#pens over swords

[brahmaninandigam]

And when the bleeding stops, and the cuts get healed, the scars become a story of Bravery. Of how they've survived the cruelty of the Swords. 

So I decided. To pierce hearts with Words.  Wounds, invisible. Healing, Impossible!!

[genericpuff]

vent post

[inumbrapugnabimus-maybe]

here! Have a sketch of sun :D

[ink-the-artist]

Centaur

[always-a-joyful-note]

The thing about ORV that makes it so compelling is that they really took "the pen is mightier than the sword" seriously. Which is concerning because YJH kills a LOT of people with that sword and Han Sooyoung is the wielder of the pen....

[deleetrix]

Traitor!

[breitzbachbea]

Will my heart stop pounding?

The dark of the staircase, no light in the terraced house's corridor, all doors closed as he left them. Outside, he could hear Colin drive off.

"I'm sorry you have to do this," he had told him, embarassed, as he sat on the backseat. "You have better things to do."

"Oh, it's no bother," he had told him, Antrim accent thick. "I'll gladly keep you safe."

Keep him safe while he fooled around. Aye, that's all this was. Fooling around. Feeling alive. Make the seconds left on this earth actually precious.

It was burnt into his mind, Michele lascivous among the sheets, on his side, so deliberately covering his lower half while he showed off his chest. Sweaty and ruffled from their frotting, shifting, bodies never close enough to satisfy the ache.

A shudder ran through him. Thank God, Soph was in Armagh.

"I'm going to be cold here," Michele said. "Wither like the trees outside."

"It's not September yet," Harry had replied while he buckled his belt.

Only the rustle of sheets. "I am gonna miss you."

"Only for a few hours," Harry found himself reassuring what had to be described as his lover.

"Already too much. I'll lie here in the morning and still remember your body next to me, only to find a cold and empty spot." All said in a tone that did not betray true, deep sadness. All a ploy to get him out of his clothes again and under the covers. A Siren call.

"I don't want to cause trouble, that's all, Michele." He did walk over to the bed again, crawled onto it to kiss the man. And by god, what a kiss, what a sweet experience to have the other linger on his lips, suck in the bottom one, taste him with the tip of his tongue and oh so gently release him. "Your hotel's too fancy for that."

Michele made a sound of disbelief at that, something between a purr and a tut as he ran his fingers through Harry's hair, oh so slowly and deliberate. "You don't care for trouble to get what you want, Signor O'Connel."

"Aye, I do a bit," he lied. "I've also got other stuff to do tomorrow before our meeting. You know that, Darling."

"I do." Michele breathed against his lips, Harry's heart pounded in his ears. But Michele only sighed and Harry swallowed, able to rip himself away. Only then Michele said: "One last kiss goodnight, per piacere, carinu."

Could not deny him that. Of course not. Head tilted, their lips matched perfectly, as he pushed his tongue into Michele's mouth to let it linger, let it flick against the other's, let it be some all too temporary unity.

Finally off the bed and almost at the door, he heard: "Buonanotte, Beddu. Sogni d'Oro. Dream of me."

Harry was weak in his knees as he leant against his front door, eyelashes fluttering and heart hammering worse against his ribcage than a rival during a Hurling match.

Michele huddled into the sheets, the dull golden eyes half-open, deep and perfectly tanned skin glowing against the white sheets. The curve of his body underneath them, outline of flesh and bone, soft skin, a beautiful soft, giving, round arse, those supple thighs, the waist he just wanted to lay hands on --

He sucked in air through his nose and tried to ground himself, deep and irregular breaths through his mouth. God, when was the last time he'd been so alive? The last time someone had been so burnt into his mind's eye? Hannah, perhaps, but he had not once allowed himself to indulge in that. Forbidden, wrong, pointless it had felt.

He stumbled up the stairs and clung to the railing. Doing shit, his hole. He hoped he would catch any sleep at all, his bed so empty and cold. It was the end of August.

[kiss-anon]

Life update/why crocheted plush clone pictures have temporarily stopped for a while.

For anyone that doesn’t know, back in November my family had a sudden loss of my uncle and now I’m helping my dad with emptying, fixing, cleaning, and going through the house he lived in, which my grandparents lived in for many years before they also passed not so long ago. The house needs a lot of work, I can’t even begin to describe it. We put in a lot of work up until late January/February then had to stop for various reasons. I had some time for myself, so I made the plush clones.

Now, we’re back to working on the house. It’s… overwhelming to say the least. Every room and even the yard is also very overwhelming on their own. Think along the lines if neglected hoarder house with multiples of big furniture items. The majority of the work is up to me and my dad. Also, for anyone that doesn’t know, I compete in a weightlifting sport, and I have a competition next month that I’m trying to train for at the same time.

So I will unfortunately not be able to make many more plush clones and take pictures of them consistently. I’ll do my best to post some, I enjoy making things for them and sharing that with you all! I shall be lurking, though!

Thanks for reading this far!

Pen and Sword, my dears!

Love,

💋 anon

[hearty-an0n]

card spread for the game: page of swords, knight of pentacles, nine of cups (reversed)

[betrayingcrown]

/ the barnabas brainrot is real and its so so bad

[modawg]

guys i know we all talk abt how sally would react to percy’s tattoo but like

what abt his scars from tartarus😟

like could you imagine the last time you see your son yk he’s got some cuts and scars but he doesn’t wear a shirt when he’s swimming maybe he wears a muscle tee on occasion maybe sometimes on hot summer days when the AC doesn’t work he doesn’t really wear a shirt at all bc he’s at home with his family and he’s a teenager who gives af

then he’s gone for like 7ish months and when he gets back suddenly everything’s different he’s always covered up never really wanting to show off and you don’t really understand until he’s sleeping on the couch and his shirts a little disheveled so you walk over to fix him up and put a blanket on him and maybe take a pic bc that’s your son and you notice smth pinky and puffy on his skin so you lift it up a little further and he has claw marks stab marks deep cuts everywhere

up until this point you leave everything up to him what he wants to tell you when he wants to tell you or even if he ever will tell you

he wakes up screaming having trouble breathing he sobs into your arms when you go to his room and even when he falls asleep at the dining room table while attempting to study he wakes up holding the closest pen to him like a sword

7 months of his life blipped away and this is how he comes back :( like that’s so sad

added angst

[nosyrobin]

IMAGINE (baby al ghul-Wayne twins)

Damian is in his play pen, having a you sword mean while you are in your own play pen. Damian is actually on punishment, his punishment? Being away from you. Damian looks through the fences of his play pin, getting angry with a huff as he sees you frowning. Dick was out doing his day shift at the police station, Jason was in the library of the manor meanwhile Tim was watching the two trouble makers. Tim starts to notice Damian getting fussy with a red face of angry on his brown skin. You noticed too as you babbled the words “baba…” that’s when Damian snapped and started to scream. Scream and scream. Alerting the tired boy who got up quick to calm down the small boy who seemed to slap Tim’s face.

