#particularly neglectful the last month (going weeks without answering) and its. well. bad for me cuz im insecure or whatever

[mistninja]

Told my friend that his behavior is making me sad instead of keeping it in for another week I'm gonna throw up

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 30: A Healer’s Advice

So i know its the middle of the night, but I just finished this and I had to post it! I restructured this section so that the emotional convo with Aelin was at the end of the chapter, because it works so much better for this fic. Also, I know Namonora is completely OC, but I just had to give her some kind of conclusion in the story because it’s the last time we are going to see her, and I thought it made for a nice emotional moment. You’re just gonna have to forgive me (I know I managed to make one paragraph in the book into a whole ass 3000 words. Im sorry. I hope you like it anyways).

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For hours that night they stayed up talking, adjusting their plans to accommodate the lack of reinforcements.

There was a somber moment when Rowan calmly encouraged all of the non-fighters still in the fortress to flee. Several demi-Fae exchanged worried glances, but all refused. Even Emrys wouldn’t leave, and Malakai simply said that where his mate went, he went.

Rowan didn’t know whether to be thankful or not that there wasn’t much they could change. The die had been cast, and there was no turning back now. But Rowan kept the demi-Fae captains talking anyways, distracting them from their fear.

It wasn’t until Emrys hauled a pot from beneath the kitchen sink and began banging it with a wooden spoon – demanding that they give it up for the night, that they headed off to bed. Aelin managed to catch a few hours of sleep, but Rowan lay awake, just staring up at the stone ceiling and listening to the slow, even breaths of the female at his side.

The next morning, they led almost every single demi-Fae at Mistward – those who weren’t already out delivering messages, that is – to the healers’ compound, where they helped cart the patients to safety.

They moved them to a camp set into the side of a mountain, an easily defensible cavern with enough space to set up a temporary hospital. It was dark, and a bit damp, but the healers and the wounded would be far safer here than along that exposed section of river.

It took most of the day, even with the dozens of healers and healers’ assistants to help them carry the many stretchers, cots, boxes, and baskets. And there was a seemingly endless line of patients needing assistance traversing the rocky path up to the secluded caves. Many of the wounded used crutches or were bedridden, and many more were too sick to walk unassisted for longer than a few minutes – Fae with weak hearts or lungs, with recently stitched wounds, or half-healed broken bones.

And then there were the supplies. Medical tools, salves, cloth, bandages, and herbs – clothes, books, blankets, and mountains upon mountains of food. All that needed to be carefully transported and stored.

Namonora was a frantic presence in the fringes of Rowan’s vision, flitting in and out of his view throughout the day. One moment, she was assisting a stumbling female over a particularly uneven bit of earth, the next she was organizing piles of books into ‘stay,’ ‘storage,’ and ‘leave,’ piles, according to levels of usefulness. Another, Rowan caught her chastising a rowdy group of young demi-Fae, clearly students, and corralling them into separating piles of patient uniforms into ‘clean’ and ‘dirty,’ and folding them neatly into burlap sacks. In yet another, he found her instructing a harassed-looking assistant on the proper way to pack sets of scalpels “without cutting off the fingers of some unsuspecting healer!”

It wasn’t until evening that Rowan caught a quiet moment with her, when much of the chaos had died down. Even after everything had been moved from the compound and into the cavern, the demi-Fae from Mistward stayed to help the healers organize the camp into a functional structure, and help the wounded settle into their temporary home.

Luca and Emrys had assisted with dinner, whipping up a meal from the dry rations now filling the makeshift pantry, using a convenient rock shelf to prepare the soup that they were now ladling into dozens of bowls. Bas was laughing enthusiastically with a group of injured men from Wendlyn in a secluded corner, exchanging bawdy jokes and generally lightening the dour mood. Aelin was wandering through the rows of cots lighting candles and torches, occasionally giving a soft touch and a smile to those who seemed quiet, or lost.

Namonora was now standing cross-armed near the entrance to the cave, her eyes surveying the company critically. Rowan sidled up beside her, and together they looked over the motley group, stress furrowing both their brows.

After a few long moments, Namonora sighed and turned to face Rowan. “I think you owe me an explanation.”

Rowan frowned. The messages sent to the healers and the other fortresses had been short and to the point, purposefully neglecting to explain much of what they had learned about the dark creatures.

So Rowan told her. He explained how Aelin had discovered their hiding place in the caves, how she realized the connection between the stench and the creature she had faced in the palace in Adarlan. How Rowan had discovered the creatures hidden at the back of the soldier’s camp, and what he learned there. How they had escaped.

Namonora’s eyes darkened as he spoke, her face tightening. When he got to the battle between the creature and the skinwalkers, she paled. “So you are sure it is dead then?”

Rowan sighed. “There was no body.”

“So you cannot be sure.”

“No, we cannot. But I don’t see how it could have survived.”

Namonora looked back over her patients, her healers. All these people she was responsible for. “I was right. Adarlan is breeding monsters in the Dead Islands.” Her voice was cold and hard.

Rowan nodded slowly. “So it seems.”

“Do you know how they can be killed?”

Rowan’s jaw clenched and he shook his head. “I have only guesses.”

Namonora turned sharply to look at him, but she didn’t say anything more. After a heavy pause, she asked, “Are some of your people going to stay here with us? We would be happy to shelter as many as needed.”

“Yes, a few of the non-fighters were going to stay, and we were planning on leaving a small group of guards as well.”

“Good. That is good.” Her voice trailed off.

“Is Paynor still here?”

“No. We discharged him two weeks ago, and he went off to rejoin his naval company. He’s probably fighting at Wendlyn’s northern border as we speak.”

The disdain of a healer filled her voice. A few months ago, Rowan might have thought lesser of her for it. But now…

“Then let us hope their outlook is better than ours.” He was surprised at the layer of sarcasm that darkened his tone.

Her eyes widened. “Is it really that bad?”

The question was earnest. And Rowan knew that he couldn’t avoid it.

“When we could be sure of reinforcements, I knew we had a shot.”

“And now?”

“Now, we will fight as hard as we can. And let the dice fall where they may.”

Silence.

Sorrow leeched into the healer’s lily-mint-and-rain flavored scent, and the two of them turned once again to look over the churning, rippling mass of people before them. Mortals, demi-Fae, and Fae, all working together, helping one another.

Rowan’s eyes automatically sought out a golden head of hair, and found Aelin sitting at the end of a child’s cot. The girl looked pale, and gaunt, but her eyes were bright. A small smile warmed Aelin’s face as they talked quietly with each other.

Aelin raised her hand, and flames began to wrap around her fingers, leafy vines blossoming over her knuckles. The girl started slightly, but Aelin only took her fingers in her own, letting the flaming vines slowly creep over their joined hands to curl around the girl’s wrists as well. They began to sprout into golden blooms, each petal curving and undulating in an invisible breeze.

Rowan could hear the child’s delighted laugh from all the way across the cavern.

“And what will her place be, in the battle to come?”

Rowan realized with a slight shock that Namonora had also been watching Aelin and the girl. Had been watching him watch them. He quickly collected himself. “The princess is an accomplished fighter - she will do whatever is required of her,” Rowan replied simply.

But Namonora seemed unsatisfied. “I can feel the touch of her power from here.”

Rowan nodded vaguely.

“A mighty gift.”

She was prodding, seeking answers he wasn’t sure he wanted to give. Rowan just pursed his lips, jerking his head once.

“Such a gift could only have been bestowed by the gods.” She turned back to face Aelin, face tight. “A demi-Fae princess, with power enough to remake the world.”

Rowan remained silent, his face expressionless.

“A rare thing, that. Priceless.”

Rowan was sure that her eyes must be boring holes into the back of his head by now. Still, he kept his silence.

Her teeth clacked together. “Do you know what our Queen intends to do with this precious gift?”

A pause. “I doubt, Head Healer, that I would tell you, even if I knew.” Rowan’s voice was measured, cautious.

A huff of breath. “A courtly answer, if ever I heard one, your highness.”

Rowan snorted.

“Still – if you both survive, you must take her to Doranelle?”

Rowans silence served as answer in itself.

Namonora sighed. “The thought of those powers, colliding...” she shivered slightly. “I suppose you won’t tell me what the princess intends, either?”

Rowan just sighed.

“I figured.”

“What will be, will be, Head Healer. There’s not much in our power to stop it.”

“I never would have thought you to be so defeatist.” A cold frown. “You must do whatever you can. She must survive.”

Rowan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond.

There was a short pause, but then: “You cannot let that girl die.”

Namonora’s voice had become low and intense. Rowan turned to face her, but didn’t say anything. He was surprised to see that instead of anger or reproach, her face was filled with a deep concern.

Rowan sent the old female a questioning look, but she only answered it with yet more evasiveness. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I became a healer?”

Rowan slowly shook his head.                                                  

“I met Queen Maeve once. As a child. She found me.”

The healer’s voice relaxed, preparing to tell a long and familiar story. By contrast, Rowan found himself tensing, his muscles stiffening with unease.

“I grew up on the streets of Doranelle. I am full Fae, but still, my parents abandoned me. It took years, but eventually I found out that my father had gotten my mother with child, and then abandoned her. My mother had a very hard labor, and she died giving birth to me. A nursemary took care of me through babyhood, but eventually the money ran out, and she abandoned me too.” A wry frown.

“I lived among groups of demi-Fae children, moving between empty homes and abandoned buildings - scrounging for food and stealing coin where we could. With my gift, I learned how to draw water from the earth, and others were drawn to me, and to the small amount of safety I could offer. I had no idea that another life was possible.”

Rowan found himself interested against his will. It was so similar, and yet so different from Lorcan’s upbringing.

“One day, in my late teens or perhaps early twenties, I stole from the wrong person. A lord of some kind, I never learned his name. Guards came after me, and they broke apart the small group I was living with at the time. They killed one of my friends.”

Namonora’s voice broke, and Rowan shifted in discomfort. Unsure just exactly where she was taking this story, why she felt the need to tell it to him.

“Then they hauled me to the palace, jailed me, and sentenced me to six months’ hard labor. In the textile mills in Kerrcian.” A swallow. “I began to plot my escape. They didn’t know I had a gift. I was untrained, so it was small and easily hidden. I sharpened my water into blades, and began to cut at the bars they held me in. But of course, I was discovered within days, and they covered my hands in iron gloves.

“Only now they knew I had a gift of healing, and everything changed. Queen Maeve sent for me. I can still remember the way my hands shook as I walked through the stone hallways and into the throne room…” She trailed off, her eyes far away.

“She listened as I told my story, listened to my complaints and my excuses. But just when I expected her to render judgement, to punish me for my theft and my desperation, she began to tell me a story of her own.”

Namonora’s face clouded over, in anger or fear or hate, Rowan was not sure.

“She told me a story of evil men, and a narrow escape. Of violence and power and corruption and abuse. I do not know how much of it was true, if any. And I don’t know why she decided to tell it to me. But I remember what Maeve said once she finished.” A deep breath.

“She told me that we should accept the vileness. That instead of trying to change the wicked, instead of trying to fix or heal or learn, we must make ourselves more powerful. That the only way to right the wrongs done to us, is to ensure that they suffered in kind.

“She told me that she would do all she could to win. All she could to protect herself. And to take the revenge she thought herself owed.”

Namonora’s voice was as ice.

“Before she let me go that day, our Queen said that I would owe her for this. That one day, she would call in this debt of mine. I promised her I would do as she asked, then she sent me away to be trained. To learn the healing arts, hidden away in the compound astride the capital city.”

Rowan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the healer, couldn’t help the dread that pooled in his stomach as he began to suspect what was coming next…

“I learned well, and years passed. The work was difficult, and yet those were the safest and most comfortable years I had yet experienced. Though always, the shadow of that debt hung over me, a cat just waiting to pounce. And then, nearly a decade later, she sent for me once more.

“Even though I was no longer that scared little girl, even though I had learned and grown and become an accomplished healer, it was no different this time than the last. My hands still trembled as I walked through those granite hallways, and I can still remember the way my heartbeat pounded in my eardrums.

“And my fear was not unwarranted.”

Rowan felt the dread begin to curdle in his gut.

“Maeve wanted to ask me to become her personal healer, to be by her side and protect her always. She wanted me to swear the blood oath. To be her slave.” A deep breath. “I declined her offer.”

Rowan’s gaze fixed to the floor.

“So that is why I am here, Prince. Despite my many accomplishments. Why I have been banished to the fringes. I refused to do her bidding, and she punished me accordingly.”

Namonora raised her arms to Rowan, and pulled up the long sleeves of her linen gown – revealing ancient, mottled scars. The remnants of deep burns.

“Maeve controls through fear. And she does whatever she can to best serve her own interests, regardless of the harm. Even by defeating and subjugating her enemies before they even become so.” She lowered her arms, letting the sleeves pool once more to cover the old injuries. Her gaze was a stone thrown at his face.

“You know this prince; you have been doing this for her for centuries now. But this girl, this princess...she is different. She could be something different.”

Rowan turned his eyes away, but Namonora was undeterred.

“You must protect her. Even if you have to sacrifice the whole of the fortress to do so, you must keep her safe. This fight doesn’t matter – war is coming. And it is bigger than a fortress in the mists of Doranelle.”

Her voice was insistent. “You must save her, But not for you. Not for your own happiness. The world turns on that child’s fingertips, and I think you know it. Do not forget what your queen has done for power.”

There was a pause, but then Rowan raised his head to see Aelin and the girl, across the way, laughing with each other. Bright. Warm.

He turned to face Namonora, and he nodded.

···

They spent the rest of the evening back at the fortress, discussing their plans for the next few days. They had left Emrys, along with a selection of sentries and few other older demi-Fae who would not be able to fight, with the healers. Rowan wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forget the look on Malakai’s face as he walked away from his mate.

Darkness fell, the moon rose, and soon he and Aelin were making their way to bed. Within a minute of entering their rooms, Aelin was undressed and flopping into bed, a sigh of relief escaping her lips.

Instead of joining her, Rowan turned to the washbasin, peeling off his shirt and beginning to clean the seat and grime from his limbs. “You did well helping me plan tonight.”

Her reply was wry. “You sound surprised.”

Rowan wiped his face, then leaned against the dresser, bracing his hands against either end. The wood groaned in protest.

Everything had changed between them, and yet absolutely nothing had.

Rowan began to turn back to face her, but his eyes were caught by a golden glint. Aelin had left Goldryn casually leaning against the bedpost, its ruby smoldering in the dim light. Rowan ran a finger across the hit.

What a flimsy shield he had given her. Namonora’s words swirled in his mind, and he wished, wished with everything he had, that he could protect her. Could keep her safe.

Rowan let go of the dresser and approached the bed. “I sent word,” he said, the words slipping from his lips as if by accident. “To my…cadre, as you like to call them.”

Aelin’s face tightened, almost imperceptibly. “When?”

“A few days ago. I don’t know where they all are or whether they’ll arrive in time. Maeve might not let them come – or some of them might not even ask her. They can be…unpredictable. And it may be that I just get the order to return to Doranelle, and – ”

“You actually called for aid?” She cut off his babbling.

His eyes narrowed. I just said that I did.

She stood, and he retreated a step. What changed your mind?

Some things are worth the risk.

This time, he didn’t back away as Aelin took another step towards him. And another. Her face was filled with some deep emotion, a well so dark he could not see the bottom.

Her words were ragged. “I claim you, Rowan Whitethorn. I don’t care what you say and how much you protest. I claim you as my friend.”

Rowan turned away from her before she could see the way his face twisted, before she could read the words that would surely be obvious there.

Because it didn’t matter. Even if they survived, when they went to Doranelle, she would walk out of Maeve’s realm alone.

And it hurt.

Her words wormed inside him and ached and festered and itched.

Hurt even more because he knew that under different circumstances, in a different life, he would be filled with joy. And love. And happiness and every other hopeful and tragic and heart-wrenching emotion you feel when you’re accepted by another person for exactly who you are.

Rowan stood there, listening as Aelin rustled the covers, getting herself settled in for sleep. He collected himself, then padded over to join her.

As he settled into bed beside her, it almost seemed as though she relaxed into his form. Her breaths coming more even, and her lithe body falling comfortably still.

But they did not touch, and all night Rowan knew he would feel the pressure of that hollow ache, that need to wrap his arms around her, to feel her skin on his and know that she was still alive.

To believe that perhaps, she could be his. As he was already hers.

...

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@aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @booknerdproblems @queen-of-glass @westofmoon @morganofthewildfire

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[glorious-blackout]

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Five

@rock-n-roll-fantasy Still haven’t settled on a more fitting title than ‘Mark Needs A Hug’ (though my brain keeps coming up with The Shining/Hotel California references) but he does get several of those in this chapter if that helps? 😉 Part Six should be up soon as well! 🥰 

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

**********************************

Mark wakes to find his face half-smushed against his pillow, limbs heavy and sluggish from sleep as his mind clings to the last remnants of a pleasant dream.

An aura of peace lingers like a warm flame as he recalls the circumstances of his fantasy. He’d been sitting on the floor of a modest living room, clad in pyjamas that were too small for his rapidly growing limbs; too entranced by the shiny electric guitar in his hands to make note of his surroundings. It was the exact model he’d been begging for on a daily basis since spotting it in the window of a music store, and had no doubt been living in his parents’ closet for months as they coyly teased him in the run-up to Christmas. Music was playing from a battered old CD player residing on a stacked bookshelf, and he strummed along despite not having the faintest clue how to play a single chord.  

