. 

“I was, wasn’t I”, you say lightly, before turning the conversation to Tooru’s physiotherapy sessions. 

You have no wish to delve back into the past, but you’re willing to be his friend since he seems to need one for now.  

Tooru’s knee recovers enough for him to shift from his wheelchair to crutches, which he points at you playfully, mimicking a gun every time you pop by for a visit. He seems to plan his physiotherapy session around your schedule, just so he can wheedle you into paying him yet another visit when your shift at the hospital end, bribing you with a cup of coffee with a hint of chocolate from the café across the street that you’ve never found the time to visit. 

“Thank you, kind sir”, you say, accepting the coffee with a laugh. 

“You’re welcome, my lady”, he answers with a smirk, motioning you to follow him for yet another evening to be spent in his home sitting across him, red ink smeared on your hands as you mark up the reports in your lap. 

His façade that he’s coping with his injury just fine slips every so often. You catch him more often than not watching compilation videos of Kageyama and Atsumu at the World Cup this year with a strained expression on his face, or resting his chin on the windowsill whilst staring wistfully at the birds in the sky. 

He does not confide about his worries to you. You’re not sure you want him to. 

But you can’t explain to yourself the impulse to purchase a bird feeder for his balcony, nor the glow-in-the-dark poster of the constellations that you cart into his bedroom until your heart has to scramble for equilibrium when he thanks you, his smile soft. 

“In exchange for all the coffee you’ve bought me”, you reply, turning away to hide all evidence of your heart’s betrayal, the diffusion of blood in your cheeks.  

A month passes. Then another. 

The crutches get kept in the storeroom. A limp remains, but the degree which his knee can bend increases by the day. His mood improves even further, and you constantly find yourself swerving to avoid his affectionate gazes, his attempts at flirtation. 

“You’re looking so pretty today!” he lilts, fitting his arm snugly into the crook of your elbow as you walk down the neon lit streets of Tokyo. He insisted on this outing, and in the custom of your rekindled friendship, managed to convince you to accompany him on your off day so he can get crepes from Harajuku notwithstanding the fact that it takes forty five minutes on the train and his knee still acts up from time to time.  

“It’s my first time downtown in a month”, you tell him. “Of course I’m going to dress up.” You don’t tell him you spent far too long in front of your closet, tossing outfits on your bed until you found one that complements you just right. 

He buys you trinkets, hair accessories that you’ll never wear, tries to win you ridiculous stuffed toys from the claw machine. 

“You’re wasting money”, you scold, wiping the whipped cream from his mouth. 

“It’s not a waste if it’s for you”, he tells you, with startling sincerity that you still doubt.

He doesn’t mean it, you tell yourself. It’s just Tooru being Tooru. 

You refuse to admit what’s staring you in the face until you have to duck your head to avoid his attempt at pressing his lips to your cheek. 

“Goodnight, Tooru”, you manage to say before you bolt off into the night. You check to make sure your heart is still under lock and key. 

It is, but it beats resentfully. Tooru, it beats against its bars with frightening intensity. Tooru. Tooru.  

You ignore it. You know what’s best for it.

You stay away from him for a fortnight, requesting for a change in your schedule without updating him, taking the other exit from the hospital so you don’t have to see him. You stay away until he manages to wear you down yet again, texting you the most ridiculous conspiracy theories about your absence from his life – you must be abducted by aliens, he texts you once, or your mother forced you to marry some stranger, I can break you out if you just say the word. 

He has a guest, you hear another voice, deeper, filled with gravel and intensity, so different from Tooru’s lighter lilt. You do not mean to eavesdrop, but you don’t want to interrupt Tooru when he has a rare guest over, and there’s nowhere else for you wait save for the dusty front step, so you settle yourself in, pen poised to continue your work. 

“What did the doctor say? When are you coming back for practice?” 

“I’m doing good! The physiotherapist thinks I can try light exercise next week. If all goes well, I’ll be back to practice in a month.”

“Sounds promising.”

“I had a good medical team. And I’m actually resting properly!”

“Shittykawa. Stop sounding so proud about doing what’s necessary for your recovery.”

“Iwa-channnn, stop being mean to meeee!”

Ah, Iwaizumi, of course. You haven’t seen him in years, but you remember him from school, a stoic boy with a good heart. You wonder if he’s changed. 

“Are you planning on heading back to Argentina?”

Tooru answers without hesitation. “Of course”, he says airily. “As long as they take me back.”

Your foolish heart shudders with disappointment. Of course. If you run your fingers down his spine, you’ll probably find blooms of wax attached to his very bone. 

You are about to stand up and leave when Tooru speaks up again. 

“But I’m going to enjoy my time in Japan while I’m back. Did I tell you I reconnected with my ex? She’s great, it feels like I never left.”

The firestorm of blood in your ears nearly drowns out Iwaizumi’s growled ‘piece of shit’ (he truly hasn’t changed after all), the clatter of glassware as Tooru protests that he’s not playing with your heart, he truly cares about you, his sullen silence when Iwaizumi demands what’s going to happen when he leaves Japan for Argentina, when he inevitably leaves you behind (yet again).   

Of course. 

You know his heart longs for the sky. There is no space for you. 

You barely have time to react when the door swings open, Iwaizumi on the verge of storming out. You plaster a smile to your face that does not fool him, but you hang on to it nonetheless, cracks appearing only when he gives you a wide eyed look of sympathy that only pours oil onto the flaming war between your brain and your heart. 

“It’s fine”, you say, and though he clearly does not believe you, he bows and leaves anyway. 

Tooru stares at you, mouth open, stumbling over himself with apologies and demands for you to tell him what you’ve overheard, but you motion for him to just stop with your hand, wave aside his protest that he means what he said, he truly likes you.  

Your heart screeches in delight, but your mind is firmly in the driver’s seat. 

“Let’s just pretend I never heard you say that, and we can continue just as before.”

“As friends?” he says, twisting his lips as if the words taste sour in his mouth. He clutches at your shoulders.

“I want more. I want you.”

Your heart thrums in agreement, but you recall assembling the remains of your heart back into your chest whilst kneeling on the cold bathroom floor half a decade ago. The span of five years should have molded you to view your shared past with pragmatism, but your heart seems to have forgotten its lesson. You shake your head.

“There’s no way you truly want me. I don’t think you’ve only ever had space in your heart for anything but your goals.” 

Your response emerges more bitter than you intend. 

“That’s not true”, he weakly protests. “I care about you.”

Not enough, you refrain from telling him. “Let’s remain friends”, you do say, and he opens his mouth to object again, but at the hard look you give him, he slumps back with a defeated nod.

He tries to respect your decision, never complaining when you keep a careful arm’s length distance from him, though you can feel his heated gaze on you whenever he thinks you won’t notice, hear his quiet sighs whenever you shy away from any accidental touch. He droops when you turn down his invite for lunch with his family when they come down for a visit, citing work even though he knows you’re off for the day. 

Still, it’s manageable and he says he needs you, so you return for visits, at least twice weekly, offering encouraging smiles and friendly words when he returns first to light exercise, then to rehabilitative practice a month later, just as he predicted. 

He carves out time for dinners with you, taking care to ask about your day, preferring to spin you stories about the pigeons and doves and crows crowding his balcony rather than talking about volleyball or his practice. He insists on escorting you to his apartment after work when you allow him to, offering you his arm with a soft smile that disarms you, dissolves any resistance. 

It’s an uneasy equilibrium, but it’ll suffice. 

The careful balance you’ve maintained in the space between you and Tooru is shattered when you find you’re not the only one who’s decided to pay him a surprise visit on a Friday night. 

“Tooru, ya didn’t say ya got yerself a pretty girl during yer break”, a man with bleach blonde hair wolf whistles appreciatively when you step into the apartment. 

“I’m just a friend”, you reply confusedly before Tooru’s shout “Shove off, Miya” confirms that one Miya Atsumu has decided to invade Tooru’s apartment. Well, him and what seems like half the MSBY team, with Hinata Shoyo, Bokuto Koutaro and Sakusa Kiyoomi squashed uncomfortably on Tooru’s tiny sofa, long legs stretched across the living room. 

It turns out the MSBY team just finished a game in Tokyo, and Hinata dragged his teammates to visit Tooru in a wholesome bid to cheer him up. You try to excuse yourself after exchanging nods with Sakusa (he hasn’t changed much from his university days) when Miya Atsumu blocks your retreat with a drawled invite for Izakaya and the promise of karaoke after. 

Tooru mouths playfully at you don’t leave me alone with these clowns (you’re tempted to point out that he’s very much one himself), and before you can even blink, you find yourself dragged along to the nearest Izakaya, impressed by the amount of food each man polishes off - skewers of chicken hearts and cartilage, bowls of potato salad and rice with braised pork belly, listening to stories of their exploits on the national team together, stumbling into the karaoke bar tipsy from the beers that Miya Atsumu pressed into your hand, head heavy enough to allow him to wind an arm around your waist. 

“She’s too old for you, ‘Tsumu-kun”, Tooru trills, inserting himself in between you and Atsumu, mouth taut with aggravation. 

“I’m not old, just a year older”, you roll your eyes, as the blonde setter backs away, lips turned up in amusement. Tooru is not placated, muttering how the younger setter is a douche and a sleeze bag as he drapes his jacket over you like a blanket. You nestle against his side, head on his shoulder as his arm rests protectively around you. 

Atsumu watches this with raised eyebrows, whistling slowly, opening his mouth to remark that he’s never seen Oikawa so smitten before when Hinata interrupts with a chirped  “‘Tsum-Tsum, join me!”, handing him a microphone while bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

Karaoke is the most fun you’ve had in ages. Hinata and Bokuto and Atsumu sing all their favourite anime theme songs with gusto - Atsumu even gets misty eyed when he croons Sparkle by Radwimps, reddening when everyone teases him for being a romantic sap, Bokuto shaking his hips to Western pop hits, Hinata showing off his Spanish skills. Sakusa refuses to even touch the microphone but you suppose it’s a win that he’s even in the karaoke booth with all of you. 

Tooru slaps away Atsumu’s attempts at handing you any further alcohol, forcing you to down cups of water until you are no longer glassy eyed, but still tipsy enough to agree to sing ridiculous K-On songs with Hintata and Bokuto, not stopping even when Tooru whips out his phone to video the entire performance with an indulgent smile. 

“Delete it!” you squeal, losing your balance when you try swiping the phone out of his hands, tripping into his lap instead.  

“In your dreams, princess”, Tooru chuckles, his arms snaking around you like a vise. 

“Anndd that’s our cue to call it a night”, Atsumu quips, herding Hinata and Bokuto out onto the street, Sakusa heaving an audible sigh of relief. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, kids!” he calls over his shoulder, throwing you a wink. 

“I’m technically his senpai, cheeky brat”, Tooru mutters, the irritation in his voice washing away as you giggle. “C’mon, it’s too late for you to get home and my place is nearer to the hospital so you might as well stay over tonight. You can take the bed, I’ll take the sofa.”

You shake your head, arguing that you couldn’t possibly turn an invalid like him out of his bed but he huffs at the insinuation that he’s anything but well, his knee almost whole again. You give in after he convinces you that it’d be more inconvenient for him to escort you all the way to your own home rather than put you up for the night, and you allow him to loop his arm around yours and lead you back to his apartment. 

It’s not the first time you’ve been in his apartment this late, not by a long shot, but it is the first time you’re over with the intention of staying over. The t-shirt you borrow from Tooru hangs off your frame, the scent of the fabric softener Tooru uses is familiar. You would’ve preferred being tipsier to dull your senses, but alcohol would only impair your logic, allow your heart to prevail, so you try to quell the thrumming of your blood in your veins by curling up on a seat by the window with a cup of tea when Tooru emerges from his shower. 

“Ready for bed?” he asks, towelling off his hair, frowning when you shake your head. “It’s late, you have work tomorrow, even if it’s the afternoon shift.”

“It’s fine”, you say without turning your head to face him. “Go to bed, I’ll take the couch.”

“I’m insulted, princess. What kind of a man d’you think I am to make his guest sleep on the couch? ”

It’s less dangerous to ignore him, so you pay him no mind, choosing instead to lean your chin in your hand and look up towards the night sky. It soothes you, the moon an old friend, reminding of five years’ worth of quiet nights spent in your own flat, filtering your younger self into adulthood. 

“What’re you looking at?” He takes a step forward, kneels down next to you. 

“The moon and the stars”, you say dreamily. “They’re pretty tonight.”

A myriad of weather conditions must coincide to allow the stars to even be visible in the polluted Tokyo night sky, but tonight of all nights fate intervenes, the stars align. The sky is cloudless, the full moon hangs heavy, the stars shimmer and dance.  

“Are they?” Tooru whispers. “I haven’t noticed.”

You finally turn to look at him. “Why’re you staring at me?” 

The unconscious echo of your past - a boy and a girl, falling in love under the same night sky makes his mouth twist wistfully, eyes faded gold.

“Because you are my sun, my moon and my stars. I love you better than anything in the sky.”

Your mouth falls open, your heart suddenly roaring, pounding against its restraints. 

“You can’t mean that”, you whisper. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

“I do”, he says, with heartbreaking sincerity. “And I always will.”

Nostalgia, aided by the lingering alcohol in your veins opens the gate to your foolish heart. You want to pretend that you are eighteen again, without a care in the world, indulging in the warmth of his hand on the small of your back, the caress of his breath on your cheek. Your lips beckon his, swallowing the catch of his breath when your hands slide under his shirt. 

“Are you sure about this?” His eyes are hungry, almost ravenous, but his hands still hover at the hem of your top. 

“Yes”, you murmur, pressing open mouthed kisses to the column of his neck. “Please, Tooru - please.” 

He carries you into the bedroom, undresses you with shaking hands, chanting your name with reverence, almost a prayer. His eyes darken with desperation and need, unwilling to allow himself any release until you fall apart boneless, caged in his arms.  

“Stay with me”, he murmurs, after you’ve both cleaned up a second time, tugging you into bed. 

It’s laughable. Five years on, Oikawa Tooru still has the power to make your mind lose all reason (however temporarily). With a single heated look, he commands your heart to break willingly in his hands. How could you not have learnt your lesson? The conversation between him and Iwaizumi merely confirms what you’ve known all this while.

(The sky his heart seeks is a world away from the earth yours is buried in)

Even now, you can see the glimmer of golden wax feathers budding along his spine, gleaming under the pale moonlight. 

You lie under the covers until his breath evens out, then you stumble out of bed. You force your heart to relinquish the keys to its freedom, handing it back to logic and rationality, pulling on your clothing, folding your borrowed clothing aside.  

Tooru mumbles your name, his hand outstretched towards you. “Come back”, he says in his sleep, fragility tinting the edges of his words. 

Your fingers miss the doorknob by an inch. You dash your foolish hopes against the darkness of the room, put on your resolve like armour, leave your spare key on the kitchen counter. 

Without looking back, you slip out into the night. 

​

[internalsealpanic]

Love Through the Ages (Damian Wayne)

Summary:  Love like baggage needs to be declared.

a/n: This is part one of a series that is a fic rec list disguised as a fic. For these fics, most of the characters will be speaking different languages, so unless specified otherwise assume that the characters are speaking in the first language I mention. They’re all vampires with centuries under their belt. Why wouldn’t I make them all polyglots.  Also, thank you to the proof reading gang for putting up with my shenanigans.  I will have links to the fics I recommend in the fic itself.

Warnings: Everyone is dramatic. 

Masterlist

Series Masterlist. 

You wait by the platform, tapping your feet to the rhythm of the Little Colonel Bojangles Dance. It's been so long since you've seen the movie but your feet can still remember the steps- much to Damian's annoyance. Your feet patter against the pavement, wet from the spring rain, in a soft rhythm that kept your excitement at bay.

You wave to the approaching cab. The passenger of the cab looks away from you, pressing his mouth into the heel of his hand as his eyes stare out into oblivion. Your mouth quirks at the petulant gesture. You haven't seen each other in two decades and he's still mad about... what was it again? You'll find out soon enough.

The cab stops in front of you.

You bow your head, resting your weight on your umbrella. You grin at his seated form postured perfectly with an ease of a man born with the world in his pocket. He's dressed in a black suit and a dark coat that looked far too thick for spring.

"Long time, no see, little prince." You say in a dialect of Spanish too old for the young cab driver to recognize.

Damian raises his brow, articulating his annoyance. It takes you a moment to realize that it was with the accent you'd chosen. It was inelegant and curt and it mangled the curve of the syllables far too easily. In short, it was your favorite dialect.  Rolling your eyes, you try again. This time with a softer, smoother dialect much more modern but still old enough that you could talk freely without worrying about eavesdroppers.

Damian cracks a smile at you. It was wry but soft in the way Damian always was. Your own exasperated smile softens as you look at his eyes, their ever-changing lushness. It's been too long.

You open the door. Damian eases out of the cab handing the cabby what you quietly hope was the correct amount.

But considering the wide-eyed glee on the cabbies face, you can guess that twenty years has done nothing for Damian's spending habits. That was if the tailored suit wasn't a dead giveaway.

You look him over whistling," whose funeral are you going to after the museum?" 

"Yours if we're on schedule." Damian deadpans looking at his watch. 

You snort, sounding like a piglet in mud. Adoration flickers in Damian's eyes but you miss it as you throw your head back.

"Who has a schedule on vacation."

"People who don't like wasting time."

"That's what a vacation is for."

Damian makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat and you shake your head. Damian wraps his arm around your shoulders. You happily press into his side, reveling in the intimacy of the action.

Damian had been telling you a story in rapid Arabic, the only words you understood were 'Jon' and 'moron', when you pause in front of a pair of paintings. The painting on the left was of Damian, his form drawn in harsh, messy angles. He's hunched over his sketchbook, candlelight glowing softly by his side makes his copper skin and forest green eyes breathtaking. The subject is out of view. The other was a portrait of you dozing off on a workshop table, your flaws lovingly rendered in gentle brush strokes. By contrast, your portrait was lit by the summer sun. Only Damian could make your features look this beautiful.

Vaguely, you remember this.

You remember it only for the countless times it had happened.

"They say that the one on the left is the painter sketching the portrait on the right and that the portrait on the right is of his lover."  You say airily. Damian, not one to disappoint, gives you an unreadable look.

Your stomach turns. You drop the subject. Wordlessly, you two make your way to the exhibit.

"Love through the Ages?" Damian asks, crossing his arms.

"Shockingly love wasn't invented by Stephenie Meyer."  You say. Damian wrinkles his nose at you and you cover your mouth to hide the scraggly smile spreading across your lips.

"I'm shocked your paintings didn't make it in."

He looks down at you huffing, "it's only speculation." 

You're heart twinges at that.  You press a frown to your hand.

"It'll be fun, Dami. I promise. Pleeeeeease."

Damian's stern look gives way to a weary half-smile as he capitulates to you.

"I promise it will only be half as nauseating as Dick's attempts to do family bonding."

"Tt, it would take a miracle to surpass that."

You grin. "Perish the thought."

"They say this stardust came from star-crossed lovers as they traveled through space. Oh and this one is a statue gifted by Persephone to Hades."

