#or at least something they did to seek the comfort of normalcy - because its just what people do

[unbloodiedmartyr]

i read your shruefic exploring their relationship with their family.. and oh my god. Oh My God. the shruemplications....

the shruemplications!!!! im glad you enjoyed it :))

and yeah a big part of what led me to that interpretation was how in (i think) their first call they say they dont have leverage, so Shrue's partner just needs to call them back. you could interpret this as Shrue's lack of leverage over the government but i dont think so!! they seem to be trying to portray that they are safe and protected by their position - "i think our scientists are really going to impress us" etc. - so it makes less sense that theyd suddenly admit otherwise over a presumably monitored phoneline at that point in time. i interpret it more as there's nothing Shrue can hold over their family to make them call back, and there's a whole host of juicy relationship implications that come with that. and then theres how they say, "i need that comfort from you?" like its a question??? like they have to beg because theyre unused to seeking comfort like that??? and then, in their final call, they list divorce before any other reason for their partner not calling back, implicitly revealing that they view it as the strongest argument!!

also, as was said on siltcord, Carson is really just an improvisor and not a strategist. i doubt he would have planned far ahead enough to bother actually faking Shrue's family, nor would have have needed to for his lie to have its intended effect.

[prettyhawkward]

TW- abuse mentions, DID stuff, physical medical stuff, child abuse. In general just approach with caution if you're easily triggered or just don't want that sort of stuff in your brain!

🖤

Just musings/rantings on DID stuff for my own reference-

I've spent so much time picking apart my own actions and words and happenings. And like many traumatised folk, I carry an unhealthily large dose of 'you're a massive faker/attention seeking prick' right inside my guts.

I suppose the most notable thing about that is that this /doesn't/ give me any extra attention. I live with my two kids and partner system. We've honestly mostly got this shit down... we mostly can tell who is who, we roll with it. Anyone fronting is given the same respect and affection and care regardless of who they are. It's created a sense of safety and love which is exactly what you need when you're like... I dont know. An alter whose entire existence was about being hurt or whatever...

But recently there's been stuff happening. It feels like you have periods of like... calm and its not normalcy. Our day to day lives in private are normal and comfortable for us. We clean, we do crafts, we buy food and make dinners, we take the kids to school and when we can afford it on trips or for treats. But I'd say underneath that is the awareness that for most people it's not a daily occurance to maybe be five or seven different people at different points and not have their partner be the same.

Healing is a weird process. Integration in the sense of.. alters coming forward, communicating and allowing themselves to be seen is not at all a linear thing and tbh it is awful at times.

Last week I had a seizure in the street. This was preceded by nightmares and hallucinations of alters that go back to when I was a child.

I've had two TIA's and a history of migraines so tbh I did just assume. Hey, there's probably something physically wrong with my brain and I'm going to die. I do have elevated wbc so I'm fighting something, but I'm also midway through a pancreatitis flare up so I /would/ have elevated wbc. Like..

Anyway. Night before last I started drifting to sleep at around 10.20pm or so. I was dreaming about my house, just vaguely wandering around as I always do. It's my house. We live here. I hear footsteps and I put my hand behind me in a greeting, someone took my hand. Again, this is my house, I'm familiar with my people. This feels weird and different so I turn and 'He' is there and I'm like... immediately a bit irritated. My head and body hurts and I'm like. Come on. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of 'new' alters creeping out of the darkness like little bugs skittering out because they feel safe. This is just me personally. But I don't want to learn there's other parts. Knowing there's others in here involves at least subconsciously acknowledging that there's always going to be trauma and memories suppressed that deeply. I don't want to know that. Who wants to acknowledge that this man exists this vividly because something terrible happened to you? You know it had to be when you were a child because you remember seeing him when you were a child. You know damn well the kinds of evil fucked up things people do to little kids. I don't want to think about that. I don't want to even imagine that that's possible. Why do you exists then? I was lonely, sure, but you're not the friends who kept me company. I had a little girl called Clementine, and a boy called George. They're now parts of other alters. But they were my little friends. I used to see them sitting on the swing or running next to me. Laying in bed on my side and holding their hands listening to my parents scream and throw things and slam doors. George would sit with me when I would hide in this closet. (Lol) I drew a picture of him in there. So, somewhere in a closet in Egypt there's a little drawing of George with his silly hair. He was ginger, which was probably a heavy projection from my love of Anne of Green Gables at the time.

On one birthday I made little cakes and treats out of blue-tak and we squeezed into this little cupboard underneath the boiler and 'blew out' the candles. (Like most autistic kids I loved squeezing into dark/surrounded areas.)

But like.. to me those make sense. I was a lonely kid with an active imagination and I was dissociating from a pretty traumatising environment with very little stability. We moved every few months. As we got older it became fun to joke that it was a miracle if we stayed anywhere longer than 6 months, so we had no friends, or any friends we made we knew would soon be gone. You can't make lasting connections or friendships when next week you'll be flying to a different country or whatever. So, might as well carry those in your mind with you. I vividly remember a thought along the lines of 'you can't take away someone if they're in my head with me'. Like it was a powerfully vindictive thought for how young I was.

This man- I know he's been here a long time. So I know. I'm not stupid. You can't convince me you get alters like this because you used to get beaten or starved or moved too much or were lonely. If you're a little kid, and your tiny little child brain conjures up a figure meant to stand with you and protect you. Or cover your eyes so you can't see the bad stuff. He's going to look scary. But amusingly, heavily inspired by all the tales of the devil they told us. 'He's beautiful and effeminate (because its evil for a male to have female characteristics and vice versa, like full on BS) he has pale skin and long hair. Long painted nails. Black lips and pointed teeth. Inhumanly tall/long limbed. He moves faster than you have time to blink and his voice is silky and creeps inside your mind.' It cracks me up in hindsight. You told little kids that /this/ is what the devil looks like. Literally used the words beautiful again and again.

Anyway, this dream... I was holding his hand, I was confused because it wasn't /my/ Sebastian and in my weird state I didn't entirely get what this was. I tried to pull my hand back, but he held it harder and pulled me close, pushed me against the wall and the wall was holding me there while he pressed his hand into my chest and I was trying to fight and push him off but it was like he was trying to push into my chest. I couldn't breathe and I got into that half awake/half paralysed sleep paralysis state and in that state I could see him standing over me next to my bed pushing on my chest and I was panicking because I really couldn't breathe in at all and then Sebastian pushed him off and I could move my finger and break out of the paralysis. It took a while to fade off all the way and because I had been inside the walls there were like spiders crawling inside my ears and I felt crawling all over me.

My 'trauma' and internal workings have always merged into the visual waking world. Like even if it was just the whole vividly seeing alters outside in the waking world. As a child they performed countless 'exorcisms' on me because I hadn't yet learned to keep it to myself that there was a beautiful woman staring at everyone from the side of the room.

Now as an adult I can /generally/ tell the difference between the people in my head and the people outside. Generally.

Audio stuff is harder to differentiate. In the safety of home and with a partner who gets it and isn't at all like, hey do you mind, we often fall into the comfortable habit of responding or talking to each other out loud but obviously that comes with dangers of like... you can't be doing that in public. It happens. But people don't really like it.

Things like drugs, alcohol, sleep deprivation or stress can make the lines blur in a way that makes it much harder to differentiate. I've tried to explain it as at any point I can see my house and the outside world. There's an overlap. It's comfortable and familiar to close my eyes and ease into my house. I'm safe in here. You can't hurt me because you can't come in here and the people with me would soon have you dealt with in various vicious ways.

I don't even remember what my intention was with writing this... just musing. I'm going through processes and somehow life just.. keeps on. What a life.

[visceravalentines]

I'm pretty sure my ask got eaten the last time I tried to send this I had completely forgot about it too before I saw my face reveal post my Internet was a little werid when I tried to send it though if you do have the original or your requests are closed just ignore this 😅

If it's not too much trouble I was wondering if you could write a little something for mine and Vinny's bookshop date please 💜

Here it is my love! I hope you enjoy it, I think it's super sweet!

The Dusty Shelf

Vincent Sinclair x GN!Reader

2.5k words No CWs, just fluff! Reader is described as shorter than Vincent and with brightly colored hair to match the lovely @fluffy-little-demon

There was this place.

It was a secondhand bookstore a few miles out of Ambrose, in a town small enough to be left to its own devices but big enough to have shed some of that small-town suspicion of strangers. You’d been desperate for just such a place when you found it, somewhere cozy, where time stopped for a coffee and a flip through a book of poems about cats. Ambrose was many things. Cozy was not on the list. But the Dusty Shelf was the epitome of close, quiet comfort.

You made an effort to make it out there at least once every couple of weeks. Saturday mornings had this intrinsic promise to them, the feeling of a day open for anything. You’d get a coffee from the shop down the street and lose yourself amid the shelves, almost always leaving with a book (or two, or three) you never knew you needed.

They had this delightful exchange program where you could bring in used books and trade them for ones that were new-to-you. Victor Sinclair had an extensive dusty collection of medical texts and historical novels and not one of the boys had any opposition to you putting it to good use.

At first, you shyly asked Vincent if he wanted to see what you’d brought back. It was an art book, an anthology of sculpture through the ages, and it reminded you of him. He was so enthralled that you let him keep it. You’d sort of intended it for him anyway. After that, if you didn’t come straight downstairs to show him your spoils, he’d seek you out, ask you what you found.

This time, as he thumbed through a well-worn anthology of Greek myths, you ventured an invitation.

“You could come with me next time, if you want.”

He looked up at you, brow furrowed. “I would love to,” he signed, “but…I don’t know.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, or if you’re not comfortable,” you said quickly. “But…there’s almost never anyone there, and Mildred - the owner - she’s basically blind. So you…you’d blend in just fine, I think.”

You watched him consider, weigh the lifelong fear of being perceived against the deep-seated desire for the normalcy of a trip to the bookstore.

“Can I…get back to you?” he signed.

“Of course you can. I would love to have you with me, but I’m also more than happy to bring back the best parts of it for you.”

You let it be through the week, until Friday night when he approached you in the kitchen. He touched you lightly on the lower back and when you turned, you found yourself looking at his bare face - half of it, anyway. The other half was covered by a waxen half-mask, the seam blended expertly across his skin.

Your eyes widened. “Vince, did you just make that?” He nodded. “That’s amazing, it looks so good!”

“The symmetry was hard,” he signed. “It looks okay?”

“Yes! You did a fantastic job, of course you did.”

He smiles his tentative ghost of a smile. “I thought it might be…easier to go out like this.”

You lit up. “You want to come with me tomorrow?” He nodded. “I’m so glad! It’ll be really fun, I promise. And if you’re uncomfortable at any point, we can leave right away, it’s okay. We can take it a step at a time.” You pulled him into a hug that it felt like he was hoping for, because his arms found their way around you without hesitation.

Just before bed, you found yourself alone in the living room with Bo. Rubbing your tired eyes, you stood from the couch, started towards the stairs.

“Hey,” he said in a low voice. You turned and met his gaze. His expression was inscrutable. “This is a big deal for him.”

“I know,” you said humbly.

“‘S good, I’m not denyin’ that. Great even. But I just wanna make sure you realize. ‘S been years since he’s been outta town.”

You nodded. “We’ll take it at his pace. Whatever he wants.”

“I oughta come with you, but I’m not gonna do that. He’d be pissed at me.” Bo stared at you for a while before adding, “You best take care of him, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

You nodded again, the weight of his trust making you stand a little straighter. “I will. I promise.”

Saturday morning broke with cloudy skies and an insolent wind:  the perfect day to spend in a bookstore. When you met Vincent in the front hallway you realized you’d both chosen plaid button-downs open over t-shirts. Yours was red and his was black.

You laughed and he cracked a crooked smile. It was priceless to you to be able to see that smile with the new mask. “I’ll go change,” he signed.

“No, no. We match! It’s cute.”

His eye shone. “If you say so.”

On the drive, you reached across the armrest and took his hand from its place on his leg. He looked at you with a flash of unguarded vulnerability, just for a second. “You’re gonna stay close to me, okay?” you said. “If you want to leave, you just squeeze my hand.”

He gave you a thumbs-up with his free hand, squeezed your fingers with the other.

“Mildred is really nice, I think you’ll like her. There’s hardly ever anyone there, even on weekends. And even if there is, they’re probably going to be distracted by my hair and won’t even notice you.” Your hair, incapable of remaining the same color for more than a month, was currently green.

Vincent pulled his hand away to sign, “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d dye mine sometime,” and then quickly laced his fingers back through yours.

“You mean it?” You beamed. “I would love to.”

As per usual, the street that was home to the Dusty Shelf was almost completely empty. The little café around the corner was the busiest establishment on the entire block. You parked the car on the curb nearby. Vincent eyed the constantly swinging door with apprehension.

“You can wait in the car if you want,” you said. “I can grab us both drinks and then we can drive up the road.”

He thought for a second. “No. Let’s both go in.”

“You sure?”

Vincent nodded.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

You rounded the hood of the car and took his hand. He was already reaching for you. You gave him a minute to gather his courage, waited for him to give you a nod, and then with your fingers woven through his, you led him up the two concrete steps into the café.

Inside was a cacophony of sensory input. Was it always such a spectacle? You’d never thought about it before. The smell of coffee was pervasive. Old country classics played on wall-mounted speakers beneath the clink of mugs and the even hum of a dozen conversations. An impossible number of people filled the small space, queuing at the register or sitting at a handful of high-top tables. You glanced up at Vincent, who bore a marked resemblance to a very large deer in the headlights.

“Okay?” you murmured loudly. He flashed you another thumbs-up without looking at you, too preoccupied with the insurmountable task of taking in everything at once. He examined the crowd, the menu, the entire space with his head lowered, peering up through his thick lashes. You gave him a minute to get his bearings, then indicated the line. He nodded and shuffled forward.

“Do you know what you want? Or do you want me to pick for you?”

He pointed at you.

“Got it.” You didn’t even bother reading the menu board; you knew what you wanted and you knew what he liked.

The line moved quickly and you were at the register in no time. You ordered the drinks and the cashier barely looked at either of you as she punched the buttons. Vincent watched the exchange like a biologist studying some exotic species. You sidestepped away from the register to wait for your order, smiling up at Vincent. He looked almost puzzled, but when you squeezed his hand just to check, he answered with a slight shake of his head.

The girl called your name, handed you both drinks.

“By the way, I love your hair.”

You flashed a polite grin. “Thank you!”

She bid you a good rest of your day with a quick, courteous glance at Vincent. Her gaze skated over his face, didn’t linger, and she was on to the next customer. With your hands full, you offered Vincent your elbow and led him out of the shop.

Outside, he breathed a visible sigh of relief.

“How was that?” you asked anxiously. “Are you okay?”

He stared at the ground thoughtfully before replying. “Yeah. I don’t think she even noticed.”

“Probably not.”

He furrowed his brow. “Nobody…even looked at me.”

A tentative smile crept onto your face. “Yeah. Everyone is always kind of…preoccupied with their own thing.”

“That’s not how I remembered it,” he said, and the hurt in his eye when he met your gaze was a knife in the gut.

“Well, let’s go make better memories then.” You handed him his drink. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah.” That phantom smile was back. “I’m okay.”

“That was the hard part.” You took hold of his hand again. “Let’s go get cozy.”

The bell over the door wasn’t a bell, it was a string attached to a set of windchimes. They tinkled overhead as you entered. A garland of multicolored scarves draped low just inside the doorway; Vincent had to duck to get through.

You watched his face as he took it all in:  the colorful glass lanterns hanging from the ceiling, the bright green carpet, the mismatched assortment of armchairs and loveseats arranged in little groups like families. And the shelves.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves held up the walls and a maze of chest-high shelves filled the majority of the space, every one crammed to bursting with books. Heroically, the shorter shelves also bore the weight of a hundred years of antiques arranged haphazardly across their crowns. The entire place smelt of patchouli and paper, and somewhere a blues record was playing.

Vincent’s eye was wide, flitting from one thing to the next like a hummingbird in a garden of honeysuckle. His grip tightened on your hand and you frowned.

“Do you…want to leave?”

He shook his head quickly. “No! No, it’s just…amazing.”

You broke into a grin. “Yeah…I think so.”

From behind a shelf, a tiny old woman shuffled into view, dressed head-to-toe in a truly devastating mix of colors and patterns. She wore itty bitty gold-rimmed spectacles dangling with a beaded chain and was still squinting with all her might.

“Can I help you?” she said in the voice of a chainsmoking squirrel.

“Hi Mildred,” you said brightly. “It’s me.”

“Ohh, hello dear.” She peered up at Vincent. “Didja bring a friend or didja find a bear?”

You bit back a laugh and shot a glance at him. He was transfixed with her. “A friend. He doesn’t talk much, he signs.”

“Well, we could all stand to talk a lil less.” She abruptly changed course, moving just past you to the worn desk near the door that served as a checkout counter. “Make yourself at home, honey.”

“Thanks, Mildred.” You gave Vincent’s hand a gentle tug. “Let me show you my favorite spot and then we can browse, okay?”

You led him back to the back corner, to an oversized burnt orange loveseat flanked by Tiffany lamps. There was a low walnut coffee table nearly pushed up against the couch, sporting a truly impressive assortment of coasters checkerboarded over its surface like a turtle’s shell. From underneath the table, a skinny black paw stretched out towards your feet, and then another, and then a handsome tuxedo cat emerged, blinking his golden eyes.

“That’s Shep,” you said. “He’s either very friendly, or very rude.”

Vincent knelt slowly and offered his hand. Shep gave him a sniff and then a cuff of his cheek. When Vincent stood back up, the cat meowed at him and leaned against his calf.

“You’re a charmer,” you said. He smiled shyly.

You wandered together through the stacks, pointing out books with odd titles, pulling ones with pretty covers to admire them better, tucking a few under your arm to take back to the orange couch. Vincent retrieved a few that were too high for you to reach, playfully signing, “Little.”

When you’d amassed quite the collection, you returned to the corner. You sat on one side of the loveseat and Vincent sank rather stiffly onto the other. He flipped a few pages, then leaned casually back. You flipped a few pages, then crossed your leg and scooted just slightly in his direction. He pretended to read for a while before stretching his arm along the back of the couch behind you. You abandoned all pretense, stuck your thumb in the pages to hold your place, snuggled in against him with your leg hooked over his, and resumed reading. He let out a soft, suppressed sigh of contentment and you smiled to yourself.

The morning passed in delightful, companionable quiet. When at last the growling of Vincent’s stomach broke the silence, you proposed a quick return to the café to grab lunch. Mildred let you eat in the bookstore if you promised to be careful and brought her back a sandwich. Vincent agreed and you went to let Mildred know you’d be back.

“I know you close at two on Saturdays,” you told her. “But…he doesn’t get out much, and he really likes it here. Could I convince you to let us stay just an hour or two past closing time?”

Mildred regarded you shrewdly. “It’s gonna cost ya.”

You considered the volume of junk in the Sinclair house, in particular the gadgets in Victor’s old office. “How does an antique sex toy sound?”

“Horrendous,” she said. “I’ll take it if you throw in the rest o’ that encyclopedia set y’brought last time.”

“Done.”

You shook on it. When you turned around, Vincent was examining antiques with Shep perched on his shoulder, drinking in the new vantage point with greedy yellow eyes. Vincent turned to you and he looked…well, he looked relaxed, possibly for the first time ever.

“Do you want to stay here?” you asked. “I can grab lunch and come right back.”

He shook his head. “I want to be with you.”

You hoped he could feel the warmth radiating from you as you took his hand again. “Good. I want to be with you too.”

[ares-would-be-proud]

Izzy said: Fairy! Im so excited for your dark content!! Since i saw it on your other blog, may i request for yandere bertholdt 👀 i feel the would make the most unsuspecting but worst (or best?) Yandere next to armin because he's so gentle and unassuming and shy, no one would ever think he has other intentions

Yandere Bertolt pt.I

{ Bertolt x reader | tw:yandere, tw:toxic-behaviour, tw:near-death experince, tw:murder mystery? Eh kinda, tw:manipulation tw:Emotional-rollercoster | Dark romance, fluff, slowburn, lowkey funny ngl | Canonverse }

{ "Roses" 1878 by George Cochran Lambdin 1830–1896 }

Securing the last belt around your thighs before attaching it to the one near your knees, you made sure to tighten it as much as you can before sliding it in the metal head.

Having the equipment room all to yourself, you took your time in double-checking everything was in place. Making sure your gas tanks were filled, carrying spare steel blades and tightening your boot strings.

The manoeuvring gear's parts made a clinking sound against each other with every step you took. Making your way to the nearby woods acting as the training ground, the sun shining made you shield your eyes with your hands, taking some seconds to adjust to the brightness.

The road was clear, with almost no birds or squirrels in sight.

It was one of those days when the wind seemed so fast as it swept by you, so much in fact that you could visibly see the few clouds swimming by as if they're racing each other. A perfect day to spend near a lake maybe, or in a field of flowers, but you had to spend it training in the woods with the other soldiers till your fingers ached from pressing against the handgrips.

You wanted to get it over with, feeling nauseous. Probably because you managed to oversleep and miss breakfast.

It started as normally as any other training session went, pushing through till your autopilot took over. While fun at first, there's so much manoeuvring between tree branches to slash at 2d wooden cutout of titans you could do before it started getting repetitive.

And so you let your body take over and move on its own, taking you further and further towards the edge of the forest till you couldn't hear the sound of anyone else's manoeuvring gear except your own.

The high wind rustling the trees making the leaves fall distorted your visions as they fell on you, and the flashing sunlight that swept through the small openings between the leaves only made things worse.

Blinding you for split seconds, too bright in fact, that you had to close your eyes shut as it burned after the light fell directly against it.

It's only after a couple of seconds late, that the sound of something snapping registered in your brain.

You were slowly turning in the air, strong wind resistance coming from below as gravity pulled you down.

Things were moving too quickly to process, dread shot through your entire body in shivers, you could feel your heartbeat in the back of your throat as you came closer and closer to the ground.

No matter how many times your clammy hands attempted to work the pistol-shot, no hooks attached to the nearby trees despite the gears working as you heard its zipping noise.

The realisation of the situation you're in finally settled, you couldn't do a single thing, but watch the trees grow larger and larger by the second as you fell to your doom.

You've survived many expeditions and missions, you've escaped Titans teeth that were mere inches from biting your head off, and this is what will put you seven feet below? A mere fall?

...no, it wasn't just a fall, it was arrogance for taking it for granted. After all, overconfidence was a slow and insidious killer, sneaking on the second you let your guard down.

But was it?

A flash of today's morning comes before your eyes, your brain recalling the unusual spot your manoeuvring gear was placed, you were too sleepy to notice it at the time but now it's the only thing on your mind, did someone-

Before you could hit the ground, the familiar sound of pressured gas fizzling out followed by the clinking of metal swishing by.

One second you were almost slamming into the hard ground, the next you were caught by someone mid-flight.

Bertolt tightly pressed you against his chest with one arm, securing you in place while his other used his gear to reach the nearest tree branch.

Your hands wrapped around him, securing yourself even more. He didn't flinch when your nails accidentally scratched his neck from how hard you were holding him.

Despite how close you were to his chest, your own hammering heartbeat was the only sound you could hear for it was stuck in your throat as the adrenaline pumped through your veins.

You hesitantly let go the second your feet touched the ground, although still shaking you managed to find your balance again, yet, Bertolt's hand didn't leave your back.

You looked below at the wires dangling from your gear, their end visibly thinner than the rest of it. It still didn't register how a wire made out of iron could snap so easily…

Your thoughts were interrupted by the hand reluctantly turning your face back up, Bertolt's nervous eyes meeting yours.

"Don't look down too much, you'll get dizzy" he said, concern clear in his voice before stepping closer to you, his large body tucking you between him and the tree behind, as if you might slip away "are you okay? Did you get injured?"