100% attack, 0% damage mostly as Tim just sighed. You started to cry as well, not liking the loud sounds of your twin crying. Damian cried louder at your cries. He started to kick his feet in his onesie, Tim wanted to coo the boy to sleep. But it wouldn’t work. So Tim had to put him beside you.

Immediately Damian stopped crying, tear stains his chubby cheeks as he lays his head on your small lap. Huffing. You stop crying as well. Getting tired from crying yourself as you blink slowly. You lay down with your stuff toy as Damian just keeps his eyes wide. Staring at Tim, daring him to take him away from his twin.

Tim awkwardly calls Jason over for his turn to watch the double trouble. Tired of feeling the baby’s glare on him as you sleep peacefully.

[blindmagdalena]

Night Terrors

1.6k homelander x reader. established relationship. pure comfort fic. remaster of this old prompt. very mild spoilers for s4 if you squint. mostly just wanted to self-soothe with some comfort/cuddle fic. gif credit.

It's been decades since Homelander last stepped foot in The Bad Room, but when he wakes from a nightmare of it in your shared bed, it's as if he never left.

Most of the nights you spend with Homelander are peaceful. 

Tonight is not most nights.

The scream that wakes you from a dead sleep is guttural, barely human. Homelander is sitting upright, frenzied and wild-eyed, the ocean blue of them obscured by crimson glow. You're not even sure that he sees you through it when he looks at you. He's panting like he just ran a marathon, and the comforter is ripped cleanly in half, the two sides strewn on either side of him. "John," you call softly, reaching out to touch his arm, but he jerks away from your hand like you've burned him. "Don't fucking touch me," he hisses, wrapping his arms around himself. Sometimes he is small during these fits, curled in on himself, begging you to make it stop. Not tonight. Tonight he is another self, spitting rage and violence through remembered agony. A cornered animal. "I'll fucking kill you!" "John," you say again, pleading. You know he isn't talking to you. He's speaking to the ghosts of his past. "You're in our bed. You're with me. I would never hurt you. I love you, John." His name is a double-edged sword. It cuts clean through to something at the core of him in a way that “Homelander” doesn’t. Each use of it acts like a shock to his irregulated system.

You keep your hands outstretched, but you don't touch him. You show him that you aren't holding anything. Not a pen, not a notepad, not a needle. You show that you don't mean him any harm. 

God knows he's suffered enough. With the sound of your voice, the red glow of his eyes gradually dims, flickers, and then finally it goes out entirely. He's still panting, hands moving slowly down his arms, his torso, checking himself for injury. Though his body bears no scars of the pain he’s endured, his mind knows exactly where each one of them would be. Bit by bit, you watch him come back to himself. He looks around the room, taking in the evidence of your truth. Framed photos, décor, the life you’ve built together. It isn't a concrete dungeon. It isn’t a lab. It isn’t an incinerator. It's home. "Fuck," he says quietly, hiccupping the word into his palm. He says it again, louder, screwing his glassy eyes shut. The third time he says it, it's nearly a sob. It’s agony to wait, but you don’t touch him before he’s ready. You fist the bedsheets, you don’t stop talking. I’m here. I’m right here. I love you. You’re safe. You’re not sure if it’s minutes or seconds before he reaches for you. All you know is you act immediately. You move swiftly up on your knees, climbing over the ruined blankets to take him into your arms, pulling his head to rest against your chest, bringing his ear close to the beat of your heart. You hush him while you work to unstick the words from your throat, unable to help the tears that well in your eyes.

The fear and misery in him is so palpable, you nearly feel as if it’s your own. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, pulling you to sit sideways in his lap as he weeps against you. It's taken a long time to reach this point. He used to swallow it back like bile, adamant for the longest time that you not see this side of him, this aspect of himself that he thinks ugly, imperfect, broken. You fought for this. As you hold him through these bone-deep sobs, it shatters you that it's taken him this long for him to find someone who would. "You're safe," you whisper, battling to keep the tears from your voice. "You're home. You're with me. You're safe. I love you so, so much." He rocks back and forth, choking on his sobs. “I could feel it,” he tells you, the words barely escaping the clench of his teeth. “It hurt. Every second of it, and they just–they all just watched.”

You close your eyes, tears rolling down your cheeks and disappearing into the softness of his hair. You kiss the crown of his head again and again, combing your fingers through his hair where it’s damp with sweat and your own tears. “You’re safe now,” you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. It isn’t enough, but these words and touches are all you have to offer him against the torment of his childhood.

His grip on you tightens. It wouldn’t take much for him to snap you in half.

That scare you? He’d asked you once. How easily I could break you?”

No, you admitted. It makes me appreciate how hard you try not to. It takes time for his breathing to even out. His hold softens, but he doesn't relinquish you. For as terrible as the nightmares are, it's the shame he experiences in the aftermath that often requires the most care. 

You rub firm circles on his back with one hand while cradling the back of his head with the other, trailing butterfly kisses along his temple, his forehead, down to his cheek. Any part of him you can reach, you kiss, murmuring quiet assurances in between, as if to imbue him with each word. Eventually, the rocking stops. He's breathing more steadily now, arms encircled firmly around your waist. He gives a shaking sigh. "Sorry," he whispers, voice strained. That's a word in his vocabulary that rarely comes up, but when it does, it is always drenched in shame. He hates himself for this. "Don't," you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair. You sniff back your tears, letting out a breath. "I asked for this. I begged you for this," you emphasize, earnest. You cup his face, angling him to look up at you. "Let me do this for you. Please. You have nothing to be ashamed of." He stares at you with large, watery blue eyes. The whites are red, strained by the force of his grief, his durability tested only by his own power. In his gaze you see damage done to him that may never heal, but your words settle over invisible scars like a soothing balm. It’s that very look of vulnerability that has driven you to this depth of love. You know his violence, his viciousness, but so too do you know the fragile man it protects.

Most of all, the scared boy beneath it all.