You drag Damian all over the exhibit. Pointing to specific exhibits with enthusiasm. He has to admit. It's infectious. Then again, Damian's never been able to resist anything about you. This amount of enthusiasm for something so frivolous would have been obnoxious on anyone else but because it's you, Damian's found himself utterly enamored by it.

"This one," You say, pointing to a series of paintings. They were all beautiful, painted in bold colors. The torrent of emotions radiating off of the canvas. "This one was made by an artist torn between three loves."

"Three? She must have been an exceptional artist."

"Probably was but her name was lost." You sigh.

 "She’s got exceptional brushwork." Damian hums. 

You squint at it. You would think after hundreds of years you would be able to discern that.

"And over there! Look at those postcards!" You say, pointing the three postcards pinned to a cloth in a glass case.  One card showed the northern lights, another with a picture of a thick rainforest, another with a large cave, and another with the pantheon. 

"They're not well preserved are they." Damian comments, scrutinizing the postcards and noting all the imperfections, the little cracks and tears, the water stains, and odd splotches of dirt. 

You roll your eyes, curling your fingers around his arm. "That's cus Hermes supposedly brought them everywhere while he searched for his lost love." 

"Quite the romantic. Do you know all the artifacts?"

"Yup." 

"I see..." Damian drawls.  "Then why are we here then?" Damian winces at how harsh and impatient he sounds. 

"Cus Jon said I needed an excuse to get you here and viola. It worked. I knew you'd cross the sea for a rare exhibit."

I would cross the sea for you, no matter how many times, Damian thinks.

"What about this?" Damian points to a golden coin, shaking his thoughts away. 

You lean back, side-eyeing him. "Care to guess?" His handsome features furrow as he thinks. 

"I think it’s a coin used to pay Charon." He says finally. 

You frown. "Good guess." A smug grin curls on his lips.  You stick your tongue out at him. 

"It’s an old Greek coin to pay the travel into the underworld."

 "Why would they want to travel  to the underworld?" It's Damian's turn to frown. 

"Yanno for someone who's so smart. You're asking the dumbest questions."

"It's a reasonable question." He asserts, his tone oddly defensive.

"Most people can't bear to be apart from their beloved."

Damian hums noncommittally. He understands that. he understands that all too well. 

"Like you and Jon." You say grinning.

Damian glares at you. No real anger behind it. 

"You two bicker like an old married couple." You laugh.

 "So do we." Damian says flatly, stepping closer to you and closing the gap between the two of you. He's looking at you so intensely that your skin sets itself on fire. 

"I often think about burying you under the kitchen patio too." Damian sneers, with a sharp grin. 

You snap out of your daze. Leaning in close and smiling, your hot breath fan against Damian's face.  "Will you do it affectionately?"

The moment hangs still in the air.  If you could capture it in amber, you would.

"Huh? This is new." You say, looking down at the glass case.

"How many times have you seen this exhibit?"

You preemptively shoot him an accusatory look. "What are you?"

"Concerned."

"Pfff!"

You lean down reading the plate. "Says here it's a letter from the late 1700s and early 1800s. An unsent letter to lost love."

"Sounds cliched." Damian says, leaning down next to you. 

"You've said that about everything."

You feel Damian stiffen beside you. You glance at him. He looks mortified. Your eyes follow his and land on the letter. The calligraphy looks familiar but you can't think of where you've seen the scrawl.

Damian tugs at your shoulder.

"(Y/n), let's go."

You shrug him off.

"(Y/n), let’s go." He repeats with increased urgency.

You shove your palm to his face.

Damian wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest. You flail and kick out childishly.

“Damian Al Ghul Wayne, I will gnaw your arm off.” You hiss but he doesn’t let go. In a last ditch effort to break free of his hold, you wriggle out of your coat.  Landing on your ass, you scramble for the glass case. 

My beloved (Y/n), 

Finding the words to tell you how I feel about you is not an easy feat. I feel as though Ibn Hazm himself would struggle to compose poems to express my feelings for you even then they would be inadequate.

Whilst we are surrounded by such death and misery, here in London, I want you to know that during these dark times, it is you that keeps me a light. It is you that leads me through the void and guides me.

I think I’ve always loved you from the very first moment I laid eyes on your beautiful lopsided smile. Yes. Your real smile. The one only a handful of people will ever see. I have been lucky enough to see it every day.

As time passed, I fell more and more in love with you. You have seen all of me. You have seen the monster within me and yet you still stand by my side. Never faulting in your stance.

I wish I had the strength to tell you this, face to face. I wish I could look into your eyes and whisper words of love my immortal beloved.

With Love, 

Damian

You stare at the letter uncomprehending. Realization slides off of you like rain off a tin roof. You read it over and over again until each syllable is embedded in your mind. “Damian, what the actual fuck?!”

“I-”

“You dork!”

Damian clams up unable to think of a response. Ok, no. He had a number of responses but none of them were appropriate or witty. He searches your features but the only thing he can make out is shock. 

“(Y/n), I was-”

You press your hand to the glass. “How come you never sent me this?”

“The French Revolution.”

“Which one?”

He crosses his arms raising a brow. 

“Ok, nevermind. But still, it’s been 200 years.”

“A lot has happened in 200 years.”

“A lot has happened in 200 years.” You repeat mockingly.

Damian pinches your cheeks in retaliation.   

“I was pinning for more than 200 hundred years!” You protest. 

“So was I!” Damian says, releasing your cheek. 

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?” Damian asks, accusing and curt. You flinch, something vile and caustic rising in your stomach.  Damian sees it and grips your hand as you fall away from him. He just got you back. “(Y/n)....”

The fear and hurt melt off of your face. “I thought… I just thought you’d...” You ball your fists in frustration, not quite grasping the right words. But Damian already knows what you’re thinking. He’s seen that look in your face. He’s seen it every time you look at the mirror. It was infuriating to watch you like this. Why couldn’t you see just how perfect you are?

Damian pulls you into a hug, burying your face into his chest and resting his chin on top of your head. 

“You are infuriating.” He mumbles into your hair.

“And you’re rude.” You mumble back.

“Yet here you are 400 years later.” He laughs softly. 

You two stand in silence for a long moment. With Damian, silence itself was a language. It was one you’d grown fluent in. An unspoken conversation of confirmations and reassurances. 

He releases you but holds your hand in his. It feels warm. You shiver and Damian smiles at you, smooshing your coat into your face. Both of you can’t help but laugh. 

You step closer to the glass case, pulling him along. Damian follows without resistance, only lacing his fingers into yours. You both stare at the page. His proclamation of love carefully preserved for all to see. You take your phone out to take a picture.  Damian shoots you a glare. 

“You’re not sending that to Jon.” 

“Tim then.”

“No.”

“Fine, for myself then.” You pause seeing the confusion on his face. “In case, you know...” You say waving your hand. 

Damian tilts your chin up. “Beloved, I’m not going anywhere.”

Your chest flutters. After centuries of inaction, you can feel your heartbeat.  

[trini-trin-trin]

Sharing this from a FB group that I am in. I was very moved by the article and felt affinity with the experiences shared. A really sweet read.

Here is the article if you don't want to click on the link (I know it is a little long, but well worth your time to read!):

The letter I received ten years ago was unsigned and bore no return address. Clearly its author did not expect, much less want, a reply. A message in a bottle, from no one to no one, that letter still remains the most bizarre form of communication. It asks nothing but to be read, promises nothing but to share a few facts and feelings, and, seeing that it must have been dashed off on a lined yellow sheet that seemed hastily torn out of a pad of paper, the author would not be surprised if, after skimming through it, the recipient decided to crumple and lob it into the closest dust bin.

The letter is one page long. One page is enough. The handwriting is uneven, perhaps because the author had lost the habit of writing in longhand and preferred the keyboard. But his grammar is perfect. The man knew what he was doing. I assume he was writing the note by hand because he didn’t want traces of it on his laptop, or because he knew he was never going to send it as an email and risk a reply. Now that I think of it, he probably didn’t care if it even reached its recipient, a local Bay Area reporter who had mentioned my novel about two young men who fall in love one summer in Italy in the mid-1980s. The reporter eventually forwarded it to me, minus its envelope with the postmark. It took no time to see that all the author of the letter was looking for was a chance to blurt out the words he couldn’t dare breathe elsewhere.

My book had spoken to him. His letter spoke to me.

So here it is: dated April 16, 2008.

I came upon Mr. Aciman’s book while on a business trip back East. Not the type of book I am normally able to read, so I bought a copy for the flight home. I think I’m glad I did.

You see, I was Elio. I was 18 and my Oliver was 22. Though the time and place were different, the feelings were remarkably the same. From believing that you are the only person who has these feelings, to the whole “he loves me – he loves me not” scenario, Mr. Aciman got it right. I was particularly impressed with the attention he gave to the morning after Elio’s and Oliver’s first encounter. The guilt, the loathing, the fear. I felt it too much. I had to put the book down for a while.

But in the end I was able to finish the book before we landed at SFO. Which was good, because I couldn’t take the book home. Unlike Elio it was I who married and had children. My Oliver died from AIDS in 1995. I’m still living a parallel life. My name is not important. His name was Dwight.

Instead, I kept the letter. I kept it for ten years.

What moved me was not just its sobering matter-of-factness or its hint of downplayed sorrow, but the associations it provoked in my mind. It reminded me of those short, clipped messages to loved ones, written by people about to be shipped off to the death camps who knew they’d never be heard from again. There is a chilling immediacy about their hurriedly scribbled notes that say everything there is to say in the fewest possible words — there wasn’t enough time for more, no smarmy pieties, no hand-wringing, no treacly hugs and kisses before the tragic end. It also made me think of the moving phone messages left by those who finally realized they were not going to make it out alive from the Twin Towers and that only their family’s answering machine was going to take their call.

“My name is not important,” he writes, almost as an apology for remaining anonymous; yet the author drops quite a number of hints about himself — hints he likely knows will stir his reader’s wistful curiosity to know what made him write the letter in the first place, what he hoped to accomplish, and if writing did indeed help. The letter itself allows us to see that he travels for business. We also sense that he probably lives in the Bay Area and that he travels not infrequently to the East Coast, since, as he writes, he is “back” in the East. And we know one thing more: that he simply needed to come out and tell someone that a man called Dwight had been his lover when the two were young. The rest is a cloud. We’ll never know more. Writing has served its purpose. We write, it seems, to reach out to others. Whether we know them or not doesn’t matter. We write to put out into the real world something extremely private within us, to make real what often feels unreal and ever so elusive about ourselves. We write to give a shape to what would otherwise remain amorphous. This is as true about authors as about those who want to correspond with them. Over the years, many have written to me either after reading or seeing Call Me by Your Name. Some tried to meet me; others confided things they’d never told anyone; and some even managed to call me at the office and, on speaking about my novel, would eventually apologize before bursting out crying. Some were in jail; some were barely adolescents, others old enough to look back at loves seven decades past; and some were priests locked in silence and secrecy. Many were closeted, others totally out; some were widows who felt a resurgence of hope if only by reading about the loves of two young men called Elio and Oliver in Italy; some were very young girls eager to meet their long-awaited Oliver; and some recalled former gay lovers whom they’d occasionally bump into years later but who’d never acknowledge what they’d once shared and done together when both were schoolmates and neither was married. All were keenly aware of living a parallel life. In that parallel life things are as they perhaps should be. Elio and Oliver still live together. And no one has secrets there.

Unlike Dwight’s lover, everyone who took the time to write to me did not withhold their names, but all had, at one point or another, withheld something very primal. They withheld it from themselves, from a relative, from a friend, a classmate, or colleague, or from a beloved who would never have guessed what troubled longings seethed below their averted gaze whenever they crossed paths.

Some readers wrote to tell me they felt that my novel had changed them, and given them new insights into themselves; some felt it was urging them finally to turn a new leaf in their lives. But some couldn’t go so far and, despite their perfect command of language, confessed lacking the words to explain why they were so moved by my novel or why they felt an unresolved longing for things they’d never considered or desired before. They were experiencing an upwell of emotions and of ungraspable might-have-beens that were asking to be reckoned with because they seemed more real than life itself, a sense of themselves that beckoned from an opposite bank they’d never known was there and whose potential loss now was a source of inconsolable grief. Hence their tears, their regrets, and the overpowering sense of being lost in their own lives.

And yet, they said, theirs were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of recognition, as though the novel itself were a mirror for readers to watch their own emotions laid bare before them. These responses made me aware that Call Me by Your Name does not call attention to anything readers didn’t already know, nor does it bring new truths or revelations; all it does is shed new light on things that were long familiar but that they never took the time to consider. It would be so tempting to say that they are reminded of their forgotten first loves; the truth is that all loves, even those that occur late in life, are first loves. There is always fear, shame, reluctance, and not a tiny dose of spite. Desire is agony.

Everyone who’s read Call Me by Your Name understands not only the struggle both to speak and hold back their truth but also the shame that comes whenever we want something from someone. Desire is always cagey, always secretive — we’ll tell everyone we know about the person we crave to hold naked in our arms, but the very last one to know this will be the person we crave. Same-sex desire is even more guarded and watchful, especially in those who are just discovering their sexuality. Awkwardness and desire are strange bedfellows at a young age, but shame and inexperience are just as paralyzing as fear when we watch them tussling with the urge to be bold. You’re torn between the raw horniness that makes you dream scenes you hope to forget as soon as you’re up and the scenes you pray you’ll dream again and again — if dreams are all you’ll have. Silence and solitude exact a cost that leaves us emotionally wrecked. At some point we need to speak.

So “is it better to speak or die?” asks Elio, the narrator of Call Me by Your Name, quoting words penned by the sixteenth-century Marguerite de Navarre in her collection of tales known as The Heptameron. Marguerite was the sister of King Francis I and the grandmother of Henry IV, himself the grandfather of Louis XIV, hence she was plenty familiar with court intrigue, gossip, and the risks of opening up to someone who may not welcome what’s in our heart and could easily make us pay for it. Not everyone who has written to me has dared to speak their hearts to those they loved. Some have sought silence — slow, lingering droplets of quiet desperation taken every night before bedtime until they realize they’ve been dead and didn’t even know it. Many have written to me with the feeling of having missed their chance when someone tethered his rowboat to their jetty and simply asked them to jump in. “Some sentence or thought on almost every page,” writes a reader, “triggers tears and knots my throat and chest. Tears well up in my eyes on the subway, at my computer at work, walking down the street. Perhaps I am weeping in part because I know that at my age there is virtually no possibility of experiencing anything remotely comparable to what Elio experiences with Oliver.” Someone else writes, “Reading Call Me by Your Name made me feel a love I never had.” A happily married 50-plus colleague took me aside and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this much in love in my whole life.” “I'm 23,” tweeted someone else, “and have never felt such love, until I read Call Me by Your Name. I feel like I lived it.” “Elio and I are essentially the same age,” writes a teenage girl. “I have never really experienced his environment of the Italian summer…My experiences have only taken place halfway between nature and smog, however I have felt the same tension, fear, guilt and overwhelming love that you express perfectly through both Elio and Oliver…Finding myself in Elio was something I never expected and I’m positive that I won’t experience anything quite like it ever again. The first girl I ever loved remains…the only girl I have ever loved and though everything she and I shared…lives now as a secret between two friends.” “I finished reading Call Me by Your Name a couple of days ago,” writes someone else, “and wanted to let you know how much it affected me. It felt like a narration of my thoughts that I had systematically buried long ago.” And finally this from a 72-year-old: “I was fascinated by the idea of parallel lives where would I have been if I had gone with him, where would I be if I traveled alone? Maybe the point is just what do I do with the gift you have given me during the remainder of my life.”

There are at least 500 more such letters and emails.

Some find themselves weeping at the end of the film or the novel, not for what happened long ago or for what did not and might never happen in their own lives but for what has yet to happen, for the terrifying moment when they too will soon have to decide whether to speak or die. This from an 18-year-old: “[Your novel] gives me hope that one day I will meet someone whom I desire so badly that I’ll actually find it in me to make a move, the way Oliver is that someone for Elio. Maybe my Oliver will also turn out to be someone that I realize I love as well as desire.” She was crying for a week, as was this 15-year-old young man: “I stopped reading…because I didn’t want [the book] to end, didn’t want the wounds that you caused me to close, I didn’t want to overcome, for some reason that I have yet to find out. I wanted to stay a wreck, emotionally and mentally fragile….My mother handed me tissues because she had never seen me cry like this. I had finished your book and ‘moved’ is too weak a word to express what your book had done to me. Here a week later and it is literally all I can think about, not my midterms coming up, but…Elio and Oliver and if it is better to speak or die. You answered questions I didn’t even think I had.”

Indeed, the whole novel seems to enable the outing of all manner of feelings, feelings from Elio’s relentless inward journey and obsessive self-examination that readers are invited to identify with. Through Elio’s unfettered introspection they too feel exposed and sliced open like a crustacean without a slough, now forced to look at itself in the mirror. No wonder they are moved. The mask that is torn off their faces is not just the mask that conceals same-sex desires from themselves and from others. Rather, it is the realization, through Elio’s voice, of what they truly feel, who they truly are, what they fear, what bears their signature, and what coy little shenanigans they go through to read others and hope to reach them. Some identified with some effusive sentences in my novel so much that they had them tattooed on their bodies. They even attach photos of these tattoos. People have also tattooed peaches on themselves!

But what moves most people — and this is as true now as it was when the novel first came out — is the father’s speech. Here he not only tells his son to nurse the flame and “don’t snuff it out” after his son’s lover has left Italy, but that he too, the father, envies his son’s relationship with a male lover. This speech tears away the last vestige of a veil between reader and truth and is a moving tribute to the irreducible honesty between father and son.

Most readers have written to me about the scene because the father’s speech rekindles the very difficult moment when they decided to come out to their parents — or, as is often the case with people 60, or 70 or older, it reminds them of the conversation they wished they’d had but never did have with their parents. This is the loss no one forgets and from which no one recovers after seeing Call Me by Your Name. It bears the very essence of that precious and life-defining might-have-been moment that never happened and never will.

Here is the speech:

“Look…[y]ou had a beautiful friendship. Maybe more than a friendship. And I envy you. In my place, most parents would hope the whole thing goes away, or pray that their sons land on their feet soon enough. But I am not such a parent. In your place, if there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don’t snuff it out, don’t be brutal with it. Withdrawal can be a terrible thing when it keeps us awake at night, and watching others forget us sooner than we’d want to be forgotten is no better. We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything — what a waste!...

“… {L]et me say one more thing. It will clear the air. I may have come close, but I never had what you had. Something always held me back or stood in the way. How you live your life is your business. But remember, our hearts and our bodies are given to us only once. Most of us can’t help but live as though we’ve got two lives to live, one is the mockup, the other the finished version, and then all those versions in between. But there’s only one, and before you know it, your heart is worn out, and, as for your body, there comes a point when no one looks at it, much less wants to come near it. Right now there’s sorrow. I don’t envy the pain. But I envy you the pain.”