A bit taken back by his dotting, you shook your head before thanking him for not letting you fall.

"Don't mention it please...it's nothing, really." That seemed to make the corner of his lips rise a bite, slight flushing to his ears. "Maybe you should get some rest, you didn't seem well back there."

Was he watching?

The thought disappeared from your mind as quickly as it came, the guy saved you from a head injury after all, the least you could do is give him the benefit of the doubt.

Not to mention, it was Bertolt. Has it been any other guy, Reiner or Jean for example, then your attitude towards this whole thing would've been completely different. Putting as much space as you can between the two of you after brushing off their hands.

Has it been any other guy...but it wasn't now, was it?

No. It was Bertolt, soft-spoken and easily flustered Bertolt, who got nervous in most situations and didn't reply to teasing.

Bertolt, who didn't say a thing when Eren stole his seat next to Reiner, instead settled to sit next elsewhere.

Bertolt, who always remained humble and downplayed his skills despite ranking in the top five and becoming a really valuable soldier.

Bertolt, who you've only ever said hi to before once before he seemed to panic and just awkwardly wave back instead.

Maybe that's why you didn't mind him being so close, he wasn't a threat and most everyone knew that. If you asked people to rank the top three men they'd feel safe in a room with, Bertolt would almost make it to everyone's top two.

And so when he offered to walk you back to your room, it didn't raise any red flags despite it meaning you'd be alone with him in the dorms while everyone was training.

-

The short walk went fairly nice actually, he kept a respectful space between you while making sure to walk at a slower pace so his height wouldn't force you to jog.

From the sweat collecting at his forehead and his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt he seemed to struggle to find a good conversation starter.

You could read him like an open book, it was quite endearing the way he commented over how nice the weather is, four times in a row while stumbling over his words. But you weren't that cruel and so you decided to grant him mercy, starting a topic yourself.

Talking about your interest, hobbies and things you'd do whenever those rare moments of peace and normalcy would arrive.

He shared his too, apparently, he's into journaling, finding it much easier to write his thoughts on paper than out loud.

One conversation pulled another, as he seemed to grow more comfortable the more you talked.

Although, he wouldn't meet your eyes for more than 5 seconds before turning his gaze away, yet you could feel them staring at you the second you turn your head.

Somewhere between your conversation, the subject switched to talking about life. Bertolt asked you if this is the kind of life you've wanted, words unusually firm that it made you pause.

The question was out of place, a huge switch from your previous fun topics.

Nonetheless, you answered, "I don't think anyone would willingly choose this life. It's more of...doing the most out of the cards you've been dealt, this just happened to be mine."

The sound of his footsteps stopped, you looked at his face, he didn't look away.

"Would you rather have a more normal life?"

The way he stood, his back to the sun with you in his shadow, an unreadable expression on his face, really brought out his height and large build that you've almost forgotten.

you unconsciously took a step back, he took a step forward.

"If by normal you mean a non-starving one where I'm not at the risk of being eaten daily, then yeah." You answered, time felt like it slowed down. The seconds stretched for too long as you watched his reaction.

He...smiled, a sincere smile, the kind that makes your eyes shine. Soft expression seemingly relieved as he continued walking, a slight bounce to his steps.

"I'd love that too, to have a normal life one day."

And then he proceeded to tell you about his dream, the normal life of peacefulness he seeks. Sharing as many details as time would allow, from the kind of person he wants to grow up to be, to the colour he wants to paint the house backyard's fence.

It was lavender.

When he mentioned wanting a dog, you couldn't decide what was funnier, the mental image of Bertolt with an equally almost as big kind of dog, or a small tiny breed that would fit in his hands. Taking him for walks and playing catch as the dog tackles him to the ground.

Some chuckles escaped your lips, and while Bertolt didn't know what you were smiling about, nonetheless he joined too.

-

Your time together was cut short when the dorms came into view. Feeling both relief for finally being able to rest and disappointment for having to end your conversation so soon, especially since you think this is the first actual talk you had with him besides saying hi before.

Bertolt, looking out for you, made sure to hold the door to your room open for you. Some part of your brain wondered how exactly he managed to guess which room was yours, the other simply couldn't wait to get into bed.

You sat on the bed, Bertolt invited himself in and closed the door behind him.

He took his time looking around your shared room with his eyes, staring at the titles of the books splayed on the table, taking in the smell of scented incense your roommate bought every month, the doodles, drawings and notes hanging by mere tape against the wall.

Finally, eyes landing on the top bunk bed, currently empty with your roommate having left too early in the morning for the preparations of their next expedition.

Well...after all you were too used to waking up by the sound of them opening and closing all the drawers in search of their glasses that they manage to lose each day, yet yesterday they made sure to sleep next to it.

Huh, maybe that's why you overslept.

Yet, Bertolt's eyes didn't move as he stared seconds too long, shoulders growing stiff and palms tightening against his side.

"They left for an expedition, a titan capturing one... I think." You explained, "it's supposed to last three days, but since it's led by Captain Hange...I wouldn't be too surprised if they still haven't left yet."

"Must be nice, having the room for yourself."

You agreed before adding "well, it still gets too lonely sometimes."

Bertolt looked like he wanted to say something, lips parting for a second before he pressed them close into a thin line.

An awkward silence filled the room, as you looked at Bertolt who seemed to revert back to his old nervousness.

"I think I should go, Reiner must be looking for me."

You thanked him again for his help, he avoided your eyes before mumbling a reply, saying it's really nothing.

Did you do something wrong? You couldn't help but think that, after all things were going so well just now. Why would he get on edge again?

As a final attempt to redeem yourself from whatever unknown act you must've committed for Bertolt to act this uncomfortable, you called out to him one last time.

"Hey, Bertolt. I know we technically just met but, just know you can drop by anytime okay? You seem like a nice person and we can be friends."

Oh god did you really say, we can be friends, what is this kindergarten again? Welp you fucked up, looks like it's another failure to add to the calendar, man and you've been keeping such a clean track of days without accidents.

You know what? No, forget it, you tried your best and you had good intentions so why should you ever feel guilty for-

"You really mean that?" Bertolt, whom

You've become aware was still in the room, said.

Not sure how to reply to this, you just gave a nod instead.

"I'd love that." He spoke with a soft tone. And despite his growing desire to move closer to you, he opened the door instead, sparing you one last sweet smile before he left.

And for a good minute there, his smiling face was all that occupied your mind, a fluttering feeling that came and went too quickly for you to acknowledge.

-

True to your predictions, the mission was apparently delayed till midnight for...undisclosed reasons. Although gossip spread faster than wildfire, and by dinner time everyone was talking about the argument Captain Hange and Captain Levi got into, the story got modified and exaggerated each time it was passed around.

"Listen, I was there and I saw it! Well...not with my own eyes but it doesn't matter." Your roommate said, too eager to spill you everything that they almost forgot to eat their food. "It was big, like Captain Miche having to restrain Levi kind of big!"

You gave them a silent look, raising an eyebrow.

"...okay jeez it didn't get this far but it felt like it did, like it almost happened." They poked their food with the fork, before deciding to try some.

Their pouting face almost made you want to tease them even more, just to see what corner you can back them into before they confess to making up half the story they've been telling you.

But a wrenching gut feeling suddenly shot through your body, coming almost out of nowhere, the kind you'd usually feel whenever a titan was targeting you.

Confusion was naturally your first response, there couldn't be any titans nearby. You swallowed down, no don't be silly, it doesn't even make sense.

Maybe...maybe it was one of those cases you studied in class? About people getting PTSD flashbacks at random times, or from small triggers?

The air seemed too cold and too hot at the same time, you forced your eyes to move around the room in an attempt to remind yourself everything is fine, that you're here.

Seeing your friends, fellow soldiers and veterans just sitting around, enjoying their food while joking with their friends, helped ground you to reality again.

Yeah...see? Nothing's wrong, everyone's having a good time so-

Your gaze met Bertolt's, dark eyes staring back but not at you. No, instead they were focused on your roommate. The knot in your stomach twisted.

Beside him, Reiner was murmuring something under his breath as he leaned closer to Bertolt, his stare following the other's gaze.

Reiner seemed unusual, drops of sweat collecting at his forehead while Bertolt was the opposite, the calmest you've ever seen him actually.

Reiner gave Bertolt one final look, lips moving too fast for you to attempt to even read. Bertolt nodded.

And then it was like nothing happened, both of them going back to their usual selves. Reiner's attention was stolen by Eren asking about his food, while Bertolt looked at Jean who sat next to him without asking before commenting on Eren.

"Hey, are you okay? You look…" your roommate said, concern in their voice before their hand found your forehead. "I heard what happened this morning, with the manoeuvring gear, I didn't want to bring it up but…"

You didn't have to be told twice, and so you reassured them it's okay, you'll get some rest, not like you'd complain about having an excuse to get a day off.

That seemed to make them satisfied, well...that and making you swear on the scouts' honour to take care of yourself while they're away.

After dinner, as you were headed to your room while your roommate had to get to the stable before heading out with their group, you passed by Reiner.

It wouldn't have been unusual, wasn't it for the fact he was fully in his uniform with gear ready that you had to do a double-take.

You swore you just saw him in casual clothes at dinner...was he also going on that mission? Huh, weird you can't remember seeing his name on the list.

-

The week passed by slower than you would've liked, with both of the survey corps Captains gone, most of the soldiers...really had nothing to do but waste time.

It was almost funny, wasn't it for the fact you were bored out of your mind.

Captain Miche rarely gave orders, the only time you'd see him is during training season when everyone had to do a round with him. While commander Erwin didn't really entrust soldiers who weren't close to him with his paperwork or even chores.

At least Sasha and Connie were making the most of it, whatever they were doing seemed fun…

Bertolt never took you up on your offer either, despite him seemingly having a positive reaction to wanting to be friends he didn't show up at all.

Yet you'd still see him hovering by, either being assigned the same chore together or simply happening to be in the same room at the same time. And despite how much you've thought about going up to him to start a conversation, you knew how to read between the lines. You didn't want to make him uncomfortable that's all.

He'll come when he's ready, is what you told yourself.

And well, you were right, eventually, he did.

Not only did he initiate talking, he even attempted to ask if you'd like to accompany him to the nearby town maybe.

With the way his hands were clasped behind his back and slight flushing to his cheeks as he summoned all his courage to ask you that, how could you say no?

-

It was almost like seeing an entirely different person.

Bertolt, in his casual clothes, as he strolled by you through the food stands, seemed a much more...healthier version of himself?

He looked at peace, the smile never leaving his lips. He even made jokes and shared his opinions without being asked.

Whenever you went to check something that stole your attention, he would quickly follow by to erase any form of distance. Whenever your eyes fell on a piece of accessories for too long, he'd suggest you try it on, putting it on you himself.

And yet, whenever his hand would brush yours by accident while walking, he'd almost stumble into the ground and quickly pull it back. Or the time you attempted to adjust the collar of his shirt and you swore his knees almost gave out when you stepped closer, reaching his neck.

Both of you tried different kinds of food, he even offered you his own if you seemed to enjoy a certain food. Saying he'd rather you have it.

Both of you being broke soldiers ment there are only so many things you can do in the town before quickly burning through your savings.

It wasn't long before he suggested going back, you agreed to take the long walk back to enjoy nature a bit more.

You've wondered how come Bertolt only seems the most comfortable when talking to you on walks, but the story he was telling you was too interesting for you to think about it now.

You listened to him talk, it felt like you could listen to him for hours on end before getting bored. For someone who rarely spoke, he surely did have a way with words when he actually did.

It was nice, comfortable and gave you a false sense of normalcy as if the world was okay for a short while.

One final thought you had just before the both of you parted to go to your separate rooms, was that if Bertolt was going to write about this day in his journal.

-

For each day of the remaining week, you and Bertolt managed to hang out more and more.

You went to the lake, a frog landed on him that you had to remove because he was too nervous he might crush it.

He took you to a nearby spot in the town, it seemed normal at first but he just told you to wait. Apparently, each after some dogs would frequent this spot and Bertolt has already made friends with most of them.

And on the last day, both of you actually just spent it...in his room. He had a really comfortable bed and feather pillows that you almost didn't want to leave. And despite sharing a bed he still would keep space between you, no matter the uncomfortable positions he had to sit in.

By the end of the week, the expedition group arrived during sundown.

Their heads lifted high, pride clearly across their faces as they rode their horses. Captain Hange especially seemed much more excited than usual, barely managing to stay still on their horse.

The mission was a success apparently, they've managed to capture two titans with zero mortality rate and minor injuries.

...well almost a zero rate.

You were called into Erwin's office in the middle of the night, when Moblit knocked on your door asking you to quietly follow him.

The night air was cold against your thin clothes, silence filling the usually busy hallways, now errly empty.

Knocking before he told you to enter, he seemed busy with some paperwork, instead offering you a seat and asking to wait shortly.

The curtains behind him were closed shut, the candle sitting on his desk seemed on the verge of burning out, melted wax collecting on the plate under it.

It wasn't till after some seconds that you realised you weren't alone in the room, Captain Levi was leaning against the wall on the other side, arms crossed.

The scratching of the pen against the papers would occasionally get replaced with the sound of dipping the metal head inside the liquid ink container, carefully wiping it against the opening to remove any overflowing liquid.

Your fingers fiddled with the red cushion on the armchair, leg slightly bouncing before you force it to stop each time.

Waiting...and waiting.

The back of your throat felt scratchy, only becoming aware of how dry your mouth was then. Attempting to swallow down as a form of relief didn't help much.

"Here, drink it." A glass of water was offered to you by Levi, handing it to you before going back against the wall.

Saying a small thank you before finishing the glass, you felt slightly better afterwards. Although the growing tension in the air didn't help ease your mind.

"Cadet." Erwin clasped his hands, "I apologise for calling you here this late, although considering the circumstances I'm sure you'd understand."

Opening one of the desk drawers, Erwin pulled out something wrapped in a napkin, the white cotton having a growing reddish stain in its middle.

"I offer my condolences."

-

[nikethestatue]

Spy Games

Elriel Month - Day 3

Spying

Spying Lessons

Elain, the pretty, polite, courteous sister, who spoke well and moved gracefully, was also one who was never considered with any seriousness by anybody. Not her mother, not their weak, gentle father, not the imperious, sharp-tongued Nesta, or the self-assured, determined Feyre. However, she was a merchant’s daughter, and she was as sharp-eyed, as Nesta was sharp-tongued. 

She inherited the trait from their father--he was always able to spot a deal, or a weakness, a loophole and he used it to his full advantage when making deals. She watched him, and learned how to use her words, how to compliment and smile, how to appear innocent and helpless, while seeking favors and looking to get what she wanted. It worked. It worked with everyone--it worked with Nesta, worked with their servants (when they had them), and when they didn’t, and had nothing, Elain always managed to charm someone at the market for an extra apple, a couple of bread rolls, or a swath of cloth. Even Lord Nolan was not immune to her charms, and even though there were better offers from others, he encouraged Greyson to court Elain, despite her family's ‘reputation’. Elain loved Greyson, but she also watched and noticed. She saw groves of ash trees, the number of sentries patrolling the walled estate, and how many guard dogs there were. She didn’t even try, but she noticed...and counted...and remembered.

Nuala was good. Smooth and discrete, she’d never be suspected of keeping tabs on Amren. Though Amren was a vengeful Angel of a young god in her previous life, and she probably knew what Nuala was doing. Yet, Nuala was not so good as to suspect Elain. Because Elain knew as well. It came as a surprise, but it was apparent to Elain that Nuala closely monitored Amren, as well as Varian, when they were around. 

They were making lemon cakes in the kitchen--Elain and the twins. Baking and cooking--many assumed that that’s what Elain was good for--the kind, tidy, domestic Elain. What no one, except for one person, was privy to was that these chores quieted the roaring in Elain’s head. They silenced the visions, cleared the pounding in her skull, gave her a sense of normalcy, even if for only a little while. 

“What do you think Varian reports to his High Lord?” the question startled the twins and they exchanged quick looks.

Elain’s face remained placid, as she busied herself with grating lemon zest. “Do you think they laugh?” she chuckled. “Our court is dramatic, to be sure.”

The twins were silent. 

“Is it wise though,” she continued, uninterrupted, “to have a representative of another Court so closely entwined with the affairs of the Night Court?”

“The High Lord trusts Prince Varian,” said Cerridwen, her voice neutral.

“Perhaps.”

Elain stirred the zest into the custard and there was silence, the twins assuming that the conversation was over. 

“Does Azriel?” she suddenly asked.

They stared. 

“Does Azriel trust Varian?” she pressed.

“The lord,” began Nuala, but Elain interrupted. “Not High Lord,”

“Lord Azriel,” corrected Nuala, “does what he must to keep the Night Court safe.”

That explained everything.

“Could Azriel use another pair of eyes and ears?” Elain didn’t even know where the offer came from. Perhaps, it stemmed from the desire to be useful, to offer something of herself that so few knew that she even possessed. She turned to the twins and stared them down, her gaze unflinching.

“Teach me,” she pleaded. “Teach me what you know. What and how you do it. Please.”

“Lord Azriel may not approve,” countered Cerridwen softly.

“Let’s not tell him,” whispered Elain,

“Lord Azriel will know.”

“Eventually. I am not asking you to lie to him,” she added quickly, sensing that this was the reason for their hesitation. “Just don’t tell him. Not yet. Teach me, a little something, and then I’ll decide if it’s for me. Please. I,”

“Fine,” said Nuala. Cerridwen gave her a silent look of admonishment and surprise, but did not argue. Perhaps that would come later. “We’ll teach you the way he taught us.”

“Yes!” Elain’s brown eyes sparkled with excitement. Goodness, she hadn’t felt this excited in….well, forever.

The lessons were not what she expected, but she did not question them.

There were no weapons, or peeking through peepholes, or breaking locks.

At first, it was a little bit boring even. Odd requests, such as making conversations with random faeries--in the park, on the street, at the markets. The twins would point out a fae and order Elain to go and start a conversation. It lasted for weeks, and she even grew frustrated, thinking that they were just humoring her and these ‘lessons’ were nothing but a game. Until one day, Nuala told her to obtain specific information. She pointed at an elderly male Fae and requested, “Approach. Come back with the following information--did he serve in the first War, what rank, does he have children, how many, and what is his favourite breakfast?”

“What?” Elain stared in confusion, but Nuala’s face remained inscrutable. 

“Is there a problem?” asked Nuala. Her tone of voice...well, the tone was very much Azriel’s.

Elain shook her head and said, “no”, before crossing the street and approaching the male fae.

The realization that she could do this was thrilling. At once, she understood why she spent all those weeks approaching and making conversations with all those fae. She found ways, ways to ingratiate herself to them, to mark something small, but unique to each one, and then weave a connection around that tiny tidbit. It worked every time. 

The elderly male fae had a small, but noticeable limp. This was Elain’s opening. He was hauling a basket of groceries, and she approached gently, offering help. Oh, he couldn’t possibly trouble such a pretty lady. And she was a High Fae to boot. No, no, thank you, he could manage. Not a problem at all, she was walking that way anyway. What was he making for dinner with all those vegetables? Oh, soup? Did the wife send him to the market? Oh, a widower? So sorry. Were there children to assist? Three? That’s good that they helped out…

“He was a Captain in the Third Legion during the first War. He is a widower, with three children--two male, and one female. Three grandchildren as well. He usually eats leftovers for breakfast, because he is too lazy to cook, but his favorite breakfast are almond croissants from the Brea Bakery,” reported Elain.

A small, satisfied smile touched Nuala’s lips.

So the lessons continued. She was ordered to obtain more detailed information, and in places which were harder to access. She did. Sometimes, she failed, but rarely.

In addition, Cerridwen began training her on walking. 

Walking? 

Walking.

“Make your presence unknown,” she explained and Elain only nodded. Sure, she would learn to walk, if that’s what was required. She learned how to roll her feet in such a manner that they were completely silent with every step that she took. Learned how to notice her own body, its presence, and the space that it occupied. And learned how to make it unknown. How to melt into shadows, stand near someone and have them be unaware of her, sneak quietly into rooms and spaces. It took a month, maybe longer. Meanwhile, she learned other tricks. How to swap papers, how to pull documents with a flick of her wrist, how to read upside down (very difficult). 

“Could you take this to Lord Azriel please,” Cerridwen handed Elain a folder. 

“Um...yes, of course,” Elain took the folder, a bit surprised that Cerridwen couldn’t deliver it herself, but by the time she was going to ask, Cerridwen had disappeared.

First things first--Elain didn’t know where Azriel was.

The River House was enormous, so she started with Rhysand’s office, but it was empty. She peeked out into the garden, but only saw baby Nyx and his nanny, who was attempting to contain Nyx on a picnic blanket, and failing. Elain smiled. Nyx crawled like a fiend and made an aggressive beeline towards the fluffy peonies. No doubt, they’d be trampled and pulled soon enough. Especially, if the nanny wouldn’t take her eyes off the handsome delivery male who was standing by the gate and flirting with her.

Elain closed her eyes. Smell. Sense. They haven’t gotten that far in their training yet, but Azriel’s scent--oh, she knew it well. The most delicious scent to ever hit her nostrils. The one scent that she craved and hungered for above all others. Even in this huge house, she could isolate Azriel’s scent, as it rose above all others, at least for her. The strongest trail led to Azriel’s bedroom, which was unsurprising, even if he did not spend much time here anymore. He and Rhysand met to discuss matters of state, and then there were the mandatory ‘family dinners’ that Azriel attended. They used to be obligatory, but after the last Solstice, they became mandatory, by order of the High Lord. 

No, Azriel wasn’t in his bedroom. She followed the scent down the hallway, past the drawing room, then up the side stairs. Ah. She should’ve guessed. There was a terrace that overlooked the garden that Azriel favored. Sometimes, she thought that he observed her from there, when she tangled with weeds and seeds. But that couldn’t be. Not after the fiasco during the last Solstice and him pulling away from her with no explanation. A momentary lapse of reason on his part.

She spotted the spread of his wings. A smile touched her lips. How things were different before, when he was so comfortable around her. When he’d come and sit with her in the garden, sunning his wings, doing his work, both of them enjoying each other’s company without the need to talk. All of that somehow crashed and burned, and she didn’t know why and how to bring that intimacy back.

“Azriel,” she said, “Cerr,”

Azriel flinched and whipped his head to her. His eyes blew wide at the sight of her, standing in the doorway.

“Elain...Phhh, you startled me….” he muttered hoarsely.

And the Spymaster of the Night Court shifted with discomfort. 

She had surprised him. 

“Sorry,” she murmured and handed him the folder. “I apologize. Cerridwen asked me to give this to you.”

He was still staring at her, as if processing what had occurred. His hazel eyes raked over her body, settling on her feet for a few moments. It was like he was trying to discern how she managed to approach him so silently.

“Umm, thank you,” he said and opened the folder. It was empty.

Neither one said anything to each other, and Elain turned and stepped back into the house, her cheeks flushed.

As she hurried down the hall, Cerridwen and Nuala both appeared in front of her, grins plastered on their lovely angular faces.

“What?!” she snapped. 

The grins widened.

“There was nothing in the folder!” she exclaimed, irritated.

“No,” agreed Cerrdiwen. “But you passed the first phase of your training.”

“You surprised Lord Azriel.”