His grip on you flexes, his jaw clenched. The nature of your insight into him is both a blessing and a curse to him. He cannot hide from you. You know his shame, and despite how deeply he needs your compassion, your understanding, it’s something he has to bleed for every time. He’s perpetually torn between his desperation to be your perfect hero, and his soul-deep yearning to be safely vulnerable. 

If you have to, you'll spend the rest of your life convincing him that he can have both.

Finally, his shoulders sag. "I love you," he says, quietly defeated by your warmth. "I'll never hurt you. Ever." You recognize the plea in his words. He's terrified that someday it will be too much. You’ll see what everyone else sees, and your love will be tainted–destroyed–by your inevitable fear of him. You hope one day that he’ll understand why that will never happen. Someday the depths of your love will soak in as deep as the misery of his past, and he’ll be able to forgive himself for the human way his god’s heart bleeds. "I know. I know that.” You kiss the top of his head, still rubbing his back, taking your hand away only to swipe the tears from your face. “I love you, too. Every part of you."

Even the parts you hate. Gingerly, he lifts you just enough to lay you back down on the bed. He wastes no time cuddling back in against you, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. The bedding is ruined, but he runs warm enough that you hardly notice the absence of cover while he’s holding you. Your legs tangle with his, bodies slotting together easily. He nuzzles as if he can worm his way closer than skin to skin. If you could, you’d open your ribcage to welcome him inside. He could eat your heart if it kept his beating another day.

"Will you... talk me to sleep?" He asks, threads of shame lingering in the request. The tension has drained away, leaving him vulnerable and exhausted. His blinks are slow, the curve of his lips mournful. "Of course," you whisper, smoothing your hand up and down his back. This isn’t the first time you’ve talked him back to sleep, and you doubt it’ll be the last. Sometimes you tell him the plot of a book as best you can recall, other times it's random anecdotes from your life. Sometimes it's complete nonsense. To him, it doesn't matter what you say. All that matters is that when he does finally drift back into sleep, it's your voice that safeguards him there. 

Gladly, he rests his head back down on your chest, closing his eyes with a rumbling sigh while your nails drag along his scalp. You cradle him there, savoring the warmth of him as it seeps into the marrow of your bones, the weight of him grounding you.

You tell him stories until sleep finds him. Even then, you continue to speak until your voice frays and you can no longer keep your eyes open. You speak and speak and speak hoping that somehow, in some small way, you can help make up for the years he spent with only his own voice for comfort.

[marinetteplztakeabreak]

> Okay but what’s the point of the fun glitter pen if Tomoe can’t even read it 💀 gotta make that note out in braille

@frizzielizzy

Didnt clarify this before but the note isn’t even for tomoe’s benefit it’s for The Public so they know there’s A Warrant… ladybug is just high key blackmailing tomoe on main but its fine because paris is a totalitarian state run by an absolute monarch (mayor) and bustier is like “yeah ladybug’s right you should treat your kids with love and respect” so the police arent allowed to stop her. I love ml

Now that Félix is on Team Miraculous and has the Official endorsement of Ladybug, what if he just, got a warrant from her or whatever. Idk if that’s the right word. But like. What if he showed up at Mme. Tsurugi’s front door in full Argos gear in broad daylight and was like “hello, I’m here to pick Kagami up for a silly little school theater date! Off to paint some sets and be goofy and fun!” And if Tomoe tried to be like “no get away you villain, you bad influence” he could be like “actually i have a permit” and it’s a note in glitter pen that’s like “Kagami is allowed to have fun and kiss her weird little peafowl boyfriend whenever she wants to. Also we can easily implicate you with hawkmoth’s crimes we have plenty of evidence we’re just holding it back out of hope you’ll be nicer. do not test us. i will know if you say anything mean to kagami i have eyes everywhere you had better treat her like she’s precious Or Else. look what happened when gabe mistreated adrien. XOXO ladybug” and then like a string of hearts in various glitter pens. I think that would be worse torture for tomoe than simply putting her in jail. And it would be fun. For me

[solxamber]

Still Into You || Leona Kingscholar

You return to your old town, only to cross paths with Leona Kingscholar—the one who got away and the one you never stopped loving. Perhaps this time, fate is offering a second chance to make things right.

or: Exes to Lovers with Leona

The bar is too loud, the kind of loud that gets under your skin and stays there. Clinking glasses, half-shouted laughter, and the heavy bass of music that thuds in your chest like a second heartbeat. You should’ve skipped this reunion.

Nostalgia, as it turns out, is a double-edged sword. The city hasn’t changed much—same old streets, same old haunts—but coming back feels like running your fingers over a scar you thought had healed. It doesn’t hurt exactly, but the sting is there, raw at the edges.

Your drink sits untouched on the counter, condensation pooling around the base. You’re too lost in the ache of everything that made you leave this place—memories you’ve tried to bury—to even pretend you’re having fun. Someone’s laughing behind you, their voice loud and grating, and you turn your head just to escape it.

And that’s when you see him.

Leona Kingscholar.

Your chest tightens, and you feel the floor drop out from under you. He’s sitting across the room, one hand cradling a glass of amber liquid, the other resting casually on the bar. The years haven’t dulled him one bit. His hair is shorter than you remember, his frame broader, his face still sharp enough to cut. And his expression—it’s the same damn unreadable expression that once made you fall so hard it left you shattered.

You almost don’t believe it’s him, but then his eyes flicker up, and they meet yours.

The breath leaves your lungs in a rush, and suddenly, it’s too much. The room feels suffocating, the walls closing in, and you’re choking on everything you thought you’d moved past. The heartbreak, the love that never really left, the ghost of the 20-year-old who walked away from him and spent years regretting it.

His brow furrows as recognition flashes across his face. And something else—something softer, something that tugs at the edges of your chest like a half-forgotten melody. You don’t stay to find out what it is.

You bolt.

Your feet carry you out before your mind catches up, the cool night air slapping against your face as you push the door open. The noise fades behind you, but the ache doesn’t. You lean against the wall of the building, gripping your arms as you try to steady your breathing.

The door creaks open again, and you already know it’s him before you look up.

“Still running, huh?” His voice is low, familiar in a way that cuts through you like glass.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Leona doesn’t push. He steps closer, slow and measured, like he’s approaching a frightened animal. His eyes flicker over you, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands are clenched into fists. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pen and a folded napkin, and scribbles something down.

He holds it out to you.

“Here,” he says simply. His tone is calm, but there’s something weighty beneath it. “Call me when you’re ready to talk.”

You stare at the napkin, your heart pounding in your ears.

And then he walks away.

You watch him go, his back retreating into the night, and it hits you like a freight train: this is exactly how it felt the first time. Watching him leave, knowing you let him go, and hating yourself for it.