His lack of experience couldn’t have mattered less. Nothing could have broken his contentment in that moment. Not even his mum asking him to “turn the music down, love” so he could pay heed to his other presents had disturbed him from his trance, and Mark had awoken with a pervading sense of peace as the unmistakable melody of The Strokes’ ‘Last Nite’ wormed its way into his brain.

It was one of those dreams that feels more like a long-lost memory than a fiction. One of those subconscious reminders of a simpler past that manages to elicit a smile even when the world at large is falling to pieces. Mark knows this cannot be the case here. He has too many memories of partying his way through the seventies to reconcile those experiences with the notion of being a teenager at the height of The Strokes’ popularity. And yet, the sweet taste of childhood nostalgia is one he appreciates all the same, enough that the thought of waking sends a sharp ache through his heart.

Seeing no obvious reason as to why he shouldn’t slip back into restful slumber, he lets his eyes flutter shut and sighs as he feels his limbs go pliant once more. He can almost taste the sweet embrace of sleep, only for it to be yanked from him once again with a brutal shove. A low whine escapes his throat as a persistent intruder nudges his shoulder, and he swipes a vicious arm in their direction in a wordless protest. His efforts are ultimately feeble, not to mention futile. The nudging continues, now accompanied by the constant repetition of his name, and when his tormenter gives no indication of surrender, Mark is forced to abandon his state of bliss and re-enter the realm of the living.  

He squints, bleary-eyed, at the formless blob hovering over him as he lifts his head from the pillow, flattened hair clinging to one cheek as his brain swims in the wake of his rude awakening. It occurs to him that doesn’t remember how he got here. Judging by his position he must have collapsed face-first at some point in the night - still fully-clothed if the wrinkled cotton of his shirt is any indication - but all memories leading up to that point are absent. He only vaguely recalls receiving a call from Murphy in the evening and senses that it must have dragged on far longer than usual, but he would not be able to describe how the call ended even with a gun to his head. Not that it particularly matters. He’s only grateful for the fact that Murphy must have taken pity on him at some point and let him surrender to his all-consuming weariness.

His vision finally clears following several exaggerated blinks, rendering him somewhat relieved when the humanoid blob morphs into the fretful form of Nick. The man is dressed remarkably casually for someone who likes performing in three-piece suits, and his shoulder-length hair hangs lazily around his face. It takes Mark far too long to realise that Nick’s informal apparel is no doubt related to the fact that he has inadvertently given him several days off from his day-job.

“Hey,” Mark croaks, cringing at how utterly wrecked he sounds as he settles his aching back against the wooden headboard.

“Hey yourself,” Nick replies with a breathy chuckle which does little to mask the concern etched on his face. His outstretched hand is still resting on Mark’s shoulder, as though he suspects he’ll drift off into the abyss again if he dares let go. “I were startin’ to think you were out for the count.”

Mark frowns at that, casting his eye to the bedside table in an instinctive search for his phone, only to find that it isn’t there. He spots it lying neglected on the desk by his computer, too far away to bother checking the time. The room is illuminated by a soft yellow glow as the hanging lights do their best impression of the afternoon sun, and beyond the circular window he can see that the spotlights have bathed the hotel in blinding gold.  

“How long’ve I been asleep?” he asks, rubbing the lingering exhaustion from his eyes and groaning as every movement sends a dull ache shooting through his muscles. No doubt the question will be impossible to answer, given that even he doesn’t know when he slipped into unconsciousness, but Nick may be able to give an indication of how badly he’s overslept at least.

“Couldn’t tell you,” Nick admits with a shrug, before lifting himself from his crouched position and coming to rest on the edge of the bed, his hand finally leaving Mark’s shoulder. “Jamie came by to check on you about eight hours ago, then Matt popped round at lunch. Doesn’t look like you’ve moved much in the meantime.”

Mark frowns. It isn’t like him to sleep so heavily. Usually a single nudge is enough to have him wide awake and alert. He shivers as he envisions two of his best friends waltzing into his suite without him having any recollection of their presence or even of his sleep being disturbed. He trusts Jamie and Matt implicitly of course, but the notion that he has been so dead to the world makes him feel too vulnerable for comfort. Anyone could have swanned in, and by the sounds of it he wouldn’t have so much as shifted in his sleep.

“How’d you get in?” he asks, trying not to sound suspicious and doing a terrible job of it. He tears his eyes away from Nick’s face in shame and decides that tugging on the duvet will be a better use of his time. The fact that he’d awoken with it wrapped snugly around him strikes him as odd. He doubts he’d had the mental faculties to pull it around himself last night. A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he pictures Jamie giving up on his efforts to wake him and proceeding to tuck him in instead; the mental image filling him with a strange sense of longing.

When he braves a glance at Nick’s face, he feels fierce heat return to his cheeks as he takes in the man’s confused - almost hurt – frown, and he inwardly scolds himself for planting that expression there.

“You gave us all keys on our first day, remember?” Nick reminds him, extending a hand into the pocket of his jeans and revealing the offending object, complete with shiny silver keyring in the shape of a bass guitar.

“Oh, right,” Mark says lamely, eyes glued to the set of keys as though seeing them for the first time.  

Of course he remembers giving the lads keys to his room. He has copies of all of theirs too, set aside for emergencies. He remembers the painstaking effort it had taken to pick out individualised keyrings, and the delight that lit up his friends’ faces when they received them all those years ago. It just strikes him as odd that the keys have barely seen any use in all that time. They don’t tend to hang out in each other’s suites anymore now that the lads have families of their own, and barring one miserable fortnight where Mark had been holed up with the flu, he’s rarely been in such a state that he’s needed someone to keep a constant vigil over him. If his friends have been driven to this level of fretting, he must truly look horrendous.

When Mark doesn’t say anything else, Nick shoves the set of keys back in his pocket before lifting himself to his feet. Anxiety tugs at Mark’s heart as he half-expects his friend to leave him alone, but it quickly turns to relief when Nick makes his way over to the coffee-machine instead. Good coffee seems like an excellent idea given that for all the sleep he’s had, he still feels utterly bone-weary. At a guess he must have been out for upwards of sixteen hours, yet every muscle fibre in his body is telling him that he won’t be fully sated until he’s been comatose for a week. At least.  

He groans as he sits up straighter, shoving the duvet away from him in the process, and he’s forced to bring a hand to his forehead as a persistent throb settles behind his eyes.  

“Bad hangover?” Nick asks from his perch by the kitchen counter, the coffee-machine giving off a low rumble as it brings the water to boil. Mark can’t help but laugh at the assumption; it’s certainly a fair guess.

“Surprisingly no,” he admits, lowering his hand and pointedly ignoring the way one of Nick’s eyebrows quirks upwards in subtle disbelief. “Haven’t had a drink in four days, believe it or not.”

“Coulda fooled me!” Nick scoffs, and despite the lightness in his tone, Mark can’t help but flinch. His discomfort must not be very subtle, for Nick’s smile drops instantly and he directs his gaze to the floor as though silently ashamed. “Sorry. It’s just... We’ve been worried about you. Me and the lads. It’s not like you to cancel shows without running it by us first, and whenever one of us tries to check if you’re okay, there’s no answer.”

Nick’s tone isn’t accusatory in the slightest, but Mark still wonders if the guilt unleashed by his words will swallow him whole. It’s true. He hasn’t said a word to his friends since he abandoned them after their last show, and even before that he’d been aloof and stuck inside his own head. He’d cancelled all of their upcoming performances without even notifying his bandmates first; no doubt they’d turned up to rehearsals only to be chased away in bewildered confusion by the orchestra’s conductor. And while Mark has barely checked his phone over the past few days, he has noticed several missed calls and unread texts which hadn’t struck him as particularly urgent at the time.  

The others have no idea what’s got him so wound up. They don’t know about Matthew, or the armed guards who came after him, or the cupboard with the flashing red lights in the impossible corridor. For all his thoughts of calling Jamie in the hope that he’ll somehow rationalise those events with logical ease, Mark has neglected that opportunity at every turn.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, unable to bring his gaze to meet Nick’s for fear the shame will kill him. His voice sounds impossibly small and he feels completely unsure of himself in a way that he never has before. Even the self-consciousness that characterised his youth cannot compete with the crushing uncertainty which consumes him now. “Truth be told, I haven’t really been feeling like meself these past few days. Probably needed some sleep if I’m being honest.”

“Well, you certainly got some of that,” Nick jokes with a fond smile, and a surprised laugh breaks free from Mark’s chest as he shrugs in wordless agreement.  

The coffee-machine finally halts its racket and Nick sets about preparing them both a simple Americano, having correctly assessed that anything more complicated would likely not be tolerated in Mark’s current state. Mark swings his legs over the side of the bed and briefly closes his eyes as a new wave of pain racks his skull, but he greets Nick with a smile when he settles beside him, gratefully accepting the proffered steaming mug in both hands.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, cradling their mugs and blowing off steam before taking careful sips. Mark’s eyes close in satisfaction at the first taste of coffee – prepared just the way he likes it – and while he doubts it’ll achieve the impossible task of revitalising him, he feels a little more human with every sip.

When his mug is half-empty, Nick takes it upon himself to break the silence with a gentle, “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Mark admits with a sigh, unable to tell whether he’s being entirely truthful. Telling the whole story is out of the question. He has little desire to leave Nick questioning his sanity, and he doubts he’d be able to explain everything that happened that night in sufficient detail even if he prepared a script beforehand.  

Nick isn’t going to let him get away with saying nothing though, judging by the bemused expression on his face.  

“Fine. I met someone the other night and he just... freaked me out a little,” Mark attempts eventually. That part is true at the very least. “Haven’t been able to get him out of me head since.”

It’s a lame explanation and he knows it. Even if that wasn’t already obvious, the way Nick’s brow furrows in confusion hammers the point home with all the subtlety of a brick smashing through a car windscreen.

“Did you and he...” Nick starts, before thinking better of it as his face becomes alight with flame.

“What?” Mark asks, only for the insinuation to become clear as day with the spreading blush across Nick’s cheeks. “Oh no, definitely not. It weren’t like that.”

No doubt his current state of mind would be less confusing if he and Matthew had simply stumbled into a drunken mistake, but the man’s looming influence isn’t driven by any romantic inclinations. It strikes Mark as odd how easily Nick had accepted the possibility, though he can’t say he minds. He’d almost prefer the prospect of his aloofness being driven entirely by shallow ‘guy problems’. At least there are plenty of words in the English language to describe dilemmas of the heart. In contrast, the explanation “A stranger presented a rather compelling argument for our existence being nothing more than an elaborate, pointless lie before disappearing into a cupboard which no longer exists” is a little less run-of-the-mill, and that’s before you throw in the notion of a boss who may or may not be the mastermind behind the whole sorry affair.  

Huh. Somehow in the midst of his exhaustion, he’d forgotten about Murphy and the smug satisfaction plastered all over his face towards the end of their call.

“Well, whatever happened, he’s clearly left you in a bit of a state,” Nick remarks, oblivious to the turmoil raging within Mark’s head. His voice cuts through the noise and serves as an anchor, returning him to the present, and he can’t quite hide his relief as his mind quietens. “Do you want one of us to have a word with him? Give him a warning shot, perhaps? Matt’s taken up boxing, I’m sure he’d be all for it.”

“Absolutely not!” Mark retorts with a burst of shocked laughter, before descending into a fit of hysterical giggles as Nick indulges in a victorious grin. It doesn’t take long for Nick’s laughter to accompany his own. The prospect of his bandmates collectively ganging up on an unsuspecting Matthew is so ridiculous that the absurdity of it lightens his heart. Though he’s not sure how to explain that if they’re going to beat anyone up, he’d much rather they go after Murphy instead.

“You wouldn’t get the chance anyway. He’s already gone,” Mark clarifies once their laughter has settled. He neglects to mention the unusual circumstances surrounding Matt’s disappearance, settling instead for polishing off his cooling mug of coffee. “And honestly, it weren’t like that. He was a nice guy, all things considered. Just a bit strange. He had a way of getting inside your head and I don’t think he realised he was doing it. Besides, all of this is my fault. I shouldn’t ‘ave let him get to me like that.”

“Right,” Nick says sceptically, no doubt still hoping for something or someone to blame for Mark’s recent state. Mark can sympathise. He imagines he too would be frustrated if he were forced to bear witness to one of his bandmate’s private struggles only to be offered no obvious means of fixing the problem.  

“Seriously Nick, I’m okay,” he insists, turning his body to face his friend head-on and suddenly feeling more sober than he has in days. “Or I will be soon enough. I just... I needed some space. Have done for a long time if I’m being honest. I reckon the other night were just the breaking point.”

He aims for flippancy, but watching Nick’s face fall is enough to inform him that he’s missed the target by a country mile. Concern darkens his friend’s kind eyes and sends guilt coiling in the pit of Mark’s stomach. He’d give everything to wash away Nicks worry; to convince him that he isn’t worth the anxiety his friends are wasting on him. He feels responsible enough for dragging them to this blasted rock in the first place, away from their homes and families and ambitions. Lumping further pain upon their shoulders is simply unforgivable.

“You could have just told us that, you know,” Nick says after a while, not unkindly, and Mark feels his heart ache. He does know. No doubt all three of his bandmates would have leapt at the chance to hijack Murphy on the phone and bully him into offering Mark some time off, but he’d never wanted it to come to that. The running of the hotel and the responsibilities associated with it are his to bear alone. The band is a separate entity entirely - something pure and liberating amongst the daily deluge – and dragging his friends into his messes has never been his intention. Not that his efforts have come to much in the end.  

“I’d miss a million shows if it meant you were okay,” Nick adds when Mark doesn’t say anything, twisting the knife deeper without intending to. “I’m pretty sure the others would do the same.”

Moisture gathers at the corner of Mark’s eyes but he furiously blinks it away. His face is sticky enough with dried tear-tracks, though he can’t remember where they came from for the life of him. Heaving a sigh, he tears his gaze from Nick’s face and rests his head on the man’s shoulder, closing his eyes in quiet contentment. Nick’s frame stiffens for only a moment, before he wraps an arm around Mark’s shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze.  

This is okay, Mark thinks to himself. Despite the madness of the week, it finally feels as though the lost, fragmented pieces of his identity are coalescing into a coherent whole once again.

“I love you all,” he says without a hint of reservation. “You do know that, right?”

“I dunno,” Nick retorts with a gentle shrug, careful not to shift Mark’s head from its perch. Mark doesn’t need to look at him to sense the gentle, teasing smile on his friend’s face. “You’re usually shitfaced when you say it so I’ve always been doubtful.”

Nick gets a light punch to the side as punishment for his jest, and he laughs before pressing a soft kiss to Mark’s temple.

“We love you too, you daft pillock,” he says, sincerity dripping from his tone like syrup. He hugs Mark closer as though frightened that he’ll slip away if he loosens his hold, and the hand perched on his shoulder starts tracing a path down to his elbow before creeping back up. The action is so soothing that the effects of the coffee instantly vanish, and Mark thinks he could easily drift off again. He wonders if doing so will take him back to that peaceful dream, with the guitar in his hands and a loving family within reach.

They stay like that for a little while; Mark on the cusp of a peaceful doze and Nick doing very little to dissuade him from slipping away. There’s still an unmistakable sense of unease clogging the air – a sense of foreboding that has burrowed its way into every corner of the hotel since Matthew’s disappearance - but Nick’s presence keeps it at bay like a shield warding off demons. No doubt that protection will vanish in the same instant Nick elects to leave, and Mark will be left to fend for himself against unseen monsters lurking in the dark, but for now he can’t remember the last time he was so content.  

He almost finds himself lost in the dream again – can feel the sensation of rough guitar strings dancing beneath his fingertips – but he’s pulled away at the last second by the buzzing of a phone. It isn’t his, though even if it was he wouldn’t be inclined to check it. Nick pulls his own device from his pocket and replies to the message as subtly as he can, but the damage has already been done. Mark opens his eyes and makes note of the softer light outside as the spotlights dim to a soft orange glow in an attempt to simulate an evening sunset. Deciding that he’s wasted enough of the day as it is, he finally lifts his head and stretches his weary limbs with a groan.

“You know what you should do?” Nick says, pocketing his phone and taking advantage of his newfound freedom to rise to his feet, giving the impression of towering over Mark even more so than usual.  

When Mark’s only response is a half-hearted shrug, he goes on: “You should get yourself out of those clothes and go hop in the shower while I make you a very late breakfast. No, I don’t want to hear any complaints, Turner; you reek and something tells me you haven’t eaten a proper meal in days, so I’m not giving you a choice. You’re going to eat what I make you, then you’re going to get dressed up nice, and then we’re gonna meet the lads at the bar so we can all get properly wankered. Sound like a plan?”

Well, that solves the mystery of the buzzing phone. No doubt one of the others has noticed Nick’s extended absence and is attempting to rescue him, all while trying to put a stop to Mark’s reclusive act in the process. It’s ingenious really, and he can’t fault their line of thinking. Part of him can’t help but be wary of returning to the bar given his last visit is what reduced his mind to a frazzled mess in the first place, but knowing the others will be with him lifts his trepidation somewhat. And now that he dwells on it, Nick’s other suggestions don’t sound half bad either. He can’t remember the last time he ate, and a low growl emanating from his stomach implies that his body isn’t best pleased about his neglectfulness. He can’t even recall when he last changed his clothes with any certainty, let alone took a shower. Perhaps some food and a wash will make him feel alive again, or at the very least make a start to the process of resurrecting him from his zombified state.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a genius?” Mark asks, grinning without restraint as Nick releases a bashful laugh topped off with a modest shrug of his shoulders.