[the-ghost-of-jason-todd]

i just saw a post about murderbot and boundaries, and how an autistic reader was excited to see a piece of media that didn’t force a character to bow to societal expectations of normalcy with regards to things like touch and eye contact.  and i see it!  i definitely dig it.  i agree that the way martha wells has handled this is spectacular. 

but they also said that stories where characters show growth by learning to like or appreciate things like hugs or whatever are always bad, and i kind of lost the thread there.  because if you approach it from an autistic angle, YES it’s bad.  forcing people to violate their own boundaries in order to appear normal is ableist and terrible, and stories like that can border on inspiration porn and set unrealistic expectations for real life people etc etc etc.  but.... what if you approach it from a trauma angle?  isn’t it good when people who have been traumatized learn that there’s no reason to fear touch or to seek that kind of comfort?

don’t get me wrong, i read murderbot as both.  and i definitely don’t think it would be right to end the series with it in the middle of a giant group hug with no uneasy feelings to be found whatsoever etc etc etc.  but there are small hints in there that the trope of “learning to like touch” isn’t all good or all bad, especially in the hands of a storyteller like martha wells.  such as when murderbot offers that hug to mensah, for instance.  (where is that, exit strategy?  frick i knew it was a mistake to zoom through them all like that.  anyway, moving on.)  it isn’t a bad thing that it offered the hug, OR that it realized that the hug wasn’t as terrible as it thought it was going to be.  it did it on its own terms and with a human it trusted, who it cares about and who it knows cares about it. 

which makes all the difference, i think, between whether or not that trope is done tactfully.  i’ll be honest, i relate more to the trauma aspect of things than anything else, so i personally really like the idea of murderbot realizing that a lot of so-called ‘human’ things are anywhere from neutral to pleasant in small quantities.  it’s a kind of catharsis for the little traumatized child in me.  but i don’t think these small realizations will fundamentally change who or what murderbot is.  it realizing that having small amounts of body hair or getting a short hug aren’t world-ending or catastrophic won’t change the fact that it refuses to engage in sexual activities.  or, at least, it shouldn’t.  but hey, i trust the direction the series has taken so far.  i think there will be something there for all of us, in the end.

[gameofdrarry]

Wizards Hearts Recs: Secret Relationship

Wizards Hearts was a four-month-long Drarry reading fest. Players were given a playing deck of 52 tropes, and were asked to find 52 different fics to read and comment on to fill their decks. To prevent the same few fics from being read, fics were restricted to only being used for the game three times before being considered ineligible for further points. The tropes and submissions list can be found here.

Check out the masterlist of fics for this trope below the cut!

Goodness and Justice Have Dwelt in Your Heart  by violetclarity Rated:  Mature Words:  1952 Tags:  Secret Relationship, Dark!Draco, Angst Summary:  “But sooner or later you would regret having consecrated your love to me, for you do not know my soul.” // An upside-down remix of Wolves and Lambs Look Not by LowerEastSide. Read on AO3

📜 just tell me when it’s alright by M0stlyVoid Rated:  Explicit Words:  23,002 Tags:  Secret Relationship, Rimming, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Forced Orgasm, Possessive Behavior, Jealousy, Bite Kink, Bruise Kink, Light Dom/sub Summary:  Harry’s been fighting tooth and nail for any bit of normalcy he can get his hands on. He’s sick of feeling like something’s wrong with him, tired of feeling different. He thinks he’s finally gotten to the root of it, and has settled into a routine that makes him happy. Naturally, that’s when Draco Malfoy walks back into his life and upends it once again. Has Harry bitten off more than he can chew with his former rival? ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 fine i'll hold my breath / til i forget it's complicated by teatrolley Rated:  Not Rated Words:  10884 Tags: Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, there's a lot of shagging, and a lot of unresolved emotions, because these two dudes are idiots, but we love them, and they love each other, Oops, its complicated though, OR IS IT Summary:  Harry and Draco become friends with benefits, and Harry thinks it's more complicated than it actually is ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 The Difference Between a Cat and a Comma, Or, The One Where McGonagall Has Sass by shilo1364 Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  18600 Tags: Mentor Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts Eighth Year, background Ronmione, Transfigurations, HP: EWE, Pre-Slash, Pre-Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Coming Out, Secret Relationship, Humor, Fluff and Humor, No Smut, No Sex, Ginny is Harry's best friend, harry is annoyed at Ron and hermione, Harry/Draco and Ginny/luna double-date, Inspired by a Tumblr pun, Thestrals, tea with Hagrid, Transfiguration (Harry Potter), Tie-Switching, Great Hall Relationship Reveal Summary:  Eighth year at Hogwarts is going to be boring. That's what Draco Malfoy thinks when the Wizengamot makes attendance a condition of his pardon. After all, after letting Death Eaters into the school, failing to kill his headmaster, and being forced to serve a homicidal madman, how could finishing up his education *possibly* be interesting? Answer: a coveted Transfigurations advanced study position, Minerva Mcgonagall's surprising fondness for him, Thestrals, tea with Hagrid, tutoring Harry Potter, Granger and Weasley's excessive PDA, and the perplexing nature of sleight-of-hand double-dates with Harry, Luna, and Ginny. And then, of course, there's righteously indignant (if misinformed) Weasley, Draco's own insecurities and flair for dramatics, and a long-suffering Kingsley Shacklebolt. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Parseltongue, Quidditch, and Smut, Oh My! by cassie_black Rated:  Mature Words:  14392 Tags: Fluff, Smut, Sexual Content, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Parseltongue, Secret Relationship, Angry Sex Summary:  Hot boys, ball games, and snake talk! (A very late Christmas present for the lovely nursedarry!) ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Still Life by orphan_account Rated:  Mature Words:  3011 Tags: London, POV Harry Potter, i guess!!! Summary:  N/A ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 I'll Tell You A Secret (Just Don't Tell) by nerakrose Rated:  General Words:  18331 Tags: Coming Out, Domestic, Fluff, Cute, Community: trope_bingo, Curtain Fic, Secret Relationship, Car Accidents, But no one dies, HP: EWE, Forced coming out, Muggle Life, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World Summary:�� Harry and Draco are living a fairly normal life with a fairly normal relationship, except for the part where it's, well, secret. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Code-Cracking For Gryffindors by Saras_Girl Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  4065 Tags: N/A Summary:  Harry should know better than to conceal mysterious body art from dorm-mates who pay no heed to what happened to the cat. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Too precious to share by slowroad Rated:  Mature Words:  1667 Tags: Romance, Fluff, Humor, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Established Relationship, Secret Relationship, HP Fluff Fest 2020 Summary:  Harry and Draco are several months into their eighth year at Hogwarts. They have been in a relationship for a while now, but no one knows about them and they are happy to keep it that way. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 On The Couch by Frayach Rated:  Explicit Words:  26035 Tags: Desperation, Soul-Searching, Passion, Therapy, Voyeurism, Infidelity Summary:  It’s a Mind Healer’s worse nightmare to lose a patient to suicide, but Mind Healer Nick Nichols can attest to the fact that a murder/suicide is even worse. If only Dr. Freud had come up with a sure cure for love. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Curiosity, Wonder, Spontaneous Delight by cloudings Rated:  Explicit Words:  114710 Tags: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, but its more like, enemies to friends with benefits to lovers?, Enemies with benefits?, Porn, Blow Jobs, Accidental Voyeurism, Voyeurism, Scars, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Fantasizing, Flirting, if it seems like there are too many gay characters in this I say fuck you, Getting Together, coming to terms with sexuality, Sexuality, Bisexual Harry Potter, Gay Draco Malfoy, Lesbian Ginny Weasley, Improper Use of the Imperius Curse, Dry Humping, Making Out, Secret Relationship, Sneaking Around, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, as he should, Drinking, Partying, Jealousy, Anal Sex Summary:  After Harry hears some rumours about Malfoy, he becomes more and more curious until he just has to get some answers. Malfoy is more than prepared to give him anything he needs, just as long as he gets something back in return. Harry’s not sure why he’s surprised that it’s something moderately illegal. In which Ron continues to get far too many eyefuls, Hermione has had quite enough with everybody, and Harry’s not sure why enemies to friends to friends with benefits isn’t enough for him. OR Harry becomes incredibly curious, and somewhere along the line ends up accidentally falling in love with Draco Malfoy. Because of course he bloody would. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Twist of Fate by Oakstone730 Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  302209 Tags: Canon up until Epilogue, Triwizard, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Redemption, Forgiveness, Angst, Memory Loss, Secret Relationships, obliviate, secret boyfriends Summary:  Draco asks Harry to help him beat the Imperius curse during 4th year. The lessons turn into more than either expected. A story of redemption and forgiveness. Pairings: HP/DM (Slash) Timeframe: 1994-2002 Goblet to 4 yrs post-DH EWE Rating T for language, high angst, content. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Breakin' the Rules by orpheous87 Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  3146 Tags: Implied Sexual Content, H/D Sex Fair 2020, Auror Partners, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Draco Malfoy, Gay Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Secret Relationship, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, St Mungo's Hospital, Fluff, Coming Out, Happy Ending, Hurt Harry Potter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE Summary:  Harry and Draco are Auror partners. They're in a relationship that they've been forced to keep secret due to relationships between Aurors being forbidden. Harry is okay with this, as he hasn't come out to anyone other than Draco, but after a mission goes awry, their relationship is exposed. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Little Talks by Femme (femmequixotic), noeon (noe) Rated:  Explicit Words:  11351 Tags: N/A Summary:  Draco's been shagging the Head Auror for months now, and he's sure it's just a fling. Until Harry asks him to a Quidditch match, that is, and things go horribly wrong. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 You Look the Way I Feel by yourdifferentoctober Rated:  Explicit Words:  108693 Tags: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Mental Health Issues, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Top Harry Potter, Orgasm Delay/Denial, First Time, Praise Kink, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Snogging, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Enemies to Lovers, Sexual Tension, Falling In Love, Jealous Harry Potter, Possessive Harry Potter Summary:  Draco returns for his eighth year at Hogwarts in an attempt to salvage whatever he can of his future. His plan: sit as many N.E.W.T.s as possible, distance himself from the Malfoy name, and keep out of trouble. Of course, with his father on trial and at risk of unthinkable punishment, not to mention the anxiety-fueled "episodes" that have been plaguing him since summer, the school year doesn't go so smoothly. Especially when Harry Potter keeps seeking him out. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Magnetism by Queenie_Mab Rated:  Explicit Words:  26028 Tags: Illustrated, Chaptered, Adaptation, Rimming, Anal Sex, Veritaserum, Bad Poetry, Bets, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Blow Jobs, Mistaken Identity, Bottom Harry Summary:  Muggle Romance Novelist Draco Malfoy is exiled in the Muggle world after the war, but as fate would have it, the chemistry between him and Harry Potter draws them together, no matter how much Draco resists. Adapted from the manga/anime, Gravitation by Maki Murakami ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 In Secret by Rei382 Rated:  General Words:  2119 Tags: Secret dating, Secret Relationship, Christmas, did I ever say how much I love arthur?, No I did not?, well now is my chance Summary:  Harry and Draco are secretly dating. At least, they think it's secretly. ❤️ Read on AO3

[luxaofhesperides]

if my grief is violent enough ; a borijihye fic.

15k words. one-shot. not a happy story. be warned for major character death, blood and injury, trauma, and hurt/no comfort. first 1k words will be posted here, you can read the rest on ao3 bc i am not formatting 15k words onto a tumblr post.

. . .

The air feels strange. Na Bori can’t explain why or in what way, just that it is. It feels like the world is holding its breath, tense and ready to burst at any moment. Goosebumps raise on her arms and she can’t help but shiver as she locks the door behind her and sets out for school. 

Nothing’s strange or out of place when she looks around. Everything is the same as it was yesterday. Na Bori grips her bag a little harder as she walks down the roads, following the stream of students heading towards Daepong Girl’s High School. 

It’s probably nothing. Just Na Bori being paranoid for no reason.

She pushes it to the back of her mind and ignores it in favor of seeking out Lee Jihye, who is either at school very early or arriving late. She never knows, and Lee Jihye usually forgets to check her phone during the morning so messaging is not an option. Thankfully, Na Bori spots Lee Jihye leaning against the wall beside the front door and quickly makes her way over, waving when Lee Jihye spots her and lights up.

“Did you read the update last night?” is the first thing she asks as soon as Na Bori’s in hearing range. “I’m going insane, I have so many theories.”

“Oh, I haven’t read it yet. I fell asleep pretty quickly after I got home.”

“Boooooriiiii,” Lee Jihye whines, slumping dramatically against her, making Na Bori stumble at the sudden weight. “Read it during lunch! I need to talk about it.”

Na Bori laughs and pushes Lee Jihye off of her. “Fine, fine. You’ll have to feed me, though, if you want me to focus on the new update.”

“You know I’d never say no to making sure you don’t starve!”

Lee Jihye’s familiar bright smile loosens the knot of tension in her chest. Despite how on edge she still feels, if Lee Jihye is smiling, then everything is fine. Na Bori pushes the unnerving feeling away, leaning into Lee Jihye as if her presence could physically ward off negative feelings. Which it does, really, because there has rarely been a time where Na Bori could remain upset with Lee Jihye. Something about her always sets her at ease, like everything is alright in the world and whatever hurts she holds are easily soothed by Lee Jihye’s warm presence.

They walk into the school, Lee Jihye retelling an episode of a ghost show she watched the night before and Na Bori laughing at her bad attempts to reenact the scenes. It’s the same as always; students walking down halls, chatter filling the air, teachers setting up their lesson plans. The normalcy of it all is reassuring. 

“The victim ended up yelling at the exorcist for trying to hurt the ghost, because it was just a little kid. And tried to help it out instead even though it might have been a demon, and that segment ended with the host saying in that really bad dramatic sound effects voice, ‘Kindness too has consequences. You can’t save everyone.’” Lee Jihye throws her hands up, frustrated, and says, “The result doesn’t really matter, though! Sure you can’t save everyone, but you can at least try. Anyways, the person being haunted was in the right for trying to help the ghost kid, and everyone who disagrees is an idiot.”

Na Bori nods, trying to bite back a grin. That doesn’t stop the smile from curling her lips upwards, trembling with restrained laughter. She always loves how opinionated Lee Jihye got about things, especially the webcomics they read together or evening talk shows. 

There are times when she wishes she could feel as much and as strongly as Lee Jihye, but her heart always sticks with just a few things and holds onto them for a long time. 

She still has the stuffed boar doll Lee Jihye got her six years ago. It has a place of honor on Na Bori’s spare pillow.

“What would you do if you were haunted?” Lee Jihye asks as she sits on Na Bori’s desk, ignoring her own a row over.

 Na Bori sits down, placing her bag on the floor besides her desk. She doesn’t believe in ghosts, not really, but sometimes it’s fun to think that there’s more to this world than she can see. “I don’t know,” she admits, “Try to get it to leave? Or at least make sure it doesn’t break anything.”

“You’d be fine with a ghost roommate?”

She shrugs. “As long as the ghost left me alone, sure.”

“What if I was the ghost?” Lee Jihye leans forward, grinning down at her. “Would you kick me out for being a bad roommate because I’m haunting you?”

“You know I wouldn’t,” Na Bori rolls her eyes, forcing away the flush rising in her cheeks. “I’d be fine with you as my roommate no matter what. Preferably alive.”

“Aww, you’re so sweet to me!” Lee Jihye coos, throwing her arms around Na Bori’s shoulders and rocking them back and forth hard, just to be obnoxious.

She puts on a scowl, shoving Lee Jihye away but putting no strength behind it. “You make me wonder why I bother.”

“I know you don’t mean that.”

I really don’t, Na Bori thinks. She doesn’t say it though, afraid of crossing that line. She doesn’t reply at all, just slumps forward so her face is smooshed against Lee Jihye’s shoulder. The thought of Lee Jihye as a ghost, of Lee Jihye dead makes her chest knot up, heavy and suffocating. Of course she doesn’t want Lee Jihye dead, but somehow today the mere thought, even as a joke, is unbearable.

It feels more like a warning, a bad omen, than a thoughtless joke.

“Hey.” Lee Jihye’s voice gentles and she smooths a hand over Na Bori’s hair. “You alright?”

Na Bori nods, but can’t actually speak for a moment. Her breath catches in her throat and stays there, choking her. She feels terrible, like the world is ending and she’s the only one who knows it. 

Lee Jihye is fine. She’s sitting in front of her, holding her, and she’s fine. She’s alive. 

She wishes she knew why she’s so scared. 

With careful hands, Lee Jihye pulls Na Bori’s head back and tilts her chin up to see her properly. “Hey,” she says again, “Talk to me. Why’d you get so quiet?”

“Mm,” Na Bori manages, and sighs again. “I don’t know. I’m not feeling great right now. Like, anxious? I just feel like something terrible is going to happen.”

“Don’t worry, even if something bad does happen, I’ll be here to protect you!”

“Alright crybaby,” Na Bori says, a small smile on her face as Lee Jihye gasps in mock outrage. “I’ll trust you to keep me safe, then.”

The teacher calls for everyone to get to their seats then, and Lee Jihye hops off Na Bori’s desk. She lingers for a moment, letting her hand rest on one of Na Bori’s, a final, quiet reassurance, and then she leaves, dodging between desks and students to get to her own seat. 

The warmth of that touch stays, and Na Bori clings to it, let it keep her grounded. Class starts, and she can’t hear anything that’s being said over the pounding of her heart and the rising feeling that something terrible is going to happen. 

It’s fine, she thinks firmly, Nothing’s happening. I’m just at school. Lee Jihye is here.

She glances over and sees Lee Jihye already looking at her. Her brow is furrowed, clearly concerned, but when Na Bori meets her gaze, she smiles and makes a heart out of her fingers, hidden beneath the desk in her lap.

That’s right. Everything will be alright because Lee Jihye is here.

[continue reading here]

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He’s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. “If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)  

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

[ickle-ronniekins]

when all hope seems lost [ch. 2]

desc: George finds himself to be lost: his business, merchandise and home have been destroyed in the war and his twin brother is still healing from a battle wound that could’ve been fatal. He’s living temporarily in a flat in a desolate looking neighborhood, and he’s desperate for anything to feel like it used to be. It seems as though all hope is lost, until he meets someone who reminds him that he’s got to endure the darkness to be able to appreciate the light.

⇢ Chapter 1

A/N: second installment, loves.

pairing: george x fem!american!reader

word count: 2.4k

warning(s): mentions of war, anxiety, injury, mental health, alcohol

tag list: @mintlibri @georgeweasleyx @seppys-return-to-madness @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @darling-details @laneygthememequeen @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @dreamer821 @feffffffy @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasleyy @obsessedwithrandomthings @thoseofgreatambition @harrysweasleys @sleep-i-ness @shadowsinger11 @haphazardhufflepuff @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff @hood-and-horan @letsfightsomeorcs @theweasleysredhair @purpleskiesstorm @hxfflxpxffs @wand3ringr0s3 @finecole @angelinathebook @highly-acidic @purplefragile @90shermione @zreads @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hollands-weasley @andromedaa-tonks @bbstrawberry0421 @princessof-theuniverse @cappsikle @mytreec @imseeinggred @idont-knowrn @flyingserpxnt @auroraboringalis57 @godricsswords @jejegu @annasofiaearlobe @starlightweasley | message me to be added!

The weeks dragged on, the rain continued to patter on the roof of your house, the days seemingly melted into one another. What month was it? What day of the week? The weather had gotten a bit cooler, so you figured you might be nearing October. Quite honestly, you were both too exhausted and too fragile to care, or even to check your calendar that lay across your desk underneath a pile of unopened books. Your mental capacity was absolutely shot. Four months since the war and it seemed as though nothing was getting better. You’d been searching for some type of normalcy for so long; you wondered if you’d ever be able to feel that sense of comfort ever again. You weren’t sure how many more evenings of unwanted sobbing beneath your blanket you could take.

George was soaked to the bone because of the constant rain. He was standing outside of the gloomy looking Burrow after having apparated there. He always stopped by the Burrow -- before heading to the shop, immediately after, sometimes very early in the morning to help Molly with the laundry and with breakfast, sacrificing his own hunger. With all of its colours and multiple stories, the Burrow had never looked sadder or less like home. He ran a hand through his hair to shake out the excess rainwater and stepped inside the kitchen. The first thing he noticed was that the dishes from yesterday that had been piled high in the sink were now washed and put away. Then he noticed Ginny tending to Fred on the couch. He looked more lively today. More alert. The dark blacks, purples, and blues on his hollow cheeks were healing nicely, though the pale colour of his face beneath the deep gash just above his eyebrow made him look all the more terrible. “Mate, you’re looking ghastly,” Fred joked, his voice scratchy and weak and wheezy. George wondered, as he looked down at his twin’s sunken chest, and his limp and shattered leg, if Fred would ever be able to walk properly again. Test products. Breathe correctly. Stand up straight. The idea of him not being able to do any of those things made George begin to tremor. He forced himself up to his childhood bedroom to stifle his oncoming panic attack before Fred could see him cry.

-- -

“You’re telling me there’s a waiting list for Aurors?” Your voice sounded unusually harsh for your liking, and you sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t this young woman’s fault that so many individuals were looking to enhance their careers as Aurors. It made sense, especially given that half of the Wizarding World had been wiped out due to the war. It was only necessary for more people to sign on to protect their loved ones. The Ministry of Magic, and The Department of Magical Law Enforcement within it, was quite different than the way the MACUSA was laid out. You already felt off kilter being here. You slowed your breathing and gave the woman behind the desk a genuine grin. You apologized and asked her if she knew exactly how long the waiting list would be. Her eyes softened and she offered a lopsided, gentle sort of smile before telling you that she wasn’t sure exactly when there would be openings, but she’d be happy to keep your information on file. If only she knew how many times you’d heard that one. You huffed out a dry “Thank you” before making your way back through the Ministry and toward the street, where it was now down pouring. And where was your umbrella? Of course -- at your apartment, collecting dust, because in your hurry to get to the Ministry as early as you possibly could, you’d left it on the kitchen table. You just let the rain soak through your clothes. You could really have used one of George’s steaming cups of tea.

Why was it taking Fred so long to get better? And why did it look like there was absolutely no progress on the fixing of their shop? George shook out his umbrella and laid it gently against the front door before making his way inside. The sight of the blasted shelves made his insides twist. Their hilarious design of Umbridge faltering across a tightrope had snapped in half; their display of Love Potions had been blasted to smithereens. He glided across the floor, his feet carrying him to wherever they chose to go, when he bumped into something on the ground. Slowly he reached down and spread his fingers against their very first Weasley & Weasley trunk, which now looked more like Weas nd W, for the rest of the lettering had been damaged. His eyes suddenly became very blurry and he felt a burning sensation sting the back of his throat. He’d do anything to be back at Hogwarts now, sneakily selling products to the Gryffindor house all while avoiding Umbridge and Snape and Filch. He’d give anything to be back at school, where everything felt good and happy and alright, at least for a little while.

George had to keep reminding himself that there was an entire storage space full of products that he and Fred had been saving, in case of an event like this. At the time, it seemed like they’d had so many, and in the event of a wipeout, the brothers would be able to restock and resell as if nothing had ever happened. But looking now at how much damage had been done, and how many of their products they’d worked so painstakingly hard on had been destroyed, George truly didn’t know if the spare merchandise they had left would last them more than two weeks.

-- -

When you walked through the front door, exhausted from seeking employment all afternoon, only to find none, you figured you were allowed a glass of wine. Or perhaps several. So you put on your fluffiest pair of socks, the softest sweater you could find, and sat yourself down in front of the fireplace with your wand as you casually sipped on the bottle of red you’d purchased after leaving the Ministry this morning.

Perhaps moving here was a mistake. Would it be easier to gain employment back home in America? You shook your head at the silly thought that crossed your mind. Of course it wouldn’t. They’d gotten rid of you for a reason, hadn’t they? They couldn’t afford to keep so many people on after the war. Plus, you’d already moved your stuff in here, halfway across the world, so there was no point in uprooting your life, again. Besides, the painful memories that flooded your mind at the thought of home made you appreciate the coziness of England even more so than you did when you first got here. It was helping you forget -- about all of it.

You mindlessly muttered spells just to give yourself something to do. So this was unemployment -- repeating to yourself the charm you’d learned when you were eleven, making your belongings float in the air. How absolutely pathetic. You wondered if George felt this way too, as you lazily flicked your wrist and sent your notebook chock full of potential jobs toward your bedroom.