Your fingers tremble as they close around the napkin. His number is scrawled there in bold, unmistakable strokes.

You don’t move for a long time.

You don’t even remember dialing the number, only the week of stewing, pacing, and overthinking. By the time his familiar voice comes through the line with a simple, “Hey,” it’s already too late to hang up.

The call is brief, neither of you saying much beyond agreeing to meet at a café. It’s somewhere neutral, safer than a bar or anywhere too familiar. Somewhere with enough noise to fill in the silences you know will come.

When you walk in, he’s already there, lounging in his chair like he owns the place. Leona looks good—too good, damn him. His sharp features are just as you remember, though there’s a little more wisdom, a little more weight, in the way he carries himself. He glances up when he sees you and smirks, the kind of smirk that used to make your heart race.

“Still drinkin’ that sugary monstrosity?” he asks instead of saying hello. His voice is low and warm, but there’s an edge of amusement there.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Still judging people’s taste in drinks?”

He doesn’t reply, just gets up and goes to the counter. When he comes back, he’s carrying a mug of something steaming and a plate with a pastry you haven’t had in years. You blink as he sets it down in front of you, the scent of sugar and nostalgia filling your senses.

“You didn’t,” you murmur, staring at the drink.

“Didn’t forget,” he says casually, like it doesn’t cost him anything to remember the exact cocktail of syrups, cream, and espresso that kept you alive through your 2 a.m. study sessions.

You take a sip and instantly regret it—not because it’s bad, but because it tastes exactly like the past. Sweet, comforting, and entirely too much for you to handle right now. You set it down carefully, avoiding his gaze.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

He leans back in his chair, watching you with a calculating look that feels far too intimate. “Still like the same pastry too, huh?”

It burns, the way he knows you like this. It’s like roleplay, like the two of you are pretending to be the people you were before—young, dumb, and in love. But the heart wants what it wants, and yours wants to pretend this doesn’t hurt, so you smile and let him pull you back into that version of yourself for a little while.

You catch up. He tells you about his high-ranking position in a mining and energy facility, speaking with a mix of pride and boredom that’s so uniquely Leona. You tell him about the job you'd just left, a high-paying one far, far away from here—far from him. But you don't say that part out loud.

Despite the easy conversation, the weight of everything unsaid hangs between you like a ghost. Neither of you mentions the breakup, the years apart, or the ache that lingers just beneath the surface.

As the afternoon stretches on, he leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “You wanna do this again sometime?”

His voice is casual, but his eyes aren’t. They’re too focused, too sharp, like he’s trying to gauge your reaction.

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

When he walks you to your door, there’s a beat of awkwardness before you go in for a hug. It’s meant to be brief, but before you can let go, he tightens his arms around you. It’s quick but fierce, like he’s afraid to lose you again. The desperation in it makes your breath hitch, but you don’t question it.

“Bye, Leona,” you say softly, pulling away.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches you disappear inside.

From his point of view, the night is still. He stands on the sidewalk for a long time, hands clenched at his sides, heart aching in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

You’re everything he let slip through his fingers when he was too young and reckless to know better. It didn’t take him long after you left to realize that no one compared—no one could. Every smile, every laugh, every fleeting connection after you felt like a cheap imitation of the real thing.

But now you’re back, and he’s not about to let history repeat itself. Not this time.

Leona calls late in the afternoon, his voice calm and casual as always, but there’s something softer there, like he’s testing the waters. “There’s a carnival in town,” he says. “Thought you might wanna go.”

You freeze, memories rushing back all at once—your younger self, begging him to go with you, wearing him down with your relentless excitement until he had reluctantly agreed. That day had been filled with laughter, teasing, and stolen kisses under the glowing lights, back when you thought you’d have forever with him.

The ache of the past threatens to choke you, but you manage to say, “Yeah. Sure.”

When you meet him at the gates, the air is filled with the familiar scents of fried food and spun sugar, bright lights flickering against the deepening twilight. But this time, it’s different. You’re not dragging him from booth to booth like an overexcited raccoon. The two of you walk side by side, hands brushing occasionally but never quite holding.

You catch glimpses of the past in the present: the way Leona’s lips twitch into the faintest smirk when he sees you eyeing a food stall, the way he steps closer when the crowd gets thicker, shielding you without a word.

Then you reach the prize booth. Leona steps up, picks a game at random, and after a few tries, he tosses a ring perfectly onto the bottle neck. The booth attendant hands him the prize—a hideous stuffed cat with a crooked face and mismatched eyes.

It’s the exact same one he’d won for you back in college, the one you’d carried around all day and stubbornly refused to throw away even after the breakup.

“Seriously?” you manage to say, your voice wobbling as you try to laugh it off. “You had to pick that one?”

He shrugs, a small, knowing grin on his face as he hands it to you. “Figured you still liked ugly cats.”

You clutch the toy to your chest, scrambling to keep yourself together, but the lump in your throat won’t go away. He doesn’t say anything, just lets you gather yourself before moving on to the next thing.

By the time you reach the Ferris wheel, the sun is sinking below the horizon, painting the sky in swirls of orange and pink. The ride attendant seats you in a small, creaky gondola, and the two of you begin your slow ascent.

You look out at the glittering carnival below, but it’s impossible to ignore the weight of where you are—this is where he had asked you to be his, forever, years ago, with that same quiet determination that had always drawn you to him.

Leona leans back, his eyes on the horizon but his words aimed at you. “Y’know,” he starts, his voice low and steady, “I messed up before. Let you go when I shouldn’t have.” He pauses, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee. “But if you’re willing… I wanna try again.”

You turn to look at him, his usual confidence tempered by something raw and vulnerable. Despite all the heartache, all the time apart, you know the truth—you’ve never stopped loving him.

Your voice shakes as you answer, “Okay.”

His lips quirk into a faint smile, and he shifts slightly, just enough for you to lean against his shoulder. The two of you sit like that, watching the sun dip below the horizon, as the Ferris wheel creaks and carries you back down to earth—together, this time.

Leona calls in the morning, his tone gruff but apologetic. “Can’t make it today. Got some work stuff I can’t blow off.”

You’re not upset. Not really. It’s nice, in a way, seeing him so dedicated to something. Back in college, he’d been brilliant but uninterested, letting his talent simmer under a blanket of apathy. This new version of him, the one who actually cared about what he was building, made you proud—even if it meant canceling plans.

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “Do what you need to do. We’ll hang out another time.”