I received the anonymous letter sometime in early May 2008. At the time, I was staying at my parents’, because my father was suffering from throat and mouth cancer and was already in hospice care. He had refused radiation and chemotherapy, so I knew his days were numbered; though morphine was clouding his mind, he was still lucid enough to bandy a few quips about a host of subjects. He had stopped eating and drinking water because swallowing had become very painful. One afternoon while I was stealing a nap, the phone rang. A reporter I’d met in California had just received a letter, which she wanted to share with me. I told her to read it over the phone. After she’d read it I asked if she felt she could mail it to me. I wanted to show it to my father, I said, and explained he was dying. She felt for me. We talked about my father for a while. I told her I was trying to make it up to him these days, and that he too had been exceptionally easy to be with. How was it growing up with him? she asked. Tense, I replied. Always is, she added. Then the conversation ended, and she promised to mail the letter soon.

After hanging up, I got out of bed and went in to see him. Over the past few days, I had made a point of reading to him, which he liked a great deal, especially now that he was having difficulty focusing. But rather than read to him the memoirs of Chateaubriand, one of his favorite authors, and feeling buoyed by the letter I’d been read on the phone, I asked if he’d like me to read from the French translation of Call Me by Your Name, the galleys of which I had just received from Paris that very morning. Why not, since you wrote it, he said. He was proud of me. So I began to read from the very beginning, and soon enough I knew I was opening up a subject neither he nor I had ever broached before. But I knew he knew what I was reading and why I was reading it to him. This made me happy. Perhaps it made him happy as well. I’ll never know.

That evening, after the rest of us had dinner, he asked if I could continue reading from my novel. I was nervous about arriving at the father’s speech because I didn’t know how he’d react to it, though he was the kind of father who would have given that very same speech himself. But the speech was two hundred pages away still, and that would have taken many, many days. Perhaps I should skip some parts, I thought. But no, I wanted to read him the whole book. My father didn’t last long enough to hear the father’s speech. And when the letter finally arrived from California, he was already gone. His name was Henri, he was 93 years old, and he inspired everything I’ve written.

[fairlyspnfanfic]

The Ties that Bind Us

Summary: When your past comes back to haunt you, who will prevail?  Hunting had been your life since your were 4 years old.  The monsters that started you on that path were resurfacing, and you knew what you had to do.  But nothing is ever truly secret, and nothing is ever that cut and dry with the Winchester’s in tow. 

A/N: This is a new one that is coming from a few requests.  I’m not going to post the actual requests because...well because it would spoil the story line and I’m pretty into this one. 

Words: 2826

Tags: Angst, Fluff, nightmares, all the fun stuff. 

I wrang my hands together nervously.  They were all sweat; clammy and cold while simultaneously uncomfortably hot.  My breathing was deceptively calm, though every other part of me shook as my anxiety climbed.  I closed my eyes, pushing my hands down on the mattress on either side of me and took a deep steadying breath.  Talking myself into pushing my body into a standing position, I opened my eyes and left my room, consciously putting one foot in front of the other.  

“Guys?” My voice rang out in the echoey halls, shaking and hoarse.  I cleared my throat and ran my hands through my hair as I continued making my way into the main room.  There they were.  Dean, his feet kicked up on the table, a large, brown dusty book sprawled on his lap and a beer firmly clasped in his hand as he focused on the words on the page. Sam, pacing back and forth silently behind him.  

It had been weeks since we had found a job. The last actual gig we had been on was pretty small-fry. A pair of ghouls wreaking havoc in a college town that we had taken care of in less than a weekend. The local fraternity parties didn’t even notice, and the drunken sorority girls went on with their lives none the wiser.

But this?  This job was going to be huge.  If not in scale, then in emotion alone.  Not for the boys.  They wouldn’t have any clue; I’d make sure of that.  The pack had been on the prowl for decades, maybe longer.  Long enough to have destroyed my life, killed my family, and upend everything I knew to be true when I was only four years old. And now they were back.  I rubbed the sweat from my palms that would have given me away on the back of my jeans, before grabbing the chair opposite from Dean.  The wheels moved faster than I expected as it began to roll behind me.  I lowered myself quickly into the seat, as if the mishap was entirely intentional, but the smirk at the corner of Dean’s smile let me know my attempt had failed.

I hated the chairs in the map room. The side armrests dug into my hips and I was never quite comfortable in them.  But who was I to question generations of decorum?  I crossed my legs as eloquently as I could, adjusting so that I was practically sitting on one hip in order to keep the bars from digging into them.

The laptop Sam had out on the table was still booted up.  I reached out, grabbing it and quickly pulled up the article that I had found this morning.  “Woman’s Body Found Mangled in Historic District.”  I spun the screen around, allowing Dean to see.  He skimmed through it quickly before sneering. “Doesn’t really scream monster there, Y/N.”  I rolled my eyes, returning control of the computer to myself and pulled up three more articles, all within the last two months.  “Teen Killed in Apparent Pit Bull Attack,” followed by “Couple Maimed in Forrest Preserve” and “Missing Child Found Had Been Attacked by Unidentified Animal.”  I pushed the screen over to Dean again.

“Well, maybe that does merit a look-see.”  His tune changed.  Whenever there was a lapse between jobs, Dean would get antsy.  His temperament changed, he was jumpy, and nothing could make him happier than a new destination and a big bad to gank.  

“What’s that?” Sam said as he practically skipped up to the table like an excited puppy.

“Get this,” I began before Dean cut me off.

“Y/N,” he chastised.  “That’s Sam’s line.”  He winked at me as a smile spread widely across his face.  That smile.  The one that could bring world peace as far as I was concerned.  At the very least, it made my knees weak, breath hitch, and I lost all train of thought.  

I quickly pulled myself back together and pushed my daydreaming mind back to the task at hand.  Dean pushed the laptop over to Sam, allowing him to read through them quickly.  “So, what are we thinking, Werewolves? Hellhounds?”  

“Werewolves,” I said definitively.  My face was deadpan, and it didn’t seem to go unnoticed.  “Look at the descriptions.  There’s something they aren’t saying.  The bodies were all attacked at night, and each one was during the full moon. Plus, the missing kid?  He was 8.  That’s not enough time for any demon deal to go down and a Hellhound to get involved.  No, it’s a werewolf.  No doubt in my mind.”  I was all seriousness and they knew it.  Sam simply nodded, his eyebrows creased suspiciously, but he didn’t question me.

“Well then,” Dean said, clapping his hands together as he all but jumped to his feet.  “Let’s get on the road.  It’s a little over seven hours to Missouri.  You’ve got fifteen minutes to get ready.”  He was like a kid at Christmas as he bounced down the hallway to his room.

“Only guy in the world to get the warm and fuzzies from a bunch of dead bodies,” I laughed, shaking my head, closing the laptop, and uncrossing my legs.  I stood up slowly and stretched my arms above my head.

Sam didn’t take his probing eyes off me as he crossed his arms.  “Y/N?”

“Yes, Samuel?”  I mocked him in response.

“What aren’t you telling us?”  

I did my best version of shock and outrage, looking around as if I wasn’t quite sure what he was alluding to. “What?”

“You’ve never been so adamant about a job before.  Hell, you’re usually the one trying to talk us out of taking jobs.  What gives?”  I rolled my eyes as dramatically as I could.

“Nothing.  It just seems like a pretty clear gig to me.  And if bodies are dropping every month, and more bodies each time?”  I shook my head.  “Then the next ones are on us.”  I locked eyes with the younger Winchester, attempting to convey my point with a look.

His expression still seemed doubtful, but he nodded his head and walked towards his room, patting my shoulder as he passed by me. “Whatever you say, kid.”  

Half an hour later, we were all piled into the Impala.  Dean driving, Sam riding shotgun, and I lounged across the backseat, scouring the news for any updates.  The next full moon wouldn’t be for another week, but I wasn’t willing to allow anything to be missed.  Not when I could stop it.  

A couple of hours later, my eyes began to droop, and my cell phone slipped from my hand, crashing to the floor between my feet.  But my exhaustion won out over my need to secure the phone.  

I looked down at my hands. They were sticky and coated with a thick layer of blood.  I had no idea if it was mine or someone else’s, but the terror that rose in my chest didn’t care.  All around me, the only sounds I could hear were the violent gnashing of teeth, the moist squelching of flesh being torn from bone, and the small, muted whimpers from someone that I had yet to lay my eyes on.  I looked around but everything around me was coated in darkness.  Only my hands were visible in a dim red light that seemed to come from nowhere.  I took a step forward, feeling my foot slip as the wet floor beneath me was coated in that same tacky liquid that was all over my hands.  Looking in front of me, I came eye to eye with a single pair of vibrant yellow orbs that seemed to stop me in my tracks.  Paralyzed with fear, I froze, unwilling and wholly unable to continue forward.  A low grumble began emanating from those same eyes as they moved closer to me.  The grumble turned quickly to a growl; vicious and hungry with a deep, bone chilling timbre.  Suddenly, the eyes were directly in front of me, inches from my face. So close that I could feel the hot, rank breath on my cheek before a loud, piercing snarl rang in my ear.  

My eyes snapped open and the sweat running down my neck sent a chill down my spine.  My sharp inhale was the only sound made and I did my best to calm down before making any further noise.  My nightmares had always been the same and had always been my own.  Nobody had ever found out about them, especially the boys, and I fully intended to keep it that way.  

Stretching my arms to my sides as best as I could, I made a dramatic show of waking.  “Where are we?”  I asked.

Glancing to the front seat I could see Sam slumped against the window, his head tilted back, mouth open, and very much asleep.  Dean was still in the driver’s seat, bobbing his head and mouthing along with Steven Tyler as he belted out the lyrics to “Dream On.”  His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, giving me that same world-peace smile that only he seemed to know how.  

“About 100 miles outside St. Charles.  I’ve gotta stop for gas though.  You hungry?” I nodded back to him as I rubbed my eyes, clearing out the sandy bit of sleep that had formed in the corners.  

“Do you need to change out? I can drive the last of the way.” I offered, knowing he’d never go for it. He never had before.  

“I’m good.  Got a solid three hours of shut eye last night.” He winked at me in the mirror. Pushing down the butterflies in my stomach and doing my best to suppress the blush that I was sure was creeping to my cheeks, I looked out the window.  The sun had just come down, creating an orange sky with just a hint of pink.  I took a deep breath and turned back to facing the driver.  

Dean pulled off onto an exit ramp and turned into a QT Gas Station.  “What are you in the mood for?”  he asked me. I shrugged.

“Surprise me.”  The glint in his eye and the devilish smile that he gave me in return elicited an exaggerated eye roll from me.  “Just go get some road food.”  I waved him away.  “I’ll pump.” I opened my door as quietly as I could and stepped around to the gas pump.  I twisted the gas cap, put my card in the machine, or rather Stacey Abrams’ card, and began filling the tank.  

I watched Dean walk up and into the convenience store, his bowed legs taking long strides as he did so. He grabbed the door and held it open, making a big show as he gestured for the woman coming out the door to pass before him.  The leggy blonde walked by, tucking her perfectly silky hair behind her perfect ears as her perfectly perky tits bounced their way out of the shop.  I watched as Dean’s eyes followed her out, obviously and lustily eyeing her up and down, appreciating the view.  

The sharp stab to my chest wasn’t new.  The jealousy mixed with disappointment happened pretty frequently after all.  But each time felt like ripping off a band aid before the wound had begun to heal.  

The gas pump stopped, the telling “clunk” of the machinery drawing my attention back to my task.  I tapped the spout on the edge of the tank before fully withdrawing it and hanging it back up on the pump.  I ripped the receipt off quickly, shoving it into my back pocket as I walked back around the car and settled into my seat again.  

“You know, you could always just tell him.”  Sam’s voice rang out, surprising me, from the front seat.  

“Shit, Sam.” I said.  “I thought you were asleep!”  

“I’m serious, Y/N. Tell him.”  He had turned around now, staring me dead in the face as if we were locked in a staring contest that I hadn’t agreed to participate in.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said a bit too defensively.  

“Right.”  He rolled his eyes at me.  “You do realize I know every tell you have, right?”  

I shook my head at him, chuckling.  “Samuel, I think you must still be dreaming.” 

“Like that.”  He pointed at me.  “You’re biting your cheek.  You only do that when you’re lying. Next, you’ll be pulling on your ear lobe, just like that.”  He accused me as I did just as he said.  

“No, I’m not.”  He glared at me in response.  “Shut up.”  I bit at him, jokingly, sticking my tongue out at him as I crossed my arms.  

Dean opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.  

“Dude,” he said excitedly, holding up a white paper bag.  “Taquitos!”  

A little over 100 miles later, we were pulling into the local motel.  Sam had gone to check us in while Dean and I grabbed the bags from the trunk.

“Peartree Inn?”  I said, dejectedly.  Dean looked at me, a curious expression on his face.  “Just once, it would be so nice to stay at a 5-star hotel.  Hell, I’d settle for 4 stars if it meant a comfy bed that didn’t have my back aching in the morning and a hot tub to soak in at night.” I closed my eyes and sighed, dreaming.  

“I’ll be sure to get you a hot tub at the next place we stay in.  Long as I can join you,” he said, cocking his head towards me with a smile. I rolled my eyes and playfully shoved his shoulder.  

“Hey,” Sam said, running up to us both.  “So, they only have rooms with two beds max. No roll-away’s or cots.  But I got us two rooms.  Best I could do.”  He handed a card key to each of us.  A small sticky note was attached to each.  “Dean, we’re in 213.  Y/N, you’re in 436.” I nodded my head, handed Sam his bag and headed inside.  

The front desk clerk waved at me as I went in and pointed towards the elevators.  Thanking her, I walked over and pushed the call button.  The doors opened instantly, and I stepped in without waiting for Sam and Dean to catch up.  Once I dropped off my bags and went to the bathroom, I planned on heading to their room anyway to go over our plan.  

But just after I’d used the restroom and rinsed my face, there was a solid knock at the door.  “Gimme a second,” I shouted as I grabbed a hand towel and dried my face off.  The peephole on the door was small with a silver dongle covering it up until you swung it to the side.  I checked to see who it was before unlatching the deadbolt and opening the door.

“Bad news, Y/N.”  Dean said as he walked in, making himself comfortable on my King size bed.  He was lounging back, his head resting on a combination of my pillows and his own hand as his legs sprawled out in front of him.  “No hot tubs in the whole joint.”  I laughed at him, throwing my hand towel into the bathroom.  

“So, where’s Sam?  I figured we needed to get our plan of attack sorted.”  

“Oh,” Dean said, straightening up a bit.  “He’s down in our room. We didn’t get the fancy penthouse view you did.”  My eyes wandered over to the balcony and the sliding doors that lead out to it.  I pointed to it and tilted my head, silently asking if he’d like to join me outside. He all but leapt out of bed and over to the door, yanking it open.  The track was rusted and in desperate need of some WD-40, but he was able to grant us egress.  

We walked onto the balcony and looked down.  The penthouse view as Dean called it wasn’t the greatest.  A moderately busy highway for as late at night on a weeknight as it was, and some unkempt trees just barely allowed us to see the airport beyond it.  But the fresh air and the sounds of the cars rushing by was a tonic to the anxiety that had been eating at me all day.  

I leaned on the railing, my hands clasped together, as I inhaled the fresh air and felt my hair blowing ever so slightly in the wind.  I could feel Dean walk up and join me.  “Feels pretty nice out here,” he said softly.

I smiled. “Yeah, it does.” I opened my eyes and looked down again, remembering the reason we were here.  As peaceful as it felt right now, there were monsters just down the road. The very monsters from my nightmares.  And no matter how terrified it left me, I wouldn’t be leaving before I drove a silver bullet through each of their hearts.  

To Be Continued......Part Two

Taglist (Tag requests are open):

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[avengerscompound]

Until the End of the World - 16

Until the End of the World: A Captain America Fanfic

Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count:  1645

Rating:  E

Warnings: Angst and PTSD

Synopsis: Four years after Steve and Bucky got to the bottom of the HYDRA conspiracy that had led to you and your son being hunted for the first three years of his life, you, Bucky, and Steve have carved out a nice life together.  Things are calm and you feel like a family unit.  When Geo starts calling Bucky and Steve ‘dad’, a decision is made to try and add to your family.

Things aren’t as calm as they seem.  When your pregnancy hits the papers, HYDRA rears its head once again, and Steve and Bucky need to track you down to protect the family they had created.

Chapter 16

Bucky was beginning to feel hopeless.  Steve’s orders to Sam and Tony about looking for a cloaked van, had come to nothing.  Every van, small truck, and bus that Sam and Tony had scanned had shown nothing suspicious.  All the roadblocks they had set up came to nothing.  No cars coming in or out of the city were carrying either you or Geo.  You, Geo, and whoever it was that had snatched you had just vanished.

It was clear from the people that had been arrested at the scene that HYDRA was back.  Not that Bucky had been surprised.  He’d been in that organization for decades, it would take more than a raid on some drug factories to flush them out.  Unfortunately, the HYDRA agents that had been taken captive had mostly activated their cyanide pills, and those that hadn’t weren’t talking because they were much more concerned by what Viper would do to them than about any of the Avengers.  Steve and Bucky had both been banned from questioning any of them because of how close they were to the issue and Bucky wished Steve would do something to force them to be allowed.  Bucky understood HYDRA and he knew HYDRA understood him.  He’d only need twenty minutes and he knew he’d be able to get one of them singing like a bird.

Bucky had no idea what could have happened to you though.  Three options seemed most likely but he had no way of checking without breaking his orders and if he did that, it could mean the government would step in and have him arrested too, because if the Avengers can’t keep the Winter Soldier in line, then he was still a threat.  Yet, every minute that ticked by where you and Geo were still missing, he felt closer to just breaking orders anyway.   He knew HYDRA - and the way he figured you had either been moved off the island by helicopter or boat, you were being kept somewhere in the city with a private garage, or you’d been taken underground.

The worst part was Steve was ignoring him.  The pain Bucky felt from that was almost physical.  Like something had been torn out from his chest.  He wanted something - anything - to help him deal with this loss.  Comfort from his best friend and lover.  Orders to go follow through on.  Permission to question the prisoners or to look into his own leads.  Anything to make him feel less alone and useless.

He spent the night and most of the morning in the apartment waiting for Steve to come home or send for him.  He’d ask FRIDAY to make sure Steve knew he was waiting for orders and that he wanted to help.  He even called up Hill and asked her if there was anything he could do - and nothing.  All he was getting was dead air.  By lunch, he went to speak to his therapist.  He’d been listened to and in the end told that if he wanted to do something, he should go and confront Steve.  So he went straight up to the command room and stalked inside.

Tony was moving from one computer screen to another moving things around and tapping away on the keyboards.  Steve looked up when Bucky came in but his attention went straight back to the file he was looking at.

“Tony,” Steve said, without acknowledging Bucky.  “Can you do a scan on the city, see if there are any suspicious underground structures?   Maybe if we compare it to a public works map…?”

“You’ve got it, Cap,” Tony said and typed something into the computer.   “Will need to do a couple of adjustments on the Legion, but it shouldn’t take me too long.”

When Steve continued to ignore him, Bucky stalked over and leaned against the desk beside Steve, folding his arms over his chest.  The lights flickered in the building and Tony looked up.  “FRIDAY, what was that?”

“Brief power surge from outside,” the AI replied.  “I apologize, sir.”

“Just… don’t let it happen again,” Tony said.

“You just gonna ignore me?”  Bucky asked.

Steve sighed and looked up.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “It’s not you…”

“Yeah?”  Bucky said.  “Kinda feels like it’s me.”