George couldn’t wait to change into some comfortable, dry clothes. He opened up the front door and left his wet umbrella out on the porch. As he hung up his coat in the closet, he spotted you next to the fireplace, and it seemed as though you were muttering incantations to yourself and enjoying a glass of wine. He felt a small smile tug at his lips, because he didn’t realize how much he wanted to do the exact same thing until he saw you.

It had been a few weeks, but the two of you hadn’t gotten to know one another much. Little things, here and there, such as “D’you care for milk or cream?” or “How’s your brother doing?” or “Any luck with employment?” You two just barely scraped the surface; there was no diving deep into conversation. Neither one of you prodded the other -- you both simply kept to yourselves with the occasional evening offering of a cup of tea, and then went on your separates ways once morning came. So when you asked George if he’d like to join you and sent a wine glass from the cabinet soaring through the air toward you, George accepted your invite and immediately went to change into something a bit warmer.

As he expected, it was easy to get you to open up about your life. Not just from the wine, but he was sure that helped. He’d started simple: asking you how your day was. He didn’t realize it would turn into a full blown story about your entire life, but he didn’t mind. It was sort of comforting, knowing that someone else living under the same roof as him was going through hell.

He learned all about your time at Ilvermorny, the American Wizarding school, about your studying and ambitions to become an Auror at the MACUSA (the Ministry in America, he came to find) and how you’d had a great job up until the war, when all in the same day you’d lost that job, your home, and someone very close to you. There was a bit of glassiness in your eyes, but he couldn’t tell if it was from the sadness or the buzzing of the wine.

“But enough about me, complaining about all things that have gone wrong,” you said, waving him off, gulping back the rest of your second glass, “what about you?”

Since the war, since the demolishing of his business and his brother’s injury, George hadn’t once let people see how he really felt. He kept everything bottled up, just as he always had since he was young. Fred always used to tell him that one day he was going to explode from the inside out, but George never listened. He always kept everything inside. But between the brief anxiety attack he’d had at the Burrow this morning, and the very long months of keeping everything close to his heart, he supposed there wasn’t any harm in telling you a few things, getting a few things off of his chest. Not his entire life story (like you, those Americans!) but he could share. He could tell you a bit. Maybe it was okay to open up his heart.

-- -

Somehow you’d both made it to one a.m.; not that it mattered, both of you had nowhere to go come morning, though you’d probably just go about your normal routines -- each puttering around the kitchen, sharing a simple ‘good morning’ and heading forth on your way.

Or maybe, after three and a half glasses of wine each, a simple ‘good morning’ would turn into something more.

George had six siblings, you learned. Five brothers and one sister. He’d left the British Wizarding school, Hogwarts, just before graduating to open up his business with his twin, Fred. He’d played Quidditch at school and was a ‘bloody good Beater’, in his own humble opinion, he was known for his pranks, and when he’d accidentally turned his brother Percy’s hair a permanent bright pink color one day (they’d eventually figured out the antidote) his mother had nearly kicked him into next week.

George and Fred had to put their business on hold during the war. George explained that he’d lost his ear during an attack one evening before everything had unraveled. The twins had gone back to Hogwarts to fight alongside their friends and family (your jaw had dropped when you’d found out that they were friends with the Harry Potter, who was just as famous in America as he was in England) and unfortunately due to their absence, sixty percent of their shop and merchandise had been blasted apart with no remains. Fred had been severely injured during the war, and, according to George, was lucky to be alive. More than lucky, it sounded like. It had been four months and Fred was still struggling to sit upright without getting winded.

George hadn’t really offered up much about his personal life before this, but then again, neither had you. Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps it was the recognition that both of you landed in this apartment with the intent of a fresh start. New beginnings. Maybe he felt as though this was an opening: telling his truths to a complete and total stranger who was going through their own heartache. Well, not total stranger. You were his roommate, after all.

You were both heading in opposite directions toward your bedrooms after you hadn’t been able to keep your eyes open any longer. You were absolutely exhausted. He caught you by surprise when he called from his doorway, “I lost someone too, you know. So I understand the... worry of starting over.”

You swallowed thickly; you hadn’t gone into too much detail, or any detail at all, but from the sincerity in his eyes, you recognized that look of understanding. You wondered just how much he understood your loss, and if his was the same. “So if you ever need too.. I dunno, talk about it, I’d be more than willing to lend you an ear.” He cupped the side of his head where his missing ear should be, and actually snorted a bit at his own teasing. It took everything in you to stifle your laughter at that terrible excuse of a joke. His eyes were tired and he wobbled a little bit in the doorframe. “That’s the wine talking. Normally I’m really bloody good at jokes.”

“You don’t say.”

“Hey,” he pointed at you and threaded his eyebrows together, then laughed again. “But really. You ever need to have a chat, you know where to find me.”

“Well I’d hope so. We do live together.”

You thought, watching him from the other end of the hallway as he laughed again and scratched at the door handle, that perhaps this was a step forward. You’d learned an awful lot about him in the time it took you both to get through three and a half glasses of wine each. You were grateful. It was nice to put a story to the face you saw every single morning. He was becoming more of a person, rather than just a body living underneath the same roof. As he rubbed at his eyes and continued to laugh, you wondered if he was again becoming the George Weasley he was before the war. The one you were meant to know.

“Have a good night, Y/N.”

“You too, George.”

He was more than just your roommate. He was your friend.

[bbnibini]

PSISLY: An Obey Me!CYOA – sixty-five🔖

A foreboding feeling won’t disappear from your heart all throughout class. The seat beside you was empty (Satan was still busy with his investigations with Lucifer), Levi was preoccupied with too many things to be confided anything with—apparently, Asmodeus was too, as he had taken it upon himself to “salvage” Levi’s “disaster of a party”, not knowing that it was not even a real person’s birthday in the first place. Simeon seemed amused at the contrasting personalities’ exchanges, and only intervened when voices were raised and Luke started crying when a binder hit him on the head from the heat of their arguments. Mammon was with Solomon, arguing over some magic formulae that he hadn’t quite mastered yet. Beel had been sweet and thoughtful, but you had a feeling that he wasn’t acting like himself lately. In contrast, his twin didn’t seem to have any worry in the world as he slept through most of his classes.

It was…too normal? No, that’s not quite the right word for it. Rather, it felt like they’re (sans Mammon) pretending that everything was fine, and whatever they were hiding, they’d rather not tell you. Disconcerting perhaps? You did know that now wasn’t the right time to ask anything. Despite your wariness however, nothing can ever prepare you for what happened once you went back in Lamentation. 

. 

. 

. 

. 

…and by you, of course it meant everyone else, including the Purgatory Hall residents and Royal Castle residents. What were they all doing here? What's with the tense atmosphere? 

"Over here." Satan called your name and patted the seat beside him on the large dining table. One would mistake the gathering as something more ceremonious, but there were no food displays nor feasts or speeches to toast to—only a forlorn Beelzebub who voiced out similar concerns to his drowsy twin on the other side of the table.

It was Lord Diavolo's voice that commanded silence in the dining hall. Whatever veneer of normalcy was now shed, and you began to feel the familiar uneasiness again. 

"It'll be fine." Or so had Satan told you while Lord Diavolo made opening introductions about the issue at hand. Words such as brainwashing and poisonous herb came to light, supplemented by Lucifer, Barbatos and Solomon's observations. All three admitted to being part of a secret investigation team and caused arguments from the uninformed for a while, until the Demon Prince quelled their unrest by the finality of his words…or rather, his warnings. 

"This is a serious matter. Their life is in danger, and so are their family's and friends'. For the sake of their safety, if you are ever involved in the concerned incidents, I implore you to present yourself and explain your reasons."

Belphegor didn't seem amused by the implications of the Demon Prince's words, and made such dissatisfactions clear with his retort: "Are you saying one of us tried to kill them? Do you have any evidence for your baseless accusations?" 

"Woah, what the fuck? Why would we ever do that?! Why would we ever harm our human?” Mammon echoed Belphegor’s offense and retorted in the same fashion.

"That's how I reacted like at first, so I did a little research of my own." Satan replied. 

Lucifer sighed deeply and looked at you as if telling you not to ask any details about your lover's findings, or how he went about obtaining them. You felt your heart tighten. Just what was Satan up to while he was gone? 

"A generous (read: relented to his little brother's whims) source gave me a sample of the same poison used on the tin: a banned item. Needless to say, this person knows exactly what they're doing. I'd even go far as to say that they know about their birth origins and their connection to us seven."

"Why so?" 

"I'm glad you asked, Your Highness. Every one of you must have a copy of my findings on your leftmost side. If you would turn to the seventh page—"

"...?!"

A delicious herb hides endless possibilities to an imaginative spellcaster. The potency of its effects when refined properly can serve as a catalyst for the most powerful spells. However, human mages wishing to seek its power must proceed with caution, as in certain doses…

Satan held your hand very tightly as he noticed you rest your back against the seat. 

You heard him say "You can do this," as you read aloud, and even repeated those comforting words as you strained your ears to listen to everyone's feedback. However much you tried to listen in though, you can only think grim thoughts. 

How can you…exactly make sense of this? That what? 

1.  Someone is absolutely trying to kill you. They even went so far as to use brainwashing to erase your existence to your important people in the human world. 

2.  They are aware that you're Lilith's descendant. Which makes sense why Lord Diavolo suspected everyone in the very room you're in right now(as it is a well-guarded secret). 

3.  The killer used an herb lethal to humans in certain doses, but an effective enough of a spell catalyst so that they can finish off the job in case you didn't consume enough. 

4.  The killer used a charm spell to brainwash his victims. 

5.  The killer is aware that demons are resistant to certain spells.

6.  Your fallen angel blood will resist succumbing to the charm spell, but it cannot counter the herb's effects. Meaning, either you succumb to the poison or you will be in so much pain as your angel blood rejects the spell casted with the herb.|

7.  The killer really really wants you dead. 

"Wait a moment." In your cacophony of thoughts, an unexpected voice silenced the clamorous room. However, his gold and silver eyes didn't meet with yours. Instead, his attention was on the Demon Prince. 

"What is the connection of the remaining two items to this, Diavolo? I only heard about the cookie tin being poisoned."

"It makes sense since I only asked Barbatos to commission you to make the antidote. No, these two gifts aren't connected at all. Ah. 

. 

. 

. 

. 

. 

I'm sorry!" Diavolo looked at you in concern as he called your name. "I didn't mean to make you distraught!”

Diavolo's apology caused everyone else to be calmer. A wave of apologies soon followed.

"Sorry we got carried away." you heard from Belphegor's side of the table, followed by Asmo's and Beel's concerned inquiries that you reassured with hopeful (albeit forced) smiles. 

You felt Satan’s hand squeeze yours, only realising how cold and sweaty your palms were when you met eyes briefly. You turned to the next person who called your name.

"I apologise for my oversight. Have you calmed down a bit?" Lucifer followed, along with Simeon's and Barbatos' own inquiries which you reassured yet again with smiles. Your other hand squeezed Luke's own, feeling it trembling like yours. Knowing you're not the only one scared with all the revelations was reassuring in an unsettling way. 

The little angel’s, “I’m okay! I have to be strong for the both of us!” wasn’t very convincing with how he stumbled upon his own words, but his intent and his meaning reached you and you were thankful just for that.

"I overestimated you. I'm sorry." Said Satan who kissed your threaded hands and you shook your head.

"You're right though. I need to hear this. I have all of you, I'm not afraid."

Regret registered in his features. You heard him sigh.

"You can be afraid." He apologised again. "You have the luxury to, with everyone here worrying about you."

He did make you feel better. You find yourself laughing a bit at how obvious his words were to you now. Everyone cared for you, you couldn’t help but think. You wanted to return their kindness in some way or another, even if it meant lying to your own feelings and twisting the truth for their own peace of mind.

"This is just…a lot of things to take in. Even the thought that one of you--" 

"Do you really think it's one of us?" 

You shook your head. 

"Because it's not. You'll see. Everything will be fine."

Was it? Will it? Everyone seems to be trying to make it seem that way, so you'd like to at least believe it for their sake.

Your name was called again, this time by the Demon Prince who was leading the flow of the conversation. The apologetic look on his face stayed even with your assurances, and he seemed hell-bent (pun not intended) to make amends with you.

“This is my own oversight, I’m sorry. I should have been more thoughtful.”

You smiled and shook your head. “I’m fine, Lord Diavolo.”

He pondered on your words for a bit, letting out an almost inaudible hum. “This wouldn’t do at all. I have offended not only you, but Belphegor and Mammon with my own baseless assumptions. I did not mean to accuse anyone, but it was clear that my words have caused both fear and offense.”

Belphegor looked like he had something to say, but Lucifer stopped him from talking prematurely. Lucifer exchanged looks with Barbatos, and the demon butler started to speak upon exchanging nods with him.

“It is most gracious of you, milord to acknowledge your lack of delicacy. There is a time and place for candour, as well as amelioration.”

“Barbatos…”

The demon butler noticed your stares and smiled gently at you. “Might I suggest an open forum? An opportunity for everyone in this very room to tell the truth for the sake of their safety?  I would expect our precious human exchange student to also be truthful of their feelings, if possible.”

“Truthfulness? What a splendid suggestion.” Solomon said from the other side of the room. “Perhaps an elaboration on this truthfulness would be helpful on leading this suggestion into fruition.”

“Hm? Wouldn’t that just be similar to interrogations in mystery novels?” (Satan)

“That’s a fun way of doing it, I suppose.” (Solomon)

“Like D*tective C*nan?”

“Levi…” You shook your head repeatedly at your best friend as you noticed Lucifer’s deathly glares directed at him. Thankfully, he noticed immediately and was able to keep his fanboying in check.

“I agree.” Simeon added. “If it means it would maintain peace in this room and clear everyone’s doubts with each other, I do think it’s the best solution.”

“What do you think, Lucifer?” Solomon consulted his other “coworker”, and the eldest sibling sighed in relent. “It’s not like we have much of a choice. Leaving this room while still doubting each other wouldn’t be good for all of us, especially them.”

The first few minutes of the “open forum” had a lot of dead airs and awkward starts. Simeon encouraged a couple of unenthused demons to sit on the floor, all huddled up to each other to “promote intimacy and trust”, but all it earned him were overgrown groans and griping fitting to that of rebellious teens going through their middle school phase. A little problem with the whole huddling situation also surfaced when two unmistakably…large adult demons by the names of Beelzebub and Diavolo had exhibited visible discomfort on trying to conform with their peer’s original, cross-legged positions. Thankfully, a compromise was met and they were now seated more comfortably with their knees bundled up.

Each person who had to explain their side were made to go to the centre of the circle to “tell their own truth”, while the rest followed up with questions once they were done saying their piece.

The first to go forward was Barbatos, the original suggester. He seated calmly at the centre and started speaking once he was prompted.

“As all of you are already aware, Lucifer, Solomon and I are working closely with each other in secret to protect them. We have kept this from all of you in fear that it will only make everyone worry. I apologise for not considering all of your feelings.”

“Did you write the letter?” Satan asked and Barbatos shook his head. “No. I did not send the bouquet either. However, I confess. I was the one who sent the tin of cookies.”

!!!

Barbatos understood everyone’s apprehension and calmly continued his sentence. “Lucifer can attest for me that the cookies were not poisoned when I made it for them. He was with me when I have been baking the sweets for them and a few of our guests in the Castle.”

Lucifer confirmed Barbatos’ statements at his own turn. “They had expressed interest on the cookies before, so Barbatos included their share on the batch he had made for Diavolo’s guests that day. If he had poisoned Diavolo’s equally human guests, they would have all been dead by now.”

That makes sense. Besides, the real killer wouldn’t suggest such a disadvantageous method such as an open forum to put them on the spot.

“As for my own accounts, I was not aware of any letters or bouquets until the investigation team began our operations. I did put a note on their locker to summon them in my office. Judging from their absence, however…it must have remained to be seen.”

“Was it a blue sticky note with their name on it?”

Lucifer’s eyes widened as he turned to the Demon Prince. “How—”

“Oh, it was at my own batch of cookies for some reason.”

Lucifer sighed, realisation finally dawning on him. “Mrs. DeVille must have misunderstood my orders.”

“She’s a well-meaning woman, however misguided. I apologise on her behalf.” Barbatos bowed his head. “It is my own incompetence as her superior to have overlooked her capabilities.”

“Mrs. DeVille?”

Barbatos nodded at you. “Yes. She had been a servant at the Castle dating back to Young Master’s great grandfather. She’s one of our most loyal retainers.” There had been an apologetic look on his face as he continued to explain. “Her seniority precedes most of us in the Castle.”

“So she’s really old?”

“Belphie! You shouldn’t call a woman old!” Asmo scolded.

“But that’s what she is. OLD. Senile even. Isn’t that kind of servant just a burden to keep?”

“Belphegor.” Lucifer warned, causing the youngest to roll his eyes and mutter out a whatever under his breath in irreverence.

“The fault lies with me, and not with Mrs. DeVille. In any way, that matter has already passed. Whose turn is it in the hot seat this time?”

Asmo raised his hand, letting out a cheery “Me!” as he sat cross-legged in the centre. Contrary to the dreary atmosphere, the Avatar of Lust’s laid-back cheer offered comfort in the tense atmosphere. You briefly wondered if Asmo intended for that to happen, as the demon was rather perceptive if he wasn’t so hung up with himself.

“I mean, I didn’t write anything nor send anything, but don’t you think those sorts of romantic gestures suit me? I almost wish I were the one who sent both!”

…or so he says. Lucifer had been an effective buffer on Asmo’s foreboding tirades about love and beauty. Soon, Levi’s, Beel’s, Simeon’s and Luke’s turns came, all reiterations of the same tune of “It wasn’t me”, which freed them of any suspicions:

“You had a locker?” Was Beel’s innocent inquiry; his cluelessness a testament to your apprehension with his twin after…that. Of course, the situation has changed now, but it was too late for you to tell them—rather, it had completely slipped your mind.

Once Levi’s turn came, you both exchanged a conspiratory nod. "If I would give you any gift, I would just send it to you, not your locker." Levi shrugged. "Besides, we were always together. Sneak attacks like that aren't my thing." That was true. Any energy he'd have for scheming was better spent on his beloved strategy games. 

“I didn’t send it. I was busy helping Luke out with his homework around that time, I think?” Simeon’s alibi was confirmed by the younger angel who had not only matching alibis with the angel, but also with their human companion.

“Solomon also helped us out a bit before meeting up with Asmodeus that morning.”

Solomon had a vague smile on his face as he looked over at you, noticing your stares.

“We weren’t aware of the cookies being poisoned at that point. However, Lucifer had suspicions that something wasn’t right when Barbatos made his usual reports to the human world.” He explained.

Lucifer nodded. “Right. When I saw you sharing them with everyone in Lamentation, the cookies were already compromised. It didn’t look the same as what they had been before Barbatos sent them to you.”

“So that’s why you wanted my advice on the charm spell…Mhm. I did meet with Solomon that morning after my spa appointment.” Asmo said. “Well, anyway! That’s that. Solomon, dear~ It’s your turn!”

Solomon sat himself on the centre in the same manner as everyone else and nodded. “What Luke and Asmo said were true. I was with both of them around that time. They have pretty much explained everything for me.”

“Even so, I would imagine hearing your innocence from your own lips is more reassuring than second opinions.” Barbatos said. The sorcerer smiled back. “Ah, but of course. Around that time, I was already working on the antidote for the poison your men have traced on their friends and family.”

“Ahh, I can confirm that as well. We have personally requested for his assistance.” Lucifer reassured. “Whose turn is it next?”

Satan raised his hand. Wordlessly, he sat in the centre and stated his alibi. “I did not send the bouquet, but I did give them a single carnation to cheer them up. I have noticed a tin of cookies in the locker then, but paid it no mind. I thought it was there to begin with.”

“So the cookies were sent first, then the flower? You mean to say there was no bouquet nor love letter yet when you placed your gift on their locker?”

“None to my knowledge.” Satan answered the curious Demon Prince. “Seeing as it seems like not everyone knows where the locker is located, is it correct to assume that the letter and bouquet sender is someone close to them?”

Levi vehemently shook his head once heads turned to him... “W-why would I send anything that embarrassing?!”

…then at Mammon, who jolted from his seat.

“Come to think of it, Mammon had been reaaaalllllyyyy quiet all this time. Suspicious.” Satan frowned.

The colour started leaving Mammon’s face as everyone turned their eyes at him.

His saviour, however bitter and resentful for Satan’s revelation interrupted the accusing party’s inquiries to him by speaking out of his turn. “Did you not tell Beel and I about where it was on purpose?”

You turned to Belphegor, interrupted before you can even speak.

“No. This isn’t about Beel at all. It’s about me, isn’t it? After all, deep down…you resent me, don’t you?”

“Belphie, I—”

"Me? Send anything in your locker? You didn't even tell me where it is!" The hurt in Belphie's tone made you realise how you had inadvertently hurt someone again due to your negligence. You wondered if your flustered apologies were ever heard. Then again, you'd rather for them not to. He doesn’t deserve a half-assed one at all. 

The door slammed shut as the youngest left the room, and as you attempted to chase after him, Beelzebub held a hand above your shoulder and shook his head.

“He needs some time alone. He left because he didn’t have anything nice to say right now.” As he saw you shook your head, he gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “He doesn’t want to hurt you.”

“But—”

“Belphie’s not mad at you,” Beel reassured you. “He’s mad at himself.”

“It completely slipped my mind. So much has happened and…”

“Ahh. He understands that deep down, but he needs some time. I’ll talk to him if you want.”

“Thanks, Beel.” You tilted your head at the taller demon as you caught him holding back on his words. “Is there anything else you need to tell me?” Beel seemed really deep in thought so you assumed he was thinking carefully on his words. However, he said no.

“It isn’t my truth to tell.” He spoke cryptically as he shook his head. “No, please forget I said anything.”

You didn’t forget. But you felt like it wasn’t the time to ask him right now so you went back to your spot. Your eyes wandered to the shut door a few times with only Satan’s reassuring gaze quelling your anxieties and doubts.

By the time you came back, it was already Lord Diavolo’s turn. You can tell that he was more cheerful than usual; perhaps to ease the sour mood that filled the room with Belphegor walking out.

"No letter or bouquet could be enough to show you how important you are to Devildom! To me! I'd like to host a parade in your honour if I could!"

...You saw a pained smile from his competent butler and close friend and you could only offer your silent condolences. Satan had to be placated with sneaky kisses to his lips when no one was looking to quell his pouting. You thought Levi had noticed, for he rolled his eyes at both of you in disgust. 

After a few more discussions, your mysterious letter sender finally revealed himself…you just didn't expect the person who sent it. Mammon's face looked like he had been through hell and back as he realised the gravity of the situation as well as the weight of his actions. With a face paler than usual, he approached you and bowed his head. 

"I'm sorry!" 

Along with his apologies was a clumsy explanation of his reasons. You felt like it was not the time to pry any further, so you told him to come closer so you could share some whispered words for him in embrace. "Let's talk later." Everyone else seemed puzzled at your brief exchange, but after assuring everyone that you're fine, they were able to move on to the other issue at hand: the bouquet sender. 

Mammon was very adamant on his insistence that he was not the original sender. Even with the investigation team's confirmations of its harmlessness, no one came forward. 

"It could be any demon in RAD, couldn't it? They're quite popular among some circles…of the non-gourmet variety, mind you!" Asmo then mentioned some names that Satan helpfully collated in his notebook. Close-eyed smiles and all, he insisted to be given a detailed list of all of them for investigative purposes. Thankfully, you were able to stop him before any more names on the list were ever written. 

