#paper strikes me as a three. pencil is a five

[stevie-petey]

episode nine: the fall

You shake your head at the teen in disappointment. “Never thought I’d have to say this, but please stop licking your sweater, Steve.” He puts his hands up in surrender, albeit with a slight scoff. “Sue a man for not wasting food.”

Summary: surprise ! life still carries on even with minor brain damage from constant concussions :( on the bright side, you and the gang all become homies. meanwhile, steve grapples with the warm fuzzies and parental issues before his worst nightmare happens: you meet robin. the horrors !

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: fem!reader, use of y/n, swearing, mentions of wounds

Words: 9.1k

Before you swing in: this is it !!! last official chapter of season 2 :) this chapter is pure fluff yall. just 9k words of utter disgusting bug n steve, so i hope it makes up for how long it took for them to get to this point lmao. enjoy !

-

True to your promise with Jonathan, nothing necessarily changes between the two of you; things just shift. You stop being so tactile with him out of respect for Nancy, now only reaching for his hand for comfort rather than to have him so near. It takes some trial and error, but eventually the two of you manage to strike up a good balance.

You still spend most of your days either together at his house or yours. Only now, Nancy accompanies you, and it’s lovely.

“Dustin told me that Steve practically drooled over you last night before the Snowball.” Jonathan teases you, hunched over his kitchen table scribbling a half-assed essay that’s already a day late.

Nancy giggles as you throw your pencil at the boy. “That did not happen, mind your own business.”

“I don’t know, Y/N. He kept staring at you today during lunch.” Nancy slides over her paper and taps her pencil on a particular problem she’s stuck on. She’s still getting used to talking about this with you, but she pushes aside her unease and tries anyway. “Do you know the answer for number five?”

Her words cause you to blush, your mind still reeling from your conversation with Steve last night. You told him you’d wait for him, and he looked at you as if you’d promised him the world and more. Then, today at lunch, Steve had boldly found you sitting with Nancy and Jonathan outside and joined.

It was a welcome change, and he sat so close to you that your thighs pressed together underneath the picnic bench you’d been eating at.

“He wasn’t staring at me,” you mumble, embarrassed and still feeling his weight pressed against you, before sliding your paper over to Nancy. “And I got Henry Ford.”

Frowning, Nancy erases her answer. “That makes no sense.”

“My answer or Steve not staring at me?”

“Both.” Nancy and Jonathan say at the same time.

You throw another pencil at Jonathan. “I wasn’t talking to you, write your late essay.”

He ducks, “Would you stop?”

“Not unless you stop speaking.”

“This is my house, bug–”

“And I can call your mom right now and she’d let me stay.” You cross your arms at Jonathan, knowing you’ve already won the argument. “Any more complaints?”

Jonathan goes back to writing his essay, grumbling under his breath about how you can’t keep pulling the mom card, and you giggle at his anger alongside Nancy. He’s the one who wanted the two of you to get along, he should’ve known that you and Nancy would just make his life miserable.

The three of you go back to working quietly at the table, you and Nancy occasionally asking each other for help on certain questions, while Jonathan grows more and more frustrated by his essay. After he’s angrily scribbled out his fifth line, Nancy snatches the paper from him and points towards the back door.

“Out,” she tells him.

Jonathan blinks. “What?”

“Go outside, take a small walk, and calm down. You’re frustrated and won’t get anywhere if you keep this up.”

They stare at each other, Nancy silently daring him to argue with her, and you watch in amusement. She has him wrapped around her finger, and after only a few seconds, Jonathan sighs and gets up from the kitchen table. “I’m doing this because I want to, alright?”

You snort. “Sure, buddy.”

He gives you the finger, presses a kiss to Nancy’s forehead, and then grabs a coat to go outside.

Once he’s gone, Nancy turns to you and sets down her pencil. “So, how long are you planning on pretending that Steve doesn’t like you?”

You whip your head up, dropping your pencil in the process, startled by her forward question. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.”

“I…” Though you’ve slowly gotten used to Nancy being with Jonathan, it still feels too soon to talk to her about Steve, even if she’s given you her blessing. It feels too raw, too inappropriate, to discuss it with her. “I don’t think we should talk about this–”

“C’mon, Y/N. It’s obvious he at least feels something for you, and if anyone deserves Steve, it’s you.” Nancy gently takes your hand, her voice sincere. “He came outside for lunch looking for you today, he drove you to the Snowball, he’s been visiting you at work ever since you smiled at him last year.”

You look away from her. “It’s… complicated.”

“It’s not…” Nancy swallows, clears her throat, and looks away as well. It still has taken her time to adjust to the shift between the four of you, to finally understand that it’s now okay to talk about these things with one another. “It’s not because of me, right?”

A beat of silence passes, and when you don’t say anything, Nancy sighs. “Shit.”

“He’s still healing, Nance.” You admit, feeling bad for bringing this upon her. You don’t want her to feel responsible for any of it, it’s not her fault that the boys you’ve loved have loved her first. The wound of it has healed now, though the scar that it has left will never fade.

You both know this, neither one of you want to admit it to the other.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” She shakes her head, the familiar guilt of somehow always the one hurting you clawing at her. “I wish things had been different between me and him.”

You shrug, you don’t see any reason to blame her. “I don’t.”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t wish things had been different between the two of you,” you admit, knowing how bizarre it may sound. When Nancy raises her eyebrows, you’re quick to explain. “What I mean is, if Steve had never been with you, who knows who he’d be now? Or if Jonathan had never been my best friend, would you still have found each other?”

Nancy bites her lip, still unconvinced. “I don’t know, Y/N…”

“I think, truthfully, that we all unwound with who we were supposed to.” You’re not sure how to explain this, to express your unusual way of viewing such complex situations. “Without our histories, without being so intertwined with one another, I don’t think we ever would’ve unwound how we were supposed to. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” Nancy nods, although hesitant. “And Steve is still… Unwinding from me?”

You cringe, knowing how silly it all sounds. “I know it sounds dumb, but he is, and while I’m not saying he doesn’t like me… I told him to take his time.”

“You’d really wait for him?”

“I would.”

Nancy sighs and goes back to her assignment, continuously amazed by your selflessness. “You’re too good.”

You shrug again, now used to being told this by others. It doesn’t bother you like it used to, you’ve come to view your kindness as something wholly yours and no one else’s to understand. It took so much violence to become so kind, and you will never, ever apologize for it now. “It adds to my charm.”

Jonathan walks back in right as Nancy bursts into loud laughter, you do as well, the remaining tension between you and her now gone. He sees the way she clutches her stomach and how you have to grab onto the table so you don’t fall over as you laugh. “Did I miss something?”

You wipe at your eyes, still giggling. “No, bee. Sit down and do your work.”

“Yeah,” Nancy giggles again, feeling breathless. “What Y/N said.”

“You two are the worst.” Jonathan slumps in his seat and goes back to his essay.

“You love us,” you tease, knowing that he hasn’t told Nancy this yet.

He smiles shyly and avoids Nancy’s eye. “Yeah, I do.”

They both blush and there’s a childish energy to them, shy and soft and sweet. You watch them with a warm smile, endlessly happy for them both; they’re sweet to watch, still shy around one another.

As you watch Jonathan and Nancy giggle softly as they help each other with their assignments, looking over at you for help as well, you know that junior year is finally starting to look up.

–

Steve continues to join you, Jonathan, and Nancy for lunch. He makes himself a permanent seat next to you, never once straying far from your side, and eventually he even ends up back in the library with the three of you.

It’s reminiscent of your sophomore year, back when you’d just defeated the Demogorgon and Nancy had gone back to Steve. For a brief few months, you’d all study in the library together and formed your own nice, albeit tense, group.

Then lines and threads became tangled and unspoken feelings became harsh actions.

Now, Nancy and Jonathan are whispering about something, off in their own world, and you’re currently helping Steve with an English assignment.

It’s the last day before winter break, so it’s hard getting him to pay attention to what you’re saying. All he can focus on is the way you’ve pinned your hair up, some pieces of hair falling over your face, and how you look so lovely in your white sweater.

“Are you listening to me?” You ask him, narrowing your eyes.

Steve coughs, knowing he’s been caught. “Yeah, totally.”

“Okay,” you cross your arms and lean back in your seat, distancing yourself from the boy, which only makes him frown. “What did I just say, then?”

“C’mere,” he huffs at you, tugging at your chair so that you’re now pressed flush against him; just the way he likes it. You blush, your stomach flutters wildly at the idea that he can’t be more than five inches away from you. Steve sees this, sends you a wink, and tries to use this to his advantage. “We both know I wasn’t listening, angel.”

Angel.

It’s become his new name for you, though he hasn’t said it since the night of the Snowball; the name drips from his lips as if saturated in sunlight. Although you want to litter his face with kisses and call him lovely and handsome and wonderful, you know that in this instance, Steve has only used the nickname to get on your good side.

And two can play that game.

“I don’t know, honey.” You lean in closer to Steve, angling your head so that you look up at him while you use your own name for him. His breath always hitches when you look up at him like this, when you call him honey again for the first time all sweet and soft. “I was hoping you’d been listening.”

Steve gulps, he’s still not used to the way your voice dips low when you want his attention. How when you call him honey he swears he can taste the residue of it in his mouth. He leans closer as well, your faces inches apart, and he’s forgotten what the two of you are even talking about. “I–I’m sorry?”

As soon as he’s apologized, you pull yourself away, just before Steve’s lips land on yours, and go back to the English assignment. You’re immensely pleased with yourself, especially when Steve almost face plants against the library table when you suddenly move away. “Apology accepted! Now, let’s go back to Shakespeare, shall we?”

Steve’s jaw drops, only now realizing that he’s been tricked. “Oh, that was evil, Y/N.”

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.” You wink at him, and Steve has never wanted to kiss a smirk off of someone’s face more.

He’s addicted to it, honestly.

Later that day, once school has let out, Steve drives you to work. This was another shift that came with Jonathan and Nancy getting together. While your best friend still drives you to school, it’s now Steve who drives you to work and picks you up.

He enjoys spending the time with you, having you all to himself during the simple ten minute drive to Bookstrordinary. The two of you rarely say much during these drives, and it’s everything Steve could ask for and more; he simply has you with him, nothing else needs to be said or done.

Mrs. Waters greets him with a knowing smile, the woman has become more invested in Steve’s infatuation with you than even your mother. “Hello, young man.”

“Hi, Mrs. Waters.” Steve gives her a wave and walks over to his usual station: behind the counter, waiting for you.

You give your boss a quick hug and clock in. “Any new shipments today?”

“All the new books are in the back, so make sure your handsome man does all the heavy lifting, sweetie.” Mrs. Waters giggles at her own words before she slowly makes her way into her office.

“Well,” you nudge Steve. “You heard the woman, you’re a handsome man. Go do the heavy lifting.”

The compliment, though indirect, still rolls over Steve in slow, warm waves. He smiles bashfully at you. “Handsome, huh?”

“Oh, don’t pretend as if you didn’t know.” You flick his nose and walk over to the back door to start retrieving the new shipment. “Seriously, though. Could you help me with these boxes?”

Steve is quick to run over and help, he will always be happy to help you, but before he picks up a box, a thought occurs to him. Leaning against the doorframe, he smirks at you. “I’ll help, after you explain to me that little stunt you pulled earlier in the library.”

“What stunt?” A huff escapes you as you try to pick up a box, but Mrs. Waters had been right. The shipment is heavy, and Steve is currently useless.

“The whole ‘honey’ thing.”

You look up at Steve, knowing exactly what he’s asking, but you toy with him anyways. “Only if you explain the whole ‘angel’ thing.”

“C’mon, Y/N.” He groans, annoyed that you’re so good at dodging all of his questions. He doesn’t know what makes you Hendersons so great at deception, but it’s a terrifying thing to witness. “You’re an angel, it’s a fitting name for you.”

Though you’d been expecting him to say this, hearing Steve’s explanation still causes you to blush. Normally it bothers you when people call you an angel and act as if you’re some person above everyone else, but with Steve you know that he means it so genuinely. To him, you’re an angel because he knows you so well.

He doesn’t view you as this innocent creature that can do no wrong; Steve knows how you came to be, he knows the anger you once held, and it’s because of this that he has come to view you as angelic. It takes a lot for someone to become kind again, and Steve knows this better than anyone else.

“You’re sweet honey,” you finally respond, your face still warm from the vulnerability. You want to try for him, become okay with the feeling of being seen. “You asked for a nickname, and that’s what I’ve landed on. Any more questions?”

Steve practically melts against the doorway, and you almost giggle at the sight. “I’m honey?”

“Mhm, sweet honey, but honey sounds less dramatic.”

He laughs, his head is spinning and he’s so enamored with you. “Okay, I like that, but can I ask one more question before I agree to helping you?”

You roll your eyes but nod, secretly enjoying this moment with him. “Ask away.”

“Why honey? Not that I’m complaining, but…” Steve shrugs. “Not so creative.”

You gasp, “Are you saying you don’t accept my nickname for you?”

“No! I–” Steve frantically tries to correct what he’s said, but you grab his hand to calm him down.

“Relax, Steve. I was teasing,” you give his hand a squeeze, his fingers are strong against yours, and take a deep breath. The explanation is more intimate than you’d like, but he deserves to know. “Did you know that honey can be used to treat wounds?”

Steve shakes his head, silent as he listens.

“It’s a natural remedy, an unsuspecting cure, disguised as something only sweet.” You’re suddenly shy again, but you offer Steve more of yourself because you can; because he’s here, all warmth and love and summer. He’s healed wounds within you that you hadn’t known existed until you noticed their scars fading—cuts that have littered your skin from abandonment, guilt, and love. “When I was young, my dad would take me to this local farm on my birthday every summer and he would buy me honey. We’d use it to make sweet tea.”

You pause, the memory practically on your tongue as you remember the taste of the local farmer’s honey and how it would drizzle, slow and smooth, into your sweet tea. You remember your father’s laugh, how he would boast to the entire town that his sweet tea could win awards. “I never really liked tea, but my dad’s sweet tea was amazing.”

The honey had been his secret ingredient.

Steve is quiet after you’ve finished your story. He takes his time responding, he allows the story you’ve told to sink in, he rolls it around in his head, memorizes its details. He knows that you don’t like talking about your father, and the fact that you’ve shared a happy memory about him with Steve…

“Thank you,” he says. There’s a weight behind his thanks, he knows he will never be able to put into words how much this means to him. He tries, though, and pours every truth that he can into his words, “I love the nickname.”

The two of you begin unpacking the new shipment of books after that, working silently side by side.

It’s a lovely summer day within Bookstrordinary, even though it’s the middle of winter in Hawkins.

–

This Christmas Eve, you have your entire kitchen on lockdown. No one is allowed to come in, all food and drinks have been thrown onto the dining room table for others to use. Your hair is tied up, your apron is on, and you’ve banished Dustin from even looking at you.

“This is excessive, even for you.” Dustin scoffs from the living room, annoyed that he can’t even sit at the counter and watch.

You’ve just preheated the oven and are now whisking your dry ingredients together for Mike’s favorite brownies. There’s a rack of Will’s oatmeal raisin cookies on the counter cooling off, alongside Mrs. Wheeler’s sugar cookies she loves. “You lost your baking privileges when you mixed up the salt and sugar last year. Those gingerbread cookies were awful.”

“They’re both white! How was I supposed to know?”

“Stop talking and leave,” you point towards the living room with your whisk and some powder flies out of the bowl in the process.

Dustin tries to argue, but then the doorbell rings and he immediately breaks out into a shit eating grin. “Perfect timing.”

“What–” You try to question what your brother is up to, but he’s already run to answer the door. Sighing, you slowly mix in your wet ingredients and mumble to yourself, “I hate him. I really do.”

“Who do we hate?” Steve slides into the kitchen, not a care in the world, and slides right into Jonathan’s peanut butter cups. “Shit!”

“Steve!” You quickly catch the desserts, barely able to hold onto the bowl of brownie batter in your hands. Once the crisis is averted, you turn to Steve and begin hitting him with your batter covered whisk, effectively ruining his sweater. “What are you doing here?”

“I invited him!” Dustin now slides into the kitchen as well, a gleeful look in his eyes.

Meanwhile, Steve looks down at the batter he’s covered in and scraps some off with his finger before bringing it to his mouth. He hums, nods appreciatively, and smacks his lips. “Ya know, why haven’t I had this before?”

“The brownies are for Mike.” Dustin says, sneakily popping a peanut butter cup into his mouth.

“Wheeler should share, this batter is delicious.” Steve licks some more off of his sweater and you and Dustin cringe at him. When he sees this, he simply shrugs at you both. “What? My sweater is clean.”

You shake your head at the teen in disappointment. “Never thought I’d have to say this, but please stop licking your sweater, Steve.”

He puts his hands up in surrender, albeit with a slight scoff. “Sue a man for not wasting food.”

You blow a piece of hair out of your face and go back to the batter. “Again I ask: what are you doing here?”

“Like the kid said, he invited me.” Steve points to Dustin, who sends you a thumbs up. “Didn’t know I’d be walking into a war zone, though.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” you say, as if this is all the explanation he needs. When Steve only tilts his head at you in confusion, you huff and put down your bowl so you can quickly explain. “I bake everyone their favorite desserts for Christmas, and normally it’s fine. However, now I have Max, Nancy, Hopper, and El to add to my baking list and I…”

You stumble, now suddenly feeling the effects of baking all day catching up to you. You’re slightly woozy, you can’t remember if you had lunch today. “I’m doing great, honestly.”

“She’s going insane.” Dustin loudly whispers to Steve, his fingers circling around his head in a “crazy” motion.

Steve ignores the boy and stands next to you, placing a hand to the small of your back and leans over your shoulder, allowing you to lean back against him. It’s a simple gesture, and you melt immediately against him. “Give me a bowl and recipe, angel. I’ll help you bake.”

You reluctantly move away from Steve and quickly find a piece of paper and a pen to scribble the recipe for Nancy’s chocolate chip cookies. It’s an easy enough recipe, you trust that Steve can handle the basics.

As you hand the recipe to him, Dustin’s jaw drops. “What, no fair! Why can’t I help bake?”

“Salt and sugar, Dustin. Salt and sugar.”

Steve gathers the ingredients he needs. “Do you have a spare apron?”

“I mean, sure,” you show him where one hangs next to the doorway. “But you’re already covered in brownie batter, so I’m not sure why you need one now.”

“Wanna match with you,” Steve quickly ties the strings around his waist, the apron is far too small on him and it makes you giggle.

Dustin, now very much third wheeling, throws his hands up in the air and marches out of the room. “You two are disgusting, ya know that?”

“Love you too!” You call after the boy, who responds by marching even louder towards his room.

With your brother gone and with Steve’s help, you manage to get through the rest of your baking list in no time. While you hadn’t expected Steve to necessarily fail in the kitchen, you were also pleasantly surprised by how comfortable he seemed to be while helping you bake.

“How’d you get so good at measuring sugar?”

Steve doesn’t look up from his measuring cup, too focused on the task at hand as he carefully counts out how many cups he will need. “My mom.”

“Oh,” you breathe out, not having expected the answer. He never really brought his parents up, something that you’ve noticed but never touched on with him. You figured it was like your father, never wanting to talk about someone who has hurt you.

Hesitantly, you try to learn more. “Does she bake with you a lot?”

“She used to,” Steve counts his third cup and mixes it into the bowl, now working on Max’s coconut bites. “Back when I was little, we used to bake her banana bread together all the time.”

His voice is light, the conversation isn’t a painful one for Steve, so you decide it’s safe to press further. “Well, if you can remember the recipe, I’m sure we can bake it today.”

Steve looks up at you, eyes wide. “You mean it?”

“Of course I mean it, dummy.” The way he’s looking at you with such genuine enthusiasm makes your heart hurt; he’s surprised you’ve offered him kindness. “I was going to bake you those caramel banana cookies, so I have some ripe bananas anyways–”

You’re cut off by Steve’s arms wrapping around you. He holds you tight, and he smells of sugar and cinnamon; it’s an addicting scent. “Thank you,” he breathes out, touched that you would do such a thing for him, and you tighten around him, happy that you’re able to give him this.

Later that night, when you walk Steve to his car after a long day of baking, he opens his passenger side door and grabs something from the seat. You watch him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“You think I came all the way here on Christmas Eve without a gift for you?” Steve teases, a smirk on his face as he hides something behind his arms.

You gasp, “You planned this, didn’t you?”

“Dustin called, I answered, and I saw it as the perfect opportunity to surprise you,” he shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “Plus, I got homemade banana bread out of it, so shush and close your eyes.”

“Fine, but only because I have your gift waiting in my room. The second we’re done here, I’m running inside and bragging about my impeccable gift giving abilities.”

Steve chuckles fondly, knowing that whatever you will give him will ultimately be his favorite gift he’s ever received. “Okay, moron. Close your eyes.”

With a giggle, you close your eyes and eagerly await whatever you’re about to be given. Steve’s gift from last year, a signed poster of the original Spider-Man comic, now hangs on your bedroom wall. You love it dearly, every time you look at it, you smile.

Something soft is placed within your hands. Its texture is woolen, the material is heavy yet lightweight, and while you can’t figure out exactly what it is, you can’t help but notice how expensive it feels. “Okay, open your eyes.”

You do, and when you see what Steve has given you, you gasp. “Oh, it’s beautiful!”

Within your hands is a cardigan. The wool it has been knitted with is a lovely cream color, and you bring the clothing closer to admire all the wonderful details within the knit pattern. With small pieces of wool, hints of baby blues and pinks weave in and out of the cream. Along the front are buttons made from a beautiful dark wood, polished to perfection.

Steve lets out a nervous chuckle and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, well. Figured I owed you a new cardigan after basically tearing apart your old one.”

“I was bleeding out, Steve.” Your finger traces over a button, its wood is cool to the touch and so smooth that you can hardly believe it’s real. “If you hadn’t torn my favorite cardigan to stop the bleeding, I wouldn’t be alive today to call you an idiot for even considering I would be mad about that–”

As you admire one of the sleeves, your finger catches on something. Turning the clothing around, you see, within the inside of the sleeve, a messily sewn on patch. The stitches are crooked and horribly uneven, clearly done by someone unskinned with a needle. “What’s this?”

Steve clears his throat, uncharacteristically flustered. “Just… Something I added.”

The patch is small, no bigger than an inch or so, with messy handwriting on it that has become familiar to you through long hours at Bookstrordinary helping you write down all the orders needed for shipments.

S.H.

Steve must mistake your stunned silence for disgust, because he quickly tries to take the cardigan away from you in embarrassment. “Fuck, you–you think it’s weird and you hate it and I went too far–”

He had wanted to give you a piece of himself somehow.

His panicked rambling is cut off by your entire body being thrown against his. Suddenly he has an armful of you, flushed against him in the December chill, and Steve’s heartbeat threatens to beat out of his chest. He has you right where he wants you, in his arms with your perfume swirling around his brain as he buries his face into your hair.

Everything calms within him, all the panic and insecurity he had just been feeling is now gone.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper, not even bothering to hide the fact that you’re now crying. No one has ever made something for you, and the hand sewn patch that now resides on your beautiful cardigan makes everything within you burn.

Steve’s fingers slowly make their way to your hair and he risks pressing a kiss atop of your head. He relishes in the way his lips feel against your hair, how it feels like he’s done this all his life. “You really like it?”

“I love it.” You pull your head from his chest and catch his eye. They shine when they look at you, and you can’t help but think about how similar they look compared to last summer. Last July Steve had looked at you like he’d fall to his knees for you and kiss every crevice of your skin if you’d asked him to, and you had run away, terrified of the feelings you weren’t ready to face.

Now, as Steve stares down at you still as if you’re holding the sun within your hands, all you can think is home.

Home.

What a fascinating concept, being able to find a home within someone’s arms.

And it’s a fall like no other.

“I’m glad you love it,” Steve is breathless, both relieved and in awe that he’s done something to render you this speechless, that he has this effect on you.

Neither of you know how long you stand there wrapped in each other, but eventually you force yourself to detangle from the boy. When Steve groans at the loss of your touch, you gently shove him away with a smile. “I still owe you a gift, dummy.”

He thinks about this for a moment, hums to himself and taps his finger against his chin. You giggle, which is all he wanted to make you do, and finally he seems to come to a decision. “Fine, I will allow this because I wanna know what you got me.”

“Mhm, that’s what I thought.” You flick Steve’s nose and begin walking towards your house. “I’ll be back in a second!”

Steve watches as you run back inside, the cardigan he has gifted you is clutched tightly to your chest, and he knows he’s falling as well. He can feel it, the slight tug within his chest that expands into a warmth that steadily beats alongside his heart.

As you promised, you’re back with a small box wrapped in a simple blue paper within no time. Only this time, you’re now wearing the cardigan and Steve’s heart skips a beat when he sees you.

You’re practically skipping as you return to his side, stupidly excited for Steve to see what you’ve gotten for him; you all but shove the gift into his hands. “Open it!”

He can’t help but laugh at your enthusiasm, though his heartbeat still hasn’t quite settled yet. “So bossy.”

You ignore Steve’s teasing and instead watch the look on his face as he unwraps the box and opens its lid. Within the box, tucked delicately between sheets of tissue paper, is a framed photo of Steve and Dustin.

A mix of emotions cross Steve’s face, from shock to curiosity to pure adoration. His lips part slightly, a slight gasp escapes him. “Y/N…”

You’re beaming, though you shrug as if it’s just another Monday for you. The photo is your favorite, taken the other day while they worked on a robot set that Steve had brought over. “Jonathan left his camera at my place a few weeks ago, and you and Dustin looked incredibly sweet working together, so… I snuck a picture while you two were busy bickering over drill bit sizes.”

In the picture, Dustin’s hands are gesturing wildly at Steve, his eyes manic, yet there’s a genuine smile on both of their faces despite the clear indications that they’re arguing. Tools are scattered around them and a poor, misshapen robot lays discarded on the table in front of them, long forgotten in the midst of their argument.

It’s the perfect photo, honestly.

Steve lets out a wet chuckle, his eyes are shining with fondness. “That kid is such a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, but you can’t help but love him anyway.” You nudge him, drawing his attention back to you. “It’s not often I see Dustin befriend someone so quickly, ya know.”

Steve ducks his head down, flushed from what you’re implying. “Yeah, well. He’s a good kid.”

“He is.” You stand on your tiptoes and press your lips against his cheek, before whispering into his ear, “and so are you.”

You feel Steve shiver, and he grips at your waist so that you can’t back away again. He pauses for a moment, allows your words to sink in and your kiss to seep throughout his body. There’s more he wants to say, his lips practically beg to be drawn to yours, but he takes a deep breath and says what he knows he can give you. “Merry Christmas, angel.”

“Merry Christmas, honey.” Your lips graze Steve’s ear and he shivers again. This, he knows, is where he was always meant to be.

–

Spring comes, and Steve doesn’t get into any of the colleges he applied for.

It’s a hard blow, and the months you’ve spent trying to rebuild his confidence comes crashing down within seconds.

Steve draws into himself, you don’t see him at school for a few days and he doesn’t stop by your work. He’s embarrassed, hiding from his shame of not being good enough to even get into Tech. He’s everything his father told him he’d be. A failure, an embarrassment to the Harrington name.

You give Steve a few days to himself, trusting that he’ll come back when he’s ready; you know how deeply he carries the weight of his father’s expectations. However, when almost a week goes by without any word from the teen, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

Which leads you to now: knocking on Steve’s door with platters of fresh baked goods, Mike and the others holding their own assortment of snacks and movies for tonight.

It took a lot of bargaining and multiple batches of brownies, but in the end you convinced Dustin and the others to surprise Steve with a movie night at his house. You knew his parents would be out of town this week, they’re hardly ever home anyways.

After a few swift knocks, you don’t have to wait long before Steve opens the door. He looks tired, his hair is a mess and he’s wearing the ratty sweatpants that you absolutely hate on him. It looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and when he sees who is behind his door, he frowns. “Why are you all holding snacks?”

“Well, hello to you too, buddy.” Dustin is the first to enter, shoving past Steve without a care in the world. He looks around and whistles, impressed with the house. “Y/N said you were rich, but damn.”

“Is that a pool?” Lucas makes his way in as well, Max loosely holding his hand as she follows.

El looks up at you. “What is a pool?”

“Mike,” you call for the boy to get his attention. When he turns to you, brownie shoved in his mouth, you point towards El. “Can you explain to her what a pool is while I talk to Steve?”

Mike salutes you and grabs El’s hand, yanking her inside so that you’re left alone with the teen. As soon as they’re gone, Steve lets out an exasperated sigh. “What is this, Y/N?”

“Mandatory movie night!” You exclaim, hoping that your fake enthusiasm will be enough to rub off on him as well. You really, really hope that this plan works.

Steve sighs again, his heart isn’t in it to play along. “Y/N…”

“You’ve missed an entire week of school and Bookstrordinary misses its most loyal customer.” You’re basically pleading now, scared that Steve will turn you and everyone else away. “I just… I miss you and I know you enjoy the kids, even if you try to deny it, and I want you to just spend this one night with us. No worrying about the future, no family drama, just me, you, and the kids as we watch horrible scary movies and eat an unhealthy amount of sugar, okay?”

“But–”

“No, you’re not allowed to argue with me.” Steve stares at you, baffled, but you simply barge past him and enter the home as well. “We’re going to have fun tonight, damn it.”

He watches as you walk inside and start ordering the kids around. Within no time, you’ve arranged a neat row of cookies and brownies and chips and dinosaur nuggets on his dining room table while the kids start making a fort in the living room.

Steve sighs, knowing he’s long lost this battle with you, and joins you to help with grabbing more blankets and pillows for the fort.

One part of the deal for a movie night at Steve’s was allowing all the kids to pick their own movie to watch. You’d been very hesitant to say yes to this, but ultimately Mike’s nagging won in the end. His movie choice goes first, and within the first fifteen minutes of it, a fort has been made and the kids quickly settle within it, a mess of sheets and pillows and blankets.

You’re on the couch, lazily stretched out, knowing that there’s no room for you in the fort with the others. You don’t mind, you honestly prefer having the couch to yourself, and you only further come to enjoy this when Steve makes his way into the living room and looks around.

“Where am I supposed to sit?” He asks, slightly offended that he doesn’t get to share the fort.

“Here,” you pat the couch, though you don’t bother to make any room for him. Your entire body rests on the couch, there isn’t enough space for him to sit comfortably on the edge.

Steve bites his lip. He wants, more than anything, to lay on top of you and melt into your body, but he just isn’t sure what boundaries have been placed between the two of you. When you notice his misplaced hesitation, you simply sigh and tug at his legs, causing him to fall on top of you. “Shit–”

He collapses onto you and your body braces for his impact, the weight of him foreign yet welcome. He’s wearing the cologne you love and you reach for his shirt to tug him closer so that he’s now properly laying on you. You sigh happily, wrapping your arms around Steve. “See, was that so hard?”

“If you wanted to cuddle, you could’ve just asked.” Steve grumbles, but he situates himself so that he’s laying more comfortably on you and scoops you into his own arms as well. He rests his head against your chest and your fingers find their way into his hair, as they always seem to do.

Steve closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy your touch, for once not caring that the kids are just below the two of you in their fort. Normally he’s more reserved around you when they’re near, especially Dustin.

That kid never lets Steve catch a break when it comes to you.

But he’s exhausted and has spent the last week either crying or pretending that he’s someone he isn’t, so Steve indulges in your warmth and relishes in the way your fingers seem to unconsciously draw small circles on his back; he’s so fucking grateful that you exist.