Steve stood up.  “Let me know if anything pops up,” he said to Tony.

Tony looked up for a second.  “About time you took a break,” he said.  “Go on, I’ll keep watch.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve said and nodded to the elevator.  “Let’s talk.”

Bucky followed Steve to the elevator and leaned against the back wall.  “I lost them too, you know?”  He growled.

“I know,” Steve said, his eyes dropping to the floor.

“So what?  I gotta lose you too?”

The electricity flicked again and the elevator stuttered.  Bucky instantly went on edge, his mind immediately going to an attack.  Steve looked up and furrowed his brow.

“Sorry, Captain Rogers,” FRIDAY said, quickly. “We don’t use the city’s power supply, but we’re linked into it and feed excess power to the grid.  There seem to be intermittent surges from an outside source that are affecting our supply.  I’m working on a fix.”

“Thank you, FRIDAY,” Steve said and turned his attention back to Bucky.  “This is my fault.  We’ve lost her because I became complacent.”

The doors slid open onto their floor and Bucky followed Steve down the hall to their apartment.  Steve hadn’t been back since you were taken and Bucky noticed his eyes lingered on the coffee table where Geo’s Lego was still laying out.  Bucky could picture what was going on in Steve’s head because he’d been thinking the same thing all day.  ‘What were the chances that you and Geo were still alive if all they needed from you was your DNA?’

“So what?  I don’t even get to help?”  Bucky asked.  It snapped Steve’s attention back to him and he shook his head like he was trying to clear it.

“I just feel so guilty,” Steve said, making his way to the coffee machine and starting to fix a pot of coffee.  “You should hate me.”

Bucky frowned and stepped up behind Steve.  He wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist, gripping his hip with his flesh hand making sure his forearm pressed along Steve’s stomach.  The metal hand he pushed against Steve’s chest, holding him tightly.  “This isn’t your fault.  It’s Viper’s fault.  We both thought she was safe.  Even she thought she was safe.  Stop punishing yourself,” Bucky whispered, his lips brushing against Steve’s ear as he spoke.  “But more importantly, stop punishing me.”

Steve turned and looked at Bucky.  “I’m sorry… I’m not…”

“You think you’re blaming yourself?”  Bucky interrupted.  “I’ve been willing something like this to happen since we first got together and every new good thing that happened I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I never thought I’d get to have this and I was waiting for the rest of you to be punished since I got here.  And now they’ve been taken - by the very people who had me and used me as their own personal soldier toy.  I know… logically that what’s going on has nothing to do with what happened to me - but Steve - I also know that it’s everything to do with what happened to me.”

Steve frowned and took Bucky’s hand.  “Buck…”

Bucky pulled his hand away and shook his head.  “And since we got back, you’ve been avoiding me so now I have absolutely no doubt it has to do with me.  Because if it wasn’t my fault you’d have asked me to help.  So I’ve been sitting here, hoping that you’ll at least give me something to do because you’re sure as hell not going to tell me it’s not my fault or lean on me for support when I’m to blame.  And then when you wouldn’t even use me as a weapon - when I know HYDRA better than anyone else - I went to therapy.  The therapist told me to come to you and tell you how I felt.  So here I am, Steve.  I know this is my fault even if it isn’t and I need you to use me.”

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve said and pulled Bucky close, wrapping him in his arms and holding him.  “I’m sorry.  I should have at least kept you in the loop.  I am so afraid right now, and I never feel like that.  I am always so sure about every choice I make and I’m terrified and I feel useless.”

Bucky nuzzled into Steve’s neck and held him too.  “I wanna help,” Bucky said.  “Let me go interrogate someone.  I know how they work.”

Steve nodded.  “I think it’s about time we both go make that happen.  I warned Viper of what would happen if she threatened my family.”

Bucky let out a soft puff of air against Steve’s neck.  Almost a laugh but not quite and coming from a place of relief more than humor.  “Well... we better make good on our word.”

Bucky very slowly pulled back, as he did, Steve leaned in and kissed him.  Bucky flinched at first, not quite expecting it, but soon melted into the kiss, first matching the tender caress of Steve’s lips and then tilting his head and deepening it.  There was something to the kiss that wasn’t usually there.  A need that had nothing to do with sex or passion, and everything to do with a need for affection and support.

The lights flickered again and then seemed to flash, first three long times on and off, then three short, and three long again.

Steve and Bucky both pulled apart quickly and looked up.  “FRIDAY?  Was that…?”  Steve asked.

“Sir,” FRIDAY replied, sounding very uncertain for the AI that usually knew everything.  “I think… I think Geo is sending us a message.”

// NEXT

[moss-loves-the-bad-kids]

For a person who has only witnessed death firsthand a couple of times, I sure do think about it a lot. Therefore, I’ve been considering things like graves and memorials as they relate to characters and stories! Specifically, Alistair Ash.

Cw for general talk of death, and also mentions of episode 6 events.

(Also I know it doesn’t make sense because he comes back in pirol but in this writing Alistair is a ghost here in the material plane)

• • •

The first time Alistair tried to visit his grave, he wasn’t expecting much.

What he got was nothing. Not a note, not a stone, not some graffiti of his name scratched into the boards. Not even a pebble to mark what had happened here.

Of course he wouldn’t have received a memorial. He was a lowly street urchin with no friends or family to speak of on a pirate island, not people typically known for their selfless acts. Not people who build grand memorials to strangers. Even so, he had hoped for more than this. More than a time-darkened blood spot on the piss-stained boards at Crow’s Keep.

He just sat there, crying for hours. A lonely, wailing ghost. He did not return for a year.

• • •

The second time Alistair tried to visit his grave, he already knew what to expect.

He sat on the ground in the crisp night air. Running his fingertips over the stained spots, he kept a tight leash on his mind. No sense allowing it to wander back to that night.

“Why are ye here?”

Alistair whipped his head around, turning to face the spectral figure seated on a barrel behind him. He was a Tabaxi pirate, quite tall, with an intricate and delicately woven headscarf obscuring all but his eyes. Alistair recognized him as another from the Cult of Old Bill.

“What… what do you mean?”

The pirate, Shotgun, crossed his legs and leaned back against the manor house. “I mean what I said, lad. Why are ye here?” His voice was soft and rough, years of shouting orders at an unruly crew peeking out from behind the soft tone one uses when speaking to a child. It was soothing.

Alistair shook his head, earrings jingling quietly. “I- I dunno what you’re sayin’, why wouldn’t I be here?”

Shotgun stretched his arms above his head, eyes shut tightly as his body shimmered and thinned, threatening to come apart at any second. The sword. Shotgun was torn apart by the sword. Alistair shuddered.

“Because yer grave is not present anymore.”

A chill went down Alistair’s spine. “I- huh? ‘Anymore’? I don’t… I didn’t think…”

“Ye did not have a proper grave here, aye. Even so, this is not yer place anymore. I can feel as much.”

“Then… where am I s’posed to be?”

Shotgun sat forward, uncrossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes looked gentle, gazing down at someone harmed so young.

“I cannot answer where ye should be, but I trust that ye could, should ye try.”

Alistair thought about it, closing his eyes and trying to feel a pull. Any direction would do, just something to bring him away. An icy cold seeped into his core as he searched, feeling his temporary form shiver with the effort. He reached out, past the decks of Crow’s Keep, down into the city, and further across the ocean. He turned to Fallinel, the Nightmare King’s Forest, Frosthiem… when he reached Solace, he felt it. A gentle tug in his chest.

He opened his eyes to say as such to Shotgun, but he was gone. Alistair glanced around quickly, then closed his eyes and reached back to that tug.

When he opened his eyes, he was in a wide hallway.

The walls were pale and adorned with elegant wallpaper, reaching 12 feet high. Intricate nautical sconces lead down the hall, casting gold lamplight across the plaster walls and mahogany floorboards. Beautiful arched doorways carved of dark wood set in the walls, no doubt leading to more glamorous rooms. The casual decadence rivaled that of the Gold Gardens. Alistair turned to take it in, and as he did so, something behind him drew his eye.

There, set within the plaster, was a round little alcove. There weren’t any on the opposite wall, but here, the recess held a small shelf, a scattering of candles, and a dish overflowing with gold coins.

Atop the shelf was a small framed sketch of his face.

Little rings and trinkets crafted of gold wire surrounded it.

A strip of red cedar below it bore gilded letters, forming his name.

Alistair Ash.

Before he could think, before he could process the reality of the shelf in front of him, he heard voices from around a corner.

Turning to look just as footsteps rounded the bend, Alistair Ash came face to face with Fabian Seacaster.

He was walking next to Riz, hands in his pockets and a smile across his face. Alistair didn’t catch all of what they were talking about, but it sounded comfortable, casual. No talk of adventures or clues. Fabian looked at Riz, looked at the hall ahead of them… looked at Alistair.

Alistair froze.

Without missing a beat, Fabian rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a coin, and said, “Catch.” He flipped it into the air at Alistair, who reached out a palm, dumbfounded.

The coin sailed through him and into the dish at his back.

As Fabian and Riz kept walking, Alistair turned again. He looked at the pile of coins filling the dish, overflowing into the alcove. That was… practiced. Fabian had done that before. Maybe a hundred times.

A door opened behind him but Alistair didn’t turn around. He kept his gaze fixed on the portrait sketch of himself. It wasn’t quite there, but it was him. Signed in the bottom corner by Kristen Applebees. Tears pricked at his eyes and his chest shook. He took a deep breath, but it didn’t steady him. A sob choked in his throat.

The two voices faded as the door shut, and Alistair was once again alone. But he wasn’t alone, was he? They had made a memorial to him. Without even knowing him, they set up a shelf in his memory.

It was everything he could have hoped for.

[whitesparrows97]

Head In The Clouds

Pairing: Jung Hoseok x Reader

Genre: Strangers to Lovers AU

Summary: When things get too much at home, you book a flight to the other end of the world to escape your thoughts for a few days. The fact that you meet a handsome stranger on this flight, who distracts you from the intrusive thoughts of your ex-boyfriend, is more than convenient. So far off the ground, it’s only a matter of time before feelings and desires run high and one thing leads to another.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content including fingering in public, risk of discovery, protected vaginal sex, light choking, being insecure after sex

Word Count: 9.1K

Author’s note: Hi! After getting your positive feedback to post this, I’m doing just that. I get that at times like right now, getting away as easily as in this story is not possible and being stuck at home can be difficult. But I hope that this story helps at least a little bit to take your minds off things for a little while! 

You had to get away. You hadn’t cared about where, as long as you brought as much distance between you and your boyfriend as possible. Ex-boyfriend, you corrected yourself in your thoughts. This addition still felt strange to even think. The last five years had been a waste of time. In retrospect, all the energy and time you had put into the relationship would have been better spent on something else, something better. Something better, that’s what he had said to you as well when you caught him with another woman doing it on the kitchen counter. You had to suppress the gag reflex that was building up inside you when the image of the two of them came back to your mind. 

Maybe it had been the first shock, but maybe you were just too naive, too gullible and that was why you hadn’t turned 180 degrees at that sight and left your ex-boyfriend behind without any further explanation. Because did it even need that? An explanation? It had been more than clear what had happened and actually you should have be above it all. Actually, you should have rolled your eyes and left after the first desperate attempts of your ex-boyfriend to explain what happened. But you just weren’t like that. Unlike him, you wanted to give both of you another chance. 

She is simply better than you. 

This sentence echoed in your head for weeks now and it was almost comforting. Had you made a mistake at work? Well, others were just better than you. Did you argue with your parents again because you were supposedly not helping enough in the household? So what, you just couldn’t keep up with your siblings’ diligence. Another reason why you had to go away for a few days. You had shared the apartment with your ex-boyfriend and finally found some of your pride again. So two days later, when you knew he was at work, you had packed your stuff together and moved back in with your parents for a while. You hadn’t been aware of how difficult it was to live at home again after living alone for so long. As grateful as you were to them for taking you back in this situation of need, you just wanted to have your peace and quiet after work.

You sighed with exhaustion as you dropped into the waiting area of the terminal and put your backpack on the seat next to you. Getting here at all had been almost impossible. Your mother had tried for hours to convince you that such hasty decisions would never end well and that you would be homesick by the time the flight started. But to get homesick, you needed a place you could call home. Your ex-boyfriend had taken all that from you when he threw away your five years of relationship. He had taken that feeling of familiarity with him. Since then, everything seemed dull, somehow strange. You even watched your own reflection, wondering if that was really you. If you were the mistake, the reason why your ex-boyfriend had cheated on you. 

You are not spontaneous enough. I feel like we’re already eighty and have been married for sixty years. The relationship is in a rut. 

Whether that was the reason why you were now bouncing your leg up and down in excitement and nervously looking at the screen of your phone to see what time it was, you didn’t know. You were doing exactly what your ex-boyfriend had criticized you for and you had the feeling that you were still being controlled by him. He had determined the last five years of your life, it had to end now. After all, he had put an end to it months ago. 

You listened to the announcements of the staff echoing through the airport while you waited for the boarding to begin. You had arrived at the airport too early as usual, which was a miracle when you thought back to all the discussions with your mother, who had tried to persuade you to stay. But a few days somewhere else would probably not only do you good, but also your parents. It must have been difficult for them too to share the house with you again. But it was almost destiny when you saw the post on Facebook of a friend of your family who was subletting his apartment. He had bought a vacation apartment in Sweden years, if not more than a decade ago. Maybe that was why your mother had given in at some point because she knew the friend well and knew that you were in good hands there. And it was only for a few days. A few days in which you hopefully would find yourself again and were able to organize your thoughts. 

You stared into the distance as countless thoughts flashed through your head and you watched the many planes landing and taking off, which you could observe through the countless windows. That was why you missed the glances of a young man who had sat down in a seat opposite you. You crossed your legs so that you wouldn’t bounce your leg up and down anymore and tried to relax a bit. It was the first time you flew alone. In the past your parents were always there, later either your ex-boyfriend or your friends. During the last hours you hadn’t had time to think about what could go wrong. But now that you were alone in the terminal waiting for your flight and had nothing to do but exactly that, waiting, you had time to think. You had forgotten in your hurry that flying meant mainly waiting. You arrived hours earlier, only to either queue up in rows, waiting for the plane to be ready to take off or for you to finally arrive at your destination. Oh, how nice it would be if you could teleport. 

Again, a soft sigh escaped you as you watched the people around you to see with whom you would spend the next hours. It was strange, you didn’t know each other and spent hours with them in the most confined space. You shared the toilet with strangers and even fell asleep next to each other. That was more than you could say about your first boyfriend back then. Your gaze lingered on a young man, about your age, who was sitting directly opposite you. He wore a face mask, so that half of his face was covered. His gaze was on his phone, which he held in one hand, and he seemed to be listening to music through the headphones that were in his ears as he gently bobbed his head up and down. 

Your eyes wandered further down over the dark green hoodie and the torn jeans, which gave you an excellent view of his naturally tanned skin on his knees. You looked up again and your heart almost stopped as you looked straight into the eyes of the stranger. Quickly you looked to the side and you felt your cheeks getting hot with embarrassment as you realized that he had caught you checking him out more than obviously. You felt his gaze on you and tried to ignore the urge to look back at him and see if you were right with your feelings or just imagined it. It was worth a try, it was unlikely that he was still looking at you. Right? He probably had a short laugh and then turned back to his music. 

You risked it and your gaze quickly slipped to the stranger and back again. Nope, he still stared at you and if you had seen it right in the hurry, he grinned. At least if you interpreted it correctly, how his eyes had formed into small crescents, the rest was still hidden under the mask. You cleared your throat because you had the feeling that a lump had formed in your throat. With numb fingers you fished your phone out of your pocket again and tried to distract yourself with social media while you still could. Once you were in the air, you had to rely on your book, which you had packed especially for the flight. 

You could feel how you relaxed a bit when you turned your focus and concentration away from the man’s stare. For the next few minutes, you continued absent-mindedly scrolling through your Instagram feed, which felt like it was repeating every day before your flight was finally announced and boarding began. When you looked up and tried to grab your backpack, you unconsciously took a quick glance at the seat opposite you. Your heart sank when you realized that it was empty.

And that was exactly the reason why you could never meet new people. You have had the perfect opportunity to talk to him. After all, you already had his attention, and a quick chat before the flight would probably not have been a bad idea. Just to calm down your thoughts, which just shot through the ceiling again at the upcoming flight.

You were a little angry at yourself for blowing this chance when you lined up to get on the plane. You forced a smile when you held your phone on the scanner and shuffled after the other passengers as the employee wished you a good flight and you thankfully put your phone back in your pocket. Although you had booked the flight so spontaneously, you were even able to get a seat by the window. You couldn’t imagine sitting for hours in the aisle or worse, in the middle. You needed the comfort you felt that at least on one side you had no one sitting next to you or constantly passing you. 

As you walked through the narrow corridor looking for your seat, you noticed that the plane in general, fortunately, did not seem to be too crowded. But what did you expect for one of the last flights of the day and in the middle of the week? Maybe you were lucky and the two seats next to you would be free so you had a little more room to perhaps even lie down. You had a busy day, which was very beneficial to you because you would probably fall asleep soon and sleep through most of the flight. This was the only good way to spend such a long flight. 

Almost at the end of the plane you finally spotted your seat number. As you lowered your eyes, you could see familiar brown, slightly tousled hair looking over the seat of the row in front of you. Your breath faltered when you realized who was sitting directly in the seat next to yours. Before you could think too much, he had looked up from his phone when he noticed you standing hesitantly in the aisle in front of the row of seats. 

“Oh, are you sitting here?” he asked and gestured to the seat next to him, which he was currently blocking. 

You smiled apologetically and nodded. “Sorry, if I had known that someone was sitting next to me, I would have gotten in line earlier.” You watched him stand up and duck his head so he wouldn’t bump his head. 

But he waved his hand in reassurance. “No problem, I could have got on later as well.” He threw you a smile again, which you at least interpreted as one. You wondered if you would ever see his face without a mask. You took a step back to give him enough room and tried not to let your surprise show when you noticed how much he towered over you. But maybe it just seemed that way in the small space when you looked up to him intimidated when he was standing right in front of you. “There you go,” he said, and made a broad arm movement into the row of seats and you had to laugh softly as he bowed to you. You almost felt as if you were getting into a luxury limousine and not letting yourself fall on the sat through seat in economy class of an airplane. 

He also sat down again on the seat next to you while you tried to make the very limited space you had available for the next hours as comfortable as possible. You felt his eyes on you again and looked up with curiosity. It seemed as if he had been caught before he regained his composure and his gaze glided to the backpack that you were still holding between your legs. “Do you need help with that?” he asked with a nod in that direction, “I can put it in the top storage for you. You don’t need to be afraid to ask if you need it again,” he explained to you immediately when he noticed your hesitation. 

You thought briefly about his offer. It would certainly be more comfortable if you had a bit more legroom and could stretch your legs a bit every now and then. And if he already offered that you could always ask him if you needed something from your backpack, he really didn’t seem to mind. So you accepted his offer with a smile. When you handed your backpack to him, your fingers brushed against each other and you had to suppress a pleasant shiver. 

Quickly you leaned back in your seat and stared intently out the oval window, hoping that he didn’t notice your awkwardness too much. 