“It’s a burden I must bear,” he concedes, his expression settling into one of fondness before his parental instincts take over. “Seriously though. Shower. Now. The more time you waste, the less time we have to get shitfaced.”

Mark doesn’t need to be told twice.  

************************************

The calm before the colossal, world-ending storm lasts all of two hours. Two hours in which Mark manages to wash the sweat and tears from his face under a piping hot shower, before adorning the most casual t-shirt and jeans combo he can find at the bottom of his drawers. Two hours in which Nick thrusts a hastily prepared cheese and ham sarnie into his hands – mocked up from what little food he has in the fridge – and insists that he eats every bite with crossed arms and lips pressed into a stern line. Two hours in which they eventually make their way to the ballroom to meet Jamie and Matt at the bar, where Mark is greeted with a crushing hug from Jamie and an enthusiastic “Welcome back to the land of the living!” from Matt. The latter tops off his greeting with a firm embrace of his own, before ordering the first round of beers with renewed vigour.  

For those blissful two hours, Mark feels as though life is finally returning to normal. The burden of responsibility is temporarily lifted from his shoulders, and he lets himself laugh at his friends’ lame jokes as he downs the first pint and swiftly follows it with another. They must resemble a bunch of teenage holidaymakers who have accidentally stumbled into a high-end establishment – their casual attire clashing with the sharp suits and stylish frocks of the waltzing guests – but Mark couldn’t care less.  

At one point Jamie turns to him with an unvoiced question resting in gentle blue eyes. Palpable concern radiates from him like heat and for a moment the scrutiny is unbearable, but when Mark responds with a genuine smile, Jamie’s worry melts away in a heartbeat as he follows it up with one of his own. A light buzz takes hold after the third pint and Mark’s aware that he’s done little more than smile like a fool all evening, but he cannot bring himself to care. Those two hours are the happiest he can remember experiencing in a long time. A tiny microcosm of perfection that he wishes he could live within forever.

And then the world shudders.

It begins subtly enough. Little more than a low rumble permeating through the air, barely resonating over Nick and Jamie’s spat as they intensely debate over which of them looks better with long hair. Mark is the only one who takes notice as the rumbling begins to rise in volume; brows furrowing as narrowed eyes scan the ballroom in search of the culprit. Nobody else appears to be alarmed. The guests are mostly in the process of getting royally drunk over a dinner of roast beef or venison, and the waiters continue about their business without a trace of panic.  

Only, the sound doesn’t abate with time. With great effort, Mark tries to drown out the surrounding ruckus and closes his eyes to focus solely on the new disturbance. The groan sounds like it’s coming from far away – like a distant car-crash or fireworks display – but the harder he listens, the more it feels like the rumble is creeping towards him from beneath the earth.

“Can you hear that?” he says to no-one in particular, having to raise his voice to be heard over the cacophony of violins and chatter and clinking glasses. Three pairs of eyes turn in his direction – the petty argument momentarily forgotten – but as they listen intently, Mark sees only a growing sense of cluelessness clouding over their features.

“Hear what?” Jamie asks eventually, which strikes Mark as odd, for that persistent groaning has now become so loud that he can practically feel it hammering against his skull.

He draws his gaze to the half-empty pint resting on a coaster before him and watches with detached curiosity as ripples spread across its golden surface. It isn’t just his glass either; the same effect is visible across the entire countertop. It’s little surprise when the faint clattering of glasses joins the growing commotion. Mark looks up towards the bar and sees unopened bottles trembling against each other on the shelves, vibrating in time with the ground which has started to shift uncontrollably. A bottle of scotch topples to the floor with a mighty crash but no-one pays it any heed, and it is soon followed by several priceless bottles of champagne, drenching the floor with booze and fragmented glass.

The low rumble graduates to a deafening roar as the room begins to shudder relentlessly, and Mark lets out a sharp cry before shielding his ears and pulling his head towards his chest. Logic screams at him to get out - to take his friends and run to safety - but whether by fear or something deeper than that, he finds himself immobilised on his chair. It strikes him as odd that nobody else appears to be panicking. The air is alive with the clatter of shattering glass, the rattle of the looming chandelier, the roar of the moon’s underbelly as she protests against those who have desecrated her surface... but not a single scream. No frantic activity or barked orders from level-headed security guards. Not even the chatter which overwhelmed the hall only moments before remains. The room is filled with hundreds of people and yet, as the world trembles around them, they are all as silent as the grave.

Mark included.  

It occurs to him that he hasn’t taken a breath since the ground began to shake and his chest burns in protest, but even the simple act of gulping in air feels like a complex task. He clenches his eyes shut as his heart begins to roar in his ears, but doing so offers little relief. If anything, the sudden blackness makes the situation worse. Imagination runs wild; he pictures cracks snaking up the walls and the floor giving way to the rocky depths below. Envisions ivy crawling through those very same cracks and burying the entire building until it resembles an abandoned ruin on Earth. Envisions the curved ceiling giving way and burying him alive beneath several layers of marble and plaster.

He still can’t tell what’s causing the floor to shake with such ferocity. Can the moon experience earthquakes? The thought is so ridiculous that he finds himself giggling hysterically, but what is the alternative? Unless his perception of time has been drastically altered, the quake has gone on far too long to be secondary to an explosion, and the space station is too far away for any launches to be felt as anything more than a minor shudder.

Hours seem to pass. His skull whines in protest as he presses his hands even tighter against his ears, and a single tear spills from the corner of one eye from the effort it takes to keep them clenched shut. His jaw aches as the shudders grind his teeth together and he can feel acid rise in his throat, his gut protesting against a cruel wave of fear. Everyone else remains eerily silent, even his friends who surely wouldn’t have left without him. He knows he could always open his eyes to check on them, but a burst of terror as he comprehends what he’ll find stops him in his tracks. Instead, he simply remains sitting there, curled up like a frightened child, as his surroundings continue to shatter around him.

And then, without warning, the world becomes a brilliant white behind his eyelids and everything stops. The cacophony reaches its abrupt coda as all sound is sucked through a vacuum. Only his shuddering breaths remain, followed by a desperate sob. The whiteness refuses to abate, and for a moment it occurs to him that he may well be dead. That he might be nothing more than a shattered bag of bones, crushed among the ruins of the very hotel he built from scratch. There’d be a certain poetry in that, he thinks, though the persistent cramping of his muscles and the burning in his chest implies that he hasn’t ascended to ghostly status just yet.

It’s impossible to tell if hours or mere seconds pass. The world is so still, so silent, that time loses all meaning and Mark can feel his mind begin to empty, as though the featureless light is consuming him whole. When small details finally do make a reappearance, they do so slowly. He becomes aware of his elbows digging into the hard oak surface of the bar counter. A glass clinks somewhere off in the distance. He becomes painfully aware of the cool sweat on his brow, and his inability to take in a deep breath without his chest hitching with choked hiccoughs.

The silence is finally broken by a single unprovoked chuckle, followed by a muted wave of laughter echoing across the walls. With the flick of an unseen switch, the usual chatter flares up once more and the violins resume their task of reciting an old Tchaikovsky piece, seemingly unaffected by what has just transpired. With a considerable degree of trepidation, Mark tears his hands away from his head and opens his eyes to face a complete wall of booze with no missing bottles in sight. No glass fragments or wet stains litter the floor. No cracks creep up the walls; no ivy sprouts from the ground. The ceiling above remains stubbornly unmarked, and the chandelier glitters as immaculately as it had on the day it was installed. Casting a glance over the assorted faces around him reveals only unaffected smiles, with no trace of fear or even the slightest acknowledgement of the quake that rocked the ballroom only moments before.  

Even drawing his attention to his friends brings little clarity. Rather than looking as shellshocked as Mark himself, Nick and Jamie have settled for resuming their debate – this time arguing over who looks best in a ponytail – while Matt grumbles something about not being able to grow his hair without sprouting an afro.

The world has elected to carry on as normal, and yet Mark can’t shake the feeling that everything has irrevocably changed. That the very foundations of the ground he walks on are set to crumble at any moment, taking him down in the process.

It’s impossible to keep his breathing under control, and a weak sob rips from his throat as air escapes in frantic gasps. The sound draws Jamie’s attention back to him, and his eyes widen with fear as he extends a hand to rest on Mark’s shoulder with a careful, “Hey, what’s going on?”

The contact doesn’t help in the slightest. Mark tries to answer but his throat seals shut, turning his words into a low whine, and he settles for shaking his head instead. He needs to get out of here. There isn’t enough oxygen in the ballroom and he can feel the weight of the gathering crowd suffocating him, and before he can think twice, he stumbles to his feet and pushes away from the bar. 

That turns out to be a terrible decision. The sudden change in posture has his stomach dropping, and his vision narrows to a fine tunnel before blurring altogether. No doubt the only reason he doesn’t collapse to the floor is because of the hands which appear out of nowhere, holding him upright as his ears drown out a puzzled, “Easy!” followed by a shaky, “Let’s sit you back down mate”. His friends may as well be faceless for all the attention his broken mind grants them.  

It feels like his frayed nerves are dangling by a thread; the cool blades of a scissor resting barely a hairs-breadth away, threatening to sever his sanity with an unfeeling snap.

And then the dam breaks.

The buried chest keeping his memories concealed behind a rusted padlock bursts open. Assorted moments in time spill forth from the wreckage, drowning him beneath their weight like the horrors trapped within Pandora’s Box. Only instead of horrors, his mind is suddenly overcome by melancholic nostalgia and untouchable bittersweet memories.

He remembers sitting by the piano as an eight-year-old boy, trying in earnest to play the tunes his dad loved to listen to on his record-player. He remembers sitting in class, drawing his eyes away from the window in silent awe as the profound beauty of John Cooper Clarke’s writing set up camp in his heart. He remembers listening to The Strokes’ debut album with Jamie and Matt before begging his mum for a guitar, followed by the sheer contentment that consumed him as he strummed his new love by the light of a Christmas tree. He remembers countless shows - from shy appearances in small clubs to major headlining slots at massive festivals - and the thrill of terror and excitement that thrummed through his veins before each one. He remembers all of his loves and all of his heartbreak; remembers how the latter had always been overcome by a pervading sense of joy, as he dwelled on how lucky he was to do what he loved with his best friends by his side.

And he remembers the hotel. Remembers excitedly developing the concept and expanding the world and the characters within it. Remembers crafting the model by hand, carving his creation out of cardboard and wiling away the hours as it slowly came together. Remembers the rush of pride when the model was finally complete. Only he had never intended the hotel to be a real place, and he certainly had no inclination to run it.  

Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino was always intended to be the setting of an album and nothing more. The fact that he’s currently confined within its walls is nothing short of impossible.

He doesn’t acknowledge that his vision has faded to black until colour slowly creeps back from the fringes. A persistent burn lingers in his chest and it occurs to him that he should probably breathe, but doing so only encourages another sob as hot tears spill down his cheeks. He lets himself be manhandled onto a chair without protest, his limbs reduced to jelly, and even when his eyes offer a glimpse of his worried friends gathered around him, all he can focus on is a section of wall directly ahead. A voice breaks through the roar of blood pounding in his head – a panicked “C’mon Mark, you’re scaring me now!” - but he cannot identify its owner, nor can he bring himself to look at his friends closely enough to see whose lips are moving.

A further memory spills forth from the unlocked chest, prompted by the frantic hands holding him in place. The setting appears to be Bonfire Night, judging by the ecstatic burst of colours lighting up the darkening sky and the acrid smoke wafting from the fire in the local park. They’re gathered in one of the lad’s gardens with a stolen pack of fireworks; far too young to be playing with them on their own, but too swept up in the rebelliousness of it all to care about the inherent risk. Jamie and Matt are chasing him around the garden with sparklers in their hands, mindful of the unlit fireworks planted on the grassy lawn, but his younger self decides to push his luck and edges just a little too close. He doesn’t realise his mistake until he trips and falls, taking his sparkler down with him and inadvertently lighting a fuse.  

He clearly recalls the rush of panic and the realisation that he is far too close. All he can do is stare in wide-eyed terror as heat dances along the fuse, threatening to release the firework at any moment and send white-hot sparks of flame in his direction. Before he can brace himself for the exquisite pain however, two pairs of hands grasp his arms and yank him roughly to his feet, dragging him as far back as he can possibly go until he slams against a solid wall. Mere milliseconds later, a burst of sparks erupt from the ground and a high whistle shoots into the air, followed by a stunning explosion of scattered reds and golds.  

They remain frozen for what feels like an eternity, until the panicked silence is broken by a high-pitched “Fuck!” on Matt’s part and the release of hysterical laughter on Jamie’s. All he can remember doing himself is staring up at the sky – eyes fixed on the lingering embers of the firework that nearly melted his face off – and noting at the back of his mind that neither Matt nor Jamie have released their crushing hold on him. No doubt they were experiencing the same aftershocks of terror that were gripping his tiny frame.

Eventually Jamie had let go, and he remembers his ten-year-old friend stepping forwards, donned in a navy-blue tracksuit, before turning to the others with a crooked smile and a shaky declaration of, “That were a close one, weren’t it Al?”  

A similar form of fearful desperation clings to Jamie now, as he crouches by his side. There’s no relief in his friend’s features this time, only panic and an unmistakable sense of frustration borne of cluelessness. It occurs to him that his inhalations are still coming thick and fast and his head is swimming as he sways in his chair and yet, paradoxically, his mind feels infinitely clearer than it has in years.

“Mark?” Jamie asks cautiously, bringing a warm hand to his cheek in an attempt to anchor him. “Wanna tell us what’s goin’ on?”

The utterance of that name sends a flinch shooting through his body, and before he can even think, a hand shoots out and grabs Jamie by the wrist. The man stills, blue eyes widening as they draw level with a determined gaze, and though he can sense Matt and Nick edging closer, he doesn’t dare break eye contact as he utters his next words.

“Alex,” he hisses, chest heaving with the effort required to voice that old, familiar name. “My name is Alex.”

[ilcaeryx]

Tenacity: Chapter 1 - Inhibition [Amajiki Tamaki/Reader]

SUMMARY: Tamaki's isolated himself in his apartment for almost a week. It's almost guaranteed that it's his anxiety flaring up… but it doesn't hurt to check up on him.

TAGS: Reader-Insert Collection, Anxiety, Social Isolation

Link to Chapter 1 of Tenacity on AO3

or continue reading below.

Chapter 1: Inhibition

'Amajiki Tamaki' read the nameplate by the door.

So this is where he lives.

Finding Tamaki's home had been tricky as it was in the middle of an expanding apartment complex located in a (for you) foreign part of the city. In this complex his apartment was simply one of many, a single leaf in a blooming bush. For this reason it felt like this was somewhere he would enjoy living, anonymously. However, living in the corner apartment on the first floor was perhaps a bit too exposed for him, considering that all his blinders were drawn shut.

You rang the bell and took a step back.

At least five days had passed since Tamaki had last spoken to you; after day two of pushing up the hard task to send you a message saying his vacation had started and he was available, he understood that too much time had passed already and that he should wait until the weekend to contact you. That's when you usually texted or called him, anyway. It had felt alright until he'd logged into his social media account a few days later. After the 5 notifications bubble popped up on his phone, panic and guilt bit into him. Reading them was unnecessary, because he knew what they said and who the sender was. Therefore, the immediate response was to turn off the sound on his phone and camp in his apartment.

His food reservoir was a mismatched mix that one possibly couldn't make anything edible out of. Not that he could make food at the moment, since he was certain that his neighbours would overhear him if he cooked too loudly, showered with the water current too strong or walked too harshly on the floor. One morning he had been making a pretty elaborate breakfast, cut short after one neighbour banged on the wall in the living room. He abruptly turned off the rice cooker and conformed himself with something simpler and quieter. He felt bad that his neighbours had to deal with him.

Today he was too agitated to move around, so he didn't do much other than game and eat leftovers. That's why both his dishes weren't washed and he kind of neglected. He'd take a shower on Sunday, when he'd probably see you. Right now, he just wanted to disappear into his book. It was a quiet evening spent on his couch and nothing could bother him.

Every evening used to be peaceful, but then his neighbours became hypersensitive to any and every sound he made.

The door bell ringing was how he was reminded of their existense. With deliberate, fluid movements he laid down the book on the couch and slipped down onto the floor. He made his way to the door in complete silence.

Okay, Tamaki is a total homebody. There's no way he isn't home.

It wasn't the first time this had happened, though all other times he had ignored you had been on social media. Him not opening messages and such. If it hadn't been for Mirio giving you a heads up about it, you might've taken it personally. After all, the two of you had been a couple for a few months now. You were grateful that Mirio felt involved enough in Tamaki's life to warn you about his these incidents, which you were told had occasionally taken place since their U.A. days.

Your take-away was getting cold and you were honestly getting worried. Your phone showed no missed calls or messages. There was always the option to call him and get a confirmation whether he was home or not by listening for the ring tone inside… but you thought that it would force him further into his shell. If he didn't answer you also wouldn't find out how he was doing. What if he had fainted in the shower and was bleeding out? The mental images of possible ways someone could die inside their home grew incrementally worse and you nervously fiddled with your phone.