You’re always there to catch him, to remind him of who he can be despite his continuous flaws.

The surprise movie night ends up being everything Steve needs. He laughs at Mike’s horrible jokes, shows El how to use the VHR, he argues with Max about whether peanut butter belongs with chocolate, Dustin throws popcorn at you when you kiss Steve’s cheek, and Lucas even asks him about basketball and if he has any advice for him once he gets to high school.

It’s the most fun Steve has had in a while, and he realizes why you spend so much time with these kids. They’re everything, really. Smart and fucking hilarious and easy to be around. They’re honest with him, they tell him he’s an idiot for not getting into college while in the same breath debating with him about if college is even worth it.

Plus, you litter Steve’s face with more kisses than usual tonight, which only brightens his mood further. You’ve been more affectionate with him lately, holding his hand more often and pressing your lips wherever you can. It’s as if he’s found some key, unlocking all the love you’ve stored within you.

Steve isn’t an idiot, he knows there’s more to it, so do you. However, rather than acknowledge it, you both choose to simply bask in it. It’s not time yet, bringing this into the light. It’s delicate, still forming into something that Steve is sure will be incredible.

For now, he allows his lips to skim across your face while the kids aren’t looking. They’ve been dying to do this ever since he’s known you, and the giggle you let out is more than enough for him.

–

Spring turns to summer and before Steve knows it, he’s graduating.

He rolls over in bed and stares at the ceiling. The Harrington household is quiet. His parents have gone on yet another business trip, his father had scoffed when Steve had asked if they’d be back in time for his ceremony.

“Why should we attend if you’re not going to do anything with that diploma?”

“Right,” Steve had scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed that he had even thought to ask his father to come. “I’m sorry.”

His mother, who had been quiet as they spoke, only stepped forward once her husband had left the room. She brought a hand to his face and tentatively stroked his cheek with her finger. “I’m proud of you, my beautiful boy.”

Steve had smiled at her, knowing that she meant well and yet heartbroken that she couldn’t voice this in front of his father. She smiled sadly at him, as if she sensed what he had been thinking, before following after her husband. As she always does.

The doorbell rings, effectively breaking Steve out of his momentary self pity. He looks at his alarm clock and frowns. It’s early in the morning, he doesn’t know who could be at the door at such an hour.

Sighing, he gets out of bed and makes his way downstairs angry at the world. He’s tired of growing up, his parents suck, he’s almost definitely skipping his graduation ceremony, and now he has to get out of bed to go answer the door.

He opens the door and when he sees that it’s you, his mood drastically improves. You’re dressed in a pretty lavender sundress, a departure from your usual t-shirts and shorts that Steve has come to associate as your summer uniform. By the time he manages to take his eyes off of you, he realizes too late that you’re holding flowers and shoving your way into his home.

“Ready to graduate?” You ask, carefully setting the flowers down on his kitchen table. “You can’t skip it if I’m here, ya know.”

Steve groans. “How did you even know I was going to skip?”

“Because you’re predictable and I enjoy making you do what’s best for you.” You’ve grabbed his hand and are dragging him towards his room. “Now, go find something nice to wear while I put your flowers in a vase.”

“But–”

You don’t give Steve any time to argue as you’ve already left the room to go and take care of the flowers. He lets out another groan, he knows he can’t argue his way out of this one. You’ve dressed up for a graduation, bought Steve flowers, and now he has to put on some stupid outfit to make a smile cross your pretty little face.

He settles on a simple white button down shirt and a pair of nice dress pants, and you return to his room as he’s struggling with the buttons. When you see him, you laugh with affection and walk over to him. “Here, let me see.”

Steve lets you button his shirt, your breath is warm against his chest as your fingers quickly secure the buttons into the place. He admires the cute frown on your face as you concentrate, and he allows his hands to come up to yours and slots your fingers together. You’re taken aback by the sudden affection.

“What are you doing?” You ask, a familiar blush on your face from his touch. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to this.

“Nonthin’.” Steve says, though he lets go of one of your hands and places it on the small of your back as he always does. He uses the hand to push you closer and the other hand remains intertwined with yours. He stares down at you, he’s close enough to count every eyelash that dots along your pretty eyes. “Just admiring you.”

“Is this some ploy to distract me from your graduation?” Though you try to tease him, you’re weak and let out a soft sigh when Steve pulls you even closer, feeling his body against yours. He’s allowed himself to become bolder with you, and as if to prove this, he tucks your hair behind your ear and kisses your brow. You exhale with a shaky breath, your resolve dwindles. “Honey…”

Steve chuckles at your reaction, revels in it. He hopes to one day memorize all the ways he can make you sigh his name and shiver against him. For now, however, he pulls away and finishes getting dressed. “I know, I know. Graduation time.”

The perfectly aimed sandal that you throw at him is enough to solidify to Steve that he is, truly, happy.

–

Dustin is the first one Steve sees in the bleachers, then Mike, and then El, before he realizes that the entire party has managed to make it to his graduation ceremony.

“You invited them?” He turns to you, somehow surprised that you would do such a simple and lovely thing.

“Of course I did.” You kiss his cheek and quickly fix his hair as you adjust his graduation cap. You’ve been fretting over his appearance ever since you left his house, and he hates how giddy he feels whenever you dote on him. “Now, go find your seat and don’t trip on the stage!”

You’re gone in a flash, leaving Steve alone as you go and join the kids in the bleachers with all the other friends and family in attendance. The school’s gym is packed, everyone has someone there for them to see them walk across the stage, and though Steve’s actual family isn’t here, he has you and the kids in the stands cheering for him.

Steve decides, then, that you and the kids are his true family.

The ceremony is long and boring, and Steve spends the entire time sneaking glances at you.

You’re attentive, nodding along to all the boring speeches made by teachers and clapping for every student’s name that is called. He sees you breakup a fight between Mike and Max over something, he guesses it’s probably something dumb, and he laughs when you switch seats with Max in the end.

As he watches you, Steve feels what he felt the first day he ever spoke to you when you almost hit his car with your bike. When he’d gotten out of his car and found you laying in the ditch, he felt what he feels now: a slow, all encompassing wave of sunlight.

He felt it when he drove you home the following week and you’d told him he wasn’t a bad person, and he felt it again when you’d spared him kindness at Jonathan’s while fighting the Demogorgon. Then, in front of the hospital’s vending machine, the sunlight turned into a fireplace within his chest when you’d giggled and told him you were friends.

Since then, the fire has only burned deeper within Steve. It burned when he’d gifted you that poster, when he had spent every day at your job just to be near you. It had burned Steve when you’d left him that summer, the sting of it unbearable as it seared his skin. Then it had dimmed, abandoned, until you came back again and reignited it once more.

When you whispered confessions to Steve in the dark, he felt it then. When you sacrificed your life to save his, leaving a scar on your rib cage that Steve can feel whenever he hugs you, he felt it then as well. The fire was there when you leaned against him, accepted the help he has always tried to provide for you, when he gave you a piggyback ride back inside Jonathan’s and tucked you into bed.

It all comes back to Steve in flashes.

Your promise to him to wait, to stay even though he couldn’t give you what you deserved, what you needed. The gentleness of your promise and the framed photo of him and Dustin that now sits proudly on his bedside table. The surprise movie nights, how you call him “honey” and he calls you “angel”.

It’s always been there.

The warmth had started back before Steve even knew what warmth was, when he first saw you. He had been thirteen and you had been twelve.

Now, at almost seventeen and eighteen, you’re cheering for Steve’s name as it’s called upon the stage and he finally knows what this feeling is. Steve accepts his diploma and shakes hands with his principal and he swears he can hear your voice, screaming his name with pure joy, above everyone else’s; it’s as if his body is attuned to yours.

This, Steve knows, is love.

–

The school year ends and summer break begins.

There’s a new mall in Hawkins, one that’s big and flashy and opens just in time for summer vacation. Dustin spends entire days there with the party before he reluctantly leaves for Camp Know Where. You miss your brother dearly, but you know the camp is good for him.

When you find out that Jonathan and Nancy have become interns at the Hawkins Post, you scream and throw yourself into their arms, incredibly proud of them, yet you’re sad as well. You didn’t realize that you’d be spending your last summer before senior year apart from your best friend, though you know he’s always dreamed of showcasing his photography.

It’s bittersweet, but when Steve gets a job at the new mall, the free ice cream that you get makes up for it.

Plus, his uniform for Scoops Ahoy doesn’t hurt.

“You’re not allowed to laugh.” Steve threatens you, horribly self conscious with how short his shorts are. You made him promise to show you the uniform, but now he’s seriously regretting it as you bite your lip; he sees the laugh before it comes. “I mean it! No laughing, it’s already bad enough that I have to work–”

He’s cut off by your loud, smug laugh. It overtakes your entire body as you hunch over, gasping for breath as you wheeze out, “You look great!”

Steve hides behind the ice cream counter, absolutely mortified. Here he is, being laughed at by the girl he’s so fucking in love with, as he wears a stupid sailor hat and a god damn ascot.

In between your laughs, you see the despair on Steve’s face and you try to calm down. “Okay, I’m sorry,” you wipe tears from your eyes, still slightly giggling. “It’s just… You look so adorable in that uniform!”

Immediately Steve straightens his back and crosses his arms, trying to look more dignified. “One, never call a man adorable. That’s just offensive. Two, I will not get out from behind this counter until you stop giggling at me.”

“Who are we giggling at?” An unfamiliar girl now appears, wearing the exact same uniform that Steve is, and when she sees you standing in front of the teen, she raises her eyebrows in disbelief. “Henderson with Harrington?”

She knows your name, and you quickly wrack your head to try and figure out why she looks so familiar. At the very least, you know she has to be a grade below you, though you can’t quite place her, which you feel bad about. She looks kind.

“Yes, Henderson with Harrington.” You extend your hand out for the girl to shake. “I’m Y/N, though I guess you already knew that.”

“Robin Buckley,” she accepts your handshake, giving you an interested smile. She already seems to like you, which you’re relieved by.

Steve watches this interaction with pure dread. He had met Robin a few days ago during his interview for the job, and she’s made his life a living hell of torment and teasing ever since. Now, with you two meeting, he knows that you’ll only add onto Robin’s incredibly quick wit. “Oh, please don’t become friends.”

“Too late.” You wink at Robin. “Wanna check out this insanely large mall together?”

Robin gasps. “It’d be my pleasure.” She hops over the counter, completely bypassing the door that lets you out, and loops her arm through yours. “Later, dingus!”

“Bye, Steve!”

He stands there, defeated, as you and Robin giggle together while you leave. It only took thirty seconds before you abandoned him like some traitor. Sighing, he picks up a rag and starts wiping down the tables in the ice cream shop.

From the corner of his eye he can see you and Robin running around the mall. You’re giggling as you chase after the girl, your hair is tied in a loose ponytail and one of the straps on your overalls has slid down your arm. You look happy, bright and alive, far from the girl Steve remembers from last winter.

It takes Steve’s breath away.

Then, as if you can sense his eyes on you, you turn. Your eyes connect, your cheeks are flushed from running and you’re breathless as you smile at him. Steve returns your smile, winks, and he can almost hear your giggle.

You finally look away, going back to chasing after Robin as the two of you retreat further into the mall, and as your figure fades in the distance, there’s only one thing on Steve’s mind.

I can’t wait to make her mine.

-

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[boundinparchment]

IN POWER WE ENTRUST THE LOVE ADVOCATED

Celestia fell and the future remains uncertain, preventing you from finalizing the gift intended to convey what mere words alone could not. Zandik, in turn, struggles with his own creations. A trip to Remuria, now uncovered by the sea, provides some clarity for you both. Official (or unofficial) sequel to 'Dream a Little Dream of Me'. Rated Mature to be safe, minors DNI. TW: pregnancy. 10,154 words. Available on AO3 here. Reblogs, kudos, and comments appreciated. Note: This was on my Fics For Gaza donation list and I ran with the idea. Donations were low but this was a story I wanted to tell regardless.

You rearranged the sheets across the stand, shuffling them until the first page was showing again and then staring at the notes so carefully written.  This was the third draft, as marked by the linear strikes in the top left, your way of keeping track of which version was the latest.  The first three pages in particular were disarming at a glance.  Their notes were meticulously inked and set in stone.  You were happy with each note’s placement, the rhythm and cadence and melody.

A strong beginning would carry through the rest.  That’s how it always worked.

After massaging your bow hand and testing your fingers, the joints less than agreeable today, you pulled the pendulum on the metronome and began again.

The first bars were practically woven in your very essence, a scattering of rests and triplets that attempted to capture exciting youth.  Closing your eyes, you allowed memory to carry you through the first dozen and a half bars.  The octave dropped, flowing notes giving way again to staccato frustration and shifting sands before they bled into crisp tundra and warm hearths.  

It led right into the second movement, legato curves that mimicked the way Fontaine’s water seemed to stretch on forever.  Hope, passion, dulled for a time by low notes and shuddering breaths, before a promise twinkled in the tide.  A journey, more notes stretching into eternity, disrupted again, only this time, an echo of earlier bars in a different octave, certain and slow.  

This would have made a better duet and could have been arranged as such; the thought crossed your mind more than you cared to admit.  The recording of it would have been easy to achieve but you didn’t want that.  This was your work and you wanted to play it in a single performance because otherwise…

Your fingers found the familiar patterns, an amalgamation that you hoped sounded like a push-and-pull.  They brought back such vivid memories for you but would that be the case for your audience?  A motif from a god’s request, a flurry of emotion as destructive as its cause, and then a closing bar that mimicked the first, long and full of hope in the flickering light of a burning tree.

Inhaling shakily, you pulled the next paper to the left and followed your latest addition, pencil marks harder to read between the erasures and the smudging.  You carried through the first five bars, certain of their arrangement and then felt out the rest, fingers slower than your mind as your thoughts raced forward, unease and trepidation taking hold.

A burning ache ran through your knuckles and up to your elbow and you pulled your bow away, a wolf tone coming with it.

You swallowed the scream clawing at your throat and instead let out a shuddering breath through your teeth.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

A sonata was something you could write in your sleep, backwards, and upside-down.  Especially given your source material.

The world might have changed but your love hadn’t.

Dreams were little more than solitary moments of brain activity with Celestia gone.  And while that meant having to more consciously work on your relationship, it didn’t make it any less organic.

Maybe this was all pointless.

He had to know by now.  His power of observation knew no bounds.  He would not have missed the fact that you had been gone longer than usual the other day to obtain proper evidence in black and white.  Especially the day after a visit from Tsaritsa where she asked to speak to you privately.  

This entire idea was a waste, absolutely insane.  It would have been easier to just…

You settled your cello back into its stand and rose, idly smoothing out your sleeves as you tried to pull yourself together.  The arrangement would come to you.  It always did, in the end.  There was time.  For now, walking away was best.  You didn’t want to restring either your instrument or your bow all because you’d tried to force what instead needed coaxing.

Gathering up the tray on which you’d brought in the small pot of coffee and a pitcher of water, you left your study and headed back into the kitchen.  There was already a fresh pot percolating on the counter, the smell enticing and yet stomach-churning all at once.  This was a new blend from Puspa Cafe, one you had picked out yourself weeks ago.

Well, at least he could enjoy it properly.  For now, you basked in the scent, the unease in your gut settling as you rinsed your dishes and settled them into the device on the counter.  You hooked up one hose to the faucet and put the other near the sink’s drain, as Zandik showed you, and turned it on.  The motor whirred and you watched water splash on the glass door until suds began to rise.

Your home was full of such little devices.  Dishes were a waste of time for both of you when your minds were better equipped for other things, he had said.  That, and you’d been unable to hold anything for more than a few seconds for months at a time as your hand healed.  He used extra parts for a clothes laundering machine and a special typewriter for your sheet music and even a special percolator to extract the most out of coffee grounds and tea leaves.  

And that didn’t begin to cover the little wind-up creatures you displayed on the windowsills or the hand-crafted ring with a new stone in place resting in your jewelry box.  The swimming otter was your favorite reminder of Fontaine.

The layout and design was different from what you had conceived in the dreamscape, save one decision.  A proper basement, reinforced and deeper than the standard to allow for most of Zandik’s larger projects.  Whatever was too unsafe for the house was kept in another workshop nearby.  So far, nothing ever caught on fire or caused an explosion.  The only things that both of you agreed to keep were the tall windows, this time attached to a small glass sunroom where you loved to lounge when the mood struck.

Today, however, was gray and heavy with the promise of rain.  While you didn’t put much stock into such things, the weather was not a help to your mood nor your creativity.

The steaming pot on the counter clicked and you poured some into a handmade clay cup, the glaze matte and rough against your calloused fingers.  You held it tight in your good hand, your other supporting the bottom, and savored the warmth as you brought it down into the basement workshop.

Distractions rarely ever helped but you were running out of steam; maybe seeing Zandik busy would reinvigorate you.

Zandik frowned as he heard the wolf tone; the sound itself was faint but it spoke volumes of your frustration.  They were more common lately.  Despite the stone foundation and the insulation, your studio was not entirely soundproof and therefore he could still make out faint melodies if he listened hard enough.  Your footsteps, too.  You paced sometimes, occasionally stepping in time with the signature you were working in.  Breakthroughs were a flurry of steps, sometimes the vibrations of the piano to compare, over and over, only one change applied at a time.

He did his best to tune out what he could, for your sake.  Questions were only met with a harried shuffle of papers and an attempt to be nonchalant.

You were a terrible liar, the skill worn down from a lack of practice, but he would not press.  After all, you’d made it clear that if something was wrong , you would tell him.  So he could only conclude that whatever you were working on was for him and it was intended to be a surprise.

But why did you always stumble over the same section?  Was the composition too difficult, did your tendons seize up?

Zandik tightened the bolt harder, wrench slipping when its target would move no further in the same way his thoughts ran from him.  He tested the joint, and, satisfied with the range of motion, stepped back to assess the whole picture.

Which was a whole jumbled mess of…

What was this meant to be, anyway?

Pierro had offered a stash of blueprints, barely legible and all of the missing crucial details.  Briefly, Zandik wondered if the old man was considering a trip to the depths of the Abyss for one final battle with the way the conversation went.  The entire encounter was as bizarre as their initial meeting in the desert, perhaps more so with the glimmer of pride that exuded from his former superior.

He’d been unable to stop the curling of a sneer for the better part of several hours afterwards.

Faintly, Zandik heard your footsteps in the kitchen, the rush of water, and then a beeline for the basement door.  Usually, weather-permitting, you were outside or at least closing your eyes in the lavish warmth of the sun.  You were tired as of late, even if you smiled through the daze of fatigue.

He counted each steady beat of your steps as you descended, the familiar bitter and smooth scent wafting down along with you.  It was the closest roast to what he had in the desert all those centuries ago and now that supply was finally beginning to even out, he did not mind indulging in occasional memories.  It was a shame, however, you were only carrying one mug.

Every time you were around the scent, you were tense and he could practically smell the acid on your breath.  You began abstaining, even from the decaffeinated blends, and avoided being around it for too long, otherwise you were liable to be sick.

Another adjustment you waved away.

And on top of it all, your mind was clearly burdened, otherwise you would not be struggling as you were.

“I thought you’d like it fresh,” you said, offering the mug as you drew closer.

White knuckles on one hand, your grip tight: overcompensating.  Your other hand cradled the bottom, fingertips grazing the unfinished ring, trembling with weakness.  The very last thing he wanted was you burdening yourself over something so trivial when your hands had much better purposes to serve.

“I was going to come upstairs, rooh’ albi ,” Zandik said.  “There was no need to trouble yourself.”

Something flickered across your face that he couldn’t name, gone before he could identify itself, lips pulled between your teeth in thought.  He took a sip, savoring the bright bitterness, pleased with how the adjustments in temperature and the efficient filters brought out the Ajilenakh nut subtleties.  

You stepped further into the workshop and dragged your eyes over the workbench and the metal arm, Pierro’s blueprint pinned on the wall above as a guide.  Between the burns and the flaking of the material itself, Zandik was surprised he’d made it this far, just assembling a series of moving arms.

“It’s not ‘trouble’, Zandik.  I needed the break, as I’m sure you heard,” you replied wryly.  “No use pretending you didn’t hear me banging on the piano yesterday; I’m almost certain Sumeru City heard me.”

Your voice wavered ever so slightly, a warble that anyone else would have passed off as simple frustration.  This block went deeper for you than a mere lack of inspiration and it was beginning to seep into your very bones.  No wonder you were always exhausted.  He was painfully familiar with the other end of the spectrum, one that often kept one of his younger Segments in cycles of ennui and despair because he happened to take the portion of his life during which he was bored by the Akademiya’s authority and illogical rules.  Not all ideas could be pushed through as if they were little more than a target for your claymore.  

But you knew this.  Of course you did.

You held up a finger and turned your gaze back to him.  The circles were fading but your eyes were still a little puffy.

“Before you suggest that I work on something else, I’ve tried .  I attempted working from the end but that requires having an ending in mind.  Other pieces feel as if they’re just standing in for the rest, hollow shells that are perfectly adequate compositions but empty arrangements.   It’s all up here,” you gestured to your head, “but it won’t work its way down into my hands and put my fingers in the right places.”

Zandik placed his cup down out of range of the workbench and took your hands in his after removing his gloves.  Nothing was more infuriating than when the connection between one’s heart and mind was lost, severed entirely.  There were several projects over the years too ambitious for him to endeavor as a student or even in the early years as a Harbinger.  He’d scribbled them down in vain and his Segments came across them decades later, finally equipped with the experiences necessary.  Usually they all fell to Omega.

The words forming themselves on his lips were not what most wanted to hear but he was never one for empty platitudes.  What good was comfort if all of it was a lie?

Your hands were warm still from holding the mug, 

“Perhaps this particular piece isn’t ready for you, yet,” he said at last.  “Continue to force it and you’ll hate your craft entirely.”

“I don’t have that luxury, Zandik,” you murmured.  “This is the only way I know how to…”

You squeezed his hands, the tightest he felt in years that no doubt hurt you in the process.  There it was again, that nameless apparition gliding across your brow and the color of your cheeks.  Ever since that visit from the Tsaritsa (he knew not what to call her now, old habits died hard) and a subsequent trip from Pierro, you were acting as if you were…

But if you were , he would know .  Because you would tell him and there would be signs and he would be able to research and mitigate and stop it from taking you from him.  The world changed with Celestia’s downfall but the event had not taken his intelligence and all that came with it.

“It’s important to me that I express what I need to through my composition.  I know it doesn’t make sense to you to do that—“

A spark flared in his chest and he inhaled through his nose.  He kept his tone even, for he wasn’t angry, but did you not see how hypocritical and illogical this was?  Wasn’t this a repeat of the very situation that gave you a physical traumatic response over playing?

“Do consider the consequences when I tried to keep something from you thinking it was a clever and romantic idea.  What can’t you express in words, rooh’ albi ?”

“It’s a gift , Zandik.  The whole thing is a gift for you, speaking defeats the purpose when I’m trying to invoke particular emotions and memories.”

“But you feel stuck .”

You shook your head.

“Less stuck and more foggy.  Uncertain.”

“About?”

You pulled your hands away and threw your arms up, gesturing all around as you paced.  “Everything before was always a given.  We could dream and build and the world we knew stayed as it was with little changes and the rules were static and the stars never shifted.  The average person knew the world was safe and steady and I can assume that here , too, but the rules changed .  The future is a foreign land for everyone and here we are, continuing on as if…”

Strange. You never expressed that before, not with such animation and intensity.  And you saw enough of Teyvat away from Celestia’s rule to know that although Visions and Archons and leylines were no longer present, the landscape didn’t change entirely.  Most nations stayed the same, except for where the Abyssal corrosion struck hard and had already eaten away at the land.

Change was different for everyone, he reminded himself.  To talk about it and know it occurred were merely conceptual in nature; to see it meant living through it, which in turn shook the equilibrium, and it took time for it to set in.  A scarce few years of this compared to one’s life in a couple of decades or so was still a shock to the system.  

What scared you so?  What needed to instead be translated first and foremost in such a manner rather than simply spoken aloud?

You were hardly this obtuse before and he was beginning to understand why his previous decisions were so infuriating for you and so many others.

Zandik let out a slow breath, the love he held for you winning out against the rising flare of annoyance.  He didn’t agree with it but on the other hand, if you were truly dying , you wouldn’t have the strength to continue essentially running head-first into a brick wall every day.

You met his eyes and a silent plea marred your features, begging him not to press.

Maybe that was precisely the problem.  You were pressing yourself too hard with no alternatives as of late.  The weather was too poor and he was only using Pierro’s pile of Khaenri’ahn blueprints as a distraction away from a solution to further slow the Abyssal corrosion that was slowly eating at him.  Ironic that Celestia was the very thing that kept the balance of the burden of immortality and slowed it down as punishment for daring to survive.  Both of you were too far in your own heads.

A curse of its own, really.

He stilled his brow and instead held his arms open, beckoning you back to him.  Your warmth was instant, curling around him like a well-tended hearth.  He nuzzled the crown of your head as you burrowed into him.  Amid the scent of your shampoo and soap, sweet and fresh, was a note that he couldn’t figure out and yet drew him closer to you all the same.

“A change of scenery might be beneficial,” Zandik murmured, idly rubbing his nose against your hair.  “There’s only so much to do when one’s environment is the same.”

You nodded, turning your head to brush your cheek against his.  Per your request, he’d attempted to keep the facial hair you found so enticing, but a recent trim left it shorter than usual and a little scratchy.  It didn’t prevent you from touching it, either with your own face or a traveling hand.  He would figure out a preferred style, given time.

“You’re more of a field researcher than a classroom scholar, I’m sure you’ve been feeling rather stifled too,” you replied.  “Hard to figure out possible options when you’re cooped up in here.”

“I haven’t been—”

“But you haven’t exactly left Sumeru since we settled here, either.  Not without me or at least not without a very specific purpose.”

He huffed against your ear.

“You can’t not explore this world, Zandik, that’s like asking a fish not to swim.”

“And you never asked me not to.  It’s my own doing.”

Deep down, he knew could you manage without him if he chose to disappear for weeks at a time to explore and study the changes in this world.  Hell, he could find a way to travel to the fractured moon in the sky and you would be perfectly fine in his absence.  That was part of the driving force behind so many of the devices around the house.  If your hands hurt, then you had a means to do dishes or cut up vegetables or restring your cello with ease.  

The frown that tugged at your mouth any time the weakness in your hands struck or the wound flared up was enough to revitalize a second life’s purpose in finding ways to make tasks accessible to you again.  

But what good was seeing any part of this world without you by his side?  At least dreaming provided a means to close the distance, as Natlan had proven.

This time it was your turn to shift and burrow your head under his chin, no doubt in an attempt to stop craning your neck to reach him.  There it was again, that faint scent that was so familiar and rooted to you , sticking out like a thorn, enticing nonetheless.  His chest constricted, stomach dropping as he felt the familiar fire beginning to creep up on him.  Had you laced yourself with an aphrodisiac?  

If you were down here any longer, he was liable to sweep off the workbench’s contents and replace them with you.  And while both of you enjoyed spontaneity, something in your body language told him you would not be up to it right now.  Perhaps after lunch, nestled on the chaise, listening to the rain, little more than closing distance.  Yearning settled itself into the pit of his stomach and every cell in his body just wanted to be near you.

“Consider it, rooh’ albi .  You don’t need to answer immediately,” Zandik murmured.  “We’ll discuss it further when I come upstairs for lunch.”

Zandik felt your nod against his chin and your hold on him eased as you stepped away.  You looked better, a little more lively, and your departure kiss was petal soft and full of conviction.  As it always was.

Nonetheless, when the door upstairs closed, he couldn’t help but wonder: what had you, his unwavering and steadfast soulmate, so terrified and uncertain?

You hadn’t expected the company after lunch but it was welcome nonetheless.  He settled behind you, finding the perfect spot on your neck.  Your body responded instantly and neither of you bothered to fully undress before he rocked into you, slow and languid.  Just when either of you drifted off, the other moved or twitched, starting up a series of thrusts all over again.

The goal wasn’t pleasure but you both came easily in tiny gasps and choked groans.  Neither of you moved after that, uncaring about the rest as sleep crept up on you.

It had taken everything in you not to ask why, of all things, Zandik had chosen that blueprint.  It was obvious what it was from the picture alone.  Pierro was to blame, really, for even passing it along.  No doubt the Tsaritsa confided in him about her finding, both of them under the impression that Zandik was already privy. 

No wonder he, too, was having a block of some kind.  He was creating something from an ancient blueprint that, to him, was utterly useless.  All to keep himself occupied while his brain idly attempted a remedy for something that…

You rubbed your face against the pillow for a second, willing yourself to relax.

Zandik was right.  A vacation was needed.  More than.

So much of Sumeru was an adjustment, both in the temperature and the culture.  You hadn’t even seen the desert yet, despite asking, but Zandik was adamant about never stepping foot out there again if he could help it.  You’d taken to everything just fine, except for the brief stop at the top of the Tree, where a little spout saw fit to mock.  

But when you pushed through the fog, you felt your heart tugging towards home.  Or rather, your old home.  Arguably, it could be said that you were home as long as the man next to you was there, but the sentiment didn’t quite fit at present.

Fontaine. It had been so long since you left, you’d lost track.  After burning Irminsul, you found yourself in Sumeru and never quite managed to go beyond the reaches of the land of Wisdom.  You heard numerous discoveries through letters and reports, from chatter in the city and from Zandik himself when he did, in fact, venture out for days at a time.  What was it the Tsaritsa mentioned on her last visit?  Something about Remuria, Petrichor’s successful growth now that old ruins surfaced again, visible from even Chenyun Vale?

Maybe a trip to the mainland could fit, too, if either of you wanted.  You would have to inquire about the Opera’s schedule of events.  Zandik had probably been to Fontaine, or a Segment had, but perhaps some remnants of the Research Institute would pique his interest.  This wasn’t just for you, after all.

And it might be the last excursion for a while, depending.

You pushed away the faint thought that came with a memory of a young sleeping boy in your lap years prior.

When Zandik finally stirred, you tangled your foot with his and pulled him back, earning yourself a hot gasp against your ear.

“There’s too much of a good thing, rooh’ albi ,” he teased.

You bit back a laugh, agreeing silently for a different reason.

“I was thinking,” you began, Zandik’s form enveloping you again.

“Always a good place to start.”

You shifted just so and the hand on your hip gripped tighter, squeezing you in silent warning.

“What if we went to Fontaine for a bit?  Perhaps to Petrichor, see the ruins of Rumeria?”

“You truly wish to see what the myth was like, whether it measures up to the tales?  It might be far less grand than what you grew up hearing,” Zandik countered.

“That’s not a proper reason not to see it,” you replied, turning your head to look at him out of the corner of your eye.  “In fact, I would argue that would be precisely the point.  It’s silly to not expand my knowledge of where I was born, even if that means it might not match the expectations set by millenia of epic tales.”

Zandik pulled you closer and settled back against you, burying his nose in your hair.  He’d been doing that every chance he had ever since that morning.  You’d done nothing to change your routine but the increased physical affection only managed to give way to doubt that perhaps you did a poor job hiding these last few weeks.

His lips found your earlobe, teeth grazing the soft flesh just enough to extract a sharp exhale from you.  Against your skin, he whispered, “Fontaine it is, then.”

Without the leylines, traveling from deep within Sumeru’s forests was half a day’s journey in and of itself.  You passed a grand palace on your way to Bayda Harbor, a hidden jewel that resembled something you might have once attempted in the dreamscape.