What was the probability that your seat was next to his? Even though you had never been very good at math in school, even you knew that the probability was very low. Either fate was particularly fond of you and gave you a second chance after you screwed up the first one. Or it laughed at you and wanted to see you suffer, because you were probably thinking of nothing else but the attractive man next to you for the next few hours. You watched out of the corner of your eye as he pulled down the table in front of him and put his laptop on it. Okay, good. He seemed to be busy and had no intention of keeping the conversation going. That was convenient for you and you were by no means disappointed because you wanted to know more about him. No, that would be strange. He had just been friendly, that was all. 

In order to stop sitting oddly next to him, you reached for your book and turned to the page where you had stopped. You still had a good two-thirds to go and, even if you couldn’t get a wink of sleep, you definitely wouldn’t be able to finish it. The reading did you good, it distracted you from the turbulent start and the warmth radiated from the man next to you. Every line more you read, pulled you further and further into the spell of the story. You did not know how much time had passed, but when you looked up, your neck hurt, which had been bent down all the time. You groaned softly and rubbed your neck to release the tension. Then you heard a soft laugh next to you that made you look to the side. 

“Murakami, huh?” he asked without taking his eyes off his laptop screen. “I understand why you were so absorbed in the book.”

Surprised, you stared at him and unconsciously stroked the cover of the book. “Have you read any of his books?” Your gaze slipped further down and only now did you realize that he had taken off his mask. It was almost unfair how good-looking he was. How his dark red lips curled up into a little laugh or his jaw, over which you would love to let your finger slide. You didn’t even want to begin with his delicate nose, on which sat round glasses with a filigree frame.

He nodded and turned his gaze from the monitor to you. “A few?” he asked almost shocked, “Almost all of them, and let me tell you, there are not exactly a few,” he laughed and you couldn’t hold back your smile. “Is this your first book by him?”

You nodded, somewhat embarrassed. He seemed to know so much about the author while you were still stuck on page 250 of the first book. “That obvious?”

He shrugged his shoulders and let himself fall into the seat where he had previously leaned forward to see the screen better. “1Q84 is probably the first book of many by Murakami. Do you like his writing style?” You hesitated a bit, you didn’t want to spoil it by criticizing his possibly favorite author. But he seemed to notice your hesitation and had to laugh. “You can be honest, I think he’s written better books than this series.”

“Oh, really? Which one do you recommend?”

“Definitely Kafka on the shore,” he said without batting an eyelid. “A friend of mine is also enthusiastic about Hard-Boiled Wonderland, but to be honest I never really enjoyed it much.” His eyes fell on the book you were still holding tightly on your lap. “But read the other two books from the series first.”

Slightly surprised, you raised your eyebrows. “What, there are more parts to the story?”

He laughed softly and you watched him as his slim, long fingers reached for the laptop and slowly closed it. “People are always surprised because they only know the first book,” he said more to himself than to you, before he turned towards you and smiled at you. “I am Hoseok.” He held out his hand to you and you gladly took it. 

“Y/N,” you introduced yourself and his smile grew a bit wider. 

„Nice to meet you, Y/N,“ he said and his brown eyes almost burned into you as he looked at you. His hand held yours for a moment longer before he let go and looked to the side. Only now could you breathe again. You didn’t know what it was about him, but you felt your own heartbeat rushing in your ears, which even drowned out the roar of the turbines. “Are you staying in Sweden, or is this a stopover for you?”

You were taken aback for a moment that he was still seeking the conversation. “Oh, I’m staying in Sweden. An acquaintance has a vacation apartment there and I just wanted to get out for a while.”

“Ah, how nice,” he sighed, “And I completely understand, sometimes you get a little stir-crazy, right?”

You hummed in agreement. “Especially when you moved back in with your parents. How did you put up with them as a teenager?”

Hoseok laughed. “As much as you love them, but what’s the saying? Everything in moderation.” You felt his gaze on you and sensed that he was assessing whether he could ask the next question or should keep it to himself. He decided on the former. “May I ask how you ended up living at home again?”

You sighed, did you really want to tell a stranger your worries and problems? You decided on a short version, you did not want to bore him right after a few minutes of conversation. “Long story, actually. In short, I shared an apartment with my boyfriend, sorry, ex-boyfriend. He cheated on me and I didn’t find a new apartment in a hurry. That’s why I have to live with my parents again. But probably better than living on the street.”

“Okay, wow,” he said after your monologue and you already regretted having opened your mouth at all. “You moved out even though he cheated on you?”

Oh, that was not the reaction you were expecting. “Yeah, I couldn’t kick him out of the apartment and I didn’t want to live with him anymore.”

“Understandably,” Hoseok added, “but if I had been in your place, I would have put his things on the street and changed the locks. Oh, what am I saying? I would have thrown his belongings right out of the window, so he would have had to pick them up himself from the sidewalk.”

You laughed at his statement. “You’re right, but I just wanted to get away at that moment.” Your smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. All that remained was a frown. 

“Cheating sucks, I hate people who do this to their partner,” Hoseok continued the conversation, which had briefly drifted into an oppressive silence. 

“Me too,” you agreed with a sigh. But then you were seized with courage. You had told him something intimate that you had hardly told anyone before, except your closest friends and your parents. And that was the only reason you asked the next question. “What about you? Do you have a girlfriend?”

He smiled, almost embarrassed and briefly avoided your gaze. “I work a lot, to be honest,” he began to explain and pointed to his laptop, “My last girlfriend didn’t handle it so well that I didn’t have that much time. Instead of making her a priority, I mistakenly thought she had to accept that work comes first.” He glanced around briefly as if he remembered a moment from the past that was hidden from you. Then he pulled himself together again and gave you a warm, sincere smile. “Now I know better.”

“Relationships are complicated,” you said, putting your book aside. On the one hand, to suggest to Hoseok that you wanted to keep talking to him, and on the other hand, to stop your fingers from continuing to play nervously with the cover, which was already beginning to peel off. 

“Not with the right person,” Hoseok contradicted you and winked at you. He winked at you. Your jaw almost dropped at the sight of it, and you pulled yourself together to keep your facial features in place as best you could while you frantically searched for an answer. 

“It’s just not so easy to find the right person,” you admitted shyly, playing with your fingers because the book was out of reach.

“Well, maybe they’re closer than you think,” you heard Hoseok say next to you, and as the words left his mouth, your gaze shot back to him, which you had previously fixed on your thigh. He grinned at you before he opened his laptop without another word and continued working on his project. 

Should you say something? You didn’t want to interrupt him at work, but you didn’t want your conversation to end either. As you wrestled with yourself further whether you should speak to him or not, the grin grew on Hoseok’s face, which you didn’t even notice, so much you were absorbed in thought. So you flinched slightly when you suddenly felt a hand on your chin that gently turned your head in his direction. You looked at Hoseok with big eyes, completely taken aback by the sudden touch. 

“Your ex-boyfriend was a complete idiot for cheating on someone like you. I wonder how he could think that he could find someone better like you. Don’t let an idiot like him fuck up your confidence. I’ve only known you for a short time, but you seem like an incredible woman who deserves so much more in life than that.” He threw a sad smile at you, and you wondered if he had experienced something similar. “I see how insecure you are, and of course I don’t know if this is related to that or maybe it’s because of me. But let me tell you one thing quite openly from man to woman: You are incredibly attractive, smart, have a good sense for books,” you laughed softly at this comment, “and you’re an excellent partner in conversation. I’m glad I’m sitting next to you and not next to Elizabeth, who had been telling me non-stop about her terrific son Jasper on my last flight.”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter and Hoseok let go of your chin before he joined in your laughter. “Well, then, Hoseok, your standards are very low.” You remembered a sentence that almost got lost in his short monologue. “Besides, it’s not because of you that I’m so insecure. I mean, a little bit. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? Who wouldn’t get nervous? But I’m not uncomfortable with you, if that’s what you meant.”

Hoseok grinned at your words and only now did you realize what you had just said. “So you find me attractive?”

Confused, you pulled your eyebrows together. “Are you serious?” You didn’t know whether he was just playing with you and trying to get you to come out of your shell, or whether he was really a little insecure. So you decided not to tease him, but to be honest. You had nothing to lose anyway. “If it makes you happy, you’re just my type.”

“I see,” Hoseok said, and you watched him as his gaze flitted across your face and finally caught on your lips for a moment. You took a deep breath as you looked back at Hoseok, the unspoken question hanging between you. The passenger compartment had calmed down a bit, most people were focused on their books, magazines or laptops and some had already prepared for sleep. When you looked past Hoseok for a moment, you noticed that it had become almost dark outside. Dark blue changed to black and there was hardly anything else but darkness. 

Hoseok embraced your face and immediately your attention was back on him. He slowly and gently stroked your cheek with his thumb and you wanted to melt into the seat right there and then. No one had touched you so tenderly for months, if not years. Nervously you bit your lip as you weighed the pros and cons. What happened if the kiss was weird and you had to sit next to each other for hours afterwards? Was it inappropriate to kiss someone else so soon after the breakup with your ex-boyfriend? Why did you even bother about what others, especially your ex-boyfriend, thought of you?

Hoseok exhaled with amusement and shook his head. “I see you thinking, you know that?”

“Sorry,” you muttered and lowered your head in shame. But Hoseok also raised his other hand and now embraced your face from both sides, so you had to look at him. 

“I won’t do anything that you are not one hundred percent comfortable with. Deal?” You nodded in agreement. “So, baby, tell me what I can do to make you feel good.”

You were taken aback by his question and your heart leapt at the pet name he had addressed you by. You no longer knew how words and language worked. But Hoseok noticed your hesitation and you held your breath as he moved a little closer. You felt his hot breath on your face and instinctively closed your eyes. Light as a feather, you felt his lips as they gently brushed against yours, but not yet touching yours completely. “Is a kiss a good start?” he whispered and you nodded eagerly.

Without wasting another second he pressed his soft lips on yours. You sighed as he took a hand off your cheek and buried it in your hair. He pressed himself closer against you as far as the armrest between you allowed and you pulled him a little closer to you by his hoodie. He could barely be close enough to you. The warmth he radiated immersed you in an indefinable veil of lust and desire. It wasn’t long before he opened his mouth and you felt his tongue on your lips. With a smile you opened your mouth more than willingly and immediately he pushed into you. You had to suppress a moan as he explored your mouth extensively and savored your taste. 

“Shh,” Hoseok whispered against your lips and the vibration of the words on your lips sent a shiver through your whole body. His thumb gently stroked your lips as if to emphasize his words, and an almost desperate whimper escaped you. “We don’t want to wake up the other passengers, do we?” he exhaled and his hot breath grazed your face. 

With your eyes still closed you shook your head and your lips found his again. His lips were soft and your mouths moved together in an almost familiar rhythm. Willingly you buried your fingers in his hair to draw him even closer to you and feel his body against yours. Hoseok grunted dissatisfied and reluctantly separated from you. He reached between your two bodies and a moment later he pushed the armrest between your two seats upwards.

“Better,” he murmured and pressed his mouth firmly back onto yours again. A soft sigh escaped you when you could finally turn to the side on your seat and he pressed you tightly against him. Your fingers curiously explored the muscles that were hidden under his t-shirt and he sighed into the kiss as you slid your fingers under it to let your fingers dance right over his skin. He exhaled trembling when you touched him and you had to stifle a grin. 

Meanwhile, one of his hands moved down your side and hip before finally resting on your thigh, where his thumb made circling movements. You drew in the air sharply as his thumb stroked the inside of your leg, sending a wave of excitement through you. The feeling took you by surprise so much that you didn’t even realize how you had stopped to respond to the kiss. Only when Hoseok’s head moved away from you and looked at you waiting, did you open your eyes and notice your slight freeze.

“Is that going too far?” he asked with concern and your eyes widened at his assumption.

Immediately you shook your head. “Not at all,” you said quietly, so that none of the passengers sitting around you would know anything about your conversation. Then you had to laugh softly and briefly dodged his questioning look. “On the contrary. If you continue like this, I just don’t know if I can hold myself back.”

At these words, Hoseok had to smile before it turned into a dirty grin. “Then I guess I’d better stop, right?” Contrary to his words, he started circling his thumb on the inside of your thigh again. Your eyes fluttered closed at the touch and millimeter by millimeter Hoseok worked his way up between your legs. “On the other hand,” Hoseok began and paused, sliding his thumb right between your legs and slowly stroking the fabric of your jeans. You had to bite your lower lip hard to keep from moaning. “What should the crew do? Throw us out?”

You had to giggle, even though you knew there would be other ways to punish you for your inappropriate behavior.

“I would take my chances,” you whispered and smiled honestly at him. That was the last confirmation Hoseok had been waiting for. He released the grip around your thigh and unbuttoned your jeans. His gaze almost pierced you as he slowly, almost teasingly, pulled the zipper down before he let his hand slide in. 

He pressed his lips to yours just at the moment when a surprised moan left your lips as you felt his fingers right against your naked skin. You straightened up to give him better access to your pants and immediately his long, narrow fingers slid deeper. He had to feel how wet you were as he slid one of his fingers along the length of your labia and then circled your opening. Slowly he began to penetrate you with the tip of his finger before pulling back again. He repeated this movement a few times until you were sure that your panties would be completely soaked. You could not remember ever having been so wet. Your ex-boyfriend and you had mostly used lube to make it more comfortable. But now you were sure that Hoseok would be able to penetrate you just like that.

At the thought of Hoseok cock you inevitably clenched around nothing. You managed a soft whimper and Hoseok felt pity for you as he pushed his finger completely inside you. You held your breath and had to squeeze your eyes together when he immediately started to curl his finger to find the slightly rough spot inside you that made you see black spots behind your eyes. You were more than happy about the loud turbine noise of the plane, because otherwise you were sure that the other passengers would hear how wet you were. 

“Hoseok,” you brought out between wet kisses and grabbed his forearm. “Can we go somewhere else?”

“Bathroom?” he asked straight away and you nodded. He pressed a short kiss on your lips before he slowly pulled his finger out of you. With a mixture of fascination and pure lust, he looked at his glistening finger, which had been buried deep inside you just a few moments before. “Fuck, baby,” he said softly, and you almost didn’t hear him over the sounds of your surroundings. He moved closer to you and breathed into your ear, “You turn me on so much, you have no idea. God, I’m so hard, it almost hurts.”

You whimpered as your abdomen contracted painfully around nothing at his words. Without a second thought, you broke away from him and feverishly searched your purse for the small box you always carried with you. Just in case. You would never have expected that you would use it today. You rustled and rummaged and almost let out a cry of relief when your fingers closed around the little box.

“Shhh,” someone in front of you suddenly hissed, and when you looked up, you looked directly into the annoyed eyes of the man in front of you, who had turned around during your rummaging and glared at you from between the seats.

“Sorry,” you hissed back as well, although you felt the heat spreading to your cheeks. You didn’t even want to know what you looked like right now – reddened cheeks, tangled hair and bloody kissed lips. But your tone of voice seemed to surprise him a bit, so he turned around without another word. 

“Wow, you can be really scary,” Hoseok laughed in your ear, and his breath tickled as the gust of air released one of your strands of hair. 

“Shut up,” you mumbled and nodded towards the end of the plane where the nearest toilets were at. 

He just shook his head laughing as he slipped into the seat next to him and then straightened up. You waited a moment, which you used to button your pants again, even though you were sure that nobody was paying attention to you two anyway. As you bridged the last meters with wobbly legs, you noticed in relief that the row behind you, and thus the last row in the plane, had remained empty on both sides. You took a quick look over your shoulder backwards before you followed Hoseok into the narrow bathroom where he held the door open for you.

“Fuck, this is smaller than I thought,” you said in surprise as you let your gaze slide through the small room.

But Hoseok just shrugged his shoulders and leaned close to you to lower the cover of the toilet. “We’ll work it out,” he reassured you and winked at you. Your stomach did somersaults again and you cursed Hoseok for the effect he had on you without much effort.

“Do you have any preferences or anything you don’t like at all?”

You thought about it for a moment, but then you shook your head. “Except anal. Not a fan of that.”

With a smile on his face, Hoseok grabbed the small box you were still holding tightly and had almost forgotten about. “Okay, good to know,” he said with a quick glance into your eyes before opening the box and taking out a condom. He put both on the shelf of the sink behind him and turned back to you.

You already noticed how much the small room was heating up and without further ado you pulled your sweater over your head, which was already sticking to you. Carefully you put it on the toilet lid and made sure that it didn’t touch anything else. 

“You’re so hot, do you know that?” Hoseok muttered and firmly grabbed your hips. He pulled you against him and willingly you pressed your hips against his, where you immediately felt more than clearly his hard erection between your legs. You rubbed your hips against his a couple of times, causing Hoseok to grunt roughly. Without hesitation, he had turned you around so he could push you backwards against the sink and let his pelvis snap hard against yours. 

You moaned loudly before you could restrain yourself and immediately Hoseok’s index finger was on your lips. Almost disapprovingly he looked at you, but his eyes were sparkling treacherously with a grin. “We have to be careful, baby. Otherwise someone might catch and interrupt us. You don’t want that, do you?”

You shook your head. The thought that someone would stop you almost brought tears of frustration to your eyes. 

“Good,” Hoseok said softly and his gaze slipped back to your lips. “Then you’d better be a good girl and be careful not to make a sound.” He moved closer and added in a whisper, “Unless you want me to punish you.”

You moaned into the kiss that Hoseok pressed on your lips and at the sound, Hoseok grabbed your butt and kneaded it hard. He pressed his hips firmly against yours again and a wave of excitement flooded through you. Soon your fingers found their way to the buttons of his jeans and a second later you unbuttoned them and pulled them down over Hoseok’s butt. 

“Do you like it from behind?” Hoseok asked and he didn’t even have to finish the sentence, you had already turned 180 degrees.

“Fuck, yes,” you replied breathlessly and opened your jeans with skillful movements. You watched in the mirror hanging directly above the sink as Hoseok fixed his gaze on your butt and massaged it with both hands. To have a little more support, you leaned forward and placed your forearms on the sink. This inevitably pushed your butt and pelvis backwards, which pressed directly against Hoseok’s cock. Hoseok cursed at the contact and you had to suppress your grin.

“God, baby, I can’t wait to be inside you,” he said and you watched him in the mirror as he reached into his boxers and pulled out his cock. Your mouth watered as he wrapped his hand tightly around himself and stroked it up and down a few times. Then he grabbed the condom with one hand and returned your gaze firmly as he ripped open the package with his teeth. He grinned at you over your shoulder before he pushed your panties to the side and let his cock slide between your legs. You exhaled trembling as you felt the tip pressing against your opening and slowly penetrating you. Then Hoseok suddenly let his hips snap forward so that his cock pushed completely inside of you. Your mouth fell open to a silent scream as your inner walls were stretched by his thick cock. 

“Shhh,” Hoseok whispered and put his flat hand on your mouth so that no more sound came out of your mouth. You felt his cock slowly slide out of you before Hoseok pushed back into you with one quick movement. “Fuck, you’re so… argh, tight,” he managed to say through clenched teeth between his powerful thrusts. The obscene sound of clapping skin on skin filled the small space and you felt Hoseok squeeze your arousal out of you with each thrust, where it dripped down your thighs. 