You’ve already arrived at the park, though, and there’s no point in lingering. As you turn to leave, a familiar voice calls out behind you.

“Hey! Long time no see!”

You spin around and find Ruggie jogging up to you, a grin plastered across his face. He’s taller now, more put-together, but there’s still that mischievous twinkle in his eyes that makes you smile instantly.

“Ruggie!” you exclaim. “You look good!”

“Not too bad yourself,” he replies, sticking his hands into his jacket pockets. “What’re you doing here all by yourself?”

You explain your canceled plans, and he nods knowingly. “Yeah, the boss has been crazy busy lately. I see it up close now—started working at the same place as him.”

“You work with Leona?” you ask, surprised but happy for him.

“Yup,” Ruggie says, puffing his chest out a little. “Climbing the ladder, bit by bit. Somebody’s gotta keep him in line when he’s slacking off, y’know?”

The conversation shifts to catching up on each other’s lives, and soon enough, the topic drifts back to college.

“Y’know,” Ruggie begins, leaning against a nearby tree, “when you left… it hit him harder than he let on. Took him a while to admit he screwed up, but by the time he wanted to fix things, you’d already transferred out. Guy was gutted.”

You glance down, your fingers brushing the hem of your coat. “I didn’t know,” you admit quietly. “I thought… I thought it didn’t matter to him.”

Ruggie shakes his head. “Nah, it mattered. He just doesn’t talk about that stuff, y’know? Too much pride or whatever. But hey, you’re here now. And trying again, right?”

You nod. “Yeah. We’re giving it another shot.”

He grins, sharp and amused, and starts laughing.

“What’s so funny?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah, it’s just—Jack’s gonna owe me big time,” Ruggie explains, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “I made a bet with him back in college. Told him you two’d get back together within ten years. He said no way.”

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “You’re terrible.”

“Hey, I call it entrepreneurial instinct,” he says with a wink. “And what can I say? I know the two of you too well.”

The lightheartedness eases something in your chest, and you’re reminded that even in the midst of all the uncertainty, there’s a piece of your past that feels warm and familiar.

The doorbell rings, and when you open it, you freeze.

Leona stands on your doorstep, sharp as a blade in a perfectly tailored suit, a bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hand. His usual lazy smirk is in place, but there’s a softness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter.

“Well?” he drawls. “You just gonna stare, or can I come in?”

“Who are you, and what did you do with Leona?” you tease, leaning against the doorframe with a grin.

His ears twitch, and he scowls lightly, though the flush creeping up his neck betrays him. “Tch. You’re lucky I don’t just turn around and leave.”

“Not in those shoes, you’re not,” you quip, eyeing the polished leather. “Come on, you’d ruin them.”

He clicks his tongue, but his lips twitch like he’s holding back a smile. Handing you the bouquet, he steps back to let you admire them. “Hurry up. We’ve got reservations.”

Your teasing dies in your throat for a moment as you take in the effort he’s gone to, and you meet his gaze with a warmth you can’t hide. “Thanks, Leona. You look good.”

“‘Course I do,” he says, but the faint flush on his cheeks gives him away as he glances to the side.

Dinner is perfect—an upscale restaurant with just the right amount of ambiance, and Leona surprises you by actually making conversation instead of just grumbling through the meal. He asks about your work, your plans, and even shares a few stories about his own day.

By the time you’re back at your place, you’re both too full and too comfortable to let the night end.

“Wanna come in?” you ask casually, though your heart thumps a little harder in your chest.

He gives you a knowing look, smirking slightly. “If you’re offering.”

Inside, the two of you end up sprawled on the couch, a movie playing in the background. Somewhere between the second and third act, the weight of the day catches up with you both. You drift off, his arm around your shoulders and his head tilted against yours.

When you wake up, the sunlight is just beginning to stream through the curtains, and you realize you’ve shifted sometime in the night. You’re lying on the couch, and Leona’s face is buried against your neck, his arm draped possessively over your waist.

It’s so familiar, so natural, that it brings a lump to your throat. But this time, the memories aren’t tinged with pain. You feel whole, like this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

Leona stirs, his nose brushing against your collarbone as he blinks awake. His voice is gruff with sleep as he grumbles, “Why’re you smiling? It’s ass-crack morning.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, warm and genuine. “No reason,” you say softly, turning to hug him tighter.

“Tch. You’re weird,” he mutters, but his arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a barely-there kiss to your shoulder before settling back down.

You close your eyes, memorizing the feeling of his warmth, his steady breaths, and the quiet contentment of this moment. For the first time in a long time, everything feels right.

The rescheduled park date feels like a quiet celebration of trying again, an unspoken promise that you’re both willing to make things work this time. The air is crisp, the sunlight dappling through the leaves, and you walk side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing.

For a while, it’s easy—light conversation about work, the occasional tease, the kind of soft ease you’ve started to rediscover with him. But then, as you pass by the fountain, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a couple arguing nearby.

One of them is crying, their voice sharp, accusing. The other is defensive, frustration written all over their face. You avert your eyes, but the scene strikes something in you. You glance at Leona and see it on his face too—the way his jaw tightens, his hands flex at his sides.

It brings you back, sharp and fast, to the way it all unraveled the first time.

You both stop walking, and for a moment, there’s just the distant murmur of water and the occasional birdsong. Then Leona sighs, low and heavy, and leans against the railing by the fountain.

“Y’know,” he starts, his voice quieter than usual, “we should probably talk about… back then.”

You swallow hard, following his lead and leaning beside him. “Yeah. I think we should.”

It all spills out, bit by bit, like picking at an old wound. You tell him how you were so bright-eyed, so hopeful back then, thinking love would solve everything. How you’d wanted a picture-perfect romance, the kind you saw in movies, with sweet words and grand gestures.

“And you weren’t that guy,” you say, not unkindly. “You were… real. Frustrated, angry, dealing with your own stuff. And I couldn’t see past my own expectations to meet you where you were.”

Leona’s quiet for a moment, staring out at the water. Then he says, “I wasn’t much better, y’know. Kept thinking you’d wake up one day and realize I wasn’t worth the trouble. That you’d see how much of a mess I was and bail. Guess I tried to beat you to the punch.”

His words make your chest ache, and you think back to that last fight, the one that broke everything.

“I remember,” you say softly. “I was so mad at you for pushing me away. I screamed that you didn’t love me, and… God, I didn’t even mean it. I just wanted you to fight for me.”

Leona lets out a bitter chuckle, his fingers gripping the railing. “And I didn’t. Thought walking away would hurt less than hearing you say it again.”