Just this time, it wouldn't be strange if you excused yourself into his home. Right?

You tried opening the door. It's 2019, who would ever leave their door unlocked? Of course it was locked. Goddamn.

There is no one outside, you thought as you surveyed your surroundings and went around the corner. It would be okay this one time. No one would judge you for doing this. In the back of your mind you kind of remembered some law about entering someone's home unauthorized if there were health concerns, which was enough motivate you to try. See, one window in the back was slightly cracked open. While fully opening the window it occurred to you that this was your debut into Tamaki's home.

You slid in between the window and the blinders into Tamaki's kitchen, sitting on top of a dining table. The room was pretty cramped, a small cupboard on the left side wall and the usual kitchen appliances on the right. It was directly connected to the hall, where you could see the exterior door. As you shut the window a foul, thick smell of humidity and old food struck you, so you opened it again.

"Tamaki, it's me," you called out and jumped down on the floor.

Tamaki popped his head out from what you assumed was the bathroom, wearing complicated emotions on his face. "Y/N?"

"Yeah, I can explain this. I, uh, just wanted to see how you were doing." You raised the take-away bag to eye level. "I brought you food."

Like a snail retracting into its shell, he withdrew into the bathroom and shut the door. "I'll hear you out… after I've taken a shower."

"Do it. I'll wait."

You did and Tamaki emerged from the shower, clean and warm, five minutes later. He awkwardly walked into the kitchen, dressed in sweatpants and an overgrown hoodie, clearly avoiding looking at the dish mountain. Instead he raided a kitchen drawer for chopsticks and sat down together with you. Tamaki opened the box and dug in without mercy or any semblance of modesty.

You leaned back on you chair. "This is the first time I have ever forced myself into someone's home, by the way. Don't arrest me for that, I'm pretty sure I acted in accordance to the law. I thought something had happened."

"While I appreciate the sentiment," he answered between bites, "you scared the living daylights out of me. I thought you were a thief at first. It could've ended nasty if I had been eating well."

"What do you mean?"

He raised his eyebrows and looked at you solemnly. "I can't manifest crackers…"

"Is that what you've been eating? That's student level of food."

"It wasn't by choice." Tamaki said curtly and took a sip of water.

You bit your lip and nodded softly. The fact that he had ignored your messages and calls still bothered you, even though you somewhat understood the circumstances. You didn't want to be bothersome about it; you imagined that it would embarrass him greatly should you bring it up. It wasn't by choice, like he had said. Still, you thought that there should be some accountability on his part.

"We've known each other for a while now, but I didn't know you had it this… hard to reach out to people. When we weren't together," you sputtered out, unused to bringing it up, "it was an inconvenience. Now I actually get worried - and it's not just me. Mirio and even Hadou have asked if I had heard from you."

Tamaki tensed his shoulders. "Both of them should understand by now; we went through this in high school. I don't know. I just start to feel cornered when I get bombarded by messages. I don't particularly want to be around people when I'm that paranoid."

"I'd never force you to do something you don't want. I think that you should at least text me back. You don't even need to read what I've sent you if it is too much. Knowing you're alive is enough."

He seemed more interested in his food than in answering. You couldn't force him to answer and you didn't have anything more to inquire. This was a conversation for another day, hopefully. You let him eat in peace. At least for a while.

"You know," you began and casually stole a piece of meat from box, "I've known you for two years and you've never invited me here before. Have you lived here since we first met?"

After some consideration he nodded with a sharp movement. "For almost five years."

You ate your piece and instantly regretted not buying a portion of your own. Licking your fingers, you kept overwatch on his food while he gingerly picked and chose, his bangs covering his face.

"Like, I thought you still lived with your parents since you refused to even give me an adress,"

Tamaki choked. He covered his mouth with his hand and coughed violently enough to rack his entire body. You shot up to get him some water but he held you back with his hand as you were walking past him to the dish bench. He got himself a glass from the unwashed pile. Poor guy probably didn't have any clean ones.

As he drank you re-settled into your chair, cautiously. He poured himself another glass and wiped his eyes with his sleeve before returning to the table.

"I just enjoy my privacy," he commented, rather dryily, before digging in again with reluctance. Probably terrified of you dropping another bomb like that and him choking for real this time. Suneater dying by eating sukiyaki.

"You can thank Mirio for giving me your adress. He's been worried too."

"I'll thank him in person."

"I think he'd appreciate a quick message from you ASAP."

Tamaki stopped his chopsticks half-way to his mouth and raised his eyes to look at you, sadness pulling at the edges. "You can't thank someone who's looking out for you with a simple message. I'll go see him in a few days and thank him in person." His eyes shifted slightly and he cast his gaze downwards. "I'll try to, anyway."

That's an admirable outlook, you thought to yourself as he somewhat self-consciously finished his food. Thanking someone for helping you out was very humbling, in particular when independent people such as Tamaki are caught between problems. But as the old adage goes, no man is an island. If you ever needed help, you knew you could count on Tamaki - and Mirio for that matter. No question about it. If he didn't message Mirio by the time you were returning home, you'd send a text to Mirio yourself, though.

Breathing deeply, Tamaki put his chopsticks down into his box and quickly grabbed your hands, his fingers squishing your fingers against his palms. Warmth emanated from his hands and his face seemed a lot less paler when he smiled weakly at you.

"Thank you, Y/N. I would've starved if you hadn't arrived today."

Your thumbs caressed the insides of his wrists, sweeping over the bumpy texture of veins and muscles.

"I'll break into your apartment anytime, babe."

If you liked this, consider throwing me a like/reblog/follow! My Masterlist can be found here.

[letmeletmetrashyourlove]

Indiana

Summary: One argument leads to another. Billy betrays his childhood sweetheart’s trust. 

Authors Note: Written with the song Konstantine by Something Corporate in mind. 

REQUESTS OPEN

PART TWO

I like song requests like this one, I can just kinda write as it comes to me instead of trying to go off a promt.

FEEDBACK ALWAYS APPRECIATED, ESPECIALLY IF YOU DIDNT LIKE IT. I always strive to make my work better (seriously, you can roast me if you want to )

I swallowed my pride as I shoved my hands into my pockets. Billy and I argued when he told me he was moving to Indiana. I made accusations that it was because of him getting into trouble at school. A switch in him just flipped when he discovered his parent's split. He had never been a particularly sociable guy, always explicit and abrasive. But he diverted from carrying it inside to taking out on other people. I couldn’t even count on all my fingers how many quarrels he had gotten into at school in the past year. One kid bumped into him in the hallway and he lost it, knocking the poor boy to the ground and breaking his nose. It was some kind of blessing that the principal hadn't expelled him yet. Or maybe it was the fact that his father came in and berated the principal every time there was trouble. His new stepsister and I met only a handful of times. She was sweet, and honestly, hilarious. Billy didn’t see her in the same light that I did. He regarded her as a pest, somewhat to blame for the separation.

Despite all that happened, we were childhood friends that grew into something more. I always had his back, and he always had mine. Whether or not we stayed together, I needed to apologize for what I said.

I tiptoed up the steps, peering in through the window. There was Billy, on the couch with another girl. His pants were discarded, and she straddled his lap.

Everything we’d gone through together flashed through my mind as I neglected to avert my eyes.

I rang the doorbell, causing them both to jump. I presented myself in the window, throwing them the middle finger before taking off back towards my car. Yelling burst from inside the house until Billy stumbled out, still struggling to pull his jeans on over his legs.

     “Y/N, wait!” He called.

    “No.” I growled, whirling around to face him  “No.”

I backed away from Billy as he approached me with his arms open. Neither of us knew what to say.

    “Y/N.” He uttered, tears springing into his eyes.

    “No. No, no. No, no, no, no, no.” I repeated, my brain not able to come up with anything more substantial. I placed one hand over my mouth as the tears sprang out onto my cheeks.

    “That wasn’t what you thought it was.” He insisted, reaching out for my hand.

    “No! Don’t- Don’t fucking touch me.” I cried, swatting his hand away and turning on my heels, sprinting away from him.

    “Y/N!?” He screamed after me, following me close behind.

My mind reeled, flying back to all those nights we had spent on my couch with him sobbing into my shoulder about his father beating him senseless. Cleaning him up after fights. Laughing while watching movies. Playing boring ass board games that always ended in us making out. Attempting to do group projects that always ended in us arguing. Falling asleep on each other after a long day. Our blissfully oblivious innocence had suddenly been ripped out from underneath me like a rug, sending me into a freefall.

Was any of that even real? Was he pulling the same shit on other girls? Was I not enough for him? Was I his first choice or was I further down the list?

He caught my wrist, pulling me back toward him. I pushed off his chest, trying not to show the tears that were streaming down my face.

    “Let go of me!” I exclaimed, straining against his grip. He never once laid a hand on me in a way I wouldn’t want. He feared turning into his father, but that fear had either gone, or was buried deep under his emotional trauma.  

    “Please, please, don’t go.” He pleaded, “Please, you’re the love of my life.”

    “Fuck you.” I spat through gritted teeth, yanking my wrist out of his grip as I pulled my keys from my bag and got into my car.

I laid on the horn as I threw the car into reverse, speeding off down the road. The headlights turned into starbursts as the tears flew from my eyes. I frantically wiped them away as I blew through at least one stop sign on the way home.

I couldn’t cry anymore. Exhaustion was beginning to sweep over me just as there was a knock at my door. I knew exactly who it was, and I wanted nothing more than to be able to ignore it. But my body moved without my mind’s permission, dragging me to the front door. I glanced through the frosted window, seeing the outline of a figure dressed in denim.

    “Why are you even here? What else do you want from me?” I shouted at him through the door.

    “I came here to ask you to go to Indiana with me!”  

I yanked the door open, so hard I was afraid I would pull it right off its hinges. Go to Indiana? He can’t possibly expect me to drop everything and go with him. Especially not after tonight.

    “Go to Indiana with you!? I just caught you about to fuck some other girl!” I screamed, tears that I thought were depleted returning to my eyes.

To be honest, before I saw him with her, I would have considered it. So what if I was 17, I could finish my senior year, go to Purdue and study god knows what. Do what our parents did, marry our high school sweethearts and start a life there. Sure, it seemed far off, but I could think that far ahead with him. He had been such a constant, I couldn’t imagine him not remaining in my life.

    “I can’t go without you…” He admitted, rocking back and forth on his heels. He had yet to look me in the eyes.

    “You know how much shit I put up with for you?” I snarled, “How many times I wanted to leave?”

I flashed back to some drunk asshole at a party who stumbled up to me and spilled his drink on my top. I was annoyed, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. Billy, though, he thought differently. The next thing I knew the kid was pinned on the floor as Billy wailed on his face. The only reason he stopped was because the cops came.

    “I know, I know-” He began.

I didn’t care to let him elaborate. Nothing he could say would make me change my mind. Nothing he could say could make me forgive him. And there damn well wasn’t a thing he could say to convince me to go with him.

    “I thought maybe you being such a jackass was because of your dad. You were sweet to me, so what did it matter, right? It’s okay that you beat people up for the hell of it. It’s okay that you drink yourself into a coma a couple of times a week. Because you loved me, right? All I needed was somebody that loved me.” I scoffed, my tears of sadness turning into tears of anger. Not at him, but at myself for not realizing this would happen sooner or later.

    “Loved, you? I still love you!” He asserted.

    “Really? Love is sticking your dick in the first new thing that walks by?”

    “Babe-” 

    “No. Don’t you fucking dare call me that, not right now.” I shrieked, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I thanked God that my parents were out of town.

    “You got so mad at me when I told you about Indiana… You said you were done… I thought you meant we were done.” He defended, restlessly twisting his ring around his finger.

    “You fucking tell me that I’m the love of your life, yet the second we break up, you’ve moved on with somebody else!?”

    “It’s not like that!”

    “No, of course, it’s not! It’s never ‘like that’” I sneered, “That’s totally not the go-to of every cheater on the fucking planet.”  

    “It wasn’t about her! I don’t give a damn about her!” He roared, “I thought we were done. I needed somebody to run to. I couldn’t fucking deal with losing you!”

    “No. No. That’s not a good enough reason.” I argued, “You didn’t see me doing the same damn thing. Jesus Christ, Billy! We had this for years since we were kids. And you didn’t even take a second to mourn that.”

    “Baby-”

    “Leave,” I uttered.

    “Please don’t do this.”

    “You know, as bad as you just hurt me, you’re the only person I want to talk to right now.” I whimpered.

He dipped his head, avoiding my gaze as he brought his hands up to wipe his tears. His whole body was trembling, having to use all of his strength not to completely lose it.

    “Please. Just go.” I begged.

    “I’m sorry.”

10/15/84 4:36 am: I’m leaving tomorrow… Uh… the van is all packed up and we’re driving out there. You… won’t be able to call me for a few days… I know that…. You probably don’t want to talk to me anyway. But…. Just know…. I love you. Please… answer next time I call. I love you. I’ll… talk to you later. Or maybe I’ll talk to your answering machine later, who knows.

10/17/84: 4:22 pm: Hey… It’s me… again. We’re in Colorado. About halfway there. It’s beautiful here. The mountains are gorgeous. There’s snow, too. I know how much you love snow. Remember when we went skiing that one year, and I ate shit going down the hill? You laughed your ass off until you realized I was hurt.  I wish you were here too. Maybe if I hadn’t been such a dick, you would be.

10/19/84 8:49 pm: Hey, Y/N. It would be nice to hear your voice. We just got into town… This place is a shithole. Everybody here is boring as hell. There isn’t a single girl here who even compares to you. I got assigned some book that I know you really like. I don’t see how, it’s the most boring thing I’ve ever read. Maybe you could tell me why you love it so much? Maybe you could call me back.

11/01/84 2:36 am: It’s me. I know I haven’t called in a while, but I’m drunk as hell. I just beat my keg record. Not that you would care, you always thought beer was disgusting. I thought things here might be looking up. But… Dad… He’s been… it’s gotten worse. I really need to talk to you.

It was maybe the dozenth message I had listened to over the past month. Each one sounded more desperate than the last.

One last time, I swallowed my pride, dialing my phone. I waited through the rings on the other end.

“What?” A gruff voice replied, blowing what I assume was a puff of smoke.

“Billy?” I asked.

He took a deep breath,

“Y/N?”

[defendourhoodz]

A Warning from a Former Blue Cat Cafe Employee

Note: This is the 6th testimony from a former employee that has been sent to us. After we published an initial account about 3 weeks ago, more and more employees have come forward to verify other employee claims as well as share their own experience at Blue Cat Cafe. The consistent themes are employee abuse, animal neglect, and wage theft. We stand with these employees and against their abuse and exploitation by Blue Cat Cafe and owner Rebecca Gray. We welcome more to come forward and respect all requests for anonymity.

Employee Account: I worked for the Blue Cat Café for six months. I was in love at first. It was my first job and everything seemed to fall right into place. Behind the cute cats, crazy artwork, and “family fun” atmosphere I got yelled at, cheated, and duped along with many other great employees who I hope have found better work.

 The first incident involving Rebecca’s attitude and behavior was about four weeks after I had first started. Everything seemed fine but Rebecca became angry when ONE drink order was not coming fast enough. She then closed the café an hour before closing and tossed drinks to the ground outside like a big drama queen. I had to turn away a woman who I later found out ran a popular mommy blog. She then wrote a one star review on the Facebook page and Rebecca responded with a BS answer that power went out in the food truck. This was also around the same time that the reviews on Facebook were turned off. 

In the time I was there eleven employees quit or were fired. Quite an abysmal turnover rate if you ask me. Especially for a small business only one year into its life. 

In my mind I would have said these were “isolated incidences” and things would get better. They did not. The gluing of the doors is what should have told me to get out while I still could.  

The final event that made me quit happened on a particularly bad day. Going into work that day I knew I wasn’t going to be around for much longer. I was the only one in the café for the morning while we had two people in the kitchen. This worked only for some time as with all Saturdays things got busy. One employee left early leaving me and another server to be the only help inside the building. The restaurant was packed beyond what I had ever seen even in my first few months. A cook came in saying Rebecca was yelling and throwing things around and saying that “we are done”. 

Rebecca came in and told us that we were closed. We were backed into a corner of the café when she began taking her anger out on the server who wasn’t scheduled to come in until 4 but came at around 1:30 to fill in for the employee who left early. 

She said “Because you came in early were fucked!” One cook suggested we moved to the back to talk this out. That is when Rebecca really let us have it. It was the most I had seen her yell up until then surprisingly. The server quit right there and we all walked out as she told the café that they were closing. There are yelp reviews and google reviews that recount that day from a costumer perspective. Memory serves me that one deleted review said they visited hours later and went in to find a hostel and on edge Rebecca. When they offered their help and asked if there was anything they could do Rebecca responded “Yeah come in the morning and clean up cat poop” (one of my many duties) 

I did not return for my shift the next day. I had made up my mind and even told family and friends that I was quitting from the Blue Cat Café. She tried several times to get me back but I stood my ground. I was finished. 

This was a small overview of my experience working there. Here are some more details highlighting her ineffectiveness in customer service and business.

A guy and his friends came in one early morning to find his phone that might have been left behind at the café. It seemed she was buddying up to them until she yelled “I don’t have time to look for your fucking phone! I am real busy.” There was also a yelp review in which she went ballistic over a mother innocently walking into the café without signing the waiver. She even mocked the woman who was calling her out on her bullshit. This was the same woman who wrote the review.