You heard the harbor before you saw it, a soft swelling of shouts and the hum of crane motors amid the usual bustle of port activity.  Over the hill, you caught a glimpse of colorful houses, their chimneys smoking, and the scent of cooked fish and fresh fruit wafted across the landscape.  Sparkling water came into view as the dirt path gave way to flagstone, iron railings sweeping down the curve of the path, guiding travelers down towards the main thoroughfare.

“Exponential growth since I was last here,” Zandik said, leaning close to be heard over the noise.  “Half of these buildings are new.  I remember when this had nothing more than the port authority and a three boat pier.”

He pointed to the sweeping curves of the building to your immediate left, one of the only buildings in pure Sumerian style.

The rest of the buildings were a jumbled array of styles, plaster and brick painted in soft colors with tiled roofs, a maze of stairs and outlooks carved into the very hills.  You got the impression that, no matter where one stood, they were privy to a unique and stunning view of the water and the land beyond.

Newly invigorated, you began to climb, mindful of your path as to remember the way down.  With all of your belongings packed neatly and only a hand’s wave away along with your weapons (Zandik determined that the void used was a pocket of the abyss and therefore unconnected to Irminsul), neither of you had to lug cases to the dock first and backtrack.  Some rules remained, regardless of Celestia, and you were thankful for their convenience.

Once you reached the top, where a white plaster building was perched and the scent of spiced meat trickled out through the open doorway, you finally dared let your eyes skim past the coastline.

Petrichor had been little more than a small remote island when you were a child.  Your last visit was short, a curated walk around the buildings and the festival square, with a history lesson about the power of music.  The cats were friendly and your entire class took turns trying to earn their favor when the tour guide’s back was turned.  Last you heard, the Traveler followed some keen treasure hunters and uncovered the entrance to the long-forgotten world trapped beneath the waves.

Nothing prepared you for the swelling aqueducts, rising spires, and the amphitheater that spanned most of the basin beneath the plateau. An entire civilization built on music, determined to defy the fate laid before them, exposed to the world once more.  Its very essence glittered under the late morning sun and all you could do was stare.

Fairytales held their grains of truth after all.

“I imagine this is what it felt like to lay eyes on that Ruin Golem for the first time and clamoring inside,” you said.  “All of the paintings about the myths were so very wrong .”

“It was said that no true civilizations were built in Fontaine for millenia; Gurabad grew and fell all before Remus’ arrival from Sumeru,” Zandik replied.  “Always a shocking perspective, how advanced some areas of the world became while others struggled with their environment.”

“Gurabad?”

“A story for another time.  I prefer not to discuss those expeditions when we are about to board a vessel upon which my inner ear will be displeased for most of the journey.”

You swallowed your own wave of nausea, a normality now, wishing you could commiserate properly.

Instead of returning the way you came, Zandik led you through the rest of the cliffside, through terraces and up and down small flights of stairs.  You came upon a better view of the amphitheater, which, from this angle, looked more akin to a large…transmitter.  There weren’t any seats, from what you could make out.

When you said as much to Zandik, he agreed and said, “It would not surprise me, given it was a land where music was central to its culture.”

Eventually, you made your way back down and boarded the small ferry to Petrichor, packed with people.  Zandik, of course, selected a secluded spot towards the back where there was relative privacy.  You weren’t certain if your nausea was aggravated by the smell of the fuel, or the boat’s movements, but you emptied your stomach in the first ten minutes of rocking waves.  Zandik was green in the face, quiet and leaning his forearms on the railing to focus on his breathing; you felt his eyes on you as you took a swig from your canteen to rinse your mouth, ridding yourself of the acrid taste.

“Small boats and I never agreed,” you said.  “Too little surface area.”

He stared at you a second longer than necessary, relenting only when you joked about getting sick so he didn’t have to.  You could see the gears turning in his mind out of the corner of your eye.  He knew.  There was no way he didn’t by now.  Even if the boat made for a good cover, he must have put all of the pieces together himself.

All of this was so silly.  He’d made the arrangements himself over the last week, determined to plan a trip that was bound to at least spark a chance for both inspiration and new memories.  Ambitious in its scope, you knew he put every forethought and afterthought into each choice from the length of time to the destination.  Your Zandik loved to plan, after all.  He’d muttered about needing to account for spontaneous variables but if he was nothing if not thorough.

For the rest of the short trip, the two of you discussed your itinerary in short fragments, distracting one another with the prospect of being on land again.  You would spend the rest of the day exploring Petrichor, getting a lay of the land, do Remuria’s ruins tomorrow (and the next, if it was needed), have one more day on the island, and then take the aquabus into Fontaine proper if you still needed time away. 

The ride concluded sooner than expected and the newly-constructed wooden pier gave way to a winding stone path up through Petrichor’s streets.  You couldn’t help but pause and stare.  The trees were the same, if a little weathered, the flowers and the grass seemingly frozen in time.  A once-grand Statue of the Seven laid not toppled but modified, Lady Focalors seated on the ground while Sir Neuvillette rose from a splash of waves behind her.  In comparison, Sumeru’s statues were toppled entirely at the behest of Kusanali herself, who no longer wanted to be separate from her people as an idolized leader.

Your eye tracked a few more buildings towards the coast, bigger and a little flashy.  It all paled in comparison to the ruins visible from the beach, their scale on par with Fontaine City itself.  Here, the very air seemed to hum with notes, like windchimes nudged by a breeze.  The longer you looked at the rising spires and sweeping aqueducts, the more prevalent the sounds became.  They were trying to form a song but when it was this disjointed, it was difficult to—

A hand on your waist and a whisper of your name snapped you out of your reverie.  Zandik’s garnet eyes searched your face before boring into your own for a second.

“Need I worry about you sleepwalking into the sea at the correct note wafting through the air?” he asked, sardonic.

“No.  It’s unusual, is all.  You hear it too?”

“Everyone can.  If you look, the spires are all different sizes, as if they’re—”

“Tuning forks,” you concluded.

Zandik nodded.  “We’ll adjust and our brains will likely sort out the sound in a few hours.  People would not be living here if it was that much of a nuisance.”

You could tell by the twitch of his lip that he had more he wanted to say but instead, he settled one hand on the small of your back, silently ushering you onwards.

It must have been the memories stirring up all of your energy; in the last few weeks, you never seemed as lively as you did now.  Every time your eyes laid on a building, you were full of tales of childhood fun and nostalgia.  You could seemingly trace a single brick with your eyes and have an entire moment come back to you with striking clarity.

Zandik wished he could say the same but perhaps it was for the best that his home village was no longer on any map.  As much as he wanted to reciprocate, he much more enjoyed the warm swelling in his chest at your smile and the way every cat you encountered bumped its head against your palm.  One went so far as to weave itself between his legs and yours, slowly blinking before it settled down for a nap near a flowerbed.

You were so often hidden behind a veil as of late.  Such moments were common for most, some temporary and others not, but his skin itched at the notion that something was amiss.  It had to be.  Even if it was a matter of neglecting your mental health as of late, at least it would be an answer.

But then there was the matter of the boat.

On the trip from Sumeru to Snezhnaya all those years ago, you had the smallest bout of nausea but quickly acclimated.  Like most, you adjusted perfectly fine; by comparison, the crystals in his inner ears never quite found the right angle and he suffered every time.

His second lamentation of burning Irminsul was the lack of leylines through which to travel freely.  An act he took for granted for centuries.

That you were compelled to be sick on such a small boat so quickly…

Unusual, to say the least.  Were you nauseous prior, he wondered.  If so, why?  You’d eaten nothing out of the ordinary and already long overcame the agony of caffeine withdrawal.

Zandik listened and watched your expression as you regalled him with a story about the bakery you were stopped in front of.  All the while, he felt the pressure around his ankles as another cat wove between them, purring so loudly he wondered if it was mechanical.  His trousers would be covered in fur by the time you reached the rented cottage and he made a mental note to acquire a lint roller as soon as convenient.

He watched you, bathed in the late afternoon sunlight, your eyes focused on the golden interior and drinking it all in again.

“We’ll have to stop by first thing in the morning, when everything is warm,” you said, turning back to him.  “I had the best brioche here.  There was a pâtisserie not too far, unless they moved…best desserts outside of Fontaine City…”

You continued to lead the way to the town square, small but full of garlands of flowers, where musical motifs were carved into stone pillars around the stage.  A gaggle of children ran past, one of them claiming to be God-King Remus in a theatre mask, another pretending to be Chief Justice Neuvillette, Melusine plushie in hand.  From what Zandik gathered, they were fighting over who was the rightful ruler of all of Fontaine.  They took to the miniscule stage, gesturing and making sound effects, captivating their entire audience.

A white cat with mismatching eyes presided over the performance, tail flicking occasionally.  It laid its eyes on you, blinking slowly once, before turning its attention back to the children.

He never had the time for such antics growing up.  Or rather, whenever he did try, he was too logical for the rest of his peers and supposedly ruined the fun.  That was before, of course, he grew smart enough to know how to build counter-arguments.  He had not yet returned to his parents with bruises and welts from stones at that point.

An experience he would never relate to.

But it was why Celestia’s downfall was so important.  No one would be subjected to a fate tied to a name, to a constellation, born to suffer.  All were equal.

Even the shy ones on the sidelines were included in the play-acting, less an audience and more stagehands and storytellers.

Zandik’s eyes fell to you, your gaze lost again for the briefest moment before you blinked.  The expression differed little from your time overseeing your students at the House of the Hearth, with a little fragment that escaped him.  Did you miss teaching?  Perhaps it was worthwhile to reach out to the Zubayr Theatre upon your return, to see if they needed an extra hand.

After all, you needed to have something else to call your own, not just your music.

“There were hardly any people here before,” you said as you left the square.  “Let alone children.  School visits were really the only time this place was filled with anything other than desolate silence, except for the cats.”

“They’re akin to their brethren from Sumeru, well-tended to and beloved by most,” Zandik observed.

The two of you finally reached the small house, nestled closer to the beach at the foot of the small rock formation.  At one end, a view of the glowing Harvisptokhm beyond the high mountains; the other bore a glittering view of bygone eras, gaps in the aqueducts glowing with strings of what the locals referred to as Ichor.

Late into the night, you watched the strings, waving a hand over them in mimicry of plucking them as you drifted off, humming a new motif to yourself.  

Some of his worries began to slip off of his shoulders as he held you tight, a sliver of your brightness finally within your grasp again.

The only thing keeping your fatigue at bay the next morning was the excitement to trek up the partial aqueduct to the Clivus Capitolinus, the entryway into the Domus Aurea and Sacellum Requietis.  It was there that the God King Remus gave his final orders and the Grand Symphony self-destructed, taking everyone with it.  Little survived the shattering of several sub-level-bubbles within Teyvat itself.  That Remuria rose from the sea was, perhaps, a final usurpation of the prophecy Remus fought so hard to defy.  

Or so the tour guide said.  You were still recovering from your trip to the viennoiserie for breakfast.  Your eyes were bigger than your stomach and you’d openly stared at Zandik’s coffee with intense longing.

The air here was fresh and cool, kissing your bare arms with a faint breeze.  You’d missed this.  In the deep jungles, the air was so moist and heavy, leaving you sticky on particularly humid days.  But here, you felt as if every breath was easy and clear.

You gave a side glance at Zandik.  He shrugged, letting go of your hand just enough to shake his own in a so-so gesture.  The guide wasn’t wrong, then, just inaccurate.

The bronze aqueduct was full, it turned out, of the Golden Ichor that made up its harp-like strings.  It was only when the role the Ichor played was brought into the narrative by the guide that you paused and properly looked at the shimmering liquid.  

Putting memories and souls into bodies of metal was part of the legend but the Ichor was thought to have been long since lost or merely a mechanism for the tale.  Seeing it now, before you, only managed to ground the dawning realization that others achieved a system not unlike the one Zandik had.  And Remus had done it long before Celestia’s rule.

He must have sensed your train of thought, for he chuckled softly upon seeing your fixated gaze.  

“It’s little more than Primordial Water mixed with what other legends call a Philosopher’s Stone.  Pierro would call it something else but it’s the very pinnacle of alchemic achievements,” Zandik murmured.  “Both materials are archaic and do not take erosion into account.”

The Segments were a part of the past, long gone.  He rarely, if ever, spoke about them beyond a longing for more hands.  

“Is that your way of saying you did it better?” you teased.

He shot you a warning smirk.  “How foolish, rooh’ albi.  My work speaks for itself.”

You continued on, ears perking up at the description of Capitolium as a paradise overflowing with beautiful melodies.  When you reached the summit, your eyes traced a soaring and sweeping structure reaching for the sky; Domus Aurea, King Remus’ palace.  You wondered briefly if pipe organs were based on what little Fontainians knew of their predecessors.  The towering copper pillars glinted in the sun, winking at those who stared up at them.

The interior made the Library of Daena back in the Akademiya seem like a playpen.  Copper everywhere, except the stone floors, Ichor flowing through every free inch and only adding to the majesty.  The acoustics were impeccable, providing a means by which a speaker could address an audience with ease and shapes for soundwaves to flow and encapsulate listeners.

You came across a small crossroads on the way down to the Sacellum Requietis and grabbed Zandik’s arm when the tour guide glossed over the perfect tiles on the ceiling.  Your soulmate paused and he, too, began to look around, wondering just what caught your eye.

“Go stand over there,” you whispered, pointing to a corner diagonally from you.

Zandik’s red eyes lingered on you, narrow in their curiosity.  You nudged him gently before he complied and stood in the corner, facing you.  

You gestured for him to turn around, and when he did, you shifted and whispered into the corner in front of you.  What you said was of little consequence but when you heard Zandik’s reply as clear as day, you felt a wild surge of satisfaction.

“The low arches and the curve here allow the sound to travel and follow the arches perfectly,” you whispered.  “This entire crossway could be packed but two people would be able to get messages to each other easily as if they were right next to each other.”

“Exceptional eyes.  The material must matter, though.  And the distance.  Too close and the individuals might as well just turn around.”

You grinned and whispered one last message that left Zandik’s cheeks burning as you returned to his side.  It earned you a graze of his teeth on the shell of your ear and a threat he intended to make good on later.  He would, you had no doubt.

Continuing along, you caught up with the rest of the group.  As you reached the Sacellum Requietis ,all sound immediately perished.  A beautiful amphitheater, silent as a grave, you imagined ancient performances in honor of the Grand Symphony, of Phobos.  The tragedy of the very harmony that glued Remuria together was not only in its attempt to subvert the fate written for its people but that in order to do so, it needed to absorb their souls in the process.  Its corruption came from those it was meant to save.

Acoustically, the structure was undoubtedly perfect for containing and enveloping audiences in waves upon waves of sweet notes.  You strained in the silence, trying to hear anything other than the hushed whispers of the fellow tour-goers and the guide.  Distantly, you could make out a faint ringing, its pitch changing as the breeze whispered by.

As you descended into the center, your eyes trailed up towards the spires surrounding the arena.  If you turned your head, the ringing seemed to have an origin point in one direction or another.  Somehow, though, you doubted they were only tuning forks.  They were too tall, too narrow to do more than provide a faint hint of a note.  Not quite a transistor in function, either.

You stepped up to the podium, where the God King would have given his final command, and closed your eyes.

Like every leader that came before, Remus only wanted to protect his people, you mused.  All it took was one dissonant note amid the harmony he intended for it to all go wrong…

You swallowed, hands gripping the stone stand where the sheetmusics made of souls would have once made its home.  In the depths of your heart, you heard an agonizing dirge, felt the pressure of the sea beginning to encroach, ready to swallow an entire era and its mistakes along with it.  

Change was a constant and perfection was the antithesis of it.  Did Remus realize that, in the end?  Was he terrified of failing his people?

What was it Zandik had said all those years ago?  And we must change, mustn’t we?  Otherwise we give in to what is laid before us.

Your hand pulsed.  Opening your eyes, you blinked slowly before you craned your neck back and shielded your gaze.  A flock of seagulls soared nearby and the clouds still floated, crisp against the bright blue sky.  You turned your attention back to the stage to find Zandik examining the remnants of golden bees, completely enamored with the prospect of a creature no longer in existence.

Regardless of whether Celestia still loomed overhead or not, you would feel the same, suffer the same block.  This wasn’t just about you, what your body would endure, but everything that laid between you and Zandik.  What was the point of building it all, if not to face a curve in the road together ?

Already, you felt the notes beginning to weave themselves together, a marriage of the first two acts culminating in the creation of a brand new tune.  Slow, tentative, and then picking up the tempo again…

You scribbled notations on napkins at lunch and tried to keep yourself from humming.  Inevitably, you let a few notes slip before the day was out, earning you a quizzical stare before bed.  It took everything in you not to blurt out your breakthrough but to do so would ruin everything.  He so often graced you with creations and you wanted to do the same.

“I missed hearing you captivated,” was all Zandik said.

It held more weight in your heart than he knew.

The gnawing frustration in the pit of his stomach was beginning to wear him down.  His patience would hold until you returned home but by then, he would have a comprehensive methodology in place to test for various illnesses.  Zandik was never one to settle and leave an issue be, not when it came to your wellbeing.

He could forgive your desire to curb caffeine, considering the rebound and withdrawal migraines were agony.  Your fatigue could be mental as much as physical.  Same could be said for some of the dietary changes you made recently.  

But when you leaned over to kiss him the morning after the visit to the ruins, Zandik could not get his mind off of the way you smelled .  Just…in general.  Beneath the scent of the new soap during the stay and the hint of salt water, there was a shift in your own chemical composition.  Similar to the fluctuations you normally endured yet stronger, more potent.  It stirred a strange visceral reaction in the recesses of himself he was still trying to unravel and he couldn’t get enough of it.

It was the only logical thing that stood between him and the conclusion you were not disastrously ill.  He knew the smell of death and disease.  Neither came close to you.

Today, you decided, was best spent in Petrichor itself and among the people.  Already, you seemed to have more color in your cheeks and life in your eyes, although your attention seemed almost wistful at times when you thought he wasn’t looking.  Previously, such an expression had an edge of sorrow in it, but whatever resonated with you in Remuria had done its job: you were hard at work, thinking of combinations and patterns that were invisible and silent to all but you.

The first stop of the morning after breakfast was the bookshop near the square, specializing specifically in sheet music, history of various instruments and musical theory, with the smallest section of general interest.  Zandik browsed the theory section after pressing a kiss to your forehead and wishing you a successful journey; your smile might as well have bundled the sun itself and tucked it into his gut, the way excitement exuded from you.

Zandik picked a few tomes and settled into the cafe nook towards the front of the store.  He knew the rush of a new idea and the fixation that came with it all too well.  But too much, too fast, and you might burn yourself out before it was finished.  After everything that happened, you did not deserve to flicker out like a dying star.

Although he tried to delve into a collection of various theaters and performance halls, and a comparison of their layouts for acoustics and which provided the richest sound, your joyous exclamation tore his attention away.

“A full collection of recreated compositions!” you held up your find like a hunter with a prized rabbit as you approached.  “All of these are based on the music box the Traveler found!”

Your eyes practically glittered with stardust, the way excitement illuminated your face.  How long had it been since you last looked at him, at anyone, like that, Zandik mused.  What plagued your soul in such a fashion that made these moments rare occurrences as of late?

He watched as you returned to the bookseller charged with opening shift, your enthusiasm met with understanding nods and additional questions.  From here, the sun hit your hair perfectly but it wasn’t the star in the sky that made your entire being exude such brilliance.  There was, of course, something to be said about the return of one’s demeanor and true capacity, but this…

It was as if you had a renewed lease on life itself, unfettered, your mind having worked through something in the Sacellum Requietis.  Zandik leaned back in his chair, thoughtful.

Possible.  It was always a possibility, although not necessarily probable .  Besides, everyone exhibited differently.  Would explain most of your symptoms.  And the enigmatic smile the Tsaritsa had given on her visit.  Surely you trusted a physician in addition to a mere Archon’s sentiments?

If that was the cause.  Speculation would do little good without further evidence and a proper blood test.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t entertain the thought, though.  From that perspective, he allowed the train of logic to continue, and envisioned the blueprint tacked to his workshop wall, faded and illegible.  What would a collection of thin metal arms be good for?  Not strong enough to function as a claw, too light for a set of windchimes to dangle.  But there was a motor, and a little soundbox attached…Pierro’s stilted slap on the shoulder made far more sense in this context…

By the time you were finished, and paid for the large armful of bound compositions, Zandik was already used to the notion of laughter and shouts in the background, wide eyes and an excitement for the world, all a layer to your music while he worked.

You would tell him when you were ready, he knew.  Just as you would anything else.  He couldn’t help but let his gaze rest on you periodically after he took your purchases and tucked them under one arm, your hand safely in his free one.  Mindlessly, he brushed his thumb over your knuckles, the size and pattern of them memorized long ago.

“What, do I have something on my face?” you asked, catching his gaze.

Zandik took the time to trace his eyes over your brows, your eyes and cheeks, the tip of your nose, and your welcoming lips.  Not a detail out of place.  He let go of your hand long enough to brush away stray hairs, which were immediately taken by the morning breeze.

“Let’s keep going, shall we?”

The rest of the trip was a complete blur wrapped up in sunny days and relaxing evenings, productive even if it meant lounging on the hotel balcony and watching the remains of the Research Institute from a distance.

In the end, you settled on visiting the mainland, too; you were already halfway there, after all.  It was Zandik’s turn to fill your luggage with more blueprints and parts and you watched as he disassembled a wind-up frog powered by a tiny Pneuma cell.  Both of you spent a whole evening craned over a table of gears and tiny arms as he put it back together as if by memory.

He was never far from reach.

And your resolve only settled further.

You were filled with what you could only describe as a new sense of self, cradling the fear that once gripped you the same way one might hold a baby boarshroom: tender and with care.  It found company amid excitement and happiness and hope.  Although movement was still a long while off, your stomach flipped itself into tangles as you returned home and began assembling all of the sections you created while away.  

Once or twice, you spotted Zandik out of his workshop, ears stuffed with cotton on the days you were playing; when you questioned him, he gave some answer about the air pressure difference getting to him and that he would hear your music when you intended to share it.  In turn, he was equally cagey about keeping his workbench covered and asked you to flick the lights at the top of the stairs first if you insisted on coming down.  He had been practically vibrating all the way back from Fontaine after a visit to a mechanical artisan and, much like yourself, could not wait to channel renewed energy.

You completed the final bar in the early hours of the afternoon within a week of your return, more than satisfied.  Zandik, in turn, proclaimed his finishing touches were done some hours later that very day.  If fate were still a presence in the world you knew now, you would have allowed it to lay claim to the coincidence once upon a time.  He forbid you from entering one of the few extra rooms, distracting you with teasing kisses until you all but forgot about the possibility of what laid beyond.

That evening after dinner, you handed an envelope to Zandik, its edges flattened to oblivion from running your nails along them.  You half-expected his nimble fingers to pull out the top flap but he merely examined it and then gave you his undivided attention as you settled in and took up your usual position.  The Cryo panels of your cello’s body were a familiar form against your knees, a solid comfort you could rely on to help convey the sentiments words could not.  

With your back to the large pane of windows and sunset providing you light, you dove through the first two movements.  The third began as it always had, the beginning of the end that circled around and offered a clean slate for all.  Slow and tenuous, plucks of curiosity and drags of uncertainty, winding themselves into a motif that pulled from the first movement, and then the second, forming a new pattern that made your rib cage rattle every time you played it.  The approach was literal, too on the nose perhaps, but it was accurate.  You had allowed yourself to delve into the slow and stilted structure from before the trip and proceeded to drag it out, mold it, and bring in some of the bars from a recovered Remurian symphony.  Upon first hearing it, you imagined the lapping of waves and desire for a future safe from destruction, where more than just life itself could prosper.  

You allowed the last note to hang, counting before you pressed your hand to the strings to still them.  

Your audience of one had tucked the envelope into his shirt pocket and closed his garnet eyes.  He wasn’t sleeping, although his breathing was steady; an idle hand played at the air above his knee, his mind seeking the patterns you presented and working to unravel them.  Quietly, you settled your cello into its stand and padded over to him.  You took his other hand, still and resting in his lap, and laid it flat against your abdomen, the heat of his palm searing through your clothing.

Slowly, Zandik opened his eyes, blinked, and then flexed his fingers.

“Quite a gift,” he whispered.

“One that warrants a lengthy discussion and decisions.”

His hand, once tracing your composition, found your bow hand and pressed it to his lips, his breath kissing every inch of your scars.

“I already have mine.  Come.”

Legs trembling, you followed him through the living room and upstairs to the door he previously barred your entry from.  Words failed and instead you swallowed, silently staring at him, your question heavy in the air.  Zandik merely leaned forward to unlatch the door and push it open, nodding his head to direct you inside.

This room was always sparse, little more than an obligatory guest room used occasionally for storage.  It never held more than a bed to begin with but your heart lurched at the device hanging from the ceiling.  Charms and trinkets spun idly, a star and a music note among them.  You stepped into the room and brushed your fingers over the arms, watching it spin.

You turned back to Zandik, lips quivering and eyes burning.  He closed the distance between you and reached up, finding a winding key with ease and twisting it thrice before he nudged you back.  You watched as the arms slowly spun, all the while, a familiar tune played softly.  As the rest of the music played out, you nestled yourself against Zandik, the final scratches of anxiety falling away.

“We did not come this far only to not see what laid outside of a fated existence,” he murmured.  “I have my own trepidations but I am intrigued by the possibilities presented.  However, if you feel—”

“I knew that day standing on the conductor’s podium that I wanted this.  Us,” you replied.  “And I can think of nothing more worthy of the future we’ve carved for ourselves.”

Zandik buried his face in the crook of your neck.  Once again, you pulled one of his hands and pressed it to your lower stomach, intertwining your fingers over his in a new, silent promise.

[strayflowersstarsandlove]

13 (hanjisung)

One foot in front of the other, shouldn't be too bad. One and two and three and for. And five. And six. You somehow manage to climb up the stairs, the steaming hot bowl of kimchi jjigae still perfectly intact in your hands, you almost want to pat yourself on the back for succeeding in not spilling a single drop.

You tap the base of the door with your foot, carefully balancing your weight on your knees so that you don't tumble to the ground, and luckily enough Han opens the door for you, a tired but still bright smile on his face: "baby", he sighs softly, letting you in so you can quickly place the bowl down on the table, away from the scattered, crumpled paper sheets and portable keyboard.

Han had recently turned the spare room upstairs into his little at home studio. It reflected his personality so well, his sunset to sunrise lamp glowing in the corner, a few guitars hanging on the wall, a small, black leathery couch at the back, conveniently displaying an arrangement of fuzzy blankets. Cozy vibes and the persistent smell of his cologne and half empty coffee cups.

It was his refuge, his sanctuary. You barely stepped foot in it, only occasionally gathering up the discarded take out containers and forgotten plaid flannels and hoodies left amassed on the spinning chair, you were so careful even while vacuuming the place, for you didn't want to taint his favourite room in the house, didn't want to disturb the place where magic was created on the daily.

"I know you said you weren't too hungry but you've been holed up in here the whole night, please have at least a few spoonfuls", you encourage meekly, pointing at the soup you had just placed on the desk, Han nods and and sniffs the fragrant, hearty smell of his dinner, scooting his chair closer to the edge of the seat so he can reach the bowl more comfortably,"I will, thank you for taking care of me when i forget to", he jokes. Kind of.

He only ever half joked when it came down to his mental health. The smile on his lips not quite reaching his dark circled eyes, a pencil still in his hand, the suffused pale blue light of his computer screen casting its glow on the wall: you had interrupted him while he was clearly writing a new song, and you felt bad. For writing and composing music was the one thing that kept him sane, helped him process his emotions and turmoil.

He was insanely talented and imaginative as is but whenever he went through a rougher patch, his songwriting skills just went up several different notches. The pain in his heart and the fuzziness in his head tragically pulled out the best musical talent in him. Sometimes he'd let himself be consumed by sleepless nights spent with his headphones on and endless cups of coffee and more half finished lyrics than he could count.

Nodding sympathetically, you place a small kiss on top of his head and hug his frame briefly, your hands slipping beneath the collar of his white and blue checkered shirt than swallowed him whole, then down onto his front, briefly circling his torso, his small waist that drove you insane.

You gently pat his tummy and his stomach, chambers of his silent distress, the anxiety you knew was slowly but surely eating him up from the inside. "I love you, I'll leave you to your masterpiece", you whisper, reluctantly letting go of him.

The house falls quiet if not for the faintest strumming of a guitar, a few chords being played on the recorder, a gentle lullaby floating in the air as you go about the rest of your late evening meal prepping for the next few days and then cleaning up.

When the clock strikes just 10 minutes past eleven you plop two herbal tea bags into their designated ceramic cups and lean on the counter, propping yourself up on your elbow while you wait for the tea to brew. A yawn escaping your lips as late night approaches.

You quietly head upstairs, both cups in your hands while you mentally curse yourself for the handles are not scalding against your palms but still hot enough to feel the slight burn on your skin. This time the door to Han's studio is ajar, so it's a little easier to slip through: curled up on his chair, eyes closed and a serene smile on his relaxed lips, big headphones snug on his ears, he looks divine. Effortlessly beautiful.

It's heartwarming, really, to see him so fully immersed into his own music, the love of his life. It must be so cathartic for him, you think to yourself, deeply grateful for you get to witness just how art and artist save each other day by day. An impelling urge to kiss his face and his beautiful mind begins to prickle your skin and you're just one breath away from him when the song in his headphones stops and Han blinks his eyes open, looking a little startled as he finds you right there,peering into his face, likely with the most mad heart eyes ever.

"SORRY! didn't mean to scare you! You just looked so ...at peace", you mumble, setting down the mugs as he removes his headphones and chuckles, "that's okay, thank you for the tea", he replies quietly, smiling at you and then puckering up his rose coloured lips, requesting a kiss with no use of his words. And you comply eagerly.

"Is the next skz album coming along well?", you inquire, mollified the second your boyfriend's attention is fully diverted from his computer screen to your body, hands resting on your waist, the soft, warm pressure so comforting one second and then so delightfully flustering the next, especially when they briefly climb up your back, a single finger running down your spine, guiding you onto his lap, "mmh I think these songs are for me only, wanna have a listen?", he offers, holding out his headphones for you.

With your back resting against his chest and his arms securely wrapped around your waist, you close your eyes and let the notes fill you your ears, his melodic voice travelling up your eardrums, your brain, your heart. His tone emotional, deep, intense, sometimes desperate, shaking you from the inside out. Not that you didn't expect that, you knew very well just how much of a musical genius he was, but each and everytime his solo songs just hit you, they hit differently, for he really poured his heart and soul into them, tugged at all the right heart strings.

Transported into this other world, where the sound of his voice and the guitars and drums are the only things in existence inside your head, you barely notice Han peering closely at you, a grin on his face, one of his hands tantalizing on the hem of your shirt.

You only physically shake yourself awake when you feel his lips on your neck, soft but lingering kisses down the side, his hand now well beneath your shirt, gripping one cup of your bra confidently yet not aggressively, just enough to elicit the final electrifying tremor that has you removing his headphones in a haste and land back on earth, eyes wide, a stupid grin on your own face: "oh you've come back to me, finally. I thought my songs made you fall asleep", he teases, and you're so glad, so glad to see his playful side again, the snakes of anxiety clearly having relented their choking grip on him.

"I was just thoroughly enjoying the experience, listening to your music first is always such a blessing, I'm honored. With every new masterpiece your make I'm just... in awe. You truly have a gift, Hannie", you confess earnestly, loving the way he still blushes lightly and looks down, too shy to accept the compliments.