Beelzebub approached you again after the open forum concluded. The meeting hadn’t ended yet, however. Lucifer was giving some closing remarks, explaining how the human world investigations were progressing in more detail and answering inquiries (mostly Satan’s) about its progress.

“I lied. There is something I want to tell you earlier. I’m sorry.”

Okay? You were really confused now. “What is it?”

He looked intently at you as he spoke, carrying finality in his words. “The letter may be harmless but, I feel like no one else should see it.”

“Beel, you’re starting to scare me.”

Beel didn’t seem like his usual self. It felt like something was burdening him. When he realised how he was making you feel, he seemed genuinely apologetic and even awkwardly patted your head. “I didn’t mean to do that. I…just have a really bad feeling.”

Feeling?

“A gut feeling,” he explained. “Like something bad is going to happen if someone else gets their hands on your letter. Even Mammon.”

“Why would something bad happen to the original sender? Aren’t the letter and flowers harmless?” You remembered Barbatos and the others saying so.

“Yeah. Maybe I’m just overthinking this. Sorry for worrying you,”

Beel’s instincts to these sorts of things are razor sharp. You recalled Belphie telling you that his intuition had saved him countless of times, especially when he was still working as a soldier in heaven. The very fact that it bothered him enough to tell you about it must mean that it was really bad. So despite his words, you decided to listen to him. You decided to give Barbatos the letter after the meeting: it’s better safe than sorry.

When you went back to your seat, you saw that it was currently occupied by a teasing Asmo who was poking your more-than-friends demon on his cheek. “Cheer him up, won’t you? His whole thought process is absurd! And that’s coming from ME!”

“Absurd? What’s this about, Satan?”

You saw him cover Asmo’s smirking mouth as he explained himself.  “He says I’m being overdramatic.”

“About what?” Satan’s cheeks dusted a lovely pink upon your inquiry, and Asmo had this expression on his face that BEGGED you to ask. And you being an enabler, humoured him. You couldn’t help it! Satan WAS adorable right now!

“…” Satan hesitated at first, until the whisper of his words grew louder as you repeated your questions.

“I was wondering if the bouquet sender would be able to sway your heart if he ever comes forward…

.

.

.

.

.

S-stop laughing! This is a genuine concern, all right?!”

Pfft!

“That’s a Mammon thing to say, Satan. I didn’t expect that.”

“Oh god, you JUST had to open your mouth, didn’t you Asmo?” You saw Satan cover his red-stained face with his hands in embarrassment. Unfortunately, his red ears couldn’t be hidden so easily.

This adorable, adorable man! You wrapped your arms around him and hugged the hell out of him. He’s so cute! (A complete contrast to the profanities coming out of his mouth right now, that’s for sure.)

“Solooooomoooon~ Satan is being meannnnn~!” And the instigator of all of this had now fled the scene, able to be caught by the human he was in a pact with as he pretended to faint.

“What’s this all about?”

You laughed nervously as you saw your fellow human was stuck in the same awkward position as you. “Asmo was teasing Satan about the flower sender stealing me away from him.”

“Hahaha! That’s cute. So the Avatar of Wrath is also an Avatar of Envy?”

You saw Satan glare at the sorcerer as you were in embrace. He was like a temperamental cat—but since he was in a grumpy mood right now, you decided to hold back on the teasing. Solomon seemed to read the mood too, and aimed to placate rather than go about his usual wise cracks.

“I don’t see the problem though?” Solomon asked, unfazed.

“What do you mean by that?” Asked Satan who had now exacted his “revenge” on his brother by a pinch on his cheek. A small yelp let out from Asmo as he attempted to do the same.

His smile never wavered as he held Asmo in his arms. “Well if you think about it, didn’t you find the real flower sender already? Satan is the only flower sender that matters to you. So, I don’t see why or how a mere reveal would change your feelings for each other if that were ever to happen.”

Satan seemed surprised at Solomon’s sensible answer. “I never thought of it that way.”

The sorcerer laughed a little as he continued speaking. “Sometimes, obvious little things like that slip our minds because the person we love is so close to us. Your feelings for each other is your own truth—a truth that only the two of you can know on your own. No matter how you arrive to that truth, whether it all started with lies or misunderstandings, the love that blossomed from those lies will never be lies.”

“Is that speaking from experience, oh wise one?”

“I’ll leave that to your imagination~” Wait. What does he mean by that? You couldn’t really tell with this man, sadly.  And you didn’t get to ask anymore as he had been called by Lucifer to wrap up. Your attention immediately focused on the more important things.

“More important things”= A cute, pouting Satan♡

“So you’re worried I’ll fall in love with someone else?”

“Shut up…”

“I’m happy you’re worried though. I love you, Satan♡” You sneaked a kiss on his lips, which your temperamental cat boy shyly accepted.

The investigations continued to take place in your remaining days in RAD. However, the mysterious bouquet sender never came forward. Perhaps Solomon was right. It didn’t really matter anymore if the real sender would be found. Even if he would come forward and confess his feelings to you one day, you were sure that your heart would only ever be with Satan. That realisation however, would definitely cause heartaches to anyone else. You trusted Beel’s gut and gave Barbatos the letter immediately, so when Mammon finally talked to you about his letter, he wasn’t able to see it anymore. You weren’t stupid. You knew why he sent it, but you weren’t smart enough to know how to properly reject someone. Perhaps both of you knew what was going to happen as you remained silent in your room and never initiated conversation with each other once he entered the room. It was…awkward. And suffocating. Which was weird because it was just Mammon. He was one of the demons closest to you, yet he felt so far away now. Even his gaze was equally far away. Mammon’s fingers were fumbling with a thimble he found next to your bed—a failed attempt at cross stitching that you were too stubborn to give up on. You saw him marvelling over your botchy needlework, his thumbs feeling the rough and uneven bumps of thread. “This is one ugly cat,” His half-hearted insult was welcome in the unsettling silence, rising a laugh out of you as you agreed with his opinion. “I really wanted to do something for Satan. Maybe I should have thought of something else.”

“You really like my brother, don’t you?” There was no accusation in his tone, just mere curiosity. You nodded immediately and it caused him to laugh a little. “Can’t help but notice since you’re all over each other.”

“Sorry…”

“What are ye sorry for?” He playfully ruffled your head as he smiled. “I should be the one saying sorry.

.

.

.

.

.

No matter my excuse, I shouldn’t have tried to steal what’s important to ya.”

“But you didn’t know—“

“Are you kidding me right now? Why the heck are you defending me, idiot human!” Despite his words, he spoke in a fond tone. When you gave him permission to embrace you, he wrapped his arms around you and sighed in relief. “It’s easy to like you if you act like this, you know? But…you don’t have to like everyone who likes you, idiiiiot.”

“Mammon…”

“Listen, the Great Me was never rejected! You simply blew your chance! I’m such a catch, you know that?”

“Yeah…”

“You’re gonna regret ever letting me go.”

“Oh, I will!”

“It’d be more convincing if you aren’t laughing!”

Well, he was laughing too. So, who really is clowning himself right now?

“You’re thinking about something realllyyyy rude right now, aren’t you?”

Gasp. “You can tell?”

“Seriously?” He sighed and pinched your cheek. “Well whatever. Listen...I think you deserve to know the truth.”

His tone had changed now; from playful to solemn. The kindness in his touch remained. “Remember that little girl in the human world I was taking care of?”

“Yeah.” So it was true? Asmo said he was joking, but…could his brothers really know what’s going on in Mammon’s private life? There was an absence of mirth in his tone, as if he was exhausted and sad—you never saw that look on Mammon before so you didn’t know how to react. You could only listen in silence.

“…that little girl is really sick right now. She needs a huge operation soon if she…” He bit his lip and continued. “...she’s too young to die. And I can’t let her…not if I can do anything about it.”

“Aren’t the witches taking care of her?”

“Yeah. But…I shoulder her financially. Can’t really do all that when I’m dead broke.” He looked almost ashamed to admit it. “So I resorted to stealin’, even if I know I shouldn’t, especially to you. I thought you would understand if I tell ya. But…a part of me still thinks this ain’t right.”

“Mammon…”

“I can’t tell the others. They’d think I’m full of shit. Haha. Well, I am.”

“Only most of the time.”

“Shaddup! Hahhh…what do you think I should do?”

What should you say? You weren’t expecting he had such profound reasons. It certainly explained his desperation. However, you weren’t financially capable enough to say in confidence that you can help. You gave him permission to sell your bouquet, but even he admitted that it would only be enough to sustain the little girl for a short amount of time. Should you tell Lucifer? Would Mammon be okay with that?

“Not really the best time to ask advice from you, huh? Not when someone’s trying to kill you and all.”

You smiled a little in his clumsy attempts to comfort you. Shaking your head, you returned his hug with a squeeze. “I’ll help you figure something out at least.”

“You would?”

“Yeah! But there’s a catch!”

Mammon laughed and pinched your cheek at your attempts for negotiation. “Okay, fine. What’s the catch?”

With a closed-eyed smile, you placed a finger on your lips as you stated your conditions. “Ruri-chan’s birthday party would be livelier with you around. Won’t you reconsider attending, oh Great One?”

[ You have unlocked new chatrooms in MEMORIA 7. ]

💌Read Part 1

💌Read Part 2

💌continue to next scenario

💌 tag request: @krussyfed, @lilliansstuff , @cupsof-tea

[birbleafs]

[fic] A Much Ado About (PSI)oulmates

Series: Saiki Kusuo no Ψ-nan || The Disastrous Life of Saiki K. Rating: T Genre: Humour, Breaking The Fourth Wall Character(s): Saiki Kusuo, Aiura Mikoto, Satou Hiroshi, Akechi Touma, Toritsuka Reita Warnings: None, save for canon-typical shenanigans Summary:  Aiura decides to combine her divination abilities with Kusuo’s powers for a super special comedic segment on Affinity Levels. Fic can also be read on AO3 _______

Excerpt taken from clairvoyant Dame Mata-Mata’s advert for Amazing Psychic Services:

99.9% accurate affinity readings and guaranteed life-long happiness! Discover your twin flame with as little 10,000 yen per hour! Some would say it’s foolish to risk your future and wallet on such clandestine offerings, but we assure you, we are no worse than the underhanded brand marketing on children’s television series! Call 1800-TWINFLAMES -1234567 to book a reading today!!

***

Anyone who would believe such clandestine and shady offerings isn’t just a fool but a complete buffoon, Kusuo scoffs impassively at the flyer before him. This is definitely worse than the underhanded brand marketing on children’s TV shows.

“They’re a total noob at it, fer sure!” Aiura says, leaning in too close and posing next to Kusuo as she takes a wefie with her phone. “Like sure, the concept of twin flames and soulmates ain’t new, but to claim everyone has half a soul yearning to get jiggy with its other missing half for life-long bliss is like, a gross oversimplification.” I don’t really care to be honest, Kusuo deadpans. He stares sullenly at how Aiura’s arm is still wrapped around his; she offers him a cheeky grin and a peace sign, snapping yet another wefie before she finally slides away to the opposite seat. “Soulmates just have more natural affinity for each other,” Aiura says, batting her eyelashes at him coyly. “But just like with everything, it doesn’t mean you don’t need to put in any effort to make it work! Hey, speaking of which—the author has a super special birthday tradition where she writes and/or posts up a new story, so this fanfic can totally be about Affinity Meters, right?!” Don’t know what you’re going on about and still don’t actually care, Kusuo retorts, shoving a spoonful of coffee jelly into his mouth as he resolutely tries to enjoy his Sunday afternoon. But Aiura persists, easily breaking the fourth wall to elaborate further: “Just like how Kusuo can use the Affection Meter to quantify a person’s love for another, today we’ll combine Kusuo’s telepathy and my own divination abilities to measure soulmate compatibility via Affinity Levels! So, without further ado, let’s go, let’s goooo!” Aiura, no, Kusuo groans in quiet despair. “Miko-chan, YES!” Aiura whoops, fist-pumping the prologue away as the scene fades out. _______

i.

Satou Hiroshi

Conventional. Moderate. Regular. Behold the quintessential stock background character, the pinnacle of normality—Satou Hiroshi. Standing at a height of 169.9 centimeters and weighing at precisely 61.0 kilograms—the exact national average of a healthy sixteen-year-old Japanese male—he is the gold standard, the epitome of normal. It’s a shame then that few recognize Satou-kun’s remarkable ordinariness, Kusuo muses, watching said background character ambling down the sidewalk with an approving smile. Nevertheless, perhaps that may be to my benefit. Surely our Affinity Levels must be pretty high; after all, we’re both normal and regular high-school teens who do not stand out much— “I don’t think using your powers to make yourself inconspicuous counts though,” Aiura says as she glances over Kusuo’s shoulder, puzzled at his fixation on someone so… well, boring. Kusuo isn’t even listening. We both have regular aspirations and hobbies, seeking only to live peaceful days! “Funnily, I now remember peeking at Normal-kun’s fortune for Hii-chan. And get this, his biggest dream is being on stage as a rock star! Like seriously, how typical can he get?” —So, taking into consideration all of the above, Kusuo presses on, undeterred by Aiura’s commentary, surely we would hit it off as friends with optimal affinity levels! “Uhm, Kusuo?” Aiura nudges him with her elbow, pointing at the meter hovering beside them. “Not to be a wet blanket and all, but the Affinity Meter started running again as you were waxing lyrical earlier, so now it’s showing that Normal-kun and your Affinity Levels are like, really just two stars at best.” She leans forward, squinting at the screen. “Simply because he thinks you’re okay but still a bit of a weirdo. Dayum, the nerve of this twerp!” Kusuo stares wordlessly at her for a beat, slack-jawed. A-Ahyuu…?

Affinity Level: ☆☆ _______

 ii.

Akechi Touma

“It pains me to have to do this,” Aiura lets out a dramatic sigh. “But since Childhood Friends is a pretty popular trope in animanga, and therefore in fanfiction, I guess there’s no avoiding it.” Kusuo scowls, not liking where this is heading at all. It can totally be avoided. We can just avoid talking about it altogether. “Is that you, Kusuo-kun?” Akechi says as he suddenly appears at Kusuo’s side, curiosity in his eyes. “Oh, I see Aiura-san is here as well. I couldn’t help but notice how you two were standing and talking together so I thought I should come say hello, even though I was rather hesitant at first. I didn’t want to abruptly barge into your conversation, you see, as that would have been awfully rude, and I certainly don’t wish for you to think of me as rude, Kusuo-kun.” Yet here you are barging in anyway, blathering on incessantly like a runaway freight train, Kusuo remarks drily. “Well, I couldn’t help but overhear the mention of Affinity Levels,” Akeichi beams as he continues, unfazed by the jibe. “And I can’t say my curiosity isn’t the least bit piqued, even if I have little to no real interest or belief in the notion of soulmates. In fact, the existence of an actual soul remains debatable in scientific circles—” Exasperated, Aiura tries to interject. “Since you ain’t all that interested, mind if you just zip those lips for like five minutes? My hair’s gone all frizzy from the heat of your endless jabbering!” “However, these debates on the existence of the soul had also been instrumental to the understanding of the anatomy and physiology of the human body—” “Oh my God, please just stop yapping for ONE sec—!!” Aiura shrieks, tugging at her curls in frustration. She accidentally kicks the Affinity Meter to start running, and the lights blink and flash in a rapid blur before the meter gradually slows down to display four bright stars upon its screen. There’s a beat; the trio leans forward, staring at the meter in awkward silence. Kusuo’s brows are furrowed at the unexpected results; he shrugs it off as a fluke. Clearly there’s some technical issue with Affinity Meter (never mind that the meter works, in part, based on Aiura’s divination abilities, which have, to date, always been accurate). There’s just no way Akechi could ever beat Satou-kun on that scale, he’s too much of an abnormal— But Aiura is already moving forward, reaching out to grasp Akechi’s hand in a firm handshake. “Aiura-san? Is there something…?” She acknowledges Akechi’s curious gaze with a curt nod. “All right, I can’t deny it any longer. Not with that impressive detective aura of yours and with results like that on both Kusuo and my own Affinity Meter.” Oi, oi. Don’t start spouting weird nonsense now, Miss Abnormal! “All right, Akeinu! I hereby deem you a worthy rival in the fight to stand as Kusuo’s trusted sidekick!” “Oho! You’ve even given me a cutesy nickname as acknowledgment! I must say I’m quite flattered, Aiura-san.” How about I side-kick both of you out of my life right now? Kusuo sighs, mildly perturbed by this unexpected turn of events.

Affinity Level: ☆☆☆☆ _______

iii.

Toritsuka Reita

…… …… …… What, did you seriously think Toritsuka was getting a proper scene? He’s already way too pathetic. NEXT— “W-wait, did you just cut my scene?!” Toritsuka shrieks from the void like a headless chicken. “Don’t just write me off, Saiki-saaan!!” —Saiki exits stage left, pursuing normalcy. “And don’t just narrate yourself out!!”

Affinity Level: N.A. _______

iv. Aiura Mikoto

“At first glance, you might think we make for an odd couple,” Aiura says with a coquettish smile. “And how it seems absolutely cray that we could get along. Or like, that we don’t mesh just ‘cause our personalities clash way too much or somethin’.” She chuckles at the notion, running perfectly manicured nails through her luscious locks. “I mean, it’s obvs only those inexperienced with the inner workings of the heart would think that. Because opposites attract, y’know? It’s the push-pull dynamism between us that spices things up! Like two tango dancers stirring up a flame on the dance floor—it keeps things refreshing and exciting, but still comforting and familiar in the end, like sharing a nice, warm bath at the end of the day, or cuddling up together at the sofa, feeding each other spoons of dessert…” Aiura pauses, blushing when she catches sight of the Affinity Meter fluttering gently by her shoulder, at the line of stars glowing from the screen, a beacon of reassurance of their status as soulmates. She turns towards Kusuo, suddenly self-conscious as she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Say, Kusuo… How about we head to that nice dessert buffet together and—” Only to realize she had been practically talking to thin air all this time. “H-Huh?! Aww, gimme a break! Where did you run off to this time, Kusuooo?!”

Affinity Level: ☆☆☆☆☆ _______ v.

Coffee Jelly

Good grief—finally some peace and quiet. Kusuo sighs as he leans back into the leather seat of his booth, in a nondescript cafe far away from his usual annoyances. He dips a spoon into his dessert bowl, lifting a dark sliver of coffee jelly to his mouth, and smiles in absolute contentment. There’s a soft whirr, and then a ping from somewhere below. He flicks a furtive gaze at the Affinity Meter hovering at the empty space beside him, curious despite himself. The endless line of glowing stars are probably a bit much, but he smiles anyway at the screen. Huh. I guess it works after all.

Affinity Level: ☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

—End— _______ Notes:

It’s tradition for myself to spend my birthday writing and/or sharing a new fic (happy birthday to me!! lol). I also had this sitting in my draft for way too long and decided to kick myself to finish it. Apologies for any typoes/errors.

Comments and critique are always welcomed for my fics—I'd like to hear what you think, if you've enjoyed this! Thanks for reading :)

[randomoranges]

i’ve had this idea in mind since summer. it’s a combination of things. it continues the narrative of étienne visits ed and cal over spring 2020, it’s also a prize fic for @allbeendonebefore who is the only one in the friend circle to have completed the dictation challenge and wanted something with succulents and it’s also a reflection on long distance whatevers and how when they’re away it all feels fine bcs you get used to it, but when they’re back errthing feels so much bigger and when they leave again you’re crushed it’s over.

anyways.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

Early June 2020

 Edward makes himself comfortable and swings an arm around Étienne’s shoulders. He likes the way Étienne curls up around him and furrows his face in his chest and lets out a content sigh. He likes how Étienne comes to him for these things – how he doesn’t hold back as much – how he’ll seek him out for hugs and cuddles when he wants them. He likes that they’ve grown closer around each other over the past few weeks and that some of their stilted attempts at normalcy have gained fluency.

 Shame it ends in the morning, really.

 But, Edward tries not to think about that.

 Instead, he focuses on the now – on the last few moments before it all ends.

 To be honest, Edward thought for sure that Étienne would stay a little longer, but he’s also not surprised that his boyfriend has decided to head back home. It’s summer, after all, and despite everything, Étienne still feels the pull and call to go back – to soak up the rays and recharge as much as he can before winter strolls in again with its harsh winds and long and dreary nights. He knows the good summer does to Étienne and knows how important it is for him to reconnect with his land.

 Still, it stings a little.

 It’s strange, he thinks, but after a few weeks of Étienne being back home, he gets used to it again. He falls into his own routine, picks up a new one with his boyfriend where they text and video chat every so often, but every time they see each other, Edward realises how much he misses him and how great it is to have him around. It’s as if his feelings and emotions are cranked to the max and time seems to slip through his fingers. And then, just as he’s getting used to having Étienne around, just as they start making plans and start developing a different type of routine, the trip is over and Étienne is yanked out of his reach.

 It’s the same thing tonight.

 He sees it with Étienne’s half-full suitcase.

 At least, this time, he’s had more than a few days hastily thrown together. It’s more than he can say about the state of the suitcase. Maybe, if he hides a few of Étienne’s possessions, Étienne will stay a little longer. It’s wishful thinking and it can’t hurt.

 “Hey, I can hear you thinking, what’s up?”

 Edward blinks and looks back down to gorgeous green eyes he’s already missing. He offers Étienne a small smile and bends his head to peck his lips. It’s a welcomed distraction and he goes willingly when Étienne pulls him down for something with a little more feeling and a little more heat. He wonders if he’s not the only one ruminating this departure that feels both sudden and planned and tries not to think too much about it even if it’s hard.

 “Thinking of nefarious ways I can keep you back here,” He admits with a chuckle. Étienne rolls his eyes at him, but it’s soft and so very fond. His boyfriend levels with him and rests his forehead against his own.

 “I’ll miss you too, Eddy,” Étienne says and Edward holds him a little closer than necessary and a little tighter than needed for more than a few seconds.

 He remembers how it started, a few days after Étienne’s birthday. He remembers sitting out on the back porch with Étienne, quietly staring at the chickens and the dog. It had been another quiet day; another quiet morning and it looked as though it would be nice and sunny. They hadn’t been saying much, enjoying each other’s company and the pleasant weather, when Étienne had spoken, nearly startling him.

 It had been a quiet sentence spoken to no one in particular, but there to be heard if anyone cared to. It seemed to be the other man’s new way of doing things – stating things softly as if addressing the blades of grass that grew in the gentle breeze of the wind and the caress of the sun. Étienne’s vigor and energy were still a thing of the past and Edward not only feared, but also wondered if he’d imagined them all along.

 Yet, Étienne had simply said that he thought it was time to go home and he was thinking of leaving by the end of the week.

 Edward had been – shocked.

 Edward is still shocked.

 They’d talked about it. Étienne had explained that for as much as he still didn’t feel one hundred percent and even though he was eternally grateful for Edward’s (and even Calvin’s) hospitality, he needed to be back home. He needed to be there for his people, for his sister – and for himself. He wished things could have been different, but at least, they had gotten this time out of it.

 So, Étienne had purchased his ticket and had quietly and slowly started packing.

 And now it’s their last night together.

 Edward feels like there’s so much he still wants to do and say to Étienne. He feels like he’s run out of time and the fact of the matter is that they both don’t know when’s the next time they’re going to see each other. He supposes that’s the real kicker – that there’s no real planned next visit – that they don’t know if they’ll be able to. They got this, but will they get more? He knows Étienne’s been thinking about it – about whether or not it’s wise to go home, not because of the caseload back home, but of potentially not being able to come back. But – there used to be a time when the only thing they had was letters. At least now, there’s technology to make the cold, lonely nights a little friendlier.

 It’s something.

 They’ll manage.

 They always do.

 They’ll find a way.