For a long moment, the two of you just stand there, the weight of old mistakes hanging between you.

“But we’re not those kids anymore,” you finally say, your voice firmer. “I’ve grown up. I know love isn’t perfect. It’s messy, and hard, and sometimes it hurts. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

Leona glances at you, his eyes softer than you’ve seen them in years. “Yeah, well… I’m not that idiot from back then either. Took me a while, but I figured out that… you loved me. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing his. “Let’s not make those mistakes again. Let’s just… talk. Be honest with each other. No more second-guessing.”

He nods, and when he takes your hand, his grip is warm and steady. “Deal. No running this time.”

You smile at him, small but genuine, and squeeze his hand. “Deal.”

And as you continue your walk, the sunlight seems a little brighter, the air a little lighter, as if the park itself knows you’ve turned a corner.

The café feels warm and familiar, a comforting mix of nostalgia and new beginnings. You’re seated at a round table with some of the faces you once knew so well—Rook, Vil, Trey, and Riddle. It’s strange how time has shifted them all, smoothing out edges while deepening others.

Rook, ever the enigma, waves off your questions about his career with a dazzling grin and a cryptic, “Ah, ma chérie, some mysteries are best left unsolved.” You decide to let it go when he winks at you dramatically and leans back like he’s some international spy.

Vil, unsurprisingly, radiates effortless elegance as he sips his tea. His sharp cheekbones and tailored outfit scream superstar, and he gives you a small, knowing smile when you tell him how much you’ve admired his recent work. “Well, darling, excellence demands attention. But enough about me,” he says, leaning forward with an almost imperceptible softness in his gaze. “How have you been holding up?”

Trey sits beside him, calm and grounded as always. There’s a faint dusting of flour on his sleeve, a reminder of his time spent in the family bakery. He listens with a small, contented smile as you catch up, occasionally chiming in with a joke or a warm anecdote.

Riddle looks startlingly different from the college version you knew. There’s still the meticulous sharpness in his posture, but his eyes are softer, his tone more relaxed. You’d heard he became a lawyer, and from the quiet pride in his voice when he talks about his recent cases, you can tell he’s damn good at it.

When the conversation inevitably shifts to you and Leona, you hesitate. The table goes quiet, and four pairs of eyes—each sharp in their own way—lock onto you.

“Well,” you say, fiddling with your cup. “We’re… trying again.”

Rook’s smile falters for just a second before he leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. “Ah, l’amour fou. It is a brave and treacherous thing, non? I wish you all the happiness in the world, but…” He hesitates, and for once, his voice lacks its usual poetic flourish. “Take care, my dear. You burned so brightly back then, and we all saw how hard the fall was.”

Vil’s expression tightens slightly, his fingers curling around his cup. “He has a lot to prove this time,” he says, his tone measured. “But if anyone can keep him in line, it’s you.”

Trey hums, glancing at Riddle. “If he messes up again, we’ve got backup now. Riddle can prosecute him for emotional damages.”

Riddle adjusts his tie, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

The laughter that ripples through the group is lighthearted, but the underlying support is tangible, almost overwhelming.

You feel a knot in your chest loosen as you look around the table. They care, even after all this time. Despite their reservations, they trust you to know what’s best for yourself.

And in that moment, surrounded by old friends who’ve grown and changed but still remain the same at their core, you feel a piece of yourself you thought was lost slowly start to return.

The afternoon sun filters lazily through the windows of Leona’s home, casting a warm glow across the room. You’re perched on the couch, cross-legged, scrolling through your phone and occasionally showing Leona something ridiculous. He’s sprawled out beside you, one arm draped along the back of the couch, the other resting on his chest as he listens to your laughter.

“Look at this,” you say, grinning as you hold your phone up to him. “Who even comes up with these memes?”

Leona leans in, his sharp eyes skimming the screen before letting out a low, amused snort. “Idiots, clearly,” he says, but there’s a faint curve to his lips that gives him away.

Your laughter rings out again, light and unrestrained, and Leona watches you. Watches the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, the way you throw your head back, carefree and radiant.

It hits him all at once.

He can’t lose this again. Can’t lose you again.

The thought burns in his chest, threatening to choke him, until he blurts out: “Be mine again.”

Your laughter fades as you turn to him, surprised. “What?”

He sits up, his gaze steady but his ears twitching slightly. “I’m serious,” he says, voice low but firm. “I messed it up before, but I’m not gonna do that again. You’ve always been it for me. So… be mine. For real this time.”

For a moment, you’re silent, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. His expression is raw, his usual confidence stripped away to reveal something vulnerable and achingly sincere.

You nod, your voice soft but sure. “Okay. Yes.”

The tension in his shoulders melts as relief washes over him. A slow, almost disbelieving smile spreads across his face, and he reaches for you, pulling you into his arms.

“‘Bout time,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in his tone. Just a quiet, overwhelming joy that he doesn’t bother hiding.

You laugh, your face pressed against his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he says, resting his chin on top of your head. “But you said yes, so who’s the real fool here?”

You smack his arm lightly, but your grin betrays you. As his arms tighten around you, you can’t help but think that this—this warmth, this love—is exactly where you’re meant to be.

The familiar sound of your shared front door closing behind you feels like the exhale of a long day. You kick off your shoes, dropping your bag onto the entryway table, and glance back to see Leona loosening his tie with a tired smirk.

“Finally home,” he mutters, stepping over to pull you into a soft, lingering kiss.

You smile against his lips. “Long day?”

“Always,” he replies, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Go shower. I’ll figure out dinner.”

“You spoil me,” you tease, heading toward the bathroom.

His chuckle follows you down the hall. “Damn right I do.”

By the time you emerge, refreshed and in comfier clothes, the scent of takeout wafts through the house. You find Leona at the dining table, the food already unpacked and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He looks up as you sit down and slides your favorite dish toward you without a word, but the small grin on his face says it all.

“So, how was your day?” you ask, taking a bite.

He leans back in his chair, his gaze softening as he recounts his work. “Not bad. Ruggie’s really stepping up these days—caught something even I missed during a proposal meeting. I’ve gotta admit, the guy’s making himself indispensable.”

You laugh. “Ruggie’s always been sharp. I’m sure he’s just waiting for the right moment to ask for a raise.”

Leona snorts. “He’s already hinting at it. Not subtle at all.”

“And what about you?” he asks, watching you with quiet interest.

You shrug, grinning. “Same old. Meetings, deadlines, and trying to convince my coworker that microwaving fish in the breakroom is a crime against humanity.”