Han sighs contently and presses his lips to your cheek, "you're spoiling me, today and always", he mumbles, squeezing your sides briefly, "you're going to have my brain go rotten, I love it. I love you", he adds, smiling that heart shaped smile of his, "finish up your tea, I'll be done here in hopefully just half an hour and then we can go to bed okay?", he suggests, clearly noticing the veil of sleepiness behind your eyes.

He knew he was a night owl and you were not, noticed all the details, all the little tell signs you were getting tired after a long day, he always read you like a book, which was both endearing and fascinating, flattering, even, for how much interest he took in you, knew exactly what he needed to know about you like a manual.

"Is it okay if I stay here and wait for you? I'd like to listen to those two songs some more", you ask tentatively, gesturing for the headphones, "but like... It's okay if not. I can definitely just wait in our bedroom, I don't want to impose", you add in a fret, the last thing you want is to intrude in his space even more today. Though you really want to listen to his music more. Like really, really.

Han personally takes the headphones and clicks on the little loop icon on his phone screen before handing them both to you, the white, blank cover art for the mp3 track he had downloaded glowing in between you two, "impose? This home is mine just how much as it is yours, you can absolutely stay here, have a little nap too if you'd like, though I'll try to be quick and wrap up here", he reassures, "I appreciate that but... but this is your safe space, your sacred room", you reply, stroking his cheek, "yeah well I want you here, so go lay down and enjoy your private music session", he asserts playfully, a gentle resolve to his voice as he pouts.

During days when we were young and naïve, what we loved Were your pure, clear eyes that gazed into you and me, Ah-ah-ah Ah-ah-ah Ah-ah-ah Ah-ah-ah The night I walked you home, my warm spring days The day when thick mist filled the air

The high falsetto, the heart wrenching intensity of his vocals, the guitars reverberating in the background, you're floating. Head above water, just filled with the honey of his voice as your body glides on the surface of the water. Arms and legs straight, stretched out. You're so light and weightless you could forever roam the waters, motionless.

At least until something hefty and warm falls delicately on top of you, depositing on your chest and your torso and your legs like a light knitted blanket. Balmy leaves, a hint of mint, perhaps some musk, something stronger and amber like, leathery almost, wafting through your nostrils. Something soft tickles your jawline and your chin, your neck. One of your ears unclogs and something falls down your shoulder: "my sweet, perfect peach, hello, welcome back from the land of dreams".

Han chuckles from above you, a smrik on his face as watches you blink confusedly, the remnants of the same melody you had probably overplayed still playing distantly in the background. So maybe you weren't just floating on water but actually just laying down on the couch in your boyfriend's studio, the very same boyfriend currently settled right on top of you, curious brown eyes looking intently at you.

You giggle, embarrassed, and try to hide your face behind your hands as you cover your eyes and cheeks, "gosh... how long was I asleep for?", Han giggles himself and moves your hands away from your face, he leans down to kiss your lips, sweetly but with a subtle fever to it.

"A while... looks like my songs are soporific after all", he jokes, though it's short lived, the cheerfulness in his voice, he seems rather rapt right now, he keeps looking down at your lips over and over, "not at all. I'm just a teensy bit tired and the atmosphere here is really cozy and relaxed", you object gently, "that's understandable, you were up on your feet all day, making me dinner, checking in on me...",he trails off, his thumb brushing the blush on your cheek, "I didn't even make you dessert! Crap! Do you want anything right now? I can wip up some pancakes real quick!".

Strong whiplash hits the back of your neck as you try to sit up straight and get Han to move off of you in just one motion and, predictably so, you whimper in pain. Much to your boyfriend amusement who helps you sit up but also laughs his ass off at your impulsiveness. Hearing him laugh like that though, so gleefully so freely, that's just worth the pins and needles in your muscles.

"You don't need to make me anything", he says in a low voice, much somber now as he crawls over and kisses you once again, his soft lips crashing so perfectly against yours, "I've got dessert right here", he whispers, his hands now resting on top of your thighs as he slowly crouches down, balancing on the heels of his feet.

A little tumble. That was your heart.

Han squints a little, big expressive eyes turning into two slits, that sort of lazy, alluring look to them as he spreads your legs apart, enough for his head to fit right in between. The crackling of fire igniting in your belly, you watch as his fingers inch closer and closer to the waistband of your pants, pointer fingers hooking around the fabric, giving it a gentle tug, "may I?".

All you can do is nod, melting little by little as he locks eyes with you and removes your pants, the sight before him enough to make his Adam's apple bob up and down. He stars slowly, lazily even, only placing the softest kisses to the inner side of your thighs, making his way up to the seams of your underwear, leaving behind a trace of goosebumps on your skin.

Oh it's so hot. Suddenly you feel so hot. Shivering but hot. Slender fingers trace patterns over the cotton in between your thighs, circle motions, light tapping, you flutter your eyes shut as soon as Han kisses the very same spot his fingers just padded over. And then warmth, a wet warmth right over you in a stripe.

Nimble fingertips just brushing your navel, your hip bones, your thighs again, until your underwear are just a roll of fabric discarded on the floor. You have barely anytime to feel the air hitting your exposed flesh for Han just dips his mouth on you. A throaty sound rumbling from his lips, he buries his face in between your legs.

And he's good, like REALLY good. He knows he is. The man just knows how to use his mouth and his tongue,no matter where he's using them. You hiss underneath your breath, your hands instinctively running through his hair, how much you love how longer and curlier it is, tickling your bare skin, giving you the perfect excuse to tug at it.

A kiss, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucks and sucks, and your legs shake so much already he has to hold your thighs down, "oh baby, my soft baby, so shaky for me already?", he teases, a gentle but firm grip on your body as he tries to keep you still. His eyes fixate on your face, observing intently for any reaction depicted on your expression, his gaze so intense you feel it even with your eyes closed.

His tongue swivels around your most inner part, sloppily but with some heft to it, small licks as he taps on your mound, only increasing the blood flow there, you can almost feel yourself pulsating, even more so when you open your eyes, squinting a little, and meet his dark orbs still fixated on you, you can only see his eyes and the bridge of his nose, for the lower half of his face is just buried in you and god, it's so hot, just the sight of him like hat while he works on you, it's so hot.

Seconds turn into minutes and before you know it, in your heightened state of bliss, you feel your blood rushing faster down to your lower belly and your legs, your face contorting, sweating, as you feel progressively more hot and bothered and on the verge of imploding. Hands clamping down his hair, your start to breathe erratically, the pressure on your chest sinking down and down until your heart feels like it's going to collapse.

It's the tense, pre climax silence and the slight spams in your legs that do it for him, that and knowing you like the back of his hand, that and his welcomed obsession with staring at you, studying every single little detail that gives you away. Han keeps his pace, knowing that you're just seconds away from coming,he notices your abdomen contracting and relaxing alternatively, feels your ragged breath coming out in puffs in his hair.

One look. One last lingering look to see you biting down your bottom lip,hard, you exhale loudly and start to shake, rocking your hips until you're all up in his face. A fraction of a second later and he has you come all undone in his mouth. The shiver the tremble the wave of warmth and tingles from your belly to your core.

He wastes no chance, continuing to roll his tongue on your clit, kissing and slurping everything he can, helping you ride your high until you can't no more. Arousal glistening on his lips and his cheeks and his chin, he finally detaches his mouth from you, the little silver of his tongue on the corner of his lips as he laps up any residue before wiping his face with the back of his forearm.

Drunk-dazed, you look up at him from beneath your lashes, a small smile on your reddened lips, from how much you've been biting down on them, it just perfectly matches the blush on your cheeks, the splotches of heat on your chest and your tummy, like roses blooms all over.

"Oh, you're blushing, how cute", Han chuckles, cupping your cheek tenderly, gesture which you can only smile abashedly more at, "have i rendered you completely speechless? talk to me, say anything", he teases playfully, for he knows it always takes you a little while to compose yourself when he eats you out like that, even if he acts as if it's nothing.

"You're good, Jisung. You're good at anything and everything you do, an ace, a true ace", you mumble, avoiding his gaze, and he giggles adorably, leaning in to kiss your tummy, "am I a better lover or a better songwriter?", "OH THAT'S SO UNFAIR YOU KNOW I CAN'T POSSIBLY PICK", you exclaim, suddenly much more spirited and alert.

Han bursts into deep throaty laughs and doubles down on you, his forehead resting on your abdomen, his arms cradling your lower body, "alright alright, let's go to bed", he suggests, helping you put your underwear back on, "or I could go for seconds, while you listen to my songs again and decide which one you like better", he adds as if in an afterthought, smirking a little.

[transparencyboo]

For the last two weeks or so I've been playing the Mega Drive dungeon crawler Shining in the Darkness. I've recently been going through all the various action-RPGs the system had to offer and kinda found myself lusting for more, so I expanded the scope.

Shining in the Darkness had one of those cover arts I vividly remember seeing in game stores during the 90s, I understood already back then that whatever this was would be too complicated for my feeble preschool brain, but it had a shiny glossy allure that still beckoned to me with promises of daring adventures and grand battles. Questions lingered in my head: Who is that evil bastard zapping sparks at Cavin from the Gummi Bears? Why has the king entrusted the safety of his kingdom to a meagre boy and his two misfit friends?

Well, it turns out that big bad guy is called Dark Sol, the bane of all game difficulty discourse, and the reason the king has enlisted three poor kids is because there is no one else to rely on after your daddy went missing. Everyone else just sorta gives up along the way.

My initial conclusion of this game was to commend my young self for the striking assessment, my five year old self would never get anywhere in this game between the English text, abstracted navigation and number crunching battle mechanics. Shining in the Darkness is a bona fide classic dungeon gauntlet endurance simulator, where you traverse vanishing point block tunnels and encounter enemies. I've played one or two games like this before, like the original Phantasy Star, but this time a new desire struck me. I wanted to draw maps. Maybe I'm just getting older and more patient, leading me to wilfully ignore easily available resources online.

By my recollection, this is the first time I've dedicated myself to playing a game like this. Usually I just resort to my sense of direction, which I've gathered seems to at least be above average, since anytime I go anywhere with anyone I always end up playing shepherd so they don't get lost. Worst case scenario I'll just fall back to mapping efforts by online heroes from years past. For Shining in the Darkness I persisted blindly about halfway through until I admitted to myself charting a map of the labyrinthine caves would be a lot easier. Luckily, the game allows you to spend 1 MP to see a chunk of where you've walked, meaning I could get neatly organized segments to copy by hand.

Perhaps my biggest takeaway from this endeavour was how much of the game experience was expressed through this map project. I spent just as much time slaying beasts as I did counting tiles and filling them out with my pencil. It became a natural counterbalance that provided vital pacing to the game mechanics. Walking, fighting, charting. In turn, through the principle of learning by doing, I gained a more intimate familiarity with the environments by just replicating them out on a sheet of paper. I found that while the map helped, I actually didn't need it much for backtracking because my drawings had helped me remember the layouts of the corridors anyway.

I guess the lesson learned is that while old design sensibilities may appear to be arcane and cumbersome when easier solutions exists, the obfuscation is part of the fun. The game hands me an intentionally hard to navigate world, shows me that it's fully capable of displaying maps of it, but still asks me to provide that dimension myself. Through doing this, I discover that drawing maps is both surprisingly enjoyable and cognitively stimulating. I realize that had I downloaded some pre-packaged maps online and used as my bible, Shining in the Darkness would've been a vastly different experience, one of monotonous meandering through endless fights while confidently striding along the known path.

Perhaps that's why the game was called Shining and the Darkness in Japan, it doesn't flow as well as the western title, but at the same time it poetically reflects this act of discovery. I am Shining, the game provides the Darkness, we work together, we must unify to become whole.

As for Dark Sol, he turned into a big monster boy and was vanquished by a spunky cartographer child and her two cohorts. The unknown has been made known and the kingdom is once more saved.

/Kiki

[full-of-mercy]

Puzzle pieces click into place like the tumblers of an old lock, striking Nicholas silent as he listens. Listens to the way Vash harmonizes with himself, eerie and beautiful, forlorn and hopeful. Listens to the way chain clatters cold and obdurate on the shelf, links that bind, links that damn, gilt and precious and cursed. Perhaps objects can echo the weight of the deeds contained within when few of them are good.

There is something to be said about preserved vellum, about the reliquary with its dubiously holy objects, some from Earth, some replicated from text, some from the memory of a man cursed to live until he was allowed to die at his master's hand. The pages Vash searches are not paper; they are skin, some with imperfections, pits and pores, some with ghostly outlines of ink, not from any pen.

Memories.

They permeate this place like dust settles on eaves untouched for the last two years.

But they are distant. Not licking at their ankles like shadows starved for warmth. They are objects and history, and their refrain can be done. It can be.

The date of Wolfwood's death was never recorded. Chapel was not there to record it. Livio, as they know, still lives. The book marks them as living members of the Eye of Michael and, with records of some of their transgressions--their 'blessed' deeds--with their biomarkers impressed indelibly in the history of the organization.

Vash asks for a pencil, and that stirs Wolfwood from his stillness. He moves with a short breath, rummaging once more through Chapel's expansive desk for something that will suffice. It does not take long - graphite and charcoal both click to the otherwise immaculate executive surface. His palm spreads over another false bottomed drawer, and pressing it down reveals a compartment that brightens from black to a soft, cool white.

Another artifact.

It hums as he reaches for it, and the brilliance of the artificial light makes him realize how dark his fingertips are. His nail-beds, his nails. Black, nearly so, as if stained. They don't feel any different, it's hardly cause for alarm, but it is a note in contrast that roots him to the moment.

"Suppose it could be Zazie," he rumbles, scooping the fist-sized crystalline glass and metal sphere out of its soft padding, lifting it up with a gentle shake. "Wonder what they could've been looking for."

Rattle-rattle.

Inside are seeds.

Unremarkable at first glance. Hard, glossy, russet brown, interspersed here and there with what look to be strips of leathery pod. Nicholas turns the vessel over in careful hands, glancing from it and over to Vash as it all sinks in. Zazie, here. Tedra died in 114. Likely, then, she died to the Punisher's bullets, or on the way, escorting Chapel's final mission to the orphanage. Perhaps she was one of Razlo's assistants. There were three, after all.

All yours. What to do with it.

"...Chapel'd meant for me to be his successor. Prodigal son, I s'pose."

His tongue darts out to his lower lip, half nervous in want of a cigarette, half to chase the bitterness from his mouth.

"If you hadn't come along..."

If I hadn't met you. If you hadn't showed me the possibility of Choice. If, if, if.

"Mmnh. This is all I want."

Rattle.

"Think I'd want to toss the rest into the incinerator, but. Someone could make use of it." He gestures with the orb to the book and to Livio's records. "We should take these."

He glances at Vash's face, meeting eye contact. More hope than haunt.

And then after a beat he moves, crosses the floor, plucking up the gilded key once again. He searches along the wall, feeling with his knuckles for the divot and - with a hum of satisfaction - presses the back of the key in to catch.

Grind.

Turn.

Clack-hiss, the panel depresses and slides aside, revealing a hallway that slopes upward into a round room. The smell of living green, floral and humid, tickles the nostrils with the exchange of air, a geo-dome in miniature. At the center stands a tree, thick-trunked and evergreen; five men of their height could stand on each other's shoulders to reach the crown that barely kisses the lighting elements up above.

"...she kept it alive," Wolfwood breathes, quietly awed.

Vash's sister. Though there were no human hands to harvest the bounty of pods spurred from the trunk and the sturdy branches, she kept it nourished. Dozens of seedlings cling to the loam around the gnarled roots.

A cult of ritual, of pain, of suffering, of death. The Eye of Michael did not need to hide anything that wasn't already hidden. Its members, willingly or not, had been set apart. They were the wolves among sheep. Their lives were already forfeit, buried some fifty feet below jagged teeth of superheated sand and twisted metal. Buried, then buried again. 

What good that came of this place is not because of the shepherds that tended to it. 

As cruel as humans could be to those viewed as other, they were just as capable of visiting horrors equal or worse than upon themselves. Vash sees that here and now, not for the first time, but this is the part of Nicholas’s story that had not been mapped out in scars no matter how deeply the Eye sunk its teeth into his flesh. 

None of it changes how he feels about Nicholas. Nothing changes, except the scale weighing his guilt tips farther to one side. Guilt that glimmers beneath his lashes as he gaze drops to watch while Wolfwood rummages through the desk, guilt for what he did not know, what he could not stop, for an indirect matter of responsibility that nevertheless wrenches his heart in his chest when he thinks of Wolfwood’s haunted eyes. There is guilt, and there is the silent resolve to prevent history from repeating itself as much as he knows that history has a tendency to echo and rhyme.

This time, they have each other to rely on.

Vash hums an old tune, soft and low as unseen objects tumble about the recesses of the desk drawers. He stops when Wolfwood extends his hand. The keyring has a noticeable heft to it when Vash takes it and goes to lift the record book from its resting place. With a jangle and a click when he turns the key, the heavy bolt releases and Vash coils the chains that bound the tome back onto the shelf. 

“Thumbprints, huh…The computer ought to accept alternate forms of authentication. Could lift the prints to fool the scanners and give us access to see what Tedra was up to.” Vash pauses. “If it was Tedra. Need a pencil.”

Sacred writs filled with everything Wolfwood had listed and more. Vash flips through the pages, some of them fragile and crumbling at the very edges. Over a century’s worth of names and dates in the order that they came to be seen by the Eye. Perhaps its owner committed to memory the page to every name of the order’s lifespan, as if active remembrance granted some manner of absolution.  

“Ah! Found ‘em.” 

Deacon’s Contract

The Eye of Michael and Tedra Madsen, Deacon of the St. Michael’s Church, do hereby enter into the following contract with respect to their work. The Deacon agrees to faithfull perform all duties as commanded in the Eye of Michael, effective January 1st SD 109…

Vash’s eyes flit back and forth repeatedly as he focuses on one particular section of the contract with a puzzled knit to his brow.

“...It says here at the bottom she died…In May. 114.” 

Right before Wolfwood went to Hopeland on his own. Vash stares at the date for several seconds, considering with narrowed eyes. So if Tedra has already been dead for these past several years… 

“Could be Zazie,” Vash supposes out loud with a hand touching the side of his face and a gradual tilt of his head. They’d have a better idea once he no longer had shallow access to their intranet. He looks out at the room and its vanities. “So, what do you want to do with this stuff? In a way…It’s all yours now.”

[shelbazoidz]

Lady Dimitrescu x Reader, Teacher AU (WIP)

 because I have no self control or shame apparently

Your pen works over the previous day's homework as the clock ticks on the wall. Periodically you'll look up and see Cassandra with her brow furrowed as she erases something. She asked for the first ten minutes to work on the math problems on her own before you helped her. That hadn't been your initial plan but the twelve year old made a convincing argument so you let her work. Although it didn't look like it was going too well. Since there were five more minutes left you still respected her wishes.

"This is stupid!" The sudden outburst nearly makes you jump as you look up from your papers.

"What's wrong Cassandra?" You ask, moving from around your desk.

"Bela and Dani get to go do fun things after school and I'm stuck here because I'm too dumb to do math." Cassandra sits back in her chair glaring down at the worksheet as if it's taunting her. There are frustrated tears brimming in her eyes.

You squat down next to the desk. Her pencil is gripped so tightly you think it might break. You slowly take it from her hand and gently put it down.

"Cassandra, look at me." You say softly but firm enough that she eventually looks up at you with watery eyes.

"You are not dumb. Everyone struggles with something and that's perfectly normal. Okay?"

"Okay." She replies, still sounding sad.

"Can I tell you a secret?" You offer and she brightens a little.

"Yes."

"I struggled with math all the way until college." Your admission has her giving you a suspicious expression.

"You did? But you're a math teacher?" She says a little confused, still looking as if she didn't believe you.

"It's true." You laugh lightly at the questioning gaze. "I finally fell in love with it my first year of college and knew I wanted to teach by my second."

"I don't get people that like math." She looks back to the paper on the desk.

"How about we work through this first problem together?" You test and she chews on her lip before nodding.

"Alright." There's a smile that returns to her face as you start going over the problem.

The rest of your time together goes smoothly and Cassandra is actually able to do the rest on her own by the time you go through the first few together.

"Cass!!" A voice calls and you both look up seeing Daniela come bounding into the room with Bela trailing behind her. "Time to go. Mother is picking us up today." Her words make Cassandra beam. You stand from your seat as she quickly packs all of her things. Once she swings her book bag over her shoulder you grab the keys to your room and motion to the door.

"Come on girls, I'll walk you out." You go down the hallways with the chattering girls in tow, holding open the main door as they file past you. There's a car waiting out front. A woman is leaning against it and your mouth goes dry at the sight of her.

Your mind hadn't even registered that you'd be meeting Lady Dimitrescu right now. The other teachers had mentioned her a few times, always sounding a little fearful. You thought it was ridiculous you had to add 'Lady' to her name, but they urged you that it was a necessity. Now that you're looking at her you couldn't imagine calling her anything else.

She slides the sunglasses off her face and makes eye contact with you. All thoughts leave your mind when that enchanting gaze is on you. Her face is partially shadowed by the hat on her head and you swear it looks like her eyes were glowing for a moment but as soon as you blink it's gone.

"Mother!" Bela shouts, the three girls dash towards her. Lady Dimitrescu smiles fondly at them as they crash into her.

"Hello girls. How was your day?" She greets and is immediately bombarded with three voices talking at once. "Alright alright, I can only listen to one story at a time. We can chat on the way home." She says kissing each of them on the cheek before the girls gleefully pile into the back of the car.

Her eyes look to you again and she comes over. It strikes you how insanely tall she is. She has to be the tallest woman...no person you've ever met. You actually have to tilt your head up to meet her eyes when she's in front of you. It takes all of you to not outright stare at the perfectly tailored white pants suit she's wearing.

"Thank you for walking them out." She says with a smile.

"It wasn't a problem." You reply, surprised at how flustered you are. By the smirk on her lips you know she notices but she doesn't comment on it. Instead her eyes scan over your own attire and you shift a little under that piercing gaze. Something flashes in her eyes but it's gone so quickly you can't figure out what it was.

"Are you new? I don't believe we've met." She meets your eyes again.

"I started a few weeks ago." It's taking all your brain power to remember how to speak.

"You did now?" The velvety smooth tone of her voice has your mind going places it really shouldn't be right now. "What is your name?" She asks.

"Ms...Ms…" You practically forget your own last name when the scent of her floral perfume fills your nose. Eventually the name tumbles out of you. She repeats it, the sound makes your heart flutter a bit.

"Ah, so that's you. It's lovely to finally meet you. I'm Lady Dimitrescu. My girls have spoken fondly of you." She holds out her hand and you pray yours isn't sweating as you take it.

"I'm glad. They're wonderful to have in class." You reply trying to keep your voice steady.

"That's good to hear." She looks down at her watch and frowns slightly as if annoyed to have to leave. "Well I'm looking forward to seeing you again."

"Me too." You reply almost too quickly, mentally kicking yourself. She smirks at you again before placing her sunglasses back on. Wordlessly she walks back around the car and elegantly slides into the front seat.

You didn't know it was possible to be elegant doing something so simple.

She gives you another nod, the girls waving happily at you from the backseat. You smile and wave back as they pull off.

"Holy shit." You finally let out a breath.

Any more interactions with Lady Dimitrescu might actually kill you.

(This is actually out now if y’all are interested)

[paperpocalypse]

the space-time continuum.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You”: 9. Participating in their hobby even if it doesn’t personally interest you.

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 1,456 words

Warning: Swearing

Five doesn’t really have any hobbies in the traditional sense.

He’s becoming more and more of a workaholic these days. The siblings love to harp on Luther for being as bland as toast, but even Number One takes the time to have fun once in a while; Five does not, at least not for the past few months. Even his weekly half hour of sanctioned free time is usually spent practicing his spatial jumps or writing equations. Lots of equations. One would be inclined to say that working is Five’s hobby, in its own, terribly boring way.

So one Saturday, when the clock strikes noon, you head over to Five’s room and knock on the door.

“Come in.”

“Well, that was easy,” you say, opening the door. Five is at his desk, scribbling in yet another notebook. “I thought there’d be more resistance.”

“Only three people in this house knock before coming in,” Five replies, not looking up as you walk over. “Mom, Vanya, and you. Mom is cleaning the living room and Vanya’s practicing, so that leaves –” he crosses a line out – “you.”

You smile. “Don’t I feel special.”

“Yeah, well, don’t flatter yourself.”

Knowing that he’ll probably kick you out if you tease him further, you instead peer over his shoulder at his work. Equations, just as you suspected. There’s a ragged edge near the spine where he had torn a page out and started over.

“Any way I could help?”

“Probably not.”

You glare at him. There’s just the slightest uptick on the corner of his mouth. “Everything has a pattern, Five. I bet I could find one in all this stuff.”

“This ‘stuff’ is space-time mathematical physics. Of course there’re patterns, but they’re all twisted together in the world’s shittiest rope.” He finally looks up at you in that piercing way of his, and you try to ignore the jump in your heartbeat when he does so. “There’s a chair right over there. If you’re going to stick around, don’t hover over me like a vulture.”

In other words, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. Not bothering to press down a smile, you drag the chair over and sit next to Five, as close as you can without invading his personal space – he’s gotten more adamant about it lately, along with his growing antisocial tendencies. But today, it seems that he’s alright with your knees touching. Hands folding politely on top of the desk, you take the briefest moment to admire his side profile before examining his work closely for the first time.

Everything has a pattern. You tune out the sounds of your breathing, the crisp sound of a pen scratching at paper, your blood pulsing. Working with inanimate things is still a pain; you’d rather concentrate on living things than a jumble of numbers and variables. But this is important to Five and you want to help him, so you take in a slow, deep breath and drag your eyes down the page.

Yikes. It looks like one of the exercises Sir Hargreeves makes you train with, unfortunately. Most of the page is a derivation of some kind. You stare at the steps without blinking, eyes straining to locate just a thread, anywhere, to grasp –

“Ah-ha!” you exclaim when a trail fades into view, light blue against the pure white paper. Five looks over at you, and you grin sheepishly.

“You got it?” he asks dryly, twisting the pen once over his fingers. Still, his tone is expectant.

You fixate on the next page, and the rest of the patterns come into view, each one a different color. Five’s right – they’re all twisted together like a rope. It’s looser in some places, though.

“Got it,” you breathe. “Wow, that’s pretty neat.”

Five hums, satisfied, and resumes writing. You watch the paper intently as he continues to fill the notebook with figures, circling some numbers here and there and testing a calculation on some scrap paper every once in a while. The threads weave in and out of each other, and after a few minutes, you begin to see wisps of equations yet to be written – approximations of the best path to take. They’re faint, but you can see them. Yes!

“Might I give my humble opinion, Five?” you put in when he finally pauses.

He raises an eyebrow, pen clicking. “Shoot.”

Keeping your eyes on the notebook, you scoot closer and reach over to grab the scrap paper, plucking a spare pencil from the holder at the corner his desk. Five’s gaze burns into your hand as you start copying down the prediction as well as you can.

Once you’ve finished, you point at the denominator of the last answer in Five’s notebook. “So according to the pattern, you should –”

“Expand it as a power series in Planck’s constant,” Five mutters, leaning in to check your work. “Huh. That makes sense.” He nods, glancing over at you with a thoughtful expression. “Nice work.”

The compliment brings forth all sorts of gushy feelings that you’d rather die than admit to anyone, but the happiness shows on your face anyway. “No problem at all. Piece of cake.”

Five flips through his notebook again, then closes it and tosses his pen onto the desk. Leaning back in his chair, he looks past you and through the window before leveling his gaze back onto you. No words are exchanged for what feels like an eternity.

“So,” he finally says, right when you wonder whether he wants you to leave. He crosses his arms. “Why’d you really stop by?”

“What?”

“Well, to put it nicely, you’re not exactly a math person. Especially when it comes to the kind I’m doing, so …” Five tilts his head toward you.

You balk, scrambling for a way to explain without sounding like a buffoon. He simply waits, letting you brew as usual, as if he has all the time in the world until you come up with something. “I just …” you finally manage, shrugging weakly, “wanted to hang out with you. You’ve been kinda cooped up in your room lately, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Doing that?” You gesture to his notebook. He nods. “What is it, exactly?”

“A spatial jump study.”

“Spatial jump study?” you echo, blinking with surprise. “Why?”

“Dad wants me to know how my power works as part of my training,” Five says flatly, standing up and walking towards his nightstand. “It’ll prepare me for time traveling – even though I’ve been ready for months already.”

You blink rapidly, taken aback. “You can time travel?”

He opens a drawer and rummages through its contents, picking something up. “Technically, I already can, since my spatial jumps manipulate time to a certain degree. If Dad would just let me, I could jump months forward. Maybe even years.” He tosses whatever he’d been holding to you. Instinctively, you catch it. “You dropped that after our last mission, by the way.”

You look down at your hand. In it lies a small keychain in the shape of a fluffy little bird, lemon yellow and cartoonish. Frowning, you pick it up by the keyring and dangle it closer to your face. Did you drop this one? You remember that you had lost a keychain when one of the robbers tore your jacket pocket, and that you had gone with birds that day, but to be honest you don’t quite remember what it looked like. You have a lot of bird keychains. The perks of joining the famous Umbrella Academy, you guess.

You pocket it anyway. “Thanks,” you murmur, touched either way.

Five shrugs and strides back over, hands in his pockets. “No problem. It was easy to spot.”

“I’ll say.” Standing up, you glance at the alarm clock next to his bed and gawp at the time. 12:20. There’s only ten minutes left? Geez. “Well … I better get ready. I’ll see you during training, I guess.”

Reluctantly, you make your way to the door, hearing the muffled clunk of your chair being set down as Five returns it back to its rightful place. Right. But when you open the door, preparing to step out into the hallway, he calls your name.

You quickly look back. “Hm?”

“Let me know if you need any help with your puzzles,” he says.

A smile immediately crawls onto your lips. Nodding, you look down at your feet and then back up at him. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

As you walk towards your room, strangely giddy, you pass Diego on the way. He gives you a weird look but you hardly care, reaching into your jacket pocket to touch the cool metal within.

See you then.

[anon-rebel-writes]

Something Simple

Hi! Hey! How’s it going? Good? That’s so good!

So I’ve been gone...Ha ha. I feel like I should have an excuse ready, and an apology, and a promise to do better in the future. But honestly, I don’t have...any of those.

Well I do have an apology, I’m sorry that I’ve been gone and kinda just left the internet. I don’t really look at social media as much as I used to (which honestly is super good for mental health, but kinda sucky if you do stuff on social media :P)

I haven’t had a ton of ideas lately, and when I do, I get frustrated with myself because it’s not the most amazing piece that I’ve ever worked on. I had a serious talk with my girlfriend (she’s seriously the majority of my inspiration for most of my works) and she said something that gave me an epiphany.

Sometimes you just have to make some sucky tea until you make the best tea of your life :) (I swear that makes more sense if you read the story lol)

I like domestic fluff. I like short and simple stories. So that’s what this is! I don’t wanna waste my time waiting fro inspiration to strike when I can make something to get me through writer’s block! So if you don’t mind my wacky schedule, I hope you enjoy this simple piece :)

It begins under the cut! <3 Ao3 Link

This should be easy.

It used to be easy for him when he was younger. When he was five, Luka would listen to the waves on the boat and hear a unique tune out of it. At eleven, his mom told him about an old tale she heard and he wrote lyrics based on it. Sixteen, Juleka would idly pluck her bass and he’d come up with three different songs just from the sound. Music was natural to him.