Paychecks where always up in the air. Sometimes I got them as late as a week. I didn’t even get my paycheck for the weekend before I quit. In the end I was payed over $30 for my last day. Other employees had problems with paychecks. I should have been more demanding but I didn’t want to lose my job and I had no idea how the legal process would work if it came to that. 

There was lots of micromanagement and things having to be so particular that if one thing was out of place you would be humiliated in front of employees or customers. This happened to me quite a few times over washing the mats, IPAD chargers, how I handled my duties, and the cleaning of the restaurant.

Her doing the InfoWars interview should have sent me packing. I read the donation comments on the GoFund me which included racist people donating. I even sat down a few of these men for a Facebook event they created if I remember correctly being called “Fuck Defend our Hoodz” at the café. 

From what I read about health code violations I confirm that yes, the kitchen wasn’t always in a clean state. I now realize that so many rules were broken and so many violations were going on behind the scenes. I can also confirm the storage of the food under big benches. 

She said she was stepping down as owner but I know that is a lie. Just like with employees she went thought several managers who were good people. I can even confirm the treatment she showed towards her own mother. 

If there are indeed cats that get sick and don’t get treatment, then that might explain two cases of people receiving cats that had fleas, were underweight, or had worms.

I want this to be a warning to anyone who is thinking about working for or associating with Blue Cat Cafe. I should have wised up at several points during my time there. It wasn’t until things got really bad that I finally left. Always do your research on a job if you can, and see where they stand with their community. It is a community that can make and break a business.

[dawnstruck]

building empires [3/4]

 “You trust too easily,” he warns calmly, “One day, someone you love will offer you their hand and stab you with the other.”

“But not this day,” Damen knows.

“No,” Laurent agrees, “Not this day.”

Lamen Arranged Marriage AU [Read on AO3]

xvii

Damen's fall is made up of mild weather and anticipation for ships from Vere. Sometimes, they bring with them envelops that carry the royal seal and then Damen's friends hoot and holler while he just shoves them off and disappears to the privacy of his chambers.

In the beginning, their correspondence is characterized by Laurent's adherence to proper decorum and manners. Gone are his teasing tone and his love for wholly inappropriate topics in truly inappropriate moments. Instead, it is as though they are little more than acquaintances and this ink on paper nothing but a courtesy call.

Prince Damianos,

I hope this letter finds you and your family well. I find myself in good health, though just two weeks past Auguste was hassled by a somewhat tenacious cough from which he has mostly recovered.

At first, Damen finds himself floored by the superficiality of the words, the absolute lack of affection. He has to pull the book of poetry from his shelf to remind himself that he had not imagined the Laurent from last year, the one who would tear at his hair at having to entertain such mindless small-talk. The one who had put a promise like fire into Damen's heart and then left to let the forest burn.

But Damen, not allowing himself to be hurt by how easily physical distance seemed to have estranged Laurent from him, just sits down to compose an answer.

Dearest Laurent,

I thank you for your concern. I am well, apart from my left foot which a mare happened to step upon when Nikandros spooked it with a particularly ill-timed fart.

Laurent, fortunately, is quick to rise to the bait.

Damianos,

on behalf of kyroi Nikandros I have conferred with the royal physicist. He recommends ginger, fennel seeds and chamomile tea as reliable treatment against stomach gas. Please send him my well wishes.

Laurent,

Kyroi Nikandros refuses your well wishes and instead challenges you to a duel upon your next meeting. I hope you are not neglecting you sword-fighting.

Damen,

On the morrow, Auguste and I will leave for border patrol. It is my first time accompanying him, but there have been reports of bandits waylaying travelers along the mountains, so he thinks it will be as good a time as any for me to learn.

Your lessons, it seems, will come in handy soon.

My dear Laurent

Border patrol sounds exciting until you are actually spending weeks on the road and plucking various kinds of flora and fauna out off your hair and clothes at all times. Nevertheless, I am glad to see that your brother finally acknowledges as an equal. I think your year apart might have made him understand that you are nearly a man fully grown.

Dear Damen,

Auguste and I have returned from border patrol. I did not get the chance to fight any bandits myself,  though I do find that it has been a valuable lesson. Sometimes, it is easy to forget that Vere consists of more than just Arles and its forests. The past weeks have truly reminded me of how vast and wonderful our kingdom truly is.

Nevertheless, I sometimes find myself missing Ios and it's milder climate. We've had the first snowfall, and my uncle who was on a visit to Patras will now have to spend the winter there as the sudden change in weather has made the mountain pass inaccessible.

I am drowned in duties and responsibilities, and my father claims it is to prepare me for the throne but I believe he is just growing lazy. Perhaps he wishes to abdicate early and hopes to merely push the crown onto me as soon as possible. I managed to wrestle a promise from him though that, if I perform my tasks well, I shall be allowed to return to Arles in the spring.

Please ask your father and brother whether they are amenable.

Yours truly,

Damen

Laurent does not bother with explicitly writing out whether he is looking forward to seeing Damen again, apart from sending along his father's agreement to once more welcoming Damen in Vere. But, after a year spent with Laurent personally and several months pouring over his fine handwriting, Damen has grown rather apt at reading between the lines.

I wish winter would come to an end. The snow bores me and the sky, even if not overcast, is never quite as blue as the Akielon sea. I keep counting down the days to my nameday when the crocuses will finally bloom.

Yours,

Laurent

xviii

The gods were fickle creatures indeed if, after centuries of animosity, they made it so that an Akielon prince would one day end up looking forward to spending time at the Veretian court.

But here Damianos is, strong winds in their sails and carrying them across the sea at a pace that is still not quite quick enough for his liking.

He shouldn't be this eager, he thinks, shouldn't be this obvious about it. But he had practically begged his father for permission to spend another summer in Arles, and Theomedes had relented easily and with a knowing smile.

“Yes,” he had said, “Go meet your foster brother.”

It had been a pointed reminder of how, throughout the winter, Damianos had still insisted on how he and Laurent were only technically engaged and that nothing was settled yet. Old habits died hard, after all, even if everyone had oft rolled their eyes at his tiring vehemence.

It was true, though. Much could change in the course of half a year. Maybe Laurent had outgrown his childish affections for Damen which had been rather fragile to begin with. Maybe they would be able to remain friends but never to turn it into anything more than that.

Damen had promised himself that he would arrive without any expectations regarding Laurent's attitude toward him. The boy had always been unpredictable and Damen deemed it best to not get his hopes up.

His determination, however, is tried as soon as they make it into the harbor and step on land.

Once more, the princes of Vere have come to welcome him, side by side, just as when Damen had first met them all of two years ago. Who would have thought that Auguste's harebrained idea would one day land them here?

“Prince Auguste,” Damen greets the crown prince first, ever aware of the proper decorum the Veretians like to insist on, “It is a joy to finally meet you again.”

“Likewise, Prince Damianos,” Auguste returns courteously, but then his gaze is already slyly sliding over to where his brother is more or less patiently waiting.

Laurent has grown a couple of inches, Damen notes, and he stands almost as tall as Auguste now, though he is still clearly more boy than man. Yet the months of separation now make Damen very aware of every single change, of the blue-blooded pallor that has returned to Laurent's eyelids and how his hair is tied into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck.

“My prince,” Damen says, “It's been too long.”

“I welcome you to my birthplace, heir of Theomedes,” Laurent says in flawless Akielon, coyly glancing up between his lashes.

And just like that it's as though no time has passed at all. A warm smile spreads across Damen's face, but there is another, more subtle, heat deep in his belly.

For a long moment, the two of them just simply at each other. There is no kiss, not in front of Auguste, and Damen feels just a little bit bad for wishing they were alone.

“I brought you some oranges,” Damen says, because it seems like the most innocuous thing to say, “And a cook who knows how to make orange cakes.”

Laurent's smile is the tiniest thing but it's there if you know where to look for it. And Damen does know.

“Then we best get them all to the kitchens,” Laurent says, “I would love something sweet for dinner.

ixx.

Laurent, despite Damen's initial starstruck impression, seems more austere than he did back in Akielos. He's tightly laced up again, in dark velvets and fine brocade, holding himself with impeccable grace as he shows Damen to the quarters he already had been using during his first visit two summers ago.

While once upon a time Damen had thought him a flighty forest sprite, he is now as frost upon a young leaf, cool on the outside but with promise of spring lying just underneath the surface.

As he follows Laurent along the corridors, he allows himself to fall behind by just half a step, allows himself to let his gaze trail over the intricately woven laces that run down the narrow line of Laurent's back. Damen finds himself struck by the thought of how it would be to actually undo all those same laces, tugging them free from their eyelets and pushing the smooth velvet off of Laurent's shoulders to get to the silken skin underneath. He does not fool himself in to believing that he wouldn't make a terrible mess of it, and yet he dreams of that slow sensuality, of undressing Laurent bit by bit. Of messing up that strict perfection.

Damen takes a deep breath and wonders whether they would need that chaperon after all.

Laurent is sixteen now, still too young in prudence's eyes, but it's not like Damen's fantasies are being fueled by good reasons.

“I hope you'll find everything to your satisfaction,” Laurent tells him when he leaves him to rest and freshen up after the long journey.

“I do,” Damen says. His gaze lingers a little too long.

But, then again, so does Laurent's.

A bath, a nap, and a small snack bring a greater ability to show restraint. Dinner brings more surprises.

Damen had not noticed before, distracted by his other observations, but much like Laurent, Auguste, whom Damen hadn't seen in even longer, had changed as well. The most overt part is that he had cut his hair short.

“Less of a hassle in the winter,” Auguste laughs when he is questioned, “It takes too long to dry and even longer to make it look presentable.”

Yet Damen cannot help but take quiet notice of the dark shadows that are painted underneath Auguste's eyes, wonders what might be keeping him so occupied. There are no pressing political matters on a larger scale that Damen is aware of, but the Veretians in their pride have always been extremely circumspect of letting news about their own home-made struggles make it across the borders.

As a friend Damen wants to ask, but as a prince he knows that it is not quite his place.

He also cannot help but notice how Laurent and Auguste seem to have grown even closer. Sometimes, while they converse, the brother will throw each other looks. There is no lull in conversation, so it's almost imperceptible, but Damen still can tell that there are a thousand words that go unspoken between them. Unspoken but not misunderstood.

So it was not just the border patrol that had made Auguste view his little brother as an equal or at least as something more than a child. Damen just cannot quite figure out what it is.

He tries to think nothing of it at first, but then it turns out that he is not the only one who thinks so.

“They are hiding something,” Jokaste notes idly, under the guise of plucking at the seams of her dress.

While Nikandros had opted to remain in Akielos this time, Jokaste had insisted on coming along instead. She claimed she wanted to improve her Veretian and that she wished to see young Laurent again, but everyone could tell that she was merely hoping to expand her territory. Damen had tried to tell her of the Veretians dislike of out-of-wedlock male-female relationships, but she had turned up her nose at him.

“I'll just have to marry one of them then,” she had said confidently and, upon reconsideration, added, “And there are always deviants.”

So now she was here and she was fluent in the language of intrigue which Damen could barely understand a few words of.

“Do not press for answers,” Damen warns her, “We are guests here.”

“My prince,” she tells him slyly, “We do not press for answers. We stumble upon them in opportune moments.”

And then she turns to Auguste and politely asks him to point out the various dignitaries in the dining hall.

“I have no memory for faces,” she claims with an embarrassed smile, “And an even worse one for names.”

“Of course,” Auguste says in mild surprise, “Please, feel free to stop me if I start to bore you.”

“Oh,” she says, “You could never.”

Across the table, Laurent cocks an eyebrow at Damen. Damen, however, can do nothing but shrug.

xx.

While Jokaste attempts to unravel the mysteries of the Veretian court, the answer – or at least part of it – presents itself earlier than expected.

Ironically, it happens as Laurent and Damen are having a sparring match. Damen has to keep his guard up because he had almost forgotten how Laurent's style of fighting ignored any code of honor. It's a challenge but also a welcome reprieve from making nice with the various nobles as is expected of both of them. If they are to reign together one day, they need learn how to leave a good impression on people and forge connections. As of now, the nobles were King Aleron's subjects and, potentially, his opponents. One day they would be Auguste's and, to a lesser degree, Damen and Laurent's.

Just when Laurent shows the first signs of tiring, his footwork getting a bit sloppy, Jord joins them on the field.

“My prince,” he says. His voice is quiet, but there is an edge to it. Immediately Laurent raises his hand to signal an end of the match. Both he and Damen lower their weapons.

“What is it, Jord?” Laurent says and he, too, sounds just the faintest bit alarmed.

“Your brother wishes to speak to you,” Jord tells him.

And there should be nothing to it, no worry, no unease, yet Laurent's shoulder tense almost imperceptibly.

“I will see him at once,” he says and Jord gives a tight nod.

“Laurent,” Damen says and nothing more. Laurent turns to look at him, considering.

“You might as well join me,” he decides at length, “This pertains to you, too.”

Damen does not understand what that means. He tries to make sense of it as they set aside their practice swords and make their way back into the palace proper. Both Jord and Laurent march along the hallways with exact steps, the sounds of it echoing off the walls. Whereas the soldier is obvious in Jord's gait, though, Laurent walks as if the soles of his feet alone could intimidate the earth into doing his bidding.

His low ponytail brushes against the back of neck, single strands catching in the sweat damp skin, but other than that he is the epitome of poise and perfection. If you knew him, however, could tell how unsettled he truly was.

The answer as to why presents itself once Jord has led them to Auguste's chambers. Up to this point Damen is naive still, merely expects some minor inconvenience, something only Veretians would get their feathers ruffled over. Then he sees the blood.

“What on earth-,” he gasps.

On the floor is a man, face-down and motionless. Judging by the amount of blood in a puddle underneath him, he must be dead.

“Auguste,” Laurent says, as though the sight of a dead body does not faze him much. His eyes are only on his brother. “Are you alright?”

“I've been better,” Auguste allows. He sits sunken down on an armchair. His face is ashen, his hair disheveled. “But I am unharmed. Mostly.”

He lifts his left arm to reveal a shallow cut along the biceps. It's nothing much to worry about, but Laurent immediately grabs a pitcher of wine of a table, liberally pouring in onto the wood. It soaks the white fabric of Auguste's tunic, but most of it trickles down to the floor where it joins the blood, red veins reaching out across the dark wood floor.

“Someone attacked you,” Damen concludes. It's obvious but his disbelief still makes that reality difficult to grasp. “In your own chambers.”

“Yes,” Auguste nods; then he motions fore Jord, “Show him the blade, please.”

Jord nods and pulls a long jagged dagger from within his jacket, handing it hilt-first to Damen.

Damen accepts it, staring at it with wide eyes.

“Is that an Akielon dagger?” Auguste asks. It does not sound like an accusation, just like the prince is honestly trying to ascertain facts that he already knows. So Damen curbs his instinctual denial and remains just as calm.

“Yes,” he says, weighing the weapon in his hands, “And of good craftsmanship, too.

Few would be able to afford such a blade. It was typically given to young adolescents upon some sort of great achievement, a boar they killed or a girl they bedded, whatever happened first. Nikandros had one. Damen did, too. It had been given to him by his father when he had first managed to beat Kastor in a sword fight.

“But that man is not Akielon,” Damen adds, his gaze dropping to the corpse. He can't see the man's face but his coloring is far too light. That observation would not absolve all the blame but it was as good a place as any to start.

“I know this was not your doing,” Auguste says as though reading his thoughts, “Nor that of your countrymen. This was obviously not just an attempt on my life, but also a ploy to put the blame onto you.”

“But why?” Damen cannot help but ask. He feels like a boy. The world and all its intricacies make little sense to him.

“To destroy the pact between Vere and Akielos,” Auguste says with certainty, “To sever your engagement to Laurent. To make us go back to war as though peace had never happened.”

When voiced like that, it does sound rather plausible. And yet there is still much confusion left.

“But who would want such a thing,” Damen wonders, “And of your own people, too?”

“There are many,” Auguste knows, “Some more persistent than others.”

He exchanges another of those unnerving looks with Laurent then, a silent conversation that Damen is not privy to.

“Has something of this nature happened before?” Damen wants to know. The three other men seem entirely too blasé about the whole ordeal.

“Occasionally,” Auguste hums, “Their attempts are getting bolder but also more inelegant. It's hard to believe that they honestly believed this one might come to fruition.”

Veretians, Damen decides, are absolutely mad dogs. Maybe Nikandros had been right after all.

“Why is the king not raising security measures then?” he asks, “The palace-”

“The king does not know,” Laurent cuts in, “And you will not tell him.”

Damen whips around to stare at him, but Laurent's eyes are diamonds.

“But-,” he tries anyway.

“This is Veretian business,” Laurent tells him, “And we will keep it that way.”

“It is my business if they try to drag Akielos into it,” Damen says, fiery, “It is my business if they try to kill my friend and my future brother-in-law. It is my business because you asked me to come along to see this.”

“I brought you here because you need to learn,” Laurent says and he is all ice, “You need to understand.” “Damen, please,” Auguste says, “Promise to not tell our father. It may seem inadvisable to you, but we have our reasons. This... is for the best.”

His face is earnest, his voice tired. This is not the first time this has happened. Auguste knew more than Damen did. And though Damen does not appreciate being kept out of the loop, he has to trust the brothers' judgment. Sometimes, that's how friendships worked.