 “I have something for you,” Edward blurts as he disentangles himself from the cocoon of warmth. Étienne gives him a puzzled look and even Mercury raises her head to see what the commotion is all about. Edward excuses himself and leaves the room to retrieve the three items. He’d thought of the best time to give them, had figured they could do as birthday gifts, had decided against the idea and had gone back on it ever since, but – now seems like the best of times.

 He returns to the guestroom and lets himself get pulled back under the covers, wrapped around Étienne’s legs and arms, trapped in the best of ways. This time, Étienne sits up, curious as to what this is all about and Edward grows a little shy and quiet. These presents feel a little lame, now that he’s holding on to them and he hopes he hasn’t built up any hype that will be met with disappointment.

 Étienne brushes Edward’s worries away as he grabs the small bag out of his hands and eagerly opens it up. He pulls out a first box and sets the bag aside to open it up. The curious expression and smile on Étienne’s face vanish and Edward thinks he may have gone overboard with the gift, considering his boyfriend has grown silent.

 Étienne looks up at him, clutching the key and the key ring tightly in his hands and a myriad of different emotions play in Étienne’s eyes that Edward briefly reads.

 “I thought – you gave me yours back in February, I figured it would only be fair if – you could have your own – for real, this time – I want you to have your own key to my place – for you to use whenever you visit.” Edward remembers a time, what feels like ages ago, when he’d made a key for Étienne. When he’d purposely made one for him, even though at the time he – hadn’t been comfortable with the idea of others seeing him with Étienne – with his friend visiting – and he’d never told Étienne he could keep the key. Étienne had obviously only used it during his few and far between stays, but – it had hurt Edward when Étienne hadn’t kept the key or absconded with it, as though Étienne was pushing him away or shunning him, even though Edward had never specified. Now, however, he is being clear with his intentions. He wants Étienne to have a key. To feel that he could come here whenever. That he is welcomed. That this is a safe place for him. A port in a storm and such.

 He wonders if Étienne is aware of all of its significance, and he must, for Étienne’s eyes mist over for a moment and he grows serious as he brushes a finger over the grooves and ridges of the key.

 “It’s yours,” He reiterates. “I want you to have it and use it. You come here anytime you want – you’re welcome here. I want you here, okay? And you can come back whenever – I don’t care if you make it home, wake up the next day and realise you want to return. You do that. I don’t want you to second guess yourself and wonder if you need to check first. You can stay here even if I’m not here. This place – my home – it’s – I want you here. You’re part of it. I –” He tries not to get choked up on his words, but he stumbles halfway through and gets thrown off balance when Étienne near topples them both off the bed when he semi-launches himself at him and hugs him tightly and closely. Only Mercury seems disgruntled by the sudden shift, but she settles back down.

 “Thank you,” Étienne says with all the sincerity of the world and Edward watches as he clutches the key tightly in his hand. He then puts it back in the box and moves on to the next present.

 This one is wrapped in tissue paper and doesn’t weigh much, but – Edward has spent ages on it. Months, really, and has made his best to finish it in time.

 It’s a mask, Étienne finds out, black fabric with intricate needle and beadwork motifs on the front.

 “I know you’ve been making your own and have quite a few,” Edward starts, as if he wants to defend his going away presents, “But, I liked the idea behind this one...”

 “Did you make this?” Étienne asks to be sure as his fingers dance over the carefully placed stitches and beads that form the motifs of his flag – the thistle, the shamrock, the lily, the rose, and the yellow pine. It’s an ode to him – to some of his roots and either Edward spent time making this for him, or he commissioned someone for it.

 “I – yeah, I did,” He admits.

 Étienne is quiet as he looks at the intricate details, still carefully feeling the beads and the stitches under his gentle caress as though worshiping the artisanship that went into it. Edward had been inspired by a local native company that had launched its own sets of masks and figured he could give it a go. It had been tedious work, but he enjoyed it. At first, his intention had been to mail it to Étienne, but once Étienne had shown up on his doorstep, he figured he could gift it to him at some point. Working on it while Étienne wasn’t around had proven a little difficult, since he wanted to keep it a surprise, but he’d managed.

 “It’s beautiful,” He says, voice filled with awe. Edward’s cheeks pink at the comment, but he’s pleased. He worked really hard on the design and the mask and he’s proud of the result. Now, he’s glad Étienne likes it. “I’ll wear it tomorrow,” He ads and Edward’s insides do a funny loop at that. There’s something alluring about the thought that Étienne wants to wear the mask he made and will actually wear it.

 “You didn’t have to go through all the trouble, though,” He says as he puts the mask carefully back in the bag.

 Edward sighs. He’s heard Étienne tell him he didn’t have to go through all the trouble for many things over the past few weeks and he’s quite frankly tired of it. “It was no trouble. None of this was any trouble. Having you over was not a trouble. I did everything – I keep doing everything I do – because I enjoy it. Because I like doing things for you and because you’re worth my time, okay? Now please get it through that thick mass of curls of yours or so help me.”

 Étienne offers him a quiet smile in return and Edward thinks it’s all worth it just for those little quiet smiles.

 “What’re you gonna do if it doesn’t get through then?”

 Edward recognises the teasing edge hidden behind Étienne’s words and he rolls his eyes fondly. At least Étienne teases back now. At least he’s on the road back to his regular self. At least, Étienne feels safe being himself around him again. Less and less of that guarded glass personality. No more polite smiles and empty conversations. They’re back to something similar to what they’d had before, friendship wise anyways. They’re working on the rest, but Edward feels confident about this. If anything, this month and a half or so has sped up the process. Helped mend a few bridges along the way and such. He’s thankful for that, if nothing else.

 “I don’t know, I might just have to force it down, for starters.” He offers back.

 There’s a spark in those pretty green-brown eyes he loves so much and it’s lit up with with mischief. He likes this version of Étienne – likes the playful edge he has.

 “Yeah? How so?”

 Edward scoffs and leans over so that he can claim Étienne’s lips with his own. He thinks he’s going for a surprise attack, but Étienne had seen it coming and wraps his arms around him and pulls him in for something much deeper. Edward sighs against his boyfriend’s lips and changes the pace for something much softer but lingering.

 This, by far, has been the best thing about Étienne’s prolonged stay with him; the exchange of plush kisses that never seem to end or quench his burning desire for more. There are still decades worth of catching up to do, but now they have time to make up for all those lost opportunities.

 The gifts are momentarily forgotten and Edward silently thrills as Étienne wraps his legs around his body and manages to dip his hand underneath his shirt to caress warm skin he’s ever so fond of. They don’t do more than heavy kissing, at least, not now, but it doesn’t matter; Edward feels more connected with Étienne than he ever did before and he’s content to stay here with him, even if all they do is talk and curl-up tight around each other.

 “Did that help a bit?” Edward asks when they pull away, later, faces flushed and lips kiss-swollen. He thinks Étienne looks beautiful this way and should always look like this with his tousled curly hair and pretty pink lips.

 “A bit. Might need a few more lessons before I leave, though. It would be such a shame if I went back home and forgot all about it.”

 Edward pecks the corner of his lips as a response, “Of course; it would be a pleasure.” He ads for good measure.

 Étienne takes the bag again and pulls out the last of the presents. It’s heavier than the other two and a little bulkier. Edward warns him to be careful with it and Étienne wonders what could possibly be in the box. He opens it with gentle, careful hands and moves the tissue paper around, until he finds the smallest of clay pots holding what seems like the tiniest of little plants.

 The plant looks both foreign and similar and Edward remains silent to see if Étienne will come to some conclusion. He touches the delicate leaves, deep in thought and Edward rubs his shoulder.

 “I can hear you thinking,” He parrots back to Étienne. His boyfriend looks away from the plant and up to him and Edward sees the questions running in his eyes.

 “It’s a plant. I’m trying to figure out why and I’m also – it looks familiar. But – I know it can’t and I’m probably misremembering something.”

 Edward beams and is relieved that Étienne more or less figured it out.

 “Indulge me, why does it look familiar?” He presses on and Étienne goes quiet again, looks at Mercury who is back to snoozing at the foot of the bed for now and then back up at Edward. His cheeks are a little pink and he looks a little uncertain.

 “I’m probably wrong. And – it’s fine if it’s not that. But – my sister gave me a succulent, ages ago. You came over once and a leaf snapped off. I was going to throw it out, but you wanted to keep it. Said you’d read something about how you can start a new plant with the leaf. Asked if you could keep it to try it out. I said to knock yourself out. I – we – shortly after that we – didn’t see each other much and neither of us brought up the leaf or the plant. Mine died, eventually. Either gave it too much water or forgot to water it once too many times. It – looks like that plant. Sort of. But – it can’t be.” He pauses, “Right?”

 Edward grins and presses a kiss to the top of his head. God, but he loves this man a stupid amount. “What if I told you that I got that leaf to develop into a plant and that I still have it?”

 Étienne blinks, “Impossible.”

 “It’s in the living room. You’ve seen it. Many times.”

 Étienne looks completely baffled and Edward can’t help but laugh. He has indeed seen the plant. Knows exactly which one Edward is referring to, but Étienne had never thought it was the same. Hadn’t even given it much thought. “This just goes to show you that there’s always hope – somehow. Even if you think something is over – that it’s gone for good – sometimes, things have a way of coming back – stronger than before.”

 “Who the hell gave you this much insight and what have you done with Edward Murphy?” Étienne says as a deflection from his thoughts that keep crashing in his mind, as he tries to make sense of all of this.

 Edward laughs, deep and rich and Étienne cracks a smile at that, “I’m just saying, it’s a good perspective to keep in mind.”

 Étienne nods and settles back against him, cradling the plant in his hands, “So, this is a cutting of it?”

 “An offset of it, yeah. I cut off a few of them in early April and then with you coming over and everything else, I thought it would be a nice gift.”

 Étienne examines the plant for a moment longer, before he carefully puts it back in the box and then the bag. “It is – thank you; I promise I’ll try my best to look after it.”

 “That’s all anyone ever asks – to do their best.”

 --

 When Edward wakes up the following morning, there’s already pleasant sunshine streaming through the curtains and he feels as though the weather is mocking him. He obviously knows that Étienne wouldn’t spend the rest of his life here in Edmonton with him, but – it would have been nice to have more time. He tells himself to be grateful for what he got and that’s how he starts the day.

 Breakfast is a quiet affair even if Calvin tries to liven it with his usual jokes and trivial talk. Normally, he welcomes the distraction, but this morning it feels out of place and Calvin must get it, for he stops as well and keeps to himself.

 Étienne excuses himself after he clears his dish and returns to the guestroom to finish packing before the drive to the airport. Calvin volunteers to take Mercury for a quick walk and Edward secretly wonders if Calvin isn’t giving him some space with Étienne before it’s time for him to go. Regardless, he’s happy for the diversion and thus finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed as Étienne throws in the last of his things, while making sure he isn’t leaving anything behind.

 “You’ll just have to come back and get them,” Edward says and he wants it to sound light and funny, but it comes out a little heavy instead. He’ll miss the bugger. Miss having him around and stealing hugs and kisses from him. Miss the late night talks and just being able to share the same space without rush.

 “Or, I can just drop by unannounced and crash. I have a key now, Murphy and I intent to use it.” To prove it, Étienne fishes out his own set of keys from the front pocket of his backpack and there, with Étienne’s set of house keys, Edward spots the keychain and key he had given Étienne the night before. The idea that the keys will be together – that the key to his place will be so readily accessible makes his heart flip this way and that.

 “You better; I would be extremely disappointed if you didn’t.”

 Étienne puts the keys back in the bag and then moves across the room to tackle Edward into a tight hug. Edward is only a little surprised and holds him close for a good long while.

 “Thank you, for absolutely everything,” Étienne tells him with all the sincerity of the world when they pull away slightly. “I promise I will call and do my best not to fall off the face of the earth.”

 “If you don’t, I swear I’ll find a way to track you down.” It might be a joke, but there is also truth behind the words. Edward will worry. It’s in his nature and he also genuinely wants his boyfriend to be all right. Not to spiral out of control and such. He hopes he won’t. He fears he will. Not because he doesn’t believe in Étienne, but because he knows how Étienne can get, despite his best intentions and the last thing he wants is for Étienne to feel as though he’s stuck in a situation he can’t get out of. Scared he’ll do something rash and irreversible. Scared Étienne won’t reach out to him and that he won’t be able to help.

 “Hey,” Étienne says and it brings him out of his own mental nightmare. Étienne reaches out for him and cards his fingers through his hair. Edward leans into the contact and lets out a deep breath. “I was going to take a shower,” He pauses for a moment and then offers him a kind smile, “Wanna join?”

 Edward chuckles, but nods and then gets up from the bed and follows Étienne to the washroom.

 --

 When they get to the airport and unload the car of Étienne’s luggage, the three of them hover by the truck, not really wanting to make it to the door of the airport, knowing that once they get there, this will truly be the end of this venture. It was agreed upon that Calvin would wait in the car, what with the new restrictions and not really knowing if “such a crowd” would be accepted. This way, at least, they can go through with the proper goodbyes without having to wear their masks or risk getting whisked away.

 “Y’know – if things quiet down some and we’re allowed to have fun again, you can come visit me this summer.” It’s a nice thought to have – something to look forward to, maybe and even if it doesn’t happen, it’s nice to know that Étienne wants him over and that he hasn’t grown tired of him after spending over a month and a half in his presence. “And – you’re invited too, Calvin – you’re both welcomed to my place any time, yeah?”

 He sounds a little unsure of himself, as if afraid he’s offering too much too soon but wanting to anyways and Edward’s heart swells. He’s ever so thankful that both Calvin and Étienne are trying. That they haven’t asked him to chose between one or the other and that they’re doing their best. He’d honestly feared at some point that it wouldn’t work out – that Calvin wouldn’t get it or that Étienne wouldn’t be able to get along with Calvin, but maybe even this little has helped the other two, in its own way. He can’t say that Calvin and Étienne have reached best friend status, but they’re slowly getting to know one another and it’s already a good enough start. With time, he hopes, they’ll get closer, but for now, he’s glad that the two men he loves most have decided that the best course of action is not to shun him for the way he feels about them both.

 “Yeah – I’d like that – it would be great to visit,” Calvin says, a little surprised by the invitation, but Edward can tell that he’s touched by it and would really like to visit as well.

 “Guess I’m off now, thanks again for everything,” Étienne reiterates for what feels like the millionth time that day. He steps up to Calvin first and Edward watches as Calvin goes for a handshake, but then Étienne swats his hand away and instead pulls him down for a hug. Calvin’s eyes widen in surprise, but then he quickly recovers and wraps his arms around Étienne’s waist.

 “Better take care of him, McCall. I know how to find you.” Étienne whispers to Calvin and Calvin knows that it’s a threat to be taken seriously.

 “Promise I will. You look after yourself as well – he needs you in his life too.”

 They part after that and after Calvin says goodbye to Mercury, Edward and Étienne, along with Mercury, head off towards the departures entrance. Étienne reaches out for his hand a few steps in and if they hold on to one another’s hands a little tighter than necessary, they don’t comment on it.

 “Text me when you get in?” Edward offers as a final platitude, trying to come up with something clever to say.

 “Text me whenever you think of me?” Étienne counters and Edward smiles and pulls him in for what might be the last hug for a long while.

 “Sure you can handle that many messages from me?”

 “From you, always.”

 Edward is, once more, taken aback – in all the good ways, by Étienne’s words and their sincerity. He settles instead for a caress to Étienne’s face and before his emotions get the best of him, he kneels in front of Mercury to say goodbye to her as well.

 “You take good care of him,” He tells her and whether or not Mercury understands, she acknowledges his recommendation by licking his face.

 “Come on, off with you, before you miss your flight.” He warns Étienne once he’s standing again.

 “I’m sure you wouldn’t object to that.”

 “I wouldn’t, but I know you really want to go home and – maybe the sooner you go, the sooner you’ll come back.”

 Étienne gives his hand a tight squeeze and finally, after a last goodbye, he heads towards security check.

 Edward watches them both go for a moment longer and waves to Étienne one last time, before he heads back towards the truck. He wonders if his heart will ever not feel this heavy when he’s at an airport with Étienne, but by the time he gets to the truck, he laughs when he finds a message on his phone from Étienne.

 “I know I’ve said it a million times, but really, thanks for everything. And not just this time. I’m really lucky to have you in my life. Miss you already and talk soon. I love you <3”

 His heart feels ever so full as he reads and re-reads the message and, as he gets into the truck, it gives him hope that really, things will end up working out.

 FIN

[bonesandblood-sunandmoon]

Article from The Atlantic “This Is Not a Normal Mental Health Disaster” (posted July 7th, 2020). Excerpt:

In any case, the full extent of the fallout will not come into focus for some time. Psychological disorders can be slow to develop, and as a result, the Textbook of Disaster Psychiatry, which Morganstein helped write, warns that demand for mental-health care may spike even as a pandemic subsides. “If history is any indicator,” Morganstein says of COVID-19, “we should expect a significant tail of mental-health effects, and those could be extraordinary.” Taylor worries that the virus will cause significant upticks in obsessive-compulsive disorder, agoraphobia, and germaphobia, not to mention possible neuropsychiatric effects, such as chronic fatigue syndrome.

The coronavirus may also change the way we think about mental health more broadly. Perhaps, Schoch-Spana says, the prevalence of pandemic-related psychological conditions will have a destigmatizing effect. Or perhaps it will further ingrain that stigma: We’re all suffering, so can’t we all just get over it? Perhaps the current crisis will prompt a rethinking of the American mental-health-care system. Or perhaps it will simply decimate it.

Shared in entirety under the cut for those who can’t access it:

This Is Not a Normal Mental Health Disaster by Jacob Stern

If SARS is any lesson, the psychological effects of the novel coronavirus will long outlast the pandemic itself. 

The SARS pandemic tore through Hong Kong like a summer thunderstorm. It arrived abruptly, hit hard, and then was gone. Just three months separated the first infection, in March 2003, from the last, in June.

But the suffering did not end when the case count hit zero. Over the next four years, scientists at the Chinese University of Hong Kong discovered something worrisome. More than 40 percent of SARS survivors had an active psychiatric illness, most commonly PTSD or depression. Some felt frequent psychosomatic pain. Others were obsessive-compulsive. The findings, the researchers said, were “alarming.”

The novel coronavirus’s devastating hopscotch across the United States has long surpassed the three-month mark, and by all indications, it will not end anytime soon. If SARS is any lesson, the secondary health effects will long outlast the pandemic itself.

Already, a third of Americans are feeling severe anxiety, according to Census Bureau data, and nearly a quarter show signs of depression. A recent poll by the Kaiser Family Foundation found that the pandemic had negatively affected the mental health of 56 percent of adults. In April, texts to a federal emergency mental-health line were up 1,000 percent from the year before. The situation is particularly dire for certain vulnerable groups—health-care workers, COVID-19 patients with severe cases, people who have lost loved ones—who face a significant risk of post-traumatic stress disorder. In overburdened intensive-care units, delirious patients are seeing chilling hallucinations. At least two overwhelmed emergency medical workers have taken their own life.

To some extent, this was to be expected. Depression, anxiety, PTSD, substance abuse, child abuse, and domestic violence almost always surge after natural disasters. And the coronavirus is every bit as much a disaster as any wildfire or flood. But it is also something unlike any wildfire or flood. “The sorts of mental-health challenges associated with COVID-19 are not necessarily the same as, say, generic stress management or the interventions from wildfires,” says Steven Taylor, a psychiatrist at the University of British Columbia and the author of The Psychology of Pandemics (published, fortuitously, in October 2019). “It’s very different in important ways.”

Most people are resilient after disasters, and only a small percentage develop chronic conditions. But in a nation of 328 million, small percentages become large numbers when translated into absolute terms. And in a nation where, even under ordinary circumstances, fewer than half of the millions of adults with a mental illness receive treatment, those large numbers are a serious problem. A wave of psychological stress unique in its nature and proportions is bearing down on an already-ramshackle American mental-health-care system, and at the moment, Taylor told me, “I don’t think we’re very well prepared at all.”

Most disasters affect cities or states, occasionally regions. Even after a catastrophic hurricane, for example, normalcy resumes a few hundred miles away. Not so in a pandemic, says Joe Ruzek, a longtime PTSD researcher at Stanford University and Palo Alto University: “In essence, there are no safe zones any more.”

As a result, Ruzek told me, certain key tenets of disaster response no longer hold up. People cannot congregate at a central location to get help. Psychological first-aid workers cannot seek out strangers on street corners. To be sure, telemedicine has its advantages—it eliminates the logistical and financial burdens of transportation, and some people simply find it more comfortable—but it complicates outreach and can pose problems for older people, who have borne the brunt of the coronavirus.

A pandemic, unlike an earthquake or a fire, is invisible, and that makes it all the more anxiety-inducing. “You can’t see it, you can’t taste it, you just don’t know,” says Charles Benight, a psychology professor at the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs who specializes in post-disaster recovery. “You look outside, and it seems fine.”

From spatial uncertainty comes temporal uncertainty. If we can’t know where we are safe, then we can’t know when we are safe. When a wildfire ends, the flames subside and the smoke clears. “You have an event, and then you have the rebuild process that’s really demarcated,” Benight told me. “It’s not like a hurricane goes on for a year.” But pandemics do not respect neat boundaries: They come in waves, ebbing and flowing, blurring crisis into recovery. One month, New York flares up and Arizona is calm. The next, the opposite.

That ambiguity could make it harder for people to be resilient. “It’s sort of like running down a field to score a goal, and every 10 yards they move the goal,” Benight said. “You don’t know what you’re targeting.” In this sense, Ruzek said, someone struggling with the psychological effects of the pandemic is less like a fire survivor than a domestic-violence victim still living with her abuser, or a traumatized soldier still deployed overseas. Mental-health professionals can’t reassure them that the danger has passed, because the danger has not passed. One can understand why, in a May survey by researchers at the University of Chicago, 42 percent of respondents reported feeling hopeless at least one day in the past week.  

A good deal of this uncertainty was inevitable. Pandemics, after all, are confusing. But coordinated, cool-headed, honest messaging from government officials and public-health experts would have gone a long way toward allaying undue anxiety. The World Health Organization, for all the good it has done to contain the virus, has repeatedly bungled the communications side of the crisis. Last month, a WHO official claimed that asymptomatic spread of the virus is “very rare”—only to clarify the next day, after a barrage of criticism from outside public-health experts, that “we don’t actually have that answer yet.” In February, officials from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention told Americans to prepare for “disruption to everyday life that may be severe,” then, just days later, said, “The American public needs to go on with their normal lives,” then went mostly dark for the next three months. Health experts are not without blame either: Their early advice about masks was “a case study in how not to communicate with the public,” wrote Zeynep Tufekci, an information-science professor at the University of North Carolina and an Atlantic contributing writer.

The White House, for its part, has repeatedly contradicted the states, the CDC, and itself. The president has used his platform to spread misinformation. In a moment when public health—which is to say, tens of thousands of lives—depends on national unity and clear messaging, the pandemic has become a new front in the partisan culture wars. Monica Schoch-Spana, a medical anthropologist at the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security, told me that “political and social marginalization can exacerbate the psychological impacts of the pandemic.”

Schoch-Spana has previously written about the 1918 influenza pandemic. Lately, she says, people have been asking her how the coronavirus compares. She is always quick to point out a crucial difference: When the flu emerged in America at the end of a brutal winter, the nation was mobilized for war. Relative unity prevailed, and a spirit of collective self-sacrifice was in the air. At the time, the U.S. was reckoning with its enemies. Now we are reckoning with ourselves.

One thing that is certain about the current pandemic is that we are not doing enough to address its mental-health effects. Usually, says Joshua Morganstein, the chair of the American Psychiatric Association’s Committee on the Psychiatric Dimensions of Disaster, the damage a disaster does to mental health ends up costing more than the damage it does to physical health. Yet of the $2 trillion that Congress allocated for pandemic relief through the CARES Act, roughly one-50th of 1 percent—or $425 million—was earmarked for mental health. In April, more than a dozen mental-health organizations called on Congress to apportion $38.5 billion in emergency funding to protect the nation’s existing treatment infrastructure, plus an additional $10 billion for pandemic response.