Now it was hard. Nothing inspired him. He was supposed to be a musical guy. How could this tear him down so easily! Maybe his life was too good now. No problems to sing about, no unrequited love songs, no daddy issues. His life was great! What happened to him?

After his dad came back into his life, he appreciated their little relationship. They would jam out and have fun, although it was still awkward to call him ‘dad’, it still seemed fine. He found out a lot of weird stuff with magic and identities when he was younger, but it led to Marinette confessing a huge secret to him. Misunderstandings got cleared up and they ended up reigniting their romantic relationship. After proposing to her last year, they got an apartment that was perfect for them.

Everything was perfect, really. Maybe that was the problem, everything was perfect. Juleka did tease him lately about “losing his edge”. Was his edge gone? His blue dyed hair was barely visible nowadays, any tattoos he got during university were usually covered up by his vast collection of MDC sweaters, even his ear piercings were replaced with whatever colored ones matched his outfit that day!

Maybe he was getting old. He was getting engaged to one of the sweetest people in the world, maybe her sugar-like sweetness rubbed off on him.

Was his music destined to be lost to the winds forever? Did all the talent leave his blood the moment he started settling into a domestic life? Juleka seemed to keep her musical charm, she still did small gigs with Rose in coffee shops every now and then. Ivan even toured around with his new band after university.

All Luka did now was make instruments. Was that even close to musical? His dad supported his career decision, despite intense protests. His in-laws helped him open a little shop. Everything was so easy and simple.

Even now, he waited for Marinette to come home so they could finish watching 'Halloween Wars'. He spends his nights watching reality television. Who has he become?!

It clearly led him here, on his couch, guitar in hand, with no progress being made. He wanted to make something fantastic. Something that Marinette would hear and be reminded of the songs he used to write for her. Luka would sing to her and he would tell himself how he “still has it”.

But nothing came out. No tune, no music, no notes, no lyrics, nothing. Luka sighed and put his guitar on the side of the couch and decided to take his mind off of music, at least for now. A little break should be good! Looking across the living room, he realized the utter mess he made.

Music sheets were scattered across the coffee table, pencils somehow found their way to the floor. Maybe he should clean up, just to have a clean environment to work in.

…

Or maybe he should make himself some tea. Tea always gets creative juices flowing! Not cleaning up, nope. That’s what people do when they’re avoiding stuff and Luka Couffaine does not avoid stuff! Especially not cleaning messes that look like a natural disaster hit his living room. Nope, not avoiding.

So that’s where Marinette found the love of her life two hours later after work. In the kitchen, making tea, warzone in the living room and his heart clearly broken. Opening the apartment door and seeing the utter chaos made her remember just who she was about to marry, but going into the kitchen and seeing the look of despair on his face when he realized they had no honey for his tea was just plain sad.

She took off her shoes and coat and walked over to where he stood, hunched over the counter, staring deeply into his bitter tea. Her arms wrapped around his middle and she let her head rest between his shoulder blades. “Lu? You okay?”

Instead of answering, Luka gently stirred the tea with a spoon and shook his head. “...we forgot to buy honey.”

“And…that’s the only reason you seem upset?”

One quick glance over to the living room definitely made her question if honey was truly the culprit. Then again this wouldn’t be the first time a Couffaine had caused trouble for something small. She’d never forget the shape of the boat after the Captain had lost her favorite headband.

“I… can’t make music anymore.”

Marinette slowly let go of his midsection and turned him to face her. She squinted at his face, trying to see if this was an elaborate joke. “Uh- No offense, but that doesn’t seem possible. I mean… music is second nature to you.”

“You don’t get it. I lost my edge! I’m not cool anymore. I don’t have daddy issues, or love issues, or school issues, or work issues, or-”

“Yeah yeah, you were an angsty boy. But music didn’t come from you because you were edgy. Music is just a part of who you are. Whether you have issues or not. And believe me, the songs you used to write for me were anything but edgy.”

Luka sighed and grabbed his cup of bitter tea. He looked in it and gave it to Marinette. “This tea sucks. It’s like my music. It doesn’t have that ‘umph’ that it needs to be good.” She looked into the cup and decided to take a sip. She let the flavor sit on her tongue for a bit and stared back into the cup, thinking to herself for a second.

“The tea isn’t great, I’ll give you that. But that doesn’t mean it’s bad. It’s just… simple. Nothing too extraordinary, nothing too disgusting. It just tastes like tea. And maybe you just need to make simple tea every once in a while before you can go back to making your delicious Luka juice.”

He chuckled at her analogy and took the tea cup back to give it one last sip. Honestly Marinette was right, although she always tended to be right about these things, the tea wasn’t awful. It wasn’t his favorite, but not every song is his favorite either.

She gave him a kiss on his cheek before heading over to their bedroom.

Luka decided to move back over to the living room to clean the area up a little bit. He put away the massive amount of paper and took most of the pencils from the area, leaving only one sheet of music, his guitar, and a single pencil.

He let out a deep sigh and sat back down on the couch, grabbing his guitar. He sat back and stared down at the music sheet on the table. “Something simple, huh?”

[writingforfunsies]

The Demon Brothers: Creative Outlets Headcanons

they are all immortals and when you've lived longer than you can remember, you're bound to find a creative outlet to destress, alleviate boredom, or you know, to just have fun!

Lucifer

He’s a busy demon. If he’s not working, he's sleeping, or cleaning up one of his brother’s messes, so he doesn't have that much time to just relax and explore his creative sides. 

That said though, it doesn’t mean he has no hobbies at all.

He plays the piano. He used to play it every morning, back when he’s still in the Celestial Realm, when he’d taught Lilith how to play the piano every morning and she’d sat besides him as his fingers moved across the keys slower so she could copy him. 

Nowadays, playing the piano feels very nostalgic and bittersweet, but you’ll hear soft, bittersweet melodies drift from the music room once in a while.

He also composes his own music, but that's an even rarer occurrence. The last time he created a new music piece was centuries ago. 

(Ever since MC came to Devildom though, he's been itching to write music for them.)

Practices calligraphy for fun. He has a whole set of brushes and ink and lettering pens. His handwriting is already beautiful but his calligraphy is even more amazing.

Another thing he does is gardening. He's got a great eye for landscape architecture, he's the reason why the house's backyard is pretty. 

He plants decorative plants and likes to cross breed flowers so the House of Lamentation's backyard is full of pretty shrubs and unfamiliar flowers. 

He is usually joined by Beel as he is the other brother that finds gardening very relaxing.

Mammon

He definitely shows his creativity by coming up with the most absurdly brilliant, out-of-the-box, original schemes to make money.

Mammon can draw, like really good. His drawings are very realistic. He prefers to use traditional media: charcoal pencils, graphite sticks, blenders, erasers, drawing pens, brushes, and maybe some watercolors.

He usually does architecture sketches.

But if you check his drawers, you’ll find several sketchbooks of his brothers in different candid poses. MC alone has taken up three whole sketchbooks. Mammon makes sure MC doesn’t see those sketches though.

Crashes Asmo’s Art Day regularly, claiming that if Levi’s invited then the Great Mammon should be too. Asmo and Levi always complains but they let him stay anyway.

Mammon also has a natural talent on jewelry making and metalwork. He makes jewelry from buttons, beads, pearls, diamonds, and crystals. From small pendants to elaborate neckpieces, simple anklets to ornate hairpins. 

Mammon has made metal bookmarks for Satan because the book lover always misplaces his bookmarks or destroys them in fits of rage when he doesn't like a book's ending.

He sculpts wood. It takes him months to finish one small piece because he only does it when he's really, really bored, he prefers to make his much more profitable jewelry. 

He keeps all of his sculptures in his room, small and detailed pieces of wood engraving of Devildom native animals lining up on one of the shelves.

Leviathan

This is canon but he draws! He doesn't think he's very good at it, but he really enjoys it. 

Unlike Mammon who likes to draw with his charcoal pencils and drawing pens, Levi prefers to draw digitally. He still switch to traditional media now and then though.

Has a monthly scheduled “Art Day” where he and Asmo hang out together, Levi draws with his sketchbook or his drawing tablet and Asmo paints. They basically just gossip and hype each other’s art.

Dabbles in making short animations but feels like it’s just not something for him. He makes short comics though.

He wants to be able to make his own video game someday though. Maybe after he learns programming.

He makes the most detailed cosplay outfits for his own cosplays. He sews really good and patches his brothers clothes when they ask. Where do you think Asmo learns how to sew his own clothes from?

Really good at dancing and he really likes it too. He's a natural at it. From the most intricate traditional Devildom dances to freestyle dancing. He can make new moves on the spot and can copy any moves from one look.

He’s a shy baby though, you’ll rarely see him dance when he’s sober.

Except when he’s playing DDR (Demons Dance Revolution). Then, it’s like he’s the most confident demon in Devildom.

Satan

Satan writes poetry when inspiration strikes him. He has also written short stories but he always comes back to creating beautiful poems. He’s got a way with words.

Photography is something he has only recently taken interest in but he has a great eye for taking breathtaking shots. 

Has become the family’s go-to photographer.

“Satan, take a picture of me and Mammon!” “Satan, take our picture, quick!” “Satan, help me get a picture for my Devilgram!”

He’s the reason Asmo’s Devilgram pictures always look like they’re taken professionally in a photo studio or something.

Satan loves art, likes to stroll through museums and stare at paintings for hours, but has little talent in creating them. Even so, he still likes to paint even if he's not good at it. 

Sometimes he just wants to slap paint on a canvas and make a colorful mess. It's fun. 

He joins Art Day every other month.

Another thing he does is knitting! It relaxes him. It gives him something to focus at when he's angry (um, angrier than usual), just to give his hands something to do that doesn't involve breaking anything. The simple patterns he makes are easy enough that they don't frustrate him. 

Rarely ever finishes his knitting though, you'll just find this 5 meters long knitted fabric in one corner of his room with the ends coming undone because he calms himself down enough to stop knitting.

Asmodeus

Regularly designs, cut, and sew his own clothes. 

Has a lot of sketchbooks full of drawings of flowy dresses and stylish coats and many aesthetically pleasing shirts. 

He has started his own clothing line and sometimes collaborate with Majolish. 

But for the most part, he designs clothes for himself and himself only, he doesn't want anyone else to wear clothes as fabolous as his.

Nail art? Nail art. 

Asmo paints all of the brothers nails and sometimes he'll persuade one of them to let him do a complete manicure, with glitter polish and shiny studs and all. 

Yes, even Lucifer. You just never see the results because Lucifer wears his gloves almost all the time.

Asmo creates beautiful makeup art. He doesn't really like a lot of makeup on his own face though, so his brothers' faces are his canvases.

He also has a great eye for interior decorating and flower arranging. He restyles his room every month.

Not many people know it but he paints. And he's very good at it. He has done a painting of each brother, the paintings can be seen on the walls of the House of Lamentation's hallways. 

Art Day with Levi (and sometimes Satan or Belphie) is spent with him in front of canvases, chatting with his brothers, paint splatters on his hands. It's the only day that he doesn't mind looking a little messy.

Beelzebub

He cooks, of course!  And bakes too!

It's one of the times he’s willing to wait to eat because cooking the ingredients first rather than just straight up eating them will make the foods taste better. 

Half of the food in the kitchen are his creations. Anything he can make on his own from scratch, he will; jams, ice cream, sauces, juices, bread, chips, etc. 

Likes to experiment and always do something different than the original recipes. 

He garnishes his cooking like it’s something you order from a five star restaurant.

Beel is another demon who has a green thumb. He likes taking care of plants and doesn't mind getting a bit dirty doing it so gardening is another hobby of his. 

If Lucifer plants ornamental plants, Beel grows useful plants like herbs and vegetables and small fruits. He's also good at topiary.

Always has an idea for a DIY project. 

His creations is scattered all over the House of Lamentation. Belphie's drawer divider is made out of yogurt cups. Broken drawer knobs recycled into Asmo's jewelry organizer. The coat rack. The bathroom towel holder. 

Even Lucifer's hanging Demonus rack is handmade by Beel when he's bored one weekend, with Mammon's help for the engraving decorations along the sides of the rack. Beel's got a bit of Bob the Builder in him.

He is very good at singing. His voice is clear and he has a broad vocal range. Has been caught unconsciously humming in class many times.

Has definitely sang Belphie to sleep.

Belphegor

Does his pranks counts as a creative outlet though?😂 Between him and Satan, Belphie's ideas are the most creative and out of the box, resulting on some of the best pranks they did.

Belphie does origami. It's relaxing, easy enough to learn, and doesn't take much effort and energy to do it. 

Has stacks of origami papers in his room: standard origami paper, foil paper, traditional Washi ones, the leather-like Momigami paper, all kinds of paper. 

He especially loves to make little origami stars and keeps them in glass jars in his room.

Belphie also has adult coloring books. 

And kids coloring books.

Coloring is relaxing to him. It's very calming to just lay down and fills a page with pretty colors for a while. It's not a tiring way to destress, he can color without moving from his bed, and it feels satisfying when he finishes a whole page. 

He sometimes joins Art Day if he's not too lazy to move. Still prefers to color alone where it's quiet though.

He also journals. It's another thing he can do that is inexpensive and not energy consuming. He writes about anything that comes to his mind, his thoughts, his ideas, memories. 

Definitely keeps a dream journal.

Also I headcanon that as the Avatar of Sloth, sleep and dreams are some of the things he can manipulate. He enjoys creating dreams; the worldbuilding, the story, the details. He can be really creative when it comes to making them, spinning the most vivid and imaginative dreams. 

They’re not necessarily good dreams though. After all, he is still a demon, his dreams will most likely mess up your mind than make you smile in your sleep.

[bluejayblueskies]

the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Four: unsweet dreams Words: 4.3k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Nightmares

Work Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

Chapter Summary:

Daisy lets out a little huff of air through her nose and says, “Do you still have the same dreams? Or did the Eye take those with it when it left?”

They’re not the same, Jon writes. Then, hesitantly and with a lump in the back of his throat: I can’t decide if they’re better or worse.

“Yeah, me either.” Daisy looks at a point just over one of Jon’s shoulders and says, “My dreams are memories, I think.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five| Chapter Six| Chapter Seven

Or read below:

(cw for mentions of knife and gun violence, mentions of blood)

Jon isn’t used to his nightmares being his own. He’d spent so long closing his eyes only to open new ones, ones that had no eyelids and did not look away and knew nothing but watching and knowing, never enough space in his own head for the things that haunted him and him alone. (Those nightmares restricted themselves to the daytime, striking him at odd moments and leaving him shaking and breathless, his chest tight and his hands clenched into fists on his thighs as he tried to remember how to breathe.) Then, the world had ended and he hadn’t needed to sleep at all, save for the period with Salesa that he’s told was nice, really nice and the time spent in the tunnels beneath what used to be the Institute. By then, he hadn’t needed to dream. Maybe he wasn’t capable of it anymore; maybe he’d forgotten how.

Then, he’d awoken in the middle of the first night of what he and Martin have started to simply call after, a shout stuck at the back of his throat with no way to release it and his hand pressed against his chest, directly above the ragged scar that’s made its home upon his skin. Martin had woken too—he’d always been a light sleeper, even before, and it appeared that he’d only grown lighter during the in-between—and had reached out for him, concern etched across his face.

Jon hadn’t meant to flinch away. But the afterimage of the nightmare was still vibrant in his mind, the phantom pain in his chest still acute, and his body had reacted without giving his mind time to think. Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the look on Martin’s face, horrified and devastated and broken. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for it, either.

He’d had the same nightmare the next night, awakening with a soundless gasp with his hand pressed over his chest. But he’d remembered the previous night and had moved slowly and carefully so as not to wake Martin as he slipped out of bed and out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where he’d sat at the table with a glass of water in his hands and had stared blankly at the wall in front of him. He hadn’t slept any further that night, and when Martin had come out of the bedroom in the morning to find him curled up on the couch, book in hand, he’d looked hurt, then worried, then blank. Jon isn’t sure which expression he felt more guilty for causing, but he knew any of them were better than what he’d seen the first night.

So, when Jon wakes up tonight with his heart in his throat and an ache in his chest, he waits for his heart rate to slow before once again sliding out from underneath the duvet and glancing briefly at Martin’s face—still slack with sleep—before he exits the bedroom and makes his way to the kitchen.

His pulse accelerates once again as he spots a shadowy figure sitting on the couch, barely outlined by the moonlight filtering in through the window, before he remembers that it’s not just him and Martin in the safehouse anymore. He’s not quite sure how to announce himself in a way that won’t startle Daisy, but he must have made some sort of sound despite trying to avoid the noisy floorboards because her head turns towards him, her expression lost in shadow, and she says quietly, “Can’t sleep?”

Jon lets out a long, heavy breath and nods. After a moment, he makes his way over to the couch, hesitating before sitting on the opposite end of it as Daisy.

She’d had nightmares back in the Archives sometimes—ones where she woke up suddenly with a sharp intake of breath, her hands scrabbling at her throat for a brief moment before dropping away once she realized where she was. The first time Jon had asked, she’d snapped that it was none of his business, her shoulders still tight with fear and stress. The second time he’d asked—because he never was good at keeping his curiosity in check—she’d glared at him for a moment before saying, clipped and weary, “The dirt never filled my lungs, but sometimes, it felt like it had.”

He didn’t ask again. And she’d never wanted him close in the minutes after she awoke, shying away from a hand on her shoulder or against her wrist or his occasional clumsy attempts at a hug. Some weeks after they’d crawled out of the coffin hand in hand, she’d turned away from him and mumbled something about claustrophobia and things touching her skin, and though he hadn’t entirely understood, he thought he understood enough.

Jon doesn’t know if Daisy’s had another one of those nightmares now, and if that’s why she’s awake, or if she just hadn’t gone to sleep at all. So he keeps his distance as he sits just in case, folding his legs underneath him and covering his hands with the too-long sleeves of his jumper to fight off the chill, and she doesn’t move to close it. Instead, she looks at him; at this distance, he’s able to pick out the angled slant of her nose and the way her lips are flat and pinched. It’s quiet for a long moment. Then, Daisy lets out a little huff of air through her nose and says, “Do you still have the same dreams? Or did the Eye take those with it when it left?”

Jon opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it, fluttering his hands in frustration. He shakes his head, huffs in annoyance, then stands and makes his way to the kitchen, picking through drawers and cabinets until he locates a few pieces of scrap paper and a nearly-blunt pencil that he looks at with distaste before deciding that it’ll be good enough for now. He collects the book sitting on the table next to the couch as he returns so that he has something hard to write on, tucks himself in the opposite corner of the couch as Daisy again, and—with a sigh as he stares down at the darkened paper in front of him—reaches behind him and turns on the lamp.

The room fills with a warm golden glow not dissimilar to that of firelight, and with slightly more force than is probably necessary, Jon writes, They’re not the same. Then, hesitantly and with a lump in the back of his throat: I can’t decide if they’re better or worse.

He holds the paper up for Daisy to see, resisting the urge to tear it away before she has the chance to read the words. Although it’s still hard sometimes, it’s… it’s easier to be vulnerable like this. There had been times before, when he’d been dating Georgie or when he used to spend evenings with Tim and Sasha or when he and Martin first moved into the safehouse, where he’d found himself overwhelmed and unable to vocalize what he felt sitting at the back of his tongue no matter how hard he tried. Georgie had grown frustrated once, telling him to just spit it out and that she couldn’t help if he wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. He’d snapped that he couldn’t, mortified to find his voice slightly choked as he did so. He’d pressed his fist to his mouth for a long moment, trying to force himself to just spit it out, before accepting that it simply wasn’t going to happen and mumbling that he had to use the restroom before leaving the room quicker than was strictly necessary. He’d sat on the cool tile floor, arms wrapped around his knees and back knocking gently against the wall as he rocked forward and back, trying to whisper the words to himself now that he was alone and finding that he still couldn’t force them past his lips.

When he finally left the restroom, Georgie intercepted him on the way to the front door, gently guided him to the couch in the living room, and handed him a pen and paper. He stared at and stared at it and stared at it as she said, in a voice more controlled and level than it had been however many minutes prior, that she’d googled some things and she thought this might help. And that she was sorry for pushing. He looked at her after a moment, twisting the cap of the pen back and forth between his fingers, and she gave him what he thought was meant to be an encouraging smile.

So he wrote down what he could. And it was easier, even if it was hard to hand her the paper afterward and to sit there as she read it silently to herself, dreading whatever she would say to him once she was done (or worse—that she would ask him to say more, to explain himself further).

Daisy doesn’t ask him to say more now. She reads the words and nods, says, “Yeah, me either,” and lets out a long breath before sitting back more heavily on the arm of the couch she’s leaning against. They sit there in silence for what must be minutes. It should probably be uncomfortable, but it’s not. Jon closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of the couch, the faint light from the lamp bleeding in through his eyelids and his breathing slowing into something relaxed as he slowly lets the tension of the nightmare drain out of him. He only opens his eyes again when he feels the faint brush of something against his foot, and when he looks down, he sees that Daisy has uncurled her legs and has stretched them out slightly, knees still bent but one foot resting just beside Jon’s. Jon doesn’t move, and after a moment, Daisy looks at a point just over one of Jon’s shoulders and says, “My dreams are memories, I think.”

Jon moves so his ankle brushes up against hers, and when she shifts her gaze so it meets his, he nods once, tilting his chin slightly forward in a go-on, I’m-listening gesture. He knows she dislikes vulnerability as well—she’d said once that it makes her feel unguarded, open, as if inviting herself to be hurt—but he thinks they’d almost gotten to the point, before everything had gone wrong, where they’d been able to deconstruct all of their walls around each other. Jon’s were already cracked, and they crumbled at the slightest of touches. Daisy’s were thicker, well-fortified, and though they had fractured slightly under the pressure of miles of dirt and sand, they stood solid. Jon shared, and Daisy listened, and it was rarely the other way around. Still, near the end, it felt like it was becoming more balanced, like the bricks were coming loose and holes were beginning to appear through which Jon could look and see the other side clearly.

Jon sees the wall, just for a moment, as Daisy hesitates, her eyes sliding away from his and landing on an indeterminate point behind him. Then, Daisy takes a breath, lets it out, and says, “I close my eyes, and I… I see Basira.” The words clearly upset her, though the only real indication Jon gets is the slightest twitch of her jaw, a small sign of discomfort that he’s come to recognize. “It’s strange, because the way I feel when I look at her… I know it’s me, and it feels like me, but it’s also… not. I look at her, and I want her to come with me, and… and that feels like me. But I also want her to be like me, to… to chase like me, and that feels different. It feels like the part of me that was only Hunt, but it’s still me, just… a different version of me.” She pauses, her throat moving as she swallows sharply. “I like it, in the dreams. I’m happy. I chase, and I kill, and it feels right. And then I wake up, and it feels… wrong. Like I’m existing as two people at once, and they’re both me, but they’re not both me right now.” She takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. “I don’t like it.”

Jon presses his ankle against Daisy’s again, then reaches forward tentatively and places a hand atop hers. She doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t flip her hand to allow Jon to hold it properly, which is all right. He maintains the two points of contact as Daisy continues, “And then Basira’s holding a gun, and it’s hard, but I can still smell her above the- the blood.” Your blood, she doesn’t say, but Jon can tell she’s thinking it anyway by the way her eyes find his only briefly before glancing away once again. The bite mark scars are just a few inches above where his ankle makes contact with hers. “I say her name, and she looks… sad. Scared. I don’t understand, and I tell her to come. That just makes her look sadder, and there’s so much blood. I can hear it rushing in my ears, can feel it coating my mouth.” Daisy’s fingers twitch beneath his, and her free hand curls into a loose fist atop her knee. “And then she fires the gun. And I know it hurts, but I can’t feel it over the anger. She fires twice more, and…”

Daisy falls silent. Jon curls his fingers loosely around her hand, trying to provide what comfort he can. “And then I wake up,” Daisy says at length. She looks at Jon, and her eyes are heavy. Sad. “The person I was then is still angry at her. Doesn’t understand why she abandoned me, why she didn’t have my back. But who I am now, without the blood… I understand. If she had made a different choice, things would have been worse. Probably would have ended badly.” Daisy pauses, then shrugs—a small motion that’s anything but casual. “She kept her promise. Even though it hurt.”

Jon’s eyes are pulled, almost instinctively, in the direction of the bedroom, where Martin still sleeps soundly. He hesitates a moment before taking his hand away from Daisy’s and shifting so he can grip the hem of his jumper in his hands. He takes a breath to steady himself, then lifts the fabric up to his chin to reveal the jagged scar that cuts across his chest, just beneath his heart in the space where once there had been ribs but now is left empty and unprotected. He brushes a finger against it unthinkingly, feeling the raised texture beneath his fingertip, and then looks back at Daisy, who is staring at his chest with a small furrow in her brow. Jon drops the jumper, letting it settle back over his stomach, picks up the paper and pencil, and writes, in clear, blocky letters, Martin kept his promise, too. Then, he hesitates and scratches the words out, replacing them with, It can hurt to break them, too. He pauses, then scratches those out too. Finally, he settles on, Martin made a similar choice, and then amends it with a quick, Though choice is perhaps a stretch, before holding the paper up for Daisy to see.

Daisy reads the words, one eyebrow arcing into her hairline. “He gave you that?”

Jon nods.

“Hm. Looks an awful lot like a stab wound.”

Jon bites his lip and nods again, slower. Then, hastily, he scribbles, I asked him to, and holds up the paper, because it’s important that she knows. That she knows it wasn’t Martin’s fault.

“You asked him to stab you,” Daisy says. It’s not a question, and it almost sounds incredulous, but there’s also a note of sympathy behind the words. An I understand.

Jon nods, worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and writes, It’s a long story.

Daisy hums. “And you feel guilty for it,” she says. Also not a question. Jon looks at her, surprised, and Daisy sighs. “You’re an easy person to read. Terrible poker face.”

Jon scowls, but it softens almost immediately, and he looks away. After a moment, Daisy continues, “Do you feel guilty because you asked him, or because you had to ask him?”

Jon frowns at her. He’s pretty sure those are the same thing—or at least for the circumstances, they’re indistinguishable. For all of it is probably the most accurate answer he can give. He feels guilty for leaving Martin behind and he feels guilty for putting Martin in the position he did and he feels guilty for pressing the knife into Martin’s hand, but it’s complicated because if he had to go back and make the choice all over again, he… he doesn’t know if he would make a different one. He’s guilty, but he’s not sorry. Maybe he’s guilty because he’s not sorry.

“Jon,” Daisy says, and Jon blinks at her. He’s not sure how long he’s been just sitting there, unmoving, but by the expression on her face, it has to have been long enough to be bothersome. He reaches for the paper and, after a moment, writes, Both. Then: Do you feel guilty about Basira?

It’s not a deflection. It’s not. Jon just… he doesn’t know what to think. What to feel. He’s afraid that if he thinks too much about it, he might feel angry, or frustrated, or… worse. And he doesn’t want that. Daisy gives him a considering look, like she’s trying to decide if she wants to let him turn the conversation back on her, before shaking her head. “No. I don’t.”

Jon frowns and tilts his head slightly to the side in a questioning gesture. His knees are starting to cramp where they’re folded up underneath him, so he shifts so his legs are slightly outstretched, the tips of his toes brushing against the sides of Daisy’s thighs. Daisy is quiet for a moment. Then, she says, “She understood why I asked her to do what she did. She knew that I didn’t want to be… what I was. Not anymore. I asked her to kill me for my benefit, but also for hers. I… I didn’t want her to see me like that.”

Like a monster? Jon thinks, looking down at where his hands are resting on his lap. He… he thinks he understands the feeling.

“We both did what we had to,” Daisy says, an undercurrent of resignation in her voice. “There’s no use in feeling guilty for something like that. I… I know she won’t feel guilty for doing what she did. Hurt, probably. Sad. Angry. But not guilty.”

Jon curls his hands into loose fists and nods, still looking down at his lap. He knows Martin feels guilty. He can see it on Martin’s face when Jon pulls his jumper over his head to change, Martin’s eyes glancing off the scar on his chest like he can’t stand to look at it. He doesn’t know how to fix it.

He doesn’t know if he can.

Before he can obsess over it more, Jon picks up the pencil and writes, in too-big letters, We should call her. Let her know that you’re alive. It’s even more obviously a deflection than the last, but still, he holds the words up and waits expectantly for Daisy to answer them, trying to ignore the tight curling of anxiety and tension in the pit of his stomach.

The line between Daisy’s eyebrows deepens, and she looks away. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she says softly, and Jon frowns. He reaches forward and brushes his hand against hers, and she doesn’t move away, though she also doesn’t look back at him—just keeps her eyes fixated on the kitchen table. The daisies are barely visible, hidden mostly in shadow. “I don’t…” Daisy says, then stops. Her fingers twitch. “I don’t know if she’ll want to see me,” she says finally. Then, quickly after: “I don’t know if I want to see her either.”

Jon’s frown deepens, and he squeezes Daisy’s hand. Daisy must be able to see his expression out of the corner of her eye because she sighs heavily and says, “It’s—complicated, okay? Like I said, the anger is… it’s a part of me. It might still be a part of her. I don’t know what I’ll feel when I see her, and it… scares me.” She says the last part like an admission of a crime, like she’s ashamed of it. Jon squeezes Daisy’s hand again, firmer this time, and presses their legs together. She sighs again wearily and says, “Suppose I should let her know that I’m alive, though. Scared or not, she… she deserves that.” She looks at Jon out of the corner of her eye. “Hm.” At Jon’s raised eyebrow, she continues, “Does Basira know that you’re alive?”

Ah. Hm indeed. Jon pinches his lips together and shakes his head. After a moment, he picks up the paper and pencil, though he’s reluctant to let go of Daisy’s hand to do so, and writes, I don’t know if she’ll want to see me either. If that makes you feel any better.

Daisy looks at the paper and lets out a small, breathy laugh. “Not really. I appreciate the effort, though. Is it about the…” Daisy gestures in his general direction. “Archivist-ness?”

Jon grimaces and wobbles his hand from side to side in a kind-of gesture. More about the fact that I ended the world, actually, he writes.

They’d filled Daisy in as best they could when Martin had gotten back from the store, fresh cups of tea held in their hands and Jon trying not to feel frustrated at the fact that he couldn’t easily chime in as Martin told a version of events that Jon very much had opinions on. Martin had repeated the words it wasn’t Jon’s fault about a dozen or so times throughout, while Jon had sat there and tried very hard not to write any form of well, actually on the notebook in front of him. It had been exceedingly difficult.

So he supposes it’s expected that Daisy frowns and says, “Thought that wasn’t your fault,” but he still can’t help the exasperated sigh that escapes him at the words.

It’s complicated, he writes. And it doesn’t matter. Basira thought it was, at least at first, and I

He stops, pencil still resting against the paper, and after a moment, Daisy says, “Going to finish your sentence?”

Jon worries his bottom lip between his teeth and continues, I don’t know, then stops again. Another moment passes; he can feel Daisy’s eyes on him like paperweights, a gentle pressure that settles in his chest like an anchor. He forces himself to finish, and once the sentence is complete, he pushes the paper towards Daisy with a displeased expression on his face.

I don’t know if she would be glad to find out I survived.

Daisy stares at the paper for a long moment before holding it back out towards him. “You’re right. You don’t know. Maybe she won’t be, maybe she will be.” Quieter: “Maybe she’ll be angry with you too.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. You don’t know that she’ll be angry with you, he writes, a bit cheekily. Maybe she won’t be, maybe she will be.

“Bastard,” Daisy mutters, and Jon laughs, the exhalation sending the top of the page in front of him aflutter. “Fine. We can tell her we’re both alive together, then. Two birds, one stone.”