He raises a brow. “Still working with amateurs, huh?”

“Always.”

The conversation meanders to weekend plans, and you both agree to invite your friends out for dinner. You bring up Riddle’s work stress, Vil’s latest award, and Trey’s new dessert line, while Leona adds in snippets about Ruggie and Jack, his voice tinged with fondness he doesn’t bother to hide anymore.

Later, as the night stretches on, the two of you settle into bed. The familiar warmth of his arm around your waist pulls you closer, his head resting against yours.

You sigh, content. “Coming back here, to you, was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then his lips brush against your hair. “Thanks for choosing me. Again.”

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, brushing your fingers against his jaw. “There was no other choice. Nobody ever compares.”

His lips curve into that cocky smirk you know so well, but his eyes are soft, filled with a depth of affection that steals your breath. “Tch. Sappy as ever, huh?”

“You love it,” you retort, rolling your eyes.

“Damn right I do,” he mutters, and then his smirk fades as he cups your face and kisses you like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

By the time you both pull away, breathless and tangled in each other’s warmth, he holds you close, murmuring softly, “We’re doing this right this time. No mistakes.”

You nod, resting your head against his chest as his heartbeat lulls you to sleep. “No mistakes.”

Masterlist

[breitzbachbea]

It happened.

The youngsters sat in the corner - All of them, not just his own. They had taken their friends and lovers to see a game of Gaelic Football.

"Ah! I know that accent!" Someone said next to him at the bar and turned around, arms propped against the counter. "You, man! You're from Derry, aren't you?"

"Aye, born and raised!" Paddy answered with a toothy smile.

The man had dark blonde hair and a beard that was between not bothering to shave and intending to keep it around. There was a crutch next to his barstool.

"Protestant, aren't you?" the man said. "I know the difference."

"Aye," Paddy answered again. "I know it as well. Catholic, aren't you."

The man just nodded with a content smile. "You can still tell, that's good. All those years with the Proddies didn't rub off then." He laughed and Paddy chuckled along.

"Same for me then, hey, I've been with the catholics since I left Derry," he said. He wanted to playfully punch the man in the shoulder.

The man cocked his head. "When did you leave Derry?"

Paddy leant over, one hand on his beer, legs further out behind him to support his back as his forearms rested on the bar. "Oh, a long, long time ago. Over 20 years ago."

The man nodded. "You remind me of someone. Lad I knew back then, also a Proddie and just as tall as you. Not an ounce of meat on his bones though." He giggled. Afterwards, he shook his head and put it back as he looked at Paddy. "Wore his hair just like you."

Paddy's smile had disappeared. He stared at him and the other man endured it. A curious curl to his lips and a knowing glint in his eyes.

"Angus O'Malley?" Paddy asked and straightened up.

Angus still smiled, even though he paled. "Patrick O'Neill?" Paddy was too stunned to answer. "Don't make me crane my neck big boy, I'm not getting any younger."

Said as if the voice wasn't bearing 30 years without Patrick, filled with pain and cigarettes instead.

He had to say something. "Did you go back to Derry?" He leant back down. Neither of them were getting any younger.

"I did. Did you?"

Paddy shook his head. "For my mother's funeral. Never after."

"When did you leave?"

"Two years before that."

Now it was on Angus to not talk, but it wasn't a comfortable, contemplative silence like they so often had shared decades ago. When he spoke up, his voice was brittle. "Did you know what happened with Kili?"

"Yeah. Keith didn't want me at his funeral, so I wasn't there." Paddy took a swig of his beer.

"I know. He didn't want me there either," Angus said and laughed. "If I had known beforehand ... I would have told you."

"I know. I know." He patted his shoulder and Angus winced with a pained hiss. "Sorry!" Paddy pulled his hand back, but it hovered in the air. Brows furrowed as he smile, he said: "More than skin and bone these days."

Angus laughed, but held his shoulder with pained tension on his face.

Paddy said: "No fault of yours I wasn't there." He looked away and then into his beer. "Some fault of mine to blame, if we're really honest. Not all, but some."

He took another swig of his beer. A big one.

"Did you see Caoimhe again?"

Paddy shook his head. "Never. Not her, not my uncle."

"I'm so sorry to hear that."

Paddy shrugged, but he barely was able to lift his shoulder. His soul was always heavy, but calling the ghosts by name made them take shape.

"Here, rather tell me if that's your crutch," he said when Angus had already started to shift around again.

"Aye, it is."

"What happened?"

"Oh, got shot in the knee." Angus grinned while the smile, barely put on, fell from Paddy's face again. "Got me in the end."

Paddy looked him down once. "When?"

"Oh, years ago! Years ago lad, I think it was before the Good Friday agreement even. Was back in Derry, of course."

Paddy stared him in the eyes and Angus avoided it. He had always hated it, because Angus didn't avoid things. Angus always stared into the abyss and if he didn't, then he had suddenly felt just as helpless as Paddy himself.

"It's a miracle we all made it through alive," Paddy said. "I don't know how we did it."

Angus leant back further on the counter and shifted on his stool. Most importantly, he looked at Paddy again. "Do you still believe in God, Patrick?"

"I do."

"Then it was divine providence."

Paddy snorted and grinned at him, about which Angus only smiled.

The grin faded though and was replaced by a much more contemplative and stern expression. "You know that the job was a shit idea."

"They didn't even really want me, I know," Angus replied. "And after two years, I also didn't want it anymore. That beat the idealism out of me." He pulled his crutch closer. "What do you do?"

"Oh, it's ... it's a nice job. I ..." Paddy stared at the counter. He looked at him. "Don't ask me about it."

They stared at each other, not a smile in sight. "You owe me nothing, big boy."

Paddy snorted and now the teethy smile was here to stay. "No one ever calls me that."

"Really? What do they call you?"

"Hey Paddy," said Marco.

"Who's your friend there?" Lorenzo asked. They had showed up to the Paddy's other side.

"Oh, I ... that's ..." He looked to Angus, who had a deep frown on his face, and then to the table, where the other four were talking and laughing about something. He could make out their voices within the crowd, but their words blurred. "I ... Maybe you can tell - No, it's fine, boys. What are you doing here?"

"Oh, curiosity," Lorenzo said.

"And getting a round of liquor. Do you want some?" Marco asked.

"Oh, yeah, yeah." He quickly looked to Angus and then back. "Make it two."

Lorenzo leant his head closer to the barkeeper and gave their order.

"For your friend?" Marco whispered.

Paddy nodded. The twins left for the table again and he turned to Angus.