Without broad, systematic studies to gauge the scope of the problem, though, it will be hard to determine with any precision either the appropriate amount of funding or where that funding is needed. Taylor told me that “governments are throwing money at this problem at the moment without really knowing how big a problem it will be.”

In addition to studies assessing the scope of the problem, which demographics most need help, and what kind of help they need, Ruzek told me researchers should assess how well intervention efforts are working. Even in ordinary times, he said, we don’t do enough of that. Such studies are especially important now because, until recently, disaster mental-health protocols for pandemics were an afterthought. By necessity, researchers are designing and implementing them all at once.

“Disaster mental-health workers have never been trained in anything about this,” Ruzek said. “They don’t know what to say.”

Even so, the basic principles will be the same. Disaster mental-health specialists often talk about the five core elements of intervention—calming, self-efficacy, connectedness, hope, and a sense of safety—and those apply now as much as ever. At an organizational level, the response will depend on extensive screening, which is to the mental-health side of the pandemic roughly what testing is to the physical-health side. In disaster situations—and especially in this one—the people in need of mental-health support vastly outnumber the people who can supply it. So disaster psychologists train armies of volunteers to provide basic support and identify people at greater risk of developing long-term problems.

“There are certain things that we can still put into place for people based on what we’ve learned about what’s helpful for PTSD and for depression and for anxiety, but we have to adjust it a bit,” says Patricia Watson, a psychologist at the National Center for PTSD. “This is a different dance than the dance that we’ve had for other types of disasters.”

Some states have moved quickly to learn the new steps. In Colorado, Benight is helping to train volunteer resilience coaches to support members of their community and, when necessary, refer them to formal crisis-counseling programs. His team has also worked with volunteers in 31 states, the United Kingdom, and Australia.

Colorado’s approach is not the sort of rigorously tested, evidence-based model to which Ruzek said disaster psychologists should aspire. Then again, “we’re sitting here with not a lot of options,” says Matthew Boden, a research scientist in the Veterans Health Administration’s mental-health and suicide-prevention unit. “Something is better than nothing.”

In any case, the full extent of the fallout will not come into focus for some time. Psychological disorders can be slow to develop, and as a result, the Textbook of Disaster Psychiatry, which Morganstein helped write, warns that demand for mental-health care may spike even as a pandemic subsides. “If history is any indicator,” Morganstein says of COVID-19, “we should expect a significant tail of mental-health effects, and those could be extraordinary.” Taylor worries that the virus will cause significant upticks in obsessive-compulsive disorder, agoraphobia, and germaphobia, not to mention possible neuropsychiatric effects, such as chronic fatigue syndrome.

The coronavirus may also change the way we think about mental health more broadly. Perhaps, Schoch-Spana says, the prevalence of pandemic-related psychological conditions will have a destigmatizing effect. Or perhaps it will further ingrain that stigma: We’re all suffering, so can’t we all just get over it? Perhaps the current crisis will prompt a rethinking of the American mental-health-care system. Or perhaps it will simply decimate it.

In 2013, reflecting on the tenth anniversary of the SARS pandemic, newspapers in Hong Kong described a city scarred by plague. When COVID-19 arrived there seven years later, they did so again. SARS had traumatized that city, but it had also prepared it. Face masks had become commonplace. People used tissues to press elevator buttons. Public spaces were sanitized and resanitized. In New York City, COVID-19 has killed more than 22,600 people; in Hong Kong, a metropolis of nearly the same size, it has killed seven. The city has learned from its scars.

America, too, will bear the scars of plague. Maybe next time, we will be the ones who have learned.

[1dffexchange]

Uncomfortable Silences

To: Vicki @angstarella​

From: Liv @midnightcities​

Summary: It’s been 927 days since Rowie messily ended her two year relationship with Harry. 659 days since Harry Styles bared his soul and shared it for the world to hear in the form of a best-selling debut album. 173 days since his number had flashed across the screen of her phone. But finally, Rowie was starting to feel her sense of normalcy return.

It was any other Saturday morning. A half eaten piece of Marmite toast lay forgotten on the kitchen counter along with the dregs of my morning coffee. There was a haphazard pile of trousers at the foot of my bed that I had created when searching for my favourite black pair. My 10 minute snooze turned into almost 25 minutes and I was now on a time crunch to pull myself together for my Saturday shift. Despite promising myself that I would go to bed at an acceptable hour last night, I fell prey to my best friend’s masterful coercing and stayed out far longer than I originally intended. You think by now I would know better.

I was in my bathroom, scraping my hair back into a bun, when I heard the buzz of my phone. Jules, the aforementioned best friend I’m sure, checking in to either complain about her killer headache or to help fill in her hazy memory. This had become a bit of a ritual for us.

One last glance in the mirror and I deemed myself suitable enough to face the horde of Saturday shoppers. I flicked the bathroom light off and grabbed my phone that I had earlier tossed onto my unmade bed. The phone screen lit up as I brought it to eye level. I immediately dropped the phone back onto the bed when I saw the notification:

+44 7106 555555 iMessage

I had finally deleted that number almost a year ago; that’s the best way to move on according to all the break-up articles and books I have pored over the past 2 and a bit years. They don’t tell you how to delete a number from your memory though. I haven’t seen it grace my phone screen in quite some time, the longest stint yet actually. And still, it made my heart stutter erratically and my palms clammy.

What does he want now? Has something happened? Work. I haven’t seen much of him online lately. Who was that last girl he was linked to again? Work. Is this going to be some half-assed, drunk apology again? I need to go to work.

I broke myself out of my impending trainwreck of thoughts, forcing myself to throw all my effort into moving my body. I snatched up my bag and grabbed my phone once again. My eyes squeezed shut, not wanting to see that damn number as I shoved it to the depths of my bag. Out of sight out of mind, right?

****

Waterstones was a staple part of my childhood London visits, so landing a job here in my first year of studying was a dream. I was lucky enough to take up residence at the Gower Street store. It always was my favourite, with its twisting shelves and hidden nooks, and it’s a bonus that it’s only a 5 minute walk from main campus for those days when I have class. As a child I always thought this would be the perfect place to play a game of hide-and-seek. And on days like today where I would rather do anything than enthusiastically suggest a middle-aged woman some egregious romance novel, the labyrinth nature of the store was appreciated.

I was tucked away on the third floor, shelving some second-hand Philosophy books. I studied each title intently, skimmed each books synopsis, and threw all my mental energy into deciphering what the philosophical knowledge each book was actually trying to impart. The upper levels of the store are the perfect study sanctuary; I have spent many hours holed up in here writing last minute essays. But today the comfortable silence was not good for my current mental state.

I had thrown my bag into the designated employee locker out the back, my phone remaining ignored in the depths. I’m sure I felt it vibrate again when I was on the tube but it stayed unopened and unchecked. I can’t do this again, I really can’t put myself through… that again.

“Um… Excuse me…” A quiet voice caught me off guard.

I turned, book still in hand, to see three girls standing awkwardly near the W-Z section of Social Sciences. They looked a little young to be browsing up here, but I reserved my judgements. “Yes, how may I help you today?” I flashed my customer service smile.

The girl in the middle opened her mouth before snapping it shut again. The one on the left nudged her, giving her a look of slight impatience. Odd.

“Are… are you…” She attempted again.

Now the one on the right shook her head and pushed herself forward. “Are you Rowena Porter?”

I felt my heart begin to stutter, my stomach clench. “Excuse me?”

“Rowie…” the girl in the middle whispered, “she likes to be called Rowie.”

“Whatever,” she shrugged, “are you Rowie Porter?”

“I’m sorry,” my cheeks felt hot and I could feel my hands starting to shake, “but I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

The girl on the right took a couple steps toward me, clearly she was the most confident of the three. “Harry Styles has been seen coming here a lot lately. And then I remembered reading on Twitter that you work here. Has he been visiting you? Are you back together?”

My breath hitched. Harry was here? When? Why? Was it to see me? Surely out of all the Waterstones in London he wouldn’t choose this one for his bookish needs. It can’t be a mere coincidence.

The three girls stared at me expectantly, as if I was about to really about to reveal some intimate, albeit non-existent, love-life details. I placed the book in my hand on the shelf adjacent to me and took a steading breath. “I’m sorry girls, but Rowena quit working here a while back. I’m afraid I can’t help you any more than that.”

“Oh, so you just happen to look like her?” The girl challenged.

“Coincidence.”

“But--”

“Look,” my tone had become considerably more clipped, “if you have any book related questions I am happy to help you out. Otherwise I need to continue on with my job.” I picked up the half-empty box of Philosophy books that still needed unpacking and headed down the aisle and away from the girls. I prayed that they weren’t following me. It took every ounce of my self-control to not completely blow up at them and tell them, in the nicest way possible, to sod off. But now I was throwing all my focus into not breaking down in the middle of the Greek and Roman Classics section.

I pounded down the three flights of stairs, determined to hold myself together to at least the back storage area. My head was swimming, like I had just thrown back five consecutive shots of Jäger, and my face prickling with sweat.

Just as I was about the push past the registers, my unstable hands got the better of me and I dropped the box, the books tumbling out. “Shit.” I scrambled onto my knees to pile the books back up but tears began to blur my vision and I could feel the stares of customers. Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together.

“Rowie, are you okay?”

A pair of hands shot out and began haphazardly throwing the books back into the box. The hands belonged to Will, one of my co-workers and probably one of the only people I considered an actual friend on staff. I sat back, letting him collect the last few books, and willed my hands to stop trembling and for my tears to not spill over. Will stood and lifted the box up and behind the counter before offering me his hand. I hoped he couldn’t feel the stickiness of perspiration on my palms. “Alright?”

I shook my head. “I need to go.”

His eyebrows furrowed in obvious concern. “Do you want me to call someone? You look shaken up… What happened?”

Again, I shook my head. “Who’s on today?”

“Mara.” One small win, she was the kindest of all the store managers. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind my early departure.

“Can you please just tell her I had a family emergency or something. I really need to get out of here.” I pushed past Will, past the registers, and burst through the back storage area doors.

“Is this because of Harry?” I hadn’t realised Will had followed me.

I whirled back around meeting his worried gaze. “What?”

“He was here... A few days ago.” He spoke cautiously, he could clearly tell I was on the verge of breaking. “He asked for you.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“Rowie, why would I? Look at the state of you right now, I wasn’t about to do that to you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, counted to 10, and forced myself to take some calming breaths. Anything to stop the rising panic. “You did the right thing,” I spoke finally. I could see Will let out a small breath in relief. “I still need to deal with this though, please tell Mara for me.”

“Row--”

“No,” I cut him off before he could go on his usual tirade of why my ex is not worth my time, something that I normally do appreciate. “Just… Let me deal with this. I’ll talk to you later.”

Will pursed his lips, I could tell that he was struggling to keep his opinions quiet. He merely turned and walked back out to the store front. I knew he wasn’t happy, but that was something I needed to push aside for now.

I turned and made my way to the staff locker and retrieved my bag. Time to face the music. I grabbed my phone. The screen lit as I brought it to view. Four messages. All from that same number. My thumb hovered over the notification, my stomach churning at the thought of what could be contained in those four messages. I unlocked my phone.

+44 7106 555555

(7:42 am): Rowie, I know you don’t want to hear from me but can you please give me a call. Harry.

(8:09 am): Please Row

(8:47 am): im desperate

(8:48 am): i need you.

I stared at the four little blue bubbles, unable to process them. A weird sense of calm had blanketed me. My previously hammering heart had slowed, my hands were still, my breath even. Almost robotically, I dropped my phone back into my bag and made a beeline straight out of Waterstones and into the chaos of Gower Street.

im desperate. i need you. im desperate. i need you. im desperate. i need you. im desperate. i need you.

The words flashed over and over in my mind with my every footfall. My thoughts wandered to every possible scenario as to what he could need. A jostle from a stranger awoke me from my abstraction and I realised I was already on the Euston Square platform. A train had just pulled up, my train I confirmed when I glanced over at the schedule. I quickly slipped on just as the doors closed and found a free seat. I sat rigidly, the sway of the carriage slowly pulling me back into my spiralling thoughts.

****

It felt like time was moving funny. My usual 25 minute journey felt like it was over in less than 5. The encounter with those girls this morning felt like it happened hours ago when it has barely been over an hour. That weird sense of calm I felt earlier was ebbing away and I could feel the panic begin to nestle it’s way back in. And the crowded train platform wasn’t helping me to keep my impending panic attack at bay. I needed a voice of reason, someone to help guide me through. I needed Jules.

I moved with the commuters but reached into my bag for my phone, praying she would be awake. Just as I unlocked my phone though, it began vibrating. Jules’ name appeared on the screen; what are the chances. I answered immediately.

“Oh, Rowie. Thank god,” Jules’ breathless voice greeted me, “I thought you wouldn’t pick up because of work.”

“Yeah, I was there but I left. I was just about to ring you actually. Is everything alright with you?” I tapped my Oyster card against the scanner, keen to get away from the claustrophobic nature of the London Underground.

“Wait, where are you now?”

“Just got off the tube, heading home. There was… An incident at work.” I finally stepped out on the street, the fresh air felt good.

“Home?! Oh god. Listen Rowie, I’m so sorry but I didn’t know what to do.”

Jules sounded truly panicked now, enough for me to stop my brisk walking pace and throw all my attention into the call. “What do you mean you didn’t know what to do? What is going on?”

“It’s-- It’s Harry.”

My stomach dropped, for the umpteenth time today. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know! He rang me, I don’t even know how he has my number. He was asking for you, but he didn’t sound right. He had been to your flat, your old one though, didn’t even know you had moved.” Of course he doesn’t, he wouldn’t know anything that has happened to me in the past two years. “I wasn’t sure if it was an emergency, I didn’t know how to help.”

“It’s okay, you did the right thing by talking to him.”

“No, Rowie I-- Oh, I told him where you live now. Row, I think he’s waiting for you there.”

****

The last time I counted, it had been 643 days since I had seen Harry in person. That’s just over two years. And it has essentially taken me up until now to feel that sense of normalcy return which I craved back when I first ended our relationship. But seeing him sat on my flat’s front step, even from a distance, made me realise that no amount of time is going to stop that visceral, all-consuming feeling he has always given me.

He was hunched over, a beanie pulled down tight over his curls. It wasn’t even cold out yet, but I assume he’s wearing it to stay somewhat hidden. He fiddled with his phone and then tucked it away, tugged at the sleeves of the black sweater he was wearing, clasped and unclasped his hands. I could tell he was nervous. And judging from the twitches of my hands, so was I.

I crossed the street and approached him cautiously. He was so consumed with his thoughts he didn’t even hear me approach. I cleared my throat, crossing my arms in a way to steel myself.

Harry’s head jerked up, recognition immediately flooding his muted green eyes. “Rowie…” He stood. I forgot how tall he was.

“Hello, Harry.” I spoke quietly. I was surprised my tone hid my tumbling emotions so well.

“It’s…” he exhaled, “it’s so good to see you.”

I rolled my lips and nodded slowly, unsure of what to say.

“Can I come up?”

No, no, no, no. My flat was one of my only Harry-free zones. No memories were attached. Everything had been removed that reminded me of him. Seeing him up there now would bring up a slew of problems. “I don’t think that would be best,” I spoke carefully. I was still trying to gauge where he was at mentally right now; he seemed off.

“You know I wouldn’t normally insist but I think it would be best. If someone spots me here you’re gonna be dealing with… Well you know the routine.”

He was right. And especially after what happened this morning, the last thing I need is more obsessive fans waiting outside my flat. “Fair enough.”

I unfolded my arms and grabbed my keys from my bag. Harry followed me up the few steps and watched as I unlocked the door. My hands visibly shook as I twisted the key. I know he noticed but he said nothing. In silence, we walked up the four flights of stairs and down the hall to flat 408. I let us in, promptly locking the door behind us.

My current flat was quite different from the one Harry had known. Paying my way through a Masters degree and some other unexpected financial problems at home had forced me to downsize, coupled with the fact that I was desperate to leave those walls which were filled to the brim with memories of us.

I watched as Harry’s eyes scanned the space - the cramped kitchen with the leaky tap, the speckled counter that doubled as a dining table, the IKEA sofa I had picked up on sale last winter. I knew my living space was a stark contrast to what Harry was likely used to and I couldn’t take his scrutinising gaze any longer. I knew my somewhat cool exterior was beginning to crack, the unwanted feelings of anxiety pushing to burst through and consume me. I needed some relief.

I left Harry standing awkwardly near the doorway and stepped into the kitchen. Dumping my bag on the counter, I began searching through the drawers for what I knew I needed. I was beginning to feel light-headed again, my whole body falling prey to the shakes. Tucked snuggly next to a half-used pack of Panadol and some Strepsils was the bottle I was searching for. The safety cap proved too difficult for my unsteady fingers though. I let out a small groan of frustration.

“You need a hand?” Harry carefully took the bottle from my hands, expertly twisting the top off. He handed it back, but not before peeking at the label, something I wish he didn’t do. “Alprazolam? Isn’t that--”

“Xanax, yes.” I tossed back two pills dry, desperate for their calming effect.

“Oh. Uh, you should be careful with those. They can be addictive and--”

“Yes, I know that Harry,” I snapped. “Not that it’s any of your business but they’ve been prescribed and I only take them when the situation calls for it.”

My abrupt tone took Harry by surprise, judging from the way he shifted away from me. I could see he was chewing on the inside of his cheek, unsure of what to say. I felt a twinge of guilt at my unwarranted outburst.

“It helps with my panic attacks,” I said quietly after a few moments. “I haven’t had a full blown attack in a while though. I’m good at knowing the signs now. Shaky hands, erratic heart rate, feeling faint.”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t know… How long have you been dealing with them?”

I sighed heavily. I knew Harry wasn’t going to like my answer. “I had my first one in 2015. They were at their worst in 2016 though. That’s when I got medical help.”

“2015… Wait…” I watched as Harry connected the dots. I moved out of the kitchen and towards the sofa, as if putting some distance between us would soften the blow of seeing his reaction. “That’s when we were together. You were having panic attacks and didn’t even tell me?!”

“They weren’t a big deal, I didn’t want to worry you.”

Harry ripped his beanie off and slammed it down on the kitchen counter. I jumped, both at the sound and Harry’s sudden, extreme mood change. “God, Rowie,” he spat bitterly, “I was your fucking boyfriend. I was supposed to worry about you. To help you!”

“It was almost 4 years ago Harry—“

“So?!” He cut me off. “I had some right to know what you were dealing with!”

I could feel my face heating up, not due to panic but because of anger this time. “What I was dealing with? What I was dealing with? You wouldn’t have been able to understand Harry.”

“Try me.”

“You were born for this life Harry, an entertainer at heart able to bounce through life without worrying about what millions of people around the world think of you. But not me. Seeing my name, my personal life, splashed across social media and in news articles. People commenting about me, online and in person. People saying I don’t deserve you. I couldn’t handle it anymore.”

Harry’s hands were clenched on the counter, frustration radiating off him. “For two years I have sat and analysed every facet of our relationship, wandering what I did wrong. Repeated that day you ended everything over and over. I wrote a whole fucking album for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” I interjected harshly.

“And if you had just told me these things at the time I could’ve helped you through it. Together, like a couple is supposed to!”

I shook my head. “I did what had to be done. It was the right thing for us. And for you.”

“No, it wasn’t. You broke my heart, Rowena.” His voice broke and I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. I was rendered speechless. My full name hung in the air between us, an uncomfortable silence smothering the room. It seems silly to be caught off guard by my own name, but I’ve never heard him say it. I’ve always been Rowie, his Rowie.

As we both stood there, kitchen counter separating us, staring but remaining unmoving, I felt as though I was truly seeing Harry for the first time today. With the beanie off I could see his hair looked unusually unkempt, his curls limp as though they needed a good wash. His skin had broken out, which I knew only happened when he was stressed, and the dark circles under his eyes confirmed that suspicion. His hands which were always adorned with an assortment of rings were bare. Even his clothes looked disheveled. This wasn’t the Harry I knew standing before me.

“Harry…” I said softly, breaking the silence, “what’s really going on? Why did you need to see me?”

I watched as he hunched over the counter, resting his head in his hands. His fingers twined into his hair, gripping at the root. As he ran his hands through the flat curls, he brought his gaze up to meet mine. His eyes had filled with tears and I felt that immediate pang in my heart.

Without inhibition, I joined Harry back in the kitchen and gathered him up in my arms, bringing his head down to the crook of my neck. As I stroked the nape of his neck, I felt his arms twist around my waist and pull me tight. I knew he wasn’t crying, but I could feel every ounce of emotion through his embrace. And suddenly I felt at peace, and not because of the meds. I hated that it felt so right to be here in this moment, that the one thing that could stabilise me was the thing I drove away years ago.

Harry loosened his grip and I took it as a sign to pull away slightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I furrowed my brows in confusion. “For what? I’m the one who should be apologising for being shitty and leaving without a proper explanation.”

“I should’ve seen it, the struggles you were having. You’re right, this life can be hard. And it was silly of me to just assume that you were coping with it fine. You say that I don’t worry about what people think of me, I don’t. But that’s after years of me being so caught up in it. I had to learn to ignore and move past the crap.”

“I should have told you though…” I said softly.

He drew his hands away from my waist, instead clasping my own hands in his and bringing them up to his chin. I felt the softest graze of his lips as he stared down at me, my heart skittered ever so slightly. “I really miss you, Row. Everyday.”

I nodded, unsure if I could trust myself to string together a coherent sentence.

He sighed heavily, dropping my hands and taking a step back to lean against my oven. I immediately missed the contact. “In 47 days I’m supposed to be announcing my upcoming album. Which means I have about 42 days to get the tracks laid. The first instance of them anyways.” I watched as he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “And I am so fucking lost.”

I still stood quietly, unsure of what I could really say. Words of encouragement from me right now would surely feel superficial to him.

“God, last time I struggled to cut down the track list. I had such a backlog of material, it was mental.”

I knew I had some role to play with that. Breaking up with someone just as they were about to embark on launching a solo career would result in an abundance of inspiration.

“And this time I have nothing…” he continued on. “Everything I write is utter shite, and the pressure from the label isn’t helping.”

“Push back the announcement then,” I finally spoke.

He laughed, without humor though. “If only it was that easy Rowie. You remember what it was like when I was in the band, the label asking for a new record every bloody year. That was considered feasible as there were five of us. Now according to them, going beyond a 2 year break between records is ‘not recommended’.”

I snorted, and Harry looked at me questioningly. “Seriously? That’s crap. How many artists have been MIA for years and still come back with another best-selling album. Harry, you’re underestimating your talents a little I think. This isn’t like your early years of One Direction where you guys had to pump out content in order to stay relevant. You’ve put in the hard yards and made your mark, you are here to stay.”

A flicker of a smile appeared on his lips. It gave me the confidence to continue on.

“You could literally release an album that consisted primarily of whale and dolphin calls and it would number one on release day.”

That got a laugh out of him. “Not sure if the label would like that though.”

I approached him slowly. “Well, I would love it. In fact, I’ve already got it pre-ordered on iTunes and saved on my Spotify.” I stood toe to toe with Harry, my fingers reaching out to the hem of his sweater. It was taking all of my self-restraint to not stretch up and trace his jawline, to comb back his hair with my fingers.

Instead, Harry seized the opportunity. Cautiously, he placed his hand to the side of my face. I melted into his touch. His lips parted ever so slightly before rolling them together, his telltale sign that he wanted to kiss me but was unsure.