Jon nods. There’ll be no way to avoid alerting Basira to the fact that he and Martin are alive once she finds out about Daisy anyway, given that Martin will probably be the one to call her. It’s nice to have solidarity all the same.

They sit and talk about meaningless things then, until Jon runs out of paper space and Daisy’s eyelids begin to droop with exhaustion. Jon doesn’t know if sleep is in the cards for him for the rest of the night, but he feels more boneless and relaxed after spending time with Daisy, so he thinks it might be more in reach than it had been the previous nights. He should go back to the bedroom, he thinks. The bed will be better for his back, and the couch is just barely big enough for two, and he knows it would be nice to press himself to Martin’s side and feel his heartbeat against his cheek, warm and comfortable and safe. But he knows if he returns that Martin will wake, and then Martin will worry, and Jon will feel guilty all over again. So instead, Jon gives Daisy a pointed, questioning look, placing a hand on the space on the couch next to her where he knows he’ll fit if he squeezes in close.

Daisy, to her credit, doesn’t mention Martin. He thinks she understands that desire not to bother the ones you love more than is necessary, given how often she’d spent sleepless nights with him rather than waking Basira. Instead, she presses herself into the back of the couch and allows Jon to wriggle in next to her, pressing his back to her chest and allowing his head to fall underneath her chin in a familiar, practiced motion. She slings an arm over his side, and he breathes out as the weight settles a last lingering bit of unrest within him, exhaustion finally pulling at the edges of his mind as Daisy begins to snore, her chest rumbling against his spine.

He still dreams, and they’re still horrible. But when he wakes with a start however many hours later, the room still dark, Daisy doesn’t even stir, just tightens her grip on him in her sleep. He focuses on the pressure of her arm around him, tries to force his breathing into something even, and when he manages to slip into sleep a third time, he stays there until morning.

[tornsurvivors]

@tornsavior​ sent in:  five times touched,  Isabella and thora

i.     The sudden shift in the atmosphere was INCREDIBLY electrifying. If not a little too unnerving for the EMT’s comfort.   It reminded her of the time the skies turned crimson red,  the river washing away the blood of the slain mortals and the thunderous clash of the Gods echoing through the realms. Odin’s cowardice. The burn of the thunderbolt striking her back and scarring it permanently... leaving behind a hideous reminder of her undeserved exile. A very faint shudder tore through Thora’s body and cerulean blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly-- realizing it all started with the patient laying on the gurney.  Regardless of how bright and genuine Isabella’s smile may have seemed. Thora clears her throat, and resumes tending to the gash on the woman’s arm. All while thinking:  is she one of Odin’s spies? 

ii.      “Please don’t tell me you’re purposefully getting hurt now, just as an excuse to see me? If that’s the case... I’m going to kick your ass.”   Her deadpan response does not hold for long, betrayed by the tiniest of smiles across Thora’s lips.   There was no denying she does enjoy their encounters.    She’s still a little unsure about whether Isabella was one of Odin’s spies or not, but the more they interacted...   the less Isabella felt like a potential threat. Unfortunately, that was one of Odin’s many talents-- deception.  So, she knew she’d have to keep her guard up at all times. No matter how comfortable they may be becoming. Besides, who’s to say that two can’t play this game?   Thora saw this as an advantage to exploit Odin’s weaknesses, especially among his spies. Thora breaks eye contact with the blonde, pulling off the latex gloves and tossed them in the trash bin-- before fishing out a piece of paper and a pen, scribbles something on it and then stands... slipping the folded piece of paper into Isabella’s hand, her breath hitching ever so slightly from the spark of skin contact. Now, THAT was strange. Thora left a little too quickly. 

iii.     A demi-god. A DEMI-GOD.  Yet... Isabella was never working with Odin. Thora was understandably furious when she found out, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave Isabella’s side. Not in this condition.  Her heart was being PULLED in so many different directions at once. The compassion of her true nature as a medic valkyrie urging her to stay and watch over her, while the pain of remembering her exile and Rosa’s death bore into her soul-- and then the realization that she was falling for Isabella out-weighting everything else. It’s not long before the dread of what will happen in het next life: forgetting Isabella, eats at her sanity.   ‘PLEASE STOP!’  She internally screamed at the deafening voices in her head, as she squeezed her tear-stained eyes shut tight. Her trembling hand then moves to lay on the unconscious demi-god’s face, just along her jaw. Cradling Isabella’s head on her lap and against her stomach. It’s then Thora knew where she wanted to be. Where she NEEDED to be. 

iv.     The next thunder was the LOUDEST-- she could feel it resonate, rattling her bones and shaking the entire apartment.  Yet... she did not cower and run to hide in her bed like how she usually does.  She always hated thunderstorms. The power was blown out, leaving her in darkness-- save for a candle or two she had lit up in anticipation of the black-out.   Why didn’t she hide?  Why didn’t she run?   Why did she feel so... CALM?    One... two... three... another thunder and it’s accompanied by a very bright lightning bolt that lit up the entire blackened sky outside of her apartment window-- it illuminated the face of the reason why she wasn’t afraid.    ‘ISABELLA.’   She thinks, almost gasping the name out. Just the way the demi-god’s gaze was calm and strong, fiercely protective. It was telling Thora she’s safe and that’s exactly what she felt. They don’t say a word, staring in one other’s eyes before Thora sets aside the charcoal pencil she was using to sketch-- before both hands,    with smudges of charcoal on them,     move to grab Isabella’s face, pulling the demi-god into a hard kiss. All while her body shuddered in pleasure from how Isabella’s hands pulled her flush against her own body tight. 

v.     It’s been so long, since she had a taste of SWEET FREEDOM-- it was almost impossible to convince herself this wasn’t a dream. A desperate longing for the shackles of Odin’s curse to be broken. But as she soared higher and HIGHER in the skies of Midgard, away from the aftermath of her war against Odin, feeling the wind blow against her face and through her golden locks... she knows it’s real. ODIN IS DONE FOR. He has been given the fitting punishment... dethroned from Valhalla and imprisoned to the depths of Helheim for an eternity. Even as she got her wings back,       white with hints of gold and blue,      Thora was graced with a clarity that told her Odin did not deserve to die... because that would be the easy way out for him.  She wanted to stay up here in the skies forever, but her heart was calling for the reason she got her wings back.  So, Thora splits away from her Valkyrie sisters who had been freed from Odin’s corruption, and takes a dive right back down towards land. Headed straight for the demi-god standing below, watching her Valkyrie in awe along with Atlas. As she landed with the grace she’d lost with her exile, bright cerulean eyes sought her one true love and Thora  smiled brightly-- offering a hand for Isabella to take.   Don’t mind the blood and bruises on it.   “Would you like to see where I used to live?”   Of course, she doesn’t need an answer when Isabella eagerly accepts the offered hand.

[janeofcakes]

Soulmates: How John Met Sherlock...Again Chapter 6

Sorry I'm late this time, my friends. I had a busy weekend and have now fallen victim to the blasted cold that's been making its way through my family. I don't seem to have it as badly as my husband did, thank goodness. I'm going to post and answer some comments, so if you get one from me that sounds a little bizarre, it's the cold medicine. Lol.

---

Monday morning is a busy one at 221B. Greg calls with a case in the middle of breakfast that has Sherlock scrambling to conscript Mrs. Hudson into taking Olive to school. He places his daughter’s lunch on the kitchen table next to her backpack and throws on his coat. Tipping down to kiss Olive on the cheek, he whispers I love you and have a good day. With that, Sherlock grabs a piece of toast and rushes from the room.

Olive sits at attention, the adrenaline of watching her father hurry around the room still in her veins, but it wanes as soon as she hears the click of the flat door. She lets out a long sigh and slouches a little into her chair. After the bits and pieces she had observed at Mycroft’s birthday party, she was even more curious about Gracie’s dad than when they left the park on Saturday. Something was off. John had absolutely no problem with her or her father until he met him, but had he only just met Sherlock two days ago? Olive isn’t so sure, especially after the way her uncles acted yesterday when she brought up the playdate refusal.

Olive raises her fork and chews on the eggs thoughtfully. Her father had been extremely irritated yesterday, in spite of trying to hide it, and Uncle Myc was definitely the cause. She has seen them argue before, of course. Perhaps heard is the better word. They avoid it when she is in the room and Uncle Greg usually distracts her somehow. Every so often, curiosity gets the better of her and she sneaks away from Greg to listen. Her father doesn’t seem to have ever gotten on well with his brother. Olive used to wonder if that is why she has no brothers or sisters, but dismissed the idea when she was five. She likes that it’s just her and her dad. The two of them against the world. Olive smiles to herself. Now she has Gracie too.

With that thought, Olive’s mind turns back to John. She had planned on cleverly asking Sherlock questions about him over breakfast and had even started working their conversation in that direction, but then Uncle Greg had phoned. To make matters worse, Mrs. Hudson will get her to school later than usual, effectively robbing her of all the time she has to talk to Gracie before classes start.

Olive grumbles around another bite, cursing the fact that she has to wait until lunch and that’s when inspiration strikes. Their class has library time at 10:30. She and Gracie can go to the computers, but search up John instead of books. Maybe if they know more about his past they can figure out how their fathers know each other because Olive is convinced they do.

Olive is just beginning to determine how best to communicate this to Gracie before library time when the door to the flat opens.

“Yoohoo,” calls Mrs. Hudson pleasantly, “Are you ready, dear? We really must be on our way.”

Olive glances at the clock to see how much time got away from her. Too much. She hops up and places her empty dishes in the sink. Pulling on her coat, she grabs her bag and lunch. Mrs. Hudson is smiling brightly as Olive runs down the hall.

“Good morning, Mrs. H,” Olive breathes as they hug one another tightly.

“Good morning, my darling,” Mrs. Hudson laughs warmly. “I take it Uncle Mycroft’s birthday was a success?”

“Yep,” Olive pops the P as she pulls away to look at her with twinkling eyes. “The cake was delicious. Thanks for the recipe.”

“My pleasure, dear,” Mrs. Hudson waves a hand as they pass through the door. She pulls it closed as Olive starts down the stairs. “And his presents?”

“He loved them,” Olive grins back at the older woman. “We pinned the donkey eight times and I won the most times.”

“Did you? That’s wonderful,” Mrs. Hudson chuckles to herself as she catches up with Olive in the foyer. “I’d give my good hip to see your uncle playing a party game. Must be Gregory’s influence.”

The mention of her other uncle jogs Olive’s memory and she turns, her face filling with glee, as she swings open the door to the building. Mrs. Hudson pauses in front of her, excitement already growing at just the look on Olive’s face.

“Uncle Greg asked Uncle Myc to marry him!” the girl all but shouts, throwing her arms in the air.

“Oh my goodness, that’s wonderful,” Mrs. Hudson clasps her hands together at her chin. “I always knew we’d find one for your uncle. Now we just need to find someone for your father.”

“Yeah!” Olive exclaims before she really considers Mrs. Hudson’s words. She frowns as they walk outside and down the steps to the pavement. They cross to the sleek black car waiting for them. The driver greets them as he opens the back door and they are soon on their way. All the while, one question rattles around in Olive’s mind.

“Do we?” she asks after the car has started moving. She slides her eyes to Mrs. Hudson, who looks at her inquisitively. “Do we want to find someone for Dad?”

Olive swallows loudly in the silence that follows. Mrs. Hudson’s face does not change, she merely tilts her head to the right as she considers. It doesn’t make Olive feel like she has asked something bad, but it was definitely unexpected.

“I mean, it’s always been the two of us,” Olive ventures with some uncertainty, “and things are good. Why add someone else?”

“Don’t you want your father to be happy?” Mrs. Hudson asks and Olive frowns mightily, clutching her bag to her chest tightly.

“He is happy,” the girl mutters defiantly.

 “Oh, of course he is. That’s not what I meant, sweetie,” Mrs. Hudson reaches for her arm and touches it gently. Still glowering, Olive raises her grey eyes to meet the older woman’s soft brown gaze. “Your father loves you dearly and he is certainly very happy. It’s just that his heart has so much love to give and it’s a different kind of love. Like the kind Mycroft shares with Greg. I call it romantic love.”

“Romantic love?” Olive raises a skeptical brow, tiny wrinkles forming on the bridge of her nose.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson continues in a solemn tone. “You will feel it too one day when you meet a boy or girl you want to spend your whole life with, to kiss and hug.”

“Like on the mouth?” Olive asks, straightening her spine a bit and pulling her head back. Mrs. Hudson nods with a little smile. “Like Anna and Kristoff?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson laughs. “Just like that. Like Mycroft and Greg.”

Olive’s expression becomes very serious. She shakes her head and releases the vice grip hold on her bag.

“Uncle Myc and Uncle Greg are nothing like Anna and Kristoff,” she says flatly. “They’re more like that older one. Beauty and the Beast.”

“Ha!” Mrs. Hudson crows, throwing up her hands. “I won’t even ask which one’s the beast.”

Olive grins mischievously and ducks her head, laughing with the older woman. The car stops outside the school as their merriment dies down. Mrs. Hudson puts her hand on Olive’s before she moves to leave the car.

“Know that having someone in your father’s life will never make him love you less,” she tells the girl tenderly. “There’s nothing on earth that could ever do that.”

“I know,” Olive says with a grin. She dives for her godmother and gives her a big hug as the first bell rings. 

“Oh no. Hurry, dear, get to class,” Mrs. Hudson shoos her toward the door. “Sherlock will never forgive me if you’re late.”

“Thanks, Mrs. H,” Olive says, popping open the door. She runs for the three-story school building and is inside in minutes.

***

“So we are up to the number five in our multiplication table,” Mrs. Jennings finishes writing a large five next to a line of smaller numbers running from one to nine. She turns to face the class as she explains. Gracie is watching intently like most of the other kids, but Olive’s head is down while she scribbles on a scrap of paper. “As you know, these numbers are basically how many times five is added to itself, but there’s a secret to the number five that makes it one of the easiest to multiply. Start moving along the number line, writing your answers on paper and raise your hand when you know what the secret is.”

Heads go down as everyone begins working through the equations. Just as Gracie jots down twenty-five, she notices a folded scrap of paper on the desk between she and Olive, who is watching out of the corner of her eye. Gracie glances to the side and up to the whiteboard where Mrs. Jennings is slowly walking from side to side to make sure everyone is on task. Gracie licks her lips, leaving just the tip of her tongue poking out as she casually covers the scrap with her palm and slides it close. With the paper on her notebook where it can blend in with her work, she unfolds it and peers at Olive’s writing.

Your dad doesn’t like my dad.

Gracie blinks and furrows one brow while simultaneously cocking the other one. She nearly turns to look at Olive to ask an incredulous ‘What’ with her face, but resists the urge and scratches out a quick response instead. Folding the paper in half and sliding it back to the middle of the desk, Gracie raises her eyes to the front of the room again.

“All right. Who knows the secret?” Mrs. Jennings breaks the silence. “Teri?”

“You start with five and basically count by fives all the way up the line,” the girl answers from her seat in the second row. The pencil in her right hand is poised to write while the index finger of her left hand winds her long red hair around itself. Gracie watches knowingly at the nervous tell. It is just one of the many keys to observation Olive has taught her.

“Perfect. So why don’t we do that together, and remember to write it down as we go,” Mrs. Jennings moves to the whiteboard to write as well.

“Five, ten,” Teri begins and the rest of the class starts in with her until they reach forty-five. 

“And there is our multiplication table for the number five,” Mrs. Jennings remarks and turns back to the class. “Does everyone see how we got that?”

Heads are bobbing up and down when Gracie notices the scrap of paper again. She slips her hand over it and moves it close.

“Good,” Mrs. Jennings is saying. “Let’s move on to number six. Write out the number line with six as your common denominator.”

Gracie quickly does this, if a little messily, and opens the note. Olive’s words are clearly printed under Gracie’s own message.

(Gracie) He just met him.

(Olive) But he doesn’t like him.

Gracie frowns and glances at Olive, who is staring straight ahead at Mrs. Jennings so as not to give them away. Gracie underlines her previous statement and slides the paper back toward Olive. It is back on her side of the desk in no time.

There’s something going on though. He kept looking at Dad like he’d seen him before and he freaked out about a playdate at mine.

Gracie glances in Olive’s direction, wondering how she wrote all of that so quickly. Getting a little irritated by the accusation, she writes hastily in a jerky script.

He didn’t freak out.

She passes it back.

“Good job, Michael,” Mrs. Jennings interrupts Gracie’s train of thought. “Now, what is six times four?”

Gracie quickly scrawls twenty-four in her notebook and looks up to see the note again. She huffs quietly at Olive’s words.

I don’t think he wants to come to my flat. 

Gracie is about to pen a disgruntled response when Mrs. Jennings calls on her. Apparently, her frustration is more evident than she realized.

“Doing okay, Grace?” the teacher asks. “Are you having any trouble?”

“No, Mrs. Jennings,” Gracie answers respectfully. Mrs. Jennings nods and then asks Gracie for the answer, which she gives succinctly. 

“Yes, Grace. Excellent work,” Mrs. Jennings commends her. “Six times four is the same as adding six to itself four times.Does that make sense to everyone?”

Gracie scribbles ‘That’s ridiculous,’ beneath all the other messages. The scrap is getting full now, but her two-word response fits in the space perfectly. She pushes the paper away and starts writing the table for seven. Olive’s reply awaits her when she is finished.

No, it’s not. They obviously have a history.

Gracie grumbles deep in her throat and pointedly underlines ‘He just met him.’ again as Olive watches. The little blonde adds an exclamation point and looks at her friend smugly. Olive purses her lips, turns the scrap over and begins writing feverishly. ‘They KNOW each other.’

Gracie rolls her eyes and tears her own corner from her notebook. She writes quickly and shoves it at Olive, who reads it immediately.

Wait til library time.

Olive looks to her friend and gives a shallow nod right as Mrs. Jennings calls on her.

“Do you have an answer, Olivia?”

“Thirty-two,” Olive says smoothly, directing her eyes to their teacher.

Gracie’s eyes go wide and she looks at her friend’s notebook as their teacher compliments her work. Olive has already written the number line for eight. Gracie is a line behind, in spite of being sure that she was paying attention while reading and writing the last few notes. Thank god Mrs. Jennings had not called on her.

Gracie looks at Olive’s now smug face and blows out a breath that ruffles her bangs. How does Olive do it? It’s like she has two separate brains sometimes. The girls exchange a smile and return their attention to the white board, each one anxiously anticipating the day’s special.

***

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Gracie whispers from her seat across the table, leaning forward for emphasis. After what seemed like days, but was only an hour, their class had lined up and walked to the library. Gracie and Olive immediately went to their usual table where Olive presented all of her evidence, as she called it, that proved their fathers had known each other before meeting in the park. She pointed out everything from eyes widening slightly to changes in tone and bloody shuffling of feet. She noticed Gracie’s dad curling his left hand into a fist, which Gracie has never once seen him do. How did that mean he actually knew Sherlock already and how on earth did Olive notice all these things?

“It makes perfect sense,” Olive insists, her neck craned toward Gracie. She had hunched over, pressing her chest and arms to the table side as soon as she began laying out her analysis. It is her position of choice for intense conversation and plotting. “Just look at all the clues. There’s no other explanation.”

“There are plenty of explanations,” Gracie counters. “Maybe your dad reminds mine of someone.”

“And yours reminds mine too?” Olive barely contains a bark. “Nonsense. No such thing as coincidence.”

“If they know each other, why wouldn’t they just say so?” Gracie throws her hands up as far as she dares in this setting.

“Adults have secrets, Gracie,” Olive mutters in a low voice. “Just like we do. There’s something they don’t want us to know.”

“Like what? They robbed a bank together?” Gracie snorts quietly. “No. I’m sorry, Olive. I can’t believe it. My dad never met Sherlock Holmes before we met you in the park.”

Gracie’s words slow as she reaches the end of the sentence. Olive starts in on trying to convince her, but her voice fades into the background. Things click inside Gracie’s head and for the first time since the conversation began, it all makes sense. Or doesn’t, as the case may be. If her father knew Sherlock, why wouldn’t he just tell her? Why keep it to himself? Gracie presses her lips together in thought. ‘You can have a playdate eventually. Just give me some time,’ he had said. Sherlock is obviously someone he had not expected to run into, but he must have been special to John at some point. Why else would he…

“Are you even listening?” Olive’s irritated tone suddenly breaks through Gracie’s thoughts. She blinks and looks at her friend with wide eyes. Olive huffs. “I’m not going to tell you all over again.”

Olive sits back in her chair, arms across her chest and a petulant look on her face. It only takes a second though before she reads Gracie’s expression and leans in again. Her grey-blue eyes shift rapidly between Gracie’s and she cocks her head slightly in consideration.

“What is it?” her voice is low and brimming with excitement.

“They do know each other,” Gracie breathes, “and they must have liked each other a lot.”

“Why? Why?” Olive can barely stay in her seat and she struggles to keep her voice down. “What is it?!”

Gracie wets her lips, her eyes darting to the right and left, as she leans close.

“My middle name is Holmes,” she tells her friend quietly. 

“What?” Olive gasps in a hushed voice. Then her face swiftly morphs into irritation. “And you’re only just NOW mentioning this?”

The librarian shushes her from across the room instantly and Olive looks at her apologetically. When her focus is back on Gracie again, her expression is less disgruntled and more eager. Still, Gracie starts in right away, wanting to beat her to the punch. 

“It was that first day with Jones and everything in the lunchroom,” she says in a rush. “She kept calling you Holmes and I thought she meant me at first. It was so weird, but I got distracted with hitting her and just sort of forgot about it.”

Gracie stops and watches Olive for a moment. The pieces are clearly falling into place for her too as she stares back with wide, luminous eyes. Her lips are shaped into a perfect O, but she hasn’t made a sound yet. Gracie hops a little in her chair, skooching forward to its edge and placing her hands flat on the table.

“Why would Dad name me Grace Holmes Watson if your dad wasn’t important to him?” Gracie takes in a quick breath when Olive gasps loudly, her hands flying to cover her mouth.

The librarian shushes them again and Gracie smiles a timid apology this time. She nods at the librarian’s silent warning, promising they will do better and then turns back to Olive. Her friend’s face is absolutely astonished, her eyes filled with shock and wonder. Olive knows something. Gracie’s words have pulled some key observation to the front of Olive’s mind and Gracie must know what it is. Now.

Gracie opens her mouth to speak, but Olive’s lips part first. Her voice comes out shaky with emotion.

“Olivia Watson Holmes,” is all she says.

Gracie’s eyes double in size and her face goes slack. They sit for a moment in utter silence, unmoving while the world slows to a stop around them. Gracie’s body is tingling and feels like it’s floating. It is almost too much to believe, like it can’t be real. Surely their fathers must have been best friends for them to name their daughters after each other. But then what happened? How did Gracie’s dad end up in Bath and why did he never mention Sherlock?

“Gracie?” Olive’s eyes are on Gracie when her own come back into focus. Their gazes meet and both brows crease with determination. They are of one mind. There is only one way to find the answers they want.

“Google,” they say together and rise from their chairs decisively, hands planted on the table to push them up.

Minutes later they are each seated in front of a desktop computer in the library lab. As luck would have it, they even got two next to each other and in a corner where their whispers are unlikely to bother anyone. Olive is scrolling through links to article after article from ten to twelve years earlier, all of them solved by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Meanwhile, Gracie does much the same, though she has just stumbled across a goldmine.

“I can’t believe this,” Olive murmurs in a breathy tone. “Look at all these cases. Your dad is the partner in his stories. Dad’s man, Friday. His conductor of light.”

“Oh my god,” Gracie mumbles in disbelief.

“What?” Olive crowds in next to her and reads the title of the blog on Gracie’s screen. “The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson.”

“They’re all here,” Gracie’s voice sounds far away. She just can’t believe this is all real. “All of Dad’s bedtime stories. The Mayfly Man, The Hounds of Baskerville, The Deadly Tealights, A Study in Pink. Every last one, and more.”

“What do you mean?” Olive asks in a confused tone. “These are all Dad’s cases.”

“Our dads are Sam and Dean,” Gracie stares at the screen, selecting one of the links and scanning the page rapidly.

“Sam and Dean?” Olive furrows her brow. “What are you on about?”

“Remember I told you my dad has these mystery stories that he tells me at bedtime?” Gracie turns to look at her friend urgently. “Two guys named Sam and Dean solve them all. I always thought Dean sounded kind of like Dad, but…” Her voice fades away and she looks back at the screen. “He actually is.”

“Go back to the home page,” Olive says. Gracie complies and Olive points. “Look at this one. ‘My new flatmate.’.”

They both read quickly and then eyes meet, wide with shock.

“They were flatmates,” Gracie breathes, astonished.

“No way,” Olive mutters. “No wonder your dad doesn’t want to come to my flat.”

“Wait, wait,” Gracie clicks back and scrolls, not finding what she wants. “But what happened? Why did he move away?”

She clicks on different links and they both read as their library time ticks away. With only minutes to spare, both girls sit back in their chairs, completely overwhelmed with the knowledge they now possess.

“Dad faked his own death?” Olive is dumbfounded, her face slack with shock. “He never told me that story.”

“Dad got married and just stopped,” Gracie shakes her head in disappointment. “Your dad even wrote the blog about the wedding. I just… I don’t understand. Dad obviously loved what he was doing and with his best friend too. Why would he stop?”

“All right, everyone,” Mrs. Jennings calls from the stacks. “Line up and back to class.”

The girls close their searches after clearing the histories. Olive is always on about covering their tracks. They walk to the end of the line in defeat. Their investigation turned up more questions and confusion than answers. Standing in silent thought as they wait for the line to move, Gracie makes a decision. She has to have answers.

“I can’t not know,” she says sternly, determination bright in her blue eyes. “I’m going to ask Dad about it tonight.”

“What? No!” Olive grabs her arm and Gracie turns to glare. “We can’t just ask them about it. They won’t tell us anything.”

“Then how are we supposed to find out what happened?” Gracie growls with frustration. The line begins to move and she has to turn her back on Olive to walk.

“We’ll carry out our own investigation,” Olive says in her ear. “This is our case. Our first case.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Gracie grumbles without so much as a glance backwards.

“I do,” Olive’s voice has some of its usual tenacity again. “I’ll teach you at lunch and we can talk to them tonight.”

“I don’t know,” Gracie replies hesitantly. “I’ve never done anything like this before. What if I’m no good at it?”

“Ha,” Olive huffs. “You’ll be a natural. Trust me.”

***

Gracie raises her eyes from the book propped on her chest where she lies on the couch. Lifting her chin just a bit gives her the perfect view of her father sitting in his chair with the day’s newspaper in his hands. At this point in the evening, he has it folded in half so she can easily see his face. Olive said that was of the utmost importance because Gracie will see what John doesn’t say.

Still not sure if she is ready for this, Gracie runs through the list of features to watch for. There are obvious ones like eyes and eyebrows, knee-jerk expressions that are schooled away, mouth movements. Olive went on for some time about how different ways of wetting one’s lips mean different things. Gracie had never realized there were distinctions. Then Olive went on about twitches and other such things that were lost on Gracie. Given the time, she is sure she could learn and understand quite a bit about it all, but certainly not from what little she gleaned at lunch.

Gracie looks at her father again where he sits completely unawares, his eyes moving from left to right across the words on the page before him. With a fortifying breath, she clears her throat and starts with a question she hopes to build on without giving anything away.

“Dad, how long did you have a best friend?” Gracie asks as casually as she can manage, but it comes out sounding more like she placed air quotes around the words best friend. She closes her eyes immediately, supremely disappointed with herself and then pops them open quickly to check on her father. Allowing a tiny sigh of relief upon seeing that John has not even lifted his gaze from the paper, Gracie’s confidence level bounces back up.

John is frowning in thought at the page, so he has definitely heard her. His mouth opens and he looks about to give some cursory answer, but cocks a brow and shifts his gaze to hers instead.

“What?” John replies with a tone of confusion.

“Your best friend,” Gracie continues, lowering her book to lay flat on her chest. “I know you had one.”

“Oh. Right,” John pauses, glancing back at the paper and then looking at her over the top of his reading glasses. “I feel like we talked about this already.”

“We did,” Gracie answers somewhat abruptly, not wanting to give him much time to think on that, “but you didn’t say anything. Just that you solved cases together.”

“Medical cases,” John corrects and Gracie wants to smirk as she thinks ‘Medical cases, my foot’.

“What was he like? What did he do? What’s his name?” Gracie rattles off, even as she hears Olive’s voice in her head reminding her that they can’t just walk in and demand names. Gracie nearly shudders, but hides it with the movement of pulling herself up to sit.

“Whoa, whoa,” John lowers his newspaper to let it rest in his lap. “Where is all this coming from?”

“Well,” Gracie pauses a moment to try and get her thoughts together. She has to salvage this. “Now that I have a best friend, I want to know more about yours. Did you really like him? The way I like Olive?”

“I loved him,” John answers without hesitation and he looks like the candid response surprises even himself. Gracie’s eyes widen tenfold as John clears his throat and shifts the newspaper pages noisily. “We were quite close.”

“Wow,” Gracie breathes. Now she is getting somewhere. She wonders if Olive is having this much luck with her dad. “You must’ve done everything together.”

“We spent a lot of time together, yes,” John says somewhat absently. Gracie tilts her head in amazement. He is trying to affect indifference, like the whole friendship was perfectly normal and not at all a special part of his life, and Gracie can tell. Empowered, she continues.

“Solving cases,” she nudges in a light tone.

“Working on cases,” John corrects for the umpteenth time. “Medical cases.”

“Hmm,” Gracie hums in thought. When John cocks a brow as if wondering what she is up to, Gracie moves for distraction with another question. “Did you have lots of sleepovers?”

Unabashed laughter bursts from John’s lips and the clever girl smiles to herself. Distraction successful.

“No, sweet pea,” John chuckles and then back tracks. “Well, maybe in a manner of speaking. We shared a flat, so I suppose you could say every night was a sleepover.”

“Wow. That would be so awesome,” Gracie repeats, truly in awe for a moment as she thinks of it. Living in the same flat as Olive so they could play all the time and do schoolwork together and she could help with Olive and her dad’s experiments. The thought of Sherlock brings her back around to the task at hand. She aims for idle curiosity when asking the next question. “So what happened to him?”

“Erm,” John’s body visibly gives a slight shudder and a feeling of concern begins to rise up in Gracie’s throat. She bites her lip and considers brushing the inquiry aside when John straightens in his chair. “Sometimes…things happen. Sometimes friends can hurt you. And then Mary wanted to move and we just...left.”

“So Mary wanted to go to Bath,” Gracie has never once called Mary Morstan her mother. John has always just called her Mary, so Gracie does too. It is hard for her to think of Mary as anything since she has no part in Gracie’s life. She found an old wedding photo once, but has never met the woman. “And you just went with her?”

“She was my wife, sweet pea,” John answers simply.

“Well, why didn’t you call him?” Gracie frowns. “Or text?”

“It’s hard to explain,” John sighs. “Sometimes the things adults do are hard to understand.”

“Dad,” Gracie says in a dull voice and blinks her eyes into a roll like she is already a teenager, “I’m eight and a half years old. I can totally understand complicated things and I want to know. I don’t want that to happen with me and Olive.”

“It won’t. Of that I have no doubt,” John assures her with a quiet huff of a chuckle.

Gracie shifts on the couch to face him fully and sets her book aside. Fixing him with a serious expression, she goes in for the kill, a move Olive had explained very carefully.

“You said friends can hurt you sometimes,” she begins, already seeing that her words have the desired effect. “I’m sure they don’t mean to. Can you honestly say that will never happen to me and Olive?”