“I promise,” he says, even though the words as ash in his mouth.

If he were honest with himself, Damen does not want to see for Laurent for the rest of the day. Laurent, of course, has other plans.

“Come,” he says as though speaking to a dog and then leads him down into the courtyard. Damen follows, reluctant.

Laurent waves over a stable boy and gives curt orders to have their horses prepared. It's not overly surprising. The prince had always favored going for a ride when he needed to clear his mind.

It doesn't take long for the stable master himself to bring out a stallion for Damen as well as Laurent's horse.

He smiles when he sees that it is the mare named Ios which he had given Laurent as a parting gift on their last day in Akielos.

“She is serving you well, then?” he asks, quiet pride in his words. “She is,” Laurent agrees as he swings himself up into the saddle. For a moment, he stills.

“Orlant knows his way around horses,” he says then, “He told me that, going by her stature and her coloring, she must be a mixed breed.”

“Her parents were a Veretian stallion and an Akielon mare,” Damen says, “She combines grace with endurance. Like you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Laurent snorts and then tugs at the reins to make Ios turn towards the gates.

“My prince,” the stable master says in warning. He does not sound too adamant about it, though, probably used to these kinds of escapades.

“Leave us,” Laurent says simply.

“The king will not be happy about you riding out alone again.”

“I'm not alone,” Laurent replies, sending a quick look at Damen.  “Let's ride,” he says and they do.

They ride across the plains and the fields and up to the outskirts of the forest until their horses are covered in sweat. Only then does Laurent pull the reins and jumo out of the saddle. He does not bother to tether Ios somewhere. The mare is trained well enough to not run away, but Damen is not so sure about his own steed.

He slings the reins of the bridle around a low-hanging branch, gives the horse a pat on the rump and then turns around to where Laurent is pressing his back against the trunk of a tree, leaning his head back and breathing deeply. Looking for liberation.

Damen takes a step but then stops himself. He is not sure whether he is welcome and, especially in Laurent's state of agitation, he does not wish to overstep his boundaries.

Laurent seems to think differently, watching Damen with thoughtful eyes.

“Come closer,” he says, and Damen does.

The sparse grass tickles his toes through his sandals and then Laurent reaches out, running his fingertips over Damen's collarbone. Damen's nostrils flare.

“Closer,” Laurent demands until there are merely a few inches separating them.

Suddenly, there is a skin-warm blade pressed against Damen's pulse. He stills.

From this angle, he cannot see the weapon but he knows that it must be the stiletto that he had gifted Laurent last year, on the day when something minuscule had changed between them. Laurent's eyes, however, are indefinitely sharper.

“You trust too easily,” he warns calmly, “One day, someone you love will offer you their hand and stab you with the other.”

“But not this day,” Damen knows.

“No,” Laurent agrees, “Not this day.”

He pulls pack, smoothly sheathing his stiletto once more.

For a long moment, Damen looks at him.

“I wish you weren't so jaded,” he says, “I wish you wouldn't use your smiles as swords.”

“You are a little to late for that,” Laurent says and, as though to prove a point, smiles.

xxi.

Two weeks later, the king's brother who had been off on a visit to Fortaine returns to the court. He brings with him a number of presents and two deer he shot on the way, and subsequently a small feast is arranged for the evening.

Laurent who had loosened up a little since the attempt on Auguste's life is back to being sullen. Damen has trouble pinpointing the reason, but he suspects it must have something to do with being surrounded with so many people once more. Laurent had never been a friend of crowds in the first place; knowing that among those people might be some who wished his family ill certainly did not improve his mood.

At another table, a group of pets has gotten up to entertain their masters with a rather vulgar sort of dance. It involved a lot of bending and spreading and touching each other. In fact, calling it a dance would be gracious. The Veretians titter and laugh, making small-talk with each other while their eyes keep straying back to their naked pets.

Damen looks away. He does not care for having his appetite spoiled.

Unwillingly, he finds himself reminded of how, little over a year ago, Laurent had danced for him. No naked skin, no coy smiles. Just Laurent, the beat of the music and a song of fulfillment. He wonders whether, one day, he will get to see him dance again.

Do distract himself from his somewhat indecent thoughts, he tries to merely talk to Laurent instead, though it proves to be a challenging endeavor. Their conversations have been stilted since that afternoon at the edge of the woods, since Auguste has slit his would-be assassins throat and sworn Damen to secrecy.

Damen finds himself missing the easy companionship of Nikandros and their friends, the kind that consisted of wine and sordid stories but that had them risking their lives for each other in battle. In Vere, it's as though betrayal might lurk around every corner.

And Damen trusts Laurent and Auguste, but he does no longer feel the same ease around them as he used to. There is something else going on, something bigger, and yet they treat him like a child who might ruin the surprise if he were told any of the details.

Unexpectedly, someone else comes to his aid, though.

The king's brother approaches their table with a winning smile and an inviting gesture. “Prince Damianos,” he says cordially, “We haven't had much chance to talk yet. I apologize for my rudeness.”

“You are a busy man and therefore forgiven,” Damen tells him, “I hear you have been traveling a lot.”

“I have,” the man agrees, “Longer than I was hoping to, to be honest. The Patran winter kept behind the mountains for too long. And after that I needed a little vacation.”

“You went to Fortaine, did you not?” Damen asks. He has been trying to brush up on the names of the surrounding fortresses and those who hold them. It was in expectation of becoming son-in-law to the king, but also because he felt like he needed to be prepared in case if any other intrigues.

“Yes, councilor Guion has a son just a little younger than Laurent,” the king's brother explains, “I'm sure they would get on well. He would make a fine squire. I actually invited him to court to see whether the life here suits him.”

Laurent viciously stabs the meat on his plate with his fork, obviously less than enthused by the idea.

“Squiring does make men out of boys,” Damen agrees.

In Akielos they followed similar practices, and he had hated and loved every minute of his own time attending a young kyroi. Alcibiades had been a beautiful man and he had instructed Damen in more than just the art of fighting. Even when Damen grew older and eventually left his service, their friendship remained a deep one, different from his rambunctious brotherhood with Nikandros, as weathered and mature as only old lovers can be. Alcibiades had fallen in one of the battles leading up to Marlas, though, and it had been one of the reasons why Damen had so resented the idea of a peace treaty.

He frowns, displeased by being reminded of his grief at such a moment. Maybe Laurent's uncle notices because he makes a point of moving the conversation into a different direction.

“Fortaine is actually well known for its winehills,” he tells Damen, “Though they don't much distribute it anywhere but in Vere. I've brought some along with me. Would you care for a taste?”

“Of course,” Damen says, never one to turn down a drink. It is also the surest way to bring back some levity to his thoughts.

So the king's brother waves his pet closer, a dark-haired, green-eyed beauty, and has him pour three goblets of wine, one for Laurent, too, though the prince only accepts it reluctantly.

“A toast,” his uncle proposes, “To our continued relations.”

So they toast and clink their goblets. It's good wine and Damen drinks deeply. From the corner of his eye, he can see how Laurent takes a sniff of the wine and only wets his lips a little. He has never had much of a taste for alcohol and Damen had suspected it being due to him still having a child's palate, but considering that Laurent is older now it might be that it is just his dislike for losing control that keeps him from indulging too much.

Damen has barely lowered his goblet that the pet is already there to top it off again, and then he continues to talk to the king's brother about expanding trading routes and rising export rates.

Eventually, Laurent's uncle excuses himself to talk to some other people, and Damen settles back to watch the people around the hall. His gaze keeps straying back to where Jokaste is talking to Auguste.

Damen would think it another of her perfectly polished seduction attempts, but she keeps making animated gestures and when Auguste says something she objects immediately. Once, she opens her mouth just as she is lifting her goblet to her lips and a bit of wine spills down her chin instead. She wipes it away with an impatient wrist, but some drops must travel along her neck and into her cleavage because that is where Auguste's eyes follow them.

Damen smiles to himself. It's an unexpected development but not an unwelcome one. Jokaste might profit from someone who challenges her in ways she had not foreseen. Auguste is not a schemer by any means, but he is witty and eloquent. They would keep each other on their toes, that much is certain.

They'd be a lovely sight, too, all that blonde hair and their lithe bodies, her skin just a shade darker than his, and it's easy to imagine Auguste powerfully moving between her thighs, his buttocks-

Ah. Damen stops himself. Imagining his fiancé's brother having sex is probably not the best idea.

And yet it is difficult to rein his thoughts in once more. He does not blush easily and it is fortunately not very visible with is dark coloring, but now he can feel himself growing hot. He can feel himself growing aroused, even, and that should not happen just because of some pretty ideas.

He wipes a palm across his face and then reaches for the water pitcher. Maybe he should lay off the wine for now; it must have been stronger than expected, though it had been exceptionally sweet and flavorful.

“Damen,” Laurent says from next to him, “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” Damen claims, yet when he turns his head he is hit by sudden dizziness. He steadies himself against the table and, when he can see clearly again, he lifts his gaze to Laurent.

Laurent who is more beautiful than Auguste and Jokaste combined, whose lips are red and who looks at Damen with such undivided attention that he might think himself a god.

“Dammit,” Laurent curses under his breath. There is a furrow on his brow, but it just makes him more lovely. It gives life to a kind of perfection that might otherwise be mistaken for a statue.

“Laurent,” Damen says. His voice sounds faraway in his ear, as though he had spoken underwater.

“Damen,” Laurent says urgently. His hand has come up to fist in the front of Damen's chiton, pulling him closer. “Damen, kiss me.”

It sounds like the kind of good idea that will turn into a bad idea but, in his current state of mind, Damen cannot find anything wrong with that.

So he kisses him, first on the lips and then, angling his hand to the side, opening Laurent's mouth with his, pushing his tongue in, running it along the back of Laurent's teeth, before daring to go further, finding Laurent's tongue in turn. And they kiss like they spar, with Damianos trying to be bold but courteous, while Laurent does not hesitate to fight dirtily.

He puts a hand to the Damen's naked knee and then lets it slide up till it rests against the inside of his thigh. Damen's cock twitches in his loincloth and he gives a low moan.

A second later, Laurent is gone.

“Come,” he says, having risen from his seat and offering Damen his hand, “Let's go.”

“Where to?” Damen asks, though he would follow him anywhere.

“You chambers,” Laurent say, and so they leave together.

xxi

The next day, Damen wakes feeling slow and sluggish. It's not the ringing headache and nausea of too many cups of wine and he finds himself vaguely confused by that. And anyway, he did not have much to drink and he can handle his liquor, so he wonders what else could have affected him like that.

He blearily remembers the feast and the polite chatter and then Laurent appeared and everything got a little hazy. Damen frowns, blinks, pushes his curly fringe out of his face and rolls over in bed.

“You are awake,” Laurent says as though he had been for a long time.

Damen does not quite fall off the mattress but it's a near thing. He holds on to the sheets and tries to make sense of what happened, how Laurent could have ended up here in bed with him.

Laurent kissed him. Laurent kissed him and that he knows, that he could never forget. But everything else is a blur.

Damen's heart is racing. His previously phlegmatic blood pumps through his veins, sending his thoughts into chaos.

They didn't. They couldn't have. He knows this, but he also knows that underneath the sheets he is naked, just as Laurent is naked, and his body is aching all over but not in exactly unpleasant ways.

“Laurent,” he croaks, asking for an answer, but hoping for a lie.

In that moment, the door bursts open.

This time, Damen startles so badly that he does fall out of the bed. His tailbone aches from the impact, but that's the least of his worries.

A group of six men swarms into the room, immediately assessing the situation. By their insignia Damen can tell that they are the men of the king's brother.

“Prince Damianos of Akielos,” one of them says and for a Veretian he is unusually unperturbed by Damen's nudity, “I hereby accost you for indecent behavior and improper conduct with Prince Laurent.”

Too many things have happened in the past minute for Damen to really make sense of anything at all. He only knows that he is in deep, deep trouble. The denial is more instinctual than anything else, like a boy caught red-handed when stealing food from the pantry.

“We didn't do anything,” he says. He thinks. He cannot know because has never had a gap in memory like this.

But his claim goes ignored.

“Dress him,” the head of the group instructs the rest, “We can't have a barbarian parading around the throne room naked.”

Damen does not resist.

Everything happens very quickly then. Veretians do not care about sex outside of wedlock, as long as it is kept between same-sex couples. However, pre-marital sex is a different matter if the deed is done between spouses. Even if it is between same-sex couples.

It's all quite confusing and frankly, idiotic. But it is the law and Damen has broken it. And, more than that, he has dishonored the pact and defiled the prince.

He is brought to the king and made to kneel, an act of humiliation considering he is royalty himself, but that is the least of his problems now.

To make things worse, Auguste is present as well, standing by his father's side, arms cross in front of his chest. Damen resists the urge to bow his head in shame.

He also does not allow his eyes to follow Laurent who strides into the room and quickly makes his way up to the throne. A hassled servant is following him, trying to properly tie the laces at his back. It's another grim reminder of how, mere minutes ago, the prince had been naked and in bed with the heir of Akielos.

And then it begins. Damen is not quite sure what to expect. A trial maybe, or the farce of one. Perhaps he will be lucky and they will only annul the engagement and send him on his way. Perhaps they'll behead him. Perhaps they'll declare war. It's difficult to tell.

Damen has known Aleron to be an austere king but a kind man. Since there initial meeting at Marlas, this is merely the first time Damen has truly been confronted with the former.

At Marlas, he had been given Laurent. Today, he would lose him.

Aleron's face is as clouds before a thunder storm, dark and yet deceptively calm.

“Have you touched my son?” he asks plainly. The words seem to echo of the tall walls.

Damen clenches his fists. He wants to speak the truth, but it is not within his grasp. So he settles for the closest thing.

“I... I do not recall.”

If Aleron is surprised or outraged by that reply, he does not show it.

“My brother tells me that this morning you were found in Laurent's chambers and, what's more, in his bed. Does that rejuvenate your memory?”

Nervously, Damen licks his lips.

“I can account for this morning,” he says with care, “And for last evening. But not for the night that lay in between.”

“You would use your drunk stupor as an excuse?”

“I offer neither excuse nor justification,” Damen says, “Merely what little I have: a sincere apology and my deepest regrets.”

Regrets are all he has now. The thought that he has taken Laurent, that he has potentially forced himself upon him turns his stomach. And he knows himself, he knows he's been rough with slaves before, even if they were willing. Laurent would not have known how to defend himself, might not have wanted to cause a scandal, might have just gone along with it and-

“Father,” Laurent says suddenly. He has shooed the servant away, his laces still half-undone, his hair a mess. And he must mean well, but his appearance might just be Damen's death sentence.

“Father, listen to me,” he pleads nevertheless, “You misunderstand. It wasn't his fault-”

“Laurent,” Aleron says gently, touching a palm to Laurent's cheek, “You are confused. What he did to you-”

“I wanted it,” Laurent insists, “I- I seduced him. And I drugged him.”

Damen's head jerks up. Why would Laurent-

“Chalis,” Aleron says slowly. He looks over at Damen, as though trying to find proof, dilated pupils, labored breath. “But why on earth would you-”

“I love him, father,” Laurent says, a tremble to his voice, “I do not wish to be parted from him. He told me he would rather hold off the wedding for years to come. But I cannot bear it, I want to be his husband now.”

The world is spinning. Maybe there truly is some chalis left in his system. And yet. And yet Damen can tell that there must be more to it.

He would almost believe Laurent's words, almost wants to believe them. But he knows Laurent to be a good actor. And to be much more composed when he comes to his true feelings. This is nothing but a script he must have composed in his head on his way down into the throne room. And King Aleron is his audience.

For a long, long moment, the King of Vere is completely silent, merely looking at his youngest son's desperate face. Then, he slowly turns away.

“I apologize, Prince Damianos,” Aleron says evenly. The storm has thundered. The clouds are bereft. “Unexpectedly, it seems that you were the one wronged in this scenario. There are no words to apologize. My son will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary.”

And just like after a storm, the tension in the air has left. All that's left is damp soggy earth and a lingering darkness.

“There is no need,” Damen hears himself say, “I wish it had happened under different circumstances. But I take no offense in his actions. He is my fiancé.”

King Aleron looks surprised. His back is very straight.

“You still wish to uphold the engagement?” he clarifies.

“Of course. Akielos does not follow the same conventions as Vere,” Damen says, “So let us not throw away two years of commitment for one thoughtless night.”

Aleron frowns, “I welcome your leniency. But there is still the matter of propriety in the eyes of our people.”

And this, finally, is what makes Auguste speak up for the first time.

“Have them marry right away then,” he says and everyone turns to stare at him. Absurdly, Damen finds himself reminded of that day in the tent when Auguste had first proposed this reckless scheme.

But it worked once, did it not? It might work again.

“Laurent wants to marry Damen now, Damen wanted to marry Laurent eventually, we want them to marry to avoid a scandal,” Auguste explains, “It's the easiest solution.”

“That-,” Aleron says but does not get very far.

“Yes,” Laurent says quickly, “Yes.”

“Yes,” Damen agrees.

He does not lose his head that day, but his fate is sealed anyway.

xxii

Once the decision has been made, everyone descends into madness.

Damen is not even given the chance to speak to either Laurent or Auguste once more, before he is put on a ship and sent back to Ios.

There he is expected to ready everything for his upcoming nuptials and that brings its fair share of problems with it. Royal weddings were already outlandish enough, but it would be even worse now that everyone would feel the need to compete with Vere.