Hoseok released his hand from your mouth, and you pulled yourself together not to moan loudly with each of his thrusts. He let his hand go under your shirt and grabbed one of your breasts after he pushed your bra down. When he rolled your nipple between two of his fingers and pinched it hard, you had to bite your lips. He released his hand from your hip, which he had previously gripped tightly, and wrapped it around your upper body to straighten you up a moment later. Your back came into contact with his upper body and you felt his muscles and hard chest in your back.

“Hoseok-ah,” you moaned as you watched in the mirror as his cock slipped between your legs and disappeared deep inside you with each thrust. It was mesmerizing to watch and with each stroke you felt his cock rubbing against your g-spot, bringing you closer and closer to the edge of your orgasm. 

He also struggled to hold back with his sounds as he put his head on your shoulder and grunted in your ear. “You are fucking amazing,” he said, and focused on long, hard thrusts that pressed you firmly against the sink each time. “I can’t – fuck–” He picked up his pace and you too felt the knot in your abdomen tighten more and more. You trembled with excitement as you felt his fingers on your throat and your eyes flickered upwards to return his passionate gaze with which he was fixing you. Once he lightly squeezed with his fingers, your eyes fluttered shut with the sensation and you pulled yourself tight around his cock, which was still pumping in and out of you rigorously. “Oh baby, do you like to be choked?” His fingers closed tightly around your neck again and with an especially hard movement of his hips against your ass you came. 

Hoseok released his grip around your upper body and you used your elbows to support yourself on the sink. You covered your mouth when your orgasm came powerfully over you and Hoseok grabbed your hips with both hands to push hard into you a few more times before he also came and emptied himself into the condom. 

At the edge of your blurred perception, you heard him curse continuously before he finally came to a halt buried deep inside you. You both gasped for breath and you had to lay your heated forehead on the edge of the sink, so exhausted and spent you were. The coolness of the ceramic felt good and you closed your eyes for a moment. Only when Hoseok slowly pulled out of you and you heard him open the trash can next to the toilet to dispose the used condom, did you straighten up again. 

“Oh God,” you said breathlessly and heard Hoseok laugh behind you. When your gaze found his in the mirror, a bright smile spread across his face.

“I hope a good ‘Oh God’?” His fingers found your panties, which he put back in place and which you hadn’t even noticed. You were too focused on getting your breathing back under control and holding yourself upright on your shaky legs. He also helped you to pull your jeans back up.

You nodded and a little smile came over your face as you buttoned your pants and reached for your sweater. When you pulled it over your head and there was nothing but darkness around you for a brief moment, you felt your heart beating up to your neck. And you knew that it wasn’t just because of the physical effort and your orgasm. 

You were afraid if you were completely honest with yourself. 

What was that between you now? Were you just a quick fuck to him? And what was he to you? What did you want from him?

When your head came through the opening of your sweater, your eyes found Hoseok, who looked at you with a little smile on his lips.

“What?” you asked, laughing softly, but he shook his head briefly and took a step towards you, so that he stood right in front of you. 

He lifted his hand and his fingers stroked your hair gently, almost lovingly, “You are incredible, I just wanted to tell you that.”

His sentence hung in the air like a half spoken confession and you were frantically searching for an answer. You managed nothing more than a little laugh, though, and you felt the blood rush to your cheeks. His thumb stroked over them while he watched you. God, you couldn’t stop smiling. Especially not when he looked back at you with that grin. 

It was quiet between the two of you, only the loud engine noises of the airplane could be heard and for a short moment you had forgotten that you were several kilometers above the ground. This realization literally brought you back to earth and Hoseok seemed to realize this as well.

“We should go back,” you noticed after another moment when none of you moved from the spot.

Hoseok cleared his throat before nodding and letting his hand fall. “You’re probably right. Do you want to go first?”

“Okay,” you agreed with him and grabbed the small box that you put in the pocket of your hoodie. The two of you changed positions before you bent forward and pressed your ear against the door to check if someone was in the hallway. Except for the loud engines, you couldn’t hear anything. Your fingers found the latch of the door and pushed it aside. You turned to him again and said a quiet “See you in a moment,” before quickly squeezing out of the small room and closing the door behind you. 

You were more than happy when you dropped down to your seat, exhausted, and had not met anyone. It seemed as if most of the passengers had gone to sleep in the meantime, since the lights in the passenger compartment were also turned off for the most part. But you knew that at least for the next hour you wouldn’t be able to get any sleep. At least not if your heartbeat didn’t calm down soon and continued to throb in your ears.

But you were wrong. You noticed how Hoseok came back as well, but your eyelids had already become heavy. It seemed as if the stress of the past weeks was finally catching up with you and your body was getting what it desperately needed and why you had gone away in the first place: rest. And sleep.

The last thing you noticed that night was your head falling to the side and landing on something hard and a soft touch on your cheek.

The next time you opened your eyes, you had no idea how much time had passed. You blinked the sleep out of your eyes and straightened yourself up with a soft groan when you realized how your whole body hurt. Confused, you squinted as the sun and sudden brightness blinded you. You could swear that it had been pitch black a moment before. Astonished, you turned your head and winced when you noticed how stiff your neck was. 

“Good morning,” said a soft voice and blinking, you looked up at the person sitting next to you. Hoseok had a warm smile on his lips as you tried to understand where you were and what had happened.

Then everything hit you full speed. Your ex-boyfriend, your spontaneous decision to travel for a few days, the handsome stranger at the airport who turned out to be Hoseok, and finally… “Hi,” you croaked and cleared your throat to release the lump in your dry throat.

Hoseok laughed. “You were completely out of it. You just slept through six hours. I’ve never seen that on a flight before.”

“Six hours, huh?” you asked and leaned back in your seat. When realization hit you, your eyes widened in shock. “Six hours?” you asked stunned and looked at Hoseok, who just nodded. “That means we’re almost there, doesn’t it?”

“We’re already on the approach,” Hoseok explained and your heart sank as he said. 

Great, so you slept through the entire time you would have had with Hoseok. You beat yourself up on the inside as you thought about what he must think of you now. Falling asleep just like that, without another word after your… act. He probably thought that you found him boring or not good. Fuck, what if he thought you were just pretending to sleep so you wouldn’t have to talk to him? Oh no, oh no, oh no, that wasn’t good at all. 

You noticed your heartbeat quickening and pure panic gripped you. You had to set it right, right now. “Hoseok,” you started and he looked up from his laptop. “I–” you started, but then you were interrupted by a stewardess who told you to fold up your tables and fasten your seat belts. You complied and you watched from the corner of your eye as Hoseok neatly stowed his laptop in his bag. When he straightened up, you were already looking at him. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at you in surprise. Then he tilted his head. “What exactly are you apologizing for? If it’s for last night,” the corners of his mouth twitched upwards as he remembered, “then you don’t need to apologize for anything. Not at all.”

The heat rose to your cheeks as your thoughts drifted to the previous night. You nervously intertwined your fingers as you searched for the right words. But Hoseok interrupted your flood of thoughts when you suddenly felt his fingers under your chin and he lifted your head slightly so you looked at him. “Are you okay?”

Fuck, it was definitely not normal for your stomach to somersault at the way he was looking at you. Too nervous to speak, you just nodded, “Well then,” Hoseok replied, and his eyes flickered briefly to your lips before he dropped his hand and turned his attention forward. A moment later, you felt the wheels of the plane touch the ground and the plane slowed down. As you looked out the window and saw the buildings of the airport just a few meters away from you, you realized that you really had already landed. That it was not a dream. And that you would part ways with Hoseok in a few minutes. You didn’t even want to think about the possibility that you might – presumably – probably – never see him again. 

By the time the plane had stopped, connected to the bridge to the building, and the stewardesses told you that you could get up, you had already convinced yourself that it had been nothing more than something quick and easy for him. A one-off. You flinched at the word. You picked up your things like all the other passengers and walked one after the other down the narrow corridor to the exit. Your gaze fell on the back of Hoseok’s head, from which his hair stood out in all directions, probably from sleeping. You would love to run your fingers through his soft hair and straighten it. But you didn’t know how he would react and if he would welcome your touch. 

You said goodbye to the crew and you shivered slightly as you experienced the first touch of cooler weather. Hoseok took rapid strides and you had trouble keeping up with him. Did he want to outrun you? Was he hoping you would disappear into the crowd and he could steal away just like that?

Just as those self-destructive thoughts came to your mind, Hoseok looked over his shoulder and slowed down his steps. He reached out his hand to you, which you gratefully took. 

“Sorry,” he said and you had trouble understanding him over the bustle at the airport. “I have an important appointment in an hour and I have to hurry a little.” You had arrived at the baggage claim and Hoseok pointed with his thumb over his shoulder towards the exit. “I’m only traveling with hand luggage because I’m only staying a few days and normally I’m a gentleman and would help you with your suitcase, but–”

“It’s okay, Hoseok,” you placated him when you noticed how he drifted more and more into a monologue. You did the same thing when you were nervous and had to smile when you noticed this similarity. “Good luck at the meeting.” 

Ask him for his phone number.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Hoseok replied and a moment later pulled you into a firm hug. You took a deep breath and his masculine, soothing scent enveloped you. You were certain that he was giving you a kiss on your hair, but you weren’t absolutely sure about the soft touch. Before you could say anything, he had detached himself from you again and had taken a few steps back. 

Ask him before it is too late.

He gave you another smile before he turned 180 degrees and walked towards the exit. Your lips were sealed as you watched him move meter by meter away from you. 

His name was on the tip of your tongue when he suddenly turned and shouted over the distance: “Let me know what you think of the end of 1Q84!” Confused, you frowned. How would you do that? Hoseok seemed to notice your hesitation, but he just grinned and pointed to your backpack, which was hanging from one of your shoulders. 

As quickly as you could, you pulled it off your shoulder, struggled to open the zipper with your trembling fingers and then rummaged for your book. Unlike the small box, you found it immediately and turned to your bookmark. When a small piece of paper fell towards you, you looked up smiling and relieved. You just saw Hoseok waving to you and you thought you could hear his laugh even from a distance before he disappeared around the corner. 

I really hope you liked this short oneshot and I’m more than happy about any feedback! Please stay safe and healthy! See you soon! 💜

[thetomorrowshow]

Slower Than Words Ch. 28

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:)

cw: light physical violence, spiraling thoughts

~

They always say that time stops. The world freezes. Nothing so much as breathes when you meet their eyes. The world is dreamlike, and the two of you are the only things in it. The only life, pulled together by instantaneous love.

That wasn't what happened when Patton saw Virgil.

Instead, time seemed to skip a beat, then move even faster than before.

Several seconds were lost, and Patton stared around as the room changed. Remus’s parents were hugging the other person who entered with Virgil, who he guessed was Remus’s brother Roman. Remus was standing now, closer to the mantel on the other side of the room, and suddenly Remus’s dad wasn’t even in the room, he was outside with Roman, and Virgil was leaving too. Patton exchanged a look with Remus—he clearly recognized Virgil. He looked scared, and kept biting his lips. Patton felt fear rise, and almost stood up himself—it felt strange, to be the only thing that hadn’t moved. Like he was in the eye of a storm. It was times like these that Patton wished he could hear.

Roman was back and Remus seemed to cower away, turning his face. That didn’t hide him. Roman’s eyes landed on Patton for a moment, who waved awkwardly. A crease of confusion appeared between his eyes, barely affecting his cheery smile, then he saw Remus and his face lost all color and the smile slid from his lips.

Roman stepped forward slowly, as if time had stopped for him—and maybe it had. Patton felt afraid to breathe, afraid to disturb the almost shimmering quality of this meeting. Roman approached his brother, and Patton could certainly see the resemblance. Sure, Roman’s hair was shorter and styled, and he was clean-shaven, but the two were almost exactly the same height. Their hair color was within a shade of difference, and Roman had that same dimple that Remus did. Even their body types appeared to be modeled off each other. If Patton hadn’t known better, he would have guessed they were twins.

Roman was turned away from him, so if he said anything, Patton didn’t know. What Patton did know was that Remus said something, accompanied with a slight quirk of his mouth, then crumpled against the wall as Roman’s fist hit his face.

Patton did jump up now, and Remus’s dad ran to check on Remus while his mom held Roman back. Then Patton turned to the door and saw Virgil again, clearly saying something, eyes scrunched up as he ran his fingers along his forearm.

Virgil. He looked just like himself, but different. His hair was shorter—normal length for him, probably, just dipping into his eyes. His eyes were far more clear than Patton had ever seen them, and he was surprised to see just how sparkly they really were—almost as if rays of sun were peeking through the cloudy grey. His jeans were torn and splattered with paint, but it was probably on purpose. He was wearing a hoodie, plain black, not near as nice as the purple-patched one Patton was wearing. His cheeks were full, there was a ring on his hand, his shoes were nice.

For everything that made Virgil unrecognizable, there was something that was unmistakably him. The shadows under his eyes matched the black of his jacket. His fingers tapped lithely on his forearm, as if spelling. His stance was slouched, and the curve of his lip caught between his teeth spoke volumes about how anxious he was. He ran one hand through his hair, causing it to stick straight up and causing Patton to experience a wave of intense homesickness. This was his Virgil.

Patton was across the room in three strides that felt like only half of one, time skipping again until he found himself in front of Virgil, tripping over a bump in the carpet, quite literally falling into his arms. Virgil tensed. Patton waited.

And waited.

Wasn’t this when everything was supposed to become perfect? The moment where it all washed away, and nothing mattered except him? A shield against the outer world, safe forever in his arms.

But Patton still felt hurt. He still felt angry at his father. He still felt lost. He still felt like something inside was broken, or missing, or taken. Being with Virgil was supposed to fix everything, but nothing felt like it had changed.

Tears built up in Patton’s eyes as he let Virgil push him away. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Why wasn’t it okay yet? Why did he still feel wrong?

He loved Virgil so much. Maybe he could be not-okay. Maybe he could be not-better, with Virgil.

That sounded . . . all right. That sounded lovely, even.

Softly, Patton took Virgil’s arm, not letting him jerk away when he tried. Virgil, he traced, trying not to let the tears spill onto his cheeks. Virgil, Virgil, Virgil. It’s me. It’s me. It’s Patton.

-

“Roman Hyrum Allred! Do not punch your brother—do not punch anyone!”

“Nah, it’s . . . it’s, uh, okay. Dad.” Remus prodded his nose gingerly. It stung, but didn’t seem to be broken. “I told him he could.”

Roman shook his hand out, pulling away from their mom. “Hey,” he said casually. “Where’ve you been?”

Remus let his dad help him up. “Around,” he answered, just as casually. He didn’t really feel like baring his soul at the moment.

“Remus, are you all right?” his dad asked quietly, checking out his face with concern. It must’ve looked pretty bad. Still, Remus waved him off.

“Yeah. Just glad he remembered the three R’s.”

Across from him, Roman smiled sheepishly. “I kept my promise.” He laughed slightly, then let the smile fade. “Why are you here?” This was sort of what Remus had been afraid of. He didn’t exactly feel welcome, but to have it spelled out like that sucked. His family had grown up without him. Roman looked so old, No longer the little middle-school kid in the front row of the choir concert. He just couldn’t wrap his head around it—he’d accepted long ago that he’d lost them, probably forever. Now, though, it really hit home. Remus hadn’t just lost them. He’d lost an entire life, one that he wasn’t sure he could ever get back.

Even now, surrounded by his family, he felt like a stranger. The house was the same house, these were the same people, but he no longer belonged to them. It felt fake. Nothing like how he’d imagined a reunion to be.

Remus wondered if he could pass off the tears as a result of the burning in his nose.

“I, uh,” Remus cleared his throat. “I got lost. And trapped.” He held Roman’s gaze. There was nothing familiar in those eyes. “I tell ya, all I’ve wanted for years was to come back.”

“So why didn’t you?” Roman asked. He didn’t waver, didn’t even blink, his expression more solemn than Remus had ever seen on a thirteen year old--because he wasn’t thirteen. He was a whole adult.

“It’s not that simple—” Remus started, but Roman cut him off.

“Yes it is.” His tone brokered no argument, and Remus watched the openness in his eyes shutter closed. “It is that simple. All you have to do is tell me where you were and why you couldn’t come back. That’s all I need. Then I’ll forgive you.”

Remus balked. He wasn’t here for forgiveness—except he was, sort of. He wanted to make up for leaving them, he wanted to tell them everything that had kept him from returning home, but the words stuck in his throat. How could he sit them down and calmly explain that he got caught up in a cult that brainwashed him to the point of rewriting and erasing old memories? How could he tell them that he only barely escaped with his life, then struggled to even remember their names?

“I can’t,” he muttered. Roman turned away. “Of course,” Roman said tiredly. “Like always. Virgil, would you—?” he fell silent. Roman’s arms fell to his sides as he stared at something. Remus leaned to the side, trying to see what it was.

Remus had seen Virgil when he’d walked in, but had completely ignored him. It was absurd for him to be here—what were the odds that Virgil would be kidnapped by a cult Remus was in, and also know Roman, halfway across the country? Remus would have written it off as a hallucination if Patton hadn’t also seen him. So instead, he decided to focus on more tangible things, like his college-age brother and his unfamiliar eyes.

Now Virgil had fallen to his knees, his mouth an ‘o’, choking on tears. In his arms was Patton, also bawling his eyes out. They were holding onto each other so tightly Remus could see Virgil’s knuckles turning white, bunched up in Pat’s hoodie. Honestly? Remus wasn’t surprised. Other than, of course, the ongoing shock that Virgil was even here.

This was the weirdest day ever, and coming from a man who had lived in a cult for about a decade? That was saying something.

Roman crouched beside the two, laying his hand on Patton’s back. “You must be Patton,” he said kindly. “It’s so good to meet you.”

Okay, now Remus was crying. When had his brother graduated from the shrimpy little eighth grader who was constantly picking fights to a smiling young man who would comfort people he hardly knew? Not for the first time (and certainly not for the last), Remus wished he’d never left.

Virgil laughed wetly, briefly letting go of Patton to lightly smack Roman’s arm. “He can’t hear, moron,” he croaked.

Remus left before he could see any more, stumbling a bit in the doorway of the kitchen. This wasn’t really his moment. This wasn’t his moment, or home, or life. This all felt so . . . weird. So . . . out of place.

Roman seemed happy, at least. Better than he’d been before he left. Remus couldn’t believe he’d remembered, and kept that promise all those years.

-

“You gotta stop fighting everyone.”

“You’re not my dad!”

The kid turned away, tension in every line of his body. Remus rolled his eyes. “So?” he said, shutting his bedroom door. “Stop acting out. It’s embarrassing.”

Roman laughed bitterly. “For who? You?”

“Yeah, maybe!”

Roman turned back. Tears were dripping from the corners of his eyes. “Well, maybe I don’t want to be good at school! That’s all you all want from me, isn’t it? You don’t actually care about me!”

If Remus knew anything, that was teenage angst. Roman was barely thirteen, why did he have so much already?

“I never said you had to be good at school,” Remus replied, gesturing to the bed. Roman didn’t sit down. “I just said you need to stop fighting. School blows. I don’t care if you get good grades or whatever. But it’s even worse without friends, and y’aren’t gonna have any of those if you don’t stop throwing hands and start shaking hands.”