John lets out a weary sigh, sets aside his newspaper and rises to join her on the couch. He looks at her with soft eyes for a long moment and smoothes back her hair. Gracie licks her lips, looking at him expectantly.

“He hurt me very badly,” John’s voice is little more than a whisper. Gracie can hear the pain and regret in it. “I tried to pretend it wasn’t there, but...it was hard. Very hard. Mary saw it. SHe didn’t like him much in the end, so she did a little looking and found us a place in Bath. We broke off everything, all communication with all of our friends in London. We started over.”

“Damn,” Gracie murmurs before she can think better of it.

“Language, Gracie,” John scolds with a fond frown.

“Sorry,” she says quickly and then pauses a moment before asking tentatively: “Mary’s gone now. She has been for a long time. Would you ever want to be friends with him again?”

John takes a deep breath and stares over her shoulder for a moment. His eyes are far away and almost wistful. She can already see his answer in his expression, but waits to see if he will put it into words.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I would.”

Victory.

John blinks and returns his gaze to his daughter, who is trying not to look too satisfied with her success. He smiles and pulls her into a hug, kissing the top of her head.

“It’s getting late, my Gracie girl,” John says affectionately. “We need to get you to bed.”

“Okay,” they both stand and head for the loo. “Are you going to call your best friend while I’m sleeping?”

“Ah, no,” John answers as if the proposal is absurd.

“What?” Gracie stops cold and stares up at him, looking for clues. She was sure she had solved it. Why wouldn’t he want to call Sherlock? “Why not? You said you want to.”

“It’s been too long, sweet pea,” John says almost sadly. “It’s all in the past and can’t be salvaged. It just happens that way sometimes.”

“But Dad,” Gracie starts, determined to make him see why that is stupid. John’s hands are on her shoulders now and he is gently guiding her to the loo.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he says good-naturedly. “You’ll be grumpy tomorrow if you don’t get enough sleep.”

“Dad!” Gracie lets out a loud declaration, looking back at him as she walks. “I will not be grumpy.”

“Still bedtime,” John reminds with an amused smirk. Gracie turns to face him and crosses her arms over her chest. She narrows her eyes and gives him a stern look, the bridge of her nose wrinkling.

“Fine,” Gracie mutters and quietly stomps to the sink to show her displeasure without enough defiance to get in trouble. John walks away with a half chuckle.

Gracie considers their conversation as she readies her toothbrush and brushes. Her dad would clearly like to be friends with Sherlock again. Gracie thinks he still likes him very much and Sherlock didn’t seem mean or anything when they were at the park. Plus, she has Olive’s word for it too. Why couldn’t they be best friends again? 

Olive will have a plan, Gracie resolves as she spits in the sink. Once she tells her friend all about this at lunch, Olive will have a plan and they can put it into action. Satisfied, Gracie rinses her toothbrush, puts it away and heads to her room for a bedtime story.

---

No mortal danger in this story, but still so many compelling questions! What will happen?? Only The Shadow (ME) knows. Mwahahahaha! Maniacal laughter. Next couple weeks are going to be busy, but I intend to keep on my posting schedule. See you all soon! Love, Jane

@johnlock-rocks

[angelicmark]

pairing: stoner!haechan x reader

genre: angst, smut, fluff?

warnings: unprotected sex, sad, weed? kinda (there’s no explicit detail but there’s implied use)

wc: 5.4k

summary: all he ever does is smoke weed, and stay around his friends. never putting you first, or considering how you feel. how much longer could you take the torture?

➣ apart of the narcissistic lovers series

↳ masterlist

your heart was beating wildly in your chest. you were running on emotions at this point, eagerly waiting for him to just.. text. call. anything. but he doesn’t. and you’re left with the same feeling you’re always left with. disappointment, anger, frustration. did he not care anymore? did he not want you anymore? did he ever want you?

you look at your phone, the time mocking you as your vision gets blurred with tears all over again. how were you going to fix this? you couldn’t. it wasn’t your problem to fix. if he didn’t want you, what more could you do? he was selfish, thinking of himself, and only himself. but you kept waiting. waiting on the day where you thought he would just.. change. but he didn’t. he wouldn’t. he won’t.

so why did you stay?

a ping surrounds the room just as you’re starting the doze off the sleep, and you read the message in front of you.

hyuck: sorry, got caught up in smthing. here now. what’s up?

you heave out a sigh, leaving him on read that night. you were too exhausted to give a proper response. you knew it wouldn’t change anything even if you did respond. you knew he was getting high with his friends, ignoring your texts like they were some type of disease. your heart aches, chest tightening as you fall asleep that night with an anxious mind and flooded eyes.

you end up going three days of not speaking to him, reminiscing on the feeling he gave you.

day 1

“you’re my tutor?” the male asks, and you raise an eyebrow at him, “i’m donghyuck, but you can call me hyuck.”

you nod your head in understanding, “i’m y/n.” you take sight of his appearance and the slight sluggish look in his posture. you smile a bit, his hair was sticking up in random directions but you found it slightly charming. you knew about him and his antics, but you didn’t exactly care much for it. “and, yes, i’m your tutor.”

he nods, “cool.” he plops next to you, the reserved area of the library just for the two of you. he looks at you, and just now starts to realize just how pretty you were. he snorts to himself, and you look at him with a questioning look. “of course you’re pretty with a brain, why wouldn’t you be?”

you look towards the table with hollow eyes, blinking once, twice, before looking back at him again. he was yawning, not even looking at you anymore. you don’t mention his comment, pulling out your textbook and demanding he takes his out too. he follows your orders, but not without a grunt of disapproval. you smile to yourself softly, only for you to know about of course. you made sure of that. he wasn’t your type, not by a long shot. but you couldn’t help but find that he was still somewhat cute. his hair was a dark color, black locks covering his eyes. he needed a haircut, but it didn’t look like he cared much for it.

two hours of constant studying, and you start to realize just how.. smart he actually was. you hum, “you don’t need my help, donghyuck.” his eyes whip in your direction as yours stay focused on the work in front of you.

“i said you could call me hyuck,” he clicks his tongue, watching as your eyes trail over the material. he sees the small smile on your face.

“i know,” you shrug. you stretch a bit, back leaning into the chair as you raise your arms up, finally looking away from the suffocating words in front of you. you glance at him, seeing how he stared you down from his spot. you smile softly again, lips quirked up. “i’ll start calling you hyuck once you make yourself worthy of being my friend. right now, you’re tossing everything aside like it doesn’t matter. and i don’t know if there’s some broken memory filtering your brain but, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter as much as your future. you’re capable, you just don’t find yourself worthy enough for it.”

his jaw ticks, looking at you with an annoyed expression. he tuffs, “you high class girls really do have it easy, don’t you? you think i don’t know that?” he glowers, but you don’t budge even the slightest. “i just don’t want to waste my life with shit that doesn’t even fucking matter.”

you nod, moving to close your textbook. you don’t make much noise, no expression readable on your face. and hyuck wants to sit there with no regrets, but why does his heart hurt so bad? why did your words strike him so damn hard? why was his chest tightening as you continued to clean up your pencils and books? he watches you with silent eyes, his throat closing up as he gulps.

“i can’t change your mind, donghyuck.” you state, and the look on your face isn’t an expression of care. there’s no emotion, no remorse, no regret. you were emotionless, like some kind of robot. “i don’t expect to. i know you’ve probably heard those words a million times, but maybe my millionth-and-one time would have probably knocked some sense into you.” you shrug, tugging on your bag as you stand up. “i see i was wrong. don’t bother coming if you’re not going to use up the information usefully.”

and you walk out. there wasn’t any emotion lacing your voice, no glint in your eyes. why should he take advice from someone who wasn’t passionate about it either? why were you fucking with his head so damn much?

the next session, hyuck arrives five minutes later than usual. but, this time, he has a paper in his hand and a soft red gleam on his cheeks. you stare at him, watching as he marches in your direction with an almost embarrassed face. he looks annoyed, embarrassed, and maybe even proud. he slams the paper down on the table. your eyes don’t falter over the perfect score he places in front of you.

“see? i can fucking do it.” he huffs, plopping in the seat next to you. you glance at him, and he wants to say he’s surprised by the lack of expression but he’s not. he figured as much.

“i never said you couldn’t,” you slide the paper back on his side of the table. he watches with curious eyes, eyebrow raised in your direction. “i just said you weren’t making yourself worthy enough.” you don’t say anything else, silence falling over the both of you. and he’s sat there, shocked. he wants to storm right out, never speak to you again. but, for some reason, he appreciates your brutal honesty. everyone else was careful around him, treating him like he wasn’t capable enough. but you knew he was, unlike everyone else. was he sick for liking your careless attitude towards him? you didn’t care much for him or what he did. he should hate you. but he doesn’t. and he can’t.

you were right, afterall. you were always right. always the top of the class, never once faltering. you were like a machine at this point, everyone wondered if you even made time for the real world. you were just as good at reading people as you were with your class work. he’s known you since elementary school, all the way up to now in college. he’s not sure how he managed to stay here all the way to his second year, but he did. and if it wasn’t for the sudden appearance you made, he probably would have dropped out. how the hell were you motivating him so much?

“a ‘good job’ would have been nice too, you know,” he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he let’s out fake disappointment. he wasn’t used to the air feeling so intense, he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“you don’t need it, you’re not a dog,” you roll your eyes, writing down your assignments lightning fast, “if praise was what you wanted out of this, you’re not getting it. and i’m not apologizing.” you didn’t even look at him once. not a single glance, no reassurance. “i was hired to tutor you, not praise you for work i knew you could probably do in your sleep.”

he swallows, and there’s that random tightening in his chest again. he watches you work your pretty little heart out, he can practically feel the wheels in your brain turning out of exhaustion. he noticed the small circles under your eyes from the lack of sleep and food. he knew you didn’t eat or sleep much, too worried about keeping your scores up to care for yourself. why was a part of him worried for your health? he didn’t want to be, but he was.

“have you eaten?” he asks, staring at you as his arms stayed crossed, “you look like you need something to eat. you’re over worked, definitely.”

you freeze, looking up at him with a confused look that could easily be determined as annoyance. “why are you even asking? it’s neither of our jobs to care for one another.”

he nods, “yeah, but i don’t want you passing out anytime soon because you’re stuck tutoring some idiot like me.” he gets up, “let’s get something to eat.” he expects you to reject him, swat him away and demands he sits the fuck back down. he expects the same emotionless expression he always gets. he expects you to harshly turn him down, just like every other time. he expects you to shut him down immediately.

but, you don’t. this time, you finally don’t. he watches as you nod curtly, shoving your supplies back into your bag with not much of a quirk of your lip. but he sees the small smile, and he’ll remember this moment for the rest of his life. surely, he’ll remember the day he got you to stick your head out of your books and eat with him. he’ll remember the small smile you made before eating a decent amount of ramen. he’ll remember.

surely, he’ll remember.

day one of not speaking to hyuck was torture, but also nothing much new happened. he didn’t text you, didn’t wonder why you weren’t texting him anymore. he didn’t say a single thing after his last text, and you were silently dying inside. you hated that hyuck could tear you apart so easily, without even trying. but, maybe that was why he was tearing you apart. he wasn’t trying. not for you, not for himself.

you were hurting. you were so used to being stuck in a whirlwind of nothing, so used to feeling nothing. so when you finally felt something, anything, it came crashing down on you a million times worse than when you last remember. you surrounded yourself with yourself and your own memories over the years, never needing anyone else. but when hyuck came along, it was like that all changed. and you wanted to curse him for it. wanted to scream in his face and tell him how he fucked everything up for you. but you couldn’t. you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him. couldn’t bring yourself to yell at him, tell him he ruined you.

was this love? was this what love felt like? did you really love him so much to the point where you’d let him tear you up like this? maybe you did. maybe you did love him that much. would it make any difference in the world if you even told him? of course not. it wouldn’t matter if you were to scream in his face that you loved him, that you cared for him. so you didn’t. you never will. especially not after the torture he’s put you through. nothing will ever fix this. not even a love confession. nothing.

absolutely nothing.

day 2

“you’re actually quite mean,” hyuck pouts at you. you take a bite of your ice cream that he bought you, swallowing it with grace. everything you ever did was filled with grace, nothing less than that. over the past few months, hyuck had gotten the opportunity to get to know you and how you handled things. and, over time, he soon got over how blunt your personality could get. well, as much as he could at least.

“i’m honest.” you state. and you know you’re not wrong. he knows you’re not wrong.

“you could be a bit nicer about it,” he mumbles under his breath. the two of you had actually gotten quite... close, persay. as close as you would let him, at least. the closest anyone had ever gotten to you before, and he prides himself in it. the two of you were opposites, but he brought you out of the hard shell you lived in. and you kept him grounded when he needed it. you would always whip him right back into shape. he didn’t need words of encouragement when he had you, as cliché as it sounded.

you sit in thought, before humming, “i would rather someone be honest than nice to me. i treat others how i would expect to be treated.” holy fuck, were you always that cold? of course you were.

he nods, shrugging his shoulders, “i guess that makes sense.” he has nothing else to say. you always manage to take his breath away and win every argument. this wasn’t exactly an argument, more like a debate. either way, you would always win. he knew this. and he was sure you did too.

silence washes over the two of you, and it wasn’t in the slightest uncomfortable. he was used to your quiet nature, he was always the one the initiate anything around you. not that he minded. he actually quite liked it. you weren’t too suffocating, never too much. sometimes he thought of you as never giving enough of yourself, but he figured that was just the price of being around you. you would never let your guard down, no matter what. you were strong.

“i like you.” he blurts, and he’s so fucking embarrassed. his cheeks run hot and he covers his mouth with wide eyes. he sees the shock and surprise you let grace your features. he caught you by surprise. he got to see the way your eyebrows raised, the way your eyes popped out larger than normal, the way your breath caught in your throat. it was so much more than the expressionless emotion he normally got. he was proud, but the embarrassment overruled the pride.

and, suddenly, you’re giggling. you’re fucking giggling, and his heart gets sent into the clouds. he feels like he’s in heaven when the noise escapes past your lips, and your vocal cords come into action and your mouth falls into a pretty smile. you were striking. the sun was glowing on your face, and he felt like he was in some kind of stupid romance movie. your teeth flashed through his mind, your chuckles filling up the previously silent air. who knew you could be even more beautiful? who knew he could produce such a sound out of you?

your smile reaches your eyes as you stare at him, “look who’s being blunt now.” and the smirk you have on your face makes him almost pass out. he was overwhelmed.

he coughs, latching and unlatching his fingers together out of nervousness, “i mean... sorry. that was really fucking sudden.” he drops his head in his hands, avoiding eye contact. the heat on his face was insufferable at this point.

you tilt your head, looking at him curiously. did you possibly like him too? you weren’t sure what certain levels a crush held, you even used to have to look it up but the signs never matched when you were around someone. but, for some reason, he caught your eye. maybe you did like him. truth be told, you didn’t exactly run from emotions. you just didn’t really have them. they never developed into much more of what you were used to. so, meeting hyuck was a bit different. he had a lot of emotions. he was drowning in them. definitely not like you.

“me too,” you say, taking another bite of your melting ice cream. he shoots his head up as the blush creeps back and his eyes are as wide as ever. did he hear you right?

“huh?!” he tilts his head now, looking at you like a fish out of water. you laugh again, and his heart flutters heavily in his tight chest.

“me too, hyuck.”

it was your first time ever calling him that. he was surely going to pass out, definitely. yup. certainly. 100%. you fucking liked him?! you liked him!

he whips out his best smile, staring at you with bright eyes as he sees the way your own eyes start to sparkle even just a bit. but that was enough for him. more than enough. this moment was another one in the books. another he swore to remember for the rest of his life. he will never forget the smiles and laughs he got out of you that day. you were glowing that day, and he managed to get your number after that. you were still a bit closed off, but not as much as before. and he felt like he was winning an anonymous game. were you starting to trust him? he hoped so.

he really did.

you wash your laundry, clean up your living area, throw away the unnecessary items. you clean away everything and wash the clothes that smelt just like him. you were distracting yourself from the fact that you were ignoring him. you would ocassionally look at the pics he hung on your wall, insisting he put them there in case you ever forgot him. and you would end up finding yourself smiling a bit. he was such a dork, an overly sensitive dork.

but he was slipping through the cracks. and there wasn’t much you could do about it. he was ripping apart your relationship with him by not checking on you, not answering your texts or calls. you were blunt, sure. you didn’t know one thing about love or relationships, but you knew this wasn’t healthy. especially when you could feel your heart cracking at the mear thought of him. no, this surely wasn’t healthy.

you knew where he was, what he was doing. you could practically imagine him getting unimaginably high with his friends. and you didn’t care for his habits, no not one bit. he was allowed to do as he pleased. but why did he not care about you anymore? were you really that suffocating? were you too much? was this punishment? you believed if he really did love you, he would text you. call you. check in on you. but he never did.

and, that night, you don’t cry like usual. you lay in bed nostalgic as ever. but you don’t cry.

you just.. sleep. the memory of him slowly easing with pain.

day 3

kissing hyuck was like kissing a million different angels. you were in your own version of heaven. you could feel just how hot his cheeks were under your fingertips, and you smiled into the soft kiss you displayed. he wasn’t expecting such a sudden kiss, but you were surprising in more ways than one. he can’t read you. he would never be able to. but maybe that’s what he liked about you. so, the kiss eases into a slow entangle. and it’s not rushed, and he doesn’t eagerly pull you against him. it was like nothing you’ve ever felt before. you were used to guys ushering you into the kiss, immediately taking your tongue in their mouth’s. but he doesn’t. he waits for the swipe of your own tongue, asking for enterance. and he grants you with ease. and it’s sweet, soft, romantic even. was this a true crush? were these butterflies in your stomach normal? was this what everyone talked about? you were sure it was.

he pulls away first, staring at you with bright cheeks and glossy eyes. his lips were tinted red from your lip gloss, and you chuckle a bit. he was too cute, and the sunset was surely doing him justice. he had taken you on a date, not expecting much else from you than your normal emotionless state. but you surprised him minute by minute with the small smiles you would grant him. he was truly the luckiest man in the world, he was sure of it.

“what..” he pauses, clearing his throat as his hands stick on your waist like they were his anchor, “what made you do that?” his voice was slightly deeper, asking with a bright blush on the apples of his cheeks. and you smile at him brighter, your eyes glowing under the sunlight.

your fingers trail on the back of his neck, tugging at the nape of it and he feels shivers start to run through his body. “you’re cute. i wanted to kiss you.” you were honest, and he feels his ears starting to burn at the sudden compliment. you didn’t do that very often, in fact never. it was making him flustered.

“you are, too.” he mumbles, and he avoids eye contact, as if it was going to hide the deep blush that graced his pretty face. it traveled onto his nose a bit, and you placed a soft kiss there. he stares at you, his eyes a bit crossed from the close proximity. he can feel the heat starting to ease away a bit, but it was still present. you were truly adorable. damn it.

“you taste like..” you stand in thought, eyebrows scrunched a bit, “oranges. and honey.” you smile at him, and he can’t help the smile that reaches his own face. “i like it. i mean, it’s odd. but it’s surprisingly good, you know?” you snuggle into his chest, head resting there. he hums at you, tugging you closer. “you’re my boyfriend now, aren’t you?”

he chokes a bit, eyes wide as he laughs. “i mean, if you want me to be...?” he hoped you did.

“sure. i mean, i did just kiss you.” you were so warm against him, your voice echoing through his body and into his ears. you were so... gentle. surprisingly gentle. he felt his body start to tingle at the feeling of your touch, having you so undeniably close. you were a feeling he never wanted to let go of. he never wanted this to end.

“got a point there, smarty,” he kisses the top of your head. and you stand there longer than intended. and it’s nice. the silence isn’t strong, it isn’t suffocating. it isn’t intense and it isn’t too much. it’s just right.

it’s always just right with him. always.

you wipe at your cheeks, hot tears trailing down them. you may not have fallen asleep crying, but that didn’t mean this hurt any less than it did. you were still dying on the inside. still curling up in a small ball at the tiniest thought of him. he tore you apart. he was ruining you. why were you letting him? why the fuck did he get to do this to you?

he was making it seem so easy. so easy to forget you and act like you didn’t exist. how did things come to be like this? what did you do wrong? was this your fault? he brought unhealthy images in your head, unhealthy thoughts. and you hated him for it. well, you wanted to at least. but a small part of you still loved him, still cared for him.

day three of not talking to him. you planned on just ghosting him completely, healing at your own time. why did it matter if you talked to him? he never wanted to in the first place. maybe it would just be easier to... forget him. even if you knew you couldn’t. you could try, right?

but when you hear a knocking on your door, your heart jumps out of your chest. and you feel like you’re drowning all over again when you open the door to reveal the man that had taken up your whole entire being. you let him. you let him rule you, let him consume your brain until it was only filled with him. he brought pain, anger, frustration. but, at one point, he made you happy.

and, maybe that’s why you dragged him inside that night by his collar. kissing him like you missed him. kissing him like it was the last time you would ever get to. and you can feel the sweat on his palms as they trailed beneath your shirt, doing his best to shut the front door and tug off the offending fabric. and you kiss him. you kiss him like he’s all that mattered that moment. and he can feel the drying tears, even taste them on his tongue. and he hurts. and you hurt. you both hurt the size of everything.

words weren’t exchanged, the soft panting falling into the once silent room. your hands are in his hair, tugging them just like you know he loves. and he knows your body just as well as you know his. his kisses trail along your neck, being careful as to not leave a mark. he knows they annoy you sometimes. and when you both make it to the couch in the middle of your living room, he places you down gently. he looks into your eyes, and he gives you the fake promise of home. and you accept it for the meantime.

“i hate when you ignore me,” you let out, tugging his own shirt off as his hands fumble with your pants and slides them down your legs. he looks at you with sad eyes, and he knows. he knows he’s hurting you.

“i’m here,” he kisses you sweetly, and you return it with earnest. his fingers trail along your folds suddenly, and the gasp that leaves you makes his groin twitch. you were so intoxicating in his eyes. why couldn’t he show you that? why was he so fucking afraid? “you’re wet,” he hums, biting on your shoulder, “missing me that much?”

you nod, your fingers starting to dig into his arms, “yes. always.”

and he pulls back to look at you, sees how your eyes look at him with an emotion he loves most. adoration. and he relishes in this moment, he swallows it whole. he remembers it, stocks it away for next time. he’s brought out of thought when he sees you innocently starting to tug on his pants, demanding they’re pulled down. he helps you, chuckling as you watch him with your bottom lip between your teeth.

“condom?” he asks, raising an eyebrow in question. but you shake your head.

“no, it’s fine,” you grab him and pull him close to you again, “want to feel you.” and he makes quick work to position the both of you comfortably. he stares down at you like you’re the only person he’ll ever love. and you assume he means it, just for that one small moment. and he kisses you while slipping into you, making you gasp into his mouth. and he loves the way you sound, the way you feel, the way you look. you were perfect.

and, for the time being, the both of you act like the world isn’t falling apart at your feet.

he thrusts into you easily, sitting still, “you’re tight. i never fuck you enough, do i?” he kisses your cheek, groaning when your walls flutter.

“never enough with you,” you hum, “please move, hyuck.” and he does. he does, because he wants to make up for lost time. he wants to show you that you really do mean something to him. and it’s not fucking this time, it’s like he’s cherishing your body the way he knows he should from now on. his hips switch from intense thrusting to rolling into you so you can feel just how deep inside of you he is. and it feels so fucking good. so, so good.

“you’re so... good, baby.” he huffs in your ear, and you whine at the rough tone. “always so good to me.” he pushes your leg over his shoulder, and you moan as he hits the sweet spongy spot inside of you that has you clutching even tighter onto him. each thrust makes you whine out his name, chanting it like it’s the only word you truly know. and he loves it. god, he loves it.

“hyuck, fuck.” your voice was getting louder and louder in his ear, and he can feel the way your walls were starting to grip him like a vice.

“gonna cum, angel?” he questions, and it’s so obvious with the way your nails were now trailing along his back. you were desperately holding onto him, in more ways than one. “you can cum, love when you cum around me.” he whispers, kissing the place right behind your ear.

“oh god,” you moan, and you can feel the coil inside of you snap, “hyuck, shit, oh fuck.” you bite your bottom lip, cumming around his cock like you were made to. and it’s such a sweet sight, such pretty sounds escaping you that it has him following his own sweet release. you feel his cum shoot into you, prolonging your own orgasm. it feels so good to have him so close, feel him fill you up with something that only belongs to him.

your fingers travel up to the nape of his neck again, running your hands through his soft hair. and he lays on top of you, not bothering to pull out just let. you can feel some of his cum dripping down your thighs and onto the couch, but you don’t mind. no, not at all. when he finally does pull out, he’s quick to run and get a wash cloth, just for you. and he cleans you. let’s you know he wants to take care of you.

but you know this is the end.

and it’s an unspoken ending. the both of you know it. the look in both of your eyes when they meet for the first time in a really long time. his were filled with regret, and yours were filled with remorse. the two of you were undeniably tearing one another down. there was no fixing this, no. never in a millon years.

“for what it’s worth,” you slip your own shirt over your head instead of his this time. and he notices this. “i do believe i love you. no past tense.”

he stares at you, eyes starting to water. did he really tear you up that much? of course he did. there weren’t many other words that needed to be spoken in that moment. the two of you were ending. it was an awaiting process, you both knew it would happen. but that didn’t mean it would hurt any less.

“i believe i love you, too.” he looks at you, his voice a bit shaky, “no past tense.”

and he dresses again. and you watch as he gets ready to leave. you kiss him one last time before you send him off forever. you stand there, your heart in your hands, kissing him one last time. the very last time. he hugs you before he leaves. before the door shuts and you’re both left to remember the good times, the bad times, all of the times.

when you pull back, you kiss his cheek, “thank you.” you whisper, and it’s so low that only the two of you would ever hear it. “you’ve taught me how to love. and now you’re teaching me how to let go. and i hope one day, we both heal.” you weren’t used to heavy emotions. but, when it came to hyuck, you couldn’t help yourself. you could never help yourself around him.

“me too,” he stares at you as his arms fall to his side, and so do yours. you were both oceans apart, even when standing right in front of one another. you guessed this was why the two of you could never work. “thank you.”

you smile softly, “bye, hyuck.”

he nods his head, the both of you with tear stained cheeks, “bye, y/n.”

and you close the door. the very, very last time. and you’re in love, but he’s not there. and he’s in love, but you’re not there. that was just the way it was.

the way it would always be.

when sadness was the sea, you were the one that taught me to swim.

you taught me how to be alone. and i learned my lesson, in your absence.

a/n: hope it was good!

[lazyevaluationranch]

I was wondering if you would be willing to share the titles of your resilience-inspiring lesbian farm books? My google search led me to a book titled “Attack of the Lesbian Farmers” which, while certainly inspiring, is not exactly what I was looking for.

Here are two very different books in the Farm Lesbians Write Honestly About What Went Wrong And How They Got Through It genre. Hopefully at least one is to your taste.

It's nearly fifty years old now, and can be hard to find, but Country Women: A Handbook for the New Farmer is deeply important to me. Country Women was a black and white xeroxed magazine written by a collective of woman-run farms in California in the 1960s. (There are some issues scanned at the Lesbian Poetry Archive). Each issue was half articles about feminism and half articles about small-scale farming. In the 1970s, the how-to articles on farming were expanded and organized to make the book, along with some scattered journal entries, lovely hippie-style line drawings and poetry about wood splitting, bees, and gazing at one's beloved while fixing the tractor on a summer day. The contributors have names like Jean and Ruth Mountaingrove, Ellen Chanterelle, and Sam♀ Thomas. 

It's written in an informal and pragmatic style, mostly organic hippie farming, but using pesticides or conventional medications when necessary.

This afternoon the Anderson brothers began teaching me how to graft fruit trees - the careful joining of life with life. Even more than I loved gaining a new skill, I loved learning from two old men who have so very much to teach me. I admire the audacity of eighty-three-year-old men setting grafts that will not bear fruit for years: the total involvement in a process they love. Those trees will stand and live; I doubt whether Jake or Fred even stop to wonder if they'll pick the fruit. I want to live my life with that kind of harmony and purpose. I want to be planting seeds the day I die.

The first lamb was born today. Premature and dead. Olivia, the mother, seems to be all right though. I had a dream a few weeks ago that the lambs were born tiny (like mice) and pink. And that I struggled to save them, but they were too small to feed. The lamb today was small and pink, its fleece plastered against its body, thin and sparse. For a moment it was nightmareishly like my dream... This is my first animal death. The beginning of a long cycle. It seems even harder to have death come before life, than to have an old one die giving birth. Hopes for the future stillborn.

Driving home today, I suddenly realized that this really is going to be a sheep ranch, that I have done, and am doing, and will do it. That I'm making my livelihood from the land. The canyon is fenced now. There are  sheep out there on pastures that were open hillsides two years ago. 

The very act of building this place, the simple actions of tamping dirt, stretching wire, dumping hay in feeders, has profoundly changed my sense of self. I'm doing things I never dreamed I could do, and I'm doing them easily without even considering whether I really can. Last night I was talking with Susan about fencing the front meadow for feeder calves, and I realized that I could say that realistically, no fantasizing, no bragging: I can fence the front meadow as soon as I get done with the hay barn and get a little more money.

Like almost every other farmer in America today, I'm in debt and hoping for a good season. I'm only at the beginning now, and I know there are many struggles to come and overcome and come again: Someday I too, like my neighbours, will be counting carcasses killed by a marauding dog or watching the spring oats be wash away in an "unheard of" late storm. No matter how prepared I am, there us always that vulnerability - to the weather, other animals, disease - that seems to strike when things are finally going smoothly. But inside me there is also this incredible joy: This life is real and good, and it has made me strong and real and good too. 

I gotta stop or I'll type the whole book into this post. One more: 

My father is here this week ... working on the truck whose engine has been alien to me. I am learning now what I could have learned at 7, 11, 15. Beneath my truck, side by side, lie his seven-year-old son and his twenty-five-year-old daughter, both of us learning for the first time how bearings fit together, how to remove pistons. And here beneath this truck the patriarchy stops: he has passed his knowledge to his daughter, and from me  it will pass to sisters, from sister to sister to sister. 

That's this book. The things women weren't supposed to know in the sixties. They found people to teach them; they taught each other; they learned through bitter loss. The book says: we have gone before you and you are not alone. Here is what we have learned, and here is how we have learned it. We have failed, and we have wept, and we have gotten up and gone on, and it was alright. Here is the fire, passed from hand to hand to hand. Here is the light that will never be put out. 

The week after we first got goats, we received a package in the mail from my coolest relative, a veterinarian who was the first woman to graduate with a specialization in large animal medicine at her school. People thought that women just weren't physically capable of handling large animals. (Hint: the bull weights 1100 kilograms. It doesn't much matter if the veterinarian weighs 50 kilograms or 150 kilograms.) I remember staying with her a child, in summer, laying on the stainless steel operating table in the barn; it always felt cool when the heat was unbearable.

The package, of course, contained Country Women. An old well-loved copy, with notes on long-ago calving dates penciled in the margins, and random scraps of paper with sketches of possible gardens and goat sheds as bookmarks.  A light passed from hand to hand, a light that will not go out. It was like receiving a video game quest artifact.