“It’s okay,” I barely whispered out. I rolled up onto my toes, bringing my arms around his neck before pressing my lips against his. It felt as though no time had passed; we were in sync immediately, our mouths moving with familiarity. I raked my nails up through his hair and he mirrored by running his down my sides.

But as sudden as we had fallen back into routine, Harry pulled away. I couldn’t help a small sound of detest escape my mouth. “Shit,” he mumbled. He unlatched my arms from around his neck and pressed them back into my chest. “I shouldn’t… I know this isn’t what you want.” He sidestepped me and moved as far away from me as possible, which was only a few meters as that’s all my flat would allow.

“Who are you to say what I do and don’t want?” I challenged.

“You just told me the enormous toll our relationship had on you mentally. And I didn’t come here to try and win you back.”

I suddenly felt like I had been used. “So, what? You have no inspiration to write some songs so you come and see me, dredge up old problems, and then run off to the studio? Is that all I am to you now? A muse of emotional trauma?”

His eyes widened. “Jesus Rowie, of course not! I needed to see you because I knew you would be a voice of reason for me. Every person that I have spoken to about this album just doesn't get it. They’re all too… I don’t know. Too close to the project? They all just think I have a bit of writer’s block. My mum told me to clear my head by taking a walk in a bloody forest or something!”

I leant back, taking up the same position against my oven that Harry held minutes earlier. “How can my opinion even mean anything? I don’t know what’s gone on with you for the past 2 and a bit years.”

“And yet, I’ve felt more at ease here with you this past hour than I have for the past 6 months.”

“What, my 3 sentences of encouragement have instantly filled you with the creative juices you’ve been craving?”

“I wish,” Harry chuckled. “But your sense of assurance helps.”

I was about to respond when the buzz of a phone interrupted me. It sounded muffled, so I knew it was coming from my bag which lay forgotten at the end of the counter. It was most likely Jules, checking in to see if I’m alright.

“That’s probably a sign that I should go.” He collected his beanie that he had thrown down earlier and shoved it back on his head, paying no attention to the way it smushed some curls flat against his forehead. “Again, I’m sorry to barge in on you like this. I appreciate that you gave me the chance to talk though.” He jerked forward, unsure if we should hug goodbye or if he should just leave. I made the decision easier for him by crossing the kitchen and wrapping my arms around his waist. Pressing my ear to his chest I could hear the steady thump of his heart, a sound that I have fallen asleep to countless times. I felt Harry press his lips to the top of my head. This hug felt different, like a proper goodbye hug. Not ‘see you later’, but goodbye.

We pulled apart, locking eyes for one last time. “Good luck with everything,” I murmured.

“I’ll let you know when the Harry Styles featuring Whale and Dolphin album will be dropping.”

I let out a shaky laugh before moving around him to unlock the door. He stepped out, gave me one last smile, and turned to walk down the hall. I watched him walk until he disappeared from view, he didn’t turn back once.

That goodbye felt like it was the final closure we both needed, that now we could finally move on with our lives and be relatively happy. Maybe now I could hear and see his name and not feel a clench in my stomach. Or have those cluey fans find me and not dissolve into a puddle of panic.

But despite all these prospects, I knew it wasn’t the ending I wanted. Or the ending I really needed. My feet moved without warrant. I picked up speed, pounded down the stairs almost tripping over. I saw him, he had just stepped out of the building and down the steps. I burst through the door and he spun around, eyes wide with surprise.

“Stay.” I puffed out.

He blinked. Once, twice. “What?”

“I’m asking you to stay,” I descended the front steps and joined Harry on the footpath. “I just did the most cliché, rom-com thing and chased after you to ask you to stay. I mean, all that is missing right now is some rain and we would have the perfect scene.”

He laughed.

“Please, I’m serious.”

“Rowie, after what you said we can’t get back together. We--”

“After what I said we should be getting back together.”

Harry looked at me puzzled.

“I’m not going to be a prat now and try to shoulder all the pressure. I was stupid to not trust that you could help me in the first place. And I’ve gotten better at managing the anxiety.”

He was quiet for a while, staring down at me. I was desperate for something, even just a graze of his hand for reassurance. I was about to revoke the offer, feeling that maybe I had misread the situation, but he finally responded. “Are you sure? I don’t want you… I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“So sure that I ran down four flights of stairs and almost broke a leg for you.”

We both grinned before Harry pulled me in for a kiss. It was short and sweet but felt like home all the same.

“Let’s go up.” I said once we had broken apart.

“Oh… Uh... Actually,” Harry stammered. Oh god, have I suddenly been to forward or something? “I really need to swing by the studio. My phone has basically been in airplane mode all day and I was supposed to be there for a session at 10 am. I’ve been off the grid without even telling anyone.” He bit his lip, obviously unsure of how I would react.

“Go,” I said with a smile. Sure, the timing was crappy but I knew he would be back.

“I’ll be back,” he said as though he had just read my mind. “I’ll bring dinner tonight. Some thai food? Panang curry with fried rice?”

I smiled. He remembered my order. “Don’t forget--”

“Extra green beans in the curry.” He placed his hand on my cheek, bending down slightly to press a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll see you soon.”

And with that, he turned and began walking up the street, his phone pressed to his ear. No doubt he was finally responding to some very concerned people on his whereabouts. I watched him until turned the corner at the end of the block. I continued to stand there on the footpath outside my flat feeling calm, finally feeling at peace.

It almost seemed silly that this morning Harry Styles was the catalyst for a tumultuous amount of negative emotion, and yet my Harry was the one that was able to calm the storm and ground me.

I suppose I should thank him for that. I’ll do it when he comes home.

[kiruuuuu]

Bandit/Vigil oneshot in which Vigil recuperates and Bandit is detrimental? (Rating M, angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of torture, ~3.9k words) - written for @blitznbandit as a Christmas present 💞💞 I didn’t mean for it to get this dark but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Best wishes and Merry Christmas! :)

.

He returns fragmented. Having lost pieces along the way, parts of him damaged, he’s less than before. Less human, less capable, less trusting. A few chunks were beaten out of him, knocking others loose in the process and therefore he’s hesitant to ask for help in patching the holes, in case someone isn’t careful enough and makes it worse.

Though it doesn’t feel as if it could get any worse.

Visual representations of his state adorn him, discolouration of skin, tears, cuts, attempts at extracting the highly sought-after information through his outer shell though they didn’t manage to pull it out of his flesh. They tried, however. Most of it is unnatural, he supposes, frightful even, renders him fragile-looking when his mind has never been as stony as it is now. He won’t break, might splinter and chip in places, but he won’t shatter. He hasn’t so far. He’s not going to now.

Dokkaebi cries. She just stands before him and lets tear after tear roll over her cheeks, unsuccessfully trying to muffle her sobs and he’s lost, misplaced his script on what to do now, how to react, and there’s no teleprompter or anyone taking charge, so they stand there: Dokkaebi crying and him fighting one of the waves bringing blurriness and further detachment which have become so intimately familiar to him by now. The whole scene might as well be a video on a screen, despite the fact that the wet ground smells of grass and cool air surrounds him.

The scenery changes, someone pulls the slim woman away and another silhouette by his side gently leads him across a canvas of places, all of them unreal and not registering in his head though less shrill than the sterile, smelly white ones in which he spent … an undetermined amount of time. He doesn’t know which day it is.

Voices underwater pose questions his subconscious knows the answer to and therefore he’s able to keep up a semblance of normalcy while his thoughts repeat the endless litany of wanting to sleep. Wanting to go home. Wanting to feel safe again. Wanting to remember what it’s like to feel. At certain points, there’s absence of sound and it makes him itchy, raises his alertness without contributing to clearing his mind and thus leaves him skittish, so it’s no surprise than he flinches violently at a small touch. He’s up on his feet immediately, turned towards his threat who isn’t a threat at all, he knows this person, can conjure up their image in his head yet couldn’t tell who it is or from where he knows them. Relaxing is hard when he’s not sure of the identity of this person, but the guy in scrubs – it’s a doctor – no, it’s Doc – says his name, Gilles, and it could be someone or it could be no one.

His fight response has been triggered and so his system is painfully vigilant even when he’s suddenly sitting down again and he idly wonders whether he’ll ever feel like anyone at all again.

.

He’s a foreign body, bumbling uselessly and getting in people’s way while they, somehow, he has no idea how, go about their lives. Imitating them is impossible as simple interactions drain him to a worrying degree, so treating his own existence as an inevitable misfortune with which all of them are stuck seems to be the only alternative. If speaking wasn’t such a chore, he’d apologise the whole day. Keeping out of sight and turning himself invisible is his preferred course of action even if it means some people startle at him walking into their peripheral vision as if he was a ghost.

By now, he’s begun to sort experiences into boxes. Not being able to trust his own memory is at best unpleasant and at worst wholly disorienting and disturbing, so he endeavours to fill the gaps and shave off excess. Some of it undeniably happened as he’s carrying the proof on his body, even if he doesn’t recall a blowtorch, while other details are strikingly vivid yet make no sense. He was held underground, not in a forest and still, he feels thick, wet leaves caress his skin and branches snap under his sole. No, there were no windows nor any indication as to his location, the photos show him what he might’ve seen in a film once yet nothing he recognises. But he drowned. In the dry cellar, forbidden to wash himself, every drop sacred, he could’ve drowned. It certainly felt like it and the cruel irony of wanting to drink it all, the knowledge it won’t kill him didn’t make it better. He’s started exclusively taking baths. He doesn’t like the feel of water on his face.

Compartmentalising helps, albeit it’s a double-edged sword as it further alienates him from those who appear to need him most. The causality of it is puzzling as he’s fine by himself yet it’s others who seek him out nonetheless, require assurances and an affirmation that they’re doing all they can. They’re the ones needing a pat on the back but he unlearned it all, so all he earns is concern at his empty stares. He begins avoiding them, the only exception being Blackbeard – the American’s voice is unimpeded by his silence, penetrates the sound barrier erected in self-defence and fills his head with words, phrases, ideas which resonate with something forgotten inside him. Blackbeard is familiar and calming and no one would guess he’s talking to a husk with how animatedly he gestures and slowly, slowly, his utterances begin to develop meaning.

.

Vigil starts healing. It’s a multi-faceted process and accompanied by a significant amount of itching, both outside and inside. His senses return to him in a more conscious fashion than simply identifying potential dangers in his vicinity and his body’s ability to obey improves though it’s still held back by overpowering fatigue; at least there are no more dizzy spells or involuntary movements. Not as many anyway. The variety of injuries invite him to scratch, especially the blisters and the scabs, the freshly opened ones – usually a result of carelessness or a motion too extreme – send out white hot, pulsing signals impossible to ignore. He becomes intimately familiar with every visible piece of writing in Doc’s office as he reads it over and over and over again. Reading anything other than single words and simple sentences is too much.

His sleep is restless and the source of most of his frustration as the exhaustion turning him sluggish and numbing his limbs is omnipresent yet relief unattainable. Sometimes, he wants to scream and thrash, pound the mattress with his fists because it’s so unfair, he’s tired, it’s dark, why won’t it work, why won’t it work why won’t it work why won’t it work why won’t it work – furious, he feels pressure on his eyes and gets up, resists the urge to put his fist through something and walks until he’s light-headed, tries push-ups on his elbows, feels stitches and bandages pull on his skin. And even when darkness does envelop him, brilliant dreams ensure he wakes up sweat-soaked and gasping for air.

He dreams of him. And in a way it’s more terrifying than just re-living memories.

.

Before he – before it all happened, he caught the eye of a predator. Felt slitted pupils lazily glide over to him, unfocused and slow as he poses no threat, was unhurriedly yet thoroughly studied and classified as easy prey. To this day, he’s unsure what made him stand out, which of his eccentricities painted a large target on his back causing claws to bury themselves in his vulnerable torso. He was hunted down and slain for sport, he assumes, incapable of defending himself; only then the dangerous creature did develop an appetite after all. Devoured whole, Vigil cowered, obeyed, surrendered.

His memories convince him that he enjoyed it. Basked in the unexpected attention, revelled in a deluge of foreign sensations, released tension under experienced fingertips ghosting over him. Every single instance lasted at least an hour and he thought each the last one, anticipated being deprived of this… this frenzied feeding sooner rather than later, yet repetition tricked his mind into believing it’d become a habit. In a way, he wasn’t wrong: it was a regular occurrence, the intervals shrinking continuously until he couldn’t reasonably predict the next one anymore, merely waited for it to happen excitedly.

The anticipation has vanished completely now. It’s been replaced by a stoic dread he insistently denies and the pleasant memories are sullied by his dreams. He would prefer to limit his nightly terrors to the faceless monsters who – who did all this to him, who altered his very being, yet they’re not the ones holding him down, kicking and slapping, trying to force him to betray the very organisation which eventually came to his rescue. It’s not them. It’s him.

.

Training is hell, icy fire licking the insides of his lungs, inflamed muscles hindering his every move. He needs to, needs to catch up on all he missed after having spent too much time idling fruitlessly, hoping moronically for everything to sort itself out somehow, as if there was a spirit for broken minds who could mend them with a flick of its wrist. If such a thing exists, it must be very busy.

No one can help him but himself, especially not the woman he’s meant to trust and tell everything that happened. She’s trying to be comforting and soft but comes across as otherworldly, shapeless and inconsequential – time and time again she brings up topics Vigil feels are entirely irrelevant and meets his badly suppressed anger with pretentious understanding, advises inane exercises he refuses to do in his spare time and hovers just around the edge of actually reaching him. Blackbeard breaks through nonchalantly, acts as if nothing has changed while picking up bits and pieces, distractedly putting them back where they belong without mentioning it. Vigil much prefers his company.

In time, Dokkaebi finds it in herself to grow cold as well, shield herself and meet his downcast gaze and inaudible words with her usual boisterous behaviour, complaining about him taking too long with everything, eating, walking, healing, and her impatience and lack of compassion help him redefine himself as more than just a victim. He remains an operator, abilities tried and tested, and therefore expecting him to function as one is reasonable; he needs to pull himself together. So he trains. And keeps failing.

The whole atmosphere shifts as soon as he enters the room. Silently, he moves and manages to steal Vigil’s breath despite his casual demeanour, causes an adrenaline rush unlike any other he’s recently felt. He’s trapped, alone, for the first time sharing space with him on his own since he came back and it’s terrifying. Golden brown eyes petrify him, lock him into place and there’s no doubt he’s here for Vigil. Probably feels like he’s given him enough time to recuperate, now he’ll demand his share once more, sink his teeth deep and leave him behind bleeding. So far, he’s kept his distance, didn’t even grace his mark with a single glance. For what felt like weeks.

Vigil needs something to do, mind aflutter in panic, and despite every cell in his body urging him to escape, slip away and hope he won’t pursue, he decides to be proactive. To him, it feels like the first choice he’s made in a while. Lying down on the nearest bench panders to his persistent fatigue and yet it hinders him not at this moment for the heady rush of danger encompassing him counteracts his usual exhaustion. “Spot me”, he demands and wraps his fingers around the cool metal bar above him.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise proportionally to how near he is and when Bandit comes to a halt right behind him, he nearly trembles. They study each other motionlessly and for an eternity, Bandit looking down, Vigil looking up. “You’re too weak”, an accented voice informs him though hands contradict it, reach out, ready to support if necessary. Vigil averts his gaze and lifts the weight, brings it into the correct position and lets the familiar feel calm him – this, he knows how to do.

“I’m not”, he protests because he can and couldn’t tell when he last said no to anyone. Repetition and concentration both put his thoughts to rest and occupy him, render him complacent as he watches two pairs of hands rise and fall gently, one of them radiating volatile energy, threatening to turn on him any second, cover his eyes, punch his throat, hold his mouth and nose shut.

He’s scared.

And then something does go wrong, a sharp pain pierces his consciousness and reflective silver fills his vision; the bar came to a stop alarmingly close to his face, mere centimetres from possibly finishing what was started a while ago. His head wound still isn’t healed fully. Dumbly, he stares at it as if mere thought could make it vanish, then capable arms work to return the weight to its rightful place. And he tells him in a judging tone: “Don’t overexert yourself.” Before Vigil can even consider talking back, more words are tacked onto the presumptuous statement: “Start easy. You’re not used to it anymore.”

And this is when it tilts over. His rage is partially unfounded, Bandit has no control over his dreams, can’t influence what his dream self does yet is solely responsible for staying away all this time – his actions, or rather the lack thereof, cut deeper than Vigil was aware, fuelled an underlying self-consciousness and insecurity. He felt discarded, unworthy, and now that he’s in better physical shape Bandit seeks him out again? Hardly a coincidence. He must’ve enjoyed how submissive Vigil was, how responsive, but felt no urge to to accept the responsibility which comes with commitment. Where were you?, Vigil wants to spit in his face, Where were you when I needed you most? I’m no toy. I’m not at your mercy. I’m not to be abandoned like this.

His fury both causes accusations to bubble up in him and holds his tongue, a learned reflex to any extreme emotion. He’s long cut off the spikes in his moods, mellowed them out so no extremes happen, keeps it all safe and sound in the middle. Sitting up, he notices his hands shaking. He’s not afraid of him anymore, somehow knows Bandit will never go as far as his projection did repeatedly, not when he’s this passive, this passionless about him. All that time he always set aside seemed to have been a lie, a convenience. He was a fool to believe it to be more.

“I missed you.”

Resisting the impulse to spew I was right here is difficult but possible. Instead, he allows a question to see the light of day which has been eating away at him for a while. “Why me?” He’s long ceased to pose it in relation to tragedies, long accepted the fact he will never know the answer. Coincidences are free of judgement, his place of birth pure chance, his capture an unfortunate event – none of it specifically geared towards breaking his spirit by a higher power or the universe itself. However, this time it might yield an answer. He sincerely hopes it does, yet with every passing second in which Bandit mutely regards him with an unreadable expression, the probability decreases. “You can have anyone.”

“But I don’t want anyone.”

The message is clear though its origin nebulous. But why. Why me. Upset, confused and upset over his confusion, he attempts to flee the conversation, extract himself as he’s unsure how to face this man, how to deal with his own emotions. Getting past Bandit proves impossible though, the slim figure is an unsurmountable obstacle, soft eyes fixing him in place and a tentatively outstretched hand has him flinch first, then accept the touch of a palm on his elbow, travelling up until it comes into contact with his still discoloured jaw. Turning away is futile, fingers wrap around his own and then a body moulds itself around him despite his resistance. He’s suffocating, refuses to breathe in this wild scent of blood, sweat and hunger, realises too late he smells the same.

Bandit waits until his thrashing has subsided, patiently holds on as if he knew what he was doing. Eventually, exhaustion drives Vigil into the arms of his hunter and he relents at the cost of his sanity, dignity, sense of self-worth. Accepting warmth and human contact is surprisingly arduous but the pay-off staggering: he thaws, he melts, he dissolves under gentle hands, in a loose embrace, and its realness leaves him reeling. Logic tells him he possesses the same body heat, must feel nice to Bandit or else he would’ve withdrawn already, yet the idea of him feeling as good as Bandit does to him now is unimaginable. He needs more.

A quiet plea is met with hesitation at first, but when he emphasises it, Bandit nods. “Let’s go then”, he says, voice shaky.

.

Before even any fabric is shed, Vigil starts to struggle. His side is still sensitive, so he forcibly removes Bandit’s hand when it brushes over it, he doesn’t enjoy the feel of the tongue on his collarbone and pushes his head away, yanks at clothing to keep the German half off him. Though it’s thrilling and the low pulsing need permeating his being is the sharpest feeling he’s had for a while, he’s worried about showing his mutilated body, about evoking disgust instead of lust, about memories of sadistic grins and fire and needles and fists and water taking control of him. His subconscious fear manifests in the turning away of his head, in refusal to make eye contact, in jerks and light kicks and shoving.

“Do you want me to stop?”, Bandit asks and kisses the hand he caught as if it hadn’t tried to pull on his hair. No judgement in his inquiry, strangely enough. He would actually stop. There is no doubt.

A violent shudder seizes his body and he couldn’t tell whether it’s born from pleasure or dismay. The lips are ticklish and he doesn’t think he’d survive it if Bandit rejected him. “No.” He surprises himself with the response; the safer option would be to give up, not even allowing for the chance to harm himself further by ruining the one hopeful thing in his life at the moment, yet the drive to feel human again is too powerful.

So Bandit continues, undeterred by the resistance he faces and – it’s different to the times before, softer, more patient. At first it seems as if he, too, believes Vigil to be fragile and therefore takes certain precautions, isn’t as rough as he was previously, but the more time passes the more one undeniable truth crystallises and makes Vigil’s heart come alive: Bandit isn’t treating him like something delicate. He’s treating him like something precious.

His caresses don’t shy away from faded bruises or bandages, touches actively follow scarring unless Vigil displays discomfort, and though he’s careful, he’s far from tentative – repeatedly, he unintentionally causes stabs of pain hindering Vigil’s attempts to wholly give himself up and revel in the familiar affections. In response, Vigil lashes out on a small scale, bites a little too hard, scratches instead of stroking skin, and never once earns any form of protest. Bandit allows him to fight back mostly symbolically, something he was never able to do in the hands of his captors. He loses his inhibitions and wonders why it feels so good to inflict pain, ponders whether it’s linked to Bandit not paying him any attention while his mind was heavily impeded, when it hits him out of the blue.

A kiss to the top of his head makes him smile, stretches his lips all by itself. During a small break, he marvels at Bandit’s body. He even takes the initiative at some point and is rewarded with an almost enamoured gaze in return which drags something in his chest to the surface; something he was sure to have lost. They draw meaningless patterns on skin lazily, let their whims decide on what they do, and it’s peaceful.

Vigil feels like himself again. Not entirely, he hasn’t reverted back to his old self, that would be nothing short of a miracle, but his sense of self has returned – he is Chul Kyung Hwa, he is Vigil, he is part of the White Tigers and Rainbow and right now, he is here because he wants to be. And he will not let misfortune define him.

.

A careless remark, nothing more, Blackbeard’s usual dry humour showcased in a blunt comment and yet its utter lack of respect is scandalising and amusing enough for Vigil to laugh. Not a loud, full-bellied laugh which could hope to compete with the American’s, no, a quiet chuckle rather but an expression of entertainment nonetheless. They’re eating together and Vigil is picky, has traded parts of it with his teammate and others, approaching them first. Bending his mouth around pleasantries remains a feat he has yet to master but even so, it’s met with genuine friendliness and relief he generously overlooks.

Dokkaebi picks up on it immediately, abandoning her conversation to grace him with a meaningful smirk. “You just laughed”, she states triumphantly as if it was her own achievement.

Days ago, he wouldn’t have replied but he’s come to realise once more that he likes her, enjoys her company. Looking back, he feels bad about not reassuring her the day he returned, piling on to her already overwhelming grief. He admits: “I feel better.”

She nods; it must be glaringly obvious. “Must be contagious, even Dom smiled at me earlier.”

“Is that noteworthy?”

“He’s had it rough too.” His expression must display some of his disbelief for Dokkaebi explains herself: “He was with us the entire time we tried to find you, probably put in more hours than even Craig. And then, when you got rescued, you… I don’t know what you were on, I wasn’t there. But you were terrified of him – of them all, but him the most. I think it hurt him. Doc told him to stay away from you for a while, just in case.”

Dreams tightly intertwined with memories, forming an entirely unfair and inaccurate hybrid which painted Bandit in a much harsher light than he deserved. He never was a predator, Vigil never his prey, and while he was indeed devoured, it was preceded by awkward half-conversations and uncertain gestures; the time they spent together valuable to both of them. He’s been unjust.

“But he seems better now, and so do you. Maybe you should talk to him.”

“Yes”, Vigil agrees readily, startling her into silence. “Maybe I should.”

When Bandit and he finally make eye contact across the room after a lot of furtive glances, Vigil presents him with a tentative smile. And is not at all prepared for the wide one he’s granted in return.