There is also the small matter of having to explain everything to his father.

In the beginning, Theomedes is somewhat cross with him, as is Nikandros. Less than Damen's disgrace, they lament their own failure to prevent him from committing any social blunders. Nikandros especially seems to blame himself for not having accompanied Damen to Arles in order to keep an eye on him.

It is Jokaste who explains matters to them, outlining how starstruck Laurent had been with Damen upon their reunion, how Damen had remained steadfast in his insistence upon marriage, and how the boy eventually must have grown desperate enough to ply his fiancé with chalis. It's a horribly exaggerated account of things, one that no one who actually knows Laurent would believe, but eventually everyone accepts it.

Anger quickly turns into exasperation but no one quite seems to grasp the severity of the situation. As Akielon is so lenient in regards to sexual relationships of all kinds, they do not understand that their prince's cock had almost led them into ruin.

Then there is the confusion about what Laurent's official title is to be and it causes quite some discussion among various advisers.

They've had ruling queens in the past whose husbands were considered consorts, but the specific Akielon term does not apply because Damianos is neither crowned yet nor a woman. It would also be an insult to eventually start referring to Laurent as the queen, though Damen imagines he would be quietly amused by all the trouble he is indirectly causing with this conundrum.

In the end, it is Theomedes who comes up with a term, a word that is put together out of the roots for left hand, originally a military term for a second in command, while using an ending that is used as an endearment between spouses. The king is incredibly proud of himself and Damen doesn't have the heart to tell him that it sounds slightly confusing and as though the leader of an army were fucking one of his captains on the side.

Still, it is better than nothing, and out of the Veretians the only one who might be able to deduce the questionable origin of the word would be Laurent himself.

A courtier from Arles had been sent along to organize the wedding with Veretian standards. They quickly run into a wall, though, when Damen is told that one of the traditions is the consummation of the marriage under witnesses' eyes.

“This is still the Akielon court,” he insists, “We are getting married because the deed has been done. Why do you need more confirmation?”

Other than that, he lets them prepare whatever they want. There is one other demand he makes, namely that there will be no slaves serving the king's table. He cannot entirely ban them from the feast, but he does wish to accommodate Laurent at least in that regard.

Before he knows it, two months have passed and summer solstice is upon them. The longest day of the year brings with it sails on the horizon and familiar sunburst banners.

Laurent comes across the sea as the prince of Vere. And he will stay as Akielon's future king.

xxiii

The entirety of the royal family of Vere arrives in the Akielon capital. It's a historic first.

A procession is led by King Aleron, down from the harbor and up to the palace. The sunburst banners are carried through the street for an occasion other than conquest and the citizens strew flower petals to declare them welcome.

Laurent is riding on his mare Ios, his blue cape draped over her haunches. The golden circlet upon his brow glistens in the midday sun. It's startlingly different from when he had left last fall, a boy not yet at the cusps of manhood. He's a prince now, no doubt, and royalty is in his veins.

Damianos meets him upon the marble steps of the palace and undoes the clasps of his cape. The blue fabric falls from his shoulders, a symbolical denouncement of his forefathers' colors. They do not speak. Even if he wanted to, Damianos finds himself struck silent by Laurent's brutal beauty.

He takes Laurent's hand and begins to lead him up the stairs. At their backs, the people cheer.

There will be songs written about this moment. They will talk of love and fate and the gods' favor. They will lie.

xxiv.

Much like Damen's hasty departure from Arles, Laurent's arrival in Ios is marked by how little they see of each other.

Damen recalls some Veretian make-belief of spouses not being allowed to lay eyes on each other before their wedding, lest they risk bad luck, but he cannot help but think that this is mostly his own fault.

In the short shared moments, Laurent had seemed so strangely intangible. Yes, Laurent had changed since his year in Ios, but he had also changed in the two months since their wedding had been announced.

Such a short amount of time could not change someone to such a degree. Which meant that the only explanation lay within their ill-advised night together.

Damen wonders whether Laurent regrets his decision to drug him, whether their wedding was happening too quickly after all. He wonders whether he had hurt Laurent that night, whether Laurent had underestimated the effects of chalis. He wonders whether their marriage will be doomed from the beginning.

It must be the biggest most significant marriage of the century. Kingdoms have not be united like this in quite some time. The fact that the entirety of both royal families are attending is also quite spectacular.

“I will not miss my son's wedding,” Aleron had said pointedly, after mentioning that his brother had advocated it against it.

The feast, therefore, will be elaborate, but the ceremony itself is a rather straightforward thing. Damen has no patience for outdated words and dull prayers.

Instead, after calling on the gods and asking for their blessing, the high priestess merely wraps a length of red silk around the princes' hands, tying them together, Damen's left and Laurent's right so they would be able to sit side by side. They would remain like this for the rest of the evening, and then Damen would tie it to the outside of their bedroom door so that no one would accidentally disturb their wedding night, an Akielon tradition that had sounded very exciting and bold when he had been a boy but that now seems almost vulgar to him.

The silk whispers across the vulnerable skin of his wrist, binding his pulse to Laurent's. The priestess speaks of their hearts beating in tandem now, of their hearts one day ceasing at the same time. She speaks of the breath of life, too, and how it is exchanged between lovers.

Damen almost misses his cue and then it takes him a moment until he can make himself move.

Laurent, though, looks at him, very calmly. It's all the encouragement, all the challenge Damen will get.

He leans in, ducks his head, and chastely kisses Laurent on the lips. Four kisses now, four kisses that Damen remembers. One for surprise, one for goodbye, one for lust, and one for forever.

He pulls back, lingers, a mere centimeter between their lips, before he actually straightens up again.

They are properly married now, but the ceremony is not yet over.

Laurent kneels and with poised fingers the high priestess removes his golden circlet. Damen, in turn, then crowns him with a laurel wreath made of gold, officially recognizing him as a member of Akielon royalty and making Laurent second in line to the throne until Damen produced an heir. If he still believed Vere were out to get Akielos under their control, this might be it.

Laurent rises with all the grace of a young god and Damen knows he never stood a chance anyway.

xxv.

Laurent eats gracefully, even with only his left hand at his disposal. Damen, having to accept all the well-wishes and presents they receive, repeatedly has to stop himself from speaking with his mouth full.

Among the first influx of guests is Laurent's uncle. He has a servant deliver a few rare books he acquired during his travels, doubtlessly intended more for Laurent. It's a thoughtful present but something about the exchange is strange.

They look at each other for a long moment. Then Laurent moves his hand so it is resting on top of Damen's.

“Thank you, uncle,” he says and offers a small smile.

“I am happy for you, Laurent,” the king's brother says. He sounds like it, too, but for some reason Damen finds himself losing his appetite.

Kastor is next, with a sullen expression and then a strain to his smile, even as he welcomes Laurent to the family.

“By brother needs good council,” he tells Laurent, “I pray you will guide him well.”

Then it's a long throng of Veretian nobles and Theomedes' kyroi.

“You kiss like a maiden,” Makedon tells Damen bluntly, “I hope you don't fuck like one.”

“He doesn't,” Laurent says and Makedon's eyes widen a little because everyone knows the wedding had been set so suddenly due to their illicit night together but so far no one had outright acknowledged it.

“Always has to have the last word, that one,” Makedon grumbles and stomps away while Damianos carefully coughs up the olive he had nearly choked on.

After that, the evening is surprisingly pleasant. The food is good, the wine plenty, and the entertainments entertaining. There's Patran fire-spitting, Akielon drums, a group of singers from across the sea, white patterns painted onto their dark faces. A dozen half-naked women perform a Vaskian fertility dance that has Damen nearly laugh out loud because no matter how pleased the gods were by the performance, Laurent would not end up overly fertile either way.

Eventually, Makedon gets out the griva again and Theomedes challenges Aleron to a drinking game.

Damen takes it as the unspoken permission to finally make his excuses.

Were this any other night of him leaving a feast early, he would claim other commitments, of having to rise with the sun for whatever reason, but now his excuse is his husband tied to him by a red string.

They leave the hall, under whistles and cheers and provocative comments. Damen does not rise to any of them.

In the past two months, he had dismissed all slaves from his service, finding them other masters, but now he sends away the attending servants as well. When they are gone, he loosens the silk from their wrists and puts it in its proper place at the door frame. Then he turns the key in the lock, blessed silence and solitude. Safe for one exception.

Laurent stands by bed and, in the low light, he seems less severe than he did the rest of the day. He looks younger, softer, and for the first time in a while Damen feels the unequivocal instinct to protect him from all evils.

“We are married,” Laurent says and he sounds slightly surprised, the past hours little more than a strange dream.

“Yes,” Damen agrees.

“This is our wedding night.”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” Laurent says and gives a small nod as though that small detail had somehow slipped his mind.

His wedding costume is even more elaborate than is usual clothes. It must have taken an hour to even get into it and Damen does not know whether he can be as patient removing it. He steps behind Laurent and begins there, slowing undoing all the laces at his back, just as he has imagined for quite a while now. Bit by bit, Laurent's pale skin is revealed to the candle light, and Damen drops kisses to the nape of his neck, warm and lingering.

He moves on to his arms, bares his wrists, kisses them, too. Then, he can finally push the doublet off Laurent's narrow shoulders. There are no more freckles left on them, one winter in Vere having faded them all, but they had many Akielon summers yet ahead of them.

Gently, Damen pulls him over to the bed. Laurent sits, scoots back on the mattress. He is shaking.

“Laurent,” Damen says, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He has undone his peronai and the silken chiton has slipped off him and to the floor. Underneath, he wears nothing but his loincloth while Laurent is still dressed in his trousers and slippers.

With one hand on Laurent's ankle, he removes first the right, then the left slipper, carelessly dropping them to the floor, too. When he looks up again, Laurent is quietly crying.

Upon seeing the tears, everything in Damen grinds to a stop – his affection, his ardor, his arousal.

All he knows is that this must be the proof to the fears he had previously tried to bury. That he had hurt Laurent during that night two months ago and that Laurent only insisted on their marriage to avoid a political scandal. He was responsible like that. He'd rather throw himself to the wolves than let some ill befall his kingdom and, by extent, his father and brother.

“Laurent,” he says, his hand jittery, not knowing whether his touch would be a comfort or an offense, “Laurent, please. I will not do this without your permission. If you want me to stay away, we will never speak of this again, I will never try to touch you and-”

“You big oaf,” Laurent chides. There's a hiccup caught in his voice or maybe a sob. “I just don't want it to be something we have to do.”

Oh. Damen had not considered that. To him, sex was something that you either wanted almost always and, if you didn't want it, it was to be considered rape. The fact that Laurent might want him still, but not right now, not under these circumstances, not when things were still so new and emotions running high, had not even occurred to him. It seemed that, for all the ways they had come to understand each other throughout the months of their engagement, there were yet many things left to learn for their marriage.

“For tonight,” Laurent says and he is calmer now, though there are still tears upon his cheeks, “I would like to merely lie with you.”

It's a good idea. Certainly a better ending to the night than Damen had come to expect. So he settles against the many pillows and waits while Laurent struggles out of his constricting pants, tossing them aside.

Damen himself is still mostly naked and Laurent is obviously a little flustered by that, his gaze slightly averted. But he rests his head against Damen's chest anyway and their hands hesitantly tangle with each other.

“You are very warm,” he says into the silence. Perhaps he has no other words. “Yes,” Damen agrees because he certainly doesn't.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Laurent adds, listening, “You are nervous.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to do right by you.”

“You are,” Laurent says, “You already are.”

The candles burn down by they fall asleep long before that.

[apsbicepstraining]

The chicken store mile and how Britain went fat

With cheap and fattening nutrient everywhere, the committee had been a condition alter that intends beings do not recognise obesity when they see it in the mirror

The Mile End Road in east London is awash with chicken browses not homes to buy fresh poultry but takeaways where the lubricant is always rippling and everything comes with microchips. One patch of chicken in batter with fries and a can of full-sugar sip for PS1. 99. Two segments for PS2. 79. “Theres” utilitarian counters inside with red-faced and white plastic cloths and large containers of ketchup, but many of the customers feed as they stray home in their school uniform.

In this London borough Tower Hamlets one in eight children starting elementary school are obese, and that doubleds to more than one in four when they leave, at age 11. The parish has the fifth-highest rate of child obesity in London and the sixth in the country.

Sir Sam Everington, a GP, deplores the chicken patronize mile that begins merely a short path from his innovative Bromley-by-Bow health centre, where social and psychological questions are taken as seriously as the diseases that producing parties in. There are all sorts of reasons why people become obese, but the 42 chicken patronizes per secondary school in the parish are definitely among them.

The child obesity digits are a disaster, is in accordance with Everington, who chairs the boroughs clinical commissioning group. Its a spectrum of hunger, he says over coffee in the delightful cafe that is an integral part of the health core. My assumption is everything their own children are malnourished.

Chicken patronizes on Mile End Road, east London. Composite: Graeme Robertson

One of the worlds more affluent municipalities has children with questions we acquire do not subsist outside the developing world. Hunger is not just about starvation. And apart from the real danger that obesity will lead to heart disease, stroking and cancer in later life, the diet children are chewing too leads to vitamin shortages and mouths full of rotten teeth.

For the NHS, this scenario is destroying. Even now, character 2 diabetes which relates to obesity eats nearly a 10 th of the annual budget. There is some proof that the rise in obesity in children nationally may have stumbled a plateau, but it is stabilising , not removing. And weight particularly in adults but also in children is very hard to switch, thanks to our inbuilt biological excuses. Our metabolism dramatically slow-going weight loss after a couple of months to prevent us starving to death.

Graph obesity in UK

Obesity is the new smoking, Simon Stevens, NHS Englands chief executive, has told the Guardian. It represents a slow-motion car clang to its implementation of avoidable illness and rising healthcare expenses. If as a commonwealth we prevent piling on the pounds around the waistline, well be piling on the pounds in terms of future taxes necessitated simply to keep the NHS afloat.

Britain invests more on obesity-related healthcare rates than on the police, the fire services, prisons and the criminal justice system blended, he says. Obesity-related status expense the NHS PS6bn a year and rising. The diabetes invoice is PS9bn more. Its not just the wellbeing of beings in this country and our children, but its too the sustainability of the NHS itself, Stevens said.

The NHS has to prevent people growing ill in the first place. Stevens lately pledged a price rise for sugary sips sold on NHS propositions to staff and patients. Its a start, but theres a long way to go.

Obseity

Around the country, merely the type of takeaway goes, from fried chicken to fish in calorie-loaded batter to curries and burgers( all offered with sugary alcohols ). The difficulty is the same. A cultural transformation has taken place over the past few decades. Cheap and fattening nutrient is everywhere in pub, eateries, fast-food shops and supermarkets. A chassis alter has followed. Those living in areas where people are mainly overweight no longer recognise obesity where reference is gazes back at them from the mirror.

In the north-east of England, Sean Woodcock, a bariatric surgeon, are dealing here with the consequences. There is a treatment that works, “but its” drastic and not for everybody. Stomach-shrinking surgery actions those who go through it to devours little, because they appear full after minuscule sums of meat. Beings shed significant amounts of weight, get out of their wheelchairs and regain their lives. But its a hard street to travelling and Woodcock tells them so.

Bariatric surgeon Sean Woodcock contains a framework of a stomach. Photo: Murdo Macleod for the Guardian

At a meeting in Monkseaton medical core near Newcastle, where the Northumbria healthcare NHS foundation trust has taken over infinite for a dedicated bariatric outpatient gang, Woodcock looks all over the semicircle of morbidly obese surgery nominees sitting on extra large chairs. He flicks up a slip of a glinting cartoon fairy godmother. I guided out of fairy dust a long time ago, he tells them. There is no quick fix. It is hard work before the surgery because it is hard work after surgery. Motivated and advised patients get the best results.

Who has had a takeaway in the last week? he questions. A couple of handwritings go up. In the last month? Most handwritings are in the breath. That has to end, he tells them. Who boozes fizzies daddy? Everybody does. Some of my patients drink litres of the stuff every day, he says. My patients booze three or four litre-bottles of full fortitude[ sugar-sweetened] and say: I dont know why I dont lose weight, Mr Woodcock.

Graph obesity in Europe

Beer is an underestimated question, very. John Smiths contains 250 calories a beer and Stella Artois 300. Ten pints is up to 2,500 or 3,000 calories and thats without going for your kebab, he tells them.

Nobody goes surgery without undertaking a weight handling direction, in which they find themselves teach about diet and nutrition, fitness and exercise. They must demonstrate they are serious by misplacing a significant amount of load thats where the avoidance of takeaways and fizzy pa be coming back.

And they must also learn how to eat, pole surgery. Some meat, such as bread and chewy meat, will not go down. They cannot booze and eat at the same occasion there must be at least half an hour between. Meals will be tiny. Anita Attala, expert dietitian at the unit, says: You cant have the sugared occasions and you have to eat in a certain lane and munch the nutrient well. There is a risk of malnutrition and people must take vitamin supplements.

It represents a slow-motion vehicle clang in terms of avoidable illness and rising healthcare payments. Simon Stevens Photograph: Graeme Robertson for the Guardian

The staff, unlike much of the public, have infinite approbation for the people they ascertain. In most cases, there are mental prompts behind the load amplification and many people have cleared big efforts to lose weight. The vast majority are on a diet cycles/second, says Attala. They follow a commercial-grade nutrition, lose weight, plateau and then pile everything there is on again. They start again and neglect again. Commercial slimming organisations know it happens. Its why it is such a good business prototype. It is demoralising for parties because they think its their lack. We had one patient “whos been” been a slimmer of the year.