“But I want to hit things!” To prove his point, the kid stomped hard enough that the bed shook.

“Okay, how about this?” Remus took a step closer, spreading his arms wide. “You’re mad? Hit me. You can take it out on me because I’m your brother. You can lose friends. You can’t lose me. We’re stuck together.”

Roman bit his lip and looked away. Remus waited patiently. After clearly thinking it over for a few moments, Roman turned back. His eyes were squinted, but trusting.

“Promise?”

“‘Course I do.”

“But what if there’s someone else who really needs to be punched?”

Remus burst out laughing. “Like who?”

Roman shrugged, his foot tracing a circle on the floor. “I dunno. Some people just need it, y’know?”

Remus considered it, still chuckling. Some people did need it. “All right, people who deserve it. Maybe. . . .” he paused, then it came to him. “Three groups of people, okay?”

Roman nodded, grinning.

“The three R’s,” Remus said, counting them off on his fingers. “Racists, rapists, and Remus. That’s who you can punch, and that's it. Promise?”

“Promise.”

Then Roman’s fist collided with his stomach and Remus ducked away, laughing.

-

Well, Roman had kept his promise. Remus hadn’t kept his own.

“Son? Do you need anything?”

Remus stared out the kitchen window, trying to avoid looking at the all-new tiling, or his mother, or back at the living room. “N-no,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m good. Thanks, Mom.”

-

Virgil’s brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept accusing Patton of being a hallucination, or telling him he was back in the room, or insisting that this was just a dream.

Virgil ignored it. Even if this wasn’t real, it was everything he wanted.

It was night now, but his mind hadn’t stopped racing. Just this morning he’d been running to English to turn in a paper before the professor’s office closed, and now he was in bed with the love of—with Patton wrapped around him. Virgil had no clue what time it was. He didn’t want to move to tap his phone and jostle Patton. Still, it was probably late enough that everyone else was asleep.

Patton wasn’t. He was laying very still, his head pressed against Virgil’s chest, but he was definitely not asleep. His breathing was too loud, and his body too stiff.

The first thing Roman had done was call Virgil’s therapist to gloat or something. Virgil had begged him not too, but a Roman with a purpose was unstoppable. So now Virgil had no therapist because Roman got caught up in the moment and fired her.

Throughout all that, Virgil never let go of Patton. He knew his way around the Allred household better than Patton did, but let him guide anyway. They even held hands during dinner, making it awkward to use silverware, but Virgil wouldn’t have it any other way.

It hit him again just how impossible this was. That Patton was here.

Remus had told a very long story about it, but one that was definitely censored. He hadn’t talked much at all about his own time in the cult, which Virgil was very curious about. He hadn’t recognized him until he mentioned rescuing Virgil.

Remus had put all the pieces together, in a way. He was the connection, the one who knew everybody in the story. It felt crazy—the same man who dragged him from the cult was the same man who was friends with Patton’s dad and was the same man who was his roommate’s long lost brother. No, it didn’t just feel crazy. It was absolutely insane.

Patton shifted, drawing his leg down from where it was draped over Virgil’s. Then he snuffled, reached out, and clicked on a light. He lay half on top of Virgil, so that they were chest to chest, his legs on the other side of the bed, his hands resting on Virgil’s head and face.

Virgil lay still as Patton traced a hand over his face. The room was silent and Virgil didn’t dare break it. His eyelashes fluttered as Patton smoothed down his brows with both thumbs in gentle, rubbing motions. He’d already done this to Patton several times today, so he figured it was only fair that he let Patton do what he needed to.

Virgil’s heart seemed to shake in his chest. He still felt not-quite-right. Maybe he didn’t believe this was real, or the despair of losing Patton was still too fresh to have him back already. Somehow, though, he knew that Patton would be able to fill the cracks. The parts of him that felt not-Virgil could be Patton. Without even conscious thought, Virgil’s hands moved in the signs he’d practiced over and over and over.

“I love you.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath. Patton’s hands left from where they were combing his hair out of his eyes. Virgil didn’t feel worried. Well, for a second he did. For a brief second, his stomach dropped and the world ended. Then Patton spoke.

“I love you.”

Virgil froze. That—that was—Patton—?

It sounded just like him. It sounded like his quiet, wheezing laugh, that got higher in pitch instead of louder. It sounded exactly the way his hands felt, rubbing up and down his back during a night-long hug. It sounded like how his smile felt under Virgil’s fingers, the way one side was higher than the other and his lips were slightly cracked in the middle. It sounded like Patton.

Slowly, almost as if scared, Patton’s hands returned to his face, cupping his cheeks tenderly.

Virgil did the same, one hand buried in his hair, the thumb of his other hand pressed into Patton’s cheek while his fingers curled near his ear.

As if unsure, Patton came carefully closer, Virgil’s hand putting light pressure on his head to tilt it down.

The room was quiet, nothing but their steady breathing breaking the silence. The darkness that was all that Virgil could see somehow no longer felt oppressive, more . . . unexplored. Full of everything, all the disappointments and happiness and anxiety and hurt and new and love.

Cracked in the middle, Patton’s lips pressed gently against his, barely moving at all. His hands tensed, but remained gentle on Virgil’s cheeks. Virgil reciprocated softly, letting Patton lead. The tip of Patton's nose brushed against his, feather light. Slowly, and with a very soft kissing noise, Patton pulled away, drawing Virgil's chin up with him.

Virgil’s hand on Patton's cheek traveled down to his mouth, tracing that smile that was higher on one side.

Then he pulled him back down.

~ Taglist: @enragedbees @gotta-love-alejandra @bunny222 @basiic-emo @patt0n-sanders @rosiepupper @fangirlgeekandfreak @dn-fan21 @that2000skid @remy-the-lemon-berry @itsadastraperaspera @xionbean @sanderssides-angst @hell-yea-we-gay-tonight @maybedefinitely404 @broken-pencils @thewhimsicallibrarytech @doomllily @hereissananxiousmess @judyismydog  @arodynamic-enby @at-that-one-nerd @therapysides @awkwardandanxiousfander @thekitchenpan @im-an-anxious-wreck @larkiaquail @anteonnix @fantasticfander21

[hyena-frog]

Makes me so sad to think about how Cassius raised Lysander for 10 YEARS and came to love him like a brother and likely put a ton of effort into being a decent role model only for Lysander to turn around and become exactly like Octavia..... like can you imagine what must be going through Cassius’ head when he flies over Lysander at the end of DA.. :( seeing the kid he raised to adulthood become a monster.. I just... ugh. It tears me up inside

Hoo boy, I hope you’re prepared for the essay I’m about to write.

Genuinely, I think about this all the time. Cassius and Lysander have one of the most complex, tragic relationships the second trilogy has to offer. I hated Cassius so much after Golden Son but now he’s one of my favorite characters. I would really love it if he is the new POV Pierce Brown promised. In the second trilogy, Cassius has been exclusively filtered through Lysander’s POV, so I’m dying to know his own thoughts on everything that has happened. (But I would also like a Volga POV for the Obsidian story and maybe Diomedes POV for the Rim perspective. I’m torn.) I just want Cassius to have a happy ending. And I hate Lysander, but I would really like for him to see eye to eye with Cassius at least once before he is horribly, painfully, rightfully murdered.

Now, the thing is, Cassius didn’t come to love Lysander as a brother over time, he already loved him when he decided to become his guardian and mentor. It bugged me that, at the end of Morning Star, it didn’t feel like Cassius’ decision to take in Lysander was justified enough. All we really got out of him was that Lysander reminded him of Julian. Pretty flimsy. Then Iron Gold came along and blessed us with a flashback to when they first met. Little Lysander wasn’t too impressed with Cassius (he wasn’t exactly as respectable post Red Rising as he is now) but Cassius quickly went from calling Lysander an “eerie little creature” to declaring “I’ve decided to like you, little moon boy.” From that moment, Cassius truly cared for Lysander. Reading that flashback again after Dark Age makes me so emotional.

Lysander has this complex about being Julian’s replacement, that Cassius doesn’t love him so much as he loves the shadow of Julian he sees in him. And he’s justified, in a way, because Cassius does slip up and call him Julian sometimes, but it’s usually when he’s delirious from pain and not thinking clearly. Lysander completely misses the fact that Cassius does love him. I guess he doesn’t have much experience recognizing when he’s genuinely cared for, because why would he, but there is plenty of evidence of Cassius’ true feelings.

For example, Cassius sold most of his remaining family possessions to keep them afloat on the Archimedes. Now, Cassius isn’t strapped for cash by any means but the fact he cares for Lysander (and Pytha) enough to sell many of the last reminders of his dead family that he owns, is very telling. But Lysander doesn’t think about that. He acknowledges that it happened but doesn’t consider the deeper, emotional meaning behind that action.

Another example is Cassius opening up to Lysander about the last time he ever saw his father. How he disappointed Tiberius but finally regained his respect, only for the entire Bellona family to be slaughtered shortly after that reconciliation. That was a sign that he loves and trusts Lysander enough to be vulnerable with him. He never told that story to anyone else, as far as we know. He believed he was going to die in the Bleeding Place and wanted that memory of his father to live on in Lysander. The fact that Lysander is blind to how Cassius genuinely loves him, even now, is tragic.

You’re right, Cassius did try to be a good role model and pass on good morals. I think the scene in Dark Age, where Pytha confesses that Cassius forbade her from revealing to Lysander that she is actually a soldier and not a disgraced commercial pilot, as he was lead to believe, was very telling. Cassius attempted to show Lysander life outside of politics and war. He tried to show him that all Colors are equals deserving of respect. Cassius was devastated when Lysander chose to save Seraphina over the many mid- and low-color prisoners on the Vindabona. He was horrified that Lysander chose “quality” of life saved over quantity. This coming from Cassius, who compared Pinks to animals in Red Rising. Cassius has learned and changed a lot since the first book and he tried to pass those lessons onto Lysander. But it didn’t stick. Not even after 10 years of teaching.

Unfortunately, his teachings were tainted by his bad coping mechanisms for his personal demons. His alcoholism, his continued pining for Virginia, combined with his betrayal of Octavia and involvement in Aja's brutal murder, gave Lysander enough excuses to never fully embrace his lessons. While Lysander did love Cassius, there was always some flaw or another in his teacher that allowed him to comfortably distance himself from the lessons that diverged from Octavia’s teachings. To be honest, Cassius had no business taking on a ward while he was so torn up inside. Keeping Lysander isolated in a tin can in the middle of space for 10 years, instead of living among diverse people, didn’t do him any favors either. Frankly, Cassius missed a lot of red flags. A big one is the fact Lysander carved Lux ex tenebris, the Lune family motto, into the ceiling of his room on the Archimedes, where he could stare up at it every night. Yikes.

This dissonance in Lysander’s thinking is what lead to his betrayal in the Bleeding Place. Yes, Lysander loves Cassius and wanted to save his life rather than see him die at the hands of people who don’t respect him. But he also genuinely believes in the inherent hierarchy of Octavia’s teachings, that the “true order” is for Cassius to follow him. If Cassius lives, if he can convince him that his rightful place is to follow Lysander, things can finally be right in the worlds. Cassius failed to express his feelings in a way Lysander can comprehend, so he felt he was just a replacement for Julian. Lysander can dismiss Cassius’ love as love for his dead twin, and in turn, he can dismiss his claim to believe in the inherent equality of humankind as guilt and justification for killing his Sovereign. Cassius was unable to truly see how badly he failed until he was betrayed.

Since Cassius was absent for most of the plot following his “death” it’s difficult to concretely say what he’s been thinking since then. But I’ve been thinking a lot about him, so here is my conjecture. Take it with a grain of salt.

That moment you mention, when Cassius flies overhead, he deliberately retracted his helmet for a brief moment of eye contact with Lysander, so he would know exactly who rescued Darrow... Shivers. So much left unsaid. I imagine Cassius was thinking a lot of things in that moment. On the one hand, some pettiness and anger at being betrayed: “I lived bitch, I rescued Darrow, this is where my loyalties lie.” But there was also probably a mixture of shock and guilt at knowing what Lysander has done, at who he’s sided with and enabled, but also at seeing evidence of physical suffering in Lysander's burn scar and blind eye. Cassius loved Lysander, he was his guardian for 10 years, so he would hate to see him hurt. I think he would feel responsible for Lysander’s actions on some level, even if he logically understands that he’s an adult who makes his own choices.

Regardless, Cassius probably blames himself on some level. That’s what I think anyway. He tried his best to teach this kid good morals for an entire decade only for him to cling to the ideals his grandmother taught him. That has to sting. It’s probably also embarrassing, to a degree. Cassius made this grand promise to Darrow that he’d raise Lysander right, that Sevro was wrong to suggest they should have just killed him when he was little. Now Cassius’ failure to make good on that promise has been advertised to the whole Solar System through Lysander’s actions on Mercury. Surely Cassius feels responsible.

Cassius had a lot of time to think during his long return trip to the Core. About what happened with Lysander in the Rim, about his lingering feelings for Virginia, about his place in the Republic, and about what he really considers the right thing to do. Cassius can be intensely empathetic when he allows himself to be. For example, in Morning Star, he managed to really sympathize with Darrow’s life when they were drinking whiskey together. I’m willing to bet he spent that long return journey considering Lysander’s perspective with a clear head, after spending so many years lost in the haze of his own sorrows. Now that he is out of that bad mental place, he is likely able to see where he made mistakes in how he raised Lysander.

It will make for an interesting confrontation between Cassius and Darrow, who is thoroughly, understandably, done with Lysander, when the time comes to kill him. Cassius knows the danger Lysander poses and probably won’t argue against killing him this time, but I do think he would resist a little and at least try to find an alternative solution.

Lastly, I just want to say this, since it’s sort of relevant: This fandom tends to agree that Sevro should have just killed Lysander as a child, but if I’m being honest, I don’t agree. Kill Lysander now, as an adult, by all means, but as a kid he hadn’t done anything wrong yet, even if he was a little creepy. Darrow was right to give him the chance to live in peace. Too bad he ultimately didn’t take it. I especially don’t think Cassius would agree killing Lysander as a kid was the right choice, even now. He is traumatized by the sudden loss of most of his family, including little kids, so I don’t think he’d ever agree to killing a child. If he could somehow go back in time, knowing what he knows now, I think he would make the same choice to raise Lysander. In that scenario, I think he would rather try to fix the mistakes he made as a mentor, rather than punish Lysander.

Guh. Anyway. I had a lot of words in me about this subject. Hope you got something out of it! I’m consistently amazed by how Pierce Brown’s writing compels me to think deeply about these characters. Not to mention his ability to make me understand Lysander’s perspective even if I don’t like it or agree with it. Cassius’ perspective though... well, half of this post is just me guessing, so we’ll have to see how close I am to canon when book 6 comes out. Thanks for reading!

[cogentranting]

Braid Your Life with Mine

Summary:  A series of snapshots over the course of Sarah and Bucky's lives, showing their past and their intertwined future as they meet and find healing alongside each other. Read on AO3

Falling

Bucky couldn’t make sense of it. He was still falling. He must be. Otherwise he’d be dead. Hanging there from that train car, he’d known with absolute certainty that he was going to die. It had all played out in slow motion. Grabbing the shield. The energy blast. Holding on so tight his fingers felt fused with the metal rail. Blood running down his arm. Steve reaching out to him. The sickening sound of tearing metal as he was dropped off the edge of the world. Falling. Falling so far he had time to think about how it would be the last thing he ever knew.

But he wasn’t still falling, and he wasn’t dead because surely, surely, being dead wouldn’t hurt this much. Being dead couldn’t feel like being crushed and torn apart at the same time. So he must be alive. He couldn’t be sure though because everything was fading in and out, reality and unreality mixing like a scream in his mind. He could see trees above him and feel rocks and snow against his back. They were dragging him. Who? Steve and the team? They’d seen him fall—had they found him? No, Steve wouldn’t be this cruel, wouldn’t drag him knowing it hurt this much. The question slipped from his mind without an answer. The pain demanded too much attention to focus on anything else long enough to make sense of it. The one sight he kept coming back to when the world faded back in was that thing dragging beside him, leaving a trail of red on the snow. A bloody, mangled thing. Right where his arm should be but somehow distant and disconnected. It stayed with him as they dragged him, and he couldn’t understand what it was. The thing jarred against a rock and Bucky blacked out again.

He must be falling. He was falling, and this was all a nightmare, the hallucination of a single moment before he hit the ground. There was a steel table beneath him. People moving around. Straps tight across his chest and limbs. All of it familiar in a way he couldn’t lay hold of with the wisp of consciousness available to him. It didn’t matter though, because his body was at war with itself, fighting to die while something within him kept him bound to life. Then there were needles and machines and a saw. And as the saw began to do its work Bucky had a realization, fully formed in a moment of startling lucidity. This wasn’t a nightmare, and he wasn’t falling; he never had been. Falling was what woke you up from a dream. That’s what it had all been—Steve, the Commandos, Captain America, the entire two years since his rescue—it was all a dream. A ridiculous composite of bits of his life. He had never been rescued. Now, he was awake again. Still strapped to a table in Zola’s lab. The nightmare was the only real thing.

***

Emptying

Sarah looked down at the little plaque grave marker. The funeral had felt odd.  Like she was standing still as time moved in spirals around her. There was a big turnout. People from the neighborhood, family, friends from different corners of his life. Everyone cared so much. They brought more food than she could possibly eat. They swept in with hugs, and advice, and offers of help. They all had so much to say. There had been hours of stories, sweet, funny, simple. All the ways that he had touched the people in the community. They had laughed. But they also cried. And Sarah resented it. What did they have to cry about? He wasn’t their husband. How could their grief compare to hers?

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d been young. She was young. “Widow” wasn’t a word that meant a woman her age. “Widow” wasn’t a word that meant less than ten years of marriage. “Widow” wasn’t a word that meant… her.

The little things were what took her feet out from under her. They’d had their big plans. Hopes and dreams. Those were gone too, but they weren’t what paralyzed her. It was the thought of empty mornings, and conversation-less dinners. The movie he’d been looking forward to that he’d never see. The fishing trip he wouldn’t take AJ on. The anniversary present she wouldn’t buy this year. The couch she’d sit on alone each night once she put the boys to bed.

When they were getting things ready at the church for the funeral, Sam had had his nose in everything, always doing the most, and ended up with his arms full of flowers stacked on programs, on the verge of dropping both, having three conversations at once. Always the same, and she’d shaken her head and made a mental note to tell him all about Sam’s antics when she got home. Until she remembered he wouldn’t be there. Cass had laughed that morning, his sweet little baby giggle, and Sarah had turned to get his reaction. But, of course, he wasn’t there. At the church, one of the old ladies had worn the same ugly hat they’d joked about for years, and Sarah turned to share a knowing smile with him, but no one met her gaze. He wasn’t there, and he never would be again.

The wind blew through the trees in the cemetery. Sarah closed her eyes and twisted her wedding ring on her finger. They’d danced under trees like these at her wedding.  She could almost imagine herself back there, if not for the ache that hollowed her out. More than loneliness, more than missing someone. Those things have an end. But this loss. Where was the end? That was what weighed her down. He wouldn’t come home in a few weeks, sit with her on the couch and tell her about his trip. The man who made her laugh, and smile, the father of her children, her best friend, her other half. Just gone. All her life past and future was sloped toward that moment of gravity, the moment where someone cut out a piece of her and left the widow in place of the wife.