Country Women is rooted in second wave feminism, which is not everyone's cup of tea. For something more modern and story-focussed, consider Hit By A Farm or Sheepish by Catherine Friend. These are collections of short, funny autobiographical essays about farming and relationships. Their tone is honest and wry, self-deprecating. You can see Catherine Friend's blog here and decide if you like her writing style. She wanted to call Hit By A Farm "Sheep Sex and Other Disasters" but her editor didn't think it would sell. 

In Hit By A Farm, Catherine - a professional writer - goes along with her partner Melissa's lifelong desire to ranch sheep, and describes the results from the perspective of the slightly reluctant farmer's wife as they start a farm in Minnesota.  Sheepish is written fifteen years later, when they're thinking about quitting the farm, after all the shiny newness of farming and the relationship has worn off. There are different mistakes then, different sorrows, and new joys. 

From Sheepish: 

We rarely pay attention to middles. Perhaps we ignore them because they're problematic. The middles of our beds often sag. The middles of our bodies sag. The middle of a long story told by your brother-in-law is likely to sag, and so you'll need another beer to stay focused. Everyone needs a reason to keep going when they're in the middle. 

And:

Don't expect a farm to fix your life, for once the romance dims, you must still muck out the barn and stack hay bales and give that sick goat an enema...Although there are tons of stories about starting something new, there just aren't that many about how to keep doing something, about how to slog through the middle when the going gets tough.

The quotes are all from Sheepish; I can't find our copy of Hit By A Farm:

My spinning wheel continues to torture and confound me. I realize I'm not interested enough in the craft to really commit to learning it. After a few more tries, I tuck the wheel into a corner of our living room and turn it into what Melissa likes to call a Dust Accumulation Research Project. Clearly our wool market will continue to be the wildly unlucrative wholesale warehouse.

The patron saint of spinners is, interestingly enough, Saint Catherine. She was a Christian martyr in Alexandria. In 307 AD, she was condemned to be torn apart by the spokes of the wheel.

Well. No wonder.

Spoiler: things get pretty rough, there’s illness and hard winters and financial issues, but they do not, in fact, give up the farm or each other. 

The book says: We made it. You will too.

[queen-scribbles]

The Long Burning Torch ch 2

Oh, look, there more! :D Second chapter for my Ryn/Red 20s AU brought you by @shepherds-of-haven ‘s summer event 

------

True to his word, Red called just a couple days later--with supremely perfect timing, too; Xaeryn had just returned from following a lead. She was in the process of unpinning her hat when the telephone rang and she ll but dove across the room, hatpin in hand, to answer it.

“Shrike Investigations,” she said with that borderline-cheerful professionalism people expected from anyone running a business.

“Xaeryn?” He sounded curious verging on concerned. “Everything alright?”

“Oh, hittin’ on all eight,” she assured him with a breathless laugh. “I just got back from chasing down a lead.” She left off how literal that was this time as she glared at the mud on her shoes. “He was... more help than he meant to be, I think. I’m just grateful it didn’t turn into another dead-end.”

Red laughed. “Glad to hear it.” The line crackled a bit in the moment’s silence before he continued, “I had a chance to do some research, turned up a few interesting things.”

Generally interesting, or Red-interesting? Xaeryn wondered with a fond smile, remembering his fascination with even the minutiae of everything he read. “Like what?” 

“At least some of what happened to the pendent after the Solimer lost it, and it’s a bit of a mess.” He laughed again, sheepishly this time, and Xaeryn pictured him running a hand through his hair. “It’s better explained in person. Should I come to you--”

“I’ll come there,” Xaeryn offered. “You’re doing me a favor, it’s the least I can do. And besides” --she grinned, even knowing he couldn’t see her-- “it’s a long drive and I wouldn’t want you to forget any of your notes.”

There was a long-suffering sigh, punctuated by a chuckle that made the line pop. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“No more than you let me live down the apple tree,” she retorted sweetly. “Does it work for me to come today? The guild’s getting antsy with the exhibit date drawing closer, but if you’re busy...”

“I have a lecture in... just under an hour.” Red paused, likely doing the same travel time vs lecture time calculations she was. “If you left soon, you’d probably get here just as I’m finishing, we could talk after?”

“Sounds good to me,” Xaeryn said scraping mud off her shoe against the chair leg. “I’ll see you in a couple hours, then.”

“Mm, see you then.”

She took a moment examining her shoes after they hung up and decided it would be best to change them before she left. Wouldn’t want to be tracking mud through Solhadur’s halls.

---

She couldn’t entirely bite back a laugh when she arrived and found Red behind his desk, the pencil woven between his fingers tapping against one of the three books open across the desk’s surface. “Well, I just lost a five lyss wager.”

“Huh?” His hair fell in his eyes when he looked up. “Over what?”

Xaeryn smiled as she leaned against the edge of the desk. “I was certain you would get carried away with jawing about whatever your lecture was on and I would be here first. Fortunately it was a wager with myself” --she leaned over to peek at what he was reading--”so there’s no real loss.”

Red laughed and nudged one of the books toward her. “Normally you would have won. I thought of something I wanted to double-check before you got here, so I made sure to end on time. The students thank you for that, by the way.”

She snickered and skimmed through the presented history text. “They’re most welcome. What did you learn?”

Red pushed out of his chair and circled the desk to give them the same angle on the book she held. “There’s a decade or so immediately after its loss that’s unaccounted for, but there are records from travelers who mention encountering a warlord deep in Jalis territory with a pendent that sounds an awful lot like Solimer’s torch. Here.” He leaned over to flip a few pages back from where she was and pointed at a sketched illustration.

While rudimentary in nature, it did bear a striking resemblance to the photographs Mr. Syndran had given her. Xaeryn hummed a quiet agreement, noting the sketched pendent seemed to be on an armband rather than loose as it was now, as she started reading the relevant text around the illustration. 

“Lean on details,” she frowned, tracing a finger over the words as she read.

“That one is,” Red agreed. “They were more concerned with other things, barely mention the pendent in their description of the warlord. It’s just the only one with an illustration.” He tugged the book away from her, swapped it for one of the others. “Going off the description, I think this is the same piece. But you can draw your own conclusions.” He sat in one of the chairs and Xaeryn stayed perched on the edge of the desk, one foot swinging idly a few inches off the ground as she read.

From the sound of it--bronze coiled around a jet black stone, said to be its owner’s lucky talisman--she was inclined to agree with Red.  The territory of this warlord, however, was rather far from the usual routes ascribed to the Solimer’s desert travels. How did it get there? she mused. Likely during the decade it had vanished, but she couldn’t even begin to guess the method. She’ was just finishing with the account when she caught Red smiling out of the corner of her eye.

She let the book dip to look at him instead. “What?”

Red’s eyes twinkled as he nodded at the hem of her mid-calf skirt. “That lead you mentioned chasing earlier wouldn’t have involved mud puddles, would it?”

Xaeryn followed his gaze and groaned at the mud staining the dusky rose fabric. “I wasn’t expecting him to run,” she muttered, flicking at the mud with one hand as she moved to the other chair.

“Your suspects usually just wait around, obligingly, for you to interrogate them, then?” 

She rolled  her eyes at his teasing tone and briefly debated whacking him with the book. “He wasn’t a suspect, he was a witness,” she retorted primly, setting the book back on his desk. “Potentially. Though with how cagey he was being, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was guilty of something.”

“A mystery for another day,” Red said with a grin.

“Precisely. As for today’s mystery, have you found anything more recent than this?” She tapped the book. “It’s still several hundred years ago.”

“Not much, and some of it’s contradictory; that’s part of why I said in person was better.” He ran one hand through his hair. “That territory is so deep in the Jalis desert, not many go there and come out again. Those who don’t live there frequently die visiting.”

“Charming place,” Xaeryn said dryly.

“Mmhm. It makes getting records difficult, to say the least. There’s a mention of this warlord’s territory being conquered by another, but no mention of what was taken as potential spoils, and the next thing I’ve found resembling Solimer’s torch is is when it was discovered in the grave of a different chieftain, name unknown--though there are theories--a hundred years ago and almost two hundred miles from where the nearest previous records indicated it being.”

“How’s a chieftain’s name unknown?” she frowned. 

“He was buried with the honors afforded warlords and chieftains, but any record of his identity had worn off in the desert wind, if it was there in the first place,” Red explained.

“And these theories about who he was?” 

“Numerous and with various levels of support,” he said wryly. “But if you want the longer version...?”

Xaeryn chuckled. “Always.” 

They spent the next hour or so discussing the myriad guesses people had made as to this mystery chieftain’s name, as well as the other details Red had unearthed about the pendent, and various sources’ credibility. They only got caught up in one or two rabbit trails of good-natured debate over peer review and scholarly reputation or historical patterns of desert travel. (Which was pretty good for them.)

“There are a lot of gaps,” Red acknowledged, thumbing the pages of one book. “But I have a lot more I can read to help with filling them in.” He twirled one hand to gesture at the shelves that lined the room.

“You don’t have to-���

“Xaeryn, have you ever known me to be unhappy reading a book?” he asked with a warm smile.

“Well, no,” Xaeryn laughed. “But you’re so busy now, Headmaster.”

Red arched a brow but didn’t further protest her use of the title. “I always have time for you,” he said with a shrug, then cleared his throat and pushed to his feet even as her heart pounded and she sternly informed herself he hadn’t meant it like that. (She was grateful his circling the desk meant he missed the moment of broken composure that surely flashed across her face.) “And research is even more fun when it’s for a purpose. Bottom line for you so far...” He picked up his dropped pencil and started shuffling through everything on his desk in search of paper.

She grinned and held out her notepad. “Here.”

He flashed a sheepish smile as he took it. “Thank you.” He flipped to the first blank page and started writing as he talked. “Descendants of either that unknown chieftain or the one whose wife originally found the torch would have the strongest claims of ownership.”

“If I can find them,” Xaeryn said dryly. “And if one of them’s not already the owner on record who lent the pendent to the exhibit.” She bit her lower lip. “I think I need to talk to Mr. Syndran again.”

And depending on what he told her, her own research into genealogy might be called for.

“Probably your best next step.” Red finished writing and handed back her notepad, several pages scrawled with bullet-points summation of what he’d found.  “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” Xaeryn smiled when she saw the notes were in their shorthand.  “Nice touch.”

He smiled and raised one shoulder in a shrug. “It takes less space, and you did say this is a secret...”

“Very true.” She flipped the pad closed and tucked it back in her handbag. “I really do appreciate your help, this wasn’t a a small request, and you got me some answers in very short order.”

“I’m not done reading, Xaeryn,” Red said, voice rife with amusement. He waved at the surrounding shelves again. “Like I said, there’s a lot more to check.”

I always have time for you.

“As long as you don’t mind, I would love to hear anything else you learn,” Xaeryn said with a smile. Far be it from her to stand between Liefred Antiqua and a research project he was excited about. She’d sooner snatch an ice cream away from a child. 

“I’ll call if I find anything else useful,” Red promised, already shifting toward one bookshelf.

She nodded, biting back a laugh and hoping he had a very loose definition of the word ‘useful’. “I’ll look forward to that, then.” Her neck and ears warmed and she hastily added, “more information is always helpful.” She stood, flicking at the stubborn mud on her skirt again. Next time she went interview-hunting, she was wearing trousers. “Though you have me off to an excellent start.” She headed for the door, paused with her hand on the knob. “Thank you for that, Liefred.”

“Anytime.” He leaned against the corner of his desk. “You can still call me Red, y’know, Xaeryn. Everyone does, so it’s hardly going to seem too familiar.”

True as that might be here at Solhadur, Haven was a different story. And she wouldn’t want to slip up. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Xaeryn said softly. “Until next time?”

“Mm-hm.” Something flickered in his eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck, then flashed her an easy smile. “I’ll look forward to it, then. I’m glad we reconnected.”

She smiled back as she twisted the knob. “Me, too.”

She didn’t have many friends, it was good to get one of the best ones back.

---

It was edging toward evening when Xaeryn made it back to her office. Which made it a bit of a surprise --fortuitous as it was-- to find Mr. Syndran waiting for her.

“Did we have a meeting I forgot about?” she asked apologetically as she unlocked the door. (They hadn’t, she was positive, but it was a diplomatic way of probing for why he was here.)

“We did not,” Mr. Syndran replied, arching a brow in a knowing look. “I had some other business in the area and decided to stop by in person to see how you are coming along, Miss Shrike.”

Xaeryn laughed and gestured toward the same chair he’d sat in on his first visit. “Then you have very good timing, instincts, or both, Mr. Syndran. I had some things I wanted to ask you; background information.”

His brow creased ever so slightly. “Should you not be far beyond mere background information? Have you not made progress?”

She sighed and sat in her chair behind the desk, pulling her notepad from her handbag and turning to a blank page. “Not of the ‘I’ve narrowed it down to two blocks, I just don’t know which house’ variety, no.” She tapped her pen against the desk. “But I have leads on suspects.”

Syndran gave a grunt that may have been displeasure. “And your questions for me?”

“Like I said; clarifying background information. When the Couriers were contracted to handle transport, how much were you told about the pieces?”

“Only the relevant details.” He brushed invisible lint off his sleeve. “Each one’s value, recorded owner, any special care instructions.”

Xaeryn nodded, pen poised over her pad. “I don’t suppose you recall the owner listed for the pendent?”

He paused to think a moment. “I’d have to have my secretary check to be completely certain, but I believe it was a Ms. Aescar. The name didn’t ring any bells for me.”

“And would I need to speak with the Hall of History and Culture if I wanted to find out how to contact her, or do you know?”

Syndran shook his head. “Whitestone Couriers were merely transporting the relics, Miss Shrike. Any communication with the owners was the concern of the museum curators. Why would you need to talk to her?”

“I might not,” Xaeryn said, scribbling the information down. “I just like to have all my chickens in the coop ahead of time, so there’s no scrambling if something winds up time-sensitive down the road.”

“Smart.” Syndran gave a nod of approval. “So long as you don’t spend so much time preparing for unlikely eventualities that you lose more promising leads.”

She back back a tart ‘I know how to do my job’ and nodded. “Of course.”

He paused a moment, lips pursed in thought. “I did have a wonder, Miss Shrike.”

Xaeryn cocked her head. “Oh?”

“Given the... likelihood this theft occurred somewhere between city customs and the museum and the utter lack of details my drivers have been able to provide about that stretch of the journey” --his expression soured-- “would it be possible for you to... revisit the scene with your abilities?” His brows arched meaningfully.  “You are Argentis, are you not? The benefit of hindsight might allow you to pick up on something relevant that didn’t register in the moment for my people.”

She tapped her pen against her notepad. “I can give it a go, Mr. Syndran, but I’m more a Scryer than a Sage; my strongest talent is finding things in the present, not viewing the past. Though this is the recent past,” she mused. “Perhaps recent enough that with a focus from the caravan I’d have decent luck.”

“I’ll see what I can find for you.” Mr. Syndran pushed to his feet. “Anything in particular that will work best?”

“For viewing the past like this... something from the event is necessary, and the closer to central it is, the clearer a picture I’ll be able to get.” She leaned back in her chair. “Frankly, if you don’t mind my doing so, coming to the Couriers’ garage and using one of the trucks as my touchstone would work best.”

“Oh, that’s very doable,” he said with a nod. “As it’s getting late, what say we do it tomorrow?”

“Nine AM?” Xaeryn suggested.

“Acceptable.” He headed for the door. “I shall see you then, Miss Shrike.”

“See you then, Mr. Syndran.” Xaeryn waited until the door closed behind him to let out a slow breath. Scrying was easy enough, even if she didn’t always succeed, but peering into the past was usually a draining exercise for her. Mr. Syndran was correct, though; it was very likely the best way to glean new leads. Even if it meant she’d need a nap after.

She pushed to her feet and locked the door. One more glance over her notes before she called it a night. So it was fresh in her mind and she could mull it over.

She tried not to get too distracted by the difference between her small, crowded shorthand and Red’s larger, loose scrawl--he had a dreamer’s handwriting, which she’d teased him about when they were younger(he’d rolled his eyes but hadn’t denied it). The memory had her smiling all through dinner.

---

The weather was nice enough the next day Xaeryn opted to walk to the Whitestone Couriers’ garage, though she did take an umbrella in case the rain that hadn’t threatened the last few days decided to make an appearance. Mr. Syndran was waiting for her, looking all the more proper in these rough-shod surroundings. 

“Right on time, Miss Shrike,” he said with a tight smile. “This way.” He led her at a brisk pace to a gleaming black truck, the canvas cover a near-immaculate tan. “This is the one that was carrying the crate with the pendent, among other things.”

“Right.” Xaeryn circled to the passenger side, letting her fingers trail over the cool metal until they rested on the door. “I can’t make any promises, but let’s see if we can find anything useful.”

She pressed her hand flat against the side of the truck and murmured the correct ritual, felt her magic rise to do as she bade.

The scene around her--Mr. Syndran, the garage, everything but the truck--faded into shadow. Her view shifted, as if she were riding shotgun in the truck or hanging out the window as it crept through Haven’s streets. Tings were flickery and dim, the colors bled out and faded as she looked around. I don’t know how long I can hold this. Xaeryn peered intently at  what she could see of the surroundings, the other vehicles, the people, buildings, noting everything she could, no matter how mundane. A woman with a red hat, brim hiding most of her face. A young boy and his dog watching the caravan with interest. A man with vivid green eye and a small smile lounging against a wall, following the trucks’ progress from under his slouched cap. The cat that almost darted in front of the preceding truck before it spooked. The flapper with an armful of bracelets, glancing surreptitiously across the street-

The scene flickered sharply, her grasp on the ritual fading, the images slipping away--

And Xaeryn was back in the garage, leaning against the truck as her knees went to jelly. The few prior occasions she’d played the sage had left her feeling like she stood up too fast when they ended, and this was no exception.

“Are you alright, Miss Shrike?” Mr. Syndran gestured to a nearby worker who’d stopped to gawp and the man scuttled off.

“Just fine,” she said with a nod, turning to sit on the truck’s running board as she tugged out her notepad and rapidly scrawled out everything she’d seen. “Sage work can be taxing if it’s not your main talent, that’s all.”

He watched in silence as she scribbled down the vision’s contents, only speaking again when she finished. “Did you see anything of note?”

“Nothing too blatant, or it would have stood out even to the drivers,” Xaeryn said, leaning her head back against the truck. “But there were some passers-by that caught my attention...”

Mr. Syndran listened to her descriptions with utmost focus, but interrupted when she reached the green-eyes lounger. “Do you remember any other details about him?” he demanded, his hands twitching to a fractionally tighter grip on the head of his walking stick.

“Tall,” Xaeryn said slowly. The worker Syndran had sent away returned with a tumbler of water, which she accepted with a nod of thanks as she dug through the memory. “I think brown hair, but he was wearing a hat. Bright red vest, blue and green scarf ‘round his neck-”

“Thieves guild,” Syndran muttered. Despite the distaste on the words, a panther-like grin curved his lips. “I should have known.” The distaste shifted to satisfaction. “That would be your next lead, Miss Shrike.”

Xaeryn arched a brow. “Do tell.”

“Thieves guild has been a thorn in our side for years,” Syndran explained, “They aren’t even a true guild; more a loose association of ruffians and cutpurses who only call themselves such in another jape at legitimate businesses.” He sniffed. “They make their base in the warrened streets of Ashtown, but I believe I have worked out where their true headquarters are concealed. I can give you some direction, if you’re recovered enough to follow me to my office?”

She nodded, pushed to her feet. “Lead the way.”

It was good to have something tangible to pursue. Hopefully the weather would hold so she could follow it up now. Ashtown was no fun in the rain.

[rosemaidenvixen]

A Secret’s Worth

Chapter 16: Walter

Ao3

Over the years Strickler had lost track of how many times another changeling had made a joke about how it must rankle him to teach history that he knew was false from firsthand experience. 

But what most other changelings didn’t realize was that between ineffective funding and highly biased textbooks he’d be teaching falsehoods one way or another.

The truly ironic thing about being a changeling educator was being forced to leave out key events responsible for shaping the modern world as they knew it that no human was aware even occurred.

“Can anyone tell me who the final king of Camelot was?”

The predictable grouping of hands went up; Claire Nuñez, Seamus Johnson, Darci Scott, Eli Pepperjack. He had no doubt that they all knew the correct answer, maybe it was time to check that one of his less alert students was still mentally present in some capacity.

“Ms. Longhannon?”

The girl in question jerked her gaze away from the window “Wha?”

A chorus of snickers came up from around her. Shannon flushed.

“We were discussing the final ruler of Camelot, Ms. Longhannon,”

“Oh….that was King Arthur…..right?”

He smiled “Correct,”

Pressing a button on the remote in his palm, Strickler switched the view on the projector to a timeline extending from the years 400 to 1200 “The Pendragon Empire, founded by Uther Pendragon in the fifth century, lasted until the early twelfth century, ending during the upheaval surrounding the death of his descendent, Arthur Pendragon. A large part of the chaos after Arthur’s death was due to the fact that Arthur left no immediate heirs apparent. That combined with crumbling infrastructure and opportunistic invasions from neighboring nations is what led to the fracturing of the empire,”

Strickler paused as the soft scratching of pencils on paper filled the room.

Neighboring nations, what drivel, it was enough to make any self respecting changeling want to laugh and vomit at the same time.

Granted, Strickler himself hadn’t been present for Camelot’s true downfall. He’d been a young changeling back then, trying to sell a remote clan of Slavic trolls on the benefits of an alliance with the Gumm Gumms.

He hadn’t succeeded. But in the end it turned out rather moot.

No, that was putting it far too mildly. It had taken over a century for the Janus Order to recover from the chaos; setting their goals back by nearly a millennium.

Arthur might have lost the battle against his kingdom falling, but the victory he’d gained in the war was exponentially greater.

He’d prevented the extinction of the entire human race.

Strickler shut his eyes and pulled in a deep breath to ground himself back in the present as the last few students finished taking their notes.

No. 

Not prevented. Delayed.

“Your final project will be done in groups, each group will be assigned a single century during the Pendragon empire and will put together a presentation summarizing the events and the impact of your assigned century. This presentation should last twenty minutes and we will be doing them in class at the end of the month,” 

The entire room broke out into groans. 

Strickler chuckled good naturedly “Consider it a small price to pay for not having any work over spring break, now I want you all to break into your groups, three to five people each, and have one member select your century, and enough rubrics for all of you,” he gestured towards the small slips of papers on his desk sitting next to a fat stack of rubrics “The rest of the hour will be in class work time, so I suggest you get started,”

There was a shuffle of desks and sneakers as the students settled into their groups, a handful darting up and snatching their centuries and rubrics under Strickler’s keen eye. Had to make sure everyone settled into proper groups and keep track of who was working on what century after all. He waited until things had nearly settled down before speaking up again.

“Jim Lake,”

The boy in question started in his seat, both him and his groupmates turning and looking at Strickler inquisitively.

“Yeah?”

“Do you mind stepping outside with me for a moment?”

Based on his expression Jim certainly minded quite a bit, a gauntness present in his features that hadn’t been there a month ago, but he stood from his chair all the same “Ok….sure,”

Strickler ignored the course of oohs that filled the room as Jim headed over to meet him at the door. Only after he had stepped out and closed the door behind them, the two alone in the hallway, did Strickler speak again.

“Jim, I’ve been monitoring your behavior these past few weeks, and quite frankly I’m concerned,”

Someone less observant and experienced at the art of subterfuge would have missed the subtle way Jim’s shoulders stiffened, the flicker of panic on his face before it settled into a calm veneer.

But Strickler missed nothing.

Jim forced out an uncomfortable laugh “Well...uh, sorry to worry you, but I’m totally fine,”

Strickler had to bite back a sigh. It looked like Jim, not unexpectedly, had decided to be evasive; no matter. In that case the only thing to do was strike at the heart of the issue, bluntly and without delay.

He whipped a comb out of his front pocket; cheap and still sealed in its plastic packaging, but very fine toothed, holding it out in front of him “I want you to run this through your hair,”

Blinking, Jim stared at the comb and then back up at Strickler “....are you serious?”

“Humor me,”

Looking more confused than anything else, Jim slowly took the comb, pulled it from its wrapper, and ran it through his hair once before promptly handing it back “There, is that all? Because I need to--”

“Jim. Look at the comb.”

He did, all the color instantly draining from his face.

From end to end the comb’s teeth were stuffed to the brim with short, black hairs.

“Your hair is falling out.” Strickler’s tone brooked no questioning. He wasn’t asking, he was stating a fact “So do not tell me that everything is fine. If everything were fine you wouldn’t be losing your hair from stress,”

Of course there were plenty of non-stress related medical conditions that could cause a sixteen year old boy to start losing his hair, but Strickler found that his intuition was rarely wrong.

Jim hadn’t so much as twitched, standing frozen in place, eyes wide and locked on the comb.

Strickler let out a sigh and tossed the comb into a nearby trash can “I’m going to be frank with you Jim, I know CPS is investigating your family,”

Now that got a reaction, Jim snapping his head up, breathing quick and shallow, voice tight with pure panic “You do!?”

“Keep your voice down, yes, the investigator called the school with a few questions,” Strickler saw no reason to bring up the fact that he had been the one to make the initial call, much less that he had done so at the behest of Mr. Domzalski.

“But I’m not going to ask about that. That case is a matter between your family and the state, now if you want to talk I am more than willing to listen, but I’m not going to pry into your family’s private matters,”

Just like that the wind went out of his sails. Jim practically going limp, swaying on his feet overcome with relief. But before he could relax too much, Strickler was talking again.

“That being said, in the weeks that the investigation has been going on, I have become seriously troubled by your behavior,”

“What...behavior...are you talking about?”

“You’re anxious and unfocused, I’ve caught you nodding off in class no fewer than three times in the past week. And this is pure speculation on my part, but I don’t think you’ve been getting nearly enough to eat, which could be contributing to your hair loss,”

Squirming under his scrutiny, Jim ran a shaky hand through his hair, before he quickly realized what he was doing and pulled it away “Ok things have been hard… and maybe I’ve missed a meal or two...but I’ve just...really been focusing on keeping my grades up,”

It was true. Strickler happened to know for a fact that Jim was pulling all A’s in every subject. But while that was a fact it certainly wasn’t the whole truth.

“You’re grades are exceptional, and normally I would applaud you for being so diligent with your studies, but I get the feeling you’ve been hyperfocusing on your schoolwork in order to avoid dealing with the other problems in your life,”

From the way Jim flinched at his words, breath catching in his throat, Strickler knew he’d struck the truth. 

“Look...I...I know that there’s a lot going on, but I swear I can handle it,”

“Jim--”

“I promise it’s really not that bad,”

“Not that bad? For goodness sake Jim, your hair is falling out!”

The boy had no response to that, downcast eyes locked on the floor, unable to meet Strickler’s gaze.

Squaring his shoulders, Strickler clasped his hands together and netted his fingers in front of him. Bluntness had served its purpose in this conversation, now it was time for the olive branch “With everything going on in your life I imagine it must feel like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders,”

“Yeah,” Jim mumbled “Something like that,”

Strickler gave him a small smile “Have you heard of the greek myth of Atlas?

Jim looked up at that “No….should I have?”

“Atlas was a titan that took part in the war between the gods and titans, and when the titans lost Atlas was condemned to hold up the sky for all eternity,”

“Okay…but what does that have to do with...me?”

“In the myth Atlas alone bore the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, but Jim, you aren’t Atlas. However heavy your burden is, you don’t have to bear it alone. The faculty here can put you in touch with some excellent counselors and--”

“Actually I really don’t need anything like that,” Jim stepped around him and tried to go back into the classroom “And I should really be getting started on--”

“Jim.” Strickler allowed a trace of stone to creep into his voice “We are not done talking.”

The boy froze midstep, slowly turning back towards him with clear hesitation.

Once Jim was facing him again Strickler cleared his throat and started over “The purpose of counselors and therapists isn’t to scrutinize you or your family, but to give you tools and resources, coping mechanisms to help you better deal with the struggles life throws at you. And before you ask, no, you don’t have to talk about the investigation with them either,”

Jim’s mouth abruptly twisted into a scowl “If I don’t have to talk to them then why should I bother...even….”

He trailed off once he noticed Strickler’s expression, the boy couldn’t possibly see down to the depths of Strickler’s true thoughts, but he clearly saw something that gave him pause.

“...sorry,” Jim muttered, looking down and away.

Strickler just stared back at him evenly.

One didn’t survive as a high school teacher without developing a thick skin in regard to teenage impertinence. But this kind of snide back talk was far more in line coming from Steve, or even Seamus. Hearing it from Jim it was...troubling.

Not wasting any more time, Strickler pulled a sticky note out of his pocket and held it out “Here are a few of the counselors and therapists that I most recommend, but if you want more options let me know and I can get you a complete list,”

Jim didn’t move, arms not so much as twitching from their position at his sides. Staring at the note with a sour expression on his face.

“I’m not going to force you to go see any of them, but you will take their contact information and keep it,” One of Strickler’s eyebrows quirked up “Unless of course accepting the contact information of guidance counselors and therapists would put you at risk for some reason? If that is the case I certainly wouldn’t want to put you in any danger, but I would need to know exactly what kind of danger you would be in,”

Jim chewed on his lip, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Strickler held his gaze, kept his hand extended, and waited.

Finally after what must have been a solid minute, Jim reluctantly reached up and took the note. Tucking it into his pocket under Strickler’s close scrutiny “Can I go back in now?”

Strickler frowned. He was not pleased with how this had turned out. Despite his best efforts the boy seemed dead set on refusing every helping hand extended his way. But as the saying went, one could lead a horse to water, but can’t make them drink. The only thing to do was continue to offer the water and hope one day he bent his head and accepted.

“You can, but please remember, as a teacher it’s not just my job to educate you, myself and every other staff member in this building has an obligation to look after your wellbeing, so please don’t forget that, young Atlas,”

Jim rolled his eyes “Yeah, sure,”

Strickler frowned; darker, harder this time, Jim shrinking under the force of his gaze. Brusqueness gone as quickly as it had come. 

“I...I’m sorry…”

It wasn’t as though Strickler was losing his patience with the boy, compared to his dealings with the order’s underlings this was as relaxing as a day at the spa. Rather he was becoming increasingly concerned by Jim’s uncharacteristic outbursts.

Despite Jim’s best efforts to bury his troubles and pretend that they didn’t exist, his woes were finding their way to the surface one way or another.

“More people care about you than you know Jim,”

Strickler was suddenly struck by inspiration. For whatever reason Jim wasn’t comfortable reaching out to Strickler, or any other adult it seemed. Perhaps the idea was to appeal to his peer relationships.

“Like your friends,”

He gestured towards the window in the classroom door, at cluster of five desks with four students at them in particular “You happen to be graced with a group of companions who would go to the ends of the earth to help you, not everyone can be so fortunate,”

Strickler turned his head slightly, trying to gauge Jim’s reaction. But to his shock, rather than looking relieved or even uncertain, something hard and inscrutable had settled over Jim’s face.

“Yeah, they would wouldn’t they,”

The boy’s tone cinched it. Strickler had accomplished all that he could for today, pushing Jim any further right now would do more harm than good.

With only a pang of reluctance, Strickler opened the door and allowed Jim back inside, following shortly after.

He went over to his desk to grade quizzes while the students worked for the rest of the hour, Jim taking his seat at the cluster of desks, rejoining his companions and enmeshing himself in their project.

Despite his best efforts to file this incident in the back of his mind, Strickler found himself dwelling on his brief interaction with Jim. Keeping a subtle eye on him and his group. 

Strickler had been doing this for a very long time and found that for good or for ill, his intuition was rarely wrong. 

You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink, only keep offering and hope one day he bent his head and accepted it. And Strickler’s intuition was telling him that Jim would break before he ever bent.