Claire Browell has been trying to lose weight since she was 18 Weight Watchers, Slimming World, commercial-grade foods, capsules you appoint it, she has done it. Aged 41, she was morbidly obese, with arthritis in her knees. She could not walk and was depressed. She has managed to lose more than 19 kg( 3 stone) on the educational weight handling its programs and Woodcock has just countenanced her for surgery on 15 June. She is joyous.

She has taken to heart what Woodcock tells his patients that obesity-related cancers could cut their lifespan by 11 years. But Browell has not gone into this gently. Surgery has its own risks. I have two children and it was a example of who is going to look after them if something happens to me? she says. If anything bad is going to happen, it is generally happens to me. Who would look after my sons?

But eventually she came to realise her fortunes were worse without surgery. Who would look after the boys if she died from a blow or heart attack as a result of her weight?

Claire Browell. Photo: Murdo Macleod for the Guardian

Stevens says bariatric surgery is not the answer for all 1.4 million people who are severely obese. It would cost PS8. 4bn same to the pledged authority increase in the NHS budget by 2021. It could bankrupt the health services. The explanation, he says, has to lie upstream. We have to prevent obesity in the first place.

Everington concurs. It should begin with babies and breastfeeding, which safeguards children against excessive load gain. In academies, the GP says, I personally think health should be a obligatory part of the curriculum, ahead of maths and English. What is more important in life than health? I exactly miss my kids to be happy and healthy. So all children should be taught cooking throughout their school vocation, and they need to run about much more. He quotes the Stirling primary school that cut its obesity pace to zeroby instituting a one-mile running or gait every day for all staff and pupils.

Outside school, we need safe cycles/second roads( Tower Hamlets is constructing them ), commons and restrictions on brand-new takeaways. The existing practice cannot be closed. And, says Everington, GP practises, schools and other “communitys institutions” must all understand that they are well placed to help changeour minds about the method we live and its impact on our health. A culture alteration adjusted us off down this road. There needs to be another.

Sarah Boseley is the author of The Shape Were In: how junk food and nutritions are abridging our lives, published by Guardian Faber .

The post The chicken store mile and how Britain went fat appeared first on apsbicepstraining.com.

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14 reasons why you are always tired and how to deal with it

14 Reasons you are always exhausted and the best ways to deal with it

Fatigue was always so clearly on my face and I was the last one that located about it. I was constantly doing another thing yet rest. Sometimes I would even fail to remember to obtain out of that dark workplace where I functioned, since I was as well absorbed of the quantity of job I needed to finish as well as besides, I suched as spending time at the office, even more than at home.

My dedication for my job made me completely neglect that there is life after job. I can not fail to remember those coffees from the huge and dark entrance hall, they were so bitter that I felt they would provide me a lot more power.

The worst was that I could not see that this continually fatigue was leaving traces on my face. No wrinkle lotions or foundation could get rid of the traces chaotic way of living had left on my face skin. Not to state the weight that I had actually involved. From a thin individual, all these adjustments are noticeable, particularly that I needed to change my clothing. I was only 30 years, it seemed absolutely much more like 10 years were included. I was constantly stressed that was visiting occur at the workplace as well as I wished to be the most effective. When I consider it, I do unknown recognize why I was such a nit-picker, because it was not needed, I placed my job first and also I could possibly not also have a dog. When I obtained house all I did was to proceed my job office, or talk with my boss on the phone regarding the next task, I could hardly sleep late during the night as well as in the early morning I was continuing my means to dullness. One day I made a decision to started taking the finest measures because it can not go like this for life. I wished to feel fresh and also glossy like in highschool Below I will certainly provide to you the reasons for which you're weary and the best ways to avoid them.

1. Exhausting job!

If you are battling with such a work, it is most ideal to speak to your boss about this, if you're tired you will not provide the very best outcomes and nobody would take advantage of it. When you are searching for a new task, search the net references concerning what the job entails. If you have an extreme employer( which prevails in many cases) discover one more task, I make sure there are others readily available. You do not be worthy of to benefit somebody that does not looks after his employees. Don' t stay to work overtime, in charge is always viewing you, your colleagues are very unsympathetic as well as the salary might be better. However if every one of this look familiar to you, you can absolutely undergo a depression in the office or struggle with work stress.

In 70% of the situations, individuals who experience from anxiety or work-related tension are those that occupy executive positions, where they just satisfy orders and also where they can not reveal their suggestions. As a whole, anxiety is inherited, yet it is additionally affected by sex, personality, social condition as well as a work that you do not such as will just make the scenario worse.

I reviewed a current research study that showed that women are 60% even more vulnerable to work-related stress than guys. Still, there is hope. You discuss an important time at your job if you recognize ways to inform on your own and also seek the suggestions of a medical professional, if you attempt to fix your troubles or if lastly you will give up that unfulfilling job.

2. You suffer from lack of iron!

Iron shortage leaves you tired, weak, cranky, without any power of concentration. You are a lot more worn out due to the fact that you are not appropriately oxygenated. By boosting the consumption of iron in the body, you will certainly reduce the risk of anemia setup. Eat light meat, black beans, eggs, eco-friendly vegetables with fallen leaves, nuts, peanut butter and also vitamin C( it aids fast absorption of iron in the body).

To identify if you have enough iron in the body do the following test:

Assess your physical state. One of the most vital sign of iron deficiency is the absence of muscle tone, typically arises on account of persistent fatigue. You fidget, you rest bad? These might be indications that must fret you.

Analyze your skin, hair, nails. The delicacy and breakable nails, hair loss, pale color of the skin and burning feeling of the tongue should place you on alert.

Check the schedule. Your menstruation move had minimized and leakage have ended up being much more bountiful? Usually, throughout menstrual cycle is usually lost concerning 30-50 ml of blood, or regarding 15-20 mg of iron. If hemorrhaging enhances its amount, then it will increase the quantity of iron lost too.

Revise your diet plan. Have you overstated as well as you totally surrendered meat? A lacto-vegetarian diet regimen does not provide iron reserves. And the needed amount of iron increase if your are putting on your own to high physical workouts.

Count the number of times you had an influenza. As well as remind on your own exactly what therapy you followed in those instances. Unrestrained use of medicines lower iron down payments. Sulfonamide as well as prescription antibiotics could cause anemia medicine. As well as repeated infections are an indication of low immunity, which could be responsible the exact same iron deficiency.

If you answered 'yes' to a lot of statements, it's time to elaborate an action strategy to make up for the shortage of iron.

3. Do not skip breakfast!

You always have the tendency to skip breakfast jun and go for your job! Pay attention to your diet regimen and also do not skip crucial meals, the lack of minerals and also vitamins will certainly make you tired the entire day.

The price you spend for that missing morning meal is quite high: I gained 10 extra pounds accumulated in a year, due to the fact that I missed breakfast. Below I will present to you exactly what I attempted to morning meal in one year period, mentioning that they are very easy to prepare( it took me somewhere to 10 minutes or much less for each):

A part of mineral and vitamin-rich fruits (banana, kiwi, orange, avocado, apple, grapefruit, berries, mandarin, pineapple, mango, etc.)

Raw vegetables: carrots, celery

Walnuts, almonds, cashews, semninţe flax, sunflower, chia, sesame, etc.

Oatmeal with yogurt

Scrambled eggs, tofu as well as vegetables

Lettuce, cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers as well as 50 grams of ham

One baked potato with yogurt

A banana and also a tbsp of peanut butter

A pita, hummus and vegetables

Cottage cheese as well as a part of fruit choice

A dish of prepared brownish rice plus a little honey, apple, cinnamon, raisins

A brown bread sandwich with barbequed meats or tuna plus

Soy milk/ whole almonds with multigrain

Peanut butter on apple slices

Almond butter on toast and fresh fruit

Whole grains and also low-fat cheese with strawberries

Bruschetta with tomatoes, mushrooms, tuna

Omelette with spinach, tofu with pesto

Different smoothie mixes, fruit or vegetables

Banana pancakes and egg whites

4. Stop working on vacation!

When you're on trip, you have to be on holiday. Leave messages and phone for benefit when you'll be in the workplace. Detach on your own from all the ways task and also unwind. That's why you leave holiday. To rest.

In general, an employee receives four weeks, approx 20 days of paid leave in a year. Their number could be raised according to the business plan as well as it takes place typically when working already for a long period of time for one company.

You can likewise take your leave without pay, which became incredibly popular recently, giving you the chance to take a trip for numerous months or taking pleasure in a prolonged holiday from which you come back loosened up and revived.

5. Do not drink alcohol before bed!

Alcohol is a resource of exhaustion so take care, yet most definitely not the exhaustion you require prior to bed. I understand you think that alcohol may generate somnolence, it functions flawlessly true, but the underlying problem is that during the night you will certainly wake up really frequently, you will really feel anxiety, migraines, sweating and you'll have headaches. If you consume alcohol in the evening, at the very least you need to weaken every glass of alcohol with some water to counteract the negative effects of alcohol. For a relaxed rest, I suggest you drink alcohol 4 to 6 hours before bedtime.

Even the wine is outlawed since, like other form of alcohol is metabolized rapidly in the system and will trigger you to awaken continuously during the night.

One study found that a glass of scotch or vodka in mix with a decaf juice before bed increased the moment women have actually invested awake throughout the night by approximately 15 minutes. Alcohol minimizes bedtime by 19 mins and also reduces its quality.

If you do not have adequate reasons to give up alcohol before bedtime, at least do it for your partner due to the fact that alcohol will worsen your snoring.

6. Do not consume drinks that contains caffeine!

Caffeine is a main nerve system energizer yet likewise to metabolic process as well as is used both for recreational as well as medical objectives to minimize fatigue and also recover mental awareness when drowsiness takes place. It generates raised arousal state( alert), a stream of clear and sharp thinking, boosted focus and also far better general body sychronisation. The quantity of caffeine essential to produce impacts differs from one person to another depending upon body dimension as well as level of resistance. The effects start in less compared to a hr after consumption and also a modest dose normally disappears in around 5 hours.

When you really feel drowsy, you feel so because of some floating molecules called adenosine in the brain. Adenosine binds to adenosine receptors on nerve cells, making it possible for slowing signaling function of your mind as well as generate a feeling that we call drowsiness. The focus of adenosine in our brain is the highest - which is a sort of energy money of the body - so it makes feeling to really feel exhausted after a complete day of work or a marathon.

Drinking large amounts of coffee, even more compared to 250 mg per day can lead to a problem known as caffeinism. Caffeinism generally integrates high levels of caffeine reliance with a broad array of undesirable physical and psychological states including irritation, anxiousness, sleeping disorders, restlessness, headaches and heart palpitations occurred all after caffeine.

7. You go to sleep late!

It seems easy, but yes, you have to get adequate rest and to rest early enough to not really feel tired the following day. If you discovered that really typically it is difficult for you to sleep, you could possibly attempt to take some measures: avoid coffee and alcohol a couple of hrs before going to bed, shut off the TV and maintain peace in the bed room. Optionally, you can utilize an eye mask as well as earplugs.

Going to bed at late hours can negatively influence cardiac rhythm as well as melatonin production - the hormonal agent that induces rest. The result is a bad high quality rest, which all influence the metabolic procedures in the body and, ultimately, cause numerous diseases.

In addition, shed nights will recoup tough and the effect on body problem is ruining. You could get to even chronic anxiety or conduct disorder in everyday relations, bouts of rage, social adjustment difficulties.

Going to bed at late hrs and also night shifts also minimize the body's all-natural protection capacity. Past everyday drowsiness, it is a lot simpler to mount conditions such as diabetes.

For an adult, 7-8 hrs of rest each evening would certainly be enough. Throughout this duration, only 20 minutes are in fact deep rest, when the brain is actually resting.

It is said that a person night shed for a teenager could be recouped in one more 3 of sufficient sleeping. And when it comes to an adult, a sleepless evening could be recouped in an additional 10.

8. Foods that you must stay clear of if you do not intend to look tired!

Do not forget your diet and also an adage is saying that you are just what you're consuming, so allow's think exactly what foods make you look weary:

Salt: Products high in salt dehydrates you, so they will certainly dry the skin as well as therefore, you will certainly look much more tired compared to normal. When cooking, add much less salt in food or decide for other flavorings as basil or oregano instead of salt.

Artificial sweetener: They state it's far better compared to sugar, however it is not real. Whenever you consume sugar or various other sweeteners, your skin will look worn out and bloated.

Fried foods: Whether you fry potatoes or veggie patties, they are all still fried as well as they will make you look as well as really feel weary regularly. Frying oil has undesirable fats that obstruct your arteries and kill cells faster compared to it should.

Doughnuts: Even if they look good as well as you have a food craving, avoid them. They are fried as well as full of sugar - they are not healthy for your health and wellness or for your exterior appearance.

Carbohydrates: No should stop carbs permanently, however the excess is dangerous because it impacts your skin collagen.

Red meat: If you eat red meat more than once a week, you could make premature wrinkles, some surveys says, due to the carnitine substance from the meat, which enhances blood vessel walls.

Avoid sausages: They teem with preservatives that can irritate your skin if you swallow way too many of such compounds. You must consume much less as well as ideally is to buy organic items made from genuine meat.

Spicy foods: The spiciness from pepper and also various other such flavors are excellent for metabolic rate, yet not for your skin. They can aggravate your skin as well as places could show up on the skin since the blood vessels dilated.

Sweets: Sugar is bad for any diet, yet it will just boost the insulin production to the top, followed by a sharp autumn, which will certainly make you feel very worn out and also will certainly pump up the bags created under the eyes. If you need to eat something wonderful, after that limit yourself to one bar or one package.

9. Physical activity!

Fatigue worsens if you treat it with inactivity, believing rest is sufficient. Also if you're not made use of to exercise, you can begin gradually with 10 minutes of sport in the home each day. With time, your physical endurance will certainly boost as well as you'll be able to develop to advanced workouts. You could decide for a 40-minute walk in the park, unless you choose to run.

10. Depression!

Depression is not a disease that only deals with a psychological level yet may even cause physical symptoms. The most common signs and symptoms are tiredness, migraines and loss of cravings. If you really feel exhausted for a number of weeks you will always have to go to a doctor.

Solution: Clinical depression could be treated with psychiatric therapy or medication.

11. Hypothyroidism!

The thyroid is a tiny gland situated at the base of the neck and also is developed to manage metabolism, ie the rate which aids the body transform the food we eat into energy. In situation this gland works as well slow, after that the whole body will have a postponed reaction, it is feasible even to put on weight. Any thyroid problem must be treated seriously after you have the recommendations of a doctor. You may experience symptoms like heavy sleepiness, nausea or vomiting, migraines, etc.

Solution: If blood tests validate that the thyroid works more slowly, you could make use of artificial hormones that will certainly boost your body's reaction speed. Synthetic hormones could change your body, so educate on your own concerning them prior to taking them, despite the fact that they are recommended by your doctor.

12. Diabetes

For individuals with diabetes mellitus, excess sugar continues to be saved in the bloodstream rather of being taken in by cells, which are created to transform it right into power. The outcome of this procedure contains a body that lacks energy, although it was fed properly. If you discover unusual feelings of tiredness often it is the case to consult with a medical professional in order to attain a blood sugar examination. Glycemia examinations are available at any type of pharmacy and also they are not painful.

Solution: Therapies for diabetic issues includes insulin-based therapy, way of life adjustments (diet regimen and sport), medicines implied to add to the procedure of adaptation of sugar. Diabetes is a disease that you could live with if you appreciate every little thing your doctor recommends you. My granny has diabetic issues given that she was 18, that's more than 60 years. She always has a well developed timetable for her meals and sleep. She doesn't crosses any lines and takes her tablets specifically as suggested. Occasionally she really feels exhausted, yet with a snooze or an excellent evening rest, all comes back to normal.

13. Cardiovascular diseases

In situation when exhaustion is available in while you are doing any kind of activity, such as cleaning up your home or treatment for the yard, it might be an indicator that your heart does not function as it should. If you say that it is increasingly difficult to head to an end a series of tasks that till that moment did not create an issue, seek advice from a cardiologist.

Solution: Modifications in way of living, medication, therapeutic treatments that could maintain control of your heart condition. Sport could be truly advantageous for your heart. I'm sure you heard that some had a cardiac arrest or something similar while running or doing something quite tiring. That is because their body did not endure that amount of exercise back then as well as likewise because they were not made use of to it. If you fear that one day this will take place to you also, after that you ought to begin exercising right away.

14. Food intolerance

There are physicians who believe that intolerance to specific foods could cause sleepiness. If you really feel exhausted, which magnifies after you dining, you could be dealing with a food intolerance.

Solution: Try to eliminate particular items from food to inspect whether you dislike them. You could additionally do a food intolerance examination. Some are simple to detect, by a basic examination. Others could be more challenging to find, however you can begin with lactose or gluten. Try eliminating those from your diet regimen and note exactly how are you really feeling after. Lactose intolerance can cause bloating, which could be really unpleasant during the night, which may result in a night shed. Gluten is a lot more sensitive one and kinda difficult to deal with, due to the lots of gluten items that are on the market, such a bread, patisserie, some sugary foods as well as also rice.