So she resented their tears even though she knew it wasn’t fair. They’d all cry and tell their stories and find their way to remember. But how could any of them ever feel even a shadow of the grief she felt for him?

Cass started to cry from across the way where Sam waited with the boys. She knew she had to go over there soon. But she needed a moment more. In a few days, Sam would go back to D.C. where he had a new job at the VA. The neighbors would go back to their routine. The extended family would scatter again. None of them were abandoning her, of course. They would be there. They would support her. But none of them would have to live in the grief the way she would. So in a moment, she would go over there and be a mother, and a sister, and a community member. But for a minute longer she squeezed her eyes shut against the world and nursed the open wound where the world had carved out her heart.

***

Withering

It was the same for the Winter Soldier every time. The respirator forcing air into his lungs, his body too warm and too cold at the same time as they ripped him back from the brink of death where they kept him for months or years at a time. He’d wake shaking, fighting against the phantom cold that sat like ice in his gut and in his lungs.

In a way that first space of time was the worst. It was when he was most and least a person. The memory of his last mission was fresh and untouched by Hydra’s meddling. HIs programming was loose, allowing just enough room for him to chafe at the control. And sometimes, depending on how long he’d been awake the last time, fragments of something from before filtered through, unsettlingly strange, like someone else’s memories staining his simple frost-scorched reality. The three mixed and competed: programming, experience, and a past that was more sensation than memory. There was more in him then, than at any other time, but it did not coalesce and left him a wounded animal. He was confused, he was afraid, he was volatile, and he was oh so violent. That was when he resisted. Maybe for fear of the one thing he knew was coming. Maybe because of those glimpses of old faces and whispers of forgotten names that had come seeping through in his sleep. Maybe just because fighting was all he knew, and there was no one else to fight. Then they’d strap him into that chair. It would drive out everything. All the past missions, all the conscious programming, all the hallucinatory memories. Everything but the sound of his own screams. That was the one constant in his world: how much he hated and feared that machine. Then the words would come, a vise around his throat, narrowing the world until all his will, all his rage, all his pain, all the training and experience of the Winter Soldier, was neatly compacted into a bullet to be pointed wherever they chose. And his own voice in his head was muzzled.

Every time was the same, even the last one. They had to wipe him twice, yes. That was uncommon but not unheard of. And after it happened, he wasn’t even fully aware of it at first. Not until it all started to crumble. Not until the helicarrier came crashing down around him, and he found that he was too aware. Too aware of decades of pain. Too aware that he was afraid for his life. Too aware that he couldn’t make sense of the world. Too aware of the shadowy past clawing at him. Too aware of the voice in his head screaming against the muzzle.

Afterwards when he was alone and on his own for the first time, he spent days trying to anchor himself. The quiet lack in his mind had always been painful. Like frostbite. But now there was too much. Where before there had been chained and frozen order, now there was chaos. Guilt competing with fear, bloodstained and sepia memories at war with each other, life and half-life both claiming to be real. Through it all his programming still tearing at him, demanding he return to his masters. He wouldn’t have been strong enough to resist it had he not known they were dead and dismantled. In those days he knew that, given the chance, he would have chosen the burning, suffocating flash as the cryo chamber froze the blood in his veins and the beat of his heart, would have chosen a return to the brink of death and nothingness over all of this. And he was ashamed of that.

***

Dreading

Sarah was in town when she saw the first person turn to dust. The woman was reaching for a box of cereal in the grocery store, but when her hand touched the box it gave way into a million pieces, and Sarah watched the woman’s face turn to horror a second before it too collapsed. For years to come Sarah would remember the way time slowed down as everyone tried to take in what was happening. People across the floor falling into nothing, and those remaining waiting in a stunned panic to see if they would be next. She’d remember looking around the store with the slow, dawning realization of the scope of what was happening. And she dropped her groceries on the floor and ran for her car, ran to get home to her babies. The babysitter was gone when she got there. A pile of dust in the kitchen. Later Sarah would feel sick sweeping that up. AJ was crying. Cass had slept through it all. She snatched them both up and sat on the couch, holding them against her, not letting them go even when they squirmed in her embrace. She gripped them as if she was holding them together with her bare hands. As if the second she let go they’d dissolve in front of her. And, as she held them, she played the news. Watching it all unfold. The chaos. The confusion. The fear. The slow realization of what had happened. She watched for hours, eventually letting go of her boys when it seemed clear that no one else would disappear. But she kept them on the couch beside her as she watched the news for any glimpse of the Avengers.

When her phone rang, after hours of waiting, her hand shook so hard she could barely answer it. “Sarah-“ Steve Rogers’s voice. She’d met him a few times after he started working with Sam, before the Sokovia Accords had sent both of them into hiding, and she’d seen him on tv. His voice was rough. She could hear the tears in it. In the weeks and years to come, eventually she’d spare a thought for his grief. But not then. Then all she thought was how his voice was the last voice she wanted to hear because if he was calling, it meant Sam couldn’t.

She didn’t remember the rest of what Steve said to her. But she remembered, when the call was over, going into the next room and closing the door so that AJ and Cass wouldn’t hear her sobs. She stayed there for a long time.

She sat up all that night, watching her babies sleep where they’d dropped off on the couch. The world was suddenly a much more terrifying place to have such dear lives to care for. Her sobs were long depleted, and she was exhausted in that terrible unique way that only comes from a long time crying. Still, she was kept awake by the single echoing thought, I’m alone. Her parents, her husband, her brother. Gone. That thought nailed her to the ground. I’m alone, and I can’t protect them. So she sat on the living room floor, without even any confidence that the sun would come up in the morning.

***

Impact

Sarah smelled like fish and engine grease most days. Her back usually hurt too. And her thoughts were crowded by a million worries big and small. Could they afford to keep the boat? Did AJ finish his homework? Was the neighbor boy getting enough to eat? Was Sam safe wherever he was in the world? Would the business make money today? She was a dozen things at once. Everything she needed to be. But, oh, she was tired sometimes. Her whole little world on her shoulders. She sometimes felt she’d aged a hundred years since the Blip. Today wasn’t so bad though. A million worries, sure, but with Sam and the whole town out to help her sort through them, that wasn’t so much.

A pipe was leaking, gushing steam. Sam ran to fix it, trailed a moment later by his friend. Bucky. He greeted her as he went by. There was a complicated story. She’d heard most of it from Sam. She hadn’t, however, really thought that much about the man himself, except as his story related to her brother. Most of the pictures she’d seen of him were either faded black and whites from the 40s, entirely removed from her reality, or distant and blurry news shots related to his time as a fugitive. She got a real look at him for the first time as he passed by her and fixed the pipe. 106 looked good on him, she noted as she went back to her work.

Most days Bucky didn’t feel hardly like a person at all. Just a tangled mess of guilt and grief. Haunted images of the things he’d done casting shadows over the holes left by everything he’d lost. It was his anger that kept him stitched together. Anger at himself. Anger at what had been done to him. Anger at Walker, at Raynor, at Sam. Anger at the world for being different from the way that he remembered it in all the insignificant little ways that made sure he never fit right. Mostly anger at nothing at all. When he didn’t feel broken or monstrous, he just felt lost. Today wasn’t a day like that though. Today he’d fixed some things. Zemo was back where he belonged. Ayo had forgiven him. He was here, making things right with Sam. The sun and the sea breeze and the sounds of people sharing in life together, it all chased his anger away to hide in some dark corner. Not gone, just retreated.

He didn’t think of any of that when he saw Sarah. He saw her, competent, self-assured, beautiful, and fell back into old routines like muscle memory.

“Hi. I’m Bucky.”

She didn’t think of any of her responsibilities or worries or aches when he greeted her. She saw him, skilled, strong, charming, and felt the shiny, bubbly rush of infatuation.

“Oh. Sarah,” she said.

“Sarah,” he repeated with a smile.

He felt like the soldier of old, confident and full of swagger. She felt beautiful and captivating and full of life. For just a moment the scars of the past were swept away, and they felt young.

***

Waiting

Sarah was at the dock with the boys when Bucky rolled up this time around. Both he and Sam were coming in from different parts of the country, and they’d chosen to rendezvous here before heading off on some mission. Sam’s flight had been cancelled, so he wasn’t there yet though he was supposed to have arrived a few hours ago. Bucky always arrived with Sam or just after. He was careful about that. If he’d beaten Sam here it meant he hadn’t gotten word about the cancelled flight. When Bucky realized Sam wasn’t there, he made some excuse about driving back into the main part of town to get something. She waved him off, convincing him to hang around and entertain the boys while she finished work on the boat and then head back to the house with them to wait for Sam.

She had gotten used to Bucky coming around. He’d show up with Sam after some trip. She got the impression that it was the space immediately after missions that Bucky struggled with—it was an experience he’d never had until recently. Returning home. So Sam brought him here. They’d roll in, both of them a little bruised, bickering with each other and asking her to take a side. As part of her solemn duty as a sister, she usually sided against Sam. Just to aggravate Sam, she told herself. No other reason.

For their part, Cass and AJ loved Bucky the way young boys love anyone they can climb on. Cass had grabbed Bucky’s arm and was trying to climb up his side. He was too big for that sort of thing really, but that didn’t matter with super soldier strength. Sarah watched them out of the corner of her eye with a smile. Cass jumped off and wandered away, while AJ began to shadowbox with Bucky.

It happened fast. A missed step. The thud when Cass’s head hit the post. Then blood. A lot of blood.

Bucky was by her side a second after she had the boy in her arms. He pressed some cloth—a clean shirt from his truck—against the boy’s head to stop the bleeding. Cass was crying. She couldn’t tell if he was more scared or hurt. Sarah could hear herself talking but didn’t hardly know what she was saying. Asking or telling Cass that he was okay, over and over. A little too fast, the words tripping over themselves. It was so much blood. Bucky had one hand holding the cloth to the wound, the other on her shoulder. He was saying something, that it wasn’t that bad, how much head injuries bleed, and she was nodding.

A part of her did what she always did. It was her voice coming out strong and clear, making the decision to go to the hospital. It was her who led the way to the car as Bucky scooped up Cass. But inside the panic reigned, and she couldn’t shake how small Cass looked with blood running down the side of his face. So when Bucky insisted on driving so that she could sit in the back with Cass, she was grateful.

By the time Sarah found a chance to slip out and check in on AJ out in the waiting room, she was exhausted. The second she entered the room, Bucky left off whatever he’d been distracting AJ with on his phone and crossed to her for an update. Six staples, no concussion, Cass a little shaken, a little teary but fine overall. Bucky listened attentively. She was glad he was here. Glad she didn’t have to worry about AJ too, through this. Glad just to have someone to say these words to.

Bucky sighed in relief. Sarah was struck, yet again, by the simple indisputable fact that this was a good man. What a thought: the Winter Soldier, waiting with baited breath to see if her son was okay.

Bucky’s gaze broke off from hers, trailing after a cart of medical supplies being pushed by a nurse. Syringes. A scalpel.

“Does being here remind you of…” she glanced at his metal arm and trailed off. Of when they cut off the rest of your arm and stitched on a machine. Of the years they spent experimenting on you in labs.

He followed her meaning. His hand flexed slightly. “No.” He shook his head dismissively as he said it. But he’d hesitated, and his eyes didn’t meet hers.

Sarah ran a hand over her hair. She made her tone light. “You know what, it’s still gonna be a while here. Why don’t you take AJ back to the house? Sam can pick me and Cass up when he gets here.”

She watched him study her for a couple seconds, his blue eyes carefully taking her cues. But he dropped his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets as he responded. “No, that’s okay. We can wait, at least til Sam gets here.”

Sarah hesitated.

“You shouldn’t have to wait here alone,” Bucky insisted.

Relief flooded her. She accepted and, after a brief word to AJ, headed back to where Cass was waiting. She would hold Cass and keep him safe. Bucky would watch over AJ. She could keep her boys safe. And when she got back out there, Bucky and Sam would be waiting there for her. Warm calm blossomed in her like a sunrise.

***

Reviving

It was the same each time Bucky saw her. A little hitch in his breathing as she caught him off guard. To be near to that much life stunned him. The force of her brought everyone else into orbit; grounding Sam, lifting up her boys, seeing and sheltering those that others overlooked, and inexorably drawing Bucky in.

He took her to dinner. Someplace quiet and comfortable, down near the water, where the sunset cast oranges and pinks across them as they ate. A simple date. They knew each other. He didn’t need to make a big gesture to impress her. He didn’t want excitement. He just wanted to talk to her.

Words didn’t come easy for Bucky anymore. They did when he was young in Brooklyn. But even before he fell, he’d felt his throat closing. Already Zola’s lab and fields of death and violence came between him and the man he was in Brooklyn. There were things in those memories that couldn’t be named, shouldn’t be named lest it give them a foothold in his mind. So even in those days, he smiled for Steve and the team while the shadows pooled unspoken in his mind. Then for 70 years that tendency for reserve was gouged deeper and deeper into him. The Winter Soldier had no stories, only reports. No opinions, only tactics. And if he ever found any of those things in himself, an opinion, a question, a free thought, welling up from some long-dammed spring, any attempt to voice it would have been punished with a beating or, worse, being sent back to the machine to be wiped. Then there were the years of hiding, isolation, and self-imposed punishment.  Life had spent 80 years silencing Bucky.

But with Sarah he wanted to tell stories. Stories that he usually kept close, locked away and guarded because their warmth was a rarity to be jealously hoarded. Every time he came around with Sam and saw her there in lively step with the heartbeat of her community, he felt it wake in him. Springtime Brooklyn. Wakandan summer. Even a few clear-skyed days in Romania. Everything in his past that was good and alive yearned to be near Sarah.

They sat at their table long after the food was gone because the words wouldn’t stop flowing, from either of them. Sun-soaked days by a lake in the Louisiana woods. Stickball matches played with life and death intensity. Cookouts on the dock with the whole neighborhood. Little sisters trailing him on his walk to school. Sam’s antics over his first crush. Dragging Steve away from impossible schoolyard fights. First job. First kiss. First apartment. Anything and everything, so long as it had deep roots in their past joy. They talked until the restaurant closed.

He walked her up to the door, and they lingered on the porch. The youth of the night had soaked into the marrow of their bones and neither wanted to let it go.

Bucky was alive with restless sparks. “Let’s go dancing. Can I take you dancing?”

Sarah laughed. “What, you wanna go find a club? You don’t really seem like the club type.”

He made a face of exaggerated contempt. “No. That’s not dancing. Here let me show you.” He pulled out his phone and with a quick search brought up a song he remembered. A song he’d danced to when he was young and uncomplicated. The music drifted out of the phone’s speakers, unconcerned with time or history. Bucky offered his hand and felt a moment’s hesitation at the sight of the sleek metal. Sarah took it eagerly. They danced on her porch. He forgot the steps. She stepped on his feet. He spun her around. Their hearts beat fast with laughter and June moonlight.

***

Aspiring

Sarah looked up at the warm light spilling out into the twilight from her kitchen window as she drove up to the house. Cass and AJ were spending the night with friends, and she’d expected to find the house empty. She felt a little butterfly start up in her stomach at the expectation of seeing him, then chided herself. She wasn’t 14. But she was so glad it wouldn’t be an empty house tonight.

Bucky greeted her with a kiss in the kitchen. She breathed in his scent. Lately, she’d chased the echoes of that scent in her mind when he wasn’t around. d

“James Buchanan Barnes, did you break into my house?”

“It’s hardly breaking in when you don’t lock your doors.” He smiled that lopsided, roguish smile that made her feel like a teenager falling for the first time. “I thought I’d surprise you with dinner.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You cooked?”

“Of course not. Why would I want to make your day worse? I ordered in.”

She dropped onto the couch with a groan as they waited for the food to arrive. “You would not believe the day I’ve had.” She launched into an animated retelling of the day as he settled next to her.

From the start she’d been amazed how easy he was to talk to. The way he saw the world was so different from her—from anyone really—after all he’d seen and done. But something about that met with her experiences so well. Interlocking mechanisms. Maybe it was because he listened with the same intensity he brought to everything. He listened with fire.

“I swear, these people… I’m gonna lose my mind.” She finished her rant.

Bucky nodded very seriously. “Do you want me to kill them for you?”

“Of course. Why else would I be dating the world’s deadliest assassin?”

She curled into his side and rested her head against him. If the food didn’t come soon, she’d fall asleep. His arm wrapped around her. Her eyes closed, but she didn’t fall asleep. Time slowed around them. Her breath had fallen into sync with his. The symphony of the wind in the trees drifted in through the open windows, serenading them. There were a dozen other moments from her day that she wanted to tell him, but she wasn’t in any rush. There would be time later. Time stretched around her like the teal depths of a lake, and for now all she wanted was to float in this moment endlessly.

“I would marry you if you asked me.” She hadn’t planned on saying it, but she didn’t second guess it. The thought had been carried in the beat of her heart long enough for her to be sure of it.

Bucky looked surprised. Only by the comment, though, not the concept, Sarah was pretty sure. He nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll make a note of that.”  

“Would you marry me if I asked?”

“Well… I’d kind of like to do the asking.”

She smiled. “Well don’t take too long, or I’ll beat you to it.”

“Fair enough.”

There was a pause. His fingers traced circles lightly on her back.

He lifted his left hand from the couch and examined it. “How do you think wearing a ring on a vibranium hand works?”

Sarah reached for his hand to consider it. “We’re just gonna paint it on.��

She felt his laugh in her bones. Her hand trailed up to rest over his heart. She held it there, content to just sit and count every steady beat.

***

Abiding

Bucky was transfixed by the moment. The hushed chatter from where AJ and Cass had sprawled out on the floor to watch the movie. The smell of microwave popcorn. The cool breeze drifting in the window. Sarah’s touch. Every sense flooded him, as he tried to drink in every detail, etch it into his memory.

Sarah’s fingers ran absent-mindedly over his hand, making slow circles over the smooth vibranium, occasionally breaking off the rhythm to trace the gold-lined grooves. By now a familiar habit, Sarah’s attention to the movie didn’t waver—she knew every whorl and curve of that metal, could trace every line without a thought. But Bucky couldn’t focus on the movie. All he could do was thank God for Shuri’s genius because he could feel it. He could feel the warmth of Sarah’s hand on his. Not quite the way he felt in his right hand, but there all the same. The other thought was almost too big for him to form—it overwhelmed his senses. He thanked God for Sarah. It had been years, but her touch still awed him. Still captivated him so much that reality melted away. In it’s place all that was left was her. Her and this family- his family. All of it washed in gold like the rising sun.

He reached across with his right hand and played with one of her braids that had come loose. A smile graced the corner of her mouth and without looking away from the movie, she stopped caressing his hand long enough to squeeze it. He kissed her cheek.

He’d spent dozens of evenings just like this one. Still sometimes he lost himself in the wonder of it all. It was like a dream, a dream he’d spent years afraid he’d wake up from. But that fear faded with each day that rose around him. So perfect he couldn’t make sense of it.