"I mean you don't have to -" he started to explain, but realized that the utter look of confusion, which he could not recall to ever have been on Angus' face, warranted a preface. "Oh they're ... they're friends. One of them's the boyfriend of one of my boys. Well, not my boys, not ... They're not my children, I don't have any, but they're part of the family that took me in after I left Derry. Two of them, but the third's basically also part of the family." He cleared his throat, a retching cough that turned the heads around them. A whole lifetime he had lived with Angus only inside of his head, and now the discrepancy between the man in his head and the one on the stool hit him like a truck. "All of them are gay, two of them swing both ways, but one only cares for the lads. They're, they're good people, Angus, I hope you're as tolerant as you used to be. Do you want to come and sit with us? I mean, you don't have to, with your knee."

Helpless. Not the same helplessness he had felt in his teens and twenties, because that helplessness he had swallowed until one could built a barricade from the bricks in his stomach.

"You've got a family?" Angus asked and in his eyes, Paddy could see that the Patrick that had lived in Angus' head also collapsed in on himself.

"I've got the two lads and a lass to look out for. Worked for the father and now I work for one of them." He didn't want Angus to look at him like the stranger he was. He didn't want to exchange the one in his head completely with the man in flesh and blood. "They learn Irish in school these days, the kids," he said with a smile. He was pleading.

"Aye, they do, fancy stuff that is," Angus said, still with the haunted expression on his face.

"I speak with them the Irish that you taught me, Angus," he said, put his hand on his arm and leant in. "They know it." Angus stared at him. "You don't have to meet them, I'll also stay here with you, if you want, but I'd love to introduce you." He turned, enough to point to the table with his outstretched arms. "That's them, those three redheads in the corner with the Sicilians. The lass with the short hair is Soph, the other ginger is her brother Harry and the lad with the wild hair, that's Charlie."

"Patrick, you don't have to stay here with me," Angus said. "You clearly have a life to go back to, don't chase ghosts." He laughed, in disbelief and with a heavyness of melancholia with that Paddy was sadly familiar with. This was the Angus that came after the one who avoided your gaze.

He leant in close again. "Angus, I chase ghosts every day of my life. I want something real." He put his hand on his shoulder, careful this time. "You don't have to. I'd love for you to meet them, but ... you don't have to. You don't have to have anything to do with this Patrick. You owe me nothing, Angus." He rubbed his thumb over his shoulder. "But I've been thinking about the lives I lost. A lot. Everyday. So if you, as you are. As changed as you are! If you could be, the man that you are now, be part of the life I have now, just for a few hours, I can think of nothing I would thank the Lord more for."

Angus had listened. His eyes downcaat, he nodded slightly.

"Paddy!" He believed to hear Soph cut through the pub's general noise. "Paddy!" The rest of the words were drowned out as he only had eyes for Angus.

"Paddy!" Harry shouted.

"Alright, Padráic, introduce me to these newfangled Catholics, who found you," he said and slid closer to the edge of the stool. "You always had good taste in choosing your friends across the barricades."

Paddy threw his head back and laughed, heartily, and he almost patted Angus on the back when he went for his crutch, but refrained from slapping him off his stool. He held out his arm, folded at the elbow, for help but Angus pushed it away. "I can do this just fine, give me a moment." He threw his crutch from his left hand into his right and straightened his leg before he got onto his feet.

"I didn't choose you, you were the only Cath brave enough to go to the other side," Paddy said. He still wanted to hover his hands around Angus, but knew that the young one probably would have hit him with the crutch for it and had the feeling that the older one would also do it, be it with a different mentality. Instead, he leant down and in to tell him on the quiet: "Actually, one of them weans isn't Catholic, he's atheist. But Harry's boyfriend, the bloke with the long hair, he's Catholic enough to make up for it, don't you worry."

"Oh, you know I was always basically a heathen to most of the people my side of town," Angus said and laughed as they walked over. He stopped for a moment and looked at Paddy. "All of them are gay, though?" His face and voice told insecurity.

"Aye, all of them, homosexual and bisexual and other things," Paddy said. "I know so many now, but that doesn't matter. Let's talk about the match, this was the Sicilian's first Gaelic one in a stadium."

"What a terrible match to be your first!" Angus said and Paddy laughed. "I could have played better than some of the blokes down there, leg and all! I don't know what the matter is with us this season, saving grace that the Dubliners also played as if someone had pissed in their water bottles. Unbelievable!"

The round of shots was already on the table.

"There you are!" Charlie said. He had his arm around Marco's shoulder.

"And your friend, I thought the two shots were for you to give us a fair chance," Harry said. Underneath the table, hidden to the casual onlooker, he had his hand on Michele's thigh.

"Give you a fair chance to carry me home!" Paddy said and laughed with the others. "Aye no, lads, that's for an old friend." He put a hand on Angus' shoulder. "That's Angus, Angus O'Malley, all the way from Derry. Come on, sit down, with your leg and all."

Harry and Charlie exchanged a look of surprise and yet recognition, while Soph stared at Angus still with raised eyebrows.

"It's quite nice to stand for a moment, Patrick. Hello, lads - and lady."

A resounding "Hello!" was the answer, followed by "It's a lass, not a lady," from Harry and a cackle.

Paddy pulled his chair back and looked at Angus, who swayed on his feet. "You're not running now, are you?" Paddy asked and Angus looked at him. "No one's running from a life tonight. I did, you're not gonna do it." Angus held his gaze. "But you owe me nothing, Angus."

"You owe us a sit down and a drink!" Soph said. "The glass got your name on it!"

"Come on, stay here," Charlie said. "We never get to meet Paddy's old friends, you gotta tell us the other side of some of the tall tales he told us."

Angus chuckled and pulled the chair out. "It's been a while, but I can try."

"Believe me, Angus tells taller tales than me," Paddy said and watched him sit down.

"Taller than you, old man? They put on stilts?" Harry asked with a grin.

"Platforms are coming back into style, I heard," Charlie said and chuckled.

"Drink first, then everything else," Michele said and grabbed his glass. "That's the best way to welcome someone."

They raised their glasses and it was five "Sláinte!" against three "Salute!"

Paddy looked to Angus before he downed his.

For a moment, they shared a look, Angus as roguishly knowingly, unpretentiously aloof as he had always been.

For a second, Paddy was 19 again and sat a table with Kilian, his cousin Caoimhe and a bunch of friends and girls they wanted to be more than that, just for one, unchristian - both sides of the barricades! - night.

"To friends, old and new," Paddy said.